For The Love of Grace

By Andy Blackman

Grace Backer had a life full of tragedy. But despite everything, she raised her son, Tom, with her secret intact. Tom is a prodigal child, destined to escape the slums of the East End of London for a better life; circumstances will make him flee his loving mother and their home much sooner than expected. Tom starts a new life in Odessa, Russia, and with the help of new-found friends starts a business. At last, he is finally accepted into a new and loving family, but one which holds its own dark secrets. A chance meeting with the son of a duke of the realm leads to close friendship and a new business partnership. When Tom decides to move his company to London and have his regal new friend run it, the firm thrives. However, not everything is as it seems, and Tom's business soon conceals dangerous secrets of its own.

Years later, when Tom finally decides to return to London, he is a wanted man, one hunted by the intelligence agencies. If he is finally to be reunited with his beloved mother and his best friend, he must fight to put the past behind him. But keeping secrets is never easy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Clink Street Publishing
• Release date: Sep 27, 2016
• ISBN: 9781911110545

Andy Blackman

After serving in the British Army for over twenty-five years in the Parachute Regiment, Andy Blackman today lives in Bedworth, Warwickshire and works within in the IT sector. He is the author of For The Love Of Grace (Clink Street Publishing, 2016). This is his second novel.

Book preview

The Return

As the wheels finally touched down at Heathrow International Airport, Flight BA12 from Washington was starting to become alive. The weather was clear for a mid-October morning. As the plane taxied to the arrival point, people on the plane started to move and collect their belongings; slowly Tom opened his eyes, but did not move. It always amazed him that people rushed to exit an aircraft – not like they were going anywhere fast, then rushing off to the baggage collection point where nine times out of ten the bags would never appear before the passengers. It was a tradition all over the world, and Tom had been to most airports around the world; never were the bags out before the passengers. But, he guessed, people live in hope – it was what sometimes drove them.

Eventually a tap on the shoulder brought him awake, not that he had been asleep. He had sensed her the moment she had leaned over. The fragrance of her perfume was exotic. He opened his eyes and smiled; she smiled back and asked if he was ready to depart the aircraft, very polite, very British.

Gathering his belongings, he slowly left the aircraft. Tom followed the signs for the exit and baggage re-claim area.

Not rushing, he slowly made his way to the baggage re-claim area, and smiled to himself – the bags were not coming off. So he walked to the far side of the area, leaned against the wall, and waited. Watching people hustle for position along the carousel waiting for their bags to come off always made Tom smile.

Eventually they started to arrive and the line became less cluttered, so eventually after spotting his case go past twice, he timed his pace to arrive just as his bag was level, and in one swift moment he had retrieved it and was off even before the person next to him had a chance to glance at him.

The next part was the hardest. He was now entering the ‘Twilight Zone’ as he called it – customs – this was the only area he had no control over. It was simple: he would either be allowed to enter or be arrested. If the right person was on duty and was awake and diligent then this could go hard.

He waited in line and when beckoned forward, moved towards the glass booth with the waiting customs official.

The customs official looked at the American passport, glanced at him and asked, Reason for your visit?

Tom replied, Business. With another glance at the passport, the customs official stamped the passport then handed it back and said, Welcome to the UK. Tom smiled and moved through the exit into obscurity once again.

Being back in London was a strange experience. Even at this early hour it was busy, but he loved the hustle and bustle of urban life; no one really paying any notice, just rushing off to where they need to be, which of course suited him. He liked to be the grey man. Everyone saw him, but didn’t really notice him: perfect.

Tom queued at the taxi rank waiting for a taxi. At this time of morning there were plenty to accommodate the waiting arrivals. Once in the taxi Tom told the driver his destination; he had not chosen the hotel but knew who had, and he had chosen well. By now he was sure the security services would have been alerted by his arrival.

The taxi driver kept up a running commentary all the way to the hotel. This made Tom smile, as London cabbies are unique throughout the world for being experts on every subject from football to politics; they always had an opinion on every subject.

Once he paid the cabbie and watched it disappear down the road, he turned and walked up the steps into the hotel; not before giving the local area a once-over scan. Tomorrow he would give the area a proper going over.

Walking through the lobby to the reception desk, he was not surprised that the place was busy and full of bustle. Scanning as he went, once at the reception desk he smiled at the pretty girl behind the desk who gave a radiant smile back and asked if she could be of assistance. Tom told her he had a reservation and gave her his name, which she quickly found on the computer, and turning to her rear, pulled a key from a pigeon hole and placed it on the counter in front of him.

