The Man Who Kept His Head
Robert Preston-Whyte
Published by Robert Preston-Whyte at Smashwords
Copyright 2011 Robert Preston-Whyte
This book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to any persons, loving or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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There were two of them. One was tall and slim and dressed in a dark suit. The other was massive with a shaven head and tattooed arms. The thin man held a handgun; the large man brandished a knife.
They blocked the path about fifty paces away, filling the air with menace. The woman they confronted stood with her back to him, her arms by her side.
He could feel his heart thumping. Help her; scare them off, whispered a voice in his mind. Keep away; you’ll get hurt, murmured another.
The woman resolved his dilemma. He saw her move towards the knife-wielding man as if inviting his attention.
No, no, don’t do that, he willed her. Run! Run away.
He held his breath.
The knife man lunged towards her and slashed.
The woman avoided the blade with graceful ease. Then she stood still, her head tilted to one side, a critical teacher before an inept pupil.
The man paused, surprise on his face. He glanced at his companion as if requesting instructions.
The gunman grinned, exposing large teeth in a long face. Jamie saw him glance around the park, ignoring him as a potential threat. His voice reached him, shrill and penetrating. ‘Carve her up. Just remember to leave me the last part of the action.’
The knife man glared at the woman. Then he powered forward, thrusting, hacking, and cutting.
Her body seemed to float away from him.
He checked, frustrated. ‘Bitch.’ His voice sounded like a rasp over a wooden surface.
She changed her stance. Now she was a matador, feet together, head held high, eyes staring over her shoulder.
The man hesitated. He appeared confused by her challenging stance and the implied role that he played in the drama. Then he shook his head and lumbered forward. One hand stretched out to grasp her; the other held the knife poised to thrust.
At first his movements were slow and cautious. He expected her to evade his lumbering charge as she had before.
She did not move.
His confidence returned and he sprang forward uttering an intimidating roar.
She moved when he was within reach, pivoting on one foot and, with lightning speed, delivered a kick that connected between his tree-trunk legs with an audible thud.
Jamie winced. The man’s mouth became a gaping hole from which no sound emerged. His porcine eyes bulged and his pockmarked face contorted with pain. He fell onto his knees, both hands clutched between his legs. His knife dropped to the ground.
The gunman looked at his partner with disbelief. He raised his gun.
The woman swivelled towards him, one hand reaching behind her neck.
The sharp crack of the gun coincided with the glitter of an object in the air between them.
The scene looked choreographed. The woman staggered and clutched at her head. The gunman dropped his weapon, his hand reaching for the hilt of a knife protruding from his throat. The woman remained standing, blood streaming down her face and chest. The man teetered on his heels. Then he crumpled to the ground, his body heaving, his legs thrashing.
Jamie peered around for support. Mist and drizzle gave way to rain. The smell of damp grass and dead leaves infused the air. Where is everybody? He always encountered walkers, runners and tourists in the park, even at this early hour. He realized that the steady drizzle had discouraged even the most resolute visitors.
He wanted someone to intervene, to take charge, to summon the police. A man lay on his back with a knife in his throat. A knife-wielding thug crouched groaning on his knees, doubtless enraged. Something must be done.
He ran to the woman.
‘Are you hurt?’
He knew it was a stupid question. Blood flowed down her face from a wound above her right ear. She stared at him uncomprehending, swaying on her feet, her eyes glazed.
He turned his attention to the gunman. Blood pumped from his neck. It pooled around his head and drained towards the side of the path. Jamie watched the man twitch and shake. At last, he laid still, his eyes wide and sightless.
Fear, fascination, and incredulity kept him immobile. He turned to the woman.
‘H-he’s dead. Y-you’ve killed him.’
He had to say something, no matter how inane.
Hoarse groans drew Jamie’s attention to the knife man. He still knelt, his forehead touching the ground. One massive hand pressed on the path with fingers splayed. The other cradled his crotch. His knife lay nearby.
Then the knife man began to recover. Jamie watched him lift his head and look about. His face was twisted with pain. He saw him focus on the knife. He grunted and reached for it.
An image of the huge man attacking the woman replayed in Jamie’s head. At all costs, he must prevent him from recovering the weapon.
He stepped forward. The knife was almost within the man’s reach when he kicked it away, hard.
It clattered and rolled, coming to rest near the dead gunman’s body.
‘Bastard!’ The word spat from thick lips. ‘You’ll regret that.’
He began to lever himself up, one hand still clutched between his legs. Then he caught sight of his companion’s body. He went still.
‘He’s dead. You’ve killed him!’ There was shock in his voice. His eyes switched between Jamie and the woman. The murderous glare was still there, but so was bewilderment, disbelief, even fear.
He continued struggling to his feet. ‘Your days are numbered.’ The rasping voice grated through pain-clenched teeth.
Jamie could hear rage building behind the pain. His pounding heart ratcheted upwards a notch.
‘The Leader won’t rest until she has your head. I won’t rest.’
Jamie could see the man’s eyes resting on the knife. He cursed his weakness in failing to pick it up.
The park remained empty. There was nobody to assist him if the man decided to continue his attack on the woman. He blocked his mind from the consequences of further enraging him. He picked up the knife and threw it into the nearby rhododendron thicket.
When he looked back, the man was on his feet. He was bent double, his hands on his knees. As he straightened, Jamie felt the force of his glare. He took a precautionary backward step. He knew he could outrun the man but the woman looked in no condition to escape.
‘We’ll meet again. That’s a promise.’ The huge man spoke with conviction. He turned and hobbling away, pain expressed in every movement.
Jamie watched him depart. He heaved a deep breath as relief replaced fear. He turned to the woman. She stood with her chin on her chest.
A few quick steps and he had a steadying arm around her shoulders. Her short, black hair touched his nose. He could smell the fragrance of her shampoo as she leant her body against him. His pounding heart began to quieten as the man disappeared from view.
