Stanley Kotep in: A Thickening of the Plot

By DC Clark

Jaiden Mackenzie, a young boy from the mean streets of Sheffield, is abducted in the dead of night by a shadowy man in a suit.
Reports of strange and abnormal goings on begin to emanate from the tiny island of Chen Mu, off the coast of South Korea, and anyone who investigates mysteriously disappears.
Stanley Kotep and the Order reunite once more to get to the bottom of these mysteries. Along the way they encounter old friends, make new ones and again end up in direct and deadly confrontations with the evil Cardinal and his legions of Finders. A rip-roaring adventure that gallops from the lush wetlands of Colorado to the frozen wilds of Siberia, the thrilling STANLEY KOTEP trilogy continues apace.

• Language: English
• Publisher: DC Clark
• Release date: Nov 19, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311073396

Book preview

This book is dedicated to everyone who read my first novel. Your support, advice, evaluation and outright criticism were invaluable in helping me to shape this one. Thank you, one and all.

Stanley Kotep in:

A Thickening of the Plot

By DC Clark

Much like my first novel, I have included a soundtrack of songs that inspired and sustained me during the writing process. Certain people have said that they find my style filmic and, even though that was never intentionally my aim when writing, I would have to agree. Each of these songs accompanies an event or a moment that occurs in the subsequent pages. But more importantly than any of this, each of these artists possesses more creativity and ability in their little fingers, than I do in my whole body.

La Dispute – The Most Beautiful Bitter Fruit

Major Lazer – Get Free

Brand New – Seventy Times 7

Pulled Apart By Horses – You Want It

Iron Chic – Bogus Journey

iLiKETRAiNS – Stainless Steel

Brawlers – Mothers & Fathers

Senses Fail – The Ground Folds (Acoustic)

The Sunshine Underground – Change Your Mind

LCD Soundsystem – All My Friends

Bored Nothing – Let Down

Elliott Smith – Roman Candle

Drenge – Backwaters

Eagulls – Nerve Endings

The Wonder Years – The Bastards, The Vultures, The Wolves

Dancing Years – Here’s to My Old Friends

PROLOGUE

The Old Man In The Sea

Down he fell. To the deep. To the depths. Helpless, he was. A child taken too early from the arms of a mother. Strength and conviction left him. He was too old, he had fought for too long.

Horrible irony. The cold, the darkness, the pain; it was the comfort he had been seeking. The end to the conflict, the gesture of surrender.

It would be easier this way. They would be happier this way. What if he were nothing but a forced catalyst, stirring them into acts which did not come naturally? Herding them with rhetoric and impassioned ideals. Had he ever allowed them to make a choice? Rolling through the swells of imminence, he did not think that he had.

That freezing, aching, gnawing cold numbed him, stripped the flesh from his bones. Turned his skeleton into one of fixed, immobile iron. His heart became a block of ice, an inanimate crystalline object. It had no use any more. He could not feel it pumping. The same went for the rest of his organs. He was a sack of stones.

The currents pushed and pulled him from side to side but the descent was not halted. Long dead wraiths clutched at him, pulling him to the bottom.

It was fine, he thought, there was no shame in capitulation. One could not be expected to resist forever. They must understand that. As he thought of them, he pictured their faces. Those wide, open faces. It was the flint needed to spark a light of humanity throughout his frozen tomb. One by one, he looked into their eyes and knew that this failure was unacceptable.

He needed to do this, not for the sake of morality, but for them. They had followed him, not because of the strength in his conviction but because they believed in the message. Blessed are those that inherit the earth, the meek, yet cursed are those that are abandoned on earth, the lost. He could not leave them, not yet.

The eyelids rose, the brine stung, caustic and unrelenting. Those muscles which had become flooded with abject defeat, twitched then kicked. Breath was leaving him, life was receding gently and steadily but he would not allow it. Not yet.

Above him, many feet above, he saw the light of hope. Refracted and dispersed through many, many billions of water molecules it became a ceiling of diamonds. Stars fixed into the marine sky. Something that he could reach for, grab hold of and use to drag himself back into existence.

PART ONE

CHAPTER ONE

The Churchfield Estate

The boy’s pale blue eyes surveyed the streets with a cold, calculating efficiency that belied his tender years. He sniffed hard, with one nostril, before sending an amoeba of phlegm spinning into the gutter. Moodily, he studied the ends of his brand new Nike high-top trainers, noting with a mean dissatisfaction a recent scuff that must have occurred at some point earlier in the morning. Dismissing this, he looked up and down at the litter-strewn streets that spread away from him, like bleak concrete tentacles. The boy did not need to glance at his watch to know that they were late.

