…

It was not more than twenty minutes since I’d walked in the door after attending the funeral, and then the wake, for my parents who had died in a motor vehicle accident in the south of France.

I’d met a man I’d never seen before who had given me an ancient envelope before he disappeared, in which there was a note and a copy of my father’s will.

The family solicitor, Lawrence Wellingham, who had attended the funeral and who told me he did not have a current will, had visited me not long after I got home, a man who had told me that anyone who said my parents had died, other than from an accident was to be ignored.

With the will had been a letter, my father saying if he died in an accident, it was likely not an accident, and to contact a man called Albert Stritching.

Then, not five minutes after Lawrence Wellingham left, Albert Stritching called.

It was a series of events that defied explanation.

After a few moments to get over the shock of hearing the name so soon, I said, “The same Albert Stritching my fathers said I needed to talk to if anything happened to him?”

“He left you a note?”

“Were you the person at the funeral who handed me the envelope?”

“I didn’t know there was a funeral.  What man?”

“About 70, grey hair, beard, blue Italian suit, brown shoes, the shoes seemed an odd addition.  Tie was old school, Eton, I think.

“Sir Percival.  We all went to school together, a long time ago.  He was what you might call, your father’s boss, mine too for that matter, when I worked in the same department.”

“What did my father, and you, do?”

“That is a long story.  We need to meet, as soon as possible.  What I can tell you, for now, is that you need to be careful.  Do you have anyone with you?”

“No.”

“I assume you are currently at your father’s house?”

“Yes.”

“OK.  Stay there, and I’ll send someone over, just to make sure you’re safe.  Her name is Genevieve, one of our personal protection officers.  Her identification code is your father’s middle name.  You do know it?”

“Yes.”

“Good.  Don’t answer the phone, or the door till she gets there.”

It was odd to think that trouble would come to what my father often referred to as hallowed ground.  The house was his sanctuary, a place no one knew about, a place he never invited anyone but family.  Not even close friends.

The thought, or notion, that trouble could visit here was preposterous.

And yet…

I heard the sound of a high-powered motorcycle from the distance, slowly getting louder until it stopped not far from my front door.  Peering through the front window from behind the curtains, I saw a figure dismount, take off the helmet and shake out a lot of blonde hair.

She looked too young to be in personal protection.

Carrying the helmet in one hand, she came up the path to the front door and knocked.

I left the door shut and yelled out, “Who are you?”

“I was sent by Albert Stritching.  My name is Genevieve.”

I opened the door a fraction, leaving the safety chain attached.

“The identification code?”

“Alwyn.”

I closed the door, removed the chain, and opened it for her to pass.  A look down the path to see if anyone was following her, which there was not, and I shut it.

“Anyone call or ring,” she asked, looking around the room.

It was old and musty smelling because it rarely got any sunlight.  The fire I’d lit earlier in the morning before going out, was slowly reviving after I’d put some more wood on the embers.  In another half hour, the temperature in the room would be above freezing.

“No.  What happens now?”

“I stay until Mr Stritching arrives, sometime tomorrow.  In fact, I have been assigned to mind you for the next few days.  All I can tell you is that it is possible your life is in danger.  And your parents were murdered.  We don’t yet know by whom, or why.  I assume your father didn’t tell you what he was doing?”

“Other than going on a well-earned, his words, holiday with my mother, no.”

“I assume you don’t normally stay in this house.”

“Not normally, but I have for the past three and a half months while they were away.  I sometimes house-sit for them.  My father told me that when he got back, we would talk about the future.  I guess that’s impossible now.”

“Didn’t leave anything to read in case of his untimely demise?”

The girl was asking a lot of questions for someone who was supposed to be a bodyguard.  Was she more than that, like another fixer for the same organisation my father now appeared to work for?

“No.”

“Anything at all?”

I decided then and there I was not going to tell this person anything, especially about the note.  “Nothing.  Had the police not come to inform me, they would still be travelling in Europe somewhere, blissfully unaware, a state I’m beginning to wonder may never return.

“Mind if I have a look around, see how secure the place is?”

“Sure.  If you’re staying, there’s a choice of three rooms on the left side of the corridor.  Mine is on the right.”

