“Jeff Brazier,” Gant said, indicating the unsmiling face that stared back at them from the projection screen. “Born in Newcastle. Formerly with the Black Watch, then Special Air Service. Conspicuous Gallantry Cross and the Military Cross amongst others. Probably more decorated than you Colonel. Finished his career in the Military Police of all places. Seconded to MI13 three years ago. Expert in counter-surveillance, small arms, explosives…basically proficient in everything.”

  “He’ll do,” Nick responded. “I’ve worked with him before. Good man to have on your side.” Gant nodded and made a note on a clipboard that rested on the table in front of him. The face changed to that of a woman. Before he could start speaking, Gant was overcome by a coughing fit which took several seconds to run its course. Nick sat and waited patiently for Gant to recover. He made no attempt at enquiring about the man’s wellbeing. Everyone knew that the superior agent was on death’s door.

  “Natasha Stone. Born in Wales. Formally MI6. Good field agent as well as an electronic counterintelligence expert. She’s one of our resident White Hats. Got roasted by the lawyers over an overseas op that went dramatically wrong. Was dragged over the coals and left to the wolves, even though the failure wasn’t her fault. Fortunately, Sir Osmond does not deal with politics but with reality. She has been with us for five years. She was the one who stopped ‘The Manchester Boys’ releasing weaponised Mahjong virus across London during the Queen’s sixty-fifth coronation anniversary. That could have been a nasty one. Shot three of them single-handedly.” Nick had been briefed about that incident because there had been nothing about it in the newspapers. The radical jihadists had used their ISIS contacts to smuggle the deadly pathogen out of Western Iraq, where they had uncovered it in one of Saddam Hussain’s hidden weapon stockpiles. Seems like he had weapons of mass destruction after all. If that had been unleashed, it would have killed millions.

  Nick examined the visage displayed before him. The face itself was relatively average, but the eyes displayed a force of will that told him everything he needed to know.

  “Definitely. Anyone who can piss off the pen pushers at Vauxhall Cross gets a tick in my book.” The face on the screen changed again.

  “Carl Brodie. Born in Scotland to a military family, but was orphaned at a young age. Put through ‘The Orphanage’ and trained to serve his country. Officially been on the MI13 payroll from the age of eighteen.” ‘The Orphanage’, as it was known, was a covert training facility in Scotland. It masqueraded as a boarding school for orphaned children but was, in fact, a selection school for future MI13 agents. Those who showed promise progressed through the school. Those who didn’t were transferred back to the waiting and tainted hands of the Social Services. It was rumoured that, once you reached a certain level, a failure to graduate wasn’t an option. Nick nodded his approval.

  “I’ve heard of him. Very capable. In fact, I’m surprised he’s not in charge of this op to be honest.” Nick had worked with a few agents from ‘The Orphanage’. Their loyalty to the Realm was without question. They were some of the hardest and most ruthless sons of bitches Nick had ever come across. Their lives were dedicated to protecting the British populace. The fact someone had managed to graduate from ‘The Orphanage’ meant they deserved an instant level of respect for their abilities. Sir Osmond himself was a graduate from that very facility in its earliest days.

  “Very good. That just leaves one more.” For the final time, the face on the display screen changed.

  “No,” Nick insisted. “I can’t work with that man.” Gant was not surprised by the reaction. Under the face on display, the name David Campbell, US Defence Intelligence Agency was written.

  “Might not have a choice there,” Gant stated apologetically. “The Americans have chosen him as their liaison. They seem a tad insistent.”

  “For fucks sake. Why are the Yanks even involved?”

  “They are involved because three of their top scientists from Dulce were killed last year. As much as we would like to go it alone, the Americans have more resources than we do.” Dulce, the secretive military facility buried deep beneath Dulce International Airport. So deep below ground was it that it was able to survive a direct nuclear strike. The stuff that went on down there was supposed to dwell in the realms of science fiction. Instead, the conspiracy nutters wallowed in the misinformation about it being filled with aliens. People were so gullible.

  “If they had stopped their biological weapons program like they were supposed to they wouldn’t have had any scientists that needed killing,” Nick admonished. The reason Nick didn’t trust the American agencies, in general, was that they had a habit of interfering to promote their own best interests. You couldn’t really blame them for that, except Nick had nearly been killed when one of his operations had been burned a year ago. The man responsible was glaring formidably out at the room.

  “Sir Osmond’s orders I’m afraid. He says he appreciates your feelings on the matter and that they are noted. We are however limited in who we can work with across the pond because so few of their operatives know about MI13. You will just have to live with it.” It seemed there was no option of turning the operation down. Gant watched his subordinate inhale deeply through his nose. Nick was slowly seething inside. Should be interesting to see how this develops, Gant thought to himself. “Is this going to be a problem?” Gant enquired.

  “No. But if he gets in my way or threatens my operation in any way, I may be forced to kill him. I trust that won’t be a problem?”

