He tried to stall waiting for Keith Poole to return. “Look,” he said. “Can we discuss this?”
“No,” said The Assassin standing just as calmly. “And please do not wait for your man to return. By now he will be lying broken on the ground.”
John Sea went for his gun and The Assassin drew the Glock and shot him through the heart before John Sea’s gun had cleared the holster. What John Sea did not know and therefore had not factored in, was The Assassin had been ambidextrous all his long life.
The Assassin took one step forward and before John Sea had collapsed he drew the elephant pistol and blew John Sea’s head off his shoulders so it decorated the glass wall of his office.
Surge entered the room as the boom echoed taking in the decapitated body. “Take these to The Grey Man,” said The Assassin closing the suitcases. “I will be along presently.”
The Assassin called up The Grey Man and told him to drive round as quick as possible. The cases weighed a ton and Surge struggled to the front door carrying them, finally calling up Jonathan to come and help him.
Collins rushed down to the kitchen. He took a carving knife and cut all the gas hoses to the cooker. He then rushed upstairs to various rooms that had gas heaters and slashed as many pipes as he could find. Finally he went to the front door. The others were in the car ready to go. He reached into the boot and from his holdall produced a flash bang. He pulled the wire and threw it through the front door. The ‘whump’ as the gas ignited blew him from his feet and he landed flat on his back. Surge jumped out of the car to help him up and they both stood there for a while bathed in the red and yellow glow as the hotel started to go up in flames.
“Let’s move,” shouted The Grey Man and they got into the car. Jonathan gunned the engine and they snaked down the gravel drive with the wheels spinning accompanied by a large explosion as the gas line started to take control.
Chapter 26
Cleaning Up
Collins was driving a large white van with an extension arm and lift on the roof with the markings on the side showing the legend, ‘Department of Pollution Control, Air Purity Section’. He had been driving throughout the area in green overalls and a yellow hard hat and at various lamp posts had climbed into the lift and had attached a small mass flow meter and anemometer on to the top of them. The mass flow meter was solar powered and could measure air velocity, air pressure and temperature which when calculated together measure the mass of the air. The anemometer would show wind direction. Once he was satisfied he had a good spread attached to a number of lamp posts over a five mile radius he drove up into the hills, over a cattle grid and into a small national park where cows, deer and small ponies were allowed to roam free. He stopped the van and took out a spade, some ready mixed cement and some twelve inch long, one inch diameter round steel tubing. He walked through the trees and up a steep hill. At the top he looked around to ensure he was on his own and then he pulled away some bracken and underneath he found the trench he had dug yesterday. He dropped his stuff and then went back to fetch a big canister of water. He looked around. The view was spectacular, all rolling hills and green fields and in the distance various large houses and farms. He mixed the cement with the water in the trench. It was fast acting and after twenty minutes he carefully placed the steel rods in, two and half feet apart, using an angle iron to ensure they were as straight as he could get them. Once the cement had set, he tested the steel tubes and found they would not move. He covered everything up again and then went down the hill back to the van.
The Director General, Sir Wynn Summer, was a big, bright man of Welsh decent but he had almost lost the accent after over forty years of horse trading in Whitehall. A consummate politician he was at the highest point that an executive officer can attain and he operated at a Permanent Secretary level and was one of the mandarins in London that held all the power. He knew everyone of any high rank in the government and was well respected. He had known The Grey Man for many years and had used his amazing information skills to his advantage more times than he could remember. This meant of course The Grey Man knew where all the bodies were buried so when he took the call last week he was not shocked. Normally a DG would not get involved in a Secret Service matter and Sir Wynn had no wish to swap swords with Sir Thomas but when The Grey Man called, no matter who you were, you listened.
Which is why he found himself down a dark alley near Waterloo Station at 7.00 am on a freezing cold morning all alone. He was told to wait at the corner of two streets intersecting at an angle, which he assumed gave whoever was watching better visibility to see if he was alone, and he would be contacted. After ten minutes a black taxi came by. It circled the area and then stopped, “Going somewhere?” said the driver.
“No. I am fine,” was Wynn’s reply until he saw in the back seat the small shape of The Grey Man. He had nearly missed him, such was The Grey Man’s ability to blend in.
Sir Wynn climbed into the cab and sat next to The Grey Man. They shook hands and Collins drove off. Over the next twenty minutes The Grey Man handed over a report and went through the whole operation explaining fully Sir Thomas Robertson’s involvement.
“But have you any real proof?” said Sir Wynn.
“No,” said The Grey Man. “He has been very clever in not writing anything down. We do have various telephone times and dates when he talked to John Sea and we know when he met with him and where. We also have been able to track the young doctor that first discovered I had an eye problem. We’ve contacted him on a ship to shore radio to confirm Sir Thomas knew all about my illness plus the orders he gave to stop me leaving the country, but no smoking gun I am afraid. Please though, make no mistake, there is no question that Sir Thomas instigated this whole affair and a lot of men, albeit bad men have been killed trying to satisfy his ambitions.”
