The Purple Contract (7 page)

'The problem is that one or two countries are extremely resistant to giving up any degree of national sovereignty. And by doing so they undermine the whole European economic process.'

'Give it time, show them what they're missing.'

'Quite so. But there has to be a limit, an end to the prevarication: a
deadline
if you will.'

'I'm having difficulty seeing what this has to do with me.'

'I'm sorry, maybe I'm putting in too much background, but I was hoping you could appreciate the sense of frustration that has built up in recent years. Let me speak plainly: the British Government has caused major delays at all stages of this inevitable process. Whingeing about loss of sovereignty, refusing to relinquish their precious Sterling. Spreading doom and despondency about monetary union and the dire consequences of a common fiscal policy.

‘Generally, if the truth be told, doing everything possible to both have their cake and eat it. They want to be part of Europe, but not a
united
Europe. They like being able to tap into European funds, but for God’s sake don't ask them to make any firm commitments to the ideal.' Harrison had stopped walking and the two men stood side by side on the footpath, watching two teenage girls with a dog on the far side of the canal.

Hollis kept his face immobile but his thoughts raced. He was beginning to see why such a large financial carrot was being dangled. 'The man in Downing Street has become surplus to requirements, has he?'

Harrison was impressed. This was no ignorant psychopath––his nagging worry all the way from Edinburgh. Manson had indeed delivered the goods and no mistake. 'Good God, no! The poor sod's hands are tied behind his back, as were his predecessors. Who in the UK do you think has most to lose in a truly United Europe? A single economic and political entity.'

Hollis was beginning to feel a psychological chill down his back. The options were narrowing, but he wasn't about to make any more guesses. 'I'm an American, what do I know about British politics?'

They resumed walking, Hollis with his hands in his pockets and Harrison with his tucked behind his back. 'The
Establishment
has most to lose. Their function would be entirely removed; they would become an irrelevance. Even an embarrassment. They won't allow that to happen, not after God knows how many centuries.'

'Who won’t?'

'I'm talking about the British monarchy, Mr Smith. It is clear to me that they have a marked reluctance to encouraging further European progress. There is, after all, little place in modern society for the sort of appalling privilege they have always enjoyed. And certainly no place in a Republican Europe for the pompous British aristocracy. The people I represent believe strongly that successive British Governments have been
advised
, in the strongest possible terms, to do everything and anything necessary to prevent the formation of a true European State. Not for any actual political ends, but rather because it would decrease still further the monarchy’s already fragile role––not a situation I would expect them to take lightly.'

'There's no way they could have that kind of control over a democratically elected government!' But Hollis was ahead of the game now. He could see what was coming and it scared the hell out of him.

'Don't be a bloody fool, man. How do you think they have managed to survive this long?' Harrison didn't wait for an answer. In a gravely voice, he continued: 'The Queen has announced she will abdicate in favour of Charles due to her grave illness. The newspapers have been full of little else for months. While of course we must sympathize with her situation, this means the beginning of a new monarchy. The reign of King Charles the Third.

‘It is our intention, myself and my colleagues, to turn the British Establishment on it's head at that time. To remove them as a meaningful force in the European equation at least long enough to bring about the essential changes. Permanently if possible, but that doesn’t matter. To do this it will be necessary to strike a mortal blow at the very heart of that Institution.'

Unconsciously they had both stopped walking again, this time standing facing each other on the peaceful canalside.

'We want to you to assassinate Prince Charles before he becomes King!'

 
 
 
 
4

 
Largs

'You want a paper, pal?'

'What?'

'Fifty pence.'

Hollis looked down at the teenager and the off-white, poor quality newspaper he was thrusting forward:
Flag of Freedom
on a red banner emblem.

'Get lost!' The Communist chicken had long since lost it's head––it just didn't know it was dead yet. The boy glared at him and moved off around the bar, in search of easier prey.

Dave Jordan shook his head in disgust, lifting the two glasses of beer and handing one to his friend. 'Jeez, what does it take to fill a kid's head with that crap? What is he: fourteen, fifteen?' He followed Hollis to a table at the far end of the L-shaped public bar, set in a semi-circular booth.

