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  “I’m forgetting my manners,” she declares. “We’ve got a lot of time to kill before our little rendezvous with Ingram, so what about a drink?”

  “Coffee, if you’ve got it.”

  “I was thinking of something to loosen you up.”

  “Coffee’s fine.”

  “Civilian background,” she then adds, moving from the initial pleasantries. “Loner without attachments, combined with a fierce intellect, and a desire to escape your old life - all of which makes you a perfect recruit.”

  I ignore her attempts at psychoanalysis, wondering what her intelligence role is; the feigned charm combined with the looks and quick mind suggest unobtrusive intelligence gathering - the art of familiarisation and manipulation … dancing on the edges of danger.

  She continues to study me, the smile growing as she asks, “So, how much intel have you got on me?”

  “Just that you’re one of Rowe’s ten.”

  “The hit-list, you mean? I take it you realise that by putting Rowe to rest, you’ve put yourself on the same hit-list?”

  I sit back in the chair, conscious that the leg wound needs attention. “How about that coffee?”

  Evening settles over Cheltenham, the light in the winter sky fading rapidly as the designated meeting time of 8 p.m. nears. Little has been learned while time slips by in the apartment used as a temporary safe house for Ariel Drummer - a remnant of my first, violent assignment: an assignment that’s led me here.

  Despite her pretence of calm, there’s a clear realisation that an agent whose cover has been exposed is a live target. If Drummer’s an agent-runner, this limits her exposure in that she’s merely a conduit between those gathering information covertly and our targets.

  This seems unlikely, though, given the lengths the organisation has gone to tracking down Alexander Rowe, dismantling his intel-for-hire operation. It’s more likely that Drummer’s in the field, like myself, which means the risks are significant.

  The sensible plan would be to bring her back into the shadow organisation we both work for, unravelling the intelligence she has before gauging the risks of putting her back in play. Cheltenham is the contact point for an obvious reason - the heart of GCHQ which will harness any intelligence gathered in Alexander Rowe’s hard drive before being disseminated to agents like me … shadows executing the next move.

  “Did Rowe leave any trail?” she asks as she brings the coffee into the living room.

  “Ten photographs, plus a hard drive. Five of the photographs were marked in red: part of his intelligence-for-sale operation, it seems.”

  “I take it you know about my father?”

  I nod, sipping the coffee whilst studying a shadow of grief cross her face.

  I want to ask if Drummer has any idea of the people who killed her father but although emotion has little place in this particular line of work, etiquette does. Death is rarely a topic of discussion - rather a form of collateral damage each intelligence operative recognises.

  The moment passes into a momentary pause in conversation until a sound outside the apartment draws Drummer’s attention. I scan the room for potential weapons as Drummer removes a hair pin: a decorative object doubling as a lethal weapon.

  We take our positions near the door, the partition wall running along the landing standing at a slight right-angle, providing adequate cover … I prepare myself to ‘dance’ for the second time in forty-eight hours. Silence follows the sound which turns out to be less a dance than a distribution: a business card slipped under the door.

  Being schooled in the subtle art of suggestion, neither of us move towards the business card - instead we wait for any signs of a lingering physical presence outside the door, faced with silence as our only guide.

  Time passes, moving towards the allotted meeting with Ingram, but this sudden play is the priority, clarity required regarding its intent. Drummer gestures for me to stay low as she reaches for the business card, her hair pin prepared for any unwanted guests.

  She turns to check I’m ready for any potential surprises on the other side of the door; there are plenty of potential weapons at my disposal which rest on the dressing table in the bedroom: the hair clips and perfume bottles the most lethal, should they be needed.

  A hair clip makes an effective intrusion into the jugular, and perfume bottles have the dual benefit of blinding spray and breakable glass. Enough seconds pass to suggest no danger is imminent, and the card is picked up and inspected, a code of letters and numbers written inside: S5AEL9V7O.

  The code is notice that the meeting has been brought forward: five streets east of the original location within the ninth establishment at 7 p.m. The letters of the shadow organisation I unofficially work for, SALVO, are used within the code to notify an operation is live: time to move.

  Although this form of communication isn’t typical protocol, Drummer’s current predicament limits modes of contact. An apartment in a building inhabited by the intelligence community offers one layer of protection; I represent the second.

  I return to the living room window, making a quick sweep of Bath Road. Coded communication is common within a role where technology hinders far more than it helps, the lie of ‘secure communication’ fed to civilians, encouraging them to share personal data - all of which is monitored and controlled.

  Necessary precautions are taken as we exit the apartment, opening the door from the position providing the best angle to attack … but none is necessary. For now, we’re alone.

  Once on the third-floor landing, Drummer gestures for me to shut the power off in the apartment … a sign to the intelligence personnel in play that we’re on the move … two agents blending into the civilian population on the evening streets of Cheltenham … one a ghost, the other a moving target for enemies unknown.

