Red Mist

by Angus McLean

  Shifting from being a Staff Sergeant in the SAS to a trainee intelligence officer in the Security Intelligence Service had been a huge jump, and he’d almost thrown it all in during his first year in Wellington. Crap pay, back at the bottom of the pole again, and he’d wondered what the hell he’d done. A phone call to his old Regimental Sergeant Major at Papakura had led to a conversation with the Deputy Director (Intelligence) of the SIS.

  He wasn’t like the other trainees, he explained. He wasn’t a spotty computer nerd, he wasn’t a razor-sharp lawyer and he was certainly no Walter Mitty. He’d been around. He’d been at the coalface using the intelligence supplied by the spooks; he knew the value of getting it right.

  It transpired that the Deputy completely agreed and had moved him six months later to a posting in the Philippines, then to Singapore and ultimately to the plum job in London. His role was 95% standard intelligence officer, 5% fixer. It meant he got the occasional opportunity to utilise his old skills, so he didn’t feel completely removed from that world.

  Moore took the lift to the sixth floor with a foot long sub in his hand and best intentions of catching up on some work for the afternoon. Although he’d heard there was a new girl downstairs in Immigration who was both a gymnast and a stunner, so he may need to pop down there later on to say hello.

  Moore sidled past McGregor’s office, seeing he was on the phone with his head down, and ducked through the next doorway into his own broom cupboard office without being spotted.

  He shut the door, opened his lunch and tucked in ravenously. Chicken teriyaki on wheat with sweet onion and everything but olives, washed down with water.

  As he got older Moore was conscious of his sugar intake, so the water was his concession. He ate half the sub before quickly scanning the BBC news online then opening up his emails to catch up on new intel reports. He was still working through the list when his door opened and McGregor appeared. He paused in the doorway and looked down his nose at Moore.

  ‘Hard at work, I see,’ he said, sneering at the half eaten sub on Moore’s desk. ‘No surprise there.’

  Moore ignored the jibe and took a sip of water.

  ‘So where’ve you been swanning around all morning, Robert?’ McGregor rocked on his heels and lifted his nose even further in the air. He knew it irritated Moore to be called by his full first name.

  ‘I’m working on something for the Director,’ Moore said easily, picking up his sub. It was a complete lie, of course, but McGregor could never prove it-he didn’t have the balls to check with the Director himself.

  Moore took a bite and chewed slowly as he looked steadily at the man before him. He could tell it annoyed McGregor, so as soon as he finished he took another bite. The sweet onion sauce really made it.

  ‘Well?’ McGregor prompted, rolling his hand as if to hurry him up.

  Moore shrugged and pointed at his mouth while he took his time. He washed the mouthful down with a draft of water and licked his lips.

  ‘Well what?’ he said.

  McGregor’s lips pursed. ‘Well what are you working on? “Something for the Director” tells me nothing.’

  Moore shrugged and allowed himself a small smile. ‘Well I guess that’s what I’m telling you, then. It’s a job that the Director has given me. I don’t think I have authority to disclose the details to you at this stage.’ He gave McGregor a smug look. ‘Sorry, I guess you don’t have the clearance.’

  McGregor’s face went paler than normal, and his eyes became pinpricks. ‘Don’t try and play bloody games with me, Robert. You can sit there as smug as you like, but let’s not forget who pulls the strings around here.’ He looked Moore up and down with disdain. ‘And it’s not some washed up grunt masquerading as James fucking Bond.’

  With that he turned and stalked out.

  Moore picked up his sub and lined up the next bite. ‘Say hi to your wife for me,’ he muttered. The sub was still good but somehow the interaction with McGregor had left a sour taste in his mouth. Everything about the man irritated him, but he couldn’t pretend to himself it was just that.

  In truth he was more irritated with himself than the man whose wife he was bedding. He’d tipped over into his forties and it didn’t please him. He liked his job and he loved London, but in the last couple of months he’d slipped into a funk that he neither recognised or liked, or could see a way out of. With it had come a growing pattern of risky behaviour.

