LINE OF SIGHT
Derek Thompson
First published 2015
Joffe Books, London
www.joffebooks.com
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The spelling used is British English except where fidelity to the author’s rendering of accent or dialect supersedes this.
Derek Thompson asserts his moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
©Derek Thompson
There is a glossary of British slang in the back of this book.
LINE OF SIGHT is the sequel to the best-selling thriller STANDPOINT
The woman he's always loved is in danger
Thomas Bladen works in surveillance for a shadowy unit of the British government. During a routine operation, he sees a shooting which exposes a world of corruption and danger. When his on-again, off-again girlfriend Miranda is drawn into the conspiracy, Thomas must decide who he can trust to help him save her life
http://www.amazon.co.uk/STANDPOINT-gripping-thriller-full-suspense-ebook/dp/B00UVQBVVU/
http://www.amazon.com/STANDPOINT-gripping-thriller-full-suspense-ebook/dp/B00UVQBVVU/
CONTENTS
Summary Report - In Confidence
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Glossary of British Slang Terms
Summary Report - In Confidence
Subject: Thomas Bladen.
Thomas transferred to the Surveillance Support Unit from a civil service desk. Despite initial suspicions, he does not appear to have any intelligence agency affiliations and his civilian status is confirmed.
While on a recent shared assignment with HM Customs, he witnessed a punishment shooting by Yorgi — a hitman who worked for the Cartel on a freelance basis. Thomas showed considerable initiative and assisted me in investigating the incident and collecting evidence of the Director General's duplicity. This was instrumental in helping to expose Sir Peter Carroll, and constituted a major intelligence coup for us. Sir Peter, while remaining head of the SSU, is now also being run as a double agent against the Cartel.
Inevitably, there were risks in using a civilian in such a high-profile operation. However, it was too good an opportunity to ignore, as Thomas had met Sir Peter prior to joining the SSU, and had actually been interviewed by him.
In an effort to mitigate some of the risks, I gave Thomas rudimentary firearms training and enough information to gain his trust. Unfortunately, we underestimated the extent of the Cartel's influence within our own department, which led to the abduction of another civilian, Miranda Wright — someone with close connections to Thomas Bladen.
The situation reached a crisis point in Yorkshire, as detailed in my separate report. Although neither Thomas nor Miranda was injured in the concluding firearms exchange, both have been affected by it.
Thomas and I will continue to work as a unit, and this arrangement has executive approval from Sir Peter Carroll. Following a review with our Senior Intelligence Officer, Christine Gerrard, Thomas and I have been removed from ‘front line’ assignments for the time being.
My recommendation is that Thomas (and Miranda, for that matter) should not be put under any surveillance by our organisation, and that I should remain the sole liaison point.
Thomas has proved to be a valuable asset with excellent surveillance skills and good deductive reasoning. He has an affinity for counter-intelligence work and I believe that his civilian status may give us a tactical advantage in further assignments.
Karl McNeill, Surveillance Support Unit.
Chapter 1
Thomas Bladen rested his camera on the dugout shelf and gazed across the terrain. He took a breath and held it, pressing his fingers against the rough grain of the wood, as a delicious tension gathered in his chest. This was the moment when his world came alive.
The plom plom of mortar fire broke the stillness of a perfect autumn day. Birds scattered, as if they knew what was coming; they didn’t have long to wait. Smoke bombs detonated on cue, followed by thunder-flashes and industrial firecrackers: the works. Karl McNeill, Thomas’s fellow surveillance operative, kicked off his own ‘dud-da-da-dah-da’ version of Ride of the Valkyries, while they waited for the photogenic armour to appear.
“See here, Tommo, they’re late!” Karl tapped his watch. “Trust the bloody Mechs to screw up the schedule.”
“Hush.” Thomas squeezed closer into the camera eyepiece. He’d chosen a gorgeous opening frame and didn’t want to miss a second.
The ground shuddered underfoot as the prototype C12 Battle Buster — to quote the corporate bullshit Karl had already accidentally trampled on — erupted into view. Then, as the air around them seemed to throb, the C12 revved over the crest of the hill like a foundry worker’s fantasy.
All conversation in the dugout ceased. Thomas and Karl did what they did best. True, it wasn’t quite surveillance if the tank commander knew you were there — more like PR — but the job still had to be done.
As the vehicle rumbled past, its pennant and aerial swinging wildly, Thomas got what he’d come for, rattling off a series of camera shots that he’d later compare with Karl’s for their customary competition. Then he reached for his coffee, sipping steadily at the rich, bitter liquid.
“It’s show time.” Karl waggled a finger like a baton. Somewhere, beyond their vision, a turret should have been turning.
Thomas closed his eyes and tried to visualise the barrel — raising steadily, rotating and firing. He squeezed his eyes shut at the thought of the powerful recoil, and imagined the shell spinning relentlessly towards its target. There was nothing to see from their position, but they could hear the armour piercing payload; slicing through the air until . . . pow . . . the target was obliterated.
