First Storm Page 5

  His lithe figure will be dressed to blend into the ensemble swarming around Euston Road and The British Library entrance; the advantage will be his reaction to seeing Andrew Levy walking absent-mindedly towards the elaborate Gothic structure of St. Pancras Hotel. Whether Sennel expects a counter move or not, it’s unlikely he’ll have any intel on me.

  My new identity allows for my effective ghosting - the ruse to have my own weapon ready in my hand, clicking the silver fountain pen as I adopt a highly-strung individual consumed by an idea I’m unable to put to rest.

  With Levy about to cross Euston Road, I spot the first hint of an enemy, the disguise of a security guard taking a morning cigarette break not quite hiding the face I recall from memory; the second hint the way he moves in tandem with Andrew Levy who is crossing Euston Road - with me close behind.

  Dressed in his smart, black uniform and white shirt, Sennel certainly looks the part to the point where Levy hasn’t even registered him as a potential threat, leaving me to close the distance between us quickly, the silver fountain pen at the ready as Sennel reaches into his trouser pocket for his own weapon.

  Sensing my presence, Andrew Levy makes the fatal mistake of turning to check he remains protected … a move causing Sennel to pause, adjusting his point of attack whilst registering that Levy is not an open target.

  Sennel now locks his gaze on me, the security-guard pretence discarded as he breaks into full stride as I whisper for Levy to stay on my right-hand side as we head for St. Pancras Hotel; my driver from yesterday will be in play but not until the allotted time of 10:00 a.m. … a precaution should the assignment draw public attention and be aborted by my secretive employers.

  “Move to my right,” I instruct Levy as I take a step in front of him, eyes locked on Sennel as our paths are about to cross. His reputation precedes him and his utter disregard for the law or others is evident now as he removes the weapon from his trouser pocket: a razor blade encased in white card.

  “Jesus,” I hear Levy utter as he finally registers what is about to happen, and as Sennel pushes a young woman in front of a moving car to cause the necessary distraction, I kick lightly at Andrew Levy’s left knee - minimising his opportunity to escape - before engaging with my nemesis amidst the chaos he has just caused.

  Two things happen in tandem … a small crowd circle the young lady who has been hit by the car and another, smaller angry mob point and shout at Sennel as he steps in range, razor blade in hand. Ignoring the mob moving towards him, he prepares for his subtle strike, using the growing crowd as cover for his razor attack, but he’s yet to see my weapon of choice: the silver fountain pen which I continue to click to suggest nothing untoward.

  It’s all a matter of timing now - speed of reflex typically on my side as I keep my eyes locked on the hand carrying the razor blade - something the crowd remain unaware of as the injured lady continues to divert their attention.

  With the angry mob of men within striking distance of Sennel, he pushes forwards and attempts a subtle strike at my rib cage but he misjudges the chaos ensuing as people begin to panic: a panic which provides adequate cover for my countermove, stabbing the pen in his right leg as I move with the momentum of the crowd.

  I disguise my attack with a forceful push, making Sennel lose his balance as the drug hidden within the pen kicks in - the push suggesting a stranger’s frustration at being barged into. Amidst the chaos, no-one is paying attention to a shadow agent neutralising a threat before disappearing into anonymity. A chorus of shouts for an ambulance fills the air as the vigilante mob smother Sennel, ensuring he doesn’t escape.

  The hush of the crowd suggests Sennel’s surrender, symbolised most clearly by the line of urine appearing on his black trousers: a sign the drugs have done their job. I’ve administered a cocktail that is limiting rather than life-ending - neutralising the assassin until the police to arrive.

  Through the wall of raised arms recording Sennel’s limp body on their mobile phones, I turn to look for Andrew Levy through the crowd. I spot him limping towards Euston Underground Station, throwing a glance back to see if his escape plan is likely to be successful: it isn’t. It doesn’t take long to catch up with him, easing my stride as I descend the stairs towards the tube Levy is hoping to make his escape on.

  His panic has triggered flight mode but he’s momentarily forgotten that he’s an open target. The threat of Sennel has been removed but other active threats will soon be present. We need to divert from the plan and get to the alternative pick up point at 10 a.m. where the driver who brought me here will be waiting to take us to the contact point in Oxford.

  Returning to St. Pancras Hotel is out of the question as it’s part of the gathering police and media storm, focused on the lame body of Sennel and the injured girl he pushed into the road towards moving traffic.

  “Don’t touch me,” Levy warns as I attempt to offer a tap of reassurance on his shoulder. “I’m getting on the Tube, and if you try to stop me, I’ll start shouting ‘terrorist’ and make a God Almighty scene.”

  I remove the silver fountain pen out of my jacket pocket, subtly closing the space between us.

  “This will be in your neck before the sound comes out of your mouth, Andrew. We haven’t got time for your histrionics; this place will be awash with media and security forces within minutes, making your situation increasingly unsafe.”

  Levy holds out the brown satchel containing the critical information on his computer hard drive. “Just take the bag,” he offers, the sense of panic growing as the Tube arrives. “Just take it and let me go.”

