The Washington Sanction

by Mark Arundel

  Mark Arundel

  The

  Washington

  Sanction

  Laughing Gulls

  By the same author

  Codename: Moneyman

  Codename: Casanova

  Codename: Santiago

  Bonfire

  Visit https://markarundel.wordpress.com/ where you’ll find exclusive material on all Mark’s books.

  © Mark Arundel 2016

  First published 2011

  This edition published 2016

  Mark Arundel asserts his right to identification as the author of this work in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  Laughing Gulls

  To the memory of Peter

  Oh Great Spirit, grant that I may never find fault with my neighbour until I have walked the trail of life in his moccasins.

  Cherokee Prayer

  Contents

  By the same author

  Visit https://markarundel.wordpress.com/ where you’ll find exclusive material on all Mark’s books.

  1 February 3, 1931, Russian Steppes, USSR

  2 February 8, 1931, Moscow, USSR

  3 Christmas Day, 1932, Long Island, New York

  4 April 12, 1935, Moscow, USSR

  5 December 29, 1942, Stalingrad, USSR

  6 August 12, 1944, Italian-Franco border

  7 February 5, 1945, Germany

  8 June 6, 1946, Los Angeles, California

  9 June 25, 1949, Los Angeles, California

  10 September 15, 1952, San Francisco, California

  11 February 16, 1954, Korea

  12 February 17, 1954, Korea

  13 New Year’s Day, 1961, Los Angeles, California

  14 January 20, 1961, Washington D.C.

  15 January 21, 1961, Ottawa, Canada

  16 February 10, 1961, Los Angeles, California

  17 February 11, 1961, Los Angeles, California

  18 February 13, 1961, Los Angeles, California

  19 February 20, 1961, Palm Springs, California

  20 February 23, 1961, Ottawa, Canada

  21 March 2, 1961, Washington D.C.

  22 March 6, 1961, Los Angeles, California

  23 April 8, 1962, Washington D.C.

  24 July 5, 1962, Manhattan, New York

  25 August 4, 1962, Los Angeles, California

  26 August 8, 1962, Hollywood, California

  27 September 12, 1962, Manhattan, New York

  28 September 13, 1962, Mexico City

  29 September 15, 1962, Washington D.C.

  30 September 27, 1963, Mexico City

  31 September 28, 1963, Mexico City

  32 November 2, 1963, Dallas, Texas

  33 November 22, 1963, Dallas, Texas

  34 November 23, 1963, Dallas, Texas

  35 December 24, 1963, Manhattan, New York

  36 Christmas Day, 1963, Manhattan, New York

  37 Christmas Day, 1963, Long Island, New York

  38 December 26, 1963, South China Sea

  39 December 26, 1963, Manhattan, New York

  40 December 27, 1963, Manhattan, New York

  41 December 28, 1963, Manhattan, New York

  42 December 29, 1963, Los Angeles, California

  43 December 30, 1963, Washington D.C.

  44 New Year’s Eve, 1963, Manhattan, New York

  45 New Year’s Day, 1964, Manhattan, New York

  46 New Year’s Day, 1964, Long Island, New York

  47 New Year’s Day, 1964, Manhattan, New York

  48 January 2, 1964, Washington D.C.

  49 January 3, 1964, Washington D.C.

  50 January 3, 1964, Los Angeles, California

  51 January 5, 1964, Long Island, New York

  52 January 6, 1964, Washington D.C.

  53 January 6, 1964, Anna Maria Island, Florida

  54 January 10, 1964, Da Nang, Vietnam

  55 January 13, 1964, Manhattan, New York

  56 January 14, 1964, Washington D.C.

  57 January 15, 1964, Manhattan, New York

  58 January 16, 1964, Washington D.C.

  59 May 6, 1964, The French Riviera

  The Codename File series

  The Hayes Fire series

  1 February 3, 1931, Russian Steppes, USSR

  Marik Kasseri, the lead horseman, signalled to his three subordinates and reined in his grey mount.

  The four horsemen rested in a bunch on the ridge overlooking the plateau. The darkness had brought the cold and a frost that hardened the ground and turned it white in the moonlight. Overhead, an empty, black sky sparkled with the scattering of a million stars as if an artist had flicked it with a brush. The soldiers on horseback looked down into the valley and their mounts breathed deeply. White plumes rushed from the animals’ twin nostrils and then vanished into the freezing night. Below, on the plateau, the men could see the farmhouse, darker against the frosty, moonlit ground.

  ‘Remember our orders and what we planned,’ Kasseri said.

  He spurred his grey steed over the ridge, down the slope and onto the flat, hard ground. The other three followed. They cantered and then walked before they dismounted a safe distance from the house. After tethering securely, the four men moved silently, listening for voices from inside the house. Once close enough, they heard them. The men inside had been drinking and their loud voices carried.

  ‘This will be easy,’ the youngest of the soldiers said.

