First Storm Page 2

  With the wound dressed and the hard drive and envelope of photos tucked inside my coat, I leave the farmhouse, stepping back into the blizzard and keeping to the route I mapped out the day before to minimise detection. I need to rest the wound and memorise the photographs before heading off the moment the snow storm abates. My point of contact, George Ingram, is expecting a debrief in forty-eight hours almost three hundred miles away.

  2

  Casulaties

  On my return to the stone cottage, I inspect the wound before placing the hard drive and photographs on the living room table. Ten photographs, five of which have red dots in the top right-hand corner, presumably agents Rowe has exposed to the highest bidder. Of the three photographs marked in red, two are of females, one being the Drummer girl, I presume.

  Placing the ten photos in two rows on the small coffee table in the living room, I take care in committing them to memory. Once I’ve met with my contact at 1 p.m. tomorrow, the photographs and hard drive will be passed on along with my new assignment, presumably to track down Harry Blye and the Drummer girl who have both gone to ground. Blye, judging from the picture, is an agent nearing the end of his career - grey haired with a face suggesting a heavy drinking habit.

  The Drummer girl is quite the opposite: young, pretty and seemingly carefree. Following her deceased father’s path into the intelligence community is all I’ve got to go on. There is no computer in the rented stone cottage which sits at a particularly high vantage point of the Northumberland landscape - technology has obvious drawbacks to an agent whose central purpose is to operate undetected.

  I keep my hand pressed on my wound on the upper part of my right thigh, the blood stain growing across my jeans which can easily be washed out.

  My old life seems a lifetime away now, functioning without living, which isn’t particularly different to my existence as Solomon Stone, except that there is purpose now and a mission to protect people from dangers they are blind to. I rest in the armchair, closing my eyes temporarily to help me memorise the ten faces in the photographs.

  It’s late morning and if I’m going to get to my meeting point by mid day tomorrow, I need to apply thicker dressing to the wound, get the blood off my clothes and get some rest before moving on in the morning.

  I wake early to discover the blizzard has eased to a scattering of snow - my signal to exit my remote location and make my way back onto the snow-swept road, leading to the nearest train station four miles south: Chathill, according to the map. The train, assuming it’s running, departs at 07:10, giving me just over an hour to cover the distance.

  The new dressing does a fairly good job on the wound, stemming visible signs of blood. The wound certainly adds legitimacy to my ruse as a retired army veteran whose daily exercise keeps his body from breaking down. My background , however, is non-military ... a civilian life until my strange meeting with George Ingram: the man who recruited me to this life.

  My illusion that intelligence operatives are all ex-military was shattered on my first day of training, meeting men and women from all walks of life with one thing in common: the ability and willingness to become someone else in order to protect others. Identities can be traded and combat can be learned, as can the ability to negotiate danger. Espionage requires a combination of subtlety and brute force.

  Chathill train station is practically deserted although the two couples and a scatter of lone travellers suggest trains are running - on time hopefully. The train station is a throwback to the Victorian era, providing a taste of a period where formality and decorum were part-and-parcel of life.

  Considering this idea of decorum, I check to see if any blood is visible on my jeans, spotting a few dark marks that are unlikely to draw anyone’s attention. One of the couples are a throwback to the Victorian period in appearance and mannerisms, currently debating the likelihood of the train being on time.

  I stand at the far end of the station, glancing at my watch whilst testing my ability to recall the ten faces on the photographs tucked inside my jacket, along with the hard drive. I change at Newcastle then Birmingham before arriving at Cheltenham in just over five hours.

  For some reason, the Drummer girl is on my mind, perhaps because of a traditional assumption that she is in more danger than the aged agent, Harry Lye, or because her photograph gives no clue to her intelligence role. Lye’s photograph suggests he is an agent tracker, like my point of contact, George Ingram - an agent now tasked with recruiting after years in the field of obtrusive intelligence.

  Lye’s age and physical condition would make him vulnerable in any situation requiring combat, so he is either an intelligence gatherer or recruiter. The Drummer girl - the daughter of the deceased Jack Drummer - could be technical surveillance, but the reason she preoccupies my thoughts is why she’s gone to ground when the option of being brought in is on offer.

  The snow storm has passed, its remains scattered across the train tracks which, thankfully, are not disabled by the recent blizzard. I test my memory once more and am able to recall eight of the photographs, including the five agents marked in red: a symbol of their demise, perhaps … completed or in progress.

  Once contact is made with my superior, George Ingram, relevant gaps will be filled in regarding the extent of Alexander Rowe’s intelligence-for-sale apparatus, and the priority for the organisation I only know as SALVO.

  Rowe has joined the list of casualties he initiated, and now it’s time to uncover the extent of his intelligence-for-hire operations, the hard drive potentially offering some clues. I lower my hat as a lone traveller moves past me on their way to the toilet; it’s important to be forgettable in this line of business.

  The train finally arrives fifteen minutes late and I wait until the other passengers board, preoccupied with conversation or distraction. Two of the lone travellers put earphones in, keeping their distance from one another on one of the two carriages; the other carriage is empty except for the bickering, aged couple.