The notion that I could be in danger seemed to me to be a little over the top.  I had no contact with my father over anything concerning his business.  In fact, I knew very little about his business, being told back then, that he was independently wealthy, whatever that meant, and was free to pick whatever projects he felt like doing.

He was also a diplomat, because we spent time in various countries all over Europe, mostly, and several in Africa because of his fascination with the old British colonies in Tanzania, Uganda, what was once Rhodesia, Nigeria and a few others.  Those appointments were hard on our mother, and I suspect, contributed to her early death.

After that, she often complained about recurring bouts of ‘jungle sickness’, though later I suspected had a lot to do with an alcohol problem.

I had been spending a lot of time in the study/library, a very large room on the ground floor that backed onto the rear garden, with a large veranda with windows floor to ceiling.  The library consisted of thousands of books on every aspect of the British Commonwealth, from when it was East India Company, through the British Empire, to a token amalgamation of sometimes hostile countries.

My father had been working on a book, and he had left notes, exercise books filled with scribbling, scrapbooks with newspaper clippings, some about himself, a ream of typewritten chapters of which some read like a memoir, others like the ramblings of a lecturer.

It was a project, now that he was gone, that I was considering taking up and finishing, perhaps as his legacy.

Oddly, there was not one word of any extracurricular activities, the sort of stuff that would fill a spy novel.

I was just reading a chapter on Uganda, Idi Amin, and a proposal to Princess Anne when I heard a loud bang.  Then another, closer to the study, coming from what I thought was outside the front of the house.

Cautiously I approached the door and peered out.

I could see Genevieve, gun in hand, sweeping for … what?

“Stay in the study,” she said.

I heard her go out the front door and close it behind her.

Five minutes, there were several more gunshots, then silence.

A minute later the front door opened, and I heard what sounded like someone falling on the floor.  I went out, then to the front of the house where, inside the door, there was what looked like a man lying still on the floor, blood stains beside it.

A few seconds after that Genevieve came in and closed the door.  “We have a problem.”  She had a phone to her ear, waiting.  Then, “Send the cleaners.  They sent two assassins, got the Professor, and I got them.  The Professor needs medical help as soon as possible.”

That was the extent of the call.  She looked at me.  “You got a medical kit,”

“Yes.”  I went back to the study and got what was a briefcase with a red cross on it.  It was more sophisticated than the usual medical kit a house would have.  It was more suited to a doctor’s surgery.

I brought it to her.  She had the man lying on his back, and I could see who it was.

The man at the funeral who gave me the yellow envelope.

…

© Charles Heath 2023

…

It was a cold, overcast, wet day.  Everywhere was wet from the last downpour, which made it difficult to take the shortcut across the grass in the park.  More rain was imminent.

I was, as usual, running late for the appointment, having not factored in train cancellations and unseasonal weather.

It was not far from where I entered the park, and I could see the bench was empty, which meant my contact was also running late.  Perhaps I might be saved a bollocking today.

For the last forty yards, the direct line of sight to the bench would be lost for a short time, and when I finally got it back in sight, someone was sitting on it, and it definitely was not the person I was meeting. It looked like a young girl, a university student, or a clerk.  Definitely not the usual contact. Not any more.

Protocol said that if there was a stranger at the meeting place, we were to walk away and reschedule.  I was not one for following the rules.

When on the final few yards, I felt my cell phone vibrate and pulled it out.  A message.  “Substituted contact with replacement given a very tight timeline.  She will brief you, her name is Heather Knowles, and the codeword for authentication is 1 spark.  The mission starts at the end of the briefing.  Play nice.”

I had no idea the department was recruiting so young, or perhaps I was used to working with many older people.

I sat down at the other end of the bench and could feel rather than see her looking at me.  I turned to look at her, a serious expression on her face.  No humour today, then.

“Heather?”

“Are you the bright spark?”

“Twenty years ago, maybe, but not today.”   She made it sound like an intended, thinly disguised insult.

“Let’s walk.”  She stood and inclined her head in the direction we would be going. 

I wondered if she had the same thought I did, a man walking in the park with a girl half his age.  It was odd that Charmaine, my usual handler, would make a meeting such as this look so out of place.  Perhaps she thought it might look like a father-daughter meeting.

