To Kill Or Be Killed (35 page)

David had got
in from the walk breathless and giddy. He’d unwrapped Conor, given
him a biscuit and was sat having a big mug of tea chatting in the
dining room with Mary. It was a quarter to ten in the morning.

“Did you have a
good time?”

“Yeah we saw
boats and Dada promised to be a pirate with me.”

“Change of
career then Davy?”

“Maybe.”

Mary was sat
facing the garden picture window. The long garden backed onto the
primary school field, across which there was a steep bank, leading
up to the back gardens of the houses on the Eaves Road. She
proffered David a plate of biscuits and he took a custard cream and
bit it.

The door bell
rang and Mary, expecting her friend, got up and missed the view of
a dark figure sliding down the bank from an overlooking garden.

There was the
bustle of Mina and her son Hadleigh in the house. Mina made small
talk with David and then within ten minutes Mary and Conor had left
in Mina’s car. David was going to go to the loft to do some work,
but he quite suddenly felt comfortable and happy. The urge to put
the television on and vegetate for a while overwhelmed him. He
wasn’t normally lazy, but he felt that after what he had been
through switching off for an hour or so would make him feel a lot
stronger. He took his tea into the lounge and switched the set
on.

At the top of
the garden a figure crawled under the link fencing and emerged
behind a small shed at the top of McKie’s garden. Stanton began
looking at the house for weaknesses from his hidden vantage point.
His eye lit on an open Velux window on the roof.

Chapter
88

London Vauxhall

9 a.m.

April 19th

The DIC checks
revealed a fair few ‘hits’ for the name ‘Priory’ in London. There
were pubs at all points of the compass, not to mention religious
buildings and of course the ‘Priory Grange’ Roehampton, the
rehabilitation clinic. Jack Fulton, in the building spot on nine in
the morning, thought the intended victim might be there and sent a
team to check the list of possible high profile patients. In spite
of the high number of possible locations Jack despatched DIC
watchers from London locations and took staff off CCTV watch and
other duties to visit the pubs, restaurants and religious buildings
with ‘Priory’ in the title.

Mason had been
awake for an hour and had sat up in the car early in the morning.
He was parked in a large car park in the fore court of a building
on Benson Court. After waking he put the radio on and heard,
amongst other items, news about Cobb. It hadn’t surprised him that
Cob had been killed, but the fact that he’d had a suite at
Claridge’s, a fact mentioned in the news, was out of place. It
crossed his mind, given the speed of security’s arrival and the
high profile nature of the hotel that Cobb had been set up. Cobb
couldn’t have afforded the suite, Mason reasoned, so it meant that
the people hiring them had put him there and if that was the case
Cobb had got to the contact point first. So why not put him in a
nice quiet place, out of the way, especially given his high media
profile after Gatwick. Mason was nervous. He’d had his reservations
about the people hiring them and the whole trip south to
London.

He got out of
the Beetle, walked around the corner to the Priory Arms on
Lansdowne Road. The bright blue pub and its little outside ‘beer
garden’ frontage was a closed face. He stood outside wondering
whether to make a break for it out of the country and forget the
whole thing, when someone called his name.

Paul Bentall
had been with MI6 for five years. He’d spent the night in the black
Honda watching for Mason or Stanton. He had the night shift. Peter
on the day shift had it easy sitting in the pub and Bentall looked
back on his five years and thought about how he always got the
crappy part of any job. He checked the time and seeing it was close
to shift change he got ready to report to Pete, when he arrived.
They would swap cars and he, Bentall could go get some breakfast
and go home to sleep.

He glanced over
at the pub and saw Mason walk up and stand outside. It was Mason,
he was sure, but he checked the photo just the same. He opened the
car door and walked over.

“Peter
Mason?”

Mason spun
around, his hand on the Sig in the back waistband of his
trousers.

“It’s okay
Mason. I’m from the buyer. Want to step into the car?”

Mason pulled
the Sig from his waistband and put it under his jacket at the
front.

“After
you.”

