Honour Bound (15 page)

-25-

"Ah,
you're here," Holmes said, stepping out of the lift opposite the grey door
of the vault room. He found it easier to keep his temper in check now that he
had decided on a course of
action.               

Winters
was leaning against the wall, as he had been for the past fifteen minutes,
hands thrust deep into his trouser pockets, legs crossed at the ankles.
"Where else would I be I got a message you wanted to see me down
here."

"You
said there was some more stuff in here," Holmes said, "can you show
me what we've got."

"No
problem." Winters pushed off the wall, tapped four numbers into a keypad
set in the doorframe and the thick metal door slid open. Both men waited as the
lights flickered automatically into life. Winters entered closely followed by
Holmes.

Holmes
stopped just inside the doorway. "What the hell is that?"  

Standing
on its bipod, on top of a bench just inside the door, was the largest rifle he
had ever seen. He ran his long delicate fingers along the cold, smooth length
of the barrel as though it were the pelt of a faithful pet.

"That,"
Winters
said, "is a Barrett Light, a fifty
calibre snipers rifle. It's old now but it'll still knock the shit out of
anything we're likely to come across. I'm going to have it placed on a roof
overlooking the assault site as an extra precaution, Oh! That's a point I've
had to add two more people to the team to take care of it. I took the first two
off the reserve list."

"Who
were they?"

"I
knew you were going to ask that. Names are something I don't normally deal in,
but one of '
em
I know. He drove the bus when we
recce'd
the ambush site, Colin Lyle. The other is his mate,
but I don't know him, tall geezer with dark hair."

"Gavin
Nash." Holmes said. "You’ve got two good men there, any other
surprises in here?"

"Only
some light anti-tank weapons. We don't really need them
now,
I ordered '
em
in case we couldn't get enough of the
armour piercing ammo."

He
pushed the lid from a packing crate and took out a two foot long dark green
tube with a square shaped bulge at one end and a sling hanging from two points
on the bottom. "This is an M72 light anti-tank rocket, as you can see its
shoulder fired, and only needs one man to operate it. It’s simple
enough,
it’s made up of two tubes with a rocket inside. You
have to pull the inner tube out to fire it because the rocket is in the front
section and the fuse and booster are in the pull out section. The beauty is
that when you’ve fired it you throw it away. No reloading this puppy.” 

He
aimed the launcher at the far wall. "It's quite light only about eight
pounds with the rocket, and it'll knock out anything we’ll be up against. We'll
not be using them though, so if you've got the contacts you'll have no problem
selling '
em
on at a good profit."

He
put the launcher back in the crate. "That's the lot for in here. I've
already taken the other stuff across to
Holflight
,
they're on the trucks waiting to go.
Anything
else?"
       

"Yes,
just a few minutes of your time. Can you run me through the
Browning,
I might keep one for myself when this little job is over. You never know when
it might come in handy."

Winters
let out a short laugh. "I never had you figured for carrying your own
piece. A man in your position shouldn't have to."

"As
I say, you never know when it might come in handy." 

Winters
replaced the lid on the crate and turned to Holmes. "Come on then, we'll
go to the range."

The
range was in its usual state of semi darkness. Holmes looked at the cardboard
figures hanging from the ceiling. All six were spattered with holes, the faint
light from the far end of the range made the holes look like a small, dim
torches fixed to the targets.

Winters
caught the direction of his gaze. "Don't worry about that," he said,
"I'll set you up with a fresh one. It'll only take a second."

Holmes
nodded, smiled.

Winters
delved into a box and took out a Browning 9mm pistol. He removed the magazine
and handed both items to Holmes.

"Load
the magazine over there,"
Winters
said, pointing
to a workbench covered with boxes of ammunition. "I'll swap out a target
and bring it in a bit closer for you as well."

Holmes
took three bullets from one of the open boxes and pressed them into the
magazine. A fourth bullet he took from his pocket, barely giving the 'X' he'd
carved into it a second glance, and loaded that.

Winters
removed an old target and clipped a fresh one in its place. Folding the used
one in half he walked back towards the firing point.

"I'm
going to enjoy doing this operation," he said, "
it's
the last job for me, after this, a life of luxury."