Jaiden Mackenzie was fourteen, going on forty. A precocious youth blessed with a fierce intellect and frightening ambition, his life was unfortunately shaped as a result of his circumstances. He was born on the Churchfield estate in Sheffield, a high-rise monstrosity that sat on the crest of the hill over-looking the bowl of the town centre, like a malevolent, decaying prison warder. If you were brought up in Churchfield, there were only three options; fight, hide or waste away. The majority of the estate was content to hide, peering nervously from behind grease-smeared kitchen blinds as those who chose the fight option went about their business on the streets below them.

Jaiden had never known his father, the old man having, rather predictably, disappeared while the baby was still in his infancy. From what Jaiden could gather, this had been something of a blessing initially, sparing his mother from the brutal daily beatings. Unfortunately, Jaiden’s mother was unable to take advantage of this respite, falling victim to her own failings. She had chosen the option of wasting away, the third choice afforded to Churchfield residents, choosing first alcohol and then other, harder substances to find her oblivion.

The three options were something that Jaiden firmly disagreed with; hiding and wasting away were the choices of a coward and whilst he was not afraid to fight, he found that there were other, more effective, methods of achieving his objectives. It does not take long, in the modern world, for a child to realise that there is really only one thing that counts for anything in this life. Money.

Realising this earlier than all of his peers, Jaiden slowly and methodically set about putting into place plans that would ensure that, by the time he was an adult, he would never be short of money. At the age of nine, he began to assemble a close knit crew around him. At first these had been kids his own age, but soon enough the boy’s reputation spread and kids almost twice his age began to show up, wanting to be part of Jaiden’s gang. With their unflappable general marshalling them, the boys very slowly began to put a stranglehold on the Churchfield estate and the surrounding suburbs. Forgoing petty violence for other activities guaranteeing a higher return, Jaiden’s gang focussed on car theft and reasonably low-level fraud rather than house-breaking and muggings.

The first challenge to Jaiden’s burgeoning power arrived a couple of years later, shortly after his twelfth birthday. His reputation had spread and such word of mouth was only going to inspire jealousy and bruise the ego of any incumbent petty crooks. A gang of local thugs, in their late teens, had taken affront to this young child making a mark on their turf. They were a particularly vicious yet moronic group of individuals, specialising in, and in fact particularly relishing, brute violence. Jaiden had long known that violence wasn’t the most effective method of action but he also wasn’t stupid enough not to realise that sometimes it was essential.

When the four boys had cornered him in an alley near the local shops, he had wasted no time in driving a penknife hard up into the jaw of the ringleader, leaving the older boy wide eyed in shock as blood gushed from his neck. A mere glance had been all that was needed to send the rest of his would-be attackers scuttling from the alley and out onto the streets beyond. After this, his reputation as fearless and merciless young criminal was assured and any further uprisings were swiftly dealt with by his growing band of followers.

Jaiden Mackenzie himself was not a particularly intimidating individual, on first appearances. Just below average height and with a slim build, his dual heritage gave his skin a pale caramel complexion, set off strikingly by his close-cropped blond hair and light blue eyes. It only took a few minutes in his presence to realise that this slight boy was not everything that he appeared to be. He gave off an aura of utter control and also that of mystery, like it was impossible to predict what he might do. Jaiden dressed in the standard council estate uniform of matching tracksuit top and bottoms and expensive basketball trainers. Unlike the other boys, however, he didn’t feel the need to supplement this with additional prestigious trinkets such as gold chains or diamond stud earrings however he did have the ubiquitous mobile phone glued to his right hand.

It was this phone that Jaiden glanced at now, checking to see that he had full reception, wondering if he had missed any calls giving reason for their non-attendance. Four bars indicated this was not the case and Jaiden realised that there could only be two possible reasons for Martin and Dariel being late. Martin O’Connell and Dariel Naughton were two of the younger members of his crew, both keen and ambitious but lacking that extra quota of intelligence which Jaiden might see as dangerous to his continued dictatorship. The two reasons that he mulled over were that of the two boys attempting to double-cross him or of something happening to them. He immediately dismissed the first notion, whilst Martin and Dariel weren’t the brightest of young men, they had had enough about them to realise how dangerous it would be to rip Jaiden off. Which could only mean that something had happened to them. But what?

