Honour Bound (4 page)

Talbot
smiled and nodded. “Yes.”

“I
wonder if he knows how close he came to being
slotted?
Maybe it’s best not to tell him, it might give him a complex.”

Talbot
laughed, finished his coffee and threw the cup into a bin by the door. He
turned in his seat to face Norton, his face serious. “Because of the number of
casualties involved,” he said, “this Heathrow business has gone to the top of
the pile. The PM apparently, is deflecting flak from all and sundry, they’re
having a go at him regarding the domestic versus global terrorism debate. You
know, the old clean up your own backyard first brigade. Anyway, his orders are
to wrap this one up as soon as possible. Something I think we can both agree
with. Eventually, he’ll start looking for an umbrella to stop the shit falling
on him. I don’t want that to be us.”

He
looked at Norton. He was about to give him instructions that he wished he
himself were receiving. “So Sam, clear your decks. I want you to drop
everything and concentrate on this business. Apart from anything else, I have a
bad feeling that if we don’t get these animals soon a lot more innocent people
are going to die. Your task, until I tell you otherwise, is to find those
responsible and eliminate any further threat. I’ll repeat that, find those
responsible and eliminate any further threat.” He paused, sighing deeply. “Not
much of a briefing I’m afraid, but you know exactly as much as I do. Let’s hope
we get a break soon.”

“I’ll
get started on it first thing,” Norton replied. The laughter lines, no more
than a memory, were replaced by an expression akin to that of a professional
poker player. Talbot had seen the look before when he’d partnered Norton on
covert operations. Knowing he had the best man for the job, he rose from his
seat and punched a four-digit code into a control panel. “Come on Sam,” he said
as the door hummed open, “I’ll walk you to the lift.”

-4-

Norton
was having a bad day. Although still early, he had met with three of his
informants, and from their lack of hard information, it was apparent the group
responsible for the bombings was keeping watertight security. No little
snippets after one to many whiskies, nobody needing to brag to give their self
importance a boost. So far, just a single tip about a possible armed robbery,
the information already passed to a contact in the Flying Squad.

He
was now waiting for the fourth, Willie Rivers. Rivers had been a good source
over the years, and because of that, Norton made sure he was paid well from the
Unit’s funds for his efforts. In the early days, he used to wonder what Rivers
did with his money. It was obvious he never lavished it on himself or the place
where he lived, and very few people in his profession bothered to keep a
retirement fund, because very few people in his profession actually reached
retirement age. In all the time Norton had known him, he had never entered into
a conversation about himself or indeed anything other than the information he
was being paid to find. It was as though a wasted word was wasted income. The
arrangement suited Norton, for as far as he and the Unit were concerned, it was
money well spent.

The
usual meeting place was a covered bus stop in Bethnal Green Road, near to the
heart of London’s east end. Norton, a few minutes early, was leaning against a
plastic advertising hoarding, looking across the road into Brick Lane. That was
the direction Rivers would come from if all was well. Should he come from any
other direction, it would signify an emergency and the meeting was off, Willie
would walk away from the bus stop and Norton would wait to see if anyone was
following. It was a simple precaution they had decided on in the early days,
after an IRA quartermaster had become so intrigued by Willie’s casual questions
that he decided to follow him, hoping no doubt for a sizable lump of personal
glory from the movement’s hierarchy for fingering a tout. Unfortunately for the
quartermaster, he bumped into Norton and willingly donated the whereabouts of a
sizable arms cache in exchange for his life and a severe prison sentence.

Norton
spotted Rivers slouching along the Lane, hands thrust deep into the pockets of
a threadbare overcoat. His greasy hair, hanging lank and black from a pointed
head, came to an uneven rest on a grubby collar. The once blue jeans, now
mottled by various shades of dirt, ended three inches above
sockless
feet that were housed in a pair of shoes that appeared to have outlived several
owners.

He
crossed the road towards Norton, head down and shoulders hunched as though
searching for dropped coins, apparently oblivious to the blaring horn of a car
that nearly knocked him down. The driver feeling safe in his small metal
cocoon, mouthed abuse, but made sure not to lower the window.

“Hello
Mister Norton.” Rivers said as he stepped on to the pavement. His voice, in
total contrast to his stooped wasted looks, had the throaty cadence of a
nightclub bouncer. It was as though a hidden ventriloquist was working a
gangling, emaciated puppet from behind the scenes.

