Inside the foyer there was a security desk from wall to wall. There was a gap to pass through to the building behind, but it wasn’t clear where it was unless you knew or were given the time to look, which you wouldn’t be if you weren’t meant to be there.
Behind the desk, some five metres, there was a wall set into which were two lifts. They didn’t work. Once inside one of the lifts you had to be let out. To the right of these red herring lifts there is a concealed door leading to a lobby behind the wall where there were stairs and four working Schindler lifts.
There were no signs or no indications of who or what was in the building and so innocuous was the whole set up that nobody ever asked. On rare occasions a tourist might wander in and security politely turned them away with directions.
Occasional people passing by accidentally went in and were redirected. On one infamous occasion security was breached and the lift was used. The breach was in 1974 when a CIA operative tried to penetrate the building using very good fake paperwork. Mild nerve gas was blown into the left hand lift, which he had entered thinking it real, after which he was taken to a hospital and thanks to the after effects of the gas couldn’t remember two days of his life, let alone the fact that it was a fake lift that he had tried to use.
David put his hand on the glass surface covering part of the front desk and passed the first part of the biometric security system. One security guard took his rucksack and the large holdall and passed it into a small side room where the hands of an unseen guard gripped both bags in one hand, with the ease of a very strong man, David noticed. The two security men manning the front of house were casual about their work in a way that only truly capable security operatives can be in as much as they exuded the quiet threat of dangerous potential. The desk gap opened up and McKie walked in through the hidden entrance in the back wall, opened by security. In the lobby behind the wall he used a retina scan to get into one of the real and working lifts. He’d have needed the same biometrics for the door on the stairs, had he a mind to walk up. The fact was he didn’t want to walk up, mostly because he had to see Jack Fulton and his office was thirty-one floors up. Jack Fulton was head of DIC.
DIC centre is thirty-six storeys high with a basement underneath. It’s a decent sized space and if you added up the number of household centres around the country the DIC organisation floor space would rival the Palace of Westminster and Buckingham Palace put together.
Below the techno roof of the building are five floors of overnight apartments with en suite bathrooms and central shared kitchens for the staff, including the active duty team.
Jack Fulton had his own rooms, but mucked in with his team in the kitchen. The floor below the overnight apartments was where McKie was headed; Fulton and his office staff worked there. The fifteen floors below that contain gathering centres. These are staffed night and day by two shifts of full time officers. There are computers for the collection of in bound material, website monitoring and recording radio newscasts and there are banks of TV screens with rolling news linked to digital recorders filling both floors. The six floors below that are duty team offices and the staff canteens. This seemingly odd combination puts the rotating staff in contact with the permanent staff regularly which is enough to build good relations and bond the teams. The six levels below these are technical support centres staffed by some of the best technicians the country can supply including the front CCTV firm people.
The first four floors house the vast computer system and a small armoury. McKie’s lift journey took him unseeing through the centre of this tightly packed and dynamic building.
The two week duty team rota is made up of DIC operatives aged twenty-five to forty-five. Each local area operative between those ages spends at least two weeks a year at the centre in London and should the need arise be ready to travel around the country to deal with any small or large problem highlighted by the intelligence sent in from the local area watchers. Some DIC operatives do up to three fortnight shifts a year at the centre depending on age and lifestyle. Other than that they work from home, most of the year.
Knowing that he was about to spend two weeks in the building McKie felt both excited and a little homesick about not being there in the evening to be with his family. He consoled himself that in the long run he’d be around his family a lot more as a result of the job.
The cold and warm air conditioning in the building was perfect and as a result a comfortable temperature greeted David as he exited the lift to be met by Jack Fulton.
Fulton had served his time as a DIC operative and passed the rigorous selection process to run the service after only five years in the job. He’d been top man for twenty years. Selected from the diplomatic branch of the civil service at twenty-five, a Cambridge graduate, he’d distinguished himself on two crucial occasions for the country, once in nineteen eighty five and once in nineteen eighty seven. The latter adventure had left him with a limp from a broken leg. A year later he was put in charge.
He had been a short and wiry young man, but the limp precluded exercise and he had at fifty acquired a rounder, though not fat, stature. Along with his physique, his white hair and short white beard gave him the appearance of a friendly and amiable teacher. His grey eyes though betrayed the chess playing genius and brilliant mind within and for a moment David recalled the image of a wolf in sheep’s clothing that had come to mind the first time he had met Jack Fulton.
A small dry hand firmly held his own large bony fingers and as an added gesture of welcome Jack placed his left hand warmly on top of their grip.
“So good to see you. You’re right on time. Is everything going well?”
David said that it was and Fulton guided him, hand on back towards an office, passing through his secretary’s ante chamber, he introduced her.
“This is Magda, Magda David. You’ll have read all about him no doubt.”
“White tea in the morning, no sugar, will you have some now?”
David was not taken aback. He had answered a ream of questions and been subsequently quizzed on all his answers several times as part of the selection procedure.
“That’ll be lovely thanks.”
Fulton gestured to a chair as he closed his office door, McKie sat and Fulton took his place across the desk.