  I take my seat at the back, shutting out their blithering and checking my watch: I’m making good time. As the train departs, I study the snow-scattered Northumberland landscape, using it to focus my mind and internalise the last twenty-four hours. My training has prepared me for all eventualities, including taking a life, although this wasn’t the expected outcome.

  Abandoning expectation is something that’s drilled into you, primarily because expectation is a construction of what you want or think is going to happen, often leading to poor judgement.

  My first assignment has brought me death, something I internalise as an inspector asks for my ticket. He clips the edge, nods his thanks and moves along the carriage to the elderly couple who have turned their attention to a newspaper crossword, reminding me of how mundane my life once was.

  Simplicity can lead to mundanity before you know it, and then you find yourself questioning the point of things. I fell into this in my old life, increasingly distancing myself from family and friends until I operated on the margins of life - quite like I am now but without any illusion or dangerous intent.

  Slipping into the identity of Solomon Stone came surprisingly easily, as did mastering the tracking of individuals of interest. Illusion, agility and anticipation: three things that SALVO teaches you.

  Alexander Rowe once had all three, I imagine, until age and disillusionment caught up with him. The clean-up team will have arrived by now, taking care of the dead body and preparing a secret burial. Rowe’s family will be informed which brings me back to the other family in this small circle of death and betrayal: Jack Drummer and his daughter, an active agent in the field … I agent I only know as the Drummer girl.

  Perhaps she’s gone into hiding on hearing of her father’s death and the fact that their assumed identities have both been exposed, although hiding on the margins of GCHQ makes little sense. Why detach yourself from a section of the intelligence community that can track you down with ease?

  I feel the blood begin to seep from
the wound and place my hand over my jeans; the toilet is in the other carriage which will only draw attention to the blood stain. The train rattles through the Northumberland landscape, a singular entity in a vast expanse of English countryside, heading to my contact and the mysterious whereabouts of the Drummer girl.

  I wake as the train slows, assuming this to be another local station along the way only to find that we are nearing Birmingham. I inspect the wound, lifting the waist of my jeans … thankfully, the dressing has stemmed the flow, leaving a deep cut which will need proper attention.

  Sleep came without warning, only interrupted by the sound of the train easing towards Birmingham New Street. As the train slows, I test my memory once more, checking my ability to retrieve the faces on the photographs. Two still elude me so I slip the envelope from inside my jacket pocket and study each one - both of an indistinct European heritage. Are they other shadow agents Rowe exposed or part of the organisation who bargained for his intelligence?

  Montpellier Gardens is easily located in the centre of Cheltenham, a well-maintained park decorating Montpellier Square: the designated meeting point. The photographs and hard drive are hidden inside my jacket pocket and a quick trip to the toilet on the train journey lessened the blood stain on my jeans.

  The wound represents more annoyance than pain - my first war wound and a reminder that I’m not the finished article. Although I’ve arrived early to the contact point, I expect George Ingram to be waiting in the park - the very man I picked up eighteen months ago as someone else, and the one to provide the next step of this puzzle.

  Tracking Alexander Rowe was a critical part of this assignment, however it’s clear that his treasonous acts of selling intelligence to foreign bodies would open up new targets - and potential victims.

  Thankfully, the weather is more hospitable in Cheltenham and I decide to wait inside a café until the allotted time of 1 p.m. Ingram may indeed be waiting, but having fallen asleep on the first part of the journey and suffered the cramped quarters on the second part, I need to shake a bout of drowsiness: espresso is the order of the day.

  The vantage point of the café in Montpellier Square looks out over Montpellier Gardens and I watch as parents walk their young children into the park and cyclists weave between the mid-day traffic. The espresso shifts the mild fatigue, allowing me to wonder about the next phase of this act, assuming it to be the tracking of the two agents who have gone to ground: Harry Lye and the woman I know only as the Drummer girl.

  With the second espresso dispatched, I pay and leave the café, crossing towards Montpellier Gardens and the figure I once termed ‘the man in black’.

  George Ingram is standing by a park bench, a newspaper under his arm and umbrella in tow; the newspaper is likely to be a prop for covertly collecting any intelligence I’ve gathered from Alexander Rowe. He looks in my direction as I approach, glancing at the mark on my jeans where the blood has been washed away before offering his hand.

  As always, he maintains a distant demeanour, dressed in grey, creating the look of an accountant whilst having a career’s experience in espionage. We shake hands as we sit on a park bench. Montpellier Gardens offer the necessary privacy, the layout separated by a walkway which, if monitored, offers adequate warning of anyone approaching.

  “I take it there are no loose ends?” Ingram asks, unfolding the newspaper to signal the offer of information: a blank business card … just like the one I had used during our initial meeting under very different circumstances.

  I collect the card and find the expected hand drawing on the back: an outline of streets and a building circled in red.

  “Ariel Drummer has come up for air, currently awaiting further instructions in an apartment not far from here,” Ingram continues.

  I study the building circled in red as two women jog by, their reddening faces a sign that exercise is something they’ve recently rediscovered.

