The Newsmaker (Volume One Book 1)

by Tom Field

  He turned to Misker, no longer the confident businessman of ten seconds before. The colour had drained from his face from the shock, and his eyes were darting left and right, in an attempt to find the source of the gunshot that had killed his henchman. He looked every inch the rat that he was.

  “You won’t see him,” Ward said bluntly.

  “Who are you?” Misker stammered, now the thickness of his Estonian replacing the poorly-imitated English accent he had spoken with previously. His eyes were wide, reminding Ward of a deer which had been caught in the headlights.

  “If you want money I have plenty!”

  “I don’t want money, Mr. Misker; I have more money than I will ever need,” he replied. It was always the same. Each and every time a rat was caught in a trap, it thought that money would buy its life.

  “What I want – no, what the children want - Mr. Misker,” Ward stated, correcting himself, “Is simple retribution. In a minute, a bullet is going to force its way through your face, scrambling your brains and blowing them out of the back of your head. In a minute, you will cease to exist. Tell me, are you afraid?”

  Misker immediately started retching. He was afraid. Ward had looked into the eyes of many condemned men before and knew better than most what real fear looked like. Because he despised what Misker was, he took great pleasure from watching the reality of the situation dawn on him. He always did.

  “Please, you don’t have to do this! I can get you whatever you want. You don’t want money? I have diamonds. Take what you want! You can have it all!” Tears streamed down his face, leaving dark lines on his skin. “Just don’t kill me!”

  Coldly, Ward turned to face Misker, unable to hide the contempt from his face. He’d had enough of the snivelling idiot now, “What I want is to rid the world of scum like you. You abuse innocent children for your sick pleasure and profit. You talk about them as ‘products, units and merchandise’. You are going to die for your sins, and it is no more than you deserve,” he said, staring coldly into Misker’s eyes as he spoke.

  Raising himself up off the bench, Ward was transformed. Misker looked up at him and cowered in fright. The ordinary, non-threatening man he had been sat beside moments before was gone and in his place stood a giant. He appeared to be at least seven feet tall, and Misker felt his eyes burn right through him.

  Ward pulled out his silenced Glock from the waistband at the back of his jeans. Misker was frozen with fear, unable to move. He just sat there, mouth open, trying to decipher the message Ward’s eyes were engraving onto his soul. Without any grand gesture or parting words, he took two steps back and shot Misker in the face. The bullet tore through the flesh, bone and skin, and obliterated his head. His lifeless body slumped forward and slid down the bench and onto the floor.

  Looking over Misker’s shoulder, he saw a black transit van pull up and three men step out in Metropolitan police uniforms. His phone rang. It was The Optician.

  “I see the clean-up crew have arrived. Are we done?” he asked.

  “It looks that way, wouldn’t you say?” Ward replied, “Don’t tell me; you’re getting bored?”

  The Optician let out a laugh before replying.

  “Not as bored as you looked last week when we were playing the Yankees, dear friend. I was sitting three rows behind you, and you looked on the verge of suicide.”

  Ward looked down at Kukk on the floor and noted that the bullet had entered his head exactly in the gap between the two scars on his forehead, joining them together. He smiled, turned to face The Optician’s general hiding place and, before the question could leave his lips, The Optician answered it.

  “I couldn’t help it. It just didn’t seem right for there to be a gap.”

  With that, the line went dead.

  Ward shook his head and walked away down Charles 11 Street. As he approached the junction, he removed his cell phone from his pocket, pulled up Eloisa’s contact details and typed two words into the handset. “It’s done,” they read. He pressed send, tucked it back into his pocket and turned onto Regent Street, melting into the throng of tourists littering the streets with their novelty shopping bags and enormous cameras.

  TWO

  Washington D.C.

  In Washington, news of the devastation in Paris had reached the ears of Paul J. McNair, and he had spent the past 30 minutes trying to figure out what the hell he was going to do. The usual suspects had been surprisingly quiet on the issue, which didn’t help, none of them claiming the responsibility for what would, by their standards, be a huge victory. He sighed. At fifty-one years old, he wielded more power in the US and UK than the Directors of both the CIA and MI6 combined, but his age was beginning to catch up with him. You wouldn’t think it to look at him, he was in excellent shape, carried little body fat, and his greying hair still had enough sandy colour in it to make estimating his exact age difficult. His face was stern, yet open and trusting. He always wore the same suits, plain, dark blue with a crisp white shirt and yellow tie. He had always considered yellow to be a neutral colour which inspired trust. It was as far removed from the deep blues and reds worn by politicians in the Senate, who always seemed to have trouble gaining confidence from anyone. They were politicians that he had never trusted and never would. He had spent a lifetime taking care of the off-limit issues which troubled governments on both sides of the Atlantic. It was he who made the tough decisions and cleaned up the messes that the politicians weren’t willing to risk their political futures over. Of course, this didn’t prevent them taking the credit when it went right. Since he was thirty-four years old he had been the most valued security advisor of five Presidents and five Prime Ministers, although he had never met a single one of them face to face. Deniability was had by all in every sense.

