Celt_The Journey of Kyle Gibbs

by Wayne Marinovich

  ‘Is this necessary?’

  ‘Yes it is, and please leave your men behind this time.’

  Gibbs looked at all the people milling around on the banks of the river Thames. None had mobile phones to their ears, so he was being watched from further away. ‘You had better not be jerking me around, Kirkwood.’

  ‘It should take you about twenty minutes at the most to make the journey. At exactly the thirty minute mark I will leave, and with that goes the opportunity of working together,’ Kirkwood said, and ended the call.

  Gibbs jumped into a clapped out green Ford Fiesta which he had borrowed and pulled out onto the Richmond high street. He slipped the Glock17 out from under the front seat and rested it between his legs. Driving along the pothole-strewn road, he swerved around the deserted vehicles and trucks as hundreds of ashen-faced pedestrians watched his progress with both envy and disdain etched onto their troubled faces.

  After a fifteen minute journey through an affluent old suburb of London, Gibbs stood outside the agreed meeting place, The Dukes Head pub, its decaying sign swinging above the door.

  Pushing the door open, he walked inside the well-lit bar and saw a man with short strawberry blond hair sitting by the large windows that overlooked the Thames River. Gibbs scanned the rest of the quiet venue and made a quick mental note of all three available exits before he looked over a few other local patrons who were drinking in the lounge.

  ‘Kirkwood?’ he asked as he approached the table.

  The slender, effeminate man nodded and gestured for him to sit. ‘I had a quick phone call with Ton de Geest this morning, and he brought me up to speed on the developments of the past few days. Clearly he’s not a big fan of yours, but he felt indebted to you, as I do, for getting him out of a tight spot. That is the only reason I have agreed to meet with you.’

  ‘Ton would have done the same in my shoes,’ Gibbs added, leaning back in the chair.

  ‘Nevertheless, you and your men now have some additional baggage with you. I am sure that most of the military wires have lit up with your recent shenanigans. Personally, I don’t care about that, but it might be a problem if they alert the Metropolitan Police and border control.’

  ‘My team and I can stay hidden from the police and have crossed many international borders without being caught.’

  ‘Gibbs, should I agree to represent you and we move ahead with this, I will require you to get fake travel documents to get in and out the country.’

  ‘I don’t have the contacts for that here in London,’ Gibbs said.

  ‘Well, I can get that arranged for you.' Kirkwood added, 'I have someone who does all that sort of work for me.’

  ‘They had better produce documents of a decent quality that will stand up under scrutiny at banks and airports.’

  ‘My man is the best in the business, and I can assure you that you won’t be able to tell that they are fakes. How many would you need?’

  ‘Three full sets of IDs.’

  ‘Okay, but they will cost you. They currently go for around ten thousand pounds per person.’

  'What?' Gibbs said. ‘You are bloody joking, right?’

  ‘You are paying for the quality here, Gibbs. It’s pay on request, and they have a lead time of a week. You can settle up with me as I am the only one who will deal with my contact.’

  ‘Okay, that’s fine,’ Gibbs said, leaning forward. ‘How do I know that you are not messing me around, Kirkwood?’

  ‘I think you’ll find me as professional as they come. Ton can attest to that.’

  Gibbs nodded. ‘What sort of work do you have on your books at the moment? Is there anything we can get involved with right now?’

  ‘I have three projects on the horizon in a timeframe that could suit men of your alleged skill.’

  ‘Alleged?’

  Kirkwood chuckled. ‘I have many loyal sources in military intelligence circles, so I am in the process of getting copies of all your service records and checking the reference you gave me. If they all check out, I will pitch your unit to clients pretty quickly and see which ones will bite.’

  ‘How long will all this take?’ Gibbs asked.

  ‘All in good time, Gibbs, all in good time,’ Kirkwood said, getting up and throwing a twenty-pound note onto his plate. ‘All of my clients rely on me to be thorough and discreet. Above all, they want me to source professional men who value money above loyalty.’

  Gibbs stood up and shook his small, dry hand. He watched the thin man leave the pub then ordered another drink. Instinct set off the warning bells about the man he had just met.

