Assassin

by Tom Cain

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What about all the people who’ve died just because they happened to get in the way? How do you justify it when you trot off to Canada and take out a plane with someone on it you think deserves to die and – oh dear! – the pilot dies too, and the chap next to him, and the poor little trolley-dolly, and a couple of passengers too? This is an actual case I’m quoting…’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘You were trying to get a man named Waylon McCabe.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘But he was the only person who walked away. Dearie me, that was a bit of a mistake.’

  ‘Yes… yes, it was.’

  Tyzack stepped forward till his mouth was just inches from Carver’s right ear. ‘So why, when I make a mistake, just one mistake… a mistake which harmed far fewer people… why did you have to ruin my entire… fucking… life?’

  58

  Carver took a second gulp of water and went back to the story of the Maid of Dumfries.

  ‘Even when I was topsides I knew that the weapon I’d heard was an MP5 set to automatic fire – one of ours. So I went below decks, came through the door of that cabin and your oppo, McWhirter, was standing there saying something like, “Oh Jesus… what the fuck have you done?” This tough Glasgow bastard, seen it all, done it all, and whatever he’d just seen, it had shocked him to the point he was almost in tears. Then you caught sight of me and said – no, that’s wrong, you whined: “He had a weapon.”’

  Tyzack stepped back, away from Carver’s chair, and started pacing up and down the floor of the barn. He looked agitated, twitchy, on the brink of another loss of control.

  ‘Would you like me to stop?’ Carver asked, the victim briefly inflicting more damage than his torturer.

  ‘No,’ snarled Tyzack. ‘Keep going. Tell me the lies you told Trench and the rest.’

  ‘Whatever you say. So, I was looking for a man with a weapon. And I was puzzled, because I couldn’t see him anywhere. And then I noticed something. There was a padded bench, ran most of the way round the cabin wall. And something had been flung on it. At first I thought it was a pile of dirty rags. And then I realized that the dirt was blood and the pile of rags was this little kid. God knows how many rounds you’d put into him because you’d practically cut him in two, poor little beggar.’

  Now the anger was rising in Carver too and it was emotion that constricted his voice, not the collar round his neck as he said, ‘And next to the kid was the weapon, except it wasn’t a weapon, was it, Tyzack? It was a plastic toy gun. And in front of the kid, on the floor, was a woman, the mother. She’d tried to protect her baby, and you’d given her a burst too. Once I’d seen that, what else did I need to know?’

  ‘You could have asked me what happened?’ said Tyzack, still pacing up and down. ‘You could have let me explain.’

  ‘All right then, explain. Tell me why you couldn’t tell the difference between a grown man with a gun and a small child with a toy.’

  ‘Because it was dark down there. We were all using goggles, remember? No lights on at all, just the flame from that gas hob in the corner. There was a cooking pot on top, so I reckoned there had to be someone there. Plus, we’d been told to expect a minimum crew of three, and there were only two down, both of them armed. And I didn’t see a kid. I just saw something moving across the room, I saw a gun barrel, and I heard the sound of firing-’

  ‘Do me a favour,’ Carver interrupted. ‘You heard the sound of the kid’s toy. He probably thought it was all a big game. And if you think a toy gun sounds anything like the real thing, you need your ears examining, as well as your head. How about muzzle-flash, see any of that? Notice any bullet holes anywhere, any ricochets? You were in a cabin no more than eight foot square. If he had been firing a real gun, you’d have known all about it.’

  ‘I didn’t have time to work that out, did I?’ Tyzack protested. ‘I don’t know, maybe I thought he had a suppressor. And there was at least one adult in the cabin. They could have been armed, too. I couldn’t afford to take chances.’

  ‘Bollocks,’ said Carver, quite calmly. ‘I’ll tell you what happened. You were on your first mission. You’d just had your first kill and you were practically coming in your pants with excitement. You couldn’t wait to do it again. So when you saw two people in that cabin you let rip. And all the training you’d ever done went right out the window. How many hours had you spent in the Killing House, training for exactly this kind of moment? That’s why we did it, so we didn’t kill the wrong people. And if you really want to know, what pissed me off was not just that you were such a blatant bloody psycho, it was that you were a total amateur. You’re just a fucking awful soldier.’

