by Richard Mann
‘Just as the heli came in for the pickup, Frank was hit by a sniper shot and was killed instantly. We carried his body to the heli and that was that.’
Peter nodded and was silent for a while. ‘Thank you. I needed to know. I know him as a father, but what was he like to work with?’
‘He was brave, fearless and plain speaking. Called a spade a spade. A bit like you Peter,’ said Sir Nigel as he poured his operative a large glass.
Peter sat in silence for a while, drinking more whiskey, as he looked at Sir Nigel, who was busy leafing through some papers, scratching his head, and occasionally glancing at Peter. After a few minutes, Sir Nigel looked up, a fatherly look on his face.
‘Peter, I have decided to give you top secret security clearance. There’s something I want you to look at. Something very odd. Can I pick your brains?’ he asked, as he picked up a document from his desk marked ‘Top Secret, in red, and handed it to Peter. ‘We’ve had reports of women going missing from the UK, it’s not the usual missing persons either, tramps and dropouts etc.’
‘What age are the women?’ asked Peter, curious as he read the top-secret papers.
‘That’s the thing. All aged between 18 and 35,’ replied Sir Nigel.
‘Are there other common denominators? asked Peter, piqued by it all.
‘Yes, they are all in perfect health. It’s not just the UK, it’s the US as well. Langley and ourselves are trying to keep it out of the press. It’s a real mystery. We don’t like unknowns Peter.’
Peter suddenly had a vision of a darkened sky, like an eclipse—all was in darkness. People were running and screaming in terror. There were explosions—and then silence. He was standing alone, holding a fiery blue sword, surrounded by flames. He recovered himself and looked at a shocked Sir Nigel.
‘The world is about to change,’ he said, then he got up and walked out of Sir Nigel’s office, tears in his eyes.
Chapter 19
Goldilocks
SAUDI ARABIA
After spending the whole summer in Saudi Arabia, Peter looked like an Arab. His skin was dark and leathery due to the harsh, dry climate. He was wearing a thawb, traditional Arab dress. The white cloth reflected the harsh summer heat, and he was glad of that. He had also grown a beard. In addition, he could speak fluent Arabic, and it was impossible to tell him apart from any other Arab walking down the street in Riyadh, his thawb covering his large, muscular body. But of course, he was not an Arab, he was on secondment from the SAS working for MI6 tracking down terrorists, and their funding network.
Using his natural charm and wit, and five hundred dollars in hard currency, the Riyadh tailor had given him an address. There was no need for violence. He had been following Goldilocks discreetly for about a month now and had gained valuable intelligence about his contacts. But now he suspected that Goldilocks knew he was being followed. He had to be careful, or he would lose him completely.
Peter looked at a thermometer sign on a building, the temperature had hit 50 degrees centigrade as the unrelenting heat reflected off the pavement. ‘Too fucking hot,’ thought Peter, as he followed Goldilocks at a discrete distance. Peter was glad when his target turned into a shopping precinct. It would be cooler there. The tall, thin Arab was not a terrorist as such, but a financier, a middleman, who oiled the wheels of terror. He was wiry and dark, with shifty eyes which darted about, here and there. Vinnie, in western civilian clothing, followed a discrete distance behind Peter and the target.
Using his hidden radio and earpiece Peter radioed Miller. ‘Have eyes on Goldilocks, following him into Riyadh Avenue Shopping Centre. Standby. Out.’ Miller waited in a blacked out Mercedes down a side-street.
Peter remembers their night out in a secret Riyadh drinking bar, discretely hidden down an alleyway. He immediately hit it off with Miller. Ex-Navy Seal, black hair, moustache, fit as a fiddle—from New Orleans with a southern drawl. He was blunt-talking but a gentlemen to boot. He provided great kit, which was a blessing, and the radios worked, unlike the unreliable British ones.
In the dimly lit bar, in a basement two floors below the street, they sipped their beer taking in their surroundings, their backs to the wall—you never know. It reminded Peter of the bar in Casablanca, full of shady characters in dark corners, whispering secret conspiracies. Miller was eyeing a pretty Indian girl in a red dress. She touched her hair and kept smiling at them.