  He was revered, and looked upon with caution by those who had managed to make senior level in the security services, and all of the directors, in all agencies, were made fully aware of the fact that they were simply there to support him in any way that he deemed fit. His office was sparse, furnished with only a large mahogany desk, two telephones and a computer screen linked to both the CIA and MI6 mainframes. He had complete access, and was the only person on Earth with the codes to access the most sensitive information held by both. There were two large lamps, one in each corner of his office behind his desk, and no other furniture. He had no other chair but the one he sat on. He had no desire to let anyone get comfortable in his office. Like a pupil in front of a Headmaster, the dishonest ones always reverted to child-like traits and shuffled their feet and had no idea what to do with their hands when lying to him, the honest ones stood still. He had been an exceptional asset to the CIA under the Reagan regime and was fast-tracked for promotion to director level. This was a tactical move, as much to keep him quiet, as to utilise his analytical talents and ruthless decision making skills. After all, he was dangerous.

  His problem was simple.

  The bomb that had been detonated earlier that morning in Paris, killing 189 people so far was unfortunate, but something for the French to deal with.

  It was his problem because he had found out two hours ago that London and New York were the next targets. A CIA operative in Iraq had come by this information when torturing a suicide bomber whose device had failed to go off. He even provided the name of the bomber, Asif Fulken, a name known to the security services as a former member of the Freedom From the West splinter group, or FFW, as the group had become commonly known. No intelligence had been gathered on Fulken, and recorded in his file, for fourteen months following his exile from the group due to his weakness for Western vices.

  The FFW had not yet claimed responsibility, which meant that Fulken was acting alone. McNair was extremely alarmed by this. Fulken had been one of the most extreme and violent members of the FFW, and with no guidance restricting his behaviour he was a loose cannon. He thought over his options carefully; however, there was only one answer he reached, no matter what angle he took.

  He needed Rya
n Ward to find Fulken.

  Over the past fifteen years, he had built up a core group of lethal, highly trained and supremely intelligent assassins that did what he ordered without question or fear. Known as the ‘Deniables’, the group was born out of an attempt to rectify a shambles of a covert operation in Afghanistan which had led to multiple deaths and senate questions being raised. The most elite MI6 and CIA operatives had been summoned in order to fix the situation before either Britain or the Americans could receive any political backlash.

  He had always felt that his greatest achievement was keeping them all apart so they would never meet, although he wasn’t naïve enough to believe that they hadn’t at least established some semblance of who the others were. After all they were the best. He always kept the balance right, Five Americans and Five British. That would ensure that both governments would equally move heaven and earth to keep things running smoothly, and provide unlimited financial support without hesitation. He always inwardly smiled when he heard the general perception that the British and Americans, while the closest of allies, kept secrets from each other. That was as far from the truth as it was possible to be. They were sisters, they were family in every sense of the word, and he was both the mother and father who held the family together.

  To his operatives, he was simply known as Centrepoint.

  Ryan Ward was the best, in every way. His sheer effectiveness in the field meant that he was happy to overlook Ward’s inability to follow the simple command of providing progress reports to him on a regular basis, something he would not tolerate from any other operative. Everything was about winning or losing to Ward and that, in his eyes, was what set him apart. Ward was so hell bent on winning that he would carry through any task to the bitter end, even if it was likely to end in his own demise. He couldn’t say the same for the other operatives on his team, except perhaps, for The Optician. The fact that Ward had acquired seven million dollars and kept it for himself after destroying a diamond dynasty that sponsored terrorism in South Africa was even ignored. Ward had hidden the money expertly, but not expertly enough to prevent McNair from following the trail and locating the bank account which held the balance. Unluckily for Ward, nothing took place without McNair knowing about it, but fortunately for Ward, he didn’t care.

  Whether or not Ward would be mobilised wasn’t the issue; the issue was whether to have him in New York or London. Ward was unique. Although he was born British, he was equally American. In any situation, if Ward was asked to choose which country to defend first, he wouldn’t be able to. He knew that Ward would die with as much pride for the Stars and Stripes as the Union Jack. He decided the best thing to do was call him and get his opinion on the matter. Even though it was almost eleven pm and the streets outside were empty.

  Ward was woken up by his cell phone vibrating. He checked the screen for the caller ID. It was Centrepoint. He swiped to answer.

  “What’s the problem?” he asked, without a hint of tiredness in his voice despite just being woken up.

  “You’ve heard the news from Paris I take it?”

  “Yes. Has anyone come forward?”

  “No, but they don’t need to,” Centrepoint declared, “We know who did it.”

  “Who?”

  “A man called Asif Fulken. We thought we’d lost him fourteen months ago, but he’s very much back on the radar. It looks like he’s alone. I don’t need to tell you how serious this is.”

  “How do you lose someone? And maybe you should call The Optician? He’s ready to go, and could do with a distraction from playing dot-to-dot,” Ward replied.

