Sterling

by Robert Cameron

  * * * * * * *

  In an undisclosed location, the same two men rewound the black-and-white recording and tried to find the best view of the man they had seen six days previously, finally stopping at a frame of Cam looking straight up into the camera.

  A third man, well-dressed, leaned over between the two operators.

  ‘Is that him?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied one of them.

  The smart man reached between the two surveillance operators and pressed ‘stop’ on the console, ejected the CD and placed it in his pocket.

  ‘OK, gentlemen, two things. I want to know everything about that man – and I mean everything.’ He gave them both a menacing stare. ‘Then I want you to forget you ever saw him.’

  Chapter 13

  The next night Cam was sitting in front of his fire, using his phone to monitor the national news. For the second time nothing appeared. ‘Maybe it’s not being seen as newsworthy’. But Jabara was trying to sue the government; he would have thought that might have been of interest to someone.

  Looking through his files he wondered what to do with the ones relating to the two targets that had been eliminated. ‘I should probably get rid of these,’ he thought to himself. ‘I’ll take them out into the countryside tomorrow and burn them.’

  Surprisingly, he had not given any thought as to who would be next. He thumbed through his diary, checking his shifts. There would be no chance of getting away from work for at least two weeks. That would give him plenty of time to plan the next one. He closed the files and put them away in the Scrabble box, then picked up his whisky.

  Cam woke early the next morning. He had left his curtains open so he would wake up naturally with the sunrise. He had slept very deeply, probably due to the mount of Teacher’s he had drunk before turning in. He splashed his face with cold water and stumbled into the living room. Looking over at the couch he noticed the two files that he planned on destroying that day. Cam could not believe that he had left them out in plain view. ‘Shit! Felt sure I had put them away.’ Walking over to them he tried to picture how he had left them before going to bed. He couldn’t remember… He glanced around the rest of the room; he didn’t really know what he was looking for, but for some reason he felt paranoid. Shaking it off, he made some breakfast and headed out.

  Driving towards Penrith, he took a right and headed for Ullswater. He knew a quiet spot, not frequented by many people; it was also one of his favourite places. The surface of the lake was undisturbed, like glass. Some early morning fog still lingered on the far side, waiting for the sun to burn it off.

  The car park at Aira Force waterfalls was almost deserted at that time in the morning. He parked up and with the files tucked under his arm he walked up the path towards the falls. Passing the fallen tree with thousands of coins that had been hammered into it, he wondered absently how much money was there.

  Further up the hill he arrived at the small arched stone bridge that crossed over the waterfall. He paused on the bridge and looked down on the water cascading into the pool at the bottom. He could feel the cold spray from the falls rising up and settling on his face. It felt fresh and clean. Some ice still clung to the rocks – a remnant from the cold weather of the previous month. The weather was warming up, but the sun never got to that place.

  Continuing up the hill he reached the rocky outcrop which offered a great view of the lake. From there, if you arrived as the sun was going down, you could see a reflection on the lake that looked like a flame rising from the water. Although it was only an optical illusion from the headlights of the cars through the trees, it was still impressive. It was that which had prompted him to choose the place for destroying the files.

  Cam cleared some ground behind the rocks and placed the files in the muddy space. He put a match to the corner of one of the files, it took a while to catch but then they began to burn. The files of notes and photos curled up and burnt to grey and black ashes. Once they were fully destroyed and unrecognisable, he stamped out the embers. With the sole of his boot he mixed the ashes into the mud and soon there was nothing left.

  Walking back to his car he felt satisfied that there was very little to connect him with the two crimes. He had a rare feeling of being safe and content. Heading down the path lined with bare trees, he thought back to the summer. Back then, when the tree canopies had been full, you could hardly see the river in the valley, but today it was clearly visible through the naked trees.

  Cam looked forward to the warm weather returning. ‘Everything looks so different in the summer.’

  * * * * * * *

  Cam pulled up in his driveway and noticed that Mrs Crossley was at her window again. ‘Christ! Doesn’t she ever leave the kitchen?’ Cam got out of his car and locked the doors. Again Mrs Crossley waved and said something. ‘She still has no idea that I can’t hear her,’ he thought. Cam waved back to her as he headed to the pub.

  ‘See you later, Mrs Crossley,’ he called, as he walked away.

  Approaching the pub Cam saw only one car in the car park, but he expected it to be quiet. On entering he couldn’t see anyone in the bar area. He walked over to John.

  ‘Quiet one, John?’

  ‘Certainly is. What can I get for you, the usual?’

  ‘Please. Any specials on for lunch today?’

  ‘There’s a good steak and ale pie. How would that be?’

  ‘Sounds great,” he said as he picked up his double grants. ‘Cheers.’

  ‘The pie will be about ten or fifteen minutes.’

  ‘That’s fine.’ Cam picked up a newspaper from the bar. ‘Can you stick the news on the box?’

  ‘No problem.’

  Cam was sat at his table reading the paper and waiting for his lunch, when he became aware that someone had sat down opposite him. Thinking that it was his food arriving he lowered the newspaper. Cam was surprised to see a smartly dressed, intelligent-looking man staring back at him.

