Tony Brand acted fast when the revolver came out. Taking out his own weapon, he flew out of the flat, across the corridor and burst into Korshkov's flat. 'It's over, Sir Harrison,' he said as he held his weapon on Gould.
Sir Harrison's eyes seemed to glaze over, then. And slowly, recognition struck. 'You knew,' he said. 'You knew it was me all the time?'
Brand said: 'We suspected. And all we were waiting for was the evidence.'
Could Brand have stopped him? Did he really want to stop him? Is it ever right for the shadow world to air its dirty washing in public? Maybe not. And as Sir Harrison Gould raised his revolver to his head and blew out his brains, Tony Brand closed his eyes.
Dooley parked his car in the drive way to the old, rambling country house. Getting out of his car, he held, in his hand, an expensive bottle of malt whisky. After all, he had promised to bring one, when it was all over.
Slowly, he walked to the door and knocked. Seconds later, it was answered and an old man stared out at Dooley. 'Ah,' said the man, 'you've remembered.'
'Of course,' said Dooley, disappearing inside.
The two men were to drink long into the night. After all, the operation had gone well, and that was worth celebrating. As, of course, was Hartley's inexplicable resurrection.
SILENCE IS GOLDEN
Tony Brand had been in tight spots before, but never quite like this. He dived behind the car as the rounds slammed into it. A brief pause, a lull in the firefight, and his own head popped up, loosing several himself before diving for open space once more, outwitting his foes again.
Where he was heading for, he wasn't quite sure. The farm was isolated in flat, open country, so escape from the ten or so Islamic terrorists hiding out here was impractical. Maybe he should just give up now; run out into a tirade of bullets - end it quick. But he had a strong survival spirit. Suicide was not on the agenda.
He was inside the barn door now - spied a terrorist trying to encircle him - waited - pop! - got him! - then straight round, checking all directions, lest it was a blind. But for several more hard-fought-for seconds, he was alright - until the terrorist jumped down on top of him from the loft. When that happened, Brand was taken by surprise. And he crumpled into a heap on the straw strewn floor.
'It's like this,' Dooley had said the day before. 'We've identified the entire bloody organisation. As far as we know, there are forty of them. We don't know their target, but it's got to be big - Canary Wharf, for all I know.'
Brand sat in front of the desk, full of attention. 'So where do I fit in?'
Dooley threw a photo across the desk. 'His codename is Ishmael. He's the leader, and he's staying in a farm in Norfolk. About three bodyguards as far as we can tell. I want you to take him out in the morning.'
'No problem,' said Brand.
Dooley adopted an uncharacteristic seriousness. 'No messing on this one, Brand. The rest of them are hold up in London in one apartment block. At twelve o'clock tomorrow the SAS are going in. Waste them before they have time to move.'
'That could be tricky - taking an entire apartment block. There'll be casualties on both sides.'
Dooley said: 'I know. But we have no choice. We have to stop them decisively. There's no other way.'
Brand woke up; felt the pain coursing through his body.
Opening his eyes, he looked about him. He was in a sparsely furnished room - just table, couple of chairs; one of which he was tied to. In the corner stood a terrorist, a Kalashnikov in his hands.
Brand thought of what he'd like to do to Dooley if he ever got out of this one. Three guards - sure. The place was crawling with them. But as the door opened and two more terrorists walked in, he knew he had little time for thinking.
He recognised Ishmael straight away - the thick beard, the mania in the eyes; the mania of destiny, a knowing that you were on Allah's work and your place in heaven was guaranteed.
The first blow winded him, and Brand knew if he could ride this one, he could ride them all. But he also knew two other things. First of all, Ishmael would know that if British security was hitting him, they'd be going for as much of the organisation as possible. Hence, he needed to know what that involved. And second, Brand could not, under any circumstances, say a word for another three hours. Not until the other end of the op was over. And as the questions came, and the blows rained, he kept that thought very much in mind.
