Honour Bound (7 page)

-10-

The
beat from the rotors of the
Skycrane
helicopter
caused the cups on the table to rattle in their saucers. Peter Holmes looked
out of his office window at the slowly rising shape of the helicopter as it
lifted off the pad. The bulbous tinted glass of the cockpit and its elongated
spindly legs designed to straddle its payload reminded him of a huge insect in
search of prey. He unconsciously shook his head as the massive machine cleared
the buildings, its rotors thumping through the air with the effort of hauling
itself skywards. He watched as the helicopter banked gently to the right and
slowly disappeared from sight. He had never understood the fascination that
flying held for some people. His favourite mode of transport had four wheels
and stayed firmly on the ground. Although he owned nine aircraft, including the
Skycrane
he had never actually flown in one,
preferring to leave that dubious pleasure to his fare paying passengers. Trust
in mankind was not very high on his personal agenda, while trust in machines
designed and built by mankind failed to register a single vote. If my car
breaks down, he once commented to his chauffeur, I can step out of it. If one
of my planes breaks down, I would rather just hear about it.

He
turned away from the window and asked, "Is that thing tested and
ready?"  

John
Leach,
Holflight's
chief engineer quickly checked the
daily maintenance schedule fixed to his clipboard. "This is the final test
flight," he said, "when it gets back we'll start setting up the
rigging. That should take a day at most, and then it'll be ready."

"Good,
that should be in plenty of time."

Holmes
pointed his thumb over his shoulder, in the vague direction of the vacant
helipad. "Are you sure it'll be able to lift it? It seems to struggle
getting itself off the ground."

Leach
laughed. "Don't worry
sir,
we've got a total
payload of thirteen tons. That's a couple less than the chopper's designed to
carry. As long as that
info's
correct there'll be no
problem."

"Okay,
I suppose the kid knows his own toys. You'd better shoot off and get the
harness ready. We're only going to get one chance so we can't afford any
delays."

He
waited for Leach to leave the room. When alone, he punched a single digit on
the internal telephone.

"Yes
sir?" a metallic voice said.

"Bring
the car
round,
we have a visit to make."

***

The
Daimler purred to a halt in the managing director's bay, outside a recently modernised
warehouse, overlooking the Thames in Wapping. In two foot high letters, arched
over the main door, was the legend SEYMOUR WHARF. Below that, in half sized
letters it read 'Import and Export'. Holmes waited in the car's air-conditioned
interior for the grey suited chauffeur to open the door, only then did he enter
the spacious reception area of the yellow-bricked building.

"Good
morning Mr. Holmes," a dark haired girl said with a smile from behind an
ample desk.

"Good
morning Carol, I've come to see Mr. Winters. Do you know where he is?"

"About
an hour ago sir, he was downstairs in the dock supervising an unloading crew. I
believe he's still there."

"Thank
you. If anyone wants me I'll be either in the dock or in the basement
area."

"Okay
Mr. Holmes," she said brightly, "I'll re-route any calls."

The
warehouse was fifty yards from the north bank of the river. During its
refurbishment, a wide channel had been cut into the riverbank, to allow several
barges at a time inside the building for unloading. Cranes moved stealthily on
overhead gantries above the channel, enabling the cargoes to be unloaded
directly onto
lorries
for distribution, or onto
conveyer belts into the storage areas.

Holmes
now overlooked the unloading area after leaving the lift. A low wide barge was
moored in the dock and the unloading appeared to be almost finished. He spotted
Winters
having a heated exchange with the operator of
a crate laden forklift. A few angry gesticulations passed between them before
the forklift moved off to deposit its load on a nearby lorry.

Holmes
descended a flight of metal stairs and approached
Winters
.
Raising his voice above the general din of the machinery, he said, "Having
trouble?"

"Where
do you get some of these people from? Most of them are as thick as
pigshit
."

"Thick
they may be, but they are exceedingly loyal." He motioned towards a second
lift, "Let’s go to the basement, it's a bit quieter down there."

Winters
nodded. They walked to the lift, descended another three floors, about thirty
feet below the surface of the river, and entered an empty office in one of the
cargo storage areas. Holmes settled his bulk on a small desk, pushing aside
several wire baskets stacked with multi-coloured invoice sheets to make room.
"How's the equipment coming on? Has it all got here yet?"

Winters
leaned against a filing cabinet, resting his elbow on the top. "The final
consignment came in on the barge in the dock." His eyes and eyebrows
indicated upwards. "I called Langdon as per your instructions, to let him
know it's here. I've put the light weapons and the ammo in the range and the
other stuff I've locked in the vault."

Holmes
nodded his approval while mopping his brow with a handkerchief, seemingly
immune to the cool current of air coming from the air conditioning duct in the
ceiling. "Fair enough," he said, replacing the handkerchief in his
pocket.
"What about the planning, any problems?"

"Everybody
involved in the pre-assault phase knows what they have to do, where they have
to do it and when it should be done by. As for the assault phase, because we
can't practice it, I took the team out to the site in one of your coaches. We
had a small breakdown while they familiarised themselves with the layout of that
particular stretch and the distances involved. I've been drilling the details
into them at every opportunity. They know it as well as me."

