Black Knight Blindfold: A Zachariah Gerant Thriller

By Alistair Paterson

Former Royal Marine and special forces operative Zachariah “Zulu” Gerant has the skills and abilities the global media giant Kroetze Group are looking for. As Zulu retires from “The Corp” in the early 1990s, at the very start of the information age, he finds himself in another deadly game. As the most powerful drug cartel on the planet tries to seize control of the Kroetze Group he must again use the skills he honed as a Swimmer Canoeist in the elite, secretive Special Boat Service. He faces betrayal and deceit in his fight to keep himself and his loved ones alive. Undeterred he shuttles back and forth between the US and the UK as he uncovers the truth and pulls away his blindfold.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rivers Meet Publishing Limited
• Release date: Oct 27, 2018
• ISBN: 9781916430617

Book preview

10/04/2018

PROLOGUE

Hollyhocks!

The bishop’s knee buckled.

Arsenic, said the bishop, rather more loudly, as his knee gave way again. A few heads in the choir spun towards him. Three young pairs of ears had caught the first syllable. If he noticed the snorts and sniffles of suppressed giggles he gave no sign. An assistant choirmaster quelled the incipient riot with a steely glare.

Leaning more heavily on his crosier, the bishop resumed his progress towards the pulpit. Short, fat and fifty-ish, his likeness on television sets around the world could have passed as a red-headed bookmaker in fancy dress rather than a leading light in the charismatic church movement. As it was, razor-sharp intellect, championship of the ordination of women, and a reputation for spell-binding sermons had brought him North of the Border.

He reached the pulpit without further incident, then his foot caught the hem of his cassock. The stumble shook his mitre askew. Two nearby baritones were to claim later that they heard a distinct Sod it! Only the bishop knew for certain and he never let on.

Recovering, and clutching his crozier even more tightly, he climbed the steps, misjudged the top one and nearly fell. In the now silent church, the dropped crozier clattered loud. The mitre slipped down over the bishop’s eyebrows.

Bugger it, he said clearly, as he thumbed the mitre almost back into place. Grasping the pulpit rail and ignoring the deacon hurrying to help, he hauled himself into place.

His raised hand stilled the congregation’s excited whispers. A hollow click echoed through the church. The sub-deacon had switched on the sound system. As the bishop made the sign of the cross his whisper was picked up, magnified and transmitted.

Spectacles..testicles..wallet..and watch. Nothing missing. Thank you, Lord, and… smacking his lips, did I clean my teeth this morning?

The amplified slap of his hand on the lectern stilled the congregation yet again.

Dearly beloved, came the sonorous tones, "we are gathered here today to seek guidance on a question of fundamental importance to us all.

Should we fart in the bath? And, if so, before or after soaping ourselves. That is the question. Is it nobler to suffer the lotions and loofahs and bubbles and…

The bishop paused, put his thumb in his mouth, and removed it only long enough to yell I want my mummy! before bursting into tears and collapsing into the bottom of the pulpit. There he rolled himself into a ball, hugged his knees to his chest, and began to croon gibberish.

Stunned silence was broken by hysterical laughter from a trendy rural dean. He rather fancied the bishop.

CHAPTER ONE

I made a face as he reached for my arm. I never have liked people taking hold of me and was tempted to teach him a lesson, but good sense won the day and I turned it into a smile. It didn’t feel convincing but it seemed to fool him.

He relaxed a bit even though his body language was still tense. Aggression based on fear was there for those who know how to read the signs, and I’d had practise. Not only that, but he was trying to ape the ex-serviceman, mannerisms as well as dress: cheese-cutter peak on the light-blue cap which matched the naff uniform with big badges and name-tally. After nearly twenty-three years in the Marines I could tell who had a Service background and he did not.

Edward Pratt, according to the name tally, began to question me.

What do you want, mate? he demanded, leaning closer and still holding my arm.

Tempting as it was to retaliate physically, I did not give myself the pleasure. I was job-hunting so it made sense to behave. Instead of knocking him down I merely said, I’ve got an appointment at ten o’clock.

Who with? he demanded and then, without giving me a chance to reply, went on, If you’ve got an audience ticket for a TV show, it’s out the main door, round the corner, and…

He didn’t finish. I had been vaguely aware of high heels click-clacking across the marble floor.

Mr Gerant?

I turned and nodded. She looked at the two of us, and then asked, is there a problem?

Edward Pratt began to look worried so I said, No. Mr Pratt was just asking what he could do to help. He looked gratefully at me as I continued, Thank you, Mr Pratt. Just to tease him I added, I’m sure we’ll see more of each other, and his face fell again.

