To Kill Or Be Killed (4 page)

Jack Fulton had
his own rooms, but mucked in with his team in the kitchen. The
floor below the overnight apartments was where McKie was headed;
Fulton and his office staff worked there. The fifteen floors below
that contain gathering centres. These are staffed night and day by
two shifts of full time officers. There are computers for the
collection of in bound material, website monitoring and recording
radio newscasts and there are banks of TV screens with rolling news
linked to digital recorders filling both floors. The six floors
below that are duty team offices and the staff canteens. This
seemingly odd combination puts the rotating staff in contact with
the permanent staff regularly which is enough to build good
relations and bond the teams. The six levels below these are
technical support centres staffed by some of the best technicians
the country can supply including the front CCTV firm people.

The first four
floors house the vast computer system and a small armoury. McKie’s
lift journey took him unseeing through the centre of this tightly
packed and dynamic building.

The two week
duty team rota is made up of DIC operatives aged twenty-five to
forty-five. Each local area operative between those ages spends at
least two weeks a year at the centre in London and should the need
arise be ready to travel around the country to deal with any small
or large problem highlighted by the intelligence sent in from the
local area watchers. Some DIC operatives do up to three fortnight
shifts a year at the centre depending on age and lifestyle. Other
than that they work from home, most of the year.

Knowing that he
was about to spend two weeks in the building McKie felt both
excited and a little homesick about not being there in the evening
to be with his family. He consoled himself that in the long run
he’d be around his family a lot more as a result of the job.

The cold and
warm air conditioning in the building was perfect and as a result a
comfortable temperature greeted David as he exited the lift to be
met by Jack Fulton.

Fulton had
served his time as a DIC operative and passed the rigorous
selection process to run the service after only five years in the
job. He’d been top man for twenty years. Selected from the
diplomatic branch of the civil service at twenty-five, a Cambridge
graduate, he’d distinguished himself on two crucial occasions for
the country, once in nineteen eighty five and once in nineteen
eighty seven. The latter adventure had left him with a limp from a
broken leg. A year later he was put in charge.

He had been a
short and wiry young man, but the limp precluded exercise and he
had at fifty acquired a rounder, though not fat, stature. Along
with his physique, his white hair and short white beard gave him
the appearance of a friendly and amiable teacher. His grey eyes
though betrayed the chess playing genius and brilliant mind within
and for a moment David recalled the image of a wolf in sheep’s
clothing that had come to mind the first time he had met Jack
Fulton.

A small dry
hand firmly held his own large bony fingers and as an added gesture
of welcome Jack placed his left hand warmly on top of their
grip.

“So good to see
you. You’re right on time. Is everything going well?”

David said that
it was and Fulton guided him, hand on back towards an office,
passing through his secretary’s ante chamber, he introduced
her.

“This is Magda,
Magda David. You’ll have read all about him no doubt.”

“White tea in
the morning, no sugar, will you have some now?”

David was not
taken aback. He had answered a ream of questions and been
subsequently quizzed on all his answers several times as part of
the selection procedure.

“That’ll be
lovely thanks.”

Fulton gestured
to a chair as he closed his office door, McKie sat and Fulton took
his place across the desk.

“I had the
report from Lympstone. You’re quite an athlete. The unarmed combat
instructor said you were flexible and in some ways fairly
unstoppable and the firearms instructors said you had good eyes and
steady hands. Quite a shot by all accounts, but I want you to know
now that though the unarmed combat and firearms training is
essential it’s rare, sometimes unheard of for an operative of DIC
to need it. No it’s the observation, the fast mental processing,
the image and detail recall and the thinking skills that mark you
and all our DIC people as a force to be reckoned with.”

“Brains not
brawn I know.”

“Quite right,
though you appear to have an ample supply of both. I’m very pleased
David, very pleased to have you on our team.”

“Thank you. I’m
delighted to have got on the team.”

