The Purple Contract (36 page)

In the foyer, the remaining journalists had finished the coffee and were waiting impatiently for the action to start. This wasn't proving to be the most absorbing story they had ever covered, and Royal stories, anyway, were not the draw they had once been. However, they were about to get more action than they bargained for.

Hollis erupted into the foyer, chopping viciously with the edge of his hand at one of the BBC crew who made a half-hearted attempt to block his path. The man went down with a muffled cry.

Frank Wedderman had made good time back along the first floor corridor and he threw himself down the flight of stairs at the front of the building with reckless abandon. Uttering an involuntary 'Uh!' as his left hip took a painful knock from the bannister rail where the stairway took a sharp turn near the bottom. He was two seconds behind Hollis across the foyer, scattering the now-excited pressmen once again.

The three security guards heard the door bang open and turned in some surprise. They were shocked to have the hurtling figure of Mike Hollis suddenly among them, one guard sent flying, rolling over and over across the gravel and fetching up against the wire fence. Both the other men shouted after him, but Hollis was already out on the road.

Sergeant Stewart was ready for his breakfast, despite the fact that he had already eaten it. But that had been nearly three hours ago. At just after nine in the morning his stomach was telling him it was lunchtime. He turned when he heard the shouts from inside the compound, just in time to see one of his local constables go down under a swinging fist, his hat rolling and bouncing over the pavement before coming to rest in the gutter.

John Stewart was in his late thirties and still kept himself in peak condition physically. Years of playing rugby virtually every week, a passion from his school days, had left him with no fear of physical contact with a rapidly moving human body. The sharp voice of Wedderman, pounding along thirty metres or more behind his quarry, galvanised him into action.

'Stop that man! For God's sake catch him!'
Wedderman knew he couldn't keep up this pace for much longer. Hollis appeared to be in no great distress from his exertions and if these dozy buggers didn't get hold of him soon...

Stewart ran hard, not wasting time with orders to his men: they had eyes in their heads didn't they? He ran at a tangent to Hollis' path, putting a
lot
of effort into his stride now and feeling the satisfaction of narrowing the gap. Like Wedderman, he knew he couldn't keep this going very long, but that was all right. Just a few more seconds...

Hollis saw the dark-suited figure coming out the corner of his eye and tried to evade, but the closing speed was too great. He glanced up and saw that he was heading for the pier! Desperately, he swerved to one side, angling for the corner close to where he had parked the Range Rover earlier that week, hoping to get clear long enough to conceal himself somewhere.

Stewart dived forward in what he later declared was the best flying tackle he could remember executing. His arm circled Hollis' waist at the same instant as his shoulder impacted the small of his back. The two men sprawled in an untidy heap onto the roadway, Hollis catching his forehead a glancing blow on the road surface and opening up a ragged gash. His attacker's body slammed the breath of out him, followed immediately by further blows as two other police officers leapt on top.

'Durafin!' a muffled voice muttered. 'Dun durfin.'

Sergeant Stewart heaved upwards with his shoulders. 'Get off me, for God’s sake!'

Grinning, the two constables got to their feet and stood watchfully by. Frank Wedderman, breathing heavily, his chest heaving, came to an unsteady halt alongside.

'What was that you said?' Stewart took some of his weight off Hollis' back.

'I haven't done anything!' repeated Hollis indistinctly, his face still pressed against the rough road surface.

'Well, I don't know about that,' Stewart grunted. 'I saw you assault a police officer in the execution of his duty. That'll do for a start!’ He pulled handcuffs from his belt and snicked them closed around Hollis’ wrists. ‘You, my son, are under arrest. You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand?”

Hollis made no reply. He felt hands helping him to his feet, blood running freely now from his gashed forehead over his left eye and down his face.

Wedderman nodded in considerable satisfaction. That would surely do for a start. 'Well done,' he said simply, putting a hand on Stewart's shoulder. 'You've just prevented a tragedy of national proportions!'

'Eh?' Sergeant Stewart was mystified, who the hell was this joker?

'Later. I'll explain it to you later,' said Wedderman, showing Stewart his Special Branch warrant card. Looking at Hollis, he asked: 'Where's the gun?'

'What?
' enquired Stewart incredulously.

Hollis shook his head. 'What the hell are you on about?' he said.

Wedderman shook his head in disgust, pulling Hollis' jacket open. Finding nothing, he began frisking him. The plastic box was extracted from his side pocket and held up in front of his eyes. 'What's this then?'

Hollis gazed impassively at it. 'TV controller. What does it look like?'

Always carry it about in your pocket, do you?' Wedderman turned the thing over in his hand.

'One of the kids must have put it there.'

Engine.

'Well, I think we'll find out about that soon enough. Put this bastard somewhere secure, sergeant. And for God's sake make sure he's under guard. He isn't to touch
anything
or go
anywhere
. I don't care if he pisses in his pants for want of a toilet!'

‘Sir, what’s going on here?’ Stewart was having difficulty following all of this, dumped on him out of the blue.

‘There isn’t time right now, sergeant. It’ll all be explained to you and your men later,’ Wedderman assured him.

Turbine engine. Underlaid now by the
whop-whop
of rotor blades.

Hollis raised his head in despair, his eyes haunted and disbelieving
. Christ! How close can you get?
  The small dot was difficult to see, blending as it did with the blue of the sky. But once he had it in sight, it grew rapidly larger, turning a little as the pilot picked out the temporary helipad arranged for his benefit.

'Come on, you!' They led Hollis towards a police car, three of them, surrounding him, hemming him in.

It was over.

