by M G Leslie
Price started firing again – this time with less precision as he ran around the front of the building and crouched behind the Toyota that was parked out the front.
He could hear the men returned fire – some firing at the hotel and some at the Toyota to keep Price pinned down.
Price just waited as the shotgun blasts hit the car – but he didn’t fire back – he was waiting for the second shot from First Class to attract their attention.
Then it came – another blast from the front of the hotel caused the men to refocus their aim and start firing back in that direction.
In a fraction of a second, Price put his head down to the ground, took aim again and fired at the men’s legs from underneath the Toyota.
Even though they had all taken cover behind the pick-up, Price took advantage of its high ground clearance, and one by one they fell to the ground as Price reloaded and emptied an entire magazine in to them.
By this time they had stopped returning fire – so Price jumped to his feet, reloaded yet again and sprinted across the road.
Even though he was certain they were dead, Price calmly walked up to each body and fired a single shot between each of their eyes – he wanted to send a message – this wasn’t just a random gun fight – it was a professional execution.
Then he calmly put his gun back in his pocket and turned his attention to the policemen, who were alive – but bleeding badly.
As he looked at the first policeman, Price realised there was no hope – his abdomen had been ripped apart and there was blood everywhere. So he turned to the second man.
Price knelt down to check his condition and immediately saw a bulletproof vest that had absorbed most of the shotgun blast. Some of the shot had spread out and caught the man’s arms and legs – but the injuries didn’t look fatal – at least, not at first glance.
The officer looked up at Price, “Who are you?” he said.
“Don’t worry – I’m a friend.” Then shouting towards the hotel, Price added, “He’s alive, call an ambulance!”
First Class ran over the road, “Done. On their way already.”
“Next time someone calls you and tells you there’s a bunch of kids causing trouble – turn up in force with more than two side arms,” said Price as he stood up.
The policeman didn’t reply – but by this time, security guards and other workers had started to emerge from the airport – coming over to see what had happened.
As the security men started to comfort the wounded policeman, Price nodded at First Class, and they quietly stepped out of sight and made their way across to the entrance of the airport building – Price stowing his gun in his rucksack as they walked through the check-in security.
“What happened out there?” asked the airport security man.
“Terrible incident. Some kids shot two policemen,” said Price. “Fortunately, there was someone in the hotel who helped – otherwise I don’t think the police would have had a chance.”
“Almost true,” he thought to himself – as he and First Class sidled away – using the mounting crowd as cover to get to the airport building.
Twenty minutes later they were on the flight – having spent much of the intervening time hiding in the toilets to avoid being seen by dozens of policemen that had arrived and were searching everywhere – looking for the mysterious western man that saved their colleague’s life.
Once in the air though – Price stayed silent – just looking out of the window again – wondering how many more there would be.
Just before they came in to land he turned to First Class and said, “John – BA flight to London. We need to change terminals from domestic to international, so keep your eyes open.”
“Surely they won’t try anything here? Not inside an airport.”
“Maybe not anything full on – but I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s an attempted brush past – they already tried to get me with a syringe on a flight – so let’s just stay clear of any crowds. Follow my lead.”
“OK.”
Once the plane had taxied to the domestic terminal and the doors had opened, Price took his jacket off then withdrew his gun from his rucksack – installing the silencer and concealing it under the folds of the material as they made their way down the steps to the tarmac.
Walking out of the domestic terminal, they turned left to make the short walk to the international terminal next door.
Speaking quietly so that only he and First Class could hear, Price said, “This is a public road. So if they’re going to try something – this is where it will be.”
Then he put on his sunglasses. Even though he'd be back inside very shortly, they enabled him to stare at passers-by without them realising – something he found very useful when he was looking for the slightest hint of trouble.
"What's that," he thought, as they neared the entrance. "Yes – I'm right," – there was a man coming towards them – maybe sixty or seventy feet away – with a newspaper in his hand. But he wasn't holding it correctly, and inside the folded paper something was being concealed.
Price looked at his own reflection in the windows of the building next to them – to see if there was anyone behind them – but they seemed to be the only ones walking in that direction. So he just had to deal with the man approaching from the front.
About fifty feet away now – then Price felt a tap on his arm, "Let's cross the road."
Price acknowledged the suggestion and said, "Yes John – my thinking as well."
As they looked behind for cars and moved over to the right hand side of he road, the man echoed their decision – crossing the road at the same time.
"I've got it covered," said Price, "Just keep going."
Thirty feet away now – "What is that in the newspaper," thought Price.
“What’s in the newspaper?” said First Class.
“I’m trying to figure that out as well.”
“Shoot him – it could be a gun.”
Twenty feet.
"It may be some kind of gun, or perhaps a knife – but then again it could just be a wallet," said Price.
“Shoot him!”
“I can’t do that – it might be nothing – he could be completely innocent.”
