I checked her out: late forties. Maybe early fifties. Glossy bobbed hair, the colour of toffee. Delicately-featured face, eyes squinty and brown. She’d been a beauty, in her day. In fact, she still was.
Weighing up the situation, I decided I had a sixty-forty chance of knocking the gun away and disarming her. “I think I’ll stand. I’m looking for Harry. The Saint.”
She tightened her grip on the Walther. The weapon shifted in her fist, pointing right.
I stepped to my left. I upped my chances to seventy-thirty. “My name is Cal Winter.”
“In which case, you need to leave now, Captain Winter,” she replied. She nodded at the corpse. “You’ve started something you’ll be unable to finish.”
“Who were they?”
“Assassins. Sent by our former employer.”
“I need to speak with Harry.”
“If you leave now, I won’t shoot.”
“Harry gave me everything. The Firm. STREGA. How else would I know Monty’s real name is Owen Montague? His office is at a place called Dungeness Engineering. I know about GROUNDSMAN, CROUPIER, SCRIVENER and EVOCATI…” This was the underground argot of The Firm: codenames and locations, false identities, secrets and lies.
The woman tried a poker-face. She failed.
“And until forty-eight hours ago, I was an ICEPICK,” I sighed. ICEPICK – Triggermen. The tip of The Firm’s diseased spear.
The woman looked like she’d stumbled into a cold shower. “You’ve just heard a few codenames. Gossip… it means nothing.”
I pushed her gun gently to one side, “I’m not here to hurt you.”
A sigh escaped her lips, P-38 held limply by her side, “I’ve had enough...”
I took her free hand, dry and warm. I squeezed it gently, my finger brushing a signet ring, “you and me both. What shall I call you?”
“My name is Diana Vaillancourt. Not that it matters.”
“Why?”
A defiant smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “The men you killed? They were looking for Harry too.”
“What is this place? Does it belong to him?”
“No, it’s The Firm’s. We used it when he stayed in town.”
“Why are they looking for Harry now?” I said. “If he’s retired?”
Diana shrugged. “The Firm’s being deep-cleaned. The new guard are gutting the old.”
“Who would do that?”
Diana looked at her gun, then into my eyes, “the new PRIMO EVOCATI. The boss – they hardly share grand strategy with me. It’s compartmentalised. I take orders. Just like you.”
A wafer thin iBook lay open on the sofa. I reached for it.
“That’s private,” Diana protested.
I tapped the keyboard. There were images of Diana and a stocky, dour-looking man. Most were holiday pictures from sunny places, maybe the Mediterranean or Balkans. In others they were in Berlin, wrapped up against the cold near the Tiergarten. The man had black hair, streaked silver, and a Zapata moustache. Dark eyes brooded under a heavy brow.
I knew it was Harry. “How long were you two an item?”
Diana raised an eyebrow. “I said those were private.”
“You didn’t know Harry spilt the beans?”
“Harry’s a big believer in the need to know principle,” she replied coldly.
“Where is he?”
Diana Vaillancourt looked me up and down. “I’ve heard enough about you, Captain Winter, to realise you’ve the ability and inclination to torture that information out of me in five minutes. Nonetheless, I’m not telling you.”
I snapped the iBook shut. “I mean him no harm. He’s in danger.”
“I am too, but I don’t see him riding to the rescue.”
I got it. Harry left his mistress twisting in the wind, The Firm imploding around her. “He’s a handler. You expected anything else?”
“He said you had a cruel streak.” Diana’s eyes flashed. She went to say something, then bit her lip. Picking up the gun, she walked over to the window and slid it in a tote bag. “He also said you asked too many questions.”
I rested my hand on her shoulder. “Come with me, Diana. Talk it through.”
She tossed her hair then, smiling impishly. Her eyes, brown speckled with green, narrowed. “Harry had a soft spot for you.”
“So you’ll come?”
“Why not? I couldn’t go there on my own, in case they’ve found him too.” Diana Vaillancourt nodded towards the body splayed on the floor. “Best we tidy up. You’ll find my knives in the kitchen. Bring the hacksaw, too.”
“You want me to cut them up?”
“You killed them,” she replied. “I’m hardly in a position to call the usual cleaners. When The Firm come looking and find this place immaculate, it’ll buy us time.”
