A Choice of Evils Read online

  I sat for 15 minutes until my eyes became accustomed to the darkness. At 5.20pm I was out the car and around the back of the house with gloves on. The extension ladder was still by the shed which I quickly erected up to the window and using my screwdriver, flipped open the main catch. Within a minute, I was standing on the bedroom carpet with my micro light torch showing me the way.

  My first rule was to bolt the front door to avoid the element of surprise. From there, I found my way into a study and located the telephone. Unscrewing the base, I placed the button sized bug snugly in place with some blue tack adhesive. It made a firm bed for the transmitter. Immediately after, I went upstairs and placed the voice activated recorder under the outside eave of the conservatory. It was almost made to measure as it fitted nicely there. I made sure I had disturbed as little as possible feeling sure that not even myself would know I had been there.

  I was soon back in my car and driving over to Ahmed’s house at Notting Hill Gate. On my arrival, I quickly found a parking space and with the second transmitter and voice recorder in my pockets walked quickly around the back of his house. A few delicate manoeuvres with my trusty screwdriver soon eased up the sash window. I slid in like a snake, lifting my foot up and over the window sill with ease. My feet sunk onto a thick plush carpet and I quickly found my bearing to repeat the precaution of locking the front door.

  In the downstairs area I located an office room. It occurred to me at once it was sparsely furnished save for a desk and empty filing cabinet. Very odd, I thought. In fact, after a swift look over the house, it could be construed that no one lived there as it was absent of general furnishings. I expected to see lots of scientific books and papers like I had seen in Bruce’s office. But the house was almost bare by comparison. However, a telephone was there and just like before, I unscrewed the base and planted my bug.

  I was intrigued by the layout of Ahmed’s house. There was no evidence of wealth. Perhaps a few expensive antique items and furniture would have quietened my curiosity. A quick trip around the bedrooms aroused further questions in my mind. It occurred to me whether he had another home? His wardrobes were not flush with clothes and the bathroom seemed to contain only the bare cleaning essentials. But there was no time for bland speculations. I had to find a location for the voice recorder.

  Some pull down steps leading up to an attic caught my eye. Up there, I found the perfect spot under the base of a water tank. There was just enough room to slide it in. Both the voice recorders had a three month battery life with a four hour recording time on each tape. That was good.

  It was now nearing 7o’clock and time was my enemy just now so I made a hasty exit, leaving everything as I had found it inside. I gave particular attention to the catch on the sash window ensuring it slid back into its correct position. Now my first piece of strategy was in place with both bugs placed it was time to get back home. I had a meeting with the weasel later at 10pm.

  Now I was just another motorist on his way home. The main rush hour traffic had thinned out making an easy journey of it. An hour later I was home, showered and changed into fresh clothes. There were no messages on the answerphone but I had two hours to kill before my meeting with Dave. A sudden burst of inspiration found me at my typewriter. After an hour and a half, I managed to write five more pages of my novel. It’s quirky how writing a story grabs you like that.

  By 9.45pm I was on my way to the Clipper pub in Rotherhithe Street with all the details of Ahmed and Bruce in my pocket, plus some extra cash in case the weasel put the squeeze on me. Money was for spending he had told me often enough, and whatever which way it came was a bonus to his depleted finances.

  It was a nice evening with a nip of chill in the air, but a warming scotch whisky would soon take care of that effect. It was the first thing I ordered for us both on arrival. Dave was his usual nonchalant self. His clean white shirt was his stamp of dignity as the same old tan leather coat hung sympathetically on his back. It was probably decomposing upon him without him knowing as he had worn it for years. However, his rugged starchy face managed to generate a smile while his hand invited a shake.

  Our glassed clinked to health and beauty as the barmaid wiggled away to service a customer. We just made the last meal order for steak, salad and chips. The weasel drank his scotch like lemonade and before we had even touched upon our topic of interest he ordered another drink of the same. He knew what he liked and I liked what he knew. There was nothing he couldn’t find out from his friends on the other side, he liked to brag.

