The Legacy

Gearing

Chapter 1

The assassin moved slowly through the undergrowth. Flat on his stomach and with so little moon, it was unlikely that anyone would see him even if they came within a few feet. He reached the edge of the woods and stopped, slowing his breathing and listening. He could hear nothing other than the nocturnal sounds of woodland animals. He inched forwards, slowly parting the long grass that grew on the edge of the track. He thought of all the times he had done this before. Northern Ireland, Bosnia, Kosovo, Iraq, Afghanistan, he had served everywhere the British Army had been deployed over the last twenty years. A paratrooper by profession and master sniper by trade, he had ended lives on behalf of the British Government for over two decades. And he was very good indeed at his trade. So good that it had been easy to find a job when he left the Army. But this job was particularly important. It was, he hoped, one of his last. If it went well he would soon be able to retire to his native Scotland with enough money in various bank accounts to ensure that he never had to work again.

The villa had been built in the early twenties. White, sprawling and very private, it sat in nearly half an acre of prime real estate on the southern slopes of Montgo, the mountain that dominates the small fishing town of Javea on Spain’s east coast. Its owner, Diego Velasquez, had chosen it deliberately. He had been a drug dealer on the Costa del Sol for many years and whilst this had made him rich, it had also made him a fair number of enemies. He believed that the low profile seclusion his villa provided kept him safe and, so far, it had. As the assassin watched, the perimeter gates slid quietly closed behind a big, black Mercedes saloon. The car sat low on its suspension; it was clearly armoured. It came to a standstill in front of the floodlit villa and Velasquez started to get out unsteadily.

‘Open the door,’ he shouted as he lurched towards the front step. ‘Come on, open it, I need another drink.’

The assassin recognised Velasquez immediately. He’d been following him for over a week, discretely watching his every move, probing for a weakness that he could exploit. He’d found it a few days ago. He’d particularly enjoyed the build up to this kill. He’d seen enough of Velasquez over the last seven days to know that the world would be a better place without him. But there was still an element of risk. Velasquez’s men were highly professional. They took few chances and, if the assassin made a mistake, he knew he would most likely pay for it. The trick with any kill was to minimise the risk by hitting the target when he least expected it. The element of surprise was crucial. But achieving surprise was difficult, not least because the people providing the protection had usually done the same training as the people trying to kill the target. They knew how to spot vulnerable points and they knew the importance of avoiding routine. But sooner or later, everyone makes a mistake. It’s just a question of being patient. The assassin knew that every Friday evening Velasquez had supper with his brother in a neighbouring town. The time he arrived home varied from week to week and his driver always selected the route at random. But sooner or later, Velasquez always came home and the villa was always well illuminated when he did. The bright lights and cameras would deter the gangs of armed burglars that worked the Costas in the summer months and they would also make it difficult for anyone to place an explosive charge near the villa. But they were a godsend for a night-time shoot.

Conscious that his boss was at his most exposed as he left the car, Velasquez’s long time driver and bodyguard came round to the rear passenger door. ‘Boss, wait, get back in the car until I’ve got the door open and then I’ll get you a drink.’

Ramon turned away from his boss and ran up the steps to unlock the front door of the villa as quickly as he could. Velasquez started to follow him up the steps, lurching slightly from side to side.

The assassin watched Velasquez leave the safety of the car and move towards his bodyguard. He shifted the rifle slightly until Velasquez’s head filled the optical sight. He slowed his breathing, expelling the last of his air as the cross hairs lined up just to the right of Velasquez’s right temple. He pulled the trigger. The rifle kicked back in his shoulder but he held his position.

Ramon heard a sharp crack and then his boss fell at his feet. He reached down ‘Come on boss, get up, we’re nearly in,’ but as he looked at his boss he could see that Velasquez wasn’t going anywhere. Half of his head had disappeared. The left side of his face was a bloody pulp. Ramon, who had handled his fair share of silenced weapons in his time, noticed the entry wound just below the right temple and realised what had happened. He pulled out his pistol, dived behind one of the pillars flanking the door and started to scan the darkness beyond the villa’s garden in the hope of seeing someone to shoot at.

