The Money Virus

By John Gardner

An Australian secret service agent, on secondment to the British, and her Irish partner discover a small red note book with some coded entries in the safe of a Brazilian political gangster they killed. The discovery sets off a chain of events that quickly catapults them in a terrifying and totally unexpected direction. But there are dark forces in Britain working against them forcing the British agents to team up with Mossad to unscramble the code and discover its deadly purpose. But the clock is ticking. Can they do it in time?

This work of fiction has turned into an undreamed of reality. Medical lies used as a political weapon to terrorise the major industrial countries.

The real events that have so sadly and predictably unfolded are shocking. The signs leading up to this attempted destruction of democracy were clear to be seen since part way through the last century. I just interpreted them. My fictional story is about what could have happened. Corporate domination and greed defeated by the application of common sense, logic, courage and scientific fact.

What has happened is abject, unfounded fear giving birth to nightmarish paranoia, all based on a lie and driven by a lust for dictatorial power. The politicians are well aware there is no better disguise than fear. They can hide any number of undemocratic moves behind fear. Fear used as a weapon of control on a population now too terrified to breathe the very air that gives them life. Fear that led entire populations to abandon hard-fought for freedoms and submit to slavery. By choice. All justifiable by the relentless government voice giving us all the same message - ‘for our protection’. Protection from what? A mildly deadly disease that endless doctors and scientists are telling us is no worse than a bad flu. But people seem to prefer relentless propaganda, the lies. It gives them something to hide behind without having to think. It’s on the television so it must be true. George Orwell got it right!

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Gardner
• Release date: Nov 11, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005547400

John Gardner

Writing is a passion, as are photography and music, they have defined much of my life.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Tuesday 17th September 2019, 14.48, Clapham, South London

It was an intermittently dull day in London when Jill, a twenty-seven-year-old, good looking blonde Australian surfer type stormed into the entrance hallway of her mansion flat. Her long hair flashed faint highlight streaks of red in the light as she opened the door to her spacious garden flat.

‘You shit Jack!’ she yelled, her Australian accent very obvious, as she slammed the door in his face, breaking his nose. It was an accident. He had just followed her through the door a little too closely in his attempt to placate her. Silly move on his part because she was the sort of woman who spoke her mind freely and she was pretty handy in a bar fight. All in all, not someone you wanted to mess with. Or follow too closely.

‘Feeeeck!’ he screamed, blood drenching his shirt. ‘Oh feck! Feckin’ mental!’

‘You lying, pikey shit!’ she yelled back as she slammed the door on him again but this time the toe of his shoe stopped the door before his face was treated to another close encounter with the solid wooden door - with a smudge of blood on it.

‘I didn’t lie!’ he tried to yell but it came out as, ‘Ah dund la!’ She understood.

‘All you had to do was be honest! You tosser!’ She was still yelling.

A neighbour came down the stairs in time to witness the yelling and the blood. She saw the state of Jack’s face and reacted as if she was witnessing a dog relieving itself on the spotless tiled floor.

‘It’s nuddin’. Jud a wee accident,’ he said with an attempted smile to the attractive young woman. Stars were swimming in his head as he stepped into the flat and closed the door.

Once outside the building the young woman called the police. She wasn’t going to have blood on the floor of her home. Irish hooligan!

‘Ah wus honest!’ Jack said scurrying to the kitchen to mop the blood off his face at the kitchen sink. He held his head back with a wodge of paper towel against his nose. ‘Ah cud av yu dun for assut!’

‘In your dreams,’ she said pouring half a bottle of white wine into an enormous glass.

Jack watched in stunned silence, stars still dancing in front of his eyes. ‘Un me?’

‘Fuck off! You want wine you pour it yourself, you lying, cheating, selfish bastard!’

With that cheery message she strode into the small garden and threw herself onto a well padded and very expensive garden chair. There was a scream of agony from the kitchen brought about by Jack trying to manipulate his nose back into position. She sighed like a steam train coming to rest then took a large swig of wine. ‘Alright, alright!’ She marched back into the kitchen to find Jack bent over the sink, both hands clutching the edge.

‘Little bitch Pom!’ she spun him round, took hold of his nose between her finger and thumb, neatly swatting his defensive move to one side, and gently manipulated his nose back into place. He screamed. ‘Fucking baby! There. Fixed.’ She turned on her heel leaving him clutching the sink as a whole new galaxy of starts exploded in his head.