“Who are you, Diana?”
“Head GROUNDSMAN,” she said brightly. “I manage assets. Source weapons. Explosives. Occasionally I dispose of bodies.”
I shook my head. In my mind’s eye, my plan was to destroy the network, kill everyone in it. Now it had a face.
Diana ran a hand through her hair. “What are you looking at? We’ve work to do.”
“Yes, Ma’am,” I replied. Rolling up my sleeves, I went to fetch the knives.
Chapter five
Diana chopped and carved like a pathologist. Or maybe a butcher. “I was taught to bone a corpse by an ex-SDECE man. The French are superb at the art.”
“Art?” I asked.
“Dark operations are an art. Not a science.” Diana gave a tight smile, wiping a gloved hand across blood-spattered goggles.
“Art? Well, this is definitely a Damian Hirst. How’d you get into this?”
“Thierry, my late husband. He worked for French intelligence. Died in 2002, by which time I’d been recruited as an occasional asset. That’s how I met Harry. They mixed in similar circles.”
We wore rubber aprons, leather elbow-length gauntlets and fishermen’s waders, Diana passing meat for the acid bath. The basement had a conical drain in the concrete floor, a metre deep and served by blood-channels. It looked custom-built. I carefully trickled away the slurry of hydrochloric acid and rendered flesh. The stink made my nose run through my dust mask. “Who were they?” I said.
Diana’s cleaver hacked through bone, “ten-a-penny mercenary dross. Auxiliaries. Button Men.”
“Like me?”
Diana cocked her head. Her eyes gleamed. “No. They weren’t fully-fledged ICEPICKS. You and your ilk were the cream. These were the new breed, recruited on the cheap. Like cracked china, left over after the January sales. Now hose the floor with cleaning agent, Captain Winter, and we’re done.”
“How many are there… down there?” I asked, pointing at the drain.
“Feeds straight into the Marylebone Ditch, you know. Victorian storm relief. It was one of the reasons I chose this place.”
“That didn’t answer my question.”
“No, I suppose not.” She stripped to her underwear, put her stuff in a tool bag and dropped it in the remaining acid. “Are you checking me out, Captain Winter?”
“No,” I lied.
Diana made a mock pout as she tossed a knife in the acid bath, “never get attached to assets, Captain. They leave a trace. Incriminate.”
“I’ll bear that in mind.”
Smiling, Diana put on her jeans and shirt, locked the basement door and followed me up the stairs. She produced a perfume bottle from her bag and sprayed her neck, “uh. I need a shower.”
Five minutes later we were in the car. Oz raised his eyebrows as Diana Vaillancourt slid into the back seat, tote clutched protectively on her lap. “What’s in the bag?” he said.
Diana wrinkled her nose. “Turkish cigarettes, Hermes scarf, French, Irish and UK passports, Chanel No. 5, a bottle of Tanqueray, ten thousand euros and a silenced Walther.”
“All the essentials,” he replied. “I’m Oz.”
“I know, Colour Sergeant Osborne,
” she replied. “Ex-42 Commando and Special Boat Service. Your last tour was on ‘Z’ Squadron. You served a Special Duties assignment on SIS then…”
“…I also enjoy ‘80s electronica, long walks on the beach and cat videos,” Oz replied.
“Quite. Captain Winter just effected a dashing rescue.”
“How many dead?” Oz reversed out of the mews and onto the high street.
“Two,” I said, “dunno who they were.”
“And what do you do?” said Oz, eyes locked onto Diana via the rear-view mirror.
“I work for The Firm,” Diana replied. “I specialise in loose ends.”
Oz pulled a face. “I don’t remember your name on the papers Harry gave us.”
Diana smiled, revealing a gleaming row of pearly-whites. “Well, at least the bastard showed a soupcon of loyalty. How did you find the safe house?”
“The address was on Craig Bishop’s laptop,” I said.
Diana looked out of the window, London flashing by. “Musclebound halfwit. He never had a bloody clue about tradecraft, but Harry is incorrigibly loyal to ex-Regiment men. How is Craig?”
“Not great,” I replied.
“I see,” she sniffed. “He was the one who recruited you two, wasn’t he?”
