Operation Snowdrop

by Michelle Medhat

  Operation Snowdrop

  MICHELLE MEDHAT

  Copyright © 2018 Michelle Medhat

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means—whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic—without written permission of both publisher and author, except in the case of brief excerpts used in critical articles and reviews. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-9993737-0-2

  Mindblowing Books Ltd 2018

  Chapter 1

  January 27, 2013

  Outside Putney Station, heavy rain pelts down on top of cars, pavements and people. I watch, mesmerized by the crystal teardrops that make everyone run for cover. Some shelter beneath umbrellas; others use The Metro paper like a teepee over their heads and scurry to the nearest café or shop.

  These people so caught up in their routines have no knowledge of what is really happening, no appreciation of the terror that waits just on the periphery of their normal lives.

  I grip the wooden door frame at the side of the station’s entrance, hesitant to place one foot before the other. I’ve never hesitated in my life before. But then again, I’ve never just been about to embark on a double agent mission with the most ruthless, sadistic terrorists known to mankind.

  It isn’t the kind of role that really sits well on one’s resume, not like a lawyer, doctor or even an accountant. I could have had any of those professions, but instead, I ended up being a spy.

  I suddenly feel a hefty weight whack me in the back, and instinctively, I flip around, ready to strike. My muscle memory kicks in before I have a chance to process the situation. Before me cowers a young girl with a backpack that appears larger than her body.

  “I’m sorry. I’m sorry!” the girl whimpers.

  Massive, frightened eyes stare at my raised arm about to come crashing down upon her tiny frame. Fellow passengers gather, glaring at me. Waiting. They circle, almost goading me to make my move.

  I do.

  I push with rough arrogance past the girl and step forcefully into the torrent, my decision to proceed eventually made by circumstance.

  Behind me come the echoes of, ‘You ok, dear?’ and, ‘He didn’t hurt you, did he?’ They filter in and quickly out of my ear.

  I don’t look back but walk with haste down the high street, all the time glancing at rain-spattered shop windows for signs of any ‘have a go’ types bold enough to follow me.

  No one has.

  I step into the line of cars, backed up and static from Putney Bridge, and zigzag through them. Everywhere horns sound as side streets block up and road rage descends upon the traffic at much the same pace as the rain.

  I often wonder whether our climate in the UK determines our disposition. When it’s sunny, do we match it with a show of bright happiness? Or are we just fractious and heated? Recalling last summer’s heatwave, I have to admit the latter is the more appropriate description.

  It seems my brain is forcing me to think about the nature of people, the human condition, if you will, and their ability to show good or evil. I don’t know why I am thinking about people. I really don’t want to think about anything at all except the task at hand. But like life, thoughts are unpredictable. When you try not to think about something, the opposite happens. Perhaps, that’s why I’m here.

  I never set out to be a hero. I never thought I had it in me. I was a pen-pushing diplomat working for the Foreign and Commonwealth Office (FCO). I’d been posted out to Amman in Jordan as the business relations officer. Every day was the same, living the expat lifestyle and loving it. And then, one day, some crazy chancer with a Kalashnikov decided to take everyone hostage in the embassy. He wanted half a million US dollars, otherwise, he’d kill us all. It was clear he hadn’t thought it out very well. He had no back-up; it was just him. But nevertheless, he was the one with the gun, and we were the ones on the floor.

  At the time, all I could think was, ‘I’m not going to let some idiot with a gun determine my life or death. None of the people around me are going to die, and I’m going to make sure of it.’ It was like a rush of burning anger lit me up from nowhere, and I couldn’t stop myself. The moment he turned his back to me, I leaped up and stormed, thrusting the whole weight of my muscular six-foot-four body on top of him. In a second, he was on the ground. I grabbed the AK from him and hit him with the butt of the rifle, straight down on his forehead. But I didn’t do it once, I hit him again and again. A savage hatred for this fool propelled me to bash his brains into the marble. Only when one of the security guards pulled me away did I realize that he was dead.