Tom scooped up the key and turned to leave when the receptionist called him back and told him she had a message for him; as she passed the folded hotel headed paper over to him, Tom nodded and place it in his jacket pocket, not seeming at all surprised he had a note.

The receptionist glanced once more towards Tom’s receding back, before turning quickly to the next guest, letting all thought of Tom fade into a distant memory.

At the lift Tom quickly stepped in and pressed fourteen; before the doors had time to close, he was joined by an elderly couple who wanted twelve. They remained in silence at the lift ascended to floor twelve. When the doors opened they both stepped out onto floor twelve, the doors quickly closed again and the lift ascended to the fourteenth floor. Stepping from the lift, Tom looked at his watch. He had timed the ascent from the ground to fourteenth floor, even with the stop on twelve, and it still only took four minutes, which was pretty good in his book.

He slowly stepped out of the lift and glanced left and right, taking in all his surroundings. To the left was the stairs and fire exit, and four rooms; to the right, six rooms. He slowly walked to his room, listening for anything out of the ordinary. Once at his room he placed the key in the lock and turned the key, waited a second before opening the door; this was always an uncontrolled situation as beyond the door was unknown. He slowly pushed open the door and noticed the automatic light came on, which was always a good sign that the room was empty.

He walked into the room and placed his suitcase on the bed, and stood scanning the interior of the room.

After five minutes he walked over to the bathroom and carried out the same procedure; he then walked over to the window and stared out on a London waking up. To a casual observer his actions might have seemed strange and bizarre, but for someone like Tom Sharapova it was an everyday occurrence.

In a small room in a large nondescript building, not more than twenty miles from where Tom was staring out at London, sat a bored man, eyes closed, leaning back in his hard plastic chair with his feet on the desk trying hard not to fall into a deep sleep. These night duties were a pain but at least this was the last of a seven day stint for him, and he was not due back on nights for another four weeks. This week had been pretty mundane; as the night register with only four entries could attest, it had been another quiet night. Not that he expected it to be any different. After all, he was part of MI5 UK’s Internal Terrorist Assessment Teams, and the night desk was only manned by one person. Staring at the large clock on the wall, it was now six thirty am. Thirty minutes until the day staff took over and he could go and spend a few hours with the wife and kids before they left for work and school respectively; then shower and bed, and then looking forward to a nice long relaxing weekend with the family.

The ringing phone brought his eyes open and his chair back to the floor with a bump. He gave a quick yawn and a rub of his eyes before picking up the phone and listening. There was no point in saying anything, as not many had this number and those that did were not in the habit of waiting for pleasantries. It was his counterpart at MI6. As he listened he wrote, his eyes growing wider and wider as he did. After three minutes he slowly replaced the receiver and realised his day was about to become a nightmare.

Quickly taking a folder marked ‘Operation Procedure’, he turned to section four – Operation Titan – and after scanning the single sheet of paper, he started to make phone calls in the order on the list. After the calls were connected, which mostly only took one or two rings, he only said one word, Titan, before hanging up and moving down the list. Before ten minutes were up he had rung all the names on the list. He then re-wrote all the MI6 desk agent had said to him, word for word; this would form part of the forthcoming department brief.

The conference was called for eight am, which was highly unusual for MI5, as normally the day did not start until nine am for most departments in the agency. Six men sat around the long oblong teak table, staring at the Director of MI5, who sat at the head of the table. The director turned to the duty night agent and nodded; he read his report word-for-word as dictated to him by MI6, and his subsequent actions he had taken. Once he had finished his report, it brought a murmur from the assembled group.

A man on the left of the director asked, Can we be sure it’s him?

Another commented, We can only hope it’s a false alarm, which started everyone talking at once.

Gentleman, said the director, lightly slapping the table. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, first we need to confirm or deny he actually entered the UK. What time did he supposedly arrive? the director asked, turning to the man seated on the right.

"Flight BA12 from Washington into Heathrow, landing at five am, came through customs at five forty-five am with an American passport. It did not get flagged until some twenty minutes later after the picture scan of the flight’s passports were processed and matched against the database.

Once it got flagged MI6 rang the night desk, at six thirty am, to which the duty desk agent nodded in confirmation.

