by A P Bateman
Chapter Eleven
There were several points of access to the area surrounding the airfield. A forest was gated off against vehicles but allowed enough room for access to walkers and horse riders. The airfield itself had been abandoned since the end of the second world war and the runways were largely potholed and overgrown. A fence restricted access, but somebody had cut through the chain link. King could guess who.
“I’ve measured out the distance,” Rashid said.
“Which is?”
“Your problem.”
“Thanks,” said King. “And what’s the target?”
“You’ll see.”
“You’re not being helpful.”
“Well, maybe I’d like to see you fail.”
“What, so you get my job? It’s not all that.”
Rashid dropped down from the branch of a large pine. He handed King the binoculars. “It looks clear,” he said. “Do you want to take a look?”
“No.”
“And I don’t want your job,” Rashid said sullenly. “I don’t particularly want you to have this one, that’s all.”
King shrugged. “It’s a sound plan.”
“It’s suicide.”
“Come on,” King replied. “I’ve got good back-up.”
“Well, I hope so.”
“Well, make it so. Just be where you’ve got to be and stick to the timings.”
“Easier said than done.”
King turned and led the way back to Rashid’s car. Rashid popped the boot and King took out the fully assembled rifle, housed in a soft rifle slip.
“I have faith in you, the rest of the team,” King said. “Have some faith in me.”
“Oh, I’ve got that,” Rashid shook his head. “But I wouldn’t trade places with you for anything.”
“Thanks.”
“Go find the target,” Rashid said. “I’ll time from your first shot. Three bulls. And I’ll give you ten seconds seeing how this model is bolt-action and the one you’ll be using is semi-auto. But I’ve changed the parameters. The target area is smaller than you’ll be used to. No big black bullseye this time.”
“Setting me up to fail?”
“Hopefully.”
King took the rifle out of the slip and checked the magazine. He could see from the inspection holes that it held three rounds. He eased the bolt, saw the chamber was empty. He kept it that way and headed out to where Rashid had indicated he should take up position.
The ground was heathland, made up predominantly from heather, gorse and bracken. King watched his step, a nice time of year for waking adders full of venom and protective of their territory. Certainly not lethal to a healthy adult, but one of the moodiest and fastest-striking snakes on the planet. As well as having an incredibly painful bite. It was an old Cornish saying when someone was in a particularly bad mood that they were ‘teasy as an adder’.
King found a decent laying-up spot and got down into a prone firing position with the rifle. He pulled down the spring-loaded bipod and studied the ground ahead of him. He used the scope to scan the hedgerow some two-thousand metres distant. It was only now, as he searched for the target, that he considered what a ridiculous distance this was to make a shot. But then he was reminded of the ballistic capabilities of the .50 calibre round.
King had been over the area twice, but as he slowed his scan, took in the hedgerow metre by metre, the target eased into view. He adjusted the sight aperture and smiled. A full head and shoulders photograph of Congressman Standing that had been blown up as a life-sized poster. A grey suit, crisp white shirt and even whiter teeth. His sandy blond hair sat atop his head like a bad wig and his face had an unusual orange tint to it, the product of a tanning salon and some poor advice.
King could already ascertain that it was a life-sized impression. The foliage and exposed pieces of shaped and cut hedging stone in part of the hedge lent some scale and perspective to the picture. He sighted the rifle, eased the bolt back, then pushed firmly forwards to chamber the big round. He watched the bracken and the movement of the gorse on top of the hedge. The wind was consistent with how it felt against his cheek. South-westerly, no more than five-miles-per-hour but enough for the bullet to travel two inches to the right over two kilometres. To compensate the wind, he adjusted the top turret two clicks. The turret on the righthand side was dialled back four clicks for the distance. He re-sighted and took a deep breath, gently squeezed the trigger pre-set. On the exhalation, he waited until two-thirds of the air was steadily exhaled and slowly finished the trigger squeeze. The mighty rifle boomed and kicked back, its recoil like a decent punch to his shoulder. He knew Rashid would be timing him and he worked the bolt and ejected the massive brass shell. He drove the bolt back home, closing the breech and taking up the pre-set on the trigger. Again, he breathed steadily out and fired at the point just before he had no air left. He re-sighted, could see the grouping through the powerful scope. He went through the motions again, fired the third bullet before Rashid had counted to eight.