‘He’s gone.’ He spoke with heartfelt thankfulness. ‘You’ve nothing to worry about now. They were asking for trouble. I saw it all. I’m sure the police will understand. It was a clear case of self-defence.’
Blood streamed down her face.
He stripped off his running vest. ‘Here, use this.’
As if returning from some distant place, she took his vest. She seemed unsure what to do with it. Then, life began to return to her eyes. She pressed the vest to her head.
‘Can I help you?’
His voice appeared to revive her.
She broke away from him. Her air of vulnerability began to fade. Her eyes lost their glaze. The lines of her body changed as her shoulders straightened and her head lifted. She turned to scan the park, her body moving with smooth coordination.
She turned to face him. He looked into tawny eyes that gazed back composed, inscrutable, and penetrating.
She began to wind his running vest around her head.
‘Are you okay?’ Her voice was quiet, no hint of stress.
Jamie blinked, disbelieving. She was checking on his feelings when she was the one bleeding.
‘What…?’
The woman lifted a hand, cutting off the question. She stood relaxed, but he sensed tension beneath her calm exterior. Her eyes remained fixed on his. She reminded him of the enigmatic gaze of a leopard that had stared at him from the pages of a National Geographic magazine.
‘I could do with your help, but you might wish to leave. I won’t stop you. Please, decide quickly.’
Jamie shook his head to clear his mind. How can she be so calm? She has just killed a man. He took in her elfin-like face, generous mouth and slightly upturned nose. She was the victim. He knew that.
‘What do you want me to do?’ He heard the croak in his voice.
She turned and looked towards the undergrowth beside the path. ‘Help me hide him before someone comes. I’ll explain later.’
Without waiting for a reply, she bent and clasped the gunman’s arms.
Jamie felt apprehensive. Should they not wait for the arrival of the police? They should touch nothing and trust in their innocence? He found himself yearning for the comforting presence of strong men in blue uniforms.
The woman looked at him. She saw his hesitation. There was frustration in her eyes.
‘Don’t worry.’ She spoke in a low voice, almost whispering, as if comforting a frightened animal. ‘I’m with the good guys. Trust me.’
His mind whirled. She was asking him to conceal a body, guilty behaviour surely. He saw her watching him, her blood-smeared face calm and composed. She conveyed professionalism and that convinced him. He bent and gripped the corpse’s ankles.
Together they heaved the body over the waist-high railings that separated the hardened path from the rhododendrons, and dragged it behind a dense thicket.
Jamie watched with unease as she bent over the body. She withdrew her knife from the gunman’s throat and wiped it clean on his chest. Then she slipped it back into a sheath strapped between her shoulder blades.
Misgivings flooded back. Who is this woman? He began edging away. It was not too late to flee this ongoing nightmare.
She must have sensed his intentions because she shook her head and lifted a restraining hand. ‘Don’t go.’ She motioned him to sit. ‘You may not realize it but you’re safer here with me.’
She turned away, parted rhododendron branches and peered though the foliage.
He followed her gaze, hoping for the arrival of early-morning joggers, people who would share his view of ordered social behaviour.
The pathway remained deserted.
‘I must fetch the gun. Stay here.’ Her voice remained low, almost a whisper.
He watched her creep with catlike caution through the rhododendrons towards the path. The corpse, with its blood-soaked throat and chest and open eyes, lay at his feet. The smell of wet, decaying vegetation filled the air, underlining death.
He could hear cars pull away from traffic lights in nearby Kensington Gore. They represented a society governed by rules by which most people abided. He yearned to join them.
He feared his throbbing heart might explode in his chest. I should go before she returns, he thought.
He was too late.
The rhododendrons parted and she was back. She carried the handgun in a way that suggested long familiarity.
‘We must hope nobody sees the blood and raises the alarm.’ She spoke without emotion.
We? A man was dead and he was party to covering up the killing.
‘W-what’s this all about?’
The woman put a finger to her lips. ‘Shhhh.’
Her eyes remained fixed on him as she withdrew a mobile phone from a small bag strapped to her waist.
She punched numbers. ‘This is a priority call,’ she said. ‘Connect me to Mr Savage, please.’ She flashed him a reassuring smile.
She did not wait for long.
‘Hello, it’s Zen. I have a problem,’ she said. ‘They tried to take me out while I was jogging. One of them is dead, the other escaped. I’m in Kensington Gardens, close to the Albert Memorial. There’s a shrubbery beside the path behind the memorial. They were hiding in it and came at me as I passed. There’s only one witness. He helped me hide the body.
The conversation was brief. ‘There’s no sign of people at the moment,’ she said. ‘The place is deserted but probably not for much longer.’
Mr. Savage must have given instructions because she concluded with, ‘Very well.’ She snapped her mobile shut and replaced it in the pouch around her waist.
‘It had to happen sometime,’ she said.
Mr Savage! What did she mean by the good guys? He felt surrounded by death and a sense of brooding menace. The muggers, if that’s what they were, had tried to kill this woman, but why?
He moved to the base of a plane tree as the drizzle intensified into rain. Drops plopped on his head and bare shoulders. A wind sprang up rustling the rhododendron leaves. The temperature seemed to drop a few degrees. He shivered as cold seeped into him.
The woman glanced at him. ‘By the way, I’ve been told to keep you here until they arrive. I hope you don’t mind. It’s for your own safety. We don’t want anything to happen to you.’
She showed no sign of discomfort despite the cold and the blood that seeped past his running vest bandage to redden her right shoulder and breast.
Jamie resented her assumed authority. He felt a rising tide of anger. ‘They? Who the hell are “they”? What’s going on?’
She placed calming hands on his shoulders and looked into his eyes. He could imagine her doing the same to an excited animal. Who is this woman?
‘Shhhh! You must keep down. It won’t be long. What’s your name?’
His mind swam. A man had died a violent death moments before and she was asking for his name.
‘Who are “they”?’ he repeated. ‘I think I have a right to know. You’ve just killed someone and…’
The woman rounded on him. Her eyes flashed and she bared her teeth in anger. Again, the image of a leopard entered his mind.
