Stray Bullet (8 page)

Jack felt an uncomfortable chill race through his body, the sincerity in Vinny’s voice hitting home.

“I’ll be careful not to do that then,” he muttered under his breath.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jack’s attention became drawn to something moving quickly in the distance. He glanced across to the pasture on his right and observed a magnificent white stallion, straddled by a twenty something young lady. Turning back to Vinny he asked, “Who is that?”

The young lady cast a wave to Vinny and he waved back. 

“That is the Don’s daughter, Natasha. And you’d do well to stay away,” he added, seeing the mischievous look in Jack’s eye.

Jack was quickly becoming unnerved by the straight speaking and somewhat hostile nature of his host. But before he could say anything further, they reached the entrance of the house and, were greeted by an old man at the front door who managed to put him more at ease.

  “Ah, Mr Vincent. The Don is expecting you in the drawing room.”

“Thanks, Henry. We’ll make our own way there.” He looked at Jack as they walked through the palatial hall and whispered “He’s the only other English guy here. Used to work for a Duke or something but got caught pinching stuff and was fired.”

“…and you trust him?”
asked Jack in a surprised tone.

“Never heard of honour among thieves, Jack?”

“Yeah but I was led to believe recently, that it doesn’t work too well in practice,” he said thinking of Swifty.

“He’s been with us over ten years now. He’s trustworthy enough.”

Arriving at a door, some ten foot high, Vinny knocked loudly using his fist to knock the timber. Without hearing a response he then opened it and looked around before continuing in and beckoning Jack to follow. Jack scurried behind like a puppy on a lead, not relishing the thought of getting lost as a stranger in an environment with more armed guards than a high security prison.

Beside the huge stone fireplace sat a man mature in years. He appeared to be in deep thought, staring forward but at nothing specific, almost unaware of their presence. Above the fireplace hung a large oil painting, which bore an uncanny resemblance to the man, although perhaps in another era. Jack guessed it must have been his father or grandfather. They approached the man who turned his head to look at Jack. Jack felt instantly intimidated by him. It was almost as if he was immortal, a look from a man who had almost too much knowledge to bear, that nothing could possibly surprise him.

“Don Giordano. May I introduce Jack Shaw?” said Vinny.

“Thank you, Vincent.  Leave us,” he said dismissing Vinny like a common servant. Vinny looked at Jack clearly upset at being treated this way in front of a stranger. Nevertheless, he was compliant.  Turning without another spoken word, he left the room. This intrigued Jack greatly. He wondered what kind of a self-respecting mobster would react so sheepishly.

“He is a good boy but still has a lot to learn,” said the Don turning his attention to Jack.

“Don Giordano, may I say how honoured I am to meet you,” said Jack trying to muster a friendly smile. “I have brought a gift for you, but my suitcase seems to have been taken care of for me.”

The Don reached for the phone. “Bring Jack’s bag to me.”
He did not mince his words and replaced the phone.

Moments later the door opened and Henry walked in bearing the bag. Jack turned to see Henry, he noticed in the corner of his eye more security cameras watching him. Henry handed the bag to Jack who paused for a moment recalling Vinny’s words clearly. He turned to the Don;

“May I?” he asked warily.

“You seem like a sensible gentleman,” replied the Don as his eyes were still sizing up Jack. “Go ahead.”

“I purchased this on my last visit to London,” he said, reaching into the bag. He would have said anything to remain in dialogue with the Don, not wishing for any suspicions to arise or create an incident. He slowly pulled out a bag marked ‘Harrods’ and although the present was wrapped, he chose to pass it to the Don, erring on the side of caution once more.

The Don looked at Jack. His curiosity and respect for the young man growing with every moment.

“You should become a politician, Jack,” he said, referring to the way he was handling this unfamiliar situation.

Jack smiled but said nothing, hoping that the Don would still be so complimentary after seeing his gift. The Don reached into the bag taking out the cube shaped box gift wrapped in Harrods unique style. He looked at Jack curiously, gradually wearing a smile.

“Ah… a watch,”
he guessed. “Thank you, Jack.”

Jack seemingly dumbfounded, his jaw dropped. 

“How do you know?”
he asked alarmingly.

“Jack,”
said the Don
“you don’t live to be my age in this business without a little intuition!”
He smirked as he held the gift and began slowly removing the outer wrapping whilst staring at Jack dead in the eye. Uncovering a box, he lifted the lid and momentarily allowed his eyes to relinquish their grip on Jack to observe the gift. On seeing the contents, the Don immediately snapped the lid closed again, his smirk replaced with the look of a predator about to devour its prey.  Time stood still for a moment. Jack was left unsure what to say and nervously broke the silence. 

