Hit

by P. S. Bridge

  Mark King pushed his way through the huddle of journalists with cameras, microphones and notebooks as he attempted to leave the courtroom; as usual, there was one journalist in particular who reached him first, and it was Ian Hawking.

  ‘Mr King, such an overly dramatic and unnecessary presentation of the facts in your statement, do you really think theatre and over-acting will continue to win you cases like these on this scale?’

  Mark King shrugged as he deliberately made eye contact with the journalist.

  ‘That depends, do you think a gaudy suit, tatty hair and the smell of last night’s stale beer on your breath will obtain better news stories?’ he said nonchalantly, continuing to walk past.

  The pack of journalists Mark King hated so much erupted into laughter as a female news reporter stood next to Hawking caught a whiff of his breath and screwed up her face in disgust before backing away in a very obvious manner. Hawking looked mortally wounded, confused and angered as the rest of the pack pushed him to the back and followed Mark out towards the stone steps which lead into the court’s marbled foyer. Hawking was left behind and threw his notebook on the floor in disgust.

  There was a waiting mob of reporters, all set up with TV cameras on tripods, and TV news crews’ vans which had been camped outside the courts since the trial began. It wasn’t Mark’s biggest audience, but he took the hand of Mrs. Wilkinson, whom he had led out onto the steps, surrounding by almost the entire litigation team of Lever & Sons LLP who had been instructed to prosecute Mr. Rahman. Mark smiled at Mrs. Wilkinson and winked before he held his hands up to silence the waiting mob.

  Shouts came from the waiting press as each one of them wanted their question answered first.

  ‘Mr King, did you expect a guilty verdict?’ shouted one; Mark chuckled but didn’t have time to respond.

  ‘Mrs. Wilkinson, are you pleased with the result and feel you can now lay your husband to rest?’ another shouted.

  She glanced at Mark, who smiled and put his hand up, signalling for her not to answer.

  ‘Do you think this case will set a precedent for the government and security services to act quicker to prevent home grown terrorism?’ a voice cried from within the crowd.

  Mark patted Mrs. Wilkinson on the back as she took out her folded A4 sheet of paper she had prepared a speech on. As she began, the crowds listened and, fighting back tears, she described how her family were coping with the tragic loss and how they could now finally move on after achieving justice for her husband. Quietly and stealthily, Mark King slipped further back until he was at the back of the crowd, and slipped away towards his parked car.

  Had he moved moments, seconds even, earlier, he may have avoided the hounding and bitter questioning of Ian Hawking, who had eventually found his way out of the courtroom and spotted Mark tiptoeing away and followed him.

  ‘Mr King, a word now if you please,’ he squirmed, fumbling for his notebook and pencil, upsetting his case of paperwork all over the concrete as the wind swept paper up into the air.

  ‘For God’s sake man, who the hell are you anyway, can’t you see I’ve got a home to go to?’ snapped Mark as he quickened his pace to reach his car before Hawking followed.

  ‘Always got a witty remark, haven’t you, King,’ Hawking snarled as he attempted to pick up the paperwork from the floor.

  ‘Look, where do you get off on this …’ Mark couldn’t remember his name and fumbled for a moment or two trying to remember, ‘whatever your name is, why do you feel it necessary to harass me?’

  ‘I just want some answers from you; you avoid me all the time, what have you got to hide?’ Hawking replied sarcastically.

  Mark shuddered as he reached his car and remotely unlocked it, putting his case and court papers into the boot. Hawking was quick on his feet and the two men stood, face to face. Hawking smiled a wry and sycophantic smile as he felt his anger build.

  ‘You will fall one day, Mark King, and I will be there to catch every second of it!’

  Mark watched as the pathetic little man chewed on his gum and smiled through stained teeth.

  ‘Good luck with that Harrington,’ he remarked as he got into the car and drove off, leaving Hawking stood there alone, still smiling,

  ‘It’s Hawking,’ he uttered in a disgruntled voice, ‘my name is Hawking,’ before he turned to leave.

