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Inheritance

K2 Book 1
Geoff Wolak

www.geoffwolak-writing.com

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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Glossary of abbreviations

P-26/P-27 - Swiss secret sleeper armies
UNA - Swiss Military Intelligence
MI6 - British Intelligence, aka, SIS - Secret Intelligence Service, for overseas operations (non-domestic), aka, ‘Circus’.
MI5 - British Intelligence (domestic)
CIA - Central Intelligence Agency, USA, overseas intelligence service
SAS - Special Air Service, British Special Forces (similar to US Green Berets/Delta Force)
SBS - Special Boat Squadron, British, similar to US Navy Seals
DOD - Department of Defense - USA
MOD - Ministry of Defence - UK
NSA - National Security Agency, USA, aka ‘No such agency’.
Reported to intercept ‘all’ the world’s text messages and emails.
SOE - Special Operations Executive, British WWII covert operations OSS - USA, like SOE, WWII, overseas
DGSE - French Secret Service/counter terrorism - domestic and foreign
IRA - Irish Republican Army, terrorist movement
ETA - Spanish/Basque separatist/terrorist movement
Red Brigade - Italian communist/terrorist/crime gang
KGB - Soviet Intelligence, prior to 1990s.
NAAFI - Navy Army Air Force Institute - shops on British military bases.
SIB - British Military Police
BKA - Federal German Police, similar to FBI
FSB - Russian Intelligence, formerly KGB
Special Branch - British Police - anti-terrorism/organized crime
Wehrmacht - general term, German armed services WWII
COBRA - Cabinet Office Briefing Room ‘A’, used by British Prime Minister for meetings with security staff.
FARC – Columbian guerrillas/communist

British military slang

Oppo - opposite number/close working buddy
Pongo - soldier - derisive
Ponce/poncey - upper class/educated/effeminate - derisive
Regiment - he was ‘Regiment’- he was SAS
Rock Apes - RAF Regiment - defensive unit of airfields
Rupert - officer/upper-class - derisive
Beast - punish soldier
Stripy - Air Force Officer, derisive term for ranking stripes
Billets - accommodation/food
Civvy - civilian
Badged - qualified entry to SAS, receipt of cap badge
Best bib and tucker - best suit/outfit/military dinner suit
QT - on the QT, on the quiet
Stag – on guard duty

Valetta, Malta. 1963

‘Try and rest,’ the priest softly encouraged, dabbing his father’s brow with a damp cloth, the temperature high for an autumn day in Malta. He idly swiped away another fly, the apartment’s cracked windows letting in the shouts of children playing in the street below, an unseen cat crying out for some attention.

His elderly father struggled to sit up, unable to complete that small movement, the energy had left his frail body. ‘The list!’

‘Rest,’ the priest softly encouraged, kneeling at the side of the bed. Easing up, he took in the run down apartment with a puzzled frown, the bottles littering the floor, the cockroaches attracted to rancid cat food placed on old newspapers, empty food tins and a large pile of hand-written pages. Fetching water from a rusted tap, he wondered how his father, a very rich man, had come to end up in this squalor.

The priest had spoken little to his father in the past ten years, since his vows. Before that his father had always been distant, but at least approachable when his mother had been alive, fond memories of a pleasant childhood in Basel, Switzerland. The priest had grown up in a large house, always full of interesting people, always the best of everything. Unlike many families struggling through the lean post-war years, they had enjoyed holidays abroad, especially here in Malta. They had been better off than most.

His mother had died after a short illness whilst he had been in seminary, the detail of that illness a shock, only being revealed to him after she had passed away. Returning to their home in Basel for the funeral, he had found it stripped of everything, his father offering a single ‘goodbye’ as they passed at the cemetery. Now, little more than a year later, his father had summoned him here, a cheap apartment on the island of Malta, living in squalor, an old revolver visible under the pillow.

The old man tried to speak, lifting a shaky hand. ‘Buried in Zug… buried the treasure … Nazi treasure.’

The priest stared hard at his father, not sure he had heard the words correctly, a chill running through him. ‘Nazi … treasure?’

‘Buried … next to the treasure … the files … files of great value. The list!’ The words were repeated many times, the old man using his remaining energy to desperately force them out before he slipped into unconsciousness.

Unable to rouse his father, the priest lifted the pile of hand-written notes, scanning the first page whilst he considered fetching a local doctor, and debating how he might go about finding such a person at this late hour. He took several measured steps towards the door as a cat cried out again, enough time to read the first paragraph. He stopped dead. The written words caused him to turn, and to stare open-mouthed, at the seemingly lifeless form of his father.

By dawn, the priest had re-read the numerous pages four times, catching only an hour’s sleep during the night, the tear-tracks down his face distinct in the amber light of dawn. Setting light to each page in turn, he let the burning paper float down into apartment’s chipped and rusted bathtub, staring at them as they changed colour and slowly folded in on themselves, their hideous story lost forever. Gathering up the brittle ashes, he flushed them down a yellow-stained toilet, another cat crying forlornly at him through a cracked bathroom window. Returning to the bedroom, he snatched the pillow out from under his father’s head, placed it over the old man’s face and pushed down with force and anger in his arms.

‘Forgive me, Lord,’ he said in a strained whisper as he pressed down.

Leaving the apartment, and trying not to trip over the dozen hungry cats littering the stairway, the priest considered the final line his father had written, and what it might mean: ‘Find the Englishman, Beesely.’

Dallas, Texas.

