Eye of the Gangster
By Stuart Slade
MacChuills Public House, Thistle Street, Glasgow South Side. Wednesday, April 5, 2000.
“Christ on a Crutch!” Assistant Commissioner Chris Keeble, had started his career as Constable Christopher McCulloch of the City of Glasgow Police in November 1800, but in all the years that had passed, he had never seen anything like the scene in the bar of McChuills Public House. The room reeked of blood, guts and the sewer stench of voided bowels yet it was the acrid stink of gunpowder that seemed to dominate everything. Yet there was another smell there as well, one that underlay the rest. It was the raw, unvarnished smell of people who had died in mortal terror.
Beside him, Inspector Conall Martin masked his disquiet at the blasphemy, not least because he was trying not to be violently sick. The scene in front of him was something out of a nightmare. At least a dozen bodies were strewn across the floor, every one of them dead from multiple gunshot wounds. He crouched down to look at one of the scattered bodies. The man had four bullet holes in his chest and two more through his face. The back of his head just wasn’t there anymore and the spray of his brains was just one part of the revolting mess that covered the floor. “Ah ken thes a body, sairrr. Jimmy McTavish. he’s an enforcer fur th' Sooth Side Stickers. Was an enforcer ah shoods say. Whit th' heel happened haur?”
“You heard what happened on Eglinton?” Keeble stepped through the hinged panel that gave access to the area behind the bar. The barman was stretched out dead on the floor, killed by at least three shots through his head. A heavy wooden club studded with nails was next to his right hand. Keeble guessed that he had seen the shooting of McTavish, gone for the killer and been gunned down as well. Just behind him, a woman was also dead on the ground, her body halfway through the door that led to the kitchen area. She’d been shot in the head and back, the bullets spaced neatly down her spine. The barmaid. She tried to run for it and was killed before she could get through the door.
“I’d heard ay a killin' thaur.” Martin shook his head. Eglinton Street was South Side Stickers territory.
“Three members of the Govan Team were bowling down the pavement.” Keeble’s eyes narrowed. ‘Bowling’ was one of the ways the gangs claimed territory as their own. Three or four gang members would walk down the pavement, side-by-side, occupying the whole width from kerb to wall. Anybody who didn’t step into the gutter fast enough got their faces razor-slashed. “They were killed, all of them. Beaten to death. Nobody saw a damned thing of course.”
“Ah bit nobody saw whit happened haur either.” Martin looked at another body, a man off to one side of the room. He’d tried to reach for a shotgun but four bullets had blown his head off. Martin guessed he was the door guard and he’d been one of the first to die. “Thes’un, sairrr. Mad Mike Mackenzie. They got heem sae fest he didne hae a chance tae pull 'at shotgin.”
“If there had been anybody in here who might talk, they’d be on the floor with the rest of them. Them that did this, they had no intention of leaving anybody alive in here.” Keeble gestured at the dead barmaid. An innocent bystander in the wrong place at the wrong time.
“Swatch at th' way th' bodies waur left. Th' killers herded everybody intae th' back corner afair finishin' them aff.”
Keeble saw what Martin meant. After the first few victims had gone down, the survivors had tried to find a way to flee the massacre but there had been no way out for them. They’d been mercilessly shot while they realized escape was impossible. Keeble guessed from the position of the bodies that some of them had been begging for their lives while they were killed. That gave him a thought. The door to the men’s room was in one corner; he pushed it open and looked inside. The pool of blood on the floor told him what he needed to know. At least one of the victims had tried to hide in the stalls and been shot down there. He looked inside the end stall since that was the one that seemed to have the biggest blood pool and saw the body sprawled at the back. Four shots to the chest, four in the head. It looked as if the gunman had known where he was and fired through the stall door. The killer guessed he would be standing in a crouch on the toilet so his feet wouldn’t give him away. That makes sense; the night’s work was not done by amateurs after all.
Another check, this time on the women’s room, showed two bodies there, both male. Both shot multiple times and left surrounded by the bright golden color of expended brass. Keeble stopped one of the crime scene technicians who had just arrived and inspected one of the bagged cartridge cases. 9x21mm Skoda. No wonder the bodies are chewed up. Velocity and weight make those the deadliest of all the 9mm rounds.
“I make it fifteen dead, including three in the toilets and two behind the bar.” When Keeble had received the emergency call from the Glasgow Police, they had said there had been a multiple killing but this was worse than anything he had expected. Like most British police officers, he'd never seen the aftermath of a group of people being slaughtered by gunfire. Except during the Occupation but that had been different.
“Aye, fifteen. they've killed th' cream ay th' Sooth Side Stickers here.”
“I’d hesitate to say cream, Inspector. It’s the scum that float to the top.”
“Ye ur reit, that's fur sure. ye hink thes is revenge fur th' jimmies killed oan Eglinton? Th' Govan Team main hae worked fest tae pit together a team fur thes. Thaur main hae bin thee ur fower ginmen at leest tae clear a room foo ay armed men.” Martin looked down at the bodies of a young man and woman occupying a table. Both were dead of course and neither would have their coffins open at the funeral. The woman’s face was so badly shattered it was impossible to tell how many bullets had been fired into her head and her companion was no better. Looking around at the room, he guessed that there would be few open coffins when the wakes were held. The deaths had all involved multiple headshots. He heard a slight tinkle on the blood-soaked ground and saw an open straight edged-razor by the dead girl’s hand. She hadn’t been an innocent bystander.
“I think it’s as certain as anything can be that the two are connected. The Govan Team tried to push into the South Side Stickers territory. Something went wrong and the jimmies got wiped out. Now we have this. The South Siders will hit back, that’s for certain. But you’re wrong on one thing, Inspector. These victims weren’t armed, not in any way that mattered. I doubt if there were more than two or three guns in this room, excluding the shotgun Mackenzie tried to use. These victims had knives and straight-edge razors.” You’re wrong on other things as well, Martin. This massacre hadn’t been carried out by four men with guns. It was the work of a single woman with two guns and against her, the men in here had never stood a chance.
Eglinton Street, Glasgow South Side. Eight Hours Earlier
The two women seemed an incongruous couple as they meandered down the pavement chattering to each other. One was a black-haired, olive-skinned Latina although the inhabitants of Glasgow couldn’t be expected to be that precise. The other was a Chinese woman with blood-red hair. Oddly, the Latina was the shorter of the two although her stocky form and menacing aura gave her a presence that made her seem larger than she really was. They were ambling down the pavement, seemingly oblivious to the group of three men striding in line abreast in the opposite direction. A few of the more public-spirited of the bystanders had tried to warn the women to get out of the way but their efforts had been in vain and now they knew they were about to see another young woman get her face ruined.
Achillea turned to face Angel and each made a fist. Three quick strokes and they flashed out symbols. Achillea had kept her fist closed in “stone” while Angel had opened two fingers as “scissors”. Stone beats Scissors and that meant Achillea had won. Angel cursed fluently in Chinese. It had been several weeks since she had killed anybody, the longest period of its kind in two decades. “How come I never beat you at this?”
“Because you’re a psychopath, Angel. You have to understand people to win at rock-paper-scissors. Don’t feel bad, I never win when playing Igrat. Or The Seer.” Achillea looked at Angel while carefully measuring the distance to the approaching three gang members. “We’re up.”
She turned again and started to approach the three men. Angel had dropped a couple of paces behind her, guarding Achillea’s back. One of the men looked at Achillea with anticipation. “Gie us a smile lassie.”
Achillea saw his hand drop to a pocket and she knew he had taken hold of the straight-edge razor concealed there. It was the traditional preferred weapon of the Glasgow gangs. Carrying guns was illegal in the U.K. and even owning them was supposed to be prohibited but after the Occupation the country had been awash with weapons and the police had given up trying to enforce the law. In Glasgow, though, the razor was the weapon of choice. Achillea knew what was supposed to happen next. She’d give a mechanical smile, the man would snarl ‘not good enough’ or words to that effect and give her a razor slash through her cheeks that would open her mouth to her ears, leaving her permanently and gruesomely disfigured.
The first part went that way. What happened after that did not. Josh Shaw had made the exchange and started the slash with his razor. Only, somehow, his hand stopped dead in mid-cut. Achillea had taken a firm, unyielding grip on his wrist and then used it to push his hand up and away. As she did so, she stepped under his arm and used their combined momentum to swing him around so he was facing his companions. Her free arm snaked around his neck so that her hand cupped his chin. From there, it was the work of a split second for her to snap his neck where his spine joined his skull. In the few seconds of life Josh Shaw had left, he heard the clatter as his razor hit the pavement and he felt himself being thrown at his companions. As everything went black around him, he couldn’t help but feel that this wasn’t supposed to be happening.
Eoghan Duncan saw Shaw’s limp body being thrown at him but he didn’t have time to move out of the way. To make matters worse, he had already started to draw the knife from his belt and he felt the blade lodge in Shaw’s abdomen. Before he could do anything about it, Achillea smashed the heel of her right hand against the underside of his nose, splintering the bones and sending them showering upwards into the base of his brain. The same blow had also knocked out his front teeth but that was incidental; the smashed wreckage of his nose was already a mortal wound. She stepped past him as he staggered backwards and kicked his left knee, causing it to bend almost sixty degrees sideways before the bones shattered and the tendons and ligaments ruptured. His leg utterly and irreparably crippled, he collapsed to the ground screaming with the ice-hot agony that seemed to fill his body. Achillea didn’t even look down as she finished Duncan off by breaking his neck with her foot.
That left the third man. Kiran Reilly tried to run for his life but it was a futile effort. He had foreseen the possibility that somebody might grab him by the collar of his coat and had sewn razor blades there as a precaution but it didn’t matter. It was a massive blow in his back that sent him sprawling to the ground. Achillea had punched him in the kidneys and sent him to the ground in agony. “Ye feckin' huir. ye ne'er gae us a chance.”
In the background, Angel smiled broadly at the comment. It was a smile that chilled everybody who saw it, a grin of sheer delight at the death and destruction that had erupted on the street but one that never touched the cold, merciless eyes. Achillea didn’t smile; she was in combat mode and that precluded emotions. That was the difference between the two women; Achillea had been rigorously trained not to empathize with the people she fought. Angel was mentally incapable of doing so. Now, Achillea lifted an eyebrow and looked at Reilly writhing on the ground from a ruptured kidney. Achillea had also been trained, literally from birth, in how to hit people so that her blows would cause the maximum possible damage. The only question she had at this point was which of several lethal options she would use to kill him.
In the end she went for the most theatrical. This is a public declaration of war after all. She disarmed Reilly, then lifted him up by his ears and propped him against the wall. Secure in the knowledge that Angel would shoot anybody who tried to interfere, she positioned herself carefully, then her hand, the fingers formed into a rigid blade, swung in a short, brutal arc that crushed his lower ribs and tore open his diaphragm. The blow also split his aorta, sending arterial blood flooding into his lungs. Reilly took two or three paces, blood spraying from his mouth as he tried to suck air into his lungs instead of the blood that was filling them, then he fell once more. This time, his last sight was the pool of his own blood spreading around him.
Aboard Pan American Boeing 3707 Sonic Clipper Dixie Clipper Approaching Heathrow, March 16, 2000
Conrad was being very careful not to move. The flight from Washington to Heathrow only took two hours but an hour into the flight, after their refreshments, Angel had curled up and gone to sleep. It was a talent of hers, something Conrad had noted in other people who had lived ‘on the edge’. Angel went to sleep easily but would wake up instantly at any sign of a change in her surroundings. This time though, a few minutes after falling asleep, she had wrapped her arm around Conrad’s and rested her head on his shoulder. That was unprecedented but the affectionate trust it displayed was not something he wanted to disturb. In any case he was curious to see her reaction when she woke up.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, Pan American Airways thanks you all for riding aboard the Dixie Clipper on this flight from Washington to London Heathrow. We would like to extend a special thank you to those passengers who are bearing arms and thus helping to ensure the security of this flight.” The stewardess paused for a second while the ripple of applause died away. “We are now in our descent spiral and will be landing at Heathrow in about twenty minutes. Please note that carrying sidearms is illegal in the United Kingdom and, in accordance with an agreement between the British and American Governments, any armed citizens should lock their weapons in a sealed case contained within their hand luggage for the duration of their stay.”
Beside Conrad, Angel stirred as she woke up. In the split second between being asleep and awake, she smiled affectionately at Conrad, but then her phobia about being touched kicked in and the expression changed to one of horror as she clapped her hand over her mouth. Her cheeks bulged and her chest was heaving as she frantically tried not to be violently sick. A stewardess saw her distress and came running up with a barf-bag. Such things were rarely needed on the Sonic Clippers; the air at 85,000 feet was as smooth as silk and airsickness was almost unknown. Only during the climb to altitude at the start of a flight and the descent spiral at the end did those susceptible to motion disturbance need the bags.
Angel struggled with her sickness and eventually, by a thin margin, conquered it. She smiled both apologetically and gratefully at the stewardess, both emotions being completely faked. “Thank you, I’m all right now.”
She got an equally fake smile from the stewardess who returned to her normal duties for this point in the flight. The 3707 had already lost a lot of height and was making a steep bank as it turned on to its new heading. It was a clear day, showing the English countryside below in all its spring glory.
“It’s so green down there.” Angel was amazed by the lushness of the countryside visible from 55,000 feet.
“You’ve never been to Britain before?” Conrad was often surprised by how little he knew of Angel’s past despite the fact that he had learned more about her than anybody else.
“Never. I thought of coming here after I left America but I went west instead. More opportunities for people like me in Asia.”
“And an extradition treaty here of course.” Conrad had his tongue firmly planted in his cheek and he got a grin of appreciation from Angel.
“That too, of course. Although, there’s a big Chinese community in London and I’d vanish into that.” Conrad knew that Angel was referring to her Triad membership. The London Triad house, he was in no doubt that there was one, would close ranks around her.
Angel was looking out of the window again. “Why are the fields such funny shapes?”
“History, to be more precise old field patterns established centuries ago. Most of English habits come from their history, recent and ancient. As we drop down, you’ll see that the towns don’t have grid plans for their roads. They’re all over the place. In an English town, turning left four times doesn’t necessarily bring you back to where you started.” Conrad was being very careful; he actually had a very good knowledge of why the English countryside was the strange, complex pattern it was but revealing it would make people wonder how acquired that knowledge.
Angel looked fascinated at the countryside passing underneath as the airliner dropped towards Heathrow. “What’s that?”
Angel was pointing at a big building complex surrounded by what were obviously beautifully-kept gardens. “That’s Windsor Castle, Angel. I think the Royal Family live there.”
“Excuse my interruption, Sir, but the Royal Family don’t live there anymore.” A passenger the other side of the aisle spoke politely and respectfully as became somebody addressing a stranger uninvited. “When she’s not at Buckingham Palace, the Queen lives at Hampton Court these days. Her father was imprisoned at Windsor before the Great Escape and the Castle has unpleasant associations. It’s a group of museums now. If you have time, the Resistance Museum is well worth a visit.”
Conrad thanked him as he felt the nose lifting. The Boeing went into aerodynamic braking and he braced himself for the bump as the main wheels touched the ground. The years since he had been shot had seen the after-effects of the injuries fade away but the residual traces included a sharp pain from the solid bump of an airliner touching down. It had passed by the time the porpoising of the 3707 started as it taxied to the arrivals building.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we have arrived at Heathrow. Please remain seated until the aircraft has stopped moving and the floor light by your seat row turns on. Then move towards the exit that is at the front of the cabin.”
Conrad felt the lurch as the cargo pod was detached from the belly of the 3707. He knew it would be towed to the baggage area where it would be opened to expose the rows of lockers inside. The passengers all had the plastic boarding passes that also acted as the electronic key to their lockers. He watched the people in front stand as the floor light for their row told them it was their turn to leave. He and Angel had seats in the middle of the aircraft, the most comfortable place to sit on the Boeings. So, it took a few minutes before they disembarked, collected their bags from the cargo pod and set off for immigration.
“Conrad de Llorente?” A young woman was standing by the doors that led to the immigration booths. Conrad nodded at her, recognizing her from Igrat’s description.
“I’m Heather Watson. Sir Humphrey Appleday asked me to meet you and bring you to Whitehall. We’ve booked you a suite at the Savoy. You must be Angel . . . .” Heather fumbled for Angel’s family name.
“I don’t have another name.” Angel was expressionless. “I’m just Angel.”
“Pleased to meet you.” That wasn’t strictly true. Heather Watson had read Angel’s file and the contents had horrified her. The British Security Service had her tabbed as “Extremely Dangerous” and noted she was also a senior Triad member and a professional killer. Heather was well aware that under normal circumstances, as a known and convicted criminal, Angel would have never been allowed to enter the country and it appalled her that the exception had been made. “You collected your permits to carry those guns?”
“Picked them up in Washington although I don’t need permits to carry my boys. Can I get nine-by-twenty one Skoda here?”
Heather nodded. “Let us know what you’ll need.”
“That’s not what I asked. Where do I get my own supply of Skoda?”
Heather stopped, realizing that Angel was not going to allow anybody to control her ammunition supply. “There are sports shops where you can get pistol ammunition. I prefer .38 Super myself. Anyway, I’ve got a car waiting outside. I’ll walk you through the diplomatic channel and then we’ll head into London.”
2000 - Eye of the Gangster
Re: 2000 - Eye of the Gangster
Chapter Two
Sir Humphrey Appleday’s Office, Cabinet Office, 70 Whitehall, London, March 20, 2000.
“Excuse me, Cabinet Secretary, your 10 o’clock parties are here.”
Sir Humphrey Appleday, Cabinet Secretary and head of the Civil Service, looked at the clock on his wall and sighed deeply to himself. What he faced now was something he had spent his whole professional life – or at least this part of it - trying to avoid.
“Chris, it is very pleasing to see you here again. How is Scotland Yard these days?” Sir Humphrey had asked a rhetorical question and everybody present knew it. They were old friends, part of a group where 'old' had a greater meaning than it did for most people. Commissioner Keeble was the only one of his visitors whom he was actually happy to see in his office.
“Well, we’re doing better than we did a decade ago and that was better than the decade before that. You’ve met Conrad of course?”
“Indeed I have.” Sir Humphrey’s warm welcome was completely insincere. Privately he regarded Conrad as being an interfering busybody who caused trouble wherever he went. His presence in the Cabinet Office was prejudicial to good and orderly government and thus one of the things he had earnestly tried to avoid. “Welcome to the Cabinet Office, Father Conrad. You’re not wearing your battledress I see.”
“Sir Humphrey. I have settled in Bangkok now and I find that getting on with people there is made much easier without the complications a collar would cause. May I introduce my friend and working partner, Angel?”
“Welcome to the Cabinet Office Miss . . . .”
“Just Angel, Sir Humphrey. I don’t have a family name. And I don’t miss. Ever.” Angel’s voice was its normal cold, harsh and callous self. There was no malign or threatening intent behind that, it was simply her normal voice.
Sir Humphrey coughed and made the mistake of looking into Angel’s eyes. The stare he got back was ruthless and devoid of any semblance of empathy or human feeling. It was exactly what Nietzsche had promised; the abyss was staring back. He shuddered at the chill that ran through him and the civilized comfort of his office seemed to shimmer and fade away. For a moment, the two Beretta 98s hanging under her shoulders seemed a much more appropriate accompaniment to the meeting than the soft furnishings and object d'art that were Sir Humphrey's preferred option. He swallowed and hastily looked away. "Chris, you have met Achillea of course."
"Indeed so, it's a pleasure to see you again 'Lea. How's Igrat doing?'
"Very well; she's got an adopted daughter now. Cristi. You might be seeing them soon Humpty, Cristi's trying for a scholarship to Oxford. If she gets it, they'll be moving over here. Iggie's getting to the point where she needs to disappear for a while."
Sir Humphrey tried to hide the panic he felt at the news Igrat might be spending a few years in Great Britain. Behind him, Heather Watson opened the drinks cabinet. She was equally displeased to learn that Igrat, whom she hated with an unyielding passion, might be coming over to live in England for a while and sought activity to help conceal that feeling. "Can I offer anybody anything? 'Lea?"
"You have a Laphroaig?"
"Twenty five years old." Sir Humphrey smiled benignly, recovering from the almost inevitable shock of a civilized man meeting Angel for the first time. "You too, Chris? And, Angel, your file says Bacardi 151 for you?"
Angel smiled and nodded. She was well aware that knowing her drinking preferences was a way of stressing how well her hosts were informed about her. Or thought they were. Once everybody had their drinks, Sir Humphrey nodded to Assistant Commissioner Chris Keeble. "Chris, please could you brief us on what is going on here?"
Keeble leaned back in his seat, his fingertips touching so that his hands formed a pyramid. "I'll need to start by giving our guests some background on Glasgow and its gang problems. Glasgow has always had a serious gang problem, as far back as proper records exist. We know that the city's youth had divided itself into gangs back as far as the 1880s. Those gangs have been remarkably stable; there are about 110 groups spread across the city and all of them date back more than a century. What is surprising is that those groups have always been a youth-limited phenomenon that has never evolved into anything as organized as you might see elsewhere. Joining a gang is a rite of passage in some ways, it was an identity that young people attached onto and then grew out of. Those gangs don't have oaths or initiation ceremonies; in the final analysis, if somebody says they belong to a specific gang, they do. Gang identity is handed down from generation to generations. If a kid's father had been a member of the Ibrox Tongs, Carmunnock Young Team, Duke Street Fleet, Real Calton Tongs or the Keppochhill Gang then his son will gravitate towards the same group. Angel?"
Angel had sat up as the names of the gangs was recited. "You said Tongs?"
"The kids use the name they heard from the small Chinese community in Glasgow. They don't really understand what it means." Keeble looked at Angel. She had taken off her nylon jacket and the black spaghetti-strap top she wore exposed the elaborate tattoos that covered her right shoulder as well as her twin Berettas. A spell of duty in Hongkong before the war meant that he could read those tattoos and knew what they said about her. The intricate patterns told him that she was a very senior member of the 14K Triad and was one of the small group of elite 432s tasked with maintaining peace between the various Triad houses. They, and the pistols, also told him that she was also a highly experienced executioner, a 426 in Triad nomenclature. The fact that she was carrying her guns in the Cabinet Office was indication enough this was no normal meeting. The same applied to Achillea of course but she didn’t need guns to be lethally dangerous. Keeble noted that Angel was nodding in acknowledgment of his explanation; having to deal with Tongs would have complicated her position seriously.
"Really these gangs are little more than having a comail address with the gang name attached or carving the gang name on a school desk. Actual criminal activity was usually little more than spraying gang graffiti around the boundaries of their turf and the neighboring areas. Those gangs never got serious in terms of violence but for many of them being in a gang was initially a kind of play, a way of developing a group identity and a community identity by playing at violence. They're a bit like Triads, Angel, most of the so-called members are honest, law-abiding citizens. Like your Triad, those gangs are not entirely negative. They teach community loyalty, identification with an area, reliance on friends and family, the sort of things that a wider society needs for stability.
"Unfortunately, things changed in the 1930s. The gangs started to develop a sharper edge and became a lot more violent. They started edging into viciousness and repeated violent conflict. The membership changed as well; we started to see gangs of adults forming. These became the Glasgow Razor Gangs. Religion lay behind some of this; Originally, Glasgow had been mainly Protestant, but in the 19th and 20th centuries large numbers of Roman Catholic Irish immigrants came to the west coast of Scotland, drawn by the industries and higher quality of life in the country. Protestants became irritated at increasing unemployment levels and blamed the Catholics for taking their jobs. Then there was the Great Depression. Unemployment was very high so it became more common for men in their twenties and even thirties to remain active members of street gangs. In doing so, the violence became real. The preferred weapon of those gangs was the straight-edged razor. Facial scarring from razor fights became commonplace. You've probably heard of the Glasgow Smile?" Angel and Achillea both nodded. "It was pretty bad back then. Anger a gang member and your wife or sister got her face carved up. That's when and how Glasgow got its reputation.
"That era ended with the War. A lot of the young men got drafted and went into the Army. Mobilization brought jobs and money. What really did for the razor gangs though was when That Man . . . . " Keeble saw that Angel was puzzled. "Angel, 'That Man' is Lord Halifax, the apology for a human being who betrayed our country to the Germans in 1940. His name is never mentioned in polite company - and if you have to speak his name, nobody will object if you spit on the floor afterwards. Anyway, when he signed the Armistice and formed his Blackshirts, everybody in Glasgow united against them. Pretty soon, Glasgow became the seat of the Resistance and killing Blackshirts was a city-wide game. Then, the Germans occupied the country and they tried to subdue what had become open guerilla warfare in Glasgow. They sent in one of the Partizanjaeger regiments and it disappeared in a manner unknown since the Ninth Legion marched into the mists. Which happened, by the way, in much the same area. The Nazis tried to bring Glasgow under control and they failed to the point where the city became a no-go area for German military personnel. They even tried to retake the city by force of arms and the local inhabitants fought them off. It took them forty days but they managed it. It wouldn't have lasted of course, as Warsaw proved, the fascists would come back with overwhelming force but before the Germans could try again, the war ended.
"The point was, the gangs had become national heroes. The way they had fought off the Germans restored quite a bit of badly-needed national pride. With that level of social approval, the gangs there reverted to type. The murderous thugs from the 1930s were either dead or on the run and the kids took their gangs back. For forty years or so, Glasgow was pretty peaceful. Oh, it was a rough city still and anybody walking around the Gorbals had better be careful but nothing that you won't find in the bad areas of any big city. Ten, fifteen years ago, that started to change. The Razor Gangs came back."
Achillea looked at him sharply. "That's about the same time the trouble in New York started to develop."
Keeble nodded. "That point hadn't escaped us. We think the same people are behind it. The Trust. We think they picked Glasgow for their next wreck and loot operation. They haven't really taken over the Glasgow gang structure the way the Razor Gangs did in the 1930s. Then, it was a matter of young men staying in the gangs too long. Now, we are facing an influx of hardened criminals from all over Scotland who are forming their own gangs and pushing the local kids out of their way. Those kids play at being violent criminals. Giving a rival a black eye was about as far as it went. When faced with the real thing, they are pretty much helpless. One of the kids saw a crime going down; she told the police and identified the suspects. A week later, this happened to her."
Keeble put a picture on the table. It was a young woman, her face so badly slashed that her features were unrecognizable. Achillea lifted an eyebrow. Angel just looked bored. "So? Snitches get found in ditches. I've killed people for informing. Not like that though. That's unprofessional."
In the background, Sir Humphrey shuddered again. He'd heard Angel was a psychopath whose ability to relate to other people was non-existent. Now, he fully understood the implications of that condition. It also made him wonder how the intensely human and empathic Conrad could be friends with a woman who was, in his opinion, a monster. One who had only the external form of a human being.
Angel drummed her fingers on the table. "I was briefed by Her Highness in Bangkok and by The Seer in Washington. 'Lea and I are here to help you sort this out. Why do you need us? Solving problems like this is a police job.”
Keeble looked at her. “The problem we have is that the basic principles of British policing and history run against us.”
“A police force with principles? That’ll be a first.” Angel’s voice was derisive.
“I thought you might say that. I brought you this. It’s called the Peelian Principles. It’s the basis on which our police work.” Keeble handed over a document, a photocopy of one that dated back to the formation of the British police force. Angel took it and started to read. To Sir Humphrey’s amusement, she tracked the words with her finger and her mouth moved as she sounded them out. She might be a deadly gunslinger but her reading skills are primary school grade. He could actually hear the words as she muttered them under her breath,
“The nine principles of policing are as follows:
To prevent crime and disorder, as an alternative to their repression by military force and severity of legal punishment.
To recognize always that the power of the police to fulfil their functions and duties is dependent on public approval of their existence, actions and behavior, and on their ability to secure and maintain public respect.
To recognize always that to secure and maintain the respect and approval of the public means also the securing of the willing co-operation of the public in the task of securing observance of laws.
To recognize always that the extent to which the co-operation of the public can be secured diminishes proportionately the necessity of the use of physical force and compulsion for achieving police objectives.
To seek and preserve public favor, not by pandering to public opinion, but by constantly demonstrating absolutely impartial service to law, in complete independence of policy, and without regard to the justice or injustice of the substance of individual laws, by ready offering of individual service and friendship to all members of the public without regard to their wealth or social standing, by ready exercise of courtesy and friendly good humor, and by ready offering of individual sacrifice in protecting and preserving life.
To use physical force only when the exercise of persuasion, advice and warning is found to be insufficient to obtain public co-operation to an extent necessary to secure observance of law or to restore order, and to use only the minimum degree of physical force which is necessary on any particular occasion for achieving a police objective.
To maintain at all times a relationship with the public that gives reality to the historic tradition that the police are the public and that the public are the police, the police being only members of the public who are paid to give full-time attention to duties which are incumbent on every citizen in the interests of community welfare and existence.
To recognize always the need to refrain from even seeming to usurp the powers of the judiciary of avenging individuals or the State, and of authoritatively judging guilt and punishing the guilty.
To recognize always that the test of police efficiency is the absence of crime and disorder, and not the visible evidence of police action in dealing with them.”
Angel looked up with a very strange expression on her face. “If you can make these work and stick to them, it’ll make you the only competent police force I have ever met.”
Achillea had drifted over to where Sir Humphrey was sitting. Her voice was pitched very low. “Humpty, don’t mistake Angel’s lack of education for a lack of wisdom. There’s a first-class brain in that head. It may not work the way yours does but it’s kept her alive for twenty years in a business where the average lifespan is three. And if that doesn’t sink in, think on this. She knows her business as well as you know yours.”
Keeble was looking at Angel with an expression loaded with mixed emotions. He wasn't at all certain whether the sainted Sir Robert Peel would have pleased to hear his nine principles applauded by a hardened career criminal and multiple murderer. "Thank you, Angel, I think. Yes, we do try and live up to these, all the more so since the Occupation."
"Then I see your problem. You've been applying these rules to Glasgow for decades, probably with considerable success, and the police by and large have the support of the local communities. My guess is, you've no problems with the youth gangs although you might have with some of the things they do. You try and deal with that by deflecting them into activities you can live with. Now, the situation is entirely different with outsiders shredding the social structure of the city. You can't go in mob-handed because doing so would destroy the relationships you have built up with the residents. Residents who are as much victims of the razor gangs as anybody else. In a real sense, the razor gangs are using the inhabitants of the city as a human shield."
"See what I mean Humpty? Told you." Achillea still kept her voice down.
"Very much so." Keeble was impressed and realized that there was more to Angel than met the eye. "Our policy with regard to the kids was to try and direct their energies into harmless pursuits while not interfering with their gang structure. For example, our local police forces have football teams that play games with teams from the gangs, or used to. The kids didn't care that their gang was playing football rather than vandalizing property. There's something else though and this is the historical bit. During the Occupation, the Nazis brought in their own standards of policing which had no regard for the rule of law and relied on brutality and force instead. Our own police were stained by association and the trust that a century of Peelian policing had built up was destroyed in five years. By the time the war ended, we were seen as being just another Gestapo made up of despised collaborators. It has taken decades of hard work to rebuild public trust. We are not there yet, I don't think we will be until the generation who lived through the occupation has passed on. But, we have made a good start. If we go in mob-handed as you call it, all of that will be gone."
"So, if these outside gangsters go away, you can use these principles to restore order. That'll work, only you can't do it until the razor gangs go. You can't use the brute force approach to that problem without compromising the second step." Angel grinned. "Those razor gang members have to get rid of each other. You want us to start a gang war don't you? You do realize that's going to be bloody and very dangerous."
"It has to be done by outsiders and our role in this cannot be made public. You two have one hell of a reputation in the right circles and you've both got a lot of experience in taking on gangsters owned by The Trust. If anybody can pull this off, you two can. And we’ll back you up by carefully obstructing any investigation. Just be careful not to be found standing over a body with smoking guns in your hands."
"I usually try and avoid that. I set things up so there are no living witnesses. And, if anybody does recognize me. . . . ." Angel wasn't arguing the point, just filling in the blanks. "they'll assume these razor gangs have pissed off the Triads and are paying the price. And they'll assume ‘Lea's part is payback for New York. What's in it for us?"
"The Piccadilly Circus will owe both Washington and Bangkok big favors. That's business between our circles of whom 'Lea is a full-time agent. You're a private contractor, Angel. What are your demands?"
“My fee is 8,500 sovereigns per designated target done in. I had to put it up recently to cover the cost of forensic countermeasures. I absorb the cost of any innocent bystanders who have to be blown away myself." Sir Humphrey gulped but nodded. Angel nodded also and the deal was struck. "You'll also owe the 14K for the use of their facilities. I'll have to talk to them about that. They'll need something of value if I'm to work on their patch. The keys to the Scotland Yard evidence room would be nice."
Conrad leaned forward and started asking questions, filling in details of the situation and its ramifications. In particular he was intent on clarifying his own part in the operation. Sir Humphrey watched, confused by what he was seeing. The report he had read on Conrad and Angel had said that she was the dominant member of the partnership but what he was seeing didn't fit that at all. She was sitting back and staying out of the way while Conrad carefully assembled all the available information and transformed it into a coherent whole. That's when Sir Humphrey had a long-overdue epiphany. This partnership worked, and the friendship it was based on survived, because they both had absolute confidence in each other and too much respect for their respective abilities to get in each other's way.
Chris Keeble's Apartment, Byres Road, Glasgow West End, April 5, 2000
Assistant Commissioner Keeble entered his apartment, poured himself a large drink and then slumped down into an armchair. After composing himself, he picked up the telephone and dialed a number in London. His telephone was secured, the line was scrambled using the latest technology available and the same precautions applied at the other end. He heard the ring tone end as the person at the other end picked up and the urbane voice speaking to acknowledge the call.
"Humpty. It's started. Eighteen dead in the last eight hours." Keeble paused and finished his drink. "My God, what have we done?"
Sir Humphrey Appleday’s Office, Cabinet Office, 70 Whitehall, London, March 20, 2000.
“Excuse me, Cabinet Secretary, your 10 o’clock parties are here.”
Sir Humphrey Appleday, Cabinet Secretary and head of the Civil Service, looked at the clock on his wall and sighed deeply to himself. What he faced now was something he had spent his whole professional life – or at least this part of it - trying to avoid.
“Chris, it is very pleasing to see you here again. How is Scotland Yard these days?” Sir Humphrey had asked a rhetorical question and everybody present knew it. They were old friends, part of a group where 'old' had a greater meaning than it did for most people. Commissioner Keeble was the only one of his visitors whom he was actually happy to see in his office.
“Well, we’re doing better than we did a decade ago and that was better than the decade before that. You’ve met Conrad of course?”
“Indeed I have.” Sir Humphrey’s warm welcome was completely insincere. Privately he regarded Conrad as being an interfering busybody who caused trouble wherever he went. His presence in the Cabinet Office was prejudicial to good and orderly government and thus one of the things he had earnestly tried to avoid. “Welcome to the Cabinet Office, Father Conrad. You’re not wearing your battledress I see.”
“Sir Humphrey. I have settled in Bangkok now and I find that getting on with people there is made much easier without the complications a collar would cause. May I introduce my friend and working partner, Angel?”
“Welcome to the Cabinet Office Miss . . . .”
“Just Angel, Sir Humphrey. I don’t have a family name. And I don’t miss. Ever.” Angel’s voice was its normal cold, harsh and callous self. There was no malign or threatening intent behind that, it was simply her normal voice.
Sir Humphrey coughed and made the mistake of looking into Angel’s eyes. The stare he got back was ruthless and devoid of any semblance of empathy or human feeling. It was exactly what Nietzsche had promised; the abyss was staring back. He shuddered at the chill that ran through him and the civilized comfort of his office seemed to shimmer and fade away. For a moment, the two Beretta 98s hanging under her shoulders seemed a much more appropriate accompaniment to the meeting than the soft furnishings and object d'art that were Sir Humphrey's preferred option. He swallowed and hastily looked away. "Chris, you have met Achillea of course."
"Indeed so, it's a pleasure to see you again 'Lea. How's Igrat doing?'
"Very well; she's got an adopted daughter now. Cristi. You might be seeing them soon Humpty, Cristi's trying for a scholarship to Oxford. If she gets it, they'll be moving over here. Iggie's getting to the point where she needs to disappear for a while."
Sir Humphrey tried to hide the panic he felt at the news Igrat might be spending a few years in Great Britain. Behind him, Heather Watson opened the drinks cabinet. She was equally displeased to learn that Igrat, whom she hated with an unyielding passion, might be coming over to live in England for a while and sought activity to help conceal that feeling. "Can I offer anybody anything? 'Lea?"
"You have a Laphroaig?"
"Twenty five years old." Sir Humphrey smiled benignly, recovering from the almost inevitable shock of a civilized man meeting Angel for the first time. "You too, Chris? And, Angel, your file says Bacardi 151 for you?"
Angel smiled and nodded. She was well aware that knowing her drinking preferences was a way of stressing how well her hosts were informed about her. Or thought they were. Once everybody had their drinks, Sir Humphrey nodded to Assistant Commissioner Chris Keeble. "Chris, please could you brief us on what is going on here?"
Keeble leaned back in his seat, his fingertips touching so that his hands formed a pyramid. "I'll need to start by giving our guests some background on Glasgow and its gang problems. Glasgow has always had a serious gang problem, as far back as proper records exist. We know that the city's youth had divided itself into gangs back as far as the 1880s. Those gangs have been remarkably stable; there are about 110 groups spread across the city and all of them date back more than a century. What is surprising is that those groups have always been a youth-limited phenomenon that has never evolved into anything as organized as you might see elsewhere. Joining a gang is a rite of passage in some ways, it was an identity that young people attached onto and then grew out of. Those gangs don't have oaths or initiation ceremonies; in the final analysis, if somebody says they belong to a specific gang, they do. Gang identity is handed down from generation to generations. If a kid's father had been a member of the Ibrox Tongs, Carmunnock Young Team, Duke Street Fleet, Real Calton Tongs or the Keppochhill Gang then his son will gravitate towards the same group. Angel?"
Angel had sat up as the names of the gangs was recited. "You said Tongs?"
"The kids use the name they heard from the small Chinese community in Glasgow. They don't really understand what it means." Keeble looked at Angel. She had taken off her nylon jacket and the black spaghetti-strap top she wore exposed the elaborate tattoos that covered her right shoulder as well as her twin Berettas. A spell of duty in Hongkong before the war meant that he could read those tattoos and knew what they said about her. The intricate patterns told him that she was a very senior member of the 14K Triad and was one of the small group of elite 432s tasked with maintaining peace between the various Triad houses. They, and the pistols, also told him that she was also a highly experienced executioner, a 426 in Triad nomenclature. The fact that she was carrying her guns in the Cabinet Office was indication enough this was no normal meeting. The same applied to Achillea of course but she didn’t need guns to be lethally dangerous. Keeble noted that Angel was nodding in acknowledgment of his explanation; having to deal with Tongs would have complicated her position seriously.
"Really these gangs are little more than having a comail address with the gang name attached or carving the gang name on a school desk. Actual criminal activity was usually little more than spraying gang graffiti around the boundaries of their turf and the neighboring areas. Those gangs never got serious in terms of violence but for many of them being in a gang was initially a kind of play, a way of developing a group identity and a community identity by playing at violence. They're a bit like Triads, Angel, most of the so-called members are honest, law-abiding citizens. Like your Triad, those gangs are not entirely negative. They teach community loyalty, identification with an area, reliance on friends and family, the sort of things that a wider society needs for stability.
"Unfortunately, things changed in the 1930s. The gangs started to develop a sharper edge and became a lot more violent. They started edging into viciousness and repeated violent conflict. The membership changed as well; we started to see gangs of adults forming. These became the Glasgow Razor Gangs. Religion lay behind some of this; Originally, Glasgow had been mainly Protestant, but in the 19th and 20th centuries large numbers of Roman Catholic Irish immigrants came to the west coast of Scotland, drawn by the industries and higher quality of life in the country. Protestants became irritated at increasing unemployment levels and blamed the Catholics for taking their jobs. Then there was the Great Depression. Unemployment was very high so it became more common for men in their twenties and even thirties to remain active members of street gangs. In doing so, the violence became real. The preferred weapon of those gangs was the straight-edged razor. Facial scarring from razor fights became commonplace. You've probably heard of the Glasgow Smile?" Angel and Achillea both nodded. "It was pretty bad back then. Anger a gang member and your wife or sister got her face carved up. That's when and how Glasgow got its reputation.
"That era ended with the War. A lot of the young men got drafted and went into the Army. Mobilization brought jobs and money. What really did for the razor gangs though was when That Man . . . . " Keeble saw that Angel was puzzled. "Angel, 'That Man' is Lord Halifax, the apology for a human being who betrayed our country to the Germans in 1940. His name is never mentioned in polite company - and if you have to speak his name, nobody will object if you spit on the floor afterwards. Anyway, when he signed the Armistice and formed his Blackshirts, everybody in Glasgow united against them. Pretty soon, Glasgow became the seat of the Resistance and killing Blackshirts was a city-wide game. Then, the Germans occupied the country and they tried to subdue what had become open guerilla warfare in Glasgow. They sent in one of the Partizanjaeger regiments and it disappeared in a manner unknown since the Ninth Legion marched into the mists. Which happened, by the way, in much the same area. The Nazis tried to bring Glasgow under control and they failed to the point where the city became a no-go area for German military personnel. They even tried to retake the city by force of arms and the local inhabitants fought them off. It took them forty days but they managed it. It wouldn't have lasted of course, as Warsaw proved, the fascists would come back with overwhelming force but before the Germans could try again, the war ended.
"The point was, the gangs had become national heroes. The way they had fought off the Germans restored quite a bit of badly-needed national pride. With that level of social approval, the gangs there reverted to type. The murderous thugs from the 1930s were either dead or on the run and the kids took their gangs back. For forty years or so, Glasgow was pretty peaceful. Oh, it was a rough city still and anybody walking around the Gorbals had better be careful but nothing that you won't find in the bad areas of any big city. Ten, fifteen years ago, that started to change. The Razor Gangs came back."
Achillea looked at him sharply. "That's about the same time the trouble in New York started to develop."
Keeble nodded. "That point hadn't escaped us. We think the same people are behind it. The Trust. We think they picked Glasgow for their next wreck and loot operation. They haven't really taken over the Glasgow gang structure the way the Razor Gangs did in the 1930s. Then, it was a matter of young men staying in the gangs too long. Now, we are facing an influx of hardened criminals from all over Scotland who are forming their own gangs and pushing the local kids out of their way. Those kids play at being violent criminals. Giving a rival a black eye was about as far as it went. When faced with the real thing, they are pretty much helpless. One of the kids saw a crime going down; she told the police and identified the suspects. A week later, this happened to her."
Keeble put a picture on the table. It was a young woman, her face so badly slashed that her features were unrecognizable. Achillea lifted an eyebrow. Angel just looked bored. "So? Snitches get found in ditches. I've killed people for informing. Not like that though. That's unprofessional."
In the background, Sir Humphrey shuddered again. He'd heard Angel was a psychopath whose ability to relate to other people was non-existent. Now, he fully understood the implications of that condition. It also made him wonder how the intensely human and empathic Conrad could be friends with a woman who was, in his opinion, a monster. One who had only the external form of a human being.
Angel drummed her fingers on the table. "I was briefed by Her Highness in Bangkok and by The Seer in Washington. 'Lea and I are here to help you sort this out. Why do you need us? Solving problems like this is a police job.”
Keeble looked at her. “The problem we have is that the basic principles of British policing and history run against us.”
“A police force with principles? That’ll be a first.” Angel’s voice was derisive.
“I thought you might say that. I brought you this. It’s called the Peelian Principles. It’s the basis on which our police work.” Keeble handed over a document, a photocopy of one that dated back to the formation of the British police force. Angel took it and started to read. To Sir Humphrey’s amusement, she tracked the words with her finger and her mouth moved as she sounded them out. She might be a deadly gunslinger but her reading skills are primary school grade. He could actually hear the words as she muttered them under her breath,
“The nine principles of policing are as follows:
To prevent crime and disorder, as an alternative to their repression by military force and severity of legal punishment.
To recognize always that the power of the police to fulfil their functions and duties is dependent on public approval of their existence, actions and behavior, and on their ability to secure and maintain public respect.
To recognize always that to secure and maintain the respect and approval of the public means also the securing of the willing co-operation of the public in the task of securing observance of laws.
To recognize always that the extent to which the co-operation of the public can be secured diminishes proportionately the necessity of the use of physical force and compulsion for achieving police objectives.
To seek and preserve public favor, not by pandering to public opinion, but by constantly demonstrating absolutely impartial service to law, in complete independence of policy, and without regard to the justice or injustice of the substance of individual laws, by ready offering of individual service and friendship to all members of the public without regard to their wealth or social standing, by ready exercise of courtesy and friendly good humor, and by ready offering of individual sacrifice in protecting and preserving life.
To use physical force only when the exercise of persuasion, advice and warning is found to be insufficient to obtain public co-operation to an extent necessary to secure observance of law or to restore order, and to use only the minimum degree of physical force which is necessary on any particular occasion for achieving a police objective.
To maintain at all times a relationship with the public that gives reality to the historic tradition that the police are the public and that the public are the police, the police being only members of the public who are paid to give full-time attention to duties which are incumbent on every citizen in the interests of community welfare and existence.
To recognize always the need to refrain from even seeming to usurp the powers of the judiciary of avenging individuals or the State, and of authoritatively judging guilt and punishing the guilty.
To recognize always that the test of police efficiency is the absence of crime and disorder, and not the visible evidence of police action in dealing with them.”
Angel looked up with a very strange expression on her face. “If you can make these work and stick to them, it’ll make you the only competent police force I have ever met.”
Achillea had drifted over to where Sir Humphrey was sitting. Her voice was pitched very low. “Humpty, don’t mistake Angel’s lack of education for a lack of wisdom. There’s a first-class brain in that head. It may not work the way yours does but it’s kept her alive for twenty years in a business where the average lifespan is three. And if that doesn’t sink in, think on this. She knows her business as well as you know yours.”
Keeble was looking at Angel with an expression loaded with mixed emotions. He wasn't at all certain whether the sainted Sir Robert Peel would have pleased to hear his nine principles applauded by a hardened career criminal and multiple murderer. "Thank you, Angel, I think. Yes, we do try and live up to these, all the more so since the Occupation."
"Then I see your problem. You've been applying these rules to Glasgow for decades, probably with considerable success, and the police by and large have the support of the local communities. My guess is, you've no problems with the youth gangs although you might have with some of the things they do. You try and deal with that by deflecting them into activities you can live with. Now, the situation is entirely different with outsiders shredding the social structure of the city. You can't go in mob-handed because doing so would destroy the relationships you have built up with the residents. Residents who are as much victims of the razor gangs as anybody else. In a real sense, the razor gangs are using the inhabitants of the city as a human shield."
"See what I mean Humpty? Told you." Achillea still kept her voice down.
"Very much so." Keeble was impressed and realized that there was more to Angel than met the eye. "Our policy with regard to the kids was to try and direct their energies into harmless pursuits while not interfering with their gang structure. For example, our local police forces have football teams that play games with teams from the gangs, or used to. The kids didn't care that their gang was playing football rather than vandalizing property. There's something else though and this is the historical bit. During the Occupation, the Nazis brought in their own standards of policing which had no regard for the rule of law and relied on brutality and force instead. Our own police were stained by association and the trust that a century of Peelian policing had built up was destroyed in five years. By the time the war ended, we were seen as being just another Gestapo made up of despised collaborators. It has taken decades of hard work to rebuild public trust. We are not there yet, I don't think we will be until the generation who lived through the occupation has passed on. But, we have made a good start. If we go in mob-handed as you call it, all of that will be gone."
"So, if these outside gangsters go away, you can use these principles to restore order. That'll work, only you can't do it until the razor gangs go. You can't use the brute force approach to that problem without compromising the second step." Angel grinned. "Those razor gang members have to get rid of each other. You want us to start a gang war don't you? You do realize that's going to be bloody and very dangerous."
"It has to be done by outsiders and our role in this cannot be made public. You two have one hell of a reputation in the right circles and you've both got a lot of experience in taking on gangsters owned by The Trust. If anybody can pull this off, you two can. And we’ll back you up by carefully obstructing any investigation. Just be careful not to be found standing over a body with smoking guns in your hands."
"I usually try and avoid that. I set things up so there are no living witnesses. And, if anybody does recognize me. . . . ." Angel wasn't arguing the point, just filling in the blanks. "they'll assume these razor gangs have pissed off the Triads and are paying the price. And they'll assume ‘Lea's part is payback for New York. What's in it for us?"
"The Piccadilly Circus will owe both Washington and Bangkok big favors. That's business between our circles of whom 'Lea is a full-time agent. You're a private contractor, Angel. What are your demands?"
“My fee is 8,500 sovereigns per designated target done in. I had to put it up recently to cover the cost of forensic countermeasures. I absorb the cost of any innocent bystanders who have to be blown away myself." Sir Humphrey gulped but nodded. Angel nodded also and the deal was struck. "You'll also owe the 14K for the use of their facilities. I'll have to talk to them about that. They'll need something of value if I'm to work on their patch. The keys to the Scotland Yard evidence room would be nice."
Conrad leaned forward and started asking questions, filling in details of the situation and its ramifications. In particular he was intent on clarifying his own part in the operation. Sir Humphrey watched, confused by what he was seeing. The report he had read on Conrad and Angel had said that she was the dominant member of the partnership but what he was seeing didn't fit that at all. She was sitting back and staying out of the way while Conrad carefully assembled all the available information and transformed it into a coherent whole. That's when Sir Humphrey had a long-overdue epiphany. This partnership worked, and the friendship it was based on survived, because they both had absolute confidence in each other and too much respect for their respective abilities to get in each other's way.
Chris Keeble's Apartment, Byres Road, Glasgow West End, April 5, 2000
Assistant Commissioner Keeble entered his apartment, poured himself a large drink and then slumped down into an armchair. After composing himself, he picked up the telephone and dialed a number in London. His telephone was secured, the line was scrambled using the latest technology available and the same precautions applied at the other end. He heard the ring tone end as the person at the other end picked up and the urbane voice speaking to acknowledge the call.
"Humpty. It's started. Eighteen dead in the last eight hours." Keeble paused and finished his drink. "My God, what have we done?"
Re: 2000 - Eye of the Gangster
Chapter Three
Ming Dynasty Restaurant, Northey Street, Limehouse, London, March 20, 2000.
If Triad members visited Britain as tourists, Angel was in no doubt that this would be one of the areas they would visit. Northey Street might not be at the top of the tourist sights list for anybody else, but to Triad members it had great historical significance. The London House of the Triad movement had been the first House formed when the Triads had ceased to be a local Chinese organization and taken the first steps to becoming a worldwide syndicate. When the movement itself had fragmented into a series of groups aligned with various sides of the Chinese Civil War, London House had declared its allegiance to the 14K. Yet, due to its senior position amongst all the houses and its strict maintenance of all the traditional Triad customs, it was held in respect by all the Triad groups and was as near to being neutral ground as anywhere.
Nor would the possible Triad tourists be disappointed in what they found. Northey Street was east of Farringdon Street and so had escaped the worst ravages of the bombing during the Second World War. Farringdon Street had marked the effective limit of the bomb-laden U.S. Navy Corsairs and Skyraiders that had pounded the western half of London. When the first wave of increasing prosperity had allowed rebuilding to take place, western London had seen the bombsites and damaged buildings replaced by insipid examples of 'modern' architecture. In contrast, east London had escaped bombing and thus the old character of the area had remained untouched. Later, the area had been gentrified, keeping the old buildings and atmosphere while removing most of the worst problems. Limehouse was a good example; the buildings had been renovated to modern standards, while maintaining their outside appearance, the roads had repaired and upgraded without changing the basic street plan. Limehouse was as close as it got to being a cleaned-up version of pre-war London and the Chinese food there was the best outside Hongkong and Shanghai.
Angel was wandering along the pavement, enjoying the soft light of evening and the sights of a strange city. Ahead of her, she saw the sign for the Ming Dynasty restaurant and went in. As soon as she was inside, she slipped off her jacket, exposing her two Berettas and, much more importantly, her tattoos. A gasp went up from the people present, all Triad members, when they realized the famous Hēilóng Shāshǒu had entered the room. Mixed with the admiration was a whisper of fear. Has she come for somebody here? Surely not?
Angel spoke quickly to the host. "“I am Angel, Younger Brother, a sister from the Khrungthep House. I would be honored to have an audience with the Dai-Lo if it is his will to grant me one.”
“I will carry your request to his ears immediately, Elder Sister.” A young woman had come from behind the entry desk. She too had her right shoulder covered with a tattoo, only hers was in full color with a large red rose in the center. “Perhaps you would condescend to take tea with us while I do so?”
“That would be most enjoyable, Younger Sister. Thank you for your courtesy and consideration.”
It being time for evening rice, Angel was served a bowl of snow-white boiled rice and a dish of chicken with pickled vegetables. She tucked in with great enjoyment. She had grown up assuming that the Chinese meals available on Mott Street in New York was representative of real Chinese food and had consequently developed a taste for pizza instead. Only on going to Bangkok had she realized that authentic Chinese food was totally different from anything available in America. Now, she had slowly developed a real appreciation for well-prepared Cantonese food.
On her way to London, she had stopped in Washington to be briefed on what was going on. It had been her first visit to America for almost 10 years and she had realized that everything there was strange to her. One thing she had learned; she no longer identified herself as an American. She wasn't quite certain what she did classify herself as now and had come to the conclusion that her only real identity was as one of the long-lived. And, of course, as a Triad member. And that meant, here in a Triad House, she was at home.
She'd finished eating and was reading a London evening newspaper when there was a polite cough beside her. "Eldest Sister, Dai-Lo Song Yao Tuan would be honored by your company if you could spare him a few minutes."
Outside the door to the Dai-Lo's office, Angel slipped her shoulder holsters off and handed them, and her guns, to one of the guards. The other ran a wand over her body, confirming she was unarmed. That didn't impress her as much as it had once; after working with Achillea she knew that the gladiator was never unarmed as long as she still had her hands and feet. She had sparred with Achillea a couple of times and on each occasion, Achillea had defeated her with formidable ease. Angel had thought she could look after herself in a fight. Even when unarmed, she knew herself to be acrobatic, very quick on her feet, able to hit hard, and far more durable than she appeared. So, finding herself so easily pinned down and her neck being pressured towards what she knew was breaking point had come to as a humbling shock. So much so that her phobia about being touched hadn’t kicked in until the sparring match was over. Then she had been violently sick.
“Hēilóng Shāshǒu, it is an honor for our poor house to be host to a sister of such great standing.” Dai-Lo Song Yao Tuan stood up to greet her. That was an indicator of how much her status had changed. Once, she would have been on her knees in front of such a high-ranking personage. Now, he rose to his feet to greet her. Angel attributed the change, only partly correctly, to being due to her friendship with Conrad and the many, many things she had learned from him.
“Elder brother, it is I who am honored by being welcomed into the most loved and respected London House. I am deeply grateful for the few minutes of your time I have requested.”
“How may London House be of assistance to you?” The Dai-Lo waved at the seat in front of his desk.
Angel sat down and explained the situation in Glasgow as it had been told to her. She omitted any mention of the long-lived of course, and presented the situation as being simply a British Home Office and Police affair. She did, however, mention the possible link to the New York insurrection a few years before and attributed Achillea’s presence as the American OSS administering some payback on its own account and rendering covert assistance to an ally. When she finished, she took an envelope and gave it to the Dai-Lo. “Eldest brother, I am of Khrungthep House and must operate on the territory of London House. I hope this small tribute will offset the cost of any inconvenience this may cause.”
Dai-Lo Song Yao Tuan took the envelope and nearly dropped it in shock. He was adept at counting the contents of such envelopes by weight and thickness and knew this one had to contain something close to 50,000 sovereigns. It was a stupendous payment and a great honor to his House. All the more so because he knew, as a 432, Angel didn’t actually have to make a payment of this kind. A Straw Sandal could operate on the territory of any House as long as her business was in the service of the Triad movement. So, for her to make any payment, let alone one of considerable generosity, was a gesture of great sincerity. He had heard whispers of whispers that Hēilóng Shāshǒu would, one day, be a candidate for membership of the Shānshén. Her courtesy and wisdom in avoiding possible conflict by such a generous tribute made him consider the possibility that, when the matter arose, he or his successor would perhaps place the support of London House behind her candidature.
“Tell me, sister, will Zhēnxiàng, the truth-finder, be working with you?”
“He will, although as usual, he will not be involved in the business of our families. Instead he will be investigating the links between the situation in Glasgow and other places around the world where The Trust has shown its hands. We do not know who stands behind the troubles in Glasgow and I can think of no investigator than to expose him than Zhēnxiàng. If you wish to meet though, I can bring him here.”
“I would enjoy that, sister. Do you know that there are ten thousand of our cousins in Glasgow?”
Angel noted the reference to the Glasgow Chinese community as ‘cousins’ rather than brothers and sisters. That meant there was no organized Triad presence in Glasgow. “I had not known the number Elder Brother. I am told that there are many gangs in Glasgow that the police regard as of minimal difficulty and some merit. They would not object to one more that taught the values of brotherhood, tranquility and community to the youngest brothers and sisters of our Glasgow community.”
“These are the greatest virtues of the Hung Family.” Dai-Lo Song Yao Tuan said the words solemnly. “It is a pity that our cousins in the Tongs sometimes forget the virtues displayed by our 36 oaths.”
Angel nodded in agreement. She knew well that while the Triad Associations had moved steadily into non-violent white collar crime and that most of their members had never committed a criminal offense and never would, the Tongs remained part of an older tradition. When she had been negotiating with Assistant Commissioner Chris Keeble, the deal she had proposed was that the police would not interfere with the formation of a Triad sub-House in Glasgow as long as it kept a low profile and displayed the same benign character as the other, well-established juvenile gangs. Angel didn’t understand the British fascination with playing football, a game she regarded as only marginally less boring than its American cousin, but recognized it as a key cultural lubricant. The new Triad Glasgow House would field a football team. Now, Dai-Lo Song Yao Tuan had asked her to suppress any sign of a Tong presence in the Chinese Community of Glasgow and replace it with the Triads. It was an added complexity but not much of one and it fitted in well with the general strategy for the trouble-torn city.
The Springfield Quay Restaurant and Bar, on the South Bank of the Clyde, Thursday, April 6, 2000.
“Yoo're a damned rockit Fergus. A bluidy killin loch 'at is a disaster fur us aw. Every cheil in a bar wiped it in a single blaw? Whit waur ye thinkin' cheil?”
Fergus Chisholm was a bewildered man. He had been enraged by the killing of three of his men in broad daylight the day before and he had been planning a counterstrike certainly but the wholesale massacre in MacChailds Public House had been far beyond anything he had dreamed possible. “It wasnae us, Lachlan, Ah swear it. Sure we wanted tae gie th' Sooth Siders back fur th' killin' ay uir jimmies an' th' wee jimmies waur radge as heel but almost twintie deid loch 'at? It wisnae uir daein'.”
Lachlan MacLachlan looked at the leader of the Govan Team and shook his head. “Ah hiner ye can prove 'at, Fergus, fur yer sake an' fur th' sake ay us aw. Th' Sooth Sides Stickers will be efter yer bluid an' 'at ay everybody ye hauld hen. Ah will teel ye thes. th' big cheil wulnae be canty, e'en if thes staps noo. If it spreids, we'll aw pay dear.”
“Whit dae th' Beehife Jimmies want ay us? Thee ay uir wee jimmies waur beaten tae death in th' causey an' nobody will say anythin'. We've taught them tae keep their mooths shut an' say naethin'. Noo its bitin' us in th' erse. When we need tae fin' somethin' it, we cannae.”
“We want thes glaikit business finished reit noo. Althoogh whit Colby MacLean an' th' Sooth Siders will want efter havin' a third ay their men wiped it is enaw tae make th' devil himself weep. Swatch, Fergus, Ah can believe ye Govan Team fowk didne dae thes. Th' killin' lest nicht was aw guns, nae sign ay a chib ur a razur. that's nae th' way we dae things. Either thaur ur strangers in thes barnie ur somebody has decided tae jump several levels up. An' th' big cheil wulnae be gart up wi 'at either. Th' orders ur clear, keep it doon tae th' edges an' avoid th' soldiers comin' in. An' whaur is Colby Maclean? Ah dornt want tae be kept waitin' by th' likes ay heem.”
Chisholm turned in his seat to look at the entrance to the riverbank terrace. Behind him, he heard a strange noise that reminded him of when his father had pretended to throw something in the air and catch it in a paper bag. He turned quickly to see a sight that chilled him to the bone. Something had hit Lachlan MacLachlan in the left eye and it had blown off most of the side of his head. The leader of the Beehive Jimmies rocked backwards and forwards for a second before what was left of his head smacked into the table. The tablecloth would never be the same again.
The nearer of MacLachlan's two bodyguards took a horrified look at the corpse of his boss and jumped to the obvious, but entirely wrong conclusion. "Ye dobber Fergus, ye killed Lachlan."
What Chisholm saw and heard but the bodyguard had missed, was that the odd sound and the second bodyguard's bursting open as if it had been a watermelon. Chisholm was already up and running when the leader of the South Side Stickers, Colby MacLean, entered the bar. He had heard the bodyguard's yell and the crash as Chisholm tried to run for his life but by the time he had reached the terrace, the bodyguard was dead, his head destroyed the same way as the other two. All MacLean saw was Chisholm's back as he vaulted the terrace wall and vanished into the shadows. "Ye feckin' dobber Fergus. Hae ye rin wud?"
Chisholm didn't bother to argue. He knew for absolute certain that the deaths of Lachlan MacLachlan and his bodyguards would be blamed on him. As a result, the Govan Team would also be at war with the largest and most powerful of all the Glasgow razor gangs. The Beehive Jimmies would be out for his blood as well as the South Side Stickers. One thought kept running through his mind. "Whit th' heel is gonnae oan."
Roof of Warehouse, Elliot Street, North Bank of the Clyde, Thursday, April 6, 2000.
Achillea carefully got to her feet and picked up the Barrett .50 rifle with one hand. It never occurred to her that anybody seeing her do so would have been impressed by the feat. They would have been even more impressed by the fact she could, if necessary, fire it one-handed as well. It was something she usually avoided due to the almost complete lack of accuracy. "Let's get out of here."
Angel made no reply but started to move backwards towards the stairwell that led to the street. Achillea was rapidly coming to the conclusion that she really liked working with Angel. The great weakness of any sniper was that to do their job they had to concentrate intensely on their target. That left them vulnerable to being ambushed by attackers who had closed in on the unnoticed. To work well, a sniper had to have a partner who would run guard for them and eliminate any such threats. After starting to work with Angel, Achillea had read the official inquiry reports of the Brighton Beach Battle when ten policemen from two SWAT teams had been killed in a forty-minute gun battle against 'unknown criminal elements'. Two of the dead were snipers; one had been shot in through the eye from 75 yards, a pistol shot that almost defied belief. The other sniper had been shot in the back of the head from three inches by somebody had who had closed in on them while they were totally absorbed in trying to make a shot. What Achillea knew, something that the writers of the report did not, was that both men had been killed by Angel. She had been sixteen years old when she had shot them along with the other eight policemen killed that night.
It wasn't her almost supernatural skill with handguns that made her a good partner though. A sniper really needed that partner who would protect her from others while she made her shots. The trouble was that most such partners would forget that role and watch her take those shots instead, fascinated by the spectacle of a long-range kill. Angel wasn't interested in the kills; she was incapable of having any emotional connection with shooter or victim. Her only commitment was to her assigned role in this operation and so she made a perfect guard who would protect her partner from trouble. "You get them 'Lea?"
"All three. 839 yards. Fergus Chisholm took off like a gazelle." Achillea wasn't particularly proud of the shots that had killed Lachlan MacLachlan and his bodyguards. In her eyes, 850 yards was reasonably close range for the big Barrett and its powerful telescopic sight. "If he's got any brains, he won't stop running until he's abroad. And then he'd better watch his back for the rest of his life."
"We'd better get out of here." Angel didn't offer to help carry the heavy rifle and its equipment. Quite apart from the fact that she simply could not understand why the offer would be polite, her function in the team depended on having both her hands free. Anyway, Achillea didn't need help.
"So far it's been easy." Comfortably back in their assigned Rover SD3, Achillea had put the Barrett in the back and driven sedately away from the scene of the shooting. Again, it was a good division of labor; both she and Angel were very good drivers but Achillea's style was more sedate and less obtrusive. At the same time, not driving allowed Angel to watch out for potential threats.
"This is the easy bit." Angel watched ambulances and police vehicles heading for the Springfield Quay Restaurant. "We've got the razor gangs at each other's throats; now we have to give them the reason why they are out to kill each other."
"Taking over a business." Achillea checked the mirror, making sure their vehicle wasn't being followed. Their Rover had been obtained for them by the Home Office and Angel was suspicious enough to divorce herself from it as soon as possible. It was that level of caution that explained why she had lived as long as she had. They'd searched the Rover for tracking devices but both knew that if somebody has wanted to bug the vehicle, the chances that they would find it were limited. Their search had included sweeping it with the best detector the OSS could obtain, but defeating one of them was lesson 101 in any counter-intelligence guide.
Achillea swung into a multi-story car park on the outskirts of the city and parked their car next to a white Lancia sedan that was waiting. Before they arrived in Glasgow, Angel had made a few calls to London House and the Lancia had duly appeared. Anybody who tried to trace it would end up running in circles and eventually be forced to conclude that the vehicle didn't exist. They switched cars, and set off again, heading in the opposite direction to which they had come in. Sir Humphrey and Commissioner Keeble knew what hotel they had been booked into and Angel didn't want to be associated with that address either. If somebody went to that hotel, for any reason, they would find an empty, unused room. That was a bit hard on the British taxpayer of course but they were another group of people for whom Angel had a complete lack of empathy. With the cars switched and on their way to a safe-house outside the city, as far as anybody knew, Angel and Achillea had just disappeared into space.
Ming Dynasty Restaurant, Northey Street, Limehouse, London, March 20, 2000.
If Triad members visited Britain as tourists, Angel was in no doubt that this would be one of the areas they would visit. Northey Street might not be at the top of the tourist sights list for anybody else, but to Triad members it had great historical significance. The London House of the Triad movement had been the first House formed when the Triads had ceased to be a local Chinese organization and taken the first steps to becoming a worldwide syndicate. When the movement itself had fragmented into a series of groups aligned with various sides of the Chinese Civil War, London House had declared its allegiance to the 14K. Yet, due to its senior position amongst all the houses and its strict maintenance of all the traditional Triad customs, it was held in respect by all the Triad groups and was as near to being neutral ground as anywhere.
Nor would the possible Triad tourists be disappointed in what they found. Northey Street was east of Farringdon Street and so had escaped the worst ravages of the bombing during the Second World War. Farringdon Street had marked the effective limit of the bomb-laden U.S. Navy Corsairs and Skyraiders that had pounded the western half of London. When the first wave of increasing prosperity had allowed rebuilding to take place, western London had seen the bombsites and damaged buildings replaced by insipid examples of 'modern' architecture. In contrast, east London had escaped bombing and thus the old character of the area had remained untouched. Later, the area had been gentrified, keeping the old buildings and atmosphere while removing most of the worst problems. Limehouse was a good example; the buildings had been renovated to modern standards, while maintaining their outside appearance, the roads had repaired and upgraded without changing the basic street plan. Limehouse was as close as it got to being a cleaned-up version of pre-war London and the Chinese food there was the best outside Hongkong and Shanghai.
