by Mark McKay
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Prologue
They were very polite when they came to kill him. With the luxury of hindsight he would have been more careful about his security arrangements. Leaving doors unlocked would have been unthinkable, once. But he was old now and lived miles from anywhere, no one ever visited. His standards had slipped over the years. It was hot today even by Greek standards and he’d opened every door and window in the place to take advantage of the sporadic gusts of wind blowing in from the sea.
The little villa on the island of Kos, the place he’d called home for the last ten years, was situated on a hill overlooking an isolated bay. From the second storey balcony where he now sat looking west, there was nothing other than a flat, shining blue Aegean Sea to occupy the eye. Behind the villa there was an extensive olive grove, through which a dusty access road snaked its way down to the highway. It was lunch time. He sat alone eating a cooling Greek salad and sipping cold Retsina, the local stuff that he got from the village along with the rest of his weekly supplies.
He had no indication of their arrival, there’d been no sound of a car approaching. The stone floors inside the villa muffled the sound of most footwear and he didn’t hear them climbing the stairs. When the two men stepped out on to the balcony he silently berated himself. Ten years of retirement had dulled his instincts. He should have sensed them coming from 100 yards away.
They were Northern Europeans, he guessed. Mid-thirties to early forties. Their faces were covered in a light sheen of sweat and were beginning to show signs of sunburn. They hadn’t thought to cover up in this heat. They both wore identical lightweight blue suits, no ties. One man had dispensed with the jacket and the only reason his colleague hadn’t done likewise was because he wanted to keep his shoulder-holstered gun out of sight. The bulge against the fabric made it obvious to anyone who looked more than once that he was armed. Both men were tall and well-built.
‘Max Blackwood?’ enquired the jacketed one, with a friendly smile. ‘May I?’ He walked across to the table and sat down.
‘Think you’ve made a mistake. Max Granger is the name I’m known by around here. Who might you be?’
The smile broadened. ‘Blackwood, Granger, let’s not argue. I tell you what, we won’t use our real names either. I’m Tom and my friend here is Jerry.’
‘Jerry’ raised his eyes at this anomaly, but nodded and smiled anyway. ‘Mind if I get something to drink?’ he asked.
‘Of course not,’ said Max. ‘There’s a new bottle of water in the fridge downstairs. Help yourself. Bring out the Retsina too, would you?’
Jerry went inside. Max decided that English wasn’t their first language and that their accents were almost certainly German. Not that it helped much.
‘What can I do for you gentlemen?’ He was mystified by this intrusion. What could anyone want from him now, after all this time?
Tom was presenting a pleasant front, but there was steel in the brown eyes gazing at Max.
‘In 1992 you worked as a trade officer at the British Embassy in Bonn in Germany, correct?’
Max hid his surprise as best he could. ‘Yes, what of it?’
Jerry had returned, with bottles and glasses. He pulled up a chair, sat down and poured water for himself and Tom.
‘I’ll take the Retsina,’ said Max. He poured himself a large one.
‘So,’ continued Tom. ‘Let me tell you a story. Instead of being a trade officer, let’s call you a spy. At that time, in a move that might be labelled as ethically questionable, you and a colleague set up an operation to entrap and compromise businessmen and politicians.’
Max tried to keep the shock from his voice. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
Jerry smiled. He nodded sagely at Tom, who wasn’t smiling.
‘Come now, Max. Please don’t insult us. Some of those people might now be quite influential. And the recordings you made of their indiscretions could do them a lot of harm. We simply want you to confirm for us who all of these people are and where the recordings and any other documentation implicating them can be found.’
‘There are no recordings, because there was never any such operation. You’ve had a wasted journey.’
The two men looked at each other. Jerry spoke this time.
‘I’m sorry, Max. We have it on good authority that this operation certainly did exist. If you won’t help us voluntarily, then we have no option but to apply pressure. I’m sure you understand.’
‘I’m 60 years old. You might find that all you succeed in doing with pressure is killing me.’
‘Perhaps we’ll do that anyway.’ Jerry mopped his forehead. ‘Is it always so hot, here?’
Tom gave his colleague a concerned glance. Jerry was looking decidedly drowsy.
‘Max, what the hell?’ began Tom. Now his eyes were drooping in sympathy.
‘Drug in the water,’ said Max. ‘Knocks you out for four hours, at least. Always keep a bottle handy, never know when you’ll need one.’
‘Fuck you, Max,’ mumbled Tom. He reached for his gun. ‘You leave us no option.’
Max reached under the table and extracted a handgun from the holster attached to the table’s underside. Tom had his weapon half out when Max shot him through the forehead. Jerry was out for the count, so he never saw the second bullet coming. Both men slumped back in their chairs. Max stood up and walked across to the balcony’s edge to see if there was anyone else in sight. The sound of the shots would be attributed to someone hunting, that happened a lot around here.
There seemed to be nobody else in the vicinity. My security isn’t a complete disaster reflected Max, as he went through Tom’s pockets. He found a set of car keys with a hire-car logo on the key ring. They must have parked near the highway and walked from there, he thought. He doubted the presence of a third man, but did a sweep of the villa anyway before setting off on the long walk through the olive grove. When he got to the highway he saw a Renault Clio parked on the hard shoulder. The keys fitted and he drove it back to the villa. Now he had a car and two dead bodies to dispose of.
