by Thomas Waugh
Terry poured Devlin a pint before he even entered, having spotted his friend through the window, paying the cab driver. As he got to the bar Alan and James, the couple who lived next door to the pub, were having a discussion cum argument about whether to attend a Star Trek or Star Wars convention later in the year.
“Terry, we’re never going to agree about this so why don’t you decide for us?” Alan proposed, keen to settle things either way, if only because he wanted to go outside and smoke another cigarette.
“That’s a good idea. Which is a first for Alan,” James replied, only half-jokingly. “What do you think, Terry?”
“Well, having listened to you both for the past half an hour I can honestly say that I genuinely – and passionately – couldn’t care less about which conference you go to,” the landlord jovially exclaimed.
Alan and James grinned and nodded in sympathy, whilst “Welsh Mick”, another regular, let out a cackle and tapped his silver-handled walking stick on the floor a few times as a form of applause. Mick, a former Royal Engineer, had the uncanny ability to vent bile and get upset about any and everything in the world – but then, aided and abetted by a couple of ciders, he would then duly laugh at any and everything happening in the world.
Devlin got a round in for the group of friends at the bar and, for a blessed hour or so, he was able to drink a measure from Lethe’s cup and forget about Bob, Emma, Holly and the job he would have to do the next day. The tension in his shoulders dissipated, like an aspirin dissolving in water. He laughed out loud several times and took an interest in the lives of his drinking companions. But he knew he would have to drink again from the river Acheron, sooner rather than later. Despite the protestations of Terry and the regulars Devlin excused himself after only a few drinks. He needed to return home with a clear head and contact Porter. The two men, employing coded phrases, confirmed arrangements for the next day.
For better or worse, Ewan Slater was as good as dead.
13.
A fleet of battleship-grey clouds anchored itself in the sky. The rain pelted and hissed. Relentlessly. Perfect weather for killing, Devlin drily posed. People kept their heads down in such weather, oblivious to what was going on around them. The only thing they were concerned about was getting out of the rain. Even more usually he would travel about in the capital, unnoticed. Devlin rifled through a cupboard and retrieved his large, black, Fulton umbrella. Porter would no doubt carry his own umbrella – and both men would be able to shield themselves from London’s prying CCTV cameras.
Devlin woke-up early that morning. After showering and dressing in some black jeans and a plain blue shirt he smoked a couple of cigarettes and drank a cup of strong coffee. He was wired, but not too much. A small element of edginess was fine, natural. He walked Violet and chatted to a couple of other dog owners he knew. They spoke about the weather and he feigned interest in their plans for the weekend ahead. All the while Devlin imagined himself taking the shot. The rain would not change anything. The room he would shoot from would provide sufficient cover. The trajectory was fine. The distance was relatively short, compared to other shots he had taken over the years, and he had no need to factor in bullet drift or the Coriolis effect.
Cutter sent a message from a burner phone, reminding him of their rendezvous. Should Devlin somehow be running late, he should let the CIA agent know immediately.
He took the tube to Baker St. Rain fell down the cheeks of the sullen, harassed passengers like teardrops. Devlin gently tapped his wedding ring against the wooden handle of his umbrella, either nervously or impatiently. A couple of hipsters blamed the summer rain on climate change (if they could they would have blamed Brexit). Devlin wryly smiled to himself as he recalled the afternoon before, in the Huntsman. Someone, a newcomer to the pub, asked if he was a climate change denier.
“It’s not that I don’t think climate change exists, it’s just that I don’t care about it,” Devlin responded, with a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders.
The regulars laughed, much to the chagrin of the po-faced stranger.
The contract killer shook the incident out of his mind, like a forester macheting his way through the jungle, and thought about the vehicle Porter would arrange for them. Like the fixer himself, the car would be practical, reliable and modest. Danny Tanner could be trusted to dispose of the vehicle too. Porter met the former Royal Engineer during his time in the army. If Tanner liked you – and your money was good – he was a useful and loyal associate. The rest of the world however was fair game to fleece. Tanner owned a string of garages across London which, by day, also served as chop shops. Occasionally, at night, the upstairs offices of the garages doubled-up as pop-up poker bars, replete with serving girls and mixologists. And cocaine, of course, which only the house was permitted to sell.
