by A P Bateman
“Simon,” King acknowledged him and turned to Ramsay. “Hi, Neil. Not exactly dressed for a stroll on the beach. You just need a Cornetto and a knotted handkerchief on your head…”
“Caroline told us you’d be down here,” he replied somewhat tacitly.
King nodded. That much was obvious, or they would not have known where to look. Maybe it was the change of lifestyle, the building project they had undertaken, or the simple fact that after so long operating in the shadows, doing the government’s dirty work, he struggled with the ‘normality’ of his current situation. It all seemed so final.
“We’ve got a job for you,” said Simon Mereweather.
“I’m not interested.”
“It’s right up your street.”
“Things have changed,” said King. “I’m out. We both are.”
“It’s a job for one person,” Neil Ramsay said. “If you’re worried about Caroline…”
“I retired,” King replied. “We both have.”
“I was under the illusion that Caroline was on sabbatical.”
King shrugged. “You’ll need to speak with her.”
“Win the lottery, did we?” Mereweather quipped.
“Something will come up.”
“Caroline’s inheritance will help, I imagine. But it’s not a sizable legacy, it won’t last for ever.”
“Nice to know nothing is off limits. I don’t know why I thought they ever would be.” King paused. “But what you consider to be sizeable, and what we consider to be sizeable are two different things entirely, Simon. I heard mummy and daddy own half of Hampshire.”
Mereweather shook his head. “No, not quite half of it,” he said wryly. “That would be Berkshire. I’m sure the family own half of that.”
“Building projects escalate. A few more quid won’t hurt,” Ramsay added.
“Amherst made it quite clear he was going to clip my wings.”
“He’s had a change of heart.”
“Then you can tell him to fuck off,” King replied. “You can both fuck off, for that matter…”
“You’re never really out of the game altogether, Alex.” Mereweather paused. “You of all people should know that.”
“After the last job, your office made it quite clear I should lay low.” King paused. “In fact, I think after two months of laying low, you then used the term disavowed.”
“Well, it wasn’t exactly a job, was it? Officially, at least. You righted some wrongs, crossed some Ts and dotted the odd i. But you went rogue on us…” Mereweather trailed off, glancing uncomfortably at Ramsay. The whole team had followed King, Ramsey included. Retribution for fallen comrades and MI5’s reluctance to act because of the political fallout. It had conveniently worked out for MI5 in the long term, but only by luck. And even then, by proxy. King had taken responsibility and Caroline had taken a sabbatical. King had been told to wait for a call, but none ever came. Later, he had been sent a letter telling him he had been disavowed, his files redacted. He was looking ahead now and had managed to get his head around his career with MI5 being over. Caroline was taking stock of her life, but a timely legacy from an aunt had bought her the luxury of time. For a few more months, at least.
“Things have changed,” said King. He pictured Caroline sitting on the side of the bath wearing just her satin nightie, her legs crossed, and the pregnancy test she clutched resting in her lap. Too scared, and yet, too excited to look at it. He remembered how vulnerable, how beautiful she looked. Her skin glowing, her hair shining and her eyes beaming. He remembered how he felt inside. An emotion he’d never felt previously. A tangible element. He could only describe it as complete. And then the test had been negative, the moment evaporated and the reality cold and stark and real, the daydreams turned to smoke in the air. A false alarm, but something that they both felt more compelled to experience in the future. A new direction for them, and one they both knew to be impossible, or at least reckless and foolhardy living the life they once had. King looked at the two men resolutely and said, “I’m out of the game now.”
Mereweather nodded and Ramsay said, “What about training?”
“That’s what I was doing when you interrupted.”
“Looks like you’re training for a fight.”
“I’m always training for a fight,” King replied. “You never know when it’s coming, but I won’t be caught napping when it does.”
Ramsay smiled. “I meant, what about training some agents for a specific task?”
“Like what?”
“Something you’ve done before, but this time on a much larger scale.”
