The Purple Contract (4 page)

In his car, Len Harrison noted with mild interest the stream of vehement callers. 'Well, it's not often that the SNP finds itself at the leading edge of public opinion,' he smiled wryly. The morning paper on the seat beside him carried yet another sarcastic banner headline:
Scotty’s ass is mine, says Charles.

Fifteen minutes later and even Mike Keane was ready to give it up. The producer had taken his headphones off and was morosely drinking a cup of lukewarm coffee. The girls had been told to close the phone lines. Once the last caller on the present list had had his say the phone-in would be quietly dropped before the sponsors went completely berserk.

'Don't get me wrong, Will, I'm not any happier about this than you are, but burning flags won't solve anything.' The caller was extremely annoyed and had demanded that every Union flag in Scotland should be publicly burnt in protest.

'We've gotta do
something
, Mike. Something positive to show this bloody puppet how big a mistake he's made!'

Mike winced; the station frowned on even such mild cuss-words, and there had after all been quite a few already this morning. 'I know there have been various diplomatic moves. Maybe we can get some negotiation started …’

'Christ, it's too late for that, mate,' the caller spat, clearly angry now. 'It's gonna take more than … '

'Well thanks for calling, Will, time for some more music …' But he was too late to prevent the caller finishing, his strident voice over-riding Keane's.

'… I think somebody should shoot the bastard!'’

Len Harrison, just about to turn into a car park near to the Parliament building, actually felt the blood drain from his face. His hands were shaking slightly as he stopped the car in the first available slot. He sat staring blindly at the bulk of Arthur’s Seat towering above him for nearly half a minute, and then spoke out loud almost in awe: 'Oh, my God!’

At first Peter Barron had been concerned at his friend's pale face and uncharacteristic nervousness. Then intrigued when he was practically frog-marched out to the Jaguar and driven in circles around the city streets. But when he heard what Harrison was proposing he began to fully understand the melodrama. No-one but
no-one
could be allowed to overhear any of this!

'Len, you've lost your mind! We'd never get away with it!"

'Come on, man, think it through!' Harrison had said impatiently. 'I'm not suggesting you go and do it yourself.'

'I bloody hope not!'

'Don't be ridiculous. But we have to be realistic, a task like this needs a professional. Someone, or some organisation, with the talent and the experience to do what needs to be done and get away with it afterwards.’ He smiled wryly. ‘These people aren't suicide merchants, you know.'

Barron stared out the window at the extraordinarily
normal
scene outside. A gaggle of girls in school uniform; an elderly lady walking her small dog; a bunch of kids playing handball in a front garden. And in this car they were plotting …  well …  murder.

'Are you seriously telling me to employ a professional killer, some sort of
contract assassin
?'

'We, Peter. We. And yes, that's exactly what is required.' Harrison's voice hardened. 'To a certain extent you have to feel sorry for the man. Charles has been brought up to believe that royalty really
are
a different breed of humanity: that it’s his place to tell the rest of us how to live our lives.' He slammed both hands against the steering wheel for emphasis. 'Since the day he was born no-one has ever dared to say no to him, and look at the end result. The hopes and aspirations of an entire nation simply waved aside without a thought. We can’t let this happen, we just can’t.’

There was silence for several minutes, both men occupied with their inner thoughts––and their inner fears.

'Where the hell do you expect to find someone like that? Christ, they'd have to be good, can you imagine the security that must surround that man? And what if it fails? Where does that leave us?'

'Calm yourself, Peter. Whatever happens there will be no trail leading back here, that must certainly be paramount. I have no wish to spend the rest of my days behind bars any more than you. In fact, once we do locate a suitable candidate he cannot under any circumstances be told the truth. If he should be apprehended in the attempt, for example, we would not want him discussing with the authorities who his employers were!

‘No, we shall have to plan this carefully. A plausible story needs to be constructed, whoever takes this on must believe implicitly that he is bringing about entirely different events. Perhaps something to do with the never-ending backstabbing in Europe would be suitable. In any case, all eventualities must be covered. Every loose end tucked away. No mistakes.’ He looked round into his friend’s eyes. ‘We will not, you can be sure, get a second chance!'

'You make it sound like a military operation. Barron commented sourly.

Harrison chuckled. 'The old training dies hard, I suppose, but yes, we could do worse than treat it as such.'

