Run With The Brave

by Run

  Suddenly a peon rushed forward, jumped on the animal’s back and thrust a knife expertly into Insurrecto’s neck, severing the spinal cord, killing the beast instantly.

  Ryder struggled to push the bull away, kicking madly at underbelly, genitals, anywhere to keep those deadly hoofs at bay and somehow managing to avoid the nerve-driven flaying legs. Finally, after what seemed a lifetime, its death throes ended and he scrambled to his feet, shaken and bruised, thankful no bones had been broken and grateful to still be alive.

  Mobbed by the jubilant crowd, strong hands swept him off his feet, hoisting him high on the shoulders of two swarthy Spaniards who carried him in triumph along the concrete tier, attempting to get him down into the ring for a victory circuit. Once down in the passageway between the ring and the stands, he was besieged by journalists bombarding him from every direction.

  “Eso fue algo muy valiente. Que te hizo hacerto?” shot one overly excited young man, pushing a microphone into his face.

  Then another from a gaunt oldie: “Arriesgando su vida de esa manero salvo a muchos. Como te sienties?”

  “Estaba usted no tiene miedo?” This time a young woman from the Diario de Seville.

  How the hell did he know what made him do it, or how he felt at the time; he knew he was risking his life… Yes, he was afraid!

  The questions kept coming, but he pretended not to understand, shaking his head and shouting, “No speak Spanish… No understand.”

  It was frenzied; he had to get away.

  Pushing his way through the throng and flashing cameras with difficulty, he eventually managed to leave the plaza with Sarah in tow and hailed a cab to return to his hotel, eventually losing those journos who had attempted to follow. On arrival he made straight for his room, removed bloodstained clothes, showered, and put on fresh jeans, shirt and trainers before heading back down to the hotel bar where Sarah patiently waited. He ordered a pint of lager, another gin for Sarah, and they both went out to a table on the terrace.

  “Brave thing you did back there, Frank,” she said, sipping her drink and looking at him softly, big hazel eyes conveying concern, hair bleached by the sun falling seductively across her tanned features. “You could’ve been seriously injured – killed even. Those horns were lethal.”

  He liked Sarah, especially when she looked at him that way. From the moment they met at his local, The Prince Albert, only a week back, he’d taken to her. She was fun to be with, looked good and had an easy manner. Glad she had agreed to join him on this trip, he was looking forward to the next few days shopping, sightseeing and attending more bullfights with her – amongst other delights.

  He shrugged.

  “Seriously; it might have killed you,” she finished, concern melting away.

  “Does that mean I get a reward for still being alive?” A grin creased his angular, swarthy features; alert brown eyes glinting under a shock of dark, wavy hair.

  A saucy look crossed her face. “Hey, hero, don’t get your hopes up. Keep doing stupid things like you just did and one day you could run outta luck.”

  With adrenaline still pumping he glanced at the long tanned legs folded opposite him. Suddenly he felt the urge to take her to his room.

  She threw him a knowing look. “You married, Frank?”

  That was a kick; bringing him swiftly back to earth, “Divorced.”

  “Oh, really,” she seemed a little surprised, “How long?”

  “Ten years. She didn’t like army life.” Instantly he regretted saying that. The less people knew of his army connection the better.

  “Sorry to hear – kids?”

  “No,” he shot back; adrenaline dissipating. The break-up had been traumatic. He’d tried to make his marriage work but barrack life and youthful expectations got in the way.

  “So, you’re in the army; guessed you might be.”

  “Was…” a short pause, then inquisitiveness took over, “What makes you think that?”

  “Not sure really, just something about you: precise, authoritative – well-toned, and the way you handled that bull – wow!” she gave him a wicked grin. “You’re quite a mystery, Frank,” she paused to sip her drink, “Anyway, if you’re not in the army, what do you do to pay the rent?”

  “Government courier.”

  She looked at him sideways.

  Definitely time to move on. “You married?”