  “That’s not an option, Andrew because the moment you step on that Tube, you’re as good as dead. The people I work for are the only ones who can protect you now. You need to trust me; it’s the only chance you and your family have got.”

  “You’ve taken my bloody family away,” he hisses under his breath.

  “They’ve been removed to a safe house, and you’ll be with them very soon … as long as you come with me now. Any rash moves for the Tube will end badly for you - you need to understand that.”

  The next few seconds are a psychological dance between us … Levy glancing between myself and the Tube, wondering if he should make a rush at the last second as the crowds swarm onto it. I already know his decision - the surrender evident in his eyes. A rush for the Tube is tantamount to abandoning his family, and everything I know about Andrew Levy’s past suggests abandonment is beyond him. The Tube doors hiss close as we stand together on the platform, watching it ease away into the tunnels of the London underground.

  “When will I see my family?” Levy asks, struggling to contain a mixture of fear and guilt for what he’s put them through.

  “Soon. Once we get to the contact point later today and go through the necessary procedures and clearances, you’ll be taken to them.”

  Levy studies me, a frown appearing on his face. “Don’t you people feel fear?”

  I ignore the question, ushering him towards the exit of Euston Underground Station.

  “I can’t even remember your name,” he adds.

  “Solomon Stone,” I reply, leading us away from the chaos on Euston Road, Levy’s stooped posture symbolic of a growing realisation that he is the catalyst for this gathering storm.

  6

  Missing Pieces

  I explain to Andrew Levy that we need to steer clear of St. Pancras Hotel and make our way to the alternative pick up point. CCTV cameras are stationed nearby and it won’t take long for Sennel’s picture to be shared on international media outlets who will confirm him as a terrorist. British intelligence will provide the necessary narrative to appease the civilian world and life will move on, the incident replaced by more recent global chaos within a matter of days.

  No reference will be made to the true reason for Sennel’s appearance in London: that some of the world’s most powerful people orchestrate mass chaos to destabilise financial markets for personal gain, and that the public display of
violence near The British Library this morning was part of this hidden truth. Sennel and I work within this shadow world but with very different agendas: his to kill people who attempt to expose his immoral paymasters; mine to stop people like him.

  Levy’s career as a political activist has brought him closer to this shadow world but not even he is privy to the scale of corruption between governments and organisations who manipulate the fabric of society for economic gain. No life is sacred when power and unimaginable wealth is within reach - a brutal reality Levy has just witnessed first hand.

  A clear of example of this is the innocent young lady pushed in front of a moving vehicle by Sennel - her life reduced to a moment of misfortune as the wheels of power put their pieces into play, their dark lens on a man determined to expose them: the man looking distinctly less certain of himself as we approach the contact point on the corner of Phoenix Road.

  I dictate our pace along the street, preparing for the flurry of co-ordinated activities: the police cordoning off the area, re-directing traffic and managing panicked crowds along with the arrival of media outlets.

  Our alternative contact point is on the intersections between Eversholt Street and Phoenix Road where our driver will most likely be waiting, recognising the gathering chaos near St. Pancras Hotel as a sign the assignment to neutralise Sennel is complete.

  Like any gun-for-hire, Sennel will be abandoned to his fate, taken in by the police and intelligence services for questioning - his training conditioning him to silence.

  “You just killed a man,” Andrew Levy mumbles as he keeps pace with me.

  “Incapacitated: he’ll live.”

  “You don’t seem to care either way?”

  I ignore this comment, remaining alert to every movement in front and behind us, the hum of traffic and people both a help and a hindrance. The majority of people passing are too preoccupied or busy to be concerned with a middle-aged white man being guided towards a parked car on the corner of the street, although there is a look of concern on a few faces who wear their buried prejudice in troubled expressions.

  Every person approaching is viewed as a potential threat, causing me to take Levy’s arm as a gesture to stay close; the contents of his brown satchel are critical to tracking Sennel’s paymasters - the men who persuaded Alexander Rowe to become a double agent, leading to the murders of Jack Drummer and Harry Blye.

  Whatever’s hidden on Levy’s computer hard drive will be extracted along with every detail of this select group bent on destruction for personal gain.

  “Maybe you’re not who you say you are,” adds Levy in a tone tinged with anxiety. “Maybe you’re one of them …”

  The silver BMW hovers on the corner of Phoenix Road, the engine running over as Levy’s tone takes on a new level of panic.

  “I’m not getting in the car,” he insists before stopping on the pavement in an attempt to assert his authority.

  An elbow to his liver makes him reconsider; he gasps for breath, shocked at the sudden moment of violence which establishes one essential truth to him: beyond the civilian world, the pen isn’t mightier than the sword.

  I follow Levy into the back of the silver BMW which eases into the traffic on Phoenix Road, the locks clicking into place as it does so. The driver remains his stoic self, eyeing Levy in the mirror before returning his attention to the growing congestion ahead - a consequence of my morning’s work.

  The leg wound gained from my combat with Alexander Rowe is more irritant than pain now, although temporary rest is appreciated - the journey out of London and towards the contact point in Oxford offering a rare moment of respite.