In the wood line, the assassin slid slowly back on his stomach. When he was a good twenty metres inside the woods, he sat up and started to check that his equipment was all there. He didn’t want to leave anything behind that could lead anyone to him, although he doubted that his fire position would ever be found. He was nearly a kilometre from the villa. It had been a superb shot. The ground fell away and there was a slight wind, adding to the difficulty. He felt no regret at having killed Velasquez, just a quiet satisfaction at a job well done. He finished checking his equipment, confirmed that he had put the expended case in his pocket and did a final sweep of the area. He then leant against a large tree stump, opened his mouth and turned his head on its side to give his ears and eyes the best chance of detecting any human sounds in the woods around him. He stood perfectly still, slowing his breathing and straining to hear anything unusual. After five minutes, he stooped into a crouch and jogged the two hundred metres to the kitbag he had hidden behind a fallen tree. Quickly, he changed out of his black combats and into jeans, check shirt and loafers. He stuffed his combat kit into an old rucksack, put on his baseball hat and started to walk towards the rental car that he had parked at the side of the main road. His rifle was hidden inside a long bag with fishing rods sticking out at the end. Should he be questioned, he intended to claim that he was looking for the Cap de Verde lighthouse as he had fancied a bit of night fishing. An hour later, he was sat at the bar of the Club Nautico in Denia drinking San Miguel beer, flirting drunkenly with the barmaid - just another middle-aged foreigner enjoying his holiday.

Things had livened up at the villa. Alerted by Ramon’s frantic shouting, Velasquez’s men had come running out of the house and, having eventually doused the floodlights, were frantically scanning the hillside around the villa. Ramon was on his mobile talking to Velasquez’s brother. ‘I don’t know who the fuck killed him. One minute he was telling me to get him a drink, the next he was dead. Must have been a silenced rifle. I didn’t hear a thing. Yes I am sure he’s dead. No I didn’t give him mouth to mouth. Why? Because he doesn’t have a fucking mouth left.’

The brother told Ramon to stay put, he was on his way. Ramon wasn’t worried. He’d known Tony since they were both kids. But he was sad. Whilst he wouldn’t say that he and Velasquez had become friends, he’d been with him for nearly ten years and he had enjoyed the job. The money was good and, whatever Velasquez’s faults, he treated those loyal to him with respect. He was also a bit worried about the future; the demand for bodyguards who let their bosses get killed wasn’t strong.

Chapter 2

Charles Highworth looked what he was: a formidably successful merchant banker. At forty-six years old, he was now at the height of his power. Tall and immaculately groomed, his slight paunch was well disguised by the cut of his beautifully tailored suit. His thick, lightly greying hair was swept back from his tanned face, revealing a slight scar on his forehead and clear green eyes. He was still ruggedly handsome but years of corporate lunches and a love of fine wine were slowly beginning to take their toll. His jaw was becoming less well defined and his once heavily muscled shoulders were now less impressive than they had been when he’d played rugby for Oxford. But he was still a big man and what he’d lost in physical size, he’d gained in the presence that comes from being hugely wealthy and successful. Utterly ruthless, he’d made millions over the last twenty years, accumulating vast amounts of money for the select clients that invested in his hedge fund, International Valiant. This last year had been particularly profitable. At a time when most were urging caution, he had invested heavily in the emerging markets of China and India, achieving an average increase of thirty-five percent in the value of his very significant investments.

