Act of Vengeance

by Michael Jecks

  Uri caught a glimpse of something flying, silent and lethal, below the buzzard. Unmanned, piloted by an American miles away, perhaps in the US, the drone was the ultimate assassin, small and hard to detect, so unlike the Black Thunders, and he watched with fascination and admiration as the little aircraft continued on into Lebanon. There was a little puff of smoke, then another, as the MQ-9 Reaper fired two missiles at a target out of his sight. The only proof of the shots was the little column of smoke a couple of miles away as the Hellfire missiles destroyed a house and fifteen members of the family within.

  Thursday 15th September

  09.21 London

  Jack Case hated this city now.

  When he was younger he had commuted to London each day with building excitement. Passing by the Sarson’s Malt Vinegar building down near London Bridge station, he would feel his heart begin to pound. Standing on the commuter trains, there was little to see, only dingy rows of Victorian houses, the shells of the warehouses and wharves of the old docks, all bombed in the war and left derelict for want of money to rebuild them. But, as he looked out from the train each morning, this sight had given him his sense of purpose: this was why he joined the Service, to protect his country from enemies who sought to destroy England.

  Then, in the 1980s, there was no doubt who the enemy was. The looming presence of Soviet Russia dominated Europe; the threat of annihilation by their nukes was real. There had been so many times when Europe had almost ceased to exist and, as a young Service agent, he had devoted himself to his job. Keen on fitness, he had learned Karate with an inspirational Shotokan instructor. He had also joined a gun club in London Wall in a basement beneath a 1960s tower block, and learned how to use pistols of all types. He used his own handguns every weekend. A niggardly government offered agents only 25 rounds a month, and that wasn’t enough to be safe with a handgun, so he used to shoot five hundred a week, honing his skills at drawing and firing. A North London martial artist who specialised in English fighting skills taught him how to fight with knives and staffs. Jack soon had a reputation as a ‘gun nut’ and some looked at him askance but, when he travelled to East Berlin as a new agent, he knew he could defend himself.

  In 1983 a computer malfunction lead to Russian alarm bells ringing. The Lieutenant Colonel in charge, Stanislav Petrov, had orders to launch an immediate counter-strike if Russia was attacked, but his intuition told him the computer was at fault. Only one missile showed on his systems. More alarms rang: there were two missiles, three… but he knew an attack would be an all-out affair. The Americans knew that a Russian response would be overwhelming, so why try to risk annihilation with a paltry few weapons? Petrov sat anxiously waiting, sweating, hoping his guess was right, and by doing so averted a nuclear holocaust that would have wiped out Europe and America. There were no American missiles: it was a software fault.

  Jack had been a case officer in London a year later, and it was due to one of his contacts that the story was pieced together. Rumours of a Lieutenant-Colonel who had been taken away from his post, stories of his questioning, his deteriorating health, and how he was pensioned off all because he should have launched an all-out response. By averting tragedy he failed in his duty to the Soviet Union.

  It was that which gave Jack his first step-up on the greasy pole. He and his networks brought back intelligence on Petrov, and that informed British and American negotiations on missile treaties and, eventually, eased the gradual, peaceful breakup of Soviet Russia. Grateful for his efforts, he was promoted, briefly.

  That success was also to be the ruin of his career. Without the Russian bear, there was less need for humint - human intelligence, or spies on the ground. The cadres he had painstakingly built were cast aside as budgets were slashed, and he saw the men and women he had recruited thrown on the scrap heap. It was shameful.

  *

  Vauxhall Cross was state-of-the-art, a curious mixture of yellowish stone and green glass, reminding Jack of a ziggurat, a symbol of a dead, pointless religion. It was the embodiment of all he thought wrong with his Service. It had lost its way. The leadership thought this was the way to achievement: a centralised block, much below ground, with copper mesh throughout the walls to prevent electromagnetic snooping, bulletproof glass and walls to protect the staff. It cost millions, and was filled with the most modern technology, and was prone to the problems that are endemic with cutting-edge equipment. Computers failed, if they weren’t lost in a pub. The telephone systems were broken more often than not, the clever satellite communications systems was rendered useless when a building was constructed in the line-of-sight of the main dish, and now the whole place was a scurrying ant heap of panic in the wake of the 7/7 attacks on London. Suddenly the Service had realised that home-grown terrorists were as much of a threat as any foreign ones.

