by Simon Jenner
“Incorruptible.”
“Yes, incruptable,” John repeated, praying that his over the top accent was not becoming too theatrical. “You think you can get weapon?”
Fisher walked to Savannah’s desk and sat opposite John. He pulled out a red pack of Marlboro cigarettes and expertly tapped one from the packet. As he lit the cigarette, he continued to suck down smoke for the deepest of breaths. He picked up a file and flicked through it. When he spoke, his words were accompanied by clouds of smoke. “So what’s this place? Is it for real?”
“Sure. You not answer my question. You think you can get weapon?”
Fisher tossed the file back onto the desk. “I did, but I thought that the girl was the key.” He pushed himself backwards and forwards on the five-wheeled chair by pushing and pulling the front of the desk while the cigarette hung from his lips. “I saw a young man at Waterloo station. I think he can help. At first I thought he was homeless, but I think he was looking for Jones. He wore ripped blue jeans and an old blue anorak. Have you bumped into him?”
“No,” John said, a little too fast. Fisher didn’t seem to notice as he blew a long stream of smoke towards the ceiling. John suspected that Fisher was in need of a solution and that he needed to help push him in the right direction, whatever that might be.
“Girl is with me,” John said, feigning his own deep thought by pulling on his nose. “I think maybe she could persuade short one to make deal. Tall one is too like rock. No break easy. Wilson, I think, has feelings for girl.”
A twinkle of interest glistened in Fisher’s eyes. “You think we could still use her?”
“Perhaps. But she is gone now.”
Fisher emptied a metal paper clip holder and extinguished his cigarette. “She’s in the other office,” he said.
She’d better not be, he thought. “I doubt it,” he said.
Fisher jumped to his feet and rushed to the door. John followed him, a huge lump stuck in his throat. What if she was still in there? A gust of air from the open window greeted both men. Wilson’s surveillance equipment was sitting on the table in the centre of the tiny office. John looked under the table to see the plugs had been removed from the electrical sockets and breathed a quiet sigh of relief. Well done, Savannah. But that wasn’t his main concern. John swallowed the lump in his throat. Please don’t let her have fallen.
John went to the window and peered down at the flat roof which was on an equal level with the floor where they stood. A metal fire escape ladder at the far end of the flat roof provided access to ground level. Savannah was fine. John turned to Fisher, but Fisher spoke first.
“What happened to your limp?”
“What?”
“When I saw you leaving the agency, you had a limp.”
John almost sighed with relief. For once a lie was not required. “Girl, she kick me. She has big spirit.”
“So where is she?”
“Like I think, she is gone, but I know where she go,” he said, walking with Fisher side by side back towards the main office. Fisher observed the equipment on the desk, but without a live screen showing several viewpoints of the main office, there was nothing suspicious about surveillance gear in a private detective’s offices.
“Where is she?” Fisher asked again, raising his plastic lighter up to another cigarette.
Using all of his strength, John slapped Fisher’s back, catching him off guard and sending him stumbling forward, his cigarette and lighter tumbling onto the carpet. “First you tell me what you need weapon for, then we make deal, then we meet girl. This is how we do business in Moscow.”
Fisher righted himself and turned back to John, shrugging off the blow as if it were nothing. But there was no mistaking the confused expression in the weary eyes. It was a ‘do you know what I can do to you with my bare hands, so why are you messing with me?’ look. John returned with an equal measure of mock bewilderment which wasn’t too hard because his current behaviour bewildered the hell out of him. Who in their right mind manhandled a killer?
Fisher’s eyes flashed between anger and uncertainty, and John’s survival mechanism hovered on the verge of flight. The only thing stopping him from running was the certainty of a bullet in his back before he reached the main door. He had no choice but to continue his tough guy act and pray that his bladder would hold out.
Fisher continued to glare at John who, unable to stand the tension for a second longer, broke into his most insane-looking grin - again not much of a stretch given his predicament. His smile was not returned, but it did result in a wary nod from the pale-faced man. Fisher picked up the dropped items and resumed the process of lighting his cigarette. John’s ploy had succeeded, and it was clear he had unnerved Fisher into a begrudging respect for Varushkin.
John’s insides more closely resembled those of a nervous ballerina before a first live performance than the edginess of a merciless Russian killer. He held his grin of madness until he turned towards the door and marched back into the front office. The short walk allowed him a few moments when only his back was on show to Fisher, and he used the time to catch his breath, which he realised he must have been holding for some time.
“Come,” John said. “Let us make deal.”
Fisher followed John back to the desks, both men sitting down and facing each other.
“So tell me plan with gun?” John said.
“I want to sell it to the highest bidder.”
John shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
“Is that what Earthguard told you?”
John stared directly into Fisher’s eyes. “No. But people like me buy weapons. Soldiers like you use them. So why you want weapon?”
“What’s it to you?”
“I think you have mission. I see it in eyes. If we get gun, maybe you can do mission and then I take gun? I can pay big, yes?”
A look of disgust spread across Fisher’s face, his pale nose twitching as if he’d breathed in a nasty smell. “I have no need of more money.”
