The Spook who flew over the cuckoos nest. (BOOK 2) Read online

  "Fuck the sentiments, Benny, I'm looking for facts", Eastern interjected impatiently. "The last thing I need right now is that assole Donavon banging on the door for a threesome." Simmons swiftly drew his attention to the recent spate of anonymous calls made to Division, highlighting Brezznov's alleged 'scam'.

  Apparently, the forensic report on the evidence gathered at the last scene of crime, confirmed a DNA match consistent with one, James Moran. It seems he was wanted by the police for money-laundering and fraud."

  "Well, that's a start anyway. All they've got to do is to apprehend him, surely?" Unfortunately, his enthusiasm didn't appear to wash off on Simmons. And it reflected in his reply.

  "Oh yeah, the Brighton police did that alright", expounded Simmons. "They fished the poor bastard's body out of a builder's skip, round about midday yesterday."

  "Shit! There, goes my bleedin' theory. What about location I presume we are talking

  as being in the City itself?"

  "No question about that. The skip itself was sited in a back street of Powis Square. Although the police have made it clear that it's too soon to say that the street itself is the actual SOC. We'll just have to wait until a pathologist's report confirms their findings."

  "Just our poxy luck", vented Eastern. "The victim could have been so useful to us. Saying that, I think we can be sure of who held the rights to his execution. What's your feeling?"

  "Pretty conclusive you have to say."

  "Silly question."

  "Go on."

  "I assume there's no doubt that Moran, was in fact murdered?"

  "Absolutely no question about it, Mike. The two 9mm bullets the pathologist dug out of the poor sucker's head, bore all the hallmarks of a professional 'Hitman'." Swallowing hard, Eastern reminded himself that Brezznov himself was only a floor away, forcing him to realign his own fragile welfare.

  "It leads you think just how much power one man can yield to influence a 'hit' of that proportion, especially when still resident on the inside. At least it now answers the question to Moran's motive when he implicated Brezznov", he was quick to point out leaving Simmons to sanction his claim.

  "Precisely! His murder now puts everything into perspective. If you're saying his silence came by way of a long term grievance, then I fully agree with you. I don't honestly think for a minute that he knew anymore about the alleged 'scam' than we do at this moment in time. To my reckoning, Moran was way out of his league. He was always going to be a loser." From then on, any immediate debate centred around Eastern's estranged stand-off with Brezznov, remained on hold as he stole a glance at his watch.

  "I reckon it's time we got our heads down, mate. This discussion will have to wait until tomorrow. Right now I'm feeling bushed." Sleep that night didn't come cheap, leaving Eastern to pay the price for their earlier spontaneous meeting. An hour or so later before he did finally succumb, he found himself wrestling with his beleaguered conscious, regarding the commitment involved on a personal level.

  What had now transpired, only enforced his belief that the operation was now reaching a critical stage. The only one remaining comfort he recognised, was the fact that that he could abort the mission, should his covert position ever become compromised. Notwithstanding the danger element involved, although fully aware of his 'maverick' tenacity, even Rogon, wouldn't struggle to find the answer to that dilemma.

  CHAPTER 4...A breakthrough of sorts .

  Eastern had just returned from 'slopping out', while coming to terms with the dregs of a restless few hour's sleep. "A shit night followed by a shit morning!" as a personal endorsement, reigned supreme as being the thought for the day. Moments later, disgruntled as he was, he prepared to exit his cell to head for the shower room. He wasn't even allowed the grace to suffer in silence, as a voice from behind, demanding his attention, momentarily caught him off his guard, causing him to whip round and take short notice. Framed in the doorway stood the menacing figure of Asst Chief Warder Price, Purposefully intent on offloading an internal 'domestic' onto him. "Rumour has it that you're making hard of settling down in here....making waves....that sort of thing. And there we have the makings of a prime problem", he accentuated. Stopping short, he gave a derisive smile before continuing in a derogatory manner, "or, rather, you are that problem", which makes Mr Donavon, a very sad person and in turn I get to inherit his unwanted crap." Venturing further into the cell, Price continued to rave in the same verbal vein.

