Garrett & Petrus- The Complete Series

by C Marten-Zerf

  The man nodded frantically.

  ‘Oaky,’ continued Petrus. ‘This is what is going to happen. I am going to ask you a question. Then I am going to take the tape off your mouth. You will answer the question. If you make any other noise, or if you say anything that does not pertain to the question I will stab you with this spear. Do you understand?’

  Again the man nodded.

  ‘Good. First question. What are you doing here?’

  Garrett ripped the tape off the man’s face. The cop immediately started to shout for help but before he got a whole syllable out Garrett had slapped the tape back on.

  Petrus put his face close to the policeman and shook his head sadly. Then, without warning, he stabbed him in the bicep, the blade sinking in about two inches.

  The cop thrashed around like he had been tasered.

  Garrett pulled his friend aside. ‘Hey, I thought that we agreed, keep bloodshed to a minimum.’

  ‘I am,’ argued Petrus. ‘I mean, I didn’t stab him in the eye, or gut him or anything like that. I only stabbed him in the arm. It’s a flesh wound.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid,’ said Garrett. ‘All wounds are flesh wounds.’

  ‘You know what I mean,’ said Petrus. ‘Anyway, let’s get back to questioning him. I believe that he’ll be more compliant.’

  They went back to the man and stood in front of him. Garrett took the tape off and then went down on one knee so that his face was on the same level as the cop.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ He asked.

  The policeman stared at Garrett with a look of hatred in his eyes and he said nothing.

  Petrus sighed. ‘Listen, dude,’ he said. ‘Do you want me to stick this in your eye?’

  The man shook his head.

  ‘Well then answer the questions, or I swear to you that I will blind you.’

  The man nodded. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I’m waiting.’

  ‘For who?’ Asked Garrett.

  ‘No one specific. The boss simply told us to wait and see who pitched up. We’re meant to detain them for questioning.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Petrus waved his assegai in front of the man’s eyes.

  ‘Don’t do that,’ blurted the cop. ‘I’m serious. I’m just doing as I was told.’

  ‘When do your replacements arrive? Yours and the guy outside.’

  ‘Eight o’clock. Couple of hours.’

  ‘Who is the boss? Who told you to stay here?’

  ‘My immediate superior is Inspector Johnson, but the big boss is Commander Hastings. The Commander told us himself.’

  Garrett looked at Petrus and the Zulu nodded. ‘I reckon that he’s telling the truth,’ he said.

  ‘I am,’ insisted the cop. ‘Promise. Don’t stab me again.’

  Garrett placed the duct tape back over the cop’s mouth and then the two friends did a quick search of the house.

  Nothing unusual came to light and Petrus spent some time loading up a rucksack full of clothes for Lindsey. On the way out he also grabbed her a warm coat from a coat rack in the corridor.

  Chapter 14

  The flickering sodium lights bathed the area in a sickly yellow glow, providing just enough illumination to pick out the broken windows, peeling paint and sagging chain link fencing. Light industrial, post apocalyptic warehouse chic.

  The Thames was visible through the rows of mostly abandoned buildings and the winter wind whipped off the river, banging at the unlatched doors and picking at the sheet metal roofs like a child scratching at a scab.

  In the midst of the ramshackle industrial complex one building stood out. Not by virtue of being any less run down or well lit, merely by the fact that there were six vehicles parked outside. Three of them new executive model upper middle class modern day chariots. A silver Jaguar XF, a dark green Range Rover and a white Volvo XC90.

  The inside of the warehouse totally belied its beaten exterior, the dilapidated shell housing a spotless array of rooms, painted in gleaming white, carpeted and polished to a military spec.

  It was here that Bradley Parker was being held captive, figuratively chained to a laboratory as he endeavored to manufacture a nuclear bomb as slowly as he possibly could without raising suspicion and bringing his daughter to harm.

  In a room only two away from the professor sat Minister Debra Haddock. Opposite her, looking decidedly less comfortable than the politician, stood Colonel Peterson and Commander Hastings.

  Debra lit a cigarette, took a drag and then glared at the two men.

