Hard Targets
A Doc Palfrey Omnibus
Richard Creasey
© Richard Creasey 2013
Richard Creasey has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published 2012 by Endeavour Press Ltd.
Richard Creasey would like to acknowledge the assistance of Andrew Cartmel in writing this book.
Table of Contents
Introduction: Who is Doc Palfrey
Wings Of Fear
Burning Night
Deadly Sleep
Extract from Ocean Strike by Damien Lewis
Introduction: Who is Doc Palfrey
Famed thriller writer John Creasey was a legend in his lifetime and achieved international sales in the region of 100 million books. Outstanding amongst his many world-famous characters was the unforgettable Dr Palfrey.
Now John Creasey’s son Richard is creating a new generation of Palfrey adventures featuring Thomas ‘Doc’ Palfrey, grandson of the original hero.
A war hero brutally wounded in combat, Doc Palfrey has become a top operative in Z5, a clandestine international intelligence organisation dedicated to fighting threats against mankind.
Z5 operates with a disregard for geographical boundaries and with the tacit support of governments worldwide. Their agenda is not to further anyone’s national interests but rather to protect humanity from the new and ever more deadly threats thrown up by our increasingly complex and interconnected world.
Z5 is under the leadership of the formidable Marion Palfrey – Doc’s mother and she’ll never let him forget it. Second in command is Sofia Forli, who operates out of a high tech lair at the airport of Milan, where she directs research and development on Z5’s vanguard weaponry and hardware.
In charge of the London office is another remarkable woman, Doc’s beautiful and exotic lover Benadir Abhilasha.
Using cutting edge technology — and raw courage — Doc and the other Z5 agents fight against the most ancient of evils, in whatever new guises they may appear.
Wings Of Fear
1: Charity Ball
“How’s your leg?” said Benadir, her eyebrows angled over her dark eyes in enquiry.
“It’s fine,” said Doctor Thomas ‘Doc’ Palfrey. He spoke more curtly than he intended because she was right. His leg was bothering him, more than he had wanted to admit. Doc could have sworn he hadn’t given any outward sign of his discomfort, but as always she had read him like a book.
Benadir Abhilasha was just one year younger than Doc’s 27 years. She was almost as tall as he was, standing beside him in her high heels and the scarlet Dior dress that looked so well against her dark skin. Her raven-black hair was cut boyishly short and she wore a pearl necklace at her throat, all white pearls with a single pink one at the centre.
Doc reflected that she’d seldom looked lovelier, although just at the moment her face was pinched with concern. “Let’s find somewhere you can sit down.” Doc sighed inwardly. She would ignore all his denials, and there wasn’t much he could do about it. Benadir was a strong-headed woman and when she decided to set her mind on a course of action, that was that.
Right now she was scanning the crowds around them that filled the atrium of La Scala, the Milan opera house. They were all chic, affluent, smartly dressed. The beautiful people. Even Doc was wearing a tuxedo. “Not a chair in sight,” she said. “You’d think they’d have somewhere to sit down at the opera.” She smiled at him. “What happens when they perform Wagner? You wouldn’t want to stand through The Ring Cycle.”
“I wouldn’t want to sit through it,” said Doc. “I’ll be fine when we go inside, when the show starts. There’s plenty of seating in the auditorium.”
“What do they have in store for us?” said Benadir, studying the program they’d been handed at the door. Its cover showed the face of a young black girl, thin and undernourished, all big eyes staring out, under the logo Africa Child.
“Just highlights, thank heaven,” said a voice behind them. They turned to see Eleanor Forli and her daughter-in-law. Eleanor was a wizened American widow in her seventies, with pale skin and white hair and the deep carved lines on her smiling face that suggested someone who had once been a heavy smoker. Beside her stood Sofia Forli, with auburn hair and olive skin, also a widow although only in her thirties.
Jack Forli had been Sofia’s husband and Eleanor’s son. He had worked for Z5 and died in the line of duty. Now Sofia ran Z5’s Milan HQ and Eleanor had come over from America to live with her. It was a slightly unconventional arrangement, but Sofia appreciated the help with the twins, her two young daughters. And the girls were all that Eleanor had left.
“I wasn’t expecting to see you guys here,” said Doc. He was glad at their appearance, and the distraction it had brought. It took his mind off of the pain in his leg and averted from what was shaping up to become an argument with Benadir. An argument over trivia.
She didn’t like him being made to stand for long periods and he didn’t like being treated as if he was a cripple.
“So you’re not an opera fan?” Benadir was saying, smiling at the older woman.
“Oh no,” said Eleanor, “give me Michael Bublé any day.”
“What about you?” Benadir looked at Sofia. In the same way Sofia ran Z5 in Milan, Benadir was in charge of the operation in London and Doc had always thought that, under the surface politeness and friendliness, he could detect a competitive edge between the two women.
Sofia shrugged and smiled and accepted a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. “No, I’m afraid I’m a philistine. Do you know; this is the first time I’ve ever even been in our opera house? Disgraceful, I know.”
