by Andy Farman
Goring-upon-Thames, the nearest town, had several pubs frequented by the patients from the clinic but in three days the target had not appeared in the town. On the fourth day the target disappeared, departing unexpectedly.
Dr Austin Bengot would have been both flattered and alarmed if he had learned that he was known to the specialist, but the specialist could not know that the doctor’s report had been the reason for the targets vanishing in the night.
More money, twice as much this time, got the specialist a name, a new lead to the new location. It was a very clever hiding place really, as instead of the target hiding on a lonely mountain on the other side of the planet they had been kept where a searcher would not necessarily look.
The targets language skills were being sought by the same people arranging the concealment, and the accommodation would turn out not to be a cave, far from it.
Sir Richard Tennant boarded a southbound underground train on the Northern Line, departing the carriage once it arrived at Stockwell. The service was much improved now that the war was far away and the fuel was again arriving in quantity.
Rather than leave the station he instead sat and read his newspaper, glancing up on occasion in a seemingly innocent way to check on who else was nearby. It was a sound counter surveillance tactic designed to catch out anyone tailing off the subject.
A small ladies purse sized vanity mirror and a piece of blu-tac allowed the specialist to observe the Metropolitan Police Commissioner, it was pressed against the tiled wall where it reflected a view of the length of the platform as the specialist stood safely out of sight inside the platforms furthest exit.
Three trains came and went before Sir Richard stood and tucked his copy of The Time under one arm. The platform had three exits and his back was to the central one. Light appeared along the tunnel and the passengers stood watching the train approach. Behind the Commissioner the exit led to the Victoria Line platform, just forty feet away, and commuters needed to traverse that platform to exit the station or reach the northbound platform of the Northern Line. As the train entered the station and slid to a halt before Sir Richard, a Victoria Line train also halted at the platform behind him. The specialist watched in the mirror as the commissioner took a pace towards the Northern Line train and then turned swiftly, sprinting between the platforms and jumping aboard the Victoria Line train as the automatic doors slid shut behind him. Quite nimble and sprightly for a man of his age.
Having completed another anti-surveillance trick, apparently with success, the Commissioner was relaxed and safe in the assumption that he was tail free. The specialist was younger, faster, and did this sort of thing for a living so the move had been anticipated. Entering a carriage much further down the train it had however taken some effort to reach Sir Richards Tennant’s carriage before it pulled in at Vauxhall.
Sir Richard did not depart the train at Vauxhall; he stayed on for several stops, rising to depart as Green Park approached. That was when the specialist made the mistake, gasping aloud in shock, as much as pain, when struck in the face by another commuters elbow. The sound drew the commissioner’s gaze and his eyes widened slightly as he thought he saw someone he knew, but the specialist used the rising commuters as cover, moving out of view.
With the train stopped and doors open Sir Richard beheld the smiling face of Svetlana waiting for him on the platform. As he exited his head turned to look momentarily back towards the end of the carriage where the commotion had occurred, a slight frown furrowing his forehead but then a beautiful girl with come-hither green eyes and chestnut locks was grasping his arm affectionately and leaving lipstick on his cheek. He forgot all about what had just occurred except a reminder to himself to wipe away the lipstick before returning to the office.
The specialist watched from the safety of the crowd, allowing a safe distance to grow before following. The target had both her arms wrapped about the commissioner’s right arm, clearly fond of him and chatting animatedly, just as vivacious and attractive as she had been reported to be, the heels of her stiletto shoes clicking on the flag stones. Sir Richard was clearly enjoying the moment, and the envious looks he was receiving from strangers.
The pair had lunch in a café and the specialist visited a sandwich shop across the road, keeping them in sight through the window. They parted after lunch, going their separate ways, and the target led the specialist north to the fringes of Hampstead Heath, to a grand Victorian era house with an indoor pool and glass ceiling.
Gaining access to a suitable surveillance pitch proved much easier than the specialist had feared it would be. The target was living rent free, house-sitting for the wealthy owners who had gone abroad for the duration of the war. The same held true for the adjoining property, but no house-sitters were in residence to ensure its safety, just an expensive burglar alarm that was not worth what the owners had paid for it. A trapdoor allowed access to the roof and from there the specialist settled down to observe, removing from the backpack a camera with video features and a paparazzi quality zoom lens.
The pool room was not unoccupied, the figure of another person reclined on a sun lounger, reading a novel. When the target appeared she did so shedding her clothing with the skill of an exotic dancer, dropping the items as she slowly approached the recliner at the far end until at last she was nude but for the heels.
Switching to ‘Record’ the specialist had first focussed on the dogs paw tattoo which was only just visible beneath the long mane of chestnut curls that bounced fetching off those delightfully wiggling buttocks. With the identifying feature established the view was zoomed out again.
Setting up a small pocket sized camera clamp stand the specialist carefully aimed the camera down through the glass ceiling before taking out the sandwiches and enjoying the view across the Heath as they were unhurriedly consumed. The specialist washed down the sandwiches with bottled water before replaying the recording. After editing a five minute highlight a mobile phone was plugged into the camera and the video file sent as an attachment to a cell number written on a slip of paper.
