Project Icarus

by R D Shah

  Davies was a short man with blonde hair poking out the sides of a plain blue baseball cap, and despite his stature his forearms looked powerful. After a slap on the shoulder from Hanks he made his way over to their seated hostage, whereupon he dropped a thick leather wrap held in his hand to the floor. He then knelt down and unrolled it to reveal a number of metal instruments including a scalpel, hammer, flat head screwdriver and a pair of blue-handled pliers.

  Hanks gave a limp-wristed salute. “What a goddamn waste,” he muttered, before heading up the stairs. He barked a couple of orders to someone and then left via the front door, slamming it in his wake, leaving Icarus alone in the company of the smiling Davies, who was already tapping the point of the scalpel to gauge how sharp it was.

  “I don’t usually enjoy this type of work. There’s no sport in it,” he said in a thick Louisiana accent, and pulled back his jacket to reveal a Glock handgun sticking out of his belt. “Prefer the hunt myself, but I intend to make an exception in your case.”

  Icarus remained motionless as Davies stood back up and slapped both his hands on the sides of his waist in frustration. “Shit. I need to get some towels to stem the blood. Sit tight, I’ll be right back. Don’t worry, I won’t forget about you.”

  Davies had barely managed to turn back towards the stairwell before Icarus jumped upwards and in one effort grabbed the pipes above with both hands and twisted his waist to wrap both thighs tightly around the man’s neck. He then he swivelled his contorted body as the crack of snapped bones rippled through his muscles. “I’ll happily forget about you,” Icarus whispered in a growl, as both of Davies’s thick arms dropped limply to his side and there he hung for a few moments before, after one final sharp squeeze, just to be sure, Icarus loosened his grip and gently lowered the man to the floor.

  Upstairs nothing stirred. Icarus stretched out his legs and with his toes latched on to the dropped scalpel, limberly retrieving it and flinging it into his lap. Within moments he had cut through the nylon restraints and he immediately set about undressing Davies. Once dressed in the man’s attire he slipped the Glock under his belt and with the scalpel hidden up his sleeve he put on the cap, pulling the visor down over his forehead, providing cover for his face.

  The guard upstairs barely registered the man entering the room, and as Icarus looked down and played with his pockets as if searching for something he spoke out in near perfect mimicry of Davies’s voice, the cap’s visor concealing his face. “I’m going to need some towels. You got any?”

  Without pause the guard shifted off the sofa and walked over to a cupboard on the opposite side of the room and began pulling out the bottom drawer before reaching inside and retrieving a stack of three white fluffy towels. “If you need more I’ll have to go out,” was all he managed before an arm slid around his neck and the blade of a scalpel pressed against his carotid artery.

  “Only speak if spoken to. Understand?”

  “Yes,” the guard replied, his whole body stiffening as Icarus reached around with his free hand and pulled the handgun sticking out of his waist holster and stuck it in to the back of his own trousers.

  “How many men outside?”

  The guard hesitated, and it was only after the scalpel began cutting deeper into his neck that he replied.

  “Six, including me. Two armed with shotguns at the main gate and three with machine guns patrolling.”

  “Same people who brought me here?”

  “No, you were dropped off.”

  “And the helicopter?”

  The man managed a jerky shake of his head, his face turning paler by the second. “Dropped you off and left.”

  “It was a short trip, are we in Calais?”

  The man closed his eyes and nodded.

  “Quickest exit away from the main gate?”

  The man resisted an answer but as the scalpel was dug in deeper and blood began to trickle down his neck there came not only a distressed groan but a quick reply. “There’s a path running along the cliff at the back of this building. Brings you out onto the road leading into town. But there’s a guard positioned there.”

  “Good,” Icarus replied, coming to the end of his questioning. “And who did they have looking for me?”

  “Everyone.”

  Icarus continued to hold the scalpel at the man’s neck. Sensing what was about to happen the guard said in nothing more than a whisper, “I don’t want to die.”

