by Mark Powell
The young woman who had replaced the bumbling young man resumed the tail and moved around the side of the bus stop and joined the rear of the queue. She craned her neck, on tiptoes, to see above the numerous heads, tagging each person mentally as they boarded the bus. She then recognized Stowe, just enough of his head visible as he vanished inside. Turning momentarily away, the young rookie gave her update in excited tones: ‘Charlie one, he is on the 17 bus, over! Confirm, Mobile one…’ An abrupt bump caused her to pause. She then glared at the man dressed in a fawn raincoat who had so rudely pushed past her.
‘Mobile one take over!’ She completed her update and stepped away.
The hunched over figure, who had left the bus, dressed in a fawn colored raincoat with the collar pulled up descended into the underground station, and was gone.
Ogilvy, who had been standing to one side of the underground entrance, broke a wry smile as he observed Stowe’s vanish off down the steps. Ogilvy raised his hand-mic to his lips. ‘This is bravo one, all teams stand down, I repeat stand down.’
Ogilvy had what he wanted.
CHAPTER FIVE
Secret Intelligence Service Offices, London
Harry Ogilvy held the flame to the tip of his cigarette. First of the day was always the best in his opinion. Ogilvy then reflected absently, whilst inhaling a lung full of smoke, as he walked briskly into his office. Expelling a long, thin plume of white smoke, he sat down, reclining into his Herman Miller chair.
‘No smoking,’ McCabe said, indicating with his eyes towards the no smoking sign on the glass door.
‘Yeah, well, nobody lives forever do they?’ Ogilvy spun his chair counter-clockwise, took another drag and lazily stretched out his legs. It was his office and he considered it his right to do what he wanted.
Mooney appeared and leaned his bulk against the door frame of Ogilvy’s office and grunted his protest that he didn’t want to step inside and be forced to breathe in the toxic air. He shot a glance at McCabe. It was a look McCabe knew indicated he wanted to get on with the meeting rather than waste time on idle banter. Ogilvy also sensed it and changed his tone,
‘Okay, I have recent Intel from one of our contacts on the ground, Mohammed Omar Hussein. He has proved to be very useful in the past, a man you know, McCabe. He will meet you in Somalia and lead you in. Your destination a small fly-infested town by the name of Hobyo. It’s on the north coast, near to where we believe the Maddens are being held. By luck it’s also where several the clan heads we seek reside too, so you can take them out at the same time.’ Ogilvy relaxed back into his chair.
‘So, we just walk right in and grab them do we?’ McCabe edged his words with a hint of sarcasm.
‘Don’t play the fool, McCabe, you know what to do. Oh, and let’s be clear shall we?’ Ogilvy paused for a moment. ‘It’s not a them mission, it’s a him mission. If the wife is not packaged up with a red ribbon and ready to go, she is not the priority. Is that understood? Besides, we hear they are being held at least forty kilometers apart.’
McCabe nodded. ‘Sure, understood.’
‘Okay, you leave in two days. I have you all on a flight to Nairobi. Economy, by the way’
Ogilvy smiled and leaned forward in his chair, lifted a file and held it out for McCabe.
‘What’s that?’ McCabe inquired.
‘It’s a file on someone you will need to take along.’ Ogilvy jabbed the file at McCabe as if to signify his intent.
Apprehensively, McCabe took it, flipped it open and started to study the first page. Mooney ambled across and peered over his shoulder.
As he read the name in the file, McCabe raised his eyes and stared at Ogilvy before returning to the file. He slowly shook his head as he digested the details – then looked up. ‘This is a joke, right?’ He closed the file and slammed it down on the desk.
‘No joke. And this is not up for negotiation,’ Ogilvy responded. ‘This man can provide what you need. He is angry, fearless and needs no babysitting. I have personally checked him out.’ Ogilvy then sparked up a second cigarette.
‘Is he now? From what I’ve just read this guy is off reservation, a lost cause, a nut case who can’t be trusted. So, let me decide who we need, okay?’ McCabe spun around as if to head for the door.
