Autobiography of an Assassin:: The Family Read online

  “Down on to your knees,” I had commanded, adding, almost as an afterthought: “And sit on your hands.”

  Obediently, the fat man had done exactly as he had been instructed. “P-p-please,” he had whimpered.

  “Move, or make another sound, and I will kill you,” I had told him.

  This time the fat man had remained motionless and silent, just his head nodding rapidly up and down, demonstrating his understanding and utter compliance – or was it fear? With the sickle in one hand, and the Berretta in the other, I had turned to face Patrick.

  Patrick had looked down at me with the one eye that had not closed up and had smiled, his teeth stained with his own blood. “What,” he had greeted me.

  This was the way that Patrick had always greeted people, especially friends…never a ‘Hello’ or a ‘Hi’ – but a ‘What’, instead.

  “What do you mean – What?” I had greeted him directly back.

  “What you going to do to get me out of this?” he had replied. “I’m getting pretty bloody fed up with all this hanging around.” Despite his sorry state, the beating that he had received had done little to subdue his humour.

  With the sickle, I had carefully cut through the ropes that had tied his wrists to the beam. “Stop bitching, you big Irish tart,” I had wisecracked.

  Bringing his arms down in front of him, Patrick had vigorously rubbed them both in turn; in an attempt to get his circulation moving again. “You nearly bloody killed me,” he had moaned.

  “How, with this?” I had responded, holding up the sickle.

  “No, with that thing you’ve got in your other hand,” he had promptly replied, nodding his bloodied battered head in the direction of the Berretta. “When you shot him,” he had added, this time nodding his head towards the second man that I had shot.

  “How come?”

  “How come – I was in direct line of fire when you shot him through the bloody head. I could have ended up being killed by the same bullet that killed him – so I could!” Patrick’s continuing smile had shown that he had not been serious, but he had been genuinely curious, though.

  It is not uncommon for bullets to penetrate right through one person and kill another. In fact, during the Second World War, in the occupied countries, ‘Einsatzgruppen’, German death squads, would line up a small number of victims, one behind the other, all to be killed by a solitary round penetrating through them all.

  “Sergeant Major Bill’s ‘mighty atoms’,” I had replied, smugly. “One shot – one kill – no mess.”

  “What do you mean – no mess?”

  “Look at the back of Ginger’s head,” I had pointed out to him. Ginger had crumpled into a heap; the back of his head had been clearly visible. “Can you see any exit wounds?” I had asked.

  Patrick had looked thoughtful, for a moment. “But there were bits coming out of him,” he had countered, pointing down to the second man that I had shot. “I saw them – something bloody definitely came out of his head.”

  “No, you’re wrong – nothing has come out of his head,” I had stated, emphatically.

  The IRA man had been lying face down on the floor. To prove my point, I had gotten down, grabbing hold of his hair, turning his head so that we could both clearly see his face. We had both been wrong. Something had sprung out of his head, but it had not been the bullet exiting. It had been the dead man’s eyeballs; rupturing under the pressure created by the kinetic energy of the round being absorbed by soft brain tissue – resulting in both of his eyes being effectively blown out of their respective sockets!

  “Can I have a go?” Patrick had asked eagerly, holding out his hand.

  “Sure, why not,” I had replied, handing him the Beretta.

  For a moment, Patrick had held the gun between the open palms of both of hands, studying it intently. “That’s a hell of a big silencer that it has surely got,” he had commented. Then, after a moment’s thought, “Suppressor,” he had suddenly corrected himself. “Don’t want to go upsetting dear old Uncle Bill by calling it a silencer, do we.”

  “No,” I had agreed; Sergeant Major Bill P…had been pedantic: ‘It’s not a silencer because it does not silence the gun – it merely suppresses the gun – so, it is called a suppressor.’

  Taking the Beretta in his right hand, by its but, Patrick had dropped out the magazine into his left. “Umm – so these are Uncle Bill’s ‘mighty atoms’,” he had commented, looking at the jacketed soft nosed bullet, visible in the top of the clip, before asking: “Not seen this model before – what’s the magazine capacity?”

