by Greg Hunt
This helped to make the drive fly by. All those invited to the birthday party were to be Canadian canoeing at Symonds Yat on the River Wye. In the back of his mind Archie was thinking that if he couldn’t woo Emma Canadian canoeing, with a warm up drink with the rest of the crowd afterwards in a comfortable hostelry, with a roaring fire burning, then he might as well give up. With his background, Archie was a dab hand at outdoor pursuits, but always the gentleman, very modest with it. This was his real chance, doing an activity where he really would not have to worry about anything and could leave his attention on only one thing.
He turned off the main A-road that he had been following for the last thirty minutes and wound the car down into the valley of the Wye. Surrounded by woodland, it was a peaceful, tranquil setting. A wonderful break from the frantic comings and goings of the last couple of weeks. His operational agenda was buried deep away from his current thoughts.
David, the birthday boy, stood tall and was wearing a party hat that had somehow been made to fit over his canoe helmet. He was surrounded by a mixed crowd of friends and relations of all ages and laughed in amusement as someone slapped his wetsuit cladded posterior with the back of a paddle blade.
As Archie pulled up close to the birthday party group he spied Emma standing on her own, her hair flowing in the breeze and catching the dappled light. Archie caught a lump in his throat and looked down slightly.
Emma played mixed-hockey each week. It was at her hockey practices that she had noticed a very talented hockey player who was athletic and funny. He always had people hanging around him of both genders. They seemed to be attracted to his invisible magnetism and enormous sense of humour. Emma was also affected by his warmth and character. He was a vital member of the team and never missed any practices or matches.
She had gone on to befriend David over a number of weeks and it was when she stopped round for a quick cup of tea after a hockey practice session that she first met Archie.
Plucking up his courage, Archie waved and to his joy Emma and David waved back simultaneously. Then Archie’s phone rang; it was Commander Edgar Bennett. Archie’s smile evaporated and his waving hand fell to his lap. He took the call and listened intently.
The Commander confirmed his worst suspicions. “We need you to report in immediately, Lieutenant. There have been developments.”
Chapter 6
Commander Edgar Bennett looked at Lieutenant Archie Malcolm with a pained expression. “You’re late,” he said.
Archie nodded and gazed directly at the Commander, waiting for the important work that was to be thrust at him, having been pulled away from Emma. No doubt the birthday party group were well on their way down the River Wye, relishing the activity and drinking in the scenery.
The word “late” took Archie straight back to his school days in the Navy CCF. This Combined Cadet Force gave him a free insight into the world of the armed forces. At tax payer’s expense, Archie undertook sailing courses in the Firth of Forth, mastering helming the bosun dinghies under the Edinburgh road and rail bridges. Near Poole Harbour in Dorset he went on to understand air acquaintance. He had liked the roar of the Sea King helicopters and, from Liverpool, he was able to go to sea in a naval Frigate. Archie had become adept at identifying the ways and laws of the sea and, in his spare time, he had studied and studied to understand more.
In his final year at school, Archie was able to meet with the Navy Schools Liaison Officer. This meeting took place on the third floor of one of the many old Victorian red brick buildings that were at the school.
Archie had been playing football during the lunchtime break and all his concentration had been on driving his team forward to ensure that they won the friendly match. Whilst it might have been called a friendly, Archie was in no mood to lose easily. He was prepared to keep running, keep tackling and generally be in the way of the opposition until his side won. Meanwhile, the Liaison Officer in his third floor room within the Victorian red brick building noticed that Archie had lost track of time.
Even though Archie entered the interview room, by his account, bang on the dot of when he should have been there, the Navy Officer let Archie know that punctuality was a core ingredient of the armed forces. He was told that he would not last long if he was late again. It was a lesson that he had tried to remember.
The Commander continued. “Archie, I want you to spearhead the naval taskforce in our fight against illegal imports, especially the growing cocaine trade through our waters and onwards to a sophisticated distribution network. It is currently a blight on our borders and I want you to take full control to curb this activity.”
At last, this was exactly what Archie wanted, some measure of responsibility. An active assignment where he could take the lead and not just be another dogsbody, following in the footsteps of whichever boss was chosen for the task at hand. He hid his surprise.
“You do realise the current minimal resources that we have at our disposal, sir?” Malcolm clipped out.
“For the next six months Archie,” the Commander sighed, “You will receive whatever reasonable and justifiable support you deem necessary.”
Chapter 7
Since going to University, Archie had fallen in love with bell-ringing. A funny thing to fall in love with. A specialist activity you would think, but in terms of his alternative role in the armed forces it had always allowed him to be anywhere in the country. He could discreetly investigate what he needed to and the pastime provided cover throughout the day and evening for his daytime and nocturnal activities.
He had found campanologists to be a mixed bunch as a whole. Like so many pursuits, only men took part until the mid-twentieth century, and he could well believe, as he had been told, that not long before then every ringing chamber had a barrel of beer easily accessible to the ringers.
