THE ORANGE MOON AFFAIR

by AFN CLARKE

  "Hi. Great car you have sir," I said and extended my hand. He ignored it and turned his eyes to the car, walked around slowly scrutinising it from every angle.

  “You say you fixed the fuel problem?” he said without looking at me.

  “Yes sir. One of the algorithms that adjusts the turbocharger back pressure was interfering with the fuel injection metering unit. I programmed a fail-safe so it never happens again.”

  De Costas looked at me blankly and then again there was a slight puzzlement in his eyes as he stared at me. I stared right back, trying to keep an excited expression on my face like a puppy that had just learned a new trick, and was waiting for a treat.

  “You work for Orion?”

  “Yes sir, we make the best on-board central....”

  “Yeah right,” he interrupted just as a black Range Rover braked to a halt. He looked annoyed and nervous as the rear passenger side window rolled down and a dark haired woman looked at De Costas imperiously. Sean Flynn stepped out of the driver's seat and stood between the woman and De Costas.

  “Make sure all the other units are fixed,” De Costas said between clenched teeth. “And make sure it gets cleaned up,” he commanded and hurried away to the car, climbing into the front passenger seat. The woman stared at me for a long moment until the tinted window rolled up and blocked my view. I had a feeling I had seen her before, and cursed the head injury that was messing with my memory, but as the Range Rover drove away I knew where I had seen her. Once in De Costas' office in San Francisco and then again at the Mojave facility, but there was another memory nagging at the back of my mind. From her behaviour, it seemed that De Costas deferred to her, and if that was the case, then the mystery was deepening at every turn. And again I wondered if I had been recognised. Now it was even more imperative that I get back into 'The Lab' tonight. My time here was rapidly running out, and instinct told me I had less than twenty-four hours to get out of Ireland.

  It was another late night, with Billy and I supposedly working on the other systems we had collected from the parts department. There was of course nothing wrong with them at all, and while we worked I filled Billy in with what I had found and what I was going to do.

  “You shouldn't be here, so make some excuse and leave now,” I told him quietly, my voice low so the microphone on the CCTV wouldn't pick it up. “Tell gate security I'll be at least another four to five hours, completing the fixes De Costas ordered.”

  “Okay.”

  Ten minutes later, Billy stood up and stretched.

  “De Costas wants them all completed tonight, Tom. I told the wife I'd be back early. She's not feeling so well.”

  “No problem Billy, I've got it covered.”

  “I'll buy you a pint tomorrow.”

  “You're on, but it'll be two pints.”

  He laughed, winked at me and strolled away. I hoped our little play-acting convinced whoever was watching the CCTV that we were just a couple of workers under duress from the Boss to get everything done. For the past few hours, we had established a routine of stacking the units on the bench on the far wall, which was out-of-site of the CCTV camera, and talking to each other. I worked on the bench where I couldn't be seen and talked to Billy as he worked on the car.

  When Billy left I turned on the car stereo and set the music to low as I whistled tunelessly and worked. Using the iPhone, I recorded my tuneless whistling, and every now and then, swore loudly and cursed De Costas time schedule. It was raining again outside and I knew none of the guards was going to check on me.

  Another hour and I set the iPhone to play, made another trip to the car so the guard could see me, then slipped out of the testing bay into the night, dialling Oldfield as I went. I had one hour to see what I could find and get back to the testing bay before the iPhone stopped playing.

  “I think I found what we missed last night,” Oldfield said immediately, not wasting time with a perfunctory greeting. “There is a touch pad just inside the room to the right, about shoulder height. Don't know what it does, but try it anyway.”

  “I won’t be able to tell you what's happening, the walls are too thick.”

  “Okay. Good luck.”

  The problem with rain is that the only way to avoid leaving a trail is to strip off shoes and any other wet clothing. The temperature had dropped considerably and it looked as if the rain may turn to snow, which would not be good. There was no heating inside the main manufacturing building and as I stripped off my shoes and outer clothing, I could feel the freezing temperature begin to bite into me. Cold is not a temperature I enjoy, and weeks of training days in the Brecon Beacons during winter when I was in the Army, always made me long for the Mediterranean sunshine. I must have been an interesting sight creeping between the robots in bare feet, underwear and a tee shirt, but at least I wasn't leaving a trail of footsteps behind.