Angel was wandering along the pavement, enjoying the soft light of evening and the sights of a strange city. Ahead of her, she saw the sign for the Ming Dynasty restaurant and went in. As soon as she was inside, she slipped off her jacket, exposing her two Berettas and, much more importantly, her tattoos. A gasp went up from the people present, all Triad members, when they realized the famous Hēilóng Shāshǒu had entered the room. Mixed with the admiration was a whisper of fear. Has she come for somebody here? Surely not?
Angel spoke quickly to the host. "“I am Angel, Younger Brother, a sister from the Khrungthep House. I would be honored to have an audience with the Dai-Lo if it is his will to grant me one.”
“I will carry your request to his ears immediately, Elder Sister.” A young woman had come from behind the entry desk. She too had her right shoulder covered with a tattoo, only hers was in full color with a large red rose in the center. “Perhaps you would condescend to take tea with us while I do so?”
“That would be most enjoyable, Younger Sister. Thank you for your courtesy and consideration.”
It being time for evening rice, Angel was served a bowl of snow-white boiled rice and a dish of chicken with pickled vegetables. She tucked in with great enjoyment. She had grown up assuming that the Chinese meals available on Mott Street in New York was representative of real Chinese food and had consequently developed a taste for pizza instead. Only on going to Bangkok had she realized that authentic Chinese food was totally different from anything available in America. Now, she had slowly developed a real appreciation for well-prepared Cantonese food.
On her way to London, she had stopped in Washington to be briefed on what was going on. It had been her first visit to America for almost 10 years and she had realized that everything there was strange to her. One thing she had learned; she no longer identified herself as an American. She wasn't quite certain what she did classify herself as now and had come to the conclusion that her only real identity was as one of the long-lived. And, of course, as a Triad member. And that meant, here in a Triad House, she was at home.
She'd finished eating and was reading a London evening newspaper when there was a polite cough beside her. "Eldest Sister, Dai-Lo Song Yao Tuan would be honored by your company if you could spare him a few minutes."
Outside the door to the Dai-Lo's office, Angel slipped her shoulder holsters off and handed them, and her guns, to one of the guards. The other ran a wand over her body, confirming she was unarmed. That didn't impress her as much as it had once; after working with Achillea she knew that the gladiator was never unarmed as long as she still had her hands and feet. She had sparred with Achillea a couple of times and on each occasion, Achillea had defeated her with formidable ease. Angel had thought she could look after herself in a fight. Even when unarmed, she knew herself to be acrobatic, very quick on her feet, able to hit hard, and far more durable than she appeared. So, finding herself so easily pinned down and her neck being pressured towards what she knew was breaking point had come to as a humbling shock. So much so that her phobia about being touched hadn’t kicked in until the sparring match was over. Then she had been violently sick.
“Hēilóng Shāshǒu, it is an honor for our poor house to be host to a sister of such great standing.” Dai-Lo Song Yao Tuan stood up to greet her. That was an indicator of how much her status had changed. Once, she would have been on her knees in front of such a high-ranking personage. Now, he rose to his feet to greet her. Angel attributed the change, only partly correctly, to being due to her friendship with Conrad and the many, many things she had learned from him.
“Elder brother, it is I who am honored by being welcomed into the most loved and respected London House. I am deeply grateful for the few minutes of your time I have requested.”
“How may London House be of assistance to you?” The Dai-Lo waved at the seat in front of his desk.
Angel sat down and explained the situation in Glasgow as it had been told to her. She omitted any mention of the long-lived of course, and presented the situation as being simply a British Home Office and Police affair. She did, however, mention the possible link to the New York insurrection a few years before and attributed Achillea’s presence as the American OSS administering some payback on its own account and rendering covert assistance to an ally. When she finished, she took an envelope and gave it to the Dai-Lo. “Eldest brother, I am of Khrungthep House and must operate on the territory of London House. I hope this small tribute will offset the cost of any inconvenience this may cause.”
Dai-Lo Song Yao Tuan took the envelope and nearly dropped it in shock. He was adept at counting the contents of such envelopes by weight and thickness and knew this one had to contain something close to 50,000 sovereigns. It was a stupendous payment and a great honor to his House. All the more so because he knew, as a 432, Angel didn’t actually have to make a payment of this kind. A Straw Sandal could operate on the territory of any House as long as her business was in the service of the Triad movement. So, for her to make any payment, let alone one of considerable generosity, was a gesture of great sincerity. He had heard whispers of whispers that Hēilóng Shāshǒu would, one day, be a candidate for membership of the Shānshén. Her courtesy and wisdom in avoiding possible conflict by such a generous tribute made him consider the possibility that, when the matter arose, he or his successor would perhaps place the support of London House behind her candidature.
“Tell me, sister, will Zhēnxiàng, the truth-finder, be working with you?”
“He will, although as usual, he will not be involved in the business of our families. Instead he will be investigating the links between the situation in Glasgow and other places around the world where The Trust has shown its hands. We do not know who stands behind the troubles in Glasgow and I can think of no investigator than to expose him than Zhēnxiàng. If you wish to meet though, I can bring him here.”
“I would enjoy that, sister. Do you know that there are ten thousand of our cousins in Glasgow?”
Angel noted the reference to the Glasgow Chinese community as ‘cousins’ rather than brothers and sisters. That meant there was no organized Triad presence in Glasgow. “I had not known the number Elder Brother. I am told that there are many gangs in Glasgow that the police regard as of minimal difficulty and some merit. They would not object to one more that taught the values of brotherhood, tranquility and community to the youngest brothers and sisters of our Glasgow community.”
“These are the greatest virtues of the Hung Family.” Dai-Lo Song Yao Tuan said the words solemnly. “It is a pity that our cousins in the Tongs sometimes forget the virtues displayed by our 36 oaths.”
Angel nodded in agreement. She knew well that while the Triad Associations had moved steadily into non-violent white collar crime and that most of their members had never committed a criminal offense and never would, the Tongs remained part of an older tradition. When she had been negotiating with Assistant Commissioner Chris Keeble, the deal she had proposed was that the police would not interfere with the formation of a Triad sub-House in Glasgow as long as it kept a low profile and displayed the same benign character as the other, well-established juvenile gangs. Angel didn’t understand the British fascination with playing football, a game she regarded as only marginally less boring than its American cousin, but recognized it as a key cultural lubricant. The new Triad Glasgow House would field a football team. Now, Dai-Lo Song Yao Tuan had asked her to suppress any sign of a Tong presence in the Chinese Community of Glasgow and replace it with the Triads. It was an added complexity but not much of one and it fitted in well with the general strategy for the trouble-torn city.
The Springfield Quay Restaurant and Bar, on the South Bank of the Clyde, Thursday, April 6, 2000.
“Yoo're a damned rockit Fergus. A bluidy killin loch 'at is a disaster fur us aw. Every cheil in a bar wiped it in a single blaw? Whit waur ye thinkin' cheil?”
Fergus Chisholm was a bewildered man. He had been enraged by the killing of three of his men in broad daylight the day before and he had been planning a counterstrike certainly but the wholesale massacre in MacChailds Public House had been far beyond anything he had dreamed possible. “It wasnae us, Lachlan, Ah swear it. Sure we wanted tae gie th' Sooth Siders back fur th' killin' ay uir jimmies an' th' wee jimmies waur radge as heel but almost twintie deid loch 'at? It wisnae uir daein'.”
Lachlan MacLachlan looked at the leader of the Govan Team and shook his head. “Ah hiner ye can prove 'at, Fergus, fur yer sake an' fur th' sake ay us aw. Th' Sooth Sides Stickers will be efter yer bluid an' 'at ay everybody ye hauld hen. Ah will teel ye thes. th' big cheil wulnae be canty, e'en if thes staps noo. If it spreids, we'll aw pay dear.”
“Whit dae th' Beehife Jimmies want ay us? Thee ay uir wee jimmies waur beaten tae death in th' causey an' nobody will say anythin'. We've taught them tae keep their mooths shut an' say naethin'. Noo its bitin' us in th' erse. When we need tae fin' somethin' it, we cannae.”
“We want thes glaikit business finished reit noo. Althoogh whit Colby MacLean an' th' Sooth Siders will want efter havin' a third ay their men wiped it is enaw tae make th' devil himself weep. Swatch, Fergus, Ah can believe ye Govan Team fowk didne dae thes. Th' killin' lest nicht was aw guns, nae sign ay a chib ur a razur. that's nae th' way we dae things. Either thaur ur strangers in thes barnie ur somebody has decided tae jump several levels up. An' th' big cheil wulnae be gart up wi 'at either. Th' orders ur clear, keep it doon tae th' edges an' avoid th' soldiers comin' in. An' whaur is Colby Maclean? Ah dornt want tae be kept waitin' by th' likes ay heem.”
Chisholm turned in his seat to look at the entrance to the riverbank terrace. Behind him, he heard a strange noise that reminded him of when his father had pretended to throw something in the air and catch it in a paper bag. He turned quickly to see a sight that chilled him to the bone. Something had hit Lachlan MacLachlan in the left eye and it had blown off most of the side of his head. The leader of the Beehive Jimmies rocked backwards and forwards for a second before what was left of his head smacked into the table. The tablecloth would never be the same again.
The nearer of MacLachlan's two bodyguards took a horrified look at the corpse of his boss and jumped to the obvious, but entirely wrong conclusion. "Ye dobber Fergus, ye killed Lachlan."
What Chisholm saw and heard but the bodyguard had missed, was that the odd sound and the second bodyguard's bursting open as if it had been a watermelon. Chisholm was already up and running when the leader of the South Side Stickers, Colby MacLean, entered the bar. He had heard the bodyguard's yell and the crash as Chisholm tried to run for his life but by the time he had reached the terrace, the bodyguard was dead, his head destroyed the same way as the other two. All MacLean saw was Chisholm's back as he vaulted the terrace wall and vanished into the shadows. "Ye feckin' dobber Fergus. Hae ye rin wud?"
Chisholm didn't bother to argue. He knew for absolute certain that the deaths of Lachlan MacLachlan and his bodyguards would be blamed on him. As a result, the Govan Team would also be at war with the largest and most powerful of all the Glasgow razor gangs. The Beehive Jimmies would be out for his blood as well as the South Side Stickers. One thought kept running through his mind. "Whit th' heel is gonnae oan."
Roof of Warehouse, Elliot Street, North Bank of the Clyde, Thursday, April 6, 2000.
Achillea carefully got to her feet and picked up the Barrett .50 rifle with one hand. It never occurred to her that anybody seeing her do so would have been impressed by the feat. They would have been even more impressed by the fact she could, if necessary, fire it one-handed as well. It was something she usually avoided due to the almost complete lack of accuracy. "Let's get out of here."
Angel made no reply but started to move backwards towards the stairwell that led to the street. Achillea was rapidly coming to the conclusion that she really liked working with Angel. The great weakness of any sniper was that to do their job they had to concentrate intensely on their target. That left them vulnerable to being ambushed by attackers who had closed in on the unnoticed. To work well, a sniper had to have a partner who would run guard for them and eliminate any such threats. After starting to work with Angel, Achillea had read the official inquiry reports of the Brighton Beach Battle when ten policemen from two SWAT teams had been killed in a forty-minute gun battle against 'unknown criminal elements'. Two of the dead were snipers; one had been shot in through the eye from 75 yards, a pistol shot that almost defied belief. The other sniper had been shot in the back of the head from three inches by somebody had who had closed in on them while they were totally absorbed in trying to make a shot. What Achillea knew, something that the writers of the report did not, was that both men had been killed by Angel. She had been sixteen years old when she had shot them along with the other eight policemen killed that night.
It wasn't her almost supernatural skill with handguns that made her a good partner though. A sniper really needed that partner who would protect her from others while she made her shots. The trouble was that most such partners would forget that role and watch her take those shots instead, fascinated by the spectacle of a long-range kill. Angel wasn't interested in the kills; she was incapable of having any emotional connection with shooter or victim. Her only commitment was to her assigned role in this operation and so she made a perfect guard who would protect her partner from trouble. "You get them 'Lea?"
"All three. 839 yards. Fergus Chisholm took off like a gazelle." Achillea wasn't particularly proud of the shots that had killed Lachlan MacLachlan and his bodyguards. In her eyes, 850 yards was reasonably close range for the big Barrett and its powerful telescopic sight. "If he's got any brains, he won't stop running until he's abroad. And then he'd better watch his back for the rest of his life."
"We'd better get out of here." Angel didn't offer to help carry the heavy rifle and its equipment. Quite apart from the fact that she simply could not understand why the offer would be polite, her function in the team depended on having both her hands free. Anyway, Achillea didn't need help.
"So far it's been easy." Comfortably back in their assigned Rover SD3, Achillea had put the Barrett in the back and driven sedately away from the scene of the shooting. Again, it was a good division of labor; both she and Angel were very good drivers but Achillea's style was more sedate and less obtrusive. At the same time, not driving allowed Angel to watch out for potential threats.
"This is the easy bit." Angel watched ambulances and police vehicles heading for the Springfield Quay Restaurant. "We've got the razor gangs at each other's throats; now we have to give them the reason why they are out to kill each other."
"Taking over a business." Achillea checked the mirror, making sure their vehicle wasn't being followed. Their Rover had been obtained for them by the Home Office and Angel was suspicious enough to divorce herself from it as soon as possible. It was that level of caution that explained why she had lived as long as she had. They'd searched the Rover for tracking devices but both knew that if somebody has wanted to bug the vehicle, the chances that they would find it were limited. Their search had included sweeping it with the best detector the OSS could obtain, but defeating one of them was lesson 101 in any counter-intelligence guide.
Achillea swung into a multi-story car park on the outskirts of the city and parked their car next to a white Lancia sedan that was waiting. Before they arrived in Glasgow, Angel had made a few calls to London House and the Lancia had duly appeared. Anybody who tried to trace it would end up running in circles and eventually be forced to conclude that the vehicle didn't exist. They switched cars, and set off again, heading in the opposite direction to which they had come in. Sir Humphrey and Commissioner Keeble knew what hotel they had been booked into and Angel didn't want to be associated with that address either. If somebody went to that hotel, for any reason, they would find an empty, unused room. That was a bit hard on the British taxpayer of course but they were another group of people for whom Angel had a complete lack of empathy. With the cars switched and on their way to a safe-house outside the city, as far as anybody knew, Angel and Achillea had just disappeared into space.
Re: 2000 - Eye of the Gangster
Chapter Four
Suite 334 Savoy Hotel, London, March 21, 2000.
“I need you to stay here, Conrad. Or at least as far out of the way as possible.” Angel was methodically checking her magazines and the ammunition that went in them for dents or minor defects. She pursed her lips, then put another 9x21 Skoda round to one side. It had a slight crease in one side that might cause a jam. She opened another box and carried on with the painstaking checks.
“OK.” Conrad knew that keeping him out of the firing line was a matter of basic survival for both Angel and Achillea. If anything happened to him, Achillea would feel obliged to either rescue or avenge him. What Angel would do to anybody responsible for harming him frightened even her. Either eventuality would risk their lives unnecessarily. He felt no shame at hiding while she risked her life; he understood all too well that doing anything else would put her life in greater danger.
“I thought you two worked together?” Keeble looked confused. The better I know these two, the more I realize the Security Service report is wrong on almost everything about their relationship.
“We do.” Angel was brusque. She preferred a situation where people knew as little about her as possible. In her eyes, every fact about her known to others was also a weapon that could be used against her. “But, there are things I do that Conrad can’t and things he does that I have difficulty even understanding, let alone doing. There are times when we need to work alongside each other and times when we need to stay out of each other’s way. What’s going to be happening in Glasgow is one of the latter. Once the situation begins to escalate, the targets could go after Conrad as a way of getting at me. They don’t know that sort of thing doesn’t work against psychopaths. I don’t want him to die . . . for nothing.”
Keeble and Achillea exchanged glances. They’d both picked up on the tiny pause after ‘die’. This is another thing that the report didn’t mention. It noted that Angel is a diagnosed psychopath and the analysis of her behavior treats that as a serious mental illness or disability. Yet the reality is that Angel is proud of her condition and flaunts the fact that she is an emotional cripple. Despite that all, she actually cares for Conrad. That’s not supposed to be possible.
“Refills?” Conrad was making himself useful. At this point, the planning was concentrated on the campaign in Glasgow itself. The bottle of Bacardi 151 was empty and he went out to get another.
“Lass, your liver must be made of old army boots.” Keeble looked at Angel with respect. He had a feeling she could drink most of the men he knew under the table despite the fact that law enforcement was a hard-drinking profession. “What’s the real reason you don’t want Conrad with you?”
Angel looked at him, with the ice-cold death-stare that he was beginning to realize was the first warning he was stepping into a danger zone. The second would be when she started to smile. There wouldn't be a third. Then she nodded slightly. “I’ve never let Conrad see me working. He’s seen me kill people who were trying to kill us and he has seen me execute somebody on government warrant. In the latter case, the warrant is all. I have never let him see me commit a cold-blooded criminal murder. Don’t forget that’s the way I earn a living and it doesn’t worry me in the least. But, seeing me do that would upset him very deeply and that I will not allow.”
“I know what Angel means.” Achillea was sipping her whisky. “My boyfriend is a New York State Police officer and I make sure he only sees what I want him to see.”
“He hasn’t met Angel then.” Keeble meant the words lightly but he suddenly realized from the stillness in the air that he had inadvertently trampled on a very sensitive set of toes.
“The New York Police have a kill-on-sight order out on me.” Angel’s voice matched the death-stare. “They seem to think that takes precedence over a Presidential Pardon. I would have thought your file on me would mention that.”
“If Angel met Vince, one of them would be dead in seconds and it wouldn’t be Angel.” Achillea wasn’t bitter, she was simply stating a fact of life. “So, they won’t meet. I don’t get many boyfriends and I rather like this one. I'd prefer not to lose him quite yet.”
Conrad returned with a fresh set of bottles and appeared not to notice the tension in the air. “Here you are, Angel. We’ve got four more bottles in reserve”
“Good boy.” Angel took a gulp from her glass of rum and looked at the map of Glasgow. "So the Beehive Jimmies are the dominant force amongst the razor gangs?"
Keeble nodded. He was relieved to have made it out of the danger zone alive and had a feeling that the British Police were still on probation as far as Angel was concerned. "That's the way it seems. They seem to act as a coordination group and sort of court of mediation. Bit like La Cosa Nostra in Cuba. We suspect that they are the contact point with whoever is behind the razor gangs. Those are the people we have to find. If we just take down the gangsters in Glasgow, they'll be replaced in hours."
"That's the mistake we made at Aurandel." Achillea sounded regretful. She had urged that the Washington Circle go after the people responsible for the situation there but Nefertiti and The Seer had decided otherwise. In her opinion, that was one of their few errors in judgment. "We're still hunting them down in New York and after the Paradigm Oil business last year."
"So we need to decapitate the Beehive Jimmies." Angel had her eyes half-closed. "That way we'll cut the link and make the whole situation uncontrollable."
"If we do that, won't we be unable to follow the link back to the organizers?" Keeble was thinking more along the lines of bringing a prosecution and needed evidence. Angel had no such illusions and didn't.
"Probably not, but it doesn't matter. That route will be filled with cut-outs. The one between me and my clients is; most times I don't even know who they are. In your language, Chris, if Halifax won't come to the block, the block must go to Halifax. We need to create a situation where one of the razor gangs seems to have gone completely out of control and the communications route has been cut. That way, people from the top will have to go there and bring the situation back under control again. Conrad, we'll need you to identify them when they appear. Chris, what are the rackets in Glasgow?"
Keeble thought for a moment. "Drugs of course, heroin mostly from Turkey and the Caliphate. Protection and extortion. Prostitution, mostly forced, Glasgow is a bad place to be a runaway. Gambling, one would think people would know better but they still play even though they know the games are rigged and if they do win big, they won't live long enough to enjoy it. "
"Standard old-school." Angel ran the list over in her mind. "Which one makes them the most money? And which gang runs it?"
"Drugs. By a big margin. The Beehive Jimmies have a majority share, one of the perks of being on close terms with The Trust I think. The South Side Stickers hold a lot of the balance. At the other end, the Govan Team aren't involved in the drugs business at all although they're reputed to be trying to shoulder in on it."
"That's our crack, Angel." Achillea's mind was smoothly rolling and she was formulating a plan that would reduce the city's gangland to chaos. Angel glanced at her and nodded. She was coming up with a plan as well and soon she and Achillea would sit down, put their plans together and come up with a grand strategy that would combine the best features of both. It was a mark of their characters that neither took proprietary pride in their respective ideas but concentrated on getting the best possible plan of action from combining them.
"We'll take a sledgehammer to it. Another thing, we need to dirty-up these razor gangs so when your police do move in, they're seen as saviors."
"They hardly need that." Keeble was a police officer and saw things differently from the two women. "Aren't they dirty enough already?"
Angel shrugged. "Sure, although it’s the 'how' not the 'what' that makes them so. You'll need to show the 'how' that lies behind the 'what' and rub people's face in it. You've kept repeating how Glasgow is a tough city. You have to make that work for you. That brings us to something else. We're using a lot of Triad resources for this and the Triads will be taking the blame. That means we could end up being involved in a gang war and they are expensive. You are going to owe us big-time for this."
"I can't give you the keys to the evidence room. Not that it would do you much good. There's hardly anything relevant to the 14K in there, only a little on the Triads in general and barely much more on the Tongs."
"I've talked this over with Lóngtóu and they have made an initial proposal." Angel used the formal name for the Dai-Lo and carefully phrased her comment so an agreement that had already been made in principle would seem to be coming from the 14K. "They will make the assets available as I require and support the operation by word and deed. In exchange, as a down payment, the police and civil authorities will not interfere with the establishment of a 14K Triad House in Glasgow, amongst the Chinese population there. The new house will form a youth football team to promote friendly relations with the police and the elders will teach Triad virtues to the young. Do you know our 36 oaths? I do not think you will find much to object to there. As far as I can see, that’s what we have already agreed was acceptable."
Keeble smiled. "Under a different name, I served in Hong Kong before World War Two. I knew of the Triads then. That is how and why I can read your tattoos. I have a bit of a problem with the oath to inform one of your brothers or sisters if we're on to them but the rest is unobjectionable. There are 110 youth gangs in Glasgow, I don't see any reason to object to one more. Your oath to overthrow Ch'ing and restore Ming really means to end tyranny and disorder so that tranquility and justice can be restored. Isn't that what we are doing?"
"We are agreed then, Assistant Commissioner?" Angel looked at Keeble steadily.
"We are agreed, Red Hatchet."
New Lanark Mill Hotel, Lanarkshire, April 8, 2000.
"They've disappeared." Chris Keeble seemed disappointed but Conrad wasn't surprised. In fact, he would have been astonished if Achillea and Angel hadn't vanished off the face of the Earth. He had come to the conclusion that the British authorities had seriously underestimated both of them. "We found the car we gave them abandoned in a multi-story garage on the outskirts of the city. They never checked into the hotel we found for them. Oddly, their disappearing act happened just after the head of the Beehive Jimmies and two of his bodyguards were picked off by a sniper. We're assuming they used our car for that as a way of telling us they did it."
"And the gang war is starting?" Conrad was carefully not revealing his feelings at Keeble's annoyance. He had a strong suspicion that the police officer would not find the sudden disappearing act as amusing as he did.
"After twenty one dead in three days? Of course it is. So far, the Beehive Jimmies and what is left of the South Side Stickers have more or less declared war on the Govan Team. The Scottish press is going berserk and its spreading to the English and Welsh newspapers. This has all the fascination of watching a train get wrecked. How do you live like this?"
"Working with Angel? She helps in my investigations and protects me. She's saved my life three or four times. And, you probably won't believe this, but there is a good person under that shell. She's had the worst deal imaginable from life, everything bad in her life comes from that, and people like you and me were responsible. The good in her life, she’s built for herself despite the odds against her. The truth is, I know who and what she is, yet I can't help liking her. Hate the sin, not the sinner you know. Anyway, we have work to do. I've been going through records trying to identify cases where The Trust has staged a wreck-and-loot operation over here. I was hoping I could find some common factors but I can't. It seems that this Glasgow business is the first attempt they've made over here, or at least the first one where they've attracted attention."
"That's not surprising. This country was destroyed after the Occupation and there was nothing anybody could have done to make it worse. We didn't start to get back on our feet until the end of the fifties and things were desperate until most of the sixties had passed."
"I know, I was here off and on." Conrad had a nostalgic look on his face.
"Of course, the Jennifer Durham case. Her book is still in print you know. It’s become one of the standard textbooks on the Occupation. Those in the know think that might have been Conrad Lorenz's greatest case. Of course, George Skelton got all the credit."
"What happened to him? He was a bright lad I thought, should have gone far."
"He did; all the way up through the ranks, almost to the top." Keeble laughed. "I replaced him as an Assistant Commissioner for Birmingham when he retired. Birmingham ranks behind London and Edinburgh in the pecking order, but not by much. He's still alive, I think he retired to West Wittering, just south of Chichester. He mentioned you at his retirement roast. Said you were the only real detective he had ever met."
“That’s a bit over the top. Still, I suppose it was a roast and the police detectives had been giving him a hard time. Anyway, so, it would be the seventies when an operation like Aurandel and New York became economically feasible over here? That would suggest Glasgow is a sort of pilot program. To see what the response would be.”
“That’s what Humpty thinks. That's why he wants a decisive response and a really bloody nose for the people behind it. I know he comes over as a pedantic duffer but underneath all that, he’s as sharp and as ruthless as they come. Anyway, who would we be looking for?”
Conrad thought about that, running over Achillea’s descriptions of the people she had met in Aurandel and New York and combining them with the people he and Angel had dealt with in Bangkok. “We’re looking for people who were born with as many natural advantages as it’s possible to get but lacked the essential flair to turn them into a successful life. They’ll have been born into the upper layers of your society but will never have been quite accepted by them. Those around them will tend to describe them as having ‘no bottom’ to use your excellent phrase. They’ll put on airs but can’t quite carry it off. The people behind this will have a pattern of almost succeeding but falling short at the last minute. They will be superficially successful but unable to turn initial advantage into a solid base for future development. They will always be looking for the easy way to support their lifestyle and will give up on anything that requires hard work. They’ll suck up to those above them but try and kick around those over whom they have any sort of power.”
Keeble blinked. “The problem is, that describes a lot of people. It’s a pretty good description of collaborators as well by the way. Of course, the trials in the late 1940s thinned their ranks a lot. The gallows at Wandsworth worked pretty hard those years.”
“And the block on Tower Green?” Conrad had his tongue firmly in his cheek.
Keeble’s reply was deadly serious. “Don’t knock it. Death by decapitation is still on the books for treason and will remain there as long as memories of That Man survive. There’s one man I can think of who really does fit your profile. We’ve had our beady eye on him for over a quarter of a century but never been able to prove anything. Born 1934, into Anglo-Irish aristocracy. That puts him into the almost-but-not-quite category. He was evacuated to Canada in 1939 and spent the war there. He returned in 1948 to find that everything the family owned had been blown up, burned or taken by the Germans. He was one of the first students to attend Eton College when it reopened. He joined the Coldstream Guards in 1953 but was asked to resign his commission in 1955. The regiment played its cards close to its chest on that. Lieutenant General Strachan probably knows the details. I’ll fix up a meeting for you.”
“How is Sir Richard?” Conrad had worked with him on the Jennifer Durham case.
“Retired with honors abounding a few years after the Falklands and ‘died’ a couple of years ago. Now, he's Lord of the Manor of Avebury. Anyway, back to our candidate. After leaving the Army, he got a job at a merchant bank. Didn’t do too badly but he left after a few years. Working in a merchant bank is a good life once the employee has made the grade but he has to earn his spurs and that’s hard work. Our laddie wasn’t the one to put in the graft so he left. He became a professional gambler, specializing at backgammon and bridge, but he wasn’t very good at it. His problem was that he’d win small amounts at games of skill but he’d go to the games of chance and lose big. Winning small and losing large is a pretty good way to accumulated huge debts. By the early 1960s, he was losing around 8,000 pounds a year. In 1964 he had a particularly disastrous night at a casino and lost 10,000 pounds. He got married shortly afterwards, in a bit of a hurry, and his father-in-law paid off his debts for him. The same year, his father died and he inherited the family title.
“For the next ten years, he lived the life of a country gentleman. Huntin’ shootin’ and fishin’ and all that. We next run into him in ’74 and that’s when he came onto our radar. His marriage was folding up and when it ended, so would the subsidies from his father-in-law. It was a bitter break-up and would have been a scandalous divorce but his wife was found dead at the foot of their Belgravia apartment stairs. The official verdict was ‘accident’ but we suspected foul play but couldn’t prove it. We could really have used you then Conrad.” Keeble smiled grimly. “and, quite possibly, Angel as well.” Anyway, chummy went over to the States for two or three years. He met Igrat there by the way, he annoyed her and she cleaned him out gambling. You should hear her telling the story. Apparently, his own playing style was hot and, while she was watching, he cheated somebody who couldn’t afford the losses.”
“That’ll do it.” Conrad shook his head sadly. “Iggie has a strange sense of justice and can make a pack of cards dance and sing when she wants them to. I bet the guy who got cheated had a run of luck and won his money back.”
“So I have heard. You know Conrad, for a man of the cloth, you have some very strange friends.”
Conrad smiled gently, remembering other people who had made the same comment. “You’re not the only person who has said that.”
“Be that as it may, while he was in the States, somehow he got access to more funds and an income. He came back to Britain in ’78 and took up the life of a country lord again. He’s kept his head down ever since which is wise because we still find him a person of interest and the Inland Revenue are intrigued by how he gets his money. ‘Investments abroad and income from gambling’ are his official explanations.”
“He sounds promising. Who is this person?”
“John Bingham, 7th Earl of Lucan. I’ll make sure you get the police and Treasury files on him.”
Suite 334 Savoy Hotel, London, March 21, 2000.
“I need you to stay here, Conrad. Or at least as far out of the way as possible.” Angel was methodically checking her magazines and the ammunition that went in them for dents or minor defects. She pursed her lips, then put another 9x21 Skoda round to one side. It had a slight crease in one side that might cause a jam. She opened another box and carried on with the painstaking checks.
“OK.” Conrad knew that keeping him out of the firing line was a matter of basic survival for both Angel and Achillea. If anything happened to him, Achillea would feel obliged to either rescue or avenge him. What Angel would do to anybody responsible for harming him frightened even her. Either eventuality would risk their lives unnecessarily. He felt no shame at hiding while she risked her life; he understood all too well that doing anything else would put her life in greater danger.
“I thought you two worked together?” Keeble looked confused. The better I know these two, the more I realize the Security Service report is wrong on almost everything about their relationship.
“We do.” Angel was brusque. She preferred a situation where people knew as little about her as possible. In her eyes, every fact about her known to others was also a weapon that could be used against her. “But, there are things I do that Conrad can’t and things he does that I have difficulty even understanding, let alone doing. There are times when we need to work alongside each other and times when we need to stay out of each other’s way. What’s going to be happening in Glasgow is one of the latter. Once the situation begins to escalate, the targets could go after Conrad as a way of getting at me. They don’t know that sort of thing doesn’t work against psychopaths. I don’t want him to die . . . for nothing.”
Keeble and Achillea exchanged glances. They’d both picked up on the tiny pause after ‘die’. This is another thing that the report didn’t mention. It noted that Angel is a diagnosed psychopath and the analysis of her behavior treats that as a serious mental illness or disability. Yet the reality is that Angel is proud of her condition and flaunts the fact that she is an emotional cripple. Despite that all, she actually cares for Conrad. That’s not supposed to be possible.
“Refills?” Conrad was making himself useful. At this point, the planning was concentrated on the campaign in Glasgow itself. The bottle of Bacardi 151 was empty and he went out to get another.
“Lass, your liver must be made of old army boots.” Keeble looked at Angel with respect. He had a feeling she could drink most of the men he knew under the table despite the fact that law enforcement was a hard-drinking profession. “What’s the real reason you don’t want Conrad with you?”
Angel looked at him, with the ice-cold death-stare that he was beginning to realize was the first warning he was stepping into a danger zone. The second would be when she started to smile. There wouldn't be a third. Then she nodded slightly. “I’ve never let Conrad see me working. He’s seen me kill people who were trying to kill us and he has seen me execute somebody on government warrant. In the latter case, the warrant is all. I have never let him see me commit a cold-blooded criminal murder. Don’t forget that’s the way I earn a living and it doesn’t worry me in the least. But, seeing me do that would upset him very deeply and that I will not allow.”
“I know what Angel means.” Achillea was sipping her whisky. “My boyfriend is a New York State Police officer and I make sure he only sees what I want him to see.”
“He hasn’t met Angel then.” Keeble meant the words lightly but he suddenly realized from the stillness in the air that he had inadvertently trampled on a very sensitive set of toes.
“The New York Police have a kill-on-sight order out on me.” Angel’s voice matched the death-stare. “They seem to think that takes precedence over a Presidential Pardon. I would have thought your file on me would mention that.”
“If Angel met Vince, one of them would be dead in seconds and it wouldn’t be Angel.” Achillea wasn’t bitter, she was simply stating a fact of life. “So, they won’t meet. I don’t get many boyfriends and I rather like this one. I'd prefer not to lose him quite yet.”
Conrad returned with a fresh set of bottles and appeared not to notice the tension in the air. “Here you are, Angel. We’ve got four more bottles in reserve”
“Good boy.” Angel took a gulp from her glass of rum and looked at the map of Glasgow. "So the Beehive Jimmies are the dominant force amongst the razor gangs?"
Keeble nodded. He was relieved to have made it out of the danger zone alive and had a feeling that the British Police were still on probation as far as Angel was concerned. "That's the way it seems. They seem to act as a coordination group and sort of court of mediation. Bit like La Cosa Nostra in Cuba. We suspect that they are the contact point with whoever is behind the razor gangs. Those are the people we have to find. If we just take down the gangsters in Glasgow, they'll be replaced in hours."
"That's the mistake we made at Aurandel." Achillea sounded regretful. She had urged that the Washington Circle go after the people responsible for the situation there but Nefertiti and The Seer had decided otherwise. In her opinion, that was one of their few errors in judgment. "We're still hunting them down in New York and after the Paradigm Oil business last year."
"So we need to decapitate the Beehive Jimmies." Angel had her eyes half-closed. "That way we'll cut the link and make the whole situation uncontrollable."
"If we do that, won't we be unable to follow the link back to the organizers?" Keeble was thinking more along the lines of bringing a prosecution and needed evidence. Angel had no such illusions and didn't.
"Probably not, but it doesn't matter. That route will be filled with cut-outs. The one between me and my clients is; most times I don't even know who they are. In your language, Chris, if Halifax won't come to the block, the block must go to Halifax. We need to create a situation where one of the razor gangs seems to have gone completely out of control and the communications route has been cut. That way, people from the top will have to go there and bring the situation back under control again. Conrad, we'll need you to identify them when they appear. Chris, what are the rackets in Glasgow?"
Keeble thought for a moment. "Drugs of course, heroin mostly from Turkey and the Caliphate. Protection and extortion. Prostitution, mostly forced, Glasgow is a bad place to be a runaway. Gambling, one would think people would know better but they still play even though they know the games are rigged and if they do win big, they won't live long enough to enjoy it. "
"Standard old-school." Angel ran the list over in her mind. "Which one makes them the most money? And which gang runs it?"
"Drugs. By a big margin. The Beehive Jimmies have a majority share, one of the perks of being on close terms with The Trust I think. The South Side Stickers hold a lot of the balance. At the other end, the Govan Team aren't involved in the drugs business at all although they're reputed to be trying to shoulder in on it."
"That's our crack, Angel." Achillea's mind was smoothly rolling and she was formulating a plan that would reduce the city's gangland to chaos. Angel glanced at her and nodded. She was coming up with a plan as well and soon she and Achillea would sit down, put their plans together and come up with a grand strategy that would combine the best features of both. It was a mark of their characters that neither took proprietary pride in their respective ideas but concentrated on getting the best possible plan of action from combining them.
"We'll take a sledgehammer to it. Another thing, we need to dirty-up these razor gangs so when your police do move in, they're seen as saviors."
"They hardly need that." Keeble was a police officer and saw things differently from the two women. "Aren't they dirty enough already?"
Angel shrugged. "Sure, although it’s the 'how' not the 'what' that makes them so. You'll need to show the 'how' that lies behind the 'what' and rub people's face in it. You've kept repeating how Glasgow is a tough city. You have to make that work for you. That brings us to something else. We're using a lot of Triad resources for this and the Triads will be taking the blame. That means we could end up being involved in a gang war and they are expensive. You are going to owe us big-time for this."
"I can't give you the keys to the evidence room. Not that it would do you much good. There's hardly anything relevant to the 14K in there, only a little on the Triads in general and barely much more on the Tongs."
"I've talked this over with Lóngtóu and they have made an initial proposal." Angel used the formal name for the Dai-Lo and carefully phrased her comment so an agreement that had already been made in principle would seem to be coming from the 14K. "They will make the assets available as I require and support the operation by word and deed. In exchange, as a down payment, the police and civil authorities will not interfere with the establishment of a 14K Triad House in Glasgow, amongst the Chinese population there. The new house will form a youth football team to promote friendly relations with the police and the elders will teach Triad virtues to the young. Do you know our 36 oaths? I do not think you will find much to object to there. As far as I can see, that’s what we have already agreed was acceptable."
Keeble smiled. "Under a different name, I served in Hong Kong before World War Two. I knew of the Triads then. That is how and why I can read your tattoos. I have a bit of a problem with the oath to inform one of your brothers or sisters if we're on to them but the rest is unobjectionable. There are 110 youth gangs in Glasgow, I don't see any reason to object to one more. Your oath to overthrow Ch'ing and restore Ming really means to end tyranny and disorder so that tranquility and justice can be restored. Isn't that what we are doing?"
"We are agreed then, Assistant Commissioner?" Angel looked at Keeble steadily.
"We are agreed, Red Hatchet."
New Lanark Mill Hotel, Lanarkshire, April 8, 2000.
"They've disappeared." Chris Keeble seemed disappointed but Conrad wasn't surprised. In fact, he would have been astonished if Achillea and Angel hadn't vanished off the face of the Earth. He had come to the conclusion that the British authorities had seriously underestimated both of them. "We found the car we gave them abandoned in a multi-story garage on the outskirts of the city. They never checked into the hotel we found for them. Oddly, their disappearing act happened just after the head of the Beehive Jimmies and two of his bodyguards were picked off by a sniper. We're assuming they used our car for that as a way of telling us they did it."
"And the gang war is starting?" Conrad was carefully not revealing his feelings at Keeble's annoyance. He had a strong suspicion that the police officer would not find the sudden disappearing act as amusing as he did.
"After twenty one dead in three days? Of course it is. So far, the Beehive Jimmies and what is left of the South Side Stickers have more or less declared war on the Govan Team. The Scottish press is going berserk and its spreading to the English and Welsh newspapers. This has all the fascination of watching a train get wrecked. How do you live like this?"
"Working with Angel? She helps in my investigations and protects me. She's saved my life three or four times. And, you probably won't believe this, but there is a good person under that shell. She's had the worst deal imaginable from life, everything bad in her life comes from that, and people like you and me were responsible. The good in her life, she’s built for herself despite the odds against her. The truth is, I know who and what she is, yet I can't help liking her. Hate the sin, not the sinner you know. Anyway, we have work to do. I've been going through records trying to identify cases where The Trust has staged a wreck-and-loot operation over here. I was hoping I could find some common factors but I can't. It seems that this Glasgow business is the first attempt they've made over here, or at least the first one where they've attracted attention."
"That's not surprising. This country was destroyed after the Occupation and there was nothing anybody could have done to make it worse. We didn't start to get back on our feet until the end of the fifties and things were desperate until most of the sixties had passed."
"I know, I was here off and on." Conrad had a nostalgic look on his face.
"Of course, the Jennifer Durham case. Her book is still in print you know. It’s become one of the standard textbooks on the Occupation. Those in the know think that might have been Conrad Lorenz's greatest case. Of course, George Skelton got all the credit."
"What happened to him? He was a bright lad I thought, should have gone far."
"He did; all the way up through the ranks, almost to the top." Keeble laughed. "I replaced him as an Assistant Commissioner for Birmingham when he retired. Birmingham ranks behind London and Edinburgh in the pecking order, but not by much. He's still alive, I think he retired to West Wittering, just south of Chichester. He mentioned you at his retirement roast. Said you were the only real detective he had ever met."
“That’s a bit over the top. Still, I suppose it was a roast and the police detectives had been giving him a hard time. Anyway, so, it would be the seventies when an operation like Aurandel and New York became economically feasible over here? That would suggest Glasgow is a sort of pilot program. To see what the response would be.”
“That’s what Humpty thinks. That's why he wants a decisive response and a really bloody nose for the people behind it. I know he comes over as a pedantic duffer but underneath all that, he’s as sharp and as ruthless as they come. Anyway, who would we be looking for?”
Conrad thought about that, running over Achillea’s descriptions of the people she had met in Aurandel and New York and combining them with the people he and Angel had dealt with in Bangkok. “We’re looking for people who were born with as many natural advantages as it’s possible to get but lacked the essential flair to turn them into a successful life. They’ll have been born into the upper layers of your society but will never have been quite accepted by them. Those around them will tend to describe them as having ‘no bottom’ to use your excellent phrase. They’ll put on airs but can’t quite carry it off. The people behind this will have a pattern of almost succeeding but falling short at the last minute. They will be superficially successful but unable to turn initial advantage into a solid base for future development. They will always be looking for the easy way to support their lifestyle and will give up on anything that requires hard work. They’ll suck up to those above them but try and kick around those over whom they have any sort of power.”
Keeble blinked. “The problem is, that describes a lot of people. It’s a pretty good description of collaborators as well by the way. Of course, the trials in the late 1940s thinned their ranks a lot. The gallows at Wandsworth worked pretty hard those years.”
“And the block on Tower Green?” Conrad had his tongue firmly in his cheek.
Keeble’s reply was deadly serious. “Don’t knock it. Death by decapitation is still on the books for treason and will remain there as long as memories of That Man survive. There’s one man I can think of who really does fit your profile. We’ve had our beady eye on him for over a quarter of a century but never been able to prove anything. Born 1934, into Anglo-Irish aristocracy. That puts him into the almost-but-not-quite category. He was evacuated to Canada in 1939 and spent the war there. He returned in 1948 to find that everything the family owned had been blown up, burned or taken by the Germans. He was one of the first students to attend Eton College when it reopened. He joined the Coldstream Guards in 1953 but was asked to resign his commission in 1955. The regiment played its cards close to its chest on that. Lieutenant General Strachan probably knows the details. I’ll fix up a meeting for you.”
“How is Sir Richard?” Conrad had worked with him on the Jennifer Durham case.
“Retired with honors abounding a few years after the Falklands and ‘died’ a couple of years ago. Now, he's Lord of the Manor of Avebury. Anyway, back to our candidate. After leaving the Army, he got a job at a merchant bank. Didn’t do too badly but he left after a few years. Working in a merchant bank is a good life once the employee has made the grade but he has to earn his spurs and that’s hard work. Our laddie wasn’t the one to put in the graft so he left. He became a professional gambler, specializing at backgammon and bridge, but he wasn’t very good at it. His problem was that he’d win small amounts at games of skill but he’d go to the games of chance and lose big. Winning small and losing large is a pretty good way to accumulated huge debts. By the early 1960s, he was losing around 8,000 pounds a year. In 1964 he had a particularly disastrous night at a casino and lost 10,000 pounds. He got married shortly afterwards, in a bit of a hurry, and his father-in-law paid off his debts for him. The same year, his father died and he inherited the family title.
“For the next ten years, he lived the life of a country gentleman. Huntin’ shootin’ and fishin’ and all that. We next run into him in ’74 and that’s when he came onto our radar. His marriage was folding up and when it ended, so would the subsidies from his father-in-law. It was a bitter break-up and would have been a scandalous divorce but his wife was found dead at the foot of their Belgravia apartment stairs. The official verdict was ‘accident’ but we suspected foul play but couldn’t prove it. We could really have used you then Conrad.” Keeble smiled grimly. “and, quite possibly, Angel as well.” Anyway, chummy went over to the States for two or three years. He met Igrat there by the way, he annoyed her and she cleaned him out gambling. You should hear her telling the story. Apparently, his own playing style was hot and, while she was watching, he cheated somebody who couldn’t afford the losses.”
“That’ll do it.” Conrad shook his head sadly. “Iggie has a strange sense of justice and can make a pack of cards dance and sing when she wants them to. I bet the guy who got cheated had a run of luck and won his money back.”
“So I have heard. You know Conrad, for a man of the cloth, you have some very strange friends.”
Conrad smiled gently, remembering other people who had made the same comment. “You’re not the only person who has said that.”
“Be that as it may, while he was in the States, somehow he got access to more funds and an income. He came back to Britain in ’78 and took up the life of a country lord again. He’s kept his head down ever since which is wise because we still find him a person of interest and the Inland Revenue are intrigued by how he gets his money. ‘Investments abroad and income from gambling’ are his official explanations.”
“He sounds promising. Who is this person?”
“John Bingham, 7th Earl of Lucan. I’ll make sure you get the police and Treasury files on him.”
Re: 2000 - Eye of the Gangster
Chapter Five
Gleddoch Hotel Spa & Golf, Old Greenock Rd, Langbank, April 10, 2000.
“Do you think we should learn to play golf while we’re here?” Achillea stretched and purred gently. “You know, I’m really glad we’re working together. I’d never have thought to hide out in a place like this.”
"Thank Conrad. He came up with the idea when we were staying in Manila and we've proved it a couple of times since then. It's not just that people searching for us look in the traditional places where people try to be inconspicuous. Flophouses and so on. In cheap hotels, the staff are paid peanuts and the tips are lousy so they are easy to bribe. In places like this, the staff are well-paid, the tipping is generous and the employees are fired if they talk out of turn. So they keep quiet. Hey, time for the news."
Angel flipped the television on and selected the BBC. The newsreader was looking seriously into camera and the body language revealed that the lead item was solemn. "Good evening. Tonight, our lead report comes from Glasgow where the fifth day of alleged gang violence across the city has seen four more deaths added to the grim total. Two men alleged to be members of the Beehive Jimmies street gang were ambushed and killed by machine gun fire as they left a nightclub allegedly owned by the gang. Another alleged member of the Beehive Jimmies was slashed to death, allegedly by members of a rival gang. The fourth victim was allegedly a member of the Govan Team street gang and was allegedly killed as a result of an alleged dispute over drug territories."
"Love all the allegedies." Achillea looked fondly at her Stg-45 banana gun. She would have preferred to have used her Thompson but the Stg-45 was just about the most common rifle in the UK. Keeble had told them that, despite the best efforts of the police, literally tens, probably hundreds, of thousands of the weapons were still in circulation. She and Angel were assiduously creating the impression that the Govan Team and its allies had foresworn the use of the tradition Glaswegian knife and razor in favor of gunfire. That way, the fact that the Beehive Jimmies and the South Side Stickers were taking the brunt of the casualties was explainable. What Achillea and Angel were very convincingly demonstrating was the truth of the old saying that only a fool took a knife to a gunfight.
"Thirty three dead in five days." The newsreader looked accusingly at a police spokesman. "What have the Glasgow police to say about this?"
Assistant Commissioner Tàmhas Dùbhghlas looked sorrowfully into camera. “Obvioosly Ah an' aw mah colleague's deeply regrit th' hideoos loss ay life ower th' lest few days. however, we main point it 'at thes is a situation 'at has bin buildin' up fur some years. Th' guid fowk ay Glasgee hae become th' victims ay hardened criminals fa hae nae respect fur th' law ur th' li'es ay th' local fowk. Glasweeg’ans ur as much th' victeems ay thes gan’ war as anybody else.”
There was a long pause as everybody tried to work out what Dùbhghlas had said. Angel looked curiously at Achillea who shrugged. “Don’t ask me. I couldn’t understand what they were saying after Culloden and I can’t understand it now. Doesn’t really matter. According to Chris, his name was Thomas Douglas until he thought he should try and get in with the Scottish Nationalists. I believe he dropped his English accent at about the same time.”
Angel shrugged. She really wasn’t interested in what the police had to say. From the point of this particular job, they were as close to irrelevant as they could be and from her own point of view, she rarely believed a word coming out of a police officer’s mouth until they’d proved to her, personally, that they could be trusted. Angel’s working practice was that she would only award such trust to a police officer posthumously. She was more curious about something else. “Culloden, ‘Lea?”
“Battle in 1745, about ten years before we pulled up stakes and moved to the Americas. Last full-scale battle fought un British territory until the invasion almost two hundred years later. Fought between the Jacobites and the Hannoverians, or the Scots and the English or between the Highland Scots and the Lowland Scots. Take your pick, they’re all true. The English were supporting the Lowlanders and were commanded by William Augustus, Duke of Cumberland. In theory anyway. In reality sitting on the horse beside him was The Seer, only he was Sir Stewart Parmenio then. He smashed the Jacobite line with artillery, pushed them off the battlefield with his infantry. The Seer never stops at winning a battle, he’ll keep going with a pursuit until the enemy is utterly broken. That’s what happened after Culloden; he let his cavalry loose on the broken army and hounded them until they were dead or ruined. Nobody had done that before; in every previous battle, the losers had just stepped away, regrouped and come back. Semiramis and I were with the cavalry, making sure the troopers didn’t slacken up. The Clansmen were crying out to us when they were cut down. Neither of us could understand them, I guess they were begging for mercy. Didn’t get it and that’s why they never came back again. Cumberland got all the credit of course. Only fair since he was also the one who got nicknamed ‘the Butcher’.”
Angel stared into space, visualizing the sight of fleeing men in the mist being cut down by cavalry. She approved. “Gang wars are the same. The winner has to break the opposition, in spirit as well as in body. We did that in Singapore. By the time we were done, the Black Dragons would do anything rather than continue fighting us. That’s also one of the many things that worries me about this job. The Home Office and Police might try and call it off before we’re done.”
“That’s why we have to move fast. You know what the French call the British? Singes capitulards a boire du laite.”
“Milk drinking surrender monkeys. That’s harsh.” Angel didn’t look sympathetic. “’Lea, between you and me. When I negotiated with London House, I arranged an emergency escape route for us if this goes bad. It’ll cost us but we’ll get out of the country clean.”
“Shouldn’t come to that but I appreciate the thought. You really do think of all the angles, don't you. You're more like The Seer than you realize.” Achillea smiled. “Now, let us add a few more ingredients to the pot.”
Renfrew Street, ‘Chinatown’, Glasgow. , April 10, 2000.
“Ah want tae be some guid mince.” Raymond Tang had been born in Glasgow as had his parents. To all intents and purposes, he was Glaswegian although as he was ethnic Chinese he had never joined one of the youth gangs. The fact that at least two of the gangs called themselves Tongs yet wouldn’t allow Chinese members was just one of the things that rankled with him. At fourteen years old, he was well on the way to being a juvenile delinquent and was on the police radar. That had put him on Angel’s radar as well.
“Whit dae ye want, bairn?” Finley Sheehy had been grooming this particular customer for some time. A few free samples to get him started, slowly shifting him from the least harmful and addictive products to those who would make him a long-time buyer. Tang was still on the soft drugs stage right now, but Sheehy knew in a month or two he’d have moved on and up. Soon he would have a habit and be dealing to support it. So it was that the Govan Team would break into the booming drugs trade. Up to now, they’d been kept out of it by the Beehive Jimmies and the South Side Stickers. So, they’d had to find their own patch.
“Ah want some ay th' mince ye sauld me lest week.” Tang had thought he had bought marihuana and so he had. Only, it had a little extra in it that had given him a real hit.
“Ah tauld ye 'at was a special offer. we got nae mair ay it.” Sheehy was mentally holding his breath although there was no sign of him doing so. This was a critical bit. “Got somethin' else ye can try if ye ur cheil enaw. Loch th' mince lest week but better. Teel ye whit, I'll gie ye a sample, half price, ye loch it, I'll hae a guid supply ay it.”
“Yeah fine.” Tang stretched out his hand.
“No, not fine at all.” The voice from behind Tang was as cold as the worst day Glasgow had ever seen and had more sheer menace in it than Sheehy had ever heard from a woman. It was all the worse for being expressionless and disinterested. It said, more clearly than words could ever have done, that the speaker considered Sheehy to be beneath her contempt.
“Keep it ay thes. Min' yer ain business.” Tang thought he was being tough and was trying to impress his dealer. To his shock he was picked up from behind and thrown against the nearby wall. His feet were three feet from the ground when he slammed into the brickwork and he slid down, stunned from the impact.
Sheehy turned around to look at the speaker. A Chinese woman, only an inch shorter than he was, with blood-red hair tied back with a red scarf. She was wearing a black shirt, buttoned to the neck and black jeans. There was a red sash around her waist and a small axe stuck in it. Her eyes were things that he had only seen in nightmares. “Let me make this clear for you, Sheehy. This is Chinatown, our territory. You do not sell drugs to children in our territory. Nobody sells drugs at all in our territory without being a brother or a sister of the 14K Triad. If I find you trying to deal in Chinatown again, I will tear off your head and the last thing your eyes will ever see is me pissing down your windpipe. Do you understand me?”
Sheehy gulped and nodded. He could see this woman doing exactly what she had threatened.
“We are not unreasonable people. If you want to supply your product to our dealers, that’s fine as long as you pay tribute to the local 14K House. That tribute will be one third of every penny you take in. And you keep your gang war out of our territory. You hurt our people, we will put yours through every kind of hell you can imagine before we get to kill them. Just remember, in Glasgow, nobody can hear you scream. Now start running and take your filth with you.”
Pathetically glad just to be alive, Finley Sheehy started running and never looked back.
Behind Angel, Achillea looked at the stunned and shivering boy. “You think you’re tough because you use that crap? Think about this, brat, when we were your age, we both had body counts measured in dozens. We’ve both lost count of the number of people we’ve killed. All messing around with that crap does is make you weak and stupid. Makes you prey. In six months, you’ll be selling your ass to get enough money for another fix. Now, we’re taking you home.”
A few minutes later, the Tang family were disturbed by an imperious hammering on the door. Graham Tang looked out and saw his eldest son between two distinctly dangerous-looking women. Then, he saw the black and red of the leading woman’s outfit and her Chinese features. He knew immediately what she was, if not who. No matter what she wanted, there was no point in resisting. Doing so would simply make whatever was about to happen worse. So, in fear and trembling, he opened the door.
“Welcome tae mah fowk haem, Red Hatchit."
"Thank you, Mr. Tang and be assured there is no quarrel between us. The Hung Family holds your household in high esteem. Mostly. Tell me, does this belong to you?"
Raymond Tang was unceremoniously thrown at the front door. Graham Tang looked at Angel curiously, now realizing what the 'mostly' had meant. " He is mah eldest son. Has he displeased th' Hung Fowk?"
"We found him buying drugs on Renfrew Street. From a Gwailo. When we stopped him, he was about to buy a package of scrag. That, for your information, is cannabis adulterated with low-grade heroin. If he had used it, he would have been chasing the dragon in weeks."
" That's nae true.!" Eileen Tang was outraged. " Mah son woods ne'er dae sic' a hin'."
Angel replied simply by holding up the cellophane package containing the scrag. The guilt on Raymond Tang's face was confirmation enough for his father although his mother's face continued to be set in disbelief. "Have you noticed money vanishing from your house? From your purse perhaps? Or money left out for tradesmen not being there when they came to collect it?"
" 'At happens in every hoose.." Eileen Tang's voice was still saturated with her refusal to recognize what was happening in front of her.
"No." Angel said. "It doesn't. Mr. Tang, this is your household. May I search your son's room? I believe he has a stash of drugs hidden there."
"How dare . . . . . "
Graham Tang silenced his wife with a curt gesture. " Ay coorse, Red Hatchit. Please follaw me."
He led the way upstairs and opened a door. Angel went in and glanced around, apparently surveying the scene but really watching Raymond Tang's body language. That told her, more clearly than any words would have done, where to look. She went to the chest of drawers, pulled the middle one out and looked at the back. Taped to the back panel were four packages of cannabis.
" I'll beat th' heel it ay ye fur thes." Graham Tang's voice was a menacing hiss that made Angel look at him with disgust.
"No, you won't. This is your house, and you are the head of the household. That gives you many privileges and many more responsibilities. That this has happened is because of your failure to bring up your son in the proper traditions of Ming and thus let him fall foul of Chi'ing. As a result he has fallen into ways of disorder and chaos. More attention to the needs of your family is required and this will not be achieved by blows but by proper instruction and good example. Live so that when your children think of fairness, caring and integrity, they think of you. Whenever you are about to find fault with your child, ask yourself the following question: What fault of mine most nearly resembles the one I am about to criticize? For that will tell you from whence his weakness came.”
In the background, Achillea blinked. That must be the first time Marcus Aurelius has ever been quoted by a Triad officer giving a rebuke to a neglectful parent. I think I'm proud.
"Ah am sorry, Red Hatchit."
Angel nodded in acceptance. "Spread the word. Because of the gangs fighting in the city, the Triads are here to protect you. We will ensure the killers are kept away from your community. You can help yourselves by forming a neighborhood watch. If each household gets together with the rest to watch the streets, then Ming will be restored and Ch'ing overthrown. Tell the police of lawbreaking and we will ensure that no harm will befall you for so doing."
Suite 334 Savoy Hotel, London, April 3, 2000.
"We're about to get started." Angel settled back in her seat with a freshly-refilled glass of Bacardi 151 in her hand. "Don't make any mistakes, this is going to be bloody and there will be hell to pay once the killing starts. If you, and I mean everybody involved at your end, haven't got the balls for this, say so now. A gang war is like an avalanche; once the first handfuls of rocks are thrown, the avalanche is going to start and there's no way to stop it."
"I realize that." Keeble was curt. He didn't like being told his job by a hired killer.
"I hope so. Now, 'Lea and I have been doing reconnaissance up there for the last week. We've got the hang of what is going on and who the key gangsters are. They're going to die pretty soon. Their deaths will be mixed up with a lot of rank and file gangsters so that the decapitation process won't be immediately obvious. Once we're done, the gang fighting will be random and chaotic. We'll help it along until the razor gangs are decimated at which point, you can move in and clean the mess up. We'll be gone by then of course."
"Decimated means one person in ten killed, Angel. Not one person in ten survives." Achillea was being pedantic and knew it.
"Pohtahtows, potaytoes. Who cares." Angel grinned at her. "Now, the next part of the operation is getting your police re-established in this city. We've scoped out the Chinese community and we found that the Govan Team in particular is selling drugs there, especially to kids. Speaking as a Triad Red Hatchet, we don't like that."
"I thought the 14K were into drug dealing." Keeble was still smarting from Angel's obvious lack of faith in the government's determination to see this through.
"We are, although we're disengaging from it. More money to be made elsewhere without all the nausea. We never sell drugs to children. Adults can make their own minds up, most kids can't. So, no drugs to kids or near schools. Punishment is death by five thunderbolts."
"Five shots to the face" Achillea explained helpfully and watched Keeble wince.
"So, we're going to take out the gwailo drug dealers in Chinatown and establish order there. We'll encourage the locals to set up a neighborhood watch and report anything that is going on. Unless we're doing it of course. This will be your chance, Chris, don't screw it up. When the locals report something, move on it fast. You deal with the crime and we'll protect the informants our way. Don't interfere with that. The neighborhood watch will be Triad controlled but don't sweat that either. The big problem will be convincing people that they can trust the police. They know that they can rely on us, if we work with you, that trust will spill over to you. You stick to those nine principles of yours and you'll have Chinatown sewn up. When other parts of the city see that happening, they'll follow suite. When it happens, it will happen very fast. We will have created a situation where people are so sick of carnage, they'll welcome anybody who puts an end to it."
Keeble sighed. "I never thought I would be working with organized crime when I became a policeman."
Angel looked at him scornfully. "And you're not now. Your intelligence on the Triads is pathetic, I'm glad to say. For your information, only one Triad member is ten is an active criminal, Nine out of ten of our members have never committed a crime and never will. To them the Triad is just a social club whose members help each other out in times of need. I would say that the percentage of Triad members who are criminals is smaller than the percentage of cops who are on the take. You'll be dealing with the Triad members who are not criminals. Remember that and you'll get along with them just fine."
Gleddoch Hotel Spa & Golf, Old Greenock Rd, Langbank, April 10, 2000.
“Do you think we should learn to play golf while we’re here?” Achillea stretched and purred gently. “You know, I’m really glad we’re working together. I’d never have thought to hide out in a place like this.”
"Thank Conrad. He came up with the idea when we were staying in Manila and we've proved it a couple of times since then. It's not just that people searching for us look in the traditional places where people try to be inconspicuous. Flophouses and so on. In cheap hotels, the staff are paid peanuts and the tips are lousy so they are easy to bribe. In places like this, the staff are well-paid, the tipping is generous and the employees are fired if they talk out of turn. So they keep quiet. Hey, time for the news."
Angel flipped the television on and selected the BBC. The newsreader was looking seriously into camera and the body language revealed that the lead item was solemn. "Good evening. Tonight, our lead report comes from Glasgow where the fifth day of alleged gang violence across the city has seen four more deaths added to the grim total. Two men alleged to be members of the Beehive Jimmies street gang were ambushed and killed by machine gun fire as they left a nightclub allegedly owned by the gang. Another alleged member of the Beehive Jimmies was slashed to death, allegedly by members of a rival gang. The fourth victim was allegedly a member of the Govan Team street gang and was allegedly killed as a result of an alleged dispute over drug territories."
"Love all the allegedies." Achillea looked fondly at her Stg-45 banana gun. She would have preferred to have used her Thompson but the Stg-45 was just about the most common rifle in the UK. Keeble had told them that, despite the best efforts of the police, literally tens, probably hundreds, of thousands of the weapons were still in circulation. She and Angel were assiduously creating the impression that the Govan Team and its allies had foresworn the use of the tradition Glaswegian knife and razor in favor of gunfire. That way, the fact that the Beehive Jimmies and the South Side Stickers were taking the brunt of the casualties was explainable. What Achillea and Angel were very convincingly demonstrating was the truth of the old saying that only a fool took a knife to a gunfight.
"Thirty three dead in five days." The newsreader looked accusingly at a police spokesman. "What have the Glasgow police to say about this?"
Assistant Commissioner Tàmhas Dùbhghlas looked sorrowfully into camera. “Obvioosly Ah an' aw mah colleague's deeply regrit th' hideoos loss ay life ower th' lest few days. however, we main point it 'at thes is a situation 'at has bin buildin' up fur some years. Th' guid fowk ay Glasgee hae become th' victims ay hardened criminals fa hae nae respect fur th' law ur th' li'es ay th' local fowk. Glasweeg’ans ur as much th' victeems ay thes gan’ war as anybody else.”
There was a long pause as everybody tried to work out what Dùbhghlas had said. Angel looked curiously at Achillea who shrugged. “Don’t ask me. I couldn’t understand what they were saying after Culloden and I can’t understand it now. Doesn’t really matter. According to Chris, his name was Thomas Douglas until he thought he should try and get in with the Scottish Nationalists. I believe he dropped his English accent at about the same time.”
Angel shrugged. She really wasn’t interested in what the police had to say. From the point of this particular job, they were as close to irrelevant as they could be and from her own point of view, she rarely believed a word coming out of a police officer’s mouth until they’d proved to her, personally, that they could be trusted. Angel’s working practice was that she would only award such trust to a police officer posthumously. She was more curious about something else. “Culloden, ‘Lea?”
“Battle in 1745, about ten years before we pulled up stakes and moved to the Americas. Last full-scale battle fought un British territory until the invasion almost two hundred years later. Fought between the Jacobites and the Hannoverians, or the Scots and the English or between the Highland Scots and the Lowland Scots. Take your pick, they’re all true. The English were supporting the Lowlanders and were commanded by William Augustus, Duke of Cumberland. In theory anyway. In reality sitting on the horse beside him was The Seer, only he was Sir Stewart Parmenio then. He smashed the Jacobite line with artillery, pushed them off the battlefield with his infantry. The Seer never stops at winning a battle, he’ll keep going with a pursuit until the enemy is utterly broken. That’s what happened after Culloden; he let his cavalry loose on the broken army and hounded them until they were dead or ruined. Nobody had done that before; in every previous battle, the losers had just stepped away, regrouped and come back. Semiramis and I were with the cavalry, making sure the troopers didn’t slacken up. The Clansmen were crying out to us when they were cut down. Neither of us could understand them, I guess they were begging for mercy. Didn’t get it and that’s why they never came back again. Cumberland got all the credit of course. Only fair since he was also the one who got nicknamed ‘the Butcher’.”
Angel stared into space, visualizing the sight of fleeing men in the mist being cut down by cavalry. She approved. “Gang wars are the same. The winner has to break the opposition, in spirit as well as in body. We did that in Singapore. By the time we were done, the Black Dragons would do anything rather than continue fighting us. That’s also one of the many things that worries me about this job. The Home Office and Police might try and call it off before we’re done.”
“That’s why we have to move fast. You know what the French call the British? Singes capitulards a boire du laite.”
“Milk drinking surrender monkeys. That’s harsh.” Angel didn’t look sympathetic. “’Lea, between you and me. When I negotiated with London House, I arranged an emergency escape route for us if this goes bad. It’ll cost us but we’ll get out of the country clean.”
“Shouldn’t come to that but I appreciate the thought. You really do think of all the angles, don't you. You're more like The Seer than you realize.” Achillea smiled. “Now, let us add a few more ingredients to the pot.”
Renfrew Street, ‘Chinatown’, Glasgow. , April 10, 2000.
“Ah want tae be some guid mince.” Raymond Tang had been born in Glasgow as had his parents. To all intents and purposes, he was Glaswegian although as he was ethnic Chinese he had never joined one of the youth gangs. The fact that at least two of the gangs called themselves Tongs yet wouldn’t allow Chinese members was just one of the things that rankled with him. At fourteen years old, he was well on the way to being a juvenile delinquent and was on the police radar. That had put him on Angel’s radar as well.
“Whit dae ye want, bairn?” Finley Sheehy had been grooming this particular customer for some time. A few free samples to get him started, slowly shifting him from the least harmful and addictive products to those who would make him a long-time buyer. Tang was still on the soft drugs stage right now, but Sheehy knew in a month or two he’d have moved on and up. Soon he would have a habit and be dealing to support it. So it was that the Govan Team would break into the booming drugs trade. Up to now, they’d been kept out of it by the Beehive Jimmies and the South Side Stickers. So, they’d had to find their own patch.
“Ah want some ay th' mince ye sauld me lest week.” Tang had thought he had bought marihuana and so he had. Only, it had a little extra in it that had given him a real hit.
“Ah tauld ye 'at was a special offer. we got nae mair ay it.” Sheehy was mentally holding his breath although there was no sign of him doing so. This was a critical bit. “Got somethin' else ye can try if ye ur cheil enaw. Loch th' mince lest week but better. Teel ye whit, I'll gie ye a sample, half price, ye loch it, I'll hae a guid supply ay it.”
“Yeah fine.” Tang stretched out his hand.
“No, not fine at all.” The voice from behind Tang was as cold as the worst day Glasgow had ever seen and had more sheer menace in it than Sheehy had ever heard from a woman. It was all the worse for being expressionless and disinterested. It said, more clearly than words could ever have done, that the speaker considered Sheehy to be beneath her contempt.
“Keep it ay thes. Min' yer ain business.” Tang thought he was being tough and was trying to impress his dealer. To his shock he was picked up from behind and thrown against the nearby wall. His feet were three feet from the ground when he slammed into the brickwork and he slid down, stunned from the impact.
