by Mark Arundel
Sir George Winchester remained unruffled. He was wearing a navy blue, three-piece suit with a thin pinstripe. The Saville Row tailoring was obvious. His face was pastel grey as though it rarely saw the sun and his skin was smooth for a man in his fifties. I wondered if a lack of emotion had avoided his features suffering unnecessary creasing. When he spoke, only his mouth moved and even then, his thin lips remained economical.
He said, ‘Before we continue I must remind you that as a British soldier you signed the Official Secrets Act to which you remain bound and, therefore, anything discussed here today must remain confidential. Is that understood?’
‘Yes, I understand.’
Winchester nodded his approval.
‘Are you missing the army already? What will you do now?’ he asked.
We both knew the answers to those two questions. I didn’t respond.
Winchester’s face remained emotionless. He said, ‘I expect the army may prove difficult to replace.’
I didn’t like him. I was beginning to get annoyed with the formalities and his pompous attitude. As if he sensed this he offered me a second cup of coffee and then said, ‘Have a chocolate biscuit.’
I took one. I sipped my coffee and ate my biscuit. Neither Charlotte Miller nor Stephen Bradshaw had taken their eyes from me, although, neither of them had spoken.
‘Are you a patriotic man?’ Winchester asked. ‘I find soldiers are normally loyal and committed to their country.’
I’d never really thought of myself in terms of patriotism. I said, ‘No more so than anyone else.’
‘Quite. A consideration to once again serve your country would be considered positively, though; would I be correct?’
I said, ‘I suppose so.’
By now my curiosity was venting like steam from Stephenson’s rocket and although I’d promised myself I wouldn’t ask, and that I’d let them tell me, I couldn’t wait any longer. I put my coffee cup on the table and said firmly to Sir George Winchester, ‘What’s this all about?’
In response to my demand, Mr. Stephen Bradshaw sat forward in his chair, placed his elbows on the table and fixed me with an intense stare.
‘We’d like you to kill somebody for us,’ he said.
Chapter 2
SIR GEORGE WINCHESTER
He didn’t want to be there, but he had to be. It was his responsibility. He wanted to make sure they did it correctly. How long before he could leave. He resisted looking at his wristwatch. His eyes remained on this new man and he watched him eat his biscuit and drink his coffee. They all looked the same, he thought, these soldiers, these human copies of Action Man. This one even had a scar just above his cheek. He vowed to get away as soon as he could. He would make an excuse for having to leave promptly. They wouldn’t know it was a lie; they didn’t know what he was really doing later.
For a moment, his mind drifted. He was looking forward to the bridge game at the club on Wednesday night. Even though he had drawn one of the weaker players as his partner, his own ability was more than enough to compensate and he would still win. He was the best player. They all knew that.
He forced his mind back to the briefing. He controlled everything with such skill. It was a gift, a natural talent to be in charge and to be the master of events. Inside, he smiled, but he never allowed it to show on his face.
This new man was confident, he thought, even self-assured as if he knew things he couldn’t possibly know. For a brief moment, George Winchester felt a twinge of anxiety, but then his supreme composure returned. Nobody had noticed; they never did. He was the master. This new man knew only what he wanted to tell him, and nothing else. The other two, the attractive woman, Miller, and plodding Bradshaw were SIS drones [SIS: secret intelligence service] who would do his bidding with glee and be content in their ignorance.
The new man made a flippant remark; a witticism. Winchester ignored it. This was unusual. The action men never showed cognitive ability; most of them could barely talk in complete sentences. He didn’t like this one; he was an anomaly. Winchester didn’t like anomalies; they could prove unreliable and inconsistent, perhaps even dangerous. He didn’t want that. Why were the woman and the plodder using this new man and not one of the existing ones with greater experience? There wouldn’t be any anomalies then.
No matter, this one would do what was required, Winchester was confident of that. Just look at him.
Bradshaw had interrupted. What an annoying little man he was. Winchester regained control. He would get this over with quickly. He wanted to be finished and then he could be gone.