  Nobody was in the office and within thirty seconds I was in 'The Lab' and looking for the touch pad. On the second attempt, I heard a whirring sound and turned to see the centre of the room start to rise revealing what I can only describe as a complicated pressure pump assembly, but with many more pipes, valves and what could only be described as, small round 'containment' vessels. But at the centre there were a series of long glass vacuum tubes, which looked to me like those used for lasers. At the far end was a foundry furnace with a metal tube leading to a metal stamping or moulding machine. Pulling out the burn phone I snapped as many photographs as I could. Already I had taken thirty minutes out of my self-imposed one-hour time limit and needed to get out of here. But curiosity took over, as I spotted what seemed to be another door on the other side of the machinery that hadn't been apparent before.

  It took a minute to find the touch pad and, when triggered, the centre floor section lowered, concealing the 'machine', then a section of the wall slid upwards like a very sophisticated 'roll-up' garage door, and about the same size. It was a large air chamber and as I stepped inside, the door slid shut beside me, the air pressure changed and another door slid open revealing what could only be a loading bay. The big metal roll up on the far side of the loading bay being the one I had seen as Billy and I had walked around the factory. On the right-hand side were two metal cylinders about a foot in diameter and three feet long, and on the other side metal ammunition style boxes stacked to the ceiling. I took snapshots of the cylinders and ammunition boxes, especially the writing on the side, which looked East European. It was freezing cold and just when I thought I was done and could get the hell out, the outside door started to open.

  The only place to hide was behind the cylinders, where I could just see what was going on. I could hear the sound of an engine and once the door was open, the Range Rover I had seen earlier drove into the loading bay. The door closed, lights came on and the woman with the expensive perfume stepped out of the rear passenger door. De Costas was nowhere to be seen but one of his henchmen accompanied the woman, opened the rear cargo door of the Range Rover and removed two long cylindrical cartons like those used to transport maps or drawings. These ones however seemed quite heavy. Raising the camera and ensuring that the flash was deactivated, I snapped a few shots. They entered the airlock and disappeared from view. I had no choice but to shiver in the cold dark and wait. The only way out for me without being seen was back the way I came.

  When you're freezing cold, time drags by interminably. You invent all sorts of little games to keep your mind off the fact the fact that your extremities might slowly be succumbing to frostbite and all the horrors that entailed. So you think up puzzles. Think of somewhere warm and sunny, and do as many exercises as you can to keep the circulation going. I had about fifteen minutes to get back to the testing bay before my time was up and the guards overcame their laziness and checked out the testing bay to see what I was doing.

  Then 'The Lab' door slid open, and the woman and her bodyguard returned to the Range Rover and drove away. I waited another minute just in case they had forgotten something then ran to the door an
d pressed the touch pad.

  Seven minutes later, I was back in the testing bay, whistling to myself and fiddling with one of the control boxes, when I heard the door opening.

  “You not finished yet Mr Nelson,” the security guard I knew as Martin said.

  “Just two minutes, Martin,” I said with what I hoped was a tired and somewhat pissed off tone. “If De Costas finds anything wrong with these I swear I'll.... Well... do something.”

  Martin laughed. “I heard a lot of swearing going on, that's for sure.”

  “Okay I'm done. Anymore and next time you come around I'll be hanging from the beams.”

  “That bad was it?”

  “And more. Billy owes me big time,” I said as I passed him, clapping him on the shoulder as I went. “Mind locking up Martin?”

  “No problem. See you tomorrow, or would that be later today?” he said laughing, as he closed and locked the door.

  As I approached the B&B, some instinct inside me that I never understood, made me stop. Instead of driving direct to the house, I parked the car a hundred metres away. Something just didn't seem right. Patrolling behind enemy lines in the dead of night sharpened your sense of survival. It couldn't be taught, it had to be experienced. Every part of my body tingled as I had been charged with static electricity.

