by Tom Benson
“Are we ready for the ceremony?” The question was rhetorical and came from Fitzpatrick, who was approaching from behind the others. His voice and manner were as jovial as if he were about to give a speech at a wedding. “Right,” Fitzpatrick continued. “We have a congregation, two bodies, two caskets, a hole in the ground, and a lot of fucking anger for burial.”
Simpson turned. “Who’s first in, Boss?”
“Put the fucking slut in first Norrie, face up.”
Two of the sentries lifted the clear lid from a casket and stood aside. It was then that a series of holes were visible on the cover and the sides.
Simpson started to lift the woman from where she’d been dumped on the ground. She found a surge of energy and attempted to scratch the big man’s face while screaming. Simpson gave her a hard slap across her battered face, and she fell. He lifted her and dropped her like a rag doll, flat on her back into the open casket. A dull thud came from the container.
The two men with the lid placed it neatly on top and secured the corners. Within seconds, the woman once again realised her predicament and began banging on the inside of the cover. Muffled screams came from within as the casket was lifted on broad straps, and lowered into the freshly prepared hole.
Fitzpatrick said, “I wouldn’t want you to suffocate down there too quickly, my little whore.” He picked up a long clear tube and inserted one end down into a hole in the lid of the clear casket. Fitzpatrick lifted and inserted a second tube down into the coffin.
The second box, minus lid, was placed on top of the one containing Helen Fitzpatrick. There was a slight adjustment of the second case to allow the long clear acrylic straws to reach beyond the surrounding surface.
“Next,” Fitzpatrick said in a humorous tone. He turned to watch the naked man being dragged across to the casket in the hole. “Hold his head up.”
Henderson lifted the condemned man’s head by the hair. The eyes were like bluish-purple tennis balls, and blood poured from one ear, his nose and his mouth.
“Look at me you fat bastard,” Fitzpatrick said. When the broken man’s head wobbled around, Fitzpatrick nodded to Henderson, who pulled on a handful of hair to lift the prisoner’s head higher. Fitzpatrick kicked him in the face. There was a crunch as the cheekbone fractured.
“Put him in face down,” Fitzpatrick said. “I want them to look at each other.”
The Colonel was dragged forward and unceremoniously dumped face first into his glass coffin. Apart from his large body thudding as it landed in the casket, he made no noise. His head and arms moved a little, as he fell forward, as if in final silent protest, or to communicate with his ex-lover. Nobody would ever know. The lid went on the casket.
Fitzpatrick lifted two more long clear tubes, which weren’t quite as long as the first pair. He inserted them into the top casket, and when content the job was done, he stepped back. He looked around with a grim expression at the men who had taken part.
He said, “Arseholes to ashes, bodies to dust. God help those who betray my trust.”
One of the men who had been digging stepped forward and withdrew his pistol from his shoulder holster. He aimed into the grave, but Fitzpatrick placed a hand on the man’s arm.
“Did anybody tell you to use that?”
“No, Mr F, but—”
“Put it away, or you’ll be fucking joining them.” The gun returned to the holster—quickly.
Fitzpatrick nodded to the grave-diggers, and then he stood with the group and watched as the hole was filled in. Spade after spade of earth reduced the muffled sounds until there was silence.
The excess earth was spread around with the spades. The neatly cut turf was rolled forward over the earth and pressed by many feet. It would take some days for the ground to settle, but in the meantime, four short pieces of glass tube protruded a few centimetres clear of the mound of turf.
Jake waited until the burial party had all gone indoors before he called Phil to brief him of this latest atrocity. Not for the first time, Jake had an urge to countermand orders, but anything he attempted would have been a token humanitarian gesture. He knew when to get involved, and when to hold back.
.
The Cuillin Hills, Isle of Skye
Western Scotland
“Hullo, Romeo this is Sinbad, possible incomin’, over.”
Rachel leant against the rocks and lifted her handset. “Romeo, now in sight, over.”
“Sinbad, confirm when she departs, over,”
“Romeo, wilco, out.” Rachel lifted her binoculars and was able to pick out the boat from the handful that sat in the water a few miles from the coast.
The small blue vessel approached the coast. When other boats approached the coastline, they did so in a steady movement, but this particular craft was holding back. A white van appeared near the mooring area and was driven up close to the loading area. The blue fishing boat then came in with some urgency.
Rachel zoomed in with her binoculars. Peter Henderson wasn’t there, but it was his co-driver with a different man. A large bag was handed over to the boat’s skipper. He rested it on the deck, checked the contents, and then nodded to his crew.
The consignment of crates was transferred from boat to van in twenty minutes. The back doors of the van had barely closed when the small boat left the mooring. There was to be no shore leave on this trip.
When the van drove out of sight towards the main road, Rachel focused her bino’s on the boat’s prow. “Blue Lady,” Rachel whispered and then zoomed in on the stern as the boat turned away from the tiny port. “Registered in—Puerto Rico.”
Rachel wrote the details on a fresh page of her notebook, along with the date, time, location, and direction of travel. It was the same vessel that had delivered the previous consignment. That small vessel had not been to South America and back again in twenty-four hours.
