Saving Tara Goodwin (Mystery Book 1)

by Richard Harrington

  ‘Sorry sir, but you see, I saw your Bergen, and just assumed …’

  ‘Mister, you can assume whatever the hell you like in your own time, but not when you’re working for me, because although I couldn’t give a damn if you get yourself slotted, I have no particular desire to be included in the plan. So is that okay with you?’

  The cold, quiet, deadly note in Frank’s voice, tightened the blond’s chest, ‘Yes sir.’

  Stepping closer, Frank held his ID up to the blond’s eyes, ‘Check it out.’

  The young man took a step back as a sheen of sweat suddenly appeared on his brow, and swallowing hard, scanned over the plastic ID, and saw the red band, photograph, and National Security Agency.

  His eyes searched the card for a name, but when he realised there was only a number, the card was gone.

  He swore under his breath, because he couldn’t remember the damned number, and knew almost certainly he wouldn’t get another chance.

  ‘Thank you, sir. So shall I put your pack in the boot?’

  ‘No.’

  Heaving the Bergen into the car, Frank climbed in and slammed the door.

  The blond stood for a moment and looked at him through cold murderous eyes, then walking round, slammed the boot lid and angrily yanked open the driver’s door, but as he slid behind the wheel, he heard Frank talking quietly to him.

  ‘Right then. No chitchat and no low-level flying, a nice easy drive will do just fine, and be sure to wake me when we get to Cirencester.’

  ‘Yes. Sir …’

  Driving out through the gates, the car turned north, and as the jumble of questions came into Frank’s mind, the two days of non-stop travelling began to catch up with him, and as he relaxed in the warmth and motion of the car, he fell into the craziest dream, a dream of Cardinal giving old Monty open heart surgery in the barren wilds of the Afghan hills while terrorists flew aircraft into the wound in his chest.

  By the time the car arrived on the outskirts of Cirencester, he was awake and staring at the back of the driver’s head, and turning to look out through the window, two thoughts came clear in his mind. One, he wasn’t ready to face Tonabie’s lies, and two, he needed the straight talking of Ted Willis to help sort out his mixed up thinking.

  Frank directed the blond through to the town centre, and telling him to pull over, clambered out of the car, ‘Okay, that’s far enough, you can return to base now.’

  The young blond stared, ‘You’re not coming to GCHQ?’

  ‘No, not today, I’ve got things to do.’

  ‘But sir, I don’t think that’s a good idea, they’re waiting for you at Cheltenham.’

  Frank gave him a hard look, ‘So what’s your worry, it’s not your fucking problem.’

  The blond coughed, ‘Well I just think you ought to go, sir.’

  ‘Oh yeah? Well bollocks to what you think, just tell them I’ll be there tomorrow.’

  ‘They won’t be pleased, sir.’

  ‘Now is that a fact. Well if you want to know the truth, right now, I just don’t care.’

  2

  Frank watched the car glide away into the early traffic, and walking to a general store, stood behind a magazine rack and watched as the Jaguar cruised up and down, and after a while, bought a two-hundred pack of cigarettes, and giving the old woman a five pound tip, was let out through the back door.

  Two streets away he found an old red phone box with various cards pinned up, some were for personal services and some for taxis, so he chose Ace Cabs and made the call, and within ten minutes was sat in an old and battered, dark green Mercedes and heading off at speed for Malmesbury.

  Relaxing back in the well worn seat, he watched as the countryside slipped by, but when he thought of that slimy blond, Christian’s theory came into his mind, and although it had seemed like a mishmash of logic, it now appeared to be coming true, and this game stood a damned good chance of ending in tears, but for whom?

  Paying off the driver on the outskirts of town, he watched until the cab had driven away, and hoisting the Bergen over his shoulder, walked through the twisting streets of stone built houses that all seemed to lead eventually to the ancient market square.

  The town was coming to life now, a clock chiming eight as he skirted round the square, and walking down a side road, stepped into a narrow, high walled path that meandered along between the backs of shops and houses.

