The Vengeance Man (31 page)

Nocturne
I
n
M
ayfair

I really was sick.

I had no trouble making sure that the doctor marked my card for the next day. He was a stranger, which helped the plan. But I still don't like group practices. He diagnosed D and V, which wasn't exactly
difficult, and told me to lie
up for a couple of days.

I telephoned the office, told them I was going to sleep it off, and that I wouldn't be answering my phone. Then I started my preparations. Even so, it still took two hours for the effects of just half of one of Mallalieu's damned pills to wear off even with his antidote; I hadn't dared to risk trying to fool the doctor, so I'd had to take something.

As soon as I could, I slipped out and began my recce. The quarry had arrived; the lunchtime news had pictures of him at the DTI that morning. Roberts looked pleased with himself as he passed over a bundle of exercise books all full of school
childrens' signatures from all over the EU demanding European governments stamp down hard on the drugs trade. The face of the Security Policeman was frozen into a gargoyle of embarrassment as he stared towards the camera.  He was probably wondering why so many young people took drugs if they were busy writing petitions against them, but Roberts wasn't fussed about details like that.

I took a good look at the square, its exits and entrances, to check on the fields of fire.  Provided I could get close enough, it should be easy. After walking round the railings a couple o
f
times, I decided that the best angle for a shot would come from the hotel, so I strolled in and had a slow drink in the bar. When the lobby was busy, I slipped up the stairs and walked firmly along the first and second floor corridors, whistling and jangling the change in my pocket.

On the second floor, a room was open and a maid was busy with a noisy vacuum. I stuck my head into the room. "Mr Rush around?" I bellowed, over the noise of the machine. She didn't hear , so I walked in to scan the panorama from the window. It was superb.    Any window on the second or third floor had to be good. The chambermaid looked up and noticed me. "Mr Rush?" I shouted again, mouthing the name I'd seen on the manager's door off reception, and pointing down the corridor in dumb show.

"No," she shook her head violently and pointed downstairs. "Try his office," the lips said. I nodded and waved my hand; I'd had a good enough look to re-assure me that the view from the window would do.   I was going to be a guest at the Hotel.  It looked comfortable enough for your average political assassin.

I spent the rest of the day getting the details right. I telephoned the hotel and booked a room. At that time of year it  isn't too difficult to get one 'with a view over the square'. I put on a slight transatlantic accent and did the 'gee-gosh' tourist routine down the phone. Then I
made some
purchases
and thought
about the timings and angles before
buying an
old case for cash at a little shop behind Holborn.
By
six o'clock I had booked  into the hotel.  They seemed pleased to see 'Mr Hunnicutt from Canada'. I noticed the CCTV camera in reception and kept my head well down  and the silly Canadian cap over my eyes.

True to their word, they had given me a room overlooking the Square. I laid out my purchases and put the old case under the bed before checking the escape routes. I had two ways out using the stairs; one down to the main lobby and another that took me through the kitchens and staff exits through two fire doors.  It was clearly a straight out the back job and stay away from the lift.

While I was wandering down a staff corridor, one of the kitchen staff suddenly appeared and gave me the 'are you lost, sir?' routine. I mumbled a bit and began to head back to the lobby, when the kid, who was only being helpful, said, "Well you can get out this way, sir, if you're in a hurry", and opened a door between the kitchen and some offices. It opened onto a delivery yard, full of boxes, dustbins and the other back-stage clutter of any big building.

I muttered, "Gee thanks," in a nasal twang and pressed a Canadian dollar (one of my purchases of the afternoon) into his hand. The young cook looked bemused, but I kept moving past him, out through the door and the gates, and on
to Bond
Street, walking my route, double checking.

Once
I’d got
the timings, I returned to the hotel and breezed straight in through the lobby and up to my room. I made it back by about five to seven, by which time it was nearly dark.  In the gloom I tried to open the window, but it had been permanently fixed. Old, crusted paint and a newish screw stopped it moving. Mentally I added some tools to my list of things to bring, and turned my attention to the traffic and movement on the Embassy steps across the corner of the Square.

As the light failed, I stood in the back of the darkened room and thought out angles, distances and timings while watching the comings and goings outside the Embassy. Cars drew up regularly at the base of the wide steps. As the people stepped out or got in, I followed their movements through a pair of Zeiss night glasses, each
time rehearsing
a dry run-through in my mind.

By quarter past seven, it was completely dark and a black London taxi pulled up. The  fare got out and paid the driver while I silently timed him, sighted my imaginary shot, breathed 'now' to myself as he turned from the door, one foot on the steps. Unaware of his role in history he went into the Embassy, while I went into my 'bug out' routine.   You really have to rehearse these things.  To survive.

ONE:   clear the gun, hang it on its support.

TWO:   put on the mackintosh.

THREE:   move to the door, final check of room.

FOUR:   lock the door, walk to the back stairs and clatter down to the staff door.

FIVE:   out into the fresh air, check watch, one minute thirty seconds. 

Good.   Keep moving, head well down,  out through the dustbins and the litter to the gates into the street at plus another thirty seconds;  then away, away into the maze of half-lit streets leading to Bond Street and a clean break;   an escape. At Oxford Street I checked the timings, and finally stood at the underground station and took the total elapsed time: four minutes forty three seconds.  Say five minutes, plus a margin for
safety -
say six minutes thirty seconds.  Seven at the very most.  Easy.  Thoughtfully, I retraced my steps.   It would work.

I did the same drill again at nine o'clock, but this time did a trial run down through the reception lobby, just in case something went wrong. I daren't risk it for real, but I had to have a back up. Then I went back up to the room to finalise my arrangements. I wasn't going to sleep there, but I had to leave the bed rumpled, the towel screwed up and the washing things strewn. I also had to take care not to leave any hairs or other DNA traces around. I tell you, it's not easy planning these things. I started to “dress the room”, as Mallalieu had called it.