Gentlemen, first let’s make it our priority to make sure he is actually here, let’s try and do this as quietly as possible. We do not want to spook anyone at this early stage. Let’s keep it in house until we have a positive ID, then we can go outside the department if we need to, we don’t want a panic only to find out it was a case of mis-identification, like last year’s fiasco. Stanton, the director said.

Yes, Director, replied Stanton.

Get every available agent on the streets, for any credible intelligence. Also let’s check all the Heathrow CCTV to see if we can trace his steps, also check the taxi rank, he might have used a regular taxi.

Will get on it straight away, said Stanton, making notes as the director spoke.

Let’s reconvene at twelve noon for an update. Gentlemen, anything I have missed? As the director scanned the room, all six heads were nodding. The director stood, and said, Good, let’s get to work.

At twelve noon, five men were sitting around the oblong teak desk; the night agent was no longer part of the assessment team. They all sat in the same positions as before. There was a quiet buzz around the room as talking was kept to a whisper. The only exception was the director, who at this stage was missing. Eventually after five minutes, the director walked in followed by another man, who went and sat directly opposite at the bottom of the table. Gentlemen, you all know my counterpart in MI6, I thought it was prudent at this stage to include his department. As all five heads turned he nodded; they all knew who he was, if not by personal contact then by reputation.

The Director turned to the left and said, Stephen, the floor is yours.

The man called Stephen cleared his throat and said, We can confirm it is him: Tom Sharapova is definitely in the UK, which caused a storm around the table. Eventually the room quietened, and Stephen went on to give a brief overview of what they knew of Tom Sharapova:

Name: Tom Sharapova

Born: Unknown

Place: Unknown

Education: Suspected of an IQ above genius.

Can speak up to 10 languages, 8 fluently.

Expert in all weapons, proficient in all forms of martial arts.

Started successful haulage business in Odessa with Sebastian Sharapova.

Sebastian Sharapova killed by suspected rival Russian mafia.

Turned chief enforcer for Vladimir Sharapova, boss of the Ukraine/Odessa Mafia.

Hunted down and killed all suspected of Sebastian Sharapova killing.

Left Russia – early 80s – reason not known

Suspected of becoming successful freelance assassin. World agency sources have credited him with over 200 assassinations.

Last sighting before UK: Washington DC.

Not a lot to go on, said the director, carry on, Stephen.

OK, this is what we can confirm so far. Arrived on Flight BA12 from Washington into Heathrow, landing at five am, came through customs at five forty five am, took a taxi from the Heathrow taxi rank, taxi dropped him off at the Dorchester Hotel, central London. This brought a murmur from around the table. The director said, We need to find out why he has decided to come to the UK. Can all you department heads put this as a top priority. This man is dangerous and does not take small jobs. His reputation is too good for that, so why is he here?

Perhaps a holiday, someone said, which brought several smiles around the table.

No, people like Tom Sharapova do not take holidays. He is here for a reason and I want to know why, said the director. How many agents we got on him?

Seven agents, came a reply from the left,

Good. I want an hourly update on his movements. This brought a nod from the left. Have we covered the hotel room and hotel phones yet, and is the hotel co-operating?

As soon as he left his room this morning we were in and the place is now wired. As for the hotel, they are being co-operative so far.

Good, said the director.

OK gentlemen, that’s about it for now, let’s convene in four hours, and hopefully we can have something concrete to go on. This brought a murmur from around the table. Thank you gentlemen, that will be all, and they all stood to leave apart from the MI6 director, who remained seated.

The Director of MI5 looked at the MI6 director and said, Well Laurence, what is your uptake on this?

I am not sure, said Laurence, it’s obvious he is here for something big, he is taking a big risk coming to the UK.

What do our American cousins have to say on the matter? After all, he did fly in from Washington, asked the MI5 director.

Not a lot, being very quiet. Having lunch tomorrow with my CIA counterpart in London, hopefully he will be able to shed some light on the proceedings.

Good, replied the MI5 director.

Lunch, Julie? said the Director of MI6, standing up.

Why not? said the Director of MI5, looking at her watch.

Grace

Tom let his mind wander back to the last time he was in London, and tried to remember how long it had been. Over thirty years; Tom was just a boy when he left, born and bred in the slums of the east end of London in the early 1950s, where sixty per cent of children born never made it to adulthood, and those that did were mentally and sometime physically scarred for life. Only a small few like him managed to survival it all and prosper, but that was the rub, the reason Tom had prospered was due to his upbringing; that was the irony of it all, which made him smile again.