“Charmaine told me you were one of her best operatives.”

Start with a compliment, that meant something a whole lot worse than I could imagine was about to happen.

“One of many, I wouldn’t say one of the best.  Not after the last operation.  Just to warn you, this call-up was unexpected.  My last mission went south, and I wasn’t expecting a recall so soon.”

Everything would have been fine if we had not been subject to on-the-spot oversight in the name of transparency, a new initiative by what we used to call ‘the powers that be’.  The person I was assigned to protect had been betrayed and had been killed, and I nearly died in the escape.  The sole survivor, just, I’d spent a month in the hospital and another three recuperating.

“As you are all too well aware, situations develop quickly, sometimes too quickly.  We have been given a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, if the intel is correct, and we have no reason to believe it isn’t.  You are along for the ride because of your expert knowledge, but just a heads up, you are also being assessed for ongoing participation or retirement.

“You the assessor?”

“Me, no.  I’m relatively new, and this will be my first major operation.  Charmaine tells me that having you along will teach me very valuable lessons.”

As I assumed, babysitting.  Every now and then a senior officer was allotted a new recruit and told not to get him or her killed.  I’d managed to dodge that bullet, but not any more.  I just hoped it was something easy.  I remembered my first operation.  No one to guide me, just a jump into the deep end and you either sank or swum.  I shrugged.  “The message said the operation starts at the end of whatever this is.  What is it?”

“Let’s find a Cafe.  I could do with a coffee.”

“I read up on your case file notes for the last operation, that one where Jackson got the drop on all of us.  Crosschecked with other Intel, it seems that you were deliberately set up to fail.  Of course, while the evidence points to one particular person, we have no proof, and, of course, that person can find any number of excuses to dodge responsibility.  I’m sure you think you know who it is too.”

“I have one or two candidates in mind.”

She smiled when the waitress came over with the coffee and a small banoffee pie.  She’s offered to get me one, but my taste, boring as it was, ran to apple pies which they didn’t have.  Then, after she had gone, and Heather had tasted the coffee, she turned her attention back to me.

“The operation has two objectives, to draw out the mole, we’ve decided to call this person a mole, and to surprise Jackson in a place where he thinks he is totally safe.  Yes, a bold move on a slippery son-of-a-bitch, but this time, he’s not going to get away.”

Young and naive, I thought.  Jackson was always a slippery customer, and always when we just about had him on the hook.  Going back into the fray, up against him, the man with a thousand eyes and ears everywhere, so soon, was a little daunting.  And he would be expecting us.

“Few have tried, many have failed, myself included.  My specialist knowledge will only be how to escape alive when he turns the tables on us, yet again.”

She smiled.  “Oh, ye of little faith.  I come from a new generation of agents, we’re meaner, sneakier, and for this mission at least, we can shoot first and ask questions later.”

“Oversight?”

“Yes, well, he’s in for a treat, isn’t he when he finds out, well after the clock has struck twelve.  We’re going old school, and involving the need-to-know principle, and oversight just doesn’t need to know.”

“He’ll find out.  Everyone is a snitch looking for a favour these days.  Our service is looking more and more like the Stasi.”

Another of her winning smiles.  “All those who need to know, know, now.  That’s three.  The boss isn’t going to tell anyone, I’m certainly not, and I doubt you share anything with anyone.  What does the G, middle name, represent?”

“Need to know, and you don’t.  When is this operation taking place?”

“Tonight.  You have about 6 hours to fortify the nerves, and then there will be a briefing.  There are three others who will be along for the ride also, and I think you will approve.  Now, I’m afraid I can’t let you out of my sight until then, so tell me what you’d like to do.”

I had a suggestion, but I kept it to myself.  If she didn’t trust me, she should say so, but it didn’t bother me.  I had a trusty book of cryptic crosswords and an addiction to coffee.  Maybe I might even ask her to tell me more about herself.”

Six hours passed quickly, and when the time came, we were picked up in a plain white van and taken to a disused factory.  It seemed an odd place to have a team briefing.  But she was right about the support team.  They were well-known to me and were the best extraction team the department had.

