The Spook who flew over the cuckoos nest. (BOOK 2)

by Gary Tulley

  Levinson then went on to explain that Eastern would receive a phone call, with no designated time label attached, sometime within the next seven or eight hours. Its purpose being to form a radii of action 'area of operation', in conjunction with the Met, to apprehend Brezznov, as painlessly as possible. With that in mind, Eastern would need to remain in situ at HQ, pending the relevant call. Levinson then departed, leaving Eastern to his own designs.

  With 'alleged time' on his hands, Eastern decided to contact Joan. He informed her, without digressing, that the following twenty-four hours would be crucial into finally bringing about Brezznov's downfall. Therefore, he would not be returning back to Hove, for a limited period of time.

  Cometh the hour, cometh the man. Eastern didn't need asking twice. The moment he placed his hand on the receiver, he felt a sudden adrenalin rush surge through his body. 'This is what I've been waiting for', he told himself. Rapt as he was, his inner mind still remained terminally housed in one direction. With all points leading to Brezznov. "Speaking...of course....yes, in thirty minutes...goodbye." His hand was shaking as he replaced he receiver, not that he'd have been aware. He drew in on his breath, choosing to regulate his irregular breathing. A single convulsive shake of his body, and then it was over. 'As from now', he insisted, Mike Eastern is back in business.

  In no time at all, his two immediate colleagues, were making themselves known, and conducting an induction plan. 'I'm the arresting officer supreme, Chief Superintendent Dyson, ably assisted by DS Grant. He went on to state that, Eastern's role, would be one associated with government representation, and lastly, that firearms would be limited to specialist police marksman only. Their intended destination, when they had finally managed to get away, seemed to take longer than Eastern had foreseen. Some time later, their unmarked car came to rest, adjacent to a large suburban house. Dyson peered through the car window. Seemingly satisfied, he spoke. "Well, gentleman, as always, we have a job to do, so let's do it with the minimum amount of fuss. Hopefully there won't be any bloodshed. Okay lets go."

  "Christ. You're one cool customer, my friend," Eastern remarked. I'm with you. Let's do it."

  "Now remember, as I said before, once we gain entry, I'll do the talking. If I suspect that it's all going to kick-off, I'll give you the nod. Please God it won't come to that." DS Grant took his emotions out on a large brass knocker. Moments later, the door opened. Confronting them was none other than a flabbergasted-looking, Brezznov.

  "What the.................."

  "Good morning, sir. Mr Orlando, or should I say Brezznov? May we come in?" Waving their ID cards in his face, the pair made a move to gain entry, as pre-planned. Eastern at this stage had made himself scarce, to avoid a multiple altercation.

  "This is fucking harassment. I don't have to stand for this shit!" demanded an irate Brezznov. Due to their pushy persona, Dyson and Grant were now well-embodied inside the house. Akin to a clockwork charade, Dyson stated his case.

  "Victor Brezznov, I have a warrant for your arrest, for conspiracy to murder, fraud and grand larceny. Read him his rights, Sergeant." Brezznov was now beside himself with rage.

  "That's total bollocks. I haven't left the house for weeks. I've got witnesses to prove......" He stopped in short flight, as Eastern suddenly made himself known.

  "You...you bastard, Eastern. You've set me up. You're dead! Dy'e hear me?"

  "You did that yourself asshole." By now, he was almost screaming with utter loss.

  "I'm far too clever for that. I'll fucking buy my way out this, you see if I don't."

  "Actually, Victor, in one sense we didn't find you. We didn't have to. The 'Kimberley' did it for us." Dyson smiled for England, as Eastern continued to lay into Brezznov.

  "Maybe you're not listening. Your diamond told us exactly where to find you "You're lying, that's crazy talk."

  "Not this time, Victor. Your egoistical ambition to own the ‘Kimberley’ has backfired on you. In fact, it's brought about your downfall. What you didn't know, is that the diamond had been previously bugged. It led us right to you. Plain and simple."

  "Impossible! There's no poxy way it could have. Besides, the deal, when I bought it, was legal, and I have all the necessary paperwork to prove it." This, time, it became Eastern's turn to laugh, as he screwed the verbal dagger home.

