* * *
As the helicopter carrying Dame Helen’s touched down there were no guards or dogs in sight, they had been hidden. No chairs near the lake, no fishing rods. Johno stood washing the Rolls Royce, jacket off, but a driver’s hat on his head. He had been carefully positioned to be in their direct path to the house, and firmly told not to say anything.
As Dame Helen and Willis approached Johno, the helicopter’s engines winding down, Johno touched his cap. ‘Aft-noon, Ma’am. The old man of the manor ‘sup the big house.’
Willis hid a smile. Dame Helen gave Johno an unfriendly stare, washing the car less than six feet from the ‘big house’.
Johno continued, in his best attempts at a ridiculous accent. ‘Appen yud like me to wash ‘em windows of ya flying contraption then?’
She took a step towards him. ‘John Johno Williams. Formerly a freelance agent, formerly 14 Intel’, formerly Sergeant John Williams of the SAS, 1985 to 1994, formerly of 2nd Battalion Parachute Regiment.’
Johno scratched the side of his face. Returning to washing the car, and continuing with the accent, he retorted, ‘Just cos a fella can’t hold down no job don’t mean mistress dominatrix Helen should be putting on ‘im an all.’
Willis fought the urge to laugh.
Beesely stood with Otto in his old study, viewing a bank of newly installed monitors. Otto handed Beesely a crisp new twenty pound note.
‘Told you,’ Beesely commented as they made their way towards the front door. ‘I knew Johno wouldn’t be able to resist.’
‘Mrs Eddington-Small. Director. Or may I call you Dame Helen?’
‘I’m sure, Sir Morris, that you will call me whatever you like. And, given your historically documented disdain for authority figures, I am sure that whatever you call me, and howsoever you do, will seem like a thinly veiled insult.’
‘Wow!’ Beesely let out. He edged a step closer. ‘I shall call you Dame Helen then. A perfect blend of authority plus familiarity.’
The guests were ushered into the main room, the old oak table now offering an oddly wide range food and drink.
She placed down her bag and sat without waiting to be asked. ‘Well, let’s see.’ She glanced around the assorted goodies ranged in front of her. ‘My favourite, used to be my favourite, like those, love those, kids love those - I’m not so fussed these days, Willis loves those, drinks - perfect choice.’ She finally raised her head as Beesely and Otto sat. ‘You’ve undertaken some very thorough research, gentlemen. Commendable in fact.’
Beesely clasped his hands together. ‘From the Director herself that is indeed high praise.’
She helped herself to the Earl Grey tea. ‘You’ve been getting a lot of attention lately, Sir Morris. You keep enough milk in the fridge?’
‘Ah, I must apologise for the clandestine photos of your associates from America and Israel, we just wanted to pique your interest. You are, after all, a busy woman; the pulse of the nation’s security at your fingertips. We figured that prising someone of your calibre away from her desk would not be easy. After all, you probably have numerous foreign governments to topple with your army of super spies.’
She smiled, threateningly. ‘Ah, if only that was true.’ She stopped smiling. ‘Then I could order certain people shot!’
Beesely cocked an eyebrow. ‘Anyone we know?’
The tea proved excellent and she savoured it, taking a moment to study the man she had heard so much about over the years. ‘Perhaps you could help shed some light on just how your old personnel files went missing.’ She edged closer. ‘Because if, and when, I find any direct evidence of your involvement there will be a police car at the gate –’
‘Which, under British and international treaties and law, would not be allowed onto this property, I am sad to say,’ Beesely stated.
She hesitated. ‘What?’
Otto produced his passport and credentials. ‘I am Otto Schessel, Deputy Swiss Ambassador to Great Britain.’
Dame Helen checked his details quickly, thumbing through the pages. ‘Mister Deputy Ambassador, I ... apologise on behalf of the British Government if I was in any way rude, but this gentleman–’
‘Is residing in an official Ambassador’s residence. We have now purchased this property and allow Sir Morris and his assistants to remain here.’ Beesely took out his Swiss passport and slid it across the table with a coy smile. Otto continued, as Dame Helen carefully examined Beesely’s passport, ‘Sir Morris has been assisting my government for some time, and has dual nationality.’ She glanced up, her surprise evident. ‘Furthermore, he is directly engaged by our Foreign Department as a diplomat of Switzerland.’
‘My … apologies, gentlemen,’ she loudly offered, sounding less than sincere. ‘I didn’t know … and I was not trying to make any insinuations, Mr Ambassador, about a member of your staff-’
‘Very diplomatically handled, Dame Helen, a true professional,’ Beesely remarked with a broad smile. ‘But don’t worry, we’re all friends here, and wish to become better acquainted. I did not invite you down here to make waves, rather to mend bridges. Oh, by the way, we did lift those files and, before you ask, no memoirs. Secrecy is the one thing we are good at.’