  He was rarely home with deliberately working longer hours, he was pushing himself harder in his physical training, and he was drinking more. There’d been a fight outside a pub a few weeks back, something he never normally did-a lippy young lager lout had exchanged words with him and it ended up with blood on the footpath and Moore’s semi-conscious opponent being dragged away by his mates.

  Moore had gone before the Police arrived and nothing further had come of it, but he was acutely aware that he had been acting out of character.

  The affair with Michelle was something else. It had started two months ago after a function at the High Commission, a drunken screw in an empty office that he had immediately regretted, but it had quickly became a regular occurrence with clandestine meetings in cheap motels and B&Bs.

  Never the same place twice and always paid in cash under an assumed name.

  He even used an untraceable burn phone to keep in contact with her, and never text her. But no matter how careful he was, the spectre of exposure loomed over him like an impending storm.

  He was still brooding when his landline buzzed.

  The voice at the other end was blunt and familiar. Jed Ingoe, the Operations Officer for The Division and a former Regimental Sergeant Major of the SAS. Widely known as Jedi, he had lost a leg in an IED explosion in Afghanistan and took medical retirement, immediately being recruited to help run The Division.

  ‘I suppose it’s lunchtime in London town,’ Jedi said without preamble. ‘I’m surprised you’re not down the pub with a curry and a pint, networking.’

  Moore chuckled. ‘Things’ve changed since your heyday, Jedi,’ he said, ‘it’s all lunchtime runs and motivational books now.’

  Jedi made a scoffing sound. ‘Sounds inspiring,’ he said. ‘I know you’ve got nothing major on at the moment Rob, which is good; I’ve got a job for you.’

  Moore gripped the phone tighter and leaned forward in his chair. Jedi usually tasked him via email, only ever ringing if it was a sensitive job. ‘We’re encrypted, then?’

  ‘We are,’ Jedi replied. ‘Don’t worry, this won’t take long.’

  Moore’s heart sank; he’d been hoping for something juicy, something to get his teeth into and drag himself out of this funk.

  ‘The Minister of Foreign Affairs is currently over there, as you know. He’s doing some networking before heading over to Greece for the Battle of Crete commemorations in a week or so. His daughter Natalie lives in Surrey, and he’s supposed to be catching up with her while he’s there. It appears she has gone missing in Turkey while on a trip there.’

  Moore raised an eyebrow to himself. Turkey was a hotbed right now, with the Russians bombing neighbouring Syria, the resulting refugee crisis and increased political and radical unrest in Turkey itself. Intelligence reports were coming in thick and fast and Kiwi travellers had been warned to steer clear for the time being. It surprised him that a Cabinet Minister’s daughter had been silly enough to travel there.

  ‘So it’s a lost and found mission,’ he said with more of an edge than he’d intended.

  ‘More or less,’ Jedi said. ‘It’s not your normal job, I grant you that, but he’s a pretty influential figure and the request has come from the top, so that’s what we’ll do.’

  By “from the top” Moore wasn’t sure whether Jedi was referring to the Director of the Security Intelligence Service or the Prime Minister. Ultimately it didn’t matter, given their respective positions, but he always liked to know who he was actually working for.

  Jedi gave him an address, a country h
otel in the Guildford borough down in Surrey. Moore noted it down and listened while Jedi gave him some brief instructions. Apparently the Minister would make time to see him tomorrow at 10am, which suited Moore. It amused him, though, that he was expected to be available at that time. The Minister wanted, so the Minister got. Paul Oldham was a mover and shaker in politics, with clear aspirations of getting the top job. As far as Moore could recall, he was about number three or four in Cabinet.

  ‘No problem, Sarn’t Major,’ he said. ‘I’ll be there.’

  Jedi chuckled down the line. ‘Good man. I suppose you’ll be ditching the company car and taking that little rocket of yours for a spin?’

  Moore smiled to himself. He had taken Ingoe for a spin in his Jag last time the boss had been over, and the old warrior had vowed to never drive with him again.

  ‘Of course,’ he replied. ‘I’ll be sure to claim for my miles, don’t worry.’

