Beyond The Law Box Set

by Tom Benson

  “It’s two miles, straight ahead. I’ve nailed a bright green plate on a fence post.”

  The pair lapsed into silence again, and Fitzpatrick concentrated on the final part of the journey. He saw the small piece of metal on a wooden post. He feathered the brake pedal and swung the big car right onto the narrow track. It was twenty metres further before he stopped.

  There was an old stone building situated close to the edge of the track, just inside the tree-line. Fitzpatrick glanced at the building, nodded and then drove on along the path.

  He looked through a break in the trees at the large building one-hundred metres to his front. “Well, at least you did something right.” He nodded and smiled with satisfaction and then drove on slowly.

  Helen’s brow furrowed, and she squinted at her inconsiderate, heartless husband.

  The main body of the building to their front was a two-hundred-year-old stately home. The recently refurbished and amended top section was built to resemble a castle of an older era. The masonry used had been sourced to provide the best match to the main building. The team hired to renovate had rendered the exterior to appear like a single vintage.

  Fitzpatrick pulled up twenty metres away and stepped out of the car. He had never seen the place, but his wife had found what he had described. A wooden nameplate made to his specification mounted on two posts to the front of the property, Braemartin House.

  “We could be happy here, Gordon.” Helen hoped he would mellow. “Do you like it?”

  “Yes, I like it.” He turned to look her in the eye. “You’ve done well. I think if everything inside is in place I’ll like it here.”

  Helen looked at the strange expression on her husband’s face. Since stopping the car at the front of the building he had been wearing a smirk. There was something not quite right about his behaviour since his return, and it was getting steadily worse. What the hell was wrong with him?

  When Fitzpatrick headed off alone, it was without a backwards glance at his wife. He stopped a few metres away from the building to light a cigar. He had appraised the front aspect before he set off to walk around the building and nearby grounds.

  Helen was becoming more worried than she had been on the car journey. When her husband disappeared around the side of the building, she pulled out her phone, which was set to vibrate. She moved back beside the car.

  Helen scrolled through her contacts and selected an innocent looking number. Her heart raced as she waited for the connection. She watched the area where her husband had disappeared. There was a reply.

  She sputtered. “Hello. Yes, I’m back in Scotland. Be careful who you speak to.” She hung up and took a deep breath as she continued to watch for her husband. She dialled a different number.

  “Hello,” Helen said and listened to a question. “Yes,” she said, “and he’s acting strangely.” She bit her lip as she listened to the response. “No,” she responded. “I mean fucking strange, even for him. We need to meet. I’ll call you when I think it’s safe.”

  20. Assessment and Training

  .

  Tuesday 6th July

  Valencia

  Spain

  Ian and Rachel met in the hotel lobby and went through to the restaurant together for breakfast. While Ian wore a polo shirt, Bermuda shorts and sandals, Rachel opted for a light sleeveless vest, cotton shorts and training shoes.

  During the visit, Rachel was wearing a long auburn wig to cover her short, naturally darker hair. She adopted the look she had used on her solo visit earlier in the year, expecting to meet one or two of the same people.

  “Did you sleep well?” Ian asked.

  “Yes,” Rachel said. “Yesterday was a long day. I think the combination of the heat, and then the wine with the evening meal finished me off.”

  “Just as it should after a day slogging around a city asking questions?”

  “I agree, and though it was work, I’ve learned a bit more and enjoyed it.”

  “I’m pleased,” Ian said.

  When the waiter approached the table, Ian ordered breakfast for himself and Rachel, speaking the language not only fluently, but with a hint of an accent. The two men had a brief discussion, during which Rachel smiled when she thought it appropriate. It would give the waiter the impression she understood, even if she wasn’t taking part. The waiter made no effort to disguise his appraisal of Rachel.

  Ian grinned as the waiter left the table. “It looks like your training shoes will come in handy if he comes after you.”

  “They will,” Rachel said. “I can run until I lure him into a quiet alley and then bury one of my trainers in his warming scrotum.”