‘No offense, Harry, but he’s right.’ Mooney chipped in.
Ogilvy exhaled and waited for them both to reach the door ‘Remember how you got burned once, McCabe. How did that feel?’ Ogilvy knew full well the chord that would strike. It took less than an instant for the reaction to come.
Turning slowly, McCabe replied: ‘So what if I did get burned?’
‘This guy was burned too, in fact hung, drawn and bloody crucified along with it by us. The reasons for which I can’t explain right now. But let’s just say he was exactly like you. That is the so what, McCabe.’ Ogilvy’s face darkened to show his seriousness. ‘To be frank, this guy is a terrorist’s worst nightmare. He has no fear; his instincts are of the like I have only ever seen in two other men before.’ Ogilvy paused.
‘Oh yeah, and who might they be?’ McCabe responded.
‘You and Brian, of course.’ Ogilvy waited for the look he knew would come back.
McCabe said nothing, but held his gaze. Mooney could almost taste the effect the words had produced. Brian Stowe had been the best of the best and the night he’d died still hung on McCabe’s conscience.
‘So, he’s in then,’ Mooney declared with a beaming smile, trying to break the tension.
After thinking it over, McCabe said: ‘I’m willing to meet him and see for myself.’
‘One more thing, his name; nothing more than a coincidence.’ Ogilvy knew the question would come sooner or later.
‘A name’s just a name. Brian’s gone, and I’m not likely to get hung up on a bloody name, now, am I?’ McCabe said, regardless that it had indeed jolted memories of his old mate.
‘Quite’. Ogilvy replied.
‘So where from here?’ Mooney asked.
‘I need to recruit him first. He has no idea I wish to reactivate him and I knew you two goons would want to check him out. Time is now of the essence so we may as well get on with it.’ Ogilvy stood up. ‘He hangs out at a bar in the East End.’
Ogilvy headed for the door.
‘Good with me,’ McCabe said, falling into stride with him. Mooney nodded and followed them both out.
~ ~ ~
Stowe had joined the ranks of the untouchables, a burned spook with nothing to do and nowhere to go. He couldn’t move on from this limbo. His mind kept dragging him back to his past, with images of shadowy men rising from the dark recesses of his memory, as if to taunt his every waking moment.
His eyes were focused on the glass of cheap whisky now clasped tightly between his hands. But Stowe had felt the gust of cool air waft past him and seen the momentary reflection of men in the peat colored elixir of hope into which he had tried to lose himself. He had also heard chairs scrape back on the wooden floor three times as the mystery figures had taken their seats.
‘That’s him?’ Mooney nodded towards the man half slumped on the bar. Not that it was hard to spot Stowe. Despite his pathetic appearance, he still had the air of a dangerous man, if roused.
‘Yes, that’s him. But don’t let his appearance fool you. He’s as slick as they come, that one.’ Ogilvy had observed first-hand how easily Stowe had dealt with the Russian and avoided his surveillance team without even breaking a sweat.
‘Well, you going to buy him a drink?’ McCabe asked.
‘No…we wait.’ Ogilvy sensed something in the air.
Stowe sat motionless for a few moments, and then braced himself up, raising his glass before throwing back the amber liquid.
‘You want another?’ the bartender, Tony asked – as if knowing the answer.
To his surprise, Stowe shook his head and slid his eyes to the right. Tony looked over at the three men sitting at the table; with not a drink in sight. Flicking his eyes bac
k, he gently nodded to confirm he understood the situation as he noticed the card-wielding visitor from the previous evening.
Tony eased his bulk through the gap in the bar and made a bee-line for the table at which McCabe, Ogilvy and Mooney were seated.
‘Here it comes,’ Ogilvy muttered, as the muscle-bound physique of the landlord loomed closer. As Tony swaggered his way past Stowe, the attack came hard and fast. As if a coiled spring, Stowe spun around and locked his left forearm around the bartender’s muscular neck, pulling a startled Tony backwards and off balance. The side of Stowe’s foot jammed deftly into the rear of Tony’s knee joint, followed by a sharp downward elbow-blow into the shoulder muscle. The result, Tony had been brought down hard onto his knees and felled like a pole-axed bull. The speed and fluidity with which Stowe had dispatched him was impressive.