She went back to her seat, surrounded by the smells of lavender and honeysuckle in the warm, late summer air and took another large swig of wine. Jack joined her a few minutes later.

‘Ya broke ma dose, ya bitch!’

‘You broke my fucking heart you… you cunt!’ She burst into tears. Not what he was expecting.

‘What?’

‘You heard!’

‘No, no. I mean you said -’

‘I know what I said but I, the stupid bitch that I am, fell in love with you. You! Of all people I fall for you. You tosser!’

‘Sorry, it wus jus a drunk. Nuthin’ happened.’

‘Yeah and I’m the fucking pope!’

‘You swear a lot, you know that.’

‘Oh fuck off!’

‘Look, she’s a cupper. A contact. We hud a drunk. Dads it!’

‘You! I fall for you! I want my fucking head looking at!’

‘Ah dudn’t know. Ya never said.’

‘Oh read between the lines Jack! Christ do I have to draw you pictures? Who else do you think I do those things with? Huh?’

‘Tings?’

‘You know what I mean,’ she growled at him.

‘Oh, righ, dose… tings.’

‘Yes Jack, dose tings! Those very personal things I did with you! You shit!’

‘Look cud ya stop callin’ me dat.’

‘Why? Offend your delicate sensibilities does it?’

But he didn’t get a chance to answer because the doorbell rang. They stared at each other.

‘Well… aren’t you going to answer the door poor little miss broken nose.’

‘Oh shud up!’ He got up and walked to the door, a wodge of kitchen paper pressed against his nose, to find two police officers, dressed from head to toe in an array of black equipment and clothes. They would look right at home in a violent video game, Jack was thinking.

‘Uh… yed?’

‘We’ve had a complaint,’ said the male officer who looked like he would rather be anywhere but attending what was probably a common or garden domestic.

‘Ey?’

‘A complaint sir,’ said the small female officer.

‘Abu whu?’

‘Possible assault,’ said the male officer pointing to Jack’s face.

‘No! No, Ah wuked into du door. Nothin’ to it,’ he flannelled. ‘Sorry yi’ve been bothered bu u’m fine,’ he said pressing the wodge of blood soaked kitchen paper against his nose in an attempt to stem the blood that was running down his chin and onto his shirt. The two police officers looked at each other then the woman spoke.

‘Can we come in sir?’

‘This is better in private,’ said her tall companion.

‘Come in? Uh…wull –’

‘Thank you sir,’ said the female officer walking past him into the living room.

‘So…?’ said Jack joining them.

‘We had a complain of an assault here in this building,’ said the female officer staring at his bloody face. ‘You want to get that seen to sir,’ she said pointing at his nose. ‘It might be broken.’

‘Aye , Ah wull, Ah wull…’ said an uncomfortable Jack, wriggling on his feet.

‘So who did this to you?’

‘It wus jus a accident.’ He tried to laugh, without much success. The attending pain brought a whole new galaxy of stars into view. He grimaced.

‘You alright sir?’ asked the male officer.

‘Uh yeah. Nu problum.’ The two police officers shared a look of suspicion.

‘Is there anyone else in the flat sir?’ asked the woman officer quietly. Jack understood the reason for her sottovoce. The perpetrator might still be on the premises representing a threat. ‘We are required to enter the premises when domestic violence is reported, sir. So anyone else here?’

‘His girlfriend!’ yelled Jill from the hall two seconds before she strode into the room.

The officers looked at each other again. ‘And you are?’ asked the male.

‘Jill Hedges, this sorry shit’s girlfriend,’ her Australian accent very obvious. Jack shuffled uncomfortably. Jill sat on the sofa.

‘Did you attack Mr Hedges?’ asked the male officer staring into her bloodshot eyes.

‘No! It was an accident,’ said Jill taking a large swallow of wine.

‘So how did this… accident occur?’ asked a very sceptical female officer.

Jill’s explanation was scanty and left the officers no choice.

‘Look,’ interrupted Jack, ‘Ah dun wan te pursue dis.’

‘We don’t need your permission sir. There is a zero tolerance policy regarding domestic violence,’ said the female officer with a slightly superior tone.

‘New policy,’ chimed her partner making it sound like an apology.

‘So, you admit to the assault, is that correct?’

‘It was not an assault,’ Jill drawled. ‘It was an accident.’

‘Well I’m afraid Miss the court might take a different view on that. I am arresting you for the assault on Mister…’ she was about to consult her note book.

