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Nestled in a little wood, the cottage backed onto the county boundary. Climb the back garden fence and the delights of West Lancashire awaited.
Nicks left Simon on the main road and walked along the track, using the night vision goggles. Si had started his circuit; he’d be passing the entrance roughly every ten minutes.
At the garden gate, he squatted and listened intently, checking his surroundings. Eventually, he rose, silently lifted the latch and made down the path, slowly, carefully, until he reached the front door. Within a minute, he’d picked his way in, slipping through into the hall. Door closed, he stood listening, once more. After he’d quickly checked all the others, he returned to the back room, the one with the library of books, and began his search.
He hadn’t been at it long when he thought he heard a noise. He stood rigidly still. There it was again. Quickly, he slid into the alcove adjacent to the door. Someone was coming down the hall. They were quiet but not quite enough. He caught the brief flash. Probably a penlight.
The figure stepped into the room and Nicks hit him as hard as he could on the side of the head. Down like a sack of potatoes abandoned in haste. He leapt over the now prone body, ready to deliver more. It just lay there, doing nothing.
Having drawn the heavy, lined curtains, he’d turned on the light, ditching the night vision into his day sack. Now, he stood looking at the man slumped in the chair he’d propped him up in. He started to come round, holding the left side of his head.
“Don’t bother getting up. I don’t want to have to hit you again.”
“Oh, shit. What did you do that for?” He leant forward, head in hands.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hit you so hard. Put it down to adrenalin.” Nicks smiled, “You don’t seem too surprised it’s me? Almost relieved, I’d say. Why’s that, I wonder?”
Early thirties, slim build, dark curly hair cut fashionably, designer stubble, he looked up at Nicks. “I didn’t expect to find you here but, you’re right, I’m not that surprised.”
“Who do you work for?”
“I’m with the Police.”
“No, you’re not. There’s no Police ID in your wallet. I’ve looked.” Nicks threw him a civil service discount card. “You’re not run of the mill, so who is it? MI5, I presume? And what’s your real name? Your driving licence says Michael but the discount people know you as Darren.”
Picking up the card, he placed it back in his wallet. “Well, between you and me, my name’s Darren. As for MI5, all I can say is ‘sort of’.”
Nicks glared at him and readied himself. “Sort of? Explain, and it better be good, or I’ll pan you again.”
Darren shrunk back into the chair. “Hang on, hang on! It’s not that simple.”
Nicks took out the Glock 26. Locked and loaded, he waved it at him, casually. “Well, take your time. I’ve got ten minutes to spare.”
“Ok, look. Technically, I’m with the Statistical Analysis Office, a Government thing but we’re a kind of sub-unit.”
“And what’s it called, this sub-unit?” He pointed the gun.
“Room Three.”
“Wow, they worked hard at that one. Be aware, I’m running out of patience, so start telling me stuff. What does Room Three do, exactly?”
“I honestly can’t tell you, it’s more than I dare. Let’s just say that, in this case, we share the same interests.”
Nicks raised his eyebrows and, with his free hand, tapped the weapon.
Darren held his hands out in front of him, an act of surrender, partial at least. “We’re both looking for the same thing. Whatever it was Don left us,” he replied, hurriedly, and then paused. “For want of a better phrase ‘the clues’. Without them, we’re not going to clear this ‘embarrassment’ up.”
He saw Nicks’ lack of clarity. “Ok, what people in my line of business, those in the know, refer to as ‘The Rumour’ is the organisation you work for. It’s a long story and I really haven’t got time but it was originally intended as a resistance movement during the cold war. Over the years, it mutated. All well-intended, I assure you. But, now, it’s been infiltrated, people working for their own gain, and the nature of the original set-up makes it very difficult to discover who they are.”
Nicks tried to hide any reaction. “Are you telling me I’ve been killing the wrong people?”
Darren smiled. “No, Nicks. You’ve been killing the right people, just not for the right reasons.”
They gazed at each other for several moments. An owl screeched.
“Look, I think it’s time you met my boss.” Darren waved his hand towards the door.
They walked back down the track, Nicks behind, still holding the Glock.
At the black limousine, parked in a dark recess off the track, 100 metres from the road, Darren halted while the chauffeur opened the rear door. Nicks looked in. “Put the gun away. You won’t need it,” a voice instructed.
“I’ll hang on to it for now, if it’s all the same to you.”
“Put the gun away, Nicks, or I’ll have to ask Thomas to take it off you.”
“He can try.”
“Oh, he’ll do much more than that.”
Nicks eyed the driver. In the moonlight, he looked like a man with more than a passing acquaintance with the dark side. Thomas gave him an inviting smile. Nicks slid the weapon into his leg pocket and stepped in.
He couldn’t make out the man’s features in the dark interior, the blacked-out windows weren’t helping any, but he sounded like an older guy. He was wearing a trilby and a white scarf, he knew that much.
“Who are you or is that a silly question?” Nicks was trying hard to make out his face.
“Who I am is of no consequence, Nicks. Don was a dear friend and I shall miss him.” He paused. “He’d found there were, shall we say, discrepancies in your organisation’s make-up, infiltrations by those intent on benefitting themselves. I’m afraid we took our eyes off the ball and, by the time Don alerted us, it had become quite serious.
“Your Liverpool gangster was a case in point. The sole purpose of his elimination was to remove competition and take over what assets they could. There were others over the years. It became a cancer which now requires radical surgery.
“We need to cut out the tumours but we’re not entirely sure where they all are. We’ve had some success in other areas but only Don knew the extent here, where it went, from and to. Sadly, he was taken from us before he was able to pass the information on.” He fell silent for a second or two before continuing:
“He told me he’d sent it to the only person he felt he could trust in the meantime. That’s you, Nicks. He’ll have microdotted it and left it in a book somewhere. Old habits die hard. Libraries were a possibility but mishaps happen, people take books out, lose them etcetera so it had to be somewhere ‘secure’; so, the safe house. You know what we’re looking for. We know you do.”