The police officer released the safety on his rifle, and waited; calm, confident, resolute in his beliefs and his purpose. A moment later cheering signalled the approach of President Kennedy’s motorcade, the procession visible now through a crack in the wooden fence he now stood hidden behind. The officer had just a few seconds to make a choice that might change history, his grip on the rifle tightening.

As he observed his intended target three shots rang out, distorted echoes bouncing off nearby buildings, an overlapping chorus of screams and shouts rising up. He felt oddly relieved, and heaved an involuntary breath. Lowering his rifle, he peered over the wooden fence at the chaos. In his black and white police motorcyclist’s helmet, he studied the scene through his sunglasses: the President was slumped forwards, not a visible target, not that it mattered now, it seemed the job had been done.

The rifle’s barrel and stock were unclipped in haste, the weapon now a third of its original length. His motorcycle’s pannier hung open ready and the rifle parts fitted well, covered in a moment as the pouch clipped shut. Throwing a leg across, he pushed the bike for ten yards, free wheeling before starting it. Pulling off quietly, he gently accelerated, the bike’s radio buzzing with shouted orders and requests for clarification. A quick glance over his shoulder confirmed an empty parking lot.

With the sun beating down on deserted streets, he drove four blocks, the only thought on his mind being what a pleasant day it was for such a cold act. He pulled into the next alley. Turning hard and then braking, he passed under a shutter door being held open for him, halting with a squeak in the dark interior of a large workshop, the shutter immediately dropping down behind him with a clatter. The officer dismounted, kicking out the bike’s stand before calmly taking off his helmet. A punctured oil barrel enclosed and funnelled a roaring fire just outside an open rear door, the police helmet tossed in, his sunglasses and gloves inside.

‘Any problems?’ came a familiar voice from the shadows.

The officer took a moment to adjust to the darkness. ‘None at all,’ he said in a nasal and clipped English accent, calm and casual as he continued to strip down. ‘Our friends loosed off three shots, so one fired twice. Poor old Oswald, in the wrong place at the wrong time.’

‘Did you … need to, you know?’ echoed from the shadows.

‘No,’ the Englishman answered as he undressed, amused by the other man’s discomfort.

‘And … would you have?’ the second man asked after a moment, standing and moving into the light.

‘Without hesitation,’ the Englishman firmly stated, as if proud to issue the words, grabbing fresh clothes. ‘I manage to see these things … quite clearly.’

The second man nodded, putting his cigarette back on his lip. ‘Listen, old chap,’ he mocked, stepping closer and checking over his shoulder. ‘Family would prefer if you didn’t get too friendly with my kid sister given who, and what, you are.’

The Englishman attended his clothes. ‘Oliver, let’s be clear about this; she … was the one making all the moves. And dare I remind you that it was you who introduced us. A surprise given just who, and what, I am.’ He tipped his head and formed a thin smile as he buttoned his shirt. ‘And the good lady is not quite the kid sister. She’s twenty-six, divorced with two kids, and could probably drink us both under the table!’

Oliver shrugged a reluctant agreement with that last statement. ‘C’mon, old chap. The new Chairman of The Lodge is waiting. He hasn’t yet had the pleasure that is Morris Beesely from Englandshire.’
England. June, 2007. The Joke.

Sir Morris Beesely woke from a daydream certain he could hear gunfire. Sitting up and letting down his legs, fogged for a moment, he observed delicate beams of sunlight highlighting dust, his mind still in Dallas on ‘that sunny day’. Easing up and stretching, he peered through a crack in the curtains, noting his bodyguard below with a resigned sigh. ‘Oh … gawd.’

Sweat rolled down the bodyguard’s face, today being a particularly warm day for stalking prey. He now wished that he had not worn his silk ‘Simpsons Family’ shorts, they were stuck to his skin.

He stood motionless, pistol ready, breathing steadily. Ignoring any distractions, he waited for the right moment. Nine years in the SAS, ten years working as a freelancer for various mercenary and intelligence groups, he had seen better days; now he had something to prove. He had missed this quarry fifteen times already, but this time it would be different, he told himself. With his weapon held on-target, he wiped sweat away from his eyes with the sleeve of his suit jacket, his sponsor observing unseen from a high window.

Movement. The gunman’s quarry foolishly gave away its position. This one would be different, they would see, he could do it. He pulled his sweaty shorts out of the crack of his backside, and fired. Quickly adjusting his aim a fraction he let off six rounds, ‘bracketing’ the target, spent 9mm cartridges flying high and wide. He closed the gap and fired again at point blank range with anger and determination, willing the bullet into his intended victim.

Nothing. No movement.

He readied his trowel, determined that they were not getting away. Digging quickly, he opened up the mole’s latest mound, right down to the small two-way tunnel. Nothing. ‘Bollocks!’ With a sigh he holstered his weapon, his sponsor turning away from the window.

‘Any luck?’ his sponsor’s housekeeper enquired from the edge of the lawn, the lady stood with a tea towel in her hand.

The gunman lit up as his sponsor came into view. Since leaving active service, and retiring to work as a driver, his sponsor and mentor had been very tolerant. So far.

‘Well?’ the old man asked, no hint of emotion evident.

The gunman lowered his head and dropped his shoulders. Two hours of shooting up his sponsor’s lawn with a 9mm pistol had produced no visible results; no deaths, not even a wounding. The garden moles had won.

The housekeeper was sympathetic. ‘Maybe if you wore your old camouflage clothing?’

