Brute Force ns-11 Page 8

  'And to put the tin lid on it, you used a member of the American Secret Service to get you in there . . . who then gets shot! Do you know the havoc you have caused, not only in the US but here? Careers have been ruined because of you. The answer is no. Not now, not ever.'

  That was when I realized this wasn't just about me, and it wasn't early retirement at the end of his tour next year. He'd been given the push. He had been running the Ks, the deniable operators, at the time, and someone had had to pay. People like Lynn could be replaced; people like me were more difficult to blow out, if only for financial reasons. The government had invested several million in my training as a Special Air Service soldier. They wanted to get their money's worth out of me even after I got out. It must have killed him to know that I was the one who'd fucked up, but he was the one to carry the can – probably as part of the deal to appease the Americans.

  I didn't feel sorry for him for long. The Intelligence Branch, the top tier in the Firm's food chain, looks after its own. Even if one of the IB has been given the sack for such gross misconduct as fiddling with kids and getting blackmailed for it, he or she goes into a feeder system where they get work somewhere in the City or in a sports organization. That ticks two boxes: it keeps tabs on them, but also it keeps them sweet, and, more importantly, quiet. Me? Once I was no longer useful, I wouldn't be so lucky. Maybe this really was my time.

  At that last meeting he told me what his future held. He didn't need to become a share dealer or the chair of the Sack Race UK Committee. He had the family mushroom farm. He'd talked, too, about sailing and Norfolk, and opening your window and smelling the sea. His farm couldn't be more than a mile inland.

  I Googled 'Norfolk+mushrooms', got 33,000 results, changed the search to 'Norfolk+sailing' and up popped about thirty sailing clubs. I tried phoning one from my mobile. Fuck it, if they had my number they would be following anyway. They might as well know where I was going. If this didn't draw them out nothing would. I only got voicemail. Of course – these would just be little set-ups; there wouldn't be anyone around to answer.

  One club said it was in the homeland of Admiral Nelson, and I remembered he'd mentioned a pub called the Hero. I Googled it. It was in a place called Burnham Overy Staithe, about halfway along the top edge of Norfolk.

  I started to punch in the pub's number then thought better of it. Lynn would be expecting me – why else would he have sent the message? But what if I was wrong and the Firm wasn't after me? Charging around the village asking questions could be a mistake – this was backwoods country, where blood was thicker than water and neighbours were actually neighbourly.

  No matter; if the pub landlord couldn't tell me where he lived, Google Earth might be able to.

  I went back and zoomed in on the area. The whole north coast was a patchwork of farmland. And what did a mushroom farm look like when it was at home? I didn't have a clue, but Mr Google did. He told me: 'A mushroom farm would consist of a number of environmentally controlled growing sheds and because the conditions are fully controlled, high temperatures are not a problem. A pack-house and cold store are also required along with offices and staff facilities. An area of concrete and a pasteurization room would be required for the production of compost.'

  I went back to Google Earth and the overview of Burnham Overy Staithe. I moved the cursor left and right, up and down from the centre of the village, and finally found what I was looking for: a line of three large, low-level outbuildings, with a large farmhouse, some smaller sheds and a couple of cars. The farm sat in a triangle of land, bordered on all three sides by B roads. I noted the lat and long, and the road names.

  I got back in the car and headed northeast towards Manchester. From there, I'd drive cross-country, southeast to King's Lynn. I'd then hit the North Sea, and turn right.

  33

  One question bugged me all the way to Manchester. If the Leptis message was from Lynn, how could he be sure I'd find him? Maybe he had faith in my tradecraft skills. It had only taken me half an hour in the internet café and I was on my way. So would he be expecting me? Maybe he was lulling me into a false sense of security, making me think I was making the running, when all the time he was channelling me into the killing ground.

  What if the detonator battery had been dead because it was meant to be? I wasn't sure where that thought got me, but it didn't matter. Lynn would soon be telling all I needed to know.

  It took me five hours of driving at, or under, the speed limit so I didn't get pulled over, but eventually I was in amongst the flat, endlessly boring fields of Cambridgeshire. Rain fell in a constant shower. The road was elevated in places and there were dykes either side, waterways draining the fenland, and miles and miles of jet black earth growing spuds or carrots or whatever.

  A mile or two from King's Lynn, I stopped at a garage and bought sandwiches and a bottle of Coke, and fold-out road maps of the coast. I also filled up with fuel. You always start an op with a full tank.

  As I walked back across the forecourt I could already feel the breeze off the North Sea. King's Lynn was at the bottom corner of the Wash. The Great Ouse ran through it, which was presumably how the ships made it into the docks.

  Back behind the wheel, I crossed a ring road lined with burger franchises and furniture, electrical and DIY superstores. I pulled into the car park. I needed kit to protect myself, and to get into that house of his and lift him.