  As Mark walked in through the doors of Levers & Sons LLP law firm, he was greeted by a joyous and triumphant welcoming party of laughing and victorious staff who patted him on the back and shook hands with him as he tried, with difficulty, to make his way towards his office.

  ‘Well done, Mark!’ a voice shouted.

  ‘Wonderful performance!’ shouted another.

  ‘Magnificent achievement, a great victory!’ another one cried as Mark reached the lift and the doors opened.

  He smiled a reluctant smile and put his hand up to wave in appreciation as the lift doors closed. When he reached his floor, he was greeted by almost as celebratory a group as the one he had just left downstairs, although this one was much more reserved. As Mark walked towards his office, he could see the familiar suited, white haired, and short, trimmed bearded figure of his boss and half of the creators of the firm, Hugo Lever. Mark smiled as he stood in front of his senior partner.

  ‘Mark, well done boy!’ Hugo said his face broadening with a beaming smile, as he firmly shook Mark by the hand and slapped him on the back.

  ‘Thank you Hugo, but I have work to do.’

  ‘On the contrary old boy, now listen, I have just had word from my contact in the security services,’ he explained as Mark rolled his eyes in wonder at how Hugo was so well connected.

  ‘Oh really?’ Mark said, feigning interest.

  ‘He advised me thanks to your “performance” in there, they are now investigating a second “Person of Interest” higher up the chain of command of this splinter group of terrorists.’

  ‘That’s good.’ Mark nodded and smiled as Hugo walked Mark towards his office with his arm firmly around Mark’s shoulder.

  ‘Now, take the rest of the day off. Why not go and have a rest, celebrate with Marie, think of it as a “thank you” for all your hard work.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you, Hugo, but I …’

  ‘I insist,’ Hugo interrupted, his eyes narrowing into a serious frown.

  Mark knew better than to argue with Hugo on matters like this, and reluctantly placed his paperwork and case down, and reached for his car keys.

  ‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ Hugo said insistently as he directed Mark towards the door.

  ‘Thanks Hugo,’ Mark uttered as he left the room.

  Hugo shut the glass door behind him and walked towards his desk phone. He picked up the receiver and dialled a speed dial number, and awaited an answer.

  ‘Yes, this is Hugo; I think we need to talk.’

  Chapter Three

  Within the halls of MI6 Headquarters, London UK, Counter-terrorism Division, a young agent with an impressive track record in catching international terrorists was pacing the floor looking through intelligence files.

  Agent Nathanial Williams of MI6 Counter Terrorism skulked into the main operations room and various admin staff and agents turned to see the ominous figure as he made his way down to the main plasma screen in the centre of the room. The head of MI6, together with the team tasked with discovering and illuminating threats to UK security, have been tracking the movements of a known terrorist Mohammed Al Azidi. Williams was reading his file as he silently moved around the room.

  Mohammed Al Azidi, the twenty-nine year-old, self-proclaimed “Jihadi” and eldest brother of three, was a well-known Person of Interest within several intelligence agencies, but none had gotten close enough to him to gain anything useful against him. Williams had a personal interest in this case; his younger brother was maimed in an explosion several years ago, with Azidi as the only viable suspect. Williams was, although he would never admit it, treating this as personal, som
ething an MI6 agent should never do. His superiors knew of his interest in this case, and if it wasn’t for his superior skill and methodology over his fellow agents, he would never have been assigned to this case. Besides, he thought if anyone could catch Azidi, it would be him. He hoped they wouldn’t give him another case which would take away precious time he could spend hunting down Azidi and finding out about his terror cell, and who was funding it.

  The section chief had been alerted by Williams, who had been tracking Azidi since before he encountered him in Syria three months ago.

  Williams answered his mobile which caused the entire room to turn to look at him. In his thick Scottish accent, he answered in his usual dour tone,

  ‘Williams.’

  The voice from the other end of the phone was Williams’ contact within Mossad, the intelligence agency for Israel. Williams was unimpressed by the news.

