Gun For Hire: A Michael Devlin Omnibus

by Thomas Waugh

  “I’m pleased to hear it. I thought you might have asked to meet to tell me the news that you’re getting married.”

  Porter noted that Devlin was still wearing his wedding ring from his first marriage. He should have taken it off years ago. There were occasions when Porter judged that his friend, like Hamlet, displayed a degree of “unmanly grief” in his attachment to Holly. He worshipped her memory as if he were the last devotee to an ancient religion.

  The words almost stuck in Devlin’s throat, partly because he couldn’t ever recall the last time he had put them together in a sentence:

  “No, I’m not getting married again. I wanted to see you to ask for your help.”

  Devlin proceeded to tell his friend about the attack in the village and its aftermath. His voice was devoid of emotion, as if he were delivering a routine sitrep - which is not to say that his heart wasn’t full of ire and pity as he spoke. Devlin also declared his intent to murder Rameen before he returned to Afghanistan.

  “He’s staying at The Ritz. I could use the help of your hacker to find out what you can about his itinerary – and what protection he has. I will also need him to get into the system and turn the cameras off… I’ll be willing of course to pay the going rate for any services you provide.”

  Devlin only knew the name of Porter’s hacker by the name of “Mariner”. Mariner had access to foreign and domestic government databases. As well as providing a wealth of intelligence for Porter, Mariner had also helped Devlin during a hit a couple of years ago, when he shut down the security and camera systems of a boutique hotel in Marseille. Devlin suspected that the famous hotel would be a difficult hack, but not an impossible one, for Mariner.

  Porter listened to his friend and only occasionally interjected to clarify a point or two. He gently nodded his head, furrowed his brow and steepled his fingers – as if he were Sherlock Holmes deciding whether to take on a case or not.

  A sterile, or diseased, silence hung in the air after Devlin said what he needed to say. Porter took a deep breath and puffed out his cheeks on exhaling, all the time craving a cigar. He rubbed his hand across his forehead, either in despair or to wipe away the film of sweat on his skin. Ironically, he judged Devlin was being absurd or conceited in believing that he owed this Birch fellow, or the dead young squaddie, a debt of honour. Yet Porter would not deny help to his former associate – because he owed him a debt of honour. He would however attempt to talk Devlin out of a decision which could ruin his friend’s life – and potentially his own too.

  “It’s only proper that I should tell you what I tell other people who come to me in a similar vein. If there is any other way to gain restitution, or solve the problem, then do so. There is an attractive finality to death but our sins have a way of coming back to haunt us. Whether through the agency of God, some cosmic fate or more mortal means, it is all too often the case that we must atone for our actions. As much as I may be able to lower the risk, a risk still exists nonetheless. Before you make your final decision, you should think of Emma, of your foster parents and what will happen to you – and them – should you be captured and prosecuted. If you fail, then Rameen or his father Hakim might succeed in the role of avenging angel. This John Birch could also be charged with conspiracy to commit murder. Even if Mariner proves successful in temporarily disabling the security there are still too many variables involved in the job. We do not know the quantity and quality of the security personnel. What if you encounter a hotel staff member in the hallway, after coming back out of Rameen’s room? What about if the room is full of escorts or innocent civilians? I’m all for reducing the number of British civil servants we have, but there are kinder ways of doing it. And what if you are caught on a tourist’s mobile phone when walking through the foyer? You’re breaking your own rule of making a leap into the unknown. God knows what you will face when you pull out your gun and step into the suite. If I had come to you with this job, to complete in such a small timeframe, you would have doubtless said “thank you but no thank you.” You used to think you had nothing to lose. But you don’t anymore,” Porter argued, resisting the temptation to tell Devlin that his own safety could be at risk if something went awry. He selfishly wanted his retirement to last. “You mentioned you owe it to your friend to go after Jamal – but if he was any sort of friend he wouldn’t ask you to jeopardise everything… Your war is over. Let the past remain in the past. Killing him won’t make your friend walk again or bring that poor boy back to life… As you know, when you first retired, I was keen to have you come back and work for me. But then, I must confess, I admired you for giving yourself a second chance. You got out. Why do you want back in?”