On
the firing point, Holmes raised the Browning. Winters stopped in his tracks.
His mouth fell open in an ‘O’ of disbelief. The used target dropped to the
floor like a materialising premonition.

"One
out of three's not bad." Holmes said.

"What
the
fuck are
you on?" Winters demanded. The
thought of trying to run never crossed his mind. Holmes was between him and the
door, to his rear was a solid wall and sand bank. He could only stand and stare
at Holmes like a rabbit caught in a headlight.

As
Holmes took aim he thought, I should have put some ear defenders on. You could
go deaf doing this.

He
gently squeezed the trigger. The sound of the shot, subdued by the
soundproofing, slammed around the walls before dying into silence.

The
'X' carved into the bullet caused it to split up as it passed through
Winters
' face just below his right eye. The back of his head
disintegrated in a cloud of blood and brain and shattered bone that covered the
newly hung target with a dripping red and white film. His body dropped to the
floor like an empty sack, limbs twitching violently for several seconds before
finally becoming still.

"This
was certainly your last job," Holmes said to the corpse, "it’s the
kind of thing that happens to a double dealing piece of
shit."        

He
levelled the gun and fired the remaining three rounds in rapid succession
through the heart of the blood soaked target. He blew the smoke that curled out
of the barrel, like a victorious gunfighter, and then quickly and smoothly
worked the action to make the gun
safe.         

"I
don't need a piece of shit to show me how to handle a gun."

He
walked into the control room and punched a single digit on the wall-mounted
telephone. "Henry," he said when the extension was picked up,
"with reference to my last 'phone call, it's done. You'll need a big
bucket and a mop and a large bag for the rubbish. Stick it all in the
incinerator when you've finished."

He
hooked the phone back on its cradle and pushed the Browning into the waistband
of his trousers. He spared
Winters
' corpse a further
glance before leaving the range and pulling the door closed behind him.

Silver
was on his feet immediately the lift door opened. Peter Greaves took it as a
cue and stood up. Holmes stepped out of the lift, his face as close to a grin
as it would get, the Browning still tucked into his waistband.

"Is
everything all right Mister Holmes?" Silver asked. "You okay?"
His own hand hovering over the gun tucked into the holster inside his back
pocket.

"At
this moment in time Gerry, I feel on top of the world. Things couldn't be
better."

Silver
visibly relaxed and followed Holmes, like a faithful dog, to his desk by the
triangular window.

Holmes
turned to face Greaves. "Peter," he said, "I'm glad you could
make it. Come and sit over here."

Greaves
crossed the room from where he had been sitting and settled himself in the
offered chair. He had the look of a man waiting for a deadly practical joke to
be sprung at his expense.

Holmes
slipped the Browning into his desk drawer. "Don't look so apprehensive
Peter. I have some good news and some bad news. I shall give you the bad news
first."

Greaves
shuffled in his seat, expectant.

"The
bad news is that Nigel Winters has handed in his resignation, a death in the
family, I think. You could have knocked me down with a feather when I heard
that, and after he had planned things so well. I'm sure we'll all miss him. Now
for the good news, you are the new man in charge of the assault phase."

Greaves
smiled, somewhat relieved. Few people would cherish the thought of being alone
with Peter Holmes and Gerry the ape, as he was called behind his back,
certainly not to his face. Stories were stories, but the stories said that
people who had upset Peter Holmes received invites to a similar sort of
audience, and their punishment was to get past Silver. Rumour had it that
Silver enjoyed breaking people in half, and by the size of him, Greaves could
quite believe it. His concerns were eased by the news, and by the weight of the
gun in his shoulder holster. The gun, he had told himself, was merely a
precaution. He was thankful he would not have to use it.

He
looked across the desk at Holmes. "Thank you," he said, "you
know you can rely on me. I won't let you down."

"I
know." Holmes said. "If it had been up to me we would have kept this
whole business in the family, so to speak, right from the very beginning. But
the person who's supplying the funds wanted to have his say, and I suppose the
millions it's costing allowed him to have some input. Anyway,
Winters
is ancient history and you're the new man in
charge."

Holmes
spread his arms briefly then rested them on the arms of his chair. "Well
I'm sure you've got things to do, things to organise, so don't let me keep you
any longer."

Greaves
stood up, knowing a dismissal when he heard one. "I'll keep you informed
on any new developments."