The fact that we were using an extraction team told me the mission was going to be difficult if not very dangerous.  Anything regarding Jackson was.

“The plan is simple, Jake, your team covers the exits.  There are three.  We’re not stepping on eggshells this time. Just shoot anything that moves.  Given the location, there will not be any innocent bystanders to worry about.  Ken and I will go in and take the targets.  Once secure, we bring them back here for interrogation.  We all have a reason to bring Jackson down, but remember, we need him, and the person he’s meeting is alive.”

“Where is this happening?” I asked.

“Patience.  N9 one has a cell phone on them if you have to leave it behind.  No one is on their own until the op starts. It’s not a lack of trust, it’s keeping it all under wraps until we strike, every other time he’s seen us coming.  Not this time.  Let’s go.  I’m driving.”

I got it.  This was so secret, no one was supposed to know before we got there.  Charmaine must have thought long and hard about how every other operation had been compromised and brought it a fresh face to run it. What did bother me was the ‘we all have a reason to bring Jackson down…”

I guessed soon find out.

As darkness fell, we drove out of the city and towards the hills that surrounded the city, and it looked like we were heading to the haven of the rich, a community of cabins nestled in the woods, each with privacy, and security guards that kept it so.  I had been there once before to pay Jackson a visit and didn’t get past first base.  This was going to get interesting.

An hour later, very dark, very quiet, we were half a mile from the gatehouse on the one road in or out.  The van was parked, we changed into dark coveralls and black beanies, took two guns and spare ammo, and finally put in the comms devices.  Heather then gave the extraction team each a device.  “You can now see where the security guards are.  These guys are mercenaries, so don’t treat them with kid gloves.  We don’t need any of them interrupting the part.  Ken, let us know when you out have the gatehouse.”

Seconds later we were alone, the others disappearing into the forest.  The darkness was almost complete, any moonlight blocked out by the trees.  Heather also had a device and switched it on.  Immediately, eight blips came up on the screen, evenly spaced over what looked like a wide area.  The guards on patrol.

A crooked line came up also, with a different blip, what I thought must be us, and a path to the cabin where our targets were.  She pushed a button, and another blip appeared.  “The traitor,” was all she said before she headed into the forest. 

Over the next fifteen minutes, Ken reported the gatehouse was secure, and six of the eight blips disappeared from the screen.  I didn’t ask what that meant.

Then we came out of the forest into a clearing that had a cabin, with two cars parked out front.  “There are two personal guards for Jackson, one inside, one out.”

A quick scan located the outside guard over by the cars having a cigarette.  Obviously, they did not think that anyone was going to bother their boss tonight. Wrong. By the time he realised there was going to be trouble, he was down, trussed, and silenced.

“You take the back, I’ll go in the front.  Let me know when you’re ready to go in.”

Five minutes.  As I was about to step onto the porch, the other guard came out, totally unprepared, and I took him down, quickly and quietly the moment he stepped off the porch, and in the process of lighting a cigarette.  Smoking kills was very apt.

I told her I was ready.

“Now.”

We stepped into the cabin at the same time.  Jackson had a gun, but Heather shot it out of his hand before he could use it.  The other man, the traitor, was exactly who I thought it was.

He glared at me, then switched to Heather, the surprise turning to shock.

“Heather.”

“Hello, Daddy, fancy meeting you here.”

…

© Charles Heath  2023

…

It was a cold, overcast, wet day.  Everywhere was wet from the last downpour, which made it difficult to take the shortcut across the grass in the park.  More rain was imminent.

I was, as usual, running late for the appointment, having not factored in train cancellations and unseasonal weather.

It was not far from where I entered the park, and I could see the bench was empty, which meant my contact was also running late.  Perhaps I might be saved a bollocking today.

For the last forty yards, the direct line of sight to the bench would be lost for a short time, and when I finally got it back in sight, someone was sitting on it, and it definitely was not the person I was meeting. It looked like a young girl, a university student, or a clerk.  Definitely not the usual contact. Not any more.

Protocol said that if there was a stranger at the meeting place, we were to walk away and reschedule.  I was not one for following the rules.

