Act of Vengeance

by Michael Jecks

  Act of Vengeance

  Michael Jecks

  © Michael Jecks 2016

  Michael Jecks has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published 2016 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  This edition published 2018 by Sharpe Books.

  Table of Contents

  Tuesday 13th September

  Wednesday 14th September

  Thursday 15th September

  Friday 16th September

  Saturday 17th September

  Sunday 18th September

  Monday 19th September

  Tuesday 20th September

  Wednesday 21st September

  Thursday 22nd September

  Friday 23rd September

  Saturday 24th September

  Sunday 25th September

  Monday 26th September

  Tuesday 27th September

  Acknowledgements

  Tuesday 13th September

  00.26 Whittier, Alaska; 09.26 London

  Danny Lewin knew this nightmare only too well.

  In the beginning he had feared it. He had dreaded closing his eyes because of the horror that he knew would immediately assault his mind. In those early days he had kept himself awake to avoid it, drinking heavily, until the day he found himself in a friend’s sitting room, naked, shivering, sobbing, and incapable of clothing himself. His mate stood back and stared, uncomprehending and incapable of helping.

  That sense of utter desperation, the complete futility of his wretchedness, which was so near to madness, bludgeoned him into submission. Eventually he agreed to visit the hospital again and, a while later, he started taking the little blue pills. The military psychiatrist told him they would give him peaceful, dreamless sleep, but now even their protection had eroded, and the dream returned to him every night. It was so familiar, he almost welcomed it. There was no need to avoid it: it was a small reminder of his humanity. It proved he still had a soul. That he was not completely lost.

  *

  It began.

  At first, all was black. He could believe himself dreamlessly comfortable – but then the darkness faded, and he could see that the darkness all about him was a vast, gaping mouth, as broad as all sorrow, as deep as all pain, a bottomless pit of grief. And then he was moving backwards, out of it, until it took form: Edvard Munch’s The Scream. Except as his view panned back, it gradually transformed. The eye-pits deepened, until the chalky face became a mask, and in those eye-holes were real eyes, terrified, anguished eyes, the eyes of the men he had helped to break. Those who had suffered the regime of fear up harsh. He could smell their terror. He could see their urine-stained trousers, their chafed wrists and ankles, the sudden eruption of bloody froth from their beaten mouths as the electrodes flashed, and the agonised strain of their bodies as water poured onto the cloths over their heads and they began to drown.

  And Munch’s hideous, primal scream became his own, Danny Lewin’s, for all the pain, terror, anguish he had inflicted, and Lewin dreamed he saw himself in a mirror, seeing not his own face, but the mask of The Scream and, in his anguish, he began to tear at his own face to release himself from the enduring horror, until there was only blood, and then he saw his bloody hands reach out for his eyes, to pluck them out and save him from seeing any more.

  That was when he woke, screaming, to the feel of the cold steel at his throat and knew he was about to die.

  It was a relief.

  *

  06.34 George W Bush Building, Langley, Virginia; 11.34 England

  The George W. Bush CIA Headquarters was already beginning to fill up, even though it was early. It was never empty – through the night there were agents, analysts, electronics specialists, and a few recuperating intelligence officers from abroad who would be listening, watching, assessing data as it streamed in. Last night, Peter Amiss knew there had been a team in the southern section of the building deep underground playing their war games. They’d been successful, too, from the whoops of glee he’d heard. One of their unmanned drones had hit a target with a hellfire missile.

  He turned on his computer and leaned back in his chair as the screen flickered. He detested these things – better and safer to commit data that mattered to paper and nothing else. One copy held in his safe was secure. It was the old adage: a secret shared wasn’t secret, and Peter Amiss despised computers for that very reason. When his grandson came and showed how information on his wireless computer could be sent across the world, Amiss was sickened at the thought of the myriad ways in which that data could be intercepted, stolen, copied, and disseminated.