The heavens continued to open as Devlin came out the station, not that he believed that God was ever on his side. He met with Porter on the corner of Glentworth St. He nearly didn’t recognise the former Guards officer, such was his casual dress. He looked like a plumber. Devlin had never seen Porter wear jeans before, or indeed anything with a Nike swoosh emblazoned across it. Casual, for Porter, usually meant leaving the house without wearing a tie or pocket square. The two men nodded at one another, beneath their umbrellas.
“Nice weather for it,” Porter drolly remarked, although like his associate he was all too aware of the benefits from the persistent showers.
“We know more than most how it never rains but it pours,” Devlin replied, smiling lightly as he noticed how his friend had swapped his Patek Philippe, for a digital Casio watch, for the day.
As the pair walked towards Boston Place Porter made small talk by asking if Emma had come over to his flat the previous day. Devlin answered that she had, but failed to mention they had spoken and had lunch. Perhaps he would say something at the end of the week, after he processed how he – and she – felt.
They were met at the door to the house in Boston Place by the American who had followed Devlin into the Huntsman, a few of days ago. They were then led upstairs, where Cutter was waiting for them. He had taken his jacket off, revealing his gun and solid torso. His build and square head made him look like a turret.
“Is Mason not going to grace us with his presence today?” Porter queried, noting his absence.
“Mr. Talbot is attending an important meeting elsewhere,” Cutter flintily replied, conveying his dislike for English irony and sarcasm.
Plausible deniability, Porter thought to himself.
Cutter got down to business straightaway, keen for everyone to be ahead of schedule. He unceremoniously pulled out a British Army issue L115A3 sniper’s rifle, complete with adjustable bipod, an all-weather telescopic sight and suppressor. Cutter also handed over a 5-round box of 8.59mm bullets.
Cutter issued the asset with an equally untraceable Sig Sauer P226 – with shoulder holster, magazine and suppressor. Devlin squeezed the guard of the pistol more than he needed to, as if giving a firm handshake to an old friend.
The American invited Devlin to check the weapons and ammunition. He disassembled and reassembled the rifle on the kitchen table. Once Cutter saw that the Englishman was satisfied he ran through the plan, again. His voice was hard, galvanised. His thoughts and speech worked in straight lines. At any moment Porter fancied Cutter might revert to being a marine and start bellowing orders, or shout “Oorah” as a stirring refrain.
“We will drive you to Shelley St, a couple of streets away from where your vehicle is located, on Derwent Row. You will then drive to the house on Cooper Rd. We currently have a car parked outside, which we will remove just before you arrive. The property is empty – but I have posted a man in line of sight of the address, just in case someone attempts to knock at the door or loiters outside when you enter or exit the address. The second-floor back bedroom to the house looks out onto Lewis St and the front of Hayden Mole’s home. You have been given photographs, maps and diagrams of the address – and
the surrounding area. Mole is our target’s campaign manager. Ewan Slater has set aside the afternoon to conduct meetings in the office on the ground floor of the house. At precisely 14.00 a call will come through to the office. Slater will be asked to come to the phone, which is situated by the window. You will be able to clearly see his silhouette. The phone is an old-fashioned one, connected by a wire, so the target will remain in view for a required period of time. Once I give the order you will take the shot. Failure if not an option. Even if you claim that the rifle has misfired, or the shot goes amiss, I will expect you to draw your pistol and fire a cluster of rounds at the target. Your marksmanship is at a standard to do so. We will leave it to you to ensure that you do not leave any evidence in the room. You are responsible for your own extraction. Do not attempt to contact us after the operation. We will contact you in our own time… Any questions?”
