by John Macrae
The wind off the sea front flapped his hair as two girls walked past. Their skirts fluttered up and they pressed them down, giggling behind their free hands. Carlo's brilliant smile illuminated them both, and they looked away, laughing. He beamed appreciatively at their retreating rumps. The Adriatic wind, bright and cold off the Gulf of Venice, whipped everything in the dusty Italian street; their hair, their skirts, Carlo's shop awning.
He walked slowly, as he did every morning, into Luca Colluci, the tobacconist next door, his eyes crinkled against the bright early morning sun, acting out his role. I thought he looked like an ageing film star. I expect Carlo did, too, but he probably preferred the word 'mature'.
I stepped forward to our meeting, loosening the cotton blouson jacket, and feeling my new long hair hot around my ears and neck. I carried the paperback book prominently in my right hand as I'd been told, a fat Italian edition of the latest Umberto Eco novel, thick and heavy.
He came out of the shop and as I passed him, his eyes took me in. The self-satisfied smile faded to an uncertain frown. Then he was fiddling with the locks on his door, just like he did every morning. I stopped and examined the tobacconist's window, watching the street reflected in the glass. It was empty and a glance to the side showed Heinemann reaching up to immobilise his security alarms on the inside of the door, just like yesterday and the day before.
Now ! I spun on my heel and covered the eight paces to my quarry's unsuspecting back as quickly and as quietly as I could.
At the last moment something - a noise, some change in the quality of the light - must have alerted Carlo, because he began to turn in the half open door, his hand moving towards his waist. He was too late. Dropping the false book cover, I hit him hard with the hidden cosh on the occipital point just behind the right ear. The combination of lead shot and sand in a leather pipe on a human skull made a noise like an apple dropped onto concrete. For a second Carlo clawed at empty air; then he pitched forward like a log to sprawl face down inside the shop doorway, his legs bright in the sunlight, his body deep in the shade.
Breathing hard, I glanced across the street. Nothing; it was all clear. The strike had only taken about three seconds.
I stepped over the body and, as swiftly as I could, pulled him by the arms into the secure darkness of the shop. A limp foot stuck awkwardly and I had to kick his legs to close the door and drop the lock.
The security camera winked in the corner exactly where the briefing photographs said. Two paces and the little aerosol of paint obliterated its lens. Time for the main attraction.
I rolled Heinemann over. Blood leaked slowly from the nose and dripped softly onto the dusty floor. A nostril snored little red bubbles. Thank God I hadn't killed him. I don't like killing for the sake of it. There's usually no need.
The notebook was in the special inside pocket, just as they had told me at the briefing. I pulled at it, then froze as cold stab of pain seared through my hand. Swearing, I pulled the pocket wide, to reveal a huge brass fish-hook impaled through the back of my left hand. Heinemann had sewn a bloody great fish-hook on a swivel inside the suit pocket. The street thief who tried to steal Heinemann's list of Italian arms traffickers and their Balkan clients over the water would have had his hand ripped to the bone. You had to admire Carlo's thoroughness.
But I wasn't a street pickpocket and I wasn't in a rush to escape. Well, not that much. Calmly, listening to the hiss and roar of my own breathing, and the thudding of my heart, I slowly worked the barb loose. It seemed to take a lifetime; it was probably about five seconds. Eventually, I tore it free, ripping through the last shreds of skin and the surgical rubber gloves. Blood welled up and trickled between my gloved fingers and over the little red notebook with the elastic band to splash alongside Heinemann's on the floor. I didn't care: I'd got what I came for.
They could check my DNA for all the chance they had of getting their hands on me. And somehow I didn’t think that Carlos’s friends would be running to the authorities asking for help.
Now I had to make the gun shop look like a casual thief had turned it over. Carlo's wallet, change and pistol went into my bomber jacket's huge poacher-pocket. I had trouble with his rings and watch, and by the time I'd dragged the till onto the floor to smash it open, he was beginning to twitch and groan. His father must have given him a good Prussian skull.