  Coming to the stone wall of the local garage, he pulled himself up and looked over, but there was no-one to be seen, just cars and trucks waiting for repair. Dropping down into the yard, Frank made his way up to the workshop and saw a large burly figure dressed in greasy overalls bent over the engine bay of a Land Rover.

  He had a woollen cap perched on the back of his head, an unlit cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth and he was using tools that looked small in his huge hands.

  He was Ted Willis, the best driver and backup man the Section had ever known, and for Frank Lewis, just knowing he was there somehow gave him the kick to go on.

  ‘Hi Ted.’

  Coming out from under the bonnet he saw Frank and gave a big grin.

  ‘Frank, you old dog, so where did you spring from?’

  He smiled back, ‘Oh, just passing through. So how’s things?’

  Ted wiped his hands on a rag, ‘Can’t grumble.’

  The look on Frank’s tired washed out face, reminded him of his own days in the fast lane and he was glad to be out, because adrenaline is just a drug like any other, and an overdose of adrenaline can be bad for your health.

  Clattering the tools down onto the Land Rover, he thoughtfully rubbed his jaw.

  ‘You’d better come into the office and have a brew, looks like you need one.’

  The office was just like the rest of the garage; it was from the old days and probably hadn’t changed much since the fifties. Sitting down on one of the old wooden chairs, Frank saw it was just the same as always, with the same old fashioned aromas and the same reassuring air of permanence.

  He smiled at the big old wooden desk, still in a jumble, with ledgers, a phone, a lamp, and two six-inch nails set in lumps of hard wood, with bills pushed onto one and receipts on the other, then two large, battered filing cabinets stood against the wall whilst over in the corner was the red glow of a wood burning stove.

  Frank idly looked around as Ted made the tea at a small table by the wood burner, and as the tension began to ease, his tired eyes were caught by a calendar on the far wall.

  It showed a naked woman laying on a bed.

  She was beautiful, her tangled brown hair looking windblown as it swirled in a dance around her face of creamy skin, green eyes and luscious red lips, her large full breasts looking soft but firm with tiny pink nipples, her waist flowing out to the sensuous curves of her hips while her stomach slid down between silky parting thighs, and although he didn’t know her, it was as if her warm smile was inviting him to join her on the bed.

  He tried to look away, but the beauty of her, and the rising ache of a wanting passion was beginning to hypnotise him.

  ‘Wake up old son.’

  Jolting, he looked up and saw Ted with a large mug of dark tea laced with whisky.

  Sitting down at his desk, Ted lit the cigarette and sipped the tea as he watched Frank snuggle the mug to his lips, his eyes dull, and he’d known him for long enough to know something was bothering him, so leaning across, he clicked his fingers in his face.

  ‘Life’s a bitch, old son, and then you die.’

  Shaking himself awake, he smiled at Ted’s way of levelling out life, and soon the snug room and whisky began to seep into his bones and relax him.

  ‘Busy, Ted?’

  ‘I’m always busy, old son, that’s why I like cars, the little beauties keep going wrong. But yours isn’t ready yet; did you want it?’

  ‘No, but I might do later, it looks like the office is organising a party.’

  Ted frowned, ‘I see, so what is it, not a masquerade I
hope.’

  ‘I’m not sure, but it could be, they say Monty’s involved.’

  Ted’s eyebrows shot up, ‘Are you sure? I heard he’s a pretty sick fella.’

  ‘He is, and the other bad news is that Daniels and Coogan might be in on the act.’

  Ted put his mug down, and thought, that isn’t bad news, that’s a fucking disaster.

  Leaning back in the chair, he tapped his fingers in a slow rhythm on the desk.

  ‘You’d better be careful then, those bastards travel with a coffin in their luggage.’

  ‘So I’ve heard, but I’ve never met them, have you?’

  ‘No, thank god, and I don’t know of anyone who has, or is daft enough to want to. They work strictly out of the top drawer, official death on a government leash and they don’t give a shit who they take out because everything they do is sanctioned.’

  Frank kept the Cardinal secondments to himself, things were bad enough already.

  The phone rang, it was the vicar asking if his car was ready, so while Ted made excuses, Frank wandered out into the workshop, and over in the corner, recognised a large shape covered in a grimy dust sheet. While he stared, old memories came back to haunt him and he hardly even noticed when Ted appeared at his side. Standing in silence, Ted followed Frank’s gaze across the workshop.

