The Purple Contract (20 page)

The three Irishmen were getting concerned. The very last thing they needed was to have to use lights out here in the middle of nowhere. Might as well sell tickets and call it a party. If these bloody Germans didn't appear soon it was going to be a bust, and quite a few folk in Londonderry and Belfast would get very pissed off: a large amount of money had already disappeared into Luxembourg. Not to mention the reaction of these two damned kids, who were about ready to swing from the bloody
trees––

'What's that?'

'Eh?' Brian came out of his reverie and followed the pointing arm, squinting in the growing dusk.

'There.' A smudge, indistinct in the twilight, had appeared round the headland. As they watched the bow wave fell away, the boat slowing suddenly. Two figures stood one either side of the foredeck, watching for obstacles in this unfamiliar place. A raised arm indicated they had spotted the van. A white van, precisely what they had been told to expect.

'Get the torches,’ ordered Brian. The three Irishmen ran onto the beach, right down to the water's edge. The growling mutter of the boat's engine cut off suddenly, leaving an almost deafening silence. They could clearly hear the waves slapping against the boat's hull as it glided towards the beach.

'Sand! It's just sand, bring her right in!' Brian called carefully, deliberately keeping his voice down. Sound could carry a surprisingly long way, especially over water.

A voice answered but the words were unclear. They had got the message though, because the boat was slewing, using up the last of its impetus and coming in at an angle. Then the Irishmen had to mind their feet as the hull scrunched into the sand almost broadside, sending a surge of cold seawater flooding up the beach. Brian grinned to himself when he heard one of the youngsters f
'ing and blinding.
Too slow, my son, too slow!

Typically, Uwe Wrasse was first ashore. Leaping off the bow clear of the waterline. Helga watched in silence with a hand on the automatic pistol inside her jacket. She had no reason to expect trouble here, but still––

'Klaus!' Brian waved in greeting. 'Good to see ye, man. We were gettin' worried a while there.'

Klaus Ditmar followed Uwe onto the coarse sand. The two men shook hands. 'The weather was not what we expected, very rough all the way across. It slowed us down a great deal.'

'Aye, these forecasters get their money pretty easily, sure enough. We'd better get to work, Klaus. The light's bad enough as it is.'

'Yes, I think you are right.' Klaus looked about him. They had picked a good place, give them that. As he had been promised, it had been no bother at all to find this secluded bay. Just another example of how it paid to deal with professionals. He would be sure to remember this place for future use. A convenient back door, as it were.

It was fully dark before they were finished, but the sky remained clear and the moonlight, supplemented with torches, was sufficient to get the job done. Albeit with some cursing and the occasional scuffle as a box was dropped into the sand. Finally they gathered in a group beside the now heavily loaded white Renault. Six indistinct figures in the gloom.

'Bloody good job, Klaus,' said Brian. 'Thanks a lot, the boys will put this lot to good use.'

'Always good to do business with you, my friend.'

'Are you heading home now?'

'No, we could do with some relaxation. It's been a busy time for us. Much running around this last few months,' he grinned in the darkness. 'We have passports with us, not our own names of course, so we will officially enter Ireland tomorrow like good citizens and have a few days holiday in your beautiful country.'

'That's great. We'll be in touch again in due course, take care now.'

The three Germans watched the van bumping it's way back along between the potholes. 'Assholes!' observed Helga Wrasse, referring mainly to the two youngsters, who had been determinedly chatting her up for the last hour. One of them had even developed an obvious hard-on for God's sake. She shook her head.

'All right, let's get moving.' Klaus herded them back towards the water's edge. 'The tide has turned, we need to be out of here.'

'Where to?' Uwe was having visions of spending the night being thrown around the cabin again.

'We'll anchor here in the bay, where it's sheltered. That way you can have a good night's sleep. eh?' Klaus laughed.

'Thank Christ for that!' replied Uwe with feeling.

'The city of Wexford is not far from here. Tomorrow we can motor round there and go ashore.' Klaus boosted Helga up over the gunwale. 'If the Customs people want to have a look around then that's fine––there is nothing for them to see now!'

