THE ANGOLA DECEPTION: An Action Thriller

by Dc Alden

  ‘I grew up in a children’s home in Southie, a Catholic one. I remember taking confession as a boy, and I’d sit there in the dark and the priest would promise me all kinds of eternal tortures in the fires of Hell if I didn’t stop my sinning. I was ten years old, for Chrissakes. At that time the most sinful thing I ever did was use a curse word or two, but those images of damnation kept me awake most nights.’

  Hays watched him take a small sip of bourbon. He’d had ex-Catholics through his doors before, most burdened from a young age with a misplaced sense of guilt, their spirits broken by the withering gaze of a spiteful God who was quick to judge and relished the punishment of sin. That certainly wasn’t the Lord that Hays knew and loved, no sir. Frank would come to see that.

  ‘That priest told me it was a sin to take your own life,’ Frank continued, ‘but God has to understand that sometimes people just can’t live with themselves anymore.’

  ‘Is that how you feel, Frank?’

  ‘I used to, Reverend. There was a time when I’d wake up and promise myself I’d seen my last sunrise. I’ve stood on top of buildings and bridges, I’ve waited on subway platforms and closed my eyes when I’ve felt the rush of an oncoming train…’

  Frank’s voice trailed away. He tipped the rest of the bourbon down his throat.

  Hays said nothing, allowing the poison to flow, the layers of guilt to peel away and reveal the pain beneath. Across the room Frank hung his head, the beanie wrung like a rag in those strong hands. When he looked up his eyes were moist, his voice a whisper.

  ‘But I couldn’t do it, Reverend, because dying would be the easy way out. I have to live, to be reminded of the pain I’ve caused, the families I’ve destroyed. I have to suffer.’

  Frank crushed his face into his beanie.

  Hays got to his feet. He was troubled, and not simply for the man’s soul. He had blood on his hands. Two scenarios sprang to mind; either Frank was a murderer, in which case he would have to somehow steer him towards the authorities, or he was a veteran. Hays had met plenty in his time, men haunted by their experiences on the battlefield, those battles continuing long after the last flags had been waved and the homecoming bands had packed up and gone home. He’d have to tread carefully here.

  He walked around the desk and crouched down in front of Frank. The tears flowed freely, coursing down his hollow cheekbones, catching in the red growth on his chin. Hays took his hands in his own.

  ‘We’ve all made mistakes, Frank, each and every one of us. You carry this burden with you like Atlas with the world on his shoulders, but it’s time to let go. Jesus brought you to me, I can see that now, and together we’ll—’

  Out in the corridor, the back door rattled violently.

  Frank sprang from his chair, sweeping the lamp onto the floor. Hays felt a powerful hand shove him to the carpet. He lay there, frozen, watching the gun in Frank’s hand sweeping the room. He heard a muffled curse from the alley outside, saw shadows flash by the frosted glass, the sound of laughter and running feet. Then silence.

  Hays’ voice soothed in the darkness. ‘It’s just kids, Frank, fooling around. Happens all the time.’

  He picked himself up, retrieved the lamp from the floor, tinkered with the bulb. Soft light flickered, glowed. Frank was in shadow, his face ashen, the gun gripped in both hands and pointed towards the window. Hays moved closer.

  ‘It’s okay. Please, put down the gun.’

  He raised his hand, laid it on the sleeve of Frank’s coat, felt the limb beneath, rigid, like rock, He applied a little pressure, felt no resistance, saw the barrel of that big, ugly automatic tilt towards the worn carpet. ‘This is God’s house, Frank. There’s no danger here, only refuge.’

  Frank lowered the gun. He stood there in silence, his ashen face hovering like a ghost in the shadows.

  ‘We want to help you,’ Hays whispered. ‘Me and Jesus, we’ve got your back, Frank.’

  ‘I’ve done terrible things—’

  ‘We’ll get to that, son. Right now it’s what’s in your heart that matters.’ He reached down, took Frank’s free hand in both of his own. ‘I believe Jesus has brought us together this night. He guided you to me, and He did it for a reason, Frank—salvation. Yes sir, salvation lies right here, in this church tonight. Let me help you, son. Please.’