  He entered the building, walking through the secure areas in front of the foyer, past the scanners, submitted himself to a close body search when his steel watch bracelet set off the lights, and waited to be taken inside.

  Once, he would have been welcome here. No longer. Now, wherever he looked there were suspicious faces.

  ‘Morning, Jack.’

  He hadn’t seen her approach, and now he turned with a rush.

  ‘Karen… I didn’t…’

  ‘No, of course not,’ she said.

  Karen Skoyles was shorter than him, only five-five or five-six, and had a mass of brown curls that fell to her shoulders. The plump thirty-three year-old had an amiable appearance that had deceived many, with lively brown eyes that sparkled. It was her eyes he had first noticed when he hired her thirteen years ago.

  Today they were cold and hard as she studied him with distaste. She had not liked the idea of the Scavengers at first, and she evinced interest only when she saw in them a means of advancing herself. She had taken on the Intelligence Directorate, reporting to the deputy director general himself, and soon succeeded in bringing Scavengers under her own aegis. She had grown to loathe Jack since the split, when he and Claire had separated and then got back together again. Maybe she thought he was weak to go back to his wife, or scorned Claire for being so malleable as to take him back. In any case, Starck had been set in charge of Jack’s Scavengers last year. Starck’s Scavengers. Maybe he was picked for that reason – the alliteration, like Broughton with his ‘Bullies’.

  Jack would never know, and he didn’t care. Soon he would be out. He had created the unit, he had been the first Scavenger, and now he was the first to be burned.

  She gestured towards the lifts.

  ‘Come with me.’

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘I have a briefing room on the third.’

  He nodded as they crossed the foyer. That was a relief. The truly secret areas were all below ground. He followed her to the bank of steel gates; she used her card at the nearest, and it opened. At the lift she had to use it again to activate the doors. Once inside, she had to press the card on a receiver before she could press the buttons to the third floor, and then the two stood in silence: an older man who was at the end of his service, and the younger woman who had taken over much of his responsibilities. Neither meeting the other’s eyes, both travelling in mutual distrust.

  ‘How is Claire?’ she asked as the lift’s doors opened.

  ‘She’s fine. We were starting to get to know each other, until this happened.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said without emotion, striding along the corridor.

  It was disorientating, here in the building. On this floor light grey carpet silenced their feet, and they passed a series of little cubicles, some with open doors, most with their doors closed and lights on to indicate that meetings were in progress. A neat line of concealed fluorescent strip-lights lit the corridor from shining metal grilles overhead.

  ‘Here,’ Karen said, pushing at a handle and standing back to let him in first.

  Jack gave her a glance and walked inside.

  There was a single table and a quartet
of armless chairs set around it. On the table was a manila envelope with stamps marking it as secret, and a half-drunk mug of coffee.

  ‘Morning, Jack,’ Paul Starck said. He was standing at the back of the room, staring out at the river like a man who must wait at least another half hour before his next nicotine fix. ‘There’s your reading, old cock. Be quick – you fly at two this afternoon.’

  *

  11.39 Croydon

  Detective Sergeant David Yates hunched his shoulders, trying to keep the warmth in, but the chill in this bleeding house made it impossible. Damp – the place reeked of it. That and piss where the local scrotes had come in for an evening’s strong cider or glue sniffing. He’d been here keeping close surveillance on the house in Alma Street for over a week now, working in shifts with the second team, peering through the camera’s 600mm lens, and straining his eyes and his back in the uncomfortable position within the tiny bay window. And so far nothing.