The image of the leather sandal, beer barrel bellied and bearded, middle aged man and his secretive hobby had moved on, but to be a campanologist was still a pastime not fully understood. The exercise was still viewed as secretive, with its societies and guilds, and many of the inner groups were by invitation only.
Archie, with his innate sense of rhythm, natural team playing abilities and dedication to hard work, did not take up the challenge lightly. If he could take forward a new activity, he always wanted to excel and this was particularly the case with this new hobby. A mix of physical exercise, rhythm, memorising of patterns and an ability to be aware of what all the ringers in the tower and their respective ropes were doing, Archie quickly caught on and proved himself to be a natural.
Most ringers would take a year just to learn how to handle the bell and be fully competent with their rope. The two part motion would involve being in control both at hand-stroke, by catching the fluffy “sally”, and then also at back-stroke by holding the “tail end” of the rope. At back-stroke, most of the rope whirls itself into the bell chamber, wrapping itself around the wooden wheel, and Archie had developed a mastery of these basic two elements to have full control over all the bells in the tower within a couple of months.
Furthermore, normally, progression by way of rounds to call changes and then to method ringing would take the average ringer years. Archie grasped the harder methods extremely quickly. His analytical mind and perfect rhythm meant that he had picked up some of the complexities of the more challenging ringing methods within a couple of years. He had recently achieved a complex peal of spliced surprise major rung on eight bells and was currently working towards similar of royal, rung on ten bells.
The ringing band at Portsmouth Cathedral were rightfully proud of Archie and had brought him into the very heart of their group. He had been part of the recent striking competitions held within the Winchester and Portsmouth Diocesan Guild and, whilst not winning this year, he had rung as well as any of the ringers. He had gained their trust and confidence and this was extremely useful to him.
Chapter 8
The docks at Lima in Peru were run down. The
y would have appreciated being torn down, the materials recycled and a fresh new port being created. Obviously impractical and, for a poor country, definitely not possible. So the seafarers of South America and further afield made do with what they had.
The port of Lima was a place that you did not want to stay for any length of time.
This suited Natalia just fine. People in Lima were not aware of her and she did not care about them or anyone that she did not need to know. For those people that needed her and for those people that she needed, Natalia was one to watch in every way.
Natalia was the youngest daughter of Lima’s mafia boss, Helis Morales, and what Senor Morales said was done. He had his fingers in all of Lima’s money-making pies. The tourist trade was a major money-spinner for the Morales family. Senor Morales had made a wealthy living, successfully ripping off many of the tribal peoples of Peru who sought to sell their leather wares, shawls and alpaca or llama goods in the department stores and growing mini-shopping malls at the centre of Peru’s capital.
These goods would have to travel large distances down from the Andes Mountains. The tribal people were not aware of the value of their wares in Europe and the US and, even though they believed they were receiving a fair price, Senor Morales had the contacts and the distribution network to triple the value of these beautifully made and very collectible items.
The leather wallets, bags and belts sold quickest. The market for alpaca shawls and fleeces was rapidly increasing. Senor Morales and his organisation owned the market, ran the market and did everything in their organisation’s power to snuff competition. Any competitors were removed. Permanently.
Natalia enjoyed her work. She took delight in playing with other people’s lives. She glowed warm inside when something she said could bring a look of horror, of animal fear, to a potential competitor. She would gain their confidence and use her sexual charms and flirtatious nature. Although she was not classically attractive, she made people stop and stare and it all helped when blackmailing the opposition. If the blackmail did not work, she talked to her brothers. Her brothers took pride in looking after their baby sister and, if Natalia made a request, they enjoyed seeing it through. Family values were important to the Morales. The kindred spirit ensured none of the Morales let each other down.
So, in full knowledge of the Morales’s family reputation, it was with trepidation that the tribal men now stood in the 1970’s dilapidated warehouse on the edge of Lima docks. The three had met the mule train further south at the foothills of the Andes mountain range. They now gazed intently at the tall Spanish lady, with dark, shoulder length hair, grey-green eyes and dark red lipstick. It exaggerated the slight sneer with which she returned their attempt at eye contact.
“You have not brought all of the packages that we requested you bring senores, why?” Natalia walked close to each man and behind the back of each of them, clicking across the reinforced concrete of the warehouse floor in her impractical stilettos.
Their volunteered leader appealed defensively, “We understand that the Bolivian convoy was attacked by government forces, and that there was a landslide on the normal passage through the high Andes.”
“What has this to do with me?” demanded Natalia. “We make an order, and we expect it to be delivered. If it is not delivered, or part of it is delivered, or it is not of sufficient quality, then there are consequences.”
The leader bravely, or perhaps stupidly, stayed put, “It is not our fault that we have delivered to you only part of what you have ordered, senorita. The matter has been out of our control and we require our normal payment for bringing the remainder of the order to you.”
Natalia looked at all three men calmly and directly in the eyes, “I think you will learn not to cross the Morales family. This is an insult, and we do not like being insulted.”
Natalia indicated to her elder brothers who had been standing in the shadow of the steel portal frame.
