Andrea didn’t realise she was pregnant until weeks later, when the sickness started and didn’t stop. She was determined to go ahead with the birth and she asked me if I would be a surrogate father to her child. I would have done anything for her, if I’m being honest.
Investigations into the continued sickness led unfortunately to a diagnosis of cancer, ironic now considering my present situation, but she refused chemo because it would have probably terminated you.”
Nick reached across and took Gillian’s hands in his.
“She died when you were just four months old. She never achieved her dream of celebrating your first birthday. Harold and Bernice didn’t have children of their own, and the option of having a child without the inconvenience of sex, pregnancy and delivery appealed to them. I’m not entirely sure Harold knows what to do with a woman in bed, anyway.”
Gillian and Nick both sniggered, but she caught a flash of pain cross his face.
“Are you OK?” she asked, her voice laden with concern. Nick nodded, and reached over to pick up a bottle of morphine laced brandy. He took a generous swig and waited for the pain to subside.
Gillian looked at the prescription label and sighed.
“You do know that this is suicide juice, don’t you? They give it to terminal patients, instructing them to take a tablespoonful every six hours, at the same time warning them that three spoonfuls at once will lead to unconsciousness and death.”
“I know, Gillian. But I don’t have long, and as a gamekeeper I wouldn’t let an animal suffer like this. I want you to let me go.”
“Why me?”
“Because you’re the only one who loves me enough to miss me.”
***
Nick died two days later. After a few days the family gathered for the reading of the will. Despite her parents’ best efforts, Gillian inherited over a hundred thousand pounds in cash, along with another one hundred thousand pounds from Nick’s life insurance policy.
Her parents, aggrieved that their suggestion that she donate half of the money to the upkeep of the estate was ignored, made her pay for the funeral. The funeral was lavish and sentimental. No-one in the Hampshire area had a bad thing to say about Nick, and Gillian was surprised to hear from a number of women whose husbands had not beaten them again after Nick had ‘had a quiet chat’ with them.
A man who could easily have been a clone of Nick, except for his close cropped hair, took Gillian to one side and introduced himself.
“James Mellanby. I served with Nick in the Army, special services section. Your uncle wanted me to have a word with you about your future.”
Nick’s old army friend knew all that there was to know about Gillian, and so his next invitation was not unexpected.
“Gillian, we have your health records, your psych report from University, we know about your academic achievement in science, and I had one of my colleagues watch you compete in the shooting world championships last year. We would like you to come to London and speak to a recruitment officer for the Special Intelligence Services.”
So it began. Gillian Davis trained hard and qualified as a spook, a spy or an intelligence operative whilst completing her Masters Degree and Doctorate. Her speciality was ‘authorised assassination’; the Americans termed it ‘wet work’ or ‘termination with extreme prejudice’.
The British Intelligence Services were more circumspect, using ironic terms such as; ‘Retirement’, a seemingly natural death using no weapons, ‘Redundancy’ where the assassination was intended to send a message that one of the world’s security organisations were involved, and finally, “Permanent re-assignment” where the assassination left clues implicating another person or agency.
Gillian took to the work with relish, and found herself working in internationally diverse teams, but her most regular partner was the best sniper in the business, Douglas Mc Keown, who insisted his surname was to be pronounced as Mc Ewan. All of which was irrelevant, because he was always called Mac or Scotty.
Chapter 1 4
Barbican Tower, City of London. 2008
Gillian had been with the Agency for almost five years when she received her latest assignment.
Perry Jensen was about to be permanently re-assigned, but he didn’t know it. He probably believed that at thirty two he was too young to ‘move on’. If that was the case he should have been more honest, or more careful.
Jensen had been a hacker as a teenager, a geek as a student and a playboy as an adult. His lifestyle was funded by his company, which in large part was reliant on Jensen’s encryption software. Who better than a hacker to protect your secrets?
Perry had worked for most major companies, at one time or another, providing encryption software, at very high prices too. If greed and pride had not overcome common sense he would have lived until a ripe old age. Unfortunately he had provided bespoke encryption software to a company he knew only as Thames Consulting Partnership, but which was actually a front for MI5. Even then he would have been fine if he had then left them alone with his complex encryption software, because they believed it was world class, but sadly he could not resist the old temptations.
One evening, when he was bored and sitting in front of his computer, he decided to see what Thames Consulting did for a living. Opening up a back door he had created in the software, he went in and looked around. He saw nothing of interest and he moved on quickly to another site, but his presence had been noted. Even at this point he may have been merely spoken to by his client and warned, had he not arrogantly accessed the highest level file in the system, which contained codes allowing nuclear submarines to ‘go dark’ and change their rules of engagement to include initiating a launch.
Of course, Gillian did not know any of this, and so her task was simple. Kill him, leave false clues, mislead the police and ensure the crime is never solved.
***
Gillian entered the tower through the bin store at ground floor level. The bins or refuse skips were large plastic containers with wheels, which allowed the refuse collectors to move them into position for the truck to lift them. Gillian walked behind the empty containers and came to a metal door; it was locked and protected by a key code. Gillian typed in the key code, which was hardly a secret as every refuse truck in the city had a list of the key codes for each tower block.
She was now inside the refuse bay where the skips in use were placed. There were two skips, one green and one blue, each one situated under a galvanised metal chute. As she picked the simple lock leading to the emergency staircase a black bag came hurtling down the chute, crashing into the almost empty green skip.
She left the door closed but unlocked. The emergency stairs were bare concrete and at ground floor they smelled of refuse and rotting food, courtesy of the bin store. Gillian ran up the stairs to the third floor and removed her jumpsuit and cap, letting her hair fall loosely around her face. She took a quick look in the compact mirror and touched up her make-up. She left the jumpsuit and the cap in the emergency stairwell, which was rarely used, and placed her makeup back into her shoulder bag.
Happy that she was looking her best, she stepped into the corridor and knocked on the door to apartment 314. A slightly overweight man answered the door; he was in his thirties with thinning blonde hair. His eyes dropped immediately to the ample cleavage his visitor displayed, and then eventually his eyes rose and met hers. Gillian smiled, and in her best Sloan Ranger voice said, “Hi, I’m Mandy. I’m staying with the oldies down the corridor and they said you were a computer genius. Can you help me?”