Honour Bound (16 page)

-27-

Ominous
dark clouds lumbered heavily across the night sky, a thick, brooding curtain
drawn slowly across the face of the moon. As though in natural harmony with the
movement overhead, the branches of the trees lining the quiet suburban road
whispered and swayed in the steadily freshening wind, throwing convulsive
patterns on the lines of parked cars. As the pale, ghostly moonlight gradually
dissipated beneath the thickening cloud, the shadows deepened and stretched,
covering the ground with a dark, enveloping blanket.

A
black clad figure, no more than a shadow among shadows, detached itself from
the inky blackness at the bottom of a hedgerow and moved quietly towards the
modern red-bricked house at the head of the long gravelled drive. Remy
Vousson
had been waiting in the garden for forty minutes
watching the clouds roll across the sky, mentally willing them on their
journey, waiting for the protection they would bring. As he had watched and
waited, he had recalled the concern in Langdon's voice as he had given him his
instructions. The job had to be done tonight, he’d said, any later and things
could start to get difficult. He had tried to soothe away his worries,
massaging the tension from his lovers’ body, kissing and fondling, stroking and
caressing, a promise of what was to come on his return. Another twenty minutes
or so here, and then back to a warm bed. He felt a tingling sensation stirring
in his groin and smiled at the thought of the pleasure bursting over him when
he returned to the arms of his lover.

He
had driven past the house during the late afternoon and had been pleasantly
surprised about how easy his job was going to be. There were thirty large
detached houses on the estate, fifteen on either side of the road that ran
through it like the shaft of a concrete arrow. Each house was hidden from the
next by a thick screen of trees and bushes, or as in three cases, high brick
walls.

He
had returned just over an hour ago, parking his car several streets away and
covering most of the distance to the house by cutting through a large area of
parkland. His only danger to exposure had been the time it took to cross the
main road that ran between the park and the estate. Langdon had told him the
police patrolled irregularly throughout the night, and
Vousson
knew that a person dressed in black, and carrying a holdall, was unlikely to be
ignored by a passing patrol. But the danger had not arisen. He had crossed the
road, not a car or person in sight, and kept to the shadows in the lee of a row
of tall conifers before secreting himself in his target's garden.

The
wind, even stronger now, hissed through the bushes that formed an evergreen
wall on either side of the drive. He estimated the drive to be a hundred yards
long with a slight bend just past the half way point. The surface was gravel,
and although packed with the passage of cars, he walked on the grass verge to
keep the noise to a minimum. He kept alert, listening for any sound other than
the wind, ready to step into the bushes, to hide in the relative safety of
their darkness.

He
rounded the bend, walked a further twenty yards and stopped in a crouch. The
drive gave way to a concrete hardstand in front of a single garage door.
Between the end of the drive and the front of the house was an open area, no
bushes, no flowers, no obstacles, just a ten foot wide, bare concrete strip. An
Englishman's home is his castle, he thought, and this is his modern day moat.

He
studied the front windows, eyes scouring the large panes for an inquisitive
face, human or canine. Seeing nothing, he took a small aerosol can from his
pocket and gently shook it. A light hiss joined with the whispering wind as he
held the can above his head and pressed the nozzle, spraying a jet of liquid
into the air. He frowned, slung the holdall over his shoulder and left the
shadows, taking just one pace onto the concrete before stopping. He knelt and
sprayed another jet from the can, smiling this time as fine droplets of liquid
sparkled like miniature jewels as the wind carried them through a pencil thin
laser beam four feet above the ground. Still smiling he replaced the can and
crawled unhurriedly beneath the invisible beam.

At
the rear of the garage, the lock on a heavy wooden door opened easily to the
ministrations of an electronic picklock.
Vousson
stepped inside and took a small torch with an
elasticated
strap and an oblong package from the holdall. He set the bag on the floor, just
inside the door, and moved silently past the dark shape of a Mercedes saloon.
He knelt down between the rear of the car and the garage door and strapped the
torch around his head, angling the beam to illuminate the area in front of his
face. He set the package on the floor beneath the petrol tank and took a four
inch nail attached a long piece of cord from his pocket. Gently, he pushed the
nail into the package and tied the loose end to the garage door.

