by Tom Benson
The room was arranged with a group of four tables pulled close together to form a large square, and the bikers all settled onto chairs; four to the left and the right side, and four to the rear. At the centre of the tables sat a laptop and projector. At the front of the room behind Rachel, a large white screen was set up but remained black thus far.
When the door opened, and Annabel walked in, the general hubbub changed to silence as all eyes focussed on the woman stepping through the doorway. As usual, she wore a minimum of facial makeup, but to devastating effect. She looked stunning. For a woman a shade under forty, she looked much younger.
For a change, she didn’t wear a wig but wore her natural auburn hair down over her shoulders. In keeping with the chat that she and Rachel had about outfits, Annabel also wore a dark jacket, but over a low-cut, lemon-coloured dress. Her navy shoes, like Rachel’s, had a moderate heel.
“Good morning and thank you for coming guys,” she said and paused. “My codename is Alpha, and I’m one of Rachel’s associates.”
“Good morning, Alpha,” a couple of the bikers said and nodded as they made it obvious they were assessing her. Her lashes never flickered as she smiled and returned the steady gaze of her audience. Her confident manner gave two of the guys even more of a buzz.
There were one or two quiet mutterings relating to becoming ‘better associated’ with Alpha, but she smiled knowingly and let them go unacknowledged. While the testosterone levels were rising in the room, Rachel went to the back and fixed a coffee for her idol.
Annabel said, “We have two main areas to deal with this morning.” She paused and looked around at the attentive gazes of her audience. “First of all, I’d like to deal with Max’s de-briefing.
“Lucky bastard,” was whispered from the back. Sniggering followed around the room.
Annabel rolled her eyes. “Secondly, I’ll give you fellas the outline of a plan, and then it will be for you to give feedback so we can work on details.”
There wasn’t a murmur as the men all enjoyed their fantasies while focussing on the two women at the front of the room. Some of the fantasies involved both women—at once.
Rachel said, “The small black pyramid device on the table is there to enable a conference call. On the other end, we’ll have our boss, Hawk.” She paused and looked around as the men all looked at the intercom. “He’s at another location listening. He’ll only talk to us if he thinks we’ve missed anything, or if he has anything to include.”
“Is everybody clear so far?” Annabel asked. She received twelve nods with grins.
“One question, Rachel,” Butcher said. “Why are you still using your name, while the other guys have codenames?”
“I use my name because there is a far greater chance that I’ll meet somebody I know when I’m out around the city. I’ve always lived in Glasgow, and I have a cover story. In the case of Hawk and Alpha, they both have a history best left alone.”
“Good enough,” Butcher said, nodding.
“Thanks,” Toolkit said. “I was wondering about the codenames.”
The other bikers nodded, but none of them considered the only man in their club to use his real name was Max.
“Okay Max,” Annabel continued. “You can give us a rundown on how your meeting went.”
Max began by explaining how he and his team led the Colonel’s car up into a disused farm track where the riders then hooded and bound both Barrington-Cross and Geordie. It brought a smile from all when Max mentioned Sinbad searching Geordie. As per Jake’s instructions, Sinbad had found a gun and still gave Geordie a fist in the ribs, just for effect.
When Max explained about the ride in the van, all the bikers laughed. Once hooded, they’d driven the van around the countryside for a while and then returned to the farmhouse about ten metres from where the car and the bikes parked.
The two captives were taken to separate buildings. Geordie had merely enjoyed a hot brew with a few riders and screamed a couple of times on cue. Combined with the hard and easy options offered to the Colonel in the other building—it did the trick.
Barrington-Cross was not prepared to have holes drilled into random parts of his body, so after a hesitant start, he’d accepted a coffee laced with brandy. He then answered Max’s questions without hesitation.
As Annabel and Rachel ignored the lecherous stares of the other bikers, Max took twenty minutes to list the intelligence his team had gained from the retired officer.