  "You'll have a lifetime on your hands to do that, Victor. As for ownership, I'll dwell on that one in a minute. Right now, you've got a fucking great big bug problem to deal with. Have you checked the 'Kimberley' itself?"

  "You're talking in riddles. A diamond is a diamond, you asshole."

  "And that's where we differ, my friend. This particular one happens to be special. Let me explain. Transparency is a much-maligned word, Victor. Have you got any thoughts on that?"

  "Yeah, you and yer smart words, you're talking bollocks." In the background, looking on, Dyson and Grant exchanged what could be mistaken for a well-rehearsed smile.

  "Are you going tell him, Mike. Or shall I?" interrupted Dyson.

  "So it fucking talks now does it? You fucking puppet, tell me what?"

  "For the record, Brezznov," explained, Dyson, "the 'Kimberley has been coated with a transparent liquid, incorporating thousands of microscopic sensors. The 'Kimberley' was tracked from the second it left 'Nympton House'. Forensic science, fortunately, has moved on somewhat, since you've been accustomed to daylight. You can work the rest out for yourself."

  "My diamond. It has to be mine. It was an open deal, I can show you a full comprehensive file on the paper work."

  "I was relying on that, Victor," Eastern cut in, "you don't know it, but that file now reverts into being Queen's evidence for the prosecution." Brezznov was losing it fast. His demeanour began sinking faster than the Titanic. He was almost pleading for a form of acknowledgment.

  "No! what do I need to know you bastard?" Eastern's face epitomised the word satisfaction’, as he deliberately took his time, intrinsically explaining the cold hard facts entailing the sale and background data, alluding to the 'Kimberley Legend'.

  "Victor, the diamond you allegedly bought, was recovered from the proceeds of a 'safety deposit box' heist that went wrong, some twelve months ago. Since then, it has been stored for transit in a State holding bay, while awaiting probate documents, due to the fact that nobody has come forward to claim ownership of it. So, until that has been confirmed, the diamond is classified as being stolen property. Suffice to say, in your inflamed ego trip, that's exactly what you have bought stolen property and as you so rightly point out, Victor, you, have all the necessary papers to prove it. Bad mistake. You've messed up big time by shooting yourself in the foot. It's not looking good. Need I go on?"

  "I always thought you were a smart bastard, Eastern. I had you figured right from day one. This ain't over yet I promise you."

  "Yeah, well thanks for reminding me, Victor. I can well recall you stating on occasion 'you're out of your league, Eastern'. You'll now have time to reflect on that, because I'm the man who brought you down. I instigated this 'scam' and I'm here to see it through. Shortly, you will be just another State statistic. I can't speak for the likes of Steadman and Stowlowski, or, in fact, the others I don't know about, although one thing I did manage to pick up on, was your extreme allergy towards porridge. I can see you becoming a long-term 'hunger striker', Victor. long may it reign, you asshole!"

  Averting his attention away from Brezznov, Eastern, glanced across at DS Grant. The smug look he enthused spoke volumes. "How the mighty fall. Put the 'bracelets' on him, Grant," he asserted. "Just get this pile of shit out of my sight before he contaminates the room."

  Unbeknownst to his aggressors, Brezznov had other ideas, which didn't include the likes of Eastern. Without hesitation, he whipped out a pistol he'd secluded in his smoking-jacket pocket. "Hold it right there, I'm not going anywhere," he ranted, "It isn't over yet, now fucking back off, before I put your brains on three walls!"

  "Give it up, Victor. You're going no
where, except into custody. Killing us would be futile. You'd be 'mullered' before you stepped through the door. There's more marksmen out there than you have ideas, and right now you don't bleedin' have any."

  "I always figured it would come down to this, Eastern," he fired back, "I may be going down, but I'm taking you with me. That way, we can share a cell together in hell." Eastern froze. From out the corner of his eye, the vision of a figure began to emerge from behind Brezznov. Oblivious to what had transpired, Brezznov intentionally manoeuvred the pistol toward Eastern, "It all ends here, asshole. Keep my bunk-bed warm." Cocking the firearm, a mask of addled hate and insanity masked his face. Taking aim, he slowly tightened his finger-grip on the trigger.

