“Come in, come in, we were just starting,” Mark followed Bedwell in, and saw that the other members of the Team 2 were already there, Steve White gave Mark a sheepish grin and Richard Steely, the black Negro who came from the Foreign Legion raised his champagne glass. Jane joined them in drinking but Mark just chose the fruit punch. No need to get drunk thought Mark, and after all this was a test, so he might as well be on full alert. The 50-year-old maid, brought some other refreshments along, and put them on the old and rather battered oaken table.
“Do you fish?” asked Mr. Bedwell, Tim thought he detected a glimmer of some sort in the old man’s eyes.
“Not very well, but if I have the time then I do.” Mark replied, reminiscing to the time when he was about 10, and stoned trout for a past time.
“Well, then you must come with me, we have a good river for trout and bass, come we might even get a few fishes for our dinner.” Bedwell led the way to the store rooms and Mark noticed that the other members of the team gave covert looks at his way, Steve and Richard still needed to learn the art of surveillance without being a giveaway. Bedwell went in and grabbed 2 rods, he came out and asked Ridley, “Do you want use the hi-tech American rod or the low tech British cane rod?” Mark knew the question was a loaded one and chose the British version. Mr. Bedwell did the same and the two of them picked up a can of bread pieces, which acted as bait and went to the river.
“You go that way, up the stream and I will go this way,” said Bedwell as he pointed up. They separated and Mark was left with a small pocket full of bread pieces. Mark walked slowly up the brown stained river and cast off his rod, he used the momentum of the throw to give the line length across the stream to the middle part. However, the float that marked the line floated downstream and towards a patch of riverweeds, Mark exclaimed “Shit,” and he pulled furiously and re-reeled the line.
Mark thought carefully, Mr. Bedwell obviously knew that the line would float downstream; yet, he gave him the fast flowing area. A test of resourcefulness just like the SAS training exercises, thought Mark in an annoyed sort of way, Mark picked up a piece of stone, and tied it to the float, in that way, the line would sink to the bottom. He cast it again, only to find that the line only went a few metres, Mark cursed and wiped his brow, and his hands felt cool against his heat stricken brain. He threw the line out, this time the stone dropped with a “plop” and a splash sound, Mark cursed again, now no fish within 10 metres of that area would bite, for the fishes would undoubtedly be startled and swim away. Mark fought the urge to just give up; he reeled in the line and untied the stone from the line with some difficulty. He left the rod as it is and walked up the stream. His jeans and white T-shirt was already getting soaked with sweat.
Mark noticed a trout, the biggest monster he had ever seen, just metres away from the bank, in an area of still water. Mark decided quickly, that he wasn’t going to go to the mansion empty-handed, Mark gently slipped into the cool bliss of the river, and waded gently into the still water. The fish it seemed was sleeping, Mark put his hand into the water and reached forward and tickled ever so gently the fish’s abdomen. The fish at first was startled and its fins started to move rapidly, but then sensing the stroking it decided to wait a moment, before gently dropping off to sleep. Mark’s hands was starting to freeze now, he decided quickly whether to pick the fish up and throw it to the bank or whether to wait a while and call in for reinforcements. He decided against the first option, this monster was going to take some force even to lift it from the water. And he wasn’t going to be ashamed, in front of his team members, by “cheating” at a gentlemanly sport. When the fish was in a sort of heavy stupor from the stroking, Mark gently pulled the trout to his side and while stroking he edged his way to the bank, then he heard the gentle crunch and crack of broken twigs, as it announced an unwelcome arrival. Without hesitancy Mark flung the trout as far inland as he could and it landed with some force upon a grassy area, whereby it started to squirm and jump about. Mark struggled to get ashore to cover his un gentlemanly approach to the sport of fishing, he slipped over some slimy rocks, and the deluge of the cold river poured over his head, he walked to the banks using deep strides and made it out, to lie with his captured trophy panting with the sun beating down upon him.
“Well done,” shouted Jane as she ran to help her colleague up. “We saw the whole incident from the dining room with binoculars, and we congratulate you on your achievement.” Mark saw the rest of the team running from the house as well.
“How the hell did you catch one of those?” Asked a breathless Mark, “I mean, even I did it with some difficulty. And that was only possible because of I cheated.”
