by Nick Albert
The poison tetrodotoxin that Chameleon had wiped on Valerie Jenkins sushi, acts as a sodium channel blocker, paralysing the muscles while the victim stays fully conscious. Tetrodotoxin poisoning is rapid and violent, beginning with numbness around the mouth, then paralysis and finally death. The terrified and confused victim is unable to breathe, and eventually dies from asphyxiation. There is no known antidote.
Although she was completely paralysed, Valerie remained oddly calm. Her body felt warm and incredibly still, exactly as it had felt when she had floated in the buoyant, briny waters of the Dead Sea, during her last holiday. She stared curiously at the little cracks on her bedroom ceiling as she waited for the sensation to pass, as she expected it must. Then she noticed that her eyes were becoming dry because she was unable to blink. Seconds later, when she was struck by the sudden urge to breathe, Valerie Jenkins realised that her chest was also paralysed. Finally, confused, frightened, and alone, she started to panic. For another half a minute her mind fought desperately in a futile effort to make her body inhale. Then, accepting that she was about to die, she relaxed into a state of peace and tranquillity.
In her last few moments of consciousness, Valerie’s life did not flash before her eyes. She did not remember her childhood and schooling, or her exciting trips abroad with her parents. She did not recall breaking her leg skiing, when she was seventeen, or breaking into politics at twenty-seven, and then winning her first election. She did not even recollect losing her virginity, getting married, or getting divorced. She did not remember any of these things, she only remembered the last hour of her life. In particular, she found herself remembering the elderly Japanese man with the kind eyes and unusually smooth hands, who had handed her the tray of sushi. As her vision faded, she remembered that he had also given her a wink and a smile.
***
Eric Stone liked to think of himself as a patient man, always considered, never impulsive. It was entirely predictable that after watching Charles Rathbone’s final words on video, and reading all of the documents, the first thing he did was nothing. He gave himself two full days to digest and carefully consider all of the information Charles had provided. Although his martial arts skills required lightning fast reactions and swift decisive movements, he still believed that the best results in most other situations were obtained by taking some time to stop and think.
Experience had taught him that one day was too short and three too long. On the first day, any information received was too fresh, the first impressions formed — although important — were too vivid and influential. On the other hand, three days was too long. Important details first learned, could easily be forgotten or confused; by the third day your thinking could become circular or disordered. By the third day, clarity and determination would give way to doubt and inaction. For the most part, Stone felt that two days was a good time to think and plan before taking any important action.
Now that he had studied the video and documents for two full days, he was both angry and decisive; angry that someone’s deliberate actions had caused the death of his best friend, and decisive about his reaction. Eric Stone had decided to destroy the Wrecking Crew. He was going to find the person or persons that ordered Charles’ destruction, look them squarely in the eye, and then kill them. It was not a decision he had taken lightly. He was very clear about the gravity of what he was about to undertake, but if he was going to cut off the head of this snake, as Charles had asked of him, then there was really no other option.
After two days of studying the file on the Wrecking Crew, Eric was appalled by that organisation’s greed and its callous disregard for the damage it had inflicted on so many innocent victims. Clearly, whoever was sitting at the top of this stinking pile had both protection against physical attacks, and deniability in the face of exposure. Such people would only ever stop in death — and he was going to deliver it.
Stone pulled his car into the car park of the White Horse pub, near Brentwood, in south Essex, and parked in a block of vacant spaces so that his car was facing back towards the main road. At half-past eleven in the morning, the pub would be almost empty, which was part of the reason he had chosen it; along with being equidistant between his house and the office of Ed Carter, the man he was there to meet. Although Brentwood town is really just a suburb of north London, the pub was situated on the side of a surprisingly rural stretch of road, a short distance from the town centre. When Stone climbed out of his car, he could clearly hear the ever-present roar of rubber on asphalt from the nearby Colchester road and the M25, the London outer ring road. The two roads met at junction 28 where Stone had thankfully left the seemingly endless stream of commuter traffic just ten minutes ago.
There were three other vehicles in the car park, a brown Ford Transit van with the pub logo painted on the doors, a shiny new red Toyota GT 86 sports, and a tatty Rover 200 with two male occupants. They were both young, smoking cigarettes, and staring straight ahead. After carefully locking his car, Stone made a play of stretching his back so that he could check out the two lads in the Rover more closely. They were of a similar age to each other, probably under 20, and wearing identical white hoodies. The passenger was talking into his mobile phone and the driver was tapping his fingers on the steering wheel in time to some music playing inside his head. Stone noticed that there were several discarded cigarette butts on the ground by the car and surmised that the lads had been waiting for someone, or something, for some time. Stone watched them openly for a few seconds, but they continued to ignore him.
As he walked towards the pub, a small tabby kitten crept out from behind the Transit van and watched Eric warily. Pathetically thin, and visibly shivering from the cold, the kitten cowered in fear. Stone crouched down, and waited in relaxed stillness until the kitten sensed that he was not a threat. Gradually it approached, tentatively at first, and then with greater confidence. Soon it was circling his legs and purring loudly, enjoying the attention as Stone stroked its back.
