First Storm Page 6

  In simple terms, enacting our own fire storm against the very people who are damaging our national security will be dependent on the quality of your information.”

  Levy keeps his eye on the member of Ingram’s security detail who hovers on the periphery of the conversation - a sign, if any was needed, that he has moved from the comfortable confines of an academic institution to an active intelligence operation.

  “You’re going after them?” he utters weakly, as if the option of direct action has never occurred to him. “What about bringing them to justice?”

  Ingram places a hand on the chair Levy sits in, positioning himself behind the political activist to add a touch of intimidation: a subtle art of his. “We serve justice in many forms, Andrew, choosing the most appropriate one depending on the context we engage our targets in.”

  Levy is holding onto his brown satchel as if it provides some form of protection. “I’m not comfortable with this.”

  “With what?” I interject.

  “You’re making this sound like a hit: an assassination plot.”

  “Let’s not get dramatic, Andrew,” I reply before standing alongside Ingram to symbolise that the momentum is about to change from comfortable country living to aggressive surveillance.

  “So, what is it, then?” Levy prompts, “If you’re not ordering a hit and you’re not bringing these men to justice?”

  “The nature of intelligence is to suggest everything and reveal nothing, Andrew,” Ingram replies in his typically cryptic manner. “All you need to be concerned with, at present, is the validity of your intel. Suffice it to say, that your dossier has an established reputation in a small facet of the intelligence community; its explosive content has already led to the deaths of a number of people.

  Alexander Rowe’s betrayal - trading aspects of your dossier to the very people it targets - has created its own storm which will lead to many more deaths should the operation be delayed. Your job is to answer and not question; be concise in your answers for any sense that you are withholding information will lengthen the time that you remain separated from your family.”

  “You’re blackmailing me?”

  “I’m instructing you. The first rule of engagement: know your leverage in any given situation. You are currently our guest - be careful not to make yourself our enemy.”

  With these final words of warning, Ingram removes his hand from the back of Levy’s chair and turns, gesturing for me to follow: my respite, it seems, will be brief.

  We enter a library located in the east wing of the grand, country estate, each shelf immaculately kept with leather-bound volumes of recognisable classics: Dickens, Conan Doyle, Hardy, etc. My old life allowed me time for such pleasures as reading although now I’m the lead character in an ever-evolving plot.

  Ingram sits in one of the two leather chairs framing a small table, gesturing for me to take the other.

  “Target?” he asks, regarding Sennel.

  “Neutralised but alive.”

  “Mobile?”

  “No. The authorities will have him now.”

  “An effective operation in terms of minimising casualties, Stone.”

  “Any news on the woman Sennel pushed in front of moving traffic?”

  “Superficial injuries - more shock than anything else. She’s currently in St. Pancras Hospital, receiving treatment; she’ll be fine.”

  “And Levy’s family?”

  “Close by … one of the reasons this particular location was chosen. Levy will be with his family in a few hours once he’s briefed on the personal consequences of his exposé being released to the global media: his life will never be the same.”

  “So, we move to the next phase?”

  “Indeed, Stone … one which requires your particular ability to operate in plain sight.”

  Ghostwalking: the term Ingram uses to describe the art of shadow surveillance. I study him for some time, wondering how he was recruited into an organisation known only as SALVO: no names, locations or justifications given to ensure every member remains a critical but disposable asset.

  Duty has little fanfare and relative rewards - the financial benefits mildly mitigating the significant personal sacrifice; a sacrifice that I actively embraced … this shadow world infinitely more enticing than the dull routine of civilian life. How long can I last in this world? Long enough to dismantle those who have a willing disregard for human life: the very people I’m about to track down.

  “You need to rest and get that wound seen to,” Ingram states as he eases into the leather armchair - a man comfortable in his temporary surroundings and, perhaps, the luxury his position in a unique organisation has provided.

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “You need to be more than fine, Stone,” Ingram adds as he reaches for the leather-bound book on the table between us. “The targets in question - the three men at the centre of Andrew Levy’s exposé - are within striking distance of one another: each with a security team. Maximum movement, agility and speed are necessary. Also, take some time to inspect the wardrobe and chest of drawers; you’ll find a selection of clothes and the necessary items for travel.

  “You’ll need to be fully briefed on the three targets and, in particular, their infrastructure used to create chaos for profit. These three factors are equally in play to orchestrate what Levy calls ‘fire storms’: perceived acts of terrorism throughout England to force changes in foreign policy which, in turn, destabilises financial markets.”

  “The assignment?” I ask, happy to be able to get the leg wound looked at and out of the clothes I’ve been wearing for the last three days.

  “To become part of the security detail of one of the men: Dominic Hass. All the necessary identities and documentation will be provided, along with recommendations from secret service officials: simple smoke and mirrors in preparation for a storm of our own.

  Hass is the intelligence leak within the government, according to Levy’s dossier, sharing various aspects of foreign policy - policy which affects the interests of the money men who line Hass’ pockets. He is hosting a fundraiser tomorrow evening at his Oxfordshire estate which justifies the appearance of Simon Fenstone: a commodities magnet who is the second target.

