Retribution

CHAPTER TWO.

  September 18th. Athens.

  As the last rays of the afternoon sun were gilding the Parthenon, Andreas Kokalis turned left off Liosion, along Filadelfias and towards Stathmos Larisis, the main Athens railway station. The streets were darkening rapidly and Andreas began to hurry. His handsome young face and thin moustache could not conceal a secret smile. He was in a jubilant mood, the bundle of used Drachmae in his inside jacket pocket represented more than six months earnings from his regular employment, and that was only half the promised sum. Andreas, in his mind, was already spending the money in his pocket. He smiled again as he pictured himself wearing the expensive new clothes and the gold Rolex watch that he had recently been admiring.

  The big opportunity had come about via his work. The man who had presented him with the opportunity was a regular visitor to the Five Star Hotel where Andreas worked as a concierge. A quiet man in his mid to late forties, George Liani had stayed at the hotel regularly over a period of several months and Andreas had come to know him well. Andreas supposed him to be a wealthy businessman. Wealthy because he always left a generous tip, and as most of the regular visitors to the exclusive Hotel Grande Bretagne were business people, Andreas had assumed that George Liani was a businessman too - which was exactly what the man calling himself George Liani wanted people to think. Well dressed, with plenty of money, and staying in the oldest and finest hotel in Athens, George Liani acquired an automatic air of respectability. But he was not what he seemed, and his fluent Greek had an accent that Andreas couldn’t quite place. Whilst checking on the availability of theatre tickets one evening George Liani casually asked, ‘I don’t suppose you know anyone who wants to make a little easy money?’

  Andreas looked at him. He could always use a few extra Drachmae himself. ‘Doing what sir?’

  ‘Well, it’s a little delicate; an accommodation for some business friends of mine, nothing illegal of course, but a fair amount of discretion is needed - that’s why it pays so well.’

  That the job was likely to pay well immediately sharpened Andreas’s interest, as it was meant to do.

  ‘What’s involved?’

  ‘My friends are in shipping.’

  Andreas nodded, that was respectable enough; many wealthy Greek families were in that line of business.

  George Liani continued, ‘They live outside Greece as tax exiles, but they urgently need to spend time inside the country, over and above the permitted amount allowed by the tax authorities. They are being threatened with a hostile take-over and need time to prepare the defense of their interests.’

  Andreas nodded again. He was no corporate law expert, the explanation sounded okay, but what could he do to help out with that sort of situation?

  George Liani answered his unspoken question. ‘They need a villa and some transport rented on their behalf. I’m too close to be involved myself; it has to be someone unconnected with them. Because of the discretion needed, a large fee is available, plus a regular monthly retainer for making any additional arrangements. Do you know anyone who would be interested?’

  ‘How much are they paying?’

  George Liani named a fee and a retainer to be available if the initial job went without a hitch.

  As Andreas gulped the bait, George Liani struck home the hook by taking a large wad of high denomination bank notes from an inside pocket and peeling off one as a tip. ‘Half the money will be paid when a suitable villa is rented, the rest when the cars are hired. The cash to pay for the villa rental and the car hire you’d get up front.’

  Andreas had taken the job on. After all renting a villa and a couple of cars was not illegal, and if anyone asked he could have a story ready which was near enough to the truth to stand up to examination.

  Andreas Kokalis had duly handed over the address of a large secluded villa together with two sets of keys. The villa was rented for a month, in his name, with cash paid in advance. In return he had received from George Liani a bundle of used Drachmae as promised, the same Drachmae that were now burning a hole in his pocket. A day later, there were two cars parked in the drive in front of the villa, also paid for cash in advance, and all that Andreas had to do now was to meet George Liani, hand over the keys to the cars, and collect the balance of his promised drachmae.

  Andreas reached the concourse of Athens railway station and waited as arranged, at the set down area, where cars dropped off and picked up passengers continuously. No one would take any notice of him getting into a car there. He stood apart from the taxi queue and lit a cigarette feeling as though what he was doing was clandestine and exciting. It was certainly a hell of a lot better than being at the beck and call of all and sundry, working as a concierge. Maybe this was only the beginning, maybe George Liani needed a local mister fix-it, and maybe this was only a test.

  Andreas began to daydream. The new clothes and the new Rolex fitted into the dream very well.

