The Vengeance Man

by John Macrae

  Briggs, a 6'4" East Ender, first made his mark as a stunt man playing alongside famous stars and shot to fame as ‘Mr Love Machine’ of the TV adverts. Later he branched out to become a staff photographer and freelance for several national dailies.

  Police released him on bail following a visit to the station by a fellow employee of his present firm, SIS Ltd. The company is listed as an offshoot of Lloyds, specialising in providing specialist insurance and protection services for a variety of clients, including bodyguards for international VIPs. A company spokesman was unavailable for comment.'

  When I had finished reading I laid the paper down and tried to think through what it meant. It was either the end of the affair, which meant that some damage had been done, but it wasn't the end of the world. More likely, however, the story was the tip of the iceberg, a coat trailer to gauge our reaction. What worried me was that reference to a company spokesman not being available for comment. Since when did Tescos get asked to comment if one of their employees got drunk and assaulted someone? It stank.

  Knowing Hemming, I was prepared to lay good money that this was the start of a campaign to have a go at SIS Ltd. The story looked like a hook baiting a bigger follow up. I didn't like that reference to the company: it seemed to be laying the ground for something else. Still, that was Mallalieu’s problem.

  I watched the rain dribbling down the window pane and cursed Jonno Briggs, wondering exactly what that overgrown schoolboy had said. It would be up to the wiles and expertise of the CIT to shut him up, but I had an uneasy feeling that Briggs might be too cocky and self confident even for them.

  He would crumble like a castle of dry sand confronted by real pressure, of that I had no doubt, but how do you pressure a man like Briggs in a free society? He'd run to the papers with his tale, and the more pressure from the Establishment, the more money he'd get for his story. The KGB and the Gestapo would have sorted him out. Permanently. Unfortunately the Combined Interrogation Team doesn't work like that. With a sigh I turned my attention back to the job in hand. First things first.

  The warmth of the air-conditioned room and the need to keep gloves on, touching nothing, were beginning to irritate me. I glanced at my watch. It wasn't yet one o'clock. I felt my frustration and boredom mounting at the delay. On an impulse I turned on the television - anything to pass the time.

  To my surprise, my target's face peered back at me. It was Isaac Roberts himself at some reception or other. On an otherwise dull day, Roberts' visit had made quite a splash on the lunchtime news. Sprawled in the armchair, drinking water from a paper cup and chewing on a sticky chocolate bar, I couldn't resist smiling at the irony. Roberts was being taken to lunch by some pressure group of MPs or Select Committee of the House of Commons. There was a lovely shot of him standing, looking pink and smooth, a glass of champagne in his hand. I contemplated my own glutinous bar of chocolate with increasing distaste. I wouldn't have minded going to a Parliamentary beanfeast and stuffing myself with caviar at that moment. Then the screen shifted to a mob of rioting Arabs somewhere in France and the news moved on.

  I sighed and checked my watch again. Time was crawling. The hum of the overheated air system, the muffled noises of the hotel, the trickling of the rain down the gloomy windows, all suddenly conspired to make me feel trapped and claustrophobic. I picked up the paper and found my stars; apparently I should be more considerate of my partner's needs, but would have an exciting day. I grunted; that at least was true: I had made up some evasive lie to Joy to keep her out of the picture. And as for an exciting day... I just hoped that it wasn't going to be too exciting. I stretched and decided to get some fresh air before collecting my tools to do the job.

  Back at my flat I packed the little bundle of odds and ends I needed, and the gun, which I put onto its special hook that was part of Mallalieu's scheme. Even then, I was still early. I looked at the telephone and felt, for the first time, lonely, isolated and cut off from the rest of the world. I dialled the Firm and stood clutching the phone, listening to the 'Brrr, Brrr' for what seemed ages. Eventually Doreen, our long-nailed switchboard girl answered. Immediately she put me through to Mallalieu, who seemed relieved to hear me.

  "How are you?"

  "I'm fine." There was a pause. "Are you all right now?"

  I was puzzled, but then remembered I was meant to be sick at home. "Oh - yes. I'll probably be well enough to come in to work tomorrow."

