No Fifth Horseman

PROEM: SOMETIME BEFORE NOW

Senior civil service mandarin, Desmond Fenton, squirmed nervously on his chair. The Permanent Secretary to the Ministry of Defence sat with the Secretary of State for Defence and a small group of government luminaries. All were perched on a platform in a room buried deep inside the bowels of Whitehall. Plainclothes MoD policemen nosed furtively about the room, conspicuous as a skulk of foxes, effortlessly managing to ruin any aesthetic effect of the ostentatious fabric décor in the inhibiting atmosphere of the chamber. In the audience, a gaggle of officialdom’s sycophantic minions babbled in opinionated discussion on the computer-projected display screen, which indicated that there was only one intended item for deliberation on the meeting’s agenda: “The Channel Isles Incident Debrief”.

Marty Rebel, ex-commercial insurance claims investigator, turned adventurer and crime-buster, sat in the gathering. He was not part of, but nevertheless pivotal to, the subject matter of the covert meeting. He fought to disguise his impatience while weighing up those on the platform. There was no sign of effort on his part to disguise his scorn for the line-up of bureaucrats. The only one of the dignitaries sitting on the rostrum he deemed noteworthy was his new comrade and ally, Air Chief Marshal Edgar Thompson, splendidly decked out in full military regalia.

‘What the hell’s causing the delay?’ Marty’s terse question was addressed to another staunch, longstanding friend, DCS Robbin, a close ally in the life or death challenges of the past week. The Detective Chief Super and another involved in than adventure, MI5 Agent Philip Bayliss, awaited events more patiently. Both were considerably better schooled in the mind games played out by the members of bureaucratic circles.

‘I believe I know what we are waiting for – ah, yes, here she is,’ said DCS Robbin, nodding towards a contrite looking stenographer scurrying into the room.

‘You can bet your bottom dollar Fenton will get away scot-free,’ said Bayliss. ‘Probably even been moved up a couple of pay grades already, if I know this lot.’

The cynical remark was seconded by disgruntled nods of assent from the rest of the group, which included Dixie Montcliffe, reporter for World News. In intimate relationship with Marty, she could bridge gaps that left him out of reach to most. She smiled and squeezed Marty’s hand.

The gallant quartet’s exchange was interrupted by one of the pinstripe suited, anonymous characters around them. ‘Scot free is really so adequate. Our Mr Fenton is indeed on the way up. I think we can safely say his transfer to the Outer Hebrides for the purposes of monitoring illegal seal cub culling is both going up – but hardly Scot free.’ He slapped his knee and chortled.

The chatter was punctuated by the sharp rap of a gavel, cutting short any immediate opinions that the group might have wanted to share on that reassuring news.

‘The first condition of attendance, to which you all must adhere, ladies and gentleman, is acknowledgement that this meeting, either in part or its entirety, has never taken place.’ The nondescript little waffler glanced round the room, milking his brief moment of glory before continuing. ‘The mercenary assassin, ex Spetsnatz Captain Lars Gottard, otherwise known as Pelops, has never been in the employ of Her Majesty’s Government. Furthermore, neither incident attributed to him committing, nor any others participation in response to his criminal deeds, has credibility in the UK, nor will it ever be on record.’ He rapped the gavel and motioned with his arm that the floor was open to the Defence Secretary.

The Secretary of State nodded, mumbled perfunctory thanks out of the corner of his mouth and stood up to get a better view of his autocue.

*

The doorman of the exclusive London men’s club ran to salute the ACM as he and his party piled out of the taxi cab. As the excited band of newly-acclaimed heroes entered the lobby of the building, the fragrant scent of lavender greeted their nostrils. The grandiosity of the place stirred Marty’s ingrained Celtic unease when in pretentious surroundings. Testimony of an era of class distinction and privilege lingered, oozing from the dark oak panelling, darkened more so from generations of elbow grease and wax polish.

‘I didn’t see fit to mention it before, but I took it upon myself to arrange for someone to see you here, Marty,’ said the ACM. ‘I am quite sure you will get much more satisfaction from an encounter with Mr Harbin this time.’