As he sat in his office on the top floor of his company’s Canary Warf office building, he started to smile. The headlines on the wide screen TV opposite him announced the best possible news: ‘Tokifora’s new processor set to end Intel dominance.’ He knew this news would cause Tokifora’s shares to skyrocket in value, and this was particularly gratifying as it would push his annual return way beyond thirty-five percent. Over the last eight months, his fund had gradually become the single biggest owner of Tokifora shares to the extent that he now had a forty-eight percent stake in the company. He had taken a risk investing such significant amounts in a single company but it had been a calculated risk. He had used his wide network of contacts and a fair amount of money to help Tokifora assemble a winning team of experts over the last two years. Not everyone he approached had been keen to join the team and there were occasions when he’d had to resort to what he called ‘robust measures’ to achieve his desired outcome. These measures involved coercion, bribery, blackmail and, on two particular occasions, murder. The illegality of these actions didn’t bother him in the least - the end always justified the means, particularly if the end in question was him getting richer.

His PA, an attractive and highly efficient woman in her early thirties, came into the office and carefully put a cup of black coffee on his desk. ‘Get Richards for me,’ he snapped at her.

‘Yes Sir,’ she replied, leaving the room as quietly as she’d entered it.

His phone rang. ‘Mr Richards is on the line,’ she told him before connecting the call.

‘Richards, I need to see you this evening. I’ll meet you at the usual place, at the same time as last time.’

Highworth was a cautious man. He worked on the assumption that his phone was bugged and that his e-mail would probably be read by other people. He wasn’t worried about any of the Government’s covert agencies trying to keep tabs on him - why would they? - but he knew that other banks and newspapers would try. His success was so striking that he knew people wanted to find out how he managed to achieve such startling results given the current state of the global economy. And he had no doubt that despite the News of the World’s demise, newspapers would still resort to illegal means to obtain information if they felt the benefits outweighed the risks.

He thought about Richards. He didn’t really like him but he had a healthy respect for his talents. An ex-Special Forces soldier who’d been forced to resign for reasons which he kept to himself, he had demonstrated his ability to fix even the most delicate of problems over the years. He was discrete, effective, absolutely reliable and comfortable operating on the wrong side of the law. Highworth was confident that he’d be able to resolve the issue that had been worrying him for the last week or so.

Having spoken to Richards, Highworth phoned his wife, Caroline. She was at home, a magnificent Queen Anne house on the edge of a small and very smart Surrey town called Farnham. She had married her husband ten years ago at the age of thirty-five when, recognising that she wasn’t getting any younger, she set out to find and then seduce the most eligible of her brother’s acquaintances. Eligible in her book meant rich, handsome and respected - love was of secondary importance. She knew her husband for what he was when she married him but she was equally tough. In many ways they were a perfect match and the marriage soon settled into a comfortable routine based on mutual respect and a shared desire to enjoy the lifestyle that significant wealth brings. With no children and with plenty of time and money to enjoy herself, she had a wide circle of friends and an active social life, both with and without her husband. Her own father, now long dead, had also been an accomplished banker, knighted for his services to charity towards the end of his life, and she now delighted in organising the same kind of charity balls and dinners that she had so enjoyed as she grew up.

‘Darling it’s me, I’m afraid I’m going to be late this evening,’ said Highworth when his wife answered the phone. ‘I need to meet someone to sort something out but I should be back before midnight.’

‘Don’t worry,’ his wife replied easily, ‘I promised mother I’d go round and help her plan the changes she’s making to her garden. I’ll stay a bit longer and persuade her to let me stay for supper.’

Highworth put the phone down and smiled. His wife was his chief ally and he recognised what a good team they made. Although she was now in her mid forties, she was still striking. Slim, elegant and always beautifully dressed, she never failed to turn heads. Although she looked like the typically well bred trophy wife of a rich banker, she was bright, perceptive and extremely well connected. She could read people with remarkable accuracy, something her husband had found extremely useful when considering whether to invest in particular companies. She was also good fun, completely loyal to her husband and, for someone of her background and position, wickedly mischievous in bed. She didn’t know all of the underhand methods her husband employed to maintain his edge but, even if she did, he suspected she wouldn’t mind, squaring any moral misgivings she might have by considering how many charities benefited from the wealth his activities created.

