MAXIM GUNN
“THE CHAOS PROJECT”
by
Nicholas Boving
Smashwords Edition
Copyright © 2007 Nicholas Boving
eBook ISBN 978-1-896448-05-3
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PROLOGUE
Maxim Gunn decided if there was one thing he disliked more than bad whiskey it was probably wading knee-deep through raw sewage. He thought sewage took on a whole new meaning when it was up close and personal.
His flashlight beam probed the brick-lined tunnel, lighting the turgid flow of dark liquid and slimy walls. He tried not to let his mind dwell on what washed around his hip waders, concentrating instead on the job in hand.
Somewhere about fifty meters ahead, if he had read the plans right, would be a metal ladder leading to a trap door. The door, possibly jammed by the dirt of ages was supposed to open into a storage room deep in the unused cellars of No. 37 Ulrichstrasse. Gunn hoped, somewhat dispassionately, that no one had piled forgotten boxes on it. If they had he would have to retrace his steps and enter No. 37 by the front door, a tactic that would be considerably more difficult due to the presence of armed guards.
There was a scurrying from an exit high on the wall to his left. A half-dozen sleek, wet rats jumped and plopped with small splashes into the stream ahead. Gunn grimaced. Nature sure the hell was adaptable. The rats swam a few yards, scrambled onto a narrow ledge and disappeared, no more concerned with the sewage than if they’d been for an evening dip in some peaceful river. Gunn didn’t like rats, but then neither did they bother him. He thought it was the red eyes glinting in lamplight that made them feared: red eyes and sharp teeth and the thought of gnawed corpses.
The flashlight beam caught the horizontal rungs of the ladder. It was rusted with age and looked unsafe. Gunn sighed. Just another little thing to brighten his day. Hell, nothing was safe. Getting out of bed wasn’t safe. You could catch your toe on the carpet, fall and break your neck.
He reached the ladder and shone the beam up. The trap door looked as if it had never been used. Gunn sighed, adjusted the waterproof pack on his shoulder.
At the top of the ladder he put his hands flat against the trap and gave an experimental shove. Nothing happened; no movement, not a grain of disturbed dirt. He shifted the pack around to his front, took a couple of steps up, jammed his shoulders under the door and heaved. There was an ominous creak and the rung under his feet snapped. Gunn grabbed thin air, then the top rung, and hung like the daring young man on the flying trapeze. Sotto voce he let fly some very choice language and made a mental note to add it to his list of grievances about the man in No. 37.
He regained his footing, gave the rung a thorough test then, with all the subtlety of a charging rhino, slammed his shoulders against the trap door.
There was a moment when it seemed Greek had met Greek, and then with a protesting creak and a splintering sound, the trap flew open, showering Gunn with dust and straw. He hung on the ladder, still as Lot’s wife, alert for the slightest sound that would betray an ambush, and then poking his head above floor level, shone the flashlight through three-sixty degrees.
It was a large, stone-walled, empty room with a vaulted ceiling: exactly what you might have expected to see in the cellar of a 17th century house in one of Germany’s biggest cities. Gunn heaved himself through the opening, closed the damaged trap and went to investigate what lay beyond the opening at the far end.
Dust, cobwebs in profusion, and wine racks: dozens of wine racks lining the walls and standing in serried rows like the stacks in a library. He went a long the racks, taking out a bottle here and there, and decided the labels made for more interesting reading than your usual run-of-the-mill library.
He placed the last bottle back in the rack and shook his head. Not that he gave a damn about wine, but the label told him it was probably worth a lot of money to someone who cared.
He divested himself of the hip waders to reveal a rather well-cut pair of designer denims and soft moccasin shoes. He straightened his navy blue roll neck sweater and patted down the pockets of his well-worn jacket. He picked up the waterproof pack, slung it across his shoulder. The black rubber waders sat collapsed like the remains of some body-sucking zombie’s feast.
In one corner of the cellar in the approved fashion was a steep flight of stone steps. At the top was an old-fashioned, iron-studded wooden door of the kind that would need a battering ram. Gunn ran lightly up the steps and examined it. He sighed again and smiled. Lady Luck was in his corner, for the moment.
In stories the butler always kept the keys to the wine cellar, but from the age of bottles and the thickness of dust, Gunn doubted the present owner cared. In fact he shouldn’t because Allah in his infinite wisdom had forbidden the Faithful alcohol. Of course that didn’t mean it didn’t happen and he’d known at least one much respected Imam in Northern Nigeria who definitely liked his orange juice with a bit of a kick attached.
