by Tom Benson
“Hi Rachel,” Annabel said. “How are things going, apart from the boredom?”
Rachel laughed and said she was happy in solitude as long as the weather held.
Annabel said, “When I got the message earlier from Eva about Xray Victor, she said that apart from the registration number there were no distinguishing marks.” She paused as she witnessed a van driver tailgating a small car at speed. “From my perspective, it would be good if I had recognition at a greater distance.”
Rachel said she’d watch some vehicles pass to see what might work.
Annabel continued. “I’ve now seen five white Ford Transit vans travelling in your direction in the last hour. Any ideas would be welcome.”
Rachel said she’d have a solution before the next consignment passed.
“I look forward to hearing it,” Annabel said. “Ciao.”
.
Braemar, Grampian Mountains
Scotland
Fitzpatrick and Mental Mickey sat at the large dining table enjoying a hearty meal.
Mental said, “I’ll give my guy a call to make sure he hasn’t fucked off.” Both Mental and Fitzpatrick laughed at the idea that anybody would cross either of them and expect to survive. They’d been brought up on the same streets under the same harsh rules. Apart from appearance, the difference between them was Fitzpatrick had more brains.
“Hi Geordie,” Mental shouted into his mobile. “It’s Mickey. How are things goin’ there?” He listened for a few seconds. “Yeah, that’s a good idea, just read another couple of books. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Is everything okay?” Fitzpatrick asked. He wondered why Mental had to shout into his phone.
“Yeah, it sounds like the hotel he booked into has a fillin’ station and a small shop with a selection of books. There’s a fuel tanker nearby making a racket as it fills the main tanks in the place. Aye, it’s just as well Geordie likes to read—he’ll be occupied until I start throwing questions at him.” Mental laughed. “He thinks I already trust him—I trust no bastard.”
Fitzpatrick laughed. “I hope things work out with Geordie. What happened to Vince?”
“Fuckin’ Vince. I found pictures of my warehouse. He was preparin’ information for the cops. You know, they could have closed down my cigarette and whisky operation.”
“What did you do about him?”
“Well, some of the other lads used to call him Van Gogh, you know like the artist, Vincent Van Gogh?”
Fitzpatrick nodded at the additional and unnecessary explanation.
“Anyway,” Mental said. “I carved up the slippery bastard, and made him more like the painter, I cut off his fuckin’ left ear. For good measure, because it looked a bit odd, I cut off his other fuckin’ ear.”
“Do you still carry out your punishments in the old warehouse near Ibrox Stadium?”
“Yeah, it’s got some good chains and pulleys for stretchin’ arms and legs.”
“Did you stretch Vince?”
“Nah, I was tryin’ to prove a point. To make sure the rest of them would learn a lesson, I cut out Vince’s tongue after I did his ears. When he wasn’t able to scream, I lost it totally and beat him to death with a five-iron.”
“Aye, you’ve never been any good with golf clubs for their original purpose.”
For a while, the two men discussed their favourite executions.
Mental said, “What are you intendin’ to do with that fat bastard down in the cellar?”
A long plume of bluish grey smoke issued from Fitzpatrick’s lips, and he inspected his Cuban cigar. “I’ve got something quite special lined up for him, mate.”
“Are you goin’ to feed him to your fishes?”
“No,” Fitzpatrick said, “The idea did occur to me, but I want him to go slow. After we had ditched him into his cell, I told Norrie he could have him until tomorrow.”
“What do you reckon Norrie will do to him?”
“I shudder to think, mate, but it’ll be fucking gruesome. Barrington-Cross will wish he was already fucking dead.”
Both men laughed again, finding humour as usual in another person’s misfortune.
.
Glenbrittle, Isle of Skye
Western Scotland
“What do we do now, Peter?” Charlie Dawes asked.
“We leave the van parked here and go for a beer and a bite to eat,” Henderson said.
“I thought Mr F said we were always to stay with the van, even if we had to wait hours for the boat.”
