An International Affair

By Gerald R. Wright

Farrels back and fighting crime as never before.

Previously a top cop and now a private investigator, Farrel is back but no longer constrained by police protocol. He has become mean, a man on a mission; perhaps that is because of the two near-death experiences he suffered at the hands of his enemies. His business card announces Farrel InvestigationsConfidential InquiriesSecurity Consultant, and thereby hangs a tale.

He teams up with the unexpectedly beautiful top Russian agent, Major Galina Filipova, and together they battle against that old enemy, Hydra, the international criminal and terror organization. The undercover war is violent. The two agents are outnumbered, so they must fight fire with fire. Their battle cry, as far as their intelligence service handler Max is concerned, appears to be no prisoners.

If your conception is of a tranquil, leafy, rural, agricultural middle England, read the book. But be prepared to have your illusions shattered as Farrel and Galina break through the veneer of respectability to expose a culture of murder and mayhem, a lust for power and money, and corruption in high places.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Sep 6, 2017
• ISBN: 9781490784397

Gerald R. Wright

Working his way from military police to teaching via civil police and accountancy, grammar school educated Gerald R. Wright somehow discovered writing. Featured in Writing Magazine’s (UK) Writers’ Circle Anthology of the Year 2012, his preferences are crime, history, and fantasy. Currently, he lives with his wife in Spain.

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© Copyright 2017 Gerald R. Wright.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

ISBN: 978-1-4907-8438-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4907-8440-3 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4907-8439-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2017913457

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Contents

Prologue

1

2

3

4

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Epilogue

To all those fighting crime and terror to make this world a safer place in which to live.

PROLOGUE

There was an Englishman, an Irishman, and a Scotsman: so commence many funny stories. However, the following is not a funny story, and although James Fitzwilliam, Sean O’Carrol, and Charles Ferguson were English, Irish, and Scots respectively, that is where this analogy diverges.

The three men had taken their criminal activities in their respective countries to a high point during, and just after, the Second World War, and as their wealth increased, so did their influence and power. It was not surprising then, that at some stage they should join forces to further their exploits in the whole of the United Kingdom. Each built his own empire within the alliance and when each man ‘shuffled off this mortal coil’, their natural descendants, or their chief henchman, continued their vicious, lucrative activities, ruling with the same unforgiving ferocity.

Inevitably, as time passed, they created links with similar organisations on the continent of Europe and indeed the mafia-type organisations of Southern Europe. As Eastern Europe became freer to practice their criminal activities in a more international manner, it was, of course, natural, in their eyes, to further the international criminal activities of all concerned to increase their wealth, power, and influence in the World at large.

The contacts that the Iberian countries − Spain and Portugal − had with South American nations, financed particularly by the drug trade, widened even further the influence of this growing worldwide cancer, and when the Near and Middle Eastern countries became involved with their terrorist activities, the whole world was subjected to a global threat to law and order of unprecedented proportions.

Through fear, or the giving of favours, people in positions of authority were coerced into the ranks of the shadowy organisation. To some it was known simply as ‘The Global Syndicate’; by others as ‘Hydra’, after the Greek mythological, ‘many-headed serpent’, which, when one head was cut off, grew two more in its place. The only way to defeat it was to find the one mortal head and remove it or, if possible deal the creature a mortal blow to the heart.

The organisation did not draw a line at where its criminality ended – if crime, in whatever its form, served a purpose, it was adopted with relish.

It was into the war against this international threat that Ian Farrel had been drawn and from which it would be virtually impossible for him to extricate himself. Therefore, he was, and had to be, totally committed to the battle.

1

Monday, 6th

It was an auspicious day in the small town of Kimton. The lake on the outskirts of the town, which had, until now, resembled a swamp, had been completely re-landscaped after having been allowed to deteriorate over many years. The plants and mud, which had exuded a disgusting smell for the last ten years, had been removed. The edges and banks on the waterside had been cleaned and tidied, and strengthened with thick baulks of hard and heavy timbers. The surrounding parkland had been reseeded, replanted with trees, and shelters of timber had been erected. A timber boardwalk had been constructed around the whole of the lake where necessary, with seats set at regular intervals. The old boathouses, which had been derelict for years, had been rebuilt for the servicing and maintenance of all types of small, manpowered boats, and the whole area looked in pristine condition. Everyone agreed the result was a credit to those who had made the effort to make this amenity available once more to the whole community. A number of boats, the smallest of which, were pulled up onto the hard standing ready to be launched by sliding them on small trolleys, into the water. Others – the larger, heavier ones – and punts complete with poles, were tied up at a small, wooden dock ready for their first day’s venture.

