by AFN CLARKE
Flying alongside the yacht I inched it forward, then sideways until we were over the deck, then put it down as if this was something I did every day.
Before the rotors stopped turning, we were surrounded by Marika Keskküla's private security.
Danny opened the door and held his improvised grenade up for them to see. Confusion showed in their faces and they backed away as Marika Keskküla stepped from the bridge onto the bridge wing and looked down at us.
“Vähendada oma relvad,” she commanded, and her men obeyed, lowering their weapons. “Perhaps, Mr Gunn you would be kind enough to dispose of those bombs and join me in the saloon,” she said smiling slightly. “Näidata neile, et salongis,” she said to one of the men, who inclined his head and extended his arm, pointing the way.
The yacht's saloon was more like the living room of a baronial hall. Tapestries and 17th century oil paintings hung on the walls, and sumptuous brown leather settees and armchairs were arranged around an exquisitely hand made mahogany coffee table, big enough to play pool on. But my eyes were not on the furnishings; they were on Adrian Newell, who sat nervously clutching a glass of red wine and smoking a cigar. To his left sat a blonde haired woman I thought I recognised from CEO magazine, as the new head of a major Investment Bank in the USA, and three other men whose faces were vaguely familiar.
Marika Keskküla walked slowly around the back of the saloon toward me, smiling like a leopard stalking. She was poised, confident and unafraid.
“You know you are trespassing on Estonian Sovereign territory, Mr Gunn,” she said silkily, her voice low. “I could have you and your men shot.”
“Then why don't you?”
“What would be the sense in that,” she laughed. “We are law abiding citizens, unlike, it seems, you.”
“I'm not sure Samuel De Costas would agree,” I said watching the blood drain from Adrian Newell's face.
“Samuel? I hope he is in California making sure my shipments of high pressure pumps for my oil shale company will be delivered on time,” she said smoothly, still smiling.
“Perhaps you should try calling him.”
Her smile never left her lips, but her eyes grew dark with menace and the atmosphere in the saloon changed noticeably.
I turned to Adrian. “I'm surprised to find you here Adrian. What company business would you be conducting?”
“Mrs Keskküla has expressed an interest in our African coltan mining business, we were discussing a possible partnership,” Adrian replied shakily.
“Without board approval?”
“You were reported dead, Thomas.”
“As you can see. Not so.”
Marika Keskküla stepped forward impatiently. “What can I do for you, Mr Gunn?”
“Tell me where the DU ammunition is and let me search this vessel for the Uranium Hexaflouride storage tanks.”
“If I knew what you were talking about, I'd be happy to, but alas I have absolutely no idea.” She had recovered her composure a little and I wondered how much time I had before she changed her mind and let the dogs loose. “You have outstayed your welcome, Mr Gunn.” She looked past my shoulder and in the mirror behind her I saw the reflection of Hamish McDougall with a small automatic in his hand.
“There is a navy vessel on its way and if you listen, the Irish Air Corps have just arrived, Hamish. So I suggest you put that toy away.” I said coldly as a helicopter flew low overhead, banked and steadied above the yacht. “So we'll be leaving now.” I looked at Adrian. “Make sure the Sikorsky is returned, Adrian. And you're fired.”
I turned and faced Hamish. “I had a feeling you were behind this.”
“You never did listen, even when you were a boy, Thomas. I told you to leave it alone,” he said reproachfully as if apologetic.
“You killed Mary,” I lied, wondering if he knew she was still alive. “Why did you do that?”
He shrugged. “I thought with your father dead, then you, it would be tidier. It's for the greater good. If I thought you'd join us I would ask, but I think the time has passed for that. Don't you agree?” He held the gun higher.
“Not here,” snapped Marika Keskküla. “Not now.”
“That will be a mistake,” Hamish said gritting his teeth.
“That is my problem, not yours. Put the gun down. He doesn’t know anything.
