First Storm Read online

  I manage to catch the wings of sleep on the car journey, the driver thankfully trained in the art of silence. The car’s engineering is of benefit in terms of its comfort, and the back seat offers a welcome resting place for a body that’s feeling the effects of unarmed combat.

  A fleeting image of Alexander Rowe appears in my mild dream state before my eyes open, the contents of the itinerary scattered on the floor and seat. A quick glance out of the window tells me we’re approaching Kings Cross, within striking distance of the building circled on the business card.

  The location is The British Library - the regular place of study for Andrew Levy, the political activist who’s caught the attention of a lot of dangerous people. Bravery is a noble quality - as is integrity - but Levy has little understanding of the lengths certain people will go to remove those qualities from him.

  Terror destroys most things, including the heroic notions we hold on to - surrender always the chosen option when torture is the alternative. Sennel is known for his unique methods of torture, according to the brief intel handwritten on the back of the photograph, and he is brazen in the execution of his work - Harry Blye’s death via a third-floor hotel window a clear example of this.

  I take the lid off the silver fountain pen once more, studying the clear liquid in its base: the weapon to pacify Sennel should the leg wound limit my agility or reaction time. The clear liquid suggests a drug of a lethal nature - a fatal medicine that can be administered discreetly within the busy London crowds.

  “The drop is your temporary station point, Stone,” the driver then says as the car approaches Euston Road towards an elaborate, sprawling piece of Victorian Gothic architecture opposite The British Library: St. Pancras Hotel. It doesn’t take long to appreciate the grandeur and opulence of the building, making me wonder about the scale and resources of my employees known only to me as SALVO.

  “The key gets you into St. Pancras Chambers,” the driver explains, “a separate entrance taking you to an apartment on the top floor. I’ll walk you up to provide a familiar face to the other tenants; the apartments go for a couple of million each. A select crowd.”

  I reach for the key inside the manilla envelope, happy for the close proximity to The British Library which will enable me to monitor the movements of two individuals of interest: Andrew Levy and Sennel.

  The grandness of the building is another reminder of the might of the organisation I work for and its links to the British intelligence service. After all, anyone owning a luxury apartment on the top floor of this iconic building will have connections and wealth beyond the reach of most people, affording me a few hours of peace before a return to more primitive pursuits.

  According to Ingram, Sennel’s arrival in London will be timed with Andrew Levy’s arrival at The British Library when it opens in the morning. A man of routine, Levy will be waiting in the queue to enter the library: a sitting duck for a man of Sennel’s capabilities. I just have to make sure I get to Levy first.

  “10 a.m. tomorrow,” the driver confirms as we enter the luxury apartment. “Go to the second pick up point, if necessary. If you’re late, you make your own way to the contact point in Oxford. ”

  We shake hands and the driver leaves, pausing momentarily at the view of St. Pancras Station offered - the probable mode of transport Sennel will use to get into position. Once the gun for hire does, it will be a case of spotting him in the busy crowds of King Cross, ensuring he doesn’t get a clear strike on Andrew Levy - a man who is soon to discover that the protection he’s refused is the only thing between life and death.

  I rest on the leather armchair situated under the elaborate spiral staircase, the stinging sensation from the wound in my leg a timely reminder of the perilous nature of the work. Agility and speed will be a necessity if tomorrow is to go as planned. Manoeuvring Andrew Levy out of harm’s way becomes the singular thought occupying me as I close my eyes, envisioning tomorrow’s events.

  I check my watch: 9:43 p.m. Time to check what’s in the fridge before showering and re-dressing the leg wound. If he sticks to his regular routine, unaware of the tightrope he is walking, Levy will appear outside the entrance to The British Library just before 9 a.m. tomorrow.

  The plan is to rise early and make the short journey to The British Library, waiting outside for Levy’s approach. With Sennel homing in, there will be little time for Levy to process the information provided to him regarding who I am and who is currently tracking him down.

  Judging from the intel on him, he’ll do one of two things: phone his journalist contact to confirm the reason for my presence - the journalist who will be having his own private audience with British Intelligence - or make a scene in order to draw attention to me. Either way, he’s leaving with me and getting in a car tomorrow morning, headed to the designated meeting point in Oxford.

  If he attempts to flee, a simple kick to the ankle of his resting leg will limit any other rash decisions, and once he adopts a mode of compliance, he will follow my instructions without question.

  The idea of a potential assassin on his trail, using the London crowds to mask his attack, won’t become a reality until Sennel makes his expected appearance. Only this time, the element of surprise will be mine … with a little help from a fountain pen, laced with poison: courtesy of George Ingram.

  The double bed offers temporary respite from the last few days of tracking a rogue agent across England, and the little sleep I do get is disturbed by the alarm on my digital watch: 7:00 a.m. Sennel will be in the close proximity now, either arriving via train at St. Pancras Station or holed up nearby, weapon at the ready as soon as the target is in sight.

  I’m the unexpected part of this plot - an unknown agent tracking two men: one I need to save, and the other to neutralise without drawing attention to myself.