  Ian choked on his orange juice and wiped his lips with his napkin.

  Rachel said, “I caught something about your hometown and several mentions of Madrid. What was that all about?”

  “Well done you,” Ian said. “I told him my childhood days were in the suburbs of Madrid, but my family moved around the country as I was growing up.”

  “Which covers you having a non-specific dialect?”

  “Yes,” he said. “It seems to have worked. He said I was lucky to have moved around.”

  “Do we go straight to our list of estate agents after breakfast?”

  “Yes,” Ian said. “We have sixteen agencies left on our list from our recce around Valencia yesterday. The key to our mission is to follow up and confirm what you discovered on your previous visit.”

  “You mean the probability is Mrs Fitzpatrick has now moved on, so they don’t presently own a house anywhere around here?”

  “Yes, because from what we know, our Mr Fitzpatrick likes his solitude, a pleasant view and rapid egress from any place he lives.” Ian went quiet as the waiter placed the breakfast dishes on the table, glanced at Rachel and left again.

  “Go on,” Rachel suggested, lifting her orange juice, and squinting at the waiter’s back as he walked away.

  “It’s only about forty-five kilometres down the coast to Favara,” Ian said. “It’s unspoilt by tourists but is near enough to Valencia for any major needs. When we stopped along the road yesterday to check those photographs you’d taken, I would bet Mr and Mrs Fitzpatrick will want to buy in the area again, or somewhere similar.”

  “Did Annabel tell you how we acquired the original details of the Spanish villa?”

  “Yes, apparently a few years ago, you and Jake turned over the garage attached to what was the Cameron house in Kirkintilloch.”

  “We got into the garage, and I sabotaged his car by packing cannabis into as many hollow areas as I could find. Cameron gave two detectives a load of grief in his driveway and then set off in his car.” She smiled at the memory. “He got onto the main road and was pulled in for what was supposed to be a random safety check by a passing police car.”

  “So, it was a while after you and Jake left the scene, the police got a search warrant for the house?”

  “Yes,” Rachel said. “Annabel had been observing the whole scene from nearby. She went in and helped herself to copies of photographs and documents.”

  “Although her identity remains unknown, in MI5 and MI6, her exploits are legendary.”

  “She’s amazing,” Rachel said. “She’s taught me so much, from having the right mental attitude for what we do to learning about basic deception techniques.”

  “Which sort of things have you enjoyed learning, or found most useful?”

  “A few years ago when I was getting into my new role I learned about how quickly a wig, glasses, or a hat could change my appearance.”

  “What have you picked up on most recently?”

  “Well, the natural thing for this task would be to fly directly to Valencia. Annabel checked my plan before my solo trip and made a couple of suggestions, which included flying to Madrid and then driving or flying from there. Driving gave me the quickest way of dropping off the radar.”

  Ian said, “Sometimes the most straightforward deception is the hardest thing to learn. F
lying into Madrid means your primary destination as a tourist will be the city, as far as the authorities are concerned. It’s the natural thing to do.

  As a covert operator, you rarely fly directly to your end destination. The only agent who does that is a fictional character. Once you have a car and a change of appearance, you can go where you like with confidence.”

  “Is it okay to find the whole thing exciting?”

  Ian raised his eyebrows. “Of course it is, but the rush can be dangerous. The adrenalin helps to keep you alert, but it requires control.” He paused. “Talking of danger, it’s going to be damn hot here today so we must remember bottled water before we set off.”

  “I’ll remind you, Inigo,” Rachel said, using Ian’s adopted Spanish name.

  .

  Drymen, Dunbartonshire

  Scotland

  The deep-throated rumble of twelve motorbikes echoed from the buildings on the outskirts of Drymen as the group of bikers cruised past on the A811. They continued along the country road for two more miles, and then the lead bike stopped at a small track junction on the left, where a red ribbon fluttered in the breeze. The fabric was tied to a wooden post.