“Look,” said Wynn. “I believe you. I can clear your names and your associates completely and ensure word of this does not leak to our neighbours or the cousins which would damage this country but to do that I will not be able to just sack Sir Thomas nor can I send him to prison. The best I could hope for would be his complete silence and for him to step down and leave the secret world behind. If that happened and he was no more danger to you, would you be satisfied?”
“I think we would,” said The Grey Man. “In his corrupt, stupid way he was trying to do what he thought was best for Britain but he must walk away from our world completely. Agreed?”
They let Wynn out near the Houses of Parliament. He was going to consult with the Prime Minister and other members of the Cabinet and would contact The Grey Man shortly with their final decision.
Two days later, Collins and Surge drove into the park in a green Land Rover with Park Inspector neatly sign written on both doors. They both wore a uniform of a green waterproof mackintosh, stout boots with long thick walking socks and brown corduroy trousers with the bottoms tucked into the socks. On their heads were identical flat tweed caps. Out of the back of the Land Rover, they pulled out a large case and a long, thick cardboard tube which was quite heavy. They locked the vehicle and climbed up the steep hill to the concealed trench carrying everything between them. Surge looked around to ensure no one was in the vicinity and then pulled back the bracken. A soft rain was falling and the sky was grey and overcast.
In the eight foot long tube, very neatly packed, was a large gun barrel and a telescopic sight. Surge removed the gun barrel. On the top was a conventional slide and handle to place in the round but no cocking mechanism, instead a cable ran from the end with a military grade electrical socket.
Collins opened the case. Inside was a military waterproof laptop computer and a number of other gadgets. First he slipped two small clamps over the barrel, each complete with a number of tiny servo motors mounted on each side and a socket. The socket clicked into the two steel tubes set in the concrete and held the barrel firm. He connected the wires from this device into a box linked into the computer then attached the military socket ont
o the firing button. Finally he pulled from the cardboard tube a long, complicated telescopic sight which he clicked onto the barrel and locked into place with grubb screws.
He powered the device up and looked at the screen of the computer. The motors on the barrel moved the whole gun up and down and to the right and left finally centering itself. On the display he could see through the powerful telescopic sight through to the outline of the target. He finally connected the information streaming in from the mass flow meters liberally distributed across the area. The screen took on a three dimensional appearance as the computer crunched all the data. This information would slightly offset the screen compensating for the air conditions in the area, calculating how the air would affect the path of the round and compensating accordingly. Finally he took out the huge round designed to fly faster than the speed of sound. It was hand turned for a perfect finish and assembled using the most delicate of instruments to ensure it flew true. The equipment was designed never to miss. However such was the distance the round could travel over, there was still a chance the mark could move and so it was packed with high explosives, theoretically enough to take out an armed car, so it just needed to land close to the target and the mark would be gone.
The whole set up was a one-off. The barrel had been made in Norway using a special lightweight, incredibly strong alloy with grain much finer than steel which allowed for an incredibly fine polished bore. It was turned on a machine that cost over twelve million pounds and had been designed to manufacture components that went on satellites. The precision was unlike any other and little did the machine owners know that one of their senior managers was moonlighting. The optics were of course from Switzerland and the motors and drive were American. The battle computer and mass flow systems came direct from Nato and were designed to be used on military vehicles to map battle areas compensating for wind strength and air density to ensure the maximum accuracy on their battle tanks. The rounds were handmade by The Assassin. Final concept and software development was by The Grey Man.
The Assassin had never used this before but in tests taken two days ago from a boat in the English Channel, the results were spectacular.
Surge circled the area making sure they were not disturbed. The Assassin adjusted the sights and zeroed in on the mark, locked on the automatic target selection system and waited. The fine rain started to fall onto his cap and jacket running down his collar and onto his neck. He didn’t notice it at all.
. . . . . .
Sir Thomas Robertson sat in the main drawing room of his mansion. Around him were expensive paintings of his ancestors and beautiful antique furniture. The sofas and chairs were stylish and elegant and the stone floors were covered by an 18th Century hand woven rug. The whole room was designed to show visitors who Sir Thomas was, where he had come from and to ensure they knew their place. He was wearing a dark blue, pin stripe suit and an old Etonian tie and his Lobb shoes were burnished to the level of blackness only achieved by a butler or manservant. He sipped coffee and read the Financial Times waiting for Sir Wynn to arrive.
Becoming restless he opened the French doors and gazed on the patio, beyond which was becoming slick with the gentle rain. A soft breeze blew in and freshened up the room. He looked out on his land which had been owned by his family for seven hundred years. The immaculate grass lawn went on for as far as you could see until it met the line of English oaks that blended back into the forest. He felt sorry about the trees. There had been so many more but on advice from specialists inside the Secret Service, he had cut them back last year. He was now assured that there was not a gun in the world that could accurately reach him. He also now had men patrolling the land another five hundred yards further out.
