To Kill Or Be Killed (6 page)

He walked to
the door and turned.

“We’ll find out
whose submarine it was. Decryption department are working the armed
forces sites as we speak. For now,” he wagged a finger severely,
“we assume they’re up to no good, positively dangerous and someone
in the UK brought them in. The question is who or what are they?
What are they going to do? I’m having the leads and vital
information fed directly into the duty team offices and that means
you two here. Remember brains David, not brawn. Work this one out
and fast.”

David sat in a
padded swivel chair his knees were half way up his chest. He
struggled to reach the lever. Beaumont stepped over and worked the
lever.

“Thanks
Jack.”

“Call me
Beaumont. Anyway, we’re a team for two weeks, partners. So let’s
take a walk, get a sandwich and when we come back decryption will
have cracked MOD and the rest. Plus the watchers will have found at
least one face and we’ll have a lead. Come on.”

David
hesitated.

“Trust me. I’ve
been doing this job five years. Active duty rota isn’t usually this
exciting. There are thousands of people watching. Our job will be
to run around the country chasing.”

David smiled.
“Okay Beaumont.”

They got their
coats and headed down to the lobby. After being checked out by
security they headed for Euston station.

“Good
sandwiches at the station. The fresh air will get the brain cells
going.”

Inverness watch
picked Spencer out from the morning traffic at the airport.
Meanwhile Decryption were getting ready to run the four images
through MI6 computer when they got in, invisible to the secret
service computer system and its anti-intrusion software.

Back in his
office Jack Fulton stared at the footage of Marco Spencer eating
breakfast at Inverness airport. His eyes hardened. He knew this one
from somewhere of that he was sure. He stared harder at the
image.

“Who are you?”
He spoke aloud to the empty room.

Chapter
17

The Home Office

9 - 30 a.m.

April 17th

“Mr Robinson
will see you now.”

The secretary
opened the thick wooden door and let the blandly dressed man into
the ornate and beautiful office. Behind the desk Tarquin Robinson,
the Minister for The Home Office, sat waiting, reading through
documents. He was a short and extremely plump man. Known for being
outspoken his heavy build, short stature and wobbly chins made him
the target of many satirists. This greatly annoyed him as he took
himself very seriously. He watched the man walk in; a medium build
man, grey suit and nylon mackintosh, hair blonde, though not
naturally so as his eyebrows were brown. The man had serious brown
eyes and a thin pointed face.

“Have a seat Mr
Bentall.”

Bentall sat and
waited to be spoken to.

“No-one here
aware of who you are?”

“No. Your
secretary has a false name. I’m listed as a security firm
expert.”

“Good. What can
I do for you?”

“I believe that
after the last work done for you by my superior he expressed a
concern about a certain ‘situation’ and you agreed that
‘elimination’ by some means would be desirable.”

“Indeed I did.
Mutually beneficial I think we agreed.”

“You discussed
a plan I believe.”

“Yes.”

“That plan is
now in motion.” Bentall’s face was impassive as he looked at the
man’s black eyes.

Robinson
shifted forward in his seat, his bulky body shifting with
difficulty in the heavy and softly furnished office chair.

“Is it indeed,
is your boss sure this will work?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll be safely
distanced?”

“Yes.”

“Do his
superiors suspect anything?”

“No. We deal
with people like this all the time it’s part of departmental work
and no traces have been left. Our department is kept at arms
length. No-one generally wants to know what we’re up to. It allows
them to truthfully deny our work and if need be drop us in it. It’s
not a good position. That’s why my superior has sought this…er…
alliance, shall we call it?”

“Yes I see. The
results on the target will be permanent will they?”

“Finished for
good we should think.” Bentall couldn’t resist a small smile.

“The official
explanation will pass muster?” Robinson probed somewhat
nervously.

“Easily, it
seems sensible given the security climate.”

“It’ll be a
very satisfactory outcome. The time has come for change in that
area.”

“We think so.”
Bentall again gave a small smile.

“Your superior
will gain from this himself, but what would he like from me?”

