PEACE PIPE - CHAPTER FOUR

Character Build

Peter Elkins III - American Mercenary
Paul Connolly - Irish Mercenary
Mary Murphy -Irish Widow Woman
Sergeant Thompson - Mercenary Recruiter
Major Alistair Leigh - Tough Guys
Archie Andrews - African Mercenary

Rashid Al-Mannai - Jordanian Ambassador
Officer Windrush - MPD Patrolman
Jerri Neighbour - Freelance Journalist
Kolé Cutter - American President
J A Metcalfe (JAM) - CIA/UK Liaison
Horace Lime - SO11/CIA Liaison
Philip Dalton - British Assassin
Morris (MO) Schlick - Film Director
Nicola Schlick - Mo's Wife
Tse Lin Yan - Chinese Miliary Attaché
Victor Miles - Secure Armed Services
Abdul Miandad - Syrian Lawyer

Rosie Hoare - Limes' Secretary
Lobb - Policeman

Alan Borg - MPD Homicide Detective
John D Elkins - Bank President & City Mayor

4

Washington DC - May, 2012 – Three months earlier.

Metcalfe had finally traced his young American, but it had not been easy. After the meeting with Major Leigh, he and Horace Lime had put their facts together. With all the pictures, identification would not be a problem. The names, even if incorrect, still had established nationalities. For example, if they were to believe Leigh, one had lived most of his life in Southern Ireland, not too far from Dublin, and the other somewhere in West Virginia, USA.

At least Pieter de Herdt was a name they could check. Lime worked through West- ern Europe, concentrating, in the main, on Belgium and the Netherlands, while Metcalfe studied the possible West Virginia connection. With luck, they might meet up somewhere close to the man himself. On the other hand, the CIA agent had very limited jurisdiction attempting any investigation on American soil. He would need to be more circumspect, to say the least, and use devices other than those for which he would have automatic entitlement when working overseas.

* * *

‘Borg.’

Metcalfe smiled. The voice, crisp and authoritative, was exactly as he remembered. ‘Not the Borg? Not Washington DC Metropolitan Chief of Homicide, Alan Borg?’

There was a moment of silence. Metcalfe hear the cogs whirling round, then that voice again, unbelieving. ‘JAM?’ Metcalfe roared with laughter.

‘After all these years you made it up the slippery slope!’

This time there was no hesitation. ‘JAM, you old warhorse, you should be in Iran or somewhere causing maximum damage. How the hell are you?’

Metcalfe laughed again. ‘Listen, Alan, we need to talk.’ Borg glanced at the board in his office. It told him when he was available.
‘You in town at the moment?’

Metcalf nodded. ‘Yep, this evening some time. Perhaps we might eat?

‘Eight-thirty. You know Le Paradou? It’s between 7th and Indiana.’

Metcalfe smiled. ‘You’ve developed expensive tastes. I’ll be there.’

In most cases last to arrive on the crime scene, Borg got there early. He was sitting at up at the bar of the one of the finest French restaurants in the area; close by Washington Metro’s imposing police headquarters. DC’s Homicide Chief waved and emptied his glass as Metcalfe entered. He was dressed in a powder blue, loose fitting double-breasted suit, white shirt and a garish orange tie. Small and dapper, Alan Borg had lank blond hair, sharp attentive features and calm grey eyes.

Metcalfe gave his old friend a serious stare, his voice grave. ‘You took on murder as a career. I chose assassination.’ He turned to face the barman and held up two fingers, pointing at a bottle of Jack Daniel’s nestling beside his friend’s glass. They watched another small glass being selected and carefully polished before both were filled to the brim. He winked at Borg. ‘I just wanna tell you that murder is easier!’ Borg laughed, stood up and they bear hugged. Plainly, the two men were delighted to come together again. They emptied their glasses before Metcalfe got down to business. He explained his investigation and what had happened over the past few months, in particular the disappearance of the two young mercenaries and their possible connection with Victor Miles.
.
‘We know that the man who calls himself Pieter de Herdt is an American, but we also suspect the name’s either manufactured or switched with someone else. All we have at the moment is the name and the fact that he lives, or lived, within 100 miles of Richmond - anywhere from DC down as far as Greensboro.’