With infinite care he turned the door handle, prepared to freeze the second a mouse, or a bit of rust squeaked. But it seemed they made doors and hinges well in those days. Patience was the name of the game in the initial stages. Unless you wanted to go in boots and all with guns blazing, and he had a sneaking suspicion the Vienna Bundespolitzei would take a dim view of an unauthorized commando raid, no matter how good the justification.
The door opened into a deserted corridor. There were coats on hooks, a few boots and shoes in racks and a couple of those long staffs hill climbers use. All very innocuous and might have led anyone else into thinking he’d possibly got the wrong address and was breaking into the servants quarters of some thoroughly respectable businessman.
Gunn knew better. No.37 indeed belonged to a businessman, a man wanted throughout Europe and the Americas on charges of financing terrorism, gunrunning, drug sales on a major scale and as a sideline a hugely profitable white slavery ring. Unfortunately he had at his disposal and army of international lawyers and had been compared to the late and unlamented Teflon Don John Gotti in his ability to slip out from under. Which of course was why Maxim Gunn had taken it upon himself to do the international crime agencies a favour as, despite his official position as a representative of Her Majesty’s Government, he felt this was one piece of dirt under the collective shoe which needed scraping off without going through all, those tedious official channels. Gunn, quite frankly, didn’t give a damn what bumbling officialdom might think, what political games might be upset, what careers hang by threads. The man upstairs was going to find himself in a 6’ by 8’ police holding cell before the cock crowed twice. However, if he resisted, then that would be just too damned bad for him.
Left or right. Gunn looked both ways, saw a strip of light under a far door and cat-footed it towards the invitation. A door to his left beckoned invitingly. He listened for a few seconds then opened it. It was a store room, a place where whoever ran the house kept cleaning materials, brooms, a carpet sweeper sundry unidentified cartons. Gunn putdown his pack, unzipped it and took out what was quite obviously an explosive device universally called and I.E.D. He glanced at his watch, did a bit of quick mental arithmetic and set the timer. He slipped back out into the corridor, cracked open the door at the far end and was just about to slip through when he heard voices. Through the crack he saw a door open. A large man came out, laughing. He called in Arabic to someone over his shoulder. There was a muffled answer. The man laughed again and closed the door. Footsteps crossed a tiled surface, another door opened and closed and silence came back. Gunn opened the door and slipped out. He was in a large, high-ceilinged entrance hall complete with deer antler hat and coat stand, a particularly ugly gilt mirror and a scattering of portraits of men and women who looked as if they had pokers rammed up them. Smiles were noticeable by their absence.
Gunn took a small canister from the pack, an M7A3 gas grenade. He pulled the pin, yanked open the door the man had come out of, tossed in the grenade and slammed it shut. There were shouts from inside, a small bang no louder than a balloon exploding, more shouts, coughing and a vain attempt to open the door. Gunn hung on like a limpet while he counted ten then let go. He picked up the pack, looked around and as he made for the sweeping staircase he murmured.
“Upon the godly he will rain snares, fire and brimstone, storm and an horrible tempest.”
He’d never quite understood the bit about the snares, but he liked the King James version, it was so much more poetic than the modern efforts which rather reminded him of Doctor Zeuss. He raced up the staircase taking the stairs three at a time. The landing split both ways, corridors running along the house with four doors in each. He spun a mental coin and went right, stopping at each door to listen. At the third door he smiled, straightened, opened the door and went into the room.
There were two people on the large ornate bed. A man and a woman, obviously much preoccupied with what they were energetically doing. Gunn closed the door and leaned against the jamb. He shook his head and said in passable Arabic.
“Well, well, Achmed. What would all your wives say if they could see you now?”
There was a startled shout form the bed, rapid disconnection moves engaged in, and the man, hairy, bearded and about forty, twisted around, mouth open. Gunn shook his head.
“You’ll catch flies.”
The woman: young, blond, beautiful and pneumatic was dumped unceremoniously on the floor as the man reach for the automatic on the bedside table.
Gunn again shook his head as his Colt Python appeared like magic in his hand.
“Bad move Achmed.”
The man had the sense to know that a .357 Magnum in a competent hand is not something with which you should argue unless you have a death wish. He didn’t.
The man stopped dead, hand hovering as if he was calculating the odds. He decided the odds were very poor because he swore comprehensively in English and sat back, eyes bleak and baleful, sending the message that Gunn’s days would shortly end in a most painful manner. Gunn smiled and disagreed.
