Controlled Device

Chapter 1

Cromwell Street was not quite empty; a grey early morning sky brooded somewhere above the steadily falling rain, whilst at ground level, the streets only visitor tramped wearily through the growing puddles on the pavement.
 
He wore a dark green waterproof jacket with the hood pulled up to protect his head and in his hand hung a Harrods shopping bag.

Outside number thirty-two, he stopped, turned and lifted his foot up against the railings to retie the lace. Once it was secure, he swung open the wrought iron gate and bounded up the five stone steps to the Georgian town house's door.

A car turned into the street and began to push its way through the standing water, throwing sheets of spray out as it picked up speed.

He patted his pockets, as though looking for his keys, until the motorist had past. Then, carefully, he placed a round, domed shaped box against the glossy black door at roughly chest height. It stuck there, held in place by a strong adhesive. Next, he attached a tiny crocodile clip to the newspaper that protruded from the letterbox. From the clip, a thin steel wire ran back to the box, where he tightened it with a small key until the rain drops hung from the wire like tiny jewels. The last item out of the bag was a laurel wreath, which he fitted snugly over the dome. He glanced round, checking one last time, then returned to the pavement and walked away.

An hour later the rain had stopped and the sky had lightened as morning shuffled its way across the London skyline.
         
A wall of smoke and flame roared out into the street as the townhouse’s windows shattered from the sudden pressure.

As the dust settled, the only noise came from a handful of rattled car alarms. The other buildings in the street were largely unmarked, save for a here and there a cracked or broken windowpane.

Dressed now in jeans, leather jacket, and a worn baseball cap, the assassin watched from a doorway. He was tall, with a face unremarkable except for the eyes which had a hard, glassy, almost flint like quality. From beneath a Mets Baseball cap, short black hair, peppered with silver, just showed.
         
Despite the reinforcing steel that lay beneath its black lacquered surface, the shaped charge had punched a ragged, fist-sized, hole through the front door.
The door belonged to a specialist financier; more accurately ‘had belonged’ since the bomb had triggered as he pulled his morning paper through the letterbox.          

The assassin stepped back into the street and squinted in the pale early light. ‘Anyone still acting relaxed would either look guilty or insane.’ He thought. Unconsciously a wry smile flickered over his lips. As he recognised that the two were far from mutually exclusive.

He moved forward joining the gathering crowd. Underneath their dismay, he could feel an undercurrent of eagerness, a chance, perhaps, to see something shocking.

From his new vantage point closer to the target, he could see the cloud of grey smoke rolling lazily up into the London sky, any birds temporarily replaced by the swirling fragments of paper, rising, dancing in the superheated air.

The Police, Fire and Ambulance were quickly on the scene, and began working with a grim efficiency born out of experience.
         
He let himself be shepherded back to safety behind a rapidly erected tape. Just another hapless bystander caught up in events beyond his control. He slipped back two or three paces, now it would seem that he had arrived late and was unlikely to be a witness. He let those in front of him interrogate the officer just beyond the cordon.

A Postman asked the first question. ‘What's happened mate?’

‘I'm afraid there aren't any details at the moment Sir.’ The Police Officer replied distantly. His radio crackled ‘Control, that's correct, one IC1 male, mid fifties, no other fatalities. Please confirm that the bomb squad are on route.’ The constable eyed the crowd as he turned down the volume on his radio.

‘Job done.’ The assassin thought, the IC1 male tag had confirmed the race and sex of his victim. Satisfied now that the delivery had been a success, he walked away.
He strolled back towards the local shops, even in this expensive London enclave the cigarettes, drink and papers were no more than three or four streets away. The local shops were neat and tidy though their fifties construction did nothing for the architectural merit of the area. They were the usual mix, a Chinese takeaway, Off-licence, Post office and Bookies.

He pushed his way into the betting shop.

Inside a fog of nicotine hung near the ceiling. The floor was old dark brown linoleum which had worn through in front of the cashier’s window to the dirty concrete beneath.

Using the pay phone on the wall, he dialled a mini cab, choosing the least professional looking card on the board. He gave the address of the bookies and asked for Euston station. Once he had replaced the receiver, he fished in the small metal tray for his change; as he expected the machine was not in a giving mood.
A Racing Times lay on the small laminate shelf beneath the phone. He was half way through an article when a car horn sounded outside. He folded the paper and put it back. ‘Bye’ he mumbled to no one in particular on his way out the door.

‘Euston is it mate?’ asked the driver as he climbed in to the elderly Ford Mondeo.

‘Sorry? No, did I say Euston? I could have sworn I told the girl Kings Cross.’ He said, pretending to be unsure.

