The Purple Contract (12 page)

Greenside shook his head emphatically. 'No. You're wrong. A professional killer doesn't do it for
pleasure
: he kills for money. No different in his eyes from any other job. The psychopaths––the homicidal maniacs––they simply enjoy it. And they get their just deserts soon enough. God knows, the prisons are full of them.' He held up a hand to forestall another interruption. 'Certainly it must require a singular personality to divorce the actions from the moral responsibilities. I accept that entirely. I don't pretend to understand these people, I'd rather leave that to the psychologists, but it's a mistake to assume we are dealing with an irrational mind.'

'I'm not sure I see where this is going'. Durrant had a bad feeling he
did
know where this was going.

'Patience. I need to give you the background so you might understand the seriousness of the situation.'

Wedderman thought his boss was going to blow his stack at that one. Greenside hadn't changed: he was still a patronising public school snob.

'Vladimir Solyevetskiy was thought to be the prime candidate. Ex-KGB, as you might imagine. When the KGB cleaned up it’s act and went public under Yeltsin he disappeared and started freelancing. Trouble is he's getting on, must be sixty at least now and quite honestly I don't think he's up to this sort of thing any more. He was recruited straight from university, so you can take it as proof of his expertise that he's lasted this long. A good many others have come and gone, but Solyevetskiy seemed to go on for ever.'

Greenside waited for comments but there were none. A bus droned past outside: probably bringing yet another load of commuters into the city. Wedderman thought of the incongruity of this conversation in relation to the humdrum world on the other side of the double glazing. He focused again on the SIS man.

‘Hollis is my bet for the Riyadh thing. First name unknown, in fact there's no guarantee that Hollis is his real name either. It's what we know him as. No face, no passport, no birth certificate, no idea what he looks like nor where he lives. We think he might be American or British, but I wouldn't put money on either one. You see what I mean about the man next door? Just another face in the crowd. The CIA have him tagged for at least eight killings over the last ten years that they're fairly sure about. God knows there may be others. This man is a top professional at what he does and there is no evidence to show he has ever failed.

Greenside paused, and his face was grim. 'We think he's just been given another contract, and according to what our friend overheard there may be some sort of EC connection. Although I have to stress that this is speculation.’ Greenside tried to look apologetic, and failed. ‘The thing is: we think the killing field is
here
. The UK.'

'I just want some fish, I'm not trying to buy the whole fuckin' boat!'

The elderly fisherman smiled amiably, displaying teeth brown and stained with tobacco. These days his sons risked their lives in the wild waters around Iceland and the North Cape. And it worried him. Just as it had concerned his own father when the time had come for him to stand on the quay and watch the familiar boat sail out into the Minch without him. It had been a young man's game then and even more so now.

But he still came down to the pier in Mallaig every day to sell some fish. Not that he really needed the money, but there were lifelong friends to grumble with and share the trials of the modern world. Nothing like a good yarn to while away the day. With his wife gone there was little enough else for him to do.

The tousle-headed American was a regular customer. He appeared pretty well every week in the summer, every second or third week in the winter and they would trade good-natured insults and the occasional can of beer.

'I would not be selling it to you anyway, you would not know which end was which!' he said ironically, in the lilting west highland accent.

'Really? And why's that?'

'Are you not an American?' the old man shrugged as if that explained everything.

Mike Hollis grinned. 'Have you never heard of the Race Relations Act?'

'I have never been fond of the horse racing, and that's the truth!' The bright eyes twinkled behind the round lenses of his spectacles.

Hollis laughed and slid the change from his ten pound note into his trouser pocket uncounted. He had stopped checking it long ago. This proud old fisherman would cut his own throat before he stole a penny from anyone. 'You take care now, George. See if you can find me some adult fish next week instead of these half-grown tadpoles.'

The old man raised a hand in salute and watched his customer wandering back down the pier, taking a lively interest in everything around him. Must be two, no three years the American had been coming to him for fish now. And in all that time he had yet to hear the man's name. Damn, but that was a chilly wind...

