Defying the Odds: The Oddball Odyssey, #6

By Graham Hamer

Oddball receives an envelope containing a USB key and a brief note addressed to 'David' and signed 'Uncle Stan'. Few people know Oddball's real name but, more to the point, he knows nobody called Uncle Stan. It will be a few days before he discovers that he does, indeed, have a relative of that name. Unfortunately, Stan has already fallen foul of the London mob and the contents of the USB key don't make any sense.

 

While investigating, Oddball comes across Jade, another relative he has never met. Sassy, tough, determined and a born fighter, Jade is not going to let go of the fact that her family has been murdered. In search of the missing USB, the mob targets her. Bad choice. Jade is well capable of looking after herself. But the Albanian mob is more than just a couple of lone operatives.

 

Head of the mob is Kreshnik Bushati. A heavy-bodied, power-hungry thug who has cut more throats and broken more heads than Genghis Khan and Attila the Hun combined. Nobody crosses his path and lives to boast about it. Oddball and Jade soon realise that to defeat him and bring him to justice – their own brand of justice – will take cunning and the backup of Oddball's team from N2K. They are well blessed with both.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Graham Hamer
• Release date: May 11, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224210008

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Oddball tutted as he pushed open the door and stepped into his home in central London. A brown envelope lay on the floor in the entrance hall. Brown envelopes generally spelt trouble. He bent to pick it up then strode into the downstairs bedroom and keyed in the code to disarm his security system. As he shut the front door behind him, he glanced at the envelope with deepening suspicion, turning it over in his hands to examine the back. There was nothing written on the outside but he could feel something bulky inside. It wasn’t big, but it was more than just a letter. Years of caution and training told him to open with care. As he walked along the hall to his kitchen, he sniffed the envelope and looked for grease marks. Many explosives emitted a plum or almond smell. And grease marks or greasy fingerprint smudges were a sure sign to take precautions. Some explosives were oily by nature.

After sitting at the kitchen table, Oddball picked a thin, pointed chef’s knife from a drawer behind him and eased it with great care under the two ends of the sealed flap, one at a time. He turned his head and lowered it to the table top to peer inside. He was looking for wires or metal foil that could act as an electrical conductor. If he tore the letter open and broke a circuit, all sorts of nasty things could happen. The paper seal seemed quite normal and mundane. Satisfied that the envelope was clean he leaned back in the chair and tried to second guess its contents. First of all very few people knew where he lived. Even fewer knew what he did for a living. It wasn’t junk mail because his name and address were defined in clear, cursive handwriting on the envelope, typical of a sender who was precise and well-organised.

With a sigh, he reached out and, using the same knife, slit open the puzzling envelope. Nothing bad happened. No explosion. No cloud of anthrax dust. Just a small black computer thumb drive and a piece of paper the size of a large business card. He flipped over the paper and read, ‘David, Please take care of this USB key. If something bad happens to me, you may find the contents relevant.’ It was signed ‘Uncle Stan’.

Who the hell is Uncle Stan? Oddball muttered to himself. He puzzled for a moment. A small handful of close friends knew his real name was Dave Odell and that he was raised in Norwich. But nobody - not anybody - knew him as David. He’d been Dave from the moment he could talk and he’d been ‘re-christened’ Oddball when he had joined the army. That was over thirty years ago, when he was just seventeen. Nowadays, when working undercover, he often used aliases like Mikkjáll Oddsson, and all of his colleagues at the agency were aware of that. But nobody ever used David. Not ever.

He plucked at his lip and eyed the mysterious thumb drive with deepening suspicion. His first instinct was to push it into his home laptop and see what was on it. But years of caution told him that was a reckless reaction. No end of bad things could happen if you opened files whose origins were unknown. He pulled his phone from his pocket and scrolled to a well-used number.

After two rings a woman’s voice answered, What’s up, Odd One? You missing me already?

You know I always miss you when we’re apart, Harry.

She laughed. Okay, bullshit wins. What is it you need?

