The Shadow Of Medea (Luke Temple Series Book 1)

by James Flynn

  The low rhythm of an approaching train started up. Where was she?

  The train rhythm was getting faster and louder. His panic reached breaking point. There she was, frozen to the spot amid the hail of bullets. He had to reach her.

  The train became deafening, his heart was thumping against his chest. Five more steps. He could see her eyes; tears filled them.

  He was only two steps away, Sarah was screaming his name: “Alex, Alex, Alex”… Then the world around them exploded into a fireball. Her shrill scream filled his ears as the darkness enveloped them.

  ***

  Sweat flicked off of Luke Temple’s face as he sat bolt upright in the bed. He threw his neck around from left to right, trying desperately to get his bearings and willing his eyes to adjust to the darkened room. Slowly he put his head back onto the flat coarse pillow, relieved to be in the bare-walled hostel. He had naively hoped that his recurring nightmare would have been checked at customs.

  Letting out a huge sigh he realised that, in fact, the room was not in total darkness, the sunlight was trying to creep in through the thick black material that constituted the curtains. His watch illuminated his wet face as he pressed the button to find out the time was now 4 p.m.; he had been asleep for about three hours.

  The dream was borne out of anxiety, according to his doctors; as always they had put it down to sustained stress and grief, which was all a bit simple for Luke’s liking. However, as he rolled off the rock solid mattress and walked toward the brown dossier, he started to see a small sliver of truth in their diagnosis. Ever since he had picked up the brown folder early that morning, he had been under a cloud of tension and anxiety.

  A run was definitely in order, it always helped him think. Grabbing the trainers and shorts he had purchased at a mini-mart, he left the grotty room. On the outside of the door he placed a small piece of see-through tape across the frame as low down as possible. It was an old, simple trick that would have to do. In a world of high-tech gadgets, it was often the most simple of tricks that went unnoticed.

  The sun still carried a surprising amount of warmth as Luke turned right out of the hostel and jogged across the road and onto a small flight of concrete steps that led up onto the grass of the Upper West Side of Central Park. There must have been thousands of runners that used the park every day, and Luke was sure that some of them put their running gear on in the dark.

  Luke was thirty-two years old and could easily finish off several laps of the park; he stood around five feet nine and had the body of a triathlete, strong and slight. He jogged south from his entrance point and was initially running between football pitches, or ‘soccer pitches’, he supposed he should call them. There was a game taking place on his left, and he was amazed to see that it was girls who were tearing strips off each other. Perhaps the Americans were more progressive with the sport than he had thought.

  Luke had not yet lost the feeling of awe as he ran out in the open of the park and glanced left and right at the tower blocks and massive apartment buildings looming over the sanctuary. He couldn’t shake the feeling that Central Park was like Lake Atitlan in Guatemala. There, the vast volcanoes shadowed the beautiful lake; here the volcanoes were solid concrete structures, but no less beautiful. The whole of Manhattan held a beauty, it was a modern work of art, and giant glass structures clambered toward the clouds all fighting for attention across the skyline. The city was a testament to man’s ever-increasing need to progress; the buildings and bright neon signs were the way man screamed and shouted about his success. New York was also a city that held the pure representation of multiculturalism along its streets; every corner and block seemed to hold a different style and flavour. The whole island of Manhattan pulsated with life and Luke was standing in the jewel of the crown: Central Park. However, on this particular trip Luke was not focusing on the battle between beauty and progression, but on the contents of the dossier.

  As the sun began its descent behind the concrete volcanoes, Luke checked his run and began slowing to a walk, trying to vary the pace of his journey to see if anyone in his vicinity did likewise. When he was satisfied, he made a conscious effort to turn back on himself and reverse his run. The dangers and possible solutions of the operation crashed over his mind like waves.

  In the warmth of the sun, Luke was still none the wiser as to why he had been given the job. It was the first private work he had ever been offered, the employer had been insistent that he wanted Luke to be involved, and the money being offered was ludicrously high. It had seemed odd at first; there were only a handful of people on the planet who knew who he was, and – more to the point – what he was, so to get a call about private income work was highly unusual. Luke didn’t think twice, the last six months had been torture; he would have taken the job for free. He craved some action, some levity.

  He had received instructions before he left the UK that there would be a dossier within a designated locker in Grand Central Station, and he had picked it up early that morning. The only contact he’d had with an employer was with a suited man in an office in London who gave him limited details – a simple go-between guy.

  Whoever was organising the operation was well aware of the advantage of giving only pieces of the jigsaw to different members of the assembled team. That way, if anyone was caught, they could not jeopardise the rest. To call what he had ‘information’ about the members would have been embellishment. All he knew was that he was leading the operation. He had studied the photographs of all of them, including two Englishmen and an American, all with cover names; Razor, Lennon and Bobby. Luke had been given the cover name ‘Leon’.. He was fairly confident that they were all ex-military, they possessed icy stares and that vacant expression that he had encountered so many times with returning soldiers, as though a switch had been flicked and a part of their soul had been exterminated.