King picked up the rifle and the spent brass cases and made his way back across the heath to the gap in the fence. Rashid had the binoculars and looked pleased with himself.
“Not like you to miss.” He smiled. “Finally seeing sense?”
“Bollocks,” King retorted.
“Close, but no cigar,” Rashid grinned. “I’m taking my findings to Mereweather and Amherst. Both you and Caroline can thank me. You’ll live to fight another day. Now, go and get some leave, the two of you.”
“Check the target,” said King.
“I’ll get it when we drive around the airfield. But I saw through the binos. You missed. Good grouping though.”
“About two inches to the right?”
“Yep.”
“And an inch high?”
“Yes,” Rashid frowned at him.
“Well tell Mereweather and Amherst I wasn’t briefed to take Congressman Standing’s life. I was briefed to miss, but make it look convincing. A near miss is more difficult to achieve than a direct hit. So, that’s what I can do. But I imagine the plexiglass will do the rest on the day.”
Chapter Twelve
The guards were rough, but then guards usually were. They relished the power. They were usually strong men who lacked toughness or resilience. King always found them to go down easily enough in a fight and stay there.
He was shackled with his hands behind his back. Each time he was taken to the interrogation room they would unlock one side of his handcuffs, push him down into a hard-backed chair, and put the shackles through a metal loop bolted to the desk. King had no doubt he could choose that moment to overpower the two guards, but there was no point. He needed to know more about his surroundings first.
Both guards left the room and the door closed behind them with an ominous clunk. Metal on metal. Once that door closed, there was no breaking it down. King relaxed his breathing. It was the unknown that was entirely out of his control yet looming dominantly over him. He hadn’t seen a mirror, but doubted he looked pretty. Over the course of time he had been incarcerated he had both eyes bruised and swollen shut, his nose broken, and his teeth loosened. His ribs had been cracked and his shins beaten with pieces of wood. He now had lumps on his shins like splints on a rescue horse. However, since he had spilled his cover story under waterboarding, he had been left alone. King knew he had convinced them, and that people were checking out his story. With any luck a terrorist cell operating in Boston and on MI5’s radar had been shut down. Three dead terrorists and no minutes of sleep conceded. This had bought him time and provided him with credibility to his story. He had straightened his own nose using the edge of the doorframe in his cell, and his teeth had firmed up. It hadn’t been like he’d had much food to chew. His ribs would be ok, he had broken them before and knew how long they would hurt for and how they would limit his abilities. He had resigned himself to a month of pain with those, and along with his shoulder and the threat of the joint slipping, he kn
ew he could be in better shape.
Hunger was key, though. The food had become irregular, but King knew that it was to mess with his head and make him lose track of time. One of the guards still wore a wristwatch and he started to wonder if it had been a ploy all along to get into his head. His mentor Peter Stewart had always said that he should listen to his subconscious voice, the voice of reason. The fact that he knew the tricks of the trade could only help him. He would eat again soon, and he would rise above their tricks and foibles, because he still had more to give them and this time, it would be his chance to send a signal.
The door opened, and King looked around to see who had entered.
“Eyes front, shithead!”
King did so slowly. He called this one Tommy Lee. Because he looked like Tommy Lee Jones’ character from the film Men in Black. He was the man from the lobby of the hotel and King suspected he was something more wide-ranging than Secret Service.
“Good information,” he said finally, after sitting down and sipping coffee from a paper cup. “We’ve closed the loop. You shitheads want to kill our politicians, you get what’s coming to you.”
