by Tom Benson
In the woodland, five hundred metres above the group of criminals, two men were lying prone, observing the scene with high-powered field glasses.
Dave Carter didn’t take the binoculars from his eyes. “I’m sure I recognise one of them, Phil.” He adjusted the focus. “The bloke with the dark hair, and suntan is the duly elected, Right Honourable Lawrence Metcalfe, Member of Parliament for Chatham in Kent.”
“Are you certain, mate?”
“Yes, unless he has a twin.” Dave lowered the binoculars, and turned to Phil. “Until recently, Metcalfe was the British Ambassador to Kentobi, Africa.”
Phil focused on the group below. “It explains the bloody constant suntan in photos.”
“He was one of the two guys in suits at the Mowhandi airfield—the day you were arrested.”
27. Codes and Caring
.
Friday 26th July
In the forest, on the Braes of Balquhidder, Phil and Dave had set up an observation post. Down the hill and across their front view stretched the beauty of Loch Voil. To the eastern tip of the loch was the picturesque hamlet of Balquhidder.
The target was the mansion below them on the edge of the forest. When Dave had pulled into a local filling station earlier, he found out the big house was locally referred to as Hartley Manor. It had a driveway which stretched three hundred metres, leading from the narrow road which cut through the local countryside.
The mansion was built on the forward edge of the forest, facing the valley. To the front of the building was an ornamental garden, and to the rear were; a tennis court, a large garage to hold several cars and a stable for four horses. A paddock was adjacent to the stable and bordered a stretch of the forestry.
“Crime doesn’t pay,” Dave had said when he first saw the layout. “What a load of bollocks.”
The two men had arrived in the area with Phil’s two vans. They parked the white Transit among trees off a forest track and used the recently sprayed black vehicle for driving around the area. It took an hour to gauge from the ground and maps, which area of forest would suit their needs. They emptied equipment from the black van and parked it closer than the white one, similarly among trees off a forest track.
“Like old times,” Phil said as they set up camouflage netting.
“It might be like old times for you,” Dave said and laughed. “It’s my fucking job. I’m off to Colombia in two weeks.”
“I wish I could be going with you.”
“I don’t know,” Dave said. “I reckon this is a good follow up to The Regiment.”
“This project of mine might be temporary, mate.”
“Well, if it didn’t continue, you’ve teamed up with Annabel. She’s classy.”
Phil didn’t respond but continued setting up.
“Phil,” Dave said and turned. “Please tell me you two are an item.”
“We work together,” Phil smiled. “We don’t—”
“I don’t know if I want to share a fucking OP with you,” Dave said and laughed. He reached down. “I’ll check my trousers are on securely.” A hand slapped the back of his head. Dave grinned and mimicked Phil. “We work together.” He laughed when he got another slap.
An overhead shelter wasn’t required, because the weather forecast promised warm, dry conditions for the weekend. Phil had shielded the tiny camping stove by digging a shallow hole. He poured a strong coffee into a black plastic mug for them to share.
Dave said, “This is a five-star OP.” He accepted the mug. “It’s usually cold drinks, pissing in a petrol can, and shitting in a plastic bag.”
“Don’t worry, mate,” Phil said. “You’ll be back to hard routines when you’re in Colombia.” He laughed and passed over three cereal bars.
Dave slipped two bars into the top pocket of his combat smock and unwrapped one. He wasn’t going anywhere yet, but through force of habit and training—he took the opportunity of a bite and a drink. He didn’t leave anything lying around. When you move in a hurry—you don’t fuck around picking things up.
Like Dave, Phil was wearing a lightweight smock and green denim. He was wearing his webbed shoulder holster containing the Sig Sauer automatic, and in a thigh harness, his hunting knife. His purpose was close ‘recce’, which meant no killing, but he liked to be prepared.
“Noise?” Phil asked, and jumped up and down on the spot several times. Nothing.
“You’re good, mate,” Dave said and checked his watch. “Two hours until dusk. Good hunting.”
