The Bootneck

by Quentin Black

  “Open up your jacket slowly,” said the man, with a South American accent.

  He opened it, and the man patted him down.

  “Now lean forward,” commanded the Latino and patted

  Connor’s lower back.

  “Show me your ankles.”

  Connor did so, and the man put away the gun. He pulled the van out into the road. He noticed a slight jitteriness to the Latino’s movements, and in his voice a barely noticeable tremor. He wore a light blue denim shirt with dark denim jeans along with suede loafers. The ensemble worked against the man’s caramel skin.

  “My name is Jamie. I provided Bruce with his intelligence and surveillance support.”

  “I was told you might be able to help me.”

  “You mean, you were told we have a common interest and may be able to help one another.”

  “Apologies for the wording, but yes.”

  “Tell me, who told you this?”

  “An associate of Bruce’s by the name Nick Flint.

  Jamie jerked the steering wheel a little.

  Connor asked “What?”

  “And you trust him?”

  “Not especially, which is why he’s being watched over in a warehouse in the middle of nowhere, nursing a broken nose, cracked ribs and a hammered toe.”

  A set of red traffic lights held them, and Connor watched two locals smoking outside a pub despite the rain.

  Jamie said, “Good, how did that happen, step by step?”

  “Bruce put me on to Nick to carry out surveillance on him. He said it was the final exercise before I went operational. I stuck on Nick for a couple of days, followed him to a cafe in Croydon where he met with Bruce. They walked off together, and Bruce disappeared for around ten minutes around a corner. I couldn’t see from where I was without being compromised. Nick appeared to be standing guard.”

  This was the first time Connor had recalled it all. The lights turned green.

  He continued, “I see Bruce walking up to Nick, but then his shoulder looked as if it was punched by an invisible fist, he was stumbling about, seemingly disorientated. As Nick approached him, Bruce head-butted Nick, but Bruce fell to the floor. A car pulled in. I was already running towards them at this stage, but I was a distance away. I saw Nick help an unknown man who got out of the car, not the driver, bundle Bruce into the boot…wait…no the backseat. The car drove off, leaving Nick on the street.”

  “Then what?”

  “I apprehended him.”

  “Apprehended?’ said Jamie almost to himself. “Before we get into details, how did you not know Bruce was—how to say—disorientated, head butted him, and two strangers had not just offered to take him to the ‘ospital?”

  “The why didn’t Nick go with them?”

  “Yes,” Jamie nodded, “tell me step by step how you apprehended him.”

  Connor took a breath. He controlled the desire to smack the driver’s head off the window. He hated the way he was interrogating him and the tone of his voice. However, he understood why he was doing it—he was scared.

  “I reached him as the car disappeared around the corner, he was facing the same direction. I took his feet from under him. I dropped my knee into his sternum and punched his face until he was unconscious. I carried him to an early-nineties Toyota parked thirty metres away, using a bumper key to open the boot. He went inside while I used the same bumper key to start the vehicle. Off we went.”

  “Can I see this bumper key?” Connor took it out and showed him.

  “A car that old and easily accessible just happened to be parked there?”

  “Yes, it was Lady Luck. Besides, it was Croydon, not Surrey.”

  “You took him where?”

  “To a friend’s.”

  “What—who—is your friend?”

  “I am not telling you. Risking myself with you is one thing, risking my friend is another.”

  “You do not hold any power in this Mr Reed. I am the one with knowledge and means to locate Mr McQuillan, not you. I suggest you remember that.”

  “But you’ll need me to do the extracting because you can’t trust anyone else, else you wouldn’t have met me.”

  “I do not trust you.”

  “Then why are we having this conversation?” asked Connor.

  “Because you is—are— the lesser of the evils.”

  “Exactly, so let’s not make threats, eh? My friend is going to remain anonymous until further notice.”

  Jamie frowned, and they were quiet for a half mile.

  Connor broke the silence. “Do you know much about this Russian Mafia outfit that has taken him?”

