by Geoff Wolak
* * *
At a private Virginia golf course twelve elderly men gathered around a large table, numerous armed guards patrolling outside and visible through the clubhouse windows.
The white-haired chairman of this meeting tapped the table reverently. ‘Gentlemen,’ he began. They came to order. ‘Are we all well?’ he enquired, smiling and glancing at faces over the rim of his glasses, members smiling warmly at each other.
He opened a file. ‘OK, first.’ Reading from the file he said, ‘Our thoughts on just who we support for the next President.’
‘Hillary Clinton!’ someone joked. They all laughed.
‘With The Terminator as her running mate!’ More laughter followed, the chairman lighting a cigar as the assembled group settled.
‘Does it matter?’ a man finally asked.
The chairman blew out a pawl of grey smoke. ‘To a degree, yes. It always helps to have someone … malleable.’
‘I don’t think Hillary is such a bad idea,’ an English voice suggested.
The chairman tipped his head. ‘Oh? What’s your thinking?’
‘Simple. Put a soft face on the bottle label, while the contents are distilled even stronger.’
Members considered the idea, some nodding.
A man in his forties walked briskly in, something of a ‘whipper-snapper’ in this geriatric gathering. Smartly dressed, he halted at the foot of the table and smiled, shaking his head. ‘Gentlemen, you are going to fall off your seats when you hear this.’ Everyone’s interest was piqued. ‘Beesely is back!’
Heads turned sharply, men glancing at each other. One particular man glanced from face to face, looking out from under his eyebrows. Henry O’Sullivan eased back in his chair, quietly concerned.
The chairman lowered his cigar. ‘When you say he is back...?’
‘Back in the game!’
‘How so?’
The newcomer smiled broadly. ‘By some very strange twist of fate that I am still coming to terms with, one Sir Morris Beesely has just inherited control of K2 in Switzerland.’
Henry eased forwards, a puzzled expression. ‘Did you say... he has inherited control of K2? Not just working with them?’
‘Personally inherited it all,’ the newcomer affirmed. ‘Don’t know how he accomplished it, but the documents have been registered and verified. As of - well yesterday actually - Beesely owns K2 and The International Bank of Zurich. Got to be worth tens of billions.’
The chairman stared ahead, Henry staring at the table.
‘Our Sir Morris Beesely?’ the Englishman asked.
‘I’m not familiar with this fellow,’ another man called.
The chairman exclaimed, ‘He was one of us. Still is, technically. Stepped down about ten years back, but stayed in touch. His membership dates back to 1949 when he ran assassinations for us. Later he became a full member. Hell, he set up a lot of our institutions and practices. He was the second man on the Kennedy assassination.’
‘Then we have nothing to fear?’ a man tentatively asked.
The chairman shook his head. ‘He’s more us than we are! Still, we’ll keep an eye on things - bit of a maverick is our Morris.’ He raised his phone. ‘Send Mr Grey to England, please, to observe Sir Morris Beesely. Thank you.’ He took a long draw on his cigar, staring out of the window, his brow furrowed.
Can I have my job back?
1
Max Hawthorn, current managing director of AGN Security Limited, arrived by car the next morning. At forty-seven, he was just a year older than Johno, but many years sitting behind a desk had not been kind to him; his stomach hung over his belt and a second chin was starting to emerge. Counterbalancing a bald scalp, his jaw was covered by uneven silver stubble, creating a permanently joyful Santa Claus expression.
He parked his DB7 next to the Silver Ghost then jumped out with a huge smile, bounding up to the vintage Rolls Royce.
‘Morning, Boss,’ Johno offered as he slapped soapy water onto its bonnet. ‘Miss Daisy is up in the big house.’
‘Johno, that’s the hardest I have ever seen you work.’ He thrust his hands in his pockets and stood admiring the restored classic.
‘Sod off,’ Johno muttered as he neared. They hugged affectionately, then patted each other on the shoulder. ‘Good to see you, Boss.’