Someone’s sent me a USB key. I’ve no idea who it is or what’s on the thumb drive. But I don’t want to try opening it without some sort of precaution against viruses or whatever. Can I bring it over?

Harry chuckled, What am I Oddball?

He laughed. You are a tumescent tsunami beyond all human understanding, my sweet princess. You travel forbidden highways with no effort. I bow down to your binary bravery and digital dexterity.

So glad you recognise my skill set. I’m at Saxon’s so it’ll cost you pizzas. You want us to order you one too?

Oddball snorted. Why do I find that my hand is forever in my wallet with you, Harry?

I never sell myself cheap, Oddball. Pizzas or nothing.

Right, get them ordered. Chorizo for me. No doubt Saxon will have some vegetable combination, and you’ll have one laden with every comestible concoction possible.

You’re learning, Harry said. See you in about twenty minutes or so.

Oddball cut the call and pocketed the thumb drive. He picked up the envelope and made his way back to his entrance door, still puzzled by the ‘Uncle Stan’ reference. His work as a leading agent in Britain’s most secret security agency made him suspicious of anything out of the ordinary and, right now, his caution flags were flapping in a hurricane of vigilance. Oddball had just turned fifty, though he appeared ten years younger. He’d spent most of his adult life in dangerous situations, and he’d only made it to the age he was by minimising known risks. Standing tall and upright, his movements were economical, like oil finding its way down a gentle slope. But his reactions were fast, slick and efficient when needed. Many had learnt to their cost not to misjudge him. He was an effective, intelligent, agent. One of the elite. In fact he probably defined the term.

Twenty minutes later, Oddball stood outside an old period house in Cumberland Gardens. With its fancy brickwork, detailed nooks, and intricate carved corbels, the house wore a hundred-and-fifty years of history like a grand Victorian lady in an embroidered robe. Oddball had been here many times before. The building was divided into two good-sized apartments. He made his way into the shared outer lobby and rang the bell of the ground floor apartment. When he heard a click, he looked up and winked at the security camera. Are you alone? a voice asked.

Nope, I’ve got a herd of wildebeest chasing me. If ever he said he was alone, the occupant would know that he wasn’t, and that there was an unseen threat to be dealt with. After a couple of seconds, a young woman opened the door to him - early thirties, dressed in a tight jumper and figure-hugging leggings with some kind of wild floral pattern. She had a certain refinement but was happy to understate it. Her hair was chestnut coloured and gathered in a loose bun at the back of her head. Hi, Saxon, where have you hidden Harry?

She’s having a ‘quality moment’ in the bathroom. You might want to give it a minute.

Oddball laughed. Too much information.

Well you did ask. Come on in. Saxon supervised a team of almost one hundred data analysts at the government agency where they both worked. She was also a trained operative and a qualified psychologist. She had piercing, intelligent eyes above soft cheek bones. Her full lips wore a delicate pink lipstick, which seemed accentuated her gentle skin tone. Her heart-shaped face was beset with a smile.

As Oddball closed the door behind him, he took in the long living room and dining area. As usual, the apartment was tidy but lived in. Cushions were spread across the settee. Not organised or placed, just scattered at random. There were real Tiffany stained-glass lamps on little antique tables at either end of the couch, and a large oriental rug about two inches thick covered the polished oak floor in front of the settee. Despite its size, the room was intimate and unassuming, setting its visitor at ease. Did you order the pizzas? he asked.

With Hungry Harriet bleating for food, what do you think? They should be here any moment.

As she spoke, a door at the side of the lounge opened and Harry Lewis stepped into the room. She was a similar age to Saxon - early thirties. A little shorter than average and a little fuller than a glamour model, her face contained more character than beauty. But Harry had a well-proportioned figure which, according to Saxon, benefited from a bubble butt to die for. When she shook loose her coils of caramel-coloured hair, it contrasted in a perfect fusion of colour with her ivory swan’s neck. A light sprinkling of freckles covered her nose when she was without makeup. Hi Odd One, she said, adding a smile for good measure. The pair exchanged air kisses as Harry asked. So what’s this thumb drive you’re on about? Give us the low down.