As
he reached the lift door he turned, "And thanks again."

-26-

Talbot
walked up the two flights of emergency stairs. It would have been quicker to
take the lift but he was working out what to say, and the walk would give him
time to think. It would be pointless barging in and accusing him of anything
without giving him a chance to explain. There was very little to gain by going
at him like a rampaging bull.

He
knocked on the door bearing the number 2512. A voice from within called,
"Come on in, it's open."

Sir
Reginald Langdon, looking immaculate in a dark woollen suit, sat behind a mound
of papers spread evenly across the top of his desk. "Hello Vance, this is
rather an unexpected visit."

I'll
bet, Talbot thought.

"To
what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Sir,"
Talbot began.

"I
hope it’s not lengthy whatever it is," Langdon interrupted, waving a hand
above the paperwork on his desk like a conjurer about to perform a trick,
"as you can see, I'm rather busy."

"Sir,
I've just recorded an unauthorised access into the files on the personnel
computer. The information was being downloaded to your printer."

Talbot
thought he saw a look of concern or maybe fear shoot across Langdon's face. It
was so quick that he was unsure if he actually saw it or just wanted to see it.

Langdon
looked away from Talbot, screwed the top on his pen and laid it on the blotter.
"Yes that's quite right," he said. "I understand this Norton
fellow took out a bomb factory on his own."

"Yes
he did," Talbot said, “it is in the reports.”

"Well
I intend to organise a commendation for him, but if that's all he has ever done
the Ministry would squash it. So I got his file to have a look at his record.
You know, sort of polish him up a bit before he's presented. You know the sort
of thing I mean."

He's
lying, Talbot thought, he can't even look me in the eye and lie properly. 

"Sir,"
he said, "you should know better than most that there is a system for getting
information from the files, and this is not the way to go about it. Another
unauthorised access was noted two days ago, I have to assume that was you as
well."   

Langdon
sat upright in his chair, his hands palm down on the desk. With a trace of irritation
in his voice he said, "Vance, although I have only been here for a short
time, and whether I meet with your approval or not, I am one of the senior
figures in this Unit. I know your attitude towards myself and the other
directors,
it stands out very clearly in your briefings.
Fortunately for you, and believe me you can count yourself extremely lucky, you
do not have the Prime Minister breathing directly down your neck asking about
ongoing situations. We do."    

"Your
problems with the Prime Minister are not my concern, that’s why you're paid the
big
bucks,
it's a problem for you to sort out. My
concern lies solely with the operators in the field, who every single day put
their lives on the line to protect the public in this country. What I can do
without, are illegal file requests on covert personnel, who are engaged in
delicate operations. It's undermining, both to them, and to me."

Langdon
shook his head, letting out a deep sigh before relaxing back into his seat.
"You’re quite right of course." The irritation was gone from his
voice. "The file is still on the printer. It had just finished as you came
in. I haven't had a chance to read it so please take it and I'll put in a
proper request over the next couple of days. And as for the other access on his
file, you can count me out, why should I need two."

"I
never said the other access was the same file. What makes you think it
was?"

Talbot
caught the look again, a brief flash but definite this time.   

"I
just assumed it was," Langdon said, "seeing as we were talking about
him."

Langdon
recalled the flying visit by Sir Peter Reeve from the Ministry, the so-called
head office. The first file had been fed through the shredder before he had
chance to read it all, rather than have Reeve see it. The fewer people who knew
that he was directly interested in the progress Norton was making, the less
chance there was of someone high up asking awkward questions.
And now this.

Talbot
crossed the office to the printer's storage bin and removed a long sheet of perforated
paper. As he rolled it into a tube he walked back to face Langdon and tapped
the tube on the desk. "I'll have to report this as a breach of internal
security," he said.

The
other request is down to you as well,' he thought. Then aloud, "Sir Lionel
is in meetings for the rest of the day, but the report will be on his desk
first thing in the morning."

Langdon
crossed his legs and looked at Talbot across the broad expanse desk. He lit a
cigarette, inhaling deeply.

You
have suddenly become an irritating little peasant, he thought, an annoying fly
ready to be swatted. "Until tomorrow then," he said aloud.

Talbot
turned and left the room, closing the door behind him.