I, Adventurer Read online

I, Adventurer

  By Anthony North

  Copyright Anthony North 2013

  Cover image copyright, Yvonne North 2013

  Other books by Anthony North

  I, TRILOGY INTRODUCTORY VOLUME

  I, STORYTELLER SERIES

  I, POET SERIES

  Inmate Earth: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/237329

  Bard Stuff: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/252874

  Mind Burps: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/272508

  Verse Fest: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/302837

  I, THINKER SERIES

  I, Paranormal: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/237339

  I, Essayist: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/259928

  I, Society: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/272861

  I, Unexplained: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/303478

  I, Observer: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/304480

  CONTENTS

  Introduction

  The Force

  Where Are They?

  Tony Brand - Plugging the Hole

  Tony Brand - Ghost From the Past

  Tony Brand - Silence Is Golden

  The Need to Know

  The Legend

  Mini Novel - The Guru and the Girls

  The Lost Tribe

  Sport

  Mini Novel - How Far They Reach

  My Oldest Friend

  Bridging the Gap

  Mini Novel - The Rape of Africa

  The Vision

  Bounty

  Lost Highway

  Stripes

  Drawn By the Sea

  Soar

  Shadow Games - Toad in the Hole

  Shadow Games - Masquerade

  Shadow Games - The Goat

  Shadow Games - It's Been Going On a While

  Shadow Games - Simulacra

  Shadow Games - Everything Is Under Control

  About the Author

  Connect With Anthony

  INTRODUCTION

  When I was a boy I imagined I was James Bond. When I grew up my adventures were not quite so spectacular. But when I became a writer, I decided my earlier imaginings had value. Hence, in this collection of Flash Fiction meet heroes, spies and villains aplenty, topped off with a series delving deep into the nature of conspiracy theory. But don't worry. Everything is under control.

  THE FORCE

  The winds have gone. Yet as the hurricane had blown, life had changed so dramatically for me that I find it hard to describe. But if only to make sense of it myself, I must.

  It had been the second major change in my life in such a short time, the first coming with questioning; with a realization that I saw nothing in this world that proved the life I lived. Since I had left the job I’d been living in a less than desirable area, the only real light in my troubled life the kid who’d play outside in the street.

  Such a happy kid he was – a miracle considering the poverty around there. But he’d always speak to me, want to be my friend. Of course, his mother would take him in, tell him about speaking to strangers, but it never bothered him with me. And the day he found his mother with her eyes staring blindly and two bullets in her chest, I was the first person he ran to.

  I felt the injustice of the world as he cried in my arms, and as the police failed to gain any angle on the killer, I resolved that I had a duty to bring this person to justice.

  The hint came when I found out the nature of his mother’s ‘friendships’, and that she was well known with the local gangs. One by one I put the pieces together, my only worry the kid, who just wouldn’t leave it alone either. He’d follow me everywhere, yet I knew I was moving into a dangerous world of which he should have no part.

  What I intended to do when I caught up with the killer, I had no idea. Certainly, my previous life, before the change, would impact on it – I hoped. Or had I become something more primeval since leaving?

  I caught up with him as the hurricane came. Knowing what he had done, anger rose up in me, reflecting the wind howling around me, the rain lancing into my flesh. I dived at him with a similar ferocity, and I felt that darker side rising from deep, deep within.

  At what point in the fight he brought out the gun I don’t know, but suddenly it was a fight for my life. Grabbing his arm, I struggled and twisted until the gun fell from his hand. Turning and diving to reach it, I suddenly noticed it was in another’s hands.

  Reality and goodness returned to me then. Noticing the hatred in such a young face as the kid’s was a shock indeed, and it was obvious who the kid was pointing the gun at, his finger hovering over the trigger.

  I pleaded with him not to do it, but knew that even I had almost succumbed to that evil force. As for the killer, he merely pleaded for his life, his voice struggling to rise above the rage of the storm.

