Out of the Shadows (Akira and Deane Thriller Series Book 1) (11 page)

At the sound of
any trouble, Burton looked up sharply. ‘What sort of comebacks?
Like I said, this is a one off. You gotta protect me, Harry, I’m
doing this to provide a future for my family.’

‘Listen, Hal,
I’d like to help you mate but it’s tricky. I can try to protect you
but some of ’em want names on the sources. They’re not the type of
people you say no to ok? Are you sure you want to do
this?’

Burton paused
for a moment and downed the third and final drink. Deep down a
voice was screaming at him that it was the wrong move. He knew
there was a good chance the likes of Olsen or Deane could be killed
by the decision he was about to make. The reality of that fact made
him feel sick to the core. At the same time, the image of his wife
at home, and little Oscar looking up at his Dad from his cot took
hold of his thoughts.
What’s more
important, work or family?

Years ago,
Burton knew the answer would have always been work. In recent times
things had changed for him, his family was everything now; the
thought of being alone again didn’t warrant thinking about. His
glazed eyes looked up at his shifty looking friend who was leaning
against the wall. ‘Do it Harry, get as much cash as you can for me,
ok?’ As Harry moved off, Burton grabbed his trench coat. ‘Just try
and protect me.’

‘Yeah ok mate,
I’ll do my best. Let me just pop outside and make a call, ok? You
wait here, I’ll be back in a sec.’ Harry found his mobile phone,
stepped out of the pub and walked down a secluded alleyway nearby.
He dialled a number and waited. ‘Yeah, it’s me. Listen, I got
something that might be of use. You know the Royal visit? Well I
can get access to the schedule for the right price, you know? I’m
not talking the times of lunch and dinner; I’m talking the works.
The security layouts, locations, times, the whole thing.’ Harry
looked around briefly as he listened to the response. ‘Really?
These guys want the whole lot? Sounds good to me. Yeah, that’s
fine, just wire me the money and I’ll sort out my fee and stuff.
Huh? Well it’s kind of a private source if you know what I mean.
Can’t you get around it? I don’t want to see this guy in trouble.
Ok, ok, give me my usual extras and it’ll have to do.’ He looked
around again, this time in the direction of the pub. ‘His name is
Hal Burton. The guy works for MI6, got access to all sorts of info.
That’s it, wire me the money either today or tomorrow ok mate?
Cheers.’

Back in the
pub, at the far end, Burton could be seen drinking what must be his
sixth or seventh drink. Harry slapped Burton’s shoulder and sat
back down. ‘Good news, mate, really good news. I’ve found a buyer
already. Great money, too. You want another drink to
celebrate?’

Burton put the empty glass back
on the table. ‘I don’t normally drink this much, must be the stress
or something.’ He mumbled. His senses became alert as he looked at
his friend. ‘Hold on, did you say good news? How much?’

Harry smiled a toothy grin and
lit another cigarette. ‘It’s a good deal mate. One hundred and
fifty thousand quid! Minus my fee, would normally be an even
hundred grand but seeing as it’s you, I’ll make it up to one
fifteen ok? Congratulations mate, you’re out of trouble!’

Burton breathed
a sigh of relief.
I am out of
trouble!
‘Uh…oh that’s so good, god, I
never thought I’d get out of this one. I owe you one big time,
Harry.’

‘Well I gotta
go, the money will come in either end of today or tomorrow. A
couple of days at the very latest,. I’ll be in touch yeah?’ He
placed a hand on Burton’s shoulder. ‘Nice doing business with you,
mate.’

Burton stopped
his friend from moving away. ‘Listen mate, did you manage to
protect me? No names, right?’

Just for a
moment, Harry furrowed his brow, not entirely sure what to say.
Then, an air of confidence came over him as he smiled down at the
half drunk Burton. ‘No names, mate. You’re in the clear. It’s gonna
be fine, yeah. I’ll see ya.’