  “They are members of a particularly professional unit of the Russian Bratva. Although they have remained low on the list of Interpol’s priorities, I can assure you that they are the most dangerous criminals in Europe. The leader, a Ravil Yelchin, is a very shrewd man.”

  “Do you know of any known safe houses?”

  “I think know where Bruce McQuillan is being held.”

  Connor straightened his back. “OK, tell me and I will—”

  “—will do what? Rescue him from a highly professional group of ex-Spetsnaz, and ex-KGB criminals?”

  “What do you suggest?” said Connor. “And stop flying off the handle all the time like an old woman.”

  Jamie sighed.

  “Bruce is guarded by highly professional, well-armed and very ruthless men. Even if you had the manpower, the right plan, the professionalism to by some miracle overcome them, they would just kill him before they let him be taken back alive. And that is a ‘no-no’. He is the only one who might just be able to reverse this disaster.”

  They hit a long dual carriageway, and the yellow of the street lights beaconed their faces as they sped past.

  “What do you propose?”

  “The Russian Bratva is the same as any organisation. It fits to its, how do you say, area of operations. It is a large group, but has to cover large areas. It is not infinite in its manpower, finances and resources. No organisation is, despite what some would have you believe. Now, this particular brigade’s resources have been directed towards the guarding of Bruce. They do not know what friends he may or may not have so they are taking no chances. And while their resources are put to guarding him—”

  “—they are not being used to guard Ravil Yelchin.”

  Jamie looked at him, “You learn good Mr Reed. Now, Ravil Yelchin has never been heavily guarded, preferring not to draw attention to himself. However, his Security Officer Makar Gorokhov is overseeing the interrogation of Bruce. The feeling is Ravil is quite safe now the agreement between the security services and the Bratva is set. However, he will still be watched over by very ruthless and professional men. He is the bargaining chip for Bruce.”

  “Surely he avoids setting patterns with his movements?”

  “Sure he does, and I have an idea about that, but there’s something else that needs your attention.”

  “Enlighten me.”

  “Well, there’s been a strange twist of fate. Bruce’s kidnap was first muted by a Pierre Gaultier, a French Arms dealer who has gathered a considerable reputation in recent years.”

  “Why?”

  “We will get to that,” said Jamie. “Either the Russian Bratva contacted him regarding sharing the workload, or maybe it was the other way around. Pierre Gaultier blackmailed an American hitman to shoot a tranquilizer at Bruce. It seems that your kidnap of Nick Flint has thrown a spanner in the works. Against his will, Mr Gaultier has contracted him to find Nick Flint.”

  “And so?”

  “And so, I think he can be turned to our side for the correct offer.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “That Pierre Gaultier is killed and the Russians’ hold on him is undermined. For good.”

  21

  Carl Wright dodged his way through the throng of commuters. He had alighted from the train at the London Paddington Station three minutes earlier. Now he
made his way to the Praed Street entrance. Walking up to a pay phone, his eyes flickered into the semi-reflective advertising boards to check faces behind him. He put in the money and dialled. He heard the answer of a digitally distorted voice.

  “Mr Wright, a gentleman will introduce himself to you. He is wearing a green sweater with brown shoulder patches and jeans. You will greet him like a friend. He will make you an offer that comes from me.”

  Carl turned around. The described stranger stood before him. His intelligent eyes met Carl’s.

  He had sandy hair and strong, regular features on a face that Carl would guess women found attractive. The man spoke in an accent that Carl recognised to be of the north of England.

  “Don’t look so glum. I am not happy about having to meet face to face either,” said the man.

  Carl gave a smirk of acknowledgement. “What do you want, Mr…?”

  “My name’s Connor,” said the man. “Let’s walk and talk.”

  “Walk where?”

  “You choose. I am just here to make a proposal to you.”

  Carl set off out of the Praed Street entrance.

  “What is it?”