  He lit up a cigarette and blew a cloud of it into my face as I pretended not to notice but felt like choking. There weren’t many people in the pub so I put some music on the juke box to fill in the void. Dave gave me the lowdown on his life for the week since last I saw him. It seemed the first £100 down only lasted for a good weekends drinking. I knew what was coming next. Could I let him have a little more of the balance I owed until his allowance was paid. What chance did I have? While I was depending on him he was depending on me, but he always came up with the goods. I gave him another £50 and reminded him there was still another £50 to come.

  The red end of his nose glowed like a red beacon and his eyes looked tired and bloodshot but he was in control of his thoughts. The barmaid called out our table number for the meal. The weasel went straight into eating mode. It was probably the first real meal he had eaten in a few days. ‘Had I got the details?’ he enquired with a mouthful of steak. I nodded and passed over a sheet of paper with the details on Bruce and Ahmed. He said he could have them CRO’d (criminal records checked) and see if C11 (intelligence unit) had anything to say that might prove interesting. How long had they been scientists? Where they worked? How long had Ahmed lived at the Notting Hill address etc. Yes, he knew what to find out, he assured saying it was no problem. He would need a week to get in touch with his contacts and get back to me again. I should give him a call on the 8th Feb’. It seemed simple enough for him and suited me just fine. But finding the formula could be like looking for a needle in a haystack, so every bit of information would be useful.

  After a few more minutes of small talk and an inkling that mischief was dancing in his eyes at the barmaid, I made my excuse to leave. I had seen the best side of him for the evening and now it was what he called playtime. I knew he would want to tell a few jokes and top up on his drinks. I guess it was his idea of a good night out, bless him. But he would find his own way home. His first joke earned him a laugh from a fellow drinker who was about to become a captive audience for the weasel. Taking the opportunity to leave, I left him with a handshake in return for a grunt.

  It didn’t take long to get home. It had been a long day and my head was looking for a pillow. A mixed bag of thoughts was my bedtime companion for the night and the last thing I remember was the soft midnight chimes of the carriage clock.

  6

  A good night’s sleep put me in the right frame of mind as mouse woke me up at 7am. I stopped him laughing at me as I got out of bed. A peep out of the window brought me the glad tidings of a crisp bright day then I went through my usual routine with the kettle, bathroom, coffee and toast as I listened to radio 4 news. Oh dear, it seemed the talking point was an MP (member of parliament) got caught with his trousers down with somebody else’s wife. It seemed for the past few months newspapers were feasting on wife swapping and sleaze dredging. Never mind all the horrible things going on in the world or the state of the UK economy. Politician’s penises seemed more interesting to the news channels. But then mine was important to me too. Somehow that brought Aisha to mind and how I had met her after my meeting with Dr Ahmed. Now I was thinking about the XP42 formula. I had plenty to think about.

  A look in my post box as I left for the paper shop saw me finding two letters. One from my publishing agent asking for an update on my novel and another from Sharon, a girl friend, asking could she come over and cook me a meal. That always meant she was on the boil. Therapy she called it. But it was good for my
biological condition too. I planned to phone her later.

  Outside the paper shop, the placards advertised the sleaze scandals. A stray dog looked at me for a hand out so I bought him a packet of crisps. Then he decided we were related and followed me some two hundred yards before a lamp post claimed his attentions for a pee. I was relieved about that as the varnish on my front door was already peeling off.

  Back home, I scanned the paper to see if there was anyone I knew. Two armed robbers who I had done time with years ago were on trial at the Old Baily high court. It was a typical case of guns, gangs and grasses (informants). Not my kind of people. Being known as a thief was bad enough, but stealing from the rich and famous was not as bad as stealing from the poor. I did have principles.

  I still had to get the films I had taken at the zoo developed so that was on my agenda besides looking at all the ones that Terry and the sisters had taken. I also need to look at the laboratory where Ahmed said Bruce had moved too. My guess was that the formula was somewhere in the lab he was said to have defected too. After I had mulled over my things to do, I made my way to the chemist which developed the films that could be collected after two hours.

