The Doomsday Legacy

By Neil Howarth

THE DOOMSDAY LEGACY
The key to the world's salvation - or to its darkest nightmare?

A DEADLY THREAT
When his uncle, a retired CIA agent, turns up dead on a train in Eastern Europe, international war photographer, Mason Bradley is caught in the middle. The Russian Mafiya and shady factions of the CIA believe the former agent was carrying something of vital importance. But where is it now? They suspect that Bradley knows the answer, only he doesn't, and his only way to stay alive is to find it and use it as a bargaining chip for his life.

A DARK SECRET
Bradley begins a journey into a shady world where money, greed, and deception, are the deadly currency in the battle for ultimate power, a world of dark secrets, where life can be snuffed out with the snap of unseen fingers. The action moves from the United States, through Europe to St. Petersburg, and the heart of the Russian Mafiya, then to the far north, to the frozen wasteland of Siberia, to a secret still kept long after the demise of the Soviet Union. Bradley struggles to stay one step ahead of his pursuers, as one by one, his every avenue of escape is closed.

But perhaps Mason Bradley has some dark secrets of his own.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Neil Howarth
• Release date: Jan 27, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393124801

Book preview

1

Eastern Europe, former Soviet Union

They had an old saying in the Gulag. ‘ You can pray freely, but just so God alone can hear. ’

Lev Semovski often wondered if God had ever heard him at all. 

He knew this would be the final stage of his trek, yet there was to be no peace. Those who sought him were never far behind. At any moment, he expected the tap on his shoulder, the unseen hands to pluck him from the street. Their pursuit was relentless, but then so was his resolve. They were getting closer. He knew that, but then he didn’t have far to go.

Rain seeped through the soaked woolen hat he wore, pulled down tight over his ears. It trickled in tiny rivulets across the creases of his forehead and divided across the bridge of his generous nose, disappearing into a grey, unkempt stubble. He turned his face up to the darkened sky, letting the raindrops spatter cold but cleansing against his skin. 

He found a strange comfort in the rain, despite the soaking and the bone chilling cold, for him somehow, it had always been a special place, somewhere to be alone, a step away from the rest of the world. In a life that had known little but confinement, surveillance, and scrutiny, the rain had been his refuge, his friend, confessor, and sanctuary, his own private place to contemplate his somewhat tenuous survival. And ultimately, somewhere to wrestle with the compromises, the defeats, and inevitably the betrayals he had made along the way - a place to stand in solitude, while the rainfall scrubbed away patiently at his soul.

His nostrils caught a familiar odor, heightened by the deluge, and a long forgotten memory flooded back. To Lev, every town had its own earthy fragrance, particularly an old town. He inhaled a deep, damp breath. It had been many years since he had last been in this old town, but he still remembered its smell.

He looked out across a small, deserted square. A solitary streetlight at the center cast a pale yellow glow. Nothing stirred but the incessant downpour, splattering on the cobbles. For the moment, the solitude seemed real. But he knew it to be merely an illusion. Those who pursued him were not far behind. 

Since starting out on his journey, he had barely managed to stay more than one step ahead. Earlier that evening, they had missed him by seconds as he sought the refuge of a darkened alley. He had seen the car, seen up close the faces of the men seeking him, watched as their eyes searched the shadows and recesses of the shop doorways and alleys, scanning the people who hurried along the pavements.  

This time chance had favored him, and they had driven on by. But then for Lev Semovski, a Russian and a Jew, life had always been about keeping that one step ahead. 

The years had not been kind, and the fatigue hung like a great weight on his body. The journey had been long and arduous, one that covered more scars and painful memories than miles, but on that journey, you learned to take what luck you could get and move on.

He stepped out from the shelter of the doorway into the bite of the wind, and the rain hit him full on. He bent his head against the elements and struggled on, moving with an odd shambling gait, his right leg dragging slightly, as he shuffled across the cobbles. He had carried the bad leg with him most of his life, like a reflection of its struggle, but tonight it would not prevent him from reaching his destination. 

He hurried on as quickly as his old legs would allow, ducking into a narrow alley between two ancient buildings. A stone stairway ran upwards into the darkness, part of a series of steps that led up to the summit of the town. Water from the incessant rainfall tumbled down towards him in a swift narrow river that over the years had worn a hollow in the center of the stairs. He climbed awkwardly, his left hand groping for handholds in the darkness, trying to keep to one side, out of the running water. But his leg banged on each step, dragging through the deluge as he moved upwards. Not that it mattered, he was soaked already.

By the time he reached the top, his breath came in fast labored wheezes. It was far too many years since he had been a fit man, and he knew he was pushing himself to the limit. He paused to rest in the shadow of a stone doorway, a brief respite from the rain, before venturing on. He blew vigorously into his clenched hands in an attempt to warm them, but the old woolen gloves he wore, the kind with the fingertips missing, were sodden and served only to chill his scrawny hands to the bone. He pulled the upturned collar of his greatcoat closer around his face, like him, it had seen better years. He glanced towards the sky. This would be the year’s last rain. It would be snow by morning. 