Oz’s face darkened, “Recruitment is for volunteers. I never volunteered.”
“I suppose Bishop was one of the few people who knew why you joined The Firm, Oz. I suppose it was you who did for him?”
“No,” I lied. “It was me.” I never found out why Oz was on The Firm, and had given up asking.
Oz braked sharply, scattering a flock of pigeons. “Listen, love, you need to decide whose side you’re on. Right now.” His catlike eyes gleamed, fingers gripping the steering wheel, “cuz there’s only two left to choose from.”
The GROUNDSMAN shifted in her seat, “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.”
Oz nodded curtly, “Where we goin’?”
“A village near Topford May. Five miles from Cirencester. But I need to warn Harry we’re coming.”
Topford May was an American airbase in Gloucestershire. “Harry might refuse to see us,” I said. “We need to surprise him.”
“The Saint isn’t a man you surprise. He’s a wily old bastard.” Diana smiled. “He always was.”
“OK,” I said, “tell him we’re coming.”
Diana fished a satellite phone from her bag and keyed in a number. “It’s me,” she said quietly. “I’m with two… friends. Yes, the ones you’ve gifted the keys to the castle. I know, but what choice do I have? Well, I’ve told them where you are. Your hand is forced, and it serves you bloody well right…”
We hit the motorway. The radio news reported a murder, a revenge attack on an ex-serviceman in Devon.
Three dissident Republicans from County Monahan are wanted in connection with the killing. The victim, Craig Bishop, was believed to be a retired Special Forces soldier…”
“Ah, an IRA counter-factual. A nice touch,” said Diana Vaillancourt approvingly.
“We call it a fit-up where I come from,” I shrugged. “Bishop mentioned big changes on The Firm.”
Diana circled her neck gracefully, like a dancer doing warm-ups. Then she lit a cigarette, sighing with relief as she exhaled. “Harry will know more, but the iteration of The Firm you wish to destroy doesn’t exist anymore.”
“Doesn’t exist?” said Oz, “I don’t get it.”
“Why d’you think hired guns turned up at the safe house, looking for Harry? There’s been a hostile takeover. Someone got to The Firm before you did.”
“Takeover? How?” asked Oz.
“Not now, I’m tired,” Diana replied, stifling a yawn. “It’s been the most horrid day. I might take a nap.”
Oz tapped the BMW’s gearstick. “Cal, has this got an ejector seat?”
The drive took three hours, Diana snoring gently throughout. Harry’s place was a crumbling rectory, tucked in the lee of a moss-furred Norman church. It was dark, headlights reflecting on the eyes of creatures lurking in hedgerows.
“This is it,” said Diana, “there are cameras. Harry will want to see you’re unarmed.”
“Harry. I never thought I’d meet him,” said Oz.
Neither did I. For years I’d taken orders off the phone. Despite initially loathing Harry, I’d grown perversely fond of the old bastard. Unlike Monty, Harry always gave the impression he wanted to give us a break. Monty, on the other hand, just wanted to break us.
We stepped out of the car, the drive flooded with the silvery glare of motion-activated lights. Squinting, I put my hands up, as did Oz. Diana, I noticed, had pulled her gun. Oz and I looked like prisoners. The heavy front door swung open. Dimly glowing lights framed a squat figure, armed with a shotgun. “Come in, for Christ’s sake. You’ll get us all bloody well killed.”
“You’ve spent ten years trying to get me killed,” I replied, brushing past him and into the parlour. It smelt of dogs, wet clothes and yesterday’s breakfast.
Two black hounds sat nearby, fangs glistening. “Mars, Minerva, go to bed,” Harry ordered. The dogs padded away, tails wagging.
“Harry,” said Diana sharply.
“I’m sorry,” he replied. He kissed her. “I thought it best you didn’t know. You should’ve gone back to Italy.”
“Italy is the last place I’d run.” Diana snaked her arms around Harry, tucking her chin into his neck. “The Trieste Cell went across to the other side.”
“You two are an item?” said Oz.
“Mind your own business, Osborne.” Harry growled, resting the shotgun on the kitchen table. “I’ll put the kettle on.” Harry’s face was a study in hard living. Nose bent, eyes dark under a strong brow. I put him somewhere in his sixties, hair flecked silver. He wore slacks and a neatly-pressed shirt, feet shod in polished boots.