  A large BMW saloon with dark tinted windows drew up alongside him, the window slid down and George Liani leaned across the front seat smiling and beckoning to him to get into the back. Andreas opened the door and got in. There was someone sitting on the far side of the back seat, a young man whom Andreas had not seen before, a man with olive complexion, dark eyes and a moustache. He smiled and nodded. Andreas smiled and nodded back, wondering who he was. One of the tax exiles, perhaps?

  George Liani pulled away from the curb saying, ‘We’ll conclude our business away from prying eyes.’

  ‘Okay,’ Andreas agreed, and sat back wondering where they were going.

  George Liani headed for Peiraios, followed it a short way then turned on to Vaseleiou Tou Megalou, going out through Tavros towards the industrial area on the western side of the city. A seed of doubt began to germinate in Andreas’s mind. George Liani had not gone to these lengths to pay him the cash the first time.

  ‘Why do we need to come this far out?’ he asked.

  There was no answer. Andreas looked to his left and directly into a large black silencer screwed on to the end of an automatic pistol. His mouth went dry and he began to sweat. The car pulled into a factory gateway and stopped. George Liani got out, closed his door, and unlocked the gate. The sign on the gate advertised a firm manufacturing poultry and livestock foods.

  George Liani drove the car in and then relocked the gate. He opened a side door in the factory building with a key, and put on the lights. He then opened the car door on Andreas’s side. Now he too had a gun with a silencer on it. ‘Out, Greek,’ he said, motioning with the gun and stepping back to cover Andreas’s movements.

  Andreas got out, sick with fear; he could place the accent now. George Liani’s hate betrayed any disguise. George Liani was a Turkish Cypriot and they had no love for Greeks. Andreas thought about making a dash for it.

  ‘Stand still.’

  Andreas froze; his mind refusing to believe what was happening to him. The second man jumped out of the car and also covered Andreas with his gun.

  ‘In there.’ George Liani pointed to the open door.

  George Liani’s accomplice jammed the silencer of his automatic hard into Andreas’s spine pre-empting Andreas’s last chance of flight. Slowly Andreas walked inside. There was a dreadful smell. The concrete floor was dank and wet from hosing-down and scrubbing with brooms, but no amount of scrubbing and hosing could remove the smell of death. This part of the factory processed the offal, bones and flesh of dead animals into meat and bone meal, an ingredient of livestock feeds.

  Andreas didn’t hear the shot that killed him. The bullet, an unjacketed soft lead 9mm round from a silenced Walther P4, smashed through the back of his skull and out through the front, blasting away part of his face. Only the two men inside the building heard the ‘phut’ of the shot, no one else heard anything at all. The force of the impact flung the dead Andreas face down onto the dank concrete.

  George Liani and his helper wasted no time. They removed the Drachmae Andreas had been so pleased to earn, together with th
e car keys, then, using a sharp knife, they cut away his shoes and clothing, and put it all into a black plastic bag. Taking an arm and a leg each, they heaved Andreas’s naked remains into the feed hopper of the process machinery. George Liani pressed a green button on the side of the machine. With a sickening crunching grinding sound Andreas disappeared from view.

  The second man hosed the pool of blood and urine into the drain.

  George Liani pressed the red stop button and the machinery stopped. ‘One less Greek to breed,’ he said, reverting to his native Turkish, and spat into the machine.

  The two men switched off the lights and left quietly the way they had come, taking the black plastic bag with them and pitching it into the trunk of their car.

  When the factory started processing next morning the corpse of Andreas Kokalis would vanish leaving no trace.

  September 18th. St. Mary’s Hospital, Paddington.

  Jim Savage had endured hours of questioning and report writing. When it was over he remembered his promise to Dawn Saint Pierre. Should he go or not, he wondered? He would like to have a girl like that but would a girl like that want him? ‘What the hell,’ he muttered, ‘she did ask me.’ He rang the hospital and was told that Miss Saint Pierre was recovering well and could receive visitors. He hurried home and showered. On an impulse, at a stall inside the busy hospital foyer, Jim bought a bunch of flowers. Armed with these he went to reception and asked for Miss Saint Pierre. The lady on the desk told him the ward. Jim found his way there and, suddenly feeling unsure of himself, went in.

  Dawn saw him the moment he entered. She had been hoping he would come. Her face lit up and she gave him a shy smile. Jim’s hesitancy vanished; he grinned at her and strode over to her bed. ‘Hi, how are you feeling? I brought you these,’ he said, thrusting the flowers forward, ‘thought they might cheer you up.’

