PEACE PIPE - CHAPTER THREE

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

3

Washington DC - August 07, 2013 - 08.00

Metcalfe, accompanied by Lime, drove into the Langley compound. The British detective was floating on air. Following their celebration of Brazilian jazz the previous night, he still felt more relaxed than he had been for years. This break from normal, everyday work was doing them both a power of good.

An important policeman, Detective Chief Superintendent Lime seemed rather too old and gangling for such a prestigious title. Already in his late fifties, he would be eligible to collect his pension very soon. Married over thirty years to his childhood sweetheart, he had given all for his job. This did not mean his marriage ever became threatened; his wife made sure of that. She looked forward to his retirement when he would be able to enjoy the small allotment she had bought him on his fiftieth birthday. Lime had not worn too well and, like his somewhat faded attire, already looked a little past his sell-by date. His features, though heavy lined, continued to provide the stern presence of a senior official. His short sandy hair, going on silver, blue watery eyes and horn-rimmed spectacles set on a large protruding nose, seemed to counter-balance a rather mean-looking mouth.

Lime, in charge of the Metropolitan Police élite SO11 security squad, had responsibility for all major criminal investigations between the UK and the USA. Much like the CIA, SO11 had a rather unsavory reputation - assuming one existed at all - as to the nature of their responsibilities.

* * *

J A Metcalfe was baptized Jeremiah Armstrong; joint tributes to the great white hunter and the black jazz musician of equal stature. However, raised in the smoky mountains, a place not used to fancy names, J A Metcalfe soon become JAM. From the age of 12, JAM found himself promoted up the educational pecking order as no boy from a dirt-poor black family could even hope to expect. The fact that he possessed more brain cells than an average physicist had much to do with it. Still to reach the age of 35, a lot had happened since majoring in sociology at North Carolina State University, graduating summa cum laude.
Metcalfe, a prime employment target for many large organizations, was quickly snapped up by a US government recruiting agency and thence to the CIA where he progressed through each level of the agency, learning fast and moving swiftly up the ladder. In just five years, about to be promoted to the number one spot in San Francisco, he took immediate steps to forestall what promised to be a desk bound job. Following machinations on Metcalfe’s part, an alternative offer soon arrived on his desk: a chance to work from Langley, in Washington DC, as Director of the UK Bureau; a job designed to keep him active in the field. From here, he would liaise with the almost invisible SO11 in London. Furthermore, opportunities would be provided to develop his international perspectives. He was answerable to no one but his Operations Director, Tom Merriman and President Kolé Cutter himself.

One of Metcalfe’s first actions, when confirmed in his new job, had been to investigate his counterpart on the far side of the pond. He was quick to identify Lime as a straight copper - part of a rare, if diminishing, breed. In spite of his unshakeable honesty over thirty years, the man had still managed to rise to his present position. When Detective Chief Superintendent Horace Lime of SO11 rang Metcalfe’s bell, he sat up and took no- tice. The two men became close friends, developing real respect for one another.

* * *

Over the past six months the men had worked together on an international operation designed to ensnare a major criminal who had managed to elude most security services for some twenty years. The man in question, Victor Miles, listed in international security files everywhere as a suspected major criminal, had never been charged for any crime where there was even a suspicion of his involvement.

Intelligence was aware that Miles had hired a group of mercenaries for a diamond smuggling operation in South Africa that had run up against the rocks. Circumstantial evidence and hearsay, it was said that everyone died except for two young men who escaped with funds sufficient to retire. No one could prove the rumors to be true. In any event they had somehow managed to disappear off the map.

London - February 2013 - 6 months earlier.

‘Metcalfe.’ The call came on a secure line. Few people had the number. Horace Lime got straight through.

‘Are you busy, Guv’nor?’
Metcalfe smiled into the phone. ‘Not too busy for you, young man.’

His London connection chuckled. ‘OK,’ started Lime, ‘what do you have on a Major Alistair Leigh, late of the British Royal Marines?’

Metcalfe shook his head. ‘Not someone I’ve come across. You want I should check out our files?’

Lime demurred. ‘No problem, JAM, I’ve got enough for both of us. In any case,he’s a patsy for bigger fish; does most of his work for someone on your side of the pond. A rather unsavory gentleman called Victor Miles.’