I switched my attention to the lady and raised an inquiring eyebrow. She was a comfortable, pleasant-faced woman in a beige wool dress with a darker, long cardigan over it. She was probably a few years older than me, in her mid forties or thereabouts.

Mr Kroetze says sorry for not meeting you himself. He’s tied up on the phone but hopes you can come right up. I’m Amanda Sayle – I work with him.

That explained the Pratt’s worried look. It was Kroetze’s own building, all twenty-five floors of it. What did surprise me was that he had sent his personal assistant, at least, that’s what I assumed she was – to meet me and pass on an apology. Mogul behaviour was outside my experience but I had heard about South Africans. It seemed out of character to send a sorry to a black man, always supposing it wasn’t good manners on the lady’s part.

I said no thanks to a drink, opting for tea instead. He didn’t bat an eyelid, just looked at Mrs Sayle who smiled acknowledgement and left the room. She had quite a distance to cover but, apart from its size, the room didn’t strike me as typical tycoon territory, whatever that may be like. It wasn’t on the top floor and looked neither flashy nor opulent; instead it was done out in quiet greys and greens that set off the pale wood, ash I think.

He had risen from his desk as I was ushered in, over-awed and trying not to show it. Ex-Colour Sergeants, Royal Marines, aren’t invited to meet multimillionaires every day. I had expected a burly red-neck, matching the popular idea of a typical Boer. Instead I found a short, scrawny, balding bloke with glasses, mid-fifties and wearing an ordinary grey suit.

Good day, Mr Gerant. I’m Robert Kroetze. Thank you for coming. There was just a trace of South Africa in his voice. I was disconcerted when he held out his hand, not expecting someone from his reported background to want to shake hands with me. Sit yourself down, he continued, pointing to an easy chair at a low coffee table. He sat next to me.

The re-employment course I did at the naval base in Portsmouth before leaving the Corps had told us about job interviews and how to make a good impression. The trouble was that this interview was not following the pattern. For a moment it struck me he might be trying to throw me off balance, but somehow I doubted it. With skin as dark as mine you get enough experience to be a good judge and this man gave none of the usual signs of awkwardness or arrogance. He seemed at ease with me and with himself so I decided to give him a fair hearing.

Another woman, this time younger and more like the stereotype of a high-powered secretary, brought in a tray, served tea and biscuits, and then left. I was interested to see that Kroetze took tea too.

I expect you’re wondering what this is all about?

You’re right, sir, I replied, deciding that the odd sir or two could do me no harm in the job stakes. All I know is a message from PRORM – Pay and Records Office Royal Marines. They said if I was interested in a job to keep this appointment.

His grin made him look like a garden gnome, Sorry for that cryptic message. Best if I start from the beginning. Chip in if you have any questions. I nodded and he carried on, As you probably know, I’m involved with the media.

That was an understatement. As far as I knew he just about owned The Media: radio stations, television companies, newspapers, magazines, right across the board both home and overseas.

I leave day to day business of the Kroetze Group to my chief executives. The Group is a private limited company. I hold nine tenths of the shares with the other tenth being held by one other individual whom I trust absolutely. With me so far?

It was a bit over my head but I nodded rather than admit ignorance and waited for him to go on.

Profits hold up well, and the balance sheet is healthy. He paused to sip his tea. I sipped mine in sympathy. We have major competitors and they too have interest in the States, Australia, the Far East and, increasingly, in South Africa. They would welcome the chance to take me over. So far they have had no success, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t still trying; they are, but two things make it difficult for them. The first is that there are no public shareholders to defect or be bought out. The second is me and my reputation.

Reckoning it was time to show what passed for intelligent interest, I chipped in with what seemed an obvious question, What about the one tenth shareholder, sir? If they got a foothold…

He cut me off in mid-sentence, Quite out of the question. No, there is one thing and one thing only that would force me to go public and give them the chance: the need to raise more capital. As it is, that does not and, touch wood, will not arise. There is a wide enough spread of non-media assets to provide all the collateral likely to be needed in the foreseeable future.

He paused, so I gave him a nudge, And…?

Ah, yes. You’re quick, just as Jim Kendall said.

I tried to hide my surprise by keeping a poker face. More than once before reaching his present rank Major-General James Kendall, Chief of Staff to the Commandant General, had been my boss in the Special Boat Squadron, the Marine equivalent of the Special Air Service.

