Assassins

  Soper came around his desk and held out his hand. The woman’s calloused hand closed around his like a vice. He shuddered at the thought of those bony hands closing round the Kings throat and throttling the life out of Scotland’s celebrated monarch.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Edinburgh.

  Gent was in his hotel room sitting on the bed with his back against the headboard and watching TV when his mobile phone began chirping. He picked it up off the bedside table and checked the caller ID. It was his Edinburgh handler, Q

  ‘What do you want Q? Gent said flatly.

  ‘I thought that you should know an Italian male with a New York accent is in town making enquires about your whereabouts.’

  ‘When was this?’ gent asked.

  ‘A couple of hours ago,’ Q said. ‘Don’t you think it odd another Italian showing up so soon after you killed the other one?’

  The way he said it, “killed the other one,” sounded like criticism.

  ‘Ok, you told me. You done?’ Gent said, abruptly.

  ‘Gent, let’s be clear here,’ Q said testily. ‘You are assigned to take out the King and not become involved in a personal vendetta with your competitors. If you continue to go around randomly shooting people you are likely to draw attention to yourself and that will jeopardise your mission.’

  ‘I’m on the job,’ Gent said curtly, stung by the remark. ‘That’s all you need to know. Thanks for the tipoff. But when I need a pen-pusher to tell me how to do my job, you will be the first person I’ll call up.’

  ‘Fine, it’s your funeral. Just be sure to keep an eye out for this other Italian,’ Q said.

  ‘Like I said, I don’t need you to tell me how to do my job. Bye Q.’ Gent ended the call.

  Sitting up on his bed, Gent was pondering on the conversation with Q and wondering why this other Italian was asking around about him when he got the answer. With a bang his door flew open. Someone kicked his door in.

  ‘Freeze Icehole.’

  Jeeezus, Gent thought, not another bloody Italian who can’t pronounce, arsehole? Gent’s eyes locked on to the Beretta fitted with a silencer. The black hole of the muzzle was pointed at a point between his eyes. Under his breath he cursed. His own gun was in its leather holster hanging on the bedpost down by his feet. This had to be the Italian that Q had just warned him about.

  His build, the way he was dressed, the way he spoke, all but the moustache that hid his upper lip, the guy looked a lot like Mario Pantanello. He even wore the same big-shouldered, long black overcoat and a wide-brimmed black fedora hat, and to complete the verisimilitude, at a distance of ten feet, he even stank of garlic. The two men could have been brothers. Shit! It suddenly occurred to Gent. This guy had to be a relative of Mario’s. Two Italian mobsters in his face in less than a week! It can’t be a coincidence. Was this some kind of mafia family revenge thing?

  Calculating he had just seconds to live Gent’s mind was fully focused. He calculated the odds of him reaching his gun before the Italian could pull the trigger of his own gun were in the minus range. His best bet was to play for time, stall the guy, try and confuse him. All the time he was still talking he wasn’t dead! There was some logic in that. Spreading his arms wide, Gent tried out his fake Italian accent.

  ‘Hey Dony!’ Gent said, banking on the guy being a Tony. Aren’t most of them? ‘Hey man,’ Gent said, faking a frown. ‘Wize you pointing a gun at me?’ Thumping his fist against his chest the way he’d seen Mario do, he said. ‘Hey, Dony, doncher remember me? I’m Geno, Aldo’s second cousin; we met at my Godfathers funeral. How ya doin’? Longa time’a no see eh?’

  For a second there, Gent had the guy confused.

  The mobster then said. ‘You fargin icehole, you shot dead my cousin Mario, so now you’s gonna get whacked.’

  Gent faked surprise. ‘Wocher tokkin about Mario is dead? No way man,’ holding his fingers and thumbs together the way he’d seen the Italians do in the movies, he waggled his hands and said. ‘Mario dead!’ Gent crossed his heart and then kissed his fingers. He’d seen this in the movies too. He was sweating and stalling for time, waiting for that one break. ‘Hey man, I cannot believe it. What the hell happened?’

  Gent got lucky. The man’s name was, Tony. Gent saw him hesitate.

