Out of the Shadows (Akira and Deane Thriller Series Book 1) (18 page)

‘I could almost feel him there
you know? Then Tom arrived. We spoke more about what happened more
than ever before. It’s not easy to talk about but I’m slowly
getting my head around what happened, even if it was years ago.
Just being in Oman has made me face aspects of it that I never
wanted to before. I know he cares for me, and me for him, that’s
all that really matters I guess.’

‘Tom will always be there for
you I’m sure.’ Carter gripped his friend’s shoulder and looked to
change the subject. ‘So Rach is ok then?’

A warm smile spread across
Olsen’s features at the mention of Rachel. In his heart he knew
instantly he wouldn’t have gotten through the Oman operation if he
she hadn’t been waiting for him at the very end. ‘Yeah, we’re
looking at having our wedding day around July or August time.’ He
couldn’t repress a smile as he handed a coffee to his friend.
‘Still got to think about the best man mind you…’

Carter took the mug and sipped
it slowly. He frowned and looked at it. ‘No milk. Ugh.’

‘There wasn’t any milk…’

Before Carter could answer, the
broad shoulders of Alex Jordan pushed through. ‘Coming through!
What does a guy have to do to get a drink around this place huh?’
Jordan, the S.U.C.O. deputy team leader, gave a confident grin to
his two colleagues and put his mug on the table. It read ‘World’s
Greatest Secret Agent.’ He caught the others looking at the
wording. ‘Like it huh? What can I say, it suits me right?’ The
42-year-old gave Olsen a nudge with his elbow. ‘I hear you almost
got the Prince killed in Oman Sam? I know you’re not a fan of the
monarchy but come on, you’re taking it a little far don’t you
think?’

‘Yeah…right. Anything happen
whilst I was away Alex?’

The green eyes of the older
agent gave a sterner look. ‘Nothing of interest. You worry too
much. Still, I hear we may be getting some action today mind you. I
for one wouldn’t mind, my trigger finger been getting kinda twitchy
of late.’

Olsen raised his eyebrows in
mock interest, and moved away. He had known Jordan for three years,
and would describe him as a trusted colleague, one that was
dedicated to the cause. It was just the level of dedication that
had always bothered him. At times, it had appeared that Jordan
enjoyed his work a little too much on occasion. Despite his
concerns, Olsen respected Jordan’s impressive MI6 record that
spanned two decades. There was no doubting his skill and
experience. ‘You heard something I haven’t?’

Jordan sat down in Olsen’s seat
and put his feet on a stack of files. ‘Nothing official. I just
heard that the powers at be are out to find those Kiprich brothers
you ran into. No doubt they’ll be asking us to sort it.’ A smug
grin came over his features. ‘You kids don’t need to concern
yourselves, you can stand aside, I could handle those two psychos
with one hand tied behind my back.’

Olsen exchanged a quick look
with Carter as he found another seat. A slight commotion caught his
attention ahead, as Richard Elliott, Chief of MI6 and back from
Europe, appeared. Both men stood up and greeted the Chief. ‘Good
morning sir.’

Jordan said nothing and stayed
sitting down.

Elliott, a living legend not
only amongst staff at MI6, MI5 and The Houses of Parliament, had
become an iconic figure with the public due to the several decades
he been in the public eye. Dressed in a stylish black suit, wearing
a white shirt, black bow tie, and a perfectly formed white
handkerchief in his chest pocket, Elliott stood slightly hunched
over and looked every inch of his 72-years. Several strands of
silver hair were all that were visible on his head, and his bushy
silver eyebrows sat above a fiery pair of blue eyes. Seconds passed
and Elliott’s steely glare didn’t budge from Jordan, who
eventually, got to his feet and bowed his head in respect.

As he paused at a nearby
terminal, Elliott gave a scowling look around the nerve centre of
MI6. Always giving off an air that nothing was good enough, and
everything could be better, the legend focussed his attention on
the nearby S.U.C.O. agents. ‘There have been many developments.’ He
spoke in his usual gruff and curt tone. ‘We have much to
discuss.’

Jordan passed Olsen and gave
him another toothy grin. ‘What did I tell ya?’

