by Thomas Waugh
“Galveston, oh , Galveston
I still hear your sea waves crashing
While I watch the cannons flashing.
I clean my gun, and dream of Galveston.
I still see her standing by the water,
Standing there looking out to sea.
And is she waiting there for me,
On the beach where we used to run?”
“It’d be nice to set a date now, just to give Samantha notice and to make sure the apartment will be available when we want to go,” Emma replied, trying to impress upon him the importance of the trip. She breathed or sighed at witnessing him twist his wedding ring. Emma wanted to leave for Paris as soon as possible, to know whether he wanted to marry her. To know if he loved her. She was wearing a pair of white, linen trousers - which clung to her shapely legs – and a purple, satin blouse. Emma fingered her crucifix as she spoke. She often did so when praying, or agitated.
“I’ve just got a few things on over the coming week. For one thing, I’m meeting my old CO tomorrow about a possible job - for me and, more importantly, John. I don’t want to arrange a trip and put Samantha to any trouble, only to cancel any plans a couple of days later.”
“I done my honky tonkin’ round and had a lot of fun
But somehow I can’t understand how one and one makes one
I like to cuddle near you and listen to you lie
But get that marryin’ out of your head I’ll be a bachelor till I die…”
The shushing sound of the rain did nothing to quieten the nagging voices in their heads. There was tetchiness in both their tones. She knew he was hiding something from her, as usual. He knew she was being unreasonable. But things would just simmer rather than come to the boil. Emma recalled how, when talking to Samantha earlier, she had revealed that they never really argued about anything.
“Perhaps we should argue more. It might be a good thing. It’ll make us more like a normal couple,” Emma wryly asserted.
“And it’ll be a good dress rehearsal for married life,” Samantha added, humourlessly, as she thought of her rich – but fantastically dull and selfish – husband. The former school teacher but now housewife couldn’t remember the last time they had been in each other’s company for more than two days, without having a full-blown row. “In the next year, I’m going to need to get pregnant or get a good divorce lawyer,” she confessed to Emma after ordering a large gin and tonic, to help wash the prosecco down.
Whether due to the thunder outside or turbulent atmosphere in the apartment Violet let out a whimper and nuzzled Devlin. He responded by rubbing her belly affectionately.
“It’s alright. It’ll soon all be over. All will be well.”
A storm can only last for so long.
“It’s been two long years now
Since the top of the world came crashing down
And I’m getting it back on the road now
But I’m taking the long way
Taking the long way around …”
*
Oliver Porter wrinkled his nose at the slight inconvenience of the storm. He would have to wait to take Marlborough out for his evening walk. The consultant sat at his desk, cradling a glass of brandy in his hand, it’s stem between his fingers as he lovingly swirled the golden liquid around before letting the elixir warm and stimulate his throat. An air purifier hummed in the corner and generated a cooling breeze. Porter closed his eyes and let the air fan him whilst he scrunched-up his toes on the thick claret carpet in his office, before turning his attention to the computer screen.
Mariner had sent an encrypted email to say he had compiled a file on Jamal, which he would courier over to the Savile tomorrow afternoon. The hacker also confirmed that he could disable the relevant security systems and cameras at the hotel, although Devlin would only have a window of twenty minutes before a series of protocols kicked in and the staff – and police – would be alerted. Mariner also mentioned he would enclose a special key card in the folder, which Devlin could use to open the door of the relevant suite at the hotel.
Porter pursed his lips and rolled his eyes when he opened his associate’s invoice. The fixer had once defined happiness as having more money in one’s bank account at the end of the month compared to the start of it. But just this once Porter would ignore his own Macawber-like philosophy to re-pay his debt to Devlin. He had little doubt that the honourable – or daft – soldier would have kept his promise to try to assassinate the Afghan without him. At least, by giving him as much assistance as he could, Porter would narrow Devlin’s odds in succeeding. There was more than a slither of selfishness in Porter’s supposedly selfless offer however. If apprehended then it was possible that previous hits could be pinned on Devlin – and traced back to him (not that Porter believed, for one second, that Devlin would ever give him up to the authorities to lessen his sentence). But, for once perhaps, Porter’s motivation wasn’t wholly borne from self-interest.
You did warn yourself years ago, Oliver, about making friends in this business. And now you’re paying for it.
Devlin was different. He was the only operative Porter had invited to his home and introduced to his wife and children. Most killers, almost by definition, were psychopaths. The army occasionally attracted them – or created them. Porter had little difficulty in spotting and recruiting associates when he began to grow his business. Contract killers often lacked empathy and a regard for conventional morality. Something was missing in their brain chemistry, or had been added. Some told themselves that they killed for money – but in truth most were sadists. Violence – and killing – could be tantamount to a drug. Cruelty may be more addictive – and ubiquitous – than nicotine. Yet Devlin was different. He neither lacked empathy nor a moral code. If he was a depressive, he was stoical rather than manic. If he was a drunk he was a sober, or even happy, drunk. More than anyone else Porter had encountered, Devlin killed out of a sense of righteousness. His targets were the corrupt and the cruel. He was meticulous in his planning to avoid anyone innocent being in the line of fire. But righteousness can be as addictive – and cancerous – as nicotine. The soldier’s righteousness – and sense of honour – could now be his undoing. And who is truly righteous? Priests and Bob Geldof? Or anyone who forwards on a tweet by Michelle Obama? If none but the righteous deserved to live, Porter considered, then the planet would be deserted.