Kroetze continued in the same flat voice, In an active take-over the only alternative left would be to neutralise me, either by removing me or by destroying my ability to keep the group in profit. The former is drastic, even for the most aggressive companies, but it does look as if someone is working on the latter.

I could not see what this had to do with me. My marine specialisation had been as a swimmer-canoeist, parachutist and as a senior non-com. I’d had a spell in a naval area internal security team while recovering from my only bullet wound. So you could say Zachariah Gerant was qualified to be a bodyguard, but it was the last thing I wanted. I’ve met a few ex-SAS and marines who have tried the game and they don’t go much on it. It soon becomes boring and many of those they guard are fully paid-up members of the pillocks’ union.

By now you’re probably wondering what this has to do with you?

I grinned because he seemed to be reading my thoughts, and nodded.

Our security department protects me, my staff and my companies’ secrets. I insist they work within the law. By and large they do a good job, but as in any security system they cannot guarantee absolute success. And, in any big organisation, there are bound to be some who could be, or may already have been, bought by the opposition.

He paused again, eyeing me reflectively. No, what I need now is someone who can be relied on one hundred percent. I was put on to Jim Kendall and he says you are that man.

And so began my job as External Affairs Assistant to the head of the Kroetze Group.

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Kitty took a sip of champagne, then wrinkled her nose. Perhaps it was the bubbles or it may have been too dry. It tasted fine to me but I’m no great judge. I like a drink every now and again but not too much. Anyway, this was a special occasion and I had bought a bottle of supermarket own brand on the way to her flat, not seeing the point of paying ten quid extra for a fancy label.

I always have been careful with money since Mum and Dad died and there wasn’t enough to keep me on at boarding school. Elly tried her best – Elly being my sister Eleanor, seven years older than me, much brighter and now a successful lawyer. She was then just starting articles, a sort of solicitor’s apprentice, on a pittance. Ife insurance policies paid off the mortgage so Elly sold the house in Sutton and bought a much cheaper one in Acton. She invested the profit plus the balance of the estate so we were never in dire straits, but inflation soon put the pressure on and thrift became second nature to us.

As I said, Kitty was sipping champagne. We were in her flat, not my place in Hillingdon which I’d bought years ago when Elly had established herself as Acton’s answer to Perry Mason and divided up our parents’ money between us. Kitty is a second generation Londoner, a thirty-three year old cop, grandparents from Nevis. We had met five years earlier and clicked straight away. Marriage had become a subject of discussion of late. Kitty liked kids and had begun to stress she hadn’t all that much time left. Her one regret was that her Mum and Dad hadn’t lived to see grandchildren. I used to tease her she was an orphan like me. She had gone ratty only when I told her jokingly that since I’d always been reckoned a bit of a bastard it was only fair my kids should take after me. It was then I realised she was serious and had no intention of becoming an unmarried mother. When I thought about it, I wasn’t too keen on being an unmarried father either.

Kitty snuggled closer, feet tucked under in the way women seem to manage so easily.

How much are they going to pay you?

Trust a woman to home in on that one.

Twenty-four thousand a year and a pension.

Kitty whistled. What sort of car? She blew gently into my ear and then fended off my exploring hand. Don’t. I want to hear all about it and that’s distracting.

Well, what do you expect, blowing into on of my sensitive zones? and I tried a fresh grope.

Kitty giggled and slapped my hand.

Stop it. I’ll be good too. So tell me.

She wriggled even closer. Living with her was showing me how women often seem to get just as much out of cuddles and closeness as out of mad, passionate love-making.

Okay. Well…

Stop saying well. Posh executives are always crisp and to the point.

So I told her that the company car would be a top of the range Rover 400 and went on to explain why Kroetze had taken me on, skating over the fact I was on a six month initial trial period. Very briefly I outlined my first assignment: to find out who was really behind rumours being spread that Kroetze himself had engineered the downfall of a senior god-botherer as the opening shot in a campaign to get his own back on the Establishment.

Kitty became uptight at me calling a bishop a god-botherer, even though I assured her it was a term used without malice by marines and the navy, and accepted by their padres, who also had to put up with being known as sky pilots and sin bosuns. She is very straight-laced in some ways, church most Sundays and that sort of thing, so I said sorry and kissed her.

One thing led to another and we ended up making mad passionate love after all. Only it wasn’t – mad, passionate I mean. It was slow and relaxed and comfortably exciting, and all the better for that.