  He was a professional. He detested insecure communications.

  Behind him, against the office wall, were two flags. Over his left shoulder was the CIA’s own banner, while at his right was the stars and stripes, a slightly worn version, which he had liberated from his office in Saigon when he was forced out to the waiting Jolly Green Giant that was to take him and the last of the agents from the compound out to the sea. He was not going to leave it behind for the gooks to piss on or burn. His love of his country was as deep and committed as his religious belief. Which was why, behind Old Glory, there stood a crucifix – simple one, the cross itself carved from cedar, the figure in some darker wood. Some reckoned that when he turned and bent his head, he was praying as much to the American flag as to the figure on the cross.

  Others reckoned he was dozing.

  He didn’t care what they thought. Peter Amiss was Deputy Director of the CIA, an appointment he had held since two months post 9/11. Before that he had been working his way to retirement, but the sudden eruption of violence in New York had saved him. Younger, more senior agents had collapsed under the strain, the previous Deputy and Director had both resigned because of the shame heaped upon the Agency for failing to prevent the attack. He had been one of those tasked with leading the Agency against this new threat. His experience from Vietnam onwards made him the natural choice, as did his contacts with senior operatives in other agencies.

  Taking a sheaf of papers from his desk, he tapped them square on the glass top, and placed them in a file. They were notes, for the most part handwritten. So much nowadays was held on the Agency’s computers in their air-conditioned suites, or over at the NSA’s buildings where their massive supercomputers sat silently consuming energy while they filtered the billions of messages that were fed into them each day. All general Agency work was computerised, and even certain details of the work that Amiss performed were sent off to be included on the main systems for archiving and even, occasionally, for analysis.

  Every so often it was good to be in this early, to keep the others on their toes. Today, though, he was in for a different reason. He was waiting for the signal.

  Knowing that others were out there doing his bidding made him want to take up smoking again. In the past he would have been out there with them – one of the shadows, a man in the darkness, his every cell alert and listening. Those were the days he had been most alive, when he was still out there in the field. He had known the thrill of the hunter – whereas now he was a puppet-master. Sitting here in his panelled office – with his desk, his flat screens and his comfortable chair – he felt pathetic. It was as though this comfortable existence was preparation for the day when he would be given the handshake from the director and a final ride from Langley.

  But not yet. He had so much still to do.

  The telephone rang. It was a muted sound, the volume turned as low as possible so it would not intrude upon his thoughts when he was busy. Picking up the receiver, he glanced around the room, at the framed photos of presidents, soldiers, agents, and one oil painting: a picture of the pyramids at Egypt – t
hat was a never-ending source of inspiration for him.

  ‘Amiss.’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘Go secure,’ Amiss said, pressing the button on his STU-III phone. It took fifteen seconds for the two government telephones to coordinate their encryption, and then he heard the slight hiss. ‘Yes?’

  ‘All done.’

  ‘Good. Any witnesses?’

  ‘No. We were careful. I’m sorry it’s taken so long to get through to you, but it seemed sensible to make sure all was secure.’

  ‘You were quite correct,’ Amiss said and replaced the handset.

  He sat there for a moment, utterly still, his palms on the desk’s glass top. It was like this at the beginning of every operation, he knew. The moment when one word could launch the project. The moment of doubt.

  No matter how long he had spent assessing risks and benefits, nor how much time had been spent viewing possible alternatives and the merits of each, it always came to this: to go ahead or to close down the operation now, before he was committed, before other men were thrown into it, some to die, many to be changed forever.

  His eyes rose to the pyramids and he felt the calmness return to him – a calmness reinforced by the knowledge that God was with him. God and his nation. The two forces he most revered.

  Taking up the handset again, he put a call through to another government building.

  ‘Mister Tullman, we are going ahead.’

  ‘May God be with us.’