“Are you lost little buddy?” Stone asked in a whisper.
He gently picked the tiny animal up. The kitten relaxed in his hands and regarded him with intelligent eyes.
“Well, that won’t do at all. Don’t worry, I know someone who will give you a good home.”
Suddenly a car roared past, startling the kitten so that it jumped from his hands. In a panic, it ran back under the Transit van, hid behind a wheel, and watched the world warily.
***
Concealed within the tree line opposite the car park, Chameleon watched Eric Stone with curiosity and confusion. The information that The Fixer had provided was clear; Stone was the target. He was supposed to be a deadly killer, a violent man, a danger to the organisation and somebody who must be destroyed. Yet as Chameleon had watched, this man had crouched down in the middle of the car park and waited without moving until a small kitten had accepted his offer of friendship. The little kitten was alone, cold, scared, and without a friend — until now.
Looking down at the knife that was supposed to end Stone’s life that day, Chameleon’s mind drifted back to the horrors of that dreadful institution. The assassin remembered a terrible life of being as frightened and friendless as that small kitten. Every day was filled with pain and fear, with no prospect of rescue. When the man in dark suits came, there was a fleeting spark of hope for that scared little child. Perhaps there was a prospect of a new home, with loving parents; but soon it became apparent that the men in dark suits had nothing but evil intentions.
Later, in an unusual act of kindness, they had given Chameleon a kitten to care for. It was a tiny ball of fur, squirming and purring with pleasure. The child was almost overwhelmed with glee, but soon it became apparent the kitten was not a gift of kindness — it was a tool for control and punishment. With the child Chameleon, beatings and starvation had become ineffective tools of manipulation, so the men in white coats had come up with the idea of introducing the kitten. Then whenever the child was obstinate, or disobedient, it wa
s forced to watch as the kitten was punished in its place. When that kitten had finally died, those evil men had simply replaced it, as they had the next, and the one after, until the child had learned to obey.
When Stone had gently lifted the kitten into his arms and spoken kind words of comfort in a soft warm voice, Chameleon had a sudden and striking insight. How could this obviously kind and compassionate man possibly be the evil danger that The Fixer had sentenced to death? In that instant, something inside Chameleon changed.
After years of manipulation, cruelty, and treatments, by the evil men in dark suits, suddenly within Chameleon’s mind something altered. With all of the power of an electric shock, and the permanence of death, a new pathway was formed. Something inside screamed for rebellion and freedom. For the first time ever, the assassin made the autonomous decision to spare a life. After tossing that special mobile phone into a muddy ditch, along with the knife, Chameleon slowly stood, turned its back on Eric Stone, and walked away forever.
***
As none of the cars in the car park belonged to Ed Carter, Stone went into the pub, and used the restroom before ordering a pint of soda water with lime. Although he enjoyed a glass of good quality beer as much as the next man, since Charles’ death, he seemed to have lost his appetite for alcohol. Stone thought that perhaps he would drink a toast to his old friend when his mission was over — assuming that he survived.
“That kitten outside, does it have a home?” he asked the barman.
“Nah! It turned up last week. Since then it’s been stealing grub out of the bins.”
“I know a good home. Can I take it?”
The barman snorted a laugh.
“Be my guest!”
“Consider it done,” he said, raising his glass in a mock toast.
Stone took his drink and chose a table at the rear of the pub, where he could sit with his back to the wall and see anyone else entering the bar. Ten minutes later, Ed Carter came in. Spotting Stone, he gave a wave, pointed at the bar, and made a drinking mime to ask if he could buy Eric a drink. In an equally mimed response, Stone raised his still full glass and shook his head. Carter ordered himself a coffee before walking over to Stone’s table. Eric stood politely and shook his proffered hand.
“How are you, Ed?” Stone asked.
Carter replied with his usual, “Same old shit — different day!”
Stone and Carter had been friends ever since Carter had started taking self-defence classes at Eric’s dojo in Colchester. When they had first met, Carter was an unfit, unhappy detective inspector in the Essex police. He was already on his third divorce and with high cholesterol and even higher blood pressure; he was depressed and feeling his age. Seven years later, Carter was a keen runner who had lost sixteen pounds in weight, given up smoking, retired from the police force, and found happiness in his own detective agency and the arms of his young secretary.
Although he was now over sixty years old, Ed Carter was probably fitter than he had ever been in his life. At just 5 foot 9 inches tall, relatively short for a police officer, he kept his thick grey hair combed straight back, adding emphasis to his lean face and thin aquiline nose. Below a permanently wrinkled forehead were light blue eyes that could produce an unblinking gaze so intense, that it had inspired spontaneous confessions from some of Britain’s toughest criminals.
Although he missed some aspects of being a police officer, the camaraderie, the job security, and the satisfaction of bringing real crooks to account, Carter would be the first to admit that he did not miss the pressure, the admin, and some of the bullshit that went with his old job. With a fat police pension to live on and low overheads, his detective agency was never under financial pressure to take on work that he felt was unsuitable, or too time consuming. Strangely enough, his ability to turn down more clients than he accepted had made the agency popular with the kind of clients who were happy to pay more for an exclusive and discrete service.
