Lessons In Blood

by Quentin Black

  When Dixon attempted to back out, Schwimmer couldn’t allow the setting of a dangerous precedent. The upstart had then told him of the problems he had been experiencing with a few busybodies.

  One had been a politician, an easy enough matter to resolve—a threat of career ruin had laced that dilemma up with a neat bow.

  That had been one thorn in his side removed. Another had been an irritatingly persistent Australian journalist. He had got a sniff at some of the inner workings of the AGI, and had been planning to tell tales. Frank had no time for these people—they had no concept of the greater good.

  Initially, he considered just having the Australian killed. He decided against it after deliberation—questions would be asked, and what he’d been working on might be raked up. However, there was no such downfall in killing that Filipino rat Professor Vargas—a man trying to prevent Darwin’s beautiful evolution. Schwimmer hit upon the idea of having Vargas made into a ‘Colombian vase’ before sending that to Crowder. That would ‘Kill two birds with one stone,’ an expression he was fond of.

  The final one was proving more problematic. It had taken an extortionate amount of money and time even to get a name and establish a link to Miles Parker. It took a lot of money to develop a contact who identified the man as a Bruce McQuillan, a liaison officer between MI5 and MI6. He had his guy send Parker a veiled threat, and he had been confident that that would put paid to McQuillan’s efforts.

  If only these people would stop living in their liberal fairyland to see the truth of the world. That the smartest had to survive for the species to advance, and if it had to be at the expense of people feeding off the system, then so be it.

  39

  Connor had said his goodbyes to his family the night before. In the morning, he made the two-hour drive down to the Shropshire safe house.

  Now he stood in front of five members of the Chameleon Project. It had been over a year since the Russian Bratva had kidnapped Bruce. And it had been over a year ago that Connor, with the help of Jamie, Louis and Carl Wright—an American contract killer—had brought about his return.

  In the immediate aftermath, Bruce had told Connor that he wanted the Yorkshireman to assume his role in charge of The Project’s field operations. After a time, he had come back to Connor and told him that he was going to restructure The Project into a cell system.

  The cell system, which had its origins in the French Resistance of World War Two, had been used successfully by the Viet Cong and Irish Republican Army. The premise being, that although part of the same organisation, these cells would operate independently from one another, so if one cell was compromised, it didn’t affect the security of the others.

  In The Project’s case, a cell consisted of four people and usually included a female. Because the organisation had been split into cells only a year previous, most of the members still knew one another, except for Connor. He didn’t even know the surnames of the members he was addressing.

  Connor had not even completed his agent training when he’d witnessed Bruce McQuillan’s capture. He had not been part of The Project and thus had to rely on his own initiative to get McQuillan back. While in the process he’d prevented the Russian Bratva’s conquest of the UK underworld, who were being aided by the former Director of MI5. It had only been by guile, daring, and a tonne of luck, that he had been able to succeed.

  He could sense an odd mixture of admiration and distrust towards him as he addressed the four men and a woman.

  “Lady, Gentlemen. This is a brief to uncover the identity of an organisation that has been lifting homeless and drug addict UK nationals to harvest their organs.”

  There was silence in the room. There was a man that Connor recognised to be Kevin, from when Connor had been initially apprehended by the Project, who spoke with a Welsh lilt. “How many have they taken bud?”

  “We’re not sure as yet,” replied Connor.

  “Then how do we know that’s what’s happening?” his tone seemed abrupt to Connor. He could only surmise that Kevin was pissed off that he had been given the lead on this, despite serving with the unit the least amount of time.

  “Because one of the key members of the operation—a Tris Dixon—has asked me to take over the identifying and kidnap of the individuals.”

  Dave Prand, broad, with strawberry blond hair and a light West Country dialogue, spoke. “Where’s Dixon to? We could make him talk and take him out of the equation.” His tone seemed softer than Kevin’s.

  “We could, but as soon as he’s taken then it’s likely the other individuals who make up the operations will go to ground. We think this is part of a much larger, trans-national operation,“ Connor said.