As the young boy pondered this, pacing between the two kerbs on either side of the road, kicking at discarded fried chicken boxes and soft drink cans, he heard a car engine gun softly. Looking up quickly, his body tensed immediately but he made no move to run away. It was late February and the north of England seemed to always be in perpetual twilight, a dim grey light that had the effect of making everything and everyone look drained and ailing. It was half three now and Jaiden knew that it could be little more than thirty minutes before the twilight turned to night, as such the car’s headlights cut a strong white groove through the grey light as it turned the corner.

A curl of the lip was the only discernible reaction from Jaiden as the souped-up red Volkswagen Golf rolled slowly down to the road, the newly lit streetlights glinting briefly and then disappearing from the blacked-out windows like dying stars. Standing his ground, Jaiden made no attempt to get out of the path of the vehicle and it soon became apparent why. The car stopped less than a foot away from his tracksuited figure and the engine died, leaving the faint dull thud of bass from music playing softly inside. The two rear doors opened as did the front passenger side, as the car spilled forth it’s inhabitants.

Four young men stood in front of Jaiden; two white, one black and one British Asian. They differed from the usual inhabitants of the Churchfield in terms of their dress; black jeans and leather jackets being the style, instead of the sports casual fashion adopted on this estate. Their faces were mean; uncompromising and scarred, their brows already furrowed in anticipation of conflict, their mouths set half-agape. Jaiden knew immediately that these men weren’t from round here, if he had to guess he would say they were from north Sheffield and it’s surrounding suburbs, an area equally as disreputable as the Churchfield estate.

Jaiden Mackenzie? The oldest white man asked, his mouth a mix of gold teeth and gaping gaps.

Yeah. Who wants to know?

There was something about these men, they didn’t speak to him in the same patronising tone as any of the other older boys and men who had previously challenged his authority. Glancing at them he saw that they all had one hand firmly and deliberately placed inside the breast pocket of their leather jackets. These men were dangerous and meant business, he knew then, they were carrying knives and most probably guns. The man who had asked the question turned to his friends and laughed silently, an ugly snarl creasing his face.

Have you ever heard of a man called Barry Whitehall?

No. Jaiden said bluntly, but he had.

Barry Whitehall, The man continued. Owns a series of car dealerships across Sheffield. Ring a bell?

No. Jaiden shrugged.

Well, it should do, The man’s tone changed imperceptibly, a hint of menace creeping in now. You and your gang of little scrotes paid a little visit to one of his dealerships in Upperthorpe last weekend. Made off with a few of his motors, didn’t you lad? So, in return, Mr Whitehall has asked us to pay a little visit to you.

Dunno what you’re talking about, weren’t me. Jaiden played the part of obnoxious teen with consummate ease. I was at me nan’s last weekend.

The man studied him for a minute, only now seeming to note that this boy wasn’t the usual brainless wannabe gangster. With a shrug he turned to one of his associates and nodded. The man leant back into the car and dragged out a couple of bedraggled, tracksuited bodies. Martin and Dariel.

That’s not what your little mates have been saying to me.

Both boys looked terrible, their clothes stained by filthy rainwater from where they had clearly been lying on a road somewhere. Martin’s nose had been busted open and his eyes were swollen to not much more than slits while Dariel had a nasty gash dripping blood down from his forehead and his right arm was cradled uselessly in his left. The man shoved them hard into the middle of the road, where they stumbled to their knees amongst the cavalcade of detritus that lay around them, their eyes seeking Jaiden, imploring him, beseeching him.

They ain’t nothing but little liars, man. Trust, Jaiden was unmoved; his heart stone, but his brain a warm, ever-whirring machine. I was at me nan’s, man. I don’t know nothing about no cars.

Yeah? The leader looked almost believing, his eyebrows raised in mock acceptance. He looked round at the nearest of his companions. Your hear that Duwayne? These little fools have been telling us porkie pies, we can’t have that can we?

The man Duwayne grunted by way of response and with one flowing movement he stepped forward towards the kneeling form of Dariel, pulled a kitchen knife from his jacket pocket and soundlessly stabbed the boy four times in the torso. The act had obviously been committed before, his action was smooth and it created no more noise than a soft rustle of polyester and a sickening ching of metal on bone. Dariel didn’t cry out, he was too shocked to respond, but his frightened eyes widened once more, pleading with Jaiden before he pitched face first on to the tarmac.

