For The Innocent

By Bret Lambert

Before bin Laden there was Alexander Shaitan, supplier of terror networks worldwide with whatever they required to carry out their acts against humanity.
An unintended result of Shaitan's activity is the creation of the International Operations (InterOps) organization. An international community of men and women, they work beyond the scope of international law and established borders.
Shaitan has managed to capture one of their own and is holding him as bait.
The InterOps team is very willing to oblige, up to a point. They also know too well that they are expected, but exactly when and how is up to them. Will they be successful in their efforts? Or will this be their final battle against evil incarnate?
In the end, someone must lose.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bret Lambert
• Release date: Feb 10, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463818039

Bret Lambert

The author was born in the jungles of Sumatra. He has traveled extensively in Southeast Asia and the Mediterranean Sea. His military service included time in Germany (when there was an East and a West) and Turkey. After the military, he worked in the CSI unit of a midsized West Texas city. He now resides in Arizona with his family.

Book preview

ONE

LABYRINTH. An entire terrorist organization built into a warren that was more than two thousand years old. A vast network of tunnels, vaults, and galleries, all interconnected. It was a maze beneath the tiny island’s jungle surface, with miles upon miles of tunnels, cool corridors.

Bloody long miles, thought Stuart Savage as he ran. He was exhausted. His breath came in short gasps as he sucked in the eucalyptus-scented air, scented to conceal the diesel odor of the machinery that provided power and recycled air. His lungs cried out in agony, as did every muscle in his compact body. He ached. His body had suffered a terrible beating several days earlier when they had first brought him in for interrogation, after finding him trying to gain access to a restricted area.

They’re a vicious bunch, he thought, massaging his throbbing arms and shoulders. Brutal bastards. Without all those years of intense training with different special combat groups, such as the British Special Air Services and the U.S. Navy SEALS, he would never have survived for as long as he had.

He stopped running and leaned heavily against the smooth rock wall of the corridor. The lighting was soft; the tunnel was quiet. His eyes momentarily rested on the variety of colored lines that had been painted on the floor; it had taken him a few days to learn what each meant, where each went. Without them, everyone would be lost. He glanced quickly about the tunnel. To him, his very breathing was deafening. Then he heard the footsteps, distant but approaching, urgent. He had to get out, get to the top, escape with what information he had assimilated.

He ran.

It had taken him several months to infiltrate the organization, and although he had been moving about the labyrinth freely for just over a week he still managed to get lost occasionally. Such was the case now. He was mentally and physically exhausted, in pain, half of the time on the verge of delirium. Everything looked the same. He was moving on instincts now, survival instincts.

It was his honed prescience for danger that alerted him to the opening of a concealed door ahead of him before he actually saw it. The man who stepped into the tunnel, his back to Savage, was dressed in a brown jumpsuit, a silenced semi-automatic handgun strapped to his right thigh. Security, thought Savage as he approached the man’s unprotected back. Some of them carried fully automatic 9mm weapons, silenced of course. Firing a weapon sans silencer within the ancient caverns could be devastating to one’s hearing, and more than likely it would cause sections of the labyrinth to collapse. He needed that weapon to give himself a better chance of escaping.

The escape had been too easy. This was a game; they were playing with him. The man in the jumpsuit turned just as Savage launched himself. Within a matter of seconds, the man lay dead on the cold stone floor, his neck cleanly broken. A few minutes later Savage was wearing the dead man’s brown jumpsuit; it was large on him, but this was no time to worry about fit.

He kept a hand on the butt of the holstered handgun as he ran on down the corridor. He had traveled less than one hundred feet when, without warning, he ran out of the tunnel and into a small gallery, a gallery with people. Quickly he retreated into the tunnel, pressing himself against the cool wall. He had recognized the gallery, which gave him some idea as to where the hell he was. There was a chance to escape now. With a deep breath, his heart pumping fiercely against his aching ribs, he stepped into the soft lighting of the gallery.

