by Richard Mann
Magical.
As he stood there in the silence, he could hear a stream trickling through the woods. He walked near some rocks and looked at the clear stream as it made its way down through the trees near to his house. He was sure there were fish, maybe trout in there. He would fish with his son, and they would have fried fish for dinner. His son used to drink from the stream. Jennifer used to tell him off for it, but he seemed none the worse for wear. It was good, clean water, trickling down from rocks at the top of the valley.
As he looked at the water in a dreamy, half-trance he seemed to enter a different reality. Time seemed to stop, and there was silence, as he experienced a vision of a large, ancient black book with gold embossed letters that he didn’t understand. He could see the book in front of him. He looked at a bird frozen in mid-air. He could see a man, a bearded priest.
When Peter awoke, it was late afternoon; at least several hours had passed, and his family was expecting him. Had selection driven him mad? He shrugged off the visions and put it down to fatigue as he quickened his pace through the woods to his house, in the centre of the valley. There were stories that these woods were haunted by a wise old man, a Celtic warrior priest from early Christian times when the Celtic and Christian religions were one. He lived in a cave in the woods at the edge of the valley. Some say he had traveled all the way from the Eastern Mediterranean. Was it the man in his dreams?
But he dismissed this as he came out of the woods to a small clearing. His heart felt glad as he saw his timber house, strong and sturdy with flowers growing up its walls. He stood and smiled as he looked at his wooden house, which seemed to grow out of the woods. His absence was telling—the grass was overgrown and the gutters needed clearing out.
But he was home.
He could see Jennifer, his darling wife in the kitchen window, her long brown hair and bright brown eyes; he suddenly remembered how beautiful she was. Everything about her was perfect. Her skin, her hair, her smile—which could light up a room.
His children were playing in the garden as they looked up at the stranger coming out of the woods.
‘Daddy, daddy!’ they came running down the garden path and threw their arms around him.
Jennifer looked up from the kitchen sink and ran out of the house, her eyes tearful as they all hugged each other, laughing and crying.
Jennifer stood there, pensive.
‘Well, how did you do?’
Peter showed her his new cap, and Jennifer threw her arms around him. ‘Does this mean you’ll be spending more time at home?’ asked Jennifer, her bright face looking hopeful, her brown eyes lighting up.
‘We’ll see,’ replied Peter, trying to sound optimistic. He smiled at her but inside he knew he would be away a lot, perhaps putting his life in danger, but he needed to find out who this warrior was inside of him; find some explanations for his dreams and visions.
Why did he have the strength of ten men?
How could he run so fast?
Why did he have super vision and super hearing, and why did he feel like there was someone watching over him?
His gut told him he had a destiny to fulfil. He knew that meant leaving his family.
Again.
They all sat on garden chairs in their small garden, surrounded by pine and oak trees, the late afternoon sun beaming down on them. Brilliantly coloured butterflies were fluttering around. Peter had never felt happier than he was right now. He was finally home with his family. The sun was shining, and Peter and Jennifer could not stop looking into each other’s eyes. Then Peter kissed Jennifer and held her in his arms.
Peter took his young son into his arms and stroked his blonde hair.
‘Let’s go fishing tomorrow, in the stream, in the woods, son.’
‘Yes, Dad,’ Robert replied, his face beaming.
Peter then lifted his daughter Sally onto his lap, and she gave him a big kiss on the cheek.
‘Did you miss Daddy?’ he asked.
‘Yes, can I come fishing too, Daddy?’ as she kissed and hugged him.
‘Of course, you can, sweetheart.’ He thought back to his vision of the priest in the wood by the stream.
Peter looked at his family, and he was filled with the warm joy of contentment as he thought back to the time when he and Vinnie had built this house from scratch. Peter had asked permission for extended army leave so he could start building his house. He and Vinnie would scour the woods for wood in the deep hidden valley in the Brecon he called home. They looked for fallen oaks and pines that were not rotten, and selected oaks that he could legally cut down with a felling license from the forestry commission, without orders signed in triplicate—Peter hated paperwork and bureaucracy. He used to tie a rope around the trees and drag them back singlehanded, with Vinnie secretly admiring his strength, and they used a mini sawmill to cut and shape the wood for the beams and tresses for the house. Jennifer and Gill would make lemonade as Peter and Vinnie collapsed in chairs in the garden, sweating like pigs and gulping down the cold drink, seeing who could make the loudest burp, laughing childishly.
