* * *
In a London hotel room, an American booked in as Mr Grey, watched the news with a broad smile. He had just stepped out of the shower and now stood naked as he dried, a tanned and muscular body scribed by numerous white scars.
Lifting his mobile, he selected the number of a Virginia lodge. ‘It’s me. I’m in London, sir, hotel at the airport. Moving out in an hour, be based here for equipment and messages.’
‘Anything to report?’ Oliver Stanton, chairman of The Lodge, formally requested.
‘I’ve spoken to our people here, and they think that a breast cancer protest rally got ten mil’ from Mister Beesely and associates. They were persuaded to bare their breasts right in front of Parliament, sir.’
‘Well, that’s … rather odd. What else?’
‘We’ve been intercepting traffic for the last twenty hours. Their SAS Regiment had three truckloads of assorted … things. Gifts, sir.’
‘Gifts?’ Stanton repeated.
‘Things like quad bikes, clothes, binoculars, fishing rods.’
Stanton paused. ‘Oh.’
‘He’s made contact with Mossad and the local CIA, no mention of The Lodge, they don’t know about him.’
‘I’m starting to wonder if he’s going a bit senile. Ask for a distance psych’ evaluation on the available data, plus history,’ Stanton ordered.
‘Yessir. You know he offered the local CIA money towards unauthorised ops?’
‘Ah, now he’s starting to make some sense. Method in his madness, quite clever really.’
‘Sir?’
‘Observe, Mr Grey, observe. Just remember who he is.’
4
After an hour-long ‘power nap’ Beesely was refreshed, the old grandfather clock in the hall chiming out six o’clock. He had changed his clothes, freshened up and was ready to start again.
Johno and Max sat by the lake on fold-down aluminium chairs, several empty beer cans littering the grass, some floating on the lake. Beesely found Otto staring out of the main dining room window towards the lake, hands clasped behind his back. Otto had heard Beesely’s approach, and half turned his head, but remained where he stood as Beesely joined him.
Otto sighed. ‘He does not take life seriously.’
Beesely peered through the glass, taking a moment to think. ‘Johno had a difficult childhood, finding a purpose and some respect in the Army. The lifestyle, the discipline and the adventure suited him. He excelled ... and it made me proud to observe his progress. It was a little nerve wracking when he landed on the Falklands, and again when he joined the SAS like his old man. But if he knew what his real father was up to then it would have been him doing all of the worrying.
‘He was torn to pieces in Kosovo, shot seven times. They left him for dead, but the stubborn bastard crawled away, plugged up some of the holes and got his radio working, fixing his position by co-ordinates and the name of the village he was near. The rest you know - how Ricky rescued him.
‘His fitness has never returned … and he is getting older. Smashed bones, torn ligaments - things of that nature never really heal. He feels a great deal of pain each day, but never mentions it.’
‘Our doctors in Switzerland can probably help - they are very good. When we go I shall arrange examinations for you all, no expense spared,’ Otto enthusiastically offered.
Beesely nodded as he thought, then took a breath. ‘You may help his body, his mind is another thing altogether. He does not take life too seriously because that’s the best way for dealing with being shot up and left to die in the mud. I think they call it Post Traumatic Stress Disorder these days. When I was a lad it was called Shell Shock.’
‘Your father was in the World War One.’
‘Yes, the First World War,’ Beesely corrected, carefully pronouncing the words.
‘I am with the Swiss Reserve, on the books, as you say. All young men have to do it, six months. After this, two weeks’ camp a year in the summer, two weeks’ winter training. Gunter was keen for me to be involved, he often complained that I was not so strong.’
‘Tell me about these … executions?’ Beesely delicately nudged.
‘Gunter killed many people. I do not know how many, perhaps fifty, perhaps two hundred. Some were business competitors, some were people he had dealings with in the Wehrmacht. About fifteen years ago he became the owner of a group of factories in Italy and he had problems with the Mafia. They are very different cultures, Swiss and Mafia.’
Beesely’s eyes widened. ‘Very different indeed!’
‘So there were some problems. At first Gunter offered them some money, but they always wanted more.’