“Brothers, I need you to deal with these men,” and she turned away and clipped across the warehouse floor, back into the dirt and grime of Lima docks.
Chapter 9
The beautiful mountain lodge was surrounded by fresh snow. The castellated ridges beyond had just caught the dawn and the tips had turned an incredible pink. The pink was similar to the pale flush of cold cheeks.
As the day began, the pink light descended down the breathtaking mountain landscape every couple of minutes. Slowly at first, and then slightly faster, the light crept towards the wooden chimney of the stunningly situated property, the only sign of human habitation in this very remote valley.
Any sounds would carry. Whilst at first glance the scenery might have been considered a poor habitat, it managed to support a surprising number of species. The marmot type rodents nibbled away at fallen bark, scampering across the snow at night, yet they always made sure they were back in their burrows before sunrise. The huge birds of prey adorning the rocky crags had panoramic views and used the air currents to move with ease. Occasionally, wild deer would venture up to these higher areas, but this was usually during the short summer season.
A light plume of smoke emanated from the top wooden chimney of the mountain lodge. A clear visible sign that the property was occupied. The lodge was indeed inhabited and, for the purposes of the French Alpine Authorities, this was just another holiday home being rented out.
The seclusion of this lodge was special, considering its general location within the French Alps. The neighbouring valleys contained much of the French winter skiing heartland. The resorts of La Plagne and Les Arcs, joined for the first time in 2004 by a super lift called the Vanoise Express, lay just over the rise where the light had first hit the highest peaks. The nearest valley in the opposite direction held Les Trois Vallées with the popular favourites of Courcheval, Meribel/Mottaret and Val Thorens, with La Tania nestled at their base.
It was a beautiful spot. The chalet’s privacy had allowed the man currently chopping wood in the small alpine forest, approximately three miles – or since he was in the Alps, five kilometres – from the mountain retreat, to carry out his duties over the last few weeks. His forehead started to perspire as he brought the axe down on yet another fallen trunk. His manner was no-nonsense. He wore walking boots which could strap onto snow shoes for moving across this terrain and the previous weeks had honed his physique. The walking boots were old-fashioned leather and his deer-stalker hat and overcoat, removed to chop the wood, gave him a hunter’s appearance. He was middle-aged. The type of appearance where it would be difficult to tell if he was thirty-seven or in his early fifties, yet the alpine air and sun had weathered the hardy face. He had a distinguishable scar on his forehead and his forearms, now exposed since the removal of the overcoat, hinted at the power of the man.
He had brought along a flask, and a small rucksack held his sandwiches. The tranquillity and serenity of the surroundings meant that he was more than satisfied just gazing away from the edge of the forest to the landscape beyond. If he stood and climbed onto the pile of logs that he had chopped that morning, he was able to glimpse the Mont-Blanc massif. Mont-Blanc, at over four thousand eight hundred metres, was the Queen of the mountains within the French Alps.
For a hunter and wood-chopper he was extremely well equipped. In fact, the mountain lodge was a veritable electronic paradise. The ultra-modern, lightweight, small gadgets that adorned his temporary home meant that reception of any type of communication, despite being in the heart of the mountain range, was surprisingly clear.
Whilst day-dreaming, gazing at the beautiful view, his pager went off. Normally, a surprisingly piercing beep in the heart of this uninhabited mountain valley, thank goodness he had just set it to vibrate in his pocket. The screen was small but the type was clear: “Go to Code White”. The Woodcutter picked up his snow-shoes and fastened them onto his old-fashioned leather walking boots. He trudged off back to the stunningly-situated, wooden mountain lodge.
Chapter 10
The Woodcutter in the French Alps extended his stride. The snowshoes meant he created little indent in the snow covering. The shoes were designed to spread his weight and make travel relatively simple.
The sun had now fully risen and, as the Woodcutter had already warmed up his muscles chopping the wood, he made short work of the distance back to the mountain lodge. It was an impressive set up. The height of the valley meant that there was permanent snow all year round. The lodge itself had been built into the mountainside with the basement and part of the ground floor tucked underground so that only the first floor with its windows and balconies stood above the ground.
The windows were covered in non-reflective glass and the snow that had fallen layered the roof and most of the surrounds in a natural white blanket. The property was extremely discreet and very difficult to find.
The basement areas had equipment stores with a couple of skidoos, hundreds of metres worth of climbing rope and related kit. This area of the lodge was an Aladdin’s cave of outdoor equipment. Not only was there the standard mountain material of ice axes, crampons, winter coats, and thermals, but also skiing and boarding equipment to provide for the full adventurer’s playground. The structural walls had also been modified, with exits leading above ground to allow for an escape, so that skidoos and other craft could leave the property extremely quickly.
The ‘pièce de resistance’ was the relaxation zone. Just up from the basement area, a pine sauna room and separate changing area, incorporating a shower, had been fitted, which led onto the Jacuzzi and small heated pool.
The main stairs from the basement lockers then led up to the ground floor, which held the communal seating area, kitchen and dining zone.