Metcalfe knew just about everything there was to know about Victor Miles. At the start of his Agency career, given cooperation by the FBI and other American law enforcement agencies, he had run a thorough background check. However, even after this unheard of display of unified security co-ordination, what he learned was more from a point of interest rather than one requiring action.

Following the death of his mother, Victor Miles’s father, a retired 3-star General, American Ambassador to China and close friend of President Harry Truman, was involved in a major drug scandal. Threatened with exposure, he took the easy way out and managed to die of heart failure.

Having returned to America, young Victor was packed off to one of the best boarding schools where he fast learned self-sufficiency - anything that might earn a few dollars more. Later, at Harvard, suspected of embezzlement and running a prostitution ring, Miles excused himself and sought refuge in the army. His IQ, far in excess of his contemporaries, plus an extraordinary physique and strength led him to S. E. Asia and secondment to the Special Air Service a UK outfit - a perfect environment where his duplicitous methods attracted a host of admiring chums.

With the ending of the Vietnam War he took up a helicopter gunship deployed to evacuate troops and, for no reason other than his own twisted enjoyment, attacked a pacified village. Most inhabitants were decimated but his rotor blades hit a radar mast causing the aircraft to crash. Miles was pulled from a blazing wreck by the surviving villagers. Having lost part of his face, he was shipped home two weeks later.

In recognition of his heroics in Vietnam, Miles received a Bronze Star, plus a Vietnamese Cross of Gallantry. He had learned his lessons well and later formed the group called Secure Armed Services. The main objective of this was to piss off his previous benefactors, the Special Air Service, known throughout the world as the SAS. He swore never again to get involved in any personal way. The man had been a thorn in the flesh of international security agencies ever since.

For now, Metcalfe relaxed and listened as Lime filled him in on a story that had started two months previously. ‘Our security services discovered a plot to distribute counterfeit rands from South Africa in exchange for diamonds. Their intelligence people had been informed, but kept schtum to try and collar the bastards. A short while later, they dis-covered white supremacists had met Miles in Bloemfontein. He returned stateside and the Africans went back to their waiting game.’

Metcalfe interrupted. He had consulted his records. ‘Yep, I got the report here. The meeting took place on December 10, 2012, but there’s no detailed information and no follow-up so far as I can see.’

‘Alright, so, at the beginning of January, one of our size tens on the beat spots this card bearing a Royal Marine Corps emblem in North London, offering high-risk work to ex-militaries. Posters were circulated from a company called ‘Tough Guys’, one of the fronts for Miles’s mob on your side of the pond.’

Metcalf nodded involuntarily. ‘I guess, between us, we know everything about Victor Miles, except how to pin the bastard down.’

‘One bit at a time,’ said Lime, undeterred. ‘We discovered someone called Eddie Thompson. He served as a sergeant in the Marine Corps and would certainly not have been a top guy. Anyway he applied for a temporary firearm license for use at an abandoned army centre in Cambria. The lead seemed interesting, so we made sure he got his permit.’

Metcalfe, tempted to interrupt, decided to allow Lime to continue with his story. ‘We did the usual surveillance and found that almost everyone who arrived for rehabilitation sessions had prior form, not necessarily earned in the armed forces.’ Lime paused to let his words sink in. ‘However, two faces remained unidentified; we nicknamed ‘em Butch and Sundance. We have reason to believe that they represent a Miles connection. In any case, we pieced together a whole shitload of information and evidence, enough to close down the operation.’ Lime paused again, anticipating his partner’s question. ‘No, we didn’t. We allowed the charade to proceed on the strong possibility we would get closer to Miles.’

Metcalfe nodded approval as Lime continued. ‘A few days later, the whole group flew out and we kept a trace on them to Tripoli and, after that, Benghazi. We tried to involve Libyan intelligence but, as you may imagine, the country’s still in shit-street at the moment. In any case, at this point we lost them. I’m not sure anyone was at fault. They flew off with no flight orders or official notification. No one at ground level was willing, or able, to disclose their destination.’

Metcalfe sounded anxious. ‘So this became the end of the matter?’

Lime laughed. ‘We thought so. There were a few red faces around I can tell you. Everything went quiet for a couple of weeks.’ The detective paused. ‘Then they surfaced in South Africa of all places. Their security forces found what had been an armed group massacred in the jungle, quite different from our lot and close to the Mozambican border. According to the forensics, half of them died 12 hours prior to the others. We identified the latter group as members of the AWB, or Afrikaner White Brotherhood. Their leader also had direct connections to Miles. We think that an ambush took place which itself went pear-shaped. In fact, the evidence we have indicates two quite separate massacres.’