‘I think she fancies you,’ Peter said. Miller smiled. They downed at least ten bottles each, and the last thing Peter remembered that night was sirens and running feet as the bar was raided by the local plod.
Peter followed his target up an escalator, and into an internet café. Air conditioning, thank God. He ordered a coffee and one hour’s surfing time from the man behind the desk. Goldilocks sat down at a terminal, Peter sat in the cubicle next to him, sipping his coffee, blending in, looking normal.
Goldilocks glanced over at his cubicle neighbour and curiosity piqued him, as he raised his eyebrows and studied Peter with his blue eyes and tanned face. Peter’s fluent Arabic at the counter, and the local accent, had allayed his suspicions, and he continued typing with his thin fingers.
Peter studiously ignored him, knowing the slightest slip would give him away. He put a USB into his computer which ran some special software, which could pick up keystrokes from nearby PCs. The USB flashed letters onto his screen as he picked up Goldilocks’ keystrokes. Peter could see what Goldilocks was typing: a bank in Yemen, an account, Golden Brotherhood Society, an account number, even a mobile number—BINGO! Peter took a screenshot, logged into a secure MI6 site and emailed the screenshot to his contact at MI6. His job was nearly done, he could get back to Jennifer and the kids now, get out of this bake oven climate, and relax at home.
Goldilocks looked again at Peter, as another Arab man, a huge, swarthy man with a military demeanour, built like ‘The Rock,’ walked behind Peter and saw his screen, the MI6 secure website page. Peter had left it there a second too late.
Fuck it!
The Arab man shouted and put a knife to Peter’s throat. Quick as lightning, Peter’s instincts kicked in as he held the man’s sinewy arm, the blade a millimetre from his Adam’s apple. A bead of sweat ran down Peter’s nose as the men struggled, his attacker had monstrous strength. Even though Peter had the strength of ten men, he struggled, as the man’s grip tightened around the blade.
Peter slowly stood up, pulled back his arm, the knife just grazing his cheek, as he launched his body and flew backward, hitting a wall, breaking several of his attacker’s ribs and winding the monster Arab, as he hit the wall. At that moment, Vinnie rushed in, and in a split second, had fired off two shots. The swarthy Arab man dropped to the floor lifeless.
Goldilocks swung around in panic, eyes wide with terror and surprise. Peter and Vinnie manhandled him out of the café door before onlookers knew what was happening. Peter took off his bloody headdress as they rushed along and radioed Miller: ‘Require immediate evac. Have Goldilocks. Repeat, have Goldilocks. Out.’
‘If you make a scene, my friend here will kill you,’ whispered Peter in fluent Arabic.
Goldilocks nodded and walked between his two captors, looking for an escape route, but of course, there was none. He relived the last thirty seconds in his mind as he saw his minder being shot—once in the head, and once in the neck, and his feeling of desperation.
Peter looked at his thawb, it was covered in blood, and passers-by were looking at him, including two security guards, who started following them. The officers shouted a warning and started running after them.
Peter carried Goldilocks out of the shopping precinct as a black Mercedes with blacked out windows pulled up outside, skidding to a halt. The two friends bundled Goldilocks into the back, he started screaming, but one punch from Peter knocked him out. The two security guards started running towards the car shouting, but the Mercedes to
ok off at high speed, wheels screeching. In the back seat of the car was a silent Goldilocks sat between Peter and the CIA man, Vinnie in front, as they sped off to the secret CIA station in Riyadh.
Peter relaxed. He would be home soon.
Chapter 20
Peter’s Promotion
Peter sat in the SIS Chief’s office in Vauxhall Cross, London, the MI6 building. The chief was looking at one of his paintings, dressed in an Italian wool bespoke suit. Peter looked around him, ‘Different world’, he thought. Deep pile carpets, wood panelling, gold-framed paintings, teak furniture, and leather-backed chairs. Peter thought he recognized a painting by John Constable, he had seen one like it in the National Gallery. He liked landscape paintings, they reminded him of his native Wales. But this painting did not have a signature. As they sat opposite each other, the Chief offered Peter a glass of Glenmorangie, in a proper whisky glass. ‘Excellent whisky, I shall buy a bottle with my bonus’, contemplated Peter.