‘Benson. Jack Benson,’ piped up Jack. The two police officers shared a look.

‘So you’re Jack and you’re Jill?’ said the female officer.

‘Benson and Hedges?’ said the male.

‘Yeah knock yourselves out. We’ve heard it all before,’ said Jill. ‘A couple of fags blah, blah, blah,’ she muttered into her wine glass.

‘Right,’ said the female officer hauling herself up to the fullness of her just a tickle over the regulation minimum height to be a police officer, ‘for the assault on Mr Benson, which you have admitted to.’

‘I did no such thing! I said it was an accident. He said it was an accident!’

‘Zero tolerance policy regarding domestic violence,’ said the female officer.

‘New policy,’ the male officer repeated with an apologetic shrug.

‘Please stand up and turn around.’

‘Of for fuck sakes!’ blurted out a less than happy Jill.

‘You mind your language, Madame.’

‘Miss!’

‘Up please,’ said the small woman with a quick, short gesture.

Jill stood and the female officer then proceeded to caution her. Jill listened patiently as she was handcuffed.

‘Is this really necessary?’ she asked, turning to face the small, black-clad officer.

‘Please don’t add resisting arrest to the charge. I notice an accent. Australian?’

‘Ye-ah!’

‘Eh, we’ll need to see your visa,’ said the male officer.

‘Oh for godsakes!’

‘Zero tolerance for people who overstay their visas,’ said the female officer as she spun Jill round. ‘Visa? Where is it?’

‘Bust do it,’ said Jack quietly. ‘I’ll gut a lawyer. Yu be fine.’

She leaned into him and whispered one word through gritted teeth. Jack stepped back.

‘In my handbag,’ she said to the police officer nodding to a side table.

The officer moved to get it but Jack cut him off. He knew the rules. The police officer had no right to search Jill’s bag, but he would, so Jack fished around and pulled out one of her passports, duly stamped and handed it to the police officer. He read through the Australian passport then put it back in Jack’s outstretched hand who slipped it back into Jill’s bag, right beside the SIG .32 automatic. A gift from an admiring Mossad agent.

The female police officer walked Jill out the door. The male turned back to Jack.

‘You’ll have to come down to the station sir to make a statement. You can come with us if you like or drive yourself, if you think you’re fit,’ he said waving a finger at Jack’s broken nose.

‘Um fine,’ he lied. ‘Ah cun drive.’

He knew this might turn into a driving offence as he was definitely not seeing straight but he thought if he drove himself he could claim the injury was not so bad. Just a bump really. With a bit of blood, yeah just a bump. But first he’d change his now blood-drenched shirt.

An hour later, statement given and played down as far as possible, he was ready to leave but the police saw right through his tactic by informing him, ‘We’re treating this seriously sir!’

‘Zero tolerance you see,’ said the booking officer.

‘Right,’ Jack mumbled then shuffled out the door to go home and down a much-needed scotch to deaden the pain before heading to their appointed private clinic to have his nose looked at.

The following morning Jill was released on bail to await her appearance in front of the magistrate. Jack was there to pick her up. Her manner was, understandably, less than friendly.

‘Got your nose fixed I see,’ she said referring to the large plaster covering his nose.

‘It’s been set. You smell you know,’ he said as they drove off.

‘How would you know with that thing on your face?’ she said waving a finger at his nose.

‘I can still smell, and you smell.’

‘I’ve been banged up! What’s your excuse?’ she threw at him.

‘I’m just saying.’

‘Well don’t! I am not in the mood.’ Jack focused on the traffic as Jill worked herself into a strop. ‘You had me arrested you tosser!’

‘No I didn’t. I’m guessing it was yer neighbour who witnessed yer wee tantrum and the cops, decided to arrest you not me.’

‘You are such a woosy Pom!’

‘You broke my feckin’ nose! Look at this!’ he yelled pointing to the large plaster.

‘You deserved it, you were being a prick!’

‘I was being a man!’

‘Game, set and match!’

‘What do you think will happen now?’ he asked pulling up at a red light.

‘We’ll be reassigned, maybe split up thanks to you.’

‘You don’t feckin’ get it do you? You, get that word? You. You caused this by your foul, bloody awful temper that made you break my nose! You!’

‘Pommy bitch!’

Jack ignored the insult. ‘Maybe they’ll ship us off to better climes. I’m fed up being cold and wet.’