  ‘There’s not much left to do, and that seven litre Chevy engine sounds like pure magic, so all things considered, she should go like a bat out of hell.’

  Frank nodded, but he wasn’t really listening, his thoughts on other things.

  ‘Ted, is my box still okay?’

  Swinging round he gave him a hard look, ‘Yeah, of course it is, it’s where you left it, but you don’t really think you’ll need it, do you?’

  Frank shrugged, ‘It’s possible, so I might as well check it out while I’m here.’

  Watching him climb the ancient creaking stairs, Ted knew well enough that when Frank got a gut feeling he was usually right.

  So it looked like Frank’s old Range Rover had just gone to the front of the queue.

  That should please the vicar.

  Frank climbed the wooden stairs that wound up and around the office to the attic, and reaching the landing, stood on the handrail and pushed the trap door open until it fell back with a thud.

  Pulling himself up, he found the light switch, and looking around at the endless piles of junk, the layer upon layer of dusty cobwebs told him that nothing had been disturbed.

  Clambering over to the chimney stack, he heaved back the junk and watched the spiders scuttle away from the metal trunk that nestled safely between the rafters, and it was just as he’d left it all those months ago.

  Kneeling down, he dialled the numbers on the security lock, and lifting the heavy lid, saw everything was there.

  The two-piece sniper rifle in its oil cloth, complete with silencer, scope, infra-red sights and three boxes of ammunition, the paraffin stove with its two gallon container, first-aid kit, storm torch, money belt, foul weather suit and the two false passports in a sealed bag, one British in the name of James Farren, and the other Australian in the name of Patrick Henessy. Satisfied with everything, he sealed it all up again.

  Climbing back down, he saw Ted at the jumbled desk, searching through invoices, and taking a piece of paper, scribbled out a shopping list and pinned it on the board.

  ‘Ted, if I shout, I’d like this to go with my box.’

  He looked up, ‘Okay son, no problem, just say the word.’

  Sitting quietly in the chair, he waited for Ted to finish his work, and couldn’t help wondering how many of the other operatives used this old garage as a safe house.

  After a while, Ted sighed, leant back and tossed the invoices onto the desk.

  ‘This bloody paperwork gets on my tits, what say you old son?’

  Frank smiled and remembered he had to go through hours of de-briefing when he got back to Cheltenham, but as he thought of the other operatives who might use the safe house, an idea suddenly came to him.

  ‘Ted, tell me, have you heard anything interesting lately?’

  Giving him a long sideways look, Ted pursed his lips as if making a careful decision.

  ‘Yeah, but I wasn’t going to mention it, you seem to have enough on your plate.’

  Frank settled back in the chair, ‘Well, go on then, so what is it?’

  Hesitating, Ted took a cigarette from the pack and lit it slowly as if in slow motion.

  ‘Well it’s just something that Martin Drake said, you know, that guy from records.’

  Frank thought back, ‘Oh yeah, Fuzzy Drake, I remember him.’

  Ted smiled, ‘I thought you would, he’s still as mad as a March hare when he’s sober, and a total lunatic when he’s pissed.’

  Frank grinned, ‘So what’s he been up to now?’

  ‘Oh nothing, but he dropped by a couple of weeks ago, just for a drink and a chat.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Well the whisky took a bit of a hammering, and Fuzzy let slip that one of the blokes from Q team got taken out, and it was all a bit of a mystery.’

  ‘Oh really? So who was it?’

  ‘A fella by the name of Robin Sheverill. Did you know him?’

  Frank came wide awake, because he was only here today, thanks to Robin Sheverill.

  He’d been in Beirut making contact with a dodgy Iraqi go-between, code named Fat Yas, it was said that Yas had information to sell, but it had all gone wrong and he’d ended up being knifed, kicked unconscious and left for dead in a bomb crater.

  But Q team had been passing through, and when Frank failed to show up, Sheverill had tried to find him, but it was pretty hopeless, and when he was about to give up searching, a local CIA unit had offered the assistance of one of their specialist agents from the Royal Edit Force, the equivalent of the NSA’s Section.