  Chapter 13

  Richmond-upon-Thames. London, England, UK - 2019

  ‘Hey, move along, buddy. I’m not going to ask you again,’ Shredder shouted at the beggar who had been harassing them since they sat down at the table in the White Horse beer garden. The sun had broken through the week of dour drizzle and rain, lifting their spirits as they sipped drinks along the river. Old weathered wooden benches were placed out on the long green grass, and the group drank golden pints of ale, discussing possible missions.

  Gibbs looked at the unfortunate man kneeling in front of them, his once clean suit now dirty and stained from sleeping rough in shop doorways at night. His white collar sticking out above his jacket lapel was a grimy brown from dirty hands that constantly pawed at it. Gibbs had once despised the suits who ran London, and the country. They had been the cause of the demise of so many countries around the world with their greed, but no one deserved to live like this.

  ‘Please, gentleman. I have a family who hasn't eaten in a few days. Any change or items that I can trade at the market would be appreciated,’ he said.

  Shredder moved to get up and hustle the man along when Gibbs grabbed his forearm. ‘What can you trade out there, mate?’

  ‘Any metal of value, sir, or whatever small change you can muster.’

  Gibbs reached into his pocket and pulled out the small brass and wooden-handled pocket knife he had stolen from his father when he ran away. He opened up the blade and threw it at the man in front of them. It pegged into the wet grass. ‘Can you trade that, mate?’

  ‘Wow, sir. That will get me food for a week. Thank you so much.’

  ‘Okay. Now move along before my friend here takes it from you.’

  Once the man had sloped away to another group of drinkers, Shredder looked across at him. ‘You are getting soft, boss. Wasn’t that the knife you got from your dad?’

  Gibbs nodded and sipped more ale.

  With a few more pints of ale down their throats, the conversation started to get more boisterous when a female voice behind them dragged them back to reality.

  ‘Gibbs, when are you going to do something about that bloody green truck blocking my driveway?’

  The men spun around to see the shapely form of a tall woman in her late forties with long wavy blonde hair. She stood dressed in dark jeans tucked into brown leather boots with a red and white jersey stretched across her large breasts, fighting to get free as she crossed her arms. Her eyebrow slowly rose as she looked around the group.

  ‘Good day, Sheila,’ Gibbs said, smiling at her like a chastised teenager.

  ‘Don’t pitch that charming smile at me, lover. Not while there is a stolen truck in the back garden, and I have three fugitives sleeping on my lounge floor.’

  ‘It won’t be for much longer, love, so let’s try to remain friendly, shall we?’

  ‘Carry on speaking to me like that, and my bed will be off-limits to you,‘ she said.

  Gibbs and his men burst out laughing. ‘Shredder will get rid of it tomorrow and pick up some flowers to reward you for your patience.’

  ‘A bottle of scotch might go a long way to wiping you layabouts and your bloody truck from my memory. The older, the better, Shredder.’

  She nodded across to a brooding man skulking at the main gate to the beer garden. He pushed away from leaning against the cold brick wall and approached them like a circling
hyena.

  ‘Gibbs, this is Martin, gang lord of the Richmond Green Vikings,’ she said.

  ‘Are they a football team?’ Gibbs asked, and they all burst out laughing.

  ‘Do you have to be such an arse, Gibbs?’ Sheila said. ‘He is keen to take that truck off your hands.’

  Gibbs sobered up quickly and looked at the man who stood steely-eyed before him. A vicious scar stretched from the corner of his mouth to midway on his cheekbone. ‘You get that from a knife attack?’ Gibbs asked.

  The man nodded slowly and looked Gibbs over. ‘The other guy didn’t make it though, left him for dead. Now, what do you want for that truck?’

  ‘I am new to all this trading crap, so what will you give me for it?’ Gibbs asked.

  Sheila walked over to Gibbs and placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘I have found that Martin and his organisation are wonderful people to owe you a favour. He has untold resources at his disposal in the southwest of London. Very handy if you need a specific item or if you need a group of people to help you with something a little less savoury.’

