Market Forces

By David O'Neil

Katherine (Katt) Percival tasked with the assassination of Mark Parnell, in a hurried, last-minute attempt to stop his interference with the success of the Organization in Europe. As a skilled terminator for the CIA, Katt is accustomed to proper briefing. On this occasion she disobeys her orders, convinced it’s a mistake. She joins forces with Mark to foil an attempt on his life.
Parnell works for John Murray, who created Secure Inc that caused the collapse of an International US criminal organisation’s operation in Europe, forcing the disbanding of the US Company COMCO. Set up as a cover for money-laundering and other operations designed to control from within the political and financial administration, they had already been partially successful. Especially within the administrative sectors of the EU.
Katt goes on the run, she has been targeted and her Director sidelined by rogue interests in the CIA. She finds proof of conspiracy. She passes it on to Secure Inc who can use it to attack the Organization. She joins forces with Mark Parnell and Secure Inc. Mark and Katt and their colleagues risk their lives as they set out to foil the Organization once again

• Language: English
• Publisher: W & B Publishers
• Release date: May 21, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311982308

David O'Neil

David is 79 years old. He lives in Scotland and has been writing for the past five years. He has had three guidebooks published and two more coming out through Argyll Publishing, located in the Highlands. He still guides tours through Scotland, when he is not writing or painting. He has sailed for decades and has a lifelong interest in the history of the navy. As a young man, he learned to fly aircraft in the RAF and spent 8 years as a Colonial police officer in what is now Malawi, Central Africa. Since that time, he worked in the Hi Fi industry and became a Business Consultant. David lives life to the fullest, he has yet to retire and truthfully, never intends to.

Book preview

Market Forces

Volume Two

Counterstroke

By

David O’Neil

Market Forces © 2012 All rights reserved by David O’Neil

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any informational storage retrieval system without prior permission in writing from the publisher.

W & B Publishers

At Smashwords

Post Office Box 193

Colfax, NC 27235

Book Cover designed by Dubya

Prologue

...............Extract from the International Review of Policing in the Modern World

By Jackson Gardiner. Commissioner RCMP Rtd. (2012)

"In the real world, the background activity of espionage and political manipulation carried on behind closed doors was kept as removed from the public view as possible. Into this mix, the modern tendrils of organised crime wound their way, insidiously interfering with the life of the community. Directing and warping the more or less straightforward processes of law and finance. Insinuating, instead of brutish thugs armed with machine guns, Armani suited University graduates, with degrees in Economics and Business Management. Smiling assassins, poised to strip assets, merge and amalgamate, in fact ready to do all those tasks so beloved of the Financial Sector of the worlds markets. The achievement of these ends was by the creation of moles in the establishment, and suborned retainers in the major political parties. The association between Politics and Crime has long been recognised in the United States, the use of one to benefit the other an everyday event. The reaction of the general public has been predictably. ‘So what’s new?’

"With the establishment of the European Union, the experiment of trying to unite the disparate countries of Europe, caused an enormous upheaval and created the opportunity for the crime syndicates and political opportunists to step in.

"Despite the historic differences between the various countries the pressure of economics and the undercover workings of interested parties had managed to cobble together an agreement of sorts.

"This agreement involving a political and a bureaucratic administration, created by Politicians without a mandate from their people, by locating them in geographically different places the bureaucracy in Brussels was able to run largely unsupervised by the Political body located 1100km away in Strasbourg. Finances ran wild and fortunes were made and lost in the mad scramble for power and influence.

"Financed by the three richest countries, Britain, France and Germany; the so called Union was ripe not only for the opportunists, but more sinisterly for the criminal organisations that had supported and encouraged its creation.

"The intervention by a series of seemingly random events caused reversals to the process, and was indirectly responsible for the reorganisation of the European Union. The resultant Common Market was a reversion to the original and more sensible option. The Political Union was suspended with the consequent dissolution of the Parliament and the Brussels Bureaucracy, with its short, corrupt history.

Of the criminal interest, following a series of incidents throughout Europe evidence of criminal activity shows that it has been reduced to the level that formerly existed before the EU was formed.

JG. 12/04/2014

Chapter one

The legs were long and the stockings were sheer, the slender hands smoothed the material removing creases and attaching the suspenders swiftly and efficiently. The garter sheath containing the slim Glock Kevlar knife was slipped up the right leg and located snugly on the right thigh. The woman stood upright and looked at herself in the full length mirror. The sensible bra and matching panties were white against her toned, tanned body; her red hair cut close to her head complemented the fine lines of her face. The cool effect was softened by the smile that tweaked the corner of her mouth. Okay, she would do. There were no obvious signs of her 28 years of active living.