  “You won’t have seen it before – it’s a handmade, pre-production model,” I had informed him. “It was supposed to be out loan, from nice old Uncle Bill. But it’s out on permanent loan, now,” I had then added. “Can hardly give it him back after it’s been used – can I?”

  “Capacity?” Patrick had again asked.

  “Fifteen rounds – plus one up the spout.”

  “So you can spare a few, then?” he had asked, slamming the magazine back into the butt of the Beretta.

  “Sure, fill your boots,” I had offered.

  Without taking aim, Patrick had lent forward and had shot the dead Ginger in the side of his head, straight through the dead man’s temple. “Spot on,” he had casually remarked, as he had cursorily examined the other side of Ginger’s head. “No exit wound…no mess – neat.”

  From behind us had come an almost inaudible whisper: “Hail M-m-m-Mary M-m-m-Mother of God….”

  Patrick had spun round. “What – are you still here?” he had addressed the fat man behind us, who had still been kneeling obediently on the floor, his hands firmly fixed between his buttocks and the backs of his thighs.

  “P-p-p-please d-d-d-don’t k-k-k-kill m-m-m-me,” the pathetic man had stammered, visibly shaking all over.

  Patrick had bent down and had looked his would be executioner straight in the eyes. “What? You think I’m really going to kill you.” Patrick had then straightened up. “Thinking doesn’t even come in to it, pal, because I am most certainly going to kill you, so I am.” The slide of the Beretta had chattered twice, two ejected brass cartridge cases spinning, end over end, as they were ejected.

  The fat man had screamed out in agony as 9mm soft nose bullets had penetrated the middle of each of his thighs, both punching a hole some two inches deep before expanding, shredding muscle and tissue – splintering bone. Now he could not move, his thigh bones shattered, he had now been transfixed in the kneeling position that I had forced him to adopt.

  “P-p-p-please,” he had screamed out aloud.

  Patrick had looked down at his handy work, grinning broadly. The Beretta had chattered away, twice in quick succession, as had he shot the fat man’s thighs, yet again. Then, Patrick had brought the gun up level and had shot the fat man in both of his clavicles.

  “P-p-p-please,” the fat man had pleaded again, his face contorted in agony, his arms now hanging down limp at his sides. “P-p-p-please d-d-d-don’t.”

  “P-p-p-please…p-p-p-please,” Patrick had mockingly mimicked the severely injured man, before putting four rounds into the man’s crutch – blood from torn veins and arteries instantly erupting and gushing out through the holes in fabric of his trousers.

  “Umm – I’m severely impressed” Patrick had commented, turning the Beretta over in his hand, gazing at it almost lovingly.

  Anne had once tried to correct him when he had first used that expression, pointing out that it was: ‘Seriously impressed – not severely impressed.’ To which Patrick had grinned and had replied back, ‘No – I know what I am…and I’m severely impressed. – that’s what I am.’ And he’s been ‘severely impressed,’ ever since.

  “I know you’re pretty pissed off with him, but we’ve got to be making tracks soon – and we don’t have time to watch him bleed to death. Time to go,” I had pointed out.

  “Umm – that’s very true, it is,” he had replied and, to my surprise, had hande
d me back the Beretta.

  “Aren’t you going to finish him?” I had asked.

  “Sure – I am, but not with that,” Patrick had replied, bending down to pick up the discarded sickle, from off the barn floor.

  Patrick had moved behind the already mortally wounded fat man, who had now become quite hysterical. “P-p-p-please,” he had cried. “P-p-p-please.”

  “You were going to cut my bollocks off, so you were – you fat lump of pig shite,” Patrick had snarled, pulling the fat man’s head back and looking down into his upturned face. “But as I can’t cut your bollocks from your body…‘cause they’re all mush – so I’m going to cut your head from your bollocks.”

  “N-n-n-no” the fat man had screamed, his screams turning into a choking squealing gurgle as the sickle cut cleanly through his thorax – grating against his spine.

