by E G Ellory
“Police,” she says as she exits the car quickly and jumps the hedge to help with the transfer of Simon Fenstone to the passenger seat.
“I’ve got money,” Fenstone offers, his wheezing suggesting temporary damage. He’s younger than the photograph retrieved from Alexander Rowe’s hideout suggests, the whitening hair adding a false tone of dignity.
This gesture is ignored as I escort him to the BMW, Drummer kicking his ankle at the first sign of struggle. “Move,” she demands as the sound of a police siren echoes in the open air, but Fenstone continues to struggle, a touch of hope returning at the sound of the police sirens.
“Just leave me here,” he pleads. “Just leave me!” Fenstone suddenly yells, only to receive a two-punch combination for his efforts - the first to Fenstone’s rib cage, and the second to his throat as Drummer pulls out her handgun and fires a shot into the air.
The sound of the shot makes Fenstone jump in fear, creating the necessary compliance. With Drummer keeping guard over Fenstone in the back, I take the wheel and hit the accelerator, surprised to see the security guard standing in the road as I had done, gambling that I’ll swerve.
“Jesus!” Fenstone yells as the guard loses his nerve at the last minute, his body clipping the bonnet of the car as it surges forwards and towards the accompanying vehicle ahead which, seeing the job is complete, manoeuvres out of the way and ends the road block, allowing the line of traffic to flow once more.
As the sirens rise in pitch, signalling how quickly the police are closing the distance, I follow our partners in arms in the black Mercedes ahead, the blue light appearing on the dashboard as it races forwards.
“I’m going to crush the two of you,” Fenstone then says with surprising confidence - a confidence which immediately drains from him when Ariel Drummer targets his groin with the handle of the gun.
“Not if we crush you first,” she says with sinister detachment, and as the police sirens fade, I glance in the rearview mirror, smiling at the sight of a stricken Simon Fenstone bending to the will of Ariel Drummer: a perfect dance partner.
The abandoned farm has been chosen for its remoteness, sitting within a mild incline and surrounded by a landscape in spectacular contrast to its state of disrepair: the rendition begins here. With Fenstone’s mobile phone taken apart, the pieces discarded at different points along the journey, any back up plans he has are thwarted.
It’s likely that his security guard has called in what will be termed a kidnapping, having no insight into the fact that his boss no longer has corporate or political protection: Fenstone is a priority target. The manner in which targets are engaged depends on the light they have on them.
Simon Fenstone and Dominic Hass are big players in the political and business world; therefore, a simple error draws immediate attention to an organisation that doesn’t officially exist. Shadow surveillance is, therefore, the art required to dismantle those with the apparatus to raise most organisations to the ground.
The accompanying agents which direct us here in the black Mercedes survey the surrounding land to ensure the area is clear, the anticipation of danger a critical fact in play now two giants have been slain. Slaying will be for nothing, however, if Fenstone doesn’t talk and high-stakes operations such as these have a limited time span - not even the government can manage the mess of a missing hedge-fund millionaire for any length of time.
We are ghosts … our apparitions having a finite time before disappearing back into the shadows: shadows which will shift in order to get Simon Fenstone to recognise the terms of engagement.
With the two agents still scanning the expanse of land around the farm, Fenstone sits nervously on a wooden chair covered in the debris of the farm’s demise. His tie has been taken off after a complaint about his breathing, his run in with Ariel Drummer a bruising affair.
The kitchen is the chosen location to begin the rendition, its barren interior a perfect reflection of Simon Fenstone’s current leverage: money won’t help him now. Ariel Drummer keeps guard, the handgun at the ready, standing between the door and window - a position which offers no clear shot for potential guns for hire on a mission to stop more dominoes falling.
Alexander Rowe has led to Andrew Levy, leading to Dominic Hass and, now, Simon Fenstone. Samuel Schwartz is next although the likelihood of him fleeing to Germany will be heightened by news of a second vanishing act of a corporate connection linked to the firestorms he orchestrates - the safety net of wealth and power being slowly shredded.
Fenstone sits on the wooden chair unrestrained, conscious of the handgun in Drummer’s possession and her ability to render him helpless with one blow. His charcoal grey trousers are covered in mud from the field he found himself lying in less than an hour ago, the accompanying grey shirt creating a sombre tone - entirely appropriate for Fenstone’s situation.
In many ways, he is a cliché of wealth, increasingly wandering into the delusion that a certain level of power makes a person infallible - that power is the ultimate conductor of world affairs. What he’s about to discover is the one thing no-one in the civilian world truly understands … that power is merely allowed by the very people he’s facing now: the true conductors of the world.
With Drummer in position by the kitchen door, and the two accompanying agents sweeping the expanse of land for potential threats, Fenstone’s personal storm begins.
Silence begins the surrender … a stasis both in dynamics and movements. Drummer remains still by the door and I adopt my cross-legged position on the wooden chair opposite the corporate conductor of national chaos. His agitated movements symbolise an uneasy balance between false bravado and repressed fear; he holds his nerve for a surprisingly long time, hoping for the cavalry to arrive, perhaps.