Oddball drew a deep breath. Okay, Harry, since you’re forever hacking the HR database just to wind them up, you know more about the people who work for N2K than anybody. So, what’s my name?

Harry laughed. Why? Have you forgotten?

Assume I have. Assume I’m the victim of a sudden onset of senile dementia.

Ah well, that shouldn’t be too difficult then since dementia is only just round the corner for an old fart like you. Your birth certificate shows you as being David Odell. No middle name.

And how many people know me as David?

Well no-one. At least not so far as I know. The handful of us who know your real name would just use Dave, I guess.

Exactly. So why do you think someone pushed this through my letter box?

He passed Harry the envelope and the small note. Harry read aloud, David, please take care of this USB key. If something bad happens to me, you may find the contents relevant. Uncle Stan. She looked up. So who’s Uncle Stan then?

Oddball shrugged. That’s the second problem, Harry. I have no idea. He held up the USB key. But this was also in the envelope.

Harry looked up at the ceiling. A sure sign she was searching her prodigious memory, like looking through a well-ordered cupboard. Oddball and Saxon exchanged a quick look as they left her to work it out. Harry Lewis was as crazy as a soup sandwich, blunt as a plastic spoon, sharp as a box full of knives, but loyal to a fault. When it came to digital shenanigans nobody could match her. In fact, nobody was even on the same planet as her. That would be like comparing some local boy racer with Lewis Hamilton. She loved computers - had done since her childhood. She could talk to them and identify with them. Interacting with humans was a different kettle of fish altogether. Few people qualified as trusted friends.

Oddball and Saxon were both aware of her astounding memory. Years earlier, a mutual friend had told Oddball that Harry had hyperthymesia, a condition where people possess a very detailed autobiographical memory. But Oddball had soon revised that estimate, since hers went well beyond that. She didn’t just recall autobiographical memories, she could read a magazine article or a newspaper column, commit it to memory, and quote it back word-perfect years later. That went way past hyperthymesia and way past eidetic. It was somewhere off the scale. When he’d asked her about it, Harry had said, I only remember stuff I think I may need. If I’m just having a casual read, I don’t bother remembering it. If I’m reading something I might need later, I commit it to memory as I read. It’s no effort. It’s like flipping a little mental switch.

Right now, Harry was searching Oddball’s human resource records for any reference to an ‘Uncle Stan’. After a moment, she looked straight at him and shook her head. According to the records, you don’t have an uncle, never mind one called Stan. You don’t suppose they shoved the envelope through the wrong letter box by mistake, do you?"

It’s a thought, Oddball said, as the door bell sounded. But it has my name on the envelope.

Saxon made her way to the entrance, checked the security camera, and peered through the peephole. She had once taken a bullet in the abdomen when Harry had unwittingly opened the door without checking. Are you on your own? she demanded.

The delivery driver looked around until he spotted the intercom. Then he looked behind him. Er, my boss told me to say no if I was on my own and yes if there was somebody close by.

So? Are you on your own then? Saxon asked again.

He looked around again at the empty entrance hall. Er, no. There’s somebody else here with me.

Saxon opened the door, aware that Oddball stood behind her with his service pistol drawn.

So, what’s all that about? the man asked, passing Saxon the three pizza boxes. I’m new so I haven’t worked it out.

Just a game we play with the shop owner. Saxon looked round at Oddball, who had replaced his hidden pistol. You’re paying, I gather.

Oddball chuckled. That was the deal. He pulled some notes from his pocket and offered them to the delivery driver. Thanks, mate. Good service. As he made to close the door, the man looked at the cash in his hand and said, Hang on, that’s way too much.

Don’t think so, Oddball said with a wink. Looks just right to me. Don’t forget to share it with the guy standing next to you though.