“I know what you mean,” said Benadir. “I’ve lived in London for years and never once visited the Tower.”
“Not quite the same thing,” said Sofia, sipping her drink.
“Anyway, they’re just opera excerpts,” said Eleanor. “A mercifully brief selection of highlights before they get down to the main business of the evening, which is asking us all to dig into our pockets and donate.”
“Donate?” said Benadir. “They have a cheek. The tickets were expensive enough.”
“You paid for your tickets?” said Sofia. “We were given ours free.”
“Free?”
“Yes, they just arrived in the post.” Sofia turned to Doc. “But what brings you two here? I didn’t even know you were in Milan.” There was an unspoken reprimand in her voice. Theoretically Doc and Benadir should have checked in with the local Z5 operation as soon as they arrived. They were all on the same side, but that didn’t mean Sofia wanted any surprises on her territory.
Before Doc could answer, his phone began to ring. He took it out and suppressed a wince. “Sorry, I’d better take this.” He turned away from the women and moved off into the crowd, exerting all his willpower to avoid limping. Sometimes the pain just came on like this.
Exasperating, pointless pain for a limb that was no longer there.
Doc had lost his left leg in Afghanistan where he’d been serving with 16 Air Assault Brigade. The state of the art prosthetic that he now wore meant, when he was dressed, no one was likely to notice that he was any different from any other husky young man. But the prosthetic couldn’t do anything to prevent the phantom limb pain.
He found a corner of the room where the babble of conversation was at a minimum and answered the phone.
“Do you mind explaining what’s going on?” demanded Marion Palfrey.
“Good evening to you, too, Mother.”
“What on earth are you doing in Milan?”
Doc shrugged, then realised she couldn’t see him. Which was just as well. He’d keep this call voice-only, he decided. The tuxedo he was wearing was brand new, bought for him by Benadir at considerable expense, and he wasn’t keen to hear his mother’s comments on it. “I was just about to explain that to Sofia.”
“Sofia is there too?”
“We just ran into her and Mrs Forli. They were as surprised as we were.”
“I should think so. It’s a complete waste of resources having so many Z5 operatives on the same assignment.”
Despite his best efforts, Doc felt himself beginning to lose his temper. “Well, Mrs Forli isn’t an operative, is she?”
“That’s beside the point.”
“And I don’t think Sofia is on assignment.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I haven’t spoken to her properly yet, but I got the impression she thinks this charity ball is on the level.”
“Then you’d better brief her immediately,” snapped Marion Palfrey. “Make her aware of what we think Africa Child is really up to. I can’t believe you haven’t done that already.”
“I’ll be able to do it as soon as you get off the phone,” said Doc, fighting to keep his voice civil.
“See that you do. And once Sofia is fully briefed then you can start looking at flights back to London.”
Doc felt his face flushing with anger. “Oh no, wait a minute, I don’t think so. We’ve booked a hotel for the weekend.”
“I know. That’s how I managed to discover where you were. Using Z5 funds so you can fly off together on a jolly.”
“A jolly?” Doc could hear his own voice sputtering with rage, but he was helpless to do anything about it. “This is a serious investigation. Benadir and I have reason to believe that Africa Child is a front organisation which is channelling funds to known terrorist groups.”
“And it just so happens that this serious investigation also provides the opportunity for a romantic weekend in one of the most beautiful cities in Europe?” Marion Palfrey’s tone was cutting.
Doc was speechless for a moment. Finally he managed to say, “You don’t think what we’re doing here is important?”
“I think that it’s a matter of priorities,” said his mother. “And at the moment our top priority is intelligence which indicates a credible threat to elements of the US Fifth Fleet in the Arabian Sea. That is where we must concentrate our energies. We are coordinating our investigation into the matter from Digby Mews, so I need my best operative back here in London.”
Doc swallowed his anger, surrendering to the inevitable. The words stuck in his throat but he forced himself to utter them. “All right. But look, I can’t leave tonight.”
“You don’t have to,” said Marion tartly. “You can stay as long as you like. See the sights. Eat pasta. But as I said, I need my best operative here. So Benadir must fly back as soon as humanly possible.”
Marion hung up.
Doc sighed and stared across the crowded room, full of bright, beautiful people saying bright beautiful things.
The Arabian Sea seemed a long way off.
He made his way back through the throng to Benadir and the Forlis, to find that they’d been joined by another couple. Sofia introduced them. “Doc, these are the Benedettis. They also have identical twins.”
“That’s nice,” said Doc. “What a coincidence.”
“Not really,” said Signora Benedetti, a pleasant plump woman who was wearing rather too much perfume. “That is how we met. In a support group for parents of twins.”
“It wasn’t so much a support group,” Sofia corrected her. “It was more of a scientific study. We all had to fill in forms and answer questions. But it did give us the chance to get acquainted. And agree on what little imps from hell our darlings can be.”
Doc was smiling politely and nodding, but he was only half listening. Benadir was looking at him with concern. She could sense that something was wrong. She edged towards him and whispered in his ear. “What’s the matter?”