  I saw the crossing point of intent in the kid’s eyes and knew he was about to be ruined for ever. Yet, at that point, a movement attracted my attention. I turned my head slightly and watched as, almost in slow motion, a road sign soared through the air, carried by the wind.

  I had a precognitive vision of the kid sliced in half with its ferocity. Yet, it passed inches from him, its final turn contacting with the gun and knocking it clean out of his hands.

  All three of us looked on in shock at this amazing thing - amid all this carnage, such an important act of good.

  Coming to my senses, I hit the killer, rendering him unconscious and soon he was in jail. As for me, I looked on the world anew, and as I entered the church for the first time in so long, I was greeted with those comforting words: ‘Welcome back, Father’.

  WHERE ARE THEY?

  Where are they? I’m searching – scanning the distance – looking. I can hear them – their fire whizzes past me. Almost instinctually, I lower my head before …

  Where are they? This damn mist. I can see clearly but this damn mist. It’s in my head, called fear. And it’s in the nature of war – the mist of war – organized chaos, where no one knows what’s going on …

  Where are they? My heart is pounding, throat dry, palms sweaty. I hold my assault rifle true, and when I know I have to fire, will I be able to squeeze that trigger gently? I don’t know. I hope I can …

  Where are they? I can sense them, but maybe that’s wishful thinking. I KNOW they’re out there, the occasional chatter of voice and weapon – and another round – an RPG – exploding close by. The fog is real now – debris, discharge from the explosion – a slight pain in the leg – shrapnel – but I can ignore that …

  Where are they? Oh, I miss my family. I wonder what they’re doing, if they’re thinking of me, if they’re proud of me? I wonder if life goes on as normal for them – shopping, entertaining, working …

  Where are they? And suddenly I know. A creak, a snap, nature offering early warning as they crawl close. I tense, alert! I’m ready for them! I can do this! I fire …

  Where are they? I thought it was them. I look down at my dead comrade, my own rounds pumped into his belly – what’s left of his belly. I feel a deep shame, a desire to obliterate myself, and I think of his family, I wonder if life goes on as normal – after this …

  Where are they?

  PLUGGING THE HOLE

  Tony Brand sat nervously in the passenger seat. With short dark hair and ice blue eyes, he concentrated on the street, the parked car a hundred yards away. He'd never done this sort of thing before. Terrorism. At least, not in his beloved Britain. Not in London.

  In the driving street, Pat said: 'Any second now.' And sure enough, the target vehicle began to cruise up the street, heading for the parked car.

  'Shall I do it now?' asked Brand in his Irish brogue.

  'Yes. Now.'

  B
rand pressed the button on the transmitter in his lap.

  Almost immediately the parked car seemed to expand and flash. It seemed an age before he heard the explosion. By then the flames were already licking the target, sending it careering over the road as the car bomb seemed to rise from the ground and momentarily fly.

  As the explosion died away, screams were heard from the end of the street as pedestrians watched in shocked amazement.

  'Let's go,' said Brand, taking his eyes away from the carnage.

  Pat smiled. 'Yes. Let's,' he said, and put the car into gear.

  It had taken a fortnight to get here - a fortnight's work and years of training and experience. Dooley had sat behind his desk - fat, bald Dooley; disturbing Dooley; Dooley who Brand was never quite sure was with the good guys. Maybe that's why Dooley headed the Desperados. You needed a hard, amoral man to run a department like that. Do anything, no matter what the cost.

  'How's your Irish accent?' he had asked.

  Brand set his cool eyes on his boss, 'Okay,' he said, 'Why? I thought the Irish problem was over as far as we were concerned.'

  'If only.' Dooley shifted excitedly behind the desk. 'Another splinter group. And this mob are dangerous.'

  'They all are.'

  'These boys have inside information. They're targeting key figures. And they're not using any of the usual routes in and out of the country.'

  'Have we any leads?'

  Dooley threw over a file. 'That's our lead. Pat O'Berne. Release on amnesty; promised to be a good guy - cook no more Brit soldiers. He's over here, and I want you to infiltrate. Find out where the inside information is coming from, and plug that damn hole. We can't have them coming over here without us knowing how.'