  Icarus pulled the Glock from his belt and leant in closer so his lips were only centimetres from the guard’s ear. “Then today is your lucky day. But if I find you’ve lied to me, then I will be back, and I promise I will carve you up, real slow.”

  Icarus slammed the butt of the Glock down hard against the guard’s head, sending him to the floor, and then he slipped the scalpel into his back pocket and with his cap pulled down he moved to the window and peeked outside. The guard had been honest with him and Icarus found himself looking at the edge of the coastline no more than fifty metres away, the rippling blue waters of the English Channel beyond. Far off to the left he could see the two guards patrolling a set of rusting gates leading to what looked like open farmland, and to his right a man in jeans and a black windbreaker holding an MP5 machine gun walking towards the building.

  Icarus ducked down onto his haunches and peered out from his hiding spot as the guard slowly made his way past the building, scanning the area as he went, and then walked on towards the main gate and the two other guards with shotguns.

  Icarus waited until he reached them and with one final scan he moved over to the door, pulling it open just an inch and checking that the coast was clear. He then placed the gun in his jacket pocket and swiftly exited, immediately making his way around the side of the house and then beyond towards the cliff edge. He didn’t run, nor did he creep, but calmly walked towards the gated path leading on to a dense leafy forest. A guard wearing a thick grey sweater and jeans looked out to the forest, his back turned to Icarus, an automatic MP5 resting in his hands. The guard never even heard the footsteps as Icarus approached and slammed the butt of his gun across the back of the man’s head, sending him to the ground in a crumpled heap. He reached down and picked up the machine gun before throwing it over the cliff and then began to pick up speed, darting deeper into the dark recess of the forest and beyond until he was out of sight.

  It would be almost an hour before Hanks discovered the unconscious bodies of the guards along with Davies’s cold corpse, and as they scoured the property and soon after began to pull out of the area, they never once noticed the pair of cold eyes watching their every move from deep in the treeline, already calculating his next course of action.

  Chapter 9

  The hot sun overhead was stifling as Munroe slammed the door of the silver Renault Clio shut and made his way along the short dirt path leading up to the impressive red brick chateau at its end. The wooden storm shutters were all closed and with no car out front the residence looked empty. With the neck of his coat clutched in his hand and his tie hanging loosely he probably looked like a lost tourist or a salesman concluding the last visit of the day. Reaching the front door, he gently pressed the green buzzer at the side.

  After departing from the deck of the HMS Belfast with nothing more than a polite wave from John McCitrick, Captain Sloan, or Jax as she preferred, had driven him to Heathrow airport where he would catch a flight to Bordeaux and then on a few miles west to Lège-Cap-Ferret, a town on the east coast peninsula. They had barely spoken during the drive. The only full sentences she had offered him were as he was getting out of the car. “Call me when you’ve done some digging. There’s a rental car waiting under your name and a key to an airport lock box in the glove compartment. You’ll find a handgun inside.” As the car had begun to pull away she had barked one last order through the open window. “And don’t go waving it around like an idiot.”

  It was clear Captain Sloan had little time for people in general, and he was no exception. She was a woman
of few words and he had no problem with that. It was a luxury not afforded to him on the flight over. The passenger next to him, a French man on his way home after a business trip, had attempted to force him into conversation multiple times. When the man had finally got around to trying to pique his interest in a timeshare in Paris, Munroe had simply said no politely before admitting he he’d been suffering from a severe bout of flu and breaking into a series of deep, bellowing coughs. His little act had done the trick and the man said not another word, leaning as far away as possible in the direction of the window for the entire flight.

  After picking up the rental car he had spent the drive mulling over what McCitrick had told him. Munroe was having a hard time squaring the focused assassination of two MI6 officers with the man who carried it out. Icarus was a mystery to him and, rogue agent or not, something, no everything, felt wrong, and it unnerved him. In the shadowy world of espionage you take out targets and blame it on something or someone else. You never drew attention to it, as Icarus had seemed so keen to do.

