Assassins

  ‘Fergal, have you got the Café in your sights?’

  Shaking his head Fergal fiddled with the controls. He was convinced this was going to be another Balmoral balls-up. He just hoped the Colonel knew what the hell he was doing.

  Angus McPhee, put in charge of tank number two, with just his head poking out of the cockpit called across to Jamie, ‘what kind of spies are we talking about Colonel?’

  Jamie shrugged. ‘Russian ones I imagine. Why?’

  ‘I was just thinking, if I was a Russian spy, I wouldn’t hold a meeting of my fellow Russian spies in such a public space as the Café in the Palace?’

  ‘You know your problem McPhee?’ Jamie said. ‘You think too much. When I drop my arm you are to open fire.’

  Jamie’s arm was raised when Angus McPhee interrupted him, ‘Colonel, seeing as you are the only one with a shell, what exactly are we supposed to fire?’

  Irritated by the interruption Jamie forgot about his raised arm. He dropped it so that he could remonstrate with McPhee when Callum Bludden, the gunner in tank number two, who was fairly new to the squad, took this as the signal to fire his gun. A sound not too dissimilar to a wet fart accompanied by a puff of black smoke escaped from the muzzle of the big gun. The gunner in tank number three, thinking that he must have missed the signal then followed suit.

  ‘I said you was to wait for me to drop my arm,’ Jamie yelled, exasperated at his men who with their heads poking out the tanks looked like a bunch of wary Meerkats.

  ‘Jamie. I mean Colonel,’ Callum argued. ‘I saw your arm drop.’

  The gunner in number-three tank, nodded in solidarity.

  ‘Look,’ Jamie said forthrightly, ‘it’s quite simple. I will have my arm raised like this.’ Jamie demonstrated. ‘Then when I drop my arm in this manner,’ Jamie demonstrated this and yelled, ‘wait for it!’ He saw them all nod. It was as if they understood. ‘That is when you hit the fire buttons. Not before. Are we all clear on that?’

  With his men watching for the signal, Jamie once again raised his arm. With his mind focused on destroying the enemies of Scotland he whipped his arm down and yelled. ‘Fire.’

  This time, all three gunners hit their fire buttons. A minute later Jamie ordered an immediate retreat.

  The huge bang that came from somewhere up in the hills woke Iris who was not the least bit interested in taking part in Gavin’s Team building exercises. The others, startled by the noise, cautiously moved outside and looked up at Arthurs seat.

  The tanks had gone.

  A few of them pointed out the column of black smoke spiralling up into a pink evening sky.

  When Jamie’s gunner hit his own fire button, at first nothing happened. On the third attempt, the shell got jammed in the barrel where it exploded making a very loud bang and a lot of smoke. When the tank crew, shaken and blackened with soot, emerged from the command tank, they saw that the gun barrel had split open like a banana skin.

  In frustration, Jamie threw his hat and goggles on the ground. Worried the bang will have alerted the spies in the Café Jamie shoved his fogged binoculars into his eye sockets. When he focused in on the crowd emerging from the café he cursed.

  ‘Shit!’

  ‘What’s up Jamie?’ McPhee, the commander of tank number two said appearing at the Colonel’s hip.

  ‘Take a look.’ Jamie said pushing the binoculars into McPhee’s chest.

  ‘Jeezus!’ McPhee said. ‘That’s our King down there!’

  Grim-faced Jamie nodded. ‘That bloody woman!’ Jamie growled. ‘She almost tricked me into killing our new King.’

  ‘What bloody woman?’ McPhee wanted to know.

  ‘It’s best you don’t know Angus,’ Jamie said through gritted teeth as he climbed back into his tank. Circling his arm in the air, he yelled. ‘Quick, turn about. We have to get out of here.’

  *

  It was dusk. Under a starry sky, trundling over the hills, with Jamie’s tank in the middle of the convoy, Colonel Appleby was taking the shortest route back to the village where he planned to keep the tanks hidden. Archie Wilson, driver of the lead tank, sounded worried when he radioed the command tank.

  ‘Colonel, I don’t think we should risk driving these tanks down the hill that lies up ahead. The brakes aren’t that good.’