Devlin argued that this would be his final job. But he sounded about as convincing as a barfly who had just declared that he had taken his last drink. Maybe he was fated to never find peace. He was, like Coriolanus drenched in blood, drenched in too much sorrow and sin. He missed his wife too much. The widowed lovebird doesn’t sing. Porter had been worried in the past that, wearied with taking other lives, Devlin would one day ultimately take his own. At first Porter was concerned that he would lose an asset. But now he was concerned that he would lose a friend.
9.
Maria directed Devlin to where Porter was sitting, in a quiet corner of the club. A large Glenmorangie on a coaster was also waiting for him at the table. Porter finished off his gin and tonic and requested another. He couldn’t help but notice how the bags under Devlin’s eyes were more pronounced. His hair, despite being relatively cut short, was uncharacteristically unkempt – and his shirt hadn’t been crisply ironed, compared to the day before. He’s fraying. Perhaps he’s having doubts and second thoughts about the job. But it was in hope more than expectation that Porter thought Devlin would alter his course – even if he knew he was about to sail off the edge of the world.
Deep-throated laughter sounded from an adjacent room, where a party of people – consisting of politicians, senior civil servants, journalists and political lobbyists – were having lunch. More than one guest had spotted Porter as he entered the club. At first, he was accosted by the political hack Simon Wendle, the son of Sir Anthony Wendle, the former Labour cabinet minister and MP for Sunderland. Ampleforth, and living in the shadow of a brilliant but emotionall
y retarded father, had damaged him. Tony Benn had once said that Simon Wendle would go far. In Benn’s defence, it wasn’t the only thing the diarist got wrong in his life. The journalist and political commentator sat by the phone each morning, waiting for an editor at The Guardian or a producer at Sky News to call him. He could have a fervent opinion on anything, for a modest fee. Wendle had taken to spending his afternoons at the Savile of late, in order to supplicate the great and the good who were also members of the Garrick, to nominate him for membership of the more prestigious club. Wendle sawed the air with his hands, like a bad actor, when he spoke – or rather pontificated. He sounded like Brian Sewell, sucking on a lemon. And looked like Ben Bradshaw, after a pub crawl. His palms glistened with sweat or oil from his slicked-back hair, Porter observed. The fixer smiled politely and duly pretended to be interested in his morsels of outdated gossip and latest newspaper column. Like a wasp noticing a brighter bloom however, Wendle excused himself from Porter’s company when he observed a close friend of Paul Dacre enter the club. His last words were to promise to have lunch with Porter soon. “Why don’t we go to the Garrick? You are still a member, aren’t you?”
Before Porter had time to draw breath, or sigh, he was approached by Walter Leach, the new Tory MP for Welwyn Hatfield. Half a dozen years ago, unbeknownst to Leach, Porter had been asked by a cabal from the 1922 committee to dissuade him from running as a Conservative candidate in a key by-election. Employing an intermediary Porter forced Leach to withdraw from the race by blackmailing him with knowledge of the businessman’s tax affairs. Ironically, two years later, Porter was asked to work on Leach’s campaign when he ran for parliament in a marginal seat in Somerset. This time Porter leaked news of a Labour candidate’s extra-marital gay affair to the press. “Red Ted Beds Young Black Fred in Garden Shed,” isn’t a headline that’s easy to come back from in Frome. And he didn’t.
And so Walter Leach entered office. Porter had recently read a profile of the MP:
“He’s like Michael Fabricant, but with slightly tidier hair… or a slightly more honest Grant Schapps… crossed with a slightly more intelligent Nikki Morgan and less self-serving Michael Gove. Indeed, Walter Leach may have been created in a lab to produce the best, or worst, Tory politician known to man.”
As much as Leach had recently preached how he was working night and day to save his local hospital from closure – as well as working every hour to secure the best Brexit possible – the member of parliament for Welwyn Hatfield was far more concerned about how much his wife would take from him in the divorce settlement.
“I would greatly appreciate your advice at some point Oliver. My lawyers are proving to be far too scrupulous. I need to know how best to hide my assets, else she’ll fleece me of everything. She just wants to leave me with the flat in London, which I haven’t had time to properly flip yet. I also don’t want her to use the money set aside for my boy’s education to go towards paying for a new pair of tits and a ghastly Audi TT. She may be playing the victim in the press. But if you watch carefully enough, when she wipes away the tears, you’ll see the bitch has claws instead of fingers.”
Porter offered Leach a vague promise that they would discuss things in more detail soon but then excused himself:
“I apologise, Walter, but I need to meet someone downstairs. I’m late and he may already be here.”
“Oh, sorry. Is it urgent or can you spare a few more minutes?”
“You might say it’s a matter of life or death. But it concerns something even more important than that. Lots of money,” Porter said, whilst rubbing his hands together, grinning sumptuously and forcing a coin-like glint into his eye.
