The First Time

by Mike Winter

  “Mr. Scott, when you return home from work this evening, a man with instructions to kill you will arrive shortly after. He has been briefed to obtain the location of Saad Khan, the consignment of weapons, and once he has these, he will kill you. If you listen to me carefully, you can avoid this. Do you understand?”

  “Uh……yes……go on.”

  “After you have finished speaking to me, make a call to Saad Khan. Tell him you have been compromised and to be at your address this afternoon and to wait there. Tell him to hide somewhere in the house, upstairs, in a cupboard, anywhere, it doesn’t matter just make sure he is out of sight.”

  “Erm, ok”

  “Tell him to enter through the front door, not the back. I understand the house is empty at the moment, he will have to be creative and enter without being seen. Once you’ve done this, go about your daily business and your work as normal. Drive home as normal and wait. The man will enter your house through the rear door. Do not resist him. He will hurt you – badly. Give him nothing, do not give him the location of the weapons. He won’t know Khan is there. Khan can then take him out.”

  “What if he….”

  “No questions, just do it. If you fuck this up, you’re a dead man, so just think about that. You’ve been a very stupid man, Mr. Scott. This is your way out. Take it.”

  The play back of the file came to an abrupt end. Sarah sat rigid in her chair. She was stunned, her body awash with a mixture of fear and anxiety; why was Hamilton setting Black up like this? Was he involved with the terrorists somehow? She needed answers. She thought for a moment about confronting Hamilton himself, then stopped; this would be a bad idea; she knew he would turn it on his head, and twist it so she would be blamed for accessing protected files. Either that or the file would be deleted without trace, and she would be prosecuted.

  She had to act fast; Sarah stood up and walked over to the desk nearest to her. A middle aged man sat crumpled over his desk looking at reams of paper, hurriedly making notes as he worked his way through it.

  “Graham,” said Sarah. “I need to go out for an hour, will you cover for me?”

  The man turned and looked up at her inquisitively. Graham Adams was forty-five although the years had been unkind to him, he was completely bald, with heavy blue eyes, he constantly looked stressed and burnt out. His face was pale and featureless, with thin lips which rarely mustered a smile. The only saving grace was that he was good at his job, thorough, meticulous, and he had a soft spot for Sarah. Unfortunately this wasn't reciprocated.

  “Why, what’s up?” He asked, with a south western twang in his voice.

  “I’ve had a call from Craig. He’s lost his key again, he can’t get in the flat.”

  Graham knew she was lying, although he didn’t care. He had met her husband Craig once before; they had been out for a drink after work and Sarah had become a little worse for wear, and he had to call him to pick her up. It was obvious she didn't love him any more.

  “Sure, no problem. What do you want me to tell Hamilton, he’s bound to ask?”

  “Tell him exactly what I’ve told you, like I said I’ll be back in an hour.”

  Sarah knew there was no way she would be back in an hour. The drive from London to Swindon was a two hour journey at the best of times; you could add another hour on to that for traffic. She didn’t have a choice; Black was in trouble, and no one but her could help him right now. She would deal with the consequences later. Sarah walked back over to her desk, got her car keys from the top drawer. She gave Hamilton’s office a quick glance; the door remained closed. He hadn’t noticed the call log access yet. She walked across the office, past the bay of desks where the other analysts were still working. None of them gave her a glance as she walked through the exit door to the elevator.

  8

  Swindon, 19.30

  Tom Black could see that the panic in Ross Scott’s eyes hadn’t diminished. He had been holding an eight inch chef’s knife for the last fifteen minutes, plucking up the courage to bury it into Black’s chest. Sweat was dampening his white shirt and he was breathing heavily, probably on the verge of having a panic attack. He had seen plenty of cut up bodies during his time working for Wiltshire CID, but he never had to create one of those bodies.

