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  First Storm

  A Solomon Stone Thriller

  E.G. Ellory

  Copyright © 2019 by E.G. Ellory

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  1. Snowdrift

  2. Casulaties

  3. The Drummer Girl

  4. Striking Distance

  5. Salvo

  6. Missing Pieces

  7. Shadow Surveillance

  8. Countermeasures

  9. Mapping the Enemy

  10. Killshot

  11. Loose Ends

  12. Familiar Company

  Also by E.G. Ellory

  About the Author

  1

  Snowdrift

  The snowstorm provides unexpected cover as I prepare to engage the target, Alexander Rowe, better known as ‘The Ghost’ to an organisation which has spent months trying to track him down. A rogue agent bent on revenge after a recent operation left him stranded and injured in a foreign country.

  Since then, he’s entered the ‘intelligence for sale’ market, sharing information on agents like myself - shadow agents with shifting identities … ghosts who track down individuals of interest and go to work on dismantling their lives. Rowe has committed treason, facing a life sentence should he be apprehended: the objective of my first mission.

  His current location, according to reliable intelligence, is an isolated Northumberland farmhouse - a picturesque part of England that has the benefit of space and seclusion. He has chosen his location well: a farm spread over a few acres of land surrounded by a circle of trees - no other dwelling in view for over two miles. My current location is two miles east - a remote stone cottage offering a good vantage point of the farm.

  I’ve monitored the terrain over the last two days, establishing the best point of approach. With the snowstorm still raging, few vehicles appear on the roads and I prepare to make my journey to the target. My training prepares me to operate in such conditions, the snow-swept, Northumberland landscape more of a benefit than a hindrance. After all, the more remote a place is, the more people take notice of you: my job is to go unnoticed.

  The eighteen months of training seems an age away now - as does my old life and identity - any doubts regarding my ability to adopt this new, ghost-like existence long gone. As the stranger who drew me into this shadow world reminded me during my training: a person’s identity is a construction, and anything that’s been built can be dismantled. George Ingram was the stranger who recruited me - not his real name - and now he’s my point of contact, a location established once the target has been engaged and necessary information extracted.

  Dismantling is the mission - bargaining before brute force. It begins with intimidation, leading to manipulation and, if necessary, coercion until the target surrenders. Violence is only countenanced if all else fails, and everything about the individual of interest I’m tracking now - a rogue agent with extensive training - suggests that force will be necessary.

  The training reminds me that every target is a legitimate threat whether they are a once-honourable agent who has lost their way or a civilian who puts others at risk. This is the critical aspect that persuaded me to abandon my old life as Tom Brook and become Solomon Stone. Dismantling dangerous people is something I can live with - something Alexander Rowe is about to find out. I’m a shadow, operating in plain sight, much like my old life, but in this one you wouldn’t want a visit from me.

  As the snow-blizzard whips its way across the Northumberland landscape, I fold the map on the floor and reach for my coat and hat. The Leicar monocular is placed in the outside coat pocket, ready for when I’m in striking distance of the farm’s boundaries. I’ve been chosen because the target, Rowe, knows nothing of my existence. I function as an ‘illegal’ within the organisation I now work for - an organisation secretly contracted by the British government to enact obtrusive surveillance.

  I appear on no official documentation or database. Should the mission fail in a fatal manner, an identity and narrative is already in place, allowing no trace back to the organisation or the British Intelligence community. I move alone, mapping a ghost who is well versed in being hunted.

  The snow storm continues unabated as I exit my temporary dwelling, locking the door to the stone cottage and walking along the gravel drive towards the road. No other soul is out in this blizzard which will be of benefit as I approach the farm. The journey on foot will take approximately half an hour, slowed somewhat by the conditions.

  If a car does pass, a simple story that I’m an injured serviceman who needs to exercise irrespective of the weather will suffice; it’s an English trait not to enquire beyond necessary pleasantries. I adjust the collar on my coat and pull the hat down over my forehead to protect again the blizzard, surprised at how little I feel the cold now - another aspect of my training.

  The most critical part of my training will soon come into play - movements of stealth before the expected unarmed combat begins. Weapons training is standard although no gun comes with the job, the official line being that agents are never authorised to use violence. The reality is that whatever I acquire during a mission is acceptable for use. Apprehending Rowe is the aim, and any agent on the run is likely to be armed: I expect a weapon to come into play.

  I keep to the grass verge on the side of the road, conscious of the hazardous conditions and the possibility of a vehicle appearing around the corner. Any fool driving in this weather is either going to get stranded or lose control as the temperature remains below zero. Luckily, there is neither sight nor sound of a vehicle and I continue along the road towards the farm: twenty-five minutes if I continue tracking at this pace.

  A quick check of the map confirms that I’m within striking distance of the farm’s outer boundary and I take out the Leicar monocular to scan the terrain, bringing the buildings into view and the single light in the north-facing window: the main living quarters.