  Munroe waited at the front door of the chateau for a few moments before taking a step backwards and inspecting the windows for any sign of movement. There was none, so he reached over and pressed the buzzer again. This time there was a response. There was the sound of a lock unclicking and then the plain wooden door opened a quarter of the way, revealing the unsure face of an old man with curly white hair and moustache.

  “Mr Kessler, Tobias Kessler?”

  “Yes,” said the man, peering gingerly from side to side to see if anyone else was there.

  “My name is Ethan Munroe, and I was hoping to speak with you about a mutual acquaintance of ours.”

  Most likely Mr Kessler had no idea someone he knew was the media-famed serial killer known as Icarus. Munroe reached into his back pocket as the man frowned; without knowing the murderer’s true identity a photo would have to suffice.

  “And who would that be?”

  Munroe held a close-up photo of Icarus leaving the Ministry of Defence. “Him.”

  Kessler squinted at the image, and suddenly his unsure expression melted away and he smiled with a nod. “Oh, David. How is the boy? Keeping out of trouble I hope.”

  There was genuine sincerity in Kessler’s voice and Munroe offered an appreciating smile. “You know David.”

  The old man now opened the door fully and while nodding agreeably he ushered Munroe inside with a wave. “Please come in. Any friend of David’s is welcome in my house.”

  With a polite nod Munroe obliged and stepped inside as Kessler closed the door behind him. The open hallway was as big as most people’s front rooms, with more rooms opening up on either side and leading to a single staircase at the end which curled around on itself to the floor above. The walls were pasted in embossed white wallpaper on which hung a collection of oil paintings showing various scenes from French life. None were particularly notable. On the left hung a brass-coloured coat rack and apart from the antique-looking side table sat upon the thick navy carpet the rest of the space was empty.

  “Please, this way,” Kessler said, leading Munroe into the front living room. “Can I get you a drink?”

  “Thank you, but no,” he replied as he followed the man inside. As Kessler began to talk his voice faded out for a moment as the intense décor of the living room made its impact. Every space on all the dark wood-panelled walls was occupied by a hunter’s trophy: deer, caribou, zebra and even an alligator with its jaws wide open, teeth bleached white. Above the unused fireplace hung the stuffed, snarling face of a black jaguar, but it was not these oddities that stood out the most. The glass coffee table placed between two yellow fabric sofas was resting on four deer antlers, substituting for legs, and the old-fashioned tubular TV in the corner had been inserted inside a mismatch of carved animal femurs, constituting its casing.

  “It’s quite a collection, is it not?” Kessler said as Munroe returned to his senses.

  “That’s for sure. I don’t think I’ve ever seen such an assortment before.”

  “I can believe that,” the older man stated proudly, surveying the oddity that was his front living room. “Do you hunt?”

  “I’ve been known to,” Munroe replied, once again surveying the room and for a moment becoming transfixed by the sight. “But they’re not the kind of trophies I’d care to hang on my wall.”

  Kessler’s eyes lit up. “Interesting. You must be a small game man. Is that how you met David?”

  The mention of Icarus returned Munroe’s focus to him and he faced the old man with interest. “It was, as it happens. In fact that’s the reason I’m here you see. I’ve been working overseas for the past few years and lost track of him. You know how it is.”

  Kessler nodded his head, his eyebrows raised. “Oh, I do. Happens to the best of us. Of course at my age it’s usually due to death.”

  There was a candour to Kessler that Munroe liked, and apart from the oddity of his decorative choices he seemed like a lonely old man with a hobby that had, or should have, died a death long ago.

  “If you’re sure you wouldn’t like a drink then you won’t mind if I finish mine.”

  “Please, of course.”

  Kessler slowly made his way over to side table next to a yellow sofa and picked up a glass tumbler full of what looked like either water or neat vodka. Judging by the man’s trailing aroma it was the latter.

  “So, you’re seeking to rekindle your relationship with David?” Kessler said, and pointing to the framed photo on the side table next to the bone-encrusted TV. “He’s a good boy. I knew his father, a hunter second to none.”

