Carl gave a small nod.
The man continued, “The gentleman to your left will provide you with the finer details. Is there anything you want to ask me before I leave?”
“No thanks.”
“Mr Wright, after the job has been completed, you will be free of us in any involuntarily capacity. I am aware you have no reason to trust me, but it is in my experience that men allowed to live freely don’t come back to haunt an organisation like the dead. Whatever happens it is unlikely we’ll meet again.”
At that, he shook Carl Wright’s hand as he rose to meet him, and left the room.
Bruce sat among the whirr of the Glasgow pub with Nick Flint across from him. It was a Saturday with the football on the three big screens overlooking the punters. Celtic were playing Dundee United.
“Like their football up here don’t they,” said Nick eyeing the horde of men clued to the screens.
“Aye, a lot calmer though since Rangers went to the fourth division. They are nearly back up now, and it won’t be long until the Old Firm games are lighting up the city again.”
“Why do they call games between Rangers v Celtic ‘Old Firm’ games?” asked Nick.
“They say, the commentators at one of the early matches described the two teams as ‘old, firm friends’ but no one really knows for sure.”
Nick Flint had been working for him for eight years. Bruce found him to be highly professional and dependable if a little nonchalant at times. This he could understand. Nick was a family man and in this line of work because he was good at it as well as affording him a good living. Bruce got the impression the youthful enthusiasm that he came to him with had begun to ebb a little.
Still, he was Bruce’s first pick for the most sensitive and important operations being dependable when making decisions. He had again proved his reliability with his extraction of Hardcastle from Connor.
The background of Scottish whirred throughout the pub helping to mask their low voices.
“We’re due to touch base with Jamie in the next few days. He’ll tell me the location on the day of the races, so I want you down in London on Wednesday,” said Bruce, referring to his tech genius Jamie. The name pronounced ‘Hi-me’ befitting its Latin owner, a magician with everything and anything to do with computers.
“He’s paranoid that man,” said Nick.
“He’s careful, hence why he is still alive and off the radar.”
“We walking to the meet as usual?”
At that Bruce studied him, without knowing why, “You know we’ll work that out when we find out the location.”
“Yeah, of course”
Bruce felt something clench in his stomach.
Makar sat on his bed in The Actor’s Penthouse at The Corinthian Hotel, enjoying the bed’s softness while staring into the flickering gas fire. He admired The Actor’s penthouse: the colours, the layout, decor, the red and white flowers and the ornaments of animals and ships—well-presented without being pretentious.
He especially liked the balcony, although he’d to fight the feeling of exposure and vulnerability when he ventured out on it. However, he felt not going onto balconies to avoid would be snipers overstepped the threshold of being security conscious into paranoia.
Makar’s thoughts regarding vices were that if they were controlled, they were not vices but pleasures—what’s the point of living if you can’t feel alive? A pleasure indulged in too often was less a pleasure, and more a controlling addiction. Not only did addictions rob a man of his power, but they were also things that a potential adversary could use against him. He’d seen it all over the years. Handsome, youthful, smart and ambitious men turned careless and indulgent by their early thirties then ravished and/or obese by middle age. Drugs, women, gratuitous spending, alcohol and gambling were just some of the few compulsions Makar had seen claim professional potential and in his business—lives.
Still, he thought it weak to abstain completely from the things that gave pleasure, as long as you ruled it not the other way around. Makar’s pleasures were gorgeous women, great food, expensive hotels and luxury or fast cars—clichés he knew. All these things he indulged in but only after a period of abstinence. He compromised on some of these pleasures as not to draw unwanted attention. Makar strived to strike a balance, so instead of buying fast cars, he’d hire them out for a week or two before returning to public transport for a time. Makar had driven an Audi R8 Spyder, Aston Martin DB9, Bentley Continental GT Continental Sports, and a Maserati Gran Cabrio amongst a plethora of other cars. The constant change of vehicles also made surveilling him more difficult.
The Russian compromised his desire to be involved with a woman on a permanent basis by dating regularly. Never the same woman more than three times in a row. Another option would be to hire high-class escorts, often just for a night but never more than a fortnight.
Now and then, he’d indulge in a luxury hotel room. He resisted some of the more expensive suites and grand hotels to remain the ‘grey man’. As these next few weeks required his full attention, he decided to get his release now.
There was a knock at the door, and Makar rose with anticipation. He opened the door to two gorgeous women. He greeted them with a handshake and made way for them both to step inside. They were escorts from one of London’s premier agencies who Makar had used on occasion. He would have used them all more, but his protocol was to avoid patterns.
One of the escorts went by the name of ‘Victoria’ and the other ‘Elizabeth’. The perfume they wore smelled intoxicating as they brushed past him. Victoria looked to be in her mid-twenties and curvier of the pair: English, voluptuous and around a height of five-feet eight-inches, she had platinum blonde shoulder length hair, blue eyes and a heart-shaped face. Her manner was one of confidence. She wore a figure hugging all-in-one, white dress with the skirt coming down to her mid-thigh.
