Lessons In Blood

by Quentin Black

  The waitress brought their orders, and they talked as they ate.

  “Have you been watching the Six Nations?” asked Bruce.

  “Not really. Only reminds me that I am not watching Rugby League.”

  “You can’t appreciate both?”

  “This is not about me being a bigoted northerner who loves Rugby League just because I was brought up with it. It’s a superior game—it’s faster, more creative, harder and more skilful than that ‘kick and I’ll get a clap’ shit.”

  Bruce smiled. “Some might disagree with you. They might say that Union is more freely played in that the defending team is given the opportunity to recover the ball, whereas League you have to wait for a mistake or wait through a set of six.”

  “Is that what ‘they’ might say, or are you saying it?”

  Bruce said, “Just playing the Devil’s advocate.”

  “The amount of people who watch Rugby League on the telly is four times the amount than Union. That’s because the Super League is mega. It’s only because the people in high positions of media played it when they went to Eton or whatever southern University they went to, and so make out it’s better. But ‘the people’ know.”

  “What is your definition of ‘the people’?”

  “The working and middle class I suppose.”

  “So men and women who went to Eton, Cambridge or Oxford cannot be considered ‘the people’?”

  Connor hesitated from answering immediately. The old man chided him before regarding voicing his opinions unless he had thoroughly thought them through. He remembered the Scot telling him once—with regards to their profession— “I am not here to tell you what to think, I am here to teach you how to think.”

  “I am not saying that if you’ve gone to a posh school that you’re a bad person. There are good and bad rich people just the same as there are good and bad poor people. But there’s ‘The Establishment’, and there’s ‘The People’.”

  “And who do you think our organisation looks after? The working and middle class?”

  “Not necessarily. I’ve been under the impression it was to protect good people who can’t fight for themselves.”

  “I’d say that was accurate. Regardless of their social class,” replied Bruce. “Why do you think humans are trafficked?”

  “Sex trade and slave labour.”

  “Yes, those are the main two. Trafficked for their organs is another,” said Bruce as he took a swallow of his pint. “And it’s on the rise. In this day and age of eating processed food, sedentary lifestyles, drugs, smoking, more and more people are in need of organ donations. Many more than legitimate donations can supply. Unofficial records say that one in twenty of all organ transplants conducted in the UK alone are from organs received on the black market.”

  “One in twenty?” said Connor with a hint of disbelief.

  “I believe it to be a lot higher than that.”

  “OK. Is this our bag though?” asked Connor, referring to the Chameleon Project’s purpose of protecting the citizens of the UK.

  “Until recently no. The traffickers would, and still do, take advantage of illegal immigrants’ desperation for asylum, and arrange for an organ to be taken in exchange for safe passage into the UK. The procedure is usually carried out in Europe before their entry into Britain. However, something else has emerged.”

  The waitress came over. “Is everything alright?”

  “Yes thank you,” they both said in near unison. When she was out of earshot, Bruce continued, “I believe there are people in this country who realised just how lucrative organ trafficking is. People who have anticipated that this blood money will be strangled post-Brexit. People who have started snatching the homeless—the drug or alcohol addicted homeless, for their blood and organs.”

  Connor looked at Bruce with his mouth slightly ajar before saying, “I can’t wait to murder them.”

  “You don’t cut a lizard’s tail off only to see it grow one back. The head needs to come off. I need you to remember that before I tell you what I am going to tell you.”

  “I know—the long game—the big picture.”

  “Waseem Khan has been involved in the trade of those types of asylum seekers. I have no definitive leads as to who he passes the immigrants onto, nor how they get the victims out of the country. And that’s who and what you need to identify.”

  “OK. How?”

  “Well I realise you’ll need to have a reason for staying in the city,” said Bruce, “so you’re going to be working with another agent who will pose as your girlfriend, and assist you professionally. You’re staying because you’re in love so to speak.”

  Connor frowned. “She rats?”

  “Rats?”

  “Is she ugly?”