Borg laughed. ‘Why me, JAM? I’m Homicide. If the guy’s dead, you give me a date, it’s easy.’

Metcalfe shook his head. ‘There’s no way he’s dead. A few weeks ago he was……’ The CIA agent stopped in his tracks, his mind whirring.
‘Supposing this guy killed the real Pieter de Herdt -something that happened in the last eight months or so?’

Borg had been busy taking notes. Now he glanced up at his friend. ‘Now that’s something I can look at, JAM.’ He paused. ‘You say from the end of last year sometime?’ Then another question.
‘You got some sort of ID on the guy?’ Metcalfe handed over a picture, one of many taken at the training facility in Northumberland, England.

* * *

Horace Lime found Pieter de Herdt with rather more ease. A reservist who had been summoned by the Belgium army to serve during a dependency flare-up in January, the man had not responded to his call up papers. Military police visited his home in Ghent with a detainment order and learned that he had left several weeks earlier for a cycling holiday in West Virginia. Weeks later his failure to show up was deemed deliberate. The warrant was put in a drawer and forgotten. No one wished to infer the young man would dishonor both his legal and national duty.

Metcalfe had questioned Major Leigh’s brilliance at pin-pointing accents. Then, with Lime’s discovery, came a new realization; they were searching for an identity switch. The CIA agent confirmed this to his friend, Alan Borg. Now the detective was looking for someone who died four or five months before, perhaps recorded as an accident or hit and run.

Pieter de Herdt he now knew to be a foreign national, resident of Belgium, so his target would appear to be a Virginian - someone looking for another identity.

The computer produced 17 young men who fitted the general description within the geographical area. Of these, there were two of special interest. The most likely prospect was an escapee from a Federal Prison near Baltimore: a road accident victim, his face smashed beyond recognition. A perfect make had the man not turned out to be black. However, another man who fitted the bill came from a little town called Elkins on the far side of the Allegheny Mountains.

This one had crashed over a mountainside, possibly en-route to Washington DC, some eighty miles away. The dead man was identified as Peter Elkins who seemed to have had plenty to live for: Vice President of Loans, at 1st National Bank in the town of Elkins itself. He was no less than the great grandson of Carey Jefferson Elkins, founder of Elkins City. His father was John D Elkins, Bank President and City Mayor. John D and his wife, Virginia May Elkins, deceased, attended President Nixon’s Inaugural Ball in ‘68. Her great grand-daddy was the distinguished Southerner, George Brinton McClellan, a Southern General in the US Civil War. All in all, they were a highly respected local family.

Although identified by personal jewellery and papers, his father had still been hesitant about verification. Perhaps this final slug of information persuaded Borg to make more inquiries. Perhaps he figured Peter Elkins had everything too good to be quite true. He took the day off and drove to the little township of Elkins on the same highway. He saw where the accident had occurred - on a sharp, dangerous bend close to the summit. A new double width steel barrier now protected against similar fatalities.

Borg arrived in the afternoon just as the bank doors were closing. This resulted in some delay before the President agreed to an interview.
John D Elkins sat behind a larger-than-life desk. Glasses halfway down his nose, an unfinished document in his hands, his gimlet eyes concentrated on the detective. Then he glanced at the card. ‘Head of Homicide at Washington Metro?’

Elkins sniffed, indicated the chair opposite and conspicuously consulted his watch. ‘What can I do for you, son?’ he said, a little condescendingly. His manner typical of that which comes from generations of discipline and authority, a true servant of the great and good; a so-called paragon of southern courtesy.

