Tight Lies Page 3

  ‘Thank you for the insightful synopsis as ever Andy,’ Derek responded coldly. ‘Forgive me that I don’t share in your unfounded ebullience but my consternation is simply thus. I’m due to meet Boris Golich at sixteen hundred hours today. However rich and powerful he may be and with whomever he may now be friends, the man is purported to have a rather unsavoury past. I’m not really sure that the British Government should be working with him at all. Job creation or not I’m afraid.’

  ‘Not your concern, pal. BP has agreed terms. We’re shutting out the Americans on this one. The Prime Minister has ratified it. It is as they say…’ he paused for dramatic effect, inhaled, then exhaling as he spoke his punch line, ‘…a done deal.’ The ‘A’ was pronounced ‘hay’. Derek shuddered.

  ‘Then what do you need me for, pray tell? Surely I don’t need to be dragged into this viper’s nest at all if everybody is seemingly so keen to work with this gangster?’

  ‘Do as you’re told, Hemmings. Your department is there to dot the I’s and cross the T’s. Can you manage that, son? Don’t fuck it up this time and do not come back without a signed agreement. I hope that’s clear.’

  ‘All I’m saying is that it would be illegal and in contravention of our manifold international trade and energy undertakings, to say the least, for Great Britain to enter into a long term and far reaching commercial partnership with a criminal organisation. This relationship requires pipelines to be laid across several international borders. The geopolitical implications will be huge and could place global trade relations at significant risk.’

  ‘Criminal organisation?’ spat Andy. ‘Show me some proof of that then pal. There is nothing criminal about Rublex and you know it. They might be an aggressive high-growth corporation but that’s no crime. And they have capital to invest with the UK. That’s been a fucking rarity in recent times. You do remember the fucking recession, don’t you? Do you remember the sodding Brexit farce? Besides, the Americans had their chance to partner in the exploration on the Falklands with us and they wouldn’t put their money where their mouth is. Without developing that territory for all its rich natural fossil energy, Maggie’s war would have been in vain. Tumbledown would never have happened, Hemmings. We should have left it to the bloody Argentinians if we followed your view of the world. Is that what you would have wanted?’ A rhetorical question. He continued unabated. ’You’re pathetic. Rublex Corporation is our only option to make this deal happen and deliver economic growth to Britain. If we don’t take this opportunity, the Chinese will step in to finance the deal with Rublex, who have now acquired the exploration rights in the international waters. That will leave Britain out in the cold.’ Derek squirmed in his seat, shifting from buttock to buttock. ‘They will build an offshore infrastructure platform to house thousands of Argentinian workers, instead of Brits, and enjoy the proceeds of what is rightfully ours. I’m sure you find all that just fine and dandy, don’t you Hemmings?’

  ‘It’s a fine argument in the grand scheme of things’ he conceded ‘but I’m still uncomfortable, Andy.’

  The abrasive Scot sensed the older man’s resolve weakening. He decided to change tack, display some contrition. ‘Listen Derek, we both know what these things are like, don’t we? Both of our departments need to work together on this one. For Christ’s sake, we all need a big win, you know that. Some good news to put out in the media for once is much called for. You play golf don’t you pal? What’s your handicap playing off these days?’ He swished a pen through the air for his own amusement, pleased with himself for his new line of approach on the phone. ‘Well, Rublex sponsors the European Tour now. Those guys are squeaky clean. They are a trusted corporate brand right across Europe and all over the world. Boris Golich has invested millions in the game personally. What gangster have you ever come across now that plays golf? It’s a gentleman’s game, Derek. I should bloody know, it was us Scots who invented it. When you meet, just talk to him about birdies or ostriches or eagles or whatever you lot are into.’