“ You call that cheating? I bought a herring and used that as a catch, before getting a scolding from Mr. Bedwell because herrings are salt-water fishes and not really a river fish. But Bedwell still recommended me, because of my resourcefulness.”
“How did you know what the test was going to be, and why the hell didn’t you tell me?” grumbled Mark as he stood up.
“Simple, I just asked my colleagues and you should’ve done the same, this isn’t the SAS training course you know, we are supposed to be using our guile to complete the missions rather than brawn alone. “ stated Jane in a rather matter-of-fact fashion.
Bedwell came strolling, as cool as he can be, and upon seeing the trout on the wet grass, he said, “I see the bait but I don’t see the catch,” then suddenly burst out congratulating “I’ve been trying to capture that bugger for months now, and I have to congratulate you on your, ah, em...” as Bedwell floundered to get the right words out “rather different method of approach. Well, looks like we are having trout with parsley sauce this afternoon. ”
“Wonderful, eh…do you have any spare clothes by any chance? “ Mark asked rather embarrassingly.
By order
Mark Ridley looked with some irritation at the in-box; it had piled up to an enormous amount of trash as far as he was concerned. The team spent a surprising amount of time sitting at their desks and reading, mainly intelligence stuff—which likely target was thought to be where, according to MI6 or police department or some money grubbing informer. Nevertheless, occasionally some thing interesting appeared, such as the instructions for a new gadget, for the team to play with, or some sort of planning exercise. Mark stood up and flexed his muscles; he gave his trash to Alice Floorgate the team secretary to dispose of, and he walked over to the coffee machine, the machine gave a huge Falstaffian belch, steam billowed from the shower head, and drop, drop, drop-3 aromatic black oily tears fell sadly and individually into the silver jug below. God, this espresso machine is constipated, thought Mark.
Well, after the episode of the induction test, Mark thought rather lazily, things were looking rather dull, nothing was happening in the world that concerned the SIS, but he told himself, dull was another word for safe. In his spare time Mark asked around and got very satisfying answers, after all people just don’t select promising SAS soldiers to become Secret Intelligence Service members, whose aim is to do operations in any countries, friend or foe when the field ops think it is too hot for them to handle. However, it seemed that Steve White, the long time friend of Mark in the SAS, had invited Mark to be in his team to replace one of the shooters, who got injured permanently on an mission. There was 2 teams in operation, Team 1 and Team 2, so far the successful mission totals for both is at 6 of which 4 are in Team 1. The deep rivalry between the two teams often drives the team members to work harder at their particular skills, for example, Steve and Mark which comprises the “shooters” compete with their opposites in the other team, and so it is with communications man Richard Steely and his counterpart and the support member Jane and hers. The teams often do up to 5 hours of shooting and up to 3 hours of hard running and muscle training called the PT, before doing some form of tactical training, involving running around and shooting targets as they pop up. But occasionally, the teams would assemble and have a match in paintball, which often to the frustration of Team 1 they would win. Bets and all.
Team 2 was on standby alert, this meant that Team 2 would have to be prepared to move when the call from Whitehall come. However, ironically due to training accidents, the team was not allowed to train, for fear of injuries sustained, therefore they just sat around all day, with some minor training and waited till the end of their two week period. The teams rotate because their performance dips slightly with less time spent in training.
Mark went over to his desk to switch on his computer, feeling rather annoyed at his lack of coffee, maybe his body’s way of taking revenge on him for not providing it with caffeine.
“Team 2, get your asses into the meetings room, we have got a mission.” Jane ordered.
Mark walked, with the rest of the team to the soundproofed meetings room. When the door was closed, and everybody sat down on the comfortable executive leather chairs in a semicircle with a table, a projector, and a white screen. The chairs were made with real Argentinean leather, if the label was to be trusted.
“Listen up people, we have got a big job to do,” Jane said as she closed the lights and the switched on the motors of the automatic shutter system, “I’ve been contacted by the head of SIS, Mr. Sykes to tell you about the mission. Mr. Sykes as you know, is currently busy in America, but a letter of instruction has reached me to tell you that our objective for the next mission is to assassinate Mr. Johnson.“
Click went the projector, as a slide of Mr. Johnson with his small baggage appeared to be in a hurry appeared on the screen, ”this picture was taken by one of our operatives, in De Gaulle airport yesterday, of Keith Johnson, on his passport his name is Peter Smith.”