‘I abhor killing, but I don’t wish to die a needless death.’
‘Yes, but…’
She became conciliatory. ‘Everything will be explained. Trust me.’
He sensed she was trying to soothe him and felt shamed by his weakness. After all, she was the one attacked.
‘Find a place to sit.’ She spoke in a low voice as she lowered herself to the ground. ‘You’ll be less visible.’
He imagined a hurt animal would behave like her, all senses alert while she rested.
Her mouth softened as she met his gaze. ‘Tell me your name?’
He was not ready for trust but could not resist responding. ‘Jamie. Jamie Craig. Why are we hiding? Surely, this is a case of self-defence. I mean, I saw…’
‘Two men tried to kill me, Jamie.’
‘I know. I saw it happen. I’ve never…’
Her face became grim. ‘Others may have the same objective. That is why we’re sheltering here until backup arrives.’
Backup? That was the language of law and order. He felt a surge of reassurance. The woman’s next words shocked him.
‘They might link you with me. In that case you too might become a target. I’m sorry you’ve become involved.’
Jamie caught his breath. ‘Involved? Involved in what?’
His mind swam. An hour ago, his life had been uncomplicated, peaceful, ordered. Now he was hiding in a rhododendron thicket with a woman who killed a man with a knife and ran off a monstrous thug with a well-placed kick.
He shook his head in the vain hope of clearing his mind. ‘I…’
She raised a hand, cutting off his protest. ‘I’ll let Mr Savage explain. Please, no more questions.’ She touched her head.
Jamie sensed her pain and wondered at her stoic acceptance. ‘Don’t worry; I’ll stay here with you,’ he heard himself say. ‘How does your head feel?’
She grimaced. ‘Terrible, but it’s probably not as bad as it looks. Scalp wounds are always bloody.’
He could not place her accent. It seemed to have a colonial cadence.
She stretched out on the wet mulch, oblivious to the rain. Her voice was low. He could tell that she was in pain.
‘Tell me if you hear or see anything suspicious. They may try again. I need a few minutes to recover.’
She closed her eyes. Her face became serene.
They may try again! He felt helpless, caught like a rabbit in headlights. He was unsure what to do next, afraid to make a move that might trigger more violence.
He looked at the woman. She lay still, her eyes closed, her face bloodied.
Her implication that they remained in danger appalled him. The skinhead giant may return, perhaps with others. He could feel his heart beginning to pound as he peered though the shrubbery. He was conscious of being given an important task upon which his life might depend. He suddenly felt alone and unprepared, a victim of circumstances beyond his control.
He positioned himself where he could see through a gap in the enclosing rhododendrons. The shower had stopped but large drops still plopped from the overhead vegetation. Goosebumps prickled his arms and chest’ He tried in vain to suppress the shivers that racked his body.
I wish they would hurry, he thought. He was no longer concerned who ‘they’ might be.
Twenty minutes later by Jamie’s wristwatch, a black van, followed by a black Jaguar, nosed along the path.
He stepped to the woman and touched her shoulder.
Her eyes flicked opened.
‘Vehicles are approaching,’ he whispered. ‘Is it the backup?’ The word made him feel better.
She rose and peered through the shrubbery.
‘Wait here while I check.’
Jamie noticed again that she held the handgun with comfortable familiarity as she eased out of the rhododendrons. He shivered, wrapping his arms around his bare chest in a fruitless attempt to keep warm.
The vehicles stopped when the woman appeared. A slim, dark-haired man, clad in a pinstriped suit, emerged from the back seat of the Jaguar. Two men wearing dark overalls climbed from the van.
He saw her point in his direction.
The men nodded as they approached.
‘Morning, mate,’ said the taller of the two. ‘Where’s the stiff?’
Jamie pointed to the body.
‘Umm, it looks like there’s been a right to do here. Ain’t you cold?’
‘Bloody cold,’ Jamie said, his teeth chattering.
He watched as they laid out the body bag and manoeuvred the corpse into it. They behaved as if the grisly task was a commonplace activity. Shivering, he followed in their wake as they carried the bag to the van.
The woman beckoned. ‘Come over here, Jamie.’
He could see the man in the pinstriped suit examining him as he approached. Everything from his direct gaze to his sartorial elegance signalled power and success. His suit fitted like a glove. His black shoes gleamed like a burnished mirror. Gold cufflinks secured his shirtsleeves and his tie looked as if belonged to a distinguished army regiment.
‘My name is Jamie Craig,’ Jamie said, holding out a hand. ‘I hope you’ll be able to tell…’
‘This is Mr Constantine Savage,’ Zen broke in. ‘He’ll take you home.’ A wry smile touched her lips. ‘You’ll find it warmer in the car. I’m going in the van to see a medic. We probably won’t meet again. Thanks for your help.’
James lifted his hand in a vain attempt to slow her departure. ‘Wait, I don’t even know your name.’
‘It’s better that way,’ murmured Savage as the woman stepped into the van, ‘particularly if you want to stay alive.’
Jamie crouched in the back seat of the Jaguar, shivering. He felt naked and scruffy beside his stylish companion. He tried to improve his appearance by combing his fingers through his thick brown hair.
Savage turned towards him and smiled. ‘I can see you’re feeling the cold.’
His modulated voice and neutral accent was pleasant to the ear. Jamie felt the power of his charm wash over him. For the first time, he looked carefully at Savage, noting his good looks, as yet untouched by the ravages of time. His face was unlined although tinges of grey coloured his sideburns. He reckoned he must be somewhere in his early fifties.
‘I’ve told Miller to stop somewhere and buy a shirt,’ Savage said. ‘I need some details from you before we take you home.’ He stroked his chin. ‘I’m sorry you’ve got involved. This is a nasty business.’
Jamie stirred. ‘Nasty business! A man is knifed to death…’
Savage put a comforting hand on his knee. ‘These things happen in our business. Just remember the man was a killer. He was the son of a particularly nasty woman who runs a lucrative trade in drugs, gunrunning, slave trafficking and terrorist training. He was about to assassinate my agent, presumably on his mother’s orders. She got in first.’