  With a rapid sawing motion of the sickle, Patrick had found a convenient gap between two of the man’s vertebrae and, with a few more cuts, had severed the fat man’s head from his body. Now lifeless, the fat man’s headless torso had pitched forward on to the bloody barn floor. Bending down, Patrick had casually placed the severed head of the fat man between the shoulder blades of the torso, reuniting the head once again with its body, in a grotesquely morbid arrangment.

  “Time to go,” I had announced, looking down at the carnage we had wreaked.

  Time to go.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Patrick had tried to clean himself up.

  From a cold water stand pipe, mounted on the outside wall of the barn, he had given himself a full body wash, as best he could. Towelling himself off with the fat man’s discarded corduroy jacket, he had been able to retrieve his clothing and, despite the buttons having been torn from his blue denim shirt, had been able to make himself look reasonably presentable, the denim shirt left casually open over a plain white crewneck t-shirt that he had ‘borrowed’, from the dead Ginger.

  In the meantime, I had been getting the place ready to torch. I had left the bodies of the three IRA men exactly where they had fallen, covering them with the contents of a five gallon jerry-can, which had been mounted to the rear of a Landrover pickup, parked at the far end of the barn. Fortunately, the pickup had been petrol engined, so there had been no worries about igniting the highly infallible liquid. The resulting incineration would have the desired results, destroying or contaminating any forensic evidence, and making identification of the bodies extremely difficult, if not impossible. Taking the bolt from the ArmaLite rifle and the slide from the Browning, I had placed the weapons down on top of a very petrol drenched Ginger. The sickle I had placed with artistic symmetry on the fat man’s back, next to his severed head. I had taken out a couple of Pall Mall cigarettes, putting both of them in my mouth, lighting them with my Zippo. One of the cigarettes I had given to Patrick; the other had remained in my mouth as I had set light to a bundle of rolled up newspapers, which I had found in the Landrover. There had been a muffled ‘whooof’ as the petrol soaked corpses had instantly ignited, throwing out a heated blast wave – time to say goodbye.

  We had dumped the hire car, close to the border. It was going to be easier to cross into Northern Ireland on foot, rather than try and drive across – the Irish Garda had only been checking cars, not pedestrians. The Garda on border duty had commented on Patrick’s battered and bruised appearance, but he had jokingly put it down to picking a fight with the wrong man over his cousin’s ‘Canadian’ – not British accent. The Garda had agreed with Patrick’s fictitious assailant, though – they had both thought that I had sounded more like a ‘Brit’, than a Canadian. Despite the Garda’s apparent casual approach to border security, we were not going to try and bluff our way through the British military checkpoint, some fifty yards away. Instead, putting our hands up in the air, we had surrendered directly into military custody – under the circumstances, the safest thing to do. Declaring our MI9 status to a very surprised and bewildered second lieutenant, of the Scots Guards, we had persuaded him to ring the Whitehall contact number that we had given him and confirm our identities. Under armed escort, we had been transported in a convoy, from the border check point to the nearby British Army base, at Bessbrook. There, a Lynx helicopter had been waiting for us, its rotor blades revolving at almost lift speed. In less than fifteen minutes, the Lynx had deposited both of us on the Helicopter Apron, at Belfast International. There, we had been met by a couple of Special Branch officers, who had marched us straight through the busy Airport building to the Departures desk, where we had been given two single tickets for the next flight to Heathrow, London. However, as soon as the two officers had left us, using his Gaelic charm on the young lady at the Departures desk, Patrick had managed to change the tickets and transfer us out on the last fight to Birmingham, instead. And, at 11:35 P.M., on that same Friday night, a taxi had driven us both through the gates of the Manor.

  Early, the next morning, the Section had sent a car up from London to collect Patrick. Apparently, Sir Peter N…had not been best pleased. An intelligence team from MI6 had been on standby throughout the entire night, waiting to give Patrick a full debriefing on his return to London. But Patrick had gone to the Manor, instead – Naughty Boy. Whether it had been out of diligent intelligence gathering, or just sheer bureaucratic vindictiveness, they had kept Patrick for a full week, de-briefing him over and over again about his activities in Ireland. In actual fact, at one time, Anne and I had thought that he might even be interviewed and interrogated all over Christmas. Still, even the most zealous members of the ‘Intelligence Community’ had homes to go to and, on the very afternoon of Christmas Eve; Patrick had walked up the long drive to the Manor. But that was to be the last Christmas that the three of us were to share together.