He peered out onto an old town square. The place was in darkness apart from the pale glow of the odd streetlight. The shops and cafes that ran around each side, sat quiet and deserted, as if silently observing him. He hurried out onto a flat cobbled square, moving at his best pace, seeking the refuge of the darkness at the far side. 

He heard the car, somewhere off in the distance, its engine laboring up the hill. He shuffled even faster, seeking his destination and finding it in the shadows, an old wooden bench. It brought back many memories, but now was not a time for sentimental contemplations. He had little time and the next few moments were vital if his whole journey was not to be wasted. He slipped out a small package from the depths of his greatcoat and squatted down in front of the bench. He reached beneath it for the recess he knew was there. His fingers felt it in the darkness, cut beneath the slats of the seat above, barely wide enough to take his precious package. He pushed it into the recess, patting it securely into place. 

The noise of the car engine was much closer now. He knew he had only moments. He shuffled back the way he had come, moving as fast as his leg would allow. He was still yards from the shadows when the car swept into the square, illuminating him squarely in its headlights. Tires shrieked as it accelerated towards him. The shuffle turned to a scramble as he covered the final yards and plunged into the darkness of an alley. He heard the screech of brakes, the slamming of car doors, and the hurried, clatter of pursuit. He took a left turn, and then another, an uneven paving stone caught his already unsteady foot and pitched him to his knees. 

For a moment, he huddled there on the cobbles, gulping desperately for air, heart racing wildly in his chest, unable to move. He could hear them calling to each other, searching for him in the darkness, moving closer. He struggled unsteadily to his feet and staggered forward, alley after alley, working his way along the maze of narrow thoroughfares between the old buildings. It had been many years, but this was still a town he knew. 

He reached the end of a narrow alley, ignoring the dull pain in his chest, and looked out onto a deserted street. It sloped upwards as the hill rose to the peak of the old town. He stepped out and began to climb. On his left, the old city wall ran high at this point, but as he approached the brow of the hill, it dropped relative to the road, and his head became exposed to the lash of the wind and rain, causing him to duck below it again for protection. 

The road flattened briefly at the top, then dropped rapidly away, turning hard to the right, back into the heart of the old town. Down below him, he could see the lights of a car parked at the bottom. A man stood leaning against it. Another made his way up the hill towards him. 

Lev pulled back into the shadows, keeping close in to the wall. He glanced back, but the street behind him was still deserted. A short stone buttress extended out from the base of the wall. Beyond it, the road fell away again to run down the hill, and the wall was no longer accessible. He grabbed hold of the buttress, using it as a step up point, and struggled up into a lying position on the top of the wall. 

He pushed himself up onto his knees and scrambled forward on all fours, the wind slapping at his face, whipping in the rain from out of the night. He swayed dangerously, his frozen fingers grasping at the stonework to gain stability. He heard a cry below him. He risked a look down to his right, to the street winding its way up from the town. The man stood about twenty feet below him. He had backed across the street to get a better view. 

"Ostanovites! the man demanded in Russian. Ili ja budu streljat!" He pulled out a gun underlining the threat.

Lev leaned back from the edge and looked out in front of him. He could see the vague outline of the round tower marking the corner of the town wall. A glow from an upper window gave him a bearing. The crack of a gunshot echoed between the old town walls, then was swallowed up in the roar of the wind. His fingers gripped even tighter on the stonework, then he scrambled on, edging his way forward on his hands and knees as fast as he could. Out to his left, there was only darkness, but he knew that far below, the river tumbled in a fierce torrent, swollen by the downpour.

He risked a look back. The man had reached the buttress where Lev had climbed up onto the wall and was already clambering up towards him. Lev pushed himself shakily to his feet and began edging his way forward as quickly as he could. Suddenly the wind dropped, and the rain eased, an eerie calm falling on the troubled night, like an oasis in the center of the storm. 

Lev stopped. He took a deep breath and steadied himself. His fingers felt deep into his pocket, locating what he sought and took it out. A time worn Kippah, a prayer cap. It was almost as old as he was. His mother had stitched it with a simple flowing embroidery for his Bar Mitzvah when he was thirteen years old. But the threads were now faded, the color almost gone. He pressed it to his lips and placed it firmly on his head. It was far too small but still able to serve the purpose. Suddenly it was as if the cold night had receded, and the warm glow of the family living room had replaced it, the smiling faces of his family all around him.

Another shout brought him back to cold reality. The man was close now, holding the gun out in front of him. Lev ignored him, looking straight ahead, out into the night.

The wind began again to tug at his clothing, but now he was no longer afraid. Lev Semovski had one last vision of his beautiful Nadya. She was out there waiting for him. He smiled and stepped out into the darkness.