Another click and a passport photo of Johnson appeared, “he is six foot one, iron grey hair, believed to be American and around 50,” The team studied the screen and memorised the face and appearance. “We have to kill this man, he is the top supplier of weapons, mostly black to countries that are currently on our ‘could explode to all out war and drag us in’ list,” Jane looked around for confirmation of acknowledgement, “so far as we can tell Mr. Johnson now has a contact in France of an intercontinental-nuclear missile. This without having to say is not good. We have to stop this man before he delivers a weapon of mass destruction to our enemies. Any questions?”
A noisy whirring of the projector told all that it had shut down and accompanied with the low whirr of the shutters as it opened up the world’s light, the team members blinked at the light.
Richard Steely put his hand up and asked, ”Where does he get his weapons and this nuclear missile from?”
“As far as I can make out, “Jane scanned the notes of her instructions, “he gets it from various unscrupulous dealers in weapons, and for the nuclear missile, it is believed to be one of the 4 SHVM’s missing after the collapse of the Soviet Union.” Jane added wryly, “I think he is in a league higher than you Richard.” A grumble of laughter echoed through the team, with Richard looking very embarrassed with himself.
It was a common knowledge that Richard used to be a gun dealer in the black French underground market, especially in the French Foreign Legion where it was reported that he sold a whole regiment’s worth of guns and other affiliated goods whilst remaining undiscovered. He then came to England to join the Army. He was ripped away from his unit and put in the team because he was an excellent sharpshooter and communications man, a quality rarely found in the British Army.
“Where is Johnson located now?” asked Steve white, mirroring the same thoughts of Mark.
“We don’t have an exact location on him at the moment, but however, we think he is located at the La Belle quarter. We will have to rely upon Richard’s contact, however dodgy they may be to get us the address of his Paris house,” Answered Jane seriously,
“What type of operation is this?” asked Steve again.
“This operation will be denied upon capture by the DoD and the British government respectively,” Jane looked around at the sullen looks of her colleagues. “ And since we are on relatively good terms with the French Government, it would make sense to keep the mission on as low as a profile as possible, that means a quick in and out mission, with a low profile killing preferably in the target’s room. Any more questions? Good, you will travel light, and weapons will be issued upon arrival in the safe house in Paris. Tickets have already been arranged for the night flight to Paris and get a few hours sleep while you can. “
Harsh tactics
The British Airways 737 roared onto the runway of De Gaulle airport, where promptly Mark and the team members left and walked to the customs area. The fact that they had nothing to declare and their small baggage, made the transition much easier. For this mission they were wearing dark casual clothes to blend in with the background.
As the team rolled out towards the safe house in the hired mini-van from the airport they went past some of the world’s best views, but the team’s mind was on a different matter altogether.
The safe house was located in the Latin Quarter, in a one-floored terraced house, built about the time when the industrial revolution was taking hold in France. When Jane unlocked the door, and went in with the rest of the team following in 5 minutes intervals as to not arouse suspicion. What they found was a deserted house with the most basic of basic amenities. There was a bathroom, two bedrooms, and a living room. In the cupboards what they found was enough tinned Spam and baked beans to last for a good month.
Jane however with the help of Steve and Mark was rumbling through the floorboards, looking under the bed, inside the sofa for the armament that is supposed to be hidden here, most likely delivered and hidden by some helpful British diplomatic courier for contingencies like this.
However, all they found was a Sig Sauer 3.45mm with 2 magazines of 12 rounds each and a Beretta 9mm with 1 magazine. However, the gun rack suggested otherwise, originally it contained at least 16 guns of various types, obviously not British ones, but as far as the team could find all that remained of the weapons cache was two pistols.
“Looks like an unit has already been here and has outfitted already, and the delivery boy is late,” said Jane wryly while she desperately sought of a solution. ”Steve and Mark will have the pistols and then I will see what 500,000 Euros will get me in the way of armaments.” As she dished out the weaponry to Steve and Mark.
“I know some contacts in this area and I think I can get some good quality weaponry for the money you have.” suggested Richard.
“Fine, but I need some information on the whereabouts of Johnson first.” Said Jane as she shifted her look to Richard, “find someone who you think knows the whereabouts of Johnson, and squeeze them for information. Take Mark and Steve and get a cab and meet up here tomorrow. I shall pay a visit to the British Embassy to get the hardware needed,” Jane then smiled, “well aren’t you going to give the lady some privacy?”