He
lay down behind the car and removed the cardboard top from the package. The dun
coloured block of explosive was shaped like a house brick and similar in size.
The detonating system fit snugly in a recess cut into the top of the brick. He
checked the electrical connections from a small battery to a switch, from the
switch to a thimble sized glass bowl half filled with mercury, and from the
bowl to a detonator. He checked the bowl again. Two wires had been pushed
through a rubber
cork,
the longer of the two pierced
the surface of the liquid metal, while the other ended a quarter of an inch
above it. Satisfied, he centred the package underneath the petrol tank then
waited for the measure of mercury to settle in the bowl. Once the movement had
stopped, he pressed the switch to arm the device. A red light the size of a
pinhead winked in
confirmation.         

"Scratch
one problem," he whispered.

He
returned to the back of the garage, stripped off the overalls, put them and the
torch into the holdall, and pushed it under the car. Opening the door, he
stepped out, waiting several seconds before moving to allow his eyes to
readjust to the darkness, then walked to the front of the garage and crawled
under the laser beam. Once into the shadows on the drive he brushed off his
dark grey suit and left the grounds silent and unseen.

-28-

At
a few minutes to midnight, Norton parked a Vauxhall borrowed from the Unit's
car pool, in a side street a short distance from Aspen Mansions. After the
conversation with Talbot, he had decided to leave the Alfa near his apartment.
Both his car details and address were on the computer and he didn’t want to
make things overly easy for anyone who might be looking for him. He locked the
car and began a roundabout route to the derelict block he had used on his last
visit as it gave the best view of the flat, and should it be necessary, the
lock-up.

He
skirted the estate before getting to the pot-holed road running alongside the
railway bridge. Only one streetlight remained, for what reason he could only
guess at, the rest were smashed stumps that protruded from the footpath like a
row of broken teeth. As soon as the authorities made any repairs, the street
gangs would appear like moths to a flame and smash them again, keeping the
streets in darkness, keeping the streets to themselves. In the end, the gangs
had won and the area remained a forbidding and dangerous place when night fell.

As
Norton walked quickly along the road looking at the crumbling flats, and
rubbish strewn open areas, he could understand why decent people kept away from
this part of the city at night, especially on a night like this. A thick layer
of cloud intensified the darkness, forming voluminous shadows that were enemies
to the innocent, while providing ideal locations for the night people to hide.
He crossed the road and was passing between a line of apparently abandoned cars
and the remains of a wooden fence, the rear of his destination in sight, when
he stopped, the hairs on his neck bristling. A sound, a shoe maybe, something
scuffing against the kerb, someone was close by, out of sight, but close.

"What
have we here?" a voice said. Not quite reaching the deep and threatening
tone that was probably intended.

He
pinpointed the voice and turned to face it. A man, tall and thin, little more
than an outline stood in the middle of the footpath. Norton quickly scanned the
surrounding area, unable to tell in the gloom if they were alone, if they were,
it would be unusual, the animals in this part of the jungle normally hunted in
packs. Norton stayed still, senses straining for further movement.

The
man took two paces forward, his outline a little clearer.

"Why
don't you
give me your money," he said,
"then we might let you fuck off."

We
might let you fuck off, Norton
thought,
I didn't think
he'd be on his lonesome.

He
looked at his watch. He wanted to be watching Williams' flat, not playing silly
buggers with this piece of shit.

The
man was obviously watching his movements. "Thanks," he said,
"we'll have the watch as well."

Norton
sighed. He knew how this was going to end. He said, "Why don't you come
and get it?"

The
man chuckled and raised his hand away from his body. A seven inch blade stood
upright in a clenched fist, gleaming dully in the poor light. He took a step
forward and slashed the air in front of Norton. He laughed again and lunged
directly at his stomach.

