Chapter 1
A bright early-morning sun was beginning to break through the cloudy grey autumn sky, its widening areas of blue gave me hope for a decent afternoon’s weather. I was headed south-west from The Thames. The gentle pulse of the newly serviced diesel engine beneath my feet being covered by the music from the small transistor radio.
For the last four days ‘Bellerophon’ had been navigating The River Kennett and her many branches en route to the city of Bath.
I had landed at Gatwick with Yvonne, a week ago from our holiday in Turkey, after the Khajuri episode. As we came through the customs green lane, he was waiting for me, the guy who collared me at the bar in Turkey and gave me, his card. He wasn’t apparent to the general public, just another official in a grey suit. He wanted me to see him, he wanted me to know that they knew I was back in the UK. That’s its holiday over I thought, They could have waited, but that wasn’t how it works. The message was clear by his acknowledgement of my walking through customs with his nod and a smile.
The following day I tapped the number written on the card he gave me. His invitation to meet someone who appears to know far more about me than I was comfortable with was made clear.
I had enjoyed a few weeks away with Yvonne, we had talked, and began to understand each other deciding to enjoy who we were, and not struggle to change each other into something neither of us would relish, the sex was great, as always, and I was feeling good.
That all brings me here, on The River Kennet north-east of Bristol heading toward Bath. The first few days were a pig trying to navigate the maze of streams, dead ends and weirs, thank fuck for GPS. That said it’s a relaxing cruise full of mature willows, leaning gradually into the water from its fertile banks. I was on my third mug of coffee, and the superficial smile I gave as people waved from the bank was beginning to wear thin.
One of the real benefits of cruising is that it gives you lots of time to think, my immediate thoughts were pondering the mystery of why when travelling somewhere by boat everybody wants to frantically wave at you with the expectation of some cheery response? If you stood on the pavement waving at motorists on their way to work they would lock you up and throw away the key.
It was while that question was trying to fathom an answer from my cynical logic, my peripheral vision caught sight of it. Just a little black flick nearly forty feet away on the forward deck. One hundred feet either side of me was the murky green water of the River Kennett so I paid it no attention, dismissing it as a bird or flying insect.
Maybe a minute had passed or two I can’t really remember, but when I saw it move again, he was raising his head above the foredeck without any sense of fear. We instantly made eye contact as he placed one foot on the steel roof of my barge.
He was coming towards me, boldly putting one foot in front of the other, his yellow eyes staring, focused, and fixed directly on me.
I had seen eyes like this before, years ago in Sierra Leone, with their black pinprick pupils, they belonged to a local gang master, holding an ancient Makarov pistol in his right hand. I remembered one of the plastic side grips had fallen away months or years before and the other was held in place with some kind of tape. He had jumped out in front of me, his skinny black arms and legs waving frantically, I had also heard the unmistakable racking of the top slide feeding a round into the breech.
It was hot, and I was sweating under the weight of my body armour as he began stroking the flat of his left hand with the pistol barrel and flexing a handful of skinny fingers. His eyes darting angrily between me and the three frightened civilians I was guiding towards the helicopter. My own Heckler & Koch was slung across my chest, my right hand firmly wrapped around the pistol grip. I knew I had a round up the spout, and my thumb was resting on the safety pushed fully forward. He wanted money and I had none, a non-negotiable situation, and my brief was simple, escort the three remaining British diplomats from the residence on board the helicopter by any means.
I could see he was high on chat, his bony arms waving the pistol in my face, twitching and speaking at such a speed any intelligent conversation was impossible. He pointed the Russian pistol into my face, and again he demanded “money, money, money” he shouted at me. Before the last syllable of the last word faded away, the top left quadrant of his chest had exploded into a red mist under the impact of three 9mm Parabellum rounds fired from less than three metres away. The energy from the multiple strikes lifting him off his feet and throwing him backwards to the ground. He was dead, I didn’t care, too busy pushing my three frightened charges up the rear of a Chinook loading ramp.
This pair eyes looking at me now didn’t have a gun, but I could see the same distrust and anxiety, a standoff. I was sober and could assume he was too, he walked closer towards me in a wide half circle across the roof of my barge before stopping directly in front of me, holding my stare, not demanding but wanting something from me.
