Foretold by Thunder: A Thriller

by Edward M. Davey

  “Enough of this,” the stranger was saying.

  Jake thought he heard a car coming around the mountain.

  Davis took aim. “Night night.”

  A Toyota burst from the plateau. Jake saw a shock of blonde in the driving seat.

  The assassin turned to face the approaching hazard. “What the fuck?”

  Davis unloaded the entire magazine into the vehicle, the windscreen shattering in a mist of glass. But Jenny ducked below the steering wheel, protected by the bulk of the engine. The car hit Davis square on, chipping him over the bonnet and sending him cart-wheeling through the air. He crashed to earth twenty feet away, heaved himself up, abandoned the struggle, shuddered and was still.

  Deliverance, again.

  The Toyota skidded to a halt and the passenger door flew open.

  “Mr Wolsey, I presume?”

  Jake registered three things. First: the Stanley-Livingstone reference in an African wilderness. Second: that the woman looked vaguely familiar (it was as if he’d been to school with her or something).

  Third: she was beautiful.

  “Who are you?” he said.

  “Just get in, will you?”

  Jake clambered into the car.

  “Jenny Frobisher.” She offered him her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you at last.”

  Instinctively Jake brushed his mane into a semblance of order. He was sweating and his breathing was shallow.

  “That was a bloody close shave,” he said. “I really thought I was a goner.”

  “You can thank me later. We’ve got plenty to talk about.”

  Jenny was aware of the irony. She’d spent a career running agents, turning sources, twisting their minds. Now she had been turned by Jake – and he hadn’t even been aware of doing it. She hit the accelerator and the two renegades streaked away under a sky that was big and blue and full of hope.

  Part Three

  Maelstrom

  And when we have won, who will ask us about the method?

  Adolf Hitler, German dictator, 1889-1945 AD

  54

  February 7th

  THE crisis engulfing MI6 threatens to spiral out of control with the revelation an experienced agent has “gone rogue” in Ethiopia.

  The female operative last reported to superiors 24 hours ago after being ordered back to London, sources reveal. She is said to be disobeying orders after becoming disillusioned with an operation that has led to the death of two MI6 spies – the only officers publicly known to have died as a result of hostile action in the history of the organization. The first operative, 28-year-old Jessica Medcalf, was shot in Istanbul last month. The second officer – who is yet to be named – was killed in an apparent ambush in northern Ethiopia earlier in the week.

  And astonishingly, this newspaper understands the operation in question may relate to an archaeological matter. Senior MI6 officers are said to believe discoveries in both Turkey and Ethiopia may be of importance to national security. In light of the latest revelations the Prime Minister has called an immediate meeting of the Joint Intelligence Committee. Number 10 is said to be apoplectic that MI6 has been active in both countries without Foreign Office authorization. The chief of MI6 denies complicity in the actions, leading to speculation that a cabal within the agency may be acting independently.

  Meanwhile, diplomats in Ankara are attempting to placate the Turkish authorities, following suggestions that MI6 was involved in the gunfight at Istanbul’s Topkapi Palace, witnessed by one of our journalists. The episode has severely shaken trust between the allies, with implications for Anglo-Turkish co-operation over the situation in Iraq and Syria, Iran’s nuclear programme and in the continuing battle against Islamist terror plots at home.

  Evelyn Parr folded the newspaper and placed it on the table. “It doesn’t look good, does it?”

  “No.” Waits produced the Glenfarclas. “No, it does not.”

  “Do you know, I don’t think I’ve ever come to your office and not seen you take a drink, no matter the time of day. What point are you trying to make exactly?”

  Waits poured three fingers of Scotch and rotated the tumbler under his nose. “It’s about control.”

  His grip remained steady on the glass.

  “I don’t see much evidence of control at the minute – in fact I’d say events have proved quite beyond our ability to keep a hold on.” Her eyes returned to the headline. “Oh, for Christ’s sake, I think I’d better have one of those too.”

