Majic Midnight
By Dave Page
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Dave was born in 1948 and joined the Royal Navy at 16.
He served with the Royal Navy for 8 years including 2 years in an ex Japanese Execution Camp in Singapore before embarking on a career of Accountancy and IT lasting some 40 years in Europe, the UK and the Far East. Dave is now pursuing a career in writing.
During his Royal Naval Service, Dave represented 500 guys on a Welfare Committee for two years and worked on two Royal Tournaments including putting up pay with the Bagpipes practising in front of his office and the RAF Dogs joining in behind him.
Leaving the Royal Navy, Dave worked in a Funfair and a Pub of the Year in London.
Born in London, Dave lived in Chelsea for 10 years and now lives in Gloucester.
Books by Dave Page
Parky’s Lunch*
Parky’s Afters*
Parky’s Teatime*
FYOG – Don’t Wait Up*
FYOG – I May Be A Long Time*
The Good, The Bad And The Awful Poetry Book*
*Available through CreateSpace and also on Amazon Kindle
Amazon Author’s site http://www.amazon.com/author/davepage
Author’s Blog http://www.davepage999.wordpress.com/
Twitter https://twitter.com/DavePage999
Majic Midnight
Copyright (c) Dave and Jean Page 2016 All Rights Reserved
Dave Page has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
Although every precaution was taken to verify the accuracy of the information contained herein, the author and publisher assume no responsibility for any errors or omissions. No liability is assumed for damages that may result from the use of information contained within.
All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced or stored in any written, electronic, recording, photocopying system or transmitted in any form or by any means, without written permission of the publisher or author.
Majic Midnight
For Jean
Chapter I – Majicians
Majic is a clandestine Multi-Agency Justice Integrated Countermeasures organisation that doesn’t exist.
Operatives are called Majicians as opposed to Magicians but don’t entertain audiences.
Unknown, unsung, unwashed, unregulated – unrewarded, and often hunted by their own Governments for belonging to a non-existent organisation.
Recruitment is optional, but never your option; commitment, whether made or not, is considered total and failure can lead to you being hunted by Majicians as well as Governments, and just don’t mention ‛Print Inches’ who anything gory and demeaning.
Operatives are often single – no relationships for very good reasons – just ask any partner who expects you to leave at eight in the morning and be home by five thirty, and on the same day, surprisingly … life for a Majician can be a little different when they leave in the morning and return a month later, when only working 3 miles away.
It is classed as a Terrorist multi-disciplinary task force and hunted by the CIA as worldwide roles are the province of the USA, Congress, Senate and ‛The President’ and no-one else, as far as they are concerned.
Members often include people from Religious and Security Organisations and a few of the ‛Print Inkers’ mix a few Mercenaries as required and shake, but essentially it is a multi-country, multi-agency organisation with an unofficial remit outside of Government and thus hunted for that reason as they fight Governments as well as Criminals.
Its work is co-ordinated through the United Nations but not recognised by anyone.
It finds and fights criminal organisations throughout the world, and fights them when individual countries will not.
It has advocates and traitors; the most noticeable is Jonathan Owl who is a Black Magician as well as formerly a Majician. As a secret organisation, its operatives suffer and although it is well supported, are never publicly recognised.
Chapter II – Bookends
Sometimes Parky and Bishop sat on a bench watching their wounds leak, looking out on grass that stretched twelve feet before it dipped – like their careers – into an even bigger hole – like their careers – no bottom they could see, including their own rough and ready areas.
Like mindless bookends awaiting another meeting – burnt brown and recently dusted by their owners, they still sat there as the cleaners arrived – they mentally escaped; usually with flames escaping from their backsides as they ran or in later days hobbled.
Parky thought about his future quite often … there was in his eyes, no point in thinking about it any further – there wasn’t a future.
Once again, they were both ‛personae non gratae’ and buried under the rose as far as MI5 and Politicians cared – the rest of the world didn’t seem too bothered either. They looked, and felt older – maybe older than they truly were – it wasn’t difficult but it was making them think for once.
The not-so friendly CIA fire had perforated them at both ends and looking at each other from both ends of the bench – they weren’t raising their backsides for target practice again, despite liking US hobbies.
Some feet apart, with their own feet on the bench – they wandered in their thoughts and dreams … more often at these times—it highlighted a complete lack of trust between them; they looked at each other and said nothing – they hadn’t betrayed each other or anyone else really – no more than they usually did, and that didn’t count, really.
Neither of them had been honest but ‛God-dammit’ they were in the Security Service, not the Girl Guides, and they didn’t trust each other, either.
Well, maybe they did after all these years and even when they weren’t forced to but what did that have to do with the price of fish.
Dirty Dirstly had stitched them up – kippered them so they were stuffed if they did, and smoked, if they didn’t – there was something to sort out there too, and not just the fishy smell of Dirstly’s socks.
They had undertaken some unofficial work … so what; killed a few terrorists and gangsters … who cared; defied direct orders from the Prime Minister … what the hell was wrong with that?
Even his own Ministers didn’t give a shit what he thought … he spent most of his time chasing after woman, anyway – probably the wrong ploy in this day and age – men would have been fine but he had obviously deviated and gone for women, so the ‛Print Inches’ cried foul as he wanted women.
The PM browned people all the time and he didn’t get shot up the arse for it; just someone’s head licking up his backside to kick-start him in the morning.
It was just a case of seeing everything and nothing but that was Security and they were now personally paying for many things they should have seen coming and didn’t – including bullets – maybe it was time to tend the roses and manure the Security Service wanted to bury them under.
When they’d had the bullets finally removed they were both still a bit leaky and still leaking more than the spirits they weren’t allowed drink as they sat sniffing the bottle of brandy like a pair of old hobnobs.
Jerome smuggled it in to them – hidden underneath the bench – because he knew they couldn’t drink it and often joined them to show he could.
Finally Bishop looked up at Parky as if reading his mind – not an easy task as Parky never trusted his mind, and was often said, ‛to have several, which never agreed with anyone – including himself’, and suddenly shouted at Parky, “the charges against Boy are a joke.
“Dirty Dirstly set the girls up for that kidnap. When they were kidnapped and raped, he blamed us for causing it. He was the guy who told us we mustn’t do anything knowing that was a death warrant for Hazil and your girl—”
“—we had to get them fre—”
“—we did!
“Hazil forced them to accuse us of being a lynch-mob because Thomas told her to cause trouble. We killed the three guys who raped them. We saved their lives. Who knows how much Thomas was involved with Jonathan Owl raping his daughter and granddaughters … it makes no sense, Parky – even by Dirty Dirstly’s mentality. We saved three people yet we get this shit.”
“Still the Boy’s Butler, Bishop,” Parky taunted.
“The problem, Bishop,” and Parky look questioningly at Bishop, “are the charges?”
“What were the final charges, Parky?”
“Well,” he exclaimed, as if uttering a barrister’s pompous oath.
Parky expanded his bone like chest demonstrating his parade ground idea of wisdom.
It wasn’t just wounds affecting Parky’s mind nor how he felt – body wasn’t a problem – age wasn’t tolerated.
His self-esteem however, was in the gutter and his ego like a tax inspector on bonus.
“There still hasn’t been a court hearing nor have they enforced the International Arrest Warrants or returned Boy to the French for trial. The charges are, ‛Operating as a Mercenary, in France; Murder; Conspiracy to Murder; Breach of the Official Secrets Act, and Conspiracy to Kidnap – a nice little ménage.
“And illegally brewing a cup of tea in Paris. Parky, stop blowing yourself up … you … you failed … you’re as bad a Dirstly and we all did all of that.
“The Boy didn’t do half …? It was us not him. We played games and you didn’t give a shit about anyone – Gris, didn’t even appear on your horizon. Everyone but you, and you hammering the Boy so he didn’t look after her, knew. You screwed up the Boy and Gris because she was your little baby and you couldn’t bear to lose her.”
“So! The Boy … stupid Boy … he went back to the UK before the dust had cleared.
“He is now in jug, and we’re sat on a bench bleeding like stuck pigs while he is probably squealing like one.
“Tell me whose wrong, Bishop – I don’t feel wrong – I don’t feel wrong at all.”
“About the only good thing, Parky was Val sleeping with Sir Jacob Christie and his PA but a friendly Judge will throw that out. Still Christie is wrecked by his affair with Val, and his PA’s boyfriend isn’t too happy with him sleeping with a woman but that is the Civil Service for you. His wife is finishing off the job, so Christie won’t have anything once she’s finished, and the PA is legging it with his trousers up.”
“Why are they still holding Boy, then, if they aren’t going to act on the charges, Bishop?”
“You’re the Counsel, Parky. What is your very legal-illegal opinion?”
“They want to see the fall-out with the CIA, I think … yea … that’s it … Jerome has done his best but the Boy keeps rushing back to England like the bloody fool he is, and once there he ends up in jail … at least … yea, at least this time, Bishop, he isn’t being tortured.”
“No, Parky … he isn’t being tortured: unless you count Gris trying to take his house, and divorcing him; Hazil, Helen and Joana trying to get their hands on his money and bankrupt him; being stuffed in Jail without a ‛get-out free card’ plus being left in solitary confinement.
Parky looked at Bishop.
Neither were oil paintings, yet still to be cleaned. A few hundred years in an attic would improve ageing and oiling.
They were the two sides of many coins that had passed through their hands – fraudulent in the main – and as dirty as they were. You would certainly never consider them newly minted.
“They have nothing on us, Bishop, but we can hardly call the CIA guys in as witnesses – especially when it was a British Security operation set-up by Dirty Dirstly – we’re piled under the brown stuff if we ever go back. I just wonder how Neville Jones hasn’t recovered from his betrayal by Jonathan Owl and Antona Turner throwing him out as well … he’s had a rough ride and I brought him into Security: he now basically, doesn’t have a job; no Police career anymore either; dependent upon Dirty Dirstly for a job … he’s up shit creek the same as us.”
A shadow appeared behind them as someone put their hands on the back of the bench, “and how are the walking wounded today. Complaining as much as ever?”
They both looked up at a 6 foot 5 inch lean angular body leaning on the back of the bench with Jerome Cassidy attached to it.
Jerome was in theory a Gang specialist for the CIA and it showed to a degree in his persona, “I hope you two old drunks haven’t finished that brandy I left, and I could do with a good swig of it.”
“And on duty too, Jerome. Any news?” Bishop, looking up at Jerome, raised his eyebrows which made him look like he had a twitch as one went up, quivered and finally gave up and subsided.
“A bit of good news, I think, Bishop, but not a lot of it.”
“What’s the good bit then, Jerome?”
“The court action by Hazil, Helen and Joanna was thrown out. They couldn’t prove the Boy was involved. Once the Judge heard they’d gone on the Coach Tour of their own free will, the case just disappeared.
“That the Coach Company, knowing the girls had vanished, just carried on with the tour meant they should be suing the Coach Company, not Boy.
“Any connection to Boy was beyond his belief. The Judge decided the girls should be suing the Coach Company in France for their lack of protection. He called it a spurious action and landed them with the court costs … they won’t be suing anyone again – down for £60K each for court costs.
“We’ve raised again, that all three of you have American Citizenship; have taken an oath to support the US and you cannot be Mercenaries when acting under US Government control. The Brits are still arguing that you are Brits – under their law and the control of their Government. We’ve pointed out pretty forcibly that they knew you were acting for us and implicitly gave you their authority. Only trouble is that they won’t put Boy on trial – he’s just rotting in solitary – they just don’t want the conversation. They know they will lose it, and a few other things.”
“So what is the bad news, Jerome?”
“The French are digging their heels in – Sir Jacob Christie was a good friend and source of information for them – they want revenge for his being set-up.
“They are also demanding the ‛arrest warrant’ honoured and Boy delivered to French justice, meaning more time in jail and the British PM is behind that I think.
“I know the Security Service wanted revenge on Sir Jacob but it was a pathetic tantrum and he knows it. He will walk. They are holding him until his knowledge is ‛timed out’ but he has so many friends in Europe it won’t happen. They are lined up against the English PM and he is wetting himself as usual.”
“So the French and Europe are the problem, Jerome?” Parky looked up again with his weather-beaten face screwing up against the sun.
“The PM still hasn’t forgiven you for killing his chief fund raiser, Parky. Even though he was providing illegal money and from another Government as well, it was the only regular money, they had coming in at the time.
“That is as much a problem as anything, Parky … the embarrassment was considerable and the Israelis have never let up baiting the PM to react to them again – shooting one of their Agents did not go down well.”
“Well he went down well as far as I was concerned, Jerome. The man was a fraud; an Israeli spy, and was feeding information to Russian Agents plus trying to take over a top job in the Security Service … they should have given me a medal for taking out a treble Agent.”
“I wouldn’t wait up for the medal, Parky – it would be tin – I can guess where they would like to put it as well.
“The only hint of salvation is that Thomas Macguire was identified as the killer of Jonathan Owl. They were trying to pin that on you three, as well. We thought Thomas was dead but someone like him has turned up in Moscow. We’re watching him like a hawk in case he tries to come back here but that is off your slate at least.
“The French need our help on some issues and the quid pro quo from us is that they stop pursuing CIA Agents who were risking their lives to stop a mob of gangsters and terrorists – especially when the French knew about the operation before it occurred and let it go ahead – and reward us. If it works, that’s the arrest warrants withdrawn; the murder and conspiracy to murder charges gone as well but the main problems now are Sir Arthus Dirstly and the English PM.”
“Dirty Dirstly set the girls up, Jerome. That they were picked up by accident by those three rogue police officers was just a co-incidence.”
“Sir Arthus didn’t set them up there in the mountains, Parky. That is the main point, and you can’t get him for that. He set them up on the beach around the hotel and on the heights but nothing happened there. We did have some people covering them but Hazil was the one who took them up there on that coach tour, and we think once again, she was taking instructions from Thomas Macguire.
“Macguire was behind that set-up. He knew Jonathan Owl – what he was up-to – met him a few times as well before he killed him, but we just don’t know the full details – Hazil won’t talk to us – Sir Arthus claims he didn’t set them up to be kidnapped in the Alps … he planned it where we had cover on them. That covers him and that’s the official story … you two will have to take the bum rap until we get it cleared.”
“Where do we go from here, Jerome?” Bishop was losing patience and looking, once again, directly into Jerome’s face as if trying to see if belief was there, or somewhere, at least.
“As I said, Bishop. The French have to cancel the arrest warrants; Sir Jacob Christie goes free and to France; the charges against Boy are dropped … no real idea what Gris, Hazil, Helen or Joanna, nor for that matter the PM and Sir Arthus will do … they are all ‛wild cards’. They will have to compensate the Boy again I guess but whatever they do doesn’t really affect you as I can’t see.
“The Security Service will not be welcoming you three back again, I guess. One other issue is raising its head though, and that could change everything.”
This time is was Parky who studied Jerome’s face, “What is that, Jerome?”
“Jonathan Owl was into Black Majic in a big way and so were the three Policemen you killed … I don’t think the Brits know how far it’s spread or how many of top people are involved. Jonathan was protected so he could escape, and that could only have been managed at a high level – we don’t know how far up it has spread or how deep it is buried – in the British Government. That is worrying everyone – guilty and innocent – we think: several top police officers are involved, some, ‛not so civil’ servants as well. We think the Brits will be asking for our help very soon, which could let you three back in via a different route.”
“Every time we’re invited back in, Jerome, they’re waiting to finish the job – throw us out again on gardening leave; mainly in the manure under the next generation of blooming roses or Boy ends up in prison again – why should we want to help?”
“Parky. You live this kind of work – your life and the offer comes up, you jump at the chance – but not right now I think, or you will be leaking all over the joint again,” and with that final riposte, Jerome turned on his heel and walked off.
Parky sat there. He knew he was a loner. It had taken him years to adjust to the son he’d never wanted – Prilloch.
He hadn’t known about Hazil being pregnant.
A one-night stand she wanted – gratefully taken.
She’d given two of the children away. Only now that he was he starting to adjust to having four children brought up without him ever knowing three of them existed. He’d supported Prilloch without telling him he knew he was his son until Prilloch killed the son of the woman he loved and told Parky he had known Parky was his father for some years.
He looked up at Bishop who was now staring intensively at Parky, “just thinking Bishop … just thinking. It has been known to happen.”
“I guessed that, Parky – it wasn’t difficult – your ears tend to waggle to dissipate the heat.”
“What do we do know about this Black Magic bunch, Bishop? I don’t have any clue as to whom or what they are.”
“No idea, Parky. They have to be associated with Jonathan Owl – bloody senior enough to support him – that could be anyone in the Top echelons of the Police or the Government. It could be anyone. Might be an idea to try Neville Jones? He knew Owley better than anyone.”
“I think it’s time we walked back, Bishop – we can’t drink the Brandy anyway with the drugs they’ve pumped into us … mind you, Jerome gave it a fairly hefty belt. Let’s make a move; it’s another bleeding day to forget.”
Chapter III – Ticket To Ride
Neville sat there watching people moving about and could see a cobweb – obviously from the last Director-General’s appointment – hanging from the ceiling. It wasn’t difficult to review your career or the lack of it as you sat here.
Thrown out by Antona Turner … or did he finally lose his temper and just run for it.
She had started to choose his clothes again, even after she had agreed to stop dressing him like a doll.
Finding out his lifelong protector, boss and mentor was a killer; a Black Majician and someone who treated him as a fool meant he now had to face the senior police hatred on his own.
They had never forgiven him for trying to be honest. Already they were trying to wipe him out, yet again, and that was just another reason why he finally chickened out and resigned.
At least with Owley alive they had stayed off his back. He often wondered what pull Jonathan Owl had over Stapleton and Talbot, but it was gone and they intended he receive the same treatment as Jonathan.
He was the Police Liaison for the Security Service but most police officers didn’t ring him once Owley’s story came out. That seemed to be the order from on high in the Met, as well.
Sir Sidney and Charlie Stapleton had been on his back ever since the jewels went missing, all those years ago. He wouldn’t take the rap and resign – mind you – he hadn’t known Parky had stolen the jewels … he thought Talbot and Stapleton had?
Most police officers blamed him for Owley’s death and they treated his resignation as self-protection from a disciplinary hearing that would have forced him out. Top brass resurrected lies; brown stuff used before and smeared him, including drinking bouts to finish him off. They didn’t appreciate Antona’s control or that he drank under orders with Antona and Albert watching every drop – Brandies in front of Antona and his ‛not so secret’ fridge in the dressing room supplied by Albert, who had an understanding attitude to life.
Neville looked at the wall and wondered what Politics and shambles it had seen. Probably too much and why it received its yearly coat of whitewash as a protected spend. In case the blood soaked through from the hidden corpses and whitewash.
His thoughts finally interrupted by a voice that didn’t need an intercom, “Send Neville in,” and “Neville, my apologies for your wait.”
Neville adjusted his knees. They also were adjusting him these days.
The office door opened. Sylvia came in. Sylvia had changed her hair colour, her shape, and although he liked and respected Silvia or Sylvia he wondered whether there was room for her multiple personalities in her life, or for anyone else.
Thinking of Sylvia brought his mind back to Antona.
The last throwing out after he refused to be her clockwork zombie still rankled. He’d headed back to Putney to recharge amongst the rebuild.
Another Antona bloody control trick. His bed was in his kitchen. His bathroom in his bedroom and his bedroom nowhere to be seen unless it was on top of the cooker.
He had to admit his personal relationships were shit but did he deserve this? His job was shit; his career was non-existent, and he was sitting here seeing his Boss – yet again.
He wondered how many cuts Sir Arthus would use to remove the unused and unusable parts of his anatomy.
Any further thoughts were interrupted by the double-breasted PA whose glance seemed to be white-hot, “Sir Arthus will see you two, now.”
Neville and Sylvia made it to the door together and then appeared to fight over who should go through the door first until Sir Arthus shouted, “one of you come in and close the door; then the other comes in and closes the door, or the both of you stay outside and don’t bother at all?”
Sylvia seemed to be daring Neville to move in front of her and then finally Neville did, and as Neville walked in, Sylvia smashed the door into his back, which bounced back.
Eventually the pair of them, Sylvia bleeding from her nose, made it into Sir Arthus’ inner sanctum. Sir Arthus stood up … “if you two are an example of the Police Service, I can understand why there is no trust in anything, and ‛shut up, Silvia’ – at least Neville knows when to keep quiet.”
“I never said anything, Sir Arthus!”
“You’re getting ready to start, Silvia; Neville … if I had better people, I would use them as you two are a waste of space at the moment, and I want that changed.”
“I have done nothing, Sir!” Exclaimed Sylvia.
“Sylvia … I might be a fool for occupying this position but an idiot – ‛No’ … I don’t think so! You were intelligent until some certain ‛very senior police officers’ approached you and don’t bother to deny it. I know you are as much chaff ‛floating in the wind’ as those ‛Senior Police Officers’ with those dreams of glory that they have given you.
“Sylvia. Your police goal was destroy Neville Jones. Cover their arses about a piece of stolen jewellery that Gris has – holding it for the Security Service’s benefit, as far as I’m concerned.
“An excuse to blame Neville and cover up their connections. Their antics with Jonathan Owl are a lot deeper than they should be, ever have been.
“One reason why this Black Magic creed worries me silly is that I don’t think it’s headless; Jonathan Owl dead, or is the real leader. I am damn certain he is or was, reporting to someone else.
“Parky brought Jonathan’s activities to my attention some time ago. Reinforced by evidence that Jonathan knew and co-operated with the leaders of the Salvanian Mafia.
“Jonathan threatened several people and their children. He was positively identified in the shooting of a young delinquent: beating him up; driving a car and trailer over him after he shot him.
“Surprisingly, Jonathan left the remains alive and the victim identified Jonathan – known in the area.
“Jonathan’s Black Magic activities linked him to several police officers including raping Hazil and her children. They deserved the fate Parky and his crew inflicted on them.
“Our political Labour-Liberal-Tory PM gave me an instruction I could not avoid. I shouldn’t have been forced to the Embassy feeding-session and the PM shouldn’t have been there but I was, and someone with the clout and connections planned it.
“Still without the EU Minister causing trouble and Gris telling the French everything, it would have been an unsolved crime. The three dead Policemen would have been shipped back with the incident closed; the Prime Minister happy, and the girls freed. Jonathan’s instructions – by the way – were to kill the girls if there was any sign of rescue, or keep them ready for sacrifice, otherwise. Only an execution without warning could have saved them. Parky, Bishop and Boy should have medals for the execution, and the attack on the base.
“A Jonathan Owl imposter was actually killed by Thomas Maguire in a camp days before the CIA attack – the car going over the cliff and where the cliff was damaged actually identified the site of the attack not that Jonathan Owl was killed.
“The CIA planned the attack but someone in the CIA was planning a killing. That killing included Parky, Bishop and Boy, and I’m damn certain the PM knew before it happened. He denied it and laid the guano to cover his arse.