Anyone of any importance in the town was there; principally the Mayor, who was to perform the honours complete with his chain of office glinting in the morning sun; the Deputy Mayor; and the other members of the Council, all dressed to suit the occasion. The tiny ripples on the surface of the water of the lake shimmered in the sunlight, reflecting the appearance of the Mayor’s chain of office. Even the weather, it seemed, had smiled upon the occasion. The sky was displaying England’s richest of blues, and small fair weather cumulus clouds drifted almost lazily across it; so different from the previous week, when it had rained almost incessantly from low dull-grey skies.

Everything was in order and the invited public, seated in chairs facing the podium and the lake, were waiting expectantly for the inauguration of this new municipal facility now returned to the use for which it had been created fifty years earlier.

The Mayor was flanked, on his right, by the Mayoress; his third wife some twenty years his junior and whom some thought of as a ‘trophy wife’. She smiled sweetly but there were stories circulating of affairs she had had or was having. On his left was the Deputy Mayor, equally happy to be attending the event; but it was also known that he – for a good many years – coveted the mayoral seat. But, as always, he was beaten to it by the incumbent. On the face of it, all was sweetness and light between them – but those close to either, or both, knew otherwise. The Mayoress, behind her trophy smiles, was becoming tired of her husband’s infidelity and there was talk of a separation or perhaps an even more permanent arrangement.

Other dignitaries of less importance gathered too. The leader of the Council, the Town Clerk and the Borough Treasurer among others, were sitting facing the crowd with their backs to the lake, congratulating themselves on a job well done. The Town Crier, a position created some years before by this Mayor, stood resplendent in his red coat and tri-corn hat and with his large shining brass bell ready to bring the crowd to order. Everything had been planned down to the smallest degree and the day was running smoothly.

However, the day was not to continue as intended; at this moment, the cross hairs in the distant telescopic rifle sight covered the spot on the forehead between the target’s eyes.

The rifle sight had been carefully tested for its range accuracy and there was no wind to cause the bullet to deviate. The assassin had considered using a hollow nose projectile, but a full metal jacket .300 Winchester Magnum – pointed nose and boat tail – would achieve, in his expert opinion, the best result. At three hundred and fifty yards, it would achieve greater accuracy and plenty of penetration, particularly with a one hundred and seventy five grains charge. He knew that within half a second of pulling the trigger, the target would be good and dead. At that distance, the deviation of the bullet would be within one point five inches of its intended target. So right between the eyes should do it. The silencer would cut down the muzzle flash and, therefore, there was much less chance of anyone who may be close noticing it.

It was a perfect day, he thought, for a killing – there was no wind and the light was good. It was dry and had been overnight, therefore the grass, upon which he was lying, would soon spring back to its normal shape after he vacated his position.

The sniper knew that his location was carefully concealed. He had checked it out from a variety of positions and angles and even from where the victim would be standing. Everything had been planned and nothing had been left to chance. There had been small tweaks needed as more information came to light, but nothing consequential to the outcome. The assassin did not know his victim or his paymasters, and he cared even less who they were. It was they who had chosen the hit. He, for his part, asked no questions. He never did. He did the job and collected his money. There was always a great deal of it. After all, he was good at his job – very good, and, thus far, had never made a mistake. Neither did he know the unsuspecting target had a connection to The Syndicate, who wanted his erasure. The killer had a strong suspicion of it, but did not really know, and certainly did not care. It often happened that way. The target, however was totally unaware of his intended early demise, and to the man who would pull the trigger it was of little consequence.

Through the telescopic sight, the killer could easily identify the man as he stood on the bedecked podium at the lakeside; he had studied him carefully from every angle possible from photographs that had been provided by The Syndicate – full face, profile, and a variety of angles between. He knew every blemish on the target’s face and head. His instructions were not to harm the smaller man who would be standing beside him – he did not know why, and again, he did not care. He could despatch both, but that was not in his instructions. No one in the crowd that morning had the slightest idea that the intended victim had a connection to a group, known to some as The Syndicate and to others, particularly those in the Security Services of the world, as ‘Hydra’. It was not so much his contact, but more the connections his father had with them through shadowy third parties.