  The evening streets are busy, typical of a Friday evening in an English town, and of benefit to our movements Covert intelligence is a skill, both in terms of maintaining and spotting facade; it takes a certain personality type to be successful in this business, requiring an acute awareness of human behaviour. Within the crowds moving towards restaurants and bars, active threats will be more evident if the enemy isn’t skilled in the art of assimilation.

  If there’s trouble approaching, we’ll be prepared, having the added advantage of blending into a crowd who will run for their lives at the first sign of a random attack.

  The new location is a mile-or-so from Montpellier Square, in a narrow Georgian building with security personnel on the entrance. It has the appearance of a wine bar, the clientele hand-picked to ensure the uttermost privacy. Security within the establishment is also noticeable, six figures visible in dinner suits who stand detached from the mingling guests in the main function room.

  The building has all the hallmarks of the intelligence community, from its position off the beaten track, privacy and security offered by bodies and location, and the basement location with two exits currently covered by hired hands - all of which brings Alexander Rowe to mind, and the sense that his betrayal is the catalyst for this meeting. The Ghost may be laid to rest, but his presence still haunts those he’s betrayed.

  “Over there,” I utter to Drummer who seems more keen to get to the bar than our point of contact - George Ingram - who studies us from the far corner of the room. The umbrella and newspaper have been discarded but the impassive expression remains as if Ingram’s entire life is a calculated group of procedures, involving people he is neither close to nor cares about.

  He may be the man who offered me a dark bargain eighteen months ago - to abandon my old life and become Solomon Stone - but it’s hard to feel a sense of gratitude towards him, the remaining impression one of calculated coercion.

  Ingram’s every move is judged to benefit the intelligence community, each recruit seduced by a shadow world within which they can become anyone and abandon anything. Since our meeting in Montpellier Gardens earlier today, he has orchestrated a congregation of intelligence in plain
sight … his calm manner symbolic of a man in total control of his surroundings - an army of intelligence at work to protect those gathered.

  “Scotch,” I hear Drummer say from the bar as if she’s playing a game with Ingram - a contained fury, perhaps, regarding her recently deceased father.

  “Still not drinking?” she offers as she sips the Scotch, ignoring the few looks thrown her way. The black trousers and jacket offset the white T-shirt, all of which fits her figure well … something she’s fully aware of.

  I read the flirting as a mild performance - a sign that she’s temporarily off duty as she takes another sip of the Scotch, eyeing me up. “A girl’s got to live,” she states before downing the drink and taking a step closer to me, whispering, “Do you feel like my knight in shining armour?”

  “No,” I reply bluntly, wanting to get this performance over with in order to clarify movements and targets.

  “You’re a puzzle Solomon Stone,” Drummer concludes as she steps past me, heading towards the silent figure of George Ingram who waits, separate from the gathered crowd: a master of shadows.

  Ingram studies Drummer as we approach, clearly unimpressed by the coquettish act designed to gain attention from the other males present, a performance to suggest that Ingram isn’t the one in control here but, of course, he is.

  “Evening,” Drummer offers with a touch of bitterness.

  Ingram ignores the performance, the grey suit from our earlier meeting replaced with a sombre blue alternative. He wastes little time getting to the point.

  “The hard drive Stone collected from Rowe’s hideout is encrypted, as expected. We have a team navigating its way around the security measures but this will take some time, and it is unlikely to bear fruit. The ten photographs are of far more value.”

  With the gathered army of security maintaining their positions at each exit, Ingram continues.

  “Agents are trained to commit sensitive information to memory, therefore leaving the photographs in a place where they could be found suggests Rowe was expecting a visit.”

  “Conscience at play?” Drummer suggests.

  “Perhaps,” Ingram concurs. “Rowe was a career spy although will only be remembered for his betrayal - a betrayal which has led to his demise and the deaths of two other agents. Emergency plans are in place to extricate Helen Young and Graham Dorlan from Berlin before more damage is done. Our job now is to identify Rowe’s clients and dismantle their operations.”

  Ingram hands me a photograph; I recognise it from the collection taken from Rowe’s hideout.

  “Sennel,” he continues. “A gun for hire and the man believed to be behind the death of Harry Blye.”

  He presents two more photographs from Rowe’s hit list.

  “A political activist and a Fleet Street journalist who are working on an exposé entitled ‘Fire Storm’; the exposé explains how a collection of rich and powerful individuals are orchestrating a string of attacks on national soil for their own commercial interests.

  The figures carrying out the attacks are chosen based on nationality - nationalities of minerally-rich countries. One of the people in the photographs Stone retrieved, Simon Fenstone, owns a hedge-fund company which trades heavily in commodities. Having the ability to destabilise countries central to the commodities market has significant financial rewards.”

  “So, their greed is the reason my father’s dead,” Ariel Drummer states, more to herself than others, and I sense she’ll do everything to persuade Ingram to put her back in the field, allowing her to track those responsible.

  “Your father, Harry Blye and, now, Alexander Rowe … not to mention the hundreds of civilian casualties created from each ‘fire storm’ these elite few orchestrate. To get clearance on the next phase of obtrusive intelligence, we first need to engage the activist and diagnose the validity of his dossier on these men.

