The Jamaican Job

By Louise. H Egan

A sexually explicit tale of espionage and intrigue set amidst the beautiful Caribbean islands. Fast paced and action packed, the Jamaican Secret Service join forces with British Intelligence, but will they be in time to save Jamaica from a common enemy?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Louise. H Egan
• Release date: May 24, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301121885

Book preview

Prologue

It was 2004, and Britain hadn’t been involved in the war with Iraq for very long. Long enough, though to have lost some personnel as hostages. Captain Wright was involved in a team which had been sent to rescue those British nationals, some of whom were civilians. She wasn’t leading the mission as there were many officers, both British and American, who far out-ranked her, and there was still controversy about women being involved in search and rescue missions on the front line. Her expertise with all things explosive had swayed her superiors into sending her (her unit was the Corps of Royal Engineers or the bomb disposal squad). She had just shouted Clear! at a cell door, thrown a grenade and was following it into the cell over the rubble, when she felt the unmistakable shape of the barrel of an AK-47 in her back. She turned around very slowly, so as not to panic the Iraqi holding the weapon, and so began her seven days of captivity.

Her spirit was nearly broken by those seven days, given what the Iraqis considered to be legitimate forms of information gathering. A festering rage kept her going, a determination that she would not be beaten by these barbaric men, who held women in so little regard.

When, in turn, she was rescued, the American officer who came into her cell had tears in his eyes as he took in her condition. Her desert battle fatigues were in rags, there were open wounds on her bare breasts, and the only thing which made her look alive was the blazing fury in her bright green eyes. He took his tunic off and covered her very gently, then carried her to the waiting Sea King helicopter.

Back in Britain Captain Wright was awarded the Distinguished Service Cross, and six months in a rehabilitation unit and promoted to Major. She didn’t really have much to talk about, to the psychiatrists’ surprise-she had been tortured, that much was obvious, but as she had known nothing of the overall plans in Iraq, she had to make up what she didn’t know. What Wright did know was that everyone talked under torture eventually, whether it was at once or further down the line, and the quicker you talked, the quicker the pain stopped. Fortunately she hadn’t been captive long enough for the Iraqis to discover her lies, as they would surely have killed her. She didn’t want revenge on her captors, but what she did want was to continue to fight the forces which were attempting to overthrow civilisation, thereby throwing ordinary men and women into danger and disarray, and sometimes making them take up arms themselves.

What Major Wright also knew was that although she didn’t want to leave the Armed Forces, she didn’t want to go back to the front line, where everything was out of one individual’s control, and a small success could be followed by tragedy very quickly. She also didn’t want to ride a desk.

Her quandary was solved towards the end of her stay in the rehabilitation unit-she received a visit from a tall elegant woman in civilian clothes and Major Wright was astounded to see from her ID that she was the Assistant Director of MI7, Mrs Barnes.

Your name has been mentioned to my Director by your Commanding Officer, said Mrs Barnes, I understand that you’ve had enough of conventional soldiering, but you don’t want to leave the service?

That’s right ma’am, said Major Wright, although she had no idea what rank Mrs Barnes was.

If we give you a try it will be the most difficult thing you’ve ever done. You understand that being held captive in Iraq would be like a walk in the park in comparison with MI7?

I understand ma’am, said Major Wright, but at my rank I would expect to lead some missions and be more in control of the situation.

I suppose Secret Service work is more controllable than being on the front-line in some respects, said Mrs Barnes grudgingly, but it’s more difficult in others. Sometimes there is no back-up at all, never mind a whole battalion, or the might of the coalition forces! she sniffed, well the physical and psychological tests will tell us if you’re suitable, I’m willing to give you a try. Report to Headquarters on Monday, in civilian clothes. You will retain your place in your regiment and your rank, and they are at liberty to call you back if needed-though in reality I’ve never known this to happen, she shook Major Wright’s hand, I’m unlikely to see much of you as I ride a desk these days, unfortunately active service is not for the over sixties, so good luck! Major Wright realised she was making a joke, and managed a short laugh as she shook Mrs Barnes’s hand. She would come through the training, she was determined!