'Where do we start looking for a …  a mafia
hitman
?'

'Well, I think I may be able to put some wheels in motion. Time is pressing, we can’t afford to waste any time.'

'What?
How on earth––?'

'Oh, someone I do business with on the odd occasion.' Harrison shrugged it away. 'The man’s a criminal and a thug, but you’re perfectly safe with someone you
know
you can't trust! The thing is, he has a big grudge against the English––they had the audacity to put him in jail, I gather!'

'Where did you meet him?' Barron was astonished, this was a new side to his old friend's character, one he had never had reason to suspect.

'That doesn't matter, but I know he has a lot of contacts in the UK, and indeed further afield. I feel sure he would be able to put us in touch with someone suitable. He goes by the name of Manson, Ralph Manson …‘

Peter Barron stood on the pavement, watching the white Jaguar merge with the traffic and disappear. It had started to drizzle again. He was aware of his heart thumping in his chest, the dryness in his mouth––he badly wanted a drink.

'Hi, Pete.'

'What?'

'Howya doin?' The red-faced man, probably in his fifties patted Barron on the arm. Probably an SNP member, someone who knew his face anyway. 'Keep up the good work, Pete. Don't let those English bastards get away with it.' He waved in salute and walked on.

Peter Barron tried a friendly smile, but he was shaken. 'No,' he muttered. 'No, they won't get away with it!’

Three days later, as Barron was spreading marmalade on his toast and eyeing the two eggs boiling in the green enamel pan, he noticed the “call waiting” light blinking on the telephone answering machine. He pushed the button and recognised Len Harrison's voice, although no names were mentioned. It was, of course, an open line.

'The bit of business we discussed the other day. I've spoken to the supplier and he does in fact have some contacts for the item we need. I have various other matters to attend to in Europe anyway, so I've asked him to set up a meeting with the appropriate executive as soon as possible. I'll sound him out first of course and, if he's interested, tell him the necessary details. Don't worry about the costs, that's been taken care of. Get back to you as soon as I can.'

Barron put down the sticky knife and decided he really wasn't hungry after all.

 
 
 
 
3

 
Amsterdam

The fisherman eyed the chilly water of the Atlantic Ocean lapping just below the rocky outcrop on which he was sitting, and considered the state of the tide. Reluctantly he moved a few metres towards the shore before preparing another cast. He was frowning critically at the fall of the line when he caught sight of the motorbike bumping along the uneven track which was the only vehicular access from Kilmory, the nearest village to his remote cottage on the Ardnamurchan peninsula, itself the most westerly point on the Scottish mainland.

By the time he had made his way back across the slippery rocks and carefully stowed his fishing gear out of harms way the leather-clad figure was approaching from the general direction of the house. One arm waving, the other hauling at the black helmet with it's dark tinted visor. The fisherman viewed the apparition with some disfavour. 'What the hell are you doing here, Gojo?'

Released from the confines of the helmet, the shock of light brown hair was promptly blasted by the Atlantic breeze. The owner was in his early thirties although he looked at least five years younger as he grinned at the older man. 'It's good tae see you too, Mike! Ye got any coffee in this dump?' Gojo looked around him. The dwarf wall bordering the small front garden was still not completed, indeed it looked no different from his last visit. As mute evidence, a pile of flattish stones lay in an untidy heap near to the wall with grass growing through the gaps between them. Oh well, he thought wryly, he'll get it finished one day.

Mike Hollis smiled tolerantly. 'Fuckin' sight better than Coatbridge, anyway!' Despite his years in the UK, he still pronounced the name in the American fashion; with the emphasis on the first syllable instead of the second.

They walked in companionable silence back to the house. Gojo wasn't put out in the slightest at hearing his ex-home town maligned in this way. He had said worse himself, and meant it. Born Alastair Peter Miller, the nickname had been immediately assigned when, in his teens, a boring party had been enlivened with a series of blue movies dating from the early sixties. Part of the dubious entertainment had been a squad of young female dancers, often referred to in those days as "Go-Go Dancers", except that these were minus the usual, if abbreviated, clothing.

With several cans of beer already under his belt the young man had been heard to exclaim, loudly if ungrammatically: 'Is this them Go-Jo dancers, then?'

Gojo he had been ever since.