  "Good , good." The note of insincerity in Mallalieu's voice was apparent even down the telephone. He was a lousy actor. "Er - there have been a couple of calls for you, by the way. Women." He sounded embarrassed and ill at ease.

  "Oh, yes?"

  "Yes. One called," there was a pause while he obviously consulted a note or something. "One called Joy - mean anything?"

  "Yes, she's a friend."

  He grunted. "Well, anyway, she called your flat, apparently; got no answer. And your mobile’s switched off. How did she get this number?"

  "I've no idea. Probably from the business card. Why?"

  "'Well, she seemed concerned not to have heard from you."

  "Ah. And the other call?"

  "That was - " another pause, "A woman called Barbara."

  "That's my sister. What did she want?"

  "Same thing. Rang your flat and got no answer. Says your mobile’s switched off. You'd better yet yourself an answering service," he added with a rare flash of sarcasm.

  I scratched my neck and thought about the implications. "What did you say to them?"

  "Nothing. Doreen took the calls and told me. She told them that the firm didn't give information on its employees." There was another pause. "Where are you ringing from, by the way?" he asked.

  I sat down by the phone and started to think about Joy. And what the hell did Barbara want? "Home. I'm at the flat."

  Another long pause. "Will this be a complication?" said

  "I'm not sure. It might be - I don't want anyone calling round here at the moment, do I?"

  "Not while you're still infectious, you mean?"

  "Yes," I agreed, remembering that this was an open line. And years of bitter experience have taught me what GCHQ doesn't listen to, NSA probably does. "Not while I'm infectious."

  "Look," said Mallalieu. "If you're still feeling ill in the morning, why don't you take a little more time off? Have you still got those symptoms?" He stressed the word 'symptoms'.

  "Not really. They've nearly gone."

  "Well, if the symptoms were to come back, you wouldn't be fit to come in, would you?"

  I was baffled. What the hell was he trying to tell me?

  "Look," he continued patiently. "Did the doctor give you anything for your symptoms? Do you have any tablets, for example?" He stressed the word 'tablets' and the penny dropped. He wanted me to be ill tomorrow, and using his dreadful pills by the sound of it.

  "Well, I've still got some medication. I've got a few pills left over..."

  "You keep taking them," he urged warmly. "Maybe your sister or this Joy could call in tomorrow to see how you are, couldn't they?"

  It all clicked into place. If I took another of those wretched pills, I'd be sick all right. "Yes," I agreed, without any great enthusiasm. "I'll do that. You don't mind me being off sick, do you? I mean," I added for the benefit of any unseen listeners who may have been listening on our telephones, "Everything's under control? What about this Briggs business? It was in the paper, you know."

  Mallalieu snorted. "Don't you worry about him. We'll deal with him in our own good time. Now, you get well soon. Call in again tomorrow, after you've sorted everything out, OK?"

  "OK Chief." I couldn't resist a dig at him down the telephone. "You've no idea what a pleasure it is to work for such a caring boss."

  Mallalieu spluttered with indignation, or laughter; I wasn't sure which. You can never rely on Mallalieu's sense of humour, so I put the phone down quickly.

  The clock bonged softly for four o'clock - about three hours to go. Time for
a move. I hesitated, hand poised over the telephone. Without quite knowing why, I picked it up and dialled Joy's number at work. She greeted me with mixed pleasure and irritation. "Why haven't you phoned me? It's been ages," she started crossly, and then, before I could answer, added in a rush, "Where are you? I phoned you twice and got no answer. And you’ve switched your mobile off,” accusingly. “Are you all right?" She paused - for breath, I presumed.

  "I'm fine," I said, "But I've not been feeling very well the last couple of days. I've got some kind of bug. The doc reckoned its some kind of gastric flu. When can I see you again?"

  "Oh!" she said, "That's a change. Are you sure you want me to? I mean, you didn't call, did you? So I thought..."

  I smiled to myself. "Of course I do, Joy. Would you like to come round?"

  There was a long pause. I heard a muffled 'Yes, Mr Lane' and then she came back on, rushed and urgent. "Look, I've got to go; I'm supposed to be doing the newsletter. Can I pop over tonight?"