Lime heard his friend whistle down the phone. ‘No sign of Miles found?’

The Londoner laughed. ‘That would have made a lot of people happy. What we did find, across the border in Mozambique, was that Tough Guys have an office in Maputo; handy for African business. Alistair Leigh, a close chum of Victor Miles, runs the company - used to be an officer in the Royal Marine Corp. Metcalfe interrupted.

‘Ties in with those posters you mentioned.'

‘Exactly!’ Lime grinned and continued. We also found a burned out De Beers truck in the middle of the jungle containing a large package of currency paper reduced to ashes. Who burns money nowadays unless it’s an accident no one intended?’

Metcalfe interrupted. ‘It wouldn’t guarantee its legitimacy in any case.’

Lime nodded. ‘Quite right and there was something else. Another De Beers truck was parked up outside the Tough Guys office in Maputo. That tied in Leigh.’

‘So what did he have to say for himself?’

‘He’s gone to ground up until now.’

‘And now?’ Metcalfe waited for the answer.

‘Now we’ve discovered he’s been lying low in Moscow for the past couple of weeks.’ Before the American could interrupt again, Lime threw in the bombshell. ‘He’s flying to London on Monday.’

Metcalfe reacted in the way Lime expected.

‘I’ll be there.’

* * *

Metcalfe stared at the earth’s curvature from aboard the new supersonic airbus from Washington to London, certain he would not have been convinced to board the plane without good reason. Evidence which could lead to the arrest of Victor Miles seemed as good a reason as might be conceived.

Interrogating Major Leigh might prove the catalyst they had been seeking. Now another dimension had entered into the equation. British Intelligence had since reported that Miles flew to Beirut. Unfortunately, they failed to find out why and who he may have met.

British and American Intelligence services needed to decide whether the two trips, to South Africa and the Lebanon were mutually significant. Although, in all probability Leigh knew nothing about the Beirut meeting, an opportunity to interrogate him made Metcalfe’s presence essential.

* * *

A crisp wintery day welcomed Leigh as he stepped from the Aeroflot jet at London’s Heathrow. Twenty four hours earlier a Russian doctor had confirmed his AIDS as terminal. Nevertheless, he felt affluent, uplifted by the sun and not in the least upset when a young man, who identified himself as an officer from the Mets Special Branch, requested a short meeting at Scotland Yard. The matter would be cleared up in no time. He assumed that his co-operation might also save him from being taken into official custody.

* * *

A plump, middle-aged woman sat behind an L-shaped desk in a small alcove which doubled as a reception area. On one side of the desk sprawled a whole communication system: half a dozen phones in different colors, each going somewhere different. The woman looked as if she could handle it all. She might have been described as pretty, with an indefinable quality of intelligence that shone through. The rest of her was hidden under a rather low cut floral dress. A gold chain, attached to an old-fashioned pince-nez, hung round her neck.

As the major entered the woman immediately stopped talking on one phone. She put a second down that she held in the other hand, leaned forward, lifted the glasses to her eyes and gazed up with interest, impervious to the fact that she may have been showing rather too much of her ample breasts. ‘Major Leigh?’

The major seemed disconcerted. ‘That’s right...’
Pince-nez looked satisfied. ‘Please sit down.’ She indicated a row of empty chairs placed neatly along the wall. ‘The Detective Chief Superintendent will let me know when he is ready to see you.’ Having done her duty, she started at a savage speed on her computer as if he no longer existed. A short time thereafter, a door from the reception area opened and Lime walked out.

The woman stopped working and leaned forward as if expecting some new instruction. Lime shook his head in despair, addressed himself to their visitor and held out his hand. ‘Thanks for coming in. My name’s Detective Chief Superintendent Horace Lime.’ The two men shook hands before Lime turned back toward his office. ‘Won’t you...’ He waved, indicating the inner sanctum, and the men entered. Lime turned back to the woman waiting like a stray cat about to receive a saucer of milk. ‘Yes, Rosie three teas. Last time you forgot the sugar bowl!’ Lime glanced across at his security man who stood grinning with amusement, obviously used to such exchanges. ‘Have you something to do, Lobb?’

