The Purple Contract (11 page)

The holdall had been ripped apart by bullets and the remains of waste paper, old newspapers and even a toilet roll floated forlornly in the water, bobbing past Mammar’s outstretched arm as if even in death he was reaching for his money.

Seven seconds had passed since the bag parted company with Klaus Ditmar's hands.

The last crate was another of the long bulky ones and Uwe was glad to get it stacked on top of the other two just like it. That was the last of the cargo trans-shipped and glad he was of it. 'What the hell are we going to do with bloody
missiles
?' he grumbled.

Klaus wiped the sweat out of his eyes with relief. It was far too warm for this sort of labour. ‘The deal was for them to get whatever they could. You can't exactly place an order with the US Marines you know!' He reached across and rested a hand on the wooden crate in question. His face was thoughtful, this was a bonus he hadn’t in fact expected, but there were some interesting possibilities.

Uwe drained the beer can and threw the empty into a corner. 'I suppose not.'

'One of them we might be able to use ourselves,’ Ditmar said almost to himself, and then louder. ‘And I can think of some people in Ireland who would know what to do with SAM-7 shoulder launched missiles!'

A double thump outside was followed by a tousled head appearing in the open hatch. 'It's done. Let's get out of here!' Helga had been sent to fracture a fuel line or something in the other boat and make sure it would go up like a torch.

'Okay, give me the grenade and get the engine started. We'll be out in a few minutes.' Klaus picked up a length of rope and threw an end to Uwe. Five minutes later the pile of illicit weapons had been secured and covered with an ancient tarpaulin that may once have been white.

Helga played nervously with the throttle, blipping the engine while she watched Klaus carefully. Ditmar stood balanced on the foredeck with a phosphorus grenade “liberated” from the British Army in his hand. The pin had already been removed and with a casual wrist movement he tossed the grenade into the open wheelhouse door of the old green fishing boat, hearing it clatter down into the tiny cabin. The engine roared even before he waved. Helga was taking no chances of being caught in the conflagration. The stubby hull dug it's nose into the swell and gained speed rapidly.

Behind them a loud
crack
was followed immediately by a larger, more resonant
boom
as the spilled fuel and fuel tank exploded in a sheet of flame that leapt outwards and upwards into the clear blue sky. The boat and it's grisly cargo were a burning ruin in seconds, and even that quickly disappeared, hissing, beneath the waves. Klaus Ditmar looked back at the smear of black smoke drifting sluggishly over the water and smiled quietly to himself. Now Hans Brumaker owed him a favour...

 
 
 
 
7

 
4 – 22 June, 2013

The heavy wave broke with a muted thunder that sent low frequency vibration shuddering up Mike Hollis' spine. Unknown tons of slate gray North Atlantic water pounded into the shingle beach, the backwash draining with the characteristic hiss of grinding pebbles and leaving torn strands of seaweed to ultimately join the tangled heaps delineating the high water mark.

The next wave fragmented in the shallows and splattered impotently towards his feet, provoking a move further uphill away from the grasping fingers of the incoming tide. The cottage was in sight now at the far side of the bay. And just in time, Hollis thought, shrugging into his parka while trying to tease the zip under his chin just a shade higher. The wind found it's way down his neck regardless. Dusk was gathering now and the outline of the house was becoming indistinct, losing it's identity against the irregular landscape.

He had been walking for nearly four hours. Most of it fairly briskly to combat the chill north westerly wind. He had passed bays of shining sand, crossed jagged rocky outcrops populated with squalling gulls and stood on headlands providing breathtaking views across the mountains. But he had seen little or nothing of it. Once, a ring-necked pheasant had started up in considerable alarm right under his feet, bringing his head up with a snap and jolting him temporarily back into the real world.

When Hollis had a problem, he walked. He could think better, concentrate better when he was walking. If hiking the countryside was not possible, and it took some pretty violent weather to prevent it, then he paced back and forth indoors. Once he had wryly tried to calculate how many kilometres he must have travelled in the long corridor which ran most of the length of the old house. It was an ideal place for the purpose and the two windows recessed into the thickness of the outer wall encouraged occasional breaks in the routine to inspect the garden and the miscellaneous wildlife which shared his solitary existence.