  "pecking order!....fucking pecking order, Ruark! That's the secret when dealing with scum like you." His voice rose in strength, almost to the point of screaming, as he continued to highlight his singular opinion. For his part, Eastern could now be found locked into a bubble of controlled emotion, content to mentally override his threatened space. Goaded by the latter's alien persona, Price found himself losing his identity fast, as his voice now reached fever pitch, "you know how the system works, Ruark. You think you're one fucking clever bastard, don't you!? I've been watching you and I don't like what I see...asking questions ....and more questions...and that", he broke off suddenly, to allow himself a sneer to bolster his alter ego, "is what really bothers me."

  Diplomacy while under duress is one thing, whilst voluntary participation becomes non-negotiable, Eastern reminded himself, and left him having second thoughts about his covert role. "I don't need this crap. It's beginning to get a bleeden' habit and encores aren't my thing," he exerted, the past reference alluding to Donavon's recent welcoming address.

  Meanwhile, a repentant Price, was still in Eastern's face when releasing his parting shot, "I intend watching you very closely in future, Ruark. In fact, I'll be that close I'll be wearing your fucking shoes! Do I make myself clear? ...Good, I'm glad that we understand each other at last. Like I said before, Ruark, think pecking order." Turning on his heel and wearing a smug look of satisfaction, Price exited the cell., leaving Eastern to pick the bones arising from an unprecedented verbal backlash.

  Satisfied that Price was out of earshot, he lost no time in venting his own brand of pent-up feelings of frustration. Simultaneously, back at Spook's HQ, even Rogon's ears found themselves onto a hiding to nothing regarding a personal level, as Eastern dissected the positive from the negative. Personalities apart, his chief concern lay at the feet of Price's solid implication that he'd been, quote "Asking questions and more questions." For his part, there was no suggestion in his mind that he'd been anything but meticulous in his approach for covert information.

  In fact, on merit alone, Simmons constant delving into his mind would have been the subject, if any, of a 'Stewards Inquiry' in real terms. "No!. Unless I'm missing something, there has to be more to this", he considered. "Besides, I'm nearing the end of an alleged ten-year 'stretch'. Why the hell would I want to sacrifice my parole, in exchange for being labelled a nosey bastard? It's almost as if I'm being set up and" he declared in typical Eastern fashion, "I'm beginning to feel seriously pissed off!" Checking the time didn't do anything for his present temperament either, as he soon realized that the altercation had cost him his shower time, and more to the point was now threatening his working attachment in the kitchen.

  "Oi!...yer flaming well late." Like it or not, Fuller, was on his case the moment that Eastern entered the facility, testing his enduring patience to the limit. "You think you've got some sort of a poxy arrangement, Ruark, walking in ere when you bloody well feel like it? I'd think again if I was you. Mr Brezznov aint gonna like it when he finds out yer...."

  "When he finds out what, Fuller?" Well within earshot, Brezznov had suddenly emerged from behind him, unannounced, and, in the process, left Fuller to consider the availability of a swift exit as an option.

  "Nothing...nothing at all Guv, it can wait." Fuller blurted out.

  Completely dismissing him out of sight, Brezznov focused his attention toward Eastern, leaving Fuller to slink away. His sudden intervention had now impacted into leaving Eastern short of a pre-meditated script to work with. Acting on impulse, he decli
ned the offer to pursue a likely confrontation, electing, instead, to give his brain an overhaul. Fortunately, his nemesis decided to get busy by taking the initiative.

  "You can forget the likes of Fuller, Ruark. People like him are indispensable. That assole couldn't even walk my dog on the outside, besides which he's got no class. Thinking with his poxy mouth, as he does, is fucking unhealthy, and that leads to a bad attitude.....need I say anymore?" Caught flatfooted, Eastern acknowledged his timely response with a robotic nod. At worst, he'd anticipated a verbal war as a consequence of his belated opinion from the previous day.

  'Patronizing bastard, I don't get it', became his first legitimate thought, but he decided to go along with what was on offer. "I hear what you say, although losers don't happen to figure in." Cutting him short, Brezznov hurriedly switched their conversation to suit his own design.

  "By the way Ruark I got your message."

