Richard Wiseman - To Kill Or Be Killed

9 – 45 p.m.

April 17th

A detective inspector from Liverpool police greeted Jaz and Tony. They showed him their diplomatic passes. The marina was lit up starkly by temporary lights and the generator feeding them was making a steady hum, creating a busy feeling at the scene.

On the jetty two bodies were laid out, lying on the cloths they’d been wrapped in. The detective led Jaz and Tony to the bodies. Face up the watch man could not be recognised, the bullet having exited by his nose taking a lot of flesh and bone with it. A gaping, red raw, butcher’s block nightmare greeted Jaz, who on seeing the ripped and jagged remains turned away, held her fist to her mouth and bit on her knuckles, sensations of nausea and shock flooding her body with adrenalin.

Tony had more experience. He took the photograph of Wally out. Taller than the watch man, Wally’s fatal bullet had exited his forehead, leaving his features in tact and enabling Tony to match the picture. Tony stared at the still white face, dead fish eyes dripping with Mersey water. Shot in the back of the head. Unarmed and shot in the back of the head. An unarmed family man shot in the back of the head. Tony’s face hardened and he tore his eyes away from Wally’s corpse.

“That your man?” The detective asked.

“Yes.”

“Can I ask what he was doing here?”

“He was here to check on recent boat arrivals. Seems he found the one we were looking for.”

“Was he armed?”

“We don’t know, but we don’t think so. He wasn’t the kind to go anywhere armed and we think he missed our warning.”

“The man he was looking for who is he?”

Tony pulled out a picture and some brief typed details.

“Doesn’t look like the usual terrorist.”

“He’s not a terrorist. He’s worse than that.” The detective went to hand it back. “No you can keep that.” Tony said.

“We’ll put out an alert. The owner of the marina says that the watch man’s blue Peugeot 107 is missing. We’ll chase it up.”

“So will we, thank you.” Tony turned to Jaz who was looking out over the Mersey “You okay now Jaz?”

Jaz quietly nodded.

“Was it Wally Tyson?”

“The one without a face, we’re assuming is the marina watch man. He was only twenty-one. The man with a face is Wally. Call Shadz and Terry, they’ll have got to Wally’s house by now. They’re waiting outside.” Jaz nodded and took out her phone. Tony took out his and called Fulton.

People in the watching room with Jack as he took Tony’s call confirming Wally’s death could have sworn he had tears in his eyes, some even heard a quiet sniff.

Jack gathered his choking voice, but Tony heard the strain when Jack’s voice came through.

“It’s half ten. Go over and see Wally’s wife with the others, sort out his loft equipment and look after her. David and Beaumont will have landed in a minute or two. I’ll call them and warn them. If they can get Spencer alive we can find out what they’re up to and who’s responsible.” Jack closed the phone and looked around the room full of people, computers and screens.

“Jack I’ve been looking at the routes David and Beaumont projected and…”

“Not now Amber. I’m going to get a drink.” He put a hand on the shoulder of the girl speaking. “I’m sorry. I’ll be back in ten minutes. I just need a drink.”

Jack headed for his office; he held back the moisture building in his eyes until safely in the lift he let it go and thought of Wally Tyson, a man he had known many years, a good friend, a man without whose help Jack would not have lived longer than nineteen eighty seven. When Magda saw his face, she moved towards him, but he waved her away. Shutting his office door and going to the cupboard he drew out a bottle of whisky and two glasses; he poured two measures, one in each glass.

Inverness to London Sleeper Train

10 – 30 p.m.

April 17th

Spencer had eaten hungrily. Scottish salmon, new potatoes and green beans went down well and quickly. Like Stanton he drank mineral water. Wiping his face he decided to answer the question Stanton had asked just as the food arrived and Stanton, seeing his hunger, had decided to let him eat first.

“I was MI6. I worked for dirty tricks, which isn’t an official title, just an accurate description. The thing is there’s this branch of the civil service that practically no-one knows about. They’re called the Department for Internal Concerns or DIC for short. They aren’t military. In fact they aren’t beholden to anyone but the British tax payers, who have no idea that they exist. The thing is that they’re armed and have the right to kill, under certain circumstances, to which end they have diplomatic immunity in the UK.” Stanton’s face was intense with listening and Spencer continued. “They have people in every town and city in the UK. These people monitor all digital and analogue traffic, they have the equipment to do it too, and they have access to CCTV. This is fed into a centre, somewhere in London, but no-one knows where the centre is.”

“How have they kept so secret?”

“Well for one they don’t advertise their presence in any way whatsoever and two though MI6 know they exist, they don’t know who the members of this huge network are so it’s hard to prove they exist. If you suggested there was such a network people would laugh. Big brother scares and all that. Top civil servants, the old ones are aware as is the queen. They’re funded from MOD money. They have spies literally everywhere. They watch everything and everyone.”

“Can they watch any CCTV?”

“Seemingly so, hence our drop off in Scotland.”

“So we could have been spotted already?”

“Yes, but odds are we haven’t or the police would have arrested us. Anyway our arrival point was too remote, which I think was the idea.”

“Right, who do you think is behind this hit?”

“I don’t know, but you must have sussed that it’s either military or government, the sub tells you that.” Spencer suspected his old boss Sternway, but didn’t say.

Stanton nodded and said “We’ll find out when we are told who the mark is. It’s got to be big for a million.”

“Listen thanks for the help and the meal. I appreciate it.”

“That’s alright. I’ve learnt something.” He got out his card. “Is yours not working?”

“No it’s bloody annoying.”

“I’m sure.”

“We’ll split up when we get to London, but if we get to the rendezvous point together or close we could collaborate, two heads and all that.”

Stanton was cautious “I’ll think about it. We might make a good team. I’ll see if we get to the rendezvous together.”

Stanton watched Spencer head for his sleeper. He stared at the door a long time and then mind made up to get off at Perth he went to his sleeper and began packing. If Spencer was telling the truth about these DIC they were probably already compromised. In his sleeper he ditched the passports and all the paraphernalia of an assassin, keeping his weapon, ammunition and a small plastic box with a hypodermic syringe and a variety of drug ampoules though. He picked an ID from the pack which had a change of face and look and with his complete change of face paraphernalia from his rucksack he went to the toilet and locked himself in. It was ten fifty p.m.

Perth

10 – 55 p.m.

April 17th

Informed by the pilot that the Lear jet needed eight hundred and seventy-five metres to land and the runway was closer to eight sixty the two men held their straps tighter as the plane screamed in and juddered to a halt. Being a small airport the steps went down and grabbing their bags the two man DIC roving team ran towards a waiting police car.