Last Op

Chapter 1

The piercing sound of a high revving engine shattered the silence of the quiet English countryside. Traveling along a dark, narrow two-lane road, the red car hit speeds up to one hundred ten miles an hour on the straightaways. The driver handled the 1275cc Austin Mini Cooper ‘S’ like a race driver, shifting gears rapidly just before putting the car into a slide around the curve. Then he simultaneously hit the clutch, shifted again, then stepped on the gas. Five inch J wheels dug into the blacktop.

There was little room for error. Lining both sides of the road were Cornish hedgerows, made of large stone blocks on either side of a narrow earthen bank, held in place with interlocking stones. But Derek Carter knew this road even better than the very street he grew up on.

For twenty-five years he’d lived with his parents, in the same house, on the same street in Bodmin. After graduating high school, he worked as a caretaker for the local primary school.

He’d driven the infamous Bodmin Moor at its worst, with fog so thick he resorted to hanging his head out the window, trying to follow a painted white line down the middle of the road. An even greater and more exciting challenge was driving a road without lines under the same conditions.

Adverse conditions, a feel for the road, a car responding to his slightest touch. That’s where his love of driving began.

Then two years ago he landed a position at RAF St. Mawgan. Although the job was again as a caretaker, he was grateful to finally be out of Bodmin.

He rented a one-room flat over a clothing store in the center of Newquay, not far from the Sailor’s Arms pub, a popular hangout for locals.

He practiced the route night after night. He had nothing to say about the time, nor the place of the drop. All he had to do was drive.

Every curve, every road imperfection had been memorized. He knew what lay beyond each individual curve. Fifty yards past curve number five was the first of two turnoffs, leading into open fields and private property. The second was twenty-five yards past curve number nine. If he suspected he was being followed, one of these turnoffs might be his only chance to lose the vehicle.

With each practice run he tried driving faster, pushing it, trying to knock minutes off his time. He even attempted to make the drive without headlights, but the road was too dark, the risk too great. He wasn’t that crazy.

He glanced quickly in the rear view mirror. His instructions were to be sure that no one followed him to the rendezvous point. No one. The drop had been made on time, in the exact location specified, at the fork in the road, then five paces to the left of the signpost. Within seconds of picking up the package, he was back on the road.

The package. Just a large envelope, sealed inside a plastic bag. He’d tossed it on the passenger seat, not giving it a second thought. His only concern was making the delivery, not what was inside the envelope.

Still no sign of headlights behind him. Now, there were only four more miles to go to the quarry where he’d meet his contact. All he had to do was hand over the envelope, then pick up his money. After that, his drive to Poole should only take three hours, and with twin ten gallon fuel tanks, he wouldn’t have to stop, giving him plenty of time to catch the ferry to Cherbourg. From there he intended to disappear into the French countryside.

China clay is highly decomposed granite, rotted by the action of water. Powerful jets of water are directed against the sides of the pit, washing away everything in their path. The clay, together with sand, stones, etc., is carried to the bottom of the pit. After repeated washings, the clay is separated from the waste, pumped up to the surface, then undergoes further washing and filtering. The resulting waste is conveyed to the top of the burrow and tipped out by special apparatus. Once sand and impurities are removed, the clay is taken to a long, one story building with a furnace at one end and a tall chimney at the other. The floor is heated, the surplus moisture is extracted, and finally, the clay is loaded into railway trucks for transport.

Gearing down, Carter turned off the main road onto Peters Hill Road. As instructed, he drove past the first quarry to the end of the road, then he crossed Old Pound Road to the next larger quarry.

He brought the Cooper to just under twenty miles an hour. Driving past a set of buildings, he glanced at a lighted sign above the door on the first building indicating it was the office. The next long building appeared to be the drying facility. Both buildings were dark inside. He turned left, then made a right at the fork. His instructions were to drive to the top of the clay pit above the water-holding pond; then he was to wait.

Driving up the hill, he flipped on the high beams, then followed a narrow road for about a hundred yards. The tires kicked up white clay residue, spraying the powdery substance across the car’s underbelly and lower door panels.

He turned on the overhead light and glanced at his watch. Ten minutes early. Shutting off the headlights, he left the parking lights on. Opening the glove box, he removed a pack of Players No. 6 cigarettes, the most popular brand in England. He tapped the bottom of the pack, then drew one out between his lips. Tossing the pack into the glove box, he opened his door, got out, then lit the cigarette with a disposable lighter. He took a long drag, making the tip of the cigarette glow red hot. Leaning back against the car, he slowly blew out individual rings of smoke, watching each one dissipate into the air.

