by E G Ellory
Being on someone’s hit list is an expected consequence of my success thus far, although until they can anticipate my appearance, I’ll have the upper hand. For now, it’s time to remain camped up in this hotel room until evening passes into night, the eventual morning light a sign I need to prepare for the return flight to England.
There will be no driver this time, the most an agent ever receives being a drop off - after which it is success or abandonment to your fate. Illegals - shadow agents - only have the protection of the ghostlike agencies they work for, if they survive a mission … dead agents are left in the battlefield until an unmarked grave is offered by the country of their demise.
Placing a chair under the door handle of the hotel room, I undress and inspect the leg wound, the attention given to it by one of Ingram’s silent security detail accelerating the healing process.
The clothes Ingram offered were abandoned at the farmhouse - a decision made based on the knowledge that carrying two cases would impede my movements. Travelling light is part of the training as is the ability to stay awake for long periods of time, something which will be helped by a cold shower.
A slight ringing in my ears remains as the shower washes away the mission - a type of cleansing which ensures I spend no time dwelling on death. Part of the art of this life is the ability to fall forwards … the art of perpetual motion rejecting the temptation to look back. All strikes eradicate a disease which, if left to spread, generates greater levels of destruction.
Once showered, and with the ringing in my ears fading, I sit on the bed, leaving the chair perched under the door handle. Complacency is a fatal friend, leaving the door open to others like me so I remain upright on the bed, switching between the news of my strike and entertainment channels which quickly become numbing, largely because my German is rudimentary, at best.
Knowing sleep isn’t an option, I phone down for a simple meal and prepare to get ready for a long evening in a familiar environment of isolation: the natural state of things, these days.
Morning arrives and the hum around the hotel has lessened somewhat, rumours of a terrorist attack now replaced with news of Samuel Schwartz’s connections to organised crime - the intelligence machine in operation once more to divert the authorities’ attention, offering some sense that innocent civilians are not under threat.
This is true, of course, and acts as another loose end to ensure the dismantling operation is thorough, beginning with the exposure of Samuel Schwartz as the architect of attacks on English soil to destabilise political and financial infrastructures for personal gain.
Dominic Hass and Simon Fenstone will be added to the mix, ensuring maximum damage to their reputation. The next phase will be freezing their assets as the investigation around their role in state terror goes into overdrive: all courtesy of Andrew Levy’s dossier with a little help from me.
Aside from a greater police presence on the streets of Siegen, civilian life returns to normal as I make my way to the train station. Staying awake throughout the night brings the expected fatigue, and I receive a few looks from passengers who seem on edge after yesterday’s news of an attack nearby.
I imagine my mixed-race heritage isn’t helping to assuage the unease of the elderly group who sit opposite … if only they knew … a thought which draws the trace of a smile as the train moves through the North Rhine-Westphalia - the relative piece the journey offers a welcome break from a period of inflicting pain.
As I close my eyes, thoughts turn to Ariel Drummer and her operation to intercept a planned attack on the city of Birmingham; I have no doubt she’s been successful as no news of such an attack has appeared on any news channels. For now, it seems, the orchestrated chaos set into motion by an elite few has been muted.
12
Familiar Company
The return flight back to Heathrow isn’t a peaceful affair, a group of alcohol-fuelled revellers feeling the need to entertain whilst ignoring the flight attendant’s request to remain seated. Their singing and drunken interaction is treated with typical English restraint as the male flight attendant finally gives up, disappearing behind the curtain towards the pilot’s cabin to communicate the mild melee.
Thankfully, I’m positioned near the rear of the plane at a safe distance from the group whose annoying antics continue to be tolerated by the other passengers. I’m hoping they don’t decide to entertain us all because my sleep-deprived state is unlikely to be so accommodating.
My hope is short-lived, however, as one of the women begins to stumble, deciding she needs to sit down at the back of the plane to ‘get some air’. What air she’s referring to is anyone’s guess, but it doesn’t take long for two of her male companions to check on her, placing them in close proximity to me: a passenger with a burgeoning headache and limited patience.
Something tells me this isn’t going to end well. As I turn to look out of the window, hoping this will present the pose of a preoccupied traveller, I feel a tap on my shoulder and turn to look up at one of the men, standing over me.
“You all right there, mate?” he asks, fumbling over the words as he rests his hand on the back of the seat, minimising his swaying motion.
“Fine.”
“You look a bit bothered that we’ve moved up here.”
“Not at all. Carry on,” I say, offering him a polite smile that his alcohol-fuelled state reads to be something else.
“Carry on…? What … are you given us permission to have a good time?”
“I’m not a great flyer.”
“Should have had a few drinks to take the edge off,” he offers just before the plane drops momentarily, causing his hand to slip off the back of the seat, sending him tumbling into me.
I ease him upwards, already aware of the air of aggression within him; alcohol is soporific for some, an aphrodisiac for others and a violent trigger for too many men like this one … short, slight and with a need to prove his masculine prowess. Unfortunately for him, he’s chosen the wrong man to exercise this insecurity on.
He clambers to his feet only to sway backwards again, like a dazed boxer trying to get his bearings, eventually resting his body against my chair, his elbow knocking into my shoulder. I’m conscious that by shifting position, he’s likely to lose his balance and fall back onto me, but at least this will begin the end of his drunken performance … so I shift closer to the window to move away from his protruding elbow, triggering the expected anger as he loses his balance once more.
He swings wildly with his right, the lack of technique and timing making it easy to slip before I place a short punch to his liver which sends him wheezing to the ground, bringing a hushed silence from some and applause from others.
His male counterpart looks over - the female companion asleep now, head hanging above her lap rather comically. I shoot him a stare to suggest what’s coming to him if he attempts anything. He checks on his friend who’s still struggling to catch his breath.
