Gun For Hire

by Thomas Waugh

  The priest was hearing confession. He briefly remembered his old parish priest, Father Matthew. Irish. Decent. He could still smell the whisky on his breath. Devlin now realised that his rosy cheeks were caused by the burst blood vessels beneath his skin. A handful of elderly parishioners, mainly women, were sat on the front pew, waiting their turn. A couple fingered their rosary beads, in advance payment of any penance. Devlin flirted with the idea of joining them but there wouldn’t be enough hours in the day for the priest to hear his sins. There were others who needed to see him - everyone was a far more deserving soul. And Devlin had no desire to be forgiven, indeed he thought how, should he go back, light a candle and pray to God – the soldier would implore the Almighty to punish him. Kill him.

  The invisible weight grew too burdensome and Devlin sat on a pew, near the back of the church. The bench was more comfortable than he remembered, but the years had put some padding on his posterior he fancied. He picked up a faux-leather, dog-eared copy of the Bible from the seat in front. The pages were wafer-thin and it seemed like the book might fall apart in his hands at any moment, blow away like ashes. But it didn’t.

  Devlin stared at the altar after carefully putting the Bible back in its place. The musty fragrance of books and distinctive aroma of burning candles flickered in his nostrils, as welcoming as the smell of freshly baked bread. The credence table, tabernacle, ambo, chalice and baptismal font owned an air of strangeness and familiarity, piety and majesty. He was reminded of being a teenager again, sitting next to Mary Woodward. Wearing his Sunday best. Sometimes bored and sometimes struck with wonder. Shivering in Winter (and often in Spring and Autumn). Love and God sometimes in his heart.

  The large crucifix naturally attracted Devlin’s attention. Christ was a picture of agony and compassion. Devlin experienced an overwhelming sense of admiration and guilt in its – or His – presence - and had to turn away. Tears welled in his eyes. He missed Holly. He missed God. But they were still with him too. Just not enough. The statue was ageing but had been lovingly maintained. The blood from his wounds glistened in the candlelight from where someone had freshly painted the figure. His suffering was but a drop in the ocean compared to Christ’s. Yet he seemed to be perpetually drowning from that drop in the ocean.

  Devlin idly wondered if he was too Catholic or not Catholic enough to kill himself. But it didn’t matter now. His mind was set. He would leave the church with an age-old sense of hope and holiness.

  “Oh, that the Everlasting had not fixed His canon ‘gainst self-slaughter” – he used to think.

  17.

  Talbot was as effusive, as he was insincere, in his apology, when he contacted Porter a fortnight after the botched – or seemingly botched – operation. Porter knew he was lying – and Talbot knew Porter knew he was lying – but form had to be preserved and the game played out. The American assured the Englishman that all debts had been paid. Ewan Slater was now his problem to deal with, alone.

  “We should have lunch soon,” Talbot added, hoping that just the offer of lunch would serve as sufficient goodwill.

  “We should indeed. How about tomorrow? Come to the Savile. I’ll reserve us a quiet table,” Porter replied, a paragon of charm and generosity, having accepted Talbot’s forthright apology.

  “I’m not sure. I will need to check my diary,” the American said, hoping the stock response would convey his lack of enthusiasm to meet.

  “I insist. It’ll be in your interest, as well as mine, to say yes.”

  There was a conscious hint of a warning, or threat, in the Englishman’s voice. Porter wasn’t quite altogether being the soul of politeness. Talbot knew he was hiding something – but to see his cards they would have to meet in person rather than just talk on the phone.

  “I have a meeting but I can cancel it for you,” the American remarked, pretending to consult his diary, when really, he flipped the pages of a sailing magazine which was to hand on his walnut desk.

  Porter arrived at the Savile early, the following day. Offering to make a generous donation to the club’s chosen charity – he booked out the entire first-floor terrace for the duration of lunch. Porter explained that he was hosting an important guest and needed some privacy. The manager was duly obliging but cited that, no matter how important the guest, he must abide by club rules and be dressed correctly in a jacket and tie.

