by Gary Tulley
"Yeah....yeah, what ever, you supercilious little bastard." Eastern consciously reminded himself. And left him to continue in the same disillusioned vein.
"So, now that the dust has settled for the moment, I feel inclined to talk about what's been going down, hence the call. You have to say that I'm a man of my word, Mike. I refer, of course, to the 'heist' and it's successful consequences. On reflection, you should have been a wealthy man now, coming from what was on offer. Although, thinking back, it's fair to say you had me fooled for a while. Unfortunately, you made the same mistake as a lot of other amateurs, by underestimating my supreme capabilities, which....."
"I imagine that the late Steadman and Donavon alone, would clarify that point, without too much trouble, assuming that they were here, of course." Eastern interjected, and went on. "Unless their combined murders were purely coincidental in bringing my true identity to bear? Having said that, you only knew the alleged Robert Ruark, and that, I strongly believe, is the one concern that's bothering you, above all else."
"Bollocks! Don't flatter yourself my friend. When it suits me, you too will become expendable. As far as Steadman is concerned, I like to think that I did the slime ball a fucking favour. Sooner or later somebody else would have leaned on him, and, me? I got lucky and just happened to jump the queue. Basically, you need to understand the situation from my viewpoint. The minute his acquired knowledge became personal, became the moment the creep signed his own death warrant. Plain and simple. Therefore, In the end, the outcome came to be a necessity."
"Necessity!? stormed Eastern, "Your in-vogue arrogance is bigger than your fucking ego. And Donavon. What category did he slot into, before you decided to have him 'blown' away?"
"Huh, your ambiguous observations do you credit, Mike. I wonder if the organization that controls you, respects your input? I have my doubts."
Unbeknown to him, Brezznov's throwaway implication and choice of words, had somehow struck a parallel chord in his sometime fragile association with Rogon, and Spooks as a whole. Furthermore, he was now left debating just how much knowledge Brezznov did have privy to. In the end, it became sink or swim time. If he were to pursue Brezznov's poisonous reference, It could well be misconstrued as being a moment of weakness and a possibility of game over, should he allow himself to get riled.
Biting his lip, he decided, instead, to bring the Stowlowski murder into play. "Seeing as death sticks to you like shit to a blanket, Victor, Let's talk about another 'contract' that appears to bear out your hallmark. I refer, of course, to the unfortunate security guard's demise, whilst operating at the Mitzitomo bank. Does that mean anything to you?"
"Should it?"
"Don't act dumb, Victor. Your ego's slipping."
"As it happens, I did hear a whisper. Foreigner I believe. Yeah, a Polish guy. Wrong time wrong place I guess. A hazard of the job I reckon. So how do you figure out my involvement in the guy's death? I wouldn't have known the 'stiff' if he was standing next to me," Eastern held himself back before replying, to savour an impromptu verbal error of judgment put forward by Brezznov. Although the icing on the cake became slightly soured, due the fact that he wouldn't be party to the look on Brezznov's face, when he delivered his coup de grace.
"Polish!? Correct me if I'm wrong, Victor, I don't recall mentioning the victims nationality.....but you did! And that created your first mistake, the second being that it took forensic a month to ID the body remains. So, along with the Met and my organization, we are the only people" he left off, briefly' to take stock, "apart from who was responsible for the murder, of course, to have been aware that the victim was indeed of Polish origin." Brezznov appeared to be rattled and it showed in his response.
"You're full of crap d'ye know that?" he retorted. It had become obvious now that Eastern had touched a nerve alluding to a moment of weakness on his part. "Playing the mind game card doesn't wash with me." He went on. "You're way out of your league and clutching at straws. All you've got is rubbish hearsay, you couldn't make a statement like that to stick if it was written in fucking gold leaf, and you know it." Like it or not, Brezznov had made the point by leaving Eastern nursing a choice complex. As it turned out, his dilemma proved to be a no-brainer as he responded to his nemesis claim with a poignant and determined laugh.
