Guy Fawkes Day
Page 11
***
London: October 9
There were still a lot of tourists sitting on the park benches in Soho Square, their umbrellas up against the soft drizzle. Douglas Easterby checked his watch. Five to one. Still early. Whatever else he might be, an old Para like Goss would be a stickler for punctuality.
‘It’s been a long time, sir! Good to see you again!’
Easterby looked over his shoulder, then recognizing the Yorkshire accent he turned to give his former sergeant’s outstretched hand a wary shake, for he was a reluctant old comrade-in-arms. It was over twenty years since he had last seen Goss, not that absence had made his heart grow any fonder. Common, vulgar and wantonly violent, Easterby thought, looking at those dog-hungry eyes, the razor-thin crew cut and trim, ginger moustache. Still, they had their uses, Goss’s kind. It was men like Goss that had plundered and pacified the Empire—mean brutes who could be relied upon to impart the swifter variety of British justice at the point of a bayonet, or with full magazine of .303.
Goss had evidently tried to dress for their ‘little meeting’, Easterby noted, eyeing with contempt the unfashionably thin dark-blue tie and the cheap grey suit. Either his ex-sergeant had fallen on hard times or was just too tacky to know any better. He suspected a combination of the two.
‘Good of you to come, Phil,’ Easterby began, choking on the use of that plebeian first name. But what else could he call him? ‘Mr Goss’ would be too formal, ‘Sergeant’ too inappropriate.
‘Let me take you to a little pub I know down the road here. Talk business over a few jars, eh?’
‘Very good, sir,’ Goss replied, standing almost to attention. ‘A couple of bevvies’ll go down smooth, like.’
The stocky sergeant trailed about half a pace behind as Easterby walked briskly out of the western side of the square, turning left towards Soho. Neither man was interested in conversation. Goss was no doubt wondering why his former CO had looked him up after so long, Easterby mused, but doubtless the ginger terrier sensed a profit in his Colonel’s call.
Easterby marched morosely through the stiffening drizzle increasingly perplexed by this bizarre and unwanted reunion the Ramlis had unwittingly thrust upon him.
The pub was old, lacking the trendy renovations of its rivals. Easterby bought whisky and ginger for himself and a pint of strong lager for the sergeant.
‘So, Phil, how long have you been running this security and surveillance business of yours?’ Easterby asked, putting the drinks on the table and checking all around for intrusive ears. The pub was only half-full. Several businessmen lingered around the counter, chatting up the pretty Australian barmaid. Other tables were talking company or office business.
‘Ultimate, sir? Er…about fourteen years now. Started it up soon after I joined Civvy Street.’
‘Business going well?’
‘Has its ups and downs, sir. Sometimes I get a few jobs on the side, like.’
Easterby swallowed his whisky thoughtfully.
‘Ever done any work for the Ramlis?’
‘The who, sir?’
‘Ramlis. You know, like Saudis—the bloody ragheads you see buying up Harrods?’
‘Oh them, sir. No. Can’t say as I have, like.’
The answer wasn’t what Easterby wanted to hear.
‘And this company of yours—Ultimate—what sort of contracts do you get?’
“Well…we do all sorts, really. Mostly small jobs south of the river, like.
But business is getting tight these days with the big boys trying to squeeze us out of the market.’
‘Number of staff? How many chaps have you got working for you, Phil?’
‘Oh, that depends, sir. Depends what’s on. Most of the lads aren’t permanent, like. I get them in when there’s a job on.’
Goss lent conspiratorially over the table towards his ex-colonel, gulping at his pint.
‘So what’s this all about then, sir, if you don’t mind my asking? Have you got something for us, Colonel?’ he asked, the lager flecking the bristles above the corner of his mouth.
Easterby looked contemptuously at Goss’s cutthroat, keen features. What the hell were the Ramlis up to? Why had they picked Goss and his third-raters out of all the major league competition around?
Easterby swilled his glass and lent forwards across the table till he was only a whisky-breath from Goss’s face.
‘Yes, I have, actually,’ he hissed. ‘A rather special job. It will require a bit of tact and, as I told you on the phone, a spell abroad.’
‘You know you can rely on me for tact, sir. I didn’t let you down before, did I? We looked after each other back then, didn’t we sir?’
Easterby took an irascible swig of his whisky and crisped, cheeks reddening with a mixture of anger and embarrassment.
‘That was a long time ago, Phil. A very long time. And you can forget the old days. Believe me, they’re gone, and gone forever. Just be grateful I looked you up for this show, picked you out from hundreds of better outfits, gave you a shot at the big time.’
But brutes like Goss could hold their nerve under fire.
‘Grateful?’ he sneered. ‘Oh, I’m grateful all right, Colonel. Like you were grateful back in them old days when I got the men all whipped into shape, all shit-scared and ready to testify just the way you wanted.’
For a few seconds Easterby felt his anger would get the better of him His fist was clenching the whisky tumbler in his fingers so tightly he could see the dregs of his drink shaking with ripples of rage. But the blind fury lasted no longer than the last mouthful and with a well-drilled effort of self-restraint, he let the tide subside. He had gone on to better things since he had last met trash like Goss; there were other ways. So, with a heavy sigh, he scooped the empties from the table and went to the bar for another round, and by the time he had returned to the table, the trip to the bar had firmed him for action.
‘OK, Phil, here’s the deal,’ he announced, passing Goss another pint. ‘I’ve got an undercover job for you out in Ramliyya. When can you fly?’
Goss looked livelier.
‘Anytime, sir. You know me, Colonel—always ready for action!’
‘Good,’ Easterby nodded, and he began to brief Goss as he had been directed by the deputy ambassador of Ramliyya.