  “What’s the plan then big shag?” asked Kevin Anderson, using the Welsh colloquialism for ‘mate’. Connor had first heard it in Colchester by a member of staff from the Welsh Guards.

  “He’s had a security issue, and ironically feels that I am the only person he trusts to identify and kidnap these vulnerable people—”

  “Except it’s going to be us who are these ‘vulnerable’ people,” said Kate, the hard-faced brunette, who seemed to Connor to be around her early thirties. Her tone matched Kevin’s.

  “Exactly,” said Connor.

  “What then?,” asked Ted Yates, the stocky, well-muscled, Nottinghamshire man.

  “We’ll identify the hospital. We’ll put an end to this operation on UK soil.”

  “What about the people involved?”

  “We’ll get what we can from them,” said Connor. “Then we’ll put an end to them too.”

  “What we are doing then big boss?” repeated Kevin. ‘Big boss,’ definitely had an edge to it.

  “I think the title ‘Big Boss’ is up for debate. So why don’t you stand up, follow me outside and we can discuss it like men,” Connor said while subtly—but not too subtly—loosening off his watch strap. Nip it in the bud early.

  The room went silent, and the thickset Kevin’s expression changed. Then he said, “I am quite comfortable here. Thanks bud.”

  “You carry on with your smarmy fucking tone, and you won’t be comfortable anywhere for a while,” said Connor and locked eyes on the Welshman. He knew it was dangerous to push a man into a metaphoric corner, but he knew that if he didn’t extinguish this undercurrent of resentment early, it would fester. Besides, theirs wasn’t a profession for ‘safe-spaces’ thought Connor—I am the Alpha male, and I’ll demonstrate it by punching the fuck out of you if I have to.

  “I apologise for the tone. I just wanted to know what we were doing. Didn’t want to be diddling my thumbs, that’s all.”

  “I apologise too,” said Connor. “Dixon wants to know immediately of any ‘possibles’ regarding homeless people suitable for organ harvesting, so he can run a background check on them to save me wasting time. He’s obviously in the dark to my already being able to do that. As far as he’s aware, I am just criminal with some military experience. To that end, Jamie has created a watertight avatar for each of you. He’s sent all you an e-mail draft with them in. So, for the next few weeks, you will be homeless—you’ll live on the streets, and you’ll take food at shelters. When he approves you as organ donors, I will take you in. That’s when we can get to the roots of this thing.”

  There was silence for a few moments then Kevin spoke, “Luckily this has come after the Six Nations bud.”

  There was laughter all around, with the tension broken.

  “Who have we got?” asked Bruce over the encrypted phone.

  “You’ll be happy,” came back Jamie’s voice.

  “Go on.”

  “A Philip Norton. A Medical specialist for the Asherson Group Incorporated—AGI for short. They funded his research into organ transplants. In exchange, he oversees that the medical procedures are carried out correctly. It is ironic no that they pay this man astronomical amounts of money to guard against malpractices. All the while, they are taking organs illegally.”

  Bruce smiled,
Jamie would periodically add a word like ‘astronomical’ to his vocabulary then use it every chance he got, sometimes even when out of context.”

  “What is an astronomical amount?”

  “I have you his last six month monies. It varies as you can see.”

  Bruce pulled his ear away from his phone and took a look at the figures on his phone and said, “Seems we’re in the wrong game.”

  “Speak for yourself.”

  In truth, Bruce was very comfortable, perhaps even rich by most people’s estimations. In addition to his aversion to surplus spending left over from his Glaswegian roots, he had researched and kept abreast of the stock market since the mid-nineties. He spread most of his shares across well-established, large companies which had given him a reliable if slow growth in his money over the two decades. He had also placed funds with a few highly rated fund managers, and after some trial and error, gave more to the highest performing ones. Then came his personal ventures. Bruce hadn’t had the time or mental energy to pursue his financial ventures aggressively, yet he could have comfortably retired years ago.

