by Bryan Murray
CHAPTER 30
There is something totally idyllic and peaceful about fly fishing on a Welsh river. Jim Meadows, up to his waist in the river, was making another cast in the peace and quiet of his favorite spot just below the road going past. So far he had raised two salmon and failed to land either of them.
Suddenly, three sounds, alien to his current surroundings, got his attention. The first was the sound of a Toyota Hilux pick-up door closing, his door, followed by the sound of an engine starting, his engine, followed by the sound of a Toyota Hilux pick-up driving off - his pick-up!
Salmon fishing left his mind immediately and he quickly waded to the bank, grabbed his gear and rushed up to the road above where he had parked his old pick-up at the side of the road. When he got to where he had left his vehicle, he was in total shock. There, in its place was a shiny red VW Passat!
“What the hell!” he exclaimed as he tried the door of the Passat and found it open. Still in shock, he climbed in and saw that the keys were still in the ignition. He was even further shocked when he saw the note on the dash. He read it as his eyes got wider. It read ‘Just swapped for a few days, needed to pick up a load. The truck will be back here at 10.00 am Sunday with a full tank. Enjoy the Passat.’ It was signed ‘A Friend ‘.
The angler’s first reaction was to call the police, but then he sat behind the wheel of the car, checked the new, leather upholstery smell, the low mileage and the full tank of gas.
“What the hell!” he exclaimed, realizing that it was a long time since he had driven such a nice car and Sunday was only a couple of days away. He threw his gear in the car, turned on the ignition and drove off. He was a single guy, had no nagging wife to ask him what was going on and the more he thought about it, he could care less when he got his old truck back!
* * *
Further up the road, getting ever closer to the Welsh coast, Jake was driving along in the old Toyota pick-up, not quite as smooth a runner as the red VW, but still a solid ride and the beauty about it was that it was currently undetectable. Not only was it undetectable to his pursuers for the time being, but if the owner who had been fishing on the river below, decided to hang on to the red VW, thinking he would get his truck back by Sunday, he would be a perfect decoy as MI5 chased him instead of Jake and Sarah.
Jake turned to Sarah. “Nice thinking to let the guy think he was getting an upgrade for a few days for free.”
She smiled. “That’s if he bought it.”
“And if he didn’t,” Jake replied. “We have an undetected ride that will hopefully get us to the coast!”
“Let’s hope so.”
They drove for another hour or so before pulling over for a rest in a field off the road until it got closer to dark and with the clock eventually showing 9.00 pm Jake drove up to a roadside phone booth. He turned to Sarah. “Use the GPS and plot us a route to a port on the Pembrokeshire coast, where we may be able to grab a boat.”
She nodded. “Will do,” before adding. “By the way, you need to know in advance, I’m a terrible sailor!”
He smiled. “Don’t worry, the owner of this vehicle must be a drinker, because there’s a full bottle of Scotch in the back, enough to cure any sea sickness!”
She nodded her head in surrender. “Definitely a boy scout!”
* * *
Jake’s young cousin Stephen had been running the gauntlet at the Sixth Form College he attended and at each morning break the subject of his ‘terrorist’ cousin always seemed to crop up, when the more stupid members of his form thought it was time to have another go at Jake’s quiet, unassuming cousin.
That particular morning, Stephen was just getting a soda from the vending machine when the three morons in his form came over.
Rich Hawkins, the most obnoxious of the three, started the conversation as usual. “My, my, if it isn’t the terrorist’s cousin,” he began. “Has he asked you to join his bomb making class yet, Stevie, baby?”
Stephen smiled tolerantly. “Let me ask you something, Rich. D’you have any cousins?”
Rich nodded affirmatively. “Who doesn’t, nimrod?”
Stephen continued. “Let me ask you something else. What do you think of MI5 compared to say the FBI?”
Rich looked confused as to where this conversation was going. “Much better, why?”