  He ignored this comment, knowing full well what had occurred earlier that day. He had got used to the fact that Ward used The Optician a number of times for non-directed operations but to keep him onside, he allowed it.

  “Simple. When he was banished from the FFW, we no longer considered him a threat. Security got a bit lax, I’ll admit that, but we had no way of knowing he would end up carrying out something such as this.”

  “Every time,” Ward sighed, rolling his eyes simultaneously.

  “Specifically meaning?”

  “Not important,” Ward remarked dismissively, but then he couldn’t resist adding, “But you seriously need to sort out your recruiting criteria, because you’re dropping the ball over there. Maybe stop hiring kids straight out of college.”

  “That isn’t the problem. Our intelligence suggests that the next targets are London and New York. We’re not sure which will be hit first. All we know is that it’s not a matter of if, it’s when. The wheels are already in motion.”

  Centrepoint then paused before asking the next question, “Any thoughts?”

  “Geographically, London would be the logical choice. It makes no sense that he would fly to the States only to return to England. He’s just been in Paris, and without the FFW backing him up, it’s unlikely he’s got much support to be able to move around freely. Plus, too much transatlantic travel will increase his chances of being picked up on CCTV at the airports. He will be aware that we are looking for him,” Ward then paused, clearly deep in thought. “Saying that, security wise Europe is now on high alert. He knows that, so it would be safer to travel to the States.”

  “Your best guess?”

  “If I was him, I would try and double bluff us. As a former member of FFW he will know how our analysts think and assume that we expect him to go straight to the States. Naturally, he would then concentrate on London.”

  “You don’t think he would know that we are waiting for him to hit London and therefore hit New York?”

  “No, I don’t. If he is acting without the FFW’s support, he’s brazen, almost arrogant. I don’t think he will care if we are expecting him or not. It’s a challenge,” Ward said emphatically.

  “OK. I want you in London. Meanwhile, I will put the appropriate people in place in New York. Let me know who or what you need.”

  “What have you learned from Paris so far?”

  “Not many specifics but we have a lot of footage available. I’ve contacted UKBC News and they will be expecting you at 8:00am to view the footage they have at their headquarters in North London. They had a news team in Paris running a story on the Louvre. Filming began two hours prior to the explosion, so they stuck around to catch all of the mayhem unfolding. We have accessed all of their data and have it here as well, but talk to the reporters and the camera crew and see if they noticed anything else. Your contact there is Martin Walker, their chief news editor,” Centrepoint replied.

  “OK, I want you to arrange for Lawson to collect me at seven sharp. Provide us with a list of people who would be likely to shelter Fulken, and we will see what we can get from them.”

  “It’s already done. Check your secure e-mail. I don’t need to tell you how tight we are for time on this one. There’s no margin for error.”

  “Understood,” Ward said.

  “I want updates every hour, on the hour. I need to know where we are with it at all times. Find out everything you can about this guy.”

  Ward didn’t detect the usual assertion in Centrepoint’s voice; instead, he picked up on a small hint of desperation coming through from the other end of the phone.

  “Why are we on this one? Why not the usual counter terrorism teams? There is total justification in eliminating this guy when he gets caught, so why call us in?” he asked.

  “Just do your job Ryan,” Centrepoint replied, before hanging up the phone.

  “OK,” he replied as the dial tone rang in his ear.

  He threw back the covers and pulled his body out of bed, and went to the kitchen. He grabbed the carton of orange juice from the fridge, ripped open a quarter inch hole and poured half of the contents into his mouth. After a quick check of the news headlines on the TV, he got down on the floor and began his morning routine; five hundred sit-ups, five hundred press-ups followed by the same number of squat thrusts, until exhaustion set in, all the while trying to decide his next move.
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  THREE

  London

  Mike Lawson arrived driving a silver BMW five series. In the States, most government cars were generally black Ford sedans, but in the UK they tended to drive a much better class of car. Ward had always thought of this as ironic, because the roads in the UK, particularly London, were so congested with traffic, that a car rarely exceeded twenty miles per hour.

  He had always liked Lawson. He had worked with him a number of times in the UK, and he was one of only a handful of MI6 agents that he could actually say he trusted. Lawson was an intimidating guy to look at. He had excelled in the SAS for seven years, and having read his service file, he knew that Lawson was probably equally as efficient, analytical and apt at taking out the bad guys as he was, if not better. Lawson was in his mid-thirties, stood about six feet four and was muscular to the point where he just stopped short of looking like a bodybuilder. He was also probably the most handsome man that Ward had ever seen, with light brown hair showing no hint of grey, and piercing blue eyes that people couldn’t help but get lost in. He knew that Lawson was no longer committed to pushing his body to its physical limit to retain his fitness, and had always wondered how he managed to remain so toned - Lawson had always responded to any questions on the matter by attributing his physique to lots of sex. He had no doubt that when Lawson said lots of sex kept him in shape, that he was telling the truth.

  What he admired most about Lawson was the speed at which he worked. Many times when he had been out in the field, he had contacted him for information, contacts or help, and the response was always five times quicker than anyone else could provide.