A tannoy shrieked into life. “Ladies and gentlemen — the C12.” Somewhere, out of earshot, a gaggle of arms dealers — all legitimate, if such a thing were possible — would be offering polite applause and reaching for their chequebooks.
“Well, Tommo, that was the last vehicle before lunch so . . .”
An expectant pause. . .
“. . . So I’d say it’s tanks for the memory!”
Thomas cringed. Karl had probably been crafting that gem all morning.
Jesus. So much for that celebrated Irish wit. Northern, or southern? Thomas had never broached the whole Irish thing with Karl, not once in the eighteen months they'd worked together. Come to that, he didn’t actually know where Karl's religious loyalties
lay. A Proddy most probably, given Karl’s time in the British Army. Still, somehow he couldn’t picture the teenage Karl with either the Queen or the Pope for his bedroom pin-up.
* * *
The clouds parted, as if bestowing a benediction. Thomas breathed easier as they walked over to the mess hall. After an entire morning trapped in cramped conditions, contending with plastic furniture, extended delays, Karl's inescapable gas attacks and his delightful sing-songs, a stroll in the open air was a feast for the senses.
Alongside their security colour-coding the badges read ‘Official Photographer,’ and they kept their camera cases close at hand. According to Karl, the only opportunist greater than a squaddie was two squaddies.
While the posh folks might be enjoying canapés and sipping Pinot Grigio, for the commoners it was mess-hall fare with those self-same squaddies. Not that Karl seemed to mind; no, he was in his element — back amid a sea of khaki and camouflage, as if his two and a half years in the Surveillance Support Unit had never happened.
“You bloody love all this, don’t you?” Thomas raked through his stew half-heartedly.
“Hey, this is just another job. Glorified PR lackeys — that’s what we are.” But his eyes shone as he gazed around the room.
“Really?” Thomas put his fork down with a clatter, causing the boys at a nearby table to stop and look over. “What if you could turn back the clock, jack all this in and go back to the army?”
Karl chewed his stew slowly. “Well, leaving aside the challenge of time travel, I’d have to say . . . no.”
Thomas raised an eyebrow of dissent. “Bollocks.”
“What, Tommo, and miss all the fun we’ve had together? Not a chance.” Karl beamed his hundred-watt smile, but Thomas wasn’t buying today.
He looked past Karl’s pudding and the thrum of the mess hall slipped away from him. He was back on the Moors, and that psychotic bastard, Yorgi, was taunting him again. He was standing there, helplessly, flinching at the flash of sunlight and the blinding realisation that Sir Peter Carroll was raising a gun and . . .
“Hey.” Karl clicked his fingers in front of Thomas’s face. “You were zoning out on me there.” The missing word was again.
Thomas nodded, pushing his plate away; nothing quelled your appetite like the memory of an execution. There was probably a diet plan in that somewhere: Monday to Friday, eat two good meals a day, then every weekend witness a shooting. The pounds will drop off, mainly through the night-sweats.
Karl drew in a breath. “I know how you feel, Tommo, sure I do. I was sixteen when I first saw a man die, right in front of me. . .” Karl fell silent, long enough for Thomas to know that a punchline wasn’t on its way.
“Come on, Karl,” he gestured towards the exit. “Let's call this meeting of Depressives Anonymous to a close.”
Karl pushed his chair back. “Go on then, Mr Bladen, what goodies can we look forward to after lunch?”
Thomas pawed through his notes. “Helicopter demo — rooftop rescue. Then a couple of armoured cars and after that some small arms.”
On cue, Karl retracted his hands into his sleeves. “Like these?”
Thomas quashed a smile. Dick.
* * *
Back outside, Thomas stretched in the sunlight. It wasn’t all bad there; even army bases had trees. If you could ignore all the military hardware and square bashing, you were left with a lot of land. Probably some decent wildlife too, if they’d had the time to explore.
“You know, Tommo, you can always talk to someone — me, for instance.”
Talk to someone? Yeah, that was how they’d got this gig. A post operational review with Christine Gerrard, after the business on the moors, and since then it’d been weeks on the surveillance equivalent of light duties.
No, the only person Thomas wanted to talk to was Miranda; it had been her life, not his, that had been threatened and turned inside out — and all because of his shitty job. Even now, just thinking about her, he felt the shame smouldering inside. Oh, they still met up and spent time together, but he couldn’t quite forgive himself. And he reckoned she felt the same way.
“Right, Tommo,” Karl held his camera case out at a jaunty angle. “What say we posh ourselves up and crash the arms dealers’ bistro? How much do you think one of them earns?”