  Gibbs continued to look into the dark brown eyes of the man across from him. Martin shuffled from one foot to the other under the gaze. The faded blue denim jacket he wore fell open, revealing the handle of an old Beretta 9mm.

  Instinct told Gibbs to trust Sheila on this. They were old acquaintances, and she had once wanted to settle down with him a few years back. The urge to settle down and have a family had just never been there for Gibbs and after a few heated arguments they decided on friends with benefits. Sheila was one of the most trustworthy people who walked on the wrong side of the law.

  ‘Okay then, Martin. How about we say that you just owe me a huge favour?’ Gibbs said, standing up and shoving his hand forward. Martin walked forward and shook on it, a skewed smile on his face.

  ‘Sure, mate, let me know when you need to cash in.’

  Sheila walked around Martin and roughly forced Gibbs back into his seat. She straddled him and looked into his eyes.

  ‘By the way, lover, someone by the name of Woolfson called and left a message for you at the house. He said that David Kirkwood has arranged a meeting for you and that you would be collected at eleven tomorrow morning at the pub where you apparently met. You are to come alone. Did you understand any of that?’ she said.

  Gibbs nodded.

  Killey looked at Gibbs. ‘It could be a trap, boss, so it’s probably best that we shadow you along the way.’

  ‘There’s not much point, Killey. I am pretty sure that Kirkwood has had us under surveillance since our first meeting and by now he knows what you two uglies look like. I honestly don’t think he will try anything stupid at this stage because we can be of use to him and he can make a large amount of money out of us. If I’ve read our dear Mr Kirkwood correctly, money is something that he gets very excited about,’ Gibbs said.

  ***

  Gibbs looked at the two men standing alongside the dark green Land Rover the following morning. They stood tall and confident and, he guessed, were ex-military. Bulges on their hips indicated that they were carrying concealed weapons. Despite a few last-minute objections from Shredder and Killey before he had left, he got into the Land Rover with the two men, and they drove him away in a southerly direction away from Richmond. Fifteen minutes later they stopped at a roadside lay-by to make sure that they were not being followed before making their way down the A3 towards Guilford.

  ‘Please put this on, Mr Gibbs,’ the man in the passenger seat said, and handed him a small brown hessian sack.

  ‘You are joking, mate?’ Gibbs replied, looking at the small hessian sack. ‘This isn't some bloody spy movie.’

  ‘Just following Mr Kirkwood’s instructions, sir,’ the driver said, looking at him in the rear-view mirror.

  Gibbs placed the foul smelling sack over his head; barely able to make out shapes, shadows and any variations of light. It was going to take some concentration to remember the route they were taking to the meeting. After another long spell of driving, he realised that they were doubling back to deliberately confuse him.

  They came to a halt after what seemed like about an hour, and Gibbs was instructed to remove the blindfold. Stepping out of the Land Rover he looked around, his eyes growing accustomed to the bright conditions. Rolling green fields that disappeared into the distance showed the size of the property they were on. It was a large country estate with a long gravel-covered driveway that wound its way through lush green orchards and horse paddocks up to the parking area. The ivy-covered, old manor house towered behind them. Looking over the vast estate, Gibbs strode after the two men in the direction of the large Gothic wooden front door that was opened by a smartly dressed butler. Gibbs followed them in silence as they crossed the threshold and were shown past an abandoned marble reception area, into a side room.

  The musty old study was vacant except for a man sitting in an old wing-backed reading chair near a large bay window. He was engrossed in a large brown folder and only looked up when one of the guards cleared his throat.

  ‘Ah, Sergeant Gibbs, please do come in,’ Mason Waterfield said, offering his hand.

  Gibbs slowly walked over and acknowledged his firm handshake. He was a large hulk of a man, slightly hunched over by the ravages of old age highlighted by his full head of grey hair.

  ‘I see that you have had quite an active and fruitful military career, Sergeant,’ Mason said, patting the brown folder as Gibbs sat down opposite him.

  Gibbs nodded as he looked down at the file and frowned.