  "OK. But don't come before nine: I may have to go and see the doctor. And remember, I might still be ill, so don't expect any excitements. The quack says it’s some sort of virus that’s going round. We don't want you catching my bug do we?

  She giggled; a delicious little gurgle that made my belly tighten. "We'll see." And with that she rang off.

  I put on my coat, got my tools, and went off to work.

  CHAPTER 31

  The Diplomatic quarter

  I enjoy my work. Public and private.

  By six o'clock I was set up in the hotel. As soon as it was reasonably dark, I attacked the window with a screwdriver and a small jemmy. The paint was several layers thick, so I had to score round it with a Stanley knife before, with much grunting on my part, I could lever it open. I stood back, sweating and hoping that no-one had heard the groan as the protesting woodwork shuddered up in a cascade of dried paint flakes. Just as well; I had a glass cutter to open a loophole in the glass if necessary, but this way was better. Mind you, you have to think of everything.

  I pulled the curtains across and wiped my hands - pointlessly as I was wearing transparent surgical gloves to avoid finger prints and a surgical cap on my head. It’s called being careful. There wasn't going to be one trace, one hair, one mark for the Forensic Science boys, except for Mallalieu's planted evidence in the room. Then I made my final preparations and settled down to wait.

  It's hard to remember what goes through your mind on occasions like that. If I smoked, I expect I'd have smoked. As it was I just sat back, elbows comfortably propped on the desk with the night glasses round my neck, chewing gum and thinking. Through the chink in the curtains, I had a clear view of the Embassy steps at a sharp angle off to my left. I checked my watch. I thought about Joy and Mallalieu; wondered what Barbara had wanted, and, with a pang of irritation, thought about Briggs. In fact, looking back, I suppose that I spent more of the time worrying about Briggs than about Isaac Roberts. I'd made up my mind about him a long time ago.

  The first sign that anything was afoot came when the lone bobby on the steps was joined by two more. They huddled in their coats, stamping their feet and looking bored and watchful at the same time, as only policemen can. Time for action.

  I put my chewing gum into a plastic bag with the little bottle of water and shoved it into the coat pocket. Travel light, that’s me. No-one would find a damned thing in this room that related to me. No hairs, no DNA: not even any urine. Anyway, by the time I’d finished they’d be swamped with DNA…lots of it.

  At about ten to seven, a group of half a dozen scruffy men of assorted ages and sizes shambled up to the policemen. From the arm-waving it looked as if they were arguing and I roused myself from my reverie as several policemen materialised to join the discussion. It looked like the beginning of a protest demonstration by football hooligans and yobs.

  Through the glasses I saw that most of the new arrivals were draped with cameras, and one had a little kitchen ladder: press photographers, of course: no wonder they looked such a scruffy mob. The press. A pulse quickened inside me at this confirmation of Roberts' arrival and I went as close to the curtains as I dared.

  It was almost dark now. Craning my neck I could see a Metropolitan Police Transit van on the far side of the square dribbling exhaust smoke as the driver kept the dozen or so newspaper-reading coppers inside warm. Roberts must be getting close. Then the police men on the steps slowly moved apart while an Inspector in a peaked cap chatted with a couple of short haired men in suits who came out of the Embassy. Through the glasses I saw them looking at their watches and glancing around, looking towards the street. The Inspector talked into his hand radio, and I saw his frown as he strove to make out the answer, the set clapped to his ear. Then his face cleared and he began rapping out silent orders, his lips moving, his hands pointing.

  The policemen spread out and straightened their helmets; two of them moved to the base of the steps. The two suited Italians re-appeared at the Embassy door and turned to face outwards, hands folded across the groin in the silent pose of the bodyguard. It was nearly time.

  I took up the Venus, put two full magazines on, and cocked it slowly and carefully smelling the soft tang of gun oil. The mechanism rotated, taking the first rounds into the chambers with that soft crunch that tells the experienced firer his weapon really is loaded. The warm battery pack hummed softly and the Laserlok's 'Ready' light gleamed like a tiny amber pinprick.

