The Purple Contract

by Robin Flett

  Nowadays he lived in seclusion in one of the most untamed areas of western Scotland, enjoying his walking and fishing in the invigorating Atlantic air. From time time Gojo's phone would ring and the bike would head up the A82 once again. There were no telephone lines to this remote homestead, nor would there ever be. And cellphones, like any radio transmitter, can be easily traced.

  'Gotta be something pretty unreal for that kind of money, that's for sure.' Suddenly restless, Hollis got up and walked over to the big triple-glazed window, eyes moving aimlessly out across the water, seeing nothing, while he roamed through his memories of international affairs, of news programs and documentaries, newspaper reports, magazine articles and books. The impressive database that was Mike Hollis' mind was far-reaching and it threw up several possibilities: all political, all abroad.

  'You didn't catch any hints? Even what part of the world he's on about?'

  'Nothin' at all,' Gojo shook his head. 'Mind you, he's no very talkative at the best of times!' Gojo and Jordan had never met: the London connection had always been just a gruff voice on the telephone line. Taciturn to a fault, but then under the circumstances it was hardly surprising.

  Hollis glanced up at the gray and threatening April sky. They could debate the thing at leisure later but for now–– 'You'd better get your stuff in from the bike before it gets soaked.'

  Gojo scowled at the gathering clouds. 'Fuckin' place, rains every day!' he grunted, making for the door.

  'Use the same room you had last time, no-one's been in it since.' Hollis called after him.

  'Right.’

  Two days later, the Range Rover crossed the Tomnahurich Bridge over the Caledonian Canal into the outskirts of Inverness, braking to maintain a safe distance behind the rusty and battered Ford Granada which had slowed drastically before negotiating the bridge. 'Stupid bastard!', muttered Hollis. 'How much would a new pair of shocks cost you, f'r chrissake.' He watched the Granada's front end wiggle unevenly over a drainage manhole cover in the roadway, waiting for two vans and a motorcycle to pass before pulling out and past the elderly Ford.

  Passing the County Buildings he turned left into Montague Row with a dog-leg at the far end and a sharp left turn into Kenneth Street. The manoeuvre missing out a busy and always frustrating traffic junction. Less than a hundred metres along he turned right into Celt Street and found a space well down, right beside the River Ness; running high and fast today, filled with melt water from snow on the upper slopes of countless mountains. Parking was always at a premium here and totally hopeless in the town centre outside the two large multi-level carparks. Hollis hated these concrete monstrosities, they reminded him of prisons.

  He turned the key, hearing the central locking buzz, before walking briskly round the corner and onto the old-fashioned pedestrian suspension bridge over the river. He shrugged into his coat in the gusty wind, watching the traffic queuing as the evening rush-hour got going. If Jordan wasn't answering his phone he would have something to eat before calling back. Maybe the steak-house at the corner along there, or his other favourite, a small hotel in the Kingsmill area of the town.

  Only one of the four phone booths outside the Post Office was occupied, Hollis chose the end one furthest away from the doors, feeding coins into the box, leaning on the glass and dialling.

  Ringing tone. Two. Three.

  'Lo?'

  'Roosevelt'.

  'Thatcher. How ya doin' old buddy?' The voice was lazy, almost bored, but Hollis knew better. Both men listened for bugs. It was all right to talk; if Jordan had company he would have said Nobody called that here, bud, and hung up.

  'God knows. The Glasgow man says you've been looking for me.'

  ‘Jesus, that's for sure! Some people are very keen to get in touch with you. A salesman called on me a few days ago, representing some foreign buyers. They're looking for a full set of plans, but there's a strict deadline. Very strict.' It was different every time: trucker, shopkeeper, builder; whatever Jordan took a fancy to. He knew Mike Hollis would follow any lead he gave without comment; they were both well versed in this type of speech-code.

  Hollis watched the reflection in a shop window: the man in the dark gray overcoat. He was banging his gloved hands together, walking back and forth, adjusting his hat, one hand in a pocket now and looking this way and then the face opening in greeting as she came out of the Post Office and walked prettily across to meet him. Relax f'r chrissake, getting too old for this. 'What?'

  'I said their area manager would like to meet you. He'll give you all the details of the product and all that crap. Did our friend tell you the fee that was mentioned?'