The previous year, the Carter detective agency had been hired by a Saudi Prince, whose son and new daughter-in-law, had been kidnapped while on honeymoon in London. Under strict instructions not to contact the police, and not prepared to trust his staff with such a large quantity of cash, the Prince asked Ed Carter to handle the arrangements.
Ed’s task was simple; meet with the kidnappers, deliver the ransom and convey the son and his new wife to safety. On the day of the exchange, using his smart phone, Carter carefully followed the instructions that were being posted onto an internet messaging board. After driving in circles for almost three hours, with two suitcases full of used £50 notes in the boot of his car, he was eventually directed to a disused factory building near the Felixstowe ferry terminal, in Suffolk.
However, as the exchange got underway, things quickly turned sour. If the kidnapper’s plan had worked, Ed Carter would have died, the money would have vanished, and the Prince’s son would never have been seen again. Luckily, Carter had the experience and foresight to conduct his own investigation. He was expecting trouble and had the sense to hire Eric Stone for backup and protection. Using his own tablet, Stone had watched as the directions were being posted to the messaging board, and using a motorbike, he had arrived at the factory site a little while ahead of Carter.
Those few minutes gave Stone enough time to see that the kidnappers had laid a trap, and the opportunity to even the odds a little before Carter arrived. In the bloody battle that followed, there were several deaths, but Stone and Carter survived, the Prince’s son was saved and the ransom was returned intact. Out of such shared adversity, close bonds are formed.
Sitting together in the pub, the two men chatted about sports and the weather, until the coffee was served. Then the conversation moved towards the Wrecking Crew. Even though they were the only two customers in the bar, they kept their voices low. Stone began by asking if Carter had read the copied files that he had emailed the previous day.
“Yes, I have, Eric. I’ve also saved copies to a safe location.” Carter gave a deep sigh and tried to wipe the stress from his face with his hands. “I’ve got to tell you — if those files hadn’t come from such a trusted source, I would have been convinced that this was some kind of a sick joke. It’s just about the most extraordinary story I’ve ever heard.”
“I’m still finding the whole thing to be rather surreal,” Stone admitted. “I feel a bit like we’ve just found out that there are space aliens living right under our noses, and the government knew all along. I wouldn’t believe this if it hadn’t come directly from Charles Rathbone.”
There was a shared moment of respectful silence, before Carter spoke again.
“I am sorry for your loss, Eric. I know you two were very close.”
“Thanks, Ed.”
“It’s strange how I never got to meet him. We tried, but the timing was never right.” Carter sat back in his seat. “I think that this country has lost a great man. It’s a death that must be avenged.”
Stone looked directly into those light blue eyes.
“Then you agree — something must be done?”
“Absolutely! The question is what?”
“What do you mean?” Stone asked.
Carter took a thoughtful sip of his coffee. He sighed deeply as he ran his fingers through his thick grey hair, then he sat forward in his chair.
“Obviously this Wrecki—”
He paused and looked around, before continuing is a more hushed tone.
“Obviously this ‘group’ must be stopped. I see three possible ways to achieve this.”
He began counting on his fingers to emphasise his point.
“One — we give this file to the press, and hope to trigger an enquiry. This has some merit because, no matter how good this group’s network is, the story will still get out. On the downside, there is no guarantee that such an outrageous story will actually trigger any action or enquiry, and even if it does, it is unlikely that the people who are responsible for Charles’ death will ever be exposed.”<
br />
“I agree,” Stone nodded.
“Two — we give the file directly to the police. Obviously, this would be my first choice; after all, I’m still a copper at heart. There are people I know that we can definitely trust, but then we run into much the same problem. According to the file, these people worked for this government, so we must expect that they will have influence, and protection, at the highest level. If we go to the police, this organisation will get protection, but we probably won’t. The file will undoubtedly disappear and we may end up dead.”
“Again, I agree.” Stone sat forward in his chair. “And point three?”
“Three? Oh, three is obvious. We find these people, we find out who they are, and we — remove — them.”
They sat in silence and sipped their drinks for a minute, before Stone spoke.
“There is another option.”
Carter arched an eyebrow in interest.
“Go on — I’m listening.”
“In his video to me, Charles mentioned that he had been working closely with a woman, an MP. He felt that she was someone who we could trust to help, perhaps we should speak to her first; her name is Valerie Jenkins.”
“Jesus Christ!” Carter hissed and banged his fist on the table, making the coffee cup jump. The barman looked over and glowered darkly.
“What?” Stone sat back in surprise at Carter’s venomous response.
“You don’t know, do you?” Carter asked.
“What? I don’t know what?” Stone asked again.
Carter locked him in a steady gaze.
“It was just on the news as I pulled into the car park. Valerie Jenkins is dead. Her body was discovered in her flat this morning.”
Carter shut his eyes and shook his head.
“Eric, it’s them — they must have got to her. Those bastards!”
