To Kill a Grey Man (22 page)

Exactly on time, Sir Wynn was shown in.
 
The two men sat down in identical leather
high back chairs and Sir Thomas poured some coffee for Wynn and they talked
about the weather, as British gentlemen do.

Finally Sir Wynn opened his briefcase and laid The Grey Man’s report
on the table, “We have a problem,” he said.

“Oh really!” said Sir Thomas.
 

“The Grey Man has convinced me and others that you have tried to
take over The Firm,” said Sir Wynn.
 
“You have conspired to have loyal agents of the crown killed and your
actions could have seriously jeopardized our security, relationships with our
partners and put this realm in danger.”

“Nonsense,” said Sir Thomas.
 
“That sounds like the ramblings of an old paranoid spy.
 
You do not have a scrap of proof.”

“Let me draw your attention to this,” said Sir Wynn bringing forth a
page from the report which he held out to Sir Thomas.

“No.
 
I don’t think so,” said
Sir Thomas refusing to take the piece of paper.
 
“I don’t want to read this rubbish.
 
If you truly believe this fabrication I
suggest you arrest me, if not I am very busy.
 
I do not want to discuss this further and if you have no other business
I think you have taken up enough of my time.”

In his most reasonable voice, Sir Wynn asked, “Are you sure Sir
Thomas?
 
We really do not want to go
through the courts and would just ask you to maybe take early retirement,
perhaps take up a seat in the Lords, with full benefits of course. Please be
reasonable.
 
You have been caught with
your hand in the cookie jar and now you have to suffer the consequences.”

In a voice like ice, spitting out the words, Sir Thomas said, “Listen
to me you little Welsh shit.
 
I am the
head of the British Secret Service.
 
I
know where you all live and what skeletons
lie
in all
the cupboards.
 
Try to bring me down and
I assure you this Government and half the establishment will come with me.
 
Now this matter is closed.
 
I’ve got work to do.”

Sir Wynn shook his head in defeat.
 
He packed the report back in his case, got up from his chair and walked
out,
his heals clattering in suppressed anger on the stone
floor as he strolled purposefully through the huge mansion.
 
At the large open front doors the butler
handed him his cashmere overcoat and then opened the door to Sir Wynn’s new
Rolls Royce that came with his job as DG.
 
As his driver moved off smoothly, Sir Wynn took out his mobile phone.
 
He dialed a number and on it being answered, he
said one word, “Sanctioned.”

The Assassin put down the phone, looked hard into the computer
screen and made a small adjustment on the joystick.
 
There was a faint whirl as the servo motors
compensated.
 
He pushed the firing button
and an electrical pulse fed into the rear of the rifle.
 
There was a huge bang as it fired, the
concrete rods and servo motors all helping its launch to be as steady as
possible.
 
Birds, startled by the noise,
flew in all directions up from the trees.

The round travelled the distance at an incredible speed.
 
It went through the open French doors and hit
Sir Thomas in the chest who was by now back in his seat reading his newspaper.
 
The chair exploded and a huge fireball
engulfed the room setting fire to the drapes and desk, destroying the paintings
and finery.
 
Sir Thomas was blown
into a thousand pieces.

A micro second later there was a large crack from the round breaking
the sound barrier which Sir Wynn, cosseted in the back of the Rolls listening
to Mozart, would not have heard, nor did he hear the explosion from the round
landing, all he actually observed was the red, grey smoke from the fireball as it
was reflected in the driver’s rear view mirror.
 
He smiled and settled back into his seat.
 
“Time to appoint a new head of the British
Secret Service,” he thought.

Chapter 27

A Day at the Seaside

Jonathan had spent the previous day with his dad depositing his
share of the ten million pounds from the suitcases into a special discreet bank
in London.
 
They had split the money four
ways even though The Grey Man had not wanted his share.
 
Jonathan had reluctantly agreed with his dad
that the money would only be available to him the day he got his degree.

The previous few weeks had been terribly stressful and frightening
but he had somehow enjoyed the excitement.
 
Looking back he had been more alive in those weeks than ever before.

Today he felt more relaxed.
 
He
drove his red Audi A4 to the shop and parked round the back.
 
He helped Olivia fit in two safety chairs
onto the back seat and strapped the kids in.
 
He put a buggy and a picnic in the boot.
 
Olivia got in next to Jonathan and they drove off.

“Have the boys ever been to the seaside?” said Jonathan as they
drove through the outskirts of London.

“No.
 
Never,” she replied not
adding that she hadn’t either.
 
They
drove down the M23 and then cut across through East
Grinstead
and wove through the quiet roads until they arrived in the lovely town of
Bexhill
-On-Sea.
 
They
parked near the De La
Warr
pavilion, the art deco
theatre, and took a walk along the seafront.
 
The tide was out and the waves gently lapped at the strip of sand that
was exposed below the stony beach.
 
Ben
walked beside Jonathan holding his hand and Tom fell asleep in the buggy.
 
The weather was perfect, clear blue sky, hot
sun and a light breeze.

They stopped at a little coffee shop on the promenade and Olivia and
Jonathan ordered cappuccino and Ben had an ice cream which he appeared to wear
more than eat.

“Are you going to tell me what happened?” she finally asked.

“All I can say is this.
 
My dad
works for the British Government sometimes.
 
Some unfinished business from the past came looking and we had to go
away for a few days whilst he sorted it out.”

“Is that true?” she said.

“Mostly,” replied Jonathan.
 
“But it is all over now and I promise you there is no more danger.”

“Okay,” she said.
 
“And no guns hidden in the shop?”

“No,” he said.
 
“Never again.”

After their coffee they took the picnic down to the beach, spread an
old tartan blanket down and watched the waves, ate their sandwiches and pork
pies and chatted away happily.
 
Once they
had finished the picnic they took Ben and Tom down onto the sand to build
sandcastles and paddle in the sea.
 
As
they played with the children they looked at each other often, the boy from university
and the girl from the backstreets of London.

As darkness began to fall and the weather got colder, they packed up.
 
Olivia pushed Tom in his buggy and Ben walked
beside Jonathan, holding his hand.
 
As
they approached the car, Olivia took one hand off the buggy and reached out to
hold Jonathan’s other hand.
 
He turned
towards her and a big smile spread across his face.
 
This time it did not annoy her at all.

Across the street standing in a dark doorway, a shadow detached
itself.
 
On closer inspection you would
have seen that it was a little old man in a shabby grey suit.
 
He had his head down and a small smile played
across his lips as he hurried away about his business.
 
Anyone watching would have been hard picked
to describe his features, ‘You know, ordinary’ they would have said, ‘Non-descript,
a grey man’.

The End