  The gun clattered to the floor. It was only after Frank had sunk to his knees, after the big man had wrapped his arms around Hays and buried his face into his sweater that the pastor realised he was sobbing like a baby.

  As Hays comforted the troubled soul who clung to him so tightly he whispered a quiet prayer of thanks, for the abundance of God’s love, and for the strength to guide this broken man along the path to redemption. As he breathed that quiet litany Clarence Hays felt another, deeper rush of emotion, of compassion, of joy, and realised that God was with them both, right there in the room.

  Frank woke from another deep, dreamless sleep. Above him the ceiling was adorned with heavenly clouds and a flock of multiracial cherubs. He shifted beneath the thick eiderdown, the small army-issue cot creaking beneath his body. He felt safe here, as Reverend Hays had promised he would. Memories of that first night came flooding back.

  He’d gone to pieces.

  Yet it was here, in this rundown church in Harlem, that Frank discovered that the remorse that ate him like a cancer was nothing more than the affirmation of his own humanity, the spiritual declaration of a good soul determined to right a wrong. Guilt can be assuaged, Reverend Hays had assured him. It’s why Jesus had died for them. Frank remembered asking how, and the pastor had smiled and spread his hands; signs, he’d replied. Apparently there were all around, you just had to be receptive to them.

  He kicked off the eiderdown and stood, working the blood back into his muscles. He retrieved the Beretta from under the cot and slipped it into the back of his trousers. Outside, the morning sun barely penetrated the alleyway. The air was heavy and silent, muffled by an overnight snowfall. He let the curtain drop back into place and went into the washroom, throwing water over his face and drying himself with a towel. He was contemplating shaving when he heard a tap on the door. He reached for his gun and held it low by his side.

  ‘Yeah?’

  Reverend Hays poked his head around the frame. ‘Morning, Frank. You decent?’

  Frank tucked the pistol away. ‘Sure. Come on in.’

  Hays carried two mugs of steaming coffee over to a battered table in front of the equally battered sofa. ‘Here you go. Black, no sugar.’ He straightened up, pulled his Mets sweatshirt down over his large belly. ‘You sleep okay?’

  ‘I did, thanks.’

  Frank sat on the battered sofa, cradling the coffee in his hands. ‘I thought I might start on the hallway today. Paintwork’s a little tired and there’s a few loose boards underfoot.’ He’d fix them all in due course, except the boards outside his room, the ones that creaked when someone approached the door.

  ‘The work isn’t compulsory, Frank. You can stay as long as you like.’

  ‘I gotta earn my keep. I’ve been here nearly two weeks.’

  ‘And the church is better for it,’ Hays admitted, his eyes wandering around the recently painted walls. ‘Oh, I have something for you.’ He reached into his back pocket and held out a crumpled leaflet.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘A support group. It’s run by veterans, right across the river in Brooklyn.’

  Frank smoothed out the leaflet and gave it the once over. A soldier on the cover, his head in his hands, silhouetted against the Stars and Stripes, the letters PTSD liberally sprinkled throughout the text inside. It was close enough to the truth.

  ‘Thanks,’ Frank said, and he meant it.

  Hays got to his feet. ‘I’ll leave you be.’

  ‘I’ll see about that hallway, if it’s all the same.’

  ‘I’ll be in my office if you need me.’

  Hays pulled the door closed and Frank snapped on the TV, the screen glowing
into life as he located his socks and sneakers. On the screen a MSNBC anchor stared earnestly into the camera as he ran through the headlines at the top of the hour. As usual it wasn’t good news: the economy was back in the toilet, there was civil unrest in Europe, and a massive cyclone in Bangladesh had made tens of thousands of people homeless. The stark images reminded Frank of the early seminars, where the speakers had likened humanity to a plague of locusts, devouring, laying waste. He fingered the faint scar on his right shoulder, a natural reaction whenever he thought about them.

  He ran the hot tap in the bathroom and shaved. Raised voices drifted in from the TV, the muted roar of a large crowd.

  A reporter barked into her microphone, then another voice cut in, the dull, nasal tones of a working-class Brit.

