Richard Wiseman - To Kill Or Be Killed

April 19th

Tarquin Robinson looked over the assembled press. BBC news, ITN news, CNN and various journalists from the newspapers who were all gathered in the press briefing room. He was sat behind the table with the head of the Met Police beside him, who was answering questions.

“We’re not sure what the intention of the men is in detail. All the men killed are not people we have been watching, not have they been under surveillance from Special Branch.” The head of the met said slowly and deliberately as if reading.

“Brian Mayhew CNN. Is this a new tactic for Al Qaeda, employing paid assassins to plant bombs and carry out killings?”

“We have no information to either confirm or deny such a theory. That these men don’t appear to have links to any terrorist group is not a reason to preclude that being true. In the meantime we can only assume that the device found indicates their intention to target someone or something in London.”

“Minister, what is your view?”

Tarquin Robinson gathered his thoughts.

“There is no doubt that these men have a target in mind. Who or what that is has not so far been revealed. We have no leads and government security agencies are doing their upmost to find this last man and get him alive so that we can get to the bottom of this. We can’t rule out terrorism nor the fact that the use of paid assassins might be a new terrorist tactic.” Robinson said relishing the attention he was getting.

“Can you reveal how the men first came to the attention of security services?” A BBC reporter asked.

“I’m afraid I cannot. Needless to say our methods of observation must be kept secret in order to make the effective.” Robinson replied stonewalling with skill.

The questions continued with the back and forth verbal tennis of government press conferences. Robinson excused himself after having made a final statement and left the room listening to the head of the met assure the press that security measures in London had been stepped up to maximum level.

Robinson got into his car, surrounded by security. He put up the security glass between himself and the driver and pulled the orange coloured cell phone from inside his jacket.

He dialled the only number in its memory.

“How much longer?” He asked.

“Today. We’re certain. It’ll either happen or the ‘product’ won’t get through.”

“I need to ask questions… important information… this line…”

“Be careful what you say.”

“I want to meet. I need answers and I can’t ask on this line. If the time is close I’d like to decide whether we go ahead or not. We must meet.”

“No out of the question.”

“Can you send B… your man again?”

“Again out of the question, ‘you know who’ will be watching closely now.”

“What if I send someone to meet you, someone we can both trust?”

“You’ve told someone?”

“My wife knows. I talked to her.”

There was silence on the other end of the line.

“Hello.”

“Well it’s good you’ve got such a trusting marriage." Sternway said in an exasperated tone of voice thinking to himself, ‘why couldn’t the man just see it through?’

“My wife has always supported all my ambitions.”

“I’ll be watched, this is out of the question.” Sternway said tersely.

“Then you can call a halt now. Stop the process.”

Sternway grimaced at the other end of the line. The conversation was taking a long time. He didn’t want to stop, they were so close.

“La Rueda, Byward Street, three thirty. Tell her to come alone and bring your questions in writing. I’ll write the answers over lunch.” Sternway said rapidly.

The line went dead.

Robinson felt pleased. His wife had said that he should exert some control. He didn’t really have any important questions. His wife had said he shouldn’t let Sternway take the lead. She’d also said they should tape Sternway as a form of evidence to help them keep control. She would know a way to get Sternway talking too, questions on paper or not. Melinda was a strong woman and had as many ambitions for him as he had for himself.

Across the city Sternway sat at his desk staring intently at the disposable mobile in his hand. He picked up the phone, gave a harsh instruction and two minutes later Joe came into office.

“Problem Sir?”

“Yes. Book me a table at Rueda, for two at three thirty?”

“Mrs Sternway sir?”

“No Joe Lady Macbeth by looks of it.”

Dover

10 – 30 a.m.

April 19th

David grabbed a handful of fruit from the bowl on the dining table. He sat in a comfortable armchair watching ‘SpongeBob’ and peeling a banana. Conor liked ‘SpongeBob’, but didn’t understand it very much, though David and Mary found it hilarious. Kids’ television had certainly got better since he was a kid. He bit into the banana, enjoying the moment and feeling justified in doing nothing for a while. He had felt tarnished by the last few days, exhausted by the intense travel and imminent sense of danger. He promised himself that he’d finish the banana, the large juicy orange and the fresh looking Gala apple and get back to work upstairs as soon as the episodes of the cartoon were over.

Stanton crawled from behind the shed at the top of the garden and sprinted the short distance to a larger shed nearer the house. The garden was twenty metres long and Stanton felt exposed until he was hidden from view by the old fashioned post war shed. He sidled along the exposed edge of it and made it to the shelter of the house. Crawling along on his stomach he got below the dining room window. He could see McKie watching television in the lounge as the dining room and lounge were ‘knocked through’. Stanton made his way around to the side of the house, climbed onto the roof of the kitchen extension and from there up the drain pipe to the roof. Using powerful arm and stomach muscles, amazingly agile for a man his age, he flipped his legs and torso feet first onto the roof tiles and slid his upper body and head afterwards. He spread his weight out and inched himself slowly up to the Velux window on the back of the house. The DIC technicians always put a roof window on both sides to let light into the attic. The one at the front was next to the large white satellite dish that David’s neighbour objected to.

The neighbour, Tom, a retired accountant went out into his garden to get the washing in for his wife as she had seen spots of rain on the front windows. He looked into the sky and his eye was caught by the sight of a pair of legs disappearing into the Velux window on David’s roof.

Tom wouldn’t have believed his eyes, but he wasn’t the kind to doubt them. He had been annoyed at the noise months before when the men had come and obviously done some kind of loft conversion and then there had been the satellite dish. He disliked changes to the locality. The nineteen thirties semi-detached houses on Elm’s Vale were a matter of pride for him; he lived in the house his parent’s had bought just before the war, he’d grown up there and he had a sense of ownership over the area. He was pleased to have a customs man living next door, good solid civil service job, but the changes to the house made him unhappy with his neighbour.

Tom had checked at the time of the changes and McKie didn’t need planning permission. Tom felt angry and thwarted by the changes to ‘his’ street. Now it seemed a man was climbing in windows that he had objected to. Tom would have rung the bell and told David that there was a man in his loft, but anger made him decide to make a point about the windows and their inconvenience. He went inside and called the police, but not nine, nine, nine. He called the Dover number and duly waited.