Yeah, he nodded and Darley nodded back in agreement. I might just do that, after I’ve dealt with Cindy.
He used Darley’s passport to check himself on to the plane, huddled in amongst others on the economy flight. Who would guess, he thought, looking round him. Who would guess I’m on a mission? During time spent flying he went through the facilities of his digital video camera. The Colonel would require photographs, close-ups of every detail. Zoby always enjoyed the photo session.
Zoby observed the small, square-shaped girl at the car hire company and felt the claw of nerves which came with first enemy encounter. He watched as she tapped computer keys with adept skill. He handed over Jez Darley’s driving licence and passport taken from the Kennington flat. The transactions were precarious. Should Darley’s credit card be full, then the driving licence would be useless. Both had to be valid or it meant drawing cash and starting again. Even worse, she might tip off security and that would mean a fast exit. She took notes from the driving licence and handed it back.
“Do you want additional insurance to cover excess and theft, Mr Darley?”
“No,” he said, his accent county Irish. Excess would require additional use of the card.
She continued to tap, then swiped Darley’s card through the machine. “If you fill up the tank before returning you won’t be charged.” She checked her watch then stared dreamily from the office window, waiting for the hire document to clatter out of the printer. When it stopped halfway, Zoby picked up his bag. In minutes he could be back in the terminal, mixing with crowds.
The girl opened the printer drawer, slammed it shut and watched it restart. Seconds later she twisted the document for him to sign.
In squiggled loops, he executed a perfect replica of Darley’s signature. It could have been any name. She checked briefly with the back of the card, then placed hire agreement documents and keys on the counter.
“Blue Honda Civic, bay 43,” she told him. “Have a nice day and thanks a million.”
“And yourself,” he said, letting her realise he looked at her breasts, letting her know his power. These cluck heads were as dumb as the dipsos back home.
Thirty minutes later he drove into the underground car park of Tomlins hotel, Dublin Central. He let them take a swipe of Bradshaw’s card and then retired to his room. Alone, he switched on his head radio.
“Enemy lines penetrated, safe haven secure,” he said into his mind.
“Roger, Zoby. Acquisition of ordnance to commence ASAP.”
“Will do, Colonel. Over and out.”
The room was basic, bed, cupboard, utility bathroom. Two pictures on the wall showed old Dublin. Zoby unpacked and hung equipment in neat order, surgical rubber boots below the overalls. Once all was stowed he checked the list of ordnance still needed. He decided to start with meat slicing requirements, then preparations to secure a quality car for the operation.
Forty minutes later he drove on the outskirts of Dublin, his imagination on the tailoring scissors just purchased. He saw them cutting soft fabric, revealing delicate white skin for his new knives. He thought maybe he would leave the veil, leave the vision of purity as he fucked her. “Fuck a nun,” he said aloud, and began to laugh. He couldn’t stop laughing and knew it was the boy inside having his joke. Soldiers did not laugh, they only killed.
He picked St Julian’s Golf Club from a magazine, primarily because it looked expensive. The car park stood full of Jaguars, Mercedes and BMWs. The place had wealth. No recession here.
Wearing a blond wig, dark glasses and golfing gloves, Zoby sought out the pro in his shop. The pro looked pure designer with everything and anything for money.
“I need five, twenty minute lessons. You got ’em at fifty a lesson.”
“The earliest slot is two weeks,” the pro said, his mouth opening when Zoby
He used Darley’s passport to check himself on to the plane, huddled in amongst others on the economy flight. Who would guess, he thought, looking round him. Who would guess I’m on a mission? During time spent flying he went through the facilities of his digital video camera. The Colonel would require photographs, close-ups of every detail. Zoby always enjoyed the photo session.
Zoby observed the small, square-shaped girl at the car hire company and felt the claw of nerves which came with first enemy encounter. He watched as she tapped computer keys with adept skill. He handed over Jez Darley’s driving licence and passport taken from the Kennington flat. The transactions were precarious. Should Darley’s credit card be full, then the driving licence would be useless. Both had to be valid or it meant drawing cash and starting again. Even worse, she might tip off security and that would mean a fast exit. She took notes from the driving licence and handed it back.
“Do you want additional insurance to cover excess and theft, Mr Darley?”
“No,” he said, his accent county Irish. Excess would require additional use of the card.
She continued to tap, then swiped Darley’s card through the machine. “If you fill up the tank before returning you won’t be charged.” She checked her watch then stared dreamily from the office window, waiting for the hire document to clatter out of the printer. When it stopped halfway, Zoby picked up his bag. In minutes he could be back in the terminal, mixing with crowds.
The girl opened the printer drawer, slammed it shut and watched it restart. Seconds later she twisted the document for him to sign.
In squiggled loops, he executed a perfect replica of Darley’s signature. It could have been any name. She checked briefly with the back of the card, then placed hire agreement documents and keys on the counter.
“Blue Honda Civic, bay 43,” she told him. “Have a nice day and thanks a million.”
“And yourself,” he said, letting her realise he looked at her breasts, letting her know his power. These cluck heads were as dumb as the dipsos back home.
Thirty minutes later he drove into the underground car park of Tomlins hotel, Dublin Central. He let them take a swipe of Bradshaw’s card and then retired to his room. Alone, he switched on his head radio.
“Enemy lines penetrated, safe haven secure,” he said into his mind.
“Roger, Zoby. Acquisition of ordnance to commence ASAP.”
“Will do, Colonel. Over and out.”
The room was basic, bed, cupboard, utility bathroom. Two pictures on the wall showed old Dublin. Zoby unpacked and hung equipment in neat order, surgical rubber boots below the overalls. Once all was stowed he checked the list of ordnance still needed. He decided to start with meat slicing requirements, then preparations to secure a quality car for the operation.
Forty minutes later he drove on the outskirts of Dublin, his imagination on the tailoring scissors just purchased. He saw them cutting soft fabric, revealing delicate white skin for his new knives. He thought maybe he would leave the veil, leave the vision of purity as he fucked her. “Fuck a nun,” he said aloud, and began to laugh. He couldn’t stop laughing and knew it was the boy inside having his joke. Soldiers did not laugh, they only killed.
He picked St Julian’s Golf Club from a magazine, primarily because it looked expensive. The car park stood full of Jaguars, Mercedes and BMWs. The place had wealth. No recession here.
Wearing a blond wig, dark glasses and golfing gloves, Zoby sought out the pro in his shop. The pro looked pure designer with everything and anything for money.
“I need five, twenty minute lessons. You got ’em at fifty a lesson.”
“The earliest slot is two weeks,” the pro said, his mouth opening when Zoby
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