  “As you like.” There was a glug as Waits half-filled a second glass which he prodded across the table.

  Parr took a sip. “God, I needed that.”

  A crooked smile passed the spymaster’s face as he placed his spectacles on his nose and picked up the newspaper.

  “What worries me is the lack of bylines,” he said, voice muffled behind the pages. “Including leaders and comment pieces, I make it six articles on the topic in this edition, yet no one’s owning up to writing them. It can only mean the reporters are scared. Of us, probably.”

  “Then there’s this line about the ‘archaeological matter’,” added Parr. “We know Wolsey’s been sniffing around it, but our man on the paper said the editor wasn’t taking his claims seriously. Well, he is now.”

  “They’ve left it vague,” said Waits. “That suggests they don’t trust Wolsey’s journalism – or they haven’t got the evidence. The cat’s not out of the bag yet, my dear.”

  “If not now, it soon will be. The opposition wants a public inquiry. What the hell are we going to do?”

  Waits banged his whisky glass down on the table. “We carry on going! To the bitter end, Evelyn. There’s no choice now, don’t you see that? If we get what we’re looking for, if we show the PM that it works? Of course he’ll hush it up. No man of power could resist. The whole affair will be swathed in red tape and the Official Secrets Act and nobody’ll get near us. But first we need to lay our hands on the infernal thing.”

  “I wonder sometimes …” Parr put her head in her hands and sighed. “All this bloodshed. And yet …”

  “And yet what?”

  “And yet the end result is already preordained. No matter what we do.”

  “You know we can’t think like that,” snapped Waits. “It’s circular. If we decide not to do whatever it takes to obtain the Disciplina Etrusca, that decision would be precisely why it’s fated that we fail. A self-fulfilling prophecy, in other words.”

  Parr studied him, picking over each detail of the florid face that confronted her. “You’re right,” she said. “It’s the only way.”

  “Think what our predecessors would’ve done. We’re so close now, Evelyn – so close after all these years.”

  “Are we that close? We haven’t added to our manuscript at all. And our only remaining asset’s been hospitalized.”

  “Frank came round this morning – I just got off the phone to him. He’s got a few cuts and bruises but he’ll be ok.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Well, there’s good news and bad news,” said Waits. “The bad news is that the driver who hit him was our very own Jenny ‘off-the-scale loyalty’ Frobisher.”

  “Good God,” whispered Parr. “We’re finished.”

  “Not at all,” said Waits. “Not if we get the Disciplina. As I say, we’ll be protected from upon high for ever and a day. I daresay even Reader Number One would approve. She’s nothing if not a pragmatist.”

  “But how do we get it?”

  “That’s the good news,” said Waits. “Before Frobisher came riding to the rescue, Wolsey told Frank he’d found a new inscription in the monastery. He photographed it. Begging for his life, you see. The inscription’s been removed by our rivals, but if we catch Jake, we get the photos of the Debre Damo texts – and whatever he got in Istanbul to boot.”

  Parr nodded.

  “Frank’s a proud man,” said Waits. “He won’t appreciate having been bested by the likes of Frobisher. If I had to put
money on it, I’d say our journalist friend and his new accomplice will not be around much longer.”

  “You do realize he’s a borderline psychopath?” asked Parr. “Literally and clinically, I mean.”

  “Frank’s propensity for violence has proved just the right side of useful.”

  “Do you know how many people he killed in Iraq?”

  “It takes dangerous men to take on dangerous men,” said Waits. “Given the stakes, I’d say it’s rather comforting to have the certified most lethal man in the British Army at our disposal. Wouldn’t you?”

  “But he’s one person,” Parr pressed. “One guy against an unravelling situation and the full apparatus of Chinese state security. We don’t have enough boots on the ground to compete – and we certainly can’t bring anyone else into the fold.”

  “Well, you know what they say.” Charlie poured himself another dram. “If you want a job done properly …”

  “What, you’ll go out there yourself?”

  Waits inclined his head, and Parr seemed to relax.

