by Geoff Wolak
* * *
Otto had spent the night in the guest room. The previous evening he had confessed to not needing much sleep, which was just as well, because Johno’s intermittent snoring in the next room had kept him awake. The toilet had been flushed many times during the night, the old cistern taking ten noisy minutes to fill back up. Dawn saw the arrival of several wood pigeons on the branch outside Otto’s window, cooing away and leaving him looking a little haggard at breakfast. His suit was immaculate, but his eyes betrayed the fatigue.
He said nothing of the fact that he heard Johno scream out during the night, or Jane sobbing. He would also say nothing of the fact that he thought he heard Johno sobbing.
Otto and Beesely had chatted conspiratorially next to the fireplace the previous evening, working their way through several glasses of wine and finishing off with the best malt whisky. Johno had pestered, poked, prodded and generally questioned at length the new security staff, testing most of the equipment and breaking just a few small items. Now he was having a well-deserved lie-in.
Jane now made Otto and Beesely breakfast, having already insisted the passing guards have a toasted muffin each. Their dogs were grateful.
Otto reached over the small kitchen table and helped himself to more of Jane’s ‘special’ scrambled eggs, with potato wedges and tomatoes in. He noticed Beesely’s gaze following his movements. Checking over his shoulder, Otto whispered, ‘It is good, no?’
Beesely seemed unconvinced about Jane’s cooking and stuck to toast. ‘Should be a busy day then, plenty of people to impress and some to upset. If it is not a rude question, just how much are we worth?’
Otto produced a wallet and removed from it a neatly folded piece of paper.
‘There are way too many zeros on there for me to understand, and it’s in European notation.’ Beesely grabbed a pen, slicing off groups of three zeros at a time. He swallowed. ‘That is a lot of money.’
‘More than the British Government spends on its military in a year.’
Beesely seemed concerned. ‘Which would make us a target for those capable of taking it away from us.’
Otto confidently smiled and shook his head. ‘First, only a handful of people know this detail. Second, there are triple redundant safety measures in place … and the Swiss Government would step in if they suspected foul play. I give you the example: if you or I are killed, automatically many millions are paid to three independent agencies in three separate countries, who will investigate with aggression and vigour. If they suspect foul play, a further sum of money is transferred to deal with those they suspect. The people who work for me know that killing me would achieve nothing for them.’
‘As thorough as a Swiss banker,’ Beesely commended, accepting more tea from Jane. He told her, ‘Wake up Boy Wonder in an hour, visitors this afternoon.’
‘I have a helicopter at your disposal,’ Otto suddenly announced.
‘My boy, first rule of negotiation, let them come to you. Keep the high ground, do not go cap-in-hand.’ Beesely could see that Otto did not quite understand. ‘Watch and learn, my boy. Watch ... and learn.’
2
Mossad, Israeli Secret Service, had been surprised by the call; concerned that Beesely had called their UK Section Head directly. The invitation had been cryptic, but urgent: Beesely had some vital intelligence for them, and a helicopter stood waiting at London Docklands Airport.
Mr Elle Rosen, the forty-eight year old Section Head, quickly investigated Beesely. A call to ‘the institute’, Tell Aviv, had surprised him: he was to go ahead and meet with Beesely, no further explanation given. Now, the low profile, and generally unknown Section Head – a fronting as a mortgage broker, stepped down from a K2 helicopter on Broadlands’ lawn with his assistant after a twenty-minute flight from East London. As the helicopter disappeared over the lake, scattering the ducks and swans, Otto greeted Elle in poor, but appreciated Hebrew.
‘German?’ Elle puzzled.
‘Swiss Jew,’ Otto replied. ‘Not practising.’
Elle shrugged his shoulders and made a face.
Beesely shook his hand. ‘Do come in, refreshments await us.’
As Elle followed Beesely towards the house he carefully noted the guards, the dogs and the building work, being stopped at the edge of the grass by his assistant pointing out a sensor half buried in the lawn; it was, after all, Israeli manufactured. They exchanged looks as they caught up.
‘You take your security seriously,’ Elle casually commented as they stepped into the house, a London-British accent with a little New York American mixed in.
