Bolan showed up on time, parked the car he had rented and went into the pub. He spotted his man seated in a booth near the oak-beamed fireplace, identifying him from the photograph McCarter had sent over. Watts raised his pint glass in acknowledgment and Bolan joined him. There was a full pint of beer waiting for him.
Watts offered a hand as Bolan sat down. “I ordered a couple of ploughmen’s,” he said.
“Thanks,” Bolan said. He took the glass and checked the beer. It was nicely chilled.
“So how is the old reprobate? Still a smart-arse?” Watts asked.
“You know him well, then?”
Watts chuckled. He took a swallow from his pint.
“Our relationship goes back a long way. Sometimes I think too long. But he and I have shared some hairy moments together.” Watts paused as a server came with their food. Cheese, salad and pickle, with chunks of crusty fresh bread and rich butter. “Couple more pints, love.”
They ate quietly for a while until Watts said, “I have what you asked for. It’s outside in the boot of my car. When we leave I’ll hand it over and we can go on our merry ways. I imagine with what you asked for your way isn’t about to be all that merry.”
“Something that needs to be done,” was all Bolan said.
Watts nodded. He studied Bolan’s face, picking up on a couple of healing marks in evidence.
“Fell over my skis,” Bolan said.
“I understand they can be pretty aggressive at times,” Watts said straight-faced.
As they stood to leave Bolan hesitated as the bullet gouge in his hip reminded him it was still there. He noticed Watts had seen the pause.
“Skiing again? Maybe you should think of quitting.”
“Problem is it becomes an addiction. Hard to give it up.”
Watts went to the bar to pay the tab, then led Bolan out of the pub. He pointed to a gleaming maroon Jaguar parked at the far corner of the parking lot. Bolan went to his car and reversed out of his spot, then drove across to stop behind the Jaguar. Watts opened the trunk and took out a heavy black bag. He opened the rear door of Bolan’s vehicle and placed it on the floor behind the driver’s seat.
“Everything you asked for,” he said. “The explosive packs are already fitted with timed detonators. Just set them where you need and the handheld unit will do the rest.”
Bolan shook the man’s hand. “Thanks.”
“You watch your back. And next time you see my buddy tell him not to stay away too long. He’s a pain but he’s a good friend. And there aren’t many of those left these days.”
Bolan raised a hand as he drove away, turning the car along the quiet road. He circled the outer road system that bypassed London and made for the coast. He had a room booked in a hotel that was no more than an hour’s drive from the South East Containers offices.
South East Containers was the company Paul Chambers ran. The same company he had seen delivering human cargo to the farm outside Rotterdam. The Executioner had an appointment with the freight company. Initially it would be to reconnoiter the setup so he knew what he was up against when he made his full strike.
12
South East Containers occupied a large site ten miles inland from the ferry port where its vehicles maintained their schedules to and from Rotterdam Port. The freight business sat in near isolation, the closest village some eight miles along the road that ran west to east along the coastal area. The area around the site was timbered grassland, with some wide-spaced farms in the distance.
The location was ideal for Bolan’s initial observation of the setup. He parked off the road, deep in a stand of trees and heavy bush. Dressed in casual clothing, with binoculars and a camera around his neck, he was prepared to check out the freight business and pass himself off as an enthusiastic photographer if anyone asked.
He had parked a half mile from the site, making his way through the greenery until he was able to scan South East Containers from concealment.
The frontage comprised of an expansive spread of concrete that allowed the large rigs to pull safely off the road. Large metal gates gave access to the freight yard itself and the whole property was enclosed behind sturdy metal fencing. Bolan could see cameras mounted strategically along the top of the fencing. Next to the access gates was a front office that housed security men. Bolan spent long hours watching the activity as South East Containers vehicles came and went, each checked when they arrived and again when they left.
At the far end of the freight yard was a long warehouse building with loading ramps and a number of roller-shutter doors at the rear of each bay. A concrete island in the yard held a number of fuel pumps where the drivers could fill up their diesel tanks.
Over the two days and nights Bolan observed the activity, he saw that South East Containers closed for trading by eight every night. Rigs were parked in the yard, the drivers taking their own cars and driving away, leaving the security team to watch over the site. As darkness fell powerful lights came into operation, covering the freight yard and the frontage. The cameras set on the metal fences rotated to cover both.
Bolan decided that if he was going to get into the freight yard and the warehouse the security facilities needed neutralizing first. And from what he had seen, the front office would be the place to start.
Day three was Saturday, and South East Containers closed for the weekend just after midday. Bolan watched the drivers park and leave in their own vehicles. He also saw the two security men hand over to a single man who arrived in a Land Rover. He parked inside the yard and they drove out. The gates were closed and the lone guard made his way into the site office.
Bolan saw the situation as his chance to make a closer inspection. It was necessary if he was going to carry out his planned strike.
He returned to his concealed car and drove back to his hotel, where he changed from his casual gear into a suit, complete with shirt, tie and polished shoes. Back in his car he returned to the South East Containers site, only this time he rolled his car off the road and across the concrete apron, parking. As Bolan stepped out of the car he could see the lone security man staring at him.