Chapter 3
Each player looks at his or her hand and sorts the cards into their own preferred order.
Meeting room number six was as silent as the altar during communion. I could tell from the demeanour of all three of my new friends that Mr. Stephen Bradshaw from Military Intelligence wasn’t joking. I felt I should say something, so I asked what seemed reasonable.
‘Kill somebody, who?’
I hoped for a moment that at least one of them would smile, but not one of them did. Instead, Winchester shot a glance at Bradshaw unhappy at his intervention before telling me, ‘We can answer that question once we have determined your acceptance of our proposal.’
I nodded and said, ‘All right, what is your proposal?’
Sir George Winchester returned to his prepared script. He spoke in a considered voice.
‘This country, as I am sure you are aware, along with other countries such as America, Russia, China, Israel, France and much more undertake, when necessary, officially sanctioned killings of individuals who pose an identifiable and verifiable threat to national security.’
Winchester paused to let it sink in.
I said, ‘It doesn’t surprise me. Don’t the Americans call it wet work?’
‘Targeted killings,’ said Bradshaw interrupting.
Winchester said to me, ‘An unfortunate phrase. The Americans can be so graphic with their terminology. We prefer to call it sanctioned termination.’
‘That’s much nicer,’ I said.
Winchester ignored me and said, ‘We employ a number of individuals, professionals, mostly ex-forces, to carry out these assignments.’ His eyes stayed fixed on my face like a judge in a small town beauty contest. ‘We are always looking to add new members to our roster. Your file came up for consideration and following extensive investigation, analysis and research has been cleared for inclusion should you agree.’
This was what they wanted. My curiosity was satisfied with the same release as pus from a lanced boil. I wasn’t certain how I felt. My mind ran through some scenarios most of which weren’t pleasant. It wasn’t anything like killing the bad guy, saving the free world and getting the girl. I’d seen that film. What they were actually asking me to do was commit cold-blooded murder for and with the permission of the state. No questions asked. Receive an assignment, plan and execute in both senses of the word. It didn’t matter who, it didn’t matter where, and it didn’t matter why. Don’t ask it’s not your concern. How, though, might be a consideration. You know, make it seem like suicide or an accident. We don’t want any comeback. I stopped before I had completely talked myself out of it.
As though he was reading my thoughts, Mr. Stephen Bradshaw from military intelligence said, ‘It’s not a pleasant job as I’m sure you can imagine, but essential and vital to both the security and safety of this country and the millions of its inhabitants.’
I stared at him, into his muddy brown eyes, and could see he was being genuine and sincere. I guessed he based his entire life, which was probably his work on this one premise. He believed it. This kept him doing what he did, instead of growing mushrooms or orchids, or whatever else, he might secretively wish he could do instead. I continued to stare at this civil servant, Mr. Bradshaw. He was also in his fifties, like Winchester, but he was less sophisticated and a little less polished. Perhaps grammar school instead of public school but just as capable and intelligent never
theless. His suit wasn’t Saville Row and his haircut didn’t look as if he paid for it. I didn’t much care for either of them.
No one was saying anything, so I asked a question. ‘How does it work exactly?’
Mr. Bradshaw cleared his throat and answered, ‘We pay a generous sum per assignment plus all expenses.’ He pushed a sheet of paper across the table top allowing me to read the written number. It was a very exact amount.
I said, ‘A generous sum.’
Mr. Bradshaw said, ‘Yes, it’s an odd amount isn’t it? Government bureaucracy, percentage increases and budget constraints—you understand.’ He paused briefly and then said, ‘Anyway, the payment is transferred free of tax into your bank account. We estimate expenses and provide them in advance and most of the known arrangements and costs are organised directly by my department. On average, operatives receive two assignments per year.’
I thought of Tom and his pregnant wife Linda. I could still feel the uncomfortable settee. ‘That’s a tempting amount of money,’ I said. Mr. Bradshaw nodded.