---

Warsaw bound train, former Soviet Union

The train slowed with a lurch, the man’s eyes flicked open. For a moment he had no memory of where he was or what he was doing there, then the pain hit him, and it all came rolling back.

He removed his hand from where it was clutching a makeshift towel beneath his overcoat. It came away dark and sticky.

He could see they were approaching a small station. It was still dark, and the platform was illuminated with pale street lamps. The train came to a halt, opposite a brightly lit kiosk selling newspapers and tobacco. The compartment door slid open with a rattle, and the man quickly wrapped his overcoat around him. A man in a railway guard’s uniform stood in the doorway.

Are you alright? he asked in Russian.

The man nodded. Yes, I’m fine. Something I ate.

The guard nodded as if he understood. Ten minutes here, he said then closed the door and moved off down the passage.

There was a tap on the window. A young boy was gesturing.

Kafé? He pointed towards the kiosk. You want coffee, I bring, he said in broken Russian. One dollar American.

The man slid down the window and handed a US dollar bill to the boy, who ran across to the kiosk, negotiated briefly with the man behind the counter and returned with a Styrofoam cup of steaming black coffee. The man took it gratefully and tried sipping it. The pain hit like a white-hot flame as the hot coffee found its way to his stomach.

Mister, are you alright? The boy was still standing at the window. You want I get help?

The man shook his head. No, I’m okay.

The boy looked at him, shook his head and wandered back to the kiosk. Gradually the pain eased. The man looked across at the kiosk, then decided and staggered to his feet. He took down an attaché case from the luggage rack above his head, then sat down and opened it beside him.

The guard appeared out on the platform. Two minutes.

The man took out a notepad and scribbled a short note. It was the hardest thing he had ever written. He folded it and slipped it into an envelope and sealed it. He quickly wrote an address, then reached into his inside pocket and took out a slim, leather bound, journal. He had found it in the old drop he and his friend had set up many years before. They were supposed to meet. The drop was the fallback. But he knew his friend would have had his reasons for not turning up. He hoped he was safe. The wound spasmed painfully, deep in his gut as if to remind him of what happened next, and once again he pondered the fate of his friend.

He shook his head and pushed the thought from his mind. He flicked through the pages of handwritten scribble, but it was written in a language he didn’t understand. He opened the back cover and looked at the single line written in the same hand but this time in English. He still didn’t understand what it meant. He took out another envelope, scribbled an address, and pushed the journal inside. He folded the first envelope and slipped that in too.

The boy was squatting down over by the kiosk. The man gestured to him, and the boy hurried across. He showed him a fifty US dollar bill. He gave the boy the envelope and the bill. For stamps, he said. Ask the man in the kiosk to post it.

He held up another fifty. This is for you if you deliver this letter to the kiosk.

He was taking a chance, but it was the only chance he was going to get.

The boy grinned and ran across to the kiosk, he spoke briefly to the man behind the counter and handed over the letter. The man looked across and waved in acknowledgment. The boy hurried back and took the fifty-dollar bill with a wide-eyed smile. The train lurched forward and gathered speed, leaving the boy watching him from the platform.

The man caught his reflection in the window. The years were there, but he had worn well considering, not that it mattered now. This was not what he had planned, but then it never was.

There had been two of them, both with knives. There had been a time when he could have taken them both and not broken sweat. But that was a long time ago. Still, he had been the only one to walk away. Well, maybe ‘walked’ was pushing it a bit.

He managed a tight smile, and the pain hit him again. He sucked in a deep breath between his gritted teeth then let it out slowly while the fire in his gut subsided. The fog was moving in now, seeping in from the edge of his vision. He thought about his wife, how she had always accepted his life without question, and a soft sadness swept over him. He would not be going home. They were not going to do all those retirement things she had planned.

He looked back at the boy standing on the platform, now beginning to fade into the mist that was slowly consuming his vision. As he slipped away another image took its place, this time crystal clear. Another boy. Someone he had let down many years before. And with it came the regret, cold and just as clear.

Now he would never get the chance to make things right.

2

Boston, Mass.

The boy was no more than 12 or 13, captured in a swaggering pose, proudly clutching the AK47, which he was hardly big enough to carry. He wore a flat, woolly, Mujahideen Pakol on his head, a dark haired fringe fell across one eye, and a broad, white-toothed grin beamed out from his dirt-smeared face. The black and white film was the perfect medium, enhancing the contrast of dark and light, heightening the drama of the piece. Or at least that’s how the Boston Globe had described it when it was chosen as International Photograph of the year.

Mason Bradley sipped his champagne and looked across at the picture. It was displayed in prime position, at the center of the exhibition. It gave him an uneasy feeling inside.

Contemplating your masterpiece, Mister Bradley?

Bradley recognized her from the local TV station. She was tall, almost as tall as he was, blonde and not bad looking. Her smile said she was interested. Unfortunately, he was not.