  “Let me tell you a little story,” he said. “It’s 1942 and the Battle of El Alamein is raging. Rommel looks set to break through our lines. As you might expect, Cairo’s in a bit of a flap – secret documents going up in smoke, the colonials fleeing, that sort of thing. And do you know what the British ambassador did?”

  “What did he do?”

  “He ordered the railings of the embassy to be repainted.”

  For the first time in the meeting Parr smiled.

  “To sangfroid.” Waits raised his glass.

  “To sangfroid,” Parr repeated.

  55

  The Monastery of Debre Damo receded into the distance, its secrets stolen at last. Jake leaned his temple against the window as the vehicle hurtled along the track. During the conflagration all he could think of was staying alive, but now he returned to what he had learned. The world was made anew: a dark and unsettling place. Could it be that his escape from the monastery was written? The arrival of this woman with seconds to spare pre-ordained? And if so by what? Or by whom? Jake wrapped his arms around his chest. He needed to be somewhere safe, somewhere he could make sense of it all. Without meaning to, he let out a groan. Jenny hit the brakes and the car skidded to a halt in a graceful slalom of dust.

  “You ok?”

  He sat up straight. “Yep. No problem.”

  “You sure?” Jenny looked him up and down. She needed this man.

  “I’m trying to be stoic about all this,” said Jake. “You know, all the people shooting each other and stuff. But it is rather a lot to take in, if I’m honest.”

  His voice sounded nicer in person, Jenny thought. Deeper. Posh, certainly, but not unacceptably so. She hit the accelerator.

  Jake stole another look at her as they drove. Right away he had known she was the type who made him unsure whether to hold eye contact. He was grateful for the road ahead, demanding her attention. Jenny’s brow was furrowed in concentration, her hair tied in a ponytail; she drove like a hurricane and at that instant a more impressive figure could not be imagined. She ordered a pint, Jake reckoned. That was a good thing, obviously. But Jesus, she was way out of his league.

  “I’ve got a confession,” said Jenny, catching him looking and pursing her lips in what might have been a smile.

  “Go on.”

  “I know quite a lot about you.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “I’ve been following you for three weeks now.”

  Jake’s fingers went to the door-handle. “You’re MI6?”

  “Ex-MI6. I saved your life just now, remember? We’re on the same side. And I wouldn’t do that if I were you, we’re doing fifty. It would flay the skin from your body.”

  “I don’t know who to believe any more. How do I know this isn’t a trick? For all I know you’re trying to, you know …” A soft laugh. “Bring me in quietly and all that.”

  “There are some ruthless people in the Security Services. Bad people, I know this now. But not even MI6 would run over its own agents to soften up a mark.”

  Jake relinquished the door handle.

  “I’m trying to help you,” she said. “I’m hoping you’ll help me too. I just – I just need you to trust me, ok?”

  “Never trust anyone who says trust me,” he muttered, although strangely enough he did.

  “I’ll prove it to you.”

  There was a village approaching, a dozen mud-brick huts gathered around the single shop. A Maersk cargo container had been abandoned by the roadside long ago, and it gave Jake an inexplicable shiver to see that symbol of western commerce in such a setting, cast up by the tide of modern trade. He heard the clank of steel at some Baltic port, pictured huddled troubadours smoking away the night.

  Jenny stopped at the shop – a tanker was parked up and the driver was decanting petrol into cartons while several men looked on. The store was an Aladdin’s Cave of washing powder, asymmetric vegetables and tins of processed meat. There was Coca Cola too: they were back in civilization. Jenny leapt from the car and began conversing with the shopkeeper in Amharic.

  The key was in the ignition. The engine was running.

  Jake considered his options. A trust-building exercise? Or part of the ruse? Jake’s thoughts circled as Jenny finished her transaction. Money was being handed over; he had five seconds to decide. But what if she was being straight with him?

  Four seconds. Stealing her car? Three seconds. Marooning her here?

  Two seconds.