He swore quietly and then went to his bedroom. Pushing a chest of drawers to one side, he knelt down in front of the safe recessed in the wall behind it. He punched in the combination, opened the door and then took out a black notebook. He found the phone number he wanted, now all he needed was his phone. Once he’d retrieved that, he did a quick mental calculation. Japan was six hours ahead, so about 8pm he figured. He input the number and waited. Ten seconds later, it was answered.
‘Yoshi Mashida, please,’ he said.
A woman’s voice replied. ‘This is his daughter, Mariko. Can I help?’
‘This is Xenephon. I need some assistance.’
‘Hold a minute please.’ There was a half minute’s delay, then she was back. ‘You have a secondary ID for me?’
He quoted the ten-digit number, which completed the formalities.
‘What do you need?’ asked Mariko.
‘I’ve had a visit from two men. They wanted information related to something that never officially happened. And the disturbing thing is, I thought I was the only person still alive who knew anything about it.’
‘What did you tell them?’
‘Nothing. I shot them. I’m pretty sure I’m compromised now. I want an escort to a safe house, preferably in Europe. Then I want Yoshi’s help to untangle this mess.’
‘My records tell me you’re in Greece. Same address?’
‘Yes.’
‘OK, Max. Stay where you are for the next 48 hours. We’re coming to get you.’
Chapter 1
Nick Severance stirred fitfully in his slee
p. He was dreaming of Lauren again, his murdered girlfriend. He dreamed he was back in the house in Hastings, where he had found her lifeless body. But in the dream, she wasn’t dead. When he went into the bedroom where she’d been held prisoner, she sat cross-legged on the bed, smiling at him. He moved closer and put his hand up to her cheek, to find it had no substance. His hand met nothing but air and a moment later her image flickered and disappeared. Convinced she was in the house somewhere he searched it from top to bottom and then returned to the bedroom. There she was, seated on the bed. And so it went on, a bad dream on a loop.
‘Nick, wake up.’
He felt his shoulder being shaken. He groaned and rolled on to his back.
‘Sorry, was I twitching again?’ He looked across at the dark-eyed Japanese woman sharing his bed.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Almost time to get up, anyway. Was it the same dream?’
‘Yes, it was.’ He was wide awake now. ‘Suppose we should get up and practise.’
She yawned and sat up. ‘I’ll make some tea first.’
Her name was Kamiko. When Nick had arrived in Jodhpur in India, almost a year ago now, she’d been assigned to keep an eye on him. The events that had followed Lauren’s death had made him a wanted man in England and he had been smuggled out of the country.
He watched as she walked naked across the room on her way to the kitchen. Her job had been to teach him Japanese and practise Aikido with him. At first, she had been quite reserved. She would come twice a week, from where in the city he didn’t know. They would practise for an hour and then have a language lesson for another hour. Then she would get up and leave. Questions about her personal life were politely deflected, so he had no idea about her past; where she lived, or with whom. Then after some months, when it became obvious he was going a little stir-crazy, she calmly announced that she would sleep with him on occasion if he wanted her to. He had the impression she’d been instructed to make this offer, but he was lonely and he found himself agreeing to it.
The first time they slept together he felt as though he was cheating on Lauren and he was hesitant. Kamiko was holding back too, for reasons of her own. After a while he realised the act of making love was cathartic and provided an outlet for his grief. He hoped that wherever Lauren was now, she would understand. He still had the dream, though.
Kamiko was less reserved now, in and out of bed. But she still only visited twice a week. She had taken to coming around in the evenings so they could get up early the following morning and practise, before the heat kicked in.
She returned with two cups of steaming tea. They sat together on the bed, drinking and listening to the sounds of the dawn. It was summer in Jodhpur and the temperature rose swiftly once the sun came up. It was cool inside the blue-painted house most of the time. The blue paint on so many of the houses was a feature of India’s ‘blue city’. It allegedly kept the houses cool in summer and contained an insecticide to ward off mosquitoes. Nick’s house was on two floors, and the biggest room on the second floor had been converted into a dojo. After getting dressed in Aikido trousers and jackets, they went upstairs.
Kamiko was at least ten years younger, but she had been doing Aikido since she was a child. She was certainly more advanced in the art than he was. Their routine was mostly free-style; they would attack each other using various strikes and the person defending would counter appropriately. This usually resulted in the attacker landing on the mat and being restrained with a lock, or being thrown and then standing up to try again. An hour of this was enough exercise for anyone as far as Nick was concerned; especially first thing in the morning. But he’d learned a lot under her tutelage. Kamiko had shown him one or two moves that weren’t on the standard syllabus; quick and lethal.
When they finished Kamiko went straight to the shower, while Nick prepared breakfast. When she returned she had a towel wrapped around her and another in her hand.
‘Dry my hair, please.’
He stood behind her and began towelling. Her hair reached halfway down her back; it was thick and very wet. A phone rang somewhere and he had to stop while Kamiko went looking for it. He’d thought it was his initially, he couldn’t remember her ever taking a call at his place.