What I didn’t know then, was he would become one of my best friends, who without a second thought would later save my life. But right there and then my first and only thought was do I really need a fucking cat living on board Bellerophon.
Chapter 2
The cities of Bath and Bristol are, famous for its universities and academic achievements, over the last two decades they have become a vibrant and prosperous commercial hubs feeding technology and expertise into the Midlands, London, and Wales. The financial potential of such activity acts as a magnet to the most questionable elements of humanity, always waiting to take even the smallest advantage. Just outside the centre of Bath in one of the many Georgian houses now converted to commercial enterprise is ‘The Leg Room’ a small and very well presented private members club. The brass plaque on the left of the door tells any unwanted visitors that it entry is limited to members and invited guests only.
Entry to The Leg Room is through the oak double door finished with diamond black nail heads, and a single black metal door knocker fashioned to look like a coil of rope at the top of seven stone steps. To the left and right of the entrance door, stood two heavy set individuals with cropped hair, high foreheads, and square jawlines each watching the street in front of them. The one standing to the right had no radio, no phone, just a radio clicker in his left hand that signaled to someone inside when the door should be opened.
What made these men different from the hundreds of door supervisors that stand outside clubs and pubs up and down the country was not immediately apparent. Only when you were close enough to see would you notice they wore black Armani suits, immaculate white shirts, and clip-on ties with red on green diagonal stripes.
Only a close inspection of their footwear would give any indication of their real purpose because these men were soldiers battle, hardened soldiers, serving a master who commanded absolute obedience.
The basement of The Leg Room had been converted into the working offices with the same care and attention to its finish and appearance as the club itself. It was from the largest of these rooms that Mehmet controlled his operation.
From behind the laminated glass desk, the short man eased himself back into the chair while looking at the four girls standing in front of him, each one not much more than eighteen years old. They stood in line fidgeting nervously as the little man rose from the comfort of his leather chair and moved to the front of his desk, resting himself on the front edge to face the quartet of girls as he looked them up and down as if assessing a thoroughbred horse or a work of fine art.
“Have they been broken?” He asked of the heavy set individual next to them, ten minutes ago he had been ushering them from the comfort of a Lexus diplomat, up the seven steps from the street, between the Armani suits and through the heavy oak doors. The lift had taken them down two levels to the red carpet of the short man’s domain and into his office.
“No Mehmet they have not been broken.”
The question was a veiled reference to their virginity
Mehmet’s eyes were appeared to be slits in his chubby face, but the blue of the iris was intense, he was a little over five feet seven with weightlifter’s physique, his hair black with a tight curl heavy in grease and brushed straight back to cover the collar of his black open neck shirt. Three days stubble grey and full shaved and shaped to enhance the contours of his face and neck, with the aroma of an expensive cologne, he commanded respect.
“Passports,” he asked in Kosovan, Each of the girls dutifully removed their documents from their hand luggage handing them over as he compared each girl to their individual photographs.
“You know why you are here?” He asked they each nodded
“While you are here we will make money, I will keep you safe and treat you well in three years time you will go back home, wealthy women.”
He paused while his comments were understood by each of the girls looking for some kind of acknowledgement.
“While you are here, you will meet wealthy and prominent people” he continued they will ask of you many things this you know yes.”
The four young girls giggled nervously as they nodded their understanding.
“These things they ask of you will only happen here, where I can protect you. You are young women in a foreign country, bad things can happen. Do you understand?” Mehmet paused as his words resonated in their young minds.
“y you will now be shown to your rooms by xxxxxxx who will take you shopping and buy you nice things tomorrow, now you eat well and rest. He walked back behind his desk and pushed a button on his telephone a heavy velvet curtain opened and in walked a woman late thirties immaculate blond hair and makeup wearing scarlet dress giving focus to her ample cleavage tan stockings and black patent stiletto shoes her only jewellery being a simple gold rope chain with the numeral one hanging between her breasts. She invited the girls to join her behind the heavy velvet curtain.