  ‘Just be aware too, that our friends at Millbank are aware.’

  He was referring to the Security Service, known as MI5.

  ‘How?’

  ‘We briefed them. The Minister’s on their patch, and it could be relevant. They’re keeping an ear out for us, and I’ve asked them for papers for you. You’ll be going to Istanbul, and I’d rather you travelled as a Brit than a Kiwi.’

  Moore raised an eyebrow to himself. ‘Something I’m missing, Jedi?’

  ‘Not at all. Just being cautious is all. Slowly slowly, catchy monkey. One of theirs will be in touch, I expect.’

  Moore said nothing. It was unusual that they would ask for assistance from another service like that, when he had multiple identities himself under various nationalities. He trusted Jedi’s judgement though, so said nothing.

  ‘Haven’t heard from Archer for a while,’ he said, referring to one of the other members of The Division, ‘is he on anything good at the moment?’

  ‘He’s still around town,’ Jedi answered vaguely. ‘Anyway, I don’t have time to chat. Things to do.’

  ‘Same,’ Moore grinned, ‘I’m flat out.’

  Jedi snorted again, bade him farewell and rang off.

  Moore sat back and made a steeple of his fingers as he considered the information he’d just been given. It wasn’t the most exciting job, but at least it would get him out of the office. Any chance to travel was good.

  He glanced out the window at the city beyond. It was constantly moving, a real living and breathing beast, and every time he looked out that window he still got a buzz. So much happening, so many opportunities.

  He tore himself away and turned back to his computer. He decided he better do some background work on the Minister’s daughter.

  At least his lie to McGregor was now covered.

  ENDS

  Message from the Author

  Thanks for taking the time to read my book. I hope you enjoyed it, this is the first in the Chase Investigations series. I’ll be returning soon-check out the sneak peek below. Please take the time to leave me a review at your favourite retailer.

  If you’d like to know about new releases and receive a free book, sign up to my Hitlist.

  Cheers,

  Angus McLean

  About the Author

  Angus McLean is a South Auckland Police officer.

  His experience as a cop and a private investigator give his writing a touch of realism. He believes reading should be escapist entertainment and is inspired by the TV shows he watched as a youngster.

  His real identity remains a secret.

  http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B00LQH8VXE

  Twitter: @AngusMcLeanKiwi

  Facebook: Writer Angus McLean Sign up here to my Hitlist, to get free books and advance excerpts, plus competitions and other cool stuff!

  Discover My Other Titles

  Chase Investigations series:

  Old Friends

  Honey Trap

  Sleeping Dogs

  Tangled Webs

  Dirty Deeds

  The Division series:

  Smoke and Mirrors

  Call to Arms

  The Shadow Dancers

  The Service Series:

  The Service: Warlock

  Nicki Cooper Mystery Series (writing as Gemma Russell):

  The Country Club Caper

  ***

  Bonus Chapters

  Chase Investigations#1

  Old Friends

  Chapter One

  The depot was quiet and still at 1am on a Monday, a light breeze flicking the odd leaf or piece of rubbish across the forecourt where the trucks came in and turned round to be loaded.

  A row of semis lined one side of the compound, big and dark and empty, all emblazoned with Marcus Haulage markings. A security light flickered weakly and cast only a slight glow through the darkness. The chain link fence rattled and the gate squeaked as it was pushed open.

  The man at the gate checked his watch nervously for the fourth time in as many minutes. He shivered even though it wasn’t cold.

  An engine could be heard and a second later bright headlights swept round the corner into the street and approached the end of the cul-de-sac where the man waited on the footpath by the open gate. It was an industrial area populated by trade centres and auto businesses and nobody was around at this time of night.

  The lights blinded him as the truck swung easily through the gate and entered the depot, making a wide half circle before smoothly backing up to the loading bay. This wasn’t a semi-truck like the ones parked up in a row at the side of the depot, but a smaller delivery truck with no markings. The man shut the gates and looped the chain through without locking it. He hurried over to the truck and met the driver and his passenger as they jumped down.