The fifty-odd feet across the gallery were amongst the longest that he had ever walked. He tried to remain calm but knew that he was perspiring freely beneath the light uniform. Slowly, ever so slowly, he drew nearer the exit at the opposite side. I’m going to make it, he told himself. No one paid any attention to him. He had been so certain that someone would notice him in the ill-fitting uniform, but no one had said or done anything. He was just beginning to breathe more easily when he heard a shrill whistle sound from somewhere behind him. The first thought in his head was that the body had already been discovered, but it was too soon. He glanced over his shoulder to see what was going on in the gallery; there was some excitement in the tunnel that he had just left. With a silent curse he quickened his pace to complete the last few yards and disappeared into the tunnel that was open before him.

As soon as he was out of sight of the people within the gallery he broke into a run. The smooth-walled corridor curved and dipped, split and forked numerous times. Still he ran, with the weapon now in his hand. He was running upward; he could feel it in his legs. As he arrived at yet another fork in the corridor, he came upon two men, both armed, waiting at the mouth of each fork. They saw him at the same time and brought their weapons into play. Savage blasted the man on his left in the chest with two rapid shots before diving to the hard surface, rolling, and coming up on one knee to fire twice more into the second man. It was all over in a matter of a few seconds with the two guards lying dead on the cold stone floor in growing pools of blood. Before moving on, Savage stripped the corpses of their ammunition and one of them of a silenced automatic weapon, along with a heavy-bladed hunting knife. The other weapon he quickly disassembled, scattering the parts in every direction. This done, he went on.

His entire chest felt as if it was going to collapse. His legs did not seem to be a part of him any longer; they were working automatically. He finally stumbled and fell to the cold stone floor where he lay for several minutes, catching his breath and trying unsuccessfully to orient himself to his surroundings. Such as they are, he mused quietly. This tunnel was just like all the others he had traversed: cool, smooth, softly lit, endless. Surely, I’m near the bloody surface by now, he mumbled to himself.

He sensed the presence of others before he heard them, distantly, their booted feet on the stone floor. He struggled to his feet and staggered onward. At last he came out of the tunnel and into the chamber where a pedestrian conveyor belt was available for the ride to the surface. There were only a few people in the chamber, five of them wearing, as was he, the brown jumpsuit of the security branch. He was this close, and there was nowhere for him to hide for very long. With a deep breath he charged into the gallery, the automatic weapon spitting hot lead.

The nearest man died with a scream caught in his throat as two bullets slammed into his body, the first through the neck and the second through one lung and into the heart. Savage swung over a barrier, weapon in hand, like a modern-day swashbuckler. He moved quickly, adrenaline pumping, for catching them off guard was his only chance at succeeding in his escape. Another man wearing a jumpsuit came at him with his weapon blazing, his rounds spraying the walls and several of the bystanders. Savage dropped him with a single shot through the man’s opened mouth, severing the spinal cord from the brain as it exited the base of the skull. Savage turned on the three remaining men. He was all over the chamber, never remaining still for more than the second it took him to kill; he was hurtling over barriers and shooting. Another man fell, his eyes open, a neat hole drilled into his forehead. Blood was everywhere. Savage was quickly dispatching the obviously inexperienced terrorists in their jumpsuits, as well as those who had inadvertently been caught in the firefight, but he himself was not going unscathed. A hot round grazed his left side, making it feel as though it were on fire, and the salt from his perspiration only added to the painful burning sensation.

At last there was only one man left to oppose him. Savage faced him with an empty weapon. He drew out the knife he had acquired earlier. This final opponent was a big man who was surprisingly quick for his size. It was obvious to Savage that this member of Shaitan’s terrorist group was more experienced than those who had expired before him. Savage stared for a moment at the silenced submachine gun the man held in both massive hands, ready to blow him apart but strangely hesitating. Had this man been told to try to take him alive? His mind was working at top speed as he reasoned, A knife against an automatic weapon, but I can’t bloody-well stop my escape now, can I? Not now! With a barbaric scream that startled the big man, the Australian launched himself.