  ‘Hello,’ Cam said, with a quizzical edge to his voice. ‘Can I help you?’ he added.

  ‘That depends, Robert,’ the stranger replied, his voice well-spoken. Cam was taken aback by being called Robert. He hadn’t been called by his first name in years. At Cam’s silence he continued.

  ‘Robert Cameron, aged 34, born in Malta on the fifth of October, 1976. Born into a military family. After school, and two years at college you joined the army. After a few years’ service, transferred to the UK Special Forces. There you were part of a team who specialised in covert counter-terrorism, spending most of your time countering the suicide bomber threat on the UK mainland.’

  The man paused for breath, assessing Cam’s reaction. Cam looked around the pub, making sure there was still no one around.

  ‘Who are you?’ Cam said.

  ‘You’ve spent time in Sierra Leone, Afghanistan and Iraq, among other places,’ he continued. ‘You are trained to survive and fight in arctic, jungle and desert conditions. You are an expert in all aspects of covert operations, a military diver and parachutist and very good at getting in and out of places undetected. Do I need to continue?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But, most important of all,’ the man continued, ‘you don’t seem to mind taking the enemy’s life!’ The stranger leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table, as if he knew that he now had Cam’s undivided attention. And he did. Cam could feel that rising feeling – that feeling of panic, like you have just been caught.

  It was a feeling that started in the stomach and slowly rose up into the chest, eventually filling the head with irrational thoughts as the face flushed red. But Cam resisted his natural instincts and tried to keep calm; he could not let this man know he had him.

  ‘So you know who I am.’ Cam said as the man sat looking him in the eyes. ‘But who are you?’

  ‘I am here to ask you what
you were doing two days ago.’

  ‘I was out on the hills.’

  ‘Alone?’

  ‘Yes, alone,’ Cam replied almost immediately.

  ‘Are you sure you weren’t in Bradford? Because I happen to have some rather convincing evidence that says you were there two days ago.’ Cam stared back at the confident man.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I want to know why you did what you did.’ The man leaned back in his chair.

  ‘And what is it you think I’ve done?’

  ‘Robert, don’t answer a question with a question. We know about Abdul-Waajid Jabara.’

  ‘What do you know about him?’ Cam was not sure he wanted to hear the answer to this question.

  ‘We know you killed him.’

  ‘Here you go Cam.’ John placed the plate in front of him and waited for a response, but none came. Cam barely acknowledged his presence. John appeared to detect some tension between the two men.

  ‘Is everything all right, Cam?’ Eventually Cam responded.

  ‘Yes thanks, John. I’ll pay for everything as I leave if that’s OK?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s fine,’ John said and walked away. ‘If you need anything, just shout out. I’ll be just over there.’

  ‘Thanks, John.’

  Cam knew that he was caught and that it was over.

  ‘Are you here to arrest me?’ he asked eventually.

  ‘That depends on you,’ the suited man mused.

  ‘Depends on me? Who are you with? Police, MI5, who?’

  ‘We are our own entity. Our actions are our own. We answer only to ourselves and we are the only ones who know we exist.’

  ‘I don’t really understand what’s going on here. If you’re not here to arrest me, what are you doing here?’

  ‘Well, Robert, We want you to be one of us.’

  ‘And what if I don’t want to be one of you?’

  ‘In that case, you go to prison as a murderer.’ As the man finished speaking he tossed a photograph on to the table and slid it over to Cam, stopping it close to his plate. Cam looked down and saw a black and white image of his own face looking back at him.

  ‘So I don’t have a choice then?’ Cam said, as he turned the photograph face down, hiding the incriminating image.

  ‘Not if you want to stay out of prison, no.’

  ‘Why do you want me? What use am I to you?’

  ‘You have the right expertise and experience for what we do. Your skills in covert insertion and your desire to do whatever it takes to keep the country safe is exactly what we need. People like you are few and far between – and we need all of you.’

  ‘How many of you are there?’

  ‘There’s more than you might think, but there’s always room for one more.’

  Cam looked at the man opposite him. He was well dressed, in a smart suit, late thirties or early forties – difficult to tell. Highly educated and very well spoken. Cam knew that he must be high up in whatever organisation it was.

  ‘You’re not an operator. You would stand out like a sore thumb, who are you?’ For the first time the man looked slightly uncomfortable. Cam realised he might have hit a nerve with his last comment.

  ‘I’m a handler for our people.’ Cam had thought so. Most handlers wished that they were operational in the field, but didn’t have the skills to do it.

  ‘What do I call you?’

  ‘You can call me Al.’

  * * * * * * *

  With the steak and ale pie going cold on the plate, and with John watching just out of earshot from the bar, the conversation went on.

  ‘Before I make a decision, I want to know more about what it is that you guys do.’

  ‘Everything we do – even the name of our organisation – is beyond top secret. You only need to know what your small part of the big picture is.’ Al paused to gauge Cam’s reaction. Cam said nothing; he wanted to keep at least some control. Realising Cam was not going to speak, Al continued.

