He wanted to see the look in the Scotsman’s eyes when he realised his fate. It would be like an animal who had thought itself a wolf, before understanding it was a mere fox.
“On the approach now. Check your weapons,” sounded one of the men.
Schwimmer saw a black dot on the horizon and felt the anticipation course through him.
The speedboat screamed up to the yacht and Schwimmer couldn’t help to be impressed with the operatives rapid efficiency. Within seconds of the boat pulling up the team had boarded the yacht.
Schwimmer then heard the commanding shouts of the operatives and found himself anticipating gunfire. The anticipation began to ebb with the rocking of the speedboat—if there was going to be gunfire, it would have happened by now.
As if to prove him correct, the leader popped over the side. “The objective is secure. Use the yacht’s ladder and join us, Mr Schwimmer.”
Schwimmer could hardly contain his excitement. He gripped the chrome ladder and made his way up as elegantly as he could. He smiled. Bruce McQuillan and—to his surprise—Darren O’Reilly stood on the right side. The CIA team, facing them with weapons drawn, to his left.
Schwimmer laughed. “Mr McQuillan and Mr O’Reilly, it seems like the stars are aligning.”
“It seems that they are,” replied Bruce.
Schwimmer felt a small thorn in his gut—he wanted to see McQuillan scared or at least ruffled and surprised. But he saw nothing. Not only that, O’Reilly did not seem phased out either, and he was a ‘civilian’. Not to worry—he thought—their expressions will soon change as the interrogation begins.
The voice of the CIA team leader cut through. “What would you like to happen now, sir?”
Schwimmer smiled with pleasure. His power even extended to the CIA—the leader had just referred to him as ‘sir’, and the team was now to do his bidding.
“I don’t want you to do anything,” he answered, injecting authority in his voice, “except, after we have the information we need, you hand over one of your weapons so that I can shoot these two myself.”
There was silence for a few moments before Schwimmer turned with a mild frustration to look at the team leader. His, and the rest of his men had their gazes fixed on McQuillan.
That’s when the yacht seemed to rock more violently.
“Just leave him with me boys,” said McQuillan, removing a pistol from the waistband of his cargo shorts, “and thank you.”
“Roger that. Disembark,” commanded the leader, and his men moved to the edge.
Schwimmer felt a hot flush and rushed at the leader.
“Hey, asshole! What the fuck do ya think—”
The butt of the operator’s Heckler and Koch smashed into Schwimmer’s face.
Schwimmer woke to find himself lying on the deck at a different part of the yacht. He shook the fog and felt the pain across his face and top teeth.
His hands were in the jaws of handcuffs and his ankles in a steel bracelet with a red light flitting on every so often. The bracelet was attached to a taut chain, which his eyes travelled the length of it. It finished at a steel beam overhanging the side of the yacht, attached to what looked like a small wrecking ball.
Then he looked up at the Scotsman stood over him and felt it, cold and alive—fear. O’Reilly and an olive-skinned man stood behind him. The CIA team were nowhere to be seen.
McQuillan spoke. “They say a good deal is a good deal when all the parties involved are neither satisfied nor dissatisfied with the outcome. I am sure a man of your business acumen knows this,” said the Scotsman. “But then they also say that there’s an exception to every rule, and this may be it. You see, the CIA gets a substantially cheaper but no less innovative security system through Mr O’Reilly’s Verbatim Cyber Securities. The Asherson Group gets to wash its hands of a maniacal director and shareholder, without getting any blood on them. I get to rest easy knowing your sick and twisted plot of stealing the organs of society’s most vulnerable people has now come to an end.”
Schwimmer felt like the yacht itself, but instead of sea water, he felt emerged in disbelief, confusion, despair and finally anger.
“You’re pathetic. It’s people like you that’ll try and stop the evolution of our species. Keeping people alive to leech off the rest of the world while the people who can make a difference die. All you did was delay progress, not stop it,” Schwimmer spat.
