To Kill Or Be Killed
Richard Wiseman
To Kill Or Be Killed
Richard Wiseman
Prologue
It’s a well known fact that back in 1940 with the threat of the Nazi invasion of England by Hitler that Winston Churchill organised a resistance force. Caches of weapons were built up around the country in hiding places and people were organised and trained to fight as the French resistance did after the Nazi invasion. Of course the invasion of England never came and to this day a number of the caches of explosives, weapons and equipment still lie buried in parts of England awaiting resistance fighters who will never come and are not now needed.
It is a little known fact that Winston Churchill also created an espionage network across the United Kingdom in 1940 to assist the resistance fighters and to watch the government, the law enforcement agencies, the army, the navy, the air force, the people of the towns and cities and generally speaking the streets, the transport routes and coastline for any attempts to infiltrate the land, the communities and the forces organised to protect the country. This agency was made up of ordinary citizens, chosen for their loyalty, their levels of intelligence and their foresight.
They were scattered across the UK, armed, equipped with the latest technology, which at the time was radio and radar equipment, and given diplomatic immunity on the British mainland. They were a non military branch of the civil service. They were recruited on the basis of recommendation from Churchill’s most trusted aides. They were of course not needed when Hitler’s army failed to invade, but they continued their espionage work through the war.
The police, Special Branch, MI5 and MI6 watch for threats against the UK, domestic and foreign. They have done since Churchill’s time and before, but since 1940 those watchmen and watchwomen of the known and recognised services have been in turn watched by Churchill’s war time secret network.
It’s a little known fact that the network of watchers set up by Churchill in 1940 still exists to this day and there is still a web of men and women in every town and village across the UK working for a branch of the civil service known as the Department for Internal Concerns or the DIC. They are the unseen and unknown; they are those who watch the watchers.
Chapter 1
LOCH CARRON SCOTLAND
JUST BEFORE DAWN
April 17th
The shores of Loch Carron are beautiful, with ragged edges of rock against which chilly sea water sometimes bumps gently and incessantly and at other times scrapes and scratches wildly, rasping away at the gouges time and tide have left on the land’s edge. Deep green moss and grass cover the bumpy ground of the foreshore like crumpled baize and there is a reinvigorating power in the clean and Spartan air.
One might walk happily, if a little cold, on spring days, over rough chunky tracks to the edge of the Atlantic Ocean and, on a clear day, see to the stark western horizon. Night is different though. You have to be of a mind as sturdy as the clothes and boots you’ll need and as clear in your mind about your business as the thick plastic lens on the kind of heavy duty torch you’ll need to cut the pure darkness of such a landscape.
A skilled captain with a good crew and some nerve could bring a submarine from the Atlantic into the inner sound and within a strong swimmer’s distance of the shores close to Port an-eorna. It would have to be a powerful swimmer with emotions as cold as the water, not to mention good modern diving gear, to even attempt such a feat. It was in fact five such cold fish who left the submarine, gathered together in the water, orientated themselves by compass bearing and headed for the shores of Scotland with careful effort.
The submarine turned about, job done, and dropped out of sight. The captain, not for the first time thinking that his vessel and specialist teams willing to swim a decent sized distance were easily the best way to make an incursion into enemy territory unsighted and unnoticed. On this occasion he was wrong; his vessel had caused a blip and a bleep on some highly sensitive equipment located in the loft of a house just off Main Street Drumbuie. He wasn’t to have known it was there, neither were the five swimmers; nor did, amazingly, the people of the area or the neighbours of the man who lived in that house know anything other than that Michael Dewey was a computer programme writer and that the slightly bigger than usual white satellite dish on the house was for the purpose of transmitting and receiving the work he did to allow him to live in such a remote and beautiful place in easy comfort.
Inside his loft a small sized, but commensurately powerful radar scanner rotated slowly and an electronic screen registered vessels tracking them across the LCD map. All of this information was fed into a laptop which in turn was linked to a satellite phone.
Michael was an early riser and was sipping tea waiting for the dawn, which was a mere half hour away, when his idle scanning in the loft registered the submarine. He climbed down the loft ladder and frowned at the drizzle spattered glass of the landing window. April was living up to its reputation.
He made a short visit to the gun cabinet in his bedroom to remove a well oiled automatic Sig 220 pistol. A quick check on the mechanism reassured him of his ability to defend himself and he slipped it into a belt holster.
In the hall downstairs he laced on his walking boots and put on a heavy waxed green coat. At the sight of the coat and boots Paddy, his Border collie, jumped around him wagging his tail. Paddy didn’t bark, knowing his master didn’t approve of unnecessary sound. Finally Dewey grabbed his night vision binoculars, hanging in a case in the hall, and together he and Paddy went out into the drizzly darkness and climbed into the Land Rover.
The Land Rover left Drumbuie and a short time later it was bumping over the tracks to the water’s edge. As the Land Rover was approaching the land’s edge the five swimmers from the submarine were approaching a slight rocky cove which was half mile to the left of Dewey’s aimed for vantage point.