  ‘I handle a group of what we call “assets”. These assets are weapons. They are used to destroy targets, whatever they might be, covertly and with as little disruption as possible.’

  ‘Who are these assets and what do they do?’

  ‘They are people like you, Robert. They live normal lives, for the most part, but when we need one they are contacted and given their task.’

  ‘And what might the task be?’

  ‘Anything that needs to be done – but you could expect it to be of a similar nature to what you did in Bradford.’

  ‘What if I say no?’

  ‘You would go to prison, and this conversation did not happen.’ Al’s tone of voice changed now, and became menacing. ‘You have to remember, we have you on film leaving the house of Abdul-Waajid Jabara on the night he was murdered. The evidence against you is very incriminating. You either join us and help protect your country, or I’ll destroy your life. At the very least you will go to prison and never get out. Nobody will believe you if you try to expose us, because who would trust a schizophrenic murderer? Because that’s what we would make you into.’

  ‘Doesn’t look like I have much choice, do I?’

  ‘No, Robert you do not.’

  ‘So, what do we do next?’ Cam asked.

  ‘We send you out on your first job.’

  ‘As soon as that?’

  ‘We don’t hang around Robert.’ Al regained his more friendly tone.

  ‘OK, what would you have me do?’

  ‘We have a small group of men that need to be “gotten rid of”. You don’t need to know their names; you don’t need to know what they’re up to. I will tell you that we have had our eyes on them for some time, and we need to put a stop to their plans. You have complete freedom of movement and can complete the task however you see fit.’

  ‘Are you telling me that I’ll be protected from the police if I get caught?’

  ‘No Robert, quite the opposite. We will erase all traces of your movements wherever we can, but if you are caught, we will deny all knowledge of your actions.’

  ‘One of those,’ Cam thought, wearily.

  ‘Do I have to cover my tracks?’

  ‘Just make it low-key. Be discreet. We can make some things disappear. We can delete CCTV and your car number plates are marked so you won’t be stopped by the police. We’ll make sure our guys are in charge of any investigations. Just don’t get caught.’

  ‘I’ll need some equipment.’

  Al leaned forward again. ‘What you need, for this job, you will find in the boot of your car when you get home. From then on you can ask for extra kit as and when you need it.’

  ‘When do I go?’ Cam asked.

  ‘As soon as possible.’ Al replied.

  ‘I’m due at work tomorrow.’

  ‘Don’t concern yourself with that – you’re going to be ill. I’ll take care of it.’ Al reached over and took back the upturned photograph, and replaced it with an A5 brown envelope.

  ‘Everything you need to know is here. I will contact you again when you’re done. Good luck Robert.’

  With that, Al got up from his chair, pulled the bottom of his suit jacket down to straighten out the wrinkles from sitting.

  ‘Al,’ Cam stopped him from leaving. ‘The only person who calls me Robert is my landlady, I prefer Cam.’

  ‘Don’t worry about that. You won’t be Robert Cameron for much longer.’ John watched as Al left the pub. He went over to where Cam was still sat with the now stone-cold pie.

  ‘Everything OK, Cam? Looked a bit tense over here.’

  ‘Yeah, no problem – just a bit of bad news.’

  ‘Do you want that heated up?’

  ‘If you don’t mind.’


  Chapter 14

  Opening the boot of his car, Cam saw a small black plastic container. He immediately recognised it as a Sig Sauer pistol box. He picked it up and carried it inside. He sat down on the sofa and opened the box. Inside, a new P226 pistol with a full fifteen-round 9 mm magazine stared back at him. It was at this point that it dawned on him that these guys knew everything about him, even down to the type of weapon he was most familiar with.

  He removed the pistol from its box, attached the silencer and loaded the magazine. Placing the pistol by his side on the sofa he picked up the envelope and broke the seal. Inside was a full description of the men, their address and their recent movements and habits.

  ‘London!’ He lowered the files. ‘Christ, the other end of the country.’ Taking up the file again he continued reading. It seemed strange to be reading a file like that, that had been made by someone else. He finished reading the whole document and spread each page out on the table. He took his mobile phone and activated the camera function. He snapped a photo of each page then slid the papers back into their envelope.

  Adding the file to his own and closing the Scrabble box, he began to plan what he had to do. If he left right away he could be in London by midnight, or one in the morning at the latest. He hastily packed an overnight bag, the same any ordinary visitor to London might pack, with one exception: a loaded pistol.

  Taking one last look around his house, he grabbed his wallet and phone then he was in his car heading south. On the M6 he headed out of Cumbria towards Lancashire, away from the hills. As the surrounding land began to flatten out, his mind slipped back to the last time he was in London. It was July the 7th 2005, a date that most people had already forgotten.

  * * * * * * *

  It was immediately after nine o’clock in the morning. Cam and his troop were on a training exercise near Reading.

  ‘Something’s going on in London,’ the boss said. ‘We have sketchy reports of explosions in more than one location.’