Metal collided with tarmac. William’s P230 had fallen out from his belt. He cursed inwardly at the ineffective holster and hoped the man hadn’t heard it.
A glint of reflected light flashed in the air above William. Cold metal was pressed against his hot skin. He froze. The blade of the short combat knife was pushed hard onto his throat.
‘Good. That’s it, stay calm. Shhh,’ said the man between sharp breaths, the accent was middle-eastern. He kept the pressure on William’s twisted arm, pushing him uncomfortably into the wall. His face was right up against William’s ear.
The honed knife edge dug into William’s skin close to his carotid artery. One swift move and he knew that it was lights out.
‘Who are you? Why are you here?’ the man demanded.
Anger and frustration surged through William. He recalled his close quarter training sessions with special forces instructors. It had been drilled into him that a fight was won or lost in the first minute. Confidently, he assessed that he was still in that window of opportunity.
‘My name is Christophe Dupart. I am a virologist,’ William said slowly in a poor French accent hoping to buy some time. A few seconds was all he needed. With his free arm he carefully reached into his jacket pocket. Most of the glass was broken, sharp fragments jabbed at his fingers, but mercifully he felt the long solid stem of the champagne glass.
‘Bullshit,’ spat the attacker. The knife pressed further into William’s skin. ‘One more chance, then I’ll gut you like a fucking fish.’
William gripped his improvised weapon. Boiling with fury he withdrew the shard at lightning speed and stabbed behind him at face level. A loud yelp in his ear let him know he had successfully hit his target. The pressure on William’s arm was released. The knife was gone.
Without hesitation, William threw himself backwards as hard as he could. He hit the attacker’s already bloody face with the back of his head. Another yelp. William twisted around to face his opponent.
Staggering backwards, and clutching his bleeding eye with one hand, the attacker waved the combat knife around in the half-light.
Resolute, and without hesitation, William picked up his pistol.
He took aim.
And fired.
Instantly the man crumpled to the ground. His arms and legs twitched violently as the nervous system shut down. William kept the pistol aimed at the body until it stopped moving. Motionless and twisted it lay, blood oozed from the punctured eyeball. In the middle of the man’s forehead was a tiny black hole.
William frantically looked up and down the dark alley to make sure there was no one around, and then he quickly searched the corpse. Like a common thief he took the man’s phone and wallet. Satisfied there was nothing left of intelligence interest, he checked that the end of the alley was clear and collectedly strode away onto the main street.
*
Pedestrians stared at William and pulled away fearful of his ragged and bloody appearance as he staggered past in ripped and filthy clothes. Bruised and exhausted, he knew there was little point in trying to look respectable. It was too dangerous for him to return to his hotel now, but he knew exactly where to go.
From the road side he waved his arm and hailed the first taxi that came by. The driver stopped and eyed William with suspicion; he climbed into the back and pulled the door shut.
‘Stronhgasse street please,’ he said in German with a Berlin accent. A little trick he had learned whilst posted in Germany some years previously. After catching a glimpse of himself in the rear view mirror he felt an explanation was required.
‘Kids these days. No respect,’ he said and wiped the blood off his face with a handkerchief.
With a dismissive wave, the driver nodded in agreement and drove on. He’d seen worse.
At Stronhgasse street, William tipped the driver generously and climbed out into the cool night. He was close enough to the British Embassy to walk; being driven to the door would have been too obvious. At the embassy entrance he flashed his ID to the suspicious guard. He looked him up and down, scrutinised his ID, then nodded in acknowledgment and allowed him in.
William freshened up, ate, and then wrote a quick situation report on his phone and emailed it to his boss. He had a dozen lines of enquiry to follow up on his return to London, his mind buzzed with questions. But one thing in particular bothered him: he had been so careful, he had followed protocol to the letter, yet he had been found so easily – way too easily.
Tuesday
Hemera Areos ‘day of Ares’
Chapter 4
0728hrs – Cambridge
Ella awoke. Rays of the early morning sun radiated through the window. Her bedroom was already too hot, she kicked the duvet back and tried to cool down. Her head pounded, she reached for the glass of water by her bedside and gulped it down. She sat up, bleary eyed, put her head in her hands and rubbed her face.
It had been a good night, she recalled. After the pub she and Darren had met up with some friends in a nightclub and they had danced and drank until it closed in the early hours. She racked her mind to ensure that nothing too embarrassing had occurred; she was sure nothing had. She threw herself out of bed and headed for the bathroom.
After a refreshing shower, she stood in front of the sink wrapped in a long white towel. She wiped the steam off the mirror and stared at the reflection of herself thoughtfully. Most of her friends had jobs now, serious partners, some were even married. What did she have to show for her years? She wondered where life was taking her, what journey her seemingly rudderless life was on.
After a light breakfast of cereal and low fat milk, she paced around her flat and debated what she should do with the day. Her thesis beckoned to her. Settling down in front of her laptop, she opened up the file that contained her thesis and stared blankly at the lines of text. After a few minutes of fruitless key-bashing she cursed, closed the lid, and stood up. Her mind was elsewhere.