Slowly, his sponsor’s features distorted. He bent double, clutching his chest. Laughing hard, but silently, he crumpled and fell over. Bemused, the housekeeper did not understand the cause of the hysterics, rushing to the aid of her elderly employer. She had not meant to be cruel about the gunman’s efforts. The gunman walked inside, his head lowered, checking his watch. The Simpsons were on in five minutes, time for a cuppa.

Not a pleasant way to die

1

With his shoes squeaking on the recently polished floor, George Willis, assistant to the new director of MI6, approached an isolated office in the basement of the MOD, Central London. He knocked on the glass door and entered without waiting.

‘Willis?’ The sole occupant squinted over the rims of his glasses in unwelcome recognition of the younger visitor, the occupier half buried in files. The disgruntled employee, fifty-five at his last birthday, sat wearing new red braces over an off-white shirt hiding a slight frame. His grey hair grew thin, his cheeks thinner. After a moment’s thought he jabbed towards the kettle with his pen, a firm hint. ‘Kettle has boiled.’

Willis sniffed. ‘What’s in the kettle, Toby? Scotch?’ he asked with a knowing grin as he took a seat.

Toby stared back for several seconds. ‘It’s the cleaner they use for the lino on the floor, it smells terrible,’ he stated. He threw down his pen, eased back and took a big breath. ‘So what brings you down to purgatory?’

‘Well, you’re really, really old, and rumoured to be a really sneaky shit.’

Toby forced up his eyebrows in theatrical surprise. ‘Compliments already, you must be after something.’ He folded his arms.

Willis eased back and crossed his legs. ‘Sir Morris Beesely.’

Toby allowed himself a thin smile, an old memory surfacing. ‘That name takes me back to the good old days; long lunches, fiddling your expenses, being politically incorrect, genuine enemies to spy on. He was old school, proper spy. Knew Ian Fleming they said.’

‘What’s he like?’

Toby frowned in surprise. ‘Beesely? God, is he still alive?’ he asked as he poured out two small drinks.

‘Yes, apparently. Someone lifted his old personnel files, so Madam will not be pleased. That is, of course, if I tell her.’

‘Ah yes, the new lady of the manor, Dame Helen Eddington-Small. How long now, three weeks in the hot seat?’

Willis nodded. ‘She’s not one of the boys, but better at her job than –’

‘Certain age-ed gentlemen,’ Toby finished off without looking up.

‘So what about this Beesely character?’ Willis pressed.

Toby curled a lip as he thought back to his early career. ‘He was quite the lad. Excellent at his job, don’t get me wrong, but always managed to get into trouble and, strangely enough, he always managed to get away with it.’ He lifted his head, staring out of focus. ‘Bit of a ladies’ man if I recall, even in later life.’ He focused on Willis. ‘Anyway, they never managed to make anything stick. Not even that Kosovo thing.’

‘Kosovo?’ Willis challenged. ‘That would have been well after he retired.’

‘AGN Security Limited,’ Toby whispered, glancing around the small office, despite the fact that they were the only occupants.

‘I know the outfit. What about them?’

‘They’re heaped full of ex-SAS muddy-boot-wearing types. Unofficial recruiting ground for your more energetic field agents... when the lads are short of money, of course.’

‘So what’s the connection?’ Willis asked, hiding a smile.

Again, Toby curled his lip, giving a slight shrug. ‘Beesely used to own it, may still do. Madam’s illustrious predecessors used to sub-contract the odd job to AGN - plausible deniability. But I had heard he retired from all that long ago.’

‘Got a photo?’

‘Why, lost his file?’ Toby pointedly enquired.

Willis heaved a sigh. ‘Photo?’ he pressed.

‘Only in my mind,’ Toby mouthed in an exaggerated fashion. ‘Five ten, thin, bit of a stoop, walks quickly.’ He shrugged, grimacing. ‘Bald, thin face. Looks like someone of his age, I suppose. Saw him last year - well, maybe five years ago - at a reunion bash somewhere. Can’t remember where, so it must have been a good one. Still sharp as a tack, mind you. He remembered me, and all my … misdemeanours.’

‘Didn’t catch you drinking on the job, did he?’ Willis took a sip and winced. ‘So what’s this Kosovo thing you mentioned?’ he coughed out.

Toby grinned at his visitor’s discomfort. ‘It happened during the early days of the conflict, when I had a desk with a window. Beesely sent recon’ teams in under the radar. Some got themselves caught, but the powers that be wouldn’t send a rescue after them, so he funded one himself. He rescued some ex-SAS trooper by sending in some other ex-SAS trooper. It’s quite the after-dinner story in some circles.’ Willis’s expression suggested they had the time. Toby reluctantly continued, ‘Well, this one ex-SAS guy, a freelancer for Madam’s predecessors, Ricky something if I recall, he went in after Johno. That’s Beesely’s driver now, by the way, saw him at the reunion.’

Willis eased his face forward. ‘His driver?’

‘Back then this Johno fellow was a freelancer for your lot. He went into Bosnia a few times, apparently successfully blowing things up. Whatever. Anyway, he went into Kosovo to blow up some ammo’ dump. Parachuted in, walked twenty miles and made a nice big bang.’

Willis offered a look of mock surprise.

‘I told you, quite the after-dinner story. Anyway, on the way out he ran into a battalion of Serb regulars. They put five, ten or twenty rounds into him - depends on how drunk you are by this point in the story. Left him for dead.’

‘What happened?’

Toby studied the inside of his glass. ‘He performed first aid on himself apparently, stitches and everything, radioed-in his position. Powers that be decided against a rescue.’ He sighed. ‘Bravo Two Zero all over again.’