‘Yes, it is,’ he agreed. ‘Most of our operatives continue with their day jobs and carry out their assignments while taking annual holiday entitlement. Many of the assignments are abroad. The operative combines the assignment with a paid-for break away from their work.’
For a moment, I thought he might be joking. However, I could see from his eyes he wasn’t. He said, ‘I believe some of our operatives actually pay the money into a personal pension scheme and plan for an early retirement.’ I laughed. ‘It’s true,’ he assured me. ‘I know of at least two operatives who’ve retired at fifty and moved to a nice little spot they discovered whilst away on an assignment.’ I didn’t respond. Bradshaw stopped talking.
‘How does the communication work and what happens if something goes wrong?’ I asked.
Bradshaw folded his hands on the table. I noticed his fingers. Heavy smoking had stained them with nicotine. He bobbed his head while he gathered his thoughts. ‘We will issue you with our latest communication device, which is specially designed and supplied for the purpose. It has all the latest communication features with a few extra benefits as well. A connection links it to the British military intelligence satellite system. It’s a highly sophisticated tool.’
I nodded my head once with the thought of super spy flashing through it again. ‘And when something goes wrong?’
Bradshaw bobbed his head again. ‘We hand pick our operatives, and as we’ve already said, they’re mostly professionally trained ex-soldiers. Mistakes are rare. We undertake careful vetting of the men we choose. Our procedures are thorough. Like yourself, they are proven men from the armed forces, all capable and all aptly suited to this type of work.’
He was calling me a cold-blooded killer. I should have been insulted but I wasn’t. It’s very hard to insult a British combat soldier. They tend to have thick skins.
I said, ‘Mistakes do happen.’
Mr. Bradshaw wasn’t perturbed. He said, ‘Yes, of course, things can go wrong. Each assignment is different, with distinct aspects to it: the target, the location, timeframe, specific requirements. All these can pose fluid risks during an active assignment, which may affect a successful outcome. We approach each problem as it arises, individually, applying our best efforts to achieve a satisfactory resolution.’
These were pleasant, comforting words but not detailed enough for me. I said, ‘Just tell me what happens if I get caught in a foreign country with a dead body at my feet.’
Mr. Bradshaw unfolded his hands, scrunched up his stained fingers and then held one hand with other. He said, ‘In that specific situation we would do everything we can to assist the operative and secure his expedient release.’
I said firmly, ‘How?’
He immediately replied, 'Diplomatic means...’
'Diplomatic means!’
Winchester interrupted and in a soft voice said, ‘The reason we use civilians for overseas assignments is because they do not have a connection with the British government. There is nothing to link them directly to the authorities. If we used active soldiers and something went wrong, there would be potential diplomatic problems. If caught, you are just a British tourist abroad, not sent by your government. That is why we use your real name, your real passport, your identity. Certainly, discovery you were once a British soldier is possible, but that was all in the past. You would be on your own, except for the normal legal and international protocols, and, of course, diplomacy.’ Winchester deepened his voice and said, ‘None of this matters because you won’t make any mistakes and you won’t get caught. Will you?’
It was difficult to answer that. I would be a civilian killer behind enemy lines, without even a dog tag, no serial number, nothing to save my skin if the worst happened. I simply nodded my understanding and acceptance. I thought Winchester was going to smile, but he didn’t. His face remained smooth and crease free.
Mr. Bradshaw asked me if I had any further questions.
‘Yes, I do,’ I said. ‘Why me?’
Mr. Bradshaw separated his hands and bobbed his head. ‘As Sir George has said we select professional ex-soldiers.’
‘Yes, but why select me specifically?’
Mr. Bradshaw linked his yellow fingers again and said, ‘According to your file and the verbal testimony of several senior officers you are, were, a capable soldier in Her Majesty’s armed forces. One officer from your regiment even described you as being exceptional. Your record was exemplary up until the incident that led to your departure. Your army-tested IQ scored in the top one percent and most importantly for us, professional independent analysis of the personality tests you took as a soldier show you have a very high instinctive disposition for this kind of work.’