  “Firstly, if it’s agreeable to you, I will lay out your predicament. You can stop me at any time to interject. When I am sure of my facts, I can make this proposal.”

  There were a few moments of silence—confirming or refuting any information went against his professional grain.

  “Go ahead.”

  “Take this,” Connor ordered, handing Carl a recorder. “It will prove a point later.”

  “There’s an alley over there, let’s go walk to it,” Carl said, and when they reached it he said, “Put your hands against the wall so I can frisk you.”

  Connor did so, and Carl thoroughly searched him. He looked at Connor sharply when the Englishman emitted a sex noise as Carl used the back of his hand between the legs.

  “That was a joke. I apologise.”

  “Good one. Now you can start talking,” Carl said, as he led them off down the street.

  “You were contracted by international arms dealer Pierre Gaultier who had uncovered your identity. Using the threat of exposing your anonymity coerced you into carrying out the tranquilization of Bruce McQuillan for kidnap. You carried this out on the understanding your part of the agreement was complete. However, Mr Gaultier informed you a Nick Flint was captured at the scene and now, again against your wishes, you are to find him. Naturally you had some grievances, but the combined threat of Mr Gaultier and the Russian Bratva has forced your hand. You are cursing the fact that you are in someone else’s pocket, which is where you don’t want to be, is it mucker?”

  “Mucker?—Motherfucker?”

  “No, it’s slang for…never mind, its not an insult. So, am I right?”

  Carl said nothing for a few moments and then, quietly, “He may keep his side of the bargain this time.”

  “Press play on the recorder,” said Connor, and Carl did so. There was a faint whirr and, despite the quiet background noise, Pierre Gaultier’s accented English as plain as day, emitted:

  ‘This American belongs to me now, and if he is well paid, he will do as he is told. Come the day his usefulness expires, then so will he.’

  ‘And when will that day be?’ (A voice with thick Middle-Eastern accent).

  ‘I have already put it into motion so do not be troubled.’

  The recorder clicked off.

  Carl looked at Connor. He held his nerve.

  “So?”

  “So I need your help, and if you give me a hand, I’ll assist you.”

  “Go on.”

  “What if I said that with your help we could remove our friend Mr Gaultier from the equation, and make that Russian connection disappear?”

  “I’d think you were overconfident in your abilities.”

  “Maybe so, but what other choice do you have left?”

  Bruce sat in the cell-like room, more taunt and tired than he could remember. He hadn’t slept for three days, being forced awake by the head splitting white noise resounding throughout the room. He’d been stripped naked and beaten with a rubber hose at periodic intervals—the hose being preferred as it didn’t break bones or pierce the skin, so the risk of infection was minimalised. The beatings left welts though, making staying in any position for long difficult.

  Makar had told him electric shock treatment was to follow. That was something he fought hard not to dwell on. Being told this initially filled him with both relief and dread. Relief, as he knew they would eventually have to let him sleep. Not to do so would just reduce him to a jabbering wreck, and that wasn’t good for them. Also, they probably wouldn’t start taking limbs because if he held up there was nowhere else to go. The victim can enter a kind of mind-set where he or she can’t bear to think that they have lost fingers, feet, arms or ears for nothing. Thus they become tough to break. Bruce had had the experience of witnessing this early in his career, and Makar would know that.

  He began calculating whether they’d use the drug scopolamine, commonly known as ‘Truth Serum’ which he’d seen to be remarkably effective. However, he’d also seen it kill a victim which was why these Russians, if they had it, were probably reluctant to use it yet.

  Electric shock treatment was a battle winner in these situations. It was relatively easy to control, potentially everlasting, and agonising.

  Although the Russian hadn’t actually asked yet, he knew what they wanted. They wanted the files that he kept on high-ranking officials within the Government and access to his operational funds accounts. As soon as he gave them up, he was dead.

  The white noise cut off suddenly, and he mentally braced himself. After a few minutes, he let sleep take him.