Now! The leader’s voice was rising to a shout. Are we going to stop playing games or what? We knows you were there. Mr Whitehall wants his money back and he wants you to pay the price.

With this, the man reached into his leather jacket and pulled out a matt black handgun, with just a gleam of silver flashing in the streetlight from where the serial number had been professionally removed. Moving behind Martin, he aimed the gun at the back of the boy’s head as he loaded the chamber in one action. The entire time everything had been happening, Jaiden had not budged one inch, remaining stock still, observing his aggressors. Only now did he move, bringing his arm up from by his side, gripping the handset of his mobile phone, the screen flashing blue as he unlocked it with a gesture almost as natural as breathing.

Boy, just what the hell do you think you’re doing? Concern entered the man’s shout now, as he moved the gun from Martin to aim it at Jaiden. You go calling anybody, you gone get shot.

Jaiden’s arm ceased it’s arc up to his face, parallel with his shoulder, but his eyes remained fixed on his opponents with fierce intensity. The older man flinched slightly before straightening his shoulders, he had never met anyone like this kid before and it unnerved him. Then he heard it. They all heard it. In the cold stillness of the early night, the gentle chiming of Jaiden’s phone speed dialling a number forever saved in the memory. The man frowned and made as if to say something but a sudden succession of noises stopped him. A plastic wheelie bin crashed to the floor, from the shadows opposite, spilling it’s contents across the footpath. Further back, into the darkness, a bottle smashed against a wall. And then…

…the patter of numerous pairs of footsteps. Tens, scores maybe, of rubber trainer soles pounding across the concrete.

The four men by the car, stared around them in unabashed fear, oblivious now to the slight blond boy glaring malevolently at them. The split second when a hunter realises that he has become the prey, the moment when the surge of adrenalin that comes with a feeling of total power turns into the incapacitating paralysis of terror. They stood stock still as from the streets and alleyways padded an army of Jaiden’s footsoldiers, hands wrapped around baseball bats, bottles and knives. Moving forwards towards the men, they stopped leaving them stranded in a ring of sportswear, all of the boys looking to Jaiden.

You’re in my world now. The boy hissed, sounding more like an animal than anything else, and with that he nodded.

His troops moved forward inexorably, raising their weapons, closing in on the men like a shoal of piranhas. Jaiden watched impassively through it all, as their screams of agony and cries for mercy rang out across the Churchfield estate.

###

The Cabinet office was packed, men and women in crumpled suits perched everywhere, uncomfortable and awkward at the calling of this unexpected meeting. There was a low burble as they excitedly and nervously speculated as to why they had been summoned. Ministerial aides, civil servants and politicians tapped out messages and emails on Blackberries, shooting worried glances at one-another as they did, certain that everyone else knew something they did not. Two young aides clattered into the room balancing trays of coffees and Danish pastries, squeezed through the mass of bodies and plonked them in the centre of the table where they were eagerly set upon by the ravenous assembly.

The main door opened again and slowly the clamour died down as everyone recognised the tall form of the Prime Minister. Flanked by his two most-trusted aides he, as usual, was impeccably dressed, never a man for sartorial sloppiness. Making his way to the head of the table, he cleared his throat to gain the attention of a room that was already fixed on him. Looking up at the assembled masses, it was impossible not to notice how tired and drawn he looked, an unfamiliar look to those who were only used to the perma-smiling, perfectly presented showman.

Good evening ladies and gentlemen, I apologise for having to call this meeting at such short notice and at such a late hour, He passed a hand over his eyes, in an attempt to ward off fatigue. But sadly, I really have no other choice.

This morning I have received top secret communication from the Japanese and South Korean governments regarding activity that has been discovered occurring on a small island off the coast of Busan. Chen Mu, located roughly thirty miles from the larger inhabited island of Gadeokdo, is a deserted stretch of land that was previously only notable for the vast quantities of camellia trees that span the coastline. Initially, I was confused as to why the two governments had been in touch with us, given our complete lack of influence in the region.

Taking a deep breath, the Prime Minister glanced around the room and used a flat palm to smooth down his brown, wavy Eton schoolboy haircut. He looked more serious than anyone present could ever remember and nobody spoke a word.