They walked
over to the car and Bentall got in the driver side, Mason got in
the passenger seat. Bentall was nervous. He didn’t dare reach into
his jacket for his revolver, a snub nose point three eight Smith
and Wesson ‘Night Guard’ special.

“Shame about
the others any news on Stanton?” Mason asked establishing the man’s
credentials through common knowledge.

“No. Cobb died
this morning.”

“I noticed. Did
your firm put him in the suite?” Mason didn’t look into his face,
but deliberately looked over at the bright blue pub frontage.

“Yes.”

“A bit open
wouldn’t you say?”

“No. We wanted
him to wait until today and it seemed the least we could do after
all he’d been through.”

“Do I get a
suite at a top hotel?” At this point Mason did look into Bentall’s
eyes.

“No. The job’s
on from today, it’s all getting heated.”

Mason stiffened
and made his pistol visible, sliding it from under the black
leather jacket and resting it on his lap, as Bentall pulled an
envelope from under his seat. He handed it to Mason, overtly
cautious and casting glances at the automatic aimed at his
stomach.

“Easy Mason.
There’s the brief.”

Mason struggled
to open the envelope one handed, but did so anyway. When the sheets
slid out, he dropped them onto his lap, still pointing the pistol
Bentall, he scanned the page and looked at the paper clipped
passport photo attached to the sheet, his eyes widened.

“Him?” Mason’s
voice was the epitome of disbelief.

“What did you
expect for a million?”

“But him,
that’s not possible! How do you expect me to get near him?”

“That’s your
problem. You're to leave that envelope with me, so memorise those
five key times and locations which are always the same when he’s at
home and give it back.”

Mason read the
sheet, put the brief back in the envelope and handed it back.

“Now I take it
you’re parked nearby, so you’d better take your equipment and get
going.” Bentall was harshly forceful in his tone of voice.

Mason didn’t
move though, he had questions now for sure.

Who the hell
are you people anyway?”

“That’s
secret.” Bentall reached onto the back seat and brought a briefcase
forwards. Mason raised the pistol and held his hand further back in
response to the sudden movement.

“The equipment
and a contact method is in there.” Bentall rested the briefcase on
his lap and tapped it.

“Contact
method?”

“Disposable
cell phone with one number in its memory is the contact method.
When the job’s done call and you’ll be taken to safety, a hideout,
then a pay off and a well planned escape, any questions?”

“You really
expect me to trust you?” Mason looked him in the eyes.

“What else have
you got?”

“My wits and my
instincts.” Mason said all too suddenly and pressed the weapon to
Bentall’s chest and pulled the trigger. There was a muffled bang
and Bentall’s face screwed up in agony, he jerked and twisted and
finally slumped against the window, his heart having stopped.

Mason looked
around. There was no-one to be seen. He began searching the car. He
was damned if he’d do the job before he knew who he was working
for. The glove compartment was locked, but Bentall had the key in
his trouser pocket. There was a nine millimetre Browning pistol
with silencer and a spare clip and Bentall’s identification,
clearly showing he was with MI6.

Bentall had
been told not to take ID with him, but he was sure he’d be spotted
by someone whilst he was sitting outside the pub all night every
night for at least three days and wanted something to show any
police who might show up.

Mason smiled.
So the secret service wanted ‘him’ dead. There was a turn up for
the books. He checked the case and found a bomb with a timer and
the cell phone. He switched on the phone and rang enquiries to get
a taxi firm number. He ordered a taxi for twenty minutes later,
went back to the Beetle and got his sports holdall. After ten
minutes with Bentall’s pass and his own photo he’d made up a
passable MI6 badge for himself.

He knew how he
was going to get to the target. This was a historic hit. He wasn’t
going to trust them after he’d done it, but he knew who they were
and where to find them and they’d know that too. They wouldn’t mess
with him and he’d get the money and get himself out. Him, no wonder
it was a million.

He left
Bentall’s body in the Honda, putting the bomb and cell phone in his
holdall. He went to meet the taxi around the corner. As he jumped
in with the briefcase and gave the address a DIC watcher was
driving past him on route to the Priory Arms. Sharp eyed as ever
the watcher passed, noted and turned his car around in the car park
on Benson Close, to follow. He called Euston Tower on his satellite
phone as he followed, alerting DIC.