‘Maybe they’ll ship you off to Siberia you dickhead.’

‘Maybe they’ll ship you off to Africa. Thaw you out a bit you frozen bitch!’

‘Wanker!’

Silence descended for several minutes.

‘Where are we going?’ asked Jill.

‘My place. I forgot the pain killers.’

‘Pommy bitch!’

The remainder of the journey was passed in silence. When Jack pulled into the drive in front of his house she unclipped her seatbelt and was out before the car had barely stopped. She had keys to his house and the slam of his front door left Jack in no doubt more strife was about to descend. He found her in the kitchen pouring a glass of wine.

‘A bit early.’

‘Tosser!’

‘You stink. Why don’t you go and shower.’

She threw him a look then took her glass with her to the shower without saying another word. Twenty minutes later she was back, casually dressed and smelling nice. She had a chest of drawers to herself in his bedroom. It had started with half a drawer but as their relationship had grown so too had her storage space, which also included the wardrobe in the smaller of the spare bedrooms. Her glass was empty. She went to the kitchen for a refill then wandered into the garden to join Jack who was having a coffee. She sat beside him on the padded bench.

‘I’m sorry,’ she mumbled.

‘You what?’

‘You heard me. I said I’m sorry. Really Jack I didn’t mean to break your nose.’

‘I know,’ he said giving her a cuddle.

‘What will happen?’

‘Travers will sort it. I already called him. A bit less than happy. Said you will be called to court to answer charges of actual bodily harm, of which you are guilty by the way. It’s a six months stretch apparently.’

‘What?’ she shouted.

‘Calm down. The prosecution will drop it. You won’t be seen in court and the arrest will disappear.’

‘Then I’ll owe that prick Travers,’ she huffed.

‘Are all men pricks to you?’

‘Oh fuck off!’

‘I don’t get you. Why the big tantrum yesterday?’

‘You are totally unbelievable!’ she said pulling away from him.

‘What?’

‘You are such a… man!’

‘Well good to know your observational skills are up to par.’

‘Fuck off!’

‘Stop swearing! We are partners. We have to get over this.’

‘This? I tell you you broke my heart and you call it this?’

‘Look Jill, I didn’t mean to break anything. I… I didn’t know. I just though we were having a good time.’

‘We were because I love you Jack Benson, you miserable excuse for a human being.’

It had never occurred to Jack that Jill had fallen for him. Big time. He was her hero. A brave, courageous and clever man. Only one other person had ever come close but it was Jack who won her heart. She had fallen head over heels for Jack Benson the moment he shot the Bulgarian thug on a Swiss train. He was so calm, so organised and so brave. He walked right up to the man, putting himself between the gun and her and disarmed the big-bodied man with the neat hair and good suit. Then he messed up the man’s natty hairstyle by shooting him twice in the head. It was a silenced .22 pistol and no one else was in the connecting space. Nobody noticed. Jack just caught the man as if he had tripped, manhandled him into the toilet then locked the door from outside and they walked away. Her jelly legs could barely carry her but his strong arms supported her when they got off at the next station, calm as you please as if nothing had happened.

The poison the Bulgarian had given her took twenty-eight hours to work its way through her system in a private Swiss hospital hooked up to a life support machine.

The pages of a magazine the Bulgarian had left on her reserved seat were impregnated with it. All she had to do was pick it up before she sat and the job was done. The Bulgarian was not their target but he was running interference for the woman who was. A middle-aged South African woman who facilitated illegal arms deals around the world. Her current client was a very unfriendly dictator in Africa. Through back channels she had been warned to let that one go and she had responded by threatening to kill the British Prime Minister’s family. A mistake that gave rise to a directive in the British Secret Service. Jack and Jill were chosen to complete the directive.

He took some pleasure in ending that nasty bitch’s life, not because of the threat to the politician but because she had tried to kill Jill. Four days after Jill had been poisoned Jack had managed to get into the hotel room she used for meetings in Southern Spain and waited for her arrival. In due course she arrived with her retinue of bodyguards, young men she liked to play with. He waited patiently in his hidey hole until she was mid play then stepped out and put a bullet through the man’s brain. Her he brained with a heavy glass ashtray as she struggled to sit up. He threw her over his shoulder and carried her to the roof and without ceremony threw the vile woman off the roof into the enclosed courtyard at the back of the hotel. Her death was recorded as a suicide. Job done he headed back to Switzerland to pick up Jill.