  As I moved down the aisles I found myself doing something I always did, no matter where I was in the world. Even in Tesco, I'd check out the cooking ingredients and cans of domestic cleaner, and work out which would go with which to make chaos. Mix this and that, then boil it up and I'd have an incendiary device. Or boil all that down and scrape off the scum from around the edge of the pot, then add some of the stuff from the bake-a-cake counter and boil it up some more until I just had sediment, and I'd have low explosive. Twenty minutes in any supermarket would be enough to buy all the ingredients for a bomb powerful enough to blow a car in half, and you'd still have change from a tenner. It's even easier in a DIY store.

  But I didn't need any of that today. I came out of various stores the proud owner of a glass-cutter and parcel tape, a day sack and a twenty-one-piece screwdriver and tool set. At £4.99 it was an absolute rip-off. They'd last about five minutes, but that was all I'd need. The most important item of all was a Stanley knife, a box-cutter. These things strike fear into people, even though it takes quite a frenzied attack to do any lasting damage. The major organs are out of reach of the inch-long blade, and there are only a few places on a body where an artery is that close to the skin.

  Next stop was Norfolk Country Pursuits. It looked more like an army surplus store than the hunting, shooting, fishing establishment I'd been expecting. The window displays were piled high with everything from targets and rubber ducks to tents and camouflage gear.

  The counter was a long glass showcase. The old guy behind it studied my face for signs I was about to pull a sawn-off shotgun from under my jacket and demand the contents of the till.

  'Morning. Got a bit of a squirrel problem I need some help with.'

  He looked blank. 'Squirrel problem?'

  'Yeah, the problem is, my wife loves them and I don't. I just want something to scare the little buggers away with. One of these, maybe?' I tapped the glass over an air pistol that looked like a Colt 45.

  His face lit up. I was a respectable married man, and more likely to have a wallet in my coat than a sawn-off.

  'Weihrauch HW45. Best spring-powered on the market.'

  'Sounds perfect. Eighty pounds? Will you throw in some pellets?'

  His smile widened. I hadn't even haggled much.

  'And do you sell Maglites? I need the smallest one.'

  Something else had caught my eye. Lynn might have sent me a message to come to him, but I wanted it to be on my terms.

  Norfolk Country Pursuits also did a fine line in night-vision aids: weapon sights, monoculars, binoculars.

&
nbsp; 'My wife's mad about foxes and badgers. She'd love one of these for watching the buggers dig up my garden. Which one's the best, without breaking the bank?'

  'Don't like the scopes and monoculars myself, if I'm honest with you. Too much strain on the closed eye, and you end up with no night vision in the other. Big fan of the binos version though. Nothing could be easier. They give you depth perception too. When you view a scene through binoculars, each eye is viewing things from a slightly different angle.

  'These ones look good. She'll like the yellow trim.'

  The old guy looked like he was going to hyperventilate with joy. I'd just parted company with the best part of another eight hundred quid for the National Geographic Explorers.

  'There's a lovely range of ladies' waxed jackets in my sale, if you—'

  I pulled out my wallet and handed him my card. 'I think that's enough spoiling for one day.'

  He sighed as he handed me the bag. 'Now – new legislation, sir. I'm obliged to remind you that it is an offence for any person, regardless of age, to be in possession of an air weapon in a public place without a reasonable excuse. A reasonable excuse might be carrying a gun to and from a target shooting club or to and from land on which you have permission to shoot. It would also include taking a gun to and from a gunsmith for repair or service or taking a new gun home from the dealer. So please, do keep the pistol in its packaging until you get home.'

  I turned to go and he sighed. 'There's a lot of crazy people out there who would use them to actually hurt people.'

  34

  I hit the main artery out of town towards the bypass. I remembered the place from a job I'd done up here about five years ago. Except that wasteland and shit terraced houses had been replaced by big DIY and frozen-food stores and car outlets.

  I followed the road towards the coast. The idea was to hit the sea and head east. According to the map it was about thirty miles to the mushroom farm. I wouldn't really need it: once I hit the coast road I wasn't going to miss it. I drove slowly. I didn't want to get there too early and have to hang around.

  The grass either side of the road suddenly became very neatly manicured. Even the molehills had been flattened. Signs started to let me in on the secret. Sandringham was just up the road. I was sure I'd know when I got there: the air would smell of polish and fresh paint.

  I carried on to Hunstanton, where the road met the sea. It was very much like any other UK coastal town, up on high ground, a bit of a cliff and a hill going down to the beach. Victorian buildings proudly lined the esplanade, but the glory days were gone. Now they all looked a bit tired.

  There was the obligatory Tesco on the outskirts, and the green area on the high ground was covered with hundreds of white and cream boxes with satellite dishes on the roof so holidaymakers could come all this way and do exactly the same thing as they did at home.

  I checked the rear-view regularly, mentally registering every vehicle behind me.

  Bright lights flashed hopefully outside a couple of amusement arcades. I cruised about, following the one-way system around the town, looking for a steamy-windowed café that had what I needed.

  I found one down by the Sea Life Sanctuary. The attraction was closed, but the car park was open. As I locked up the Merc and headed across the road, the sea looked as dull and cloudy as the sky.