I was just thinking about that boy. Twenty-four hours after I took that picture he was dead, killed by a sniper’s bullet. A terrible waste.

Events in history, Mister Bradley, it’s about being there to witness them, to capture them in some way so that the world can see them too. It’s what we do. She sounded as though she believed it. That picture has made you a celebrity. There are even whispers of a Pulitzer Prize.

Bradley gave the TV reporter a weak smile. I’m sure the boy’s parents will take great comfort from that. Bradley put down his champagne glass. Suddenly it didn’t taste good anymore.

Sorry, would you excuse me. I need to talk to my agent. He backed away apologetically, then turned and headed quickly across the room, making for the door.

Mason. A lady caught him by the arm as he passed. I’ve seen that look before. She was one of the oldest women in the room but still the most attractive. Bradley turned to face her. Now listen, Mason, this is your big night, everything is going perfectly. I’ve spoken with Elliot Grayson. They’re ready to talk details about the book. They want a serialization in a Sunday Magazine. We could franchise it worldwide.

Audrey, as always, I don’t deserve you. Not everyone gets to have an agent like you. He looked around the room. I’m sorry, but these things make me claustrophobic.

And the lady over there. Audrey nodded towards the blonde, who seemed to have cut her losses and was talking to the exhibition director. She looked keen. I think you may have hurt her feelings.

Bradley shook his head. Look, why don’t you make my excuses? Say I’m not feeling well. He flashed a boyish smile. Apologize to the lady for me.

Mason, don’t give me the big blue eyes. Do I have to go around tending to all the hearts you break?

Audrey, you know there is only one lady for me. He gave her the smile again.

Mason Bradley, I’m old enough to be your mother.

So, a younger man in your life could add some sparkle.

It was the lady’s turn to smile, a smile that lit up her face, wiping away the years. She still was a beautiful woman. I’m sure Oscar would not approve. Anyway, he wants to know when you’re coming over to dinner again. He says he’s ready to get his own back at chess.

Tell him to dream on. Bradley’s gaze flicked around the room again. He still couldn’t shake the mood. Look, Audrey, I’ve got to go. Tell Oscar to have his money ready. He leaned over and kissed her cheek. I’ll see you soon.

Mason, she called out to his retreating back. She shook her head. Call me.

Bradley took the elevator down and caught a cab at the front door. The driver, a small man with a thick Hispanic accent, wanted to talk - how the Red Sox were doing, how the country was going to hell, how the world was being held to ransom by nutcases. Bradley wasn’t interested, but he let him talk anyway.

He paid off the cab in front of the colonial, stone building where he had an apartment on the top floor and punched in the security code at the door. He went inside and took the stairs rather than the elevator, his usual habit, and let himself in. He dumped his jacket, put on an old Herbie Nichols album, and poured himself a Bushmills Irish Whisky, an old favorite. He picked up the glass and bottle and wandered into his study and sat down at a large oak desk.

The walls cataloged his career over the last fifteen years. War after war, conflict after conflict, misery, suffering, tragedy, it was all up there. Kosovo, Iraq, Afghanistan, the horror, the madness, the pain, captured through the lens of his camera.

‘A mirror reflecting the dark underbelly of the world.’ A very old friend had once said about photojournalism. But he, like all the good things it seemed, was now gone.

Bradley took a sip of his whiskey and leaned back in his favorite leather chair. He closed his eyes and listened to the music. Jazz always soothed his soul, and right now it needed soothing.

When he opened his eyes again, the music had stopped. He looked at his watch. He’d been sitting there for over an hour and didn’t remember a second. He glanced across at the bottle sitting on his desk. Its level was a lot lower than when he had started out. He decided against another one. He would try anyway.

Anyone home? The voice came from the living room.

In here, Bradley called out.

A short figure appeared in the doorway. He was expanding in the middle and losing it on top.

Hey, Wally, how’s it going?

Bronislaw ‘Wally’ Walkowski and Bradley went back a long way. They had been roommates in college and now kept each other company at the bar from time to time.

Mason, you were supposed to be meeting the gang down at O’Grady’s. You said that after your little junket at the Four Seasons, we were gonna do some real celebrating.

Oh, shit, I forgot.

Wally shook his head then walked over and picked up the whiskey bottle. He eyed the level. I’d better get me one of these while there’s still some left. He poured himself a glass and took a sip. You always did keep nice whiskey, Mason.

I’m glad you approve.

So look at you. Man, you’re a goddamned celebrity. It seems the world wants to buy you a drink, and you sit at home drinking your own whiskey. Wally perched on the edge of the desk.

Look at all this. He waved a hand at the photographs on the wall. You really miss this shit, don’t you? Despite the fact that it almost got you killed last time out.

Bradley brushed a hand through his hair, fingering the rough edge of the scar that traced a narrow trench along the length of his skull. So what are you looking for, a confession?