‘So it would seem,’ she reluctantly admitted, handing back the passports.
‘More tea?’
‘Thanks,’ she muttered, resigned to the fact that there was nothing she could do for the moment.
Johno stepped into the room, jacket still off, shoulder holster put back on. He slumped into a leather chair in the corner.
‘I’d forgotten he still has a current licence for a weapon,’ she commented.
Beesely followed her gaze across to Johno. ‘To business. I’m sure you are busy, saving us from those terrible hordes at our shores.’
She forced a smile. ‘Never a dull day.’
‘As you are … not aware, I have been secretly involved with a … rather aggressive private security agency for a long time, based obviously … in Switzerland.’
She had been sipping her tea, but now banged down her cup and glanced at Willis. Both were shocked, coming to the same conclusion at the same time.
Beesely continued, ‘I guess you have developed some… concerns in that area lately.’
‘Are you involved with some grotesque vigilante group?’ She turned her head a notch and accused Otto with her stare. ‘And what does this have to do with official Swiss policy?’
Otto straightened, running a hand down his tie. ‘My government has always maintained a very effective, yet ultimately very confidential security organization for the protection of banks and banking activities –’
‘Not for foreign or domestic terrorism!’ she stated.
‘That is correct,’ Otto admitted. ‘As you can imagine, we deal with some extremely rich people. We also deal with some affluent persons with a … less than perfect past.’
She tipped her head. ‘That’s why they go to Switzerland.’
Otto seemed mildly offended, quickly composing himself. ‘It is a fact that not all of us agree with. Hence some recent unauthorised changes in policy.’
She raised her eyebrows, mocking him. ‘You’ve started operating outside of the law?’
Otto shook his head. ‘We, The Government, are not involved in such activities.’
She turned to Beesely, clearly surprised. ‘I would never have taken you for someone so … gruesome.’
He fixed her with a firm stare. ‘We fight fire with fire! And some of the things I did for the Circus, young lady, were pretty gruesome, as you put it. Good job none of that made it into the papers.’
She shifted uneasily in her seat. ‘Just how big is this organization? And what part do you play in it?’
Beesely straightened, a quick glance at Otto. ‘Around two thousand staff, departments in twenty countries, bigger annual budget than MI6 and MI5 combined.’ Dame Helen was stunned. ‘And my part? Why, young lady, I personally own the whole operation. Another biscuit? Lem
on bon-bon perhaps?’
2
After using the bathroom as an excuse to compose herself, Dame Helen returned to the table, not sure where any of this was heading. Beesely stood at the far end of the room, enthusiastically showing Willis a fly-fishing rod. She sat without a word.
Beesely smiled at her as he sat back down. ‘You must be wondering why, exactly, I invited you down here today. Well, it was not to tell you about my secret little organization –’
‘Well done on that, by the way,’ she offered. ‘We had no idea.’
‘Not to worry, my dear, we’re on your side.’ Beesely cleared his throat as Otto passed him a Swiss bank statement. ‘I am well aware of the restrictions placed upon you, Madam Director, both politically and legally. Not to mention financially. Which is why, in my twilight years, I have decided to use some of the money I have made to help you - specifically you - in your current role.’ He slid across the paper. ‘That, my dear, is a numbered Swiss bank account, the funds therein are available to the head of MI6 for unauthorised overseas operations.’
‘It’s SIS these days,’ she cheekily reminded Beesely. She lowered her gaze and read the paper. ‘This is …’ She pushed the paper away. ‘I can’t accept that, officially or otherwise.’
‘Which is why I shall hold on to it for you. And by that, I mean for whomsoever is head of … MI6. If you need an operation discreetly funded overseas, you need only pick up the phone and I shall assist you. If there is any comeback, then first they would need to get through Swiss banking laws, then they would need to get through me - a harder task than you may imagine - then they would have to tie you in. And unless the PM’s office bugs your office, I do not see how any of that is likely to happen. Do you?’
Five minutes later, Beesely led Dame Helen towards the lake. ‘The conversation we are about to have you can never repeat.’ She did not react. ‘Not with your own people, the Prime Minister - or even my good friend, dear old General Rose.’ She glanced around briefly at the mention of the general. Beesely continued, ‘There is only one premise to use as a start point to all this. My loyalties always have been, and always will be, with the security of this nation. In the weeks ahead that premise will be thoroughly tested. Now, we don’t have long, so listen well, and read between the lines. Or, indeed, listen between the lines.’
Beesely and Dame Helen had wandered around the lake as far as they could before a muddy stream prevented further progress. They turned about and retraced their steps. The warm afternoon air hung still, dragonflies darted about, and the ducks followed - expectantly waiting for the bread that Jane often threw to them - and the swans proudly ignored them.