  She was a gutsy, no-nonsense lady in her early thirties, fit, hard, very smart, and knew Beirut like the back of her hand. She was Christiana Levett.

  Leading Sheverill to Fat Yas, they learnt enough to find Frank in the bomb crater, and he remembered Robin Sheverill being unofficially mentioned in dispatches, as, ‘Having shown bravery above and beyond the call of duty'.

  Frank slumped down in the chair, ‘So where did Sheverill get it, does anyone know?’

  ‘Yeah. Fuzzy said he got it in Germany, he was found in the Rhine just outside of Frankfurt and he had an ice pick in the back of his head.’

  Standing up, Frank walked over to the whisky bottle and took a good long swallow.

  Ted watched, ‘Frank, now for god’s sake don’t repeat this, but according to Fuzzy, Robin Sheverill had been on Cardinal secondment for only a few days before he got it.’

  Frank looked at the naked woman, smiling on the calendar, and thought, Fuck Cardinal.

  ‘So have they got anyone for it?’

  ‘No, the German authorities drew a blank, but they’ll find the bastard, it just takes time, and then Daniels and Coogan will have used up another coffin.’

  Frank sighed, ‘Well there’s no love lost in this game, and that’s a fact.’

  ‘It’s a funny thing though, that bloke Robin Sheverill lived around here, Fuzzy said he had a small farm, not too far away, up on the road to Sherston.’

  Frank wasn’t surprised, most of the Section operatives lived within reach of Cheltenham, it made family life just a little bit easier.

  ‘And did Fuzzy say if Sheverill had any family?’

  ‘A wife, no kids though.’

  Frank stuffed his hands into his pockets, ‘I’ve got a free afternoon, I could call in and see how she is, you know, see if she needs anything. What do you think?’

  Ted splashed whisky into the mug as he screwed up his face in concentration.

  ‘Well I can’t see a problem, except …’

  ‘Except what?’

  ‘Well to be honest, old son, you need a bath. You stink.’

  It was late morning when Frank step
ped out of Ted’s cottage and he’d almost forgotten how good it felt to be washed, clean shaven and dressed in fresh clothes.

  The ten minute walk back up to the garage took him past Ted’s local drinking hole, and as it was one of the town’s old pubs it had that interesting look from bygone days, so as he had time to spare, he pushed the door open and went in.

  It was warm, mellow and cosy inside with the aroma of real ale still hanging in the air, and as yet, hadn’t been ruined by a chrome and glitter re-vamp.

  Over the countless years, the old pillars and beams had acquired a dark lustre which gave a feeling of old world charm, and bright colourful paintings of horse riding scenes hung around the plaster walls while gleaming polished oak tables and chairs stood dotted around the room on a thickly piled carpet of autumn colours.

  Walking over to the curving oak bar, he looked at it all in appreciation, and dropping the Bergen, sat down and saw there was yet another early drinker, a wiry old man dressed in well worn country clothes.

  He was sat at the far end of the bar and taking small sips from a half pint mug of beer while passing the time with a crossword puzzle, and turning, glanced over to Frank.

  ‘He’s in the cellar.’

  Frank looked across, ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Dave, the landlord, he’s changing a barrel in the cellar.’

  Frank nodded, ‘Okay, thanks, there’s no rush.’

  The old man looked him over, ‘Are you one of them there, backpackers then?’

  Frank glanced to the Bergen, and looking back, saw the old man had bright inquisitive eyes, flabby jowls, a bent nose, no hair, and was sucking on a stubby pencil.

  ‘No, those days are long gone, my car’s being repaired in the garage.’

  The door behind the bar was suddenly kicked open and a tubby man barged in carrying boxes of crisps. He had receding hair, a moustache, and eyes that looked hard at Frank. Grunting, he put the boxes under the bar and stood up, panting heavily.

  ‘Mornin, and what can I get you?’

  Frank ordered a pint of Guinness and a ham roll with mustard, and watching the landlord pull the pint, saw he in turn was glancing at him through low sullen eyes.