“I hope you like it, Don.”

The Don’s gaze transfixed back on Jack momentarily, he lifted open the lid once again, looked at Jack and laughed out aloud. 

“Lucio said you were a slippery character, Jack.”
He marched over to Jack, embraced him and kissed him on both cheeks. “Welcome to America, my friend.” Jack’s relief clearly visible he replied

“I am glad to have pleased you, Don.”

The Don looked once more into the box admiring the exquisitely designed Faberge Egg once owned by the Romanov's of Russia. Lucio had encouraged this vastly expensive present assuring Jack that in investment terms it would be unrivalled.

“I feel outwitted, Jack. For the first time in a long while. Lucio was correct. You could become a great asset to my organisation.”

Jack finally felt the pressure of the meeting ease slightly. In tandem the tension eased from within his body.

“Jack, I have a long standing employee.” He stopped to consider how to continue. “Whom I feel should retire, but I need someone to take over his position. I have had feelers out for well over a year now but…” He paused. Gesturing with his hands he continued, “… nothing. Then out of the blue Lucio gave me a call and told me about you.” He stopped to gauge Jack’s body language, Jack looking unfazed he continued. “Lucio told me about your time in prison and your loyalty in carrying out the Bournemouth job, but…” He took another breath considering each word before he spoke. “He was concerned about your motivation whilst carrying out the job. You are a raw talent Jack, but if you are to work for me, it is imperative that you adopt our precise ways of working. It is better for all involved.”  He awaited Jack’s response.

“There were other considerations in Bournemouth, Don Giordano.  But I assure you that I am a quick learner,” he replied in an attempt to defend his seemingly psychotic and adrenaline fuelled actions.

“Jack… When working for me, there is only one consideration and that is… working for me! You will carry out the job in whichever way I specify. Do we understand each other?”

Jack’s mind was racing ahead wondering what would come next.  He bowed down to the Don remembering the disputes he used to have with his father, reminiscing how his father had always been right. 

“I understand perfectly Don Giordano.”

“Jack… This man I’m retiring is well respected. In fact, some say he’s my right hand man. I want him to teach you all he knows and perhaps one day you may take his place, not just his job,” he said, dangling a carrot of unknown quantity.

Jack was stunned and didn’t know how to respond.
Right hand man to the Don?
he thought.

“Shit, that’s ridiculous, why me?”

“Why you?” enquired the Don, Jack being unaware that his final thought had reached his mouth. “For a start, what type of hit man offers a potential boss a gift of more than he could earn in a year? Jack, you have class and, from what I gather, you’re not stupid. I need someone of new blood like you to shake up my organisation.”  He paused.  “I’m not saying it won’t be dangerous for you Jack, because it will… I am aware that many of my relatives are already queuing to take my place and, they will resent an insertion into the family. But on the other hand, you are young, respectable… you could create solid contacts within the establishment for us.”

Jack sat and considered his future. The Don was right about the Faberge Egg. It had cost him close to £250,000.00 quite a dent in his own small fortune, but Lucio had been adamant that it would be worth his while, and he was beginning to understand how.

“What are your terms?” asked Jack.

“I’ll pay you $250,000.00 a year retainer, and once you start actively working for me, there will be considerable bonuses,” said the poker faced Don.

Jack hardly knew how to react. Legal or not, this was an offer hard to refuse.

“But Don, with respect. You don’t know me. What makes you think I’m worth that sort of money?”

“Let’s just call it a hunch, eh?” he replied. “If you’re in agreement, you will start tomorrow.”

Jack stared into the Don’s eyes searching for the con man element about him. But he couldn’t find it due to the years of experience that the Don possessed.

“Don Giordano, it would be an honour.” A smile appeared on Jack’s face and the conversion had been completed.

Within a few short hours of reaching US soil Jack Shaw had entered the underworld.

The trip to
Brize Norton was slow, Harvey’s mind preoccupied with thoughts of his family. The thought of a prolonged absence from his Jenny and the children was already playing on his mind. He wondered how she would cope with Chloe and Rob on her own during their separation. Already he was feeling remorseful for accepting the assignment.

“Are you with us?” asked Greg sensing his mood.
“She blames me, doesn’t she?” he continued.

“No, of course not, Greg,” Harvey responded, in an attempt to lie, wishing to make his friend feel better.

“Well, I guess I’m going to have to keep a close eye on you if she’s ever going to talk to me again,” he laughed.

“Greg, what’s my cover for this gig anyway?” asked Harvey, wishing to steer the conversation away from family matters.