In the evening, they would make stew from local lamb on a roaring log fire, the Dutch oven sizzling the roast lamb, potatoes, and vegetables. They would look up at the stars in the clear night sky, getting drunk on wine, often falling asleep in their chairs. Jennifer and Gill would keep on talking into the early hours, listening to their husband’s snoring, then help them to their beds, ‘magical days,’ he thought. This was as much Vinnie’s house as his, he helped to build it after all.
It was beautiful in the spring and summer, the bluebells sprouting forth, the clear stream meandering its way through the woods, the sunshine breaking its way through the treetops. At Christmas they would collect chestnuts, then go home and cook them around the wood burner, warming their hands.
Jennifer had a longing look in her eyes as she gazed at Peter, imagining his rock hard muscles, and iron grip, on her soft body.
Peter smiled at her, the warrior lust in his blue eyes.
‘You two go and play. Me and Mummy are going for a rest.’
They went upstairs to the bedroom, tore their clothes off and made frantic love, making up for lost time. Afterwards, Peter fell into a deep sleep, dreaming of battle and a shining sword—and a name, it was on the tip of his tongue. Then he woke up shouting, ‘Caius! Caius!’
Jennifer put her arms around him, shaking him - ‘What is it? Who is Caius?’ Peter looked at her, his piercing blue eyes like jewels, the eyes of a warrior. Jennifer thought he looked like a god as she ran her fingers over his bullet hard, sinewy muscles, resting her head on his chest, then reaching downwards with her hand.
Chapter 7
East End Welcome
Vinnie, strong, muscular, fit and wearing an expression of permanent aggression on his face walks down Whitechapel Road in the East End of London. He reflects on his life, how he met his friend Pete, how he joined the army, and how he had the choice of working for his father, as an East End gangster, or joining the army. He remembers the conversation with his father, Reg.
‘Son, you’re a good boy, and I’m very proud of you. Me and your mother love you very much, but this is not the life for you. I don’t want you to be like me, it’s too late for me, but you have a chance. Join the army son, see the world. Make me proud.’
Vinnie has never forgotten his father’s words. He smiles as he looks around. It is familiar territory, the place, where he grew up, his manor. His father Reg is a local businessman, as Vinnie calls him, but everyone is afraid of Reg, even the local law enforcement.
He smooths down his leather jacket and jeans as he walks into the Blind Beggar, a notorious pub in the East End. Everyone turns to look as he walks in, and stops talking. In one corner of the bar stand four very large, serious-looking heavies. They are wearing smart Italian suits, and they sport combed back hair. In the silen
t pub, in the middle of the bar, are his wife, Gill and his father Reg, who is wearing a white shirt, black tie and has combed back hair. Reg’s granite features crack as he sees his son. Vinnie walks towards his father, trying to contain his emotion. As Reg hugs him, there are loud shouts and cheers from around the bar. ‘‘Hurrah for Vinnie!”
‘We’re so proud son, so proud!’ Reg wipes away a tear as he stands back and admires his son.
‘My son, a member of Her Majesty’s Special Air Service.’
Vinnie looks at Gill, at her long blonde hair, and cuddles her, as he beckons for a pint of beer. Reg claps him on the back. They clink glasses as they down the real ale. Everyone cheers again.
‘It’s supposed to be a secret, Dad—getting badged,’ whispered Vinnie. ‘Don’t worry son, your secret is safe with us. Where is Ron? He’s supposed to be here’. At that moment, as if by magic, Ron walks in and walks up to Vinnie, an expectant look on his face.
‘Hello, Uncle Ron.’
‘Well, son?’
‘I did it—me and Pete passed!’
‘I’m so proud, me and Reg, were so proud, so very proud,’ says Ron as he puts his hands on Vinnie’s shoulders.