Hollis, too, noted the change in the weather, shrugging into his Barbour jacket and walking right past the poster tacked to the peeling wooden notice board at the end of the pier. A few paces further on his subconscious succeeded in halting his forward motion and he stood uncertainly, half turned. Long ago Hollis had learned to trust his instincts implicitly. He had missed something––no, he had
seen
something and had paid it no attention.

He walked back the way he had come and stopped at the coloured poster. Hell of a place to see an advert for the Scottish Exhibition and Conference Centre in Glasgow. Jesus, somebody had had to bring this damned thing all the way up here––

Then the penny dropped.

EXPO-2000

Oil exploration past, present and future.

See for yourself the story behind forty years of fossil fuel recovery

throughout the world. Thousands of exhibits, hundreds of interactive

demonstrations and simulations. Four separate lecture streams each hour.

Your chance to find out everything you ever wanted to

know about the oil industry. Investigate the latest developments

in Atlantic Oil––taking Scotland forward into the 21st Century …"

The words of the TV announcer echoed back from the recesses of his memory: 
NorthTek have gained world-wide acclaim for the device, which has dramatically reduced costs throughout the oil industry.

It was surely inconceivable that a market leader such as NorthTek wouldn't show up at a prestigious event like this. Call it an omen from the Gods or whatever else you believed in but a blind man could hardly have failed to see the possibilities. Hollis was in no doubt that that the Orkney event was the only chance he was going to get to fulfil the contract. And here was a totally unexpected opportunity to winkle out vital background information on the very people he would have to deal with if this job was to succeed.
Know your enemy.

It had been over a week since a television journalist had unknowingly re-kindled the fire in his mind, but Hollis had yet to come up with anything approaching a plan of action. 'Call it creative research in the field,' he muttered, quoting from his favourite author of spy thrillers.

"All next week at the SECC
" ran the bottom line of the poster.

The Range Rover was heading south at 6 am the following morning.

 
 
 
 
8

 
28 June – 6 July, 2013

Ripples spread gently through the coffee in the styrofoam cup balanced on top of the laser printer while the machine hummed and ejected the last sheet into the catchment tray. Frank Wedderman collected the slim bundle in one hand and sighed. At least the list was getting a little smaller.

Every morning at 9 am he had a meeting with his boss. And every morning Chief Inspector Durrant expected to see some positive progress being made with this investigation. Today wasn't likely to be any different, more questions without answers.
Damn
that fool Greenside for dumping this on him!

On the floor above, he found Durrant striding along the corridor towards his office. 'Morning, sir.'

'Hello Frank, what's new? Come on in.'

Wedderman closed the door behind them and pulled a chair across nearer to the desk. 'The biggest problem is where to start. I've managed to trim the list of possible candidates by approximately 30 per cent, but there are still two pages of them.' He passed a yellow folder across the desk. 'Businessmen, military leaders, politicians by the dozen, prominent journalists and authors who might have upset somebody in print, TV personalities, even some highly placed civil servants. And that's just the UK possibles. After that we can do the rounds again with visiting foreign dignitaries, politicians etc etc.'

Durrant flipped through the pages in the folder and shook his head slowly. 'I appreciate the scale of the job, Frank, believe me.' He sat back and clasped his hands in front of him. 'The thing is, we're not dealing with some petty gangland revenge killing. If we’re dealing with anything
real
at all, other than a snout with an empty wallet. We should try looking at this from the point of view of a top-class professional killer.'

'Can we really expect to get inside the mind of someone like that?'

'I don't know,' said Durrant honestly. 'Until and unless we can come up with a better analysis, we'll have to work with Greenside's definition and treat this man Hollis, or whatever his name is, like any other individual at the top of his profession.'

'Greenside!' Wedderman's tone of voice said it all.