Lime closed the door before the woman was able to answer, before seeing her face red-den with humiliation and anger. She turned in her chair and pressed a button on the wall behind her, a section of which slid open to reveal a small, self-contained kitchen, comprising worktop, sink, microwave and fridge with ice-maker. She filled an electric kettle and switched it on before placing saucers, cups and spoons on a tray. Saving the sugar bowl till last, she banged it down with a degree of relish. Men were such bastards.

Lobb had thought Horace’s sarcasm funny; what a prick. It wasn’t even deserved. Rosie didn’t forget the sugar, Horace hadn’t stirred it. She had not bothered with the sugar bowl because Mr. Metcalfe didn’t take sugar. What had made her really angry was it had brought her boss out of that door. Usually, he buzzed. Rosie’s mission was to anticipate everything her boss wanted and deliver it as near perfect as possible.

It was understandable. He chose to view her ministrations as something to be challenged. In consequence, rather than co-exist in comfort, they circled one another as if in fierce competition. The fact remained, Rosie Hoare adored her boss. His personal secretary for over six years, she had recently exchanged her East End apartment for a much smaller one by the Embankment, within a short walking distance of Scotland Yard, only to ensure she would always be there for him. Of course, Rosie knew her idolatry was neither shared nor acknowledged. She stared at the closed door for a moment, shrugged resignedly, and went back to work.

* * *

The source of Rosie’s anger was the tall stooping man with a big nose, blue, watery eyes and thick, horn-rimmed glasses; the man who had invited Leigh in. Seating himself behind a large desk that seemed to dominate everything around it, he nodded at a chair directly opposite, his voice now sharp and more authoritative.

‘Please sit, Major.’ The man did as he was bid while his interrogator studied a paper on his desk and continued. ‘You are Alistair Leigh. You attended The Royal Military Acad-emy at Sandhurst for officer training in ‘92 and two years later accepted a commission in the Marine Corps where in 1998 you attained the rank of Major. Is that correct?’ The major nodded. He was commissioned in 1999, but it was not really worth arguing about. ‘You served most of your time in the Far East before being dishonorably discharged while serving in Singapore. This was in ‘05’

There was no point in denying it. They probably had the whole story anyway. The major nodded again. ‘The charge was indecent exposure. You apparently chose a security man in the Mandarin Hotel who had been watching you.’ The major nodded ruefully.

‘I’m afraid I misunderstood.’

Lime pressed on. ‘One week later, you had formed a company which you chose to call ‘Tough Guys?’ Lime picked a piece of paper from his desk and consulted its contents. ‘Everything from armed bodyguards and night club bouncers to private fucking armies.’ The detective had raised his voice, starting to sound angry. ‘Is that right, Major Leigh?’ Leigh began to squirm. The word ‘major’ seemed an admonishment.

‘Yes, but…’

‘Yes, but fucking nothing, Major. One week after your dishonerable discharge, the Mandarin Hotel lost their security officer. He was found in a toilet cubicle of the men’s room in reception. He had been beaten to death following a severe case of buggery by several unknown individuals.’ Lime had become a monster. He had risen to his feet and was bending over the table, his face inches away from the other man, his voice continu- ing to rise. ‘They said at least four men had been involved. You didn’t happen to be one of those men, did you, Major?’ Before the ex-soldier could even think about answering, Lime was on him again. ‘You’re a nasty old fucking quee…’

Lime’s door swung open and Rosie walked in with a tray. Placing it on a table, she handed a cup to Metcalfe before addressing Leigh. ‘Do you take sugar, Major Leigh?’ The man turned to her, his face chalky white. He shook his head, relieved at the interruption.

Rosie beamed, gave the Major a cup of tea and passed the last one to Lime, before add-ressing him directly. ‘Apparently, you’re the only one who takes sugar.’ She nodded at the cup. ‘It needs stirring, like the last one.’ Rosie picked up the tray and coolly left the room.

Lime looked distinctly uncomfortable. About to supply a riposte, he changed his mind. Metcalfe struggled not to laugh. For Leigh, the woman’s intrusion came as a huge relief. Nevertheless, this would not be as easy as he had thought.
When Major Leigh walked into Lime’s office, a number of things had become clear. First of all, a large athletic-looking man, wearing a rumpled if unmistakable Brooks Brothers suit, was flicking, in a practiced way, through photographs similar to other black and white pictures covering the wall behind him. One glance and the Major knew it was the African job. They would be looking for information on its real purpose and, in particular for those responsible. They might well know of his connection with Victor Miles and have fingered him as the man behind it all. Further analysis of the situation told him that the man with the pictures had recently joined the party; probably CIA and in charge despite of the haranguing he had received from the English guy. It was always useful to identify the man in charge. Now, in the ensuing silence, he stared at the other man hoping, perhaps, for something slightly better.

