THE ORANGE MOON AFFAIR

by AFN CLARKE

  The pit of my stomach tightened into a knot and my heart seemed about to beat its way out of my chest.

  The first miss was not pure chance.

  It was a deliberate.

  Just a nick on my cheek.

  The second, a warning shot.

  I ducked behind a low wall scanning the buildings on the other side of the Thames, not that I expected to see anything. The gunman would have gone by now. I straightened and turned to see a Policeman standing staring at me.

  "Is there anything the matter, sir?" he said calmly.

  "Just turned my ankle," I said as conversationally as I could.

  "Have you been drinking by any chance, sir?"

  "A couple of glasses of wine and a brandy at lunch. Broke my ankle a few years ago playing rugby and the ligaments are shot."

  "I suggest you go home and sleep it off, sir." The brandy on my breath had obviously convinced him that I had just had a liquid lunch. I apologised, he nodded and went on his way. Somewhere in the back of my mind I had a niggling suspicion that whoever missed me, did so on purpose.

  "I can't believe it," Julie said when I told her what happened. "Surely there must be some marks where the bullets hit.”

  "Oh, there are. One on me and a scratch on the pedestal of Cleopatra's Needle, but the spent rounds would have disappeared to the bottom of the Thames. This on my cheek is just the thinnest of touches. The sniper picked the spot so that if he missed, no bullets would be found."

  "But that is all just guesswork. How do you know that you were shot at? Perhaps there was some kid throwing stones.”

  "I do know what a low velocity round sounds like."

  “All I'm saying is that you've been under a lot of pressure recently. You could be mistaken.”

  I crossed to the walk in closet opened the door and went to the far wall, pressed a hidden button and opened the wall safe. Inside were the only tangible pieces of evidence of my service in the British Army. Campaign medals, my Parachute Regiment wings and beret and photographs taken in Afghanistan and Iraq.

  “This is my past life,” I said laying everything on the bed for Julie to see. “You know I was in the Army, you don’t know the full story.”

  Julie picked up the photographs and slowly looked at them. “I told you when we first met, I do my research. But you’re right. I don’t know everything about you.”

  “I joined the Parachute Regiment as a Private soldier, then was commissioned and spent my first tour in Iraq commanding a platoon. Then I was deployed to Afghanistan as part of the Special Forces Support Group.” I pointed to the photograph of myself with three other soldiers standing beside a Puma helicopter. “That was taken just prior to our last mission in Lashkar Gah. I was the only survivor,” I said trying to keep the bad images out of my mind. “I spent four months in intensive care, have a small plate in my skull that sometimes sets off the metal detectors in airports, and a boat load of bad memories.”

  Julie stared at the photographs for a long minute, seeing a life full of secrets I had tried to forget, but the past never leaves and now I was going to use that past to discover the present.

  “What are you going to do?” Julie said eventually.

  “Belfast on Monday, but tonight I need to see an old colleague.”

  “You're not going to tell me who, are you?”

  I shook my head. “Not now.”

  “I want to come with you to Belfast, it'll make your visit seem more family oriented than investigative.” She smiled mischievously. “I like adventure. Remember?”

  “You better understand what we could be up against.” I went back to safe in the walk-in closet and pulled out my Glock 19 Gen4, two magazines that each held fifteen rounds and a burn phone, one of six I had stashed.

  Julie watched carefully. “You're serious about being shot at, aren't you?”

  “Very.”

  I kissed her, tasting her light lip-gloss and feeling the desire and the need to stay, but there were a few things I needed to do tonight.

  Tonight I was going back in time.

  Tonight I am that bastard killing machine.

  Tonight all my old instincts and training were going to be used for my family, and not for a Government who didn't give a crap. I'd been screwing around pretending to be a tycoon long enough, now I had to do what I was most comfortable doing.

  Today I had been sent a warning and a calling card and I knew just where to go and who to see.

