by J B Holman
‘I’m here when you’re ready. I’ll always be here.’ She kissed him on the lips. ‘Just come back safe.’
Dirk enjoyed making people unsafe.
He enjoyed the planning and the stalking, but the ultimate high was righteous murder. A man needs a hobby, he told himself. And it’s not murder, if they deserved to die. It’s just capital punishment - another day in the office for an SSS field agent. Someone had to make the world a better place.
Strictly speaking, Dirk Swengen no longer worked for the SSS or any of the UK Security Services. He had failed his last Psych Eval; or so they said. He knew he hadn’t, they just wanted an excuse to get him out. They said he needed a period of normalisation - whatever normal meant. He’d been killing since he was fourteen, and been paid for it since he was eighteen.
That was his normal.
Helena, his shrink had said that he’d lost ‘socially normalised restraint’ - fancy words for psychopath. Inaccurate: he was just results focused. She had said he could no longer differentiate between his reality and the true reality – perceptual distortions she’d called them. He didn’t agree; she didn’t know what the true reality was. It was up to him to keep the world safe. His boss had said he’d lost his moral compass, which was a joke coming from a government that had orchestrated the coup in Zalekistan.
He had been one of the best SSS agents, but his licence had been rescinded and his contract terminated. They had thrown him way. Except, nothing in government was quite that simple. There were always jobs, dirty jobs that needed to be done. A highly trained operative, who’s happy to live off the grid and work off the books, had his uses; however unstable. So he charged highly and worked occasionally. The rest of the time was his own. He lived in one of his many basic homes, finding ways to pass the days. And nights.
Helena was a typical shrink - she had warned him that he had excessive, intense, impulsive relationships – and she hadn’t even known the half of it. How he’d smiled.
But she talked nonsense about self-harm and warned him about a fear of losing people – as if it were a bad thing! Absurd. That was the joy. There was no self-harm - he gave the harm to the people he loved. They all left, they had no choice, but he watched them hold on for as long as they could, fight to stay with him . . . until life seeped away. It was not his loss, it was his love. Helena knew nothing.
It was true he had urges, so strong sometimes, but all men did. It was true that he believed in his own power, but that was just self-confidence. It was true that if he wanted things, or people or gratification, he just took them; but didn’t he deserve it? He’d served the State and got almost nothing back. His wealth, such as it was, had been stolen from people who didn’t deserve to keep it. He’d been a loyal foot soldier for fifteen years – for what?
So of course he lived by his own reality and for his own reward. Why wouldn’t he? That was sanity epitomised. He had time, money and the best job in the world. The killing was fun, the money was nice, but the reward was the power. He loved the power - seeing it in their eyes before they died. Beautiful.
And when he wasn’t working, he needed to keep his power alive - and how better than with beautiful, admiring, helpless, captivated ladies. He had had many and loved them all, until they couldn’t hang on any longer and he saw the hope in their eyes fade and die. That could be a week, a month or a day. That was the fun of it.
But he wasn’t having fun tonight. He was rankled.
It was late, it was dark. The hotel room had a faint odour of desperation. The lace bomb was set. The outcome was inevitable. The job was done. Idle minds do the devil’s work, he needed to be busy. His thoughts jerked and turned. Focus was hard, especially when irritation set in. He needed calm; concentration. But the irritation was eating away at him. It had to be dealt with. He sat back in his chair, closed his eyes and traced his thoughts back, just like the shrink had taught him. Back to the source of the irritation, back to the root cause; back to Julie Connor.
She had fooled him. She’d not been behind the tarpaulin and had made him look stupid. And for that, she was going to die - preferably intimately and slowly. He promoted her from Housekeeping to Amusement. Should he just shoot her or subdue her for his later pleasure? The pain would be mean, very mean. One way or another her hours were numbered.
But first he had to find her.
He tapped his screen into life. He navigated, hacked, waited. The screen paused; then gave him a list of all the calls she’d made in the last month. He flicked to her billing address, credit details and long-term call history. A few more clicks, and yes . . . he had her signal . . . but no location. That’s odd. He tapped again, still no location. Foxx had fire-walled her phone. SSS tracking couldn’t get past it. The word Untraceable stretched across the screen.