  Talbot, accompanied by Cutter, arrived fifteen minutes late, at 1.15. The two men squinted in the glare of cloudless summer’s day as the manager led them out to their table where Porter was patiently waiting, with a glass of gin and tonic in his hand. Talbot and Porter warmly greeted one another. Both were dressed in navy blue blazers and mustard coloured corduroy trousers. Oil held their hair in place.

  Talbot eyed the manila folder, beneath the salt and pepper pot, with curiosity and suspicion.

  “Please, Mason, have a seat. I am afraid I am going to have to ask that we lunch alone. I have arranged for your associate to sit by the door, away from the grown-up’s table,” Porter said, garnishing his honeyed tone with a dash of vinegar.

  Cutter’s eyes bulged at the insult and the corner of his mouth subtly twitched with rage. Just as he was about to reply, or snarl, Talbot stepped in.

  “I’ll be fine, Vincent. Order a glass of wine. Lunch shouldn’t take too long. Mr. Porter and I do not have a great deal to discuss. Our business has already been concluded.”

  Talbot had already decided that he would not call on his new assets to work for him again, until the dust had settled. They could have time off for good behaviour, he had joked to Cutter in the aftermath. Unless of course certain circumstances prevailed and he would need to utilise their skills again.

  The former marine nodded his head. He would follow orders and not make a scene. Porter fancied that if he pursed his lips any more however they might bruise, or bleed. It was just a slight shame that Devlin couldn’t be present to watch Cutter be denuded in such a fashion, Porter fancied. He had considered inviting his friend to lunch. But then re-considered. He was too unstable. Devlin might have been tempted to throw Cutter over the railings of the first-floor terrace. Management would have frowned on such behaviour.

  Talbot and Porter sat in silence and perused the menu as one of the waitresses, Maria, poured the wine. Talbot covertly glanced over his menu however to take in his host. The fixer no longer seemed sheepish. Perhaps his over-confidence stemmed from being on home turf. No matter how confident the Englishman seemed though he could but bluff with the cards he’d been dealt. The American held all the aces.

  “Ah, they have veal. There is no other choice. Perhaps its due to my belief that the herd are better off being kept in the dark,” Talbot remarked, his cold eyes momentarily twinkling from being pleased with his own joke.

  Maria took their orders and then took her leave. Once she was safely out of sight and earshot Talbot leaned forward and spoke, baring his bleached teeth a little to show his animus.

  “I do not appreciate being summoned. I sincerely hope you’ve not invited me here to dish out some mock indignation at what happened. Sometimes mistakes are made in the field. You and your associate know this all too well, given what happened a year ago. Any feelings of remorse which you might attempt to instil inside of me Oliver I will duly mistake for indigestion. If, however, you are here to warn me that your boy has gone off the reservation then I will be grateful and act accordingly. I imagine that Cutter will take great pleasure in tracking him down.”

  It came as second nature for the senior operative not to admit specifics during conversations which he couldn’t be certain were wholly private. Plausible deniability. Yet he felt he got his message across to the fixer – and he had re-established his authority. He ran assets. Assets didn’t run him.

  “I’ve not invited you here to give your dog a bone. Rather I’m here to bring his master to heel.”

  Talbot momentarily sneered, viciously, before relaxing his features and offering up a fake chuckle.

&n
bsp; “Ha. How many of those gin and tonics have you had, Oliver? Be careful with your jokes though, as I make it a rule in life to have the last laugh,” the CIA agent warned, both darkly and playfully.

  “I’ve not nearly had enough to begin to celebrate with. And I suspect that I’m going to be far more amused by what I have to say that you will be, if you’ll permit me the floor for a few minutes,” Porter countered, steely and playfully.

  “I’ll indulge you for a few minutes, Oliver. But I’d take care not to cross any red lines. People who get out of their depth often drown. Watch what you say, old chap.”