  Derek hung up and looked gloomily out of the window. He watched a child in brightly coloured Wellington boots stamping gleefully in the rain puddles below. He’d seemingly risen as far as he could in the Department, with the appointment of Senior Executive Officer his last just over five years ago. His retirement was planned for seven months-time at the end of the year. His forty-third year in service of Queen and Country, an honour he had taken most seriously for the main part of his adult life. Of course, for some time now, he’d noticed the rise of a younger, more aggressive breed of political animal superseding him. Career politicians and slick, ambitious civil servants drunk on power and hungry for success. Less concerned it seemed with the responsibility of long term judicious governance but led moreover by avarice for political headlines and personal glory. He lacked the energy and bite anymore to stand up to the Andy Batholomews of this job. Quite simply, Derek was weary of the posturing, the personal positioning and one-upmanship that came with the brief.

  Chapter 4

  USA. LOS ANGELES. LAX AIRPORT. 1600 HRS / EUROPEAN TOUR: DAY FIVE.

  Two days and a hangover from hell later, I sat in a sports bar at LAX waiting for my flight back to Europe. Hunched over a frothy glass of beer and a roast beef sandwich cursing my aching joints. My phone buzzed. I opened the text to find an encrypted message flashing for urgent attention. I grimaced. Complexity was the Hand of God’s chosen method of communication. Frowning, I jotted the letters and numbers of the code down on a beer mat in front of me and duly added the sum of my birth date to the total numbers, then multiplying it to the letters of the code which were assigned a numerical value by their position in the alphabet. There was a reason I never played Sudoku and this was it. I found using code an unnecessary and frustrating process. There had been times when I’d been simply too wasted to calculate the code out and respond in good time. I once got a girl lying next to me in bed to do the sums. I think it freaked her out a little for a one night stand. But Charles insisted on security at all times and if I wanted the number to the current secure phone this time then there was only one way of figuring it out.

  I headed to the back of the bar and punched the long number into the neglected payphone. Another of Hand’s frustrating rules: Never make contact on your mobile unless you absolutely have to. Charles answered on the second ring, his voice bright and polished. Imposing. Commanding.

  ‘Thomas, dear boy, I gather everything was a success.’ It wasn’t a question.

  ‘Yeah, all sorted and full payment on its way from Mr Rodriguez. Although I gotta say, in my opinion, I think Daddy is going to struggle keeping that little minx under control.’

  ‘Enough with the family psychoanalysis Hunter, that’s not your concern.’ And then after a beat he said gravely, ‘Now listen up Tom. We’ve got a problem I’m afraid’.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘A comrade, a gentleman I served alongside in the forces by the name of Bob Wallace, has been in touch. He believes there’s been a kidnapping or something worse in Spain. He’s got no proof but a sports agent has vanished, gone for two days and nights unaccounted for.’

  ‘Come on Charles, the bloke’s probably stopped out with some saucy senorita for the night and is getting the fuck of his young life. This is not our area. Besides you know after a job I like to kick back a little, take some time out. Get a little crazy.’

  ‘We need to act. The clock is ticking. Bob Wallace would not bother me unless this was critical. He mentioned that this chap had uncovered information regarding alleged fixing on the professional golf tour stored on a tablet. Sounds volatile. He will pay the Unit’s fees and your bonus for bringing the Target back alive himself, out of his share of a recent win bonus he earned from one of the golfers he coaches. I have of course agreed to discount our costs on account of our history in the Forces together.’ I pumped another few coins into the phone and picked at the peeling paint on the wall with my thumbnail.

  ‘Tom right now we’re in the golden
period.’ Hand continued, ‘You know as well as I that if we don’t get onto his trail within eighty hours of the snatch, then our chances of finding him again will be diminished by over a hundred and fifty per cent.’ I sighed, nodding resignedly to myself.

  ‘I want you on this now. Ella will send you the relevant mission information and full briefing notes to your phone in encrypted files. When you land, please liaise with Mickey to pick up fresh unmarked weaponry and ammunition on the ground, again Ella will send you the co-ordinates.’ I wrapped my knuckles against the metal box, seeing my next few weeks of planned partying evaporating before me.

  ‘Take this seriously Tom and make sure you bring this lad back. His life is now in our hands.’