The personal bled into the professional after Cutter’s debriefing, as the CIA operative smirked-cum-sneered at Devlin. Cutter wanted him to know that he was the master – and the trigger man was the dog. He wanted to posit that the marine was superior to the squaddie, the lawman was superior to the criminal – and the American was superior to the Englishman. There had been moments when Cutter had sized up his counterpart – and wondered about the extent of his training and number of kills to his name. Unlike many of the other assets Talbot was responsible for running Cutter was curious, or frustrated, in regards to knowing what made the ex-soldier tick. Devlin had the air of a wild horse, who still wouldn’t let anyone ride him. He needed to be broken.
“Don’t worry, this will all soon be over and you will be able to go back to your old life – or what little life you appear to have. You can spend your days drinking again,” Cutter remarked, unable or unwilling to disguise his animosity towards Devlin.
“As Sinatra once said, “I feel sorry for people that don’t drink, because when they wake up in the morning, that is the best they are going to feel all day.””
Devlin internally doffed his cap to Bob Woodward, for sharing the quote with him many years ago.
Cutter sneered again, like he was looking at a failed recruit, and shook his head disapprovingly. Reprovingly.
“You have no code, no honour. You fight for nothing. Or for a few measly bucks. You’re half the man you once were, since leaving the army, I imagine.”
“Be all you can be. Isn’t that the mantra of the marine corps? If you’re not being all that you can be now, you might want to go back for some basic training. But should you be being all you can be at the moment then your life may be considered just as tragic as mine,” Devlin said, the corner of his mouth raised in a smile. Rather than treating the American with contempt, Devlin wanted to convey how much Cutter amused him – which only riled and antagonised the agent even more.
“You don’t want to make an enemy of me,” Cutter threatened, approaching the Englishman and puffing out his chest. Eyeballing him. His breath smelled of gum and cranberry juice.
“It might prove preferable to having you as a friend,” Devlin wryly, unflinchingly replied.
Cutter initially screwed up his features in disdain but then forced a smile. He didn’t want to give his opponent the satisfaction of seeing him losing control or reveal or any weak spots.
And they still had a job to do.
14.
Porter glanced at Devlin, out the corner of his eye, and noticed the look of concentration or concern on the assassin’s face. He quickly shifted his focus back to the road however as Porter drove the car through the streets of Islington and switched the windscreen wipers to on to intermittent. The fixer wasn’t quite sure if the silence between the two men was comfortable or eerie. He offered up a brief prayer to God, or the cosmos, or Good Luck, that they would come through the day unscathed. Porter justly understood however that his prayers to God might fall on deaf ears, for assorted reasons.
Devlin lowered his window and allowed a blast of fresh air to revitalise his skin. A thick, soupy humidity accompanied the rain. He had overheard two people on the tube earlier describe the heat as “oppressive” and “unbearable”. Devlin recalled the heat in Afghanistan, which could sap a man’s strength and will to live. The sun would hang upon the shoulders like a set of stocks and cook you in your body armour. Sticky, salty sweat poured down faces like rain. One needed to constantly gulp down water, like a camel stopping off at a wadi.
The heat and humidity would not bother him. He could kill in all weathers. But something did begin to bother him – a gadfly buzzing around in his head - although he couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was. Devlin compressed his jaw and re-focused on the task at hand. He castigated himself a little for forgetting to bring a small towel, which he liked to place between his shoulder and the rifle stock. He wondered if the recoil of the weapon would feel familiar or alien to him. It had been eighteen months or so since he had fired a L115A3. Cutter had offered to arrange a practise session for Devlin, to re-introduce him to the weapon, but he declined. Had he done so out of pride or arrogance? Normally he would have been meticulous in his preparation. The harder you practise the luckier you get. Train hard, fight easy. Due to the time frame and parameters of the job however Devlin hadn’t reconnoitred the target or location properly. He was just being asked – or rather ordered – to point and shoot.
“We’re here,” Porter announced, as he turned into Cooper Rd. The road was lined with terrace houses. Most had been split up into flats, some were still council properties - and some were homes to middle-class families, with two cars, a Filipino nanny and a Somalian cleaner. As Cutter had promised, the parking space, directly outside the property, was free. The agent had provided Porter with a tracker and radio after the debrief.
