Moral Compass (The Samuel Beasley Trilogy Book 1)

by Adam J Watts

  Why am I – a British Intelligence Officer – informing you of this fact?

  Let’s just say I appreciate your vision of an improved future and believe a leader of your standing not only recognises but rewards loyalty.

  If you are interested in hearing more, do not hesitate to contact me at the given address. Please ensure all correspondence reaches me in an appropriate manner i.e. British postmarks and English scripture or the use of a diplomatic courier from another country.

  I know that a triviality such as this is far from beyond your capabilities.

  An eerie silence befell the study as the old man considered the actions he had just set in motion. He was pretty sure that the 'technology' he had to offer would prove to be more than enough incentive for his new associates.

  They would be in touch...

  Chapter Seventeen:

  Working For The Man ~ Autumn, 1961

  Three hours, twenty-eight minutes and twelve seconds. That's how long it had taken Seb to analyse the situation. In many respects, it was like a game of chess... not only do you need a map of your own moves, you must consider the many possible manoeuvres of your opponent.

  Allowing yourself to be captured is never an easy course of action to take. In the present situation there would be an element of risk, but it would be a calculated one.

  He'd been through everything several times, interrupted periodically by the chiming of the adjacent clock tower. Seb seriously doubted his life was in danger. Whoever the puppeteer was, he was pulling the strings with some power, but his goal was as glaringly obvious as an eastern dawn.

  This antagonist needed something from Seb. What this was remained a mystery, but there was only one way to find out.

  It certainly felt strange to be exiting a hotel via the front door. For as long as he could remember, Seb had always played the part of the proverbial tradesman. Not today though. Today he would straighten up and stride out into the snow.

  They were efficient. He would give them that. A little over exuberant, but efficient all the same. At a guess he would have said American Secret Service. His conjecture was soon proved to be correct.

  'My boss wishes to speak with you.’ said the man with an all-too-generic appearance.

  'Really?' replied Seb, 'and if I don't share this sentiment?'

  'Then you wouldn't have allowed yourself to be hauled in.’

  Seb smiled.

  'You're too kind.’

  'Consider it cousinly relations, brother. Besides, we had the kitchen and the laundry room covered as well.’

  The smile had now vanished from the face of his chauffeur.

  ***

  Seb had expected the old 'bag over the head' approach or at least some kind secrecy, but none were forthcoming. He could only presume that such transparency stems from an overwhelming military power.

  The flight had been long and arduous, but his captors had treated him fairly throughout the journey.

  Conversation was minimal, but this was probably for the best.

  They had finally touched down in Virginia at two in the morning. The jet was a private one and it followed that the runway was by invitation only. No municipal airports for this boy -- no sir.

  It was surreal in many ways how Seb and his little entourage could just saunter along the tarmac and on towards a large building. Architecturally it was uninspiring, but Seb had guessed correctly when he envisaged that the majority of the stronghold was underground.

  The sheer amount of physical and technological security inside the structure made up for the initially underwhelming exterior. The Pentagon was proving to be quite the Pandora's Box.

  Second only to passing through security check number four were they inside the inner sanctum. The very bowels of the American defence system. Suddenly the silence was broken and Seb was being addressed personally for the first time in what felt like days.

  'Mr...?'

  The man standing in front of Seb was different to the others. He was puzzled but polite, socially inept and yet strangely charismatic. Definitely some sort of number cruncher or analyst.

  'Names have little value in my line of work,' Seb replied solemnly.

  'Of course. Well, if you'll follow me?' The bespectacled man gestured with an open palm and began to move slowly along the walkway.

  Beneath their feet and visible only through a mesh of ironwork was a command centre. Screens flashed and lights blinked. He wasn't a gambling man, but Seb would have wagered there were at least a thousand filaments down there performing one task or another.

  Seb decided to throw a question back at the man on point.

  'And what may I call you?' he asked.

  'McNamara's the name. But you can call me Bob.’

  'Nice to meet you Bob... so where are we going exactly?'

  'Well Dorothy, we're off to see the Wizard,' said the secretary of defence with a wink.