Close to three weeks had passed since his carefully laid plan had been destroyed by a sprightly horse. The problem under consideration today was the same one as yesterday; as the day before. Try as he might, Hollis could not see any way to proceed with the business at hand––nothing, at least, that wasn't strictly shut-ended. No doubt James Bond would have managed to fly a hang-glider through the guy's bedroom window and then escape through the sewers to a waiting Harrier jump jet and fly himself home in time for cocktails.

The fact
was
that the Prince of Wales would not be appearing in public for the foreseeable future, and that meant that even just
finding
him was fraught with difficulties. But the contract had been accepted, and professional pride demanded he find some sort of answer.

But no matter which way he approached the problem, Hollis reckoned it looked like a bust.

He kept on walking. Kept on thinking.

The steak and onions were sizzling and spitting under the propane-gas-fired grill, filling the kitchen with the most appetising smells and making Mike Hollis' mouth water. He was ravenously hungry after his long walk in the great outdoors. On his way in he had grabbed a bottle of wine from one of the crates in the old byre he used as a storage shed.
35 South
, from Chile and one of his favourites. Stocks were getting low again: something else for the next shopping list. Hollis liked a bottle of wine with his meals, but out of a perverse sense of self-discipline he rationed himself to two per week.

The bottle had gone straight in the freezer forming the lower half of the tall fridge in the kitchen. He liked his wine just this side of freezing––and the steak just this side of charred. Mike Hollis was a man of few passions where food was concerned. But a large very well-done steak and a bottle of ice-cold wine came top of the list every time. The TV burbled in the background while he ate with considerable satisfaction.

With his belly comfortably full, he filled an oatmeal-coloured mug carrying the legend "Galley Slave" with black coffee and settled down with his feet up to watch the 6 pm news. The very first item brought him to the edge of his seat.

'Buckingham Palace today issued further details of the changes to Royal Engagements, following the recent injury to Prince Charles. The various public duties which the Prince had on his schedule will now mainly be undertaken by other members of the Royal Family. Although the Queen herself will open the Blake Hospice extension in Cardiff later this month, apparently after a personal request from her son.

'However, the Prince has insisted on carrying out one task himself, despite advice from his doctors. In late August he is due to be presented with the prototype of the Henderson ultrasonic filter by NorthTek International. NorthTek have gained world-wide acclaim for the device, which has dramatically reduced costs throughout the oil industry.

'Earlier this year the company offered to donate the prototype version of this revolutionary piece of equipment to the newly established Museum of British Industry. The Museum was of course Founded by the Prince and is funded solely by income from the Duchy of Cornwall.

'Involving as it does one of his most ardent projects, the Prince has positively refused to allow the visit to be cancelled or delegated. He will, therefore, attend the presentation in the NorthTek production facility at Lyness in the Orkney Islands on the twenty-first of August.'

Mike Hollis slowly leaned back into the chair, his hands steepled under his chin, staring at the television screen while the newscaster went on to more mundane matters. His mind was churning and he could
hear
his heart thumping in his chest. The coffee grew cold unheeded, forgotten. The Gods had given him one last chance, a final window of opportunity.

But how in hell was he going to make use of it?

Frank Wedderman was forty four years old. A heavy-set man with a ruddy complexion and horn-rimmed spectacles, he was approaching the end of his twelfth year in Special Branch. For the last two of those years he had held the rank of Inspector and he was proud of that. An achievement he would never have believed, would have laughed at when he walked out the gates of his Secondary Modern for the last time at the age of sixteen.