The
Essex Bar
graced a lengthy street of seedy shops in Islington, not one of London's more salubrious areas. It had once been a favourite haunt of Jordan and Hollis, had been in fact been an important meeting place and clearing house for most of the local criminal fraternity. That had been a lot of years, and several owners ago. Nowadays it was a much more civilised, although just as noisy place to enjoy a glass or two with an old friend.

'His parents could knock it out of him easily enough––but then they may have put him up to it in the first place,' observed Hollis cynically. 'Anyway, in a few years time he'll probably be at some University or other and the gooks can just brainwash him again at their leisure.' He swallowed some beer and shrugged. 'The world's goin' to shit, Dave, and that's a fact!'

'Yeah, sure is.’ Jordan hesitated before adding the next bit of news. ‘Did you know that Dilly's back in the UK?'

Hollis looked up, surprised. 'No.'  Dilys Fenwick was the girl he had lived with when he first moved from London to Edinburgh. He hadn't seen her in ten years.

'Uh-huh. Second marriage didn't last either. I don't think she liked the weather in Finland much anyway, pretty cold in the winter.' He watched the expressionless eyes opposite. Nearly expressionless, he cautioned himself, this is sensitive ground; better watch it. 'If you'd like to see her before you leave––'

'There isn't time.'

'Right.' Not true of course, Jordan would be taking Hollis to Heathrow to catch the Edinburgh Shuttle in a couple of hours, but the booking could be changed easily enough. Change the subject. 'What's this I hear about you wanting to retire? Don't you know you can't claim old age pension until you're sixty-five?'

Hollis snorted. 'Gojo been shooting his mouth off again?'

'Nah.' Jordan grinned. 'It was mentioned, that's all. He thinks the world of you, Mike. I think you've got him worried.'

Hollis sighed and drank some more beer. 'Yeah, well, I've had a good run, but it can't go on for ever. Sooner or later I'll open the wrong door, or turn my back once too often, or walk out of a hotel into a gunsight.' He looked around the crowded bar. 'I get tired of watching everyone and everything. Checking every doorway, sitting in a bar with my back to a wall just so I can have a beer and a chinwag.' He flicked a thumb round the booth they were sitting in and saw his friend's eyes narrow: it had never occurred to Dave Jordan that Hollis' choice of seating was anything more than convenience.

'Jeez, I never thought––’'

'Don't worry about it. But, yeah, sometimes I think I'm getting too old for this sort of thing––not as sharp as I used to be. That's why I'm not sure I want this one, or any other one for that matter.'

Jordan was making rings on the varnished tabletop with the wet bottom of his glass. ‘That bad, huh?’

Hollis said nothing.

'Seriously, Mike, if you feel that way about it then I'm not goin' to sit here tryin' to talk you into it. Fuck it, it's only money!'

They listened to the hubbub around them. Another good thing about a busy pub; you could discuss most things in reasonable safety even in the midst of this crowded room. Precisely
because
it was a crowded room.

'This one got you worried, has it?' Jordan had known Mike Hollis a long time and the vibrations were unmistakable. For example there had been not so much as a clue as to the identity of the target. Despite the fact that there was no possibility of Dave Jordan being a security risk. Not that Hollis had ever been known to boast of his achievements, Jordan knew his friend’s conscience bothered him too much for that. The German thing was case in point: Jordan was totally sure Hollis had carried it out, but he had yet to hear him admit it.

Hollis was a while answering. Jordan could see him playing over the permutations in his mind. Deciding just how much he could say. Even more important, deciding what he
wasn’t
going to say.

Finally, and grudgingly, he said. 'I'm not sure it's possible. For anyone.'

'If it's possible for anyone, it's possible for you, Mike. You're the best there is: the best there's ever been.'

'Crap!' snorted Hollis.

'You're still alive, aren't you. What about Fasaad? Or Benson, or Wichetz, or that Armenian, what was his name?'

'I don't remember.'

'Neither does anyone else! They weren't good enough, Mike, and they're all dead.'

'Wichetz just disappeared one day; he's probably hiding up somewhere.'

‘For three years? Anyway, you know what I mean.'