With that the meeting broke, and the men went outside by the bidding of Richard.
“What? You want us to accompany you at 1o’clock in the morning to your contact, who on earth would stay up this late?” Asked a bemused Mark.
“Well, he is just a few minutes walk from here, let me tell you about him first. His name is Michael Lorenz and he is a drug dealer. He lives in the Saint-Beschara area, block 4 flat number 51 if I remember correctly. I know him from my days in the commercial world of dealings. He owns about 20% of the French market in supplying to the druggies in Paris. Moreover, I reckon that if his greed lives up to his reputation, then he would invest in other ventures as well, especially the ludicrous French underground gun market.” Richard paused to catch his breath and then went on, “and the main share of the market in France is the one owned by Keith Johnson, so a simple matter of deduction really.”
“Well, that was a nice story, but how the feck do we get in?” asked Steve as they approached the block of flats.
“Let’s just keep on walking and improvise,” said Mark as the three men hurriedly went into the building. They caught sight of a person leaving flat number 55 as they walked upstairs. Funny, thought Mark who would have guests at 2 o’clock in the morning? His views were confirmed as he caught sight of the package the man was holding as he sped downstairs, a little see through bag with some white powder in it.
“Why don’t you ring the bell,” Steve suggested to Richard, “you look the druggiest of all of us.”
“You mean the blackest?” whispered Richard, “thanks a lot!”
“White boys in slacks don’t buy smack at 2 o’clock in the morning.” Hissed Steve.
“And black ones do? Man, just where have you been hiding your sweet little ass?” retorted Richard.
“Guys,” intervened Mark, “wind your necks in OK? And Richard you better ring the bell. While we cover you.” Mark reached into his coat, brought out the Sig Sauer, and held it behind his back and gestured Steve to do the same and move to the side of the door.
The sharp ringing of the bell echoed through the empty corridor, as a man came shuffling up to the door and looked through the eyehole. Saw a lone black man and promptly opened the door and asked, ”Smack, weed or cocai…” but before he could finish, Steve and Mark rushed in and grabbed Michael and flung him on the floor with a rugby tackle.
Richard closed the door behind him as he walked in and grabbed a pillow to stuff into Michael’s mouth to stop him crying out. Michael evidently, wasn’t going to give up the fight so easily; he struggled for a few minutes before lying still exhausted.
Steve found some sheets in a cupboard and tore them into strips before binding Michael’s feet and hands with Mark restraining him.
Michael looked with disbelief at the three men, as he was hauled up and placed in his bed.
It was Richard, the French Negro who translated the questions for Michael, “Where is Keith Johnson?”
“Fuck you,” sneered Michael as his courage flooded back into him.
After the brief translation, Mark took out his gun and laid it on the bed. Michael’s eyes widened with horror but kept his mien. “Tell Michael,“ Mark told Richard, ” that we want to know the address of Keith Johnson or else he gets it, starting with his kneecaps first.” In addition, for dramatic effect, started fingering with the safety switch.
“I…tell you Keith is…” said a well and terrified Michael in broken English. He just wanted to get out of this ordeal alive. ”If you no kill me.”
“Agreed.” Said Richard with a firm tone in his voice.
“Keith lives in 231 La Rue,” pleaded Michael, “please no kill me, I told you, let...me go.”
“Well friend, let me check on the address first before we give you any sort of freedom.” Said Steve, with a malicious gleam in his eyes. “But first, you will drink this up,” Steve announced as he held up a bottle of an eight year old French whiskey, “found them in the cabinet over there,” Steve declared.
“No…please…no,” begged Michael.
“I am very sorry but, well we neither want to clobber you over the head or trust you.“ said Steve as he uncorked the bottle. “Here drink up, it will help you.“ Steve pinched Michael’s nose as he poured the bottle into the gaping mouth. Most of it was spluttered out.
“Here Richard, go into the kitchen and see if you could find a funnel of some sort.” Asked Steve.
After some frantic searching, a funnel was unearthed amongst the utensils.