“Hello
Willie, looking good today. What have you got for me?”

The
smile Rivers gave looked more like a sickly grimace. A single brown tooth, like
the tombstone of a long dead gunfighter, protruded at a drunken angle from his
lower gum. Norton looked at the long spotty face of the man whose information
had put terrorist cells out of business and many of their members into graves.
His information sources were impeccable and Norton would have liked to know who
they were, but had more sense than to ask. Rivers, like Norton, would go to
extreme lengths to protect his sources, and he knew if he started asking
questions about those sources, a good conduit of hard and accurate information
would dry up for good.

“Mister
Norton,” he said, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, “this bombing
shit, there
ain’t
much bin said.” He put his finger
on the left side of his hooked nose and pressed the nostril shut. A glob of
green mucous was ejected from the other by a sharp blast of air. He didn’t seem
to notice, or care, that it stuck to his coat. He licked his finger and looked
at Norton as a dog would look at its master.

“Willie,”
Norton said, “now you have finished your ablutions, perhaps you’d like to tell
me what is being said.”

Rivers
said nothing, just looked up and down the road, eyes wide as if expecting the
worst of the unexpected. Norton had never seen him so agitated; even his face
seemed paler than usual, if that was possible. He kept shifting his weight from
one foot to the other, looking even more like a puppet and giving Norton the
impression he would rather be anywhere than standing at this bus stop.

“What’s
the matter Willie,” Norton said, “you caught St Vitas’ Dance since I last saw
you?”

Willie
stood still, thrusting his hands deeper into his pockets. “Mister Norton, it’s
nowt
like that. I don’t get much sex nowadays. I’ve just
gorra
load on me mind
s’all
.”

“Perhaps
you’d like to unload a bit of it, if you can spare it that is, and tell me what
is being said.”

“Mister
Norton, the whisper
sez
it’s a new mob and they
ain’t
to be fucked with. Some say as they
ain’t
bothered about stiffing people that gets in the way.”

“You
don’t say,” Norton said. “Willie, there were a few hundred people at Heathrow
just recently that could have told me that. Most of ‘
em
though are still having lumps of glass and parts of a building removed from the
bits they’ve got left, so they haven’t been able to phone me yet.” He paused
and took a deep breath. “Look Willie, this is not about some
pisspot
with a grudge, this is big time, big fucking time.
Do you understand that?”

Rivers
swallowed hard and took a step back, his eyes unable to hold those of Norton.
He looked at the floor studying his shoes as if they had suddenly become
important. “Mister Norton, it’s all I’ve heard so far.
Such
short notice an’ all.
Everybody’s ‘
eard
the whisper an’ a load
o’the
waggers
‘
ave
been zipped.
I’ll be ‘
avin
favours
tomorra
’ an’ I’ll ‘
ave
som’ing
then. Soon as I ‘ear
owt
,
I’ll
gi’ya
a bell.”

Norton
breathed a long sigh. He knew if the information was out there it was this odd,
stooped man who would find it. “Call me Willie,” he said, “I want these
bastards.”

-5-

The
heat from the log fire, spitting and crackling in an open grate, flowed around
the room like an unseen mist. The reflection from the burning logs echoed
silently on the glass fronts of the many antique cabinets, adding an air of
homely comfort to the large, ornately furnished room.

Sir
Reginald Langdon was sitting at the head of a long mahogany table; its highly
polished surface mirrored the bright sparkle of lights from the crystal
chandelier suspended from the ceiling. He looked at his three guests at the
opposite end of the table, smiling inwardly at their obvious annoyance at the
delay to the start of the meeting. Each man seemed to be concerned with his own
thoughts because apart from the initial greetings no one had uttered a word. It
had been the same at the first meeting all those weeks before. Although they
came from widely different backgrounds, each had the common denominators of
greed, suspicion and distrust. Each had their own territory and they were
happiest when they were on it, knowing where they stood, who they could trust
and more importantly, who to watch out for. In their respective fields of
expertise, advancement did not come easily it was literally dead men’s shoes.
They invested a lot of time and money into making sure it was not their shoes
to be filled.

Langdon
pushed himself into the comfort of the chair, closed his eyes and allowed a
look of indifference to settle on his face. The feelings that his guests had
towards each other was of little concern to him. As far as he was concerned,
when they had supplied what he was paying for, they could all go to hell.