“Support.”
Bentall had been told to make the cost clear. ”Of course if you’d
like to cancel?” He added knowing that the fat, greedy man was
hooked.

“No. Let’s
proceed. It’s begun now.”

“Good.” Bentall
felt in control. The old man was sweating. It was always the same
with the power hungry, keen, but afraid when the moment came.

“What if I need
to contact your superior?”

“We have a
method. A mode of untraceable and disposable contact will simply
appear and disappear as easily as you desire or he desires.”

Bentall took
out the brown ‘jiffy’ parcel, sealed, and put it on the table.

“One number in
the memory, untraceable, registered to a fake name and
disposable.”

“Good. That’s
all then.” Robinson once again spoke with authority, reminding
himself he was speaking to a government lackey.

Bentall got
up.

“Thank you
minister, I’ll pass your consent to my superior?”

“Please
do.”

Bentall left
quietly.

Robinson opened
the parcel and took out an orange coloured Bic ‘disposable’ cell
phone. It was a clever gadget. It came with a pre charged battery
and pre paid talk time. He’d seen them in France. This one was
citrus orange colour.

Chapter
18

Inverness

10 a.m.

April 17th

Peter Mason
arrived at Inverness rail station, close to ten in the morning. He
knew that he was booked on the night train, but he also knew that
he had the option to trade the ticket for a single ticket going
south during the day. He’d had enough of trains. He wanted to be
more independent. He knew that the credit card would stretch to a
rental car, but that would leave a trail.

He caught a bus
out of the city going north towards the Moray Firth. Sure enough,
within fifteen minutes he’d found himself on the Carse Industrial
Estate. After getting off the bus he wandered around the various
units, scanning the car parks. He wanted an old car, the kind with
visible pull up locks. He found what he was looking for under trees
in the car park of a delivery firm. The owner of the mid
nineteen-eighties white Alfasud Ti, a classic hatchback, was going
to be devastated by the loss of his pride and joy.

Mason pulled up
his hood, knowing he looked suspicious, but wanting to avoid the
CCTV getting too good an image. He didn’t mind that he had been
seen on other security systems CCTV cameras, it was being recorded
committing a crime that counted; just being around when it happened
wasn’t a crime. He was shielded from the building partly by the
small trees lining a pathway, which ran through the estate.

He pulled a 30
centimetre piece of nylon parcel binder from his rucksack, creased
it, slid it in through the driver’s side window and worked it down
to the knob topped door lock release, on the inside; making a loop,
by pushing one end of the binder, he slid it over the lock, pulled
both ends tight and lifted the lock. The door opened easily. He
learned that trick out in Asia. Most of the cars out there were old
and the security was easily by passed with the nylon parcel binder.
He angled himself into the car, pulled the door closed and lay
hidden below the steering wheel. His six inch lock knife did for
the plastic around the key ignition and within moments of rewiring
the ignition he was driving out of the estate.

It didn’t take
him long to find a residential area. It was there that he swapped
number plates. He’d had to find a car with a square plate at the
back. Having found a Suzuki Jeep he’d had to lay between that car
and the one parked behind to hide from prying windows, it being
broad daylight. Walking, casually, the short distance between the
Suzuki and his stolen Alfa he fixed opposite plates back on both
cars, with an industrial strength, quick drying glue, also from his
rucksack; Mason had a lot of neat little tricks up his sleeve, or
in this case his rucksack.

With that done
he checked a convenient map in the car and drove for Glasgow.
Checking the petrol gauge he knew he’d make it. The little Alfasud
handled really well and had a good amount of ‘kick’ in the gear
box. He sped onto the A9 Stirling bound. Having looked at a map he
knew he’d get the M80 into Glasgow from there. After that he’d
either get a train or plane, depending on the circumstances.

Chapter
19

Glasgow

10 - 30 a.m.