  Amidst the cries, cheers and screams, I knew a change had occurred in me.

  Despite the fact I’d saved these people, I fully expected to be charged for murder.

  Instead, I was bundled away and spoken to by a gentleman who never gave his name. He asked me if I liked my job, if I was satisfied with what I did every day. He asked me about my home life and if I was in a relationship. He asked me if I enjoyed violence and if I wanted to hurt people.

  And then he asked me why I took the risk I did to neutralize the terrorist.

  My answer was simple.

  “I did it to save the people.”

  The gentleman smiled and said, “Expect a reassignment of your duties very soon.”

  Within three months, I had been recruited into the Secret Intelligence Service (MI6) and placed on intensive training in Gibraltar, Thailand and finally, Australia. My job in the FCO remained my cover while I engaged in my role as an MI6 counter-terrorism field agent.

  I’d only been three years into my new vocation when yet another thunderball blew my world apart.

  New Year’s Eve in Athens. The party at the British ambassador’s residence was lush and opulent, stacked wall to wall with beautiful expat types, all with long, blond hair and even longer legs, issuing nervous giggles and flashing ‘fuck me now’ eyes beneath their lashes.

  I’d had my fill of them. I wanted something different. Something new.

  I scanned the room and noticed her. She was standing against the wall, grasping her champagne flute in front of her as if it were a shield to keep the world at bay. A petite young lady with a tight brunette bob and gentle pixie features. She stared blankly out at the packed hall of debutantes, civic dignitaries, business tycoons and VIPs. But no one grabbed her attention.

  As I looked at her, she appeared to be in a trance. She was extraordinary. Small and graceful and exuding a presence of silent command, despite not moving or speaking. She was worth a million of those painted princesses desperate to get my eye, or rather, get at my flies. I pushed through the throng just before the clock struck midnight. I intended to take full advantage of an age-old tradition.

  She was looking upward, taking in the ornate gold-leaf alcove ceiling, when I arrived.

  “Hello. Would you like a top up before the big twelve hits?”

  Yes, it was a corny, clichéd line, and I barely expected any response. But the young lady turned from inspecting the ceiling and smiled demurely. Her lips were cloaked in soft cherry with a hint of scarlet.

  “I’d love one, thank you.”

  I clocked a waiter floating past me with a silver tray stocked with champagne, and I snatched one of the crystal flutes.

  “There you are, Miss…”

  “Angela Armitage Blakewell-Banks.”

  I noticed her blush, obviously embarrassed by the absurdity of her family name. My eyebrows rose and I grinned a little, but not too much; I didn’t want her to think I was making a mockery of her.

  “Okay. That’s quite a mouthful.”

  And you’re a lady who shouldn’t have her m
outh too full.

  “Yes, it is. I’d love to change it one day.”

  Interesting. It wasn’t the reply I was expecting. She was full of unexpectedness. I found myself staring deep into her emerald eyes. I recalled reading that only two percent of the population on earth has green eyes. They’re unique, and something of a treasure. God knows, I wanted to treasure her!

  Behind me, people suddenly started counting. Five, four, three, two, one.

  “Happy New Year, everyone,” shouted the ambassador, and a barrage of party poppers and streamers shot across the hall as party-goers whooped up the beginning of the new year.

  But I still hadn’t left those eyes.

  With the clock still chiming, my mouth dropped down to Angela’s cherry lips. She didn’t resist at all. My arms snaked around her soft, lithe body, and I heard her breathe slightly harder as she struggled to get her short arms around mine.

  I pulled away, looking down at the beautiful woodland imp I’d caught in my embrace.

  “Want to go somewhere?” I asked, kissing her neck.

  She shivered beneath me and nodded. Her hunger was apparent. Those gorgeous emerald eyes were seeking me to do things to her.

  I wanted to go back to my apartment but I knew she couldn’t wait. It was as if something trapped within her was freed. Her hands were everywhere, her lips searching, her eyes wanton and eager.