A
door swung open on silent hinges to allow the entrance of Sir Reginald’s fourth
and last guest. Rupert Shaw was a small man, no more than five feet four with a
thin, bony body that his suit seemed to hang on rather than fit. He hurried to
the table while running a skeletal hand over his thinning grey hair, footsteps
silenced by the thick carpet. “I’m so sorry,” he said, “the traffic
was...”  He shrugged and trailed into silence but remained standing like
an errant pupil waiting to be chastised.

Langdon
smiled. “Please Rupert, take a seat,” he said, indicating an empty chair with a
wave of his hand, “
we
all know what the roads are like
at this time of the day.” He didn’t bother adding that everyone else had made
it on time.

Shaw
unfastened the single button on his suit and sank gratefully into the offered
seat, smiling thinly at his fellow guests. His inoffensive demeanour had won
him many a skirmish during the early years of his business life. Beneath his
timid exterior lay a very determined and ruthless businessman, as a few had
found out to their personal cost. Now, in his late fifties, he owned one of the
largest chains of jewellery stores in the British Isles. A good proportion of
the jewellery, gold, silver and other precious metals passing through his shops
would certainly have caught the attention of the local police, had it not been
melted down or simply remoulded into far more saleable items. All in all,
Rupert Shaw was the most successful dealer in stolen property the overworked
judicial system had yet to encounter.

Sitting
to the left of Shaw was David Eastman. His boyish good looks and arrogant air
offered no indication to the death and destruction in which he dealt. He was an
arms dealer who cared very little about the final destination of his cargoes.
He had set himself up in a thriving business many years before, selling
handguns and light automatic weapons to local gangs in the
Mosside
area of Manchester. He had clawed his way to the top of his particular tree
over the corpses of people less ruthless than himself. He kept a tight hold on
the dubious crown by being one step in front of the opposition and one step
behind his bodyguards. His name had spread quickly throughout the criminal
fraternity as a man who could supply any sort of weapon at any time,
confidentiality guaranteed. Terrorists, assassins and drug gangs were just a
few of the customers he had supplied in recent years with weapons of every
description. The only requirement for a sale was hard cash, a commodity always
in plentiful supply to his preferred clientele.

Opposite
Eastman sat Nigel Winters, a heavily built ex-marine with a mop of sun-bleached
hair sitting heavy and thick above a deeply tanned face. A broad white scar
snaked out of the hairline in the centre of his forehead and ended just above
his right eye, giving him a menacing look, a look accentuated by the permanent
scowl genetically etched across his face. The scar was a souvenir from his
recent travels, most of which had been conducted in war torn African states. He
was a mercenary who would fight for any faction willing to pay, and pay well
for his lethal services. He was a man devoid of compassion who would look upon
his fellow man as nothing more than a target. The more he killed the more he
was paid. His only loyalty was to the dollar bill, his preferred method of
payment. His latest excursion had ended rather suddenly after he'd accepted a
large amount of dollar bills to assassinate the military commander of the unit
he’d been fighting with.

Sitting
to the left of
Winters
, surrounded by a smoke screen
from a seemingly endless cigar, was Peter Holmes. A bull of a man with a deep
red face permanently coated with a fine sheen of perspiration. For a man of his
bulk he had surprisingly long fingers. He would use them occasionally to dab a
large cotton handkerchief across his brow, in an attempt to staunch the flow of
salty fluid. After each dabbing, his small owlish eyes would scan the faces
around the table while he returned the handkerchief to his pocket. Because of his
grossly overweight body and severe lack of personal fitness, he had surrounded
himself with a small army of bodyguards. Their loyalty paid for with generous
sums of money and the promise that should anything happen to them, their
families would be properly cared for. Their loyalty was assured, more
important, lips were sealed about his less than legal activities. This method
of personal protection allowed him the freedom of movement to run a murderous
empire of robbery, extortion and violence that covered the entire east side of
London and most of Essex. He had taken over the massive operation six years
earlier after the fortunate and timely demise of several rivals in an air
crash. A
Gulfstream
jet chartered from
Holflight
Limited, a company wholly owned by Peter Holmes,
developed engine problems that caused it to crash into a hillside. In the
confused aftermath, he had organised all the local gangs under one roof, his.
His personal estimated worth was now hundred and ninety million pounds, the
vast majority of it made from crimes committed for him by other people.