  “You mean, is she highly professional and trustworthy?”

  “No, I meant is she good looking? I presume that she is highly professional or else you wouldn’t have selected her.”

  “What have I told ye about trusting folk blindly?”

  Connor was wary when Bruce changed standard words into their Glaswegian variants.

  “OK. What are her credentials?”

  “Her name is Ciara Robson, and yes, she is a bonnie lass,” said Bruce as he put his cutlery down on his finished plate. “She’s a little younger than you at twenty-five.”

  They both thanked the waitress collecting their plates then Bruce continued, “She was an Army brat as a child, with her father reaching the heights of company sergeant-major in the Royal Engineers. Bounced around from Germany, Cyprus, and Falklands but primarily resided in Liverpool. Her father died in Iraq in 2004 when she was eleven years of age. He’d been seconded to mentor Iraqi Security Forces. A British tabloid newspaper had published photographs of British soldiers abusing an Iraqi prisoner. These photographs later turned out to be faked, unbeknownst to the paper at the time. Later that day Des Robson’s patrol was attacked, and he was killed. Ciara blames the publication of the photographs for the attacks.”

  “The pictures that got its now celebrity editor the sack?”

  “Those are the ones. The pictures were printed within forty-eight hours of the breaking story of abuses by US soldiers in Abu Gharib prison. Iraq wasn’t exactly peaceful back then.”

  “But she is adamant these pictures caused her dad’s death?”

  Bruce shrugged rhetorically, before continuing, “Her mother eventually becomes involved with a man. A depressingly typical story; first he’s all sweetness and light before he turns abusive—to the pair of them. That said, Ciara does well at school and obtains a place at City University London to begin a degree in Journalism. Her mother eventually separates from her abuser. And then it gets interesting.”

  “OK,” said Connor, raising an eyebrow.

  “Ciara comes home after the completion of her second year. Opens the door and finds the gentleman attempting to rape her on the kitchen floor. She removes a John Lewis paring knife from the block, and plunges it into his throat and heart, before almost disembowelling him.”

  “Nice,” said Connor with a smile. “How did this not reach the papers?”

  “It was discovered that Paul McGrath had raped before, a few times, after being given a suspended sentence. Certain people did not want this to be brought to light. And that’s when I became involved.”

  “You forged her murderous intent into a weapon against the enemies of our people—that sort of sketch?”

  “Something like that.”

  Ciara Robson sensed the quietening of the gym around her— not many girls could perform weighted pull-ups—though only a few others frequented the gym at six in the morning.

  She fought to maintain proper form against the ten-kilogram barbell plate hanging beneath her. This being her eighth repetition on her final set of ten, she hung for a few seconds before cranking out the last two.

  She took a few moments to catch her breath before unclipping the weight. She caught sight of the other gym patrons fighting n
ot to stare. Her hair, artificial silver combined with her natural blonde, sat longer on the top and short around the back and sides.

  Her green eyes, perched upon high cheekbones, were often complimented. Full lips could part to reveal a flashing smile.

  Her floral patterned gym top and grey leggings wrapped tight around a physique that juxtaposed an uncommon female muscularity with feminine curves.

  She stood taller than average.

  Ciara’s turbulent life had led to Bruce McQuillan recruiting her into the ‘Chameleon Project’ three years ago.

  The unit had evolved even within the short time she had been in it. It had grown and now worked in a cell system. However, she did not belong to a permanent cell; she was ‘sheep-dipped’ for assignments.

  Every once in a while, she would receive an encrypted e-mail requesting her to pick up a ‘clean’ phone from a location or, occasionally, a face to face with Bruce would be arranged. From there she’d be given her orders.

  Yesterday, she had returned from one such meeting with McQuillan.

  7

  Connor stepped out of the cold shower and dried himself. It had been a couple of days since his meeting with Bruce, and he had returned to Birmingham.

