The Vengeance Man (8 page)

He looked me over carefully and then shook my hand.  "You're going grey," he said unexpectedly.  "And you've lost weight. You'd better take a chair. How’s your health? You’ve had a bad time, I know.”

I muttered something about being alright.

He humphed and looked at me sharply. “You aren't going to like this much."

He sat down opposite me at the comfy armchair end of the office.  Tony found himself a hard chair and moved it.

"I expect Tony's told you what this is all about?"  He noted my assent, and went on.  "This is probably one of the hardest things I've ever had to do. Believe me.   Whitehall wanted to hang you out to dry. They had to find someone to blame for all the fuss. The Board of Enquiry dumped everything on you. If they could have got a bunch of Air Marshals  to call it 'pilot error' they couldn't have been more obvious.”

"Why?  What's all the fuss?  I really don't understand.  I thought I did a good job”

"Oh, you did.   In the States Langley and the National Security Agency  are cooing like doves over the communications stuff you brought back: they are drooling over it. Director GCHQ has even been thanked
by the Foreign Secretary
personally,
" he added dryly.

"GCHQ?  Cheltenham?  What did they have to do with it?"

Peters smiled; "It's the old thing isn't it?  Everyone likes to take the credit - but nobody's around to take the blame."

"So I flog my guts out---literally---across the border inside Iran to get classified signals stuff and Cheltenham's chairwallahs take the credit?  And leave me to take all the blame?   I can’t believe it. It wasn't even their op.   I don't understand it."

He looked at me sympathetically.  "No. I don't expect you do." He looked  at Tony.  "Didn't Tony tell you the story?"

I muttered something about embarrassment in the Cabinet Office. Peters grinned.  "Embarrassment? That's an understatement.  After the questions in Parliament,  some of the suits wanted to bring charges against you.  The Attorney General even wrote to the Minister, demanding that some action be taken against you. And the
Sigint
boys couldn't exactly stand up and say, 'It's all right, he's really a hero because he's given us the key to read all Iran’s tactical codes and ciphers, can they?  No, you've got to disappear for a bit, until the fuss dies down. You do understand that, don't you?"

I nodded, dumbly.  He went on.

"The bottom line is that the MOD, under pressure from those media freaks and pooftahs in Number Ten wants you fired.
Now
.  Mainly because they're being squeezed in the media over deniable operations, and HMG's image does not include deniable operations nowadays. Especially ones for our American friends. Bad for the PM’s image.
After that Libyan fuck up the PM is a bit sensitive, apparently.  Something to do with our supposedly ethical foreign policy, apparently.  Whatever
that
  may be," he added dr
y
ly.  "The rumour is that the PM has even had to lie to the media about you, and he is mightily pissed off.  Especially as the press know bloody well what went on – or think they do. Something to do with his squeaky clean image, I am given to understand by those who deal in these exalted matters.  And what with these Five and Six narks spreading their revelations all over the Internet, and the press still sniffing around for the big story that will prove that the government are a bunch of corrupt chancers playing poodle to the White House, you can see that we are none of us Whitehall's favourite organisation.  And you are most certainly
not
their favourite son. By a long chalk."

I suddenly realised that Director Special Forces was risking his neck for me. If what he was saying was true, then many another senior officer would have washed his hands of me.  Senior service officers with an eye on the future were notoriously disloyal - except to their own careers.  You only had to look at some of the creeps who made it to the Army Board.

He went on;   "…Most of Whitehall would just like to drop you down a big hole and pretend that you never existed.  The only thing that's keep
i
ng them back is the knowledge that
I
have insisted that you are given a fair hearing; and that means publicity.  They don't like that." His gaze ran to the window and the little puffy white clouds high up.  "Not even the Attorney General.  A court martial would attract publicity. And they aren't keen on publicity; it's the wrong kind, apparently. And we still have some friends in the media who would kill to get their hands on a story about the SAS doing stuff off the record for spin-doctors inside Number Ten who’re really running the country on behalf of the CIA."

He snapped back to reality. "Anyway, while they're sorting that out we've got to do something with you. I've refused to suspend you, but you can't be seen to be on Group's posted strength for a bit.  I’ve told the Minister that you’re going to disappear for a bit until Whitehall’s got some other media fuck up to worry about. That seems the wisest course. So we've got a little job for you to do." He eyed me doubtfully. "Provided that you're up to it, of course."

"I'm up to it, Sir.   What is it?"

Tony snorted behind me, and even Peters smiled. "Well, it won't be round here, that's for sure. Let's see what Mr Henderson, or whatever he calls himself,  has got to say shall we?"  He nodded to Tony who went to the door. I raised my eyebrows. "Who's Mr Henderson?"

