On the Charge

Arsehole.
He laughed and tried to make it appear genuine. If Hartington had told him to go boil his head in oil, he’d have reacted in a similar manner. Sucking up to the old man had worked in his favour so far, but he wouldn’t have to suck up for much longer. Not if Enderby had his way.
“See that you do,” Hartington said, “and while I think of it, we need to reconsider GG Cleaning Systems’ status on the list of strategic contractors. They haven’t exactly covered themselves in glory so far.”
“Yes, sir. That sounds like a good idea, sir.”
“Why I ever allowed you to talk me into hiring those people, I will never know.”
“They came highly recommended, sir. And they did manage to secure the services of Will Stacy. One of the best agents MI6 ever employed, according to their personnel records.”
“This Stacy fellow’s one of the people who vanished into the ether, isn’t he?”
“It would appear that way, sir.”
“And we’re assuming Ryan Kaine is responsible for the vanishing act?”
“Indeed we are, sir.”
“Stacy can’t have been all that good at his job then, can he?”
“It would appear not, Sir Ernest. Either that, or Ryan Kaine is even more highly skilled than we gave him credit for.”
Hartington snorted. “The fact that Kaine has managed to remain free all this time demonstrates his proficiency rather well. Does it not?”
“I can’t argue with that, Sir Ernest.”
As usual, Hartington rang off without issuing a salutation, the ignorant arsehole. Manners cost nothing but meant everything, as Enderby’s father continually reminded him.
Enderby replaced the handset, leaned back in his chair, and stared through the only window in his office.

What a fucking cockup.
Enderby shook his head. He’d set things up perfectly. Anyone with a modicum of smarts should have been able to act on it and bloody well end the story. By now, Ryan Kaine should have been pushing up the bloody daisies. He should be stiff and cold, lying in an unmarked grave, never to be seen or heard of again. It should have been an inauspicious end to a thorn in the government’s side. A thorn in Enderby’s side. But GG Cleaning Systems and Will-fucking-Stacy had ballsed it all up.

Bloody moron.
That was the trouble with private contractors. Fucking people talked a good game with their slick promo literature, their slogans, and their “lightning speed of response”. As it turned out, they were no more efficient than the in-house operations used to be back in the days before privatisation. The prime difference between the two was the cost. Far from saving money, the private firms proved to be hideously more expensive than their in-house counterparts. Outsourcing was supposed to make things more cost effective, but they simply added another layer of bureaucracy to the process. Another cost to factor in.
Over the years, budget cuts had left the NCTA completely toothless, without the personnel to act independently. Hence the need to draft in the private sector to carry out work they would once have been able to perform themselves for a fraction of the cost.
Useless bloody politicians. More interested in protecting their arses than defending the country from legitimate terrorist threats.
On the other hand, the arrival of the so-called strategic contractors had created opportunities for enterprising entrepreneurs to make a few pounds in backhanders. Enterprising entrepreneurs the likes of Greg Enderby.
Enderby sighed as he stared through the office window at the ugly view—nothing but the red brick wall of the building across the street and a postage-stamp-sized rectangle of sky. Pug ugly. He hated it with a passion he tried never to exhibit. In general, Enderby preferred to provide a show of unruffled calm and competence to the world. The outward face of a man in control of everything within his sphere of influence. So far in his life, the ploy had worked pretty well.
The sun shone brightly, raising a warm glow on the red bricks of the building opposite. Good weather rarely failed to lift his mood. Good news had a similar effect, but he’d had precious little good news recently. He looked forward to hitting the gym that evening. All he needed was to clear the decks.
“And now, to work,” he said to the ugly view through the window that never listened, never replied, and never took offence. If only the same could be said of everything in his life.
He locked the office door behind him and hurried towards the lifts and the staircase. No way could his next phone call take place inside Sandbrook Tower, whose telephony had ears. Ears attached to automatic listening bots who never slept, not even when the building was empty and secured for the night.