His blue eyes looked deeply into Jamie’s. ‘I suppose one could argue that people like you can sleep easy at night because people like her put their lives on the line.’
Jamie felt confused. ‘But what does she do? Why did they try to kill her? What about the police?’
Savage beamed his charming smile. ‘This is connected with national security. The police would only complicate the matter.’
Talk of national security meant government involvement, MI5 or MI6. He sat silent as the Jaguar purred along Knightsbridge, navigated around Hyde Park Corner into Grosvenor Place and then turned into Vauxhall Bridge Road.
Savage broke the silence as they approached Vauxhall Bridge. ‘I think I see a typical tourist shop. Miller, pull over somewhere, there’s a good man. I want you to buy a shirt for our friend here. That tourist shop will have something appropriate, I’m sure. We can’t have him going into the office half-naked.’ He chuckled. ‘Think of the secretaries.’
Miller parked on a yellow line and climbed out of the car.
‘Keep the receipt,’ Savage called after him.
‘I haven’t any money on me at present,’ Jamie said apologetically. ‘I’ll pay you back when I get home.’
Savage waved his hand dismissively. ‘It’s the least we can do. Ah, here’s Miller. That was quick.’
Miller displayed a white T-shirt with, “I Love London” emblazoned across the chest in red lettering. ‘Will this do, sir?’
Savage chuckled. ‘Most appropriate.’
Jamie glared at Miller as he handed the garment through the window. Something else for the bin, he thought.
A few minutes later, Miller parked the Jaguar in the basement of a nondescript building on the east bank of the Thames River.
Mutinously, but also a little awed, Jamie followed Savage to the lift.
Once in Savage’s utilitarian office, he was offered a choice of two functional armchairs. Savage stood with his back to him stared out at the river. Continuous drizzle screened the west bank.
Finally, he turned to face Jamie. ‘Well, let’s get on with it then.’ He sounded apologetic. ‘You must understand that what you saw back there never happen. Nobody is to know, and I mean nobody. It would be detrimental to our operation. Do you understand?’
‘No,’ Jamie said.
‘What don’t you understand?’
‘Everything. Who do you represent? What do you do?’
Savage seated himself behind his desk and looked hard at Jamie. ‘I know it must be difficult for you to understand,’ he said. ‘There are times when I too feel that we live in a mad world. However, the fact of the matter is that there are people who are trying to upset what we stand for in this country. We can’t allow that, can we?’
Jamie felt patronised. He drew a breath.
Savage interrupted his angry retort by clicking on a tape recorder.
‘Please may I have your full name?’ he said. ‘I need some details about you in case there are enquiries. You know what it’s like.’ He beamed his charming smile.
Jamie tried to curb his rising temper. ‘Jamie Craig,’ he growled. ‘Actually, I don’t know what it’s like. Perhaps you can tell me. Then I might find out what is going on – why there’s a need for all this cloak and dagger stuff.’
‘Umm, were you christened Jamie or is it a nickname?’
Jamie injected a note of suffering patience into his voice. ‘My father is James so I became Jamie. It’s my registered name.’
‘Umm, interesting. I always find Scots to be so pragmatic and sensible. What’s your address?’
‘17 St Albans Grove, Kensington. Are you part of MI6 or MI5? I call them GHB.’
Savage arched his eyebrows. ‘Meaning?’
‘God Help Britain. Look at the Iraq debacle.’
Savage chuckled. ‘I’ll be dammed if I don’t find myself agreeing with you. We are not MI6 but work closely with them. In fact, one could say they are our bread and butter. Have you ever seen a person beheaded? By the way, what’s your age?’
‘Beheaded? What on earth has that to do…?’
‘It’s a pity you allowed the big one to escape,’ Savage continued. ‘For your information, he’s our nasty lady’s executioner. She specializes in beheading her enemies when she catches them. The assassination attempt in Kensington Gardens was unusual in that respect. I suppose she didn’t have time to…’
‘Let him escape! Do you know how big he is?’
‘He is six foot eleven inches, according to our sources. He’s also known to be extremely strong and a psychopathic killer. His name, for your information is Kevoski. You might keep that in mind if you meet him again.’
‘I have absolutely no desire to meet him again. How do you think I could stop him? He could lay me out with one hand behind his back.’
Savage looked sympathetic. ‘I know how you must feel. However, I do believe that my agent was successful in deterring him. Is that correct? All you had to do was keep him in a state of misery. Remember next time, if they’re down, keep them down.’
Jamie sat back in the chair. His knuckles showed white as he gripped the armrests.
‘Next time?’
Savage nodded. ‘Another kick in the right place would have done it.’
Jamie shook his head in disbelief. ‘If you know so much about him, why don’t you arrest him?’
Savage rose and returned to his position at the window. ‘We don’t have the authority to arrest people. Anyway, he’s more valuable to us free. By keeping an eye on him, we knew where to find Liam Murphy. Of course, now he’s dead so the situation has changed. Who knows what will happen when Kevoski gets around to telling his tale to Liam’s mother.’
‘Liam Murphy? His mother? Do you know these people?’
Savage nodded. ‘That’s our business. Did you say how old you are? I can’t remember?’
Jamie wanted to know more about the Murphy family but Savage’s question demanded an answer. ‘I’m thirty-two, if you must know.’
Savage looked at him critically, his head on one side. He spoke to the recorder.
‘For the record, strong jaw, straight nose, overlong black hair, must be a shade over six feet. Good shoulders and clearly keeps himself fit. No distinguishing marks that I can see. Do you have any?’
‘No,’ Jamie growled. ‘Would you like me to strip so you can see?’
Savage looked affronted. ‘Of course not, this is just background material for the record. Are you married?’
‘No.’
‘Girl friends, partners, lovers, whatever you want to call them.’
‘No.’
Savage looked surprised. ‘No?’