Time passes, the soft swaying of the trees outside the only accompaniment to Fenstone’s slow slide into submission - a submission helped by my removal of the lock picking set I used to cut my face before stepping onto the country road. I take each key out of the leather pouch, placing them on the dust-covered wooden floor by my feet: instruments to loosen the tongue.
“If you think you’re going to intimidate me, you’re in for a long night,” Fenstone comments as he watches me place the final skeleton key on the floor.
I ignore the comment, taking off the black suit jacket and hooking it onto the back of the chair.
“What about carrying this out in a civilised manner?” Fenstone adds. “We’re English, after all.”
I reach for the light bulb above, unscrewing it out of its socket before smashing it on the wooden floorboards. Scattering the shards of glass near Fenstone’s feet, I begin the dismantling.
“Some say civilisation is a mask.”
Fenstone considers standing but thinks better of it as Ariel Drummer takes a step towards him. With the shards of glass inches from his feet, he tries to regain some sense of composure.
“So, we’re here to have a philosophical conversation?” he replies, shifting his gaze between the shards of glass and the neat row of skeleton keys laid out on the floor.
“That depends,” I reply, retaking my seat.
“On what?”
“On how long it takes to loosen your tongue.”
A stubborn smile touches Fenstone’s face. “Have you got any idea of my influence?”
“Yes.” I pick up one of the skeleton keys. “Although, the question I’d be asking myself right now is: What’s the benefit of influence when you’re about to bleed to death?”
The smug smile vanishes, replaced by a look of rising alarm, and I catch Drummer smiling to herself. Simon Fenstone, hedge fund magnet, is about to step onto a platform of my making - a re-construction of his reality in order to nullify any leverage he feels he still has. Some people fear death although everyone fears a painful one, and Fenstone is no different.
“Who are you?”
“A better line of enquiry,” I reply before standing and closing the distance between us … skeleton key in hand. �
�I’m a ghost you’ve been unlucky enough to receive a visitation from.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning, I’m going to put some questions to you which, depending on your answers, will simplify your surrender or extend it.”
“And if I don’t surrender?”
A gunshot whistles past Fenstone’s head, smashing into the wall to my left. Ariel Drummer lowers her gun before returning her gaze to the landscape outside the kitchen window: a perfect combination of beauty and fury.
“Sennel,” I say as I take up a position behind Fenstone’s sitting figure, the skeleton key inches away from his reddening neck: the first signs of pure fear. “The assassin you sent to kill Andrew Levy outside The British Library … thwarted by the people who have been carrying out surveillance on you for over six months.
You bought Alexander Rowe’s intelligence information, engaged in treason by compromising a government minister and commissioned an assassin to stop a certain exposé seeing the light of day.”
The shock of this information registers with Fenstone before he utters, “British Intelligence.”
“Of sorts.”
“Well, you should know the law regarding illegal acts of torture on your subjects. You can’t lay a finger on me, if I co-operate.”
A second gunshot shatters the chair Fenstone perches on, causing it to collapse underneath him. When he gathers himself and looks up, he’s faced with the striking figure of Ariel Drummer - gun aimed at his head.
“Says who?” Drummer counters - a question Fenstone knows better than to answer.
10
Killshot
Rest is a reward for the tracking and dismantling of a number of key targets - Alexander Rowe, Dominic Hass and Simon Fenstone all neutralised in one form or another. For my first live mission, things have gone according to plan except for the leg wound gained via my first dance with Alexander Rowe.
The shard of glass cutting through my flesh kicked any complacency into touch - Alexander Rowe’s demise symbolic of this. The wound is healing well, more a reminder than a burden now as I ease into a life of impermanent locations and new targets to track down. It’s a life I’ve become accustomed to with relative ease, the isolation a continuation of my old life while the training equips me for this one - both physical and psychological.
Killing is part of the game, at times, and as the house of cards continues to tumble down on the rich and powerful, I get the distinct impression that I may have to kill again before the mission is complete.
Simon Fenstone was removed under armed guard some time after Ariel Drummer’s gunshot shattered the chair he spent some hours perched on, the chair’s destruction reflective of his crumbling empire. Drummer and I remain in the dilapidated farmhouse, awaiting the arrival of a familiar figure who will direct the final act of this violent theatre: George Ingram.
With Ingram’s whereabouts unknown and the gathered intelligence team escorting Fenstone to an undesignated location, the shell of the farmhouse becomes our temporary base, the few remaining windows offering some defence against a sudden drop in temperature - a subsiding storm, perhaps.
Respite is a welcome distraction from forthcoming plans which will involve the tracking of Samuel Schwartz who, Drummer believes, will be on his way out of the country now, encamping himself somewhere he believes to be beyond capture.
For now, the surrounding landscape is our only company - an open panorama which brings a moment of calm to proceedings, although Ariel Drummer remains on guard for any unwanted guests. She sits in the one serviceable chair which is hidden from view - a habit adopted early in a world where potential threats are always live.
The expanse of land surrounding the farm has similar vulnerabilities to the one Alexander Rowe used as a hideout - a strategy that didn’t work out for him.
