The Henchmen's Book Club

by Danny King

  “We won’t be there to hit stop buttons when you’re operational,” our grizzled old veteran had growled at us afterwards, which had been a fair point, though one that hardly made it up to the pile of mince lying under the grinder who, just a few minutes earlier, had been worried about what they might say if we didn’t finish the course in the allotted time.

  And now I was one of them; seasoned, grizzled and decorated with the scars of a dozen different campaigns. I’d come full circle. Just as Bill had before me – which of course was where I’d met him. At least, it’s where I’d got to know him. He’d been our instructor. Where I’d actually met him had been the same place the guys running around in front of me had met their various Agency recruiters – namely prison.

  That’s where The Agency does its recruiting. That’s where it gets its guys from. Although it’s not enough just to be a prisoner, you have to be a lifer – and a lifer with a minimum tariff of at least twenty years. The Agency likes to know it can dump you right back in the hole it rescued you from should you ever think to question their terms.

  It was the insurance we all had hanging over our heads. Me, Bill, Mr Sato, Mr Smith, all of us; we were all lifers, from far and wide.

  Like most of the guys on the ticket, my sentence had been handed down for murder. And not just any ordinary murder either, but the murder of a policeman no less. Of course, it hadn’t mattered that I hadn’t known he was a policeman at the time. He’d been in plain clothes and hadn’t identified himself properly, so I’d assumed he was one of John Broad’s men come to rap my knuckles for ripping off his main supplier. I’d been wrong, although I hadn’t known it until half a dozen uniforms piled in behind the unfortunate Sergeant Hopkirk, who by this time was sporting a rather fetching steak knife handle.

  Well neither his colleagues nor the judge felt in the mood to show me any leniency and after I got out of the hospital, I was bunged into a cell and left to rot for the next thirty years – at least.

  And that’s where I stayed, slowly doing my porridge, keeping myself fit so that I’d at least be able to have one last dance when they finally released me, and reading everything I could lay my hands on.

  Then, after four years, a craggy old soak came to visit me. He’d introduced himself as Bill and asked me if I’d be interested in being reborn. He offered me a new life, a renewed hope and a way out of my confines. This was how he’d phrased it too, the big comedian, so naturally I’d assumed he’d been fixing to introduce me to his pal Jesus and sell me that whole Amway of hope.

  But actually, as you know by now, he’d meant a proper new life. And proper renewed hope. And a proper way out of my actual confines.

  My life as I knew it was forfeit. And there was nothing I, nor anyone else, could do about that. But there was a new life out there for me if I wanted it. It would be dangerous, merciless and in all likelihood short. But I’d see spectacular things. Be part of momentous events. And risk all for unimaginable rewards.

  If I’d wanted it.

  All I had to do was kill myself.

  So that’s what I did. Six weeks after Bill’s visit, I knotted my bedsheets together and hanged myself from the window of my cell. The screws found me thirty minutes later and rushed me to the medical unit but it was too late, I was already dead. Asphyxiation caused by a ligature to the neck. That’s what was written on my Death Certificate. And as I had no immediate family nor next of kin, my body was collected by a local undertakers twenty-four hours later where it was taken to an airfield just outside Durham and flown by Lynx AH.9 Battlefield helicopter to a very private hospital in the Scottish highlands and handed over to a team of specialists, who revived me, repaired the damage and handed me back my life.

  Of course, I hadn’t really been dead. I’d been in a deep deep all-but dead coma, and shut down so completely that even an autopsy wouldn’t have been able to ascertain if I’d still been alive – unlikely after an autopsy. But autopsies rarely looked into prison hangings. Bill had supplied the drugs. All I’d had to do was take them and hang myself. My coma would protect me for up to forty-eight hours until The Agency could get to me.

  And if they didn’t get to me on time?

  “No problem,” Bill had assured me. “There’s a complaint procedure in case of such events, but in all the time The Agency’s been operating, it’s never had a single action filed against it.”

  Like I said, he was a fucking comedian.

