Hellfire- The Series, Volumes 1-3

by Leigh Barker

  “But two snipers?” Harvey said into the glass he held in front of his lips.

  “There are three targets: the president, the German Chancellor, and our PM. There is no way a single sniper would be certain to hit all three before all hell broke loose, but two going for two shots each…” He raised an eyebrow.

  Harvey reached for the phone.

  “Who are you calling?” Harry said, putting his hand on the receiver.

  “Sir Richard.”

  Harry held on to the phone for a moment. “Let’s think it through first,” he said.

  Harvey took his hand off the phone and took a drink, as he thought about what they were saying. Minutes passed, and the mahogany Bramble wall clock ticked away their lives. Eventually he put his finger on his lip and let it circle his chin, as he reached a conclusion. “If this is true, and it’s so awful it certainly is, then it is a career maker for the security service and for the person who breaks it.”

  Harry was ahead of him, but let him continue, partly out of respect for his father, but mostly out of his respect for the lawyer.

  “There is no way they will be able to contain this, even with all the D notices in the world. The press will be all over it in hours. Then what?” It was a rhetorical question.

  “Any chance we have of sneaking up on these bastards will be gone,” Harry said, answering it anyway. “They’ll go to ground.”

  “Until they emerge to kill the dignitaries.” Harvey stood up and started pacing slowly and then stopped and pointed at the photos on the coffee table. “The shipping note on the photograph, does it have an address?”

  Harry assumed it would be for a transient intermediary, but picked up the photo again anyway and examined the detail through his father’s oversized magnifying glass. “Yes,” he said, squinting one eye. “Junior Brown.” He moved the photo back and forth to focus the tiny writing. “Holland Park.”

  Harvey raised his eyebrows. “Expensive.”

  “If he is supplying arms like these,” Harry said, waving the photo, “then he can afford it.” He glanced at his father. “I’d say somewhere around a million for this package with no questions asked.”

  Harvey nodded. “Okay, now we know who traded them, how are you going to find out to whom?”

  Harry noted the switch in pronoun, but let it go and pointed at the photographs. “This tranny is a neatness freak, the kind I’ve seen a hundred times in the stores and supply depots around the world. You don’t have the right paperwork, they’d let you go into combat without bullets. Somewhere in here is the info on the guy who took delivery of the rifles.”

  Harvey moved the piles of printed photographs about with his finger. “Lot of pages of very small print.” He sighed and sat down next to his son. “Better get started, then.”

  Harry picked up a handful of pages and studied the photographed documents. They were in for a long, long night.

  Five minutes later, his father handed him a page. “There you go.”

  Harry examined the photograph of a formal receipt for two ‘boxed packages’, complete with date, time, and an address in Mayfair. “This is it,” he said, tapping the page.

  “Really?” Harvey said in mock surprise. “Do you really think so?”

  Harry smiled. “Okay, yeah, well done, Pop.”

  “Don’t call me Pop,” Harvey said, getting up for another well-deserved drink. “So now you know where it went, how are you going to find out who the end customer is?” he said, returning to the table and pointing at the page. “That… O’Connell is no more than a middleman.”

  “Chances are O’Conner has paperwork on this too. It’s just business to him, and business means records.”

  “Be that as it may, it still doesn’t get you his documents.”

  Harry thought for a moment and then snapped his fingers. “I’ll ask Bob the Burglar, if I can find him again.”

  “Whoa!” Harvey said. “Cracking some transvestite’s safe is a long way from taking on an international gun runner. Robert Doyle is just a small-time crook.”

  Harry shook his head. “I’ve seen him work, and trust me, he’s anything but small time.”

  “Okay,” Harvey said, “but I’m beginning to think we should bring Sir Richard into this.”

  “Not yet, let’s see what we can find out from this O’Conner first. Then we will be in a better position to make a decision.” He stood up. “We could just be jumping to conclusions and would look pretty stupid.”

  Harvey looked from him to the photos. “I don’t believe that either. But I will talk to Richard anyway.” He raised his hand before his son could protest. “Strictly off the record. He has to know. He started all this, after all. And I trust him.”