  I hung up and scratched the stubble on my chin. The Rodriguez girl was the seventh job that we’d completed together as this discreet self-contained Unit available for private hire. We’d been put together by the Hand of God after his official retirement from the mob. He’d tracked me down in a Guatemalan squat two years before using crystal meth and too much dirty cocaine, between earning money from bare-knuckle fights and shaking down dealers for their ill-gotten gains. He found me in a world of pain, rock bottom, and once again he had to save me from myself. Now the system was strong. Charles found the jobs and negotiated the payments. Mickey, a tenacious, life-hardened cockney, worked ahead of us on the ground and set up vehicles, weaponry, communications— anything we needed to make a job run smooth. He was a tough little bastard, the best I’d ever worked with. If he said it would be there and your life depended on it, you would always bet on Mick.

  Another on the team was Phil Manning, a big affable guy, with a ready laugh and as reliable as they come. He was a dedicated family man, married for what seemed like forever to his childhood sweetheart Leanne and doting father to three little girls. He’d trained in the Marines. When he’d been injured in combat in Iraq, Leanne had insisted that he pack in the job. The Army was all Phil had known and he’d struggled to hold down a normal civilian job. Cash-strapped and needing to put food on the table, a mate had put him on the radar of Charles Hand. Kidnap rescue seemed like a compromise to Leanne. Phil could keep his sanity and she hoped it meant he wouldn’t be shot at day in day out, or so she thought. He was a solid man to have beside you in a firefight. We’d been teamed on a few jobs and our styles seemed to complement each other. I could kick in doors and crack some skulls whilst Phil had our backs.

  There were a few other guys, all ex-military and usually prior acquainted with the Hand of God’s maverick leadership style, who came in and out of the crew. Sadly, we’d lost some good men during the seven jobs that we’d taken on so far. It never worked out that easy.

  Then there was Ella, a bright and pretty brunette, whom Charles had enlisted as researcher and operations hub manager back at our London base. Rumours abounded that she had been completing a PhD in Military History when they met. Charles had been delivering a guest lecture on the effective strategies of guerrilla warfare. She was fascinated by him and by his battlefield and covert operations experience spanning every continent of the world. When he finally confided in her about the new private Unit and our ambitions, she was intrigued and determined to participate in any way which was welcome. Yes, Ella of the big brown eyes, those large heavy breasts, and a wickedly flirtatious smile. Regardless of how she had ended up with the team, she had certainly added a different dimension to the HQ.

  Of course, then there was me. Tom Hunter. The nothing to live for, the no job too dirty, self-abuse junkie, Tom Hunter. Who, it had been said, leaves a wanton trail of destruction wherever he goes. And a man for whom heavy violence and the darkness of killing come with unnerving delight.

  I stood over the phone and traced a lazy thumb down the tract of my scar; a subliminal habit to check it was still there, I guess. Perhaps to prevent it from ever properly healing. I reflected on the conversation. Charles Hand had brought me back from the dead at least three times. So far. I owed him everything and now he had made it clear that he needed me on this one. The call had been unequivocal. Forget about taking time off, a young man’s life was in the balance. Hunter was back in play.

  Chapter 5

  SPAIN. EUROPEAN TOUR. DAY ONE. 1500 HRS.

  An unrelenting sun beat down, burning though a canvas of azure sky. A solitary wisp of cloud flirted with the apex of the rugged sprawl of red mountains, providing a dramatic backdrop to the golf range. The only sound to be heard was the swish of metronomic golf swings and the pop of golf balls drilled across the range. Daniel exchanged a flash of his Tour access pass for a courteous nod from a smartly dressed, Spanish attendant who unclipped the white rope which divided the players and coaches on the range from spectators. It was perhaps the first time he’d been on the receiving end of this type of deference and Daniel greedily admitted that he could get used it. As he stepped onto the range his heart beat faster. He didn’t recognise anyone. Panic rose in his throat. He felt as if a massive searchlight was now trained directly on him, highlighting his every sound and movement. His mind drifted to the story recounted by Silvio of a spectator’s phone going off on the backswing of one of the more successful and famously bad tempered stalwarts during a competitive round. Said player had thrown his club to the ground, crossing the ropes to scream in the face of the unwitting spectator now fumbling frantically in his pocket trying to silence the hues of an absurdly inappropriate comedic ringtone. Needless to say, the guy didn’t take the call. Daniel checked his mobile was off for the fourth time.