  ‘I have tasked David Kirkwood to put together a team of men for a small initiative abroad, and he selected a few names for me to look at. I have to concede that we had a tough time getting all of your details, Sergeant,’ he said.

  ‘Mr Waterfield, as you are aware I am no longer in the military, so please call me Gibbs.’

  ‘Fair enough, Gibbs it is then. I hear that you got into a spot of bother up in Scotland.’

  ‘I was told that wouldn’t be a problem,’ Gibbs interrupted.

  ‘Let me finish, Gibbs,’ Mason Waterfield said. ‘I only care about our present and future endeavours but have learned from painful experience in business that one’s past can come back to haunt one if not properly dealt with. This is the reason I want to know all the dirty details of the people I employ before they join up so that nothing comes up that can hurt us later.’

  Gibbs waited for a second. ‘May I speak now?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘The real reasons behind me and my men leaving the military are personal and of no consequence here,’ Gibbs said. ‘You are undoubtedly more than aware of David’s contacts, and he assured me that obtaining top quality false identification documents for travel for my team would not be a problem. So my past should not be a problem.’

  ‘You weren’t listening, Gibbs. If we do go ahead with this contract, everything you have done could be of consequence to me, and I want to be prepared if something does go wrong. You may be entering into the contract with David Kirkwood’s agency, but the organisation that I chair will be funding the operations, so I will still have the ultimate say in the recruitment, planning and execution of this mission.’

  Gibbs stared at Mason Waterfield for a few seconds, sizing up the man. ‘Okay, Mason, what is this mission then?’

  ‘You will be tasked to run a destabilisation exercise in an African country that we are in negotiations with.’

  ‘So you want my team to support a coup?’

  ‘I suppose you could say that. There is a much larger agenda in play here, but you need not concern yourself with all the details at this stage. You would lead a team on a coordinated strike on a selected target while other teams execute their missions in parallel. David Kirkwood will assist you with the detailed planning and set-up for your specific operation.’

  ‘How much would we be paid for this job, Mason?’

  ‘I was wondering when you were going to bring that up. Other s
oldiers would have brought up the topic of money a lot sooner,’ Mason replied.

  ‘Just sizing up the mission first before I talk money, I like to know who I’ll be working for and what exactly will be expected of my men and me. I also need to understand more detail about the operation before I can ascertain what the level of risk is to us.’

  ‘All monies to cover the operation costs and salaries will be paid directly to Kirkwood Enterprises. David will then pay seventy thousand pounds per person for the operation and cover all your operational expenses. Forty percent of the money will be paid into bank accounts of your choosing upon acceptance of the job, and the balance will be due upon the successful completion of the job.’

  ‘Come on, Mason. I may be new to mercenary work, but I am not a novice when it comes to knowing what is expected from an operation like this. Which country will we be travelling to?’

  ‘I won’t give that away just yet, but it is in the Southern African region. Does that help?’

  ‘It does indeed. All of the countries in that region have well-established and long-lasting governments, which means they will have seasoned military to call upon. The price has just gone up, Mason,’ he replied.

  Mason smiled. 'What sort of figure do you have in mind, then?’

  ‘Two hundred and fifty thousand per man, half now, half at the end, all expenses paid.’

  Mason chuckled, smiling at the Scotsman sitting across from him. He had long been a keen student of European history, especially of the Celts of Europe.

  ‘I have had many business dealings with Scotsmen like yourself and I must say that you seem to have a bit more of a wild imagination than most I have dealt with. Please understand that there are many mercenaries around who would leap at the chance to do this piece of work for us. Not forgetting about the chance to be involved in a larger organisation with many more follow-up missions in the future. I am sure such teams would gladly do this for, say, a hundred and twenty thousand each.’

  ‘Before we continue discussing money, Mason, may I remind you that it is my team and me who will assume all the risk on operations like this. If we are caught in Europe planning a coup, we will go to prison. If we are caught en route with arms and ammunitions, we will go to prison. If we are caught in the target country before, during or after the coup, we will probably be sent to prison and possibly even be executed.’