“Nice and clean?”
“Who gives a rat’s ass?”
“I won’t get paid.”
The man studied King for a moment. “You’re not a believer?”
“Only when I saw her face,” King paused. “Not a doubt in my mind…”
“Smartass, eh?”
King shrugged. “Come on, I gave them up to you. You’ve got to give me something back.”
“I haven’t got to give you shit.”
“I have plenty more information where that came from,” King said.
“Really?”
“Yeah, really.”
“So, for the record, you’re not a disenfranchised ex-soldier?”
King smiled. He bore a slight resemblance to Casey M. Grant, at least from the man’s file photo with a military buzz-cut and ten years of youth expunged from him. It had been close enough, but he was surprised it had stuck. The ruined fingerprints had seen to that. They were sore still, and rough. Like he’d gotten superglue all over them. But they would serve another purpose. He needed to drop Grant from the cover story. He was going to drop the American accent now. He just hoped he could after two arduous weeks. “No. I’m a gun for hire,” he said, his accent neutral British with a slight hint of South London that he had watered down over the years. “I was with the Secret Intelligence Service for around fifteen years.” He was surprised at his voice, like a stranger’s. He wasn’t even sure it was natural. He guessed he’d slip into that as he went on.
The man smiled. “Well, that will be easy to check, buddy. Are you sure you don’t want to change your story? Again, that is.”
“You may not find the department I used to work for on any database.”
“We’ve got people all over MI6,” the man sipped his coffee and smiled. “If you worked for SIS, I’ll know within the hour.”
“Good. Go and check. And bring me back another cheeseburger meal, will you? I’m not responding to your line of questioning anymore. Anymore rough stuff and my lips will be tighter than a clam’s arsehole, got it?”
“Tough guy, eh?”
“No, just options. I don’t seem to have many sitting here. But I will if you move me somewhere a little more… permanent. I’ll barter information for my freedom. A long game, I imagine, but a workable arrangement. Or I’ll die here. That’s the game, the flip of a coin. I’m ready and okay with that. So, do your waterboarding and beat me, and you’ll end up with fuck-all. Feed me, treat me with a little respect and I’ll mortgage you some information.”
The man looked at King, but had trouble holding his stare. He took out a pen and a piece of paper. “Okay, then. Name?”
“Mark Thomas Jeffries, but my alias is Alex King,” he paused. “You’ll have to dig deep. See if those CIA moles are worth what you’re paying them.” King watched the man’s expression. He didn’t respond, not even a flicker. “Or is it NSA?”
The man smirked, but he wasn’t admitting to anything. He didn’t need to, King knew right off the bat. “Alright, Mister King. I’ll get onto it.”
“And a shake,” King said. “To go with the meal…”
Chapter Thirteen
Hereford, England
Four weeks ago
It was a quiet and unassuming cul-de-sac. Freshly mown lawns, decent family vehicles. SUVs, people carriers and hatchbacks. Mainly new, but there were a few two or three-year-old German marques there, too. These were nine to fivers. Home owners. Workers with mortgages and aspirations. The backbone of Britain. They paid their taxes, spent their money and didn’t claim benefits.
Rashid smiled to himself as he parked his car three doors down from the house he wanted. He had driven past, performed a U-turn and was now parked up what he called nosey-out. Able to get out of trouble quickly. He wondered what the neighbours would make of the person he’d come to visit. But then, he knew what secrets suburbia held. A place where most people did not really know their neighbours. Where pop-up brothels operated without detection, where drugs could be grown and harvested without suspicion. Because these very same people who worked and held onto their aspirations seldom knew the world around them. They drifted in and out, spent more time at desks than in their gardens. Which was why the person Rashid had come to see had operated without suspicion for so long.
Rashid got out and crossed the road. He always parked on the opposite side to provide him with a better view. Not only could he keep an eye on his car, but he could see fifty-metres in both directions from the house.