The smashed body of the seriously wealthy illegal arms dealer was eventually found because of the sickly sweet smell her rotting corpse gave off. No one really cared about illegal arms dealers, because, like drugs, the senior civil servants, politicians and law enforcers were all up to their armpits in the money it produced. Talk of wars against and illegal arms sales was for the benefit of the ever gullible public. However, those that threated the families of a Prime Minister got dealt with.

‘Look Jill, I didn’t.. I mean… you and me. We’re good together. I…’ He fumbled for words that were stuck in his brain.

‘You what?’

‘I just don’t want our personal feelings to get in the way. Ours is a bit of a stressful occupation.’

‘Oh, you think!’

‘I’m trying to get us back on an even keel here.’ She stared at him but did not speak. ‘What we should do is go inside –’

‘Oh god, I don’t believe it! Keep it in your pants buster!’

‘No, I was -’

‘What? Wanting to get your leg over? All you ever think about! You men!’

He sat looking confused. He knew she was about to go off on another rant and there was absolutely no point in resisting. He would sit quietly and wait for the tsunami of anti-male abuse, which arrived as expected full of epithets and loathing of all men on the planet, to peter out. The rant had an unexpected ending.

‘God! I’m so fucking wet!’ she declared a second before launching herself at him.

‘Mind the nose, mind the nose!’ he protested as she kissed him passionately before standing and hauling him to his feet to march him inside.

Half an hour later totally satiated and dripping with sweat they laughed as they rolled around the living room carpet.

‘Fuck!’ she said rubbing her bum, ‘I have carpet burns you animal you!’ She kissed him passionately. They were good. Snuggled up tight. Jack’s phone rang. He scrabbled around to find his trousers, which he recovered from behind an armchair.

‘My office tomorrow morning both of you!’ That was the entire conversation.

‘Oops,’ said Jack putting the phone down. Jill lay on the carpet stretched out and looking up at him. ‘The Fat Controller wants to see us first thing tomorrow.’

‘Why? Something on?’

‘He didn’t say. But I would guess it might have to do with you being arrested.’

‘Oh shit! We’ll get one of his famous Secret Service lectures.’

‘I have no doubt.’

‘Hey,’ she said reaching up to touch his penis, ‘You really do have a lovely cock.’

‘You’re not the first person to tell me that.’

‘God! You, you…!’ She took a swipe at him and he responded by smothered her with kisses.

They spent the next hour making love, laughing and enjoying each other.

‘I do love you Jack,’ she whispered in his ear.

‘I know,’ he whispered back.

In truth he knew he loved her, had done for some time but the business of letting the words out just escaped him. He had intended to say it, he had even tried but the words just got stuck. They were superglued in place somewhere between his brain and his mouth. He would have to find new words or a way of unsticking the obvious.

Chapter 2

Thursday, 19th September 2019, 08.57, London Central

Day 1

They were front and centre in Operations Director, Phillip Whitehead’s, rather spartan office. Sort of bland, comfortable civil service. Definitely not Ikea, though a unit or two might have brightened the place up. Cheer was not added by the two large pictures that hung on the walls, views of a long past River Thames with laden barges plying their trade. These had obviously been dragged out from a dusty corner of the basement.

‘I have erased your somewhat childish outburst on Tuesday Hedges.’

‘Thank you sir.’

‘I am not your nanny Hedges. I want no more of this.’

‘No sir.’

‘And you Benson, what in the name of God’s holy trousers made you call the police? Are you entirely off your trolley?’

Hedges threw Jack a look as if to confirm the question.

‘I didn’t! It was a neighbour.’

‘So you two were involved in a brawl in public?’

‘No sir!’ protested Jill. ‘It was just an accident.’ Her boss looked unimpressed. ‘Honest!’

‘An accident sir,’ confirmed Jack.

‘No more of it, either of you. Understand?’

‘Yes sir,’ they chorused.

‘I am not particularly keen on having two of my agents sleeping together.’

‘Who sleeps?’ asked Jill with a laugh.

‘Do we have anything on sir?’ asked Benson quickly.

‘Indeed we do.’ Jack and Jill looked at each other. ‘We have some trade. A rather unsavoury political character.’

‘Aren’t they all? Unsavoury,’ mumbled Jack.