Burton, who had
worked for MI6 for nearly three decades, watched his friend leave
and dropped his head in his hands.
What
have I done? You’ve saved your family, that’s what!
His entire body was on an adrenaline high,
together with feelings of guilt and pure joy that threatened to eat
away at him at any moment. For one moment, he appeared to leave the
pub and find himself in Oman, with the sun beating down on his
sweaty face. In front of him were the likes of Deane, Olsen, and
Prince David under attack from a large group of masked attackers.
They were outnumbered. As one agent fell, he found himself
screaming out in anger, wanting to stop it, join in and do what he
had always done, make a difference. However, it was too late, the
damage had been done, there was no going back, he was no longer on
the same side.

Burton woke up,
slumped on the table in the Moon and Shine pub, his whole body in a
cold sweat. His breathing erratic, several other people were
staring at him from the other tables. The father of one pulled
himself together, wiped his face with his jacket sleeve and
stumbled out of the pub, barely able to walk straight. He found his
wallet in his trouser pocket, opened it, and saw the family picture
of him with Kate and little Oscar, in happier times. The image
staring back hardly looked like him but Burton was focussing on his
wife and son. With the guilt beginning to take hold, he cleared his
mind and knew he had done the right thing. His family would stay
with him forever. They would never leave. He was free to rebuild
his life and be with his loved ones.

Chapter 8

Sunday, March 4
^th
07:00,

Muscat (Capital City), Oman, Middle
East.

Olsen ran a hand through his short dark
brown hair and continued to walk through a hectic Seeb
International airport. Wearing sand coloured trousers, a sky blue
shirt and light brown jacket, Olsen still felt hot. With every
step, his stomach turned and his body felt increasingly
uncomfortable. Never had he imagined himself stepping foot in Oman.
His mind was a frenzy of memories concerning his father. The heat
took his mind off the ordeal for a moment; it had hit home the
moment he had disembarked from the comfortable air conditioning of
the aircraft. Using a magazine as a fan, Olsen looked around for a
taxi. At the exit, several cars passed him but none of the orange
and white colour of a taxi. Moments later, one appeared, just
turning into the airport area. Although English was spoken in
Muscat, Olsen had already decided to use his Arabic to the full on
this assignment.

As the car came closer, he
looked out for the orange medallion painted on the bonnet and doors
of the vehicle. It would provide information as to its destination
and home region.

Olsen called
out to raise the taxi. ‘Ajara!’ As the car pulled over, he got into
the back and informed the driver he would be paying for all four
seats, making it a private taxi, as he was not wanting any
company.

Throughout the
country of Oman, no rail network had ever existed. Instead, a
complex structure of long distance taxis and Microbuses were in
operation, taking customers to their destinations, often together
rather than alone.

Olsen leaned
forward and told the driver he wanted to go to the UK Embassy. The
driver seemed confused as to where it was, so he responded with the
street name. ‘Al Khuwair na’am?’ The driver smiled, with a quick
inspective look as he returned to the wheel. Olsen fluffed his
shirt and pulled down the window, allowing some much needed air
into the cab. He sat back and studied his surroundings, wondering
whether Geoff Olsen had ever taken a taxi along the same
road.

Oman had once
been known as the hermit of the Middle-Eastern region. In recent
times, large efforts had been made to build up a tourist
infrastructure to show off its narrow coastal plain, together with
its beautiful ranges of mountains and hills. Sultan Qaboos bin
Said, who deposed his father in 1970, had made great strides to
allow Western influences to penetrate his country since being
appointed by the governing cabinet. With a population of over 2
million people, Oman was now a member of the UN, with Matrah
becoming one of the leading ports in the Middle Eastern
state.

Olsen picked up
a stray newspaper from the back seat and began to read the Arabic
printed from right to left, on the front page. The news that
temperatures had broken over thirty degrees Celsius didn’t please
him. In his eight years of service as a Government agent, working
in the heat had never pleased him, only adding to the woes and
stresses of whichever assignment he was working on.

The taxi slowed
down to a halt as streams of traffic flowed out of a road ahead
despite it being Saturday, the weekend in Oman had always fallen on
Thursday and Friday. Other days were opportunities for taxi drivers
especially, to boost their income.