Mereweather nodded. “The idea is the same in principle, but where you improvised, or perhaps put just a few day’s planning into it and rolled the dice, we have the luxury of time and resources.” He paused. “We can make detailed plans, give the team the equipment they need, the back-up and support. Access to satellite imagery, that sort of thing.”
“You’ve got good people, I’m sure a training program can be designed using the instructors you already have.”
“Three months’ work,” Mereweather said. “Tier-Two salary, travel expenses and accommodation when not on site.”
“I’m out.”
“Full pension provisions, naturally.”
“You’ll start all that up again, anyway. I’m not happy that you pulled that. I was going to have a word with you. It was petty.”
“You carried out an unsanctioned assassination. On a world leader, no less.”
“So, you say. I rightfully decline to comment.”
“The Secret Service investigation have a suspect. That man’s name is a perfect anagram of your own.”
“Coincidence.”
“He worked on the victim’s house.”
“I’m not a tradesman.”
“True,” Ramsay interrupted. “We’ve just seen his plastering.”
King smiled. “And there you have it.”
“So, you’re still denying it,” Mereweather nodded.
“I caught up with the man behind the death of one of our own. He committed
terrorist activities, and an attack on British soil. If the Yanks want to answer to that, then bring them to account. Otherwise, both sides can shut up. Call it quid-pro-quo. I know nothing about the death of the world leader in question.”
“I know you did it,” Mereweather persisted. He looked as if he was about to add something but noticed the coldness of King’s stare and did not continue.
King frowned. “And you thought it would be wise to pull the pension on a man who you thought could do that? It’s a good job I considered you a friend, Simon. No, you’ll start that up when you get back to the office, and you’ll back date it as well. I don’t want to be the one to tell you that I know where you live,” King paused, staring at him coldly. “But I do know where you live, Simon.”
Simon Mereweather did not reply, but King was left in no doubt that the man would see it done. First thing on Monday morning, his pension plan would be back in place.
“It’s just training, Alex,” Ramsay added, breaking the tension. “We know that you no longer want to work in the field.”
“Rashid is in.” Mereweather paused. “I’m making him team leader. Or at least, I am now that you’re so adamant you don’t want the job.”
“Good for him,” King replied. “If he’s the one on the ground, perhaps he’d better help train the other agents.”
“Are things okay between you?”
“It doesn’t matter anymore.”
King looked towards the sea. The shore break was pounding directly onto the shingle beach like it so often did on this stretch of coastline. It was deep just offshore, so no swells formed and built further out. The western reaches of the Atlantic simply swelled close to shore and unleashed pounding waves which often caught out the unwary paddler. Other stretches of the southern coastline had surf and golden sand beaches, but here it simply crashed upon the rocky shore. King lost himself in
the sight. He and Rashid had reconciled, but it had not been the same. He hadn’t seen the man he would call his best friend since they had shaken hands at the airport in Toronto, and King still carried the weight of an innocent’s death with him and knew he always would. The last operation had seen the team disperse, unlikely to come back together. Once Caroline’s sabbatical had been approved, they had settled in Cornwall and started to renovate the old coastguard cottages they had bought at a property auction, with the idea of living in one and renting the other out to supplement their funds. King had been slow to complete the maintenance tasks, but now he had a good reason to put roots down. After a lifetime of never knowing family, or what it was to be a part of one, he liked the idea of starting one with Caroline.
“Alex?” Ramsay ventured.
King snapped to. He shrugged benignly. “I’m not interested. Come back to the cottage and I’ll get the kettle on, raid the biscuit barrel. Let’s leave it at that.”
4
Four months later
Albania
“The man you can see on screen is Besmir Muka, an Albanian national. Five feet nine or one-point seven-five metres and approximately twelve-stone, which I’m sure those of you under thirty-five will know as seventy-six kilos.” Rashid paused the footage and said, “Note the titanium case. It’s rumoured to hold close to two million euros, one point five million pounds sterling or two million US dollars. He takes the cash to one of twelve possible cover businesses in Tirana, six times a week.”