Sheehy turned around to look at the speaker. A Chinese woman, only an inch shorter than he was, with blood-red hair tied back with a red scarf. She was wearing a black shirt, buttoned to the neck and black jeans. There was a red sash around her waist and a small axe stuck in it. Her eyes were things that he had only seen in nightmares. “Let me make this clear for you, Sheehy. This is Chinatown, our territory. You do not sell drugs to children in our territory. Nobody sells drugs at all in our territory without being a brother or a sister of the 14K Triad. If I find you trying to deal in Chinatown again, I will tear off your head and the last thing your eyes will ever see is me pissing down your windpipe. Do you understand me?”
Sheehy gulped and nodded. He could see this woman doing exactly what she had threatened.
“We are not unreasonable people. If you want to supply your product to our dealers, that’s fine as long as you pay tribute to the local 14K House. That tribute will be one third of every penny you take in. And you keep your gang war out of our territory. You hurt our people, we will put yours through every kind of hell you can imagine before we get to kill them. Just remember, in Glasgow, nobody can hear you scream. Now start running and take your filth with you.”
Pathetically glad just to be alive, Finley Sheehy started running and never looked back.
Behind Angel, Achillea looked at the stunned and shivering boy. “You think you’re tough because you use that crap? Think about this, brat, when we were your age, we both had body counts measured in dozens. We’ve both lost count of the number of people we’ve killed. All messing around with that crap does is make you weak and stupid. Makes you prey. In six months, you’ll be selling your ass to get enough money for another fix. Now, we’re taking you home.”
A few minutes later, the Tang family were disturbed by an imperious hammering on the door. Graham Tang looked out and saw his eldest son between two distinctly dangerous-looking women. Then, he saw the black and red of the leading woman’s outfit and her Chinese features. He knew immediately what she was, if not who. No matter what she wanted, there was no point in resisting. Doing so would simply make whatever was about to happen worse. So, in fear and trembling, he opened the door.
“Welcome tae mah fowk haem, Red Hatchit."
"Thank you, Mr. Tang and be assured there is no quarrel between us. The Hung Family holds your household in high esteem. Mostly. Tell me, does this belong to you?"
Raymond Tang was unceremoniously thrown at the front door. Graham Tang looked at Angel curiously, now realizing what the 'mostly' had meant. " He is mah eldest son. Has he displeased th' Hung Fowk?"
"We found him buying drugs on Renfrew Street. From a Gwailo. When we stopped him, he was about to buy a package of scrag. That, for your information, is cannabis adulterated with low-grade heroin. If he had used it, he would have been chasing the dragon in weeks."
" That's nae true.!" Eileen Tang was outraged. " Mah son woods ne'er dae sic' a hin'."
Angel replied simply by holding up the cellophane package containing the scrag. The guilt on Raymond Tang's face was confirmation enough for his father although his mother's face continued to be set in disbelief. "Have you noticed money vanishing from your house? From your purse perhaps? Or money left out for tradesmen not being there when they came to collect it?"
" 'At happens in every hoose.." Eileen Tang's voice was still saturated with her refusal to recognize what was happening in front of her.
"No." Angel said. "It doesn't. Mr. Tang, this is your household. May I search your son's room? I believe he has a stash of drugs hidden there."
"How dare . . . . . "
Graham Tang silenced his wife with a curt gesture. " Ay coorse, Red Hatchit. Please follaw me."
He led the way upstairs and opened a door. Angel went in and glanced around, apparently surveying the scene but really watching Raymond Tang's body language. That told her, more clearly than any words would have done, where to look. She went to the chest of drawers, pulled the middle one out and looked at the back. Taped to the back panel were four packages of cannabis.
" I'll beat th' heel it ay ye fur thes." Graham Tang's voice was a menacing hiss that made Angel look at him with disgust.
"No, you won't. This is your house, and you are the head of the household. That gives you many privileges and many more responsibilities. That this has happened is because of your failure to bring up your son in the proper traditions of Ming and thus let him fall foul of Chi'ing. As a result he has fallen into ways of disorder and chaos. More attention to the needs of your family is required and this will not be achieved by blows but by proper instruction and good example. Live so that when your children think of fairness, caring and integrity, they think of you. Whenever you are about to find fault with your child, ask yourself the following question: What fault of mine most nearly resembles the one I am about to criticize? For that will tell you from whence his weakness came.”
In the background, Achillea blinked. That must be the first time Marcus Aurelius has ever been quoted by a Triad officer giving a rebuke to a neglectful parent. I think I'm proud.
"Ah am sorry, Red Hatchit."
Angel nodded in acceptance. "Spread the word. Because of the gangs fighting in the city, the Triads are here to protect you. We will ensure the killers are kept away from your community. You can help yourselves by forming a neighborhood watch. If each household gets together with the rest to watch the streets, then Ming will be restored and Ch'ing overthrown. Tell the police of lawbreaking and we will ensure that no harm will befall you for so doing."
Suite 334 Savoy Hotel, London, April 3, 2000.
"We're about to get started." Angel settled back in her seat with a freshly-refilled glass of Bacardi 151 in her hand. "Don't make any mistakes, this is going to be bloody and there will be hell to pay once the killing starts. If you, and I mean everybody involved at your end, haven't got the balls for this, say so now. A gang war is like an avalanche; once the first handfuls of rocks are thrown, the avalanche is going to start and there's no way to stop it."
"I realize that." Keeble was curt. He didn't like being told his job by a hired killer.
"I hope so. Now, 'Lea and I have been doing reconnaissance up there for the last week. We've got the hang of what is going on and who the key gangsters are. They're going to die pretty soon. Their deaths will be mixed up with a lot of rank and file gangsters so that the decapitation process won't be immediately obvious. Once we're done, the gang fighting will be random and chaotic. We'll help it along until the razor gangs are decimated at which point, you can move in and clean the mess up. We'll be gone by then of course."
"Decimated means one person in ten killed, Angel. Not one person in ten survives." Achillea was being pedantic and knew it.
"Pohtahtows, potaytoes. Who cares." Angel grinned at her. "Now, the next part of the operation is getting your police re-established in this city. We've scoped out the Chinese community and we found that the Govan Team in particular is selling drugs there, especially to kids. Speaking as a Triad Red Hatchet, we don't like that."
"I thought the 14K were into drug dealing." Keeble was still smarting from Angel's obvious lack of faith in the government's determination to see this through.
"We are, although we're disengaging from it. More money to be made elsewhere without all the nausea. We never sell drugs to children. Adults can make their own minds up, most kids can't. So, no drugs to kids or near schools. Punishment is death by five thunderbolts."
"Five shots to the face" Achillea explained helpfully and watched Keeble wince.
"So, we're going to take out the gwailo drug dealers in Chinatown and establish order there. We'll encourage the locals to set up a neighborhood watch and report anything that is going on. Unless we're doing it of course. This will be your chance, Chris, don't screw it up. When the locals report something, move on it fast. You deal with the crime and we'll protect the informants our way. Don't interfere with that. The neighborhood watch will be Triad controlled but don't sweat that either. The big problem will be convincing people that they can trust the police. They know that they can rely on us, if we work with you, that trust will spill over to you. You stick to those nine principles of yours and you'll have Chinatown sewn up. When other parts of the city see that happening, they'll follow suite. When it happens, it will happen very fast. We will have created a situation where people are so sick of carnage, they'll welcome anybody who puts an end to it."
Keeble sighed. "I never thought I would be working with organized crime when I became a policeman."
Angel looked at him scornfully. "And you're not now. Your intelligence on the Triads is pathetic, I'm glad to say. For your information, only one Triad member is ten is an active criminal, Nine out of ten of our members have never committed a crime and never will. To them the Triad is just a social club whose members help each other out in times of need. I would say that the percentage of Triad members who are criminals is smaller than the percentage of cops who are on the take. You'll be dealing with the Triad members who are not criminals. Remember that and you'll get along with them just fine."
Re: 2000 - Eye of the Gangster
Chapter Six
St Vincent Street, Glasgow, April 15, 2000.
Donald MacKenny was a man whose mission in life was, to him, of the highest importance. The fact that other people might not agree with that sentiment did not occur to him. Caoimhe Lowe was one of the people who didn't share in MacKenny's self-assessment and consequent dreams of high adventure. Personally, she would rather go shopping. That was, however, irrelevant. Her mission in life was to be glamorous and impress everybody who saw MacKenny with her on his arm, thus driving home his virility, status and importance. The deal was unspoken and very real. She would get all the money she needed as long as she was the best-looking woman around and openly doted on MacKenny. The moment he found a more attractive and compliant companion, she would be unceremoniously dumped. If she complained, her body would be found floating in the Clyde.
MacKenny's current mission was to put an end to the slaughter that had been going on in the Glasgow streets for the last ten days. He had been told, in no uncertain terms, that the killing had to end immediately. More than forty of the toughest gangsters in the city had died in the fighting including three of the eight gang leaders The Trust had carefully groomed to take over the Glasgow underworld. The Trust's plans to methodically reduce the city to hopeless urban blight and then make huge sums by rebuilding it were threatened with self-destruction. Word had come down from on high that this was not to happen.
The problem MacKenny faced was that he couldn't work out what was going on. From what he had learned to date, the two leading gangs in the area had excluded the others from the lucrative drugs business. The lesser gangs had started to push back, first by invading the territory of the weaker of the two leading gangs. When the intruders had been killed, the insurgents had struck back with a devastating attack aimed at the killers. The lesser gangs had offset their limited numbers by using guns and the carnage they were inflicting was gruesome. Unfortunately for them, they'd also tried to carve out drug selling patches from Chinatown and it was rumored that the Triads were getting involved. That was something The Trust didn't want at all.
"Can we go shopping?” MacKenny turned the key in the ignition of his car and, in the minute fraction of a second when everything went brilliant white, Caoimhe Lowe realized the answer was ‘no’.
The explosion that destroyed the car was spectacular. The primary bomb was a standard pipe bomb, secured to the bottom of the vehicle by magnets. It was powerful enough to blast the car into the air, the off-center explosion sending it into a sideways arc that slammed it against the roadside wall. It was at that point that the secondary bomb went off, destroying the vehicle completely. All that was left was the circle of burning wreckage and things that made mothers cover the eyes of their children.
“You don’t do things by halves do you?” Achillea was watching the scene though binoculars. She could see several people were down, probably suffering from blast effects and fragmentation wounds, but they were moving. Of the two occupants of the car, there was no recognizable trace. "Nice timing by the way."
“I don’t usually use bombs.” Angel put the remote control detonator switch away. “Don’t like them. Normally for something like this, I’d use an RPG.”
“Pity about the girl.”
Angel was genuinely puzzled. The concept of feeling sorry for people caught in the crossfire was one of the things she was unable to understand no matter how hard she tried. Things were what they were, and that was usually crap. “She knew the risks, knew the dangers of associating with people like that. With people like us.”
Achillea heard the correction and nodded slightly. “Did she? The intel said she was a dumb bimbo. She probably had no idea what she was involved in.”
“Then she was too dumb to live. Call it evolution in action.” Angel shook her head slightly. “She thought she had found the secret to an easy life. What she didn’t know was, soft and easy lives at other people's expense tend to be short ones.”
“Which is why we both could well end up living forever.” Achillea and Angel exchanged glances, both recognizing that Achillea was Angel’s mentor when it came to the problems of living an extended lifespan. “Next job on the list. Sitting back and watching the fun when what’s left of the Beehive Jimmies take on the Gallowgate Mad Squad.”
Laleham House, Laleham, Middlesex. April 12th 2000.
Conrad had liked Laleham the moment he had stepped down from the train. It was a typical small English suburban village, one that had survived the ravages of the US Navy carrier strikes during the last three years of the Second World War due to its lack of any kind of industry. Staines, a few miles to the North hadn't been so fortunate and its architecture was what Igrat described as "1960s bleagh". Laleham, in contrast, was like stepping back into the world that had died with the First World War. Only the War Memorial gave the game away; like most of its kind it had three separate panels, two for the armed forces dead of the first and second wars, the third for members of the Resistance who had lost their lives during The Occupation. By custom, the resistance section of the memorial was positioned so that it was always in the shadows, a wordless reminder to every generation that in the shadows was where the resistance had fought its own war.
He had eaten lunch in the local village public house. ‘The Feathers’ was a new feature in English social life, a so-called Gastropub. Less pretentiously, it was a public house that also served proper meals rather than the more casual fare that traditional establishments offered. He reminded himself to mention the idea to Lillith next time they met. Conrad had a notion that the idea of a bar that also served good food would go down well in America. He carefully wiped his mouth and sighed quietly to himself.
“Was everything to your taste, Sir?” The waitress beamed at him. Another feature Conrad had enjoyed at The Feathers was that the serving staff left him alone to enjoy his meal without pestering him.
“It was indeed. Thank you.”
“We’re so pleased to hear that.” Somehow the bill had appeared by Conrad’s hand while the waitress was clearing his plate.
Conrad took a look at it and paid in cash. “Keep the change.”
The girl took one look at the payment and the exceedingly generous tip it included and beamed at him. “Why, thank you, Sir. That’s very generous of you.”
Conrad took his leave and resumed his gentle walk down the streets. He knew the peaceful and almost idyllic village was a far cry from the urban battlefield of Glasgow and he felt guilty at his pleasure in the tranquility while Angel and Achillea were fighting a gang war against very heavy odds. It was only a small consolation that the results of their battles would include getting rid of some extremely unpleasant people and removing them from the lives of the more-or-less law-abiding inhabitants of Glasgow. It would also mean that the city itself would be saved from the devastation that had engulfed Brooklyn and Queens in New York. It was a much more consoling thought that Achillea and Angel were uniquely well suited to starting the gang war that, if all went as planned, would end with the police and civil authorities restored to control in the city.
He had reached the gates of Laleham House. In fact, he had been so wrapped up in his thoughts that he had almost walked past them. He took them in; solid wood, painted a dark gray and firmly locked. There was an intercom telephone on the pillar to the right. Conrad picked it up.
“My name is Conrad from the Society of Jesus. I have an appointment with Lord Lucan for 2pm.”
There was a long pause. “His Lordship confirms that you do have an appointment and will see you shortly. Open the gates when you hear a buzz.”
The loud buzz duly came and he twisted the brass handle set in the front of the gates. They opened easily enough but the inertia told him they were a lot heavier and stronger than he would have thought from the outside. Sure enough, the inside was reinforced with steel plates although, from their appearance they dated from The Occupation. It was a small sign that the names listed on the shadowed third panel had not sacrificed their names in vain. Inside, the driveway curved towards Laleham House for seventy yards before reaching the front door. Laleham House was small by the scale of most country seats and its porticoed entrance was disproportionately large. Conrad entered the building, the butler took his hat and showed him into the library. “His Lordship will be with you in a few minutes, Father.”
The words ‘lair of the beast’ came unbidden to Conrad’s mind. The library was the same as any other in a house of this kind although it was debatable how many of the books had been opened in recent years. But, then that probably applies to most books in most libraries
It was almost half an hour before John Bingham, 7th Earl of Lucan entered the library. “I’m sorry, Father, but some estate business just wouldn’t go away. Now, how may I be of assistance to the Society of Jesus?”
Conrad looked at the man carefully. Most of the available pictures of him showed him as a much younger man, tall and with a luxuriant ‘guardsman’s moustache’. In those pictures, he looked the epitome of a country squire, a keen follower of the hounds and a veritable slaughterer of local wildlife. Those ‘manly’ pursuits and profligate expenditure of money supporting his hangers-on had made him very popular in the slightly seedy circles he frequented. Time had not treated him well though. The once-luxuriant hair had receded greatly and was now mostly an unbecoming shade of gray. Gray can be an attractive color for a man, Igrat always says the right shade can make even the most average of men look distinguished. But the wrong shade of gray just looks dirty. The years had also exaggerated the downward slope of his eyes and encircled them with wrinkles. But, it was Lord Lucan’s mouth that Conrad noted most. It was permanently twisted in a supercilious sneer, that of a man who believed he could get away with anything. Another one of Igrat’s comments about Lord Lucan came to his mind. “The sisterhood voted him the man most likely to turn up in your bedroom carrying a riding crop.”
Conrad, of course, knew very little about ‘the sisterhood’ Igrat to whom sometimes referred. In truth there was very little to know. Amorphous and informal were two adjectives that sprung to mind. He knew it was a very casual network of adventuresses centered around the Adventurer’s Club in Melbourne. There was no official membership, no dues, no rules and no duties other than to watch the back of a fellow-adventuress whenever possible. Warnings about prominent men with unsavory habits was a big part of that.
“Good afternoon, your Lordship. Thank you for seeing me so promptly. To get straight to the point, with the end of the twentieth century and the start of the twenty-first, the Holy Father has my Order to clear up any outstanding business from the last century so the Holy See may enter the future with a clean slate. As you can imagine, this is a monumental task. During the process, we came across a problem concerning Laleham House. Or, as the records of the Sisters of St Peter the Apostle have it, Laleham Abbey.”
“Laleham House.” Lucan put heavy emphasis on the second word, “was used by the Sisters as a convent school in the 1930s. They were evicted by the Germans in 1943 and the building was used as a regional headquarters for the occupation troops. In 1955, the War Loss Compensation Board determined that the Sisters had only a lessee status on the property and that it rightfully remained our property. It was therefore returned to us and my father resumed residence here, renovating the building as necessary, until his death in 1964. At that point, I inherited the property and the associated titles. I am sure your Order is aware of all this.”
“We are indeed. It is not that side of things that concerns us. We feel there may be some facts of which the War Loss Compensation Board may have been unaware. You see, our search of the records held by the Sisters of St Peter the Apostle show that they lease-held the property, not from your family but from John Reginald Lopes Yarde-Buller, 3rd Baron Churston.”
“Churston leased the property from the Lucan Estates Company in 1928.” Lord Lucan paused for a second. “May I offer you a glass of sherry? Or perhaps something a touch more substantial?”
“I would enjoy a small Armagnac brandy if it would not be an inconvenience?” Conrad took the glass gratefully. He wasn’t actually lying, all the business he was transacting was the official concern of his Order. Ever since reading the file on Lord Lucan, he had called in a lot of favors to make sure this was their official business. “Ahh, so the Sisters sub-let the building from Baron Churston?”
“It would appear so, yes.” Lord Lucan seemed slightly irritated. “The terms of his lease probably did not allow him to do that. Bit unsporting of him, what? My grandfather let him lease the place for a pretty nominal sum since Churston’s own home had burned down and he had lost nearly everything.”
“It appears that he took advantage of your grandfather’s generosity of spirit and paid a peppercorn rent but took a much greater sum from the sisters. This brings us to the crux of the matter, your Lordship. In the reports sent back to the Vatican by the Sisters of St Peter the Apostle, they note that in 1932, Richard-Yarde-Buller, 4th Baron Churston, removed a large number of valuable works of art from Laleham House and sold them at Christie’s. These were subsequently identified as treasures originally bought by Lord Lucan for Laleham House. Obviously, if these were part of the property leased by Baron Churston’s family and then sold, then they were stolen from your family. You are, at the very least, likely to be due some very substantial compensation for their loss.”
“My God.” Lucan looked shocked. “After all my grandfather did for him, he cheated us? That really is too bad.”
“Now you can see why my order is so concerned.” Conrad was really pushing the thin line between truth and lies here and he knew it. He could feel the guilt coiling in his stomach. “A very good case could be made that the nuns had been complicit in stealing your property. Obviously, we could not allow such a misunderstanding to continue and we decided the best way to clear our own good name was to lay the whole case out before you. While we must, of course, always act impartially, we would equally obviously wish to help the wronged party.”
Conrad looked at Lord Lucan’s eyes and saw the calculating gleam in them. The potential sum involved would be enormous if interest and penalties were included and it would also result in the ruin of an old-established family. In short, it was exactly the sort of operation that would interest The Trust. He mentally took a deep breath and continued. “Unfortunately, due to the conditions pertaining in 1943, all the British records maintained by the Sisters of St Peter the Apostle were lost. We do have their diary entries as sent back to Rome but these do not contain details of the relationship between their order and their landlord. So, we have no idea whether they operated in the belief that Baron Churston was their landlord or whether they knew they were sub-letting. Could you help us? Does your family still hold Lucan Estates Company records from the late 1920s and early 1930s?”
Lucan looked pensive while his eyes still gleamed with avarice. “I will institute a search immediately, Father. However, there are two problems. One is that The Occupation saw many of the records lost or destroyed. My family went to Canada soon after Lord Halifax assumed the government and we lost track of our records until we returned. In that time, many were lost or destroyed. The other is that due to my grandfather’s political offices, all the family assets had to be placed in blind trusts until such time as he would be in no position to use his offices for the benefit of the family. The Lucan Estates Company was one of those assets that had to be rendered blind and thus we have no records of its operations between 1926 and 1943. They may exist, and I will try hard to find them for you, but I cannot hold out any great hope on the matter.”
New Lanark Mill Hotel, Lanarkshire, April 13, 2000.
“Do you think he’s our man?” Keeble thought Conrad was looking tired after the trip down south.
“He’s an unpleasant character, I have no doubt of that. I think that when he was younger, superficial glamor hid his depravity but it is coming out with age. The Picture of Dorian Gray has a lot more truth in it than its casual readers realize.”
“I always thought that Oscar Wilde knew something about us and wrote the story based on an element of truth mixed up with a mass of disinformation and hearsay.”
“Could be; or he knew about us in detail and wrote the story as a warning to us of what we might become if we became corrupted.” Conrad sighed. “I told Angel once that it’s very easy to pick a standard of goodness and stick to it. It’s not so easy to pick a standard of badness and stick to that. The pressure is always to slide further and further down. Just like Dorian Gray did. I think that’s what Oscar was trying to warn us of when he wrote that story. I believe that The Picture of Dorian Gray was written to caution us that our long lives meant we had a much greater chance of accumulating the effects of evil and If we allowed that to happen, when we saw the effects on us, we would be as horrified as Dorian Gray was.”
Keeble blinked at that and Conrad knew that he was trying to accept the idea that Angel could slide further down the scale of badness. He looks on her as a cop-killer and multiple murderess who has, by a freak of her heritage and some extreme good luck, got away with her crimes. In fairness to him, that’s quite true.
“That’s an interesting thought, Conrad. There’s truth in what you say though; depravity does show itself in time. I’m a copper, you’re a Priest, we’ve both seen it. Do you think that Lucan is a member of The Trust?”
Conrad thought that over very carefully. I must not judge but I have given him every chance to judge himself. “I do not know, but he faces a choice right now. The choice he makes, will answer that question more clearly than any words he might utter.”
St Vincent Street, Glasgow, April 15, 2000.
Donald MacKenny was a man whose mission in life was, to him, of the highest importance. The fact that other people might not agree with that sentiment did not occur to him. Caoimhe Lowe was one of the people who didn't share in MacKenny's self-assessment and consequent dreams of high adventure. Personally, she would rather go shopping. That was, however, irrelevant. Her mission in life was to be glamorous and impress everybody who saw MacKenny with her on his arm, thus driving home his virility, status and importance. The deal was unspoken and very real. She would get all the money she needed as long as she was the best-looking woman around and openly doted on MacKenny. The moment he found a more attractive and compliant companion, she would be unceremoniously dumped. If she complained, her body would be found floating in the Clyde.
MacKenny's current mission was to put an end to the slaughter that had been going on in the Glasgow streets for the last ten days. He had been told, in no uncertain terms, that the killing had to end immediately. More than forty of the toughest gangsters in the city had died in the fighting including three of the eight gang leaders The Trust had carefully groomed to take over the Glasgow underworld. The Trust's plans to methodically reduce the city to hopeless urban blight and then make huge sums by rebuilding it were threatened with self-destruction. Word had come down from on high that this was not to happen.
The problem MacKenny faced was that he couldn't work out what was going on. From what he had learned to date, the two leading gangs in the area had excluded the others from the lucrative drugs business. The lesser gangs had started to push back, first by invading the territory of the weaker of the two leading gangs. When the intruders had been killed, the insurgents had struck back with a devastating attack aimed at the killers. The lesser gangs had offset their limited numbers by using guns and the carnage they were inflicting was gruesome. Unfortunately for them, they'd also tried to carve out drug selling patches from Chinatown and it was rumored that the Triads were getting involved. That was something The Trust didn't want at all.
"Can we go shopping?” MacKenny turned the key in the ignition of his car and, in the minute fraction of a second when everything went brilliant white, Caoimhe Lowe realized the answer was ‘no’.
The explosion that destroyed the car was spectacular. The primary bomb was a standard pipe bomb, secured to the bottom of the vehicle by magnets. It was powerful enough to blast the car into the air, the off-center explosion sending it into a sideways arc that slammed it against the roadside wall. It was at that point that the secondary bomb went off, destroying the vehicle completely. All that was left was the circle of burning wreckage and things that made mothers cover the eyes of their children.
“You don’t do things by halves do you?” Achillea was watching the scene though binoculars. She could see several people were down, probably suffering from blast effects and fragmentation wounds, but they were moving. Of the two occupants of the car, there was no recognizable trace. "Nice timing by the way."
“I don’t usually use bombs.” Angel put the remote control detonator switch away. “Don’t like them. Normally for something like this, I’d use an RPG.”
“Pity about the girl.”
Angel was genuinely puzzled. The concept of feeling sorry for people caught in the crossfire was one of the things she was unable to understand no matter how hard she tried. Things were what they were, and that was usually crap. “She knew the risks, knew the dangers of associating with people like that. With people like us.”
Achillea heard the correction and nodded slightly. “Did she? The intel said she was a dumb bimbo. She probably had no idea what she was involved in.”
“Then she was too dumb to live. Call it evolution in action.” Angel shook her head slightly. “She thought she had found the secret to an easy life. What she didn’t know was, soft and easy lives at other people's expense tend to be short ones.”
“Which is why we both could well end up living forever.” Achillea and Angel exchanged glances, both recognizing that Achillea was Angel’s mentor when it came to the problems of living an extended lifespan. “Next job on the list. Sitting back and watching the fun when what’s left of the Beehive Jimmies take on the Gallowgate Mad Squad.”
Laleham House, Laleham, Middlesex. April 12th 2000.
Conrad had liked Laleham the moment he had stepped down from the train. It was a typical small English suburban village, one that had survived the ravages of the US Navy carrier strikes during the last three years of the Second World War due to its lack of any kind of industry. Staines, a few miles to the North hadn't been so fortunate and its architecture was what Igrat described as "1960s bleagh". Laleham, in contrast, was like stepping back into the world that had died with the First World War. Only the War Memorial gave the game away; like most of its kind it had three separate panels, two for the armed forces dead of the first and second wars, the third for members of the Resistance who had lost their lives during The Occupation. By custom, the resistance section of the memorial was positioned so that it was always in the shadows, a wordless reminder to every generation that in the shadows was where the resistance had fought its own war.
He had eaten lunch in the local village public house. ‘The Feathers’ was a new feature in English social life, a so-called Gastropub. Less pretentiously, it was a public house that also served proper meals rather than the more casual fare that traditional establishments offered. He reminded himself to mention the idea to Lillith next time they met. Conrad had a notion that the idea of a bar that also served good food would go down well in America. He carefully wiped his mouth and sighed quietly to himself.
“Was everything to your taste, Sir?” The waitress beamed at him. Another feature Conrad had enjoyed at The Feathers was that the serving staff left him alone to enjoy his meal without pestering him.
“It was indeed. Thank you.”
“We’re so pleased to hear that.” Somehow the bill had appeared by Conrad’s hand while the waitress was clearing his plate.
Conrad took a look at it and paid in cash. “Keep the change.”
The girl took one look at the payment and the exceedingly generous tip it included and beamed at him. “Why, thank you, Sir. That’s very generous of you.”
Conrad took his leave and resumed his gentle walk down the streets. He knew the peaceful and almost idyllic village was a far cry from the urban battlefield of Glasgow and he felt guilty at his pleasure in the tranquility while Angel and Achillea were fighting a gang war against very heavy odds. It was only a small consolation that the results of their battles would include getting rid of some extremely unpleasant people and removing them from the lives of the more-or-less law-abiding inhabitants of Glasgow. It would also mean that the city itself would be saved from the devastation that had engulfed Brooklyn and Queens in New York. It was a much more consoling thought that Achillea and Angel were uniquely well suited to starting the gang war that, if all went as planned, would end with the police and civil authorities restored to control in the city.
He had reached the gates of Laleham House. In fact, he had been so wrapped up in his thoughts that he had almost walked past them. He took them in; solid wood, painted a dark gray and firmly locked. There was an intercom telephone on the pillar to the right. Conrad picked it up.
“My name is Conrad from the Society of Jesus. I have an appointment with Lord Lucan for 2pm.”
There was a long pause. “His Lordship confirms that you do have an appointment and will see you shortly. Open the gates when you hear a buzz.”
The loud buzz duly came and he twisted the brass handle set in the front of the gates. They opened easily enough but the inertia told him they were a lot heavier and stronger than he would have thought from the outside. Sure enough, the inside was reinforced with steel plates although, from their appearance they dated from The Occupation. It was a small sign that the names listed on the shadowed third panel had not sacrificed their names in vain. Inside, the driveway curved towards Laleham House for seventy yards before reaching the front door. Laleham House was small by the scale of most country seats and its porticoed entrance was disproportionately large. Conrad entered the building, the butler took his hat and showed him into the library. “His Lordship will be with you in a few minutes, Father.”
The words ‘lair of the beast’ came unbidden to Conrad’s mind. The library was the same as any other in a house of this kind although it was debatable how many of the books had been opened in recent years. But, then that probably applies to most books in most libraries
It was almost half an hour before John Bingham, 7th Earl of Lucan entered the library. “I’m sorry, Father, but some estate business just wouldn’t go away. Now, how may I be of assistance to the Society of Jesus?”
Conrad looked at the man carefully. Most of the available pictures of him showed him as a much younger man, tall and with a luxuriant ‘guardsman’s moustache’. In those pictures, he looked the epitome of a country squire, a keen follower of the hounds and a veritable slaughterer of local wildlife. Those ‘manly’ pursuits and profligate expenditure of money supporting his hangers-on had made him very popular in the slightly seedy circles he frequented. Time had not treated him well though. The once-luxuriant hair had receded greatly and was now mostly an unbecoming shade of gray. Gray can be an attractive color for a man, Igrat always says the right shade can make even the most average of men look distinguished. But the wrong shade of gray just looks dirty. The years had also exaggerated the downward slope of his eyes and encircled them with wrinkles. But, it was Lord Lucan’s mouth that Conrad noted most. It was permanently twisted in a supercilious sneer, that of a man who believed he could get away with anything. Another one of Igrat’s comments about Lord Lucan came to his mind. “The sisterhood voted him the man most likely to turn up in your bedroom carrying a riding crop.”
Conrad, of course, knew very little about ‘the sisterhood’ Igrat to whom sometimes referred. In truth there was very little to know. Amorphous and informal were two adjectives that sprung to mind. He knew it was a very casual network of adventuresses centered around the Adventurer’s Club in Melbourne. There was no official membership, no dues, no rules and no duties other than to watch the back of a fellow-adventuress whenever possible. Warnings about prominent men with unsavory habits was a big part of that.
“Good afternoon, your Lordship. Thank you for seeing me so promptly. To get straight to the point, with the end of the twentieth century and the start of the twenty-first, the Holy Father has my Order to clear up any outstanding business from the last century so the Holy See may enter the future with a clean slate. As you can imagine, this is a monumental task. During the process, we came across a problem concerning Laleham House. Or, as the records of the Sisters of St Peter the Apostle have it, Laleham Abbey.”
“Laleham House.” Lucan put heavy emphasis on the second word, “was used by the Sisters as a convent school in the 1930s. They were evicted by the Germans in 1943 and the building was used as a regional headquarters for the occupation troops. In 1955, the War Loss Compensation Board determined that the Sisters had only a lessee status on the property and that it rightfully remained our property. It was therefore returned to us and my father resumed residence here, renovating the building as necessary, until his death in 1964. At that point, I inherited the property and the associated titles. I am sure your Order is aware of all this.”
“We are indeed. It is not that side of things that concerns us. We feel there may be some facts of which the War Loss Compensation Board may have been unaware. You see, our search of the records held by the Sisters of St Peter the Apostle show that they lease-held the property, not from your family but from John Reginald Lopes Yarde-Buller, 3rd Baron Churston.”
“Churston leased the property from the Lucan Estates Company in 1928.” Lord Lucan paused for a second. “May I offer you a glass of sherry? Or perhaps something a touch more substantial?”
“I would enjoy a small Armagnac brandy if it would not be an inconvenience?” Conrad took the glass gratefully. He wasn’t actually lying, all the business he was transacting was the official concern of his Order. Ever since reading the file on Lord Lucan, he had called in a lot of favors to make sure this was their official business. “Ahh, so the Sisters sub-let the building from Baron Churston?”
“It would appear so, yes.” Lord Lucan seemed slightly irritated. “The terms of his lease probably did not allow him to do that. Bit unsporting of him, what? My grandfather let him lease the place for a pretty nominal sum since Churston’s own home had burned down and he had lost nearly everything.”
“It appears that he took advantage of your grandfather’s generosity of spirit and paid a peppercorn rent but took a much greater sum from the sisters. This brings us to the crux of the matter, your Lordship. In the reports sent back to the Vatican by the Sisters of St Peter the Apostle, they note that in 1932, Richard-Yarde-Buller, 4th Baron Churston, removed a large number of valuable works of art from Laleham House and sold them at Christie’s. These were subsequently identified as treasures originally bought by Lord Lucan for Laleham House. Obviously, if these were part of the property leased by Baron Churston’s family and then sold, then they were stolen from your family. You are, at the very least, likely to be due some very substantial compensation for their loss.”
“My God.” Lucan looked shocked. “After all my grandfather did for him, he cheated us? That really is too bad.”
“Now you can see why my order is so concerned.” Conrad was really pushing the thin line between truth and lies here and he knew it. He could feel the guilt coiling in his stomach. “A very good case could be made that the nuns had been complicit in stealing your property. Obviously, we could not allow such a misunderstanding to continue and we decided the best way to clear our own good name was to lay the whole case out before you. While we must, of course, always act impartially, we would equally obviously wish to help the wronged party.”
Conrad looked at Lord Lucan’s eyes and saw the calculating gleam in them. The potential sum involved would be enormous if interest and penalties were included and it would also result in the ruin of an old-established family. In short, it was exactly the sort of operation that would interest The Trust. He mentally took a deep breath and continued. “Unfortunately, due to the conditions pertaining in 1943, all the British records maintained by the Sisters of St Peter the Apostle were lost. We do have their diary entries as sent back to Rome but these do not contain details of the relationship between their order and their landlord. So, we have no idea whether they operated in the belief that Baron Churston was their landlord or whether they knew they were sub-letting. Could you help us? Does your family still hold Lucan Estates Company records from the late 1920s and early 1930s?”
Lucan looked pensive while his eyes still gleamed with avarice. “I will institute a search immediately, Father. However, there are two problems. One is that The Occupation saw many of the records lost or destroyed. My family went to Canada soon after Lord Halifax assumed the government and we lost track of our records until we returned. In that time, many were lost or destroyed. The other is that due to my grandfather’s political offices, all the family assets had to be placed in blind trusts until such time as he would be in no position to use his offices for the benefit of the family. The Lucan Estates Company was one of those assets that had to be rendered blind and thus we have no records of its operations between 1926 and 1943. They may exist, and I will try hard to find them for you, but I cannot hold out any great hope on the matter.”
New Lanark Mill Hotel, Lanarkshire, April 13, 2000.
“Do you think he’s our man?” Keeble thought Conrad was looking tired after the trip down south.
“He’s an unpleasant character, I have no doubt of that. I think that when he was younger, superficial glamor hid his depravity but it is coming out with age. The Picture of Dorian Gray has a lot more truth in it than its casual readers realize.”
“I always thought that Oscar Wilde knew something about us and wrote the story based on an element of truth mixed up with a mass of disinformation and hearsay.”
“Could be; or he knew about us in detail and wrote the story as a warning to us of what we might become if we became corrupted.” Conrad sighed. “I told Angel once that it’s very easy to pick a standard of goodness and stick to it. It’s not so easy to pick a standard of badness and stick to that. The pressure is always to slide further and further down. Just like Dorian Gray did. I think that’s what Oscar was trying to warn us of when he wrote that story. I believe that The Picture of Dorian Gray was written to caution us that our long lives meant we had a much greater chance of accumulating the effects of evil and If we allowed that to happen, when we saw the effects on us, we would be as horrified as Dorian Gray was.”
Keeble blinked at that and Conrad knew that he was trying to accept the idea that Angel could slide further down the scale of badness. He looks on her as a cop-killer and multiple murderess who has, by a freak of her heritage and some extreme good luck, got away with her crimes. In fairness to him, that’s quite true.
“That’s an interesting thought, Conrad. There’s truth in what you say though; depravity does show itself in time. I’m a copper, you’re a Priest, we’ve both seen it. Do you think that Lucan is a member of The Trust?”
Conrad thought that over very carefully. I must not judge but I have given him every chance to judge himself. “I do not know, but he faces a choice right now. The choice he makes, will answer that question more clearly than any words he might utter.”
Re: 2000 - Eye of the Gangster
Chapter Seven
Gallowgate, Glasgow, April 15, 2000.
“They’re beginning to learn.” Angel was watching the meeting between the surviving leadership of the Beehive Jimmies and the Gallowgate Mad Squad leadership though a pair of night vision binoculars. “They’ve set up in an area that’s easily defended and there are few clear sightlines. You’ll have a job sniping this one, ‘Lea.”
“If it was easy, they wouldn’t be paying us the big bucks.” Achillea was running guard for Angel while she was watching the events developing in the park-like center of Gallowgate. “Anyway, if Chris has done his job properly, we won’t need to.”
Angel just grunted, her ingrained mistrust of police officers dominating her reactions. Achillea had already realized that Angel believed that at some point the police would betray them and they would have to run. To Achillea, the problem was that she couldn’t quite convince herself that Angel was wrong. The pair of them ending up getting killed and their bodies dumped in an unmarked grave somewhere would be very convenient and wrap up some problematic loose ends. The knowledge that Angel had anticipated that possibility and arranged an escape route for them was comforting.
“Would you believe it, nobody searched any of the people at the sit-down and there are no security guards up close. They’ve established a perimeter and secured it but it’s a shell. When I said they were beginning to learn? Forget it.”
It was Achillea’s turn to grunt. She was watching the rooftops, the surroundings, doors, access points and anything else that might result in a threat descending on them. The way Angel had protected her when she was sniping a few days earlier had been a revelation. The Barrett .50 was set up beside Angel but watching the supposed negotiation of an alliance between the Beehive Jimmies and the Gallowgate Mad Squad was her job. She had the expertise and understanding of gang politics and negotiations. Achillea was the artiste with a sniper’s rifle. What was going on almost ¾ of a mile away from their position showed Angel that the razor gangs still had no idea of just how deadly that combination was.
“They’re talking to each other right now. At a guess, the Beehive Jimmies are offering to ditch the South Side Stickers as their primary partners and give that position to the Gallowgate Mad Squad. The Gallowgate leadership are discussing that amongst themselves.”
“Doesn’t dumping their previous allies give cause for suspicion?” Achillea was beginning to realize that gang wars were a lot more complex that she had thought. If I’d known then what I know now, I’d have handled the Aurandel business a bit differently. And The Seer wouldn’t have chewed my ass quite so hard.
Angel managed to shake her head without taking her eyes off the meeting below them. “Think of the gangs as battalions. As each one enters the battle, another gets pulled out to regroup and recruit new street fighters. The only difference between these gangs and regular armies is that when a new battalion enters the battle, they negotiate over which side they are on. Everybody knows the South Side Stickers are wiped out as an effective force. They’ve lost over half of their street strength in the last week. That’s brutal and the presumption that their leadership is incompetent means they’ll have a hard job recruiting replacements. So, everybody was expecting the Beehive Jimmies to replace them in the line. In gang wars, reserves are everything. There has to be a constant flow of people we can call in to protect vital interests. The problem is always there is much to protect and somebody launching attack always picks where and when.”
“Was it like that in Singapore?”
Angel nodded. “Very much so. The reserves we could call on were decisive. The Black Dragons wouldn't recruit non-Japanese or ally with local groups. We were local. Every time the Black Dragons lost people, they had to look to Japan for replacements. We had ours on the next street. Intelligence was key as well. The Black Dragons were in a goldfish bowl. Everything they did was reported in. Triads in particular have eyes everywhere. One of the advantages of most of our members not being criminals."
"Bit like here. It must be nice working with the government intelligence systems for a change."
Angel grimaced. "I'd give all the telephone intercepts we're getting for a few good human eyes on the street. We're running on electronic intelligence right now and it must be dawning on the razor gangs that their communications are compromised. When they understand what that means, they'll go to spoken messages only and we'll be running blind. The only redeeming thing is they've terrorized the local population into keeping their mouths shut and that cuts off their human intelligence as well. Hello, here we go. You better get on your rifle ‘Lea. If they’ve made an agreement, it’ll be down to us to end it here.”
“No. You stay watching. We need your eyes on what’s going on down there. You understand this sort of thing. I’ll watch your back.”
Angel nodded brusquely, a gesture that made Achillea quietly proud. The truth is that Angel trusts nobody. It's not malicious on her part although most people around her take it that way. Trust is one of those functions her brain cannot perform. Except for Conrad of course. Conrad is always the exception. But, Angel knows who she would trust if she could and I'm on that list. Hooray for me and I'll pretend not to notice she's faking it.
Angel was staring through the binoculars, taking in every tiny movement in the meeting down below. The discussion between the leaders of the Gallowgate Mad Squad had ended in apparent agreement. Their leader stepped towards the head of the Beehive Jimmies or at least, their temporary leader Angel reminded herself. Their real leader who was also their link to The Trust got all Head A Splode. He stretched out his hand towards the Beehive Jimmy hand, who took it. Then, everything went into slow motion. The Beehive Jimmy suddenly pulled hard towards himself, dragging the Mad Squad leader off-balance. At the same time the Jimmy's left hand slashed out in a flat curve that took the straight-edge razor through the Mad Squad leader's throat. Angel imagined she could actually see the thick spray of blood arcing out although intellectually she knew that was impossible.
That was obviously the signal for what happened next. The Beehive Jimmies hurled themselves on the Mad Squad members with all the advantages of surprise. To Angel, accustomed to the high-speed tempo of a gunfight, the slaughter seemed to take forever. She knew that the straight-edge razors preferred by the gangs here were terror weapons, intended to strike fear into a community by the ghastly scarring they inflicted on their victims. Actually killing somebody with one was hard work and took time unless a clean slice cut the victim's throat open. Angel found herself getting bored watching the victims of the fight getting slashed to death. Stop pissing around and get on with it. I've got better things to do than watch this.
Eventually, the Gallowgate Mad Squad representatives were all down, some dead, others trying to crawl away from the scene of the fight. It was futile of course; Angel watched while the surviving Beehive Jimmies went to them, pulled their heads back by the hair and cut their throats. Then, the survivors left and the scene was quiet.
"How many?" Achillea hadn't seen the slaughter but she wasn't really interested in the mechanics. It was something she had seen many times before.
"I think six Mad Squad and three Jimmies." Angel scanned around. "Make that seven Mad Squad including all their leaders. That's as bad a blow as the South Side Stickers took at MacChuills. Proportionally speaking of course. That makes four of the gangs decapitated. Better still, nobody will ever trust the Beehive Jimmies again. Not that they matter any more.”
As they left the rooftop, Achillea glanced behind her. The scene where the Gallowgate Mad Squad leadership had been massacred was surrounded by blue, white and red flashing lights.
Strathclyde Police Station, London Road, Glasgow. Six Hours Earlier.
"Ah teel ye, Assistant Commissioner, thes is th' warst mess thes city has seen since Th' Occupation." Inspector Conall Martin looked and felt exhausted by the ten days of open gang warfare that had torn Glasgow apart. "Thes cannae gang oan much longer. Tois mair ay th' Govan Team waur killed thes morn. Ambushed in th' causey an' chibbed tae death. Their gins didne help them thes time."
"Were any guns found on the bodies?" Keeble guessed the answer was negative. The Govan Team wasn't the real source of the gunfire that was decimating Glasgow's razor gangs.
" Nae, thaur waur nae. Ei'en th' kill'rs took them ur th' Govan Team jimmies left them behin' fur some reason. If they did, warst mistak' they e'en gart."
"How many does that make it, Inspector?" Keeble was interested to know the local count as opposed to the official one.
" Eighteen deid frae th' Sooth Side Stickers. we hink they hud thirty seven at th' start. Twal it ay forty frae th' Beehife Jimmies, ten it ay thirty frae th' Govan team. Fife others. Th' wee gangs huvnae got involved yit." Martin shook his head. " Forty fife men deid in ten days jist frae th' gangs. An' at leest fife fa waur jist in th' wrang place at th' wrang time. An' 'en thaur waur th' tois fa got bloon up by a bom'. Whit is happenin' haur? Wa did thes situation explode. We got nae warnin' 'at thes was brewin'."
"Small gang involvement may be coming, Inspector. We have had a break. We finally have an informant in one of the gangs who has told us that the Gallowgate Mad Squad is negotiating an alliance with the Beehive Jimmies."
" 'at is guid bark, sairrr?"
"It can work for us, yes. You see, the same source tells us the Mad Squad believes the Jimmies have been so weakened by the war that the whole city is ripe for a takeover. So, once the two meet, the Mad Squad are going to pull an ambush and wipe out what's left of the Jimmy leadership. "
Keeble looked around. He had carefully chosen the position for this exchange, where it could be overheard by everybody. He was reasonably sure that at least one of the police officers here was also on the Beehive Jimmy payroll and the warning that treachery was in the wind would be on its way very shortly. He wasn’t quite certain what Angel had in mind, only that the death-toll was about to take another ratchet upwards. On the other hand, she had set things up so that if everything went the way she expected, the Strathclyde Police would be able to move in and bag the Beehive Jimmies standing over the bodies. The Procurator Fiscal wouldn’t need evidence from witnesses to make that series of prosecutions stick and in doing so it would be able to begin the final offensive that would pull Glasgow back from the brink of disaster.
1154 South Street, Glasgow. April 16th, 2000
The building at 1154 South Street was an anachronism. It had been built as a warehouse in the days when merchant ships were comparatively small and their cargoes didn’t need the huge facilities that now dominated this stretch of the Clyde. Both were dwarfed by the container handling facilities further downriver. Over the years, its small size had made 1154 useless in its designed function and the ground floor had been taken over by a handful of cheap, very poor quality take-away food shops and some equally poor cafes. As local legend had it, very few of the raisins in the fruitcake were actually raisins and some of them were still moving.
None of which mattered. The businesses on the ground floor were little more than a cover for the business that really made money for the owners. The upper floor was reached by small, unobtrusive doors between the eating places and the goods that were sold up there made the food served down below seem positively sanitary. There was, however, another way into the building that the occupants hadn't thought of. Achillea and Angel had simply walked into the scrapyard next door, climbed a pile of wreckage and thus gained access to the roof of 1154. Thereafter, it had simply been a matter of dropping down to the nearest convenient window and removing a glass pane. The users of the top floor had thought about intruders coming in from below, but never of an invasion from the roof. That went, of course, with their mental orientation as a street gang. They were strictly two-dimensional thinkers.
Angel had put on a breathing mask covering her nose and mouth before pulling thing surgical gloves over her hands. The fingerless thin leather gloves she usually wore to improve her grip on her pistols were carefully stowed away. "Before we get inside, 'Lea, put your breathing mask and gloves on. Once inside, don't touch anything or anybody you don't have to and don't let anybody touch you. Don't touch your face until we're out of here. This place is probably loaded with staph infections and even nastier things. I kid you not; in Singapore we were pulling this off and one of the Sai-Los rubbed his eyes without thinking. The Staph infection blinded him. I've got raw alcohol in the car, we'll use that to wash down after we're out."
Achillea nodded. She was actually aware of the health hazards of what they were doing but she appreciated the reminders. She'd seen people die because of warnings that hadn't been given because 'everybody knew'. "Clear the booby-traps first?"
Angel thought about that. There were three sets of stairways up from the ground. Each was rigged with a mixture of explosives and gasoline drums. The idea was that if the police did raid this building, they'd set off the explosives and the resulting fires would trap everybody in the building. They'd also destroy all the evidence, making a nice neat package. "Trip-wires or remotes? The guards here have an office by the middle set of stairs. Remotes for all three will be there."
"Trip wires as well. They probably set them every evening. We'll leave those; the cops can disarm them when they do their thing." Achillea was capable of defusing most explosive devices but preferred to leave doing so to professionals. She was perfectly well aware that the professionals would prefer to leave that job to her.
"Let's go." Angel swung in through the opened window and landed, cat-like, on her feet. She pointed down the corridor towards a heavy door at one end. Achillea nodded and set off down towards that door. Meanwhile, Angel had found the guard's room and was standing by that door. As soon as Achillea was in position, Angel slammed her foot into the cheap plywood door, sending it spiraling off its hinges. Angel had seen Achillea kick doors down and knew that her own effort wasn't in the same league but it was enough. The door was a wreck and the three men inside were staring at the splintered wreckage in disbelief.
"Fa th' heel ur ye huir?" The man speaking got no further. The Beretta in Angel's right hand snapped out four shots, sending him reeling backwards, already dead from the bullets that had shattered his skull. Her left hand Beretta had put three bullets through the face of the man off to one side of the room. That only left one. He raised his hands but that was of no significance to Angel. She shot him dead anyway, using both pistols to finish him off. Then, it was a simple matter to search the room. There were three remote control units on the table in the middle of the room. Angel carefully removed the batteries and then smashed them.
By the time Angel left the office and trotted down the corridor to join Achillea, the screaming from the 'business' section told her that Achillea had already finished her part of the raid. One man was dead on the floor, his neck twisted in the characteristic position of somebody killed by her snapping his spine with her foot. Three more men were inside the production center, kneeling with their hands clasped behind their heads. The screaming was coming from a group of young women crowded into one corner of the facility. They were wearing only their underwear. Why was obvious from the tables in the room and the scales and packages on them. They'd been measuring out drugs of various kinds and cutting them with cheap adulterants. Keeping them near-naked was a way of reducing theft.
"Shut up all of you." Angel's voice snapped out and the room quietened. She turned to the three men kneeling on the floor. "We killed the three in the office. Anybody more guards in the building?"
"Buck aff ye huir." The venom in the man's voice was palpable. Angel, profoundly unimpressed, shot him twice in the back of his head.
"Let this be a lesson to you all." She was icy cold and unemotional. "Never use violence and brutality to gain information. Just get straight to the point. You, any more guards here?"
"Jist th' a scuttle ay us. Gonnie nae keel as." The man was whimpering.
"And another lesson. Kill, steal, whatever you have to do, but never beg. Not even for your life." Angel shot the remaining two men simultaneously so they had no chance to react. "Xiànzài, rènhé zhōngguó de ma? Any Chinese here?"
One girl lifted her hand, shaking with fear. Angel looked at her. She guessed the girl was in her early teens but already looked much older. "Nín shì zhèlǐ de fùzé rén, zhídào jǐngchá láile. Nǐ shì yīgè shīkòng? You are in charge until the police come. Are you a runaway?"
The girl nodded and started to cry. Angel shook her head. She had never cried, not since the night her father had raped her. Achillea was looking on with the same impassive expression. It had also been many, many years since she had cried. Angel was still speaking in Chinese. "Rúguǒ nǐ bùxiǎng huí jiā, wǒmen sān rén huì zhàogù nǐ. Tāmen huì zhǎodào nǐ yīgè hǎo jiā shànliáng de rénmen. If you do not want to go home, our Triad will look after you. They will find you a good home with kind people."
Angel looked at the other women and switched to English. "Tell all the other girls here to stay in this room and not step outside. The police will come soon and look after you. They will protect you but do not tell them about us."
Angel stepped outside the room and dialed a number on her portable telephone. "This is a friend from the Hung Family. There is a room piled high with heroin, cocaine and a few other things at 1154 South Street, top floor. The entrances are booby-trapped with explosives and gasoline. Be bloody careful when you go in. There is a group of girls, probably sex-slaves, in the room with the drugs. They're victims too. Look after them. No, I won't tell you who we are. You know enough."
It took five minutes for the police to arrive and another thirty before they took out the women from the drugs room. Each girl had been wrapped in a blanket and was politely assisted into a Strathclyde Police minivan. The consideration and courtesy made Angel blink. Achillea looked at her with a half-smile on her face. "A good night's work, I think."
Gallowgate, Glasgow, April 15, 2000.
“They’re beginning to learn.” Angel was watching the meeting between the surviving leadership of the Beehive Jimmies and the Gallowgate Mad Squad leadership though a pair of night vision binoculars. “They’ve set up in an area that’s easily defended and there are few clear sightlines. You’ll have a job sniping this one, ‘Lea.”
“If it was easy, they wouldn’t be paying us the big bucks.” Achillea was running guard for Angel while she was watching the events developing in the park-like center of Gallowgate. “Anyway, if Chris has done his job properly, we won’t need to.”
Angel just grunted, her ingrained mistrust of police officers dominating her reactions. Achillea had already realized that Angel believed that at some point the police would betray them and they would have to run. To Achillea, the problem was that she couldn’t quite convince herself that Angel was wrong. The pair of them ending up getting killed and their bodies dumped in an unmarked grave somewhere would be very convenient and wrap up some problematic loose ends. The knowledge that Angel had anticipated that possibility and arranged an escape route for them was comforting.
“Would you believe it, nobody searched any of the people at the sit-down and there are no security guards up close. They’ve established a perimeter and secured it but it’s a shell. When I said they were beginning to learn? Forget it.”
It was Achillea’s turn to grunt. She was watching the rooftops, the surroundings, doors, access points and anything else that might result in a threat descending on them. The way Angel had protected her when she was sniping a few days earlier had been a revelation. The Barrett .50 was set up beside Angel but watching the supposed negotiation of an alliance between the Beehive Jimmies and the Gallowgate Mad Squad was her job. She had the expertise and understanding of gang politics and negotiations. Achillea was the artiste with a sniper’s rifle. What was going on almost ¾ of a mile away from their position showed Angel that the razor gangs still had no idea of just how deadly that combination was.
“They’re talking to each other right now. At a guess, the Beehive Jimmies are offering to ditch the South Side Stickers as their primary partners and give that position to the Gallowgate Mad Squad. The Gallowgate leadership are discussing that amongst themselves.”
“Doesn’t dumping their previous allies give cause for suspicion?” Achillea was beginning to realize that gang wars were a lot more complex that she had thought. If I’d known then what I know now, I’d have handled the Aurandel business a bit differently. And The Seer wouldn’t have chewed my ass quite so hard.
Angel managed to shake her head without taking her eyes off the meeting below them. “Think of the gangs as battalions. As each one enters the battle, another gets pulled out to regroup and recruit new street fighters. The only difference between these gangs and regular armies is that when a new battalion enters the battle, they negotiate over which side they are on. Everybody knows the South Side Stickers are wiped out as an effective force. They’ve lost over half of their street strength in the last week. That’s brutal and the presumption that their leadership is incompetent means they’ll have a hard job recruiting replacements. So, everybody was expecting the Beehive Jimmies to replace them in the line. In gang wars, reserves are everything. There has to be a constant flow of people we can call in to protect vital interests. The problem is always there is much to protect and somebody launching attack always picks where and when.”
“Was it like that in Singapore?”
Angel nodded. “Very much so. The reserves we could call on were decisive. The Black Dragons wouldn't recruit non-Japanese or ally with local groups. We were local. Every time the Black Dragons lost people, they had to look to Japan for replacements. We had ours on the next street. Intelligence was key as well. The Black Dragons were in a goldfish bowl. Everything they did was reported in. Triads in particular have eyes everywhere. One of the advantages of most of our members not being criminals."
"Bit like here. It must be nice working with the government intelligence systems for a change."
Angel grimaced. "I'd give all the telephone intercepts we're getting for a few good human eyes on the street. We're running on electronic intelligence right now and it must be dawning on the razor gangs that their communications are compromised. When they understand what that means, they'll go to spoken messages only and we'll be running blind. The only redeeming thing is they've terrorized the local population into keeping their mouths shut and that cuts off their human intelligence as well. Hello, here we go. You better get on your rifle ‘Lea. If they’ve made an agreement, it’ll be down to us to end it here.”
“No. You stay watching. We need your eyes on what’s going on down there. You understand this sort of thing. I’ll watch your back.”
Angel nodded brusquely, a gesture that made Achillea quietly proud. The truth is that Angel trusts nobody. It's not malicious on her part although most people around her take it that way. Trust is one of those functions her brain cannot perform. Except for Conrad of course. Conrad is always the exception. But, Angel knows who she would trust if she could and I'm on that list. Hooray for me and I'll pretend not to notice she's faking it.
Angel was staring through the binoculars, taking in every tiny movement in the meeting down below. The discussion between the leaders of the Gallowgate Mad Squad had ended in apparent agreement. Their leader stepped towards the head of the Beehive Jimmies or at least, their temporary leader Angel reminded herself. Their real leader who was also their link to The Trust got all Head A Splode. He stretched out his hand towards the Beehive Jimmy hand, who took it. Then, everything went into slow motion. The Beehive Jimmy suddenly pulled hard towards himself, dragging the Mad Squad leader off-balance. At the same time the Jimmy's left hand slashed out in a flat curve that took the straight-edge razor through the Mad Squad leader's throat. Angel imagined she could actually see the thick spray of blood arcing out although intellectually she knew that was impossible.
That was obviously the signal for what happened next. The Beehive Jimmies hurled themselves on the Mad Squad members with all the advantages of surprise. To Angel, accustomed to the high-speed tempo of a gunfight, the slaughter seemed to take forever. She knew that the straight-edge razors preferred by the gangs here were terror weapons, intended to strike fear into a community by the ghastly scarring they inflicted on their victims. Actually killing somebody with one was hard work and took time unless a clean slice cut the victim's throat open. Angel found herself getting bored watching the victims of the fight getting slashed to death. Stop pissing around and get on with it. I've got better things to do than watch this.
Eventually, the Gallowgate Mad Squad representatives were all down, some dead, others trying to crawl away from the scene of the fight. It was futile of course; Angel watched while the surviving Beehive Jimmies went to them, pulled their heads back by the hair and cut their throats. Then, the survivors left and the scene was quiet.
"How many?" Achillea hadn't seen the slaughter but she wasn't really interested in the mechanics. It was something she had seen many times before.
"I think six Mad Squad and three Jimmies." Angel scanned around. "Make that seven Mad Squad including all their leaders. That's as bad a blow as the South Side Stickers took at MacChuills. Proportionally speaking of course. That makes four of the gangs decapitated. Better still, nobody will ever trust the Beehive Jimmies again. Not that they matter any more.”
As they left the rooftop, Achillea glanced behind her. The scene where the Gallowgate Mad Squad leadership had been massacred was surrounded by blue, white and red flashing lights.
Strathclyde Police Station, London Road, Glasgow. Six Hours Earlier.
"Ah teel ye, Assistant Commissioner, thes is th' warst mess thes city has seen since Th' Occupation." Inspector Conall Martin looked and felt exhausted by the ten days of open gang warfare that had torn Glasgow apart. "Thes cannae gang oan much longer. Tois mair ay th' Govan Team waur killed thes morn. Ambushed in th' causey an' chibbed tae death. Their gins didne help them thes time."
"Were any guns found on the bodies?" Keeble guessed the answer was negative. The Govan Team wasn't the real source of the gunfire that was decimating Glasgow's razor gangs.
" Nae, thaur waur nae. Ei'en th' kill'rs took them ur th' Govan Team jimmies left them behin' fur some reason. If they did, warst mistak' they e'en gart."
"How many does that make it, Inspector?" Keeble was interested to know the local count as opposed to the official one.
" Eighteen deid frae th' Sooth Side Stickers. we hink they hud thirty seven at th' start. Twal it ay forty frae th' Beehife Jimmies, ten it ay thirty frae th' Govan team. Fife others. Th' wee gangs huvnae got involved yit." Martin shook his head. " Forty fife men deid in ten days jist frae th' gangs. An' at leest fife fa waur jist in th' wrang place at th' wrang time. An' 'en thaur waur th' tois fa got bloon up by a bom'. Whit is happenin' haur? Wa did thes situation explode. We got nae warnin' 'at thes was brewin'."
"Small gang involvement may be coming, Inspector. We have had a break. We finally have an informant in one of the gangs who has told us that the Gallowgate Mad Squad is negotiating an alliance with the Beehive Jimmies."
" 'at is guid bark, sairrr?"
"It can work for us, yes. You see, the same source tells us the Mad Squad believes the Jimmies have been so weakened by the war that the whole city is ripe for a takeover. So, once the two meet, the Mad Squad are going to pull an ambush and wipe out what's left of the Jimmy leadership. "
Keeble looked around. He had carefully chosen the position for this exchange, where it could be overheard by everybody. He was reasonably sure that at least one of the police officers here was also on the Beehive Jimmy payroll and the warning that treachery was in the wind would be on its way very shortly. He wasn’t quite certain what Angel had in mind, only that the death-toll was about to take another ratchet upwards. On the other hand, she had set things up so that if everything went the way she expected, the Strathclyde Police would be able to move in and bag the Beehive Jimmies standing over the bodies. The Procurator Fiscal wouldn’t need evidence from witnesses to make that series of prosecutions stick and in doing so it would be able to begin the final offensive that would pull Glasgow back from the brink of disaster.
1154 South Street, Glasgow. April 16th, 2000
The building at 1154 South Street was an anachronism. It had been built as a warehouse in the days when merchant ships were comparatively small and their cargoes didn’t need the huge facilities that now dominated this stretch of the Clyde. Both were dwarfed by the container handling facilities further downriver. Over the years, its small size had made 1154 useless in its designed function and the ground floor had been taken over by a handful of cheap, very poor quality take-away food shops and some equally poor cafes. As local legend had it, very few of the raisins in the fruitcake were actually raisins and some of them were still moving.
None of which mattered. The businesses on the ground floor were little more than a cover for the business that really made money for the owners. The upper floor was reached by small, unobtrusive doors between the eating places and the goods that were sold up there made the food served down below seem positively sanitary. There was, however, another way into the building that the occupants hadn't thought of. Achillea and Angel had simply walked into the scrapyard next door, climbed a pile of wreckage and thus gained access to the roof of 1154. Thereafter, it had simply been a matter of dropping down to the nearest convenient window and removing a glass pane. The users of the top floor had thought about intruders coming in from below, but never of an invasion from the roof. That went, of course, with their mental orientation as a street gang. They were strictly two-dimensional thinkers.
Angel had put on a breathing mask covering her nose and mouth before pulling thing surgical gloves over her hands. The fingerless thin leather gloves she usually wore to improve her grip on her pistols were carefully stowed away. "Before we get inside, 'Lea, put your breathing mask and gloves on. Once inside, don't touch anything or anybody you don't have to and don't let anybody touch you. Don't touch your face until we're out of here. This place is probably loaded with staph infections and even nastier things. I kid you not; in Singapore we were pulling this off and one of the Sai-Los rubbed his eyes without thinking. The Staph infection blinded him. I've got raw alcohol in the car, we'll use that to wash down after we're out."
Achillea nodded. She was actually aware of the health hazards of what they were doing but she appreciated the reminders. She'd seen people die because of warnings that hadn't been given because 'everybody knew'. "Clear the booby-traps first?"
Angel thought about that. There were three sets of stairways up from the ground. Each was rigged with a mixture of explosives and gasoline drums. The idea was that if the police did raid this building, they'd set off the explosives and the resulting fires would trap everybody in the building. They'd also destroy all the evidence, making a nice neat package. "Trip-wires or remotes? The guards here have an office by the middle set of stairs. Remotes for all three will be there."
"Trip wires as well. They probably set them every evening. We'll leave those; the cops can disarm them when they do their thing." Achillea was capable of defusing most explosive devices but preferred to leave doing so to professionals. She was perfectly well aware that the professionals would prefer to leave that job to her.
"Let's go." Angel swung in through the opened window and landed, cat-like, on her feet. She pointed down the corridor towards a heavy door at one end. Achillea nodded and set off down towards that door. Meanwhile, Angel had found the guard's room and was standing by that door. As soon as Achillea was in position, Angel slammed her foot into the cheap plywood door, sending it spiraling off its hinges. Angel had seen Achillea kick doors down and knew that her own effort wasn't in the same league but it was enough. The door was a wreck and the three men inside were staring at the splintered wreckage in disbelief.
"Fa th' heel ur ye huir?" The man speaking got no further. The Beretta in Angel's right hand snapped out four shots, sending him reeling backwards, already dead from the bullets that had shattered his skull. Her left hand Beretta had put three bullets through the face of the man off to one side of the room. That only left one. He raised his hands but that was of no significance to Angel. She shot him dead anyway, using both pistols to finish him off. Then, it was a simple matter to search the room. There were three remote control units on the table in the middle of the room. Angel carefully removed the batteries and then smashed them.
By the time Angel left the office and trotted down the corridor to join Achillea, the screaming from the 'business' section told her that Achillea had already finished her part of the raid. One man was dead on the floor, his neck twisted in the characteristic position of somebody killed by her snapping his spine with her foot. Three more men were inside the production center, kneeling with their hands clasped behind their heads. The screaming was coming from a group of young women crowded into one corner of the facility. They were wearing only their underwear. Why was obvious from the tables in the room and the scales and packages on them. They'd been measuring out drugs of various kinds and cutting them with cheap adulterants. Keeping them near-naked was a way of reducing theft.
"Shut up all of you." Angel's voice snapped out and the room quietened. She turned to the three men kneeling on the floor. "We killed the three in the office. Anybody more guards in the building?"
"Buck aff ye huir." The venom in the man's voice was palpable. Angel, profoundly unimpressed, shot him twice in the back of his head.
"Let this be a lesson to you all." She was icy cold and unemotional. "Never use violence and brutality to gain information. Just get straight to the point. You, any more guards here?"
"Jist th' a scuttle ay us. Gonnie nae keel as." The man was whimpering.
"And another lesson. Kill, steal, whatever you have to do, but never beg. Not even for your life." Angel shot the remaining two men simultaneously so they had no chance to react. "Xiànzài, rènhé zhōngguó de ma? Any Chinese here?"
One girl lifted her hand, shaking with fear. Angel looked at her. She guessed the girl was in her early teens but already looked much older. "Nín shì zhèlǐ de fùzé rén, zhídào jǐngchá láile. Nǐ shì yīgè shīkòng? You are in charge until the police come. Are you a runaway?"
The girl nodded and started to cry. Angel shook her head. She had never cried, not since the night her father had raped her. Achillea was looking on with the same impassive expression. It had also been many, many years since she had cried. Angel was still speaking in Chinese. "Rúguǒ nǐ bùxiǎng huí jiā, wǒmen sān rén huì zhàogù nǐ. Tāmen huì zhǎodào nǐ yīgè hǎo jiā shànliáng de rénmen. If you do not want to go home, our Triad will look after you. They will find you a good home with kind people."
Angel looked at the other women and switched to English. "Tell all the other girls here to stay in this room and not step outside. The police will come soon and look after you. They will protect you but do not tell them about us."
Angel stepped outside the room and dialed a number on her portable telephone. "This is a friend from the Hung Family. There is a room piled high with heroin, cocaine and a few other things at 1154 South Street, top floor. The entrances are booby-trapped with explosives and gasoline. Be bloody careful when you go in. There is a group of girls, probably sex-slaves, in the room with the drugs. They're victims too. Look after them. No, I won't tell you who we are. You know enough."
It took five minutes for the police to arrive and another thirty before they took out the women from the drugs room. Each girl had been wrapped in a blanket and was politely assisted into a Strathclyde Police minivan. The consideration and courtesy made Angel blink. Achillea looked at her with a half-smile on her face. "A good night's work, I think."