Steve stuffed the tunnel down Michael’s protesting mouth as Mark put his gun towards Michael’s head. Seeing as there was no escape from this bizarre treatment, Michael relented and drank the whisky down bit by bit till he passed out, after having drunk nearly all the bottle.
“There’s still 4 bottles left, if he wakes up, then douse him with this. It will put him out for a good 6 hours and if he does come round, he would be feeling short term memory loss syndrome,” said Steve, “and look the whisky are the same make as well! That should keep the flavour the same.”
“Come, let’s get some sleep, before tomorrow.” Said Mark wearily as he started for the sofa.
Operation Sandalwood
The day broke with Richard going off to find his contacts on armaments, while Steve went off to tell Jane about the news.
Mark was left alone with Michael, who had emptied his bladder and stomach over the course of the night. The stench was unbearable, and Mark opened a window to let in some much needed fresh air.
“Please…I piss OK?” asked Michael in a dreamy voice as he woke up and struggled weakly with his bonding.
“I’m sure you piss OK,” said Mark grimly, “but first you drink OK, it’ll make you feel a whole lot better.” Another empty bottle lay on the floor as Michael emptied the contents of his bladder onto his bed for the second time.
Mark walked his way to the kitchen to make himself something to eat as he heard the loud banging on the door, he rushed quickly towards the hallway with his gun already drawn out, to see Richard through the eyehole.
After letting Richard in, and having a bite to eat, the two of them left for the notorious part of town, to collect the guns that Richard brokered. They took a taxi and having got there paid their fare and walked over to what appeared for all purposes a garage including a man dressed in a dirty blue engineering suit. As Richard and the dirty man talked, and what it seemed like bargaining, the man left and walked away to the storeroom at the back.
“ I tried to get FAMAS rifles, the standard Foreign Legion rifles, but it appeared he sold it to some one else, despite my reservation. Corsican terrorists probably, apparently they’re very good customers.” added Richard.
The grubby man came back with a large black case, and led them into the garage; he opened up a case of what appeared to be Dyna-Lite torches. But he took the top layer out and reached the straw protection, he dug down and came back with a 9mm Uzi, designed for city combat and suppressed, noticed Mark with the fold-away stock. A very good alternative to the MP-10’s and MP-5’s, although he was not that familiar with the Uzi. A man can shoot a whole magazine of this baby outside the police department and nobody would hear you. The man grabbed another three of them.
“Do you have any sub-sonic ammo to go with that?” Asked Mark.
“Of course, although it will have to cost you.” Answered the man in his rather queer intonation of English.
They walked to another part of the room, before stopping at another bow, identically the same. He got out four body armours called “2nd Chance Vests”, these weren’t as bulky and heavy as flak-jackets. And had a Kevlar cover to slow the bullet and Perspex trauma packs to disperse the impact underneath.
None took bullets but all had the sour smell of fear and stress about them.
The man then brightened as he put the black case on the worktop, “the crème de la crème,” he announced as he opened the case to reveal some spanners, and after taking them away, revealed a Romak-3 Dragunov sniper rifle. Including 10 rounds of 7.62mm bullets added in for free, the man said to sweeten the deal.
“If we need all of these,” said Mark, “then you are in a well and truly fucked situation.”
After paying the fee of 250,000 Euros via credit card for the weaponry, they felt it was appropriate for one of the to get a rental car, after all people, don’t just go into a cab loaded with guns do they?
After the gun dealing, Steve went back to the flat to check up on Michael, and to top him up on the usual whisky, and Mark and Richard went back to the safe house driving the rental car, with the boot filled with weaponry.
“Hello Jane,” greeted Mark as he brought the guns over in cardboard boxes, “I’ve brought you something nice.”
“As long as it is not sexually transmitted.” reminded Jane.
With that the group laughed and went into the house.
They then split up the weapons between them, on the floor, tested, scrubbed the barrels of the guns, and then phoned Steve to get back, telling him that Michael would be out for another six hours or so.
When the group was assembled around a map, Jane said, ”I think it is time for the take down. I have been to the target’s area today and there appeared to be inside up to 7 to 8 male people. A helicopter also at the back. I think that Keith has his office at this place here,” said Jane pointing at the map. “We shall all split up with Richard covering the front using the sniper rifle, me and the rest will go through the west entrance, and make our way to the top and into the office, where we will finish the business. Steve will cover the back while Mark and I go in for the kill. All clear so far?”