“And you don’t shoot innocent people?”
Fifteen feet.
Ten feet – Price was about to reply and tell First Class to shut up, when he realised what it was, "It is a gun!"
The man moved his newspaper, presumably to access the gun – but too late – Price fired – aiming low as there were other people behind the man – four shots in quick succession to the legs.
The man crumpled and fell forwards – two shots had missed – but the two that hit home, had done the damage.
Price ran forward – speaking loudly so everyone could hear, "Are you OK mate?"
Then stepping behind the man so as to block the view of the man's back, he fired again at point blank range – a single shot to the back of the head.
The man, who had been crouching down, collapsed in the ground and stopped moving.
Price turned to the gathering crowd, "I think he's passed out – I’ll call an ambulance." Then he hurried away – closely followed by First Class.
As they walked in to the international terminal, Price said, "I need the gents," and walked towards the toilets.
Once inside, he stowed his gun in the rucksack and washed his hands as thoroughly as he could to take away any potential smell of gunpowder. Then he walked out and followed First Class through immigration – using the diplomatic channel to avoid any hassle.
An hour later, in the air and enjoying the amazing luxury of British Airways First Class, they heard a welcomed British accent advising them that they were on their way to London Heathrow. Price said, "Finally! Well almost – anyway."
First Class turned to Price and said, "I know it's not a good time to ask – but – why?"
"Why what?"
"Why First Class? My name – not th
e seat, which is lovely by the way."
"It's a long story," said Price. "But the ten second version is – when you were recruited, way back whenever it was, I had to keep coming out here and I got increasingly frustrated at the quality of the hotels – basically, they’re horrible – or at least they were then – not so now, I might add. But anyway, I decided that if I couldn’t enjoy the stay, I’d enjoy the journey. So I insisted on travelling first class. In fact, I refused the assignment unless I travelled first class."
Speaking quietly, First Class replied, "I thought the Firm fired people if they refused assignments."
"They do – it's official SIS policy. Officers that decline assignments lose their security clearance and as a direct result, their job. But – to be clear – that is normally because they're either scared or lazy or just don't want to go to the country in question. To my knowledge, nobody, except me, has ever declined an assignment on the grounds of the choice of seat on the airline."
First Class laughed, "I can believe that – you’re the only one crazy enough to try that.”
"I am. So anyway – it went all the way to the Chief and he approved my travel. So your name reflected my expenses."
"When will it end?"
"What?"
"All the killing?"
"When people stop doing things they shouldn't do?"
"Will you ever give up?"
"Can't do that mate – rule number one – never give up."
"So you'll just keep going?"
"If they stop then I’ll stop. But I'm not about to be first. I'd like nothing more than to retire and sit quietly in a pub drinking a pint of Old Speckled Hen. But as long as people try to harm my country – well, you know what will happen to them."
"And you don't care?"
"Relax – you're not on the list."
"Right... Thanks for that reassurance."
"Well, not yet anyway."
"Do you ever question who it is?"
"Obviously I always know who it is and why.”
“You do?”
“Yes of course.”
“I see.”
The conversation ended as suddenly as is started as both men sat back to enjoy the flight.
As they walked towards UK immigration many hours later, Price saw the familiar face of the Chief of Staff, standing airside just before immigration.
“Follow me you two,” he said – ushering them through the VIP channel – avoiding security delays and getting straight in to a waiting car.
Bill Philips, Fabio Alexander and Cale Jones were summoned to the Chief's office the next day.
As they walked in, the room was reminiscent of the first meeting that the Chief had called after the murder in Harare weeks before – except this time, Price wasn't playing with his mobile phone – he was standing next to the Chief's desk and two more men were standing by the door – both over six feet tall and both clearly ex-military – indeed, they were colleagues from Price’s secretive organisation within MI6 called, The Increment.
As Bill Philips looked around the room he realised that something was wrong. But before he could speak, the Chief said, "Price is going to give us a briefing on the murder of Baines. You'll have the opportunity to ask questions at the end – until then gentlemen, make yourself confortable – he requires your full and undivided attention.”
There was a pause, then looking at Price he said, “Price?"
"Thank you Sir. Gentlemen, you’ll recall, the challenge we faced was two dead bodies – one of which was our friend and colleague, intelligence officer Baines – and a research establishment in Africa that we suspected to be producing chemical weapons.
My task was to determine who murdered Baines and remove any potential chemical weapons threat to Great Britain. However, before I continue any further, I’d like to introduce an old friend.
As the African man stepped in to the Chief’s office, Price said, “Gentlemen, this is Mudada Iwu – although you may know him better by his codename, First Class.”
The room went silent for a few moments – then Price continued, “You see – we were mates in the Paras oh so long ago. So when my good friend here discovered a traitor in the Firm, he called me first. And, with some element of concern, paid someone else to attend his meeting with Baines on the rooftop restaurant.”
