The Vengeance Man (48 page)

His wolfish grin re-appeared. Apart from the wrinkles round the eyes, he looked about twenty years younger. "I'll tell them you're away on work of national importance, doing a bilateral job for the Americans on the express order of the Prime Minister. OK?"

"Thank you”. I said, “that'll do nicely," and went out to clear my desk.

*
             
*
             
*

I got a shock that evening. I'd left work early to pack my case and a travelling bag. It didn't take long. I've done it before. But I needed a bit of spare time, before Joy arrived at eight o'clock, to sort out the lock up garage. I wanted to dump my guns and some other odds and ends I keep for insurance. You can't be too careful.

The minute I walked in, I knew I'd been nobbled. The block hiding the guns had been moved and the package  behind had been disturbed. I checked the door lock and noticed some fresh scratches bright on the paint. Fighting down a feeling of rising panic, I checked the other bits and pieces I keep stashed away. They'd been disturbed too.   I'd been turned over.

I left it as it was and locked up, trying to think out what it all meant. An expert search wouldn't have left such obvious traces; but on the other hand, a criminal, rummaging through my gear in a hurry looking for something to nick, would have left a real mess -
and why had nothing been taken
?  No; the only conclusion was that I'd been
meant
to find out. Which only left one interpretation: someone, somewhere was trying to put pressure on me. Part of the softening-up process for Wednesday? I looked around the quiet little close with its lock-ups and scruffy dustbins. There was no sign of surveillance: but then I'd gone to some lengths to slip out of the flat to dodge them.   For all I knew I could even be on candid camera at this moment.  It would be sensible to hide a low light time lapse CCTV to stake out a static pitch like this. I know that that is just what I would  have recommended for the job.

I walked slowly back to the flat. If they knew where the lock-up was, they probably didn't even need to follow me. They'd got all the evidence they needed. A thought occurred to me; hell, if Lamaison wanted to do the dirty on me, he'd got a full confession already. They'd got me sewn up tighter than a shark's backside at fifty fathoms, and that's watertight. I had no chance, and no choices left. It was get out or go down.

Gloomily, I let myself into the flats. Almost absent-mindedly I waved to a couple of what looked like Special Branch heavies sitting in a car on the yellow lines outside and one of them gave me an ironic half-salute in return. Christ! It had got to that stage; they were confident enough to be cheeky about it. What a mess ... the sooner I got away from all this, the better.

Joy took the news of my trip badly. Something in my attitude must have communicated that this was no ordinary job. Maybe it was the fact that I didn't know when I'd be coming back. We went to bed early and didn't sleep a lot. Most of the time we talked, and although we didn't make any specific plans, we were both aware of a sense of for
e
boding for the future.

In the early hours I must have dozed off, for I awoke to find Joy standing by the bedside, her hair dark down her back, two mugs of coffee in her hands. I don't know how long she'd been standing there. As she bent down to put my mug down  the dressing gown fell open to reveal a breast, marble white against her tan, with those wonderful soft, smooth nipples.    I reached out and cupped her gently, feeling the silken warmth hang heavy in my hand.     "You're awake, then?" She put down the other mug and turned to kiss me. It was an awkward, nose-bumping kiss. To my surprise, her face was wet with tears. I put up a hand to stroke them away. "Why?" I asked. "There's no need to cry."

But she just clung to me, silently weeping as I cradled her sprawled half across my lap and chest, watching a cold grey dawn steal in through the curtains, while her tears made a cold damp patch on my shoulder, and the coffee slowly stopped steaming in its mug.

Joy insisted on making love one more time before we got up. It was a brief, hurried affair, not at all like our normal love-making. She rode over m
e on top, virtually ignoring me
, seeming to take a fierce inward pleasure only for herself in a way she'd never done before. At the end she brought her knuckles up to her mouth and wailed, mouth open, eyes screwed tight shut; then she burst into tears and lay back, huge, slow tear drops running heavily down the side of her face. I was baffled and worried. This was outside my experience of women.

I tried to console her and eventually she stopped crying. Then she just lay there, silent, smiling a private smile and hugging herself, holding the emotions in tightly as she squeezed her arms across her chest, while the Boyce Symphonies played in the dawn.  She'd taken off the other music to put it on specially.  I felt chilled and puzzled, lying there watching her dreamily contemplating the ceiling with that air of feminine mystery that wrapped her tight, excluding me and the rest of the world.

