‘Caravan Air Strip’ Plockton
7-45 a.m.
April 17th
Marco Spencer, the third of the illegal entrants that Dewey had spotted, sat on a bench outside Plockton airstrip, in a suit and expensive Crombie. The suit and coat had been folded carefully in a rigid suit carrier to give his change of clothes a fresh look. Under the coat his trousers had wet spots from the sea water and his shirt was damp next to his skin. With a briefcase in his hand he waited for the chartered helicopter to arrive. It had been pre-arranged through a third party to keep his cover. He would be first into Inverness, via the airport. He was seriously thinking about a plane from there, possibly London, though Exeter was a thought. Overshoot and come back just to check for trailers. He knew there were agencies that would be looking for anyone unusual, but he and the others probably didn’t show up on the usual profile radars of the domestic protection services, they were stretched looking for terrorists. He knew of a certain agency that had a UK wide network, but so much more secretive than MI6 that it was hard to know where they were. What he did know was that it was a million for the hit and the first to the contact point got the job. They had no idea who the target was nor had they any idea who had hired them, though for his mind it looked like big business.
The airstrip was empty and if anyone on the helicopter asked him he was just to say he was a rich business man looking at land buys in that area of Scotland; obviously not the thirty year old veteran of MI6 field work; a consummate and cold blooded assassin of the first order.