Kilburn North London

 

Lat = 51 degrees, 33.2 minutes North

Long = 0 degrees, 11.6 minutes West

 

Saturday 27th February 1988

 

In a guesthouse in Kilburn North London both Clarke and Booth were nursing, a bottle of scotch between them, ‘I told you that Max Storm was a tough bastard,’ commented Clarke.

“Not tough just lucky that’s all; if I hadn’t lost the weapon we would have finished them both off.”

Clarke looked at his watch, “what times he calling?”

“What times it now?”

“Ninteen-fity five hours.”

“Any moment now,” Booth replied.

“What you going to tell him.”

“The truth if nothing else; I’ve learned from him is that no matter what goes wrong on an operation; he likes to hear the truth.”

At that moment the phone on the nearby table rang Booth picked it up; on the other end a voice said, “It is me report.”

Booth explained what had happened the previous evening.

“What about the car,” the voice remarked.

“Torched it sir out near Oxford.”

“Anything else I need to know.”

Booth was dreading this part and told him about the weapon being left at the scene.

The man on the other end deliberately paused for a several seconds on the other end of the phone; knowing Booth would be sweating.

“Can it be traced?”

Booth hesitated.

The voice now barked, “Can it be traced?”

“It was part of the shipment we hijacked the other week.’

The voice on the other end exploded, ‘You bloody fool; if they connect the arms hijacking to this operation then you will wish you’d never been born.”

“Shall we lie low for a while,” replied Booth.

“Get to the villa in Spain and come up with a concrete plan to finish this job, you have one week and Booth don’t let me down again.”

The phone on the other end clicked as it was hung up.

Clarke looked at him, “What did he say.”

“Pack your bags we are off to Spain.”