For Borg’s taste, John D represented a little too much of the paragon. He shook his head. ‘I have no wish to take up your time, sir, or raise painful memories.’

The man’s face tightened visibly. ‘You wish to speak of my dear son?’

Borg nodded. He started to open his brief case, about to remove a large envelope, when his eyes alighted on a small group of framed prints on the desk. He pointed to one of them. ‘Is this you and your son, sir?’ Elkins visibly started, then shrugged in a non-committal way and handed the picture to him. Taken during the winter, two men with hunting rifles, wrapped in warm clothes and fur hats, were standing by a station wagon. Roped casually over the bonnet was a dead moose.
The detective took his time. He was almost certain. He had no wish to be wrong, not on this one. Nodding slowly, he studied the man opposite. ‘Do you know your son is still alive, Mr. Elkins?’

If Borg had expected a reaction, he received none. The man lifted his head, removed his glasses and stared at him carefully. ‘Will there be a scandal?’

Borg was taken aback. ‘Do you know your son’s whereabouts at this time?’

Elkins studied the picture and then focused on the man opposite. He shook his head resignedly.
‘I have absolutely no idea.’ His voice seemed flat and disinterested.

Borg decided to change tack. ‘Do you know the person who you identified as your son?’ The banker shook his head. ‘But he wore the items you identified as those belonging to your son?’

The man nodded; his interrogator appeared puzzled. ‘Is his mother aware of this deception?’

Elkins shook his head again, but his body language changed. ‘He killed her!’ The man paused before adding a correction. ‘She died giving him life.’

Borg empathized with a mixture of emotions, part anger and part pity. His own mother had died in identical circumstances. On the other hand, he had a job to do. He was certain that by the end of this interview he would have the information needed, perhaps a little more than needed. ‘Is there a possibility that your son killed the other man with deliberate intent, Mr. Elkins?’

The banker stood up, his face grey. His eyes began to fill with tears. Then, controlling himself, he sat down and glared at his accuser.
‘If my son killed the other man I can assure you it could only have been an accident. He was many things I did not understand, but a murderer?’ The man shook his head. ‘No, my son would never murder anybody.’

Borg shook his head. ‘Then, why was the man…’

Elkins cut him off. ‘Why was he dressed like my boy? Why did I identify him as such?’ The man had obviously asked himself these questions repeatedly since the accident. ‘Why did he do this? Why did I do that?’ The banker suddenly appeared very tired. His superiority was gone and tears were beginning to flow down his cheeks.

Borg lowered his voice. ‘I’m sorry, sir, but you identified the dead man as your son. You were aware he bore no special relationship to your son, in spite of the clothes and jewellery he wore. You allowed the local community as well as the local authorities to believe him to be dead.’ He shook his head. ‘Now, why did you do that, sir?’ The old man’s knuckles turned white as he grasped the edge of his desk. The tears had dried up but he continued to stare as the agent repeated his question. ‘What made you do this, Mr. Elkins?’ The floodgates had opened. The man’s face filled with blood; his eyes bulged from his head.

‘Because my own boy embezzled money from this bank - my own boy was a thief!’

Suddenly the banker bellowed at the top of his voice. ‘He was already dead. Don’t you understand, for Christ’s sake? My boy was already dead to me!’ The office door crashed open and staff crowded in. Nothing like this had happened in Elkins since young Peter had died in the mountains some nine months earlier. In truth, young Peter, having noticed the number of customers not returning from full service duties in the second Gulf war and, following this, Afghanistan, simply re-invented them. He gave them their own accounts and added nearly twenty million dollars to a Swiss bank account inside his first year employed as Vice President, Loans. It didn’t seem to do much harm to anyone except that his reckless enterprise would have cost him 20 years in a Federal jail had the savings bank belonged to anyone other than John D. Elkins, his daddy. Having discovered the embezzlement, just prior to his son’s disappearance, the banker quietly ensured full restitution of funds. At least family probity would remain intact.