“Good. Well
we’ll wait for Magda with the tea. Whilst we do I’ll go through the
building layout, procedures and other useful information.”

Fulton drew out
no papers, gave out no hand book and didn’t give David paper or
pencil. He reeled out a stream of information and David listened
and mentally stored it for immediate recall. Tea came half way
through and they both ignored it until Fulton was done. Finally
they both sipped their tea.

“Any
questions?”

“No that all
seems clear.”

“Good. Then
finish that tea and give me a tour of the building.”

“Give you a
tour?”

“Little test of
our brain training eh?”

“Right
sir.”

“It’s not the
army David, you call me Jack.”

“Sure
enough”

They got
up.

“Where do we
start?”

“At the top
Jack, I’d like to see if you’ve put my luggage in the right room.
You did say room six didn’t you?”

Jack
smiled.

“Lead on David,
lead on.”

Chapter
14

London

Hampstead

9 a.m.

April 17th

A golden haired
nine year old boy, with a freshly scrubbed face presented himself
at the door of what was a very austere dining room. He was followed
by a golden haired girl, half a foot shorter, with the neatest of
pigtails. They were both dressed in green uniforms. The boy was
dressed in a crisp white shirt and green and yellow striped tie,
green shorts and the girl was dressed in a green check cotton
dress; both were holding straw hats in front of them.

A door chime
sounded down the hall and a slim yet motherly blonde woman appeared
flustered behind the children. Across a dining table strewn with
the remnants of breakfast a severe man in his early forties,
dressed in a black three piece suit, pale blue shirt and deep blue
tie, lowered a tabloid Times.

The serious
face with heavy lidded eyes and thin lips creased into a warm
smile. Nigel Sternway removed his reading glasses.

“Aha Summer
uniforms so it’s April already.”

He beckoned the
children to him and kissed them. As they left the room, waving, a
tall thin man stopped and let them pass.

“You’re early
Joe” Mrs Sternway frowned watching her children exit the room.

She disliked
her husband’s employees coming to the house. Joe was Nigel’s number
two and drove him around. She disliked Joe. He was grey and pale.
He had x-ray eyes. He was tall and thin. He always wore a dark blue
suit and a light blue tie, and oddly, she had noticed, that he wore
brown boots, the walking kind. He was thin, but he had a wiry
quality. She felt him to be like snake, long and thin, with coiled,
poisonous potential within the thin frame. Della Sternway hated her
husband’s work.

When Joe nodded
and offered a weak and ineffective smile she happily followed the
golden children, heading for the school run.

“Morning Joe.”
Sternway’s smile for his children slipped suddenly from his
face.

Joe closed the
dining room door.

“Sir. The sub
dropped them this morning. They should be heading this way.”

“Good. We’ll
see which one gets through then.” Sternway precisely folded his
reading glasses, encased them and slipped them into his jacket top
pocket.

“If any DIC 's
record on malicious intruders is ten to nothing so far.”

“See they do
have their uses. You sure this will work?”

“It’s as good a
way as any. These men are the best and one should get through and
if they don’t we’ll know it can’t be done.”

Sternway looked
at his watch.

“Just before
nine, a couple of them at least should be in Inverness by now. When
we get to the office send Bentall to you know who to have the
conversation. Tell him the game’s afoot, oh and he’s to leave the
contact package with him.”

They left the
house, Joe in front, opening the door of the black Jaguar for
Sternway. Once in the driver’s seat, Joe took his revolver out from
under it and slipped it into his holster. Della’s rule on guns in
the house made him uncomfortable. Joe wondered why she hadn’t
become used to such ideas after ten years of marriage to a member
of the British Secret Service.

Sternway ran
the ‘dirty work’ section at the secret service and the
contradiction of Sternway’s warm family life and cold blooded
working day reminded Joe of the poem Vultures, by Chinua Achebe. He
glanced in the mirror at Sternway’s ‘cold telescopic eyes’.

