by Mark Arundel
Mark Arundel
Codename Files
Nos. 1, 2 & 3
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Laughing Gulls
By the same author
Bonfire
Codename: Moneyman © Mark Arundel 2011
Codename: Casanova © Mark Arundel 2012
Codename: Santiago © Mark Arundel 2014
Mark Arundel asserts his right to identification as the author of this work in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
Laughing Gulls
To the memory of Ann, my mother
Contents
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By the same author
File No. 1, Codename: Moneyman
File No. 2, Codename: Casanova
File No. 3, Codename: Santiago
Bonfire preview
File No. 1
Codename: Moneyman
Chapter 1
Deal thirteen cards each to four players.
THE NIGHT WAS BLACK like the wing of a lifeless raven. I stared forward into the darkness and my eyes saw with an unnatural light. It was eerie, ghostly, unnerving. I lifted my hand to my face. I felt night-vision goggles tightly fastened and set to maximum. I realised it was raining. Heavy drops fell from the canopy and slapped gently against my battle helmet. My jungle combats felt wet, and my boots fought for grip in the mud. I looked down at my waist and saw I held an LMG [LMG: light machine gun]. Secured around my hips was an ammunition belt and below that a scabbard that held a fighting knife. My fingers left the gun and automatically touched the handle of the knife, mentally reinforcing distance and position. I held my concentration. My eyes searched forward and I listened. The only sound was the falling rain. I lifted one boot and moved ahead. One-step, slowly, and then another. It seemed the jungle had consumed me. All I saw was vegetation. There were no other soldiers, no buildings, no lights, just the eerie abnormal glow through the night-vision goggles. I stepped forward again and then stopped. Had I heard someone move? I listened. There was silence. Then the man dropped on me from above. The weight and force of his body took me down with him. He was over me, grabbing at me; his fist was clenched and preparing to strike. He pulled his arm back and I saw the silver blade flash pale green. Unconsciously, I pushed my body forward using every muscle in my abdomen and struck his knees with my feet. His balance went and in the mud, his feet slipped. I was already up, already pulling my fighting knife, already advancing on him. He tried desperately to get his balance and defend the attack but it was too late. I could smell the sour tobacco on his breath. My knife sank deeply into his throat. A death sound came from his chest and my hand found his mouth. I watched his eyes search for something that wasn’t there and then lose focus. He turned heavy and I let him fall. My eyes searched the jungle and the canopy, and then I stepped away. He made a sound. I looked back. He was dead, I was sure of it. My eyes stayed on him. I wanted to pull myself away but I couldn’t. Something held me fast, and then he lifted his head. His eyes opened and they burned into me. His lips parted, his black mouth gaped wide and he screamed the words: ‘Your mother is dead.’
With those shocking words, the malevolent power of my nightmare broke and I jolted awake. My heart thumped in my chest, I gulped desperately for air and I felt the running sweat turn cold against my burning skin. I shivered and tightly closed my eyes.
The vivid emotion stayed with me as though it had buried deep inside like an alien life form and wouldn’t leave. I willed it to go, but it was morning before it finally left.
The day had begun like those before it. I wondered how many more of them there would be. I didn’t want to think about the answer.
I shifted on the sofa and tried to get relaxed. The thin duvet was mostly on the floor. It was the most uncomfortable three-seated sofa ever. Trolls had probably built it in the dark.
I was still restless when Tom came in. It was already time for him to leave for work. He was dressed in an office suit and a bright tie with a golfing motif. I don’t like ties, but if you have to wear one then it must be plain. Only working clowns should ever wear bright or motif ties, as they are the only people with a good enough excuse.
He walked across the room, opened the curtains, then came and stood by the sofa. He looked at me for a few seconds while he fiddled with the offending knotted silk and then he said, ‘How’s the job hunting going?’
‘It’s only been a week,’ I said.
Tom said, ‘I know, but are you trying, really trying?’
I didn’t answer.
‘Don’t you have any contacts, you know, who could give you a job?’ he said. ‘Like a mercenary or maybe a bodyguard or something.’
I failed to stop the uncivil laugh.
He frowned at me.
‘It’s not me, you know that,’ he said. ‘If it was just me you could stay as long as you liked, but with Linda, and with the baby due in less than two months.’ He was being apologetic. He needn’t have been. After all, it was his flat, his wife and his second kid on the way. He needn’t apologise for asking me to leave. We hadn’t seen each other since school. Sure, he owed me plenty of favours from back then, but that was in the past. Turning up as I had like a ghost I’d been lucky he’d let me stay at all.
‘I hear you,’ I said. ‘I’ll sort something out today if I can. It’s good of you to let me stay as long as you have.’
Tom didn’t say any more. As a way of covering the awkwardness, he turned around and then switched on the radio. He gave me a half smile as he left.
I let my head fall back onto the clammy pillow and wondered what I was going to do.