Mason, you’ve been a head case ever since we were in college. I guess you’re not gonna change now. Just try not to disappoint the boys, especially when you’re supposed to be buying.

Wally looked down at the red light on the answering machine, blinking rapidly on the desk. Hey, do you ever listen to this thing? There must be a zillion messages on here. He reached over and hit the button.

There were a couple of messages from agencies wanting to talk about assignments, followed by a couple of hang-ups, then a call from Wally apologizing for not coming round to fix his computer.

So are you going to fix that piece of junk for me?

Hey, I’ve told you about downloading shit from the web. Your PC’s got the computer equivalent of the Ebola virus at the moment.

Yeah, but can you do anything about it?

Maybe. A buddy of mine is getting me some software that I think will unpick your system, and I have some special anti-virus shit that is supposed to protect you against anything.

Promises. Bradley smiled, Wally was the original nerd, and there was nothing he didn’t know about computers. He freelanced in the computer security business and was continually bailing Bradley out when his laptop got in a mess.

Wally hit the button again. Bradley recognized Aunt Mo’s voice.

Mason, please call me as soon as you can. Her voice sounded strained and upset.

Sounds like trouble, Wally said.

Bradley didn’t say anything. He picked up the phone and punched in Aunt Mo’s number in Maryland. The phone rang twice before she picked it up. Hi, Aunt Mo, it’s Mason, I got your call. What’s up?

It’s your Uncle Mace. There was a tremor in her voice. He’s dead.

Bradley put down the phone after letting Aunt Mo sob out the whole story. He promised to be there in the morning.

Wally looked across at him. Trouble?

You might say so. It’s my Uncle Mace.

Yeah, I got that much. I know that you and he were not that close, but it’s gonna be tough for your Aunt Mo.

Bradley nodded but didn’t say anything.

Hey didn’t he retire recently? You work all your life and retirement comes along, and bang down you go. Wally shook his head and drained the last of his whiskey. What a bummer. What happened?

They say he was the victim of a mugging. But this wasn’t a case of being held up in the parking lot. They found him on a train in Eastern Europe. He’d been stabbed.

Wally looked like someone had just poked a fork in his ass. Your Uncle Mace, he was the spook, right?

Bradley gave a smile and nodded. Wally had a way of making life simple.

I thought you said he’d retired.

He had. He was supposed to be away on a fishing trip.

Hey Mace, you always were a weird guy, and you always had some well crazy family. He contemplated the bottom of his empty glass, then put it down on the desk. This is all too much for me. It’s freaking me out. I’ll take my chances getting mugged on the way home. Look I gotta go. Pass on my condolences to your Aunt Mo. I’ll see you when you get back.

Bradley gave him a wave and Wally left.

He sat back with a kind of numb feeling and thought about his namesake, Mason Morgan.

Uncle Mace, old cloak and dagger, make-the-world-a-better-place, Uncle Mace. Sorry-can’t-talk-about-it, Uncle Mace. Trust him to turn up dead on a train in Eastern Europe, thirty years after the cold war was over. Some would call it a fitting end.

Bradley got up and poured himself the last of the whiskey and wandered through into the living room. He walked over and opened the French windows and stepped out onto the apartment balcony. The view across Boston Common as the city settled down for the night was always something special for him. Fall had stayed long this year, the leaves clinging until the very last moment, but now the sharp chill of winter permeated the night air. Bradley didn’t have a coat, but the cold suited his mood.

Uncle Mace crowded into his mind, after more than fifteen years of trying to keep him out. The man he had been named after, his late father’s best friend, and until the age of twenty-one, his own personal hero. But, like all things in life, as you grow older, you discover the realities, and somehow the world grows a little less lovely. So it had been with Uncle Mace. They say men are defined by their actions, well that certainly was true of Uncle Mace.

Bradley stood looking out at the sleeping city. He fingered the rough outline of another scar beneath his shirt, low down beneath his ribs. It was not a flesh wound like the other one, not a warning. This was an old wound. This had taken him to the edge. He had walked down the tunnel to eternity. He had seen the bright shining light and had almost stepped out.

And if it had not been for Uncle Mace, he would have.

He took another sip of the whiskey, letting the soft warmth of the liquor work its way down his throat while the struggle inside his head continued.

And that was what made it all the more difficult.

3

Plymouth Point, Maryland

The taxicab came over the hill, and Bradley caught his first glimpse of the bay, down through the thin line of pine trees. The Chesapeake ran flat like slate as far as the eye could see, out to where the vague smudge of the eastern shore joined it to the grey December sky. He rolled down the window, and the wind from the estuary hit him full on. The freshness of the ocean blended with the swampy musk of the wetlands. He let it tease back the memories. He wasn’t sure whether the emotion was good or bad.

The cab ran down towards the water then turned to follow the cliff top road. About a mile in front of them, Plymouth Point lighthouse stood out on the headland, still white and proud, but now only a landmark. It hadn’t been a working light since he was a kid. Halfway towards the lighthouse the cab slowed and turned into a neat fenced driveway. The fence paintwork, like that of the colonial style house, as always, was pristine white.