The high-necked, crisp white blouse with the black wraparound skirt down to her knee completed the outfit to her satisfaction. She stepped into the black court shoes and stood regarding her reflection once more; perhaps…..? She picked up a string of pearls from the dressing table, and completed the picture of a professional woman, maybe a lawyer or business executive.

The long black overcoat sweeping down to mid-calf completed the ensemble. Satisfied with her appearance she removed the long-barrelled modified target model 6.75mm Walther pistol from the special tailored pocket inside the front skirt of the overcoat. Checking the custom built magazine she removed it and replaced it before securing the safety catch. Picking up her briefcase on her way out, Katherine Percival, (Katt to her friends) CIA assassin had a task to perform.

The note dropped into his lap from nowhere. One minute there was nothing, and then there it was, a small folded paper.

The seated man was startled, but recovering immediately he looked around from the cover of the wall behind the seat. A tall figure in a long black coat was strolling casually away….. Perhaps?

Mark Parnell studied the figure with interest and came to the conclusion; something about the walk, he thought, that the note came from a woman. His assessment of the figure in the long black coat was confirmed as the full length of the figure came into view. He tucked the note in his pocket and set out in pursuit; pulling a battered Breton hat from his pocket, and removing his anorak and turning it inside out. The reversible jacket was now green rather than navy blue.

The pursuer and the pursued made their way across the wide square in front of the Cathedral, the tall figure easing between the sightseeing crowds without any apparent problem, and making no real effort to hurry. Mark decided that she really was a professional and took extra care on that basis.

After a few minutes a bus tour party crowded en-masse into the area between them, and Mark lost sight of his quarry. He took a good careful look all around the area, but there was no clue as to her whereabouts. He shrugged and turned away, walking briskly back along the river side, in the direction of the Gare de Lyon.

Katt stirred in her seat outside the café and lifted the coat and briefcase she had placed on the chair beside her, the waiter came over to take her order but with a smile she waved him off, I have changed my mind, she said sweetly in a soft musical voice. The waiter shrugged and enjoyed the view as the woman rose to her feet and strode away. Her hips swaying just enough to let people know that this was a woman!

She opened her laptop and inserted her password for access to the files held at Langley. Typing in the name Mark Parnell, she read the quickly scrolling file. Age 38yrs. Widower: Flying Officer in the RAF, flight duties, three years, followed by a period of eight years in the police, four in Special Branch. The entry was tagged with a colour flag that meant he was one of the good guys. It confirmed her instinctive reaction when she had encountered Parnell.

She had been a little surprised at herself, giving warning rather than taking out the target. It was a hastily designated operation and she had been shocked at the hurried briefing so alien in her world of clinical elimination of enemies of the state. The tasking had been a target of opportunity, no planning involved. When the subject had suddenly appeared before her, she should have taken the shot, but she was seriously unhappy about the whole set up. When she had questioned her handler about the target he had been abrupt and dismissive, and he had given no reason why this man had been selected. It was usually an essential part of the entire briefing process, having never before been omitted. As it was now, she now felt it would be an idea if she checked up the line a little further. Something about the hurried selection and the absence of a proper briefing struck a false note. She was pleased that she had decided to deliberately warn the target; if she was wrong there would be another time.

Back in her rooms she stripped and ran a bath, and whilst enjoying the soothing effect of the waters she thought further over her latest assignment. She had been employed by the CIA for eight years now having been recruited direct from UCLA on completion of her degree. Her aptitude with weapons was discovered and developed whilst still under training.

Her first kill had been a particularly nasty South American drug producer; it had given her considerable satisfaction to arrange the explosion in his factory that had not only destroyed the production plant but the producer and his expert staff at the same time.

This had been followed by a further twelve assignments all of which she had carried out with precision, and without question. This was the first assignment that she had been doubtful of, mainly because of the hurried sketchy briefing and the very limited legend on the subject. Her new handler in the Paris office was evasive when she queried some of the information in the briefing document. She had never worked with him before and she had been uneasy, distrusting him instinctively from the beginning. His predecessor had been replaced hurriedly without explanation, an event untypical in her experience.

For the first time since she had joined the CIA she wondered whether action today was because of that distrust, or whether she had perhaps lost her motivation. It certainly hadn’t happened before.

The telephone beside her on the stool buzzed. She picked it up, looked at the caller i/d before answering Yes?