  Harry started to disagree and then put his hand on his father’s arm — as near to a hug as either was going to get. “Okay,” he said, disengaging from the non-hug and heading for the door. He stopped to take his coat from the rack and to put Harvey’s in its place.

  “And,” Harvey said as the door was about to close.

  Harry opened the door again.

  “Tell Bob to be in my office by nine… okay, make that ten thirty tomorrow.”

  Harry nodded and closed the door behind him.

  “If you’re not both dead,” Harvey said and immediately regretted it.

  He reached for the phone. Two old friends going out for a drink, no harm in that, and who knows what topic the conversation might turn to. “Richard, it’s been an age since we met at the club.”

  Neither man spoke for several seconds, both knowing that they’d met for lunch only yesterday.

  “Yes,” Sir Richard said, “ages. Shall we meet up later?”

  “A fine idea. I’ll be there in an hour, if that’s convenient.” He put down the phone.

  Would anyone suspect there was more to it than what it appeared to be, friends having a drink and talking about politics, summit meetings, and family? No, a listener would have heard only that, if such a listener was listening. And he was certain that Sir Richard’s phone was listened to. Paranoia is the norm for a spook, but it appeared to be contagious.

  He said a quiet prayer, to the god who was a figment of the uneducated man’s flaccid imagination, that his son would be safe.

  41

  Shaun stood in the doorway and looked at his friend lying in the hospital bed, strung with tubes and wired up to a rack of beeping machines, and looking like he was already dead.

  “You decided to pay a visit, then?” a voice said from inside the room, and for a moment he thought it was Danny, but instantly knew better.

  “Baxter,” he said through gritted teeth. He entered the room and saw Baxter sitting with his chair tilted up against the wall.

  “Superintendent Baxter, O’Conner, unless you want to be writing parking tickets for the rest of your career.”

  Die soon, and in great pain, you prick. “Superintendent Baxter,” Shaun said with difficulty. He turned to face Danny, as much to get Baxter out of his face as any expectation that something might have changed in the last ten seconds. “Is he okay?”

  “Depends on your definition of okay,” Baxter said, keeping the sneer out of his voice with difficulty. “He had a bullet in him that should have killed him, and he is in a coma. If that’s your definition of okay, then he’s okay.”

  Shaun crossed to the bed, looked up at the monitors beeping quietly, and put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Meant what I said,” he said softly.

  “What the hell were you thinking?” Baxter said.

  Shaun barely glanced at him. “We had a tip-off.”

  “Bullshit!” Baxter said, crashing his chair back onto four legs. “You were looking for that scumbag brother of yours… again.”

  True. “Never crossed my mind,” Shaun said, raising one eyebrow.

  “Do you think I’m a fool, O’Conner?”

  Shaun looked at him steadily and let the answer hang in the air.

  Baxter flushed and stood up. “T
ake a good look at your friend,” he said, pointing at Danny. “You don’t get it, do you?” He squinted, and his cheekbones stood out as he clenched his teeth. “You did this to him.”

  Shaun took a small involuntary step back from the bed.

  “Yes, you and your bloody unnatural obsession with killing your brother.” Baxter caught his breath. “You ever heard of Kane and Abel?”

  Ah, the educated man speaketh.

  Shaun put his hand gently on Danny’s shoulder and then walked to the door.

  “Where the hell do you think you’re going?” Baxter barked at his back.

  Shaun half turned. “I’m going to find Abel, and when I do, I’m going to do unto others.”

  Baxter took a step closer, and for a wonderful moment Shaun thought he was going to throw a punch, but sadly the moment passed.

  “You listen to me, O’Conner,” he said, his voice shaking with anger, “and you listen to me like you haven’t listened to anyone since your momma read you bedtime stories.” He stepped up until his face was close enough for Shaun to feel the spittle as he spoke. “You are not to go within a mile of Patrick O’Conner.” He spoke very slowly, as if talking to an idiot child. “If you’re driving down the street and you see him coming the other way, you are to hang a U and speed away, even if this causes civilian casualties. Do I make I make myself clear, Sergeant O’Conner?”