Did he not just call me a cold-blooded killer again? This time, he added the word instinctive. Oh well, it was time for me, again, to ask my original question. ‘Who do you want me to kill?’
Mr. Winchester replied with a question, ‘Can we take it that you accept our proposal of employment?’
I thought of my years as a soldier with the army and the missions, when I fought with my unit and I carried out my orders with cold professionalism just the way my training taught me. I missed it already. I realised with a certainty, with clarity, just as I suppose I knew from the moment I heard what they wanted, just as Sir George Winchester and Mr. Stephen Bradshaw and Miss Charlotte Miller all knew I knew what my answer was going to be. I said, ‘Yes, Sir George, you can take it I accept your proposal of employment.’
Sir George Winchester nodded once. Then Mr. Bradshaw spoke. He answered my question. He said, ‘We do have an assignment for you. One to get you started straight away, as it were.’ Winchester looked at Mr. Bradshaw and interrupted by saying, ‘Well, I don’t believe I’m needed any more.’ He looked at me and said, ‘Bradshaw and Charlotte can take it from here.’ He told me it had been a pleasure meeting me. I didn’t reciprocate. He stood and extended his hand across the table. ‘Good luck,’ he said. We shook hands. His face remained untroubled. ‘I have a dinner engagement,’ he explained adding, ‘with the ambassador to Hong Kong. He is a formal man who demands punctuality in others.’
‘Try not to choke on the sushi,’ I said helpfully.
‘Don’t worry I won’t,’ he said. He left and I wasn’t going to miss him.
Mr. Bradshaw turned to Miss Miller and asked, ‘Shall we get started?’ In response, Miss Miller opened her briefcase and took out a leather bound document file. The type old-fashioned solicitors still use. I poured myself another coffee and watched as she undid the clasp and then carefully pulled it open as if it was the Magna Carta. Charlotte Miller had been remarkably quiet during proceedings, so far. I wondered what her exact purpose was. Winchester represented the Foreign Office as overseer and Bradshaw was operations controller through Military Intelligence but what about Miss Miller. She had told me she was a civil servant but that could mean anything. Perhaps she was new to the whole thing. P
erhaps it was her first time on the job. Anyway, she was now about to get involved, so perhaps all would become clear or perhaps not. I sipped my coffee and then realised Charlotte was waiting for me. I put my coffee cup down and smiled.
She said, ‘Your target is a white, British male, aged thirty-three, originally from Oxford but now residing on the Spanish owned island of Tenerife. His name is Geoffrey Button.’ Charlotte held up a glossy head and shoulders photograph. He looked like a coot. He was a bald man with small, glassy eyes and an open, searching expression. ‘He’s living in a resort area on the west coast of the island. We don’t have his exact location but we expect to before you leave.’
I interrupted and said, ‘Before I leave; when do you want me to leave?’
She replied, ‘We have you booked on a flight to Tenerife tomorrow morning. Is that a problem?’
I thought of Tom again.
‘No, no problem.’
‘Good; this assignment is time critical.’
I held her efficient eyes and said, ‘You’re very good at this.’
She ignored me.
I already knew the answer to this but I decided to ask anyway.
I said, ‘What’s this guy done to warrant such personal attention?’
Before Charlotte could reply, Mr. Bradshaw said, ‘You don’t need to know any of those details. Your job is to carry out the sanctioned termination to our specification, plain and simple, agreed?’
If I wanted to avoid losing my new job, I knew further discussion on that subject was over. I said, ‘Agreed.’
Mr. Bradshaw seemed satisfied and bobbed his head. Charlotte continued. She waited until our eyes were fastened and then said, ‘Although Tenerife is a member of the European Union and our relationship with Spain is good we need the death to seem natural. It mustn’t raise any suspicion of an unlawful killing.’
I smiled at her. ‘What did you have in mind?’
She didn’t smile back. ‘I’m sure you can think of a suitable answer yourself, but failing that we have something you can use to make the death appear natural.’