‘I said no, didn’t I?’
‘Are you, um, you know?’
‘If you’re asking if I’m gay the answer is no. Anyway, that shouldn’t be a problem in the twenty-first century.’
‘No problem at all,’ Savage said smoothly. ‘I can see you have had the benefit of education. Do you have a degree? This is just for the record, you know.’
‘I have a PhD. I’m a social scientist.’
Savage looked impressed. ‘Well, well. And what do social scientists with PhD’s do, if you don’t mind me asking?’
‘My thesis was about the application of actor-network theory to a range of socio-environmental issues. I’ll lend it to you to read if you’re interested.’
Savage snorted. ‘I’m sure it’s fascinating but I’m more concerned with issues that matter in the real world. I must remember to ask Zen what she thinks.’
‘Zen? Is that her name?’
‘Oh dear, you didn’t hear that.’
‘She seems pretty competent with a knife.’ Jamie hoped to drag out more information.
Savage smiled. ‘Don’t forget her foot. Don’t ever forget her foot. By the way, how do I know you’re not part of the terrorist group that tried to kill Zen? You could have been planted to…’
‘Jamie sprang to his feet. ‘What! You don’t think…?’
Savage stroked his jaw. ‘It’s possible,’ he murmured, his eyes fixed on Jamie. ‘It does seem suspicious that you were out there when most sensible people were having breakfast. Do you have any hobbies, sporting outlets, things that you do in your spare time?’
Jamie felt confused by the sudden change in the direction of the interrogation. ‘I have no spare time,’ he said mulishly. ‘I run occasionally to keep fit. That’s the only reason I was out there.’
Savage rubbed his chin again. ‘No sports, no hobbies, no spare time?’
‘Well, I did archery at university,’ Jamie conceded, sinking back into the chair. ‘Actually, I was the team captain.’ He was proud of that.
‘You did archery at university but do nothing now except for the occasional run. What exactly do you do with your time?’
‘I work,’ Jamie said.
‘You work. And what is your work if I may be so bold as to ask?’
‘I have a lecturing post at Maidenhead University.’
Savage beamed his smile. ‘Excellent. I have to say that I would like to have that sort of job. All those holidays. When do you work?’
Jamie sighed. Another barbarian. Nevertheless, he felt the need to defend himself.
‘All my spare time is taken up by research and writing. Academics work as hard, probably harder, than most people and certainly for less financial reward. We are the modern missionaries.’
Savage waved a soothing hand. ‘I’m sure you are. Do you regard yourself as successful in what you do?’
Jamie sighed. He was beginning to find the line of questioning tedious.
‘I publish regularly. I’ve had three papers accepted in good journals this year and my book is doing well. It’s called, Agents of Power.’
Savage stroked his chin, a habit Jamie was beginning to find irritating. ‘Umm. Political leaning is left, I assume. Well, you’ve been most patient. Thank you. I’ll get Miller to take you home.’
He picked up the handset of his telephone. ‘Ask Miller to come up please. I have a job for him.’
He scribbled a number on a sheet of paper and held it out to Jamie. ‘Here’s a number you can use to get me if need be. It’s unlisted so keep it safe. Ah, Miller, come in. Would you be so good as to wait outside the door, Dr Craig? I need to have a few words with Miller before he takes you home. Good luck.’
Good luck, mused Jamie as he waited for Miller. What can he mean by that?
Miller opened the rear door of the Jaguar and waited for Jamie to enter. ‘I have to do a few jobs for Mr Savage before I take you home,’ he said. ‘I hope you don’t mind, mate. I’m only a driver but I do little jobs for him from time to time.’
Jamie paused, one foot in the car. ‘Are these jobs that important? Nobody appears to care a damn about me. I could have been killed this morning. That also goes for your woman agent.’ He was beginning to feel used, abused and legitimately petulant.
‘It won’t take long, mate, I promise.’
He sat silent as Miller eased out of the basement parking and turned right into the Albert Embankment. Of course, he would have to turn right, Jamie thought. Heaven knows when I’ll get home.
Miller rounded the circle at Lambeth Bridge and drove sedately along Lambeth Palace Road, whistling to himself. At Westminster Bridge he turned into Westminster Bridge Road and then into St Georges Road.
‘Do we have far to go?’ Jamie tried to suppress the irritation in his voice.
‘We’re here now,’ Miller said. He pulled into the parking area on the premises of a pub.
Jamie looked indignant. ‘But this is a pub.’
Miller placed a forefinger on his nose and winked. ‘You’d be surprised how much intelligence comes out of pubs. I won’t be long.’
He slammed the Jaguar’s door and sauntered towards the pub whistling a jaunty tune.
Jamie sat watching the people entering and leaving the pub as he waited for Miller.
Time past. Where was Miller? He drummed his fingers on his knee. He admired the clematis in full flower draped above the pub door. He let his mind drift over the extraordinary events of the morning. He shivered at the memory of Zen withdrawing her knife from the assassin’s throat. Was this one of those days where everything went wrong, usually in threes?
The turnover of cars in the parking lot was slow. He noticed the blue Golf because it arrived soon after them. The driver, a short, swarthy man with curly, black hair, had given him a sharp look as he made his way to the pub. Jamie wondered if he was the person Miller was to meet.
Thirty minutes later, Miller emerged from the pub.
‘You certainly took you time,’ Jamie complained. ‘Are you going to tell me you didn’t have a drink?’
Miller shrugged. ‘The, um, contact was late. I had to wait. It’s often like that, mate.’
‘Can you take me home now?’
‘Just one more stop and we’ll be there.’
‘Another pub, I suppose.’
‘No. The fun places are over. The next stop is King’s Cross Station. It’s a very important contact.’
They crossed the Thames River over Blackfriars Bridge and headed up Farringdon Road towards King’s Cross Station. Miller parked on a yellow line and darted into the station.
Jamie saw a blue Golf drive slowly by.
He gasped and jerked erect. A passing bus prevented him from seeing the driver. Was this a coincidence or...? His heart began to pound.