Metcalfe felt himself under scrutiny and lifted his head - face blank, eyes unblinking. As the two men studied one another, it was the American who broke the silence. He glanced at the wall behind him before turning to face the man again, holding a number of pictures in his hand. ‘As you see, Mr. Leigh, we have most of it. It only needs you to fill in the rest.’

The man’s cultured voice failed to conceal his intent. Long out of the navy, the Major had chosen to retain his rank. However, dishonorable discharge removed his rights and the big man opposite knew it. What’s more, he was using that fact. Leigh’s optimism drained away. He knew the importance of retained initiative.

A long time student of genealogy, Leigh constructed a picture of this new adversary. The man was like a heavyweight boxer, around 250 lbs of muscle, tall and commanding. His darker complexion implied Congolese antecedents, yet his features testified to racial crossbreeding. His accent originated in the Carolinas, Cherokee Indian territory; his original stock might go back to the 16th century. As the men sized up one another, Detective Chief Superintendent Horace Lime decided that he was not yet finished. Before Rosie interrupted, he had been building up to the key question. Now it might have got away. Still, he had to try. ‘What part did Victor Miles play in all this?’

Here it was, the one Leigh had been expecting. Metcalfe watched with care. It was like a ham actor auditioning for King Lear. Leigh’s face switched to a look of bemusement, but something had happened. Just a flicker, but he was sure something had happened.

‘Victor Miles?’ Leigh’s head shook again. ‘I should recognize the name?’

Lime shook his head. ‘You met him in Singapore, months before leaving the army. He helped set up Tough Guys and you’ve been working with him ever since.’ Leigh determined on a process of sulky denial. He sat there and shook his head like a naughty boy.

Metcalfe grimaced. He pointed to someone in the pictures - a tough craggy looking man, older than the rest, wearing three stripes on his arms. ‘That’s Sergeant Thompson. You remember him?’ Leigh knew further denial was useless. He nodded blankly as Metcalfe pressed on. ‘Thompson planned everything, didn’t he? He did the deal, recruited the troops, led them into battle and he died.’ The American shook his head. ‘We got a dead man here, don’t we, Mr. Leigh, and they don’t talk, right? You only provided a little artillery.’

Leigh interrupted with genuine anger. ‘And the transport, I lost the bloody lot.’

Lime shook his head with impatience. ‘You’re a fucking creep, you and your transport. What you tried to do might have thrown the whole fucking world into chaos. And you worry about a couple of trucks.’

Leigh shook his head. ‘I’ve no idea what you’re on about.’ The American almost whispered, spinning the man round again.

‘As I said, we pretty much have most it.’

Leigh’s face became stony. He had regained his composure. ‘And what d’you think you’ve got?’

Even as he spoke Leigh regretted his intervention and tried changing tack before they responded.
‘All right, something that started as a little job went wrong.’ He shook his head. ‘Sgt. Thompson and his limited brain quota. I knew I shouldn’t trust him. Supposed to be his show. I supplied shooters and transport but not the De Beers truck. That piece of shit turned up with the stupid fucking American and his boyfriend.’

‘American?’ The question came from the black man.

Suddenly Leigh understood. The man in charge was interested in the American. It accounted for his presence. ‘Oh yes, American all right. Pieter de Herdt he handed out for a name. Tried to kid us he was a Belgian reservist. What a load of bollocks.’ Leigh was scathing. ‘In any case, from what I’ve heard neither of ‘em knew an arm- alite from an army light.’

Leigh turned to Metcalfe. ‘I’d say de Herdt, or whatever else he called himself, came from your neck of the woods, sir!’ The word dripped with sarcasm.

‘My neck of the woods? Perhaps you’d like to explain.’

‘Carolina, I’d say, old man.’ Leigh glanced down at his nails and waited for the reaction, certain one would come.

Metcalfe’s face broke into a slow grin. ‘You think I come from Carolina?’

Leigh glanced up, feigning surprise, and then nodded. ‘Yes, I’d say so, right at the bottom end. Cherokee, via Pointe-Noire.’