Olsen walked into briefing room
one and noted all other nine S.U.C.O. agents from teams Alpha and
Bravo, including Carter and Jordan, were in attendance. The other
teams of the elite force, Charlie, Delta, and Echo had been
assigned to the Middle East for months and were now on their way
home.

In the far corner, sitting
separately from the two squads were Burton and Ramsey, MI6 number
two. Olsen took his seat next to Carter and focussed on his
superior who started the briefing.

Elliott glanced at every face
in the room before starting. He slowly rose from his chair and
looked out at his elite team, all of which he respected, and
secretly cared for like a soft Granddad. In his advancing years, he
had lost count of just how many briefings he had given, and sadly
how many protectors, or rather knights as he called them, had been
lost in the line of duty. Though his appearance was becoming
frailer by the year, the steely blue eyes that had seen so much,
had lost none of its ferocity.

Elliott had joined MI6 at the
age of 22, in 1952, and had worked his way up, travelling the world
and living through so many operations. With each one completed, his
ability as a leader shone through, not to mention his dogged
determination and sheer refusal to be beaten. At 42, some twenty
years later, Elliott became the youngest Chief of MI6 and took
control. Experts at the time felt he led not only the agency but
the West itself, through the Cold War single handed. Work took its
toll and in 1993, at the age of 63, Elliott suffered his first
heart-attack and much to his disgust, was forced out of office from
his beloved MI6 and was cared for by his high school sweetheart,
and long suffering wife, Corina. As much as he hated being away
from World events, he was looked on as a sad and beaten figure by
the public, with sympathy none the less, but consigned to the
past.

When MI6 became leaderless once
more, Elliott, at 65, and in his mind fighting fit despite his
doctor’s reservations, took back the mantle he had been born to
hold. Some were cautious, others victorious, but for Elliott
himself, more determined than ever to carry on where he had left
off and be useful again.

Elliott scowled at his agents
and gave himself a mental pat on the back for getting through
another day that according to most in the medical field, should not
have been possible for him.

His voice was
its usual gruff self and he projected it with authority making
everyone take notice and listen hard. ‘As you know…an attack took
place in Oman on Saturday. Thank the heavens, the Royal party’s
essential personnel survived unscathed.’ He stepped forward and
twisted his face in defiance as if it would help in some way to
prevent the atrocity from happening again. ‘This is the first time
any terrorist faction has directly attacked not only one of our
Embassies but our monarchy as well. Myself and senior personnel
spent all of yesterday with key Government officials.’ Elliott
paused and raised his silver eyebrows as he finished. ‘And now…we
fight back.’

The Chief of MI6 moved away
from the big screen and gave a nod to the technician who sat at the
back of the briefing room. The screen flickered to life and
displayed two photographs.

Elliott
continued. ‘The Kiprich brothers. Gyorgy and Jozef. The latter is
the stronger of the two, far more dominant in proceedings. Our
intelligence from GCHQ (Government Communications HQ, Cheltenham)
has indicated they have settled in Poland for the time being. After
Oman, they moved through The United Arab Emirates and then to
Kraków, Poland.’ He handed folders to Jordan and Olsen. Both files
had the words ‘CONFIDENTIAL’ written across them in heavy red type.
‘Operation Reprisal. The Kiprich brothers have crossed a line and
they must be dealt with. A termination order has been given.’ For
the first time that day a warm smile came over him and sense of
pride took hold of his very soul. ‘I should tell you that the
C.I.A. wanted to take control of this but it’s with great pride
that teams Alpha and Bravo of S.U.C.O. have the honour.’ He caught
the attention of the two senior agents, Olsen and Jordan. ‘Begin
preparing your teams. Our agent in Poland, POL1, has a fix on them
and will act as your contact point for this operation.’’ He studied
every individual carefully and knew in his heart that they would be
successful. ‘I know you won’t let me down.’

In the front row, Olsen saw the
pride in Elliott’s eyes and felt so honoured to be taking S.U.C.O.
into battle and lead such a talented and powerful group of agents.
At the same time though, it was time to do what he hated the most;
tell Rachel he was going away. In the past it had always been
difficult to say the least, and Olsen had come away time and again,
feeling so guilty. Rachel deserved better and each time he did it,
the worse it seemed to be.

As the agents dispersed from
the briefing room, Olsen reached for his phone and called Rachel’s
mobile no, hoping she would be available for a light lunch.