  This house had been empty for years. There had been some youngsters squatting, but they’d been evicted a month before this operation began. Someone had told the police that they were farming skunk in the place, and the locals came down on the kids really heavily. Too late they learned that their ‘drug cartel’ was made up of fanatical Christians who wouldn’t touch alcohol, drugs, or even have sex, and the last thing on their minds was growing hash. The fact they’d tidied and decorated the place should have been a clue, but instead the plods broke down the doors and stormed all over it, doing enough damage to undo all the squatters’ efforts. The tip-off had come from neighbours hacked off with God-botherers knocking on doors and trying to give them all Christ’s message when they were trying to watch X-Factor. Stupid, bloody arses.

  It was a crap street, and a shitty duty. The only bright and gleaming aspect about the stakeout was Wendy Grayson.

  He’d worked with a number of WPCs over the years – hard not to nowadays, there were more women than men in some teams – but Wendy was one of those girls who just fitted in. She had the sort of face most blokes wouldn’t look at in a busy room. But when you did notice her, you just saw how bright she was: clever, sharp, caustic as hell when she wanted, but a bloody good team player. And when you made her laugh, when she grinned, she had the most gorgeous dimples. Long dark hair and eyes so dark they were like black holes sucking you in. A man could do a lot worse. And his wife didn’t understand him. Shit. The old, old story. And Wendy had heard it from all the other cops. Yates felt it like a pang. He could watch, dream, but never touch. She’d just think he was a randy old git, at his age. Sod it.

  Moving away from the camera, he glared at the house opposite. These hundred-year-old terraced houses were good. Why the fuck they were filled with foreign bastards was more than he could understand. English houses ought to be for the English, but they were just handed over to any bunch of freeloaders. Not that he was racist – he was as scathing about white Romanians, Polacks, and Krauts as he was about Indians and Pakis. No, but this had been a good little street, once. Now he reckoned the people who infested the area should be deported. They were all scum.

  The man they were watching was worse than the rest. As Yates stood carefully away from the window to stretch his legs, he kept his eye on the house, searching for any sign of Abu Fazul Abdullah, or whatever his real name was. He was supposed to be a victim of repression in the Sudan, but there was sod-all evidence to support that. It was rumoured that he had prepared bombs for terrorists, and that’s why he’d been put under constant watch. It had been said that his real name was different, and that he’d helped the terrorists blow up the US embassy in Nairobi. The Yanks would want him if that was the case. They were bloody welcome to him.

  Well, Yates would like to see Mr Abdullah try something here. He’d have pleasure in blowing the scumbag’s head off.

  Up the road, he saw her approaching, iPod phones in her ears, swinging her long-handled bag, just like a teenager coming back from the shops. God she looked good. So young, so taut and fit. His wife was just sort of flabby now. Sagging. The comparison was… but Wendy was young enough to be his daughter.

  No harm in reading the menu – you didn’t have to buy. Yates leaned over to get a better view. If he could have got away with it, he’d have taken a photo of her – but the fact that the photo would show as being deleted put him off. There was too much care taken with things like that now. A guy who took a photo and removed it would leave that number’s gap on the camera’s card, and someone would spot it, and then he’d get a bollocking.

  He had his camera phone, though. Pulling it out, he held it up, shakily, trying to hold it steady. The picture was grey and poor, but he could see her legs, her figure, and he smiled as he pressed the shutter, only to pull a face as she turned away. Picture ruined.

  It would take a moment to snap another, this time with her looking more at him… but why had she turned?

  It was a bike, a big, red Honda, burbling along the road. The rider, a slight figure in body-hugging red and white leathers, drove the bike in-between two parked cars directly in front of him. It had two panniers, and another large bag over the petrol tank. The rider slowly climbed off and set it on the side-stand. He locked the handlebars, before wandering off, casually pulling off his gloves and unzipping his coat.