CHAPTER TWO

Rain rattling against the window made me look up. Headlamps loomed through the condensation as a van swished past. By the light of a street lamp I could just make out the car I had hired from the Birmingham rent-a-wreck firm: a battered Morris Ital in a sea-sick shade of green. My own wheels would have been out of place here and would have been easy to trace back to me and, by implication, to the Kroetze Group. The Ital’s added advantage was that it wouldn’t tempt a car thief, even here in Moss Side.

At the café counter, the skinny guy in the white coat scratched the side of his neck, lost to the world as he leafed through a girlie magazine. He was probably the owner. Nothing in the place was new, not even his spotless white coat with the neatly mended tear on the lapel, but everything shone with cleanliness. The food was good too. Thanks to the foul weather I was the only customer, which suited me. I was wearing a grubby old donkey jacket over faded blue overalls and didn’t want to be noticed.

I took my plate and mug back to the counter.

Another cuppa, please, I mumbled.

Misery-guts filled the mug from the tea urn, shoved it across to me, said, Thirty-five pence, and rang the money up on the till without seeming to take his eyes off his magazine once. There didn’t seem much chance of him remembering me, but perhaps soft porn dulls the critical faculties!

As I sipped the steaming tea I caught the pallid glow of a hall light as the front door of the house opposite opened. It was one in a terrace of a dozen houses, all fronting directly onto the pavement.

The figure who set off down the street, shoulders hunched against wind and rain, did not match the description in the transcript we had dup up. Mr Kroetze had said to let – his chief of staff, he called her – Mrs Sayle, know anything I wanted. Within hours she produced this computer print-out. A journalist, covering the bishop’s tour for one of the group’s regional papers, had recognised a Manchester villain hanging around, and Dunkeld was one of those Scottish towns where a Jamaican Yardie doesn’t exactly blend into the local scenery. The computer had also [?] out a few other snippets about the guy.

My watch said it was time to meet him.

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Six, seven, eight, counting off the backs of the houses – here it was, Clem’s place. I had ducked into the side entry after plodding down the street, head down like a tired working man, rain pattering on the jacket’s leather-cloth shoulder patches and soaking through my headgear. There was a little light in the alley between high brick walls, only from the loom of street lamps beyond the houses and from the glimmer of a few lighted upstairs windows. A big woman in bra and pants came to the window of the next door house and pulled the curtains together.

I remembered to pull the ski mask down over my face. It was like a balaclava with holes for eyes, nostrils and mouth; with the bottom rolled up it looked like an ordinary woollen hat.

My exploring fingers confirmed that the eight foot wall was topped with broken glass. It’s easy to get over if you know how, but it would mean a skyline movement for anyone in the downstairs back room to spot against the orange glow that all big towns give off at night. Bad tactics and to be avoided if possible, so I took the close-fitting, kid leather gloves from my pocket and eased them on, making sure my fingers were right in. They give almost as much feeling as surgical gloves with less chance of splitting or being cut to leave fingerprints behind. My dabs were on record with the FBI, courtesy of a little job with the US Navy when they’d been taken for elimination purposes.

Squirting oil into the keyhole and on the hinges, I settled down to pick the rusty lock on the back gate. Some old locks are devils to crack, but this one took about twenty five seconds. Putting the pick-locks back into the pocket on my belt, I turned the handle ever so slowly. Even in the dark, it is the quick movements that catch the eye.

Had the gate been bolted on the inside, I would have had to go over the wall but it wasn’t, so I didn’t. I carried out a quick mental check of the new data on Clement ‘Big Fella’ Attlee Winston that I had gathered in the last few minutes. Item – no door-keeper on the front door; item – no special locks or strengthening that I could see on the front door; item – no outside watcher or sentry; item – no special locks on the back gate. Conclusion – Clement knew nothing about real self-protection.

That, in turn, gave other indicators. First, getting in without alerting him might not be too difficult. Second, he trusted his reputation as a hard Yardie to frighten off would-be intruders. Third, and more important for me, he probably relied on a weapon for protection.

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Easing open the back gate took a count of a hundred, including a freeze when a dustbin lid clattered and a cat wailed. Closing the gate just as gently, I leaned against the garden dividing wall, a couple of feet lower than the back. It was typical of thousands of back yards in every industrial city. To my right, a brick outhouse with a couple of doors, probably a crapper and a coal shed. I hoped Clement enjoyed the benefits of indoor plumbing. It would be awkward if he came out for a squat, though the rain ought to be a deterrent. A silly thought popped up as they do when the adrenalin flows; an outside loo and pelting rain make a good cure for the runs.

A touch of light leaked from the edges of a heavily-curtained downstairs window. Two upstairs windows, one with frosted glass, were dark. A faint glow from the mottled glass in the back door meant that the kitchen was probably empty.