  He couldn’t do it.

  One.

  The car door opened.

  “Thanks for not driving off,” she said.

  Jake looked at his knees. “Don’t be silly.”

  After a mile Jenny veered off the track without warning and killed the engine. The sun seared through the windscreen and with no air conditioning the temperature rose by the second.

  “I need you to get into the back of the car with me,” she said.

  Ribbons of fear and desire twisted inside him. A single word came to mind: honeytrap.

  With perfect synchronicity Jenny produced a bottle of tej.

  “What is all this?” Jake looked bewildered.

  “I need to do an operation on you. It may hurt. I thought you could use some anaesthetic – this is honey wine, their strongest brew.”

  “I told you, I’m fine. Not a scratch on me.”

  “No, you don’t understand.” A diamond-shaped blade was in her hand. “We put a bug in you. I need to get it out.”

  56

  “You put a bug in me?”

  Jenny’s eyes were downcast.

  “How?”

  She shrugged. “It’s in a capsule.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “There isn’t time to argue about this, Jake. As long as it’s inside you they know where we are.”

  Jake opened the car door. “If you think I’m going to let a complete stranger cut me up on blind faith you’re mad. Raving mad.”

  She showed him the scanner. A blue dot pulsed on a topographic image of their surroundings; he could even make out the Maersk container.

  “The bug might be in your pocket for all I know,” he said.

  “Well it isn’t.”

  Jake allowed himself proper eye contact for the first time. The desert light had turned her eyes cerulean, like those of a snow leopard.

  “Think back to the Agya Sophia,” she said. “Do you remember a feeling sharp pain in your …” a smudge of rose touched each cheekbone. “In your backside?”

  He frowned. “Actually, now you mention it I do remember that. It was really painful. How do you …”

  “Know about it? Because we did it. We fired a pellet containing a tracking device into your …” she blushed again. “Into your arse.”

  Despite himself Jake laughed. “Good grief. You did, didn’t you?”

  Jenny laughed too. “Yeah, I’m afraid we did. Sorry about that. But we do need to get it ou
t.” She was serious again. “Otherwise I leave you here. I can’t have you drawing them to me.”

  “Ok then.” He swallowed. “Let’s get it over with.”

  The tej was unadulterated fire. Jake’s eyes watered as he knocked it back and he gasped for breath. God, it felt good though. He hadn’t touched a drop for days, and the booze always hit him with fresh loveliness after a hiatus. He took another swig, the alcohol high eddying through him, his mind foggy yet clear. It was only after the third swig that he remembered he shouldn’t trust this woman. MI6 had to know his foibles. And here he was, getting smashed at her suggestion. Just one more gulp, he decided. God knows, his liver could handle it. Jake raised the bottle again – but before he could drink Jenny placed one hand on his wrist.

  “Hey. Not too much.” Her touch was cool on the skin. “You might need your wits about you later.”

  The journalist stumbled as he clambered onto the back seat. Wow – that stuff was seriously powerful. Had to be fifty-five per cent at least.

  Nice.

  Jenny was cleaning the knife with antiseptic. Jake was not a fan of operations and once this scenario would have been the cue for panic. But strangely, not now. The booze helped; yet perhaps there was more to it than that.

  Without warning she jabbed the knife into his buttock. Jake yelled with fury and punched the door. The blade was a red hot poker, a centipede boring deep inside him with slashing mandibles.

  “Hold still,” she implored. “We’re almost there.”

  Blood poured down the back of Jake’s leg; his teeth were bared and he was close to passing out. “Get on with it!” he yelled.

  Still Jenny probed and twisted, cut and pulled, until –

  With a plop it was over. A pellet landed on the chair and Jenny began damming the wound with tissues which turned warm on her fingers before disintegrating.

  “You don’t think you’ve nicked an artery?” Jake gasped.

  “Not a chance. There are no major arteries in that part of the body. In London the street kids slash each other’s backsides when they want to send a warning. They know it can’t end in a fatality.”