As I'd expected, the till was empty. I grabbed a handful of glossy brochures and threw them onto the floor. The armoured glass gun racks against the walls were way beyond me but as I headed for the door, I pulled every drawer out, leaving them to burst and scatter their junk. I stepped over Heinemann and stopped at the door to look back. The room looked like a bomb had burst. It looked just like a casual hit and run mugging, which is what it was supposed to look like. The body lay in the middle, framed by debris, with the leather cosh, the trademark of the local version of Cosa Nostra by his side.
I checked my watch; two minutes twenty two seconds since I'd taken those eight steps from the tobacconists. Slow, very slow; but we hadn't counted on a fish-hook on a swivel. The phone began to ring. Wrapping a handkerchief tightly around my ripped hand, I let myself quietly out into the street.
It was still empty. I turned left and, head down, walked quickly away from Carlo Heinemann's 'Sporting Gun Shop', the tobacconists and the groaning body on the floor. The notebook was tight in my left hand, thrust deep into my pocket. The junk from Heinemann's pockets bumped against my chest. My momentum carried me the twenty paces to the corner and the sea front of Pesaro and the Gulf of Venice, where the light was dazzling, the wind battered the flags and the gulls screamed above the anonymous Ford with the FCO man at the wheel. He was sweating and anxious as I got in. Vivaldi blasted out from the speakers. Despite his orders, he'd left the engine running.
"Well? Did it go all right? I mean, was it OK?" His anxiety was shrill.
I nodded. I was busy dabbing my cut with a handkerchief, and trying to shovel the wallet and stuff into a small duffle bag on the floor. I noticed that he had remembered to put the brick in it, like I'd told him. I also noticed with surprise that Carlo had been carrying twenty $1,000 dollar bills.
"Yeah, it went all right."
"Is that all you've got to say?" he burst out as we took a corner too fast, nearly spilling an early morning group of wasp-like Vespa riders, bent on suicide. "Is that it?"
"Slow down. Sure. I hit him. He went down like a log. He's not dead; well, he wasn't when I left, anyway. I got the book like you wanted. It was all right," I repeated. "No-one saw. What more is there to say?"
He released his pent up breath noisily and flashed his eyes on the mirror.
"Look, if you'd just slow down a bit and drive steadily, we'll be all right," I said as calmly as I could. I turned the Vivaldi down. The FCO man was frightened and his driving would have made even one of the local Italians nervous. The waiting must have been bad for him, though. He wasn't used to this sort of thing.
"Yes. Yes." He spoke in a higher pitch and glanced sideways, to see me strip off the rubber gloves and drop them in the duffle bag. Of course, the blood had smeared everywhere under the rubber. It must have looked like a butcher's yard to the FCO man. "You've been wounded!" he squealed.
I couldn't help but grin at his exaggeration. "Not so dramatic. The bastard had a fish-hook sewn into his jacket pocket. It looks worse than it is." I wiped it clean and inspected the damage. "It's nothing." Deep, but not even one stitch, I reckoned. Bloody Heinemann. Still, I should have been more careful. Henderson had warned me that Heinemann was a dangerous bastard.
"Here's the book." I dropped it into his pocket. "And don't go nicking the stuff in the duffle bag."
"Nick it?" he squeaked. "You don't think ... "
"Yes, yes, I know. You're an honest civil servant, a pillar of the Foreign Service... sure, sure; I've heard it all before. Just make sure that you dump it into deep water as soon as you can. Twenty thousand US dollars in cash is a big incentive not to, that's al
l." I watched him. His eyeballs bulged.
"Twenty thousand...?"
"Right. Most of it in thousand dollar bills. And his watch is a Patek Phillipe, too, so don't start getting ideas above a Second Secretary's salary. Anything in this bag is traceable."
He fell silent, pursing a silent whistle. We had slowed down to a reasonable speed now.
"So, you've got your list of dealers. The Six guy in the Embassy will love you for standing in for him, giving him an alibi, and being a hero. SIS can look SISMI[1] straight in the eye at the next embassy cocktail party and deny any involvement, now we're all good Europeans." Personally I'll believe in a united Europe when the French Secret Service stops trying to spy on us and the Germans, or the Greeks stop flogging NATO plans to the Chinese - but then I'm biased. “We can't go spying on our EU partners, can we? Even if we do all pretend we're committed Europeans, nowadays.... Don't worry. It'll look like a ordinary mugging to the police. Heinemann will never know the truth. It's all very neat; provided we all do our bit. Now, what about my stuff?"