Phillip ignored the comment. ‘This one is their Minister of Security and he is on a shopping spree for arms apparently, which is making our American cousins nervous, as they are on their doorstep, so to speak.’

‘They have their own people,’ chipped in Jill quickly.

‘But they want clean hands on this.’

‘Who do?’ asked Jack.

‘Does it matter?’ Phillip Whitehead said with a note of irritation. ‘You are paid servants of the Crown employed to do its bidding!’

Jack and Jill looked at each other again. Telling off received, loud and clear!

‘This character, I assume there’s a file?’ asked Jack.

Phillip Whitehead, a man so clearly engaged in a war with the flab, a war he was losing, unlocked his desk drawer and fished out a file, which he threw on his desk. ‘Read that and digest.’

‘Sorry, why are we involved again?’ asked Hedges as Jack picked up the file.

‘This monster, brother of the vile fascist who runs the country, is apparently seeking to buy French arms.’ Jack and Jill nodded. ‘It is then his intention to hop on his private jet and pop over to visit our nobility. He believes he has an invitation to tea. That is not going to happen. I want both of you on a plane. Usual routine, and it goes without saying, we cannot have our fingerprints on this.’

‘No sir,’ they chorused.

‘Do we know the target’s current whereabouts sir?’

‘He’s in Paris toadying up to the French.’

‘Oh they love all that quasi-black man kissing their puckered derrière routine,’ said Jack with a hint of jollity.

‘I don’t!’ said Phillip firmly. ‘Put an end to it before the French do something very stupid, such as sell him nuclear technology.’

‘Ach they can’t. It’s forbidden by International treaty,’ chipped in Benson with a laugh.

Whitehead let out a long sigh. ‘I know that, you know that, the French know that but that won’t stop them. The French do what they please. Just get the job done.’

‘Yes sir,’ they chorused again and turned to leave.

‘Your transport’s waiting. Wheels up in,’ he looked at his watch, ‘fifty minutes. A car is downstairs,’ he tossed into the air as if talking to no one in particular.

‘Oh!’ said Hedges.

‘Do you have somewhere else to be agent Hedges?’

‘No sir. It’s just… clothes, toothbrush. You know.’

Whitehead took his time, as if savouring the words privately before releasing them. ‘I assume you have bathed and are wearing fresh briefs?’

‘Ah… yeee-s.’

‘Then be on your way. Back by tea time.’

‘Urgent?’ asked Benson.

‘Immediate,’ replied his boss without so much as a beat. ‘You’ll get your kit on the other side.’

Benson and Hedges looked at each other then chorused, ‘Right sir.’

They left Whitehead staring earnestly at another file, a file on his boss, Sir Adrian Boult. A file that should not exist but Phillip had spies everywhere, he was well liked. And those spies were giving him information about unlogged clandestine meetings, use of surveillance off the books. It was forming a picture. A picture Phillip Whitehead could not ignore. The picture of a stranger – in his house.

Once outside their boss’s office Hedges asked, ‘What’s our cover?’

Benson flipped the file open and read for a few seconds. ‘Better than your last debacle.’

‘De-bacle? Where did you find that word? Back of a crisp packet?’

‘In the dictionary of your all time fuck ups.’

‘My cover was fine, thank you vey much!’

‘Oh you think?’ he asked flipping the file closed.

‘They were just jumpy, too many guns floating around Dublin.’

‘Still, your cover was crap!’

‘My cover was fine!’

‘Really? Selling clothes to the clergy?’

‘Got me close to where the deals were being made.’

‘Habits to the nuns, etcetera? And what was your cover name? Huh? Rachael Rothstein! What genius dreamt that up?’

‘Reverse psychology you ignoramus!’

‘Ah well, nearly reversed your career into a ten year prison term.’

‘Nearly doesn’t count.’

They descended the stairs to the ground floor in silence and slipped out the back door into the street leaving their driver hanging around glancing at his watch.

‘Coffee?’ said Benson.

‘Wheels up in forty-five.’

‘Do you think they’ll leave without us?’

Hedges grimaced and fell into step with him as they wound their way to a small café nearby run by Alan Withers, an ex MI5 man. Retired American policemen bought bars. British ex-secret service agents bought cafés – if the cigarettes, booze or a bullet did not fit them up with a wooden overcoat first.

Alan was his usual nonplussed self as they ordered two black coffees and sat in the only small booth – permanently reserved for agents.

‘What do we know?’ asked Jill.

