First Storm

by E G Ellory

  Dominic Hass’ country estate doesn’t have quite the scale or extravagance of my recent dwellings a few miles away; he’s clearly gone for understated wealth, judging by the unspectacular Cotswold stone structure which faces the road from the safe distance of a gated driveway and security wall which runs the perimeter of the property.

  A security presence is already in place as the car I share with Ingram slows - an armed member of the security team raising a hand to stop. Ingram remains unmoved, newspaper in lap and resplendent as ever in the black, three-piece suit. If there is an art to espionage, Ingram has mastered it both in his ability to recruit, condition and execute operations.

  People rarely see us coming, safe in their own assumptions of a sense of security provided by either wealth, power or distance - each an illusory cloak of invincibility.

  I expect Dominic Hass to have done his homework on me, finding no trace beyond yesterday’s minor melee with Sennel in London. There is little to go on from yesterday’s brief dance with Sennel except for a quick reaction to Sennel’s fleeting attempt to attack me.

  A few jabs of a pen - my weapon of choice - and a push to neutralise the attack, the powerful drug hidden within the silver fountain pen doing the rest. If my proximity to Sennel has made Hass nervous, he’ll have countermeasures in place via the security detail patrolling the gates of his Oxfordshire estate: I have measures of my own.

  Hass is pacing in the ground-floor study, mumbling curses under his breath as his political team attempt to assuage his fears. The melee surrounding Sennel continues to fill news channels, the BBC currently the station of choice as the news anchor holds a debate with an expert on international terrorism, and the defence minister.

  I listen to the usual clichéd conversations of ‘record spending on security’ whilst the minister dodges questions regarding Sennel being known to British Intelligence. What isn’t known, of course, to either the defence minister or the ‘expert’ on terrorism, is that Sennel is linked to the very man I’m offering protection to - Dominic Hass - a lithe, uptight individual whose contemptuous treatment of his political team extends to his security.

  “Who are you?” he demands, registering my presence in the room.

  I decide not to answer, beginning to construct the platform he will willingly step onto later: a platform of submissiveness where his safety will rely on my skill.

  “I said who are you?” he states again, this time stepping towards me in an attempt to intimidate me.

  “Solomon Stone, sir,” a member of his team reply. “Part of the extra security detail you requested for this evening’s fund raiser.”

  “Has he got any manners?” Hass queries as he continues with his hollow attempt to unnerve me, his fragile frame dressed in a traditional dinner suit.

  “Sent by British Intelligence, sir.”

  A reply which brings pause to Hass’ threatening overtures, the cloud of fury passing as he steps back and turns to the drinks cabinet. “Keep him outside,” Hass demands in reference to my deployment. “Intelligence operatives give me the creeps.”

  I follow orders and step out into the long hallway of the Cotswold estate, both houses a symbol of an era of wealth and style although rarely making reference to the darker side of history upon which many such estates were built.

  A certain type of exploitation may have been vanquished, but many others have replaced it, and the exploitation of secret government intelligence to the highest bidder is the reason I’m here now: an unknown entity about to orchestrate Dominic Hass’ surrender.

  As I listen to the muted sounds of Hass discussing this evening’s fundraiser, I carry out a brief reconnaissance of the security detail on sight: four within the building and two positioned at the entrance. Simon Fenstone, the other player in this dark game of civilian causalities for profit, will have his own security when he arrives later: some armed, some not.

  Carrying a weapon is not authorised as part of my remit but, as Ingram likes to remind me, what I acquire on the way should be considered as ‘capital’. If Hass or Fenstone have any suspicions regarding my deployment to London yesterday to neutralise Sennel, the fundraiser might turn out to be more calamity than charity. Either way, Dominic Hass is being driven to his alternative location at the designated time.

  Afternoon passes into evening as staff arrive in significant numbers to attend to every detail of the fundraiser. I maintain my position outside Dominic Hass’ study throughout the afternoon until I’m informed he’s retiring to his bedroom to prepare for the evening’s events. Apparently, beneath the arrogant, bullish exterior lies a fragile soul who suffers with the burden of his role as a public servant.

  A nice little euphemism for a man worried about his political future. Along with Sennel’s demise running on international news channels, Ingram’s own media storm has begun, judging from the flurry of extra political aides arriving. Ingram promised a gradual surrender and he’s keeping his word, beginning with Hass’ questionable financial dealings and allegations of extra-marital affairs.

  The media swarm begins, the country estate filling with vehicles of various description designed to cause maximum embarrassment to my new target.

  “Stone.”

  I turn to Hass’ head of security, a surprisingly small figure whose cropped, grey hair and burly physique will be easily dispatched if necessary.

  “The minister wants you upstairs.”

  I leave the head of security to the growing media melee outside the country estate and make my way past the burgeoning number of house and political staff moving to-and-fro, presumably at the volley of orders disseminated by an increasingly irascible Hass.

  Once directed to his private wing on the second floor, I’m left alone with the government minister turned political rat, studying his increasingly neurotic state as he peers out of the bedroom window onto the media circus below.