  I made my way down the pitch-dark street. A light snow had begun to fall, replacing the rain, but not settling yet. I had no idea whether De Costas recognised me, or maybe the woman. And I felt that if they had, they sure as hell wouldn't me alive. As they say, 'dead men tell no tales'.

  All my being was concentrated on the B&B up ahead. There were no lights on, except for the front porch, which Mrs Dillon left on when I worked late, but for an instant a shadow momentarily flickered across the window of my room. It was just a fleeting impression.

  The house next door had a garage, the roof of which extended to just below the upstairs landing window. I slipped into the garden and quietly moved up to the garage. There was no sound from either house.

  It took me three minutes to climb onto the roof, making sure that I didn't make a sound. The roof groaned softly as it took my weight, but hopefully the sound couldn't be heard over the wind. I was just about to grab hold of the window ledge when the sound of a car made me duck and lie flat. The headlights swept over me as the car turned around in the cul-de-sac and drove away. The landing window opened without a sound, and I waited, listening, to see if the intruder I thought I saw came to investigate as cold air started to flood into the house. I slipped inside and shut the window. Somehow I made it over to the door of my room without making so much as a squeak. It was time to do some thinking. The intruder inside the room would almost certainly have a weapon of some sort. If I were in his position, I would have a buddy downstairs, waiting for me to return. I moved away from the door to the head of the stairs. There, at the bottom of the stairs, outlined in the light from the porch flooding in through the hall window, lay Eileen. There was a dark patch on the carpet around her head, a sound of carefully placed footsteps, and a man moved into view. I knew I was dealing with professional killers. He moved over to Eileen's body and grabbing her under the arms started to pull her along the hall.

  I was on top of him before he saw me, his cry dying in his throat as I chopped the edge of my hand hard and viciously into his Adam's apple. There was a satisfying crack and he slumped to the ground, clutching his throat and trying to shout. He died there on the floor with the blood that choked him bubbling out onto the carpet to mingle with Eileen’s.

  It had been quick and soundless.

  There was no sign of movement from upstairs. I quickly searched the killer and found a MP-443 Grach 9mm automatic with a silencer attached. Useful piece of artillery, designed for the Russian military that had a seventeen round magazine and one 'up-the-spout'. The 9mm rounds were armour piercing and the gun only supplied to Russian Special Forces.

  All the marks and maker's names had been removed from his clothing and there were no papers on him at all. I left him and went quietly back upstairs. Outside the door, I paused, took up position and coughed softly.

  "Mikhail?" came a whispered voice from the room. I didn't reply and heard the sound of the man cautiously moving across the room to the door. I fired and kicked the door open. The round caught him in the side and torn out a great lump of muscle and flesh and threw him against the far wall. For a moment he stared down at the wound in disbelief, then fell to his knees, his gun falling from his hand. I kicked it away, grabbed a handful of hair, and wrenched his face up so he could see me.

  "Right, now let's have some answers," I said. "Who sent you? Was it De Costas? Who?"

  He looked at me without seeing. The shock of the 9mm steel core high powered round had stunned him, so I slapped his face hard. "I want some answers. Who was it? Answers." Another slap put some sparkle back into his eyes.

  "Don't know. Maybe De Costas." His breathing was laboured. "Not…. our.... idea...." He coughed and a dribble of scarlet spit ran down his chin.

  "Listen mate, you're dying, so you might as well tell me what I want to know."

  He nodded his head weakly.

  "Fine. So who the hell is hiring Russian Special Forces, or should I say ex-Russian Special Forces, if it isn't De Costas?"

  He coughed again before replying. "We... have contact... London. Richard Stacy... he have insurance company." He coughed and retched, the effort making the hole in his side bleed more profusely. "Number twelve Cornfield R…. Road. Kensington."

  "What's in the cylinders from Estonia," I asked.

  He looked at me clearly for the first time. There was hate in his eyes.