It took a surprisingly short time before a reply was received and the specialist read it with a slight feeling of regret. Perhaps the person on the other end had expected the target to be having sex with a man, not another woman? The two word text messaged reply remained on the screen of the phone until the erase button was pressed and ‘DESTROY HER’ vanished.
Hampstead, twelve hours later.
Caroline peered out from a gap in the sheets and blankets that had gathered around her in a pile during the night. The light peeping through the cracks in the curtains did not bode well for the previous night’s weather girl’s promise that today would be one of fine sunny periods. It had sickly yellow hues rather than the intensity that comes from rays born of clear blue skies.
Her nose twitched as she tested the air, there was a scent in the air of toast but it was not recent, not fresh, and she contemplated remaining in the bed for another hour before accepting that to do so would be to put off the discomfort.
She bit her lip and groaned aloud as she rolled over on to the edge of the mattress and swung her feet to the floor, using her left hand to prop herself upright. The pain took her breath away and she sat there for a second before standing and tottering naked to the bathroom. Having accommodated the morning’s first call of nature she stood and in doing so caught sight of herself in the full-length mirror that was fixed to one wall.
Cradling the plaster cast encased right arm with her left USAFs most newly promoted lieutenant colonel wondered ruefully how much that men’s magazine would offer now, had they been present. The bruising down her left side was changing from black and blue to blue and yellow but the doctor had warned that the discoloration would be gone weeks before the bone of the ribs that lay below the bruising had finished knitting together.
She faced the other way and turned her head awkwardly, noting that the tread of the soldiers boot was still discernable between her shoulder blades. The
sight brought back the awful memories of the gang rape that had almost taken place and she shuddered, taking a towelling robe from a hook behind the door and slipping it on before heading to the small kitchenette.
Only the smell of toast and the last vestiges of warmth in the kettle remained of her lover’s breakfast. Svetlana had washed and dried after herself before leaving for the temporary job the Commissioner had offered her the day before as a translator in New Scotland Yard, an event celebrated by some amazing sex the day before, even if she had been more recipient than participant.
The tears for the loss of Patricia, Constantine, Scott and the two policemen Ben Stokes and Malcolm Pell had come after returning to the UK and learning what had happened shortly after their departure for Russia, months before. The debriefing that followed did not engender any satisfaction in a job well done after that news.
Sir Richard had packed them off to the countryside to a kind of health farm for policemen but the scheduled two week rest cure and physiotherapy had been curtailed suddenly. Now they were the bored caretakers of someone else’s home, or at least she was, as of today.
She heard the letter box and frowned at the time, it was altogether too early for the postman and the owners had cancelled the papers. The threat against Svetlana meant they could not put their names to anything, even as trivial as a newspaper delivery. They were not to travel to previously frequented areas or contact friends and relatives, but Caroline was a stranger to London and no one knew she and the Russian girl were an item so the pilot felt quite secure.
A plain brown envelope sat on the mat with just a small HMSO, Her Majesty’s Stationary Office, the printers for the British Government, and a stock number were printed on one corner. It bore just a handwritten letter ‘S’. She opened it anyway and there was a clear plastic bag, a police exhibits bag with serial number and heat sealed ends, a biro signature was scrawled across the seals to prevent tampering. A single door key sat within, another tag tied to it, a classic court exhibit label as seen in countless movies. Svetlana’s old cover name, Christina Carlisle, and the address of her flat in Kensington were printed upon it. Only Sir Richard Tennant knew they were here and Caroline was about sick of bumming around this house, so she decided there and then to learn something more about Svetlana. She would see for herself what music she liked, what art she had on the wall and to run her fingers over the Russian’s pretty things.
The taxi dropped her at the other side of a small park from the address and after paying off the cabbie she walked painfully through, smiling and mouthing an apology at an elderly old ladies frown for disturbing the pigeons she was feeding.
The apartment block was something built with style in the 1920s and the Art Nuevo décor remained. Stained glass and burnished brass, plus the scent of wood polish greeted you at the street entrance. The small lift, or elevator as the English called it, bore a note of apology from the management as well as a health and safety compliant ‘Out of Order’ sign so she took the wide staircase instead.
She liked this building and its warm homeliness, its atmosphere of friendly welcome was quite palpable and she paused on the landing to savour it, her aching ribs were forgotten for now. It was as if the building liked you, she thought with a smile. She could quite understand how being unable to resume her residence here had upset Svetlana.
Not being ambidextrous she fumbled with the key before getting it lined up and into the lock, and then the door swung open to reveal the home Svetlana missed so much.
It smelled musty from the long absence of its owner and from where Caroline was stood just beyond the threshold she could see the resulting mess from where it had been searched for clues as to where the Russian girl had vanished. It was a rude change to the mood that the apartment block had engendered until moments before.
