“No, no, no. Let me make myself very clear. I am not interested in you in that way at all. You have no worries in that direction. There is an old saying I like, it goes ‘I met a real woman once and never needed another’. My wife was that woman.”
She was not quite sure what to say. “How much would I earn?” she blurted out.
“Well, if I pay the rent, heating, in fact all the bills and gave you £200 per week after tax would that be okay?”
“Hold on,” she said. “I would have £200 per week to spend EVERY week?”
“Yes. But you will earn it.” Then he watched her burst into tears, long sobs racking her slight frame. “What is the matter?” he asked kindly.
“I am so happy!” she exclaimed.
Collins reached out his hand. “So we have a deal?”
“Yes!” laughed Olivia.
“Great. You can start on Monday. I’ll sort out the paperwork.”
At 8.00 am on Monday morning she turned up with the baby, the toddler, a pram and one suitcase. Collins had bought his car into work to help her move but she explained the suitcase contained all she had.
Ely was delighted with the arrangement and after teaching Olivia the ropes, was happy to slip back into his secondary roll. For Olivia it was difficult at first getting her mind working but she was clever and a hard worker and soon found her feet.
Collins quickly realized she had a tidy and organized mind and wanted to run things her way. She set about re-
organising the shop until it suited her and everything was spic and span. The flat above became her domain and Collins and Ely only entered with permission.
They muddled on for a few weeks, then after Collins came back from a three day hit in Saudi he stopped going into the shop each day and started to work Wednesdays and Friday only which gave Olivia and Ely a day off each. The shop was also closed on a Sunday.
The world settled into a pattern and Collins started to rebuild his life a day at a time.
Chapter 5
The Grey Man
The Grey Man woke early as always and came immediately awake. He had always done that since childhood. His mother, amongst other acts of cruelty when he was very young, used to creep into his bedroom with a yellow plastic bat and beat him while he was asleep. He still woke with the sweat of that fear strong upon him.
As he lay there he went through in his mind his normal mental gymnastics. First he recalled yesterday’s password, all 27 characters, then turned them into numbers and started running them through some advanced mathematical formula, which he changed weekly. This spat out another 27 numbers which he sifted through changing some into letters and ended up with today’s password. It was as close as he could come to a one time pad and made sure that each day’s password was unbreakable. The fact it was 27 characters long was no coincidence. He hoped that anyone discovering it would feel it was part of the new encryption protocol then in vogue.
The mental workout was something he prided himself on. Over the past thirty years he had studied how to develop the memory, reading countless books and working on retentive techniques similar to the memory turns that used to work in the theatre. Certainly he could duplicate any old act and had progressed further than anyone he had heard of. At will he could remember almost any single fact he had read or been told in his long life. Any piece of detailed information he could, with a little work, bring to mind, and was almost always word perfect. This incredible memory along with a highly analytical brain allowed him to piece together, when needed, the most obscure of clues which made him the greatest intelligence officer of his generation.
He got up, washed and cooked a small breakfast before logging on and changing the password. Then he reported in to The Firm. He picked up his mail and the normal routine messages then sent out the electronic sniffers to look at the integrity of the system, finally going through all The Firm’s requests and orders that had come in from the customers. Part of his job was to ensure that no member was overstepping the mark, dipping into pools they should not be dipping into, or setting up operations outside the agreed charter. Any government departments that were, would get a stiff rebuke and held up in front of the monthly meetings for all the other partners to see. Any smaller customers would get a visit from a representative of The Firm and formally dismissed from The Firm, quite often violently.
Most of his working life was taken up overseeing the colossus that was now ‘The Firm’ and he was the only man alive that knew everything. He constantly moved from safe house to safe house as he knew many people would kill for the information in his head and he had only been in this current place for a few weeks. As always it was carefully located under an alias and the house and grounds specially modified to his needs and wants. Being a careful man and constantly hunted, the house was extensively equipped with security equipment. Once he felt it was time to move on the equipment would be destroyed and new equipment installed wherever he went next.
He handled all this through a company that had no other dealings with The Firm or the intelligence world. In fact they had no idea where he was or where he had been either, often equipping four or five houses at a time across Europe, most of which he would never live in. Once he left this place he would be meticulous in removing any trace that he had ever been there. The company just received a message to junk a certain house and then find him another. It cost a lot of money to live like this but he had amassed a huge fortune over the years and he hardly thought about it.
Now in his mid-sixties he worried about his health. Recently he had been getting terrible headaches and eye strain, sometimes having to lie down and cover his eyes with a cloth. He had also noticed that sometimes in the afternoon the edges of his sight would close in and he had a kind of tunnel vision. For a person in his position, losing the peripheral vision was a disaster. He had reported it at his last medical and so far no feedback so he assumed it was nothing to worry about, just old age coupled with a hard work load, but he wondered how much longer he could go on balancing the powers and who he should hand over to.