  He had just attended a ‘Grappling with Striking’ session in one of the city’s more respected MMA clubs and enjoyed it. He agreed with the concept and was reminded of a quote by Grandmaster Carlson Gracie—‘Punch a black belt in the face, he becomes a brown belt. Punch him again, he becomes a purple…’

  It had been a large class, and so he easily blended in, but he knew his skill had been noticed by the lads he’d rolled with.

  He took his sports holdall out of the locker and changed into a beige polo shirt, black trousers and street trainers. Squeezing the side compartment of the holdall, he felt the Glock 26 still in place.

  The 26 was smaller than its cousins in the Glock family and so more easily hid on a person. After spending many hours on the range with it, the pistol felt like an extension of former marine’s anatomy. Glock’s did not have a safety catch as such; instead, the initial squeeze of the trigger was significantly heavier due it both cocking the pistol and firing the round—unless the firer had it pre-cocked which Connor had not wished to risk. He felt not having a safety catch helped with snap engagements.

  He returned some of the nods from the lads as he left the changing rooms and made his way down the stairs.

  After a cursory glance, he stepped out into the evening air. He hadn’t parked in the gym’s carpark as a counter-ambush measure. If recognised in the gym and his details passed on, any would-be assailant would likely wait for him in the carpark. Bruce had told him to employ counter-surveillance at all times—last year Connor had gone head to head with elements of the deadly Russian Bratva. He heeded the vastly more experienced man’s advice but only to a point. He didn’t want to fall into paranoia or employ methods that suffocated his freedom.

  His new partner Ciara had ‘WhatsApped’ him—preferred over text due to its end-to-end encryption—and he had told her where to meet him. After a quarter of a mile, he rounded the corner into the carpark where he had parked his Audi and after a brief scan, unlocked the vehicle with his keys. He had chosen carpark behind a derelict warehouse which was absent CCTV. The more you could avoid surveillance of any kind the better.

  He spotted them in the car’s reflection as the voice boomed out, “Stop where you are Gora and turnaround.”

  He did so. Rashid stood sneering before him, the side of his face knotted with stitching. There were five others—too close for Connor to draw the pistol out before they would beat him to the floor. He had no illusions; this wasn’t a Jason Statham or Bruce Lee film. They would attack simultaneously like piranhas, and they would—unless they were utterly inept—win. Perhaps kill him too— where the fuck is Jack Reacher when you needed him?

  He knew why they hadn’t attacked him already. Rashid wanted to see him scared. However, Connor had years of practice at controlling and hiding the fear that surged through him now. He was also angry with himself—you fucking amateur. Russian Bratva? A Brummie ‘roid-head goon, whose face you bit a hole in only four days ago, has found you without a drama.

  He saw Rashid smile, as the gangster pulled back the bottom of his leather jacket to reveal the handle of a machete. Adrenaline bolted through his system like wild horses. Bruce had warned him this day would come; the day all the violence he precipitated would come back to him. Connor hid his fear behind a smile and dropped his holdall—fuck it, Valhalla and all that.

  McQuillan sat on the terrace of London’s Sushisamba behind the glass balcony on a finely varnished wooden seat. The sound of the collective conversation of the other diners and drinks was at a pleasant level. He soaked in the city’s scenery that went right out to the horizon with the air on his face. The magnificent view was one of the appeals of the restaurant, with the sushi being the other.

  Sushisamba also had a dress code, which Bruce liked as people were less inclined to start fights in a tailored shirt.

  In the few days since his meeting with Andrew Watson, he had been quietly investigating and had directed Jamie to do the same. One name that had come up as a person who could help him had been that of Janet Quigley, a surgeon and also a shareholder in Hainemann Private Health Care. HPHC owned five private hospitals with two being in London. It had been Jamie’s computer skills, which had uncovered her financial involvement with HPHC. Neither he nor Jamie could find evidence of it ever being publicly noted or stated. He considered that the commercial nature of the company would run counterpoint to her being an activist. A spokeswoman in highlighting the issue of illegal organ harvesting, Bruce had enjoyed watching the attractive statuesque blonde’s TED talk regarding it.