Finally
, when I started to get up to have a shower, she reached up and pulled my head down to kiss me. It was full, soft kiss and I felt my puzzlement and irritation at her attitude fall away until she pulled back and looked up. "I  wish I could have your baby. Now."  My shock must have been visible,  "Your face," she laughed. 'You should see it!"

"But why? I thought you didn't want .. "

"Never mind why." She eyed me, head on one side, amused. "Let's face it, you'll never really understand women, will you, love? Let's just leave it at that. But I do love you; I think I always will."

I kissed her back and went off to the shower.  At the door. I turned back and looked at her. She was snuggled up in the duvet, with only her face grinning like a Cheshire cat at me. A little hand wiggled at me over the top. I had the feeling that Joy had been saying her own very special kind of goodbye.

But, like she said, I'll never understand women.

A HOLIDAY  ABROAD

The rest of that day passed in a whirl.

I'd got my kit, Mallalieu's ever-efficient secretary did the administration and I concentrated on the briefings.  We had to get a week's work into one day.   I listened, asked questions, then went over it all again.

Mallalieu had dredged up some lunatic called Fletcher from the FCO who had apparently spent years in Afghanistan. He was a right number and I'm not surprised they left him in Kabul for eighteen years. He would have been a 'Grave Embarrassment' back at King Charles Street. Or anywhere else around Whitehall, come to that. With his dishevelled suit, flailing arms and manic eyes, he reminded me of a particular demented television personality, extolling the virtues of
living rough
among the  'primitive, but noble tribes' on the North West frontier.

Mind you, he knew his subject and I desperately tried to remember his advice on the tribes and their customs.  Like the man said,
mad moustache abristle, 'You can't afford to offend these buggers, old boy... appearances are everything... the women are the worst, you know.    Don't even
think
of looking at their women.  I know I didn't.... "   Finally he left, hair flapping, arms waving, while Mallalieu rolled a sardonic eye in my direction

After lunch he was replaced by a pale, blond Staff Sergeant from the Kremlin at Hereford called Ron Marshall, whom I hadn't met before.   Like most of the SAS men I've known, he was quiet and introverted.   He didn't introduce  himself and neither did I.  I was ‘before his time’.

I had had to lean forward and listen carefully to his calm, even
,
briefing, explaining the routes in, contacts and RVs.  It was an impressive performance, and the only hint of the tensions coiled within were his fingernails, bitten to the quick, and a slow tick wriggling like a worm beside his left eye. When he had finished,  he shook my hand and  wished me 'Good luck' with a final appraising stare.

At five o'clock, Mallalieu reckoned I'd had enough. He was right. My little notebook was full, and I had a lot to learn on the flight. He poured drinks and we sat back in co
n
templative quiet. Eventually he broke the silence.  "Well - good luck to your trip." I grunted and sipped the watery whisky,

"You don't sound too happy," he went on. "What's up?"

"It's the whole thing. I've just got bad vibes, that's all."

He smiled.  "Don't worry; no-one can nobble you while this op is on. You’re away doing work of national importance, I think the phrase is. And you just have to sit tight until Lamaison clears it up. We can fix all this.  McKenzie will look after you." McKenzie was the Second Secretary in the Islamabad Embassy and the Six man for the region.  "It'll be a doddle."

"I don't call padding into Afghanistan in the middle of a civil war between Muslim fundamentalists and Nato a doddle.   Did you hear what Fletcher said about those Chinese coming across the frontier? The Afridi women cut their balls  off and stuffed them in their mouths!” An image of Spicer’s balls slipped unwanted into my brain. Yuk. I shook my head.

"Ah yes
, Fletcher
.  The wild man
from Kabul...."  Mallalieu shook his head, sorrowfully.    "Never mind; the Taliban are out of town in that area.  There'll be no Chinese where you're going, according to the Yanks.”

“Chinese . . .on the North West Frontier?” I sat, shaking my head. “I don’t get it. It’s hundreds of miles from the border. Even with Tibet.”

“You’re wrong. Don’t forget that their Xinjang Province actually has a border with Afghanistan. The Hanchu appendix.”

“You seem to know a lot about it?”

