by Roger Busby
we’ve been pussyfooting around breeding grounds of crime like Brunswick Farm Estate. Why it was called a farm beats me, zoo would be more like it.”
The old man smiled, McGee was shaping up just fine.
“How about Mrs McGee, Enid isn’t it? Have you taken her up the West End yet for a little Oxford Street retail therapy? We don’t want her hankering for the Highlands, now do we?”
“She’s just fine,” The Hammer brushed the suggestion aside, “I’m concentrating on the work right now, I’m afraid the senior staff have become complacent, need a good kick up the backside to get them motivated again. That’s what Iron Fist is all about.”
The Commissioner smiled. “Isn’t Iron Fist just a touch strong?”
“No sir,” McGee replied, “As you’ve said yourself, the Met will never surrender the streets to the rabble, and I have it on good authority that this estate is a hotbed of crime, large scale drug dealing and a breeding ground for terrorist…”
“Terrorist?” The Commissioner raised an eyebrow.
“Oh yes, sir,” The Hammer replied with conviction, “I’ve seen it all before in Glasgow, the car bomb attack on the airport, the plot was hatched on just such an estate.”
“You have some evidence?”
McGee tapped the side of his nose. “It’s the pattern, we’ll get the evidence on the raids.”
“You haven’t by any chance shared your thoughts on that with the Counter Terrorist command?”
McGee believed his “political” savvy was being tested. “No sir,” he replied with a wry smile, “I know from experience how police forces leak like a colander so all of this is need-to-know only. I mean we wouldn’t want to see it splashed over the front page, not at a time like this.”
“Very perceptive, Robert,” the Commissioner replied, “We’ll stick to a straight anti crime sweep, maybe peg it as a Trident initiative in the first instance in view of the manpower you’re going to need.”
“Does that mean I have your approval, sir?”
“Ah, let me flesh it out a little, slot it into the big picture,” the old man was formulating a tactical marketing strategy. “There’ll have to be something in it for the Mayor or he’ll have the sulks and our lords and masters up the road at Marsham Street will want some kudos too, so maybe a joint post op briefing and follow up news conference if all goes according to plan.”
He gave The Hammer a warm smile. “Leave it with me, and I’ll get back to you just as soon as I’ve ironed out a few of the wrinkles.” He came around the desk and placed a hand on his protégé’s shoulder. “I must say I’m impressed with your grasp of the situation we’re struggling with, Robert. This could be a feather in your cap; play your cards right and you could make DAC in six months. Now how about a spot of lunch.”
Jacko was jogging on the South Bank when Doyle caught up with him.
“Jesus, guv’nor I’m going to be carrying you into Tommy’s with a heart attack you keep going like this, you’re not a twenty year old bootie anymore.”
They were on the plaza at the base of the London Eye and Jackson steered them through the underpass and away from the tourist crowds; they perched on one of the ornate benches looking over the Thames to the ochre façade of Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament on the far bank.
“How’d you get on with the girl?” Jacko wanted to know.
“She jumped at it,” Doyle said, “even offered me a taste if it’d help.”
Jacko grinned. “She must be desperate.”
“Bored out of her mind, said Admin’s like doing a ten stretch with no remission,” Doyle chuckled at the memory of his tête-à-tête with Christine Bailey. “The other thing was a bit tricky,” he said, “but I got there in the end.”
“So we’re good to go?”
“Absolutely,” Doyle said, “how about his nibs?”
“As predicted,” Jacko said, “came bustling back from The Yard cock-a-hoop, the old man gave him his blessing, just like I said he would.”
So we’re going to do it, Harry?”
Jacko stretched. He was planning to run up to Vauxhall Bridge, cross the river and jog back on the other side all the way down to St Paul’s and back over the futuristic Millenium foot bridge to Tate Modern.
“You know what rankles most, Peter,” he said, “when he rubbishes the Corps, he wouldn’t have lasted the first week at Lympstone. So yeah, we’re going to do it; we’re going to do it for the poor bloody infantry, and the Green Beret.”
Doyle smiled. “You do know what happens if this all goes to rats, don’t you Harry?”
Jacko was limbering up on the spot, warming up his legs. “Yeah,” he replied, “we end up working security at Tesco.”