Jack flipped the file open. ‘Well, we know Mr Paulo Mato is staying in a very fancy Paris hotel, we know what suite, how long, how many bodyguards but we don’t know when he’s there.’

‘I thought the Fat Controller’s people had this down pat?’

‘They do,’ he said flipping through the file. ‘I think. Ach,it’ll be fine. We know our in and out, exit sorted. It should be clean.’

‘Yes, but when?’

‘Whenever! Jesus! You got somewhere else to be?’

‘No. You?’

‘France. Let’s go.’ They finished their coffees and went back to the office to surprise the waiting driver who tutted and tapped his watched. In seconds they were off, driving at speed to get to the small airport. As they sped expertly through the traffic Jill broke the silence.

‘Why are we doing this?’ asked Jill.

‘Because this Mato character is a very naughty boy.’

‘Yeah, but an illegal arms deal? We’ve seen a few of those and all we did was capture and turn them over.’

‘Not all,’ chipped in Jack. ‘Not all turned over.’

‘No but… the fear is the French will sell him nuclear technology? Yeah okay, bad news if it’s true.’

‘You doubt the Intel?’

‘I don’t know Jack, this just feels a wee bitty off and it’s coming from the Yanks. Since when did they not do their own dirty work?’

‘Well, maybe. But my little roo rustling partner, ours not to reason why and all that old twaddle.’

Their driver blanked it all out with a shake of his head. Within forty minutes their car sped on to the runway to be greeted by a rather tense looking pilot.

‘You’re late!’

‘Then let’s not hang about!’ said Jack breezing past him at the top of the stairs. They settled in and within minutes they were hurtling down the runway en route to kill a South American bad boy in Paris. Just another day at the office.

They were met at the small French airport by their Paris contact, a very English man from the British Embassy of medium build with a very nice suit and a very good haircut. Identity papers, weapons, car keys, disguises and money were handed over in a small wheelie case. The entire business, including signing three copies of the necessary forms to confirm receipt of supplies was completed in minutes and they slipped onto a French motorway heading for Paris. All very mundane.

They parked the car at the appointed park ‘n ride point to pick up their motorbikes and sort out their disguises. His disguise was a simple aging process built around his nose dressing. Hers was a little more elaborate but both were quickly applied and effective. No one would guess these were the same two people who had landed at a French aero club only forty minutes ago. Astride the small motorbikes they quickly wound their way through the heavy traffic to the hotel in the centre of Paris.

Getting into the hotel was simply a matter of flashing their passes for the scientific conference that was debunking the climate change hype, being held in one of the reception rooms. From there they had access to the service area of the hotel and a staircase that led to the top floor. They paused for a breath.

‘Okay?’

‘Fine,’ she replied cocking her gun.

‘Here we go,’ said Jack.

The two guards at the top were dealt with instantly with tranquiliser darts, their weapons were removed then Jack and Jill had access to the main corridor, which led to the target’s room and two more guards. The guards were quickly dealt with and dragged into the room, which they opened with the security door pass key provided in their kit. The suite was empty.

Jack put the two guns from the first unconscious guards, who were lying behind an empty laundry cart in the service stairwell, on the table before having a good look around. He then removed the guns from the guards they had dragged into the room. He turned one of the pistols over in his hands.

‘Jesus! These bad guys sure get to live in style,’ said Jill pacing the opulent rooms. ‘Better call the Fat Controller to let him know we are in an empty nest. And what are you doing with that pistol?’

Jack was stuffing it down the waistband of his trousers. ‘It’s a SIG, I always wanted a SIG but the department was too mean to spring for one so…’

‘What’s the other guy got?’ Jack looked. ‘Glock, same as us.’

‘Still, it’s good to have your own back-up piece,’ she said sticking her hand out. Jack gave her the gun. ‘Mmm, feels different to mine.’ She stuffed it down her waistband like Jack.

‘Jack, the call…’

‘On it.’ It was very brief. Whitehead told him there had been a change of plan.

‘And you were planning to give us this vital information when?’

‘Now. I am telling you now. And please, do your absolute utmost not to fuck it up!’ Whitehead hung up.

As he slipped his phone back into his pocket Jack said, ‘The target gets in tomorrow, early flight and the Fat Controller says don’t blow it!’ He waved his hand over the two unconscious guards. ‘A bit feckin’ late wouldn’t you say!’