“I do, because I’ve studied the map. And so should you, before you leave. It’s wild country.  Anyway, the
Mujahadeen
say that the PLA only comes across occasionally in hot pursuit of drug smugglers. I don't think that the Chinese want to get onto a pissing contest with the Taliban; and certainly not Nato. Not yet anyway. From what he said, I reckon your biggest worry is going to be keeping your hands from peeking under the yashmaks and sore feet from hill walking."

"Let's hope you're right." I swirled my glass.  "Did you really believe all that stuff about the Afridi women cutting off prisoners' balls and stuffing them in their mouths while they're still alive?"

"Yes," said Mallalieu simply.

I got up and roamed the room.  "Christ.  All this gives me the creeps."

"What?   Afghanistan?  The wild women of the mountains?  Not like you."

"No, no.  Not that."  I waved my glass at the window.  "All this. London..."

"Are you still worried about the surveillance?   Hell, you'll be out in ... " he glanced at a battered gold
watch with a regimental strap,
... in no more than four hours.”

'What's to stop the police or the Home Office grabbing me the minute I set foot out of the door tonight? That would throw a spanner in the works."

"If you're that worried about it .... "

"I am."

"Well, if you're really that fussed, I'll  take you to the airport myself.  Save you a taxi.   They're hardly likely to try anything with me along. Will that do you?"

"Yes." Whether he meant it or not, I would welcome the cover - and the company. "Yes - I'd feel a lot better if I had someone to see me clear."

He swirled his drink again. "What? Wouldn't you rather have your girl-friend - Joy - see you off? Or has her taste in neckties shaken your faith in women?"

"Uh-huh." I shook my head. "We've said our fond farewells."

"I'll bet." He drained his glass. "Come on, then. What time do you check in?"

"Half past seven. But as long as I'm there for eight it should be all right."

At the door he said one other thing that stuck in my mind for a long time afterwards. It was said casually, almost as a half-remembered thing to do. "Oh yes, by the way; it might be useful if you just fill me in on some of your personal admin details while you're away. You know, mortgage, rent, flat. Gas bills. Solicitor. Your bank. Stuff like that. You'll need someone to keep a discreet eye on things while you're away, won't you? You’ve got half an hour. And you can fill me in the car on the way on anything else. But I'll need to know everything. Just let me have a list. OK by you?"

I was grateful. I'd completely forgotten about personal admin in the rush. And I didn't want to come home to a pile of old papers threatening credit card letters and mail on the mat. Trust Mallalieu to look after me. He was a decent guy  - and, whatever else you could say, he'd looked out for me from the beginning.

We gathered the bags and went down to the car pool where Mallalieu collected a Jaguar I didn't know we owned. As we rolled out of the garage, a couple of burly types in blazers and grey trousers moved smartly to a bronze Mercedes parked by our entrance. I watched it sit on our tail and follow us out to Heathrow. They made no pretence of concealment; glancing over my shoulder I could see the big saloon, rock solid, twenty metres back from our rear bumper. What the hell were they up to?

"It's OK," said Mallalieu, his eyes flicking to the mirror. "I've got them."

I was puzzled. "It's a bloody funny way to do car surveillance. They couldn't be more obvious if they tried."

"Don't fuss." He made a joke. "If they're following like that, they're probably just making sure you catch your plane."

"Yes - I expect you're right." Now, that was an odd remark. I fell silent to think about what he meant; there was something wrong there. Then we were at the airport with Mallalieu dropping me at the Terminal and all the muddle of luggage and goodbyes.  The Merc had disappeared and so had the two men.

Mallalieu stuck his hand out. "Well, have a good trip. Got everything? Passport?  Ticket?"  I patted my pockets to   be sure. The work passport was a new one in the name of ‘Boyd’ with a
really
bad photo.
"OK," he went on. "I'll take care of all your personal stuff. Thank God you don't have a complicated life. Send us an e mail through McKenzie as soon as you to Karachi , and stay in touch.  Good luck." He smiled

I picked up my case as he got back into the car.  An airport traffic warden and a couple of taxis began to fuss around.  It was time to move. "I'll send you a postcard," I shouted.

"Yes."  He laughed. "And this time no sneaking back into the country on your Belgian ID card." He was still smiling as the Jaguar pulled away, its indicator flashing as it roared into the line of traffic.

I hefted my bag into the check-in.