“Not bad for your first mission, Stone,” Drummer offers as she places the handgun on the wooden floor decorated with the debris of desolation.
I study the landscape from the acute angle our hidden position provides … anyone attempting to navigate their way towards us will be in for a swift demise. “I was wondering if you were aiming at Fenstone instead of the chair.”
Drummer puts her foot on the handgun either out of habit or comfort. “Fenstone will lead us to Samuel Schwartz,” she replies. “And if you’re referencing my desire for revenge, then yes, I’d love to kill them all for their role in my father’s death, but we all know the risks when we sign up. My father was no different.”
Drummer hides her grief well … something you learn to mask along with fear and other emotions which limit your effectiveness. Collateral damage is part of the fabric of this life … sometimes on the enemy’s side and sometimes not.
“Where’s Schwartz likely to run to?” I ask, manoeuvring the shards of glass out of harm’s way with my left foot - the broken lightbulb shattered in my engagement with Simon Fenstone on our arrival here.
“Germany,” Drummer replies. “His place of birth and where he has a host of properties and police protection. Getting to him now will have a heightened level of risk.”
“Without Schwartz, we haven’t neutralised the risk of him influencing other agents and politicians, meaning civilians remain at risk.”
“Right, which is where Ingram comes in … at his own leisure, of course.”
A comment which makes me think of the true architect of events … a man whose role in the shadow organisation I work for is unclear … except for one thing: his unrivalled power.
George Ingram makes his appearance some hours later, accompanied by his usual security detail and a briefcase he carries in his left hand. He’s decided on a more sombre attire today, an all black ensemble which may symbolise the funereal nature of forthcoming events. Samuel Schwartz, I quickly gather, is to be neutralised without prejudice - a figure high on the list of wanted targets for his global operations which will inevitably end in death for dark profit.
With Ingram’s security team adopting familiar positions within and outside the abandoned farmhouse, Ingram places the briefcase on the remnants of a kitchen surface before attending to business in his inimitable fashion.
“A striking panorama,” Ingram begins, opening the briefcase to reveal a small, surveillance device. “One we should not dwell on for long for, no doubt, Fenstone’s security guard will be communicating with certain figures of power regarding your brief encounter this morning.”
Ingram takes a device out of the briefcase and hands it to Ariel Drummer who appears to recognise it.
“It seems that Samuel Schwartz has decided to retaliate to our interference in his dark web of chaos; a co-ordinated attack in the centre of Birmingham to make a not-so-subtle point.”
Drummer inspects the surveillance device that contains earphones and a circular extension, allowing covert access to others’ conversations. “We have a target?”
Ingram hands Drummer a business card with a collection of hand-drawn streets and a building numbered and circled in red. “The driver of the operation who has done well to avoid coming up on our radar - until now. Dismantle with care, Drummer; the target has a wife and young family.”
Drummer pockets the surveillance device and picks up the handgun from the wooden chair.
“What about Schwartz?” I ask, gathering that he is soon to be my responsibility.
“Hiding in plain sight in a small town near Siegen, Germany. Consider this your final audition, Stone. You will acquire the necessary equipment via your contact soon after landing at Düsseldorf Airport.” Ingram hands me a passport and a business card.
The passport uses my new identity - Solomon Stone - and the card has a code on it. “A private number plate of a vehicle awaiting your arrival once you land in Dusseldorf. You will be provided with an update on Schwartz on arrival.”
With the code on the business card committed to memory, I wonder what else is hidden in Ingram’s briefcase.
“Suffice it to say that Schwartz will be expecting
you, Stone.”
“What’s the expected outcome?” I ask as Ingram closes the briefcase.
“A killshot,” Ingram replies. “Schwartz is a particularly unpleasant character who will continue to orchestrate destruction until he is neutralised. Other agents will be in place in the event of complications. Schwartz is a seasoned player, Stone: thorough and ruthless in his methods.”
I study Ingram momentarily, attempting to find a crack in his armour which will signal the choice of sending a lone agent on a mission with slim odds. As if he senses my question, Ingram steps towards me, placing a hand on my shoulder - a move which brings back the feelings of unease on my first meeting with this master of shadows.
“To have the advantage is one thing, Stone,” he says quietly, glancing at Ariel Drummer as if this statement is meant for her as well. “To engage a target at a distinct disadvantage is the true essence of those we choose to embed in our organisation; therefore, the ability to strike whilst already on someone’s radar is your final rehearsal. Drummer will leave you the BMW which you will use to depart for Dusseldorf this evening. We will leave together to ensure safe passage for all of us.”
Ingram offers a hand which I take, unable to ascertain the source of his ability to command the compliance of others.
“Looks like you’ve made it onto someone’s hit list,” Drummer adds as a parting shot, seeming to view this as the mark of an established shadow agent: one who hits the target whilst in the crosshairs of the enemy.
The silent figures who have accompanied Ingram here move into position as we turn to leave the derelict farmhouse, the surrounding landscape offering a reminder of the solitude I left behind to adopt a new identity. A solitude that serves me well in moments such as these … hours from a target with the odds stacked in their favour … short odds which will stretch into less favourable ones once I’m in range.