Borg confirmed the news to Metcalfe later in the day, a mix of fact and supposition. It would have been a triumph had not the whereabouts of Peter Elkins and his Irish friend remained as big a mystery as it had always been.

Not surprisingly, Pieter de Herdt failed to return to his native Ghent. Metamorphosed into the body of Peter Elkins, he had met and united with a young Irishman.

Typical patsies, the two boys were also survivors. Moreover, they appeared to be surviving dangerously well. The riddle to be solved was: where were they now?

* * *

Miles glanced out from a helicopter taxi that had transported him along the coast from Nice. The weather, as always, was glorious and the views as stunning as ever. ‘Monaco is Monaco is Monaco!’ A sense of joy swept over Miles as the aircraft hovered like a giant seagull over the deep blue Mediterranean. Hundreds of boats bobbed gently in their coveted marinas. White villas and luxury skyscrapers peeped down from a hillside brim-ming with greenery and highlighted by splashes of red, orange and purple bougainvilleas.
Miles had selected one of his checkpoint hotels; places where it was always suggested that his operatives stayed when in the area. Places where he stayed himself. Places where messages could be left in relative safety: the Hotel Pierre in New York, the George V in Paris, the Savoy in London and other similar hotels around the world, including the Metropole in Monaco. Checking into this last named, Miles made a phone call, asked a question, had supper and went to bed. The next morning, as he sat in the dining room munching on dry toast and drinking extra strong black coffee, the concierge handed him a note. With the question answered, he stubbed out what was left of a Bolivar Belicosos cigar, walked into the Avenue De La Madone’s brilliant sunshine and hailed a taxi.

After the farrago in South Africa, when he had lost half the diamonds expected from one of his dubious deals, Victor Miles also had reason to find Butch and Sundance, as described by Major Leigh. Miles already had a head start. He knew that his quarries comprised an Irishman, Paul Connolly and Pieter de Herdt – who was Peter Elkins III, son of a small town American banker. After Leigh reported his CIA interview, it was a simple matter to insert the so-called’ Pieter de Herdt mug shot from ‘Tough Guy’ personnel files into the missing columns of West Virginia’s local papers. His offer of a $500.00 reward for someone to name him produced 39 calls, mostly from a place called Elkins in West Virginia.

* * *

It was easy to figure. Elkins had made one mistake too many for a rich boy who would, given time, have taken over the town bank which had belonged to his family since before the Civil War. He got greedy and tried to take a bit extra. It became worse as he attempted to escape justice and, heading for the state capital in his custom built Porsche Carrera GT convertible, killed a Belgium reservist on a bicycle holiday in the Allegheny Mountains; an unfortunate accident but, under the circumstances, one with a heavy price tag.

When applying for the African job, Elkins had declined to provide the address of his next of kin in the event of his demise. Paul Connolly, on the other hand, had named Monsignor Connolly at the Naas Orphanage, County Kildare in Southern Ireland. If the Irishman met his maker, his adopted father would know what to do. For Victor Miles, tracing the young man now was all too easy. He simply wrote to the orphanage, explaining that Connolly had disappeared without picking up the residue of his wages. Unfortunately, the nice young man had not left a forwarding address.

The Monsignor replied that he had no idea of Connolly’s whereabouts. However, a cheque from the BNP Paribas Private Banking in Monaco, made out to the value of ten thousand pounds and received by Mother Superior, contained instructions for the money to be passed to an ex-novice at the orphanage who, having given birth, refused adoption procedures. The information was sufficient for Miles to check out Monaco residencies as a matter of course. Now Miles felt eager to meet the two young men, lucky to be alive, never mind about procuring a few handfuls of his diamonds.

* * *

Peter Elkins, his thick blond hair bleached white by the Riviera sunshine, wore equally white boxer shorts. The mahogany tan of his body was part hidden by a blue pinafore hanging from his neck, tied at the waist.