Big Brother is watching.
Enderby avoided the lifts, even though one stood open and ready to accept him, and pushed his way through the fire doors. He jogged down the fourteen flights and reached the ground floor without breaking into a sweat, which demonstrated the benefits of his lifelong, high-intensity exercise programme. Enderby prided himself on his physical conditioning. Few people outside of the special forces or professional sportsmen could match him for fitness, speed, and strength. He’d proven it often enough when sparring in the gym’s ring—sparring with much bigger men and holding his own.
Enderby only used lifts when he absolutely had to—usually when accompanying the lard-arsed, senior civil servants and self-important politicians who required liberal amounts of his schmoozing.
On the ground floor, he tapped his identity card against the reader on the wall. The doors unlocked and he pushed his way through to the impressive foyer. Italian marble floor tiles in grey, and shot through with veins of white and pink, graced the floors and more marble covered the walls, these tiles a few shades lighter. The reception desk—more polished marble—imposing and solid, faced the entrance with its revolving doors, all buffed glass and ornamented with brass furniture. The stainless-steel box bolted to the ceiling stood out as highly incongruous, but it contained the blast screen that would drop down in three tenths of a second when activated by any member of the security team. Despite its incongruity, no one would argue with its necessity in such dangerous times. Government buildings were constantly under threat, and Enderby appreciated all the security on offer. If he needed protection, why not let the UK taxpayer foot the bill? He was worth it.
Behind the front desk stood a security guard, a large and powerful-looking man in a modest suit. A man Enderby didn’t recognise.
“Who are you?” he asked, keeping it blunt. Enderby didn’t like change, especially when it related to his personal safety. Nor did he see the need to talk nicely to the hired hands.
“My name’s Robert, Commander Enderby,” the man answered, his voice deep, the accent indeterminable. “Robert Fuller.”
“Fuller?”
“Yes, Commander.”
“We’ve never met, have we?”
“No, Commander. Not to my knowledge.”
“So, how do you know who I am?”
Fuller pointed to the computer screen on the desk to his side. “Your ID showed up on my screen when you deactivated the lock, Commander.” He spoke quietly. A serious man with a serious clean-shaven face, and a serious bulge under his armpit, barely concealed by the jacket of his cheap suit. As a member of the Metropolitan Police’s Protection Command, Fuller would be one of the few people in the UK licenced to carry a concealed weapon. Enderby happened to be another—hence the need for a jacket when going outside. If not, he’d have had to leave his shoulder holster and gun in the office, and there wasn’t any chance of that ever happening. Not in this lifetime.
“I’ve also received a thorough departmental briefing, sir,” Fuller added.
Enderby nodded. “Understood. When does your shift end?”
“I’ve just come on duty, sir. I’ll stay until everyone’s left the building. Between seven and eight o’clock, I’m told.”
“And what will you do then?”
“Lock up and head for home, Commander. After running a thorough walk-through of the entire building and setting the alarm.”
“And what would happen if I wanted to return after you’ve left so I can carry on with my work?” Enderby asked as a test. The last thing he wanted was to be exposed by the man’s inept training.
“I’m afraid you wouldn’t be able to, sir. Once I’ve gone, this building is sealed by a time lock until oh-six-hundred-hours tomorrow morning when the cleaners arrive.”
Enderby arched an eyebrow. “So, the cleaners have greater access to the building than the agency’s director?”
The thin flicker of a smile broke into Fuller’s stern expression. “So it would appear, Commander.”
“Very good, Fuller. Very good,” Enderby said. “Where’s my shadow?”
Fuller pressed a hidden button on his desk. The door behind him opened and a security officer emerged. Even for such a short trip outside, Enderby couldn’t be without his armed company—his shadow. He might not survive the loneliness.

Loneliness, ha!
The very idea had him in stitches.

#

Enderby paced the pavement outside the tower, keeping to the bright side of the street, allowing the sun to warm his stiff neck and his back. His shadow, Upton, a stone-faced, stocky man who chewed gum constantly, stood twenty paces away, skulking in the shadows. Enderby had considered heading for the local postage stamp of a park but decided against it. The call wouldn’t take long. One shouldn’t drag out a termination conversation, even if it meant little.
His reflection in the coffee shop window across the street showed a trim, straight-backed man in a nicely cut suit, smiling in anticipation.

Behave yourself, Greg. This is business, not pleasure.
He stopped pacing, stepped closer to the polished marble walls of Sandbrook Tower, but made sure to keep the sun on his back. Sitting at his desk most of the day had played havoc with the muscles in his neck and shoulders. And as for the stiffness in his lower back … he couldn’t wait to hit the heavy bag that night and blow away the cobwebs. Building up a sweat would do wonders for his mood.
He withdrew the ancillary phone from his jacket pocket, a phone that happened to be the same make and model as his official mobile. Although it looked identical, it had been registered to a friend of a friend, and could not be traced back to him. It acted as a burner phone without looking like one. He entered the passcode and dialled the number of the company slated for removal from the agency’s list of certified contractors. He didn’t have to wait long for Guy Gordon to accept the call.
“GG Cleaning Systems.”
“Gordon?”
“Yes, Commander. It’s me.”
With those four simple words, Enderby had his answer. Gordon had never sounded so glum. Defeated. As he anticipated, they both had bad news to relay.
Enderby took the lead. “I gave you until three o’clock to report and it’s now three twenty. What do you have for me, Gordon?”
“I’m afraid it’s bad news, Commander.”