“Parky and the crew were involved due to their CIA connections, which we knew about. The charges against Boy are purely political, and mainly revenge by the PM for Parky shooting his chief fund raiser.”
“What does that mean to us, Sir Arthus?” Ellen, Silvia or Sylvia asked.
“Give me one name you can be called by … this is getting confusing.”
“Sylvia will do, sir … I am … I’m generally known as that.”
“Thank you, Sylvia. You and Neville will work together and for your information, Neville, your resignation was rejected … you will remain as Detective Inspector Neville Jones and Police Liaison, and Sylvia will work as your assistant again. Now both of you go and see Gris – I need that sorted out as well – bugger off and behave … any … any more trouble and I don’t care where you are locked up, but you will be.
“Yes Sylvia, I know your background and MI6 should not be working on the mainland in Special Branch. Val will be coming back as the MI6 Liaison as well, so we’ll have two MI6 agents involved in a complete breach of their Charters.
“Boy was released into my custody today and may be staying with me … I haven’t decided yet but I have enough undercover Agents on my staff as contractors, as it is – even though I don’t know them – to look after him.
“One final matter, Neville. Nat Jacobs was released from prison for information disclosed. He shouldn’t come near you but he knew someone from your early days of involvement in some funny goings-on, which I am pleased to hear you have dropped. He is fairly certain that one person you knew from around that time has carried on with those activities and the officer was also reporting to Jonathan Owl from Wandsworth Police Station … God, Jonathan really did get around, didn’t he? Your funny goings-on were how you met Jonathan Owl, wasn’t it?”
“I was on the periphery, sir, and the only guy I know of from that time was Stephen Black who became a Desk Sergeant. Who was it, sir?”
“No-one you need know about. It is being handled. Nat will involve himself, if he can manage it, into this organisation so just leave him alone and stay clear.
“And for your information, Neville, Sir Jacob Christie and his PA – Godfrey Deval – had all charges quashed on appeal. Judge ruled that they had been enticed into crime by MI6 acting outside their mandate and their evidence was unable to be considered by the court. Without the evidence of Val, there was no evidence to support the charges – some rule of evidence about Equitable Estoppel as far as I can remember – whole thing stinks – what doesn’t stink these days. Christie is probably on his way to France already, and Deval has disappeared completely.”
Chapter IV – And Freedom Is Reality
Nat sat down, choosing to look around the dark bar but not too closely.
The pub, alongside the railway bridge, hid the noise of some conversations but often policemen did the same while sat at nearby tables – there were some things you didn’t want to hear.
Sunlight usually sheltered elsewhere, never dawning on the occupants, along with a few other thoughts, or on a few darken lampshades. Most lights in the pub were behind the bar in bottles of light ale.
It was that dark, candles would have been an improvement but a few informants would have settled for a searchlight as they now hobbled out, bent double into the light after a friendly pint at the back with a policeman.
It was a typical Police Pub. No real closing hours; no real people as the public thought of them; just right after a bad shift when it was an easy stroll of what often seemed like a hundred years at times, but a hundred yards was probably a better estimate … all the occupants – in most cases – needed was beer, spirits and darkness.
Nat raised his glass to the shadow of Stephen Black, guessing which of the two sat opposite.
“Who gave you your get out of jail free card, Nat? I thought all your playing cards were burnt, and what the hell are you doing here? Who are you working for now?”
“My wife threw me out; once she found I had been with Janice in the Arndale Centre. Janice took me back in … told me, ‛to settle things with the drug gangs’ … no way I can do that, without money … I met them—”
“And told them what, Nat? You’re saying a lot while saying nothing—”
“—told them it was Neville – he grassed them up – they’re planning revenge on hi—”
“—and they believed you, and you believed them …? Bloody fools … both of you – but I don’t touch fools – so what about you, Nat. I’m already starting to wonder what games you’re up-to? Don’t deny it, Nat! You’ve never stopped playing games and you’re far too close to everything criminal and running tales to higher ups … what are you up to now, Nat?”
“Stephen. I just looked after my career – same as you did – I just have to stay out of drugs and stay out of prison. I report to you at Wandsworth Nick every week. Find some honest work – that’s the terms of my parole. Apart from that, I’m okay. What are you up to these days, Stephen?”
“Just a simple Desk Sergeant, Nat – suits me – does the job. I keep my mouth shut, take the money and get the pension – more than you’ve got now for doing drugs.”
“I didn’t do drugs, Stephen. Janice wanted me to help her kids and was going to grass me up to the wife … what bloody chance did I have – I lost it, either way.”
“Well keep it in your pants in future, Nat, and you won’t have a problem. You poked it in once too often, and you got more than you bargained for.”
“Do you know anyone who needs somebody, Stephen? I’ll do anything … I’m not bothered, really – I need to earn some money without going back inside – so not too dirty.”
“Let me think about it, Nat … it does seem a bit too quick and slick from you. You were close to Stapleton once, weren’t you?”
“As much as anyone, I guess – he doesn’t like you to get too close. Yes, he kicked me in the Googlies after Neville set me up, and then left me out to dry but he wanted something on Neville and I couldn’t find anything – Jonathan Owl was covering for him – I was just the run-around watching Neville.”
“You might be in luck, Nat. I think Stapleton is still looking to hang something on Neville but Cecil Bottomley has taken over here and he hates Neville as much as Stapleton and the MPC do so there might be something.”
Nat put his hand on the table and then wiped it on his trousers – instantly regretting that – his trousers were cleaner that the table top; surprising no-one. He kept tried to squint at the other figure but finally gave up as his eyes watered in the smoke.
“Stephen?”
“Yes, Nat.”
“Just one question. How did Neville survive all these years with those top guns gunning for him, if they are that good? He should have been kippered years ago?”
“Owley protected him, Nat – Neville still shafted Owley as he did everyone else – no one touches Neville these days. Still nothing, that concerns you. You made damn certain you stayed out of it, and now you stay out of it … anyway, Neville’s on borrowed time … just one mistake and he is not only finished but gutted like a kipper. They’ll smoke their cigars over him as the main course in that Welsh Hotel where they enjoy their £50 brandies at Police meetings. They will give Neville the rich brown smell of a disgraced Policeman, and once the Print Inches have it, he won’t have any life in this country.”
“Well if you hear anything I can do to help get him, let me know … I owe that bastard for what he did to me.”
“Let me thing about it, Nat … you’re a bit too eager I think … but … well, you never know … now is that another pint you are forcing me to drink for services possibly rendered?”
“I’ll get them in, Stephen.”
Nat made his way to the bar and Stephen Black turned to his companion, “watch him like a hawk, John. I don’t trust that little rat at all.”
“Do you want me to lay the warfarin down?”
“Let him buy the pints in first.”
It was some days later – a Thursday, Nat seemed to remember – he was sitting there facing Janice, who wanted him out of the flat, short of throwing him out.
Stopping her from cleaning, was the excuse … Nat still sat there … Janice hadn’t picked up a broom in years from what Nat could see, and everytime the phone rang she picked it up, said, ‛NO’ until finally, she passed the phone to Nat – for you.
It was from Stephen Black, “Nat. Got a little job for you. You pick up a set of keys from me – they fit a ford transit van – all ‛hunky dory’. You’ll drive it to Barnes Common station and you stay in the front seat and wait. Eleven people with keys to the back door will let themselves in. They’ll tell you when they’re all inside, and you drive them to an address in Kingston; back the van up to the open garage doors and then your time is your own – after they tell you they have got out – you then leave until you are contacted and don’t move the van and don’t try to see who the people are. They will all be masked. The house is hired by someone who paid cash, Nat – don’t be clever – you will be watched. You’ll get a bullseye for the job and one up you if you screw up. Someone will be following you so stay clean – anything worries them and you will be going swimming in the Thames – ‛verstehen’?”
“Don’t use your German crap on me, Stephen – I’m Welsh, not bloody German.”
“Certainly not European, Nat, but you’d take the money in any currency, preferably unmarked.”
“I’ll do the job but it better be quick.”
“Carry on demanding, Nat, and you’ll float in ‛double-quick’ time. I might have been born in Hamburg but my father and mother were English not German and you bloody well remember that.”
“So your father wasn’t Hitler?”
“And your mother wasn’t a whore. I … maybe … just maybe, can understand why Neville shafted you, and I will if you keep on. Follow the rules and you get your score. Bulls it up and three darts go up your arse.”
Dita Valmira, Vilson Milleshi and Drenboso Geboin met for a coffee outside a gaming club in Bristol.
People tending to sit outside when the weather good and play with their tablets – some also taking them – they didn’t attract attention although Dita was good enough to attract everything on a wet Sunday afternoon in Bridgend.
Dita – a Political Journalist for a TV News show – was, as usual, flawless in looks, poised with Auburn hair waving over her contact lenses and blue eyes. 25, dressed not only to kill but maim a few passers-by as well and she was impressive – when she wanted to be, but now it was time for crummy baggy trousers and cloth cap which she thought made her cosmopolitan, but in fact made her look like someone posing for selfies.
Now, they were using a book on forecasting the future, using dice. In most cases, the forecast was easy – the bank would win – banks usually do win.
She threw the three dice, “19 and 30,” she said, adding the last two dice together.
“49 was a good year for Europe,” said Vilson Milleshi.
“The next throw is 36, Vilson … lets … yes … let’s see what the third throw is and then we look and think.”
“31.”
Drenboso thought for a moment then said, “49 is fire – avoid over-hasty reactions, especially. 36 is a Pistol – danger, perhaps moral danger threatens; 31 is an insect – minor worry – soon over.”
“But when, Dita” said Vilson Milleshi, looking at her; we need to know when and where.
“Yes Dita,” Drenboso jumped in, “get on with it – we haven’t got all day.”
Dita looked up at Drenboso. Drenboso was a dark haired averaged size man but with an aggressive wife and four children, plus the stress of MI6, he did at times seem highly-strung and that was before his wife had strung him out even further with her rich demands.
Drenboso settled for going back to Leeds and not buying a town house in Kingston but once again the threat of divorce over-ruled him plus paying for the Kingston house.
“If you believe this stuff, Drenboso, hasty over-reaction is close to one of us. Not the thrower of the dice; it is close to you and Vilson.”
“Throw the next dice, Dita and don’t lean over me. You know my wife checks my clothing for scent – so don’t lean over me – bitch!”
“Throw the next dice, Dita – throw the bloody dice – for God’s sake!”
Dita ignored the other tables looking at them. It didn’t bother her and she liked people to look, “The dice is a 5, Vilson, which means—”
“I know what it means, Dita; something is going to happen to one of us and force a reaction, and you, Dita, think it may not be you and that pisses you off.
“I can read the dice as well as you can. One of us will react very quickly to something near us in anger – which is happening already. Both of us have had enough of your posturing, so perhaps we’ll react to you and stop you, and you—”
“Let’s get on with it, Drenboso,” added Vilson, “the next is personal or moral danger. Just throw the dice, Dita!”
“Okay, Vilson. Close to us but the 11 means with the next day or two.”
Drenboso looked at both of them and summarised, “We have something very close to the three of us, possibly hasty over-reactions. We have danger, which may be moral within the three of us, or minor worries and us. Given that neither of us is involved with each other it sounds as if we are picking up other people’s vibrations and didn’t clear our minds before we started this complete waste of time.”
“So we don’t know what is going to happen,” said Vilson, watching the two of them who hated each other and never could stop arguing.
“Dita didn’t even bother to complete the other two throws … either we start again, or just give up.”
“Well everyone is looking at Dita, so we should just leave her to her fame.”
“We need to throw again, Drenboso, before I throw up … you throw … you’re looking for an easy way out.”
“Fine, Dita – I’ll throw. My first throw is the Dagger – impetuosity or the dangerous plotting of enemies … it … it doesn’t define the enemies but they are well into the future. No the closeness of the danger is the problem; very near to me now – that could be one of you or someone else.”
“You’re not sure then that the dangerous plotting of enemies is one of us, Drenboso?”
“That is the reading, Dita. Now the second throw.”
“Then throw it, Drenboso instead of these panic dramas.”
“Dita … Dita … if your mouth opens wider, I’ll lose the dice. The next is the Tortoise – over-sensitivity to criticism – that must be you?”
“No, Drenboso. It is the trees, and that plans will be fruitful; ambitions fulfilled.
“Already, Drenboso, you are lying to hide the future.”
“A mistake, Dita.”
“Well, throw the next dice, Drenboso, I haven’t got all day, unless you are paying me, and I wouldn’t take anything from you.”
“Alright – it means no-one close to us – the next dice means it is in the future and weeks away.”
“So some plans we don’t know about, that aren’t close to us will be fruitful in a few weeks … absolutely brilliant, Drenboso, and the last throw?”
“It is a cat – someone lays in treacherous ambush – probably a friend?”
“No surprise from you, Drenboso?”
“Dita, your mouth is going to get closed one of these. Yes, someone very close to me but in the months ahead will be treacherous and that could mean either of you.”
“So, Drenboso, someone who is close but not close to you, will try and destroy you in the weeks and months ahead – have a nice month, now let Vilson find out.”
“Okay, Dita – it is a fence and that is limitations imposed on plans and activities.”
“When, Vilson?”
“In the future and not too close to me.”
“Do the next, Vilson … I am getting tired and cold.”
“Do the third reading, Vilson; then we can end this shambles.”
“It is a flag and danger threatens, if the flag is black.”
“When and where, Vilson?”
“Not very close to me, Dita, and sometime in the future.”
“This whole thing is meaningless. We could have done this in London. We haven’t even followed all the procedures for this forecasting.
“We don’t know anything except that enemies will attack us; all of them close to us, now.
“Some now and others in the future for God’s sake … we … we don’t like each other; we attack each other all the time, and we haven’t stopped all day.
“I’ve travelled all this bloody distance to find out what I knew already. All this time and effort for nothing!”
“Go and paint your face, Dita – you only bothered because you’re not getting shafted by some Producer – for a breakfast spot.”
“If I was ‛male’, my talent would be enough!”
Dita looked at them with absolute contempt; stood up, slung her bag over her shoulder and walked off, ignoring the waiter who had appeared with the over-priced bill and a begging expression.
Drenboso and Vilson looked at the bill, winced and paid it – leaving the waiter sorely in need of his begging bowl – as they walked back to the station car park.
“What did we achieve with those readings, Vilson?”
“That in the future there will be limitations on plans. If there is a flag and it is black, danger threatens. Over-hasty reactions by the three of us in the next few days and that wouldn’t surprise me after today, means danger, possibly more and more minor problems, but Dita wouldn’t throw the dice to say where or when, which makes me think she already knows and they affect her.
“The plotting of enemies in the future and it is one of us three that is plotting will hurt others – probably Dita again – she never stops. Criticism, but from people far away and in the future is another issue. Plans we don’t know about will succeed in the future – someone close to us will lie in ambush in the months ahead and be a friend – work the last one out because I can’t.
“The whole story is that plans are going to succeed; people are going to be stuffed – including us – Dita is going to have problems she already knows about. We … we … and that is us, shouldn’t trust each other, which basically ‛we don’t’ and never will. It sounds like a pattern but what it is, or when it happens is in the lap of the Gods and I don’t think they are smiling.”
“I still don’t understand why we had to come to Bristol for this. I’m PR for a beef importer; you’re in Security, and Dita is a TV Political Journalist – what is a PR guy doing with a Security guy… I can understand my meeting Dita as we might eventually find something in common but you must feel like a sacrifice?”
“Contacts and their cover are a funny thing, Vilson. A beef importer can be a good source, and I can claim you had some information that I decided was useless but had to meet you to find out it was. They’ll believe anything these days in Security – especially with the old bimbo the PM put in – the real problem is the new Assistant and she’s the trouble maker, running to the PM all the time.”
“Have a good trip back, Drenboso. No doubt we’ll see each other again,” and with a farewell wave they headed for different ends of the train and a fare that said, ‛goodbye to a large sum of money’.
Boy wasn’t actually released into Sir Arthus’ custody; it was more that a taxi cab met him at the prison and Boy climbed in.
As they moved off Boy tried to pull the window open on the driver side to speak to the driver and found the window didn’t open, then he found the doors of the cab didn’t open either and he knew he’d been set up, yet again.
He was driven to camp where army people on the gate waved the cab through and him into another cell. It had taken some hours and with the road signs he was obviously on the east coast and that meant Colchester and the only camp he knew there that had a lot of cells was the Glasshouse.
Gris sat in the garden.
She loved the garden although Prilloch who had looked after it had now moved into Parky’s Wimbledon flat.
The house was big with eight bedrooms and the garden was bordered by tall trees to the left, right and for about a hundred yards to the bottom. The grass ran as a path through the middle and initially she and Ralf had bought it with the others paying towards the costs and mortgage.
This had led it to being little more than a CIA safe house and operational centre.
Now with most of them out of the Security Service there were just Valene, Darius and Jeffry left – all ex-Security Service people laid off by Julia Perkins who felt she was working for the PM and not the Head of MI5 – who felt that it was home to a degree and worked to pay their way. They had been paid previously but Gris had been suspended rather than laid off, so no money was coming in although she was milking Ralf’s accounts like there was no tomorrow and at the rate she was doing this, there probably wouldn’t be a tomorrow.
Gris or to give her, her full name of Griselda Magda wasn’t really a looker. 5 ft 5 inches tall, grey eyes and her hair eventually appeared as mousy-blond. She was attractive in her own way although her 38 inch chest magnified Boy’s thoughts on getting closer to her.
Parky had given Boy one option in marrying Gris – Parky rejoined MI5 on the tail of the offer they made to Boy or he let the thugs hunt him down and kill him; crystallising Boy’s thinking.
Still at least Parky supplied both the engagement and wedding rings; something he’d stolen earlier.
Boy was called Boy since he started as that before the West African operations. He’d worked for Bishop in the City and blundered into some Insurance files; a price on his head and a short life, or people trying to kill him in West Africa who didn’t have the Political and Government connections, and he might live a bit longer. His girlfriend had just thrown him out and gone back to mother so there was little to stop his feet from running.
Gris had met Boy, and refused to call him, Boy. She hadn’t refused to kick the shit out of him in a Government Secret prison in Kensington but later, after he was finally rescued – the Minister of Defence and the Prime Minister’s chief fund raiser and confident, paying for his imprisonment – she refused to call him Boy instead using his real name of Ralf Johnstone – no-one else ever did.
Now she was thinking about Ralf in jail, little knowing that the one jail had in fact been exchanged for another, or that the latest one was known as the Glasshouse.
Looking at the papers from her lawyers, she knew all she had to do was sign them and start the divorce.
The place would become hers or so the Lawyers told her, and Ralf would have to pay for Thaniel – her son – and no one would touch Thaniel or her, as they would get a court order to prevent Ralf from ever coming near or seeing her.
She still didn’t believe she suffered from this ‛crazy pregnancy syndrome’ stuff – no matter what Valene said.
She knew Ralf didn’t want her once she was pregnant and he ignored her – that was the problem – once he had his son, he didn’t care – the son-of-a-bitch. Well he would pay now and lose everything.
If Valene, Jeffry and Darius left, then, that was up to them – it was her house, her money, and she would stay, and Ralf could pay for her and Thaniel.
Maybe things could have been different but for Ralf to see her in her pregnant state was not something she wanted, anyway and him being in prison suited her.
Now she had her son – she was in control – she didn’t want a man around.
She’d done the work and taken the pain, now she’d have the gain, and he could pay through the neck for it.
Maybe it was harsh how she’d treated Ralf but she was Gris – tough and able to achieve and she’d achieved the lovely son whom she was holding.
Thaniel would have the chances she’d failed to have until she trampled over men’s bodies to get them. No-one would ever take Thaniel away – he was hers – and no-one would come between her and her ‛Baby’.
Sylvia and Neville found her sometime later, still sat in the garden cuddling Thaniel.
Her head never moved as they approached. She looked at their feet and how they stood.
Legs apart and ‛at ease’. Did forces or police training ever leave their brains, legs or the strident male urges it seemed to leave them with, “if it is about Ralf, don’t bother – he got what he deserved – I’ve told Jeffry, Valene and Darius they can go as well if they like. Ralf caused this and he will pay.”
“Boy has his get out of prison card, Gris.”
“His name is Ralf, Sylvia – not Boy. Who produced the marked deck this time?”
“No–one fixed it. On his way to Sir Arthus – charges never stuck – they’ll have to compensate Boy again. Godfrey Deval’s released and disappeared. Sir Jacob Christie hotfooted it to France. Boy didn’t arrange for the girls to be kidnapped – that was Sir Arthus – I thought you should know,” said Sylvia, looking into Gris’ grey eyes.
“His name is Ralf, not Boy and he abandoned me!”
“He didn’t, Gris. He was too involved to realise you were pregnant.”
“He should have known!”
“You didn’t want him to know, Gris. You didn’t want him near you to find out.”
“That’s what he claims.”
“He doesn’t claim anything. You betrayed him to the French; he’s been in solitary confinement until your child was born – I think you’ve had your revenge for whatever you accuse him of – he’s staying with Sir Arthus. Parky and Bishop will be coming back.”
“This is my house! They don’t come here!”
“Boy owns half of this house and the CIA are funding it as well. You can’t run a house this size on your own and you can’t afford to hire staff – for God’s sake, do some thinking, Gris,” shouted Neville, “I’ve split from Antona who dominated me.”
“His name is Ralf Johnstone, Neville; not Boy. Parky and Bishop have dominated his life for years – don’t start blaming me – they dominated him, not me.”
“Then let him back into the house instead of lawyers – the house is big enough for both of you – you’ve thrown Prilloch out and without Prilloch, Darius and Jeffry working, the place is falling apart and you and your son are vulnerable.”
Sylvia interjected at this point, “the CIA are pushing to come back here and Val will be coming back as well.”
“This is my house. I decide who comes here. Darius and Jeffry are still here and so is Valene … I just don’t have the money to pay them – the CIA stopped the payments – they have no right to come back here … Prilloch left when Bishop and Parky went to the US – he is staying at Parky’s Wimbledon flat – I didn’t drive him out.”
“Without the CIA money, Gris, and you don’t earn zilch, you need Boy on full pay, plus everyone else paying in. God-dammit, you don’t have enough money to pay the mortgage or even the expenses. If you don’t allow them back in, you lose the house … divorcing Boy won’t help you either if he isn’t earning. The Government’s still trying to keep him under wraps for some reason. We don’t know why but he should be okay with Sir Arthus.”
“I can manage. I still have some money and Boy had £60,000 in his account.”
“You’ve been using his money, Gris – how much is left and who authorised you to raid his personal bank accounts?”
“He got me pregnant … let … let him bloody well pay.”