Miller was away less than fifteen minutes. ‘Right, now I can take you home,’ he said, climbing into the driver’s seat. ‘Tell me your address again.’
‘I haven’t had the opportunity to tell you once yet,’ Jamie complained. ‘It’s in St Albans Grove in Kensington. I assumed that Mr Savage had told you.’
He caught Miller’s envious expression in the rear view mirror. ‘I rent the place. Do you think a young academic could afford to buy there?’
The traffic along Euston Road and Marylebone Road was dense. The traffic lights seemed to be obstinately against them and their progress was excruciatingly slow. Jamie began looking out of the rear view window. There was no sign of the blue Golf.
Miller turned down Baker Street, veered right into Oxford Street, which became Bayswater Road, and then cut south to Kensington along Kensington Church Street. Forty-five minutes after leaving King’s Cross he turned into St Albans Grove.
There was still no sign of the blue Golf.
I’m letting my imagination run riot, Jamie cautioned himself. He leant forward. ‘You can drop me anywhere here,’ he said. ‘Thanks for the lift. I won’t say this has been one of my better days.’
Miller lifted a nonchalant arm as Jamie stepped out of the car. ‘Okay, mate. Take care, now.’
The Jaguar accelerated into a gap in the traffic. A blue Golf drove past in its wake.
This time, Jamie caught sight of the driver. It was the man he had seen entering the pub on Westminster Bridge Road.
Jamie lingered in the street wondering if the blue Golf would return. He stood for a while scrutinizing pedestrians in case the driver of the vehicle had parked and was now on foot. The idea that someone was following him had taken root. He shivered.
He made his way towards his apartment.
His key refused to turn in the door. It took him a moment to realize that the door was unlocked. Had he left it unlocked when he left to go on his run? He had never done so before.
He pushed the door open and peered inside.
Chaos confronted him. Books and ornaments littered the floor. Cushions were slit with the stuffing spread about. Pot plants were shattered. Photographs and pictures had been ripped from the walls.
Anger replaced consternation. His day had begun with a violent killing and was getting progressively worse. Could there be a connection with the killing? Had the giant with a knife tracked him down?
His heart beat like a drum as he cautiously inspected the apartment. Was the gigantic man waiting for him?
The bedroom was empty. So were the kitchen, bathroom and spare bedroom. He drew a relieved breath as he shut and locked the front door.
Perhaps this was a simple case of theft. He began searching the debris, looking for missing valuables. He could find nothing missing. Theft was not the motive.
Savage answered his mobile on the second ring. ‘Yes.’
Jamie ground his teeth. ‘It’s Jamie Craig. I’m sorry to ring you so soon after leaving you but I have a problem.’
‘Go on, I’m listening.’ Savage sounded concerned.
‘Someone has broken into my apartment and turned it upside down. The place is a mess but nothing appears to be missing. Is this something to do with your outfit?’
‘I do not run an outfit.’ Savage’s voice acquired a glacial quality he had not heard before. ‘This is not the Wild West, you know.’
‘You could have fooled me,’ Jamie said. ‘This morning I saw a body disappear.’
‘Yours may be next if you don’t take a break from your arduous toil, Dr Craig. It seems entirely likely that our nasty lady has associated you with my organization. That means you may be next on her hit list. We don’t have the resources to protect you so I recommend you go away for a while. Disappear until things cool down. Can you do that?’
Jamie walked up and down the debris-strewn floor. He felt more agitated than he had ever been.
‘But I had nothing to do with the death of her son,’ he protested. ‘I was out running and…’
Savage’s voice crackled down the line. ‘Yes, yes, we all know you were in the wrong place at the wrong time. Unfortunately, our nasty lady is unlikely to share that view. Kevoski, the man you let escape, will doubtless report that you were my agent’s backup. I suspect that you’ll be including in the next assassination attempt on Ze... um, my agent. The nasty lady will want revenge, of that I am certain.’
Jamie wondered if the nightmare could get worse. Savage’s concern appeared to be only skin deep. He felt naked, exposed, abandoned.
‘But how could she know where I live? Is there anything you can do?’
‘Not much, I fear,’ Savage said. ‘We could put you in a safe house but I’m sure you don’t want that. Neither would your university employers. It would be far better if you got out of the limelight on your own for a while. Do you have family you can visit in some far-flung land, perhaps?’
Jamie wrestled with the question. ‘Well, as it happens, the university is about to go into its summer recess. Of course, I normally use the time to write. This is most inconvenient, you know. I have a number of papers that need polishing.’
Savage chuckled. ‘Do you want to polish your papers in heaven?’
Jamie felt a ball form in the pit of his stomach. ‘No, no, of course not.’ He surveyed the destruction surrounding him. ‘Well, I suppose I could go to my uncle in South Africa. I haven’t seen him for ages. It’s about time I visited him to keep in touch.’
‘South Africa. Umm, that seems far enough away. What does he do?’
‘He’s a farmer.’
‘That is even better. I hope he’s stuck away in the wilds somewhere.’
‘I don’t know. It’s in a place called the Kamberg. I believe it’s in the province of KwaZulu-Natal.’
‘That sounds remote enough. I suggest you visit him as soon as possible. Send me the bill and your travel details and do it soon. We’ll only keep an eye out for you until the end of the week. After that, you’re on your own. Is that understood?’
‘Yes, I’ll ring my uncle immediately.’
‘Good. I can’t guarantee that your troubles will go away when you visit your uncle. It’s lawless enough out there. However, you have my number if you get into trouble. It’s the least I can do. Goodbye.’
Orla Murphy spread the morning paper on her mahogany desk She settled deeper into her black leather chair and scanned the first page.
Thirty-three people had died after a bomb attack in Iraq. She smiled. Her people in Iraq were doing well. She turned the page. A suicide bomber killed twenty tourists in a Bali resort. Another success. Nothing caught her attention on the next page, or the next.