  Tony Bentocelli was Pantanello’s brother-in-law. When Mario married Tony’s sister Maria, first cousin to Aldo Caesaro, the brother-in-law of Bruno Mancini who just happened to be the main man in the Bronx mafia, Tony became family. It didn’t matter that Mario was a fargin dipshit; taking out his killer was a matter of Family Honour. The Family put out a contract on the Englishman. He was to get whacked.

  ‘Don’t take dis poysonal,’ Tony said straightening his gun arm.

  This was it? This was how he was to die? Shot by some New York mobster that didn’t want him to take it poysonal? With his life expectancy now reduced to a fraction of a second, Gent tried one more time. ‘Hey man, don’t you do dis – you got da wrong guy – I swear on my mudder’s life – it wasn’t me who whacked Mario – don’t you remember me? You came to my wedding – five years ago – in da Bronx – Mario, he was my best man. Why would I want to shoot the Godfather to my daughter, Carlotta?’

  Tony’s brow furrowed. He had gone to a wedding in the Bronx, around five years ago. And the name… Carlotta? That rang a bell. With the barrel of his gun, Tony pushed up the brim of his fedora hat.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Holyrood.

  Leplume called up Dewar to tell her he was having trouble getting hold of the Swedish Meatball. However, there was another Italian available and this one was cheaper.

  ‘I don’t want someone cheaper,’ Mary raged. ‘I am not settling for another two-bit-New York-hubcap thief.’

  ‘Ok, Mary calm down.’ Leplume said. ‘Give me a couple of days and I will try and get you the Swedish Meatball.’

  ‘You have one day Leplume and then the deal is off.’

  Mary slammed down the phone.

  Pacing her office with just five days before the King was going to enact his nationalisation plans Mary Dewar was starting to panic. Following the botched kidnapping the King had now gone into hiding. It was going to take a very special assassin to get to him. She needed Leplume too get hold of the Meatball, the best Hitman in the world? It was while Mary was cogitating on this that another of her brilliant ideas came to her. This one was not quite as brilliant as the UDI one, but then she hadn’t been on the loo when this thought had struck her.

  She called up her Defence Minister.

  ‘Stickly. I want you in my office, now.’

  ‘Yes First Minister,’ the Defence Minister said half expecting this call. He closed his eyes and dropped his head in his hands. This was it; this was to be the end of his very short ministerial career. He was about to be made a scapegoat for the Balmoral Incident. Oh well, he was thinking, better go and face the music. In a way it might be a blessing. Waiting to get sacked was keeping him awake at night. The stress was awful. On his way over to Dewar’s office, Stickly had decided he didn’t want to be the Scottish Defence Minister any more.

  Standing in front of Dewar’s desk with his hands behind his back, waiting to get fired, Stickly was thinking it just wasn’t fair. It was hardly his fault the stupid gunner shot a damn great hole in the castle roof right above the Queens bed.

  Taking him by surprise the conversation went in an entirely different direction.

  ‘Stickly, I need to speak with the man you put in charge of those tank crews.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘You heard me,’ Mary said irritably. ‘I need to talk with that chap, Colonel Appleby, wasn’t it?’

  Stickly would rather she told him told him he was sacked. Thomas would rather she didn’t talk to Appleby who would very likely give a different account to his own of the Balmoral Incident. ‘Sorry Mary I can’t possibly…’

  Mary slammed her hands down on her desk. ‘I don’t want to hear: “can’t possib
ly” Stickly.’ Pointing at her door, she raged. ‘Get out. Go find him and tell him to meet me at The Hole In the Wall pub, on Duke Street at four o’clock.’

  ‘Mary, sorry, I want to resign.’

  ‘I accept your resignation. Now get out. Go set up that meeting.’

  *

  Jamie Appleby hadn’t forgiven the Defence Minister for letting him take the blame for the Balmoral Incident and then demoting him to Private, so, when Stickly rang him on his mobile he was about to hang up when he heard.

  ‘Colonel Appleby, I feel I owe you an apology. I was wrong to blame you and I shouldn’t have demoted you. I have now reversed that regrettable decision. So I have reinstated your rank of Colonel. I called you up because I feel I would like to make amends?’

  ‘I was only following your orders Mister Stickly.’

  ‘Of course you were and you carried out your duties admirably. Now, the reason I am calling you up is Scotland’s First Minister has asked me to arrange a meeting between you both so that she can thank you personally.’