  "Message, he queried. Hedging would hopefully give him some thinking time.

  "Yeah, the one that Steadman, the 'nonce' delivered. We obviously need to talk some more, clear the air, know what I mean? I'm beginning to like your style, Ruark." He went on, "you've got the bollocks to say what you think, and I respect that in a man. Between us, I reckon we could work something out."

  From then on, any further outcome quickly died a death. Engrossed as the pair we’re, they failed to spot a fast approaching 'screw' bent on issuing authority. "Hey! Break it up you two, this isn't a bloody meeting house, you're here to fucking work...now move it.!" Eastern had no cause to complain as he headed back to the preparation area. Choosing to remain retaliatory had paid dividends. Brezznov of all people had now sanctioned a future working dialogue. 'Flavour of the month' was know a recipe he could live with in his efforts to get closer to the man.

  The distinctive sound of the internal lighting system shutting down caught him unawares that evening as he lay stretched out on his bunk, reflecting on another day of having served the State. It did little to ease his current temperament in knowing

  that nine pm City centre time in Brighton, life, as he once knew it, was only just socially adjusting to a new chapter. He recalled that a full week had now elapsed since Rogon had procured his services. Or, in biased terms, a controlled nightmare! His thoughts then switched to sentimental values as an image of Joan made use of his sub- conscious. This in turn caused him to rebuke the fact that he'd allowed alien circumstances to infiltrate his personal life, thus creating a lapse in contact.

  "I really must take time to catch up with Joan, tomorrow." Seemed, an appropriate thought, "and while I'm at it, I think I'll plague Rogon, as well." became his last remaining thought. With another morning, shift under his belt, Eastern lost no time the following morning by securing the use of a phone booth. On ramming the phone card home, he dialled an exclusive 'hot line' number. Full of apprehension, he prepared himself for a reply. He wasn't about to be disappointed as Rogon exploited his own charismatic manner.

  "Mike? I was wondering how long it would be before you decided to get in touch. I presume this isn't a social call? Simmons has informed me, saying that it hasn't been easy for you in dealing with the adjustment."

  "Yeah, well I'm bleedin' sorry about that, Rogon. 'Maybe I'm not as smart as I though I was,' Eastern fired back. And proceeded in a sarcastic manner, "On hindsight you should have booked me into the Waldorf suite knowing the staffing problems I'm having to deal with." Pausing to collect his thoughts he continued, "I assume that Simmons mentioned the ongoing grief aimed in my direction? Notably from particular warders. As was to be expected, Rogon wasn't found wanting when it came to manufacturing answers at a personal level.

  What ensued, forced Eastern to wince at his current solution to disguise a hidden agenda. 'Warders!?, Rogon questioned in a symbolic manner, "Surely you must have realized, Mike that your mission was never going to be a 'Vicar's tea party'? That's why you were seconded for the role in the first place. Having said that, things do tend to get mucky if allowed to at this stage."

  "Why do I get the distinct impression that this conversation is being edited?', Eastern considered inwardly. And added a wry smile, as Rogon, pursued the obvious.

  "Hello....you still there, Mike?"

  "Yeah, you were saying?', He responded in a casual manner.

  "Basically, there is no error of margin to fall back on. In fact, it's imperative that your cover remains in situ 24/7. Should Brezznov at any time be allowed to form the slightest indication that you are anything but 'kosher', then the mission as a whole is blown apart. Like it or not, Mike, the buck ends with you getting a result. And as such, the agency needs to be aware of your inner strengths while acting under duress."

  "So what the hell do you want from me Rogon...a poxy health-and-safety stress reference?" snapped Eastern in a jocular fashion, "besides. I like to think that my track record show's that I'm more than capable." With their conversation now showing signs of getting heated, Rogon acted positively to diffuse the situation.

  "Your integrity has never been an issue, Mike. In fact my agency counterpart, namely Commander Paxon, speaks highly of you."

  'Paxon!? who the'. His enquiry folded as Rogon swiftly interjected.

  "My apologies, Mike. I should have said Price, whom you met recently...Asst Chief Warder Price that is." A sustained cold silence followed, allowing Eastern's distorted brain to complete a full 360%. And not before launching into a spontaneous verbal assault.

