Codename Files Nos.1, 2 & 3 Read online

  Charlotte was already waiting for me. Parked at the kerb, she had her lights on and the engine running. Her car was a big German saloon; one of those with a powerful engine that made it as quick as an Italian supercar. She saw me and popped the boot lid from inside. I threw in my bag and then jumped into the passenger seat. Charlotte pulled away immediately and accelerated rapidly through the traffic lights with smooth efficiency. She glanced across at me and said, ‘We don’t want to miss your flight.’

  Inside Charlotte’s Uber-saloon the air was climate controlled, warm and dry, and I noticed the bright display of her satnav. There was gentle music seeping through the speakers. I recognised it as Mozart. The seats were leather, comfortably padded and heated. I’d never had such a good minicab ride.

  ‘Why do the Germans make the best cars?’

  ‘They developed the knowledge from their experience of building armoured vehicles in the war and never stopped,’ she said.

  I noticed she was wearing casual clothes. Jeans and a silk top had replaced the business skirt and blouse. It made her look younger. Still tied back though was her hair.

  I said, ‘You look different today. Jeans suit you.’

  She glanced at me and said, ‘I always try to wear trousers when I drive. I find my skirts ride up and I always end up showing off my knickers.’

  ‘That’s a shame,’ I said.

  ‘Which,’ she said, ‘that my skirts ride up or that I’m wearing jeans?’

  I didn’t reply. Charlotte was different this morning. She was even more confident, more assured but relaxed too, as though things were going her way.

  She said, ‘I’ve got the assignment file, the one from yesterday, you need to take it with you. It has all the details you need. It also contains the two syringes.’

  I nodded. ‘Where is it?’

  'It’s in the boot. It has a brown leather cover. Once you’ve finished with it, get rid of it. You don’t want it on you.’

  'I understand. Destroy the evidence. No keepsakes, eh?’

  'It’s procedure.’

  There was a pause and then she asked, ‘Have you had any breakfast?’

  I replied, '...just coffee.’

  ‘There’re some pastries on the back seat. I got them from the bakery on my way.’

  I didn’t know any bakeries open at that time.

  ‘Thanks, maybe later.’

  She seemed to want to placate me for some reason and said, ‘Sorry about the suddenness of all this. We haven’t given you much time to think or get organised, have we?’

  There it was. Realisation, in that moment, as she spoke the words, I knew why I’d felt uneasy, why I’d had a nagging doubt. It was the speed of it. It was all too quick, wasn’t it? Fly out the next morning at seven-thirty. If they had an assignment ready. Surely, they would have given it to an existing operative and not the new boy. Hire the new boy, sure, but give him time to get used to the idea; time to think and prepare for a first assignment, sometime in the future. Not send him the next day. Not drive him to the airport.

  I was quiet while I thought it through. What reason could there be to send me specially? Was it something personal? That was unlikely. Was it something only I could do? That was unlikelier still. Anyone on Winchester’s roster could go to Tenerife and kill Geoffrey Button. Couldn’t they? I thought hard but I couldn’t reach a satisfactory explanation. Not one I knew was right, anyway. Perhaps I should ask Charlotte and then again perhaps not.

  As if she sensed I was thinking about something important she said, ‘You’re quiet.’ Then she joked, ‘You’re not scared of flying are you?’

  I laughed quietly and then said, ‘No, I’m not scared of flying. I’m just scared of going into combat with only half a story.’ She didn’t respond. I said, ‘In my experience, as a soldier, that’s a sure way of getting killed.’

  She asked, ‘What is it like in the army?’

  I wasn’t certain if she was genuinely interested or just wanted to change the subject and move the conversation away from what I was thinking. I said, ‘It’s like Christmas when you’re a kid, only better.’

  She smiled. ‘You must have been upset to leave?’

  It was my turn not to answer.

  She said, ‘Maybe, one day in the future, there’ll be something else, something even better than being a combat soldier.’

  ‘What? Sanctioned termination?’

  'For now, yes, but maybe something more, who knows?’