A cold wind
swirled through the light blonde hair of POL1, otherwise known as
Agent Martin Bedford. He adjusted the scarf around his neck and
pulled down on his dark brown baseball cap as he stepped onto a
number 208 bus at Balice airport, seven miles west of the city of
Cracow. Bedford paid his fare and gave a sweeping glance to all the
passengers of the bus. His eyes locked onto the now bearded face of
Jozef, but only for an instant, as he took a seat not far away. As
the scenery passed by his window, he remembered his briefing from
his superior in Warsaw, the nation’s capital. Several words stood
out in his mind.
Keep a respectable
distance and report daily on the movements of the Kiprich
brothers.
Bedford found his newspaper from
his jacket pocket and began to scan the headlines.

At the back of
the bus, a cold set of blue eyes continued to be locked onto
Bedford, and were watching every look, and movement closely. They
belonged to Zoltan Ferec who was a trusted ally of close friend
Jozef. Ferec was suspicious of everyone on the bus but his
instincts had focussed onto a particular individual who was slowly
being marked a threat in his mind. Since their arrival in Poland,
he was convinced he had seen the man several times before. Ferec
was experienced and in astonishing physical shape for his age
considering he was now just a few years away from forty. He was 6ft
tall with dark blonde hair. His piercing blue eyes studied the
target carefully. Two words continued to circle in his head;
Government agent.
Ferec
remembered his friend’s last operation, the attack on the Royal
family and UK Embassy in Oman. He wondered whether the agent was
from MI6 and recalled his previous contact with them. Ferec had
encountered MI6 agents several times before, and had yet to be
seriously challenged, though he had never encountered a S.U.C.O.
agent. The others were well trained, but they had never posed a
serious threat to him, and had been easy to dispose of in the
past.

The bus came to a halt outside
the City hall tower, in the main market square, the largest in
Europe. Bedford disembarked the bus and kept Jozef in his
sights.

All around, the most beautiful
sights of Cracow could be seen. The market square was seething with
life. Many café tables filled most of the area, with a host of
shops, antique dealers, restaurants, bars, and clubs surrounding
the main sights.

Bedford had been in the square
many times before and kept his vision locked on his target. He
wandered over to a small shop, and picked up a piece of jewellery
from a nearby stand. The attractive looking bronze piece was held
to the light, whilst his eyes kept watch on Jozef, who began to
move away from the departing bus, and merge with the crowds.
Bedford replaced the piece of jewellery straight away and set off
in pursuit.

Ferec had been
watching all of this and began to walk behind a young couple,
whilst keeping the possible Government agent in his sights just
ahead. There was no doubt in his mind now that the target following
his close friend was some form of threat. Ferec continued to make
his way through the busy market square, and was suddenly presented
with a camera thrust in his face. A nearby couple asked in perfect
English to take a photograph of them. Ferec pushed the camera away
and shoved the tourist, who almost fell to the ground. He began to
jog slightly as his target disappeared from view, but then relaxed
at the sign of the baseball-capped man, who was still following
Jozef. Passing the small church of St Wojciech, which appeared lost
compared to all the other more impressive buildings, he followed
the target that had just entered the Church of St. Mary.

The imposing structure of St
Mary’s church dominated the right hand side of the main market
square. It had stood for centuries as a symbol of Polish
architecture and couldn’t be missed; the beautiful design caught
the attention of every passing tourist and local.

The historic church made no
impact on the assassin Ferec who walked through the main entrance,
and passed the large ten-foot tall wooden doors. His eyes gave a
sweeping glance of the inside, and noted a few people around who
were all focussed on the impressive stained glass windows and other
attractions. Ferec took out his pistol from his jacket, concealed
it in his pocket, and approached the target that was lingering at a
nearby staircase, whilst still watching Jozef. Slinking into the
shadows, he slowly passed one pillar at a time and drew nearer to
his target that showed no sign of detecting his presence. The
instincts of a predator took over his body and mind, as a feeling
of complete control swept through him. He moved the pistol behind
his back and cocked the weapon slowly, whilst passing another two
pillars. Ferec, a ruthless killer, struggled to stop himself from
breaking out with a large smile as he stopped only a handful of
steps away.