Sam was an experienced martial artist. At fourteen he attended his first Lau Gar Kung Fu lesson and was hooked. In his early twenties he also took up Wado Ryu Sport Karate, winning the nationals in the Lightweight category. He never made it to black belt in either discipline, preferring to fight in tournaments rather than learn the syllabus. He gave up paying to train at clubs when his instructors started nagging him to go for his brown belt. Instead, he converted his spacious summer house into a training area, much to the annoyance of Julia.
‘Piss off.’ Was Sam’s response.
‘Don’t like it when it’s aimed at you then.’ Came Dave’s snappy retort.
Sam looked at Raynor just as Raynor, who was absent-mindedly gazing around the room, looked straight back at Sam. They looked at each other, both waiting for the other to break eye contact. Sam took in Raynor’s bulk, wondering whether he’d stand a chance in a fight. Six foot, four inches of muscle. A lot of weight to carry around when slugging it out, especially compared to Sam’s five foot, six inch height and trim, defined build. Sam had the speed, Raynor had the power.
Raynor started sizing up Sam. Small, nimble, defined but not bulky. Raynor could tell that Sam had a few moves, and a few tricks up his sleeves too, no doubt.
They both instinctively knew the other had received some sort of training and were both unwilling to break eye contact, as if doing so would show some kind of weakness, even though they didn’t have a clue who the other person was and would probably never see each other again.
Sam’s concentration was finally broken by Dave.
‘Fucking Hell Sam, stop staring, he’s gonna come over here in a minute and deck you if you ain’t careful. Or are you eyeing him up. Here, if you’re on the turn, do you mind if I have a crack at Julia? Always fancied her. Well fit.’
At this, Sam turned back to the group and playfully punched Dave on the arm.
‘Piss off Top Gear, Julia would never go for you. She has taste. Now get the beers in.’
Raynor watched the exchange with envy, though he’d never admit it. He had few friends. Well, in honesty he had no friends. Merely acquaintances. This is how it had to be. Only fifteen years ago, Nathan Raynor didn’t exist. He was invented. His whole life was created in an office in London, the man before Nathan Raynor, Steven Roper, was killed in action. That was the official story, anyway. A letter was sent informing his wife, another sent to his parents, who requested he be buried in Salisbury. Since that day, since signing the document which bound him to secrecy and killed his real identity, Nathan Raynor had lived a lonely, solitary life, working for a demolition company in London, travelling the globe on their behalf. Blowing shit up, as he’d tell people who paid any attention.
Well I might not have any friends, he thought, but I’m about to make a hell of a lot of enemies.
Chapter Five
Corporal Jenkins once again stood outside the brigadier’s office. He took a deep breath and knocked the door.
‘Come.’ The stock reply.
Jenkins walked into the office where the brigadier was tending to some plants on his windowsill, using a bottle with a spray trigger to throw a fine mist of water onto the leaves.
He turned and saw Jenkins.
‘Ah Jenkins, just giving the plants a drink. Remarkable plants, Lilies, especially this one.’
He held the stem gazing at the red funnel shaped flowers, dotted with purple.
‘Lilium Bolanderi. From Oregon. Quite rare.’
He let go of the flowers and continued.
‘Blasted pollen sticks to everything though. Can be a bit whiffy too.’
He moved on to a potted Orchid.
Jenkins shuffled and cleared his throat, subtle attempts at getting the brigadier’s attention. It didn’t work. The brigadier went on.
‘Now Orchids on the other hand, no pollen problems with them.’
He turned his head, looking over his shoulder at Jenkins,
‘It means testicle you know.’
‘Er. What does sir?’ Asked Jenkins nervously. Was he being tested?
‘Orchid, Jenkins, Orchid.’ Replied Saunders. ‘It’s the ancient Greek word for testicle. Because of the root you see. Its shape.’
He turned to face Jenkins and put the spray bottle down on his desk,
‘Anyway, you didn’t come here to listen to me talking bollocks did you?’
He allowed himself a little chuckle at his own joke, probably his only joke, thought Jenkins.
‘So, what do you need to tell me?’ asked Saunders.
‘Well sir, we found the bomb site and from what we can tell it was a small device, simple in design.’ He fiddled with a button on his uniform jacket, occasionally looking at the floor before meeting the brigadier’s gaze again. ‘It seems to have been detonated remotely, but it’s hard to tell, we have a few pieces of circuit board, but not much else.’
‘Okay, so not an Army issue then?’ asked the brigadier.
‘No sir, not as far as we can tell. All personnel are accounted for.’
‘Excellent work Corporal.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘I’m letting you head up this investigation, Corporal. You’re to liaise with MI5, get them to send a team down at once. Give them all the evidence we’ve managed to retrieve. Get it sorted quickly, and then get them off our backs.
‘As far as I’m concerned, this is a civilian investigation. It just happens that the investigation will start on our turf. Don’t let them outstay their welcome.’
‘Yes sir.’ replied Jenkins with a salute. He left the brigadier’s office and found an empty desk in the administration section. Using the internal phone directory on the MOD intranet he found, and dialled, the number for Thames House.
Sam stood on the platform waiting for the train which would take him to Waterloo.
The same ritual. The same faces. The same looks of anguish and misery for those starting another day working in “The Big Smoke”.
He sipped his overpriced coffee from its cheap cardboard cup, the plastic lid popping off a little bit allowing hot coffee to run down his hand. It happened every time. One of life’s constants. If you try too hard to put the lid on, it splits. If you don’t try hard enough it pops off. He thought it must be designed by a disgruntled junior designer who’d spent years at college and university getting loads of qualifications, only to get a job designing cardboard coffee cups while his mates went off to work for the likes of Apple and Bang & Olufsen.
Sam shook the spilled coffee from his hand and attempted to wipe it with the tiny serviette which came with the coffee. He heard the railway tracks start to vibrate and hum. The train approaching. Time for the daily jostle for a seat.
The regulars knew the rules of the game. Most of them would sit in the same seat, day in, day out, unless a less educated passenger, unaware of the unwritten laws of commuting, decided to take the seat of a regular commuter.
Sam took his usual seat, facing toward the front of the train. It was one of only four arrangements of two seats either side of a table in the carriage, the train companies now preferring a bus style, two seats per row system.
Sam’s usual travelling companion walked up the carriage. A grey-haired man in his mid-fifties, wearing a pinstriped suit. All the man needed in order to be the quintessential British banker was a bowler hat. He placed his briefcase and umbrella in the overhead storage rack, gave Sam the briefest of acknowledging nods, sat down and opened his copy of the Financial Times. Sam had sat next to him nearly every working day for three years, yet didn’t know his name. Another of the unwritten laws of commuting. Don’t talk to anybody, don’t make eye contact.