“You stopped taking the pill without telling him, Gris” Sylvia looked hard at Gris, “you didn’t even tell him, you were trying for a child … you … you help cause this, Gris – he wasn’t trying to get you pregnant – you set him up and now you’re stripping his bank account – why? All he did was his job; you were accusing him of being a hero and ignoring you – you know what life in the Security Service is like with Parky and Bishop – you did it for years before you met Boy.”
“His name is Ralf and I wasn’t married to him, then.”
“You married Boy because Parky told you – that was you taking instructions from Parky, now you attack Boy for doing the same. There is something wrong here, Gris. I had a lot of trouble with Antona running my life and I accepted her doing so because I needed to. I don’t now, so I can see your point in not wanting Parky or Bishop running your life but Boy never tried. You were trying to run his life so he had two Masters and a Mistress.”
“I was his wife, Neville – not his Mistress.”
“You still are his wife, Gris, and the mother to his son. If you hadn’t got pregnant would you have split from him?”
“Probably not, but he didn’t care.”
“You didn’t give him a chance to care – he was in the middle of an operation when you finally told him; threaten him with divorce and walked out on the operation.”
“Parky was already sending me back when I left, Sylvia. I didn’t walk out and Ralf didn’t care. All he wanted to do was be a hero.”
“We’re not going to get anywhere here, Neville.”
“Where do we find Valene, Gris?”
“Either in the first kitchen or the nursery.”
“Where’s the nursery, Gris?”
“The old surveillance room, Sylvia – she should be there.”
“Let’s go, Neville.”
“One moment, Sylvia. What happened to Hazil, Helen and Joana?”
“They lost the court case, Gris. Antona took them in and someone else paid off their court costs – I think it was Antona but I don’t know – you were there last – you tell me.”
“I know that after the trouble with Ralf, two of the Surveillance Team went back to Israel; four went to the States; two were thrown out of the team and Val went back to MI6.”
Nevertheless, you got your revenge, Gris. I never tried for revenge on Antona – most of the time she was right – she just couldn’t stop controlling everything I did but that was Antona’s life.
“I didn’t really want Ralf to go to jail, Neville. He hurt me and I wanted to hurt him in return. When I fell pregnant, I felt I’d lost everything I had: my body, my life in Security, and then Parky telling me I should have told Ralf, and stay away from the operation was really the final straw. Ralf wasn’t seeing anything and just doing what he was told. It made me wonder if he is the man I wanted to be married to, or have near my son!”
“Boy did what you’d have done. He took instructions from Parky and Bishop and followed them. It was a dangerous operational site and you knew that. They had to rely on him to do what he was told and be where he should be. Parky and Bishop would be dead if it wasn’t for him. They are still badly wounded by ‛friendly fire’, as it is, and there are more than a few questions still buzzing around about that, as well.”
“Who sent the pair of you here?”
Sylvia looked at Gris, weighing her up and finally said, “Sir Arthus Dirstly.”
“Why?”
“I think he knows he caused most of the trouble by interfering. He employed Parky and Bishop who had the knowledge but he couldn’t stop messing about and over-ruling them. He kept changing his mind all the time so people were based on a hill – miles away – then in a beachfront hotel … I think he just couldn’t leave it to the Professionals. The operation should have been kept quiet but then he held a beach party so the world knew you were there. Had Hazil and the girls stayed on the heights under guard they would never have been kidnapped. Had they stayed near the beach they wouldn’t have been kidnapped. He messed around again so no-one knew what was going on, or who was doing what. He played at it like a chess game and a Pearly Queen in charge.
“I think now he is trying to finish cleaning up so he isn’t involved in the nitty-gritty, again or to hide his mistakes. He told us that Jonathan Owl wasn’t the only one involved in Black Magic. He thinks this organisation existed for hundreds of years, involving top police officers and politicians. He hinted at Security Services involvement. He thinks they protected Jonathan Owl. It was only Jonathan’s Mafia connections that started people looking deeply into what he was doing but you knew him better than anyone else, Neville.”
“Jonathan was my protector, mentor, arse-kicker, and I should have wondered why he was able to cross the MPC and his assistants so easily but he was protecting me so I didn’t worry.
“He always seemed informed for his position; well connected, yet he didn’t come from a political background … maybe I should have wondered about that.
“I think Sylvia is right. Dirstly knew he screwed up in France and let Boy, Parky and Bishop take the rap, bullets and jail. He waited, now he wants it quietly sorted out.”
“You’re saying I should have trusted Ralf?”
“Boy did what he was told – the same as you did, Gris – he was kicked in several directions by the CIA, Parky and Bishop.
“Maybe he should have stood up to them but when a juggernaut is heading towards you, survival is getting out of the headlights.”
“What happens now, Sylvia?”
“Neville’s resignation is refused. A lot of noses will go further up their superior’s rectums. My appointment as Neville’s assistant will push them even further up. Dirty Dirstly screwed us up even more than we were already screwed up.
“Now we are targeted and Dirstly wants me to do something else that I can’t talk about. They will be hunting me now, as well as Neville. They still want Parky, Bishop and Boy for killing the three Black Magic Policemen. All five of us are targets for these people and we don’t really know who they are.
“Boy has to stay with Dirty Dirstly and Neville in Putney. I’ll get somewhere around here but once my real Boss finds out; shit is really going hitting the fan. They pulled me out of the fire, and now Police and Sir Arthus have put me back in again – God-alone knows what’ll happen now?”
Gris looked at both of them, “who is your real Boss, Sylvia?”
Sylvia looked up at the sky, almost sending a message to her God who appeared to have taken the day off, and Neville interrupted her thoughts, “Sylvia is MI6, Gris – same as Val.”
Neville looked at Sylvia’s face.
She knew he was covering for her and she didn’t know how he knew who she worked for, “My Boss is really going to throw me out, Neville, once he finds out – another win to Dirty and he hates him.”
“Everybody hates, Dirstly, Sylvia. Your problem is too many Bosses and they have different sexes. All your MI6 heads are women and you forget at times; but you work for the Home Office, and Special Branch plus the Police – I doubt either is your real Boss.
Gris listened with interest, “Are Parky, Bishop and Prilloch really going to come back, Neville?”
“Yes, Gris. There will be six here if Valene, Jeffry and Darius stay? Surveillance, or what is left of it, will stay at Antona’s lodge. I’m in Putney, and Sylvia is wherever or whoever, she finds herself. You’ll be back on six or seven thousand for the mortgage and the nursery – CIA will live in the trucks they bring.”
“I can’t stop them, can I?”
“Gris. Even Boy’s money will run out in a couple of months and you still need protection … let them protect you. No-one will interfere with you or your son.”
“You are already doing that, Neville – you’re already doing that!”
Gris got up and stormed back into the house, leaving Sylvia and Neville knowing they were just following instructions – as Boy had – they didn’t feel too good about it, either.
They walked back to Sylvia’s car. Neville’s old one had been crushed on Antona’s instructions and he wouldn’t touch the car she had bought for him, anymore – it just galled him to be controlled like that. ‛If this was life’, thought Neville – just give me drink but he knew one drink might become a barrel.
Looking up Neville, Sheila said, “should I have told her Antona is pregnant?”
“Pregnant? Antona isn’t pregnant!”
“We need to get you to Putney … had … if it had been yours she would have told you.”
“Antona told you she was pregnant and didn’t tell me …? I don’t believe it – I’m thrown out for a woman’s pregnancy that I don’t know about – no, that’s rubbish? Antona’s 42 … she isn’t thinking of children – she has two already and they won’t come near her, anyway – who else would she have been sleeping with … I would have known, and I can’t see her telling you and not me.”
“Who would want a drunk as a father?”
“Very well put, Sylvia, and who would want a Dictator for a mother. Anyway we need to talk to Valene before we leave, if Gris hasn’t got there first.”
Gris had already headed to the Nursery where Valene was feeding Jonas and she put Thaniel in his cot. Valene kept an eye on Thaniel as necessary and both were breast-feeding so it often helped them both if one fed while the other was occupied. Jeffry also kept a close eye on his son, so there was usually at least one of them in the room.
Gris looked at Valene and as Valene opened her mouth to say something, said, “I don’t want to talk about Ralf – they’ve taken him to Sir Arthus’ house.”
“No they didn’t, Gris.”
“Neville just told me.”
“No – I had a phone call from an old contact – I asked him to keep an eye on what was happening. They just lied to Neville as they do to everyone else. No-one trusts anyone, anymore. I asked Elisha and Cliff to find out when he was being released and be there. They got there too late and he got into a cab but the number plate was wrong. Too old for a modern cab, so they followed. They took him to an army camp in Colchester. Cliff still has some contacts and he and Elisha are still there, staying in a hotel.”
“Why would Sir Arthus lie?”
“Maybe Sir Arthus didn’t pick him up. Maybe all the Government has done is change the prison but make it a military one so there is no record?”
“What happens now, Valene? I caused this and I don’t hate Ralf that much. He just hurt me and I wanted revenge.”
“You don’t want me to talk about it because I tell the truth – you’ve already threatened to throw us all out if I discuss it with you – No! I won’t comment. You’ll have to sort it out and decide, and we don’t have any protection any more- quite honestly. No CIA, no Prilloch, no Parky or Bishop – any signs of danger – Jeffry, Jonas, and I are gone. Thomas Macguire isn’t dead – he’s in Moscow and he’s launched three attacks on these properties already. No. Any sign of trouble and we are gone. You made your decision and you sort it out!”
“You can’t leave me, Valene!”
“You not only left Boy; you tried to destroy him, Gris. You secretly got pregnant because you thought Boy was slipping away from you and then you attacked him because you were wrong. You’d throw me and Jeffry out without thinking about it. We might work for you but we are not slaves; we are people you consider you own. Our lives are ours, not yours. Now throw me out for telling you the truth because that is what you seem to hate.”
“Ralf is his name, Valene, not Boy. No-one gives him credit for anything; talks to him as if he is a child and he accepts it … he isn’t a child! His name is Ralf and he is a man.”
“We know that Gris, and that is why calling him Boy doesn’t matter – he a man, and I need to get back to dinner – Jeffry will be down shortly and hungry.”
Sylvia and Neville were on their way to Valene when they heard the heated conversations and then the babies start crying. They headed for the new security room which also doubled up as a bar and coffee-house when people were there.
It had been rebuilt after a rocket hit, but now had shutters and reinforced glass as it was on the ground floor.
It also had a door in the floor with a rug that flipped back and provided an entrance to the underground complex that went out into the garden.
That was put there after the Russian attack had killed Irish. The underneath of the house was re-supported, as was the garden – courtesy of Sir Arthus, who still visited for non-public meetings – but with now with a safety exit underneath.
Darius sat watching the cameras still in operation on the properties and looked surprised as Neville and Sylvia came in and started looking around, “Gris wanted the old Surveillance room for a Nursery, Neville,” said Darius, “so we moved everything in here – including the coffee machine – and we stay out of the way now, so there is no trouble with Gris. She’s okay with Valene but anyone male gets it in the neck, and anywhere else she can find.”
“How did you get sacked, Darius. They never have enough technical spy guys in MI5 … why did they get rid of you?”
“Julia Perkins, Neville is the answer I think you’re looking for,” Darius just sat there shaking his head as he spoke, “She must have been waiting for the changes; thought Sir Arthus was on the way out and was looking the other way.
“Julia is now Deputy Director-General, Head of Admin, and HR Director for MI5. She runs it as Dirty Dirstly isn’t interested – he is too busy playing at being a spy. She was around here like a shot; seems to be targeting Israel and any US Surveillance people with joint nationalities plus anyone who isn’t male, white, straight and British to be honest.
“Six went back home but we were all terminated as well – orders from the PM – or so she said, ‛he wanted our uncontrolled rat’s nest cleared out.
“Gris was put on a disciplinary for not disclosing she was pregnant. Julia then suspended her as not being fit for service. Sir Arthus did find out and reinstated the rest of surveillance – by then the others had gone. Julia had done the damage and she is reporting back to the Cabinet Office, not Sir Arthus. He just lets it go as far as I can see but Gris isn’t fit for service so there is sod all he can do about that.”
“Sir Arthus didn’t know what was going on?” Sylvia’s eyebrows were already knotting as she looked at Neville, “what game is that son-of-a-bitch playing at?”
“Not an ‛end-game’, Sylvia – I’m damn sure of that. I think it is more a learning curve. Only problem is, the PM is learning more about Sir Arthus and faster, than Sir Arthus is learning about the PM, and Julia Perkins is feeding the PM rather than the other way around.
“Your new MI6 Boss, Sylvia, is also up to her pretty bustle in this; hence, you and Val are back watching MI5. Your other Boss is also reporting to the Cabinet Secretary and the Home Secretary.”
“I don’t have other Bosses, Neville. I work for MI6.”
“You work for more people, Sylvia, than I can shake a cat at; still anyone in MI5 with an overseas record or connections is being forced out.
“Gris is set to lose the house and that is what these sackings are about. Prison without trial for Boy – no money coming in – so the house is lost. The PM rules over an establishment on the embankment which he is replacing with Home Office control so he controls Security through his Political cohorts in the Home Office – including you, Sylvia – not in some armoured camp in Kingston.”
“Sir Arthus said, ‛the PM knew about all the arrangements in France’ – I didn’t know anything so who told him, Neville?”
“You knew via the meetings you attended, Sylvia and via Gris so did the EU and Africa Minister and all were feeding the PM.
“He fed the French to try and buy concessions in dealing with the EU – the PM gave them all they needed and so did Sir Jacob Christie – just like old times when his Chief Fund Raiser was also informing everyone. The PM knew what he was doing, and probably knew what his late Chief Fund Raiser was doing as well. The PM let it happen to set up Sir Arthus; he then set up Boy, Parky and Bishop. With everyone setting up everyone else it must have been like a carnival carousel as they circled around eating the candy-floss.”
“You’re claiming the PM set-up all the trouble?”
“No … maybe yes; who knows in this flock of frenzied feeding sharks.”
“A shoal I believe is the term, Neville – you’re thinking of a flock of gulls.”
“What’s the difference, Sylvia?”
“Gulls don’t rip your legs off.”
“Thank you, Sylvia. They just shit on you and then pick your eyes out.”
“What are you really claiming, Neville? You’re spouting so much vapour I’m getting a bath.”
“The PM knew what was going on; so did Dirty Dirstly and both used that information for their own ends; destroying Parky and his team was revenge for Parky being the idiot he is and for fighting to stay independent.”
“What happens now, Neville … as you know so much?”
“I basically have a problem.”
“More than one but I’ve said ‛I’d work with you’. What more do you want?”
“We are being pissed on from above like the rest, and my answer is ‛Nothing’. The problem is that we don’t know who is a ‛Black Magician’ nor how high up they are in Government? We don’t know who we can trust; already someone is moving to shut this team and house down … Antona is already in hock to Salvanian Mafia Gangsters, and Jonathan Owl made sure that was known to the world … what else have I forgotten?”
“What aren’t you saying, Neville?”
“MI6 used Val to set-up the ex-EU Minister and destroy him but within three weeks your old MI6 Boss was gone and the ex-EU Minister is free. The ex-EU Minister walks to France on water; a right wing Politician takes over as EU Minister and another in a new Security Appointment; ex-EU Minister’s aide disappears without trace. A ‛Lady’ and close friend of the PM – Lady Jemimeh Youngster-Clase – now effectively runs MI6 as assistant to a virtually retired Air-Head – Lady Sara Sehy, without a single ‛Press Inch’ or word in Parliament after Security restrictions were imposed! No Lordship for her predecessor either, and Julia Perkins virtually takes over MI5 with Sir Arthus landing on his backside and skidding on the brown stuff as he destroys his own people to survive.”
“You not getting paranoid again, Neville?”
“Did you really believe all that chuff from Talbot and Stapleton – not forgetting Bottomley? I was never paranoid – they tried to fit me up with jewellery stolen from evidence and I didn’t steal it – Parky did before they could. They knew the jewellery was gone when they brought me in. I refused to resign as a sacrifice so they tried to destroy my career, and they chipped away at me ever since, like some neurotic neighbour, day after day.
“How many of these Police bunch are clean … even Nat was drug-dealing. I didn’t find out about that until I noticed his car wasn’t being moved, even though he claimed he was going home to his wife every night. If I hadn’t wandered up Putney Hill for a Chinese takeaway I would never have known his car wasn’t moved.”
“You didn’t set Nat up, then?”
“No I didn’t, but maybe somebody else did? Look we can either stand here and fight while people listen; go home, or find Valene.”
“Valene is in the nursery with Gris,” said Jeffry, “but don’t upset them – I don’t want Jonas upset.”
“He was screaming his head off the last I heard but I’m not here to upset people, Jeffry. I have enough people upsetting me already today, and I probably don’t need to see Valene – we had enough from Gris.”
“Let’s make a move, Sylvia … I … I’ve have had enough of this.”
As he spoke, Neville heard the roar of a car drawing up and they both headed out to the front of the house to see Albert get out of a sports car.
Albert trebled up as Butler, Bouncer and Handyman for Antona and he was holding up a set of keys, “take them, Neville – the car is yours after Antona destroyed your first car – it’s sitting there rusting and Antona won’t get rid of it, or use it – let Sylvia have a life of her own rather than be your chauffeur.”
“How are you doing Albert, and Sylvia does have a life; several lives I think, in fact.”
“I’m well, sir, and Antona did ask if you would drop by, and not for another argument, she stressed – the house, I must admit, does seem quieter without you and Antona both arguing – she would like to speak to you and she asked me to say, ‛without both of you, raising your voices’.”
“Who told her I was here?”
“Sir Arthus Dirstly, sir – he rang her earlier and said, ‛you would be finished about now’.”
“Who isn’t interfering in my life, Albert?”
“I have no idea, sir. Shall I drive you, sir? I can always complete the journey to Putney afterwards, should you wish?”
“Alright, Albert. Let us visit Antona.”
Neville handed the keys back to Albert remembering all the times the car had arrived after he and Antona had been fighting.
One time outside a flat used as a base for surveillance in London – now Antona was using the car again … yes, and he wondered what else?
The pool table and no bra as she seduced him on the final black which also screwed her back up.
The dominance as she ran his life.
The money she invested in him and his clothes to control him.
He would find out what the latest costs would be?
When would they ever have a normal relationship, or could they?
The distance between Coombe Lodge and Coombe Lane was no distance really and Neville saw the lodge appearing in his vision as they turned off and into the lodge drive; Albert was parking when Antona open the front door and came out to greet Neville. People who looked at Antona didn’t realise just how ruthless the 42 year old ash blond ex-lawyer really was. The move towards plumpness and a large chest size made her seem maternal until you crossed her.
She had been a promising lawyer until she became far more involved with two Mafia gangsters she was defending than she should have which led to their trials collapsing and her becoming pregnant with Amand and Alisea before she was married. Her late husband, an Insurance Guru, fixer and head of an oil tanker hijacking group working off West Africa had then fixed things and married her before the long holiday and their marriage.
Neville finally managed to get out of the car – he wasn’t getting any younger and an antique old red jag was probably pushing it a bit now, but the 1993 XJS Cabriolet had been completely renovated before Antona gave it to him although that didn’t include raising the seats.
He grabbed the mid support of the roof, put his hand on the dashboard and pushed himself up. Luckily, the roof wasn’t on. Technically, it was a four seater but he could never consider it as one, unless the other two people lay sideward on top of each other in the back and no doubt, a few had tried that.
With a 4.0 ltr 6 cylinder engine it owned its own ‛|Oil and Gas State’ but it was a thing of joy to a man hitting his mid-life crisis; he closed the door and turned to face Antona whilst the ‛car with a roar’ was despatched to wherever Albert hid it these days.
Coombe Lodge was a lovely place with its long gardens, 30 foot swimming pool, built in bar room and luxury that only a crooked Insurance Guru, running a West African Oil Tanker hijacking team of 40 people could have afforded.
The Government had cut a deal leaving Antona with £250,000 of what they could trace. Her shimmy in the shower with a now-defunct well-connected Banker seemed to have paid further undeclared dividends, and a pardon for previous crimes – especially as virtually everyone else on the hijacking team had been officially or unofficially killed – since then. Boy and Huron were the only two left. Bishop had killed her husband, Roger Turner, under MOD instructions but a deal with MI5 had given her some protection however Antona was now alone, vulnerable, and she knew it.
Antona walked across the stones to stand in front of Neville although given that Neville was 5 foot 10 inches, she did wonder how someone had ever used him in surveillance unless they were keeping the rain off the rest of the team. Neville was what they tend to call thick-set and most thought about his mental processes when they said it. Blue eyes, black hair and dressed by Antona.
She looked at him: the suit she’d chosen and paid for; shirts; ties, and shoes she’d selected.
She could only guess at his current underwear, and even the ‛afterwards’ smell that she allowed him for his pretence of freedom couldn’t hide he hadn’t even bothered to shave or possibly wash. His true self and what he was like without her control.
Neville described himself as every woman’s nightmare. He’d fought against total control from Antona but knew he couldn’t exist without her control.
Throughout his life, someone, somewhere, had been controlling him … it seemed a fact of life for him … yes … someone was always controlling.
Antona looked at him.
She seemed to be trying to think of something to say that would not start another War – probably just an insurrection.
Neville’s thick shoulders, his eyes and expression had never moved from hangdog in years, and as usual, were half-closed, bloodshot; First World War trenches surrounding them.
She could change his suits but she couldn’t change Neville. Even his own mother would never have called him handsome, if she’d politely ever called him anything.
Antona and Neville looked into what can only be described as a mismatch of eyes and minds. Neither able to focus or understand. One wanted to be controlled but could never admit it; the other could never stop controlling him, but wouldn’t admit it. Yes, a meeting of minds on different ethos and different plains. One with buffalo, and the other with a bow and bent arrows.
“I want you to come back, Neville; I haven’t the faintest idea of how to make it work, but I want you back,” and the emotional blackmail sigh gently followed.
“You and this place are part of me, now, Antona and everyone else seems to know that but me … we can’t stop fighting each other and maybe that’s how it is … I’ve missed you, Antona – I’ve missed the fights – the making-up.”
“So have I, Neville. Life has changed so much, the only stability was you, even if we couldn’t stop fighting … I’m not getting younger and I will keep trying to understand you are a ‛pickled, smelly, policeman, who arrives in a bedraggled state when it is time to get up – I’ve missed you, Neville.”
“You’re right in that description, Antona … I do need a shower and I need you!”
“Let’s sort them both out together, Neville!” Arm and arm they headed up to what would always be room one.
They never used the main bedroom en-suite as the water vapour hung around for ages afterwards but room one had always been Neville’s shower and dressing room, and where they made love after fighting, or he was hurt.
“You are not an easy man to live you with, Neville … maybe you are someone I need to learn to live with. Your life is a complete disaster from the start to whatever finish it usually ends up with. I need you but you are destroying my mind in every way, and your own – can we stop fighting?”