He couldn’t kill her if he couldn’t find her.
Blackheart was calm. He liked a puzzle to solve. He dived deeply into the dark web, lurked and skulked amongst low life and illegality until he had what he wanted. A program. He ran it and fed in Julie’s number. It gave him a pulsating feeling and a pulsating dot in a hotel room on a street on a map of North London.
Julie Connor, you’re mine.
She would be easy to kill at any time he chose. He allowed his mind to drift, to dream about the capture and the imprisonment, the torture and the sexual perversion: the straps, the leather, the joy, the pain. He fantasised about how she would die and the climax at the moment of her death. It will be a seminal moment, he thought to himself, and smiled.
His work was done, he wanted to sleep. It was time. He was tired but his leg hurt. It hurt where the bullet had grazed him. Anger hit him. He hated his anger, it blurred his thinking, but he hated Foxx more. Foxx had to die. Foxx knew about the plan and Foxx was smart. Blackheart had been careless. Foxx should already be dead.
Frustration struck Blackheart’s fist squarely against the hard, immobile wall. His anger was always self-destructive. He needed harmony, a dream, a target, a safe place to hide in his brain. He found it. It wasn’t Eduard Foxx, nor Julie Connor; it was pure recreation, a perfect pleasure.
She was so beautiful. He wanted her. His mind soothed the angst away. He needed her, she would be his harmony. It would be slow, sexual and inextricably enjoyable. This was his reward. He deserved it, it was so right – his power, her compliance, his brutality, her beauty; she would give him everything. He would give her love for the rest of her short life. He clicked to her picture and smiled.
Charlie was so pretty.
Charlie was a joy.
Such a shame that the frailty of her body would let her die too soon. He would collect her tonight after Biggin Hill. It would be too easy. He would hold her, hurt her, hug her, humiliate her, pamper her, play with her; then let her blood flow slowly across her all too pretty face - watch her gasp, see the hurt in her eyes, let the spasms in her body excite his, feel her fade, let her be his girlfriend for as long as she held together, and then, when the time was right: snuff her out like an unwanted candle in the wind.
Snuff and she would be gone.
29
London to Newbury
It was Friday morning. The Prime Minister packed the final items into his bag to fly from London to Marseille. An unknown plane prepared to fly from Torquay to Biggin Hill. Tenby kissed his wife goodbye and Blackheart sat on a motorbike in a North London street waiting for the phone of Miss Julie Connor to move out of the safety of her hotel room and into the Kill Zone. The pieces had all moved into place and the day had hardly begun.
A nearly naked Julie Connor sat upright in bed next to a nearly sated Mr Foxx and clinked glasses. They smiled at each other and felt the warmth of the bed and the warmth of mutual, growing affection. They had time and they had each other. Nothing was going to happen until tomorrow.
‘Life’s improving,’ said Foxx.
‘How d’you work that out?’ she asked, laying her hand on his and drawing small circles with her fingertips.
‘Well
, your breakfasts have graduated from whisky to champagne. That’s surely a step forwards.’ He leant over and gave her a quick morning kiss. ‘Do you want some orange juice in that?’
‘Certainly not! Why spoil perfectly good champagne? Anyway, I never mix my drinks.’ Her eyes were big, coy and moisty, as she looked at him in soft focus through the morning light. She drank, cuddled in closer and let lightness wash over her.
‘It’s a relief, y’know, knowing who the enemy is. I know we have to catch him and we have to stop Blackheart, but I agree, it feels like life is beginning to make sense again. Maybe we can get Storrington to go after Blackheart.’
‘We can’t risk giving ourselves up yet. He might believe us, but he might just have us arrested. Then we’re not only out of play and can’t stop Blackheart, but we’re sitting targets, in some cell somewhere. He would find us, and . . .’