With an impressive, if low-key, career in other echelons of the Force, his appointment to Special Branch had given him quiet satisfaction. From the very first day he had enjoyed the challenge of his new work, although it was a demanding post and one which brought precious little in the way of public credit. The necessary involvement with security and diplomatic matters was a world away from the treadmill of housebreakings and other petty crime––although not so different when you resolved it to basic essentials. The problem with that world was the need to tiptoe through the shadows. Trying, not always successfully, to avoid tripping over some other damned fool from an adjacent department engaged on nefarious business of his or her own. Inter-departmental communications had always been "difficult" and the idea of actual co-operation between services had been a standing joke throughout Whitehall for decades.

Which was why Wedderman was extremely surprised to see the man he knew only as Greenside standing in the Chief Inspector's office.

'Thanks for coming up, Frank.'

Wedderman knew Chief Inspector William Durrant thought highly of him, and he in turn respected his boss for being a damned fine police officer. Unlike some other senior officers he had worked for in the not too distant past. Unimaginative men who regarded the force as being just a cosy career with a healthy pension at fifty five.

'Sit down, please, gentlemen,' Durrant waved both men to regulation-issue plastic chairs. 'I believe you know Greenside, from SIS?'

Wedderman nodded. The Secret Intelligence Service regarded themselves as being God’s gift. If this was some piddling complaint about one of his lads farting out of turn, he was going to have this spook's entrails on the carpet.

'Good morning Inspector'.

Well, at least he’s polite
, thought Wedderman cynically. 'Morning.'

Durrant leaned back in his chair, twiddling a pencil between thin, bony fingers. 'It's common knowledge that Special Branch and the security services don't often see eye to eye,' he began, talking mainly to Wedderman. 'And we're not here this morning to set the world to rights on that score. But the fact is that SIS have come upon a piece of information which, if genuine, could lead to an appalling act of terrorism in this country.' He moved forward, leaning his elbows on the desk and tapping the pencil on the blotter for emphasis. 'We are not going to allow that to happen!' He looked at each man in turn. 'Greenside, would you explain, please.'

Greenside let the silence go on for a few seconds, gathering his thoughts perhaps. 'One of my operatives was contacted last night by an informant. A man he knows well; deals with regularly on various … um … matters.' He paused and shrugged almost to himself. 'The man had information to sell, as these people do. We have found him to be quite reliable, if perhaps a little greedy. In any event the price he demanded was laughable.'

Wedderman almost smiled at the expression on the SIS man's face. Upper-class pratt looking down his nose at the crudity of bribery. How did he think the real world worked for God's sake?

'However, after a few hints had been given, and a particular name mentioned, we agreed to pay.' Greenside stopped speaking, considering, and then changed tack. 'Do you remember, Inspector, the shooting of the OPEC Chairman in Riyadh some years ago?'

Wedderman nodded. 'Of course I do. It scared the living daylights out of the rest of them and brought the price of oil down almost overnight. Maybe they figured they had pushed their luck once too often.'

'Yes, perhaps so. It was perfectly obvious that it was a contract killing, and the Saudis as you can imagine were incensed! Their intelligence services were running around like the proverbial headless chicken, but they were unable to discover even the smallest lead as to who was responsible. In the spirit of diplomatic co-operation the Prime Minister instructed my department to assist. No doubt with an eye on his trade agreements!' He smiled cynically. It was an open secret that Greenside held the Conservative/Liberal Democrat coalition in total contempt.

'Well, we had nothing to go on, but our friends in the CIA came up with some interesting aspects. To be specific, they came up with two names: Solyevetskiy and Hollis. Either of them mean anything?'

Durrant and Wedderman shook their heads in unison. Special Branch was not over-burdened with files on international contract killers.

'I'm not surprised. There are of course plenty of thugs in the world who will kill for money. Most of them end up behind bars or dead because they're just that: thugs who haven't the brainpower to consider how they are going to get away with it afterwards.

‘There are, on the other hand, a few highly skilled professionals out there. Anonymous, faceless, probably in all other respects upstanding members of society. Family men, your next door neighbour perhaps,' Greenside waved a hand at Wedderman.

Durrant stirred uneasily. 'I'm not sure I can agree with that. We're talking about a psychopath, someone who
kills
people for pleasure! You can't associate him with Joe Public, washing his car on a Sunday morning!'