  The mere uttering of a particular word opened doors in this place. It would be a task remembering them all, even before you factor in the distinct possibility that the code words change every twelve hours.

  This particular corridor was different from the rest. Adorning the walls were oil paintings of presidents of the past and the lighting was far less hostile.

  'Almost there,' Bob murmured to himself as much as his guest.

  Finally they had reached their destination. All that stood between Seb and a high-ranking military official was an ornate wooden door. Secretary McNamara gave a simple three bar wrap and waited for a response from within.

  The voice that replied both startled and concerned Seb. He wasn't big on television or radio, but he'd heard enough to know who stood behind the oak entrance.

  'Come in!'

  Bob did as instructed, turning the handle and crossing the threshold. 'Ah, Bob. Sit down please.’

  John Fitzgerald Kennedy was sitting in a leather office chair, situated around a large conference table. At the far end of the room an overhead projector displayed slides sequentially and the sound from the automatic loading mechanism was the only thing to break the silence.

  'And you must be our guest.’

  Seb wasn't sure what to say. What can you say to the president of the United States?

  'That's one way of putting it.’

  He couldn't believe he'd actually given that as a response. What was he thinking? Here sits a man powerful enough to make you disappear forever and he had just retorted with a sarcastic remark.

  Fortunately JFK found the comment amusing.

  'Oh Bob... I told you to take good care of Mr...'

  'Seb. Just call me Seb.’

  'First name terms already! I like this guy,' the President exclaimed with a chuckle.

  With this Mr. Kennedy rose from his seat and moved casually towards the screen on the wall. 'As you have probably guessed Seb, the United States of America would like to hire your services.’

  Seb didn't like the sound of this, although he had expected something along those lines.

  'I'm not a mercenary, Mr. Kennedy.’

  'Certainly not. Such a barbaric term for someone with your skill set,' he replied reassuringly.

  'That's not what I meant,' Seb contradicted.

  JFK was on the move again. This time the distance was shorter, but the emphasis proved stronger. He was now leaning on the table with both hands and looking directly at his visitor.

  'Everyone has a price.’

  'I don't need money...'

  Rising from his hunched position the President relaxed somewhat.

  'Did I mention money, Bob?'

  For a moment Seb realised that he had lost the position of Secretary McNamara in the room. He cursed himself inwardly, as anything could have happened as a result. Fortunately it hadn't, because there was still one ace up Seb's sleeve: whatever it was they wanted from him, the Americans had gone to a lot of trouble to achieve it.

  'I don't recall any talk of money, sir,' Bob said diligently.

  'So it's do o
r die is it?' Seb's tone was serious.

  'I am not a monster Seb... Motivating someone to work with us, is far more effective than brute force.’

  Seb could not argue with this logic and as such, perched himself on the edge of one of the leather chairs.

  'So what's my motivation?' He was genuinely intrigued. Back at the screen once more, JFK gestured for someone to operate the slideshow. What happened next really did shock Seb.

  'Herman Gerhardt Hackbeil... I understand the two of you have a history.’

  Seb remained silent. He hadn't seen that face in over twenty years. He looked older and... tired. Did Seb look like that himself? He couldn't remember the last time he had looked in a mirror.

  'I thought that would get your attention,' the President declared with an air of triumph.

  'I'm listening.’

  It's funny how twenty years can be summarised into a thirty minute briefing, but that was what happened over the next half an hour. Kennedy told his guest exactly what the former Nazi officer had been doing with himself and it certainly made for interesting reading.

  Towards the end of the conflict Herman had obviously foreseen defeat and fled the Fatherland. His destination was unsurprising. South America had appeared favourable to many an influential German, especially countries like Brazil and Argentina.

  The USA's intelligence alluded to an initial stay in Argentina before Hackbeil had found sanctuary in the form of Paraguay.

  Higinio Morínigo Martínez -- President of the country at the time -- had been known to turn a blind eye to certain kinds of immigrant. There was no hiding from the facts and Martinez was a dictator hell bent on military prowess. Within six years of power, the Paraguayan military was receiving almost half of the nation's entire budget.