Cancel the contract! I repeat, cancel the contract. The caller cut off and the phone went dead. She looked at the phone for a few minutes and then rose from her bath and dried off.

In the wardrobe there was a false floor concealing her Satphone. She set it up and checking her watch, pressed a speed dial number and waited.

Ω

The grey waters of the River Seine swirled past, roiled by the assortment of river craft that passed in urgent succession. Mark Parnell sat in on a bench enjoying the warmth of the early spring sunshine and watched the procession; attempting to relax after the recent tensions of the morning.

He was a tall man perhaps six feet, brown hair thinning a little; he looked and was a fit, well-toned figure of a man, good looking rather than handsome, with blue eyes. Still alert after the warning, adrenalin was still having its effect. After the past two years of unremitting activity, he still found himself watching his back; the alertness generated by being the target for the Mob was difficult to cast off.

It had been a long time since he had last sat by the Seine and watched the boats pass. At that time he had not yet met Michelle let alone married her. Now she was gone, he was a widower, and at times like this he felt incredibly lonely.

With his senses alerted by the near miss he now became aware that he was being watched. The watcher he had noticed, a man, knew his job. However a moments' carelessness had given him away. A simple jerk of his head at the wrong moment had attracted Mark’s notice. It was enough for Mark who was already on edge from the earlier episode.

Observation indicated that the man was part of a team of two following him. As he sat, he realised that far from the annoyance that he should be feeling, he was actually elated; the thrill and uncertainty of the game was still there.

He could not think of anyone who would have any reason to follow him or even be aware he was in Paris, his supposed death had been widely broadcasted and they had taken particular care to cover their tracks since, so he decided to see if he could find out whom and why.

He stretched and rose from the bench and casually strolled along towards the tall façade of Notre Dame. Number two follower was in his eye line ahead, the other was behind him.

As Mark strolled quietly towards the Cathedral, he positioned himself so that he gradually reduced the distance between the man in front and himself. Provided the watcher remained in place he would pass within about a metre of the standing man.

The approach was perfect, he had managed to give the two men no clue of his awareness and as he passed the watcher, who was deeply immersed in his newspaper, he whispered in French, Do not move, I have a gun. The only sign was the slight twitch of the newspaper.

What do you want with me? Who are you? The man lowered the paper. If Mark had been uncertain before, he was now convinced that this man was a professional.

Why that was the question I wanted to ask you! Now please just fold up the paper and turn right and walk with me across the bridge, just a pair of old friends having a stroll and a chat in the sunshine.

As the two men turned Mark caught a glimpse of the other follower trotting towards a Citroen parked illegally beside the road. Mark hailed a taxi and got in accompanied by his companion. He directed the driver to his hotel, and saw the Citroen fall in behind.

He pressed the speed dial on his cell phone and spoke briefly to John Holmes, his colleague, and then sat back as the taxi wove its way through the busy morning traffic.

His companion was sitting tensely at his side, awaiting a chance to make a break. Mark casually showed him the Glock .9mm that he held in his hand. The man relaxed and sat back in the seat, resigned for the moment to his fate.

In the hotel John Holmes, slim, dark-haired and good-looking, had been handling their room bookings. Having heard what was happening, he called Aristide, Commissioner Ferat of the French Police, who had become a friend over the years. He let him know that Mark was being followed and that he was bringing one of the men to the hotel.

Aristide Ferat, Senior Commissioner of Police (Special Projects) called for his car and told John he would be with him within thirty minutes. He was on the move almost before the phone call was over.

Katt Percival was very thoughtful after her call to Langley. Her contact was the Assistant Director, an old friend of her father’s. He had been shocked at her tasking to shoot Mark Parnell, a man well respected in the world of security and responsible for enormous losses to the criminal organisations in the USA and Europe. He was aware that Parnell had not been killed as reported and had been associated with operations in which the CIA had been involved. He was definitely not a target whom, would have been approved and designated by Langley.

She was told to keep low and await instructions, but she was now worried by two things; if Parnell was a sensitive target chosen by some renegade section of the CIA, then by withdrawing her it could only mean that they had made arrangements for someone else to do the job.

She dressed hurriedly, slipping her Glock knife in the garter sheath, and a hand gun in the small clutch bag. She had the address of Parnell’s hotel, so she ran into the street and hailed a cab, directing him there.

Ω

In their suite in the hotel John Holmes opened his case and retrieved his gun, and worked the action loading the chamber. He removed and checked the magazine and replaced it and, applying the safety catch, slipped it into his waistband in the middle of his back. His shirt dropped over it to conceal it from sight.