“That was my mother on the phone,” said Doc. He turned towards Benadir, away from Signora Benedetti just as the woman lifted her hand and pointed. “Look, isn’t that strange?”
“What’s that?” said Eleanor Forli, courteously carrying the conversation as Sofia studied her phone, which had suddenly begun to ring.
“That couple over there,” said Signora Benedetti in a puzzled voice. “We met them at the group. They also have identical twins. Now that really is a coincidence.”
Doc started to explain to Benadir about the phonecall from his mother, their ruined weekend, the bleak prospect of a redeye flight back to Heathrow — because there was no question of him staying here if Benadir went back. But he stopped suddenly.
Because Sofia was gripping his arm, her fingers painful claws digging into his bicep. He turned to look at her. Her face was white.
“It’s the twins,” she said.
2: Dead Men’s Guns
“We have a safe room in my house,” said Sofia. She leaned forward as if that would enable her to see more clearly through the windscreen of her car. Or maybe just so she could get a few millimetres nearer their goal. Her home.
She had her foot down on the accelerator and they were surging along the street at a dangerously illegal speed whenever Milan’s traffic opened up enough to allow her to do so.
Sofia drove a Tesla Model S. Despite being an all-electric sedan, it had a top speed of about 130 miles an hour.
And Sofia seemed determined to reach that limit.
They skirted around Sempione Park and hit the Viale Emilio Zola.
Doc found that he was bracing himself in the seat beside her, as if for imminent impact. He knew that Sofia was an expert driver and under normal circumstances would have felt safe with her in almost any vehicle, at almost any speed.
But this was different. Her girls were in danger and the protective mother animal in her was overriding the cool headed operative whom he knew so well. Letting her drive had seemed the lesser of two evils. Doc had thought about insisting on taking the wheel himself, but he didn’t know the car, he didn’t know Milan — and in any case, it was unlikely Sofia would have let him.
They were hurtling along the curve of the Via Antonio Canova.
They shot across an intersection against a red light, missing a taxi by a coat of paint. Horns shrieked in strident, scandalised alarm behind them.
“What exactly did the nanny say?” said Doc, taking pains to keep his voice quiet and level. He thought if he got her talking, focusing on the situation, it might help to keep her calm.
“What I told you,” snapped Sofia. “Two men. Well dressed, well spoken. They had some story about an emergency situation. They said I had sent them. That they had come to collect the girls. And bring them to me. They knew where I was, at the charity ball. Said they’d come from there. That they’d been sent from me. My nanny — she’s a clever girl, she’s got her head screwed on, that one — she said she had to check with me herself. The men said of course, naturally. She shut the door on them. They waited politely outside. Or so she thought. But as soon as she picked up the phone she heard them. Working on the door.”
“Picking the lock?”
“Yes.” Sofia braked to avoid colliding with a bus in the Corso Sempione and cursed in a fluid, fluent stream of Italian profanity. A gap opened up in the traffic and she stamped her foot on the gas, accelerating through it. “The nanny heard them picking the lock and put two and two together. She’s a smart girl. Thank god. So she scooped up Gemma and Alda and took them upstairs to the safe room. She said she could hear the front door opening and the men coming in as she shut door of the safe room.”
“And she called you from inside the room?”
“Yes,” snarled Sofia. Doc didn’t know if her savage, impatient anger was directed at him and his questions or at the uncooperative traffic.
Probably both.
“She made sure the door
was secure before she called me. I have a hardwired landline in there. It also has its own water and air supply and food and a toilet and beds.” Doc was shocked to hear a sudden quivering of tears in her voice. He realised that Sofia was operating at the ragged edge where the loss of control was a very definite possibility. He glanced out the window of the car and saw their reflection streak across the shop windows, moving at an almost impossible speed in the dense urban traffic pattern, weaving aggressively and plunging through every opening.
“Well, they’ll be all right then, won’t they?” he said soothingly. “They’ve got everything they need and they’ll be secure in the safe room.”
Sofia shook her head. He could see tears glinting in her eyes. “The nanny said the men were working on the door. We’ve got cameras that feed into screens in the safe room. She could see what they were doing. The men. At least until they killed the cameras.”
“But surely they can’t pick that lock,” said Doc. “Surely the door is secure?”
Sofia gave a strange little laugh. “It’s six centimetres of steel with two deadbolts on every side,” she said. “There is no way they can pick that lock. But they aren’t trying to pick it. They’re using some kind of a cutting torch.”
Doc felt a sudden cold plunging fear. How long would six centimetres of steel hold up against experts wielding a cutting torch? He tried to glance at his watch without letting Sofia see what he was doing. “Perhaps you should contact some of your local people — they might be able to get there sooner.”
“I have,” said Sofia. “One of my best men.”
*
They found Sofia’s man outside of her house.
It was an elegant double-fronted townhouse with a small garden crowded with wild flowers set behind a high wall that divided it from the street.
The man was lying face down among the wild flowers, the back of his head blown off.
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