Phil accepted the black mug and slurped coffee. He handed back the mug, touched Dave’s shoulder, and five seconds later was at one with the forest. Dave looked to the right and left. Phil had disappeared like a wraith.
“You’ve still got it, mate,” Dave whispered to empty space where Phil had been.
Phil reached the outbuildings of the mansion below. He had moved through the woodland with the stealth of a wild predator and felt fresh when he reached the edge of the tree line. He was heading to check out the stables but saw a door opening at the back of the house. Hartley and Flannigan stepped outside.
Phil fought his inner rage with every fibre of his being. He had an overwhelming urge to race across the courtyard and cut out both of their hearts. As he’d done on many previous occasions, he reminded himself to consider the big picture.
The desire to kill had never been as great, or as personal. He moved silently along the inside edge of the trees until two metres from the large garage. Phil strained to hear the conversation between the two men, but a dog barked nearby. There had been no sign of dogs.
Flannigan said, “I’ll be leaving with her in the morning ...” The dog barked several times. “... but don’t worry. I won’t leave a trace.”
Hartley said, “This is going to be the big one ...” The dog barked. “... make sure you are on schedule.”
“I’ll finish what I’m doing, and set sail at mid-day.” Flannigan laughed as he went into the garage. He emerged slowly in his silver Land Rover Discovery and waved from the open driver’s window.
A sentry in a white shirt and black trousers walked over to the garage and whispered to Hartley. The two men waved to Flannigan as he drove off. Hartley turned and surveyed the mass of the forest. His sentry was doing likewise, his hand on the pistol grip of his holstered automatic. Hartley nodded, and both men went back inside.
Annabel dressed in a close-fitting tracksuit. It was comfortable clothing for her long drive. She would travel up past Loch Lomond, and Oban. An abundance of inlets were situated along the coastline opposite the Island of Mull, but she’d worked out the co-ordinates pencilled onto Flannigan’s large map. She prepared specific equipment for her task and was considering extras when her phone buzzed.
“Hi, Rachel—”
One minute later, Annabel was in her car, and on her way to Scotstoun.
Rachel was standing at the front door when Annabel parked, after a short, but fast journey. The pair went to the dining room where a map was spread on the table. A notepad, pen and a photograph were set on the middle of the map where Rachel had been brainstorming.
Annabel handed over the photographs she’d been asked to bring, accepted a coffee, and surveyed the items on the table. She pulled up a chair.
“Okay my girl, let’s hear it.”
“When you gave me the piece of paper this morning, I didn’t realise what it was. It was after you’d dropped me off; I looked at it properly. It was a copy of one of Flannigan’s logbook pages.”
“I explained at the briefing—”
“I’m sorry. You would have done, but I must have been more tired than I thought. I glanced at the note when I got home. I sat down and slept for four hours, but I woke up alert.”
“What did you find?”
“The letter ‘E’ is what I found,” Rachel said. “It helped me break the code.”
“You broke Flannigan’s logbook code? Are you kidding?.”
“After my rest, I had a fresh look at the
page. The letter ‘E’ is the most often used in English, and it doesn’t matter which way you code with letters, it will help lead you in.”
“Are you able to decipher Flannigan’s entries?”
“Yes, and to explain this to you will be easy. One of the most secure codes is to use a novel or textbook. The sender and recipient have the same book. They use page numbers, paragraphs, number of words in a line, etc.”
“Yes,” Annabel said. “I understand, but the people involved must have the same edition, because otherwise one word, paragraph, or page out of sequence—and it doesn’t work.”
“Correct,” Rachel said. “Next, we have the simplest form of alphabetic code.”
Annabel sipped her coffee.
“Reverse alphabet,” Rachel said. “We should remember Flannigan isn’t the brightest pebble on the beach. He’s just a sailor with a perverted mind.” Rachel wrote ‘ZMMZYVO’ on her pad. “What do you think this means?”
“Tell me.”