Lime had started to walk around the desk. He looked confused. ‘Pointe- Noire? What the fuck’s he talking about, Guv’nor?’

The American smiled at his London colleague.
‘Port of Brazzaville. Happens to be in the Congo.’ He turned towards the other man, his face full of admiration. ‘And he’s damn good!’ After a slight pause the American continued. ‘And you think this guy, de Herdt, came from the Carolinas?’ Leigh shook his head. The man had started to warm to him. It was unbelievable.

‘No, I don’t. I think he was from higher up - West Virginia or thereabouts. Less of a twang old boy, don’cha see?’

Metcalfe grinned again. ‘Yeah, I guess.’ After an even longer pause he turned back again. ‘And you don’t think his name was de Herdt?’

Leigh considered for a moment; this wasn’t about him at all. He almost sighed with relief. ‘He may have used the name to get into my, er, Thompson’s party.’

Metcalfe nodded. ‘Ah yes, I see, Thompson’s party. The idiot sergeant you mentioned.’ He glanced at his colleague, shook his head, winked and smiled lazily, noting the major had started to relax. ‘Was all the money burned?’

‘Money?’ The response came a little too quickly. Leigh’s voice tailed off. Perhaps they hadn’t anything on the money.

Metcalfe remained calm. ‘We found a large, burned out steel box. It contained ash comprising wool, cotton and aluminum. An interesting combination indicating good quality currency paper.’

Metcalfe nodded. ‘Yes, we know all about the money.’ He paused. ‘We think that the money was intended as an exchange for diamonds.’

Leigh drew himself up indignantly,about to deny everything, before Lime pounced, his voice a sudden sliver of ice between the shoulder blades, piercing in its accuracy. ‘They pay over the odds for diamonds in Moscow these days?’ The question sounded more like a statement.

The major spun round in surprise. ‘Are you talking to me, old man?’ Somehow, he had run out of breath.

Metcalfe wanted to talk about people. ‘So, who was the man who accompanied the American?’

Leigh thought for a moment and then shook his head. ‘A young Irishman. A little way south of Dublin I think. I can’t remember. Paul Donnelly, Murphy or something.’ Waiting a moment, his voice became sarcastic. ‘A good looking couple though.’
‘When you say a couple, what exactly do you mean by that?’ Metcalfe asked. The Major sneered, raised an eyebrow and tossed his head. At first inclined to let the question hang in the air, he changed his mind.

‘Oh yes, for sure, old boy, a very fine couple.’ He turned and winked lasciviously at Lime. ‘I could almost guarantee you.’ Then he nodded, glanced at the wall and pointed at the pictures.
‘Butch and Sundance. It sounds about right.’

Lime stood again, his face purple. ‘You dirty little bastard. I’ve a good mind to…’ Metcalfe raised a hand to restrain Lime who was about to lose his temper. Instead, he stared at the old soldier with a semblance of compassion.

‘How long d’you think you’ve got?’

Leigh, at first started, then relaxed and gave the man a bleak smile. The American had read him well. He shrugged his shoulders and appeared to dismiss the idea. ‘A year, maybe eighteen months.’

Metcalfe nodded in sympathy. ‘What will you do with your time?’

Leigh grinned. ‘I’ve got a few things to sort out over here and then I’m off to Bangkok.’ His laughed appropriately. ‘Can’t keep it all to myself, now can I?’

Horace Lime took off his glasses and rubbed his nose. They would not get near Victor Miles by depending on Leigh. However, two toy soldiers were on the run - rank amateurs and had already killed a shitload of people. If anyone needed to recognize these potentially explosive facts, Lime and Metcalfe did. The job now was to track these boys down before an incident happened which everyone, even they themselves, would have real cause to regret. More important, they might be the last people left who could lead them to the real villain and, by now, everyone knew his name.

* * *

Horace looked down at a map of North London. King’s Cross and Euston, where the original fly posters were found, were highlighted. Other than employment exchanges, main railway terminals were usually the main sources for enlisting unauthorized labor.

Before Leigh’s interview, pictures of the two men, run off in the labs, were passed to every cop shop around King’s Cross and Euston. It was where their two fugitives had probably joined up originally. Maybe one of them had family there. The question for Horace Lime was how thorough had the search been? God knows the Met was increas-ingly short-staffed. They probably treated his request like another hole in their ever growing sieve.