He sighed and grimaced at the feel of the cold metal against his skin. Here we go again, he thought.

Mark arrived a few minutes later pushing his captive before him. The man, a sallow faced Frenchman with a Marseilles accent was not inclined to cooperate.

Pushing him into a chair Mark produced plastic cable ties from the weapons bag and used them to tether the man to the seat. The man began to get nervous as he realised that this was serious business.

He spoke gruffly Enough of this nonsense, I am a police officer and I was acting under orders.

Whose orders, what were you told to do? Why were you following me? Mark was angry and went through the man's pockets. He found an ID card, identifying the man as Henri Jocard, Detective 1st Class.

I was ordered to follow you and establish your routine here in Paris, I was also told to be careful not to let you know that you were being watched.

Why? John's voice was deceptively soft.

I do not know, I was told you were liable to be dangerous and to avoid contact at all times, if I was detected I was told to hand over to another team.

Mark thought for a moment, Who gave you your orders?

I cannot say! He sat back I was ordered to keep the operation strictly under wraps.

The knock on the door interrupted the proceedings. Jocard tried to see who it was, but was unable to turn far enough to bring the door into view.

John glanced through the spy hole and opened the door admitting Commissioner Ferat. He was middle height, slim and compact, giving the impression of repressed energy. Now at 60 years old he could have passed for late forties, he bustled into the room.

There is a man in the lobby that I recognise. he said And who have we here? he stepped around the seated man. Well! I should have known; bonjour, Monsieur Jocard, your friend downstairs is feeling unhappy on his own. Now what are you doing here? Who sent you?

Sir, I was told I must not say.

Was your direction from an officer senior to Commissioner? Ferat asked quietly but with a silky menace that froze the blood in Jocard's veins.

N-n-n-no sir, Jocard stuttered.

Well? Ferat pressed.

Inspector Clermonte detailed us, to shadow M'sieu Percival and report when we were in a position to arrest him discretely.

What were you supposed to do then?

Jocard began to look seriously uncomfortable.

Well come on, man, out with it!

We were told to take him to a Warehouse six, in Louvre on the N17, and leave him with the gate security.

Ferat beckoned the others into the next room of the suite. He was looking grave. I fear, my friends, that things have started once more. Warehouse six at Louvre is known to be owned and run by one the friends of Caspar Lutz, the Romanian MEP. That is truly bad news at this time. We have begun getting intelligence about the new generation of criminals in this country. Despite people like Clermonte intercepting and covering up as much information as they can, it has been officially established that the rackets are operating once more, though with more emphasis on manipulating things in the EU administration, crooked politicians and civil servants.

So I'm wanted by the syndicate again am I? Mark shrugged, Same old, same old. Mark looked at Ferat.

Ferat smiled Your choice, Mark, I can lose him if you like.

Back in the other room Ferat faced Jocard, Now I want to know the whole story, what happened when you were instructed to follow M'sieu Parnell. Did anyone see your boss Clermonte that day? Think, man; it could save you a lot of pain and trouble.

Jocard looked hunted and he struggled with the ties holding his wrists to the chair arms. Mark looked at him, studying him enigmatically.

Eventually Jocard said, There was one visitor on that day, an Englishman named Trafford, Charles Trafford!

Mark thought for a moment, the name was familiar it was then that he remembered; Marseilles, last year, Trafford was the renegade Englishman who ran the drug smuggling group for the organisation, he had been supposedly killed in a bomb blast when the premises were raided by Mark and his companions. I thought he had died in the explosion? He turned to John, who nodded; he had also recognised the name.

He did get blown up in the raid, I thought he had been killed; if it’s the same man then he obviously survived, he said.

Well, that could explain things. He or one of his friends must have recognised us, and he decided to get his own back.

There was a knock on the outer door of the suite, and a voice called out, Room Service.

Mark looked at the others with a raised eyebrow, both shook their heads and John took out the Glock and slipped off the safety catch.

Just a minute Mark called and readied his own gun. Aristide's was already in his hand.

With a last look round Mark went to the door. As he reached the door, Jocard called out a warning.

Mark threw open the door and the three men outside plunged through, guns up and shooting. Jocard received two bullets from his place in the chair, John shot the first man in the thigh and he collapsed with a groan to the floor. Aristide shot number two between the eyes; killing him instantly. The third man hesitated and then threw down his gun; he stepped further into the room exposing the figure behind him. Mark waved the man over to the others but kept the woman covered. Before he could speak the woman spoke.