  "You've got some fucking nerve, Rogon, setting me up again. Nothing changes, does it? But then we've been down this road before if you recall. Same shit...different day. You pluck me from out of my own comfort zone, sweet talk me into a situation, and then have the bloody gall to put me on trial, while compromising my neck, at the same time. You bleedin' bureaucratic cretin!" Typical of the breed, Rogon remained unmoved by his outburst and went for a patronising stance.

  "Your frustration is duly noted, Mike, and you can rest assured that your valued input won't be wasted in the long term." He then added graciously, "Knowing that Commander Paxon is now off the case, it must afford you some relief I imagine?"

  Eastern chose to remain unbowed as a mental picture of Warder Donavon entered the equation . And in doing so, prompted him into thinking out aloud.

  "Pity you couldn't get that other animal off my back, Rogon. I reckon I could settle for that." Minutes later, having settled for the satisfaction that Joan's well-being continued to stay secure, a subdued Eastern made his way back to his cell.

  Once inside, he promptly threw himself onto his bunk with a view to gaining some respite, knowing that in less than an hour he'd be back mixing it with the likes of Brezznov once more. In no time at all, his gut instinct came to the fore as he tentatively made his way into the kitchen gallery. Conscious of his presence, Brezznov lost no time in establishing a forced rapport. "Ruark!...over here." Eastern averted his gaze and acknowledged him with a casual nod of the head. There was no denying the air of hidden confidence his body oozed. Casually, he made his way towards his nemesis.

  Not seeking to take any prisoners, Eastern took the initiative enabling him to force a dialogue. "So, what's it to be...business or pleasure?" he demanded brusquely. In response, the contentious glare that appeared on Brezznov's face , alerted Eastern to the fact that, like it or not, appeasing the man seemed a sensible move.

  "Pleasure, Alex!? I don't do fucking pleasure. I'm a business man, and when I'm not, then I'm still working on it...can you understand that? Or putting it another way, in simple terms you could be short of a pound, whereas I could be short of a million pounds. So now you can see the difference between me, and a room full of fucking losers!" Forced to bite the bullet, Eastern nodded robotically as Brezznov clinically chewed him out. For the time being, he decided to keep his own feelings under wraps, sensing that the designer sermon he was being subjected to, carried a hidden agenda.

  He wasn't about to be kept waiting on that score, as a further verbal wave came into play,
"but then I take a further look around me,” Expounded Brezznov,"and all I can see...is you and me, Alex!"

  "And your point being?" Eastern enquired cautiously.

  "You're an asset my friend. I recognise potential when it's gifted to me, and in your case that tells me we both share a common bond. The bottom line being that we are both business men in our own right." Pausing briefly, he checked himself by placing an onus of superiority on a personal level, shielded by a smile that belied his patronising comparison. "At varying degrees of course, but then I'm sure that you're aware of that anyway. Besides, I like to think that my reputation precedes me." For somebody of his size and stature, Brezznov's disciplined ego extended beyond the

  point of debate, by hovering somewhere between sheer nerve and a chauvinist male Prima Donna. Consequently, leaving Eastern to remain a staunch spectator, as self-elected 'little Caesar' continued to extol the virtues of a career-minded master criminal, "given a couple of weeks," he stated, "this place will become history as far as I'm concerned, Alex. And my life will be back to business as usual. Not that I've ever been off the case you understand," he swiftly emphasized, "on the contrary, the State might have controlled my person for the last fucking twelve years, but my head belongs to me, and that's the difference between their loss and my gain."

  "You've obviously not allowed the time you've put in, to interfere with any plans you've got on hold?" Eastern concurred hurriedly, on the off chance that Brezznov could possibly open up and disclose important information, Implicating himself as being the major player in his forthcoming alleged 'scam'. The outcome arising from their illicit scenario suddenly evaporated, due to a nearby distraction made by the other prisoners arriving, accompanied by a 'screw'. A moment later, Brezznov became the first to vent his frustration, "Poxy system. I've had a bellyful of it. You would think that after twelve fucking years a man could have some privacy!" he snarled.