"He's a senior civil servant who's come with a request for Group's assistance."  Peters flashed me a warning glance, then stood up and greeted a tall, grey haired man in a grey suit who came in with Tony.

"I'm Henderson,"  announced the newcomer, taking the seat that the Director  waved him to after we had shaken hands. He was about fifty, I reckoned, with a slight stoop and a gloomy lined face. Like a heron, I thought.  "I'm from – ah - let us say
another
government department that can, perhaps better
appreciate
your particular talents. I've asked your Director if the SAS could help us with a little problem we've got.  Your Director has told us all about you.   Suggested you might be the very man.  In the
circumstances.
"  He stared at me thoughtfully, then nodded slowly.  "Yes.  I think you'll do us very well."

I looked blank.

"You don't mind – ah -
assisting
  us, do you? He enquired anxiously. I glanced at the Brigadier, who nodded imperceptibly.

"No, not at all.   But what.....?"

"You look a little puzzled. That's hardly surprising.  Well, to put it bluntly, we'd like you to –ah -
acquire
a book for us.  It's not a very
big
  book.  Unfortunately it's a little - ah - 
inaccessible,
shall we say?   Do you think that you could do that for us?”

I stared at him blankly. “Where is this book, then?”

“It’s in Italy. It belongs to man calling himself Heinemann. We need that book. And we’d like you to teach him a little lesson.”

Pesaro, North East Italy

It’s funny how real crooks and hoods just look so ordinary.

I don't think that anyone looking at Carlo Romero Heinemann would ever have guessed that he was one of the most dangerous men involved in the mess that had once been Yugoslavia. Even for an Italian he was too obvious, too distinguished-looking, too ... well, flashy.

From his raven-glossy hair to his hand-made shoes he was the picture of conspicuous prosperity, slickness, charm and good old fashioned capitalist success. No-one was ever going to accuse Carlo Romero of being a 'little grey man'.  Carlo was a 'Personality' and he wanted everyone to know it.

I watched him pat the side of the white Pontiac Parisienne convertible with pride as he pushed the door to. I knew it was one of his three cars. I also knew he was six feet two inches tall, fifty-nine years old, that his father had been a German
Standartenfuhrer
in the SS, that he invariably carried a Heckler-Koch 7.65 millimetre pistol in his waistband, that he was on his third wife and that he was uncircumcised. Thanks to Mr Henderson of the Cabinet Office, I knew a great deal about Carlo Romero Heinemann.

The wind off the sea front flapped his hair as two girls walked past. Their skirts fluttered up and they pressed them down, giggling behind their free hands. Carlo's brilliant smile illuminated them both, and they looked away, laughing. He beamed appreciatively at their retreating rumps. The Adriatic wind, bright and cold off the Gulf of Venice, whipped everything in the dusty Italian street; their hair, their skirts, Carlo's shop awning.

He walked slowly, as he did every morning, into Luca Colluci, the tobacconist next door, his eyes crinkled against the bright early morning sun, acting out his role. I thought he looked like an ageing film star.  I expect Carlo did, too, but he probably preferred the word 'mature'.

I stepped forward to our meeting, loosening the cotton blouson jacket, and feeling my new long hair hot around my ears and neck. I carried the paperback book prominently in my right hand as I'd been told, a fat Italian edition of the latest Umberto Eco novel, thick and heavy.

He came out of the shop and as I passed him, his eyes took me in. The self-satisfied smile faded to an uncertain frown. Then he was fiddling with the locks on his door, just like he did every morning. I stopped and examined the tobacconist's window, watching the street reflected in the glass. It was empty and a glance to the side showed Heinemann reaching up to immobilise his security alarms on the inside of the door, just like yesterday and the day before.

Now !  I spun on my heel and covered the eight paces to my quarry's unsuspecting back as quickly and as quietly as I could.

At the last moment something - a noise, some change in the quality of the light - must have alerted Carlo, because he began to turn in the half open door, his hand moving towards his waist. He was too late. Dropping the false book cover, I hit him hard with the hidden cosh on the
occipital
point just behind the right ear. The combination of lead shot and sand in a leather pipe on a human skull made a noise like an apple dropped onto concrete. For a second Carlo clawed at empty air; then he pitched forward like a log to sprawl face down inside the shop doorway, his legs bright in the sunlight, his body deep in the shade.

Breathing hard, I glanced across the street. Nothing; it was all clear. The strike had only taken about three seconds.