  Disinterestedly, Yates watched him for a moment and then turned down to look at Wendy. She was staring at the biker, and Yates wondered why she was so fascinated with him. There must be something…

  Yates peered, and suddenly something grated. The man didn’t remove his helmet. He just kept on walking, and then glanced down at the phone in his hand. He’s sending a text.

  And Yates slammed his fist on the window and shouted to warn Wendy but it was too late and the bike just evaporated in a bright white blue then red flash and the whole of the house opposite was engulfed in the wash of fire. Yates felt the glass before him shatter into a million fragments each cutting his face and blinding him. The window was gone and he couldn’t hear anything except for a low moaning and it was him as he sat slumped at the back of the room with blood for a face and no eyes, and a four foot splinter of wood from the window frame jutting from his belly.

  Friday 16th September

  00.07 Anchorage; 09.07 London

  It was a clear, dark night when Jack arrived at the airport and stood outside breathing the chill air, eyes screwed against the exhaustion that was threatening to overwhelm him after nineteen hours of travelling.

  The cab ride from the airport was just like that in any other American city, but the streets were quieter. Somehow he was reminded of Canada and, as he gazed about him, he saw a lanky creature lumbering about at the side of the road as they swept past.

  ‘Moose,’ the driver said unnecessarily.

  Jack grunted and closed his eyes. First the flight to Toronto, connected with a flight to Seattle, where he had to wait for Alaska Air, which then took another five hours to deliver him here in Anchorage. He hadn’t realised how much farther up the coast Anchorage was from Seattle; the journey left him drained.

  Karen had briefed him herself, which he found interesting. Paul Starck stood at the window, sneering at the world and biting his nails, desperate for another nicotine fix. But he wouldn’t leave in case Karen let something slip. Jack knew Starck too well, and could appreciate his panic. The bastard was a corporate whore, he’d used anyone and everyone he could to get up the ladder, and he’d be happy to shaft Karen if he could. But she had outmanoeuvred him. She was bright enough to bypass him. All her early efforts had been invested in ensuring that her name was known. The DG liked fresh, young faces, and to him Starck was an anachronism. Smoking and drinking was no longer the way to the top, and while he really wanted the top job, Starck knew it was too late. She would soon be in glorious control of all Scavengers and Broughton’s Bullies, as well as Operations.

  Starck was there to listen for any snippets he could later use to damage her but he was over-optimistic. There was no chance of her le
tting anything slip. Not in front of him.

  Once Jack would have warned Karen. She had been his second-in-command for so long, but not now. Secrets were too much a part of his life for him to give away something for free. Everything had value, and in his business the commodity of choice was secrets. Besides, she was bright enough to know Starck. The ‘Ice Maiden’, she’d been called when she first turned up. It was obvious that she was determined and ruthless, but not many realised that she had a clear, analytical intelligence when it came to humans; she appeared to read them. If anyone was safe from Starck, it was her.

  *

  When Jack lost his Russian group in ‘98, he had been terrified he’d lose his job. It was then, when the Service was gradually shedding all unnecessary officers, that he had first thought up the concept of the Scavengers. In 2004, after the recruitment of so many youngsters post 9/11, he proposed it again to the deputy DG, but it didn’t fly. The Service was full of bright ideas that, as he knew, were routinely squashed by the politicians. Too many of them hated and distrusted the security service.

  Instead an army of accountants and consultants materialised, none of them with operational experience, who were called in to pronounce on every new scheme for protecting the realm, who could be guaranteed to argue against the ‘Oxbridge’ teams at the top of the Service. The poor bloody infantry went out and got themselves shot at, sometimes killed, and the managers shook their heads and carried on planning the next lunch with their trusted consultants to discuss more blue sky thinking.

  It was the recruitment that caused the problems.

  After 9/11, senior staff enjoyed heady days of money and influence again. They were told to go and hire, and if they didn’t get enough heads through the doors, recruitment officers were sent head-hunting for them. Suddenly the whole building, which had been empty at the end of the Cold War, became cramped; it was bulging at the seams as it filled with youngsters.