“Where is the western entrance on this map?” Asked Mark, with a rumble of murmuring of agreement from the rest of the team.
“North is that way,” pointed Jane on the map, “south is that way, east is that way and where is west?”
The team pointed, “Just as I thought,” said Jane, “the only process you’re mastered is the process of elimination, and the only reason you’ve mastered that is because you can do it in the toilet.“ A pause, before Jane moved on, ”All right then, that is the plan, we assemble here after the mission and then we move off to Whitehall for the after mission celebration.”
The team, then split up separately, to wear their new gadgets on before moving in twos on their min-van and the rented car to the destination.
After a 15 minutes drive, the cars stopped and ejected its occupant into the cold night. Team 2 assembled and then split up again into their respective positions waiting for the signal from Jane as they edged closer across the public lawn and into the private one. A few more wriggles, and they saw the small mansion with its 10 rooms. While Richard got into position, the rest of the team edged sideways for a forced entrance through the side. Their black casuals camouflaged themselves against the dark lawn.
After an agonising wait, Jane pumped her arms up and down in a signal known to all the armies over the world. The team ran towards the door, with Mark shooting at the door knob as he did so, and crashed into the door, before rolling to one side, and jumping up with his gun level for action. A shaded figure in casuals ran towards them guns a blazing, before he was took down by Steve in a carefully aimed, 3 shot burst.
The team moved swiftly upstairs as Steve looked back and took the rear. Mark jumped up the stairs with his guns trained at the upper floor, and seeing a man running away, he took him down with a shot to his back. Jane then went into one of the rooms while Mark protected her. Sounds of fire were heard below as three men besieged Steve. Jane came out and went into another room and a distinct popping shot was heard as her shots found their targets. Mark went in to find Jane coming out unscathed, Mark dived into a room his finger depressed on his gun and the bullets found plaster. Nobody in, damn, then came the office, Jane shot off the lock before aiming for the empty chair, no one in here either. Where the hell is Keith Johnson?
A whirring of blades told Mark all he needed to know, he ran towards the open window and shot at the lifting helicopter. His shots went wide and then his gun jammed. Jane ran into the other rooms. Mark slid down the banister with his pistol drawn; he reached downstairs to find two of the defenders alive and running, he put off two quick shots, which instantly killed both of them.
But suddenly a pain suddenly rocketed through the arm as he fell forward, and Mark invariably tumbled down and lay on the ground beside Steve. The man walked up slowly to Mark with a drawn pistol in his hand. He slowly raised the gun and was about to depress the gun, but a force blew him forward, then he went down on his knees and looked at the hole in the middle of his chest with disbelief before dropping to one side.
Richard had shot, almost 200 metres away and had aimed at the chest area of the defender, the most sensible and safe shot of the snipers.
Jane came down and announced that all was clear as Richard came in through the smashed door. They converged on Mark as he tried to get up but a stab of pain held him down. Jane took off his clothing and opened up the trauma vest that he wore, to reveal that a bullet had gone through the vest and into his shoulder but that it had stopped another 2. “Well, you got your second chance that you paid for, the damage isn’t serious but will hurt.”
Jane helped him up as he looked into Steve’s vacant eyes and a gory hole down the side of his neck.
“We went back a long time,” said Mark, his mouth twitching at a dim memory of Trooper Dykes as he was known back then baring his buttocks at a group of outraged Kuwaitis from the back of a commandeered Chevrolet during the aftermath of Desert Storm.
“Come,” said Jane as she helped Mark into the van, “I can bandage you on the way back, but first, we must notify the British embassy to clear up this place.” The cleaners are notorious for making a bloody operation look like some sort of gang warfare amongst the drug barons. A few carefully put bags of drugs will make it look like any other incident.
“We still don’t have a name for the mission yet,” said Mark.
Jane waited a moment before speaking, “Sandalwood, yes, Operational Sandalwood, that is a good name. As the mini-van sped along the French motorway, the smell of sandalwood of the French forest wafted through the van.
Retribution
Mark ambled towards the Fish and chip shop with Jane and after buying The Sun, took a seat in a strip lit section, and started devouring his hot fish with gusto. When he had finished his meal, he read up on the latest immigrant scare stories, absorbed the facts concerning the Away day Bonking Vicar, and dwelt at some length on the silicon free charms of Bethany from Huntington with a veiled look of male interest. He worked loose the pain from his shoulder with the bandage as he left the restaurant with Jane, and walked slowly towards her Honda, With difficulty he got in and reported back to base with the news on the failed assassination.