‘Overnight, the Nikkei fell again for the fifth straight day dropping to a two-year low, and the Footsie is expected to follow suit when it opens in just under thirty minutes. In America, the Dow Jones is at one-year lows with banking stocks coming under increased pressure as the financial markets struggle with losses and a fall in world confidence.’ The radio newsreader’s voice rang with earnest importance. I listened to the grim financial report and realised the economy was on a major slide. That wasn’t going to help me either.
I got up and went into the kitchen. Linda wasn’t up yet, so I didn’t have to see her.
I carried a mug of tea and a packet of chocolate biscuits back to the settee and tried to get comfortable.
The radio was giving out the day’s weather forecast. It was the Monday morning after the clocks had gone back, almost November, almost winter: dark and cold, wet and windy. An English winter was not a bright prospect. I took a bite of the first chocolate biscuit followed by a mouthful of hot tea. The forecast was predicting a dry day with light cloud and a freshening breeze from the south-west. This meant it was probably going to rain. I’ve often thought that British weather forecasts should carry a disclaimer, something like this program is for entertainment purposes only and any resemblance to the actual weather in the day ahead is purely coincidental. Perhaps I’m being unfair, given the notoriously changeable English weather, but if you’re going to try to forecast it then it’s only reasonable to warn people.
The telephone rang. I thought Linda would get it, but after the sixth ring, I got up and answered it.
‘Hello,’ I said.
A woman with a confident voice replied, ‘Who am I speaking with?’
I told her
who I was, which seemed to be the answer she wanted.
She said, ‘My name is Charlotte Miller. I’m a government departmental civil servant. Please confirm your military serial number so I can verify your identity.’
I told her the number, which was memorised.
She thanked me and said, ‘I’m calling on behalf of the Foreign Office.’
I interrupted and said, ‘The Foreign Office?’
She continued as if I hadn’t spoken.
‘Would it be possible for you to come to a meeting later today?’
‘A meeting, later today, I…'
She cut in and said, ‘It’s most important that you attend.’
‘Oh, is it? Well, I…'
‘Good. Can you come at four o’clock?’
‘What’s this about?’
‘Don’t worry, everything will be explained when we see you.’
She told me the address. I found a pen beside the radio and jotted it down on yesterday’s newspaper.
‘When you arrive ask for me by name: Charlotte Miller.’ Her goodbye was still sounding in my ear as she ended the call.
I’m not usually a curious man, perhaps because I can normally come up with a satisfactory explanation, quickly, for most things, but this telephone call, I had to admit, made me curious. I read my scribbled note and realised the address was in Whitehall. I thought for a moment but nothing came immediately to mind. I didn’t know who Charlotte Miller was, her of the confident telephone voice, and no immediate idea what the Foreign Office wanted with me. It was curious indeed.
Mrs. Carlson from flat eight was in the lift with Pepper, her Pekingese. I noticed the toy dog had a bright, gold and red ribbon tied in its hair. It further confirmed my assertion on ties, not that it was necessary.
Mrs. Carlson smiled and said, ‘We’re off to the park, dear. Pepper enjoys her walkies.’ I attempted to smile back, but my face seemed stuck, so I just nodded. Unperturbed by my unenthusiastic response, Mrs. Carlson said, ‘It’s a lovely day, dear: dry and sunny with a mild breeze.’ She smiled again as if this news would somehow free my face and return the power to my muscles. The weather forecaster’s predictions had obviously convinced her. It was no good my face remained stuck. I simply nodded my head again. The lift sounded its arrival on the ground floor and the doors slid open onto the lobby. Mrs. Carlson smiled one last time, but less enthusiastically than before, and said, ‘Goodbye dear, it was nice to talk to you.’ Pepper flicked his little pink tongue over his wet snubbed nose and eyed me cautiously. I nodded one last time and went ahead, through the glass-panelled door, down the steps and onto the pavement. It was raining.
I pulled up my jacket collar and hurried on my way. The pavement was crowded. Bustling city workers jostled with shoppers in an elaborate game of tag. They failed to draw me in and at the crossroads, I had to stop and wait for the lights.
A passing bus tried to poison me with a toxic blast of diesel fumes from its grumbling exhaust. More queues of noxious traffic edged slowly by with their windscreen wipers arcing monotonously and their occupants hid behind misty, wet glass. A slightly wider gap between two cars allowed an energetic young woman to make a dash for the other side. She made it safely. Perhaps I should have tagged along. Danger is, after all, an aphrodisiac. The green man eventually lit up and the traffic stopped. I walked across with the herd and felt my enthusiasm vanish like the magician’s pretty assistant—you know she must be there somewhere, but you just can’t see her. All the other people around me seemed empty of excitement. A rainy Monday had successfully dampened everyone’s magical spirits. Charlotte Miller had already spoilt my day. All I could think about was the mystery four o’clock meeting. I focused my mind and thought hard. It must have something to do with my job. At least the one I’d had up until a week before.