  Once again dropping pace, Luke now had to wipe sweat from his face as the tiny beads stung his eyes; he threw some water over himself from a fountain and rubbed his shabby, curly hair to get rid of the excess moisture.

  Subtly scanning everything in his view, his dark brown eyes made use of the final bright light of the day. The red tinge was already threatening to engulf the sky, and the light would be gone in the next few hours. He stopped on a concrete expanse and bent over, faking a stitch, all the time keeping his eyes sharp on the people around him. The park was slowly emptying its hordes for the day, and Luke had satisfied himself for now that he was still free of any companion.

  Turning his gaze to the south corner, he could just make out the Metropolitan Museum of Art on the left edge of the park and he knew that straight in front, out of view, was the newly renovated Plaza hotel, its pointed towers looking out onto the daily runners and serenity-lovers. It was home to his target for the next two weeks.

  A slight tingle of anticipation ran through his blood. The target was daughter to a Russian billionaire. She was a UK citizen holidaying in the city, and it was one holiday she wouldn’t forget.

  4.

  “This is a very real threat Prime Minister. It’s a constant threat, we know it and you know it. They will not stop. Jonathon and I deal with it on a daily basis. The 7/7 disaster was a wake-up call, but there have been hundreds of thwarted attempts since. Funding cannot be an issue; we are literally talking about the safety of the nation.”

  Sir Peter Villier sat waiting for the responses to his purposefully dramatic speech. He scanned the faces at the table; they were all familiar; on his right was Jonathon Hall, the Director General of MI5. Directly opposite was the Prime Minister and to his right was the Deputy Prime Minister. The four men were almost lost in the vast wood-panelled room that Sir Peter frequented often when C.O.B.R. conducted crisis meetings on matters of national security.

  “Sir Peter, a man in your position must understand the complexity regarding the issue of funding.” He could hear the well-worn evasion technique being employed by the overweight Prime Minister. “It is not as simple
as green-lighting everything that comes to us.”

  “With all due respect Prime Minister, I took the Director General position at MI6 with the understanding that I had some sort of respect behind my suggestions on national security.”

  The PM threw a quick hand over his damp brow. “Now come on Sir Peter, you’re being overly dramatic. I … we respect your opinion, you have served your country impeccably in conflicts across the world, but that doesn’t translate into providing you with a bottomless pit of money, I’m afraid. The Americans are still learning from that mistake.”

  Sir Peter knew that he was being overly dramatic. His aim was to put pressure on the PM and his Deputy. Although he had no ill feeling toward the pair, he knew that the Prime Minister could be quite weak in situations with military men and was trying to exploit it.

  “Sir Peter, what you are asking for is not just an instant amount to plug a hole, but a long-term structure, it’s a critical time for us at the moment.” The Deputy PM’s condescending tone didn’t sit well; the fact that he bore the face of a twenty-year-old school boy didn’t help Sir Peter’s mood either.

  “This goes above party politics, Prime Minister, I’m sure you’re perfectly aware of that. If the finance is not there then we cannot continue the critical work we are conducting.” He aimed the last comment at the Deputy.

  The room fell silent; it held many ghosts from previous administrations, some of the country’s most crucial decisions had been made over the years between these panelled walls. Sir Peter scanned the faces of the Prime Minister and his Deputy; he could see the thought etched on both. He knew that a few months down the line the PM was stepping down and the young-faced upstart on his right was taking over, hence the unusual amount of input being allowed. Things had to be taken cautiously, employing all of his sixty-seven years of experience.

  “Is there no other way to gain what you need?” The words tumbled awkwardly from the Prime Minister.

  “Go on Prime Minister?”

  “Without putting too finer point on it, I am sure that the Treasury is not the sole financier of particular operations…for both of you.”

  Sir Peter could feel Jonathon squirming on his right; he was fifteen years his junior and had only been the Director of MI5 for eight months.

  Jonathon’s voice was calm. “As we are being frank, such funding is becoming increasingly scarce; the current climate is tricky, gentlemen. That is, of course, if such funding does exist.” He smiled.

  “I can assure you that terrorism is a high priority on our new agenda.”

  Sir Peter turned on the baby-faced Deputy. “Let’s leave empty political babble outside shall we? Do you have any idea of the scale of terrorist operations? Lives are lost every day, every single day. I have seen photos of operatives with limbs missing, eyes gouged out…Men and women from our armed forces are fighting honourably in Iraq and Afghanistan, putting themselves on the line against an enemy that doesn’t share our sense of conflict etiquette, and all they have is the intelligence we provide. I should hope it’s top of the bloody agenda!”

  “What the Deputy PM meant, Sir Peter, is that we give everything we can to fight terrorism. I understand and appreciate your passion.” The PM was now sweating hard.

  “Well, what you’re giving isn’t enough; terrorist cells are incredibly well funded, specifically from wealthy billionaires in the Middle East and illegal arms traders making millions off the conflicts. We are trying in vain to place people on the inside of these organisations but it is a long process. As you can imagine, they are very closed communities.”

  The Prime Minister raised his eyebrows. “And you’re telling me that we don’t have any billionaires on our payroll?”