  ‘Oh, they’re lovely,’ Dawn exclaimed. She sniffed the bouquet. ‘Mmmm, the freesias smell gorgeous...’ she paused. It’s a bit difficult.... I’ve just realized, I don’t know your name.’

  ‘It’s Jim, Jim Savage, my friends call me Jumper.’

  ‘Well, I’ll use your real name. Hello Jim, I’m Dawn, Dawn Saint-Pierre.’ She smiled at him.

  ‘You’re looking a lot better,’ he said to cover his awkwardness, and indeed she was. Some color was back in her cheeks, she had brushed her hair, and she had applied a little make-up.

  ‘Yes, they gave me lots of blood and the surgeon told me that he’s done a really neat job on my hip. There’ll only be a small scar and that will fade in time. Anyway, it’s in a place where it won’t be seen, so it could have been worse. Look, I’ve got the bullet they removed,’ she took the flattened 7.62mm round off the bedside locker and showed it to Jim.

  Jim shuddered; he knew what these things could do. ‘Any pain?’ he asked.

  ‘No, they’ve given me painkillers, so I can’t feel a thing.’

  ‘You’ve been very lucky.’

  ‘I know,’ Dawn replied. She was silent for a few moments. ‘I could easily have been killed. I’ve been thinking a lot since I’ve been in here, it really shakes up your ideas, you know, about how you live, what’s important and all that.’

  ‘Yes, I know the feeling,’ Jim agreed, ‘makes you want to live life to the full and not waste it.’

  ‘Yes,’ Dawn agreed quietly, ‘have you got any kids?’

  ‘No, I’ve never been married.’

  There was another short silence.

  ‘Can I get you anything? Anything you want done; messages to your family or anyone?’ Without intending to Jim gave the “anyone” an emphasis he hadn’t meant it to have.

  Dawn picked up on it immediately. ‘There isn’t an “anyone” around at the moment,’ she said.

  Jim was still digesting this statement when the ward sister interrupted their private thoughts.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she said with an apologetic smile, ‘but the doctor and physiotherapist are coming to see Miss Saint-Pierre in about five minutes, could you be ready to leave by then?’

  ‘Oh, yes, okay.’ Jim was disappointed but had to agree.

  Hesitantly Dawn asked, ‘Could you do me a favor. Would you get me a few things?’

  ‘Sure, anything you want.’

  Dawn opened her locker and took out her shoulder bag. She rummaged in it and pulled out some keys. ‘These are my house keys,’ she told him and, taking a bill from an envelope, she gave him the envelope carrying the address. ‘Could you go round to my place and bring me some clean underwear, a dressing gown and some pajamas? Oh, and some toilet things, and makeup?’

  ‘Well, hang on, what about your family, won’t they mind?’

  ‘No sisters or brothers, only me; and my parents are up North. Dad doesn’t drive any more, they’re going to come down by train but they don’t know London at all, it would be a bit of a struggle for them...’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry. Well, if you’re sure, yes, of course I’ll do that for you.’

  Dawn held her hand out. ‘Quick, give me that envelope back; I’ll make you a list.’ She scribbled furiously for a couple of minutes. ‘There you are, a list, and notes of where everything is.’

  The ward sister came in with the doctor and the physiotherapist.

  ‘Right, I’d better be off then. See you soon.’ Jim left the ward, his thoughts chaotic. Could this stunning girl really be interested in him? In Jim’s experience this kind of thing didn’t happen in real life.

  Dawn’s gaze followed him out; she had a speculative look on her face.

  September 19th. Mayfair.

  It was pouring with rain as Mike Edge stepped out from the American Embassy into Blackburn’s Mews for the second time. The London weather had changed totally with a cold, wet, leaden sky. ‘I could be in another damn country,’ Mike thought, he walked behind the big modern building into Upper Grosvenor Street and waved down the first cab he saw. ‘Vauxhall Cross,’ he told the cabbie, ‘the intelligence building.’

  ‘Okay, the Iceberg is it?’

  ‘Iceberg?’

  ‘Yeah, well that’s what the punters working there call it,’ the cabbie explained, ‘they say there’s more underground than above - an’ it’s painted white innit?’

  When Mike arrived at the Iceberg Major Caltrop was conspicuously absent, but Captain Jennings was waiting for him with the police officer from the armed airport detail. He took them through the security checks to an interview room where the weapons from the airport attack and various other items had been laid out.