  “I made a promise to someone,” Devlin replied, his voice a mosaic of regret, resignation and dogged determination.

  “Mine honour is my life; both grow in one; take honour from me and my life is done.”

  “The world won’t fall apart if you break your word, Michael. I have recently been reading about William Marshal, the medieval knight. Chivalry was always more of an idea than a reality. England’s greatest knight broke his word more times than a cabinet minister. I am of course worried that, whether you are aware of it or not, you are getting back into the game for a different, darker reason. Have you ever heard the name George Scarrow?”

  Devlin shook his head, half noticing the portraits of Edmund Burke and David Hume which hung behind Porter.

  “Scarrow was, like you, a soldier. He first served in the paras and then the SBS. He was pensioned off early when a bullet injured his shoulder and he couldn’t be fit for active service in any regiment. Scarrow was smart, brave and not a little insane when his blood was up. Soldiering had been his life and no sooner did he leave the army than he signed up as a mercenary. He worked in personal protection in Afghanistan, he worked the oil tankers in Somalia and did a few jobs for myself. The work paid well and he told me – and himself – that he had to keep working to pay for two divorces and school fees for his children. But after one or two drinks Scarrow would tell you the real reasons why he couldn’t retire and adjust to civilian life. He told me that he missed the adrenalin rush of being a soldier. There was no other drug like it – and trust me he experimented with a few. If he didn’t have a mission or cause, then there was a gaping hole in life. He knew how absurd he sounded when he said it too – but he had been a soldier for so long he didn’t know how to be anything else. He thought he wasn’t good for anything else. As Thomas Paine once wrote, “Habit makes more converts than reason.” And so George kept working. He drank like a fish and smoked like a chimney. His reflexes slowed and he grew careless on jobs. The spirit may be willing but the flesh is all too often weak. George contracted cancer and passed away around half a dozen years ago. Old soldiers do die, as well as fade away. There must have been no more than ten people at his funeral to mourn and celebrate his life. Even his ex-wives and children were absent. I visited George in hospital and one of the last things he said to me was that I shouldn’t ever go chasing past glories – because you can never catch up with them. I would rather you didn’t follow George’s path. Give yourself something to live for, rather than die for. Civilian life isn’t all that bad, so long as you don’t spend too much time in the company of other civilians,” Porter asserted. He felt a shard of shame at lying to his friend – as he had made-up George Scarrow and his emblematic life story – but things needed to be said, he judged.

  “It’ll be just one last job. But I’ll understand if you can’t help me, Oliver.”

  “But you’ll proceed even without my help?”

  Devlin nodded his head. Porter sighed - and then sent Mariner a text message to say he needed to meet with the hacker after lunch.

  Emma shook the charity tin on the counter at the florists and smiled, as she heard the rustle of several notes inside. Sunlight poured through the window like honey and a symphony of scents sewed themselves into the air, like fine silks embroidering a tapestry. The shop looked beautiful. Ta
kings were up for the week, again. But something was wrong. Emma shifted on her stool, uncomfortable, like a princess with a pea beneath her mattress, as she recalled her prosecco-fuelled conversation with her friend Samantha at lunchtime:

  “You should stop having sex with him until he proposes. Or give him the best sex of his life, in order to prompt him to pop the question,” Samantha half-joked, as she offered a demure look to their Italian waiter. Although recently married, the bored housewife was not averse to having some fun while her sales executive husband was away on business (“I know that he cheats on me when he’s in Paris, so why shouldn’t I cheat on him occasionally?”).

  Emma had laughed at her friend’s comment, but bittersweetly. She was ready to commit to him. She loved him. And marriage would deepen, sanctify, their love. There are some Catholics who like to collect sacraments like service medals. And the sooner she married the sooner she could have children.

