The Saint Jude Rules (Cal Winter Book 3)

by Dominic Adler

  THE SAINT JUDE RULES

  DOMINIC ADLER

  All Rights Reserved

  Copyright © Dominic Adler 2017

  This first edition published in 2017 by:

  Thistle Publishing

  36 Great Smith Street

  London

  SW1P 3BU

  www.thistlepublishing.co.uk

  A man who has blown all his options can’t afford the luxury of changing his ways. He has to capitalise on whatever he has left, and he can’t afford to admit - no matter how often he’s reminded of it - that every day of his life takes him farther and farther down a blind alley.

  - Hunter S. Thompson

  Better to reign in Hell, than serve in Heaven

  - John Milton, Paradise Lost

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  London, August 2007

  The restaurant sat on top of a skyscraper, a Michelin-starred Olympus of foie gras and champagne. Cocaine-twitchy, I studied the east London Badlands. The City Boys knew the civilians down there were screwed – soon they’d lose bloated mortgages, meagre savings and threadbare pensions. Then, they said, it was going to get ugly.

  The dead unburied, lights out, troops-on-the-streets ugly.

  The dogs on the street knew the City of London was poisoned. Selling toxic, unserviceable debt as a commodity? It was crazier than some of the wars I’d fought. I necked my glass of Margaux and laughed, drawing stares from a waitress.

  Yeah, the City Boys radiated fear. I’d seen enough eves of battle: Banja Luka and Al-Amarah, Freetown and Basra, to know. I smelt fear, in this deluxe Green Zone, on the faces of men with deep tans and big watches. Bankers watched screens showing kill-lists of financial data. They smashed lobsters with tiny hammers and stabbed veal cutlets. Black-uniformed waitresses patrolled the room, deploying resupplies of Krug and Pol Roger. Other diners ran comms, hunched over Blackberries.

  Like twitchy diplomats, awaiting evacuation from an embassy roof.

  Craig Bishop returned from the men’s room, parade-ground smart in Saville Row pinstripes. He scanned the room, like a sniper eyeing the steeples of Crossmaglen. “Look at ’em. Shitting ’emselves. They’re expecting the first run on a bank. There’d be civil unrest. I’d fucking love to see that.”

  “You honestly think that’s possible?” I replied.

  Bishop filled my glass to the brim. “Yeah. Nothing like a crisis in this line of work. These fuckers’ll need top-end security, to stop the plebs nicking their stuff.”

  I laughed, angling for a job offer. One involving epic pay for negligible effort.

  Of course, Bishop was ex-22 SAS. Soldiers not anointed with the sandy beret jokingly referred to the Special Air Service as Them: pure-bred killers with Gucci kit, interesting facial hair and weapons-grade literary agents. Not that I was bitter. I was kicked off SAS Selection, so I never got the chance to actually fail. Lost my temper, punched an instructor and took my kicking. Then someone discovered the wrap of white powder in my pocket.

  No, they hadn’t planted it.

  Anyhow, it was 2007, the world was burning and corporate security was a license to print money. Soldiers were leaving the real army in droves to join private ones. And Craig Bishop was their pimp. The man who knew the right people, the Blade-whisperer. Purveyor of quality Hereford beef. In an industry awash with wannabes, Walts, fantasists and shysters, Bishop was quality control.

  Up until now we’d made bitchy security circuit small-talk. “This steak is good,” I said, gulping more wine. A gobbet hit my cuff. It looked like I’d been cut.

  “No dramas mate.” Bishop signalled for a waitress to bring another bottle. He glanced at his Breitling and smiled. “I’m still an egg and chips man at heart, though.”

  “That’s all I can afford right now,” I replied.

  Grimacing, Bishop pushed pea puree around his plate. “What happened to the Longbow contract?” I reckoned he was more concerned about his vegetables than my career.

  Longbow was a mid-level private military company. I’d chauffeured terrified Yank businessmen up and down Route Irish for three months. Fuck that for a game of soldiers. “I didn’t get on with the management.”