Beesely glanced out of the window. ‘People like that always want more.’
‘One year they killed a factory manager, a German man with a family who was known to Gunter. So Gunter killed the local Mafia representative, a union manager. At first the Mafia believed it was a local problem, but after they asked again for money, two more Mafia men were killed. Then they sent several Mafia men to Switzerland; it was not a good idea. Gunter had them all killed, and then he made a film of their bodies and sent the film to the Mafia and photos to the newspapers in Italy.
‘For six months there was no problem, then a Mafia man became close to Gunter, close enough to shoot a rifle and miss. Gunter found the man and tortured him tied to a chair, the torture taking many days. They kept this man alive and they made a film of his torture and his death. This film Gunter sent to the Mafia.
‘The Mafia were not so intelligent, I think. They sent another two men, one after the other. They both ‘got the chair’ in the same style. After this, the factory was burnt down by the Mafia, but no more Mafia men came from this family.
‘Gunter liked the torture, and used it for business people who he had the problems with. It became very effective. Some groups would not go to Switzerland, some groups were very respectful towards Gunter and K2. Also it was a signal to his staff, that if they betrayed him they would get the chair.’
Beesely raised his eyebrows in a look of mock horror. ‘I bet loyalty has not been a problem!’
‘No, but not only for this reason. My staff know that they will be treated well for life, but if they betray me they will be found wherever they go in the world. But I do not wish my staff to be afraid of me.’
‘In the game we’re in there needs to be respect and fear. We deal with killers every day. We … can not afford to be weak.’
Otto nodded as he considered Beesely’s words. ‘For many years, when Gunter started to become unwell, I moved staff into higher places if they were more loyal to me than to him. All believed I was his son, so I would say to people ‘he will not live much longer, then I am boss’ and people would respect this, do what I said. I also identified twenty people who were of Jewish parents; no one Jewish was allowed in the organization by Gunter.’
‘Not that there are many Jews in Switzerland,’ Beesely suggested. ‘What, fifteen thousand in the whole country, most around the Zurich canton?’
Otto seemed surprised by Beesely’s knowledge, his expression and slight head tip suggesting he agreed with Beesely’s estimate. ‘The managers I selected hid the fact that one parent or grandparent had been Jewish, which is common in Switzerland. I contacted them and told them the truth about me. We have a … secret society, inside K2. Many of the current managers inside K2 are from this group, loyal to me.’
‘And your driver?’
‘He has this problem, a Jewish grandmother. If it was known he could not work in bank security.’
‘Ever suspected any Mossad infiltration?’ Beesely asked.
‘No, I think the staff would say, since we all had this secret.’
‘And when Gunter died, his will?’ Beesely probed.
‘I told the managers that the will mentioned the fact that I was not his biological son. They were shocked. So we destroyed the will and started to look for the closest relative; the managers responsible for this task were all f
rom my inner group. One manager seemed uncertain, a man not from my group, so he was sent to run casino security in the south of France. After three months he had a small accident.’
‘And what would the Swiss Government do if it knew about the inner Jewish group?’ Beesely asked.
‘The Federal Swiss Government is trying, on the surface at least, to be less … anti-Jewish.’
‘Anti-Semitic,’ Beesely corrected. ‘I understand that before 1874 no Jews were allowed to enter the country.’ Otto agreed. ‘And only thirty thousand allowed in at the start of the war, before they closed the borders and turned them back?’ Again Otto agreed. Beesely was about to walk off when he stopped and paused, turning back to face Otto. ‘You have said nothing of the noises you must have heard during the night.’
Otto took a moment to think. ‘I … understand.’
‘With all due respect, Otto, I doubt you fully understand what pain both Johno and Jane have gone through in their lives. You are joining quite a dysfunctional family. We make Johno’s favourite cartoon family, those … Simpsons, look quite normal.’
A car pulled up on the gravel, observed by Beesely and Otto. ‘We will have to check if we have enough milk,’ he muttered as they stepped outside to greet their guest.