  “I’m always careful to watch what I say, as I know you are, Mason. But in your line of work you have doubtless been asked before, who watches the watchers? I may have cause to apologise to my old Latin master and Juvenal, but “Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?” In answer to the question I watch the watchers, especially when I suspect that they are watching my friends and I. After our initial phone call the other evening I went to bed. Understandably, I had trouble sleeping. I decided to get up again - and contacted several associates of mine. Having mentioned Devlin over the phone I suspected that you had put a team on him. So, I had my team follow yours, the following day.”

  A flicker of irritation came across Talbot’s face but he nodded and forced a smile, indicating that Porter should continue.

  “Thankfully, at one point during the observation of their target, your friend sitting over there logged-on to one of your accounts on his computer and gifted the password to us. Using slight variations of the password my associate was subsequently able to hack into several other files and accounts you use. I’m now a veritable font on knowledge, concerning CIA operations conducted on British and European soil during the past ten years. But that information pales in comparison to what the company doesn’t know. That you’ve been a busy but naughty boy - using company money and resources to fund off the books black-ops for personal gain. I’ve condensed the highlights of your files into the folder on the table, which you can peruse before you leave. Or you may want to glance at it now, so you are fully aware of the unfortunate position you’re in. In terms of intelligence, what’s mine is yours. Congress would frown on such behaviour. I have friends in the press, on both sides of the pond, who wouldn’t be afraid to run the story. Ewan Slater will have more chance of getting elected as Prime Minister than you will have of becoming a congressman, should I air your dirty laundry in public. Suffice to say I also gained access to one or two of your bank accounts but, as much as I may be a rogue, I’m no common thief. Although I was tempted on more than one occasion to make a donation, in your name, to the charity Alice Pinner has set-up, in honour of her late husband. But, please, before you say something in mock indignation Mason, allow me to continue. I’m about to come to the best bit.”

  Porter took another sip of his wine and wiped the corner of his mouth with his napkin, to help prolong his guest’s ordeal. By now Talbot’s face was fixed in a permanent scowl. Beetle-browed. His hands were equally rigid, as they gripped the table like talons.

  “Now I must give you some credit, from one devious bastard to another, for your plan. Like Napoleon before Waterloo, you humbugged my Wellington by having Michael take out Pinner instead of Slater. I didn’t see it coming. One silhouette looks the same as another. I can understand how you were more confident of us killing Slater than his saintly associate. I would ask that you enlighten me however as to why you wanted to take Pinner off the board. I have a theory, which any silence on your part may speak volumes to. I suspect that you were once Pinner’s handler. Either you blackmailed or paid him to provide intelligence, concerning some of his more left-leaning associates. But at some point recently Pinner grew a pair of balls and wanted to be free of you. Or he had heard about your ambitions to run for congress and believed he could blackmail you. If it came out that you were responsible for having funded the man leading the day of protest for when the US embassy opens in Battersea then your political career would fall at the first hurdle. God knows you have made enough enemies, who wouldn’t think twice about putting a knife in your back. So, you thought it best to silence Pinner, before he had a chance to talk. It wouldn’t be the first asset you’ve burned. And you decide to sub-contract the job out, so you and the company could evoke plausible deniability should anyone investigate the killing and Pinner’s connection to you.”

  “I’m impressed Oliver. Well played. I’d clap, but I fear that your club has put a ban on any applause or show of emotion,” Talbot remarked. Simmering.

  “And quite rightly so too.”

  “Given your resources and smarts I should perhaps try even harder to recruit you now. But I trust you about as much as a Sunni or Shia religious cleric. I forget who is the most untrustworthy and vicious out of the two. It almost changes each day. So how do you propose we move forward? Are you expecting to blackmail me, treat me as an asset? You must surely know that, should you attempt to leak anything, you will be signing your own death warrant? Before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves.”