“Twelve-million a week!” exclaimed Mac. He was a short Scotsman with red close-cropped hair and a face only a mother could love. He whistled a long high to low and shook his head.
“And they say crime doesn’t pay,” Goldie commented. He was a Londoner and could have bantered on a fruit and veg stall in Borough Market all day long. Except that he had been a sergeant in the SBS, the Royal Navy’s equivalent of the SAS based in Poole. He was an extreme athlete, running fifty-mile endurance races in his spare time. He also gave up on a place on the British triathlon team in the London Olympic Games when he was deployed to Afghanistan. The nickname came from his constant whining that he could have taken gold. Colleagues in the special forces rarely missed an opportunity for banter or a nickname.
Rashid held up his hand. “Besmir Muka is one of at least a dozen bag men. This Albanian gang show more profits than some of the FTSE 100 Index companies.” He paused. “And tomorrow, we’re going to hit two of them. One at eleven hundred hours and the other at twelve hundred hours. Four miles between.”
A tall man in his late thirties leaned forward in his chair. His name was Tom Hendy, but they called him Philosopher because he had a two-two degree in leisure studies. Back when people had enough loans and grants for pointless degrees. The economic banking crisis had put an end to degrees in canoeing and abseiling, and by the time Tom Hendy needed to put his studies to employment, he had decided to join the Army, but the degree got him into officer training and he had reached the rank of captain before doing a four year stint in the SAS. He had later joined the Gurkhas because of his interest in climbing and the chance to trek and train with the Gurkha regiment in the Himalayas. “That sounds tight,” he said. “Hitting a bag man and getting to the next drop before word gets out, with only an hour in between.” He shrugged. “It’s not a lot of time to get on site, but it might as well be hours in terms of keeping it quiet.”
“He’s right,” Mac agreed, thumbing towards him. “He’s not called Philosopher for nothing…”
“What’s the chain around his wrist?” said the fourth and last of the agents. He was black, stocky and in his early thirties. He was a former army helicopter pilot and wasn’t a typical MI5 recruit, but he had flown several missions for 14 Intelligence Company and had got on well with one of the intelligence officers and when the officer had later joined MI5, he had recommended him. Leroy Wilkinson was known as Flymo, after the hover lawnmower brand, because he flew and hovered so low.
“Titanium,” Rashid replied.
“Not coming off with a set of bolt croppers from B and Q, then,” Flymo commented.
“Can we pick the lock?” asked Mac.
“Not enough time,” Rashid answered.
“I can blow it,” said Goldie. “A small ball of PE4, slip some Kevlar around the bloke’s wrist. The detonator will be bigger than the charge, but it might just allow him to hold onto the wrist.”
“An axe is a lot less bother,” Philosopher commented. “We haven’t got time to piss about. Nobody said we weren’t just wasting this guy, either.”
“Is he a hostile?” asked Flymo. “Do we just go in shooting?”
Rashid stood up and pointed at the screen. “Here, here and here…” He pointed at three points on the image and pressed play on the remote. “Three support vehicles. One or two men per vehicle. It’s sketchy, because the amount of men changes. But there are always three sets of back-up wheels. So, if it all goes tits up, there are potentially four getaway vehicles for them. And at least five bodyguards to stop it going down.”
“Armed?” asked Flymo.
“You can bet your arse on that. All of them carry a short and there will be longs in all the vehicles. AK’s most likely.”
“Then we go in hard,” said Mac. “Silenced pistols. Walk up behind them simultaneously and give them a bullet behind the ear. Take the bag man out, use an axe and get the hell out of there.”
“I’ll be the wheelman,” said Flymo. He stood up and walked over to the table with the flask of coffee and poured himself a cup. Black and strong. He spooned in half a dozen sugars. He had often joked that he liked the spoon to stand up in it. To attention, not stand easy. “I’ll do what I have to do, but wet work isn’t in my skillset.”
“I can’t say that I enjoy doing it,” said Rashid. “But like we trained for and studied for back home, we can’t make this particular omelette without breaking eggs. A lot of eggs.”