Elizabeth, a Czech according to her profile, seemed to be the younger by a few years. She was slender and petite with straight jet-black hair. Makar thought her stunning, with her large brown eyes and athletic legs. He liked her sense of fashion; she wore a denim sleeveless dress with a large white collar. The dress ended higher on the thighs than Victoria’s, and she wore brown fur-lined heel boots.
“Ladies, would you like a drink as you take a seat? I’m not bad with the cocktails,” asked Makar in a faultless upper-class English accent.
“Ooh let’s see what your Cosmopolitans are like, please,” answered Victoria with a wry smile.
“And you?” he asked Elizabeth.
“May I haves a vodka mixed with cranberry juice please,” she replied shyly. The Russian found her accented English pleasing.
“Of course.”
The two ladies took a seat together on the dark cream sofa. Makar went to the bar and began to prepare the drinks as the girls quietly talked among themselves. It was true he was quite adept at mixing various drinks—the KGB had sponsored him to be taught as part of an undercover operation.
He returned with the triangle of three glasses in his large hands, his being malt scotch.
“Hmm,” hummed Victoria, as they both looked at him with approval sipping their drinks.
“We’ll savour these before we savour you.” She winked with the straw in her mouth.
Makar felt a jolt in his groin at her crass forwardness. He smiled back. “You’ll savour one another before that.”
“That could be a plan,” replied Victoria.
Elizabeth looked at him with shy but interested eyes. She may just be a supremely talented actress, he thought. The best ones always were. They soon finished their drinks.
“Where would you like us?” Victoria asked, seemingly the boss of the duo.
“On the bed, I want to watch first if you don’t mind,” he said.
Both girls smiled.
“Of course, we don’t mind,” answered Elizabeth assertively to his surprise. She led Victoria by the hand over to the bed and took the English girl’s face in
her hands. She kissed her, lightly then steadily getting deeper and harder.
Makar raised his eyebrows as he watched her scrabbling Victoria’s skirt up. She grabbed her ass hard, spreading the cheeks and exposing Victoria for his gaze.
Makar took a seat as he watched the role reversal intently.
Elizabeth spun the blonde around and bent her over with surprising force. Victoria’s hand reached out to steady herself on the bed. The Czech gripped her hair yanking her head back. The blonde’s face gushed with pleasure as fingers entered her. After a few moments, she pulled Victoria upright and took a grip of her jaw with one hand. She turned the girl’s face and began to kiss her, open-mouthed and hard. She looked at Makar as she did this before she forced Victoria to her knees.
“Come here,” Elizabeth commanded him, and he did.
.
15
Connor stood in the car showroom in Essex admiring the new silver Mercedes CLA 180 sport, placed apart from the rest of the cars. He wasn’t particularly mechanically minded. He remembered this highlighted when attempting to help his maternal grandfather fix a car at age twelve. His grandad was leant over under the bonnet as Connor’s lack of knowledge of the names of tools became apparent.
‘What do they teach you at that school of yours?!’ he’d asked him.
‘Maths, English and Science…err, food technology and woodwork,’ Connor had answered
‘Food technology!?...you mean cooking.’
‘Yeh. That’s what they call it.’
His grandad had just shook his head.
Connor now shook his head too. He knew his grandfather had taught himself car mechanics by stripping down and building back up car and tractor engines on the farm he grew up on—not at school.
Connor appreciated that cars like the CLA were a feat of evolutionary engineering and an attractive piece of sculpture. He’d never been particularly materialistic and therefore didn’t have a keen interest in sports cars.
In the last few years, Connor had developed an appreciation of a better driving experience, with hours spent driving up and down the country for various military courses. Attending courses, he guessed was going to continue under his new profession.
What was the title of his new profession, again? An ‘Agent’? Like Bond? Except Bond killed terrorists in exotic countries with a silenced pistol—I have killed a Paki accountant in Cheshire with a hammer. Still, everyone had to start somewhere. Maybe one day he’d have a ‘wow’ car.
“She’s a beauty eh?” said the faint Scottish lilt behind him.
“She is,” replied Connor, “Maybe it lacks foresight meeting your agents here. It might tempt them to strive for cash they don’t earn?”
“A materialistic type of character doesn’t need any tempting.”
“We’d better go,” said Connor, drawing Bruce’s attention to the moustached salesman that was approaching them.
“Nah, might have something for me,” said the older man as he smiled. Connor half smiled back at the attempt of a ‘Dad’ joke.
“Mr Murphy, here are the keys you requested. Your car has been parked around the corner in space D11 as requested,” said the salesmen, handing the keys to Bruce.
“Thank you very much. It’s been a pleasure, as always,” said Bruce.
“Come on,” he said to Connor and made his way outside. He clicked the keys and the beep emitted from a shimmering black Audi A7.
“Nice,” murmured Connor.
“Yeah, got to enjoy the finer things in life or else yer’ll become disgruntled. Then, disgruntlement turns to anger and envy. It’s that that leads to striving for cash that you don’t earn.”
“I see…where’s my Ferrari?”
