The Vengeance Man (29 page)

I waved my hand to indicate that I had finished, cleared the weapon and laid it down.  Then I walked forward to inspect the screen. The loudspeaker crackled, but Dawlish was silent. Like me he was probably awed by the gun's speed.

A large hole about the size of a tea plate had been blown right out of the target, high and to one side. At its edges, smaller black holes showed where a few stray shots had wandered. The frayed wisps of paper fluttered in the breeze. The thing was incredible. It had punched a black void, using two pounds of instantly delivered lead as a fine spray. What it would to on the wider spread at a hundred metres would be horrific. I shivered slightly. The Venus's impact on flesh hardly bore thinking about.

Using the Allen keys from the brief case, I adjusted the sight to coincide with the strike of the bullets and tried two more magazines. This time the hole was slightly to the left and down. I eased the red dot fractionally back and fired my third, check, group.  The central cross on the big zeroing screen was obliterated by the black stain of a central strike. The voice from the hut was silent as I shouted for the zeroing screen to be lowered. Further out a succession of ghostly black man targets rose silently from the ground in its place.  A chill breeze ruffled the long grass on the valley sides.

Loading two more magazines, I sighted below the frozen snarl of the target's face at a hundred metres.  In the silence of the little valley, even the rooks were suddenly quiet.  I felt for a moment that all of us - Dawlish, the birds, even the hillsides - were holding our breath in anticipation. The red dot pulsated slightly, then disappeared as I fired

In a spray of splintered plywood and shredded paper, the man size figure eleven target blew apart.  The ripping noise of the gun echoed off the valley's walls and the rooks went mad again at the explosion of yellow and black target fragments. An
awed elect
r
onically
distorted voice muttered from the loudspeaker, "Bloody hell..."

The target had gone; just the shattered stump of its wooden support protruded above the ground, like a broken tooth, to mark its new incarnation as a litter of waste paper and plywood scraps fluttering halfway down the range.  I don't think I've ever used a personal weapon as potentially lethal as that Venus.  No wonder the Americans had kept it under wraps all this time.  At a hundred metres it was as precise as a seamstress's needle.

And as destructive as an express train hitting a level crossing gate.

TROUBLE AT ’T MILL, Central London

Next morning, in the Operations Room, Mallalieu seemed unimpressed with my endorsement of the gun's power. "I'll talk to you about that later," he growled at me. "Get Andy."

I went to get  Andy, who was in the middle of talking forcefully to three of the four Bull Pen members. He looked irritated at my intrusion.  I noticed that Jonno Briggs was absent and that a general air of sheepishness hung over   the group.  Pink spots burned on Andy's cheeks  I wondered if he was gripping the Bull Pen; and where was Briggs?   We had no operations on that I knew of.

"What was that about?" I asked as we walked down the corridor.

Andy's lips were tight. "Bloody Briggs again.  He's adrift. I expect that's what Mallalieu wants to see us about."

Back in the Ops Room, Mallalieu had chased the duty girls and the operators out. We had it to ourselves and he launched straight into Andy. "What the hell went on last night?"

I banged a clipboard down to attract attention. "Do you want me to ... ?" I looked at the door. "I mean .. "

"No, you stay here," Mallalieu snapped.  "This'll probably concern you too."

Andy looked embarrassed and angry at the same time. "Colonel, you were right. It seems that Jonno got out of hand. It's all true, I'm afraid."

I wondered what the hell they were talking about. It obviously concerned some escapade of Briggs.

"So he did shoot his mouth off?" Mallalieu snapped at Andy.

"I'm afraid so."

"And what about the policeman?"

"We're not sure. James says that by the time he got there, he thought it was a  misunderstanding." I don't think I'd ever seen  Mallalieu so angry.

"Misunderstanding? Misunderstanding?” He exploded. “I'll bet he said it was a bloody misunderstanding.  A  member of the Bull Pen goes boozing with a undercover Fleet Street investigative journo, shoots his mouth off in public and then thumps a policeman. That's a bloody big misunderstanding in my book."    His face had sunk and become hard and ugly. The lower teeth were exposed like a trap. “Which pub as it anyway?"