  ‘NO!’ he shouted down the phone angrily, ‘MI6 have tracked Al Azidi to London because he plans to blow up the Houses of Parliament, and other UK targets we have intelligence about, in a systematic attack on the UK. I do not plan on sharing any intelligence until we know what we’re up against.’

  Williams hung up the phone and sighed, frustrated with the apparent lack of inter-agency co-operation.

  Suddenly, a phone rang out of the blue and one of the other agents answered it. Williams’ attention quickly turned as the room fell silent. The agent looked across at Williams and his face went white. Williams rushed over and took the phone off the agent and answered it. Williams’ face also dropped when he was informed over the phone that another field agent tracking Al Azidi had been found dead, his throat cut and Azidi’s whereabouts were at this time unknown.

  Williams would not wait to get authorisation to enter the field. He had finely honed skills as a covert field agent and didn’t want to hang around to lose this lead. During the last eight months, alongside tracking Al Azidi, Williams had also linked Azidi to a faceless and mysterious group of individuals, an organisation of professional hit men, who he believed were pulling the strings behind a multitude of terrorist organisations and probably helping to finance them. Williams was convinced there were members of this group within MI6 but he didn’t have enough evidence, nor did he realise how far up this organisation went, and he was finding it difficult to wade through the murky waters of the secret service.

  ‘How long ago did Waters check in?’ Williams asked with a voice full of regret at leaving someone else in charge of watching Azidi. They had, at their disposal, the largest database of active terrorists and terrorist group profiles in the world.

  Mark King appeared from the living room of his home in rural London into the kitchen to find Marie, his wife, making breakfast for them both, and his children Benjamin and Hope sat at the kitchen table, already part way through their own breakfast. He held onto the brief case and files he was carrying and grabbed a piece of toast, kissed Marie and the children goodbye and tried to rush out of the door. Marie, experienced in this early morning manoeuvre, tried to persuade him to sit down and eat.

  ‘You need to eat before work today; it’s a big day for you!’ she said with her usual air of concern.

  Mark smiled at her, adjusting his suit jacket and his tie in the large hallway mirror. He wanted to look his best and to look slightly menacing as it made the defence nervous. He peered into the kitchen.

  ‘I’d love to spend the day with you guys but remember me telling you about a new case that came in a few months back? Well, today is the first day, early start!’

  Marie tutted at his level of ambition but she loved that about her husband; he would do anything to make their lives better and he wanted a practice of his own soon.

  ‘Oh excellent, sounds interesting, let me guess?’ Marie responded, smiling.

  There was silence before they both simultaneously chimed, ‘But I can’t talk about it?’

  They both chuckled as the children continued to eat their breakfast, not interested in their parents’ working life.

  ‘Darling, this could be THE case which will make and define my career,’ Mark pleaded excitedly.

  ‘Don’t forget, we are going away at the end of the week. I’ve packed all my stuff and the children’s clothes too!’ Marie replied distantly.

  Mark had forgotten they had arranged to go away this week. He had been fighting for time off for weeks. Finally Hugo had agreed, and he winced as he imagined the villa in the south of Spain, with its warm golden sandy beaches and drinks at the bar. He imagined Marie in a swimsuit and peace and quiet but he had a feeling he would have to postpone.

  ‘Honey, will you look for the passports for the children? I think they may be in the study in the safe?’ Marie asked, thoughtfully.

  Mark agreed although he wasn’t listening fully. His mind was focussed on preparing the case. He had been going over and over it in his mind for most of the night and believed he could obtain a guilty verdict. He wanted to be noticed; maybe then he would get the chance to own this practice, and if not he wanted to start one of his own.

  Mark rushed out of the door leaving Marie watching after him, worried. She turned to go inside to tidy up after breakfast. Ben and Hope were both plugged into MP3 players and Hope was reading a fashion magazine. Marie put the breakfast dishes in the dishwasher and grabbed her handbag and car keys, and moved some of Mark’s paperwork from the side to the kitchen table. She tutted and shook her head when a half-empty packet of cigarettes fell out and onto the floor. She remembered back at university when both of them smoked, Mark more so, but only when he was stressed. She stopped and thought for a moment as she picked up the packet.