  “I’m not sure I could consider you to be an asset, in any definition of the term. And revenge is a grubby business. As is blackmail. We’re in a position of mutually assured destruction, should we press our respective buttons on each other, so to speak. Should you be tempted to sign my death warrant then you must know I’ve taken certain steps to make you think twice. You know the drill. I have set up measures whereby if I, or an unknown associate, do not log in a code each day then my files on you will be released to various major news outlets. Should any accident befall me it will trigger instructions – and a payment – made to another associate of mine, who will make sure that you suffer a similar accident. We might be both as trustworthy as Donald Trump or Hilary Clinton – I forget which one is the more untrustworthy out the two, it almost changes each day - but we are also both firm believers in self-preservation. So, do we have an accord?”

  Talbot shifted uncomfortably in his chair for a moment and paused, thinking about the ramifications of Porter’s words and proposal. But he then nodded his head in agreement, seething as he did so. He gulped down some wine but it couldn’t wash away the bitter taste in his mouth. Although in a position of stalemate, the American felt like he had lost. Been outplayed.

  “We have an accord, as you pompously say. You must know that I’m not one to forgive and forget though, Oliver.”

  “You’re in good company. Neither am I. Let’s be honest, we have no desire to stomach being in one another’s presence right now. But I’m happy to for you and your associate to have lunch, on me. Just make sure you leave Maria a handsome tip,” Porter said, as he got up from the table.

  “As little as you may think of me – and as much as you may have cursed my name over these past weeks - just remember that we have more in common than you would like to admit. Neither of us would make our grandparents’ proud. We’re both no strangers to grubby business practises. And we have the same blood on our hands.”

  Talbot removed a piece of fluff from his lapel and adjusted his tie and cufflinks as he spoke, as though if he appeared immaculately groomed his soul would be less tainted.

  “I know. But whereas you and your ilk cause problems, Mason, I try to fix them.”

  Porter made his way off the terrace, although before he left the club he sought out Maria to give her a £50 tip, just in case his guest failed to do so.

  18.

  Porter was looking forward to getting back home. The Sword of Damocles was no longer hanging over his head. He wanted to see his wife and children again. He would take them out for a meal this evening – and propose a family holiday. No more secrets. No more lies. He could enjoy his retirement again. Breathe freely. Thankfully he had the first-class carriage to himself on the train back to Windsor. He treated himself to reading a few more chapters of Runciman’s History of the First Crusade and made some notes for his planned historical novel.

  He was also looking forward to givi
ng Devlin the good news. Talbot would just be a bad memory for him now too. He could move forward.

  Porter kissed his wife when he got in the door – and hugged her for a few seconds more than normal. He even felt like lifting her up, as if they were characters from a West End musical.

  “You’re in a good mood. I take it your lunch meeting went well?” Victoria asked, bathing in the rays of her husband’s sunny disposition.

  “That it did,” Porter cheerily replied, resisting the temptation to add that the meeting went well because he would never have to do business with or see his lunch guest ever again.

  “Michael Devlin called by the way. I said you were out and would call him back later.”

  “Did he say anything else?” Porter said, a little surprised and curious, as he had never known Devlin to call the landline before.

  “We chatted for a bit. He asked how the children were – and mentioned he would be going away soon and would it be too much trouble if we looked after Violet. I said it’d be fine. I hope that was okay?”

  Porter’s sunny disposition suddenly became overcast with storm clouds of concern. Devlin hadn’t mentioned going away at all to him. Indeed, when he had suggested that his friend go travelling, six months ago, Devlin had assuredly replied, “I’ve seen enough of the world not to want to see any more of it.”

  He immediately tried to call his friend. He also left emails and text messages for him to urgently get in touch.

  “What’s wrong?” Victoria asked, seeing her husband visibly distressed. Porter paced up and down the hallway and his hand trembled as he poured himself a small brandy. Deep furrows lined his brow. His skin seemed to hang off his jaw, like it had turned into melted wax.

  “Nothing, I hope. I’m sorry, but I need to head back to London.”

  “What for?”