Upstairs on the top floor, Phil and Jake sat opposite each other at the main office table with notes and photographs to hand. They made a record of names, places and any additional incidental information that the bikers might not have realised was important.
As they listened on the intercom, Jake nodded. “I have to admit, those guys did a pretty good job.”
“They did,” Phil agreed. “The good news is they’ll be able to do lots more if they’re up for it.” The pair listened in to the end of the conference downstairs, and then they heard Annabel’s voice.
“Have you any questions before we break up Hawk?”
“Not at the moment,” Phil said into the machine. “A buffet is set up in the room next door to your meeting room. Let the guys have an hour break, and by then we’ll have worked out our revised strategy.”
“Gotcha,” Annabel said.
A bunch of hard guys looked around at each other, nodding and grinning. This covert ops shit was better than it first sounded, they got to fantasise about two real beauties, and they got free grub.
“Right mate,” Phil said. “Let’s summarise what we’ve confirmed.”
Jake read from the notes he’d written during Max’s briefing downstairs.
“Barrington-Cross seems to be the main connection to Kentobi in Africa for hash and Afghanistan for opium. He said that Mr F was taking care of the cocaine supply, from Colombia, but we knew about the connections over there.”
“It sounds like Barrington-Cross’s contacts abroad are diplomats and not military, so we’ll have to wait before we request official sources to chase them up. We’ll pass that information to Stuart when the time is right. What have we got over here?”
“On this side of the equation, we must consider the airbase, a handful of military personnel, and a private contractor.” Jake paused. “From what Barrington-Cross says, the solicitor, McDonald has reverted to his old ways. He’s back to organising the distribution of payments and any forged documents; including passports.”
“What about the name Simpson—does this give us confirmation?”
“Well, we have two listed already. One is Norrie Simpson—the deviant we believe is working directly for Fitzpatrick. The other one is Brian. He’s the big guy we thought might be involved in either setting up or carrying out the contract killings in Australia, and Spain.”
“Okay,” Phil said. “It looks like we might have our perpetrator for the overseas hits. I don’t think Barrington-Cross would have been so cagey about a simple thing like Fitzpatrick’s right-hand man. He must have got wind of the brother taking on tasks.”
“Yeah, I’d agree. The main issue we’ll face is tracking down Brian Simpson. If he can evade the authorities in two continents, he’s a slippery character for such a big guy.”
Phil checked his notes. “Okay, so looking at other names. Max mentioned Peter Henderson would take part in the transportation of the gear didn’t he?”
“Yes, he’ll be dealing with the stuff coming in from Colombia. It sounds like there are to be three shipments over five days, but only using one team for transport after the merchandise reaches our shores.”
“Okay,” Phil said, nodding. “Max said that the Colonel mentioned something about a place called Glenbrittle. It’s got to be on the Scottish coastline. Have we got co-ordinates?”
Jake lifted the laser pointer and aimed at the main Scotland map on the wall behind Phil. “Right there, on the south-west coast of the Isle of Skye.”
“It must be pretty blood
y small,” Phil said. “Of course once the stuff is ashore, I don’t think they’ll move it down the coast by boat because another vessel could be seen and checked too easily by the coastguard.”
“Do you reckon they’ll bring it directly inland by road?”
“I do mate,” Phil said. “Remember, there’s a road bridge connecting Skye to the mainland.” He stared at the road network going east from Skye. “I have a feeling our man Fitzpatrick is so sure of himself he’ll get the gear delivered close to home.”
Jake was tracing the laser across the map. “Unless there is a lot of security they’re not going to have a location set aside for storage. Do you think he might use his fortified home as a headquarters for his new business empire?”
“That’s precisely what I’m thinking,” Phil said, studying the map. “If he does, it will help us to keep our cordon tight.” He turned back to Jake. “When Max questioned the Colonel about going to Fitzpatrick’s place, he said he’d never been, but he was expecting an invitation.”