Re: 2000 - Eye of the Gangster
Chapter Eight
Breakfast Room, New Lanark Mill Hotel, Lanarkshire, April 16, 2000.
Conrad dipped his bread into the seasoned olive oil and sighed gently with sheer pleasure. The breakfast plate he had been served was food fit for the Gods. He had started with a bowl of porridge, smoother than he was used to but with a taste all of its own. Then he had received his breakfast platter, to his delight centered around a half tomato, broiled with cheese on top, a rasher of bacon, a potato scone, a true British sausage, black pudding, sautéed mushrooms, baked beans and scrambled eggs. After he had put all that away, he had received a rack full of thick-cut whole-grain toast and his dish of olive oil. Although he seriously doubted that the last touch was a part of traditional Scottish cuisine, it was the perfect end to a meal fit for the Angels. It was a far cry indeed from the meager breakfast he had eaten in Birmingham half a century before.
His newspaper was full of the overnight events in Glasgow. Conrad was reading a long story about the destruction of a major drug-trafficking center and the rescue of a group of runaway children who had been held there. There were pictures, Conrad had problems getting used to newspapers printed in color, of the freed prisoners being given proper meals and new clothing by smiling police officers. He noted that all the rescued youths were females and he guessed what had happened to them even though the newspaper article skirted around that. Then he read the story more carefully and realized that the details were there, albeit elliptically phrased, and that they made grim reading.
"Excuse me, Sir. More tea? And a breakfast for your guest?" Conrad looked up at the waitress with a replacement teapot and then across the table where he expected to see Chris Keeble. Instead, Angel was sitting opposite him, with a slightly mocking smile on her face.
"I'm hungry, Conrad." Angel prompted.
"Yes, yes of course. A full breakfast for my guest please Jennie. With your excellent oatcakes. And thank you for the tea." Conrad sniffed slightly as the waitress vanished to get Angel's breakfast. "Alcohol?"
"I don't drink when I'm working, you know that." Angel looked around, noting that a man on the next table appeared to be listening. "Lea and I spent the night rubbing each other down with surgical alcohol."
The man on the next table choked on his tea.
"Where is 'Lea by the way?" Conrad was slightly concerned, although he admitted to himself that he would have been a lot more worried if Achillea had arrived and Angel hadn't.
"On her way in. Just taking a station break after driving most of the night. We're just reporting in to Chris and I wanted you to know that we're all right. Ah, oatmeal."
"Porridge." Conrad corrected her. "Scottish porridge has about the same resemblance to American oatmeal as fresh heavy cream does to wallpaper paste. Add some milk and butter; some people like to add salt as well. Jennie, we'll have another guest in a moment, another breakfast?"
Jennie bobbed in acknowledgement, then took off for the kitchen. Achillea entered the dining room, glanced around, spotted Conrad and Angel, then came over to join them.
"Your breakfast is on the way 'Lea. How is everything going?"
"Thank you, you're very kind. Especially after all those awful, beastly things you made us do last night." Achillea was completely deadpan.
On the next table, the eavesdropper suddenly choked on his potato scone and collapsed on the table heaving for breath. Achillea got up, gave him a vigorous Heimlich Maneuver and then patted him on the head. He gulped down what was left of his tea and fled.
"Are you two telepathic?" Conrad was smiling at the fate of the nosy neighbor.
"Not really . . . " Angel was hesitant. "When people like us work together, we get to know what the other is thinking under given circumstances. This porridge is good. I'll never be able to eat instant oatmeal again."
"Good for you. That instant stuff is hideously unhealthy. Packed with sugar and artificial ingredients." Achillea tucked into her porridge. "You're right this is good. Reminds me of when I was growing up in . . . school; we had porridge like this made from barley and flavored with olive oil and goat's cheese. And dill. We ate a lot of dill. They serve bread properly here as well. I’m going to like Scotland."
The breakfast plates for Achillea and Angel arrived along with another platter of fresh-baked breads and olive oil for Conrad. Jennie smiled at the two women. "Emergency Services?"
"In a way. How did you know?"
"My husband is a volunteer with St. Andew's Ambulance. He has to wipe down with alcohol if there's a danger of staph. Thank you for getting rid of Creepy. All the girls had a good laugh at the way you sent him packing."
"Our pleasure." Achillea finished her porridge and burped gently. "For porridge like that, we'll do it any time you like."
Secure Conference Room, New Lanark Mill Hotel, Lanarkshire, April 16, 2000.
"News is on." Chris Keeble had the television set running with the BBC Scotland 10 am news just starting.
"The Strathclyde Police force in Glasgow has scored two major victories against the gang war that has been raging in the city for the last eleven days. Allegedly acting on information allegedly received from the local community, a police team intercepted a group of alleged gangsters who had allegedly killed alleged members of an allegedly rival gang. Eight alleged members of the Beehive Jimmies are in custody and are reportedly assisting the Strathclyde Police with their inquiries.
"In another incident, Strathclyde Police detectives, again allegedly acting on information from the community, raided an alleged major drug processing and distribution center following an allegedly violent altercation between the alleged gangsters allegedly running the den. The detectives rescued over a dozen your women, some barely into their teens, and took them to safe houses outside the city where they are receiving badly-needed medical attention. Strathclyde Police spokesmen report that the volume of heroin and cocaine seized at the facility was enough to supply the city's illegal drug trafficking volume for three months.
"A further sign that the gang war may be coming to a close took place just after nine when merchants and residents in Chinatown announced they were forming a Neighborhood Watch to keep the bloody street battles of the last two weeks out of their part of the city. Sying Mau Zhong, elected as chairman of the neighborhood watch, said 'If good people stand together and cooperate with the authorities, then the shameful violence we have seen all over the city will not be repeated in our community. I appeal to all the good citizens of Glasgow to form similar Neighborhood Watches and drive these evil razor gangs out of our beautiful city.' And now. . . .”
“That’s it, this is the crisis point.” Angel looked at Keeble with a glance that made him cringe. He knew now just how dangerous she truly was, but also that she didn't trust him at all. He quickly decided that the two were not a comforting combination. “We’ve broken the four biggest gangs for you and severed their links with The Trust. The Beehive Jimmies are wiped out; the few survivors are in custody. You should be able to make the case stick since they were standing over the bodies with dripping razors in their hands. The South Side Stickers has been brutalized to the point where the survivors are isolated and running; the Gallowgate Mad Squad has been decapitated and the only reason why the Govan Team is any better off is because everybody believes they are using guns and that makes them people to stay away from.”
“I know what you two have achieved here but the butcher’s bill is frightening.” Keeble looked at the mounting casualty list in his hand. Some, many, of the dead still had to be identified. Bombs and multiple head-shots made identification hard. One could almost make a guess Keeble thought, that the less recognizable the body, the more likely these two are to have done it.
“How do you know?” Angel was slightly puzzled. “My accountant hasn’t even drawn it up yet.”
“To Angel, the butcher’s bill is a real bill. Paid with a real check.” Achillea was being earnestly helpful.
"Bank draft, not check. Checks can bounce. Preliminary total is 204,000 sovereigns." Angel thought for a second. "That excludes people I think were innocent bystanders. If they weren't, it goes up a bit. There are expenses to be added to that of course. My accountant is working those out now."
“Innocent bystanders?” Conrad didn’t like the sound of that at all.
“I’m sorry, Conrad, it’s bound to happen in a situation like this. Some people just stand up when they should duck and there are always those who just like hanging around in the underworld. Eventually, it catches up with them. Remember that guy in the garage, St Valentine’s Day? He was just hanging out there. If it’s any consolation, we’re working hard and taking some risks to keep it to a minimum.” Achillea looked at Conrad who suspected she had more than a slight knowledge of what happened in that garage in 1929.
“Taking risks?” It was Keeble's turn not to like the sound of what he was hearing. “We can’t compromise this operation.”
“We won’t, but Angel insists we keep bystanders out of it. She says Conrad would be upset if we start killing innocent people.” Achillea looked sideways at Conrad who had a relieved and happy expression on his face.
“Are you including the two women in the bar as innocent bystanders?” Angel nodded so Keeble carried on, “Well. Humpty will kick my arse for telling you this but you shouldn’t. The girl at the table, Cairistìne MacMhannain, was a really nasty piece of work. She started life as Christine MacMannan and had a really bad time in school. Lots of puppy fat, very plain and homely you see; gantin they call it up here and her classmates never let her forget it. When she started with the gangs, she began carrying a razor and really liked using it on other women. The barmaid was Moira MacInne. Her husband was Ethan MacInne, second in command of the South Side Stickers and she was very much cast in the Lady MacBeth mold. You got him in the women’s toilet. Did you target him?”
“We did.” Achillea answered. “Word was he was the brains of the South Siders. Now you’re telling us his wife was?”
"We think she was. As far as we can make out, the only actually innocent person who has been killed so far was Caoimhe Lowe and women who hang out with gangsters, well, becoming collateral damage is the rule, not the exception. Still, a quarter of a million sovereigns and almost seventy dead." Keeble was visibly shocked at the reality of what had once been an abstract plan.
"Compared with the hundreds of dead, a community destroyed and billions in property damage, that's an almost surgical strike." Achillea was a bit annoyed by Keeble's attitude. "In fact, it was a surgical strike. Have you seen what happened to Queens and Brooklyn? Four years later, the area is only just beginning to recover and the dead were measured in hundreds. By comparison, we did a damned fine job for you. You might show a little appreciation."
"I know, I'm sorry. You two are every bit as good as The Seer and Suriyothai suggested. Humpty is really pleased at how this has gone."
"It's not over yet." Angel was cautionary. "There are still four gangs out there. We have to make sure that they don't kill Sying Mau Zhong and his family and/or break up the Neighborhood Watches. If they do, then they can still win this war. Together, they number about the same as the late and completely unlamented Beehive Jimmies but that can work for them. They’ll be harder to find and they’ll know each other better. They're the bait of course, with the Beehive Jimmies gone, The Trust are going to have to establish contact with them directly. How goes that side of things, Conrad?"
"I'm reasonably sure Lord Lucan is a part of The Trust's operation here. We're waiting for confirmation of that now and he's under surveillance. Discretely of course."
"Part of?" Keeble seized on Conrad's words. "He's not the head?"
"I don't think so. He's got no bottom and too much side. He's no businessman; the story I fed him was full of holes but he didn't spot one of them. If The Trust has a collective identity, it's that of corrupt businessmen who aren't afraid to use seriously illegal methods as long as they show a profit and they have no concern for the wider interests of the society they live in. Lucan doesn't fit that pattern at all. He's a Dragon, not the Big Bad." Conrad thought carefully. "I believe he sees himself as being the rightful Big Bad though and there's a lot of resentment there. We could use that."
Laleham House, Laleham, Middlesex. April 16th 2000.
When The Telephone rang, Lord Lucan answered it personally. It was the only telephone in the house that he did answer himself and it was a firing offense for any member of the household staff to pick up that particular phone. There were no extensions on that particular line, or at least none that Lucan knew of. It was isolated in his private study, far from any possible eavesdroppers. As far as Lucan knew. He was, of course, wrong on both counts.
"Lucan?" The voice at the other end of the line was instantly recognizable.
"This is Lord Lucan, yes." Lucan spoke stiffly, very much on his dignity.
"Don't come the acid with me, Lucan. Glasgow is all screwed up. You need to fix it or those subsidies you live on might suddenly stop."
"I sent MacKenny up to deal with the situation."
"And he's dead. Blown apart in the street, his bitch along with him. Car bomb."
That silenced Lucan. The Big Man was known for his strange mixture of puritanism and utter corruption yet his offensive description of Caoimhe Lowe rankled with Lucan. In Lucan’s opinion, she was shallow, greedy and undoubtedly parasitic yet she hadn’t deserved to be blown up by a bomb. Nor did she deserve to be called names after her death. In fact, behind Lucan’s resentment was the opinion that Caoimhe Lowe would have made a good wife for a man in his position. For more reasons than the obvious ones.
“You still there, Lucan?” The Big Man was irate, a situation never far below the surface. He projected a semi-genial image in public but was a very different character in private.
“All right. I’ll fix this. I’ll contact the four main gangs and lay down the law to them.”
“You think so? They’re gone Lucan, pretty much wiped out. Men with razors and knives can’t fight guns. The Govan Team somehow got hold of enough pistols to equip their street operatives. It’s whispered that they even hired some Triad gunmen to help them and teach them gunfighting tactics.”
“Oh God.” Lucan was stunned. After the catastrophe of Paradigm Oil, the last thing any member of The Trust wanted was to run into the Triads. The Trust had operated for a century behind the scenes, manipulating and directing but never being directly involved and thus never paying a price for their actions. Until Triad hatchetmen had broken into the Paradigm Oil Saigon office and killed everybody inside. The idea of being at personal risk had shocked every member of The Trust.
“It’s worse than you think. The damned fools then went and double-crossed the Triads by moving into Chinatown and starting to sell drugs there. We’re only picking up whispers but it’s beginning to look like the Chinks wiped out some of the Govan Team in retaliation, for the double-cross. Fergus Chisholm assumed it was the South Side Stickers and went after them. When MacLachlan tried to negotiate a solution, the Govan Team killed him. Now, all four of the major gangs have wiped each other out. You’ve got to go in there, make contact with the leaderships that are left and reorganize the territories. Do you understand?”
“I do. On another matter, we have an opportunity to make a healthy profit from this affair over my family home. We can get a large payment from the Churston family but we might be better advised to let the matter ferment. That will give us a hold on the authorities in Rome.”
“Oh, for Chrissake, man. Just use your head if you want to keep it on your shoulders. Do whatever you think best. It’s all penny-ante stuff anyway. Glasgow is important, if it comes off, it could be as big a haul as New York promised to be and will replace our Paradigm losses. Don’t bother me with minor stuff again.”
There was a bang on the end of the line as The Big Man hung up. Lord Lucan put the telephone down very carefully and weighed up the odds facing him. Suddenly it seemed as if the money from the Churston business might make a very nice ‘going away’ fund.
Conrad’s Room, New Lanark Mill Hotel, Lanarkshire, April 16, 2000.
"Did you really insist that extra precautions be taken to protect bystanders?" Conrad turned to Angel who was sprawled out on the couch in the room, displaying her usual complete lack of personal elegance.
"I did. But, Conrad, try and understand. I've always done things that way. Your self-inflicted role in life of protecting innocent people is another reason why I do that but its only one more reason. I know everybody thinks psychopaths go around killing people for the hell of it but we don't. We do everything we do because it serves our interests and we have a very hard job understanding that anything else is relevant. Killing people unnecessarily does not serve my interests and makes my life harder. So I don't. Let me tell you something that happened when I was 15.
"I was already a hired gun then and a man wanted to hire me. In those days, my clients approached me directly and usually explained why, which was something I didn't want to know even then. Anyway, this man's 'Lizzie' was dying slowly and very painfully of cancer and he wanted her put out of her misery. Anyway, he'd heard I killed quickly and cleanly and wanted me to do 'Lizzie' so he could bury her body in the back garden. For all his yakking, he didn't tell me two things which were very important. One was that 'Lizzie' was his dog; he was so familiar with speaking about her he took it for granted people would know what he meant. The other thing was, he'd named his dog after his wife.
"So, I went to his house while he was out and let myself in. I met this woman standing there. She said 'Who are you?', I said 'are you Lizzie?', she said 'Yes', so I shot her. Six times. There was hell to pay about that. I refunded the client's money of course. In retrospect, why he didn't just go to a vet is beyond me."
Conrad looked at her with shock and horror on his face, then realized that she was grinning broadly. "Angel, you're kidding me, aren't you."
"Of course. Even at 15, I had more street smarts than to make a mistake like that. But, killing bystanders causes immense complications so I avoid doing it. Even so, not making you unhappy is important to me even though I don't understand why."
Conrad shook his head. He realized Angel had a macabre sense of humor but that one took the cake. Then, the telephone rang and he picked it up quickly. He listened for a few minutes, acknowledged the speaker and then hung up. “That was Lord Lucan. He says he found the relevant documents and wants to go over them with us. As soon as he gets back from a business trip.
“Watch your ass, Conrad.” Angel hesitated. “I’d prefer it if I went with you on that one.”
“We won’t meet until after he’s done his Glasgow trip so that should be possible.” Conrad had great faith in Angel’s instincts. “Let’s see how things break.”
Breakfast Room, New Lanark Mill Hotel, Lanarkshire, April 16, 2000.
Conrad dipped his bread into the seasoned olive oil and sighed gently with sheer pleasure. The breakfast plate he had been served was food fit for the Gods. He had started with a bowl of porridge, smoother than he was used to but with a taste all of its own. Then he had received his breakfast platter, to his delight centered around a half tomato, broiled with cheese on top, a rasher of bacon, a potato scone, a true British sausage, black pudding, sautéed mushrooms, baked beans and scrambled eggs. After he had put all that away, he had received a rack full of thick-cut whole-grain toast and his dish of olive oil. Although he seriously doubted that the last touch was a part of traditional Scottish cuisine, it was the perfect end to a meal fit for the Angels. It was a far cry indeed from the meager breakfast he had eaten in Birmingham half a century before.
His newspaper was full of the overnight events in Glasgow. Conrad was reading a long story about the destruction of a major drug-trafficking center and the rescue of a group of runaway children who had been held there. There were pictures, Conrad had problems getting used to newspapers printed in color, of the freed prisoners being given proper meals and new clothing by smiling police officers. He noted that all the rescued youths were females and he guessed what had happened to them even though the newspaper article skirted around that. Then he read the story more carefully and realized that the details were there, albeit elliptically phrased, and that they made grim reading.
"Excuse me, Sir. More tea? And a breakfast for your guest?" Conrad looked up at the waitress with a replacement teapot and then across the table where he expected to see Chris Keeble. Instead, Angel was sitting opposite him, with a slightly mocking smile on her face.
"I'm hungry, Conrad." Angel prompted.
"Yes, yes of course. A full breakfast for my guest please Jennie. With your excellent oatcakes. And thank you for the tea." Conrad sniffed slightly as the waitress vanished to get Angel's breakfast. "Alcohol?"
"I don't drink when I'm working, you know that." Angel looked around, noting that a man on the next table appeared to be listening. "Lea and I spent the night rubbing each other down with surgical alcohol."
The man on the next table choked on his tea.
"Where is 'Lea by the way?" Conrad was slightly concerned, although he admitted to himself that he would have been a lot more worried if Achillea had arrived and Angel hadn't.
"On her way in. Just taking a station break after driving most of the night. We're just reporting in to Chris and I wanted you to know that we're all right. Ah, oatmeal."
"Porridge." Conrad corrected her. "Scottish porridge has about the same resemblance to American oatmeal as fresh heavy cream does to wallpaper paste. Add some milk and butter; some people like to add salt as well. Jennie, we'll have another guest in a moment, another breakfast?"
Jennie bobbed in acknowledgement, then took off for the kitchen. Achillea entered the dining room, glanced around, spotted Conrad and Angel, then came over to join them.
"Your breakfast is on the way 'Lea. How is everything going?"
"Thank you, you're very kind. Especially after all those awful, beastly things you made us do last night." Achillea was completely deadpan.
On the next table, the eavesdropper suddenly choked on his potato scone and collapsed on the table heaving for breath. Achillea got up, gave him a vigorous Heimlich Maneuver and then patted him on the head. He gulped down what was left of his tea and fled.
"Are you two telepathic?" Conrad was smiling at the fate of the nosy neighbor.
"Not really . . . " Angel was hesitant. "When people like us work together, we get to know what the other is thinking under given circumstances. This porridge is good. I'll never be able to eat instant oatmeal again."
"Good for you. That instant stuff is hideously unhealthy. Packed with sugar and artificial ingredients." Achillea tucked into her porridge. "You're right this is good. Reminds me of when I was growing up in . . . school; we had porridge like this made from barley and flavored with olive oil and goat's cheese. And dill. We ate a lot of dill. They serve bread properly here as well. I’m going to like Scotland."
The breakfast plates for Achillea and Angel arrived along with another platter of fresh-baked breads and olive oil for Conrad. Jennie smiled at the two women. "Emergency Services?"
"In a way. How did you know?"
"My husband is a volunteer with St. Andew's Ambulance. He has to wipe down with alcohol if there's a danger of staph. Thank you for getting rid of Creepy. All the girls had a good laugh at the way you sent him packing."
"Our pleasure." Achillea finished her porridge and burped gently. "For porridge like that, we'll do it any time you like."
Secure Conference Room, New Lanark Mill Hotel, Lanarkshire, April 16, 2000.
"News is on." Chris Keeble had the television set running with the BBC Scotland 10 am news just starting.
"The Strathclyde Police force in Glasgow has scored two major victories against the gang war that has been raging in the city for the last eleven days. Allegedly acting on information allegedly received from the local community, a police team intercepted a group of alleged gangsters who had allegedly killed alleged members of an allegedly rival gang. Eight alleged members of the Beehive Jimmies are in custody and are reportedly assisting the Strathclyde Police with their inquiries.
"In another incident, Strathclyde Police detectives, again allegedly acting on information from the community, raided an alleged major drug processing and distribution center following an allegedly violent altercation between the alleged gangsters allegedly running the den. The detectives rescued over a dozen your women, some barely into their teens, and took them to safe houses outside the city where they are receiving badly-needed medical attention. Strathclyde Police spokesmen report that the volume of heroin and cocaine seized at the facility was enough to supply the city's illegal drug trafficking volume for three months.
"A further sign that the gang war may be coming to a close took place just after nine when merchants and residents in Chinatown announced they were forming a Neighborhood Watch to keep the bloody street battles of the last two weeks out of their part of the city. Sying Mau Zhong, elected as chairman of the neighborhood watch, said 'If good people stand together and cooperate with the authorities, then the shameful violence we have seen all over the city will not be repeated in our community. I appeal to all the good citizens of Glasgow to form similar Neighborhood Watches and drive these evil razor gangs out of our beautiful city.' And now. . . .”
“That’s it, this is the crisis point.” Angel looked at Keeble with a glance that made him cringe. He knew now just how dangerous she truly was, but also that she didn't trust him at all. He quickly decided that the two were not a comforting combination. “We’ve broken the four biggest gangs for you and severed their links with The Trust. The Beehive Jimmies are wiped out; the few survivors are in custody. You should be able to make the case stick since they were standing over the bodies with dripping razors in their hands. The South Side Stickers has been brutalized to the point where the survivors are isolated and running; the Gallowgate Mad Squad has been decapitated and the only reason why the Govan Team is any better off is because everybody believes they are using guns and that makes them people to stay away from.”
“I know what you two have achieved here but the butcher’s bill is frightening.” Keeble looked at the mounting casualty list in his hand. Some, many, of the dead still had to be identified. Bombs and multiple head-shots made identification hard. One could almost make a guess Keeble thought, that the less recognizable the body, the more likely these two are to have done it.
“How do you know?” Angel was slightly puzzled. “My accountant hasn’t even drawn it up yet.”
“To Angel, the butcher’s bill is a real bill. Paid with a real check.” Achillea was being earnestly helpful.
"Bank draft, not check. Checks can bounce. Preliminary total is 204,000 sovereigns." Angel thought for a second. "That excludes people I think were innocent bystanders. If they weren't, it goes up a bit. There are expenses to be added to that of course. My accountant is working those out now."
“Innocent bystanders?” Conrad didn’t like the sound of that at all.
“I’m sorry, Conrad, it’s bound to happen in a situation like this. Some people just stand up when they should duck and there are always those who just like hanging around in the underworld. Eventually, it catches up with them. Remember that guy in the garage, St Valentine’s Day? He was just hanging out there. If it’s any consolation, we’re working hard and taking some risks to keep it to a minimum.” Achillea looked at Conrad who suspected she had more than a slight knowledge of what happened in that garage in 1929.
“Taking risks?” It was Keeble's turn not to like the sound of what he was hearing. “We can’t compromise this operation.”
“We won’t, but Angel insists we keep bystanders out of it. She says Conrad would be upset if we start killing innocent people.” Achillea looked sideways at Conrad who had a relieved and happy expression on his face.
“Are you including the two women in the bar as innocent bystanders?” Angel nodded so Keeble carried on, “Well. Humpty will kick my arse for telling you this but you shouldn’t. The girl at the table, Cairistìne MacMhannain, was a really nasty piece of work. She started life as Christine MacMannan and had a really bad time in school. Lots of puppy fat, very plain and homely you see; gantin they call it up here and her classmates never let her forget it. When she started with the gangs, she began carrying a razor and really liked using it on other women. The barmaid was Moira MacInne. Her husband was Ethan MacInne, second in command of the South Side Stickers and she was very much cast in the Lady MacBeth mold. You got him in the women’s toilet. Did you target him?”
“We did.” Achillea answered. “Word was he was the brains of the South Siders. Now you’re telling us his wife was?”
"We think she was. As far as we can make out, the only actually innocent person who has been killed so far was Caoimhe Lowe and women who hang out with gangsters, well, becoming collateral damage is the rule, not the exception. Still, a quarter of a million sovereigns and almost seventy dead." Keeble was visibly shocked at the reality of what had once been an abstract plan.
"Compared with the hundreds of dead, a community destroyed and billions in property damage, that's an almost surgical strike." Achillea was a bit annoyed by Keeble's attitude. "In fact, it was a surgical strike. Have you seen what happened to Queens and Brooklyn? Four years later, the area is only just beginning to recover and the dead were measured in hundreds. By comparison, we did a damned fine job for you. You might show a little appreciation."
"I know, I'm sorry. You two are every bit as good as The Seer and Suriyothai suggested. Humpty is really pleased at how this has gone."
"It's not over yet." Angel was cautionary. "There are still four gangs out there. We have to make sure that they don't kill Sying Mau Zhong and his family and/or break up the Neighborhood Watches. If they do, then they can still win this war. Together, they number about the same as the late and completely unlamented Beehive Jimmies but that can work for them. They’ll be harder to find and they’ll know each other better. They're the bait of course, with the Beehive Jimmies gone, The Trust are going to have to establish contact with them directly. How goes that side of things, Conrad?"
"I'm reasonably sure Lord Lucan is a part of The Trust's operation here. We're waiting for confirmation of that now and he's under surveillance. Discretely of course."
"Part of?" Keeble seized on Conrad's words. "He's not the head?"
"I don't think so. He's got no bottom and too much side. He's no businessman; the story I fed him was full of holes but he didn't spot one of them. If The Trust has a collective identity, it's that of corrupt businessmen who aren't afraid to use seriously illegal methods as long as they show a profit and they have no concern for the wider interests of the society they live in. Lucan doesn't fit that pattern at all. He's a Dragon, not the Big Bad." Conrad thought carefully. "I believe he sees himself as being the rightful Big Bad though and there's a lot of resentment there. We could use that."
Laleham House, Laleham, Middlesex. April 16th 2000.
When The Telephone rang, Lord Lucan answered it personally. It was the only telephone in the house that he did answer himself and it was a firing offense for any member of the household staff to pick up that particular phone. There were no extensions on that particular line, or at least none that Lucan knew of. It was isolated in his private study, far from any possible eavesdroppers. As far as Lucan knew. He was, of course, wrong on both counts.
"Lucan?" The voice at the other end of the line was instantly recognizable.
"This is Lord Lucan, yes." Lucan spoke stiffly, very much on his dignity.
"Don't come the acid with me, Lucan. Glasgow is all screwed up. You need to fix it or those subsidies you live on might suddenly stop."
"I sent MacKenny up to deal with the situation."
"And he's dead. Blown apart in the street, his bitch along with him. Car bomb."
That silenced Lucan. The Big Man was known for his strange mixture of puritanism and utter corruption yet his offensive description of Caoimhe Lowe rankled with Lucan. In Lucan’s opinion, she was shallow, greedy and undoubtedly parasitic yet she hadn’t deserved to be blown up by a bomb. Nor did she deserve to be called names after her death. In fact, behind Lucan’s resentment was the opinion that Caoimhe Lowe would have made a good wife for a man in his position. For more reasons than the obvious ones.
“You still there, Lucan?” The Big Man was irate, a situation never far below the surface. He projected a semi-genial image in public but was a very different character in private.
“All right. I’ll fix this. I’ll contact the four main gangs and lay down the law to them.”
“You think so? They’re gone Lucan, pretty much wiped out. Men with razors and knives can’t fight guns. The Govan Team somehow got hold of enough pistols to equip their street operatives. It’s whispered that they even hired some Triad gunmen to help them and teach them gunfighting tactics.”
“Oh God.” Lucan was stunned. After the catastrophe of Paradigm Oil, the last thing any member of The Trust wanted was to run into the Triads. The Trust had operated for a century behind the scenes, manipulating and directing but never being directly involved and thus never paying a price for their actions. Until Triad hatchetmen had broken into the Paradigm Oil Saigon office and killed everybody inside. The idea of being at personal risk had shocked every member of The Trust.
“It’s worse than you think. The damned fools then went and double-crossed the Triads by moving into Chinatown and starting to sell drugs there. We’re only picking up whispers but it’s beginning to look like the Chinks wiped out some of the Govan Team in retaliation, for the double-cross. Fergus Chisholm assumed it was the South Side Stickers and went after them. When MacLachlan tried to negotiate a solution, the Govan Team killed him. Now, all four of the major gangs have wiped each other out. You’ve got to go in there, make contact with the leaderships that are left and reorganize the territories. Do you understand?”
“I do. On another matter, we have an opportunity to make a healthy profit from this affair over my family home. We can get a large payment from the Churston family but we might be better advised to let the matter ferment. That will give us a hold on the authorities in Rome.”
“Oh, for Chrissake, man. Just use your head if you want to keep it on your shoulders. Do whatever you think best. It’s all penny-ante stuff anyway. Glasgow is important, if it comes off, it could be as big a haul as New York promised to be and will replace our Paradigm losses. Don’t bother me with minor stuff again.”
There was a bang on the end of the line as The Big Man hung up. Lord Lucan put the telephone down very carefully and weighed up the odds facing him. Suddenly it seemed as if the money from the Churston business might make a very nice ‘going away’ fund.
Conrad’s Room, New Lanark Mill Hotel, Lanarkshire, April 16, 2000.
"Did you really insist that extra precautions be taken to protect bystanders?" Conrad turned to Angel who was sprawled out on the couch in the room, displaying her usual complete lack of personal elegance.
"I did. But, Conrad, try and understand. I've always done things that way. Your self-inflicted role in life of protecting innocent people is another reason why I do that but its only one more reason. I know everybody thinks psychopaths go around killing people for the hell of it but we don't. We do everything we do because it serves our interests and we have a very hard job understanding that anything else is relevant. Killing people unnecessarily does not serve my interests and makes my life harder. So I don't. Let me tell you something that happened when I was 15.
"I was already a hired gun then and a man wanted to hire me. In those days, my clients approached me directly and usually explained why, which was something I didn't want to know even then. Anyway, this man's 'Lizzie' was dying slowly and very painfully of cancer and he wanted her put out of her misery. Anyway, he'd heard I killed quickly and cleanly and wanted me to do 'Lizzie' so he could bury her body in the back garden. For all his yakking, he didn't tell me two things which were very important. One was that 'Lizzie' was his dog; he was so familiar with speaking about her he took it for granted people would know what he meant. The other thing was, he'd named his dog after his wife.
"So, I went to his house while he was out and let myself in. I met this woman standing there. She said 'Who are you?', I said 'are you Lizzie?', she said 'Yes', so I shot her. Six times. There was hell to pay about that. I refunded the client's money of course. In retrospect, why he didn't just go to a vet is beyond me."
Conrad looked at her with shock and horror on his face, then realized that she was grinning broadly. "Angel, you're kidding me, aren't you."
"Of course. Even at 15, I had more street smarts than to make a mistake like that. But, killing bystanders causes immense complications so I avoid doing it. Even so, not making you unhappy is important to me even though I don't understand why."
Conrad shook his head. He realized Angel had a macabre sense of humor but that one took the cake. Then, the telephone rang and he picked it up quickly. He listened for a few minutes, acknowledged the speaker and then hung up. “That was Lord Lucan. He says he found the relevant documents and wants to go over them with us. As soon as he gets back from a business trip.
“Watch your ass, Conrad.” Angel hesitated. “I’d prefer it if I went with you on that one.”
“We won’t meet until after he’s done his Glasgow trip so that should be possible.” Conrad had great faith in Angel’s instincts. “Let’s see how things break.”
Re: 2000 - Eye of the Gangster
Chapter Nine
Bucceuch Lane, Glasgow, April 17, 2000
"And just what do you plan to do with a jerrycan of full of gasoline and a box of matches?" Angel asked the question with a quite remarkable degree of innocence.
" Min' yer ain business, ye feckin' Chink huir."
"Do you mind, I'm Roman." Achillea was absolutely dedicated to the principle that she should always tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth whenever it suited her to do so. This had the advantage that nobody ever believed her.
"And I'm half Italian as well." Angel added the comment just to ensure the record was complete. "We have warned you Govan Team people about entering Chinatown. If you're dealing drugs, you're dead."
"Diz it swatch loch we're dealin' drugs, yee huir."
"Well, no. It looks like you intend to set this desirable urban residence on fire. Which would really upset the Neighborhood Watch. Not something you want to do by the way."
"Sae ye say. we'll gie those bast'ads a real scaur. See hoo they loch bein' oan tele efter they gie burned it"
Achillea looked at the building with a professional eye. She'd burned down more than a few courthouses whose records might have been embarrassing. "You burn the door, nobody will get out alive. Not with those bars over the windows."
"Sae, fowk gie real scared when they're burnin' up."
"Perhaps, but it's not going to happen. Now, put the can down, step away from it then face the wall with your hands above your heads."
Angel saw the eyes of the man in front of her start bulging as he realized she was deadly serious. " I'll cut yer coopon tae dogfuid, yee huir."
He reached into a pocket and drew out a straight-edge razor, swinging his hand back for the traditional slashing attack. Then, he felt his hand freeze and suddenly the razor wasn't in it any more. In that split second he saw the Chinese woman in front of him had drawn two pistols. She'd done so in what was, quite literally, the blink of an eye. Suddenly, without being told, he knew that it was this woman who had been responsible for the massacre at MacChuills Public House twelve days earlier.
Behind him, Achillea had seized his hand, her thumb pressing the nerve center in his wrist. That had caused him to drop his razor and she had caught it with her free hand. The simple fact that she had caught a falling, open straight-edge razor in mid-air without cutting her hand open was more impressive to the other three men that the threat of the two guns facing them. Achillea knew she was perilously close to being in the line of fire from Angel's guns but that didn't disturb her. She had absolute faith in the deadly precision of Angel's gunfire and knew the four men would be killed in a fraction of a second without one of the bullets threatening her. As obediently as stunned sheep, the men lined up by the wall and pressed their hands against the yellowish brick.
"All right, now. With your left hands, draw all your weapons and drop them on the sidewalk. If I find one weapon on you afterwards, I'll geld you with it." Achillea watched the knives and razors clatter to the pavement. "Now shuffle sideways, keeping your hands on the wall until you're clear of the cutlery. One false move and my partner will blow you full of holes. Big holes."
Achillea took the chance to look at the razor she had caught. "Hey, look at this. It's a real beauty. An antique, I think. Silver-inlaid, real tortoiseshell handle, not fake plastic. A beautifully-engraved blade. Too bad it'll end up in a police evidence locker and then be tossed. Why don't you take it and give it to your man?"
Angel would normally have bristled at the suggestion Conrad was 'her man' but realized Achillea has used the phrase to avoid giving out names. "He doesn't use a straight-edge. Prefers a safety razor."
"He'll still like it. Men like being given this sort of thing. Shows you thought of him." It was, of course, advice Achillea had been given by Igrat. She flipped the razor closed and gave it to Angel who stowed it in one of the pockets in her jeans.
Angel stared at the figures in front of her. "Take a bit of advice from somebody who has been inside. You're going down for a long, long time. You let on that the four of you were taken down without a fight by two women and you'll be getting the girlfriend experience for as long as you manage to survive. So, for your own sake, keep your mouths shut, understand?"
Behind Angel, half a dozen young Chinese men had arrived. One of them looked at her, a great smile beaming out of his face. " Dàjiě, wǒmen yǐjīng bàole jǐng. Tāmen hái zài lùshàng. Eldest sister, we have called the police. They are on their way."
"Thank you, Blue Lantern. Take over here and ensure these men are handed over to the gwailo, preferably unharmed, with all the evidence. The Hung Family is grateful for your help tonight."
Choi Weiyuan swelled slightly with pride at being so commended. Truly the new Neighborhood Watch has started off well and the 14K has fulfilled its promise to support and protect us. Angel and Achillea slipped away into the shadows a few seconds before the blue, white and red lights of the police cars lit up the lane.
"Forenicht aw, what's gonnae oan haur 'en." A very large and imposing police officer, recruited from Police Scotland specifically to serve in Glasgow, had extracted himself, with some difficulty due to his size, from the lead police car.
"These men tried to set this house on fire." The local inhabitants were quickly pouring out of their houses to watch the spectacle of four of the feared razormen being led away in handcuffs. One elderly Chinese woman picked something up.
The police officer spoke, apparently to open space and the stars above. " Mammy, if ah see ye flin' 'at nedry ah woods hae tae arrest ye an aw an' we dornt want tae dae 'at noo, dae we."
The woman dropped the brick and a ripple of laughter spread through the crowd. They watched appreciatively as the four men were properly cautioned and placed under arrest. The ripple of applause that went through the crowd as they were led away was split evenly in honor of the members of the Neighborhood Watch and the local police. Next morning, word would spread, first across Chinatown and then to the rest of the city. 'The Neighborhood Watches work and the police will come quickly.' The rest of the message was unspoken but was even more emphatic. 'The Triads are already here and they will protect us and our streets until the police arrive.'
83 Wanlock Street, Govan, Glasgow, April 18, 2000.
“You checked this one carefully.” Achillea’s comment was a statement of fact, not a question. Angel’s fact-checking was meticulous. That was another reason why Achillea liked working with her.
“I’ve had a spotter here since before we were in Lanarkshire. He’s confirmed the targets are in the house. Nobody else.”
Govan had been hard-hit during the war. Its heavy industry and shipyards had been perfect targets for the American Navy carrier planes coming in from the Atlantic. Easy to find, close enough to the sea for the Corsairs and Skyraiders to carry full bombloads, the whole area had been bombed into a desert. The few buildings that had survived from that era were pock-marked with bullet scars from .50 machine guns and 20mm cannon. Historians were already discussing whether the fighter-bombers were, or were not, a better way of attacking urban areas than the heavy bombers. The fact that the Corsairs and Skyraiders strafed the streets as well as bombing the buildings was a part of that.
Brutal post-war economics had meant that demining the Clyde had been the first objective since the desperate need to get ships carrying food into the ports trumped everything else. So, housing in Govan had been rebuilt as cheaply as possible and to the lowest standard that could be tolerated. Those early post-war buildings, constructed mostly from recovered rubble, had never been replaced. The whole area was a poverty-stricken slum that showed the price Britain had paid for Lord Halifax's treachery was ongoing.
The house in front of them was one of the worst examples of its kind. The plaster covering the exterior brickwork had peeled off, leaving the bricks exposed and decaying. The wooden doors to the plot were rotting and hanging off their hinges and, from Angel's vantage point, it looked as if the house doors weren't much better. Their paint had already peeled off and it seemed like it had never been repainted since the place had been built. In New York, Angel had lived in the basement of an abandoned house just off Mott Street, one that had been condemned as unfit for human habitation even before it had been boarded up and abandoned. The house she was looking at now wasn't precisely worse but it was similar enough to make her think over what was about to happen.
"Checking once more. Nobody in that house except the Govan Team leadership. Confirm or deny."
There was a pause while the spotter checked again. "Confirm, only targets in kill zone."
Angel nestled down slightly, the long tube of her RPG extending over her shoulder. She had brought a pack of four rounds with her, two explosive, two white phosphorus. One of the white phosphorus rounds was in the launcher now. Their position was carefully chosen so that between her and Achillea, both front and rear exits of the house were covered. She settled herself, took careful aimed and fired the first rocket, sending it arcing through the air into the largest window on the ground floor. There was a momentary pause and then a dull 'whomph' noise as the warhead exploded, sending dense clouds of white smoke pouring out of the ground floor windows. Angel was already slipping the second white phosphorus rocket into the launcher. Soon, the dense clouds of smoke were pouring out of the upper floor as well. Behind the white smoke, Angel could see the black and orange of flames starting to consume the building.
The occupants had no choice; the alternative to fleeing for their lives was to stay inside with the choking smoke and the hell of burning flakes of white phosphorus. They chose to run. Three came out of the front door, relying on the smoke for cover against the gunmen they guessed had to be waiting. The first one out never made more than three steps before a shot from Achillea’s Barrett cut him down. She’d actually put the shot through his center of mass but almost any hit from the .50 hollow-point would have been lethal. The second man came out sideways, trying to run along the wall and use it for cover than get clear of the burning building. In Achillea’s opinion it was probably the best of a bad series of options but it made little difference. She had to pause until she had a clear shot through the dense smoke but once she did, the man went down with obvious finality.
That had taken time and Achillea had to swing her rifle fast to keep the third man in her sights. That movement and the hollow-point round combined to jam the feed. She struggled with the bolt for a few seconds but the .50 round was at an acute angle in the chamber and she knew it would take at least half an hour to clear it. Angel had warned her about using hollow points from a semi-automatic weapon but Achillea had ignored the advice. Now, doing so had bitten her in the ass.
The interruption in the steady firing pattern told Angel what had happened. She saw the third man from the front of the building running sideways and saw that he was inside the shadow of Achillea’s position. Angel dropped her RPG, drew a single pistol and rested the barrel on her forearm to steady the weapon. A deep breath composed herself and she squeezed off a single shot that dropped the man in his tracks. Even if he wasn’t dead, Achillea could finish him off with her own pistol.
That left two men who had evacuated the burning house through the back door. They had split, running away at almost 45 degree angles. One of the men had only a few yards to go before another building would give him cover. He had to go first. Once again, Angel steadied her pistol on her wrist and concentrated on the shot to the exclusion of all else. Her Beretta cracked and the man went down, a visible pool of blood spreading around him. Angel guessed her shot had severed an artery but that could be confirmed later.
The final man was now almost seventy yards away and running hard. Angel aimed carefully and fired. The man lurched, stumbled and almost fell but continued to run. She fired again, once more causing her target to stumble and this time clutch his arm but he kept going. Angel took a very deep breath, aimed carefully and fired a third time. This time, the man went down although he was still alive. He was trying to drag himself away with his legs trailing helplessly behind him. Spine severed Angel thought, realizing that she was pushing her pistols to the extreme edge of their capability.
"'Lea, I got the sixth man but he's alive and I can't guarantee hitting him at this range. We'll need to go down and finish them off." Angel and Achillea both had a throat-microphone and earpiece each.
"Already down here. I finished off the man you shot here. The Barrett's jammed. If you say you warned me about using hollow-points, I will hurt you."
Angel grinned at that. She knew that she was much better with handguns than Achillea but that Achillea had the same margin of superiority over her in virtually everything else. "Two more need checking round the back. I'll cover you from up here. With FMJs."
"Smartass. First one's dead." Angel saw Achillea walking over to the body of the second man. "He's gone. Femoral artery cut. That was an either an incredible shot or sheer luck."
Angel was still scanning for potential threat so she didn't see Achillea walking over to the third man. She did hear the crack as Achillea finished him with a headshot. Fergus Chisholm had tried to drag himself away but he hadn't made more than a yard or two and had left a thick blood trail. Achillea's kill-shot had probably been merciful. Her voice came over Angel's ear-phone. "That's seventy five yards, probably nearer 80. Three shots, three hits. I wouldn't have believed it if I wasn't looking at it. I once said if he had any brains, he wouldn't stop running until he's abroad. And then he'd better watch his back for the rest of his life. Well, he stopped running too soon and now he hasn't any brains left. With that hole on his head, he should be able to watch his back now."
"We need to get out of here, 'Lea."
Angel watched Achillea look around. "We're OK. People around here don't call the police and they mind their own business. We won't see the cops unless they heard the gunfire. Still, it's time to leave. See you at the car."
Cowcaddens Road, Glasgow, 19th April, 2000.
"Our brothers, sisters and cousins have been sorely oppressed by the razor gangs. Two nights ago, at attempt was made to burn our brother Sying Mau Zhong and his family alive. The foul plot was exposed by our brave Neighborhood Watch and the very next day, the gwailo fiends who ordered the attack were themselves killed. Divine justice is surely swift and certain." Gordon Chang knew exactly who he was speaking to and who had been responsible for ending the disruption in Chinatown on the 17th. And who had killed the people responsible on the 18th. Messing around with Hēilóng Shāshǒu was terminally stupid. However, there was something Chang wanted to know and that was whether there was any truth to a whispered story. He decided that asking was worth the risk. "I have heard, eldest sister, that you worship King Yang, the Dark God of Death and sleep with poisonous snakes in your bed."
"I have heard that too." Angel had, in fact, heard that particular story before and it amused her greatly. The only gods she had were her guns, and while she admired venomous snakes, she didn't want them closer to her than necessary. "The sufferings of our family must end. We all, I think, agree on that."
There was a generalized nodding around the table. Angel had found there were two real but extremely weak Tongs in the area with a total membership of less than a dozen. They were of no account in the balance of power and that had to change. "You have heard our offer, brothers. London House of the 14K Triad will open a sub-house here in Glasgow. You and your members will be invited to join us. You will be joining as Sai-Lo it is true but provided you learn the 36 Oaths and live by them, you will be able to grow with the House. Soon, very soon, Glasgow House will stand equal with any other and its members with it."
Chang looked at Zeng, the other Tong leader and they shared an unspoken moment of agreement. With the 14K Triad establishing itself, there will be no place for a Tong any more. If we do not take this opportunity to join with the 14K, we will be marginalized and left of no account. The Tongs are dying because we failed to change with the times. We still get our income by street crime and protection money. Things the Triads left behind long ago. It is time.
"The Renfrew Tong would be honored to join with the 14K in guaranteeing the safety of our family."
"As would the Whitehall Tong." Zeng was quick to move in. "Would the 14K be generous enough to provide teachers that we might learn the 36 Oaths?"
"That can be arranged and would be our privilege." Angel settled back comfortably in her seat. "Now, I would be honored if you would consider joining me for our evening rice."
Bucceuch Lane, Glasgow, April 17, 2000
"And just what do you plan to do with a jerrycan of full of gasoline and a box of matches?" Angel asked the question with a quite remarkable degree of innocence.
" Min' yer ain business, ye feckin' Chink huir."
"Do you mind, I'm Roman." Achillea was absolutely dedicated to the principle that she should always tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth whenever it suited her to do so. This had the advantage that nobody ever believed her.
"And I'm half Italian as well." Angel added the comment just to ensure the record was complete. "We have warned you Govan Team people about entering Chinatown. If you're dealing drugs, you're dead."
"Diz it swatch loch we're dealin' drugs, yee huir."
"Well, no. It looks like you intend to set this desirable urban residence on fire. Which would really upset the Neighborhood Watch. Not something you want to do by the way."
"Sae ye say. we'll gie those bast'ads a real scaur. See hoo they loch bein' oan tele efter they gie burned it"
Achillea looked at the building with a professional eye. She'd burned down more than a few courthouses whose records might have been embarrassing. "You burn the door, nobody will get out alive. Not with those bars over the windows."
"Sae, fowk gie real scared when they're burnin' up."
"Perhaps, but it's not going to happen. Now, put the can down, step away from it then face the wall with your hands above your heads."
Angel saw the eyes of the man in front of her start bulging as he realized she was deadly serious. " I'll cut yer coopon tae dogfuid, yee huir."
He reached into a pocket and drew out a straight-edge razor, swinging his hand back for the traditional slashing attack. Then, he felt his hand freeze and suddenly the razor wasn't in it any more. In that split second he saw the Chinese woman in front of him had drawn two pistols. She'd done so in what was, quite literally, the blink of an eye. Suddenly, without being told, he knew that it was this woman who had been responsible for the massacre at MacChuills Public House twelve days earlier.
Behind him, Achillea had seized his hand, her thumb pressing the nerve center in his wrist. That had caused him to drop his razor and she had caught it with her free hand. The simple fact that she had caught a falling, open straight-edge razor in mid-air without cutting her hand open was more impressive to the other three men that the threat of the two guns facing them. Achillea knew she was perilously close to being in the line of fire from Angel's guns but that didn't disturb her. She had absolute faith in the deadly precision of Angel's gunfire and knew the four men would be killed in a fraction of a second without one of the bullets threatening her. As obediently as stunned sheep, the men lined up by the wall and pressed their hands against the yellowish brick.
"All right, now. With your left hands, draw all your weapons and drop them on the sidewalk. If I find one weapon on you afterwards, I'll geld you with it." Achillea watched the knives and razors clatter to the pavement. "Now shuffle sideways, keeping your hands on the wall until you're clear of the cutlery. One false move and my partner will blow you full of holes. Big holes."
Achillea took the chance to look at the razor she had caught. "Hey, look at this. It's a real beauty. An antique, I think. Silver-inlaid, real tortoiseshell handle, not fake plastic. A beautifully-engraved blade. Too bad it'll end up in a police evidence locker and then be tossed. Why don't you take it and give it to your man?"
Angel would normally have bristled at the suggestion Conrad was 'her man' but realized Achillea has used the phrase to avoid giving out names. "He doesn't use a straight-edge. Prefers a safety razor."
"He'll still like it. Men like being given this sort of thing. Shows you thought of him." It was, of course, advice Achillea had been given by Igrat. She flipped the razor closed and gave it to Angel who stowed it in one of the pockets in her jeans.
Angel stared at the figures in front of her. "Take a bit of advice from somebody who has been inside. You're going down for a long, long time. You let on that the four of you were taken down without a fight by two women and you'll be getting the girlfriend experience for as long as you manage to survive. So, for your own sake, keep your mouths shut, understand?"
Behind Angel, half a dozen young Chinese men had arrived. One of them looked at her, a great smile beaming out of his face. " Dàjiě, wǒmen yǐjīng bàole jǐng. Tāmen hái zài lùshàng. Eldest sister, we have called the police. They are on their way."
"Thank you, Blue Lantern. Take over here and ensure these men are handed over to the gwailo, preferably unharmed, with all the evidence. The Hung Family is grateful for your help tonight."
Choi Weiyuan swelled slightly with pride at being so commended. Truly the new Neighborhood Watch has started off well and the 14K has fulfilled its promise to support and protect us. Angel and Achillea slipped away into the shadows a few seconds before the blue, white and red lights of the police cars lit up the lane.
"Forenicht aw, what's gonnae oan haur 'en." A very large and imposing police officer, recruited from Police Scotland specifically to serve in Glasgow, had extracted himself, with some difficulty due to his size, from the lead police car.
"These men tried to set this house on fire." The local inhabitants were quickly pouring out of their houses to watch the spectacle of four of the feared razormen being led away in handcuffs. One elderly Chinese woman picked something up.
The police officer spoke, apparently to open space and the stars above. " Mammy, if ah see ye flin' 'at nedry ah woods hae tae arrest ye an aw an' we dornt want tae dae 'at noo, dae we."
The woman dropped the brick and a ripple of laughter spread through the crowd. They watched appreciatively as the four men were properly cautioned and placed under arrest. The ripple of applause that went through the crowd as they were led away was split evenly in honor of the members of the Neighborhood Watch and the local police. Next morning, word would spread, first across Chinatown and then to the rest of the city. 'The Neighborhood Watches work and the police will come quickly.' The rest of the message was unspoken but was even more emphatic. 'The Triads are already here and they will protect us and our streets until the police arrive.'
83 Wanlock Street, Govan, Glasgow, April 18, 2000.
“You checked this one carefully.” Achillea’s comment was a statement of fact, not a question. Angel’s fact-checking was meticulous. That was another reason why Achillea liked working with her.
“I’ve had a spotter here since before we were in Lanarkshire. He’s confirmed the targets are in the house. Nobody else.”
Govan had been hard-hit during the war. Its heavy industry and shipyards had been perfect targets for the American Navy carrier planes coming in from the Atlantic. Easy to find, close enough to the sea for the Corsairs and Skyraiders to carry full bombloads, the whole area had been bombed into a desert. The few buildings that had survived from that era were pock-marked with bullet scars from .50 machine guns and 20mm cannon. Historians were already discussing whether the fighter-bombers were, or were not, a better way of attacking urban areas than the heavy bombers. The fact that the Corsairs and Skyraiders strafed the streets as well as bombing the buildings was a part of that.
Brutal post-war economics had meant that demining the Clyde had been the first objective since the desperate need to get ships carrying food into the ports trumped everything else. So, housing in Govan had been rebuilt as cheaply as possible and to the lowest standard that could be tolerated. Those early post-war buildings, constructed mostly from recovered rubble, had never been replaced. The whole area was a poverty-stricken slum that showed the price Britain had paid for Lord Halifax's treachery was ongoing.
The house in front of them was one of the worst examples of its kind. The plaster covering the exterior brickwork had peeled off, leaving the bricks exposed and decaying. The wooden doors to the plot were rotting and hanging off their hinges and, from Angel's vantage point, it looked as if the house doors weren't much better. Their paint had already peeled off and it seemed like it had never been repainted since the place had been built. In New York, Angel had lived in the basement of an abandoned house just off Mott Street, one that had been condemned as unfit for human habitation even before it had been boarded up and abandoned. The house she was looking at now wasn't precisely worse but it was similar enough to make her think over what was about to happen.
"Checking once more. Nobody in that house except the Govan Team leadership. Confirm or deny."
There was a pause while the spotter checked again. "Confirm, only targets in kill zone."
Angel nestled down slightly, the long tube of her RPG extending over her shoulder. She had brought a pack of four rounds with her, two explosive, two white phosphorus. One of the white phosphorus rounds was in the launcher now. Their position was carefully chosen so that between her and Achillea, both front and rear exits of the house were covered. She settled herself, took careful aimed and fired the first rocket, sending it arcing through the air into the largest window on the ground floor. There was a momentary pause and then a dull 'whomph' noise as the warhead exploded, sending dense clouds of white smoke pouring out of the ground floor windows. Angel was already slipping the second white phosphorus rocket into the launcher. Soon, the dense clouds of smoke were pouring out of the upper floor as well. Behind the white smoke, Angel could see the black and orange of flames starting to consume the building.
The occupants had no choice; the alternative to fleeing for their lives was to stay inside with the choking smoke and the hell of burning flakes of white phosphorus. They chose to run. Three came out of the front door, relying on the smoke for cover against the gunmen they guessed had to be waiting. The first one out never made more than three steps before a shot from Achillea’s Barrett cut him down. She’d actually put the shot through his center of mass but almost any hit from the .50 hollow-point would have been lethal. The second man came out sideways, trying to run along the wall and use it for cover than get clear of the burning building. In Achillea’s opinion it was probably the best of a bad series of options but it made little difference. She had to pause until she had a clear shot through the dense smoke but once she did, the man went down with obvious finality.
That had taken time and Achillea had to swing her rifle fast to keep the third man in her sights. That movement and the hollow-point round combined to jam the feed. She struggled with the bolt for a few seconds but the .50 round was at an acute angle in the chamber and she knew it would take at least half an hour to clear it. Angel had warned her about using hollow points from a semi-automatic weapon but Achillea had ignored the advice. Now, doing so had bitten her in the ass.
The interruption in the steady firing pattern told Angel what had happened. She saw the third man from the front of the building running sideways and saw that he was inside the shadow of Achillea’s position. Angel dropped her RPG, drew a single pistol and rested the barrel on her forearm to steady the weapon. A deep breath composed herself and she squeezed off a single shot that dropped the man in his tracks. Even if he wasn’t dead, Achillea could finish him off with her own pistol.
That left two men who had evacuated the burning house through the back door. They had split, running away at almost 45 degree angles. One of the men had only a few yards to go before another building would give him cover. He had to go first. Once again, Angel steadied her pistol on her wrist and concentrated on the shot to the exclusion of all else. Her Beretta cracked and the man went down, a visible pool of blood spreading around him. Angel guessed her shot had severed an artery but that could be confirmed later.
The final man was now almost seventy yards away and running hard. Angel aimed carefully and fired. The man lurched, stumbled and almost fell but continued to run. She fired again, once more causing her target to stumble and this time clutch his arm but he kept going. Angel took a very deep breath, aimed carefully and fired a third time. This time, the man went down although he was still alive. He was trying to drag himself away with his legs trailing helplessly behind him. Spine severed Angel thought, realizing that she was pushing her pistols to the extreme edge of their capability.
"'Lea, I got the sixth man but he's alive and I can't guarantee hitting him at this range. We'll need to go down and finish them off." Angel and Achillea both had a throat-microphone and earpiece each.
"Already down here. I finished off the man you shot here. The Barrett's jammed. If you say you warned me about using hollow-points, I will hurt you."
Angel grinned at that. She knew that she was much better with handguns than Achillea but that Achillea had the same margin of superiority over her in virtually everything else. "Two more need checking round the back. I'll cover you from up here. With FMJs."
"Smartass. First one's dead." Angel saw Achillea walking over to the body of the second man. "He's gone. Femoral artery cut. That was an either an incredible shot or sheer luck."
Angel was still scanning for potential threat so she didn't see Achillea walking over to the third man. She did hear the crack as Achillea finished him with a headshot. Fergus Chisholm had tried to drag himself away but he hadn't made more than a yard or two and had left a thick blood trail. Achillea's kill-shot had probably been merciful. Her voice came over Angel's ear-phone. "That's seventy five yards, probably nearer 80. Three shots, three hits. I wouldn't have believed it if I wasn't looking at it. I once said if he had any brains, he wouldn't stop running until he's abroad. And then he'd better watch his back for the rest of his life. Well, he stopped running too soon and now he hasn't any brains left. With that hole on his head, he should be able to watch his back now."
"We need to get out of here, 'Lea."
Angel watched Achillea look around. "We're OK. People around here don't call the police and they mind their own business. We won't see the cops unless they heard the gunfire. Still, it's time to leave. See you at the car."
Cowcaddens Road, Glasgow, 19th April, 2000.
"Our brothers, sisters and cousins have been sorely oppressed by the razor gangs. Two nights ago, at attempt was made to burn our brother Sying Mau Zhong and his family alive. The foul plot was exposed by our brave Neighborhood Watch and the very next day, the gwailo fiends who ordered the attack were themselves killed. Divine justice is surely swift and certain." Gordon Chang knew exactly who he was speaking to and who had been responsible for ending the disruption in Chinatown on the 17th. And who had killed the people responsible on the 18th. Messing around with Hēilóng Shāshǒu was terminally stupid. However, there was something Chang wanted to know and that was whether there was any truth to a whispered story. He decided that asking was worth the risk. "I have heard, eldest sister, that you worship King Yang, the Dark God of Death and sleep with poisonous snakes in your bed."
"I have heard that too." Angel had, in fact, heard that particular story before and it amused her greatly. The only gods she had were her guns, and while she admired venomous snakes, she didn't want them closer to her than necessary. "The sufferings of our family must end. We all, I think, agree on that."
There was a generalized nodding around the table. Angel had found there were two real but extremely weak Tongs in the area with a total membership of less than a dozen. They were of no account in the balance of power and that had to change. "You have heard our offer, brothers. London House of the 14K Triad will open a sub-house here in Glasgow. You and your members will be invited to join us. You will be joining as Sai-Lo it is true but provided you learn the 36 Oaths and live by them, you will be able to grow with the House. Soon, very soon, Glasgow House will stand equal with any other and its members with it."
Chang looked at Zeng, the other Tong leader and they shared an unspoken moment of agreement. With the 14K Triad establishing itself, there will be no place for a Tong any more. If we do not take this opportunity to join with the 14K, we will be marginalized and left of no account. The Tongs are dying because we failed to change with the times. We still get our income by street crime and protection money. Things the Triads left behind long ago. It is time.
"The Renfrew Tong would be honored to join with the 14K in guaranteeing the safety of our family."
"As would the Whitehall Tong." Zeng was quick to move in. "Would the 14K be generous enough to provide teachers that we might learn the 36 Oaths?"
"That can be arranged and would be our privilege." Angel settled back comfortably in her seat. "Now, I would be honored if you would consider joining me for our evening rice."
Re: 2000 - Eye of the Gangster
Chapter Ten
Manor House of Avebury, April 19, 2000
“Good to see you again, Sir. Welcome to Avebury Manor. Been a few years since you were here last hasn’t it?” Sergeant Harper conducted Conrad inside. Once through the front door, memories came flooding back and threatened to overwhelm him. One thing every Daimones learned was to exercise great care in going back to somewhere they had once loved and where they had been happy. It was all too easy for the reality of the present to destroy the pleasure of such old memories.
“Just over two hundred and fifty, Sergeant Harper. I was last here just before Culloden.”
“Begging your pardon, Sir, it’s Mister Harper right now. The Lieutenant General and I are between stints as it were. So he’s Sir Richard Strachan, the Lord of the Manor right now, and I’m the Estate Manager.” Harper was obviously trying to keep the curiosity out of his voice. “Will your lady be joining us, Sir?”
“Angel? No, she’s still working elsewhere. However, I do need to discuss one of the aspects of the current situation with Sir Richard.”
Harper looked considerably disappointed at not meeting Angel about whom he was intensely curious. To be fair, that was the reaction most of the long-lived community had where Angel was concerned. "Sir Richard sends his apologies but he is away right now; he will return shortly. You will be staying overnight, of course?"
"If it wouldn't cause too much inconvenience, I would much enjoy that."
Four hours later, Conrad was sitting in the private library with Lieutenant General Sir Richard Strachan, nursing a large Armagnac brandy and catching up on old times.
"So when The Seer and his group left, they deeded the Manor House to the Piccadilly Circus and we use it now as a rest and seclusion place, a safe house if you will, for our members who need to get out of the public eye for a while. Some of Loki's Geneva people come here as well for the same reason. To the locals, most of whom are our tenants by the way, we're just the Manorial Family and have been since the 1680s. For a small group like ours, it works pretty well. Now how can I help you with this Glasgow business?"
"Getting the city back under control is happening pretty fast now." Conrad was current with the situation as of that morning. The killing of the Govan Team leadership was officially a part of the gang war that was now dying down as the members of the razor gangs either killed each other or left town. In fact, even the police understood that it had been carried out by a Triad hit-team in retaliation for the attempted murder of Sying Mau Zhong and his family. The Strathclyde Police had also understood that the network of Neighborhood Watches was spreading rapidly and bringing the reign of terror conducted by the razor gangs to a relatively peaceful and legal end. That the Chinese Neighborhood Watches, in particular, were controlled by the 14K Triad was something that they also knew but could accept. After all, the Triad gunmen Angel had brought in as "teachers of Chinese traditions" had made it clear they were merely controlling situations and would do so as bloodlessly as possible until the Police turned up and took over legally. "What we need to do is to make sure that the organization behind the trouble in Glasgow is identified and its members located. The one major lead we have right now is John Bingham, 7th Earl of Lucan."
"Ahh, yes. Unsavory blighter. Not quite sound you know."
"That's what we're looking into. The closer I examine him, the less convincing I find him to be as the mastermind behind this. He doesn't have the profile of a leader and he certainly doesn't have the business expertise. He looks to me more like an enforcer, a Dragon in dramatic terms, not the Big Bad. I've got a feeling he's being set up to take the fall for this. Now, experience with The Trust to date has been that the members have known each other over a period of many years. So, I'm looking into Lucan's background to identify any possible candidates for the Big Bad. I find the sudden termination of his Army career in 1955 interesting but there are no records as to what happened."
"1955. Coldstream Guards I think. Yes, that was a bad do all around. The Guards hushed it all up of course, against the advice of the Ministry I might say. Lucan, Second Lieutenant Bingham as he was then, was asked to resign his commission. Lucky for him. A few years earlier he would have found a bottle of whiskey and a revolver loaded with one round in his quarters."
Conrad blinked at that. "What happened?"
Strachan sat back in his seat and composed his thoughts. When he spoke, he did so very carefully, obviously choosing his words circumspectly. "Being defeated and occupied has strange effects on a country. It is not something that the British people are familiar with and so they did not know what these effects were or how to guard against them. One such effect is that people become accustomed to a level of chance being inserted unto their lives. There is a chance, perhaps a small one but still there, that they may be in the wrong place at the wrong time and caught up in a Resistance incident. There is a chance, a small one but still there, that they might be one of the people seized by the occupying forces and executed as a reprisal. When the occupation ends, so does the inserted element of chance but now people are familiar with it and find its departure leaves a strange gap in their lives. So, they tend to fill that gap by gambling.
"So, in the 1950s, gambling, organized and disorganized became a problem here. One sign of that was the opening of casinos in London. They catered to the wealthier but seedier elements of the population, war profiteers, black marketeers and that sort. Honest people didn't have the money for that kind of gaming. A backstreet game of Pitch and Toss was more their line. The less honest, though, gravitated to the 'gaming clubs'. Of those, the most notable was the Clermont Club in Mayfair. Under British law at the time, gaming clubs had to be open to members only and the clubs had to get their take from membership fees and food and drink charges rather than as a percentage of the gaming stakes. This obviously didn't give the Club owners much room to make money so they brought in professional card-sharps to cheat the players. That was foolish because the membership of the Clermont Club included five dukes, five marquesses, twenty earls and two cabinet ministers."
"Let me guess. One of the card-sharps was Lucan."
"Well done that man. Good drills, Sir." In the background, Harper chuckled at Strachan's compliment. Strachan sipped his whiskey and continued. "Cheating people like that can't continue long and the bosses of the Clermont Club were idiots to have tried. They swindled some of the wealthiest people in Britain out of millions of pounds, in 1950s money no less, and those people had, still have, a lot of clout. At a time when the country was barely keeping its head above water, that was something that couldn't be allowed to continue. The authorities basically looked at everybody associated with the Clermont Club and concentrated on the members there who weren't losing large sums of money. One of them was Second Lieutenant Bingham of the Coldstream Guards. It was never quite proved he was one of the cheating players, but he should, of course, never have been in there in the first place. There’s also the issue that even suspicion of cheating at cards is about the most serious offense against mess life there is. Taken together, there was enough against him to make the Guards get rid of him. The whole Clermont Club business was a black scandal and the Army wanted no part of it. Nor did they want any part of an officer who was so lacking in basic judgement that he had become involved in it."
"So that raises an obvious question. Was the Clermont Club a front for The Trust?"
Strahan shook his head, not in denial but admitting that he just did not know. "Back then, nobody knew The Trust even existed. There was a rumor that American organized crime was involved but some discrete inquiries showed otherwise. There was a quiet meeting with an undeniable expert on gambling, Meyer Lansky, who pointed out that successful, by which he meant highly profitable, gambling operations had to be strictly honest for exactly the reasons demonstrated by the Clermont Club in London. He did allow that some Mob people who had failed to make the grade and eased out might have been involved but he hadn't heard of any. Being that he was who he was, we concluded he would have known if there had been any such people. In a strange way, this whole business in Glasgow might well link the Clermont Club to The Trust. Forty years too late of course, but still interesting."
"Let's assume a link does exist. The whole Clermont thing seems to me to be a way of sucking money out of a country that was too broke and battered to make The Trust's usual mode of operation practical."
"Harsh, but true." Strachan nodded.
"So, it would imply that the people who were running the Clermont Club back then are probably the same people, or at least some of them, who are running the UK branch of The Trust now. Or their descendants; all the information we've gathered on The Trust over the last four years points to them being multi-generational. Membership of The Trust is handed down from father to son, generation after generation. The Seer was afraid of the possibility that they had our Gift but we've met some of them and they don't. So we could be looking at children or even grandchildren."