  She didn’t answer straight away and reached into her bag. “Like a smoke, Frankie?”

  “You smoke?” He was surprised, then, “No thanks. I’ve given up.”

  “Don’t normally, but I need a special now – want one?”

  “Special?” Whoa! Who is this lady? He looked at her in astonishment. Who would’ve thought? He’d not indulged in a joint for over a year but felt tempted after today’s escapade. “What you got?”

  “Dro,” she smiled.

  Hydroponics stuff, normally good he had to admit. One wouldn’t hurt – would it?

  “Pass, but you go ahead,” he replied with a half-smile, softening boyish looks that conveyed a Mediterranean heritage, although both parents had been born in London from Irish and West Country stock.

  She lit a pre-rolled and took a long, hard pull. “To answer your question, Frank: no, I’m not and don’t have anyone special either – do you?”

  “No,” he replied firmly, savouring the smell of the weed with the feeling coming back to get her upstairs.

  “Love the bike, great colour. What is it?” she asked, changing the subject, recalling the pillion ride he’d given her when they first met.

  “You mean the colour, or the bike?”

  “Both,” she shot back with an impish grin. “Very impressive, I have to say.”

  “Harley Fat Boy is the name; ‘Indigo’ is the colour,” he mimicked the song. The bike was his pride and joy. The roar of the 1584cc, twin cam, 96B engine at full throttle with the wind in his face, gave him a priceless feeling of freedom and excitement.

  “You remind me of the guy in that old movie; what’s it called?” She screwed up her nose. “Oh yeah: Easy Rider – a classic,” pausing, then, “Fonda, that’s his name, Peter Fonda,” she giggled. “Hey, Easy Rider, Frank Ryder – Cool.”

  He gave her an indulgent smile – enough with the banter.

  At that moment the hotel desk clerk came over to the table and handed him a note.

  He read quickly and glanced towards the door leading to the foyer. Fuck! What the hell was he doing here? It was Johnny Watson, the unit’s chief of staff.

  He excused himself and headed for the foyer, wondering what was so important to personally bring him all the way down here. It did not bode well for good news.

  “Johnny, how’s things?” They shook hands. “Hope this is not business.”

  “Afraid so,” replied Watson, his large frame decked out in a smart, lightweight cream suit with white open-neck shirt. “You’re wanted back, ASAP.” Green eyes in dark, gaunt features bored into Ryder.

  “Why not page me?”

  “Because, Frank: your pager is bloody well turned off.”

  “I’m supposed to be on holiday, you know. Anyway, how did you find me?”

  “We like to keep a discreet eye on our operatives when on downtime overseas. Could be a few fanatics out there who would welcome the chance to do a number on you,” he shot back.

  Ryder was a little shocked by this revelation. The only way he could track his movements was if he’d been under continuous surveillance. “I thought the unit was supposed to be completely off the books?”

  “It is. As far as Special Branch is concerned you’re just another government employee they have been asked to keep tabs on and protect if necessary. Incidentally, that was a risky – if not damn silly – thing you did at the bullring; could’ve got yourself killed.”

  “I can look after myself,” he shot back, miffed at the intrusion.

  “When on downtime, Frank, you’re supposed to relax, not put yourself unnecessarily at risk.
We don’t want you to worry about your back when you’re supposed to be having a break otherwise you’ll end up in a mental institution. We have invested a lot of time and effort – not to mention money – in getting you to this level, we expect you not to do stupid things.”

  True. Maybe he should spend more time in good old England instead of chasing abroad. “Why send you and not a messenger, or get one of the guys you have on my tail to tell me?”

  “The boss thought it important enough for me to come and get you personally; make sure you responded in a hurry.” Watson reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out e-airline tickets and waved them at Ryder. “We fly out in two hours.”

  “How important?”

  “You’ll have to wait and see.”

  Watson seeking him out personally made him more than apprehensive for what might be in store. If the chief of staff did know he would not say anyway. He went back to the terrace with a little regret that he would have to forsake Seville and Sarah.