“Yes we can stop fighting; I saw Sir Arthus and he has given me his backing but the world – well basically the Police – want me destroyed and Sylvia is MI6 and everyone elses I think; but back as my assistant and watching me for everyone. Boy is being released into a military prison. Gris is so fragile and aggressive I can’t see them going back together nor can I see the CIA or Parky’s team coming back and that means she loses the house, which seems to be what the PM is planning and using two women to achieve it. He really does want revenge on the team and Coombe Lane destroyed.”
“Who is he using?”
“Lady Jemimeh Youngster-Clase and Julia Perkins as assistants in MI6 and MI5 and they are reporting back to him and following his orders.”
“I don’t know either of them although Roger would have done, but everyone else who was involved in the hijackings is dead now, apart from Boy and Huron, so I can’t help you. From the phone call from Sir Arthus, he doesn’t seem to be giving up yet.”
“I don’t think he has. Sir Arthus is very close to Jodi Murray – CIA Head of London Station and she sits on some UK Government committees and is keeping him informed but his organisation is being undermined beneath him again, and now MI6 is getting the same treatment. The PM wants his own organisations handling things and run through the Home Office and Cabinet Office where he can control.”
“Shall we have that shower and then dinner … Cookie will have something planned.”
“I have something planned as well, Antona.”
“I’ll bet you do – come on.”
Chapter V – Ride To Nowhere
Boy sat on the edge of the only place he could sit on – apart from the floor – still sitting on the wooden bed when the door opened and an Army officer entered the room accompanied by two others in uniform.
The officer looked at Boy, “these two gentlemen are called ‛Close Protection Operatives’, part of the Royal Military Police’s specialised section; the SIB is the other. I am Brigadier Rufus Owl – Jonathan Owl’s brother and no, I do not follow his interests. I had thought, quite wrongly, they were well known to the authorities, but the closer to the coalface, the less they want to see in the fire.”
Boy sat in the cell with the three of them blocking anyway out. Rufus was in his fifties and as tall as Neville. He had the same build as Neville with brown hair and blue eyes. He looked quite a bit older than Jonathan Owl but had a commanding personality. Boy thought that was a piece of stupid thinking. You don’t get to be a Brigadier as a wet weekend – that came with more senior rank and age.
“So, Brigadier Rufus Owl, Sir Arthus has exchanged one cell for another, for me.”
“Sir Arthus is in a very difficult position. His own people are reporting back to ‛God-knows-who’; he doesn’t know who is reporting to who, or when, or what, or for that matter, why. He has … he’s … he always resisted his house being monitored with camera and phones as he find it too restrictive for his art interests – he invites people from his art group and having models for their painting when they are recorded is not something he wants in his art. He is also finding his instructions to staff at MI5 are, shall we say, being interpreted by his Assistant Director-General who has started sacking people working for him. To Sir Arthus this means that she feels she can do this and has the backing to do it. He is trying to restrict her activities by ring-fencing staff and Julia is being forced to explain to him why she is sacking them. There was a similar situation in MI5 before, I believe, when Russian moles infiltrated MI5 before they were cleared out by Parky, Bishop and yourself … yes, I do have my informants in Military and Naval Intelligence and we are not as isolated as some Politicians feel. The Head of MI6 has disappeared into retirement with a gagging order, and been replaced with a close friend of the PM – with his assistant replaced as well. A whole of bunch of very influential and connected – to the Prime Minister – people are now virtually controlling the Security Services and Police; Sir Arthus feels that with the trouble caused in respect of my late brother, the Black Magic Society are now taking over, and that they are all well-entrenched in positions of power or control.”
“Why is power and control considered to be separate?”
“Power is usually considered to be within Government – Control can be anywhere and that includes Civil Servants and the Press.”
“Why was I kidnapped, Rufus … everytime … every bloody time, I come back to this country, I am imprisoned. If I was being given to France, why wasn’t I on a plane to France as soon as they arrested me?”
“Because of Sir Arthus and Jodi Murray – they wanted you kept in the country – Sir Arthus most definitely, did not want you being interviewed in France.
“You were safe in solitary. There was no guarantee that outside you would stay alive or that the Police would even look for your killer. Your wife virtually forced out any protection there was in her passing information to hurt you. Julia Perkins then sacked virtually everyone who could protect you. Val is supposed to be back watching you, but hasn’t arrived yet, and the only thing protecting Val is her MI6, MI5, and CIA connections, but she is forced back again to MI5 to monitor or be thrown out as well. Sylvia Nescott – not her correct name by any stretch of the imagination – is now considered to be under Police control but also under MI6 control and Home Office control – God, does she get around.
“The Police and MI6 are now watching anything that happens with your group, your wife, and with Neville Jones. You might consider it Government control but Sir Arthus doesn’t believe this is all to do with the Government, nor does he considered his staff to be trustworthy, and you, living at his home, could have endangered his daughter.
“Don’t forget the Salvanian Mafia, either, because they haven’t forgotten you for breaking out their hostages or killing their people in the camp in France.”
“So I am enjoying your hospitality until all this is settled?”
“No, you are not. You would never leave here if that were true. You are here to disappear and reduce the potential harm to Sir Arthus, his family, yourself and also to meet some old contacts that you can trust to a certain degree.
“I know Irish is no longer with us, but there are still three contacts the Security Services consider to have died … two with … well possibly with Army knowledge that might be useful, albeit of a kind that the Army would disclaim ever existed.
“I will leave you to think things over and they should be with you in two days. We have to be a bit circumspect but then we will decide on some kind of plan. In the meantime, these gentlemen will be your escort. They will start by escorting you to a shower. Change into some borrowed clothes afterwards. Dry clean them before they’re returned, please. I will … yes … I will, see you in the officer’s mess once you’ve showered and changed for dinner. Please sign in with your real name – it helps with the mess funding. We stand for the Queen’s toast here … this is not … we are not, the Royal Navy!”
Nat picked up the keys for the Ford Transit van.
Drove it out of the Police Yard and parking it in the Arndale car park.
He hoped no-one would steal it or he would be in deeper shit than normal.
He went to the back of the van to find he couldn’t open the back doors.
No windows. Just the standard at the front but a one-way grid behind him in the cabin.
Nothing happened for a couple of days with Janice frantic for money.
Eventually the phone rang.
He headed out on his way to Putney, taking the right fork down to Hammersmith, over Hammersmith Bridge, and then Barnes – he was there.
All he did was sit and listen.
Half an hour later the back door slammed, and then another slam very soon afterwards.
He sat there for over an hour listening to slams until a distorted voice through the grid barked an order, “Go to Kingston, now – follow your instructions.”
Nat couldn’t guess much but he did guess one thing. There were two doors. The first gave entrance to the van but was then locked until the person concerned had moved through a second door. You obviously couldn’t have two doors open at the same time. Only then was the outer door released for the next arrival.
They arrived at ten minute intervals although some were early and kept trying the back door.
Like a public toilet there were too few spots and all were taken.
Now following his instructions, he headed for a town house by the old vegetable allotments where the ground had once been 2 foot higher than the surrounding area. The house was obviously modified as the garage was wider than the open van doors – two garages merged into one – and he heard the inner doors clang open. Then the outside doors opened, blocking off all sight of the people as they climbed out and went inside.
Once they were in the house, Nat got out and was surprised to see a car draw up in front of the house as he made his way to the front of the drive, “Jump in, Nat,” said a voice from the driver’s side, “Stephen asked me to give you some company while you wait. It will be a few hours so we can have a pint and they’ll ring me when they’re ready.”
“I don’t know you, do I?” Nat felt he’d seen the face before but couldn’t remember it – he just felt he knew it.
“I was in the pub but no, you don’t. Stephen thought it better that way, so we’ll just go and rest up until they are ready and then I’ll take them back to Kingston, and you can head to Barnes Station again and take the van back to the Arndale … don’t look so surprised, we do keep an eye on things. Now let’s go and enjoy that beer.”
The Black Magic meeting hadn’t even started before Drenboso Gedoin, Vilson Milleshi and Dita Valmira were shouting about being forced to unveil themselves in Public.
‛And what was the use, Mr No.1!” Shouted Dita, “You sit there in your Robes and Masks issuing instructions’ while we unveiled ourselves under your orders, and for what … for what … tell us?”
“You were bait for something we know but we didn’t know how widespread it was, or who is behind it. We … we have Dirstly covered and disarmed; the same for that drunk, Jones – the policeman – we even have his ex-sidekick as the driver who brought you here, and so far, he has behaved as he should – he knows we have the ability to put him straight back inside if we choose – at any time, so don’t doubt we can control things – including you, if we have to.”
“And do … do we know now … where our absent Master is?”
“I will ignore your attitude but, yes … yes, I know, and he will be with us in due course and so will his family.”
“And what will we learn – apart from our identities being revealed. All we’ve learnt is something about a charade – about something that was a waste of our time and money, and that no-one followed or observed us, so why was this complete bloody waste of time, necessary.”
“We received information that surveillance on this group has increased, and I needed to find out how much without endangering the more senior members of this circle, and before you argue, all three of you are junior members, as yet unproven. I also need to introduce a new member – call her Emily, who will be No.12 in our group. Emily will monitor Neville Jones and will in France meet, and become one with our Lord who worships this world, as we worship his power and guidance. She will also undergo the ritual of acceptance and deliver herself to the God we truly worship and as a Sacrifice will consecrate herself to the true God and we will join with her in Black Communion.”
“How can she be a Sacrifice and do this?”
“Her Sacrifice will be to this group. There will be separate acts in a common spirit.”
“So you are all going to shaft her, and claim it is Magic … this isn’t a Black Magic Circle … you … you’re just a bunch of dirty old horny men, and you can stay away from me. If … if she is stupid enough to let you have her, then she doesn’t have any intelligence that I would trust. You had the three of us meet in Bristol and go through nothing more than a charade and identify ourselves to each other and to anyone else and you didn’t give a damn as long as you were protected.
“That, my Purveyor of our Master’s thoughts is the last straw for me. You talk about all the things we will achieve and what have we achieved so far – nothing, absolutely nothing?”
“You had your chance to achieve initiation into this circle and refused it, but you will meet the demands of our Master and once you join this Group, you will serve.”
“The only thing being served here is to let dirty old men have sex … there … there is nothing else. This is circle is a farce and a fraud, and I am out of it,” and Dita took her robe and mask off and threw them onto the table and stormed out of the house.
“12 is the divine number for the Magic of our circle my brothers and sisters, we cannot allow that to be broken. Other members of this circle have accepted initiation and we cannot accept someone knowing our secrets and refusing that rite, we … we must … we must I think, take steps to alleviate this situation and if we cannot alleviate it; to solve it terminally, and I can think of an ideal place to solve it.”
“Let me talk to her, No.1. I sure No.11 does not understand the importance of her decision or the ramifications of it,” said No.10.”
“Talk to her No.10, but make it quick. She will either accept initiation or join our God sooner than she thinks, and now let us formally welcome Emily into our circle, and 1, 2 and 3 approached the new member and taking her arms moved her out of the room. Very shortly soft sobs started to echo back to the others.”
No.4 and No.8 looked at each other as the sounds changed, and now they heard crack-like noises echoing and muffled screams, until an hour later all three returned.
“It also appears that No.12 did not wish to accept the initiation – she has now accepted it and we will see whether she also has a future. I hope it will not be necessary for that lesson to be repeated to anyone else. Now we will take Black Communion,” and moving to the end of the room, No.1 pushed a small painting on the wall swinging a section of the wall out. A basin, an altar, and two silver chalices on the altar swung out. On the wall shone a picture of two horns, a muscular body and hairy legs, and between the hairy legs an obvious indication of its maleness and intent, and before that now stood No.1.
Each member stood in front of No.1 and lowered their hoods in turn. No.1 now dipped his finger in the basin and drew a red cross on their heads. He then offered each of them the chalice and each sipped from it; they replaced their hoods and turned away. As he completed the rites, he said to Numbers 7, 9 and 10 get 12 and bring her in.
As they brought No.12 in, holding up her naked body, No.1 put his hands into the basin this time and not only drew a cross on her forehead but on each of her breasts. Then as they held her forehead back, he pulled her chin down, and poured from the chalice into her open mouth until she was choking, and vomiting the red fluid into the bowl. “Now you are a member of this circle and you will obey its commands no matter where you are. Take her away.”
No.1 looked at the rest of the circle, “now you know what happens to those who disobey. Tell that to No.11, No.10.” They now started to move out and downstairs into the van, while No.1 rang a number and said, “bring him back, John and then I need you to see to No.12 … she … she needed a lesson in obedience – take her to Antona’s Lodge. Bury her but leave her face showing. I want it easy for some dog walker to find her – ignore Bottomley’s instructions – I want her found, dead.”
John looked up at Nat, “they are ready for you – just follow instructions. Take them to Barnes Bridge; wait until the last one tells you he is leaving and you hear the rear door slam; drive off and park the van in the Arndale – once we check that, Stephen will see you okay with the money. Don’t try and cheat – we will know – now let’s get you back to the house.”
John drove Nat back to the house and watched him climb into the van and drive off.
He got out of the car and let himself into the house, walking slowly upstairs.
He didn’t need to look far as he heard the sobbing. Opening the door he saw Emily naked on the bed, covered in blood.
For a moment, he thought she was dying – it had happened before – he’d disposed of the bodies, but she was moving.
He finally managed to get her upright, with a lot of her blood on himself.
Dragging her into the bathroom it was obvious she could not stand up for a shower.
He lifted her into the bath and ran the water why he stripped off.
He needed to wash the blood off himself as well and he kept a change of clothing in the house for that.
He filled the bath to half-full and slowly began to wash her. Pity they had done things to her. She had a nice body; quite attractive in her own way although now she was a moaning wreck – still waste not want not – he climbed into the bath with her and she started to sob again as he cleaned up in more ways than one.
Sometime later, he got out of the bath, pulling the plug out before drying himself off and putting fresh clothes on. Then a shirt and trousers for her – she wouldn’t need more than that.
She still couldn’t stand up but he had managed to dry her and it didn’t matter about anything else.
He put her over his shoulder and carried her down to the garage.
Outside, he opened the garage door, reversed his car back into the opening. Opened the car boot and dump her into it.
It was a short drive to the road past the outskirts of Coombe Lodge and following No.1’s instructions he dumped the body, albeit still alive, in the trees by the road.
He looked at her and suddenly realised he’d forgotten the spade to bury and dispose of her.
Well, there was no way he was going to start digging with his hands – leave her there – she was dying anyway.
Any comments, he was disturbed and had to run for it – no-one would know.
She had been initiated anyway so it wouldn’t matter as far as No.1 was concerned, but she wouldn’t disobey No.1 again.
No.1 had sources of information that enabled him to know everything that was happening, and he made sure everyone remembered.
Nat parked the van by Barnes Bridge and sat there until a voice, hidden through the speakers, said, “I am the last one. Wait for 5 minutes and then drive off – you will be watched.”
Nat sat there. He had been told to follow instructions and they seemed to know everything he did. He let 5 ½ minutes pass before he drove the van back to the Arndale. He had listened to the door slamming as they left and there were two less people for some reason, still, all he had to do was report to Sir Arthus and that was that.
Sir Arthus sat in his office. There was no feedback from Sylvia and she seemed to have disappeared.
He needed Parky and his crew operational again and Boy as well; never mind just bringing Parky and Bishop back.
He was being out-thought, and it worried him. He knew he was a devious son-of-a-bitch and his own father said that to him a lot of years ago but he was currently fighting both his own organisation and MI6, and that did worry him. It needed top political clearance for MI6 to intrude into his area without his agreement, and Sylvia had already done that. Now Val was returning to MI5 as well.
Darius, as usual since his sacking often checked the equipment as he didn’t have much else to do and as luck would have it, he was checking Antona’s estate as he had promised Neville he would, when he spotted someone on the outskirts of the property with a body over his shoulder. He was on the phone to Antona before you could say ‛caw blimey’.
Antona picked it up and before she could get into her usual ‛Antona Turner here’, Darius said, “A body’s dumped by the trees where Bishop set the hidden woodpecker cameras. Couldn’t see the guy but he dropped off the body and headed back to the road.”
“I’ll get Albert and Michal to go and look. Neville is in town – he won’t be back until later.”
“He might need to know, Antona … I thought the face was familiar but he dumped her face down.”
“Let me deal with it, Darius – I don’t need instructions – it is my property—”
“Yes, Antona. With a body dumped on it.”
“Thank you, Darius. Goodbye,” Antona hung the phone up. What trouble was starting now; anyway, Albert could handle it? She didn’t need this bunch of troublemakers back in her life. They caused enough trouble before.
Darius heard the phone cut-off and put a call through to a number Parky had given him.
“Arthus,” said a voice.
“Body of woman placed on Antona’s property … maybe … maybe alive – Antona said, ‛she’ll deal with it’.”
“Who else knows?”
“Antona. I have a photo of the guy who dumped the body, but the body is face down.”
“Mail the photo as Parky said. I’ll put something in your account – keep watching. Any other developments – let me now. Don’t tell Gris; I’ll get two teams of CIA guys including medics on the site within the hour. Contact Val. I know you have her number; tell her.”
Darius rang Val. Val, apart from being MI6 and MI5 liaison was a honey trapper and surveillance expert who owed Parky, Bishop and Boy something for her escape from Russia.
The CIA and Parky’s team brought her out when MI6 would have left her to fester. An MI6 Agent shot her in the back as she escaped.
Val answered immediately the phone rang, “Val!”
“Don’t shout, Darius – I’d know your voice anywhere.”
“Body’s been dumped at Antona’s Lodge.”
“Who have you told?”
“Sir Arthus. He told me to tell you; CIA teams are on the way to Antona – don’t know who they are.”
“Take it easy, Darius. You’ve told everyone you were told to tell … don’t … look don’t tell anyone else – keep it mum. I’ll get over to Antona and take it from there – just do what you are told and keep quiet for now.”
Antona watch Albert head out of the lounge. He could pick up Michal on the way. Antona felt a bit stupid. Darius was a wet weekend but she should have let him finish. Albert and Michal would find the body. She’d spoken to Hazil that to know about this stuff. It would be easier if Albert and Michal found it by a long and roundabout route, Hazil said, as no doubt someone would be playing some other games.
Albert and Michal headed out. Albert had a rough idea that the North East would be the first place to start and it lay between a quarter and a half a mile from the house and they set off down the path to miss it by a quarter of a mile and head north after that.
Sir Arthus’ first call after Darius was to Jodi Murray, the CIA Head of London Station, “Jodi.”
“Make it quick Arthus; I’m at a high level meeting.”
“Body dumped at Antona’s Lodge … need … I need your guys … I … I can’t trust mine or MI6.”
“Where, Arthus?”
“By the outside road, where they kidnapped the girls.”
“I’m leaving the meeting,” Sir Arthus heard her say, “Something important has come up.
“Who did it, Arthus?”
“I don’t know who it is.”
As Sir Arthus put down the phone as Jodi rang another number, “Jerome.”
“Yes, Jodi.”
“Get your teams over to the road circling Antona’s Lodge – where the kidnaps happened before – body there; sounds like its dead. Get there and head to Coombe Lane with it – we need to sort out Coombe Lane as well – in case that is the next attack.”
“On the way, Jodi.”
Jodi headed back into the meeting and the Prime Minister looked up as she came in, “everything all right, Jodi?”
“Just a false alarm, Prime Minister … no … no trouble at all.”
Jerome looked up at his team – normally two teams but this time working as one after the débâcle in France where they shot Parky and Bishop, “Sheldon, you and Lionel on a bike. Body at Antona’s Lodge … maybe … maybe not … dead …? Take your medical gear and get there – where the kidnap happened before is the site – rest of you in the vans and on your way. Bounce back to Coombe Lane afterwards and no arguments from Gris – don’t let see her the immigrants until you need to.”
Albert and Michal slowly made their way to the property edge and turned north.
They were passed by a motorbike on the road with two guys on it and a guy on the pillion being sick – just missing them.
It was a quarter of a mile to the north for the kidnap site and Albert and Michal now turned towards it – some co-incidence that it should be exactly where the Salvanian Mafia had kidnapped the girls – still it was better to be safe than sorry and they went slowly.
Sheldon stopped the bike and he and Lionel got off, picked up their respective bags and headed into the trees.
For some reason most people dumping bodies used trees and most police officers looking for a body did the same – only problem for the criminals was that they left more evidence in the trees than they ever did in open land.
Sheldon and Lionel were a bit like chalk and cheese in appearance. Sheldon was black and a thin lanky smartly dressed 28 year old. Lionel however was a wiry thin lanky ginger haired 38 year old who never dressed more than he had to.
They made their way to where the body was and Sheldon checked for vital signs, “still alive but in shock, bleeding and left to die slowly – bastards. We’ll need to check for where she’s bleeding from – which half do you want?”
“I’ll take the top, Sheldon.”
“Right. Lionel unwrapped a cover with a half folded blanket on it. They unfolded the blanket and moved her onto it once Lionel had produced some white sheet like material and laid that on the blankets. They gently lifted her up, moved her onto the sheets and began stripping her.
They could see where she was bleeding lower down but someone had slowly whipped her across her front as well and they heard her whimper as they turned her over and saw what had been done to her back. She was obviously in shock and they turned her over again and gently pulled a hospital gown over her. Sheldon started to build a plastic stretcher as they waited and as Lionel heard a noise behind him a H&K USP sprang into his hand and he found himself facing Albert and Michal.
“Sheldon. What the hell are you doing here?” Shouted Albert, with Michal standing there with his hands in the air.
“We were called in, Albert. This is a plant and as soon as the Boys get here we will take her to Coombe Lane.”
“Does Gris know?”
“Someone is supposed to have told her but she has to go somewhere. Sheldon is sedated her. She’s been badly beaten – looks like multiple rapes as well.”
“Do you know who she is?”
“Her face is too beaten to identify her. Once we get her to Coombe Lane we can fingerprint and DNA.”
“You don’t need to, Sheldon. Take the ring off her finger. If it has ‛Ronald’ on the inside, it’s Sylvia Nescott’s ring – Neville Jones assistant, possibly? She is Special Branch and the Police Officer who arrested Boy.”
Sheldon picked up her hand but it was too swollen to get the ring off, “no I can’t get the ring off, Albert but the fact they dumped her here, seems to stack up. The Police will no doubt be here, pronto and arrest everyone while they ransack Antona’s Lodge … someone … someone high up in the Police set this up and we need the guys here fast and her out of here.”
“What’s her condition, Lionel?”
“Sleeping, but it is the best I can do for now.”
“Where’s the bloody crew, Lionel, they should be here by now.”
“They can’t drive like you do, Sheldon. Their vans are wider than the 6 inch gaps you were taking us through.”
“I’ll go back and get one of the cars, Sheldon,” and Albert set off at a run back to the Lodge.