  There are five buildings comprising the farm, the living quarters occupying the central space whilst the outbuildings and the beech trees surround it: extra protection from prying eyes or uninvited guests. Approaching from the south end offers the least exposure, the trees circling the farm in clusters to form a wall of privacy. If Rowe senses my approach, he’ll have little alternative but to await my arrival, preparing a trap as I enter the house.

  He’s known as ‘The Ghost’ because of his ability to sense danger, repeatedly evading capture by choosing locations across various countries, offering a degree of wilderness - always studied and used to his advantage. The snow storm has arrived at an opportune time for the hunt, minimising his ability to escape on the roads.

  He will have an advantage if he spots me, but the course has been mapped out over the last week and, as I get closer, the Leicar monocular will bring him into clear view. The hunt is on.

  Thankfully, no vehicles appear on the road, laying the path clear for my reconnaissance of the farm, principally the tracking of Rowe’s position. The light in the main building on the north-facing window is part of the kitchen, and as I zoom in with the monocular there is evidence of life on the cooking surface: bread, cheese and other assorted items.

  Like many agents, Rowe eats simply, treating food as a function rather than a luxury - conditioned to react to sudden, unexpected changes, including the one that’s about to come.

  The collection of beech trees do their job as I make my way down the incline towards the property, the blizzard abating a little but still wild enough to keep inhabitants indoors. Every step is critic
al now, ensuring I remain out-of-sight for two reasons: stopping Rowe escaping again and avoiding fatal gunshots.

  Killing is not my remit, which isn’t to say it isn’t going to be part of the equation. I plan to dismantle as cleanly as possible, calling in the job once Rowe is dealt with - collected by the intelligence community I unofficially work for. However, there are plans and then there’s reality: a reality I’m about to discover as I crouch behind the collection of beech trees to scope the living quarters once more.

  The outer buildings surrounding the main house allow me adequate protection, leaving the final twenty metres to be negotiated ... twenty metres between myself and the least obtrusive entry point: the glass-panelled, kitchen door. A simple lock-picking device will get me in to either face surrender or sudden assault.

  Keeping my eyes on the kitchen door, I move towards the east wall, the curtained windows offering adequate cover. I can be inside in seconds, but my training forces me to assess every object on display in the kitchen. Every action an agent takes is part theatre, part illusion - and falling for the illusion can be fatal.

  Keeping my body pressed against the east wall, I peer into the kitchen as I pick the lock. The building has already been scanned for alarms with none in evidence, although this can also be dealt with. An alarm merely escalates the exchange, typically leading to sudden panic or violence; I wonder which one Rowe is going to choose.

  With the door open and no sound of an alarm, I enter quickly, shutting out the sound of the snow storm and reaching for the first viable weapon: a kitchen knife from the wooden block on the counter. With the knife in my right hand, I slowly unlatch my belt with the left. Rowe will have the advantage if he senses my approach, leading to the possibility of a firearm behind one of the half-closed doors in the hallway, so it comes down to reaction time now and I know how to trigger the required action.

  The last thing I reach for is the bottle of olive oil near the cooker, preparing to throw it in the air, using the smash of the glass as both distraction and engagement. If Rowe is armed, he’ll fire or adopt first position, realising at some point that he’ll have to adopt the second phase of engagement when I don‘t come into view.

  He’s got nowhere to run to, the snow blizzard too much for even his ability to escape, so I throw the olive oil bottle into the air in the direction of the hallway, watching as it smashes on the tiled floor - awaiting his first move. I remain hidden behind the kitchen wall, confident that the stone structure is solid enough to absorb bullets from a handgun ... then the sound of a radio being turned off, and I crouch in the expectation of gunfire … but none comes. Instead, a voice reaches me in the kitchen.

  “Let’s get this over with.”

  The footsteps near and I momentarily recall my first audition with the man who recruited me - George Ingram - and how my anxiety and fear almost got the better of me. There’s none of this now; I simply judge the distance and prepare to engage as Alexander Rowe a.k.a The Ghost enters a familiar theatre of suggestion and illusion.

  I move back along the wall as the footsteps near, crouching lower to attack below the waist, remembering that even trained operatives often assume a standing position to engage in combat. Rowe can only guess my location and position, providing an element of surprise and a crucial advantage - an advantage, it turns out, I don’t need as he appears in the kitchen, arms raised in suspicious surrender.

  He scans the kitchen before addressing me, his gaze pausing on the wooden block missing a kitchen knife. Turning slowly, hands still raised, Rowe scans me for the first time, alert to my every move: he hasn’t surrendered yet.

  “Drink?” he offers, continuing the ruse of submission.

  I study his build without offering response; I’m far more interested in his move towards the kettle.

  “No drink and no boiling water,” I state, studying the wry smile.

  He leans against the counter and crosses his arms: a picture of calm. “First assignment?”

  No response.