“I had the report from Lympstone. You’re quite an athlete. The unarmed combat instructor said you were flexible and in some ways fairly unstoppable and the firearms instructors said you had good eyes and steady hands. Quite a shot by all accounts, but I want you to know now that though the unarmed combat and firearms training is essential it’s rare, sometimes unheard of for an operative of DIC to need it. No it’s the observation, the fast mental processing, the image and detail recall and the thinking skills that mark you and all our DIC people as a force to be reckoned with.”
“Brains not brawn I know.”
“Quite right, though you appear to have an ample supply of both. I’m very pleased David, very pleased to have you on our team.”
“Thank you. I’m delighted to have got on the team.”
“Good. Well we’ll wait for Magda with the tea. Whilst we do I’ll go through the building layout, procedures and other useful information.”
Fulton drew out no papers, gave out no hand book and didn’t give David paper or pencil. He reeled out a stream of information and David listened and mentally stored it for immediate recall. Tea came half way through and they both ignored it until Fulton was done. Finally they both sipped their tea.
“Any questions?”
“No that all seems clear.”
“Good. Then finish that tea and give me a tour of the building.”
“Give you a tour?”
“Little test of our brain training eh?”
“Right sir.”
“It’s not the army David, you call me Jack.”
“Sure enough”
They got up.
“Where do we start?”
“At the top Jack, I’d like to
see if you’ve put my luggage in the right room. You did say room six didn’t you?”
Jack smiled.
“Lead on David, lead on.”
Chapter 14
London
Hampstead
9 a.m.
April 17th
A golden haired nine year old boy, with a freshly scrubbed face presented himself at the door of what was a very austere dining room. He was followed by a golden haired girl, half a foot shorter, with the neatest of pigtails. They were both dressed in green uniforms. The boy was dressed in a crisp white shirt and green and yellow striped tie, green shorts and the girl was dressed in a green check cotton dress; both were holding straw hats in front of them.
A door chime sounded down the hall and a slim yet motherly blonde woman appeared flustered behind the children. Across a dining table strewn with the remnants of breakfast a severe man in his early forties, dressed in a black three piece suit, pale blue shirt and deep blue tie, lowered a tabloid Times.
The serious face with heavy lidded eyes and thin lips creased into a warm smile. Nigel Sternway removed his reading glasses.
“Aha Summer uniforms so it’s April already.”
He beckoned the children to him and kissed them. As they left the room, waving, a tall thin man stopped and let them pass.
“You’re early Joe” Mrs Sternway frowned watching her children exit the room.
She disliked her husband’s employees coming to the house. Joe was Nigel’s number two and drove him around. She disliked Joe. He was grey and pale. He had x-ray eyes. He was tall and thin. He always wore a dark blue suit and a light blue tie, and oddly, she had noticed, that he wore brown boots, the walking kind. He was thin, but he had a wiry quality. She felt him to be like snake, long and thin, with coiled, poisonous potential within the thin frame. Della Sternway hated her husband’s work.
When Joe nodded and offered a weak and ineffective smile she happily followed the golden children, heading for the school run.
“Morning Joe.” Sternway’s smile for his children slipped suddenly from his face.
Joe closed the dining room door.
“Sir. The sub dropped them this morning. They should be heading this way.”
“Good. We’ll see which one gets through then.” Sternway precisely folded his reading glasses, encased them and slipped them into his jacket top pocket.
“If any DIC 's record on malicious intruders is ten to nothing so far.”
“See they do have their uses. You sure this will work?”
“It’s as good a way as any. These men are the best and one should get through and if they don’t we’ll know it can’t be done.”
Sternway looked at his watch.
“Just before nine, a couple of them at least should be in Inverness by now. When we get to the office send Bentall to you know who to have the conversation. Tell him the game’s afoot, oh and he’s to leave the contact package with him.”
They left the house, Joe in front, opening the door of the black Jaguar for Sternway. Once in the driver’s seat, Joe took his revolver out from under it and slipped it into his holster. Della’s rule on guns in the house made him uncomfortable. Joe wondered why she hadn’t become used to such ideas after ten years of marriage to a member of the British Secret Service.
Sternway ran the ‘dirty work’ section at the secret service and the contradiction of Sternway’s warm family life and cold blooded working day reminded Joe of the poem Vultures, by Chinua Achebe. He glanced in the mirror at Sternway’s ‘cold telescopic eyes’.
Chapter 15
Inverness Airport
9- 20 a.m.
April 17th
At Inverness Airport with his coffee and breakfast finished Spencer went to book a flight to Gatwick. He had decided that DIC or not the quicker he moved the better.
Chance was against him though. At the small Flybe desk he found himself embarrassed by the failure of the fake Visa card. There was a seat on the flight, but it wasn’t his for the taking.
He walked out of the airport in a foul mood. The April drizzle might have cooled his hot head, but its niggling needle like drops only increased his annoyance. He checked the thin black wallet for cash and cursed the expensive breakfast, newspaper and coffee for taking nearly ten pounds of the thirty cash they had been given.