"You do realize, of course," replied Eastern, with deliberation, "that I can categorically state, on record, that both suspects directly responsible for Stowlowski's murder, are at present held in custody. And have been for the past three weeks."
"Which more than backs up my claim then?" Brezznov snorted. More in desperation than factual content.
"No can do, sunshine. You are involved in a three-way conspiracy right up to your poxy neck. And that goes for you pal Tommy Brandon as well. For the record, the two suspects that we are holding have entered into a plea bargain which has been sanctioned at high level. Any day now, they'll be 'singing' so bleeden' loud, they'll make a boy scout seem like public enemy number one putting it mildly, you're not as flaming smart as you think you are. So you'd better get used to the idea that you’re not premier league anymore."
"Yeah, well fuck you, Eastern. My day will come. You haven't even seen the best of me yet."
"Wise-up Victor you can't run for eve. Sooner or later you're going to trip up my friend, and when you do I'll ensure that I'm on hand to see that you stay down."
Brezznov, now found himself reeling from a verbal and factious assault, over which he had no control over. Inwardly, he was hurting badly along with his dented ego, having to pay the price for his inbred arrogance. For once, it would seem, he had finally met his match, albeit a confident thorn in his side. Seeking a verbal swipe to take the edge off Eastern's glory, was fast becoming rarer by the second. On hindsight, he needn't have bothered, and was forced to allow what thoughts he held to evaporate, as his enigma came back to haunt his private space yet again.
"Paintings!...works of art....old masterpieces. That sort of thing. What do they do for you Victor? Or is that too personal a question?" As before, Brezznov found himself trapped on the ropes, as the planted implication hit him squarely between the eyes.
Almost immediately, a random criminal buying spree, fraudulently procured from selected art galleries in the City sprang to mind. There was no question that Eastern now found himself on a roll as he remembered one particular acquisition that Brezznov had allegedly purchased, resulting in his deception becoming just another day in the office for West End Central. His nemesis reaction, when it surfaced, came as no surprise to Eastern, knowing that the fuelled bullets that he'd fired, had found their objective target.
"Where the hell are going with that crap?" snarled Brezznov.
"Going? You ask." The implication in his reply opened the floodgates as to what was about to follow. "That depends solely on third-party interest, Victor. By that, I'm thinking William Gauntly. If not, then I suggest his elusive shadow, Mr Stockfield, no less. Ring any bells?" The resounding silence that ensued came as no surprise to Eastern. His only regret lay in the distance between them, as he sub consciously manufactured his own image of a demoralized Brezznov.
"Talk and more fucking talk." His desperate reply, when it finally emerged, was about as predictable as the 'talking clock. He continued to rant in the same vein. "You don't know shit from shit Eastern. Gauntly isn't even in the country. You know nothing mug. As it happens he's well off the 'manor' and giving it large in Spain, as we speak." His arrogance had now overtaken his common sense by releasing a veritable one to many omissions, leaving Eastern to verbally punish him.
"Thanks for the Press release, Victor and the confirmation of your association with the guy. Unfortunately, your newspaper only ranks as fish and chips fodder."
"That's bollocks!" He asserted vehemently. It's common knowledge he did a runner some weeks ago." Putting an earlier joint proposal with Rogon to one side for the moment, Eastern elected to play his mind games card.
"I think I need to mark your card, Vict
or. The word on the street is saying otherwise, my friend. In fact, right now you're not exactly the flavour of the month, by all accounts. ....know what I mean?"
"Gauntly and I," he spluttered, unable to finish what he started.
"Are what exactly?" gave Eastern the signal to countermand.
"....mean nothing to each other. I don't run with poxy losers. I'm at the top of my game. You seem to forget that I've fucked the world's banking system. what else is out there?"
"Somebody in your position right now, I would have to say, financially, not a lot." Eastern conceded, "Although, having said that, I can't see Gauntly agreeing with you on that score."
"What is it with you and that assole?" retorted Brezznov.