  'Yes'.

  'Shit man, just yes? It's a lot of greenstamps ol' buddy!'

  ‘Yeah. But the product might be impossible to get a grip on, I don't think it's my style.'

  'Whatever you say, but why not talk to the man? What have you got to lose?' It was all right for Dave Jordan, looking after his fat commission and drinking in the pub every night with Rona, or Maureen or whatever her name was this time. 'If you don't like it you just walk away and they'll find someone else. But they want you.'

  'Why?'

  Hollis could picture the shrug at the far end. 'Man said they want the best. Like I said this is a big one and nothing less will do. You got a good rep, my boy.'

  There was movement at the peripheral of his vision and Hollis checked it as a matter of routine. 'All right, I'll talk to him, but I'm not promising anything. I'm not exactly desperate for work right now.' The two girls, one still wearing her Building Society blazer, came past arm in arm, giggling between themselves. Did you see her face when Jim dropped that stapler into her coffee? Peals of laughter, the voices fading away as they moved past and on round the corner into Academy Street.

  'I think they know that, my man.' Jordan's voice was suddenly dry, he too had a healthy respect for Mike Hollis' abilities. 'I got the impression they were mighty impressed with that bit of business you did in Germany not long ago.' That one hadn’t come through Jordan, there were other sources.

  'Nothing to do with me.'

  'That's right. Went down very well anyway. The final result was much to their liking it seems––they were very impressed. But then that's why they want you for this one.' Very persuasive, yes, but it wouldn't be him, Jordan, with his face on the front page if it all went wrong. Not him slopping out each morning, living in a stinking cell with lunatics for neighbours.

  Hollis fed some more coins into the slot. Figures danced on the LCD display, stopped and started counting down again, what was it British Telecom earned every second of every day? Five million? Ten––? 'Where's the meeting?'

  'Amsterdam.'

  'Amsterdam?'

  'What's wrong kid, passport out of date, is it?' Standing joke. There were two complete identities hidden away in the Range Rover at all times, and several more back at home. Perfect and pick-proof. Hollis had some talented contacts––and a good eye for a gravestone.

  'When?' The street was quieter now, only the occasional shop still open, with an infrequent pedestrian breasting into the cold breeze whipping between the buildings. Steak and kidney pie for tea and a night with the telly. That's the life.

  'I'll have to get back to them on that. I couldn't make any definite arrangements until I knew you were interested. Can you call me again later tonight?' Jordan knew better than to ask where Hollis would be staying.

  'Okay, will do. But don't get carried away. I'm not sure I want this one, tell them that.' Jordan wouldn't do any such thing of course, he was on ten percent of a million pounds. Nearly two million pictures of George Washington.

  'Talk to ya later, pal.' The line went dead and Hollis replaced the handset thoughtfully. He wasn't convinced about this at all, it sounded too big, too showy. Not really his cup of tea. But then two million bucks would top off the Swiss bank account very nicely, thank you. And that was a most satisfactory prospect. One last go and then goodnight Mary? That notion put an alto
gether different slant on things.

  Finally he picked up the phone again and called the Black Isle Hotel, cancelling his booking. A third call reserved a room for the night at the Three Pines Lodge, close to the airport. The Range Rover would be safe in their car park while he was away.

  Dinner was next on the agenda, but first Hollis walked for fifteen minutes along the riverbank as far as the War Memorial and back, needing the exercise after the long drive from home. Needing the fresh air––and needing to think. A million sterling was a lot of money, a lot of money. Just how many targets of that calibre were there in the world?

  Who the hell was it this time?

  The police car went straight on into the village of Lennoxtown as the two frustrated bikers turned left into Crosshill Street, which shortly became Crow Road, winding up the side of the Campsie Hills. Where the road turned sharp right continuing its sinuous way through the hills, a car park had been built at a superb view point. The bikes rolled to the far side, adjacent to a black litter bin and overlooking the countryside below. Piddling along at legal speeds behind the local constabulary was not to their liking. They were pissed off.

  Con Moloney and John MacKenzie pulled off their helmets gratefully, it was shaping up to be an unexpectedly warm day.

  ‘Where are the bastards?’ MacKenzie grumbled. At just after ten in the morning the car park was empty, but then that was why they were here.