The sleepy town of New Ross is an inland port perched on the banks of the River Barrow. Hollis considered it an unattractive place with its steep, narrow streets and old fashioned buildings. In fact it is one of the oldest towns anywhere in County Wexford.

Hollis passed through without stopping and left, as he had entered, on the N25. Just across the border into County Kilkenny he turned off the main road in a north-westerly direction on an unremarkable road, without even a signpost, and drove towards the looming hills, catching occasional glimpses of the river Nore twisting its way to merge with the Barrow near New Ross.

The very image of peaceful rural existence. Hollis had been here several times before to visit the man he habitually referred to simply as the Armourer. The man lived alone in a small steading in the foothills below the hulking mass of Mount Brandon. His house practically surrounded by a small group of outbuildings containing his workshops and a small forge built by a previous owner of the property.

Hollis stopped in the village beside a public telephone box. From memory he dialled a number and spoke briefly. Despite the fact that he was expected it was still wise to announce his imminent arrival.

Hopefully this time he would have the bloody dogs locked up.

The only access was an unassuming leafy lane stretching for close to a kilometre, itself an offshoot of an unmade, bumpy track. Eventually it opened out into a cobbled courtyard that dated from the 18th century, when the lane had been the only road and a wayside inn had stood here. It was, Hollis had to admit, precisely the sort of place he would have chosen himself.

The Range Rover's diesel engine had barely rumbled into silence when a burly, almost bald man emerged from what appeared to be a barn and waved cheerfully. Hollis climbed down and the two energetically shook hands. Judging by the noise, the three Dobermans were in another of the outbuildings. Hollis liked dogs well enough, but those three animals hated everyone but their master.

'Good to see you again!' The bald man boomed. He had a deeply resonant voice, enhanced by the faint echo from the stone walls around them. Names were never mentioned here, there was no need. The Armourer's clients were all personal friends and he wasn't interested in working for strangers nowadays anyway. Those days were long past.

'It's been a while,' agreed Hollis, gripping the other man's arm with both hands. His friend looked little different, although it had been three years since last they met. Inevitably, that had been under similar circumstances. Just the eyes seemed a little more tired, more lined in the corners.
Getting old,
thought Hollis,
we’re all getting old.

The Armourer was Irish by birth. Although he had spent so many years in other parts of the world that his voice held only the most subtle traces of his homeland. Despite the years of association, Hollis knew little of the man's background. Questions would have been impolite, and the answers would contain only as much truth as he chose to tell. As far as Hollis knew, he had never served in the armed forces of any country––at least not officially. There had been an episode in Angola, where he had been involved in the Mad Mike Hoare debacle. And some sort of long-term entanglement in the Far East. But precisely where his training and unparalleled skill with weapons had come from, Hollis had no idea––and cared little anyway.

The dogs had finally realized their territory wasn't really being invaded and had shut up. The two men walked across the smooth cobblestones and went inside the house. It was beautifully kitted out in the old fashioned country style. Pine and Ash everywhere. The massive beams crossing the lounge ceiling were hollow, and just for decoration. But they
looked
solid, and very real. The kitchen was the same. No chipboard and tacky plastic here either. Solid oak doors and trim and with all the appliances and general kitchen equipment built in to the units and work surfaces. It was an impressive job. And all the more so because Hollis was aware it had been done by the Armourer's own hands. Making things was his lasting passion in life. In wood, metal or anything else, it didn't matter. As long as he could use his hands, and create something from nothing, he was happy.

And that of course was why Hollis was here in the Irish countryside.

With fresh coffee brewing they settled on leather-covered stools on opposite sides of the breakfast bar and set the world to rights while the percolator burbled and popped behind them. With two mugs of coffee steaming in front of them, Hollis pulled his home-made diagram from his inside pocket and spread it out between them.

The other man leaned forward with professional interest. 'Well now, what's this fancy thing?'

Hollis smiled at the description. 'Basically, it's a single-shot weapon, controlled remotely,' he moved his finger around the diagram, highlighting.

'Single shot?' His companion glanced up at him.

'There won't be any chance at all of a second go. Out of the question.'