“Good choice,” he said.
The young woman meanwhile had got her priorities right, ignored the Colt and was scrambling for something to cover her ample charms. Gunn, ever the gentleman took a flimsy gown from a chair and tossed it to her. She opened her mouth to say something, maybe a thank you, perhaps to scream, but Gunn put a finger to his lips.
“Schweigen ist golden fraulein. Silence is golden.”
She appeared to understand because she sniffed, managed a head toss as if she didn’t give a damn what Gunn thought and struggled into the gown. It did little more than emphasize what lay beneath. The man swung his feet to the floor, covering his lower half with a sheet.
“You’re a dead man.” he said.
Gunn sighed. “My God, that’s terribly corny, Achmed. By the way the name is Gunn, Maxim Gunn.”
The name obviously meant a hell of a lot because the man blanched, his evening stubble standing out like someone had painted it on. And again it looked for a second as if he was going to take his chances with the automatic on the bedside table. But at a range of a mere twelve feet the mouth of the Cold must have looked as big and dark as a tunnel. He swore fiercely in Arabic. Gunn raised an eyebrow.
“Now that really is very naught, Achmed, not to mention physically impossible.”
He spun the Colt in approved Western movie style, then brought it back on the man with an audible snap. The man called Achmed flinched.
“Scary things, guns, aren’t they,” Gunn said conversationally. “Quite useless of course, until someone pulls the trigger.”
Achmed glowered. “What do you want?”
Gunn beamed. “I want you dear heart. Get your pants on; we’re going for a drive.”
“You’ll never . . .”
“Get away with it? I’m here. I have a gun. Ergo, I already have.” He saw Achmed’s eyes flick towards the door. “Touch that button and I won’t bother about the drive. I’ll shoot you right here like the murdering bastard you are.”
He jerked the Colt impatiently. “The pants Achmed, schnell.”
The woman, some dignity regained, turned on Achmed and in a shrill voice demanded to know what was going on. He rudely pushed her aside, reached for his pants and did as ordered.
Gunn held up a set of handcuffs. He tossed them onto the bed.
“Now put those on, there’s a good chap.”
The toes dug in. The fires of obstinacy flared. The man reached for a shirt.
“I will not. This is embassy property. I have diplomatic immunity.”
Gunn tut-tutted. “In case you haven’t figured it out, I don’t give a damn.” It looked like being a minor stand-off until Gunn said. “I shall count to five and then shoot you in your leg, the right one for choice. If you survive the blood loss and shock you’ll walk with a cane the rest of your life, if the surgeons can save the leg.”
Gunn counted to three. It came predictably. Achmed grabbed one end of the cuffs and using them like a flail made an abortive attack. Gunn dodged effortlessly, caught the man off balance and gave him a short, stiff-armed jab on the nose.
Nothing takes the fight out of someone quite as much as being punched on the end of the nose. For a start it’s painful, and secondly it brings tears to the eyes in buckets full. Achmed staggered back, caught the backs of his legs against the chair and sat with a thump that shook the table lamps.
Gunn strode forward and in one quick motion did a double snap of the cuffs. He jerked Achmed to his feet.
“Now you’re pissing me off,” he said. Gunn stuffed a sock in his mouth and tied it with what look like an Old Etonian tie.
He dragged his captive to the door, opened it and smiled at the young woman.
“I hope you insisted on payment in advance.” He nodded at the ormolu clock on the mantelpiece. “You have three minutes to get out of here.”
The man Achmed was in a predicament as they left the bedroom and moved onto the landing. He was handcuffed, his pants were undone and trying to surrender to gravity, and Gunn was towing him none too gently which made using his hands to keep his pants up problematic.
As they reached the top of the stairs the man Gunn had seen earlier appeared carrying a silver tray on which stood a champagne bucket, a bottle of Bollinger and two glasses. As he reached the stairs Achmed gave a shout of warning. The man looked up sharply, took in the scene with commendable speed, dropped the tray and went for the gun stuffed in the back of his pants.
Gunn shot him.
The tray hit the floor with a clang. The bottle and glasses shattered, and long before the tray had stopped spinning, Gunn had dragged his prize through the hall, barged through a green baize covered door that led to the kitchen and scullery where he scanned a board with a selection of tagged keys. He selected one and burst through the back door and out to the back alley where a large black Mercedes was parked. By that time Achmed had lost the use of his legs as his pants had settled around his ankles and was being dragged forcibly, losing a certain amount of skin in the process.
