by A P Bateman
Jason Porter shook his head in disbelief as the man walked towards him and threw the envelope into his muddy lap.
“Open it,” he ordered. “Look, listen and learn time.” Porter struggled to keep his hands from shaking, as he fumbled with the adhesive seal. He tore straight across the edge of the envelope, then upended it and tipped the contents into his lap. “Happy snaps Jason.” Neeson informed him. “You could almost put them in your family album.”
Jason Porter stared in disbelief at the assorted of photographs, then looked up coldly at the Irishman. “You bastard!”
“Aye, more than likely,” he grinned. “They’re all in there, Jason. Mum, Dad, brother, uncle Robert, Sister Emma, grandpa Jones, your whole family. Even your girlfriend Samantha, and your unborn baby. Or is it babies? I’m not sure, I fell short of obtaining her hospital records.”
Porter shook his head, tears flowing steadily down his cheeks. “Why? What have I ever done to you?”
“Nothing. It doesn’t always have to work like that.” Neeson rested himself against the bonnet of the vehicle and smiled. “You have three convictions for joyriding against you, which were dealt with by the young offenders’ court, but you soon grew out of it when you were old enough to drive legally. At nineteen, you decided to try the big time and filled in as a getaway driver in an armed robbery. So, you weren’t caught driving. In fact, you outran three separate police forces, in an eighty-mile chase, and evaded capture by driving into a multi-storey car park, where the camera in the pursuing helicopter couldn’t see you abandon the vehicle. Pretty smart that was,” Neeson paused. “Just a pity that you didn’t exercise the same degree of caution when you started to spend the money. You blew it too soon and on too much, and got yourself caught as a result. Still, the six years you served in prison must have given you a chance to think? I mean, a good job, and in a prestige car showroom. I wonder what they’d have said if they knew?” Neeson laughed. “You’d think they might have checked your history more closely before letting you loose in Porsches and all those lovely marques you take in part-exchange, wouldn’t you?” Porter remained silent, his eyes on the photographs of his family in his lap. “Maybe your brother had something to do with that? Maybe Prestige Showrooms are happy with their employee, and top salesperson? But then again, they think that your name is Mike. Michael Porter, your younger brother, to be precise.” He smiled cynically. “That was really nice of your brother to lend his name, especially as he doesn’t have a criminal record. Does your girlfriend know about your little charade?”
Jason Porter threw the photographs down into the mud and tried to get to his feet. Neeson fired two shots near the man’s right foot and he screamed and held his hands over his cowering face. He fell back down into the mud then looked up at the man with the gun. “What is all this about?” he asked sombrely, the last of his energy exhausted.
“A driving job. Plain and simple. If you accept, then there’s a clear quarter-million in it for you.”
“And if I refuse?”
“Then everybody in those photographs dies, starting with the oldest. From old grandpa Jones, right down the list to your unborn child. Tell me, what would grandpa Jones look like with his tongue hanging out through a slit in his neck?” Jason Porter stared at the ground. He held a hand over his mouth but couldn’t suppress the urge, turning his head aside to vomit in the mud. Neeson laughed. “If that makes you feel sick, just wait until I tell you what’s in store for young Samantha, unborn child and all!”
Porter shook his head frantically. “Stop it, you sick bastard!” He glared up at the Irishman, then frowned. “You’re offering two-hundred and fifty thousand pounds? Why not just ask me, why threaten me with my entire family?”
“I like my team to be fully committed,” Neeson smiled. “So tell me, what is it to be?”
13
“Your break.” Holman smiled. He had already won the first two frames, and his opening break of fifty-four had sealed the second game virtually from the start.
Grant methodically chalked his cue, then walked over to the opposite end of the table. He positioned the white ball next to the green, then rested his fingers gently on the soft baize. Taking the cue and resting it delicately on his left hand, he raised his fingers to form a bridge and sighted along the shaft.
“When you’re good and ready,” Holman commented tiresomely.