  Certain encryption techniques used to protect conversations between the activist and journalist limit what we know. With the full picture, critical action will be sanctioned and then we prepare to strike, ensuring no more lives are lost.”

  “The immediate target?” I ask, keen to move on from this extended power play.

  “The activist, Andrew Levy, whose detailed dossier on this elite few has made him a marked man. He’s currently refusing protective custody which will lead to them joining the list of the dead, if we can’t change his mind.”

  “Sennel?” I ask, recalling the image of the gun for hire in the photograph.

  “Yes, tasked with eliminating Levy before his exposé is published around the world. You need to get him before Sennel does; he has quite a track record so tread carefully, Stone.”

  Ingram hands me a business card with a London address written on the back.

  “Your itinerary will be provided by our driver; you will be taken to a secure location from where you will make direct contact with the Andrew Levy. The journalist will be contacted by MI5 with strict instructions regarding his interactions with you. Sennel will be in range within twenty-four hours.”

  “And if Andrew Levy is resistant?”

  “He trusts the journalist’s integrity, and the journalist is about to be reminded of the principles of national security. To dismantle this organisation funding acts of global terror, we need the element of surprise, not a global news story to make known threats disappear without a trace.”

  “So, an act of suppression?” Drummer queries.

  “No, an act of alignment,” Ingram counters. “Enemies rarely surrender when an ethical light is shone onto them. First, we track and dismantle the select group funding fire storms. Once their guilt is proven, we move on to freezing their assets. The exposé will be released thereafter, acting as a warning shot to the privileged few: no-one is beyond the reaches of our intelligence or capabilities.”

  “And what’s my play in this?” Drummer queries.

  “We debrief and prepare for a potential second act.”

  “Perhaps you think I’ve gone rogue, as well?”

  “If I thought that, Drummer, you wouldn’t be standing here now,” Ingram counters, somewhat threateningly.

  He offers his hand before nodding to the assembled security personal who signal our exit.

  “Until we meet again, Stone,” Drummer offers as farewell, and I head for the exit towards the awaiting vehicle tasked with getting me within striking distance of London - and the target who won’t see me coming.

  4

  Striking Distance

  I enter the waiting car - a sleek, silver BMW - and nod to the driver who hands me the itinerary for the journey in the form an A4 brown, manilla envelope. Inside are pictures of the three individuals of interest: Sennel, the journalist and political activist - all of whom are part of this growing storm.

  Having already committed the face of Sennel to memory, I study the other two photographs, gauging the personality and motives of Andrew Levy - a UK national with a degree in Politics, Philosophy and Economics from Oxford University before becoming a political agitator. Levy’s website attracts millions of views for its impeccably researched articles on questionable foreign policy.

  He has received numerous death threats, viewing them as a badge of honour, according to the short dossier accompanying the photograph which has a brief summary of the mission statement from his website.

  “To hold governments and organisations with political interests to account, and shine a light on practices which endanger the lives of innocent civilians.”

  Noble and perilous, I muse as I scan the rest of the dossier, understanding why Levy is a burden to those whose wealth and power has been accumulated by doing the very thing he aims to expose - a burden soon to be eradicated, if he doesn’t realise the danger he’s in.

  I take the remaining items from the manilla envelope: a house key attached to a small address tab and a silver fountain pen which my training tells me is a weapon. With the image of Sennel hovering in my mind, I take the lid off the fountain pen t
o reveal a needle and clear liquid in the ink compartment: known as a ‘pacifier’ in my line of work.

  Sennel is likely to be armed, according to the brief dossier on him, which means I’m at a disadvantage although I have the weapon of anonymity on my side: a shadow agent with no track record and, therefore, no trail. As Ariel Drummer pointed out, I’ll soon be on someone’s hit list but, for now, I’m on no-one’s - and Sennel’s on mine. All I’ve got to do is ensure the Andrew Levy follows instructions; if he panics, things could get interesting.

  “Just over two hours, Stone,” the driver states as the car eases into the evening traffic - ex-military I judge from the fixed posture and way he scans the road in the side and rearview mirrors.

  The leg wound becomes a stinging reminder of the conclusion of my first mission: Sennel is unlikely to be as old or immobile as Alexander Rowe. Ignoring the mild pain, I peer out of the passenger window, studying the civilian life I once had, wondering once more at how little people really see. Like those I study now, I never considered potential threats operating within the cocoon of conformity.

  As I turn my attention to the group of young revellers heading towards a popular bar, the men dressed for the winter weather and the women suffering the cold in party dresses, I pick up the photograph of the gun for hire: Sennel … a symbol of the group who start ‘fire storms’ for crude profit, creating fear and destruction in the lives of others.

  Once I’m done with Sennel, dismantling the constructs of chaos will become the mission. For now, the focus is on getting Andrew Levy out of harm’s way before Sennel gets him in his sights.