“You could have said something earlier,” said Bill Philips.
“Sorry Bill – I couldn’t,” replied Price. “You see, it would have been his word against a member of the Firm – and nobody would have believed Mudada. So I needed more evidence.”
At that point, Price nodded to the Chief’s assistant, who handed a paper folder to everyone in the room.
“Gents, I’ll leave you to read the details of my report in your own time.”
Then turning to Fabio he said, “You are the guilty person here. You’re a murderer and a traitor to your country. You have collaborated with criminals to place countless innocent lives in danger – not mention, assisting the trafficking of drugs to this country.”
Bill Philips, who was already flicking through Price’s report, looked at Fabio and said, “You worked for me for five years. How could you do this?”
Fabio was panic-stricken, “This isn’t true. I didn’t do anything. This isn’t true. I promise you Sir, he can’t prove any of this – it’s not true. I’m innocent – please – you have to believe me. I know what happens to traitors – I didn’t do anything.”
Price interrupted, “Fabio, the evidence is in front of you.”
Then for the next half an hour he walked everyone through the summary section of his report that described the evidence he had collected – highlighting Fabio as Baines’ murderer and Mudada’s attempted murderer.
As he finally paused to take questions, the Chief spoke, “And Operation Counter-blow?”
“A story Sir – purely to make the leader of the South American drugs cartel, a certain José Mancilla, think he was acting for the British government. As a result of that and the intelligence information Fabio gave away, Mancilla believed he had our backing and could traffic drugs with impunity. And actually – for a time he effectively could – because Fabio covered it up.”
Fabio stood up – but in an instant, the two men standing at the office door were by his side. He froze as Price made eye contact, almost spitting out the words, “Sit! Down!”
“What do we do now?” said Bill.
“Bill! Please stop this,” pleaded Fabio. “You have to believe me. This is not true. I’ve been set up. I have not got money in foreign accounts – well not that I know of anyway. I don’t know what they’re talking about. I didn’t even know Pete – but obviously, I’m sad for his death as well.”
Bill just looked back at him, as the Chief of Staff turned and spoke. “You’re being given a second chance Fabio. Price blew our operation in Venezuela in order to obtain proof of your activities. So you’re going there to take over. You’re to use your relationship with Mancilla to regain his confidence. We will supply you with conclusive evidence to support your story.
Fabio was about to protest, when Price interrupted, “If it was up to me I’d shoot you in the head here and now. So shut up and be grateful.”
The Chief of Staff looked at Price with disapproval for his emotional remark and then spoke, “Fabio, instead of taking money for personal gain, you’ll transfer that money to Her Majesty’s government. You’ll supply us with all the information you gain – you’ll provide them with counter intelligence that we will give you – and yes, as Price suggests, you’ll be grateful for a second chance.”
“Sir. Please listen to me. This isn’t true,” said Fabio, turning to the Chief in one last attempt at pleading.
“You’ll be given a chance to make your case,” said the Chief. Then turning to Price and the Chief of Staff, he continued, “There will be a full hearing in front of the Foreign Secretary and an independent High Court Judge before your reassignment takes effect. So you’ll have a chance
to dispute the events that have been presented today. Whilst Price has told a compelling story and provided a lot of information in support of that story, we’re not about to condemn a member of the service after one brief meeting – so calm down.”
“Thank you Sir.”
“For the moment though,” the Chief continued, “I suggest you go home and don’t go out except to buy food and to take the children to school. No travelling – especially abroad – or I’ll speak to Special Branch and have you arrested until the hearing takes place. Understood?”
“Yes Sir. Thank you Sir.”
As the Chief’s remarks came to an end, the Chief of Staff stood up, “Thank you gentlemen that will be all.” Then walking over to Price, and in a low voice he said, “Well done.”
Price didn’t reply – but just nodded his acceptance as he left the office.
Mudada was about to follow Price out the door, when the Chief spoke, “We are very grateful for your help Mr. Iwu and I will ensure we compensate you.” Then he held out his arm to shake hands.
“Thank you Sir.”
“What are your plans now? Are you going back home?” the Chief continued.
“Yes, I will do Sir. Although I have some unfinished business to take care of first.”
“Well, we’re very grateful for your help – and I’m glad that Price was able to help you.”
“Yes Sir,” Mudada replied – glancing towards Price. “He’s been a huge influence on me.”
14. Mudada
The evening had turned cold and a little damp as, just after 7pm the same day, Price walked along the cobbled street in London's old docklands district of Wapping.
The road, known as Wapping High Street, is not what you'd normally associate with a high street. Whilst, a long time ago it may have been a bustling area with traders on every corner – now it is very quiet – the name, merely reflecting part of London's history – now being better known for its expensive apartments, mostly converted from old warehouses that served the city's main waterway, the River Thames.