  Hass provides critical intelligence information to Fenstone who uses a separate operation to orchestrate the chaos Andrew Levy refers to as ‘fire storms’: their own form of insider trading but hard to prove until now.

  Hass has requested extra security for the fundraiser; we are fulfilling his request.” Ingram’s expression changes slightly, the mask of civility slipping at the thought of dismantling those who have contempt for the safety of innocent civilians.

  “Once I’m established within the security detail for the fundraiser?”

  “Ariel Drummer will come into play. Once you and Drummer are both in position, we begin the storm.”

  “Whose the third name in Levy’s dossier?”

  “The architect of it all: Samuel Schwartz. The conduit between Hass and Fenstone. Schwartz is the man who orchestrates the storms but your focus now is becoming part of Dominic Hass’ security detail for the fundraiser this evening. Once you’re established, Drummer will make contact and provide the next steps of the operation.

  Dominic Hass and our recently deceased agent, Alexander Rowe, seemingly viewed the selling of intelligence as a retirement fund, choosing to delude themselves that the ‘white storms’ - the term for attacks without civilian loss - would continue: vans being driven into empty corporate buildings in the middle of the night, minor explosions on vacant industrial sites, media storms where the IT infrastructure of global corporations are hijacked and held to ransom, and so on.”

  “Hass’ proximity to here?”

  “Within striking distance. By the time you appear, we will have begun our own media storm on Hass, incrementally discrediting him without explicitly mentioning his political crimes. His reaction to political exposure is to go into hiding which is where you come
in. You are the priority security detail in critical situations: a mild chaos of my own making. Once safely positioned in what Hass likes to call his bunker, your work will begin.”

  “A gradual surrender,” I comment.

  Ingram nods. “Before the true dismantling begins.”

  7

  Shadow Surveillance

  The spacious, third-floor bedroom offers a welcome respite, a feeling of temporary solace helped by the attention given to my leg wound by one of the many nameless presences inhabiting this sprawling country estate. The bedroom, like the other rooms I’ve been privy to, works hard at establishing authenticity from the original sash windows to the exposed stone walls - all of which gives the impression of rustic comfort.

  Comfort is something to be welcomed, if only temporarily, for now there are new targets in play … an elite trio who use their power and wealth to destabilise their own country for financial gain. Ingram has limited the intelligence on them beyond what was offered in the library earlier: in essence, a small pool of power causing various levels of fear and destruction across England. Destruction comes in many forms, however, as each of them will soon find out.

  The southern climate is temperate, a cold breeze finding the familiar vulnerabilities in the sash windows whilst banks of clouds hover over the Cotswold landscape, providing a picturesque view of the English countryside. As I inspect the selection of shirts, blazers and trousers inside the wardrobe, I cast my mind back to Ariel Drummer, the red-headed agent I was assigned to bring in.

  Her irreverent nature interests me, particularly the way in which she made light of Ingram’s detachment and display of authority in Cheltenham. If she’s back in the field, she’s clean, having passed the organisation’s debriefing from the fallout of Alexander Rowe’s intelligence-for-sale operation.

  Drummer is unlike the other shadow agents in the field; there’s a warmth and conviviality which is typically frowned upon - a desire to develop a level of intimacy or, at least, this is my impression.

  Maybe this is one of the many guises she adopts with men - the mild flirtation and pretence of interest creating a perception of chemistry which doesn’t actually exist. Ingram is the master of suggestion, and if Drummer was a student of his, she will also have the same ability to create platforms that people willingly step onto.

  A ruse or not, I’m interested to see her in the field, tracking one of the trio whilst my fake credentials are created to get me into Dominic Hass’ security detail. With us both in play, it won’t take long to find out if she’s going to make a good dance partner.

  This dance will be more intricate than Alexander Rowe or Sennel, agents who mirror my training. Instead, it will be a matter of moving with the enemy until the green light is given to strike: ‘a gradual dismantling’ as Ingram likes to put it, seemingly relishing the forthcoming reminder to the mighty of how far they can fall.

  Resting on the double bed, I listen to the sound of wildlife beyond the window whilst preparing myself to re-enter the field as the ghost no-one sees coming, ready to disrupt their best laid plans.

  Things move quickly the following morning when I’m informed that Andrew Levy has agreed to co-operate fully, Ingram deciding not to elaborate further. Levy is stationed in a secure wing of the estate whilst every source and conclusion within his dossier is scrutinised to ensure that it stands up to scrutiny.

  Bias, as Ingram explained to Levy yesterday, discredits such investigations to the point where secret organisations such as the one I work for are not given authority to move on their targets. Levy’s intel is clearly standing up to rigorous scrutiny, meaning he will soon be safely tucked away with his family under the protection of the very people who have brought him in.

  After all, he will soon be a wanted man once his dossier becomes ammunition, released to the media in a different guise to discredit those unfortunate enough to be on my list.