Flicking off an ash, he glanced overhead. The evening was cool with a perfectly clear night sky. The silence gave him a chance to think about his new life in France and what it would be like.

He took another drag from the cigarette, when he spotted a glimmer of light. Headlights. He dropped the cigarette, then walked behind the Cooper and waited. Gradually, the sound of a car engine cut into the silence. Headlights grew brighter.

The vehicle was still thirty yards away, around the backside of a curve, when it stopped. He started walking when it started forward again, coming around the curve, continuing toward him. Carter squinted and shielded his eyes with a hand to his forehead. Then, the car came to a standstill. The driver killed the engine.

Leaving the headlights on, the driver got out and closed the door. From the brief moment the inside overhead light came on, Carter got a glimpse of the driver, but not enough for recognition. What he did recognize was the vehicle — a dark-colored Range Rover.

The man came toward the front of the Rover. Carter didn’t move. “I assume you have the envelope, Mr. Carter.”

Carter immediately recognized the voice and accent as the same person who contacted him, who asked him to be part of something. Something important. Something extremely confidential. Carter judged the man to have had proper upbringing, probably having attended a school such as Oxford.

“I have it,” Carter answered, lowering his hand and turning his head slightly to avoid the bright headlights. “I assume you have my money?” No answer. He shrugged his shoulders, then turned around and started to walk to the front of the Cooper.

The man gave a word of warning. “I’d be careful if I were you.”

“Don’t worry. The bloody package is on the passenger seat. Okay?” No response, so Carter opened the door and lifted the envelope from the seat. Walking slowly, he held it out in front of him until he was just a few feet away, finally getting a better glimpse of his contact: medium height, blond or possibly gray hair, small features, wearing shirt and tie, dark slacks, dark cardigan sweater.

“Now, please back up against your car while I check the contents,” the man said.

Carter obeyed. “I don’t have a bloody weapon, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Placing the envelope on the side of the hood, the man ignored Carter’s remark, then proceeded to remove the envelope from the plastic. He slid a finger along the seal and pulled out three papers, holding them in front of the headlights. Smiling briefly, he stuffed them back inside the envelope.

Carter extended an arm and pointed toward the envelope. “I guess that’s what you were looking for. I’ll take my money and be on my way. I have plans.”

“I appreciate the risk you took, Mr. Carter, and I thank you for making the delivery on time and without incident.” He held up the envelope, saying, “I am grateful that you did not let your curiosity get the best of you.” He reached into his trousers side pocket and withdrew a thick, white envelope, holding it toward Carter.

Carter’s full attention was on the envelope. He had no idea someone was behind him. The envelope was almost within his grasp, when everything went black. He didn’t know what hit him. He collapsed in a heap by the rear of the Cooper, not dead, but unconscious. A trickle of blood slid down his temple, rolling across his eyelid.

Standing over him, holding a Smith & Wesson, was Victor Labeaux’s assigned bodyguard, Brady Farrell. He re-gripped the pistol by the handle, then put it in his leather shoulder holster.

He bent down, put his hands under Carter’s arms, then dragged him to the front of the Cooper, propping him up in the passenger’s seat. Walking around to the driver’s side, he signaled Labeaux. Farrell shoved his stocky girth behind the Mini’s steering wheel.

Following a path that transport trucks drove on during daylight work hours, he kept the car in first gear, with parking lights only, slowly going uphill until the path leveled off.

Checking that Carter was still unconscious, he put the car into neutral, then dragged Carter to the driver’s side. After Carter was secured behind the wheel, Farrell rolled the window down. Grabbing the steering wheel, he directed the car closer to the edge of the pit until the front wheels started sliding on damp ground. A final push and the car went over the rim.

Picking up speed, the small car skidded across the slick surface, until the tires hit patches of dry clay. The momentum flipped it over onto its roof. The windshield shattered. Wet and dry clay sprayed throughout the interior. Going into a spin, the Cooper continued sliding down the steep hill, finally hitting the water, throwing greenish water and sludge everywhere. Within seconds, the car, and Derek Carter disappeared.

Labeaux slowly walked to the opposite side of the Rover and got in the passenger side. Closing the door, he stared into the darkness, waiting for Farrell to return.