“He did say that, Charlie. If you want to sit in a fuckin’ van for four hours mate, you carry on. I’m goin’ for a pint and some fish and chips.”
“I just thought, you know, because Mr F said—”
“In a couple of months Charlie, I’ll be takin’ over some of the operations. You might find yourself workin’ for me, mate.”
The hazard flashers lit up around the van when Charlie pressed the key fob. “ Beer and fish and chips it is then.” Charlie ran to catch up with Henderson. No harm could come to the van in such a remote location.
As the two men enjoyed a drink and meal, a black Kawasaki motorbike cruised past, engine burbling. Five minutes later, the big bike was parked fifty metres away between two old buildings. It wasn’t far from a side street where somebody had parked a white van.
It was getting dark, and in such a remote location there were few people around. Rachel walked passed the restaurant and glanced inside. She confirmed it was Henderson. He sat opposite the other man who’d been in the van. They were eating and chatting.
Rachel located the van. It took less than ten minutes to check out her theory and put her idea into action. She was back up in her rocky crag overlooking the village before the two men had returned to their van.
35. Recognition
.
Thursday 22nd July
Braemar, Grampian Mountains
Scotland
Jake left the hotel a few minutes into the new day and strolled along the main road in the moonlight. He headed north and turned onto a track two miles away before making himself comfortable, deep in the woodland. He was at peace, amongst some pine trees.
When content with his night vision, he moved through the woods towards Fitzpatrick’s castle. The large square building would stand out, highlighted in the shafts of moonlight. Jake moved like a wraith through the forest. He occasionally paused, parted his lips and listened. At the same time, he used peripheral vision to check for nearby movement. He was a highly-skilled warrior, at home in such an environment.
Jake was one-hundred metres away from the cleared area around the building when he produced his single lens night-scope. The intensifier produced a green image that to an inexperienced operator simply showed light and dark shades of green. To Jake, it was green daylight.
Using the utmost stealth, Jake crawled alongside the gently lifting camouflage that covered Eva. She would have believed that she was immobile, but she had to breathe. It was only the marginal rise and fall of her body that gave away her position.
“Get some rest,” Jake whispered.
There was a muted gasp under a nearby pile of leaves.
Five minutes later, Jake was on his own, fully alert, and ready for the night ahead.
While preparing his gear in the hotel room, Jake received a brief update from Geordie. He assured Jake he’d be staying in the small hotel at the Spittal of Glenshee, but would remain on standby. He said that Mental Mickey expected to be with Fitzpatrick for at least another day or two.
Jake thanked Geordie and assured him he was making the right decision by working with the BTL team. Jake called Phil, requesting him to update their main players.
.
The Cuillin Hills, Isle of Skye
Western Scotland
At 2 am, a white van drove across to the small pier down below in Glenbrittle. Rachel observed with her powerful binoculars. The two men with the van loaded crates from a small fishing vessel and were on the road within twenty minu
tes.
“Hullo all stations, this is Romeo,” Rachel said. “Xray-Victor departing this area, over.”
Acknowledgements came back from all call-signs. Two Mental Riders call-signs answered out of sequence, but at least they had responded.
Rachel moved around in her rocky location and lay flat on an overhang. She zoomed in on the vehicle as it headed for the main road and east towards Sconset. Rachel smiled with satisfaction when she got a front view of the van. It was en route to the bridge with the mainland.
“Hullo Alpha, this is Romeo.” She paused as before, giving the on shift operatives time to catch on and listen. “Offside mirror casing of Xray-Victor is white. Nearside mirror casing is black, out.”
“Romeo, this is Alpha, thank you, out.” Annabel grinned at the simplicity of the marking.
“Hullo Mike, this is Romeo, over.”
“Mike, send, over.” The deep and cheerful voice out on the water was unmistakable.
“Blue Lady, registered in Puerto Rico, over.”
The skipper of the BTL floating asset almost laughed. “Roger, she was one of my suspects. You get your pretty head down now for a while, over.”