Horace pressed the buzzer on his desk as Rosie came in with refreshments. Her eyes filled with suspicion. He was going to ask one of his silly questions again.

‘Rosie, have I got any leave coming up?’ Not so difficult. He hadn't had a holiday in eighteen months. Come to think of it, neither had she. Rosie shook her head and glared while Horace frowned. ‘I thought not.’ He paused a moment, then pressed ahead as the idea began to formulate.

‘Listen, I'm going to take a few days from Monday.’

Rosie bristled. ‘Does that mean I get a few days off too?'

Horace frowned. ‘It's not a holiday. I'm going back on the beat for a few days to see if I can still remember how.’ He chuckled at the thought while Rosie shook her head disdainfully and started from the room.

Horace looked forward to getting back on the beat and spent the last night of his week-end poring over a large map of Euston, partly including King’s Cross, and sectioned it in to five equal parts. His unorthodox enquiry could last a week and could come to nothing. But it was something he felt that he had to do.

Even in the first hour, Horace Lime's return to the world of ‘PC Plod’ looked likely to pay dividends. He talked to two shopkeepers who carried the mercenaries' advertisement. It seemed a good start, until they told him that there was a separate address for applicants.

Nevertheless, in each case they were able to describe the men who came in demanding information. In one or two cases, finding the shop Jewish, Pakistani or Indian-owned, material or even physical damage was caused.

However, if early results had been encouraging, by closing time, Horace was ready to quit. His feet ached and his first two successes had leveled out when he drew blanks in the next one and a half days. He was set to acknowledge how soul destroying 'on the beat' could be. Nevertheless, after a ham sandwich and a beer in a quiet back street behind Euston Station, he cheered up. On top of his Wednesday afternoon list was a place called Murphy's Store. The name, not only Irish, was possibly Paul’s surname. In any case it could prove significant.

Waiting at the back of the shop, Horace watched a woman serving customers and thought her altogether too attractive to run a business like this. Mary also saw Horace, assuming that he was a salesman, waiting to sell her something she wouldn’t want. Horace waited politely for the final woman to leave, then smiled in what he hoped was a disarming way and proceeded to lay a series of photographic close-ups, previously circulated to police stations, obscuring any hint of guns or violence, on the counter.

‘Your husband thought you might like them,’ he said gently.

It worked perfectly. Her face, at first puzzled, lit up as she thumbed through the half a dozen or so pictures. ‘Holy Mother of God, it’s Peter and Paul!” She laughed without a trace of guilt.
‘Paul Connolly's not my husband. Did he tell you that?’

He shrugged. ‘I just thought...’

She interrupted. ‘Anyhow, they're just great." She pointed to a strip of paper stuck on Connolly’s chin in one of the pictures. ‘That’s a piece of toilet paper. He did that on the morning they left. He cut himself shaving, so he did.’

Horace looked up at the ceiling. ‘You rent rooms?’

Mrs. Murphy nodded. ‘It brings in a few bob.’ She nodded towards the road. ‘Most of the business goes to the B&Bs. I don’t really advertise.’

‘And Peter and Paul arrived together?’

Mary laughed. ‘No they did not, cheeky buggers. Paul bought him home one night.’

‘But you didn’t know either of them before they…’

Mary Murphy shook her head. ‘No, and I’ll probably never see them again, more’s the pity.’ She started to thumb through the pictures again before looking up enquiringly. ‘So, how’s me brave boyo?’

‘I don't know.’ Horace presumed she meant Paul.
‘I was hoping you'd to tell me, I've sort of lost track.’

She smilingly continued. ‘From what I hear both of them are doing pretty well at the moment.’

Horace returned her smile and drew out a small notepad. ‘I don’t suppose they left a forwarding address or have written to you recently?’

Mrs. Murphy wrinkled her nose. ‘Said they were going to buy their place in the sun.’ Horace stood blank-faced and she laughed. ‘No, I didn't think that would help.’ Then she became confidential. ‘I'm sure they'll call me sometime. They said they’d make their fortunes and send for me.’

‘And you believed them?’

She nodded absent mindedly and waved the pictures. ‘May I keep these?’

Horace thought about it. Why not? There were loads of spares. He wondered if he should give her his card. Luckily, she hadn't asked for identification. Instead, he winked. ‘Tell you what, me darlin,' he said, heading for the door. ‘You keep 'em all. I'll pop back shortly.’ Then he smiled reassuringly and was gone.