by Simon Jenner
*
Johnson slotted the phone back into the dashboard of his rental car. How come he had his partner’s phone? Where was his? Wilson’s phone had signalled that the phone’s tracking system was off so it could be anywhere. Another screw up he’d have to explain away to his controller. They were stacking up thick and fast.
The BMW was an improvement on the Mondeo, but it was only a three series and lacked the legroom and panache of the far superior Mercedes. Still, it carried the ‘M’ badge and wasn’t pea green or a Ford, and that was a bonus. He was parked seven miles east of Oxford, just off the M40 motorway. His thoughts turned to the grave matters at hand. Where was the gun, and what was his partner playing at?
Over the years the agency work had provided him with many dilemmas, but he had to admit that the appropriate resolution to his current conundrum escaped him. Facts were facts, and however he looked at them, the gun was gone and Wilson was off the radar, probably with his phone.
The gun thief, who might or might not be Wilson, had made no attempt to refill the hole with the soft earth that now surrounded it. Could he and Wilson have been followed when they buried the briefcase? There had been no evidence to support this, but surely it was a scenario as likely as his partner returning to retrieve the weapon in the dead of night. He tapped the leather bound steering wheel, racking his brains for other possibilities.
Eventually, Johnson had to admit the likelihood that his long term partner had gone rogue on him was high. Of all of the four Earthguard agents Johnson had been paired with, he liked Wilson the most. Not only because he had saved his life on more than one occasion, but because he had trusted him completely. Agents were chosen partly based on their inability to be compromised, which virtually ruled out blackmail. It was times like this when additional information on your partner would have paid dividends. Knowing nothing about a man in whom you entrusted your life seemed fairly ridiculous, and yet it had always been this way.
Policy dictated that he should call in his suspicions and let his controller take care of it. Wilson would be dead before the day was out. But Johnson wasn’t ready to convict and hang his partner yet.
Johnson glanced at his gold Patek Philippe chronograph. It was ten past eleven. It would take at least an hour and a half to get to Twickenham, and he needed to know what was going on now. If he called the fake detective agency, he might inadvertently put Smith and Jones in danger. If they died, not only would his agent days be over, he’d be behind bars or under six feet of earth. But the overriding truth was that he could not have their deaths on his conscience.
He pressed the top button on his watch three times. He had thought it paranoia when he had slipped the watch beneath the casing of the briefcase but how grateful he was for it at that moment. The watch on his wrist was tracking Smith and the briefcase.
*
John and Fisher remained at the desks in the offices of Ethan Justice awaiting the return of Savannah Jones. John guessed that most of the air in the room had been replaced with tobacco smoke. He had never seen anyone smoke so relentlessly.
“Are you sure she’ll come back here?” said Fisher, clearly not happy at having to wait around, flicking through anything he could find to read on Savannah’s desk. John reckoned the files must be more convincing than his accent because Fisher, although silent when reading, raised his eyebrows at a few choice places.
Better not ask me anything, thought John, who was beginning to suspect that the waiting game might not be the answer he was hoping for. He reminded himself to stay in character.
“We agree, if no phone contact, return here in one hour.” John looked at his watch and jerked in his chair as it started to vibrate in short even pulses. Was it Johnson or Wilson, and could he trust either of them?
“What’s up?” Fisher asked, noticing John’s change in demeanour.
John waved his watch arm in the air. “I have Parkinson’s disease. It is no matter.” It was the first thing John could think of to say. When he didn’t respond immediately to questions, Fisher would mumble to himself as if questioning himself for trusting John.
“You’re a bit young for Parkinson’s, aren’t you?”
“It is early onsit,” John said, hoping that Fisher knew little of the disease.
“Onsit?”
“Sorry my English ... not so good today. Onset, I try to say.”