Albert found Antona and Val stood by Val’s car when he got back, “Val. It looks like Sylvia Nescott – barely alive. She’s been tortured with multiple rapes. Lionel and Sheldon are there – the crew are on the way – they need to get her off Antona’s property before the Police arrive. It looks like a set up by someone high in the Police or Security and they need to move her ‛toot sweet’.”
“We’ll use my car, Albert. Get in,” Val headed to the driver’s seat while Albert grabbed one of the rear doors and climbed in.
“You know the old kidnap place, Val?”
“Yes,” and Val swung her car around in a turning circle that left grass spinning in the air and was on her way.
“How do you know it is Sylvia, Albert?”
“Ring on the wedding finger. They can’t get it off, but I’m damn certain it is her ring. It might be better if you stay clear of Antona for a while. They have targeted her for some reason.”
“It makes sense, Albert.”
“How does it make sense, Val?”
“With Boy in jail; Prilloch in Wimbledon; Parky and Bishop in the US and Gris suspended on some trumped-up accusation by Julia Perkins the PM has stopped the money flowing into Coombe Lane. Gris can’t pay the mortgage and is vulnerable with a new child. They’ve also sacked Jeffry, Darius, and Valene had already resigned, so Gris will lose the house. The next obvious target must be Antona’s Lodge, Albert, so dumping a body there and having the police ram-sack it would seem a logical move.”
“Are you saying the PM is behind this, Val?”
“Haven’t you heard of Saint Thomas Becket? Killed by 4 knights in the 18th century because the King wanted someone to rid him of this pest and the knights obliged.”
“So, it is someone acting for the PM, Val?”
“Or for themselves with the PM’s wishes as an excuse – I don’t know – it sounds viable. The PM suffered a lot in many ways for Parky killing his Chief Fund Raiser. It has caused him and his party a lot of problems and he wants these two sites shut and the people out, Albert. I don’t think he cares how it happens.”
“But why choose Sylvia, Val.”
“Albert! For God’s sake – she works for MI6, has links to Special Branch, MI5 and through this team to the CIA; she is mucking around at something with the Home Office as well.
“That is like sticking your bare feet into a nest of hornets to show you are untouchable and can hurt them anytime you choose, and I am damn certain it was a bunch of high-up men who knew all about her. Only they would be so arrogant that they raped her as well as beat her up themselves and left her for dead. We don’t just need DNA, we need a rape kit, and I’ll bet they bathed afterwards to destroy the evidence.”
“Well we’re here, and that is Lionel and Sheldon. I can recognise Sheldon anywhere.”
“So can anyone else, Albert. He is black. You’ll need to walk back so one of them can come with me.”
“Fair enough, Val,” Val waited as Lionel came over.
“The guys are stuck in traffic. We need your car.”
“Yes, I know. Albert will walk back and I can take one in the front seat.”
“No, Val. I’ll sit in the back and support the stretcher over the passenger’s seat. It’ll be easier if you don’t brake sharply.”
“Or she goes through the windscreen.”
“So does the stretcher as well. Spot-on, Val.”
“Let’s get her in, Lionel and get her back to Coombe Lane.”
Lionel headed back to Sheldon and they carried Sylvia to the car and fixed the stretcher to the head-rests.
Michal and Sheldon broke some branches off and started throwing petrol over the wood – setting fire to what would burn.
Once it was ablaze, Michal climbed on behind Sheldon for the lift back to the Lodge to meet Antona and Albert, who now stood outside.
Antona looked at them as they arrived. I can see the smoke from here and apparently the fire brigade was somewhere near as well, plus the police “my property has a fire and they will be here. Did you have to use so much petrol?”
“It is localised, Antona.”
“Localised be buggered, Sheldon. You’ve set three trees on fire, plus scrub and its spreading. Half that area by the road is now on fire. What the hell were you doing?”
“Destroying the tracks.”
“Yes, and my property as well. I expected better from you, Albert and Michal. You’re paid to maintain and protect my property – not bloody destroy it. Sheldon, get your bike and yourself off my property … while … while there is something bloody left of it, and don’t come back. You stopped the Police from coming here for 30 seconds, now I have the Fire Brigade and the Police and you … you … you! … just go away.”
“Without a body here, Antona, they can’t arrest you, search your property or start taking computers away for a look-see. They would take Neville’s machine as well and he couldn’t stop them, either. Think about it, Antona. Some vandals set fire to your property and vanish – you lose three trees on the edge of the property but there is no trace of a body and someone up high was outsmarted. Think on it, Antona. Who the hell is going to look where the body was? Some idiot stopped for a smoke and through the match away. No names, no pack-drill. Why were the Police and Fire Engines so quick on the scene without a 999 call … think about that, Antona … this bunch … this web … is wider than we think and our team are your only protection!”
“How wide, Sheldon?”
“Wide enough to worry the CIA, Antona and we are worried! We deal with the highest levels of this Government and once again information is being passed on that shouldn’t. They want to close down you and Gris, forcing you both out for a start, and we think that Thomas Macguire is still alive and was in Moscow … now … now … the guy we thought was Macguire has vanished and we think he is back in England. You have his daughter and grand-daughters staying here and it could be that by forcing you out he gets them back under his control again … we’ve … we’ve … we’re all under pressure to stay out of this area. Jodi is risking her contacts and co-operation by bringing us back in again and we need a base. We also owe it to Boy to protect his property and due to our own politics if we are not here, they say the payment isn’t justified and without Parky, Prilloch, Bishop and Boy we can’t claim CIA people are there as Gris is no longer considered CIA after passing information out to hurt Boy.”
“Where is the Boy?”
“Safe, so I wouldn’t worry.”
“Can you go worry someone else then, with half my property on fire?”
Sheldon looked at Antona and he knew he wasn’t going to penetrate her brain … he would just bounce off those self-reinforced mental barriers.
Jerome’s final instructions had been to create a major fire to hide the evidence and the fire engines would have a fine time dealing with that. It had transferred a nearly dead body – left to rot – to an emergency but with no body. They had just tortured one of their own and left her to die and he found that difficult to understand … even … even if they were damned Limeys.
Sheldon climbed on his bike and left Antona to her dreams. Still they had at least let him choose his own bike and a scrambling motorbike for a medic was all you needed. Lionel at least, had spewed up sidewards as he made his way through the traffic to Coombe Lodge.
Sheldon arrived at Coombe Lane to find Valene and Gris holding their sons in front of them as weapons and screaming for the guys to move their vans and get off the property.
Seeing Sheldon arrive, they turned on him, “No-one is going to just turn up and stay here. We are ringing the Police.”
“I wouldn’t bother doing that, Gris; they are already busy working on the fire at Antona’s Lodge. All you would be doing is telling the people who tortured this woman that we have her, wiping out her protection … who … who the bloody hell is paying you and Valene to kill people?”
“No-one is paying us to kill people, Sheldon … you … you’re killing people, not us.”
“The people killing, ‛who Albert thinks is Sylvia’, are Police and Government … not us – we don’t kill people for the sake of it – we can’t even touch someone without authority. You kill more with your Government’s crap; we don’t kill our own people without a trial or authority, and Sylvia was Government by every stretch of the imagination.”
“I think you’ve made your point, Sheldon,” interrupted Jerome, “Not in the best way, nor accurate, but definitely personal. We need, Gris, to find somewhere to put this lady and treat her unless you want her to die, and she’s defended you in the past in case you’ve forgotten. Do you have any objection?”
“Put her in that secret room you’ve built. She’ll be safe there.”
“Thanks, Gris but above ground might be better. We have medical teams on the way, besides Lionel and Sheldon who’re battlefield medics.
“We’ll make this property a target anyway by being here. It’s better we start patrolling now. You were a target anyway, Gris then written off as they thought they had you destroyed by the Prime Minister.
“You can’t be saying the Prime Minister is involved?”
“I didn’t say he was, Gris. He just wanted Coombe Lane and Coombe Lodge destroyed for revenge for what Parky did to him.
“Without money, you’ll lose everything, anyway and that is what he planned, without him being seen to do anything.
“Control Freaks use other people to cause trouble because they like to stay in the background and ego trip as the treat people as fools. They thought that Antona would help you as well, and that’s why they started the games on Antona’s property to bring the Police in. The police would have looted the place to find evidence against Antona and Neville for a dead police woman. Both of them would have been under suspicion. The Police still haven’t got out of the habit of deciding who is guilty and then looking for evidence to support a conviction, but you wouldn’t get any help from Antona once they froze her assets and they would have done that.”
“I don’t want your people here, Jerome but I don’t have a bloody choice, do I?”
“Let’s get this stretcher into the Surveillance Room, Gris. Any thoughts, Val. You know your crowd better than we do.”
“I can’t believe that they would do this to an MI6 and Special Branch person, especially with links to MI5. They must think they’re bigger than the Security Services or the Police, and if the Police had found her on Antona’s place they would have ripped the Lodge and people apart. It wasn’t only a set-up. Whoever did it knew they didn’t have to worry about any fall-out on themselves.”
“That is scary, Val – it means they obviously have links into MI6, MI5 and the Police at high levels.”
“What are you going to do, Jerome?”
“Apart from Sheldon and Lionel, we will stay out of the house, Val.”
“Gris. I understand Prilloch is thinking of coming back. Will you let him into the house? Once the Doctors have Sylvia in hospital, Sheldon and Lionel will stay out of the house but we need to be here and we’d like to use your facilities.”
Valene, still holding Jonas at the high port, looked at Gris and Jerome before she spoke, “we need the money, Gris. Boy’s money won’t last much longer and with people being beaten and tortured I’d like some heavy support around, even if it is these guys. I don’t mind cooking for them … we could … if we let them have the second kitchen like we used to; we can use the main kitchen for our meals, but you guys clean up afterwards – okay?”
“Fine, Valene. We’ll use the second kitchen.”
Gris’ face still looked like a rabid thunderstorm was building, “When is Prilloch going to be here, Jerome?”
“In a couple of hours, Gris. I’ll ring him first … I think he needs to clean up Parky’s flat, then we’ll pick him up.”
Valene sniffed as women sometimes do but in this case for another reason, “Well I’ve got to get back in, Gris, Jonas needs changing and probably a top-up to replace what he has just lost,” and Gris and Valene headed off to the nursery.
Jerome looked at Val and said, “that went better than I expected. We’re still upright with all parts in place. We need to move the stretcher into the new surveillance room now, I think.”
“Sheldon and Lionel go with Sylvia and wait for the Doctors – there should be a private ambulance arriving soon. Only thing bothering me is where the hell is Neville? I expected him over like a bat out of hell.”
Neville, once again sat outside Sir Arthus Dirstly’s office.
He looked up as the door to Sir Arthus’ office was suddenly wrenched open from the inside and Julia Perkins stormed out, pausing only to look at Neville as she would a cockroach in her kitchen, before she carried on storming out.
A new PA, Neville noticed, looked at Neville and said with perfect litotes, “I think Sir Arthus is ready for you, Neville.”
Neville headed for the door. Sir Arthus seeing the 5 foot 10 inch figure in the doorway said “close the door if it is still on the hinges, Neville and take a seat.”
Neville sat down in front of Sir Arthus’ desk like the schoolboy he usually felt and waited.
“I need you to go up to Colchester, Neville. Your brief was extended and you will now liaise with the Army and Naval Police – the RAF can wait for now.
“Boy is actually in Colchester Glasshouse as a guest, I might add, and under the guardianship of Brigadier Rufus Owl,” Sir Arthus watched as Neville’s eyes widened, “Yes. Jonathan Owl has a brother but quite unlike Jonathan, he is, as far as I can find out, completely honest but unfortunately very loyal to his family, which is why we never heard of Jonathan’s activities until it was too late. You will meet Boy and some old friends of his I think, which he has still to meet. I also want you out of the way for your own safety as much as anything.”
“My own safety, Sir Arthus?”
“Yes, Neville. Someone tortured and left Sylvia to die on the edge of Antona’s Lodge. They also had the Police ready to move in without a 999 call and without bothering to notify you. That smacks of gross arrogance and a belief that they can get away with anything, hence my conversation with Julia Perkins.
“She obviously feels that she runs MI5 and I have just forcefully put it to her that she doesn’t, and that she doesn’t make Security or Staff decisions without my authority. That lead to the door wrenching exercise and no doubt a call from the PM after she reports back.
“Another reason for you to be out of the way. Julia actually feels, under the PM’s guidance, that the Government should run MI5 at her direction.
“I disagreed, and her ideas of management is to ring the Cabinet Secretary for directions.
“I have pointed out that her appointment is pro-tem with agreed extensions until I decide at my discretion to end her appointment.
“Anyway, apart from that, you have more than enough enemies something dying on an anthill and they will be swarming over you if they get the chance. That the Police haven’t contacted you about the fire on Antona’s property means you are either being cut out at a high level or set-up as a fall guy, so let’s get you out of the way for now.”
“What is happening to Sylvia – how is she?”
“She is under the CIA’s wing at the moment. I have her recorded as working for me to cover her absence. Doctors and a private ambulance are now on their way to Coombe Lane.
“I’ve had a brief word with Antona, who seems to hell-bent on alienating anyone who might be of use, and Val will move in to keep an eye on her, Helen and her brood, but as much to keep Antona under control as anything. I have also advised Val not to notify MI6 about this. MI6 now appears, even more than Julia, to be reporting to the Cabinet Office.
“Take your hindquarters to Colchester. They will put you up. Don’t contact Gris or Antona – I told Antona I have a specific undercover operation for you – you will be out of contact for a while. Sorry to add to your woes but I need my ducks lined up before I start blasting away with a shotgun.”
“Thank you, sir but I’ll need some clothes – all I have is what I’m wearing.”
“Use the Company Credit Card … I … I think the Company can afford you for now, and I’ll probably bill it to the CIA.
“It’ll come out my squash fund, so don’t worry … you won’t get the bill later. Perhaps Jodi was right, I should have stuck to coffee. On your way, Neville – the delights of Colchester Glasshouse await.”
Antona looked up as Albert came into the drawing room, “Sorry I shouted earlier, Albert. I shouldn’t have done.”
“I understand, Mrs Turner,” no emotion whatsoever passed Albert’s granite like look.
Antona watched Albert’s expression. Once again her famous flaming temper had taken an incident and made it into a disaster. She knew controlling her temper achieved more than losing it but once she moved into ‛control freak’ mode, the desire to control was over-whelming. Now she had, once again, to try and resurrect another relationship she had all but destroyed, “Albert, I said I was sorry. Can we leave it at that? I’ve just had Arthus on – reading the riot act – it’s as if everything I do is reported back to him. Neville claims I control him … everyone … goddamn it … everyone spends their lives controlling and threatening me. I am just trying to repair things with Neville – now I find Arthus has sent him undercover – as if I didn’t have enough to worry about.”
“That is Sir Arthus’ responsibility, not yours. Where has he sent him, Mrs Turner?”
Antona faced the son-of-a-bitch stony look in Albert, “I don’t know, Albert. Do you have any idea what Helen and her family are doing at the moment?”
“No, Mrs Turner. They left early this morning and haven’t returned. They didn’t say where they were going.”
“Thank you, Albert,” and she watched Albert turnaround as if on parade and walk out.
The Doctors and the private ambulance finally arrived. Check out Sylvia, hooked up the drips and she was on her way.
Once she’d gone, a van took off for Wimbledon. Prilloch wouldn’t drive and normally wouldn’t get into a car. He only trusted his feet.
The contents of the other van emptied out into the Surveillance Room after stopping at the second kitchen to put that coffee machine on as well.
Darius had relocated the cameras for both properties to there.
Not that some of them were showing anything. The CIA’s fires had wiped out a few.
Prilloch watched two guys make their way up the stairs.
Prilloch, with warning had cleaned up as best he could – it wasn’t a lot.
As the two leaking weary travellers finally made the top of the stairs they met Prilloch who hugged them both.
“Not too hard, Prilloch. We’re both still leaky.”
“How do you two manage to get in?”
“US passports. We were in the vans with the rest as US tourists. The UK lot didn’t really bat an eyelid or check anything.”
“Good to see you although I don’t think that Gris will be pleased once she finds out you’re back.”
“Jerome and his crew will look after things. We’ll stay mum and keep out of the way. Anyone been around – checking?”
“No. I’m back on gardening leave again – courtesy of Julia Perkins – she has passed through everyone she could with the axe. She did miss some of the Surveillance Team on her first swing but they’ve had letters since so everyone is sacked, suspended or on gardening leave.
“Sir Arthus knows and has put us on squash funding.
“We’re getting money again but working directly for him. Pain in the backside since we get no feedback from anyone else but we are getting money coming in.”
“The CIA will start feeding information in, Prilloch. They’re worried about input from MI5 and MI6. Neville is on‛virtual graze’. They’ve taken out Sylvia as well. Dumping her at Antona’s Lodge was I think, supposed to be a final nail in the coffin.
“There’ll be some unhappy people after the CIA converted it into arson with no body but we’ll see fallout that. Anyway, you better head downstairs. The guys’ll take you to Coombe Lane.”
“Good to see the pair of you back, so take care.”
Prilloch headed downstairs to the van.
He and the crew finally arrived at Coombe Lane. He didn’t bother going into the house, making his way to the back of the house with his pack over his shoulder to find his tent still there.
He needed to change his clothes but all he wanted was to dump his pack; get the lawn mower out and see his feathered friends – they were the only live things he’d missed. Gris and Valene watched him from the upstairs window, “It’ll be good to have the lawn looking good again. He always did it well.”
“We need to get fresh stuff out to his tent – should have thought of it before. I can’t say I’ve ever liked Prilloch, Valene, but you know where you stand with him and he does keep the back of the house safe.”
“Yes, Gris, although I wish he’d use the front door rather than those underground passages but at least all he’ll annoy are the CIA guys.”
“Three pluses, Valene. Safety for the little guys, the lawn cut and the CIA stay out of the way. I’ve also had a letter restarting my pay but under Sir Arthus Dirstly’s direct instructions. It looks from his own personal funding.”
“How do you feel about that, Gris? Probably better than being under Parky’s direct instructions.”
“Parky was good to us, Valene. I might end up hating him but no-one gave me a chance until Parky did and then everyone wanted me. You can’t underestimate Parky – he never knows when to die.”
“Well that CIA team tried to kill him and Bishop, Gris.”
“I’ve always thought that was funny; they never hurt Ralf – who was there – but they opened up on Parky and Bishop. Something there … definitely … something very odd about it – they killed most of those other people but didn’t kill Parky and Bishop, even though they tried. Where was Thomas Macguire?
“He was a prime target but disappeared before the attack. It seemed strange – almost as if they couldn’t work out whether to kill them or not, or simply changed their minds.”
“Did you ever ask anyone what happened.”
“I asked Jerome. He said, ‛they split into two teams’. The other team leader disappeared in the middle of the battle. When he came back he changed the instructions for his team and they fired directly at Boy, Bishop and Parky. Boy saw the flashes as the direction changed and shouted as he dived to the ground.
“Bishop and Parky either didn’t hear him or ignored him, but they saw him dive and by the time they dived, the bullets had arrived. The other team leader helped get everyone out, but dis-appeared afterwards and no-one knows where he is’.
“Could be another Marcus or that guy who shot Val in Russia. I asked Jerome about them and he said, ‛they’ve gone.’. He hasn’t said where, or where they are now.”
“What do we do? We have Thaniel and Jonas to look after. Are they going to protect us or will they disappear?”
“They will look after us. With Prilloch back we’ll have some protection again – some of them will sleep in the Surveillance Room – they won’t be in one place and they will be patrolling here and Antona’s Lodge but she is for some reason is trying to stop them.”
“Yes, Gris. Everything seems to be happening at once. One reason, if no other, I want them here and I will cook these guy’s food.”
Hazil, once again, had taken her daughters on another mystery tour. She suddenly saw her father and immediately embraced him as they met in a Kingston Hotel lounge.
“Children. This is your grandfather.”
“This is the one who had me kidnapped by the Mafia, isn’t it, Hazil? And that Policeman who kept raping and telling me I was a sacrifice. They worked for our maternal grandfather as well, did they?
“You, Hazil, made us sue some guy and lose our money claiming he set it up … you … your … your father is the fucking arsehole, Hazil – he set us up – Joana produced a gun and moved away from Hazil and Helen, pointed it at Thomas Macguire.”
“Joana – Dad didn’t arrange that – Jonathan Owl did.”
“Jonathan kept talking about taking me to the Master who would sacrifice me. The only guy Jonathan was frightened of was … your father … he … the Master is your father … that’s who the Master is. Your father had us raped, Hazil!”
“I didn’t, Joana,” said Thomas, “I had everything go wrong at once because of Bishop and Parky. They are to blame for Jonathan. Jonathan was just being a pest but they forced him to cause trouble. I didn’t have anything to do with it.”
“Listen to your Grandfather, Joana. He didn’t cause this trouble.”
“My Grandfather is called Nicholas Swith, not Thomas Macguire, and you gave me away, Hazil. You didn’t give a damn about me. You had me kidnapped by those Salvanians, then Jonathan Owl kidnapped and raped me. Even when I swam half a mile to escape Jonathan Owl and got free, you had me kidnapped and raped again by those other Policemen.
“Your aren’t my Mother, Hazil you’re a procurer for your father and his deranged ideas, and twice so far I’ve people telling me I’m a sacrifice.”
Helen watched Joana as she shouted. “Joana, Grandfather has everything we need … in this … in this life and the next … we need Grandfather, and he needs us to trust him.”
“And have me raped as a sacrifice, again. Is that your career goal? It certainly isn’t mine.”
“Joana. Dad didn’t have you raped. He lost control of Jonathan Owl because of Parky and Bishop. They should have been dead as Dad instructed.
“Dad killed Jonathan for what he did. Boy interfered and stopped the rest dying. Val is alive. She shouldn’t be. They had their instructions – they failed.
“Bishop and Parky should be buried. Antona and her servants plus those who aided her should be dead. Understand … please understand … you must understand, Joanna – this is a real life; not something you can walk away from.”
“So I walk away and I’m dead. Stay, and I get raped again – why are you mother, dear, destroying your children for your father?”
“I am not destroying my children. You aren’t old enough to understand.”
“But old enough to get kidnapped and raped.”
“I’ve tried, Dad. She is yours,” Joana pulled the trigger and watched in horror as nothing happened and no bullet fired.
Hazil looking directly into her face, smiled, “did you think I’d let you have a loaded gun, Joana. I took the cartridges days ago You should have checked the gun.
“You’ll do what you’re told, now” and Thomas fired a pepper spray into her face.
“Tie her up and gag her. She’ll make a good sacrifice.”
“I’ll tell Talbot. His bunch want another victim – she’s my Granddaughter, so they’ll understand I’m serious – stick her in the cupboard.”
Joana looked in horror as Helen and Hazil grabbed her, tied her hands, gagged her and threw her into a wardrobe – slamming the door on her face.