  “The blizzard makes things interesting,” he continues. “Nowhere to vanish to. A stroke of luck for you.”

  “You know why I’m here.”

  He nods. “Information. Names of agents I’ve exposed.”

  I continue to study him as he places his hands in his pockets, reading this as another gesture of calm which masks the weapon he’s almost certainly got hidden.

  I nod. “Names of agents and then I call it in.”

  “And I just surrender,” he adds - a trace of sarcasm evident - before stepping away from the kitchen counter, his hands appearing out of his trouser pockets with the expected weapons: wire and a shard of glass from the broken bottle of olive oil. “Let’s hope you’ve been trained well,” he adds as he closes the distance.

  I take a step back, judging an effective range. We’re of similar build - six foot plus - but he’s leaner and significantly older, and it looks like my first mission is going to end with a dead body. Rowe feints an attack, his first attempt to set a trap, but this is standard in any unarmed combat training - anticipation is the key and I’m confident that my reflexes are faster.

  He feints once more but, this time, takes one step too close and I flash the belt at his head, catching his face and momentarily stunning him - enough time to target his knee cap and duck out of range as he swipes with the shard of glass.

  “Agility is key,” he says, uttering a training motto as he touches the cut on his right cheek.

  Agility is key and I’m more agile than he is from first appearances. He’s late fifties, at least, and his sense of anticipation is letting him down. That is, until he feints to throw the shard of glass, causing me to duck which allows him to charge, giving him a split-second advantage.

  I step back and catch his left forearm with the kitchen knife, but not before he’s stabbed the shard of glass in my right thigh. The shock is momentary but not enough to deter me from my next move as he makes another swipe with the shard of glass, but I’m out of range again, studying his limping motion.

  I judge it right: the knee I’ve injured will give in with one more targeted kick, damaging the ligaments and any remaining cartilage: Alexander Rowe is close to surrender.

  We circle once more before he tries another tactical distraction - limited confession to suggest compliance.

  “Jack Drummer,” he offers, trying to keep the weight off his right knee as he continues to circle, wise and predatory. “Drummer left me for dead in Paris, as did Harry Blye.”

  I maintain the range between us, waiting to attack the knee before dislocating his shoulder and taking control of the wire in his left hand - then it’s game over.

  “Drummer appears to be a casualty in our wonderful world of espionage,” Rowe continues, ready to strike once more with the shard of glass, “although his daughter’s more skilled at invisibility, helped by our colleagues at Millbank. The question is, will you get to the Drummer girl before less-friendly agents do?”

  “You betrayed your country out of revenge?”

  “All new agents get lost in a delusion of honour. We’re dispensable, forgotten the moment we become a liability, which is why you’re here. Of course, to relay this intelligence - and the fact that Harry Blye has gone undercover close to home - relies on you finishing this job.”

  “Then let’s get this over with,” I counter as I feint to attack, finally reading Rowe’s pattern of reaction, swiping with the shard of glass in his right hand, leaving his injured knee exposed. I duck to avoid the glass and land my right foot on the knee. He buckles under the blow, giving me enough time to close the distance and land a short punch to his windpipe: the surrender begins.

  The kitchen knife is discarded once Rowe relinquishes the shard of glass and wire; killing isn’t the aim of the mission - gathering intelligence is - so I hold the wire around his neck, suggesting finality as the interrogation begins.

  “Intelligence suggests you released the name of five agents; you’ve mentioned three. Who a
nd where?”

  He delays until the wire is tightened around his neck. “Helen Young and Graham Dorlan: Berlin.”

  “So, five agents’ lives on the line to the highest bidder, and now you’re facing a life sentence.”

  “Assuming this mission ends as you expect it to.”

  “It’s already ended.”

  “There’s no honour in surrender,” he replies before suddenly jolting his body forwards, forcing the wire to cut into his neck. I instinctively loosen my grip, remembering that killing is a last resort, but he’s giving me little option.

  “Finish it,” he commands as reaches for the shard of glass. “Finish it!”

  As he grips the glass, I tighten the wire, urging him to release it but he doesn’t, leading to a final struggle before the inevitable surrender.

  With Rowe face down on the kitchen floor, I call it in, confirming the agent, intelligence gathered and time of death: the Ghost has been put to rest. There are few questions regarding his death: traitors, it seems, are quickly forgotten. The focus now is on cleaning up, attending to my leg wound and scanning the house for relevant intelligence, beginning with the computer in the study.

  The hard drive is removed along with a collection of black-and-white photographs kept in an envelope. The clean-up team will arrive before long; attention will then turn to the surviving agents Rowe has exposed, and the most effective way of tracking them down before they’re added to the list of casualties.

  The snow storm rages unabated, whipping along the Northumberland landscape as I tend to my wound in the bathroom. Rowe’s body has been moved from the kitchen to the cluttered study which benefits from the curtains being drawn. A narrative for the dead agent is already in play, falsifications fed to the necessary institutions.