Andy looked, if possible, even more embarrassed; "The Sherlock Holmes."

Mallalieu rolled his eyes at the ceiling. "What?! The MOD local?"   Andy nodded. "Jesus Christ, how stupid can you get?"

I shook my head in amazement. The Sherlock Holmes, between Charing Cross and Northumberland Avenue, is a well known haunt of MOD officials, D
.
I
.
S
.
and Security types.  As a result, it tends to attract eavesdropping diplomats, spies and talent spotters from virtually every intelligence service in London. One of the standing jokes was that the Directors of
the
Service Security kept a permanent man in the bar of the Sherlock Holmes, the Red Lion and the Clarence, all earwigging to see which of Whitehall’s jolly drinkers was being indiscreet and with whom.  As the three pubs were also firmly on the Whitehall London tourist circuit, the Sherlock was definitely not a pub to make a scene in.

Mallalieu looked stunned.  "I can't believe it. It's so incredibly stupid, I find it hard to believe.  The Sherlock?" He shook his head. "Where's Briggs now?"

"I don't know." Mallalieu's eyebrows knitted.   Andy added hastily, "At home, I think. He hasn't come in this morning. James bailed him out of Cannon Row at about two o'clock, so I presume he's still sleeping it off." He looked at Mallalieu and added, as if to placate him, "I thought that he was better out of the way."

"Hmm." Mallalieu paused and looked at me. "Well, what do you think of all this?"

I resisted the temptation to shrug and thought carefully about my answer. "Let me get this clear - a member of the Bull Pen hit a policeman in a pub?"

"Outside - on the pavement."

"And he was talking to some reporter? About us?"

"Tom Hemming. The barman heard it all.”

"My God…" I knew the name by reputation. Hemming was a clever, unscrupulous reporter who had made a name for himself with the BBC by writing about military and intelligence affairs.   He walked a very fine line between embarrassing
exposés
and being a remarkably well informed reporter. Very anti-establishment, too. Nasty little pieces in left wing journals about the ‘Secret State’. All denied hotly by the government: all alarmingly accurate. He was not a man to be trusted by any member of our firm at any price.    Tonight's confidences all too often ended up as tomorrow's headlines - if Hemming saw any chance of making money or building on his reputation. Not a man to be trusted.  "What exactly did he say?"

Mallalieu consulted a slip of pink paper on his desk. "Oh, trivial stuff, like your littl
e expedition to Iran last year
-
like how Whitehall’s ace hard man was responsible for the British government’s protection squads in Chechnya right now - like the time Briggs went to  Basra last month as a tourist and what the American clients had asked him to check….  The secret support for the Sri Lankans, the East Timor initiative – how we’re contracting ex-SAS bodyguards to protect the sheiks against al Qa’ida…..  Links with big Russian companies…"   He sneered, "Trivial stuff like that."

I was stunned. If all this was true, then Briggs had been unbelievably stupid. Mallalieu pressed his advantage. "Well, what do you think?"

"He'll have to go," I said without hesitation. "He can't stay." I looked at Andy, who nodded. 

Mallalieu eyed us both with a raised eyebrow.
"I'd worked that out for myself."

I tried to buy a little time to think. "What exactly happened with the policeman?"

Andy answered. "Apparently Briggs got rowdy. He went off with some bird and
Hemming tried it on with another one.  There was some kind of argument and someone called the police. A young wally came round from Cannon Row in a Panda car.  Jonno was calling the odds outside the pub. The copper tried to talk to him, so Jonno belted him. That's James's version, anyway; then he bailed him out."

I felt my anger boil. I knew now how Mallalieu must have felt. "The stupid fool. I'm surprised they let him out at all." A thought struck me. "Did  he  do anything else ?"   Andy nodded and looked at the ceiling.  "Yes. Apparently he said he was a secret agent of the British government, licensed to kill and worked with an organization so secret that even
British Intelligence knew nothing about it. "

“Wha
t
?!” exclaimed
Mallalieu.  “He said that?” He looked stunned.