“She’ll do for Talbot She’s poor blood – they can have her.”
Sir Sidney Talbot looked up from his 40 inch Secretary as his phone rang – you better move, June. He watched his ‛fondle lady’ leave – as she wiggled her way out – there was always later he thought, and picked up the phone.
“All we found was a fire and no body, sir. It looked like a case of arson and we couldn’t take it further.”
“Bottomley, you were supposed to sort this out?”
“I did, sir. John was to finish her in the bath. You over-ruled me and told John to bury her on Antona’s property. He was disturbed, or so he said and he left her in the trees, bleeding and dying.”
“Who started the fire, Bottomley – find out.”
The phone went down and so did Police Inspector Bottomley, yet again.
Neville thought that nothing could surprise him and arriving at Colchester did.
He was escorted to a cell in C Block to find Boy sitting on a wooden mattress.
“Where did you drag in from, Neville. Let me guess – Arthus strikes again? Now you’re in the cells as well. I got out of solitary and was whammed straight into here. They don’t lock the door at least. I eat in the officer’s mess but it’s a pain being escorted everywhere by two bouncers – Rob and Harry. Jonathan’s brother drops in from time to time … to make sure I haven’t bolted, I think.”
“Boy. I’ve heard that Sylvia was beaten up, raped, and left for dead on part of Antona’s property.”
“So that was why Arthus sent me here, was it?”
“CIA picked her up. She’s in a private hospital now. Still in shock and she won’t be doing anything, if ever again for the Police, MI5, Special Branch, MI6 or that Special Home Office unit. She might have got about but these guys knew who she was and tried to use her death to destroy Antona. It has to be high up, and for some reason they didn’t kill her – they did all, but!”
“Who did it?”
“We don’t know. They are trying to get evidence from her but she’s in a state of shock. Someone washed her to get rid of any evidence but she’d was dressed after that and there might be clues.
“We’ve shipped the clothing out to a private forensic lab for analysis – they may get something. They’ve gone through the standard rape kit stuff as well, but it is a long shot.”
“What next?”
“Arthus brought Nat back out of prison – working directly for him … mind you … most people seem to be working directly for Arthus. He says he can’t trust anyone in his organisation and keeps talking about his squash fund. Julia Perkins is going around sacking everyone connected to Parky and working for the Cabinet Office instead of Arthus. It’s the same at MI6 these days.
“Val is now back to supervise me but we are keeping Sylvia’s state a secret to see who reacts. I don’t know what you’ve been told but I was told to get down here.”
“All Rufus sai—”
“Rufus?”
“Yes, Neville, Brigadier Rufus Owl – Jonathan’s brother and my main guard – I mentioned him.”
“What is he doing?”
“He turns up for a chat occasionally. Usually when I am getting bored. I’m supposed to be waiting for someone I know to arrive but he won’t say who they are or when they’ll arrive.”
“Well. I’m around now, Boy. The CIA are at Coombe Lane again. Gris and Valene aren’t happy but taking it. Gris has been, and still is, raiding your bank account like there’s no tomorrow. Threatening to throw people out as well if they disagree. For some reason she’s let Prilloch back in now and Valene has agreed to cook for the CIA guys.
“Something is changing their ideas and that could be Sylvia, Neville.”
“I don’t like the Police appearing at Antona’s Lodge without anyone calling them or me knowing – that is more than curious …? Had … had they found Sylvia….? God-alone knows. If they had found her, they would have ripped Coombe Lodge and everyone to pieces Much … much as I hate to say it, it sounds like a Police set up.
“Someone planned for the Police to find a dead police woman on Antona’s property. It would have had brought in Special Branch; the beat lads, Roman chariots, and a complete destruction of everything on the premises as they smashed it apart – wall by wall – and everyone in police custody. The CIA set fire to the property to hide evidence and that seems to have worked, mind you they set quite a bit on fire – they didn’t muck about.”
“So now we are killing and burning our own. Are Hazil and her brood still there?”
“As far as I know. I was told not to talk to Antona – Sir Arthus – again. Antona has been told I’ve gone undercover. Have you got any idea what happens next – I haven’t the faintest.”
“Yes. Take a seat. I imagine Rufus will be around once he knows your here but it might take a few hours.”
It didn’t take Vilson long to find Dita. She rented a Chelsea flat and he’d one in Earls Court. Dita wasn’t really interested until he told her what they had done to Emily, and they finally ended in a basic restaurant on New Kings Road.
Dita was 25, tallish for a girl but obviously recruited for her looks at much as anything. Blue eyed, single, and as usual very well dressed, compared to Vilson who was 28, green eyes but slightly taller.
Otherwise very much like Dita, apart from some obvious differences. They sat down at a table and the green eyes of Vilson met the blue eyes of Dita.
“I don’t really know how to put it, Dita but they dragged Emily out of the room, beat the hell out of her, raped her and then poured blood down her throat until she spewed it up. She was still in the house when we left.”
“And you did nothing, Vilson?”
“If you looked at the feet of people in the meeting instead of throwing a tantrum – four of them had heavy black shoes on; the type that police officers wear – No.1, 2, 5 and 6 were police, I think. They were the ones who tortured and boasted about it afterwards, saying, ‛she wouldn’t disobey them, again’ and No.1 told me to give a message to you after they had worked on her. He was being fairly blunt in that ‛if you didn’t submit, you would cease to be a problem’ and they obviously felt that you couldn’t do anything about it. That’s why I haven’t crossed them.”
“What were they threatening me with?”
“Death I think. His exact words were, ‛She will either accept initiation or join our God sooner than she thinks’ and I don’t think it was some empty threat. I think what they did to Emily was as much a lesson to you, as her.”
“Where is she now, Vilson?”
“I don’t know. We were all shepherded back into that van and taking to Barnes. I haven’t heard or seen anything since then.”
“So I let them rape me, Vilson; possibly beat me half to death, and that is the initiation rite … like hell it is.”
“How can you fight them, Dita? You can’t cross them and they know that; no-one can touch them.”
“I had to interview someone recently but the Producer was slapped with a security ban before we could run the story. He isn’t Police so I might be able to talk to him. I have a number”
“What was the story about?”
“It was about an operation in France but someone from my company contacted the Government after the interview. They quashed it. I rang this guy up; told him, and he laughed. He said, ‛One of your people must be leaking for political career reasons. Sounds like the Cabinet Office flexing its muscles, again’. He’s quite a decent guy. Gave me a good interview, anyway.”
“Who was it?”
“Can’t say but I will contact him anyway. Let’s eat this dinner before it gets any colder.”
Sir Arthus was still sat there thinking. They couldn’t say this evening was one to advance his thoughts of any careers. He was still considering his conversation with his Deputy. Julia had been the pro-tem Deputy before Arthus arrived and she had expected the top job as she worked more for the Cabinet Office and the PM than MI5. He often admired her legs as she ran around MI5 like a neurotic neighbour on a ‛hate complex’.
She was efficient, providing people didn’t have more than 15 seconds of her time as she grated on nerves like a cheese grater but the judgement came easily.
He was wondering what skills the Prime Minister saw in her, or any of the skills and talents he required his accolades to have once they had straightened up from their half bent position.
Julia, as usual, had gate-crashed his office demanding he stopped countermanding her instructions as she had the PM’s backing for what she was doing. Sir Arthus remembered saying, “This is MI5. If you want to work for the Cabinet Office, then do so, but don’t start telling me what I do with my organisation … I’m not … I’m not a fool, nor am I a Political appointee. I am not linked nor indebted nor reporting to the PM.
“MI5 is outside of his direct control and will remain outside of his direct control, command, or any other way you want to think of the Prime Minister. You are trying to act as the Director-General of MI5 under the direct instructions of the Cabinet Office and that has no legal basis or mandate in this country. We work, and you still haven’t realised, under a Mandate decided upon by Parliament. We are supervised by Parliament, and the Prime Minister is one person in Parliament. He has no direct control over the Security Services.”
“But you, Arthus, do not follow the mandates, and that worries the Prime Minister.”
“The Prime Minister has disposed of the head of MI6 … let him dispose of me, if he can, because if you don’t stop giving me instructions and refusing to obey my instructions, I will dispose of you, and I am allowed to do exactly that.”
“The Prime Minister will hear of this, Arthus.”
“Julia. You run to the Prime Minister so much, I am worried about your health when you trip over; now stop countermanding my instructions; stop trying to destroy my organisation, and stop believing I am fool … I am not, my dear Julia, but I think you are!”
A few minutes after her storming out, the gold phone rang. Yes – the PM was a Bond fan and insisted his direct phone to MI5 must be golden – the PM probably felt it was the same colour as his backside was.
“Yes, Prime Minister?”
“Your organisation is a mess, Arthus.”
“Then sack me, Prime Minister.”
“Why won’t you take advice and then I won’t need to sack you.”
“Why won’t you take my advice, Prime Minister. This is not part of your Cabinet Office or a place for your Political Appointees.”
“Julia Perkins is one of the most efficient people I know, Arthus. You are just a deadweight as I hear it.”
“I am sure everyone, is a deadweight compared to you, Prime Minister, but assistants carrying tales does seem a waste of your immense talents.”
“Let her have her way, Arthus.”
“Under instructions from yourself via the Cabinet Secretary – No! Sack me or back me but you don’t hamstring me … this … this isn’t MI6!”
“Don’t cross me, Arthus.”
“Control the country, Prime Minister – not every person and I don’t cross you as you haven’t the authority to run the Security Services – Parliament does that.”
“I run Parliament, Arthus.”
“Do you, Prime Minister? I thought the Queen did that. I don’t think you need to tell me anything, Prime Minister, and please leave my assistant alone!”
Another hung-up phone to join the rest – it seemed they never stopped, no matter how nice he was.
Darius had to a degree been keeping Arthus informed but now the CIA were back in Coombe Lane, Jodi was keeping him informed in bed, but now he had a call he didn’t expect. It seemed that those who did and didn’t know him at all, seemed to be checking in, “Sir Arthus, my name is Dita Valmira. I interviewed you about the operation in France that the Government blocked. I need to talk to someone and I have been warned that four of the people present at a meeting I attended were probably police officers and they are now threatening that unless I agree to some sordid initiation, I will see their God sooner than I expect to.”
“I remember you, Dita. A good interview squashed by Politics.”
“It wasn’t me, Arthus. I had a good interview and then it was ‛canned’ under orders.”
“I remember, Dita. It was covering something that needed to be ‛said’ but was stopped by the Cabinet Office to protect the Prime Minister who was claiming he didn’t know about it but also then claiming he tried to stop something he didn’t know about. An interesting concept?”
“Yes, I know, Sir Arthus … we are still trying to find a country that will let it run but the UK is threatening to pull funding from any country that lets you speak honestly.”
“Gutter Politics, Dita. Let’s get back to the reason for your phone call. What organisation?”
“I was told by someone there is a group in high positions who dabble in Black Magic. I wanted to infiltrate the group and get a story. I spoke to someone in Government I’d interviewed previously and raised the issue. I told him some cock and bull story about my mother being a witch. Someone contacted me and I started attending meetings. They initially left me alone because of my reputation, I think …? After four meetings they started telling me I should go through an initiation, which to my mind was dirty old men raping me. A couple of days ago they made me meet up in Bristol with an MI6 guy, and some PR guy for a beef importer – it was a joke. Then at this later meeting I ripped off the robe and hood, and threw it into the corner after they demanded I undergo the initiation.
“Today, one of the guys I met in Bristol contacted me and we met. He passed on the threats that if I don’t go through the initiation they would kill me.”
“In that case, Dita I would be very careful. Was there a woman at this meeting?”
“There were three but only one was identified and she was called Emily.”
“Emily was found on a piece of waste ground, today … be … be very careful… no, Dita, on third thoughts, get yourself to safety., Don’t tell anyone where you are going. I can’t prove anything but I vaguely know something about this Group. They are very dangerous. They are well protected by Government, Security and the Police Force. Be very careful.”
“Can you help me?”
“It is a police matter. The PM is looking for any reason to sack me. If I help you and break my mandate he will have me out in a second, and too many other people are relying on me.
“There is a place although they may not take you in. It is in Coombe Lane in Kingston. Go there now and ask for Darius. Tell him I sent you and now I need to make a phone call to bring some people together. Go there now, Dita – don’t hang around – go there now.”
Arthus put the phone down for a moment. It was probably too late for Dita but she might make it if her threatener hadn’t taken too long to find her but he resigned himself to another body found, and picked up the phone to ring Rufus – an old friend who had never told him that his brother was a senior police officer called Jonathan Owl.
“Arthus here, Rufus. Time to let the ‛Wild Bunch’ loose. Neville can drive Boy down to the hotel in Chelmsford. Things seem to be moving. A political journalist for a TV show has got herself into the Black Majic circle of Jonathan’s but turned her pretty nose up at the gory initiation rites. They are now hunting her as she has attended four meetings, and now doubt secretly filmed them. I warned to go to Coombe Lodge immediately but whether she makes it or not, is a very long shot. I might have to pull someone else in to keep her alive. Get the guys down to Chelmsford and thanks for putting them up.”
“Will do, Arthus. If you need any more help, let me know.”
“Do you have any people in London, Rufus?”
“Not that I control, Arthus. It would take too long to get someone there with the non-existent chain of command in Security. Do you know anyone in Naval Intelligence?”
“Not unofficially, Rufus. They would report back and the fat would really be in the fire. Let me think about it.”
Sir Arthus put the phone down and rang Dita. It rang – still ringing a minute later.
He looked at his list of other numbers and rang Coombe Lane. He heard the phone ring and Darius picked the phone up.
“Sir Arthus here, Darius. A TV lady is in the same kind of danger that Sylvia was in. I’ve run out of options – told her to run to Coombe Lane … I doubt she’ll make it. I think she rang me too late. Can you give Jerome and his bunch this address and see if anyone can reach her tonight. I’ve done all I can and I probably won’t have a job tomorrow, so pass that on to Jerome as well.”
“Will do, Sir Arthus – there was hesitation, and Sir Arthus waited while Darius thought for a moment – Sir Arthus?”
“Yes, Darius.”
“The CIA burnt down all the cameras I put up.”
“The money is on its way, Darius. I’ll do it now.”
Sir Arthus turned to his machine and brought up the bank screen … thought for a minute … took his card case out and tried to understand his coding of the password. Waited until it finally brought up a screen: keyed his password; the name of his first teacher; the name of his first school; the name of his first pet; the name of his first mistress, and finally reached the message, ‛we are unable to proceed with your request’, plus a hexadecimal sequence of numbers with no logic or intelligence.
Well, it looked like the PM had finally decided to sack him with Julia striking back in revenge and closing off his MI5 access.
He logged onto his own account and made the transfers. He’d promised the money would be in their accounts and it would get paid despite Julia.
He brought up his email account – good – it was still working!
He sat there looking at it for five minutes and then emailed support, ‛I’m having trouble getting into the company bank account’. I’ve had to use my own money to meet a commitment. Please sort it out and now!’
That should provoke some reaction – if he hadn’t been sacked – fat chance of that, but there was nothing on his mobile or email to say anything, so it could be a technical problem.
They tended to do the maintenance in the evenings and he was supposed to have gone home. Anyway, it was time he left – he was getting far too old for this crap. He finally packed up, switched the lights off like a good Civil Servant and headed downstairs.
His car was in the basement – it seemed logical to join it and probably the Prime Minister’s wish.
At a speed of knots, he soon crossed Albert Bridge – heading through the back streets on the South side of the river, which always seem to sing to him of where he felt at home – no idea why; it just seemed to have character and he liked that.
It was always easier to use this route then cross the Wandsworth roundabout, turning right, cutting through Wandsworth and the backstreets again, and so to Putney and Putney Bridge.
Three quarters of an hour later, dodgy the police cameras he knew about, he was turning off the riverside road and into his garage. The door rose obediently as he approached – unlike everyone and everything else, he paid for, still at least it allowed him in before it closed after him.
Darius put down the phone and eventually found Jerome, where he garbled until Jerome lifted him by his vest and said, “your mouth not your brain”.
“Sir Arthus rang. Someone called Dita is being hunted the same as Sylvia. Sir Arthus has told her to come here but doesn’t think she’ll make it. He’s worried”
“Any details besides the obvious, Darius?”
“Phone number but that is it, Jerome.”
“Let me try it.”
Dita finally came out of the shower and checked her mobile, saw the call – everybody tried to ring her these days.
She saw the incoming call – a number she didn’t know – sod that – she had enough of people ringing her..
Finally, as she sat there drying off, she got bored.
Curious, she checked the number – Kingston wasn’t a place for dodgy calls – London was.
She fingered the number in and saw the phone look it up. Ringing the number, this time a woman’s voice answered it, “Gris speaking. Who is this?”
“My name is Dita. Sir Arthus told me to come there and ask for Darius.”
“Why?”
“Who are you? I’m told my life is in danger and to ring some number and go immediately there … it … it’s like … it’s a bloody joke. I’m a TV Political Reporter – I get warnings every day – I had a warning today threatening my life by some Black Majic fanatical circle. I think they’ve already tried to kill a woman and Sir Arthus told me to leave immediately and go to Coombe Lodge.”
“I’m Gris – this is Coombe Lane not Coombe Lodge. Sir Arthus doesn’t mess about – he just screws people up. When did he tell you to come here?”
“Two hours ago.”
“And you waited?”
“This is London. People don’t get killed like that.”
“These people have already tried to kill someone and we’ve had over five people die, plus a close friend of Ralf.
“You’ve waited two hours. Give me your address and stay there. I need to talk to someone, here – don’t bloody move.”
Gris wrote the address down, handing Thaniel to Valene – leaving her with two children fighting for one source of nourishment.
“It looks like I can’t shake this life off, Valene, even when I try. I’m going down to find Jerome.”
Gris headed down to the new Surveillance Room and saw Darius and Jerome looking at each other.
“Jerome that stupid woman rung back. She was told two hours ago by Arthus to come here and didn’t believe they would come for her.”
Jerome looked around the room and saw Sheldon, “Are you packed,” was his immediate question.
“No. It’s in the safe, Jerome.”
“Get that and a Stun, Sheldon. Take a spare helmet with you and as sick bags as you can managed. With the way you drive, try and get your bike to this address. Be prepared for an unbelieving woman – Cowboys is the password and suits the second – someone ring her and tell her.”
“On my way, Jerome. The world is my oyster.”
“I hope the world is ready for your fish, Sheldon, I’m not – Sheldon?”
“Yes, Boss.’”
“We’d like her back in one piece – bring her back in one piece, Sheldon – Lionel is still bringing up everything he’s eaten in the last month and some things he doesn’t remember eating after being on the back of your scrambling bike.”
“Is she on the phone, Gris,” asked Sheldon as Gris was still holding the phone.
“Can you pass it over?”
“Gris handed the phone to Sheldon, with Jerome grabbing it, as it passed.”
“Thanks, Jerome.”
“Sheldon, this is England … not the ‛deep south’ and I need her on the line.”
“Still a racialist, Jerome.”
“And brought up in New York gangs, Sheldon. I know what I am doing.”
“Where do you think I was brought up, Jerome. On some expensive beach?”
“Yes, Sheldon – it accounts for the tan. You were brought up on some expensive beach. How else would you treat a $5000 bike as you do. Trained hard on the sand dunes, didn’t you?”
“Talk to her, Jerome and leave you ego on the floor, where it belongs. I am just a ‛Black Nigger’ who broke out of the ‛cotton fields’, now stop bullshitting and talk the call!”
Jerome picked up the phone, “Jerome here, Dita. Sheldon will be over on a bike to pick you up. Cowboys is the password he will use when he gets there – suits the second if you aren’t sure.”
“I’m not going on the back of a bike, Jerome. I’ve just done my hair.”
“Would you prefer to do your hair in the back of a hearse, Dita?”
“Alright. Just this once, Jerome, but if this is being saved, bring on the rapists.”
“They’ve already half killed someone, Dita; we are trying to help you.”
“Well once is enough, Jerome.”
“Dita, stay cool. When Sheldon drives a bike, even the Police move aside. Stay cool … stay cool and wait. These people are serious and have already tried to kill – wait for Sheldon and you can’t miss him, he is jet black.”
Jerome put the phone down as he heard the roar of Sheldon scrambling off.
No.1 put down the phone. He’d had his suspicions Vilson wouldn’t be any use. The lesson to Sylvia would be remembered.
Why she thought she could infiltrate his group was beyond anyone’s comprehension. Of course he knew who she was – Dirstly put her up to it. He’d found it difficult not to laugh – it made raping her even more pleasurable.
Dita’s initiation wouldn’t happen now but it would be a lesson to her as well the others, to obey his commands.
11 initiates was not a good number but 12 was historic in Majic for being good. He rang John, “No.1 here, John.”
John was a good recruit for the Circle. He wasn’t part of it and would never be but extremely useful.
Another ex-con like Nat except John had got away with Murder. A perfect prisoner who served four years before quietly released.
John now worked officially with ‛down and outs’ under a Police sponsored scheme. Unofficially for the Black Magic Circle.
“Yes, No.1.”
“Little exercise for you, John. Dita Valmira has again declined our invitation and the warning Vilson gave her. I need her to be as quiet as the grave and I don’t want it on her programme.”
“Right, sir. Where do you want the body placed.”
“Leave it in her flat. Let my bumbling colleagues find it. They won’t do anything … it’s not as if she was English. Obviously a killing from her homeland. How long will it take you to deal with this?”
“About an hour to get there. Someone will let me into the block and then if someone hears me, I just shout Police raid; jemmy the lock if necessary. I have some lock picks but I don’t know what locks she has, so it will be a little alfresco. If they are these five lever jobbers, I’ll have to jemmy the door but the surrounds are always weak on those doors which makes putting good locks on them a joke.”
“Fine. I need this settled with a degree of haste.”
“Understood, sir.”
No.1 put down the phone. John was a good man but he needed backup on this job, even if he didn’t know it and No.1 needed this job done.
Dita was a ‛airhead’ who wouldn’t ever turn her mobile off – he kept laughing – a complete ‛airhead’. She would leave the location switched on and should be identifiable within feet.
“John put down the phone and headed out to his bicycle. John Godfrey to give him his full name was a fitness fanatic who cycled whenever he could and used the best bike he could afford.
He was quite powerful for his build – more sinewy than bulk and for 5 foot 8 inches he was powerful. Hazel eyes and black hair didn’t really identify him but he often stuck a beard on and wore glasses when on a job. The only problem, it seemed to attract more attention than it deflected. With a cycling helmet on, he looked like someone who had eaten half a hedgehog.
Cars and motorbikes were always noticed but no-one noticed a bicycle, and with a face mask and helmet on, no-one would know him from Adam. Providing Adam had a long beard, glasses and drove an expensive bike around Eden.