  ‘Would you rather risk being arrested for the attempted murder of the King and spend your last days in prison?’

  ‘We could find another route?’

  Jamie looked up at the sliver of moon peeking out from behind a curtain of clouds. It was growing dark but he daren’t risk using the tanks headlights. Out here in the hills they would be too easily spotted.

  ‘There’s no time for that.’ Jamie yelled into his radio mic. We have to go on. Just take it slow.’

  Archie Wilson, when he tipped the front of the Challenger II tank over the brow of the hill was thinking, what was the worst that could happen? If the brakes were to fail they would slew down the hill and then come to a stop at the bottom. He felt his stomach turn when the front of the tank slammed down on the stone-strewn steeply sloping hill. Holding the tank in check as it picked up speed hurtling down the hillside was like trying to hold onto a bull with the scent of heifers in its nostrils.

  ‘Whoah!’ He cried out when the tank shot down the slope. Halfway down the hill he heard a loud crack. Suddenly, as if it had slammed into a wall, the seventy tonne monster came to an immediate stop bundling the tank crew into an untidy heap of men on the floor. The drive shaft of the tank had snapped. Sliding down the hill immediately behind the lead tank, Jamie Appleby’s driver could do nothing to prevent the disaster about to befall them. Suspecting his life was about to end abruptly, Jamie shut his eyes and cursed. With a sickening thunk his tank slammed into the back end of the lead tank. When he heard the shouted warning Jamie looked behind him. Like a runaway express train, with a sickening crunch the rear tank slammed into his one. The three tanks, now a crumpled heap of twisted metal that was pouring out smoke and steam and indistinguishable one from the other could have been some sort of scrap yard challenge participant.

  Jumping down from his tank to inspect the damage, Jamie saw the rusted structures had concertinaed to the point where it was hard to imagine the carnage of steel and iron had once been three tanks. When he saw flames licking out from beneath his own tank he suddenly remembered the half a dozen live shells sitting in a wooden box down by the drivers seat. Turning tail and running for the trees he yelled back to the others.

  ‘Run for your lives! There are live shells in there!’

  The eight men dressed in army fatigues, running for their lives managed to get a hundred yards into the dense Pine forest when a massive explosion behind them threw them off their feet. Landing in a soft bed of pine needles all they could do was hold their hands over their heads and pray that the chunks of steel now crashing down through the trees would somehow miss them. The explosion lit up the night sky. The sound of the exploding shells could be heard back in Edinburgh. It was a miracle no one got injured by the falling pieces of shrapnel and chunks of iron. With their ears ringing the tank crews cautiously crept out from the forest. Their ride home had gone. They stood gawking into a black hole where only a few moments ago had stood three Challenger Mk2 tanks.

  Looking up at an overhanging branch Jamie saw his frog-eyed goggles swinging to and fro. The cracked lens was missing.

  *

  By the time news of the attempted assassination of the King got out, creating further tension between the Scots and the English, Mary Dewar had had Jamie and his men rounded up and put on a boat and then dropped them off at a far-flung Island in the Outer Hebrides. With no physical evidence linking her to the attack, Mary Dewar was quick to put the blame on Sir Roger Bottomley’s Government.

  *

  ‘Mary Dewar is deranged,’ Sir Roger roared, on his feet at the despatch box in the Houses Of Parliament. ‘The UK Government had nothing to do with the attack on their King.’

 
It had got to the point where just the mention of the name of Scotland’s traitorous First Minister’s would incite such outrage among the MP’s they would shout and boo, and wave bits of paper.

  ‘The British Government may not see eye to eye with King Robert on a number of contentious issues,’ Sir Roger yelled above the din. ‘But neither myself nor anyone in my Government would ever try to harm him.’

  *

  ‘The assassination attempt on our beloved King,’ Mary Dewar said, addressing the Scottish Parliament and the world’s media, ‘was undoubtedly the work of Sir Roger Bottomley and his Government who cannot accept the fact that Scotland is now free of their Colonial rule. I say this to them: “Scotland shall never submit to your threats or your attacks on our freedom.”‘

  Holding aloft a clenched fist, Mary cried. ‘God save the King.’

  ‘God save the King.’ Echoed round the packed Debating Chamber.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  10 Downing Street.