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘Mary Dewar has asked if you wouldn’t mind meeting her at the Hole in the Wall pub. Do you know the one? It’s on Duke Street.’

  ‘Yes, I know it,’ Jamie said, guardedly. ‘When?’

  ‘Four o’ clock today.’

  *

  When she walked into the gloomy interior of The Hole in the Wall pub Mary spotted the young man sitting at a table over by the window. His nervous demeanour told her this had to be Appleby. The young man got up from his chair and tentatively shook Mary’s hand.

  ‘Jamie isn’t it?’ Mary said, smiling at him. It was like a Cobra eyeing up a mouse. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you Private Appleby.’

  ‘I’m now a Colonel again,’ Jamie said, glancing sideways at a man seated at a nearby table that seemed to be taking no apparent notice of them as he carried on reading a newspaper. He was drinking coffee, not alcohol, he could be one of her bodyguards.’

  ‘Thank you for agreeing to meet me at such short notice,’ Mary said, and then lowering her voice she added. ‘Colonel, what I need to speak to you about is of the utmost urgency. As a member of the armed forces, especially a high-ranking officer, you are sworn to uphold the oath of secrecy. You understand? ‘

  ‘Oh! Yes of course.’

  Mary glanced over at the same man that Jamie had noticed. She then leant across the table and with her voice now just above a whisper she hissed.

  ‘I have a mission for you. One that will make you a national hero?’

  Jamie’s eyes widened. He then had a worrying thought. ‘I don’t have to attack Balmoral Castle again?’

  ‘Goodness me, no, forget Balmoral, we’re over that. Mistakes happen and it was Stickly’s fault. I sacked him you know?’

  ‘Oh!’ Said Jamie.

  Speaking conspiratorially, Mary said, ‘Jamie, there are spies among us.’

  Jamie’s eyes shot over to the table where the man had been sitting. He had gone. ‘Spies! In here?’

  ‘No. Not in here.’ Mary said, showing her impatience. ‘I am talking about the spies that have infiltrated Holyrood Palace.’

  ‘Crikey!’ Said Jamie. ‘Does the King know about this? Is he in danger?’

  ‘Absolutely, but we daren’t warn him for fear of them going into hiding. I plan to strike at the very heart of their network and I absolutely need your help.’

  ‘My help?’

  Mary shook her head. Her face became grave. ‘These spies… these snakes in the grass, are planning to strike down our beloved King.’

  ‘Gosh!’ Jamie said. He loved King Robert who was going to help the working people of Scotland. ‘That’s terrible.’

  ‘Exactly. Now, Colonel, can I rely on your help?’

  ‘Well, yes. Of course you can.’

  ‘Good. That’s settled it then. With one swoop we shall take them all out.’

  ‘In one swoop!’ Jamie said. ‘How are we going to achieve that? It would mean them being in the same place and at the same time.’

  ‘Exactly, and tomorrow evening, at six o’clock, these evil conspirators will be meeting up, right here in Holyrood. My intelligence people tell me these spies are planning to overthrow the Government and they plan to strike at midnight tomorrow. This Coup de grace, as one would expect, will first take out the heads of state and then crush the population into submission. The King will be their first target. Ahead of this revolution these terrorist spies will be gathered in the Café in Holyrood Palace. If we can take them all out in one hit we can prevent them dispersing and then activating their terrorist cells.

  ‘Gosh!’

  ‘Jamie, I need a man of obstinate courage, a man who loves his country and someone prepared to die for his King. Are you that man Colonel?’

  ‘Weeel…’

  ‘Think about it Jamie, ‘Marie said giving Jamie a penetrating look. ‘The revolutionaries will first execute the King and then they will round up the senior army officers who will be lined up against the wall and then shot. These terrorist spies know that without leaders the people of Scotland will quickly capitulate.’

  Jamie gulped. ‘When you say, execute all the senior army officers, would that include Colonels?’

  ‘Oh,’ Mary said as if there was no question, ‘Colonels would be the first up against the wall. But, if you were to be successful, you will not only save your own life, you will become a national hero. The King will be sure to knight you.’

  Jamie wasn’t sure he should trust Scotland’s First Minister? He hadn’t forgotten how Stickly had stitched him up.

  ‘What would I have to do?’ Jamie said, warily.