“Maybe Geordie will be able to shed some light on it when he calls in.”
“When is his next report due?”
“He’s been working a dangerous routine between McGinley and the Colonel, you know, befriending both of them as the man they can trust. I told him to be extra careful about his reports.”
“If everything works out we’ll make an assessment of Geordie. It sounds like he’s got guts and a few extra brain cells.”
“He’s like a lot of ex-squaddies, Phil. They do their time, come out, and then there’s nothing for them. We all have to earn a living, but it looks like he just took the wrong job.”
“Let’s take a closer look at these cross-country routes, mate,” Phil said.
They lifted their coffees and stood side by side facing the Scotland map, checking routes and alternate routes from the tiny port of Glenbrittle on Skye across to Braemar in the centre of the Grampian Mountains.
Jake said, “It’s quite a distance to carry their special cargo on remote roads.”
Phil was nodding in agreement. “I think it’s just what the cocky bastard will do. It’s unbelievable. There are only two possible routes, but he is keeping it all low key with one means of transport and a small crew.”
“I’m with you. Fitzpatrick is working on the assumption the authorities would be watching out for escorted vans or trucks if they suspected bulk drug movements, but a single large van with a couple of guys will blend into the regular traffic flow.”
“Keep in mind,” Phil said. “To ensure his crew don’t double-cross him, he only has to brief them individually. If he promises them their allegiance and reliability will be rewarded; they’ll keep the faith.” He paused. “He may or may not have somebody out there keeping an eye on things en route.”
“Just like the Middle East and African dictators. They depend on their personal bodyguard, in the same way, by having a mutual trust, based on distrust.”
Phil lifted his phone and dialled. There was no answer for half a minute, but he waited patiently. When there was a response, a blast of loud music could be heard in the background.
“Hi Mike, it’s Phil. Do you fancy a fishing trip mate?” The music died at the other end. “No mate—no need,” Phil continued. “I’ll get over to your place later today. Cheers.”
.
Braemar, Grampian Mountains
Scotland
Fitzpatrick finished his lunch and went up onto the roof to enjoy a cigar. As the days had been since his return to his beloved Scotland, it was warm and sunny. He considered what he had planned for the next few days, and it brightened his mood.
After his cigar, the wannabe Godfather limped across to the turret and made his way down to the cellar rooms. He went to his wife’s cell and eased the bolt back to catch her unawares. She lay battered and bruised and had fresh bite marks on her buttocks, body, and thighs, but she was asleep, probably exhausted after a session with Simpson.
Fitzpatrick closed the cell door, and went to the other occupied cell and slid the bolt back. When he looked into the room, his gaze was met by a steady stare from Stephanie.
“It’s nice to see you looking so healthy and alert Mrs Henderson. You’ll be pleased to know by the end of this week your unofficial divorce will be underway.”
“Unofficial divorce?” she mumbled, mystified. “He was putting it about for months. It was him who left me. We’re already separated and divorced.”
“I don’t give a fuck about the whys and wherefores,” Fitzpatrick said. “Depending on how much you open up about what you’ve said, and to whom, it could go one of two ways for you.” Dimples made his beard twitch as he looked at her body. “It seems your husband likes my perverse ways of dealing with treachery.”
Her eyes opened wider, and her jaw dropped. “He’s my ex-husband—”
Fitzpatrick continued, ignoring the woman. “His first consideration was to let Norrie; my human torture weapon have his way with you for a couple of days,” He smirked. “Depending on your sexual preferences I think it might still be a good way to go, but you’re quite young and still attractive, and I don’t think Norrie would be able to hold back.”
Stephanie had been trying to hold her nerve, but it had only been a short while since she’d heard the most recent session where the animal had been abusing Helen Fitzpatrick. Stephanie’s eyes started to mist over and then as she considered her fate she cried openly.