  ‘I’m smoking again,’ she said. ‘Smoking. Do you know why?’

  Both men shook their heads.

  ‘The short answer is that I am surrounded by fools.’ She glared at the police commander. ‘Your boy let himself get tied up, stabbed and questioned. I thought that he was meant to apprehend them, not totally capitulate.’

  ‘Steady on, Debra,’ argued Commander Hastings. ‘The sergeant knew nothing. Wasn’t even in the loop. And there was no information in the house, we had already gone through it.’

  ‘Still,’ continued Debra. ‘Small potatoes compared to the complete and utter fuck up that you are in command of,’ she snapped at the colonel. ‘What the hell are you doing, Grant? First you lose the hostage, then the perpetrators are basically delivered to you on a plate and, not only do you lose them, you get another four of our men killed.’

  Colonel Peterson cleared his throat. ‘In all fairness, Debra. These men that we are up against are different.’

  ‘In all fairness, Grant,’ taunted Debra. ‘You are a complete penis.’

  The colonel blushed a deep red, more from anger than embarrassment. But he held his tongue. He was used to military discipline and he well knew that shit always flowed downhill. And he was a step below the minister in the current setup.

  Debra leaned forward and used her lit cigarette to point at the SAS colonel. ‘Grant, how many men have you lost?’

  ‘Six KIA and one still in a coma.’

  ‘How many inner circle men have you got left? And by that, I mean proper trustworthy men who know of the plan.’

  ‘Five, maybe,’ answered the colonel. ‘But I could garner a few more if needs be. I have many true patriots in my regiment.’

  ‘Well then I think that we can safely say that, for the immediate future, you are a spent force.’

  ‘I object,’ yelled the colonel. ‘I may only have five men left but they are the very best of the best, Debra. The British SAS are not a force to be trifled with.’

  ‘Oh spare me your histrionics, colonel,’ returned the minister. ‘That is exactly what has happened. Your men have been trifled with by two unknown strangers armed with swords and spears. I am not denigrating our famous Special Forces; however, I am saying that, perhaps, we need to fight this battle in a different way.’

  Peterson looked slightly mollified and his high color faded to a more acceptable pink, as opposed to the rag-to-a-bull red that he had achieved before.

  ‘What do you propose, Minister?’ He asked.

  ‘I’m going to bring in some outside help,’ answered Debra. ‘Don’t worry, these men are consummate professionals. They have done work for our government before, MI5 mainly, and there is never any comeback. It will be rather expensive but, as you both know, we I have access to various government funds so that won’t be a problem.’

  ‘Who are these people?’ Asked Commander Hastings.

  ‘It’s a crowd that call themselves, ‘The Custodians’. They’re an executive mercenary outfit, ex Israeli MOSSAD and ex South African BOSS, Bureau of State Security. Really bad bastards, the head man goes under the moniker of ‘The Curator’. The admin staff are ‘Attendants’ and the actual wet work specialists are called ‘Watchmen’.’

  ‘Can we trust them?’ Asked Peterson.

  Debra shrugged. ‘Probably more than most. As I said, they are completely mercenary. You pay the piper and he plays your music. But they will need c
omplete cooperation from us,’ she continued. ‘Jarvis,’ she addressed the police commander by his Christian name. They will need everything that you have access to. CCTV, phone tracking, any word from the street.’

  Jarvis nodded. ‘I will relay it through you.’

  As was her habit, Debra simply stared at the two men until they nodded their goodbyes and left.

  She leant back in her chair and lit another cigarette. Sometimes it was difficult to hide her scorn that she felt for her two compatriots. At least they were keen and patriotic but their intelligence had much to be desired. But that was oft the case in most government positions, people tended to be promoted until they eventually reached a position that was beyond their capabilities. As such, that resulted in pretty much ninety nine percent of the country being run by leaders who were out of their depth. A veritable ship of fools.

  However, that was a simple fact and there was little that she could, or indeed even wanted to do about it.

  But there were many things that she could change. She could stop her beloved country kowtowing to the Europeans and the Muslims and the Germans. She could get rid of the benefit class by forcing them into the army. She could up the nation’s military spending until it was at least on a par with the other countries in Europe and preferably way above them.