"What
about the team,” Holmes asked, “can you foresee any problems there?"

"No.
Most of the blokes, as you know, are ex-forces and only two of them admit to
never firing a shot in anger. Personally, I don't think it'll matter. Once the
shooting starts I reckon they'll all react in a manner suitable to the
occasion."

"Good,”
Holmes said, “let's have a look at the weapons."

They
left the office, crossed the corridor, went down a flight of stairs and entered
the range through a thick metal door. A single bulb burned in the control room
of the otherwise pitch-black chamber, and they both made towards it like moths
to a flame. Winters flicked a switch and several dim lights came on at spaced
intervals along the 70-metre range. At the halfway point, six man-sized targets
hung from the ceiling like lynched convicts. A black four-foot thick rubber
wall, in place to stop the bullets without them ricocheting, marked the far
end.

"Each
man in the assault team will have one of these,"
Winters
said, reaching into an open crate and taking out a black submachine gun. He
handed it to Holmes. "It's a Heckler & Koch MP5. It’s a shit hot piece
of kit. It'll fire a full magazine in three seconds or so, and they'll each
have six thirty round
mags
loaded with armour
piercing ammo."

"Why
armour piercing, why not the ordinary stuff?" Holmes queried as he juggled
the weapon in his hands as if testing the weight.

"We
know the escort vehicles have got armoured glass and bodywork, but because they
don't leave these cars around for people like me to get a good look at we don't
know who the glass maker is. Some of the glass you can get will only resist a
few shots, while others will take as many normal rounds as you care to shoot at
it. So rather than risk a fuck up by not being able to get at the crews, I
decided we'll use the AP rounds."

"Sounds
reasonable," Holmes said. He took the magazine out of the MP5. A brass
cartridge case with a black conical tip resting in its jaws gleamed dully in
the poor light. "These don't look very big," he said, almost
absently.

"They're
up to the job." Winters assured him. "I don’t know how true it is,
but it's reckoned that
Mossad
had a big say in the
development of this ammo. Rumour has it they wanted something to penetrate the
glass in the cars the terrorist big
nobs
drove about
in, this is what they got, and the Yids don't do things by half."

Holmes
nodded. He had never had
Winters
’ obvious enthusiasm
for guns and ammunition. His only concern was that if he shot something or
someone then that something or someone stopped moving. He would never have
considered that some glass could stop bullets. But then, he was not the one
being paid for his expertise in planning offensive operations.

"As
long as they work," he said. "What are you using as backup?"

Winters
delved into another crate and extracted a Browning 9mm semi automatic pistol.
"One of these," he said, handing it to Holmes, who put the MP5 and
magazine back in the crate.

"It's
accurate and reliable and capable of stopping someone with a single round.
These'll
be loaded with armour piercing ammo as well, to
make sure they can penetrate body armour."

Holmes
nodded, "Fair enough, you seem to have everything under control." He
handed the Browning to
Winters
. "Get the assault
team in as often as you can before the big day and give them enough ammo to
familiarise themselves with the weapons. We don't want the whole thing reduced
to a shambles because someone can't cope with a jam. There's far too much at
stake for that."

"That's
all in hand,"
Winters
said, "they've already
fired enough ammo to squash an uprising, and I've not finished with them
yet."         

"That's
good." Holmes said, heading towards the door. "Use all the ammo you
need, there's more than enough. If you have any problems, call me.”

-11-

The
Aston Martin braked smoothly and turned off the winding country lane into a
long tree-lined drive. The weakening rays of the early evening sun reflected
dully from a brass sign on an arched stone gateway that announced 'Langdon
Manor'.

The
sleek, dark green car swept along the drive. The noise of the tyres crunching
on the gravel was unheard by Eastman in the passenger seat who was mentally
counting his profits. A million quid for my silence, he thought, and a forty
percent mark-up on the weapons. Half a dozen contracts like that and I could
retire. He looked across at his long time bodyguard cum chauffeur, Jonathon
Stride, an ex-paratrooper who found working for him much more profitable than
helping to police the world's trouble spots. He was a man of few words, it was
the actions he took to solve problems that brought him to Eastman's attention.

"When
I go inside," he said, "wait by the car. I don't expect any trouble
from this bozo, but if I'm not out in ten minutes, come in and find me."
He paused before adding, "There's an Ingram in my briefcase, with two
spare
mags
."

Stride
nodded impassively. "We're here," he said.

The
sprawling mansion came into view as they passed through a thick screen of
overhanging trees. Much added to over the years, the house covered almost an
acre. Most of the brick and stonework was hidden by thick curtains of creeping
ivy, trimmed only around the windows set in shouldered arches on each of the
three floors. Lush green lawns rolled away from the house ending at the
concrete lip of a man made lake. The lawns encircled the lake before joining
seamlessly with the mature woodland that surrounded the estate. 

Stride
drove the car into the sweeping curve in front of the house, stopping at the
edge of a large covered area several yards from the main
doors.   