“Time for an explanation, Harry,” I said, “about the STREGA file.”
Harry shrugged and produced a row of mismatched mugs. The kitchen was low-ceilinged, with an oil-fuelled range. Ignoring me, he looked at Diana. “How did they find you?”
“They found Bishop.”
Harry nodded slowly, “I suspected it wasn’t the IRA. Those fuckers couldn’t find their arses with a map nowadays.”
“Cal turned up at the Marylebone site,” Diana explained. “They sent men for you. Winter arrived at the right moment.”
Harry poured milk. Stirred sugar. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know they’d come for you too. Not so soon, anyway.”
“There seems to be a great deal you don’t know,” she replied coolly. “I’d like to know why you gave Winter and Osborne the STREGA file?”
“I reckoned they were most likely to take action,” Harry replied.
Diana sat. She sighed and lit a cigarette. “Harry, what’ve you done?”
He reached across and held her hand, “The Firm was a monster before, but the thing it’s turned into now? I couldn’t walk away without doing something. I could hardly start a war on my own, could I? I’m too bloody old. And I didn’t want to make you a target.”
I drained my cup. “All I’m hearing is how The Firm’s gone bad. As far as I can see, it was rotten from the day I was pressganged into it.”
Harry wrinkled his nose. “I don’t expect you to understand.”
“Perhaps you could enlighten me,” I said.
“Why? I wanted you to search and destroy, not look for answers. Answers get you killed.”
“My searching and destroying to order is done. That changed last year, after Africa.”
Oz put his gun on the table and sat down. “Come on Harry. What the hell’s going on?”
Harry muttered something under his breath and stomped off to a cupboard. He returned with a bottle of Glenmorangie and five glasses.
“There are only four of us,” I said, “and I’m on the wagon.”
“I’m expecting company,” Harry grunted, sploshing three fingers into a tumbler.
I put a
hand over my glass. “I’ll stick with tea.”
Diana sipped her drink. “When it comes to The Firm, very few of us know the full picture. Our knowledge is confined to snippets we absorb along the way. Like osmosis.”
Harry nodded. “But after a while you begin to join the dots. The files were a collection I made over the years, bits and pieces pilfered when I could. Sometimes I’d cross paths with old friends who’d tell me stuff they’d heard. Then everything changed.”
“It’s been going on for a year,” Diana continued, “the old EVOCATI, the ones I knew of anyway, vanished. New controllers took over, from the American side of the business.”
The EVOCATI were The Firm’s high command. I guessed the identities of several from Harry’s file. There was a retired Major-General, a hawkish ex-Defence Minister and a former high-ranking spook on the list. The American side included CIA and private security types.
“The Americans, especially, went dark,” Harry shrugged, “gone in a puff of smoke. Then, mysteriously, new Yanks arrived. They brought new orders and targets.”
“So,” said Oz, sipping his drink, “what about the new EVOCATI?”
“I don’t know,” Harry replied quietly. He rubbed his temples with quick-bitten fingers. “I was about to retire. The most senior EVOCATI is called the PRIMO, he knew me of old. He told me to get out. Before it was too late.”
The fifth guest waddled into the room. A man-mountain, with a heaving gut and wobbly jowls. He wore crumpled pinstripes and a club tie. The two dogs, Mars and Minerva, appeared. They sniffed happily about his feet.
“Hello Marcus,” I said. He was my unofficial conduit into MI6. The one I thought Harry knew nothing about.
“Och,” the spook replied, “if it isn’t my favourite problem solver.”
Chapter six
Marcus was a trouble-shooter for MI6, the Secret Intelligence Service. It was usually me who shot the trouble. “Hello there,” he declared in an Edinburgh purr, a velvety roller-coaster of syllables, “Diana, what an unexpected pleasure.”
“Quite,” she replied, gingerly taking his pudgy hand. “We usually only meet at funerals.”
“And you must be John Osborne,” the old spy continued, “you were Mentioned in Dispatches at Al-Faw, I remember. Glad you could make it.”
The Saint Jude Rules (Cal Winter Book 3) Page 4