Bradley paid off the driver and hauled his bag out of the trunk. The cab reversed back down the driveway leaving him standing there alone. He looked up at the house and the memories crowded in. He could close his eyes anywhere in the world and still picture this house as clearly as he could see it now. The verandah deck running all the way around the house, the white painted wallboards and window frames that Uncle Mace painted every spring. And up on the roof the observation deck, sitting just above the two attic-styled windows.

When he was a kid, he would go up there alone on stormy nights, the wind tearing in straight off the ocean, threatening to rip him from his perch and throw him way back into the woods behind the house. But always he held on, gripping onto the handrail for dear life, drenched to the skin, watching in fascination as the heavens did battle with the elements, and loving every minute of it.

He had spent the formative years of his life in this house. Uncle Mace had traveled a lot but still seemed to find enough time to take him out on the bay, fishing for Blue Jacks, crabbing, and netting for oysters. Golden days, golden memories, but then that was the painful part. Nothing lasts forever.

He picked up his bag, mounting the wooden steps up to the verandah deck and stood giving one last look at the house and the woods around it. His free hand slipped inside his open jacket, subconsciously fingering the old scar beneath his shirt. He took a deep breath, then stepped up to the front door, reached out and rang the doorbell.

---

Brighton Beach, Brooklyn, N.Y.

The man moved out of the shadows and crossed the road. A train clattered by overhead on the elevated section of the subway, making its way northwards, back to Manhattan, its carriage lights bright against the night sky. It was a street of seedy bars and nightclubs, most of them on the wrong side of the profit line, a sad contrast to the bustle and prosperity of Brighton Beach Avenue, only a few streets away. There were a few people about, but it was early yet.

He ground out his cigarette beneath a polished Italian leather shoe and glanced down at the scribbled note in his hand, then back up again at the sign above the door. ‘Neva Dreams’ it said in English. The Russian equivalent was written in elegant flowing Cyrillic script beneath it. The sign had been bright red and shining once, a sign of better times. Now it was cracked and faded to a sad pink, reflecting the general neglect of the neighborhood. A single yellow neon light in the shape of a star, blinked patiently above him, as if awaiting his decision. The man shoved the note into his pocket and stepped inside.

The noise assaulted him as he walked in, pummeling his eardrums, and vibrating the floorboards beneath his feet. There was little light apart from a small stage at the far end of the room, illuminated by spotlights, where three scantily clad ladies, wearing cowboy hats, leather belts and holsters, and very little else, gyrated to the sound of the music. Each of the dancers held on to a chromium steel pole that ran vertically from the stage to the roof. Each one determined to show off her own particular assets to her very best advantage. A small crowd of early starters ogled the performance through a smog of tobacco smoke, urging them on, occasionally shoving a variety of dollar bills into the gun belt of their own particular favorite.

The only other illumination was from the long bar, running down the entire right side of the room. The visitor walked over and beckoned to the bartender at the far end, who seemed more interested in the show. The visitor persisted, and eventually, the man tore himself away and moved up the bar towards him. The visitor leaned forward and shouted something into the man’s ear. The bartender leaned back and gave him a cold stare, then shook his head, but the visitor pulled something out of his pocket, holding it up in the palm of his hand. The bartender looked at it, stroking his chin with a hand the size of a dinner plate, then finally nodded and the visitor put the item away again.

The bartender moved down to the far end of the bar and leaned across to a slim, large breasted waitress, wearing the regulation cowboy hat, a studded denim mini skirt, and high heeled boots. The outfit was finished off with a pair of silver sheriff’s badges, one covering each nipple. The girl looked across at the visitor, nodded to the barman, then made her way over to him. She indicated with her head towards the other side of the room and led the way through the gloom.

She took him up a flight of steps to a balcony that ran around the main room and then across to a booth in the back. The man sat down, and the noise abated a little.

What are you drinking, honey? the girl said in heavily accented English.

Vodka.

The girl disappeared, and he pulled out a pack of Russian cigarettes. He extracted one and lit it from a gold plated Zippo. He brushed the ash from his Armani jacket and contemplated the room. He had the whole floor to himself, which suited him. The waitress returned with a tray, carrying a bottle of vodka and two thick-bottomed glasses. She placed them on the table.

Maybe you’ll get some company, she flashed him a smile, gave her tush a wiggle and disappeared back down the stairs.

The visitor was stubbing out the remains of his cigarette when the man appeared at the top of the stairs. He was tall and slim, with dark, untidy curls, wearing a white, sweat stained shirt. In contrast to the neat, close trimmed beard of the visitor, the man’s was a result of a week’s neglect. He walked over and sat down. He didn’t speak, he just reached for the vodka bottle and poured himself a shot. He tipped the vodka into the back of his throat, then slapped the glass down in the middle of the table. For the first time, he looked the man in the eye but still didn’t say anything.