Using one of the lengths of strong nylon cord from my pocket, I quietly roped together the handles of the outhouse doors. It wouldn’t make a prison, but would give warning if anyone was waiting there to take me from behind.

Through the back window I could hear voices but not what was being said. Dialogue was interspersed with spells of music and song which sounded familiar. I couldn’t make the words out, but was sure I knew the tunes. Then it came to me. Whoever was in that room was watching Snow White and the Seven Dwarves, presumably on video.

Making sure not to silhouette myself against the light, I listened carefully. How many were inside? After half an hour I was reasonably confident that it was just one. The odd cough or sneeze, once the sound of someone leaving the room, the light going on in the upstairs room with the frosted window followed by the sound of water rushing down the soil pipe, all added up.

Gentle probing with a piece of flexible plastic bookmark told me the back door was locked but not bolted. Its lock was a cheap two-lever affair, even easier to sort out than the back gate. Hinges and lock received the oil treatment first. So there I was, all lines of defence to the main objective breached and it was just a question of deciding when. I could either wait until whoever was there came into the kitchen, or else ease in beforehand and take it from there. I preferred the second option, so in I slid, shutting and locking the door behind me.

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Hey, man, what you want of me? he asked, beginning to sound worried.

He had been babbling on ever since I had pulled the tape from his mouth after settling him in a corner of the hut.

I made no reply. Not a word had I uttered since bursting into that room and putting on a quick choke-hold. The room had been heavy with the smell of pot, like smouldering hay. It explained his slow reactions. He had been careless with his gun too, leaving it on the ornate sideboard out of reach; a Tula-Tokarev 7.62, Russian-made, probably bought from the rump of the Soviet Army when they pulled out of East Germany and later smuggled to England hidden in a legitimate container load. It’s not a bad gun as pistols go but its high-powered load makes for inaccuracy.

As soon as he had gone floppy I had to let go. Choke-holds can soon kill if you keep them on too long. Before he had come round, his wrists were strapped behind his back with parcel tape, more effective an immobiliser than cord or rope. Another piece went across his mouth. A length of cord became a hobble round his ankles. Then I had shoved his gun out of sight down the back of the sideboard.

As he had come round I had pressed my thumbs into bunches of neck muscles where it hurt most. He had wriggled violently, moaning through his gag. The sooner they learn who is in charge, the better. Getting him to his feet, I had begun to push him towards the front door.

Clem, honey. ‘S that you, baby?

I had cursed, having forgotten to check upstairs. She must have been asleep but now stood on the darkened upstairs landing, peering blearily down into the hall. Luckily, the only light had been that spilling from the back room.

Kicking his feet from under him, I had leaped up the stairs and grabbed her even as she gulped air ready to scream. On with the landing light, hand across her mouth, other arm scooping her close to me. Big, frightened, blue eyes, pupils like pinpoints, thin little body barely covered by a baby-doll nightgown, she had made no attempt to resist when I had tied her up loosely with a pair of tights plucked from the bed end. As I had put her on the bed for comfort her nightie had rucked up. I was tempted to give her a cheerful slap on the backside as a farewell until I spotted the pimple on her buttock. It had given me pause; she was only a kid. I had felt a flash of sympathy and left her alone. She would soon wriggle free.

Clem had already been trying to haul himself upright. I had wagged a finger at him before jabbing him in the solar plexus. He had not enjoyed his journey out through Glossop and off into the Peak District, bundled into the space behind the Ital’s front seat and covered with blankets from the same Birmingham second-hand store that had provided my donkey-jacket. He had enjoyed even less being dragged into the old hut and had watched apprehensively as I hung the blankets over the window to keep in the light of the portable lantern. Nor had he cottoned on when I brought in the tin bucket and two foot length of broom handle.

Aw shee-it, man, Clem’s voice became ingratiating. What I done to you. I never meet you before.

I looked at him through the eye-holes of the ski mask and shrugged. There’s nothing like the silent treatment to begin the softening up process. Add humiliation, sensory deprivation, cold, hunger and discomfort, and you are on the way to the classic interrogation techniques. I never did like them much. The few times I used them left me feeling angry with myself; not enough to stop but just enough to avoid going over the edge into outright brutality.

I could not afford much time so the pressure would have to be kept up in ways that would not be allowed in the Forces. Sometimes nature helps. A full bladder can be a persuasive agent.

As if on cue he piped up, Hey man, I burstin’ for a leak. Again