“Hullo Sinbad, this is Romeo, over.”
“Sinbad send, over.”
“Romeo. Same lady. Same port, and the same cargo. The vessel is not returning to sea, but navigating south close to the coastline, over.”
“Sinbad, roger. I will observe but report only to Zero until told otherwise.”
“Romeo, good hunting, and take care, over.”
“Sinbad, you too, out.” He used the appropriate ending to terminate the call—he had a boat to shadow.
During their time together in the waters off the coast, Mike and Sinbad enjoyed several conversations about hair-raising things they’d done, and the exchange was good for Sinbad because he felt able to open up for the first time.
He told Mike how much he’d enjoyed the life in the navy, but he tended to drink too much and end up in fights. On several occasions, he found himself in jail, but one night he broke an officer’s jaw, and it ended his time in the Royal Navy. He’d always blamed his failed career on the establishment, but had finally come to realise it was his fault.
Knowing that he was a fellow biker, Mike suggested a part-time position at his sales and repair place in Glasgow’s east end. Sinbad thanked him and said he’d think about it, but within an hour had accepted.
Rachel packed her gear, de-camouflaged her bike and prepared to hit the road. “Hullo Zero this is Romeo, leaving location now, over.”
“Zero roger, out.” Phil acknowledged.
Rachel climbed onto her Kawasaki. It was easier to leave by riding her bike because she was able to see the terrain. It took fifteen minutes because she couldn’t afford to accidentally fly off one of the small ridges.
Once on the minor track that led to Glenbrittle, Rachel was comfortable with an even, smooth surface under her tyres. She cruised slowly from Glenbrittle to Sconset, as if trotting a favourite horse. The warmed tyres screeched on the tarmac of the regular road surface when Rachel gave a flick of her wrist. She luxuriated in the surge of power between her legs and took her powerful steed to a gallop. Travelling at speed on the road was her natural environment.
.
B
raemar, Grampian Mountains
Scotland
After breakfast, Eva went back to her room. A note had been slipped under the door.
‘Everything is moving forward. The danger has increased. My room at 9 am. P.’
She changed into her training outfit and packed the remainder of her belongings. Even with the little she knew, it didn’t look as if her stay would continue beyond lunchtime.
By 9:15 am, Eva had heard how the operation had changed and how things might be played out. Covert operations were only glamorous in movies or books. As if to reinforce the idea, the body count was going to increase. The indications were there.
“What do you need me to do?” Eva asked. She held her coffee in both hands. She was receiving a briefing from the man whom Annabel assured her would always offer an opt-out clause before allocating a dangerous task.
Phil said, “Ideally, before entry into any hostile building, I’d like the team to know their target. To go in blind, means it’s not going to be a good day at the office.”
Eva’s brow furrowed. “I’ve only seen the place from the outside.”
“I know,” Phil reassured her. “I don’t expect you to do any more unless you can handle it. Something came to my notice in the wee small hours of the morning.” He sipped his coffee. “As you know from our brief chat last night, apart from Jake being in the woods, we have Ian on a hill overlooking the entire location around the castle.”
“Has Ian seen something important?”
“When you consider his OP, he spotted something significant. He saw the big guy with the bald head, Simpson, returning to his lair.” He didn’t come down the track but appeared from within the trees nearby.
Eva nodded, and her eyes danced over Phil’s features. She took in every word.
Phil continued. “Simpson went upstairs into his gatehouse and switched on a light, but he did it before pulling the curtains. In the few seconds Ian had, he focused his binoculars on the room. He saw what looked like a bank of monitors.”
Eva nodded. “So, the security room for the main building might be remotely operated by the gatehouse.”
“Yes,” Phil said. “to retain overall control, I can’t go in there, although it would be my preferred option. The main team members are all committed.”
“I’ll go in,” Eva said. “Just tell me when and what you need me to do.”
“If you do, it places you in a similar situation to whoever has to enter the castle.”
“I have to prove myself,” Eva said. “I won’t let you down.”
Phil didn’t smile but nodded his appreciation. “From the reports you, Jake and Ian have made, it sounds like Simpson only goes to the gatehouse to sleep, so I believe he has most of his meals in the main building. I don’t want you to take any chances with him.”
“Are you sanctioning me to kill him?”
“I’m telling you if you end up in the same room as him; it’ll be him or you.” He maintained eye contact. “Which sort of weapon are you carrying?”
“I have a Walther PPK.”
“Have you used a Browning 9mm before?”
“Yes, I know it has stopping power, but it would be my second choice.”
Phil reached into the holdall sitting on his bed. He lifted out a Browning, released the magazine, pulled back the breech slide to show Eva that the chamber was empty, and then slipped a finger inside the pistol grip to squeeze off the action. He clipped the loaded magazine back into the pistol grip and held the barrel to hand the weapon to Eva.
Eva accepted the handgun, hefted it in her hand a couple of times, feeling the extra weight. She released and reloaded the magazine and then placed the gun in her shoulder bag. She accepted a loaded spare magazine, and it too went into her bag.
“If it’s okay,” Eva said. “I’ll take it as a backup.”
Phil said, “Don’t be afraid of killing him, Eva, but do be afraid of not killing him.”
