K2 book 1 Page 3

Not a pleasant way to die

  1

  With his shoes squeaking on the recently polished floor, George Willis, assistant to the new director of MI6, approached an isolated office in the basement of the MOD, Central London. He knocked on the glass door and entered without waiting.

  ‘Willis?’ The sole occupant squinted over the rims of his glasses in unwelcome recognition of the younger visitor, the occupier half buried in files. The disgruntled employee, fifty-five at his last birthday, sat wearing new red braces over an off-white shirt hiding a slight frame. His grey hair grew thin, his cheeks thinner. After a moment’s thought he jabbed towards the kettle with his pen, a firm hint. ‘Kettle has boiled.’

  Willis sniffed. ‘What’s in the kettle, Toby? Scotch?’ he asked with a knowing grin as he took a seat.

  Toby stared back for several seconds. ‘It’s the cleaner they use for the lino on the floor, it smells terrible,’ he stated. He threw down his pen, eased back and took a big breath. ‘So what brings you down to purgatory?’

  ‘Well, you’re really, really old, and rumoured to be a really sneaky shit.’

  Toby forced up his eyebrows in theatrical surprise. ‘Compliments already, you must be after something.’ He folded his arms.

  Willis eased back and crossed his legs. ‘Sir Morris Beesely.’

  Toby allowed himself a thin smile, an old memory surfacing. ‘That name takes me back to the good old days; long lunches, fiddling your expenses, being politically incorrect, genuine enemies to spy on. He was old school, proper spy. Knew Ian Fleming they said.’

  ‘What’s he like?’

  Toby frowned in surprise. ‘Beesely? God, is he still alive?’ he asked as he poured out two small drinks.

  ‘Yes, apparently. Someone lifted his old personnel files, so Madam will not be pleased. That is, of course, if I tell her.’

  ‘Ah yes, the new lady of the manor, Dame Helen Eddington-Small. How long now, three weeks in the hot seat?’

  Willis nodded. ‘She’s not one of the boys, but better at her job than –’

  ‘Certain age-ed gentlemen,’ Toby finished off without looking up.

  ‘So what about this Beesely character?’ Willis pressed.

  Toby curled a lip as he thought back to his early career. ‘He was quite the lad. Excellent at his job, don’t get me wrong, but always managed to get into trouble and, strangely enough, he always managed to get away with it.’ He lifted his head, staring out of focus. ‘Bit of a ladies’ man if I recall, even in later life.’ He focused on Willis. ‘Anyway, they never managed to make anything stick. Not even that Kosovo thing.’

  ‘Kosovo?’ Willis challenged. ‘That would have been well after he retired.’

  ‘AGN Security Limited,’ Toby whispered, glancing around the small office, despite the fact that they were the only occupants.

  ‘I know the outfit. What about them?’

  ‘They’re heaped full of ex-SAS muddy-boot-wearing types. Unofficial recruiting ground for your more energetic field agents... when the lads are short of money, of course.’

  ‘So what’s the connection?’ Willis asked, hiding a smile.

  Again, Toby curled his lip, giving a slight shrug. ‘Beesely used to own it, may still do. Madam’s illustrious predecessors used to sub-contract the odd job to AGN - plausible deniability. But I had heard he retired from all that long ago.’

  ‘Got a photo?’

  ‘Why, lost his file?’ Toby pointedly enquired.

  Willis heaved a sigh. ‘Photo?’ he pressed.

  ‘Only in my mind,’ Toby mouthed in an exaggerated fashion. ‘Five ten, thin, bit of a stoop, walks quickly.’ He shrugged, grimacing. ‘Bald, thin face. Looks like someone of his age, I suppose. Saw him last year - well, maybe five years ago - at a reunion bash somewhere. Can’t remember where, so it must have been a good one. Still sharp as a tack, mind you. He remembered me, and all my … misdemeanours.’

  ‘Didn’t catch you drinking on the job, did he?’ Willis took a sip and winced. ‘So what’s this Kosovo thing you mentioned?’ he coughed out.

  Toby grinned at his visitor’s discomfort. ‘It happened during the early days of the conflict, when I had a desk with a window. Beesely sent recon’ teams in under the radar. Some got themselves caught, but the powers that be wouldn’t send a rescue after them, so he funded one himself. He rescued some ex-SAS trooper by sending in some other ex-SAS trooper. It’s quite the after-dinner story in some circles.’ Willis’s expression suggested they had the time. Toby reluctantly continued, ‘Well, this one ex-SAS guy, a freelancer for Madam’s predecessors, Ricky something if I recall, he went in after Johno. That’s Beesely’s driver now, by the way, saw him at the reunion.’