Chapter 3

Lucy Masters walked out of the main entrance of the International Relations Department and headed into town. Now coming to the end of her postgraduate studies, she’d just submitted the final draft of her PhD dissertation. She realised that she needed to think seriously about what she was going to do next. She hoped that her hard work would pay off and she’d get the doctorate without the need to revisit much of the work she’d already done. A bit of re-drafting would be fine but if those assessing her work felt that there was nothing original in what she was saying, then she might have to spend most of next year doing the further research necessary to strengthen her arguments. But she hoped this wouldn’t be the case; her supervisors had been very positive about her performance and even her tutor, a notoriously grumpy man called Dr John Walker, had been upbeat when she’d seen him earlier in the week. Three weeks until the results were formally published on the Palace Green notice board and then she’d know for sure. A PhD from Durham University would open a lot of doors, not just in the City but also in the Foreign Office or DFID, the Department for International Development. She liked what she’d seen of the people in DFID having spent a fair amount of time with them whilst doing research for her thesis. There were one or two whose motives she sometimes doubted, but the majority had come across as hard working, professional and committed to trying to make the world a better place. She felt that she could do a lot worse than work with people whose values she shared.

At 5ft 10in Lucy was taller than most of her friends. She was also striking to look at with piercing blue eyes, long strawberry blonde hair and a body toned from years of hard physical exercise. She ran almost every day and whilst she enjoyed rowing - one of the reasons she’d chosen Durham in the first place - her real passion was climbing. She spent most of her holidays in the mountains somewhere, mainly on expeditions. During term time, she spent her weekends either in the Lake District or up in Scotland tackling some of the more challenging routes that Skye’s Cuillin Ridge has to offer. Easily the best female climber at Durham, she was also better than all but two of the men. Her expedition work was earning her a widening reputation as a hard working team member who could lead the most difficult of routes with confidence. Some men found this difficult, particularly as she had a habit of telling them to ‘man up and get on with it’ whenever their nerves started to get the better of them. But she worked hard to maintain her edge. After her morning run of four to six miles through the Durham countryside, she would always end up in the gym, pushing herself through a rigorous routine of press ups, sit-ups, dips and heaves that even the fittest of the University rugby team would have struggled to complete.

As she headed into town, she thought of what to do next. Her father had sent her a text asking whether she had decided what she was going to do after she’d got the PhD. She hadn’t replied. She knew that she really needed to get on with finding a job and starting a career but, until she knew whether she would have to re-do parts of her thesis, she didn’t see much point in making any firm plans. For the moment, she’d saved enough money to spend the next few months climbing in Nepal and this was her immediate focus. A mini-expedition, the plan was to spend a few days in Kathmandu sorting out their equipment before travelling west to Pokhara and then trekking up into the Annapurna basin to climb the two highest peaks. Thereafter, she intended to spend another week in Kathmandu in order to enjoy the Dashain celebrations. Her best friend and fellow PhD student, Isobel Johnson, was going with her.

Lucy saw Isobel as she entered the cafe. ‘Hey loser,’ she called out as she approached Isobel’s table.

‘Hi, where’ve you been? I’ve been waiting for hours,’ Isobel replied.

‘No you haven’t, I saw you just come in ahead of me.’ The two girls laughed. Whenever they met they spent the first few minutes giving each other a hard time, normally about the other’s latest male admirer. They had been best friends since the age of twelve when they had found themselves in the same dormitory on their first day at boarding school in York. At the time, both of their fathers had been serving abroad in the Army and they soon discovered that they had a lot in common. Both were only children, with the absence of siblings strengthening their friendship. They were athletic, bright and keen on outdoor sports, though Isobel preferred skiing to climbing. Slightly shorter than Lucy, Isobel nevertheless turned heads wherever she went. Her thick blonde hair was cut into a fashionable bob and her full lips and wide brown eyes always seemed to be smiling. She was attractive, intelligent and fun, with a mischievous streak that frequently got her into trouble.