Chapter 1

Fenella Wright realised that it was a beautiful day as soon as she woke up. She jumped out of bed and opened the curtains-sure enough the azure blue sea was glistening in the middle distance, reflecting the dazzling sky.

She was in Jamaica on the holiday of a lifetime-alone! Unfortunately there was a civil insurrection going on, which was why she was here. Ostensibly she worked as a head of department for a Welsh Local Authority, but ten years ago she had been recruited by MI7 as an undercover operative, since when her holidays and sometimes more, were spent on dangerous undercover missions.

Jamaica is the ‘jewel in the crown’ of the Caribbean, or so its tourist department claims. It had always been on Fenella’s list of places to come, because of its very difference from the rest of the Caribbean. It had the same beaches and sunshine, but it also had very African roots, which derived from the barbaric practice of slavery. Runaway slaves, who fled to the Blue Mountains, kept the African traditions alive, including the distinctive cookery, and ongoing generations who supported the back to Africa movement, and then the Rastafarian and Reggae cultures, continued with the link to Africa. Latterly, the cities in particular, had become dangerous places, with muggings and even murder becoming common place. In fact for several years, the capital, Kingston has had the highest murder rates in the world. An island ripe for a revolution? It would appear so.

Anyway back to the mission in hand, she thought, making a mental note to come here when she wasn’t working-she did this with many places where she had undertaken a mission and rarely, if ever, managed to return to any. She was to stay at the hotel for as long as she thought necessary to establish her tourist persona, then venture into Kingston to mingle with the locals and gain all the information she could about a certain Cuban gentleman who was thought to be supplying drugs and arms to the locals which in turn was causing the insurrection. Her orders were quite clear, if he was responsible, she was to terminate him herself or give the order to her counterparts in the Jamaican Secret Service. She did not relish this part of her work, but she was good at it and knew that it was necessary.

*

Fenella spent the day on the hotel’s beach, making friends with the staff by tipping them heavily. She asked about the nightlife in Kingston, but was given the distinct impression that nothing outdid the hotel entertainment and the superb singer there. There was just one cleaning girl who said that she would be delighted to show off the nightlife in Kingston-Fenella said maybe later in the week and that she would sample what the hotel had to offer for now. Which was just what she was preparing to do now. She had a solitary dinner, then joined a group of British people at the bar, not wishing to make herself conspicuous by sitting on her own. She was to wish that she had. A good looking man of her own age was at pains to introduce himself and his female friend.Mark seemed very interested in her local authority work, (he worked for a housing association), but Fenella suspected he was British Armed Forces, and as he became progressively more drunk he became more indiscreet, until he tricked them both into a classic mistake. Fenella was samba’ing around the bar like any carefree tourist when he fell at her feet, seemingly dead. Without a conscious thought, she yelled at his friend ‘Get that man off the field now!’ She hoped that she had managed to pass it off as a joke, but at the first opportunity she gave Mark the bollocking of his life, promising to speak to his Commanding Officer at home. However she also blamed herself for her lack of vigilance and would have to stay friendly with the couple for the rest of the stay, so that she didn’t arouse any more suspicions. All in all a deeply unsatisfactory day!

*

Captain Mark Jones and Lieutenant Maria Stevens had first met when they were posted to Afghanistan. They were in the same regiment and although Mark out-ranked Maria, they became firm friends. They were lucky to have fairly peaceful tour, although they were together on a successful mission to rescue some captured oil workers, it was relatively straightforward.

They were surprised to be called to see their Commanding Officer shortly before the end of their tour, thinking they had done something wrong they approached the summons with some trepidation. The CO came straight to the point, as was his wont, MI7 are recruiting, and I’ve recommended both of you. I warn you though, Afghanistan will seem like a walk in the park compared with the training for MI7! Anyway the opportunity is yours if you want it. If you come through training you have a fortnight’s leave authorised. I hear the Caribbean is nice.