John laughed. “Better for me then. When you need gun to do mission?”
“Tomorrow.”
“And how long it will take?”
“You can have the weapon back tomorrow evening, but the power will be depleted.”
“Depleted. What is this word?”
“The nuclear fuel will need replacing.”
“You plan to use full power of weapon?” John nearly lost his accent, his voice rising an octave with the surprise. Shit, shit, shit. Had he blown his cover?
“What do you care what I do with it?”
John breathed an inward sigh of relief. He had got away with it, but he needed to hold it together. “We already have nuclear weapons. We want gun for technology.”
“You know it can initiate a small nuclear explosion from four miles away?”
What would the Russians, his newly adopted people, want it for? “Of course, but it is not major concern to us. In Russia we need nuclear power, and this could solve energy crisis. It make us world power again.”
“And there was me thinking you wanted to kill people with it.”
“Just because I have killed many people, it not mean I am bad person. My country, it dies, and it needs the technology to save it.”
Fisher pulled the chair tight to the desk, leaned forward and regarded John carefully. John did his utmost to maintain a sincere expression, but, having never previously tried under such dire circumstances, he had no idea of what Fisher was seeing.
“Are you for real?” Fisher said, motionless.
This was it. The game was up. Why had he ever thought he could pull this off? John prepared his legs for action and looked at the main door to the office. He considered the best escape route - back room window or main door?
“You need to be somewhere?”
John spun his head back around, taking his gaze past Fisher, through the gaping back office door where the open window beckoned. Window or door, he asked himself again. He had the sinking fe
eling that if he bolted, Fisher would still hunt down Savannah as a means of getting to Wilson.
Fisher was still talking, although John’s mind wasn’t fully listening, assuming it was all a precursor to a gun being drawn.
“It’s refreshing to meet someone as adept in killing as yourself who does it for the right reasons.”
“Huh?” John said, his attention returning to Fisher.
A smile appeared on Fisher’s face, and John could see the scar, to the left of centre on his bottom lip which caused the smile to deform as it grew. The wages of war, he supposed. The kink vanished as Fisher spoke. “I’m impressed. I had imagined killing you once we had tracked down the gun, but I see no reason that we can’t work together.”
Calmness ran through John’s being like a huge injection of Valium, and the relief was so welcome he was tempted to reach out and shake Fisher’s hand. Words of gratitude hung on his lips, and only a handful of subconscious brain cells prevented the sudden loss of fear for his life from wreaking havoc with his adopted accent.
“Da... Da... Da... ” he repeated, bringing his hand to his mouth to stifle a yawn brought about by the sudden reduction in adrenaline. He might just live - for a little longer.
“Are you okay, Varushkin?”
John pulled his hand away from his mouth, his eyes focussed on his knees. He was a long way from safety yet.
“I’m sorry, Mr Fisher. I get emotional when talk about Mother Russia.” John looked up at Fisher. “Tell me what you do with gun and then we find girl.”
“Like you, Varushkin, I am acting in the interests of my country. Tomorrow, the Secretary of State for Defence addresses a meeting on the future of the SAS in Whitehall’s offices.”
John had a bad feeling. “Yes?”
“I will use the gun to destroy him and the others who have chosen to save money at the expense of our country’s war against terror.”
John clenched his teeth to prevent his jaw from dropping. “I believe Whitehall offices are many. You know which to destroy?”
Fisher’s smile widened, exaggerating his lip injury and giving his face a ghoulish appearance. He took a deep drag on his cigarette before stubbing it out on the desk in one motion, like a dive-bombing aeroplane.
“Not one, Varushkin. All of them,” he said.
23: Monday 26th September, 10:25
Savannah slumped in the far corner of the downstairs coffee house facing the window.
It was still a little early for the mid-morning caffeine seekers, and a couple of elderly, respectable-looking ladies were the only other customers. By positioning herself with her bottom just past the edge of her cushioned chair, she could rest her elbows on the seat to prevent her slipping further down. This awkward pose permitted her sight over the top of the chairs on the opposite side of the table. From there she could see if anyone exited the building via the adjoining stairs from the office above.
“Can I take your order, Miss?” said a smartly dressed young woman with a whiter than white apron. Her straw-coloured hair was cut short and neat, adding to her aura of efficiency. She showed no sign that Savannah’s awkward pose, halfway down a chair, was anything but ordinary.
“I’m trying to avoid an ex-boyfriend,” she said, not particularly caring whether the waitress believed her or not.
“We get that all the time,” said the woman. “I find that an Americano goes down well in these situations.”
“Okay,” Savannah said, annoyed at the distraction from her vigil. The woman winked in what might have been an attempt at female solidarity before walking back towards the nearby kitchen, leaving Savannah to ponder her options.
Her first instinct was to try and contact Johnson until she realised that she had no way of getting in touch with the Earthguard agent. Added to this was the uncertainty as to Johnson’s agenda. There was every reason to assume that Wilson’s partner was not on their side. She wondered if John had reactivated the watch this morning. Wilson had not mentioned that he should, but Wilson may well not be taking orders from Johnson anymore.
