First Storm Page 8

  With the instrument placed on his chest, Hass becomes a veritable encyclopaedia of names, dates and co-ordinated firestorms - all helped by his leaked information on government foreign policy. Within a matter of hours, the submission is complete and, with critical information recorded, we prepare to exit, leaving Hass in the capable hands of a section of Ingram’s menacing team.

  As a government official on record for committing treason, Hass will be processed quickly - a prison sentence followed by a life without honour. A better deal than the agents whose death warrant he indirectly signed.

  Ingram studies the house as we leave, as if he’s assessing the evening’s work. “Fenstone will take measures to increase his security soon,” he says as he continues to survey his surroundings. “The neutralising of Sennel, along with cancellation of the fundraiser and Hass not returning his calls, will signal danger to him so we re-group in the morning. Drummer has the designated location for this evening.”

  We watch Ingram’s understated Mercedes ease away under a clear, evening sky before Ariel Drummer turns to me and asks, “So, what about that drink?”

  The location in question is a small dwelling some ten miles away from Hass’ bunker where his current life of power, influence and corruption has been brought to a dramatic close. From here, Ariel Drummer explains, we can carry out surveillance on Simon Fenstone: the second of the trio on our hit list.

  As Ingram mentioned, the trio named in Andrew Levy’s dossier all live within this part of England, well known for its coterie of political, business and media power players - power which is soon to be delivered in a different guise.

  I check each door of the townhouse out of habit, Drummer more interested in locating alcohol than attending to basic security.

  “Relax, Stone. The house sits within an intelligence triangle, set up to monitor Hass, Fenstone and Schwartz’s movement months ago. Also, there’s this,” Drummer adds as she displays the handgun produced in our little soirée with Dominic Hass. Her informal demeanour, dressed in jeans, shirt and a denim jacket, belies her skill and level of alertness - an ability to switch off from the job I’ve yet to master.

  The handgun I took with ease from Hass’ head of security was discarded in a gutter on the way here. Everyone has their own modus operandi but, along with the fact that I’m not authorised to carry arms, they can be a hindrance when crossing paths with the police. Carrying no possessions except for clothes fits with having no identity on any database - ghosting is easier this way.

  “So, wine or beer?” Drummer asks from the kitchen as I survey the evening street below from the second-floor window.

  “Beer’s fine.”

  Drummer brings two bottles through to the lounge, throwing her denim jacket over a chair before sitting on the sofa, legs pushed up underneath her. “I take it you’re not going to stand on guard all night,” she quips, her pretty features and long, red hair forming in the window’s reflection.

  I take the hint and join her on the sofa, clinking beer bottles before taking a sip.

  Drummer studies me, turning on the charm I remember from our first meeting in Cheltenham. “Have you always been this measured, Stone?”

  “Probably.”

  “You can’t have been this serious in your previous life.”

  I take a sip of the beer. “I prefer ‘measured’.”

  “You remind me of my father,” she then says, the first clear signs of loss crossing her face. “Death is a regular visitor once you’ve chosen this particular path, but it’s rare you have to deal with the death of loved ones. Following the family footsteps hasn’t turned out as I thought it would.”

  “How did you think it would turn out?” I ask.

  “Less dramatically,” Drummer replies. “I started in cyber espionage; it was a lot cleaner. What about you?”

  “Ingram sort of talked me into it,” I reply with a touch of humour.

  Drummer smiles. “You’re a puzzle, Solomon Stone.”

  She shuffles a little closer, and a half-remembered feeling returns - a slow intimacy first apparent in the apartment in Cheltenham - her hideout before I was sent to escort her in by Ingram. “Drink up; you’re off duty for the evening.” Drummer stretches her legs across the sofa as she says this, resting them on my lap.

  “What’s the move on Fenstone?” I ask to gain a foothold in this emotional interplay.

  “That can wait until tomorrow.”

  “So, an evening of civilian life?”

  “In all its glories,” Drummer quips flirtatiously as she sinks the beer, holding my gaze. “I wonder what it takes for Solomon Stone to drop his guard?”

  A question I’ve been pondering most of my adult life, and I doubt Ariel Drummer’s going to provide the answer this evening.

  “One more beer, then we’ll return to a comfortable state of detachment,” she adds with a degree of sarcasm, perhaps linked to her inability to penetrate my armour.

  I offer a smile, playing along a little whilst gleaning two things from Drummer’s second display of affection: detachment is the very thing she struggles with, and it’s this that makes her unpredictable in the field. An unpredictability Ingram clearly values … which makes it more interesting than ever to see her in play - before a target surrenders - in order to witness her strange majesty at work.

  I wake to find myself sitting upright on the sofa with Ariel Drummer’s head resting on my arm. Sleep found its way to me subtly it seems, remembering the end of our conversation which ended as the rhythms of intimacy grew to a point where decisions needed to be made. An unspoken halt to proceedings was made by Drummer who gently kissed my neck whilst resting her head on my shoulder, and we wake in the position our brief flirtation began.