Langdon
looked at the four faces and leaned forward in his chair. “Gentlemen,” he said,
“phase one of the operation has been a success despite the odd hiccup. I
congratulate you on your efforts so far. Let us hope the rest of the operation
runs just as smoothly.”

Four
faces stared back, stony features giving nothing away. No one spoke.

Langdon
fixed his gaze on Peter Holmes. “Peter,” he said, “perhaps a better check on
the detonation systems could be made in the next phase. To avoid anymore of
those...,” he paused, as if trying to choose the right word, “...hiccups.”

Holmes
shifted in his seat, rolling the cigar between his thumb and forefinger. “It
won’t happen again,” he said, “I guarantee it.”

“Thank
you Peter, your guarantee is all that is required.”

“David,”
Langdon turned his attention to the arms dealer, “has all the necessary
equipment arrived yet?”

“There’s
just one more shipment to be delivered,” Eastman said, his eyes not leaving
Langdon’s, “it’s in transit, and should arrive in the next twenty four hours.”

“Good,
good. We don’t want to cut things too fine.”

He
turned to
Winters
. “Nigel, I know the bulk of the
planning is over, but is there anything in your opinion that may need to be
looked at further?”

“As
long as the rest of the bombs go up as they are supposed to,” he shot a glance
at Holmes who appeared not to notice, “then everything will be just fine. The
men on the ground will be drilled well enough to sort out any little problems as
they arise.”

“Well
if you need any more resources, men or materials,” Langdon said, “I’m sure
Peter will be only too happy to oblige.”

Winters
nodded, Holmes grunted and waved an affirmative cigar in the air leaving a
trail of smoke as if to underline the gesture.

Langdon
turned to the last of the arrivals. “Rupert,” he said, “I’ll let you know the
exact weight of the consignment first thing tomorrow. I trust you’ve had your
nose to the proverbial grindstone in order to dispose of it?”

Shaw
smiled. “Yes of course. I have several contacts who are interested, but I won’t
know how many to call until I get the weight. Tomorrow you say. I don’t
envisage any problems.”

“Excellent,
excellent.”
Langdon stood and walked to one of the mullioned, wood framed windows and
clasped his hands behind his back. The look on his face was one of a man who
was exceedingly pleased with himself. It was a look not unlike those adorning
the rank of ancestral portraits hanging pompously on the wood panelled walls.
He stared out of the window knowing four sets of eyes would be fixed on his
back. It won’t do any harm, he thought, for them to wait for the information
they had come to hear. A little reminder of whose operation this is, and who is
in charge.

Across
a well tended lawn, his guest’s cars were parked neatly on the wide sweeping
drive, a short covered walk from the marble steps leading into the reception
hall. Two chauffeurs were standing together, using one of the pillars as a
leaning post, chatting and smoking, getting on a lot better than their
employers. Two other men, both big, both bodyguards, stood by their charges’
cars, their gazes directed at the tree line and occasionally at the upper
floors of the house.

As
he watched, two herons, plumage highlighted by the last rays of the sinking
sun, flew over the lush green lawns and splashed to a clumsy halt at the edge
of a man made lake in the grounds of the house. The birds held his attention
for several seconds before he turned and faced the men at the table.

“Gentlemen,”
he said, “tomorrow morning as per our agreement, I will deposit two million
pounds sterling into your respective bank accounts.” He looked around at the
faces. Only one,
Winters
, showed any discernable
change. Probably the biggest payday he has ever had, or ever likely to have
again, Langdon thought. He continued, “The next payment will be made after the
successful completion of phase two.”

He
returned to his seat, followed by four pairs of eyes. He placed both hands palm
down on the table and pressed gently as he leaned forward. “Well we all know
the schedule of events, and though timing isn’t exactly crucial, the next phase
of the operation should begin immediately. No time like the present as they
say.”

Four
heads nodded with murmured assent, and knowing they had been dismissed, rose as
one and filed silently out of the room.

Langdon
waited until he heard the crunch of tyres on gravel before picking up the
telephone. He didn’t have to wait before speaking. “Remy, phase two is going
ahead, you know what to do.”

He
replaced the receiver, leaned back in his chair and lit a cigarette, inhaling
the smoke deeply.