  Through the sighting scope the tableau of police, pressmen and the odd curious passer-by all turned to look at a dark Mercedes pulling up at the foot of the steps. A white Met Rover glided in front of it, doors swinging open to allow a couple of men in plain clothes to spill onto the pavement. Through the lit glass doors of the Embassy I could see curious faces as a small silver-haired man in a black suit walked briskly down the steps. He wiped his hands against the side of his head if to slick the hair down, and tacked the diplomat's practised smile of welcome on his face.

  The door on the pavement side of the dark Mercedes opened slowly. The car was facing me, so it obscured my view of the occupants. Pressmen's flash bulbs rippled like silent gun flashes as a man got out of the car and straightened up, buttoning his jacket. Through the 'scope he looked right: smooth and smiling, but the flickers from the flash guns flooded the night sight and made it difficult to focus; was it Roberts? I had to be sure. I took my eye away from the gun. I had to see. I had to know.

  The silver haired Italian was almost at the bottom of the steps, the plain clothes policemen were crowding forward from the white Rover, and another two men had climbed out of the Mercedes on the street side. I hesitated. Which one was Roberts?

  Suddenly the man who had climbed out of the Embassy side of the dark Mercedes looked up and for a split second a flash bulb illuminated his face, burning the image into my retina: it was, without any doubt, Lord Isaac Roberts, International Businessman, Chairman of Global Holdings Incorporated and my target.

  I switched on the Laserlok's sighting dot.

  The blood-red ball of light hit the dark Mercedes with almost palpable force. It hung, glowing weirdly against the faces of the onlookers. For an instant the flash bulbs stopped and all the faces turned towards the red spot sliding across from the car, across the car door, to Roberts' body. He stood there, bemused like an actor caught in the spotlight, staring down at his suddenly blood-red jacket. The greeter on the steps paused, irresolute, red hand outstretched, gawping in amazement. Then they both turned to look up the line of sight to face me. For a moment, time seemed to hang still.

  Faint, through the silence, an American voice shouted an obscenity and screamed, 'Duck! For Crissake, geddown!!"

  It must have been one of the minders, quicker thinking than anyone else, who realised the significance of the red dot. Through the sight the scene was still, like a frozen tableau.

  I squeezed the Venus's trigger.

  The familiar 'BRARRT!' sounded loud, like a sudden explosive sneeze. The ripple of the muzzle
flash dazzled me, leaving green dots of light dancing in my eyes. As I released the trigger, the laser light switched off automatically and for a second I couldn't see a thing. This was where the practice drills counted. I stood up, stepped sideways and back, and began the bug-out routine. As I did so, a quick-witted photographer's flashgun went off below and for a millisecond I saw the chaos on the steps through the crack in the curtains.

  Roberts had disappeared completely and the open door of the Mercedes had been half blown away. People and bits of metal debris seemed to be lying around everywhere. A thin screaming cut through the silence. The last thing I saw was a tiny purple flicker and the 'pop, pop' of a hand gun firing as someone fired back up at the hotel. I'll bet it was the alert security guard who'd shouted 'duck!', but he should have saved his bullets; at a hundred yards he'd be lucky to hit the right floor, let alone the right window. Now it was the bug-out before they all woke up and started running. I mustn't be trapped. Move fast, while the opposition's deep in shock and looking at the victim not the shooter.

  ONE: deal with the gun: magazines off, drop them on the floor as ordered, with the pile of used brass rounds. Had I really fired all those in such a short time? Amazing, they're everywhere. Hang gun onto webbing strap round waist

  TWO: put on voluminous American raincoat to cover gun and start moving. Feet crunching on those empty cases

  THREE: Check at door, switch on light, lights will be coming on all over the rest of the hotel front, join the club, confuse the watchers. Last look round. Room set up as planned. Ashtray with Russian cigarettes. New American shirts and papers scattered round the room. US passport on table, old case open, all the evidence carefully planted from Mallalieu's little plastic bags. Lots of fake hairs on the pillow, male and female. Russian and American - which was real? Goodbye room - you should confuse the investigators for a long time, provided I'm not caught. Go! Go! Go!