I stepped over the body and, as swiftly as I could, pulled him by the arms into the secure darkness of the shop. A limp foot stuck awkwardly and I had to kick his legs to close the door and drop the lock.

The security camera  winked in the corner exactly where the briefing photographs said. Two paces and the little aerosol of paint obliterated its lens. Time for the main attraction.

I rolled Heinemann over. Blood leaked slowly from the nose and dripped softly onto the dusty floor. A nostril snored little red bubbles. Thank God I hadn't killed him. I don't like killing for the sake of it. There's usually no need.

The notebook was in the special inside pocket, just as they had told me at the briefing.  I pulled at it, then froze as cold stab of pain seared through my hand. Swearing, I pulled the pocket wide, to reveal a huge brass fish-hook impaled through the back of my left hand. Heinemann had sewn a bloody great fish-hook on a swivel inside the suit pocket. The street thief who tried to steal Heinemann's list of Italian arms traffickers and their Balkan clients over the water would have had his hand ripped to the bone. You had to admire Carlo's thoroughness.

But I wasn't a street pickpocket and I wasn't in a rush to escape. Well, not that much. Calmly, listening to the hiss  and roar of my own breathing, and the thudding of my heart, I slowly worked the barb loose. It seemed to take a lifetime; it was probably about five seconds. Eventually, I tore it free, ripping through the last shreds of skin and the surgical rubber gloves. Blood welled up and trickled between my gloved fingers and over the little red notebook with the elastic band to splash alongside Heinemann's on the floor. I didn't care: I'd got what I came for.

They could check my DNA for all the chance they had of getting their hands on me. And somehow I didn’t think that Carlos’s friends would be running to the authorities asking for help.

Now I had to make the gun shop look like a casual thief had turned it over. Carlo's wallet, change and pistol went into my bomber jacket's huge poacher-pocket. I had trouble with his rings and watch, and by the time I'd dragged the till onto the floor to smash it open, he was beginning to twitch and groan. His father must have given him a good Prussian skull.

As I'd expected, the till was empty.  I grabbed a handful of glossy brochures and threw them onto the floor. The armoured glass gun racks against the walls were way beyond me but as I headed for the door, I pulled every drawer out, leaving them to burst and scatter their junk.  I stepped over Heinemann and stopped at the door to look back. The room looked like a bomb had burst. It looked just like a casual hit and run mugging, which is what it was supposed to look like. The body lay in the middle, framed by debris, with the leather cosh, the trademark of the local version of Cosa Nostra by his side.

I checked my watch; two minutes twenty two seconds since I'd taken those eight steps from the tobacconists.  Slow, very slow; but we hadn't counted on a fish-hook on a swivel. The phone began to ring. Wrapping a handkerchief tightly around my ripped hand,  I let myself quietly out into the street.

It was still empty.  I turned left and, head down, walked quickly away from Carlo Heinemann's 'Sporting Gun Shop', the tobacconists and the groaning body on the floor. The notebook was tight in my left hand, thrust deep into my pocket. The junk from Heinemann's pockets bumped against my chest.  My momentum carried me the twenty paces to the corner and the sea front of Pesaro and the Gulf of Venice, where the light was dazzling, the wind battered the flags and the gulls screamed above the anonymous Ford with the FCO man at the wheel.  He was sweating and anxious as I got in. Vivaldi blasted out from the speakers. Despite his orders, he'd left the engine running.

"Well?  Did it go all right? I mean, was it OK?"   His anxiety was shrill.

I nodded. I was busy dabbing my cut with a handkerchief, and trying to shovel the wallet and stuff into a small duffle bag on the floor.  I noticed that he had remembered to put the brick in it, like I'd told him. I also noticed with surprise that  Carlo had been carrying twenty $1,000 dollar bills.

"Yeah, it went all right."

"Is that all you've got to say?" he burst out as we took a corner too fast, nearly spilling an early morning group of wasp-like Vespa riders, bent on suicide. "Is that it?"

"Slow down.  Sure.  I hit him. He went down like a log.  He's not dead; well, he wasn't when I left, anyway. I got the book like you wanted.  It was all right," I repeated.  "No-one saw. What more is there to say?"

He released his pent up breath noisily and flashed his eyes on the mirror.

"Look, if you'd just slow down a bit and drive steadily, we'll be all right," I said as calmly as I could.  I turned the Vivaldi down.  The FCO man  was frightened and his driving would have made even one of the local Italians nervous. The waiting must have been bad for him, though.  He wasn't used to this sort of thing.