“Next time take the shot Hamish, if you get the chance, because I won't miss,” I said as I pushed past him out onto the deck. Danny and Paul were standing beside the helicopter, in a 'Mexican stand-off' with the Estonians. Overhead the Irish pilot stared down at us. I waved and climbed aboard, started the engine and waited.
“What are we waiting for, Thomas, let's get the hell out of here,” Danny shouted.
“We'll be in British territorial waters in less than one minute,” I replied, as I felt the yacht start to slow, hoping I was right. Feeling a sense of satisfaction as the Irish helicopter dropped back behind the yacht. We cleared the bow by a matter of inches and I dropped to sea level and sped away before the Estonians could bring their weapons to bear, not that they would risk a fire fight in full view of the Irish Air Corps.
As we flew away from the yacht, I knew two things for certain.
The first was that Adrian was a dead man. Marika Keskküla could not afford me getting hold of him. He was a liability.
And the second was that whatever she and Hamish McDougall were involved in went far beyond the shores of the UK, and into the highest levels of Government and International business.
The aerodrome at RAF Valley in Anglesey was the closest British military installation, a seventy-five minute flight, and by the time the Hawk T2 trainers from IV Squadron intercepted us, the EC120 was flying on fumes. Danny had been on the radio since we took off from the yacht and arranged the reception committee, for which the trainee Hawk pilots were more than willing to oblige. Not to mention the SARTU (Search And Rescue Training Unit) AW139 pilots who had been scrambled in case we had to ditch. Their briefing was that it was a training exercise in support of 22 SAS, and obviously excited them judging by the radio traffic.
“No way am I ditching,” I said emphatically as Danny finished his last call. “This little baby is going on the ground in one piece.”
“I'd like that,” Paul quipped. “The Irish Sea is cold this time of year.”
“Where's your sense of adventure,” Danny chimed in and we laughed, releasing the tension of the last twenty four hours as I saw the airport ahead and the pair of hovering, and no doubt disappointed, AW139s.
Much to my chagrin, the landing was less than perfect, as we ran out of fuel just as I flared and we skidded across the tarmac before coming to a stop. At least that would give the trainee pilots something to talk about. We were whisked away to a drab building before anyone had the chance to shake our hands.
Danny wasn't saying anything, nor was Paul, just staring out of the window of the de-briefing room with a couple of armed RAF Regiment, from No.2 Squadron judging by their Parachute wings. If ever I felt more like an outsider, it was now. My past service in 1PARA as part of SFSG didn't seem to count.
The door open, interrupting my melancholy reflections and Jonathan Radley strode into the room.
“I see you've managed to create quite a stir, Mr Gunn,” he said as if addressing a local Woman's Institute meeting. “The Estonian Embassy have filed a formal complaint that you violated their sovereign territory by boarding their yacht, the 'Marika'.”
“Really. I was simply attending a meeting regarding a possible business partnership in Africa between the Gunn Group and Keskküla Mining,” I replied evenly. I knew this was being recorded.
For the first time Radley's eyes showed a sense of humour and his lip twitched slightly. “Dressed like that?”
“Paintball practice. No time to change. The meeting was last minute.”
This time he allowed a small cough that could have been mistaken for a suppressed laugh. “And my agents here?”
“
Same thing. We get together now and again. For old time's sake.”
“Come,” he said turning and walking briskly from the room out into the cold Anglesey day. When we were far enough from the building and close to the runway where Hawk T1 pilots were practicing 'touch-and-go' landings, he stopped and turned to me. “You are a signatory to the Official Secrets Act, Mr Gunn,” he said watching me carefully. “So whatever we discuss is between us. Do you understand?” I nodded. “Are you prepared to work with us, or are you simply on a vendetta to avenge your father's death?”
“Not only my father. Julie and Mary. You have a responsibility too?” I said angrily. I was not a puppet. I refused to be a puppet.
“Mary is alive and recovering,” he said pausing, watching me carefully. “And so is Julie.”