  Jonathon answered before Sir Peter could get a reply out, “As you know we can’t divulge specifics, Prime Minister, for everyone’s protection, but …” he took a moment to seemingly weigh up the next words, “... our main contributor has recently left our employment.” He caught Sir Peter’s eye, and a knowing glance passed between them.

  Both politicians also exchanged a look; the Prime Minister let out a sigh and bridged his hands. “I’m sorry, gentlemen. There is nothing more I can do, I am not a naive man, and all I can suggest is that you recruit some more financiers.”

  Sir Peter didn’t show any reaction. “On your conscience be it.” He again focused on the Deputy, “Be fully aware that when your watch comes you will only have us standing between you and the ever-increasing shadow.”

  The Deputy Prime Minister put on his best menacing look. “Is that a threat?”

  It was all Sir Peter could do to not laugh at the man. “It’s the truth.”

  “Thank you, gentlemen, let us not go down this route,” chided the Prime Minister.

  A knock at the door broke the tension; a short grey-suited man entered and told the Prime Minister that he was late for a public address.

  “Sorry, gentlemen, but we will have to leave it at that.” With that, the Prime Minister and the Deputy Prime Minister both exited the room, leaving the two intelligence men behind.

  Sir Peter stood and flattened his thinning grey hair. He and Jonathon headed over to the door, their footsteps echoing off the walls.

  “As per usual we are caught between them wanting us to take initiative and containing us when we do so.”

  Sir Peter simply grunted.

  Jonathon opened the door and lowered his voice. “Prussias Latvik has a lot to answer for.”

  “Be very careful what you say Jonathon.”

  Jonathon looked scolded and wished he had remembered the close relationship between Prussias Latvik and Sir Peter.

  The re-enforced doors gave way to the hustle and bustle of Whitehall; tourists and civil servants crowded the streets, looking for evening merriment. Sir Peter clicked open the back of the Rolls Royce Phantom and settled down for the journey back to his country home.

  5.

  Why does he have to live so far away from bloody civilisation?

  David Mulberry couldn’t understand why Sir Peter Villier did his work in the giant stately home that was now looming up in front of him beyond the long spotlight-lined driveway.

  The house had four castle-like towers, the front wall contained a large oak door that had been split in two and the gardens stretched down to Mulberry’s left, disappearing into the darkness. He could also see the glint of the security cameras that were set up all around the trees and foliage. The house was lit by large searchlights dug into the front lawn, spraying light across the whole of the front exterior. The grand home had been in Sir Peter’s family for generations; all of his ancestors had been high-ranking military men, and Sir Peter had followed their tradition, serving as a Major in the army right up until his current posting.

  He knew that the real reason for his anger was in fact a discomfort at having to speak with the Director General of MI6. He never enjoyed their meetings, and since Mulberry was made director of operations for the agency twelve months ago, it brought them into close contact on more occasions than he would have liked. Sir Peter was a sharp man; Mulberry always felt like he was going into battle when he had these meetings, constantly trying to adopt different strategies to make a point, or counter a question.

  The car came to a stop in front of the stone block steps leading up to the entrance. Sir Peter’s young aid Christopher was waiting to welcome him; he trotted down the concrete steps and opened the car door.

  “Good evening Mr Mulberry, the Director is waiting for you in the rear lounge, I’ll take you through.” Christopher walked slowly in front and led him through into the lion’s den.

  ***

  Christopher nodded and closed the door as he was ordered out by Sir Peter who hadn’t moved out of his chair to acknowledge Mulberry’s presence.

  “Come and sit, my boy.”

  The rear lounge was very similar to the gentlemen-only clubs that Mulberry frequented in West London with various different politicians and dignitaries, places where m
en could talk about politics and serious things like their female staff. He had a suspicion that Sir Peter had designed it especially.

  The room smelt of pipe smoke and a slight haze was caught in the light beam that shone through the large bay window to Mulberry’s left. Four large leather-covered chairs faced a giant fireplace, above which hung a beautiful oil painting of a woman and little girl wearing Victorian clothing. Sir Peter sat in one of the middle chairs. A table next to him held the contents of an ashtray, and the pipe sat on its side next to it.

  Mulberry took the seat to Sir Peter’s left.

  “How are you Sir?” Mulberry turned his body slightly in the chair to face the DG.

  “Oh one can’t complain, my boy. After all, the weather is quite superb today for once.”

  “The team has been assembled, Sir.”

  Sir Peter slowly nodded. “Good, any more news on the group that were planning the kidnap?”

  Mulberry had rehearsed this story many times. However, he had never had Sir Peter Villier drilling into his words.

  “The group originates in Belarus; they are claiming to be a new branch of the Belarusian Public in Exile which was set up in 1920. Since Russia and Belarus signed a treaty on a two state union in 1999, there has been great unrest politically between the two nations. A solid framework has yet to be put in place, and this new splinter terrorist group feel extremely strongly that Russia is still exploiting their country, and giant conglomerates are driving workers and economy away from Belarus – companies such as Prussias Latvik’s. Their protests have become increasingly violent over the past eight years; they have had large funding increases from Afghan groups such as our friends Al-Qaeda who, not too surprisingly, are no friends of the Russians.”