‘Fish in a barrel,’ said Julie. There was a pause, then she spoke again, needing confirmation of what she already knew, ‘It is him, isn’t it?’
‘Who, Blackheart?’
‘No. Tenby. Tenby is our man, right?’
‘The evidence is good.’
‘Yes, but not perfect.’
‘Look, he’s planning a coup, he’s been involved in a lot of very dodgy political manoeuvres, he’s an ambitious, conniving, self-seeking, ruthless, two-faced dictator-in-waiting; and don’t forget, he ordered the Risk Assessment and the hit. We have him banged to rights.’
‘Yeah. I know.’ She kissed him and drank another sip of her exotic grape juice.
‘And Dirk, your mate that wants to kill you, he’s good, right? Like Rambo Max.’
‘Yep. He is a one-man, mean, clean, killing machine,’ he replied, with his brain in neutral. His thoughts had moved back to his libido and getting the champagne glass somewhere out of harm’s way.
‘But he missed. At the hotel. He didn’t get the prime target,’ persisted Julie.
‘No,’ said Foxx, frustrated. ‘Colin Lewis was the target. It was a dead shot.’
‘Yes, I know that. But if the bullet took almost two seconds to arrive, then he could have shot Lewis and still got another couple of shots off at the PM before Lewis went down. If he’s that good, he could have got both of them.’
‘I guess, but it was a tough shot,’ said Foxx. ‘The PM was crouching by then, moving around gathering papers. He wanted to be sure that he had the kill shot or no shot at all.’
‘So what about at the Garden of Rest? You know we didn’t stop him from doing anything. He chose not to take what was the easiest ever shot and the simplest possible get away. And don’t tell me it was because he wanted to do it in front of the TV cameras and the world’s Press, because that doesn’t hold true at the back of the hotel. The PM was avoiding the Press-trap that Blackheart had created.’
‘Which is why he didn’t take the shot. He shot Lewis, but waited for the PM to be in front of the cameras.’ Serafina was on full form and not convinced; it didn’t sit right. She thought slowly and spoke even more slowly, working it out as she talked.
‘You know we thought he’d missed the PM and hit Lewis by accident? Well, I’ve been thinking; Mr James Bond times ten has had four opportunities to kill the PM and the PM is still alive.’ She stalled.
‘So?’ prompted Foxx.
‘Well . . . if he’s that good, then anyone he targets, dies. The PM is still alive.’
‘So?’
‘So, the Prime Minister’s not the target.’
‘So who is?’
‘No idea, not yet,’ she conceded.
‘OK, let’s think it through. There’ve been four opportunities: he took two and left two. He shot at the hotel and at Barrow. He didn’t shoot at the graveside nor offer the poison at the dinner.’
‘So who was with the Prime Minister at the hotel and at Barrow, but not at the dinner and obviously not at the graveside?’
Foxx ran names through his mind. The answer didn’t work, so he computed again. Again, it didn’t make sense. He ran the algorithm in his head a third time. Confusion consumed his face.
‘It’s not possible. It can’t be.’
‘What? Who is it?’
‘There’s only one person it can be: only one possible target.’
‘Who?’
‘Tenby.’
Julie got off the bed, sat on a chair and stared at him.
‘That doesn’t make sense. Why would he order his own killing? And why were you asked for a Risk Assessment on the Prime Minister, not on him?
‘Because,’ said Foxx, ‘it would be too obvious to ask me to plan a hit on my boss. But to plan a hit on the PM when my boss is often with him, especially in public, is foolproof. He gets the perfect plan for assassinating Tenby, whilst making it look like a stray bullet from the PM.’
‘So why did he order his own killing? I mean he didn’t, so who was it that did ask for the Risk Assessment? If not Tenby, it would have to be someone inside the Service who knew the systems and had access to his email account. You would have to hate him a lot to go to all that trouble.’
‘Somebody does,’ replied Foxx, as it all fitted into place. ‘He broke her legs, he broke her back and he broke her heart, then he ran off with a floozy and is now going to let her lose her home.’
‘Bettie Slaker!’