Willis hid a grin. ‘So how did he get out?’

Toby raised a finger and smiled coyly. ‘Beesely organized the rescue, that guy Ricky plus some Kosovan Albanian resistance fighter. Not only did your lot not help, they threatened Beesely. He sent a rescue anyway, all organised in just a day apparently. This Ricky was some big deal agent. He walked across the border, found Johno, and carried him out.’

‘Carried him?’

‘On his back, apparently, so the story goes; thirty miles to the border, dodging the Serbs. Some say Ricky carried him for three days without sleep. Who knows? Anyway, they had to shoot their way out, American helicopter picking them up on the Macedonian border.’

‘Why on earth would the Americans pick them up, especially if AGN sent them in, a civilian outfit? And a Brit’ firm at that!’

‘Big … mystery.’ Toby mouthed the words carefully, again glancing around the room. ‘Another rumour about Beesely – he was always very friendly with the Americans. Anyway, rest is sketchy, rumours of this pair landing on a Yank aircraft carrier, stitched up and flown to Italy and another Yank hospital before turning up back here. His driver, this man Johno, he spent a year in rehab.’

‘What does this … Johno look like?’

Toby ran a forefinger and thumb from below his nose, edging his mouth, and squarely down to his chin. ‘Old school trooper moustache – Mexican bandit - long sideburns, crew cut on top. Stocky, five ten. Wouldn’t want to nudge his elbow in a bar, dangerous eyes. Spoke to him at that function, or the one before.’ Toby curled a lip. ‘He drinks a lot, very sarcastic and negative.’ Willis raised an eyebrow and suppressed a smile as Toby poured himself another drink. Toby continued, ‘Big enquiry by your lot as to how that pair got out. Anyway, they arrested him, Beesely that is. Next thing we know all - charges dropped. I told you, he always got away with it. Maybe the Queen helped.’

Willis uncrossed his legs and straightened. ‘The Queen?’

‘Strange trivia fact; she and Beesely met up once or twice a year, every year, for sixty years. They have, apparently, known each other since 1944.’

‘Well,’ he said as he stood. ‘I’ll be leaving with more questions than I came in with.’

‘Enlightenment is what I’m here for.’

‘That guy Ricky, he was working for Beesely’s firm at the time, AGN?’

Toby formed a thin, humourless smile. ‘Nope, he was on your books. He and Beesely knew each other through Trooper Snoopers.’

Willis tipped his head. ‘Trooper … Snoopers?’

Toby glanced around the empty room. ‘That unit that isn’t supposed to exist. They draw officers and men from all services, just for a year or two.’

‘To do what?’

‘Check up on ex-servicemen after retirement, former officers from delicate positions, to see that they’re not writing their memoirs or married to a Russian ballerina named Olga. They also spy on ex-SAS troopers, see what they are up to. Mostly SIB flatfoots, and some of your lot.’

‘I don’t think I’ve ever heard of it.’

‘Like I said, it isn’t supposed to exist,’ he said with a smirk, ‘but I see the funding!’ He tapped the files in front of him. ‘Beesely was involved on and off for twenty years, so I’ve heard, even after he left regular work.’

‘Ah … the fog is lifting a bit.’ Willis stepped to the door, turned and shrugged one shoulder. ‘See you at Christmas then, I suppose?’

Toby stared. ‘How many uncles do you have?’

2

‘What’s up, Doc?’ Johno asked.

The grey-haired psychiatrist rolled his eyes, gesturing John ‘Johno’ Williams towards a seat, the roar of London traffic a dull drone in the background. This was Johno’s regular monthly session, the psychiatrist’s offices on the second floor of a drab building off the Tottenham Court Road, central London.

Johno picked up a pink squeeze-ball and slouched down. ‘It all started when I was a schoolboy,’ he said with mock seriousness. ‘Teacher touched me up.’

‘Did he?’ Doctor Manning probed as he settled himself, finally facing his patient.

‘Hah! That would give you something to scribble down.’ Johno sat upright. ‘Anyway, why don’t you scribble down stuff any more? You used to.’ He ran a hand down his bushy moustache.

‘I gave up on you long ago, you know that,’ Manning dryly stated.

‘Broke you, I did.’

‘You certainly gave me a run for your money.’

‘Beesely’s money, waste that it is,’ Johno retorted as he glanced out of the window.

‘Do you think your time here has been wasted?’ Manning posed, easing back and now holding his pen between both hands.

‘Ah, the serious pen stance,’ Johno teased. Suddenly self-conscious, Manning put the pen down. Johno tossed him the squeeze-ball. ‘Try that, you look stressed. I have that effect on people.’

‘I must admit, Johno, you are a … perplexing character.’ Manning placed down the ball, interlacing his fingers.

‘Me? Nah, two dimensional me.’

‘Hardly. You’re far more complicated than most give you credit for.’

Johno squinted. ‘Most?’

‘I assist a lot of soldiers, some know you.’

‘And you discuss me?’

‘Not directly, but some are former SAS, and they recall experiences ... and people. You crop up a lot actually. And I use your ... experience as an example.’

‘Do I get a commission?’

Dr Manning could not hold in the smile. ‘So, Johno, how have you been?’

‘Up and down, not enough side to side. Usual. Still drinking too much, bad dreams, leg hurts. Can I go now?’

Manning lifted his hands, offering two open palms. ‘No one is forcing you to come here –’

‘Not quite true, Doc. Beesely gives me money for the hotel and … expenses, so I go lap dancing, burn up a few weeks’ pay. I’d come here every frigging week if he paid.’