Rachel spelt out the letters. “A-N-N-A-B-E-L.” She turned over the top sheet of the pad. Along the top, she had printed the alphabet and directly underneath, the alphabet in reverse.
“Rachel, I could kiss you.”
“What have I told you about teasing?” They both laughed.
The pair worked rapidly with the photographed pages of Flannigan’s logbook.
Annabel stopped writing. “What’s today’s date?”
“Friday, 26th July 1996. What are you thinking?”
Annabel shuffled through the photographs. “We should check entries which are effective now for anything relevant.”
“Here we are.” Rachel lifted two photographs. “You read them, and I’ll write it out.”
“Okay, let’s go.”
For five minutes, the pair worked together, rapidly. Rachel finished writing and passed over the pad.
Annabel read aloud. “Party-time at Hartley Manor. A boy for Bobby. A girl for me. A deal for Metcalfe. A million for Billy. The Hawk gets plucked and fucked. Long live Special Forces.”
“Annabel. I don’t like it, and it sounds scary.”
“Let’s take a line at a time.” Annabel paused. “The party-time at Hartley Manor must be a meeting. I don’t think it means an actual party, but it could.”
“Who is Bobby?”
“Chief Constable Davenport - his name is Robert, maybe known as Bobby.”
“A boy for Bobby ... sick bastard,” Rachel said.
“Flannigan is the other sick bastard.”
“If Bobby is Robert, Billy must be William Hartley,” Rachel said.
“Agreed ... Metcalfe is the odd one. I recall the name from somewhere.”
“If he’s associating with these others, he’s up to no good.”
“I don’t like the mention of Hawk in here ... and Special Forces.”
“Could they know if he’s ex-Special Forces?”
“He was Special Forces, Rachel,” Annabel said. “I reckon they’re counting on him finding Hartley’s place. I believe they’re going to let him get in and ambush him.”
“He’s a tactician,” Rachel said. “He would see through a ploy to entice him.”
“I have a horrible feeling he’s fired up about something.” Annabel nodded and turned to her friend. “Remember how distant he was during the end of the briefing? He could be dealing with things we don’t understand.”
“Annabel. Who could take down Hawk?”
“His own kind,” Annabel said in a flat tone. “Fight fire with fire—hire ex-Special Forces.”
“It means the reference to Special Forces isn’t Hawk, it’s the bastards they’ve hired to capture him. or kill him?” Rachel stared at Annabel. “Surely they wouldn’t kill one of their own?”
“Hawk’s gone up the chain of command of the bad guys, and either killed them or put them out of action. Hartley must know he’s next. He’ll pay any amount.”
“Why would the Chief Constable be in on it?”
“It could be several reasons. Hartley might want him there to make sure his own arse is covered, or Davenport feels safer with the crooks because he’s involved.”
“I feel fucking helpless,” Rachel said. “What do we do next?”
“The first thing is read more of these bloody pages to find clues.”
It took another twenty minutes to decipher the remaining pages Annabel had photographed. One had significance—Saturday, 27th July 1996.
“Off to sea today.” Annabel read aloud. “Hope to hear Hawk has been captured.” She stood and looked down at the information spread on the table.
Rachel stood, hovering between rage and tears. “Are we going to lose him, Annabel?”
In all the action, since Rachel first saw a man being shot, nothing had fazed the girl. Annabel held her arms out, Rachel fell into them, and they embraced.
Annabel held Rachel tight and spoke close to her ear. “Our Hawk is going to be alright Rachel. Trust me. I’ll have to go now to make some preparations, but I need you on standby.”
“Do you know where Hartley lives?”
“Yes. I got a brief text from our leader earlier, but it was enough.”
“Is it going to go pear-shaped?”
“It’s going to go fucking pear-shaped alright—but not for our man.” She kissed Rachel on the forehead. “Don’t worry.” Annabel turned and murmured. “I owe him.”
“I’ll keep my leathers handy.”
“Good girl. If I haven’t got back in touch by breakfast time, call Jake and get him on standby. Make sure he’s ready for you to pick up.”