  “You never get on with the management.”

  “Fair point. I’ve a few irons in the fire,” I lied.

  Bishop smiled. Like a crocodile. “Really, Cal? Tell me, how’s the… other thing?”

  The other thing was my stay at a mental hospital. I kept that one quiet. Private security companies in hot, sandy places didn’t like giving automatic weapons to people with issues. “That’s all good,” I smiled, draining my glass. “Anyway, you mentioned an offer I couldn’t refuse...”

  “Yeah, I have.” Bishop nudged an envelope across the table.

  I opened it. “What’s this?”

  “My statement, outlining your confession to Brigadier Justin Powell’s murder.” Bishop’s eyes caught mine. “You told me all about it, that night in Amman. You blamed him for the death of your best oppo in Iraq, Colour Sarn’t Jason Clarke. You told me details about the crime the police never made public.”

  “Bishop, are you recording this?”

  He opened his jacket. I saw the gentle bulge of a dictaphone.

  Justin Powell had been my CO in Maysan Province. He’d been a half-colonel then. My last Iraq tour. And, yeah, the promotion-hungry motherfucker got Clarkie killed. I told Bishop the story one drunken night in a Jordanian hotel. “You’re going to blackmail me? That’s interesting, seeing as I ain’t got a pot to piss in.”

  “I’m not recording this part of the conversation. I’m going to make you an offer. The envelope is to make clear you won’t refuse.”

  My knife and fork clattered on the plate. “Fuck you, Bishop.”

  A couple of guys glanced at us from a nearby table. They had that dead-eyed look, the one men of violence often possess. The tang of vomit burned at the back of my mouth.

  “As of now, you’ve got a handler. Harry.” Bishop nudged a mobile telephone towards me with a knuckle.

  The only other person I knew who did that was my drug dealer. Ain’t no fingerprints on your knuckles, innit blud?

  The ex-SAS man shot his cuffs. “I can find anyone a billet, Cal. Even someone washed-up as you. Take the offer. Before you end up dead, in a squat with a needle in your arm. You deserve better.”

  I tossed the envelope across the table. “Screw you.”

  Bishop shook his head. “I’m trying to do you a favour, Cal. You’ve crossed the radar of a very particular client. You’ve got language skills. A Military Cross. You proved you can nut someone in cold blood. That puts you in a very small percentage of the workforce.
”

  It was the nearest thing to flattery I’d heard since I left the army. I was almost grateful.

  Bishop gobbled another mouthful of meat. “They call your new employer The Firm. Like I say, it’s a special client. I put a prospect their way now and then, but very few fit the criteria……”

  “Criteria?”

  “Candidates have to have something to hide. Oh, and nowhere to go.”

  I snatched the bottle, earning a scowl from a patrolling waitress. Bishop smiled. “I’d switch to water.”

  “What if I go to the police?”

  Bishop chuckled. “You’ve had a trip to the loony-bin. Who’s gonna believe a madman? Look at the state of you, Cal. Have a shave and bull your shoes, for fuck’s sake.”

  “I’m not rolling over.”

  “Yes, you are. The Firm, more often than not, is on the side of the angels.” Bishop tucked the envelope back in his pocket, “Even the money’s good. You might enjoy it.”

  I wanted to go to the bog, chuck my guts up and snort the last of my gak. “What happens now?”

  “Finish your scoff. Walk to Liverpool Street station. No cabs or buses. Be there by fifteen-hundred. When you arrive, call the number in that phone.”

  “And then?”

  “Harry will be in touch.”

  I wiped my mouth and slipped the phone in my pocket. “Thanks for lunch.” We even shook hands. As I left, a waitress brought Bishop pudding. He grinned, spooning apple pastry and crème anglaise into his leering gob.

  I took the elevator to the ground floor, loosened my tie and headed towards Bishopsgate. I’d done a surveillance course when I started contracting, a week schlepping around playing hide-and-seek with a bunch of retired cops. Humourless fuckers, they were. I didn’t pay much attention, thought it was a bit of a lark. I knew better now. Was the watcher one of the shoal of cycle couriers, or the old guy loitering by a sandwich shop? Was it the smartly-dressed office girl window-shopping?