Strachan was aware, of course, that 'met' was a euphemism. He knew that Angel had 'met' Darnell Weaver, head of The Trust's Saigon branch to her profit and Weaver's great disadvantage. "Most of them are dead of course, remember this was in the 1950s and they were nearly all middle-aged men then. Now, they would be old enough to live in Holmfirth."
"So, we would be looking at descendants then?"
"Probably. There is one candidate surviving from those days. He's in his late 80s now but apparently he's still mentally and physically active. Name was Jaroslav Lubomir Heche. He escaped from Czechoslovakia in 1939, went to Britain then escaped again to Canada in 1942. Rode Howeout in the Great Escape. Served in the Canadian Army on the Kola Peninsula and had a pretty distinguished war record. Changed his name to Robin Mansell for his army service and, postwar, kept that name when he set up a publishing empire. He moved into newspaper publishing in the very early 1960s and made a fortune out of it. I've actually met him; he seemed affable enough and his newspapers gave good coverage to us when we were down South. His nickname in Private Eye is "The Bouncing Czech'. His business practices were always seen as a bit off but he was never convicted of anything. He's not one of us by the way. Just got good genes."
Conrad absorbed that and fitted the information into the general scheme he had created. "Of course, it might be that Lucan is not involved in this and that would kill the link to the Clermont Club stone dead. Was the money stolen from the club members ever recovered?"
"Not a penny. It all vanished, the way morning dew on grass vanishes when the sun comes up."
"That was 1957? And Mansell started assembling his publishing and newspaper empire a year or two later." Conrad didn't like coincidences.
"Exactly." Nor did Sir Richard Strachan.
33 Harmony Place, Govan, Glasgow. April 22, 2000
Lord Lucan felt more than a little concerned about leaving his Bentley parked on the street in Govan. The car might be equipped with every security device its builders FSO parent could think of but he wasn't convinced it would still have its wheels when he finally got back to it. He had chosen to make the arduous drive up from South East England to Glasgow on security grounds. Travelling by air or train would mean buying a ticket and that would create a paper trail. He hadn't driven himself of course; he had a driver to do that and FSO had designed a particularly comfortable back seat for the Bentley.
"Stay with the car McManus and make sure it doesn't get damaged. Baldwin, come with me."
Inside the safe-house, the four surviving razor gang leaders were waiting. It had taken time to find them and reassure them that the meeting was safe. Lucan had been in Glasgow before and he could feel the change. Before, the razormen had strutted through the streets, reveling in the fear that they caused by their mere presence. Now, their numbers had been brutally hacked down and the survivors knew they were hunted men. The Neighborhood Watches were spreading across the city and were the eyes and ears of the police. Any attempt at reprisals against members of the watches met with disaster. Sometimes, mostly, the men sent to take revenge on the watchers were cornered by the locals and arrested by police who turned up with unnerving speed. On a few occasions, the gangsters were simply found dead, mostly shot through the head by pistol fire or snipers. Sometimes, the razormen just disappeared and it was rumored that the Chinese community in Glasgow had stopped eating pork.
Lucan looked at what was left of The Trust’s campaign to wreck Glasgow, take over and harvest vast profits from rebuilding the city. Killed, wounded or missing. The old military casualty formula ran through his mind. There were few wounded in this gang war. Some were dead, some had fled the city, the rest were either under arrest or in hiding. The four leading gangs that The Trust had patiently created and trained had been obliterated. Once again, he looked at the men in the room. These are hardly even the second division.
“All right, what happened.”
Morgan MacGregor drew a deep breath. Time tae teach this sassenach gowk whit haes happened 'ere . “Th' Beehive Jimmies 'n' th' Sooth Side Stickers split th' drug trade atween thaim. Cut th' Govan Team 'n' th' Gallowgate Mad Squad oot an' left lae ay us naethin' but crooms. When we signed oan fur thes ye tauld us we woods aw gie rich. 'At isnae happenin' sae th' Govan Team went in tae carve themselves a shaur. Th' damned gowks went bowlin' in Sooth Side Stickers turf an' tried tae seel drugs tae th' Chinks. Thay stairted a war atween th' four muckle gangs 'n' rought th' Chink Triads doon oan oor heids. Ah tell ye this, sassenach, they Chink ginmen ur guid. Chibs 'n' razors dinnae wirk agin’ machin’ gins 'n' snipers.”
MacGregor paused for breath and looked around at the other three leaders. They were nodding in agreement. Lucan was watching as well and saw that MacGregor was simply reciting a group consensus. That did not invalidate anything he was saying.
“So what do you recommend we do?”
“Gie it up cheil. We hae tint thes a body. Th' triads ur workin' wi' th' Caps tae kick us aw it. Th' weans we pushed tae a body side? Their ey'n ur a' place. Every hain is turned agin' us. An’ if ye see a Chink cheil ur hen in bl’ck an' red, rin loch heel tae sae yer lee."
"Wait a minute, so the Strathclyde Police are working with the Chinese gangsters?"
"Nae, cheil. they dinnae. Th' Chinks ur jist helpin' th' polis kip order. By th' time th' polis arrife, th' Triad fowk hae gain an' aw 'at is left ur locals. Ah teel ye thes, them Triad ginners ur mair pop'la noo than we ever waur. Ye didne listen tae me. Every hain is turned agin' us."
"Why don't you pay off the police? We've had them on the payroll in the past. Make sure they arrive too late to do any good."
"Dae ye hink we huvnae tried? Th' polis we paid aff ur gain. they've brooght in new caps, th' biggest men they coods fin'. A scuttle fit a scuttle some ay them. Aye wi' a smile an' a coothie wuid fur fowk fa keep th' peace. Say agin, gie it up, cheil."
Lucan thought the problem through. It was obvious what had happened; the war between the four gangs had opened a window of opportunity the Police had used to restore their power and their links with the community. In doing so, they were crippling the ability of the four remaining razor gangs to continue operations. Lucan was not a stupid man; he was well-read and fancied himself as a soldier despite the abrupt and inglorious end to his military career. He remembered the quotation he had read from Clauswitz. War is the continuation of policy by any means. That was when the anvil dropped on him. Police see their role as maintaining public order and tranquility by legal means. The Triad gunmen see their role as maintaining public order and tranquility by any means. Of course they work together and I will bet anything they have an unspoken agreement where the line between them rests.
Lord Lucan would have lost his bet of course. He usually did. The agreement wasn't written down but it was a spoken agreement and very carefully constructed by skilled negotiators. Both Triads and Police were very clear where the line between keeping the peace and breaking the law was and knew that the Police would arrest, or try to, anybody who stepped over it. Both governed their operations accordingly.
Strathclyde Police Emergency Call Center, Glasgow. April 22, 2000
Emergency Operator Victoria Nicholson had been carefully instructed by the Strathclyde Police on how to handle tip-offs from the resurgent youth gangs in Glasgow. Her instructor had been very clear. "Remember you are dealing with children, but never treat them as children. Do not be condescending, do not patronize. These kids think what they are doing is almost a game but they are risking their lives by tipping us off. Treat them with courtesy and respect."
So, when the telephone rang, she picked it up and spoke carefully. "Good morning, Jimmie. Do you have something for us?"
"Ah certainly dae, hen. Aam in Harmony Place. There's a FSO-Bentley parked oan th' causey haur wi' sassenach plates. Ootwith 33. Motur loch 'at doesnae belang haur."
"Do you have its plate number?"
" Ay coorse, hen." The boy on the other end of the line read it over. Victoria entered into her computer and gasped. The screen was flashing red with an emergency alert that told her the car in question was of extreme interest to the authorities. It also told her that those authorities were very grateful for the information and how to express that gratitude.
"You've done us good, Jimmie. That is very valuable information. Have you a pen and paper?"
"Aye, hen."
"Good take this telephone number down and the following code." She read the numbers off the screen in front of her. "This is a get-out-of-trouble-free card. One use only; don't waste it. If you get yourself in deep with the police, tell them to call the telephone number and read out the code. Now, you'd better clear the area. Things are going to get lively.
33 Harmony Place, Govan, Glasgow. April 22, 2000
"Let's get out of here." Lucan settled down in his car and watched 33 recede into the background as Baldwin pulled away. As he was doing so, Victoria Nicholson was telling the Strathclyde Police about the extremely important person of interest who had just visited 33 Harmony. What followed was a remarkable display of efficiency and good organization which was how capable forces made their own luck. The Police dispatcher had her on one line while with the other he called the local division who were also simultaneously contacting a squad of detectives to send them on a visit to that house. By great good fortune – which really meant by careful patrol planning – a police detective team in a van was almost on top of the area already. They arrived just as Lucan's car rounded the corner away from the scene. Looking at the police lights flashing around the meeting place, Lucan knew he wouldn't have any difficulty explaining to The Big Man why continuing with this operation was impossible.
Manor House of Avebury, April 19, 2000
“Good to see you again, Sir. Welcome to Avebury Manor. Been a few years since you were here last hasn’t it?” Sergeant Harper conducted Conrad inside. Once through the front door, memories came flooding back and threatened to overwhelm him. One thing every Daimones learned was to exercise great care in going back to somewhere they had once loved and where they had been happy. It was all too easy for the reality of the present to destroy the pleasure of such old memories.
“Just over two hundred and fifty, Sergeant Harper. I was last here just before Culloden.”
“Begging your pardon, Sir, it’s Mister Harper right now. The Lieutenant General and I are between stints as it were. So he’s Sir Richard Strachan, the Lord of the Manor right now, and I’m the Estate Manager.” Harper was obviously trying to keep the curiosity out of his voice. “Will your lady be joining us, Sir?”
“Angel? No, she’s still working elsewhere. However, I do need to discuss one of the aspects of the current situation with Sir Richard.”
Harper looked considerably disappointed at not meeting Angel about whom he was intensely curious. To be fair, that was the reaction most of the long-lived community had where Angel was concerned. "Sir Richard sends his apologies but he is away right now; he will return shortly. You will be staying overnight, of course?"
"If it wouldn't cause too much inconvenience, I would much enjoy that."
Four hours later, Conrad was sitting in the private library with Lieutenant General Sir Richard Strachan, nursing a large Armagnac brandy and catching up on old times.
"So when The Seer and his group left, they deeded the Manor House to the Piccadilly Circus and we use it now as a rest and seclusion place, a safe house if you will, for our members who need to get out of the public eye for a while. Some of Loki's Geneva people come here as well for the same reason. To the locals, most of whom are our tenants by the way, we're just the Manorial Family and have been since the 1680s. For a small group like ours, it works pretty well. Now how can I help you with this Glasgow business?"
"Getting the city back under control is happening pretty fast now." Conrad was current with the situation as of that morning. The killing of the Govan Team leadership was officially a part of the gang war that was now dying down as the members of the razor gangs either killed each other or left town. In fact, even the police understood that it had been carried out by a Triad hit-team in retaliation for the attempted murder of Sying Mau Zhong and his family. The Strathclyde Police had also understood that the network of Neighborhood Watches was spreading rapidly and bringing the reign of terror conducted by the razor gangs to a relatively peaceful and legal end. That the Chinese Neighborhood Watches, in particular, were controlled by the 14K Triad was something that they also knew but could accept. After all, the Triad gunmen Angel had brought in as "teachers of Chinese traditions" had made it clear they were merely controlling situations and would do so as bloodlessly as possible until the Police turned up and took over legally. "What we need to do is to make sure that the organization behind the trouble in Glasgow is identified and its members located. The one major lead we have right now is John Bingham, 7th Earl of Lucan."
"Ahh, yes. Unsavory blighter. Not quite sound you know."
"That's what we're looking into. The closer I examine him, the less convincing I find him to be as the mastermind behind this. He doesn't have the profile of a leader and he certainly doesn't have the business expertise. He looks to me more like an enforcer, a Dragon in dramatic terms, not the Big Bad. I've got a feeling he's being set up to take the fall for this. Now, experience with The Trust to date has been that the members have known each other over a period of many years. So, I'm looking into Lucan's background to identify any possible candidates for the Big Bad. I find the sudden termination of his Army career in 1955 interesting but there are no records as to what happened."
"1955. Coldstream Guards I think. Yes, that was a bad do all around. The Guards hushed it all up of course, against the advice of the Ministry I might say. Lucan, Second Lieutenant Bingham as he was then, was asked to resign his commission. Lucky for him. A few years earlier he would have found a bottle of whiskey and a revolver loaded with one round in his quarters."
Conrad blinked at that. "What happened?"
Strachan sat back in his seat and composed his thoughts. When he spoke, he did so very carefully, obviously choosing his words circumspectly. "Being defeated and occupied has strange effects on a country. It is not something that the British people are familiar with and so they did not know what these effects were or how to guard against them. One such effect is that people become accustomed to a level of chance being inserted unto their lives. There is a chance, perhaps a small one but still there, that they may be in the wrong place at the wrong time and caught up in a Resistance incident. There is a chance, a small one but still there, that they might be one of the people seized by the occupying forces and executed as a reprisal. When the occupation ends, so does the inserted element of chance but now people are familiar with it and find its departure leaves a strange gap in their lives. So, they tend to fill that gap by gambling.
"So, in the 1950s, gambling, organized and disorganized became a problem here. One sign of that was the opening of casinos in London. They catered to the wealthier but seedier elements of the population, war profiteers, black marketeers and that sort. Honest people didn't have the money for that kind of gaming. A backstreet game of Pitch and Toss was more their line. The less honest, though, gravitated to the 'gaming clubs'. Of those, the most notable was the Clermont Club in Mayfair. Under British law at the time, gaming clubs had to be open to members only and the clubs had to get their take from membership fees and food and drink charges rather than as a percentage of the gaming stakes. This obviously didn't give the Club owners much room to make money so they brought in professional card-sharps to cheat the players. That was foolish because the membership of the Clermont Club included five dukes, five marquesses, twenty earls and two cabinet ministers."
"Let me guess. One of the card-sharps was Lucan."
"Well done that man. Good drills, Sir." In the background, Harper chuckled at Strachan's compliment. Strachan sipped his whiskey and continued. "Cheating people like that can't continue long and the bosses of the Clermont Club were idiots to have tried. They swindled some of the wealthiest people in Britain out of millions of pounds, in 1950s money no less, and those people had, still have, a lot of clout. At a time when the country was barely keeping its head above water, that was something that couldn't be allowed to continue. The authorities basically looked at everybody associated with the Clermont Club and concentrated on the members there who weren't losing large sums of money. One of them was Second Lieutenant Bingham of the Coldstream Guards. It was never quite proved he was one of the cheating players, but he should, of course, never have been in there in the first place. There’s also the issue that even suspicion of cheating at cards is about the most serious offense against mess life there is. Taken together, there was enough against him to make the Guards get rid of him. The whole Clermont Club business was a black scandal and the Army wanted no part of it. Nor did they want any part of an officer who was so lacking in basic judgement that he had become involved in it."
"So that raises an obvious question. Was the Clermont Club a front for The Trust?"
Strahan shook his head, not in denial but admitting that he just did not know. "Back then, nobody knew The Trust even existed. There was a rumor that American organized crime was involved but some discrete inquiries showed otherwise. There was a quiet meeting with an undeniable expert on gambling, Meyer Lansky, who pointed out that successful, by which he meant highly profitable, gambling operations had to be strictly honest for exactly the reasons demonstrated by the Clermont Club in London. He did allow that some Mob people who had failed to make the grade and eased out might have been involved but he hadn't heard of any. Being that he was who he was, we concluded he would have known if there had been any such people. In a strange way, this whole business in Glasgow might well link the Clermont Club to The Trust. Forty years too late of course, but still interesting."
"Let's assume a link does exist. The whole Clermont thing seems to me to be a way of sucking money out of a country that was too broke and battered to make The Trust's usual mode of operation practical."
"Harsh, but true." Strachan nodded.
"So, it would imply that the people who were running the Clermont Club back then are probably the same people, or at least some of them, who are running the UK branch of The Trust now. Or their descendants; all the information we've gathered on The Trust over the last four years points to them being multi-generational. Membership of The Trust is handed down from father to son, generation after generation. The Seer was afraid of the possibility that they had our Gift but we've met some of them and they don't. So we could be looking at children or even grandchildren."
Strachan was aware, of course, that 'met' was a euphemism. He knew that Angel had 'met' Darnell Weaver, head of The Trust's Saigon branch to her profit and Weaver's great disadvantage. "Most of them are dead of course, remember this was in the 1950s and they were nearly all middle-aged men then. Now, they would be old enough to live in Holmfirth."
"So, we would be looking at descendants then?"
"Probably. There is one candidate surviving from those days. He's in his late 80s now but apparently he's still mentally and physically active. Name was Jaroslav Lubomir Heche. He escaped from Czechoslovakia in 1939, went to Britain then escaped again to Canada in 1942. Rode Howeout in the Great Escape. Served in the Canadian Army on the Kola Peninsula and had a pretty distinguished war record. Changed his name to Robin Mansell for his army service and, postwar, kept that name when he set up a publishing empire. He moved into newspaper publishing in the very early 1960s and made a fortune out of it. I've actually met him; he seemed affable enough and his newspapers gave good coverage to us when we were down South. His nickname in Private Eye is "The Bouncing Czech'. His business practices were always seen as a bit off but he was never convicted of anything. He's not one of us by the way. Just got good genes."
Conrad absorbed that and fitted the information into the general scheme he had created. "Of course, it might be that Lucan is not involved in this and that would kill the link to the Clermont Club stone dead. Was the money stolen from the club members ever recovered?"
"Not a penny. It all vanished, the way morning dew on grass vanishes when the sun comes up."
"That was 1957? And Mansell started assembling his publishing and newspaper empire a year or two later." Conrad didn't like coincidences.
"Exactly." Nor did Sir Richard Strachan.
33 Harmony Place, Govan, Glasgow. April 22, 2000
Lord Lucan felt more than a little concerned about leaving his Bentley parked on the street in Govan. The car might be equipped with every security device its builders FSO parent could think of but he wasn't convinced it would still have its wheels when he finally got back to it. He had chosen to make the arduous drive up from South East England to Glasgow on security grounds. Travelling by air or train would mean buying a ticket and that would create a paper trail. He hadn't driven himself of course; he had a driver to do that and FSO had designed a particularly comfortable back seat for the Bentley.
"Stay with the car McManus and make sure it doesn't get damaged. Baldwin, come with me."
Inside the safe-house, the four surviving razor gang leaders were waiting. It had taken time to find them and reassure them that the meeting was safe. Lucan had been in Glasgow before and he could feel the change. Before, the razormen had strutted through the streets, reveling in the fear that they caused by their mere presence. Now, their numbers had been brutally hacked down and the survivors knew they were hunted men. The Neighborhood Watches were spreading across the city and were the eyes and ears of the police. Any attempt at reprisals against members of the watches met with disaster. Sometimes, mostly, the men sent to take revenge on the watchers were cornered by the locals and arrested by police who turned up with unnerving speed. On a few occasions, the gangsters were simply found dead, mostly shot through the head by pistol fire or snipers. Sometimes, the razormen just disappeared and it was rumored that the Chinese community in Glasgow had stopped eating pork.
Lucan looked at what was left of The Trust’s campaign to wreck Glasgow, take over and harvest vast profits from rebuilding the city. Killed, wounded or missing. The old military casualty formula ran through his mind. There were few wounded in this gang war. Some were dead, some had fled the city, the rest were either under arrest or in hiding. The four leading gangs that The Trust had patiently created and trained had been obliterated. Once again, he looked at the men in the room. These are hardly even the second division.
“All right, what happened.”
Morgan MacGregor drew a deep breath. Time tae teach this sassenach gowk whit haes happened 'ere . “Th' Beehive Jimmies 'n' th' Sooth Side Stickers split th' drug trade atween thaim. Cut th' Govan Team 'n' th' Gallowgate Mad Squad oot an' left lae ay us naethin' but crooms. When we signed oan fur thes ye tauld us we woods aw gie rich. 'At isnae happenin' sae th' Govan Team went in tae carve themselves a shaur. Th' damned gowks went bowlin' in Sooth Side Stickers turf an' tried tae seel drugs tae th' Chinks. Thay stairted a war atween th' four muckle gangs 'n' rought th' Chink Triads doon oan oor heids. Ah tell ye this, sassenach, they Chink ginmen ur guid. Chibs 'n' razors dinnae wirk agin’ machin’ gins 'n' snipers.”
MacGregor paused for breath and looked around at the other three leaders. They were nodding in agreement. Lucan was watching as well and saw that MacGregor was simply reciting a group consensus. That did not invalidate anything he was saying.
“So what do you recommend we do?”
“Gie it up cheil. We hae tint thes a body. Th' triads ur workin' wi' th' Caps tae kick us aw it. Th' weans we pushed tae a body side? Their ey'n ur a' place. Every hain is turned agin' us. An’ if ye see a Chink cheil ur hen in bl’ck an' red, rin loch heel tae sae yer lee."
"Wait a minute, so the Strathclyde Police are working with the Chinese gangsters?"
"Nae, cheil. they dinnae. Th' Chinks ur jist helpin' th' polis kip order. By th' time th' polis arrife, th' Triad fowk hae gain an' aw 'at is left ur locals. Ah teel ye thes, them Triad ginners ur mair pop'la noo than we ever waur. Ye didne listen tae me. Every hain is turned agin' us."
"Why don't you pay off the police? We've had them on the payroll in the past. Make sure they arrive too late to do any good."
"Dae ye hink we huvnae tried? Th' polis we paid aff ur gain. they've brooght in new caps, th' biggest men they coods fin'. A scuttle fit a scuttle some ay them. Aye wi' a smile an' a coothie wuid fur fowk fa keep th' peace. Say agin, gie it up, cheil."
Lucan thought the problem through. It was obvious what had happened; the war between the four gangs had opened a window of opportunity the Police had used to restore their power and their links with the community. In doing so, they were crippling the ability of the four remaining razor gangs to continue operations. Lucan was not a stupid man; he was well-read and fancied himself as a soldier despite the abrupt and inglorious end to his military career. He remembered the quotation he had read from Clauswitz. War is the continuation of policy by any means. That was when the anvil dropped on him. Police see their role as maintaining public order and tranquility by legal means. The Triad gunmen see their role as maintaining public order and tranquility by any means. Of course they work together and I will bet anything they have an unspoken agreement where the line between them rests.
Lord Lucan would have lost his bet of course. He usually did. The agreement wasn't written down but it was a spoken agreement and very carefully constructed by skilled negotiators. Both Triads and Police were very clear where the line between keeping the peace and breaking the law was and knew that the Police would arrest, or try to, anybody who stepped over it. Both governed their operations accordingly.
Strathclyde Police Emergency Call Center, Glasgow. April 22, 2000
Emergency Operator Victoria Nicholson had been carefully instructed by the Strathclyde Police on how to handle tip-offs from the resurgent youth gangs in Glasgow. Her instructor had been very clear. "Remember you are dealing with children, but never treat them as children. Do not be condescending, do not patronize. These kids think what they are doing is almost a game but they are risking their lives by tipping us off. Treat them with courtesy and respect."
So, when the telephone rang, she picked it up and spoke carefully. "Good morning, Jimmie. Do you have something for us?"
"Ah certainly dae, hen. Aam in Harmony Place. There's a FSO-Bentley parked oan th' causey haur wi' sassenach plates. Ootwith 33. Motur loch 'at doesnae belang haur."
"Do you have its plate number?"
" Ay coorse, hen." The boy on the other end of the line read it over. Victoria entered into her computer and gasped. The screen was flashing red with an emergency alert that told her the car in question was of extreme interest to the authorities. It also told her that those authorities were very grateful for the information and how to express that gratitude.
"You've done us good, Jimmie. That is very valuable information. Have you a pen and paper?"
"Aye, hen."
"Good take this telephone number down and the following code." She read the numbers off the screen in front of her. "This is a get-out-of-trouble-free card. One use only; don't waste it. If you get yourself in deep with the police, tell them to call the telephone number and read out the code. Now, you'd better clear the area. Things are going to get lively.
33 Harmony Place, Govan, Glasgow. April 22, 2000
"Let's get out of here." Lucan settled down in his car and watched 33 recede into the background as Baldwin pulled away. As he was doing so, Victoria Nicholson was telling the Strathclyde Police about the extremely important person of interest who had just visited 33 Harmony. What followed was a remarkable display of efficiency and good organization which was how capable forces made their own luck. The Police dispatcher had her on one line while with the other he called the local division who were also simultaneously contacting a squad of detectives to send them on a visit to that house. By great good fortune – which really meant by careful patrol planning – a police detective team in a van was almost on top of the area already. They arrived just as Lucan's car rounded the corner away from the scene. Looking at the police lights flashing around the meeting place, Lucan knew he wouldn't have any difficulty explaining to The Big Man why continuing with this operation was impossible.
Re: 2000 - Eye of the Gangster
Chapter Eleven
Sir Humphrey Appleday’s Office, Cabinet Office, 70 Whitehall, London, April 25, 2000.
Sir Humphrey Appleday had turned the office television on in time to catch the start of the midday news. For the first time in almost three weeks, the newsreader's face was smiling rather than grave and her body language was cheerful. "Good afternoon, this is the BBC Midday News at two minutes past noon. Our lead story today is that the gang war that has created mayhem in Glasgow for the last three weeks continues to wind down. It is now three days since the last deaths were reported and the Strathclyde Police report that violent incidents are now at the lowest level for many years. A Strathclyde Police spokesman has attributed the end of the violence to the sudden emergence of a city-wide network of Neighborhood Watches, information from whom has resulted in a swathe of arrests across the city."
He turned the sound down and turned to smile happily at his guests. A measure of his satisfaction was that his beaming smile didn't falter when his eyes passed over Angel's openly-displayed pistols. "I think, having due regard to all the prevailing circumstances and taking a wide view of the situation, I can say, with not inconsiderable confidence, that the Prime Minister is exceptionally satisfied with what undoubtedly appears to be the prompt and comprehensive attainment of the short and intermediate term objectives specified by Her Majesty's Government for resolving the crisis that was engulfing the city of Glasgow. Indeed, the Prime Minister has approved a statement, private of course and one of which there will be no official written record, in which the operatives who executed the desired policy and conceived the strategy for its attainment are duly and properly recognized for their skill and courage."
Achillea nodded in acknowledgment although she found Sir Humphrey's tortured phraseology almost as hard to follow as Glaswegian. Angel raised an eyebrow and Sir Humphrey took the hint. "Angel, the First Lord of the Treasury has personally approved and signed a bank draft in full settlement of account offered by your good self, although his peace of mind and general composure were somewhat disturbed by the reference to 'exsanguinatory services'. The Committee of Public Accounts, Sub-Committee of Security Service Funds, has also voted to include a substantial additional gratuity in recognition of your efforts."
Sir Humphrey paused and Keeble managed to dart in before he could resume. Keeble knew from experience that once Sir Humphrey was speaking, he could go on for hours without actually saying anything. "I think we can all conclude that the first half of this operation has been a great success and we have dealt The Trust a severe blow by foiling their plans. Angel, ‘Lea, this was an ugly job but the citizens of Glasgow will be greatly in your debt although they will never fully understand to what extent.”
“This wasn’t ugly, Chris. It was pretty clean as gang wars go. Singapore was ugly.” Angel was opening the envelope containing confirmation that her payment draft had been received by her bank in Switzerland. She had already noted how expensive the envelope was.
Keeble let out his breathe slightly. “That is gratifying. I must say that ordering an operation of this kind caused us all some sleepless nights. Anyway, with it behind us, we now must move to the second phase of the operation which will be inflicting dire personal damage on The Trust itself."
"Damn straight." Angel was very happy. Her personal finances had been badly depleted by the time she had spent recovering from her head injury and the amount she had been paid for her six month stay in the Koh Phri Phi Underwater Habitat had stopped the decline but not reversed it. The amount on her bank draft had more than restored her personal wealth. "These people are willing to gamble money and other people's lives, but the idea of personal risk terrifies them. We need to convince them that extreme personal risk is an inevitable part of trying to pull this kind of stunt."
"We need to make sure that we have identified the correct people." Conrad did not like the way this conversation was heading and was determined to make sure that no innocent people were involved in the 'dire personal damage' that was being contemplated. "At the moment, we have suspicions and a lot of circumstantial evidence but actual proof is lacking."
Sir Humphrey replied by turning up the volume on the television set. The newsreader had just picked up the next story. "In another development, four alleged gang leaders arrested during a raid conducted by the Strathclyde Police in Govan have appeared in the Glasgow Central Court, charged with conspiracy to commit murder, arson, robbery with volence, inflicting grievous bodily harm, extortion, demanding money with menaces, illegal possession of firearms, trading in prohibited substances and disturbing the peace. The defendants stood mute and a plea of not guilty was entered on their behalf."
"And there's our problem." Keeble sounded despondent. "They're saying nothing. We know beyond reasonable doubt that Lucan's car was there but we can't prove he was and even if we could, we can't prove he knew them, who they were or had any conversations with them. He could argue he was in Glasgow on a casual visit, got hopelessly lost and stopped to ask directions. We couldn't prove any different. Conrad, this is your area, what do you think?"
"There's no doubt that Lord Lucan has a highly questionable background. He is an unsavory character and he has a long history of involvement in morally dubious activities. None of that means he is involved with the Trust. That description could also apply to several people I knew in the highest circles of the Church whose long record of charity and good deeds are undeniable. The problem we have is that everything we have is circumstantial. If he is involved with The Trust, then he leads us to other people, but if he is not so involved, then we have nothing."
"So Lucan is the only bridge we have to The Trust?" Angel was looking at the ceiling. "If I was in his shoes, I would be making plans to leave the country right now. And I'm not sure that leaving the country would be far enough. I wonder if my agent has had any inquiries about my availability." She caught Keeble looking at her oddly. She shrugged. "It’s what I do, remember?"
"That's another lever we can use." Conrad was trying to think his way through the situation. "If there's an attempt to kill Lucan now, that will be a really good pointer that we're on the right track with him. Of course, if there is a successful attempt, then that'll end the trail right there."
"I'd better turn the contract down then." Angel was deadpan but Conrad recognized her macabre sense of humor at play again. To her carefully-concealed delight, Sir Humphrey shuddered slightly. She gave herself a mental pat on the back before continuing. "You know, if there was an attempt to kill him and we put a stop to it, we could crack the whole thing wide open. We're good at making people disappear, we do it all the time for each other. We save him, offer him a new life somewhere carefully concealed, South Africa for example, or Russia. Only, to get it, he has to give us the goods on the British Trust. He would be a fool if he doesn't take the offer, he already has all the proof he needs that he's one of the walking dead otherwise."
Conrad looked at her. "That should work. We'll have to cross-check everything he tells us of course. People like that will implicate the innocent just to make their story so much more marketable.”
“You say The Trust could easily approach you to kill him, Angel? Why don’t you take the job and then, instead of killing him, tell Lucan that his friends had hired her to kill him. That way, we’re in no danger of losing our link in to the . . . .” Heather's voice faded away as she looked across the room to where Angel was sitting.
Keeble was aghast; Heather was an administrative assistant, tasked with handing out papers and serving the occasional drink. She was not supposed to say anything, let alone suggest a psychopathic hit woman might wish to be anything less than purely professional. Watching Angel, Keeble suddenly realized he was seeing her the way Angel's victims saw her in the last seconds of their lives. Her eyes were completely dead and expressionless, devoid of any sign of humanity or compassion. Yet, she was smiling, a cold, deadly smile that never came close to her eyes. Heather suddenly realized just what a terrible mistake she had just made and her voice had been reduced to a terrified whimper. “It was just an idea, Angel. Don’t shoot the messenger. Please, really, don’t shoot the messenger.
The panic and desperation in her voice rang around the still, silent room. Conrad spoke quietly. “She doesn’t understand, Angel. Let it go. Please.”
Angel nodded and relaxed. Sir Humphrey and Keeble were glaring at Heather, the latter with anger but Sir Humphrey’s expression was one of contemptuous fury. Achillea stood up, took Heather by the upper arm and hustled her out to Sir Humphrey’s private sitting room behind the main Cabinet Office. Heather resisted Achillea dragging her out of the room for a moment but the effort only taught her an inevitable lesson. Achillea had the physical strength of a very fit man and resistance was futile. She kicked the closed the door behind them, then used her strength to push Heather into the center of the room. There was a profound silence for a moment, then Achillea shook her head. “Are you tired of life already? You were within a split second of being gunned down just then. You don’t stand a chance against Angel, not even with that fancy Auxiliary Unit training of yours. And don’t waste my time by trying to deny the Units exist or claim that you don’t have their training.”
Heather was almost crying with shock as her mind processed what had just happened. “I don’t understand, what did I do?”
“You insulted the professional integrity of one of the world’s top assassins. You suggested that she would double-cross somebody who had hired her and that is an accusation she simply cannot allow to stand. You might think Angel was mad at you. She isn’t, she can’t be, her brain doesn’t work that way. She has just decided that maintaining her professional reputation, which is all she really has by the way, means she cannot allow somebody who makes that suggestion to live. You are very lucky Conrad was there to stop her. Without him, she would have brassed you up without a moment's hesitation. You know two people in the world who depend upon their reputation for complete and utter reliability for their survival. Igrat’s one, Angel is the other. You’ve managed make both of them angry. You really do need to be more careful if you want to live much longer.” The mildness of her final comment was all the more shocking due to its casualness.
Heather collapsed into one of the over-stuffed armchairs, her face in her hands but the truth was she still didn’t understand what she had done wrong. Achillea left her there and returned to the Cabinet Office, locking the door behind her. Keeble looked at her, and then at Angel who showed no outward signs that the incident had taken place. He was, however, far from convinced that the matter as over although he was shocked by how quickly the issue had suddenly exploded and by how Conrad had managed to stop Angel killing Heather in the middle of the room.Which idiot in our research section thought Angel was the dominant member of that partnership? “I ought to apologize. Heather came from a very sheltered, very conventional early Victorian background. She doesn’t quite understand the uglier realities of the world even now. Angel, may I apologize on her behalf for the insinuation she unwittingly made?”
Angel nodded curtly. Achillea smiled and relaxed slightly. “Angel, when another blames you or hates you, or people voice similar criticisms, go to their souls, penetrate inside and see what sort of people they are. You will realize that there is no need to be racked with anxiety that they should hold any particular opinion about you. If evil be said of thee, and if it be true, correct thyself; if it be a lie, laugh at it.”
“Marcus Aurelius?” Angel looked at Achillea sideways.
“First part. The second part is Epictetus.”
“Small-minded people blame others. Average people blame themselves. The wise see all blame as foolishness.” Sir Humphrey recited the quotation with relish. “Epictetus was required reading when I was in Baillie. I thought I understood what he was saying until ‘Lea discussed it with me and, in the process corrected my Latin pronunciation. May we resume please?”
“Of course. We really haven’t got much further to go at this point.” Angel took a deep breath and exhaled. “Conrad, you said you had an interview fixed with Lord Lucan? I wanted to go with you to that meeting. I still do. We can play that into a more detailed discussion with him. In effect, we’ll stake him out like a goat and wait until the hit gets under way. Then, we’ll end it and that should turn Lucan. Sir Humphrey, can you start the preparations to get him out of the country with a false identity.”
“Of course. The documents will be available for your use when you need them. And I will speak with Heather about her behavior.”
In the background, the TV News had shifted to coverage of a football match between a team from the Strathclyde Police Cadets and one from the Chinatown Neighborhood Association. Inspector Conall Martin was the referee. The fact that the local people had trusted a police officer to referee a game that included a police team made Sir Humphrey smile with satisfaction. Then, he contemplated Heather's clumsy interference in a delicate and very important discussion and the smile clouded over.
Yowlestone House, Tiverton, Devon. April 27, 2000.
“Do I have to worry about Heather?” Angel was walking beside Conrad as they went up the drive to Yowlestone House. She was looking at him sideways, her eyes bulging slightly.
Conrad thought about that very carefully, understanding the implications of the question and the impact his answer might have on their relationship. “I happen to know Sir Humphrey flayed her alive yesterday after our meeting was over. He went as far as to suggest that her interference in our discussions might lead some people to conclude that she wasn’t sound. He even went as far as to question whether he could rely upon her judgement but did tell her she worked well under supervision.”
“That’s bad?” Angel really didn’t understand civil service bureaucratese.
“It’s like saying you don’t clean your guns and sometimes shoot yourself in the foot with negligent discharges. The last bit is damning and is telling her she will never again be trusted to use her own judgment or discretion. If she was a baseliner, it would be tantamount to dismissal from the Service. ‘Never’ is a long time of course but even with her heritage, it'll take her years to recover her position.”
“All right. That’s bad. My question still stands though. Do I have to worry about her?”
“She’s been fired from the Cabinet Office and transferred to a secret government establishment near Cheltenham. That will isolate her and place her in a controlled environment where she can learn tact and discretion. Sir Humphrey promises me that, by the time she is transferred again, she will have learned to be discrete and this matter will be forgotten. Angel, Heather grew up in lower middle class Victorian England. She never had a husband so she became a schoolteacher. As Chris said, that put her in a very sheltered environment where she never saw the uglier side of life. You gave me a lecture once about how the division between the overworld, represented by normal, law-abiding citizens and the underworld represented by crime, organized and disorganized, rarely if ever overtly saw each other but were there, side by side, with ritualized means for one to negotiate with another.”
“I’m sure I didn’t quite phrase it like that but fair enough. And?”
“You also said that what is happening now is that modern communications mean that each side is becoming aware of the other and what it stood for. Each wants things that the other has. What was a sharp and clearly-defined fault line has become an amorphous zone where the two sides meet to interact. That meeting can be peaceful and productive, like your Triads and the Mob in Cuba, or violent and destructive like The Trust and, in this case, the late and completely unlamented razor gangs.”
“I certainly didn’t say it that way, but, yes, that's a good summary.”
“Heather grew up and spent her formative years completely unaware that the division existed. In that era, middle class people in general knew very little about the underclasses and had only a romanticized picture of the aristocracy. Even after she was found by the Piccadilly Circus, that remained her lifestyle, first buried away as a school-teacher and then as a very junior civil servant. If it hadn’t been for the War, she still would be. Her main function these days is surveillance, watching and learning. A bit like Ai when she first started to work with you.” Angel nodded in understanding.
“There's something you must realize. She’s not in trouble because of what she said to you so much that she spoke at all. Her role at that meeting was to watch and learn, serve drinks and pass around necessary paperwork. Instead she tried to intervene and express her own ideas and opinions. Anyway, you’re the great Angel, a contractor with a 20-year reputation for scrupulous honesty in your business dealings. As far as the rest of the world is concerned, Heather is a nonentity, a nobody who is in no position to know anything about you. If she was stupid enough to open her mouth, and she is not stupid by any means, nobody would believe a word she said. Put bluntly, they are too afraid of you to believe her. So, no, you don’t have to worry about her.”
Angel nodded. "Strange as it may seem, I prefer it that way. Shooting her would be too much like killing an innocent bystander and it would cause severe complications."
"Which is why Sir Humphrey flayed her. Again, it wasn't what she said, it was that she said anything at all. You know Igrat's had a run-in with Heather? Heather hates Igrat even though the feeling is not reciprocated. They've clashed several times and Heather always gets the worst of it. One evening she was making some very rude remarks about Igrat's personal morals, or more precisely, her lack thereof. Iggie just looked at her and said 'Oh come on, Heather, the things you get up to in bed make even me blush.' The room exploded into laughter and Heather fled. You ought to know that Sir Humphrey is afraid of Igrat but he likes you."
"He does?" Angel was surprised.
"You took an extremely difficult problem and solved it smoothly, efficiently and with as little disruption as possible. From an administration point of view anyway, and when the inevitable problems cropped up, you made sure they were contained. The way you handled the situation was an excellent example of what Sir Humphrey considers good government practices and there is nothing he admires more than that. So he likes you and that's another reason why Heather is in trouble."
They had reached the front door but it opened before Conrad could pull the bell. That disappointed him a little; it looked like a fine example of an old ship’s bell and he’d been looking forward to giving it a good ring. Baron Churston had opened the door himself “You must be Conrad de Llorente and Angel. Sir Humphrey called to arrange a meeting. We don’t often have visitors here you see.”
“Thank you for seeing us at such short notice, my Lord.” Conrad and Angel followed the Baron into his private sitting room. On the way in, he noted that the entire house, a remarkably small one for the status of its occupant, exhibited an air of gentile decay. The family had obviously fallen on hard times and was having difficulty making ends meet.
“Now, how can I help you and your associate, Father?”
“Some doubts have come up over the provenance of Laleham House. We were wondering if you had any documentation over the ownership of the property?”
“I do have the title deeds. My grandfather bought the house and all its contents outright from Lord Lucan in 1930. The Lucan family had lost most of its money in the Stock Exchange crash of ’29 and they were trying to capitalize their assets. Our own seat, Lupton House, was burned down by two successive fires and we needed somewhere to live. Laleham House was a temporary home until our own place was repaired after which we rented it to the Sisters of St Peter the Apostle.”
“Whoa. Conrad didn’t you say Lucan told you his family leased the property to Baron Churlston at a peppercorn rent?” Angel paused. “Have I just done a Heather?”
Conrad chuckled and shook his head. “Unlike Heather, you’ve paid your dues. You’re right though. If this is true, Lucan was lying to me.”
“That’s what the Lucan family told the War Loss Compensation Board. They got the property back, free and clear. Lupton House had been bombed during the War and it was a ruin. My whole family was homeless and this cottage was the only roof we had over our heads.”
“Didn’t you show these deeds to the WLCB? And the lease agreement with the Sisters?”
“It wouldn’t have mattered, Father. If you’ll forgive the language, we could present an Affidavit from God himself witnessed by all His Angels, and they would still have found the Lucans to be the rightful owners. You see . . .” Suddenly the Baron hung his head and a tangible flood of shame seemed to ooze from his body. “. . . . . my father was a collaborator. After the war, nobody would talk to us, nobody would visit us. They would walk past us in the street without saying a word. When my wife and I got married, the church was empty except for the officials. My son once asked me why none of the other children would come here or play with him. What could I say?”
“That was fifty years ago.” Angel found it very hard to carry grudges against people since doing so would mean establishing an emotional link with them and doing that was medically impossible. Carrying a grudge for half a century was beyond her understanding.
“You’re American, you don’t understand. The nearest I can describe it is that it’s like the feelings in the old Confederacy but a hundred times worse. The wounds are still there, raw and unhealed. We won’t begin to mend them until everybody who lived through the Occupation has passed on. My father didn’t just betray his country he betrayed his family. He betrayed me. You can’t understand what that feels like.
For the second time in two days, Angel looked at somebody with a murderous gaze that was completely devoid of any sign of humanity or compassion. The Baron looked at her, his mouth hanging open with shock.
“My God, you do understand. You do know how that kind of betrayal from your own father eats into your soul. Angel, I am so sorry.”
“Not your problem, or your fault, Baron, but yes, I do know what you mean. Conrad, you are looking for injustices to put right and innocents to protect. You’ve just found your next case.”
“I agree. My Lord, could you get your lawyer to bring all of these documents to Sir Humphrey Appleday and ask the police forensic laboratory or whatever it’s called these days, to authenticate them. It concerns a very important case. Angel, we have work to do this day.”
Angel nodded. "All right. Now, let's go see Lord Lucan and see if we can get him to hang himself. If he doesn’t cooperate, he’ll learn the downside of a sucking chest wound."
“Can there possibly be more of a downside to a sucking chest wound than there already is, Angel?”
“There can be, if it’s in his head.
Sir Humphrey Appleday’s Office, Cabinet Office, 70 Whitehall, London, April 25, 2000.
Sir Humphrey Appleday had turned the office television on in time to catch the start of the midday news. For the first time in almost three weeks, the newsreader's face was smiling rather than grave and her body language was cheerful. "Good afternoon, this is the BBC Midday News at two minutes past noon. Our lead story today is that the gang war that has created mayhem in Glasgow for the last three weeks continues to wind down. It is now three days since the last deaths were reported and the Strathclyde Police report that violent incidents are now at the lowest level for many years. A Strathclyde Police spokesman has attributed the end of the violence to the sudden emergence of a city-wide network of Neighborhood Watches, information from whom has resulted in a swathe of arrests across the city."
He turned the sound down and turned to smile happily at his guests. A measure of his satisfaction was that his beaming smile didn't falter when his eyes passed over Angel's openly-displayed pistols. "I think, having due regard to all the prevailing circumstances and taking a wide view of the situation, I can say, with not inconsiderable confidence, that the Prime Minister is exceptionally satisfied with what undoubtedly appears to be the prompt and comprehensive attainment of the short and intermediate term objectives specified by Her Majesty's Government for resolving the crisis that was engulfing the city of Glasgow. Indeed, the Prime Minister has approved a statement, private of course and one of which there will be no official written record, in which the operatives who executed the desired policy and conceived the strategy for its attainment are duly and properly recognized for their skill and courage."
Achillea nodded in acknowledgment although she found Sir Humphrey's tortured phraseology almost as hard to follow as Glaswegian. Angel raised an eyebrow and Sir Humphrey took the hint. "Angel, the First Lord of the Treasury has personally approved and signed a bank draft in full settlement of account offered by your good self, although his peace of mind and general composure were somewhat disturbed by the reference to 'exsanguinatory services'. The Committee of Public Accounts, Sub-Committee of Security Service Funds, has also voted to include a substantial additional gratuity in recognition of your efforts."
Sir Humphrey paused and Keeble managed to dart in before he could resume. Keeble knew from experience that once Sir Humphrey was speaking, he could go on for hours without actually saying anything. "I think we can all conclude that the first half of this operation has been a great success and we have dealt The Trust a severe blow by foiling their plans. Angel, ‘Lea, this was an ugly job but the citizens of Glasgow will be greatly in your debt although they will never fully understand to what extent.”
“This wasn’t ugly, Chris. It was pretty clean as gang wars go. Singapore was ugly.” Angel was opening the envelope containing confirmation that her payment draft had been received by her bank in Switzerland. She had already noted how expensive the envelope was.
Keeble let out his breathe slightly. “That is gratifying. I must say that ordering an operation of this kind caused us all some sleepless nights. Anyway, with it behind us, we now must move to the second phase of the operation which will be inflicting dire personal damage on The Trust itself."
"Damn straight." Angel was very happy. Her personal finances had been badly depleted by the time she had spent recovering from her head injury and the amount she had been paid for her six month stay in the Koh Phri Phi Underwater Habitat had stopped the decline but not reversed it. The amount on her bank draft had more than restored her personal wealth. "These people are willing to gamble money and other people's lives, but the idea of personal risk terrifies them. We need to convince them that extreme personal risk is an inevitable part of trying to pull this kind of stunt."
"We need to make sure that we have identified the correct people." Conrad did not like the way this conversation was heading and was determined to make sure that no innocent people were involved in the 'dire personal damage' that was being contemplated. "At the moment, we have suspicions and a lot of circumstantial evidence but actual proof is lacking."
Sir Humphrey replied by turning up the volume on the television set. The newsreader had just picked up the next story. "In another development, four alleged gang leaders arrested during a raid conducted by the Strathclyde Police in Govan have appeared in the Glasgow Central Court, charged with conspiracy to commit murder, arson, robbery with volence, inflicting grievous bodily harm, extortion, demanding money with menaces, illegal possession of firearms, trading in prohibited substances and disturbing the peace. The defendants stood mute and a plea of not guilty was entered on their behalf."
"And there's our problem." Keeble sounded despondent. "They're saying nothing. We know beyond reasonable doubt that Lucan's car was there but we can't prove he was and even if we could, we can't prove he knew them, who they were or had any conversations with them. He could argue he was in Glasgow on a casual visit, got hopelessly lost and stopped to ask directions. We couldn't prove any different. Conrad, this is your area, what do you think?"
"There's no doubt that Lord Lucan has a highly questionable background. He is an unsavory character and he has a long history of involvement in morally dubious activities. None of that means he is involved with the Trust. That description could also apply to several people I knew in the highest circles of the Church whose long record of charity and good deeds are undeniable. The problem we have is that everything we have is circumstantial. If he is involved with The Trust, then he leads us to other people, but if he is not so involved, then we have nothing."
"So Lucan is the only bridge we have to The Trust?" Angel was looking at the ceiling. "If I was in his shoes, I would be making plans to leave the country right now. And I'm not sure that leaving the country would be far enough. I wonder if my agent has had any inquiries about my availability." She caught Keeble looking at her oddly. She shrugged. "It’s what I do, remember?"
"That's another lever we can use." Conrad was trying to think his way through the situation. "If there's an attempt to kill Lucan now, that will be a really good pointer that we're on the right track with him. Of course, if there is a successful attempt, then that'll end the trail right there."
"I'd better turn the contract down then." Angel was deadpan but Conrad recognized her macabre sense of humor at play again. To her carefully-concealed delight, Sir Humphrey shuddered slightly. She gave herself a mental pat on the back before continuing. "You know, if there was an attempt to kill him and we put a stop to it, we could crack the whole thing wide open. We're good at making people disappear, we do it all the time for each other. We save him, offer him a new life somewhere carefully concealed, South Africa for example, or Russia. Only, to get it, he has to give us the goods on the British Trust. He would be a fool if he doesn't take the offer, he already has all the proof he needs that he's one of the walking dead otherwise."
Conrad looked at her. "That should work. We'll have to cross-check everything he tells us of course. People like that will implicate the innocent just to make their story so much more marketable.”
“You say The Trust could easily approach you to kill him, Angel? Why don’t you take the job and then, instead of killing him, tell Lucan that his friends had hired her to kill him. That way, we’re in no danger of losing our link in to the . . . .” Heather's voice faded away as she looked across the room to where Angel was sitting.
Keeble was aghast; Heather was an administrative assistant, tasked with handing out papers and serving the occasional drink. She was not supposed to say anything, let alone suggest a psychopathic hit woman might wish to be anything less than purely professional. Watching Angel, Keeble suddenly realized he was seeing her the way Angel's victims saw her in the last seconds of their lives. Her eyes were completely dead and expressionless, devoid of any sign of humanity or compassion. Yet, she was smiling, a cold, deadly smile that never came close to her eyes. Heather suddenly realized just what a terrible mistake she had just made and her voice had been reduced to a terrified whimper. “It was just an idea, Angel. Don’t shoot the messenger. Please, really, don’t shoot the messenger.
The panic and desperation in her voice rang around the still, silent room. Conrad spoke quietly. “She doesn’t understand, Angel. Let it go. Please.”
Angel nodded and relaxed. Sir Humphrey and Keeble were glaring at Heather, the latter with anger but Sir Humphrey’s expression was one of contemptuous fury. Achillea stood up, took Heather by the upper arm and hustled her out to Sir Humphrey’s private sitting room behind the main Cabinet Office. Heather resisted Achillea dragging her out of the room for a moment but the effort only taught her an inevitable lesson. Achillea had the physical strength of a very fit man and resistance was futile. She kicked the closed the door behind them, then used her strength to push Heather into the center of the room. There was a profound silence for a moment, then Achillea shook her head. “Are you tired of life already? You were within a split second of being gunned down just then. You don’t stand a chance against Angel, not even with that fancy Auxiliary Unit training of yours. And don’t waste my time by trying to deny the Units exist or claim that you don’t have their training.”
Heather was almost crying with shock as her mind processed what had just happened. “I don’t understand, what did I do?”
“You insulted the professional integrity of one of the world’s top assassins. You suggested that she would double-cross somebody who had hired her and that is an accusation she simply cannot allow to stand. You might think Angel was mad at you. She isn’t, she can’t be, her brain doesn’t work that way. She has just decided that maintaining her professional reputation, which is all she really has by the way, means she cannot allow somebody who makes that suggestion to live. You are very lucky Conrad was there to stop her. Without him, she would have brassed you up without a moment's hesitation. You know two people in the world who depend upon their reputation for complete and utter reliability for their survival. Igrat’s one, Angel is the other. You’ve managed make both of them angry. You really do need to be more careful if you want to live much longer.” The mildness of her final comment was all the more shocking due to its casualness.
Heather collapsed into one of the over-stuffed armchairs, her face in her hands but the truth was she still didn’t understand what she had done wrong. Achillea left her there and returned to the Cabinet Office, locking the door behind her. Keeble looked at her, and then at Angel who showed no outward signs that the incident had taken place. He was, however, far from convinced that the matter as over although he was shocked by how quickly the issue had suddenly exploded and by how Conrad had managed to stop Angel killing Heather in the middle of the room.Which idiot in our research section thought Angel was the dominant member of that partnership? “I ought to apologize. Heather came from a very sheltered, very conventional early Victorian background. She doesn’t quite understand the uglier realities of the world even now. Angel, may I apologize on her behalf for the insinuation she unwittingly made?”
Angel nodded curtly. Achillea smiled and relaxed slightly. “Angel, when another blames you or hates you, or people voice similar criticisms, go to their souls, penetrate inside and see what sort of people they are. You will realize that there is no need to be racked with anxiety that they should hold any particular opinion about you. If evil be said of thee, and if it be true, correct thyself; if it be a lie, laugh at it.”
“Marcus Aurelius?” Angel looked at Achillea sideways.
“First part. The second part is Epictetus.”
“Small-minded people blame others. Average people blame themselves. The wise see all blame as foolishness.” Sir Humphrey recited the quotation with relish. “Epictetus was required reading when I was in Baillie. I thought I understood what he was saying until ‘Lea discussed it with me and, in the process corrected my Latin pronunciation. May we resume please?”
“Of course. We really haven’t got much further to go at this point.” Angel took a deep breath and exhaled. “Conrad, you said you had an interview fixed with Lord Lucan? I wanted to go with you to that meeting. I still do. We can play that into a more detailed discussion with him. In effect, we’ll stake him out like a goat and wait until the hit gets under way. Then, we’ll end it and that should turn Lucan. Sir Humphrey, can you start the preparations to get him out of the country with a false identity.”
“Of course. The documents will be available for your use when you need them. And I will speak with Heather about her behavior.”
In the background, the TV News had shifted to coverage of a football match between a team from the Strathclyde Police Cadets and one from the Chinatown Neighborhood Association. Inspector Conall Martin was the referee. The fact that the local people had trusted a police officer to referee a game that included a police team made Sir Humphrey smile with satisfaction. Then, he contemplated Heather's clumsy interference in a delicate and very important discussion and the smile clouded over.
Yowlestone House, Tiverton, Devon. April 27, 2000.
“Do I have to worry about Heather?” Angel was walking beside Conrad as they went up the drive to Yowlestone House. She was looking at him sideways, her eyes bulging slightly.
Conrad thought about that very carefully, understanding the implications of the question and the impact his answer might have on their relationship. “I happen to know Sir Humphrey flayed her alive yesterday after our meeting was over. He went as far as to suggest that her interference in our discussions might lead some people to conclude that she wasn’t sound. He even went as far as to question whether he could rely upon her judgement but did tell her she worked well under supervision.”
“That’s bad?” Angel really didn’t understand civil service bureaucratese.
“It’s like saying you don’t clean your guns and sometimes shoot yourself in the foot with negligent discharges. The last bit is damning and is telling her she will never again be trusted to use her own judgment or discretion. If she was a baseliner, it would be tantamount to dismissal from the Service. ‘Never’ is a long time of course but even with her heritage, it'll take her years to recover her position.”
“All right. That’s bad. My question still stands though. Do I have to worry about her?”
“She’s been fired from the Cabinet Office and transferred to a secret government establishment near Cheltenham. That will isolate her and place her in a controlled environment where she can learn tact and discretion. Sir Humphrey promises me that, by the time she is transferred again, she will have learned to be discrete and this matter will be forgotten. Angel, Heather grew up in lower middle class Victorian England. She never had a husband so she became a schoolteacher. As Chris said, that put her in a very sheltered environment where she never saw the uglier side of life. You gave me a lecture once about how the division between the overworld, represented by normal, law-abiding citizens and the underworld represented by crime, organized and disorganized, rarely if ever overtly saw each other but were there, side by side, with ritualized means for one to negotiate with another.”
“I’m sure I didn’t quite phrase it like that but fair enough. And?”
“You also said that what is happening now is that modern communications mean that each side is becoming aware of the other and what it stood for. Each wants things that the other has. What was a sharp and clearly-defined fault line has become an amorphous zone where the two sides meet to interact. That meeting can be peaceful and productive, like your Triads and the Mob in Cuba, or violent and destructive like The Trust and, in this case, the late and completely unlamented razor gangs.”
“I certainly didn’t say it that way, but, yes, that's a good summary.”
“Heather grew up and spent her formative years completely unaware that the division existed. In that era, middle class people in general knew very little about the underclasses and had only a romanticized picture of the aristocracy. Even after she was found by the Piccadilly Circus, that remained her lifestyle, first buried away as a school-teacher and then as a very junior civil servant. If it hadn’t been for the War, she still would be. Her main function these days is surveillance, watching and learning. A bit like Ai when she first started to work with you.” Angel nodded in understanding.
“There's something you must realize. She’s not in trouble because of what she said to you so much that she spoke at all. Her role at that meeting was to watch and learn, serve drinks and pass around necessary paperwork. Instead she tried to intervene and express her own ideas and opinions. Anyway, you’re the great Angel, a contractor with a 20-year reputation for scrupulous honesty in your business dealings. As far as the rest of the world is concerned, Heather is a nonentity, a nobody who is in no position to know anything about you. If she was stupid enough to open her mouth, and she is not stupid by any means, nobody would believe a word she said. Put bluntly, they are too afraid of you to believe her. So, no, you don’t have to worry about her.”
Angel nodded. "Strange as it may seem, I prefer it that way. Shooting her would be too much like killing an innocent bystander and it would cause severe complications."
"Which is why Sir Humphrey flayed her. Again, it wasn't what she said, it was that she said anything at all. You know Igrat's had a run-in with Heather? Heather hates Igrat even though the feeling is not reciprocated. They've clashed several times and Heather always gets the worst of it. One evening she was making some very rude remarks about Igrat's personal morals, or more precisely, her lack thereof. Iggie just looked at her and said 'Oh come on, Heather, the things you get up to in bed make even me blush.' The room exploded into laughter and Heather fled. You ought to know that Sir Humphrey is afraid of Igrat but he likes you."
"He does?" Angel was surprised.
"You took an extremely difficult problem and solved it smoothly, efficiently and with as little disruption as possible. From an administration point of view anyway, and when the inevitable problems cropped up, you made sure they were contained. The way you handled the situation was an excellent example of what Sir Humphrey considers good government practices and there is nothing he admires more than that. So he likes you and that's another reason why Heather is in trouble."
They had reached the front door but it opened before Conrad could pull the bell. That disappointed him a little; it looked like a fine example of an old ship’s bell and he’d been looking forward to giving it a good ring. Baron Churston had opened the door himself “You must be Conrad de Llorente and Angel. Sir Humphrey called to arrange a meeting. We don’t often have visitors here you see.”
“Thank you for seeing us at such short notice, my Lord.” Conrad and Angel followed the Baron into his private sitting room. On the way in, he noted that the entire house, a remarkably small one for the status of its occupant, exhibited an air of gentile decay. The family had obviously fallen on hard times and was having difficulty making ends meet.
“Now, how can I help you and your associate, Father?”
“Some doubts have come up over the provenance of Laleham House. We were wondering if you had any documentation over the ownership of the property?”
“I do have the title deeds. My grandfather bought the house and all its contents outright from Lord Lucan in 1930. The Lucan family had lost most of its money in the Stock Exchange crash of ’29 and they were trying to capitalize their assets. Our own seat, Lupton House, was burned down by two successive fires and we needed somewhere to live. Laleham House was a temporary home until our own place was repaired after which we rented it to the Sisters of St Peter the Apostle.”
“Whoa. Conrad didn’t you say Lucan told you his family leased the property to Baron Churlston at a peppercorn rent?” Angel paused. “Have I just done a Heather?”
Conrad chuckled and shook his head. “Unlike Heather, you’ve paid your dues. You’re right though. If this is true, Lucan was lying to me.”
“That’s what the Lucan family told the War Loss Compensation Board. They got the property back, free and clear. Lupton House had been bombed during the War and it was a ruin. My whole family was homeless and this cottage was the only roof we had over our heads.”
“Didn’t you show these deeds to the WLCB? And the lease agreement with the Sisters?”
“It wouldn’t have mattered, Father. If you’ll forgive the language, we could present an Affidavit from God himself witnessed by all His Angels, and they would still have found the Lucans to be the rightful owners. You see . . .” Suddenly the Baron hung his head and a tangible flood of shame seemed to ooze from his body. “. . . . . my father was a collaborator. After the war, nobody would talk to us, nobody would visit us. They would walk past us in the street without saying a word. When my wife and I got married, the church was empty except for the officials. My son once asked me why none of the other children would come here or play with him. What could I say?”
“That was fifty years ago.” Angel found it very hard to carry grudges against people since doing so would mean establishing an emotional link with them and doing that was medically impossible. Carrying a grudge for half a century was beyond her understanding.
“You’re American, you don’t understand. The nearest I can describe it is that it’s like the feelings in the old Confederacy but a hundred times worse. The wounds are still there, raw and unhealed. We won’t begin to mend them until everybody who lived through the Occupation has passed on. My father didn’t just betray his country he betrayed his family. He betrayed me. You can’t understand what that feels like.
For the second time in two days, Angel looked at somebody with a murderous gaze that was completely devoid of any sign of humanity or compassion. The Baron looked at her, his mouth hanging open with shock.
“My God, you do understand. You do know how that kind of betrayal from your own father eats into your soul. Angel, I am so sorry.”
“Not your problem, or your fault, Baron, but yes, I do know what you mean. Conrad, you are looking for injustices to put right and innocents to protect. You’ve just found your next case.”
“I agree. My Lord, could you get your lawyer to bring all of these documents to Sir Humphrey Appleday and ask the police forensic laboratory or whatever it’s called these days, to authenticate them. It concerns a very important case. Angel, we have work to do this day.”
Angel nodded. "All right. Now, let's go see Lord Lucan and see if we can get him to hang himself. If he doesn’t cooperate, he’ll learn the downside of a sucking chest wound."
“Can there possibly be more of a downside to a sucking chest wound than there already is, Angel?”
“There can be, if it’s in his head.
Re: 2000 - Eye of the Gangster
Chapter Twelve
Private Library, Laleham House, Laleham, Middlesex. April 28th 2000.
"Forty-five minutes." Angel was tapping her foot impatiently. Her irritation was exacerbated by the fact she'd had to dress up for this particular meeting. Her distinctive blood-red hair was piled up under a chic hat and she was wearing a classic woman's business suit and blouse. The outfit was both stylish and in excellent taste, which was hardly surprising since Igrat had chosen them for her, and the jacket was cut to conceal her guns. Even so, Angel would still have preferred to be in her normal jeans and polo neck top. Especially since this meeting had the potential to get very messy. As in 'blood splattered all over the walls' messy.
"Standard power game-playing. He has information we want so he makes us wait around on his convenience. You'll get your chance to show him your version of the same game in due course."
"Damn straight." Angel growled.
It was another 15 minutes before Lord Lucan appeared in the library. "Once again, Father, I am sorry to keep you waiting for so long. It is turning out to be a very full day."
"We are at your convenience, Your Lordship. I would like to introduce you to my associate in clearing this matter up, Ms. Rebecca Lee from the Vatican Bank. She is helping us poor clerics straighten out some of the financial problems resulting from the War."
"Miss Lee." Lord Lucan ran his eyes over her body in a way that made Angel's skin crawl. She nodded brusquely, keeping her eyes down to hide the expression in them. Or, more accurately, the lack of expression in them. It was a trick she had learned from Naamah.
"In view of your Lordship's busy schedule, perhaps we should get straight to business." Conrad looked owlishly at Lucan. "I understand you have found some documents that may resolve the issues that we discussed?"
"That's very considerate, Father. We have been most fortunate to discover that the firm of lawyers who represented the Lucan Estates Company during the period in question merged with another group in the early 1950s and subsequently became part of a larger, trans-national group. Usually, in such cases, early records are lost as repeated moves result in them being discarded. However, in this case, the records of the Lucan Estates Company have been preserved. They include a record of the lease by which John Reginald Lopes Yarde-Buller, 3rd Baron Churston rented the property on a 25-year contract. This expired in 1953, upon which the property and all its contents reverted to my family. Therefore the property which was sold at Christies was indeed stolen from my family."
"May I see the document in question?" Conrad asked politely
"The original is being retained by our lawyers so that chain of custody is maintained. However, I have here a certified copy of the lease for your records. My family attorneys have suggested that a case could be made that the Sisters of St Peter the Apostle were negligent in allowing Churston to remove property without producing proper authorization. However, I am sure that we can come to an amicable agreement on that issue."
"I am sure." Conrad said the words without a glimmer of feeling. "There is just one small problem with this situation."
"I think you will find all of our documents in order." Lucan sounded puzzled more than anything else.
"I am sure we will. The problem is that we have another set of documents, also all in order, from Baron Churston and his family. They show that the Third Baron purchased this property in 1930, with all its contents, free and clear. Quite apart from anything else, the mere fact of their existence would exonerate our nuns of any charge of negligence. However, this also raises the question of exactly how two sets of paperwork, one showing a lease and the other showing an outright purchase, can exist for the same transaction and the same time."
"Obviously Churston's are forgeries." Lucan was now getting angry.
"Well, somebody's are." Conrad was still polite and soft-spoken. "We will have to find out whose. Churston's documents are with the Forensic Science Service right now. Their documents expert says it's near-impossible to forge old paperwork convincingly these days. Modern forensic analysis and processing is just too good. So, I am afraid, Lord Lucan, that I must insist on you, or your lawyers, providing us with the originals of the lease you claim the Third Baron signed."
"I will do no such thing." Now Lucan was really angry and was leaning forward aggressively. If he had been more perceptive, he would have noticed that Angel was smiling.
"I am afraid you have no choice, your Lordship. I have here an order from the Her Majesty's High Court of Justice in England, ordering you to make available all documents relating to the lease or sale of Laleham House in the two decades prior to World War Two, should such documents still be extant. You have just confirmed that they are so extant, so if you decline to produce them, you will be held in contempt of court.
"How dare you suggest . . . ." Lucan was going bright red and his hand was reaching down for a desk drawer.
"You make one more move and your brains will be splattered all over the wall behind you." Angel's voice was so cold icicles seemed to be forming in the room. Lucan's move could easily be perceived as threatening Conrad and that was something no sane person did in Angel's presence. Her left hand was positioned so that she could cross-draw the gun hanging under her right shoulder, her right hand had her portable telephone in it. "Chris, we need you in here. Be careful of the gates, they have steel plate reinforcements. If they're locked, I'll loan you an RPG."
"We do have our own rocket launchers, Angel." Keeble sounded slightly petulant. In his eyes, he had good cause to be; every time he met with Angel or Achillea, it turned out they had even more highly illegal weaponry in their possession than before.
"All right, just offering." Angel put her telephone down. She was disappointed; the RPG in question was the one she had used in Govan a few days earlier and she had really wanted to get Keeble's fingerprints on it.
Then she took off her hat and shook out her hair. The blood red color made Lucan go white with shock. Suddenly, he had a very strong presentiment of mortality and absolutely no desire to move a muscle. Now he knew how a rabbit felt when facing a poisonous snake.
A few minutes later, Assistant Commissioner Chris Keeble was standing in the library with two very large constables in close support. "John Bingham, 7th Earl of Lucan, you are under arrest on a charge of fraudulent misrepresentation. You do not have to say anything unless you wish to do so, but I must warn you that if you fail to mention any fact which you rely on in your defense in court, your failure to take this opportunity to mention it may be treated in court as supporting any relevant evidence against you. If you do wish to say anything, what you say may be given in evidence."
Briefing Room, Forensic Science Service, Montagu House, London, April 28th 2000
"It’s a forgery." Sir Kendall Busch was quite firm on that point. As head of the Forensic Science Service, he had every reason to be.