  However, Jamie’s money and assets cast him in the stratosphere of wealthy. Jamie had also learnt to play the stock market, and McQuillan wasn’t naïve enough to think that the Peruvian hadn’t used his computer skills to gain an advantage. It had been these skills that had allowed The Chameleon Project the funds to run the majority of its missions independent of UK intelligence services. To pay for the best people. To enable them to bribe certain people.

  “How did you find him?”

  “He wrote what seems to be a confessional e-mail detailing his suspicions about the organ donation practices of AGI. You see, I do not think they have told him where the organs are coming from. I think they pay him that money, so he keeps quiet should he find out—and he has discovered it. He never sent the e-mail though, he simply saved it to his cloud. It is too vague to confront him with this alone.”

  “Any ideas then?”

  “Married man, a wife and three children. He’s from Ireland, but’a now stays in San Francisco. He likes’a whores when he is away. And his computer is full of fetish porn—Dominatrix and humiliation. He’s in London this weekend. Maybe a honeytrap? Or as the Russians use—they used female agents named ‘swallows’. Then threats of pictures on the internet or to the wife?” said Jamie.

  “I think I have just the lady,” replied Bruce.

  40

  Philip Norton nursed a pint of Guinness with guilt, amongst the hum of the London wine bar. The black stuff didn’t travel well, not even the short distance to here in London. However, it did remind him of home—a home he missed a great deal. He drank alone now after a business lunch, and his associate had left him to it. He hadn’t brought his family so saw little point in returning to his hotel anytime soon. He liked London with its history and an eclectic mix of people.

  He had a love/hate relationship with the States. Admittedly, his temporary home of San Francisco was one of the more charming cities. Vegas, he thought, was one of the gaudiest places he’d ever been. He travelled a lot, and although London was great, it wasn’t the Emerald Isle. It had irked him hearing the American twang in his children’s voices.

  However, moving back to Ireland was not an option for the foreseeable future, not while he was on his current contract. The money was too good, and as a family man, it would be irresponsible to turn it down. That had been the justification for everything he had done since going down this rabbit hole.

  They had snared him by giving him the very thing he wanted upon first embarking on a career of medical research—unlimited funding to pursue clinical and pre-clinical research on a range of medical fields.

  When complimented on the excellent work he was doing in helping people get better he just smiled—it wasn’t the helping of people, although that was nice, it was more the intricate processes of helping fix the most complex machine on earth.

  Before long they had asked him to concentrate exclusively on the transplantation of an array of different organs with a significant bump in pay. Not long after that, he was offered a position of consultancy agent for the company, with yet more money.

  A few months in, Philip Norton discovered some anomalies in the donor’s medical records. It hadn’t just been in the one country but several.

  It took a while for the pieces to fall into place that the donors were exchanging their organs for asylum. At least, that’s what he thought originally.

  He had been left on his own with one patient—an oversight on the part of that medical centre, he could see that now—who awoke in his presence. After a few minutes of her returning to full consciousness and another few minutes of conversation, he came to understand that she was a homeless Canadian national. The staff nurse came and began to usher Norton away gently.

  That had been months ago, and other pieces of evidence had emerged. And Norton had rationalised it all, and when he couldn’t, he lost himself in drink and prostitutes—alcohol to take away the guilt and the paid sex to take away the loneliness, if only for an hour or so.

  And around this time, he began to develop a sexual desire for being hurt, for being humiliated; like it was a catharsis. He’d lose himself in seemingly endless videos relating to pegging.

  He began, within the burr of this unfamiliar pub, to fall into melancholy. Then a stunning woman with short blonde-silvery hair came up next to him.

  “Erm, hi,” he stammered.

  “May I sit here,” she said. “I’ve had to tell the gentleman over there I am with someone.”

  “Sure.”

  “To be sure?” she said teasingly, mimicking his accent.

  He smiled. “Can I get ye a drink?”