  In a split second, Eastern suffered a moment of deja vu, as his sub-conscious revealed a similar situation he now found himself in. That particular day he got lucky. This time around, 'Lightening' owed him nothing. To all intents and purposes, he'd now become a dead man walking.

  His gut instinctively tightened. In response, his throat hardened. 'Can't breathe....choking...head bursting'...nauseated...body tensed in expectation from whom knows, what? From out of his pre-empted misery, a loud explosion invaded his space, and then it was all over. His eyes fluttered open, rivulets of blood began to form unique patterns, as they cascaded down his face. Squinting through blood-soaked eyes, Eastern watched as Brezznov's body toppled forward. The mask of perdition had now gone, and that included half of his face. This in turn could now be found dispersed over Eastern and his two colleagues.

  Through semi-glazed eyes, Eastern's 'vision' had now suddenly materialized. As it drew near, he realized that his alleged vision had now morphed into a flesh and blood third-party, prominent in his hand, a '38 Colt 'Cobra' hand gun. A sustained silence followed, in which time Eastern had managed to retain a form of sanity. He gazed down at Brezznov's lifeless outstretched body in front of him. Hardened as he was, the gaping hole at the back of Brezznov's head was a sickening scene, and caused Eastern, to momentarily choke. He turned to face Dyson and Grant, both struggling to find their composure. Forcing himself back round again, he swiftly averted his attention toward the figure now facing him.

  Words didn't come easily. Slowly, recognition crushed any doubts as to the benevolent figure's identity. "Fuller! It is Fuller, isn't it. Where the bleedin' hell did you come from?" Gasped, Eastern.

  Grim faced, Fuller took his time before answering. "That, in itself, is a long story, Mister Eastern. My preference, right now, is to clear up this bloody mess, "He replied coolly. Nodding in a brisk business-like manner, Eastern shook his hand.

  "You’re welcome to that, and what a poxy mess. Any closer, and you would have taken his head clear off. I'll thank you later. In the meantime I'll get on to Levinson, and put him in the picture."

  In no time at all, the house and the crime scene, as a whole, became infested with security from every branch. In terms of his immediate future, Eastern had no qualms, it was, as he had previously stated to Rogon, ' time to bow out. I'm all done here.'

  The de brief, back at HQ later on that day, produced an air of optimism. All thanks to Brezznov's less fortunate and un-rehearsed demise. Levinson wasn't short in showing his gratitude. "Results, gentlemen, that's what we as a team aspires to. The PM will be proud of you all." Eastern glanced skyward, to hide his mirth.

  "We.” He told himself, “where the fuck was you Levinson, when it was all coming on top? Come back, Rogon, this idiot is a poxy glory hunter." An hour later, he signed a mission-release document, cleansing himself from any liabilities arising from the Brezznov case. And so it was written. Mike Eastern, late of Spooks, re-entered the real world as we know it.

  "Joan? Yeah, I'm free at last. I'm on my way back to Hove right now." His mobile was on overtime.

  "That's wonderful news darling, I can't wait to see you. No more 'Cuckoos Nest' to worry about. I'm so pleased for you."

  "God, I'm relieved. I feel this is the first day of my life, Joan."

  "Yes, I'm only just beginning to understand. In a manner of speaking, you could say that 'you're the Spook who flew over the 'Cuckoos Nest', couldn't you?"

  EPILOGUE...The funeral.

  Seven weeks had elapsed, since Eastern had broken his ties with Spooks, in which time, the word 'contentment', had taken on a whole new meaning. From the adrenalin rush of a roller coaster scenario, to living a cat-on-a-hot-tin-roof existence, had long faded into obscurity, leaving a keen sense of 24/7 normality, to embrace his life. What, you might ask yourself, could possibly induce him, into turning the clock of circumstance back?

  Whatever thoughts you might volunteer to tender, in defence of such a situation occurring, remember! We are talking Mike Eastern here, so think on. As a minor suggestion, quote, 'God made the world in seven days, and executed the law and the rules within'. In sheer contrast, Eastern, on a good day, would have no problem in breaking every rule in the book! So you see the problem I'm having to deal with here.