The car moved
onto one of the main, tarmac roads and followed the stream of
traffic into the Muscat capital. Several small, rocky mountains
passed by in the distance, as the cloud free blue sky continued to
look down from every vantage point.

Olsen turned
his head slightly to catch sight of some of the coastline. A small
stretch of a beautiful white, sandy beach caught his eye, looking
untouched in the early morning sunshine. As the taxi came into
Muscat, it slowed to walking pace as it progressed through the
tight and winding streets. Taking in a deep breath, he made a
decision and told the driver to let him out here. ‘Ogaf hina, law
samaHt!’ Olsen fumbled for some notes in his pocket and paid the
driver with close to six thousand baiza. The taxi driver smiled a
toothy grin, kissed the money and stuffed it in his
jacket.

Outside the
cab, Olsen looked at his surroundings and focused on the faces of
the people around him, half expecting his father to be among them.
He shook his head and carried on walking through the busy street,
passing several shops and stalls. The market place was electrifying
in its atmosphere, even at such an early time. Large stalls selling
fish, fresh fruit and vegetables caught his eye, with vibrant
colours standing out wherever he looked. Near the end of the
market, several shops were selling stacks of gold jewellery, from
bangles to dazzling gold daggers.

One elderly
Omani eyed him up and down closely. He was sitting next to his
stall, which was stacked high with carefully crafted copper pots
and smaller sized pottery. Wearing a dishdasha, a traditional men’s
shirtdress, his eyes refused to leave Olsen, who looked away and
walked down a path which would lead to Al Khuwair
Street.

At the bottom
of the side road, Olsen took a long look at the surrounding area.
Not far in the distance, the UK Embassy could be seen, its Union
Jack flag flying proudly in the distance. The US Embassy, Oman
museum and a hotel could also be seen in the same street. Olsen
looked to his left and eyed up several cramped looking flats built
closely together. A glimmer of sunlight caught his attention from
the roof of the third flat along. With a deep breath, he approached
it and walked through the empty front door, placing his bag on a
chair near the stairs. At the top of the stairwell, he climbed a
ladder and stepped onto the roof of the dusty looking flat. Olsen
could feel his hands shaking, together with his heart beating
rapidly as he saw who was ahead of him.

Near the roof’s
edge, 42-year-old Thomas Deane was knelt down and scanning the area
near the UK Embassy. Deane was tanned, slightly taller than Olsen
and with a far more muscular build. His black hair, with a tinge of
grey at the temples, rustled in the gentle wind, his cream coloured
shirt showing no signs of perspiration. He continued to look
through the binoculars without giving any indication of his
partner’s presence. ‘I was wondering when you’d get
here.’

Olsen wiped the sweat from his
brow and sighed as quietly as he could. ‘Is that all you have to
say to me?’

Deane continued looking through
the binoculars and said nothing.

Olsen could
feel the vibe from his partner and knew him so well. It was obvious
he didn’t want to talk, but then Deane never wanted to talk about
anything other than work. He was a driven man, almost obsessed. ‘I
read everything there is to know about Operation ESPY. I know the
truth.’

Deane finally lowered the
binoculars and turned around. His dark blue eyes inspected his
partner of eight years carefully. ‘It must be obvious then, as to
why we never told you.’

Olsen had
expected his temper to be boiling away but instead just felt
vulnerable and let down. ‘Who’s we?’

‘Your mother
and I discussed it and, with you showing an interest in joining
MI6, we felt it best to tell you our version of the truth.’ Deane
stepped closer and put more emphasis on his words. ‘I wanted you to
work with me in the future and if you had known I’d been with your
father, you would never have let that happen. You shouldn’t blame
your mother over this, it was my suggestion.’

Olsen stepped
back and raised his hands, feeling the full brunt of his emotions
for the first time. ‘Do you have any idea what it felt like to read
that operation file? To find out the truth that way? You should
have trusted me!’

Deane lowered his gaze for only
a moment but then made eye contact again. ‘I won’t disagree. I
should have told you, but the longer we worked together, the harder
it became. I never wanted you to find out like that. Never. Our
relationship has never been like others, we don’t always need
words.’