  Jenkins was typical of the new MI5 - designer suit, designer hair, worked out regularly in the gym for his six-pack, not muscles that would be of use.

  All image, thought Brand, which was crazy for an organisation that should be invisible; without image. Oh, he remembered, and no brains - just a biological extension of the computers that ran the show nowadays.

  'The operation was a great success,' he said as he sat down.

  Brand had just got up, sleep still in his eyes, rudely awoken by Jenkins' insistent knock on the flat door. 'Of course it was,' he said.

  Jenkins smiled at the successful use of technology; the remote controlled car, blown up with no one in it.

  'So now we know O'Berne is the cell leader. You infiltrated well. Now all we need are the other names.'

  Brand stood up; paced the room. Turned to Jenkins and gave the other names.

  'And that's them all?'

  'Yes.'

  'Well done. Thanks for your help.'

  Brand could sense the superiority in Jenkins' voice and wanted to put his fist in his face. But he shook the thought away. Just stared as Jenkins stood up and left.

  Jenkins knocked on another door half an hour later. It was a blonde haired man of about fifty who answered; a man with a weather-beaten face. As the two of them disappeared into the house, Brand parked his car and made his way to the back of the house. Finding the back door unlocked, he stealthily went in. And then he listened.

  'So they're that close?' said the man as Jenkins gave him the names of the entire cell.

  Brand's eyes scanned the room; took in the picture of the man with his trawler. So that's it, he thought. They come in and out with the fishing fleets.

  Jenkins said: 'So what will you do?'

  'I think we'll extract them a while. Let it all settle down. But we'll soon be back.'

  We'll see about that, thought Brand as Jenkins left and the fisherman began making his phone calls.

  It was a windswept morning as a trawler broke harbour, its crew looking forward to a good catch. There weren't many successful trawler fleets left, the ravages of a modern world being unkind to age old traditions. Maybe that's why they had turned to what they now did; assisting with a more human cargo - if you can call bombers human.

  The blonde haired skipper sniffed the wind as he sailed, knowing that from that sniff he could read the weather. But sniffing the explosive that was to rupture a small hole was beyond the instinctual skills. And as Brand watched them sail away into the Irish Sea, he knew it would be just another unfortunate tragedy in the dangerous game of sea fishing.

  'A job well done,' said Dooley, the only congratulations Brand was going to get. But then again, he didn't want congratulations. He did what he had to do. But he was still human, and could never quite get the rotten taste from the back of his throat. Infact, Brand decided, if that taste ever goes, I'm getting out.

  Dooley continued: 'So what made you so sure Jenkins was the Mole?'

  Brand smirked. 'I didn't,' he replied.

  'So it was just luck?'

  'Oh no,' continued Brand. 'It seemed obvious that whoever the Mole was, he'd be damn sure to be my liaison officer on the mission.'

  'Well,' said Dooley, 'your instinct paid off.'

  'So what's going to happen to Jenkins now?' asked Brand.

  It was Dooley's turn to smirk. 'Nothing,' he said.

  'Nothing?'

  'That's right. As I said to him this morning: "Nothing's going to happen to you, Jenkins. Nothing at all. But your wife and kid? That's a different matter. The first time you don't do as I ask, something will certainly happen to them.'"

  GHOST FROM THE PAST

  Sir Harrison Gould kept his age well. At over seventy, he was still a sprightly man. Retired now, he had, however, worked for MI6 most of his life, almost making it to ‘C’; and you couldn't get higher than that.

  Most people would have knocked on Dooley's door before entering, but Sir Harrison had no time for the new kind of Spook, preferring action over initiative; technology over guile. Hence, as an act of distaste, he walked straight in.

  Dooley smiled as Sir Harrison did so. He had expected nothing less. 'Thank you for coming, Sir Harrison. Please sit down.'

  'What is it Dooley? My time is short. It had better be good,' said Sir Harrison.