  Intimacy has little room in our lives, loss being a familiar visitor. It’s also the case that it leads to irrational thoughts and poor decisions, and the pretty-but-deadly woman sleeping on my shoulder has all the hallmarks of a siren, possessing the ability to drive men to the shores of submission and desperation. So, we rest together on the sofa before a return to tracking targets begins again.

  As I ease to my left, attempting to free myself from the burden of Drummer’s sleeping body, she jolts awake before relaxing at the familiar sight of my face. It takes her a few seconds to familiarise herself with her surroundings, a noticeable anxiety on her face - as if sleep doesn’t always hold solace and sanctuary for her.

  “You could have been a gentleman and carried me to bed,” she says, feigning a damsel in distress.

  Drummer is a match for any man, a fact Dominic Hass found out via a splintered shin and a split lip courtesy of Ariel Drummer.

  “I took your snoring to mean you were comfortable,” I jest before standing to brush my teeth and find some coffee.

  “We’re a little pushed for time,” Drummer then states as I retrieve a toothbrush from the bag of clothes taken from the Cotswold retreat - courtesy of George Ingram. “Simon Fenstone will be leaving for his morning meeting in under thirty minutes.”

  I brush my teeth and turn on the shower, expecting Drummer to fill in the blanks on the plan to dismantle Fenstone once I’m washed and changed, hoping for a touch of imagination. Routine is what I escaped in my old life, appreciating the impermanence of the one I live now.

  Flair and the unexpected are also appreciated, creating missions that require creativity where surrenders are carried out within the mind rather than through the implementation of a crude weapon.

  “Ingram certainly has style,” Ariel Drummer comments as I re-enter the small lounge resplendent in a black suit and a white shirt which I’ve ironed to ensure the ensemble creates a picture of corporate wealth - the very thing Simon Fenstone is about to surrender.

  “So, what’s the play?” I ask as Ariel Drummer pours coffee at the breakfast counter, adopting the professional detachment needed to remove all thoughts outside of the job at hand.

  “One of Ingram’s old tricks; one you’re familiar with, apparently
.”

  “Which is?”

  “Ghostwalking.”

  A term which draws a smile as I recall the fateful evening eighteen months ago … driving home to see a figure suddenly appear on a country road, miles from any location … walking absently as if he were some illusion. George Ingram: the man who introduced me to the art of shadow surveillance.

  9

  Mapping the Enemy

  The plan is simple but not without potential flash points. Simon Fenstone will leave his Cotswold retreat in approximately fifteen minutes, making the ten-mile journey to his regular morning meeting in a converted barn some miles past our current location. My job is to be in position and appear on the road at the moment Fenstone’s car reaches a blind corner, causing the vehicle to swerve in order to avoid colliding with me.

  The potential flash points are the possibility of the driver losing control of the vehicle, causing the car to flip and roll into the surrounding field or, if fate decides otherwise, a crippling collision with one of the imposing oak trees lining the country road.

  Drummer sits at the breakfast bar, her red hair still wet from the shower. A black shirt replaces the white one from yesterday whilst the jeans and denim jacket remain. The handgun rests on the bar alongside the key fob for the BMW which provided passage here - the same car about to put me in position to disrupt Simon Fenstone’s morning.

  “You should hold on to what you acquire,” Drummer suggests, gesturing to the gun on the counter.

  “Being armed can be problematic,” I contend. “If you carry nothing, you offer nothing when missions go south and the police show up.”

  “Maybe, but you’re going to be on someone’s hit list soon.”

  “I’ll take my chances.”

  “An old-fashioned, lone ranger.”

  I offer Drummer a brief smile as we leave, glancing at the lithe body and red hair whilst wondering what the gentle kiss on the neck symbolised: a fleeting moment or a pattern of things to come? We enter the silver BMW and Drummer clarifies the details of the mission.

  “The aim is to inflict a non-fatal distraction; we want Fenstone in a position to negotiate.”

  “Negotiate what?”

  “Ruination or information. With Fenstone on record confirming his involvement in the orchestration of fire storms around the country, leading to civilian casualties, it will be a case of locating Samuel Schwartz’s hideout.”

  “Ingram thinks Schwartz might leave the country.”

  “To Germany, yes.”

  “Why not neutralise, as well?”

  “We need to authenticate Andrew Levy’s dossier and have Hass or Fenstone on record confirming the findings, which they will once they realise what they’re about to lose. We track Schwartz then finish the job.”

  I unbutton the black suit jacket as I ease into the passenger seat. “Fenstone’s travel detail?” I ask, adjusting the blazer of the expensive black suit in the passenger seat.

  “A driver and a security guard. Fenstone travels without a cavalry for his morning meetings, probably because people who cross him usually end up dead. His hedge fund company lines the pockets of a lot of powerful people - people who will activate their own guns-for-hire once we come into play.”

  “Then let’s fire the first warning shot,” I suggest as Drummer eases the BMW onto the country road, leading to my allotted point of attack whilst she maintains her position out of sight, diverting traffic away from the violent theatre we are about to create. As we drive, she places the handgun in the glove box of the car, offering, “All yours. Fenstone’s security guard might be armed.”

  “I prefer the element of surprise.”

  “The high wire method.”

  “What are your methods?”

  Drummer smiles as she turns on the radio. “A lady never tells.”