The gleaming white motor cruiser surged slightly in the swell running through Switha Sound between the island of Flotta and the south edge of Hoy. The clattering rotor blades were much louder now and finally the gray-and-black Queen's Flight helicopter emerged over the low heathland of South Walls. Helga Wrasse was suddenly aware of the dryness in her mouth. She felt for the ignition key with her undamaged arm, without taking her eyes from the aircraft. Her three broken ribs were barely into the healing process and the strapping was hellishly uncomfortable. But that wasn't why her mouth was dry. Silently she raged at herself: rather late now to get scared.

Klaus Ditmar moved slightly to re-adjust his balance. In due course of time that bastard Hollis was going to get everything that was coming to him. If he was lucky, he would die long before Helga was finished with him. Pain from his shattered leg knifed through him again. He knew after this he would almost certainly need further surgery on it: he should have been lying flat on his back, not gyrating around on the ocean. But there was no way he was giving up on the second half of the three million Marks he was being paid for this. Didn’t the crapheads know he would have done it for free!

The plaster cast on his left thigh was in contact with the cabin superstructure as a stable reference point while he hoisted the matt-green tube of the Russian-manufactured SAM-7 to his shoulder, sighted and fired in a single smooth movement. Helga instantly turned the boat’s ignition key and time seemed to stop.

The smoke trail snaked back and forth as the heat-seeking sensor made minute adjustments to its parent's course. Targeting on the enormous radiating source that was the helicopter's turbine engines. The missile was in flight just three seconds.

And then a second sun blossomed in the clear sky.

The cruiser roared southwards out of the Sound at full throttle, heading for it's own helicopter rendezvous on the uninhabited island of Stroma in the Pentland Firth. One of the cabin windows abruptly shattered under the impact of a metal fragment, while others sliced into the sea alongside. Klaus grabbed the wheel, leaving Helga free to look back, her eyes glowing with almost sexual fervour. She turned in time to see the blazing remains of the Queen's Flight aircraft, and of the monarch's son Charles, Prince of Wales strike the cold unforgiving sea.

 
 
 
 
Epilogue: 2014

Eight months later, two men stood together in the darkness, waiting.

They had come from their separate cars and walked through the low undergrowth, making their way up onto the extinct volcano known as Arthur’s Seat. The city of Edinburgh lay before them and beneath them on a pleasant but cool night.

Both men were experiencing surprising emotion and it was several minutes before one of them broke the silence.

'Sorry I couldn't get back before. Edward’s investiture dragged on a bit. Not something that can be hurried!’ There was a smile in the voice.

The other man shifted his feet in the grass and shrugged into his jacket: he had put off an interesting encounter with a starry-eyed young lady to be here tonight. But on reflection he knew he couldn’t have missed this, not for anything. 'Well, you were right after all,' Peter Barron said with some relief. 'The extra million
was
well spent, I admit it.'

'I would have paid twice as much,' Len Harrison assured him. 'It was worth every penny. Hollis had them all running around like headless chickens. They were so stretched with their lack of resources that there was
no
chance of them picking up on the German operation.' He paused before adding: 'And of course Hollis may have succeeded, his record after all has been impressive.’ He shrugged in the gloom. ‘It was a no-lose situation as far as we were concerned.'

'Sure enough,’ Barron agreed. The lights of Princes Street formed a bright scar across the city, daunted only by the huge video screens that had been erected in what seemed like every open space. ‘I thought for sure someone would find it curious that such a well-known contract killer was hired for
this
job. Bit like advertising!'

'Well, yes, of course it was a risk––but a minor one. It took longer to identify Hollis after the tip-off than I expected, but that was no bad thing in the end. I thought for a while we’d have to do it again! When his name did finally come out of the hat quite a few prominent people were pissing themselves, I can tell you. After that it was just gut reaction: all they could see was Hollis' face behind a gun.'

'Stupid bastards,’ commented Barron succinctly. ‘But they only have themselves to blame. None of this should have been necessary. But if you treat an entire country with contempt…’

‘Quite.
Sow and ye shall reap
, as the good book would have it.’

Below, in the city there was sudden cheering, screaming, a swelling crescendo of noise. Itself drowned out as the first volley the firework display rose majestically from the castle ramparts. The video screens were flashing now in multiple colours. The could
see
people literally dancing in the streets.

‘They’ve announced the result!' Barron’s voice choked into silence. The referendum decision had been deliberately timed for midnight. The end of the day, and the end of the Union––or the end of Scotland’s hopes and dreams if it had all been for nothing.

Harrison laid a hand on his friend’s arm
. 'I think we can be sure the point has been made.’

The fireworks were filling the sky now, hundreds of them, rainbow colours streaming upwards and outwards. Every salvo making the night sky lighter and lighter. It was almost as if dawn was breaking.

And dawn
was
breaking. The dawn of a  newly reborn nation...

Afterword

Robin Flett is retired from the humdrum of business life, and spends what spare time he can find writing. He lived in the Orkney Islands for fourteen years, and an apology is thus due to those islanders for the liberties taken in this book. For example, there is no industrial complex in Lyness as described herein, although Orkney is of course heavily connected with North Sea Oil production. The island of Flotta, close to Hoy, houses one of the largest oil terminals in the UK.

Some businesses and other facilities depicted in Kirkwall were necessarily created to serve Hollis’ requirements. And interested parties should spend no time seeking the cottage he rented.

The Purple Contract
is over, Mike Hollis is behind bars, Scotland is once again an independent country and what remains of the ‘United Kingdom’ has a new ruler. But across the Atlantic restless and nefarious interests are rising, and it could be that the United States of America has urgent need of their disenchanted child.

So Mike Hollis may ride again…

Robin Flett currently resides in northern Scotland with his wife and two cats. His website can be found at
www.robinflett.com
.