  ‘—Working for TDL Global in Iraq. Officially my brother went missing in Baghdad but the Iraqi authorities claim they have no knowledge of the incident in question—’

  Frank’s hand gripped the edge of the sink, the razor frozen in mid-air.

  ‘That was three years ago. No one cares any more, not the British government, not TDL, not even my local MP. How can a man, working for a giant corporation like TDL, simply disappear without trace? And why won’t anyone hold an inquiry?’

  Frank stepped out into the room, chin lathered with foam.

  TDL Global. A huge building block in the pyramid of power. Frank had run black ops under the banner of their Security Division for years. Including the Iraqi operation.

  ‘What is it you hope to achieve by coming here today?’

  The reporter thrust her mike beneath the guy’s mouth. The man with the homemade sign looked tired, beaten. He watched him turn away from the reporter and stare into the camera.

  Into Frank’s eyes.

  ‘If there’s anyone out there who knows what happened in Iraq, please come forward. My brother’s name is Jimmy Sullivan—’

  Frank jolted as if he’d been Tasered. He reached for the medallion around his neck, felt the smooth metal between his fingers, remembered that young face frozen in death.

  Jimmy Sullivan.

  He found the TiVo remote and rewound the segment. There was desperation in the Brit’s words. He was seeking the truth, swimming against a tsunami of bureaucracy, lies and disinformation. He paused the segment, the Brit’s face frozen on the screen. The man had no idea what he was up against. The evil that had taken his brother was unchallenged, unstoppable—

  Frank’s legs felt weak and he sagged onto the sofa. It was so clear now, like sunlight bursting through the clouds.

  This wasn’t a coincidence.

  This was a sign, the kind Reverend Hays had spoken about.

  That was his redemption, right there on the TV screen, a man adrift, battling against an unseen evil, his desperate plea a last throw of the dice. And his brother Jimmy, the seed, the genesis of it all.

  Frank grabbed a pencil and paper from the table and scribbled some hurried notes. Then he gathered his things.

  Ten minutes later he was standing in Hays’ office. The pastor was packing tinned goods into a large cardboard box.

  ‘I think I’ve found a way,’ Frank said.

  Hays paused, a large can of franks ’n’ beans in his hand. ‘You’re leaving?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘That’s a mighty quick decision, Frank.’

  ‘It’s hard to explain. There’s a man I can help. He doesn’t know it yet but I can ease his suffering.’

  Hays put down the can. ‘You know this person?’

  ‘In a way. I think God spoke to me, through him. I need to find him. Save him.’

  ‘I understand you need to right some wrongs, Frank, but this is kinda sudden, don’t you think?’

  Frank shook his head. ‘It feels right. I have to do this.’

  ‘The path to salvation can be a long and difficult one. Evil is out there, watching and waiting, looking to foul things up for righteous men.’

  ‘I know all about evil, Reverend. We go way back.’ He handed over the Beretta, wrapped inside its harness. ‘Could you take care of this for me? For the record, I’ve never used it. I took it off a kid in Phoenix one night. A desperate kid.’

  Hays hesitated. ‘Okay,’ he said, placing it in the filing cabinet. ‘You need money? I don’t have much but—’

  ‘Thanks, I’m good.’ Frank pulled his beanie hat over his ears, tucking his ponytail up inside.

  Hays walked around his desk and held out his hand. ‘Good luck to you, Frank. Never forget that Jesus will be with you every step of your journey. And we’ll be praying for you too, right here in Harlem.’

  ‘I appreciate that.’

  ‘Wait a minute.’ Hays walked over to the coat stand in the corner. ‘I want you to have this. It’s my personal travel Bible. I’ve had it since I was a young preacher.’

  ‘I can’t,’ Frank protested, turning over the small, leather-bound book. ‘This is too personal.’

  ‘Nonsense.’ Hays tapped a finger on his chest. ‘The word of God is right here, in my heart. Take it, Frank. It’ll be there for you on your journey, like it was on mine. My card’s in there too, in case you need to talk. Call me anytime, day or night.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Emotion squeezed Frank’s throat.

  ‘Come back to us, when you’re ready to start your life again.’