Dame Helen had not been back in her office more than five minutes when her phone buzzed. She hit a button. ‘Yes?’
‘General Rose on line one, Ma’am.’
‘It never rains…’ she quietly let out.
‘Ma’am?’
She sat. ‘OK. Thank you.’
3
Johno knocked on a door in the village and waited. The door laboriously unlocked with several clicks and finally opened.
An attractive and buxom lady in her thirties peered out. ‘Johno?’
‘You alone?’
She stared at him for a moment. ‘Why don’t you cut the small talk and get to the point.’
‘Are … you … alone?’ he carefully mouthed.
‘Yes … I … am,’ she replied, mocking him.
‘Good. Because I’ve got five hundred quid … and you’ve got large breasts and a great arse.’ He pushed his way in, sitting on the stairs and taking off his shoes.
She watched him, still holding the door. ‘And who says romance is dead?’
Twenty minutes later he lit up, stood in just a t-shirt and a pair of socks, looking out of his companion’s bedroom window at her overgrown garden.
‘So, you raided the piggy bank or something?’ she asked.
‘Old man Beesely came into some money, gave me some as a... work bonus.’ He took a long drag. ‘Didn’t I promise to fix that garden someday?’
‘And someday you’ll settle down and raise kids in a small cottage,’ she quietly suggested as she lay on the bed, half covered.
He laughed, facing her. ‘Me, and kids?’ He took a drag and peered out the window. ‘Yeah, right.’
‘Yeah,’ she sighed. ‘Social services would take them off you in a week.’
He turned his head. ‘That bad, am I?’
‘No, actually, you aren’t, you just like to pretend you are.’
He squinted at her. ‘You haven’t been talking with my shrink, have you?’
‘You have a shrink?’
‘I told you before. God, woman, you never listen to me when I’m shagging you!’ He feigned hurt.
‘So, you … off soon?’ she delicately enquired
‘From here … or from the country?’ he asked with a grin.
‘I don’t mind you being here, you know that.’ Their eyes met for a brief second, a sudden look of sadness on Johno’s face, many things going through his mind. ‘You said old man Beesely was selling up, heading off somewhere nice and warm.’
‘Change of plans,’ Johno said as he noticed one of her neighbours. ‘Like I said, he came into some money, so who knows what we’ll do.’ He brightened. ‘Anyway, do you think the old bat next door likes my hairy bollocks?’
‘Johno, please. I have to live here.’
He turned, firm signs of arousal.
Her eyes widened. ‘I seriously hope that it was not my neighbour that caused that, because I’d be jealous. Not to mention concerned.’
He laughed. ‘No, it’s all this talk of money.’
Her eyes twinkled. ‘You will be gentle with me?’
‘Gentle with you?’ he repeated. ‘Last week you knocked two guys cold in the bar and carried them out!’
‘Maybe this time you’ll take your socks off. Still, you are getting better. Time was when the pants didn’t come off. And at least these days we make it to the bedroom!’
As Johno stepped outside he lifted his mobile and dialled. ‘Hello?’
‘Hello?’ came a woman’s voice.
‘Who’s that?’ Johno asked.
‘This is the Alzheimer’s Association. How may I help you?’
‘Oh. Why are you ringing me?’ Johno enquired, a smile forming.
‘You’re ringing us, sir.’
‘Am I? Why did I do that?’
‘Are you OK, sir? Is there someone else there we could talk with?’
‘Yes.’ He waited. ‘Who’s that?’
A sigh could be heard from the other end.
4
A street-corner drug dealer offered no challenge for a well trained and highly motivated assassin equipped with an assault rifle, night sight, silencer and a laser range finder. From this third floor London window, the sniper would not have been visible to pedestrians in the busy street below, the hum of the traffic loud enough through Soho to mask the sound of a shot from a silencer. The window was propped open just three inches, assuming that anyone could accurately relate to where the shot may have come from.
A gloved hand gripped the rifle, the first trigger pressure taken and held, the sniper’s partner picking a target through a night-vision scope. Their supervisor observed from another window, a uniformed police officer at the foot of the stairs to this deserted floor.
‘Baseball cap,’ the spotter stated in an accented voice.
The sniper adjusted his aim, a red dot becoming visible, a gentle squeeze and a gentle cough being followed by the sound of a metal-on-metal mechanism reloading.
‘Good hit,’ his partner stated as the target’s knee exploded, the victim crumpling.
‘Man with padded coat.’
The shot man dropped to the floor.
The spotter turned to the supervisor. ‘The girls?’
The supervisor shook his head. ‘Clean up. We go.’
‘How many more tonight?’
; ‘You have twelve, quota is twenty, then home.’