  A line of immaculately dressed golfers each stood in their own space next to a stacked pyramid of clean new white balls. Huge golf bags emblazoned with their names in heavy stitching were set slightly behind. Some were striking balls alone in their own focused rhythm. Others worked with a coach who stood behind them, holding the shaft of the club at the top of their back swing, tweaking angles to reset by tiny margins. Some golfers were chatting away to their caddies, who industriously polished club heads or fished about inside the manifold deep pockets of their golf bags. Others refreshed themselves with cool drinks from one of a number of small well-stocked fridges that adorned the range. Daniel noted a couple of slick, well-groomed guys in reflective sunglasses pacing up and down behind the line of players. Sometimes squatting down and watching the swing, sometimes moving forward and having a quiet word in the ear of a player, sharing a joke, a touch of the arm. These guys were the real deal. Long-standing player agents and managers. Confident and natural with an overt hint of arrogance.

  ‘Jeppe’s swinging beautifully today, don’t ya think?’ came a broad Scottish brogue from behind him; delivered as a statement of fact. Daniel swung around to face a short stocky man in his late sixties, wearing a tatty navy blue flat cap and holding a thick hand-rolled cigarette between his teeth. ‘Ay, the kid’s in the groove for sure. I think he could be tough to beat this week, that one.’

  ‘Yeah, I think you might be right there actually,’ smiled Daniel. He had no idea which golfer was Jeppe and, following twenty minutes of deliberately intense and studied observation of the players on the range, he had noticed no discernible differences between the lot of them.

  ‘Mark my words, sonny. Jeppe’s the one to watch this week. My boy Stephen’s coming along too, got him releasing the club head nicely now after a fashion.’ He nodded down the line to the end of the range where a tall languid figure in yellow carefully set his knees and fixed a perfect acute angle between his spine and the back of his long legs.

  ‘You’re Stephen’s coach then?’ Daniel enquired deciding he needed to take risks in exposing his ignorance if he was ever going to learn anything. ‘Ay and I’ve worked with a bunch of the boys out here over the years. This is my twenty fourth year on the Tour and you could say I’ve seen most things come and go.’

  ‘That’s incredible,’ gushed Daniel. ‘You must have seen some changes over the years I bet.’

  ‘For sure, sonny. Just more assholes than ever,’ came the deadpan ret
ort. Daniel laughed a short, nervous rasp, uncertain if the old coach was even joking. ‘Really? Why’s that then?’

  ‘More money and distractions getting in the way of the game. Golf used to be the last bastion of fair play, I’m just not so sure anymore.’ And with that he threw the brownish yellow stub of his beleaguered cigarette onto the ground between them and shuffled slowly off towards the end of the range. Daniel considered that the stooping gait could be a deliberate coping mechanism against years of chronic back pain.

  Now his forearms were starting to burn from the unforgiving sun. He’d forgotten to wear sunscreen. He couldn’t find Aaron or François on the range and desperately wanted to meet with them before they began the first day of the event the next morning. Grabbing an ice cold bottle of water from the fridge at the back of the roped-off range area, he walked quickly and purposefully back through the ropes and headed for the clubhouse. At least he could try to look as if he knew where he was headed.

  It didn’t surprise Daniel when he found that the changing rooms of the clubhouse affixed to the hotel were nothing short of sumptuous. He didn’t really have a frame of reference to make a comparison but they were more luxurious than, say, any fancy bar he’d ever stepped foot in during his time at university. And they were a different scale altogether to the musty office of Mr Pembridge, managing director of the small insurance firm in Sheffield where his father had worked for thirty-six years. His eye traced the blue and gold motifs patterning the elegant marble floors, up to thick piles of freshly laundered fluffy white towels which lay folded upon polished wooden benches. The immense lockers themselves had doors made up of single pieces of heavy mahogany, each carved with an intricate coat of arms. Two very dark-skinned black men in starched white tunics, pressed trousers, and white deck shoes busied themselves carrying armfuls of towels, wiping vast glistening mirrors and polishing golden coloured taps.