"Basically, Victor, you've been away far too long, so let me educate you. Your ongoing problem concerns street lore so I'll spell it out for you. Firstly you don't fuck your own up. Using Gauntly's plastic to obtain those paintings wasn't a clever move, In fact very amateurish, to say the least. Your blind show of arrogance has rebounded on you by making you a much-sought-after commodity, and subsequently placing a price on your head. Where the hell are you going to run to? I ask myself. No, as of now, my friend, you've inherited more grief than a poxy Harley Street psychologist."
"Grief! Is that so? Does the 'street' also mention the word respect? What I've achieved makes me untouchable. Money wise, I can buy my way out of any grief coming my way. Talk is cheap and unproductive, whereas money controls actions and speaks for itself, so I don't intend losing any sleep over any lousy threats." Bearing in mind Brezznov's financial status, his bargaining ability, should it ever come into play, could mean the difference between life and death. Between gritted teeth, Eastern was forced to accede on that point.
"I know it and he knows it, indirectly, the asshole is worth more alive than he is dead!" he muttered to himself. Unless...? A dormant key of supposition, suddenly rotated full circle and, in doing so, opened up an opportune door of expectation. "Of course! How could I be that dumb?" he rebuked himself. "This situation isn't all about emphasizing Brezznov at all." His regenerated sub-conscious was now working on overtime. Extreme verbal scenarios whirled around in his head. One being more prominent than the rest, alluding to a belated statement made by Rogon, 'that Gauntly is the one person holding the key to 'Pandora's box'. Digressing was one thing, Brezznov, on the other hand, had conclusions of his own in force, none of which were about to include Eastern.
"If you're looking for answers, you sucker, then forget it. The ball stay's squarely in my court. I'm done talking. Oh, one last thing mug, this number, not unlike myself, is non-traceable." And then he hung up, leaving Eastern to reflect on what might have been. Prevalent on his mind revolved around his enigma, William Gauntly. For somebody who had only entered the equation a few weeks after the 'heist', the present onus on his importance now transported to being manifold regarding Brezznov's future.
Assumption on assumption amounted to a shit load of frustration for Eastern. His take on the 'odd couple' was fast losing ground. Question! "By using Gauntly's plastic in the art robbery, the latter would surely have had to have been in the country at the time. And not as Brezznov maintained, 'giving it large in Spain'". He questioned himself. "Unless, of course, there was a hidden motive behind it's use, as Rogon suggested meaning there could have been a collusion between the two. When coming from an alternative angle, he revised the fact that, "Any proceeds from the robbery, as such, based on the CCTV evidence, would be cancelled out when it was known that money was never the motive." Putting all that to one side, Eastern also considered the fact that just maybe, Gauntly hadn't been aware that his plastic had been used. In which case a major fallout would be on the cards, and Gauntly would be in a prime position to straighten Brezznov out. "He'd certainly have the know-how and the funds to see it through."
Lurking in the background and central to his unforeseen existence, Eastern held a nagging doubt as to Gauntly's persona as a whole. "There's more to the man than meets the eye. It's almost as if he's appeared from out of nowhere. The next available minute, he's catapulted into contention as being the main 'running man'.
With so much supposition to dwell on, sleep didn't come easy that same night. Even the maturity contained in his tried and tested 'poison' appeared to have gone on a sponsored walkabout. At least Joan was on hand the following morning, attempting to revive his flagging spirits.
"You look completely bushed, darling. So much for sleeping. I hope you're not allowing that ignoramus, Rogon, to get to you? Without stating the obvious, is there anything that I can do to ease the situation?" Her frank naivety acted like an adrenalin boost by accelerating his flagging thought process.
"Believe it or not, Joan, he's the least of my current problems at this moment in time."
"I see. Look, why don't we grab some leisure time and eat out tonight? It'll do us both good. I wouldn't mind going Italian for a change, what do you say?"
"Say? That's the best offer I've had all week. Yeah, go for it, Joan. Let's get off this crazy world for a couple of hours."
Suffice to say, their spontaneous evening started well and terminated even better. As before, he didn't get much sleep afterwards, but then, by the same token, he wasn't complaining either!