  I didn’t let myself think about that. I wasn’t getting my hopes up. Perhaps Charlotte knew more than she was telling, and I was sure she did. However, I wasn’t thinking she had any influence that she could use to help me with my career path. She was just being friendly.

  I reached onto the back seat and grabbed the paper bag with the pastries in.

  'Do you want one?’

  Charlotte shook her head and said, ‘maybe later.’

  I pulled out a croissant and began eating. We were silent for a while. The eastern horizon was beginning to lighten and a few more cars were appearing on the roads, along with the ten-ton trucks that had always been there. It was a quick run to the airport at that time of day. I finished my croissant. Charlotte said, ‘There’s a bottle of water in my bag.’ I found it and took a swig. She put her hand out and I passed her the bottle. She tipped her head and swallowed a couple of mouthfuls. She handed it back. I drank some more and then said, ‘Have you received the intelligence on Geoffrey Button’s address?’

  She shook her head. ‘Not yet,’ and then she added, ‘it’ll be sent to your K106 when we have it.’

  I nodded my acceptance.

  She said, ‘One thing we didn’t mention yesterday was to make certain you have a correct identification before carrying out the termination. In the past, there have been incidents of killing the wrong man. I know it sounds ridiculous but it can happen, it’s easier than you might think. Just be careful of that, okay.’

  ‘Sure, try to avoid killing the wrong person, check,’ I said in a jokey way.

  Charlotte said, ‘It’s really embarrassing when it happens and causes no end of extra work.’

  ‘I thought you were new to this. Don’t worry I won’t make any extra work for you.’

  She smiled. 'I’m not so sure about that.’

  I didn’t know what she meant.

  We were quiet again and getting close to the airport, so I decided to ask my question. Casually I said, ‘Why is someone like you, a civil servant, involved in this? Do you really work for the Secret Intelligence Service?’

  I watched Charlotte’s face, which remained relaxed. She said, ‘I’m just helping out in military intelligence because they’re snowed under with work. There are a lot of bad people out there.’

  Before I could respond, she said, ‘We’re here.’

  We weren’t quite, but we were getting near. She glanced across at me and said, ‘You’ve got your K106 haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  'Keep it switched on the whole time.’

  ‘Yes, you told me.’

  ‘Have you got your own phone with you?’

  'Is that allowed?’

  She didn’t answer. ‘My direct number is saved into your K106. If you have your own phone with you then copy it over. Just in case you need to use it to call me.’

  ‘Why would I…'

  ‘Back up.’

  '...right.’

  Charlotte pulled up outside the terminal building at the departure entrance.

  I said, ‘Okay, now we’re here.’ I got out and she popped the boot lid. I found the assignment file and put it my bag.

  I leant back through the open passenger door, grabbed my jacket off the seat and said, ‘Thanks for the lift.’ I wondered whether she was going to wish me luck like Winchester and Bradshaw had done. She leant toward me and motioned with her hand for me to move closer. Then she did something which surprised me, something which I hadn’t seen coming. She kissed me. She gripped my shirt, pulled
me down and pushed her lips against mine. It was a kiss, which lasted three or four seconds. She smiled at me but didn’t say anything. I smiled back, and then closed the car door. Carrying my bag, I walked through the departure entrance into the airport. I felt good.

  Still thinking about the kiss, I found my way through the crowd to the check-in desk. I was flying with a cheap budget carrier and had to check myself in using one of their floor-standing computers.

  The queue was short with only an elderly couple in front of me. I handed over my suitcase and the check-in woman said, ‘You should go straight through, sir, into the departure lounge. Your flight will be called in ten minutes.’

  I joined a longer queue and went through the security check without any undue delay. In the departure lounge, I checked the information board and heard the announcer call my flight. The terminal was crowded and the shops and cafes were all busy. I had to step carefully to avoid a collision as a young woman broke away from the horde of other travellers and moved directly into my path.

  It was a long walk to my gate number, almost to the very end of the terminal building. I joined the queue where the flight attendants were checking the boarding tickets and passports. I followed through, out of the building, into the weak, early morning sunlight and walked across the tarmac to the waiting plane.

