Richard Wiseman - To Kill Or Be Killed

Sternway switched off the small portable television in his office after watching Robinson and turned to the two men in front of him. He leaned elbows on his desk and put his two neatly manicured hands together in what looked like prayer, resting his nose on the steeple of finger tips, his eyes clearly focused on the gap between the two standing men.

“You bloody well chose them and they’re committing mass murder out there. There are dead police, dead civilians and one dead DIC operative, not to mention thefts of cars, money and shoplifting; oh and one dead police dog.”

“We weren’t to know it was going to go this way.” Joe said quietly

“No. They do seem keen. You don’t think we’ve offered too much?” Sternway asked.

“No men like these come at a price and when the first or last man so to speak, if it comes to that, hears the details of the job they’ll expect a lot.”

“I’m going to have a hard time making good this damage if it comes to light.”

“Only DIC could possibly get any evidence and we’ll make sure they don’t.” Joe said firmly.

“Good point. No more talk over phones, in fact no more talk within possible range of any kind of radio mike and have a team sweep my house and our office section for bugs.” Sternway looked at each man in turn. “This had better work. As for that maniac Cobb I’d rather he didn’t make it. His capture or death will at least satisfy DIC and the public. He’s near London, so he may get to the contact point first. Have the contact set him up in a hotel and then when that’s done let the police know where he is. That’s all, you can go.” Sternway turned to the window and his men left the room. The extermination or E order had been given on Cobb

London

Home Office

1 p.m.

April 18th

“Yes Prime Minister. We are making progress. DIC do seem to be a step behind though as far as I can tell. I’ll keep you posted. I’ll prepare to make statement.”

Robinson put the phone down and reached into the inside pocket of his tailored suit. His permanent secretary often joked that Robinson’s tailor charged overtime rates for the making of the suits.

Robinson pulled out the Bic ‘disposable’ cell phone and rang the only number in the memory.

“Hello sir.” Before Robinson could speak the voice said sharply, “No names please.”

“Hello. I’m extremely unhappy at the way things are turning out.”

“I was sure you would be hence the item you are at this moment holding and the current conversation. As far as I’m concerned it’s going well.”

“The publicity is appalling and the… top man has just spoken to me and he’s unhappy.”

“Is he unhappy with you?”

“Not any more I pointed out who he ought to be unhappy with.”

“Good then the purpose is being served.”

“There are a good too many… Bodies…”

“Collateral damage as our friends across the Atlantic have so beautifully named it. In my business that’s usual.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to stop now?”

“Such a waste if we do and ultimately it’ll give more power to those who desire it and an end to such an inconvenience.”

“I’m still unsure.”

“Think of it as you being the manager of the winning team. We are a team aren’t we sir?”

Robinson sighed and thought hard. It was an outcome he’d be pleased about, it was the process that was bothering him.

“Yes.”

“Hang on to the item, but dispose of it if it becomes necessary. Feel free to chat again, though not too frequently.”

“I will.”

The lined went dead.

At his end Sternway looked at the orange Bic disposable cell phone and his mouth twisted in distaste. They all had a lot to gain with this. He felt sure that his plan would work. The old boy ought to have more guts. Sternway suddenly laughed, one of his rare laughs, very rare, but the unintended pun really tickled him.

Back in his office Robinson put the orange coloured Bic cell phone back in his inside pocket. He remembered Cole. He suddenly felt like a rabbit that had fallen into a snake pit.

Motherwell Glasgow

1-30 p.m.

April 18th

Stanton had slept well and felt refreshed. His old friend had the good grace to feed him and let him rest. Stanton took himself to the bathroom and had a cold shower. His friend hearing the shower began cooking bacon, eggs, fried bread, Scottish sausage, black pudding and fried tomatoes.

As he came out the shower Stanton smelt the food and felt good. Clarky was much the same build as him and Stanton dressed in the Khaki camouflage trousers, the thick black leather belt pulled tight, a stretched white T-Shirt over his muscular upper body and that was covered with a chunky beige sweater. He put on thick socks and happy that Clarky had the same size feet laced up the worn brown walking boots. The clothes were comfortable and durable. The boots felt good. He felt like a new man, a better man from yesterday. Clarky called him down to get something to eat.

Glasgow, Motherwell

1-30 p.m.

April 18th

David sat in an armchair leaning back. His father sat opposite holding the Sig 220 rail, turning it over in his hands. They’d sat and had lunch, small talk had passed between them, but the ‘elephant in the room’ had remained un-remarked upon until they had sat down together in the lounge after lunch and David’s father had asked after the weapon he was carrying.

“It’s a neat enough weapon so it is.”

“It did the job.”

“Some job for a history graduate son of mine.”

“Oh come on father…” David sighed.

“I didn’t work those years under fire and in danger to watch you do the same. I had hoped you’d find a nice, clean safe job.” His father said aggrieved.

“Well it looked like it up to a point… But…” David tried to think of something to say, but his father’s sadness took his words away.

“I never told you about the things I saw, but I told your mother, god rest her and she told me she worried every day I was in Ireland. Mary’s pregnant and there’s your son. You can’t put her through that.” His father handed the weapon back and looked him in the eye.

“I know… I know… but I can’t run away…you taught me that you know.” David smiled and his father softened.

“Well I might have been wrong. What have you to do now?”

“I’ve been sent home and I’m to get counselling.”

“Good. Firstly you don’t play the hero. You let someone else chase these men. Second you take the counselling. We got none of that and I can tell you I still see things that’d turn any man’s stomach.” His father said rising from his chair.

David rose from his seat. His father had moved after his mother had died; too many memories in the old house his father had said. Around him though were pictures, familiar items, pictures of their family life such as it had been. David’s gaze was caught and trapped by the image of himself, at his own son Conor’s age, on his father’s shoulders, a photo taken by his mother, in woods in Devon.

“David. Don’t get yourself killed.”

For the first time in his life David saw tears in his father’s eyes. “I can’t stand to lose anyone else, not after your mother and where would Mary and the children go?” His father’s voice was cracking slightly.

David closed on his father and for the first time since he was a child the big man embraced him in a tight strong hug. They stood for a moment and broke away from each other his father patting his back.

“Now look what you’ve brought me to, blubbing like a woman, away with you.”