CHAPTER 18...A Lifeline.
A remedy for escapement: Take two people soaking up the ambiance of a renowned Italian restaurant, relishing a Spaghetti alla carbonara, washed down with a three year old Calabretta Gaio Gaio Rosso wine, would, in the majority of cases, constitute a table in heaven. Alternatively, two minutes into an investigative conversation with Rogon, could well trigger off an illegitimate recipe for disaster. And It then became reality time, as Eastern entered into a probing conversation, along with Rogon, at Spooks HQ the following morning.
"William Gauntly, nee Reginald Stockfield. Two pseudonyms, one person! I don't know what your thoughts are on the matter, Rogon, but, personally, I have reservations as to the genuine article."
"I see." His reply came across as being highly disconcerted, Eastern noted. "So how long have you held this omission? Only I get the impression that there's more to your implication than meets the eye. And how, pray, does what I think fit into the frame of things?"
"Not being bloody evasive for a start, would be a help. "
"Well, that's as maybe, although I think you're placing too much emphasis on the guy."
"But that is my point. You're talking singular and I'm thinking the complete opposite. At the moment we're only assuming that his twin ID is what's stated on his records. Okay, so we know now that he relies on a 'bent' Passport to move around for convenience, but what if it should turn out to be a genuine one? And I strongly believe this to be the case, then we're literally looking for three bloody suspects as opposed to one!"
"Uhm, I take your point. At least we have a 'mugshot' to work with."
"Bollocks! You need to take a refresher course, Rogon. If his passport is 'bent' then the ID photo is worthless. Think about it."
"You're right, of course, and I'll give it some thought, Mike." On that note, Eastern bit his tongue and centred their addled conversation by reactivating a past hypothesis.
"Something I've been meaning to ask you. When do you intend going public with that contrived Press report concerning Brezznov and Gauntly, AKA Stockfield? As I recall it's been almost two weeks since we both discussed the idea and, so far nothing has been forthcoming."
"Ah, I was wondering when you were going to throw that one at me. At least I'm now in a position to put your mind at rest. Apparently, when I first offered up the scheme. The powers-to-be rejected our idea on the grounds that our conspired representation of the facts, would appear to be detrimental toward any specifically named suspects. And, indeed, any subsequent trial that could possibly follow"
"Damn the bureaucrats," responded Eastern, "It's results that count, and not the amount of bullshit they can throw at you. So where do we go from here?"
"Bear with me, M
ike. I've kept the best till last. Thankfully, our strategy is still ongoing."
"....but you just said."
"Give me a chance to finish." Rogon asserted. "I wasn't prepared to take no for an answer and dutifully arranged an extraordinary meeting, with the PM. As a result of that meeting and due to the high-profile circumstances surrounding the case. I can now confirm that Whitehall have sanctioned our original conspiratorial Press release."
"No shit! Eastern exploded. "Now we're in business at last, it doesn't get any better than that, does it? I take it you'll be dealing with the Press directly? If that is the case, then we need to hit every damned tabloid available. And make a meal of it" What could have been misconstrued as resembling a knowing smile, overshadowed Rogon's face as he confirmed his actions.
"I can categorically state, that the media process is operational as we speak, Mike. It's up to the Press now to exploit our logic." ….A clinical knock on the office door momentarily put a restraining order on their conversation. "That'd better be important, I gave orders that I wasn't to be disturbed," Rogon expressed indignantly. Pressing a security button, the door opened to reveal a po-faced looking courier clasping a document which he duly handed over. "Thank you, Milton, that'll be all for now."
The expression littered on Rogon's face as he methodically surfed the Fax, gave no indication as to the importance of the content it held. His body suddenly stiffened as he digested the enclosed information, giving Eastern cause to jump the verbal queue.
"You look like the bleedin' cat who got the cream, Rogon. So, when do I get to know what's in the fax, or is it a State secret?" A direct question warranted a direct reply, and Rogon wasn't about to hold back on State etiquette.