  Black had remained silent; still composed and keeping eye contact with Scott the whole time, although he couldn’t stay sat there all night. His hands remained tied behind the back of the chair with the garrote wire he had been using to strangle Scott with. He had been trying to gain movement between his hands on the wire. Any bit of play in the knot could be worked on to give him some leverage, but there was nothing, no movement at all. He needed to think of something else. He had held off on talking to Scott in case he said something that pushed him over the edge, but as the minutes wore on, he would have to change his tactic.

  “The clock is ticking if you’re gonna do it. It won’t be long before others like me come knocking on your door.” Black was convincing in his delivery. During the brief, it had been made clear to him he was on his own for his first mission. No one would be coming after him to pick up the pieces if it went wrong.

  “Shut up!” Was the reply. “I’m trying to think.”

  “There’s nothing to think about is there? You need to kill me and go and meet your mate. He’s expecting you. 2am remember? He doesn’t strike me as the kind of man you want to let down. If you do as he says, he might be able to get you out of the country, get a new life for yourself, that sort of thing.”

  “I’m not stupid. I’m done. Finished. There’s no getting out of this one. I’m going down for life whatever happens.”

  “The do the right thing and tell me where he’s gone. Where is the compound where the weapons are?”

  Scott said nothing. He turned away and looked at the door. The sense of fight or flight was taking over, and Scott wasn’t built to stick around for the fight. He was in a foreign situation; overwhelming panic and fear gripped him and wouldn’t let go. He needed to escape this situation. He made a bolt for the back door, but before he could reach the handle, he heard a crash come from the open plan dining room. Black had lifted the chair up with him, lent backwards and used all his weight to fall back onto the laminate flooring. The chair buckled under Black’s weight, and the prefabricated wooden legs detached almost immediately.

  Black quickly picked himself up from the floor. There was a sense of relief now his hands were now free of the chair, but still tied behind his back making balancing himself difficult. Scott was startled for a moment, not knowing what to do. Black made a move towards him and at the same time, Scott mirrored him and charged in Black’s direction. Black paused his movement, allowing Scott to run at him. As he got within reaching distance, Black arched back his neck and powered his head forwards making a clean, solid connection with his forehead on the bridge of Scott’s nose. Scott’s body crumpled, the pain coupled with the pressure he now felt in his head affected his balance. He was arched over, his head down by his knees. Black lifted his foot and aimed it at Scott’s head; he pulled back his foot and swung it with force and hit his temple hard. Scott fell to the floor unconscious. Black struggled to maintain his balance but managed to steady himself by leaning on the nearby worktop. He knew Scott wouldn’t be out of it long; the blow to his head wasn’t hard enough. He needed to get his hands free of the garrote wire.

  Black made his way to the oven at the other side of the kitchen. He backed up to it, and with his hands, struggled to turn the knob to turn on one of the electric hobs. He could feel the hob gradually warming up; Black placed the back of his hands onto the hob. The garrote wire would warm to the point of fracture; he just had to blank out the inevitable pain once his skint started to burn.

  It took a couple of minutes before any real heat was generated. Black’s muscles tightened as the burning sensation began to take hold of him. He gritted his teeth as the pain became more excruciating.

  After a further ninety seconds, Black moved hi
s hands away from the hob. The pain was almost overwhelming, but the fuel of adrenalin was enough to keep him focussed on what he needed to do. He could now feel some play in the garrote wire wrapped round his hands. Black started to move has hands in a rhythm and could feel the tightness finally loosening. He looked down on the kitchen floor; Scott was starting to come round. There was a faint groan coming from his bloodied lips. Black worked hurriedly, and eventually he felt the resistance that had kept his hands together give. The wire became brittle and snapped. He brought his hands up in front of his face; the burns round the back of his hands and wrist were bad. Various patterns of red combined with flaking skin and blood. He would need to cover the wounds as soon as he could. Black carefully removed the remaining garrote wire from around his wrists before picking up the chef’s knife which was lying on the floor next to Scott. Black knelt down next to him, pondering his next move

  Black spoke softly, even though he was on the edge, he wanted to give Scott a false sense of comfort. “This has gone on too long, mate. Tell me where he’s gone, where the weapons are, and I’ll make sure it’s quick. I’ll make sure your son is safe too, you have my word.”