For a moment the world seemed to topple on its side. The horizon tilted and the grey sky flickered with multi-coloured lights.
“Julie's not dead?” I said meaninglessly. “She's alive? That's not possible, I saw her die.”
“She's alive. We needed you to think she was dead,” Radley said slowly, all the time watching my eyes carefully. “Hatred is a great motivator.”
Danny moved alongside me, hand on my shoulder as I tensed, staring at Radley. “Easy mate. Easy.”
“I always did hate you sons-of-bitches. Who are you? MI5. MI6?”
“Does it matter?”
“No it doesn't,” I said, barely able to keep my voice and anger under control. “Where is she?”
“First we talk, then I tell you,” Radley said sensing that my anger had subsided somewhat. “You always knew there was more to this than just a friend helping a friend, Mr Gunn. Danny and Paul have been your personal bodyguards. Their idea, not mine.”
Danny stared down at the ground as a Hawk blasted overhead, and Paul watched the aircraft fly into the distance. Neither wanted to look at me, though I knew they were doing what they had to do. It was their job.
He was right. All the time, deep down I knew I wasn't on my own. I was being guided, allowed to flex my desire for vengeance. It had been so easy to slip in and out of Northern Ireland, get fake IDs, passports, and weapons. I just didn't want to think about it, just exact revenge for my father's death.
“Professionally,” Radley continued. “I don't give a damn about your reasons for pursuing this vendetta, I need your expertise, recklessness and expendability. I didn't expect you to survive, and yet, here you are.”
“And how do I know you're not in league with Hamish McDougall?”
“Because you would be dead, zipped in a body bag and consigned to the deep by now. As would your friends.”
“What about the Increment? Where do they fit in?”
“McDougall's boys. They tried to enlist Danny and Paul here, along with a few others, but they failed as you can see.”
“I don't trust you.”
“The feeling is mutual, I can assure you.” He held up his hand and I noticed he was wearing a wrist brace. “But I do take comfort from the fact that if you can do this to an ally, what will you do to an enemy,” he said quietly, allowing himself another small smile.
“What do you want from me?”
“I want McDougall and his organisation. I want all the information you can possibly get on who they are and what they plan. And then I want them destroyed before they destroy us, and by us, I mean this country.” Radley replied with venom.
“And what do I get?”
“Your life back, and the satisfaction of once again serving your country.”
“You're all heart.”
“I have no heart. I have a job to do and I'll use the best tools at my disposal to do that job,” he said emphatically. “Are you with us?”
I looked at Paul and Danny, and then nodded. “I want to see Julie.”
“You have twenty four hours, and then we meet again. Danny knows the location.” He walked away toward the private jet I had spotted on our arrival, then turned and looked at me. “You're a natural warrior, Gunn, whether you like it or not. That's why I chose you.” Then turned and continued toward the jet that was already winding up its engines.
“We're refuelled and ready to go,” Danny said.
“Where?”
“Back to Calder Hall. Julie's waiting.”
SIXTEEN
She was standing near the helipad with her father. As beautiful as ever, with her blonde hair blowing in the downdraft, smiling as we landed. And then she was in my arms and I never wanted to let her go ever again. Gently she pulled back and held my face in her soft hands. When she spoke it was not the soft lilting, laughing voice I knew, but strained as if the act of speaking was an effort.
“I'm so happy you're safe,” she said haltingly, holding my face tightly, tears streaming down her cheeks.
“They didn't tell me you were alive,” I said watching her eyes staring at my lips. “What happened?” Alarm coursed through every cell in my body.
“I'm deaf,” she said. “Maybe just temporarily. The crash... I hit my head and dislocated the bones in my inner ear.”
“She needs an operation to have the ossicular bones repaired.” Oldfield said softly.
“I need an operation,” Julie said not hearing that her father had already spoken.
“You've known all along?” I asked Oldfield. He nodded. I stared at him coldly. “I’m sorry Thomas. I had no choice but to lie to you.”
