THE FIX: SAS hero turns Manchester hitman (A Rick Fuller Thriller Book 1) (9 page)

We both double-checked a very athletic looking single white male reading a Dutch newspaper, but he left on a flight to Frankfurt. Our nerves were starting to hone the rest of our senses. The ability to turn tension into intelligence is a great advantage; a physical and mental state that makes an invisible enemy visible, the very special gift that keeps people like us alive.

The first call for our flight sounded from the public address system. I drained my Evian over ice and walked from the lounge to the bathroom. The flight time, Manchester to Schiphol was only an hour and twenty minutes, but I disliked using the toilet on aircraft.

The first class rest rooms were clean and presentable. They had black marble tiles and shell-shaped washbasins which I found a little ‘’80s’. I appeared to be the lone user of the facilities and I entered a cubicle at the end of the row of three.

I sat.

Within seconds I heard footsteps on the tiled floor. They paused and then the next cubicle door opened. I couldn’t help but listen to the noises.

Something was wrong. The noises were wrong. The hairs on the back of my neck started their journey upward. I had no weapons. We had just cleared security. As quietly as possible I reached for my trousers. Anyone would have trouble defending themselves with their trousers around their ankles and their dick hanging out.

There was a sudden scrabbling noise. The person in the next cubicle was agile and quick. Before I could complete my task, my assailant was over the divider. I was knocked backwards onto the pan, trousers still at my ankles. 

Tanya grabbed my hair hard enough to remove some by the root and forced my head back against the wall. She was as strong as an ox. She planted her mouth on mine and pushed her tongue to the back of my throat. She was standing astride me and reached down to grab my crotch. She handled me roughly. Her breath was all I could hear as she sucked and bit frantically at my neck. I raised a hand to touch her but she pushed it away with more strength than the average male. 

Stepping back, she was breathing hard.

She smiled. “You were a little slow there, baby, you need to sharpen up, or I’ll have to find myself a new plaything.”

It was Tanya’s idea of a joke.

What was even funnier was the look on the face of the guy that saw the pair of us emerge from the single cubicle with me covered in Tanya’s lipstick.

The Dutch are notoriously casual towards recreational drugs, sex and art. Some of their ideas make perfect sense. Others defy belief.

Amsterdam Airport, though, was like any other major international, with lots of people and lots of security. It would have been madness to bring weapons or anything else through a place like Schiphol. I had personally arranged for our hardware to be left in a luggage locker at the airport. The contact was all my own and nothing to do with Davies. This was exactly the way I liked it. The drop and the weaponry cost me ten grand. I knew it would be an expensive job. I quietly did the sums.

Until the weapon stash was collected we were totally vulnerable. Our only saving grace would be that any attempt at a hit would be very dangerous in the airport complex.

Tanya had grown increasingly uncomfortable in the arrivals hall. Jamaicans have these peculiar mojo moments that I find weird. It’s not that I didn’t believe some of the black magic stuff. I did a tour in Africa and saw some really strange shit there. It’s just that I preferred to deal with the ‘here and now’ and not what might happen. I wandered around in duty-free.

As we waited for Des and Susan’s flight to land, I stocked up on aftershave. I bought the new D & G, Hugo Boss and CK. I wasn’t sure about the CK but it was a bargain. I shopped whilst Tanya pensively checked for any tails, and rubbed rabbits feet or whatever.

We watched the others clear customs. No one else appeared to be skulking around so we walked separately to a café by the luggage lockers. It was a typical airport design, all open-plan with a poor menu, dreadful coffee, and extortionate prices.

Why is it, that you always find a spotty, unkempt and intellectually challenged youth serving in these places? After my passable attempt at Dutch, the little bastard serving ignored me. I’d suffered this treatment in Holland before. I was on a stag trip to Amsterdam with some army mates and we’d walked into a small bar where the Dutch locals drank. When we eventually got a beer we were asked to sit in a small separate room away from the rest of the drinkers. As I said, the Dutch are a strange mix. Tanya’s definite rudeness paid off and we got two cups of truly awful coffee. 