The only person she trusted one hundred per cent was John, and he might be in immediate danger if not already dead. Could John be believable as Varushkin for any length of time? To Christos, a muscle-bound idiot over a phone, John’s Russian accent was believable, but face to face with a more intelligent psychopath, she feared the worst.
Two minutes later, with numb buttocks and aching back, she could no longer bear the thought of John coping alone. Standing and stretching, she pulled out a five pound note and walked up to the counter. The short haired waitress was chatting with the two ladies about the possibility of them sharing one of the fresh cream cakes and pastries displayed beneath the cooled glass counter.
Savannah strained her ears for sounds that might suggest a struggle above her, but the absence of any noise did little to allay her fears. Finally, the cake sale fell through, and the friends elected to settle their bill. Swapping her attention repeatedly between the window and the waitress, wishing the elderly women, who both insisted on paying half each, would hurry up with their spindly fingers and fiddly coins, Savannah could no longer wait. She fished out a fifty pound note from her skirt pocket and threw it at the waitress.
“I’ll get those and the coffee I never had. Give the ladies a cake each on me. I’m going upstairs, and if I don’t come out in the next hour, please call the police.”
The two old ladies remarked on what a kind young thing she was as the waitress tucked the cash into her own pocket. She nodded and looked at her watch. “One hour, got it”
Savannah ran to the door, up the stairs and back into the lion’s den.
*
Pedestrians veered off at either side as Wilson carved his way through the morning hustle and bustle of Twickenham’s streets, making his way to the car. Johnson had left Wilson the phlegm-coloured Mondeo and hired himself another vehicle. No doubt it would be a petrol-guzzling, turbo-charged German sports car of some description.
Down the narrow side street where the Mondeo had been illegally parked, a plump man in his thirties was resting a ticket against the bonnet to fill in the details. Wilson was thirty feet away when the red-faced man placed the ticket under a windscreen wiper blade.
A bright yellow wheel clamp, or as Johnson called them, a Denver boot, was attached to the front passenger side wheel. This was quite a regular occurrence for an Earthguard agent given the number of times they needed to park illegally. It wasn’t possible to protect the country from terrorists if you spent hours looking for a parking space. Usually, they paid the fine on the spot and everything was taken care of. Today was anything but usual.
Wilson reached inside his coat and pulled out his Glock-17, pointing it at the head of the man as he walked towards him.
“You’ve got fifteen seconds to remove that clamp.”
The chubby clamping attendant didn’t look up. “Look, Mister, I don’t make the rules and I don’t take any shit. You think they let jerks that can’t handle themselves do this job?”
“Ten seconds,” said Wilson, now only ten feet away and approaching fast, gun outstretched, aim following the fat man’s head.
The man looked up lazily like he had seen it all before and then realised instantly that he hadn’t. The nonchalant sneer vaporised, and his hands shot into the air, his considerable belly freeing his shirt from his trousers, exposing his undulating sun-shy flesh. “Don’t shoot me. I’m sorry for dissing you. I get so much shit in this job, but it ain’t worth dying for.”
Wilson shook his head. He pressed the barrel of his handgun deep into the protruding flesh of the man’s stomach. “Look at you. You’re a disgrace. Get the clamp off now and I might just let you live.”
“Yes, sir,” said the man, digging out the tools from his bag to remove the heavy metal obstruction.
That was the great thing about guns: they brought back good manners to those who most needed them. Wilson scanned the street for any unwanted attention as he put away
the gun under his coat. Its job was done, and the man scrabbling around with the tools at his feet was shaking enough without the constant threat of death hanging over him.
Wilson leaned over the fumbling man. “Just take it easy. You’re not going to get hurt.”
A few grunts later, a sweat-dripping red face looked up at Wilson. “It’s off, sir.”
“Good. Now give me your mobile phone.”
The man rummaged in his jacket pocket, pulled out a top of the range iPhone and offered it to Wilson.
Wilson took the phone, dropped it on the tarmac and ground his heel into it until it became a mess of broken glass and electronics.
“Got any others? A work phone or radio?”
“No, sir.”
Wilson double checked the street for movement. “Good. Stay on the ground, and count to five hundred before you get up.”
“Okay.”
“Okay what?” Wilson recognised the voice as his own but the words and tone reminded him of his dead father. He couldn’t help himself and looked over his shoulder to be sure. It was his tired mind playing tricks on him. He had to calm down.
“Okay, sir?” the fat man offered.
The clamper’s mouth was downturned in a miserable and defeated expression, his body trembling as if the cold had cut through him. A pang of guilt hit Wilson hard. He had no right to vent his anger on this man. How had everything become so messed up?
“Do you know why I did this?”
The man on the ground looked up at him like a frightened child who would say anything to be left in peace. “You need your car?” he finally suggested.
“Because I work for the Lord.”
“Sir?”
What was he doing explaining his actions to a stranger? Wilson felt the familiar vibration of his phone against his chest. It would be Johnson. He would know the phones had been switched and the gun was missing. He let it ring. It was time to trust to higher powers again.
“Five hundred and not a second earlier. Got it? And say your prayers every night.”
“Yes, sir,” the man said.