The American was busy preparing bouillabaisse. Half-a-dozen spider crabs attempted a last desperate bid to crawl from the water filled sink while other ingredients struggled in whatever pots were available: a soup terrine, home to fresh scallops, octopus and squid, plus other fillets of fish, and a battered aluminum basin full of king prawns. On the stove, home-made tomato sauce laced with garlic simmered in a casserole and a larger pot, three-quarter filled with salted water, had started to bubble and steam ominously. He stood at a large wooden table littered with cloves of garlic, sprigs of bay leaves and French herbs. Alternately, he chopped onions, turned to blink away tears, or partake in huge gulps of white wine, purchased at a local vineyard. Half a dozen unmarked bottles floated in a small wooden tub, accompanied by copious amounts of broken ice.

An angry roar emanated from the back of the villa and Elkins smiled. His partner had made good his promise. He had said that he wanted a vehicle as safe, fast and effective off road as on tarmac. With respect to the original vehicle, it sounded as if he’d achieved his ambition. A second hand Humvee, designed as a glorified Jeep for the American army, had become their own racing tank!

The roar of the engine died into silence; the silence of a sun-drenched villa on a beautiful day, disturbed only by the cry of herring gulls. Renovations were visibly progressing. The villa had been painted with a double coating of white emulsion only the previous week and a half-built infinity pool jutting from the cliff edge overlooked the colorful harbor.

The silence was interrupted by a deep, dog-like growl. ‘Are you ready for these?’

The young American jumped and spun round. What he saw was a giant of a man, a monster, close to seven feet tall: coal black eyes emanating from deep dark recesses at the centre of a pock-marked face, a scarred and fleshy mound where the nose should have been; a thin, irregular line of skin sewn together to form the semblance of a mouth. The man’s head was squared-off, military style, and topped with cropped, snow-white hair. Massive shoulders and long ape-like arms ended, most monstrous of all, with writhing hands - sharp tentacles splayed in every direction, as if to seek a victim.

Elkins recalled the stranger’s first words and glanced at the water-filled sink, and at the huge pot smoking and bubbling on the stove. Then he understood. The man held several squirming spider crabs in each of his spade-like hands. The young American tried hard to control himself, glancing at the bubbling pot. ‘Sure, why not.’

The stranger grimaced. It was presumably intended as a smile. Walking to the stove, he dangled the protesting crabs over the boiling water, watching them squirm and cower in his fingers before release. The screams, as discernible as the sadistic pleasure he saw on the man’s face, caused Elkins to shudder.

Nothing interrupted the next few seconds as each small crustacean received identical treatment.
‘Are we neighbors?’ Elkins feared the worst. What he got was affirmation.

‘In a way, Mr. de Herdt.’ Miles smiled. ‘In a way we’re neighbors.’

Elkins started; his face betrayed anxiety. ‘How do you know my name?’

The stranger shrugged and seemed to smirk. ‘Your name?’

Elkins froze before attempting an aggressive pose. ‘What the hell…’

The man pulled a chair from under the table and sat down. ‘Pieter de Herdt. Very continental, but not you!’ Elkins momentarily considered violence. This guy, though ancient, looked mountainous, incredibly strong and well able to take care of himself. Standing at the other end of the table, the young American decided on discretion. He also freed a chair and sat down.

‘Would you care to take this from the start, Mr...?’

The stranger nodded. ‘Victor Miles. My name is Victor Miles.’ Before the young American could react to this piece of news, the man continued: ‘And your name is Peter Elkins, if I’m not mistaken?’

Miles held up his hand. ‘Don’t worry, son,’ he paused. ‘I’ll call you Peter. How’s that?’ Miles shook his head. ‘The authorities would be unhappy, but who would wanna tell them?’ He changed the subject. ‘More to the point, perhaps you know of me?’

‘You run a New York shop called SAS,’ Elkins said cautiously. ‘I’ve heard it said...’

