Richard Wiseman - To Kill Or Be Killed

Cobb, pint in hand, turned to face the room. Brook looked him directly in the eyes. He knew Cobb. He’d been surprised at how good the sketch in the papers had been. He nodded, putting a knowing look in his eyes. Cobb made his way over.

“I’m supposed to meet an employer here today.”

“That’d be me. You’re Cobb right?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Brook, you’ve been busy.”

“Am I first here?”

“Yes. You still want the job?”

“Yes, but I need to get out of sight.”

“I’ll arrange it. I get you to a hotel tonight and drop the details of the job in tomorrow.”

“Good.”

“My car’s around the corner. Let’s go.”

“You lead.” Cobb relieved nearly lost his edge of survival.

Brook rose and they got to the door. Cobb put his hand into the shoulder bag, gripped his pistol and pushed the bag against the Brook’s back.

“It’s for sure that after it’s passed through the bag it’ll have enough energy to rip a path into you and lodge itself somewhere nasty and as this is a Russian made PSS no-one is going to hear a thing when if I pull the trigger. Walk steadily and don’t move too far ahead of me.”

“Okay Cobb. Take it easy. I’m to take you to Claridge’s Hotel set you up in a good suite, order food and get you ready for the job.”

“What is the job?”

“I don’t know. I’m just a link in the chain.”

They got to a plush and polished black Honda Accord S type saloon. The contact blipped it and unlocked the doors. Cobb looked around and let the contact get in the driver’s side. He put the black bag on the back seat and got in after it. The contact looked at his face in the mirror.

“Okay no tricks. The round doesn’t have to pass through the bag now, know what I mean?” Cobb said quietly.

“Sure enough. Look Cobb just relax a little. Even if you don’t trust me I’m all you’ve got. Without us and the job you’ll have a hell of a time getting out of the country or going home for that matter.”

Cobb lowered the PSS pistol’s barrel which had been pointing at the back of the Brook’s seat. He didn’t put it away.

The black Honda Accord purred quietly way from the bright blue fronted pub and headed into central London.

Baker Street Area of London

3 p.m.

April 18th

The phone rang waking Mason from a deep and comfortable sleep. He reached out lifted the receiver and acknowledged the call. A shower, change and coffee saw him ready for an outing into London. He’d removed the self manufactured false facial hair and looking at himself in the mirror he decided to get his head shaved to the length of the shortest hairs and he decided to dye it back to his natural black. He knew he’d have to buy clothes and decided on Oxford Street. There was the matter of cash and whilst bathing he’d run through the hotels he’d seen. Mentally picturing each one led to his choice of the Sherlock Holmes Hotel on Baker Street. A visit to the laundry room in this hotel would yield enough kitchen uniform to access the hotel at the back.

He left the Bickenhall Hotel room around three thirty. He decided to go unarmed. He locked the pistol in the small room safe using a self made combination and hoped for the best.

It was all too easy to get the laundry room and staff access areas. Most people hesitated, were nervous or held back in out of bounds areas, but having the confidence to just walk through the doors marked staff only and do so with an affected air of rectitude was one of the skills that delineated the successful in the killing trade. The trick was to look like you belonged there.

There was no lock on the staff door around the corner from reception and he pushed it open and made his way down a narrow stair case to a basement area. There was a decent though not large sized open area in front of him, a small lift to his left and storage rooms behind him and to his right.

To his delight the laundry baskets were sitting waiting to be taken away near a cellar hatch hydraulic hoist. He was at the back of the hotel and there were steps up beside the hoist and he could smell fresh air. He opened a basket and without cringing waded through the linen. Sure enough there were aprons, blue check trousers and white cotton tops, even white kitchen caps, at the bottom. He held a number of them up to look at, senses alert to the possible arrival of an employee. The third pair of trousers he pulled out, tomato stained and mucky around the trouser cuffs, were his size roughly and he found a white top with a variety of splashes and smelling of stale sweat which was roughly the right size too. The sound of the lift hurried his decision. He took the items, rolled them under his arm and climbed the steps into the fresh air.

Just around the corner from his hotel on Montagu Row he found a hair salon. The girl wasn’t impressed by his badly cut and poorly dyed hair. He needed an appointment and as the receptionist had taken pity on him when he’d told the story of a stag night binge and waking to find his hair damaged and dyed. They had a stylist available and she said she’d fit him in at five. She frowned at rolled bundle of dirty chef’s clothing and his shabby clothes. He’d shrugged his shoulders knowing she’d assume the worst.

The tube took him to the Oxford Circus, where he knew he’d get some clothes. He was also looking for a launderette. He walked amongst the crowds aware of the CCTV cameras watching, but knowing that he could not be spotted in the huge crowds of shoppers. Thanks to the brown hair and even without the fake facial hair he was the wrong shaped needle in a haystack.

He picked out the Diesel shop and bought himself a much more in touch look. The shop assistant gave him sad looks, thinking that it was another middle aged man having a trend crisis. Mason spent over four hundred pounds including a leather coat and shoes.

When he paid it struck him that he ought to change now.

“Do you mind if I change here?” The assistant raised an eye brow and Mason gave him the deadest of cold stares, hardening his face. The youth looked down

“Yeah sure no problem.”

Having used the cubicle to change in and feeling more human and much more like himself out of the Oxfam clothes he strode over to the counter. The youth was serving a customer.

“Bin that lot mate. Ta.” Mason said breezily.

Mason dumped the bag full of old clothes on the counter and walked out. He was feeling fine. Tonight he was going to have fun and tomorrow he was going to make contact and make a million pounds on one hit.

It took him five minutes to find a launderette two streets away in Marshall Place. It was fully attended so he left the small bundle to be washed and ironed and decided, looking at his watch and seeing it was four thirty, to find a bar and have drink. A short walk down the road he found the John Snow Pub. It was half full. He ordered a pint of lager and sat at the bar watching the clock. He caught his reflection in the mirrored surface behind the bottles on optics and frowned at himself. He looked down at his new clothes and smiled. ‘Nearly there.’ He thought.

Within half an hour he had collected his stolen kitchen uniform and caught the underground back to Baker Street. He had just about run out of ready cash.

London

4 p.m.

April 18th

After the landing at Stansted Airport David was taken by car around Long Border Road, along Coppice Road and through the Avenues to the airport plane parking area where there was a helicopter waiting to take him into central London.

The trip was different to the outward journey and David noted that London looked rather more mundane from air by daylight than it had at night. He mused on the fact that perhaps he had been full of expectation on the night journey out and on this return he was deflated and jaded.