  With the pen - my weapon of subtle destruction - safely stored in my inside jacket pocket and the rest of the itinerary returned to the A4 manilla envelope, I prepare to leave the opulent apartment, deciding to hover at the window on the stairs overlooking St. Pancras Station, checking for any sign of danger stepping onto the train platform.

  Sennel is versed in the art of blending into his environment - anonymity is the cloak of choice - so every detail from his photograph will be of help. Like many shadow agents, he’s not the cliched, square-jawed henchman but a lithe figure trained in subtle acts of killing, appearing momentarily before fading without trace. The assignment will come down to timing, and the extent to which Andrew Levy complies.

  Conscious that hovering by the window, looking down at St. Pancras train station, will draw unnecessary attention, I make my way down the stairs and out into morning light. Euston Road is already busy as the morning rush begins, every face scanned as I cross towards The British Library and the expected arrival of an activist - and an assassin.

  Andrew Levy gets off a bus on Euston Road, carrying a brown satchel and silver travel mug. He already seems lost in thought, perhaps struggling with the puzzle of the powerful few he studies, aiming to refine his knowledge and understanding to make his exposé all the more damning.

  As he approaches the entrance to The British Library, he seems irritable so I decide not to approach him as he joins the queue. Approaching him now will only make him over-react - the signal which will draw Sennel out of first position.

  It’s important that I maintain my element of surprise to ensure that Sennel, and those potentially working with him, aren’t prepared for my move. Levy will be approached inside once he settles at his work space and the agitation has eased.

  With Levy in play, and myself in position, the doors to The British Library open and I join the queue, keeping watch on the figures who join from behind. For now, it’s time to look studious rather than conspicuous, adopting a purposeful poise while keeping Levy in my peripheral vision.

  It doesn’t take long for him to settle at a desk and take out a laptop - the very thing Sennel will use to track him here. It will need to be d
ismantled before Levy we make our exit, the catalogue of intelligence on the powerful few safety stowed between us.

  With Levy setting up for his morning’s work, the time to engage him arrives. I take a seat opposite him, thankful that only one more person sits in close proximity - a young, female student whose rapid typing suggests a looming deadline.

  Andrew Levy is a small, balding figure dressed in black jeans, grey jumper and matching winter coat. He has the intensity of the man burdened with the path he has taken - in this case, a search for justice whilst managing the natural fears which come with death threats.

  His refusal to accept protection suggests a missionary zeal which, although noble, utterly blinds him to the bounty on his head - or so I think before he mutters something under his breath.

  “David said to expect an approach today.”

  “Good morning, Andrew,” I offer, careful to keep the female student in my peripheral vision. Trusting no one tends to the best line of defence. “David has been in contact, then.”

  David Manning is the journalist working with Levy on the exposé, and reference to him means that George Ingram has made his play and got to Manning, using a combination of fear and national security to get the journalist to comply with the plan.

  Andrew Levy looks up from his laptop, pausing to take in the man sitting opposite him … a man with no formal identity: Solomon Stone. “Coffee makes conversation more illuminating,” he then adds, conscious that privacy is not to be found easily in such a public space.

  The next act is the mirroring of Levy’s movements, focusing on gaining trust; human beings are an odd combination of self-interest and self-delusion, and Levy’s reactions will be determined by both of these things.

  If he deludes himself that the threat isn’t legitimate, he’ll remain calm and dismissive, making our exit from The British Library more complicated. Alternatively, if he acts out of self-interest, considering an acquiescence to British Intelligence forces a surrender of his work, he will make a run for it.

  Either way, it’s going to take some persuading to get him out of here and back to St. Pancras Chambers by the designated time of 10 a.m.

  “This way,” he states, placing the laptop in his brown satchel and collecting his silver travel mug, the expression on his face suggesting self-delusion is going to be his dominant mode of operation.

  5

  Salvo

  We make our way to The King’s Library café on the first floor, careful to keep an inconspicuous distance from one another as we do so. It doesn’t take long for Levy to follow my lead, watching as I sit at the table behind him, creating a sense of two separate visitors to potential onlookers.

  The position of the tables also offers a good vantage point onto the main floor of The British Library below; I don’t expect Sennel to attempt an attack inside the library, but assumptions are the first fallacy in this line of work.

  Levy takes out his laptop as instructed and begins to type, maintaining the pretence of a new working space; there’s no sign of rising panic yet which is a good thing, fear typically causing people to act out of character.

  For now, all we know about each other is that we have a vested interest in his safety - whatever is on Levy’s computer and inside his bag is of paramount importance to those hunting him, therefore the contents of the laptop need to be discreetly removed before we make our exit.

  Technology to civilians represents freedom but, of course, it’s the very opposite: a modern ball-and-chain, anchoring them to the state’s apparatus of control. We need to lose the laptop before we leave, requiring Levy to visit the toilets with the aid of a lock picking kit provided by me.

  “It seems you know all about me although I don’t even know your name.”

  Ignoring the attempt at pleasantries, I reply, “I know enough about you to know you’re in danger … not an empty threat but a live one.”

  “Live one…?” he queries, the slither of a smile showing mild contempt for something he seemingly views a charade.