RAY KEPPLE FINISHED rolling his cigarette as he watched the tall, expensively dressed man climb out of the gleaming sedan and make his way across to the office. There was something about the man that aroused a nervous sensation in Kepple’s stomach. He quickly stuck the thin cigarette between his lips and lit it, sucking smoke deep into his lungs.
The newcomer spotted him through the streaked office window and angled across to the door. He pushed it open, pausing in the frame. Kepple got an impression of a big man, physically fit under the suit. He had thick dark hair, his face tanned but showing some recent bruising. The eyes fixed on Kepple were of a startling blue, expressionless and cold. They unnerved Kepple.
“What can I do for you?” he asked.
Bolan had seen the name badge pinned to the man’s shirt. “Ray Kepple. The man I came to see.”
Kepple realized the man was plainly an American, his tone firm without being aggressive.
“Yes. Who are you?”
“I’m the man about to get you out of trouble.”
“Eh?”
“You’ve heard about the problems in Rotterdam? Someone making a lot of noise? Upsetting business? It’s making Mr. Canfield nervous.”
Kepple rubbed the back of his neck, shifting uneasily from one foot to the other. “Well, I don’t get involved in the operation over there. All I do is supervise things here.”
“From what the boss man told me you’re the main man here. Run this depot like clockwork. Keep the trucks moving on time and the merchandise turned around pretty fast.”
“Canfield said that?” Kepple gave a nervous grin. “I like to think I do my job efficiently.”
He didn’t have that much authority around the place but someone seemed to believe he had, so why spoil their illusions.
“It hasn’t gone unnoticed, Mr. Kepple. All the way to the top.”
>
It was not very often Kepple received any praise for his work.
“Hey, you want a cup of tea? Coffee? I know you Yanks…Americans…prefer coffee.”
“Yeah, why not, and the name’s Ryan.”
Kepple turned to the unit in the corner of the office where he kept the makings, switching on a plastic kettle. “Be a couple of minutes.”
Bolan had settled himself by the desk, leaning against it. He appeared relaxed, studying the layout of the office. “Quiet around here.”
“Oh, yeah,” Kepple said. “Weekend, see. We don’t operate weekends. Old traditions die hard in this part of the country. Half day Saturday. Sunday all day. Day of rest and all that stuff. We have to keep a low profile. Look suspicious to the locals if we didn’t. And we don’t want that, do we?”
“Hey, good thinking, Ray.”
Kepple handed the visitor a mug of black coffee. The American took it, sampling the strong brew.
“Sorry it’s instant. Don’t run to fresh roast hereabouts. Yes, I keep my eye on the place. I mean, there’s a lot of expensive vehicles back there in the yard. Mr. Chambers gets twitchy. Especially after all that bloody stuff in Holland. You understand.”
“One of the reasons I’ve been sent over. No disrespect, Mr. Kepple, but there’s a lot riding on keeping the operations running smooth. That’s my job. Overseeing security. So I can report back to the man at the top and let him know he ain’t got anything to worry about. If he’s kept happy we can all be happy.”
“Chambers said they’re letting things cool for a while. No more shipments until we get the word again. Keep the place looking normal. No unnecessary activity.”
“That’s good,” Bolan said. He placed his mug on the desk. “I need to let that cool. Now, you want to give me the guided tour? I can’t see any problems here but we’d better do this right. You run a tight ship, Ray, I can see that.” Kepple nodded. “Between you and me I just want to do my job and get back to London. Young lady waiting for me there and I wouldn’t want to leave her standing, if you know what I mean.”
“I understand.”
“Look, just take me on a quick walk around the freight yard. I’ll take a few pictures with my digital camera and report back when I get back to the city. Give you a good write-up.”
Kepple stubbed out his cigarette, nodding enthusiastically. “Where do you want to start?”
“The yard is monitored? Cameras and stuff?”
“That’s right.”
Kepple led him through to the office, to another room where the security setup was housed. It was an air-conditioned control center where a bank of monitors relayed images from the freight yard. It was an expensive assembly.
“Digital cameras,” Kepple explained. “Recorded so we can check back if we spot anything suspicious. Cameras are infrared so they can see in the dark. Bloody clever stuff.”
“You said it, buddy. And you’re the man in charge of all this? Impressive stuff, Ray.”
“The freight yard is fenced all around. Steel embedded in concrete. There are even motion sensors on the gates and fences, so anyone trying to break in will set the alarms off. Now, in most cases the security system would be linked to the local cops. But it could prove embarrassing if they turned up and found merchandise on the premises. Chambers would go crazy if that happened. So would Canfield. We keep security in-house. If it’s broken it’s linked to the main office in London.”
“Wise move, Ray.”
Kepple led the way through a solid door at the back of the control center that opened on to the freight yard. The wide concrete area held a dozen of the distinctive South East Container rigs. All were locked. As they walked down the line of vehicles Bolan nodded his approval. He spent some time taking photographs with the compact camera he had produced from his suit jacket.
At the edge of the yard was the long, low-rise warehouse. “Your hospitality suite in there?” Bolan asked, grinning.