The assassin’s place of concealment under a hedgerow on the low rise just beyond the edge of the small town was disguised by a variety of bushes, trees, and long grass. Even across the small field from the narrow country lane behind him, the killer was undetectable – perfect.

There would be a national outcry. It would be international news. Both the assassin and his paymaster knew that of course, but it would be over and done with – mission accomplished. No point in going back over what had happened and what might have been prevented; by then it would have already been done. Perversely, the hint of a smile crossed his face as a thought came into his mind; on waking this morning, did his assassin ever consider – like the Lakota Sioux before battle – that today was a good day to die?

He heard, in the distance, the ringing of the Town Crier’s bell as he brought the assembly to order. The Mayor stood up and approached the microphone before him.

The killer’s aim was a bullseye. He tightened his finger on the trigger and pulled the stock securely into his shoulder. The bipod on the rifle sat firmly on solid ground. A final check; the aim was still dead centre. He took in a breath and held it. Then, one… two… three… he gently squeezed.

With the assassin’s eye focused through his gun sight, he saw the immediate aftermath display a Mayor with a pink halo of blood, brain, and shards of bone as the bullet tore through its target. The bullet would continue its path and be lost in the water of the lake beyond before the body even hit the ground. The victim fell backwards, knocking over his unoccupied chair and off the dais. On his back his body rested, partially off the platform, with his empty eyes staring into the summer skies.

The assassin did not wait to see the events that followed. He had done his job and done it well. He did not make mistakes. That was why he was in great international demand. He would waste no time here.

He slid backwards slowly and carefully, feet first, out of the thicket on the heavy-duty plastic sheeting upon which he had lain, into the field behind his position. A corner of the plastic had been held close to the rifle breech to catch the ejected spent cartridge. It was still hot when he retrieved it and pocketed it. As he went, so he pulled the sheet after him – that way, most of the dry, corn-coloured, flattened grass and bushes on and under which he had lain, would be encouraged to return to their original state as quickly as possible.

Emerging from the thicket, and checking that he had left no traces of his presence on any of the branches, he half-stood, not wanting to raise his head and break the line of the horizon that could, in turn, betray his presence. He partially wrapped the plastic sheet around the rifle and as he retreated, he swept the loose end of it back and forth to help cover his tracks through the grass more quickly.

He reached the farm barn, thirty yards or so behind him, two minutes later. He was fully aware that the few police and the news cameras covering the event in the town would be running around in the little lakeside square like ‘headless chickens’ − there was no need for undue haste on his part; undue haste could cause one to become careless. He had learned never to be careless.

He had arrived in the country three days before with a very attractive woman, purporting to be his wife: both of them on false passports, simulating tourists on a short visit. He would leave the next day with the woman. Maybe someone in security somewhere would recognise him. Though it was unlikely with his disguise, and what Border Control Officer would look twice at him when accompanied by a woman with film star qualities? He would disappear into insignificance beside her.

He wrapped the rifle carefully in the plastic sheet, sealed it either end and halfway along, with duct tape that he had left in the barn earlier. An old farm tractor, partially covered with tarpaulin, was parked at the side of the barn and hitched to the farm muck spreader. The assassin plunged both the rifle and tape into the muck spreader, which was filled with thick muck and slurry, in a bid to secrete the evidence.

He went into the barn between the rotting, wooden double doors at the end, which sagged from the hinges that had given up the ghost years before due to poor maintenance. It was there he had left an old, nondescript green Ford Fiesta ready for his getaway. He took a smart, blue woollen sweater that he had left in the front seat and pulled it on over his black t-shirt, which definitely showed evidence of his moving around in the thicket.

He climbed into the car and gunned the motor into life. Then he slowly drove through the doorway – taking care to leave as little evidence of the car being there – and onto the hard surface of the track leading from the barn to the gate of the field and onto the country lane beyond. The track was constructed of hardcore from local stone and small boulders and was not likely to leave any trails. He reached the lane through the field gateway. Like the barn doors, the gate hung awry on one hinge and lay against the hedge. He continued to drive carefully, avoiding the embossing of his presence from the tyres. The weather forecast for the next twenty-four hours would, if forecast correctly, remove any tyre tread marks.

The assassin’s job was complete. By now, his fee – a fat one − would be paid into one of his many foreign bank accounts.