Manning let out a breath. ‘Well, it’s nice to know there’s no ulterior motive for you attending these sessions.’

‘So, what did you want to discuss this month, Doc?’ Johno asked with a wry smile.

‘What would you like to discuss?’

Johno sighed. ‘How many times have you asked that?’ He waited. ‘And how many times have you got a straight answer?’

‘It’s a requirement. It’s what they teach us shrinks on day one at shrink school.’

Johno laughed. ‘See, isn’t this more fun when we take the piss out of each other?’

‘Well, I would actually like to earn my pay.’

Johno adopted his best attempt at a serious expression, resting an elbow on the chair arm. ‘I feel cured. Just tell me where to sign and I’ll let you off the hook. Is there a standard form? Patient self-cert’ of sanity?’

‘If only it was that simple. So, how have you been, Johno?’ Manning pressed.

‘Fine.’ Johno took a big breath, becoming genuinely serious. ‘I’m forty-six in a few months. I can’t run too well because of the knee, I shag prostitutes because I don’t want any women to see the scars, and I can’t spend the night with anyone because of the shouting nightmares. So I get hammered quickly, just before bedtime. Bad for my health I know, but simple.’

Manning studied him. ‘And you seem to accept it.’

Johno gave it some thought, shrugging. ‘What else should I do? Make you happy and get all morbid and moody, fit neatly into one of your psycho-models? Look, Doc, my head isn’t injured, my body is. If someone loses a leg they get a plastic one. I got some scars, so no swimming in the public pool. Simple. I dream fucked-up scary stuff, so I drink. Simple … and practical.’

‘Quite practical. You seem to see all your problems as just that, problems to be solved in the real world.’

Johno offered Manning a teasing grin. ‘As opposed to the Twilight Zone that some of your patients visit?’

Dr Manning sighed. ‘No, the real world out here, not in the sub-conscious mind, which is where I spend most of my time.’

‘Is it dark? Do you, like, take a torch?’

Manning sighed again, long and hard. ‘Where did I put that “cured” rubber stamp?’

‘With the rubber mallet for difficult patients?’

‘So,’ Manning started again, a big breath taken in and let out, ‘how’s Beesely these days?’

‘Doing better than me. He’s still sharp as a tack, and in better health. Eighty now –’

‘Seventy-nine. Eighty in three months,’ Manning corrected.

Johno stared at the floor. ‘Remind me closer to the time, always forgetting his bloody birthday.’

‘Did he … appreciate the lap-dancers you got him last year?’

‘Nah, he let me enjoy myself. But you and I both know he lives his life through my eyes.’

‘Quite an insightful observation,’ Manning said, his eyes narrowing as he focused on Johno.

‘Why else would he keep me on? He doesn’t need a bodyguard, and he can still drive himself, just about.’ Johno shrugged again, glancing out of the window at the bustling London thoroughfare below.

‘Maybe he has just gotten used to you, and all your annoying habits.’

‘Maybe he’s just afraid of burglars,’ Johno quickly retorted.

‘I don’t think Mr Beesely is afraid of anything.’

Johno squinted, focusing on the psychiatrist. ‘You and he go way back.’

‘A long time, yes. Perhaps thirty years. I was retained by MI6, sorry … SIS these days, working with agents returning from imprisonment abroad.’

Johno winced. ‘That must be tough, twenty years in a fucking Siberian Gulag.’

Manning nodded, alone with his thoughts for moment. ‘Some had great difficulty adjusting.’

‘So I’m lucky, still functioning up top, all right as rain.’

Manning again hid a smile. ‘How’s Beesely’s housekeeper, Jane, these days?’

Johno tipped his head and studied the psychiatrist. ‘As far as I remember … that’s the first time you’ve ever asked.’

‘You all live together, so she must play a part in your life. You admitted before to treating her like a younger sister.’

‘And see where that got me! You talking about family for a whole year, twelve sessions in a bleeding row.’

‘So, how is she?’ Manning pressed.

Johno glanced out the window. ‘Same as ever, just as fucked up as me. Anorexic, cries in her sleep, doesn’t leave the house or Beesely’s side. Like a ten year old.’

‘You sound … harsh, and yet you were almost jailed two or three times looking out for her?’

Johno made a face. ‘When I first started working for old man Beesely he ordered me to protect her, you know, part of the job. He also told me not to show any interest in her. Fat chance of that, no pun intended, she’s a walking skeleton.’ He turned away again.

‘There is a difference between protecting someone, and chasing a bag snatcher then beating him to a pulp.’

Johno focused on Dr Manning. ‘That’s my anger issue, as we labelled up years ago, not about … her.’

‘Are you sure? Are you sure that you don’t actually feel better about yourself … when you look out for others, especially a frail and anorexic woman?’

‘I’ve never wanted a puppy, Doc, so no,’ Johno stated in dismissive tones.

Manning sighed. ‘I must be keeping you from some young lady with large breasts and colourful tattoos.’

Johno stood, a beaming false smile. ‘Pleasure, Doc. As always.’ On the street, he lifted his mobile and dialled. ‘Hello?’

‘Hello?’ came a woman’s voice.

‘Who’s that?’ Johno asked.

‘Who am I? This is the Alzheimer’s Association. How may I help you?’

‘Why are you ringing me?’ Johno enquired, a smile creased into one cheek.

‘Uh … you rang us, sir.’

‘Did I? Why did I do that?’