Bruce ignored the quip. “The trick is never to allow these things to become your master. Be the type of person who could lose it all and not care, you understand?”
“So, you would be happy to go back to driving a clapped-out Fiesta?”
“Aye, well, maybe not happy,” Bruce answered, “but I wouldn’t be devastated. I have been penniless and worse. What about you?”
“Well, I drive a clapped-out Audi with which I am happy. So, the answer is yes.”
“You don’t drive a clapped-out Audi. This car is only a year old.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s yours,” he replied holding out the keys, “so you don’t attempt to strive for cash you don’t earn.”
Connor stood motionless for a moment or two. “Thank you.”
They climbed into the Audi and Connor made the adjustments to his seat and mirrors. Connor drove onto the road and began the drive down south as Bruce had instructed. Connor tried to hide the thrill at the knowledge that the car was his.
He had refrained from the whole, ‘I can’t possibly accept this,’ speech he always went into when his Nan used to slip him money.
He would have a cousin of his check the car for bugs when back in Leeds.
“I have your final training scenario before you’re considered an official unofficial operative,” said Bruce.
“OK,” answered Connor nonchalantly. He felt a butterfly bounce around his stomach.
“You’ll begin surveillance on a Nicholas Flint over the next few days at 22.00 hours tomorrow night. He’s the man responsible for apprehending you. He was also present when our friend combusted. You’ll report back what you can on his movements. If he spots you, you’ll be held back for remedial training. Understood?”
“Yep,” he replied. His mind anticipating the difficulty of carrying out surveillance alone on someone he’d already met.
“Here,” said Bruce, as he handed Connor an envelope, “A dossier on him, including a couple of photographs.”
“Does he know of this exercise?”
“Naw, he doesn’t, that would be unfair.”
“How will you call EndEx?” Connor asked, meaning the end of the exercise.
“I’ll call.”
“Roger.”
Carl Wright sat the ‘The Duck and Dog’ off a side street in Soho. He lamented there were not many establishments like this in the US, with its tapestry flooring, dark red leather seating, mirrors and soft lighting.
Being midday, the pub wasn’t busy so counter surveillance was straight forward. He was admiring a picture of a British Redcoat with two hounds. Given his current predicament, he empathised with the dogs—hunting another animal for a more powerful figure.
One thing he liked about the British was their long history and the traditions left over from it. America’s history was still in its relative infancy—well, white American history is. He remembered overhearing a conversation between a British Royal Marine and a US Marine back at the huge Kandahar military base in Afghanistan.
‘So, how long have the British had Marines for man?’ the US Marine had asked.
The British Marine had laughed. ‘Mate, our Corps is older than your country!’
Carl smiled at the recollection. A lot of his countrymen didn’t even have a passport. With the country’s vastness, many never considered owning one. They didn’t comprehend events outside the States as neither had he before joining the military.
The blonde barmaid with blue eyes and high cheek bones smiled at him. He returned it as he ordered a lager. Pretty and friendly bar staff were always good for business in a bar—good looking women attracted the men and the men attracted the women. The blonde gave him another shy smile as she returned his change. He sensed it was more personal than professional. Although not the ‘pussy hound’ as most of his old Army Ranger comrades had been, he’d his share of women over the years. That share had grown with his affluence especially in London where his accent seemed to break the ice. He’d envisioned settling in the UK after this line of work was over. He ground his teeth—that would no longer be happening now.
He sipped the crisp beer and allowed himself to daydream about the vacation he was going to take. He hadn’t made his mind up where yet but the Caribbean was tempting. He
planned the rest of his evening while waiting for an email notification on his phone.
He didn’t like the feeling he was getting, and he hadn’t liked it from the beginning. He was committed now, though. What was about to happen was going to create a shit-storm, and he wanted to be far away from it. They were paying him £750,000—over a $1million for firing a dart, maybe you should get over yourself. That compounded with what he already had in various accounts, meant he could live comfortably for a while.
This life and profession had an expiration date—now more than ever. He could re-train to be whatever he wanted and begin a second career. One that would dramatically increase his chance of a longer life.
He decided this would be his last assignment. He’d had a good run, and it was time for change. He prayed this would go off without a hitch and he’d make a clean break away. He realised that this positive self-talk was taking an effort and he took another sip.
Connor stood on his left leg in his red and white boxer briefs. His core tight with his right leg and arms, coiled with muscle, at a ninety degree to his torso. He descended smoothly on his rooted leg until his butt rested a few inches from the floor. He ascended efficiently, his exhale sounding like a pressing machine. He repeated the action nine times, each being a mirror of the last.
As a teenager Connor had been inspired to master them when he read a book by an American fight conditioning guru named Ross Enamait. Watching his exploits on YouTube made him a believer.
In the beginning, he’d open a door, loop a bathrobe belt around both handles and hold on to the ends to steady himself. Eventually, he managed to perform one unaided, his left leg taking a while to catch up to his right. Now he could grind out sets of ten, hugging a twenty-kilogram plate to his chest. He used them when he couldn’t get to a squat rack, or wanted to give his spine a break from being compressed by a bar.
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