Chapter 2

Mark was looking sheepish at breakfast, but Fenella forced herself to go and sit with them and be civil in front of the staff. She led the conversation into chit chat about the island and mentioned that she intended to go to Kingston, perhaps that day. Just make sure you have a reputable guide-it can be very dangerous down there, commented Mark idly, then blushed a deep shade of red. After the shenanigans of the previous evening, he must have realised she was connected to the forces, and possibly on active duty. However this was just the kind of conversation she wanted in front of the hotel staff, to allay any suspicions they had already aroused. Good tip Mark. I’ll ask the hotel to organise something, she replied. In fact she had already decided that Mark was quite cute when he was repentant, and he would probably be a useful partner in a tight spot. Unfortunately her contacts were exclusively the Jamaican Secret Service and she was the only British agent currently active on the island. She was to make contact with them today, although she didn’t know where or when.

She bid Mark and his friend an airy goodbye and went off to the reception desk to ask for a car and a guide into Kingston, fully intending to lose both at the earliest opportunity. She also mentioned that she might stay the night there and asked her hotel to make a provisional booking with a decent guest house. She packed a small bag accordingly, not forgetting her all plastic Glock, which had come through customs cunningly disguised as a tooth brush, body spray and other toiletries.

When they reached Kingston, Fenella realised that everything the locals and tourists had said about it was true-it was a dump! Which begged the question of why an affluent Cuban gentleman would choose it as his base, unless of course he was up to no good.

She told the driver to drop her at the guest house, saying she wanted to explore a little and would meet him later. He strongly advised her to keep to the main streets and keep away from the harbour where ‘desperate women sold themselves’. Fenella faithfully promised whilst forming a plan to visit these very landmarks.

She had a brief wash and flung a long sleeved shirt on to keep off the worst of the sun’s rays, then ventured out into afternoon Kingston, better if it was night, but she intended to be out and about that very night.

*

Her foray through the large market town didn’t improve her first impressions of Kingston-there were dope heads lying on every corner like so much rubbish. These were the individuals who had smoked so much of the very strong Jamaican weed that they had literally become good for nothing, just living in a haze waiting for the pusher to bring them their next hit, they just lay on the pavement, relying on the good will of passersby to give them some coins for their next meal. The markets were more interesting, although the women who worked there seemed quite racist and refused to sell her any water, meaning Fenella had to go back to the main thoroughfare for any refreshment. All in all an impression was being formed in Fenella’s mind, of a community so poor, so desperate that they might well resort to drugs and civil insurrection in a bid to improve conditions. She took a short walk out of the town into the wealthy suburbs and all her impressions of Jamaica started to coalesce in her mind. What was the betting that wealthy foreigners lived in these properties, some British perhaps and some even Cuban! If she were working in that market, would she be any friendlier to foreigners than the women had been this morning?! She shook her head to clear it-she had walked further than she intended, again without water, and was feeling the strain of the extreme heat. She decided to go back to her guest house for a nap and a cool shower before any real action started tonight. She knew where the Cuban’s hotel was which hopefully meant that she could inveigle an invitation to dinner.

After a short nap Fenella was ready for action again-she was dressed to kill in a tight fitting blue dress and high heels, with her hair swept up and make-up on full power. ‘You’ll do,’ she said to her reflection in the mirror. She made her way across town to the Cuban’s hotel, which was also situated by the Army base-ironically it was a notorious area for pickpockets and she had been warned to stay away from the area by her driver. Sure enough as she was walking up the hill to the hotel a kid filched twenty cigarettes from her bag. She had spotted him yards away, but allowed him to make the manoeuvre as she felt it could lead to something. Like all good agents she was improvising furiously! She shouted loudly after the kid, but didn’t take any other action, and her luck was holding as a short, sturdily built man with a swarthy complexion came out of the hotel entrance.

What is distressing the senorita? he asked, charm turned on at full level.

That kid just stole some cigarettes out of my bag-my fault I suppose for coming to an area I’ve been warned against!

But you should feel that you can walk anywhere in Kingston safely! Allow me to introduce myself-and replace your cigarettes. I am Carlos Garcia, he kissed her hand, and when I know your name I can invite you to dinner.

My name’s Fenella Wright-I’m on holiday on the other side of the island, but I wanted to see something of the real Jamaica, so I’m staying in Kingston overnight. And yes I’d love to have dinner with you.

If you will allow a Cuban to show you some of the ‘real’ Jamaica, we can make a night of it. Also if you want to take in some more sights on your own now, I will put the word out that you are not to be bothered.