Mooney was halfway out of his seat, thinking they were next, when McCabe pulled him back down by his arm. Ogilvy didn’t flinch; his face broke into a wry smile.
‘Was that show for us?’ Ogilvy asked, clapping his hands together in slow applause.
‘Show?’ Stowe spat. ‘It’s more a demonstration of your fate if you don’t piss-off and leave me alone.’
Then with one hand he heaved Tony back onto his knees ‘Sorry, mate…needed a stunt man…’
Tony struggled back to his feet without a word and wobbled off back behind the bar. But clearly, given the pained expression on his face, he had more to say to Stowe later.
‘Join us please, Mr. Stowe, won’t you?’ Ogilvy was nothing if not polite. Stowe hesitated for a few seconds, running his eyes over the three men, before finally sauntering over.
‘This is Mike Mooney, Mark McCabe and I’m Harry, Harry Ogilvy.’ Ogilvy offered out his right hand, which Stowe ignored with a smirk of contempt as he sat himself cautiously down on the chair.
‘So, what is it you want with me?’ Stowe asked.
Mooney leered at Stowe. ‘You should be more polite, mate.’
‘And you should shut the fuck up, given you aren’t the main man here.’ Stowe clearly wasn’t intimidated by Mooney’s muscle-bound frame.
Mooney stood abruptly up. ‘Easy boys!’ McCabe gestured with his hands to cool it. ‘I think we’ve had enough theatrics for one day.’ He narrowed his eyes at Stowe ‘Now you can either listen or leave, it’s going be that simple. I know who you are and what happened to you. None of that I care about…deal with it. But we are here to offer you a chance of retribution. So, I suggest you cool it for five minutes and see what’s on the table. Okay, tough guy?’ McCabe had made his point.
Stowe ran his eyes once again around the table before finally relaxing his posture. ‘Okay, I’m listening.’ Stowe leaned back into his chair.
Ogilvy now took over. ‘If I tell you we are from Section Twenty, I assume no need for further introductions.’
‘Christ, fucking spooks.’ Stowe interjected with a sneer.
‘Quite …not that it matters. The past is the past. We have a situation. A member of the Home Office has been abducted and we want him back…naturally.’ Ogilvy paused.
‘It matters to me. You bastards sold me out. And yes, I heard on the radio about Madden. His own damn fault if you ask me,’ Stowe proclaimed.
‘Well despite whose fault it is we want him back. The location is Somalia, the mission is to recover Madden, decommission a few targets while there and pull out.’ Ogilvy knew Stowe would get the basic gist.
Stowe held his gaze with Ogilvy. ‘Okay…let me see if I have this straight. You have an official, who through his own stupidity has probably got himself caught by Somali pirates. You want him back because to leave him there would not be old-school form. Whilst there, slot a few scrawny old clan members and head for home, right?’ Stowe beamed a cheeky smile. ‘So, why do you need little old me?’
‘My God,’ McCabe exclaimed as if struck by an enlightening thought – which he had. All eyes fell on him.
‘What is it?’ Ogilvy asked.
McCabe had turned a ghostly white. ‘Nothing, really…carry on.’ McCabe looked slightly bemused.
Ogilvy returned his attention back to Stowe. ‘Yes – exactly. And we want you specifically because of who you are, and to be frank, because you’re expendable. And it’s not as though you’re frightfully busy nowadays,’ Ogilvy concluded.
‘Hang on…expendable?’ Mooney wasn’t happy with the label, given it also applied to him.
Stowe grinned. ‘So, you two are cannon fodder too…ha! That explains a lot.’
‘Yeah, we are, but you are the real question mark here,’ Mooney bit back.
‘You always this sensitive, big fella?’ Stowe countered.
‘Only around pricks like you,’ Mooney observed.