  Tears began to roll down Scott’s face, making trails in the dried blood as they fell down his cheek.

  “Croydon,” he said. “He has a compound there. That’s where you’ll find the weapons. It’s where I took them when I brought them down from Liverpool. That’s where Saad Khan will be meeting Asif.”

  “What’s the address?”

  “Endeavour Way. Unit 11. There’s a key in my coat pocket upstairs, in the bedroom.”

  “If you’re lying, I’ll be back for your son.”

  Scott didn’t say another word. He was too preoccupied by the cold sensation he could feel on his throat. The coldness quickly turned warm as the chef’s knife cut though his skin. He could see the blood pouring down his white shirt at pace. Then came the pain, but only for a moment before the knife hit his artery. He saw his own blood fire across the roof, hitting the perfect white kitchen cupboards, before a wave of calmness, almost euphoria took over. Whatever pain he had felt had now subsided and he no longer cared about what was happening, he accepted his fate and slumped back to the floor.

  Black dropped the knife in the pool of blood which was starting to collect and congeal around where Scott was laying. He looked at his hands; the burns now masked by Scott’s blood. He walked over to the sink, ran the cold tap and placed his hands under the stream of water, clenching his fists as the searing pain of cold water on his wounds took over.

  Once he had removed the majority of blood from his hands, he padded them dry with a kitchen towel and headed through the living room to the stairs. Black entered the main bedroom to the house and switched on the light. The bedroom was as he expected; a double bed, perfectly made was in the centre of the room, with modern fitted wardrobes to the back wall. Nothing was out of place. Scott was obviously highly organised, and it first glance there would be no evidence to suggested he was involved in terrorism.

  Black spotted a black parka coat hung on the back of the bedroom door. He checked the pockets and immediately felt a large key. He pulled it out and attached was a yellow job with the words Unit 11 written on it. He had what he needed.

  Black walked across the landing to the bathroom. Again the bathroom was meticulously tidy. He looked into the mirror on the cupboard on the bathroom wall; his nose was swollen to twice its normal size, but the bleeding had stopped. He opened the cupboard door and rummaged inside. He found enough bandage to strap up the wounds to his wrists, and along with it, a number of various pain killers. He pressed out four from their packet and swallowed them. His job here was done.

  9

  M4 – Swindon, 21:30

  Sarah Barnes had been trying to call Black repeatedly since she had left the office; it was ringing, but no one was answering and each time she was greeted by the network’s voicemail message. The satellite navigation system told her she was ten miles away from Ross Scott’s house. The sat-nav paused for a moment as a call came through the Bluetooth system. Sarah ignored it; the number was unknown, but she knew it was Hamilton who was calling. She was a little surprised; it had taken him over two hours to call.

  Sarah took the exit from the motorway, down the slip round and followed the directions as they came through the car’s speakers. Another call came through; unknown caller again.

  Sarah drove for another ten minutes before reaching Scott’s address. She knew from the mission brief that he drove a silver Ford Mondeo, and she spotted it parked on the driveway as she pulled up outside the house.

  She got out of her car, walked up to the front door and knocked. There was no movement or sound that she could hear from inside. She walked down the side of the house to the back garden. She could make out the kitchen light glowing from behind the closed blinds. Sarah walked slowly to the back door and gently pulled down the handle; it wasn’t locked. She inched the door open gradually and was greeted by the rich smell of blood. Her stomach wretched at the sight of Ross Scott. His head was half decapitated, clinging on by the spinal chord; the pool of blood that surrounding him on the tiled floor had thickened and become clotted. Sarah vomited violently. She stepped back outside into the garden, the night air a welcome relief.

  Her mobile phone vibrated in her coat pocket. It was Hamilton again. This time she answered; she was scared.

  “Hello?”

