To Kill Or Be Killed (23 page)

“It’s a neat
enough weapon so it is.”

“It did the
job.”

“Some job for a
history graduate son of mine.”

“Oh come on
father…” David sighed.

“I didn’t work
those years under fire and in danger to watch you do the same. I
had hoped you’d find a nice, clean safe job.” His father said
aggrieved.

“Well it looked
like it up to a point…. But…” David tried to think of something to
say, but his father’s sadness took his words away.

“I never told
you about the things I saw, but I told your mother, god rest her
and she told me she worried every day I was in Ireland. Mary’s
pregnant and there’s your son. You can’t put her through that.” His
father handed the weapon back and looked him in the eye.

“I know… I
know… but I can’t run away…you taught me that you know.” David
smiled and his father softened.

“Well I might
have been wrong. What have you to do now?”

“I’ve been sent
home and I’m to get counselling.”

“Good. Firstly
you don’t play the hero. You let someone else chase these men.
Second you take the counselling. We got none of that and I can tell
you I still see things that’d turn any man’s stomach.” His father
said rising from his chair.

David rose from
his seat. His father had moved after his mother had died; too many
memories in the old house his father had said. Around him though
were pictures, familiar items, pictures of their family life such
as it had been. David’s gaze was caught and trapped by the image of
himself, at his own son Conor’s age, on his father’s shoulders, a
photo taken by his mother, in woods in Devon.

“David. Don’t
get yourself killed.”

For the first
time in his life David saw tears in his father’s eyes. “I can’t
stand to lose anyone else, not after your mother and where would
Mary and the children go?” His father’s voice was cracking
slightly.

David closed on
his father and for the first time since he was a child the big man
embraced him in a tight strong hug. They stood for a moment and
broke away from each other his father patting his back.

“Now look what
you’ve brought me to, blubbing like a woman, away with you.”

David picked up
his bag and holstered the Sig.

“I’ll call you.
Maybe you should come down sometime.”

“Aye take good
care son.”

David left the
house, pausing before he closed the door behind him. A prayer to
get home safely passed through his mind and he began the short walk
around the corner to Monty’s house.

Stanton stood
at the window of Clarky’s house a mug of tea in his hand staring
through the net curtains at the white satellite dish on the house
opposite.

“My god Trev
you’re right in it pal and no mistake. Jesus the dog too.”

“Well you
remember that time …” Stanton began.

“Yes but that
was war my friend.” Clarky said.

“I need a way
out, one that doesn’t show me up on CCTV.” Stanton said
suddenly

“You do right
enough. Listen I’ve an idea, I’ll just get a map.” Clarky left the
room.

Clarky had been
glad to see his friend, but he wanted him out of the house. He’d
seen the news and asked about the lorry at the race course. Part of
him was praying that Stanton had enough regard for him not to kill
him.

At the window
Stanton started suddenly as David walked up the street and onto the
path of the house he was looking at. He instantly recognised the
big Scotsman from the railway station at Perth. He stepped back
into the shadow of the curtains.

“What is it?”
Clarky was back in the room.

Stanton turned
to face him eyes blazing.

“Did you grass
me up?” Stanton hissed.

“Good God no
Trev why do you think that?”

Stanton grabbed
him by the arm and thrust him to the window.

“You see the
big man going in? Well he was at Perth station last night. Why
would security be here?”

“I don’t know,
but he’s not come here, to my door has he and there’s no armed
police out there.”

Stanton let go
his arm and let out a laugh. It was true enough. They were looking
for him and he knew it must be the DIC people.

“DIC the white
satellite dish! So that’s how they do it. I’m sorry my friend I’m a
little nervous.”

He watched from
the window as Clarky laid out the map on the coffee table. McKie
came out with Monty and they got into the car.

“I’ll be seeing
you again some day no doubt.” Stanton said to the vehicle as it
passed fixing McKie’s form and face in his memory.

“Come away.
I’ve a good plan to get you out. It’ll even give you a choice as to
whether to continue with this job or disappear.”