  ***

  “What’s a nice girl like you doing on her own?” Natasha Stone looked up at the man who had decided he was worthy of her attention. Sat outside her favourite coffee house on Virginia Embankment, she wanted solitude whilst being connected to the world around her. Working for MI13 could be a lonely occupation, but she wouldn’t give it up for the world. She liked to sit here, the river breeze washing over her, the noise of the city a distant distraction. Natasha could relax here and people watch, her back against the river wall so that nobody could approach her unobserved. She’d certainly clocked this clown well in advance of his decision to get in her face.

  “Excuse me?” She looked at the man who towered over her. He was big, muscles layered with an unnecessary coating of fat which was undoubtedly due to the amount of alcohol he drank. His suit, whilst expensive was somewhat dishevelled, and she surmised he was somewhat worse for wear on the soberness scale.

  “I’m saying a girl like you should have company.” He wavered on his feet slightly. Drunk enough that it would be illegal for him to drive, still sober enough for him to get into trouble, the words he uttered not yet slurred. Another two pints and he would likely be away to the races.

  “A girl like me huh?” Her tone was mocking in nature, but only slightly. One of the rules with her work was not to draw attention to oneself. This was why she deliberately dressed down with minimal makeup. She was no great beauty, but she knew her athletic physique would pique many a man’s interests. Still, she had no doubt that she could have almost any man she wanted if the desire took her. It rarely did. Natasha could only be aroused by a man she respected…and the only men she respected seemed to be those she worked with. That was a no go for her, she never slept with those she was engaged with on a professional level.

  “I’m just saying. And you could do with sprucing yourself up a bit. You’d have them flocking then.” Natasha sighed internally. This was the problem with living in a big city. There was always a proportion of humanity that occasionally needed an education in manners.

  “It’s time for you to walk on,” Natasha said with a steely quality to her voice. She usually could put most normal men in their place with just a look. Natasha had it down just right, a technique taught to her when she had joined MI13. Of all people to teach it, their trainer in that particular skill had been an elderly Chinese woman who could cow most people into submission with the slightest glance.

  “Don’t be like that. Hey, you’re not very friendly are you.”

  “Oh, you don’t know the half of it. Now please fuck off.” With those last two words emphasised, Natasha picked up her half-filled cup and took a mouthful of still hot coffee. She looked out at the river, the apparent calmness of the water an illusion. This was his cue to leave, made obvious and clear. The drunk didn’t fuck off, unfortunately. Instead, he did the exact opposite and sat down in the spare chair at her table. He gave a big satisfied sigh and beamed at her.

  “What’s your name love?” She didn’t answer him. She knew his type well. A big man who thought his size could intimidate others. Obviously successful, but probably used a bit too much macho bullshit in the workplace. Natasha watched him warily. With alcohol in his system, some of the switches in his mind that controlled polite interaction obviously weren’t working properly. She finished her coffee and discarded the cup on the table.

  “Well, thank you for ruining what was a pleasant ten-minute break.” Natasha stood up to leave.

  “Hey, don’t go. We were just being acquainted.” From the corner of her eye, Natasha noticed the waiter who had served her. The waiter had noticed the interaction that was occurring. Having caught her attention, the café employee mimed a question as to whether she needed any assistance. Natasha shook her head. She could easily handle this prat.

  “You don’t know me and I certainly don’t want to know you.”

  “How do you know until you try it?” the drunk said. He stood back up, his five-inch advantage his apparent free ride into the realm of being an arsehole. That was when her phone beeped, and she stepped back from him so as to withdraw it from her jeans front pocket.

  Attendance required today. District Office. 18.00

  “Hey don’t fucking ignore me,” the drunk commanded. Replacing her phone, she looked the semi-drunk square in the face, and this time, the message in her eyes did get through. It was not advisable to speak to Natasha Stone in such a fashion.

  “What do you hope to achieve by this? You want to fuck me? Is that it? You want to take long strolls through the park hand in hand? Maybe get married and have a couple of kids?” There was acid in her words and doubt spread across the man’s face.

  “I’m just trying to have a pleasant conversation. Why are you being such a bitch?”

  “Because I can. And let me ask you something. Think carefully now, because you might actually learn something.” Natasha stepped up to him. “You have a mother? A sister maybe?”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “Well. I’m assuming you care about your Mum. So how would you feel if a random stranger twice her size started harassing her like this?”

  “Hey, I’m not harassing you,” the drunk said defensively. He actually backed up, because Natasha had started to push into his comfort zone. “I’m just being friendly.”

  “No, you are being obnoxious and confrontational. And one of these days someone is going to get hurt by your actions.” She spotted a twinge of guilt in his face. “Ah, I see perhaps someone already has.”

  “Fuck off, you don’t know anything about me.”

  “No, but I’d like to. You want to get down and dirty, well let’s do it. There’s an alley behind the café. If you’ve got the guts, I’ll see you there and give that cock a good sucking.” She stepped into him and grabbed his crotch. “Careful though, I always bite.” The drunk’s nerve failed him.

  “Fuck you, you’re crazy.” He moved away from her, keeping Natasha observed with a wary eye.