“How do I know I can trust you? How do I know you’re not part of it?”
“The short answer is you don’t. You have my word we’re on the same side, on this matter at least, but words can often mean nothing, don’t you find?” He didn’t wait for a reply.
“But, think of it this way. If we were part of the problem we wouldn’t need you. We’d just torch the house and you’d be just another body washing up on a beach somewhere. There’s been a lot of that happening recently; the odd boating accident, people falling out of high flying aircraft. They don’t always turn up anywhere either. It’s a big pond, the Atlantic.” He hesitated. It was as if he had more he could say but decided not to. “Find the book, Christopher.”
Nicks weighed up his options. They weren’t heavy. “Ok, but tell me something. Who was Don?”
A little laugh. “You ask such a simple yet complicated question. It’s almost childlike. I’m afraid I can’t tell you that. I can tell you that ‘Don’ was his code name, from the old cold war days. He and his agents were named after rivers. Vistula, Tiszes, Havel, that sort of thing.”
“Did he have any family?”
“All gone now. It happens to us all.” The sadness in his reply was evident. “But, back to reality. What do you get out of this? Well, we’ll share the information, some of it, basically what you may need to complete what you’ve, no doubt, decided to do; find his killers and make yourself feel better. The rest is ours. It leads to places you won’t be able to go, to things you can’t possibly take part in. There’s no room in this for the innocent, Christopher.” He smiled an unseen smile. “Despite your credentials as an assassin, in these particular matters, you are an innocent. Robust surgery is required and our professional specialists take a very dim view of hobbyists getting in the way. Once or twice it’s proven fatal.”
He sighed. “Like you, my friend, my best years are behind me. Field operations are for the youngsters, believe me. Your sell-by date is fast approaching, though some would argue it’s passed.” A fatherly hand on his knee. “Quit while you’re ahead. You can have Don’s killers but the rest belong to us. Interfere or go beyond the remit I’m giving you and, at the very least, you’ll certainly never see real daylight again. Who’d look after Anca then?”
He knew his priorities. And because he did, he told him of the ‘call’ he’d received. It didn’t surprise the old man. “They realise the cat is almost out of the bag, Nicks, and I think they’re prepared to sacrifice Don’s killers because it was unauthorised, conceived in a moment of stupidity and panic. Of course, they could just tell you who to target but would you believe them? And, in any event, it wouldn’t occupy you for long enough.” He sighed. “I’m afraid, I can’t guarantee your protection nor that of your loved ones. I have a different game that must be played, and there’s too much at stake.”
A slightly wiser Nicks stepped back out and the limo instantly purred away, slowly gliding towards the main road. He turned as Darren slid out of the shadows, mobile against his ear. “Yes, Sir. I’ll call you when we’re finished.” Phone away, he patted Nicks on the arm. “Come on, we’ve got work to do.”
Back in the cottage, they began scouring the book shelves. After five minutes Darren waved a book at him. “What about this?”
“Wrong Browning. That’s his missus.”
Several minutes later. “Bingo! What about this?”
Nicks took it from him and checked the ISBN. He flicked through to Home Thoughts From Abroad.
Darren took it back and removed a small Stanhope lens from his pocket. Seconds ticked away. He looked up at Nicks. “Yep, this is it alright.”
“Did you get it?” Simon briefly looked at him as Nicks slid into the passenger seat and closed the door.
“Yes and no. Slight problem.” Nicks waved him on. “C’mon, let’s just fuck off and I’ll tell you in a minute.”
“Well?” Simon eventually asked.
“I wasn’t the only one there. I had an interesting chat with a guy in the back of a limo.” He told Si all about his ‘meeting’.
“So, did you get to see what was in the info he left us?”
“Only the first part. They wouldn’t let me see the rest. Said if I did they’d probably have to kill me and the driver looked as if he’d be happy to do it there and then.”
Simon negotiated his way over the old narrow bridge and headed for the by-pass. “And?”
Nicks shot him a quizzical glance. “And? Well, obviously, I decided I’d rather not die tonight so I let them have their own way.”
“No! What did Don want us to know?”
“Oh. We’re looking for someone called ‘Nomad’. The regional intelligence gatherer. Don had a meeting arranged with them. He said he wasn’t sure whether they were a part of the problem or not.” He paused. “I think that’s what he was expecting to do the night they killed him. Evidently, he got his answer, just not the way he would have liked. He also mentioned Missus Byrne. Said he needed to meet with her again. It doesn’t say why. Throw a right in here.”
Several minutes later, they pulled into the car park of ‘The Freshfield’.
On a bench outside, Nicks lit a cigarette and sipped his pint before continuing. “Clearly, Don had viable information in there, names, places, traceable lines, etcetera because their man, Darren, said what he was reading meant something to them, and he looked pretty pleased. I think this was just an interim report and Don was still tidying up some loose ends.”
“How do we know we can trust these people? What if they’re in on it?”
“Don told me to expect them, in the microdot info. In case I got to it first, he left me instructions on how to contact them.” He smiled, wistfully. “I was to leave a certain short poem I’d once told him of, a favourite of mine. He said they’d know it was me.”
Simon put his glass down and wiped his mouth. “Well, I’m still not entirely convinced.”
Nicks leaned forward and ruffled Simon’s hair, playfully. “Stop worrying. All we have to do now is find Nomad and any accomplices. When we do, I kill them. I’ll be happy with that.
Simon nodded and smiled at him. “Suits me. Pass us those nuts.”