  A tap on the bedroom door just after 8 a.m. is the signal to bring the satchel of clothes provided and move to the ground floor where Ingram awaits, resplendent as always in a black, three-piece suit, newspaper in hand - a unique figure whose skill at offering nothing about himself whilst gleaning critical information from others has placed him in the position he’s in. With his security team carrying various cases, Ingram offers a hand.

  “Morning, Stone. I’ll debrief you on the journey.”

  Andrew Levy appears in the long hallway decorated with portraits of a presumed family lineage. Dressed in the same clothes as yesterday and looking in desperate need of sleep, he puts up a hand to shield his eyes from the morning light cascading through the open doorway.

  He is a different figure from the one I met in The British Library yesterday, fatigue forming a more delicate demeanour along with his brush with a shadow army: agents with identities he’ll never be able to track and intelligence on him he thought protected by encryption.

  Any dirty secrets will have been presented to him in full multi-colour - blackmail of sorts, you could say, although they’re simply the rules of engagement. It rarely takes long for people to realise how powerless they are.

  Levy walks past me without a word, a wariness evident as he’s guided to the awaiting Land Rover, one of three vehicles providing safe passage to his family and a life he has unwittingly created for himself. Not quite as he had imagined it but the people he wants brought to justice are in my sights, protected by a bubble of wealth and power I’m about to burst.

  “Looks like he’s had a long night,” I comment to Ingram as we walk towards the black Mercedes - a rather understated vehicle flanked by two more robust 4 x 4 BMWs.

  “He’s been encouraged to peer through the looking glass,” Ingram replies cryptically. “A greater degree of co-operation followed. Lives can be deconstructed as quickly as they’re constructed, Stone,” he adds as a reminder of the new life he offered me eighteen months ago.

  As the car door closes, Ingram hands me a white envelope. “Your documents for the security detail this evening.”

  I glance at my photo ID, studying the mixed-race man once known as Tom Brook who now goes by the name of Solomon Stone.

  Ingram holds two of the photos I retrieved from Alexander Rowe’s hideout in a remote part of Northumberland. “The two targets: Dominic Hass and Simon Fenstone.”

  “Drummer?”

  “Located less than a mile from Hass’ private residence. If there are complications, Drummer will be on hand. The media machine will begin to churn by mid-morning when Hass’ country estate will be besieged by reporters regarding questions of financial malpractice and extra-marital affairs: phase one in the dismantling process. Hass will direct you to drive him to his ‘bunker’ - a location just outside of Woodstock.”

  Ingram hands me a business card with the address of Hass’ bunker written in red pen.

  “Drummer will keep track of Fenstone, ensuring he remains in our sights. Once Levy’s dossier provides us with government clearance, we track Fenstone who may attempt to leave the country once Hass’ indiscretions begin to appear in the media. Samuel Schwartz is likely to retreat to Germany where he’s believed to have government protection - all of which can be circumnavigated, if necessary.”

  “How long?” I ask, preparing to enact the role of detached security detail to Dominic Hass - politician and secret businessman who’s about to get a rude awakening.

  “Twenty minutes,” Ingram replies as he scans the newspaper, the black Mercedes picking up speed whilst flanked by 4 x 4 BMWs - a procession symbolising the level of protection Dominic Hass has requested: a perfect foil for a firestorm of my own.

  “One more thing, Stone. We should consider the fact Hass’ security team will study the coverage of Sennel’s demise which has been running on international news channels for the last twenty hours. You neutralised the threat with elegance and minimal exposure, using the crowd to mask your attack.

  We have made no mention of your deployment in London yesterday so should Hass’ team pick
up on your proximity to Sennel, you were authorised to track and strike: nothing more is to be offered on the subject.”

  I nod, aware that Sennel was sent to take out Andrew Levy by Hass’ paymasters: Fenstone and Samuel Schwartz.

  “Countermeasures may be necessary if Hass’ security checks make a connection to your deployment near The British Library with Andrew Levy: the man who is trying to expose them. Alexander Rowe, after all, leaked this information to the three men we are now tracking; therefore, it stands to reason that your cloak of invisibility may have slipped.”

  “Understood.”

  “Ensure Hass is driven to his ‘bunker’ outside Woodstock by late evening.”

  “What’s the position on a critical strike?”

  “You have clearance, although a mission without casualties is preferred.”

  I get the feeling this won’t be the case. With the leg wound properly attended to and a sense of the importance of the job in hand, I recall the angular face of Dominic Hass, narrow eyes running counter to the practiced smile … all framed by coiffured, brown hair: a distinct public-school air about him.

  I expect him to be a cliché of privileged entitlement, and his team of advisors to be equally obnoxious - a different theatre than I’m used to but a shadow can adapt to any form … ready to blend into the fold of a political animal who has no idea he’s about to become the prey. Subtle surrender as opposed to direct action, as the two other central players wait in the wings.

  “Impressive beginnings, Stone,” Ingram comments as he closes the newspaper, ever alert as he studies the country road ahead. “Tracking Rowe has been an organisational priority for some time.”

  I glance at the folded newspaper and think of Ariel Drummer once more, and her comment that it won’t take long before I’m on someone’s hit list.