‘Drinks are on the house,’ shouts Reg as the piano player begins a rendition of Knees up Mother Brown.
‘Have some jellied eels son,’ offers Reg as Vinnie tucks in. Vinnie puts his arm around Gill and kisses her again, as he looks at his family, his gangster family, and feels proud. His father Reg had insisted that he join the army, rather than become a gangster; looking back on it, it was a good decision. But then again, does the gangster blood flow in his veins?
Can he ever escape it?
Does he want to escape it?
After all, they are his family. Bonded by blood and an oath of loyalty; they have their own code of honor, which they observe religiously. You never rat on anyone, and you always follow orders, to the letter. Family and loyalty.
Vinnie thinks about his best friend Peter, and how they met in Wales as teenagers, spending weekends camping and hunting rabbits. Vinnie wanted to sharpen his air rifle skills, so he went to Wales camping, and shooting rabbits. He met Peter, practising his hunting and trapping skills. They hit it off straight away, hunting and trapping rabbits, and roasting them over a wood fire, under a starlit sky, Peter telling tales about old Welsh legends and Vinnie bragging about his pranks in the shadier parts of the East End of London.
Happy days.
In the Blind Beggar, they carry on drinking and partying until the early hours, but nobody complains about the noise. Later that night, a policeman patrolling alone hears the noise from the pub, thinks about having a chat with the landlord, then thinks again, besides he has a family to think about.
Chapter 8
007
MI6 HEADQUARTERS, VAUXHALL CROSS, LONDON
Peter arrives with Colonel Bradley at the MI6 building, River House, in Vauxhall Cross, London in a blacked-out Range Rover. The official name for MI6 is the Secret Intelligence Service (SIS), but everyone at Hereford refers to it as 6. Peter hasn’t been told what the meeting is about, and when he asks his Colonel, he just smiles at him. ‘You will see.’
On the way down from Hereford, he has asked about his father. ‘It’s classified,’ was the curt reply. Peter felt miffed; he would have to use some leverage.
They go through airport-style scanners and a body search. Their SAS IDs are checked against a database, the smart-looking security guard checking their faces. ‘Sorry about the extra checks gentlemen. You are clear to proceed.’ Peter has heard a rumour that they had nearly let in a terrorist the previous week, who had explosives on him. It never got into the papers, of course, it would be too embarrassing. They are escorted into a lift which goes down to the lower levels of the building. Peter glances at their black-suited and silent escort—definitely ex-military, probably Special Forces.
Silent man.
He remembers the James Bond movies, with a suave debonair 007 driving an Aston Martin. If only the public knew the truth, it is people like him—battle-hardened SAS soldiers who have been recruited by MI6 to do their dirty work. Civvies are simply not up to the job of being a secret agent—not the 007 kind anyway. No going to casinos in tuxedos, but spending hours, days, holed up in a dingy room, eating unhealthy food, monitoring suspects, gathering intelligence. When in the field taking enough Imodium to constipate an elephant—an SAS operative must leave no trace of their presence there. No DNA evidence, smelling like a tramp. Boredom. Then moments of extreme danger and adrenaline.
And extreme violence.
Kill or be killed.
The lift opens, and they are escorted into a huge white room, which is empty except for a large rectangular glass room in the centre. It seems out of place. From a hundred yards away Peter can see someone sitting at a table in the glass room. Mid-forties. Posh looking. Pinstriped suit, combed back hair, old school. Their footsteps echo as they walk in silence towards the sterile looking glass room.
Silent Man punches a code into a panel, and the door slides open. The man sitting opposite them beckons them to sit down. Peter can see a perfectly ironed shirt with a motif, hand-made. Expensive. Gold cufflinks, old school tie—bet he went to Eton, but there is a hardness about him—as if he has seen military service. He has a scar on his left cheek.
His face cracks open as he smiles, ‘Ah welcome Colonel Bradley and Sergeant Morgan. I am Nigel Goldbroom. Peter—can I call you Peter?’ as he looks at Peter, questions in his eyes. Peter takes an instant liking to him, he seems genuine, not a bureaucrat.