  She could force people to admit that they were at war. Because Britain and her people were never so strong as when they were fighting a war, be it the Great War, the second world war, the Falklands or the Gulf.

  Now they were fighting the greatest evil they had ever faced as the Muslim jihadists and ISIS radicals attacked not only the people of England but also their way of life and their very freedom.

  And once she had shown the people the evil ways of the enemy, then she would galvanize them and lead them. Because they would need a leader. A leader chosen for their strength and ability as opposed to their sound bites and their airbrushed campaign posters.

  They would need her.

  Debra Haddock – Prime Minister.

  She crushed her cigarette out in a small brass ashtray on the desk, took out her cell phone, dialed a number and left a message. One word. ‘Yes.’

  Debra knew that within twenty four hours a package containing three unlisted mobile phones would be delivered to her home address. They would be set so that she would not be able to dial out on them. They would be receive only.

  The Custodians would phone her. Each phone would be used once and then the sim had to be removed and the phone discarded.

  Haddock knew the system because she had used The Custodians once before and she had been impressed.

  Very impressed.

  Chapter 15

  They had stayed the previous night in another down-market single star hotel and taken breakfast at a greasy spoon. A hole in the wall that catered for builders and firemen and other early morning risers that demanded a massive calorie intake to break their fast.

  Garrett and Petrus had gone for the ‘Full English’, a large plate of fried eggs, sausage, bacon, mushroom, onion, beans, fried bread, toast and black pudding together with a mug of steaming, strong, sweet tea.

  Lindsey had ordered a slice of buttered toast with a glass of apple juice.

  Garrett ordered a second mug of tea and sat back in his chair. ‘I’ve been thinking,’ he said. ‘No sarcastic comments please, Petrus.’

  The Zulu laughed.

  ‘Seriously,’ Garrett continued. ‘We need to find a more permanent place to stay. The more we move around, the more we expose ourselves. We need a safe house, something that is completely off the grid. Also, this thing is bound to keep escalating. And we need to cater for that, so we need to tool up. Get hold of some proper weapons to supplement these little Walthers that we have.’

  ‘Easier said than done,’ quipped Petrus.

  ‘I know someone,’ said Garrett. ‘It’s going to cost but I’ve got enough.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Petrus. ‘I’ll pay for the breakfast; you pay for the safe house and the weapons.’

  ‘Sounds fair,’ laughed Garrett.

  After Petrus had paid, they got into the Land Rover and Garrett headed for an area called the Elephant and Castle. A part of London that had yet to see any substantial gentrification. It was a place where the more street smart didn’t use the underground walkways and they avoided walking around alone too long after dark. Tourist guide books described it as edgy with a lot of state housing blocks and a high crime rate.

  Garrett’s contact lived in a large, ramshackle Victorian house that remained wedged between a multi-level car park and an office block. He pulled up outside and led the way to the front door.

  ‘Listen,’ he said. ‘A word of warning. The bloke that we’re about to see goes by the name of The Scarlet Man. Petrus, you can call him Scarlet. Lindsey, you call him Uncle Scarlet, okay?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Just do it.’

  Lindsey sighed. ‘Lame. Alright. Why do they call him Scarlet?’

  ‘Long story. Another time, maybe,’ said Garrett. ‘Oh yeah, he’s old but thinks that he looks young, wears a goddamn awful wig. Just go with it and if he asks you how old he looks say thirty five, maybe thirty eight. Also, watch yourself with him. Don’t cause offence, be respectful at all times.’

  Lindsey shook her head. ‘What’s up?’ She asked. ‘You sound as if you’re scared of him or something.’

  Garrett looked at her before he spoke, his expression serious. ‘Terrified,’ he said softly.

  He pressed a button on an intercom next to the door. Above him a CCTV camera whirred and turned in its protective wire cage, focusing on them.

  Then there was a click and the door nudged open. He pushed it wide and walked in, gesturing for the others to follow him.