She was in the bedroom, talking quietly. Then five minutes later she returned. She turned her back to him, so he could continue with his drying task.
‘You have a job,’ she said.
‘What?’ His hands stopped moving.
She shook her head, like a horse shaking its mane. ‘Don’t stop.’
‘Who was that on the phone?’
‘Mariko. You are to go to Greece and meet someone. Then you will take him to a safe house in Germany.’
‘What else did she say?’
‘You’ll get a full briefing by email, in the next hour.’
‘At last,’ he sighed. ‘Something to do. Can you sort out breakfast? I’m going to have a shower now.’
As the water cascaded over him, Nick thought about the circumstances that had brought him here. Lauren had been kidnapped. He had tracked her down to the house in Hastings and then killed her two abductors. As a consequence, his career as a Detective Chief Inspector in the City of London Police had come to an abrupt end. He had no desire to spend 20 years or more in prison, so when he was offered a job as a member of a clandestine Japanese Intelligence Service he saw it as the only option available. The organisation was known as the Crimson Dragon Society. The only reason he’d been made such an offer was because he’d been of assistance to Yoshi Mashida, the head of the Society. They’d smuggled him out of the UK on a container ship and sent him to Jodhpur, to lie low. Now, after almost a year of inactivity, it looked like he was getting his first assignment.
An hour later as promised, an encrypted email arrived. Kamiko sat next to him as he read it. His itinerary must have been arranged in haste, he thought. He was to leave Jodhpur this evening and fly to New Delhi, where he would get a connecting flight to Athens. From there it was another short flight to Kos. The tickets were all booked. His brief was simply to meet someone called Max and escort him to Germany. To do that they would return to Athens and meet a contact, who had arranged the use of a car. It was a three-day drive to Heidelberg, where yet another person would be waiting for them at the safe house. Photos of the man they would meet in Athens and the woman running the safe house were attached. Plus one of Max, dated 2006.
‘This photo is ten years old,’ Nick muttered. Max was on a beach somewhere, with a girl of about fifteen. They sat together on the sand, smiling for the camera. Max was heavily-built but not overweight. He had dark, wavy hair. Everything about the face was broad; the nose, the full lips, the sharply defined chin and the wide hazel eyes. The smile wasn’t forced and had a certain charm; he seemed quite comfortable in front of the camera. The girl, by contrast, was long and slim. She had his eyes though, and the same wavy black hair. Probably his daughter, Nick decided.
‘Not a lot of information,’ he said. ‘Looks like I’m just a minder.’
‘Should be easy, then,’ replied Kamiko. ‘But Mariko didn’t say what prompted him to ask for help. You’ll find out soon enough.’
Nick was using an alias for travel purposes. On his passport he was ‘Nicholas Webb’, whose occupation, should anyone ask, was a private security consultant. Mr. Webb was unmarried and had a verifiable back story. He’d spent countless hours on that story over the last year, rehearsing the details of his other life until he knew it perfectly. He wasn’t anticipating any problems when it came to entering Europe again, but it paid to be prepared if some official did decide to question him.
It was 11.30am when the flight from Athens to Kos touched down at Hippocrates Airport. It was the last leg of a 20-hour journey. Nick had slept in fits and starts between the two flight transfers. He felt weary but alert as he made his way to the Hertz desk in the main terminal. He only needed a hire car for as long as it took to collect Max and return to the airport. It would have been a lot
easier if Max had simply met him in Athens; the flight time from Kos was just under an hour. But according to Mariko he wasn’t going anywhere until a representative of the Crimson Dragon Society showed up at his door.
Half an hour later he was in a VW Polo, headed south-west. Kefalos was the last town before the coast, and after passing through it some 20 minutes later he turned off towards the western side of the island. The road was good and traffic sparse. In another ten minutes he’d reached the village he’d been told to drive through and found the olive grove. He took the first entrance and drove slowly in a gradual ascent along a winding, dusty track just wide enough for two vehicles. Max’s villa only came into sight a few minutes later. One last bend through the trees and there it stood, all white stone walls and blue-shuttered windows. He parked the car and climbed out.
The front door was open, but there was no sign of Max. A small entrance hall opened out into a spacious living area, with a kitchen off to one side. There were stairs straight ahead of him. He paused, feeling the place. His training had included certain esoteric exercises that sharpened his awareness, and right now he was aware of someone above him.
‘Max?’
‘I’m on the balcony. Come up. There’s a new bottle of water in the fridge. Bring it up, will you?’
Nick found the bottle and took it upstairs. Another hallway on this level led to the back of the villa and he passed through an arched doorway out on to the balcony.
Max sat at the table, facing him. He was recognisable from the image Nick had been provided with. The last ten years had been kind to him. The hair was greying and receding and the face had acquired a few lines, but it was definitely the man in the photo.
‘Have a seat.’
Nick did as he was bid. There were two glasses on the table already. He opened the bottle of water.
‘Let me,’ said Max, taking the bottle. He didn’t pour. Instead, he took a long look at Nick and then at a photo of his own, holding it at arm’s length. He turned it towards Nick.
