Autobiography of an Assassin:: The Family Page 7

  “What do we do, Skip?” Ritchie had asked, genuine concern in his tone.

  “Wave back,” I had replied. “And don’t forget to smile and look Argie,” I had added.

  At some distance past the farm, I had gotten Ritchie to pull over the battered F150 pickup, at the base of a long low hill. By my estimate, we had only been about half a kilometre from the border, just on the other side of the rise. Although there had been no reports from British Intelligence of a border checkpoint, as such, our information could have been wrong – there might well be a manned checkpoint at the border. Rather than risk the possibility of an armed confrontation, with the Argentineans – or even the Chilean military – I had decided that it would be safer to use ground cover and cross over the border on foot. Once at the brow of the hill, it had been clearly evident that there hadn’t been a border checkpoint – there hadn’t even been a sign, notice, fence, or any other indication that an international border had run along the base of the quiet deserted valley. It had turned 0817 hours and, behind us, in the distant east, the sky had been rapidly lightening with the coming dawn. The border, and comparative safety, had been less than a couple of hundred metres away – do we wait for night, and the cover of darkness, or make for the border, now, while there was still some half-light left to cover our movement? Quickly, I had checked the surrounding area with my binoculars – it had been clear. Taking point, with the others following behind at five metre intervals, and Hughie bringing up the rear, we had made our way cautiously down the gradual gradient of the slope, continually taking a 360 degree turn to scan the area around us.

  Feeling pleased with myself, I had stood at the edge of a wide shallow gulley, a gash in the valley floor no more than three metres wide and about a metre deep, which had represented the border between Argentina and Chile. The zinging ping of a 7.62mm round, whistling just feet away from my right ear, had suddenly focussed my attention. The four of us had thrown ourselves headlong into that shallow gulley, as all around us the air had been full of the sound of pinging bullets, accompanied by the supersonic crack of high velocity assault rifles. Up on the ridge, from where we had just descended, silhouetted against the back drop of the dawn sky, had been at least ten figures – Argentinean soldiers, the muzzle flashes of their FN FAL’s clearly visible in the dim light. In normal circumstances, we could have easily ‘neutralised’ them, without any difficulty, whatsoever. They had all been easy targets, silhouettes standing out clearly against the brightening sky. But the standing order: ‘Imperative Avoid Use Of Deadly Force’, had specifically excluded the use of deadly force…and that had pretty much tied our hands behind our backs – or had it? The Argies were beginning to make their descent down the hillock, towards us, walking line abreast, firing long bursts at our position as they did so.

  It would have been so easy to ‘take them out’ – still, there’s always more ways than one to skin a cat.

  My orders had been concise and explicit: “We withdraw by two’s. Five metre spread. Get behind any cover,” I had instructed, indicating over to Mike and Ritchie.

  The lower part of the hill had been scattered with the odd cluster of granite rocks, protruding up out of the grass; affording some cover from the Argentineans.

  Giving each other covering fire, we had made our way out of the gulley and up the sides of the valley, using the rocks for cover – and then we ran out of rocks! Whilst the lower sides of the shallow valley had been speckled with rocky outcrops, the last forty metres, leading up to the brow of the hillock, had been completely bare – no cover what so ever! And now the Argies had crossed over the shallow gulley, and had been making their way slowly up towards us, their fire getting more accurate – more intense. Things were getting desperate and had called for desperate measures. I had loaded a 40mm Phosphorus grenade into the launcher slung under my carbine, its burst would send thousands of white, intensely burning phosphorus pellets down on to the heads of the Argies, forcing them to take cover.

  I had been about to pull the trigger on the launcher when, inexplicably, the Argies had stopped firing at us. From up on the ridge, behind us, had come the distinctive sound of a .50 cal Browning Heavy Machine Gun being cocked – and then the sound of another .50 cal, also being cocked. As one, we had all turned in the direction of the noise, to be confronted by the sight of two M113 armoured personnel carriers, stationary, just below the brow of the ridge, their .50 cal heavy machine guns manned and pointing down the hill, in our direction. In an instant, the carriers had disgorged their contents of troops who, with their SIG SG, 5.56mm assault rifles raised and aimed, had slowly advanced towards us. Glancing back down the hill, I had fully expected to see the Argies closing in on our position, in a pincer movement – but they had gone. They had evidently crossed back over the gulley, back into Argentina, and had been sprinting up the opposite side of the valley, as fast as their legs and equipment would let them.