“Only ones who know are those involved in the business. Rest of the work staff are involved in packing and loading. We run a produce setup. Bring in stuff from Europe and ship throughout the U.K. The routine business, if you know what I mean. We have a five-star setup. Soundproof. Isolated. There’s a false wall so that the day employees know nothing about it. The special deliveries are off-loaded at night when the day shift has gone.”
He was warming to his subject now. Pleased to have someone around who seemed to appreciate what he did.
“Hell of a lot more fun than lugging crates of food around,” the big American said.
“Well, I like to think of the merchandise as vegetables on legs,” Kepple said, grinning expansively. “Expensive, but still bloody vegetables.”
He wasn’t looking at Bolan as he spoke, which was a good thing. If he had seen the ice-chip expression in the American’s eyes he would have had doubts concerning his own life expectancy.
As they returned to the control room, Bolan walked beside Kepple.
“Great job you’re doing here, Ray. When the big man gets my report he’s liable to send you a bonus. I’m going to recommend that. I were you, though, I wouldn’t let on to Chambers I said so. Don’t want him grabbing all the glory when you’re the man holding all this together. In fact Canfield said not to mention this visit to him at all. After what happened in Holland Chambers isn’t what you’d call flavor of the month. You understand?”
“I know what you mean,” Kepple said, inwardly pleased that Chambers was out of favor.
Bolan took a final look around, pretending to be suitably impressed. “If anyone did get in here could they disable the security system?” he asked.
“There’s a master override that shuts the whole thing down, but it’s in that box on the wall and it won’t open unless I use my key.”
“I hope you look after that key, Ray, my man.”
“Always have it with me.”
“So, you man the ship all night?”
“Today and Sunday. Never get any visitors over the weekend. Not even Chambers. He likes to live it up in London.”
“Doesn’t it get lonely?”
“I’m okay with that. I have my radio. That’s all I need. My shift ends at 6:00 a.m. Monday Day crew comes on then. Drivers arrive at seven. Then I get to go home. Nice long break.”
Back in the office Bolan picked up his mug and drank the rest of his coffee. He turned to Kepple and shook his hand. The American’s big hand swamped Kepple’s.
“Good job, Ray. I can tell the boss man things are running real smooth here. It’s important right now. Lot of money at stake so it’s reassuring to know the man in charge has it all tied down. You take it easy.”
Kepple watched the American return to his car and drive away. As the vehicle coasted along the straight, flat road he rolled himself another cigarette, lit it and sat back behind his desk.
He wondered if the man had been telling the truth about a bonus. It would be nice if he did get something. He would keep that to himself. If Chambers learned about it he would moan and bitch. The man was a mean bastard. Liked to believe he was the smart one. Maybe this time it wouldn’t be so.
Maybe this time it would be Ray Kepple who got the surprise.
13
Ray Kepple received his surprise far sooner than expected. And it was not in the form he had anticipated.
It came dressed in black. Armed. Carrying a heavy nylon bag, and made an appearance just after midnight.
Kepple, in the front office, had just fixed himself another mug of tea. From the control room behind him the plaintive wail of a female singer drifted through the open door. The lyrics told of her disappointment with her boyfriend who had run off with another woman, leaving her brokenhearted.
Give me ten minutes with you, love, and I’d change your mind, Kepple thought.
He chuckled at his own thoughts, picked up his steaming mug and crossed to the office door, unlocking it to step outside for a breath of fresh air. There was a full moon, casting pale light,
and it was warm, surprisingly so for the late hour. Kepple knew he didn’t make it any easier on himself with his constant smoking. The office reeked of stale tobacco. He had smoked since his fourteenth birthday, couldn’t quit if he wanted to, but even he had to admit his habit did little to enhance the confined area in the office. He never smoked in the control room. He kept the place clean because Chambers would lose it if his precious, cutting-edge security system became tainted. And Kepple didn’t like the chill, conditioned air. He had spent the past hour in the place, staring at monitors that never changed, and he decided he needed a mug of tea, a sandwich from his lunch box and a smoke.
He placed his mug on the office windowsill, pulled the makings from his pocket and proceeded to make a cigarette. As he wet the strip of paper something moved on his extreme left. It was only a fleeting shadow on the periphery of his vision. Kepple glanced in that direction and saw nothing but the sway of tall grass at the edge of the concrete apron near the road. He shrugged and returned to his cigarette. About to light it Kepple felt certain he saw something again.
“Bloody hell, son, you’re jumping at shadows,” he said out loud.
He lit the cigarette and took a deep pull on it. A moment later the smoke caught in his throat and he almost choked, coughing harshly. The cold press of hard metal against the side of his head was the cause. Kepple didn’t need to be told what it was.
The muzzle of a gun was pressing hard enough to cause some discomfort.
“Ray, those cigarettes are not doing you any good,” a soft voice said. “Are you carrying a weapon?”
“A what? A gun? No.”
“Let’s go back inside.”
Kepple sucked frantically on the cigarette. He turned to walk back into the office. He stood just inside the office when he heard the door close and the lock click shut.
“Go sit down.”
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