He first called on the ex-spooks, both men in their early thirties who had worked for MI6, both were too young to have worked with Surge and neither had met Collins. They were small, quiet men and went by the names of Ian and Damien. Ian was fit, five foot seven inches tall, dressed in jeans, sweatshirt and trainers with blonde hair in a modern haircut which was short and flicked up. Damien was overweight, five foot five inches, balding, dressed in a shiny grey suit with an open collar on what looked to be a slightly dirty white shirt.
Keith gave them the brief. “Look,” he said. “I do not want a full twenty four hour surveillance. What I need is times in the day when we know where these guys will be so we can take them out. I suggest you take a target each and then swap. These are highly experienced marks, if you stay around too long they will spot you, so after a few hours in, change place. Okay?”
“No problem,” said Ian and Damien almost in sync.
“The boy was no problem,” Keith thought. He worked in the shop all day. No need for surveillance. Keith would turn up with another big man and together they would walk him to the car. Easy.
Chapter 11
Eyes on
Surge was pulling pints in his pub which is what he did most nights. The regular customers had got used to him, probably the least talkative landlord in England, but he smiled and nodded and served a good pint and there was something strong and dependable about him that people liked.
For his part, the pub was always busy as was he, so he did not have to make the small talk that he hated, but he was always listening in and enjoyed the stories that he overheard about the village and the people all living such nice, safe, ordinary decent lives.
This particular night, Mel the busman sat at the bar. A big, round, friendly man in his late forties who always held court and had a big circle of friends. Everyone knew Mel and he knew everyone, a nice ordinary guy. He often stopped in town between bus stops on his route to pick up the old village residents who struggled to make it to the regular bus stops, even though it was totally against the health and safety rules and everyone knew their kids were safe if he was on the late run from the city as he took no nonsense from intoxicated youngsters.
He ordered a large whisky which was rare as Mel was a beer man. Surge could see that Mel was very upset, his eyes were red and a wave of sadness hung over him. He was joined by his best friend Mickey, a scaffolder, who could see Mel was not his usual self.
“What’s wrong?” Mickey asked.
“I have just had a run in with those three big bastards who are selling drugs. They got on the bus without paying and when I went to have a word, two of them grabbed me and the other knocked me about,” said Mel.
“Oh no. You have got to go to the police. They can’t do that.”
“I would,” said Mel. “But that big bastard knows where I live. He threatened to come round and rape Kathy and slit my little girls’ throats and they are high enough on drugs to do that so I am going to have to suck it up and do nothing.”
He turned to Surge who had overheard everything.
“More whisky, please,” he said, setting his glass down on the counter. “And make them large ones.”
In the corner, Ian sat reading his paper. He had been in the pub for a couple of hours after sitting in a cafe earlier where he had seen Surge go for his early morning run. He was careful not to study Surge too closely using peripheral vision as much as possible. These kind of operations were dangerous, normally in surveillance you would have a team of ten to fifteen operatives all constantly ringing the changes, clothes, hair, glasses, shoes, etc so Ian felt quite exposed, but this so called ‘Surgeon’ looked easy to him, just an average height average looking, fit middle-aged barman. In fact he did not look like a player. Not once during his morning run was he looking round or doubling back to see if he was being followed and definitely he had no interest in anyone coming into the pub. When Ian had bought his drink, he hardly looked at him or said a word. Legends are built on reputations which are built on stories. Ian bet all this guy’s stories were behind him. Thirty more minutes then he would swap with Damien.
At 7.00 pm Surge went upstairs into his study and picked up the phone The Grey Man had given him on their last mission. Whilst it looked ordinary, it was secure and untraceable and represented the latest in high tech equipment for special services operatives. He pushed the speed dial to get Collins.
“Hi,” said his friend. “I was just about to call you.”
“How many have you got?” Surge asked, as usual not bothering with the pleasantries.
“Two little ones,” said Collins. “Fatty and Skinny.”
“I have the same two,” said Surge. “One who is quite good and one a joke, who will not look at me no matter how much I get in his face.”
“Amateurs?” said Collins.
“No. I don’t think,” so replied Surge. “They have definitely had some training. I would think ex-operatives or new boys, but they both should go on a refresher course. Any ideas why we are being watched?”
“No,” said Collins. “Unless we are part of a training exercise but if so I think we would have been advised. Let me talk to The Grey Man and see if he can dig up the Who and the Why.”
“Okay,” said Surge. “I have CCTV behind the bar which is a little more high tech than the norm. It can take HD stills. I will email you their photographs. If you send them on, The Grey Man might be able to get a match.”
Collins waited for the photos to come through and then called The Grey Man. It took a few seconds longer as The Grey Man liked to have anyone contacting him bounced from server to server to ensure no one could trace where he was.
“Hello,” said The Grey Man. “Unusual for you to call me!”
“Hi,” said Collins. “Look I am sorry to bother you but is anyone trying to trail you?”