The driver jumped out of a Silver Mercedes, glancing at the house before opening the back door. The man clambering awkwardly out of the rear appeared to Otto to be in his late sixties, overweight and tall - well over six foot; getting out of the vehicle had been a struggle. The guest straightened himself, putting on his jacket, taking in the house and grounds for a moment before stepping forwards. The two pairs of men walked towards each other across the gravel, as if cowboys squaring off for a gunfight.
‘Mr Beesely.’
‘Mr Short.’
‘Thought you sold this place.’
‘We did, kind of equity release deal. I still get to live here.’
The guest seemed mildly disgusted, not impressed at all. Then two guards with dogs came into view near the woods, another two with dogs on the far side of the lake, two more shutting the gate behind them.
‘Expensive security,’ Mr Short noted.
‘Tax deductible.’
‘Tax deductible?’ Short puzzled.
‘Company men.’
The very tall Mr Short took a long look around; cameras on the house, infrared. ‘What company are you keeping these days?’
‘We could stand here all day exchanging pleasantries. Why don’t we go in and sit down, have a nice cuppa, or something stronger if you prefer.’
Short walked forwards. ‘Your deal, you called this meeting.’
They walked slowly inside. Two more guards stood next to the stairs, carefully studied by Short as he entered the main room. Johno stood with his jacket off, holster on.
‘Mr John Williams. Still alive and well?’
Joh
no shrugged his shoulders. ‘Can’t complain.’
‘That’s not what I’ve heard about you.’
Johno offered the back of Short’s head a quick glare and a curled lip as the visitor passed him.
Short sat down and helped himself to a biscuit. He felt the temperature of the teapot then helped himself to a cup as the others sat. ‘So, old Mr Sir Morris Beesely,’ Short began in patronising tones. ‘What is it that you wished to discuss, exactly? I’m a busy man!’
Otto stood up, as planned, to start the amateur dramatics. But as Beesely listened, he became certain that Otto was not acting at all. ‘I do not know what your business relationship is with Sir Morris, Mr Short, but I do not appreciate your attitude, neither do I conduct business in this tone and manner.’
Short seemed distinctly unimpressed by the speech. ‘What are you, Dutch?’
‘Swiss. I am a senior official in K2.’
Johno hid a smile.
Mr Short’s face now betrayed the fact that he had heard of K2, and was aware what they did to people they did not like. He slowly lowered his tea, missing the saucer and placing it onto the table.
Beesely led Otto by the arm, back into his seat. ‘Gentlemen, no one ever benefits in business from conflict. We are all sensible people, we all have wants and needs and desires. We have things to sell, and things we need to buy. That is the art of negotiation.’
Short sat nodding in agreement with Beesely, clearly terrified. ‘What is it that my company can do for you?’
Beesely smiled inwardly, Short now diverting any implied threats from him personally, and towards his company. ‘You are well placed in the international secure parcel industry, Mr Short, and our research suggests that you are good at what you do. You run a tight ship, you keep a single-minded stranglehold on your staff - especially your junior directors, and you are… discreet in your dealings with many and varied groups. In a nutshell, Mr Short, you are an aggressive, secretive, criminally minded player who seems to be going places. And we like that. We’d like you on our team.’
Short’s demeanour suddenly took a U-turn in the road and put its foot on the gas. ‘Oh, right.’
Beesely continued, ‘And there are distinct advantages to having friends like us.’
‘Yes, there are,’ Short confirmed, now regaining a lot of his composure. ‘But what are you looking for from me? You want items moved around the world?’
‘My good fellow, everyone wants items moved around the world,’ Beesely explained. ‘Especially us!’
‘Then I’m your man.’
So, it’s back from his company, now all about him, Beesely considered.
‘Before we go any further, Mr Short, are there any problems or impediments to your current growth … anything that we might be able to help you with?’
Short gave it some thought, now happy enough to help himself to another biscuit. ‘Well,’ he began, spilling some crumbs onto the table. ‘I’ve been watching one of my junior directors lately. I suspect he’s going to split off and set up in competition against me.’
‘Oh dear, that just won’t do. His name?’