Grant ignored his host as he sighted down the wooden cue. He drew back his right hand, then pushed it forwards smoothly and remained in position as he watched the white ball travel gently down the table, rebound off the bottom cushion and kiss one of the red balls, ever so slightly.
“No balls, Simon!” Holman struggled out of the deep leather armchair and walked over to the bottom end of the table. “I wouldn’t have bothered sitting down if I’d known that was the best you could do.” He leaned forwards, easing his straining gut onto the edge of the table, then bent his left knee. “Ever wanted to know the secret of playing a successful game of snooker?” he asked, laughing out loud. “Play it like pool!”
Grant watched, astonished as the man belted the white into the pack of red balls, scattering them in all directions. A lone red impacted against the blue ball, cannoned off a cushion, then found its way into the bottom-left pocket. He was sure that there was something about a rule that all balls had to be played for, and not smacked indiscriminately, but this was Holman’s house. Holman’s game. Holman’s rules.
“Blue, I think.” Holman leaned his weight across the table and smiled at Grant before sinking the ball with notable force. “You like my little playroom then?”
Grant dutifully retrieved the blue ball from the pocket and replaced it on the centre spot. He glanced at the somewhat ostentatious mini-bar, with its neon sign - Frank’s Place - then looked back at Holman. “It’s very you.”
Holman smiled triumphantly. “That’s what I think. I spend a great deal of time in here. Doing business with my associates, mainly.”
“Eileen must lose you for hours,” Grant he chided.
Frank Holman bent across the table and sighted for his next shot. “She never tries to find me, doesn’t even know if I’m in the bloody house half the time.” He potted the red into the middle pocket then walked around the table to take a shot at the black. “Didn’t come cheap, this,” he said.
“I can imagine.”
Holman smiled and hit the black ball, with such force that it rattled in the pocket before dropping down into the net. “But hey, it’s only money!” He nodded to Grant, indicating that he should retrieve the black from the pocket for him.
Grant dutifully replaced the black ball on its spot, then looked seriously at his host. “So what does it involve?”
“Well, to get the highest score, you have to try and pot the black as many times as you can,” he paused. “It’s worth seven points.” Holman grinned, then leaned forwards and took a shot at a nearby red, which was hovering precariously over the bottom right-hand pocket.
“You know what I mean Frank, don’t play any more games.”
“Oh, the job, you mean.” Holman raised an eyebrow as he chalked his cue. “Well, I would have to know if you were in or not first. It’s very hush-hush, need to know only.”
Grant nodded knowingly. “But two-million would be my share?” He stepped forwards, blocking Holman from his shot. “That’s an awful lot of money for just a few days’ work, Frank.”
“An obscene amount of money, wouldn’t you say?” Holman agreed. “More than you deserve, that’s for sure!” He prodded Grant in the stomach with the tip of his cue and glared. “Better not stop me, I’m on a roll. I would hate for you to make me miss my next shot.”
Grant stepped aside reluctantly. He knew Holman well, knew his ways. If Holman was not in control, then the man was never happy.
Holman leaned forwards and sighted on the pink ball. He pulled back the cue, then rushed it forward, sending the ball into the middle pocket. The white ball gave chase, wobbled dramat
ically over the pocket, then followed the pink home.
“Bastard!” he shouted. He threw the cue across the table, scattering the remainder of the balls in every direction. He turned back to Grant and scowled. “You want to know, do you? Well I can tell you! Just tell me, are you in or out?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Well make up your bloody mind, there’s not much time and I need a bloody cracksman!”
“I can’t, I don’t know what it involves yet!”
Holman clenched his fist tightly and banged it down onto the table, venting his frustration. “Two-million quid! Two-million, just sitting and waiting for you!” He clenched his teeth together and stared at him, his eyes blazing. “Now are you fucking in, or are you going to fuck off out of my house and try and win back your wife and kid with the pittance you’ve got to your name?”
Grant took a deep breath, then smiled. “In.”