They went to
the map.

“The other side
of Glasgow is the Clyde Marina with boats of all kinds. I’ll drive
you up. There’ll be at least one boat leaving at some point this
afternoon and if there isn’t I’m sure you’ll think of
something.”

“Good idea,
keep going.”

“You can travel
down the coast and pick any point to stop and go inland or as I
said just keep going.”

“Good. Let’s
get ready then. How long will it take to get there?”

“An hour or
so.” Clarky said

“You’re a good
comrade.” Stanton patted his shoulder.

“We’ve been
through too much for me to let you down.” Clarky said warmly.

Stanton looked
him in the eyes. “… but you’ll be glad when I’m gone.” He said
bringing the truth he saw in Clarky’s eyes into the open.

“Yes. I’m
sorry, but that’s the truth of it. Look… when you’ve done this job…
if there’s trouble make your way back here… if you have to.” Clarky
trailed off speaking.

Stanton slapped
him on the shoulder again. He was grateful, but he knew that Clarky
was just making himself useful enough not to be killed. It was a
bad business when a man’s friend feared him as much as his
enemies.

Chapter
65

Lear Jet to London

2-10 p.m.

April 18th

Monty had seen
David to the plane. It was a mild spring day with a light cold
breeze and yet David felt chilled walking to the steps of the white
Lear jet. There were no other passengers and he sat alone with his
thoughts as the jet pushed him back into his seat and rose into the
sky.

He looked from
the window to the map like view below. England lay below him like a
child’s table full of tiny toys. It was no game though and he knew
it. He thought of the flight to Scotland, he thought of Beaumont
and with a sudden start he thought of his wife. He went to the back
of the plane and picked up the phone.

In the Dover
semi the phone rang for a good few rings. Mary was slow on her feet
and waddled down the stairs to the hall. David was about to hang up
when she answered.

“Hello love
it’s David.”

“Oh thank god!
I’ve just had a call from your father. Are you coming home?”

“Aye I’ve to go
to London and collect my things. I’m on a plane.”

“My god when I
saw the news today I was worried half to death. Are you okay?”

“Careworn love
I miss you.”

“I miss you
too. Come on home Davey.”

“I’m on my way.
Early evening is when I’ll get there.”

“Okay love. You
can tell me all about it.”

“Okay. I love
you.”

“Are you on a
plane?”

“Aye.”

“Call me when
you land and then call when you get on the train.”

“Okay
love.”

“Bye.”

David put the
phone down. He thought about the fact that on the way out he’d had
tears in his eyes when he thought of being killed and taken from
his family and had then thought he would make sure he didn’t get
hurt. How close had it been though? He didn’t feel like crying now.
He was changed. He felt a sudden flow of strength. He’d made
mistakes sure enough, but he’d shot Wheeler dead and much as it had
pained him to think of having killed a man it felt suddenly good to
be the one talking to his wife, sitting on the plane, going home.
He felt bad about Beaumont, but at least he’d shot the man who’d
wounded his partner. It could have been a lot worse. He found
strength and solace in his survival and the scar across his psyche
hardened, healing like the hands of manual workers, creating a
first layer of tougher skin across the novice softness and making
it easier for him to work at his own labour. David had his first
taste of hardening from experience as far as mortal combat was
concerned.

Chapter
66

London Vauxhall

2-30 p.m.

April 18th

The Priory Arms
in Vauxhall on Landsdowne Way seemed innocuous enough to Charley
Cobb. He’d made himself presentable, ditched the pseudo police look
and walked miles around the M25 and finally when he got far enough
into London he’d taken a taxi to Vauxhall. It had been no mean
feat. Most of the day was gone and he needed to make contact. Only
the buyer could offer safety of that he was sure. It would go badly
if he wasn’t the first there, but he might be able to get a ticket
out as a consolation prize, either that or do for the competition.
He was getting desperate.