  “What do we do, Skip?” Hughie had asked, as the newcomers had got to within ten meters of us. “Who the fuck are these dudes, anyway?”

  I didn’t have time to reply to him. An officer had detached himself from his men and, hands on hips, had swaggered down to within a couple of metres of us.

  “Caballeros, bienvenido a la República de Chile – es suficiente amable a la funda sus armas, por favor,” he had addressed us, a wide toothy smile beneath his thick black moustache. ‘Gentlemen, welcome to the Republic of Chile – be kind enough to holster your weapons, please’.

  We had just been saved by a unit of the Chilean 25th Motorised Infantry Battalion, V Army Division, who, fortunately for us, had been on border duty that morning. For the next few weeks, we had been interned in Chile, as ‘guests’ of the Republic, until the Falklands War had finished in the mid-June and we had been repatriated back to the United Kingdom.

  On arriving back in the UK, I had made some enquiries into why the planned SAS and SBS incursion, at the Rio Grande airbase, had been aborted. Officially, it had been because that there had been severe reservations as to the ‘probable survivability’ of those engaged in such an operation – in plain English, it would have been a suicide mission for all those taking part. But, in reality, the Americans had found out about the plan and had balked at the idea that British should invade Argentinean sovereign soil. The Americans had a political foot in each camp, and they had threatened to pull all intelligence sharing and logistic support, if a seaborne assault had gone ahead on the Argentinean main land.

  However, it was just as well that the assault had been cancelled.

  The area around the Rio Grande airbase had not been defended by just a couple of companies of raw conscripts – far from it! It had been defended by four full-strength battalions of Argentinean Marine Infantry…if the seaborne landing had gone ahead, we would have all been massacred – me as well!

  Bit of a lucky break, when you think about it.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  It had been twelve months since the end of the Falklands conflict – God knows how long it had taken alcohol to turn this once proud Scott into this pathetic wretch of a man, begging unashamedly on the streets.

  I had planned to go for a meal, but instead had taken Hughie, and his dog, back with me to the ‘London’ House. Despite being an alcoholic, Hughie had always tried to keep himself clean, washing early every morning, and late at night, in the public toilets at Euston British Rail – the attendants there were ex-military, and had helped him out with soap and toothpaste, when he had none. But the one thing that he had missed the most had been a hot bath. While Hughie had been soaking away in the bath, I had cooked a full English breakfast for him, complete with toast and a big mug of hot, steaming sweet tea. On placing it on the kitchen table, in front of him, Hughie, wearing some of my fresh clean clothes, had politely asked me if he could have a spare plate and bowl, so that he could share some of the breakfast and hot tea with his canine companion. While they had both eaten ferociously, I had left them to make a few phone calls, event
ually finding a clinic that would take Hughie in, that night. When I had gotten back to the kitchen, Hughie had washed and dried the plates, dishes, mugs and cutlery, placing them tidily on the drainer.

  “I don’t suppose there’s a chance of a wee drink, Skip?” he had tentatively asked, sitting back down at the kitchen table.

  From a kitchen cabinet, I had taken down a bottle of vodka, and two cut glass tumblers, placing the bottle and one the tumblers directly in front of him.

  “Thanks, Skip,” he had replied, his eyes widening. “Do you want me to pour?” he had asked.

  “Why, not,” I had replied. “As long as you promise me that is going to be your very last drink.”

  “I promise,” had come the blurted reply.

  He had quickly unscrewed the bottle, pouring a large measure into my glass, first, before pouring himself an even larger measure of the clear liquid into his. He had drained his glass in one draught and had then reached out to the open bottle, again.

  “You promised. That was your very last drink,” I had reminded him.

  “Just one more, Skip…. “ His voice had suddenly tailed off as he had realised that I had been pointing a gun directly at his face. For a moment, he had studied the small Colt .25 Vest Pocket Revolver intently, his head turning slightly as he had tried to get the measure of both the gun and me.

  “You promised,” I had reiterated, my voice emotionless. “You’ve have had your last drink, Hughie – one way, or the other.”

  Hughie had lifted the bottle over to his glass, as if to pour himself another drink – perhaps he had been testing me. “You wouldn’t,” he had said, almost in a whisper.