  Mike’s first impression of Jim Savage was of a no nonsense character, standing four square, stomach in, chest out, and chin up. He didn’t get that confident bearing from Police training, not even from an armed security unit, Mike thought as he noted the hard, slightly battered face.

  ‘Ex-Army are you, PC Savage?’ he asked.

  ‘No, Royal Marines,’ Jim Savage replied, looking offended.

  ‘Oh Really?’ Mike had come across Royal Marines Commandos during his US Navy days and had been impressed with their professional qualities. ‘What did you do in the Royal Marines, Constable Savage?’

  ‘The Real Marines,’ Jim Savage replied, a gleam in his eye, ‘I was a senior N.C.O., a sergeant instructor.’

  ‘Which branch?’

  ‘SC.’

  Mike’s eyebrows rose a fraction higher. SC stood for Swimmer Canoeist, the specialist branch whose highly trained and skilled members made up the little known and very secretive S.B.S. units. Their boast was, ‘Whatever the S.A.S. can do we can do it with flippers on.’

  Mike Edge was impressed and Jim Savage knew it. The S.B.S. had inspired the US Navy SEALS, they were the best. ‘I worked with some of your guys once or twice.’

  It was Jim Savage’s turn to raise his eyebrows inquiringly.

  ‘Naval Intelligence attached to Special Forces,’ Mike explained.

  The two men looked at each other with mutual understanding. A barrier came down.

  ‘Okay,
let’s forget the bullshit,’ Mike said, ‘you know why I’m here, tell it how it happened.’

  Jim nodded. ‘Okay,’ He took a deep breath. ‘I was on duty in the departure hall and I was bored stiff,’ he began then paused, realizing an explanation was needed for this statement. ‘Well this type of work is the worst I have ever done, but a job is a job and I couldn’t find anything else when I came out of the Corps...’

  Mike interrupted him. ‘But guys with your talents and abilities are in great demand now.’

  ‘Wish I knew where.’

  ‘Seriously?’ Mike looked at him. He needed all the goodwill and co-operation he could get. It wouldn’t hurt for Jim Savage to owe him one. He wrote rapidly on his pad and tore off the page, folded it and passed it over. It carried the name Fine Line Solutions, a specialist Private Military Company based in Knightsbridge, together with a telephone number.

  ‘Give this firm a ring and ask for a guy named Cunningham, you can mention my name, I’m sure he could find you something with better pay and much more interesting work.’

  ‘Well thanks very much,’ Jim said, surprised, ‘much appreciated, I’m sure,’ and he slipped the folded paper into his inside pocket. ‘If I can ever do you a favor, you only have to ask, okay?’ They were to be portentous words.

  ‘You never know,’ Mike said with a wry smile. ‘Anyway let’s get on.’

  ‘Yeah well,’ Jim continued, ‘there I was, bored bloody stiff, letching over a gorgeous blonde, when all hell broke loose.’ He gave Mike the details, giving him a very clear and concise picture of what had happened.

  In the process Mike found that he liked Jim Savage and was glad that he had offered to help him with a reference.

  September 19th. Marylebone Magistrates’ Court.

  Both of the captured terrorists were brought before magistrates and were remanded in custody pending trial. When the trial began the charges ranged from armed affray to murder. Neither man would speak to the barrister appointed to defend his case. The barristers did what they could for them by quoting the hardships of the Palestinian people and making justifications to the jury, but that did not affect the trial results. The jury took the view that, however just the Palestinian cause, it could not and did not justify an armed attack on innocent people in a third country.

  But both the terrorists wanted to be found guilty. They wished to be martyrs to their cause and to obtain the maximum publicity possible. On being sentenced the two men spoke for the first time. With clenched raised fists they shouted in unison, ‘For “The Blood of Shatila”.’ ‘For “The Blood of Shatila”.’ The press loved it.

  September 19th. Bayswater.

  Jim Savage looked at his watch, he had promised to go round to Dawn Saint-Pierre’s place and pick up her things. He would have to hurry to get there and back to the hospital for the start of visiting hours. He set off for Bayswater, the area of London where Dawn lived. Her address was a mews cottage in that part of London just north of Kensington Gardens, which forms the western border of the City of Westminster.

  Jim entered the mews and started checking the numbers. He found Dawn’s double fronted mews cottage half way down on the right hand side. Smart, with fresh white paintwork and brightly colored flowers in hanging baskets, it was obviously an expensive property. There was a garage on one side, a door in the centre and a Georgian bow window on the other side.