‘Don’t worry, soppy cow’s always doing it’ the cabbie laughed. Picking up the microphone, he called in ‘Two six, picked up and on route’.

‘Excellent.’ Thought the assassin, by not bothering to correct the destination the record would leave a false trail.

‘Did you do all right?’ The driver asked.

The fugitive looked blankly back at him for a moment, his fingers slipping towards his concealed knife. At last realising to what the cabby referred, his hand relaxed. ‘Not great, lost three, won one and that was backing the favourite at criminal odds.’ He said in a forlorn sigh.

The driver chatted away about the weather and Spurs, and how both were crap this year.

When they finally arrived, the assassin climbed out, having been required only to grunt his agreement. He paid and told the driver to keep the change. As he walked inside the busy station he kept his head down to avoid the cameras.

Commuters jostled and pushed trying to reach their trains on time. He felt separate from the mass of people, even as he tried to blend in.

When he reached the ticket machine, he purchased an all day network pass and paid in cash. The ticket cost far more than the journey required, but it would not give a destination.

He took the creaking escalator down into the humid underbelly of London. The artificial light made him feel as though he were entering into another world.

On board the tube train, all the passengers contrived not to make eye contact with each other in the confined space. As the carriage moved into the open mouth of the tunnel, the standing commuters swayed rhythmically in synch with the train‘s motion.

He arrived at Waterloo station, the inappropriately named venue for the Eurostar to Paris and slumped, at last, into his seat just as the carriage began to lurch forward. The train pulled out slowly at first but with a relentless acceleration until it was hurtling passed the open fields and towns beyond the grime of the city.


* * * * *

The watch team were nervous, not only were they fully aware of the intended murder of a UK citizen but they were actually about to film it as it happened.
The hit man was clearly professional. The team held its collective breath as he moved down the wet street, slowly swinging the green Harrods bag.

He placed a round package onto the door; it hung there like a bulky unattractive door chime, and attached a wire and a laurel reef.

Panic hit the room.

‘He’s using an f’ing bomb, we have to stop this!’ A camera operator shouted.
‘Just do your job!’ growled the Commander.

The team consisted of three camera operators, two field agents and two data analysts all of whom glanced at the commander.

The room, a blacked out portakabin, was half a mile from the target and in semi darkness. It smelt of sweat and coffee; testament to long shifts in cramped conditions.

No one took the discussion any further. A strong sense of discipline pervaded the room.

The command and control officer was far less certain than his manner suggested. The decision to let this take place was from so far up that he got a nosebleed just thinking about it. Still, none of those ‘decision’ makers was present and he kept his thoughts to himself as he watched the monitors.

The assassin walked away.

'Keep an eye on him, I want him visible at all times.' said the commander. He looked at the tense faces in the room, 'Better to have them focused on the task at hand, than worrying about their own arses', he thought. 

‘Bob, stand by to call the emergency response units. Susan, as soon as this thing goes off, I want you on to Special Branch with a cease and desist notice. The last thing we want is “Super Plod” ballsing this up!’ Tight-lipped smiles and nods met his instructions.

‘Report in mobile units’ said one of the two field agents.

‘One ready, all links to the bus CCTV’s operational’ came the reply from one operator. ‘Two ready, we have assets on the street either side.’ A second voice echoed. ‘Three ready, black cab and mini cab substitutes in place.’ Each of the units called in with the same business-like efficiency.

‘Now all we have to do is wait for him to pick up his paper.’ The commander murmured.  ‘Is Marlow in position to intercept?’

‘His team are in the air awaiting confirmation.’ Susan replied, not breaking her concentration for a moment from the screen.

Somewhere between an hour and a lifetime later, everybody in the room flinched as the closest screens went blank. They watched as a shock wave threw litter into the air on images from the monitors that were further away, a cloud of smoke boiled across the street a heart beat behind it.

Plans swung in to action; the commander breathed a silent prayer of relief that the bomb had not been more powerful.


* * * * *

The train had settled into a melodic rumble as he looked out over the passing fields and houses.

He had few worries about the murders he committed and no illusion that society’s laws applied to him. Though in the dark silence before dawn, he sometimes felt more than saw the ghosts’ of the men and women his ‘job’ had claimed.

Facing towards him on the other side of the carriage sat a man in his late forties, smartly dressed in a dark business suit and blue striped shirt with a regimental tie; dark hair just beginning to grey at the temples, he looked confident, relaxed.

The stranger noticed the assassin’s casual glance and smiled. ‘I see that Tartan lad did well today’ he said gesturing to the paper on the seat beside him.