South Korean satellite images picked up the unauthorised movement and activities on the island at around 21:30 yesterday evening. Fearing a plot by Northern insurgents an armed response team was sent out at around 05:15am, Korean Standard Time, in an attempt to reconnoitre and undertake surveillance. The last radio contact with the team was at 05:48 and since then nothing has been heard from them. All tracking devices seem to have disappeared off the grid and there is no evidence of the boat even existing on satellite imagery. There are only two odd occurrences relating to this. At 06:02, Japanese intelligence in the region picked up a number of surges of electromagnetic activity, seeming to emanate from the island of Chen Mu. Also, during this period, they intercepted what seems to be scrambled radio communiqués.

I’m sorry, Prime Minister, The Foreign Secretary spoke, a hardy old campaigner with a strong brow and steely grey hair, he was one of the few who remained uncowed by the Prime Minister’s magnetism. But to hark back your original point, what on earth has it got to do with us?

The Prime Minister paused before speaking, his eyes seeking out those of everyone in the room, his sure-fire technique of ensuring he remained firmly in the centre of everyone’s focus.

The reason that the Japanese and South Korean governments got in contact, is because every single one of those radio messages, conversations between numerous people, were undertaken in English. They have played me back some of the communiqués and I can confirm that not only are the messages in English, although I could not tell you what the coded conversations mean, but they are spoken by men and women with definably British accents.

The gasp around the room was almost immediately followed by a deathly hush as those present stared around at each other in alarm. The Prime Minister turned to his nearest aide and reached out his hand for the plain manila folder his assistant carried. Opening it on the table slowly, he smoothed down the pages and continued.

I will read you out the transcripts of the communications, and then we can discuss what we think they mean and then begin assessing likely courses of action.

With that he began to read out what was on the pages, his voice slow and deep like that of a West End stage actor, honed by years of practice in public speaking.

###

Jaiden walked alone down the narrow walkway that led to the flat that he, in theory, shared with his mother. Located on the eighth floor of a concrete high-rise, it was as poorly maintained and badly lit as the rest of Scarmont Towers. Despite the darkness that enveloped him, Jaiden was not nervous at all. This was his territory and he had nothing to fear here, even the adult men who lived in Scarmont Towers bowed in deference to this little Napoleon. Still, he lingered outside the door to the flat, uncharacteristically indecisive, not keen to enter.

With a sigh he pulled a key from his tracksuit bottoms and opened the Yale lock of the grubby, formerly white, door. Stepping inside, Jaiden’s nostrils curled involuntarily from the unmistakeable stench of rotting rubbish, mildew and mould. Glancing down, he kicked a pile of unopened letters across the filthy brown carpet, sending them slipping and sliding down the corridor.

Mum. He yelled, taking the first left into the kitchen.

Almost as if it were second nature, he turned on the hot tap to run, pulling the washing up bowl full of grease-laden crockery from under the flow so he could better organise it. Looking around the rest of the kitchenette, Jaiden noted the familiar sight of discarded Pot Noodle cartons, cigarette packets and empty bottles of cheap supermarket vodka. Opening the cupboard under the sink, he rooted around and eventually fished out an unused black bin bag and proceeded to sweep the rubbish into it with an outstretched arm. Once it was full, he tied it at the top and put it by the front door, before returning to the sink and stacking the dirty plates neatly in the washing up bowl so that they might soak.

Mum? Jaiden called again, leaving the kitchen and crossing the corridor to the poky sitting room of the two bedroom flat.

Pushing open the door, he was overwhelmed by the immediate wave of cigarette smoke that flooded out into the relatively clean oxygen of the corridor beyond. The main light was off but the room was illuminated by a small shade-less lamp in the corner and the blue glow of the muted television. On the sofa lay Jaiden’s mother, Nadine Carter, seemingly comatose and sprawled lengthways. She was twenty eight now but at some point, in the distant past, she might have been considered attractive. Now she was nothing more of a shell of the young girl who had given birth to Jaiden, her face and body drawn and battered by the years of abuse and self-abuse. Jaiden gritted his teeth against a surge of pity that welled up inside him when he looked upon his mother. Even at his callow age, he was a firm believer in mental strength and self-discipline. A person could not blame circumstances or surroundings for their own failings as a human being, he believed that, with a bit of willpower, anyone could achieve anything.

Shut the bloody door. The harsh voice rasped from the sofa and Jaiden jumped with surprise.