He nodded slowly. "Your new clothes are in the case on the back seat, all Italian, all chain store: plus the papers; passport, tickets, Diners, American Express: everything that was agreed. Leave the other bag on the floor. I'll dump it in the bay this afternoon"
We parted at the airport. I had twenty minutes to change in the washroom and sort my hand out before checking in for my flight to Frankfurt. I left the geeky glasses and the long wig in the car. Being a hippy all morning had made my head hot.
As he left, he gave me an embarrassed sideways look. "Did you," he hesitated. "Well, did you ... feel anything? I mean, when you..."
I stared down at him. Poor little sod. I'll bet he'd be shitting himself for a week. Mind you, for a legal British Consular Official from Rome to be roaming free with a bloke like me to provide the Rome SIS resident with an alibi was risky. Particularly with the evidence of a serious assault on a noted local citizen dumped on the floor of the FCO official’s hire car.
I shrugged. "Not really. It's just a job that's got to be done. Look on it as a war going on all the time, whether people back home like it or not. Don't forget that Heinemann's little gun shop was the front for some of the nastiest arms deals in the Balkans, Ossetia, Lebanon, Syria – you name it."
I looked at the FCO man's profile, calm at last. "You know that Heinemann was the coordinator of all those dodgy arms deals to Croatia, years back, when the Germans decided to diplomatically recognise the Croats? Big trucks full of FN rifles from Hamburg overnight? That's Heiney. Indirectly he was responsible for hundreds - maybe thousands - of deaths. You know that he got Phil Pierce and Paul Smithson killed? Didn't Smithson work out of the Rome Embassy for a while?"
He nodded, staring at me as if I was some bizarre species of wild animal. "Yes, " he said in a choked voice, "I knew him. Kept himself to himself. Nice wife. Amanda. She went back. "
"Well," I went on, "Think of it as getting our own back. Revenge - natural justice, call it what you like. Someone has to do these public services. Your real problem is going to be spotting the next one. 'Cos there'll be a next one. Then someone else will have to do this job all over again"
Julian looked at me bug-eyed and ran a pink tongue over bloodless lips. He was squat and toad-like; not at all like a Second Secretary called Julian in the FCO. He smelt frightened. He shook his head disbelievingly, "It's just a job to you?"
“Just a job," I repeated.
“My God, you’re a cold fish, “ he said wonderingly. “How can you do it?”
“Training,” I replied. “Someone’s got to do it.” He seemed to want an answer and it was as good as any. I just wanted rid of him. Fat frightened little fool, clever as he might be. No guts. No nerve.
“Training….” he muttered. “But what if you’ve killed him? I’ll be…”
“Then you’ll be an accessory to murder, won’t you? But don’t worry. I’ve not killed him. I hope….” I looked at him sideways. He was shitting himself. “Best run along,” I said. “Remember what I told you about clearing up the job.”
“Some job,” he muttered and drove away like a frightened rabbit, still shaking his head, the wig and heavy duffle bag under the blouson jacket on the floor. I watched him go, still driving too fast.
Of course, it wasn't 'just a job' - it had been a bloody good job. But you have to be a professional in my game to appreciate things like that
And, to tell the truth, I’d rather enjoyed belting Heinemann. He deserved it.
In fact, I’d avenged a few old scores there.
CHAPTER 7
London
Have you ever felt the desire for revenge?
I mean good, old fashioned, an eye for an eye, get your own back at any price revenge? I never really had in quite that way, until that lunch-time when I walked out of the Ministry and bought the noon edition.