She looked stunning.
Strappy red mini dress with heels; arms and shoulders glowing light olive with fake tan. And those legs!
The Hammer was besotted.
All through the day as she sashayed in and out of the Borough Commander’s office she contrived to touch him, let him inhale her scent. When she succeeded in lightly brushing her fingertips across his groin as they passed, he felt a jolt of electricity stab through his body. All day McGee had the impression she was coming on to him and now he was sure. Just watching her cross and uncross those long legs giving him a glimpse of thigh set him tingling. All sense of propriety was fading against a tide of lust.
Ever since his meeting with the Commissioner and the old man’s pretty explicit hint that the door was open for his promotion to Deputy Assistant Commissioner if he played his cards right, The Hammer had been riding a wave of euphoria. Now it seemed he was on the verge of an even more delicious conquest; if things worked out the way they seemed he could soon be riding Christine Bailey. His own arrogance obscured any misgivings, after all, as he’d read somewhere, victrix causa deis placuit, and the Gods were already smiling down on him.
And so, at a little after six, when McGee was confident the top corridor was deserted he crossed to his hospitality cabinet and proposed a drink, just to unwind. Christine asked for a long gin and tonic and when he refilled her glass for the second time, he made his move, taking her by the shoulders and kissing her a little clumsily. Instead of pulling back as he had feared, Christine drew him to her, her hands moving down his back as she returned his kiss expertly, her tongue darting into his mouth.
The Hammer broke the embrace with a light laugh and stepped across the office to lock the outer office door, just in case. In that moment, Christine opened her Jimmy Choo Saba-bag, which she had placed on a side table, and keyed her mobile phone, which was set on mute.
McGee returned smiling broadly and Christine turned to meet him, slipping the straps from her shoulders, letting the dress fall away to pool around her feet. Despite his veneer of macho confidence, the sight of her made him suddenly light headed and as he floated towards her, unaware of his legs beneath him, she shrugged out of her lace bra unveiling smooth perfect breasts. The Hammer felt dizzy, his head reeling as she took him in her arms and murmured in his ear: A girl ought to be proud of her body, don’t you think? But before he could reply she guided his head against her breast and his mouth was around a nipple the size of a walnut.
Time lost all meaning for McGee; in the blink of an eye, or so it seemed, Christine had unhitched her thong and nimbly undressed him, leading him towards an open space of carpet. “No, no..” The Hammer managed to gasp as an erotic fantasy fired his imagination, “please, please, on the desk!”
He swept the clutter of the day aside, lifted her up and for a second saw her there before him, spread-eagled on the dark mahogany before he was on top of her, face buried between those firm inviting breasts as Christine Bailey, whispering soothing encouragement, entwined her long legs around his waist drawing him into her, arching her back to set them in motion which began slowly and then rose smoothly to the frantic see-sawing of a rider astride a bucking bronco.
Mc Gee felt himself soaring towards ecstasy and gasped his expression of raw pas
sion, oblivious to the faint buzzing of an insect circling the office.
Back from leave, Joyce was at her desk in the Borough Commander’s outer office when Jackson walked in. She inclined her head and nodded him through.
In the inner sanctum The Hammer was juggling the phones. He glanced up as Jacko walked in.
“Not now, Harry,” he snapped, peevishly, “I’m setting up a tasking conference call to the Yard.”
“Iron Fist?” Jacko asked, approaching the desk.
“Now you’re catching on, I’ve got the green light to put together a Met wide task force, Territorial Support Group, the works. That Brunswick Farm rats nest wont know what hit ‘em, we’ll clean ‘em out once and for all.”
“You might want to hold fire on that,” Jacko said.
The Hammer looked up, frowning at the challenge in the other man’s voice. “You’re skating on thin ice, mister,” he rasped but Jacko ignored the rebuke strode around the desk and slotted a USB flash drive into McGee’s computer.
“What the…” The Hammer growled as to his astonishment the key kicked in and the screen came alive; alive with an image of the office, this very office he was in right now and he did an incredulous double take as the shot began to zoom around like a demented insect, finally zeroing in on the desk, this very desk he was sitting behind right now, only..only…all colour drained from The Hammer’s face. There was no mistaking it, there on that very desk was himself,