  Willis eased his face forward. ‘His driver?’

  ‘Back then this Johno fellow was a freelancer for your lot. He went into Bosnia a few times, apparently successfully blowing things up. Whatever. Anyway, he went into Kosovo to blow up some ammo’ dump. Parachuted in, walked twenty miles and made a nice big bang.’

  Willis offered a look of mock surprise.

  ‘I told you, quite the after-dinner story. Anyway, on the way out he ran into a battalion of Serb regulars. They put five, ten or twenty rounds into him - depends on how drunk you are by this point in the story. Left him for dead.’

  ‘What happened?’

  Toby studied the inside of his glass. ‘He performed first aid on himself apparently, stitches and everything, radioed-in his position. Powers that be decided against a rescue.’ He sighed. ‘Bravo Two Zero all over again.’

  Willis hid a grin. ‘So how did he get out?’

  Toby raised a finger and smiled coyly. ‘Beesely organized the rescue, that guy Ricky plus some Kosovan Albanian resistance fighter. Not only did your lot not help, they threatened Beesely. He sent a rescue anyway, all organised in just a day apparently. This Ricky was some big deal agent. He walked across the border, found Johno, and carried him out.’

  ‘Carried him?’

  ‘On his back, apparently, so the story goes; thirty miles to the border, dodging the Serbs. Some say Ricky carried him for three days without sleep. Who knows? Anyway, they had to shoot their way out, American helicopter picking them up on the Macedonian border.’

  ‘Why on earth would the Americans pick them up, especially if AGN sent them in, a civilian outfit? And a Brit’ firm at that!’

  ‘Big … mystery.’ Toby mouthed the words carefully, again glancing around the room. ‘Another rumour about Beesely – he was always very friendly with the Americans. Anyway, rest is sketchy, rumours of this pair landing on a Yank aircraft carrier, stitched up and flown to Italy and another Yank hospital before turning up back here. His driver, this man Johno, he spent a year in rehab.’

  ‘What does this … Johno look like?’

  Toby ran a forefinger and thumb from below his nose, edging his mouth, and squarely down to his chin. ‘Old school trooper moustache – Mexican bandit - long sideburns, crew cut on top. Stocky, five ten. Wouldn’t want to nudge his elbow in a bar, dangerous eyes. Spoke to him at that function, or the one before.’ Toby curled a lip. ‘He drinks a lot, very sarcastic and negative.’ Willis raised an eyebrow and suppressed a smile as Toby poured himself another drink. Toby continued, ‘Big enquiry by your lot as to how that pair got out. Anyway, they arrested him, Beesely that is. Next thing we know all - charges dropped. I told you, he always got away with it. Maybe the Queen helped.’

  Willis uncrossed his legs and straightened. ‘The Queen?’

  ‘Strange trivia fact; she and Beesely met up once or twice a year, every year, for sixty years. They have, apparently, known each other since 1944.’

  ‘Well,’ he said as he stood. ‘I’ll be leaving with more questions than I came in with.’

  ‘Enlightenment is what I’m here for.’

  ‘That guy Ricky, he was working for Beesely’s firm at the time, AGN?’

  Toby formed a thin, humourless smile. ‘Nope, he was on your books. He and Bee
sely knew each other through Trooper Snoopers.’

  Willis tipped his head. ‘Trooper … Snoopers?’

  Toby glanced around the empty room. ‘That unit that isn’t supposed to exist. They draw officers and men from all services, just for a year or two.’

  ‘To do what?’

  ‘Check up on ex-servicemen after retirement, former officers from delicate positions, to see that they’re not writing their memoirs or married to a Russian ballerina named Olga. They also spy on ex-SAS troopers, see what they are up to. Mostly SIB flatfoots, and some of your lot.’

  ‘I don’t think I’ve ever heard of it.’

  ‘Like I said, it isn’t supposed to exist,’ he said with a smirk, ‘but I see the funding!’ He tapped the files in front of him. ‘Beesely was involved on and off for twenty years, so I’ve heard, even after he left regular work.’

  ‘Ah … the fog is lifting a bit.’ Willis stepped to the door, turned and shrugged one shoulder. ‘See you at Christmas then, I suppose?’

  Toby stared. ‘How many uncles do you have?’