‘Tomorrow? What the…’

‘This is shit! Somebody has fucked up big time.’ He stared at the two unconscious body guards. ‘What are we going to do with these guys?’ he said pointing to the two sleeping bodyguards. ‘We’re blown!’

‘Well I suggest we bind them securely and haul them onto the balcony.’

‘Yeah. Let’s get it done.’ In five minutes both the sleeping bodyguards were tightly secured and propped up against the balcony wall, under the ficus plant.

‘So what now Batman?’

‘Have a look around see what we can find?’

‘Good idea. Or… we could always…’ said Hedges coyly unbuttoning her top as she headed for the bed.

‘And you say I’m the one with sex on the brain twenty-four seven?’

‘Well wimpy bog boy, what’s it to be? Board and plunder or we just leave with our tails between our legs?’

‘Piracy sounds good,’ he said walking to her as he pulled his shirt open.

Twenty minutes later she was still astride him, enjoying the feeling of him inside her.

‘Do you think they’ll notice the sheets are rumpled?’ Benson asked with a laugh.

‘Might do.’

They kissed for a long time.

‘Okay, come on mister super stud. Work to do. Let us seek and see what we find.’

‘Shower,’ he countered.

‘Mm. Good idea.’

They showered, dressed, made up the bed then started to search the room not sure of what the might find, if anything, but they had been well-trained. If there was anything to find, they would find it. And they did.

Hedges was on her knees in front of a small safe built into the furniture. She was watching the electronic meter in her hand as the numbers rapidly flashed up in red. In a minute she had the code and opened the safe to discover a small, red note book; a large envelope filled with papers and a large pile of gold and money. Everything was photo’d insitu before placing the envelope and note book on the table.

After a cursory read through of the papers in the envelope they realised they had found more than expected. Not only was their target doing business with the French but also with the British. The list of all-too-familiar names of arms dealers glared at them like a lighthouse beacon to a struggling ship. This was an unexpected bombshell they did not know what to do with.

‘Well feck me Timothy,’ said Jack. ‘What the feck do we do with this?’

‘Just do your job. Photograph everything and let’s get the fuck out of here. I’m hungry.’

‘Fancy a curry?’ he asked as he snapped away.

‘No. I had in mind something a little more… exotic. A seafood lasagne.’

‘What is it with women and pasta? Gets your rocks off does it?’

‘What would you know about rocks?’

‘That’s below the belt!’

‘Oh I know where it is sweetie!’

‘It was a prostate operation! They did not remove my balls!’

‘Fucking prostate op at forty. You’re an old woman you.’

Jack had the note book open under his camera and photographed the first few pages then there were several blank pages all the way to the middle where there were a few more pages with what was obviously a code and then more blank pages until the last few pages.

‘This is a bit weird,’ said Jack snapping the last photo.

‘What?’

‘Look,’ he flicked through the book. ‘These gaps. A bit odd.’

‘Yeah well not our job Jack’ He humfed and got back to photographing the papers. He worked quickly and very accurately and was soon at the second last document. He was lining it up when he stopped and stared at it. ‘Oh holy shit!’

‘What?’ she said walking over to look over his shoulder.

‘See that name,’ he said stabbing at the paper. ‘Know who he is?’

‘I’m an intelligence officer, of course I know who that arsehole is.’

‘And one of his great pals is…?’

‘Oh shit! The moron from the big house.’

‘Yep. And those are the initials of the nick-name of the PM’s son. Right there,’ he said tapping the last sheet of paper.

‘Those could be the initials of anyone.’

‘I’ll bet you a Guinness to a pint of roo piss that’s the PM’s son. What is that Yank’s name and those initials doing in this pile?’

‘Not our job Jack. We are here to do a hit and we leave all this stuff to Fatman.’

‘Yeah, you’re right. But… feck! And what the feck are these?’ he said tapping the paper. ‘This lot’s the usual scummy arms dealers but these two strange codings here,’ he said pointing to them, ‘these look weird. Something stinks,’ he muttered before slipping his phone into his pocket and putting the papers back in order, exactly as he had found them.

‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’ asked Hedges.

‘How is that possible? You’re a woman!’

‘Oh fuck off! Do you think we were meant to silence mister nasty bastard not to stop him doing business with the Frenchies but to keep his trap shut about doing business with the Brits?’

‘Had crossed my mind,’ he said closing the safe door, which beeped.

‘I told you there was something off about this gig.’

Suddenly there was a noise in the corridor like a herd