As the curtain closed he pressed another button on his phone the main door opened and three men entered two were wearing the same uniform as the men on the front door the man between them had no jacket and no shoes the little man invited him to sit in the chair opposite his desk.
Do we make money?
Yes Mehmet
Do I not treat you well?
Yes Mehmet
Why do you steal from me and your family he gestured to the two men who had brought him in.
We are very careful about our business it works well and everyone goes home rich and happy you know this, yes
Yes Mehmet.
Then why I must teach you why we do things this way the little man walked around to the front of his desk and looked at the man seated before him taking his head between the palms of his hands as if to offer some form of absolution for the sin he had committed brushing his thumbs across his eyelids closing them down taking away the light as he would never see again two powerful thumbs pressed against the soft tissue of his eyes breaking through the eyelids and bursting the organs from their sockets dragging his hands across his victims cheeks and catching the two dangling orbs between his index and middle fingers yanking them away before pushing them back into his victims screaming mouth, pinching his victims nostrils together between powerful fingers while massaging his throat until he swallowed. Screaming in agony he knew what would happen next pleading for his life screaming for mercy but none came he heard the door open and the fall of footsteps as maybe fifteen men all wearing Armani suits and immaculate white shirts with green and red ties came into the room
This man stole from his family he stole from you and your family he pays the price.
Two of the fifteen men carried the screaming man down to the basement. The leg room was heated by a very efficient solid fuel furnace at a temperature the human body renders down to fat and becomes a source of combustible fuel he was never spoken of again.
Chapter 3
My meeting had been arranged for 10 O’clock Wednesday morning at an address I had been given over the phone from a man who had flown all the way out to turkey to disturb my holiday with Yvonne. While I was away the boatyard had made an excellent job of installing a jib and winch on the foredeck that would let me lift my latest acquisition on and off the towpath and on to my boat.
The fore deck had become home to my bright red Ducati Monster, twelve hundred cc’s of Italian adrenalin was my new personal transport. The jib and winch could swing my new bike twenty-five feet either side of the prow and down onto the ground using the remote control device operating the winch. With only the delivery milage on the clock I was eager to take it for a run out, which I had decided would be through the back roads of Oxford tomorrow morning along the A34 through Abingdon and back to Oxford, for breakfast before my meeting.
My intention was to moor up overnight at Astons Eyot just south of Oxford where the Thames approaches the city take on water and some fresh supplies get a good dinner in me and maybe a pint or two while I explore the area.
I had made good time so by the time I had moored up and sorted myself out I had maybe an hour spare I decided to go for a run through the city via the towpath.
Military running is not about style and grace or economy of stride or the rest of the bullshit you read in high-end fitness magazines its cadence rhythm and stamina pushing hard and making it harder using steps benches any natural obstacle that forces you to break your stride and re establish it quickly its about carrying weight or awkward objects like a rifle or your mates body its about feeling so sick at the end of a run that you know your body can give no more. I had just finished my run and the cat that hijacked my boat earlier that day had found its way onto the wheelhouse roof had one leg in the air while licking its arse and was refusing to leave. I was standing hands on hips sweating hard and breathing harder.
Bonjour, mon ami. you run hard
Standing opposite in a navy blue track suit he was looking at my boat
Bellerophon the first soldier to fight from the air according to the Greeks
I was still breathing hard
Yes that’s right I replied, Fucking hell five minutes in Oxford and already I am being taught greek mythology by a fucking frenchman.
Then he saw the wings on my sweat shirt
Êtes-vous parachutist he asked before I could reply he had rolled up the sleeve of his tracksuit to show me several tattoos on of which I had seen many times before
French airborne wings with the letters 2em regemont etranger de parachutist underneath
You’re a legionnaire I asked
Oui Armond lefevre he snapped up a salute and broad beaming smile.
Eddie Stovis
You are new here?
Yes arrived an hour ago
Then it will be my pleasure to introduce Oxford to Monsieur Eddie Sovis we shall eat together I know the best food the best wine and the best girls yes?