  “Or, I’ve got an even better idea,” Samantha remarked, her eyes narrowing in a spirit of gleeful, tipsy deviousness. “I can let you have the keys to our apartment in Paris. If he doesn’t propose to you during a romantic weekend in the city of lovers, then he never will. And it’ll be his loss.”

  Emma tapped her foot on her stool in excitement – and nervousness – as she considered the plan. With every tap, she vacillated between hope and dread, painting scenarios of him proposing – or her leaving. Emma also thought of all her friends who had married (and some were now divorced) – calculating how long they had dated their partners before they had gotten engaged.

  If only he’d take off his wedding ring. Show me a sign.

  8.

  Good weather only lasts for so long. Around dusk the clouds congregated together like a pitchfork-carrying mob and soon afterwards the heavens opened. The storm hissed and spat like a mongoose. Violet lay curled-up on the sofa and, her brow furrowed, gazed out the window, gloomily wondering if the drear and violent weather would ever end. She lay in between Devlin and Emma. A selection of country songs, by Hank Williams, Glen Campbell and the Dixie Chicks, played in the background. As Devlin had often remarked over the years, to anyone who would listen, country music was one of the best things America had ever given the world.

  “Now, you’re looking at a man that’s getting kinda mad

  I had a lot a luck but it’s all been bad

  No matter how I struggle and strive

  I’ll never get out of this world alive…”

  “It sounds like a plan,” Devlin said, after half-listening to Emma talk about arranging a trip to Paris. “Can we finalise things next week though?”

  Devlin was distracted, like a man on a train worried about missing his flight at the airport. Emma noticed how he had been on the same page of the book he’d been reading for over ten minutes. The oppressive humidity only fanned the flames of their frustrations. He needed space and quiet, to think about the job. He needed to research various pieces of information on his laptop, but dared not for fear of Emma glancing at the screen and quizzing him. He wanted to think about Rameen, stoke the furnace of vengeance in his heart. He wanted to work his way through the bottle of Grey Goose vodka in the freezer, instead of just having a couple of glasses. He wanted to take out his weapon and lay its constituent parts on the kitchen table and clean it – smell the gun oil on his fingers. He wanted a cigarette and to listen to more Hank Williams, with the volume turned-up. He wanted his privacy and home back for the night, with only the dog and the ghost of Holly for company.

  “Galveston, oh , Galveston

  I still hear your sea waves crashing

  While I watch the cannons flashing.

  I clean my gun, and dream of Galveston.

  I still see her standing by the water,

  Standing there looking out to sea.

  And is she waiting there for me,

  On the beach where we used to run?”

  “It’d be nice to set a date now, just to give Samantha notice and to make sure the apartment will be available when we want to go,” Emma replied, trying to impress upon him the importance of the trip. She breathed or sighed at witnessing him twist his wedding ring. Emma wanted to leave for Paris as soon as possible, to know whether he wanted to marry her. To know if he loved her. She was wearing a pair of white, linen trousers - which clung to her shapely legs – and a purple, satin blouse. Emma fingered her crucifix as she spoke. She often did so when praying, or agitated.

  “I’ve just got a few things on over the coming week. For one thing, I’m meeting my old CO tomorrow about a possible job - for me and, more importantly, John. I don’t want to arrange a trip and put Samantha to any trouble, only to cancel any plans a couple of days later.”

  “I done my honky tonkin’ round and had a lot of fun

  But somehow I can’t understand how one and one makes one

  I like to cuddle near you and listen to you lie

  But get that marryin’ out of your head I’ll be a bachelor till I die…”

  The shushing sound of the rain did nothing to quieten the nagging voices in their heads. There was tetchiness in both their tones. She knew he was hiding something from her, as usual. He knew she was being unreasonable. But things would just simmer rather than come to the boil. Emma recalled how, when talking to Samantha earlier, she had revealed that they never really argued about anything.