  Wednesday 14th September

  09.12 Near Okehampton, Devon

  He parked the car and climbed out – a scruffy man of forty-four, square in build, with grizzled hair and a face that seemed perpetually surprised, always on the brink of a smile that somehow never quite materialised. He had the look of an amiable bear: not the cleverest man, maybe, but stolid and reliable. A good middle-manager or salesman. And instantly forgettable. Jack Case had depended on that ability to fade into a crowd for most of his life.

  The parking area was quiet here in the valley. The river foamed as it rushed down the rocky gulley, swollen after the night’s rain. Only a year ago a man crossing the ford had fallen into the river, knocked his head on a rock, and drowned. No one should treat the moors lightly – they could be deadly.

  There was another car. Empty, nothing to make it stand out, but Jack glanced at it quickly as he stepped round his own silver Vauxhall – not too new, slightly scuffed, like an old pair of shoes. It wasn’t out of place here, with the old Peugeots and Citroëns that were the popular choice among the local folk. It had a scratched bumper, a dent in the rear door, and a filthy windscreen. But there was one thing that was out of place down here. He could see a circle of dirt, maybe two inches in diameter, not far from the rear-view mirror. It made his blood run cold. He almost wrenched open his driver’s door to hurry away, but there was no point. They knew where he was. He’d known someone would come for him before long.

  Stooping, Jack grunted to himself, sniffed the cold November air, and wandered to the hatchback. Popping it open, he stood back to let the dogs bound out, tails wagging furiously, two identical Springer Spaniels, who immediately bolted down towards the gate that gave access to the moor.

  Jack knew his life was about to change again. He felt it as a thickening in his throat, the same as he always had. Not quite fear, not quite excitement, but a mixture of both.

  The man was there beside the gate, waiting for him.

  Paul Starck. His boss – or, his ex-boss

  *.

  09.14

  Jack Case walked past Starck without breaking his stride until he reached the gate to Fatherford.

  ‘I’ve nothing to say to you.’

  ‘Really?’

  Starck was a good half a head taller than Jack, but his hair was sleek, like a well-groomed colt’s. He had sharp, aquiline features that always reminded Jack of Sherlock Holmes: a broad forehead, pointed nose, bloodless lips and a complexion that paid testament to his smoking. In an age when so many were giving up tobacco, Paul Starck was one of the few men Jack had ever met whose entire hand was stained yellow from nicotine. He smiled at Jack as he raised a cigarette, drew heavily, and spoke through a cloud of smoke.

  ‘Did you know I was here? I saw you clock my car.’

  ‘Clock it? Yes. I recognised it.’

  The little mark on the screen was enough: the mark a suction cup would make. All the pool cars would have a spare rear-view that could be stuck on the windscreen so that a passenger could keep watch on people behind. It made Jack wonder just how long he had been under surveillance. He hadn’t seen them, but that was the point. The ‘watchers’ were among the best in the business. Targets didn’t see them.

  ‘We would like to have you come to town. There’s something you can help with.’

  Jack reached a second gate. The two Spaniels had already wriggled their way beneath, and Jack lifted the heavy latch and walked through.

  ‘I’m out, Paul. Gone.’

  ‘You know what they say, old darling. Once in, never forgotten. You can’t forget us, and we won’t forget you.’

  The ford was in front of them, the river calm and apparently idle in the wider, shallow bed. Jack turned away and walked to the left, past the ford, to where a small wooden bridge crossed the river just beyond a railway bridge of rough granite blocks. There was a steady rumble and thump from the next bridge, a two-lane road bridge taking traffic down to Cornwall and back. The noise precluded talk, which was a relief. It gave Jack a little time to gather his thoughts.

  They walked on in silence for some while, Paul Starck treading with care on the muddy trail, his impeccable suit and black leather shoes already marked with mud, while Jack strode on carelessly, his brown shoes already liberally spattered as though it was his form of rebellion.

  ‘Don’t you want to know why?’ Paul said.

  ‘No.’