Tom tried to picture those dark days, but although some images were vivid and easily recalled others were clouded in darkness as if his mind refused to bring them out, which Tom guessed was the brain’s way of telling him some things are best left forgotten.

Tom’s most vivid memory was of his mother, who up until Tom was fourteen was his universe, his one constant in the harsh environment Tom was living in; his mother loved him without reservation even when Tom was bad. His mother was always defending him, like a lioness defending her cubs; she was his world.

Tom had never known his father. Tom had asked his mother once about him but she shook her head with a sad look on her face, and told him, He died in the war, but he would have loved you as much as I do, which was enough for Tom and he never asked again.

Tom also knew he was better off than most of the kids in his street. He only had his mother to scold him, whereas some had drunken fathers and older siblings to hide from. Tom always knew that his mother’s house was his sanctuary.

Tom was not particularly tall for his age, nor well built; then again, most kids in the area looked like they were skin and bones. No one looked exceptional, just all dressed in hand-me-downs or clothes bought with ‘room to grown in’, but one thing that Tom did have was a razor sharp mind. Nowadays Tom would have been called gifted, but back then you kept traits like that hidden, for fear of being singled out or noticed.

Tom had the ability that once something was seen or learnt, it was never forgotten, and his powers of recall were amazing. Nowadays they called it a photographic memory.

When Tom was very young, his mother used to sit and tell him stories before Tom fell asleep and Tom would dream of faraway kingdoms, always lost in a world full of wondrous things. Tom recalled the exact moment he saw printed words for the first time: his mother had asked him to go into the cupboard in the kitchen and fetch her a bar of soap. It was on the second shelf so Tom realised a chair would be needed to reach such a height, so dragging a chair over and climbing up Tom peeked over the shelf lip searching for the soap. It was hard to miss the large block of pink smelling stuff; as he reached, he noticed the items on the shelf were all resting on something covered in blank ink. As Tom tugged at the paper all the shelf items moved as well, and before he knew it he was sitting on the kitchen floor with various items scattered about him. In his hand he was clutching what he later learned was a sheet of newspaper.

His mother came in to see what all the noise was, but far from being cross, she looked into his face and realised Tom wanted to understand what he had found, so from that night on instead of make believe stories his mother would teach him words from the printed page.

That, Tom realised, was the defining moment of his childhood. He had moved from a curious mind to a mind hungry for knowledge.

It was not long after that his mother realised that she was unable to keep up with his constant demand for fresh knowledge, so she decided to send Tom to the local school thinking that this would satisfy his thirst for knowledge.

No one in particular was close to Tom, as up to now, his mother was all he needed in companionship. So come the first day of school, Tom had woken early with a belly full of butterflies, apprehensive yet excited. Tom hardly noticed eating his breakfast, or leaving the house clutching his mother’s hand. This was more for her than him; Tom would have rather skipped ahead, eager to arrive.

The sight of the big black iron gates of the school grounds made him feel less excited but the butterflies were still dancing about.

The air was filled with the sound of laughter and children’s shrieking voices. What seemed to him like every kid in the neighbourhood and more were there; the noise was deafening and quite intimidating, but still Tom was not going to let anything lessen the experience of this day. His mother nodded to a few others standing around, and as Tom looked up he was not sure if the smile on her face was of pride for him, or for her, but she squeezed his hand tightly all the same.

A loud bell sounded. Most of the kids stopped what they were doing and turned slowly and walked towards two large doors with the words School Entrance over the lintel. There were only a few kids who had not moved; most were with a grown up and stood unsure what to do next. Once all the kids had entered through the large school doors, there standing alone was a tall lady dressed in a black gown, holding a large clipboard.

She then, in a loud chip voice, started to call out names. One by one when kids heard their names they began to move toward her. On hearing his name, Tom let go of his mother’s hand but felt her still holding on. Puzzled, Tom looked up to see her mouth the words, Be good, before letting go.

Tom then moved to the group forming around the tall lady with the clipboard.

Eventually there were fifteen other kids standing around, looking upwards toward the tall lady dressed in black. Welcome to North Compton School. I am Miss Gull, the Headmistress of North Compton School. l run the school with a strict disciplinary regime. You had better get to know the school rules quickly, or retribution will follow on swift wings. Most kids looked puzzled