“He’ll live,” I comment before returning my attention to the window. It seems the party is over for now.
Ariel Drummer meets me at arrivals, offering a mildly sarcastic wave to signal her presence in the crowds of gathered family and friends. I follow the train of people out of arrivals towards her, the only passenger appearing without any luggage, returning to familiar company within an ever evolving world of espionage.
“How was the flight?” Drummer asks, her expression signalling that the question is a metaphor for the operation on Samuel Schwartz.
“Fine.”
“Birmingham?”
“Sorted,” she says casually as we make our way out of the airport terminal towards an unknown destination. For someone so reliant on routine in my past life, living in the moment is strangely freeing, adding an exhilarating quality to life without which, the numbing nature of things returns.
“I’m surprised you’re here,” I comment as we walk towards the taxi rank under a grey London sky.
“Ingram’s invited u
s to dinner.”
I glance at Drummer, used to her flippant manner now.
“‘Dinner’ obviously means a debriefing before the inevitable discussion of new targets.”
“I don’t picture Ingram as the domesticated type.”
“Far from it. We’ll be given the address via a dead drop near Kensington Gardens. You look tired; sleepless night?”
“Something like that.”
“I know what’ll cheer you up,” Drummer adds with a familiar touch of flirtation, and I allow a smile in return, beginning to believe she does have the tools to penetrate anyone’s armour.
The dead drop takes place on Chapel Side, a narrow lane of well-presented apartments running adjacent to Moscow Road: a strange coincidence, perhaps. We make our way here after Ariel Drummer’s remedy for my tiredness is put on hold … business before pleasure. The dead drop provides the required information and with the familiar business card in hand, we head towards Bedford Gardens House just over half-a-mile away.
Ingram’s temporary residence turns out to be a spectacular Edwardian mansion, converted into luxury apartments worth millions, befitting a man of his stature. A subtle sign of Ingram’s power and influence are the two cars parked outside: security detail, no doubt. There will be more security inside, protecting one of the intelligence community’s most prized assets - a man whose subtle venom has found favour within a secret intelligence group.
“Ingram’s certainly got style,” Ariel Drummer comments as we nod to the security team stationed in the cars - the team who will communicate our arrival to Ingram.
Once inside, we make our way up to the fourth floor, Drummer and I exchanging a glance as we approach the door. I press the bell, getting no response which makes me wonder if this is another of Ingram’s puzzles. Thankfully, the sound of footsteps suggest otherwise as the door is opened by a member of his security detail - another silent figure with disdain for social pleasantries.
We’re led to the main lounge where we find the ever-stylish figure of George Ingram standing by a large bay window: lord of his empire. A period tea table occupies the centre of the room, suggesting a celebration of some sort, although meetings with Ingram rarely follow a simple narrative.
“The accoutrements of wealth,” Ingram utters from the window, his blue pin-striped suit creating the impression of a city banker, and I wonder again at his life before entering the organisation known only as SALVO.
“It’s good to see you both in one piece,” he then adds, turning to face us. He holds a silver lighter in his right hand, turning it slowly as he moves across the room towards the empty tea table. “You seem to have a certain knack for dismantling, Stone … enacting subtle surrender in a fashion quite fitting to our aims.”
I want to ask what these aims are but think better of it, remembering Ingram’s comment that ‘the nature of intelligence is to suggest everything and reveal nothing’: all will be revealed in time.
“Your assessment, Ariel,” Ingram then requests as the silent member of his security team brings out a bottle of wine and three glasses.
“Fit for purpose,” Ariel Drummer adds, the briefest of smiles suggesting a level of innuendo.
“So, to the purpose of our little soirée,” Ingram continues as he opens the bottle of white wine with an elaborate contraption. With the wine bottle open, he continues. “With one fire successfully out, we turn our attention to a new puzzle. A group who, unlike the targets we have recently neutralised, don’t want to own the world but, rather, want to see it burn.”
“A national threat?” Drummer asks, eyeing the wine.
“International.” Ingram adjusts his dark blue tie before returning his attention the wine. “A rather faceless crew who will benefit from our particular type of intervention, the details of which will be discussed nearer the time. For now, let’s enjoy our extravagant surroundings: a veritable palace bought with questionable wealth.”
I sip the wine whilst ruminating on the location of the forthcoming mission, my skill as a solitary shadow being brought into play once more.
“So, no dinner?” Ariel Drummer asks in her typically forthright tone.
Ingram offers her a rare smile, flicking open the silver cigarette lighter resting in his right hand. He studies the flame as if he’s searching for an answer within it. “Dinner will, indeed, be served although I will have to depart, leaving the two of you to ponder the puzzle of our new, faceless targets.”
A small nod to his silent security guard signals Ingram’s exit.
“Enjoy the view, and get some rest; communication will follow.”
“He can be a little dramatic,” Ariel Drummer comments as the door to the lavish apartment closes, leaving us together once more in an unfamiliar setting: temporary shelter from a gathering storm.
“How’s the wine?” she asks with a familiar smile.
“Nice.”
“You seem a little more alert.”
“Hopefully, I can stay awake through dinner,” I comment, stepping onto her platform of seduction.
“We can always leave out dinner,” Drummer suggests, and I put down the wine, happy to put my new ghost existence on hold.
Solomon Stone: ready to enjoy the view.
Buy the prequel
Also by E.G. Ellory
Ghostwalking: A Solomon Stone Prequel
Killing Symphony
About the Author
E.G. ELLORY is the writer of short thrillers.
Ghostwalking is the introduction to the Solomon Stone series of espionage-thrillers.
Book 1 in the main series, First Storm, is out on 11th June 2019.
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