  There was no doubt in my mind that the Hall was under surveillance so I used a route I discovered as a child to make my way to the tower 'Folly' on the north western side of the lake. A route of which I knew nobody else was aware. I had discovered a passageway by accident behind one of the cobweb covered dusty wine racks, when I was rummaging around in the kitchen wine cellar playing feudal ten year old child-games, that led two hundred metres to the tower.

  The passageway was a lot smaller than I remembered, only a metre and a half tall by a metre wide, dark, dusty and stinking of mould. At the end was an even smaller door, the key to which I had concealed in a brick on the left side over twenty years ago. It was still there and unlocked the door surprisingly easily and quietly. The Tower had no direct view of the house, so there was no way a surveillance team would use it, however caution, silence and speed are the primary elements of any covert operation. The door squeaked a little as I opened it just far enough to slip through and quickly check the tower. A single curving stone staircase led to the upper level gallery, which was empty. I shut the door, locked it and made sure there was no sign anybody had been in the tower before slipping out into the dark moonless night.

  It was two miles cross-country in the opposite direction of the village to the small ramshackle looking barn where Ron and I kept the Mini-Cooper. It took two hours to cover the distance, following the tall hedgerows that skirted the sugar beet and maize fields, through small woods and eventually reaching the barn tucked into the corner where the woods bordered a fallow field.

  For a further ten minutes I skirted the barn to ensure nobody was watching and then went inside.

  Inside, the barn belied its rough exterior. Ron had kept it just as I remembered, a clean workshop that was a joyful trip back to the excitement and adventure of our childhood. The car lay under a dust cover and looked immaculate. It started immediately and I grinned to myself, sitting feeling the small leather bound steering wheel and specially designed gearshift, before getting out and opening the barn door.

  On the open road the little car was fun, and after a few minutes throwing it around the country lanes, I settled back to the legal speed limit and drove toward north London. I was headed to Muswell Hill to a place I knew well, and a former colleague who now worked as a stunt co-ordinator for film and television.

  The Glock felt a little odd. It had been a while since I wore a shoulder holster but as the miles ticked away I barely noticed it, my mind focused on the meeting ahead and events of the past.

  Danny had invited me to join him on a location hunt in Eire (the Republic of Ireland), for a film he was working on as the second unit director and stunt co-ordinator. I was fresh out of hospital and thinking of flying out to the Mediterranean island of Capri to convalesce on my fifty-seven foot catamaran. Danny convinced to me to take the trip; ten days of relaxing and drinking Guinness in the country of his birth, so we decided to make a holiday of it and drove his old BMW 730i to Liverpool, caught the ferry to Dublin and drove across the country to the small village in Sligo.

  We had forged a friendship in the cauldron of Afghanistan. He was a Sergeant in 22 SAS and we had worked together on several operations, and he led the team that rescued me before the Taliban could return to finish their bloody task.

  For days we drove around Sligo searching for suitable locations during the day and drinking and singing in the local pubs at night.

  Then one day everything changed.

  The owner of Templar Castle House Hotel, Roland Macafee, was standing in his study
staring out across the rolling grounds of Sligo close to the border of Northern Ireland. The house had been in his family for hundreds of years, set in one thousand acres of pristine land, where the air was pure enough to support lichen in the trees. He had renovated the old house, turned most of it into a boutique hotel and employed ten workers from the local village on the farm.

  As we entered his study, Roland turned from the window. His face was pale and the hand holding the glass of Jameson was shaking.

  “Drink?” He crossed to the open drinks cabinet before we could answer and poured two generous shots of Jameson. “Please sit down.” We took the glasses, sat and looked at each as Roland turned back to stare out across the grounds. “This is very difficult for me,” he said slowly. “This afternoon I had a visit from the IRA. They told me that they know who you are and want you gone from here by tomorrow morning.”

  Roland turned back to us, took a long draught of whiskey and poured more.

  “We are no longer in the Army. Don't they know that?” Danny queried, puzzled.