Stephen continued. “So, if you had a cousin who was the top man hunter in MI5, that would be a hell of a thing, compared to your present no-name cousins, right?”
Rich didn’t answer, but Keith Jennings, another of the three stooges replied. “So what?”
Stephen smiled. “Oh nothing, you just admitted it would be cool to have such a cousin, right?”
“Like I said, so what?” Keith snarled.
Stephen grinned triumphantly. “Oh nothing, it’s just that my real cousin has been running your would-be cousin round by the freakin’ nose, making him look like a total jerk! Pretty smart, I’d say. Oh, and by the way, when he catches the real terrorists, watch the newspapers and the media suddenly say how brilliant he is. Maybe if you’re lucky, I’ll get you his autograph!” he walked away leaving the three of them open-mouthed.
Stephen’s friend, Peter Snape, another computer nerd, caught up with him as they went back to class.
“Way to go, Steve!” he smiled. “What a bunch of jerks!”
“You got that right,” Stephen smiled. “Listen, there’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you, Pete?”
“I’m listening?” his friend replied.
“You know that ultra-magnification software you just got?”
“What about it?” Peter asked.
Stephen explained his project. “Well, I’m trying to gather every bit of video I can on the attack on the Queen.”
“For what reason?”
“To check if there’s something on the tape that may help to clear my cousin’s name.” Stephen replied.
Peter was now getting interested. “So, you’re wondering what we might find if we downloaded the video footage into my software?”
Stephen nodded. “Exactly, what d’you think?”
Peter was enthused, the thoughts of playing detective peaking his curiosity. “We can give it a try. Why don’t you bring what you’ve got over to my place after classes today and we’ll fool around with it?”
Stephen smiled. “You’re on and one day we’ll make these three jerks look like even bigger jerks!”
* * *
Inside the Cotswold Arms, Jake Sr. was waiting as usual for his evening phone call, nervously expecting Jake not to call one night, indicating that he may have been captured.
True to form, the phone rang around 9.00 pm and the bartender signalled that he had a call. He took the cellular phone from the bartender and went into the deserted lounge of the pub before answering the phone. “Hello?”
“Hi, Gramps,” Jake was on the line. “How are things at your end?”
“Fine, son,” Jake Sr. replied. “It was all over the news that you took care of your little friends from Langley?”
“That’ll teach them to stop coming after Sarah and I. So, no flack at your end?”
“Everything’s fine, but there’s something else you need to know, son.”
“I’m listening?”
“Young Stephen, you know what a nerd he is with that computer of his?” Jake Sr. began. “Well he saw them running the tape of the assassination attempt on the Queen and he downloaded the picture of the guy who was supposed to be you.”
“What happened?”
“Well, he and his buddy magnified the picture over and over and he spotted that the man with the gun, your lookalike, had a tattoo on the back of his right hand in the shape of a crucifix!”
Jake was incensed. “No shit, Gramps. You mean it took a teenage kid to spot what every law enforcement and forensics guy in the world looked at and missed?”
Jake Sr. agreed. “I know, I know. Maybe it never entered their heads that it wasn’t your tattoo. So, wh
ere are you now?”
“Heading towards the West Coast, but these Brits are giving us a hard time. We’re having to change cars almost twice a day!”
Jake Sr. was thinking hard. “Nan and I used to go on holiday on the Pembrokeshire coast and you might want to try and make it to the little port of Fishguard. Maybe there’s a fisherman there who you can persuade to get you to the coast near Belfast.”
Jake was grateful. “Thanks, Gramps and thank Stephen, he did a great job. Where will you be tomorrow night?”
“Back to the Cherry Tree same time, Bye” he rang off.
Back on the road in Pembrokeshire, Jake got back in the car and drove west. He turned to Sarah. “You’re not gonna believe this!”
“Believe what?” she asked
“I spoke to Gramps and young Stephen was messing with his computer and downloaded a picture of the shooter at the attempt on the Queen and guess what?”