‘I’ve been thinking about Nepal,’ Isobel said as her friend sat down and ordered a cappuccino. ‘I think we should spend longer in the west after we’ve cracked the Annapurna peaks rather than head back to Kathmandu. Either that or we should trek out east as far as Everest Base Camp and spend a week or so there chilling with the climbing fraternity.’ She said the last word with heavy irony, using her hands to sign the parenthesis. She was always disparaging about groups of climbers, considering them to be amongst the least hygienic and the scruffiest of people. This was one reason she preferred skiing: the people were so much more fashionable and they generally had more money with which to enjoy themselves! ‘What do you think of my plan?’ Isobel asked.

It would be fun thought Lucy. As she hadn’t yet decided what she was going to do next and as there were no pressing deadlines to meet, she agreed.

Chapter 4

At seven-thirty, Highworth left the office and started walking towards the Embankment. He was deep in thought. As the day had progressed the price of Tokifora’s shares had continued to go up. Having started the day at 113 pence per share, they had reached 150 by the time the market closed. He was set to make an absolute killing but, whilst this pleased him, he was already thinking about his next venture and the dossier his team had given to him that afternoon. They’d spent two months doing the detailed research that Highworth always insisted on before committing significant sums. He thought about what was in the dossier. Bubble.com was an information technology company that had grown exponentially over the last few years. Current city rumours had it that the social networking capability it was developing would rival Facebook and Twitter. The research suggested that the company would need another six months or so of development and testing before the application could be rolled out but, when it was, his information suggested that it would be hugely popular. Highworth thought about this. He had faith in the research. He’d learnt long ago that time spent learning everything there was to know about a company was seldom wasted. As a result, he’d assembled a research team that few rivals could match. They were very well paid as individuals and they had a significant budget with which to obtain information. He’d also been watching the share price slowly increase over the last year. He knew that this was partly because of the success of Bubble.com’s recently introduced web browser but also because city rumours about the social networking capability - known as Mymate - were starting to gain traction. But he also knew that software projects were notoriously difficult to bring into service. No matter how thoroughly tested an application might be prior to going on sale, there were always bugs. Usually, these were relatively easy to fix but if there were too many of them, people quickly lost confidence, particularly if the media started to pan the application. Once public support had been lost, it was notoriously difficult and expensive to re-position the application, even if all the bugs were eventually eliminated. From Highworth’s perspective, Bubble.com’s share price was entirely dependent on how much confidence the city had in the company’s ability to bring the application to the market place without any significant flaws - and this is where Highworth had spotted a real opportunity.

The Chief Executive Officer (CEO) of Bubble.com was a flam-boyant character called Peter Fairweather. Loud, arrogant and a prodigious self-publicist, Fairweather was the current darling of the dot com world. He spent huge amounts of money financing expeditions designed to catch the public’s imagination and ensure that he ended up in a suitably heroic pose on the front pages of the newspapers. Thirty-two years old, tall, blond, articulate and outspoken, the television stations loved him and none were in any doubt that it was his personal energy that drove Bubble.com forward. But Highworth knew differently. His research team had identified that the real brains behind the company’s success was a quiet, unassuming but brilliant software engineer called Colin Pearson. Though Pearson owned forty percent of the company and was therefore already a wealthy man, he shunned the limelight. He had no social life to speak of and preferred to spend his time working on Mymate with his team of programmers and designers. Provided Pearson remained at the centre of the project, Highworth was in absolutely no doubt that Mymate would be spectacularly successful.

Highworth walked past Charing Cross Station and turned down into Villiers Street. He liked this part of London and he was particularly fond of Gordon’s Wine Bar. It claimed to be the oldest in London having been established in 1890 and it had a particular atmosphere. Going down into the cellars, he found a quiet table in the candlelit gloom and ordered a bottle of Pinot Noir and two glasses from a passing waitress. Although it was reasonably busy, she returned a few minutes later with the wine. She poured a small amount into a glass and stepped back from the table. Highworth looked up at her. ‘I’m sure it’ll be fine,’ he said, smiling.