The flight was twelve pounds, but the surcharge and taxes took the price up to twenty four. He didn’t have the money for the flight. He wondered why they had been given so little cash and then became angry when he realised that the organisers had assumed that the credit card would work. His didn’t and he had no way to contact then to get it sorted.
He stood briefly in the rain, exasperated, wondering what to do when a taxi stopped in front of him.
“Going into the city my friend?”
The pale, podgy, pudding faced taxi driver called from his open window.
Marco Spencer smiled, but his eyes were predatory and his mind made up. Well he wanted the million. The man looked close to a coronary anyway.
“Sure. I need to go to…” He let it trail off.
“Yeah?” The taxi driver was tired.
It was the end of his night shift and he’d done extra hours; too many really. His last fare had taken him to the airport, so in greed he was looking for a fare to take back, so as not to waste the drive; it would be the last of his shift.
“It’s an address on the east side of the city.”
Marco got in.
“I’ll need better than that.”
“Have you got a map?”
The driver ‘tutted’.
“Sorry friend. There’s a twenty in it if you help me.”
Enthused at least a little by the promise of extra cash the driver got out a map. Spencer made a play of forgetting the exact address and by the time he’d looked at the map he had picked his spot.
“The business man I’m meeting lives on the front, just off the 96 on the way to Milton of Culloden.”
“Sure enough, but it’s gonna cost ya.”
“That’s fine.” The taxi driver took in the long black cashmere coat and smart look of his fare. He thought that the money was there alright.
The taxi driver swung the car around and pulled onto the road thinking he’d soon be at the end of his shift.
In the back, under cover of his smart black coat, Marco pulled the famously silent Russian PSS pistol out of his inside pocket and released the safety catch.
The taxi driver tried to make conversation, but Spencer’s short replies soon put him off. Spencer and his pale, unhealthy taxi driver drove pretty much right around the outskirts of the city and then drove along the ninety six A road in silence. Finally the car turned onto the road by the Moray Firth coastline. Spencer’s pulse quickened and his eyes hardened.
“You sure this is right no?” The taxi driver looked anxiously in the mirror.
Spencer checked for witnesses and there were none. It was a thick drizzle that would keep even the most ardent dog walkers and joggers away from the stretch of coastal roadway.
“I said…”
The PSS round passed through the sweat impregnated foam where the base of the podgy driver’s neck rested. The bullet passed through the seat, the man’s spine at the base of his skull and lodged in the grimy ceiling covering, above the sun visor. The man arched his back briefly, but suddenly becoming instantly quadriplegic he lost control of his limbs and his lower body. The driver was about to fall forward onto the car horn when Spencer’s hand grabbed the hair at the back of the man’s head. Spencer twisted the head into the gap between the seats; the driver’s eyes were wild with fear and desperate with the need to scream as Spencer held the pistol muzzle to the left eye and squeezed. A black hole replaced the bloodily disintegrated eye and the light in the right eye went out as skull, brain matter and blood spattered the passenger seat, the bullet passing through head and seat, ripping and tearing, finally lodging in the metal frame of the seat.
Spence
r had killed innocent people to keep cover and killed for money, but this was a little different and Marco felt it to be so. He felt he’d crossed a line. In his work it was often kill or be killed, but the only danger from the man was second hand smoke fumes. The driver wouldn’t have the kind of money on him that Spencer got for contracts, but he needed the money to move on. He steeled himself and thought of the million waiting. Enough to retire on he knew well enough.
The shame for the driver was that a simple mugging was out of the question as Marco couldn’t leave a witness to identify him.
With brutal efficiency Spencer bundled the body into the boot of the taxi, having taken the jack out and lifted nearly a hundred and fifty pounds in notes and change from the man’s pockets. Spencer also took all that could identify the man quickly.
He knew the man had radioed in their trip from the airport to the coast. He sat in the driver’s seat practised a rough version of the driver’s voice. Then as quickly as possible called in
“Two – zero d. o Highland”
A voice crackled back.
“Okay Tommy, now away home to your bed.”
A quick “Aye” and the job was finished.
Spencer once again stood in the slashing, drizzling rain. He put his briefcase and long black coat down by the road. He turned the car to face the sea. There was no sea wall, just the pavement and beyond that a pebbly slope down to the choppy waters.
Spencer got out leaving the engine running; he jammed the accelerator down with the jack, popped it into gear, stepped back and watched the car high rev off the road, in first gear, into the Moray Firth. At this point on the coast the shelf was shallow enough for the car to roll a good distance under water and be hidden for some time.
Spencer dusted himself off, put on his now much damper cashmere coat, plucked his briefcase from a puddle and drizzle spattered headed back into Inverness. He decided to walk back, there’d be no witnesses to his return from that area and now he had transit money. He decided against the plane as he’d be linked to the driver at the airport. No he’d get the night train down to London. Even though he was wet and cold he thought with joy of a sleeper berth, a restaurant car and a hot meal. It was getting on for ten in the morning and he knew he had to find a quiet place to spend the day before buying his train ticket.
To Kill Or Be Killed Page 3