The terrorist recovered himself quickly, caught Savage and sent him sprawling across the blood-smeared floor. An evil grin suffused his face as he looked down at the man who, apparently stunned, lay still beside a steel beam. The big man moved cautiously toward his prey, his weapon ready; there was no reaction. Feeling braver now, he relaxed his guard and stepped a few feet back to survey the chamber. It had been a massacre, but he would be handsomely rewarded for his catch, of this he was convinced.

As he turned back toward the fallen man he saw movement; it was too late for him by then. Savage brought the heavy blade straight up between the man’s legs, burying it deeply into the man’s groin. The big man paled immediately; his knees began to buckle. With a vicious wrench, Savage pulled the blade free from the man’s crotch. He stood up and stepped away, watching as the big man sank slowly to his knees in the pool of blood that flowed down his legs. His face was twisted with pain; it seemed forever before the scream was released from his constricted throat and erupted from between his pasty-white lips. Then the body relaxed on its haunches, the head lolled.

Savage glanced about the slaughterhouse; the moaning of the wounded was all that could be heard. Without any further hesitation, he picked up the big man’s automatic weapon and as many full magazines as he could find on the bodies. He scrambled on to the pedestrian conveyor belt and settled himself onto the rubber mat. His breathing was raspy, quick and short. He was covered with the blood of other men, as well as his own. His side was ablaze; he shook convulsively, uncontrollably. But he was almost there. He was almost out, almost free. Free to get to Singapore with the information he had managed to acquire over the past few months. He would have to steal a boat from somewhere in order to get off of the island.

No one had ever escaped from Shaitan’s stronghold, or so he had been told. The waters surrounding the island were infested with sharks and saltwater crocodiles, and the island itself was populated with very hungry, incredibly large reptiles that lived in the jungle among the ruins of an ancient city. Doing battle with the terrorists in order to get to the surface was only half of the battle; he still had to do battle with the wildlife. He wiped the sweat and drying blood from his face and began to slow his breathing. He was going to make it. He was going to be okay. Everything was going to be all right.

As exhausted as he was, his senses were amazingly acute. His ears strained in the semi-darkness to detect any sound as the conveyor carried him farther into the narrow tunnel. He heard a voice, a low mumble. Someone was staggering along the conveyor belt in front of him, walking the wrong way, moving toward where he was crouched. Savage slipped the automatic weapon across his back and silently drew the heavy-bladed hunting knife from its leather sheath. The sweat on his brow increased, running down his smeared face in rivulets. A dim shadow fell across him. There was surprise on the darkened face of the mumbler, then horror as she saw the knife coming for her unprotected throat. The heavy blade entered effortlessly, tearing away flesh and bone, and with it went her scream. She collapsed to the rubber belt in a bloody heap.

Savage was helpless; there was nowhere to run or hide. The sound of a voice behind him caused him to turn quickly. Had there been sufficient light, Savage’s appearance would have startled the new adversary: unkempt, flecked and stained with blood, holding a bloodied knife in a bloodied fist. There was a sharp intake of breath, and then the expulsion through the gaping windpipe as the knife once again bit deep into warm flesh. Blood. Everywhere.

The runner felt tired, and not just from the running. God, will it ever stop? he murmured in the dark to himself as he sank to the rubber belt between the bodies. The surrounding semi-darkness slowly lightened as the conveyor brought him closer to yet another chamber. He looked around quickly; there would be more security personnel. His grip on the automatic weapon tightened as he prepared to fight his way out of the gallery and to the surface. He crouched, waiting, watching, and listening. As he was carried into the chamber he leaped from the conveyor.