The garden was untidy, but the grass had been cut. He doubted the occupier had performed such a task. Perhaps a kind spirited neighbour had intervened. Most likely looking to keep the value of their own property buoyant. Rashid noticed the ramp, but took the steps, nonetheless. He rang the bell, stepped back a pace and waited.
There was movement behind the door. Rashid couldn’t see anything through the frosted decorative glass in the top quarter of the door, but he suspected he was being watched somehow.
“Fuck off, Paki…”
Rashid smiled. “I thought you’d settle in Wales,” he replied. “Someplace with a lot of frightened sheep.”
“I go on day trips…” The door unlocked, but it took a while for it to open. “That way I don’t wear them out…”
“Not with that little thing of yours you won’t,” Rashid fired back. He looked down at the former SAS Sergeant. “Good for the special forces chat up line, though.”
The man looked up from his wheelchair and grinned, “I got my wife with that one. Or ex-wife, the fucking bitch…” He shrugged. “Fancy a shag, love? Don’t worry if you’re not in the mood… I’m special forces, I’ll be in and out before you know anything about it!”
“Good to see you, Taff.” He ignored the man’s missing limbs and stepped in past him. He had known it had been bad but had not expected anything like this.
“I’ve not seen you, since…”
Rashid shrugged. “Been busy, you know how it is…”
“No bother,” the man replied and pushed the door closed with his one remaining arm. “Well, you’re here now.” He turned the electric wheelchair around and scuffed some paint off the wall. From a metre downwards there was barely a flake of paint left.
Rashid walked through to the lounge. The house was an open-plan bungalow that the former Welsh Guardsman and SAS soldier had bought after his life-changing injuries in Afghanistan. “Liz not here, then? You said; ex-wife…”
The Welshman laughed. “Nah, fucked off with someone else soon afterwards. I can’t blame her, really.” He raised the stump that had once been his left arm. “Who the fuck wants to be stuck with this?”
“Well, not even those sheep now, I guess,” Rashid said, looking at the wheelchair. “It’s not like you could catch them in that thing.”
“Still a twat, then?” He shook his head. “I’ll n
ever know how you made Captain,” he said. “Oh, wait… the twat thing, that’s how.”
Rashid grinned. “I’ll get a brew on.”
“Help yourself.”
Rashid walked into the kitchen and looked in one of the top cupboards, but it was empty.
“Bloody Ruperts,” Taff said, shaking his head. “How the fuck am I going to reach up there?” Rashid got the message, looked in the lower cabinets. He found tea bags and sugar, a couple of mugs. “Can you believe Liz moved all the things into the top cupboards just to piss me off? Or that she’d purposely move the toilet roll and make herself scarce when I needed a dump? She didn’t have the guts to tell me she was shagging another bloke, thought she’d just make my life hell and force me to push her away.”
“Best rid, then.” Rashid put the kettle on to boil and took out some milk from an under-unit fridge.
“I still can’t believe it…”
“What? The fact you stepped on an IED, the fact she cheated on you and left you,” he paused. “Or that you’re going to save a hell of a lot on socks, shoes and gloves? Get on with it, man. Shit happens.”
Taff looked at him for a moment. Rashid wasn’t sure if the man was going to cry, but he started to chuckle and before long the pair were laughing loudly, with Taff wiping tears from his eyes.
“You’re a git,” Taff said. “But to be honest, I’ve missed the banter. Everyone is so on edge around me, never know what to say.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t visit sooner,” said Rashid. He’d never actually left the regiment, just found himself seconded and sequestered and signed up to MI5 because of his association with King, who had needed his help at a time he found himself on the outside of the usual channels. Rashid had never done the rounds, visited friends and comrades before leaving for a new career. His life in Hereford had simply slipped by unnoticed.
“Guys like me are an inconvenient reminder. We’re what guys like you could have been if your luck had run out, too.” Taff shrugged. “What difference did it all make?”