  The Georgian window frames hid discreet security grills. The front door carried Banham security locks, and both doors and windows were protected by an alarm system. Using Dawn’s keys, Jim opened the front door and deactivated the alarms.

  He found himself in a small square entrance hall at the foot of a flight of stairs. There were doors to his right and to his left. Opening the right-hand door he stepped through into a garage. A new dark red Mini Cooper with cream leather interior stood there. The garage door worked on an up-and-over mechanism operated by a remote signal unit in the car. Very neat, Jim thought, Dawn could drive up, open her garage without getting out of her car, drive in, close the door behind her and then get out of the car in perfect safety.

  Jim left the garage and went through into the room to the left of the hall. It was an office-cum-workroom.

  A desk carried a PC, keyboard and screen. A printer stood on a side table. In and out trays for mail and a leather desk diary were on the desk together with a large blotter. It was neat, orderly and professional. Suddenly Jim noticed the pictures on the walls. They were enlargements of studio portraits, pictures of Dawn professionally posed, photographs for magazines and tabloid newspapers.

  They were stunning. Her slightly sulky face pouted provocatively, and her long blonde hair swept down, artfully arranged to conceal very little. Jim swallowed hard. Could this incredibly beautiful woman really be interested in him? It was hard to believe, and it was becoming harder. He tore his eyes away from the photographs and left the room, taking the desk diary with him; it was on Dawn’s list.

  He went up the stairs and entered the living area. At the rear was a small kitchen, cleverly fitted to contain everything necessary, all new and sparkling. Next to the kitchen was a big comfortable bathroom. Set in the corner was a large oval Jacuzzi bath with a shower above it. A curtain on a curved rail would close off the bath into a spacious shower unit. The whole bathroom was beautifully tiled in mosaics, walls, floor, fittings, everything in rich warm colors.

  Jim went into the large living room. It was tastefully furnished, an original still life of fruit, glowed above a Victorian tiled fireplace. The sofa and chairs were in the finest Italian leather, the thick shag-pile carpet soft and deep. Over by the window an antique dining table was surrounded by matching period dining chairs. It was obvious to Jim that money had not been a problem when furnishing this place. He went into the bedroom.

  A King size double bed was the first thing he saw. A pang of jealousy stabbed through him. ‘Who does she share that with?’ he wondered. A mirrored fitted wardrobe filled one wall. Annoyed with himself and his thoughts, Jim went over and opened two of the doors to search for a grip Dawn’s notes said would be in there. As the doors opened Jim saw that the whole of the hanging area was filled with clothes. Designer clothes. Below the hanging area were racks of shoes. Expensive shoes. All exclusive names.

  Above the hanging area were shelves. Jim took down the grip. It was Gucci. He opened two more wardrobe doors, revealing an area half hanging space and half drawers. The hanging space contained winter coats, leather, fur and cashmere, different lengths and colors.

  Jim began to feel ratty. His own flat was respectable but very ordinary, nothing like this. How could he ever take her back there? His dreams began to fade. ‘Bloody fool,’ he muttered to himself, ‘she can’t be interested in you.’

  He began to pack the items Dawn had listed, and took some of the flimsy silk underwear from a drawer; it was faintly perfumed and very sexy. ‘Not bloody fair,’ he muttered, and then, as he finished collecting the bits and pieces Dawn needed, a thought occurred to him. If he could earn more maybe he could meet Dawn on more equal terms.

  September 19th. Southwest Beirut.

  The Blood of Shatila splinter group had set up its headquarters in the ravaged, war-torn city of Beirut, that once beautiful city known as the pearl of the eastern Mediterranean. Their chosen location was an underground car park and service complex deep beneath a damaged apartment building in the southern part of the Western Muslim sector. In a converted storeroom a pressure lamp, hanging from a hook in the ceiling, hissed as it lit the centre of the room where a meeting was being held. In the shadowy corners the grey concrete graded to black.

  The man commanding the attention of the assembled company was the man who had led the attack at Heathrow. Styling himself “Abu Asifah”, or “Father of Storms”, his eyes were blazing with fanaticism and triumph. ‘We have struck a mighty blow,’ he shouted, ‘the world of the unbelievers has been shaken, our cause proclaimed.’ He paused for the words to sink in. ‘The Israeli
dogs wish to crush the Palestine Liberation Organization as they crushed houses at Jenine. They kept Chairman Arafat penned in his headquarters and weakened him in the eyes of the world. The suicide martyrs of Islamic Jihad are putting pressure on the Israelis but it is not enough. The American Jews with their money and their votes are destroying our nation. It is up to us now, we must carry the torch of freedom for our people, we must maintain the momentum, keep applying pressure, more and more pressure until the infidels are forced to meet our demands.’