Miles raised his hand again. ‘Unless you wanna end in hell, counting diamonds, never believe in hearsay, Mr. Elkins.’ The young man suddenly looked worried as Miles shook his head. ‘It’s no problem. I don’t need ‘em back!’

Elkins grimaced. ‘I understood you had nothing to do with the Kimberly job.’

Miles spread his huge hands on the table. ‘I rest my case,’ he said.

In fact Victor Miles did not resent their purloined share of the diamonds. That the majority had been left with Major Leigh indicated a desire to stay alive and an understanding of psychology; good reason to convince him they should be signed up, rather than left as spare cannons. The reason he had come to Monaco.

At this point Connolly walked through the open door behind Miles. His greeting, combined with the oil-stained looks of a triumphant mechanic, testified to his jubilant mood as he spotted the stranger and smiled jocularly. ‘Top of the morning, sir.’

Victor Miles turned to face him, his voice grinding out from somewhere below his navel. ‘And you’ll be the Irishman, of course.’ Connolly’s attempt at humor had misfired. His smile froze when confronted with the stranger’s cold, impenetrable stare.

Miles, having first introduced himself as head of Secure Armed Services, got down to business. Major Leigh, his European representative, had announced his retirement ‘to free up his leisure hours.’ The frequency of his forays into homosexuality had almost guaranteed his affliction: a damn nuisance. Leigh had always been his paid up, discreet professional. Miles needed to find a replacement, some fresh young brains to take over. Most of those on his payroll qualified as brave but often stupid. These two, on the other hand, might fit the bill. They had shown considerable horse sense in Mozambique.

The Irishman seemed less than impressed with Victor Miles’s reasoning. Undeniably, their adventure had provided both men with a lifestyle never to be expected over such a short span of time. However, few others would, in retrospect, have exchanged such an experience. That he and Peter had gone through hell and back was not something of which either of them were particularly proud, nor something they would wish to repeat. He remembered the last job was supposed to be a doddle. Still and all, they now owned a beautiful old villa in one of the most prestigious locations in the South of France, one that cost a cool six and a half million euros, even in its original decrepit state, and still left them with another two and a half million in the bank. He glanced at his partner, relieved to note that he was also looking a little doubtful.
Miles smiled to himself. Their lack of enthusiasm was plain to see. He didn’t so much quell their reticence as put the whole thing into perspective. ‘Look,’ he said blandly. ‘I’ve got plenty of guys who hit and run, dummies who just do as they’re told for a small bundle. I just wanna couple of bright young men able to stay on the balls of their feet, that’s all!’

* * *

The bouillabaisse, originally intended as a pre-requisite with deux jeunes filles cham ant de la ville, was instead shared with Victor Miles and washed down by the chilled flavorsome young wine.

Miles captured his listeners’ attention when he told them about the proposed abduction of Rashid Al-Mannai, Jordanian Ambassador to Washington and first cousin to King Abdullah II, absolute ruler of the Hashemite Kingdom. That the King had let his absolute rule slip a little in the past few months, due mainly to his cousin’s influence was, frankly, neither here nor there.

The proposition was simple. In six weeks time, they were to pick up the ambassador and hide him for a few days in a luxury vacation cottage Miles maintained in Chesapeake Bay, a few miles from Washington DC. It was a simple operation and required no heroics, just cool heads and initiative. The job could have been custom made for them. According to Miles, Al Mannai was worth a King’s ransom and most of it would be paid up front; in this case, the King was Abdullah himself.

Just to ensure his listeners’ attention, he reminded them, not too subtly, that he had managed to find them and that, given time, Interpol, or the CIA, or whoever, would also find them. In this case, even if they did not lose their freedom, they would most certainly lose this wonderful villa. The implied threat was obvious.

By the time a taxi arrived to collect Miles and return him to his hotel, dates had been set, plans laid, contacts arranged and bargains struck.