Looking back at his mother he saw that she hadn’t been asleep at all, content to stare at the flickering images on the silent television screen through heavy lidded, and barely open, eyes. There was a half empty bottle of vodka on the table but the dark rings around her eyes and the languid pose indicated that Jaiden’s mother had been up to more than boozing. Moving over to the coffee table, he stubbed out a cigarette that had been burning down to the filter, seemingly untouched. This action was less one of precaution and more one of hiding his unease, his mother was still the only person in the world who could make Jaiden feel insignificant to the point of non-existence.

Well, go on then, She croaked once more. You’re letting a right draft in, you little tosser.

Ignoring the poisonous barbs directed at him, Jaiden switched the main light on, turned off the television and pulled open the curtains, letting in the phosphorescent glow of the overhead lights on the walkway outside. Drawing a breath and steeling himself, he turned to his mother once more.

Christ, Mum, look at this place. It’s a mess. You need to tidy up, Looking up at down at her grubby pink velour tracksuit, he continued. Not to mention tidying yourself up, you look a right state. I thought I told you to stop drinking so much? And what happened to the money I gave you for fresh food? Please don’t tell me you spent it on…

All of a sudden a change came over Nadine Carter, turning her from a sour, disinterested creature to something possibly much worse. She sat up suddenly, her arms reaching out to Jaiden, a look of utter supplication on her face. A wild gleam brightened her previously dull eyes, and she attempted a smile, thin lips stretched over yellow teeth. Jaiden hated it when he saw his mother like this; it was as if he was no longer her son. All he was to her at these moments in time was a pound sign, a cash machine, and it sickened him.

Oh baby, don’t be like that, She keened nauseously. I did go and try and get fresh stuff with that cash you gave me, but the shop was closed and then I had other stuff to pay for. Like bills and fags and stuff. Come on darling, you can’t stay mad at your Mummy can you? Please Jaiden, my love, my baby. I swear next time, I’ll make sure the shop is open and I’ll get all the stuff.

A thought struck her and she attempted to leap to her feet, wobbling unsteadily as she did so.

And when I do, I’ll cook us both tea. I’ll make you your favourite tea. How about that? Jaiden could almost mistake the desperation in her voice for a genuine plea for compassion. What’s your favourite tea?

With that question, normality was reasserted and Jaiden’s heart iced over again. He could not allow himself any weaknesses in life, and whilst he loved his mother with all of his heart, tying himself to her emotionally would be a mistake. His mother was ridden with an incurable disease, as far as he was concerned, so that all that remained for him to do was to make her remaining time on earth as comfortable as possible. Suppressing the agonising ache that racked his body at times like this, he stared upon his mother with dead eyes.

How would you know what my favourite tea is? He snarled. You’ve never cooked for me in your life. The closest you came was pouring the curry from a carton onto the plate.

Suddenly his mother looked lost, the hunger and eagerness gone from her eyes, like a pet punished with an open hand for no reason.

Please Jaid, you can’t… Her voice quietened to a hushed mumble.

There was only one thing Jaiden hated more than when his mother wheedled and connived money from him, and that was when she acted piteous and self-hating, as she was now. Yet another of his mother’s countless flaws, and one that he made mental note never to allow to adversely affect his own character. Nobody else had ever looked after Jaiden, so he had to constantly monitor what was best for him, the right way to act and conduct himself. Glancing up at his mother’s withered face he saw tears welling up in her red-rimmed panda eyes. Reaching into his jacket pocket, he pulled out a wad of cash and without even counting it he threw it across at her. The bundle of notes hit Nadine square in the stomach and dropped to the floor and she followed soon after, dirty fingernails scrabbling around the filthy carpet in search of the money.

By the time she had gotten to her feet again, Jaiden had left the front room and strode down the corridor and out of the front door, not even attempting to close it behind him. His mother had sprinted to the front door now and was shouting down the walkway behind him.

Jaid, darling. I love you baby. I won’t let you down again, I promise. Her squawks bounced down and around the concrete concourse.

Jaiden’s hands were balled into furious fists, pushed firmly into the pockets of his tracksuit top as he walked swiftly from his childhood home. There was nobody else about, but if there had been they would not have dared to mention the tears flowing down the young boy’s cheeks.

###

It soon became clear that the priority for the Prime Minister, the Cabinet ministers and the rest of the people gathered at Downing Street was to ascertain the likelihood that any blame for the possible events occurring in the Korea Strait could be attributed to the incumbent government. It was a hard and dirty fact of politics, but nobody in the room had chosen this career path in order to pursue humanitarian and philanthropic causes.