‘Really? I’m afraid I don’t follow the horses myself’ the killer explained. ‘Was that just a coincidence?’ He wondered.

‘Perhaps, but betting shops provide such wonderful places to lose oneself for an hour or two. Don’t you think?’ The traveller smiled again. This time the assassin saw the tension around the other man’s eyes.

Turning quickly in his seat he looked back down the carriage.

There were only two other passengers, sitting together further down the carriage. Both men were solid, athletic looking. They watched him with professional eyes.

Turning back, he noticed the solid bulk of a man standing in the connecting section between the carriages. How had they trapped him? He must have let his guard down somehow. Cursing himself, he took a slow breath, regaining his composure.
He could take one, probably two, but the result was always a forgone conclusion.

They clearly had him.

‘Have we met?’ he asked stalling.

‘Let’s just say you have come to our attention, Mr Jones.’ The man said.
‘How did they have that name?’ He wondered.

‘You seem to have me at bit of a disadvantage‘. He said, his body still taught as a bowstring.

‘Yes, I’m afraid I rather do’ the man smiled, ‘My name is Marlow.’

‘And what do you want with me, Mr Marlow?’ ‘Were they freelance?’ He doubted it; despite his best efforts, they had tracked him with terrifying efficiency. Then it came to him. ‘The bloody Taxi driver was a plant.’ They must have been watching him. His head filled with questions and possibilities. ‘Probably government, but why aren’t I dead or at the very least in handcuffs? Maybe I have something they want?’ A tiny flare of hope ignited, maybe he could bargain his way out of this.
         
Marlow let out a soft sigh, ‘Her Majesty’s Government has enough evidence to lock you away for ever. Or…’ and he paused before continuing ‘While you were attempting to escape we might be forced to employ, tragically of course, lethal force.’ His tone was that of polite conversation, the delivery made the threat that more chilling.

‘Can I assume that as we are discussing options you have an alternative in mind?’ 
‘Good, perceptive and to the point, I do believe we might have a third avenue to explore. We have, from time to time, a requirement for people with your talents and language skills.’ His steady gaze made the point. ‘Agree or else.’

‘Ok’ Jones sighed ‘What’s the job?’

‘You misunderstand. I am not asking you to deliver on a specific contract. I want you to think of this more as a career opportunity. You see, as of this moment you can work exclusively and of course deniably for us, or…’ He smiled as if he had just asked a dinner guest if they preferred white or red.

‘You really are a calculating bastard’ Jones said as the tension rolled in his stomach, like a ball of lead.

‘From you, that’s high praise.’ Marlow raised his eyebrows in mock surprise.

The train continued on its way, they both watched the world go by for a moment.
‘How did you get a line on me, I thought I was clean?’ Jones asked.

If he was going to survive this, he wanted to know how they operated.

‘I really do not see that explaining “how” would benefit me.  However, I am feeling generous; the main advantage we had was quiet simple really. We hired you.’

Jones stared open mouthed ‘But I made the hit! You just watched!’ He stumbled, somehow their letting him do it overshadowed his own contribution. In the background, sunlit homes and fields continued to roll by.

‘Parasites like Mitchell are not really the issue. For your information, he was arranging finance for groups that make you and I look like Mother Teresa.’ Marlow frowned for the first time. Then he looked up with suddenly fierce grey eyes ‘I will make you a promise though... No one, we, sanction will ever, ever, be remotely, innocent.’

So that is what they wanted, a deniable assassin. ‘I suppose the term expendable fits in to the job description somewhere?’ He said as he felt the anger rising in him.
‘Not so long as you remain useful’ Marlow held eye contact, totally at ease with the information he was delivering.

‘What’s to stop me saying yes and walking away at the first opportunity? After all it’s a big dark world out there.’ Jones said smiling; this was the crunch, beneath the surface his mind stalked like a caged tiger.

‘We would pass our considerable dossier on you to the CIA, Mossad and several others of the more assertive agencies. Each dossier would have an additional nugget or two that would have for you, unfortunate, consequences.’ Again, he spoke with the same calm, quiet assurance.

Jones had to admit to himself that this was a very convincing argument. No one survives long running from every counter terrorism team on earth, and he certainly did not fancy growing a beard and sharing a cave with the Taliban.

‘Will I get paid?’ he asked, tacitly agreeing, at least for now.

‘Yes, payment will be made into your Geneva account, do not worry we already have the account number.’

Jones glanced up sharply at this but said nothing.

Marlow continued ‘Allow yourself to be compromised and you will be considered a liability rather than an asset.’  He glanced at his watch. ‘We are getting off before the tunnel, best be ready’