  ‘Good work,’ the driver told him with a smirk, ‘let’s get to it.’

  He was a burly man with greasy hair showing under his cap. He had the strong forearms built from years of guiding 18-wheelers down the highways and the red nose of a hardened drinker. His companion was of a similar build but taller, with tattoos discolouring his own forearms. He also had a spider’s web tattooed on the left side of his neck and several tear drops inked into the skin by his right eye. He was harder looking than the driver and didn’t speak.

  ‘Hurry,’ the man who’d opened the gate said, checking his watch again, and the driver sneered at him with contempt.

  ‘Just open up, fella,’ he replied, hitching his jeans up, ‘let us do our job.’

  The first man unlocked the door beside the loading bay then lifted the roller door. He stood and watched as the other two men entered the warehouse, turned a couple of lights on and got to work. Within twenty minutes they had loaded the back of the truck with several pallets of boxes, replaced the forklift, turned out the lights and locked up again. It was a smooth, efficient operation, done with minimal fuss.

  The driver and his companion climbed back into the truck and the nervous man went to the gate to let them out. The truck paused in the gateway and the driver wound down the window, leaning casually out.

  ‘Cheers buddy,’ he smirked, ‘see ya next time. We’ll be in touch, aye?’

  The passenger stared at the nervous man with a blank expression, and the nervous man nodded glumly.

  ‘Okay, okay,’ he replied, ‘just go. Just go.’

  The driver laughed and the truck moved away up the road. The nervous man wiped his brow on the sleeve of his jacket, locked the gate again and hurried away into the darkness.

  Silence returned to the depot.

  Chapter Two

  The lady sitting on the red fabric sofa in the corner of the office was well dressed and smelt of expensive perfume. She appeared uncomfortable, as if she were waiting for the dentist or a mammogram. She was middle aged and had perfectly styled hair and flawless make up.

  The man sitting on the matching chair at right angles to her was twenty years younger, with broad shoulders and a confident air about him. He had dark eyes and dark hair with a hint of grey at the temples, a fu
ll moustache, and was dressed in casual chinos and an open necked shirt.

  He looked up from the notes he’d made on the pad on his knee and smiled at her. It was a calm reassuring smile, and it eased her discomfort a degree or two. He had a direct gaze and intelligent eyes, the sort of face that was more interesting than handsome. A faint scar showed at his chin, a patch where no stubble could grow.

  ‘Okay Mrs MacNamara,’ he said, ‘is there anything else you can tell me that may help? Any particular routine that your husband follows that may help me narrow it down a bit?’

  She thought for a moment.

  ‘He plays squash every Monday and Thursday night right after work. He always starts work by seven and usually gets home about six.’ She frowned. ‘That’s it I’m afraid. I can’t think of anything else.’

  ‘No problem.’ He jotted it down, got the name of the squash club from her, and smiled again. ‘That’s it, Mrs MacNamara. We’ll get onto it right away, and give you an update as soon as we know anything, okay?’

  ‘How long will it take?’ she asked, and for the first time her voice quavered. She paused to re-gather herself before continuing. ‘I mean, will I hear from you this week?’

  ‘It really depends on what your husband does and what we find, Mrs MacNamara.’

  He stood and she followed suit, allowing herself to be ushered over to the desk by the door. ‘We’ll be in touch as soon as we can, hopefully in the next few days.’

  She nodded and he gave her that reassuring smile again.

  ‘If you can give your deposit to Molly I’ll quickly print off a contract for you.’

  He moved to the second desk in the office, which faced the first one across the floor space. Mrs MacNamara turned to the woman at the first desk-Molly-and passed her a gold Visa.

  Molly took it and used it to take an electronic deposit of ten hours work. She was a striking woman of classical beauty, with wavy dark hair and sparkling, friendly green eyes. She had full red lips and wore little make up-mainly because she didn’t need to. She had the sort of look that defied pigeonholing. She could pass for a European or a country girl, depending on what she wore. Today she wore a simple black skirt and silver blouse, elegant and understated.