  ‘Those tanks,’ Mary said. ‘Do you still have them?’

  Appleby’s eyes widened. He looked about him and then lowering his voice he said. ‘Between you and me I can lay my hands on three of them. Why?’

  ‘Do the guns on them work?’

  ‘Oh yeah,’ Jamie said rather proudly. ‘I had them all fixed up. The tanks have had new camo paint jobs. The brakes are a bit iffy but they kind of work. I even had the gun sights fixed too. We can’t have any more shells going astray eh?’ Jamie gave a wry laugh.

  Mary gripped hold of Jamie’s shoulder. She shook her head as if in admiration.

  ‘I can’t tell you how relieved I am to hear you say that,’ Mary enthused. ‘I am proud to call you a true Scot.’

  Mary was running out of time and running out of patience with the King. Her schemes to be rid of him have become more desperate and increasingly bizarre. His bloody stupid reckless plans will be the death of him. How was it her fault? Mary had grown impatient with Leplume who still hadn’t got back to her to say that he had got hold of the Swedish Meatball. Getting Appleby to kill the King was perfect and cheap. Plus he was so dumb he could never implicate her. The problem of how to get at the King who since the kidnapping had increased his security, went away when she heard about the team meeting the King was going to hold in the Café in the Palace conveniently situated beneath the ancient volcanic hill known as Arthurs Seat.

  Her plan was to get Appleby’s squadron of tanks to shell the Café thereby removing all of her enemies in one go. And who would take the blame? The same man that had shelled Balmoral Castle!

  ‘What about shells?’ Mary asked. ‘Do you have any shells that you can shoot stuff with?’

  ‘Shells! Oh yeah, we found some in a box hidden under the drivers seat.’

  ‘Brilliant,’ Mary said, a little too enthusiastically. She leant across the table and became foreboding. ‘We live in dangerous times Jamie. We can’t be too careful. Only you and I can know about my plan.’

  ‘I’m confused First Minister,’ Jamie said, still cautious of trusting a politician. ‘If I am the only person to know of your plan, I can’t see how just me on my own can possibly capture a whole nest of spies?’

  ‘Ah,’ said Mary. ‘At five forty-five tomorrow evening, you will position your tanks on the hill overlooking the Café. At si
x o’clock all of the spies will have gathered there ahead of their final move to take over the country. Your tanks will then shell the building and reduce it to dust. No one is to escape. Have you got that?’ Mary’s tone was now strident.

  Jamie’s head was nodding but a voice in his head was telling him to walk away. He couldn’t. What about the King? It was his simmering anger over the way he had been scapegoated over the Balmoral Incident that finally convinced him to do it. This would be a chance to redress the humility that had been heaped upon him. He was going to show these politicians that he could be trusted.

  ‘If I were to go along with this, it would only because I really love our new King and I could never forgive myself if something bad happened to him.’

  ‘Jamie, you have my word the King will be safe. When the shelling starts I have arranged for King Robert to be with me over at the Parliament Building.’

  Had Jamie been entirely honest with himself he hadn’t gotten over the thrill of that time at Balmoral, when that big old gun went off and the tank rocked back on its tracks. Just to hear that ear-splitting bang once again, feel the taste of cordite in his mouth, was enough to cloud his judgement. He found himself saying, ‘Ok, I’ll do it.’

  The following day, at a quarter to six, in the evening, Jamie had his three tanks lined up on the hilltop with their guns pointed at the café. Jamie checked his watch. In fifteen minutes he would give the order to open fire. Any worries that he might have had he put aside. The soldier in him took over. He will follow his orders.

  Inside the Café in the Palace after all the tourists had all left and the gates were now locked, Gavin’s team building session was about to start. His legal team were drinking tea and coffee and had yet to settle in their seats. Had anyone, at that moment thought to look out the window and up at the hilltop, they’d have seen three tanks with their guns trained down on the Café.

  Sitting with his head poking out of the Command tank sat in the middle of the three vehicles, Jamie had insisted that only his tank would fire the live shells. The others would fire the rusted blanks that were found under a blanket in the back of one of the tanks. Colonel Appleby had on his head his WWII flying hat. His frog-eyed goggles, with one cracked lens, were slung around his neck. He yelled down the hole.