"So the title deeds and bill of sale presented by Baron Churston are genuine?" Conrad sounded slightly relieved. I have been spared making a false accusation.
"I can't say that. I can say that the paper and ink are both compatible with the date on which the papers were signed and that the signature is consistent with known exemplars of the Third Baron's signature. The paper is very interesting; it’s a high-quality high rag content product of the sort usually used for bank certificates and other official documentation. It is not, however, acid-free and has yellowed greatly over time. Now, acid-free paper of similar appearance and quality to this and thus used for official records, was only available after 1932 and replaced acid-containing paper almost immediately so this document must date from before that. This is borne out by the blue-black ink. This is blue when written but turns black later thus making it impossible to amend the document by including extra words after signing. The blackening of the words is consistent showing that the text has not been changed since the document was written. Therefore we can say, with absolute confidence, that this document does date from the period it purports to represent."
"Allegedlies again." Achillea muttered to herself. "What about the document from Lucan."
"Ahh yes." Sir Kendall pulled his glasses down his nose and looked severely at Achillea. "It is critical to differentiate, young lady, between what we know and what we can deduce from what we know. Now, with the Lucan documents, these also are dated as being from 1930 but there are numerous inconsistencies with that date. The paper is not acid-free either, but it is very thin and cheaply-made. It has no measurable rag content. Such cheap and shoddy paper was never used for official documents prior to the War. During the War and for years thereafter, paper was made as cheaply as possible using the fewest raw materials. This paper is consistent with that era. Finally, and this is conclusive, the paper is very slightly radioactive. That means it must have been made after The Big One. Now, we come to the ink. This is also very cheaply made. It contrasts greatly with the expensive ink used on the Churston Document. It is a black ink using carbon pigment with no trace of blue in it. Based on these observations I would date the Lucan Document as being written between 1950 and 1955. Therefore, while I cannot say that the Churston Document is genuine, I can say that the Lucan Document is a forgery.
"Good enough for me." Keeble looked around with a glow of satisfaction on his face. "We've been wanting him for years."
"Is there a reward?" Angel asked hopefully.
"I honestly don't know. When his wife died, her family put up a reward for 'information leading to the conviction of the killer' but I doubt if that's still around. Still, we got him."
"I'm more concerned about Baron Churston. His family have suffered a grave injustice and have been sadly reduced in circumstances. Amends need to be made to the family and their property restored." Conrad sounded more saddened than indignant.
"The Third Baron was a collaborator." Keeble made the remark almost without thinking.
"The last time a man blamed me for what my father did, I kneecapped him." Angel's voice was unemotional. "Then I blew his brains out."
"Point made." Keeble didn't want to cross Angel but above that, he realized what she was saying was correct. It was time the past was left in the past. "The War Loss Compensation Board was a Royal Commission so we would need to go to the House of Lords to get its decision reversed."
"Is it too late to do that?" Conrad was already thinking ahead to strategies that would get the Churston family's property restored.
"There is no statute of limitations over here. Humpty should know; he's tried to get the Magna Carta reversed a number of times. Says it is inimical to good government and orderly administration. We'll have to ask him on the procedures."
Conrad was about to follow up on that when a bell started to toll outside the building. It was picked up by others until the city resounded with the doleful toll of the bells. The door to the briefing room opened and a secretary came in, weeping into her handkerchief. "I'm sorry to disturb you but I just had a call from Head Office. The Earl of London has passed away, just a few minutes ago. His last words were 'I'm sorry, Rachael.'
Angel looked confused. Keeble wiped his eyes and said quietly. "Prime Minister David Newton was ennobled as the Earl of London on his retirement from public life. He's been in poor health for some years but he wanted to make it into the 2000s. I think we better postpone this meeting until later."
Suite 334 Savoy Hotel, London, April 29, 2000.
“Just who was this Earl of London?” To Angel, history was a largely blank canvas primarily because she had never been to school and her basic skills were self-taught. She'd never seen a need to learn history. Achillea wasn’t much help either; she was a lot better-read than Angel but only because she had had more time and had been properly educated after a fashion.
“He was the British Prime Minister back in the 1980s. Won four elections, one after another. He brought Britain back from being a minor-league nation that was beaten in mind and spirit and gave it a place in the world again. Before his political career, he was in the Resistance. He killed RA Butler himself. That probably won him his first election. Some British Prime Ministers are respected, some are admired, some are not and one is despised. The Earl of London is one of the few who is loved. The whole country is closing down for a national day of mourning. Lucan will be sitting in jail today so he’ll have time to think. That will work for us I think. Lucan strikes me as a man who doesn’t think on his feet. He usually wins at games of skill when he can figure things out but he loses at games of chance when he has to make the right guess fast. 24 hours sitting in a cell, staring at the wall may be just what he needs to put it all together.”
“If he does it properly, he’ll come to the conclusion that he’s a dead man. If he talks, he implicates a lot of people. If he doesn’t, he can always change his mind later and start. There is only one way to ensure that he doesn't do either. Have we got a guard on him? As far as the bad guys are concerned, they’re running against the clock and don’t know when the alarm has been set for.”
“I’m on it.” Achillea got up from the armchair that graced one corner of the room.
"Watch yourself, 'Lea. If they do want to blow him away in his cell, they'll send a team and they'll come in hot and hard." Conrad noted that Angel actually sounded concerned. "I should be there with you. This is a two-person job and even that is marginal."
"I'd prefer it if neither of you were there." Conrad was thinking the situation through. "If I have this right, if the people at the root of this situation want Lucan dead now, they'll send a team who will kill everybody in their way. Probably, they'll blow the whole place up."
"That's fair." Angel was thinking it through as well, only she was doing so from the point of view of how she would plan it if she was doing the kill. "They'll grenade and machine gun their way in. 'Lea won't stand a chance on her own. Nor would I in the same position. If they don't want him dead now, he is better off sitting there on his own."
Achillea was also thinking the situation through. "The country is closed down today, right? So he gets his bail hearing tomorrow . . . "
"Tomorrow's Sunday, 'Lea." Conrad was the only person in the room for whom that had any significance.
"You're right. It'll have to be the day after. Hang on, that's May 1st. That's a holiday here, isn't it?"
"May Day? It is. The courts will be closed. It'll be Tuesday before we get Lord Lucan before a judge." Conrad thought about that as well.
"So, he could get hit any time in the next three days. We can't keep an eye on him for that length of time. The authorities will have to do that." Achillea shook her head. "Angel, if you did this job, wouldn't you prefer to get him out of his cell and hit him somewhere else? Preferably where nobody would find the body?"
Angel just nodded in agreement.
Conrad was looking out of the window at the Strand in front of him. It was still and empty, no sign of movement either in the Savoy Court or the Strand itself. "I can't help feeling that we're worrying over nothing. If there was an attack on Lucan before Tuesday, the people who do it will stand out like sore thumbs and the police job of chasing them will be made easy by the empty streets."
"Agreed." Angel was thoughtful. "That leaves the problem of getting something to eat. The restaurant here is closed for the day, along with everything else. I know a place over in Limehouse where we can get some good Chinese food. It's probably closed to normal customers but I'm a 432 in very good standing with London House. The Dai-Lo said he wanted to meet you Conrad so it'll be a private party."
"Limehouse? That's three miles away. There's no taxis or busses today and the Underground is shut down." Conrad looked around. "How will we get there?"
"Walk of course. People are walking around the city when they have to and a three mile walk will work up an appetite." Achillea licked her lips. "Good call, Angel. Should you telephone them first?"
Angel gave a quick nod. She had the telephone number of the Ming Dynasty on speed dial. Conrad considered the prospect of a brisk three-mile walk and decided being accompanied by a pair of extremely fit, apparently young, and certainly healthy women had its drawbacks.
Private Library, Laleham House, Laleham, Middlesex. April 28th 2000.
"Forty-five minutes." Angel was tapping her foot impatiently. Her irritation was exacerbated by the fact she'd had to dress up for this particular meeting. Her distinctive blood-red hair was piled up under a chic hat and she was wearing a classic woman's business suit and blouse. The outfit was both stylish and in excellent taste, which was hardly surprising since Igrat had chosen them for her, and the jacket was cut to conceal her guns. Even so, Angel would still have preferred to be in her normal jeans and polo neck top. Especially since this meeting had the potential to get very messy. As in 'blood splattered all over the walls' messy.
"Standard power game-playing. He has information we want so he makes us wait around on his convenience. You'll get your chance to show him your version of the same game in due course."
"Damn straight." Angel growled.
It was another 15 minutes before Lord Lucan appeared in the library. "Once again, Father, I am sorry to keep you waiting for so long. It is turning out to be a very full day."
"We are at your convenience, Your Lordship. I would like to introduce you to my associate in clearing this matter up, Ms. Rebecca Lee from the Vatican Bank. She is helping us poor clerics straighten out some of the financial problems resulting from the War."
"Miss Lee." Lord Lucan ran his eyes over her body in a way that made Angel's skin crawl. She nodded brusquely, keeping her eyes down to hide the expression in them. Or, more accurately, the lack of expression in them. It was a trick she had learned from Naamah.
"In view of your Lordship's busy schedule, perhaps we should get straight to business." Conrad looked owlishly at Lucan. "I understand you have found some documents that may resolve the issues that we discussed?"
"That's very considerate, Father. We have been most fortunate to discover that the firm of lawyers who represented the Lucan Estates Company during the period in question merged with another group in the early 1950s and subsequently became part of a larger, trans-national group. Usually, in such cases, early records are lost as repeated moves result in them being discarded. However, in this case, the records of the Lucan Estates Company have been preserved. They include a record of the lease by which John Reginald Lopes Yarde-Buller, 3rd Baron Churston rented the property on a 25-year contract. This expired in 1953, upon which the property and all its contents reverted to my family. Therefore the property which was sold at Christies was indeed stolen from my family."
"May I see the document in question?" Conrad asked politely
"The original is being retained by our lawyers so that chain of custody is maintained. However, I have here a certified copy of the lease for your records. My family attorneys have suggested that a case could be made that the Sisters of St Peter the Apostle were negligent in allowing Churston to remove property without producing proper authorization. However, I am sure that we can come to an amicable agreement on that issue."
"I am sure." Conrad said the words without a glimmer of feeling. "There is just one small problem with this situation."
"I think you will find all of our documents in order." Lucan sounded puzzled more than anything else.
"I am sure we will. The problem is that we have another set of documents, also all in order, from Baron Churston and his family. They show that the Third Baron purchased this property in 1930, with all its contents, free and clear. Quite apart from anything else, the mere fact of their existence would exonerate our nuns of any charge of negligence. However, this also raises the question of exactly how two sets of paperwork, one showing a lease and the other showing an outright purchase, can exist for the same transaction and the same time."
"Obviously Churston's are forgeries." Lucan was now getting angry.
"Well, somebody's are." Conrad was still polite and soft-spoken. "We will have to find out whose. Churston's documents are with the Forensic Science Service right now. Their documents expert says it's near-impossible to forge old paperwork convincingly these days. Modern forensic analysis and processing is just too good. So, I am afraid, Lord Lucan, that I must insist on you, or your lawyers, providing us with the originals of the lease you claim the Third Baron signed."
"I will do no such thing." Now Lucan was really angry and was leaning forward aggressively. If he had been more perceptive, he would have noticed that Angel was smiling.
"I am afraid you have no choice, your Lordship. I have here an order from the Her Majesty's High Court of Justice in England, ordering you to make available all documents relating to the lease or sale of Laleham House in the two decades prior to World War Two, should such documents still be extant. You have just confirmed that they are so extant, so if you decline to produce them, you will be held in contempt of court.
"How dare you suggest . . . ." Lucan was going bright red and his hand was reaching down for a desk drawer.
"You make one more move and your brains will be splattered all over the wall behind you." Angel's voice was so cold icicles seemed to be forming in the room. Lucan's move could easily be perceived as threatening Conrad and that was something no sane person did in Angel's presence. Her left hand was positioned so that she could cross-draw the gun hanging under her right shoulder, her right hand had her portable telephone in it. "Chris, we need you in here. Be careful of the gates, they have steel plate reinforcements. If they're locked, I'll loan you an RPG."
"We do have our own rocket launchers, Angel." Keeble sounded slightly petulant. In his eyes, he had good cause to be; every time he met with Angel or Achillea, it turned out they had even more highly illegal weaponry in their possession than before.
"All right, just offering." Angel put her telephone down. She was disappointed; the RPG in question was the one she had used in Govan a few days earlier and she had really wanted to get Keeble's fingerprints on it.
Then she took off her hat and shook out her hair. The blood red color made Lucan go white with shock. Suddenly, he had a very strong presentiment of mortality and absolutely no desire to move a muscle. Now he knew how a rabbit felt when facing a poisonous snake.
A few minutes later, Assistant Commissioner Chris Keeble was standing in the library with two very large constables in close support. "John Bingham, 7th Earl of Lucan, you are under arrest on a charge of fraudulent misrepresentation. You do not have to say anything unless you wish to do so, but I must warn you that if you fail to mention any fact which you rely on in your defense in court, your failure to take this opportunity to mention it may be treated in court as supporting any relevant evidence against you. If you do wish to say anything, what you say may be given in evidence."
Briefing Room, Forensic Science Service, Montagu House, London, April 28th 2000
"It’s a forgery." Sir Kendall Busch was quite firm on that point. As head of the Forensic Science Service, he had every reason to be.
"So the title deeds and bill of sale presented by Baron Churston are genuine?" Conrad sounded slightly relieved. I have been spared making a false accusation.
"I can't say that. I can say that the paper and ink are both compatible with the date on which the papers were signed and that the signature is consistent with known exemplars of the Third Baron's signature. The paper is very interesting; it’s a high-quality high rag content product of the sort usually used for bank certificates and other official documentation. It is not, however, acid-free and has yellowed greatly over time. Now, acid-free paper of similar appearance and quality to this and thus used for official records, was only available after 1932 and replaced acid-containing paper almost immediately so this document must date from before that. This is borne out by the blue-black ink. This is blue when written but turns black later thus making it impossible to amend the document by including extra words after signing. The blackening of the words is consistent showing that the text has not been changed since the document was written. Therefore we can say, with absolute confidence, that this document does date from the period it purports to represent."
"Allegedlies again." Achillea muttered to herself. "What about the document from Lucan."
"Ahh yes." Sir Kendall pulled his glasses down his nose and looked severely at Achillea. "It is critical to differentiate, young lady, between what we know and what we can deduce from what we know. Now, with the Lucan documents, these also are dated as being from 1930 but there are numerous inconsistencies with that date. The paper is not acid-free either, but it is very thin and cheaply-made. It has no measurable rag content. Such cheap and shoddy paper was never used for official documents prior to the War. During the War and for years thereafter, paper was made as cheaply as possible using the fewest raw materials. This paper is consistent with that era. Finally, and this is conclusive, the paper is very slightly radioactive. That means it must have been made after The Big One. Now, we come to the ink. This is also very cheaply made. It contrasts greatly with the expensive ink used on the Churston Document. It is a black ink using carbon pigment with no trace of blue in it. Based on these observations I would date the Lucan Document as being written between 1950 and 1955. Therefore, while I cannot say that the Churston Document is genuine, I can say that the Lucan Document is a forgery.
"Good enough for me." Keeble looked around with a glow of satisfaction on his face. "We've been wanting him for years."
"Is there a reward?" Angel asked hopefully.
"I honestly don't know. When his wife died, her family put up a reward for 'information leading to the conviction of the killer' but I doubt if that's still around. Still, we got him."
"I'm more concerned about Baron Churston. His family have suffered a grave injustice and have been sadly reduced in circumstances. Amends need to be made to the family and their property restored." Conrad sounded more saddened than indignant.
"The Third Baron was a collaborator." Keeble made the remark almost without thinking.
"The last time a man blamed me for what my father did, I kneecapped him." Angel's voice was unemotional. "Then I blew his brains out."
"Point made." Keeble didn't want to cross Angel but above that, he realized what she was saying was correct. It was time the past was left in the past. "The War Loss Compensation Board was a Royal Commission so we would need to go to the House of Lords to get its decision reversed."
"Is it too late to do that?" Conrad was already thinking ahead to strategies that would get the Churston family's property restored.
"There is no statute of limitations over here. Humpty should know; he's tried to get the Magna Carta reversed a number of times. Says it is inimical to good government and orderly administration. We'll have to ask him on the procedures."
Conrad was about to follow up on that when a bell started to toll outside the building. It was picked up by others until the city resounded with the doleful toll of the bells. The door to the briefing room opened and a secretary came in, weeping into her handkerchief. "I'm sorry to disturb you but I just had a call from Head Office. The Earl of London has passed away, just a few minutes ago. His last words were 'I'm sorry, Rachael.'
Angel looked confused. Keeble wiped his eyes and said quietly. "Prime Minister David Newton was ennobled as the Earl of London on his retirement from public life. He's been in poor health for some years but he wanted to make it into the 2000s. I think we better postpone this meeting until later."
Suite 334 Savoy Hotel, London, April 29, 2000.
“Just who was this Earl of London?” To Angel, history was a largely blank canvas primarily because she had never been to school and her basic skills were self-taught. She'd never seen a need to learn history. Achillea wasn’t much help either; she was a lot better-read than Angel but only because she had had more time and had been properly educated after a fashion.
“He was the British Prime Minister back in the 1980s. Won four elections, one after another. He brought Britain back from being a minor-league nation that was beaten in mind and spirit and gave it a place in the world again. Before his political career, he was in the Resistance. He killed RA Butler himself. That probably won him his first election. Some British Prime Ministers are respected, some are admired, some are not and one is despised. The Earl of London is one of the few who is loved. The whole country is closing down for a national day of mourning. Lucan will be sitting in jail today so he’ll have time to think. That will work for us I think. Lucan strikes me as a man who doesn’t think on his feet. He usually wins at games of skill when he can figure things out but he loses at games of chance when he has to make the right guess fast. 24 hours sitting in a cell, staring at the wall may be just what he needs to put it all together.”
“If he does it properly, he’ll come to the conclusion that he’s a dead man. If he talks, he implicates a lot of people. If he doesn’t, he can always change his mind later and start. There is only one way to ensure that he doesn't do either. Have we got a guard on him? As far as the bad guys are concerned, they’re running against the clock and don’t know when the alarm has been set for.”
“I’m on it.” Achillea got up from the armchair that graced one corner of the room.
"Watch yourself, 'Lea. If they do want to blow him away in his cell, they'll send a team and they'll come in hot and hard." Conrad noted that Angel actually sounded concerned. "I should be there with you. This is a two-person job and even that is marginal."
"I'd prefer it if neither of you were there." Conrad was thinking the situation through. "If I have this right, if the people at the root of this situation want Lucan dead now, they'll send a team who will kill everybody in their way. Probably, they'll blow the whole place up."
"That's fair." Angel was thinking it through as well, only she was doing so from the point of view of how she would plan it if she was doing the kill. "They'll grenade and machine gun their way in. 'Lea won't stand a chance on her own. Nor would I in the same position. If they don't want him dead now, he is better off sitting there on his own."
Achillea was also thinking the situation through. "The country is closed down today, right? So he gets his bail hearing tomorrow . . . "
"Tomorrow's Sunday, 'Lea." Conrad was the only person in the room for whom that had any significance.
"You're right. It'll have to be the day after. Hang on, that's May 1st. That's a holiday here, isn't it?"
"May Day? It is. The courts will be closed. It'll be Tuesday before we get Lord Lucan before a judge." Conrad thought about that as well.
"So, he could get hit any time in the next three days. We can't keep an eye on him for that length of time. The authorities will have to do that." Achillea shook her head. "Angel, if you did this job, wouldn't you prefer to get him out of his cell and hit him somewhere else? Preferably where nobody would find the body?"
Angel just nodded in agreement.
Conrad was looking out of the window at the Strand in front of him. It was still and empty, no sign of movement either in the Savoy Court or the Strand itself. "I can't help feeling that we're worrying over nothing. If there was an attack on Lucan before Tuesday, the people who do it will stand out like sore thumbs and the police job of chasing them will be made easy by the empty streets."
"Agreed." Angel was thoughtful. "That leaves the problem of getting something to eat. The restaurant here is closed for the day, along with everything else. I know a place over in Limehouse where we can get some good Chinese food. It's probably closed to normal customers but I'm a 432 in very good standing with London House. The Dai-Lo said he wanted to meet you Conrad so it'll be a private party."
"Limehouse? That's three miles away. There's no taxis or busses today and the Underground is shut down." Conrad looked around. "How will we get there?"
"Walk of course. People are walking around the city when they have to and a three mile walk will work up an appetite." Achillea licked her lips. "Good call, Angel. Should you telephone them first?"
Angel gave a quick nod. She had the telephone number of the Ming Dynasty on speed dial. Conrad considered the prospect of a brisk three-mile walk and decided being accompanied by a pair of extremely fit, apparently young, and certainly healthy women had its drawbacks.
Re: 2000 - Eye of the Gangster
Chapter Thirteen
Her Majesty's High Court, Strand, London, May 2nd 2000.
"John Bingham, 7th Earl of Lucan, you have been brought before this court on charges of forging divers official records of property transactions and agreements with the objective of obtaining pecuniary advantage by fraudulent misrepresentation and of supporting those acts by committing perjury before a Royal Commission. How do you plead?" Mr. Justice Thorley peered at the defendant from under his full-bottomed wig. It wasn't often a peer of the realm faced charges like this and both Judge and defendant knew there were many more, much more serious charges to come. These were just holding charges.
Lucan stood in the dock, his lips pressed tightly shut. His days in a police jail had measurably diminished him. All traces of the tall, dashing cavalry officer he had once been were swept away and now the sleazy and disreputable old man that he was now had come out full force. He looked down, but said nothing.
"Counsel for the Defense?"
"M’lud, my client elects to stand mute. I would crave the Court's indulgence and enter a plea of Not Guilty on his behalf."
Albert Thorley grunted. "Not that you have much choice in the matter."
"Indeed not, M’lud." The barrister defending Lord Lucan, Courtney Brassington, was obliged under the law to enter a plea of Not Guilty if his client elected to stand mute. British court procedures had changed dramatically since the Occupation, not least because the old ways had been irreparably stained by German abuse. Brassington looked around. Almost everybody in the courtroom was wearing a black armband, the men black ties and the women black dresses and hats. Even two American women who were sitting in the Public Gallery had carefully dressed in mourning black and so had won small nods of approval from the other women in the chamber. Reassuring a foreign guest that they had 'done things right' was a real kindness and a true sign of genuine hospitality.
"What are the facts of this case?"
"M’lud, the Crown contends that on Wednesday, October 6th, 1955, the defendant, John Bingham, 7th Earl of Lucan, presented to the Royal Commission on War Loss Compensation and Restitution, divers documents that he claimed asserted his family's ownership to a property known as Laleham House. The claim was contested by the Fourth Baron Churston but the Commission found for the Earl of Lucan. The Crown has obtained those documents and forensic examination has proved that they dated from 1950 to 1955, some 20 years later than claimed. At the same time, deeds confirming Baron Churston's ownership of the property, subjected to the same forensic analysis, proved to be consistent with the dates claimed. It is therefore the Crown's position that the documents presented by the Earl of Lucan were forgeries, made with the specific intention of depriving Baron Churston of property that was rightfully his."
"Does the Counsel for the Defense have a reply?"
"M’lud, we would reserve comment on the case and the evidence presented until the trial. In the meantime, we would like to inspect all the documents and the forensic reports. We would also like a list of the witnesses who will be testifying for the Prosecution."
"So ordered. The case is remanded to the Central Criminal Court with a recommendation for an early trial date."
"M’lud, my client is a peer of the realm and does not represent a flight risk. May I ask that a reasonable bail be set."
Mr. Justice Thorley thought for a moment. "Bail is set at fifty thousand pounds and your client will surrender his passport. So remanded."
Sir Humphrey Appleday’s Office, Cabinet Office, 70 Whitehall, London, May 2nd, 2000.
"Why do your lawyers still wear wigs?" Conrad was slightly curious about that; in view of the wholesale reform of the British court system that had taken place, the wigs seemed to have been an archaic remnant of the past.
"The general consensus is that the retention of the wigs that are a well-known symbol of the judiciary and the personnel who serve in that segment of the government was made necessary by a careful consideration of two independent but related factors that were supplemented by a generalized and carefully-expressed feeling of preference for the retention of wigs by the practitioners of the profession of law. It was generally considered that the retention of wigs would serve to reinforce the perception that the personnel who were taking part in the proceedings of the courts of law as part of their general daily duties were not acting on their own behalf or as individuals but were part of a larger system that embraced the whole of the legal system of the United Kingdom. Also, there was a clearly-expressed belief that retaining the wearing of wigs in court would serve as a link to the pre-Occupation practices of the country and highlight the workings of the system under German administration were not typical of the desires and philosophy of the lawfully-constituted British government."
"So, where do we go from here?" Conrad actually had made remarkably few appearances in court and none under his current identity.
"The trial is scheduled to start in two week's time." Chris Keeble jumped in before Sir Humphrey started another monologue. He had noticed Conrad's eyes beginning to glaze over during the last one. "You may have to give evidence, Conrad, to confirm that Lord Lucan stated the documents in question proved that the property in question belonged to his family. That could be a problem."
"Why?" Conrad was suddenly worried. "You mean it could expose us?"
"Of course not, we can bury that. We've had enough practice. It's Angel that's the problem. You see, you'll give evidence as a properly-ordained member of the Society of Jesus and that gives you tremendous credibility. The defense will try and impeach that and the obvious line of attack is via Angel. She lives with you, or seems to, and that suggests some impropriety on your part that could compromise your testimony. If they find out about her history, it'll blow your evidence out of the water."
"And, if the Judge insults her, it is not beyond the bounds of possibility that she will shoot him." Sir Humphrey shook his head sadly. "We have never had a judge shot dead halfway through a trial before, especially by a prosecution witness. I don't think there is a legal precedent to cover that."
Conrad suddenly had an uneasy feeling that Angel might have been right when she suspected a double-cross from the authorities. "I doubt if it will come to that. Appearing in court I mean. The current charges against Lord Lucan are to force him and the upper members of The Trust to overplay their hands. If that happens, there won't be a trial. There almost certainly won't be anyway; The Trust will kill Lucan, or try to, long before that happens."
Conrad was about to say that Angel and Achillea were already in Laleham waiting for that attack to take place but he hadn't liked the glances Keeble and Sir Humphrey had exchanged. Suddenly, he decided to keep that piece of information to himself. For the first time, he realized how dangerous Angel's world really was. He'd been aware of the constant physical danger from other killers, he had after all, been shot by one of them himself. He now understood that the ever-present danger of betrayal was something he had completely underestimated. The threat didn’t even have to be plausible, whether or not it was, it had to be assumed so. He was as certain as it was possible to be that there was no double-cross planned by Keeble and Sir Humphrey but the fear that there might be one was still there and it affected the decisions that he had to make. Instead of saying anything, he deflected the discussion to safer ground. "Where does Baron Churston go from here? He and his family have suffered a grave injustice."
"His Lordship has been advised to approach the Official Solicitor and refer him to the case that has just been remanded to the Central Criminal Court. No matter how that case turns out, it raises sufficient doubts as to make the original decision by the Royal Commission on War Loss Compensation and Restitution, unsafe. That, of course, means that all the other decisions reached by the commission will have to be re-opened and re-examined. If it can be shown that one decision they reached was wrongly influenced by their perception of one participant as a collaborator, then it must be assumed the same bias was applied to their other decisions. This has the makings of a major scandal."
Sir Humphrey sighed. In his eyes, scandals, especially those involving the Civil Service were best avoided or buried. In theory, his loyalties were to his country first and to the Civil Service second. In reality, he was sincerely convinced that the interests of the first were best served by the continued ascendancy of the second. And, of course, each had to be governed by the interests of the long-lived community and its members. That was, after all, why the Piccadilly Circus and its foreign equivalents existed. Once again, Conrad’s mere presence is causing administrative problems and interfering with the basic principles of orderly government.
“This could be a good thing.” Keeble sounded thoughtful. Angel’s comment about kneecapping people who blamed children for the sins of their parents had struck a very deep chord and, as her words had echoed in his mind, he had come to realize that her comment had been much more perceptive than it seemed. “It is time we left the Occupation behind us and this might be a valuable chance to show that to people.”
"I think a new Royal Commission might be a good way of approaching this issue. I believe that the Earl of London, in his last letter to the British People, said that the new millennium was a good time to set the past behind us and enter the future with a clean slate. We might even dedicate the new Commission to his memory." Sir Humphrey smiled proudly; he had managed to create new government appointments for civil servants.
Conrad felt his depression and doubts evaporating. Right from the start of this case, he had grave reservations over what he, and particularly Angel, were being asked to do. He had rationalized their actions on the grounds that they were protecting the innocent citizens of Glasgow from ruthless exploitation that would have pauperized them. While that was true, he had been painfully aware that it was a rationalization that only just managed to bring their actions within the limits he had set upon himself. Now, out of that highly dubious argument, had come notice of a group of people who were genuinely innocent yet had been wrongly convicted due to vindictiveness and a desire for revenge by proxy. Once again, his footsteps had been guided to the innocent who needed protection. Suddenly, things were back in their rightful patterns at last.
Laleham House, Laleham, Middlesex. May 2nd 2000.
“The Glasgow plan is dead. All the gang leaderships have been either killed or arrested and they’re grassing on their surviving underlings as fast as the stenographers can take down their statements. Trying to buy their way out of the noose of course.”
“Then rebuild the gangs and start again.” The Big Man was angry and it showed.
“We’ll have to find another location, probably not in Britain. Dublin might work, Londonderry or Belfast probably better. We can exploit what’s left of the religious divide there. Even before the Occupation, it was never really about religion. We can get the gangs back together there. Not in Glasgow. The police there were caught off-guard before, now they are watching for any sign our gangs are reforming. Those neighborhood watches keep them well-warned of anything out of the ordinary. If anybody can understand the hideous dialect they speak up there.”
“Then scare them off. The cops can’t do anything until a crime is committed and then it’s too late. Find out whose active in the watches and kill them along with every member of their families. You’ll only need a few examples, the rest will learn.” The Big Man was now screaming furious.
“That won’t work either. The Triads have moved into the Glasgow area in force. I’ve heard they’re pulling their gunmen in from as far afield as Rotterdam and Marseilles. Why they’re moving into Glasgow like this defies logic but they are. They don’t need to wait for a crime to be committed. They catch one of our people even threatening a Neighborhood Watchman and our operative is either found on waste ground with a bullet hole in his head or is simply never seen again. Look, that’s the most important lesson we carry out of this mess. We don’t step on Triad toes again. If they’re in a city area, we stay out. That's another advantage of setting up a new operation in Ireland. No Triads there.”
“You mean the cops are employing death squads?” The Big Man sounded thoughtful as if he had seen a way to save the situation.
“Of course not. The Neighborhood Watches protect their patches, the Triad gunslingers protect the Watchmen and the Police arrest anybody who they catch breaking the law. That includes the Triad operatives only, they take care not to get caught and they’re really popular with the local people who cover up for them. There’s an old saying, 'we catch more flies with honey than vinegar' and the Triads have that down to a fine art. I’ve heard, some families put an extra meal out on the table every night so if a Triad is evading the police, he can just sit down and be a family friend who has been there all night.”
There was a long silence. “All right. The people up top need to hear about this.”
“Well, tell them something else. Paying of the bail on this court case has left me on my uppers. This isn’t the States, there’s no bail bonds here. Bail has to be paid immediately, in cash, or with a certified check. I’m cleaned out.”
“I told you before, we’re not interested in your pathetic little frauds. You got yourself into this, you get yourself out of it.”
Lord Lucan looked furiously down the telephone. “I have worked hard for The Trust for four decades. I know names, I know places. If I go down, The Glasgow gang leaders are not the only one who can name names.”
There was another long silence on the telephone. “All right. You stay put there and get a report ready on what happened in Glasgow. In your head, not in writing, of course. If that operation is as dead as you say, we better learn how and why it happened. I’ll get a transfer made for 150 thousand sovereigns to cover your costs. Brassington is one of ours; he’ll do your defense as a Trust operation. We must have something on Thorley, we’ll get the case tossed. All right?”
“Yes, that is fine. Look. . . . .”
“No names.” The Big man had a warning note in his voice.
“I’m sorry I got . . . well, sitting alone in a police cell for three days was grim. All I got to eat was Chinese take-away and it gave me the worst case of the runs I’ve ever had.”
“Don’t sweat it. You just stay there, out of sight. You know how the law works here, out of sight, out of mind.”
Royal Telephone Service Maintenance Van, a mile from Laleham House, Laleham, Middlesex. May 2nd 2000.
“The problem with cavalry is that in the partnership of man and horse, all the brains are between the ears of the horse.” Wanda Daubney pushed back her earphones and grinned at the man and two women in the back of the van with her. She had recently joined “Five” as a surveillance and computer security expert. Next to her, Robin Stephens was carefully listening to key parts of the conversation. He was a “five” veteran who had a long background in analyzing clandestine recordings and was a top-rank interrogator. Achillea, who knew him well, believed that Stephens was second only to Conrad when it came to worming the truth out of people. Interestingly both abhorred using violence for that purpose.
“We have a confirmed link to The Trust.” Stephens sounded grimly satisfied. “And that makes tonight’s effort worthwhile even if we get nothing else.”
“The telephone number is that of the Daily Sketch Building in Holborn.” Daubney was looking at the screen displaying the call details. “We can’t track it further than the main switchboard though. That’s probably why the call went though there.”
“Do we have a voice identification on the other end? Is it Robin Mansell?” Stephens didn’t sound hopeful.
“The call went through an electronic scrambler and descrambler. The poor innocents thought that would stop us descrambling it but the voiceprints are so messed up we can’t identify them. We only know it’s Lucan on one end because we know. It might be Mansell on the other, it’s a man certainly, but we can’t be sure.” Daubney typed some instructions into her computer and sat back to watch the results. After a minute or so, she shook her head. “I’ve run an algorithm to clean the intercept print up but it’s no good. The scrambling/descrambling program really screws the traces up.”
Achillea and Angel exchanged glances, the information was far less positive than they had hoped but it did tell them one critical thing. Lord Lucan was about to be killed. They kept quiet though; on one hand the two communications surveillance experts didn’t need to know about the details of wet-work. On the other, the example set by Heather Watson on the inadvisability of trying to comment on situations they didn’t fully understand was still fresh in both their minds.
“What do you two think?” Stephens looked hard at the two operatives sharing the van with them. One of them, the Chinese woman with red hair, he understood perfectly. A professional killer who happened to be working for the good guys. This time. The other was much harder to analyze and he was still confused by her.
“Lord Lucan has been staked out and he’s too stupid to realize it. He signed his own death-warrant the moment he threatened to squeal on the higher-ups. We got another name though; Brassington. We need to look into him.” Angel knew that killing Lucan was the sort of job she could easily have been given the contract to carry out. She had immediately started to think out how she would have carried out the contract and what she would do to stop herself.
“Don’t be too sure Brassington is one of them.” Stephens was still examining the transcript of the conversation. “His name was the only name used and it was already linked to Lucan. I think it was being used to calm Lucan down and make him think he was being protected.”
“Probably. Check into him though. Angel?”
“We need to get on station right now.” Stephens watched the Chinese woman grip her lower lip between her teeth. “How quickly this will happen depends on whether they do the job in-house or bring in experts. If they do it in-house, the team could be coming here . . . well, now. If they have to bring in experts from outside, we’ll have 24 hours or so. ‘Lea, expect a four-person team. If it’s in-house, I bet it’ll be all-male and pretty amateurish. These people really aren’t very good at wet-work. If they hire in, we can expect people like me.”
Achillea looked around. “We’ll get to work. Angel, you’re the trained bodyguard, you should take point on this.”
“Good luck, people.” Daubney spoke quietly and very sincerely.
Her Majesty's High Court, Strand, London, May 2nd 2000.
"John Bingham, 7th Earl of Lucan, you have been brought before this court on charges of forging divers official records of property transactions and agreements with the objective of obtaining pecuniary advantage by fraudulent misrepresentation and of supporting those acts by committing perjury before a Royal Commission. How do you plead?" Mr. Justice Thorley peered at the defendant from under his full-bottomed wig. It wasn't often a peer of the realm faced charges like this and both Judge and defendant knew there were many more, much more serious charges to come. These were just holding charges.
Lucan stood in the dock, his lips pressed tightly shut. His days in a police jail had measurably diminished him. All traces of the tall, dashing cavalry officer he had once been were swept away and now the sleazy and disreputable old man that he was now had come out full force. He looked down, but said nothing.
"Counsel for the Defense?"
"M’lud, my client elects to stand mute. I would crave the Court's indulgence and enter a plea of Not Guilty on his behalf."
Albert Thorley grunted. "Not that you have much choice in the matter."
"Indeed not, M’lud." The barrister defending Lord Lucan, Courtney Brassington, was obliged under the law to enter a plea of Not Guilty if his client elected to stand mute. British court procedures had changed dramatically since the Occupation, not least because the old ways had been irreparably stained by German abuse. Brassington looked around. Almost everybody in the courtroom was wearing a black armband, the men black ties and the women black dresses and hats. Even two American women who were sitting in the Public Gallery had carefully dressed in mourning black and so had won small nods of approval from the other women in the chamber. Reassuring a foreign guest that they had 'done things right' was a real kindness and a true sign of genuine hospitality.
"What are the facts of this case?"
"M’lud, the Crown contends that on Wednesday, October 6th, 1955, the defendant, John Bingham, 7th Earl of Lucan, presented to the Royal Commission on War Loss Compensation and Restitution, divers documents that he claimed asserted his family's ownership to a property known as Laleham House. The claim was contested by the Fourth Baron Churston but the Commission found for the Earl of Lucan. The Crown has obtained those documents and forensic examination has proved that they dated from 1950 to 1955, some 20 years later than claimed. At the same time, deeds confirming Baron Churston's ownership of the property, subjected to the same forensic analysis, proved to be consistent with the dates claimed. It is therefore the Crown's position that the documents presented by the Earl of Lucan were forgeries, made with the specific intention of depriving Baron Churston of property that was rightfully his."
"Does the Counsel for the Defense have a reply?"
"M’lud, we would reserve comment on the case and the evidence presented until the trial. In the meantime, we would like to inspect all the documents and the forensic reports. We would also like a list of the witnesses who will be testifying for the Prosecution."
"So ordered. The case is remanded to the Central Criminal Court with a recommendation for an early trial date."
"M’lud, my client is a peer of the realm and does not represent a flight risk. May I ask that a reasonable bail be set."
Mr. Justice Thorley thought for a moment. "Bail is set at fifty thousand pounds and your client will surrender his passport. So remanded."
Sir Humphrey Appleday’s Office, Cabinet Office, 70 Whitehall, London, May 2nd, 2000.
"Why do your lawyers still wear wigs?" Conrad was slightly curious about that; in view of the wholesale reform of the British court system that had taken place, the wigs seemed to have been an archaic remnant of the past.
"The general consensus is that the retention of the wigs that are a well-known symbol of the judiciary and the personnel who serve in that segment of the government was made necessary by a careful consideration of two independent but related factors that were supplemented by a generalized and carefully-expressed feeling of preference for the retention of wigs by the practitioners of the profession of law. It was generally considered that the retention of wigs would serve to reinforce the perception that the personnel who were taking part in the proceedings of the courts of law as part of their general daily duties were not acting on their own behalf or as individuals but were part of a larger system that embraced the whole of the legal system of the United Kingdom. Also, there was a clearly-expressed belief that retaining the wearing of wigs in court would serve as a link to the pre-Occupation practices of the country and highlight the workings of the system under German administration were not typical of the desires and philosophy of the lawfully-constituted British government."
"So, where do we go from here?" Conrad actually had made remarkably few appearances in court and none under his current identity.
"The trial is scheduled to start in two week's time." Chris Keeble jumped in before Sir Humphrey started another monologue. He had noticed Conrad's eyes beginning to glaze over during the last one. "You may have to give evidence, Conrad, to confirm that Lord Lucan stated the documents in question proved that the property in question belonged to his family. That could be a problem."
"Why?" Conrad was suddenly worried. "You mean it could expose us?"
"Of course not, we can bury that. We've had enough practice. It's Angel that's the problem. You see, you'll give evidence as a properly-ordained member of the Society of Jesus and that gives you tremendous credibility. The defense will try and impeach that and the obvious line of attack is via Angel. She lives with you, or seems to, and that suggests some impropriety on your part that could compromise your testimony. If they find out about her history, it'll blow your evidence out of the water."
"And, if the Judge insults her, it is not beyond the bounds of possibility that she will shoot him." Sir Humphrey shook his head sadly. "We have never had a judge shot dead halfway through a trial before, especially by a prosecution witness. I don't think there is a legal precedent to cover that."
Conrad suddenly had an uneasy feeling that Angel might have been right when she suspected a double-cross from the authorities. "I doubt if it will come to that. Appearing in court I mean. The current charges against Lord Lucan are to force him and the upper members of The Trust to overplay their hands. If that happens, there won't be a trial. There almost certainly won't be anyway; The Trust will kill Lucan, or try to, long before that happens."
Conrad was about to say that Angel and Achillea were already in Laleham waiting for that attack to take place but he hadn't liked the glances Keeble and Sir Humphrey had exchanged. Suddenly, he decided to keep that piece of information to himself. For the first time, he realized how dangerous Angel's world really was. He'd been aware of the constant physical danger from other killers, he had after all, been shot by one of them himself. He now understood that the ever-present danger of betrayal was something he had completely underestimated. The threat didn’t even have to be plausible, whether or not it was, it had to be assumed so. He was as certain as it was possible to be that there was no double-cross planned by Keeble and Sir Humphrey but the fear that there might be one was still there and it affected the decisions that he had to make. Instead of saying anything, he deflected the discussion to safer ground. "Where does Baron Churston go from here? He and his family have suffered a grave injustice."
"His Lordship has been advised to approach the Official Solicitor and refer him to the case that has just been remanded to the Central Criminal Court. No matter how that case turns out, it raises sufficient doubts as to make the original decision by the Royal Commission on War Loss Compensation and Restitution, unsafe. That, of course, means that all the other decisions reached by the commission will have to be re-opened and re-examined. If it can be shown that one decision they reached was wrongly influenced by their perception of one participant as a collaborator, then it must be assumed the same bias was applied to their other decisions. This has the makings of a major scandal."
Sir Humphrey sighed. In his eyes, scandals, especially those involving the Civil Service were best avoided or buried. In theory, his loyalties were to his country first and to the Civil Service second. In reality, he was sincerely convinced that the interests of the first were best served by the continued ascendancy of the second. And, of course, each had to be governed by the interests of the long-lived community and its members. That was, after all, why the Piccadilly Circus and its foreign equivalents existed. Once again, Conrad’s mere presence is causing administrative problems and interfering with the basic principles of orderly government.
“This could be a good thing.” Keeble sounded thoughtful. Angel’s comment about kneecapping people who blamed children for the sins of their parents had struck a very deep chord and, as her words had echoed in his mind, he had come to realize that her comment had been much more perceptive than it seemed. “It is time we left the Occupation behind us and this might be a valuable chance to show that to people.”
"I think a new Royal Commission might be a good way of approaching this issue. I believe that the Earl of London, in his last letter to the British People, said that the new millennium was a good time to set the past behind us and enter the future with a clean slate. We might even dedicate the new Commission to his memory." Sir Humphrey smiled proudly; he had managed to create new government appointments for civil servants.
Conrad felt his depression and doubts evaporating. Right from the start of this case, he had grave reservations over what he, and particularly Angel, were being asked to do. He had rationalized their actions on the grounds that they were protecting the innocent citizens of Glasgow from ruthless exploitation that would have pauperized them. While that was true, he had been painfully aware that it was a rationalization that only just managed to bring their actions within the limits he had set upon himself. Now, out of that highly dubious argument, had come notice of a group of people who were genuinely innocent yet had been wrongly convicted due to vindictiveness and a desire for revenge by proxy. Once again, his footsteps had been guided to the innocent who needed protection. Suddenly, things were back in their rightful patterns at last.
Laleham House, Laleham, Middlesex. May 2nd 2000.
“The Glasgow plan is dead. All the gang leaderships have been either killed or arrested and they’re grassing on their surviving underlings as fast as the stenographers can take down their statements. Trying to buy their way out of the noose of course.”
“Then rebuild the gangs and start again.” The Big Man was angry and it showed.
“We’ll have to find another location, probably not in Britain. Dublin might work, Londonderry or Belfast probably better. We can exploit what’s left of the religious divide there. Even before the Occupation, it was never really about religion. We can get the gangs back together there. Not in Glasgow. The police there were caught off-guard before, now they are watching for any sign our gangs are reforming. Those neighborhood watches keep them well-warned of anything out of the ordinary. If anybody can understand the hideous dialect they speak up there.”
“Then scare them off. The cops can’t do anything until a crime is committed and then it’s too late. Find out whose active in the watches and kill them along with every member of their families. You’ll only need a few examples, the rest will learn.” The Big Man was now screaming furious.
“That won’t work either. The Triads have moved into the Glasgow area in force. I’ve heard they’re pulling their gunmen in from as far afield as Rotterdam and Marseilles. Why they’re moving into Glasgow like this defies logic but they are. They don’t need to wait for a crime to be committed. They catch one of our people even threatening a Neighborhood Watchman and our operative is either found on waste ground with a bullet hole in his head or is simply never seen again. Look, that’s the most important lesson we carry out of this mess. We don’t step on Triad toes again. If they’re in a city area, we stay out. That's another advantage of setting up a new operation in Ireland. No Triads there.”
“You mean the cops are employing death squads?” The Big Man sounded thoughtful as if he had seen a way to save the situation.
“Of course not. The Neighborhood Watches protect their patches, the Triad gunslingers protect the Watchmen and the Police arrest anybody who they catch breaking the law. That includes the Triad operatives only, they take care not to get caught and they’re really popular with the local people who cover up for them. There’s an old saying, 'we catch more flies with honey than vinegar' and the Triads have that down to a fine art. I’ve heard, some families put an extra meal out on the table every night so if a Triad is evading the police, he can just sit down and be a family friend who has been there all night.”
There was a long silence. “All right. The people up top need to hear about this.”
“Well, tell them something else. Paying of the bail on this court case has left me on my uppers. This isn’t the States, there’s no bail bonds here. Bail has to be paid immediately, in cash, or with a certified check. I’m cleaned out.”
“I told you before, we’re not interested in your pathetic little frauds. You got yourself into this, you get yourself out of it.”
Lord Lucan looked furiously down the telephone. “I have worked hard for The Trust for four decades. I know names, I know places. If I go down, The Glasgow gang leaders are not the only one who can name names.”
There was another long silence on the telephone. “All right. You stay put there and get a report ready on what happened in Glasgow. In your head, not in writing, of course. If that operation is as dead as you say, we better learn how and why it happened. I’ll get a transfer made for 150 thousand sovereigns to cover your costs. Brassington is one of ours; he’ll do your defense as a Trust operation. We must have something on Thorley, we’ll get the case tossed. All right?”
“Yes, that is fine. Look. . . . .”
“No names.” The Big man had a warning note in his voice.
“I’m sorry I got . . . well, sitting alone in a police cell for three days was grim. All I got to eat was Chinese take-away and it gave me the worst case of the runs I’ve ever had.”
“Don’t sweat it. You just stay there, out of sight. You know how the law works here, out of sight, out of mind.”
Royal Telephone Service Maintenance Van, a mile from Laleham House, Laleham, Middlesex. May 2nd 2000.
“The problem with cavalry is that in the partnership of man and horse, all the brains are between the ears of the horse.” Wanda Daubney pushed back her earphones and grinned at the man and two women in the back of the van with her. She had recently joined “Five” as a surveillance and computer security expert. Next to her, Robin Stephens was carefully listening to key parts of the conversation. He was a “five” veteran who had a long background in analyzing clandestine recordings and was a top-rank interrogator. Achillea, who knew him well, believed that Stephens was second only to Conrad when it came to worming the truth out of people. Interestingly both abhorred using violence for that purpose.
“We have a confirmed link to The Trust.” Stephens sounded grimly satisfied. “And that makes tonight’s effort worthwhile even if we get nothing else.”
“The telephone number is that of the Daily Sketch Building in Holborn.” Daubney was looking at the screen displaying the call details. “We can’t track it further than the main switchboard though. That’s probably why the call went though there.”
“Do we have a voice identification on the other end? Is it Robin Mansell?” Stephens didn’t sound hopeful.
“The call went through an electronic scrambler and descrambler. The poor innocents thought that would stop us descrambling it but the voiceprints are so messed up we can’t identify them. We only know it’s Lucan on one end because we know. It might be Mansell on the other, it’s a man certainly, but we can’t be sure.” Daubney typed some instructions into her computer and sat back to watch the results. After a minute or so, she shook her head. “I’ve run an algorithm to clean the intercept print up but it’s no good. The scrambling/descrambling program really screws the traces up.”
Achillea and Angel exchanged glances, the information was far less positive than they had hoped but it did tell them one critical thing. Lord Lucan was about to be killed. They kept quiet though; on one hand the two communications surveillance experts didn’t need to know about the details of wet-work. On the other, the example set by Heather Watson on the inadvisability of trying to comment on situations they didn’t fully understand was still fresh in both their minds.
“What do you two think?” Stephens looked hard at the two operatives sharing the van with them. One of them, the Chinese woman with red hair, he understood perfectly. A professional killer who happened to be working for the good guys. This time. The other was much harder to analyze and he was still confused by her.
“Lord Lucan has been staked out and he’s too stupid to realize it. He signed his own death-warrant the moment he threatened to squeal on the higher-ups. We got another name though; Brassington. We need to look into him.” Angel knew that killing Lucan was the sort of job she could easily have been given the contract to carry out. She had immediately started to think out how she would have carried out the contract and what she would do to stop herself.
“Don’t be too sure Brassington is one of them.” Stephens was still examining the transcript of the conversation. “His name was the only name used and it was already linked to Lucan. I think it was being used to calm Lucan down and make him think he was being protected.”
“Probably. Check into him though. Angel?”
“We need to get on station right now.” Stephens watched the Chinese woman grip her lower lip between her teeth. “How quickly this will happen depends on whether they do the job in-house or bring in experts. If they do it in-house, the team could be coming here . . . well, now. If they have to bring in experts from outside, we’ll have 24 hours or so. ‘Lea, expect a four-person team. If it’s in-house, I bet it’ll be all-male and pretty amateurish. These people really aren’t very good at wet-work. If they hire in, we can expect people like me.”
Achillea looked around. “We’ll get to work. Angel, you’re the trained bodyguard, you should take point on this.”
“Good luck, people.” Daubney spoke quietly and very sincerely.
Re: 2000 - Eye of the Gangster
Chapter Fourteen
Suite 334 Savoy Hotel, London, May 3, 2000.
"Hello, Conrad. How are they hanging?" Conrad stopped dead in the door to his suite. He recognized the seductive contralto voice instantly of course. Once again, Igrat had let herself into his room without any difficulty.
"Like a well-endowed bull-elephant of course." Conrad replied gravely.
Igrat burst out laughing. "Angel has been really good for you. Got you to loosen up a bit. Conrad, I’d like to introduce you to my daughter, Cristi. Cristi, this is Father Conrad de Llorente of the Society of Jesus. I've told you about some of his adventures. Cristi knows, Conrad."
Conrad looked at the girl who had risen to her feet to greet him. She was taller than Igrat by at least three inches and was at the stage where a schoolgirl was developing into a beautiful young woman. He instantly recognized Igrat's influence on her dress style. It had the three Es that Igrat regarded as essential. Elegant, expensive and exclusive. Both Igrat and Cristi were wearing black in deference to the official mourning that was still going on and would be until the state funeral in two day's time. "I'm pleased to meet you at last, Cristi. I hear you might be coming to England to attend university?"
"I hope so." Cristi's voice had a happy bounce to it that Conrad knew was a direct result of the care Igrat had taken of her. It was still a matter of wonder to everybody that Igrat had stepped up to being a mother the way she had. "I have an interview with Baillie College next week and if that goes well, I'll get a scholarship."
"Good luck; I understand Sir Humphrey is a Baillie man. What do you want to study?"
"I want to be a forensic pathologist. Forensic science is really taking off now. It’s a thirteen year learning process that means I have to qualify as a doctor. I've already started that but I'll also need to study DNA analysis technology amongst a whole host of other things. Britain's a world leader there and the Baillie study program is supposed to be the best there is."
"Ireland saw to that." Igrat shook her head. "They're still finding mass graves over there. We'll be here for all that time, so I'll need to rent a place for us to live. Somewhere near Oxford of course."
"Oh, Mom," Cristi sounded reproachful. "You just want to live in a city full of handsome young undergraduates."
"Conrad and I have to talk. Would you like a real English tea, hon?" Igrat glanced at Conrad. "The tea-room here is the best in London. Take a word of advice and limit yourself to one cream cake only. Choose carefully."
"Charge it to 334. Sir Humphrey's picking up the tab." Conrad gave her the electronic key so she could sign for the afternoon tea and waved good-bye as Cristi trotted out of the door.
The moment she was out of the room, Igrat got serious. "I heard you and Angel were behind the Glasgow business. A bit out of your style isn't it?"
"That was Angel and Achillea. I was working on trying to work out if any of The Trust people were involved and that led me to getting the results of a Royal Commission reversed. It appears some people back in the '50s were wrongfully deprived of their property. The Commission was prejudiced against them because members of their family were collaborators. It's all part of the same case though. It's what we thought; The Trust is playing games again. I think you've already run into one of the prime actors. Lord Lucan?"
Igrat nodded. "Nasty piece of work. Ran into him in 'Vegas. He'd trapped some visiting tourist and was ruining him. You know the drill, every time the mark tried to drop out, he'd get some vicious and demeaning insinuations that implied he was a wimp and lacked guts. You know what effect that has on a man in front of a clutch of beautiful women and the one thing ‘Vegas is not short of is beautiful women. The poor guy was deep in the hole already and still digging. There is a sadistic streak running through Lucan; he'd got the guy's money, there was no need to break his victim like that."
"I heard you cleaned Lucan out and let the victim win his money back."
"Most of it, I kept ten percent just to teach him not to be a damn fool." Igrat's voice was unusually sharp. "His wife was giving him hell for losing that much; if she'd found out how much he could really have lost, she'd have killed him on the spot."
"Iggie, you read people better than anybody else I know. What do you make of Lucan?"
Igrat sat and thought for a second, then spoke quietly, sketching a verbal picture of Lord Lucan. It was a merciless demolition of a man she obviously despised. Conrad knew that over the years, Igrat had carefully taught herself the basic operating principle 'if you can't say nice things about people, say nothing.' And so it was that Igrat, speaking about him that way, said more about Lucan than her actual words could have done. Eventually, she ended up with a final comment. "One last thing, Conrad. The man is a coward, a really deep-down, yellow to the core, spineless coward. Faced with any sort of personal risk, he'll come apart so fast, anybody in the same room as him will be hit by the shrapnel."
Conrad nodded. "He'll have an interesting time with Angel then. And Achillea come to that. Have you met Robin Mansell?"
"He's a multi-millionaire, of course I've met him. He's an alpha male, ferocious worker and expects his staff to be the same. He fired his eldest son for being half an hour late to a board meeting. Pretty much everything he does is just, by a hair's breadth, on the righteous side of legal. For all that, he's not an unlikeable person. Probably a good friend as long as one doesn't do business with him."
"What did Lillith have to say about him?"
"I've got a written financial report from her. She suggests you pass it to Sir Humphrey after reading so he can hand it on to the Inland Revenue. Her conclusion is that Sketch Newspapers Group is being systematically looted and is already close to being a shell. One good, hard blow will bring the whole thing down."
Front Gate, Laleham House, Laleham, Middlesex. May 4th 2000.
Angel's trademark blood-red hair was piled up under a woolen stocking-cap that was camouflaged in the finest woodland pattern American hunting stores could supply. Her shirt and pants used the same pattern. Her hands and face were painted with two shades of green and one of brown make-up that lightened the shadowed areas under her eyes and around her nose while also darkened the highlighted areas of her cheeks, forehead and the bridge of her nose. The whole effect was remarkable; while she was motionless on the ground, it was quite possible to step on her before realizing she was there. A few dozen yards away, Achillea was watching the back of Laleham House. She was dressed the same way except her head was covered by a floppy-brimmed bush hat.
They'd been watching Laleham house for over 24 hours, alternating sleep periods but with both of them awake in the dawn and dusk hours. Dusk was nearly over and soon it would be night. Angel knew from long experience that this was the most dangerous time, when her eyes had too little daylight to work with yet her night vision hadn't properly kicked in. As a result, her brain would create patterns that weren't there and ignore ones that were. That meant extra care was essential. So it was that when she first saw movement by the gates, she hesitated until she was sure that her eyes weren't playing her false. Then she bit down on her mouthpiece twice, the tiny movement sending clicks to Achillea, warning her that the game was afoot.
The first thing she saw was what appeared to be an old mattress thrown over the top of the gates. The high stone walls were topped with broken glass set in cement so it made sense to assume that the gates had something similar to deter casual thieves or door-to-door salesmen. And, in fact, the intruders were right because coiled around the inside top edge of the gates were lengths of razor-wire. The thrown padding neutralized that part of the defenses.
The first intruder rolled over the mattress and landed on his feet inside the gates. Quickly, he moved over to his left and took up a position where he could watch the house grounds on that side. The second man over did the same to the right. They had formed the flank guards for the rest of the team and so ensured that they would be the first to die when the fight started. Angel watched dispassionately as more men climbed over the gate and dropped down on the inside, between the two flank guards. By the time they had finished coming over, there were six of them in all. All of the were wearing jet black outfits that merely served to contrast with the background and highlight them. That was why experts wore blue or dark gray at night. Angel bit down on her mouthpiece six times. Now Achillea knew what Angel was up against.
The response was almost immediate. A single long click. 'Do you need help?'
Angel replied with a double click. 'I got this.' One click was affirmative, two negative with the exact meaning determined by context. She had carefully taught Achillea the Triad code system and how to interpret the brief messages. Evolved by people used to using a language where a single ideogram could convey a complex idea, the click-code was remarkably flexible. Originally it had used hand signals or light flashes but the radio version was near-silent and invisible. One ironic effect was that Achillea, who didn't speak more than a word or two of Chinese, could hold quite detailed conversations with Triad Sai-Los who spoke neither English nor Latin.
Angel had already drawn both her guns and was ready to start the engagement. If those are door-to-door salesmen or over-zealous religious missionaries, they are out of luck. Or, as 'Lea puts it, it's just their day to die. Her primary targets were the two men who had come over the gate first. She took one of them with each of her pistols and fired a staccato barrage of half a dozen shots at each.
The effect was immediate and had much the same result as kicking over an ant's nest. The two flank guards crumpled bonelessly to the ground as the bullets hit their chests and heads. The other four panicked, running around, frantically looking for cover but without any knowledge of where the pistol fire was coming from. One of the advantages of the 5.9 inch barrels fitted to Angel's Berettas was that they drastically reduced the muzzle flash from her guns. That made her initial position much harder to spot although it wouldn't have done the survivors much good at all. She had already rolled away from her original firing position and was now worming her way through the trees towards her next pre-planned location. Behind her, two of the invaders had actually run into each other, knocking one man off his feet while the other was staggering back towards the gates.
Angel decided that was an opportunity she couldn't miss. She snapped out three shots with each of her guns, catching the staggering man square in the chest. His legs collapsed under him and he face-planted with a finality that was completely conclusive. The Triad click-code didn't cover this situation. "'Lea, this is wrong. The guys I've got here are mooks. Three of them are already down for keeps. Watch your ass."
She got a single click in response. Over by the gates, the three survivors had taken cover amongst a sparse patch of trees that had once provided shade for the gate-keeper. The cover those trees offered was minimal and of morale value only. Angel was already looping around behind them. One of the many things she had never been able to understand was the objections people had to shooting their enemies in the back.
"We got a problem here." Achillea sounded urgent, even over the miniature transceiver. "Second group coming in from the south. Four hitters. You were right, the mooks were there to draw us off. These guys are pros."
"What the hell?" Angel was calculating odds. "Ten men for a job I'd normally do by myself? There's something off about this. 'Lea, these people knew we were here."
She heard a single click in response. It was almost drowned out by the sudden burst of gunfire the other side of Laleham House.
Ornamental Garden, Laleham House, Laleham, Middlesex. May 4th 2000.
Michael Turner should not have been where he was. An elderly man, normally charged with looking after the gardens close to the house, Lord Lucan had given him a double-barrelled shotgun and told him to watch the rear of the house for intruders. What he was supposed to do then was something Lucan hadn’t elaborated on. Turner had assumed that His Lordship was having one of his periodic fits of nervousness although he had never gone so far as to issue firearms to the domestic staff before. Then, he’d heard the bursts of gunfire from the front gates and knew that tonight, the precautions were serious. That was when he understood that he was completely unfitted to do what was expected of him.
Even if he had been reasonably competent with firearms, which Turner was not, he still wouldn’t have stood a chance. The four men entering the ornamental garden from the south were experts who had been brought in for this specific operation. They had been given six East London thugs for support and the four gunmen had been grimly amused when the rattle of pistol fire had broken the quiet of the late dusk. Amused because six hoodlums with delusions of grandeur were being schooled in their own ineptness. There was another reason of course, the gunfire from the front gate revealed that at least two of the professionals known to be on the grounds had been drawn away from the critical point.
Martinus Aartsen, the leader of the assault team saw a single figure standing by the low gate that separated the ornamental garden from the grass lawn that led to back doors of Laleham House. Even in the growing darkness, it was obvious the man had a shotgun but his position left him wide open. Obviously, he had assumed that being on guard meant standing near the door he was supposed to protect. The assault leader had moved closer to him, using the hedges as cover. He aimed carefully and fired three shots from his pistol, two through the target’s chest, one through his head. The South African Army, where the Aartsen had trained, called it the Mozambique Drill.
Satisfaction at having eliminated that threat, minimal though it was, quickly became clouded when there was another barrage of pistol shots from in from of the house. Aartsen cared little about the men who were being killed as part of that diversion but the second burst of fire did mean that their role in drawing off the two professional guards was ending. Now, he knew, it was essential to get inside the house, find their target and kill him as quickly as possible. He waved his fist in the standard 'formate on me' sign, rose to his feet and ran for the door in front of him.
Aartsen was first through, with his three team-members close behind him. The last one was barely through the door when it and its frame erupted into a mass of splinters. Aartsen heard the characteristic hammering noise of a banana gun. His men were already diving for cover as the burst raked the room. From his position under the kitchen table, he saw the great long white flare of the automatic rifle's muzzle flash. That gave him the shooter's position and also told him that twilight had turned into night. Two of his men were firing back at the muzzle flash but Aartsen guessed that the opposing gunner had already moved to a more protected position.
"Save your ammunition Dooey." Dieuwer Bootsma looked around and acknowledged the order. A Frisian Islander, he was the largest of the four men. "Is Dom hurt bad?"
Dominykas Simoneit, a Lithuanian, had been the last of the four through the door and he'd been hit by something. Aartsen needed to know what and how disabling the wound was likely to be.
"Mos'li eur few scratches 'n splinta wounds.." Sigmund Gaertner yanked a three inch long fragment of wooden doorframe out of Simoneit's thigh, ignoring the yelp from the Lithuanian. Gaertner had his doubts about that wound; it was deep and the wood looked rotten. "Un int' leg is deep 'n bleedin bad."
Aartsen thought hard for a second, well aware those seconds were ticking away fast. His team had walked straight past the gunner in the ornamental garden without seeing him. That said his skills were far above average. Then there had been the gunfire from the front gate. Six men had gone down in hail of pistol fire during two brief engagements. Aartsen suddenly had an uneasy feeling about who the opposition might be there.
"Dom, you stay here, mind the door and kill anybody trying to get through to it. This will be our way out so clear it if you can. Rest of you, the subject is on the next floor up. Contract is for a confirmed kill. Make sure we get it. His head would do nicely."
Gaertner's agreement was enthusiastic. His father had been one of the Germans who had stayed on in Great Britain after The Big One and had married an English girl. He'd settled down in Yorkshire and become a road construction worker. His son had only found out about his father's military service when he had passed eighteen. Then, he had discovered that the elder Gaertner hadn't been an infantryman at all but a kopfjaeger, a headhunter. A member of one of the detested anti-partisan units to whom the post-war amnesty did not apply.
On his own after the other three had slipped out of the room, Simoneit settled down into a position that was well-chosen for its purpose. It was screened from direct fire by the table and other furniture and he also had a good field of fire covering the entry to the room and the garden outside. He only got to understand the real problem when the first of four flash-bang grenades shattered the window and exploded inside the confined space.
His addled brain was only beginning to recover when he saw a stocky, heavily-built figure moving towards him with surprising speed. His hearing was obviously completed messed up since he thought he heard the figure saying "Ave Dumbass! Salutant te qui mecum sunt moriturus." The translation swelled up from his schooldays. 'Hail dumbass. You who are about to die, salute me.' Then he saw another bright flash and everything blacked out.
Front Gate, Laleham House, Laleham, Middlesex. May 4th 2000.
Angel had been running towards the house in a fair imitation of a gazelle. She had just reached the front windows when she heard the explosions from the back of the house and used the noise to cover her breaking the windows in and diving through the wrecked frames. Her mind map of the house now had the opposition sandwiched between her and Achillea while they tried to get upstairs to kill Lucan. Bearing in mind the unexpected size of the assault force, she found that situation entirely satisfactory.
Suite 334 Savoy Hotel, London, May 3, 2000.
"Hello, Conrad. How are they hanging?" Conrad stopped dead in the door to his suite. He recognized the seductive contralto voice instantly of course. Once again, Igrat had let herself into his room without any difficulty.
"Like a well-endowed bull-elephant of course." Conrad replied gravely.
Igrat burst out laughing. "Angel has been really good for you. Got you to loosen up a bit. Conrad, I’d like to introduce you to my daughter, Cristi. Cristi, this is Father Conrad de Llorente of the Society of Jesus. I've told you about some of his adventures. Cristi knows, Conrad."
Conrad looked at the girl who had risen to her feet to greet him. She was taller than Igrat by at least three inches and was at the stage where a schoolgirl was developing into a beautiful young woman. He instantly recognized Igrat's influence on her dress style. It had the three Es that Igrat regarded as essential. Elegant, expensive and exclusive. Both Igrat and Cristi were wearing black in deference to the official mourning that was still going on and would be until the state funeral in two day's time. "I'm pleased to meet you at last, Cristi. I hear you might be coming to England to attend university?"
"I hope so." Cristi's voice had a happy bounce to it that Conrad knew was a direct result of the care Igrat had taken of her. It was still a matter of wonder to everybody that Igrat had stepped up to being a mother the way she had. "I have an interview with Baillie College next week and if that goes well, I'll get a scholarship."
"Good luck; I understand Sir Humphrey is a Baillie man. What do you want to study?"
"I want to be a forensic pathologist. Forensic science is really taking off now. It’s a thirteen year learning process that means I have to qualify as a doctor. I've already started that but I'll also need to study DNA analysis technology amongst a whole host of other things. Britain's a world leader there and the Baillie study program is supposed to be the best there is."
"Ireland saw to that." Igrat shook her head. "They're still finding mass graves over there. We'll be here for all that time, so I'll need to rent a place for us to live. Somewhere near Oxford of course."
"Oh, Mom," Cristi sounded reproachful. "You just want to live in a city full of handsome young undergraduates."
"Conrad and I have to talk. Would you like a real English tea, hon?" Igrat glanced at Conrad. "The tea-room here is the best in London. Take a word of advice and limit yourself to one cream cake only. Choose carefully."