Quelle surprise.
“Still no sign of the cripple, I take it?”
“None. I sent Paul McKenna and Jess Barker to Wales yesterday, but they haven’t been able to find Bairstow. Not yet.”
“And there’s still been no contact from Stacy or Reilly?”
“Again, I’m afraid not. It’s not like Stacy to break protocol in this manner.”
“Which means?”
“I have no idea—”
“Come now, Gordon. We both know it means that the er … target has liquidated your overrated and overpriced assets.”
Enderby lowered his voice and hunched closer to the marble to avoid being jostled by the ignorant pedestrians who insisted on going through rather than around an obstacle. Ignorant pricks who paid more attention to their phone screens than to their direction of travel.

Arseholes.
“We can’t be certain of that, Commander. Can you give me a little more time? Perhaps another two or three—”
“Not a chance. You’ve let me down, Gordon. Badly. I really can’t tell you how disappointed that makes me feel. I trusted you. Stuck my neck out when I recommended your company to Sir Ernest for approved contractor status.”
Enderby straightened, stepped away from the wall, and received a thump in the back for his pains. The blow shunted him forwards, jarring his elbow against the marble. He pushed himself away with his hand and spun towards the street.
“Watch where you’re going, moron!” he bellowed, checking the elbow of his rather expensive jacket for damage. Finding none, he dusted it off and smoothed out the creases.
He looked up to find himself face to face with an extremely large individual—an individual with ebony skin and a deep scowl. A curtain of three-foot-long dreadlocks threaded with multi-coloured beads hung from his head. The man’s heavy arms and shoulders bulged through a weightlifter’s skin-tight, purple vest. Huge thighs and thick legs poked out below equally skin-tight, purple cycling shorts. Colour-matched boxing boots completed the unsubtle ensemble. A heavy gold chain hanging around the man’s thick neck glittered in the sunlight. Less than two metres separated him from Enderby.
“What?” Gordon asked down the phone.
“Nothing. A bloody idiot just barged into me without apologising. Hang on a moment, would you. The idiot’s looking rather darkly at me.”

Naughty, Gregory. Very naughty. Some might call you a racist.
Beaded Dreads’ scowl deepened at the “rather darkly” jibe and he took a step closer.
Enderby raised his hand towards his shadow, indicating he should stand down.

I’ve got this, Upton.
“What you say, bro?” Beaded Dreads asked, his deep voice booming above the traffic noise.
Some passers-by gave them a wide berth and increased their pace. Others slowed to watch the unfolding spectacle of a slim, white man in an expensive suit mixing it with a heavily muscled Rasta dressed like a circus clown. What could be more enjoyable on a sunny spring afternoon in the nation’s capital?
Enderby pulled the mobile away from his ear, hit mute, and dropped it into his pocket. He smiled at the black man and raised his hands, palms open, facing forwards.
“Didn’t you hear me clearly?” Enderby asked, still smiling, still staring the man in the eye.
“I heard you, bro,” Beaded Dreads said. He bunched and popped his huge biceps and bounced his pecs. If he’d had a hip hop beat to ripple the muscles to, it would have been even more hysterical.
Anyone else would have been impressed, or terrified. Enderby simply wanted to laugh at the performance, and maybe offer a sarcastic round of applause.
“Good, good,” Enderby said. “I shall repeat it to make sure you heard. I’ll also speak a little more slowly for the hard of understanding. What I said was ‘Watch where you’re going, moron.’” Again, Enderby smiled.
“Who you callin’ a moron, bro?”
Beaded Dreads twisted at the waist and flicked a hand away from his side. A fractionally smaller man appeared from behind him, shorter, but just as heavily built. Apart from the height, the only other differences between the two were the colour of his workout gear—lime green rather than purple—and the troy ounce weight of his slightly less impressive gold chain.
Enderby dropped his smile.
Beaded Dreads sucked air through his teeth. “Y’aren’t smiling now. Are you, boy?” he said.
“No,” Enderby answered, cool and calm, speaking only loud enough for the two colourfully dressed men to hear. “I’m thinking.”
“You thinking?”
“Yep. I’m actually trying to decide how much damage I’ll be able to inflict on you two clowns before my security officer arrives and pulls me off you.”
Beaded Dreads peeled back his upper lip into a snarl, exposed a gold left canine, and turned to his slightly shorter companion. “Y’hear that, Spike? He gonna damage us, bro!”
“I hear him, bro. He a funny little white man, innit.”
Spike differed in a third way. His voice, way too high-pitched for a man of his bulk, could have enabled him to sing falsetto.
In unison, they pushed towards Enderby, corralling him closer to the marble wall, fists clenched. Sovereign rings and other gold trinkets caught the bright sunlight.