McQuillan spoke as if the tirade hadn’t occurred. “It’s said that vengeance never makes a person feel better, but I can tell you from experience it does. So perhaps the person who has done the best out of this deal is Mr O’Reilly himself, as he gets to end your repulsive existence. And my friend Jamie, who will explain to you the intricacies of your death.”
Schwimmer’s face froze—his entire being froze as Jamie stepped forward. “When the remote device that Mr O’Reilly possesses is pressed, this the ball will be released into the water taking you with it, with a little help from ourselves. It will not take you to the bottom immediately. Instead, it will exhaust you after a fight against it. Eventually, you will slip under the waves and your respiratory system will initiate an involuntary breath holding with the epiglottis to close over the airway. You will continue to fight, and the drag will be slow. At a certain depth, the sensors will release the wrist and ankle bracelets. You might have already lost wakefulness at this point. If not, it will be a hard swim back to the surface unless you lose wakefulness on the way. We estimate that you will suffer brain death before surfacing, but it is not clear, you see you had my friend killed while he was in the final stages of its development. You will have to be our guinea pig.”
Icy cold fingers gripped at Schwimmer’s heart, as three pairs of pitiless eyes stared at him. Before he could speak, McQuillan stepped over and seized him by the arms, and Jamie by the legs. He bucked and twisted under their grasp in terrified, spastic exertions.
“Wait,” shouted O’Reilly, and McQuillan and Jamie stopped and held him. He stopped struggling too. “My daughter would have made a difference.”
With that, O’Reilly pressed the button on the remote device. The two pairs of hands slung him overboard as the wrecking ball fell. It jerked him down while he was still mid-air.
The shock of the cold impact hit him. He floated for a few seconds before feeling the ball once again pull at him in an invite of death.
He fought like the man said he would. Like a seal on land desperately trying to make its way back to sea.
He began to cry out before merely crying. The splashes of the sea water lapped his salty tears like parents claiming their young.
After a time his head began to bob under the waterline as his lungs felt they were about the explode. He took frantic gulps of air, before taking one final huge draught as the pull torturously took him under.
He could hear his heart hammering as the watery surface got farther and farther away.
Spasms bolted around his body desperate for release out of his mouth. Eventually, they succeeded, and water filled his mouth and lungs.
The bracelets released. The fight for the surface lasted barely ten seconds before a dark angel began to choke him harder. There was no euphoria as he was shaken violently into unconsciousness.
Death swam away with him shortly afterwards.
57
Janet Quigley barraged her way past her front door on the way to the kitchen, slinging her handbag on the sofa. Her target was Château Latour 2009 red wine sent to her as a present. The clock on the wall showed a time of twenty-three minutes past ten. It had possibly been the most stressful couple of days she had ever had. She knew with being this wired, alcohol would be needed to help her sleep. She poured the wine into a crystal glass and gulped it down. She re-poured, took a breath, and then a thought stopped her—why couldn’t she hear her dogs? She made her way into her living room en-route to the dining room.
The shock slipped the glass from her fingers, shattering it into glinting shards. A stranger in her li
ving room—sandy hair, stocky with a strong face and blue eyes. She stood transfixed for a moment, her heart pumped harder and faster as it began to rise into her throat.
She pulled on a mask of resolve—do not let whoever this heathen is see that you’re scared.
“Who on earth are you?” she exclaimed.
“I am a friend of Bruce McQuillan,” the man said in a working-class northern voice.
She hadn’t heard from Bruce despite trying to contact him many times. A snake began stirring in her stomach, and her breathing became more rapid.
“Where is he?”
The man looked her with a disdain mixed with amusement. “He’s been busy bringing the people behind this abhorrent franchise of snatching the homeless and vulnerable so that their organs can be harvested, to justice. Not through the courts mind, that’s why the fish are feeding on your backer, and the handover man at the hospital— fellow surgeon Michael Taylor—has a bleak looking future.”
Janet absorbed the words and fought to control her shaking.
