Richard Wiseman - To Kill Or Be Killed

Knowing that he was about to spend two weeks in the building McKie felt both excited and a little homesick about not being there in the evening to be with his family. He consoled himself that in the long run he’d be around his family a lot more as a result of the job.

The cold and warm air conditioning in the building was perfect and as a result a comfortable temperature greeted David as he exited the lift to be met by Jack Fulton.

Fulton had served his time as a DIC operative and passed the rigorous selection process to run the service after only five years in the job. He’d been top man for twenty years. Selected from the diplomatic branch of the civil service at twenty-five, a Cambridge graduate, he’d distinguished himself on two crucial occasions for the country, once in nineteen eighty five and once in nineteen eighty seven. The latter adventure had left him with a limp from a broken leg. A year later he was put in charge.

He had been a short and wiry young man, but the limp precluded exercise and he had at fifty acquired a rounder, though not fat, stature. Along with his physique, his white hair and short white beard gave him the appearance of a friendly and amiable teacher. His grey eyes though betrayed the chess playing genius and brilliant mind within and for a moment David recalled the image of a wolf in sheep’s clothing that had come to mind the first time he had met Jack Fulton.

A small dry hand firmly held his own large bony fingers and as an added gesture of welcome Jack placed his left hand warmly on top of their grip.

“So good to see you. You’re right on time. Is everything going well?”

David said that it was and Fulton guided him, hand on back towards an office, passing through his secretary’s ante chamber, he introduced her.

“This is Magda, Magda David. You’ll have read all about him no doubt.”

“White tea in the morning, no sugar, will you have some now?”

David was not taken aback. He had answered a ream of questions and been subsequently quizzed on all his answers several times as part of the selection procedure.

“That’ll be lovely thanks.”

Fulton gestured to a chair as he closed his office door, McKie sat and Fulton took his place across the desk.

“I had the report from Lympstone. You’re quite an athlete. The unarmed combat instructor said you were flexible and in some ways fairly unstoppable and the firearms instructors said you had good eyes and steady hands. Quite a shot by all accounts, but I want you to know now that though the unarmed combat and firearms training is essential it’s rare, sometimes unheard of for an operative of DIC to need it. No it’s the observation, the fast mental processing, the image and detail recall and the thinking skills that mark you and all our DIC people as a force to be reckoned with.”

“Brains not brawn I know.”

“Quite right, though you appear to have an ample supply of both. I’m very pleased David, very pleased to have you on our team.”

“Thank you. I’m delighted to have got on the team.”

“Good. Well we’ll wait for Magda with the tea. Whilst we do I’ll go through the building layout, procedures and other useful information.”

Fulton drew out no papers, gave out no hand book and didn’t give David paper or pencil. He reeled out a stream of information and David listened and mentally stored it for immediate recall. Tea came half way through and they both ignored it until Fulton was done. Finally they both sipped their tea.

“Any questions?”

“No that all seems clear.”

“Good. Then finish that tea and give me a tour of the building.”

“Give you a tour?”

“Little test of our brain training eh?”

“Right sir.”

“It’s not the army David, you call me Jack.”

“Sure enough”

They got up.

“Where do we start?”

“At the top Jack, I’d like to see if you’ve put my luggage in the right room. You did say room six didn’t you?”

Jack smiled.

“Lead on David, lead on.”

London

Hampstead

9 a.m.

April 17th

A golden haired nine year old boy, with a freshly scrubbed face presented himself at the door of what was a very austere dining room. He was followed by a golden haired girl, half a foot shorter, with the neatest of pigtails. They were both dressed in green uniforms. The boy was dressed in a crisp white shirt and green and yellow striped tie, green shorts and the girl was dressed in a green check cotton dress; both were holding straw hats in front of them.

A door chime sounded down the hall and a slim yet motherly blonde woman appeared flustered behind the children. Across a dining table strewn with the remnants of breakfast a severe man in his early forties, dressed in a black three piece suit, pale blue shirt and deep blue tie, lowered a tabloid Times.

The serious face with heavy lidded eyes and thin lips creased into a warm smile. Nigel Sternway removed his reading glasses.

“Aha Summer uniforms so it’s April already.”

He beckoned the children to him and kissed them. As they left the room, waving, a tall thin man stopped and let them pass.

“You’re early Joe” Mrs Sternway frowned watching her children exit the room.

She disliked her husband’s employees coming to the house. Joe was Nigel’s number two and drove him around. She disliked Joe. He was grey and pale. He had x-ray eyes. He was tall and thin. He always wore a dark blue suit and a light blue tie, and oddly, she had noticed, that he wore brown boots, the walking kind. He was thin, but he had a wiry quality. She felt him to be like snake, long and thin, with coiled, poisonous potential within the thin frame. Della Sternway hated her husband’s work.

When Joe nodded and offered a weak and ineffective smile she happily followed the golden children, heading for the school run.

“Morning Joe.” Sternway’s smile for his children slipped suddenly from his face.

Joe closed the dining room door.

“Sir. The sub dropped them this morning. They should be heading this way.”

“Good. We’ll see which one gets through then.” Sternway precisely folded his reading glasses, encased them and slipped them into his jacket top pocket.

“If any DIC 's record on malicious intruders is ten to nothing so far.”

“See they do have their uses. You sure this will work?”

“It’s as good a way as any. These men are the best and one should get through and if they don’t we’ll know it can’t be done.”

Sternway looked at his watch.

“Just before nine, a couple of them at least should be in Inverness by now. When we get to the office send Bentall to you know who to have the conversation. Tell him the game’s afoot, oh and he’s to leave the contact package with him.”

They left the house, Joe in front, opening the door of the black Jaguar for Sternway. Once in the driver’s seat, Joe took his revolver out from under it and slipped it into his holster. Della’s rule on guns in the house made him uncomfortable. Joe wondered why she hadn’t become used to such ideas after ten years of marriage to a member of the British Secret Service.

Sternway ran the ‘dirty work’ section at the secret service and the contradiction of Sternway’s warm family life and cold blooded working day reminded Joe of the poem Vultures, by Chinua Achebe. He glanced in the mirror at Sternway’s ‘cold telescopic eyes’.

Inverness Airport

9- 20 a.m.

April 17th

At Inverness Airport with his coffee and breakfast finished Spencer went to book a flight to Gatwick. He had decided that DIC or not the quicker he moved the better.

Chance was against him though. At the small Flybe desk he found himself embarrassed by the failure of the fake Visa card. There was a seat on the flight, but it wasn’t his for the taking.