What is it with young, black men and their ostentatious displays of gold? So tacky.
Slowly, Enderby lifted his arm, index finger extended, pointing towards the sky.
“Gentlemen,” he said, still not raising his voice. “Before we start to rumble, let me draw your attention to the surveillance camera looking down on us.”
As one, Beaded Dreads and Spike glanced up. Curiosity gave them no alternative. While the men looked up in search of the non-existent camera, Enderby opened his jacket, drew his Beretta M9 from its pancake holster, and held it close to his chest, muzzle pointing upwards. That way, only Beaded Dreads and Spike would be able to see it.
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” he said, speaking loud enough to attract their attention. “You can look at me now.”
Beaded Dreads and Spike, paled, lowered their heads, and their walnut-sized brains found something new to focus on. Enderby would have loved to film their bug-eyed, slack-jawed, hands-raised-in-the-air reaction, but in the absence of actual obvious surveillance cameras, he’d have to rely on memory.
“Lower your hands, fools. This isn’t a Hollywood gangsta movie.”
They exchanged a fleeting glance and complied.
“Excellent, well done,” Enderby said, smiling again. “Now that I have your undivided attention, let me make something crystal clear. Had I been of a mind to inflict serious damage, I would have driven a stiff-fingered jab to each of your exposed throats when you were looking up just then. However, the difference in force required to incapacitate two heavily built men such as yourselves rather than inflict terminal damage is rather difficult to determine. To be quite frank, I haven’t practised that particular drill for ages. Do you feel me, brothers?” He paused but neither man responded. “I said, ‘Do you feel me, brothers?’”
Enderby patted the Beretta against his chest. It elicited a response. Both men nodded.
“Okay, Spike. You can piss off. And don’t even think of calling the po-po. I have a permit for this Beretta, and I am the police. Get me?”
Spike nodded.
“Right then,” Enderby said. “Go on, off you toddle.” He waggled his fingers at Spike.
Both men made to turn and run.
“Not you, big man. I haven’t finished with you yet.”
Spike raced away without a backwards glance at his mate. Enderby waited until the man in the lime green clothing had ducked around the nearest corner before turning his full attention to Beaded Dreads.
“What’s your name, bro,” Enderby asked, hiding the M9 beneath the side panel of his Brioni jacket.
All but one onlooker had dispersed, but one remaining seemed to be taking an inordinate interest in Enderby and his new friend. Middle-aged and slim, with shaggy, fair hair, he wore a slightly crumpled, grey jacket and black chinos, and held a phone up in his outstretched arm, the camera lens pointing straight at Enderby and the man in the tight, purple clothing.
“Merlin,” Beaded Dreads answered, his voice subdued, high pitched, less brooding.
“Marlon?”
“No, Merlin.”
“Merlin what?”
“Merlin Handy,” he answered, lowering his eyes.
“Are you playing with me, Merlin?”
Merlin dragged his eyes up from his feet to look at Enderby. He shook his head. The beads clattered around his ears. It had to be so irritating. The clacking would have annoyed the crap out of Enderby if he’d had to suffer it all day long.
“Do you have any ID on you, Merlin Handy?”
Merlin folded his lips into a thin line. He lowered his gaze to take in the gun arm part-hidden by Enderby’s expensive jacket.
“Driving licence. In my wallet.”
“Where would you hide a wallet in those clothes?”
For the first time, Enderby noticed the black strap around the muscleman’s slim waist. A strap that would likely hold a belt bag.
“Take out your wallet and show me your licence. And if you pull anything out of that belt bag that isn’t a wallet, say goodbye to your testicles, big man.”
Enderby withdrew the gun hand from its hiding place and pointed the Beretta at Merlin’s groin. Involuntarily, Merlin pulled his legs together and bent at the waist. Although, what protection closing his legs would offer against the impact of a 9mm bullet was anybody’s guess.