One of John’s favourite tracks was ‛Bicycle Race’ by Queen.
He’d served his country and killed for it then this Government felt he was killing too much and pensioned him off – what did they think he was – a Boy Scout?
Pushed out – just another Government cut – then No.1 found him. Pulled him off the street and the alleys he shared. Used some Police Scheme to launch him on a new career.
He’d tried to bring other ex-serviceman from the streets with him but his mate said, ‛the Major bounces back’, and I need to be there for him – the Major will find a way back.
Gris heard the phone ring and picked it up, expecting some crisis call from Sheldon.
“This is Antona, Gris.”
“What’s up now, Antona!”
“Hazil, Helen and Joana haven’t come back. They went out this morning and no-one’s heard anything since.”
“Obviously enjoying themselves but you don’t want anyone to have anything to do with you. Why ring me?”
“This stuff is starting again. I am stuck here against the world, and your bunch caused it.”
“I don’t have a bunch, Antona. What are you gabbling about?”
“There is no-one in my house, apart from Cookie and Arthur. No-one at all.”
“So they went out, Antona. What … and I mean what … is the bloody problem. Do they need passes to leave your house. They are people. Maybe they just want a night out?”
“You have these CIA people. Can they go and find them?”
“One moment, Antona. These guys have only just arrived and I’ve only just agreed to them staying here – how do you bloody know?”
“Sheldon was here.”
“He was picking up Sylvia. He didn’t know, so how do you know, Antona? Has someone contacted you?”
“A voice I recognised, just called me … it was bad … telling me I was the next target, and everyone connected to me, including the CIA at your house.”
“As Jerome would say that’s, ‛all bull and no cow’. Whose voice was it?”
“Just one I recognise, Gris.”
“A voice you recognise but can’t identify – give me a break, Antona.”
“Does it matter who is was?”
“Yes it does, Antona, but what matters more is you lying. Yes, the guys are here, Antona and you already know that, or you wouldn’t be ringing me with this claptrap. They’ve already saved one girl. Prilloch is back and prowling. Arthus is probably out of a job by now.”
“Damn it – we need him.”
“You don’t need anyone, Antona, and I don’t know what game you are playing. Arthus looks after himself so I wouldn’t lose sleep on him.”
“He gets things done, Gris. He’s weird but he get things done.”
“All he’s done, is to make himself weirder than Neville or Parky.”
“Talking of Parky, they are not in the US, Gris.”
“How do you know, and where could they go?”
“I don’t know, Gris but we are back in this mess again; the troops pouring in and that’s usually Parky. I’d rather pour them onto a hot cooker.”
“Antona, I don’t know what’s happened to Hazil and her brood. It’s been bad enough with a half dead body turning up at my house!”
“Half my place is on fire and everyone has disappeared. You think you’ve got problems at Coombe Lane? They’ve burnt half the trees.”
“Three trees are not half your trees, Antona. You have a lot more?”
“Where have they gone, Gris?”
“Somewhere in Kingston, Antona, but I wouldn’t tell you if I knew. Ask the Police or Neville, or ask Val.”
“Val isn’t here. She went out this morning as well. She hasn’t come back. Couldn’t Jerome and his crew check?”
“The bunch that half-killed Sylvia are trying to kill another woman. Sheldon is on his way to pick her up – hopefully before someone else does. Jerome sent half his crew in a van as backup. I’ll ask him to help but that would just leave us with Prilloch as protection. The gun licenses for Darius and Jeffry have been revoked as well.”
“You’ve still got Prilloch – he’s a killer.”
“Prilloch just uses knives and ‛whatever’ he finds. The people who’ve attacked us used grenade launchers and automatic weapons. All we have now are those multiple Tasers and illegal stuff we bought through the Net.”
“The people here were sacked by Julia Perkins. All their permissions were revoked. Val only arrived last night and she’s disappeared already. God knows what she can do?”
“No idea, Antona, and I’m an atheist.”
“I’ll ring you back, Gris, if I hear anything more.”
“Okay, Antona.”
Rufus Owl finally made his way to Block C. A long day but Sergeants Ronald Jacobs and Harold Spice had escorted Ralf Johnstone and Neville Jones out of Block C for a meal.
To his mind they had, unfortunately, brought them back again.
Now the Block was woken up as the gates crashed behind them and these were guys who would go back into service with some exceptions.
He slowly walked towards the two cells holding them and gestured to the guards to open the now closed cell doors.
“You need to get dressed,” he said, “transport is waiting and you are out of my custody.”
He waited while Boy and Neville got dressed and after 20 minutes they finally met him on the metal surrounds outside the cells.
“Sir Arthus wants you in a hotel in Chelmsford. PM has finally decided to sack Sir Arthus. He wants you freed before that. Pick up anything you have and follow me.”
They were making their way down to Neville’s car, within minutes.
Rufus escorted them and the car to the main gate and smiled as they left. Then he walked to another cell where someone with the face of Jonathan Owl was handcuffed to the end of a double bunk.
There was still a shock in store for them. They still hadn’t faced everything that was going to hit them.
Maybe in the morning.
Sir Arthus had booked the hotel but with Sir Arthus gone, they would be paying for it in more ways than one.
They probably were already, knowing Arthus, but the face of Rufus Owl smiled and he thought of some tricks up his sleeve – like the Black Magician and the ex-Majician he was.
Val watched the hotel using her old surveillance techniques. Usually more cups of tea than her knickers could hold. She waited for Cliff, Malik, Elisha, Michal, Joselyn and Sherrell – the remains of her Surveillance Team – now sacked by Julia Philips.
She’d watched Hazil, Helen and Joana go into the hotel and then Hazil, Helen and someone who looked very well-to-do, come out, but no Joana.
Cliff and Elisha, Michal and Joselyn started following Hazil’s group from some distance.
Malik and Sherrell were on bikes ahead of them. Val – now searched for her ‛get into jail’ hotel passes. Finding them she headed into the hotel and hopefully, some inexperienced hotel staff.
The PM put the phone down. It was bad enough one of his appointees telling him to keep out of Security but to have a second appointee refuse to sanction Dirstly’s sacking was unbelievable – both of them would go as soon as he could arrange it.
He looked again at the email from Julia Perkins – one of his best appointments – he couldn’t think how to phrase his reply and followed his usual policy of passing it to the Cabinet Secretary to sort out.
Julia Perkins looked again at the email she has just received from the Cabinet Secretary objecting to the haste with which she had pre-empted the PM’s decision on disposing of the Head of MI5.
All of her changes would need reversing she was told, but to her chagrin, he again raised her pre-empting the PM’s decision, and taking any action before the PM had finalised his decision.
Julia knew the PM had been emphatic on the phone. Cut off everything you can from Dirstly – I am sacking him in the morning. I need everything cut-off before I sack him.
She had done that – now she was the scapegoat for a differing gutless Prime Minister who had changed his mind and passed it to the Cabinet Secretary to cover, yet again, his golden arse.
John nonchalantly cycled along. He’d get there, and there was that little gap in the evening in Chelsea when everyone was out and still in the bars, restaurants and clubs.
He could get the work done and be on his way back within an hour.
No-one would notice him or pay him any attention.
Sheldon by now had three Police cars having problems following him with his blurred plates and ability to ride through small gaps, often on the pavement, or breaking through traffic lights. This was causing much trouble as they fought to get through the traffic after him.
In the good old Wild West style, two already had gone off the road.
One in the metal rails of a brewery and the other into a spiked rail empty car park.
The one still following was stuck behind a cyclist on Albert Bridge who would not give way.
Sheldon sped up Beatford Street and onto a grass area behind the apartment block whose future sunbathing experiences would be around his skid marks.
He finally made it to the Entrance Doors of the block and pushed the buzzer.
“Hello,” said a voice.
“The cowboys are here, Dita. Come down while I keep my eyes skimmed.”
“I don’t know you, Sheldon.”
“Do you want to know someone else, Dita?”
“How can I trust you, Sheldon?”
“Try being alive, Dita but I know Jerome told you I was black, so use your eyes – is that enough.”
“I’m coming down, Sheldon, and I can’t remember those passwords.”
Sheldon stood just between the inner and outer doors
The glass door finally opened and a woman with a suitcase came out, “Are you … Sheldon?”
“No, I’m a black Santa. Is that a suitcase to carry on my bike?”
“You should have come in a car.”
“You stupid bitch. I’m trying to save your life. You’re trying to save your wardrobe. The lion and the witch in there?”
“I’m not going without my stuff.”
“Then take it to hell because that is where you are going. Someone is going to kill you and you think your wardrobe more valuable?”
Sheldon finally grabbed hold of the case and started pulling in the belief that she would follow her suitcase instead of him.
As he finally managed to get Dita and her suitcase out of the door, a guy locking his bike to the parking meter pole said, “is this Bullifont Mansions?”
“No idea what it’s called,” said Sheldon, “not my type of place, anyway.”
“Enjoy yourself,” said the guy, “they should provide cycle racks in Chelsea. Everyone should cycle, and those police cars are murderous. One of them kept trying to force me out of the way, with its siren wailing.”
Sheldon nodded and carried on pulling the suitcase. He got some kit tucked away to make it easy to carry his medical supplies – it would have to do.
John looked at the door bells to ring – always easier to pick the top bells. They couldn’t be bothered to check and no burglar liked to bother with a top flat anyway, so they were relatively safe – too much effort getting the loot down all those stairs.
Top floors tended to stay in as well. Most old people preferred people to come to them. Young people like ground floor flats for staggering into.
He started to work his way down the bells until he heard a voice.
“free newspapers,” he shouted, “leave them outside your flat. Can you open the door, please,” a click later, he was in and up the stairs.
It took him a while to find the door and it looked like a five bolt lock with hinge bolts but the right hand side was just old rotten wood and his small jemmy was quietly splitting the repainted wood in no time – the hinge bolts were on the other side, anyway.
No-one seemed to be in and he just kept on with his work until the door finally opened.
He put a notice on the door, ‛your flat has been burgled, please ring Constable Pennine at this number’.
That should do it. He went into the flat, sat down and waited for her.
Once they were behind the block and she started the verbals again, Sheldon lost his temper. The her suitcase was smashed open and everything thrown everything into a medical plastic bag.
Using masking tape he strapped it to her shoulders, “you are going to be rescued, even if I have to drug you. This is not a game nor one of your TV crap shows. This is for real. Either get on the bike or go and get killed – I don’t care – okay!”
“There is no need to be like that, I like my clothes.”
“More than you like living, you stupid bitch. About the only thing you have achieved is that no-one, knows where we are, or when. You have hopefully thrown everyone off every scent. Get on the bike and no more crap about the helmet – it either goes on or you go off.”
Five minutes later as Sheldon went ever redder under his black skin, she finally managed to get her hair arranged under the helmet. “The things I do for the CIA,” muttered Sheldon.
“I didn’t know you were the CIA.”
“I didn’t know you were a ‛airhead’. Are you going to get on the bike?”
“I need to find my mobile, Sheldon!”
“I need to find your brain, Dita!”
“Can we go.”
“Your brain let go a long time ago. Anyone trying to kill you is already looking at Death from boredom. Get on the bike, and let’s get out of here.”
Dita finally climbed onto the bike and Sheldon roared away. He headed for his usual route and then realised as he pulled right into the first turning over Albert Bridge that a car had pulled out and was following him.
“Car behind us, he shouted!”
“What?”
“There’s a car following us.”
“How do you know?”
“It pulled out after we passed it. They know who we are.”
“How?”
“I don’t know. They don’t know about the bike so they’d have to have some kind of location tracker but it’s not on me or the bike … oh no”
“What’s up?”
“You’ve damn well got location set on your mobile. They know where you are to within 10 metres – you complete imbecilic cow.”
“I can’t get at my mobile. You wouldn’t let me!”
“And I can’t get at your bloody stupidity. You do things and think no-one knows – then you think you can lie and no-one knows; then we bloody die, and no-one knows. I haven’t got a clear road to get away from them for 5 miles. I’ll just stop. You get off. They can rape and beat you up. I’ll just go on my way.”
“That wasn’t funny.”
“Who said it was a joke?”
“I didn’t say that … please stop attacking me, Sheldon … I’m frightened.”
“You have found some intellectual capacity as last, then!”
“Just get us out of this.”
“Bloody how?”
“One of them is pulling in front of us, Sheldon.”
“Hang on Dita – left we go and down this hill.”
Dita was now hanging on tighter and tighter to the point that Sheldon seemed three foot higher as she squeezed.
Already his seat was wet and the backseat probably wasn’t much better.
They were doing 60 mph downhill coming to a carriageway
Sheldon wondered if he braked would he enjoy emotion again, “hang tighter, Dita, if possible. We’re going down hill to a two carriageway and I need to stop quickly and the support is the only way I can think off.”
Sheldon was testing his scrambling techniques to the full as he swung, switch-backed and headed towards a concrete support to the carriageway bridge.
They would hit the support if he didn’t get it right, or head across the carriageway with two heads rolling.
His thoughts of married life were echoing Dita’s screams, and both seem to soar into the air.
Sheldon was now braking all the time with the back wheel squealing around and Dita gripping him like a horny lover.
He saw Dita’s remaining food pass over his shoulder as they headed for the concrete support, finally stopping the bike with its wheel touching the concrete and his helmet kissing it.
“Now turn that bloody mobile off.”
“I can’t get at it, Sheldon.”
“I bloody can, Dita and everything in between.”
“Alright, Sheldon. It’s off.”
“Let me see.”
“It’s off, look Sheldon.”
“It isn’t off you fool. That turns the screen off. We’re pursued by two cars of killers because you won’t turn the bloody thing off.”
“I need my phone, Sheldon.”
“You need Frankenstein to get you a better brain, Dita. Yours is ‛kaput’. Give me your phone, so I can check you have turned off the location GPS.”
“I’ve turned the phone off, Sheldon!”
“No you didn’t. You’ve turned the screen off you idiot, now turn the location identification off, Dita; before we get the next set of cars!”
“I’m turning it off now, Sheldon. It isn’t easy.”
“Now or you leave it here, Dita.”
“People need to find me, Sheldon. We don’t know they’re bad people?”
“Or that you are a complete cretin. Give the phone here.”
Sheldon ripped the back off, saw it was non-renewable battery and smashed the phone against the bridge, “put it down to life,” said Sheldon, “yours for a start! Let them find you here.”
“You’ve destroyed my phone!”
“When they had finished raping you, they would have destroyed your life. For God’s sake … and my sake … get a bloody brain! Now get on the bike or I leave you here!”
Dita stood and watched as he revved the bike up and pointed it at the carriageway, “all aboard, whose going board,” shouted Sheldon, with a degree of glee.
Dita, taking her time, finally climbed on, “how are people going to contact me, Sheldon?”
“Do you want them to, Dita? All they want is to kill you.”
“Maybe not, Sheldon?”
“Good. Now, maybe both of us will get out of this alive?” and Sheldon kick the bike down the rest of the hill and onto the carriageway with Dita clinging onto him like there was no tomorrow, which was probably true the way things were going!
Val was still watching the hotel. The last thing she wanted was someone turning up while she was there and she made a quick check with the team as to where they were, “their in a restaurant.” said Michal.
“How far away?”
“About a mile, Val.”
“I should be okay, then. Catch up with you later.”
Val walked into the hotel, nodded to the staff as if she knew them and carried on walking.
She tried the passkeys and the first fitted into the lift slot like a glove.
Master pass-cards for hotels were very useful, and not just for the maids. Most maids were from Thailand or the Philippines but usually illegal and they proffered their ‛passkeys’ when asked or they faced a detention centre for non-co-operation.
She came out of the lift … counting room lights was another location pass-time when you needed to find someone and she had watched the lights until the last one finally went off and Hazil and Helen left the hotel with the guy and it told her how many rooms to count.
All the mobile stuff on location was fine but most crooks had learnt to ‛just turn it off’ and did so; a surveillance team looked for the lights as most people now turned off lights only when they left a room. She knew what was likely to be their room.
She stopped for a minute searching through her handbag as she listened at one door. Hearing nothing and with the next room quiet as well and she slipped into the room – calling ‛you asked for fresh towels’ – no reply.
It looked like a man’s room but a perfume she knew as Hazil’s scent was there.
Room looked cleared to a degree but a man and more than one woman had been in here.
A noise from a wardrobe attracted her – wardrobes didn’t usually have human noises unless you believed in fairy stories, and this sounded like a bad tempered fairy from the kicking, still anything for a fairy story, and she opened the door.
Sometime later as she finished untying Joana while she listened, she was ringing Jerome, “I’ve found, Joana, Jerome. Distressed but my team from Antona’s are following Hazil, Helen and what sounds like Thomas Macguire. They’re in a restaurant.”
“Val, I’ve got Sheldon rescuing a damsel in distress; half the team following him; the other half on Antona’s place and just ‛me’, Darius, Jeffry and Prilloch protecting this place.
“Arthus has apparently been sacked; Antona is throwing a hernia and she’s now found there is only her and her staff are at her place. She is throwing a real ‛paddy’. Sheldon is heading back with some stuck-up bitch. Prilloch with his usual good sense is sleeping in his tent and I am hiding in the Surveillance Room.
“Just get her out of there and back here. It’s like World War 15 already with Valene and Gris … we’ll … we’ll try and sort it out, and don’t quote me. Get back and call your people off. We can’t do anything more, anyway.”
“Bringing her back, Jerome. The team can track the rest, but Joana not being here will be a curtain raiser to this bunch, when they come back.”
“Everything else is, so why should this be different – just call them off. We don’t want them knowing we know Thomas is back. This way they might think Joana has got free and run home.”
No.1 sat there after he’d finally put the phone down. John had rung him to say he was still sat in Dita’s flat waiting for her, and he talked about meeting the Black guy with the tallish late 20’s stylish woman outside the door.
No.1 broke his pencil in frustration.
By the time the backup cars reported back, or what was left of them, about a black guy driving a scrambling bike, he knew.
John could sit in the flat all night.
One of the backup cars win in a vacant chain bound parking lot; one in a Brewery iron fence, and the third crushed between two streams of opposing traffic.
The way he felt, he could have broken his entire set of desk toys.
Luckily, there was no connection to him and the cars.
John was a bit trickier, but who would take the word of an ex-con against his.
The problem was there was no Dita, no Emily, and now there were only 10 in the group although 11 had been initiated.
10 might be the perfect number but it lacked the Majic of 12. 10 was a good number, but 11 meant ‛sin’. 11 was not a good number and Emily had caused that, as had Dita. One initiated and alive and the other free of his influence.
There were only 11 initiates. Damn it. Dita would have to be found and initiated or killed but that wouldn’t solve the problem unless they could initiate her.
The Master would be back but No.1 would sort this out, not the Master.
Sheldon and Dita finally made it back to Coombe Lane and Sheldon dragged Dita complete with strapped back bag into the Surveillance Room.
Dita looked at Jerome and immediately started launching into a tirade, “nothing they could have done to me would match what your guy has done?”
“You’re alive, Dita, shut up.”
“You don’t tell me to shut up; whoever you are!”
“Put her in with Prilloch. That should keep her quiet.”
“Who’s Prilloch?”
“A killer who sleeps in a tent in the garden. He keeps quiet so you can shout all you want.”
“I didn’t come here to sleep in a tent.”
“Then shut up, or you will. You’re least alive to talk. I’ve guys who should be in Kingston backing up you two and we’ve had to let Thomas Macguire go – God knows what’ll happen over that; now shut up while I find where they are.”
“You’ve let Macguire go, Jerome. Why?”
“Sheldon. Antona’s screaming blue murder with all the Surveillance Team, Val and Hazil, Helen and Joana gone. I’ve had to put guys in there, after the body wasn’t found and Antona is now claiming it never happened. A bunch is backing you up and our team take priority – we don’t leave people unsupported. I can’t let anyone else go, or we can’t protect here.
“Darius. Can you find where the guys have got to. Probably an Indian Takeaway knowing them, and mines a tandoori chicken.”
Darius finally made contact, “Sheldon has made it back with Dita. Jerome wants to know ‛where are you’?”
“Stuck in traffic. Some idiot car tried to go through a ‛T-junction’ and went into two streams of traffic. Police are still picking up the pieces and we’re stuck in the middle of it.”
“Don’t tell them it was me, Darius. I’ll never hear the last of it.”
“Okay. Jerome says get back when you can.”
Jerome looked at Sheldon, “Sheldon. Take Dita to meet Gris and Valene. They run the house. She’d better meet them, pronto and get checked over.”
“This way, Dita,” said Sheldon, “Come and meet the owner and manager,” and Dita finding a hand under her armpit decided not to push what … what seemed to be her remaining threadbare luck.
They finally made it to the Nursery, although Dita seemed to be fighting all the way and pushing her threadbare luck as much as she could, to find Gris and Valene breast-feeding. Gris looked up at Dita and said, “you’ll have to wait. He’s a greedy buggar – just like his father.”
“I didn’t want to barge in but he dragged me.”
“Really,” said Valene, “Sheldon is the nicest of them all and he saved Val’s life in Russia. Wait ‛till’ you meet the rest of them.”
“What did you do to her, Sheldon?”
“Common-sense was a desperate requirement for her, Valene. I just tried to help assist it.”
“Well it looks like it wasn’t appreciated.”
“Yes, Valene. She preferred to die.”
“Can you two stop talking about me, as if I am not here.”
“Dita. I don’t think you have been anywhere for the last two hours and you are still out to lunch, tea, dinner and supper.”
“I’ve had enough of this, Sheldon.”
“Then go back and die. Ring your flat. See if anyone is there.”
“You smashed my mobile.”
“Lucky I stopped at that.”
“It’s bad enough people using my house as a hotel, never mind a soapbox corner and a telephone box. Put her in Parky’s old room. I need to finish feeding Thaniel,” said Gris, switching Thaniel to her other breast.
“Someone take her to a phone box and let her ring her flat.”
Sheldon walked out of the room and a few seconds later, heard footsteps trying to find him. Eventually he stood there tap dancing outside of Parky’s old room and waited for her to arrive.
“Very funny, Sheldon. Where’s the top hat and cane. I suppose I have to sleep with you to show my thanks.”
“Since you don’t have any thanks, I won’t wait up. I sleep in the van outside by the way; anyway, this bed is yours – enjoy it. It means you are still alive … I should mention – the phones are monitored,” and Sheldon turned on his now light heels and headed downstairs to Jerome.
Jerome looked up as he came in, “Val has Joana with her. It was definitely Thomas Macguire that Hazil and Helen were meeting and they were apparently setting up Joana up for a sacrifice again.
“What a life that girl has had: raped by Jonathan; the shit frightened out of her; She escapes, and Hazil feeds back into three Policemen. Then she feeds her into Thomas.
“I’ve rung Sir Arthus and he is keeping his daughter under lock and keep.