"Charge it to 334. Sir Humphrey's picking up the tab." Conrad gave her the electronic key so she could sign for the afternoon tea and waved good-bye as Cristi trotted out of the door.
The moment she was out of the room, Igrat got serious. "I heard you and Angel were behind the Glasgow business. A bit out of your style isn't it?"
"That was Angel and Achillea. I was working on trying to work out if any of The Trust people were involved and that led me to getting the results of a Royal Commission reversed. It appears some people back in the '50s were wrongfully deprived of their property. The Commission was prejudiced against them because members of their family were collaborators. It's all part of the same case though. It's what we thought; The Trust is playing games again. I think you've already run into one of the prime actors. Lord Lucan?"
Igrat nodded. "Nasty piece of work. Ran into him in 'Vegas. He'd trapped some visiting tourist and was ruining him. You know the drill, every time the mark tried to drop out, he'd get some vicious and demeaning insinuations that implied he was a wimp and lacked guts. You know what effect that has on a man in front of a clutch of beautiful women and the one thing ‘Vegas is not short of is beautiful women. The poor guy was deep in the hole already and still digging. There is a sadistic streak running through Lucan; he'd got the guy's money, there was no need to break his victim like that."
"I heard you cleaned Lucan out and let the victim win his money back."
"Most of it, I kept ten percent just to teach him not to be a damn fool." Igrat's voice was unusually sharp. "His wife was giving him hell for losing that much; if she'd found out how much he could really have lost, she'd have killed him on the spot."
"Iggie, you read people better than anybody else I know. What do you make of Lucan?"
Igrat sat and thought for a second, then spoke quietly, sketching a verbal picture of Lord Lucan. It was a merciless demolition of a man she obviously despised. Conrad knew that over the years, Igrat had carefully taught herself the basic operating principle 'if you can't say nice things about people, say nothing.' And so it was that Igrat, speaking about him that way, said more about Lucan than her actual words could have done. Eventually, she ended up with a final comment. "One last thing, Conrad. The man is a coward, a really deep-down, yellow to the core, spineless coward. Faced with any sort of personal risk, he'll come apart so fast, anybody in the same room as him will be hit by the shrapnel."
Conrad nodded. "He'll have an interesting time with Angel then. And Achillea come to that. Have you met Robin Mansell?"
"He's a multi-millionaire, of course I've met him. He's an alpha male, ferocious worker and expects his staff to be the same. He fired his eldest son for being half an hour late to a board meeting. Pretty much everything he does is just, by a hair's breadth, on the righteous side of legal. For all that, he's not an unlikeable person. Probably a good friend as long as one doesn't do business with him."
"What did Lillith have to say about him?"
"I've got a written financial report from her. She suggests you pass it to Sir Humphrey after reading so he can hand it on to the Inland Revenue. Her conclusion is that Sketch Newspapers Group is being systematically looted and is already close to being a shell. One good, hard blow will bring the whole thing down."
Front Gate, Laleham House, Laleham, Middlesex. May 4th 2000.
Angel's trademark blood-red hair was piled up under a woolen stocking-cap that was camouflaged in the finest woodland pattern American hunting stores could supply. Her shirt and pants used the same pattern. Her hands and face were painted with two shades of green and one of brown make-up that lightened the shadowed areas under her eyes and around her nose while also darkened the highlighted areas of her cheeks, forehead and the bridge of her nose. The whole effect was remarkable; while she was motionless on the ground, it was quite possible to step on her before realizing she was there. A few dozen yards away, Achillea was watching the back of Laleham House. She was dressed the same way except her head was covered by a floppy-brimmed bush hat.
They'd been watching Laleham house for over 24 hours, alternating sleep periods but with both of them awake in the dawn and dusk hours. Dusk was nearly over and soon it would be night. Angel knew from long experience that this was the most dangerous time, when her eyes had too little daylight to work with yet her night vision hadn't properly kicked in. As a result, her brain would create patterns that weren't there and ignore ones that were. That meant extra care was essential. So it was that when she first saw movement by the gates, she hesitated until she was sure that her eyes weren't playing her false. Then she bit down on her mouthpiece twice, the tiny movement sending clicks to Achillea, warning her that the game was afoot.
The first thing she saw was what appeared to be an old mattress thrown over the top of the gates. The high stone walls were topped with broken glass set in cement so it made sense to assume that the gates had something similar to deter casual thieves or door-to-door salesmen. And, in fact, the intruders were right because coiled around the inside top edge of the gates were lengths of razor-wire. The thrown padding neutralized that part of the defenses.
The first intruder rolled over the mattress and landed on his feet inside the gates. Quickly, he moved over to his left and took up a position where he could watch the house grounds on that side. The second man over did the same to the right. They had formed the flank guards for the rest of the team and so ensured that they would be the first to die when the fight started. Angel watched dispassionately as more men climbed over the gate and dropped down on the inside, between the two flank guards. By the time they had finished coming over, there were six of them in all. All of the were wearing jet black outfits that merely served to contrast with the background and highlight them. That was why experts wore blue or dark gray at night. Angel bit down on her mouthpiece six times. Now Achillea knew what Angel was up against.
The response was almost immediate. A single long click. 'Do you need help?'
Angel replied with a double click. 'I got this.' One click was affirmative, two negative with the exact meaning determined by context. She had carefully taught Achillea the Triad code system and how to interpret the brief messages. Evolved by people used to using a language where a single ideogram could convey a complex idea, the click-code was remarkably flexible. Originally it had used hand signals or light flashes but the radio version was near-silent and invisible. One ironic effect was that Achillea, who didn't speak more than a word or two of Chinese, could hold quite detailed conversations with Triad Sai-Los who spoke neither English nor Latin.
Angel had already drawn both her guns and was ready to start the engagement. If those are door-to-door salesmen or over-zealous religious missionaries, they are out of luck. Or, as 'Lea puts it, it's just their day to die. Her primary targets were the two men who had come over the gate first. She took one of them with each of her pistols and fired a staccato barrage of half a dozen shots at each.
The effect was immediate and had much the same result as kicking over an ant's nest. The two flank guards crumpled bonelessly to the ground as the bullets hit their chests and heads. The other four panicked, running around, frantically looking for cover but without any knowledge of where the pistol fire was coming from. One of the advantages of the 5.9 inch barrels fitted to Angel's Berettas was that they drastically reduced the muzzle flash from her guns. That made her initial position much harder to spot although it wouldn't have done the survivors much good at all. She had already rolled away from her original firing position and was now worming her way through the trees towards her next pre-planned location. Behind her, two of the invaders had actually run into each other, knocking one man off his feet while the other was staggering back towards the gates.
Angel decided that was an opportunity she couldn't miss. She snapped out three shots with each of her guns, catching the staggering man square in the chest. His legs collapsed under him and he face-planted with a finality that was completely conclusive. The Triad click-code didn't cover this situation. "'Lea, this is wrong. The guys I've got here are mooks. Three of them are already down for keeps. Watch your ass."
She got a single click in response. Over by the gates, the three survivors had taken cover amongst a sparse patch of trees that had once provided shade for the gate-keeper. The cover those trees offered was minimal and of morale value only. Angel was already looping around behind them. One of the many things she had never been able to understand was the objections people had to shooting their enemies in the back.
"We got a problem here." Achillea sounded urgent, even over the miniature transceiver. "Second group coming in from the south. Four hitters. You were right, the mooks were there to draw us off. These guys are pros."
"What the hell?" Angel was calculating odds. "Ten men for a job I'd normally do by myself? There's something off about this. 'Lea, these people knew we were here."
She heard a single click in response. It was almost drowned out by the sudden burst of gunfire the other side of Laleham House.
Ornamental Garden, Laleham House, Laleham, Middlesex. May 4th 2000.
Michael Turner should not have been where he was. An elderly man, normally charged with looking after the gardens close to the house, Lord Lucan had given him a double-barrelled shotgun and told him to watch the rear of the house for intruders. What he was supposed to do then was something Lucan hadn’t elaborated on. Turner had assumed that His Lordship was having one of his periodic fits of nervousness although he had never gone so far as to issue firearms to the domestic staff before. Then, he’d heard the bursts of gunfire from the front gates and knew that tonight, the precautions were serious. That was when he understood that he was completely unfitted to do what was expected of him.
Even if he had been reasonably competent with firearms, which Turner was not, he still wouldn’t have stood a chance. The four men entering the ornamental garden from the south were experts who had been brought in for this specific operation. They had been given six East London thugs for support and the four gunmen had been grimly amused when the rattle of pistol fire had broken the quiet of the late dusk. Amused because six hoodlums with delusions of grandeur were being schooled in their own ineptness. There was another reason of course, the gunfire from the front gate revealed that at least two of the professionals known to be on the grounds had been drawn away from the critical point.
Martinus Aartsen, the leader of the assault team saw a single figure standing by the low gate that separated the ornamental garden from the grass lawn that led to back doors of Laleham House. Even in the growing darkness, it was obvious the man had a shotgun but his position left him wide open. Obviously, he had assumed that being on guard meant standing near the door he was supposed to protect. The assault leader had moved closer to him, using the hedges as cover. He aimed carefully and fired three shots from his pistol, two through the target’s chest, one through his head. The South African Army, where the Aartsen had trained, called it the Mozambique Drill.
Satisfaction at having eliminated that threat, minimal though it was, quickly became clouded when there was another barrage of pistol shots from in from of the house. Aartsen cared little about the men who were being killed as part of that diversion but the second burst of fire did mean that their role in drawing off the two professional guards was ending. Now, he knew, it was essential to get inside the house, find their target and kill him as quickly as possible. He waved his fist in the standard 'formate on me' sign, rose to his feet and ran for the door in front of him.
Aartsen was first through, with his three team-members close behind him. The last one was barely through the door when it and its frame erupted into a mass of splinters. Aartsen heard the characteristic hammering noise of a banana gun. His men were already diving for cover as the burst raked the room. From his position under the kitchen table, he saw the great long white flare of the automatic rifle's muzzle flash. That gave him the shooter's position and also told him that twilight had turned into night. Two of his men were firing back at the muzzle flash but Aartsen guessed that the opposing gunner had already moved to a more protected position.
"Save your ammunition Dooey." Dieuwer Bootsma looked around and acknowledged the order. A Frisian Islander, he was the largest of the four men. "Is Dom hurt bad?"
Dominykas Simoneit, a Lithuanian, had been the last of the four through the door and he'd been hit by something. Aartsen needed to know what and how disabling the wound was likely to be.
"Mos'li eur few scratches 'n splinta wounds.." Sigmund Gaertner yanked a three inch long fragment of wooden doorframe out of Simoneit's thigh, ignoring the yelp from the Lithuanian. Gaertner had his doubts about that wound; it was deep and the wood looked rotten. "Un int' leg is deep 'n bleedin bad."
Aartsen thought hard for a second, well aware those seconds were ticking away fast. His team had walked straight past the gunner in the ornamental garden without seeing him. That said his skills were far above average. Then there had been the gunfire from the front gate. Six men had gone down in hail of pistol fire during two brief engagements. Aartsen suddenly had an uneasy feeling about who the opposition might be there.
"Dom, you stay here, mind the door and kill anybody trying to get through to it. This will be our way out so clear it if you can. Rest of you, the subject is on the next floor up. Contract is for a confirmed kill. Make sure we get it. His head would do nicely."
Gaertner's agreement was enthusiastic. His father had been one of the Germans who had stayed on in Great Britain after The Big One and had married an English girl. He'd settled down in Yorkshire and become a road construction worker. His son had only found out about his father's military service when he had passed eighteen. Then, he had discovered that the elder Gaertner hadn't been an infantryman at all but a kopfjaeger, a headhunter. A member of one of the detested anti-partisan units to whom the post-war amnesty did not apply.
On his own after the other three had slipped out of the room, Simoneit settled down into a position that was well-chosen for its purpose. It was screened from direct fire by the table and other furniture and he also had a good field of fire covering the entry to the room and the garden outside. He only got to understand the real problem when the first of four flash-bang grenades shattered the window and exploded inside the confined space.
His addled brain was only beginning to recover when he saw a stocky, heavily-built figure moving towards him with surprising speed. His hearing was obviously completed messed up since he thought he heard the figure saying "Ave Dumbass! Salutant te qui mecum sunt moriturus." The translation swelled up from his schooldays. 'Hail dumbass. You who are about to die, salute me.' Then he saw another bright flash and everything blacked out.
Front Gate, Laleham House, Laleham, Middlesex. May 4th 2000.
Angel had been running towards the house in a fair imitation of a gazelle. She had just reached the front windows when she heard the explosions from the back of the house and used the noise to cover her breaking the windows in and diving through the wrecked frames. Her mind map of the house now had the opposition sandwiched between her and Achillea while they tried to get upstairs to kill Lucan. Bearing in mind the unexpected size of the assault force, she found that situation entirely satisfactory.
Re: 2000 - Eye of the Gangster
Chapter Fifteen
Back Staircase, Laleham, Middlesex. May 4th 2000.
The back staircase had been intended for use by servants so that they could get "upstairs" without disturbing their employers. It had not been built with any real regard for the safety and comfort of its primary users. Designed to fit into the smallest possible space, it was steep, had sharp bends at awkward intervals, the risers were too high and the platforms too short. For all that, Aartsen was glad it had got him out of the kitchen before it had been blown up by the grenades. In that respect, the sharp turns had actually been a plus, providing shielding from the flash and blast of the grenades.
"They've got a McMullen MKL." Bootsma recognized the rapid series of explosions from the semi-automatic launcher. "They have nice taste in kit."
Aartsen grunted and negotiated the next corner carefully, using a mirror on a stick to ensure that another gunslinger wasn't waiting for him to put his head where it could be shot full of holes. Behind him, Bootsma actually appreciated the delay since his bulk made the stairs uncomfortably constricted. Bringing up the rear was Gaertner who was walking backwards to ensure that the gunslinger who had blown the kitchen apart wouldn't bounce them. Gaertner was rather hoping he would come charging after them and walk right into a burst of gunfire. He recognized that was extremely unlikely. The gunman coming through the back had shown himself to be both skilled and methodical while the one out front had dealt with the six decoys with remarkable speed. Aartsen had thought they would have lasted much longer than they did.
"Hallway ahead." Aartsen gave the warning in a whisper. "Anything behind?"
"Clear."
"Move in."
Private Library, Laleham House, Laleham, Middlesex. May 4th 2000.
Angel had finished reloading her three empty magazines and topped up two more from the pouch of loose rounds she carried on her belt. She had been carrying over six pounds of pistol ammunition when the fight had started but that weight was dropping steadily as she expended the rounds. Normally, she only carried the pouches of loose rounds when there was a prospect of a prolonged battle but by the time she had finished working in MacChuills Public House a month before, she had been down to three full magazines. The load of ammunition on her belt was something she was used to and she knew how to compensate for it so she had decided not to take the chance of running that low again.
"Coming up the back stairs." Achillea's voice was dispassionate. She had been out of position earlier, having assumed that the attack in front was the main and only one and had moved to support and cover Angel. That had left the four-man real assault team with a clear run in and made her job a lot more difficult than it had to be. She was seriously annoyed with herself as a result.
Angel replied with a single click and made for the main stairs at the front of the house. This had the advantage of being open-plan with sweeping curves that made it impossible for her to be left blind. So, she was able to run up the steps and gain a few priceless seconds to get into position. "Upstairs. Kill the lights?"
She heard Achillea's double click as she ran on to the landing upstairs and looked around for the nearest cover. She picked out a likely position, ignored it because it was far too obvious, and settled for a less-propitious position that still offered good concealment and reasonable observation. That decision had taken her no longer that the time needed for a single glance.
Back Staircase, Laleham, Middlesex. May 4th 2000.
Achillea had reloaded the McMullen MKL then slung it over her back. She had the banana gun in her hands, a fresh 30-round magazine loaded, and her favorite Colt M1903 pistol within easy reach. She was moving silently up the stairs, checking each turn as carefully as her three opponents had done a minute or two earlier. She was at a serious, potentially fatal, disadvantage in this situation. If her opponents realized she was following them up, all they had to do was toss a couple of hand grenades down the stairs and she would be toast. Hence her silence; her only real defense other than serious good luck was the three men ahead of her not realizing she had made the foolish choice and followed them up.
Her silence had another advantage; she heard, quite clearly, the 'ding' noise as the pin was pulled out of a South African HG 85 hand grenade. It was a tiny sound, the result of the release of a safety clip that stopped the pin falling out by accident. Achillea also heard the slight sound of the lever falling clear and the much louder noise of the hand grenade bouncing down the stairs. Only one thing saved her; Gaertner hadn't realized how close behind them she was and had timed the grenade toss to take the weapon low down on the staircase.
Achillea watched the grenade bounce down the stairs past her, hit the wall and continue on down the next flight before hitting another turn and exploding. The two right-angle bends spared her from the grenade fragments but the blast stunned her for a few seconds. By the time she had recovered her wits, the people she was following were off the staircase and in the upper floor hall.
Upper Floor Hall, Laleham, Middlesex. May 4th 2000.
The grenade blast echoed around the stairwell, bring down dust and plaster fragments. "Was anybody thee?"
Aartsen had yelled the question out but Gaertner replied much more circumspectly. "Don't know. If there was, he's dead. That staircase is a perfect grenade killing ground."
"Go down and make sure. I don't want us bounced from behind."
Gaertner acknowledged and started to move, very cautiously, down the staircase. He wasn't quite as convinced as he had made out; hand grenades were funny things and their blast patterns could be very erratic. Nevertheless, he was expecting to find either a dead body or a badly-injured gunman in the lower part of the stairs. He did not expect to round one corner and find a stocky, Italian-looking woman using the next corner for cover while she patiently waited for him to appear. The white muzzle-blast from the StG-45 seemed to fill the entire stairwell as Achillea sprayed him with bullets at almost point-blank range.
"Proicite a granatus manu stupri vos in mei, et peste infestati sunt, ita retro a scabie et sedit ibi scortum secessum mus."
Gaertner recognized the Latin again but he had no chance to translate it, even if his schoolboy lessons had covered the real thing, honest, insult-ridden gutter-Latin. Before he could even start, it and everything else had ceased to matter.
"What's happening?" Angel's voice came over the earpiece.
Achillea was having difficulty hearing properly after the grenade and the blast of rifle fire in the confined space but she could work out what Angel wanted to know and answer accordingly. "They threw a grenade down the stairs; one came to clear the area, he's dead. Two more left, Coming your way."
There was a single click in her earpiece. In view of her condition, Achillea decided to stay out of sight until her brain and hearing were working properly again. Without them, she knew she was a liability who would get in Angel's way.
Aartsen heard the roar of automatic weapons fire behind him and guessed what must have happened. "Dooey, we need to get away from those stairs before the gunman behind comes up here after us. We'll go through the doors shooting; you go left, I'll go right. If intell is correct, the target is in the smoking room on the right; if he's not there, he'll be in the main library on the left. Go."
He kicked the doors open and rolled through the swinging wooden panels. His pistol was one of the new Vektor LCPs. It had been something of a commercial failure and the company was already thinking about dropping it. The problem was that it was a double-stack .45 magnum with a 15 round capacity giving it a heavy, bulky grip that was only suitable for men with large hands. The heavy pistol in his hand cracked out, putting down a barrage of .45 magnum rounds at the most likely nest of his opponent. Behind him, Bootsma had run out of cover, swerving across the room in an effort to make himself as difficult a target as possible. It really didn't help him that much; Aartsen saw the double flash and sharp, flack cracks of two pistols spewing bullets at the running man. Several missed, shattering vases and other decorations behind him, but one caught him in the side just under the ribs. Aartsen heard him gasp and stumble before a tattoo of fire from the twin pistols tore into him. Already, the opposition gunslinger had rolled to a new position before delivering the coup de grace. The agility shown by the gunner and the ruthlessness needed to fire multiple rounds into an already-downed opponent caused Aartsen's suspicion as to who the opposition gunslinger was to quickly harden into a near certainty and a cold thread of fear started to run down his spine.
He'd fired off six rounds already, so he emptied the remaining nine in a rapid series of shots at the approximate position of the opposition and then rolled to a new point that was both better protected and also better placed for getting quickly into the smoking room where Lucan was probably hiding. He didn't fool himself that the shots were anywhere close to his opponent, if he was right and he was fighting the dreaded Angel, she would have been long gone. He had heard whispers from those who had survived gunfights against her. They'd spoken of it being like trying to engage a ghost or a wisp of smoke that was gone before it could be seen properly.
While he was assessing the situation, his hands had been working on remote control, taking the empty magazine from his gun and replacing it with one of the full ones from his belt. He didn't have the speed-loaders Angel used; the Vektor magazines were too large and there weren't enough guns of the type on the market to justify building speed-loaders for them. He measured the scene around him, fixing the position of the door to the smoking room, his own position, the cover that existed between him and that door and anything in the way that could trip him. Subconsciously, he heard a bang but it wasn't a gunshot so he ignored it. Then, he braced himself and started to sprint across the room to the smoking room door.
Smoking Room, Upper Floor, Laleham, Middlesex. May 4th 2000.
Angel had rolled through the door that led to the sitting room, kicking it shut behind her. From there she sprang up to her feet and headed for the door that led into the smoking room where Lucan was hiding. She knew that was where he would be; the main library was too open to provide any cover while the sitting room she was in now was too small. Only the smoking room offered both the space to hide and enough options to do it.
Lucan wasn’t actually hiding. He was curled up on the floor behind a desk, whimpering with fear and soiling himself. Angel was sorely tempted to shoot him herself, just on general principles but she was being paid to protect him. Well to save his life, she corrected herself. As she passed close to him, he tried to grab at one of her ankles. “Please don’t hurt me, please don’t let them hurt me. God help me, oh please.”
She was tempted once again just to shoot him herself, but professional ethics won out over revulsion at somebody trying to touch her. Before she could change her mind, the door crashed open and Aartsen entered in excessively flamboyant style. He and Angel froze, looking at each other, each with their guns aimed at the center of mass of the other.
“Hello Marty. Long time no see.”
“Angel. Haven’t seen you for a few years. What are you up to these days?”
“Got a contract to protect this thing.” Angel sounded casual but every fiber of her being was focused on Aartsen, taking in every detail of his movements, his attention. She was concentrating everything she had on his every movement no matter how slight or inconsequential. She took in the rhythm of his breath, the direction of his gaze, the faults in his concentration. She even took in how the sweat was beading on his forehead and the route the drops followed as they ran down his face. She was searching for the exact moment of time that would allow her to bypass her target’s instinctual reactions. In so many ways, she would have been at a greater advantage if her guns had been holstered since then the initiative would be hers and she could draw and fire faster than her target could realize what was happening and respond. The idea that drawing first would ensure certain victory was a fallacy when dealing with top-class gunslingers. It was the decision to draw, the unflinching willingness to kill another human being that ensured certain victory. Compared to that single factor, speed and accuracy were secondary things.
“Now that’s a pity.” Aartsen was watching her as well, with the same intensity though he had less experience in killing than she had, by a decade and hundreds of bodies or so. “I have a contract to kill him. And the contract is all.”
Angel nodded in agreement. “The contract is all that matters. It’s the only thing we have. Marty, walk away. This apology for a man isn’t worth your life. We’re just tools, hired guns. This is over, your team is dead, the mooks out front are dead and the police will be coming in force. Even if they catch you, they’re British police, they will try and take you alive. You don’t need to die. Not here, not now.”
“Why don’t you walk away, Angel? This snitch isn’t worth your life either.”
“You said why. It’s my job.”
Aartsen nodded and made his decision to fire. He was quite unaware of the fact that as he did so, the skin around his eyes tightened slightly and the eyes themselves focused on the target in front of him. The balance of his forearm shifted, now concentrated solely on reigning in the recoil of the heavy .45s. His arm muscles existed only to keep that gun trained on its target no matter what else was happening. His eyes, open wide, saw only their target. His entire body, coordinated by long periods of training by experts came into play for this one moment. The crackle of gunfire, the flat, vicious cracks of Angel’s 9mms, the heavier, richer boom of Aartsen’s .45, all mixed together in a barrage that echoed around the old house. Aartsen felt the rapid series of blows in his chest, felt the strength drain out of his body and the carpet beneath his feet start to rise up towards his face. His last sight was of his own target crumpling to the floor as well.
Upper Floor Hall, Laleham, Middlesex. May 4th 2000.
Achillea was still having problems hearing but the barrage of gunfire penetrated even the cotton wool that seemed to be filling her ears. She had already made sure that the man on the stairs was dead by firing a .32 into his ear. It never hurts to shoot a corpse, she thought. Even though every part of her brain was telling her to go to the smoking room and find out what had happened, first she went to the big man who was on the floor close to the servant’s doorway. He had multiple hits in his head and chest and was almost certainly dead. ‘Got shot in the back by somebody who was almost certainly dead’ is a pretty stupid epitaph. Another coup de grace, almost unnecessary but still essential, followed the thought. Then she started running for the smoking room door.
When she was in a hurry, Achillea didn’t open doors, she went through them and this time she was in a serious hurry. When what was left on the door was still airborne, she was in the room, looking at the carnage. The leader of the assault team was on the floor, his sightless eyes staring at the ceiling, a Vector LCP by his right hand. Angel was kneeling on the floor in a spreading pool of blood, her camouflage clothes soaked with gore. She looked up as Achillea came in. “Help me. Now.”
Another pace allowed Achillea to get a grasp on the situation. Lucan was stretched out on the floor. Angel had her hands pressed over a massive wound just below his ribcage. Achillea sagged with relief when she understood that the blood wasn’t Angel’s and that she was unhurt. She went to get cloth to try and pad the wound before Lucan bled out. “What happened Angel?”
“Marty had a choice. He could shoot me or he could shoot this turd. If he tried to shoot me, there was a chance he might have got away with it. We both knew my body can’t take a solid hit from a hollow-point 45 magnum. Then, after I was down, he could kill Lucan as well. If he tried to shoot Lucan, there was a good chance he would get him but it meant I, for a rock hard certainty, would kill him. Press really hard there. This is a mess, his liver is blown to hell. Anyway, Marty took the second choice. Chose the certainty he would die in exchange for a good chance of killing Lucan. His contract was to kill Lucan, not me. And the contract is all that matters. Flashing blue lights?”
It suddenly dawned on Achillea that Angel had positioned herself so she could see all around her either directly or using mirrors, even while she was fighting to save Lucan’s life.
“Yeah, ambulance is here. And the police in force. I guess we’re about to find out whether Chris is playing it straight or not.” Achillea hesitated. “You knew that guy?”
“Martinus Aartsen. Look all of the top gunslingers know each other, by reputation at least. After Glasgow, ‘Lea, your rep will be spreading as well. As it happened, we’ve worked together a couple of times. Press down dammit, this apology for a bastard is bleeding out.”
“You won’t be stopping that ma’am. He’ll need surgery to have a chance. What hit him?” The voice was strange.
“.45 magnum hollow-point. Keep him alive long enough to make a deathbed confession.”
The ambulance emergency treatment officer looked at the wound and shook his head. “50/50 at best I’d say. With his liver ripped up like that, he’ll probably need a transplant. OK, you lot, get him out of here and on his way to Addlestone. It’s got the best trauma ward around here.”
The medical team rushed Lord Lucan out on a gurney with a transfusion bag pumping blood into him. The emergency officer shook his head. “We’re putting it in his arm and it comes out of his gut a minute later. Ma’am, we’ve got some clean scrubs if you want them. That camo suit is soaked in blood. I assume none of its yours.”
“He’s being nice and considerate, Angel.” Achillea spoke quietly between shaking her head to get her hearing clear. Telling Angel when she should fake gratitude for other people’s consideration towards her was one of the duties her friends took on.
“That’s very kind of you, thank you.” Angel had copied the tone of voice and body language for ‘gratitude’ from Conrad of course. She gestured at her blood-soaked clothes. “That’s why this sort of thing is called wet-work.”
Back Staircase, Laleham, Middlesex. May 4th 2000.
The back staircase had been intended for use by servants so that they could get "upstairs" without disturbing their employers. It had not been built with any real regard for the safety and comfort of its primary users. Designed to fit into the smallest possible space, it was steep, had sharp bends at awkward intervals, the risers were too high and the platforms too short. For all that, Aartsen was glad it had got him out of the kitchen before it had been blown up by the grenades. In that respect, the sharp turns had actually been a plus, providing shielding from the flash and blast of the grenades.
"They've got a McMullen MKL." Bootsma recognized the rapid series of explosions from the semi-automatic launcher. "They have nice taste in kit."
Aartsen grunted and negotiated the next corner carefully, using a mirror on a stick to ensure that another gunslinger wasn't waiting for him to put his head where it could be shot full of holes. Behind him, Bootsma actually appreciated the delay since his bulk made the stairs uncomfortably constricted. Bringing up the rear was Gaertner who was walking backwards to ensure that the gunslinger who had blown the kitchen apart wouldn't bounce them. Gaertner was rather hoping he would come charging after them and walk right into a burst of gunfire. He recognized that was extremely unlikely. The gunman coming through the back had shown himself to be both skilled and methodical while the one out front had dealt with the six decoys with remarkable speed. Aartsen had thought they would have lasted much longer than they did.
"Hallway ahead." Aartsen gave the warning in a whisper. "Anything behind?"
"Clear."
"Move in."
Private Library, Laleham House, Laleham, Middlesex. May 4th 2000.
Angel had finished reloading her three empty magazines and topped up two more from the pouch of loose rounds she carried on her belt. She had been carrying over six pounds of pistol ammunition when the fight had started but that weight was dropping steadily as she expended the rounds. Normally, she only carried the pouches of loose rounds when there was a prospect of a prolonged battle but by the time she had finished working in MacChuills Public House a month before, she had been down to three full magazines. The load of ammunition on her belt was something she was used to and she knew how to compensate for it so she had decided not to take the chance of running that low again.
"Coming up the back stairs." Achillea's voice was dispassionate. She had been out of position earlier, having assumed that the attack in front was the main and only one and had moved to support and cover Angel. That had left the four-man real assault team with a clear run in and made her job a lot more difficult than it had to be. She was seriously annoyed with herself as a result.
Angel replied with a single click and made for the main stairs at the front of the house. This had the advantage of being open-plan with sweeping curves that made it impossible for her to be left blind. So, she was able to run up the steps and gain a few priceless seconds to get into position. "Upstairs. Kill the lights?"
She heard Achillea's double click as she ran on to the landing upstairs and looked around for the nearest cover. She picked out a likely position, ignored it because it was far too obvious, and settled for a less-propitious position that still offered good concealment and reasonable observation. That decision had taken her no longer that the time needed for a single glance.
Back Staircase, Laleham, Middlesex. May 4th 2000.
Achillea had reloaded the McMullen MKL then slung it over her back. She had the banana gun in her hands, a fresh 30-round magazine loaded, and her favorite Colt M1903 pistol within easy reach. She was moving silently up the stairs, checking each turn as carefully as her three opponents had done a minute or two earlier. She was at a serious, potentially fatal, disadvantage in this situation. If her opponents realized she was following them up, all they had to do was toss a couple of hand grenades down the stairs and she would be toast. Hence her silence; her only real defense other than serious good luck was the three men ahead of her not realizing she had made the foolish choice and followed them up.
Her silence had another advantage; she heard, quite clearly, the 'ding' noise as the pin was pulled out of a South African HG 85 hand grenade. It was a tiny sound, the result of the release of a safety clip that stopped the pin falling out by accident. Achillea also heard the slight sound of the lever falling clear and the much louder noise of the hand grenade bouncing down the stairs. Only one thing saved her; Gaertner hadn't realized how close behind them she was and had timed the grenade toss to take the weapon low down on the staircase.
Achillea watched the grenade bounce down the stairs past her, hit the wall and continue on down the next flight before hitting another turn and exploding. The two right-angle bends spared her from the grenade fragments but the blast stunned her for a few seconds. By the time she had recovered her wits, the people she was following were off the staircase and in the upper floor hall.
Upper Floor Hall, Laleham, Middlesex. May 4th 2000.
The grenade blast echoed around the stairwell, bring down dust and plaster fragments. "Was anybody thee?"
Aartsen had yelled the question out but Gaertner replied much more circumspectly. "Don't know. If there was, he's dead. That staircase is a perfect grenade killing ground."
"Go down and make sure. I don't want us bounced from behind."
Gaertner acknowledged and started to move, very cautiously, down the staircase. He wasn't quite as convinced as he had made out; hand grenades were funny things and their blast patterns could be very erratic. Nevertheless, he was expecting to find either a dead body or a badly-injured gunman in the lower part of the stairs. He did not expect to round one corner and find a stocky, Italian-looking woman using the next corner for cover while she patiently waited for him to appear. The white muzzle-blast from the StG-45 seemed to fill the entire stairwell as Achillea sprayed him with bullets at almost point-blank range.
"Proicite a granatus manu stupri vos in mei, et peste infestati sunt, ita retro a scabie et sedit ibi scortum secessum mus."
Gaertner recognized the Latin again but he had no chance to translate it, even if his schoolboy lessons had covered the real thing, honest, insult-ridden gutter-Latin. Before he could even start, it and everything else had ceased to matter.
"What's happening?" Angel's voice came over the earpiece.
Achillea was having difficulty hearing properly after the grenade and the blast of rifle fire in the confined space but she could work out what Angel wanted to know and answer accordingly. "They threw a grenade down the stairs; one came to clear the area, he's dead. Two more left, Coming your way."
There was a single click in her earpiece. In view of her condition, Achillea decided to stay out of sight until her brain and hearing were working properly again. Without them, she knew she was a liability who would get in Angel's way.
Aartsen heard the roar of automatic weapons fire behind him and guessed what must have happened. "Dooey, we need to get away from those stairs before the gunman behind comes up here after us. We'll go through the doors shooting; you go left, I'll go right. If intell is correct, the target is in the smoking room on the right; if he's not there, he'll be in the main library on the left. Go."
He kicked the doors open and rolled through the swinging wooden panels. His pistol was one of the new Vektor LCPs. It had been something of a commercial failure and the company was already thinking about dropping it. The problem was that it was a double-stack .45 magnum with a 15 round capacity giving it a heavy, bulky grip that was only suitable for men with large hands. The heavy pistol in his hand cracked out, putting down a barrage of .45 magnum rounds at the most likely nest of his opponent. Behind him, Bootsma had run out of cover, swerving across the room in an effort to make himself as difficult a target as possible. It really didn't help him that much; Aartsen saw the double flash and sharp, flack cracks of two pistols spewing bullets at the running man. Several missed, shattering vases and other decorations behind him, but one caught him in the side just under the ribs. Aartsen heard him gasp and stumble before a tattoo of fire from the twin pistols tore into him. Already, the opposition gunslinger had rolled to a new position before delivering the coup de grace. The agility shown by the gunner and the ruthlessness needed to fire multiple rounds into an already-downed opponent caused Aartsen's suspicion as to who the opposition gunslinger was to quickly harden into a near certainty and a cold thread of fear started to run down his spine.
He'd fired off six rounds already, so he emptied the remaining nine in a rapid series of shots at the approximate position of the opposition and then rolled to a new point that was both better protected and also better placed for getting quickly into the smoking room where Lucan was probably hiding. He didn't fool himself that the shots were anywhere close to his opponent, if he was right and he was fighting the dreaded Angel, she would have been long gone. He had heard whispers from those who had survived gunfights against her. They'd spoken of it being like trying to engage a ghost or a wisp of smoke that was gone before it could be seen properly.
While he was assessing the situation, his hands had been working on remote control, taking the empty magazine from his gun and replacing it with one of the full ones from his belt. He didn't have the speed-loaders Angel used; the Vektor magazines were too large and there weren't enough guns of the type on the market to justify building speed-loaders for them. He measured the scene around him, fixing the position of the door to the smoking room, his own position, the cover that existed between him and that door and anything in the way that could trip him. Subconsciously, he heard a bang but it wasn't a gunshot so he ignored it. Then, he braced himself and started to sprint across the room to the smoking room door.
Smoking Room, Upper Floor, Laleham, Middlesex. May 4th 2000.
Angel had rolled through the door that led to the sitting room, kicking it shut behind her. From there she sprang up to her feet and headed for the door that led into the smoking room where Lucan was hiding. She knew that was where he would be; the main library was too open to provide any cover while the sitting room she was in now was too small. Only the smoking room offered both the space to hide and enough options to do it.
Lucan wasn’t actually hiding. He was curled up on the floor behind a desk, whimpering with fear and soiling himself. Angel was sorely tempted to shoot him herself, just on general principles but she was being paid to protect him. Well to save his life, she corrected herself. As she passed close to him, he tried to grab at one of her ankles. “Please don’t hurt me, please don’t let them hurt me. God help me, oh please.”
She was tempted once again just to shoot him herself, but professional ethics won out over revulsion at somebody trying to touch her. Before she could change her mind, the door crashed open and Aartsen entered in excessively flamboyant style. He and Angel froze, looking at each other, each with their guns aimed at the center of mass of the other.
“Hello Marty. Long time no see.”
“Angel. Haven’t seen you for a few years. What are you up to these days?”
“Got a contract to protect this thing.” Angel sounded casual but every fiber of her being was focused on Aartsen, taking in every detail of his movements, his attention. She was concentrating everything she had on his every movement no matter how slight or inconsequential. She took in the rhythm of his breath, the direction of his gaze, the faults in his concentration. She even took in how the sweat was beading on his forehead and the route the drops followed as they ran down his face. She was searching for the exact moment of time that would allow her to bypass her target’s instinctual reactions. In so many ways, she would have been at a greater advantage if her guns had been holstered since then the initiative would be hers and she could draw and fire faster than her target could realize what was happening and respond. The idea that drawing first would ensure certain victory was a fallacy when dealing with top-class gunslingers. It was the decision to draw, the unflinching willingness to kill another human being that ensured certain victory. Compared to that single factor, speed and accuracy were secondary things.
“Now that’s a pity.” Aartsen was watching her as well, with the same intensity though he had less experience in killing than she had, by a decade and hundreds of bodies or so. “I have a contract to kill him. And the contract is all.”
Angel nodded in agreement. “The contract is all that matters. It’s the only thing we have. Marty, walk away. This apology for a man isn’t worth your life. We’re just tools, hired guns. This is over, your team is dead, the mooks out front are dead and the police will be coming in force. Even if they catch you, they’re British police, they will try and take you alive. You don’t need to die. Not here, not now.”
“Why don’t you walk away, Angel? This snitch isn’t worth your life either.”
“You said why. It’s my job.”
Aartsen nodded and made his decision to fire. He was quite unaware of the fact that as he did so, the skin around his eyes tightened slightly and the eyes themselves focused on the target in front of him. The balance of his forearm shifted, now concentrated solely on reigning in the recoil of the heavy .45s. His arm muscles existed only to keep that gun trained on its target no matter what else was happening. His eyes, open wide, saw only their target. His entire body, coordinated by long periods of training by experts came into play for this one moment. The crackle of gunfire, the flat, vicious cracks of Angel’s 9mms, the heavier, richer boom of Aartsen’s .45, all mixed together in a barrage that echoed around the old house. Aartsen felt the rapid series of blows in his chest, felt the strength drain out of his body and the carpet beneath his feet start to rise up towards his face. His last sight was of his own target crumpling to the floor as well.
Upper Floor Hall, Laleham, Middlesex. May 4th 2000.
Achillea was still having problems hearing but the barrage of gunfire penetrated even the cotton wool that seemed to be filling her ears. She had already made sure that the man on the stairs was dead by firing a .32 into his ear. It never hurts to shoot a corpse, she thought. Even though every part of her brain was telling her to go to the smoking room and find out what had happened, first she went to the big man who was on the floor close to the servant’s doorway. He had multiple hits in his head and chest and was almost certainly dead. ‘Got shot in the back by somebody who was almost certainly dead’ is a pretty stupid epitaph. Another coup de grace, almost unnecessary but still essential, followed the thought. Then she started running for the smoking room door.
When she was in a hurry, Achillea didn’t open doors, she went through them and this time she was in a serious hurry. When what was left on the door was still airborne, she was in the room, looking at the carnage. The leader of the assault team was on the floor, his sightless eyes staring at the ceiling, a Vector LCP by his right hand. Angel was kneeling on the floor in a spreading pool of blood, her camouflage clothes soaked with gore. She looked up as Achillea came in. “Help me. Now.”
Another pace allowed Achillea to get a grasp on the situation. Lucan was stretched out on the floor. Angel had her hands pressed over a massive wound just below his ribcage. Achillea sagged with relief when she understood that the blood wasn’t Angel’s and that she was unhurt. She went to get cloth to try and pad the wound before Lucan bled out. “What happened Angel?”
“Marty had a choice. He could shoot me or he could shoot this turd. If he tried to shoot me, there was a chance he might have got away with it. We both knew my body can’t take a solid hit from a hollow-point 45 magnum. Then, after I was down, he could kill Lucan as well. If he tried to shoot Lucan, there was a good chance he would get him but it meant I, for a rock hard certainty, would kill him. Press really hard there. This is a mess, his liver is blown to hell. Anyway, Marty took the second choice. Chose the certainty he would die in exchange for a good chance of killing Lucan. His contract was to kill Lucan, not me. And the contract is all that matters. Flashing blue lights?”
It suddenly dawned on Achillea that Angel had positioned herself so she could see all around her either directly or using mirrors, even while she was fighting to save Lucan’s life.
“Yeah, ambulance is here. And the police in force. I guess we’re about to find out whether Chris is playing it straight or not.” Achillea hesitated. “You knew that guy?”
“Martinus Aartsen. Look all of the top gunslingers know each other, by reputation at least. After Glasgow, ‘Lea, your rep will be spreading as well. As it happened, we’ve worked together a couple of times. Press down dammit, this apology for a bastard is bleeding out.”
“You won’t be stopping that ma’am. He’ll need surgery to have a chance. What hit him?” The voice was strange.
“.45 magnum hollow-point. Keep him alive long enough to make a deathbed confession.”
The ambulance emergency treatment officer looked at the wound and shook his head. “50/50 at best I’d say. With his liver ripped up like that, he’ll probably need a transplant. OK, you lot, get him out of here and on his way to Addlestone. It’s got the best trauma ward around here.”
The medical team rushed Lord Lucan out on a gurney with a transfusion bag pumping blood into him. The emergency officer shook his head. “We’re putting it in his arm and it comes out of his gut a minute later. Ma’am, we’ve got some clean scrubs if you want them. That camo suit is soaked in blood. I assume none of its yours.”
“He’s being nice and considerate, Angel.” Achillea spoke quietly between shaking her head to get her hearing clear. Telling Angel when she should fake gratitude for other people’s consideration towards her was one of the duties her friends took on.
“That’s very kind of you, thank you.” Angel had copied the tone of voice and body language for ‘gratitude’ from Conrad of course. She gestured at her blood-soaked clothes. “That’s why this sort of thing is called wet-work.”
Re: 2000 - Eye of the Gangster
Chapter Sixteen
Suite 334 Savoy Hotel, London, May 5, 2000.
“If he’d hit your liver, the round would probably have bounced off.” Keeble still found Angel’s capacity for alcohol amazing. Even as he spoke, his eyes were glued to the television in Conrad’s suite. It showed that London was, again, still and silent. Everybody who wasn’t in a vital service was either at home, watching the funeral procession on television or lining the streets along the route of the procession. The all-enveloping silence was eerie, as if even the wind and the birds had stilled their voices.
“St, Paul’s Cathedral?” Igrat asked quietly.
“Church of St Mary the Virgin in Nottingham. The State funeral procession takes him from Westminster Hall to St Pancras station, then by special train to Nottingham Station. Then another funeral procession to St Mary’s for interment. Very few people are buried in that particular church, it originally had only a tiny graveyard.”
“What made him insist on being buried there?”
“In 1940, when That Man took over, there were some student demonstrations in Nottingham University against him. A girl called Rachael Cohen was one of the leaders. She was also Newton’s sweetheart. The Blackshirts broke the demonstration up and in the process they trapped her and kicked her to death. Her body was thrown in an unmarked Potters Field grave although another student had the foresight to make sure it could be identified. After the war, the Resistance ran Nottingham and they had her body recovered and interred at St Mary’s near the center of the city. The graveyard was enlarged post-war and quite a few resistance fighters are buried there now. It's sort of their church. There was a bit of fuss about a Jewish girl being buried in a Christian graveyard but the graveyard was declared multi-denominational and nobody argued with the Resistance. Anyway, in his last wishes, the Earl of London asked to be buried next to her. Which reminds me, Sir Humphrey is dealing with the Earl’s papers himself.” Keeble stole another glance at Angel. Her glass of rum was full again. It was her fourth or fifth by his count.
“Excuse me everybody.” Conrad had been on the telephone to Addlestone Hospital. “Lord Lucan is back in surgery for more work on what’s left of his liver. His condition is listed as critical. Achillea has a ruptured eardrum but the doctors have recommended against surgery and released her. Apparently, its already beginning to heal.”
“Ten dead.” Keeble shook his head. “If we’d known they were coming in that force, we’d never have left you two there alone.”
“They knew we were there.” The more perceptive noted that Angel’s voice was slurred, revealing she was a lot more drunk than she let on. “We thought you might have let them know that.”
Igrat looked hard at Keeble. “If that’s true, Chris, I’ll speak to the sisterhood and you will never, ever get laid again.”
“It’s all right Iggie. They didn’t know who we were, just that there were two of us and we were professionals. Chris kept the faith.” Angel took another gulp of rum. “They were probably already watching the house when we arrived.”
“There was one survivor by the way, the cook. She hid in the pantry while the fighting was on. While we are on the subject, the local Police did ask about you two. When they called the alert in, we told them that two operatives from the Security Service were on scene. They want to know your names for their records. The funeral has stalled the response but we do need to have a record of you. You’ll both be carried on Security Service roster as consultants. Achillea is no problem, Achillea Foyle. What name do you want to use, Angel?”
“Just Angel. I don’t have a family name, honest. Never have had one. Not that I know of anyway.”
“You’ll need to have one now, I’m afraid.”
Angel looked blearily at Conrad. “All right with you, Conrad?”
Conrad knew instantly what she was thinking. “Of course.”
“OK Chris. Put me down as Angel de Llorente.”
“That’s brilliant.” Keeble took down the name in his notebook. “We’ve been worried about what Lucan’s defense would make about your relationship with Conrad. So, you’re his niece or cousin. Problem solved.”
“Angel, may I suggest that Chris lists you as Angelina or Angelique? If somebody checks Angel against de Llorente, they might make a bad connection.” Igrat was still watching the funeral but her mind was playing combinations. “You’ll still be Angel but it’s a solid fake identity. You’ll need one anyway in a few years. You’re 32 now, in 30 years or so, you’ll have to make a shift and Angelina de Llorente would be an established new identity to step into. I’ve been building up Inara Shazadi for the same reason.”
“Prefer Angelique.” Angel was now more obviously drunk than she’d been before.
“Angelique would be better. It’ll misdirect any inquiry to France and the French government does not cooperate willingly with such searches.” Keeble looked up.
“Fine. Angelique de Llorente it is.” Angel put her glass down, curled up in her armchair and went to sleep. Within seconds, she was snoring gently.
Quietly, most of the group wished they could do the same. Film of a funeral procession moving slowly through the streets surrounded by grieving crowds could get old very quickly. Conrad was extremely guilty about feeling relieved when the telephone rang and he went back to answer it. He was away for a few minutes and when he returned, his face was grave. “That was Addlestone Hospital. John Bingham, 7th Earl of Lucan, died on the operating table a minute or two ago.”
“Dammit, Marty beat me. It was the last thing he ever did, but he faced me and won.” Angel had woken up the moment the telephone had rung.
“And we’ve just lost our lead to The Trust leadership here.” Keeble sounded grim.
“No we haven’t.” Angel sounded grim. “Whenever I do a kill against serious opposition, I have a spotter in place who tells me what is going on. Marty will have done the same. In fact, The Trust being who they are, I bet they had a spotter in for a long time to keep an eye on Lucan. They knew who and what he was. There’s only one other person we know was on scene there. The gardener is dead, the Butler wasn’t there, it was the footman’s day off. That leaves the cook. That’s why Marty and his team didn’t kill her. That was a bad mistake on their part. Now, she’s our lead up.”
Keeble grabbed the telephone and dialed the Laleham police. “Chief Inspector? Assistant Commissioner Keeble here. We met last night? That’s right. You have the cook from Laleham House; is she still in custody? Thank God. She’s a serious suspect in what happened. Detain her there until we can pick her up. . .”
“Achillea.” Angel was thinking fast despite her semi-soused state.
“Good thought. Chief Inspector, you know we have a ‘five’ operative on scene? She’ll guard the prisoner until the rest of our people get there. They’ll be people she recognizes personally. Don’t let anybody she doesn’t recognize near the prisoner. We’ll be down there in an hour or two.”
Keeble hung up. “Conrad, you better come with us as well. Achillea knows you well. Angel you stay here, you’re in no state to get involved in this.”
“Screw that. I’ll be fine in an hour or so. And if everything goes to hell, which it easily could once The Trust realized what they’ve done by leaving the cook alive, you’ll need me down there.” Keeble started to say something but Angel lifted a finger. “Don’t say it. I’m coming. I screwed up once, I don’t intend to make a habit of it.”
Staines Police Station, Middlesex. May 5th 2000.
Empty roads had meant the drive down to Staines had taken barely 45 minutes rather than the hour or more projected. To Keeble’s awed amazement, Angel had indeed sobered up by the time they got there. Igrat had stayed in London with Cristi; she had pointed out that her own skill-set wasn’t that useful in situations like this. Keeble had been driving and had put on an excellent display. Of course, the sight of an apparently unmarked Rover SD3 cruising with its headlights strobing and an internal lightbar flashing blue and red hadn’t hurt. The station had a semi-full parking lot but Keeble had slid his vehicle into a convenient spot with smooth skill. ‘I’d have drifted the corners, but otherwise not bad’ had been Angel’s comment.
“The cook from Laleham House?” Keeble had snapped the question to the desk sergeant.
“Ah yes, Mary Roberts. Upstairs, Sir. Interrogation Room Four. Your guests, sir?”
“Consultants from ‘five’. They’re not here if you get my meaning, Sergeant.”
“Understood Sir. There’s a rather formidable lady from ‘five’ upstairs with Roberts. Or perhaps I should say there isn’t.”
“Good boy.” Angel tossed the compliment out as she went past.
Mary Roberts was a plain and undistinguished figure in her late middle age and appeared distraught over her situation. Achillea was sitting in the interrogation room with her, the StG-45 cradled on her lap. It was there for show; this close to somebody, Achillea didn’t need a gun to kill them quickly and certainly.
“Thank you, ‘Lea. I’ll take it from here.” Conrad settled down in front of Roberts and looked at her inoffensively. There was a large mirror behind his, behind which Achillea, Angel and Keeble would be watching. Conrad made a small private bet that Angel was already organizing tea so that the flow of his questioning would not be interrupted.
“You are Mary Roberts?” Conrad’s question was so mildly phrased that she confirmed that almost without realizing she had done so. The process of getting her accustomed to answering questions was starting.
“How long have you been Lord Lucan’s cook, Mary?”
“Why, at least ten years, Sir.”
Conrad leaned forward confidentially. “Excuse me asking, but I’m a foreigner. Is it true that people who attended English Public Schools have terrible taste in food?”
“Lord bless you yes, Sir. Lord Lucan now, his favorite dinner is minced beef boiled with chopped onions and carrots. Breaks my heart sometimes it does, Sir. Our butcher delivers the best meat around and the things we have to do with it are a crying shame.”
And that’s the second step. Get her accustomed to answering questions about her employer. Slowly, politely and gently Conrad started to weave a net around her. Step by step, the questions drifted away from Lucan himself towards the household in general and its routines. From there, to its relations with the outside world. That was where Mary Roberts realized where the interrogation was going and how deeply committed she had already become. Her first reaction was to try and say nothing more but the polite and gentle questions continued to weave their spell around her. Now, she was being herded into corners where she could either tell the truth or allow something even more damaging to go uncontested and thus conceded.
“Now that, people, is how an interrogation should be carried out. Listen to him, he hasn’t even raised his voice, let alone his hand to her.” Robin Stephens shook his head in admiration. “I heard that ‘five’ was bringing in some consultants for this but I never expected the Spanish Inquisition.
“Nobody ever expects the Spanish Inquisition.” Angel got in first by a hair.
“That was a rough do you two were on.” Stephens had recognized Angel and Achillea immediately. “We did some digging into the guys you croaked. The six out front were wide boys from Shoreditch and Hackney. It seems they were paid a grand each and thought they’d really made a score, poor bastards. The other four were from a different kettle of fish. Three of them had been mercenaries in the Congo, served with a bunch of thugs called the Le Premier Bataillon de Choc or something like that.”
“Just like that. We’ve run into them before.” Angel had her eyes three-quarters closed which led Keeble to suspect she had a hangover.
“The fourth was a professional killer named Martinus Aartsen. I suspect you might know him.”
“I did. Not that it matters much.”
I wonder Keeble said quietly to himself.
Angel’s eyes opened wide and swiveled sideways to look at him. “Haven’t you read my file? I’m a psychopath, remember? I don’t feel anything for anybody. When I say the fact I knew somebody or have worked with them doesn’t matter, it doesn’t. What does matter is that somebody I was paid to protect got killed right there in front of me. That hurts my professional reputation. That is the only thing that’s of any importance to me right now.”
“What she said.” Achillea gave a tiny nod to Angel. “We were trained never to make friends with other gladiators because it was odds-on one day we would meet them in the arena. It was called Regula Sanguinem, et Arenam, the Law of Blood and Sand. All that matters is, who wins and who loses, not who they were.”
“Sorry.” Keeble decided it would be better to drop the matter. “OK, Conrad’s got her to admit she was involved with The Trust and that their main operating base is in Holborn.”
“Site of the Daily Sketch Building.” Achillea decided to add the obvious. “We should have a look in there.”
Sir Humphrey Appleday’s Office, Cabinet Office, 70 Whitehall, London, May 8, 2000.
“I have spent the weekend perusing the documents relating to the actions of the Royal Commission on War Loss Compensation and Restitution and I have been compelled to adopt the conclusion that, with regard to all the facts appertaining to a small but significant number of the cases under adjudication at the time, the Royal Commission was unduly influenced by a number of extraneous factors that were not strictly relevant to the proper disposition of said cases, indeed allowing such superfluous and peripheral considerations undue weight in determining the proper outcome of the issues they were addressing and thus came to a conclusion that was at variance with the findings that should have been anticipated had the terms of reference and procedures mandated to the commission been properly applied.” Sir Humphrey looked up dolefully and shook his head. It was clear he regarded this as being a serious breach of the principles of orderly government and sound administration. It went without saying that it was all Conrad’s fault.
“Did you understand that?” Achillea wondered if her damaged hearing had caused her to miss a few essential parts.
Angel just shook her head, her mouth hanging slightly open.
“Dear ladies, it really is quite simple. The Royal Commission on War Loss Compensation and Restitution did not apply the terms of reference and procedures mandated for its deliberations with a full and proper degree of diligence and, instead, allowed its own prejudices and concepts of natural to take precedence over its statutory responsibilities. The fact is, the Civil Service got it wr . . . . that is to say they made a mis . . . . . they . . . .”
“Got it wrong Cabinet Secretary?” Keeble was hard put to stop himself laughing.
“Yes, thank you Chris. The Civil Service got it wr . . . got it wr . . . got it wr . . . .” Sir Humphrey seemed to choke and carried hurriedly on. “Anyway, we need to move on to finding a just and equitable solution to this unfortunate dilemma that will allow the Government to provide adequate compensation to those affected by these . . . . these divergences from the statutory demands of the Commissions remit. Before the . . . . well, before. . .”
“Before the newspapers get hold of the story.” Keeble was thoroughly enjoying himself. Watching Sir Humphrey struggling was helping drive away the nightmares of the last couple of nights. Nightmares in which he faced Achillea or Angel in the Arena. The nighmare ended with them greeting him as an old friend and then killing him. “Of course the problem is that this all took place fifty years ago. The people who benefitted from these miscarriages of justice are almost certainly long dead and in many cases their heirs are also. This property, I assume most of the cases are property-related, is now theirs. It is their homes. Their estates. We cannot just go and take them away and give them to somebody else. If we had found this out within ten years of the judgements, perhaps we could have done. But not now. We have to find another way.”
“I believe that, in order to address this pressing issue, we have to distinguish between the basic principle of compensation as a function of restitution and that of restitution as a function of compensation.” Sir Humphrey placed his fingertips together and peered over them. “While one might argue, some might say even argue persuasively, that the legal and procedural issues involved in the workings of the Royal Commission on War Loss Compensation and Restitution merit the compensation of those upon whom the deficiencies in working practices fell most heavily by the restitution of the property in question, there is an equal, and perhaps greater, weight of opinion that suggests removing the, by now well-established, ownership of the properties at issue from their present owners would be to inflict an entirely undue level of hardship upon people who, in the final analysis of events, are innocent bystanders in events not of their making. Weighing these in the balance and including within the analysis such factors as the need to continue public peace by allowing old wounds to heal; the Home Office is recommending to Cabinet that compensation rather than restitution should be the guiding principle behind future actions.”
“I got that one.” Angel leaned forward slightly. “He means, pay them off. I bet they'll announce a really generous compensation payment but forget to mention that it's taxable and most of it will go straight back to the Treasury."
Sir Humphrey looked at Angel fondly. "Angel, you are a great loss to the Civil Service."
Angel's gaze was its usual stony self. "And Humphrey, you are a great loss to Organized Crime."
Suite 334 Savoy Hotel, London, May 5, 2000.
“If he’d hit your liver, the round would probably have bounced off.” Keeble still found Angel’s capacity for alcohol amazing. Even as he spoke, his eyes were glued to the television in Conrad’s suite. It showed that London was, again, still and silent. Everybody who wasn’t in a vital service was either at home, watching the funeral procession on television or lining the streets along the route of the procession. The all-enveloping silence was eerie, as if even the wind and the birds had stilled their voices.
“St, Paul’s Cathedral?” Igrat asked quietly.
“Church of St Mary the Virgin in Nottingham. The State funeral procession takes him from Westminster Hall to St Pancras station, then by special train to Nottingham Station. Then another funeral procession to St Mary’s for interment. Very few people are buried in that particular church, it originally had only a tiny graveyard.”
“What made him insist on being buried there?”
“In 1940, when That Man took over, there were some student demonstrations in Nottingham University against him. A girl called Rachael Cohen was one of the leaders. She was also Newton’s sweetheart. The Blackshirts broke the demonstration up and in the process they trapped her and kicked her to death. Her body was thrown in an unmarked Potters Field grave although another student had the foresight to make sure it could be identified. After the war, the Resistance ran Nottingham and they had her body recovered and interred at St Mary’s near the center of the city. The graveyard was enlarged post-war and quite a few resistance fighters are buried there now. It's sort of their church. There was a bit of fuss about a Jewish girl being buried in a Christian graveyard but the graveyard was declared multi-denominational and nobody argued with the Resistance. Anyway, in his last wishes, the Earl of London asked to be buried next to her. Which reminds me, Sir Humphrey is dealing with the Earl’s papers himself.” Keeble stole another glance at Angel. Her glass of rum was full again. It was her fourth or fifth by his count.
“Excuse me everybody.” Conrad had been on the telephone to Addlestone Hospital. “Lord Lucan is back in surgery for more work on what’s left of his liver. His condition is listed as critical. Achillea has a ruptured eardrum but the doctors have recommended against surgery and released her. Apparently, its already beginning to heal.”
“Ten dead.” Keeble shook his head. “If we’d known they were coming in that force, we’d never have left you two there alone.”
“They knew we were there.” The more perceptive noted that Angel’s voice was slurred, revealing she was a lot more drunk than she let on. “We thought you might have let them know that.”
Igrat looked hard at Keeble. “If that’s true, Chris, I’ll speak to the sisterhood and you will never, ever get laid again.”
“It’s all right Iggie. They didn’t know who we were, just that there were two of us and we were professionals. Chris kept the faith.” Angel took another gulp of rum. “They were probably already watching the house when we arrived.”
“There was one survivor by the way, the cook. She hid in the pantry while the fighting was on. While we are on the subject, the local Police did ask about you two. When they called the alert in, we told them that two operatives from the Security Service were on scene. They want to know your names for their records. The funeral has stalled the response but we do need to have a record of you. You’ll both be carried on Security Service roster as consultants. Achillea is no problem, Achillea Foyle. What name do you want to use, Angel?”
“Just Angel. I don’t have a family name, honest. Never have had one. Not that I know of anyway.”
“You’ll need to have one now, I’m afraid.”
Angel looked blearily at Conrad. “All right with you, Conrad?”
Conrad knew instantly what she was thinking. “Of course.”
“OK Chris. Put me down as Angel de Llorente.”
“That’s brilliant.” Keeble took down the name in his notebook. “We’ve been worried about what Lucan’s defense would make about your relationship with Conrad. So, you’re his niece or cousin. Problem solved.”
“Angel, may I suggest that Chris lists you as Angelina or Angelique? If somebody checks Angel against de Llorente, they might make a bad connection.” Igrat was still watching the funeral but her mind was playing combinations. “You’ll still be Angel but it’s a solid fake identity. You’ll need one anyway in a few years. You’re 32 now, in 30 years or so, you’ll have to make a shift and Angelina de Llorente would be an established new identity to step into. I’ve been building up Inara Shazadi for the same reason.”
“Prefer Angelique.” Angel was now more obviously drunk than she’d been before.
“Angelique would be better. It’ll misdirect any inquiry to France and the French government does not cooperate willingly with such searches.” Keeble looked up.
“Fine. Angelique de Llorente it is.” Angel put her glass down, curled up in her armchair and went to sleep. Within seconds, she was snoring gently.
Quietly, most of the group wished they could do the same. Film of a funeral procession moving slowly through the streets surrounded by grieving crowds could get old very quickly. Conrad was extremely guilty about feeling relieved when the telephone rang and he went back to answer it. He was away for a few minutes and when he returned, his face was grave. “That was Addlestone Hospital. John Bingham, 7th Earl of Lucan, died on the operating table a minute or two ago.”
“Dammit, Marty beat me. It was the last thing he ever did, but he faced me and won.” Angel had woken up the moment the telephone had rung.
“And we’ve just lost our lead to The Trust leadership here.” Keeble sounded grim.
“No we haven’t.” Angel sounded grim. “Whenever I do a kill against serious opposition, I have a spotter in place who tells me what is going on. Marty will have done the same. In fact, The Trust being who they are, I bet they had a spotter in for a long time to keep an eye on Lucan. They knew who and what he was. There’s only one other person we know was on scene there. The gardener is dead, the Butler wasn’t there, it was the footman’s day off. That leaves the cook. That’s why Marty and his team didn’t kill her. That was a bad mistake on their part. Now, she’s our lead up.”
Keeble grabbed the telephone and dialed the Laleham police. “Chief Inspector? Assistant Commissioner Keeble here. We met last night? That’s right. You have the cook from Laleham House; is she still in custody? Thank God. She’s a serious suspect in what happened. Detain her there until we can pick her up. . .”
“Achillea.” Angel was thinking fast despite her semi-soused state.
“Good thought. Chief Inspector, you know we have a ‘five’ operative on scene? She’ll guard the prisoner until the rest of our people get there. They’ll be people she recognizes personally. Don’t let anybody she doesn’t recognize near the prisoner. We’ll be down there in an hour or two.”
Keeble hung up. “Conrad, you better come with us as well. Achillea knows you well. Angel you stay here, you’re in no state to get involved in this.”
“Screw that. I’ll be fine in an hour or so. And if everything goes to hell, which it easily could once The Trust realized what they’ve done by leaving the cook alive, you’ll need me down there.” Keeble started to say something but Angel lifted a finger. “Don’t say it. I’m coming. I screwed up once, I don’t intend to make a habit of it.”
Staines Police Station, Middlesex. May 5th 2000.
Empty roads had meant the drive down to Staines had taken barely 45 minutes rather than the hour or more projected. To Keeble’s awed amazement, Angel had indeed sobered up by the time they got there. Igrat had stayed in London with Cristi; she had pointed out that her own skill-set wasn’t that useful in situations like this. Keeble had been driving and had put on an excellent display. Of course, the sight of an apparently unmarked Rover SD3 cruising with its headlights strobing and an internal lightbar flashing blue and red hadn’t hurt. The station had a semi-full parking lot but Keeble had slid his vehicle into a convenient spot with smooth skill. ‘I’d have drifted the corners, but otherwise not bad’ had been Angel’s comment.
“The cook from Laleham House?” Keeble had snapped the question to the desk sergeant.
“Ah yes, Mary Roberts. Upstairs, Sir. Interrogation Room Four. Your guests, sir?”
“Consultants from ‘five’. They’re not here if you get my meaning, Sergeant.”
“Understood Sir. There’s a rather formidable lady from ‘five’ upstairs with Roberts. Or perhaps I should say there isn’t.”
“Good boy.” Angel tossed the compliment out as she went past.
Mary Roberts was a plain and undistinguished figure in her late middle age and appeared distraught over her situation. Achillea was sitting in the interrogation room with her, the StG-45 cradled on her lap. It was there for show; this close to somebody, Achillea didn’t need a gun to kill them quickly and certainly.
“Thank you, ‘Lea. I’ll take it from here.” Conrad settled down in front of Roberts and looked at her inoffensively. There was a large mirror behind his, behind which Achillea, Angel and Keeble would be watching. Conrad made a small private bet that Angel was already organizing tea so that the flow of his questioning would not be interrupted.
“You are Mary Roberts?” Conrad’s question was so mildly phrased that she confirmed that almost without realizing she had done so. The process of getting her accustomed to answering questions was starting.
“How long have you been Lord Lucan’s cook, Mary?”
“Why, at least ten years, Sir.”
Conrad leaned forward confidentially. “Excuse me asking, but I’m a foreigner. Is it true that people who attended English Public Schools have terrible taste in food?”
“Lord bless you yes, Sir. Lord Lucan now, his favorite dinner is minced beef boiled with chopped onions and carrots. Breaks my heart sometimes it does, Sir. Our butcher delivers the best meat around and the things we have to do with it are a crying shame.”
And that’s the second step. Get her accustomed to answering questions about her employer. Slowly, politely and gently Conrad started to weave a net around her. Step by step, the questions drifted away from Lucan himself towards the household in general and its routines. From there, to its relations with the outside world. That was where Mary Roberts realized where the interrogation was going and how deeply committed she had already become. Her first reaction was to try and say nothing more but the polite and gentle questions continued to weave their spell around her. Now, she was being herded into corners where she could either tell the truth or allow something even more damaging to go uncontested and thus conceded.
“Now that, people, is how an interrogation should be carried out. Listen to him, he hasn’t even raised his voice, let alone his hand to her.” Robin Stephens shook his head in admiration. “I heard that ‘five’ was bringing in some consultants for this but I never expected the Spanish Inquisition.
“Nobody ever expects the Spanish Inquisition.” Angel got in first by a hair.
“That was a rough do you two were on.” Stephens had recognized Angel and Achillea immediately. “We did some digging into the guys you croaked. The six out front were wide boys from Shoreditch and Hackney. It seems they were paid a grand each and thought they’d really made a score, poor bastards. The other four were from a different kettle of fish. Three of them had been mercenaries in the Congo, served with a bunch of thugs called the Le Premier Bataillon de Choc or something like that.”
“Just like that. We’ve run into them before.” Angel had her eyes three-quarters closed which led Keeble to suspect she had a hangover.
“The fourth was a professional killer named Martinus Aartsen. I suspect you might know him.”
“I did. Not that it matters much.”
I wonder Keeble said quietly to himself.