Every time John spoke, he sensed that his disguise was getting thinner and thinner. Please let it be paranoia. He had managed to convince Fisher that Savannah would return in one hour, and they had spent the last ten minutes swapping tales of daring raids or, in John’s case, bogus stories of the men he had killed in various ways. These blood-riddled accounts of fake assassinations and expert knife manoeuvres seemed to calm Fisher, but they were becoming ever harder to fabricate. Soon he would say something impossible or improbable or just plain unbelievable, and his cover would be in tatters.
John thanked all the wasted hours of watching action films since he was eight. His mother had said his favourite pastime would never be of any use in the real world. Would he ever get the satisfaction of telling her ‘I told you so’ for the first, and probably only, time in his life? His watch went off again, and his nervous system followed suit, his whole body jerking involuntarily.
“Aren’t you taking pills for that? It looks pretty bad,” Fisher said, putting out his cigarette and emptying untold smoked butts from the paper clip holder into the circular bin beneath the desk before tapping another from the red and white packet.
“Doctor say pills not so good with alcohol. A Russian without vodka is no Russian at all.” John cringed inwardly at his own words. Shut up, John, before you get yourself killed.
“You’re one tough bastard, that’s for sure.” Fisher thumped the side of his neck with a stabbing motion. “I’ve never seen a man taken down so effectively with a toothbrush before, and I’ve seen some things. Do they teach you that in the Special Forces, or is it self-taught?”
“It is gift. I do what is necessary.”
“Well, I’m honoured to have you by my side. I feel closer to you right now than I ever felt with my SAS buddies.”
John didn’t doubt it for a second but was eternally grateful all the same. Fisher was off the deep end and looking to murder hundreds, maybe thousands of innocent people to prove a point and save a few jobs. Ethan Justice was the only person who could save the day. Shit.
“It is good to meet honourable man also for me,” he said.
Fisher glanced at his watch, and John took the opportunity to press down twice on the top button of his own fancy timepiece, trusting to chance that Johnson’s or Wilson’s voice wouldn’t start crackling out of it.
“Where is Jones?” said Fisher. “It’s been over an hour.”
John didn’t know what to say. He could suggest searching for her, but where would he take Fisher? And once he realised John was bluffing, it would be easy for him to dispose of him and start searching for Savannah for real. He couldn’t allow that to happen. The buzzer on Savannah’s desk made both men jump. Fisher pulled out a gun from behind his back, and John’s heart leapt into his throat once more.
Fisher stood up. “Take out your gun,” he whispered, cigarette still in his mouth, as he silently made his way to the door.
“I’m good,” said John.
Fisher smiled his crooked smile and mouthed, “Tough bastard.”
John’s head reeled as though the overflow of adrenaline to his heart had diverted to his brain so that it could operate at super speed. Incoherent thoughts bounced like lighting inside his head, neurons sparked at immeasurable speeds. But without the certainty of facts, heightened awareness was useless. He was out of ideas and, more importantly, out of his depth. The only single thought his brain could hold on to was the burning hope that it wasn’t Savannah at the door.
Fisher pulled the slide back on the semi-automatic pistol and motioned to John to activate the remote door entry system. John hesitated. It was one of those
decisions he could never take back and would be the difference between life and death for him and others. He swallowed as he pressed the door release button on the intercom system. Fisher aimed at the doorway from the left where the door would keep him hidden from the visitor. Why hadn’t they asked who it was over the intercom? Pull your finger out, John.
Savannah Jones strode in like she hadn’t a care in the world.
“Heh, Vushky baby,” she said. “What’s next?”
“You’re late,” Fisher said, returning the gun behind his back, under his jacket.
“I may well be ...” she said, turning but not registering any surprise at Fisher’s presence behind the door, “... but I know where the super gun is so you boys better play nice with me.”
24: Monday 26th September, 11:35
After picking up the original prototype from the lab in Kingston, Wilson had driven to Teddington on a hunch. Or was it a hint from the heavens? Either way, his plan had hit a bump in the road. At the garden centre in Teddington, Wilson had recovered the briefcase containing the latest prototype from where he had hidden it during the night. Fisher had not collected the gun.