‘Single malt, my favourite,’ Peter smiled as he looked at his new boss and relaxed in the comfy leather-backed chair again.
‘Glad you like it. Take the bottle with you. With the agreement of Colonel Bradley you’re being promoted to Captain’, Sir Nigel smiled. Peter smiled back, he had heard through the grapevine, and he felt very happy about it.
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Peter taking another very satisfied sip.
‘And please, no more late night phone calls from Riyadh, Peter. If you want to go drinking, be more discrete.’ Sir Nigel tried to look serious, then smiled. He handed Peter a card. ‘It’s a get out of jail free card Peter. Use this number next time, I need my sleep.’
They both laughed.
‘Thank you, sir,’ smiled Peter, liking Sir Nigel even more.
Sir Nigel leant on his polished teak hardwood desk and looked at this Peter Morgan, this amazing operative who had done so much to fight terrorism and the funding network. Intelligent too, thinks on his feet, and the strength of ten men. Likes a drink, but who doesn’t? He would forgive his minor misdemeanour in the Riyadh drinking den. Peter is his best operative, he was seriously thinking of taking him on full time, that’s if the CIA didn’t get him first, of course. He was hoping to appeal to Peter’s British patriotism. He was trying to fend them off, as he knew this young SAS man had already been offered a role across the pond—they were going to overlook the rule that he had to be a US citizen.
There was something different about him; not so much as a scratch in all his operations, no wonder his nickname was “Bulletproof” in the squadron. There was an aura, a charisma, about him, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.
‘Captain Morgan, congratulations on a job well done.’
Sir Nigel refilled Peter’s glass and topped up his own, adding some ice as he smiled at Peter. ‘With your help, we have shut down a major terrorist funding network. It will set them back years.’
‘Sir Nigel, I haven’t seen my family in nearly a year,’ Peter said as he sipped his whisky.’
‘You have six months paid leave from today. Enjoy it, and again well done.’ Sir Nigel stood up and brushed his bespoke suit. Then added. ‘There’s a bonus coming your way too.’ Peter smiled.
‘By the way, Langley is interested in you, they like your work. But we would like to keep you if that’s ok?’
Sir Nigel looked for a response from his young secret agent but did not get one. Peter was busy looking at a painting. Sir Nigel could see Peter was distracted.
‘I see you like the painting.’
‘Yes, it reminds me of my home in Wales.’
They both stood up and walked over to the painting, admiring its beauty in silence, Peter felt a warm rush from the whisky as it made its way down his throat. This was a good moment, one to savour, a moment of success, ‘Enjoy it’ he thought. Sir Nigel’s mind went back to the mission in Bosnia where his father was killed; he felt partly responsible.
‘It’s an unknown, but I suspect it’s an early Constable,’ ventured Sir Nigel. ‘I like this painting,’ he added.
‘So do I, very much,’ Peter nodded.
‘You can have it,’ said Sir Nigel looking directly at Peter.
‘Thank you,’ replied Peter, genuinely thankful for the gesture. Never turn down a good thing, he had learned that much in life.
‘So you will stay with us?’ a desperate tone in his voice.
Peter didn’t respond, the CIA probably paid better than the Secret Intelligence Service, and Jennifer could see her parents, who were also in Virginia. But he was loyal, and besides, he liked Sir Nigel. After all, he was British, a warrior of the Isle of Albion, the ancient name for Britain. Peter had a vision of himself as a warrior wielding a sword, centuries ago, in an ancient war, in the mountains of Wales. He was a warrior, it was in his blood. But then the vision passed, and he was in Sir Nigel’s office again, drinking whisky.
‘I thought I had lost you there for a minute,’ said a concerned Sir Nigel. ‘I sometimes get visions…’ Peter replied, coming out of his dream state.
Then his thoughts turned to his brother Vinnie.
‘Don’t forget Vinnie – he saved my life,’ responded Peter.
‘Of course, of course, Corporal Carson we will, er, give him a pat on the back,’ the Controller smiled patronizingly.
‘Pat on the back, I bet Vinnie will be pleased!’ Peter said as he walked out of Sir Nigel’s office.
