The Clinic

by Ray Carole

  ‘Okay text me, I will be back tomorrow night so we can speak then.’

  ‘That’s great I appreciate it. Remember do not speak to anyone about this conversation and anything you think of that is not adding up, keep to yourself, we will talk tomorrow.’

  ‘Okay,’ was the slightly dubious tone he replied with but Conrad felt okay and all of a sudden had his wits about him, the caffeine injection he was craving could wait. He had some thinking to do.

  ‘Great, safe drive home. Bye.’ Trent rang off and put her phone down on the front of her own Times paper, next to the article entitled ‘Complete White-out, No clues as to disappearance of The Ilyushin 76’.

  Conrad’s mind raced away from Lisa and the road he was driving down and he tried to calm his mind. Shit. It wasn’t happening. Blaming the distraction of the rattling chassis of his battered 1978 Series 3 Land Rover that now worryingly resembled the raging state of his own body, he gave up.

  What the hell was happening? Only yesterday he was reading an article in The Times about the crash and the Civil Aviation Authority’s investigative prediction where nothing had been found due to the geographical location of the Antarctic Ocean. Instead his mind couldn’t shake his last goodbye to Decker. In a pub near Hadrian’s Wall in Carlisle.

  He recalled watching Decker drink a half pint of Guinness out of one of Ernest Shackleton’s original silver goblets, it was Conrad’s tradition to anyone attempting the South Pole solo. A safe return ritual, not that he believed in them anymore. Now a chick called Trenty wants to meet, he mused.

  Something inside Conrad was intrigued slightly by this curve ball. Maybe it was his own past military background and the fact Decker was former SAS. Someone poking about couldn’t cause any harm he thought. Also Decker was a bit of a maverick he recalled fondly, so it wouldn’t surprise him if this Trent bird had uncovered some quality dirt which could be quite interesting. Now the shock had worn off. He was looking forward to her call.

  *****

  Decker took a look at Bob and gave him the nod.

  They were in a dark suburban street of Bradford that you wouldn’t want to be walking down without some serious hardware to hand, with a wingman to help dish out the blows if needed. Sat in a dark blue Ford Focus, Decker had both. Bob a serial hard bastard and two Glock 17s. A seriously reliable and deadly pistol in the hands of two seriously hardened killers.

  ‘I’m good my side,’ Bob said in a low voice but not a whisper. Bob was always taught it was rude to whisper, even in a street that hadn’t been patrolled by regular police for months due to the nature of its inhabitants.

  Perfect for this little trip, and even better that every single CCTV camera had been smashed or torched.

  ‘Okay, good here too,’ Decker scanned the passenger-side pavement front and rear. It was a Tuesday night, early hours of Wednesday, so no chance of drunken idiots interrupting their business from a good night out and hence why they had chosen this day.

  This little visit wasn’t part of The Clinic’s manipulation programme on AQ234 Cell.

  This was personal.

  For the last five weeks the whole team had been working hard on the strategy for when The Clinic went fully operational, after the manipulative results starting showing conclusive results on AQ234.

  For the physical part of future operations, Decker knew he might need a few sources and some of the previous Muslim operatives that had worked with MI6 in Baghdad were the perfect fit. No doubt most of them were back here as part of the package deal they had signed up to, he thought. Wife, kids and family, council house and a shit load of benefits.

  To be fair they deserved it, they’d stuck their life on the line for the country. Decker was actually surprised the government made it happen, if they knew of course, not like those bastards to actually honour their promises he thought as he’d worked his way through the files head-hunting potentials. When he was scrolling through the database a face had jumped out at him. His reaction at the time was pure shock and horror, which had been surpassed with an immediate realisation.

  How he was in the UK Decker had no idea, but he had his details, his address and now a crystal-clear image of his face exploding from two bullets that he himself would be responsible for delivering at point-blank.

  ‘What did he do?’ Bob asked. It was nearly a whisper but not quite.

  ‘I ran a covert program in Iraq, he fucked me over and also tried raping a team member in Baghdad. First time I met him I knew he was a complete cunt.’

  ‘Rape? A bloke I take it, the fucking sick Arab pricks,’ Bob replied.

  Decker didn’t say a word, just took a quick moment of reflection.

  ‘Cheers for helping me put this one to bed mate, I know Sully wouldn’t have approved but this fucker has kept me awake since I saw his mugshot on the file.’

  ‘No probs, it’s a pleasure I hate these fuckers. Watching you job one on home soil while I do crowd control is something I’ve dreamed of.’

  ‘Me too’

  ‘Let’s do it then Boss,’ Bob insisted as he flared his nostrils sucking up a huge space of air to see him through the formalities ahead.