  The economic sanctions the UK Government had imposed on the Scots intended to bring them to their knees had only hardened the Scot’s steadfast determination to defy Westminster. With King Robert’s populist laws due to come into force in a just four days time, those with the most to lose, the big industrialists and the bankers were demanding that Sir Roger step aside and make way for a Prime Minister showing more backbone, a PM that was prepared to invade Scotland and impose martial law. Tipped to take his place was the darling of the women voters, the suave, floppy haired 38 years old, Bedfellow, who at present occupied the post of Minister for the Arts.

  So much was hanging on the assassination skills of this one man Gent. Roger’s only hope of hanging onto his job was to have the King done away with before he enacts his new nationalisation laws that it is predicted will send the UK economy into meltdown. Should that happen, Sir Roger would have to fall on his sword. What was even worse, that popinjay, Huw Bedfellow, was tipped to get his job. ‘Bloody Brexit, bloody Scots.’ Sir Roger muttered picking up the phone in his private study.

  Sat behind her desk, Charlotte Sweetwater looked over at the red pulsing light on her phone. It was Sir Roger. She sighed. Now that she loved Huw Bedfellow, what was she to do about the poor man? Charlotte sighed. With his career and his reputation in tatters, Sir Roger Bottomley, now looked somehow old. Whereas, Huw Bedfellow, with his charm and his wit and the looks to go with it and tipped to become the next PM was an all-together different kettle of fish. Charlotte is now in love with Huw. Yes, he is married. But it is to a Hollywood actress and these never last long. If she were to finally abandon her virginity, she could so easily to him.

  ‘Hello Sir Roger, what can I do for you?’ Charlotte said applying another coat of varnish to her fingernails.

  ‘What are you doing right now? Only I need you to come to my private study right away.’ The PM was thinking she sounded a little offish with him. Lately he was worried about the amount of attention Huw Bedfellow was paying his Private Assistant. He might have to get rid of the man in the next Cabinet reshuffle?

  It was while she was still trying to come up with an excuse not to go to the PM’s office that her door swung open. Charlotte caught her breath and her hand went to her throat.

  ‘Hello sexy,’ said Huw Bedfellow who wandered over and sat on the edge of her desk. He angled his long legs so that his left one brushed against her thigh. When he leant over and pressed his mouth against her ear she went all of a quiver.

  ‘Is that the PM?’ Huw whispered holding one finger to her lips. When he nibbled her ear lobe she almost passed out.

  ‘Charlotte!’ Sir Roger bellowed down the phone. ‘Are you still there? You got someone with you?’

  ‘I will catch you later gorgeous,’ Huw said blowing her a kiss at the door.

  He left her office door ajar so that she could watch his narrow hips and his tight bottom swagger off down the corridor.

  Fanning a piece of paper in front of her face Charlotte found her voice.

  ‘Sorry – Sir Roger – I am here. I– I had someone in the office – I couldn’t talk. You were saying?’

  ‘Who the bloody hell you got in your office? I don’t employ you to have someone in your office… unless it’s me. It had better not be that bloody Bedfellow, the, damn Judas?’

  ‘Gosh Sir Roger, no.’ Charlotte said, unable to get from her mind the lingering memory of Bedfellow’s hot breath on her neck. ‘It’s just, I am a little busy right now Sir Roger…’

  ‘Right away I said,’ Sir Roger bellowed, cutting her short. ‘I don’t employ you to be busy.’

  Sir Roger decided he had had it with Charlotte and the way she flirted with him and her holding back all the time. Either the woman wants it or she doesn’t. He was going to tell her straight, either we have sex right now, in this office, or our relationship is over. He cleared the top of his desk in readiness. Sir Roger knew his wife, wasn’t likely to interrupt them because Dame Edith would be in a hotel somewhere with her damn French keep-fit trainer, Marcel Du Pont whose fees and the hotel bills came out of the PM’s expenses account. Most days Monsieur Du Pont would keep his wife occupied for an entire day.

  Charlotte needed to go to the ladies room to calm down and spray a little perfume. She looked somewhat flushed when she closed Sir Roger’s door behind her. She was still trying to regulate her breathing.