  Moloney grunted agreement,. ‘Could be worse, could be rainin’ as well!’ he said, his Irish accent barely noticeable.

  They sat on the low wall surrounding the car park and waited for nearly ten minutes before another vehicle appeared round the corner and turned in through the entrance. The Hyundai squeaked to a halt and two figures emerged. Both in their late twenties, casually dressed and with the same hard look in their eyes.

  ‘Need to do those fuckin’ brakes again, Pauley,’ said the larger of the two, rubbing a hand over his crew-cut and scratching.

  The other, a skinny individual with lanky, greasy-looking hair flopping into his eyes, regarded him sourly. ‘It’s a heap of shit. I’ve told ya, should’ve bought the fuckin’ MG.’

  ‘How do, Con.’

  ‘Al, Paul, good to see you.’ Moloney had been known to refer to these two as the brothers Grim––but not in their hearing. Among their other varied and dubious traits, Alan and Paul Hendry had no sense of humour. A family tradition so some said who had known their father, a hard man and no mistake.

  ‘This is John MacKenzie, he was with me on the holiday cottage thing a few weeks back.’

  ‘Good one, John.’ Al Hendry sat himself on the wall and looked at Moloney, leaning on his bike. ‘What are we goin’ to do with this fuckin’ MP?’

  Keith Edwards, Labour MSP for the Scottish Parliament constituency of Cunninghame North. He was an Englishman, and was due to hold a major rally in Bellahouston Park, Glasgow, in a week’s time. He was violently opposed to an independent Scotland, as indeed were most of his Party colleagues. As a Member of the Scottish Parliament, he was appearing on every talk show and current affairs programme he could find, generally doing everything in his power to persuade the electorate that Prince Charles was entirely right in his views.

  ‘We need to stop this rally in Bellahouston, and shut the bugger’s mouth as well.’ Moloney answered,

  MacKenzie shifted his weight on the rough stone wall. ‘There aren’t too many options. I can’t see him being persuaded to back off.’ He scratched an ear. ‘Unless we frighten him badly.’

  ‘He can’t do much shoutin’ from a hospital bed!’ Paul Hendry commented dryly.

  His brother looked around the group standing in the spring sunshine. ‘Pauley’s right lads, we have to damage this bastard, put him out of it long enough for the penny to drop in his thick head.’

  Paul sniggered, ‘Fuck off or next time you’ll be in a wooden box!’

  ‘Yeah!’ Al slapped his brother on the arm, grinning.

  ‘He’s not the only one, though,’ MacKenzie put in. ‘There are other Labour bastards who’ll keep it going.’

  Moloney shook his head. ‘He’s the main man, he’s the ringleader, if we bring him down the impetus will be lost. We can’t expect to shut up every bootlickin’ sod in the country. But if we can kill this rally by stopping the guy who’s stirring it all up, that’s got to be worth doing.’

  ‘Send a message.’ Paul Hendry nodded.

  ‘He’ll be just as bad when he gets back on his feet,’ MacKenzie pointed out.

  Moloney grunted. ‘So let’s finish the bastard, then,’ he said after a pause.

  There was a somewhat shocked silence.

  ‘Fuck’s sake, Con, that’s a bit over the top, isn’t it?’ John MacKenzie had gone a little pale.

  Al Hendry pushed himself upright off the wall, rubbing his backside with both hands. ‘I don’t think we need to go that far, not this time anyway.’ He glanced at his brother, who inclined his head in agreement.

  Moloney shrugged.

  Mad Irish bastard, thought MacKenzie, what have I got myself into?

  ‘We’ll give him a going over, maybe break a leg or two. Enough to put him out of action, and off the telly, for quite a while. Now how do we go about it?’

  ‘There’s no way we can get at him once he arrives at Bellahouston,’ Paul said. ‘Police and security will be all over the place.’

  ‘He lives in Largs, doesn’t he? MacKenzie asked.

  ‘It’s in his constituency,’ Moloney replied. ‘He bought a place there when he was elected, used to live near London. Lost a couple of by-elections I think, so he wasn’t exactly Mr Popular down there.’

  ‘Yeah, he’s a failed English MP, so he came up here to sort out the snivelling Scots.’ Al Hendry sneered.