  We arrive at the drop off point with a few minutes to spare, Ariel Drummer reversing slowly with the hazard lights on to ensure we are both in position in time. The location acting as my point of attack is a country road similar to the one I first met George Ingram on, the blind corner providing the element of surprise whilst the bank of oak trees on either side of the road offers the necessary cover.

  The moment before engagement is exhilarating, the particular environment presenting itself in microcosms of detail which need to be assimilated in terms of benefit and potential hindrances. The minor hindrance is controlling traffic once Fenstone is in play, although Ingram has a plan in place.

  Drummer will create a roadblock on one end whilst another car - which is currently tracking Fenstone - will organise a roadblock on the other, intelligence IDs at the ready although civilians rarely question authority.

  The police are a different animal, struggling to surrender authority to an individual who essentially doesn’t exist so time is limited. If it takes longer than anticipated, and the police do arrive, this will be dealt with in the usual fashion: a number to call along with a word: SALVO.

  The most arrogant officer discovers compliance and humility once they realise who they’re talking to; a man they’ve never heard of who knows everything about them - secrets and deceptions which can be shared at the touch of a button.

  A glance at my watch tells me Drummer is in place, controlling traffic behind me, leaving the field open for my dance with a new partner: Simon Fenstone … corporate man who profits from destabilising the nation. Time for the rails to come off his ride.

  The wind lifts a little as I take up my position behind the bank of trees to the left of the road, the clouds combining to limit the morning light. Fenstone’s arrogance allows no chance of mistaking his car for another: a racing-green Bentley with a private number plate … a man who likes to be recognised, it seems. Good for him that I’m here to do just that - recognise him before disrupting his morning in a particular fashion.

  The sound of a car carries in the wind as I maintain my cover behind the bank of trees to the left of the country road, taking out the lock picking set I’ve chosen to bring for a specific reason: to enact an injured civilian. A quick cut to the side of my forehead draws blood which I leave to run down the side of my face, eventually reaching the collar of the white shirt.

  Engineering the method of engagement is part of the attraction, constructing a reality to suit my purpose which is to bend Fenstone’s reality long enough to take care of his driver and security guard - at which point, he’ll realise the figure who appeared out of nowhere is an apparition of a different kind.

  A glance from my covert position confirms that Fenstone’s racing-green Bentley is making its approach, leaving the execution of the mission to begin, including the blockade of the country road from the direction of Fenstone’s travel, and my appearance out of the wings.

  As the car nears, I remember the aim to keep him in one piece, but the speed the car is travelling at could make this a challenge - a challenge I adapt to as I step out onto the road a second earlier than planned, giving the driver a glimpse of danger which causes him to hit the brakes, a look of terror on his face in the realisation that the apparition in the road isn’t moving out of the way.

  He jerks the steering wheel to the left, missing my stationary figure by the anticipated distance and spinning the Bentley towards a line of imposing oak trees.

  I maintain my position in the middle of the road, safe in the knowledge that no other vehicles will pass, watching the faces of the passengers as if everything is happening in slow motion - my attention on Simon Fenstone who isn’t currently displaying the famous smugness he’s so well known for.

  Instead, he yells in fear as the Bentley smashes into one of the oak trees, the sound of collapsing metal offering a chorus of completion to phase one of the assignment. With the car’s horn carrying on the morning air, the road block will only last a few more minutes before an irate driver, hearing the sound of a car horn, calls the emergency services for self-serving or compassionate reasons.

  Compassion not being on my agenda, I check my watc
h and keep a mental note of seconds passing; I have three minutes to maintain my role as injured, disoriented passenger, getting Fenstone out of the car and into my narrative of disoriented civilian who is either injured or mentally unstable.

  Trauma typically removes people’s rational state, primitive survival encompassing their thoughts instead. As I approach the stricken vehicle, its bonnet embedded in the imposing oak tree, I check the air bags have done their job and notice movement from Fenstone’s security guard who accompanies him in the back.

  His bloodied face rests on the window, the limp body lacking the strength to open the door. I offer assistance, conscious that forty seconds have already passed. Unbuckling the seatbelt, I ease him onto the road before turning my attention to my target who sits dazed in the white, leather seat.

  Drummer’s right - the security guard is carrying a weapon … a small handgun which I quickly acquire, accepting Drummer’s point that powerful people such as Hass and Fenstone will soon have me on their hit list. For the time being, the only hitman in play is me and, with the seconds ticking, I unbuckle Fenstone and ease him out of the Bentley, studying the bruise on his face caused by the airbag.

  He glances at me a few times, mumbling something as I carry his sombrely dressed, shell-shocked figure away from the carnage and in sight of Ariel Drummer who waits ahead. Fenstone struggles to speak, seemingly about to offer an expression of appreciation before I drop him behind the hedge lining this stretch of the country road.

  A quick kick to his groin ends his attempt to get back to his feet, the shooting pain a sudden realisation that the apparition in front of him, who appeared out of nowhere, is more damnation than salvation.

  With Simon Fenstone in his restricted state, lying passively by my feet, I hear the expected car horn as the silver BMW appears around the blind corner, Ariel Drummer gesturing the need to hurry.