  “They mentioned you both by name and especially you, Danny. Called you a traitor and if you're not gone, they'll make sure you both leave in a body bag.” He stared down into his glass. “I'm sorry, but I have to ask you to leave.”

  “They threatened you and your family, didn't they?”

  “Yes.”

  “We understand, Roland. We'll leave tonight.”

  “Thank you. I'm sorry.”

  We packed and left just before midnight, driving south to Rosslare to catch the ferry to Pembroke. We drove fast, throwing caution to the wind, knowing that distance and time were our friends. Danny handled the big car easily on the narrow country roads, thankfully empty at this time of night and began to sing softly.

  “Over in Killarney, many years ago

  My mother sang a song to me

  In tones so sweet and low.”

  I smiled and joined in, singing softly as the car rolled fast through the corners, tyres screeching.

  “Just a simple little ditty

  In her good old Irish way

  And I'd give the world if she could sing

  That song to me this day.

  Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral, Too-ra-loo-ra-li,

  Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral, hush now don't you cry!

  Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral, Too-ra-loo-ra-li,

  Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral, that's an Irish lullaby.”

  Then burst out laughing, enjoying the adventure and reliving our past lives when life was precarious and exciting.

  At two o'clock in the morning, I drove slowly down the street I was looking for and parked about fifty metres from the four storey Victorian house. During some down-time between tours in Afghanistan, I helped renovate the house starting with the basement kitchen that led out into the sheltered back garden and on up to the attic where Danny and I had installed a hidden gun safe. But that was a while ago, and I wasn't going to let friendship get in the way of what I had to do.

  Slipping out of the car I quickly made my way to the narrow alley between the houses that led to the back garden, then dialled a number on the 'burn-phone'.

  “Thomas?”

  “Hi Danny. Nice job yesterday.”

  “Thank you. You want a meet?”

  “That's why I'm calling.”

  “Usual place, in about say two hours?”

  “Suits me.”

  The phone went dead and I took out the Sim card, smashed the phone and buried it in the neighbour’s flowerbed, then waited in the shadows. Five minutes passed before I saw a shadow move quickly down the garden path to where I was waiting. The gate swung open slowly.

  “Not a flicker, Danny,” I whispered seeing him tense. “Why don't we go inside?”

  “I should have known you'd find a way out of the Hall.”

  “Yes you should.”

  He turned slowly and I could see the familiar jutting jaw and flattened nose of my friend.

  “Still got the Glock I see.”

  “Always.”

  He smiled and walked back to the French windows that led into the kitchen and the small sitting room where we used to sit and drink Jameson Irish Whiskey, and listen to old Caruso recordings.

  “No need for the gun, Thomas.” He crossed to the drinks cabinet and poured two generous measures of Jameson Irish Whiskey, handed me one and sat down in one of the comfortable armchairs and raised his glass.

  “Sláinte.”

  “Cheers,” I replied, watching him carefully. “Whose idea was it to take a shot at me.”

  “That would be me. Only way to get your attention.”

  “And what were you planning if I had met you at the rendezvous?”

  “A chat. But here is as good a place as any. I trust you weren't followed.”

  “Not a chance.”

  “I wouldn't be too sure about that Thomas. You remember the lads from Section 4 don't you?”

  “I thought they called themselves 'The Increment' or some other such dumb name.”

  “That's some wannabe's idiot invention, but they are dangerous bastards. They used to be the Government's own personal hit team.”

  “And now?”

  “They've gone deeper undercover. Nobody knows who they're working for.” He paused and tossed down the remainder of his whisky before refilling our glasses. “Listen mate, I still keep an ear to the ground, do a little job once in a while, and the word's out that certain people in high places don't want you sticking your nose where they think it doesn't belong.”

  “Hence the shot.”

  “They don't know I missed on purpose. And if they did, we wouldn't be talking right now. You'd be attending my funeral.”

  “Why help me?”

  “I don't hurt my friends. Besides, there are other people who want you to figure out why your father was killed.”

  “Like?”