He knew Sir Thomas Robertson, his nominal boss, wanted The Firm and had tried many, many times to convince The Grey Man that his way was the best way forward. But there was something about him that did not ring true to The Grey Man’s ears and he had learnt to listen to his feelings. Always a sensitive man, The Grey Man knew when someone was not right, just not ‘kosher’ so he kept his distance and remained the voice of reason for The Firm.
He looked around the converted Jacobean church house. It was quite stunning with a thatched roof and twelve bedrooms, servants quarters, a modern kitchen, swimming pool and stables. None of which he used. A man of simple needs, he had based himself in the cellar behind a false wall complete with a basic kitchen, shower and an army camp bed. The only time he came up to the main house was to greet an occasional nosy neighbour or visitor who was shown into a beautifully furnished sitting room complete with expensive antiques and paintings in keeping with the type of man who would own such a house. This, along with the main passageway, was the only room which was like this. Every other room was bare and the front had so far fooled everyone that had called.
Once he decided to leave and move on, he would set the virus on his computer completely frying the hard drive, pick up a holdall and walk out. Everything would be disposed of by his company, nothing would be left on the computer. All his files were kept on line, able to be accessed anywhere in the world. In the holdall was a change of clothes, a change of identity, his smart phone and various credit cards and currency. He had not one personal item and never had. Everything was disposable.
His mind reached out to his two friends, Collins and Surge. In fact he still had trouble thinking of them as friends, as he had never had friends before. He had kept a discreet eye on them since they had tracked down Collins wife’s killer and Surge had been injured. It amused The Grey Man that Surge, a very insular man, looked to be doing just fine running a pub and almost despite Surge, one that
was becoming successful and popular. For a man that had always kept in the background and dealt in violence it was a strange twist of fate and The Grey Man wished him well.
Collins concerned him more. Collins was an assassin and killed without mercy. He had the ability to drop his humanity and do whatever was needed with no fear or remorse. However his wife had always anchored him. The love she had showed kept Collins on the right side of life, allowed him to act as a human being. In fact over the last few years he had become semi-retired, happy to train newcomers in The Firm or to act as a consultant. He had become a back room man fading into the background and normality. But in the months since the funeral Collins had once again become operational working for The Firm. Some of the reports were disturbing. ‘Displays a lack of personal safety’ read one, ‘Almost reckless’ read another which went on to say that ‘He’d showed a level of violence that had shocked his fellow operatives’ as The Assassin had killed five members of a terrorist group in as many seconds then gone out to dinner completely, it appeared, unmoved. The Grey Man was not sure quite how to deal with this.
Chapter 6
The Surgeon
Surge woke early as he always did, stretched and got out of bed. His back and knees were playing up but not too bad. He would go for a run soon and warm them up. He loved this room above the pub with its thick plaster walls painted a silky cream, the wooden floors and the simple furniture. It faced south and in the morning the sunlight woke him up as its beams broke through the sash windows and thin cotton curtains.
He took a minute whilst cleaning his teeth to reflect on how he felt. A strange emotion came over him and he thought perhaps he might be happy but realized it was not happiness but contentment he felt, a very rare feeling for him. For once in his life things were going well and for the first time ever he had started putting down roots, quite unusual for a man in his mid-fifties.
Most of his life had been in the army then special forces then working for the Secret Service. He was a specialist, a breaker of men. He had trained way beyond self defense or standard martial arts, learning how to take out and break men with the minimum of fuss or effort. He had learnt all the body’s weaknesses and attacked then with precision and skill.
For over twenty years he had been the best in the business, a real hard man. Then he made a mistake in Northern Ireland taking his mind off the ball for a second when he was doing a routine drop. He could still feel the baseball bats and boots breaking his bones and his heart and then a year in various hospitals convalescing.
Those memories and the fear they brought, drove him to leave the service and five years of hard drinking followed before he helped a friend who he had made a pact with and was saved himself.
Whilst in hospital Collins, The Assassin, had visited him and offered him a deal. Many of the top operatives were getting old and due to retire. This is where the government would wash its hands of them and leave them to cope on their own. There was always unfinished business and sometimes you needed help. The pact Collins offered was this; if Surge got into trouble The Assassin would step in and help and vice versa but only under extreme circumstances and only if there was no other way.
Five years later when Surge had been at his lowest ebb, Collins had sent for him. His wife had been murdered and he wanted revenge. Along with The Grey Man and Collins’ son Jonathan, they had hunted down and killed the murderers following a plan and intel from The Grey Man. Surge had received a bullet in the leg and a severe beating but also regained his soul and his life. The reward from Collins was the pub Surge was now living in and this new start.
He remembered that one evening when Collins had given him the pub they had sat up late in Surge’s’ small terraced house drinking Glenfidich and talking. Collins talked about his wife and Surge had talked about his only love, Pru who had been tragically killed in the hunt for Collins’ wife’s murderers. Two lonely men who, at least, had each other.