There were a few bubbles and some turbulence in the harshly cold Atlantic water, but amongst the daily thrash of the ocean it was for the best part invisible. The swimmers closed up on the land and one by one hauled each other onto the rocks. As the first two landed waterproof bags were handed up and activity began silently. The five men, for men they were, took no break after the long hard slog through the cold waves. They stripped in the near dawn darkness, changed into dry clothes by touch, stowed equipment, readied themselves and sank their water gear and all signs of their landing into the dark water near the rocks.
Out of the car with his master Paddy sniffed around the moss and grass happily letting the light wind brush his black and white fur. Michael’s night vision binoculars inched their way over the seascape. He saw nothing, but still he scanned and watched.
The men on the rocks had crawled with care from sea level to land level and were now dressed in civilian clothing. Keeping a careful look out, watching to right and left, one after another they made their way inland. The first to the A87 road to thumb a lift, the second to the Plockton air strip, the third to the rail station at Duirnish, the fourth to a waiting motorbike in Drumbuie and the last to the Plockton harbour, where a boat was waiting.
It wasn’t the cold and the niggling drizzle but Paddy damply brushing against his leg that led Michael to begin heading a hundred metres inland to the dry of the Land Rover. The five men would have made the best of starts if the last hadn’t lit a comforting cigarette. Michael, sharply observant, a skill for which the DIC pick all their people, caught the match flare in his peripheral vision. He whipped out the night vision glasses and zoomed in.
In the dark the cigarette lit up a profile and Michael mentally stored the lines of the face, another skill the watchers had honed to an edge from natural talent by DIC trainers. Even then he di
dn’t stop there. He scanned a line inland and caught dim outlines, fuzzed by gloom, but moving nonetheless. He got as far as a fourth and with a narrowing of eyes he took the shortest route between the edge of the ocean and his attic.
The smoker flicked the butt away unaware, though he knew his habit was unhealthy, how true the black writing on the Lucky Strike pack was ‘Smoking Kills’.
A short time later Michael Dewey was back in the loft in the house in Drumbuie, tea in hand. He accessed the DIC network via the internet and alerted them to the illegal incursions. He contacted the police describing the men, but knowing that the remote location and the size of the area that such a small number of police patrols had to cover immediate capture of the intruders was unlikely. DIC wouldn’t expect Michael to take them on personally, not in those numbers, besides given the power of the DIC network and its coverage Dewey felt certain the men would be captured very soon. Messages sent Michael sat down to draw a sketch of the smoker.
Chapter 2
Dover
7 a.m.
April 17th
Mary McKie waddled uncomfortably through her kitchen door, paused for breath and called up the stairs clutching her rounded bump.
“Come on David you’re going to miss your train!”
“Alright I’m coming.”
David McKie, tall, broad shouldered, sandy haired and dressed in a dark brown suit heavy footed down the stairs of his Dover semi. He checked his reflection briefly in the hall mirror, aware in his Spartan soul of the dangers of narcissism.
“Don’t want to be late first day.”
David bent and kissed her puffy cheek and rubbed at her denim covered pregnancy. She took one hand and held his face examining his eyes.
“No. You’ll be alright no?”
She had watched him stagnate at Dover customs, always wondering why with a degree in history he had applied to the civil service. True he had passed the Executive Officer’s exam and gone into the Scottish Office at the top, but he hadn’t liked the desk work. Then transferring to customs had brought the family to Dover and the adventurer in him had stopped him getting further up the promotion ‘ladder’. It was so like his father who’d spent twenty years in the army and got no further than sergeant. She was pleased that he’d got the London job and she was glad he’d be working from home most of the time. She was worried though mostly because of the lockable metal gun cabinet and the loft full of technical equipment the two men had come and fitted two months ago, but mostly she was worried because of David’s month long absence at Lympstone in Devon. She knew from Conor, David’s dad, that the marine commandos trained at Lympstone. She shared her worries with him and he had reassured her and she knew that he wasn’t a man to be held back from things he wanted to do. She also knew he wasn’t a man to take random risks.
“I’ll be fine and don’t forget I’ll be at home here a lot of the time. It’s only two weeks on the active rota three times a year, the rest I’ll be here.”
“That’ll be nice, especially now.” She hugged him as tightly as the pregnancy bump allowed.
Their three year old son Conor joined the scene.
“Me hug! Me Hug!”
He grabbed their legs and pulled at them. David bent down and picked him up and squeezed him. Conor struggled against the gaggle of kisses David planted on his son’s morning ruffled hair.
“A wee hug for my man Conor here!”
“I’m a boy.”
“You’ll be the man when I’m not here though. Look after mummy and bump.”
“Okay daddy.”
David put him down and for a moment there was silence.
“You’d better go, you’ll be late.”
“Righto.”
On his way to the door David picked up a medium sized black rucksack and a large black holdall. To his strong arms the rucksack was surprisingly light, especially when he thought that it contained his hand gun, ammunition, laptop, satellite phone, night binoculars, a digital SLR camera and a gun microphone. The holdall had changes of clothes and toiletries.
“David…”
“Aye…”
“I’m proud of you. Take care.”
“Bye love. See you in two weeks.”
