easily. He learned that trick out in Asia. Most of the cars out there were old and the security was easily by passed with the nylon parcel binder. He angled himself into the car, pulled the door closed and lay hidden below the steering wheel. His six inch lock knife did for the plastic around the key ignition and within moments of rewiring the ignition he was driving out of the estate.
It didn’t take him long to find a residential area. It was there that he swapped number plates. He’d had to find a car with a square plate at the back. Having found a Suzuki Jeep he’d had to lay between that car and the one parked behind to hide from prying windows, it being broad daylight. Walking, casually, the short distance between the Suzuki and his stolen Alfa he fixed opposite plates back on both cars, with an industrial strength, quick drying glue, also from his rucksack; Mason had a lot of neat little tricks up his sleeve, or in this case his rucksack.
With that done he checked a convenient map in the car and drove for Glasgow. Checking the petrol gauge he knew he’d make it. The little Alfasud handled really well and had a good amount of ‘kick’ in the gear box. He sped onto the A9 Stirling bound. Having looked at a map he knew he’d get the M80 into Glasgow from there. After that he’d either get a train or plane, depending on the circumstances.
Chapter 19
Glasgow
10 – 30 a.m.
April 17th
Wheeler had been on the ‘eighty-two’ all the way down Loch Lomond and was pleased. He had just enough in the bike’s tank to get him into Glasgow and he was grinning beneath his helmet as the signs for the M8 came up near Erskine Hospital. As he negotiated the roundabout at Erskine a black BMW four by four failed to give way to the right and broadsided the Honda 500 with a resounding metallic ‘crump’. Wheeler, thrown from the bike hit the tarmac and, to the eyes of witnesses, with a gut wrenching, face screwing and teeth gritting bodily slump hit the road. He jerkily tumbled and rolled in a wrenching skid, his clothes ripping, grazes appearing and finally, at just forty miles an hour, his helmet struck the metal barrier cracking and splitting it across the top, knocking him unconscious.
Already out of his dented BMW the driver was on his cell phone. He was smartly dressed, clearly on his way to work and in contrast to his groomed look his white face registered the shock of the accident.
Sure that the ambulance was on its way he gingerly headed for the slumped figure of Wheeler. Other cars had stopped, some had had to, and people getting out headed straight for the hot ‘ticking’ bike, now on its side, mangled in the road. Others headed straight to the oddly angled unconscious rider by the barrier. The BMW driver was there first about to pull Wheeler face up when a young woman called out.
“Don’t move him. He may have a neck injury. I’m a nurse. Call an ambulance. I’ll check his pulse.”
“I’ve already called.” As he said this the sound of sirens confirmed him, ‘dopplering’ their way along the ‘A’ road from Stobhill hospital.
In a few short minutes, still unconscious, Wheeler had been strapped to the stretcher, neck brace on for safety, and driven way.
Police, having taken the Honda off the road, took names of witnesses and some short statements after which they cleared traffic and the blocked tarmac artery to the M8 slowly eased back to full flow.
It wasn’t until the wreck clearance men turned up, fifteen minutes later that the number plate was run through checks and flagged up as ‘important’.
In the ambulance the paramedic went through Wheeler’s bag. He was surprised to find three different passports, in three different names. Even more shocked after a second ‘delve’ he gingerly pulled the dull black, heavy PSS pistol from the bag. His colleague gave a low whistle. The paramedic, a little unnerved by the cold coiled potential of the oiled, hard edged and evil black item, gently lowered it back into the rucksack. He raised both eyebrows at his colleague.
“We’ll call the cops when we get back.”
They pulled into Stobhill casualty unit, just outside Glasgow, and unloaded the still unconscious body of Martin Wheeler. The sliding doors closed behind him and the paramedic took a moment to find a duty police officer. The contents of the bag brought immediate attention from detectives and began a flurry of activity. When the number plate information was added to what Glasgow police knew about Wheeler an urgent phone call was made to Euston Tower in London.
Chapter 20
Euston Station
10 – 50 a.m.
April 17th
David and Beaumont sat as comfortably as anyone can on the edge of the Euston concourse, happily eating French bread sandwiches.
“Brie is just a cheese. Technically that’s a cheese sandwich, in spite of the crunchy French bread and the exotic idea of French cheese.”
“That depends on the way you look at things. It’s all about perception and belief.” David replied after swallowing some of the topic of conversation.
“One man’s terrorist is another man’s freedom fighter sort of thing.” Beaumont suggested, somewhat playfully, irony lighting his sharp grey eyes.
“Put like that yes.”
“That’s okay as an idea, but that’s just sitting on the fence. The whole ‘you say tomato I say tomayto’ doesn’t change a tomato, nor does someone believing that murder by bombing is a means of freedom fighting.” Beaumont was into his argument.
“Is state sanctioned killing murder then?”
“No because it’s done by people employed by us to do it.”
“If you had to kill today, say one of these men, would you think you were doing the right thing?” David was suddenly serious and Beaumont sensed that his seriousness was part of some inner struggle he was having about the nature of their work.
“If he wanted to kill me and I got in first, yes. If I thought I’d stopped him murdering an innocent man yes. Are you saying you wouldn’t?”
“I’m not sure I can kill. I know if it was kill or be killed I’d like to think that I would. It’s hard to say. I’m sure I’d think of myself as murderer afterwards, whatever anyone else said.” David put the remains of the French bread and brie onto the discarded paper wrapper.
Beaumont picked up it up, holding it out ready to make a point.
“See the DIC calls you Brie on French bread, but you would still think yourself a cheese sandwich.”
Suddenly David laughed and shaking his head with disbelief said “Doing a philosophy degree teach you that did it?”
“Yes it did and the years in private security, guarding rich people and politicians didn’t change it. What did history teach you?”
“That time doesn’t stop. Let’s go. We’ll be wanted.”
When David and Beaumont got back to the office there was a lot of information in. The other two week rota teams were busy at their screens. David felt guilty and received a number of frowns in return for his watery, self conscious smile as he passed the small offices. There were six offices in total on their floor and David got the feeling that they had been missed at their post.
Beaumont closed the door of their office, sat down in his swivel chair and logged on. David stood behind him. Beaumont waved a thumb at the door behind.
“Don’t mind all that. I don’t worry myself about other people’s looks. You have to be sure of yourself to do