“Looks like the rabbits have broken out of their hatch: Sylvia is hidden; Joana freed; Dita’s hopefully not going to make a bolt for it, and she’ll meet Prilloch if she does. Should be interesting times, my black friend?”
“What about Val’s team, my white friend?”
Jerome always had a problem with honesty but things were already being passed back to Antona. Arthus had on again and plugging his ear, to plug his mouth.
Jerome didn’t how information was flowing out. There was only his team; the ex-security people and Valene and Gris were too busy feeding babies and complaining to be passing information and the whole house was activated again and nothing was getting through. Prilloch was rock solid, so how was information getting out. Gris didn’t have the EU Minister on the end of her phone and then only left Valene, who was safely settled in with Jeffry.
It was finding it a bit like the neighbour you trust, who thinks nothing of taking a drain cover off and pouring his barbecue oil directly into the sewer, and then your wife blames you because the sink is blocked. One of the reasons my wife and I finally parted.
“Jerome, you’re mumbling.”
“Find your neighbour’s wallet under your bed and you’d mumble, Sheldon.”
“He wasn’t black then?”
“No he wasn’t and the colour of skin makes you good for night fighting, so don’t push it.”
“So your neighbour was Government. I’ve worked with them for years. You at least treat me as someone who can do more than pick corn!”
“I thought they got that out of their systems?”
“Black up and find out. Sing a few Minstrel songs. Be the cannon fodder as they send in the Blacks first. Watch copters pick up, and MASH treat, the whites first. Be Black in combat!”
“Calm down, Sheldon. I give you jobs because you succeed, not because you’re Black.”
“You never stop thinking of it, Jerome. You can’t. I’m your Black.”
“Enough, Sheldon. We’ve work to do.”
“What do you want done, Jerome?”
“The Surveillance Team are well known to Hazil and Helen so Val has finally pulled them off. Half the team are stuck in the accident in Wandsworth, courtesy of yourself, and don’t argue – you got her out.
Val made it back to Antona’s Lodge with Joana to find Antona storming out as she parked, “Where is everyone?”
“The guys and girls are in Kingston. Joana is with me. Hazil and Helen are with Thomas Macguire.”
“Thomas Macguire?”
“Yes. Joana was tied up in a hotel cupboard and told she would be a sacrifice – this time for some bunch of fanatics.”
“It’s starting again. The CIA are parked around the back in a van. Half my trees burnt to oblivion; no-one is in the house and Hazil running off again to her father.”
“Hazil has been running off and betraying people from day 1, Antona. She has always followed Thomas’ instructions. Why are you surprised? Joana might do better at Coombe Lane? I think … yea, I think … I’ll take her back once she’s packed her stuff. Pack my stuff up as well. I need to be at Coombe Lodge.”
“What’s wrong with here?”
“I need to be near these guys and you don’t want people on your property. I’ll pick my stuff up and take Joana back to Coombe Lane.”
“How many at Coombe Lane?”
“Gris, Valene and Jeffry. Prilloch doesn’t really count as he sleeps in his tent; Darius and Dita now. There are four other bedrooms and Gris has accepted the influx. You have enough here, anyway, Antona. Better we split people before this bunch does.”
“I still don’t understand why Hazil has gone back to her father?”
“Hazil has gone back because she has conditioned to do what her father tells her; to hate the English; be Irish and she has trained her daughter to do the same. Think about Helen wanting to study Electronics; picking Darius’ brains on everything she could, and then she was trying for the CIA guys. Helen does, what Hazil tells her to do, and Hazil obeys her father … that I think is the story … no matter what else I think, that is the story …?”
“You’ll stay at Coombe Lane, Val?”
“I don’t have a choice, Antona. If I don’t they sack me in seconds, they’ll want me there reporting. One reason I think Arthus relocated Neville is that with Sylvia out of action I’m the next target and my life might be longer if I’m at Coombe Lane. I’ll catch you later.”
Thomas Macguire finished his coffee and brandies. Looking at Hazil, he made a decision which at least would get them off his back, “Go back to Antona. You’ll keep watching them. Joana’s the excuse – wondered off again … will come back with stories she’s been raped by Black Magicians – stress that she loves fantasia to Antona … Antona will believe anything …?
“We have the police in our back-pocket. No-one will take any notice. That gets you back in and you can keep me updated. You head back – all the time spent trying to find Joana – why you’re so late. Perfect story … fits … yea … fits like a glove.”
“Antona wants to get people out of her house. Try to get her family back to what it used to be with Neville as her husband … she’ll settled for the story and no trouble but we’d better move, Dad.”
“I’ll just check Joana. No.1 can pick her up in the morning.”
“Let’s make a move, Dad.”
They walked back. Helen on one arm and Hazil on the other.
Helen looked at Thomas and asked one question she had never understood, “Why do you hate the English so much, Granddad? You worked for them for years.”
“I saw what they did to my homeland. I’d nuke this bloody Island if I could!”
“Keep your voice down, Granddad – people are looking.”
“I hate the bastards, Helen. I’d blow them to smithereens. If there was a plug in this Island that would sink it, I’d pull it, and so would Hazil.”
“Would you, Mum?”
“I’d rather use Dad’s idea of a Nuke, so they died slowly knowing they were dying – some kind of dirty slow bomb.”
“Why did you work for them, Granddad, when you hate them so much.”
“I was keeping my head down and passing information back.”
“Why aren’t you still there, Granddad?”
“That bastard, Bishop found out – the arsehole.”
“What else happened, Granddad … there’s … there’s something else, isn’t there?”
“Parky and Bishop found some friends of mine in the cells in Shepherds Bush – they took out of the cells and hung them from a bridge near Southbank … I know it was those two. They threw others over Hammersmith Bridge into the tidal flow and watched them drowned.
“They killed innocent patriots … they just butchered people. They were killers in the Far East for some guy called the Major – they killed for him. Bishop fell out with them and tried to kill the Major and was betrayed and hung by his feet from a tree to die – some guy called Scooter shot the bindings off and let him drop. They are killers. They work for the US and the UK killing people. I want those bastards dead.”
“Granddad! People are looking. Can you control yourself?”
“Helen shouldn’t have started me off. I want these bastards dead.”
“Enough, Dad. Let’s get back to the hotel. We don’t want any trouble for you or Helen. Let’s get back and sort out Joana. Then we can plan—?”
“No, Hazil. You and Helen go back to Antona. Put yourselves back in Antona’s good books … you are just girls on a ‛day out’ and Joana has taken off again. Back to Antona, pronto.
“I’d better get back to the hotel and make sure those idiots pick up Joana in the morning. The last thing we need is her turning up again like ‛cod liver oil’.”
“Give me a kiss, Dad, and we’ll head back.”
“Let me get you a taxi, Hazil.”
Thomas Macguire saw them into a taxi and off to Antona.
He headed back to the hotel and entering the room he saw that the wardrobe door was open – Joana gone.
He grabbed his phone and rang Hazil, “Hazil, the bitch has escaped. Where could she have gone?”
“I don’t know Dad. We’re just pulling into the drive at Antona’s Lodge. What do we do?”
“Get out of there or you’ll end up dead or prisoners.”
Hazil’s face went white and she turned to the driver, “my father wants us back at the hotel. We’ll pay you’ll double.”
“I can’t turn around like that. Wait,” and the driver swung to the right, reversed back as the front door open with Antona storming out and then headed back up the drive spraying gravel as he went.
Albert followed Antona as she stormed out and she looked at Albert as the car swung away, “Did you see who was in the car?”
“It looked like Hazil Macguire, Mrs Turner but I don’t understand why she turned around?”
“What would we have done if she came back?”
“I don’t know. The police wouldn’t touch her. CIA can’t touch her. We couldn’t touch her. Joana would have had to make a complaint. Val shouldn’t be operating in the UK so Joana’s word again Hazil and Helen.”
“I suppose I should be grateful she turned around. There’s no telling what she might have got up to. Everything is getting blurred, yet again. What the bloody hell is going on.”
“I don’t know, Mrs Turner.”
“Let’s go back in; it’s getting a bit chilly, she wasn’t paying me anyway and I could do with a large brandy.”
“I’ll pour that first, Mrs Turner, then we’d better let someone know?”
“No. I don’t what them doing anything. We never saw who is was, and that is it, Albert – end of bloody story.”
Hazil and Helen finally made it back to Thomas’ hotel room to find him packed, “I can’t take the risk of the CIA turning up. I’ll check out in a moment and see you in the car park. We’ll have to find another hotel. There’s a Hilton in South London; that should do it … let’s get moving and get out of here.”
An hour later, found them in Merton and checking in, “We’ll stay here for a couple of days, Hazil. Let things calm down. See you in the morning.”
Neville and Boy finally checked into the hotel in Chelmsford about the same time as Thomas and brood checked into the Merton Hilton.
Chapter VI – The Lap Dance Of The Gods
It was a fine morning the next day as Sir Arthus sat down Doris – his adopted daughter – at breakfast.
“Can the Prime Minister really sack you like that, Daddy?”
“Technically, he can’t sack me. I don’t report to him.”
“Why don’t you do what he wants?”
“If I thought he knew what he wanted, I might.”
“What happens now, Daddy?”
“I finish my breakfast and go to work, Doris. After that I have no idea, and speaking of that have you had any contact with anyone?”
“No, Daddy. It is very quiet. No-one has contacted me and I need to start thinking about University again. With everything that happened, I dropped my application and need to reapply.”
“A good point, Doris. I’ll probably have to think about my future as well … I’ll see you tonight – be careful.”
“Don’t get too upset, Daddy.”
“I won’t, Doris. You may have a visitor today.”
“Who Daddy?”
“I’ll let him introduce himself – now I must go.”
Neville and Boy headed down for breakfast the next morning and a seat by the window.
Both of them liked a full English breakfast and Boy’s tried to come up as he finished, looked over the room, and was at a table in seconds.
“Where the hell have you come from? Irish said, ‛Benny was in Greece and you two were in the Far East’.”
“Thanks for the nice welcome, Boy. Always good to see old friends.” The oldest man at the table tried to smile at Boy although the gaps in his teeth and the bright yellow lustre rather spoilt in.
“We were dragged back. Arthus said, ‛he’d identify us and where we were if we didn’t come back’. They must have been watching us, all this time. We didn’t have a choice. The CIA doesn’t want us in the US although they took Irish because he was Irish. No-way were they going to allow us in.”
“Irish is dead, guys. Russians made a second attack Coombe Lane and a rocket grenade took him out.”
“He’d have liked it quick, Boy.”
“He didn’t like it, Major. I held him as he died.”
“Mr Hoo went as well. Mind you, he tried to take everyone else with him. You and Huron were well out of it.”
Neville’s face grimaced at what he saw. The Major was his size in height but thin. Grey hair matched grey eyes and even at this time of the morning he smelt of drink or something old. Given that he looked 70 drinking was probably the only thing holding him together.
Scooter looked a bit better but he wasn’t far off the Major’s age. About 5 foot 7 inches he still had twice the bulk of the Major, who resembled a rejected matchstick.
Benny was the only one who looked alive, or likely to stay alive. Good looking with a tan, he looked in his forties with a friendly face although not one you might care to trust. Smartly dressed with colours to set off his brown hair and hazel eyes; he obviously fancied himself as a ladies man, and probably was.
The Major look across at their table, “you’d better finish your breakfast before it congeals. We’ll talk later.”
Neville and Boy headed back to their window seat and their cooling breakfast.
“What do that bunch do, Boy?”
“By trade, the Major organised killers. Parky and Bishop worked for him once. Bishop tried to kill him but who hasn’t Bishop tried to kill.
“Scooter looks after the Major and had done for years. He is a very good sniper.
“Benny’s reputation is for leaving trailers full of expensive goods in lay-bys and forgetting where he has put them. One day the expensive goods were a gangster’s daughter’s marriage gifts. This to the gangster concerned, indicated a little disrespect from Benny but easily rectified when he found Benny – the contract for Benny is still out, and a bonus for finding him.”
Neville seemed appalled. Arthus wasn’t just desperate – he was manic.
“What are they, and what are they doing here? What use are they for a start?”
“Neville, they’ve seen better days,” murmured Boy.
“Better nights were invented so you don’t have to think about them,” retorted Neville, “Even I didn’t look that bad after a night on the tiles.”
“The Major is a cashiered ex-army drunk. Scooter his batman – still hangs around – running his errands. Benny is one of the most incompetent thieving lorry drivers you’d ever find but the ladies love him for some reason and he calms things down. He is a difficult man to dislike.
“The number of times he’d left his pants behind was a well washed record. They’d started buying him luminous pants but that didn’t work either with the speed he moved at. Benny’s someone you can’t trust: a coward; he’ll betray you as look at you – if you take your eye off him for a moment.
“Most were the same; probably still are. The biggest bunch of crooks you’re likely to find, and about as much use as a chocolate kettle.”
“You sound as if you don’t like them?”
“With Mr Hoo on a good day, and Huron before he lost it as well, they could be herded like sheep but any wolves around and you might as well use your old granny.
“It does looks like Arthus can frighten them – mind you – he seems to do that to everyone, once he gets involved. It might keep them on the straight and narrow or make them even more bent, knowing Dirty Dirstly.”
“What use are they, then?”
“That what confuses me, Neville but I imagine they confuse the hell out of everyone else as well – it could be Arthus’ plan – if he ever really has one?”
“I still don’t know what the hell I’m doing here, Boy. The CIA set fire to Antona’s trees and she’s blaming Albert because he didn’t stop them – he wasn’t there when they did it – Michal was. He could have objected but he didn’t. It wasn’t Albert. Sheldon I think, torched them …?
“One minute I think I have made up with her and she is okay; the next she is back on the war-path and slaughtering everyone. Arthus has me by the short and curries; sprinkling chilli on them as he goes, so yes, I can feel sorry for these guys being dragged into Arthus’ antics but it doesn’t mean I trust them.”
“A fair description, Neville. If Arthus ever turned up as the good Christmas fairy he would have the biggest tree I could find, rammed up his backside.”
“What do we do, Boy.”
“Well it looks like Arthus is out of a job. Gris is hell-bent on going through my money but it is a bit of a myth, really.
“She put 60K of her own money into the house. She knows I won’t stop her rifling the bank accounts – it happens and I usually have Government accommodation, anyway.
“Coombe Lane had seven bedrooms – thinking about it – Gris has one, Darius, Jeffry and Valene have two more; Prilloch sleeps in the garden in a tent although he has an inflatable tent these days plus heating. He usually stays there or sleeps in the Surveillance Room in the winter – why we put the heating in. in his tent – not a great one for washing.
“In theory there’s four bedrooms left. Who’s at Antona’s Lodge?”
“Antona, Albert and Cookie, and six of the Surveillance Team paired up so that is five bedrooms, if they’re still there. Hazil had another and Helen and Joana had one, so that left the one I use as a dressing room for the constant fights with Antona.
“The house was modified to have the master bedroom plus another eight, so that takes that up. My place in Putney had one bedroom before Antona changed the builder’s instructions so it is in the kitchen.”
“Might be an idea to head back to Coombe Lane. You can go back to Antona and there are four bedrooms spare at Coombe Lane.”
“I think we’d better talk to these guys and find out what they’ve been told? They’re sat there trying to listen to us anyway.”
“Good point, Neville. They’re old. We should protect their ears.”
Boy and Neville sat down with the Major, Scooter and Benny on chairs quickly provided by staff.
“Do you have any idea what is going on, Boy.” The Major’s expression never changed, or if it did, the complexion never told you it had done anything.
“No, Major. I hoped you did?”
“We were told to get our arses over here or the countries would be told about our history, and some international warrants enforced that have never been cancelled.”
“How are you three off for money?”
“Hotels booked on the Security. We just pay for lunch and dinner.”
“Arthus is tight – about his only quality. He had us two in the Glasshouse at Colchester to save money. Released yesterday. Arthus may have lost his job – by the way?”
“Leaving us in a quandary. If we go and he’s still around, he shafts us? If we stay, and he’s gone – we’re a target?
“All three of us still wanted by someone … all of us, including you were on a kill list. You might be off it – we aren’t.”
“You might as well be in Kingston as here. We’re heading back although that will cause trouble. Several hotels and rents around Kingston – stay in them.”
Val put down the phone. Joana was anxious. Joana you’re safe here. Well as much as anywhere. You’ve obviously hit it off with Darius and Gris likes you, so stop bloody worrying.
“A taxi drove into Antona’s Lodge last night. Turned and drove out ‛like a bat out of hell’. Michal saw it out of the window and thinks Hazil and Helen were in it. Hazil knows you’ve escaped and ran … she doesn’t know I freed you. Probably thinks you escaped and headed back to Antona to wait for them. Thomas, Hazil and Helen will have legged it. They could be anywhere.”
“Why didn’t Antona tell us?”
“Something bothering me as well. Antona isn’t telling anyone, anything, anymore. What is she up–to, now – the cow?”
“Val. The CIA guys are patrolling her property. She hates that. Her cameras are destroyed. The Surveillance Team are living apart from her now. Buying takeaways – she’s stopped supplying food. Only person controlling her seems to be Arthus.”
“I wonder what he is up-to now, Val?”
“I don’t think we’ll ever find out? I don’t think he knows what he is up to.”
“You probably right, Joana? Why don’t you take a look around the house? It’s a nice place but different. You need to familiarise yourself with it and check out the Surveillance Room; introduce yourself to the CIA team and Darius – he’s our electronics specialist.
“Darius is a decent kid although he did fancy Helen. Loves electronics more I think but some of my blokes have been ‛right bananas’, so I should know weird when I see it. Still they all look better at night – certainly not waking up next to them.”
Dita didn’t have a good night and no-one was beside her when she woke up.
Sheldon smashing her mobile stayed as a nightmare as she tried to sleep.
It was like losing a lover and she treasured them less than her mobile.
She’d loved that mobile and felt it was the end of the world without the re-assurance of the world being at her fingertips.
Dita also wondered what she was going to tell her TV Studio.
She went out into the garden to find Gris breast-feeding Thaniel, “I never wanted children, Gris but he’s lovely.”
“Well he certainly has his father’s appetite for my breasts. He can’t get enough of them.”
“Where is his father, Gris?”
“Colchester, the last I heard.”
“What’s he doing there?”
“In a military prison. They moved him from a civilian one to there. As far as I know, he’s still there.”
“Doesn’t it bother you?”
“No. Ralf always does what he is told and keeps ending up in Prison.”
“Why do you stay with him?”
“I don’t. There are times though, when I want to show him Thaniel, and I’m sorry he’s not here, but it passes.”
“Who looks after the garden, Gris?”
“Prilloch normally. Darius does handyman stuff around the house and the electronics but we have a cleaner come in and Jeffry helps out now he isn’t working for Security.”
“Does anyone still work for security?”
“None officially. They all did, even Prilloch. It went wrong after France. Ralf, Bishop and Parky were injured and shipped to the US. Ralf came back to the UK and was imprisoned. Prilloch went to Parky’s old Wimbledon flat – he’s come back – he really loves the garden and I reckon that’s why he came back. The birds, trees and the garden are his love – can’t see him ever fancying anything else.
“The CIA guys are back as well but as least they pay some money, which helps a lot – another reason Julia Philips gave for sacking everyone and demanding the house be sold. God, did I tell her where to get off – another reason for suspending me so they didn’t need to pay me off like the others.
“Val disappears as often as she is here – treats the place like a hotel. Joana was with her mother and sister but staying with us now … this place really is like a bed and breakfast joint.
“Valene is our housekeeper and cook, which is more than I’m prepared to do, but at least people are paying again and that helps. Darius is doing some freelance electronics for some people and charging a pretty penny for the work, although I wouldn’t look too closely as some of the things he is doing, but he is earning and paying in. Still we need the money, and that seems to be all the conversation these days.”
“Someone said that Prilloch is a killer?”
“They’re all killers. Val is more the honey traps, these days, and surveillance for MI6 but I suppose we all need a hobby.”
“She slept with men for MI6?”
“For Queen and Country, Joana. Someone had to do it, she says, but she prefers Surveillance work and she is very good at it. To be honest, I think she is here to keep an eye on the CIA, and report back; but to whom?”
They heard footsteps and Dita came into view complaining as she approached.
“Sheldon smashed my mobile to bits. I feel lost without it.”
“Talk to Val. Half of her Surveillance Team were sacked and left. They all had mobiles so there should be a few knocking about … yes … talk to Val … they might be at Antona’s Lodge … I don’t think she handed them back. Arthus will probably know, anyway.”
Gris, Joana, and Dita were still chatting when Darius turned up.
The only change was Gris burping Thaniel, who had obviously enjoyed his breakfast and was coming up for air …? Thaniel wasn’t the only one apparently as Darius and Joana stood staring at each other.
Both of them seemed to be locked into some kind of fixed position.
Gris commented, “You two seem to be getting on well? Can you still move?”
Darius started to go red, which didn’t really seem that odd for a 22 year old electronics technician – no doubt he would flash green and yellow in a moment.
Darius was moving from thinking women came in kits and needed to be built. It seemed a slow process for him to realise nature was far better at it than he might be.
Joana was a very fit blond, blue eyed 19 year old with a figure that should have impressed on Darius the need to get out in the fresh air a lot more.
To make it worse she was looking at Darius and giggling. By now, Darius could have heated the house and the only thing saving him from more embarrassment was Prilloch approaching Gris and checking if it was okay to mow the lawn but a brown eyed, sandy haired, 5 ft 11 woman was now looking at another 25 year old and she liked men and the auburn hair, blue eyes and certain attributes rendered Prilloch as speechless as Darius.
Gris looked at both Darius, Joana, Prilloch and Dita. The nursery certainly needed enlarging.
It must be something about this place – the rabbits weren’t the only ones going at it twenty to the dozen.
Prilloch, this is Dita and if you can raise your eyes, she needs a mobile.
“She can have mine, Gris.”
“She has her own eyes, Prilloch. A mobile and not yours, given the calls you might be receiving.”
“What have you got on mobiles, Darius?”
“In my lab, sorry, the Surveillance Room. I keep them on charge … just … well if anything happened. Jerome has one and Sheldon has one – I’ve two left.”
“Give one to Dita and one to Joana.”
“I already have one, Gris,” added Joana, looking at Darius with a smile.
“I’m sure you do, Joana,” said Gris, with a grimace. I want your old phone cleared by Darius and you get a new one. After what’s happened to you, I don’t want Thomas knowing exactly where you are. God, I’m sorry I split from Ralf, he was always better at this than me.”
“Why don’t you get back together,” said Val as she headed out, “It was always a mistake.”
“It’s over and done with, Val.”
Gris, changing the subject, went back to the previous conversation.
“Darius, sort out the phones will you?”
Gris saw Dita smiling at Prilloch, “I’m sure, Prilloch will show you around, Dita. Up to you how much he shows you. I’m heading in now.”
“Darius show Joana around. I need to change Thaniel.”
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