  Patrick had eventually left the official payroll of Section 9, in the May of ’74, to join me as an ‘Independent Operative’ – I having already gone ‘Independent’, some time earlier that year. This arrangement had suited all parties involved. We had a free hand to choose the type work that we did, predominantly concentrating and specialising in targeted killings and assassinations. Whereas, Section 9, on the other hand, if ever countered or brought to task over our activities, could deny any involvement or complicity – after all, we were ‘Independent Operatives’, and to all intents and purposes outside the direct control of Her Majesty’s Secret Intelligence Service.

  Pedantic, I know – but hey, whatever floats your boat. Welcome to the world of intellectual skulduggery and the art of being economic with the truth.

  Initially, though the good offices of Section 9, we had undertaken assignments and commissions, solely on behalf of Her Majesty’s Government. However, very soon, by virtue of demand, we were to expand and offer our ‘unique’ services to other National Governments and their Security Agencies. With Deborah taking care of the ‘office’ – Patrick and I had worked directly from out of the Manor.

  ***

  Patrick had been in Washington on ‘Family’ business, on that fateful Tuesday, September 11th 2001.

  The barbarous maliciousness of the terrorist attacks had seemed to have affected him quite badly, as it did us all – it is somewhat paradoxical that those who deal in death can also be appalled and sickened by it. After Washington, it had been Patrick’s intention to go from there direct to Salt Lake City, in Utah. But he had been too unwell and, some days later, when international flights had resumed again, he had returned home and straight into intensive care. Two days later and Patrick had undergone a procedure called percutaneous coronary intervention, a coronary stent being placed in one of the coronary arteries that supplied his heart, to open up it up and to keep open. It should have been a simple enough non-evasive procedure; all carried out through an artery in the groin, but the plastic stent had opened too soon and the surgeons had to cut him up and go directly through his chest cavity to save him. Patrick did make a full and complete recovery. Nevertheless, due to the radical surgical procedure that he had undergone, and
the possibility of scarring to the heart muscle, Patrick had to be taken off active operations.

  Currently, Patrick’s primary role, within the Family, is that of Operations Controller. He is also responsible for our IT systems, both hardware and software – despite appearances and demeanour, he can be extremely logical and methodical, at times. However, because of his weakened heart condition, Patrick is no longer involved with targeted killings and assassinations.

  He just helps plan them, instead!

  CHAPTER NINE

  Deborah was another of Ralph’s protégées.

  She had been the fastest rising star in Special Branch, reaching the rank of Detective Sergeant by the age of twenty five. In the late sixties and early seventies, this had been no mean achievement for a female. This was well before the days of graduate ‘fast tracking’ and, back then, there had only been two ways in which a female could obtain rank within the British Police Force; either by granting sexual favours, or by sheer hard work, endeavour and results – and Deborah’s rank had been achieved solely by the latter. Nonetheless, after obtaining her Sergeants rank, in the early seventies, Deborah had fallen for the charm and seduction of a handsome Detective Superintendent. For her, it had been a full blown heartfelt romance – for him ‘a bit on the side’. The inevitable had happened, and she had become pregnant by him. He had always promised her one day that he would leave his loveless marriage – when the time was right. Deborah, being pregnant, had mistakenly thought that the time had indeed been right. But, for him, it was not: ‘My wife is very ill – can’t possibly leave her now – perhaps when she’s made a full recovery – it could be possible then – so, in the meantime, here’s a cheque for a hundred quid – go get an abortion’. And that is exactly what Deborah had gone and done. And then, like some cheap cheesy novel, she had eventually discovered that her lover’s wife had been in absolute perfect health – and that he had no intention whatsoever of leaving her. Deborah had just been ‘his bit on the side’.