  "Go f.. f.. fuck yourself," he said. I hit him with the barrel of the gun, tearing the skin of his cheek to the bone.

  "Where’s Mrs Dillon?"

  "Dead. B…. broke her n.. n.. neck. Kill me British pig." His eyes glazed and he started to laugh, a thin maniacal sound knowing he was going to die.

  I took a picture of him, and then gave him his last wish.

  The back of his head blew off and decorated the bedclothes and wall with crimson and grey. I looked down at the mess and felt no sorrow at all. He was just another dead reptile in the menagerie of violence that seemed to consume the world. Downstairs I wiped the Grach clean and put it in the Russian mercenary's hand, and took a photograph of him too. Oldfield was going to be busy.

  From the time I fired the first round to the time I crawled back onto the garage roof, three minutes had elapsed. The silencer was very effective and nobody would have heard the shots. The street was empty and I looked back at the house where my presence had cost two innocent people their lives and wondered how many more were going to die because I wanted revenge.

  Before driving off, I called Oldfield.

  “I'm sending photos,” I said quickly before he could say anything and hit the data send button.

  “Got them.”

  “Don't call me, I'll be in touch in two days.” Then I dismantled the phone, took out the SIM card, dropped the phone on the road and ground it into little pieces. The SIM card I would destroy later.

  FOURTEEN

  Below the number twelve on the pillar beside the door, was an ornate copper plate upon which was engraved Richard Stacy - Insurance Broker. Cornfield Road was in a fashionable part of Kensington. The freshly painted white exterior of the Georgian terrace and black wrought iron railings dripped with rain that made odd patterns on the impossibly clean windows, and pattered softly on the pavement. It seemed oddly fitting that this was where a Mercenary recruiter did business.

  On the trip over from Ireland, I had put in a call to Danny, explained the situation very briefly and he gave me another alias and set up the appointment. I recognised the name as one of our team from way back, who had disappeared on a raid in Pakistan. After talking to Danny, I called Edwards at the Overseas League, who was not at all surprised to hear from me, and had him meet me in the back room of the Golden Lion Inn with a c
hange of clothes I had delivered to the Club at what seemed a life-time ago.

  I pressed the intercom button and looked up at the small unobtrusive CCTV camera.

  “May I help you?” came a cultured woman's voice with the slightly bored tone used by rich girls we used to call 'Sloane Rangers'.

  “Bonhoeffer. Mr Stacy is expecting me,” I said crisply.

  The door opened and I walked into a brightly lit reception room, which oddly spanned the width of the building. Obviously Richard Stacy was careful with his own security, as was the Receptionist, who may have sounded bored, but kept her right hand below the desk. I guessed she had a rather large semi-automatic pointed right at my stomach. However when she saw me, she relaxed and even managed a smile, perhaps because I had cleaned up, was wearing one of my Kilgour suits and handmade shoes by Markus Scheer. The receptionist true to her 'Sloane Ranger' ancestry recognised wealth and style when she saw it, and stood up from the desk.

  “Mr Stacy is expecting you Mr Bonhoeffer. This way please.” She led me through an open archway to the left of her desk, which I figured was probably a body scanner, to an imposing oak door and touched the frame. The door swung open and she stepped aside allowing me to enter.

  Richard Stacy was tall, slim, just as elegantly dressed as I, and moved with an easy grace that comes from being physically fit. His gunmetal grey eyes matched his short almost US Marine Corps style hair.

  He held out his hand and the warm smile on his soft lips did not touch his eyes that watched me carefully. “Mr Bonhoeffer, I'm delighted to meet you. Please sit, may I offer you tea or coffee?”

  I shook his hand and was surprised to find it slightly clammy and not as firm as his manner suggested, then took a seat on the settee against the right hand wall. The office was just as I would have expected to find in a Victorian 'Gentleman's Club'. Wood panelled walls, bookcases and photographs of Stacy in combat camouflage with groups of soldiers, and others in a dinner jacket at a black tie affair. I just glanced at them, not really interested, but taking them in none-the-less.