The offer was made with such enthusiasm I couldn’t turn him down and I was planning a wander into town anyway yes ok
I will meet you over there by the gate he pointed towards a white five bar gate about a hundred yards ahead where the canal went under the road at seven O’clock mes ami
I nodded yes ok seven o’clock
Magnifique he shouted grabbing my hand and shaking it until this evening Stovis
With that he was off I was still breathing hard the cat had finished licking its arse and was looking at me with a very superior feline attitude.
Showered shaved and changed I was ready to meet Oxford.
As I checked my watch it showed three minutes to six I was hanging about on the side of the road like an out of work pimp, I had no idea what the evening had in store but when Armond pulled up alongside, dead on time driving an old black Citroen DS convertible with lots of chrome and brown leather. As soon as it pulled up it dropped down on its suspension and looked like a cat ready to pounce on some unfortunate spider or mouse. Getting in was easy with the windows open and the top down as soon I was seated it took off rising back up on its suspension Armond was chatting again at machine gun speed none of which I could hear through the wind whipping over the car, I just kept smiling like an idiot and nodding at what I thought were the appropriate moments. A twenty-minute ride through the Oxfordshire countryside at breakneck speed in a car that wallowed and pitched like a canoe in and out of the corners until we hit civilisation in the form of a double fronted coaching house with a large car park offering home cooked food and several guest ales all of which appealed.
During dinner Armond explained that having left the foreign legion after fifteen years he had come over to England on a whim found his way to Oxford over the last ten years he had made a living teaching french to the more eager students and writing dissertations on french classics for the rich lazy ones while pursuing every single or not so single female under sixty looking for the next great love of his life.
It was fair to say he was interesting company so while I demolished my steak and kidney pie and trimmings suitably fed and watered our evening continued into the city itself. He seemed to be on first name terms with every doorman barmaid and restaurant manager in Oxford. With a capacity for wine and conversation I had never come across before he was like a magnet for females by two o’clock I’d had enough I wasn’t twenty one any more and had a busy day ahead of me, knowing I would be in Oxford for a while we exchanged phone numbers, as I made my excuses and caught a taxi back to the five bar gate. Bellerophon was exactly where I had left her my stepping on board caused very little movement but the cat had found some shelter under one of the chairs on my the rear deck and the movement activated light over my hatchway now illuminated the area After three or four pints and god knows how many glasses of wine during the evening it would be fair to say I wasn’t that quick on my feet, As soon as I pulled open the door the cat made a dash through the door and disappeared inside I wasn’t going to spend any time playing hunt the cat so for one night only he was allowed to stay.
Five hours later I woke up with a headache from the evening before a bottle of water two aspirin and a hard twenty-minute run up and down the towpath cleared that away A shower and porridge would set me up nicely for the bike ride I had planned for myself before my meeting as I retrieved the milk from my fridge I felt the body of the stowaway cat rub up against my leg. Despite all my best or worst intentions of the previous encounter with him I poured him some milk and opened a tin of sardines I even put them down by the wood burner thinking he would be more comfortable there in the warm. All the thanks I got for my charity was the sight of his arse disappearing into the hedgerow, while I off loaded my gleaming new red bike from the fore deck.
From Where I was moored at Astons Eyot it was less than half a mile to the A34 a long stretch of road between Oxford and Newbury crossing over the M4. The weather was perfect dry and clear as I gunned the engine into life easing my new bike like a child might test a their first bike slowly along the rough towpath for about four hundred yards then through a gap in the fence leading to a tarmac road I had planned my route and knew that the next right turn would take me to the main road linking to the A34 as I dropped my visor and tucked myself into the saddle the open road beckoned. I had learned to ride a bike in the army in fact the Army had taught me how to drive most things with wheels and an engine during my career but being able to ride a motorcycle was definitely a good move. As I hurtled down the A34 dancing the bike around cars stuck in the various legs of their commuter journey I remembered the salesman saying all the good things about Italian design and technology racing pedigree, ride comfort, power to weight ratios torque then warranties and servicing, fuel consumption and economy of ride. But there on the A34 in perfect weather on a long straight road, all I could think about was its bright red, and fast, quite simply it was the dog’s bollocks. Down the A34, under the M4 and on to Newbury swinging round the island at the end of the A34 for the return leg back up to Oxford by which time the traffic had thinned out quite considerably Back under the M4 and with a clear run it was time to pull out all the stops.