'Yes, I know you two don't exactly see eye to eye, but the fact is that Greenside's lot are more experienced in this type of thing than we are. The UK is
our
patch, not SIS, and that makes it
our
problem. The best we can hope for is they will be a help and not a hindrance.'

'I expect you’re right.' Wedderman rubbed his hands over his face. He hadn't slept well last night, probably wouldn't until this thing was resolved.

One way or the other.

'All right,' he continued, 'let's say this man Hollis takes some degree of twisted pride in his work. He's built up a reputation over a lot of years, impressed the right folk, presumably he would start to get fussy about who he works for and what he does.'

Durrant nodded, letting his junior officer follow his train of thought without interruption.

'If he can pick and choose who he works for and which killings he takes on, it stands to reason that he's going to make it worth his while each time.'

'Possibly a touch of conceit as well: each one would have to be worthy of his talents.' Durrant nodded again in agreement. 'Greenside mentioned that the CIA have this man in the frame for eight killings over the last ten years. Not exactly working his hands to the bone, is he?'

'No, you're right. Maybe he turns down a lot of business, only takes one on when he needs the money.'

'Or possibly his fees are so high that it's only rarely someone comes along who can afford to pay them.' Durrant got out of his chair and stood gazing out the window. 'Have another go at that list, cut out the lower-level people. I don't think our man is going to be interested in loudmouth journalists or Chinese trade delegations for example.’ He turned round. ‘I’m seeing Greenside again this afternoon,' he said, smiling wryly. 'He's taking me to lunch at his club!'

Wedderman's expression was carefully inscrutable.

'I'll find out precisely who these eight people were that the CIA know about. That should give us some idea of what we should be aiming for. We’ll have to hope that we can find some sort of match in that list of yours.'

'I hope so,' Wedderman said. 'I hope so.'

'For goodness sake, come down from there!'

The reply was unintelligible.

'Down here, now!' The warning came clearly through in the tone of voice. A slithering noise ensued and then the scrunch of gravel underfoot. Back on the concrete path and reluctantly trailing after his father, the young boy looked back with longing at the huge structure towering over his head. If it wasn't there for climbing, then what
was
it for?

The Scottish Exhibition and Conference Centre stands alongside the River Clyde, close to the city centre. An enormous building, it was constructed specifically to replace the ageing Kelvin Hall as Glasgow’s principal venue for indoor sporting events, exhibitions, Trade Shows and the like. Mike Hollis stopped on the footpath leading from the sprawling car-park and followed the boy's eyes upwards. The enormous derrick crane was painted in alternate red and white segments. By the look of it, it had spent many a year in the salt-laden environment of the North Sea, and had no doubt enjoyed an interesting existence. Certainly it was no longer usable for anything other than it's present purpose as an advertisement for the oil Expo. Maybe that was better, he supposed, than the scrapyard.

Still clutching his ticket in his hand, Hollis stood in the entrance hallway before the large backlit screen displaying the list of exhibitors and their Stand numbers. Alongside it stood a multi-coloured plan map of the exhibition areas. It was no surprise to see that NorthTek had purchased a prime slot more or less in the centre of the maze.

'Are you in the Trade, sir?' The casual rubberneckers turned up in open-neck shirts and sweaters. This one wore a business suit and was studying the list of exhibitors very intently. Just what she had been told to look for.

'Yes, that's right.' Hollis smiled down at her, she was barely out of her teens and had an engagingly earnest expression. 'I'm hoping I might be able to pick up some business today.' He wondered what her reaction would be if she ever found out the nature of the business in question.

'Oh.' The girl tugged her dark blue blazer straighter as an automatic reflex under the scrutiny of the grey eyes. 'I'd better give you one of these, then.' She handed him a plastic folder filled with leaflets, stickers, badges and other promotional material. 'Enjoy your visit to the S.E.C.'

'Thank you.' Hollis watched the tight skirt bobbing away in search of further targets. The legs under it appeared to go on for ever. Smiling at himself he walked through the cavernous doorway leading to the main exhibition hall and disappeared into a solid wall of people.