Sir Nigel shouted, ‘Peter, come back!’ aware that he had offended him. He had not realized how close he was to Vinnie. He did not want to upset this fellow - he looked fearsome when angry.
‘Peter—Peter I am sorry!’
He came back into the office and sat down on the leather-backed chair again, his demeanour angry. ‘Vinnie deserves a bonus too. And leave.’
‘Okay I will arrange it,’ replied Sir Nigel, eager to please.
There was a knock on the door.
It was a quiet knock, tentative. Ponsonby poked his head around the door - Pencilneck from the ill-fated Yemeni mission.
Peter stood up, even angrier now, as Ponsonby crept past him. The rat who got two of his men and Kojak’s co-pilot killed. He gave Peter a sideways frightened look. ‘Ah I understand you have already met Ponsonby,’ said Sir Nigel with a wicked smile.
‘Yes, I have Sir Nigel,’ as Peter gave Ponsonby an icy stare.
‘You are a fucking rat Ponsonby, and you got two of my men killed. Good family men. By all rights, I should kill you where you stand. But I’m not allowed, Sir Nigel needs you.’ Peter now stood an inch from the terrified Ponsonby’s face, cold sweat pouring down his face.
‘But if Sir Nigel tells me you’re giving him false information, or if you lie to him, I will find whatever rat-hole you’re in and tear your limbs off, one by one. That’s a promise.’
‘Yes, yes, of course, Captain Morgan, anything you say,’ stuttered Ponsonby, his frightened eyes shifting furtively from Peter to Sir Nigel, looking for a way out. Sir Nigel turned his attention to Ponsonby. The thin weasel stood to attention.
‘Ponsonby, you heard Captain Morgan. Make sure your contacts in Yemen give us the location of the terror cell in London. You’re dismissed.’ Sir Nigel winked at Peter as Ponsonby scurried out the door behind him.
Sir Nigel then smiled at Peter. ‘Don’t worry Captain I will look after Corporal Carson.
‘Have a safe trip back to Wales.’ Sir Nigel now stood, then paused as he looked at Peter, that fatherly look on his face.
‘Your father, you know he died fighting for what he believed in. Ridding the world of scumbags. Peter, myself and your Colonel are recommending your father for the Military Medal. It’s what he deserves.’
‘Thank you, sir, it is the right thing to do. You are an honourable man.’
Then Peter stood up straight and saluted the SIS Chief. Sir Nigel saluted bac
k. They stood there for a moment in silence remembering Frank Morgan, soldier and father. Peter remembered his father coming home from missions, down the garden path, carrying presents—smiling and hugging him—he had happy memories, and he smiled. He didn’t see his father often, but the times he did were special times.
Sir Nigel then closed the door, opened a file marked ‘Top Secret’ in red and looked sharply at him. ‘Last time we met you said the world is about to change – what did you mean?’
‘Sir, I get visions, sometimes of my life centuries ago, sometimes in the future it is difficult to tell.’ Peter shrugged his shoulders then added, ‘We face a threat, but unlike any we have encountered before Sir: expect the unexpected.’
As Peter walked through the corridors of MI6, the staff looked at him. They had heard the rumours, everyone had. As he walked out of the building he breathed a sigh of relief, he would be glad to get home. He could trust Sir Nigel, but he didn’t trust Ponsonby as far as he could throw him. The question was, what other enemies did he have?
Chapter 21
Ancient Discovery
IRAQI DESERT
In Iraq, which was once known as Sumer, an aging, bearded archaeologist, Professor Picard, excavates under a rock statue of an ancient Sumerian goddess. The perfectly preserved goddess wears a headdress, she is naked, her breasts prominent. In her hands, she holds what looks like an ankh, she has wings like an angel, and her feet are claws. On either side of her are two owls. Next to the goddess is another statue that has a sword, and jagged teeth with the face of a skeleton, and it has wings. He smiles and nods to himself.
‘This is the one,’ then looks at his skinny, bespectacled, male undergraduate assistant.
‘Sumer was the first civilization you know. But there is a mystery: how did they go from mud hut dwelling fisher folk to pyramid building mathematicians, and so quickly? That is what I hope to find out, mon ami.’