  “I hear you,” Shaun said slowly. “And I can taste you.” He wiped his face with his hand. “Now you listen to me, you jumped-up little prick.” Baxter backed off, but Shaun matched his move. “I have the man who killed my father in my sights, and—” He poked a finger into Baxter’s shoulder. “And if you stand in my way, or even stand close, I’ll swat you like the irritating little insect you are.” He poked him again. “Now are you hearing me, you piece-of-shit politician?”

  Baxter sat back into the chair with a jolt as Shaun jabbed him one more time for good measure. “I’ll have your job for this,” he hissed, but stayed seated.

  Shaun felt his heart thumping in his chest and waited a moment for the anger to subside a little. “You want my job?” he said slowly. “Then you run on back to your office and fill in the forms you love so much, you arsehole.”

  By the time Baxter had thought of a suitable riposte, the door had slammed shut. He sat there staring at the closed door for several minutes, thinking how much he wanted that man dead, and how he’d felt that way from the moment he’d met him. They said O’Conner was a street cop, admired by everyone for his skill and tenacity. Bullshit, the man was a drunk, but would anybody listen? No, they just kept telling him there are two kinds of cops, bureaucrats and doers, and every doer is worth a dozen of those who only occupy desk space and move paper. Well, this drunk do-good cop had pushed the wrong man. He was going to fall from so high it would make his nose bleed. Men like O’Conner made him sick, men who thought they could push everyone around, do what they want, be above the law. What God-given right did they think they had? He’d worked his ass off to get where he was, and did anybody say well done? The hell they did. It was all Sergeant O’Conner did this, Sergeant O’Conner did that. So, how did they think he did it? It was because of people like him, the paper movers, experts investigators who provided the foundation to make it happen. Of course it was. Nothing to do with all this street intel shit, getting drunk with criminals. If he had his way, these loose cannons would be thrown off the force and replaced by real cops.

  He stood up. Well, now he had his chance. O’Conner had crossed the line. Now he was going to find out who he was dealing with, and he would find it he was a heavier hitter than he could imagine. He straightened his three-piece suit and licked his dry lips, but couldn’t help looking around the small room in case someone had seen the confrontation. He’d planned that speech so well, rehearsed it in his mind, had seen O’Conner crumble and do his bidding, humbled at last.

  He’d see him fall for this, so help him God.

  42

  “Are you waiting for your father, Debbie?” the doorman asked the little girl sitting on the bench seat in front of his desk in the foyer. He waited for a response, but none came. “Ah, I get it,” he said with smile. “Don’t talk to strangers, right?” She did exactly that. “Well, I’m not a stranger.” Yes, you are. “I’m Derek, the concierge here.” Oh, like she’s going to get that. “That’s just a posh name for the doorman. So that’s me, Derek the doorman.” He walked out from behind his desk and smiled at her. “Is he late?”

  The girl was small and painfully thin, nine or ten, though she looked much younger, but a troubled life, even one so short, can affect kids in all sorts of ways.

  She spoke without looking up. “No,” she said, very softly.

  “It’s just that you’ve been sitting here a very long time, that’s all.” Derek smiled again, but she probably didn’t see as she was still looking at the floor. “What time was he coming?”

  “Four o’clock,” she said, still not looking up.

  Derek glanced at the wall clock, which was showing five fifteen. “Oh, I get it,” he said with a quick smile. “He’s always late, so if he’s late as usual, then he’s on time. Right?”

  Debbie nodded.

  “Smart kid,” he said quietly. “Wish my kids was as smart.” He sighed. “Or the missus, God bless her… and her sainted mother who’s been staying with us for two years this Christmas.”

  If Debbie was supposed to respond, or even understand that, it failed to launch. She stood up.

  Derek looked where she was looking and saw the heavy-set, short man get out of the Merc in front of the building. “Who’s this, then?” he said almost to himself and walked closer to the windowed frontage. “Ah, O’Brian, isn’t it?