One hundred and forty miles an hour according to the speedo the rev counter hadn’t yet hit the red line and I still had more to go. If this had been a woman I would have married her right there and then it was better than expected. Dropping back down to a more sensible speed and not wanting to draw attention I cruised steadily into Oxford for my meeting. As you approach the city centre from the north off the A40 onto the Woodstock road there is a small mews with a cluster of elegant town houses that have been converted into high-end offices for software and internet companies Hidden amongst these building is a suite of well-appointed offices staffed entirely by men which at first glance is not unusual if you look on their website it will tell you they provide training for continuous professional development in everything from accountancy to zoological medicine, the telephone number will be answered by a man who will send you an elegantly printed brochure should you request it it will tell you all about the courses available and how they are qualifications recognised by all UK employers. Unfortunately for anyone applying for a course they will be financially unviable or should finance not be an issue course dates will be unavailable at that particular time.
For those that know Generic CPD is an abbreviation for Generic Contingency Planning and Deployment. A government department working with various agencies such as the military Navy and RAF Special branch and Interpol. They have a unique brief which is don’t get caught doing what you do. They recruit from their own resources and have a budget made up of various government grants to shell companies for research into defence technology.
In the window to the right of the door was a small printed card saying visitors will only be seen by appointment.
A small alpha numeric keypad set into a stainless steel square was the only furniture on the entrance no letter box no door bell no door handle.
I had left military intelligence years ago but could understand the significance of the keypad
I entered 25638726 my old army number nothing EVS25638726 my initials and number still nothing realising I was no longer in the service officially retired I tried it in reverse 62783652SVE the door clicked and swung open. Standing in the reception smiling to himself was the man from Bodrum who had interrupted my holiday, Beige cavalry slacks brown brogues, and an off white shirt, someone so plain you wouldn’t notice him in a crowd of three people
“Hello Eddie Nice to see you again”
He walked over towards me with his hand extended
“ You look well an enjoyable holiday?”
I didn’t have time to answer
“Lets go through shall we”
I was ushered into a large ante room at its centre was a mahogany dining table big enough for twenty people judging by the number of chairs surrounding it several computer screens of various sizes were hanging of the walls with a dominant screen directly behind the head of the table. I was trying hard to be unimpressed and failing.
Through one of the six doors that gave access to the room came a voice I had heard years before.
“You drive that bike like a fucking lunatic Stovis”
During my time with Military intelligence he was my operational commander in xxxxxxxxx
“Major Pierce, it’s been a long time”
“It’s Brigadier now but that’s just a reference for my salary grade, we don’t go in much for rank and titles so sit down make yourself comfortable please Eddie, we would like to make you a job offer.”
I pulled out one of the high back chairs and sat down the guy in beige poured coffee from a percolator and passed around mugs.
“ We are just waiting for someone else to join us but before we begin with that did you know you have now got quite a reputation all be it anonymously at Scotland yard because of the Khajuri episode.
Pierce pointed a remote control at one of the screens a map of the world specifically the xxxxxxxxxxx on one of the small islands a little icon was flashing away.
Khajuri is still there on what we now know is the Americans so called Glass Mountain and because of your efforts our clever buggers over at GCHQ can now track flights in and out but more specifically their radio traffic.
Detective inspector Haig is now an enigma within the police force who still won’t explain how he was able to break up two major heroin distribution networks in a week. With convictions for possession of firearms, attempted murder heroin trafficking and attempting to dispose of several human bodies.
The way you set them up was creative in the extreme. The Americans are still crying over the reward money they paid to Saunders wife who is apparently doing well all things considered.
Mike Shardon has just been awarded four very lucrative contracts by some american companies and he has tendered for three with HMG which will be viewed very favourably.
You had a good holiday and purchased that flying machine, did you know it was clocked this morning at over a hundred and forty miles an hour, on another screen a four second clip of me flying through a speed camera played it was grainy but definitely me.
Don’t worry for reasons we will explain your bike has been flagged as a do not stop inform GCHQ immediately.