  Munroe moved over to the side table and picked up the frame. It showed the man known as Icarus kneeling above a downed elk carcass wearing a green hunter’s jacket and pulling at its antlers so as to pose the carcass for the camera. Next to him knelt a slightly younger-looking Mr Kessler, smiling proudly like a Cheshire Cat.

  “We felled that beast ten years ago,” Kessler said, joining Munroe at the side table, “in the Czech Republic. It was the largest one we ever hunted. Took almost two days of tracking but we got it in the end, thanks to David.”

  Kessler raised his glass sloppily in a toast, sending a hefty splash all over Munroe’s cheek and trickling down his neck. The old man was probably halfway through his daily drinking binge and Munroe jerked backwards as Kessler began to apologise.

  “So sorry, Mr Munroe. My hands aren’t what they used to be… and I don’t get many visitors these days. Truth is, you’re the first one I’ve had in weeks.”

  Munroe was already wiping the vodka from his face as Kessler pulled out a handkerchief and passed it over.

  “Here, use this,” the old man said, looking mightily embarrassed. “Please, keep it and don’t worry, it’s clean.”

  With a forced smile Munroe took the handkerchief and dabbed at his face as Kessler ambled back to the far sofa and lowered himself gently into it before placing his glass firmly back down on the side table next to him. “Please, take a seat,” he said as Munroe accepted the offer and sat down opposite, dropping his coat on the cushion next to him. “I don’t think I’m able to spill it on you from here.”

  Munroe expelled a courteous chuckle and mopped up the last drops. “Not a problem, and thanks for this,” he said, stuffing the handkerchief into his front trouser pocket before sitting stiffly. “So, have you heard from David lately?”

  Kessler looked somewhat ambivalent about the question and he rocked his head lightly from side to side. “Not for a few months, but that tends to be our normal routine. I know he’s a busy man.”

  “What’s he been up to?” Munroe asked, putting his hands together so as to appear as inoffensive as possible.

  “He’s still working in IT, but he was talking about getting out of the game and trying his hand at something else.”

  “Oh, and what’s that?”

  “I don’t think he’s decided, but he’s looking around for new opportunities.”

&nb
sp; Kessler was now looking apprehensive and his eyes began to tighten curiously. “And what is it that you do, Mr Munroe?”

  There was a hesitation in the older man’s voice and Munroe merely smiled pleasantly. “I’m a corporate headhunter for a London firm. I track down the right person for the job.” Munroe’s reply was said in an ominous tone and he stared at Kessler sternly as the man licked his lips, his breathing now becoming heavier. “And I think I’ve found my man.”

  Kessler’s eyes were now squinting intensely. “I’m not sure I like your attitude, Mr Munroe.”

  “And I don’t think I like your bullshit, Mr Kessler,” Munroe replied, and he slid his hand into his jacket pocket lying on the sofa beside him and pulled out a black SIG Sauer P320 handgun which he pointed directly at his host, resting it on his knee.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Kessler erupted, and although shocked he remained where he sat, looking unintimidated by the barrel now pointed at his chest.

  “I’m calling you out, Mr Kessler. Let’s play a little game, shall we. It’s called ‘let’s go around the room’.”

  Munroe motioned to the hallway. “On the side table there is a pile of envelopes I noticed on the way in, and the top one is addressed to someone with the first name ‘David’. It also carries the address of a house I visited yesterday evening. A house of horrors, you might say.”

  Kessler looked unperturbed at whatever accusation was being made. “I offered to co-sign for David’s house years ago. I still get redirected mail from the mortgage company.”

  Munroe ignored the excuse and continued motioning towards the hallway. “You said you haven’t had any visitors in weeks, yet there’s a brown leather jacket hanging on the rack that’s way too big to be yours. It would drape over you like a robe.”

  Kessler was shaking his head in irritation. “It belongs to my neighbour, Jacques Demose, if you must know, and he left it here weeks ago, you fool.”

  Munroe stared at the older man now with nothing short of pure menace as he turned his attention to the side table next to the TV and nodded towards the drawer underneath it, and the thin piece of paper sticking out of it. “And why are you collecting newspaper clippings about a serial killer?”