‘Robinson, bit of a fag. Lives in Wimbledon.’
Beesely turned his head to Otto, who produced his phone.
‘This is Otto. British man, name Robinson, junior director of Secure Transit Limited, Holborn, London. Robinson lives in a place called Wimbledon. Arrange for cash to be found at his house and details of multiple bank accounts, Cayman Islands, notify tax authorities. Arrange for documents relating to insider share dealings to be found also. He must become a disqualified director within the next month.’
Mr Short was mildly stunned. ‘What … just like that?’
‘Just like that,’ Beesely confirmed, nudging the biscuit tin forwards. ‘Have another biscuit.’
As Mr Short used the bathroom, Otto produced a thick wad of fifties and handed it to Beesely. After smelling the wad, Beesely banged the table with it before chucking it to Short’s driver.
The man caught it and pocketed it quickly. ‘Always nice doing business with you, Sir Morris.’
‘Stay in touch,’ Beesely quietly ordered. ‘I want to know what that fat slob is up to, step by step.’ The man gave a quick affirmative nod.
When Short returned, Otto presented him with a million pound cheque, for just fifteen percent of the shares in his business. After a ten-minute stroll with Beesely, the visitor bounded to his car with vigour and enthusiasm.
‘Now that’s how you do business,’ he told his driver as they set off. ‘You could learn a lot from me.’
‘Aye, sir,’ the driver smiled.
Beesely turned from the window to Otto. ‘That fellow, Robinson, when he gets caught, let him know that it was our friend Mr Short that stitched him up, and then recruit him for future endeavours.’
Otto approved of the idea.
As Short’s car joined the main road, just beyond the village, a man in a coffee shop noted the number plate and recognised the face. He dialled a number in Virginia, USA, as he stepped out.
5
O
tto clinked glasses with Beesely. ‘It has been an interesting few days, very busy. You are well?’
‘Never felt better, got the blood pumping.’
‘Each meeting these past days was staged quite differently.’
‘Did you learn anything useful?’ Beesely asked.
‘I hope so. I have taken notes and we have the camera footage. I will study it. How you do business, it is very different from us Swiss.’
‘Of course it is, my boy. Salesmanship - one size does not fit all!’ Otto seemed puzzled. Beesely explained, ‘When I was ten years old, a shoe salesman came and sat on my friend’s garden wall in the village, not far from here. In those days a door-to-door shoe salesman was not so uncommon. He did not look well and asked me for a glass of water, which I fetched. As he sat there, he said he had something important to tell me. What I did not realise was that he was having a heart attack. Well, you don’t when you’re ten years old.
‘So he started to try and tell me, for reasons best known to himself, how to be a good shoe salesman. He told me all about how to assess the person and their house and garden before attempting to sell the shoes. I remember his favourite trick was always to pretend he had an appointment … and that this must be the wrong house, getting the sympathy of the householder. Then he would comment on their garden, their house, always looking for something unusual before he ever attempted to sell any shoes.
‘Sturdy shoes for the working man, handsome shoes for the teenage daughter, practical shoes for the mother. He had the situation sized up before he ever spoke about the shoes themselves. The longer he talked about gardens, the longer he had to make an assessment of the family - and their needs. If the family had new shoes, he would walk off to find that wrong house. If the household’s car looked clean, but their shoes looked old, he would talk about style. It was all about selling to that person what the person needed, and often without them knowing about it.
‘He died on that wall, falling off and into my friend’s vegetable patch. I have often wondered if he knew he was dying, and why he tried to impart that knowledge to me. You see, it was the only thing of value he had, and at the end I guess it made him feel … proud of his life in some way. His last words were, one size does not fit all!’
‘You know, I remember now, I had a strange notion at ten that you had to bury people where they fell. Got it from some old cowboy movie I think, people falling dead off horses in the desert and being buried where they fell. Anyway, when I realised he was dead I went and fetched a shovel, just as the village constable arrived. When asked what the shovel was for I replied that I was planning on burying him in the vegetable patch before the vultures got him. Still remember the look on the constable’s face.’