  “I’ll get my own—you’re being very kind just to allow me to sit down.”

  “Nonsense, let me buy ye a drink,” eager for some companionship for a while.

  “Erm, OK, a red gin and tonic please?” she answered in a cultured voice.

  “What do I call ye,” he asked. He thought of holding out his hand before he remembered that they were pretending to know one another already.

  “Cytheria,” she answered.

  Norton paused as a flashing image of a pornstar of the same name with a penchant for squirting, came to his mind—Jesus, stop it.

  “My name is Philip.”

  “Nice to meet you.”

  He got up and went to the bar. He could see a few furtive glances aimed at Cytheria and then back to him. She truly was a sight; blue jeans pulled over shapely legs and arse, she oozed femininity despite the deep grooves of muscle in the visible forearms. He fought the urge to gawk.

  He thanked his lucky stars that he seemed to be the only male that had been drinking alone. Otherwise, this beauty would never have given him a second look.

  Dixon sat in what he liked to call his ‘Scarface’ office. An oak chair with dark red mahogany leather seemed almost too big for him. The vast desk was empty but for a crystal ashtray and custom made cigarettes. This packet of twenty had lasted him nearly a year. He only smoked in here, only with a holder and only when pondering a dilemma.

  His brother wanted him to facilitate the meting out of a beating to a man who helped him make lots of money. Not only that, but the leader of the Southwark Union Gang was now very powerful himself, both physically and metaphorically, and if the attack failed and Dixon’s hand in it was discovered, then that would be a hell of a headache.

  Telling Adam to go fuck himself wasn’t an option. He knew too much, too many secrets, too many dates, too many money launderers and accounts. Besides, he was still his big brother, and as Adam loved to remind him, Tris would have died without his protection. Dixon had asked to make his own moves back in his early twenties. Within six months, he had got himself in trouble with a rival gang that his brother had been forced to sort out for him. As a result, Dixon had gone legitimate. It had only been with Adam’s incarceration that he had risked striking out on his own again.

 
He had contracted a team of three for the job who had proved useful in the past; ex-British Army who had gone into private security. Three big men, who knew how to handle themselves. That would be it; they would teach Louis Allen a lesson and give him a little mark.

  Meanwhile, he had been in contact with Connor Reed who had told him he had identified four promising candidates for organ transfer. At least that was developing; his employer had begun to get impatient.

  Louis exited the gym after taking a session with a client. He no longer donned a ‘Louis Allen PT’ shirt, simply arrived and coached her on her deadlifting technique. Louis had become a personal trainer after obtaining his qualifications in his last year in the Marines—‘his resettlement’. He had enjoyed the lifestyle, the excitement, the banter and the camaraderie of the Corps. However, he knew upon entering he wasn’t going to a full stint—‘the full twenty-two’ as it’s known due to the twenty-two years of service for a full pension. He couldn’t ever see himself hanging around in the Sergeant’s mess, berating some marine for having a grill in their accommodation block or no trouser twists. No, he wanted to get out after the minimum of four years to begin his empire.

  Except, when he left, it initially looked like his ‘empire’ was going to be in the fitness industry. Due to his physique, looks and charm, he gathered a client base almost immediately. It grew, and he began to obtain some of the B-list celebrities from the ‘reality’ TV shows that were popping up.

  This changed when Louis met with Raymond Van Der Saar. The Dutchman schooled him on what he needed to produce high-quality sativas cannabis yields, as opposed to the indica and kush that he had been punting on the side. When he smoked the sativas that Van Der Saar gave him, he immediately felt the difference; the high was different—energetic and made him feel giddy, rather than robbing of all motivation. He built a ‘greenhouse’ as per Van Der Saar’s specifications way out into the countryside, by buying the rights to a disused farm under a dummy corporation. After a time, he had the most profitable cannabis enterprise in London. Things had then grown and morphed until he was one of the most powerful gangland figures in London. The personal training of a few celebrity clients was now for show and tax purposes.