  Whatever scenes Tyzack had played out in his mind, that hadn’t been in the script. He came to a halt, turned to face Carver and there was outrage in his voice as he protested, ‘That’s not true! You said it yourself, my assessment scores were better than yours. I was just inexperienced. If I’d been given a chance, I wouldn’t have made mistakes like that again. But you never gave me the chance. You humiliated me in front of the other men, and then you had me kicked out.’

  Carver shook his head in disbelief. ‘That’s what all this is about, is it? I’m sitting here because I’m the man who got poor, misunderstood Damon Tyzack his dishonourable discharge? You moron. You’d still be in prison if it wasn’t for me. I didn’t ruin your life. I saved your bloody neck. ’

  59

  Carver had said nothing when he saw the bodies. He stepped across to the light switch, turned it on, and took off his night-vision goggles as the cabin suddenly filled with the harsh glare of an unshaded bulb. Then he put a hand up to his face and massaged his forehead, the movements of his fingers alternately smoothing and deepening the single deep furrow on his brow, the outline of his goggles still visible on his skin. When he removed his hand and opened his eyes, they looked as chilly and green as the ice in a glacial crevasse.

  ‘You’re very lucky,’ he said, looking straight at Tyzack. ‘This is a secret operation, and we don’t want it compromised by a murder inquiry, or getting in the media. So we’re going to have to destroy the evidence. I want you to place charges on the fuel and water tanks. If you’ve got any spare, put them against the inside of the hull, below the water-line, ten-minute fuses on the detonators. When they’re set, open the seacocks, so the boat starts flooding. That’ll do most of the work. The charges will just blow the buoyancy out of the tanks and give us a bang for the fly-boys to see.’

  There was a clattering of boots behind Carver and another SBS man, Sergeant Hirst, appeared in the doorway.

  ‘We found half of Colombia down there, boss,’ he shouted. ‘Tons of the stuff. You’ll never…’

  Hirst fell silent as he took in the scene in the cabin.

  ‘This ship’s got to have a life-raft,’ said Carver. ‘Find it. Launch it. And get the lads together. We’re scuttling the ship.’

  ‘But, boss, the cocaine… it’s worth millions…’

  ‘Makes no difference. Customs are only going to burn it anyway.’

  Hirst gave a shrug of his shoulders and left the cabin, shouting orders as he walked up on to the deck. Now Carver was on the radio, talking to the helicopter pilot.

  ‘We found the cocaine. Two crew, both dead. Bad news is, they stuffed the ship with enough C4 to sink the Titanic. I don’t know if they managed to set the fuses before we hit them and I’m not waiting to find out. Nor should you. Get well out of range. We’re going to abandon ship and take the life-raft. We’ll give it the standard thirty minutes. If she blows, you can come and pick us up. If she doesn’t, we’ll get back on board. Got that? Over.’

  ‘Absolutely. Have a jolly cruise. Out.’

  No one would question the story. Drug-smugglers routinely scuttled their boats if they thought they were going to get caught. That way they destroyed the evidence, and when they were found floating on a raft maritime law defined them as rescued sailors, not suspect
ed criminals, so no charges could be pressed.

  ‘What are you waiting for?’ Carver snapped at Tyzack. ‘I thought I told you to sink this boat?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Well, get on with it. The sooner you do it, the less distance you’ll have to swim to reach the life-raft.’

  ‘You’re not waiting?’

  ‘You heard what I told the man. The ship could explode at any moment. I can’t risk the safety of my men, can I? And you, Lieutenant, can’t risk this ship not sinking. Can you?’

  Carver did not wait for an answer before he left the cabin. It took Tyzack several minutes to set the charges and open the seacocks. By the time he dived over the side, into the cold, choppy waters of the Bay of Biscay, Carver and the other men in the life-raft were barely visible in the distance. He was still swimming when the Maid of Dumfries exploded and sank to the bottom of the sea.