Fitzpatrick said, “Now I know you’ll be interested in the other option, which I’m proud to say was also my idea.” He stepped forward and assessed her slowly from head to foot. “My second suggestion was to let you try out some of my new product when it gets here.” He saw her blink rapidly, and then her eyes opened wider.
“Yes, I know,” he said. “I know you’re not a drug addict at the moment, but the beauty of it is Stephanie—you could be by the end of the week.” When she sobbed, it made him laugh aloud. He looked into her eyes and saw the terror there.
“I thought maybe we’d get you fixed on a cocktail of drugs, but ensuring that you were dependent before we took you travelling. It occurred to me to get you high with some gear and then drive you somewhere and drop you off late one night.”
Stephanie’s body convulsed as her sobs wracked her body. “Please, don’t—”
“Don’t ever speak when I’m explaining something,” he said and leant over her. His smirk had disappeared. “I reckon we could abandon you in a back street in Liverpool, Manchester, or even take you further south to the Soho district of London. Perhaps we could clean you up and leave you in a summer dress and heels, and then watch to see how long it takes before somebody takes care of you—in some way.”
“I don’t understand—we’re divorced—”
“You’re never divorced in our business, until you’re dead.” Fitzpatrick laughed as he slammed the cell door, leaving the distraught woman sobbing uncontrollably.
Fitzpatrick left the front door and wandered around the building towards one of the tracks at the rear. His mobile rang, and he answered it in a conversational tone.
“Hello Peter, where are you?” He listened for a moment. “Inverness. Good lad. Call me again when you reach Grantown-on-Spey, and shortly afterwards we’ll have a wee drink together. Bye.”
He put away his phone and continued a few metres to a stout tree in a small clearing off the track. He undid his zipper and relieved himself into the depths of the surrounding fern, before strolling back onto the track.
Eva remained motionless as the gangster’s urine dripped from the fern to her hair and over her face. This, she thought, gives taking the piss a whole new meaning. She pulled out her phone. Her nose was wrinkled up as she dialled.
“Hello, it’s Eva,” she whispered. “Checkpoints on the route include Inverness and Grantown-on-Spey, so I reckon the shipment will be coming here.” She listened to the questions. “Yes, first one is on the way now. Ciao.”
Fitzpatrick stopped a few metres a
way on the main track and turned to look back.
He shouted, “Norrie, I’ve found what I was looking for.”
“Where, Boss?” Simpson approached.
“The tree there with the low hanging branches. Get rid of the lower branches and the fern for me and make a bit of clearing around it.”
“Will do, Boss,” Simpson said and wandered across to the tree. He started to pull up large bundles of fern and cursed when it slipped through his hands because of moisture. He smelled his hands and muttered, “Aw, you dirty bastard, Boss. I’ll fetch a fuckin’ machete.”
Eva reapplied the safety catch on her Walther. When the two men walked away, she started to slide out of position. Her heart thudded. She had been about to kill her first human being—and her second.
31. Deliveries
.
Tuesday 20th July
Grampian Mountains
Scotland
Geordie was acting chauffer for the day, just as he’d been for the meeting at Stirling Castle. His instructions from Mental Mickey were obscure. On this particular journey, Geordie had merely been told to drive towards Aberdeen.
It was fortunate Geordie was capable with route-planning because he knew his boss had an aversion to motorways. Mental thought the cameras were situated on motorways as a sneaky way for the authorities to maintain a national network of surveillance.
The ex-squaddie knew his boss disliked sat-nav devices, believing that they could be used in reverse to keep tabs on the user and to monitor movements. He thought police patrols could spot-check a driver’s history from the sat-nav, and that wasn’t worth the risk.
Geordie was content and enjoyed the scenery. When they arrived at Blairgowrie, Mental suggested a break. In such a small town it was easy to find a cafe close to the parking area. They used The Wee Coffee Shop on Allan Street. Good coffee, great snacks, and though a friendly bunch—nobody would be prying.