  He had been unsure, that is until I had flicked down the slide lock on the Colt, effectively taking the safety off. But it had not been the threat of the gun that had startled him. Hughie had looked me directly in the eyes – and it was only then that he had truly realised what I was indeed capable of.

  “Fuck me – you would!” he had murmured, gently placing the bottle of vodka back down on to the table, pushing it away from him, as he did so.

  “Good – I’m pleased you did that,” I had stated in a matter of fact manner. “You’re no good to me dead – but you’re also no good to me drunk, either. So, dead or alive, you are going to dry out – permanently.”

  “But what’s the crack, Skip?” Hughie’s head had tilted slightly to his right – he was curious.

  “I want you to come and work for me.”

  “But doing what, Skip?”

  Without going into too much detail, I had quickly explained to Hughie the nature of the work that Patrick and I had been involved with; and that we had a pressing need for someone to provide dependable close support and backup.

  At the time, Patrick and I had been extremely busy, frequently unable to give each other the close tactical support and protection, that each of us had needed in our line of work.

  I had also briefly covered the other areas of our involvement – such as providing close protection; or at the other extreme, covert deadly force. I could tell by the beaming expression on his face that Hughie had been genuinely interested in what had been outlined to him – it had glowed, but this time through anticipation and excitement, not alcohol.

  “Count me in, Skip. But I’ve got to get myself sorted, first.”

  “You are sorted,” I had replied. “In another half hour a car will pick you up and take you to a clinic, in Richmond. They will dry you out – and get you to stay dry.”

  “How long will I be there for, Skip.”

  “As long as it takes – but that’s up to you, Hughie.”

  Dogs can be very intuitive and susceptive to changes in human emotions, and Hughie’s dog, Spot, had been no exception. Placing its broad black head on to the Glaswegian’s lap, it had begun to whimper, softly and quietly.

  “There’s no need to worry about your dog. He can come back with me to the Manor. He’ll love it there – my dogs did,” I had reassured him. “Anyway, I’ve been meaning to ask, why is he called ‘Spot’ – I can’t see a spot anywhere on him?”

  “It’s on account of that big fucking black spot that he’s got all over his body,” had come the dry reply – humour never dies, just gets a bit blurred round the edges, from time to time.

  When the car had arrived outside, I had walked Hughie out to it, leaving the dog inside so as not to cause it any undue stress at the departure of its master.

  Before getting into the rear of the car, Hughie had reached out and had shaken my hand warmly. “Thanks, Skip. Thanks for everything.”

  “You’re welcome,” I had said, sincerely.

  Once in the car, Hughie had wound down the widow and stuck out his head. “Skip…that fucking peashooter you shoved in my face – it was a bit on the wee side for my thick fucking skull, wasn’t it?”

  “The last person it killed didn’t think so,” I had answered him, straight back.

  Hughie had looked back up at me and grinned. “That fucking figures,” he had scoffed. “If it wasn’t for the fucking mess, you wouldn’t have thought twice about shooting me if I’d of poured myself another drink, would you?”

  “No,” I had replied – quite genuinely.

  From behind me, a dog had begun to howl – time to go. With the flat of my hand, I had tapped on the roof of the car, signalling it to leave. I had watched it speed off, waving back to its sole passenger, and had then returned back into the house and the waiting attentiveness of an excitable black dog.

  ***

  Nine weeks, and several hundreds of pounds later, Hughie had emerged from the clinic as a recovering alcoholic – dry, but never totally cured.

  After being reunited with his faithful canine companion, we had given Hughie time to settle into his new home at the Manor – Lake View Cottage. And, as the name implies, a truly restful and tranquil setting, in which he had been able to ‘rediscover’ himself. Patrick had been ‘severely impressed’ by Hughie, suggesting that, with the growing demand for our services, we could probably do with a couple more like him. And that had been Hughie’s first assignment, to help me locate Mike and Ritchie, the two Commandos who had been with us on our mission in Tierra del Fuego.

  Military records had shown that both Mike and Ritchie had undertaken Driving and Close Protection courses, while still with the Military, shortly before leaving the Forces. Both had intended to use these skills and their experiences as a base on which to start up new businesses – executive travel and protection. But, instead of forming a business together, they had both gone their separate ways. Perhaps things might have worked out better if they had stayed together.