"Yes. Yes."  He spoke in a higher pitch and glanced sideways, to see me strip off the rubber gloves and drop them in the duffle bag. Of course, the blood had smeared everywhere under the rubber. It must have looked like a butcher's yard to the FCO man. "You've been wounded!" he squealed.

I couldn't help but grin at his exaggeration. "Not so dramatic. The bastard had a fish-hook sewn into his jacket pocket.  It looks worse than it is." I wiped it clean and inspected the damage. "It's nothing."  Deep, but not even one stitch, I reckoned. Bloody Heinemann. Still, I should have been more careful. Henderson had warned me that Heinemann was a dangerous bastard.

"Here's the book." I dropped it into his pocket. "And don't go nicking the stuff in the duffle bag."

"Nick it?" he squeaked. "You don't think ... "

"Yes, yes, I know. You're an honest civil servant, a pillar of the Foreign Service... sure, sure; I've heard it all before.  Just make sure that you dump it into deep water as soon as you can. Twenty thousand US dollars in cash is a big incentive not to, that's all." I watched him. His eyeballs bulged.

"Twenty thousand...?"

"Right. Most of it in thousand dollar bills. And his watch is a
Patek
Phillipe, too, so don't start getting ideas above a Second Secretary's salary. Anything in this bag is traceable."

He fell silent, pursing a silent whistle. We had slowed down to a reasonable speed now.

"So, you've got your list of dealers. The Six guy in the Embassy will love you for standing in for him, giving him an alibi, and being a hero.  SIS can look SISMI
[1]
straight in the eye at the next embassy cocktail party and deny any involvement, now we're all good Europeans."  Personally I'll believe in a united Europe when the French Secret Service stops trying to spy on us and the Germans, or the Greeks stop flogging NATO plans to the Chinese
-
but then I'm biased. “We can't go spying on our EU partners, can we?  Even if we do all pretend we're committed Europeans, nowadays....  Don't worry. It'll look like a ordinary mugging to the police.  Heinemann will never know the truth. It's all very neat; provided we all do our bit.  Now, what about my stuff?"

He nodded slowly. "Your new clothes are in the case on the back seat, all Italian, all chain store: plus the papers; passport, tickets, Diners, American Express: everything that was agreed. Leave the other bag on the floor. I'll dump it in the bay this afternoon"

We parted at the airport. I had twenty minutes to change in the washroom and sort my hand out before checking in for my flight to Frankfurt. I left the geeky glasses and the long wig in the car.  Being a hippy all morning had made my head hot.

As he left, he gave me an embarrassed sideways look. "Did you," he hesitated. "Well, did you ...
feel
anything? I mean, when you..."

I stared down at him. Poor little sod.  I'll bet he'd be shitting himself for a week. Mind you, for a legal British Consular Official from Rome to be roaming free with a bloke like me to provide the Rome SIS r
esident with an alibi was risky
. Particularly with the evidence of a serious assault on a noted local citizen dumped on the floor of the FCO official’s hire car.  

I shrugged. "Not really.  It's just a job that's got to be done. Look on it as a war going on all the time, whether people back home like it or not. Don't forget that Heinemann's little gun shop was the front for some of the nastiest arms deals in the Balkans, Ossetia, Lebanon
, Syria –
you name it
."

I looked at the FCO man's profile, calm at last. "You know that Heinemann was the coordinator of all those dodgy arms deals to Croatia, years back, when the Germans decided to diplomatically recognise the Croats?  Big trucks full of FN rifles from Hamburg overnight? That's Heiney.  Indirectly he was responsible for hundreds - maybe thousands - of deaths. You know that he got Phil Pierce and Paul Smithson killed?   Didn't Smithson work out of the Rome Embassy for a while?"

He nodded, staring at me as if I was some bizarre species of wild animal. "Yes, " he said in a choked voice, "I knew him. Kept himself to himself.  Nice wife. Amanda.  She went back. "

"Well,"  I went on, "Think of it as getting our own back. Revenge - natural justice, call it what you like. Someone has to do these public services. Your real problem is going to be spotting the next one. 'Cos there'll be a next one. Then someone else will have to do this job all over again"

Julian looked at me bug-eyed and ran a pink tongue over bloodless lips. He was squat and toad-like; not at all like a Second Secretary called Julian in the FCO.  He
smelt
frightened. He shook his head disbelievingly, "It's just a
job
to you?"

“Just a job," I repeated.

“My God, you’re a cold fish, “ he said wonderingly. “How can you do it?”

“Training,” I replied. “Someone’s got to do it.” He seemed to want an answer and it was as good as any. I just wanted rid of him. Fat frightened little fool, clever as he might be. No guts. No nerve.