Not a politician.
‘Yes, Sir Nigel, I just wondered why I was brought here?’ Peter asked.
Colonel Bradley and Sir Nigel smile, as the SIS Chief leans forward.
‘Myself and the Colonel were thinking of entering you into the Olympics young man!’ Colonel Bradley sniggered, and his blue eyes sparkled.
‘But then you wouldn’t be secret anymore would you?’
Sir Nigel looks at some papers on his desk.
‘You did the 65k endurance in three hours, a record unlikely to be beaten. The strength of ten men, super hearing, and vision. Everyone’s talking about you, Peter. And clever, a degree in languages, including Arabic. You can be a great asset to us. I have agreed with the Colonel here that you can work for us occasionally. Is that ok with you?’
‘Sir Nigel, I like you—you seem genuine, so I will say yes.’ Then Peter adds, ‘As long as Vinnie works with me. That’s my only condition.’
‘Ah yes but he doesn’t have your abilities.’
‘He’s my wingman, I don’t do missions without him.’ Sir Nigel looks through his papers again.
‘Corporal Vinnie Carson, of questionable character, rebellious, father a suspected gangster. Ok but you must vouch for his behaviour.’
‘Could provide useful intel—his father I mean,’ suggests Colonel Bradley brushing back his silver hair,’ raising his eyebrows.
‘On London terror suspects. Mmm,’ Sir Nigel rubs his chin.
‘Me and Vinnie are a team,’ prompts Peter.
‘OK agreed,’ smiles Sir Nigel who now leans forward, a worried look on his face.
Peter’s demeanour becomes intense as he stares at Bradley, then at Sir Nigel, ‘One more thing. I want to find out what happened to my father. And no bullshit.’
‘That’s classified,’ replies Colonel Bradley. Sir Nigel looks sympathetically at Peter. ‘Peter, I wish I could help you, but as the good colonel said, it’s classified.’
‘Maybe I will go and work for the Yanks then,’ says Peter, arms folded, the muscles bulging in his smart sergeants uniform, knowing that will set the cat among the pigeons. Leverage. They thought they could keep it secret – but he knows the CIA are looking to hire him.
Sir Nigel gives the colonel a panicked look.
&n
bsp; ‘Peter, please be reasonable. Look, as soon as you get back from the mission, we will have a chat. Promise.’
‘What mission?’ asks Peter, his blue intelligent eyes blazing.
‘This is a secure room, a sealed room, sound and bug-proof, for what we are about to discuss is above top secret. There will be no record of our conversation.’ Sir Nigel drinks some water, clears his throat, then continues.
‘Thing is Peter, we have a problem here at the Intelligence Service. A serious problem. We think we have a mole in our organization. A rat. We have a few suspects but nothing concrete. We suspect they are working for the other side. With the terrorists. In Yemen. We are not sure if its Al Qaeda or some or other terrorist group. They have kidnapped the ambassador to Saudi Arabia. It’s a black operation, no-one will hear about it. You will receive a full briefing when you get there. The thing is—and this is the important bit—I have arranged for all the suspects to go with you as MI6 liaisons with your SAS team, which you will be leading. Keep an eye on them. There’s Saunders, Ponsonby, and Ahmed. Here’s a file on each of them. Read it then give back to me. It cannot go outside of this room.’
Peter reads through the two-page report on each suspect. They all appear to be clean—good service records, no suspicious activities. Ahmed is a Muslim, but Peter will not hold that against him. He knows many good Muslims himself—hardworking and good family men. Saunders is from South Africa. Ex-military, a Christian, church-going. Immaculate record. Another good family man. Ponsonby. Single. Went to Eton.
‘Did you go to Eton with Ponsonby Sir?’ asks Peter. Sir Nigel, surprised at Peter’s perception leans forward, ‘Yes he’s a good man. He was my roommate.’ Peter looks Sir Nigel in the eye. There is a look of sadness in it, then it is gone.
‘Sir Nigel, let me be frank, these missions are dangerous enough, without rats in the pack. I need to trust people. I trust my men implicitly. It’s a dangerous variable.’