I was about to go on two weeks' holiday. I was feeling pretty good, I remember; the Heinemann job had been a great success. I’d just finished an after action briefing for the secret squirrel club in MoD and it had gone well. Even the good Brigadier Peters had been uncharacteristically complimentary, so I knew that Special Forces Group was happy with a clean job, professionally carried out. The guy from Six had even murmured ‘well done’ as he walked out. It's not often that we work directly for the Cabinet Office or the boys from Legoland out at Vauxhall, but when we do and it's turned out well, you can't help feeling good. After the Heinemann business, we'd heard no more about me being 'dropped down a well' or hung out to dry by a court martial. Although it had been odd to make an after action report as a presentation to a bunch of suits.
For once the Whitehall warriors from MoD were pushed to the back. I never liked the career arselicker types from the Central Staffs; pretend warriors who usually turned out to be pushy Group Captains (Engineering) from the RAF in pin-striped disguise, and who wouldn't know one end of a real gun from another. I think I preferred the civil servants' questions. I looked for Henderson, but to my surprise, he was nowhere to be seen.
Still, it's nice to feel appreciated. The sun was shining, and under its influence the leaves were budding on the Embankment's trees, while the typists' nipples were budding against their dresses, making the pretty ones look exciting and even the plain ones interesting. In fact, it had all the makings of that rare event, a beautiful London day in spring--until I read the Standard in the pub.
I read my horoscope first. I always do. The front page was the usual rubbish; one party had split, or shortly would if the Editor had his way. The PM was in trouble – again - and London’s transport would grind to a halt one day…. But it was the right hand column that drew me. It was as miserable a story as I've seen.
The headline caught my eye: 'MOTHER SWEARS REVENGE'. It was a not uncommon tale. We've all seen something like it, dozens of times. A particularly nasty paedophile sexual assault on a young schoolgirl followed by an unproven case. The guilty man had got off scot-free and, having been found 'not guilty', had walked out of the court in Snaresbrook, doubtless to do it again. But this one had a twist. Although all this had happened months ago, a couple of days ago the girl in question - who was only twelve - had slashed her wrists. Despite being rushed to hospital, it had been too late.
She was dead on arrival and that would have been the end of it but for two things: in the ambulance before she died, the girl had again named her attacker as the man discharged by the court. Apparently the child's dying words were, "It really was him, Mum, I promise it was him ... I'm sorry for all the trouble ... " With that she had died, and the press were really milking the pathos of it all. Quite rightly, too - it was a pathetic tale, even for hardened stomachs.
The second twist was that when the mother and the ambulance crew had told the police, they had said they were powerless. Despite the child's deathbed statement, the case was closed, according to the those well paid guardians of justice, the fat cat lawyers of the Crown Prosecution Service.
What happened next was inevitable. The mother had told her husband, who had gone round with some of his mates to the paedophile's house and had been involved in what the police spokesman primly called 'an affray'. This particular affray involved a baseball bat, according to the paper. The police had been called and then, to add insult to injury, had arrested the father, who was now awaiting trial for grievous bodily harm. The policeman in question had been quoted as saying, "Well it's the law... we can't have every Tom, Dick and Harry taking the law into their own hands, can we?" He then made the statement, “There’s no place for vigilantes in British society. Well, even paedophiles have legal rights, don’t they?” However right that might have been in theory, the gutter press had gone barmy.
According to the journalists, the father, who had only done what any reasonable guy would have done in the circumstances, had every chance of going down for a couple of years, like a similar case a few years back. The press pack was in full cry. Apparently accused paedophiles had more rights than their victims.
Even by the bizarre standards of the law, it was an extraordinary case. The Police Federation spokesman called the law an ass, the Commissioner of the Met Police was claiming they were only enforcing the law, and I won't tell you what the leader writers and my fellow drinkers in the pub were calling it.
It all seemed to make an absolute nonsense of justice. The bright day had lost a bit of its charm as I read that squalid little story. My lager tasted thin and sour, and I wasn't alone in my reaction. The bloke standing next to me must have noticed my disgust. I don't normally draw attention to myself in pubs - or anywhere else for that matter. In my game that's considered unprofessional.
He jerked a grubby thumb at the paper. “Bad business. Them paedos. Eh?”
I grunted non-committally, but he was intent on practising his communication skills. "I mean, think abaht it, bastard's gorraway withit, 'innee?"