  “Have to get back?” she cried when he gave her the bad news. “And miss all the fun? We’ve only been here a few days! Do you have to?”

  “Wanted at the office.”

  “Surely you’re entitled to a break for Christ’s sake; you’re a government courier, not a bloody cabinet minister… or, or a bloody secret agent!” she shot, waving her arms in the air and laughing.

  If she only knew… He shrugged, gave her a weak smile and said, “Have to leave straight away – like now, so you stay for a few days; do some shopping. Don’t worry about the hotel bill, I’ll cover it.”

  She sulked and said nothing. He’d been looking forward to spending time with this nurse from Clapham, but when the boss called…

  With that, he left the terrace, advised the desk of the new arrangement, and went to his room. After quickly packing, he and Watson left in a taxi. During the journey to Seville’s San Pablo Airport, Ryder reflected on the sacrifices made working for Queen and Country: time was hardly ever his own and lately there seemed to be less and less, even to prepare for operations. This hurried return to London had all the hallmarks of yet another. However, despite this, he accepted his lot. It was a far cry from the streets of Brixton; the drugs, the alcohol and street gangs that dominated his early life before the army took him on at eighteen and gave him the discipline he needed and a purpose to his life. He was proud he’d got off that dead-end road he was following. Days spent with the 1st Battalion Parachute Regiment and then 22 SAS were good, especially the times spent with fellow soldiers in the Hereford pubs and the gruelling training sessions in the Brecons and in the hot, steamy jungles of Belize. But it was in his current quasi-civilian capacity in the ‘unit’ that he was most proud of, finding fulfilment of a kind as a no-holds-barred paramilitary with this ultra-secret organisation, operating covertly in some of the world’s most dangerous places.

  3

  At 0200 the chauffeur-driven Jaguar that brought them direct from Gatwick swept in through the gates and pulled into a dimly lit yard. Watson and Ryder stepped out and strode towards a plain entrance with a plaque on the side wall displaying ‘General Commodities Ltd.’ Underneath the plaque was a small circular glass aperture set into the wall into which both men stared. The iris scanner confirmed ID, the metal door clicked open and they entered.

  Inside the darkened two-storey plain brick building, empty at this late hour apart from several security personnel patrolling the corridors, they headed towards a lit staircase at the rear. The building, in the shadow of the redundant Fulham Power Station, had once served as a factory/warehouse but was now the headquarters of the off-the-books arm of the British Secret Intelligence Service. The unit, code-named ‘Omega’, had evolved within the SIS to primarily combat the ever increasing terrorist threat and to carry out necessary lethal and unpalatable activities to protect the nation without the constraints of the law. Working for the unit, after selection from the SAS, Ryder had finally found his niche. He liked to work alone, knew the risks, and fully understood that the Establishment would deny all knowledge of his existence. Only the chief of the SIS and a handful of others knew of Omega and the operations it carried out.

  Ryder and the chief of staff climbed the stairs to the first-floor offices, showed security passes to the two guards at the top and were escorted down a short corridor to an office at the end. Knocking, the guard ushered them in.

  George Conway sat at his desk but did not look up from the report he was reading.

  “Take a seat.” He gestured towards the two chairs opposite his desk. The rectangular office with the large mahogany desk, Conway’s black leather recliner, the two Queen Ann chairs and a long credenza adorning the wall behind the desk would be considered sparsely furnished. The cream-coloured carpet together with cream walls gave the room a rather bland flavour. The only relief on the walls: a large, flat TV and a few original landscape paintings. A large green pot stood in one corner housing a tropical plant that looked to Ryder like a cascading waterfall. The room was windowless.

  He finally looked up. “Sorry for the lateness of the hour. Good trip back, gentlemen?” Then, staring directly at Ryder: “Hope I didn’t drag you away from anything important, Frank?”