“Well, we were going to wait for the FBI guys to brief you. I hear they’ve invented you as a fairly nasty criminal called Bill Moore,” he replied. “During the last month or so, they’ve carried out a few high profile robberies for which you, Mr Moore, are responsible.”

Harvey wondered what it would be like to live as a criminal. He would need to learn fast if he hoped to survive the detachment.

“Am I high or low profile?” he asked referring to his expected demeanour as a criminal.

“Well, I believe you’re high profile right now but rough around the edges. You’re best keeping your questions for the Americans, Harv.  After all, it is their party.”

Harvey sat back impatiently, his mind trying to prematurely explore how he might best conceive this criminal lifestyle.

Greg pointed ahead of them.  “There it is, we are almost there,”
he said.

Harvey looked ahead and could see a military plane the size of a passenger jet circling above.

“I wonder what’s stopping them from landing,”
he said, looking up at the VC10 which was conducting training runs around the airfield.

“Who knows? Judging by its size it may be our ride,” replied Greg naively.

Within a few minutes they arrived at the camp gates and pulled up at the guardroom to ask directions. Greg left Harvey waiting in the car while he entered to collect their prearranged passes. It was only a few minutes before he returned to Harvey’s side of the vehicle.  Harvey wound down the window.

“What’s wrong?” he asked. Greg leant towards the window and replied,

“Have you got your ID on you? Can’t get us in without it!”

Harvey stretched for his back pocket, struggling against the seat belt as he manoeuvred to reach his wallet.  Greg sensed his difficulties and said sarcastically, “You might try taking the belt off first.”

“Okay, wise guy,” he laughed, looking at Greg.

Harvey unfastened the seatbelt and went for his wallet again. This time he retrieved it with ease, passing it over to Greg who was beaming from ear to ear. “There you go, now bugger off and make yourself useful,” he said cheerfully.

Minutes later Greg returned with temporary station passes for the two of them.

“Right, Harv. The guard says somebody will meet us at 101 Squadron Ops,” he said as he climbed back into the car. Looking at his watch he added, “We fly out in three hours so we’ve got a bit of time to kill.”

“Let’s head straight up there anyway. I quite fancy having a look around. Have always wondered what they hide behind all this barbed wire,” he said referring to the high perimeter fencing that circumnavigated the base.

“Are you serious?” asked Greg amazed as he pulled away from the guardroom. He recognised the disappointment in Harvey’s demeanour. “Okay, whatever floats your boat, Harv!” he conceded.

“My father saw service in the RAF you know; during the war. It’s one of the only things I know about him,” Harvey added to his uninterested partner who already had his mind on where they might find a coffee.

“Okay Biggles. Enough already! I said we’ll go take a look,” sighed Greg. He pulled up alongside the entry barrier, wound down his window and held out the passes. “We’re going to 101 squadron.”

The corporal said nothing as he scrutinised their documents.

“Follow this road to the end. It’s signposted from there, sir,” he said, gesturing the way with his hand.

Greg took back the passes and wound up the window. Looking at Harvey, he said, “Well he was a bundle of joy, wasn’t he?” Harvey sniggered.

They found the car park relatively easily. As the guard had said
, it was well signposted. Greg parked the car and they both made their way over to the 101 squadron building. They entered to find various squadron memorabilia and a huge dark wooden plaque covered with names and pictures of all those current individuals on the station that mattered. There was no sign of any sort of reception, so they ventured through the main corridor ahead of them, in search of someone who could help them.

Harvey couldn’t help but look at the pictures that lined the walls of the corridor ahead of him, pictures of the crews that had served over the years, ranging from the most recent all the way back to the 1920’s.  Harvey stood staring in disbelief half way down the corridor.

“Come on, Harv. Let’s get on with it,” said Greg, anxious to find someone who could point them in the right direction.

“Jesus, I don’t believe it!” gasped Harvey. “Greg take a look at this,” he said motioning towards one of the pictures.

Greg shrugged.

“What is it?” he enquired, walking back towards Harvey.

“It’s my old man,” he said. “I can’t believe it!”

Greg looked at the picture. “Wishful thinking my friend. That guy ain’t called Walters,” said Greg, pointing to the names below the picture.

“Oh!”  Harvey sounded confused and embarrassed. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. That’s uncanny though,” he said turning to follow Greg.

Harvey followed Greg down the corridor and Greg turned into another room marked,
101 Sqn Crew room.
Harvey followed on behind.

“Excuse me,” called across an ageing officer. From behind an impressive oak bar he continued to help himself to coffee, paused then briefly added. “Can I help you?”