Julie saw the exchange. “It's not his fault, Thomas. You didn't need the distraction.” She looked away and then back at me. “I asked them not to tell you.” She kissed me lingeringly, and then took my hand. “You need a shower and a change of clothes. You stink.”
I'd forgotten just how desperate Danny, Paul and I looked. Covered in dust and dirt, still in our black combat outfit and flack jackets, and me with congealed blood from the bullet wound in my arm. For the first time since landing, I looked around and saw armed men at strategic points around the Hall. Radley was as good as his word. Julie and Mary would be safe here.
Henderson and Ron greeted us at the back door, and showed Danny and Paul to their rooms, while I let Julie lead me to the flat and slowly take off my clothes, tears springing to her eyes as she saw the wound.
“It's looks worse than it is,” I said, almost forgetting to turn face her so she could lip-read.
“I'll be the judge of that.”
“Does it hurt?” I asked.
“What?”
“Your head. Where you were injured,” I said awkwardly.
She smiled and shook her head. “No. Just a ringing in my head that drives me crazy some times, but they tell me the surgery will fix that.”
“I... missed you...” I started to say, but she pressed her fingers to my mouth.
“I know.”
“I've never told you how much I love you, Julie,” I said softly. It was hard to say the words, but I needed to tell her. “I do. More than anything else.”
“That's why we couldn't tell you I was alive,” she said, tears flowing down her cheeks. “This is bigger than us, Thomas. Remember that. I'll still be here when it's finished.”
For the rest of the night we pretended we were back in Gozo on the yacht and that everything that had happened; hadn't happened. That lip reading was a game and security outside didn't exist. Oldfield, Danny and Paul left us alone knowing that tomorrow, reality would break with the dawning of the day, and we would once again be soldiers.
Oldfield typed the words 'Orange Moon' into the user field and I then read off the reference number that was on the label of the pot I found beside Mary. As soon as the last figure was typed, the computer linked through to Stacy's files hidden in his cloud account. His insurance policy was there for us to see. Obviously he had been thinking like my father and didn't trust a soul, but his downfall was greed and not Patriotism.
We all sat in total disbelieving silence and read. There on the screen was a complete dossier on an organisation that none of us had ever heard of, called the Internat
ional Security & Economic Council. However I did suspect that Radley probably knew. It had its base in big business and recruited from the top echelons of Parliament, the military and the civil service. There were lists of targeted possible donors in investment banks, venture capital companies, unions, universities and lobbying groups from around the world. It was a 'Who's-Who' of the wealth of the world. Then there were the lists of those actually on the Board of Trustees of the Council. Adrian Newell's name topped the list as chairman, which perhaps didn't surprise me, but what did surprise me was that neither Hamish McDougall nor Marika Keskküla's name were mentioned anywhere. Nor were Rathborne Micro-Electronics, Venus Automotive or Samuel De Costas. Unless you actually knew the connection between them, there would have been no way of knowing that the ISEC was anything but a group of high level businessmen and politicians whose concerns were the economic future of the Western World. There was nothing in the general description of the ISEC to distinguish themselves from other organisations such as the Bilderberg Group, whose members included Kings, European aristocracy, American politicians and corporate giants from Europe and America. The ISEC were less discerning, listing among their members Asian business tycoons and Dictators, Russian billionaires and African Warlords.
Stacy had kept meticulous records, but nothing that suggested any law breaking activities. Unless we could definitively link Marika Keskküla, the Gunn Group and Samuel De Costas, we had little to go on.
The only link was Hamish McDougall. Danny, Paul and I officially did not exist. Even the Gunn Group accounts had been 'cleansed' of the Government injection of capital for Rathborne Micro-Electronics, converted into the investment into Venus Automotive, which conveniently had been blown up and burned to the ground. Any evidence of DU ammunition manufacture, destroyed. The only notation were the letters 'CDS' in the Gunn Group's accounting of the Rathborne Micro-Electronics loan, next to the final figures, followed by more letters 'ABTC'.