“We’ll both be ready. Count on it.”
When Hartley and the sentry went inside and closed the door, Phil crept around the side of the garage, and back within the tree line. From there, he observed the house.
No CCTV cameras stuck out at awkward angles, which meant Hartley had a soft spot for the architecture. There had been no sign of passive infra-red equipment in the woods, but it would be foolish. The place would be full of wildlife. Security was guards and dogs.
It took two minutes for Phil to gain entry to the large garage, which appeared to be a converted coach repair and blacksmith’s building. A few of the old tools hung from the walls. In keeping with the rest of the architecture, the outside looked as it did two hundred years before, but the inside was fitted with sockets and a heating system. Lined up were the two Lexus cars which belonged to Hartley, a BMW complete with a rental sticker in rear window, a Ferrari and a Bentley.
The BMW would be Davenport’s because he wouldn’t want his personal car registration being seen by local traffic cameras. The Ferrari would belong to Metcalfe, judging by the personalised plate, and the Bentley would be another of Hartley’s cars.
Phil left the garage, went back among the trees, and crept along to the stables. This was another building which was outwardly two centuries old but was warm and cosy for the four fine racehorses. A livery room was situated at one end, and electrics had been fitted throughout. Several military folding cots were stacked at one end.
When he left the stables, Phil made his way to the side of the mansion by using the natural cover of the ornamental garden. He reached the wall, and drew his knife, preferring to deal instant, but silent death if he faced an opponent. Stealth was the key.
Laughter and voices were clear as Phil moved around to the front of the house with his back against the cold granite of the wall. He turned and looked up to see one open window. It was a dining room or an after-dinner lounge. Smoke drifted from the window, and the aroma indicated at least one of the company enjoyed marijuana.
Phil stood, back to the wall, under the open window, and listened.
A Glasgow man said, “If you want to get your head down early Bobby, there’s a nice surprise for you in your bedroom.”
A softly-spoken man said, “You know I hate surprises.”
“Calm yourself, Bobby,” the man said. Your surprise is twenty-five years old, and he has a fine physiqu
e. Now, go upstairs and enjoy.”
A door closed and the remaining men laughed. Their voices became louder, and it was clear they were standing near the open window.
Phil pulled out the phone he’d taken from Simpson, the loan shark in Drumchapel. He scrolled to the mysterious contact ‘The Boss’, and pressed the call button.
A mobile phone chimed clearly in the room above. The Glasgow man’s voice was loud and clear. “How can Archie Simpson be calling me—he’s fucking dead?”
Below the window, against the wall, Phil switched off the phone and put it away.
“What the fuck is going on with Simpson’s phone?” ‘The Boss’ said.
“Forget the dead man, William,” a Londoner said. “What are we doing about Davenport?” The Londoner had to be Metcalfe, the politician. He had the tone of someone with proper education, but importantly, he’d confirmed ‘The Boss’ was William Hartley.
“Don’t worry about Bobby,” Hartley said. “He’ll have an accident soon. He likes his gambling, but it’s his love of boys and young men which will finish him.”
“You sound sure,” Metcalfe said.
“A suicide note with both bodies in a car will be enough. It’s all in hand.”
“Is Flannigan reliable?”
“Yes,” Hartley said. “Jimmy would do anything for us. As long he has a girl to keep him amused. He’s a sick bastard, but good smugglers are hard to come by.”
“I’m concerned your guys haven’t found this Hawk character,” Metcalfe said.
“You’re not as bloody concerned as me,” another man said, his voice becoming louder as he approached the others. The tone suggested another well-educated person.
“What’s wrong, Kevin?” Hartley asked.
“I’ve had a call from one of my people,” MacDonald said. “The leak from the air-conditioning unit was no fucking accident. We had somebody in the attic last night, or recently.”
“Kevin, you worry too much,” Hartley said and laughed. “By tomorrow morning, our fine, feathered friend, Mr Hawk will be caught. Fuck it—you can help with the interrogation.”