  The white Boeing 737 rested patiently like a faithful packhorse ready to carry us to the Canary Islands without fuss or complaint.

  The metal steps clanged beneath my boots as I climbed aboard through the rear door. The female flight crew greeted me with tight smiles. I chose a row, stowed my bag and settled into the cramped window seat on the port side. This was home for the next four and half hours or so. I kept my K106 switched on and in my pocket and the brown leather assignment file rested on my knee together with the K106 instruction manual, which was not a standard document. It must have had a civil service department write it.

  I fastened my seatbelt, settled back and tried to get comfortable. We taxied to the runway and took off quickly and smoothly. The plane wasn’t full and, fortunately, nobody had sat next to me. I opened the K106 instruction manual and began to read. As Mr. Bradshaw had told me, it worked in a very similar way to a normal phone. One of the several features it had was GPS mapping through the satellite link. I soon finished reading the manual and my thoughts returned to Charlotte and our car journey and the kiss.

  Two flight attendants appeared by my row with the refreshments trolley. A pretty girl with her hair tied in a ponytail and wearing too much make-up asked me in a Spanish accent, ‘Would you like something, sir?’

  ‘A bottle of water and salted peanuts, please.’

  She gave me a nod, which I took to mean she approved. A smile accompanied the cold drink and silver foiled peanuts as they appeared on my foldaway tray. I paid with the correct money and the trolley moved on to the next row.

  The jet engines droned without rest while I ate my peanuts and drank my water. I peered through the small window. Puffy white clouds floated like giant sticks of candyfloss and a welder’s arc of blinding sunlight bounced off the wing.

  A kiss was better than a handshake, I thought. No mention of luck, either. I decided I shouldn’t read too much into it. She was simply an attractive woman, emotional and outgoing. She probably kissed many men like that. I found myself hoping that wasn’t actually true and decided I should read something into it after all. I wondered when I would see her again.

  I finished my peanuts and half-finished my water, sat up in my seat and opened the assignment file. A glossy photograph of Geoffrey Button looked back at me. A dead man staring, I thought and quickly turned through the half a dozen or so photographs. I read the directions from the airport to the villa as supplied by Alicia de Cortes Silver, and then studied the road map of the island. Next was a detailed guide and tourist information booklet of the west coast and the surrounding area. It was an unusual and interesting geographical place. A volcano, known by the locals as El Teide, whose height dominated the middle of the island, had created Tenerife. It was sometimes snow-capped and, fortunately, extinct. An impressive sight for an island located close to the south coast of Morocco with all year warm temperatures.

  My destination was the west coast of the island where giant, vertical cliffs, jutted like tombstones straight from the sea. Built on a rocky coastline, it seemed the coastal area was scenic, according to the guide, with a hilly terrain. I figured there would be a number of places where a high drop was likely, a dangerous spot, where a man could slip and fall to his death. Accidents do happen.

  I finished reading the rest of the assignment file, which didn’t contain much else. There was the travel itinerary which Charlotte had shown me at the meeting. This told me I was booked, in one week, on a return flight with the same airline. Just like a real tourist. There was also a list of pointers, advice and tips, such as, if asked, my reason for the trip was an initial visit with a view to buying a holiday home on the island. Whenever possible I should give true details about myself. After all, I’m not pretending to be anyone else; I am really myself. Always remain friendly but avoid socialising as much as possible. Wear sunglasses a lot and only eat and drink in busy cafes and restaurants. Some of the advice seemed a bit comical and I laughed at the recommendation not to engage in a holiday romance.

  The refreshment trolley reappeared and this time, I had a tea with a small packet of cookies. I peered out of the window again. Something had eaten most of the candyfloss. The arc welding was still in progress. I ate all three cookies and sipped my hot tea. I wanted the flight to finish.