When on the final few yards, I felt my cell phone vibrate and pulled it out.  A message.  “Substituted contact with replacement given a very tight timeline.  She will brief you, her name is Heather Knowles, and the codeword for authentication is 1 spark.  The mission starts at the end of the briefing.  Play nice.”

I had no idea the department was recruiting so young, or perhaps I was used to working with many older people.

I sat down at the other end of the bench and could feel rather than see her looking at me.  I turned to look at her, a serious expression on her face.  No humour today, then.

“Heather?”

“Are you the bright spark?”

“Twenty years ago, maybe, but not today.”   She made it sound like an intended, thinly disguised insult.

“Let’s walk.”  She stood and inclined her head in the direction we would be going. 

I wondered if she had the same thought I did, a man walking in the park with a girl half his age.  It was odd that Charmaine, my usual handler, would make a meeting such as this look so out of place.  Perhaps she thought it might look like a father-daughter meeting.

“Charmaine told me you were one of her best operatives.”

Start with a compliment, that meant something a whole lot worse than I could imagine was about to happen.

“One of many, I wouldn’t say one of the best.  Not after the last operation.  Just to warn you, this call-up was unexpected.  My last mission went south, and I wasn’t expecting a recall so soon.”

Everything would have been fine if we had not been subject to on-the-spot oversight in the name of transparency, a new initiative by what we used to call ‘the powers that be’.  The person I was assigned to protect had been betrayed and had been killed, and I nearly died in the escape.  The sole survivor, just, I’d spent a month in the hospital and another three recuperating.

“As you are all too well aware, situations develop quickly, sometimes too quickly.  We have been given a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, if the intel is correct, and we have no reason to believe it isn’t.  You are along for the ride because of your expert knowledge, but just a heads up, you are also being assessed for ongoing participation or retirement.

“You the assessor?”

“Me, no.  I’m relatively new, and this will be my first major operation.  Charmaine tells me that having you along will teach me very valuable lessons.”

As I assumed, babysitting.  Every now and then a senior officer was allotted a new recruit and told not to get him or her killed.  I’d managed to dodge that bullet, but not any more.  I just hoped it was something easy.  I remembered my first operation.  No one to guide me, just a jump into the deep end and you either sank or swum.  I shrugged.  “The message said the operation starts at the end of whatever this is.  What is it?”

“Let’s find a Cafe.  I could do with a coffee.”

“I read up on your case file notes for the last operation, that one where Jackson got the drop on all of us.  Crosschecked with other Intel, it seems that you were deliberately set up to fail.  Of course, while the evidence points to one particular person, we have no proof, and, of course, that person can find any number of excuses to dodge responsibility.  I’m sure you think you know who it is too.”

“I have one or two candidates in mind.”

She smiled when the waitress came over with the coffee and a small banoffee pie.  She’s offered to get me one, but my taste, boring as it was, ran to apple pies which they didn’t have.  Then, after she had gone, and Heather had tasted the coffee, she turned her attention back to me.

“The operation has two objectives, to draw out the mole, we’ve decided to call this person a mole, and to surprise Jackson in a place where he thinks he is totally safe.  Yes, a bold move on a slippery son-of-a-bitch, but this time, he’s not going to get away.”

Young and naive, I thought.  Jackson was always a slippery customer, and always when we just about had him on the hook.  Going back into the fray, up against him, the man with a thousand eyes and ears everywhere, so soon, was a little daunting.  And he would be expecting us.

“Few have tried, many have failed, myself included.  My specialist knowledge will only be how to escape alive when he turns the tables on us, yet again.”

She smiled.  “Oh, ye of little faith.  I come from a new generation of agents, we’re meaner, sneakier, and for this mission at least, we can shoot first and ask questions later.”

“Oversight?”

“Yes, well, he’s in for a treat, isn’t he when he finds out, well after the clock has struck twelve.  We’re going old school, and involving the need-to-know principle, and oversight just doesn’t need to know.”

“He’ll find out.  Everyone is a snitch looking for a favour these days.  Our service is looking more and more like the Stasi.”

Another of her winning smiles.  “All those who need to know, know, now.  That’s three.  The boss isn’t going to tell anyone, I’m certainly not, and I doubt you share anything with anyone.  What does the G, middle name, represent?”