Gunn opened the trunk and pointed. Achmed didn’t seem to understand. His nose still hurt like hell, one of his toes was probably broken, patches of skin had been unceremoniously ripped off, and his dignity had suffered a near-fatal blow.
Gunn was in no mood for debate. He glanced at his watch. Time was running out. He grabbed Achmed by the scruff of his neck, hoisted him like a side of beef, dumped him into the trunk and slammed the lid.
“Enjoy the ride,” he said, ran around to the driver’s door, got in and seconds later the tries screeched as he floored it to the end of the alley.
The Mercedes’ brake lights flared briefly as Gunn wrenched it into the cross street, and at that moment the timer hit the go button and his carefully placed charge of C4 exploded taking a considerable portion of number 37 Ulrichstrasse with it.
Gunn smiled sardonically. “Sorry Achmed, but property values just took a beating.” He wondered what the police and fire departments would make of the cases of arms and nicely wrapped kilos of heroine they find smouldering in one of the other basements. It had the makings of considerable diplomatic frostiness.
The sounds of muffled shouts and thumping came from the trunk. Gunn skidded the Mercedes around a corner, sliding on wet cobbles. The shouting increased in volume. And then he heard the discordant sirens of emergency vehicles being driven at speed. He thought the Viennese were efficient, nearly as good as the Swiss.
Gunn braked the Mercedes to an unnecessarily hard stop outside a police station a couple of miles from Ulrichstrasse. His passenger thudded against the trunk wall. There was another shout but it didn’t have the same enthusiasm or intensity as the earlier ones. He got out, went round to the back of the car and popped the truck. Achmed looked decidedly the worse for wear. Gunn reached in, grabbed the man by his collar and jerked him out, banging his shins sharply on the metal edge.
“We’ve arrived,” Gunn said cheerfully.
Achmed stared at the sign above the door and there was fear in his eyes. Gunn gave him a shove towards the steps leading to the entrance. There was resistance. He sighed.
“There’s the easy way, and then there’s my way. You chose.”
Achmed snarled: it was the only fitting description for the sound he made and the expression on his face, but he went up the steps. At the top he paused as if about to debate the issue again, but Gunn put his foot in the small of his back and shoved. The door slammed open and Achmed staggered up to the reception counter, any pretence of rebellion or dignity shattered.
The bulky police sergeant behind the desk looked up open mouthed and startled. Gunn glanced around the assorted posters on the community bulletin board, gave a grunt of satisfaction, took a wanted poster down and slid it across the desk.
“I believe you’re looking for this excrescence,” he said.
The sergeant looked at Gunn, then Achmed, then the poster, then back at Achmed. He opened his mouth to say something like “Who the hell are you?” And was just in time to see the front door close.
On the sidewalk, Gunn stood for a moment and smiled. Ridding the world of vermin was always a good feeling. He got into the Mercedes and drove back to his hotel. It was time for a bath, a stiff drink and a late dinner.
CHAPTER ONE
“I swear,” Maxim Gunn announced, with feeling, “that after the next job I’m going to quit.”
Cynthia Ffoote took a chocolate from the box at her side, unwrapped it carefully and popped it in her mouth before replying indistinctly. “I wish I had a pound for every time you’ve said that.”
Gunn unfolded from his arm chair, and stood by the window, hands in pockets, looking onto the street below. “This time I mean it.”
“So, you mean it. And what would you do?”
Gunn shrugged. “God knows. But look at all those people down there. They lead normal, productive lives. No nasty surprises except at income tax time, and hardly anyone ever tries to kill them. They’re perfectly safe and happy.”
“And mostly bored out of their skulls,” Cynthia replied.
“Why should they be?”
“Not much excitement in the average nine to five job, you know.”
“I’ve had enough excitement to last a life time. And who said I’d do something boring?”
Cynthia closed the chocolate box firmly, got up, and went to stand behind him, chin on his shoulder and arms around his waist.
“I can’t see you behind a desk. You wouldn’t last five minutes.” She peered into the street and said. “Look at that man down there, the one in the dark suit with a raincoat over his arm. What d’you think he does?”
Gunn followed her gaze and picked out the object in question. “Respectable business man. Happily married. Two kids and a dog, and spends two weeks a year in Benidorm.”
“Yes. Something like that, I suppose. But the sun’s shining, not a cloud in the sky, and he’s carrying a raincoat. That tell you something about him?”
Gunn twisted round and grinned at her. “He doesn’t take chances.”