'Better not miss, then.' The Armourer wasn't being facetious, this was business. He simply stated a fact.

Hollis shrugged. 'If it works at all it will be a head shot, from close range.'

'Excuse me a moment.' The Armourer went down the hallway and Hollis heard another door open. Shortly the man returned carrying several stainless steel draughting instruments. He spent a few minutes carefully checking measurements, pausing every now and then with a faraway look in his eyes. Hollis kept quiet and drank his coffee. Letting his friend trawl the depths of his mind. The mysterious processes of that complex and badly understood organic computer known as the human brain were in full flood. Best he stay out of the way and give it a clear run.

'This remote control thing. What are we talking about? A wire, radio or what?'

'Have to be radio. Wires or anything else attached would blow the whole thing.'

'Hm. I'm not sure about your head shot. How are you going to aim this thing? Why not just use a long gun?'

'Access mainly, I can't be certain of the exact circumstances this far ahead. But I'm pretty sure there won't be the opportunity for a distance shot. A hand gun at close quarters isn't on either: I'd like to go on living afterwards!'

'Quite. But this is a difficult thing you're asking of me. Technically. You understand?'

'Of course. That's why I came to you. I don't know of anyone else who could do this and make it work.'

'Flattery!'

'Truth.'

The Armourer drained his mug of coffee and dropped it into a plastic basin in the sink. 'Well, we'd better give it a try I suppose. It's in the car?'

'Yes.'

'Right, let's take it into the workshop and have a look at it.'

Hollis fetched an anonymous blue holdall from the Range Rover and followed his friend into the barn adjacent to the house. Inside it was warm and dry. The entire barn had been converted into a modern machine shop. The Armourer spread the diagram on an angled draughting table and unzipped the holdall on an adjacent bench.

'Very nice,’ he grunted. ‘Made by anyone I know?' He turned it end over end examining it minutely.

Hollis smiled when he saw his friend squint down the hollow tube. 'No,' he said. 'You wouldn't know him.'

'Hm.’ The Armourer placed it carefully on the bench. ‘You'd better explain to me exactly what you expect this damned thing to do.'

Hollis picked up his creation. 'I said close range because the subject will, to a certain extent, kill himself. He’s expected to pick this device up––there's not any real doubt about that––and examine it for a few moments. As you can imagine, I need a firing mechanism built in to this box affair at the base.' The box produced a hollow rapping sound under his knuckle. 'Single shot, smooth bore, bullet as large as you can fit in within the weight limits. As I said, it will be a head shot: but
one
only, so we have to be sure.'

'Smooth bore? I'd prefer to rifle it if possible.'

'Can't be done, the inside of the tube must appear normal.' Hollis passed the device back across the bench.

'Oh.’ There was a pause. ‘Well, that's not too bad,' The bald man peered down the protruding tube once again. 'I can rifle it two thirds of its length and nothing will be visible from the open end. Better than nothing.'

'Okay, that sounds fine.' Hollis was more than ever convinced he had come to the right place. 'The thing is, will there be room in there for a radio control unit as well? And remember the weight limit. The finished item has to weigh
exactly
what is says on here.' Hollis tapped the sheet of paper for emphasis.

'Aye, as you say, that's the thing.' Calipers were produced and several measurements compared to the diagram. 'This drawing isn't to scale!' the older man accused, peering over the top of his spectacles.

'Sorry!'

'Hmph. Well, I’m sure you realize that it's going to be complex getting everything in here. Fortunately electronics come pretty small these days. Couldn't have done this at all a few years ago.' He looked up. 'How far away are you going to be at the time?'

Hollis thought about that. The trouble was he didn’t really have much idea. 'Possibly just a few metres,' he said. 'Forty or fifty at most I would think.'

'That's fine. The transmitter will be very small, and therefore not very powerful, but that will be all right. Getting the receiver inside here is the important thing.' A few more minutes of silence ensued, and a lot more measuring and figuring. At one point the Armourer opened a metal cabinet and brought out a revolver of second world war vintage and held it against Hollis' device for comparison. 'Hm,' he muttered again. A few minutes later he said: 'What did you mean about the subject shooting himself?'