The initial focus was on the transcripts of the radio communications that had been intercepted, but whilst they weren’t coded and were plainly in British English, without any context they were completely meaningless. They appeared just to be a series of directions and instructions but with place names and people replaced with code words so prosaic and clichéd, it seemed impossible to conceive that they weren’t a joke. According to the documents sent over by the Japanese government, two individuals named Grey Eagle and Field Mouse were to reconnoitre with a third, Crossbow, at a location known as Q Zone in order to undertake the beginning procedures of Operation Fulcrum. Whilst hearing this, the Home Secretary and Foreign Secretary had swiftly sent their assistants scurrying off to various military and intelligence departments, in order to discover whether any of these pseudonyms flagged up on any database.

Less than an hour later, the bedraggled civil servants were back, clutching sheaves of files but shaking their heads apologetically. None of the names contained in the transcripts had flagged up anything on the vast banks of computers containing the country’s most sought-after secrets. The poor harassed aides were then despatched once more to research and compile a list of any known criminal gangs, organisations or terrorist groups operating in Britain at that present time. Nobody in the room held out much hope, however, surely a group with the resources and wherewithal to operate five thousand miles away from the British Isles would be notorious and immediately forthcoming from the various experts gathered?

Once it became apparent that the assembled mass of political experts had absolutely no idea who the mysterious radio voices belonged on to, everyone present knew that the meeting had now changed tact.

Fine, The Prime Minister said, rolling up his sleeves in a neat methodical fashion having long despatched with his suit jacket. Then we need to embark on the process of, for want of a better word, damage limitation.

His handsome brow furrowed and he stared around the room, hoping to inspire with his charisma.

Suggestions?

There was a moment of silence; a silence in which those who had ideas but did not trust in their validity remained as quiet as those who wanted nothing less than being asked to voice their opinion. There was an almost palpable sigh of relief and release in the tension, as a gruff throat-clearing indicated that the lugubrious and beetle-browed Foreign Secretary was about to speak.

Prime Minister, He began slowly, his deep baritone filling the packed but hushed room. Whilst I agree with you that the need to disassociate ourselves from these activities on a global politics level is certainly a clearly defined prerogative, I would offer up the opinion that it is not necessarily the priority in these circumstances. From what we have heard, these potentially nefarious actions seem, almost categorically, to have been committed by a group of British citizens operating illegally within foreign territories. I would say that the most important thing, currently, is for us to have an absolute confirmation that this is the case. Once we are sure of this, we can then decide on the correct and most prudent course of action.

The Prime Minister looked respectfully at the older man. The Foreign Secretary had never been his friend or even a close confidante, but he had absolute respect for his opinions and decision making. The Foreign Secretary had views that could be classed as damn sight more liberal than the Prime Minister or the rest of his Cabinet, yet regardless of this he had been given the position he held as a mark of what a skilled and intuitive politician he was.

So, what would you suggest our next step should be? The Prime Minister asked tentatively whilst still attempting to sound authoritative.

Without delay, The Foreign Secretary leaned forward, planting his elbows on the polished mahogany Cabinet table and interlacing his fingers. I would advise that we send a strike team out to the Korea Strait. Not a small undercover team, but a fully loaded operational force with intel backup. If this group nullified a South Korean armed response unit then they will be dangerous, we cannot send our men out there without adequate support. This would obviously require clearance from both South Korea and Japan, but being as they have come to us with the information then I suggest we are as frank and honest with them as possible. We genuinely do not know who might be doing this, but we are as keen as they are to discover who without creating an international incident.

It was impressive how quickly the Foreign Secretary could evaluate a situation and immediately recommend what would almost certainly be the most sensible response. There was a gentle murmur of what appeared to be consent around the room, and the Prime Minister opened his mouth to agree to his Foreign Secretary’s suggestions before he was silenced by the cloying honeyed tones that he knew so well.

If I might be so bold, I would like to interject.

With a sigh, the Foreign Secretary turned to the new speaker, his thick brows arrowing downwards into a frown and the rest of the room followed his lead as if unable to resist. The interruption had come from a late arrival into the room. Nobody had noticed her arrival, yet now that she was hear it seemed impossible that they should have missed her. Dressed in a perfectly cut black trouser suit, cream blouse, red silk scarf tied loosely at the throat and a pair of killer heels, she certainly created an impact. The Prime Minister noted, almost subconsciously, that she had changed her hairstyle into a severe yet unavoidably fashionable bob and had dyed it an even darker shade of black. He knew without looking that she was having the same effect on every man in the room; she exuded a strange aura, an aura that led one to feel terrified yet simultaneously drawn to her, like flies led into the hypnotic blue fluorescent bulbs inside butchers’ shops.