“This is absurd. You don’t know Bruce. He knows I would never—”
“He has known ever since you offered him an Aronson Whisky. Frank Schwimmer has been a silent partner in the Lass and Wright Whisky company for a while now.”
She took a few moments to answer. “That proves nothing.”
“I know. But a Mac’s hard drive can be a window into many things if you know how to look—which, unfortunately for you, our technician does. Still, my boss—Bruce to you—had to wait until you were asleep—I am guessing after he fucked you—before using a special thingy-ma-chig to lift the information off your Mac. Very professional man you see.”
She opened her mouth to speak but couldn’t find the words. After a few moments, the man continued, “Now I know, its counter-intuitive to leave the laptop you’ve been using to help commit these atrocities at your place of work, but you might have had a chance of claiming someone else had hacked it.”
She fought against her voice cracking, “Then why are you here instead of him?”
“Because I don’t think hurting women is his thing. As you know, he’s an old-school gent. We managed to relocate your downstairs neighbours by telling them that the apartments were crime scenes. Amazing what yellow and black police tape and a thousand pounds to fuck off for the night can do. They’ll be told tomorrow by the real police what’s actually occurred. But tonight no one’s gonna hear any noise you make, you sick fucking bitch.”
Her shaking intensified, and he stepped closer. “Where was I? Yep, smashing up ladies isn’t his thing. But I don’t suffer from that sort of—if you think about it—sexism. Because I believe evil is evil, whether you’re a man, woman, young, old or disabled. What’re your thoughts on it?”
She didn’t have time to open her mouth as the toe cap of his boot rocketed into her groin, collapsing her to the floor.
Parker and Bruce were stood on a viewpoint looking down on the lights of London.
Parker’s two bodyguards resembled shadows in the background in their black, knee-length tweed jackets. Bruce lamented that this was the first time he had met with Parker in a setting other than Vauxhall Cross.
“All’s well that ends well,” said the towering Parker.
“Is that the lesson of the day?”
Parker shrugged, and it seemed for the first time Bruce since had met him, looked contrite.
“I take it Mr Schwimmer won’t be bothering us anytime soon?”
“He’ll wash up somewhere I am sure. But he won’t be in a fit state to bother anyone I can assure you.”
“Anyone willing to take the reins? Anyone likely to continue in his absence?”
“No.”
“For what it’s worth Bruce, I am sorry to hear about what happened to Miss Quigley. I was led to believe you were quite close.”
“Yes, we were getting that way.”
Parker nodded. “This Michael Taylor, a surgeon at the hospital, disappears mid-shift on the Wednesday. On the Friday, withdraws a thousand pounds from his account using it, while impersonating a policeman, to get rid of her neighbours that afternoon, before killing her that night. Very strange.”
“There was a suicide note. His handwriting confirmed.”
“Yes, quite, full of declarations of love. That was the thorn in my mind. If he killed her out of a sense of rejection, then why get rid of her neighbours beforehand?”
“Maybe out of anticipation of it? I mean, no woman would take to their dogs being sedated, would they?”
“No, I shouldn’t imagine they would,” said Parker, regarding him.
“He was a coward anyway, and that’s why he’s dead,” said Bruce.
They didn’t speak for a few moments as the wind whistled around them.
Parker broke the stalemate with, “Well, it’s a matter for the police, not that they will pursue it further now. Not on the Firm’s list of concerns.”
“Speaking of to-do lists, how are your operatives getting on with the names I gave you?”
Bruce had given Parker and Paul Jackson of the CIA’s SAD, a list of hospitals and characters to look into.
“We’re making progress,” Parker said.
“Good. I understand these things take time. But by this time next year, I do not want any homeless person to be waking up in hospitals minus perfectly functioning organs.”
“Trying to protect the world, Bruce?”
“Just trying to leave the world in a better state, Miles.”
“You think being virtuous is an option for men like us?” asked Parker.