A DIC duty team
was despatched to follow, but not to intervene until Mason had got
to his destination. Jack Fulton made it very clear that he wanted
to know where Mason was going, it might reveal the people hiring or
the target.

Neither Mason,
his taxi driver nor the DIC man, in his car, noticed the Nissan
Micra following them. Peter Brook had arrived at the Black Honda to
relieve Bentall seconds after Mason had walked around the corner.
He’d found Bentall dead, the case on the passenger seat, the brown
envelope with the target and details, bloodstained on Bentall’s
lap, but the bomb and the phone gone. He’d run to corner of Benson
Close to see Mason get into the taxi. He had taken the envelope and
followed and he too had made a phone call.

The three car
‘convoy’ went up Lansdowne Way and turned right onto the Wandsworth
Road. Traffic was thick and it was slow going.

In his office
Sternway took the news badly. He’d just sat down and ordered his
coffee when the phone rang.

“Sir? It’s
Brook. I’m following Mason in a taxi going up the Wandsworth Road.
He’s killed Bentall, taken the bomb and he’s headed the right way
for the job.”

“Killed
Bentall?”

“Yes. One shot
to the chest, so he didn’t torture him. There seems to be no
reason.”

“Did he take
the envelope with the hit details?”

“No sir. I’ve
got that with me, covered in Bentall’s blood.”

“Right keep
following. He’s not doing that and getting away with it. I don’t
like anyone killing my men for no reason. Get ready for
extermination and see if you can pick a spot on the route. I call
in three minutes to confirm that E order. Clear.”

“Yes Sir.”
Brook reached into his glove compartment and took out gloves, he
slid them on. He was one of the better skilled men from ‘dirty
tricks’ and had carried out a few E orders, mostly abroad. Bentall
had been a good colleague and Mason was going to pay.

Sternway put
the phone down and stared at it. He’d liked Bentall, a good solid
man he’d always said, never complained and always did the nasty
stuff really well. Sternway was about to give the execution order
for Brook to carry out when he had a better idea. He called Joe
from the outer office.

“Mason killed
Bentall at the meet point. Brook is tailing him in a taxi up the
Wandsworth Road, so you know where he’s headed. Make a call to the
Sun newspaper, use a disposable cell phone and whilst you’re at it
get rid of this, I mean crush it to pieces.” He threw a lime green
Bic disposable cell phone across the desk. It was the only thing to
link him to Mason. They had stacks of them, used for one off
contact.

Joe picked up
the phone and went to the outer office. He sat down and called the
Sun newspaper and when he was done he took the cell phones down to
the boiler room and threw them in the furnace.

The Sun news
desk workers were delighted when they got an anonymous call
describing Mason, his route and direction. They despatched a
photographer on a motorbike and called armed police. Armed police
called DIC as a matter of protocol, but cars had already left
Euston Tower. Armed police units sped, lights pulsing, sirens
blaring to the junction at the north end of Vauxhall Bridge. All
the vehicles converged on the Vauxhall Bridge exit.

Unaware of the
gathering problems around him Mason prepared for the taxi to stop a
street away from his target’s address. The taxi made slow progress
up the Wandsworth Road and the Sun photographer arrived at the
bridge exit in time to see the junction surrounded. It was ten in
the morning.

The London cab
rolled onto the bridge, the red railings flashing past and the two
towers on the far side looking like sentinels. The driver was
suddenly struck by the lack of traffic coming from the other
side.

“Might be a
contra flow for some reason; I’ve never seen it this empty.”

Mason looked
ahead and saw the blue flashing lights. He looked back and only
three cars were following, a large empty gap behind them stretching
back across the Thames to more flashing lights at the south
entrance.

When the police
had sealed the northern exit they waited and sprang into place
cutting traffic off at the south entrance. They’d been unable to
stop the three cars; directly behind the cab was DIC, a civilian
car and then Brook from MI6.