Dooley liked to sit in on these SAS briefings. He liked the discipline of them. So good to watch professionals at work, with everyone knowing exactly what to do. They were a solid bunch - about a dozen of them, already kitted out in black. And as they began the operation, he knew he would be there, a safe distance away, but still an integral part of the operation
Maybe that's why Dooley did the job. It had nothing to do with patriotism. No, not Dooley. Dooley just liked the buzz. And he didn't care what he did to make the buzz come; to get the job done. Morality was an unknown quantity in this game, with little time to reflect on who could die. The only thing was winning. And Dooley had got here by winning a lot.
Brand wondered if Dooley was thinking about him as he sat there, on the chair, his head lowered, bloodied, and his whole body aching. Brand DID have feelings of patriotism - or at least, in a way. It was all to do with the good guys winning. And he knew he was one of the good guys.
Okay, he did bad things - cut himself off from the FEELING of what he did - but he knew, at heart, it was for the good. Although he wasn't sure about Dooley. He wasn't sure whether Dooley had feelings. But that was a side issue. At that moment, he forced himself to focus once more. For he knew they would soon be back. And he must again take the beatings, and above all else, he must not tell.
It was an hour to noon as the three black vans pulled into a side street somewhere in London. Some two hundred yards away, the target apartment block was already under surveillance.
From the command van, Dooley watched the screens; saw people passing by, oblivious to the deadly game on-going about them.
Soon the vans would move closer, spill out their black, heavily armed load, go kill. He felt the buzz already. Even the expectation was electric.
Oh no, thought Brand as they walked in once more. Not that. They can't do that - I can't FIGHT that.
The scopolamine was injected into his upper arm. The effect, the lightheadedness, was instant, and his vision began to cloud. Out the corner of his eye, Ishmael swam about him, a smile on his face. He heard the distant voice say: ‘Now, you will talk.'
I won't, he thought to himself, and he kept on thinking this with every question he answered. And behind the thought, an incredible guilt. How many of his side would he be killing this day?
Tony Brand wanted to cry. But he couldn't. The drug would simply not allow it.
It was twelve o'clock, and Dooley watched the screen as the terrorists piled out of the apartment block, rushing for their cars to make a speedy getaway. It would have been thought that he would be annoyed, his plan seeming to fall about him. But Dooley was too shrewd for that. Instead he smiled, and by the time they had all fallen perfectly into the waiting special forces trap, he was not smiling but laughing.
Thirty minutes later, the lot of them in the bag, he had the second half of the op to perform. And immediately upon him making the call, a second SAS stick surrounded a Norfolk farm and attacked ...
It was a week later that Tony Brand walked calmly into Dooley's office. His face was still a mess and his body ached incessantly. But behind his calmness was a mission.
'You used me,' he said as he felt revolted by the sight of Dooley's smiling face.
'Read the small print, Brand. I do what I need to do to get the job done. And this particular job I did without casualties.'
'Except for me,' said Brand. And as Dooley muttered something about collateral damage, Brand thumped him clean on the jaw …
THE NEED TO KNOW
‘Sometimes an airplane will crash. It’s as simple as that.’
‘But
it wasn’t. I know it wasn’t.’
Brad had been a freelance journalist for a while now, and knew he had THE story of the year – if only he could convince the man before him.
‘You say so, but how do we know it isn’t a joke?’
After all, Jenkins had been in the newspaper business long enough to know his stuff. Never an editor, and never really a reporter, he was more an assessor and had many masters. ‘You see,’ he continued, ‘you have no proof other than the calls. And who is this guy, anyway’
‘He was a friend.’
‘What was his job?’
‘Difficult to say.’
‘Meaning?’
Brad knew what he had been. An agent. He knew this because he’d often passed little snippets of information to him – he came across quite a lot in his job.’