Mr. Sykes, looked with anger at the report, and after some time and a few pipes later, looked at Mark and Jane with Richard in the background with surprise.
Finally, he said, “You blew this mission, you absolutely messed it up, you completely and utterly messed up a mission that I never ordered. I have no recollection on sending you a letter of instruction to kill this Keith person, or whatever this person’s name happen to be.“
The shocked faces of Team 2 told it all. A member of the team died and for what purpose?
Mr. Sykes contemplated slowly, and said, “There is obviously a security leak in this section. I shall look into this matter very seriously, but as from today all of you including Team 1 is to be dropped from the active list.”
The two teams left in shock, the section had disbanded them, where would they go? What could they do?
Only one man looked resolute, Mark knew the man responsible for this, and with Richard and Jane they sped off into the countryside, into the mansion of Mr. Bedwell.
Upon arriving, they found a red car parked outside, “Rather flashy for an old man, wouldn’t you say so?” asked Mark dryly.
Mark didn’t bother to knock on the front door, but rather pushed it open and went in, into the study room where, he found no other than Mr. Bedwell and Mr. Johnson engaged in conversation.
Mark took out his Sig Sauer and aimed at Keith’s head, “So Mr. Johnson we meet again.”
Mr. Bedwell hurriedly said, “Put that weapon down at once, I will not tolerate this sort of behaviour in my house.”
“Oh, and what do you say to the death of Steve, and oh Mr. Johnson, did I tell you he wanted to kill you?” Asked Mark unrelentingly. Richard and Jane stood by amazed at what was happening.
“Put the gun down and listen to my side of the story for one second,” demanded Bedwell, “then if you are not satisfied then you may shoot me. This whole incident started on the day Sykes became the head of SIS, as you may know, in the 1980’s a Russian spy by the name of Philip nearly had the chance to become the head of MI6. The head of the counter-intelligence division in Britain, well he was thwarted, but it still sends a shiver down MI6’s spine occasionally. And so, it was the same with Sykes, all this is a test for him to see if he could be trusted. And sadly, the answer was no. As soon as Sykes came to office, he searched through the contacts list and ordered, for the mutual use of both Iraq and Britain an inter-continental ballistic missile. Of course, he went to my old friend Keith, for the device but little did he know that me and Keith have a friendship that spanned the Eton eras.” With that, Keith winked at the group and tipped his champagne glass. Bedwell went on ”Keith of course told me about the scheme, but when he flew back to Paris, something happened, a communications problem I think, led to the sending of an E-mail from him to me to be received by Sykes. Sykes, immediately caught on to what was happening, and of course wanted Keith to be removed with the whole of SIS section so that no evidence is left of his activities. So he sent you lot in to kill Keith, while under the charade that I sent it. A very clever plot, but of course, Keith knew something was amiss and took the precaution of hiring extra guards and a helicopter. Sykes knew that if any of you was alive after the end, he would dish out the security leak thing until he stood in long enough in the office to get what he wanted. That is the God’s truth and all that I know.”
“But if Keith was an arms merchant, how could you be friends with him?” Asked Mark.
“Simple, I deliver mostly faulty weapons, and they pay me in cash, so I disappear, and then resurface and give the money mostly to Bedwell to spend on his troops, while I keep some, for mine own personal use. And so while I fund an unit of peacekeepers, I rip off the enemies of this countries.”
“So you still thinking of shooting me?” asked Bedwell
“No, but we have to capture Sykes, to bring him to justice, and revenge for the death of a team member.” Said Mark with defiance.
“Too late old boy, the little blighter was seen in Heathrow bound for Brazil, just after you came galloping off to pop the old man.” Said Bedwell with a tinge of irony. ”But, don’t worry, Sykes or what ever his real name is, is never going to set foot on this country again while I am the head of SIS.”
“What? You coming back? To run the outfit again?” asked Mark with shock.
“Of course, who else would I trust? And my first decision is to find a replacement for the missing place in Team 2,“ then Bedwell asked, “so, Mark who do you suggest?”
-THE END-
