Richard Wiseman - To Kill Or Be Killed

“It makes the stomach ache thinking about it.”

“That’s natural. If you don’t get that then you’re not normal. When the moment comes, if it comes, the training kicks in and you just do it.”

“I hope so, but right now I hope I don’t need to use the training.”

Beaumont, who had been listening, said “Oh now you’re less keen to use that weapon!”

“I’m feeling less brie like right now.”

Tony raised a quizzical eyebrow. “A metaphor we were discussing.” Tony nodded and laughed.

“Are you nervous?” Beaumont asked his partner.

“Yes. Chasing assassins is a first for me. Have you been in a helicopter before?”

“Yes. Security and bodyguard work so it’s not the thought of the flight that’s making me nervous.”

“Well I’ve never been in a helicopter before and it is making me nervous along with everything else.”

They all watched the approaching lights and stopped talking as the noise of the machine grew louder.

The Eurocopter EC135 flew in, slowly descended, and when the blades unwound to a clicking stop Beaumont, McKie and the others hunched their way to the open door and climbed in. Seatbelts and headphones on they felt the machine wind itself up and lift into the London sky.

They sat in their pairs. Beaumont was not inclined to look out the window, but McKie couldn’t tear his eyes away from the night lit cityscape below. The yellow and red dots, the lit up roadways, car lights and a million windows, behind which dinners were being eaten, love was being made, hate was being brewed and the infinite combinations of tragedy and comedy were being played out into the blank unwritten pages of so many small personal histories. McKie sat enthralled, lost in speculation, until he registered their descent and the sight of airport lights brought him back to the matter in hand.

They left the helicopter behind, the DIC machine, slick and organised had them there on time and the white Lear jet60 XR was fuelled and waiting with a quickly booked emergency government slot in the air traffic flow out of Stansted. Within minutes the small, but powerful and iconic jet had slammed them back in their seats and was manoeuvring into the skyway traffic system above the UK mainland.

Inverness to London Sleeper Train

9 p.m.

April 17th

Once on the train Spencer had held himself back from going for Mason’s booked sleeper straight away. He went and found Stanton in his sleeper. The two were friendly towards each other, yet, as men in their business were, slightly wary too. Together they had used a spare fake passport of Spencer’s and altered it using their combined skills and the resources that each carried. These items included a small roll of plastic laminate, an adjustable circular date stamp, razor blade and miniature stamp style three word printer and ink pad. Within ten minutes, working in silence, Spencer had ID good enough to fool a carriage guard in a gloomy rolling corridor.

“Meet me in the restaurant in twenty minutes, my treat.” Spencer nodded.

“I’ll expect a repayment.” Stanton added.

“Of what kind?”

“Information.” Stanton spoke with a hard factual tone in his voice.

“I’ll tell you what I know. Thanks Stanton.”

A short walk along to the next carriage and Spencer identified himself to the guard, said that he had got on the train in the last minute, having been mugged for his luggage and wallet. This also explained the state of his clothes, which pleased Spencer. When asked for the ticket, Spencer explained that the muggers had taken it, but handed over the passport, explaining that he kept it in his pants, giving the guard a good reason not to hold on to it for too long. The guard happily found the sleeper with the Townshend reservation. He let Spencer in. Spencer quickly washed and visibly freshened up went to the restaurant. His booking was overdue, but the guard, fishing for tips had already contacted the restaurant and asked them to be flexible. Stanton, already drinking a mineral water, called him over. Spencer self deprecatingly and profusely thanked the waiter and threading through the tables sat down opposite Stanton. It was nine-forty pm when they ordered food.

Lear Jet over UK Air Space

9 -55 p.m.

April 17th

On the Lear jet the teams had hardly had time to settle, all of them nervous, fidgety, chatting for distraction, when the pilot called seat belts on for the descent to Liverpool airport. The Jet bumped down and being a government flight and internal the two DIC roving teams for work in Liverpool were quickly on their way to their set destination in the car of the DIC man whose watch included the airport.

Jack and Beaumont stayed on the Lear jet waiting for their plane’s slot in the take off queue. It was close to ten o’clock, one hour to their rendezvous in Perth when the jet once more slammed them into the seats as it took off.

Finally less self conscious with only Beaumont there David called his wife. In spite of being in a plane and travelling fast the satellite phone was clear. It rang for a short while and his wife answered.

“Hello?”

“Hi sweetheart it’s Davy, did I wake you?”

“No I’ve been waiting for your call. Conor was waiting too, but he’s long since asleep.”

David felt the good father’s guilt pang flush through him and all of a sudden the distance from his home and family swamped him with the sense of a world all too big and unknown.

“I’m sorry. It’s been that kind of a day.”

“What’s the room like?”

“Nice enough… but… I’m on a small passenger jet heading for Perth.”

“What?”

“There’s a situation, I can’t tell you about it, but we’re on the way to Perth.”

“Dear god! No wonder you haven’t called.”

“I’ll call you tomorrow. They might need this line to contact us.”

“Okay. Hey if you get the chance drop in on your father, Glasgow’s not that far.”

“Good idea. I love you.”

“I love you too, especially now you’re a member of the jet set.”

“Kiss Conor and pat the bump for me.”

“Okay. I miss you.”

“I miss you too. I’d better go.”

“By love.”

“Goodnight sweetie.”

McKie held the unconnected phone to his face a moment a huge sigh building in his chest.

“Mind if I call my wife.”

“No Beaumont, sorry, that’s the worst I’ve ever felt in my life.”

“So far eh?”

Beaumont dialled his number. David turned away and went to the small toilet. How did a man become so tied to his little tribe? He looked in the mirror, feeling the sting of tears begin their gathering in his eyes; he splashed water on his face and scrunched his face into the soft white towel. What was he doing here? A DIC man was missing presumed dead. One of the men they were hunting had probably killed him. What if he, McKie, were killed? What if his family never saw him again? He gritted his teeth, pushed air out his nose and lowered the towel staring straight into his own eyes in the mirror. No it wasn’t going to happen. He’d make sure. He had a choice here. His father once told him that the coward dies a thousand times, but the brave man only dies once. He nodded to himself, focus, clear your head, forget fear and do the job. You’ll be home.

When he got back to his seat Beaumont was on the phone still except that David could tell it was Fulton on the other end. Beaumont was being briefed. He ended the call with an ‘okay Jack.’

“What’s the plan?”

Beaumont began briefing him on the instructions that Jack had given him.

Mersey Marina