  I locked her small hand in mine and ran with her from the hall.

  We found a room. It had a sofa so it fitted the bill for our needs. I pushed her gently down onto it and kissed her neck. Her hands were already around my waist, pulling at my belt. My little imp had become insatiable.

  I smiled, smoothed back her hair over her cute little ear, and delivered what she sought from me in those emerald eyes.

  Afterwards, I watched as she moved up onto her elbows, pulled her strapless dress back over her small, firm breasts, and somewhat shyly asked, “What’s your name?”

  “Matthew Kinley.”

  “I like that name.”

  “Want to take it?”

  “Yes.”

  Recalling the utter madness of the moment, it still makes me smile. Life, as I say, is always unpredictable. But crazy or not, I have no regrets. Marrying Angela Armitage Blakewell-Banks was the best decision I’ve ever made.

  Chapter 2

  I realize I’ve been trapped in past thoughts, and for a few seconds, I’m not aware of what is around me. Such an action has the potential to be fatal for someone like me.

  I sweep a quick glance into the shop windows, but nothing strikes me as wrong. Working so long in covert surveillance, even in shit weather like this, I can determine instantly if someone is following me.

  Satisfied, I push my head down to avoid the rain and march toward Putney Exchange, and to my next meeting.

  People hang around the entrance, waiting for the rain to ease off. I stride past them into the shopping mall and head to the escalator. On the first floor, I walk into the open-plan café, grab a coffee. Then I find a seat between the mothers and their buggies, elderly bookworms, and students bunking off lessons to buy disposable fashion pieces paid for by the bank of mum and dad.

  I wait, taking out my phone, and I don’t make eye contact with anyone. Least of all the mothers. Over the years, I’ve discovered my bright blue eyes and pumped-up body to be quite a distraction to the opposite sex. And today, I don’t want anyone distracted.

  A tall, dark-haired guy ascends the escalator. A couple of girls in their mid-twenties turn around and stare at him. But he doesn’t even glance in their direction. The guy is Sam Noor, my colleague and brother-in-arms at Six. He orders a macchiato and seats himself in front of me.

  “Okay?”

  Sam always was short on words.

  “Yes, I guess so.”

  “Not a bad coffee.”

  “No, not bad.”

  “I’ve got it.”

  “Good.”

  “It’s happening. Right?”

  “Okay.”

  “Are you ok?”

  Sam’s dark brown eyes drill into me, concern wrinkling the forehead on his handsome face.

  “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “You know what’s involved.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’re ok with all of it?”

  “Got to be. No other choice.”

  “You could walk away. No one would hold it against you.”

  “So everyone keeps telling me.”

  “Just saying.”

  “Don’t be daft. This is me. It’s what I do.”

  I’m surprised and, to be honest, dismayed that my best friend believes I don’t have it in me to be a double agent.

  “It won’t be the same, you know that.”

  “I know.”

  “Are you really ready for everything?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Does Angie know?”

  I stare at Sam, amazed at the question.

  “Of course not. Does Ellie know about you?”

  “You know she doesn’t.”

  “Well, why did you ask then?”

  “Just, well, I thought it was different with you and Angie.”

  “It isn’t.”

  “So what did you say?”

  “I just said the usual. She knows not to ask. I’m sure she has an inkling, but she’s never spoken of it.”

  “My one is too busy with her own life to even think, let alone ask.”

  I nod, wishing Angie had a career of her own. But as a dutiful housewife, she’s crafted out her own role in life.

  “So this is it,” I state, wanting to speed up matters. I don’t want to dwell upon all the things I could lose from this mission.

  “Yes, it is,” responds Sam, and he pushes the tissue a little in front of my cup. I place my hand over the top and feel the chip underneath.

  “I better be off now,” I exclaim, standing up. I take the tissue with the chip and stuff it into my trouser pocket.

  “Yeah, me too. Keep well, mate. Good to see you. Give my regards to the missus.”

  “Will do.”

  I move away from Sam and out of the café.