Are you all okay? She said her soft American voice sounding incongruous after the brutal action of the last few minutes. I tried to get here in time but it seems I needn’t have worried. She put her gun away and closed the door. Turning to Mark she said;

I am Katherine Percival, I’m sorry about this morning. There was a misunderstanding.

Mark still covered her Is that so; just who the hell are you and what are you doing here?

Ferat had moved to the door to cut off her escape.

Who is this? She indicated Ferat with her head.

Commissioner Ferat, French Security.

Katt carefully removed her ID from the breast pocket of her blouse and showed Ferat, she held her finger to her lips. Ferat nodded to Mark to lower his gun.

The wounded man was clutching his leg and cursing trying to stem the alarming flow of blood from the torn artery. John reacted and ran into the bathroom and emerged with towels. He tied one round the man's leg and using the barrel of his gun created a primitive tourniquet that slowed the blood flow immediately. The man fell back, going into shock. Aristide was on the phone calling for a doctor and ambulance, and for police backup.

To Mark, Katt and John he said, Pack and get out now; leave this to me. Go, go, I'll be in touch later, find another hotel, call my cell phone when you are secure, and lay low until I contact you. Move!

When the police arrived, Ferat and the two survivors had things rearranged. The bonds round Jocard's wrists were removed Ferat fired another shot out of the window and placed the gun in Jocard’s hand. The dead intruder was Inspector Clermonte, his gun had two shots fired both had hit the unfortunate Jocard. Both of the surviving policemen were firmly under Ferat's control now and they knew the story to tell.

Jocard had gone berserk, crazy. He had shot his partner who had fired back wounding him as he collapsed to the floor. The Inspector fired twice hitting Jocard but Jocard had got off the final shot that had killed the Inspector. The Commissioner was on his way to the scene and arrived in time to save Peppard's life by applying the tourniquet.

The Commissioner suggested that Mark looked after the matter of Charles Trafford, so he spoke to the Paris office of M16 the security branch of who called in a cleanup squad to collect Trafford. The location of Trafford's base in Paris was established from the diary of Inspector Claremont.

Unfortunately the raid on his apartment produced nothing of value and he had gone long before the party arrived.

Chapter two

The silver Mercedes swerved in front of the car and accelerated away. John who was driving swore mildly and lifted his foot from the brake allowing the speed to return to the steady fifty mph that had been so rudely interrupted.

Mark awoke with a start. What was that all about?

I don’t know. That Mercedes came out of the blue, swerved round us, and shot off ahead like a scalded cat.

Mark grunted and reached under the front seat of the Peugeot and retrieved his gun. He checked the action and made sure that the magazine was loaded and firmly seated.

What do you need that for? John said curiously. Do you think there was something wrong—with the Mercedes I mean?

Could be, after the incident in Paris, I prefer not to take chances!

Do you think it might be the CIA again? John wondered.

Whoever it is I am not taking chances, Mark relaxed back in his seat gun ready.

John said What was all that business in Paris about Katt Percival apologising to you, what happened?

She warned me that I was on a contract. Apparently her handler had been got at, and he had designated me as a target.

Katt Percival had accompanied them to the new Hotel keeping her eyes open for any other assassins on the way. She had mentioned the possibility of her handler tasking another CIA shooter to target Mark and or John. As she said, at least she could identify known members of the CIA in Paris. She had not mentioned the morning shooting incident again. In the hassle of moving John had forgotten to ask.

The road ahead was empty as far as the eye could see. The N15 wended its way through the countryside through Rouen and on to Le Havre where they would pick up their ferry.

Just past Barentin the Mercedes reappeared; Mark was driving at the time and he caught sight of the silver car in the rear view mirror. He touched the gun in the door pocket, and carried on driving without bothering to disturb John who was dozing on the seat beside him.

As he drove he reviewed all that had happened in the past few days; they had told no one what their actual plans were. At Bouville he pulled off the road at the Bar/Tabac on the road side John woke.

Up you get, lazybones; time for a small refreshment before we travel on. Oh and bring your friend with you. He lifted his gun before slipping it in his pocket.

Expecting trouble?

There could be.

The couple knew each other well by now, and having survived a fairly bloody few weeks in the not too distant past, their empathy was almost telepathic. In the bar they watched the silver Mercedes pass slowly through the village.

Do they look familiar?

I think so. John was not quite sure, until he saw the Paris number plate. "Yes it’s them again, I remember the car number was from Paris and there was a Fleur de Lys on the boot lid.

"Right, when we leave we will take our time, if they