  “You know I can't tell you that.” He sighed heavily. “I'm on your side, Thomas. A silent partner if you like. Nobody can know.”

  I nodded slowly. Danny and I had been through a few tough times, a few rowdy times and had a bond that was based on trust. If it hadn't been, I probably would have shot him in the kneecap before asking questions.

  “I'm off to Belfast on Monday.”

  “You may be needing that,” he said pointing to the Glock resting on the side table. “Remember what happened last time. The IRA have long memories. I'll make sure security looks the other way.”

  “You can still do that?”

  He shrugged and the grin was back. “As I said, I do a few little jobs every now and then. With a name like Danny Sullivan, the boys in Whitehall like to keep me on the payroll.”

  “From what I see you don't need the money. Bond films must pay well.”

  “True, I'm building myself a little house and stables out in Oxfordshire. For my retirement you understand. Films are just play acting, this is real, so be careful.”

  “I got the message. And nothing you do is 'little'.”

  He laughed and raised his glass. “You're right, but what's life for except for living.” He sighed and stared into the glass for a moment and became sombre. “You got a girl?”

  “I do.”

  “Know much about her?”

  “Enough.”

  “Really?”

  “Off limits, Danny.”

  He shrugged. “It's your life.” He stared into his glass, tossed off the last mouthful and looked at me his eyes dark and full of emotion. “We're family, Thomas, remember that. I have your back, just as you have mine.”

  I picked up the bottle, filled our glasses and looked at my friend. “Always. But you know I'll kill you if you betray our trust.”

  Danny touched his glass to mine. “Likewise.” He grinned, his eyes alive with mischief. “Just like old times.”

  “Indeed. I need a resupply of burn phones.”

  “No problem.”

  SEVEN

  The approach to Belfast city airport is straightforward.
There is only one runway. Surprisingly the weather was clear, but unsurprisingly rain was expected in the late afternoon.

  As we crossed the Irish Sea, Julie dozed and I sat listening to Air Traffic Control until they gave me instructions to join the ILS (Instrument Landing System) approach for runway 22. The runway was long enough for big commercial jets, so no problem for the agile Mustang.

  Julie stirred, yawned and rubbed her eyes. “We there yet?”

  “Nearly. About fifteen minutes.”

  “Your buddy going to be here?”

  “Probably not.” I told her about my meeting with Danny, but left out the details of our past dealings as they were covered under the Official Secrets Act.

  “Bet he's not happy to have me tagging along.”

  “Not his call.”

  Air Traffic Control interrupted. “Victor Bravo tower you're clear to land Runway Two Two. Wind Two Five Zero at Five.”

  I selected full flap, nudged the speed brake a little and lowered the landing gear as we angled down to the runway on the edge of city. The early morning sun glistened off the waters of Belfast Lough, and on the port side of the aircraft, Stormont Castle stood out an impressive landmark south of the city. The little jet touched down just beyond the threshold.

  “Victor Bravo turn left taxiway ‘A’ and proceed to the ramp.”

  I let the jet roll fast down to the end of the runway then braked, turning left onto the taxiway that led to the General Aviation parking ramp, where a 'ramper' holding orange-coloured paddles directed me to a parking spot. Behind him and to the left I saw a figure, dressed in the uniform of Airport Security who I knew wasn't who he seemed to be. Danny must have flown him in last night, true to his word of watching my back. I wondered if Whitehall knew, and what they had planned. He was all business, checking the aircraft before leading us to the security checkpoint in the small General Aviation building and swiftly searching our bags, without once giving any sign of knowing me. At this moment I really began to fully realise this wasn't a game I was playing.

  “Thank you sir, ma'am,” the man said in a broad Belfast accent. “Enjoy your stay.” He looked at me and then glanced casually at a man standing next to a cab just outside the door. Just a slight upward nod of the head that no one else would notice, told me what I needed to know. The hairs stood up on the back of my neck and it was all I could do to act like a normal businessman preoccupied with his own world.