The waitress returned his smile and half filled his glass. She appreciated the fact that he hadn’t made a show of tasting the wine. It amused her that so many people pretended to know what they were looking for when she poured them a taster from a newly opened bottle. She’d never seen him before but he looked to be above that sort of charade. Highworth took a sip of the wine and nodded his thanks to the waitress. She smiled again and left the table. He watched her walk back towards the bar and noticed Richards ducking his head as he entered the cellars. He poured the second glass of wine and handed it to Richards as he sat down opposite him. ‘How are you?’ asked Highworth.

‘I’m fine,’ replied Richards ‘but keen to know what’s happening that you needed to meet so quickly.’

Highworth wasted no more time on pleasantries. ‘There’s a company called Bubble.com that I’m interested in,’ he said. ‘The CEO is a man called Peter Fairweather. I need him to have a fatal accident within the next week or so.’

Richards thought for a few minutes. ‘I’ve seen him on TV. Nice looking chap. Very full of himself. Does lots of publicity seeking stunts. Likes the ladies.’

‘That’s him,’ said Highworth, used to Richards’ habit of summarising people in a few short sentences.

Richards sipped his wine and looked at Highworth. He didn’t care why Highworth wanted Fairweather dead and he wasn’t remotely worried about the prospect of arranging for someone to be killed. He was thinking more about the complexity of the job and therefore how much it would cost. Having someone like Fairweather killed wouldn’t be as expensive as knocking off a politician but it would still take time and effort, particularly if it needed to look like an accident. ‘How badly does it need to be an accident?’ asked Richards.

‘Very badly,’ replied Highworth. ‘There can’t be any suspicion otherwise it won’t have the effect I want.’

Richards finished his wine. ‘OK, I’ll make a few calls and confirm the price but I would say that we’re looking at eighty to a hundred and twenty thousand given the timeframe, less if you can wait,’ said Richards.

‘I can’t. It needs to be before the end of the month,’ replied Highworth.

Richards smiled as he got to his feet. ‘I’ll be in touch,’ he said as he turned and left the bar.

Highworth watched him go thinking, as he always did, that you can’t judge a man by his appearance. Richards looked ordinary. His suit was a middle of the range, off-the-peg number from a high street retailer. His shoes, tie and shirt were nondescript and even his face seemed to blend in with the surroundings. He looked middle aged, comfortable and harmless. If you met him for the first time and were asked to guess his occupation, you would probably say that he was an accountant or a sales manager for a multinational. But Highworth was in no doubt that he was the most dangerous man he had ever met. Not only was he a conduit into the murky world of contract killing, but he was also a very hard man himself. During one of their similar meetings a year ago, two local toughs, irritated by Highworth’s cut glass accent and obvious wealth, had deliberately pushed him over as he walked back from the bar with two glasses of wine. Highworth went sprawling, crashing into a table and spilling his wine over the occupants. As he looked round to see who’d pushed him, he saw Richards move in quickly and smash one of the men’s heads onto the bar so hard that the man collapsed with blood pouring from an open wound. The other man threw a massive punch but Richards rolled back on the balls of his feet, easily avoiding the blow. He then stepped quickly inside the man’s arm, turning as he did so to land a powerful elbow strike into the bigger man’s neck. The man hit the ground like a felled tree, struggling to breathe through a crushed trachea that only surgery would repair. Richards then walked calmly over to Highworth, helped him to his feet and quietly suggested that they try a different bar in a more upmarket part of town.

Chapter 5

The assassin was now back in his flat in Edinburgh’s New Town. He liked the city and had been particularly pleased when he’d been able to buy the flat a few years ago. It had taken him months to find something suitable and this flat ticked all the boxes. It was in the centre of the city and was on the fourth floor of an old Georgian town house overlooking George Street. It had been sensitively renovated before he bought it, retaining many of the period features that he admired. It had high ceilings, large sash windows and polished wooden floors. It was furnished sparsely with rugs from his