whispered the words every girl loves to hear. ‘You can go now.’
‘I haven’t finished,’ she whined, reaching to touch herself.
‘I have. Get out.’
‘Fuck you,’ she said.
He wrapped his hand around her slender neck. ‘Get out before I fucking kill you.’
She went to slap him and he twisted her hair in his hand and pulled her from the bed, spitting in her face as she said, ‘Okay, okay, let me go.’ She left in tears and Fernandez went naked to the balcony and lit a cigarette, feeling the cool night air drying the sweat on his hair-matted torso as the city of smog moved languidly below him.
London was no less alien a city to him than the deep, unexplored corners of the oceans. There were so few places in the world where you could find a line of tramps in the doorways of expensive department stores. The problem with England was that it was not Spanish. The Spaniards would bring some backbone to the men and some class to the ladies. You don’t fuck Spanish girls. You make her your woman, if only for half an hour. You treat her with respect and she knows how to please you. English girls were a tool for release and nothing more. They were dirty and deserved only dirty things.
When he had jogged twice around Hyde Park and sprinted his way back to the hotel, he showered, dressed, and checked in with Thomas Walter. All contact was by telephone and they would not meet unless necessity dictated it.
‘My boys,’ Walter said, as though he was the master of all, ‘are working around the clock. We’ll find them, don’t worry.’
‘I have no worry in finding the target,’ Fernandez told him, ‘only in your competence.’
Fernandez had been drafted in by Ramirez and Herrera not just for his killer instinct and the professional manner in which he conducted his business, from planning, execution, and clean up, but also for his technical abilities in the art of espionage. His background had been comms interception and surveillance. In order not to tread on delicate toes, his role here would be to advise and assist, not to assume command, although the very idea was a thorn.
Later today he would make a visit to the operations centre—a normal garage in a normal house in a normal suburban area of London, controlled by an acne-riddled teenager with a degree in game design and a list of sexual conquests that failed to extend outside of World of Warcraft . But first, he had another appointment to keep, one that he wasn’t particularly looking forward to attending.
The prison walls felt like they were folding in around him. Miguel Fernandez hated prisons. They were the same the world over, a cesspit of life’s degenerates grouped together not by a common cause, but by the government’s inability to do anything useful with them. Some of the men he met in the Spanish prison could have been trained and utilised by the government or the military, men whose insatiable desire for wealth or greed or power could be harnessed for a greater cause.
Fernandez himself had been one such lucky candidate. Ramirez had taken him on board some years ago and now he was not just killing, but he was making a killing in doing so.
He walked into the visitors’ room and took a seat opposite Jim Dixon. Without preamble, he said, ‘I need information.’
‘What happened to the pretty lady?’ Dixon asked.
‘The last time she looked at you, you made her sick. You’ve got me now.’
‘She was going to get me transferred.’
Fernandez grinned. ‘You actually believed this?’
The weasel said, ‘She promised.’
‘The only transfer you’d get would be to the morgue.’
‘I only—’
‘Enough!’ Fernandez demanded. He glanced around the room; no one came to visit him when he was inside. His conversation was limited to drug addicts and rapists. ‘I need a way in to Interpol,’ he told Dixon .
‘I’m guessing you don’t want to walk in the front door.’
‘Don’t get clever, Mr Dixon. I don’t like
‘I haven’t finished,’ she whined, reaching to touch herself.
‘I have. Get out.’
‘Fuck you,’ she said.
He wrapped his hand around her slender neck. ‘Get out before I fucking kill you.’
She went to slap him and he twisted her hair in his hand and pulled her from the bed, spitting in her face as she said, ‘Okay, okay, let me go.’ She left in tears and Fernandez went naked to the balcony and lit a cigarette, feeling the cool night air drying the sweat on his hair-matted torso as the city of smog moved languidly below him.
London was no less alien a city to him than the deep, unexplored corners of the oceans. There were so few places in the world where you could find a line of tramps in the doorways of expensive department stores. The problem with England was that it was not Spanish. The Spaniards would bring some backbone to the men and some class to the ladies. You don’t fuck Spanish girls. You make her your woman, if only for half an hour. You treat her with respect and she knows how to please you. English girls were a tool for release and nothing more. They were dirty and deserved only dirty things.
When he had jogged twice around Hyde Park and sprinted his way back to the hotel, he showered, dressed, and checked in with Thomas Walter. All contact was by telephone and they would not meet unless necessity dictated it.
‘My boys,’ Walter said, as though he was the master of all, ‘are working around the clock. We’ll find them, don’t worry.’
‘I have no worry in finding the target,’ Fernandez told him, ‘only in your competence.’
Fernandez had been drafted in by Ramirez and Herrera not just for his killer instinct and the professional manner in which he conducted his business, from planning, execution, and clean up, but also for his technical abilities in the art of espionage. His background had been comms interception and surveillance. In order not to tread on delicate toes, his role here would be to advise and assist, not to assume command, although the very idea was a thorn.
Later today he would make a visit to the operations centre—a normal garage in a normal house in a normal suburban area of London, controlled by an acne-riddled teenager with a degree in game design and a list of sexual conquests that failed to extend outside of World of Warcraft . But first, he had another appointment to keep, one that he wasn’t particularly looking forward to attending.
The prison walls felt like they were folding in around him. Miguel Fernandez hated prisons. They were the same the world over, a cesspit of life’s degenerates grouped together not by a common cause, but by the government’s inability to do anything useful with them. Some of the men he met in the Spanish prison could have been trained and utilised by the government or the military, men whose insatiable desire for wealth or greed or power could be harnessed for a greater cause.
Fernandez himself had been one such lucky candidate. Ramirez had taken him on board some years ago and now he was not just killing, but he was making a killing in doing so.
He walked into the visitors’ room and took a seat opposite Jim Dixon. Without preamble, he said, ‘I need information.’
‘What happened to the pretty lady?’ Dixon asked.
‘The last time she looked at you, you made her sick. You’ve got me now.’
‘She was going to get me transferred.’
Fernandez grinned. ‘You actually believed this?’
The weasel said, ‘She promised.’
‘The only transfer you’d get would be to the morgue.’
‘I only—’
‘Enough!’ Fernandez demanded. He glanced around the room; no one came to visit him when he was inside. His conversation was limited to drug addicts and rapists. ‘I need a way in to Interpol,’ he told Dixon .
‘I’m guessing you don’t want to walk in the front door.’
‘Don’t get clever, Mr Dixon. I don’t like
Similar Books