Immediately he was engulfed in tear gas. His eyes stinging, tearing, he emptied a thirty-round magazine through the haze of the tearing agent. As he fumbled for a second magazine he was pounced upon by several heavily muscled men. They wrestled him to the floor, violently disarming him in the process. Even without his weapons he fought against his blurry captors: biting, kicking, and punching. But it was all for nothing; there were too many of them. They beat him mercilessly until he finally ceased resisting, exhausted and almost unconscious.

A tall figure stepped into his impaired field of vision. Savage turned his head and squinted through swollen eyes at the figure, a curse escaping from between his bloodied lips. The man was of indeterminate age. His hair was black, neatly combed back from a high, intelligent forehead, with some grey at the temples. His complexion was not dark and was not light. He was, perhaps, of the Mediterranean race. Perhaps he was a Southern European. Or he may have come from Southeast Europe, or Western Asia, or Central Asia, perhaps even from certain parts of South Asia or North Africa. No one knew. More importantly, anyone who might know was very probably dead. His black eyes were piercing, cold, terrifying. The black eyebrows, while thick, were not bushy. He was clean-shaven, and his aquiline nose was straight; and when combined with his high forehead it gave his face a certain characteristic of intelligence. Deadly intelligence.

Really, Mr. Savage, said the figure, slowly becoming clearer. The voice was educated, refined, soft and menacing. You really are a most uncooperative guest.

Go to hell! the Australian mumbled. He knew that voice from somewhere, but where?

All in due time, I’m sure, chuckled the figure. And I am equally certain that you will be there to greet me when, at long last, my time comes. The voice changed, becoming deep and serious. You realize, Mr. Savage, that you have cost me many good men and women.

If they were any bloody good I wouldn’t have gotten this far, now would I have? Savage retorted.

Quite, chuckled the figure again. Nevertheless, you have cost me many of my personnel; therefore, I must take all that I can out of you.

Won’t be bloody much, I’ll wager, was the reply. I don’t imagine your bosses were very happy when they learned that I had infiltrated their precious stronghold.

I am the boss, Mr. Savage, was the calm response, and had I not permitted your infiltration you would not be here now. You are a rather essential piece of my overall plan.

You’ll not get any help from me.

"Au contraire, Mr. Savage. You help me just by being here."

You’d best kill me here and now, Shaitan, because if you don’t then I’ll surely kill you.

Ah, so you do remember me! Very good. Your demise shall thus be that much sweeter. You really should not make idle threats, you know.

I don’t make threats, only promises; you should know that.

You Australians amuse me with your senseless bravado in the face of impending death. Shaitan addressed the men holding Savage, Take him to his new cell, and this time I strongly advise against allowing him to escape.

TWO

IT was a wet March morning in Singapore. The city was quiet and virtually deserted at four-thirty in the morning. The northeast trade winds that were blowing were reinforced by the outflows of the surface air coming from Asia and bringing with it heavy rains and strong winds. The windshield wipers of the dark blue Mercedes Benz 280D sedan were going at full speed but proved insignificant in the torrential downpour. The vehicle purred through the city and pulled into an underground garage off Alexandra Road. The man behind the steering wheel guided the automobile into its reserved slot inside the well-lit garage. He sat there for several moments before climbing out of the vehicle and locking the door. Without any further delay he strode to the elevator that would carry him to the sixteenth floor.

He stepped into the brightly lit corridor, fully carpeted with walls painted in a light pastel blue. The white sign in front of him listed the three companies that shared the entire sixteenth floor, and indicated which suites they occupied. His hazel eyes rested momentarily on the name of the company, Harrington Lloyd-Creighton, International Consultants, Unlimited, of which he was the Southeast Asian Regional Director. The sign also indicated the direction in which the suites could be found, not that he needed such a sign. He walked silently down the corridor until he reached Suite 1610, the reception office.