  Kasseri’s eyes scowled with annoyance at the voiced stupidity. Killing is never easy, he thought.

  They split into pairs and headed for the two entrances exactly as they had planned.

  For the next few minutes, nothing happened, nothing changed. Inside the farmhouse, the men sat relaxed, they drank vodka and talked while the girl slept under the table in the corner. Outside, the Red Army soldiers prepared. Soon, though, the minutes went by and then everything changed.

  The heavy wooden door burst inwards with an abruptness that defied its weight, crashing loudly against the wall. Two soldiers followed it with speed, bringing icy cold air into the room with them. The shock made the rapid intrusion thunderous and the seated farmers all looked up, staring in surprise at the intruders.

  ‘Nobody move,’ Kasseri shouted with threatening authority. Both soldiers held their rifles low, one of them had his bayonet fixed. The initial shock kept the farmers on their seats. They quickly recognised the intruders as Red Army soldiers and their shock turned to resentment and anger. The biggest man stood and turned towards the armed men.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ he said, spitting the words with fury and distaste. Stepping forward, he unexpectedly grabbed Kasseri, exerting great strength, forcing him backwards. The big man had surprised Kasseri by the speed of his attack. It forced him to adjust his stance and step backwards as he reacted to the man’s weight. In a single movement, he raised his gun with a twist of his wrists, connecting the butt with his attacker’s stomach in a solid strike. The effect was instant. The well-built man dropped to the floor, gasping with pain; he held his weight with his right hand while his left held his belly. Two of the other kulaks stood up and the younger, second soldier stepped forward to where the fallen man knelt. He stood over him, focusing on the man’s neck. In one powerful movement, he raised his rifle above his head, turned at the waist and using both hands struck with accuracy and strength. The bayonet was twelve inches of pointed, sharpened steel; as it travelled through the air, it flashed in the firelight like the wings of a dragonfly caught by
the summer sun. The blade struck the farmer entering at the base of his skull. It cut through the man’s thick neck, slicing muscle and sinew until the gun stopped it from travelling any further. The strike made a distinct sound like a dart entering a corkboard. The kulak [kulak: affluent farming landowner] could not support his own weight and his face struck the floor. He emitted a deathly gurgle through shaky lips while bright red blood ran freely from the exit wound in his throat.

  Kasseri swore loudly. His plan had been to keep the mission trouble-free and controlled. He wanted an organised roundup and a quick kill. Not this. Not a fight. Each of the five kulaks rapidly evaluated their position knowing they were in a fight for their lives. They each considered the nearest weapon or the quickest escape route. The girl’s father remained seated, forcing himself to maintain control despite the shock and fear. He knew the two soldiers would go for the men that were moving first, as they became the immediate risk. He was right; all four of his group were in motion and the two soldiers focused on them. Two of the kulaks chose to escape and ran for the rear door; the soldiers ignored them. The more aggressive two opted to fight, both pulling large knives from inside their coats. They charged at the soldiers who both opted for different tactics.

  Kasseri dropped his rifle and pulled out his sabre. As a skilled swordsman fighting in a confined space against a strong, fast opponent who wielded a big knife, he knew the sabre was his best option.

  The younger soldier chose to shoot his rifle; this was a mistake. With his bayonet still dripping blood, he raised his gun as the first kulak reached him. He had been too slow and never got the shot away. The farmer used his knife against the bayonet to force the rifle upwards and move in closer. With his free hand, he struck a heavy punch, landing on the young man’s unprotected face. The soldier stumbled backwards, dropping his rifle, leaving himself unarmed. The kulak pressed his advantage, raised his knife and moved in quickly. The young soldier raised his arms, an involuntary reaction, but this protection was futile. The man guided the knife with accuracy and strength, entering the neck through the groove at the top of the breastplate. The wide, sharp blade cut a thick section of flesh including the windpipe leaving the young soldier unable to breathe. He managed to pull himself away from the blade and stumble backwards, raising his hands to his throat. He fell and died, choking blood.

  At the same time, the other two men were in a fight to the death. Kasseri’s sabre easily parried the knife, which flew aside leaving the farmer exposed to a simple lunge. The experienced swordsman stepped confidently forward to make the fatal strike. The blade cut through the kulak’s clothing and sunk deep between his ribs slicing liver and lung. The man dropped heavily.

  The two men still standing now looked at each other; the kulak holding a knife, and Kasseri, a sword.

  The girl’s father remained seated and watched the violent performance unfold as though he were in the audience of a theatre. His attention was distracted towards the rear door where the other two soldiers had encountered the two escaping kulaks. Shouting and the sounds of fighting drifted back into the house; then there were two rifle shots—bang, bang—muffled by the thick walls. The farmers had surprised the soldiers with their speed and determination to escape. They had knocked both uniformed men to the ground. The first of them to recover had shot twice, missing both times, allowing the two farmers to vanish into the darkness. The soldiers jumped to their feet and ran in pursuit of the fleeing men.