‘Are you OK, sir? Is there someone else there we could talk with?’

‘Yes.’ He waited. ‘Who’s that?’

A sigh could be heard from the other end. Johno’s path was suddenly blocked by a man in a suit stood with his hands on his hips.

‘Still ringing the Alzheimer’s Association?’ a familiar voice asked.

Startled in his recognition of the man, Johno stared, his mouth opening. ‘General Sir Christopher Rose. Well I’ll be buggered.’

‘Need a word. Private word. Get in the car.’ A car door opened from within by a passenger, a smile for Johno.

‘Sir?’ Johno said, bent double and facing the passenger, lost for other words as he recognised the second man. A firm nudge on the shoulder, and Johno eased in. ‘My mum told me never to get in cars with strange men.’

The General eased into the front passenger seat, the car immediately pulling off. ‘I think, Johno, that mothers tell their daughters that with you in mind.’

‘You may be right. Long time, General. Were you, you know, old, wrinkly and bald the last time we met?’

The passenger tried to suppress his smile. General Rose glanced over his shoulder, a hard glare offered, but said nothing.

An hour later Johno sat staring at the wall of a cheap hotel room, several empty beer cans littering the small window table. With pursed lips he blew out, long and slow. ‘Bloody hell.’

‘We both know you’re a good actor,’ General Rose reminded his unwilling guest. ‘Good undercover. And, in the short term, all we need you to do is to be your annoying self. Keep your eyes open and your ear to the ground. If, and when, over the next few months you happen to hear the name, try and get the list – lookout for the treasure. We’re not asking you … to betray Beesely.’

Johno turned his head, making strong eye contact. ‘And I wouldn’t,’ he snarled. ‘Her Majesty’s Government, bless ‘em, left me in Kosovo. He got me out!’

General Rose sighed and straightened. ‘Let’s not go back over old ground. This is about the safety of the UK–’

‘Yeah, yeah, we did the patriotic speech bit. I sat up to attention, remember.’

‘In effect, we’re not asking you to do anything. We’ve given you the details and the clues, so that if and when the times comes you’ll know what to do.’

Johno faced the wall again. ‘Bloody … hell,’ he let out. ‘And what’s these Swiss boys’ interest in Beesely again?

‘You tell us … when you find out,’ General Rose stated.

‘We’ll drop you around at the lap-dancers,’ the second man offered.

Johno faced his old boss, offering a hard glare. ‘Like I could get it up now!’ He finished the last beer can. ‘Any backup on this deal?’

‘None,’ came quickly back, the reply sounding final.

‘Contact routes?’

‘The usual.’

Johno stood. ‘Love to say that it’s been a pleasure, but all things considered, I really wish I hadn’t got out of bed this morning, fuckers.’ He tipped his head at the second officer and left.

With the door slammed shut the second officer stood. ‘Can we rely on him?’

General Rose eased up. ‘All our psych’ evaluations say he’s certifiable. If he were still in the service he’d be sectioned. If he were a horse or a dog – he’d be put down! But I know Doc’ Manning, and he has faith in Johno, although God knows why. We even bugged some of his sessions. He has acute Post Traumatic Stress Disorder; regressive childhood behaviour, shouting nightmares, chronic drinking, hand tremors, the works. He wears t-shirts with little messages on them, phones people at random and takes the piss. About the only adult thing he partakes of is the prostitutes, and even that’s weird.’

‘Weird how?’ the second office asked, dreading the answer.

‘Never takes his clothes off, just gets the old todger out, keeping the scars hidden.’

‘Why are we even using him?’ the second officer complained. ‘On something this important!’

General Rose sighed. ‘Beggars can’t be choosers. And right now he’s in the right place … at the right time.’
Five minutes after the officers had vacated the room an elderly cleaner let herself in, an unlit cigarette balanced on her lip. She reached under the bed, fiddled around and removed a listening device, pocketing it. She took another from behind the mirror, a third from the bathroom before leaving, the beer cans still littering the room.

3

‘Not a pleasant way to die.’ Willis uttered the words as much to himself as his superior, stepping now across the spacious office of the new director of Britain’s overseas intelligence service.

At forty-five she remained attractive, if a little thin in the face for his liking. In her subordinates’ opinion, she had earned the post despite being noticeably younger than her predecessors; he regarded her as being more politically astute. He placed the report that he had been reading onto her desk then, as an afterthought, rotated it the right way up for her to study.

She shot him an intolerant look. ‘I doubt there are too many pleasant ways to die,’ she commented, a dry and husky voice out of character with her trim and pleasant appearance.

Willis slipped down into one of two large leather chairs arranged in front of her noticeably uncluttered desk; it supported just two flat-screen computer displays, a neatly recessed keyboard and a multi-buttoned desk phone. ‘Not something you’re going to want to read before bedtime,’ he pointed out as she started to scan the front page. She raised her eyes toward him without moving her head, then focused again on the report as he pointedly added, ‘Or any other time, come to that.’

She hesitated as she held the document, issuing a sigh. ‘Give me the highlights.’

‘This poor guy was tortured at length. And expertly, might I add. They made sure he stayed awake and understood the full weight and magnitude of what he had done, whom he had upset. They administered adrenalin injections, supplemented with cocaine on the gums – finger toothbrush!’

‘Cocaine?’ she puzzled.

‘Apparently it makes the tactile senses stronger, and it stops the attendant party from falling asleep, or inconveniently fainting too often during torture.’ She eased further back into her chair, her expression blank. ‘They took to him with a blowtorch, all captured on high quality video, this guy surviving for some six hours. Towards the end of the tape they, well, got rather nasty with him.’