  Dooley said: 'Do you remember the Danvers case?'

  How could he forget? Sir Harrison had been a younger man. The Cold War was in full swing, and intrigue was piling upon intrigue. 'Of course I do. But it's old history. Why are you bringing that up now, after all these years?'

  Tony Brand had been standing by the wall. Much younger than Gould and Dooley, both men had so far dismissed him as a minor player; a foot soldier. But now he stood forward - held out a piece of paper. 'Perhaps you'd like to read this, Sir Harrison,' he said.

  Sir Harrison took the paper impatiently. Read:

  This is the hardest letter I have ever written. I've just found out I'm dying and have no intention of suffering pain. Hence, I'm clearing the deck; letting out all those little secrets I've kept over the years. Then, when my conscience is clear, I'm going to end it now.

  Many years ago I was involved in the Danvers case. If you remember, Danvers was one of our men in Moscow. It's always been a mystery who shot him. Korshkov was certainly involved, and during my investigation of the case, it became clear to me we had a Mole in our midst. Korshkov would never speak about him, even when he defected to the west. The Mole had something on him. What, I don't know. But I've had this on my mind too long. See Korshkov, and dig.

  Hartley

  Sir Harrison dropped the letter contemptuously. 'You don't believe this rubbish, do you?'

  'Yes, we do,' said Dooley. 'After all, Hartley was a good agent. Why he kept quiet we don't know. But now he's spoken, we've got to take him seriously. After all, it was always rumoured there was a Fifth Man. And it's about time he was rooted out.'

  Shadow men do not produce grand funerals. Hence, as Tony Brand watched Hartley's coffin lowered into the ground it was easy to pick out Korshkov among the few mourners. His old Muscovite face shone out like a beacon, and he had the manner of a Russian, even though he had defected decades ago.

  The funeral over, Brand saw Sir Harrison
Gould making his way towards Korshkov, and took this moment as his opportunity to approach the Russian himself. 'We need to talk,' he said as he pulled the old Russian to the side.

  'And you are?'

  Brand introduced himself. Said: 'We need to know who betrayed Danvers.'

  Korshkov seemed immediately troubled; noticed Sir Harrison hovering close, perhaps even in ear-shot. 'Are you mad?’ he said. 'It is a long time ago. Best to leave the ghosts buried.'

  'We can't do that,' said Brand. 'And we know that you know, and have kept it from us all these years. Why that is, we're not interested - at the moment. But if there was a Fifth Man, we want him. No matter how many years ago it was.'

  Korshkov sighed deeply. 'Not here,' he said. 'I'll come and see your boss, Dooley, tomorrow.'

  Brand smiled, but there was a hint of menace behind it. 'Make sure you do,' he said, and departed.

  Later that evening Korshkov sat in his flat, drinking. And in an adjacent flat, Tony Brand sat behind the screen, studying the Russian. He tried to imagine what it must have been like during the Cold War - the urgency, the intrigue, the price of failure being a bullet in the head, or nuclear war. The stakes had been high, with patriotism or ideology the spur that drove them on. Would such a climate exist today, he wondered. However, he musings ceased with the sound of Korshkov's door bell ringing.

  'Come in,' said Korshkov as he answered the door. 'I've been expecting you.'

  Sir Harrison Gould walked in, stony faced. Once the door was shut, he said: 'You know I can't allow you to tell, don't you?'

  Korshkov said: 'And why does it matter? So many years have passed. The old days are gone.' He laughed. 'And who knows. They may even let you keep your pension.'

  'That's the trouble with you Ruskies. You never could understand. Honour was an unknown quality in your world, wasn't it?'

  'Honour? Or just the illusion of honour. Let's face it, Gould. You were a spy. And there was no honour in that.'

  Sir Harrison had had enough of talking. He was of the old school. And when words were done, there was only action. He took out his revolver, held it close to Korshkov's chest. 'You will never talk,' he said as intent turned to pressure on the trigger.