She had to tackle it now. It was eating her up. ‘Now or never,’ she said. She grabbed her handbag, took out her phone, and dialled the lawyer’s office.
*
The offices of Bingly-Hilary-Newman were modern and spacious. In the reception area several highly colourful abstract paintings decorated the walls. Bright colours mingled on the canvases thick with texture. Elsewhere, obscure stone sculptures sat proudly on smoked glass desks. When Ella entered she thought the place looked more like an art gallery than a solicitor’s office.
At the reception desk she was greeted by a heavily made up blonde girl whom she felt was no more than eighteen years old, a strong scent of perfume emanated from her. She took Ella’s name and told her to take a seat, she pointed to a soft black leather sofa by the window. Ella sat and watched as the receptionist spoke quietly into the phone, occasionally she glanced over at Ella as she spoke. Ella picked up a fashion magazine from the glass table and pretended to read it.
A few minutes later a smartly dressed man, who looked to be in his late forties, appeared at the reception desk. After a quick word with the girl he headed straight towards Ella.
‘Well, hello at last, Ms Moore. Very pleased to meet you. I am Winton Newman, senior partner,’ he said in a very posh accent, the kind reserved for the genuine English upper classes. Ella had seen his type many times before at the university, both students and staff. Well educated, well presented, polite beyond the pale, he was most likely a man from a family of good breeding, Ella thought. Old money, as they say. She guessed he would have come from a long line of well-to-do ancestors and probably knew exactly who his great-great grandfather was. Winton Newman had been born with a large, solid silver spoon surgically attached.
‘Nice to meet you too. Please, call me Ella.’ She shook his hand. His skin was soft, his grip gentle.
Feeling slightly nervous, she followed him into his office. He took a chair behind his cluttered desk and sat down. Ella sat on a green antique club leather chair that was in front of the desk. The office was decorated in oak
furnishings, old oil paintings hung on the walls. It was in stark contrast to the modern reception hall. One of the paintings depicted an impressive looking man dressed in an old red and white military uniform. Medals and jewels hung from his red tunic. Two sleek brown hounds sat obediently beside him. Ella scrutinised it, there was something familiar about the man’s face . . .
‘My great-great grandfather, an outstanding character.’ Winton looked up at the picture and grinned proudly.
Ella bit her lip; it was all she could do to stop herself from sniggering. Winton turned back to her; Ella composed herself.
‘He started the company with his war pension after the Boer war,’ he went on. ‘Mainly looked after the wills and legal affairs of fellow commanders and friends. We’ve expanded somewhat since then though. Employment law, family law, civil litigation, you name it. But more to the point, we also look after wills and probates.’
Ella’s stomach jumped, her heart raced, she feared Winton could hear it beating hard in her chest. Embarrassed by her lack of control of her own emotions, she blushed and shifted in her seat.
‘A very odd one this, I must admit,’ Winton continued peering down at his desk and fingering his way though some papers.
‘Odd? What do you mean?’ Ella asked with a slightly worried tone.
‘Well, your father . . . Sorry, but I must ask. James Davidson was your biological father?’
‘Yes. He left us a long time ago. I never knew him. After the divorce my mother reverted to her maiden name, she never remarried.’
Winton gave her a look that she interpreted as pity. ‘James Davidson came to this office two months ago to make a will. As he had no close family to take care of things, he made specific instructions as to what was to be done in the event of his death. He wanted to be cremated without fuss or interference and even paid for the proceedings in advance.’
‘That’s weird. He made a will barely a month before he died. Did you know he was murdered by a burglar?’ she asked. Ella had never cared about her father before, now she couldn’t help but wonder about his last moments on Earth.
Winton frowned at her lack of emotion. ‘I did, yes, a terrible thing, just terrible. James also asked us to secure some items for him, a letter and a small box.’ He leaned over the desk and lowered his voice. ‘He was quite specific that one of the letters must be read on the event of his death to you and you only.’
‘But why? He never knew me,’ Ella said. ‘Was there really no one else in his life?’
‘I have not the slightest idea, I’m afraid.’ Winton walked over to one of the oil paintings on the wall. It was that of a hunter mounted on his huge dark brown steed, he loosely held a silver shotgun in one hand; the black reins were in the other. He pushed the painting aside, hidden behind was a small safe. After tapping the code into the keypad he took out a flat wooden box and a white envelope.
‘These are the items he has left in our trust,’ Winton said, he returned to his desk and placed the wooden box on the table in front of Ella.
‘What is it?’
‘Again, I’ve no idea. I am as captivated as you are.’ Winton searched in his desk for something. He eventually found his antique letter opener, it was in the shape of a sword. He sliced through the envelope and pulled out a single page of typed script and two other smaller envelopes. One envelope was red, the other was blue. Donning a pair of reading glasses, Winton held the typed page out and began to read:
‘My darling Ella. If this is being read to you, then my worst nightmare has become a cruel reality. I have passed away without getting to know you as I had planned to do so one day. My own fault, I know, I left it too late. Please find a place in your heart to forgive me. If only I could have spent time with you, you would have understood what happened and why I had no choice. We all had no choice. But you now have a chance to learn the truth. I have left you all that are important. If you accept the red letter, all I ask is that you do as described. But if you would rather forget me – and I wouldn’t blame you if you did – then there is only one other who may help. Do what you feel is right, Ella. All my love, James.’