Someone unknown to him would retrieve the murder weapon in due course, after the fuss had subsided a little.

He drove the Fiesta for the two minutes it took him to get to a double side gate some sixty yards from a large remote farmhouse, where he entered and parked it at the rear of the outbuildings. He had another car − a Ford Focus − waiting for him to make his final getaway. The same person assigned to take care of the rifle in the muck spreader would also do the necessary with the car the assassin left behind. The killer was not concerned who it was. That way the links back to his paymasters were kept very short and virtually untraceable.

Perhaps it was his perverse sense of achievement, or pride in his work, or his strange sense of humour, which led him to drive into and through the outskirts of the small town.

He noted the frantic rushing about of the local police and the ambulance parked quietly close to the little square, in no apparent hurry; after all, there was no need to rush a body to the mortuary. He saw too, the shallow boating lake beyond, where the killer bullet would be nestling in the mud at the bottom, to all intents and purposes completely lost.

He drove to the small roundabout at the crossroads in the main shopping centre, which housed a well-groomed circle of grass surrounded by colourful flowerbeds. In the centre of that, a fountain played gently, as though blithely unaware of the tragedy that had taken place a short time earlier.

He permitted himself a fleeting smile as he took the third exit towards the edge of the town and drove slowly away so as not to draw attention to himself or the car. He slipped away unnoticed.

The road took him to the motorway and the nearby service area where a large, black van would be waiting in a quiet corner with its rear doors open, and two metal ramps leading to its interior between two heavy canvas curtains. He would drive into the van and exit the car via the sunroof. Abandoning both vehicles and leaving them in the care of two occupants who stowed the ramps and closed the doors, he would climb into the car parked at the side of the van and nonchalantly leave the service area and back to his ‘film star’ companion for their return journey. It was all so very simple.

2

Three weeks earlier: Monday, 15th

Ian Farrel, Ex-Detective Chief Inspector − now plain Mr Farrel, but with a private investigator’s licence − drove through the archway of an office block at the southern end of the high street in Larchester where he parked his car in the private car park behind the block. He walked back through the archway under the centre of the building and turned left, then continued until he came to the main entrance. It was closed, but at this time of the day, it was not locked. It was an impressive entrance – glass and stone under a porch, and atop six wide marble steps.

He entered the building. The unmanned reception area was very smart with light grey marble walls and dark, polished timber trim. He knew every CCTV camera in the building and threw a quick salute at the lens covering the entrance hallway, acknowledging the security man (usually an ex-policeman – maybe even an ex-colleague of his) who would be watching the screens in the obscurity of a security control room. Anyone who needed to ask questions had only to press a bell push on the reception desk to summon the duty receptionist.

Before walking across to the internal door made of security glass, which led to the main stairway, he checked his mailbox − nothing. He punched in his security code on the keypad at the side of the door, allowing him access to the main stairwell.

He climbed the wide, well-lit stairs immediately in front of him. At the top, he turned left into the central corridor of the first floor. There were doors along either side of the hallway leading to offices – solicitors, accountants, and private medical consultants. No wonder there was a strong security presence on the ground floor and no wonder the car park below was full of expensive cars − Mercedes, BMWs and one Ferrari. Farrel always parked his Citroen Picasso in one of the more remote parts of the car park, not wanting to be accused of damaging any of the other cars.

The first door on the left was his office; much smaller and less opulent than the rest. He took out the door key and pushed it into the lock. As he turned it, he noticed the plastic nameplate on the centre of the door, made to look as if it were brass, with black letters that read: ‘Farrel Investigations – Confidential Enquiries and Security Consultant’. His business cards said the same thing, but no one would really know to what extent the ‘security consultant’ would entail in the future. Farrel had an inkling, but at this stage, that was all. He had often toyed with the name of his practice. His initials were I.F. and his business had the initials F.I. for ‘Farrel Investigations’; but he gave up the idea of referring to the business of ‘Ian Farrel Investigations’ by its initials I.F.I. as that could make him sound ‘iffy’ or ‘dodgy’ − and that was definitely not his style.

He pressed the button on a small remote pad he held in his left hand and heard from the other side of the door a ‘bleep’ as the intruder alarm was being switched off. He took no risks in leaving his brand new place of work vulnerable to any Tom, Dick, or Harry, who might be interested in any documents or evidence that he detained, or perhaps even bent on revenge. So, whenever he