Bingo-the right person straightaway and safe passage through the town!

How lovely to have met someone with so much influence so early in my visit! I’ll see you back here at 9pm?

Garcia laughed, I just have many friends Fenella, there is no real question of influence. Yes 9pm will be perfect. Hasta luego-until later. He kissed her hand again and she walked away, resisting the urge to punch the air in triumph!

Chapter 3

She walked slowly in the direction of the hotel, also visiting the harbour, where she saw some of the girls preparing for that evening’s work. Disapproving of prostitution was not one of Fenella’s principles, so long as the girls were treated well and not taken advantage of by their customers or their pimps she could see no problem with it. Sadly this was the case more often than not and whereas some women did the work as a choice, often they were forced into it by desperate poverty.

These musings went to the back of her mind as she neared the guest house and realised that she was being followed again. Mentally tutting, she turned, poised for a possibly physical confrontation this time. The young man following her was wearing a white track suit and was coloured.

Pretend to be friendly to me so that we can talk, he hissed, Garcia has put the word out that you’re not to be hassled, and I will regret it if you’re aggressive towards me!

Fenella stopped and smiled at the young man, And what’s a handsome boy like you doing picking up old women on the street? she asked.

If you were old I wouldn’t care ‘cos you look so fine! was the response, I’m glad that’s over with, I think our bosses think we’re in a Bond movie! Tyrone Phillips, Jamaican Secret Service. All the time he was talking Tyrone was maintaining a casual stance, laughing and looking coy, as though he was really chatting her up.

And I’m Fenella Wright, but you must know that already!

I do, and now we need somewhere to talk so that I can update you on the current situation regarding our friend the Cuban. and lapsing suddenly into Patois, an’ you is so fine lady, come an nyam an ice cream wid me. Fenella was momentarily surprised at the sudden switch from received pronunciation English to local dialect, but then realised some visitors had wandered too close for comfort.

So your sister really works at the Grand Hotel where I’m staying, and asked you to keep an eye out for me?! Well that’s so sweet I’d love to come and have an ice cream with you, if that’s what you said! I haven’t mastered the local lingo yet (in fact Fenella was fluent, having been learning Patois at home.)! said Fenella loudly, in her most patronising English manner. Let that be reported back to Garcia if his spies were listening.

They made their way to a beach front cafe and headed for a secluded table where their conversation wouldn’t be over heard. The only moment of discord was when they both tried to take the seat facing the door. Special agents the world over like to observe the door for obvious reasons.

Bad news I’m afraid Fenella, we’ve had reports that your cover has been blown. My orders are for you to abort your mission. Tyrone came straight to the point.

However if there was one thing which Fenella hated, it was leaving a job before it was finished. Reports from whom? she asked.

From our local sources-you might say snouts in English. The whole point of us asking the British Secret Service for assistance was that Garcia is known to have a penchant for beautiful red headed women-somewhat difficult to achieve from our home grown forces! You were supposed to get close to him and find out just what part he is playing in this disorder: well we have firm evidence now that he is supplying arms and drugs to the cause-helping to turn the island into a melting pot of discontent and violence, with people so drugged up they don’t know right from wrong any more. Now that we have the evidence the only thing left is the termination.

Thank you for reminding me of my mission Tyrone, but what you’re saying is Goodnight Vienna. Well let me tell you that I haven’t come 4,000 miles to back out of a job, and I only take orders from my bosses in the service! Fenella had spoken quietly, but with steely determination. Now let’s stop wasting time and plan tonight.

But if you try and kill Garcia tonight, he may well be ready for you and get to you first! argued Tyrone.

There are always some moments when a man is unguarded, said Fenella airily, and when I have excellent back-up, I won’t be in any danger. She knew that she had won her point and could afford to be generous to Tyrone.

Okay, sighed Tyrone, so you do the kill, but I will be right outside on the balcony so all you need to do is scream if you get into difficulties. I was warned that you are quite independent!

I won’t ask who by, as I recognise the measured tones of my direct superior Nigel in that phrasing! And I have never screamed in my life!

Well whistle baby! Mek a nize! Anythin’ out of the ordinary an’ I’ll come runnin’! said Tyrone, slipping into Patois again.

Very well,