‘Enough!’ Ogilvy shouted, thumping the table top. ‘You two can kill each other later –or get a room somewhere...’ Ogilvy placed his cards down. ‘I can offer you a job with Section Twenty, all past issues buried and your record clean – good enough?’
‘You bastards burned me and now you want what’s left of me?’ Stowe found this amusing and intriguing at the same time.
McCabe summed him up. ‘Don’t pretend you like pounding the streets, Stowe. I too got burned; you either have to move on or die in a cesspit of self pity. So, which is it to be?’
Stowe, for once, said nothing in reply but continued staring at McCabe.
‘Well I think you have the deal?’ Ogilvy said.
Stowe softened his tone. ‘Let’s assume I’m interested, but how did you find me?’
Ogilvy offered as much as he was prepared too. ‘I make it a habit to track all former five agents. Especially those who get burned. You develop a healthy disdain…and edge.’
‘Let me think about it overnight, okay. I’ll find you if I’m interested.’ Stowe drew back his chair, stood up, glanced at the three agents and left the bar.
Once Stowe had gone, Mooney turned to McCabe. ‘So, what was that look all about?’ He knew his friend well enough to know something has sparked his interest.
‘Didn’t you notice it?’ McCabe offered.
‘Notice what?’ Mooney asked, confused.
‘Stowe – his face, his smile, even his attitude…’ McCabe explained.
Mooney still didn’t grasp it. ‘Easy mate, you turning gay?’
‘It could almost have been Brian!’ McCabe’s face reflected the certainty with which his realization had hit him.
‘Brian? Have you gone mad? Just because his name…’ Mooney stopped.
Ogilvy smiled and stood up. ‘I said you’d want him on the team, didn’t I?’
‘You knew all this time he’s related to Brian?’
‘Yes. But Jarred doesn’t know that Brian was his brother. So, I suggest we leave it that way. They were orphans, never met as far as I’m aware.’
Mooney blew out a whistle. ‘Jesus wept…’
McCabe also stood up. ‘Just what I need, another hothead. Come on, we have plans to make.’
As the three of them reached the door and stepped outside, the figure of a man moved out from a side passage, causing all three to spin around and face him.
It was Stowe. ‘Okay, deal me in, to hell with it…I’m ready now.’
Nothing else was needed to be said.
CHAPTER SIX
Somalia - Thirty Kilometers West of Haradheere
With every passing minute, Terry Madden felt his raw throat constricting. Swallowing had become painfully hard; like gulping down an invisible cricket ball each time he tried to work what little spit he could muster in his mouth. Nearly every droplet of precious moisture had evaporated into the harsh atmosphere. His body had nothing more to excrete and almost nothing more to give. The stifling heat within the Land Cruiser, which he’d been a captive in for the last four hours, was steadily sapping his will to live. He was in a shit state and he knew it. He knew enough medically to know that his pounding head, sketchy thoughts and aching muscles were all signs of severe dehydration
. The pitiful rations of tough goat meat and the occasional tin of tepid spaghetti were barely enough to keep him alive. Worst of all, the rations of water had been slowly reduced as if to deliberately weaken his spirit.
Drawing every ounce of inner will and strength, he pushed his hands and feet hard against the sides of the Toyota in an attempt to stretch out his aching body. He could hear the plastic moldings creak and crack as he did so. Not wishing to draw unwanted attention he quickly relaxed his body as surges of muscle spasms jabbed his nerves. He had been forced to lay in the rear like an unwanted sack of rotting rubbish and with little room to maneuver. Pushing out again, in an attempt to stimulate his blood flow, Madden felt his muscles resist and this time cramp tight. Wincing in pain, his face screwed up tight as he stifled the urge to cry out – which he knew would draw a harsh whack with a stick.
Madden distracted his pain by focusing his mind on the chatter of his Somali guards, who were seated comfortably in the front of the vehicle. He had to try anything – anything that would help keep him alert and distract his discomfort. Slowly, and without warning, his eyes closed as a wave of exhaustion enveloped him. Letting out a shallow sigh, his body shut down and he tumbled into the dark abyss of his unconscious…