  2

  ‘What’s up, Doc?’ Johno asked.

  The grey-haired psychiatrist rolled his eyes, gesturing John ‘Johno’ Williams towards a seat, the roar of London traffic a dull drone in the background. This was Johno’s regular monthly session, the psychiatrist’s offices on the second floor of a drab building off the Tottenham Court Road, central London.

  Johno picked up a pink squeeze-ball and slouched down. ‘It all started when I was a schoolboy,’ he said with mock seriousness. ‘Teacher touched me up.’

  ‘Did he?’ Doctor Manning probed as he settled himself, finally facing his patient.

  ‘Hah! That would give you something to scribble down.’ Johno sat upright. ‘Anyway, why don’t you scribble down stuff any more? You used to.’ He ran a hand down his bushy moustache.

  ‘I gave up on you long ago, you know that,’ Manning dryly stated.

  ‘Broke you, I did.’

  ‘You certainly gave me a run for your money.’

  ‘Beesely’s money, waste that it is,’ Johno retorted as he glanced out of the window.

  ‘Do you think your time here has been wasted?’ Manning posed, easing back and now holding his pen between both hands.

  ‘Ah, the serious pen stance,’ Johno teased. Suddenly self-conscious, Manning put the pen down. Johno tossed him the squeeze-ball. ‘Try that, you look stressed. I have that effect on people.’

  ‘I must admit, Johno, you are a … perplexing character.’ Manning placed down the ball, interlacing his fingers.

  ‘Me? Nah, two dimensional me.’

  ‘Hardly. You’re far more complicated than most give you credit for.’

  Johno squinted. ‘Most?’

  ‘I assist a lot of soldiers, some know you.’

  ‘And you discuss me?’

  ‘Not directly, but some are former SAS, and they recall experiences ... and people. You crop up a lot actually. And I use your ... experience as an example.’

  ‘Do I get a commission?’

  Dr Manning could not hold in the smile. ‘So, Johno, how have you been?’

  ‘Up and down, not enough side to side. Usual. Still drinking too much, bad dreams, leg hurts. Can I go now?’

  Manning lifted his hands, offering two open palms. ‘No one is forcing you to come here –’

  ‘Not quite true, Doc. Beesely gives me money for the hotel and … expenses, so I go lap dancing, burn up a few weeks’ pay. I’d come here every frigging week if he paid.’

  Manning let out a breath. ‘Well, it’s nice to know there’s no ulterior motive for you attending these sessions.’

  ‘So, what did you want to discuss this month, Doc?’ Johno asked with a wry smile.

  ‘What would you like to discuss?’

  Johno sighed. ‘How many times have you asked that?’ He waited. ‘And how many times have you got a straight answer?’

  ‘It’s a requirement. It’s what they teach us shrinks on day one at shrink school.’

  Johno laughed. ‘See, isn’t this more fun when we take the piss out of each other?’

  ‘Well, I would actually like to earn my pay.’

  Johno adopted his best attempt at a serious expression, resting an elbow on the chair arm. ‘I feel cured. Just tell me where to sign and I’ll let you off the hook. Is there a standard form? Patient self-cert’ of sanity?’

  ‘If only it was that simple. So, how have you been, Johno?’ Manning pressed.

  ‘Fine.’ Johno took a big breath, becoming genuinely serious. ‘I’m forty-six in a few months. I can’t run too well because of the knee, I shag prostitutes because I don’t want any women to see the scars, and I can’t spend the night with anyone because of the shouting nightmares. So I get hammered quickly, just before bedtime. Bad for my health I know, but simple.’

  Manning studied him. ‘And you seem to accept it.’

  Johno gave it some thought, shrugging. ‘What else should I do? Make you happy and get all morbid and moody, fit neatly into one of your psycho-models? Look, Doc, my head isn’t injured, my body is. If someone loses a leg they get a plastic one. I got some scars, so no swimming in the public pool. Simple. I dream fucked-up scary stuff, so I drink. Simple … and practical.’

  ‘Quite practical. You seem to see all your problems as just that, problems to be solved in the real world.’

  Johno offered Manning a teasing grin. ‘As opposed to the Twilight Zone that some of your patients visit?’

  Dr Manning sighed. ‘No, the real world out here, not in the sub-conscious mind, which is where I spend most of my time.’

  ‘Is it dark? Do you, like, take a torch?’

  Manning sighed again, long and hard. ‘Where did I put that “cured” rubber stamp?’