Nobody batted an eyelid as he shifted four heavy bags of fertilizer to reveal the case underneath. Both identical briefcases were now ensconced in the back of the Mondeo. He guessed that only one of two things could have happened. Either Fisher suspected a set up or Fisher’s sister had not passed on the coded message. All SAS troops knew the code, and if he had received the message, deciphering the code would have been straightforward. How was he going to get in contact now?
The road back to Twickenham was busy, and Wilson tuned the radio to a religious channel. There were some fairly mixed-up callers on the show, but most of them were just after attention and were not real believers like him. He was amazed at just how calm he felt despite the problems he was experiencing. Julie had been right all along. God came along when you least expected him. As he hummed along to a well-known hymn whose words escaped him, he was struck by a thought: What if Fisher had turned up at the office in Twickenham?
He grabbed Johnson’s phone from his pocket and called Justice Investigations.
*
Whenever remotely possible, Johnson weaved the silver BMW in and out of every available space of the M40. Angry motorists flashed, hooted, shook fists and some even opened windows and shouted obscenities which were lost in the air behind him. He pictured an unknown but severely bad-tempered controller at his termination debriefing. First things first, though.
With his partner’s watch and mobile phone off the Earthguard grid, Johnson had no way of locating Wilson. His last known location was Kingston upon Thames, but if he was hiding, there were plenty of ways he could have disguised his position. The positioning systems of the phones and watches were for an agent’s safety but easily adapted to deception purposes. If Wilson had made contact with Fisher, then the weapon may soon be in the hands of a man capable of anything.
Surely Wilson would not allow the death of innocents? Johnson had to assume the worst and go after the weapon. All he knew for certain was that John Smith and the gun were both in Twickenham, not more than half a mile apart. Wilson and Fisher could be with them, or not. He had no way of knowing for sure. The weapon, with its potential for death and destruction, must be his first port of call. Everything revolved around Bradshaw’s invention, and he doubted that its death toll was even close to being over.
Johnson’s mobile rang and instantly switched to Bluetooth, which was just as well because at over a hundred and forty miles an hour, he needed both hands on the steering wheel. It had to be Wilson. Finally, some sense to all of this.
“Wilson?” said the loud speaker.
Johnson recognised the uptight tones of Major Harris.
“Harris, what’s up?”
“Johnson? I was calling the number your partner left me?”
“He’s off the grid. You got something?”
There was a lengthy silence. There was no love lost between the two men, but Johnson could not afford to antagonise the Major.
“Look, Major, I know we didn’t really hit it off last night. I can be a huge pain in the ass, but we’ve got problems, and I don’t know for sure what’s going on.” Johnson swerved onto the hard shoulder to undertake traffic in the fast lane. A lorry driver sounded his horn and stuck up two fingers at Johnson. “If you know anything that can help me, I’ll happily kiss your ass the next time we meet.”
Another silence followed.
“Major?”
The loudspeaker burst back into life. “One of my men came to see me after talking to Jenkins, the third person you interviewed.”
“Yeah, Thomas Jenkins, I remember him. So who’s the guy?”
“It’s not who he is but what happened to him in Hereford when he saw Fisher.”
“Go on.”
“The soldier saw him coming out of a psychologist’s practice, and when he teased Fisher about being a mental case, Fisher damn near killed him.”
“You got the number of this place?”
“I looked it up and wrote it down. I thought you’d be interested.”
Johnson entered the number into his mobile, all the time darting in and out of traffic like he was sitting at the wheel of a racing car simulator. There was no telling what either madman had planned for the weapon. Whatever the target, their chances of remaining at large were getting shorter by the minute, and mad or not, they had to realise that fact. He pressed down a little further on the accelerator. The number of lives he could end in a motorway pile up fell far short of the numbers a small nuclear explosion in a built up area like Twickenham could end. He brushed the side of a Mitsubishi pickup. Of course, the chances of preventing the explosion were far better if he stayed alive.