  At Liverpool Street, beery men wearing football colours lounged outside the pub next door to the station. It was a quarter to three, people heading back to their offices after long lunches. I stood limply on the escalator down to the concourse, commuter trains rattling out to East Anglia and Essex.

  I unlocked the phone and hit the call register. There was one number, next to the name HARRY. I looked around, into the crowds. Two transport cops wandered by, one of them with a slobbering police dog. I tried not to look guilty and hit the ‘call’ button.

  “Hello, Captain Winter,” said a voice. Confident, with a West Country burr, “I’m Harry. There’s a Cambridge train in ten minutes. Stopping service. Buy a ticket and get on. Pay with cash and sit in the front carriage.”

  “Wait…”

  He hung up.

  I searched my wallet: fifty quid in grimy tenners. All the money I had to my name. I bought a ticket and boarded the train. It chuntered north, passing graffiti-smeared tower blocks and into the suburbs. I wiped my snotty nose on the back of my hand. Looking around, I snorted the last of the coke and mewled as the gak hit my septum.

  The phone rang.

  “You can follow simple instructions, a surprisingly rare talent nowadays. Get off the train at Bishop’s Stortford. You’ll see a red Nissan in the car park, Battersea Dog’s Home sticker in the rear window. The key’s taped underneath, driver’s side. Get in the car and call me.”

  “What the fuck is this?”

  “Redemption? A career? Who knows? For now, let’s see how you handle orders under pressure, when you’re half-drunk and disorientated.”

  “I’m always half-drunk and disorientated,” I replied.

  He hung up.

  Bishop’s Stortford was unremarkable. Hyper-normal. Taking a deep breath, I scanned the station car park. The Nissan, a dirty-looking Primera, was tucked in a corner. A white panel van was parked nearby. In my mind’s eye it was full of balaclava-wearing gunmen. I approached the car, swallowing an acidic belch. Kneeling down, I tapped the underside of the vehicle - the ignition key was duct-taped flush against the belly-plate. I tugged it free, clicked the fob and got in. The inside of the Nissan was immaculate, with a faintly chemical smell.

  I phoned Harry. “I’m in the car.”

  “In the glove compartment you’ll find a sat-nav and a report. Read yourself in, then follow the route stored in the sat-nav’s memory. When you arrive, make discreet entry into premises and eliminate your target. Your tools are in the boot, unless you want to improvise.”

  “I can’t drive,” I blurted, “I’m pissed.”

  “You’re about to nut someone. I reckon a spot of drink-driving is the least of your worries.”

  “What’s in the file?”

  “The facts. It’s only proper.”

  I opened the glove box. There was an envelope. “How do I know this stuff is true?”

  “I’m extending a courtesy, Winter, because you’re new. Don’t throw it back in my face. I know you’re dossing in a bedsit in Forest Gate right now. A man who won the Military Cross? But if you play the game, tonight you’ll be in a Park Lane hotel. Switch the fuck on, son.”

  Inside the envelope was a photo: a young man, fresh-faced, dressed in a plaid shirt. He was dead, sprawled on a linoleum floor, a neat bullet hole in his forehead. A little numbered marker sat nearby, the type police use at crime scenes. The report paper-clipped to the photograph was an excerpt from The Chicago Sun Times, dated 17th April 1986:

  Two German women were convicted of murdering a young US airman after a trial at Frankfurt’s High State Court yesterday. Anna Beck (24) and Greta Muller (21) were members of the Red Army Faction terror group. They lured Senior Airman Daryl Coates, 21, of Lake Geneva, WI, to their apartment after an evening at a discotheque. The prosecution alleged Beck and Muller shot him and stole his airforce identity card, in order for them to drive a car-bomb inside the Rhein-Main airforce base. The plot failed when the two women were stopped by local police for a traffic violation. One German officer was shot and slightly wounded and the women apprehended…

  The next report was typed on flimsy paper, stapled to an ID card photo of a dour-looking, thin-lipped woman. Written on the back in biro was GRETA MULLER, JUNE 1999.