‘Nasty with him?’ she repeated with a pained expression.

‘Yes,’ he grimaced, remembering some of the video images. ‘As best we can figure, the victim was our Mafia hit man, the guy on our watch list. Not an easy task, getting reliable intel’, since these guys play their cards very close to their chests.’

‘And our man’s connection?’ she asked, rising and walking to the window.

‘Our man had been tailing the deceased from Italy to Switzerland. Just at the point that our luckless Mafia man was being bundled into a van our man became aware of five other men, agents of some sort, suddenly surrounding him.’ She glanced over her shoulder briefly with a questioning look. ‘Anyway, they politely escorted him back to the Swiss-Italian border, gave him some local wine and cheese and bade him a fond farewell.’

At that Dame Helen turned around, her eyes widening. ‘Bade him a fond farewell?’

‘With a gift basket of wine and cheese for his troubles. Good quality stuff, apparently.’ She lowered her head, thinking hard as she returned to her desk. He added, ‘Local police or intelligence services seemed to be in on it, waved them through an impromptu checkpoint.’

‘The Swiss Intelligence Services’ abilities rank just above those of Luxembourg, and slightly lower down the scale than those of my local boy scouts,’ she illustrated. ‘We should know, we used to train them until they went all political in the 1990s. Now the Germans and French train and equip them.’ She took a breath, staring out of focus. ‘So just what, exactly, is going on over there?’ she thought aloud, tapping a foot.

‘All we know is that the Mafia hit man, alleged hit-man, was linked to those on our watch list, hence our interest. And it’s definitely the same Mafia guy in the video.’

She eased forward. ‘Which was sent to the supposed Mafia man’s boss, found its way into the hands of the Italian not-so-Secret Service, and to us some four weeks later.’

‘In a nutshell. Doesn’t make a lot of sense I know –’

‘It doesn’t make any damn sense!’ she pointed out. He sank further into his seat. ‘This unknown group is well connected - enough to influence or corrupt Swiss police - ruthless beyond Russian standards in what they do to this poor man, but send our man off with a packed-lunch and his tail between his legs.’ She pulled a file out of a drawer. ‘I‘ve been doing some digging.’

‘Oh?’

‘I can tie this group in to five other murders with the same taste in snuff videos. Apparently, it’s called ‘getting the chair’. They were all video taped, all victims sitting in a chair as they’re tortured. One lasted fourteen hours.’

He pursed his lips. ‘Ouch!’

She regarded her assistant for a moment. ‘Yes, ouch.’ Focusing back on the report she said, ‘All of the victims were male, well built. Two more were Mafia hit men, several were Russians - one rumoured to be a particularly nasty Russian hit man with Chechen links. Another was a former Serbian special ops man, rumoured to have raped and killed the children of a German industrialist before attempting to ransom the father, and one was later identified as a Slovakian planning an attack on the Pope. A very oddly mixed bag.’

He raised his hands, palms upturned. ‘All bad boys, no tears shed.’

His boss shot him a disapproving look. ‘Perhaps. It’s almost as if there is a … vigilante element to these killings. It’s definitely the same group, cheekily confident in their ability to evade the authorities, and cheekily sending in a video each time, usually to the employer of the victim … or associates of the victim.’

‘Quite a deterrent,’ he emphasised. ‘Any details from the police in these countries?’

‘Nothing. Great professionalism each time by the attackers, not so much as a fingerprint or witness in any of the cases. Suspiciously little evidence, as if the police themselves were colluding across four countries.’

‘That hardly seems likely.’

She glanced up at nothing in particular. ‘Then we have a mystery on our hands.’

Willis stood. ‘Not to worry,’ he offered. She had put her glasses back on and now frowned at him over the rims. ‘Whoever this group is, they’re only killing the scum of Europe.’ He stepped towards the door as she returned to her previous file. Stopping and turning, he said, ‘Oh, one more thing, completely unrelated. Some old files have gone missing.’

‘What?’ she barked.

With a pained expression he informed her, ‘Yes … seems that someone has removed all files that we had on an old boy, well before your time, former section head in the seventies and eighties, a Sir Morris Beesely.’

‘Beesely!’ She jumped up, slamming her hands onto the desk. ‘Oh, God,’ she added, her shoulders dropping.

He took a step closer, surprised by her reaction. ‘This… gentleman is almost eighty years old.’

She forced herself calmer. ‘He was rumoured to have stolen Prime Minister Harold Wilson’s private journals, from Number Ten, in the seventies. We’ve been searching for those journals for a long time. Besides…’

He waited. ‘Besides … what?’

‘Never mind.’

4

On a small sailboat in a Washington D.C. marina, senior CIA analyst James Kirkpatrick studied the report that had just been placed down for him on the polished galley table. As he read and absorbed each line his face inched closer to the paper, his features hardening, his eyes widening. Finally he raised his head and stared at the elderly, white-haired man sitting opposite.

‘You see the problem?’ the white-haired man enquired, although it had clearly not been meant as a question. He glanced at the yacht’s brass barometer, gently tapping it as the boat moved, a familiar creaking sound issued by the boat’s rope moorings.

‘I do, Henry.’ Kirkpatrick eased back, taking off his glasses. ‘How do you wish to proceed?’

‘Simply close observation for now. We have to be very, very careful with this. When he was active, Beesely knew about our ... activities in this area. If he reappears with a connection to this Swiss group just as we are finalising activities then, well …’ He upturned his hands.