When the percolator was bubbling they settled themselves in the pleasant sun-porch looking out over the sea to the islands of Eigg and, behind it, the larger bulk of Rhum. On the pine-panelled rear wall hung an array of antique weapons: A variety of swords and dirks, two early muskets and several battered Highland targes; the wooden shield reinforced with iron bands or studs used by long-gone clansmen in many a battle with the English. Collected over many years, all were the genuine article not cheap modern reproductions. Gojo thought it an appropriate hobby.

Mike Hollis stretched out in the chair with his feet on the low coffee table and regarded his visitor tolerantly. Gojo was a friend of long standing. More than that, he was one of the very few human beings Hollis actually trusted. He looked across at the skinny frame practically enveloped by the armchair. 'So how're things with you?'

'Ah, just the same, Mike, just the same. Gettin' bloody hard tae make a dishonest buck in Glesga these days. Too many bloody drugs dealers stirrin' things up. Cameras on every street corner, big raids practically every other night, grasses lookin' through every bloody letterbox! Stupid bastards have spoiled things for everybody.' Gojo slumped back in the chair disconsolately.

Hollis nodded in amused sympathy. Gojo's nefarious business dealings never failed to entertain him. He knew the younger man was an inevitable product of his environment and a city boy at heart. Perfectly happy in the sprawling warren among the closely stacked buildings and busy, noisy streets.
Where the sun don't shine
as the saying went. Gojo had proved invaluable to Hollis on numerous occasions. There wasn't much he didn't hear about from his sources, very little that he couldn't arrange––given the time and money. In all respects he was an ideal go-between for someone like Mike Hollis. But that thought reminded him of his earlier question.

'I'm not looking for another job, Gojo. So if that's what you're here for, the answer's no.'

Gojo smiled amiably, he had heard
that
before. Actually he quite enjoyed the occasional runs up the A82 Fort William road to Corran, where a ferry still ploughed back and forth to the mountainous west highlands. Even the pot-holed track, all 10 kilometres of it, along to the old house had it's own fascinations, such as the necessity to avoid kamikaze pheasants and rabbits in unlikely places. Nice spot for a few days peace and quiet, but there was no way he could live here.

'Well, yur pal in London was on the phone last night, right enough. Seems he's being pressed by some people who are very anxious to speak to you.' He paused to scratch an ear underneath the straggly hair and then leaned forward, elbows on knees. 'There's a lot of money on offer here, Mike.'

Hollis pushed himself upright and went off to fetch two mugs of strong coffee. On the way back he dug inside a cupboard and pulled out a round tin of mixed biscuits. 'I'm not really interested right now.' He squinted over the coffee mug. 'Still plenty of Deutchmarks left!'

Gojo frowned, remembering a previous conversation. ‘How long did those heidbangers keep after you?’

There had been a power struggle in the Neo-Nazi Party after the slaying of their mentor. In due course the new leadership found it expedient to use the deep feeling of anger within the movement for their own purposes. They gave the baying mob precisely the focus they needed: a manhunt for the assassin. If nothing else, it gave them breathing space to stabilise their own position.

‘Probably still are.’ Hollis shrugged. ‘But then they couldn’t find their arse with both hands, any of them.’

Gojo wasn’t so sure, and he was glad it wasn’t his problem.
Nazis f’r fuck’s sake!
He munched the rest of his biscuit before returning to his original subject. 'Aye, I told the man you were no' lookin round, like. But Mike, these people are talkin' a straight million pounds, man!'

'Jesus!' Hollis was rocked. 'Who is it, the Pope?'

'He wisna goin' to tell me that on a phone noo, was he?'

'I bloody hope not.' Hollis swallowed a mouthful of hot coffee and sat brooding, eyes unfocused, seeing only inwards. The contact in London was, like Mike Hollis himself, an ex US Marine. They had been buddies in the same squad for eight years. Both had regarded themselves as career soldiers and had willingly given the Army everything that had been asked of them. Then an unsympathetic Congress decided that, what with the collapse of Communism and the Cold war, Uncle Sam could save a heap of dollars by cutting back on all aspects of the military. Hollis and a great many like him were promptly dumped on an uncaring labour market, which had neither jobs for, nor interest in, ex-service personnel. The year of hell that followed was not something he was prepared to go through ever again. In the end there had been little choice but to fall back on the skills taught to him by a once-grateful government. He was surprised to find that the years of military training proved a useful background to a life of petty crime.