The driver looked around before he caught on. Oh, yes, right. Sure I will. He scratched his head. Blimey, Gov, I’ll bring more invisible people with me next time for that sort of tip.

As the door closed, Saxon thumped his shoulder but chuckled. You are an utter bastard, Oddball. Now that poor bugger will expect some sort of huge tip every time he comes here. He’s going to find me a lot less generous than you.

CHAPTER TWO

Stan Irving’s gaze turned from the pavement up to the big, open sky as the sun began its early evening descent over The Gherkin - one of London's best-known examples of contemporary architecture. Standing 180 metres tall, it was constructed on the site of the former Baltic Exchange, which was damaged beyond repair in 1992 by a bomb planted by the Provisional IRA.

His weary legs, hampered by his arthritic hip, hauled Stan and his briefcase of papers up the path to his neat terraced house. He smiled to himself as the bright red front door caught his eye. The new paint was less than a week old, so he still hadn’t quite got used to its startling colour. Stan’s wife, Doreen, had told him that she was going to allow their thirty-one-year-old autistic son, Tommy, to choose the colour and repaint the door. With her supervision and guidance, of course. And the young man hadn’t made a bad job of it. To Tommy, in his limited world, it was a lifetime achievement that he talked about every evening when his father arrived home.

Half a dozen more steps, and his wife would greet him at the threshold - her smiling face, the highlight of his day. The front door swung open. Hey, sweetheart. Doreen stood on her toes and pecked him on the cheek, wiping the palms of her hands on her paint-splattered jeans. She’d worn old work clothes because Tommy had decided he’d like to paint the back door too - the same bright red as the front. How was your day? she asked. No, hang on, let me guess - long and hard?

You have no idea. Stan said. I’m getting too old for this routine, love. He wiped his feet on the mat and shut the door behind him. Dropping his briefcase on the floor he kicked off his shoes and shrugged out of his jacket. He shuffled past the coat rack to his favourite chair in the lounge. Doreen’s slippers were silent as she glided towards him. Front door still looks good, he said with a wide smile.

And Tommy’s still talking about it, she replied. Wait till you see the back door. Oh, and Jay called—

Says she can’t wait to see my door, Tommy called from the doorway. He appeared in the lounge clutching a thick sandwich. Tommy’s appetite matched his size. She said she’ll be here for dinner tomorrow. Going to stay the whole night.

The young man’s infectious personality always made Stan smile. That’s good Tommy, but eat your sandwich at the kitchen table, will you, son? Otherwise you’ll leave crumbs behind and your mum will have to clear them up.

Tommy nodded in his usual good-natured way, and headed back where he had come from. He knew that he needed a clear set of rules, otherwise he could get very confused. He did his best to remember, but his parents never got angry with him even when he forgot.

Doreen’s tiny fingers kneaded Stan’s shoulders. His eyes slid closed as he melted into the upholstery. He didn’t deserve this woman. God, you don’t know how good that feels. His eyes darted towards the kitchen and he lowered his voice. I won’t have a job to go to much longer.

Doreen’s hands fell still. You did it?

His head bobbed.

When do you leave?

At the end of the month. He removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. I’m sixty-eight, love, and my mind isn’t as sharp as it used to be. Eight hours at work feels more like eighteen nowadays. But I’ll give them time to find a replacement before I leave.

Well, I think that’s cause for celebration, Doreen said. We don’t owe anything on the house, we’ve got a little bit put by in the savings account, and we’ll be able to manage on our pensions okay. She chuckled. Even with that young man’s appetite. Doreen was always the level-headed pragmatist. She pecked the top of his head. And talking of appetite, shall we go out for dinner to celebrate?

Stan pressed his lips against her hand on his shoulder. Maybe a takeout, love. Don’t feel up to going anywhere.

I’ll call it in. What do you want?

Whatever Tommy wants.

Chinese with crispy duck it is then, Doreen said. She paused a beat. I just realised something, Stan. I don’t think you’ve chosen your own dinner since we met over forty years ago.