When the room was suitably messy, I let myself out and went back to my own flat to sleep. The ordeal of wearing gloves all the time was beginning to make my hands sweat. In fact, I was nearly as fed up with that as I was with 'Mr Hunnicutt's' heavy check trousers and bright blue blazer which made me feel as conspicuous as a stand-up comic. God knows how the Americans and Canadians put up with it over here.  But I expect they only notice each other.

Back at the flat I made myself steak with a fried egg on top and opened a bottle of red wine letting some Buxtehude clear my brain.  While I dipped bread in the juices on the plate,
I wrote
out the plan again and again. Then I made coffee, burnt the notes in the fire and wrote it all out again once, from memory. It worked. I reckoned that it was
a simple
, good-enough-for-the-job plan. And it had one priceless advantage; no-one, not even Mallalieu, knew how I would do it, or precisely when.

I slept badly that night. I don't get excited about these jobs, and I certainly wasn't losing sleep about topping Roberts, despite Mallalieu's touching concern for my welfare.

It's just that I dreamt, seemingly all night. It was a long, sweaty confused succession of images in which Spicer, Harry, Varley and my three muggers chased me over the desert and then through London. Back in Brixton
I turned over Red-shoes again,
prostrate on the pavement only to have her
spring up
laughing
and chasing
me down the street. I sighted on Roberts getting out from
a taxi
and he was suddenly transformed into Mallalieu, laughing at me in close up and firing back. The crack of bullets whacked around my ears as I waded for my getaway through a sea of invisible treacle.  Then I was jabbing the poker into Varley's stomach again and again. The worst bit of all was sighting on that damned black taxi again. The passenger turned to face me as I pulled the trigger. For a split second Joy's face stared back up at me before being obliterated for ever.

I woke up sweating in the gold grey half-light before dawn, as Jamal's knife smoothly slid across a throat - Joy's throat - in the square at Hasak. While the sweat dried on my body, I made a cup of tea to break the sequence and as I sipped it, contemplating a grey and yellow dawn breaking over London, the images gradually faded from my mind.  Shivering now, I went back to the disaster area of my rumpled bed to settle back among the chaos of sweat-sodden sheets for a couple of hours dead sleep without any dreams.

After that, the morning dragged, seemingly endlessly. Eventually, irritated, I took the silly tweed cap and trench coat that screamed 'American' and slipped out of the flat. I put them on at a bus stop and then walked over to the Marriott. The 'Good Morning, Mr Hunnicutt' from Reception, and the tidied room told me that I hadn't been missed. The litter of clothes and shaving gear had been stacked neatly and my bed made. I sat by the window and stared out at the Embassy. Little figures walked up and down the steps, exactly 80 metres away. I knew that view down to the last centimetre. A drizzle of rain spattered across the glass and I turned my attention to the bundle of newspapers I'd bought to pass the time.

I skipped through them quickly; most of the stuff in British newspapers is addictive rubbish anyway. The news content always plays second fiddle to the routine fixes that the Editors use to dope their unsuspecting readers so they'll come back for more. In the Sun it's tits, TV celebs and bingo; in the Times it's the regular commentators and the self-
conscious
letters.   But the aim is still the same - to make us all
newsprint
junkies and come back to buy our daily fix of our own favourite prejudice.

The stars made more sense.  They said I'd have a day that could be a turning point.  Well, it would be for someone
,
that
was for sure. Uncanny these astrologers...  By the time I got to page two of the Express, I was yawning bored. Then I saw a headline that made me sit up and take notice:

'PRESS PHOTOGRAPHER ARRESTED'

Underneath was a short but embarrassing piece by an 'Express Staff Reporter' telling the story of Jonno Briggs' arrest three nights before. I read and re-read the short piece, looking for clues to the extent of the damage and for any indications of the paper's next move - if any.

But the article was careful to communicate only the bare essentials, leaving as many questions still open as it answered. I read it again;

Former Fleet Street photographer ‘Jonno’ Briggs was charged with assaulting a police officer at Cannon Row on Monday night, after what a police spokesman described as 'an affray'. The arrest followed
a late night 999  call from the
'Sherlock Holmes'
public house, a
well-known local for Whitehall's intelligence and security establishment. It is also said to be a haunt of foreign diplomats and spies looking for information from loose-tongued officials. Police declined to give further details.

Briggs, a 6'4" East Ender, first made his mark as a stunt man playing alongside famous stars
and shot to fame
as ‘Mr Love Machine’ of the TV adverts. Later he branched out to become a staff photographer and freelance for several national dailies.

Police released him on bail following a visit to the station by a fellow employee of his present firm, SIS Ltd. The company is listed as an offshoot of Lloyds, specialising in providing specialist insurance and protection services for a variety of clients, including bodyguards for international VIPs. A company spokesman was unavailable for comment.'

When I had finished reading I laid the paper down and tried to think through what it meant.   It was either the end of the affair, which meant that some damage had been done, but it wasn't the end of the world.    More likely, however, the story was the tip of the iceberg, a coat trailer to gauge our reaction.  What worried me was that reference to a company spokesman not being available for comment.  Since when did Tescos get asked to comment if one of their employees got drunk and assaulted someone?  It stank.

Knowing Hemming, I was prepared to lay good money that this was the start of a campaign to have a go at SIS Ltd.  The story looked like a hook baiting a bigger follow up. I didn't like that reference to the company: it seemed to be laying the ground for something else.  Still, that was
Mallalieu’s
problem.