Julia looked up when Sam entered the dining room, a slightly shocked, but delighted, look on her face.
‘I’m in the field.’ Sam announced, beaming.
‘Wow, that’s great news Babe.’ Came Julia’s enthusiastic reply. ‘It’s about flaming time.’
‘You’re telling me.’ He said. ‘Got to go to Tidworth. I’ll take the Elan, it’s been awhile since it’s had a spin.
‘Okay darling, what time will you be home?’
‘I honestly don’t know.’ Said Sam smiling, happy to have this chance to prove himself.
Just over twenty minutes later, Sam was driving through the visitor gates of Tidworth Garrison. He found a parking space and headed into the Administration block and to reception where he asked for Corporal Jenkins. A few minutes passed before Jenkins arrived.
‘Sam Edwards?’ Jenkins asked. Sam stood up and offered a hand.
‘You must be Corporal Jenkins.’ Sam replied. ‘Nice to meet you’.
They shook hands and Jenkins continued.
‘Please, call me Jamie; or JJ,’ he insisted ‘I’ll take you to meet the brigadier later, but there’s a Land Rover waiting, so if it’s okay with you we’ll head straight for the bomb site.’
‘Fine with me, lead the way.’
Raynor opened the front door to his bedsit. The waft of chip fat and kebabs followed him into the room from the take-away he lived above. He walked in and closed the door before carrying out his usual bug sweep. Once satisfied he slumped on his bed which creaked under his weight. He wondered how it had come to this as he gazed around his room. A curtain closed off a small kitchen area from the rest of the room. A sink and an electric oven and hob, a couple of cupboards hung on the wall, stained and aged. A kettle, mug tree and toaster sat on a counter unit. A door led to the simple shower room. The carpet bore so many stains, Raynor could only guess at their origins. He suspected that not even the landlord knew what colour it was originally. As he pondered his current situation he also looked forward to his future. Tomorrow would see his plan put into action. Once phase-one was complete and his methods proven for real he’d be receiving six million pounds, deposited into an untraceable offshore account. Then he’d receive another million for each phase up to a maximum of fifteen million pounds. Then he’d be gone. A smile crept across his face. As he spent a couple of million pounds in his head, his phone rang.
‘Yes?’ he answered as he got up off the bed.
‘Are we good?’
‘We are.’
‘Then we go?’
‘That’s up to you.’
Raynor walked to his small, dirty window and pulled back the yellowed net curtain. Below, the world passed by, oblivious.
After a short pause, Raynor received his answer.
‘We go.’
‘Where?’
‘Fifty one point five north, zero point one six west. Of course, that’s just an approximation. It’s up to you where you carry out the task, but somewhere around there will suffice'
Raynor stored this information safely in his memory, which he considered unbreakable, and certainly unable to be hacked, before repeating the coordinates and replying.
‘Confirmed. Time?’
‘Surprise me. I’ll know when it’s done after all.’
Raynor smiled. ‘You most certainly will. And the delivery schedule?’
‘I’ll let you know, but your papers will be delivered as soon as I get word tomorrow.’
The line went dead.
Raynor smiled. His papers would be delivered tomorrow. Six million of them.
Sam sat in the back of the open sided Land Rover as it bounced across the plain. He held on for dear life, rooted to the bench seat that ran along the side of vehicle. Boxes rattled in the storage compartments beneath the seats, indents and bolt holes in the floor the only clues that the vehicle was capable of mounting a high-calibre machine gun. The driver was obviously skilled, but that didn't make Sam feel any better. Jenkins spotted Sam's discomfort and grinned.
'Are you okay Mr Edwards?' he asked, speaking up to be heard over the whining engine, revving high in low gears to get through a shallow brook.
Sam looked up at Jenkins, his face turning paler as the Land Rover negotiated another mound at a speed Sam didn't think the laws of physics would allow.
'I'm not sure which I'm going to lose first, my teeth or my stomach contents! Aren't there any roads around here?'
Jenkins laughed. 'Bloody spies. Should be able to handle a little off-roading.' He replied in jest. 'Anyway, we do our armoured vehicle training here. Tanks, APC's, that's armoured personnel carriers to you laymen. Not much point training our tank commanders to drive down nice flat roads, is there?'
'Fair point,' Sam conceded, 'but are we going to be there soon?'
The Land Rover cleared another steep ridge and as it pitched forward Sam spotted a white tent, presumably covering the blast site. It stood at eight feet by eight feet at the base and seven feet high. The sides tapered slightly and the roof peaked another ten inches. It looked a bit like a gazebo used for garden parties. The Land Rover stopped some distance from the tent, close to a camouflage-green supply crate. Jenkins got out of the vehicle and headed for the crate. He motioned for Sam to follow. Sam complied, relieved to be out of the Land Rover.
Jenkins opened the crate and dipped his hand into it. He pulled out a couple of transparent polythene bags containing white forensic suits. He threw one to Sam.
'Put this on over your clothes, please Sam. It means we won't contaminate the site. Though we're not investigating this incident from a National Security perspective like you guys are, we will be examining the site and documenting its characteristics, so a military forensics team will be here for a another couple of days, and they tend to get a bit pissed off if the cannon-fodder messes with their findings.'
Sam put the suit on, surprised by its apparent strength, and then put shoe covers over his shoes, the elasticated trim snapping back as he let go.
'Don't forget the hat.' Said Jenkins.
Sam completed his stylish new look by donning a shower cap. He felt ridiculous. He looked ridiculous. But he was in good company, as everybody on the site sported the same attire.
Chapter Six
The following morning was another warm one. The sun shone bright in the summer sky. London felt alive. It always did on days like this. So much different to the drab, grey, and drizzly London that its inhabitants and visitors experienced for the majority of the year. The only other time London felt this vibrant was Christmas. But then it was a forced, fake type of vibrancy. Today was courtesy of Mother Nature, and nothing else.
Shelly Winter felt great as she walked through Knightsbridge. It had been two days since she’d last seen her boyfriend, professional footballer George “Smithy” Smith. He travelled with the rest of the England team, all of whom were banned from seeing wives and girlfriends until after the World Cup Qualifier against Denmark. She was looking forward to the evening. The match would be great. A draw and England had qualified, but Denmark were always tough competition.
Shelly didn’t consider herself to be one of the usual WAG’s, she didn’t meet Smithy at a nightclub, they met at a football match, Shelly in the crowd when a wayward shot came her way. She caught the ball and threw it back to Smith who gave her a sly wink which she thought nothing of. After the game she was waiting for the players to leave the stadium, autograph book in hand, when Smith stopped to talk to her. She couldn’t believe it, he’d asked her out. The rest, as they say, is history.
She instantly became a tabloid favourite. A footballer’s girlfriend who actually knew about football and enjoyed The Beautiful Game. The “Girl Next Door” who had landed herself a Premiership and international footballer who earned over one hundred and fifty thousand pounds a week.