  ‘You have such bad feelings about the Service?’

  ‘Is that supposed to be a joke?’ Jack said.

  He thrust his hands into the pockets of his old Barbour, clenching his fists. The coat had served him well during many walks on the moors, but now it felt fragile, as though he could push his fists through the pockets. It was foolish. He had nothing to fear from Paul Starck; if anything, Paul was a messenger, nothing more.

  ‘The Service left me. I was kicked out, remember? Almost year ago.’

  ‘You killed a man.’

  ‘Where’s the proof? I never left London.’

  ‘There were rather too many people who didn’t believe you.’

  ‘For God’s sake, I’m innocent!’

  ‘That may be true, old darling. But the powers-that-be assumed the worst, or that they couldn’t trust you any more.’

  ‘And that’s all?’

  ‘I think it is, actually,’ Paul Starck said. He looked at his cigarette and flicked it away towards the river. ‘Don’t blame the Service.’

  ‘That part of my life’s over. I’m rebuilding my marriage here. So fuck off.’

  ‘You remember the comms man?’

  ‘Didn’t you hear me? I’m out,’ Jack said, and whirled to face him.

  His fists were clenched, and he could anticipate the fierce joy of grasping Starck’s throat and choking the life from him. It was hard not to submit to the urge, and Jack could feel his fingers uncurling at the thought, ready to grab him.

  Starck’s next words saved his life. They shattered the spell.

  ‘The broken man. Remember him?’

  ‘We had so many.’

  ‘Don’t be coy, Jacky,’ Paul Starck said.

  He cupped his hands around a fresh cigarette and flicked his brass Zippo. The tinny clatter and rough scrape of flint was as familiar to Jack as it had been three years ago when he finally packed in smoking for good.

  Starck inhaled deeply, shutting away the flame and staring bleakly at Jack.

  ‘You were good once, weren’t you?’

  ‘I read the runes like a good lit
tle priest. But someone switched them for a loaded set,’ Jack said.

  ‘You were a Cold Warrior when everyone wanted to trust the Bear. The masters didn’t want to think our new friends could turn on us.’

  ‘It was fucking stupid, and you know it,’ Jack said evenly. ‘And I don’t care any more. I have a new life now.’

  ‘Patching things up with Claire, yes. How is she?’

  Jack felt a crawling sensation run along his back.

  ‘Fuck off. She’s fine and I want her to stay that way. Keep away from her.’

  ‘So we heard. I’m glad she’s getting better. Sorry, Jack, but you know how it is: no secrets among family. I’m glad you’re making a go of it,’ Paul Starck said, staring at Jack through slitted eyes as he took another drag. ‘But it’s not her we’re interested in. It’s you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘An old matter’s come up. You do remember Danny boy, don’t you, Jacky? The comms man who went to serve his queen and country. You remember Danny Lewin, don’t you? The boy with the embarrassing conscience?’

  ‘Yes, I remember him.’

  ‘Yes, well, I’m afraid he’s even more embarrassing now. He’s gone and killed himself.’

  *

  09.19

  There had been too many cases of burnout that year. One more was hardly a surprise.

  Danny Lewin had been an exemplary officer. In 1992, he had been hired as a communications technician in GCHQ as soon as he left Cambridge. With his skills in Middle-Eastern languages and his flair for computers, he had been an asset to the international snoopers. Jack had seen the glowing reports from his supervisors and managers in his files. He was charming, intelligent, and a breath of fresh air to the team of staid petrochemical experts who spent their lives listening to lengthy telephone conversations about the misbehaviour of globetrotting sons of oil sheikhs. He was popular, and his team was sad when he announced he was applying for a transfer to Iraq. When asked, he said he wanted to help the war effort. 9/11 had shocked him. Anything he could do to help find the murderers, he said, was worth it. Better to be out working with soldiers and helping bring in those who could dream up such a hideous attack than sitting on a comfy chair in Cheltenham.