Opening the stained-glass door that bore the company logo, he removed his well-worn fedora as he stepped through into the spacious office. Like the rest of the suite, the room was expensively furnished and yet comfortable. There were plush chairs and low tables available for those who arrived early for, or without, an appointment, and there were racks filled with the latest in a wide variety of financial and business publications. The company’s highly competent receptionist was seated behind the large teak desk which was located directly across the room from the entry door. She was wearing a conservatively cut pantsuit and had her long auburn hair done up in a loose bun. She was attractive in an understated way. She glanced up from her morning tea and newspaper as he closed the door behind him.

Good morning, Emily! he declared cheerfully, removing his mackintosh. And how are we this somewhat damp morn?

Emily Cavendish glanced out through the rain-spattered window at the blackened sky, lit occasionally by tendrils of lightning. Just fine, sir, and yourself?

Same as ever, thank you. It had been this way since the first day that she had come to work for Randolph Davenport, almost five years ago. She had applied for a transfer-of-station from the London branch office where she had worked since joining the company. She had been twenty-one then, now almost ten years had passed. As fortune would have it, at that same time Davenport had requested, or rather had demanded, a receptionist who was more capable than the one he had just transferred to the Beirut office. His reason for the transfer had been delicately put; the fact that her filing system made it impossible for him to find anything was not mentioned. Much to their regret, London had sent Emily to Singapore and she had not returned to the British Isles since. Anything for me this morning, dear?

Nothing as yet, sir; the courier’s a bit late again, I’m afraid, she replied, her voice soft, pleasant. Could I fix you a cup of tea in the meantime? The water’s hot.

Brilliant. Thank you. That would be splendid. He walked across the room to the door that opened into his office. It was an equally spacious suite, paneled in oiled teak, the shelves filled with books on a wide assortment of subjects and local objects of art. His massive teak desk stood before tinted windows that took up much of the west wall. The desk lamp was lit, and various international newspapers were neatly stacked beneath the soft light. She does spoil me, he thought, hanging up his coat and hat on the rack beside the door. He ran a large hand through his thick head of dark hair, the grey at the temples giving him a distinguished appearance. Lighting a cigarette, he settled his large frame into the leather chair behind the desk and leaned back. Smoke rings drifted up towards the ceiling. He loved this insular city-state. He loved its people and the mixture of cultures that made it a thriving international entrepôt. He loved everything about it.

He could remember what it had been like when he was just a boy, before the Japanese invasion. He had seen it change since then, watching it grow as would a loving father. When he was twenty-one he went into British Military Intelligence and requested stationing in Southeast Asia. That had been in 1951. Twenty years later, having attained the rank of major, he retired and went to work for a man whom he had met while in MI5: Sir Harrington Lloyd-Creighton. He had been with the firm for sixteen years now, ten of them in Singapore. He had returned to England only once in the last decade, five years ago, to bury his estranged wife. His son and daughter had been there at the burial; it was the first time that he had seen either of them since his wife left him, with the children, in 1976. The two photographs on his desk were taken a few days after the funeral. That had been the last time he had seen them. Philip had been twenty then, and Tabitha two years younger. He sighed, and smoke rings drifted upward.

A gentle knock at the door brought him out of his reverie and he sat up as Emily stepped into the office, a steaming cup of tea in her hand. She placed it in front of him and stepped back. Wrinkling her pert nose, she said, You’re smoking again.

Looking down at the cigarette in his hand, he admitted, I certainly am, thanks so much for telling me.

It’s not good for you.

You are so right. Again. However, old habits are somewhat difficult to discontinue. And besides, it keeps my hands busy.

A smile touched her full lips as she murmured, Perhaps it’s just as well, then.

Are you still seeing that young Naval Attaché at the American Embassy?

Off and on, she shrugged.

Ah. More off than on, I suspect, Davenport told her. Her response was another shrug. Why is it you have never married, if you don’t mind my asking?