  “Yes, a live one; there’s a man on his way to do you harm.”

  “So, someone’s going to burst into one of the most famous institutes in England and kill me?”

  I hold Levy’s gaze for longer than he finds comfortable - a conscious trick to make him realise that the civilised world crumbles within seconds of an aberrant force entering its midst.

  “You’ve been sent to …”

  “Get you out of harm’s way,” I interject before Levy’s fear feeds his imagination. His air of arrogance has vanished, yet the bravery he is renowned for is still in evidence.

  “If you know my name, David’s name and the fact I’d be here, you’re in intelligence: MI5?”

  I watch the act, having seen it before in my old self - the identity before Solomon Stone colliding with the unnerving force of George Ingram. I learnt then that bravery is rarely tested in a world which protects us from things we consider fantasy. The world Andrew Levy has entered is only concerned with power gained by any means necessary: a world I’m about to make very real to him.

  “The person tracking you is about fifteen minutes away, if my information is correct.”

  The smug smile fades from Levy’s face. “Who are you?”

  “The person you need to trust.”

  “You want me to trust someone who won’t even tell me their name?”

  “Solomon Stone.”

  “I’m going to need more than a name.”

  “SALVO. That’s the text message you’re going to receive within the next five minutes.”

  The café remains relatively empty as Levy attempts to digest the information, evidently struggling between his known posture of defiance and the possibility that his exposé has become his death warrant.

  “I can’t just get up and leave,” he offers, his tone signalling a gradual surrender. “I’ve got a family.”

  “They’re being taken care of.”

  “What do you mean ‘taken care of’? By who?”

  “By the same people who’ve sent me here to save you from an unpleasant ending.”

  “You people,” Levy says with open hostility moments before a message on his phone appears. A one-word message: SALVO. The last remnants of defiance slip away before he adds, “David said you would get to me in the end.”

  “Your journalist colleague sounds like a wise man, but we haven’t got time to celebrate his intuition. The man tracking you is known as Sennel; he’s likely to be in possession of a subtle weapon: a nerve agent, perhaps, or some type of poison. If not, he will use more traditional tactics … a knife in the stomach as he passes … too sudden for you to react.”

  “And you’re going to stop him?”

  “That’s right, as long as you do exactly as I say. If you panic, you’ll become an open target.”

  “You’ve just told me my life’s in danger and you expect me not to panic?”

  “I expect you to wake up to the realisation that you’ve created your own fire storm, and the heat is rising.”

  Levy’s arrogance has been replaced with a stunned silence. “You’re going to kill him in plain sight?”

  I lean towards Levy, close enough for him to realise that I’m a weapon equal to the man who’s been sent to kill him. “Don’t worry about what I’m going to do, just do as I say. You need to go into the toilet and take the hard drive out of the laptop. Leave the laptop in the toilet along with your phone, ensuring you take the SIM card out of it. You’re a wanted man so every device in your possession is being used to track your location.”

  “The encryption on the …”

  “Whatever encryption you think is protecting your devices almost certainly isn’t. The people who build the encryption also have back doors into it for ‘security and surveillance’ purposes. Freedom is an illusion, Andrew … sold to the civilian world along with the necessary platforms to ensure they remain enslaved.”

  “Is that what you think?”

  “It’s what
I know. Let’s face it, your naïve belief in the freedom of speech has put you in the position you’re in, with an assassin on your tail.”

  “I haven’t got anything to take the laptop apart with.”

  “Here.” I hand him a lock-picking kit which he takes with an element of trepidation. “You’ve got four minutes. Any longer, and the plan to get you out of here safely will become problematic.”

  Levy stands, pushing the laptop into his bag nervously. “This can’t be real.”

  “It’s very real and you’re wasting time. Four minutes.”

  The surrender is complete now, Levy’s once authoritative posture sinking somewhat as he walks towards the toilet, glancing behind him one too many times. If Sennel has entered The British Library, he won’t take long to spot him. There’s no way out of the toilets so I hover outside the door, ensuring Levy has nowhere to run should this be his plan.

  As an agitated man moves along the counter, seemingly unable to operate his ancient phone, I study the vast space below: no sign of Sennel.

  Levy returns with the brown satchel in tow, tapping it to symbolise the safe storage of the computer’s hard drive and SIM card from his phone.

  “Let’s go,” I instruct as we move towards the lift; I’ll inspect the contents of his satchel once we’re the lift. He’s educated enough to understand the powers of the state and security services although he’s yet to discover the extent to which he has angered a coterie of very powerful people.

  If my judgement is right, Andrew Levy is minutes away from finding out the difference between the civilian world and intelligence community: one is oblivious to the potential dangers, the other equipped to monitor and contain it.

  I gesture for him to stay close as we head towards the exit of The British Library and out into the open where Sennel is waiting to strike. Levy has his instructions … to head towards St. Pancras Hotel, controlling the urge to look back to check I’m offering the promised protection. From the moment we step out into the open, the operation is live, and it becomes about subtle movements whilst anticipating the charade Sennel will have in place.