  Sir Roger noted there was something different about the way she approached his desk. She wasn’t fluttering her eyelashes at him, she wasn’t pouting and her sexy hip-sway had gone.

  Sir Roger had noticed her bosom was heaving. That was a good sign.

  Needing a distraction from where her mind was at, Charlotte enquired. ‘How did the vote of no confidence go? Was it really horrible?’

  ‘I scraped through,’ Sir Roger said, studying his private PA, who seemed to be acting uncharacteristically cool towards him. Bottomley’s resolve to have his way with her, had along with a vital part of his anatomy softened. He was now thinking that maybe she wasn’t in the mood? He sighed and took from his desk drawer a half empty bottle of brandy and a tumbler.

  Charlotte saw the PM’s desk had been cleared of its usual clutter. Her eyes widened. Oh my, She gasped. Sir Roger was hoping that we would do it, on his desk! Charlotte took a step back. Her fingers began twiddling with strand of her long blonde hair. She was thinking that she really ought to come out with it and tell Sir Roger that she was in love with someone else. She daren’t tell him it was Huw Bedfellow though. Gosh no! There would be pistols at dawn. She decided not to say anything after watching the PM swallow a very large brandy.

  ‘What was it you wanted to see me about Sir Roger.’

  ‘About! I never want to see you about anything Charlotte; I just like your company. I was hoping that you would give me a bit of a massage.’

  ‘I think you want more than that Sir Roger, and we both know what that is.’

  ‘Kitten,’ said Sir Roger patting the top of his desk, ‘why don’t you come closer, come sit on my desk. I just need you nearer.’

  ‘Ok,’ Charlotte said, warily. ‘But only if you promise not to do any of that naughty touching thing.’

  Going over to his desk she sat on the very edge ready to leap off at the first hint of impropriety on his part.

  Sir Roger couldn’t remove his stare from her bosom that had yet to stop heaving. His right hand shot out.

  ‘Uh huh,’ Charlotte said and leapt off his desk. She smoothed down her skirt. Frowning like a schoolteacher she admonished him. ‘We agreed, had we not Sir Roger, there was to be no naughty-touchy-touchy.’

  There were tears in Sir Roger’s eyes when he nodded.

  Chapter Thirty

  Edinburgh.

  When Gent saw the mobster hesitate and then with the barrel of his gun push up the brim of his hat, the MI5 agent threw himself down the length of the bed. Grabbing hold of the butt of his gun that was still holstered he swung it up and hurriedly squeezed off a shot.

 
With a dull thud Gent landed on his back on the floor.

  In the doorway, the Italian looked somewhat surprised. He should have been, given there was now a neat hole between his eyes.

  Gent was lucky: the mobster’s bullet gouged a furrow through his scalp before it smacked into the headboard.

  Up on his knees now, Gent looked over the edge of the bed and saw Tony topple face down on the floor.

  After carefully wiping his fingerprints from everything in the room he might have touched, Gent packed his bag and then threw it out the fourth floor window. He then made good his escape by shinning down the rainwater pipe.

  Hurrying away he was thinking this was getting ridiculous. He really must stop shooting people in hotel rooms.

  Gent was thinking things in Edinburgh were becoming a little complicated. First, there was Mario Pantanello, who he now knows wasn’t here to kill the King at all, next thing, one of Mario’s relatives shows up with a contract out to kill him. Only a few minutes ago he heard on the TV news that someone with access to three tanks had just tried to kill the King! All of a sudden it was as if it was open season on King Robert! The upshot of all this murderous activity has caused the King to go into hiding. Hitmen, it seemed were crawling out of the woodwork and he didn’t like it. Not one bit. On a secure mobile network, Gent called up his handler.

  ‘Q, what the hell is going on?’ Gent snapped. ‘I got hitmen all over the place up here.’

  ‘Yes I know. The King has made himself a number of enemies,’ Q said. ‘Our people want him eliminated. The Scots want him dead, and a little while ago I heard that a bunch of very wealthy industrialists are seeking to hire a specialist too.’

  ‘Great,’ Gent said, sarcastically.’ And what about my fee if someone else was to take him out? I have invested a lot of time on this job and already I have had to eliminate three people.’