  “Perhaps we should argue more. It might be a good thing. It’ll make us more like a normal couple,” Emma wryly asserted.

  “And it’ll be a good dress rehearsal for married life,” Samantha added, humourlessly, as she thought of her rich – but fantastically dull and selfish – husband. The former school teacher but now housewife couldn’t remember the last time they had been in each other’s company for more than two days, without having a full-blown row. “In the next year, I’m going to need to get pregnant or get a good divorce lawyer,” she confessed to Emma after ordering a large gin and tonic, to help wash the prosecco down.

  Whether due to the thunder outside or turbulent atmosphere in the apartment Violet let out a whimper and nuzzled Devlin. He responded by rubbing her belly affectionately.

  “It’s alright. It’ll soon all be over. All will be well.”

  A storm can only last for so long.

  “It’s been two long years now

  Since the top of the world came crashing down

  And I’m getting it back on the road now

  But I’m taking the long way

  Taking the long way around …”

  *

  Oliver Porter wrinkled his nose at the slight inconvenience of the storm. He would have to wait to take Marlborough out for his evening walk. The consultant sat at his desk, cradling a glass of brandy in his hand, it’s stem between his fingers as he lovingly swirled the golden liquid around before letting the elixir warm and stimulate his throat. An air purifier hummed in the corner and generated a cooling breeze. Porter closed his eyes and let the air fan him whilst he scrunched-up his toes on the thick claret carpet in his office, before turning his attention to the computer screen.

  Mariner had sent an encrypted email to say he had compiled a file on Jamal, which he would courier over to the Savile tomorrow afternoon. The hacker also confirmed that he could disable the relevant security systems and cameras at the hotel, although Devlin would only have a window of twenty minutes before a series of protocols kicked in and the staff – and police – would be alerted. Mariner also mentioned he would enclose a special key card in the folder, which Devlin could use to open the door of the relevant suite at the hotel.

  Porter pursed his lips and rolled his eyes when he opened his associate’s invoice. The fixer had once defined happiness as having more money in one’s bank account at the end of the month compared to the start of it. But just this once Porter would ignore his own Macawber-like philosophy to re-pay his debt to Devlin. He had little doubt that the honourable – or daft – soldier would have kept his promise to try to assassinate the Afghan w
ithout him. At least, by giving him as much assistance as he could, Porter would narrow Devlin’s odds in succeeding. There was more than a slither of selfishness in Porter’s supposedly selfless offer however. If apprehended then it was possible that previous hits could be pinned on Devlin – and traced back to him (not that Porter believed, for one second, that Devlin would ever give him up to the authorities to lessen his sentence). But, for once perhaps, Porter’s motivation wasn’t wholly borne from self-interest.

  You did warn yourself years ago, Oliver, about making friends in this business. And now you’re paying for it.

  Devlin was different. He was the only operative Porter had invited to his home and introduced to his wife and children. Most killers, almost by definition, were psychopaths. The army occasionally attracted them – or created them. Porter had little difficulty in spotting and recruiting associates when he began to grow his business. Contract killers often lacked empathy and a regard for conventional morality. Something was missing in their brain chemistry, or had been added. Some told themselves that they killed for money – but in truth most were sadists. Violence – and killing – could be tantamount to a drug. Cruelty may be more addictive – and ubiquitous – than nicotine. Yet Devlin was different. He neither lacked empathy nor a moral code. If he was a depressive, he was stoical rather than manic. If he was a drunk he was a sober, or even happy, drunk. More than anyone else Porter had encountered, Devlin killed out of a sense of righteousness. His targets were the corrupt and the cruel. He was meticulous in his planning to avoid anyone innocent being in the line of fire. But righteousness can be as addictive – and cancerous – as nicotine. The soldier’s righteousness – and sense of honour – could now be his undoing. And who is truly righteous? Priests and Bob Geldof? Or anyone who forwards on a tweet by Michelle Obama? If none but the righteous deserved to live, Porter considered, then the planet would be deserted.