“Roger, out.” Rachel smiled, knowing she wouldn’t be needed again until later in the morning. She turned down the volume on her radio, adjusted her headset and slid inside her sleeping bag. For a few minutes before sleep took over, her mind drifted back to Mike climbing into a boat in a black wetsuit to rescue her. The memory brought a tear of gratitude before she dozed off.
Sparky spotted and reported the white Transit on the east side of the bridge at Kyle of Lochalsh. Wyatt confirmed the overnight route at Invergarry. Max reported a sighting at Spean Bridge, and Slash did likewise at Kingussie.
Annabel acknowledged the Kingussie sighting and knew she’d soon see the vehicle approach from her left. She climbed into her tree and settled herself, before bringing her rifle up to the shoulder.
She chose a vehicle at random on the road and double-checked the focus of her telescopic sight. Satisfied, she then lifted her binoculars and checked further back. It would be a while before the van came into view, but by watching the headlights of the sporadic overnight traffic, she was able to judge where the van would come into focus.
Although intending the shot in daylight, she wanted to practise timing and movement. Due to the angle of the road and the van’s approach speed, Annabel calculated she would gain a head-on perspective for between five and ten seconds.
The white van’s headlights would make it difficult to check the mirror casings, but the van was illuminated briefly by a car heading in the opposite direction. A smile played on Annabel’s lips as she imagined Rachel in the middle of the night, scraping paint from the casing of a wing mirror.
Annabel lowered her binos and lifted her Taco sniper rifle up to her shoulder. She sighted down the scope towards the road three-hundred metres away.
As the van approached head-on, it appeared to slow because of the angle of the shot. Annabel focused and aimed the crosshairs exactly where she wanted them. She took two deep breaths, before holding her breath. She whispered, “Bang.”
Annabel pressed her throat mike. “Hullo, Max and Slash—we are good to go on the next run, over.” Both call-signs acknowledged, and then the airwaves were silent until the van was spotted by Toolkit at Grafton on Spey, Jacko up at Tomintoul, and Butcher at Crathie.
.
Braemar, Grampian Mountains
Scotland
When the vehicle had passed Crathie, it was within sight of the OP amongst the hillside trees outside Braemar. “Hullo all stations this is India,” Ian said. “Xray-Victor now arrived at the delivery point, out.” Confirmation was complete for at least one route and the journey time.
While most members of the operation were concentrating on the white van, Eva had returned to her hotel room for some rest. She had arrived back late to her room to find Phil there, sitting in an armchair in the dark.
A rapid debrief of the novice operative had to be done to gather any intelligence while it was fresh. The Colonel’s punishment had been harrowing to witness, but Phil reminded Eva of the type of person that Barrington-Cross had always been.
During the previous twenty-four hours, there had been new arrivals at Fitzpatrick’s HQ. A pair of 4 x 4’s turned up, each containing four armed men. One-man patrols increased to two men in the hours of darkness, but patrols remained hourly.
Phil assured Eva that she was doing a great job. He left her to clean up and get some proper sleep. Before he went, he advised her to ensure she didn’t miss breakfast. He said they would chat again later in the morning.
The white van drove along the track to the main road. It had been at the castle for less than two hours. Ian was alert and realised although Jake would have witnessed the rapid turnaround, he might be unable to use his radio.
“Hullo all stations this is India,” Ian said. “Xray-Victor is mobile, and leaving in a southerly direction, over.” He watched as the van drove through Braemar.
The acknowledgement came from all stations.
During the morning, Pedro at Bridge of Cally, Hank at Pitlochry, and Paddy at Dalwhinnie reported sightings. The van had gone south and then west. When Max, Wyatt and Sparky reported, it left only Rachel to confirm the van’s return for the next consignment.
.