Chapter
15

Inverness Airport

9- 20 a.m.

April 17th

At Inverness
Airport with his coffee and breakfast finished Spencer went to book
a flight to Gatwick. He had decided that DIC or not the quicker he
moved the better.

Chance was
against him though. At the small Flybe desk he found himself
embarrassed by the failure of the fake Visa card. There was a seat
on the flight, but it wasn’t his for the taking.

He walked out
of the airport in a foul mood. The April drizzle might have cooled
his hot head, but its niggling needle like drops only increased his
annoyance. He checked the thin black wallet for cash and cursed the
expensive breakfast, newspaper and coffee for taking nearly ten
pounds of the thirty cash they had been given.

The flight was
twelve pounds, but the surcharge and taxes took the price up to
twenty four. He didn’t have the money for the flight. He wondered
why they had been given so little cash and then became angry when
he realised that the organisers had assumed that the credit card
would work. His didn’t and he had no way to contact then to get it
sorted.

He stood
briefly in the rain, exasperated, wondering what to do when a taxi
stopped in front of him.

“Going into the
city my friend?”

The pale,
podgy, pudding faced taxi driver called from his open window.

Marco Spencer
smiled, but his eyes were predatory and his mind made up. Well he
wanted the million. The man looked close to a coronary anyway.

“Sure. I need
to go to…” He let it trail off.

“Yeah?” The
taxi driver was tired.

It was the end
of his night shift and he’d done extra hours; too many really. His
last fare had taken him to the airport, so in greed he was looking
for a fare to take back, so as not to waste the drive; it would be
the last of his shift.

“It’s an
address on the east side of the city.”

Marco got
in.

“I’ll need
better than that.”

“Have you got a
map?”

The driver
‘tutted’.

“Sorry friend.
There’s a twenty in it if you help me.”

Enthused at
least a little by the promise of extra cash the driver got out a
map. Spencer made a play of forgetting the exact address and by the
time he’d looked at the map he had picked his spot.

“The business
man I’m meeting lives on the front, just off the 96 on the way to
Milton of Culloden.”

“Sure enough,
but it’s gonna cost ya.”

“That’s fine.”
The taxi driver took in the long black cashmere coat and smart look
of his fare. He thought that the money was there alright.

The taxi driver
swung the car around and pulled onto the road thinking he’d soon be
at the end of his shift.

In the back,
under cover of his smart black coat, Marco pulled the famously
silent Russian PSS pistol out of his inside pocket and released the
safety catch.

The taxi driver
tried to make conversation, but Spencer’s short replies soon put
him off. Spencer and his pale, unhealthy taxi driver drove pretty
much right around the outskirts of the city and then drove along
the ninety six A road in silence. Finally the car turned onto the
road by the Moray Firth coastline. Spencer’s pulse quickened and
his eyes hardened.

“You sure this
is right no?” The taxi driver looked anxiously in the mirror.

Spencer checked
for witnesses and there were none. It was a thick drizzle that
would keep even the most ardent dog walkers and joggers away from
the stretch of coastal roadway.

“I said…”

The PSS round
passed through the sweat impregnated foam where the base of the
podgy driver’s neck rested. The bullet passed through the seat, the
man’s spine at the base of his skull and lodged in the grimy
ceiling covering, above the sun visor. The man arched his back
briefly, but suddenly becoming instantly quadriplegic he lost
control of his limbs and his lower body. The driver was about to
fall forward onto the car horn when Spencer’s hand grabbed the hair
at the back of the man’s head. Spencer twisted the head into the
gap between the seats; the driver’s eyes were wild with fear and
desperate with the need to scream as Spencer held the pistol muzzle
to the left eye and squeezed. A black hole replaced the bloodily
disintegrated eye and the light in the right eye went out as skull,
brain matter and blood spattered the passenger seat, the bullet
passing through head and seat, ripping and tearing, finally lodging
in the metal frame of the seat.