Leach replied by chortling and nodding his head in approval.
“Well let me know if I can do anything in the House to help proceedings.” He then disappeared into the direction of the bar, to expense another drink.
Porter walked off in the opposite direction, wryly or woefully thinking to himself how the Savile used to be home to the likes of Charles Darwin and Kipling. But nowadays the club was populated by lawyers, hedge fund managers and media consultants. They hung around the place like harpies or gargoyles, perched on gothic cathedrals.
God help us.
Porter passed the memory stick and hotel key card to Devlin.
“No doubt you’ll scrutinize the information later but I thought I might give you some of the highlights now. Your friend Rameen worked his way up, or down, from rapist to politician. Several years ago, his father gave the Karzai government a substantial bribe so his son could serve as a trade delegate and diplomat. Suffice to say he uses his diplomatic pouch to transport a variety of opiates around the world, as opposed to any official papers. He has also used his diplomatic status to grant him immunity against rape, criminal damage various and traffic violations. MI5 put him under surveillance at the beginning of the week. So far, our esteemed Afghani trade delegate has assaulted two escorts from the comfort of his hotel suite. They were paid off however and told to keep their mouths shut, although that will prove easy for one poor girl it seems as he broke her jaw. He usually wakes just after midday and goes shopping. He’s spent more time in Harrods’s this week than a footballer’s wife. He has attended one or two scheduled meetings with trade representatives but “the devout Muslim” – as he’s been described on his government’s website - has been either drunk or high when he’s done so.”
Devlin’s jaw became squarer as he compressed his teeth together. Determination, rather than moral outrage, shaped his features. He tapped his fingers on the table in front of him, restless and eager to pull the trigger on the target. He wanted to feel the recoil of his gun again. The sensation would jolt through his arm and maybe jumpstart something in his heart.
“What does the file say about his security detail?”
“He has come over with two trained security personnel. They will be armed. When they are with him in the hotel suite though they may well be getting high. Our government has generously provided him with some additional security, albeit the file states that they only accompany their charge when he is scheduled to leave the hotel. As you will notice though the intelligence isn’t altogether up-to-date. What with being painfully under resourced, MI5 have moved the surveillance team to another person of interest.”
“Do we know why he’s in London? Is there any intelligence that suggests links to terrorism?”
“I’ll come to that in a moment. Ostensibly our honoured guest is in town to negotiate a trade deal, with an Anglo-American pharmaceutical conglomerate, for his father’s opium crop. Most of the crop will of course still be set aside for less law-abiding cartels. In return DFID, as a sweetener to seal the deal, will be re-directing a large part of its Afghan aid budget into Hakim Jamal’s bank account. Oh, what a tangled web we weave, the British government should say to itself. But, alas, all too often it doesn’t. But in regards to Rameen he is too much of a liability to be invited into the inner circles of terrorist networks. He is about as likely to tie-up a terrorist attack as he is his shoelaces. The real target on Five’s watch list this week was his fellow trade delegate, one Faisal Ahmadi. There is intelligence from MI6 on the file I’ve just given you. As a teenager, he fought in the ranks of the mujahedeen against the Russians, working with the CIA to distribute Stinger missiles to jihadists throughout his province. It seems Ahmadi is as forgiving as a Christian however, as he now works alongside his former enemy to provide intelligence about the US to the Russians. Ahmadi is known for his predilections of sitting in on torture sessions and grooming boys. But he doesn’t drink and is duly called a “dedicated Muslim” on his government’s website. As well as serving as Hakim Jamal’s right-hand man, Ahmadi is also responsible for running a network of people smugglers. Partly he does so for money. He’s only human, as well as being monster, after all. Let us not gild the lily and deem them political refugees. Smugglers are principally transporting economic migrants across Europe. Young Muslim men. And for every hu
ndred economic migrants Ahmadi’s associates smuggles into London, Paris and Brussels, he is also smuggling half a dozen agents of Islamic State into the West. During the course of this week he has had meetings with a handful of Imams, who are known to work as recruiters for Isis. Although they may preach a message of peace to their flocks in the Midlands, they also take the wolves aside and encourage them to bare their teeth. Under the guise of charitable donations Ahmadi provides funds for the Imans to expand their operations and out-reach programmes through mosques. He has links as well to the Saudis and, using his diplomatic status, serves as a mule – delivering money and instructions to special interest groups in the UK who lobby for the introduction of Sharia law in designated parts of the country. The hotel will need to change the carpet after the stain Jamal leaves, so you won’t be inconveniencing The Ritz too much if you retire Ahmadi as well. Indeed, you’ll be doing the world a veritable favour. I suspect the security services might even give you a medal, rather than prison sentence, if they apprehend you.”
Porter glanced at up a frowsty looking portrait of Palmerston hanging on the opposite wall, looking down on them. He imagined the portrait coming to life, with the statesman offering Devlin an encouraging pat on the shoulder and conspiratorial wink.
“I’ll be sure to introduce myself to the dedicated Muslim,” Devlin replied, evenly. He had already determined that he would take down any of Rameen’s personal security in the suite, when he met with his target.