  The cappuccino I ordered came in a cup the size of a soup bowl. I grabbed a packet of ready-salted and a cheese and pickle sandwich, and logged on. As I lifted the bread and tipped in the crisps, my eyes never left the Merc, nor the two or three cars that had come into the car park after me.

  I hit Google Earth and carried out a recce of the target. The days of having to do walk- or fly-pasts to get some imagery with a Hasselblad camera were long gone.

  I kept checking the Merc.

  The only other diners were two or three young lads in Guns N' Roses hoodies, hunched over burger and Cokes. All our tables had plastic tomato-shaped red and brown sauce squeezers, the kind that had been around in every Greasy Joe's since I was a kid. By the look of these particular ones, they had been. Dried sauce clung to the spouts. My two halves of cheese and pickle got a burst of something vinegary as the target came up on the screen.

  I wanted to make it as difficult as possible for anyone that might be waiting for me. I gave my eyes a good rub to wake them up and stared at the screen.

  The farm stood on a triangle of land bordered by three B roads. The site probably covered three acres. The farmhouse itself was set back from the road at the base of the triangle and there were two large outbuildings – probably the packing houses and cold stores – along either side, accessible from both roads. A further three buildings, which I took to be the growing sheds, stood in the middle of the plot. I zoomed in. It looked like mushroom rustling wasn't big business around these parts. I couldn't see any fences or floodlights.

  I zoomed out to check the surrounding area and couldn't see any other buildings for at least a kilometre. Most were on the coast and around the road coming into the target area. That meant there'd be no ambient light, which suited me perfectly.

  I squashed my sandwiches down a bit and got stuck in as I checked the Merc again. Crisp fragments showered the plate and my lap.

  The plan was simple. I would park up short of the target on the road from the coast, and work my way towards it from within his grounds, to avoid being channelled along any of the roads. I'd gain entry to the house, grip Lynn and get him to tell me what the fuck was going on, whether he liked it or not.

  If the Firm were waiting for me, too bad. I'd cross that bridge when I came to it. I'd still try to get to Lynn, get him out of there and find out what I needed to know.

  I thought about Ruby and Tallulah getting into the car with me as we set off for the beach, and the front wheel pulling the piece of plastic away from between the jaws of the clothes peg. These were real people; they weren't pond life like me, up to their neck in this sort of shit. If Lynn didn't have a pretty fucking good explanation for all this, I'd kill him.

  I had my final munch of sandwich and sat back and made the coffee last while I studied the target until every detail of the area had soaked into my head.

  It was starting to get darker and even more miserable out there now the rain was returning. The lights of the amusement arcade flashed even brighter. I rubbed my eyes. I hadn't slept for thirty-six hours.

  I examined the area around the target in more detail. If it went tits up, where would I run? What was my best escape route? It was no good heading to the right of the house, hitting a field and paralleling the road – only to find there was a raging river in between me and my car.

  35

  0126 hrs

  Though the rain had stopped the sky was still overcast, making the night even darker. The grass at the apex of the triangle where the road forked each side of the target was soaked.

  Two large wrought-iron gates hung from stone pillars, with nothing either side of them. They were closed, and the driveway had grown over long ago. This must have been the entrance to the house when it really was just a house. Maybe Nelson and Lady Hamilton had a couple of nights out here.

  Day sack over my shoulder, binocular night-viewing aid hanging round my neck, I had left the car at the entrance to a field about two hundred from the target. The pistol was tucked down the front of my jeans and the box-cutter was in the pocket of my fleece. I was glad to be moving as I bypassed the gates and hit the hard standing. It was freezing.

  Alot of what-ifs raced through my mind as I approached. I'd be finding out some answers soon enough.

  The family photo I'd seen on Lynn's desk in 1998 showed his wife, two kids and a Labrador. The kids had looked about nine and eleven. That would make them university age now. They would surely have come home for the Christmas vacation. What if they were still here? What about his wife? What if the wife was alone but Lynn came back while I was there? What if one or both of the children were at home? What if the whole family were out? What
about the Labrador? That particular one would be dead, but Lynn would have bought another. His sort loved the smell of wet dogs in the kitchen.

  I hunched down, my back against the wall of one of the breezeblock growing sheds. Judging by the complete absence of compost smell and no sign of activity from the refrigeration units, business wasn't exactly booming on the mushroom front. There were no lights at all, anywhere.

  I watched and listened as the trees rustled in the wind, then switched on the night-viewing aid. The electronics kicked in with a gentle hum and the National Geographics treated me to a fantastically sharp black and white negative picture. The old guy at Norfolk Country Pursuits hadn't let me down.

  I settled into the hedge and scanned the front of the Lynns' family seat. It was gracious, rectangular and Georgian, with six huge windows top and bottom and a grand doorway dead centre.

  I wondered what their forebears would have made of the family having to convert three acres of front lawn and driveway into a fungus farm. Apoplectic was the word that came to mind.