'Yeah, yeah. The thing is, whoever pulls this off will never work again. He'll be too hot to touch: too big a risk.' Hollis finished off his beer in a gulp 'I've thought about it a lot, and not just this last few days. It's about time to buy the ranch, Dave. Put an end to it while I still can.'

'Well, I'm sure you're pretty solvent!' Jordan commented wryly. He too had a bank account in Geneva.

'At the rate money devalues these days? I hope to live to a ripe old age, I can't really say I like the idea of looking for a job!' The two men laughed at the thought of Hollis propping up a desk or selling vacuum cleaners. They looked at each other in silence for a time.

'I can't turn it down, Dave,’ Hollis said morosely. ‘not that amount of money. But either way; win or lose, it will be the last one.'

'A blaze of glory, eh?'

'Or a tombstone...’

Dave Jordan swallowed the last of his beer, putting the glass down and pushing it away from him across the wooden table. 'Ok, Mike, I'll pass the word on to my contact; tell them the job is on. Good luck, kid.'

Like Hollis before him, Jordan had formed his own conclusions about the subject of the contract. And like his friend, he was wildly wrong. Quite a few prominent names came to his mind, but the possibility that anyone would actually make an attempt on the life of a member of the Royal Family he would have dismissed as ridiculous. It was an understandable conclusion, and one which was destined to be repeated elsewhere more than once in the coming months.

'Better get going, I suppose.' Hollis was reluctant to move. He was enjoying the company, and the memories of happy times past.

'Yeah, you're right. Damn good to see ya, Mike. You take care, hear?'

'Sure thing.'

Outside, Hollis shrugged into his jacket, wishing he hadn't left his coat in the car. It was a chilly night and the clearing sky foretold of another late frost before daylight. The two men were approaching the corner of the side-street where they had left Jordan's car when two youths emerged from a shop doorway in front of them. The knife blade glinted oddly yellow under the powerful sodium streetlights.

'You wanna keep yer ears, then let's see your wallet!' The taller one sneered. He looked about eighteen, gangling and with a mere fuzz of hair growing back on the recently shaved scalp. Presumably he was dressed for what he imagined was "street-cred", but Hollis thought he more resembled an anorexic scarecrow.

Dave Jordan noted that the other kid was waving his own blade with a lot less confidence––and well he might. He exchanged a glance with Hollis and heaved a sigh. 'This is a joke, right?'

Scarecrow took a step closer. 'It'll be a real fuckin' joke when I cut yer fuckin'
dick
off!'

Jordan hadn't appeared to move but his knees were slightly flexed, bringing his centre of gravity down to generate increased stability. Imperceptibly he was moving into the
Wu Shu
, literally “
The Art of War
”, the basic preparatory stance which provided a stable platform from which to defend or attack. Hollis sidled sideways, opening up the distance between him and his friend. They would both need some room shortly, this was going to turn out badly.

'I think we'd better call it a joke, son. And we'll all go off home and laugh about it. Now get out of my way.' He spoke slowly and quietly and his eyes never left those of the youth now facing him a metre or so away.

First and last warning.

The thin sneering face twisted further and then his arm moved, sweeping the knife blade up and across. It may have been just an intimidating move, but it was his last. He was genuinely astonished to actually
hear
the double crack of first his wrist, instantly followed by his elbow breaking. After that it was just blinding pain and a red mist over his vision while he sagged against the shopfront, gagging as his metabolism reacted to the shock and the nausea began. The knife clattered, forgotten, on the cold concrete of the pavement.

The other boy leapt at Hollis, waving the knife in a thoroughly amateurish fashion. Hollis stood his ground, blocking first the knife and then the swinging left arm. Two short hammer-fist blows over the youth's heart left him squirming on the ground, pale faced and gasping for breath. His knife skittered away into the gutter, falling silently down through the bars of a drain cover.

Jordan kicked the second knife over the kerb to the same fate. 'Stupid bloody kids! Give them a pig-sticker and they think they're Genghis Khan!' He spat accurately into the drain, the action emphasising more acutely than any words his disgust and contempt. 'Christ, someone should take that piece of shit home and show it's goddamned parents what a magnificent job they did!'