Baroness Fallowfew, The Foreign Secretary spoke, breaking what was becoming an interminable silence. I wasn’t aware that you had decided to take up your sitting membership once more. I thought that you had grown bored of your dalliance with politics?

This was a deliberately condescending and incendiary remark, and the Prime Minister winced as his respected peer stooped to this level. That was another thing about the Baroness, she seemed to inspire people to break character just by the sheer nature of her presence. He observed as she looked at one of the most respected politicians in the country with barely concealed distaste.

"My dalliance, as you so facetiously termed it, Her voice dripped with poison. Was sadly interrupted by the death of my dear husband, as you well know. One cannot place a timescale on a period of grievance and recovery. Not that I should have to justify myself to you, but the truth was that when I returned to politics after the funeral, I was far from ready. As agreed with the Prime Minister and the Lord Speaker, it was agreed that I should take an unspecified leave of absence in order that I might fully mourn and return as a useful member of the government. Isn’t that right, Prime Minister?"

Her question caught him by surprise and the Prime Minister, for a second or so, could do nothing but open and close his mouth like a landed fish. He was also thrown by the glint in her eye as she looked at him, a knowing look, as if an eternal reminder that what had happened before would never be forgotten. Coughing, to buy himself a moment, he composed himself.

Uh, yes. I believe that is what was agreed, Stepping around the table, he offered his hand. And might I say, how good it is to have you back Baroness?

You may, She took the Prime Minister’s hand in her small cold one and shook it, ever so softly, as a smile played across her lips. It is wonderful to be back, despite the somewhat disconcerting circumstances.

Well yes, we were actually just discussing…

Now, as I said before, would it be possible for me offer up an opinion of my own? The Baroness cut across the Prime Minister as if he were nothing more than a minimum wage waiter.

Whilst the Foreign Secretary’s suggestion is undoubtedly a sensible approach, it might just leave us a tad too exposed. She smiled sweetly at him as he glared up at her. That last thing that we want to do is admit involvement, implicit or not, before we even know who this mysterious group are. An open declaration of our intentions and actions to South Korea and Japan would only link us, indelibly, to the situation as it stands. You can then only imagine how quickly this news would travel amongst the international community.

The only sound in the packed room was the gentle ticking of the clock on the wall above the Prime Minister’s head. Everyone, men and women, were staring at the Baroness, transfixed by her every word. Even the irascible Foreign Secretary was rendered silent by the gentle lullaby that her words sang.

I would advise an element of caution until we can ascertain exactly who these individuals are. If they are indeed anyone at all, She turned and arched a shaped eyebrow at the Prime Minister. We have not even discounted the notion that this could be a hoax or, even worse, a plot by one of our enemies to discredit us and to compromise Western influence in the region. With that in mind, I have an alternative suggestion to the Foreign Secretary’s bold idea.

The Baroness paused for effect, casting her gaze around the room before bringing it to rest on the Prime Minister. Was it him or had her look changed subtly? He could have sworn that there was an element of wistfulness in the way she glanced at him, maybe even a tinge of longing. The mere thought of this made the Prime Minister light-headed for a second, as he cast his mind back to that fateful night out on the patio of Chequers at his wife’s annual summer garden party.

It had been a successful affair with plenty of champagne consumed by the partygoers and it was drifting to a close when the newly-elected Prime Minister found himself alone outside with the young, enigmatic and stunningly attractive representative of the House of Lords. Mesmerised by her words and her eyes, he had been unable to restrain himself from leaning in and kissing her perfectly shaped lips. When he thought back to it, he was certain that for the first few moments she did not resist him, closing her eyes and leaning her body in to him, her mouth soft and willing. Then the moment had been broken, her lips hardened and she had pushed herself away from him, before landing a stinging slap across his cheek. Since then, there had been a tacit agreement between the two that the Baroness would never mention the moment, provided the Prime Minister was slightly pliable and accepting to one or two of the Baroness and her associates more testing demands.

"We should, without delay, issue a strong denial to the South Korean and Japanese that this has