“I’ll look forward to puckering up my arse,” said the Major.
Johnson disconnected and called the psychologist’s number, metal scraping against metal as the car brushed against the barrier of the central reservation. Keep it together, Johnson.
As Johnson left the M40 to join up with the M25 the call was answered.
“Hello, Doctor Meredith’s office.”
Johnson ran a red light on the busy roundabout and missed colliding with joining traffic by the finest of margins. Further horns and abusive gestures ensued.
“Shit, that was close.” The line went dead. “Son of a bitch!” He pushed the button to redial as he forced the BMW in front of a slow moving lorry. Another booming horn sounded the driver’s displeasure.
“Hello, Doctor Meredith’s office.”
“Doctor Meredith, please,” said Johnson. “It’s a matter of life and death.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but Doctor Meredith is with a patient,” said the secretary.
“Look, I’m having a bad day, and if one of Meredith’s patients ends up killing thousands of you Brits, then I’ll make sure everybody knows that you wouldn’t help.”
The secretary cleared her throat. “I’ll put you through.”
What was wrong with ‘connecting’? Why did the Brits have to say things in such a nonsensical way? A soft female voice with a New England accent came over the speaker.
“Doctor Meredith speaking.”
Johnson was taken aback. Fisher’s mind doctor was a fellow American. The accent was strong: Boston he reckoned. Maybe now he’d get some answers. “Doctor, I’m driving down the M25 at ... let me see ... one hundred and forty-six miles per hour, so if I swear or go quiet, please don’t hang up.”
“Slow down. Do you need an appointment? If you’re considering suicide I can come to you. You can always kill yourself later. One less New Yorker won’t cause many tears, but there’s no need to take others with you.”
Johnson liked her immediately. “No suicide, and I don’t need a shrink, but I do need to know about one of your patients. I could give you a number to ring for authorisation but by then it would be too late.”
“You must know then that I can’t let
you have that information and the reasons why.”
“Sure, but thousands of lives may be at risk.”
“May?” Meredith said. “I can’t make a decision based on ‘may’.”
“Gregory Fisher may have acquired a nuclear weapon and may blow up thousands of innocent people. I really need your help, Doctor.”
The sound of fingers rapidly hitting computer keys was almost masked by the screaming four litre, eight cylinder engine as Johnson shot down the hard shoulder leaving the dawdling traffic bemused and behind him. The M3 Coupe was growing on him.
“Doctor?”
“Call me Susan. I’m just going through his file. How many words do you want this in?”
“As few as possible.”
Johnson heard police sirens behind him and looked in the mirror to see an unmarked maroon Vauxhall Omega. He put his foot down to the floor and accelerated further away, amazed that the M3 still had torque to spare.
“He’s capable of great violence, and he loves his sister.”
It was a concise summary, but it didn’t help in the least.
“I know this already. Give me something I can use.”
“I mean he really loves his sister. He was planning to relocate them both to Australia after he had all the money together. He was going to change their identities and set up as man and wife. In five years he would have the funds to make it all possible. Fisher and his sister were sexually abused by their father when children. This made them closer, and this is what sometimes happens.”
“Is the sister complicit in all of this?”
“I doubt it... What is your name anyway?”
“Call me Herb.”
“I have no idea, Herb, what all of this is, but I’m quite certain that his sister wants nothing to do with him and has moved home within York to avoid his visits. He forces her to engage in phone sex, which she does, provided he makes no attempt to discover her new location.”
“Jesus, that’s disgusting.”
“He’s a product of his father’s abuse. The poor man never stood a chance.”
“Yeah, well that poor guy may well blast Twickenham to Kingdom come if we don’t find a way to stop him. Would he listen to his sister?”