The visitor reached slowly into his jacket pocket, and in a swift, fluid movement the slim man had a large automatic in his hand, pointed directly across the table.

I’m naturally nervous, he said in Russian. So whatever it is, bring it out very slowly.

The visitor did as he was told, slowly removing his hand. In his fingers, he had a thin piece of card. He held it up so the man could see it, then placed it down on the table and shoved it towards him. It looked like some kind of glossy ticket, with Cyrillic writing printed across a background graphic. It would have normally been about four inches long, but it had been torn in half. The man looked across at the visitor and placed the gun down on the table. He reached into his shirt pocket and retrieved a similar piece of card. He looked at it, then down at the other one lying on the table. They were the same color, both torn down one edge. He placed his card on the table, the torn edge pointing towards the other, and pushed it across the table. The two edges came together, matching perfectly, making one whole ticket.

The man grinned, revealing an even set of nicotine stained teeth. He picked up the vodka bottle and this time he filled both glasses. He picked up the glass closest to him and held it up.

Welcome to America, my friend, the home of democracy, and the land of the free.

4

Plymouth Point, Maryland.

The rainfall splattered gently against the oak casket, softly beating a final tattoo for Mace Morgan. There was no Arlington farewell, no flag draped casket, no bugle call or rifle shot salute. No grateful nation. Just a small crowd standing grim-faced around the graveside, in a country churchyard cemetery.

Bradley watched in detached silence from beneath an umbrella, one arm wrapped around the slim figure of Aunt Mo, as if protecting her from the weather and the world. She seemed tiny and frail, but her eyes remained dry, and her face still held the composure and inner strength that Bradley had remembered there for most of his life.

He had been at Aunt Mo’s house for a week now. The official story was Uncle Mace had been a victim of a mugging that had gone wrong. The Company had worked some behind-the-scenes magic for old times sake, and Uncle Mace’s body had been flown home within two days. But that was the end of the official involvement. Mace Morgan had been a retired officer, who had died on some private venture that had nothing to do with the agency. Mister Mason Morgan was a private citizen. Bradley wondered if Uncle Mace would have cared. He thought not.

Uncle Mace and Aunt Mo had brought him up since the age of fourteen. His own mother had died when he was seven, and to be honest, the only things he remembered of her were slender, lily-white arms and long elegant fingers playing the piano, and of course her smell, that fragrance of perfume and her. His father had died seven years later. That’s when they had taken him in. Aunt Mo was the closest thing to a mother that he could remember, despite what had happened between him and Uncle Mace.

The preacher had started on the eulogy when the limo arrived. It was a black stretch Lincoln, with dark smoked out windows. A man got out of the passenger seat and another from the rear. They looked around, and then the one from the front nodded to the driver, who opened the door and stepped out, umbrella at the ready, and held open the rear door. A man emerged wearing a regulation black overcoat. As he stood up, the umbrella hid his features, but Bradley knew him. He took a firmer grip on Aunt Mo. He started to wonder who was supporting who.

The preacher finished his piece. Bradley didn’t recall a word he had said. They started coming up to pay their respects after that. Mo’s sister and husband had flown in from Denver. There were a few close friends, a few tight-smiled sentiments. Then it was the Company's turn. The late arrival came up first, in deference to his former position. He approached on his own, a man in his sixties, a politician's handsome face.

Henry, Aunt Mo's tone was pleasant but formal.

Maureen, he nodded a tight expression on his face. I'm so very sorry.

Aunt Mo just looked him in the eye, not making it easy.

Maureen, I had no idea. I’ve spoken to Bryce Fairfax at Langley, and he promises you he was doing no work for the Agency. I'd hoped that you and Mace would be enjoying his retirement.

Oh, Henry, Aunt Mo gave him an ironic smile. Do you really think Mace would have complained? He was always up for the team. Little boys playing little boys’ games. There was a trace of bitterness in the final words, but she was far too proud a woman to let it all come out. This was the Aunt Mo Bradley knew and loved.

Henry gave an embarrassed smile. He looked across at Bradley.

Mason, it's been a long time.

Bradley nodded back but didn't answer.

Henry looked as if he didn’t expect one. If there's anything you need, Maureen. He left an uneasy silence.

Thank you, Henry, but I'll be all right.

He gave her a grim nod, then turned back to his entourage, and headed back for the limo.

Looks like old Henry‘s doing well, Bradley said.

Special Foreign Security Adviser to the President is doing all right, Aunt Mo replied.

Then it was the turn for the present Company, some remembered faces, some not. Near the end was a familiar face, a large man, built like a quarterback, but that had been some years ago. His waist had gotten a little wider, and the dark crinkly hair was now streaked with grey. He approached, the rain shining on his ebony face, and gave Aunt Mo a hug, almost burying her in his huge arms. Rufus Stone let her go and stood up. He gave a sad shake of his head.