Norton
was ready for it. He clamped his hand on the man's wrist, stepped quickly to
one side and twisted the palm sharply skywards. The man grunted, more in
surprise than pain, as his fingers automatically opened letting the knife
clatter to the floor. Norton took one pace back and brought the edge of his
hand down on the attacker's upturned elbow joint. The crack of breaking bone
rebounded from the bridge wall like a gunshot, closely followed by a piercing
scream as the pain registered in his brain. Norton took a quick look around to
make sure none of the man's friends were gathering to launch a rescue bid. The
immediate area was still clear. He grabbed the collar of his attackers’ jacket,
and still holding the flapping limb, rammed his head into the stump of a
lamppost. The screams ended abruptly as the unconscious body dropped to the
ground.

The
sound of rushing air caused him to drop to one knee. A baseball bat sliced
through the air where his head had been moments before. A second man had
approached from behind, silent as a prowling cat. Not expecting his target to
disappear, the momentum of the bat had spun him round in a half circle. Norton
leapt to his feet and kicked out, whipping the steel toe cap of his shoe into
an exposed stomach, grinning at the gale force exodus of air the impact caused.
The man dropped the bat and doubled up, hands pressed to his stomach as he
struggled for breath. Norton put his foot against the man's backside and pushed
sharply, sending him headlong into the fence. The old wood collapsed under the
sudden weight, and the man lay there, face down in the debris still struggling
to draw breath as a shroud of dust settled around him.

Norton
left them where they fell and restarted his journey. Keeping close to the
buildings, he made his way quickly toward the top floor balcony he would use as
an observation post, the stench of decay and urine assaulting his nostrils even
before he reached the stairwell. The cleaners haven't been in, he thought, as
he began the ascent of the filthy rubbish strewn stairs.

The
gaping chasm of the lift shaft, the doors long since removed, stood black and
dangerous directly opposite the top of the stairs. The darkness within was so
intense it seemed solid enough to touch, to lean on. He gave it a wide berth
and moved onto the balcony to begin his watch. The sudden scratching of clawed
feet sent an icy shiver along the length of his spine making him smile in the
darkness. "You're giving yourself the willies you silly bugger, it’s only
a friendly rat."

The
sound of scratching was joined by an enraged squeaking, confirming the identity
of the rotting blocks new occupants. As if to endorse his thoughts, a large
furry body brushed past his shoe. He lashed out and launched the creature into
the black hole of the lift, a muffled squeak rose through the shaft as it
landed on whatever rubbish had accumulated at the bottom.

He
leaned back against the wall, his dark clothing sufficient to hide him from
view. A light wind picked up and rustled its way through the rubbish-strewn car
park between the two blocks. The sound of traffic, muted by the distance,
played the background for an unsecured window on the floor below as it began
tap-tapping an irregular beat against its frame. He moved halfway along the
balcony, away from the mephitic odour blowing from the stairs and the lift
shaft, and settled down to wait.

He
had been watching the flat for forty minutes, when the headlights of a car
washed across the glass frontage of a building as it turned off the main road
and into the estate. It drove slowly along the street, momentarily disappearing
as it passed behind Aspen Mansions. It reappeared and turned right, stopping
outside the lock-up where Williams had parked the Rover. The car lights went
off, moments later a cigarette lighter flared on the driver’s side, followed by
the red glow of a cigarette tip, somebody else settling down to wait.

The
driver didn't have to wait long. The sidelights flicked on then off again.
Norton could barely make out a single figure walking along the road towards the
parked car. It skirted the cone of light, just as he himself had done, and
approached the driver’s side. The figure moulded into the background and
disappeared from view. Several seconds elapsed before the figure detached
itself from the darkness and headed towards Aspen Mansions. The car lights came
on as it made a 'U' turn and drove back the way it had come.

Norton
watched the figure as it seemed to vaporise in the blackness of the stairwell.
He emerged as before, strolled along the balcony and went into the end flat. A
light coming on as the door closed. Seems like a man of habit, Norton thought.

Norton
took his jacket off, rolled it lengthways and put it in a long nylon bag
secured around his waist. He pulled his balaclava over his head and rolled it
down to cover his face, leaving his eyes as the only visible part. His attire
completed with a pair of tight black leather gloves.

He
moved quickly down the stairs into the shadows at their foot and surveyed the
area for any movement. Seeing none, he drew the Sig and sprinted across the gap
between the blocks, stopping in the blackness of the opposite stairwell.