  Back inside, Kasseri tightened his grip on the blood stained sabre in readiness for the fight. The farmer stepped back holding his knife out in front while he glanced down at the rifle and its attached bayonet lying close on the floor. His decision was immediate; he bent down, dropping his knife and picked up the rifle. In that same moment, Kasseri realised the danger and made an instant attack. Two dead bodies lay between them, slowing Kasseri from reaching his target in time. The farmer rolled away, lifting the rifle and aiming from his waist. Kasseri was holding his sword across himself as he realised he was unable to cover the distance before the kulak had time to shoot. The farmer pulled the trigger and his makeshift aim was good, helped by the closeness of his target. The rifle shot was deafening inside the house and the explosive blast caused the girl to awake from her sleeping position under the corner table. On realising he was about to be shot, Kasseri did not feel fear; no, as a professional soldier he knew death. Instead of panic, he automatically acted in an attempt to survive; he withdrew and turned his body making it a smaller, harder target. By doing so, he pulled his sabre back towards his body and this action was what saved him. The bullet should have hit squarely in the chest. Instead, it struck the blade of the sabre just below the handle and deflected away embedding harmlessly into the wall. Its force caused Kasseri to lose his grip and the sword that had saved him fell to the floor. At the same time, he lost his balance and dropped sideways landing heavily on his arm. The farmer moved forward, thinking he had shot the soldier. Kasseri rolled over and got up. It surprised the kulak and he hesitated; a second of indecision that cost him his life. It gave Kasseri the time he needed to reach him. The kulak tried to use the bayonet but as he brought the rifle level Kasseri had already struck. He was close enough to block the bayonet and land a solid right hook on the kulak’s jaw.

  The girl had crawled on her hands and knees to the outer table leg and now, she looked into the room. She saw her father stand up from his seat at the dining table and move towards two other men who were fighting. She began to feel something. It was fear.

  The girl’s father had stayed seated, waiting and now he saw his chance. He jumped up and went directly to where Kasseri and the kulak were fighting. As he approached them, he bent down and picked up Kasseri’s sabre from the floor. Taking a firm grip on the handle, he moved forward. Kasseri and the kulak were continuing to fight. The kulak had tried desperately to survive; but Kasseri was too experienced, and following the first punch, he never relinquished his advantage. The fight was ending. Kasseri was on his knees leaning over the man who he had floored with a series of hard blows to the head. Kasseri used his knife and stabbed him twice, first in the stomach and then in the neck.

  On the floor by the table leg, the girl watched her father intently. Uncertainty and fear held her motionless. Her father had taken a position directly behind the kneeling soldier who, because of the fighting, was unaware of his presence. Using both hands, her father raised the sabre above his head. He dipped his knees slightly and shifted his weight forward to give the blow maximum force. With full concentration, he fixed on the soldier’s right ear using it as a guide for the blade. Then, the sabre began to descend.

  The bang was a deafening explosion. The girl didn’t know what had happened. Her father twisted with a jolt and staggered sideways losing strength in his legs and arms. The sabre fell, his knees buckled and he dropped, heavy and lifeless. The girl didn’t understand. Why had her father fallen over? She turned her head and looked up. Another soldier stood at the doorway with a rifle held to his shoulder. Smoke still came from the barrel.

  ‘If you hadn’t come back…’ Kasseri said.

  He looked at the younger man who had saved him. The man’s name was Leonid and, luckily for Kasseri, he was a good shot. They stood together in the farmhouse and gazed down at the body of the girl’s father. The back of his shirt was dark and wet with blood from where the rifle bullet had struck. It had entered between his shoulder blades and exited through his breastplate. The other four bodies—three farmers and one soldier—all laid, misshapen and ugly in death, on the floor in a dark red sauce of their own blood. Kasseri breathed in with a deep feeling of unhappiness. The mission had gone badly. He turned to the young soldier and his voice was gravelly and strong.

  ‘Go and fetch our horses, we’ll have to track down the two that escaped,’ he said.

  Leonid acknowledged the order and went quickly. Kasseri looked down again at the floor. He picked up the two rifles and then his sabre. He put his rifle over his shoulder an
d replaced his sabre in its scabbard. The room was suddenly quiet after the madness of the fighting. A noise came from across the room. Kasseri listened. He heard it again. He walked over to the corner. It sounded like a sob. As he bent over and looked under the table, he saw a young girl. She was crying softly. The girl looked back at him through wet, frightened eyes.

  ‘Hello,’ he said softly.

  Kasseri had been a Red Army soldier for thirteen years. He was an experienced fighter, trusted by his superiors and given dangerous assignments that others could not do. The kulaks were tougher adversaries than he had expected. He was not about to allow two of them to escape and live.

  Kasseri reached under the table and grabbed the girl by the arm. He dragged her out. She screamed and fought. He held her still and fixed her eyes on his.

  ‘You’re not in danger. I won’t hurt you,’ he told her.