They listened, again, to the first message:
‘Brad. I can’t speak much. The plane I’m on has been hi-jacked. If I don’t get out of this alive, I just want someone to know …’
It was a cargo plane, and it never became clear what he was doing on board, but at this point the connection is cut. Then, the second call:
(whispered) ‘Brad, I’m in the toilets. There are three terrorists. They don’t know I’m on board. I gave them the slip. But listen, it’s a ruse to distract the security services from the real target. Don’t know what it is yet. If I find out, I’ll let you know.’
Jenkins sighed. He’d heard the recordings several times now. ‘I accept the timing’s right, but no one knows who this man was. He certainly wasn’t an agent.’
‘But they would say that, wouldn’t they?’ said Brad.
‘I suppose so, yes. But the claim in the third call?’
‘Brad. Listen. I know the real target. (Brad interjects: why are you telling me? Why not your bosses?). A curt laugh. ‘I’m going to retake the plane. Then I’m going to crash it into the real terrorists. Stop them …’
Brad said: ‘And as we know, a couple of minutes later the plane crashed, killing everyone on board and a dozen people on the ground.’
Jenkins sighed once more. ‘But Brad, even if it’s true, do we really need to panic the public – let them know how close it sometimes gets? What purpose is served in that?’
‘The purpose of truth,’ said Brad. ‘It has always got to be right, surely?’
And Jenkins had to admit, he used to think like that himself - until he had learnt to serve many masters.
He gathered the tapes as he left the body. Just one more accident among many.
THE LEGEND
‘He was a legend,’ said Jim.
Fred agreed: ‘He was that.’
Jim continued: ‘When he did what he did …’
Paul stepped in: ‘He didn’t do it, though.’
Jim and Fred both looked, agog: ‘What do you mean, he didn’t do it?’
‘Well, he didn’t,’ said Paul.
‘He did,’ said Fred.
‘How do you know,’ said Paul. ‘You weren’t alive.’
‘But.’
Jim butted in: ‘You’ll be saying next he didn’t even live here.’
‘He didn’t,’ said Paul.
Fred asked: ‘So where did he live?’
‘How would I know,’ said Paul. ‘I just know he didn’t live here.’
‘So who did it, then?’ asked Fred.
‘No one,’ said Paul.
‘What do you mean, no one?’ asked Jim.
‘I mean it never happened,’ said Paul.
‘It must have,’ said Jim. ‘I do it myself. I do it because he inspired me to.’
Paul smiled. Said: ‘I think that’s the point.’
THE GURU AND THE GIRLS
India had always been a major destination on my trip around the world. After all, how can you go backpacking without trying the delights of that country. And as I wandered around, I was not to be disappointed. The cities didn't do much for me - they were just a thriving chaos of poverty with a growing middleclass attempting to ape the west. I felt sorry for India as it aspired to western values and took on most of the problems. But the countryside was different. Here was India in the raw, with its smells and customs. It was like going back to a time before materialism, where the link between man and nature was sublime. And intermingled with this was spirituality.
It was mystical India I craved more than anything else, and I sought out the mystics; to learn, to be somebody else, to discover the real mystical experience without the short cut of drugs. But even here I had to laugh. Traditionally, a student sought out a guru in later life, when he had lived his life in the real world. But since India became No 1 destination for the hippy, the gurus had lowered the age of the student, allowing any western air-head to feel the mystical power of the east. I suppose it was inevitable, therefore, that some gurus would take advantage of this thriving industry.
I met my guru after a couple of months of wandering. I won't bother you with his name. It wasn't his real name anyway. He looked the part - huge beard, wild eyes, an emaciated body wrapped only in cloth. He would sit cross-legged for hours in silence, meditating. Then, in a soft voice, he would impart his wisdom.
Around him, an ever-changing group of westerners sat in awe. Perhaps they were disappointed that they never chanted 'om,' but they didn't show it. Towards evening, he would pick specific students for further training, and it was several days before I realized they were almost always girls, and they never seemed to appear in his group again.