You’ve got money in the bank, we know about Granger the yank but what we don’t know is who you used as support he won’t tell us and I assume neither will you but it is of no consequence
I was waiting for the bombshell it’s a well practiced routine they lay out everything they know about you like the fact I was speeding little more than an hour ago and my involvement with the Americans and Mike now comes the pressure so I was expecting something but nothing as big as what happened next.
A motorised wheelchair came into the room driven by a the remains of a man only one leg the other was missing from just above the knee one arm that operated the joystick powering the wheelchair.
He pulled up close to me on my left jamming the chair I was sat on against the table leg and his own wheelchair
For several long seconds he just looked at me his eyes unblinking inquisitorial as if he could see my very soul the room was silent
He began to slowly nod his head
Looking over at Pierce does he know anything yet
No Sir
Good
Mr Stovis we have been watching you very closely Mr Pierce here who I know you have worked with before has given you excellent references your military record speaks for itself.
We are about to invite you to join us have you any questions so far
I thought about the question and its implications he wanted to make an impression on me with his thousand yard stare from the comfort of his wheelchair, was he expecting some submissive blind discipline, well he was going to be disappointed I started as I meant to finish on my terms
I know him pointing over at pierce and I met him he was lucky my misses didn’t stab him disturbing our holiday You on the other hand are a bit of an enigma these guys obviously know you but that’s no recommendation and judging by your recruiting methods I am not going to be flipping burgers in your canteen. All I have seen so far is an arrogant raspberry ripple trying to give me the spooks from a battery powered commode so tell me who the fuck you are in your next sentence or I’m out of the door and fuck the luck of anyone who tries to stop me.
My name is academic Eddie call me John or Harry, Fred, Bert or Bill, However most of the people in this building just refer to me as Zulu1.
Well pierce he is everything you say he is
Eddie you impress me greatly but if you ever call me a Raspberry ripple again I promise that you will be very, very sorry.
So gentlemen let us begin
The man in the wheelchair I now knew as Zulu1 pointed a remote control at the largest of the screens, and slid a brown manila envelopee across the table on the screen appeared the face of a podgy faced middle european a boxers nose and olive skin with jet black hair
His name is Mehmet Ahdadi in the envelope is a sample of his product
I opened the flap of the envelopee and shook the contents onto the table six five hundred Euro notes slid across the mahogany surface.
What do you notice about them Eddie?
I made a cursory examination
They are as issued but the numbers aren’t sequential I offered
Yes well spotted, anything else?
I asked for a piece of paper and rubbed one of the notes against the clean white A4 sheet some of the ink transferred over.
Well they aren’t forgeries I offered.
Wrong they are the most perfect forgeries we have ever seen and that is the man distributing them. Zulu1 pointed at the face on the big screen
We want you to find out why?
Isn’t that a job for the police or special branch? I asked
Under normal circumstances yes our man here is different he owns a casino and gentleman’s club here in Oxford with a unique line in high class prostitutes.
So what’s special about the money
Zulu1 slid another envelopee in my direction
I dropped the contents on to the table
They were five hundred euro notes obviously older and used.
Can you spot the similarity
I looked at the numbers they were the same as the new notes I had looked at moments earlier.
Friend mhemet has a printing process that can turn out these notes using existing in circulation numbers clones or twins if you will they are of such quality it is almost impossible to tell them apart.
He takes high value Euros from his punters at a better than bank exchange rate for sterling if they win he pays out in sterling keeping the Euros which he banks as legitimate currency but not before he prints a clone which is the transported across the Channel and deposited in any one of several banks in France Belgium Spain or Portugal.
If you know all this why don’t you just burst in and turn him over.
That question brings us to the interesting part
The deposits in Europe are used to fund a research facility here in Oxford and before you ask its an atomic research facility.
What we want to know is why he is going to so much trouble to fund a research facility here in Oxford what we need is a man on the inside
He employs a small army of ex-Russian Czechoslovak and Hungarian military as security all very professional and very loyal.
Your ex-military you speak Hungarian we know you can think on your feet if you can get in with his staff all well and good that gives us eyes and ears
If you don’t than we go at it the hard way and lose the intel