He worried that he had not heard anything about the contracts he had put out. By now he would have expected at least one of the men to have been killed. If he heard nothing by the weekend, he decided he would double the price.
Since John Sea had been dealt with, Sir Thomas had been incredibly careful about his own security and about eradicating any links he had with him. He knew Sir Wynn had met with The Grey Man but was equally sure there was no hard proof. There was no way he was going to be brought down without a fight and he’d let Wynn know that. Today would be an interesting meeting.
Exactly on time, Sir Wynn was shown in. The two men sat down in identical leather high back chairs and Sir Thomas poured some coffee for Wynn and they talked about the weather, as British gentlemen do.
Finally Sir Wynn opened his briefcase and laid The Grey Man’s report on the table, “We have a problem,” he said.
“Oh really!” said Sir Thomas.
“The Grey Man has convinced me and others that you have tried to take over The Firm,” said Sir Wynn. “You have conspired to have loyal agents of the crown killed and your actions could have seriously jeopardized our security, relationships with our partners and put this realm in danger.”
“Nonsense,” said Sir Thomas. “That sounds like the ramblings of an old paranoid spy. You do not have a scrap of proof.”
“Let me draw your attention to this,” said Sir Wynn bringing forth a page from the report which he held out to Sir Thomas.
“No. I don’t think so,” said Sir Thomas refusing to take the piece of paper. “I don’t want to read this rubbish. If you truly believe this fabrication I suggest you arrest me, if not I am very busy. I do not want to discuss this further and if you have no other business I think you have taken up enough of my time.”
In his most reasonable voice, Sir Wynn asked, “Are you sure Sir Thomas? We really do not want to go through the courts and would just ask you to maybe take early retirement, perhaps take up a seat in the Lords, with full benefits of course. Please be reasonable. You have been caught with your hand in the cookie jar and now you have to suffer the consequences.”
In a voice like ice, spitting out the words, Sir Thomas said, “Listen to me you little Welsh shit. I am the head of the British Secret Service. I know where you all live and what skeletons lie in all the cupboards. Try to bring me down and I assure you this Government and half the establishment will come with me. Now this matter is closed. I’ve got work to do.”
Sir Wynn shook his head in defeat. He packed the report back in his case, got up from his chair and walked out, his heals clattering in suppressed anger on the stone floor as he strolled purposefully through the huge mansion. At the large open front doors the butler handed him his cashmere overcoat and then opened the door to Sir Wynn’s new Rolls Royce that came with his job as DG. As his driver moved off smoothly, Sir Wynn took out his mobile phone. He dialed a number and on it being answered, he said one word, “Sanctioned.”
The Assassin put down the phone, looked hard into the computer screen and made a small adjustment on the joystick. There was a faint whirl as the servo motors compensated. He pushed the firing button and an electrical pulse fed into the rear of the rifle. There was a huge bang as it fired, the concrete rods and servo motors all helping its launch to be as steady as possible. Birds, startled by the noise, flew in all directions up from the trees.
The round travelled the distance at an incredible speed. It went through the open French doors and hit Sir Thomas in the chest who was by now back in his seat reading his newspaper. The chair exploded and a huge fireball engulfed the room setting fire to the drapes and desk, destroying the paintings and finery. Sir Thomas was blown into a thousand pieces.
A micro second later there was a large crack from the round breaking the sound barrier which Sir Wynn, cosseted in the back of the Rolls listening to Mozart, would not have heard, nor did he hear the explosion from the round landing, all he actually observed was the red, grey smoke from the fireball as it was reflected in the driver’s rear view mirror. He smiled and settled back into his seat. “Time to appoint a new head of the British Secret Service,” he thought.
Chapter 27
A Day at the Seaside
Jonathan had spent the previous day with his dad d
epositing his share of the ten million pounds from the suitcases into a special discreet bank in London. They had split the money four ways even though The Grey Man had not wanted his share. Jonathan had reluctantly agreed with his dad that the money would only be available to him the day he got his degree.
The previous few weeks had been terribly stressful and frightening but he had somehow enjoyed the excitement. Looking back he had been more alive in those weeks than ever before.
Today he felt more relaxed. He drove his red Audi A4 to the shop and parked round the back. He helped Olivia fit in two safety chairs onto the back seat and strapped the kids in. He put a buggy and a picnic in the boot. Olivia got in next to Jonathan and they drove off.
“Have the boys ever been to the seaside?” said Jonathan as they drove through the outskirts of London.
“No. Never,” she replied not adding that she hadn’t either. They drove down the M23 and then cut across through East Grinstead and wove through the quiet roads until they arrived in the lovely town of Bexhill-On-Sea. They parked near the De La Warr pavilion, the art deco theatre, and took a walk along the seafront. The tide was out and the waves gently lapped at the strip of sand that was exposed below the stony beach. Ben walked beside Jonathan holding his hand and Tom fell asleep in the buggy. The weather was perfect, clear blue sky, hot sun and a light breeze.
To Kill a Grey Man Page 17