  “You’ve brought me all the way here to walk another few hundred yards?”

  “Mapping shadows, Stone,” Ingram counters. “You know the drill. Ariel Drummer is one of the agents exposed by Rowe; we need to bring her in and clarify what intel she has or has let slip. Her father’s death was made to look like suicide, and now we have another dead agent: Harry Blye.” Ingram opens the newspaper, making a point of folding one of the pages.

  “A trained agent doesn’t choose to fall from a third-floor hotel window. I take it Jack Drummer and Harry Blye are part of the intel you gathered from Alexander Rowe’s hideout?”

  I nod, retrieving their photos from memory. “Two of the men in the ten photographs.”

  Ingram folds the newspaper and hands it to me - a signal for the dissemination of intelligence - and I place the hard drive and envelope within it. He takes one of the photographs out of the envelope, tapping the edge with his forefinger.

  “Ariel Drummer is an open target to our enemies now; it’s your job to bring her in. And remember, Stone, the enemy maybe operating within striking distance or from within. Return to the café you entered earlier at 8 p.m. Ask for a table upstairs and await my arrival.”

  As a music rendition starts up near the entrance to Montpellier Gardens, Ingram and I stand, shaking hands once more before going our separate ways - Ingram back into the shadows and myself towards an agent in hiding: Ariel Drummer.

  The building on the back of the business card is a Grade II listed townhouse on Bath Road, converted into luxury apartments some time ago for those who could afford it. If Ariel Drummer is lying low here, it means the property belongs to the organisation we both work for - an organisation known as SALVO with no official residence nor business registration, allowing it to carry its contract work without proven ties to the government: the darker side of human intelligence.

  The town centre eases into its usual rhythms of customers made up of retirees and full-time parents, children and the rest of society at work or school. The fact that this very city is a central part of the British intelligence community is lost on the vast majority who go about their day-to-day lives, ignorant to those who work to protect them, and those working to destabilise the very structures they rely on.

  The art of dismantling is not my mission this time, negotiation and confirming a shared allegiance is the order of the day before Ariel Drummer disappears again. I recover the image of her face from memory, the carefree smile in the photograph in stark contrast to her apparent state now. With a field agent ending up dead on a street near Mayfair, Ariel Drummer has a right to be concerned for her safety, although hiding in plain sight isn’t the best line of defence.

  I reach the townhouse and enter with a lock picking set, adopting the identity of a surveyor from the management company I’ve looked up, here to look at Apartment 8. The building is set back some distance from the main road, offering adequate cover as I enter, making my way up the stairs to the stated location of Ariel Drummer.

  I nod as a young man appears through the door leading to the floor above, offering a rather formal nod as I wait outside Apartment 8. Conflict is a position people rarely adopt and the scruffy-haired man is no exception, continuing on down the stairs and out of the building - away from the responsibility of challenging an unfamiliar face.

  With the interior of the building still, I knock once and take a step back, allowing Ariel Drummer the chance to study me through the peephole.

  The plan to knock repeatedly and make a scene is already in place, although this turns out not to be necessary as the door opens and Ariel Drummer appears, displaying the same carefree expression in the photograph I retrieved from Alexander Rowe’s hideout.

  “Ingram sent you,” she says straight away before adding, “shoes off”, stepping back to let me into the apartment. She waits for me to step past her before locking the door - an appropriate strategy for an agent she’s never met - and as I make my way into the living room, something tells me she can handle herself.

  We sit opposite each other on the matching sofas befor
e the expected interrogation begins.

  “Where’s the meeting point?”

  “Montpellier.”

  “When?”

  “8 p.m.”

  “Why you?”

  “I put a certain ghost to rest,” I reply, and she smiles, knowing exactly what that means.

  3

  The Drummer Girl

  Ariel Drummer has striking looks, framed by red hair and a familiar alertness in her eyes as she stands from the sofa, switching her glance from me to the third-floor window. For someone lying low after news of her cover being blown, she emotes no fear, remaining alert to every sound and movement within and beyond the apartment.

  “Jamaican mother or father?” she asks me out of the blue, standing at the edge of the window in order to keep an eye on movements below.

  “Father.”

  “Which side do you get the detachment from?”

  “Both. You?”

  “Irish mother, Scottish father,” she replies. “Get my temper from both.”

  I smile to myself, wondering if the statement is meant to act as a mild warning not to overplay my hand. Through this brief interaction, Drummer is making it clear that she’s my equal, and I’ve got no reason to doubt her. Her build is slight but not demure, her white T-shirt displaying an upper body which is well-trained - someone skilled in neutralising threats.

  “It feels strange to have a bodyguard,” she states with evident sarcasm, returning to the matching sofa opposite. “I suppose dealing with Rowe was your audition for this assignment.”

  I ignore the mild probing, more interested in our next move because; safe house or not, the building is in the heart of the city with a single access point, and although I’m aware that a building owned by the organisation is likely to be exclusively for agents in various roles and guises, a risk remains. As I study the apartment for potential weapons, an instinctive part of my training, Drummer watches me - the trace of a smile appearing on her face.