  ‘The rally’s next Saturday,’ Moloney mused. ‘So he’ll be driving up that morning, for sure.’

  ‘Get a hold of him on the way, you reckon?’ Paul Hendry suggested.

  ‘Could be. Or maybe get at him at home before he leaves. The night before?’

  ‘Largs is a nice quiet place,’ agreed Al. ‘Could do worse.’

  ‘Anyone know exactly where he lives?’ John MacKenzie was glad the conversation had eased off outright murder.

  Al shrugged his heavy shoulders. ‘Easy enough to find out, I’ve a cousin who works in the Labour Party offices. She can check it easily enough. Or it’s likely to be on the Net. Has Largs got a website?’

  ‘Sure to have,’ Moloney said.

  ‘We’ll find the son-of-a-bitch, don’t worry,’ said Al Hendry.

  'No'.

  Hollis lifted the holdall for inspection and smiled into the green eyes. Baggage check. 'Just this.'

  'Hand luggage only, Oslo one-way,’ she said primly. ‘Thank you, sir, gate number three.'

  Mike Hollis took the ticket folder and nodded his thanks. There were two charter aircraft unloading and the terminal building in Edinburgh was crowded. Although he hadn't, couldn't have, planned it that way, he was pleased. He much preferred the anonymity of crowds. Just another anonymous traveller, one more bored commuter, one more face.

  Triple-glazed windows looked out onto the apron, and beyond it the main runway. A Boeing 737 carrying the British Airways emblem on the tail shrieked into reverse-thrust practically as soon as the nose wheel made contact with the ground. London shuttle, late again. Welcome home, Mike.

  'Ticket please. Thank you. Put your bag on the conveyor-belt, sir and collect it at the other side.' Damned X-ray machines were everywhere these days.

  Sixteen years in the past, he had lived in this ancient city, with it's magnificent architecture and horrendous traffic jams. It had never lost its attraction for him. The early years in London in the company of Dave Jordan had made him a lot of friends and a lot of contacts. But initially he had been a naive youngster who didn't really understand what he had gotten himself into.

  SAS.

  Tail fin of the blue and white DC9, SAS; Scandinavian Airlin
es. 'Hello.' Bright smile at the top of the steps. Blue eyes this time, tall with blonde hair above the neat uniform, very Nordic, yes. The aircraft was half-empty and Hollis had a window seat on the starboard side, aft of the wing. The holdall wouldn't fit under the seat so he stuffed it in the locker above his head and pulled out the newspaper he had bought at the kiosk.

  There had been no shortage of employment for a young man with a chip on his shoulder, but it hadn't been what he had expected. He had expected donkey work; fetching and carrying, that sort of thing. But street-wise “businessmen” knew a good thing when they saw it. In their strata of society there was always a demand for a good minder, bodyguard. They knew his history of course: US Marines, very fit, intelligent, trained in unarmed combat and a wide variety of small-arms. Broke.

  The DC9 climbed out over the city of Edinburgh and turned north-east, the wheels rumbling up into the wings, flaps retracting. It continued up through the cloud layer to its cruising height of 9,000 metres under a crystal-blue sky.

  Within nine months the young Hollis saw that his financial worries were at least receding. It wasn’t what he would have planned, or necessarily wanted, but that was life. He was effectively, if not officially, self-employed, hiring his services out to the highest bidder, and as his reputation spread the bids got higher …

  'Would you like something to drink, sir?' Same dazzling smile, different girl.

  'No.'

  'We'll be landing in about twenty minutes.'

  'Okay, thanks.' The water far below showed briefly through a gap in the heavy clouds, gray and uneven, another wonderful day down there in the North Sea.

  One day he became involved, albeit involuntarily, in a gangland shootout. Pistols and sawn-off shotguns everywhere. Rivalry in West End prostitution had finally boiled over into open warfare. It was necessarily brief, and although Hollis had taken shotgun pellets in the arm and shoulder protecting his employer, he still managed to get in three shots with his 9 mm Glock. When the authorities came to clean up the mess they found three dead and four injured. The four despatched to hospital in the company of police officers all had shotgun wounds. The three corpses had all died by a single 9 mm round from a handgun …