‘I take many things way too seriously,’ Beesely replied without stopping or looking around.
After five minutes of obligatory pleasantries around the oak table they finally sat, adjusted seats and squared up to each other.
‘I’ve been … working with the CIA quite closely of late,’ Beesely began, stirring his tea.
The Israelis again glanced at each other. ‘Working with them … or for them?’ Elle enigmatically probed, the faintest hint of a grin evident.
Beesely offered Elle a look of candid, mock surprise. ‘I’m sure I have no idea what you mean.’ Otto was not following. ‘Anyway, as you are probably aware –’ which he knew they weren’t. ‘- I have recently become the head of a private security agency, headquartered in … Zug, Switzerland.’
Elle appeared as if he might say something before checking himself, a glance at Otto. His assistant stiffened.
Beesely continued, ‘You have probably had your suspicions for some time.’
Elle simply acknowledged with an undetermined nod.
‘Yes … not much slips past your outfit.’ Beesely stirred his tea. ‘Anyway, I am not as young as I used to be, and I wish to change the way we do things, become more pro-active as the Americans like to say. My organization has roughly two thousand staff –’
‘What?’ Elle questioned.
Beesely made firm eye contact. ‘Guess it’s grown a bit since you last checked up on us.’ Lowering his gaze again to his teaspoon, he continued, ‘But many of those are researchers, not front line agents, as you can imagine.’ The guests stared back. ‘Anyway, I have accumulated a substantial amount of money over the years, stashed it away in Swiss banks, but now ... now I want to do more with it. And that’s where you chaps come in. I feel that I can help you.’
‘Help us how?’
Beesely turned his head towards Otto, who produced a document without taking his gaze off Elle. He handed it over. Beesely continued, ‘We’ve set up a Swiss bank account for you, untraceable, and one that you can use for operations that your government and legislators, shall we say, may not get to know about.’
Elle was puzzled, a heavy crease forming across his forehead. He put a finger on the sum and displayed the detail to his assistant.
Beesely added, ‘It’s more than we made available to the Americans, of course. Did not want them asking too many questions. You gentlemen are far more discreet about stuff like this.’
Elle nodded, still re-reading the page.
‘Now, gentlemen, there are a few little provisos that come with this piece of paper.’ Beesely slid it back. ‘Things that you could do to help little old me. After all, you’re the professionals, I’m just the keen amateur. First of all, we’re based in Switzerland. Any operations by your good selves inside our borders and we would be ... most disappointing.’
Elle appeared as if he was about to object, but Beesely raised a hand.
‘Naturally, if there is some operation that needs to be conducted on Swiss soil then we’ll do it for you - we have agents in every walk of life inside our borders. I am afraid I must insist, gentlemen. If you want our kind co-operation then you must not operate inside our borders. If you want the Iranian Embassy in Switzerland bugged, then we will do it for you. We … won’t get caught.’
Elle’s eyes slowly widened at the cheek of that statement.
‘Do it for us?’ his assi
stant repeated.
Beesely tried to hide his amusement. ‘Yes, do it for you. We are very, very efficient at what we do. Especially on our own patch.’ He pushed the paper back across the table. ‘And … we would have the odd reciprocal favour to ask. Someone followed there, killed here –’
‘Killed?’ Elle’s assistant queried.
‘We do not piss about,’ Beesely sternly pointed out. ‘If you gentlemen are tailing an Arab suspect and he ducks across our borders, we’ll deliver him to Tel Aviv for you, dead or alive.’
‘I’m just gunna feed the fucking mutts,’ broke the tension as Johno stepped out of the front door.
Beesely forced a smile. ‘My gardener. Now, you must stay for some food and some fishing.’
‘Fishing?’ Elle puzzled.
‘Yes, in the lake, all set up for you. Chopper won’t be back for almost forty-five minutes, our American friends popping down.’
Elle tilted his head. ‘CIA?’
‘Yes, you probably know them.’
After a few nibbles, some tea and pleasantries, Beesely took Elle for a long one-on-one session, chatting as they strolled around the house grounds, Elle’s assistants sitting by the lake and ‘fishing’.