  A drive into central London, found me outside the address of the Tropical Research Lab in Blackfriars Road. It was a big municipal building with cameras and security guards at the entrance. Clearly a pass was needed to gain entry.

  In my car, I sat, watched and waited, noting the procedures of visitors to the building. All were carefully vetted on production of a pass. I noted it happened only to those going in and not coming out. Somehow, I had to get one. It would of course have to be a forgery. I knew just the man who could supply that for me. Peter the pen! He was so good that he could draw a £50 note. But first I needed an original pass for him to copy. It would have to be stolen. Again I knew just the man who could help me with that. It was Danny the dipper. He could take the watch off your wrist with a hand shake. Often he would pretend to be drunk and fall all over his victims stealing their watches, rings and wallets. He could sit, watch and select his victim from here. I knew where I could find him. Satisfied my ideas were sound, I made for home, just in time to collect my photos before the chemist shop had shut.

  Once indoors, I made three phone calls. The first was to Sharon. She was in when I called. Already she was half packed, not forgetting her apron. That’s all she liked to wear when cooking. Eight o’clock she planned to arrive complete with oils and frilly knickers. My next call was to Peter the pen. I gave him a brief outline of what I wanted as soon as Danny the dip could get me an original pass. It would cost me £150 as there was a lot of work involved, he told me. I had no argument with that price and would ring him when ready, we agreed.

  Danny was a different proposition. When he answered the phone he thought I was a court bailiff chasing him for a fine. But on recognising my voice he soon got his act together and became very business-like. How much is the pass worth to me? He asked. I boxed with him until he agreed on £200 and arranged to meet him outside the Tropical Research Lab’ this afternoon at 3.30.pm. I would go over the rudiments of my observations with him there. With the phone calls done, I was itching to look through all the photos now in my possession.

  I laid them out in a line on my carpet. For a few moments I concentrated on the ones I had taken at the zoo entrance. Then I looked at the ones Terry had taken of Ahmed and myself. It proved interesting. There was one gentleman who seemed to pop up quite often in the background which showed Ahmed and me doing walkabouts. He also showed up fifth in the queue behind Ahmed in the entrance photos. Given his demeanour, instinct told me he was Ahmed’s shadow man. So I had presumed rightly he would not be alone.

  When next I looked at the sisters photos, I saw the two photos they had taken of Ahmed going into the Iranian Embassy. This confirmed my suspicions. For there in the photos, was the same man going into the Embassy with him.

  This told me two things. That Ahmed was a liar and I was being watched. I felt uncomfortable about this. It meant somebody outside of Ahmed knew what I was doing. But there was no backing out now as I had taken the first payment. Then I tried to be rational about what I had learnt. Did it really matter? Somebody had to sanction him giving me the money? Of course it made sense. Surely it was only the formula they were interested in and not my criminal activates? To get it with the help of a thief for £100.000.00 was a cheap price to pay for scientific, economic and social benefits, wasn’t it?

  I answered my own questions in hope that I was right. The show had to go on. Dr Ahmed’s words came back to me. ‘There can be no reward for failure Jack.’ Failure! I baulked a little at myself. The money! Just think of the money!

  A cup of coffee soothed my anxiety. The thought of Sharon calling this evening cheered me up some and I was looking forward to a therapy session with her. Now the time was creeping around to 3.pm. I had to meet Danny the dipper outside Dr Bruce’s Lab in Blackfriars Road, so within minutes, I was out the door and into my car. It took me twenty minutes to get there.

  Danny stood beside a telephone box as arranged. I stopped to let him into my passenger side. We had a good view of the Tropical Research Lab. As usual, he was smartly dressed in a dark designer suit. His neat college boy haircut and manicured nails stamped his respectability. At least, that’s the impression he liked to give. An olive tan from a sun lamp gave him the lie of a continental traveller. Lighter spots beneath his mischievous blue eyes betrayed the instant bottle sun tan cream. But for Danny, it was all part of the image as a successful pickpocket.