  “Barnes,” Hamilton was furious. “What the fuck do you think you’re playing at? We’ve been tracking your mobile for the last hour, we know exactly where you are.”

  “Sir, I was concerned about Black, his safety.”

  “Black is fine, I’ve just spoken with him. Sarah – I know you’ve listened to the call. There will be serious repercussions as a result of this. Wait at the house, Agent Jones is en route to clear up this mess. He’ll bring you back to the office. Tell your husband you’ll be working late tonight.”

  The call disconnected abruptly. Sarah was now terrified; she played through the situation in her head. Her career was more than likely over, and that was just to start with. Maybe Hamilton would be lenient and not bring criminal proceedings upon her. She couldn’t bring herself to go back into the house. The sight of Scott, the blood and the smell was too much for her. She stood in the garden and waited.

  It was cold and the ground was wet, but the rain had passed and the night sky was clear. The moon was bright, and the stars glistened, peppering the blackness above her. She looked up, taking it in. It gave her sense of escapism, albeit momentarily; the sound of a car engine from the front of the house brought her back to reality.

  Sarah heard the sound of two car doors closing, followed by footsteps coming down the side of the house. Two figures appeared; she recognised the first. Stephen Jones was Lead Agent for TEP. He’d been there with Hamilton from the beginning. He was tall, about six foot four, a shaved head, large, bushy eye brows, wide shoulders and extremely well built. He reminded her of a doorman, the kind you would see frequenting town centre clubs on a Saturday night. He’d spent time in Iraq, Afghanistan, Syria, Russia, Korea; he was vastly experienced and equally as formidable.

  Behind him was a shorter man who was unknown to her. He had medium length blonde hair combed to the side, but again well built. They looked quite the double act.

  “Evening, Sarah,” said Jones. “You’ve got yourself into a bit of a mess, haven’t you?”

  Sarah couldn’t help herself. “It was a set up. Hamilton arranged for Black to be ambushed. I was listening to the comm channel. Someone else was here, and Hamilton arranged it. I……”

  Jones cut her short. “I’m not interested in that Sarah, I’m just here to clear up the mess and take you in. Matthew here is going to take care of the body, and I’m under orders to drive you back to London in your car.”

  Sarah knew she had no choice. She looked at Matthew as he walked into the house; he was probably from another part of MI5, or someone they
were giving a little field experience to before bringing him on as an agent.

  Jones waited until Matthew was inside the house before he spoke again to Sarah.

  “What were you thinking?” He asked.

  “I knew something was wrong,” replied Sarah. “Then I found the call. He rang Scott and tipped him off. Why would he do that?”

  “I’m sure he had his reasons. Hamilton is as straight as they come, there must be more to it.”

  “Where is Black now?” Sarah made her concern obvious.

  “He’s still working. He has the location on the weapons and he is moving in.”

  “Can I speak with him?”

  “No. Sarah, it is obvious you have feelings for him. Why have you let yourself become involved with an agent? Is it worth losing your career, your husband, or even your life over?”

  Sarah didn’t answer; she looked down at the floor.

  “We have to leave now. Give me your keys.”

  Sarah handed Jones her car keys and followed him back down the side of the house to her car. Neither of them spoke as she got in the passenger seat and started the journey back to London.

  10

  Endeavour Way, Croydon, 23:30

  Tom Black arrived in Croydon around ten minutes ago. The journey hadn’t been too bad, there had been a quick stop for fuel and an overpriced service station sandwich. He had called Hamilton on his journey to inform him of the situation. He didn’t seem fazed that Khan had been on the property unexpectedly, and that Scott had received a call tipping him off. “These things happen,” was what he said. All he wanted to know was if Black had confirmation of the weapons. Black had informed him of the body in the kitchen; Hamilton said he would take care of it.

  Black scrolled through the call log on his phone. Several missed calls from Sarah Barnes showed in the call log which he had purposely ignored. He didn’t want anything to distract him away from the mission. He’d lost his earpiece, so had no direct communication with her, and Hamilton had told him liaise through him going forward.