I put this point to one of the new girls, a good looking blonde called Karen.
'So what do you think he does?' she asked. 'Have his wicked way with us?'
'I wouldn't be surprised,' I said, 'but I think it's worse than that.'
'You're paranoid,' she said.
'Just be careful,' I replied.
And sure enough, after his session, he picked Karen and another girl for 'further study.'
The Indian evening is beautiful. The sky can become a myriad of colours, and as the sounds of the night begin, they transport you to a peacefulness. But this particular night, I felt no peace. Something at the back of my mind was disturbed. And eventually I realized I had to find out just what was happening to these girls.
Stealthily I crept into the guru's inner sanctum. This was a small compound of several huts. I was surprised to find a truck behind them and an armed guard outside. So much for not worrying, I thought as I crept to one of the windows and peered in.
In the comer sat four or five of the girls who had 'disappeared.' There was something clearly wrong with them for they sat as if in a trance. Stretching my neck to see into the other corner, I understood why. The girl who had gone with Karen was unconscious on the floor, and the guru stood above Karen with a hypodermic while another man held her by her arms. A gag across her mouth stopped her from screaming.
I had to act fast. I ran round the outside of the hut and came up behind the guard.
Picking up a branch, I hit him, hard, from behind, and he fell unconscious. I then grabbed his weapon and kicked in the door.
What I was going to do, I wasn't quite sure. And it never occurred to me that there would be others inside with guns. Hence, almost immediately, I found myself in a firefight, and I remember thinking, this wasn't why I decided to travel round the world.
What happened next, I have no idea. But seconds later I found myself running through the jungle holding Karen's hand, a couple of gunmen chasing us. Eventually, we came to a small cliff with a river below us. We took one look at each other and jumped.
The next morning we awoke exhausted by the bank of the river. Karen looked at me and said: 'You were right.'
I said: 'I'd rather I wasn't'
'So what do you think is going on?'
'Looks like white slavery to me.'
'So you're my hero,' she said, and I don't think she was being sarcastic.
We sat in silence a while and then Karen said: ‘What are we going to do about the other girls?'
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At that point I didn't know what we could do, so I simply said: 'Get to some form of civilization and inform the police.'
It took us most of that day to find 'civilisation,' which turned out to be a small village with a police station. We entered the station and I told the police officer on duty what had happened. He gave us what I thought was a suspicious look, and the next thing I knew I was hit from behind. As I passed into unconsciousness, I noticed, through the haze, the same truck I had seen in the guru's inner sanctum. Then everything went black.
When I came round I was in a rickety old cell and I saw that the truck had gone.
I felt cheated by India. Once, I knew, it had to have been pure. But now all I saw were fake gurus and corrupt police. However, my view was to change when a small Indian boy came up to the cell window.
'Do you speak English?' I asked, but he did not. However, he had the presence of mind to find a villager who did.
I explained my adventure to him, and he looked annoyed. He went off and soon a crowd had gathered around the police station, and as the policemen attempted to deal with a mini-riot, the boy appeared atop an elephant. A rope was placed on the cell bars and soon half the wall disappeared as the elephant tugged.
Half an hour later, I was with a small group of villagers about a mile away, the boy and elephant close by.
'Can you help me find that truck?' I asked.
They seemed to know where it was going; and also knew a short cut through the jungle paths. Hence, I found myself racing through the jungle on an elephant, angry villagers running beside me, intend on obliterating this plague of modern India.
Later, when the truck came round a corner, it was suddenly faced with a stubborn elephant refusing to move off the road. The driver blasted his horn, but it was no use. And as he got out, intent upon coaxing the creature away, the villagers struck.
Inside the truck were three guards and seven girls, including Karen. I joined in the skirmish as the driver and guards were overpowered and good, old-fashioned Indian justice was meted out with clubs. And then, we commandeered the truck and drove off, waving to the elephant boy as he returned to the jungle.