  Before Debbie could answer, even if she was going to, which she wasn’t, the man pushed open the door and stepped into the foyer, along with a gust of early winter cold.

  “Evenin’, Mr O’Brian,” Derek said. “Another cold one.”

  “Let’s go, kid,” O’Brian said without even acknowledging Derek.

  “I’m not a kid,” Debbie said. “I’m ten.”

  “Yeah, whatever,” O’Brian said, opening the door and letting more cold air rush in. “Your father’s waiting in the car.” He glared at her as she turned to smile at Derek. “And he don’t like to be kept waiting.”

  Derek almost said what about the kid waiting, but he caught it. No point letting his missus and her sainted mother get the house for free — after the funeral. “Give my regards to Mr O’Conner,” he said to the closing door and took a step up to the windows to watch O’Brian walk to the car with Debbie trailing behind. “What is he doing?” He screened the reflection in the window with his hand. “Y’know, I think he’s looking for kidnappers or hit men or something. Now there’s a boy who thinks too much of himself.” He sniffed and returned to his desk and the football match that was about to resume.

  Patrick O’Conner was in the back seat of the Merc and reached over to move his papers off the seat as Debbie climbed in. “Hello, Debs,” he said, scanning a paragraph that had caught his eye. “Is your mother well?”

  Debbie nodded and struggled to get the seatbelt fastened. “Yes,” she said, finally clicking the buckle home. “She’s fine. She sends her love.”

  Patrick looked up. “Yes, I bet she does,” he said, pulling a sour expression. “And you give her mine next time you see her.”

  “Okay,” Debbie said, completely missing the razorblades in his voice.

  Patrick figured it was worth a try. “Does she ever say anything about me?”

  “Like what?” Debbie asked, straightening the seatbelt across her thin body.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” he said, getting that old sinking feeling “Y’know, anything.”

  “Not really. Oh, I heard her tell the driver she’s looking forward to your… your… moretopsey.” She frowned. “Is that a party?”

  “Depends on who’s being moretopsied.”

  “Can I come?�
�

  He gave a small shake of his head and almost smiled. “Look, love, I know I said we would go to the waxworks before dinner, but something’s come up. It’ll just take a few minutes. Okay?”

  Debbie sighed and looked out of the window now that the car was moving.

  “Don’t worry,” he added, a bit too earnestly, “we will go, I promise. Just a short stop at my place.” He got no response. “Look, it’s new, you’ll like it. I’ve got lots of aquariums with coloured fish.” Getting a little desperate now. “You like fish, right?”

  Debbie glanced back from her reflection in the car window. “I like fish fingers,” she said with a little shrug.

  “I love that kid,” O’Brian said from the front seat.

  Debbie was still trailing behind when they reached Patrick’s apartment and crossed the foyer to where O’Brian was holding the lift. Patrick looked back and almost told her to get a move on, but he owed her that one for ditching the trip to the waxworks that was closed for the day anyway, so he kept the false smile and waited for her to dawdle into the lift, her head full of whatever ten-year-old girls’ heads are full of.

  O’Brian opened the apartment door, and a rush of music and clinking glasses greeted them.

  “G’day, Patrick,” Grady said, one of the hired help slumped in the big armchair and clearly booze-brave. “Have a glass of champagne,” he said, waving a bottle of Moet at Patrick. “It’s my birthday.”

  “And it’s my apartment,” Patrick said, “and you call me Patrick again and you’re fired.”

  “Sorry, Mr O’Conner,” Grady said, quickly putting down the bottle. “It won’t happen again.”

  Patrick glared at him for a nanosecond, but decided it was too much trouble to find a replacement.

  Grady saw the look and read it correctly. “Thanks, Mr O’Conner.” He grinned stupidly, which fitted his state just fine. “Good champagne, though, not that domestic stuff.” He stood up and then sat down again quickly. “I’ll get one of those penguins to serve it, if they haven’t drunk it all themselves.” He waved at the two waiters, who were… waiting. “Hey, you, what do I pay you for? Serve Mr O’Conner.” He pointed out Patrick, in case they’d missed his arrival. “And the kid.”