  60

  ‘Oh I see, you were doing me a favour, were you?’ Tyzack sneered. ‘And I’m the amateur, am I? But even I know that a true fighting man doesn’t let his brother warriors down. That’s why I was willing to let the matter rest. All right, so you humiliated me in front of the men and risked my life making me set up the charges and swim to the boat. But never mind, I’d have let bygones be bygones. But no, you felt obliged to deliver a full report to Trench. And that meant he was obliged to have a court martial. He didn’t want to, but you left him no alternative. Trench told me that in a letter. I’ve still got it. He even said he’d put in a good word for me with my old man…’

  ‘Did he really?’ Carver gave a weary, humourless laugh. ‘Sounds like Trench. Hope you didn’t believe him.’

  ‘Didn’t make any difference either way. My dear old daddy just did what he’d always done. He got out his horsewhip and thrashed me… rather like I’ve thrashed you, actually. I always thought to myself I’d pass on the favour one day, so that’s one resolution kept. My mother, of course, just stood there, doing nothing, just fiddling with her pearl necklace while he beat the hell out of me. I should have killed him then, of course. I don’t know why I didn’t, because I was more than strong enough, but I… I…’ Tyzack sighed. ‘For some reason I couldn’t fight back. Why was that, do you suppose? I just stood there and took my beating like a man. That was my father’s great phrase: Take it like a man. Oh well, I made him take it a few years later. I thought about my darling parents and made an executive decision. I had to let them go.’

  ‘You killed them?’ asked Carver.

  ‘No, I sent them on holiday to Barbados. Oh, for goodness’ sake, do I have to spell it out?’

  ‘I just wanted to make sure. And by the way, in case you’ve ever wondered what happened to Trench, he tried to have me eliminated, but I got to him first.’

  ‘Really?’ asked Tyzack, genuinely interested. ‘What did you do to him?’

  ‘I fired a flare gun into his face at point-blank range and turned him into a human torch.’

  A smile crossed Tyzack’s face. ‘And you loved it, didn’t you? I can tell.’

  ‘Yes, I admit, that one did give me a certain satisfaction. So there have been times when I’ve gone too far. Innocent people have died. But if you think that makes me anything at all like you, you’re wrong. I may cross the line, but you don’t even know the line is there.’

  Tyzack laughed. ‘Do you have any idea how absurd you sound, giving me your little lectures?’

  Carver cracked a battered smile. There was something he needed to know from Tyzack. This might be the chance to get it.

  ‘You think I’m absurd? You spend years obsessing about the harm I’m supposed to have done to you. And all the while, you know what? You never even crossed my mind. Not once. I just didn’t give a toss. Why would I care about a loser like you?’

  Tyzack’s jaw tightened. His breathing became heavier. The mask was cracking again as he fought to contain the rising tide of rage.

  At last, after everything he’d been through, Carver had pushed Tyzack to the brink. Come on, he thought. Spit it out. Tell me just how great you are.

  ‘You really shouldn’t say things like that,’ rasped Tyzack. ‘You should know by now what I can do. Just look at yourself. You’re a murder suspect in three different countries. Your friends don’t want anything more to do with you. You’re hanging by the neck from a bloody great rubber band, like a Thunderbird puppet gone spastic… I put you there, and I’m going to leave you there. And while you’re busy dying, I am going to…’

  Yes, yes! the voice in Carver’s head was shouting. What are you going to do?

  Tyzack stopped dead. A smile crossed his face, his air of superiority suddenly restored.

  ‘Oh, very good,’ he said, as though he had been able to hear the screaming in Carver’s brain. ‘You nearly had me there. Almost got me to spill the beans about… the big one. Well, I’ve changed my mind. I think it’s more amusing to leave you in suspense.’

  Tyzack glanced at the cord from which Carver was hanging. ‘No pun intended,’ he added. ‘Don’t worry, though, you will be kept fully in touch with my success, and your failure, as it all unfolds. Watch!’

  He removed a remote control from his trouser pocket and aimed it at the nearest television, which sprang into life, as did all the other sets ringing Carver. They were all tuned to the BBC News channel.