  Greta Muller was released from high-security prison on appeal in 2000, successfully citing Duress. Lawyers argued Anna Beck exerted extraordinary influence over Muller (Beck died in prison in 1999). Muller now lives in the UK using the alias Margaret Schmidt. Prior to 1987, Muller was involved in other Red Army Faction attacks, for which she never faced trial. At the time of her arrest, she was an HVA (Stasi) asset, attending terrorist training camps in Libya and Syria.

  Red Army Faction. Baader-Meinhof gang. Loony-tune Euro-terrorism from days of yore. I called Harry. “Why now? Why me?”

  “Who’s best suited to do bad things to bad people?” asked Harry.

  “Other bad people?” I said.

  “You’re learning.”

  I gripped the steering wheel like a cliff edge, my heart a booze-and-coke fuelled machine. I jabbed at the sat-nav with trembling fingers. Finally, an address pinged cheerily on the display, near a village called Church End. The drive took ten minutes. Shivering, I stopped in a lay-by and opened the boot. The pistol was wrapped in a green army towel, hidden under the spare tyre. It was a suppressed Ruger Hunter. I slid out the magazine, fully loaded with Remington .22 rounds.

  I parked a hundred yards short of the target address, at the top of a farm track flanked by hedgerows. No neighbouring properties, no burglar alarm and no CCTV. The house was a little pebble-dashed place with grey-green ivy draped across dirty windows, a box of empty wine bottles by the door. Black clouds bubbling overhead, I walked along the track, gravel crunching beneath my shoes. Lighting a cigarette, I peeped through a gap in the hedge. A woman stood by the door, wearing a tie-die dress, baggy cardigan and sandals. It was a fifty-something Greta Muller, with braided hair, sallow skin and deep-set eyes. Looking at the cloudy sky, she tut-tutted
and disappeared inside.

  I tramped back along the track, towards the car. I took a drag on my Marlboro and dialled Harry. “I’m not sure I can do this.”

  “If you don’t, my instructions are to have you shot,” he replied softly. “I’ve got a rifleman ready. Now, your target is a fucking terrorist. Stub out the cigarette. Complete your assignment.”

  Stub out the cigarette? The bastards were watching me. My head pounded with an early hangover. “So why doesn’t your fucking sniper kill her?”

  “’Cuz you’re his replacement. Shooting you is his last job, but he’d be just as happy not to. You see, one day you get to leave us with a tidy financial settlement. We’re fair people. Harsh? Definitely. But fair? Absolutely.”

  Muttering curses, I tramped up the weed-ridden path and knocked on the door. My heart was in my mouth. Like a first date. The woman they said was Greta Muller opened the door. The smell of yesterday’s cassoulet and joss-sticks pricked my nose. “Good afternoon?” she said, head titled.

  I pulled the Ruger and steered her inside. She complied, like a woman used to having guns pulled on her.

  Inside, the cottage had been carved into an artist’s studio. Easels and canvas and paint-spattered floors. Charcoal etchings and oil paintings covered the walls, landscapes from some gothic hell. Black and red mountains, lashed with rain and raked by forked lightning. Forests of jagged black trees, things with glowing eyes lurking in the shadows. Synthesiser music beeped from an old-fashioned stereo, like sonar or Morse code. Kraftwerk.

  “I knew someone like you would come eventually,” she said, watching me study the crazy art. “My work is inspired by my time in Stammheim prison. They built it specially.” Her voice was clipped. Precise.

  “They built a prison just for the Red Army faction?”

  “Yes. West Germany’s very own Guantanamo Bay. I suppose it sounds odd to you, these days. And we never even thought to fly planes into buildings.”

  I shrugged. “The Berlin Wall came down. You lost.”

  There was defiance in Muller’s eyes. “We were on the right side. Germany in the 80s was run by men who’d worn skulls on their uniforms in the 40s.”