  Good sign. Called by his first name and not by his official designation, O3 (Omega 3), confirmed whatever was coming was not going to be heavy. The boss did not stand on ceremony with the agents he controlled and Ryder appreciated the familiarity; it made him feel like not just a number. “No, sir; quite boring really.”

  Watson stifled a smile; went to say something, but refrained.

  “I trust you are fully recovered from the last job?”

  The shoulder wound Ryder received in North Korea had now fully healed but it had taken longer than anticipated. Maybe the assignment had taken more out of him than he cared to admit.

  Conway removed his horn-rimmed glasses and placed them on the desk. Looking intently at both men with steel-blue eyes he said, “Sorry I can’t offer tea at this hour; perhaps a whisky?”

  “Love one, sir,” Ryder replied. This was a rare opportunity not to be missed.

  Watson declined.

  An almost imperceptible smile crossed Conway’s features as he opened the credenza, took out two glasses and a bottle of Macallan single malt, poured one for Ryder and one for himself.

  “Cheers,” he said, raising glass. This thin, middle-aged man, softly spoken with a mop of white hair, could be mistaken for a college professor instead of a high-ranking officer in the SIS. As deputy head of the Special Operations Directorate he ran the unit and its several agents with a no-nonsense attitude and a respect for the operatives he controlled. From his many years operating alongside the nefarious activities of global espionage he understood better than most the murky and evil aspects of the world in which he and his agents operated. Experience told him and a few others in the hierarchy of the Secret Service that killing was the only thing understood by fanatical terrorism, and that legal niceties and international protocols should not be allowed to stand in the way of the defence of the realm.

  Conway sipped at his drink and leaned back in the recliner.

  “Okay, Frank. No doubt you are wondering why you have been recalled so suddenly, and as I don’t want to keep you here any longer than necessary, let me get straight to the point,” he said, opening a file in front of him.

  “Do you need me to take notes on this one, George?” said Watson.

  “No, not on this occasion; but thank you. We have a job for you, Frank. This one I can only describe as a working holiday to make up for the one you’ve just been dragged away from.”

  “Don’t tell me; watching Russian spies on a Caribbean beach,” said Ryder, savouring his malt.

  “Not quite, but how does babysitting an American Special Forces team grab you?”

  “It doesn’t. The Yanks don’t need to be babysat. Their SFs are almost as good as our own.”

  “Maybe so, but they need us for what they have in mind.”

>   “And what might that be, sir?”

  “Apparently it’s a somewhat sensitive operation. At this stage they want to keep it under wraps – a ‘need-to-know’ basis – keep things close to their chests.”

  “So much for the so-called ‘special relationship’,” Ryder fired back.

  Conway ignored his remark and moved on. “The operation is to be undertaken in Tehran and our network cells are needed to assist in what it involves. That’s why you have been called in urgently.”

  “Why not use their own?” Ryder looked askance at the boss, then at Watson, baffled.

  “Apparently they were all ready to go from a base in Turkey when the mission was suddenly aborted due, by all accounts, to their own network in Tehran being seriously compromised to the extent it’s now almost non-existent. In one big hit seventy per cent of the network was either killed or arrested. To avoid standing down the mission they have asked us if they could use our cells to get their people in.” Conway gave Ryder a wry smile before continuing, “We believe in the ‘special relationship’, so of course we agreed. They are aware our networks have grown in strength and quality in recent years, especially in Tehran.”

  On Conway’s cue, Watson spoke next, “Iranian security is cunning and brutal as you well know, Frank. The Tehran networks are stable at the moment, but the whole political scene is very fluid. We continue to lose some cells through infiltration. They need to know they’re dealing with someone they can trust. You’re known through your efforts to help organise them last year, that’s why you have to go and no one else. We have already made initial contact and they are prepared to help, on condition you’re part of the team. You’ll accompany the Americans to Tabriz, then on to Tehran. Once they’re in safe houses you are to return via the usual route back into Turkey.”