Waking up that first morning, he had hobbled down to the pub leaning heavily on his walking stick as he was still injured. He stood outside and took it all in realizing for the first time it was all his. The pub was an old coaching inn with the first bricks laid in the 1600s and extended many times over the years. The old horse drawn carriages used to stop here for refreshment, bringing the London middle classes on their way to the sea and the marks of their heavy wheels were still etched into the paving stones. The outside was a dirty cream and yellow plaster with oak window frames, dimpled glass and black iron banding holding the old structure together. To the right was a large arch which the coaches would have driven through into a large, cobbled courtyard which would have had stables but now had a number of garages. Carrying on through the courtyard going under another arch at the end there was a scruffy untended car park surrounded by a low brick wall. Everything looked tired and worn out, tiles were missing from the roof, garage doors were rotten and hanging off their hinges, plaster was missing and the window frames looked as dry as tinder.
Inside, Surge discovered it was no better. The main pub was filthy, the wooden floors had not been swept, the walls and ceilings were thick with dust and the bar encrusted with old beer stains. The chairs were ripped and the tables scratched and worn out. Everywhere was crying out for cleaning and maintenance.
Upstairs there were a number of guest rooms which looked like they had not been used for decades. The main bathroom and kitchen were covered in cobwebs and spiders and rats and mice droppings were everywhere.
He went downstairs and sat in a small alcove in the corner. He wondered what to do and idly started tidying up the dirty pint glasses which were clustered there. As a military man, Surge hated anything untidy or out of place. Once he had collected the glasses and washed them, he hobbled round the bar and started to clean up, then found a broom and swept as best he could. He then had to take a long rest as he was still so weak.
Surge did have some help, a barman called Gary who had run the pub for its elderly, former owner. Gary had explained what salary he was on, what hours he worked and what duties he was prepared to do. “Happy to look after the cellar,” he’d said. “And pull pints. But I don’t clean!”
“Evidently,” thought Surge.
Over the next few days whilst Gary tended the few customers Surge set about cleaning the whole place. Like everything he did, he did it slowly and methodically setting himself a high standard and not moving on till everything gleamed. He found it therapeutic and healing both physically and spiritually as his mind would constantly go to his memories of Pru if he wasn’t kept busy.
He sold his little house and put the money into refurbishing the pub having local tradesmen repair the roof and re-plaster both the outside and the inside in a beautiful off-white and as he was starting to recover, he did the laboring for a highly skilled carpenter who rebuilt all the window frames.
Upstairs which was to be his home, he gutted the interior, brought in pest control and painted all the walls in a silky cream with new curtains from a fabric shop in the High Street and bought an old leather suite, sideboard and table and chairs from the monthly auction held in the village hall. The upstairs kitchen was completely renovated with brand new appliances which Surge had fitted himself, by now much recovered.
Finally he looked at the inside of the pub which he closed for a month paying Gary to have a holiday. He stripped the old wooden bar then re-stained and polished it so it looked marvelous, a mix of old and new. The current furniture he junked and then hired a sanding machine which after ten days of hard work took years of grime off the solid oak floor which he then varnished and sealed.
He brought in a chimney sweep and bricklayer who cleaned and then rebuilt the beautiful large fireplaces at each end of the bar, then re-tiling with Victorian tiles he found in a antique come tat shop, finally stocking up an old black iron box with split logs.
Next he scoured salvage yards and antique fairs bringing back an eclectic mix of chunky wooden oak furniture and Victorian metal framed chairs wi
th soft velvet cushions. The walls he filled with wooden framed military prints and old sailing ships. The cellar he stripped out, laying in new pipes and refurbishing the antique pulling pumps.
In the alcove he fitted a red cord carpet with an old wooden carver chair complete with deep cushions and a mahogany 18th Century desk which he had picked up for song in a London market and renovated in one of the garages. To finish off, he bought and hung across the entry, a red, thick coiled rope with brass ends that used to do service in a cinema foyer. On this he placed a brass sign saying ‘Reserved’. He pictured himself sitting here in the evening reading his book, drinking a pint without being bothered.
The place was now stunning, old and new decor mixed together, a cross between a drinking club and a manor house. To Surge it represented something he hadn’t had for so many years, a home and roots. Pru would have loved it here, he thought and perhaps that is why he did it.
He opened to no fanfare at all on a wet Monday night and a few of the regulars came in drinking slowly and talking to Gary. Surge sat in his alcove reading and drinking a couple of glasses of a really nice red wine. At the end of the evening the till showed takings of £40 which when he calculated Gary’s salary, the cost of his wine, heating, electricity and rates he realized he had made a loss, but as he still had a sizeable private bank account this didn’t bother him at all. The pub looked great, he felt fit and well and he settled down to a quiet simple life.
To Kill a Grey Man Page 3