  'It's pure speculation at this point, but we believe Martinez welcomed Hackbeil with open arms. The man had a vast military knowledge and was the proud owner of something even more valuable.’

  Seb had a horrible feeling he knew what this might be.

  'I think I know where this is going.’

  'The floor is yours.’

  Seb humoured his host's metaphorical gesture and rose from his seat. He began to address the room, even though there were only three men in the audience; JFK, Secretary McNamara and a relative unknown manning the projector.

  'We've all heard the news about Cuba. I'm not a gambling man, but if I had to make a bet, I'd say that is where our mutual friend now resides... am I right?'

  'We believe so' answered Bob.

  'That isn't good,' Seb sighed.

  'Just how dangerous is this guy?'

  Bob had become rather vocal all of a sudden.

  'On his own? Not very, but he's been building, so anything is possible.’

  Kennedy leaned forward in his chair as he spoke, 'You mean making friends in high places right?'

  'Exactly. First Paraguay, then Cuba. If Castro has been taken in by his ideas then we need to act quickly gentlemen.’

  The pair of government officials gave each other a telling look before another word was spoken.

  'What do you need?' enquired JFK.

  Seb smiled a smile he hadn't felt for many years.

  'I've been doing this a long time Mr. President. I rarely work with other people, but on this occasion I'll make an exception.’

  'Fantastic! I'll organise a team and...'

  'Hold on, Mr. Kennedy. With the greatest respect; I'll pick my team and I'd like to lay down a few provisos if I may?'

  The President's face was a picture. Someone had actually had the audacity to question him. Seb didn't

  know whether this was pushing his luck a little too far, but he really didn't relish the prospect of working with a group of overzealous, inexperienced Americans.

  'What do you think Bob?'

  Bob was clearly thinking it over. As Seb glanced over to the middle-aged man, he looked more like an accountant musing over some erroneous figures than the person in charge of a whole country's national security.

  'I think we can come to some kind of agreement.’

  'Very well then. Mr... I mean Seb. What are your terms?'

  There weren't many stipulations. The major sticking point had been the plan. Kennedy had been adamant that his men would formulate a, 'game plan' and that Seb and his chosen few would stick to it religiously.

  Seb didn't like this. For starters, there is no such thing as a rigid battle plan. War -- or any military operation for that matter -- was a flexible, unpredictable thing. It was fine to have a common goal or something to aim for, but to try and determine a set of intangible variants was practically impossible.

  After much deliberation an agreement was reached. A plan would be drawn up and the operatives would do their utmost to stick to it. If however, the proverbial hit the fan then Seb would have full authority to make any spur-of-the-moment decisions on the ground.

  The next item on the agenda was the whom and the why. Seb had fought his corner vehemently about his sole choice. There remained only one man he trusted

  with his life and he would not entertain a trip into a political hotbed without him at his side.

  'Maxim Berezutsky? Never heard of him,' declared JFK.

  'That's because unlike me Max has been successful in shunning any unwanted attention.’

  'You can't do the things you have done and stay anonymous...'

  Seb shot Bob a quick look before fixing his eyes onto something imaginary in the distance.

  'Trust me. You can if you want to.’

  Chapter Eighteen: Into Africa ~ Spring, 1940

  Africa would not escape the war. The realists recognised this and planned ahead. For every conflict, the well prepared make a profit and this particular continent was already famed for its natural resources. It was only a matter of time before the Axis forces unearthed its appeal.

  Seb had no intentions of staying. He had better things to do than happen upon his final resting place in a desert. If nothing else, the heat disagreed with him. It always had. No, he needed to leave this desolate landscape as soon as possible.

  There was an increasing Italian presence in northern Africa and Seb could only imagine what the Fuhrer had promised the nation in exchange for their cooperation. No definitive steps had been taken, but it was only a matter of time.

  From a strategic point of view it made good sense. The British and French had many colonies, but mainly in the south. If the Reich -- or Nazi's, as they were becoming more commonly known -- could form a

  barrier in the North, they would effectively cut of the most direct route of supply to mainland Europe.

  It was clear that Spain wanted no part in proceedings and to be fair they were in no position to fight. As things stood they continued to rebuild after their own, bloody civil war.