A single tear ran down Ella’s face. She quickly wiped it away and composed herself.
Winton gave her a moment and then concluded the process in a sympathetic tone. ‘It appears the inheritance is conditional. If you accept, you must take this red letter and follow its instructions. I presume you will want his ashes; I’ll leave you the details of the crematorium.’
‘Who is the other person he refers to?’
‘I don’t know. I assume it is detailed in this blue letter. But if you take the red letter I am to burn the blue letter unopened right now. Conversely, if you don’t accept his request then you must leave now empty handed. I will burn the red letter unopened. The blue letter holds further instructions for me alone. That is the last will and testament of James Davidson.’
Winton held out the coloured envelopes, one in each hand. He leaned towards her.
‘So Ella. What’s it to be?’
Chapter 5
1017hrs – Oxfordshire
It had been a relatively comfortable flight from Vienna; William had slept most of the way. The RAF Hercules touched down gently on the runway of Brize Norton and braked hard. It taxied to its bay and the engines powered down. The few occupants, mostly soldiers, gathered their bags and Bergens, and disembarked down the rear ramp. William was rapidly cleared through the military terminal and was met outside by a military driver, a skinny young dark haired woman from the Royal Logistic Corps. Dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, she barely looked old enough to drive, he thought. He followed her to an unmarked Army car, an indistinct Ford Mondeo, and in silence he was taken straight to central London.
Few people, even those who worked in intelligence circles, knew of F-Branch’s existence. Even fewer knew where the F-Branch office was located. To maintain security, William was dropped off close to an MOD building. From there he made his way on foot through the busy streets to the closest underground station and took the tube to a station that was second closest to the office. He walked a short but effective anti-surveillance route along the bustling streets of London before completing his journey to his final destination.
Since its formation during the cold war, F-Branch had been located in a Victorian Grade II listed building in an exclusive part of central London. Various shell companies had owned the premises, names changed regularly. The discreet branding on the brass plaque outside matched whatever company was in use at the time. Presently it was called Ajax Security, a private security and investigations firm registered in the British Virgin Islands. To maintain an effective cover-story they even had a few retired operators who were available for such consultancy work, albeit at an obscenely high price.
The old building was architecturally impressive, spacious, fitted out with the latest in IT equipment, and, to William’s pleasant surprise, it even boasted its own bar. The Greenfly, as it was known, was a mid-sized room with a small bar area at one end and had the look of a private club. The walls were clad in natural wood panelling and the club leather chairs were comfortable. In addition to the canned and bottled drinks, it had a small selection of sandwiches and ready-meals to sustain those who worked through the night and beyond. There was a large flatscreen TV on one wall that was almost permanently on a twenty-four hour news channel. All in all, the bar was a very decent, convenient and, importantly, secure place to relax and socialise with the rest of the staff.
Confidently striding through the revolving doors into the main building, William showed his ID card to the security guard. Although the guards were dressed like any other contract civilian guards, they were in fact serving marines on attachment to the unit. The guard nodded to William and waved him through. After he swiped through the security turnstile, William headed for the lifts. He pressed for the second floor and the lift accelerated upwards. Once on his floor, before he could get past the steel security door to his office, he was required
to authenticate via a retinal scan. He placed his left eye to a small dark hole in the silver control panel by the door. Instantly the machine verified his identity and the door unlocked with a dull click. Beyond, the office looked like any ordinary open plan office. It had wooden desks and flatscreen computers and staff that buzzed from room to room carrying papers and coffee cups. Heads turned towards William as he headed straight for his boss’s office. He was still seen as the new boy, an object of quiet interest. A couple of women who stood talking to each other by a desk flashed him a glance as he walked past. They looked back to each other, said something, and giggled quietly.
Adjusting his tie unnecessarily, William paused for a moment outside his boss’s door. Refreshed, clean shaven and dressed in a new suit that had been kindly provided by the embassy back in Vienna, William was ready to fight the next battle. Although he had considered the mission a success – he’d made contact with the agent, obtained information, and survived an attack on his life – he feared his new boss may view it differently: two deaths, a police enquiry and no actionable intelligence to speak of. He knocked three times on the solid oak door and walked in with a confident smile on his face.
‘What the bloody hell were you bloody playing at?’ shouted Albert Pinkerton from behind his desk before William even made it across the threshold. ‘Are you trying to start some kind of diplomatic incident? A dead body in the streets, a dead informant in the bloody Wiener Staatsoper! And, by Jingo, no actionable intelligence!’ Pinkerton slammed his fist on his desk, pencils and pen jumped into the air and rolled across the desk onto the floor. ‘You’re worse than the bloody terrorists, Agent Temple. You’re still on probation here you know. Mark my words; you are walking on thin ice. Thin ice!’
The Secret of Hades' Eden Page 4