  Walking through the shopping mall, I can feel the sharpness of the chip press against my thigh. I know it isn’t possible. It’s thin, flimsy and encased in the tissue Sam had pushed over to me. But I’m picking up on a prescient wave, a flickering indication of what is to come, and the effect of having that chip cut into my life, gouging out something in me that can never be replaced.

  I stick my hands in my pockets, hunker down in my hoodie and brave the driving rain. I make a brief sweep to check out the people around me and head quickly toward Putney Bridge.

  In front of the Premier Inn, I stop and run across the road, dodging an oncoming bus, Merc and cyclist. Inside the hotel, I walk over to the reception. I don’t smile or engage in any pleasantries. I find it’s better to be swift and businesslike. Of course, I also don’t want to create an unnecessary distraction.

  The girl, twenty-five at the most, and from, I’m pretty sure, a Thai background, smiles warmly.

  “Hello, sir. Can I help you?”

  “A room for the night please.” I dive into my jacket pocket for my wallet and proceed to pull out three twenty-pound notes. I checked the room rate on entry.

  “Okay. Is that just a single, or perhaps a double?”

  “Just a single.”

  The girl stares at me. Her tongue flicks out a little, moistening her heart-shaped lips. Oh shit, she’s clocked my eyes. I watch her face flush up and redden as her eyes dilate.

  “Are you sure?”

  Oh, boy. Maybe I should wear glasses like Clark Kent.

  “I’m sure. Just a single,” I respond with crispness. I scowl at her with indignance, crushing her suggestive thoughts. She coughs and looks down, taking my hint, and gives me the key card without looking back up.

  “Thanks,” I reply sternly, glancing surreptitiously at the roo
m number.

  Inside the lift, I punch in floor three and wait for it to ascend. Room 304, right next to the lift. Great! Thanks a bunch, Miss Thailand.

  I slot in the key card, shoulder into the room, and push the door shut with my foot. Then I sit on the bed, take out my lighter and depress two little metal teeth on either side of it. As expected, the front panel lowers to reveal a small row of tiny rectangular buttons with a minute red-to-green scanning bar underneath. Pressing the tiny buttons, the panel lights up and the scanning bar flickers to green. If it dips to red, I’m screwed. I begin to sweep the room. I don’t think for one moment it will find anything. But in my business, it’s better to be safe than dead.

  I check the room in its entirety and repeat the process in the bathroom. Two dead bluebottle flies are caught in the corner of the sill, which the cleaner has missed, perhaps whacked by a former resident of the room. I run the detector across them. It isn’t inconceivable that they are bugs. Of the listening kind. In Six, we’ve already started trials on nanoscale RF antennas integrated into bioengineered flies, and the results are startlingly positive. I know it won’t be long before that capability will be incorporated into our portfolio of listening abilities at GCHQ.

  The coffee I had with Sam made my mouth dry. I snatch a glass, go to the bathroom and pour some tap water. There is a faint yellow tinge to it. London’s water pipes leave a lot to be desired. Slugging it back, I grimace, tasting a touch of chemical. Trying not to dwell on just what the hell is in our water these days, I sit at the small integrated desk and dressing table. I take out the chip and my phone, a very unfashionable Blackberry Passport that has been retrofitted with military-grade cryptographic and encryption tech, which I need to remain totally secure and black. I slip off the back case and pop in the MicroSD chip.

  The front screen springs to life and starts to display information. A woman’s face looms large on the screen. It’s blurred as if taken whilst the target was moving quickly. She’s looking to the side, half smiling. Although stunningly beautiful, with long dark hair, chiseled, high cheekbones and a massive mouth of ruby-red delight, there is a blatant savageness in her ebony eyes. Instinctively, I shudder, knowing what I know about this woman. Forget the looks; the woman is a killer. Cold, sadistic and predatory, she’s named ‘The Slayer’ by Al Nadir, the most hideously-evil terrorist collective that’s ever graced the Earth, which gives an indication of just how wicked she really is.