Ralph Harbin sheepishly unfolded from the obscurity of one of the deep, winged leather armchairs in the main lounge. The man who left Marty no alternative but to relinquish a promising, lucrative position in the insurance division of Lion Holdings was bereft of his customary arrogance. He held out his hand to Marty as though in fear of it being bitten off.

Marty, at a loss for assuming the correct attitude for the occasion, cast a searching look at the ACM.

‘It is just a small matter of fifty million dollars or so that your vigilance has saved Global Avionics Technologies. No, that’s not quite right. I should say you saved his company that amount.’ The ACM clapped his hands. ‘Come on, Harbin, chop, chop!’

*

‘I’d be a liar if I said I was sorry he wouldn’t stay and have one with us,’ said Marty, as the steward put down their drinks. ‘But this is one time I’m not complaining about bumping into him.’ He slapped his breast-pocket. In it nestled a banker’s draft for three million pounds. It was the recovery commission on the Global Avionics Technologies’ funds that David Lang-Mainwaring almost contrived to embezzle, had he lived long enough to transfer the funds from his failing electronics manufacturing corporation. It was a windfall that Marty had not taken into account in his elation at foiling the noxious, conflicting conspiracies of Fenton, Mainwaring and Pelops, despite his knowledge of the insurance world’s practices.

‘God, what a mess, though,’ said Marty, in sudden melancholy mood. ‘The lovely people who would be alive if that bastard Fenton had let Sir Rupert Scott have his say. Helen, Andrea, so young, beautiful; gone, forever. Sure, it’s ironic, though, the last laugh was on Mainwaring. Talk about poetic justice! He’d be alive if he’d listened to the old boy, he’d have known that device distorted its own signals. Sure, the gismo triggered invisibility to radar right enough, but leaving his own radar near as blind as the slimy worm that he was!’ Marty paused as he recalled how the old seadog, Cameron, had explained those last moments to them at the moment of Mainwaring’s fate... On board the Houdini, Cameron could not figure out why he wasn’t completely satisfied with the cruiser’s performance. He knew something was not quite right, but whatever it might be eluded him. His inability to concentrate fully on the issue may have been impaired by being unable to stop daydreaming about the five million dollars that was due him. Screwing his eyes, he’d strained to penetrate the mist. According to the radar, they were supposed to have been less than five kilometres from what ought to be the Saint Albutt. Both vessels were at engines half-ahead, on a converging course. He was excited at getting back aboard the ship, where he would be safe, free from fear of Rebel and his gang, far from the clutches of the whole damn lot from the UK.

But the weird feeling of unease would not go away. It grew stronger each passing second. For some unknown reason, by some strange trick of sixth-sense, the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. A tingling ran the length of his spine.

Suddenly, the lone voice of the cruiser’s engines bouncing back to him from the curtain of mist was joined by a new sound – the thwacking of helicopter blades. Before he’d had time to digest the portent of that, he realised there was yet another sound. The second was more serious, much worse, and especially horrifying. The old seafarer’s experienced ears had filled with the humming thump of an extremely heavy vibration, telling him it was a noise that could only be made by a very much larger vessel. In the time it took him to shout “Holy shit!” the great bows of the Saint Albutt loomed out of the mist, straight towards the Houdini.

With no time to take evasive action, instinctively the old Scot had grabbed a handy, leather attaché-case for added buoyancy. Shouting, ‘It’s your watch now, Mainwaring!’ he took a flying leap from the stern of the Houdini.

The cabin-cruiser had apparently folded like a cardboard carton beneath the stem of the Saint Albutt’s bows, sinking almost immediately, while fuel from the demolished vessel’s tanks ignited with a searing flash. An angry rash of fire then spread furiously across the water.

At the fringes of the flame, and the sole survivor, he’d threshed frantically away from the burning oil...

Agent Bayliss, started from deep in ponderings of his own, leaned over and whispered in Marty’s ear, disturbing the younger man’s revisiting of Mainwaring’s demise. ‘I think you ought to know something I’ve managed to dig up. That Pelops guy once did some military training in Romania with...