  There was a murmur of approval at his words.

  ‘The shelling of our people in the villages of Lebanon must stop. We will remove the Israeli settlers from the West Bank to create a truly independent Palestinian state. The Holy City of Jerusalem, the Dome of the Rock and the El Aqsa compound shall be returned to the people of Islam.’ Shouts of approval rang out.

  ‘Our brothers in arms languish in the unclean jails of the infidels, kept from the holy places, unable to make pilgrimage.’ He paused again for effect. ‘It shall not be! We will twist the limbs of the misbegotten unbelievers, our brothers shall be released!’

  His audience stood and applauded him.

  In the shadows away from the lamp a short, very fat man frowned and pursed his petulant lips. His vital contribution to the great success had not been mentioned.

  September 19th. Bayswater.

  As he was packing the last items on Dawn’s list Jim remembered the guy from the US Embassy giving him the name and number of a security organization. What was the guy’s name? Edge, Mike Edge? That was it. Mike Edge had said that they paid well. How well was that? And could he get a job with them? He eyed the telephone by the side of Dawn’s bed. She wouldn’t mind. He’d tell her he’d used it and offer to pay for the call. Jim took out the folded sheet of paper and opened it. The name to ask for was Cunningham. He rang the number.

  ‘Fine Line Solutions,’ a clear female voice, ‘how can I help you?’

  “Fine Line”? “Solutions”? Enigmatic! In Jim’s mind the name conjured up all sorts of implications. ‘Er, yes, I’d like to speak to Mister Cunningham, please.’

  ‘Yes sir, and your name is?’

  ‘Savage. Jim Savage.’

  ‘Thank you Mister Savage, of what company?’

  ‘It’s a private call; I was referred to him by Mike Edge.’

  ‘One moment please, I’ll see if Mister Cunningham is available.’

  It would be hard to get past her Jim realized, that’s why she had the job.

  The girl came back to him. ‘I have Mister Cunningham for you Mister Savage.’

  ‘Yes Mister Savage, what can I do for you?’ The voice was sharp, decisive.

  ‘Hello Mister Cunningham, we haven’t met, but I was given your name and phone number by, Mike Edge.’

  ‘Go on,’ the voice replied noncommittally.

  ‘Well, he suggested that I ring you and ask you for a job,’ Jim said bluntly.

  ‘Did he, now? He must have thought you suitably qualified?’

  ‘Yes, he did.’

  ‘Hmmm, could you give me a thumb-nail sketch, Mister Savage, a very brief résumé please?’

  ‘Ex Royal Marines, specialist qualification SC1; marksman in all weapons; parachute wings and HALO experience...’

  ‘That’s enough, Jumper,’ the voice cut in, ‘we’ve met before remember?’

  A puzzled look crossed Jim’s face. ‘Captain Cunningham? Cap’n Andy?’

  ‘The same.’

  ‘Well, well... It’s a small world. I didn’t know you were out of the Corps.’

  ‘Yeah, well, they wanted me to leave Special Forces, go for staff rank, promotion, all that stuff.’

  ‘Oh, I see, so you set up in private practice?’

  ‘Yes, private security is big business, and I had to eat... well that’s another story. Anyway Jim, I do have vacancies for guys with your expertise, but, if you choose to attend an interview here, it will include very exhaustive probing into your background.’

  ‘I don’t mind that. You know that I passed SBS selection, and I have nothing to hide.’

  ‘Very well, can you come tomorrow at 10.00 am? Got the address?’

  ‘No, hang on while I find a pen and paper... Okay, go ahead.’

  Andrew Cunningham gave him the address and Jim wrote it down.

  ‘Mike Edge led me to understand that you pay well, can you give me some idea of your pay scales?’

  ‘No, not yet, and not over the telephone; suffice it to say your talents are in demand and valuable to us. You won’t be disappointed if you join us, I assure you.’

  ‘Okay Captain Cunningham, I’ll see you at ten sharp tomorrow. Goodbye.’

  ‘Bye Jim; and the name’s still Andy.’ The line went dead.

  Jim grabbed Dawn’s leather grip and set off for the hospital. He had a lot to think about on the way.