‘She used to work for SSS, used to be his secretary. I bet you she still has access.’
‘So, I was right. This is about lust, greed and jealousy. So what about the coup? Has that been cancelled now?’
‘No, that’s very much on. But I did think he wasn’t clever enough to plan a thing like that. Slaker is behind it. She probably has a pet general tucked away to take over, or maybe it’s not a military coup, but a political coup, setting the stage for some nasty, fascist, nationalist extremism. It worked in Germany, it could work here.’
‘So, is the DPM part of this?’
‘I doubt it. He’s just a puppet, the marionette.’
‘And Slaker is Maid Marion. I mean Slaker is behind the whole thing.’
‘Jesus!’ Fox stared his accomplice in the eye. ‘That means the next hit is on. We have just over twenty-four hours before the PM and Tenby fly to France. If Tenby is the target, then it’s the perfect hit. It will go down in history as an airborne explosion to assassinate the PM, but the truth is my dad will be nothing more than collateral damage. I’ll pull him off the plane before they take off, but let’s get some evidence first. We need to know if Bettie could have accessed Tenby’s PC.’
Julie was already on the phone.
Blackheart sat on his motorbike and looked at his watch. If she didn’t move soon, he would have to head down to Biggin Hill. The plan was set, the plane was wired, he could leave it to unwind towards its inevitable consequences, but there was a twist, and for that he had to be there. It was a twist, and he was the knife.
But to kill Serafina Pekkala before he went would make the day complete.
‘Hi, Julie,’ Selina was speaking on her private mobile, not the office number. ‘How are you doing? No, I’m still here. Not fired, not dragged away by the Secret Police. Oh, and I’ve got the funniest ever picture of Rupert with his head in a box. I’ll send it to you. So what can I do for you today? Steal the DPM’s credit card, hide his passport, kidnap his grandma?’ The DPM’s APS spoke with affectionate sarcasm to the best friend she hardly ever saw.
‘No, nothing so bad.’
‘Just a bit bad then?’
‘Meh.’
‘Meh? What the hell is meh? Are you mixing with fourteen year olds?’
‘Yeah, pretty much. Look, can you get into the Triple S HR system?’
‘Never tried. Hang on, let me see.’ Julie waited to the sound of computer keys being tapped. ‘No, I don’t have access rights.’
‘What about SSS administration assignments or even the appraisal system?’
‘No, ’fraid not. I can’t get into anything Triple S. Anyway, why are you asking me? You’re
the Triple S shining star around here. Just log in and find out yourself.’
‘Yes, but I can’t do that unless I’m in the office.’
‘Oh sorry, I didn’t know you’d retired! Why can’t you go to the office?’
‘Long story. D’you know anyone else who might be able to help? I really need to get an answer before the PM flies to France tomorrow.’
‘I’ll see what I can do. And you absolutely totally definitely have got to tell me what this is all about. Is there a man involved?’
‘Could be. I mean, yes. Or no. He might be. I mean, yes, he is involved, I’m just not sure if I’m involved with him.’ Foxx, who was sitting next to her in the softness of their post-coital duvet, threw a glance in her direction, then back to his laptop. ‘I really appreciate your help. Just get back to me if you find anything. And I promise you full disclosure when we meet. Love to Rupert.’
‘OK, sweetie. Speak soon. Ciao!’ The DPM’s APS hung up and smiled. Her mousey librarian friend was having way more fun in life than she was, for once. She was pleased and intrigued. She clicked onto her privileged access to the PM’s diary and looked at his schedule. It had been revised; he was flying today. Julie had got it wrong, she had said it was tomorrow. Probably didn’t matter. She picked up her phone to call Julie back, but her boss, the next PM of the UK needed her help. She picked up her notepad and scurried into his office.
She could always call Julie later.
Dirk looked at his watch, annoyed. He had to go. Time was up. He started the bike. It was big and black and powerful; a reflection of him. He revved. He turned it off again. For once, he let his heart rule his head. Five more minutes, just five, then he definitely had to go.