  We had located Ritchie, first, in Manchester. His chauffeur business had failed and he had been working as a part-time delivery driver, getting his rush, at the weekends, by being a member of the notorious ‘Red Army’, a hooligan firm that had followed Manchester United Football Club. Ritchie had then helped us to trace Mike to North London. Mike’s executive limousine business had also failed, leaving him bankrupt, divorced and out of work. It had also left him a manic depressive – which had taken some time, with a series of intense psychiatric courses at the Richmond clinic, to fully resolve his complex psychological issues.

  All three are extremely important members of the Family. And, while all three are capable of killing…they are not capable of killing in cold blood – something that is required of an assassin. But the services that they do provide are invaluable.

  Hughie is our resident wit – he is also an accomplished poet. Hughie is our Team Leader when it comes to close support and backup…something that is vital for those of us who are active assassins to have and to be able to rely upon – our very own fairy god-mothers, to watch over us, so to speak. And while fully trained and very experienced, Hughie prefers not to provide close protection cover to anyone outside the Family; as he is a bit ‘fussed’ about some of the clients that he might be expected to protect. Hughie is also readily available for covert operatio
ns – ‘outings’ as they are more commonly known.

  Mike and Ritchie, on the other hand, are close protection specialist and drivers, and neither of them have any issues with supplying this service to anyone who is prepared to pay their fees. They also provide invaluable operational support and backup – and both men are always ‘up’ for the occasional outing, or two.

  Hughie, Mike and Ritchie provide a valuable contribution to the Family business. But, more importantly, they also provide a valuable contribution to the very essence and fabric of the Family, itself – sincere unwavering fellowship and loving kinship.

  What more could one ask of three little pigs?

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Joshua, the ‘Brak’ – Joshua the ‘Mongrel’.

  ‘Brak’ is Afrikaans slang for ‘mongrel dog’ – and that is what Joshua had been called, unkindly, by other children as he had been growing up. At six foot three, he had inherited his height and fine proud ebony facial features from his father, a Maasai from Tanzania, who had come to the small town of Springbok, in Northern Cape, looking for work. Joshua’s wide large skeletal frame and dense muscle mass had come directly from his mother’s Zulu origins. His father had found a supervisors job in the local copper mines and, much against her family’s protestations, his mother had married the handsome outsider. As she was of full Zulu blood, with a lineage and blood line that had gone back centuries, she had been outcast by her family. Even when she had given birth to Joshua, some eighteen months later, only the maternal grandmother had acknowledged the child. Race was to be an important factor in determining Joshua’s life. At the time, Apartheid had four classes of race: white, Indian, coloured, and, at the bottom of the pile, black. To the white South Africans, Joshua had been categorised as black, but not to the inhabitants of the township of Springbok – Joshua had been a half-caste…a mongrel – a ‘Brak’. Growing up as a child, this tribal stigma had not affected him that much, as he had always been physically taller and much stronger than any of the other children. Nevertheless, although his powerful physique had stopped him from being bullied…it hadn’t stopped him from being ignored and shunned by the other children – nobody ever called round to ask him out to play. Instead, in the evenings, he had stayed in and studied. His mother had been an English teacher, and Joshua had taken instantly to the language, not only learning the grammar, but also the correct pronunciations, as well. At the age of eighteen, he had joined the Namaqualand Provincial Police force, based at his hometown, in Springbok. By the age of twenty three, he had attained the rank of Sergeant with the Namaqualand Provincial Police – which, in those days, was as high as he could have possibly expected to make. A year later, Joshua had met and married a pretty young coloured girl from Durban, who had been newly employed as a nurse at the town’s infirmary. Such an unlikely couple; he tall and muscularly built – she small and diminutive. But it had been love at first sight – and love conquers all. They had set up home in a large police house, situated in scrubland at the far end of a narrow valley, on the outskirts of Springbok. Scrubland that was transformed by the winter rains into a vast garden of bright vibrant colours, made up of the thousands of flowers, which had been hiding under the dry dusty soil. For Joshua and his bride, everything had been a paradise of wedded bliss for them. But, then, in the following Spring, after the winter rains had finished, a five man delegation from the Umkhonto we Sizwe, the ‘Spear of the Nation’, the MK – the active military wing of the African National Congress, the ANC, had come to town.