It was ten to four and the city was already beginning to get dark. I crossed at the T-junction and quickened my pace. Whitehall was still about a fifteen-minute walk away. The pavements were easier now, less like sale day on Bond Street, so I made good-time. I reached the park and quickened my step, passing the subtly lit boutiques and upmarket jewellers without a glance. I needed to cross the road but a solid line of noisy traffic made me stop. Curiosity replaced my annoyance while I waited for the road to clear and I found myself eager to discover why they wanted to see me.
I turned left and hurried past a restaurant with its warm lights shining across the damp cobbles and a wine bar with an outside chalkboard smudged by the rain. The chateaus had taken on a ghoulish theme. The fine drizzle drifted on the breeze like the spray from a hosepipe and a faint rainbow appeared in the mist above my head.
I walked past the entrance to a small museum that looked closed and crossed at the junction. The street turned sharply and as it straightened, I saw my destination. The old building had once welcomed guests arriving in horse-drawn carriages.
A serene hush greeted me as I pushed open the door. Before I could go any further, I had to pass through a security detector like those at airports. No alarm went off and the uniformed guard gave me a blank look and an official nod of approval. He checked off my name against his printed list, which he held on an old clipboard. At the desk, I was welcomed with an enquiring smile.
I said, ‘I’m here for a meeting with Charlotte Miller.’ The neatly dressed woman with her hair tied in a bun checked her screen. She smiled again and politely asked my name. I told her and she said, ‘Yes, sir, you’re in meeting room number six.’ Realising from my lack of immediate movement that I didn’t know where meeting room number six was she said, ‘It’s through this way, then through the waiting area, along the corridor and then right at the end. The door is numbered.’ She assisted her verbal directions with the pointing of her left hand, which she aimed vaguely in the direction I was to go.
‘Thanks, I’m sure I’ll find it.’
Well-dressed business people and academic-types sat waiting in the plush surroundings, which were reminiscent of an English stately home converted for use as a conference centre. Many of them were drinking tea and some were eating biscuits. It made me feel hungry. Resisting the urge to sit down and join them I pushed on, finding the corridor and eventually meeting room number six without any further distractions.
I opened the door without knocking and went straight in. The floor covering was thick carpet tiles and the wallpaper was a two-tone cream. The centre of the room held a shiny-topped mahogany table and against the far wall, opposite the tall veiled window, was a sideboard supporting a vase of plastic flowers. The room was quiet and warm with a faint scent of wood polish. On the table, I saw a coffee pot and a plate of biscuits. The room was soulless. I checked my wristwatch. It was four o’clock.
Before I could decide what to do, the door opened and a woman entered. She didn’t seem surprised I was there. She approached me. I didn’t get a smile but her eyes were warm and friendly. She was confident in the same way a film director might be with a strong cast of actors at her command. She wore a tight skirt and a matching tailored jacket. Tied back and held by a black ribbon was thick auburn hair. Her white blouse was undone at the neck. She extended her right hand and we shook. It was difficult to pull my eyes away from her face. I glanced at her left hand and didn’t see any rings. She held my gaze and thanked me for coming.
‘I’m Charlotte Miller,’ she said. ‘You’re very punctual.’
‘The rain made me walk fast,’ I said.
Her eyes remained on my face for a moment and then she said, ‘Shall we sit, coffee?’
We sat and she poured two cups.
‘Is it raining?’ she said. ‘I’ve been inside all day.’
‘Working hard on the affairs of state?’ I said.
‘There always seems to be something that comes along to keep me busy.’
‘Like me?’ I suggested.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘like you.’
Just then, the door abruptly opened and a man entered. His tightly pulled face gave the impression
the day was causing him stress and he muttered something about the right room. He sat down beside Charlotte and poured himself a coffee.
‘This is Stephen Bradshaw,’ Charlotte said. The man nodded at the introduction but didn’t extend his hand. ‘Mr. Bradshaw is from Military Intelligence.’
‘Is this him?’ he said while openly assessing me over his raised coffee cup.
Charlotte didn’t respond.
‘I don’t know what’s wrong with the existing list; all of those men are perfectly capable of...’
He didn’t finish the sentence because Charlotte cut him off.
‘We’re just waiting for one more,’ she said.
We sat in silence while we waited and drank our coffee. I sensed the tension between my two new friends. It hung in the air like the harsh smell of burnt toast. Bradshaw made an unnecessary call on his phone and Charlotte offered me a biscuit.
The door opened again.
‘I hope I’m not late,’ the man said. ‘It was the damn traffic in this rain.’
‘This is Sir George Winchester from the Foreign Office,’ Charlotte said.
‘How do you do,’ he said and shook my hand. He sounded like a cricket captain on a summer’s morning meeting a new junior player.
He acknowledged Bradshaw while he sat and poured himself a coffee. His eyes settled on my face.
‘You’re probably wondering why we’ve asked you here today,’ he said.
‘It had crossed my mind.’
Without pausing, he said, ‘I am sure you must have considered the possibility of it having something to do with you being a British soldier.’
‘...ex-soldier. They booted me out. Didn’t you know?’