Both men put up their umbrellas after getting out the non-descript vehicle. Should any neighbours have noted the two figures they were unable to catch a proper view of their faces. Porter retrieved the rod bag from the backseat whilst Devlin carried a fishing tackle holdall containing latex gloves, hairnets and his Sig Sauer pistol. Without appearing to be overly rushing they quickly entered the empty property.
The two men put on their latex gloves and hairnets. They had no desire to leave any trace evidence. Porter had considered putting plastic coverings over their shoes but he had instructed Tanner to destroy all their garments, when disposing of the car and weapons, and provide new clothes at their drop-off point.
The musty-smelling house was half-furnished with bits of old furniture and worn carpets. A film of coarse dust and dirt covered the stairs and surfaces. Mouse droppings and cobwebs decorated skirting boards and crevices. The property was due to be sold in September.
Without a word said Porter and Devlin ascended the stairs. Onwards and upwards. Porter briefly comforted himself with the thought that he would be carrying his own rod bag tomorrow, fly-fishing on the banks of the Kennett. He looked forward to emptying his mind, or filling it with plans of getting out from under Talbot’s influence. The American had of course promised that their association would end after today, but he would rather trust a Turk, or Tory, than the CIA agent.
The back bedroom contained a metal-framed single-bed, a table by the window and a pine tallboy, housing a chipped figurine of a racehorse and jockey. The floral wallpaper was yellowing and peeling off in places, due to damp, and several of the wooden floorboards were warped. Motes of dust hung in the air like a congregation of flies over a mound of garbage.
A dull light crawled through the window, which was half covered by a new bark-brown roller blind (which Cutter’s people had recently fitted). Both men surveyed the scene. Either through luck or judgement Cutter had picked a favourable spot. Hayden Mole’s house was directly opposite. Beneath them resided a row of backyards but the rain ensured that no one was sitting out in them. In between the yards – and Mole’s terrace house – was Lewis St, containing a few parked cars. Recently painted iron railings stood at the front of Mole’s home. To the right of its red door was
the large window to his office. Devlin and Porter could already observe a couple of figures moving about, behind the net curtains.
Mole, an avowed Marxist and “fan” of the Stasi, had arranged a slew of meetings for his leader. Some related to press interviews, some to campaign funding and others to introduce Slater to people of potential influence (who they could buy, or be bought by). Porter was already familiar with Mole. A mockney accent disguised Mole’s heritage of being educated at Stowe and Balliol College. He was the son of Tarquin Mole, former head of programming for Radio Four. Mole worked as a Fleet Street journalist for a decade or so, before becoming a senior press officer for the National Union of Miners in the mid-eighties (during which time he accused the SAS of assassinating half a dozen of its members). After resigning from his position at the NUM (his justification being that they were neither militant nor radical enough for him) Mole went back to being a political commentator, although his reputation was tarnished when he was caught falsifying evidence for a story. His long-term mentor and ally – Ewan Slater – quickly hired him as Vision’s Director of Strategy and Communications. Mole described himself in his recent autobiography, “Left Standing”, as a cross between Alastair Campbell and Gerry Adams – as though such a creature should be lauded and admired. Should Devlin’s bullet somehow travel through his target today – and fell Mole too – then Porter promised himself he would drink two large brandies that evening, instead of just one.
Whilst Devlin pulled down the blind fully and commenced to assemble his weapon Porter paced up and down the room, craving a cigar. This was the first time he had accompanied an associate on a job. Usually he was miles away. Plausible deniability. Although Porter was slightly anxious, he was in no mood to panic. Because of his time as a Guards officer (or other regiments might joke that despite his time in the Guards) Porter was no stranger to gunfire or death. Although he hadn’t pulled the trigger himself, he was aware of how much blood he had on his hands in relation to previous contract killings too. But it would soon all be over, the fixer told himself. Porter also took heart from seeing Devlin in action. The ex-soldier was a picture of determination and professionalism as he methodically attached the bipod, suppressor, telescopic sight and magazine to the tried and tested L115A3. He was akin to an artist, readying his easel. More than anyone else he knew, Devlin could be relied upon to get the job done.