The coat rack lay on the hallway carpet were it had fallen during the struggle months ago, and a sprinkling of plaster dust lay like dandruff upon a dark jacket that had been hanging from it at the time. Caroline was glad that Svetlana was not here to witness this, and she hoped she could find some undamaged items to bring back, to cheer her friend and underline that she cared a whole lot for her, and with that thought Caroline stepped over the threshold.
As one, the pigeons took to the air in startled flight and the old lady in the park feeding them cringed involuntarily. The thunderclap of sound reverberated off the walls of the surrounding buildings and the anti-theft alarms of two dozen cars parked in the street outside the apartment block wailed and warbled. The buildings old but functional fire alarm bell sounded its strident tattoo, almost drowning the sound of glass that had once been window panes now shattering into smaller shards upon striking the ground below Svetlana’s apartment.
Like an evil halo, a smoke ring that held the black signature of high explosive residue hung above the Kensington street before the breeze dispersed it.
New South Wales: 2 miles east of the Macquarie Pass.
Heat, tropical humidity, ants and the eye stinging sweat that trickled down his forehead were forgotten as the sound of a high velocity round signalled a veritable fusillade in reply, tearing into the tree canopies and undergrowth with indiscriminate fury.
Their victim tumbled from the mid reaches of an ivy smothered Eucalyptus tree, hanging by a safety line that vibrated as each round struck the body of the sniper. He was one of their own, sent to counter the British snipers who were having such a detrimental effect upon the morale of the Chinese troops facing them. The body in a ghillie suit was indiscernible in appearance to that of the enemy’s snipers but he was ‘in play’ as far as the Chinese marines were concerned, and they vented their anger upon it.
Big Stef fired again, and a second Chinese sniper, the mate of the first one, tumbled into view down a slope where it received the same treatment from the trenches. They would not use this position again and edged away with painfully slow movements.
Two hours later they were hauled up the escarpment by rope and underwent a debriefing before finding food and a place to sleep.
“Two shots, two snipers, both from the Chinese 1st Marines?” the intelligence officer asked.
“Well you know how it is sir; you shoot one and five minutes later you have to shoot another.” Bill said with gallows humour. “I’ve no idea what unit they were, their gear was pretty standard.”
Sgt Stephanski nodded in agreement.
“Okay guys, it seems that you got their attention down there and those two snipers won’t be the only team they sent in. I think a change of venue is in order, to keep them reacting to us and to minimise the risks to you so that area needs to be left alone for a while. Someone else can receive your gentle attentions.”
Port Kembla
Commander Hollis shuffled forwards with the remainder of the line, edging ever closer to the entrance to the kitchens with the ever hopeful few asking those emerging what the size of the helping was, and was there any meat today?
There never was, never had been and never would be any meat in their diet, just rancid rice with boiled vegetables, rancid rice and vegetable soup and rancid rice and vegetable stew. It wasn’t as if the guards were being unduly harsh, they were not exactly living high off the hog themselves, and had all lost some weight too, victims of the shipping attrition in the same way the POWs were.
The Australians companion nudged him, gesturing for him to make his move. The companion was the Russian Vice Admiral; they played chess almost constantly and had an old pocket size travelling set with three pieces missing from the original. The coloured stems of matchsticks now served as replacements for the lost, manufactured items, and they played for money, keeping tally as they went along. Reg owed the Russian a considerable amount of theoretical cash but his game was improving. If the war continued for another two years they should be quits. The prisoner in front of Reg hailed the next to emerge, asking him the same question and looked crestfallen at the reply until the next man emerged with a battered mess tin and the look of hope ret
urned; and so it went on.
The prisoners had gravitated into small groups of friends, usually but not exclusively the same nationality. They tended to look out for each other and the small group of Taiwanese prisoners who had fled from Taiwan, to continue the resistance before being shot down and captured had already outed two spies the guards had tried to infiltrate into the camp. Having the Peoples Republic as an enemy gave all the nations present a common foe, so there was no need for internal rivalry. All that being said though it had taken just a week behind the wire for Reg to see the behaviour of some prisoner deteriorate as the lack of food took its toll. A group of twenty or so prisoners from the same container took on gang status until Vice Admiral Putchev had taken swift action. Several prisoners were beaten and robbed of their rations and one of the female prisoners was raped, but one evening the gang had received a visit from other prisoners who did not try to argue or reason with them, they did not call on them to do any honourable things, they simply took the three ring leaders, the biggest and the strongest, and the rapists, and they hung them. Next morning the Chinese had discovered the bodies, and ignoring the other injuries they bore, they had willing accepted the account of the Russian officer that the group had committed suicide. It was less mouths to feed and discipline was restored. It was the Russian way of dealing with a mafia, Putchev had explained.
The majority of the prisoners were Russian navy, but the numbers of allied prisoners began to swell slowly. Captured army personnel appeared from the skirmishes and patrol actions. US 10th Mountain men, Royal New Zealand Infantry, more Australians of course, with British infantrymen and a smattering of aircrew from all the nations. The survivors from the naval battle were few and far between given the weaponry used. Putting a lot of people in a metal vessel and then blowing it up does not make for a survival friendly situation.