  He rubbed his hands together as a grin spread over his face. After telling him exactly what I wanted, I left it up to him to acquire the pass. ‘I’ll give you a ring later tonight,’ he told me. A £100 down payment soon had him out the car to watch the mechanics of the pass security system. I knew it would not take long before he was walking on the heels of his victim. Danny looked back with a smile as I pulled away on my journey home. I only hoped his phone call would not disturb Sharon’s therapy session, or mine!

  The London rush hour traffic was beginning to thicken as I weaved my way home. It was that time of evening now when everyone thought they owned the road. It was almost 7 o’clock by the time I got there. I quickly picked up the photos from the carpet. Now it was on with some jazz music and a large scotch before I showered. A rub of Paco Rabani aftershave put the tingle on my chin. I was ready for anything.

  At 5 to 8 the doorbell rang. I dimmed the lights and lowered the music a little before opening the door. Sharon was like a breath of fresh air coming in. Her long brown hair bounced with each step as she came inside the hallway in her tight fitting floral dress. Her breath was warm and minty as I pressed my lips to hers. Just for a moment I savoured the fragrance of her. My hands followed the shapely contours of her body. She well approved of that!

  In the kitchen I poured her a chilled white wine as she sailed into the bedroom to change into her apron. Her tiny pinafore hid nothing except her belly button. My eyes feasted over her beautiful protruding breasts and I marvelled at her shapely legs that led up to a fine pair of rounded buttocks. Her movements teased every bone in my body. She knew it and I knew it. But it was all part of our seduction plan!

  We had a good thing going. Sharon liked to flirt and set the music to match the mood. Now Beethoven’s pastoral sympathy No 6 filled the house. It awakened happy memories and brought together our union of friendship. The music unlocked our memories of the countryside, walks in the woods, picnics and lazy rivers and the smell of the earth that our love blanket had shared in an idyllic place. It all came back as she made preparations for the meal.

  I just loved to watch as she teased me with suggestive postures. A flirty wiggle of her buttocks and a swing of her melon breasts captured my attentions. An occasional glance at her sole captive audience held me prisoner until at last she came to sit next to me. We drank some more wine until desire got the better of us. Then before I knew it, I was free of my protesting clothes.r />
  Gently and skilfully she played with my toys until her lips sunk over me. For some ten minutes she worked her magic until the roof of my head exploded into oblivion. For a moment, there was stillness as the music filled in the unspoken words.

  Sharon rested her head upon my thighs and gave a smile of satisfaction. Her delicate fingers kneaded the soft shaft of my pride until she was satisfied I was spent. This was always her prelude to a protracted evening of pleasure.

  Now it was my turn to reciprocate attention. My hands stroked and rubbed in the oils she had brought to glide over her soft silky skin. I paid special attention to the nape of her neck and shoulders then worked my way around to her breasts as she rolled over. Her nipples stood erect and proudly pink as my tongue found its way around them. Then like a hungry baby, I kissed them with a suckle while my hand felt the moist response in her pink inviting vagina. As she pushed me down towards her, I could smell the want awaiting me in her swollen clitoris. Sharon responded with pleasurable thrusts as I got lost inside every crevice that required attention.

  It was some few minutes as her cries of pleasure locked me into her euphoria. With fast and shuddering movements, she came with an almighty wetness that left me wanting for breath. We lay for a while in each other’s arms.

  The smell of the cooking dinner alerted us to the joy of food. Sharon moved to the kitchen continuing to use the emphasis of her body for my approval. I made an effort to straighten up the cushions and replenish our empty glasses. It was more white wine for Sharon and an extra-large scotch for me.

  Beethoven’s music had finished just as the beef risotto became ready. It smelt delicious. It was back to the jazz again as we sat at table looking out at the river Thames. It was an enchanting setting. We brought each other up to date after denying there was no other woman in my life. It had to be that way as a cat fight between Aisha and Sharon would not be a pretty sight. And there was another woman called Louise who had been giving me the eye in my local shopping centre. But we had not got around to a meeting, just yet!