The Cuillin Hills, Isle of Skye
Western Scotland
Rachel had responded to Ian’s message regarding the van leaving Braemar. She crawled out of her shelter and knelt on the rocks for a few minutes, scouring the waters near Glenbrittle, and the middle distance out to sea. There had been nothing to watch, so she’d crept back under her lean-to and cat-napped.
When she heard Max reporting, she crawled out of her shelter and zoomed in on the small mooring point at Glenbrittle, but nothing. Out at sea, there were a handful of small fishing vessels. Nothing would be docking for a couple of hours.
Almost all vessels were in line for larger ports along the coastline. One small, dark-coloured craft was heading for Glenbrittle. It had the profile of a fishing boat, and it was of a similar size to the one which had docked the day before.
A small blue and white vessel nestled among the waves, but about a mile further south. Mike and Sinbad had been cataloguing all craft on a heading to the southwest coast of Skye, and in particular, Glenbrittle. Sinbad delighted in working shift, using the powerful night-vision binoculars Mike had onboard.
Mike had a sixth sense for spotting peculiarities. Once during the night when Sinbad called him, and three times as dawn broke, he’d noted vessels. It was a small number when considering how many sailed the local waters off the coast of Skye.
Several of Mike’s tours with the Royal Marine Commando had been as a boarding party leader when dealing with pirated shipping in the Indian Ocean and off Africa’s east coast. He grinned as he thought back to the suicidal actions of some of the modern pirates. Achieving possession of a large freighter or tanker did not always mean the pirates would be keeping it for ransom.
British boarding parties were not armed with cutlasses and looking to emulate Errol Flynn—they were aiming to thwart kidnappings, piracy and extortion, which is where a fearless attitude and modern weaponry came in handy. The boarding parties also returned fire—accurately.
Rachel knew Mike and Sinbad would spot anything suspicious. She’d had all the rest she’d be getting, so set up her camping stove and made a brew. It was early, but it was time for a strip-wash and breakfast for one—in The Cuillin Hills.
.
Braemar, Grampian Mountains
Scotland
The armed individuals prowling the tracks around the castle area were accustomed to performing a regular patrol. They frequently stopped to listen, and none of them smoked during a patrol. When it was dark, the task was still completed at one-hour intervals, but they became two-man patrols. They didn’t talk much, and when they did, they whispered.
Two
burly men left the back of the castle and approached the small clearing near the OP where Jake lay. The men were carrying gardening forks and spades. The pair stabbed the tools into the ground so that they stood like four wooden handled grave markers.
When they removed their jackets, both men were wearing shoulder holsters.
Measurements on the ground and the size of the area were discussed before the men commenced digging. Due to being at ground level and a short distance away, it was impossible for Jake to see what was going on, apart from the digging. He didn’t have long to wait. He could see a mound of earth building.
The two who’d been digging nodded as two of their comrades appeared. The fresh pair of sentries carried a large, oblong box, similar to a coffin. It was crystal clear so could have been a heavy acrylic material or glass. They set it down beside the hole. After they’d placed the container on the ground, the second pair returned to the house via the garage door. They appeared a few minutes later with another identical container. They lay it alongside the first.
Simpson appeared from the garage exit, dragging a blonde woman by the arms and hair. She stumbled and hardly made a sound. There wasn’t the same level of resistance generally associated with a prisoner. Her clothes were ragged, and her naked body and face were bleeding and covered in bruises.
The woman wasn’t emaciated but judging by appearance, if she wasn’t dying, she didn’t have long left. The human body like anything else in nature will fight for survival, but the human spirit can tip the balance.
Next, to exit the building was a group of three men. On the left was McGinley and on the right Peter Henderson. Both men were instantly recognisable. The battered and bleeding naked man dragged between them was not recognisable.
Apart from severe gashes, burns and bruises over his body, the man had brown hair going grey. His shoulders were slumped, so his face was hidden. There were fresh, bleeding wounds and the flesh showed the unmistakable signs of recent and sustained whipping. When the prisoner attempted to lift his head, he was punched in the face by McGinley.