  It took my body three months to recover but when it had, I was fed, drilled, trained and prepared, before being shipped off to East Timor to help Connaughtard Cottletrophff destroy the wheat crop of Australia, for somewhat megalomaniacal reason. That first signing on payment had settled my account with The Agency. It was also the first time I’d ever encountered Jack Tempest. And also the first time I’d ever seen someone drown in a vat of grain – poor old Connaughtard.

  When I was extracted by The Agency, I was given a new identity – my current one as it happens – with all the accompanying documents; birth certificate, driving licence, passport, even a new National Insurance number. One job and I was a living, breathing free man all over again. My past had been erased. My time served. My debts repaid. No one was looking for me. And no one would. As long as I kept a low profile and avoided my old stamping grounds of course. That life was over for me. The Agency made that very clear. This was an entirely new life. And if I wanted to keep it, I had to let the old one go completely. That had been the deal. That was the price we all paid to be reborn.

  So Bill took me in and put me up. We’d been in East Timor together and I’d thrown him on to the evac chopper after he’d been shot, so he’d taken me under his wing to repay me for saving his life, providing me with a sofa to sleep on and even introducing me to his family.

  And Linda.

  Oh well, that’s enough disaster stories for one day. Back to shooting the new recruits.

  “Son of a bitch!” Captain Bolaji swore as I blasted the masonry around the rope he was clambering, causing him to fall off again.

  “Get up that rope you black bastard!” I shouted, fully aware that this sort of language didn’t go down at all well in the workplace these days, but equally aware that while sticks and stones could break one’s bones, grinders would also ruin your favourite shirt.

  Captain Bolaji glared at me with contempt, then hurled himself at the rope and climbed hand over fist as I peppered the surrounding wall with the rest of my banana clip, chuckling to myself and grinning with satisfaction when he fell over the top and encountered Mr Sato’s flamethrower.

  “Priceless,” I sighed.

  Actually, not all new recruits had to be lifers. A few exceptions were made for former soldiers or time-served mercenaries with the right experience. Captain Bolaji had saved my life. So in return The Agency door had been cracked open for him. A potentially dangerous situation for Captain Bolaji, because there was no prison he could be returned to if things didn’t work out; just the quandary of what to do with the lone African gunman who knew all about our secret organisation but who didn’t want to be part of it any more.

  Hmm, yeah, tricky one. No lawyers required I suspect.

  “Last three,” I shouted, and the last three recruits took to the range while I loaded a fresh magazine and reset my watch. “Move it!”

  There were around thirty new recruits in all: four from Britain, six from the Continent, six from the States and thirteen from Asia. That left just Captain Bolaji sticking out like the sore thumb. Strangely, there weren’t many Africans Affiliates. I’d only ever encountered one other in all my time at The Agency. I don’t know why this should be. The Agency certainly wasn’t prejudiced. After all, one man’s money was just as good as another’s. No, if I’d had to guess I would’ve said that most Africans didn’t need to look that far a field for trouble. There were plenty of wars and local conflicts to interest its young men, so why travel?

  Not that we were soldiers. Not really.

  No, we were criminals, pl
ain and simple. Straight down the line and no pretence at anything else. We were criminals, out to make a buck and feather our nests with all the gaudy trappings – ie: drink, drugs, women and leopard skin furniture.

  And I think it was this, more than race or religion that was the hardest thing for Captain Bolaji to deal with when it came to fitting in. He didn’t vocalise his doubts, that would’ve been silly, but I recognised the inner conflict that was raging away behind his eyes. See, when we’d been part of the Special Army, he’d been an ideological soldier. He’d genuinely believed in the cause and in particular His Most Excellent Majesty, which is why he’d been so easy to dupe. But now, here he was in amongst the dupers, or at least their kind, and it was a hard thing for him to reconcile.

  I stared down at Captain Bolaji a couple of hours later in the boiler room and wondered if I’d been right to trust him. Then again, had I been right to trust anyone? There were two others with us; rock solid recruits who’d stay the course and no doubt turn Affiliates if they survived their first operation. But would they be able to keep their mouths shut about the things that really mattered?