  Connor, Carl and Jamie sat in the back of a caravan that the computer tech had procured. It felt bizarre to Connor as he scanned the ornaments dotted around the edges: little birds on branches, flowers, and a snow dome to name a few. These were the kinds of ornaments of which his nan had been fond of. Nostalgia swept over him remembering the almost permanent smell of her baking in his grandparents’ home.

  Instead, these ornaments decorated a caravan where he sat with a Latino Machiavellian cyber hacker and an American hitman, planning now to extract the chief of a British black ops team from the clutches of the Russian Mafia—I couldn’t have made this up. His brain was too focused on the task at hand to process the surrealism of it all. It reminded him of the Chinese saying, ‘May you live in interesting times’.

  “So,” said Carl. “Ideas?”

  He was aiming the question at Jamie.

  “Do you still have the rifle you used to tranquillize Mr McQuillan?” Jamie asked, looking intently at the American.

  “It’s reachable,” he answered.

  “Well, I suggest you will reach for it, as Mr Yelchin may have to suffer a heart trouble soon.”

  Connor smiled, he’d had the thought himself.

  “OK, tell me more,” demanded Carl.

  “Mr Yelchin is security conscious but seems to believe he is invulnerable while playing golf in a club—a golf club. His security only accompanies him to the gates and no more. What makes him do that I am not certain. Maybe it is his way of, how do you say, not assoc—disassociating himself with that part of his life? That is the time to take him.”

  “How?”

  “Mr Yelchin will be struck with a dart inducing a mild seizure. The club’s first resident medic attending to him will call an ambulancia, a call routed to me. The ambulance that will arrive will contain Mr Reed here.”

  “I am more than happy with the scenario, right up until they spot the dart in his neck.”

  Jamie laughed. “He is of little faith. Not if you fire these.” He fished something out of the case beside him and opened his palm to reveal what appeared to be four wasps.

  “What the fuck?” Connor whispered, a slight furrow appearing on his forehead.

  “CIA budgets were so large in the wake of 9/
11 they even developed these. The retractable wasp dart. It plunges the fluid in on impact then falls away. Apparently, even the recipient feels that he has just been stung by a wasp.”

  “And you can verify this?”

  “Not personally, no, but they been tested in the field.”

  “Before we get to that, where’s this mysterious ambulance going to emerge from?” Connor asked.

  “You two, are going to steal one.” Connor and Carl looked at one another.

  “Surely it would be easier, not to mention more morally justifiable, to steal a van, siren, and have Doctor or Ambulance emblazoned upon it?” Connor questioned.

  “See? Thinking outside the box as you Brits would say. I like it,” replied Jamie, his accent coming through more, “but authenticity is the key. There’s no room for taking unnecessary chances.”

  “I am not stealing an ambulance for some old lady to die because we have it, end of story.” said Connor.

  Jamie looked at Connor for a moment and replied “Fine. I will just have to buy one.”

  “Buy an ambulance?” Connor asked.

  Jamie said nothing.

  “My escape?” Carl asked.

  “Mr Reed will pick you up. You’ll be far enough away that there shouldn’t be any witnesses watching you get into the ambulance.”

  “What about the Russian’s security?” asked Connor. “When they see an ambulance scream up to the club, won’t their natural instinct be to check on the boss?”

  “I can’t anticipate their actions, Mr Reed. You will have to deal with that situation as you see appropriate. You are the…how do you say…field agent. The priority is to have Mr Yelchin in our possession.”

  “OK, I want to know for sure when this Ravil character gets shot, he thinks it’s a wasp and doesn’t start screaming ‘I’ve been shot’,” said Carl.

  Connor pitched in. “I have an idea about that. We’ll talk after this.” He switched to Jamie. “When is this going to take place?”

  “On Sunday.”

  “That’s four days away. We can’t wait that long.”

  “Well you’ll have to. You will not be able to get near him until then, trust me, Mr Reed. And besides, I read Royal Marines believe in concurrent activity?”