Angel’s eyes opened wide and swiveled sideways to look at him. “Haven’t you read my file? I’m a psychopath, remember? I don’t feel anything for anybody. When I say the fact I knew somebody or have worked with them doesn’t matter, it doesn’t. What does matter is that somebody I was paid to protect got killed right there in front of me. That hurts my professional reputation. That is the only thing that’s of any importance to me right now.”
“What she said.” Achillea gave a tiny nod to Angel. “We were trained never to make friends with other gladiators because it was odds-on one day we would meet them in the arena. It was called Regula Sanguinem, et Arenam, the Law of Blood and Sand. All that matters is, who wins and who loses, not who they were.”
“Sorry.” Keeble decided it would be better to drop the matter. “OK, Conrad’s got her to admit she was involved with The Trust and that their main operating base is in Holborn.”
“Site of the Daily Sketch Building.” Achillea decided to add the obvious. “We should have a look in there.”
Sir Humphrey Appleday’s Office, Cabinet Office, 70 Whitehall, London, May 8, 2000.
“I have spent the weekend perusing the documents relating to the actions of the Royal Commission on War Loss Compensation and Restitution and I have been compelled to adopt the conclusion that, with regard to all the facts appertaining to a small but significant number of the cases under adjudication at the time, the Royal Commission was unduly influenced by a number of extraneous factors that were not strictly relevant to the proper disposition of said cases, indeed allowing such superfluous and peripheral considerations undue weight in determining the proper outcome of the issues they were addressing and thus came to a conclusion that was at variance with the findings that should have been anticipated had the terms of reference and procedures mandated to the commission been properly applied.” Sir Humphrey looked up dolefully and shook his head. It was clear he regarded this as being a serious breach of the principles of orderly government and sound administration. It went without saying that it was all Conrad’s fault.
“Did you understand that?” Achillea wondered if her damaged hearing had caused her to miss a few essential parts.
Angel just shook her head, her mouth hanging slightly open.
“Dear ladies, it really is quite simple. The Royal Commission on War Loss Compensation and Restitution did not apply the terms of reference and procedures mandated for its deliberations with a full and proper degree of diligence and, instead, allowed its own prejudices and concepts of natural to take precedence over its statutory responsibilities. The fact is, the Civil Service got it wr . . . . that is to say they made a mis . . . . . they . . . .”
“Got it wrong Cabinet Secretary?” Keeble was hard put to stop himself laughing.
“Yes, thank you Chris. The Civil Service got it wr . . . got it wr . . . got it wr . . . .” Sir Humphrey seemed to choke and carried hurriedly on. “Anyway, we need to move on to finding a just and equitable solution to this unfortunate dilemma that will allow the Government to provide adequate compensation to those affected by these . . . . these divergences from the statutory demands of the Commissions remit. Before the . . . . well, before. . .”
“Before the newspapers get hold of the story.” Keeble was thoroughly enjoying himself. Watching Sir Humphrey struggling was helping drive away the nightmares of the last couple of nights. Nightmares in which he faced Achillea or Angel in the Arena. The nighmare ended with them greeting him as an old friend and then killing him. “Of course the problem is that this all took place fifty years ago. The people who benefitted from these miscarriages of justice are almost certainly long dead and in many cases their heirs are also. This property, I assume most of the cases are property-related, is now theirs. It is their homes. Their estates. We cannot just go and take them away and give them to somebody else. If we had found this out within ten years of the judgements, perhaps we could have done. But not now. We have to find another way.”
“I believe that, in order to address this pressing issue, we have to distinguish between the basic principle of compensation as a function of restitution and that of restitution as a function of compensation.” Sir Humphrey placed his fingertips together and peered over them. “While one might argue, some might say even argue persuasively, that the legal and procedural issues involved in the workings of the Royal Commission on War Loss Compensation and Restitution merit the compensation of those upon whom the deficiencies in working practices fell most heavily by the restitution of the property in question, there is an equal, and perhaps greater, weight of opinion that suggests removing the, by now well-established, ownership of the properties at issue from their present owners would be to inflict an entirely undue level of hardship upon people who, in the final analysis of events, are innocent bystanders in events not of their making. Weighing these in the balance and including within the analysis such factors as the need to continue public peace by allowing old wounds to heal; the Home Office is recommending to Cabinet that compensation rather than restitution should be the guiding principle behind future actions.”
“I got that one.” Angel leaned forward slightly. “He means, pay them off. I bet they'll announce a really generous compensation payment but forget to mention that it's taxable and most of it will go straight back to the Treasury."
Sir Humphrey looked at Angel fondly. "Angel, you are a great loss to the Civil Service."
Angel's gaze was its usual stony self. "And Humphrey, you are a great loss to Organized Crime."
Re: 2000 - Eye of the Gangster
Chapter Seventeen
Briefing Room, Forensic Science Service, Montagu House, London, May 10th 2000
"He must have a very small penis." Lillith put her analysis of Sketch Newspapers Group down.
"He does." Igrat confirmed and then looked around smiling broadly. "Did you seriously expect that I, of all people, would not know that?"
Sir Humphrey went bright red and shuffled his feet. Keeble looked at Igrat, shook his head, and then replied "I knew you would know. I'm, interested in how Lillith knew."
"It's obvious from his personal accounts. His top priorities are winning startling victories against the odds and doing so as publicly as possible. He has to win and be seen to win. Winning is meaningless to him unless everybody can see that he’s won and applaud his victory. He's got a massive inferiority complex from somewhere and a . . . personal deficiency . . . . is the obvious cause.”
“Wait a minute, there’s something wrong here. We’ve been looking at Mansell as the head of the Trust in the UK. But, the Trust is all about manipulating situations from behind the scenes and making money from whatever happens. That’s precisely what Mansell isn’t about. He wants to be out there in public, winning the unwinnable fight, beating the unbeatable foe.” Conrad paused for a second and the impish side to his character, one that was emerging more often as his partnership with Angel became closer, surfaced. “There’s a good song lyric there.”
Angel gave him an affectionate grin, an expression that everybody knew was reserved uniquely for Conrad. “Nice one. You are right though. His behavior pattern doesn’t fit the Trust pattern.”
"Something else that doesn't fit. Lillith, you said that Daily Sketch Group is being systematically looted and is now just a shell of itself. One that is likely to collapse at the first hard knock. Yet, Sketch Group was Mansell's great achievement, his greatest victory over the establishment that he saw as keeping him down. I honestly can't see him looting it and bringing about its destruction. It would be admitting defeat and I can't see him doing that." Conrad shook his head. "I'm sorry, but this all seems wrong to me."
"He's a larger-than-life character." Igrat was being thoughtful as she assessed what she knew of Robin Mansell. "He grabs the center of attention whenever he's in the room. In some ways though, he's a bit like Angel, he doesn’t really know how to relate to people. He's awkward when speaking with people, something he hides by trying to steer conversations into areas he's comfortable with. Everything is about him, and I do mean everything. If he gives somebody a present, he expects them to gush over it and him and make his generosity – and he is generous when it comes to giving people presents – well-known. When one of the members of his personal staff got pregnant, she wanted to leave work an hour early once a week so she could get to her clinic before it closed. He wouldn't give her the time off but arranged for her to see his personal Harley Street doctor – after working hours."
Conrad sat quietly for a minute or two absorbing the information. "So, let's assume that he isn't the Trust boss in this country. Is he an underling like Lucan? I can't see that, can you?"
There was a generalized shaking of heads. Nobody could see Robin Mansell playing second fiddle to anybody. Lillith picked up the general consensus. "He won't. He's either at the top or nothing and we know he can't be the top of the Trust. So, it's most unlikely that he is part of it. That doesn’t change the fact that the Sketch Group is being thoroughly looted."
"And every connection we have leads back to the Sketch Building." Keeble had his own file open. "The Royal Telephone Service was tapping Lucan's phone ever since his name came up on our radar and there were a lot of calls to and from the Sketch Building. They were scrambled of course but the poor innocents thought that 'five' couldn't handle that."
"The one thing they couldn't do is trace the call past the switchboard or identify the voice on the other end." Angel remembered the conversations in the van very clearly. She had filed most of the information away for her own use at another time.
"So, we know that Sketch Group has been looted, most tracks lead back there but Mansell almost certainly isn't the Big Bad. The obvious conclusion must be that somebody else, high up in company tree, is the Big Bad. Lillith, have we any idea when the looting started?"
Lillith gave Conrad an 'of course we have' smile and opened her file. "As far as I can make out, it started in 1995. That's about the time you and Angel were involved in that smuggling business."
"A bit earlier but more or less. There were a few loose ends there. We never did find out who the onward connections were." Angel looked around. "You think the two are linked?"
"We didn't know about The Trust then so we didn't really look. I doubt it though, other than the two came out of the same general conspiracy. Lillith, if the looting started in 1995, something must have changed about then. What was happening in Sketch Group?"
Lillith looked through the file. "Mansell was in New York, negotiating for the purchase of an American newspaper, the New York Herald Tribune. He was trying to found an international newspaper by buying key newspapers around the world and having them feed into a common base so that the international stories could be pulled out and blended. His idea was that it would be a paper people could rely on wherever they were. Not a bad idea in fact."
"So what happened?" Conrad had the sense that things were about to break.
"He underestimated how much everything would cost but he got financing from a bank. The price was that the bank went into partnership with him."
"Which bank?" Keeble was terse.
"Bank of Credit and Commerce International." Lillith frowned. "That name is familiar."
"It should be. BCCI is under investigation right now for massive money laundering and other financial crimes, and for illegally gaining the controlling interest in a major American bank.. They don't know it yet but the Bank of England has its beady eyes on them. Their investigators believe that BCCI was set up deliberately to avoid centralized regulatory review. Its affairs were extraordinarily complex and the apparent objective is to keep their affairs secret, to commit fraud on a massive scale, and to avoid detection." Keeble took a deep breath. "The Bank of England nicknamed B.C.C.I. the "Bank of Crooks and Criminals International" for its penchant for catering to customers who dealt in arms, drugs and hot money."
“Hey, I resent that. We have our own bank as well and it plays absolutely straight with its customers.” Angel was sitting erect.
“So does Loki with the Bank de Commerce et Industrie. That’s what Meyer Lansky always said, to be a successful crook, you have to be honest.” In contrast to Angel, Igrat was lazing back in her seat. That struck people as odd, usually Igrat sat very erect while Angel sprawled in her seat.
“Well BCCI doesn’t. It includes phony loans, unrecorded deposits, secret files and illicit share-buying schemes all funneled through a global network of shell companies, friendly or seriously intimidated banks and wealthy front men to cover up the scam. So far, Bank of England inspectors have found the deception involves some 7500 accounts over a 15-year period, and loans to shell companies totaled more than $70 billion which has subsequently vanished without trace.
"Gods, it is The Trust." Igrat looked around the room. "Does the Bank know who they are dealing with."
"It's not The Trust, Iggie. Do you remember how I once said that the getting into the Trust was like peeling an onion. We peel one layer away and we find another. Well, Paradigm Oil, Dai-Viet Airlines and Sketch Group are the outer layer. I think BCCI is the next layer in. Its main job is to collect money from the outside skin and funnel it in to the center."
"No, the Old Lady doesn't know, not officially anyway although I think they are beginning to suspect how big the fraud is. They arrived on this track from a different angle. There were allegations in the financial community that BCCI was using cash from deposits to fund operating expenses, rather than making investments." Keeble glanced at Sir Humphrey who was decidedly and obviously uncomfortable.
"Chris, do the Bank investigators know what they are getting into, even on an unofficial basis? If our experience of The Trust is anything to go by, they could be getting into very deep water." Conrad looked over at Angel who made a 'gun' out of her fingers and pretended to fire it. "If not, they need to be briefed."
"A confidential interdepartmental memo will be written and sent to the Governor of the Bank of England, advising him that there are aspects to the current investigation about which he needs to be informed. Sir Humphrey looked around the room privately wondering how a relatively simple operation to restore law and orderly government to a city had escalated until it exposed a major international scandal. Then he recollected that it wasn't the first time this sort of thing had happened when Conrad had been around.
"If Mansell isn't involved and is really a victitm here, shouldn't he be briefed on what is going on?" Conrad was already seeing Mansell as another innocent who needed protection.
"Very much so, Conrad. I'll let everybody know where and when." Keeble made a note in his book.
"If we might redirect our attention to a related matter that has arisen as a result of our policies over recent weeks, there have been some startling new developments that may, if their full implications are properly understood and used to best practical advantage, provide a reasonably satisfactory conclusion without recourse to prolonged or excessive administrative complications." Sir Humphrey was back where he was comfortable and in full flow. " I refer, of course, to the at-present confidential but soon to be public doubts over the legal justification and validity of some of the judgements made by the Royal Commission on War Loss Compensation and Restitution."
"I can't hear a thing." Achillea sounded quite happy with that. Her left ear was stuffed with cotton wool to prevent water and infection entering the damaged eardrum and a strip of sticking plaster was holding the plug in place.
"In going through the papers of the late Earl of London, the executors of his estate found a long document from the Third Baron Churston addressed to David Newtown in his erstwhile capacity as a leader of the Resistance. This document was sealed with the strict instruction that it should not be opened until a list of people on the front cover were deceased. Those names had been crossed off, one after another, over a period of years and our investigations have confirmed that all the persons on the list are now indeed deceased. With the departure of the Earl of London, the last person on the list had passed on. Therefore, under the instructions provided by the Third Baron, the document was opened.
"The document is a remarkable piece of history and provides details of a group of people, assembled by the Third Baron from all walks of life, who had dedicated themselves to establishing and maintaining an escape route for persons of Jewish parentage from the Occupied United Kingdom to areas of Europe where their lives would not be endangered by the extermination policies adopted by the National Socialist government of Germany. I understand that Spain, Portugal and Italy were the primary destinations of the refugees in question. Churston arranged for the covert escape of at least a thousand Jews and hid at least the same number inside this country using forged identities. This escape route, an underground railway if you will, was not part of the Resistance but parallel to it. Churston's apparent collaboration was an essential part of making the whole system work. He used his contacts with the occupying forces so made to secure the exit routes and obtain the necessary documents. It should be apparent that this was a position of not inconsiderable risk.
“After the War, Churston was concerned, unjustly as we now know but after five years of the Occupation, paranoia is understandable, that there would be fascists still in high places who would attempt to adopt a policy of persecuting the people who had worked for the escape route. Indeed the actions of the Royal Commission on War Loss Compensation and Restitution could be seen as giving some measure of validity to those beliefs. He was also afraid that the Germans still in the country after The Big One would do the same. So, he accepted the punishment, legal and social, for being a collaborator but made sure that the story would come out after everybody who could be hurt had died. He passed away in 1951 of course and his son, the Fourth Baron had no idea of his father’s real activities.”
"My God." Keeble breathed out the comment in awe. "Sorry, Conrad."
"No problem, Chris. Angel's threatened to shoot God on a number of occasions." Conrad grinned at her. "I'm still not sure she won't try."
"Hey . . . . . priest. You're in doubt about that?"
Sir Humphrey coughed. "If I may revert to the point of this section of the agenda as presently constituted, this communication places the whole issue of collaboration and the alleged collaborators in a new light and we must ask ourselves how many other alleged collaborators were actually working against the Occupying Forces in some capacity which might not have been apparent, I dare to say could not have been apparent, at the time. I have made arrangements with the Home Office Press Office to hold a meeting with four journalists and a gentleman from the Times to release the contents of this letter. Obviously, the publication of Baron Churston's real activities during the Occupation will create a public furor over the treatment of his family by the Royal Commission on War Loss Compensation and Restitution. The Home Secretary has been in discussions with George Charles Bingham, 8th Earl of Lucan, and they have agreed that, when the story breaks they will return Laleham House to the Churston Family as an act of grace. In exchange, the irregularities that surround the 7th Earl will be forgiven."
"But not forgotten." Angel added.
"Of course, dear Lady." Sir Humphrey beamed patronizingly at her and nearly got shot as a result. Instead, Angel and Igrat exchanged glances and came to an unspoken agreement. Something embarrassing but non-lethal would happen to Sir Humphrey instead. "This will be used as a springboard to settle any other cases from the Royal Commission on War Loss Compensation and Restitution where there are doubts over the final disposition of the issues by the due and proper payment of compensation for any hardship and disadvantage the participants may have suffered."
Conrad settled back in his chair, filled with a warm glow of contentment. Despite the extremely unpromising nature of this case, it had led to a whole group of innocent people being protected and exonerated of crimes for which they had been wrongly accused. His faith had been reaffirmed and he knew that, by God's will, his life remained on its planned trajectory.
Manor House of Avebury, May 12, 2000
"We heard from Baillie almost immediately. They were most impressed by the way Cristi came up from behind in educational achievement. So, she has been accepted as the recipient of a scholarship and will be starting in September. I'll be moving over to the UK then."
"What does Mike Collins have to say about that?" Sir Richard Strachan sounded slightly concerned.
"We're not together anymore." Ingrid smiled a little sadly. "He dumped me. Very politely and very apologetically but dumped me nonetheless. He said he needs a quiet life for a while and life with me around is rarely quiet. I know what he means. Anyway, we went to see a house near Oxford this morning. The Old Rectory in Marsh Baldon. It's about five miles from Oxford so it's close enough for me to be available if Cristi needs me but far enough away so I don't get under her feet. She'll be staying at the College Hall of Residence of course. What did you think about the place, Cristi?"
"It's a beautiful old house but why can't I live there with you?" Cristi sounded nervous.
"Because you're eighteen years old and you need to start living your own life. You can come down weekends if you want. Complete with the boyfriend you will doubtless be acquiring." Igrat turned to Sir Richard. "I like the Old Rectory; it suits me and it's got a self-contained flat with two bedrooms, a sitting room and a rest room that Cristi can use."
"Marsh Baldon is a beautiful old village. It's got a real community spirit to it. You know, their village pub closed down and was scheduled to be demolished but the villagers got together, bought the place and reopened it. The Old Rectory you say? How much do they want for it?"
"Two point two million. I've registered interest and I'll be negotiating for the next few days. We'll probably end up at a bit less than two million. Pounds of course, not dollars or sovereigns."
"Paying cash of course. That's not a bad price, a bit steep but you'll be paying for the environment as much as the property." Sir Richard was running several things through his mind. One of them was that Avebury was only thirty miles from Oxford and, to somebody with American perceptions of distance, that made them near-neighbors.
"Of course, we don't want a paper trail now do we." Igrat had a sudden insight into where this conversation was going.
"You two will always be welcome down here you know. There's some fascinating things to see around Avebury."
That confirms it. Sir Richard Strachan wants to improve Anglo-American relations. Igrat smiled to herself. Well, we don't want him to achieve that too easily. And I suppose he better think that he seduced me.
Briefing Room, Forensic Science Service, Montagu House, London, May 10th 2000
"He must have a very small penis." Lillith put her analysis of Sketch Newspapers Group down.
"He does." Igrat confirmed and then looked around smiling broadly. "Did you seriously expect that I, of all people, would not know that?"
Sir Humphrey went bright red and shuffled his feet. Keeble looked at Igrat, shook his head, and then replied "I knew you would know. I'm, interested in how Lillith knew."
"It's obvious from his personal accounts. His top priorities are winning startling victories against the odds and doing so as publicly as possible. He has to win and be seen to win. Winning is meaningless to him unless everybody can see that he’s won and applaud his victory. He's got a massive inferiority complex from somewhere and a . . . personal deficiency . . . . is the obvious cause.”
“Wait a minute, there’s something wrong here. We’ve been looking at Mansell as the head of the Trust in the UK. But, the Trust is all about manipulating situations from behind the scenes and making money from whatever happens. That’s precisely what Mansell isn’t about. He wants to be out there in public, winning the unwinnable fight, beating the unbeatable foe.” Conrad paused for a second and the impish side to his character, one that was emerging more often as his partnership with Angel became closer, surfaced. “There’s a good song lyric there.”
Angel gave him an affectionate grin, an expression that everybody knew was reserved uniquely for Conrad. “Nice one. You are right though. His behavior pattern doesn’t fit the Trust pattern.”
"Something else that doesn't fit. Lillith, you said that Daily Sketch Group is being systematically looted and is now just a shell of itself. One that is likely to collapse at the first hard knock. Yet, Sketch Group was Mansell's great achievement, his greatest victory over the establishment that he saw as keeping him down. I honestly can't see him looting it and bringing about its destruction. It would be admitting defeat and I can't see him doing that." Conrad shook his head. "I'm sorry, but this all seems wrong to me."
"He's a larger-than-life character." Igrat was being thoughtful as she assessed what she knew of Robin Mansell. "He grabs the center of attention whenever he's in the room. In some ways though, he's a bit like Angel, he doesn’t really know how to relate to people. He's awkward when speaking with people, something he hides by trying to steer conversations into areas he's comfortable with. Everything is about him, and I do mean everything. If he gives somebody a present, he expects them to gush over it and him and make his generosity – and he is generous when it comes to giving people presents – well-known. When one of the members of his personal staff got pregnant, she wanted to leave work an hour early once a week so she could get to her clinic before it closed. He wouldn't give her the time off but arranged for her to see his personal Harley Street doctor – after working hours."
Conrad sat quietly for a minute or two absorbing the information. "So, let's assume that he isn't the Trust boss in this country. Is he an underling like Lucan? I can't see that, can you?"
There was a generalized shaking of heads. Nobody could see Robin Mansell playing second fiddle to anybody. Lillith picked up the general consensus. "He won't. He's either at the top or nothing and we know he can't be the top of the Trust. So, it's most unlikely that he is part of it. That doesn’t change the fact that the Sketch Group is being thoroughly looted."
"And every connection we have leads back to the Sketch Building." Keeble had his own file open. "The Royal Telephone Service was tapping Lucan's phone ever since his name came up on our radar and there were a lot of calls to and from the Sketch Building. They were scrambled of course but the poor innocents thought that 'five' couldn't handle that."
"The one thing they couldn't do is trace the call past the switchboard or identify the voice on the other end." Angel remembered the conversations in the van very clearly. She had filed most of the information away for her own use at another time.
"So, we know that Sketch Group has been looted, most tracks lead back there but Mansell almost certainly isn't the Big Bad. The obvious conclusion must be that somebody else, high up in company tree, is the Big Bad. Lillith, have we any idea when the looting started?"
Lillith gave Conrad an 'of course we have' smile and opened her file. "As far as I can make out, it started in 1995. That's about the time you and Angel were involved in that smuggling business."
"A bit earlier but more or less. There were a few loose ends there. We never did find out who the onward connections were." Angel looked around. "You think the two are linked?"
"We didn't know about The Trust then so we didn't really look. I doubt it though, other than the two came out of the same general conspiracy. Lillith, if the looting started in 1995, something must have changed about then. What was happening in Sketch Group?"
Lillith looked through the file. "Mansell was in New York, negotiating for the purchase of an American newspaper, the New York Herald Tribune. He was trying to found an international newspaper by buying key newspapers around the world and having them feed into a common base so that the international stories could be pulled out and blended. His idea was that it would be a paper people could rely on wherever they were. Not a bad idea in fact."
"So what happened?" Conrad had the sense that things were about to break.
"He underestimated how much everything would cost but he got financing from a bank. The price was that the bank went into partnership with him."
"Which bank?" Keeble was terse.
"Bank of Credit and Commerce International." Lillith frowned. "That name is familiar."
"It should be. BCCI is under investigation right now for massive money laundering and other financial crimes, and for illegally gaining the controlling interest in a major American bank.. They don't know it yet but the Bank of England has its beady eyes on them. Their investigators believe that BCCI was set up deliberately to avoid centralized regulatory review. Its affairs were extraordinarily complex and the apparent objective is to keep their affairs secret, to commit fraud on a massive scale, and to avoid detection." Keeble took a deep breath. "The Bank of England nicknamed B.C.C.I. the "Bank of Crooks and Criminals International" for its penchant for catering to customers who dealt in arms, drugs and hot money."
“Hey, I resent that. We have our own bank as well and it plays absolutely straight with its customers.” Angel was sitting erect.
“So does Loki with the Bank de Commerce et Industrie. That’s what Meyer Lansky always said, to be a successful crook, you have to be honest.” In contrast to Angel, Igrat was lazing back in her seat. That struck people as odd, usually Igrat sat very erect while Angel sprawled in her seat.
“Well BCCI doesn’t. It includes phony loans, unrecorded deposits, secret files and illicit share-buying schemes all funneled through a global network of shell companies, friendly or seriously intimidated banks and wealthy front men to cover up the scam. So far, Bank of England inspectors have found the deception involves some 7500 accounts over a 15-year period, and loans to shell companies totaled more than $70 billion which has subsequently vanished without trace.
"Gods, it is The Trust." Igrat looked around the room. "Does the Bank know who they are dealing with."
"It's not The Trust, Iggie. Do you remember how I once said that the getting into the Trust was like peeling an onion. We peel one layer away and we find another. Well, Paradigm Oil, Dai-Viet Airlines and Sketch Group are the outer layer. I think BCCI is the next layer in. Its main job is to collect money from the outside skin and funnel it in to the center."
"No, the Old Lady doesn't know, not officially anyway although I think they are beginning to suspect how big the fraud is. They arrived on this track from a different angle. There were allegations in the financial community that BCCI was using cash from deposits to fund operating expenses, rather than making investments." Keeble glanced at Sir Humphrey who was decidedly and obviously uncomfortable.
"Chris, do the Bank investigators know what they are getting into, even on an unofficial basis? If our experience of The Trust is anything to go by, they could be getting into very deep water." Conrad looked over at Angel who made a 'gun' out of her fingers and pretended to fire it. "If not, they need to be briefed."
"A confidential interdepartmental memo will be written and sent to the Governor of the Bank of England, advising him that there are aspects to the current investigation about which he needs to be informed. Sir Humphrey looked around the room privately wondering how a relatively simple operation to restore law and orderly government to a city had escalated until it exposed a major international scandal. Then he recollected that it wasn't the first time this sort of thing had happened when Conrad had been around.
"If Mansell isn't involved and is really a victitm here, shouldn't he be briefed on what is going on?" Conrad was already seeing Mansell as another innocent who needed protection.
"Very much so, Conrad. I'll let everybody know where and when." Keeble made a note in his book.
"If we might redirect our attention to a related matter that has arisen as a result of our policies over recent weeks, there have been some startling new developments that may, if their full implications are properly understood and used to best practical advantage, provide a reasonably satisfactory conclusion without recourse to prolonged or excessive administrative complications." Sir Humphrey was back where he was comfortable and in full flow. " I refer, of course, to the at-present confidential but soon to be public doubts over the legal justification and validity of some of the judgements made by the Royal Commission on War Loss Compensation and Restitution."
"I can't hear a thing." Achillea sounded quite happy with that. Her left ear was stuffed with cotton wool to prevent water and infection entering the damaged eardrum and a strip of sticking plaster was holding the plug in place.
"In going through the papers of the late Earl of London, the executors of his estate found a long document from the Third Baron Churston addressed to David Newtown in his erstwhile capacity as a leader of the Resistance. This document was sealed with the strict instruction that it should not be opened until a list of people on the front cover were deceased. Those names had been crossed off, one after another, over a period of years and our investigations have confirmed that all the persons on the list are now indeed deceased. With the departure of the Earl of London, the last person on the list had passed on. Therefore, under the instructions provided by the Third Baron, the document was opened.
"The document is a remarkable piece of history and provides details of a group of people, assembled by the Third Baron from all walks of life, who had dedicated themselves to establishing and maintaining an escape route for persons of Jewish parentage from the Occupied United Kingdom to areas of Europe where their lives would not be endangered by the extermination policies adopted by the National Socialist government of Germany. I understand that Spain, Portugal and Italy were the primary destinations of the refugees in question. Churston arranged for the covert escape of at least a thousand Jews and hid at least the same number inside this country using forged identities. This escape route, an underground railway if you will, was not part of the Resistance but parallel to it. Churston's apparent collaboration was an essential part of making the whole system work. He used his contacts with the occupying forces so made to secure the exit routes and obtain the necessary documents. It should be apparent that this was a position of not inconsiderable risk.
“After the War, Churston was concerned, unjustly as we now know but after five years of the Occupation, paranoia is understandable, that there would be fascists still in high places who would attempt to adopt a policy of persecuting the people who had worked for the escape route. Indeed the actions of the Royal Commission on War Loss Compensation and Restitution could be seen as giving some measure of validity to those beliefs. He was also afraid that the Germans still in the country after The Big One would do the same. So, he accepted the punishment, legal and social, for being a collaborator but made sure that the story would come out after everybody who could be hurt had died. He passed away in 1951 of course and his son, the Fourth Baron had no idea of his father’s real activities.”
"My God." Keeble breathed out the comment in awe. "Sorry, Conrad."
"No problem, Chris. Angel's threatened to shoot God on a number of occasions." Conrad grinned at her. "I'm still not sure she won't try."
"Hey . . . . . priest. You're in doubt about that?"
Sir Humphrey coughed. "If I may revert to the point of this section of the agenda as presently constituted, this communication places the whole issue of collaboration and the alleged collaborators in a new light and we must ask ourselves how many other alleged collaborators were actually working against the Occupying Forces in some capacity which might not have been apparent, I dare to say could not have been apparent, at the time. I have made arrangements with the Home Office Press Office to hold a meeting with four journalists and a gentleman from the Times to release the contents of this letter. Obviously, the publication of Baron Churston's real activities during the Occupation will create a public furor over the treatment of his family by the Royal Commission on War Loss Compensation and Restitution. The Home Secretary has been in discussions with George Charles Bingham, 8th Earl of Lucan, and they have agreed that, when the story breaks they will return Laleham House to the Churston Family as an act of grace. In exchange, the irregularities that surround the 7th Earl will be forgiven."
"But not forgotten." Angel added.
"Of course, dear Lady." Sir Humphrey beamed patronizingly at her and nearly got shot as a result. Instead, Angel and Igrat exchanged glances and came to an unspoken agreement. Something embarrassing but non-lethal would happen to Sir Humphrey instead. "This will be used as a springboard to settle any other cases from the Royal Commission on War Loss Compensation and Restitution where there are doubts over the final disposition of the issues by the due and proper payment of compensation for any hardship and disadvantage the participants may have suffered."
Conrad settled back in his chair, filled with a warm glow of contentment. Despite the extremely unpromising nature of this case, it had led to a whole group of innocent people being protected and exonerated of crimes for which they had been wrongly accused. His faith had been reaffirmed and he knew that, by God's will, his life remained on its planned trajectory.
Manor House of Avebury, May 12, 2000
"We heard from Baillie almost immediately. They were most impressed by the way Cristi came up from behind in educational achievement. So, she has been accepted as the recipient of a scholarship and will be starting in September. I'll be moving over to the UK then."
"What does Mike Collins have to say about that?" Sir Richard Strachan sounded slightly concerned.
"We're not together anymore." Ingrid smiled a little sadly. "He dumped me. Very politely and very apologetically but dumped me nonetheless. He said he needs a quiet life for a while and life with me around is rarely quiet. I know what he means. Anyway, we went to see a house near Oxford this morning. The Old Rectory in Marsh Baldon. It's about five miles from Oxford so it's close enough for me to be available if Cristi needs me but far enough away so I don't get under her feet. She'll be staying at the College Hall of Residence of course. What did you think about the place, Cristi?"
"It's a beautiful old house but why can't I live there with you?" Cristi sounded nervous.
"Because you're eighteen years old and you need to start living your own life. You can come down weekends if you want. Complete with the boyfriend you will doubtless be acquiring." Igrat turned to Sir Richard. "I like the Old Rectory; it suits me and it's got a self-contained flat with two bedrooms, a sitting room and a rest room that Cristi can use."
"Marsh Baldon is a beautiful old village. It's got a real community spirit to it. You know, their village pub closed down and was scheduled to be demolished but the villagers got together, bought the place and reopened it. The Old Rectory you say? How much do they want for it?"
"Two point two million. I've registered interest and I'll be negotiating for the next few days. We'll probably end up at a bit less than two million. Pounds of course, not dollars or sovereigns."
"Paying cash of course. That's not a bad price, a bit steep but you'll be paying for the environment as much as the property." Sir Richard was running several things through his mind. One of them was that Avebury was only thirty miles from Oxford and, to somebody with American perceptions of distance, that made them near-neighbors.
"Of course, we don't want a paper trail now do we." Igrat had a sudden insight into where this conversation was going.
"You two will always be welcome down here you know. There's some fascinating things to see around Avebury."
That confirms it. Sir Richard Strachan wants to improve Anglo-American relations. Igrat smiled to herself. Well, we don't want him to achieve that too easily. And I suppose he better think that he seduced me.
Re: 2000 - Eye of the Gangster
Chapter Eighteen
Briefing Room, Forensic Science Service, Montagu House, London, May 14th 2000
"What can I do about this?" Robin Mansell glowered at the other occupants of the room. For the last hour, Lillith had been going through the financial records of Sketch Group Newspapers and showing him how the company's financial assets had been methodically drained away. Even the company pension fund had been gutted and replaced by BCCI stock that would be worthless soon enough. When the meeting had started, the room had been filled with his energy and vitality, something quite remarkable for a man of his years. Slowly, as Lillith’s dispassionate analysis made the situation clear, that energy had ebbed and he had been left a shrunken and diminished old man. Yet, that had not been the end. Once that low point was reached, energy and vitality had been replaced by rage and hatred and now they filled the room with an almost tangible crackling discharge.
Lillith shrugged. "At this point, I can't see much you can do. The way they've set this up, you stand to be held responsible for everything that has happened. What they did was to quietly make sure your business maneuvers prospered. They provided the conditions for each move you made to succeed, smoothing out difficulties and removing opposition. They made sure that even your riskiest plans flourished, drawing more money into your company so they could then suck it out for themselves. To an outsider, it looks like you made your money by very highly questionable means.”
“They made a fool out of me.” Mansell ground the words out.
Conrad looked at him with real sympathy. “I wish I could disagree but I can’t. They played you, expertly and effectively, taking advantage of every failing you have and using your strengths for their own ends. In effect, they've arranged things so you and your family are human shields. Any strike that is aimed at the people responsible will hit you first and by the time the authorities get past you, the people who are really responsible will have vanished. What we need you to do now is to help us identify those people before any of that happens so we can deal with them before they do their vanishing act. Cut off their retreat as it were. So, who came into your company, in a senior financial position of course, about the time of the American newspaper acquisition."
Mansell thought about that carefully. "A couple of bank people joined us to administer their end of the joint venture funding. Supposedly, they had the position and authority to represent their bank's interests but not interfere in the running of Sketch Group."
"If they wanted to get access to things they shouldn't, they will." Lillith sounded concerned. "Once the barbarians are through the front gates, they can go almost where they will and do what they want. People keep forgetting that lesson. Never let the barbarians through the gates."
"So it seems, my dear." Mansell thought for a second. "I must express my gratitude for the work you have performed on my behalf. I will provide you with a list of people who joined us or have subsequently worked in that division."
“There’s one thing in particular we do need to know. In his telephone calls to Sketch House, Lord Lucan kept referring to “The Big Man”. Do you have any idea who that can be? To be honest we were sure it was you until we studied the situation in detail.”
Mansell thought carefully, shaking his head. During the time when he did so, time stretching from seconds into minutes, the tension in the room increased to an unbearable degree. Eventually, as he looked around the room his eyes settling on Angel.
Victoria Embankment Gardens, London, May 14th 2000
The garden seat was comfortable and positioned in the shade, a factor which Angel appreciated. At noon, the gardens would have been crowded with office workers eating their lunch or just trying to get away from their office and co-workers for a few minutes. Now, in mid-afternoon, it was almost deserted except for a few early tourists. Mansell turned to Angel. "I did some checking on the people at that meeting of course. Haven’t got time to waste so I will come straight to the point. I understand that you kill people for money?"
Angel nodded brusquely. "I do. And before you say anything, else, I’m not interested in why you want somebody dead. I’m only concerned with my fee. My standard rate is 8,500 sovereigns per kill."
"I have a job for you, one that pays five times that amount. 42,500 sovereigns per body, payable in advance. However, the second kill must be carried out in a specific way."
"Mr Mansell. Understand this very clearly. I don't torture people, not even the ones who deserve it. In exchange for your money, you get a quick, clean kill, or as near to it as circumstances permit, that cannot possibly be traced back to you. If you want anything else, look elsewhere."
"I'm glad to hear it." Mansell handed Angel a folded piece of paper. "These are the people I want you to kill and the circumstances that must prevail in the case of the second one. I don’t mind which order you do your work in."
Angel read the note and lifted an eyebrow. "I don't normally take contracts directly from a principal but in this case, we have a deal."
The Tay Ho Swee Meat Packaging Company, Limehouse, London. May 18, 2000
Angel parked her Rover SD3 carefully and opened the trunk with equal care. She didn’t think that the body inside had come to life again but she hadn’t survived as long as she had by taking chances and anyway, she had students for whom she had to set a good example. The plastic and duct-tape wrapped body inside was still. She hauled it out, mentally thanking the designers of the Rover SD series for making the cargo section of the hatchback so easy to unload, and put it on to a waiting trolley. That made it easy to wheel into a nearby work area. She carefully donned her protective clothing then watched as her four students filed in. Every one of them was looking at her with hero worship, deeply grateful that they had been granted the rare privilege of receiving lessons in professional exsanguination from the famous Hēilóng Shāshǒu herself.
“All right. So we have carried out our contract. We shot The Big Man in the head and cleaned up the scene of the hit. Remember the crucial lessons here. Time spend in reconnaissance is never wasted. Watch your target, learn about him and catch him at the best possible time for you. It should go without saying that will be the worst possible time for him. If there is any level of complexity in the kill or if there are any points outside your control, use a spotter to keep you advised of what is happening in the last minutes and seconds before the hit takes place. Good spotters are hard to come by and their work is very dangerous. You need to pay them properly and make sure you work well as a team together.
“Other lessons we have learned. Keep in mind ammunition is cheap. As a very wise man has said, the double tap is a myth. You pump bullets into your target until you are very sure he is very dead. Do not take anything from the scene of the hit and do not leave anything behind. Remember that this kill was easy, the target wasn’t expecting us to come after him this way. It won’t always be like that. Now, we have to dispose of the body. Meat processing places like this are ideal since the pigs waiting to be slaughtered will eat anything. So, what is the first thing we must do?”
One of her students put up his hand. “Cut up the body?”
“Nearly. First, we must pull out the teeth. You do not, believe me on this, want to go sifting through the pig’s crap to find them all. Shave any hair off as well. You can burn that. Then, we can cut up the body into small sections. You need sixteen pigs to get rid of a body. It turns out, The Big Man was aptly named so I’ve made arrangements to use twenty. Pigs, well, given a body, they pig out. Body will be gone in an hour. Bones, everything. Just check to make sure there is nothing left over and if there is, put it, and the teeth, in a bonemeal crusher. Now get to work cutting up our subject. I’ll show you the best way to do it.”
Angel looked happily on as her students got to work. This had been part of her deal with London House. In exchange for their help, she would train four of their Sai-Lo in the skills she had so painstakingly acquired. The fact that the Big Man who had ruined Robin Mansell was available as a practical demonstration had been a bonus. It also amused her to know that Chris Keeble would probably run in circles for years trying to find out what had happened to him. Or, in fact, who he was. That information would remain one of Angel’s many secrets.
Suite 334 Savoy Hotel, London, May 20, 2000.
Conrad was getting ready to watch the news on television, feeling lonely and neglected. Almost a week before, Angel had disappeared on one of her “business trips” and as usual, nobody knew where she had gone. He understood now that being alone like this was how he had lived for centuries before he had met her. Only now did he understand how lonely and desolate that life had been.
“Good evening, this is the BBC Evening News at 18:01 and this is Victoria Saller reading it. The main news tonight continues to be the multinational seizure of the Bank of Credit and Commerce International. Following last night’s spectacular raid in Holborn, a series of follow-up operations have seen police and financial regulators in Britain, France, Russia, the United States and Thailand forcibly entered BCCI's offices and shut them down, arresting everybody inside the buildings. So far about a million depositors have been affected by this action although this number is expected to increase greatly over the next few days. In Australia, the government has ordered BCCI to shut down its businesses in Australia and its dependencies on the grounds that that it was hopelessly insolvent. According to the Australian government, Australian BCCI alone had lost more money last year than the worldwide group’s entire capital and reserves.
“Scenes in the Moscow financial district were spectacular as the Moscow Militia used T-80 Koniev tanks borrowed from the Russian Army to force open the main doors of the Russian BCCI offices. Many top executives of Russian BCCI were dragged out of the building and taken away in unmarked lorries. According to Russian Finance Minister Stepan Georgievich Fedorovich, the detained BCCI executives are currently helping CheKa with its inquiries.
“Here in London, the Bank of England has published a report into the dealings of BCCI that shows the group has engaged in widespread fraud and manipulation that makes it difficult, if not impossible, to reconstruct their financial history. Even more seriously, BCCI had made a staggering 1.48 billion Sovereigns worth of loans to its own shareholders, who used their BCCI stock as collateral. It also appears that BCCI acquired billions of pounds worth of stock in other companies, stock which it was prohibited from acquiring under monopolies legislation. According to statements released by the Fraud Squad and the Serious Crimes Unit, they did this by having nominees purchase the shares and use them as collateral for loans. No attempt was made to repay those loans so the shares passed into BCCI’s hands.”
The newsreader looked soulfully into the camera before continuing. “The collapse of BCCI was brought about by the death of Robin Mansell, the multi-millionaire newspaper magnate who died under mysterious circumstances last night. At this time, Mr. Mansell’s death has not been officially explained although there are suggestions that he had a heart attack while cleaning an illegally-owned pistol on his boat, the Lady Elaine. It is believed that he forgot to unload the weapon and it discharged killing him instantly. His body fell over the side of his yacht and was found and recovered by a local scuba diver. Police investigating his death moved into the headquarters of Sketch Group Newspapers and found large quantities of highly incriminating documents that proved members of his staff had been assisting BCCI in defrauding Sketch Group Newspapers. These documents are now a major part of the basis for the actions now being taken against BCCI across the world.
“Assistant Commissioner Christopher Keeble, who is in charge of the investigation has been quoted as saying. ‘Had it not been for Mr. Mansell’s death, it is likely that the BCCI fraud would have continued for several years and hundreds of thousands, if not millions of citizens across the world would have lost their money.’ The Assistant Commissioner added that, since BCCI’s accounts are now frozen and further movement of cash is prohibited, further losses have been prevented.”
Behind Conrad, the door to the suite opened and Angel stepped in, carefully placing her travel bag into a corner as she did so. “Hi Conrad. Home is the hunter, home from the kill. Well, we will be when we get back to Bangkok. Please tell me we’re going home soon.”
“Day after tomorrow, Angel. I was afraid you wouldn’t make it back in time. Achillea has already left for the States.”
“Good for her. Conrad, I’ve brought you a present from Robin Mansell. A 750ml bottle of 1900 J and J Pallas Armagnac Domaine de Cassanel. It’s worth $4,000. Don’t be too pleased, Lillith got a jeroboam of Chateau Mouton Rothschild 1945 apparently one of the great vintages of twentieth century worth $114,000. There was hardly any of it because of the war and most of it was destroyed in Germany. This may be the last surviving bottle. Igrat said he was generous with his gifts.”
Conrad looked at Angel hard and put all the pieces together. “Angel, I never usually ask, but this time, please tell me what happened.”
“Are you really sure you want to know? I was working, you know. On the other hand, this wasn’t a murder.”
Conrad thought about that. "I'm so deeply involved in this that I need to know how it all ended. So, yes. Please tell me."
Robin Mansell's Yacht, Lady Elaine. Off Herne Bay, Thames Estuary. May 19, 2000
Mansell felt the bump as the rubber raft struck the side of his yacht. He didn't hear it; the sound of rubber striking fiberglass was drowned out by the rippling noise of the water or the scrabble as Angel climbed over the rail and dropped, cat-footed, on to the deck. He saw her looking around, checking that they were alone as he had promised. "It's all right, Angel. I sent the cook ashore and the boatman to buy some equipment we need. They'll probably stop for a beer before coming back. The Captain's ashore as well, on business of course. Buying fuel amongst other things. He thinks we're heading for the Canary Islands tomorrow."
"That's good. Nobody knows I'm here or why." Angel walked across the deck; the yacht was moving slightly with the current and tide. "Chris and his mob are in position. They'll be raiding the Sketch News Group building as soon as your death is announced. You'll be found by an anonymous Scuba diver."
Mansell looked at Angel and the dark gray, rippled-pattern wetsuit she was wearing. "You've looked at all the angles haven't you?"
"That's what you paid me for, Robin. Now, I'm going to ask you a question only some of my targets get to hear. Are you sure you want to go through with this?"
Mansell nodded. "I've got cancer, a bad one and it's already beginning to hurt too much. The sad thing is, it was operable when they first found it but my heart is so weak, the operation would have killed me anyway. I've got six months to a year of really bad times coming. I can accept that and spend those months watching everything I built being destroyed and my family reduced to poverty or I can die now, avoid the pain and bring down the people who ruined me. That'll also save something for my family, the insurance money you see. I can't kill myself, it's against my religion and even if it wasn’t, the insurance company wouldn't pay up on a suicide, so meeting you was a Godsend."
"If it's any consolation, it's not the first time I've done this. Some people are sensible. In your position, they hire an expert to do the job for them. Most people who do try and kill themselves botch it."
Mansell laughed, feeling strangely relieved. "I got some presents for your friends. I helped myself to the Sketch Group collection of rare wines and spirits before I left. I got you something else. In addition to your fee and a couple of bottles of 1940 J. Wray & Nephew rum of course. There are only four bottles left in the world and you now have two of them. You did get your money safely? The international banking system is probably already falling apart and it won't be working very well for the next few weeks at least."
"Safely in Geneva. Thank you."
"My pleasure." Mansell turned around and looked out to sea. "I love being out here at night. It gives me time to think."
Mansell smelled something, a very faint smell he couldn’t quite recognize. It was barely noticeable but it reminded him of meat that had just started to go bad mixed in with the sharp tang of blood. He realized Angel was standing close to him and the smell was her personal body odor. A split second later, just before everything went black he realized it was also the smell of death.
Angel had fired a single shot as Mansell had started to turn back to speak with her again. The bullet had hit him under the chin and exited exactly where the spine joined the skull. It was the perfect, instant kill that every suicide tried to achieve and few did. Mansell died before he even realized that it was about to happen. He staggered backwards, already dead, and the railings caught him in the back. A quick push from Angel sent him over the side into the sea below. Then, she dropped the gun she had used over the side as well. In was a South African Vektor in .45 magnum. If the police found the gun, they would suspect that it was the killing weapon from the wound it had left and link it to the killing of Lord Lucan.
Proud of the skill she had displayed and precision she had achieved, she picked up the gifts from Mansell and headed back to her raft. On the way back to the old offshore fort that she'd used as a staging point, she made two calls, one to the local police advising them of a body in the water. The other was a call to Chris Keeble who had a team in place ready to go into the Sketch building when she gave him the word. The code message was simply “The game is afoot.”
Outside Daily Sketch Building, High Holborn, London, May 19, 2000
“All right. The situation is this. Robin Mansell’s body has just been found floating near his yacht off Herne Bay. There are strong reasons to believe he has been murdered and that the culprits are working within this building. We have a list of prime suspects. They are to be detained and transferred to the designated holding facility for interrogation on suspicion of conspiracy to commit murder. Do not allow them to talk to each other or communicate with the outside world. Nobody is to enter or leave this building. We have an Anton Piper warrant which allows us to seize every piece of paper, every communication, every file, every message log in that building.” Chris Keeble looked around. “Is that absolutely clear? Treat this situation as if That Man was holed up in there somewhere. Cut the telephone connections now and jam any and all portable telephone signals in this area.”
“What happens if somebody resists arrest, Sir?” One of the Serious Crimes Squad officers knew the answer but just wanted it on record.
Keeble grinned. “Make sure he realizes that in doing so, he chose . . . poorly. Now go.”
Suite 334 Savoy Hotel, London, May 20, 2000.
"So, the way it was set up, the coroner will come to the conclusion, based on the angle of impact and Mansell's very poor heart, that he was cleaning a pistol when he had a heart attack and accidentally shot himself. I left gun cleaning stuff there to put the idea into their minds. The insurance company will pay up to his family. The general public will conclude he killed himself over guilt at what had happened to his company. The police will realize he was killed, of course, and they'll link it back to The Trust. You and I are the only ones who know what really happened."
"Assisted suicide." Conrad looked very guilty. "I'm supposed to condemn that but somehow. . . . and the way you two set it up, you've ripped the guts out of The Trust here. He was a brave man and arranging gifts like this for us shows style.”
“It doesn’t take any bravery to die, Conrad. Just a matter of accepting the inevitable. Living, that’s different. Living can take a lot of courage. Marty wasn’t brave. He knew facing me alone in a gunfight was almost certain death for him so he chose the only way he could make his death mean something. Baron Churston, choosing to live as a reviled object of derision and loathing, in order to protect all the people he had worked with, that was real bravery.”
Conrad thought that over and could see what Angel was driving at. “Life, to be sure, is nothing much to lose, But young men think it is, and we were young.”
“Huh?”
“A poem from the First World War by a man called A.E. Houseman. It’s about the men who died in the trenches. You’ll probably like Houseman. I’ll get you a volume of his work. Nevertheless, Mansell accepting death the way he did and turning it into a weapon against his enemies, that took courage. He gave us the second major defeat the Trust has suffered at our hands in the last two years."
Angel nodded. "Frankly, I think that, for all his faults, he was probably a nicer man than he was painted. I don’t know, it’s not the sort of thing I understand. I will tell you this though. We've been really lucky so far. The Trust will be on to us now. This is where life will get interesting."
"Angel, can I ask you something else? We all got bottles of our favorite drinks, only in the rarest and most expensive varieties known to man. What else did he give you?"
"You know Mansell was a Captain in the Free British Army? Well, he was awarded a Military Cross for his service on the Kola Peninsula. Earned it too by all accounts. He gave it to me, said it was the only thing he’d ever won that he was really proud of and I was the only person he knew who would understand why." Angel hesitated for a second. “Now that, I do understand and I think I came out on top. Now, important question, have you been a good boy and kept some rum for me? I need a drink.”
Briefing Room, Forensic Science Service, Montagu House, London, May 14th 2000
"What can I do about this?" Robin Mansell glowered at the other occupants of the room. For the last hour, Lillith had been going through the financial records of Sketch Group Newspapers and showing him how the company's financial assets had been methodically drained away. Even the company pension fund had been gutted and replaced by BCCI stock that would be worthless soon enough. When the meeting had started, the room had been filled with his energy and vitality, something quite remarkable for a man of his years. Slowly, as Lillith’s dispassionate analysis made the situation clear, that energy had ebbed and he had been left a shrunken and diminished old man. Yet, that had not been the end. Once that low point was reached, energy and vitality had been replaced by rage and hatred and now they filled the room with an almost tangible crackling discharge.
Lillith shrugged. "At this point, I can't see much you can do. The way they've set this up, you stand to be held responsible for everything that has happened. What they did was to quietly make sure your business maneuvers prospered. They provided the conditions for each move you made to succeed, smoothing out difficulties and removing opposition. They made sure that even your riskiest plans flourished, drawing more money into your company so they could then suck it out for themselves. To an outsider, it looks like you made your money by very highly questionable means.”
“They made a fool out of me.” Mansell ground the words out.
Conrad looked at him with real sympathy. “I wish I could disagree but I can’t. They played you, expertly and effectively, taking advantage of every failing you have and using your strengths for their own ends. In effect, they've arranged things so you and your family are human shields. Any strike that is aimed at the people responsible will hit you first and by the time the authorities get past you, the people who are really responsible will have vanished. What we need you to do now is to help us identify those people before any of that happens so we can deal with them before they do their vanishing act. Cut off their retreat as it were. So, who came into your company, in a senior financial position of course, about the time of the American newspaper acquisition."
Mansell thought about that carefully. "A couple of bank people joined us to administer their end of the joint venture funding. Supposedly, they had the position and authority to represent their bank's interests but not interfere in the running of Sketch Group."
"If they wanted to get access to things they shouldn't, they will." Lillith sounded concerned. "Once the barbarians are through the front gates, they can go almost where they will and do what they want. People keep forgetting that lesson. Never let the barbarians through the gates."
"So it seems, my dear." Mansell thought for a second. "I must express my gratitude for the work you have performed on my behalf. I will provide you with a list of people who joined us or have subsequently worked in that division."
“There’s one thing in particular we do need to know. In his telephone calls to Sketch House, Lord Lucan kept referring to “The Big Man”. Do you have any idea who that can be? To be honest we were sure it was you until we studied the situation in detail.”
Mansell thought carefully, shaking his head. During the time when he did so, time stretching from seconds into minutes, the tension in the room increased to an unbearable degree. Eventually, as he looked around the room his eyes settling on Angel.
Victoria Embankment Gardens, London, May 14th 2000
The garden seat was comfortable and positioned in the shade, a factor which Angel appreciated. At noon, the gardens would have been crowded with office workers eating their lunch or just trying to get away from their office and co-workers for a few minutes. Now, in mid-afternoon, it was almost deserted except for a few early tourists. Mansell turned to Angel. "I did some checking on the people at that meeting of course. Haven’t got time to waste so I will come straight to the point. I understand that you kill people for money?"
Angel nodded brusquely. "I do. And before you say anything, else, I’m not interested in why you want somebody dead. I’m only concerned with my fee. My standard rate is 8,500 sovereigns per kill."
"I have a job for you, one that pays five times that amount. 42,500 sovereigns per body, payable in advance. However, the second kill must be carried out in a specific way."
"Mr Mansell. Understand this very clearly. I don't torture people, not even the ones who deserve it. In exchange for your money, you get a quick, clean kill, or as near to it as circumstances permit, that cannot possibly be traced back to you. If you want anything else, look elsewhere."
"I'm glad to hear it." Mansell handed Angel a folded piece of paper. "These are the people I want you to kill and the circumstances that must prevail in the case of the second one. I don’t mind which order you do your work in."
Angel read the note and lifted an eyebrow. "I don't normally take contracts directly from a principal but in this case, we have a deal."
The Tay Ho Swee Meat Packaging Company, Limehouse, London. May 18, 2000
Angel parked her Rover SD3 carefully and opened the trunk with equal care. She didn’t think that the body inside had come to life again but she hadn’t survived as long as she had by taking chances and anyway, she had students for whom she had to set a good example. The plastic and duct-tape wrapped body inside was still. She hauled it out, mentally thanking the designers of the Rover SD series for making the cargo section of the hatchback so easy to unload, and put it on to a waiting trolley. That made it easy to wheel into a nearby work area. She carefully donned her protective clothing then watched as her four students filed in. Every one of them was looking at her with hero worship, deeply grateful that they had been granted the rare privilege of receiving lessons in professional exsanguination from the famous Hēilóng Shāshǒu herself.
“All right. So we have carried out our contract. We shot The Big Man in the head and cleaned up the scene of the hit. Remember the crucial lessons here. Time spend in reconnaissance is never wasted. Watch your target, learn about him and catch him at the best possible time for you. It should go without saying that will be the worst possible time for him. If there is any level of complexity in the kill or if there are any points outside your control, use a spotter to keep you advised of what is happening in the last minutes and seconds before the hit takes place. Good spotters are hard to come by and their work is very dangerous. You need to pay them properly and make sure you work well as a team together.
“Other lessons we have learned. Keep in mind ammunition is cheap. As a very wise man has said, the double tap is a myth. You pump bullets into your target until you are very sure he is very dead. Do not take anything from the scene of the hit and do not leave anything behind. Remember that this kill was easy, the target wasn’t expecting us to come after him this way. It won’t always be like that. Now, we have to dispose of the body. Meat processing places like this are ideal since the pigs waiting to be slaughtered will eat anything. So, what is the first thing we must do?”
One of her students put up his hand. “Cut up the body?”
“Nearly. First, we must pull out the teeth. You do not, believe me on this, want to go sifting through the pig’s crap to find them all. Shave any hair off as well. You can burn that. Then, we can cut up the body into small sections. You need sixteen pigs to get rid of a body. It turns out, The Big Man was aptly named so I’ve made arrangements to use twenty. Pigs, well, given a body, they pig out. Body will be gone in an hour. Bones, everything. Just check to make sure there is nothing left over and if there is, put it, and the teeth, in a bonemeal crusher. Now get to work cutting up our subject. I’ll show you the best way to do it.”
Angel looked happily on as her students got to work. This had been part of her deal with London House. In exchange for their help, she would train four of their Sai-Lo in the skills she had so painstakingly acquired. The fact that the Big Man who had ruined Robin Mansell was available as a practical demonstration had been a bonus. It also amused her to know that Chris Keeble would probably run in circles for years trying to find out what had happened to him. Or, in fact, who he was. That information would remain one of Angel’s many secrets.
Suite 334 Savoy Hotel, London, May 20, 2000.
Conrad was getting ready to watch the news on television, feeling lonely and neglected. Almost a week before, Angel had disappeared on one of her “business trips” and as usual, nobody knew where she had gone. He understood now that being alone like this was how he had lived for centuries before he had met her. Only now did he understand how lonely and desolate that life had been.
“Good evening, this is the BBC Evening News at 18:01 and this is Victoria Saller reading it. The main news tonight continues to be the multinational seizure of the Bank of Credit and Commerce International. Following last night’s spectacular raid in Holborn, a series of follow-up operations have seen police and financial regulators in Britain, France, Russia, the United States and Thailand forcibly entered BCCI's offices and shut them down, arresting everybody inside the buildings. So far about a million depositors have been affected by this action although this number is expected to increase greatly over the next few days. In Australia, the government has ordered BCCI to shut down its businesses in Australia and its dependencies on the grounds that that it was hopelessly insolvent. According to the Australian government, Australian BCCI alone had lost more money last year than the worldwide group’s entire capital and reserves.
“Scenes in the Moscow financial district were spectacular as the Moscow Militia used T-80 Koniev tanks borrowed from the Russian Army to force open the main doors of the Russian BCCI offices. Many top executives of Russian BCCI were dragged out of the building and taken away in unmarked lorries. According to Russian Finance Minister Stepan Georgievich Fedorovich, the detained BCCI executives are currently helping CheKa with its inquiries.
“Here in London, the Bank of England has published a report into the dealings of BCCI that shows the group has engaged in widespread fraud and manipulation that makes it difficult, if not impossible, to reconstruct their financial history. Even more seriously, BCCI had made a staggering 1.48 billion Sovereigns worth of loans to its own shareholders, who used their BCCI stock as collateral. It also appears that BCCI acquired billions of pounds worth of stock in other companies, stock which it was prohibited from acquiring under monopolies legislation. According to statements released by the Fraud Squad and the Serious Crimes Unit, they did this by having nominees purchase the shares and use them as collateral for loans. No attempt was made to repay those loans so the shares passed into BCCI’s hands.”
The newsreader looked soulfully into the camera before continuing. “The collapse of BCCI was brought about by the death of Robin Mansell, the multi-millionaire newspaper magnate who died under mysterious circumstances last night. At this time, Mr. Mansell’s death has not been officially explained although there are suggestions that he had a heart attack while cleaning an illegally-owned pistol on his boat, the Lady Elaine. It is believed that he forgot to unload the weapon and it discharged killing him instantly. His body fell over the side of his yacht and was found and recovered by a local scuba diver. Police investigating his death moved into the headquarters of Sketch Group Newspapers and found large quantities of highly incriminating documents that proved members of his staff had been assisting BCCI in defrauding Sketch Group Newspapers. These documents are now a major part of the basis for the actions now being taken against BCCI across the world.
“Assistant Commissioner Christopher Keeble, who is in charge of the investigation has been quoted as saying. ‘Had it not been for Mr. Mansell’s death, it is likely that the BCCI fraud would have continued for several years and hundreds of thousands, if not millions of citizens across the world would have lost their money.’ The Assistant Commissioner added that, since BCCI’s accounts are now frozen and further movement of cash is prohibited, further losses have been prevented.”
Behind Conrad, the door to the suite opened and Angel stepped in, carefully placing her travel bag into a corner as she did so. “Hi Conrad. Home is the hunter, home from the kill. Well, we will be when we get back to Bangkok. Please tell me we’re going home soon.”
“Day after tomorrow, Angel. I was afraid you wouldn’t make it back in time. Achillea has already left for the States.”
“Good for her. Conrad, I’ve brought you a present from Robin Mansell. A 750ml bottle of 1900 J and J Pallas Armagnac Domaine de Cassanel. It’s worth $4,000. Don’t be too pleased, Lillith got a jeroboam of Chateau Mouton Rothschild 1945 apparently one of the great vintages of twentieth century worth $114,000. There was hardly any of it because of the war and most of it was destroyed in Germany. This may be the last surviving bottle. Igrat said he was generous with his gifts.”
Conrad looked at Angel hard and put all the pieces together. “Angel, I never usually ask, but this time, please tell me what happened.”
“Are you really sure you want to know? I was working, you know. On the other hand, this wasn’t a murder.”
Conrad thought about that. "I'm so deeply involved in this that I need to know how it all ended. So, yes. Please tell me."
Robin Mansell's Yacht, Lady Elaine. Off Herne Bay, Thames Estuary. May 19, 2000
Mansell felt the bump as the rubber raft struck the side of his yacht. He didn't hear it; the sound of rubber striking fiberglass was drowned out by the rippling noise of the water or the scrabble as Angel climbed over the rail and dropped, cat-footed, on to the deck. He saw her looking around, checking that they were alone as he had promised. "It's all right, Angel. I sent the cook ashore and the boatman to buy some equipment we need. They'll probably stop for a beer before coming back. The Captain's ashore as well, on business of course. Buying fuel amongst other things. He thinks we're heading for the Canary Islands tomorrow."
"That's good. Nobody knows I'm here or why." Angel walked across the deck; the yacht was moving slightly with the current and tide. "Chris and his mob are in position. They'll be raiding the Sketch News Group building as soon as your death is announced. You'll be found by an anonymous Scuba diver."
Mansell looked at Angel and the dark gray, rippled-pattern wetsuit she was wearing. "You've looked at all the angles haven't you?"
"That's what you paid me for, Robin. Now, I'm going to ask you a question only some of my targets get to hear. Are you sure you want to go through with this?"
Mansell nodded. "I've got cancer, a bad one and it's already beginning to hurt too much. The sad thing is, it was operable when they first found it but my heart is so weak, the operation would have killed me anyway. I've got six months to a year of really bad times coming. I can accept that and spend those months watching everything I built being destroyed and my family reduced to poverty or I can die now, avoid the pain and bring down the people who ruined me. That'll also save something for my family, the insurance money you see. I can't kill myself, it's against my religion and even if it wasn’t, the insurance company wouldn't pay up on a suicide, so meeting you was a Godsend."
"If it's any consolation, it's not the first time I've done this. Some people are sensible. In your position, they hire an expert to do the job for them. Most people who do try and kill themselves botch it."
Mansell laughed, feeling strangely relieved. "I got some presents for your friends. I helped myself to the Sketch Group collection of rare wines and spirits before I left. I got you something else. In addition to your fee and a couple of bottles of 1940 J. Wray & Nephew rum of course. There are only four bottles left in the world and you now have two of them. You did get your money safely? The international banking system is probably already falling apart and it won't be working very well for the next few weeks at least."
"Safely in Geneva. Thank you."
"My pleasure." Mansell turned around and looked out to sea. "I love being out here at night. It gives me time to think."
Mansell smelled something, a very faint smell he couldn’t quite recognize. It was barely noticeable but it reminded him of meat that had just started to go bad mixed in with the sharp tang of blood. He realized Angel was standing close to him and the smell was her personal body odor. A split second later, just before everything went black he realized it was also the smell of death.
Angel had fired a single shot as Mansell had started to turn back to speak with her again. The bullet had hit him under the chin and exited exactly where the spine joined the skull. It was the perfect, instant kill that every suicide tried to achieve and few did. Mansell died before he even realized that it was about to happen. He staggered backwards, already dead, and the railings caught him in the back. A quick push from Angel sent him over the side into the sea below. Then, she dropped the gun she had used over the side as well. In was a South African Vektor in .45 magnum. If the police found the gun, they would suspect that it was the killing weapon from the wound it had left and link it to the killing of Lord Lucan.
Proud of the skill she had displayed and precision she had achieved, she picked up the gifts from Mansell and headed back to her raft. On the way back to the old offshore fort that she'd used as a staging point, she made two calls, one to the local police advising them of a body in the water. The other was a call to Chris Keeble who had a team in place ready to go into the Sketch building when she gave him the word. The code message was simply “The game is afoot.”
Outside Daily Sketch Building, High Holborn, London, May 19, 2000
“All right. The situation is this. Robin Mansell’s body has just been found floating near his yacht off Herne Bay. There are strong reasons to believe he has been murdered and that the culprits are working within this building. We have a list of prime suspects. They are to be detained and transferred to the designated holding facility for interrogation on suspicion of conspiracy to commit murder. Do not allow them to talk to each other or communicate with the outside world. Nobody is to enter or leave this building. We have an Anton Piper warrant which allows us to seize every piece of paper, every communication, every file, every message log in that building.” Chris Keeble looked around. “Is that absolutely clear? Treat this situation as if That Man was holed up in there somewhere. Cut the telephone connections now and jam any and all portable telephone signals in this area.”
“What happens if somebody resists arrest, Sir?” One of the Serious Crimes Squad officers knew the answer but just wanted it on record.
Keeble grinned. “Make sure he realizes that in doing so, he chose . . . poorly. Now go.”
Suite 334 Savoy Hotel, London, May 20, 2000.
"So, the way it was set up, the coroner will come to the conclusion, based on the angle of impact and Mansell's very poor heart, that he was cleaning a pistol when he had a heart attack and accidentally shot himself. I left gun cleaning stuff there to put the idea into their minds. The insurance company will pay up to his family. The general public will conclude he killed himself over guilt at what had happened to his company. The police will realize he was killed, of course, and they'll link it back to The Trust. You and I are the only ones who know what really happened."
"Assisted suicide." Conrad looked very guilty. "I'm supposed to condemn that but somehow. . . . and the way you two set it up, you've ripped the guts out of The Trust here. He was a brave man and arranging gifts like this for us shows style.”
“It doesn’t take any bravery to die, Conrad. Just a matter of accepting the inevitable. Living, that’s different. Living can take a lot of courage. Marty wasn’t brave. He knew facing me alone in a gunfight was almost certain death for him so he chose the only way he could make his death mean something. Baron Churston, choosing to live as a reviled object of derision and loathing, in order to protect all the people he had worked with, that was real bravery.”
Conrad thought that over and could see what Angel was driving at. “Life, to be sure, is nothing much to lose, But young men think it is, and we were young.”
“Huh?”
“A poem from the First World War by a man called A.E. Houseman. It’s about the men who died in the trenches. You’ll probably like Houseman. I’ll get you a volume of his work. Nevertheless, Mansell accepting death the way he did and turning it into a weapon against his enemies, that took courage. He gave us the second major defeat the Trust has suffered at our hands in the last two years."
Angel nodded. "Frankly, I think that, for all his faults, he was probably a nicer man than he was painted. I don’t know, it’s not the sort of thing I understand. I will tell you this though. We've been really lucky so far. The Trust will be on to us now. This is where life will get interesting."
"Angel, can I ask you something else? We all got bottles of our favorite drinks, only in the rarest and most expensive varieties known to man. What else did he give you?"
"You know Mansell was a Captain in the Free British Army? Well, he was awarded a Military Cross for his service on the Kola Peninsula. Earned it too by all accounts. He gave it to me, said it was the only thing he’d ever won that he was really proud of and I was the only person he knew who would understand why." Angel hesitated for a second. “Now that, I do understand and I think I came out on top. Now, important question, have you been a good boy and kept some rum for me? I need a drink.”