  In the end, it took the ferocity of a simple envelope that when opened requested his presence to attend a funeral. Not any funeral, I hasten to add. This one, just happened to be his late 'plastic' partner in crime prevention the unforgettable Rogon.

  I think I'll let Mike Eastern do all the talking from hereon.

  "Uhm, the day of the funeral, you ask. Yeah, I'm not going to forget that in a hurry. Thinking back, the minute I woke that morning, I felt an impending sense of foreboding, that cremating Rogon was only a rehearsal for what was deemed to follow. I'd just finished breakfast that particular day, when Joan happened to mention that it was raining stair-rods outside. Glancing out of the window wasn't a good idea. God, how I hated the rain and even more, bleedin' funerals. Joan, bless her heart, did her best to cheer me up."

  "One things for sure," she said, "Rogon's not going to get wet, where he's going."

  Cremations bother me, but I could see the point she was making. Highgate cemetery, situated in North London, can be a daunting place for some people. Not that Rogon would have had a say in it. The fact that he was a by-product of the 'manor' made sense. Highgate would be his final resting place. Oh, before I forget. Did I mention that Joan didn't accompany me to the funeral? She made an eleventh hour decision not to go. On reflection, I sincerely think that, at the time, she new something I didn't.

  By the time I arrived at the cemetery, the rain had ceased. Funny, I remember laughing to myself and saying, bloody Rogon. You always did get your own way. After paying the cab off, I made my way across to the Service Chapel. You'll be in good company here, Rogon. I said, there's a lot of famous people buried here, for instance. Karl Marx, and, if you're looking for the 'craic', Jeremy Beadle. On second thoughts, he wouldn't have been your cup of tea. Anyway, you're on the west side of the cemetery. People always say it differs from the east side. Spooky. A bit like you and me, really. Know what I mean?

  I really didn't know what to expect, as far as representation was concerned. Apart from myself, there were only three or four officials from the agency, present, Levinson included. Bloody sad when you think about it. His family, for want of a word, consisted of Milton, and whoever he came into contact with at the agency. I don't mind telling you, I felt bleedin' gutted. There was a man who'd given his life to the State. And for what? Following the service, I decided to make a quick exit. As far as I was concerned, I'd done the business. There was no way I wanted to get involved with officialdom. Knowing my poxy luck, I got ambushed by a hungry reporter, desperate for a column-filler.

  I mean, how sad is that! What a way to make a bleedin' living. Did you know the deceased at all? he enquired. I've reason to believe he was an unsung hero. Now you know me. I took more crap and bloody grief from Rogon than most people would, in a thirty-year relationship. And he's unsung? I must be a fucking working angel. I told myself. So, to get back to the reporter. Know him, you ask, you want to know if I knew the guy? I was a bit heated at the time. I knew him. You were saying? I cut the guy short. For some rea
son, I suddenly felt that I was in a verbal wilderness. I needed to take stock of the situation. Nobody had ever questioned my affiliation toward Rogon. I told him I was sorry, I was somewhere else. Seriously, do you know what? No! I really didn't know him at all, I said. Now fuck off. Trouble was, deep down, I knew I was right. Plastic and flesh and blood isn't the best recipe.

  A word, Mr Eastern. Levinson, fortunately, had pre-emptied a possible altercation. 'A favour, if you would, old chap? That! Really got too me. For the last two months, I've had to put up with 'old chap', 'dear boy', and now this pompous bastard decides to come back into my life again, begging me for a poxy favour. I mean, don't these people get it? As I said before, Rogon was now excommunicado, all I want to do now is to go back home and get on with my life. Full stop. 'Mr Eastern, please, It won't take a minute of your time.' He was bloody insistent, I give him that, So I thought to myself, oh what the hell, it can't be that important surely?

  What's on your mind, Levinson? I asked him. I've got a cab arriving shortly. There's somebody I'd like you to meet, before you go, he said. Now I am pissed off, as you can well imagine. The last thing I needed, was a bleedin' trip down memory lane, with an ex Mickey Spillane look-a-like. Pointing with his finger, Levinson then drew my attention toward a figure standing close to the cemetery entrance. A colleague of mine would like a word with you. Does this colleague have a name? I fired back. That's for me to know, and you to find out, Mr Eastern. Bloody mind games I thought. No change there then.