  A man stood in the large, dark entrance hall. He stood around six feet six or seven, his shoulders impossibly wide tapering down to hips that seemed too narrow to support the bulk of muscle above them. He wore a deep purple suit, a cravat and patent leather shoes with spats. On his head perched a blue-black hairpiece that contained so much nylon in it that it crackled with latent static electricity when he moved.

  When Lindsey looked closely at him she could plainly see that he had affixed small squares of Scotch Tape to his temples and the top of his forehead, in order to pull back his wrinkles and tighten the skin on his face.

  He had also applied a deep ocher shade of fake tan liberally all over his face and hands but, for some reason, had forgotten to color the back of his right hand which stood out like a dead appendage in an unpleasant fish belly white.

  His teeth were perfectly capped little alabaster lozenges and his eyes a vivid blue that can only be achieved through the use of colored contact lenses.

  For some reason he made Lindsey think of the Mad Hatter from Alice in Wonderland.

  Twas brillig, and the slithy toves

  Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:

  All mimsy were the borogoves,

  And the mome raths outgrabe.

  He looked at her and smiled and she felt a thrill of fear shudder through her as he did so.

  ‘Garrett, my darling boy,’ the man greeted the soldier, his voice a bolt of silk wrapped around a steel sword.

  Garrett bowed low. ‘Scarlet, thank you for receiving us. May I introduce my good friend, Prince Dinangwe, known also as Petrus Sizwe Dlamini, eldest son of chief Dlamini of Drummond, the Valley of a Thousand Hills.’

  Petrus raised an eyebrow as he wondered what his friend was playing at, but he went with it and bowed as well. ‘A pleasure to meet you, mister Scarlet.’

  ‘And this,’ continued Garrett. ‘Is Lindsey Parker. We call her Princess.’

  Lindsey did a perfect curtsy. ‘Uncle Scarlet,’ she greeted, keeping her eyes downcast.

  Scarlet leered at her. ‘Charming,’ he purred. ‘Now, follow me.’

  As they meandered through the large house it became obvious that many of the rooms were in use. They were afforded glimpses thr
ough doors left slightly ajar - red walls, tapestries, low lights and piles of silk cushions. The air was redolent with the smell of burning maple syrup and incense.

  Lindsey wrinkled her nose in distaste.

  ‘Opium?’ Asked Garrett.

  ‘“Among the remedies which it has pleased Almighty God to give to man to relieve his sufferings, none is so universal and so efficacious as opium”, I believe Thomas Sydenham said that,’ quoted Scarlet. ‘Physician, mid sixteen hundreds, Studied at Oxford, took thirty years to qualify as a medical doctor. Went on to discover St. Vitus’ Dance. Prescribed the use of opium for pretty much every disease known to man. Very droll fellow, to say the least.’

  ‘So you’re running a drug den?’

  ‘I prefer the term “Opium Lounge”,’ answered Scarlet. ‘But, essentially, yes. I deal in relaxation and contemplation nowadays, as opposed to death and destruction. I find it more soothing to the soul. More fulfilling. And to what do I owe the pleasure of your beautiful self?’

  Garrett laughed without humor. ‘Death and destruction, I’m afraid, Scarlet.’

  The tall man opened the door to a room and walked in. The rest followed to find themselves in an office. Unlike the rest of the house it was clean and almost aggressively modern. All stark lines and lightwood furniture and curved stainless steel lamps. Up market IKEA blended with seventies science fiction.

  Scarlet gestured towards a semicircle of cream wingback chairs. ‘Sit. May I offer you some tea, coffee. Something stronger?’

  Garrett shook his head. ‘We just had breakfast,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘So, tell uncle Scarlet how he can help you. Why are you here?’

  So Garrett told their story, in detail and leaving nothing out. He finished the story with a request for a safe house and some weaponry.

  ‘A fine tale of derring-do and heroic acts,’ responded Scarlet. ‘But pray tell, why should Scarlet help?’

  ‘I can pay,’ answered Garrett.

  Scarlet waved his fish-white hand in the air. ‘Pooh and double pooh. I have little need for more money, although there will be a need to cover expenses at very least’