  ‘Well, I thought that was only right, don’t you think? Mother country and all that. Still, I think it could be a bit louder. I wouldn’t want you to miss anything.’

  He pressed the volume control and suddenly Carver was assaulted on all sides by a voice promoting a forthcoming Hardtalk interview with an Israeli politician. Wherever Carver turned, he couldn’t escape the screens, all carefully positioned just beyond his reach.

  ‘Excellent,’ said Tyzack, raising his voice above the television babble. ‘But I do think that you need to be taught one last lesson before I go. I’ve done my best, but I fear you’ve failed to grasp some of what I’ve been trying to teach you. I suspect you’re not very bright, to be honest. Our relative positions still don’t seem clear to you. So let me explain. I’ve beaten you once…’ Tyzack picked up the cane and walked up to Carver’s chair.

  Carver couldn’t help it. He flinched. That was all the encouragement Tyzack needed.

  ‘… I…’ He swung the cane, hitting the arms that Carver raised in a desperate bid to protect himself.

  ‘… can…’ Carver had bent forward, leaving the raw, hamburger meat of his back exposed. So that’s where Tyzack aimed the second blow.

  ‘… do it…’ As Carver howled in pain, Tyzack kicked the chair away again, swinging the cane at him and grinning in delight as his desperate attempts to escape only forced him to the limit of the cord’s tolerance, gagging him and forcing him back within Tyzack’s range as he shouted, ‘… again!’

  The last blow hit Carver just below the diaphragm, doubling him up, and then jerking him back up again as the cord rebounded, a wounded marionette at the mercy of a sadistic puppet-master.

  Tyzack stepped back and examined his handiwork. Carver’s refusal to accept his version of events had angered and frustrated him, but he had exacted a more than satisfactory price. He was going to have to leave soon. Visar wanted him working on the Bristol job and he couldn’t afford to disappoint the Albanian.

  He took another look at Carver, who was scrabbling around, trying to reach his chair, which was lying on its back, several feet away from him. Tyzack walked round the barn until he was standing right by the chair, paying very close attention as Carver – now apparently oblivious of his presence – fought the choking power of the cord.

  Yes, Tyzack thought. It would be hard and it would hurt a very great deal, but Carver would get the chair. And if he had the chair he could live – or exist at any rate – for a few more days, being driven mad by the pain of his back, the choking frustration of his collar and lead and the unstinting blare of the TV sets. That was perfect. And so, feeling happier than he had done in ye
ars, Damon Tyzack walked out of the barn, leaving Carver to his pathetic struggles and padlocking the door behind him.

  61

  Hans and Gudrun List were ardent ramblers, still blessed with wiry physiques and tanned limbs despite being well into their sixties. Natives of Salzburg, Austria, they had grown up striding across the spectacular alpine landscape that surrounds their home town. Now they were walking across southern Scandinavia, from Stockholm to Oslo, enjoying the perfect weather of early summer and the rural scenery as they made good progress along the northern shore of Tvillingtjenn lake, just a couple of hours’ walk from the Swedish border. Above all the Lists took pleasure in the peace and solitude; the cool, muffled calm soothed them as they walked between the trees along the water’s edge.

  And then the silence was shattered by a terrible howl of pain, a scream so primal that it might have come from an animal. ‘What was that?’ Hans asked. But the question was superfluous. The Lists both knew at once that this was the sound of a man in agony.

  ‘It came from over there,’ said Gudrun, pointing away from the lakeshore into the trees.

  They took a few more tentative paces into the woods, torn between the desire to help a fellow-human and the fear of whoever, or whatever, had ripped that terrible sound from his body. Then another scream rang out, more raggedly this time, as though the man’s vocal cords no longer had the power to communicate his suffering.

  ‘Look,’ said Hans, pointing ahead of them. ‘Over there.’

  Gudrun saw it now: a small wooden building, a barn perhaps, or a garage. It looked drab and nondescript, apart from an incongruously bright pair of green doors, whose colour was echoed on the gable-ends of the roof. The fact that they could see the barn made the Lists themselves feel exposed. They retreated back down the path as a third scream, weaker again, seemed to call them, wordlessly pleading for their help.