“Anything I have ever done in this profession has been with the greater good in mind. Maybe I am, or have been, delusional to what that greater good is. Maybe one day I’ll realise that that greater good doesn’t exist. Only people who sit on the side-lines, then look on with retrospect, have the luxury of certainty.”
The wind slowed to a breeze and Parker spoke, “I know what you think of me, Bruce. An antiquated, embittered former field agent, now more a politician than a servant of this country.”
“No. I know you’re a servant to this country. But the word ‘country’ and ‘people’ are rarely the same thing. I learnt that many years ago.”
“Perhaps you’re right. And from here on in, you will have my full support—regardless of the consequences.”
Bruce looked down at the outstretched hand in surprise—it was the first time either of them offered it. Bruce shook it firmly, and they parted into the night.
Epilogue
Three weeks later
“So, is this the start of the three amigos?” asked Louis.
He, Connor and Tom sat in a booth looking down onto the nightclub floor. ‘Camerons’ lay just outside the Manchester city centre, and was one of its more popular clubs. The shimmering blue of the lights mixed with a kind of music which allowed for both dancing and conversation. There was an assortment of attractive women and well-dressed men throughout.
“We just need a fourth member, and we’d have an A-Team,” said Connor. He wore a light blue, button-down sleeveless shirt, jeans and brown Oxford shoes.
“You always have to take it there don’t cha,” said Louis, whose dress stood out from his northern companions. He wore a white and black chequered shirt, red tie and a bold blue suit, that just seemed to work to Connor. His friend’s dress sense for social occasions was always flamboyant.
Tom Ryder smiled at the exchange. “Are we going to talk business before we pop these pills and have a good time?”
“I am not taking anything tonight. I was smashing them two weeks ago,” said Connor.
Tom and Louis looked at one another, “Fuck me mate.” exclaimed Tom, “I think they will have worn off now, they aren’t that good.”
Louis and Tom laughed. Connor shook his head, “Think what you like. But I have a strict rule of leaving a three-month gap between binges. I don’t want to fuck my serotonin levels and be feeling like a dog in a Korean restaurant.”
Louis looked at Tom while nodding at Connor. “Who’s yer mate?”
Connor smiled. His cousin and friend seemed to have hit it off, for which he was glad. He felt a pang of guilt—he hadn’t told his cousin of his involvement in ‘The Chameleon Project.’ Bruce had told him to fight the urge to tell people closest to him—if nothing else, than for their safety.
He thought about Bruce and wondered if he did feel anything for the Janet Quigley woman. Not that he would ever tell Connor—it wasn’t that sort of relationship. He had always respected the Scotsman and never crossed the line into over-familiarity. The debriefing had been an awkward one. Bruce had highlighted his quick thinking under pressure when dealing with Dixon’s knowledge of Ciara. Connor hadn’t seen Ciara since that night.
However, he lambasted him over torturing Steyn and Dixon. That had gone on for an hour—he smiled thinking back to the weird leopard crawling race for their lives he had made them do—‘It pays to be a winner,’ he had said. Steyn had won, but Connor killed them both anyway.
At the end of the debrief, Bruce had told him to take time off to process what had happened and to ‘decompress’.
At first, Connor had contemplated going somewhere remote—maybe a trip to Peru for an Ayahuasca ceremony.
At the last moment, he changed his mind and headed to Amsterdam. Van Der Saar had looked after him, and Connor had ten days of contemplation, high-quality drugs and sexual debauchery. Interspersed with this had been visits to Mike’s Gym—the revered Dutch kickboxing gym. Connor had caught a few too many shots in one of the sparring sessions after a particularly heavy night out with Van Der Saar’s people. It was then he had decided to come home and wind down the drink and drugs.
Louis broke through his thought process. “Hey, you drinking at least right?”
Connor nodded.
“Get the wets in then,” Louis said.
Connor smiled and made his way downstairs to the bar. He passed a group of young girls who were stealing glances up towards Louis and Tom. Connor didn’t kid himself that they were interested in his average looking cousin. Louis stood out from the crowd even in cities like Manchester.
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