There was a long stunned silence. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. What a plonker. Andy looked embarrassed. "James told the police that Briggs had got pissed celebrating getting a part in the new James Bond film.  It was the best we could think of at the time.  The guy's a real spacer.  He's a lunatic."

"I wish he was," I added in what  I hoped were suitably ironic tones.  "Then we could lock the bastard up in Broadmoor. For life.  I'm quite sure that a
real
Secret Service would know exactly what to do with him."

"Well?" said Mallalieu. "What are
we
going to do with him?"

I shrugged. "There's only one question, Colonel." They both looked at me. "Can we trust him?  It'll go to court presumably?"   Mallalieu nodded, grim-faced. "Well, Andy, can you trust Briggs to stay
schtumm
? Can you trust Hemming ?" I stared at him, but he didn't answer me. To use an oft-quoted cliché, his silence was eloquent.

Mallalieu looked at him, too, then voiced all our thoughts. "I take it we're all agreed that we can't just leave it to take its course? That he'll blab his mouth off?"

We both nodded.

"Right." Mallalieu's manner was crisp. "Andy - he's suspended.  Send a minder round to keep him in his house until further notice.
And not that weak-kneed bloody
James Bellingham, either. Even if he did the right thing and get him out of jail free. They're too damned pally. Put him away somewhere. And keep him under lock and key. Right?"

"For how long?"

"Until you hear different from me personally: or the police, if he wants to make life difficult for himself.  Briggs stays inside, off his phone, until further notice. Got it?"     He added, savagely, "M
ake sure you’ve got his mobile
and that his laptop is taken away. And if he doesn't like it then hand him back to Canon Row or break his legs, if necessary. Right? But keep him out of circulation.  Briggs mus
t
n't talk to
anybody.
  Understand?"   Andy looked as if he'd swallowed something nasty, but nodded.

"OK, off you go, Andy.  Don’t let the bastard out of your sight. We’ll sort this out in our own way. I'll talk to you later." With a roll of his eyes at me, Andy left.

When he'd gone, Mallalieu sat down and waved me to a seat. "Bloody Briggs. I’d break his neck if I had the chance. The man’s a loud mouthed arsehole.”

I was about to say, “Well, you hired him….” But Mallalieu went on; … “That’s what comes of trying to expand our recruiting base. Bloody silly idea… Accountants’ bollocks.” From which I inferred that Mallalieu had not hired the unfortunate ex-stunt man.

He blew his cheeks out noisily and seemed to relax. “How soon can you do that other little job we talked about?"

"As soon as you like. But I’ll need briefing."

"All right." He considered for a moment. "Come and see me at noon, at the Festival Hall, on the steps outside. We'll walk a little down the river and I'll fill you in. That'll be your briefing." It was unconventional, to say the least.  I'd expected slides and maps and drawings in a briefing room, like a proper briefing.

"That's it?"

He looked at me sardonically.
"Yes, that'll be it. What'd you expected?  A Powerpoint presentation in the conference room?”

I nodded, "Something like that.”

Mallalieu laughed. “Not this one.”

I tried to assess what it all meant. “So, what about the timing? When do you want me to do it?"

"Tomorrow, or the day after."

I was startled. I had expected more time. A lot more time. "Why the rush?"

"Our client has changed his plans. It's as simple as that."

I digested this information in silence. The timing looked very tight and I began to feel uneasy. A nasty suspicion occurred. "Look, this isn't a set-up, is it?

Mallalieu looked pained. "What do you mean, a set up? No, it's not a set up; if it is, then I'm being set up too. It's just your best window of opportunity."

"Ours, not mine. Our best window" I reminded him. "I'm not free-lancing, I hope?" It was a pertinent question.

Mallalieu looked square at me. "No, you're not."   He dropped his eyes. "This is a kosher contract, don’t you worry. I'll see you at noon." Suddenly he looked tired; but it wasn't yet ten a.m.