“Aye, just think of the guns and drugs coming into the UK with this bunch,” said Mac. “Dunny think about it.” He held up his fingers like a child acting out a gun. “Tap, tap, tap and move on.”
“They’re a means to an end,” said Rashid. “MI5 being what they are, have only allocated a budget that gets us here. To go all the way, we need to raise funds. But doing it like this means we also sow the seeds of doubt in both organisations. The Albanians hold the ground. This is Tirana. It’s ground zero, so no rival ethnic gangs are going to try a takeover here. Nobody is either brave or stupid enough.”
“Apart from the Russians,” said Philosopher. “Or us, so it would seem.”
“Exactly. Now, the Albanians get hit and ask, ‘who was stupid enough to do that?’” Rashid paused. “But it will take them all of five seconds to blame the Russians. According to our source in the Met’s International Crime Taskforce, Romanovitch was unhappy at the Albanians when T’Briki negotiated a new percentage. He took Romanovitch’s guns, and his chemicals to make the crystal meth, but simply sent less money back. Percentage changed, and that was that. Romanovitch begrudgingly accepted the terms. What else was he going to do? The weapons were ex-Soviet stock and had a huge mark up, and the chemicals are all produced in Romanovitch’s backyard, so he’s making hundreds of percent profit. However, to save face he wasted six of T’Briki’s men. And their entire families. He went along with the percentage, but he had sent a message back to the Albanians. And it’s only a matter of time before the simmer becomes a boil and Romanovitch renegotiates, or possibly cuts out the Albanians altogether.”
“They don’t fuck about, do they…” said Goldie quietly.
“No, they don’t,” replied Rashid. “So, we need to do this thing right. Capture isn’t an option I’d want to be left with. So, to avoid that, we go in as hard as the Russians would, and we don’t leave a trace.” He allowed the film to play on and stopped as the subject entered the post office. The image blurred and for a moment, a coat covered the lens of the camera. The person filming stood
at a grim selection of postcards, the subject just in view and unlocking the case from his wrist. The camera captured the key being handed to a serious-faced man behind the counter. The man turned and walked through an unmarked door.
“Inside man,” Philosopher said. “One of Romanovitch’s?”
“Yes.”
“So, the case is locked, the key is left wherever they make the transfer and another key unlocks it at the post office. Why not just have the man take the case?”
“Because someone on the payroll at the post office packages it into bundles and sends it through the mail. Inside poster tubes, coffee cans, small packages and large. Some of it even gets repackaged into well-known delivery service and internet shopping boxes. Counterfeit boxes if you could believe people get such things printed.”
“What about doing it when the man gets his key out?” asked Mac.
“We could try it at that moment,” Rashid replied patiently. “But this post office isn’t just a front for laundering money, it’s operating as a genuine business and service. So, there is a chance of collateral damage if it all goes to shit.” He paused, looking at each man in turn. “Which we all know it does the moment a shot is fired. But also, that counter is solid. If the case goes over the top, a shutter can be raised by a state-of-the-art gas piston release. You won’t even see it rise. It will simply be down one moment and up the next. We could shoot at it until it’s a bloody colander, but it will just flex and remain in place.”
“I suppose it’s not out of the question for Romanovitch to have guys the other side of the counter?” Philosopher asked. “Armed men, not just a man with a key.”
“Undoubtedly,” Rashid replied. “So, we need to get this done before they join in the fight or are witnesses to what is going down outside. Most likely, they’ll assume police involvement and stay put.”
“So, what about our other friend?” Flymo asked. “It seems rather cold blooded.”
Rashid nodded and froze the screen. He switched channels on the remote to an AV channel and a man appeared on the screen. He was sitting on the plain concrete floor of an empty room. It was the cellar beneath them. He was hooded, his hands taped behind his back and his legs taped together at the knees and ankles. There were bloodstains on his shirt. The CCTV camera recorded constantly. “I know,” he replied. “When the time comes, I’ll do it.”