“No,” replied The Grey Man confidently. “If there was, I would know about it. Why do you ask?”
“Surge and I have two watchers. I am emailing you their photographs.”
“Okay. “Give me 30 minutes and I will call you back.”
As soon as he put down the phone The Grey Man ran through a security protocol. All sensors, CCTV and microphones were checked. He also ran diagnostics on the sniffers placed on his computer. They can check anyone trying to find him electronically. Lastly he sent a message to The Firm to have a team come in within twenty four hours to sweep within three miles of his base for any new or strange goings on.
He fed the photographs into his system and then linked with GCHQ, Interpol and a dozen other police and security databases. Almost immediately, Ian Colley and Damien Carr popped up. Both had done small stints at MI6, both had been washed out. In the real world they had set themselves up as private detectives taking on work which mainly involved divorces and bad bill payers. No prison records but both were under suspicion for dodgy work. Most interestingly they both now worked part time for John Sea. He ran a search on John Sea and then called Collins back.
“We may have a problem.”
“Oh, why? said Collins.
“Your watchers work for John Sea.”
“What have Surge and I done to upset him?”
“Nothing as far as I am can see,” said The Grey Man. “And why would he go after you when he knows I would rip him apart if you were attacked.”
“Very strange.”
“Well, here are some more bits of information to worry over,” said The Grey Man. “John Sea had a meeting with Sir Thomas Robertson ten days ago in London that C did not declare officially which is highly irregular and Sir Thomas gave John Sea a brief case. No one knows what it contained.”
“How do you know that?” Collins asked.
“Sir Thomas has been watched by me ever since he came onto my radar. A very dangerous man and here is another thing. One of John Sea’s men, the one they call The Enforcer, is trying to hire mercenaries.”
“Merc’s to take Surge and me out would be ridiculous. A simple hit
squad would be much easier and Sir Thomas has more than enough clout to get that done internally.”
“The two things may have nothing to do with you being watched but it all looks very odd. Be very careful,” said The Grey Man. “Put Surge on alert and I will keep digging.”
“Okay, see you soon,” said Collins and rang off.
Chapter 12
Mercenaries
Finally Keith Poole got a lead through some very heavy villains in Glasgow, who told him there was a team of mercenaries that would also double as a hit team for the right price. He sent out a message that he was interested in a meeting and within an hour he got a call on his mobile.
A very dry voice obviously using a distortion machine said, “I hear you want to talk to me.”
“Yes I do,” said Keith.
“Okay. A meet will cost you ten grand. I will text you the bank details.”
“No problem,” said Keith.
“One thing you need to get very clear in your mind,” the voice said. “If we think you are being followed or if I find out you are not who you say you are, you will be killed, there will be no fucking around. Do you still want to meet?”
“Yes,” replied Keith.
“Okay. Get a flight to Geneva tomorrow and hire a car with a satellite navigation system,” instructed the voice.
The next morning Keith was on an Easyjet flight from Gatwick to Geneva at 8.15 am. As the flight was packed, he had paid extra to be in the front seat to get off the flight quickly.
He walked directly to the Hertz desk and hired a black Mercedes E class. As he settled himself in the car his phone text alert sounded. He had been sent a postcode and a name which he typed into the sat nav. This took him out of Geneva on the motorway towards Lausanne. It was a beautiful day. The sun was shining in a Simpson’s sky with its soft white fluffy clouds and as he neared Lausanne he could see Lake Geneva on his right with Mont Blanc in the background, quite a stunning sight. Just before he got into the town, the sat nav took him to a nearly deserted car park by a supermarket and he parked up in the centre where he could be clearly seen and he left the engine running.
He sat there becoming more and more agitated. His eyes constantly scanning for a contact. As the time passed he wondered if something had happened and the meeting was scrubbed. Finally after nearly an hour he got another text, another postcode and another name, “The Window on the Lake Hotel”. He tapped the details into the sat nav and saw it was thirty five miles away. He drove slowly and carefully all round the outside of Lausanne and then onto the motorway, down a long hill with the lake constantly on his right. At the bottom of the hill he came off the motorway and followed a small road which after a number of turns eventually brought him onto the coastal path around the large lake. It was a small, narrow road with only one lane on each side of the road, nowhere to pass and a top speed of thirty miles an hour. He could see how well chosen this road was. Most of the time it was completely open, a large hill to the left and the lake to the right. Anyone who wanted to observe his car could do so at ease from the hill or one of the many boats without getting spotted themselves.
After another five miles he passed the border into France which consisted of a small booth and two parked police cars. He was waved through without being asked to stop. Finally he arrived at the hotel and he parked three hundred yards before it in a free public car park.
He got out of the car and decided not to take his briefcase with him. He wanted to show he was unarmed and had nothing to hide. He was dressed in a cream shirt and blue jeans which showed off his obviously massive muscled body so he slipped on a loose fitting jacket to try make himself look more ordinary. He knew from experience that his physique could unsettle other men and the last thing he needed was a macho man contest.