She began to turn the pages rapidly, searching for the story she knew must be there. When she reached the sports pages, she returned to the beginning. Where is it, she thought?
According to her informer, each morning at the same time, Hawke jogged around Kensington Gardens and Hyde Park whenever she was in London.
Her instructions to Liam and Kevoski were clear. Hawke was to be executed in the park and her head severed from her body. She knew that would keep the story in the British media for weeks.
Liam and Kevoski knew better than to inform her when they had carried out her orders. Telephones and emails were too insecure. Besides, she enjoyed reading in the papers about so-called atrocities she had engineered. In particular, she liked to compare the facts, as she knew them, with the stories constructed by the media, police and politicians.
There was no sign of the expected report about Hawke after a second, more careful scrutiny of the newspaper. She threw it aside. She began to regret her orders about telephone and email communication. Surely nothing had gone wrong.
She still became angry when she thought about the ease with which Hawke had penetrated her organization. She had established a system of strict screening to identify spies from government security agencies but somehow she had slipped through. She knew the woman was talented, very talented, but that was no excuse. She had seen to the immediate punishment of those responsible.
She pushed the papers away. Perhaps she had acted precipitously in ordering Hawke’s execution. It would have been more satisfying to video her beheading and post it on the Internet. There were also television services that would welcome such coverage.
The intercom telephone on her desk buzzed quietly. She picked it up. ‘Yes? Ah, Kevoski, back so soon? Come up. Is Liam with you? No. Well, come and tell me about it.’
She rose and walked to the fireplace across exquisite carpets. She stirred the fire with a brass poker and added a log cut from the surrounding pine forest. The temperature was not low enough to warrant a fire but she enjoyed the ambience it provided, particularly in this room. It was her sanctuary, her private place.
Almost everything in the room was a sign of her success in various operations in which she had been involved. The paintings were stolen from national galleries. The pottery and archaeological relics were taken from museums. The jewellery was lifted from private collections. Everything had a history. She figured that the contents of the room may total a billion dollars if, indeed, a price could be put on some of the more valuable relics. That was one reason so few people had ever seen the room. Kevoski was the rare exception – and, of course, Liam.
A light knock sounded on the door.
She returned to her chair behind her desk. ‘Come in.’
Kevoski entered, ducking his head to beneath the top of the doorframe.
He lumbered to the front of the desk. ‘Good morning, Leader.’
‘Good morning. Where’s Liam? Is anything the matter? You look terrible.’
Kevoski coughed. ‘Leader, I have bad news. When…’
‘You’re not going to tell me that you failed to kill that woman, are you? Yes, I can see you are. Well, no matter, I’ve had second thoughts. I’ve now decided that I want her kidnapped so that I can be at her execution. I will have the event videoed and sent to the world media. That will send a message to organizations trying to infiltrate us. When I think…’
‘Leader, it’s…’
‘Don’t interrupt. Very well, what is it you want to say?’
Kevoski lowered his head and shuffled his feet. ‘Leader, we did as you ordered us. We took her by surprise when she was running in Kensington Gardens and…’
‘So you did kill her - or did something go wrong?’
‘Leader, she killed Liam.’
She felt as if a stone had settled in the pit of her stomach. She stopped breathing. Her head felt light. Surely she had misheard.
‘She killed him with a knife,’ Kevoski continued. ‘She had it hidden behind her back. When Liam …’
She felt as if part of her life had ended. She held out her hands towards Kevoski, imploring him. ‘No, no, please tell me it’s not true.’
Kevoski shook his head. ‘She killed him. I’m sorry.’
She had buried a husband and two brothers, murdered by the English. Now they had taken Liam. She covered her eyes and cried silently. She hated them, hated them, every last one of them. Let God be my witness, she thought, I’ll make them regret this if it kills me.
She cried for a long time, sobbing for her lost child. At last, she looked up. She had forgotten about Kevoski. He stood before her like a massive rock, waiting.
‘And what did you do,’ she cried passionately. ‘You were supposed to protect him.’
‘She was faster than we thought.’ Kevoski’s gravelly voice was low, reverent for the occasion. ‘Liam fired at her but she got her knife in first. It took him in the throat. He hit her, but it didn’t put her down.’
‘So why didn’t you finish the job.’
‘She had Liam’s gun. All I had was a knife. There was nothing I could do.’
‘So you ran away.’
Immediately, she regretted her words. Kevoski, loyal and faithful, would never run away unless there was no hope.
Kevoski flinched as if she had struck him. ‘She had a backup, a bodyguard. I assumed he was armed. That meant two against one, two guns against my knife. There was nothing I could do.’
‘A bodyguard? They told me she ran alone.’
‘He was definitely a bodyguard,’ Kevoski said. ‘He was the only other person in the park. He was running behind her and came to her assistance.’
She wiped her eyes. ‘What about Liam? What did they do with his body? Did you see?’
‘I watched from a distance. They collected him in a black van and took him away. The police were not involved. Your contact might be able to tell you more.’
She wiped her eyes. ‘I’m not sure I’ll be able to handle the Board meeting tomorrow.’
‘Leader, you must. If you cancel the meeting they’ll see it as a sign of weakness. Some are waiting for you to falter so they can take over.’
She felt a flare of anger. ‘I know. Very well, I’ll be there. Come and fetch me when they have all arrived.’ She was thankful she had Kevoski to strengthen her resolve when she needed him.
Kevoski dug into a pocket and pulled out a sheaf of papers. ‘There is something else.’ His gravelly voice failed to mask a hint of excitement. ‘It’s about the European division. Perhaps you can use it to your advantage.’ He handed over the papers.
Her stomach tightened. What now? She spread the papers on the desk. She recognised it as the report she had asked the audit section to undertake. What she read did not surprise her.
‘I collected it on my way through Paris,’ Kevoski explained.
She looked at him. ‘I’ll need your services tomorrow.’ She saw his eyes brighten. That should make him happy, she thought.
‘The usual treatment.’
‘Exactly. You know what to do.’ She felt a thrill of excitement.