Standing
still, breathing controlled, he listened for any sound. A faint noise, barely
audible, drifted down the stairwell. He moved slowly up the flight of stairs.
At the top he stopped, looked both ways. The noise was much clearer now, a
radio. Out of four flats, two at either side of the stairwell, three had boards
over the doors and windows. A faint light escaped from beneath Williams' door,
the rest of the balcony was in total darkness.

He
moved silently, pausing at the boarded up window of the first flat, no sound
from inside. He moved on, head below the window line, stopping outside
Williams' door. He stepped past the door, taking up position on the side
opposite the hinges. The sound of the radio was coming from inside. He rubbed
his gloved hand along the bottom of the door making a slight scratching sound
as the crumbling paint flaked off.

If
there's a dog in there, best to know now, he said to
himself.      

After
several moments, he took the skeleton keys from his pocket and tried one in the
lock. The old tumblers turned without resistance and the door opened an inch.
He replaced the keys and pushed on the door. Inside the dimly lit hallway, he
stopped and listened, trying to pinpoint any movement. A shower was running.
The noise of the radio was coming from the room directly ahead. One other open
door led off the hallway into a small empty kitchen, the floor littered with
empty beer cans. Large tongues of wallpaper hung from the upper parts of the
walls as if to catch the damp seeping through from the flat above. Half a dozen
over filled bin liners stood against one wall, their mouldy contents attempting
to spill out to join the mess on the floor.

He
closed the outside door and rested a worn welcome mat against it, keeping it
shut but not locked. Moving silently, he went to the end of the hallway and
gently pushed the door. The sound of water running in the shower was clearer
now. The door leading to it, and presumably a bedroom, was open. The radio sat
on a scratched coffee table below the only window, threadbare curtains drawn
against the night. A heap of grubby blankets with a new television balanced on
top occupied one corner, a reshaped coat hanger acting as the aerial. Another
blanket lay on the bare floorboards, a poor excuse for a carpet. To the left of
the door, a battered settee piled with newspapers and old take-away cartons, to
the right, a modern reclining chair.

He
moved quickly to the other door and looked cautiously around the jamb. The
bathroom was at the end of a short corridor its door missing from a splintered
frame. Williams was facing the far wall, plainly visible through a mouldy
shower curtain. Norton took a quick look in the only bedroom as he walked by,
the single occupant being a soiled mattress on the floor. Without pause he went
into the bathroom, ripped the shower curtain aside, and before Williams had a
chance to turn around, struck him on the side of the head with the butt of the Sig.
Williams collapsed with a grunt into the bathtub, the jets of water diluting
the flow of blood from his scalp.

Joey
Williams groaned as he struggled into consciousness. He was naked and lying
face up on top of the coffee table, arms and legs fastened securely to its
legs, bound round and round with
sellotape
. So tight
were his bonds, he could barely move his head from side to side.

"What
the fuck's
goin
' on?" he muttered as he tried to
pull his arms free from their bindings.

Very
quietly, Norton said, "I see you're back in the land of the living."
He paused for a moment then added, "At least for the time being."

Williams
froze. It was several seconds before he summed up enough courage to move his
head in a vain attempt to see his tormentor. Norton was sitting cross-legged on
the floor between the coffee table and the door leading to the bathroom, an
arms length between him and Williams' head. Try as he might, Williams had not
been allowed enough freedom of movement to see him.

"Joey,"
Norton said, keeping his voice low, "you're going to answer some
quest-"

"What
the fuck
d'ya
want? Get me off this fucking
table." Panic growing in his voice.

"Joey,
if you interrupt me again I'll have to hurt you." He waved a carving
knife, taken from the kitchen drawer, just above his eyes.

"Now
Joey," he continued, "I will ask a question and you will answer it.
If I think you're lying to me or holding anything back, I'll start to cut
pieces off you."

Williams
swallowed hard. "For fucks sake, what do you want?"

Norton
placed the carving knife on Williams’s right earlobe and pushed the blade into
the soft flesh until the point appeared at the other side. The blood burst out
at the same time as the scream. He withdrew the knife and wiped the bloody
point on Williams sweat covered forehead.

“You
will only speak when I ask you a question.” Norton said, “Do you understand the
ground rules now?”