  Max coaxed his machine off the road onto the dried mud track. He flicked the red and white pole barrier into a vertical position. From this point, the bikers fell into a single file and kept their speed down. The cautious riding had more to do with not damaging the machines than causing a nuisance because apart from anything else, there was nobody to disturb.

  On the way in, the last man stopped. A padlock hung open in position, to be used when the rider lowered the pole. He spat and cursed as a squadron of midges fluttered around his face, gathering on his whiskers and eyelashes.

  A few hundred metres along the track another red ribbon hung from a bush. The bikes turned into the narrow track opposite and rode through a section of Garadhban Forest until they arrived in a clearing.

  The riders followed Max’s lead and parked their machines side by side at one edge of the oblong clearing. They resembled a line of horses as if tethered line abreast.

  When the engines were switched off, there were a few quiet crackles as hot metal cooled. Two minutes later, there were only the sounds of nature; bird calls and the breeze through the foliage. A cloudless blue sky spread over the scene, and it would have been a surreal sight to any passing rambler.

  The bikers remained silent, removed their helmets and placed them on their saddles. A few of the guys lit up to enjoy a smoke before they had to do anything else. The forest clearing was one hundred metres long—about the length of a soccer pitch. It was, however, narrower, at about thirty metres in width.

  “I make it exactly ten o’clock,” a tall, fair-haired biker said. “I don’t see your fuckin’ Hawk fella’, Max.”

  “If he says he’ll be here Sinbad, he’ll fuckin’ be here.” Max squinted as he looked around. “Just because you don’t see this guy doesn’t mean he isn’t here.”

  “It’s good to see confidence in your allies,” Phil said.

  The bikers all turned from the view of the clearing and looked into the tree-line. The edge of the forest was only a few metres behind them, but there was nobody seen. Four of the bikers instinctively reached for knives, and one pulled a gun.

  “Where the fuck, are you?” Jacko scanned the shadows.

  “Here.” Phil advanced slowly away from a large tree only three metres from the group and stepped through the tall ferns towards the bikers. He stepped clear of the undergrowth and assessed the bikers, looking at each in turn, from head to foot.

  “A fine body of men, Max,” he said and grinned.

  The bikers all stared at the man who had materialised as he stepped out to their front. He was wearing a camouflage smock, green denim and combat boots. Around his head, he wore a camouflage face veil.

  Phil had only applied a few angled streaks of brown and green camo paint to his face and hands. It helped as basic camouflage for this introduction, but more importantly, it rendered him beyond recognition for any time later.

  “Fuckin’ hell,” Sinbad said, by way of a compliment. “How far in were you?”

  “Three metres,” Phil said. “Part of the concealment is the camouflage, and part is keeping perfectly still.” He stepped forward and reached out his right hand.

  Max stepped forward and laughed as he shook Phil’s hand. “You look better than the day I met you in the park,” Max said and introduced Sinbad, Jacko, Slash, Sparky, Butcher, Hank, Pedro, Ginge, Paddy, Toolkit, and Wyatt.

  Phil made a point of shaking each by the hand and meeting their gaze. He stepped back and looked at the bikes. He walked along to the gleaming black Triumph parked at the end and produced an apple. He balanced the apple on the helmet—perched on the saddle.

  “This is your bike isn’t it Sinbad?” Phil said.

  “Yeah,” Sinbad said. “What’s with the fuckin’ apple on the helmet?”

  “I’d like to start with some confidence building,” Phil said. “I want you guys to know that whatever shit you get into while you’re working with my team, we’ll have your back.”

  “So, how the fuck are you gonna prove that with a fuckin’ apple?”

  Everybody except Max started laughing. A couple of them turned and noticed although Max wasn’t laughing aloud, he was grinning. They stopped laughing.

  “Okay Sinbad,” Phil said. “I want to see how good a shot you are. Aim your right forefinger and curl it back quick, as if you’re shooting at the apple.”

  “Are you taking the piss—”

  “I’ll do it.” Max stepped between Phil and Sinbad. “Now, Hawk?”

  “Whenever you’re ready, mate.”