Orla Murphy sat brooding, her mind replaying Kevoski’s report on Liam’s death. She blamed herself for not thinking that Hawke may have had a bodyguard. She may have requested one from Savage. After all, she knew that discovery meant death.
Hawke would still die, of course, but this time she intended to be present. She wanted to look into the woman’s eyes as she confronted her final moments. She would devise a plan for Hawke’s execution that would capture the attention of the world media and send a warning to intelligence organisations worldwide.
She had sentenced Hawke to death when she was told that she was an undercover British agent who had successfully infiltrated her organisation. Now the reason was retribution. That might go a little way to assuage the pain of Liam’s death. A tear dropped off her cheek. I must be strong, she thought. Kevoski is right. They will look for signs of weakness, the hyenas.
She glanced at the antique clock on the mantle over the fireplace. Two-thirty. Two o’clock was the time scheduled for the start of the meeting. Kevoski would come for her when he had decided that her ten Regional Directors had waited long enough. He would be looking at the closed circuit TV screen for signs of impatience that later may translate into disloyalty.
‘Come in,’ she called in response to a subdued knock.
The door opened. Kevoski stood waiting. His body filled the doorway.
She rose, collected her papers and walked out of the room. She held her head high.
‘I need more firewood,’ she said as she passed Kevoski. ‘Are you ready for your other duty?’
Kevoski’s eyes glittered. ‘Yes, Leader.’
She knew he was looking forward to it as much as she was.
She made her way to the meeting chamber followed by Kevoski. She paused in the doorway letting her eyes sweep across the room. Sunshine filtered through slender, leaded windows. It extended bright fingers across the long mahogany table and finely carved chairs on which sat her ten Regional Directors, five on each side. The barrel-vaulted ceiling was high, imposing and dark with age. Portraits from an antique age and some old tapestries, equally old, hung on the stone-dressed walls adding to an ambience that spoke of ancient practices and values. It was a room made for ritual meetings between monarchs and their subordinates. It is fitting that I conduct my meetings here, she thought.
The men scrambled to their feet as she entered. She looked neither right nor left as she proceeded regally to her chair at the head of the table. She knew she looked younger than her sixty-five years, assisted by her tall, slim figure and appropriately spaced facial makeovers. Her long, auburn hair, with no suspicion of white thanks to frequent colouring treatments, plaited and coiled around her head to make the most of her narrow face, green eyes, slightly curved nose and thin mouth. She believed she possessed the face of an aristocrat and was determined to employ her looks to best advantage.
She lowered herself into her chair and motioned the others to sit. Kevoski positioned himself behind her.
She sat with the delicate fingers of her right hand tapping lightly on the surface of the table. She wondered if the hidden cameras would show signs of irritation amongst her Directors at her late arrival.
‘Gentlemen.’ She injected a note of authority into her voice as she called them to order.
Immediately, the ten men sat upright, their faces turned attentively towards her.
Instead of continuing, she gazed out of the window at the snow-covered mountains. Her eyes were drawn to peaks that thrust upwards into the belly of the sky. Her gaze shifted to the forest that carpeted with a veneer of dark green the ridges and valleys below the mountains.
When she felt that she had the undivided attention of her Directors, she turned to look at them, her formidable eyes fixing each in turn.
‘Before we begin with the agenda, gentlemen, I have two items that I wish to deal with now. Both are distressing to me and deserve immediate attention. The first concerns the death of my son, Liam.’
She noted the expressions on the men’s faces. They all knew how much she adored him. They probably thought she indulged him. Deep down she acknowledged she had. Some looked shocked and cast her sympathetic looks; others sat stony-faced. She noted them all.
She paused to collect herself, aware that tears were gathering in her eyes. She steeled herself. It would not do to show emotion in front of these men.
‘As you know, we have developed a worldwide web of informers in government institutions. They feed us the information we need to run Development for Sustainable Living.
I recently discovered from a reliable source that a young woman in our employment was an undercover agent. I have to admit my disappointment in the failure of our intelligence officers to detect her until she had penetrated deep into our organization. Many of our business operations have been compromised and will have to be changed. That means lower profits – for a while at least. I have dealt with those responsible. Kevoski, hand out the photographs.’
Kevoski stepped to her side pulling an envelope from a side pocket. He withdrew a wad of photographs and walked around the table, nonchalantly dealing them out like cards.
‘Study them carefully, gentlemen. It is what happens to those who fail in their duty.’
She glanced at the photograph Kevoski had given her. It showed the severed heads of three men propped on a table, their faces frozen in gruesome grimaces. A beaming Kevoski stood behind the table a blood-smeared samurai sword in his hand.
She continued. ‘These men failed in their duty to protect the organisation from outside interference. They have paid the price caused by their incompetence. Do you agree that I took the correct action, gentlemen?’
She had put them on the spot. They all tried to keep their faces inscrutable, some more successfully than others did. She sipped from the glass of water besides her, waiting for a reaction.
A director with groomed, silver-grey hair rose to the occasion. ‘I think you acted appropriately, Leader. We are under constant threat and must keep vigilant against attempts to infiltrate our organisation. Those who allow it to happen must be punished as a warning to others.’
‘Hear, hear.’
‘I’m glad you agree, gentlemen. When I heard that the woman was a spy, I gave orders for her immediate execution. I have sources in the organization that employs her and was advised on an appropriate time and place to carry out the execution. My son, Liam, was in London at the time and I gave him the task. Mr Kevoski accompanied him.’
Her mouth drew into a slit and her eyes glittered as she tried to control her emotion.
‘Both Liam and Kevoski misjudged the woman. She killed my son. Mr Kevoski escaped when a bodyguard intervened.’
Her face took on an implacable expression. ‘She cannot be allowed to escape. Next time, I intend to be present at her execution. Her name for your information, gentlemen, is Hawke. I intend her demise to be video recorded and sent to the media worldwide as a warning to all governments that encourage their intelligence networks to infiltrate us.’