Merlin tugged at the belt and dragged a black, leather belt bag around from behind his back. Slowly, fingers trembling, he opened the zip and dug inside.
In one smooth operation, Enderby racked the Beretta’s slide and carefully rode it back into position.
“Easy now, Merlin. Take it nice and slow.”
“Don’t shoot, man.”
“I won’t have to shoot if you do as you’re told. The licence, show it.”
The big man in the tight, purple clothing removed a leather wallet from the belt bag, fumbled with the popper, and opened the flap. The licence, held in place behind a clear, plastic sleeve, confirmed the man’s name.”
“Okay, Merlin Handy. I think you’ve learned your lesson in manners.”
“Huh?” Confusion spread over Merlin’s face.
“It’s simple enough, bro. The next time you jostle someone in the street and cause them discomfort, apologise. It might just save you from pissing your pants. Now bugger off before I lose my temper.”
Merlin stuffed his wallet into his belt bag and tried to pull the zip closed but it caught halfway along the leather.
“Oh, and before you go,” Enderby said.
Merlin stopped trying to release the zip and looked up.
“Remember this. Now that I know your name, I can find out where you live. One day, when I’m bored, I might come pay you a visit and give you another lesson in etiquette. Think about that for the next few weeks. Go on now, Merlin. Off you trot, bro.”
Merlin Handy spun and raced off as though the Hounds of Hell were hungry and he smelled like dinner. Enderby chuckled to himself as Merlin retraced Spike’s trail and disappeared around the same corner. He half-turned towards the black marble wall and decocked the Beretta. He returned the gun to its holster and smoothed out the line of his jacket. A quick review of his reflection in the shiny marble showed him a return to its streamlined perfection. This time, he judged his smile as justified.
“Oh dear, such japes,” he said, turning to face the long-haired man in the grey jacket and the chinos. “What are you looking at?”
“Nothing, mate. I thought you were in trouble, there. I was thinking about calling the police.”
Enderby allowed his smile to drop. “No need for that, my friend. Things are fine.”
“What did you say to him?”
“Just shooting the breeze,” Enderby answered, grinning.

Shooting the breeze? Oh dear. Stop it, Greg. That really is too much.
“Thanks for your interest,” Enderby said, “but don’t you have somewhere else to be?”
“Oh yeah. Right.”
The man shrugged and wandered off, eyes locked on his phone, no doubt reviewing his footage of the incident and wondering whether he’d captured enough to upload it to his social media platform of choice. Not a problem. Enderby could survive any flak he faced from drawing his firearm. If questioned about it, he could easily claim to have been frightened for his life. After all, Merlin Handy and Spike looked the sort to be walking around the streets with bladed articles—a crime that carried a maximum sentence of six months’ jail time. For the briefest of moments, Enderby considered the proactive approach. Maybe he should call the police himself and make the accusation? In the end he decided against it. He’d already had more than enough fun at Merlin Handy’s expense. Besides, he had other fish to fry.
He glanced towards Upton, the shadow who stood primed and ready. Enderby nodded to him. Upton nodded back and resumed his watch, head rotating slowly, eyes alive for the next point of danger.
Ah, the life of the bodyguard, whose job required him to throw himself in front of a bullet to protect his client.

Another idiot.
Now, what was he doing before being so rudely interrupted?

Ah, yes. Talking about frying fish.
He reached into his pocket for the mobile and checked the status, surprised to find the line still open and active. He released the mute button.
“Hello, Guy? Are you still there?” he asked, still smiling from the buzz of terrorising a pair of hapless musclemen.
“Yes, I’m still here. What happened?”
“Nothing much. So,” he said, emphasising the word, “what were we saying?”
“We were discussing the situation vis-à-vis my company’s relationship with your agency.”
“Ah, yes. As to that, I have some rather bad news, I’m afraid.”
Enderby stopped talking and left the nugget dangling. He gazed around him. Fewer people lined the pavement, and space spread out wide. Even the traffic noise had quietened to a distant rumble in the slight calm before the rush-hour storm.
Gordon broke the stalemate.
“Well, Greg. What is it?”
“Sir Ernest has instructed me to remove GG Cleaning Systems from the list of strategic contractors … with immediate effect.”
“Fuck.”
“Exactly.”
“Can you do anything to change his mind?”
“I’ll hold off for now and try to bring him back onside, but … that’s going to take some doing.” Enderby crowded closer to the dark marble wall. He hunched his shoulders and lowered his voice. “But you might be able to help your cause, if you have a mind to.”
“What? What do you mean by that?”
“Think about it in your own time, Guy. We’ll discuss it face to face. Maybe next week. I have other things on my plate right now.”
Enderby ended the call in the middle of Gordon’s last strident question and allowed him to stew on it. The wait would crank up the pressure. Make him more malleable. More amenable.
He gathered Upton to his side and returned to his office. Work waited for no one.

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