  ‘With the rubber mallet for difficult patients?’

  ‘So,’ Manning started again, a big breath taken in and let out, ‘how’s Beesely these days?’

  ‘Doing better than me. He’s still sharp as a tack, and in better health. Eighty now –’

  ‘Seventy-nine. Eighty in three months,’ Manning corrected.

  Johno stared at the floor. ‘Remind me closer to the time, always forgetting his bloody birthday.’

  ‘Did he … appreciate the lap-dancers you got him last year?’

  ‘Nah, he let me enjoy myself. But you and I both know he lives his life through my eyes.’

  ‘Quite an insightful observation,’ Manning said, his eyes narrowing as he focused on Johno.

  ‘Why else would he keep me on? He doesn’t need a bodyguard, and he can still drive himself, just about.’ Johno shrugged again, glancing out of the window at the bustling London thoroughfare below.

  ‘Maybe he has just gotten used to you, and all your annoying habits.’

  ‘Maybe he’s just afraid of burglars,’ Johno quickly retorted.

  ‘I don’t think Mr Beesely is afraid of anything.’

  Johno squinted, focusing on the psychiatrist. ‘You and he go way back.’

  ‘A long time, yes. Perhaps thirty years. I was retained by MI6, sorry … SIS these days, working with agents returning from imprisonment abroad.’

  Johno winced. ‘That must be tough, twenty years in a fucking Siberian Gulag.’

  Manning nodded, alone with his thoughts for moment. ‘Some had great difficulty adjusting.’

  ‘So I’m lucky, still functioning up top, all right as rain.’

  Manning again hid a smile. ‘How’s Beesely’s housekeeper, Jane, these days?’

  Johno tipped his head and studied the psychiatrist. ‘As far as I remember … that’s the first time you’ve ever asked.’

  ‘You all live together, so she must play a part in your life. You admitted before to treating her like a younger sister.’

  ‘And see where that got me! You talking about family for a whole year, twelve sessions in a bleeding row.’

  ‘So, how is she?’ Manning pressed.

  Johno glanc
ed out the window. ‘Same as ever, just as fucked up as me. Anorexic, cries in her sleep, doesn’t leave the house or Beesely’s side. Like a ten year old.’

  ‘You sound … harsh, and yet you were almost jailed two or three times looking out for her?’

  Johno made a face. ‘When I first started working for old man Beesely he ordered me to protect her, you know, part of the job. He also told me not to show any interest in her. Fat chance of that, no pun intended, she’s a walking skeleton.’ He turned away again.

  ‘There is a difference between protecting someone, and chasing a bag snatcher then beating him to a pulp.’

  Johno focused on Dr Manning. ‘That’s my anger issue, as we labelled up years ago, not about … her.’

  ‘Are you sure? Are you sure that you don’t actually feel better about yourself … when you look out for others, especially a frail and anorexic woman?’

  ‘I’ve never wanted a puppy, Doc, so no,’ Johno stated in dismissive tones.

  Manning sighed. ‘I must be keeping you from some young lady with large breasts and colourful tattoos.’

  Johno stood, a beaming false smile. ‘Pleasure, Doc. As always.’ On the street, he lifted his mobile and dialled. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hello?’ came a woman’s voice.

  ‘Who’s that?’ Johno asked.

  ‘Who am I? This is the Alzheimer’s Association. How may I help you?’

  ‘Why are you ringing me?’ Johno enquired, a smile creased into one cheek.

  ‘Uh … you rang us, sir.’

  ‘Did 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. Johno’s path was suddenly blocked by a man in a suit stood with his hands on his hips.

  ‘Still ringing the Alzheimer’s Association?’ a familiar voice asked.

  Startled in his recognition of the man, Johno stared, his mouth opening. ‘General Sir Christopher Rose. Well I’ll be buggered.’

  ‘Need a word. Private word. Get in the car.’ A car door opened from within by a passenger, a smile for Johno.

  ‘Sir?’ Johno said, bent double and facing the passenger, lost for other words as he recognised the second man. A firm nudge on the shoulder, and Johno eased in. ‘My mum told me never to get in cars with strange men.’

  The General eased into the front passenger seat, the car immediately pulling off. ‘I think, Johno, that mothers tell their daughters that with you in mind.’

  ‘You may be right. Long time, General. Were you, you know, old, wrinkly and bald the last time we met?’

  The passenger tried to suppress his smile. General Rose glanced over his shoulder, a hard glare offered, but said nothing.