  ‘I haven’t had one in years. Should I?’

  However, the feeling that Mark had hidden it from her made her slightly cross. She soon dismissed the thought as she knew he had been under serious pressure at work lately and had been responsible for prosecuting numerous criminals linked to an organised crime ring operating in the north and midlands. She smiled as she thought she’d smelt it on him the week before, but put it down to him meeting clients on the way home from work. She would have to invite Hugo Lever, Mark’s boss and senior partner at Mark’s law firm, and his wife over for dinner again soon, and then she could moan about the pressure he was putting Mark under.

  ‘Hope! Benjamin!’ shouted Marie as she left the front door open for them. ‘Now please or you walk to school.’

  The children, not being needed to be told twice, both ran past her and out to the waiting car, still attached to their MP3 players. Marie wondered how it was they heard her now, yet when she stood next to them, they could never hear a word.

  She glanced around as usual, to acknowledge the neighbours but no one was around today. However, she wondered if someone had bought a new car as she noticed a Range Rover four-by-four parked across the street, blacked-out windows and a strange number plate. She’d never seen the car before. Perhaps it was a friend’s or Mark’s, or someone waiting to give someone a lift. She brushed it aside and got into the car herself and left to drop the children off at school.

  Mark smiled as he drove to work, listening to the music in the car. He pulled out one of his ‘emergency’ cigarette packets from the glove box and lit it, enjoying the feeling of exhaling the nicotine as he wound the window down. His mind took him back to the halls of St Andrews University where he and Marie first met. He remembered the way they used to look at each other and listen to music while they studied together, the plans they made and how life seemed so distant from pressures, other than the pressure of getting in their dissertation on time. They had been so distracted by work and life, he felt they had forgotten how to have fun and relax. He would have loved to have gone on holiday where he had planned to do as little as possible and forget the rush of life and just relax. Mark was aware he had spent little time at home lately and he felt guilty about it, but he knew Marie was behind him even though sometimes it hurt her when they were away from each other for long periods of time, and
when he WAS home, he was in his study working on active cases. She would look after the house, the children, and get herself to work. He wondered what he would do without her and how precious she really was to him. He would win this case, for her, and show her that all the sacrifice and distance was worth it.

  He pulled up outside the barristers’ chambers and solicitors’ firm Lever & Sons LLP, the most successful legal firm in the country. Before he had the chance to enter the building, a journalist, Ian Hawking, rushed towards Mark with a notebook and dictaphone and a camera slung across his shoulder firing questions about his previous case and personal life.

  ‘Mr King, Mr King, is it true that the police made you aware of the link between Al Azidi and the recent crime syndicate you prosecuted?’ Mark, irritated by this invasion of privacy, put his hand up to Hawking’s face.

  ‘Go away. I will NOT jeopardise this case to give YOU a scoop on this. Please leave.’

  Hawking persisted, paying no heed to Mark’s warning. Mark spun on him.

  ‘Who are you anyway, head of the Chigwell Gazette?’ Mark mocked as Hawking looked offended.

  Mark knew full well who he was. Ian Hawking, freelance journalist and bane of Mark’s life, was always trying to get him to give a story and had hounded him for years, just waiting for him to trip up so he could write another one of those sick, twisted celebrity gossip smear stories. Mark was having none of it. He did the usual thing of pretending not to know who he was as he knew Hawking was insecure about his status as a reporter.

  Mark rushed through the doors into his office, stopping to harmlessly flirt with Margaret La Tour (Maggie to those who knew her best), the aged secretary behind the large beech and chrome reception desk at the front of the building,

  ‘Good morning beautiful!’ Mark cheerfully chimed and winked at her as she smiled at him. ‘Wow, you really look amazing this morning and I love the perfume, very seductive!’

  ‘Oh go on you,’ she replied playfully but secretly grateful for the compliment, ‘or I’ll tell your wife.’