  Max was aware of his biker brothers staring at him. There had been no rehearsal, but he trusted Phil. He raised his right hand and aimed his forefinger at the apple a few metres away. He curled his finger back as if squeezing a trigger. The apple disintegrated.

  Max lifted his forefinger to his lips and blew on it like a gunslinger with a six-shooter.

  “Fuck,” Sinbad said.

  All the bikers laughed and then looked around the clearing, before turning to Phil.

  “Alright guys,” Phil said. “If you didn’t see me three metres away, you are not going to see my back-up, who is presently one-hundred metres away.” He looked along the line of hard men. “Are we ready to begin?”

  They all nodded, and a couple shook their heads and laughed at Max playing along with the apple trick. They were all mental, but they all had a sense of humour.

  Phil said, “It’s warm so you can take your jackets off, but I’d like you to wear them later when you’re firing a weapon.” He noticed them look at each other and eyes screwed up. He continued. “It’s better to practise in the same outfit you will probably be wearing if you have to fire in a real situation.”

  Max led by example and within a few seconds was standing in T-shirt and jeans. A couple of the others nodded, realising there was probably wisdom in the idea. Some had been in fights where a jacket had afforded protection but had also been a hindrance because it affected their movements and gave an opponent something to grip.

  Phil stepped back and lifted away a small camouflage net he had used, which was within two metres of the line of motorbikes.

  Under the net was a groundsheet, which had six pistols laid out in line. Beside the pistols were an Uzi, machine-gun and a Remington pump-action shotgun. Beside each weapon were four cases of ammunition.

  When the gasps and quiet curses had ceased, Phil produced a crate of bottled coke from under another nearby camouflaged sheet. It wasn’t a time for beers. He let the smokers continue. He knew there was only so much he could expect from a bunch of free-thinking bikers.

  He lifted a bottle for himself and took a swig of the chilled liquid before addressing his special audience. “I know some of you guys will have fired a gun before, but with that in mind, I’m sure what we cover today will be useful to all of you.”
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br />   Sinbad was still pondering the apple on the saddle trick. He spoke up.

  “What sort of thing is gonna’ be useful to all of us?”

  “We’ll cover the basics,” Phil said and bent down to pick up a Browning 9mm pistol. “Who has fired one of these?”

  “I have,” Sparky said.

  “And me,” called Wyatt.

  “Are you ex-squaddies?”

  Both men shook their heads.

  Phil rapidly cleared the weapon and held it by the barrel to hand it to Sparky. “Strip it down for cleaning?”

  Sparky placed his coke bottle on the grass at his feet and accepted the handgun. He turned it over in his hands, and then released the empty magazine, shaking his head and handing it back. “I’ve fired one, but can’t honestly say I’ve ever done anything but load it and shoot.”

  Wyatt took the pistol from Sparky, pulled back the slide, slipped an extended middle finger up inside the empty pistol grip and squeezed off the action. There was a dull click. He knelt down, pulled off his neckerchief and spread it on the ground.

  It had taken two minutes before the weapon was laid out in a neat row of parts. The biker stood up, grinning.

  “Well done,” Phil said. “It’s Wyatt, isn’t it?”

  Wyatt nodded.

  Phil said, “Would you like to explain what the first part of your drill was all about?”

  “Yeah,” Wyatt said. “Before you do anything with a gun you should make sure it hasn’t got anything up the spout, just in case you blow your fuckin’ foot off.”

  While the other guys all laughed, Phil nodded. “Would anybody like to try re-assembling this weapon?”

  There were no volunteers, so Phil nodded to Wyatt. He knelt down again, watched closely by his brother bikers as he put the handgun back to working order.

  “Thanks for the demonstration, Wyatt,” Phil said, paying a compliment when he could. “Thank you, Sparky—for your honesty. By the end of this morning’s session, you’ll all be able to strip and assemble each of these weapons.”

  Butcher said, “Surely cleaning them isn’t all that fuckin’ important, as long as they’re firing.”