“Ah, yes. We were pointed in this direction. We’re from the Met… Err.” He stuttered, searching for something less informative to say about their presence before continuing. “We’re due to hitch a lift to America on a VC10 this afternoon,” said Greg.

“Good for you,” replied the officer. “Help yourselves to coffee.  'Fraid there’s not many of us in yet. Pre-flight brief isn’t for another hour.”
The officer looked them both up and down. “You’re not expecting to fly like that I hope!” he laughed, pointing to their suits.

“Well, we don’t have anything else,” replied Harvey, shrugging his shoulders and looking to Greg for answers.

“Don’t worry. We’ll get you down to flying clothing and get you kitted out. I’m sorry, damned rude of me,”
said the officer realising they hadn’t been introduced. “I’m Wing Commander Ferrous. I’ll be piloting the plane.”

“Pleased to meet you. I’m Greg Bickley and this is my colleague, Harvey Walters.”

“It’ll probably be a quiet trip. Have you heard the latest?”

Greg looked back across to Harvey for some help this time but Harvey simply looked back shrugging his shoulders.

“Er… The latest?” he enquired.

“Yes. The bottom fell out of the market today. I understand it’s still tumbling… I dare not listen to the radio… due to retire next year you see,” he mumbled pompously while staring into his mug.

It was October 1987, and indeed the city was in turmoil. Harvey did not follow the stock markets. It was a league to which he aspired, but it would take him some years to amass any sort of saving for investment towards his future.

“Oh!” said Greg tentatively, “I wonder how this’ll affect my mortgage?”

“Hah!” roared Ferrous, “Doesn’t bear thinking about does it? Well I’m afraid it may cause a few straight faces on the flight.”

The three of them stood morbidly in silence before Ferrous piped up. “Look, ole chaps, didn’t mean to put a dampener on things.  Let’s get you kitted up,” with which he slammed his mug in the sink.  “Come on, follow me,” he said, asserting himself.

Greg and Harvey, quite overwhelmed by this eccentric character, sheepishly followed behind Ferrous around the squadron building and out towards a hangar, aptly named ‘Supply’, where they would be provided flying suits to wear during their journey.

They returned about half an hour later. The crew room was now teeming with people all dressed in similar flying suits. They still could be easily identified as visitors due to the sheen of the new suits and the lack of any name or rank tags. Wing Commander Ferrous led them over to a small stocky gentleman. Harvey looked at his name tag which read Flt Lt
Tiny
Roberts 101 Squadron. Harvey looked across at Greg and they exchanged discreet smirks.

“Tiny, these two chaps are hitching a lift with us. Can you make sure they get to the pre-brief please?”  He turned to Greg and Harvey. “I’ll see you on board. You’ll be in good hands with Tiny,” he added and promptly marched off.

They completed the somewhat unfinished introductions and enquired whether there was time for one last coffee.

“Oh sure,” replied Tiny. 

“What are you fellas up to in America then?”

“I’m sure you’ll understand that we can’t…”

“No bother. It’s usually the same. Need to know and all that!”
he interrupted.

Greg and Harvey felt slightly awkward at not being able to share any information regarding their trip with their hosts, although their hosts seemed quite at home with the fact.

“Oh, have you ordered your food for the trip yet?” Tiny enquired.

“Well, yes. But I’ve got to admit we thought it was a bit of a wind up to be honest,” said Harvey.

“No, it usually sounds grander than it appears on the plate but we all have to eat!” he replied.

“Well, I guess so. Are there many passenger seats on the plane?” asked Greg curiously.

“You are the only passengers today so you should be quite comfortable. That is if you can feel comfortable on a flying petrol station,” he laughed. “Okay it looks like its briefing time. Follow me.”

Greg and Harvey sat through the briefing, where crew members’ roles for the flight ahead were outlined, and the two outsiders were introduced. There was a meteorological brief and details of possible aircraft that may call upon them around the country for fuel. A detailed map was projected onto a large video screen, unveiling the route.

Harvey nudged Greg and whispered,

“It looks like we’re going the long way around.”

“No kidding,” replied Greg.

The brief ended on an inspirational note by Wing Commander Ferrous. It appeared to Greg and Harvey that, for the crew, this trip was little more than an excuse for a jolly and the purchase of duty free and other low cost goods.

“We are in the wrong service,” said Harvey sarcastically as they walked back down the corridor with the rest of the crew.

They trooped behind the rest of the crew and boarded a bus which took them out to the waiting plane. The crew’s loadmaster, responsible for passengers, cargo and indeed refreshments, eventually took them aboard and to their seats.

“Make yourselves comfortable… It
’s going to get kind of busy and loud around here until take off. I’ll show you around once we’re airborne.”