Mo, I don't know what to say, so I guess I won't. You know I'm here if you need me.

Aunt Mo smiled a genuine smile for the first time that day. Thank you, Rufus, and thank you for arranging everything. I know you had to cut a lot of red tape to bring Mace home.

That was the least I could do. The Company could do.

He turned to Bradley. Mason, it's been a very long time.

Bradley didn't smile back. I guess so.

Still mad at the world I see.

Bradley gave him a hard look. No, just at a few individuals.

You know it’s about time you let it go, for your own sake. Leave it behind and get on with your life.

Maybe I'm not in the mood for forgiving.

Stone shook his head and turned back to Aunt Mo. Alice sends her love.

How is she, Rufus?

Oh you know, she has her good days and some not so good.

Tell her I’ll come and see her soon.

Stone smiled, his eyes suddenly glossy. She’d like that. I'll call you in a day or so. He gave a last look at Bradley. There was a time when it was Uncle Rufus, Stone gave him a sad smile. You take care now. He turned and made his way past the graves and went out through the gate.

The final Company contingent were waiting by Aunt Mo’s car. The leader was new to Bradley. He stepped forward and touched the brim of his black trilby. Missus Morgan, my name is Hudson, Charles Hudson, I’m the Deputy Director. I was your husband's former section head. We met briefly at your husband's retirement celebration.

Yes, I remember Mister Hudson. Mo Morgan remembered him very well and her husband’s opinion of him.

Unfortunately the Director had to leave. He has pressing business in California. But I’d like to express the agency's deepest sympathy and condolences. If there is anything at all we can do. He didn’t elaborate.

Aunt Mo wasn’t asking. That's very kind, she said. But I'm perfectly all right.

Hudson looked uncomfortable. I know now is not the time, but I would like to ask you a few questions about Mace's recent activities.

You’re right, Bradley interrupted. Now is not the time, my Aunt’s had a difficult day. I'd like to get her home. He opened the passenger side door and helped Aunt Mo into the car then closed it behind her. Hudson gave him a tight stare but didn't say anything. Bradley walked around to the driver's side and got in. As he slid behind the wheel, he noticed a young woman standing over by the gate. She was watching them from beneath her umbrella. He didn't know whether she was part of the proceedings or just another nosey passerby. He started the engine. The young woman was still watching them as he put the car into drive and drove away.

5

Plymouth Point, Maryland.

A re you okay? Bradley asked Aunt Mo as they climbed the front steps.

I’m fine. I’ll just be glad to see today over.

Aunt Mo had not been up to a reunion back at the house, so they had stopped for tea close to the airport with Uncle Larry and Aunt Jane and finally dropped them off for their flight back to Denver.

Bradley slipped the key into the lock and opened the door. He switched on the light and stepped into the hallway. He saw the train wreck first. The usually neat hallway looked like a hurricane had been through it. The drawers from the cabinet by the stairs were turned out on the floor, papers strewn everywhere. Then he saw the man on the stairs.

Hey.

The man froze, then suddenly turned and raced back up the stairs. Bradley took off after him.

Mason, no, come back, Aunt Mo screamed behind him.

The man turned at the top, and Bradley saw the gun. The man extended it towards him and started to smile. Bradley didn’t think. The banister to his left opened to the hallway below. He dived for the rail and went over the top. He heard the crack of the shot as he fell. He tried to call out to Aunt Mo, but he hit the floor at the same moment. He attempted a roll, but the wall got in the way. His head bounced off it, and suddenly the lights went out.

Vasily Pankov didn’t hang around for a second shot. He dived for the bathroom and locked the door behind him. Going out the way he had come was not going to work. He crossed to the window, pushed up the catch and shoved it open. A pink tiled roof eave gleamed wet below him in the glow from the bathroom. He had to stand on the sink to get up to the window. It shuddered and moved slightly under his weight. He stepped quickly up onto the windowsill before the sink could collapse and stepped out onto the roof. Pankov was a big man and leather-soled shoes, and wet roof tiles are not the best of companions. His front foot went first, quickly followed by the other, his broad back slapped down onto the tiles and he skidded helplessly down the roof eave and over the edge. His coat caught on a gutter support as he went over and the sound of ripping material added to the overall clatter of his descent.

He landed heavily with a splat in the muddy grass and lay there winded. Finally, he staggered to his feet. A sharp pain in his left ankle started him cursing again. He hobbled across the back lawn and into the trees behind. He made his way as far as the back fence and negotiated it with some difficulty and more cursing. He landed in a heap in the lane that ran at the back of the house. A car with no lights pulled up beside him. The door opened.

Vasily, get in.

Pankov staggered inside, and the driver accelerated away.

Vasily, the driver looked across at the bedraggled figure beside him. What the fuck happened to you?

Pankov looked down at the ruins of his Armani jacket. Just shut up and drive.