  “Bastards,” he grunts as he rubs his hands through his coiffured, brown hair, oscillating between his earlier pacing and sitting at a desk next to a single bed.

  If Ingram has played this right, Hass will revert to his avoidant behaviour and desire an escape from this escalating media assassination, leaving Ariel Drummer to keep track of Simon Fenstone who, like Hass, will read the orchestrated media storm as a sign that their attempt to silence Andrew Levy has failed.

  “You’re getting me out here,” Hass states as he turns to face me. “I take it you know the location of my bunker near Woodstock?”

  “Yes.”

  “You do talk then,” he adds with a petulant bile directed more at his situation than me.

  “I didn’t catch your name.”

  “Stone.”

  “Well, Stone, I’m being politically slaughtered and I need to make alternative arrangements. This has all the ingredients of a media hanging, and I feel exposed here. My security team are limited in terms of experience in situations such as these. Who knows what madness is waiting out there.”

  Hass then slams his fist on the desk next to the bed, before adding, “So, tell me the plan?”, and the platform of submissiveness I offered earlier is duly accepted.

  “Get your head of security to organise three cars to be ready to leave in five minutes.”

  “Three?”

  “I doubt you’ll want mobile media outlets recording your departure all the way to your alternative hideout. The other two cars will act as a form of enclosure until we arrive at your destination.”

  “I’ve been set up,” Hass whispers to himself, his level of self-indulgence rising to the fore. “Someone’s out to discredit and destroy me.”

  The dismantling begins.

  8

  Countermeasures

  With Hass ready to escape the storm engulfing him, we take the stairs down to the ground floor where the other members of his security team await, his political team sharing a growing look of alarm and confusion.

  “Sir, I’m not sure this is the right time to retreat to your Woodstock resident,
” one of the team suggests rather timidly, only to be brushed aside.

  Clearly not trained in the art of anticipation, Hass’ security team await their orders, glances moving between a disoriented minister and my unfamiliar face, now leading operations. British Intelligence is all they know about me, and it’s enough to make them comply, almost as stunned as their boss by the media storm building around him.

  “We move in formation with the minister protected from the media glare to the fore and rear,” I instruct Hass’ security team who take their positions inside the accompanying cars, except for the head of security who insists on accompanying us. Despite his lack of imagination, he’s experienced enough not to leave his boss with unknown, unproven security personnel.

  As we prepare to move out, I notice Hass take one of his team to the side and whisper instructions to her: a prompt to cancel the planned fundraiser or something else … perhaps the panic masking his knowledge that I’m more than temporary security detail. He’s right, of course, and also too conditioned in corruption not to notice when something is afoot.

  Hass is at the wrong end of a storm this time, and I prepare for the countermeasures he’s about to enact at his bunker outside Woodstock, conscious that Ariel Drummer is close by, tracking the unravelling events and the whereabouts of Simon Fenstone who will soon be making his own moves.

  “Move out,” the head of security commands, and we escort Dominic Hass to the awaiting black Mercedes whilst the additional security team take charge of the two black Jaguars, the first of the two leading out before I follow, easing the Mercedes behind the Jaguar and checking the second is picking up the rear.

  Hass places his hand over his face as the gates to this estate open, releasing him into the mouth of the growing media storm, some of whom have stationed themselves at the top of the road with long-range lenses to avoid the chaos. I use the rearview mirror to keep an eye on Hass and his head of security, sitting somewhat uneasily in the back seat.

  As Hass sinks into a mood of panic and self-pity, his head of security engages me in conversation.

  “You’re new to these circles,” he begins, shifting his weight and adjusting something hidden under his blazer - most likely a holstered handgun, typical of his level of security.

  “First job,” I reply, keeping my distance from the Jaguar which leads the way to Hass’ bunker in Woodstock, a ploy Ingram has put into play although I’m increasingly convinced that Hass is not the ignorant patsy he’s currently pretending to be. The alternative location may very well be his escape and countermeasure … a perfect way to turn the tables on me and my shadow operatives - or so he thinks.

  “Intelligence?” Hass’ head of security asks, continuing this subtle line of questioning as I keep my eyes on the winding country road and the rearview mirror … only the second Jaguar is following now, providing the necessary respite Dominic Hass desires.

  “Yes.”

  “You must be a ghost because your name didn’t appear in any of our security checks.”

  “That’s my advantage,” I reply, choosing not to elaborate further.

  “Let’s hope so.”

  I offer the ageing head of security a glance of contempt, letting him know what I think of his hollow threat. One strike to the windpipe would be enough to quell his meek threat. The journey continues towards Hass’ bunker, and I prepare for the re-appearance of the Drummer Girl.

  Within minutes of arriving at the rural location on the outskirts of Woodstock, the tone changes from one of concern to calculated moves: a countermeasure, after all. There is none of the neurosis or panic displayed at Hass’ main residence less than thirty minutes ago … instead another, more sinister, figure appears in the safe confines of a space outside of the media glare.

  Confident in the capabilities of the six security personnel, and cocooned in the expansive lounge of his second home, Hass turns his attention to me.

  “So, an intelligence operative who doesn’t exist.”