He hadn’t. And he didn’t mind one bit. Doreen placed the remote in his hand and Stan flipped to the news. War in Sudan. A mass shooting in Alabama. Some rap singer dead from an overdose. What the hell? Same old. Same old. But at least he was home with the family he loved. His eyes grew heavy and the sound of the television faded into the background.

Stan jerked awake at the chime of the doorbell. That must be the food delivery, he called out. He eased himself upright just as Tommy came bounding down the stairs.

Dad, where’s your wallet?

In my coat pocket, hanging on the hall stand. You remember how to do it?

Yes, no problem.

But Stan stood up and followed him anyway. Money was too hard-earned to allow some unscrupulous delivery driver to rip off his innocent son. He watched as Tommy snatched up his wallet and made a mad dash to the door, ready to flatten anything between him and his crispy duck dinner.

As the young man pulled the door open, a sharp crack split the air. Then another. Stan’s eyes shot to the entrance. His son hunched over, clutching his middle. Masked men bustled into the doorway and pushed him backwards. Tommy’s body crumpled. Stan made towards him, seeing the gun turn from Tommy to him. Two more cracks ripped open his chest, slamming him against the wall. He forced himself away from the wall, took two wobbly steps, and tumbled onto the floor like a wounded stag. A three-man squad invaded his house. Elbows digging into the carpet, Stan dragged his failing body forwards, desperate to reach his son, who was lying in a spreading halo of crimson. Tommy, he sputtered, hand stretching toward the young man.

Doreen’s footsteps pattered from the kitchen. No!

Stan rolled to his side. Red droplets splattered under her feet as she crossed his river of blood, kitchen knife swinging towards the intruders.

Run— A choking mixture of salt and iron bubbled in Stan’s throat. More shots sounded and, before his eyes closed for the last time, he saw a cardinal stain bloom on his wife’s white T-shirt, matching the smudges of paint from her earlier work with Tommy. The knife she had been clutching bounced on the floor as she collapsed. The last bullet had gone straight through her heart.

CHAPTER THREE

Harry wiped her mouth on a paper napkin and groaned. Bugger, that was good.

Oddball and Saxon eyed each other and said nothing. Harry’s appetite was legend, particularly when it came to pizza loaded with everything.

So you’ve got a USB key from an uncle that you don’t have, and you’re suspicious, Saxon said, summarising Oddball’s dilemma.

Wouldn’t you be?

Of course. And you want our digital goddess here to open it and see what it contains without exploding any viruses or other malware?.

Oddball nodded. I have the utmost faith in our friend and colleague. He looked at Harry. But take care, Harry. Don’t go compromising your own laptop. We’ve no idea what’s on that thing.

Harry chortled. Bugger off, Oddball. When have you ever known me to make a mistake? No, don’t reply to that. We all know the answer. She took a final swig of her Cobra beer. Stealth and safety, Odd One, are all about keeping out of sight and knowing where the foxes are. I guess I’m like a digital ferret in pursuit of a digital rabbit, playing hide-and-seek in a digital warren.

But if the fox is waiting for you and the rabbit warren is booby-trapped?

Harry sighed in the most dramatic fashion she could muster - like a school teacher explaining a simple concept to her pupils for the third time. Imagine I’m on a pogo stick in a minefield. Because the pogo stick has a much smaller footprint that a tank track, the chances of me landing on a mine are far less. I’m more like a pogo stick than a tank track because my pareidolia senses seem to be well developed.

Pareidolia?

It’s a psychological phenomenon that causes people to see patterns in a random stimulus, Saxon answered.

I see patterns in network traffic and in rows of programming, Harry explained. "I can read programming language the same way I read a book, so I usually see a trap before I even get to it. For that reason, my pogo stick lands on very few mines anyway. And if it does, my software will, at speeds approaching the speed of light, trigger a burn prompt function. All trace of me disappears, destroyed from sight, record, and forensic discovery. It takes just milliseconds for me to