  Decker reached for the inner door handle, slowly but quietly pushing it open.

  There was no going back now on this little vigilante job to a place in Britain that they were both completely disgusted by.

  *****

  Stopping to open his hefty five-bar front gate marked the start of Conrad’s own domain and the end of his worst ski season to date. The listed building that he’d restored to its former glory overlooked Hadrian’s Wall and Northumberland National Park.

  He looked fondly up to the centrepiece tower that housed his study, library and life’s achievements. It would be good to be back here for a few solid weeks.

  After Icarus had said their goodbyes with a small token of their appreciation in the form of a fat envelope, he’d spent the next two months further up north in Norway leading multiple expeditions.

  He hadn’t had the luxury of following Decker on his blog; his only contact was a phone call from his exhausted disciple screaming down his satellite phone from a wind-battered tent. Even after the aftermath of the crash he lost track of the headlines in the middle of the Hardangervidda. A barren land and the biggest mountain-plateau in Europe offering no real connection with the real world. It was the perfect world for Conrad, no smartphones, no city clutter, no traffic and no random humans, only the serious survived up there.

  He looked around, it was good to be home. Now to make it shipshape. Plugging his computer back into the mains, followed by the screen and printer his workspace was back in order. Hitting the ‘on’ switch he heard the usual internal ramblings of the computer hardware booting up, and the printer reel acting erratically before settling in the idle position.

  Seated in his leather retractable chair Conrad leant back and pulled his phone out. He looked at the recent calls list first to see Lisa Trent’s number before checking the text message that had her new contact details attached. Her email would be a starting point for Conrad to do a little digging on Google, he figured, prior to calling her.

  Conrad then thought about her call and her accent. She was a softy Southerner he thought, and was no doubt nearby soon, as she would have surely looked up his address. It wasn’t a close-kept secret. He wasn’t Decker, he had no secrets, well certainly none that would make him a target of his own government, maybe an ex-wife at most.

  Driving back he had been thinking madly about Lisa’s words. Anything suspicious, anything he said, anything before he went. Don’t speak to anyone. As he mulled over the phrase ‘didn’t you think it suspicious he didn’t call you when he failed?’

  In fact Conrad didn’t at the time but on reflection? Yes, he thought, why didn’t he? Decker wasn’t the type to shun failure or be embarrassed about it. A cou
rtesy call maybe? But then after nearly 600 miles, only 100 from the end maybe he was devastated, not wanting to talk to anyone. ‘Would I feel the same?’ he asked himself.

  Deciding to not make the call to her for now he logged in and started to get his house and business in order from the previous few months’ training. He generally sent his invoices six months after training, such was his busy life. Always great short-term for clients, but probably a pain when that unexpected invoice for 2000 quid rocked up on their doorstep months later.

  It was their doorstep too. He still hadn’t embraced email to its maximum capacity and didn’t care too much about saving trees. All his invoices were printed out and hand-posted from the village post box that was nearly as old as his listed home and Land Rover.

  ‘Right let’s get these invoices cracked’ he muttered to himself entering into his first client of the season that was 6 weeks before Icarus came on the scene.

  First writing a quick courtesy letter with the normal pleasantries and ‘don’t hesitate to call me again for my services’. He then added the part people hated, the invoice. Attaching it to the same file Conrad hit the print button, before relaxing back.

  Groans from the printer, followed by the reel setting its position to print the first line was then followed by nothing. Silence, then an audible beeping. Leaning back up to look at the screen he saw the alert telling him that his printer cartridges were out of ink.

  Not a problem as logistics was his strong point and his office stationery locker had the remedy. Ripping the cartridges out he started the process of reloading them all.

  Pressing the stand-by button to start the pre-ink cartridge inspection procedure he watched its progress. Upon the last click there is a moment of silence, another little purring noise then the printer catapulted into action.

  He relaxed back in his chair again.

  The printer seemed to be printing page after page, certainly not just the two pages that Conrad was anticipating. Standing up he looked at the printer’s collection tray, picking up the vast amount of sheets and flipping them over to see what was coming out.

  Casually expecting a file about symptoms of hypothermia or weather systems that he had forgotten to print, he browsed the opening page.

  Feeling an immediate head rush triggered by a heart rate explosion he panicked and grabbed the remaining sheets off the tray dropping a few on the floor in the process.

  Looking at the title page he froze. It was blank with four lines of print:

  OP IGNITION

  CONOPS V4.0

  TARGET – Harry Decker (WHITEOUT)

  ANTARCTICA

  As he tried to process this he frantically pulled his phone out of his pocket and hit the recent call log.

  Identifying what could only be Lisa’s number he pressed the green dial button.