  I stand as Hass sits, watching as he takes the tumbler of Scotch offered to him: temporary lord of his manor.

  “It acts as my advantage.”

  “Perhaps, but then again, perhaps not. Perhaps you’re part of this public execution … phase two once the media storm has done its job of discrediting me.”

  I let him ruminate whilst I watch his security team take up positions in the room.

  “I suppose a simple test will suffice. If you are who you say you are, Stone, defending against a standard security detail should pose no problem.”

  I study Hass’ sinister smile, aware of the head of security retrieving the handgun hidden underneath his blazer.

  I reach for the silver fountain pen as I absorb each detail of the room … in particular, the pattern of movement adopted by each figure. Patterns are subconscious actions … habits most people pay no attention to, but a shadow agent’s life depends on it.

  The pattern here is a simple one: Hass’ security team aren’t trained in unarmed combat, evident in how quickly the peripheral figures circle behind the ageing head of security who holds his gun with little conviction.

  As Hass watches in amusement from the comfort of his armchair, I strike the moment the nearest figure comes into range - an elbow to the bridge of the nose stunning victim one for long enough to use him as a shield against the next assailant who receives an injection to the neck from my deceptive weapon.

  The head of security’s hesitation is enough to take him out of the picture - a simple lunge of the bloodied body acting as my defensive shield, throwing him off guard whilst an elbow to his windpipe does the rest: an action I envisioned on the journey here.

  With the handgun now in my possession, the three remaining figures relent in the face of potential fire, and I prepare to strike the smug grin off Dominic Hass’ face with the handle of the gun, only to be thwarted by a familiar voice.

  “Subtle surrender, Stone…” and the ghostlike presence of George Ingram appears in the living room, accompanied by Ariel Drummer who walks over to Hass and plants the heel of her shoe into his shin, causing him to cry out in pain.

  “That’s for Jack Drummer,” she states menacingly before directing a short punch towards his mouth which splits his lip and cracks his immaculate front teeth.

  “Enough,” Ingram states as his own menacing team of security arrive - all armed.

  With his final layer of protection removed from the premises, and injuries to the leg and mouth to contend with, the dominoes so neatly aligned for so long in Hass’ favour are beginning to tumble.

  Ingram orders his team to close the curtains while Drummer keeps a close watch over the man whose greed has led to the death of her father, and many more people.

  “We have a lot to discuss, Dominic,” Ingram begins, and I settle into a vacant armchair, ready to witness him go to work once more.

  Hass maintains a poise of defiance for precisely thirteen minutes until George Ingram’s inimitable art in dismantling takes its effect.

  “Do you have any idea of my connections?” Hass begins, determined not to fold straight away but unnerved by the man sitting opposite, dressed in a black suit and overcoat, studying him as if he were an insect causing mild annoyance. “You’re ruined, whoever the hell you are.”

  Ingram crosses his legs and unbuttons his black overcoat, taking out a silver cigarette lighter as he does so: one I recall from my first, strange meeting with him before I became Solomon Stone.

  “Ruination ...” Ingram begins, “… an interesting topic to open with.”

  “What?” Hass is already looking out of his depth.

  “The ruination of an individual, or individuals, for political, moral or financial reasons. Where do you stand on the justification for ruination, Dominic?” Ingram asks as he flips open the lighter and studies the flame.

  “Who the hell are you people?”

  Drummer adds another kick to his shin, causing him to writhe in agony. “Answer the question,” she commands be
fore Ingram’s raised hand contains her need to enact brutal vengeance on Hass.

  “Ruination, Dominic … the destruction of others for reasons personal to those enacting the destruction. What were your reasons?”

  Hass rubs his shin, increasingly disoriented by the three figures slowly dismantling his life. “What do you mean?”

  Ingram stands slowly, holding the lighter as he continues to watch the flame flicker. “I mean, if I were to burn something now - your skin, perhaps - what would be the justification in doing so?”

  “My what? Jesus Christ, you’re insane!”

  “And you are desperate but still alive,” Ingram counters, “so choose your words carefully.”

  As Ingram passes Drummer the lighter, Hass lets out a yell of alarm. “Wait!”

  “The answer to the question, Dominic," Ingram replies with increasing menace. “You could say your life depends on it.”

  Hass begins to shake with fear, finally realising that his power and wealth offer no protection from the people he faces now. “You’re talking about my connections …”

  “Go on,” demands Drummer who holds the lighter close to his face.

  “Simon Fenstone … my business dealings with him that I’ve been previously attacked for.”

  Ingram smiles as he reaches inside his black overcoat, making Hass flinch in fear. “Business dealings such as orchestrated chaos which have led to civilian deaths and the loss of a number of British intelligence agents.”

  “You can’t be intelligence,” Hass utters pitifully. “This is rendition.”

  Ingram removes a small, silver case from his inside coat pocket, opening it to reveal two circular instruments attached to wires, before replying, “No, Dominic; this is surrender.”

  The surrender comes quickly, the sight of the instrument of torture causing utter submission in Hass. Simon Fenstone and Samuel Schwartz become the villains of the peace, according to Hass’ self-serving narrative - the typical reaction of a desperate sociopath.