“I understand.” The pair synchronised watches; Eva lifted the video phone Phil had supplied. She checked the controls and was content she’d used something similar. She headed to the door and stopped. “Thank you for giving me this chance, Phil.”
Phil nodded and watched the door close. “Thank me if you survive,” he murmured.
36. White Van Men
Charlie Dawes and Richie Linwood were the two men teamed up to deal with the third consignment. Both were big, muscular thirty-five-year-old men, who had between them murdered five men and two women. Fitzpatrick had briefed them separately himself, to create the desired effect.
He ensured they were both armed before they set off, and told them individually, that if anything happened to his money or his goods, he would personally skin the survivor alive. ‘You guard my cash and my merchandise with your life.’
Linwood had driven the van from Braemar to Glenbrittle, so it was agreed that Dawes would drive it back to Braemar once they had the cargo. The pair would be paid handsomely for what was a simple task.
They were to drive an empty van to the Isle of Skye, hand over a padlocked bag, load the van with antiquities and drive back to Braemar. Successful completion meant a substantial cash payment and a possible job on Fitzpatrick’s payroll. Dawes had already completed the route so was happy.
Linwood reported their location at various points as they reached them on the return journey. On the way out to the coast the two men had used the route that Fitzpatrick had given them, but there had been no need to report their progress, with an empty van.
Dawes realised that the route had remained the same, but he recalled that Fitzpatrick said to be wary. The outward journey had taken them around the southern part of the Cairngorms, and both men had noticed dubious looking bikers at a variety of places.
These were not the regular brightly-clad type of riders, heading for a peaceful rally. They looked mean and wore the club colours of an organised outlaw gang. At each junction, the bikers had made it evident that they were eyeing up the white van. They also had eyed-up the van that had gone past just before the white one.
On the return journey as the van approached a junction, a group of six outlaw bikers were pulled up at the roadside.
Linwood called for instructions. “Mr F, there are a bunch of them fuckin’ bikers sat on the junction up ahead of us at Drumgask. It looks suspicious.” He listened to a short response and then replied. “Yeah, we could have a shoot-out with them if they come near us, but there are at least six of the fuckers, and we won’t win if they’re armed.” He received instructions.
Dawes was glancing at his companion as he maintained speed. “What’s happening?”
“Take the left at the junction, Charlie,” Linwood said. “We’re to take the north route to avoid any chance of a quarrel with those hairy fuckin’ nutters.”
“They don’t know what we’re carryin’, so why would they be interested?”
“It’s a fuckin’ van Charlie, and it might contain somethin’ they can sell or trade,” Linwood said. “Didn’t you see them checkin’ out the van in front of us at the junction?”
“I didn’t notice because I was watchin’ the traffic.”
Linwood leant forward to check the nearside mirror. “Those fuckers are eyein’ up everythin’ on the road.”
“What happens if they try to tackle us?”
“You stop the van, and we start toppin’ the bastards mate. We fuckin’ shoot them.”
“Yeah,” Dawes said. “I like it. I hope they follow us.”
For the first time on the trip, the two killers grinned at each other.
Dawes slowed as he approached the next junction. He checked his mirrors and took the route left, heading north. It was natural to look in his mirrors—it was what he did when he was driving. After a few minutes, though, his interest in the mirrors became obsessive.
“For fuck’s sake Charlie,” Linwood said. “Have we got a copper on our arse?”
“Check the mirror,” Dawes said with a sober expression. He
pressed the pedal harder.
“Bastards.” Linwood leant forward to check the nearside mirror. Behind the van was a tight group of six bikers, all holding formation with no apparent intention to overtake the van. Linwood pulled back the slide on his automatic.
“Right,” he said. “I’ve got one up the spout now. I’m fuckin’ ready for them.”
Mile after mile, even when the road was a little wider, the bikes slowed if necessary to remain in pairs following the van. Dawes tried driving fast, and then slowly, but to no avail. On occasion, a car driver would overtake the strange convoy and wave a fist out of an open driver’s window. Dawes gave them a middle-finger salute.
Three miles before Kingussie, Dawes shook his head and double-checked the mirror.
The trailing bikers had fallen back once again into a neat single file. From a fair distance back, a bike with twin headlights blazing was zipping along the road at high speed. It was gliding past everything in its path.
The black Kawasaki roared past the convoy. The rider dressed in black from head to toe leant forward over the tank of the big machine. The rider’s kneecap was close to the ground as the powerful machine negotiated the next bend. The bike accelerated and disappeared into the distance.
“There’s the sort of biker who’ll get somebody killed,” Dawes said. It was to prove a prophetic statement. Dawes rechecked his mirrors, to see that the outlaw riders had resumed their formation behind the van. “Should we call Fitzpatrick about these fuckers?”
“Nah,” Linwood said. “He’ll think we’re a couple of fuckin’ fairies. Just keep goin’, and if those greasy bastards do anythin’ stupid, we shoot first, and ask questions later.”
Dawes nodded. He assured his associate he was prepared to do whatever it took, but in the meantime, he checked his mirrors more often.
.
Boat of Garten, Grampian Mountains