‘A serious impediment,’ Kirkpatrick finished off. ‘What’s Beesely’s link to our Swiss cousins?’

‘We don’t know yet, but I have taken steps to find out. Pity is, there’s a prize greatly valued in Switzerland, at least in the short term, if that’s what Beesely and his people are up to … to get at it.’

‘Do you think Beesely knows what’s hidden in Switzerland? Or what’s hidden within the K2 organisation for that matter?’

‘All we have at the moment is a great deal of K2 intercepts, all concerning Beesely.’

Kirkpatrick glanced again at the report. ‘Do you think they aim to kidnap him, to get information?’

‘Beesely hasn’t attended a meeting for ten years, hasn’t worked on any sensitive projects for twenty. What would be his value to K2?’

‘Well, they’re interested in him for some reason?’ Kirkpatrick pressed.

Henry took a breath. ‘Worst case scenario ... they’ve found something, something old that they think he can shed some light on, from the sixties or seventies - either MI6 business, or possibly us. But as far as I know, the K2 organisation has never shown any interest in anything this side of the pond.’

5

‘What kind of man is Beesely?’ the front seat passenger asked in a mildly accented voice. The driver turned his head, but the question had been meant for the passenger in the rear.

The three men sat in a darkened Range Rover, the inside even darker than the rain-swept dusk outside due to the vehicles’ tinted and bullet-proof glass. Those rain clouds had brought on dusk an hour early on this otherwise mild June day in the English countryside. From their raised positions, the men could see out over hedgerows on either side of the country lane they had stopped in. In the distance they could just make out a large house with its lights on, nestled between a wood and a small lake.

The rear passenger began, ‘He’s a unique man, and he was a good officer back in the day – a good leader of men. He coined the phrase leading from the front. He’s also an old-school gentleman, a proper gentleman, not like some of the public school twats that run the intelligence services these days. You could image Beesely on a hunt in Africa with a line of slave bearers behind him.

‘I’ve known him almost twenty-five years, right from my first days in SAS. He wasn’t there then, he was working for Army Intelligence, but I heard the stories and met people who knew him. When I did finally meet him I took to him straight away. He’s simple in his attitude, no messing about. If he’s wrong he’ll admit it, not like most of the Ruperts I worked for… who’d do anything to advance their own careers.

‘He takes care of his boys, those he send outs. Breaks his fucking heart if one gets hurt. What he did for Johno in Kosovo was no isolated case, he would have done it for anyone working for him if he could. He’s eighty now, but still sharp as a tack and going strong. I haven’t seen him for two years, but I don’t reckon he’s changed much.’

The front seat passenger sighed.

‘You’ll be fine, boss. It’s going to be like frigging Christmas in there when they see me. Smartest move you made - bringing me along.’

The front seat passenger announced, ‘I would rather … climb Everest again than be here. I hate things that are not ... controllable, not black and white.’ He spoke with a clipped accept, even-toned, and with no hint of emotion.

‘Well that’s because you’re a tight-arsed Swiss banker. No offence. You can control the figures on a balance sheet, but you can’t control people, especially not the ones in that house.’

‘Sir?’ the driver asked in English, but clearly not his first language. ‘Why is Lower Church Fenton called lower, and Upper Church Fenton called upper, when the signs are there … and this land is flat?’

The ‘sir’ in the front seat turned his head towards the rear. ‘I have wondered this myself. The land here is flat, no hills, yet many place names are ‘lower’ or ‘upper’?’

‘Streams, Boss. The villages are roughly at the same height above sea level, but a stream flows from one to the other, and in the old days a stream was a valuable commodity for all your frigging cows and crops and the like. Downstream was ‘lower’ and upstream is ‘upper’. In those days, if you widened or dammed-up the stream, your neighbours downstream cut your bollocks off.’

The two men in the front nodded their understanding, less so for the quality of the explanation.

‘Great,’ the rear passenger complained. ‘Now I’m frigging hungry. Shall we roll, Boss?’

The ‘tight-arsed Swiss banker’ picked up his mobile phone.
Unknown to the three men, their Range Rover came into view through a night-sight, the central feature of a bright green-grey image. With a gloved finger a button was selected, doubling the magnification, the sight’s built-in software taking a moment to adjust and settle. The vehicle’s occupants were not clearly visible, their general outlines appearing as distorted pale green blobs through the tempered, tinted windows.

The observer focused on the shapes, a wry smile forming. ‘Two, this is One,’ he whispered in an American accent. ‘That vehicle has bullet-proof glass.’

The observer swept left then right, the thermal image adjusting itself. The car’s bonnet displayed as bright orange, indicating heat, the headlights a rich red colour that was being toned down automatically by the system software. He turned on Video Record, a red flashing square of writing appearing in the bottom left of the image, its too small to be legible. The laser-rangefinder displaying in the top right hand corner showed ‘60m’; sixty metres. An audible beep in the man’s earpiece caused him to hold his breath. He lowered his stance quickly and put solid ground between himself and whoever else might be around, a large tree and small ditch offering him protection from being viewed with another night sight.

‘Two, this is One. You have movement?’ he whispered.

‘Standby,’ came the confident response.

He listened, unwilling to elevate himself to a position where he could see, or risking being seen.

‘We have two stealthy unknowns across the lake, kitted with night-sights. Two more rear of house.’

‘Am I clear, egress route one?’

‘Affirmative, you’re shielded from both parties. Haul it, buddy, got us some professional company for a change, not just irate Limey farmers.’