“I’ve no idea?” she was getting impatient.
“He magnified it over and over, cleaned up the image and spotted that the shooter had a tattoo on the back of his hand in the shape of a crucifix!”
She was equally incredulous. “You’re kidding me, you mean all the government geniuses missed it?”
“Looks like it,” he replied. “If they’d spotted that at the beginning and realized from Gramps that I didn’t have a tattoo, it could have saved us a hell of a lot of grief!”
Sarah was in agreement. “And now we’re in the shoot first - ask questions later mode, a bit late!”
“Exactly!”
“So, what do we do now?” she asked.
He thought for a moment. “Well, Gramps knows the coast of Pembrokeshire in Wales, he and Nan used to vacation there in their caravan. He suggested we head for the little port of Fishguard and try and get a boat across to Northern Ireland,” he gave an ominous grin. “By whatever means available!”
She nodded. “Sounds like a plan, so what do we do now, bed down somewhere out of sight for another night of luxurious relaxation?”
“Afraid so,” he began. “But let’s get close to Fishguard first, check the lie of the land for an early boat out in the morning. You know, when this is all over, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to sleep again unless I have a damn steering wheel sticking in my ribs!”
* * *
When Jake Sr. left the pub with the dog and walked home, he smiled as he spotted the MI5 vehicle down the road with the same two men in it. He pretended not to see them as he went into the house.
The first man in the car turned to his colleague. “The old man likes a pint, I’ll say that for him, but still no sign of his grandson turning up?” His colleague nodded in agreement. If they had realized that every night they had followed Jake to different pubs, followed him in and left when he seemed to be just drinking and playing dominoes, that he had been giving vital information to Jake, they would have had a heart attack.
It would have been the easiest thing in the world for GCHQ in Cheltenham, just down the road, the UK equivalent of the NSA, to monitor every call into each pub that Jake Sr. visited, from the moment he entered until the moment he left, that in turn would have given a fix on the incoming call and by now both Jake and Sarah would be languishing in a British jail. It seemed like someone was looking out for them.
CHAPTER 31
For as long as man can remember, gambling has been a part of the culture of countries whose inhabitants could afford to lose money, and in certain cases some who couldn’t, merely on a game of chance.
From the card games in the saloons of the Wild West to the river boats on the Mississippi and through the palaces of the crowned heads of Europe, a game of chance or a daring wager had always captivated the inhabitant’s imagination.
With the advent of professional sports and the wagering on the outcome of such games, the career of the odds maker had started to flourish, where all kinds of odds were given to punters relating to the potential outcome of a game or series of games. In the UK, the national game of soccer had long been the focus for members of the public sending in their selection to what was referred to as the ‘football pools’ where the people who correctly picked the right number of results could win large amounts of money.
Of course, when the Internet came on the scene and Internet gambling became the vogue, the odds makers moved to a whole new level of calculating odds for the most outrageous situations, where the public wanted to place a bet on the likelihood of certain events happening. They would take bets on the date and weight at the birth of the next Royal baby, or who would be the first player to score a goal in the upcoming Soccer Cup Final and on this particular day, the betting option that was getting the most hits on the Internet gambling sites was equally way out there. It was giving the public the chance to make a bet on the make of the next car that Jake and Sarah would steal, with extra odds if the punter was also able to guess the model year and the color of the vehicle!
As can be imagined, when news of this hit the desk of the frustrated John Hargreaves, that even the public were now getting quite disenchanted with the ongoing chase of the fugitives, and following yet another chewing out that he had received first thing that morning, he was now convinced in his mind that it was only a matter of time before he would be removed from the investigation.