The contact,
Peter Brook, was sitting at a window table. Brook was a solidly
built, stocky man in his early thirties. He had light brown hair,
side parted in a neat college boy style. He was wearing a brown pin
stripe suit, Next, Machine washable. The cut was good on Next off
the peg suits, he could get trousers to fit, jackets a bit bigger
on the chest and body, with shorter sleeves for his muscular stocky
arms. He wore black framed spectacles for reading. He took them off
and displayed light hazel eyes which took on a hard pebble like
quality when he saw Cobb approach the pub through the window
looking over the small front of house ‘beer garden’. He watched him
walk past, then return and enter.

Cobb had no
idea how they would make contact. He was tired and dusty. He didn’t
have to push his way to the bar, the pub wasn’t busy yet.

Brook had been
there every day for the last two. He’d sat at the window table,
spending money on drinks, to keep the landlord happy, buying lunch
there and for his cover reading a racing post and pretending to
make bets on a cell phone. He’d got know every face and knew the
faces of the five men he was expecting, but knowing that even
disguised he’d know anyone who wasn’t a regular.

Cobb, pint in
hand, turned to face the room. Brook looked him directly in the
eyes. He knew Cobb. He’d been surprised at how good the sketch in
the papers had been. He nodded, putting a knowing look in his eyes.
Cobb made his way over.

“I’m supposed
to meet an employer here today.”

“That’d be me.
You’re Cobb right?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Brook,
you’ve been busy.”

“Am I first
here?”

“Yes. You still
want the job?”

“Yes, but I
need to get out of sight.”

“I’ll arrange
it. I get you to a hotel tonight and drop the details of the job in
tomorrow.”

“Good.”

“My car’s
around the corner. Let’s go.”

“You lead.”
Cobb relieved nearly lost his edge of survival.

Brook rose and
they got to the door. Cobb put his hand into the shoulder bag,
gripped his pistol and pushed the bag against the Brook’s back.

“It’s for sure
that after it’s passed through the bag it’ll have enough energy to
rip a path into you and lodge itself somewhere nasty and as this is
a Russian made PSS no-one is going to hear a thing when if I pull
the trigger. Walk steadily and don’t move too far ahead of me.”

“Okay Cobb.
Take it easy. I’m to take you to Claridge’s Hotel set you up in a
good suite, order food and get you ready for the job.”

“What is the
job?”

“I don’t know.
I’m just a link in the chain.”

They got to a
plush and polished black Honda Accord S type saloon. The contact
blipped it and unlocked the doors. Cobb looked around and let the
contact get in the driver’s side. He put the black bag on the back
seat and got in after it. The contact looked at his face in the
mirror.

“Okay no
tricks. The round doesn’t have to pass through the bag now, know
what I mean?” Cobb said quietly.

“Sure enough.
Look Cobb just relax a little. Even if you don’t trust me I’m all
you’ve got. Without us and the job you’ll have a hell of a time
getting out of the country or going home for that matter.”

Cobb lowered
the PSS pistol’s barrel which had been pointing at the back of the
Brook’s seat. He didn’t put it away.

The black Honda
Accord purred quietly way from the bright blue fronted pub and
headed into central London.

Chapter
67

Baker Street Area of
London

3 p.m.

April 18th

The phone rang
waking Mason from a deep and comfortable sleep. He reached out
lifted the receiver and acknowledged the call. A shower, change and
coffee saw him ready for an outing into London. He’d removed the
self manufactured false facial hair and looking at himself in the
mirror he decided to get his head shaved to the length of the
shortest hairs and he decided to dye it back to his natural black.
He knew he’d have to buy clothes and decided on Oxford Street.
There was the matter of cash and whilst bathing he’d run through
the hotels he’d seen. Mentally picturing each one led to his choice
of the Sherlock Holmes Hotel on Baker Street. A visit to the
laundry room in this hotel would yield enough kitchen uniform to
access the hotel at the back.

He left the
Bickenhall Hotel room around three thirty. He decided to go
unarmed. He locked the pistol in the small room safe using a self
made combination and hoped for the best.