"Don't
forget," Eastman said, "no more than ten minutes."

Stride
nodded. Eastman shut the car door behind him. His shoes clicked like those of a
tap dancer on the mirror like marble surface as he walked to the polished
double doors of Langdon's home. The left hand side of the doors swung open on
his approach.

"Hello
Manton," he said, recalling the butlers name from his last visit.

"Good
evening sir." Manton said, bowing slightly. "Sir Reginald is
expecting you." He closed the door behind Eastman.
"If
you would care to follow me sir."

"Lead
on Manton, lead on."

"This way sir."

Eastman
followed the diminutive butler along a picture-lined corridor, eventually
stopping by another large double door.

"One
moment please." He opened one of the doors and announced, "Mr.
Eastman to see you Sir Reginald."

Langdon's
voice sounded from inside the room. "Please, show him in."

The
butler stood aside and Eastman passed into a large brightly lit library, the
door closing silently behind him. His attention was drawn to a large open fire
in the centre of the room, the stonework blackened at the top through years of
use. A huge iron chimney hung from the ceiling, gathering up smoke from the
burning logs crackling merrily in the grate. He looked around. Antique
bookcases stretched the length of one wall, filled to capacity with ancient,
leather bound tomes. His untrained eye picked out the elegant framework of two
Chippendale cabinets standing side by side like two old brothers talking of
better times long since past. A collection of delicate crystal and hand carved
ivory was shared between them, as if on display in a grand museum. Oil
paintings of castles and stately homes adorned the dark, wood panelled walls.
Heavy drapes at each window added to the comfort of the room.

Langdon
was sitting in a huge, thickly upholstered chair behind a solid looking, well
used desk. A brass reading lamp with a green shade reared from behind a paper
filled wire basket like a Cobra poised to strike. A small shiver ran down
Eastman's back. Someone walking over my grave, he thought.

"Take
a seat Mr. Eastman, dinner will be ready shortly." He waved to an equally
large chair on the opposite side of the desk.

Eastman
ignored the offer and remained standing. "Unfortunately," he said,
"something has come up and I have to go straight back to London. So if you
can let me have my money I'll be on my way."

"How
sad, Manton had prepared something special for your visit. Still, business is
business. Your money is in the safe in my study,” he pointed towards the door,
"just across the hall."

As
Langdon rose from his chair, he reached into the open top drawer of the desk
and took out a Browning 9mm pistol fitted with an Eastman supplied silencer. He
fired once, the noise barely more than a muffled cough. The arms dealer
staggered backwards from the force of the impact. Langdon quickly fired a
second time. The bullet penetrated Eastman's brain via his right eye, and he
dropped to the floor like a punctured balloon.

Langdon
knelt beside the body and ripped open the dead man's shirt. The first bullet,
now flattened, was embedded in the weave of a Kevlar vest designed to protect
soldiers on the battlefield.

"The
bugger didn't trust me," he said, feigning surprise.

The
door opened and Manton entered the room, glancing down at the body, he said,
"There's another one by the car outside."

"Get
him in here." Langdon said. "Tell him there are two cases," he
nodded towards Eastman's corpse, "and our friend here needs a hand."

Stride
was sitting on the wing of the car, feet resting on top of the tyre, when he
saw the main door open. He stood up as the butler emerged from the inner gloom
and walked towards him.

"Mr.
Eastman would like you to carry one of the cases," the butler said,
"there are two of them and I'm afraid they are rather heavy." Manton
smiled and indicated towards the door. "If you'd care to follow me I'll
show you the way."

"Just a minute."
Stride opened
the car door and took the Ingram from the briefcase. He took the magazine out,
checked the load and replaced it. After cocking the action to load the weapon,
he said, "After you mate."

"I
don't think you'll need that sir," Manton said.

"I'll
be the judge of that pal.
After you."

Stride
followed the butler into the house, following the same route Eastman had taken
minutes earlier. As they neared the double doors of the library, Langdon's head
and shoulders appeared as he leaned into the corridor. "Ah! Here they are
now," he called to the dead Eastman. "Manton," he said,
"can you get Mr. Eastman that bottle from the cellar."

He
saw Stride visibly relax.

"Certainly sir."
Manton spun on his
heel and quickly walked the other way.

Langdon
spoke to the approaching Stride. "There are two
heavy-
"        

He
interrupted himself as he swung his right hand up and fired two shots into
strides chest and a third into his head, taking no chances on a second
bulletproof
vest, especially with the weaponry this one was
carrying. Stride was dead before he hit the
floor,
the
Ingram still gripped in a massive fist. Langdon watched as two blooms of red on
the dead mans shirt joined into one as the material greedily soaked up the
blood. The third bullet had entered his cheek just to the left of his nose. A
thick pool of blood was forming quickly on the shiny wooden floor, fed from a
stream pouring from the dead man's left ear. 

Manton
appeared from around the corner where he had taken cover. Langdon smiled.
"Our profits get bigger and bigger. Let's get these two moved, they're
messing the place up.”