  Conrad hadn’t used the printer at all on his trip away only one other person had tried using it.

  Robby.

  Attempting to print the latest Decker file to make it easier reading he must have been met with the same resistance that Conrad had just overcome.

  No ink, cartridges too low.

  But the fool obviously hadn’t deleted the file from the printer queue.

  A novice error.

  Conrad could tell he was shaking as he almost strangled his phone that was pushed tightly to his ear. The OPS papers fluttered in his hands as his shaking intensified.

  Two ringtones and Trenty answered.

  ‘Conrad how are you doing?’ Without a moment to say hello Conrad let rip at an uncontrollable rate.

  ‘Someone’s killed him, he’s been assassinated, and my printer, it’s all here in my hands, get here fast.’

  ‘Slow down Conrad slow down,’ Lisa tried to outshout Conrad and get a grip of the situation.’What has happened?’

  ‘My printer has just printed out a load of papers, it’s an orders thing.’ Conrad’s high level of intelligence wasn’t reflected by his thick Geordie accent. He had done his appreciation already and knew the lads that had visited for three days, the same guys who gave him a whopping tip, must be the ones responsible.

  ‘Three guys visited me in Norway before they went down to Antarctica in December. They knew I trained Harry. It is them, it must be…’

  ‘Conrad, listen,’ Lisa again tried to stabilise a hyperactive Conrad who was attempting to wrap up Lisa’s investigation in super-quick time.

  ‘Conrad are you still at home?’

  ‘Yes, yes and there’s more printing out.’

  ‘Listen. Stay there I am about four hours away. Don’t leave. Send me the files on email now and I will be with you in four hours. I am driving a Black Toyota Corolla but I will call when I’m near. Understand?’

  ‘Okay I won’t go anywhere.’

  ‘Great just calm down and don’t worry, remember just you and me know about this so let’s keep it that way for now. Okay?’

  ‘I’m not talking to anyone.’

  ‘Fine, look it’s late so get some sleep if you can I will be there about 3am.’

  Conrad looked at the clock and saw it was nearly eleven pm.

  ‘I will try but I don’t reckon—’

  ‘Well whatever I will be with you at 3am and email me the file right now.’

  ‘Right I will.’

  ‘See you soon Conrad.’

  Conrad had calmed down slightly and he took up position in his leather recliner with an added tumbler of whiskey to mask his fear and stop his trembling.

  Picking up the rest of the printed OPS he shuffled them in order, took another sip of whiskey and started reading.

  *****

  Tuesday night, or the early hours Wednesday to be precise the two guys cut through the shadows. To a trained eye you could make out the pistols in each other’s right hands, and you could certainly make out the guy on the right, casually screwing a silencer adaptor onto his pistol.

  Some would call that act unprofessional and argue that it should have been screwed on prior to getting out of the car. Others would say that it was a sign of a cool, calculated operator.

  The truth was that it was a trigger mechanism, the final twist ensuring that the adaptor was housed correctly was the trigger, the sign that he was ready for action.

  Every solid operator has one, the switch that takes them from being a loving husband and father, to a cold-blooded killer.

  When the adaptor is unscrewed after the bloodshed, it was back to being the loving husband and father again.

  The nod was given as the house front door lock was silently manipulated and without a secondary chain latch, the two guys were already at the bottom of the staircase.

  They made slow methodical movements hugging the edge of the staircase to reduce any creaks from the wood alerting the occupant to their presence. From studying the plans beforehand, they knew exactly which room they were heading to.

  The door to the room in question was already ajar. Another barrier to compromise removed as they heard the sounds of loud snoring coming from within.

  Even better they nodded again.

  Opening the door slowly and fully, the moonlight from the opened curtains illuminated them but they weren’t concerned as they appreciated the full depth of their target’s sleep.

  As the second man covered the body with his weapon, the first man moved in throwing his leather-gloved hand over the sleeper’s mouth. Pressing down tight there was no reaction from their target for a few seconds before a slight wriggle turned into a full-blown panic attack. Saucepan eyes locked onto the first operator’s face clocking the pistol, silencer fully attached. No loving husband and father holding it, just cold-blooded remorseless killer.

  The target was now wide awake and knew enough to stay still and silent.

  Motioning thei
r target to remain quiet by taking his hand off his mouth and placing his finger to his lips, their target obeyed, frozen, shaking uncontrollably, not even blinking.

  Removing his finger from his lips, the operator lowered his pistol, about to say his first words.

  ‘Hello Conrad Dickinson,’ was all that was spoken. A thick Russian accent annunciated the name.

  Conrad remained paralysed with shock. His heart pounded as he realised the level of shit he was in.

  It was 0237 am.