April 17th

Wheeler had
been on the ‘eighty-two’ all the way down Loch Lomond and was
pleased. He had just enough in the bike’s tank to get him into
Glasgow and he was grinning beneath his helmet as the signs for the
M8 came up near Erskine Hospital. As he negotiated the roundabout
at Erskine a black BMW four by four failed to give way to the right
and broadsided the Honda 500 with a resounding metallic ‘crump’.
Wheeler, thrown from the bike hit the tarmac and, to the eyes of
witnesses, with a gut wrenching, face screwing and teeth gritting
bodily slump hit the road. He jerkily tumbled and rolled in a
wrenching skid, his clothes ripping, grazes appearing and finally,
at just forty miles an hour, his helmet struck the metal barrier
cracking and splitting it across the top, knocking him
unconscious.

Already out of
his dented BMW the driver was on his cell phone. He was smartly
dressed, clearly on his way to work and in contrast to his groomed
look his white face registered the shock of the accident.

Sure that the
ambulance was on its way he gingerly headed for the slumped figure
of Wheeler. Other cars had stopped, some had had to, and people
getting out headed straight for the hot ‘ticking’ bike, now on its
side, mangled in the road. Others headed straight to the oddly
angled unconscious rider by the barrier. The BMW driver was there
first about to pull Wheeler face up when a young woman called
out.

“Don’t move
him. He may have a neck injury. I’m a nurse. Call an ambulance.
I’ll check his pulse.”

“I’ve already
called.” As he said this the sound of sirens confirmed him,
‘dopplering’ their way along the ‘A’ road from Stobhill
hospital.

In a few short
minutes, still unconscious, Wheeler had been strapped to the
stretcher, neck brace on for safety, and driven way.

Police, having
taken the Honda off the road, took names of witnesses and some
short statements after which they cleared traffic and the blocked
tarmac artery to the M8 slowly eased back to full flow.

It wasn’t until
the wreck clearance men turned up, fifteen minutes later that the
number plate was run through checks and flagged up as
‘important’.

In the
ambulance the paramedic went through Wheeler’s bag. He was
surprised to find three different passports, in three different
names. Even more shocked after a second ‘delve’ he gingerly pulled
the dull black, heavy PSS pistol from the bag. His colleague gave a
low whistle. The paramedic, a little unnerved by the cold coiled
potential of the oiled, hard edged and evil black item, gently
lowered it back into the rucksack. He raised both eyebrows at his
colleague.

“We’ll call the
cops when we get back.”

They pulled
into Stobhill casualty unit, just outside Glasgow, and unloaded the
still unconscious body of Martin Wheeler. The sliding doors closed
behind him and the paramedic took a moment to find a duty police
officer. The contents of the bag brought immediate attention from
detectives and began a flurry of activity. When the number plate
information was added to what Glasgow police knew about Wheeler an
urgent phone call was made to Euston Tower in London.

Chapter
20

Euston Station

10 - 50 a.m.

April 17th

David and
Beaumont sat as comfortably as anyone can on the edge of the Euston
concourse, happily eating French bread sandwiches.

“Brie is just a
cheese. Technically that’s a cheese sandwich, in spite of the
crunchy French bread and the exotic idea of French cheese.”

“That depends
on the way you look at things. It’s all about perception and
belief.” David replied after swallowing some of the topic of
conversation.

“One man’s
terrorist is another man’s freedom fighter sort of thing.” Beaumont
suggested, somewhat playfully, irony lighting his sharp grey
eyes.

“Put like that
yes.”

“That’s okay as
an idea, but that’s just sitting on the fence. The whole ‘you say
tomato I say tomayto’ doesn’t change a tomato, nor does someone
believing that murder by bombing is a means of freedom fighting.”
Beaumont was into his argument.

“Is state
sanctioned killing murder then?”

“No because
it’s done by people employed by us to do it.”

“If you had to
kill today, say one of these men, would you think you were doing
the right thing?” David was suddenly serious and Beaumont sensed
that his seriousness was part of some inner struggle he was having
about the nature of their work.

“If he wanted
to kill me and I got in first, yes. If I thought I’d stopped him
murdering an innocent man yes. Are you saying you wouldn’t?”