She looked at him levelly. Things never worked out. My suitors have all wanted me to be a pregnant-and-barefoot-type housewife; I wanted to continue working.

Both points of view have their merit, I suppose. I’m actually rather glad you never married, rather selfish, I know, but this place would be in quite a shamble without you here to keep things straight and running smoothly.

Does this mean I get a raise?

He laughed softly, and then slowly shook his head. I’m afraid not. He paused for a moment, the room quiet. You know, Emily, he said gently, I’m really very glad you’re here.

In the small room next to Davenport’s office the secured teletype machine suddenly came to life. They looked at each other for a moment; the machine was used only for priority messages from one of several smaller branch offices scattered throughout the Southeast Asian area, and on occasion from the head office in London. Emily brought the sheet in to him, presenting it without a word. It was a brief message: Regarding Case 86-B-05: Situation deadlocked. Possibly critical. Request special assistance team.

A frown creased Davenport’s brow as he reread the message. Now what the bloody devil is that all about? he muttered, laying the message down on his desk. He rubbed his clean-shaven jaw as he stared at the single sheet of paper, then glanced up at his assistant. Emily, you had best bring me whatever we have on this because I’m not really certain as to what the devil it is. He shook his head slightly. I don’t recognize the case number.

Right away, sir, was the reply, and the door closed quietly behind her.

Davenport lit another cigarette and sat back in his chair, still staring at the message. What the bloody hell is Case 86-B-05? he wondered aloud. There’d better not be an operation going on in my territory without my knowledge or I’ll be damned upset.

A few minutes later Emily reentered his office with a thin manila folder in hand. Sir, we have nothing on this case number, so I had to contact London. She handed the folder over to him. It is a classified operation approved by Sir Lloyd-Creighton himself. We have no authority on this one, sir; it’s strictly the home office.

Lovely! Davenport exclaimed, tossing the empty folder onto his desk. That’s just wonderful! And I thought I was getting away from idiots when I left the Army! Again, he shook his head. Just goes to show you, Emily, that there is no escape from the idiots of the world.

I don’t understand, sir. Sir Lloyd-Creighton would never personally authorize an operation without notifying the regional director unless it was of extreme importance. I think you’re being terribly unfair.

Perhaps. A heavy sigh escaped the Regional Director, Southeast Asian Theatre of Operations. Perhaps you are right, Emily, and I apologize. It just annoys me when something like this happens. After all, I rather like to know what’s going on in my theatre of operations; I hate surprises like this. He stubbed out his cigarette, and then slipped the teletype message into the folder. Well, if you haven’t done so already, you’d best notify London on this. After all, it’s their operation in the first place. She nodded and left. Davenport took a long drag off a freshly lit cigarette, letting the smoke filter out through his nostrils. Bloody cock-up!

• • •

The home office of Harrington Lloyd-Creighton, International Consultants, Unlimited, was located away from the city itself. It was an inconspicuous building, looking very much like all the other buildings on the street. A small brass sign near the front door identified it as an office rather than a residence, as many of the buildings were. The office had been there for more than thirty years, originating in the narrow, four-story building. As the business had grown and spread, the owner had seen no reason to move the home office. He had merely opened branches about the city as needed.

Sir Harrington Lloyd-Creighton was the man behind International Consultants, Unlimited. He had taken over a small consultation firm from his father when he was thirty and had turned it into a successful international business. It had taken him twenty years to achieve his dream. He had offices spread all over the world, a vast network of ears and eyes that kept him posted to any changes in any given geographical area. How he had gotten to be where he was, however, was a closely guarded secret. He had been secure in the belief that his secret would never be exposed. In late 1979, when a man he knew nothing about, had never heard of, approached him, his world had begun to crumble about him.

Lloyd-Creighton eased back in his chair, and as his eyes closed he went back to that foggy, cold October night, to a crowded pub on the River Thames. It had been a cryptic telephone call on his private office line that had summoned him to the public house. The caller claimed to have