  “Afternoon officer,” Natasha suddenly said looking over his shoulder. The drunk turned his head, his body wide open. Her shoes didn’t have heels, they were sensible, boring even. They also had steel toecaps. One of the problems with kicking people, which Natasha was very adept at, was you could easily break the bones in your foot. Steel tips were ideal for kicking obnoxious blokes in the bollocks, which was what she did now. She didn’t hit him full force, Natasha didn’t want to rupture anything. She just wanted him on the floor long enough so she could walk away without having to do him any real damage. Because if need be, she could easily kill him without breaking a sweat.

  He went down like a sack of spuds. There was a gasp from one of the few people observing the altercation. A middle-aged woman at another table even started clapping.

  “Way to go girl,” someone cheered. The drunk was lying on his side now, clutching the bruised family jewels. Natasha bent down so he could just hear her whispered warning.

  “If I ever see you again, I will fucking remove them and feed them to the next stray dog I find. Believe me when I say I will fucking end you.” With that, she sauntered off with purpose in her step. She had an appointment to prepare for.

  ***

  Jeff Brazier was jogging. No actually, jogging wasn’t quite the word to use. Most joggers didn’t have a rucksack on their back filled with ten kilograms of loose rocks. They generally didn’t go at his exaggerated pace either. The final thing that distinguished him from the average jogger was that he had chosen his route specifically so he could run up and down as many flights of stairs as he could find.

  He was coming to the end of his hour run, the bare minimum he tried to get into his daily routine. When you worked for an agency like MI13, you never knew where you were going to be one week from the next, so you had to adapt and go with whatever you could find to keep the fitness levels up. He had developed his fitness routine accordingly. So far, his age didn’t seem to be impacting on his ability, but it would. The more he could stay in shape, the longer he could stay working in the field. It was what he did, who he was. His identity was wrapped totally around his ability to do what the Army and the SAS had trained him to. If not for MI13, he would have likely found himself acting as a mercenary for some multinational in a boiling, dirt poor hell hole. Mercenaries had a habit of meeting unfavourable ends in such places.

  The money would have been good, but he really didn’t care about that. Jeff lived a frugal existence, realising long ago that material trappings were irrelevant and counterproductive. All his life he had wanted only one thing; the chance to serve his country. Reward didn’t come into it. Ferrying VIP’s through some war-torn hinterland would not have achieved that aim despite the improvement in his bank balance. It would have also left him dead inside. Men like him needed a cause, a purpose. Without it, they were empty shells, gutted by the true meaningless reality of life.

  Jeff often used the hardship and pain of excessive exercise to drive the demon doubts from his mind. Others used drugs or alcohol. Jeff wouldn’t let those poisons into his system, and he was well versed in the dangers they posed. That was what having an alcoholic for a mother taught you. The beatings he had received at his mother’s hands had only strengthened him, creating an iron will that had truly manifested at the age of thirteen. Guilty of some infraction Jeff now couldn’t even remember, his drunken mother had taken a belt to him. Only this time, Jeff never made a sound. At the end of the beating, the mother exhausted and confused by what had just happened, Jeff simply pulled up his trousers, turned and looked his parent in the eye. The woman hadn’t laid a finger on him from that day forward. The father, long since cowed by the woman had given him a look of pride that Jeff remembered with fondness to this day.

  He had initially been mocked during his stint in the Black Watch for his refusal to touch alcohol, but as he had established himself as a solider to be reckoned with, the piss-taking had quickly dried up. It was replaced by respect and in some cases adulation. His combat record made people sit up and take notice.

  Jeff was realistic of course. There would come a point where his body would fail him. This would either be a result of wear and tear or because an operation he was involved with would go wrong. Unlike many of the people he worked with, he had never received a severe injury from combat. The odd scrape here and there, but there were no bullet scars adorning his well-toned frame, and no stitched up knife wounds to tell the world how dangerous he was. Jeff only had his eyes to give that warning.

  It was one of the reasons he had accepted the offer from MI13. At least with that organisation, he could still serve his country in some way should injury or illness strike him. He had every intention of seeing out his days in the covert organisation, most likely in a training role at the Orphanage. That place was always crying out for adequate teachers. And when retirement finally came, he would probably eat a bullet rather than battle with a failing and ancient body. Jeff didn’t know for certain about that, but it held a high likelihood of happening.

  He wasn’t depressed. It was just that he loved war. Whilst a good number of the soldiers who came back from operations suffered PTSD, Jeff would never be one of them. Combat was the most exciting and exhilarating thing he had ever experienced. He absolutely craved it. Even the loss of friends didn’t faze him that much. Whilst he was loyal to the men he fought with, and would willingly give his life to save them, he never formed a truly deep attachment with anyone. There was just enough distance kept between himself and those around him to act as a buffer when one of the lads had his legs blown off by an IED. His rise through the ranks to Colour Sergeant helped with that.

  The phone in his pocket vibrated. So wrapped up in his run was he that Jeff almost didn’t feel it through the sensations coursing through his tired body. Jeff stopped running and, only mildly out of breath, extracted the small flip phone and read the message. There were no numbers stored on the phone, and it was used only to receive.

 

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