What wasn’t helping him was that traditionally, the British public would always support the underdog in any situation and following the news that while Jake was fleeing the authorities, he had also been able to take out a terrorist assassin who had murdered his grandmother, this had suddenly changed the perception of the British public from viewing Jake and Sarah as public enemies who tried to kill the Queen, into almost being cult heroes, like a modern day Robin Hood and Maid Marian, who were constantly avoiding the law, avenging wrong doings. And when the later news was released that Jake had also taken out two CIA assassins who had been sent after him, it was as if his cult following was beginning to increase.
Cartoons were already appearing in the international press depicting Jake and Sarah outsmarting the poor MI5 operatives and Hargreaves was almost ready to explode with frustration.
Hugh Strickland was also disappointed when his assistant Ted reported that of all the mask making organizations he had contacted, none of them remembered seeing a picture of Jake or making a mask of his face. Ted had told him that two of the companies had not responded, not realizing that one of them was the very one who did the job, whose owner was still camping out in the wilds of Alberta, Canada.
CHAPTER 32
Benny Sutterman, small, fat with greasy, long, crinkly hair and glasses, was a newspaper reporter and not unlike many others in his profession, he had an insatiable ego that at the moment was far from being satisfied.
His bosses were not very happy with his recent performance and what he needed badly was a major front page story, one that would have the reading public hanging on his every word.
Such a story was already burning away at his subconscious. It was the story of the failed assassination attempt on the Queen. He had absorbed every news bite of the event and with the full permission of his editor, Jim Cowan, he had driven to Cheltenham, found a cheap hotel and decided to camp outside the home of the grandfather of the nation’s Public Enemy Number One - Jake Harrigan!
Every time that Jake Sr. went to the door to get the mail or even bring the milk in, Sutterman was there, bugging him for a statement. ‘Had he heard from his grandson?’, ‘Did he think he was the assassin?’, ‘What should the authorities do if they caught him?’
Jake Sr. had ignored him completely and this was when Sutterman decided to target his daughter Winnie, a quiet, timid person, who became more and more stressed each time the ruthless Sutterman appeared on her doorstep.
On each question that remained unanswered, Sutterman still made some nonsensical comment in his column as if the family were actually cooperating with him.
It had reached the point where Winnie dreaded going outside, even to
the grocery store, so much so that young Stephen would go with her, a baseball bat in his hand, having warned Sutterman he would use it on him if he didn’t leave them alone.
Sutterman was watching Jake Sr. very closely, but luckily, he was usually in his office writing his fantasy column at the times that Jake Sr. had been in touch by phone with his grandson.
On one particular afternoon, when Winnie was returning from the monthly afternoon tea at the church, Sutterman was literally blocking her way back into the house. Jake Sr. spotted him through the window, walked out and led Winnie inside before turning on the obnoxious Sutterman.
“How old are you, son?” he asked him.
Sutterman scowled at him. “34, what’s it to you?”
Jake Sr. spoke quietly. “Well, I guess that makes me twice your age, you little cockroach, so I want you to listen very carefully to what I’m about to say.”
Sutterman had a cruel smile on his face. “Can I quote you on this?”
Jake Sr. didn’t change his expression. “There’s only you and I here, nobody believes a word in your stupid column anyway, I never saw such rubbish written in my life, in fact I bet your bosses are about to kick your sorry arse out!”
“Dream on, old man!” Sutterman snarled.
Jake Sr. looked him straight in the eye. “So, here’s what I was about to say. Excruciating pain is something that nobody should have to endure. Every time we are alone, day or night, with no witnesses around, it’s amazing the shocking things that can happen to a person!”
“Are you threatening me, old man?” Sutterman asked.
Jake Sr. raised both hands, palms facing outwards. “Who, an old man like me? You must be joking!” he walked into the house after Winnie but before closing the door, he turned and looked at the reporter. “Of course, I’m not the only person in my family who does not appreciate you harassing my daughter!” he went inside and slammed the door behind him.
Sutterman looked at the headline of the daily newspaper he held in his hand, where the headline read. ‘Fugitive terminates two CIA assassins!’ he licked his lips nervously.