  Who knew?

  “The first rule about book club is you don’t talk about book club,” I told my three new recruits. “The second rule about book club is you don’t talk about book club!” These were essentially the same rules, I’ll admit, but I was having trouble making up the ten and Chuck Palahniuk had gotten away with it so I figured I could too.

  Captain Bolaji crumpled his eyebrows and frowned.

  “The third rule; no names – post usernames only when you’re on-line. The fourth rule is no chit chat. We’re all copied into the same forum so no boring banter about West Ham’s chances next season thinking we’re all going to find it fascinating because we’re not – book talk only. The fifth rule is no operational details. You can post your location, but not what you’re doing there or who you’re working for,” I told them, pacing backwards and forwards in front of the boiler. “If you’re really concerned about the safety of other book club members, you can, in extreme circumstances, recommend we avoid certain parts of the world in the coming months.”

  “Like what?” Mr Nikitin (username: Smoker) asked.

  “Like, for example, you might post up something like; ‘crikey, have you seen how much hotels charge in Washington these days? I’d wouldn’t go there if I was you – especially not next April,’ that sort of thing. You know, subtle.”

  Mr Nikitin nodded to demonstrate he understood. Captain Bolaji, who still hadn’t chosen his username yet, just frowned some more.

  “The sixth rule is no posting your own books. You are only allowed to read the books that are officially nominated. If you want to be a loose cannon, join a library. If you want to nominate a book, wait your turn and earn your credits. The seventh rule; you have to finish a book before you can comment on it. That’s every single page. It doesn’t matter if it’s boring. If you want to give it a kicking, you have to finish it. The eighth rule is no giving away the endings. We’re all reading the same books here, but not necessarily at the same time, so don’t go spoiling the endings by boasting how you could see the big twist coming from a mile off or that they all did it, let us find that out for ourselves. The ninth rule is voting; if you read a book, you have to vote on it. No excuses. No abstaining. Marks out of five, one being the lowest, five the highest…”

  “Well obviously,” Mr MacDonald (username: Small Fry) said. “I mean, who’d do it the other way around?”

  “You’d be surprised,” I replied. “And no favouritism. You’re voting for the book, not your boyfriend’s recommendation. There are no prizes for having nominated the most popular book.”

  “I’m not gay,” Mr Nikitin objected, interrupting my flow.

  “What?”

  “I’m not gay.”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “You said we can’t vote for our boyfriend’s nomination. I don’t have a boyfriend. I have girlfriends. But not at the moment,” said Mr Nikitin, who The Agency had busted out of Yekaterinaburg Prison Camp a month earlier.

  “I didn’t mean literally. I take it you’re not an actual maggot either, it was just a euphemism. You know, an insult?”

  “Oh,” he blinked. As time was of the essence and as Mr Nikitin didn’t come across as someone who enjoyed the rough and tumble of blokey banter, I decided to skip straight to the end of the meeting.

  “Tenth and final rule of book club is,” I told the guys, pausing to make sure I had their total attention, “No chick-lit.”

  “What’s chick-lick?” Mr Bolaji obviously wanted to know.

  “Here are your scramblers,” I said, handing out USB sticks disguised as .38 hollow tip specials. Most of the covert equipment Affiliates used on jobs was weaponry disguised as household objects, yet the equipment we used in book club was the exact opposite. I hoped the irony wasn’t lost on them.

  “Don’t lose them. They’re encrypted with your usernames and IDs, so you’ll need them to post your scores or nominate your books,” I told them.

  “What happens if you put them in a gun and fire them?” Mr MacDonald asked.

  “They produce an image of a computer screen that you’ll be able to see if you look up the barrel. It’s got pull down menus and everything and you can scroll through them by pulling on the trigger repeatedly.”

  “Really?” Mr MacDonald cooed.

  “No not really. You’ll just break the USB and probably blow you own head off, but do give it a go if you want because I might be wrong.”

  “I was only asking.”

  “Okay, so you all understand the rules and the need for complete secrecy?”