14
Alex King took another sip of tea, then dropped the thick file on the table. He turned towards Forsyth, who was leaning back in his chair, calmly blowing smoke rings up to the ceiling.
“What’s the likes of him doing with someone like O’Shea?”
“Couldn’t possibly tell you, old boy,” Forsyth paused, then looked at him tiresomely. “That is for you to find out, I suppose.”
King stared at his MI6 liaison officer with amusement. Ian Forsyth’s casual daywear was even more bazaar than that of his classic British spy attire. Brown brogues, tweed jacket, mustard-coloured corduroys, tattersall check shirt and a cream cravat. He almost smiled at the sight. Forsyth was still a young man, maybe a decade older than himself, late-thirties, certainly no more. He glanced down at his own attire; blue jeans, trainers, grey sweatshirt and the leather bomber jacket hung over the back of the chair. The attire of the average field operative. The two men were worlds apart.
“He is just a petty criminal with fingers in a lot of pies. No radical political persuasions, he’s not even on the electoral roll.” King paused. “What the hell is an old-school London criminal doing with the IRA?”
“I trust you are merely thinking out loud?” Forsyth blew another smoke ring then smiled gleefully, obviously impressed with the result. “An Executive Termination Order will arrive shortly. That was the extent of your mission with your detachment to The Increment - to gather enough background intelligence to terminate effectively.”
King shook his head in protest. “I think we may be jumping the gun a bit. O’Shea is up to something with this bloke, Frank Holman.”
“Not for us old boy.” Forsyth stubbed out his cigarette out in the ashtray which balanced precariously on the arm of the tatty wooden chair. “I just brought over the file so that you could get some background information on whoever O’Shea was talking to. Never thought for a minute that you might want to turn detective on me,” he paused. “The Northern Ireland peace agreement is in tatters. Factions of the IRA are ruining the whole sweet deal for everyone. Mark O’Shea is one of the main culprits. If he continues to run his own little private vendetta, then the government will end up with a great deal of egg on their pretty little faces. Our job is to remove O’Shea as soon as possible, take him out of the equation, and get the peace deal back on track. It is due to be signed on Good Friday. Teams from The Increment, like our happy little twosome are operating all over the British Isles removing unpleasant little shits like O’Shea. With any luck, the path will be clear for peace.”
King wasn’t taken in by this. He knew that the agreement meant that the British government had to release all IRA prisoners as part of the deal. These “rogue” cells were just being taken out of the equation. A silent show of force. “I just think it should be looked at in a little more depth,” he said. “This guy Holman sounded to be in deep with O’Shea. He has no political or fanatical history, but he does have a wealth of assets, and not one shred of evidence as to how he accumulated it. The police know that he’s a crook, the Inland Revenue suspect the same, yet he’s still walking free.”
Forsyth leaned forward in his seat, suddenly appearing intrigued for the first time. “What exactly are you getting at, old boy?”
“Perhaps it’s fund-raising? Maybe O’Shea and this guy Holman are planning something that we should know about, something that could have an effect on the peace agreement. It could be weapons, money, drugs, who knows? There seems to be little that PIRA won’t touch lately,” King paused. “I have been assigned the mission to kill O’Shea, and I’ll do it. There’s no question about that. But if I take him out now, we may never know what the two of them are planning. Besides, who is to say that Frank Holman won’t deal with another IRA quartermaster?”
Forsyth remained thoughtfully silent. He opened his silver cigarette case, extracted a handmade cigarette and tapped the tip against the lid, removing loose strands of tobacco. He flicked the wheel of the lighter, brought the flame to the tip, then pulled the cigarette towards his overly full lips.
King tried not to smile. He had never seen such ceremony, such a gratuitously complex approach to such a simple task. He no longer smoked, but he remembered simply sticking a cigarette in his mouth and lighting it.
“What do you want to do?” Forsyth asked, amid a cloud of pungent, mildly scented cigarette smoke.