“Call me tonight.”
Outside of the nineteen thirties semi-detached house on the outskirts of Dover, towards the Folkestone side of the Kent coast, David inhaled deeply and cleared the moisture from his eyes.
But for the contents of the rucksack, and the large black holdall, it might have been any man commuting to a job in London. As he closed the black iron garden gate David McKie thought momentarily of the thrill of being a spy.
“Morning David.” The neighbour’s voice cut into his thoughts.
McKie checked his stride for his retired neighbour’s undoubted banal conversation and turned, surreptitiously glancing at his watch.
“Morning Tom.”
“Off to Customs today? Guarding the borders?”
“Aye. That I am.”
“Listen David a word about that new satellite dish up on your roof
…”
David cut across him. “Not now Tom I’m late. I’ll talk to you later.”
With the view that people thought too much of the glamour of espionage David marched to the train station.
Chapter 3
A87 near Port an-eorna
Scotland
7- 30 a.m.
April 17th
Trevor Stanton, the ‘fifth man’ that Michael Dewy had failed to spot when he had spotted the other four illegal entrants to the country on the shores of Loch Carron, had hitched a lift on a truck bound for Inverness. It was a lucky break and he knew it. The truck was on a return from Plockton, delivering refrigerated supplies to the hotels. Stanton knew he could have waited for hours, even had to have walked quite a long way before he’d got any transport. It wasn’t a straw he had drawn; he had chosen this starting approach to his journey south. It made most sense to him. The others had drawn for transport down the country.
He sat in the passenger seat of the van’s cab listening to the banter of the stereotype trucker. Stanton was barely able to keep his eyes open. He had brown, almost black eyes; harsh hard marbles with no hint of friendliness. The swim had really pushed into his energy reserves. Ten years in the French Foreign Legion, six years as a mercenary and the last three as a freelance assassin, hiring himself for the most part to foreign governments, had taken their toll on him. He was still incredibly fit, but at thirty nine, the oldest of the five, it was tough going. He knew the money on this one was enough to retire on though so it seemed worth it. Somebody wanted someone very important dead that was for sure.
“Where have you been?” The truck driver asked.
Stanton knew the drill. He reeled off some well rehearsed and thoroughly researched tourist details. The stock in trade lies of assassins and spies everywhere rolled out of his mouth with enthusiasm and verve. In spite of being tired he kept his focus.
The truck driver enthused over his homeland and bemoaned the effects of the tourist industry with a careful ‘no offence meant’ thrown in.
Chapter 4
Duirnish Rail Station
7-30 a.m.
April 17th
Peter Mason, the first of the four illegal entrants to the country Michael Dewy had spotted, sat on a bench at Duirnish station. The station was a short damp walk from his arrival point on the shores of Loch Carron. He had a relatively short wait for his train, though the cold would make it seem longer. The train wasn’t due in until seven forty-one; they’d even had to ask for the train to stop there, as it was a request station, which Peter didn’t like; it felt like he was ‘lit up’. He could cope with the cold though. Six years in the army, three of those in the infantry and three in the SAS had given him layers of toughness that practically no environment could break through. The over work of infantry service in Afghanistan had led him to leave. He went into security work and got bored. Then he had gone ‘fre
elance’ as an assassin and had made good money and a polished reputation making tricky hits on both sides of the law. He had been contacted for this job three months ago. He had no idea who the mark was. All he knew was that the target would be revealed when he reached the contact point in London. Three words had been given for the contact point; ‘Priory Arms Vauxhall’. It didn’t give any indication of who was funding the job.
He sat on the bench, the vision of a travelling backpacker. He was a tall good looking man, dark hair and blue eyes. He’d not shaved and had let his usually neat hair become unkempt. He opened the worn rucksack and took out a flask and sandwiches. Breakfast was overdue and the swim had made him hungry. The train got into Inverness around ten a.m. and then he had some thinking to do.
Chapter 5
Plockton Marina
7-45 a.m.
April 17th
Charley Cobb, the ‘smoker’ whose match flare had alerted Dewey to the illegal entrants to the united Kingdom, took the boat keys from the Harbour master at Plockton harbour, an unhappy man for being dragged from his house all too early, but knowing that Cobb, or ‘Mr Jake Howard’ as Cobb had been ‘labelled’ for the mission, had money behind him and you didn’t turn that down these days.
They exchanged sea and boat related comments in a casual, small talk manner as they looked over the boat. It was a small ocean going cruiser, a little on the scruffy side, but suitable for the task. Cobb held his cover as an American tourist easily though in reality he was an ex Navy SEAL with a global criminal underworld reputation as an outstanding ‘hit man’. He had a stocky build and short cropped, blonde hair, dressed in the kind of all weather gear American tourists typically bought for such tourism.
Charley had done his homework and his paperwork for the boat and his ability to sail it into the ocean were impeccably faked. Everything had been brilliantly arranged and Charley thought that the influence behind this job was second to none. Even the fact that there were five of them, so that at least one would get through was pretty stunning. Even more stunning was the use of a British submarine and the fact that the Royal Navy captain had thought they were on a Navy exercise.
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