  They did. Or at least, they said they did, which were two subtly different things, but indistinguishable from each other without the benefit of crocodile clips and a car battery.

  “Alright then,” I told them with a final nod of approval. “Welcome to book club.”

  17.

  THE GIRL WITH SPYDERCO HEELS

  I don’t know what it is with right-hand men but for some reason they love to fight everyone – even their own men. They’re like small-town bar room brawlers. They strut about the place, eyeballing anyone who looks at them and beating their chests at the merest inkling of disrespect – which again, just like small-town bar room brawlers, they see everywhere.

  Zillion Silverfish had a guy like that; five feet tall, six feet wide, fists like bazookas and the sense of humour of a hungover elephant. He used to have this stupid cowboy type boot-lace neck tie too that he’d whip off and throw at people whenever it wasn’t his birthday. If he got them right, which he did more often than not, it would wrap around their necks like mini boleadoras and choke them in seconds.

  What was his name? Oh yes, that was it, Mr Karlssen.

  “Mr Karlssen, show the gentleman out,” Silverfish would say with a knowing smirk, then next thing you’d know – whoosh, the poor unsuspecting fella would be on the floor turning purple. Which would have been fair enough. I mean anything work related, but Mr Karlssen couldn’t keep it to himself and I personally had to rescue several of my colleagues from a stifling death just because they’d either let Jack Tempest get away or had eaten the last strawberry yoghurt in the canteen. Of course Silverfish should’ve kept him in check but he never said a word, not even after Mr Karlssen killed that little Argentinean lad who’d made the mistake of wafting a hand in front of his nose when he’d tried entering the toilet just as Mr Karlssen was leaving. For five minutes he’d lain there before anyone had been allowed to go to him, but Mr Karlssen didn’t get so much as a fiver docked from his pay packet.

  Oh well, what goes around comes around, as they say, and while it’s well documented how Silverfish met his maker handcuffed to that Patriot missile, it’s less well known how his lapdog choked on his own particular bone. Obviously, it had been at the hands of his own tie – ironic deaths being harder to avoid in this game than the Child Support Agency.
Jack Tempest had caught it with that hat stand that Mr Karlssen had bought for his Stetsons and twirled it around like a cheerleader’s baton and thrown it straight back at him, scoring an unbelievable bull’s-eye first time. It had been a hell of a shot. I personally couldn’t believe it. I mean, of all the things to be good at! Tempest must’ve had one of those neck ties himself (and presumably a similar make of hat stand) because I couldn’t see how he could’ve possibly made a shot like that without months of practice. Still, that’s Jack Tempest for you. And he wonders why everyone hates him.

  Anyway, that had been the official version of Mr Karlssen’s death although it hadn’t actually been the end of him, because Tempest had ducked out to go after Silverfish while Mr Karlssen had still been struggling. Under normal circumstance one of us might have come to his aid but no one lifted a finger to save him. Oh we’d all been there, and close enough to untwine the boleadoras, but no one felt so inclined, not after all we’d endured at his hands, so we folded our arms, passed around the fags and watched him turn several shades of scarlet as he choked on this ultimate betrayal.

  Mr Gonzales made sure with a bullet to the head – which is what Tempest should’ve done – then rejoined the battle. Personally, I decided to leave it when I saw all those airborne troops parachuting in and I got as far as Panama before The Agency had to pick me up once more.

  So I’d had my fair share of run-ins with right-hand men but none, not even Mr Karlssen, compared with Sun Dju, who was the fruitiest bird I’d ever known – in every sense of the word.

  I’d not crossed her path before but she’d come to the island just as we were completing the cherries’ basic training. She’d been accompanying her boss, Xian Xe Xu, who liked to be called X3 – which would’ve been okay had we been his Facebook friends but which created problems when we’d had to address him verbally. No one knew what to call him. X cubed? X to the power of three? Triple X? Nine X? I mean, seriously, what’s your name mate? In the event most of us had simply played it safe and called him “sir” to his face and “that X bloke” behind his back, which seemed to do the trick.