After the usual airport check-in aggravation, I bought a paper and sat down to wait. But I couldn't settle.  There was something wrong, something out of place.  I was tired and not thinking clearly. The long briefings, Fletcher, Marshall, were all pushing at the front of my mind, fogging my clarity.  And then there was Joy peeking over the duvet with that silly smile, the surveillance, would it all be fixed by the twenty third?  That was the date on my  return ticket.  And Mallalieu and Lamaison, of course....

There was something important niggling at my mind , but the more I turned it over, the harder it was to place. It was something Mallalieu had said;   something about the two men not doing surveillance, but 'seeing I caught the plane'. The more I thought about it, the more it worried me.

Then I thought of phoning Joy. She'd be back at her own place by now. A picture of her popped into my mind's eye. She'd been standing by the
F
rench window of our little hotel that weekend in Ullswater, wearing a lime green dress. The sun was pouring in behind her, making the thin cotton half transparent, outlining her form and halo-ing her hair.   She'd looked beautiful and I'd said so. She had turned and kissed me.  It was the first time I'd told her that I thought I loved her. Suddenly I was missing her. Suddenly I didn't want to go away; suddenly I wanted just to go to Joy, to bury my head between her breasts and forget about the killing and the guns and all the hassle and violence of what my life had become. Time to be
normal
.

Suddenly, I'd had enough. I couldn't go on.

I made a big decision. I reached into my pocket, took out the mobile and tried to dial Joy’s number. Nothing. It  didn’t work. I tried to phone the network provider but even that didn’t work. Bloody things. And at a time like this too. I fumbled for some change and stood up to go to the public telephone. As I did, three things happened.

First, to my horror,  I saw th
e
two burly guys in blazers standing by the entrance to the departure lounge. I froze.  They were the heavies from the bronze Merc. They reminded me
irresistibly
of bodyguards, not surveillance men. Their solid stance, watchful eyes and carefully folded hands across the groin smacked of minders, not surveillance operators. The two were blatantly watching me.

My stomach contracted and the coins for the telephone dug into my clenched fist. I stared wordlessly at the two, not twenty feet away.   Then one of them looked over the crowd at me and shook his head staring me straight in the eye. There could be no doubt about it. He'd seen me stand up and had shaken his head. Like a hammer blow the truth burst in on me. I wasn't being
followed;
I was being
guarded
, watched over by a pair of heavies. The bigger minder shook his head and mimed a throat cut across his throat as I reached for the phone. He wagged a disapproving finger and shook his head quite openly at me. But who?

All the wind driven out of me, I looked round desperately, then slumped back on the seat. The minder who'd caught my eye nodded approvingly and returned to his slow scanning of the departure lounge, now nearly full of passengers.

My brain was in a whirl, I tried to pull all the questions together.  None of it made sense. Who were these guys? The police and CIT interrogation? Mallalieu and Lamaison offering to help and see me safely on my way? And why hadn't the surveillance team been pulled off after Lamaison said it was OK?  Who had turned over my garage so obviously?    I'd been meant to find that out. Obviously. Why? To frighten me? To make me run? And wasn't it all a bit convenient, suddenly a nice sneaky-beaky job, out of the way in Afghanistan? Not too hard, not too easy, just tempting enough for me to jump at. What  had Mallalieu said about the car that followed us; 'they're probably only mak
ing sure you catch the plane'?
My head was spinning and for a second my brain seemed to slip sideways inside my skull.

I looked up, to catch the minder's watchful eye again. The lounge seemed oppressively hot and stuffy, and smelt of vinyl and baby sick. The clamour and chatter of the other passengers buzzed in my ears, growing like some roaring tide of noise. I could hardly breathe. My head felt tight and I was conscious of a terrible realisation bursting in on me, through a pent-up dam of horror. Then it roared over as clear and sharp as a breaking wave. The second thing. . . the second thing.  I knew.   I suddenly knew.  I'd been stitched up: big time.

Mallalieu had said, laughing as he drove away, 'And no sneaking back into the country on  your Belgian ID card'.  But I had never,
ever
, mentioned that to a living soul. No-one but me knew I had a stolen Belgian ID bought from a scruffy
Moroccan
in a Brussels bar eight years ago. It was one of my biggest secrets and was professionally concealed between a picture and its backing on my living room wall.  I had only used it once. No-one but me had ever known that that was how I'd checked through immigration at Dover that night to get Spicer. 
SO HOW HAD MALLALIEU KNOWN?