Des and Susan sat three tables from us. I got up and walked to the left luggage room; the key arrived at my flat in Manchester just three hours after I knew I was visiting ‘The Dam’. Now that is service for you.

A swift walk down two flights of stairs and I was in the locker room. It was busy with mainly student types. People were dumping their larger suitcases and travelling light into the city. Most would be day trippers. Some of them were excited and talked openly about the drugs they were about to buy in the many legal coffee shops once they got to the centre. I did a double take as one meat-head dropped down the steps and seemed to do nothing in particular. Several moments later, he was joined by his girlfriend who had just dropped her case in a locker and they left, hand in hand. I gave myself a mental slap. I was starting to get as bad as Tanya.

Paranoia, self-importance’s first cousin.

There were hundreds of identical steel doors. I found the one with my key number and removed two large black suitcases. I strolled to the gentleman’s toilet. I didn’t expect another visit from Tanya.

Directly on cue, Des took the next stall to me. His Irish brogue pushed under the partition. He tapped out my initials in Morse. I slid one of the cases to him under the stall and made my exit. 

Our nakedness was over.

The plan called for Des and Susan to take the train to Central station and from there, a cab to the hotel. Typical of Amsterdam the hotel was called ‘The Koch’ which was a five minute stroll from Dam Square and the heart of Amsterdam city life.

Tanya and I walked to Avis.

“How’s the mojo, Tanya?” I said trying to lighten her mood.

“Don’t mess with the magic,” was all she said and strode on in front, the conversation was over.

I rented a BMW 325i. It was a brand new car; black with caramel coloured leather seats.

Once the paperwork was completed we loaded up and made for the city. The motorway network from Schiphol takes you under a runway approach and as we stuttered through traffic I watched the bizarre sight of a Boeing 747 taxiing over our heads.

The traffic cleared. Tanya stamped on the accelerator and the German saloon responded nicely. I sat in the back and checked the contents of our armoury.

The case contained two Heckler Koch MP5K’s with sliding stocks; they had Ultra dot aim point sights and Maglites fitted.

Beautiful.

They took an extended magazine of twenty rounds, two of which were taped to each weapon. The MP5K is light enough to use one handed and operates on single shot, burst of three and fully automatic. At the flick of a switch, this weapon is the ultimate urban killer. It is deadly accurate to a hundred yards on single shot, an ideal weapon in a running battle on short burst and a great room-clearer on automatic.

Sitting either side of the MP5’s were two Glock 9 mm SLP’s. Not my ideal choice of weapon, I preferred the SIG or H and K. The plastic Glock felt too light and flimsy but it was short notice for my man and all the weapons took identical ammunition, which was a bonus.

I loaded the two Glocks, handed one to Tanya, and pushed the other into my waistband in the small of my back. I felt instantly more secure.

I was checking the remainder of the case, night vision goggles, audio transmitters, de-bugging gear and other bits of ancillary kit, when Tanya piped up.

“Green Audi A6, babe. Two cars back. It’s been with us since the airport.”

I checked and it was there. Two goons were in the front, and I could make out one in the rear seat. All wore suits and sunglasses. They certainly looked the part.

I leaned between the front seats and spoke into Tanya’s right ear. “Take the next slip road off and let’s see what they got.”

Tanya punched the pedal and the BMW did as it was told. She glided past two vehicles and the car hit two hundred kph before I blinked. We were the outside lane and a big Alfa saloon was blocking us. Tanya dropped the Beamer down to fourth, and undertook it. She was red-lining the rev-counter. I looked back and the big Audi was still in sight. He was a tail, no doubt.

“He’s still there, babes.”

The BMW was screaming. The slip road was coming up. One hundred metres and we were still in the outside lane of a five-lane highway. Tanya threw the car right and chopped anything in her path. I heard a horn blare and then saw a puff of tyre smoke. She almost made it, but clipped a small red saloon in the nearside lane with the boot of our car.