He walked along and turned right into the hotel’s front garden. It had a walled front and once through the opening he could see that the place was a sun trap with tables and chairs set out for drinks. The hotel was lovely and quaint, backing directly onto the lake with cut flowers in crystal vases everywhere. It was obviously very old but it was in pristine condition.
He went through the door into reception which opened into a large corridor with a reception desk on the right. He was obviously expected as a pleasant looking middle-aged man in a grey waistcoat and trousers with a white shirt and black bow tie waved him on. He continued to walk through into a dining room already laid out for dinner, then into a conservatory which was full of cane and whicker furniture and highly patterned cushions. It looked directly out on the lake and the huge glass windows provided a stunning view right across the water to Lausanne.
A small neat man dressed in a blue business suit got up from a window seat in the corner and came across towards Keith. The rest of the place was empty. The man shook Keith’s hand and smiled.
“Please take a seat,” he said in a well spoken Oxbridge accent.
Keith assumed at one time he must have been an officer as there was something military about his manner and speech. They walked back to the corner from which the man had come. Keith went to sit in a chair to the right of the man but the man gestured to him that he should sit opposite in a large sofa type chair with a view of the lake. “You may call me Martin,” the man began. “Please sit perfectly still for a second would you.”
Keith looked down. On his shirt was a small round red light obviously from a sniper’s laser scope. As he looked out he could see a large pleasure cruiser and assumed the shooter must be aboard it.
From his pocket Martin pulled out a small rectangular device which he pointed towards Keith.
Before he turned it on he said, “This detects any kind of surveillance equipment. If the light on this goes red you are dead. Now, do you want to go on or leave while you have the choice.”
“I would like to go on,” replied Keith. So Martin hit the button and the light stayed green and the red dot on Keith’s chest disappeared, much to his relief.
Just then Keith heard a door open and he turned his head. Two men walked in. They looked more like the mercs Keith was after, both fit and muscled wearing T-shirts and jeans with arms covered in tattoos. They sat behind Keith, one to his right and one to his left.
“These are my associates,” said Martin. “They would like to listen in. What is the job?”
“I want you to kill a man,” said Keith. “It is, on the face of it, a simple operation except for the person who I want you to hit is special.”
“Okay,” said Martin. “More details please.”
“This man lives alone but is a surveillance expert working for the UK government. I want you to storm his house and kill him. Use the maximum force that you feel you need,” said Keith.
“Look,” explained Martin. “We are not spooks. We do not work in that world. If this guy is an expert, he will see us coming and be prepared. We would need to get extensive background knowledge on how and where he lives, habits, etc, and even then, if he is any good, it is more than likely he would spot us.”
“I understand,” said Keith. “But we have two advantages. One is we know exactly the layout of his house and many of his habits from an inside source so you will not need to go anywhere near him beforehand and two, he is going blind or at least will be partially sighted so will not be able to send off an alarm until it is too late. It could happen any time so we would need to set this up quickly. The place where he is currently staying is quiet and remote and immediately he loses his sight you will need to go in.”
“Okay,” said Martin. “Sounds a little better. I will want to bring along five men and you will need to set us up in a remote farmhouse or something similar to the building the mark is staying at. I will need plans of his place and two Land Rovers with military number plates. Can you arrange that?”
“No problem,” said Keith.
“Now to price,” said Martin. “And this is not open to haggling. There will be five of us. I want £200,000 for me and £100,000 for each of my men, half now, half
on completion, £50,000 for travel and £50,000 for weapons and ammunition. We need one week to prepare and for every day after that, if we have to wait you will pay each one of us £10,000 for a period of four weeks. If we have not heard from you by then, we will assume it is no longer safe for us to stay together and we will disband and you will then pay us in full. Is that clear?”
“Clear,” said Keith.
Martin handed him a phone. “You will only contact us by text using this phone. I expect the money in the bank tomorrow and an address for our base by the day after with the plans for the hit. You will not contact me again until you are ready to give the go ahead. Any screw up your end will see you dead. Okay?”
“Okay,” said Keith.
They both rose and shook hands. Keith nodded to the two guards behind him, who nodded back. He then walked swiftly back through the hotel to the Mercedes. As he sat down, he could feel the sweat on his back sticking to the leather seats.
After Keith Poole had left, Big Rob who had been sitting behind Keith listening in, started to laugh. “Fuck me, Martin. You just raped that wanker. For that kind of money we could have invaded Angola!”
“I know,” said Martin dropping the Rupert accent and now talking in his native London cockney. “That’s what worries me. Who pays that kind of money for one man. We are going to have to be very careful here boys, very careful. This whole thing stinks. One thing for sure, I am not going to go in all guns blazing to a place I have never seen or checked over no matter how much of a surveillance expert this mark is. Now, let’s get packed. We have some travelling to do.”
To Kill a Grey Man Page 6