He smiled briefly. Almost two months on, and Karl was still putting in the effort, still trying to convince him it was business as usual. Never mind all the lies and double-dealing — the people they’d saved and the ones they couldn’t. In Karl’s eyes, it was all gift wrapped and put away — for the greater good. Well, fuck that for a game of soldiers.
Karl's mobile chirruped for attention. “Dearie me, I’ve told them never to ring me at the office.” He hit the button on his work mobile. “McNeill here. Uh huh. We’re out by the flagpole. Yes, ma’am, will do; McNeill out,” he put his case down. “We’ve been reassigned, Tommo; we’re to wait here — Christine Gerrard’s express orders. Someone else will carry on our good work this afternoon. Transport’s on its way — special request.” He straightened an imaginary tie.
Thomas screwed up his face, as though he’d just caught wind of a bad smell. Minutes later, they heard the unmistakable growl of a Land Rover. Thomas turned towards the sound and paled, the combination of camouflage and blue lights registering a unique kind of menace, even to civilians. And judging by Karl’s face, the military police weren't to his taste either.
The Land Rover screeched to a halt beside them; both MPs had that standard-issue wasp-chewing face. Thomas had grown immune to the contempt that the forces and the police reserved for the Surveillance Support Unit — they were often referred to as floaters, and a lot worse besides.
After checking ID cards, the MPs muttered between themselves then radioed in. The sergeant eyed them from the Land Rover. “Yes sir, we’ve got them.”
Thomas nudged Karl, who didn’t respond. The sergeant was calling the shots now. “Get in.”
The vehicle swung away from the main buildings in a wide arc. Thomas hadn’t ventured out this far before; they’d been limited to authorised areas only. A tarmac road wound through oaks and beeches, only he didn’t feel so keen on nature now. The Land Rover rumbled on without a word, until a guardhouse loomed, with a heavy-duty gate that could only mean they were entering a more secure area.
He glared at Karl, willing him to say something. But that didn’t happen until they'd passed the checkpoint.
“Would someone like to tell me what’s going on?” Karl sounded rattled.
The MPs didn’t even turn around. Thomas wanted to speak, but the words jammed in his throat. If Karl was holding back then they really were in trouble.
“Should I be phoning my boss — or a lawyer?” Karl’s face was now an angry shade of red, a tribute to the soldiers' scarlet caps.
Thomas recalled that Karl had never explained how he’d come to leave the army and join the Surveillance Support Unit. Maybe this was unfinished business.
One of the MPs twisted round and barked, “No calls.”
A minute or so later, the vehicle reached its destination, close to a nondescript door where the flaking grey paint screamed underfunding. Thomas followed Karl’s lead and went into the anteroom without a sound. The door closed behind them.
Chapter 2
"Don’t take this the wrong way, Karl, but is this anything to do with you?”
He was silent for a moment as if weighing the evidence. “Tommo, I’ve never even been here before. What the hell could I have done?” The voice was uncharacteristically shrill — odd to see him in a flap. But then, as Karl had once told him in a waltz down military memory lane: you don’t fuck with the Red Caps.
Thomas let the matter drop and fell back on instinct, circling the small room. Stick to the details. There were two small windows — in need of a clean — and nothing to see outside. A stack of chairs occupied one corner of the room — with another three along one side of a large table, and a single chair
facing them, court-martial style. He glanced Karl’s way then thought better of it. There was no phone there, not even a socket. And right now he really needed to hear Miranda’s voice.
He took out his mobile and punched in the security code. Karl’s eyes bulged. “What are you doing? Don’t be stupid!”
Jeez. He cut the phone and scanned the room again. This whole set up didn’t feel good at all.
The sound of footsteps echoed outside, coming closer. Karl’s face screamed, ‘I told you so,’ as he stood to attention, ramrod straight.
Thomas slouched against the table; no point pretending that he was army stock, and right now he was glad not to be, if this was how they treated their own.
The door swung in and a green jacket filled the frame. “At ease,” the officer declared, glancing at Thomas as if he were shit on his shiny boots.
He looked the uniform in the face. “And you are?”
Karl took the hit. “Don't be a prat, Tommo; this is Major Eldridge.”
He made a mental note: Karl and the major already knew each other.
“My apologies for your unorthodox mode of transport, gentlemen, but I had to get you here quickly. We’re in a fix, Karl, and your presence on the base is fortuitous to say the least.
Yeah, but who for?
The major closed the door carefully. “There’s been an accident in one of the test labs and I need an objective record, before the investigation team gets onsite. The corporate junket across the way has made things a little difficult for us — can we talk freely?”
Both the major and Karl looked directly at Thomas. He swallowed and sat up properly, bringing his hands together as if in contrition.
“I want both of you to get as much photographic evidence as you can without disturbing anything. You’ll have half an hour at most, and then they’ll be here to take the body away.”
“Body?” Karl glanced at Thomas, an unspoken question hanging in the air: Are you sure you can handle this?
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