Max poked Johno’s chest. ‘Does it still hurt?’ he asked, suddenly serious.
‘Only hurts when I’m sober.’
Max beamed a huge smile. ‘Well then, where’s the bar?’
‘C’mon. The old man is inside.’
Gravel crunched as they walked, chatting feverishly, their words overlapping.
‘Look what the cat dragged in,’ Beesely announced, thrusting a hand forwards to shake.
Max gripped it with both hands. ‘By God, Beesely, you look better than I feel.’
‘Perhaps then, old chap, you should cut down on the pork pies and beer!’
Max laughed, loud and infectiously. ‘Life would not be worth living! Good to see you again, really good.’
‘And you too. May I introduce my right-hand man, Otto.’
Otto stepped forward and greeted Max, typically businesslike.
‘German?’ Max puzzled.
‘German-speaking Swiss,’ Beesely pointed out. ‘He heads up my operations in Switzerland.’
Max frowned his surprise. ‘Since when have you had any operations in bleeding cuckoo-clock country? Last I heard you were well and truly retired, selling this place and heading off somewhere nice and warm.’
‘Slight change of plan.’ Beesely suddenly became serious. ‘This is top secret, Max.’
Max had stopped smiling. ‘You back in the game?’
‘Never left, just stepped up a gear. Or ten.’
Max seemed concerned. ‘Pissing in anyone’s pool?’
Beesely inched closer. ‘Crapping in it!’ he whispered.
‘Well that’s more like it! Bit of action.’ He turned to Johno. ‘What happened to that bloody drink?’
Beesely put an arm around Max’s shoulder and guided him to the oak table as Johno opened the drinks cabinet. Five minutes later they were chatting about old times. The leather chairs had been moved around to create a more comfortable environment and Max sat with his feet up on an old brown leather footstool.
‘So,’ Max began, ‘you said you had something for me, and wanted something from me. You need men? Soldiers or spooks?’
‘What I would like, old friend, is fifty-one percent of AGN Security.’
Max stopped smiling. ‘You want to buy back in?’ He glanced from face to face.
‘I want to buy back in then leave you as managing director. I get the pick of the boys, you run some … errands for me.’
‘Dangerous errands?’
‘Most certainly.’
‘Stealthy errands?’
‘Quite likely.’
Max shifted uneasily in his seat, putting down his feet and leaning forwards. ‘Thing is, I have new partners in AGN. Whose shares would you want? I would have to discuss it with them first.’
‘These new partners are not worth your time,’ Beesely firmly pointed out. ‘I’ve been checking. You don’t seem to get along with them and they are not pedigree. They are not even ex-Regiment or Circus.’
‘Well …’
Beesely produced a cheque and handed it over. ‘Make them an offer they can’t refuse. And should they be stubborn, we will persuade them.’
‘Wow!’ Max studied the cheque. ‘That’s at least three times what they paid for their shares.’
‘So there should be no problem. Seriously, Max, I want this done and dusted by end of play Monday. Then I want you, not me, to buy control of MSM and Northgate.’
‘Northgate? C’mon now Morris, they’re international, part owned by the Canadians and Yanks. We’re talking a lot of dosh.’
Beesely produced another cheque and handed it over.
‘Jesus! Just where’re you getting this
lot from, you rob a bank?’
‘Yes, a Swiss bank.’ Max glanced at Otto. Beesely continued, ‘What you have never known, was that one branch of my family were Swiss. They have all died now and left me my own banking group.’
‘Banking group? Shit, what’s it worth?’
‘More than our government spends on our entire armed forces in a year. Plus change.’
Max’s mouth fell open. ‘Blow … me!’ he let out. ‘Wow, what a windfall.’
‘Yes,’ Beesely affirmed as he leant forwards and held Max’s arm. ‘And I am going to use it to alter the playing field a bit. You in?’
‘Damn right I’m in.’ He held up his glass. ‘To screwing over the establishment!’
Beesely raised his glass. ‘Without them even knowing about it!’