The BMW wiggled slightly but the German engineering had it right and the car straightened under Tanya’s deft touch. We were on the slip road okay but travelling much too fast. I saw stationary traffic looming. Tanya stood on the brake. The ABS automatically kicked in. It sounded like automatic gunfire. The whole car was shaking and I was flung forward against the seats. We were not going to stop in time, and I didn’t fancy a trip through the windscreen or bouncing around inside a rolling car with two loaded sub machineguns. I saw a gap.

“Go left, left, left!” I screamed and pointed. “There, now!”

The manoeuvre was tricky and we hit a kerb hard. The car lurched upward and the engine howled as we left the road completely, the rear wheels spinning free. As the wheels touched down and traction returned, Tanya fought for control. The car snaked wildly left and right, but she straightened in time. We now had to negotiate two fuck-off concrete supports. I decided the car would fit. Tanya’s rabbit’s foot was working overtime and some.

“Go between!” I shouted.

A split second later, courtesy of Tanya’s bottle and talent, we emerged into sedate traffic minus both wing mirrors and a section of rear end trim, not bad considering.

The Audi was gone, we were in the clear.

I rang Des’s mobile. He answered immediately. He and Susan had arrived at the hotel without drama. I warned him about the Audi and described the goons as best I could. Tanya parked the BMW. I took an incendiary canister from our case of goodies and slipped it under the front seat. Before it went off, we were in a taxi.

So, the Dutch boys knew we were in Holland. If that was as a result of their good intelligence, we had a leak. No one knew our travel arrangements other than the team. Or had they just been waiting and watching for us? Had we been sloppy at the airport? Obviously all roads eventually led to a security leak and Susan Davies. How she’d done it, with Des watching her like a hawk, was another matter.

Still, the first little problem had been overcome and I should have been in a good mood. Why was I not? Well, I left my new aftershaves in the fucking car, didn’t I? 

Our adjoining suites at The Hotel Koch were comfortable and quite large by Dutch standards. I was not impressed with the décor, though. I think Joel Davies had a hand in the interior design.

Whoever had the idea to put two types of wallpaper, separated by a flowery border, on a solitary wall? Looking at it gave me a headache. Add to that, terrible furniture that was obviously designed by Sven Goran-Erikson and you get the picture.

We all sat together with a room service tray of tea and average sandwiches. After a shower and a change of clothes I felt a little better about my recent loss of duty-free goods. I was wearing a lightweight French Connection suit with an open neck cotton shirt and very comfortable new loafers by D&G.

Tanya was near naked; she had discovered a gym in the hotel and had been working out. I admired her new SPX trainers and the cut of her triceps.

Susan was singularly petulant and, according to Des, hadn’t spoken a word since leaving my flat. More importantly she hadn’t been out of his sight until they were in the hotel. Des was adamant she couldn’t have been in touch with the Dutch. So she had to have tipped the wink before we left.

She too had changed and now sported a pair of khakis by Donna Karen. Her still unfettered breasts were covered by a tailored shirt by Abercrombie and Fitch.

Des looked like an advert for the Grattan catalogue.

I’d called a briefing.

“Okay, we haven’t much time. Somehow the Dutch already know we are here and it won’t take long for them to find us again. This is a small city. Des has done a quick assessment of the target premises and the Dutch team haven’t moved the Landmark. It’s still in the same position we expected it to be. We must assume that the product has been removed from the vessel. In all probability it was never loaded or already sold. All we can do is keep observations on the target premises and hope one of our players turn up. Let’s concentrate on recovering the boat and/or one of the players. As soon as we know more, I’ll make a decision about the timing of our entry to the premises. If they decide to move the Landmark before we are ready, we’ll follow and do a hard stop.”

A hard stop was the last thing you would wish for. It was a method of containing a moving vehicle and neutralising the occupants. A specialist team from the Regiment would plan and train for a hard stop for several days prior to executing it as it was such a difficult and dangerous task to complete. Normally three cars with four team members in each would practice stopping the target vehicle over and over, normally on the runway at Hereford. Every possible scenario would be tested. The timing, the place and the occupants would all be known in advance. If the Landmark was moved before we were ready, we were in the shit. We were only four, and had no way of training for, or planning the stop, and no intelligence as to how many faces would be inside the vehicle towing the boat.