  I stared at one of the photographs of Geoffrey Button and wondered who he was, what he did and why Her Majesty’s government wanted him dead. Mr. Bradshaw was right, of course. It was none of my concern. I was just the man doing the killing, a gunslinger for hire, paid to do a job, no questions asked, no reasons given. It was the same in the army. I followed orders, I didn’t ask why I did what my training taught me and I let others shoulder the worry. I supposed that’s how it had to be.

  I looked again at the photograph of Geoffrey Button. He appeared harmless, nothing obviously evil in his features, but then, what can you know from a photograph. For all I knew he could be the most dangerous threat to the world alive today. I closed the file. Anyway, it didn’t matter, I had my assignment, my orders and Geoffrey Button was going to die.

  Wasn’t he?

  Chapter 7

  The bidding procedure is a combination of experience and skill. It is essential to know your partner well.

  The captain’s voice, made crackly by the aeroplane’s speaker system, sounded above my head. In an uninterested tone, probably because he wasn’t staying, unlike his passengers, he said, ‘We are approaching the island of Tenerife and will be landing in around ten minutes.’

  He continued to give us a weather report, which I figured was easier to get right than those back in Britain. 'It’s a lovely day in Tenerife with unbroken sunshine and a temperature of twenty four degrees. Have a pleasant stay on the island and thank you for flying with…' I had stopped listening. He finished with, ‘We hope to see you again soon.’

  I peered through the window as we flew down the west coast of the island on our approach to the airport. The white buildings below contrasted with the sharp blue swimming pools as if sugar cubes splashed with drops Curacao liqueur.

  We descended quickly and touched down smoothly at the small holiday airport. The captain taxied immediately to the single terminal building and soon allowed us to depart the aircraft.

  At the open door, the smiley flight attendant bid me farewell and then I stepped out into the warm fresh air and bright sunshine. I breathed deeply, happy to escape the metal tube, and pulled my sunglasses from my jacket pocket and pushed them on. I liked Tenerife immediately. Like many small islands, it had an easy charm like the friendly smile of a cocktail waiter.

  Inside the terminal, I showed my passport to the uniformed official sitting in his glass i
mmigration box. He waved me through with an expression of true indifference.

  Next, I went to the car hire desk, which was located close to the baggage carousel. The local rent-a-car firm was sandwiched between Avis and Hertz. I figured they had to be the cheapest to compete in that position. The girl behind the counter gave me a tired smile and I handed her my driving licence and the booking receipt from the assignment file. She tapped slowly on her computer and then asked me to sign something, which I did. She passed me the car key, babbled some confusing directions to their parking bay and told me to bring the vehicle back with half a tank of petrol. I nodded and smiled as I grabbed my licence from the counter top and headed off to reclaim my bag.

  After a minute or two, I saw my battered bag going round on the carousel, made a grab for the moving handles and successfully pulled it off.

  Outside the terminal, I crossed the road and climbed up the slope to the car rental parking bays. I found the local firm’s vehicles parked together on the top tier and then located my car by its number. It was a small Seat hatchback in yellow. I loaded my luggage and jumped in. The engine started willingly and revved freely. I pushed a few buttons and the air conditioning started and so did the radio, which played a local station with Spanish music and a Spanish-speaking presenter. I left it and the car filled with the sound of acoustic guitar and castanets.

  I checked Alicia de Cortes Silver’s directions one more time, then drove away from the airport and got onto the main coast road heading north. The traffic was light on the dual carriageway and the Seat bounced along happily at sixty miles an hour. The left-hand drive set up felt a little awkward but I wasn’t going to be driving fast, and anyway I’d soon get used to it. A dust covered 4x4 sped along in the outside lane. I tapped my fingers on the steering wheel to the gypsy music, took my time with the accelerator and watched the scenery pass by. The terrain was dry and bare resulting from the island’s low rainfall. It was similar latitude to that of the Sahara Desert.

  I was soon at the end of the dual carriageway and I turned, in a slow sweep, onto a single lane road, which was going to take me the rest of the way. The older road wound along the coast in a series of tight bends that offered wide views across the Atlantic. I suspected the surveyor and engineer had mapped it out over long discussions at the local tavern.