King relaxed, knowing that now he had his liaison officer’s cooperation - or at least his attention. As operation controller, Ian Forsyth had the final authority in the field, at least while the task was building up. He would not report events until he saw fit, which would probably mean until he had the result he wanted.
“I want a communications tap on Frank Holman’s telephone line, and a scanner in place, in case he uses a mobile. A list of the people that he’s telephoned during the past two weeks, and taps on their own phone lines.”
Forsyth chuckled and shook his head, dismissing King’s request with a disconcerting smile. “This is a closed shop, old boy, SIS only. Box would have to be involved for an operation on that scale, and with their methods, that means a force of approximately twenty operatives. There is no way I can get a sanction on that, it will only attract unwanted attention. The mandarins will give their two-pence worth, and the whole deal will be called off.” He inhaled deeply on the Turkish-blend cigarette, then blew out a thin plume of smoke as he pondered. “I could get you a tap on the man’s line, and provide you with a file on the person or persons most called from his number during... say... the past week. And I can buy you twenty-four hours, after I receive the Executive Termination Order,” he paused. “It will be easy to delay the hit on the grounds of a lack of, or insufficient intelligence. After that, O’Shea takes a bullet and we go home.”
15
The vehicle swept over the bumpy surface spraying muddy water over the windscreen. Neeson quickly applied the wipers, but soon wished he hadn’t, as the mud smeared a thin film over the entire screen. He cursed as he swung the Saab into the farmyard and skidded to a halt. As he switched off the engine he studied the house before him.
The farm had been purchased from a major high-street bank’s quarterly repossession sale. Its previous owner had been unable to work off the debts which he had incurred during the mad cow disease beef crisis, where he had to slaughter his entire herd. With a minimum age of two-and-a-half years before beef cattle were ready for the food chain, the farmer was left with no income and was not equipped with either the equipment or legislative know how to diversify in time. His fields were grass for the sole purpose of grazing, and crops took time to sow and establish. Markets were in place for existing growers and not easily negotiated. The property had received no attention in almost three years, and had been bought for a relatively small sum, considering its vast potential to an affluent owner. The farmhouse was habitable, albeit after some vigorous housework, but the outside had a feel and appearance of long-standing dereliction.
Jason Porter sat in the passenger seat, somewhat subdued. His ordeal in the ditch far from forgotten, he was still at a low ebb
and covered in mud, which had yet started to dry on the fabric of his Hugo Boss suit. He stared at the dilapidated building and frowned. “What’s this place?”
Neeson smiled. “This? This, my new found friend, is home for the next few days.” He opened the door, swung his leg over a particularly large puddle and stepped out onto the muddy ground. “Come on, move yourself, there’s work to be done. You’ll not earn your quarter million by sitting on your arse!”
Porter stepped out, failed to notice the puddle, and waded almost ankle-deep. “Shit!” he said. He looked at Neeson, who had started to walk away. “Why me? What have I got to do?”
“Questions, bloody questions! Do you want to earn your money or not?” Neeson frowned. “I told you, it’s a driving job.” He held up his hand. “Now that’s all you fucking need to know for now! A week’s work, a little risk and you’ll be a rich man,” he paused. “What’s more, you’ll have the added bonus of allowing your entire family to carry on with their lives.” He turned and walked across the farmyard to the derelict-looking barn, leaving the threat to hang in the air.
Porter followed. He was uneasy. In his experience, it was either stick or carrot. One or the other, but never both. When they reached the barn, Neeson opened a narrow door next to the enormous double doors, which were obviously intended for the passage of heavy farm machinery. He stood aside, allowing Porter to enter first.
Inside, the two thickset men had started work on the Porsche. They had fastened a series of large square polythene sheets to the ceiling of the barn, creating an almost sterile environment in which to work on the vehicle. They had already removed the front and rear quarter panels and registration plates, and were now going about the time-consuming business of taping sheets of newspaper and patches of masking tape over the windows, logos and headlights. The two men glanced up from their work, nodded a silent acknowledgement to their fellow Irishman, then continued to prepare for the vehicle’s new colour scheme.