  Frank nodded. ‘I’ll do my best.’ He stepped forward and gave the pastor a warm hug. ‘Goodbye, Reverend. God bless you.’

  He left without another word, through the back door and out into the alley, passing Hays’ shadow behind the frosted window. The cold air felt good on his skin, the sound of fresh snow crunching underfoot as he reached the street.

  He paused a moment, taking a breath to steady his nerve, then he turned south, towards Manhattan.

  Frank Marshall was back from the dead.

  And back on the grid.

  Chapter Three

  He woke in a cell inside Belgravia police station.

  He swung his legs off the mattress and stood up, blinking beneath the harsh strip light. The chaos of the previous day was a distant memory, the slamming of cell doors, the stomp of standard-issue boots, the shouts, the slamming of cell doors. All he heard now was the drip of the stainless steel toilet pan in his cell and the faint rumble of early morning traffic out in the street.

  Then he heard footsteps in the corridor, the measured stride and jangle of keys outside his cell. The inspection flap scraped open.

  ‘Take a step back, chum.’

  Roy did as he was told. The door was unlocked.

  ‘Duty sergeant wants a word,’ said an overweight gaoler. He pointed to Roy’s feet. ‘You can put your trainers on.’

  A few moments later Roy was standing in front of the custody desk, his personal possessions sealed in a clear plastic bag in front of him.

  ‘It’s your lucky day,’ the sergeant said, pushing the bag across the counter. ‘You’re being released without charge. No case to answer.’

  ‘That’s because I didn’t do anything.’

  ‘You say so. I’ll need your autograph.’

  Roy signed the necessary paperwork, slipped his belt on, and was escorted off the premises. He was glad to be out in the fresh air. He found a coffee shop near Victoria Station, bought a latte and a paper, the first few pages splashed with lurid pictures of yesterday’s riot. He pointed to the TV in the corner and asked the waitress if they had MSNBC. She mumbled something about management and moved on. He finished his coffee and headed for the station.

  Roy was back on the Fitzroy by mid-morning. He dropped his clothes in the washing basket and stepped into the shower, soaping away the memory of his overnight accommodations. He changed into sweatpants and a T-shirt, and fired up his laptop. He scoured the internet for his segment but found nothing. He collapsed onto his bed, frustrated. He read his paper.

  He dozed.

  The musical chime of a text message woke him from a deep slumber.

  In futur
e, don’t make promises you can’t keep.

  Roy rolled off the bed. Shit. Max’s football match.

  He hurried into the hallway, hopping into his trainers and tugging on a jacket. He was out of the door in less than a minute, wheeling his decrepit racing bike down the stairs and pedalling for the main road.

  The school was a private one, a couple of miles to the west of Kingston town. It had walled grounds and impressive spires, and a boating club with private moorings along the Thames. Roy whizzed through the wrought-iron gates and headed towards the green chessboard of sports pitches at the rear of the school. He bounced onto the grass, skirting the half dozen rugby fixtures in progress, and headed for the soccer match at the far edge of the playing fields.

  He propped his bike beneath the branches of a large oak tree and took a moment to catch his breath.

  Two teams of energetic kids chased a football up and down the nearby pitch while a group of well-heeled adults shouted encouragement from the touchline. Roy spotted Max almost immediately, and not because he was on the pitch impressing the others with his skills; instead he played alone, clumsily kicking a ball around behind the grown-ups, his small body swamped in oversized shorts and shirt, his mind lost in a world of its own.

  Roy hesitated.

  No one had seen him yet. He could turn around and head home, send a text, make some sort of excuse. As he wrestled with his options he saw Vicky peel away from the touchline and march across the grass. Busted. She came to a halt in front of him, her pretty face furrowed in anger.

  ‘You made a promise.’

  ‘I know, I—’

  ‘He’s six years old. What’s wrong with you?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  She looked great. Dark brown hair expensively styled, tanned skin and perfect teeth, a smart black overcoat with a silver faux fur collar, black knee-length suede boots. A long way from the cute graduate he’d met way back when. He felt long buried emotions stirring, then reminded himself that Vicky wasn’t that same person anymore.