  The location we arrive at is a sprawling country estate near Chipping Norton - a pocket of Oxfordshire popular with the rich and powerful. The acres of land surrounding the estate act as adequate for members of the secret organisation attached to British Intelligence, George Ingram representing those who move unseen in the shadows, monitoring suspicious strands within intricate webs of power.

  Iron gates open up onto a long, arcing which is driveway lined with street lamps, illuminating and monitoring arrivals. As we near the house, other cars come into view, including a classic Aston Martin, its immaculate silver frame the centrepiece of the entrance.

  “Who are they?” Levy asks as four men appear through the front door, each dressed in a black, three-piece suit; their expressionless faces and co-ordinated movements suggest intelligence rather than dinner guests: George Ingram’s security detail.

  “Protection,” the driver replies as he parks the silver BMW into the allotted space as signalled by one of the four men.

  Levy is perspiring heavily, his balding head reddening as sweat runs down his face, forming various shapes on his blue shirt.

  “You and your family are safe, Andrew.”

  “Where are we?”

  “At a contact point where you will learn more about the men in your exposé; you could say we both have an interest in tracking individuals of interest.”

  Levy holds my gaze, his expression a mixture of confusion and contempt. “You’ll never find them. These men are some of the most connected people in the world and I’m not about to hand over important work to a bunch of people who may be equally corrupt.”

  As the driver exits the car and opens the door for us, I smile, adding, “I think a certain person might change your mind.”

  George Ingram is sitting on the patio, looking out over the Cotswold landscape. Each time I see him reminds me of our first, strange meeting in my old life as Tom Brook: a civilian lost in a wilderness of hopelessness and self-pity. His calm presence belies his power, shrouded by a deceptively unspectacular appearance: a middle-aged man with thinning, black hair and average build with no obvious signs of power and the ability to do harm.

  As two of the men in black escort us towards the patio and the awaiting presence of George Ingram, I keep Andrew Levy in my peripheral vision, noticing how he’s clutching his brown, leather satchel as if he believes he can barter with a man who dismantles lives at a moment’s notice. Ingram never disappoints in his ability to bend others to his will and I doubt Andrew Levy is going to be an exception.

  Taking in the impressiveCotswolds landscape, I sit on the wooden chair to Ingram’s right, eyeing the selection of drinks on the circular table between us - none of which have been touched. Ingram appears to live on the thrust of moves and countermoves in an ever-evolving maze of surveillance.

  “Lancelot Capability Brown,” Ingram utters as Andrew Levy sits alongside me, a gesture of unease in an environment he, no doubt, never thought he would witness.

  “The greatest landscape gardener ever to grace these lands,” Ingram continues, dictating the tone and topic of this interaction: a symbol of his unrivalled authority. “Capability Brown was the master at proving that perception is, indeed, reality - people merely need to be convinced.”

  This speech is designed to disrupt Andrew Levy, keeping him off guard. Disruption is a key part of the training, both psychological and physical, in order to destabilise a target’s sense of certainty.

  The sprawling manor house is hidden away in the Cotswold landscape and if Levy were ever to search it, the details of ownership would be constructed by the person holding his attention now. It will take him some time to realise he has entered a world of constructed reality, shifting identities and flexible moral frameworks - all authorised in the name of homeland security.

  “Where are my family?” Levy demands, the touch of arrogance he carried in The British Library returning in an environment more suited to his cerebral pursuits.

  “In a safe location.”

  “Where?”

  “All in due course, Andrew. First, the rules of engagement need to be established.”

  Levy pauses, unable to gauge the intentions of George Ingram whose singular detachment symbolises the extent to which he views people as assets or hindrances.

  “Rules of engagement?” Levy queries. “I thought we were o
n the same side.”

  “We are,” Ingram replies as he turns and holds Levy’s gaze for the first time: an experience few forget. “Although, we have a small matter of national importance to address before you return to a somewhat modified version of your current life.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning a man who decides to re-enact David and Goliath should understand the improbable odds he faces, including the significant threat he places on himself and those around him.”

  There is a brief pause in the conversation as a member of Ingram’s security detail appears - a sign it seems, that preparation has been made to establish the breadth and depth of Andrew Levy’s dossier on the power plots orchestrated by a favoured few: a group who are soon to discover that their wealth and connections will offer little protection from the storm coming their way.

  Ingram ignores the presence of the expressionless figure in black, deciding to extend the pause between us. He adjusts the lapels of his immaculate grey suit whilst taking in the landscaped garden he so admires - one of many he has come across during his shadow life of impermanent locations and shifting identities.

  Whilst I study Ingram’s performance, calculated to establish his authority and unnerve Andrew Levy, I get a sense that the successful tracking and dismantling of Alexander Rowe has brought many more ghosts into play. Rest will continue to be fleeting as the collateral damage caused by Rowe’s betrayal is mitigated.

  “So,” Ingram states as he stands from the wooden chair on the patio, “to the rules of engagement. A simple exercise will now be carried out to assess the validity of your information on the individuals of interest; this will establish the quality of your sources and supporting evidence whilst checking for any biases unknown to yourself.