  The business suit hadn’t been able to hide her curves and the glasses that highlighted the blue eyes. Her Nordic appearance contrasted with the educated English accent.

  Her singledom surprised him; she had divorced her second husband four years ago.

  Fortunately, Henry Costner had a tenuous connection to Quigley, and he had managed to arrange a meeting.

  The shapely forty-three-year-old appeared. She wore a dark green plaid blazer over a white top, dark blue well-fitting stretch jeans and beige block heeled shoes.

  Bruce held a hand up to identify himself and stood as she approached him.

  “Miss Quigley,” he said, holding out his hand. He could smell her subtle perfume.

  “Janet, please,” she said taking his hand firmly. They sat down.

  “Thank you for seeing me.”

  “What accent is that specifically?” she asked. Her hair glossed over her shoulders in gentle curls.

  “Originally Glaswegian watered down over many years.”

  “You know, they say that you only lose your accent if you want to,” she said with a hint of a teasing smile. “Did you know they say the Edinburgh brogue is officially the most trustworthy and pleasant accent in our United Kingdom.”

  “It’s a pity that Sean Connery doesn’t do adverts then.”

  “Quite,” she smiled. “So, can I call you Bruce?”

  “No, I prefer Mr McQuillan,” he said letting the surprise rest on her face for a few moments before continuing, “of course you can call me Bruce.”

  She smiled, “So Bruce, why have you requested to meet me?”

  “Shall we order a drink first?”

  “Oooh yes please. Are we drinking alcohol?”

  Bruce raised his eyebrows. “Yes, if you like.”

  “Well I do like,” she replied looking him in the eye.

  Bruce hid the jolt he felt, her cultured voice contrasted with her playfulness. The waiter came over, and Bruce ordered a ‘Moscow Mule’.

  “That sounds interesting, tell me more,” she asked as the waiter stood.

  “Vodka with ginger beer and lime juice, traditionally served in a copper mug,” answered Bruce.

  “Sold. I’ll have one too,” requested
Janet. When the waiter disappeared she asked, “So, are you going to end the suspense?”

  Bruce gave her a tight smile. “Janet, I am investigating human trafficking for organs. This is simply research. Apologies this isn’t quite cocktail conversation.”

  She swept one side of her hair behind her ear. “No apologies necessary. This is a subject close to my heart, as no doubt you are aware.”

  “I am.”

  “What would you like to know?”

  “What is the process of a legal organ donation?”

  “If a terminally ill person is on the organ donation database, the family are informed. At this point, around forty percent of families will choose not to go ahead with the donations. If they decide they wish to go ahead, then calls are made with the conjunction of the said database for possible recipients.”

  The waiter arrived and Bruce smiled as he saw the copper mugs.

  When the waiter left, he asked, “What are the reasons for families not wishing to donate if that was the donor’s wish?”

  Janet sipped her drink, nodding her approval before answering. “The heart has to be artificially kept beating after the moment of death. It is traumatic and seems very unfeeling seeing your deceased loved one whisked away at the precise moment of death. It has to be that way unfortunately to prevent any deterioration of the organs. It really is a race against time.”

  “And then?”

  “And then the organs checked for health before they are transported to the hospital—or hospitals depending on how many organs have been removed—by ambulance, courier or helicopter.”

  Bruce said, “Alright, illegal harvesting of organs in this country. So far I have only been able to identify a handful of cases. What concerns me is that these are cases in which the victims have escaped before the operation has been conducted. It stands to reason that others haven’t been so lucky.”

  “Seems a reasonable assumption.”

  “So we agree that there must be at least one surgery that accepts organ donations that are not from the NHS database?”

  Janet took a sip of her drink and appeared in thought for a moment. “It would not be worthwhile for an NHS clinic to accept unsolicited organs. A private hospital maybe, but even then, they are inspected every two years by the Care Quality Commission or a similar regulatory body in Scotland, Wales or Northern Ireland. I imagine a make-shift surgery, maybe with a struck off surgeon and assisting team.”