“Need to know, and you don’t.  When is this operation taking place?”

“Tonight.  You have about 6 hours to fortify the nerves, and then there will be a briefing.  There are three others who will be along for the ride also, and I think you will approve.  Now, I’m afraid I can’t let you out of my sight until then, so tell me what you’d like to do.”

I had a suggestion, but I kept it to myself.  If she didn’t trust me, she should say so, but it didn’t bother me.  I had a trusty book of cryptic crosswords and an addiction to coffee.  Maybe I might even ask her to tell me more about herself.”

Six hours passed quickly, and when the time came, we were picked up in a plain white van and taken to a disused factory.  It seemed an odd place to have a team briefing.  But she was right about the support team.  They were well-known to me and were the best extraction team the department had.

The fact that we were using an extraction team told me the mission was going to be difficult if not very dangerous.  Anything regarding Jackson was.

“The plan is simple, Jake, your team covers the exits.  There are three.  We’re not stepping on eggshells this time. Just shoot anything that moves.  Given the location, there will not be any innocent bystanders to worry about.  Ken and I will go in and take the targets.  Once secure, we bring them back here for interrogation.  We all have a reason to bring Jackson down, but remember, we need him, and the person he’s meeting is alive.”

“Where is this happening?” I asked.

“Patience.  N9 one has a cell phone on them if you have to leave it behind.  No one is on their own until the op starts. It’s not a lack of trust, it’s keeping it all under wraps until we strike, every other time he’s seen us coming.  Not this time.  Let’s go.  I’m driving.”

I got it.  This was so secret, no one was supposed to know before we got there.  Charmaine must have thought long and hard about how every other operation had been compromised and brought it a fresh face to run it. What did bother me was the ‘we all have a reason to bring Jackson down…”

I guessed soon find out.

As darkness fell, we drove out of the city and towards the hills that surrounded the city, and it looked like we were heading to the haven of the rich, a community of cabins nestled in the woods, each with privacy, and security guards that kept it so.  I had been there once before to pay Jackson a visit and didn’t get past first base.  This was going to get interesting.

An hour later, very dark, very quiet, we were half a mile from the gatehouse on the one road in or out.  The van was parked, we changed into dark coveralls and black beanies, took two guns and spare ammo, and finally put in the comms devices.  Heather then gave the extraction team each a device.  “You can now see where the security guards are.  These guys are mercenaries, so don’t treat them with kid gloves.  We don’t need any of them interrupting the part.  Ken, let us know when you out have the gatehouse.”

Seconds later we were alone, the others disappearing into the forest.  The darkness was almost complete, any moonlight blocked out by the trees.  Heather also had a device and switched it on.  Immediately, eight blips came up on the screen, evenly spaced over what looked like a wide area.  The guards on patrol.

A crooked line came up also, with a different blip, what I thought must be us, and a path to the cabin where our targets were.  She pushed a button, and another blip appeared.  “The traitor,” was all she said before she headed into the forest. 

Over the next fifteen minutes, Ken reported the gatehouse was secure, and six of the eight blips disappeared from the screen.  I didn’t ask what that meant.

Then we came out of the forest into a clearing that had a cabin, with two cars parked out front.  “There are two personal guards for Jackson, one inside, one out.”

A quick scan located the outside guard over by the cars having a cigarette.  Obviously, they did not think that anyone was going to bother their boss tonight. Wrong. By the time he realised there was going to be trouble, he was down, trussed, and silenced.

“You take the back, I’ll go in the front.  Let me know when you’re ready to go in.”

Five minutes.  As I was about to step onto the porch, the other guard came out, totally unprepared, and I took him down, quickly and quietly the moment he stepped off the porch, and in the process of lighting a cigarette.  Smoking kills was very apt.

I told her I was ready.

“Now.”

We stepped into the cabin at the same time.  Jackson had a gun, but Heather shot it out of his hand before he could use it.  The other man, the traitor, was exactly who I thought it was.

He glared at me, then switched to Heather, the surprise turning to shock.

“Heather.”

“Hello, Daddy, fancy meeting you here.”

…

© Charles Heath  2023