Cynthia gave him a triumphant smile. “Exactly. You want to be like that?”
“No,” Gunn replied, firmly. “But there are a lot of things in this world that aren’t dull, and I’m still going to quit after the next job. It’s very definitely time to say, ‘Up the Organization.’”
The girl rested her dark blond head against his chest. “I’ve got to admit there are times when I wish you would.” She pulled away and looked up into his eyes. “But I don’t think you will. I don’t think you could. I think you live for the excitement. It’s what makes you what you are, and it’s what you’re good at. Wouldn’t you miss the people you know?”
Gunn kissed her forehead. “You don’t miss people in this kind of life; you just remember them. Anyway, you’ll see. And while we’re on the subject of seeing. Did you . . ?”
“See the man watching the house? Yes. Who is he?”
Gunn’s eyes widened. “I’ve no idea. But no doubt we’ll find out.” He looked down at her from his six foot two height, blue eyes twinkling. “I wonder why anyone would want to keep an eye on me?”
Cynthia’s face took on an unusually cold expression. “So long as it’s not that woman.”
“Wanda Liszt? Do I detect a hint of jealousy?”
Cynthia put her hand on his arm. “She frightens me, Maxim. She’s ruthless, and so cold; and you know she wants revenge more than anything.”
Gunn laughed, delightedly. “She does add a bit of zest to life, doesn’t she?”
Cynthia shook her head in mild exasperation. “See what I mean? The minute there’s a thought of something happening, you’re up and running to meet it head on. You’re hopeless.”
Gunn tried to look offended. “But I haven’t done a thing,” he protested. “And anyway, while there are people like her in the world I’ll . . .”
“You’ll never quit. And just for that, you can take me to dinner tonight at that new place. I hear it’s very good, and very expensive. Your lies are going to cost you, Maxim Gunn.” She glanced at her watch, and gave a sharp exclamation of annoyance. “Damn. I didn’t realize it was so late. I must fly.”
As she gathered her things, Gunn asked. “What’s the great rush? Something vital, like a hair appointment?”
Cynthia’s look was withering. “If you like, I’ll turn up for dinner in curlers.”
When she had left, Gunn returned to his study, poured himself a sherry, and picked up the newspaper. He had half an hour till lunch, and then planned a long, quiet afternoon doing nothing.
The telephone rang.
Gunn swore, dropped the paper, and picked the instrument off his desk. “Maxim Gunn,” he said, a trace of irritation in his voice.
The voice at the other end was instantly recognizable, and his face blanked to a mask as he listened to the message. “Now?” he asked, heard the reply, and said. “I’m on my way.” Two minutes later he slammed his front door, got into his car, and headed out of Clarges Street into the stream of Piccadilly traffic. This was not at all what he wanted, and once again he resolved to make good his promise to quit.
As he drove automatically along Piccadilly, around the Circus and up Shaftesbury Avenue, almost oblivious to the familiar sights and sounds of London around him, his mind wandered, free wheeling, trying to pin down what it was that had increasingly become sour in what he did.
For the past eight years he had been - still was - an agent in what was undoubtedly the most secret of his country’s security arms. He had been trained, and had become very good - some said the best -in the arts of counter-espionage, espionage, and anti-terrorists activities. He had known danger, had dealt death to some, had come close to it on more than one occasion himself, and had enjoyed the work. So why the change?
The danger and excitement he still enjoyed: in fact revelled in the adrenaline surge of living on the knife edge between success and failure, but the darker side was starting to lose whatever dubious attraction it may once have held. As he swung round Cambridge Circus he remembered the grim old adage. “There are old agents, and bold agents; but there are no old, bold agents.” Maybe that was it. Was he getting to the age when caution was starting to be a factor?
So far his luck had been phenomenal. Yes, luck had to enter into it. There had been times when it was all that was left. The impossible situation with odds stacked too far against; and then, somehow, out of the blue, Lady Luck had given things a twitch, and the odds had dramatically changed.
Gunn squeezed between a taxi and a red double-decker bus with barely the thickness of a coat of paint to spare, drove up Bloomsbury and swung into Russell Street. One of these days, he thought, grimly, luck was going to run out; the Lady was going to turn the other way just when he needed her most. He decided he didn’t like the prospect. To be sure, he didn’t fancy ending his days in doddering old age in some retirement home; but just as certainly, he didn’t want life to end too soon. There was a lot he still wanted to do, and a lot of places he wanted to see.
He turned the car into one of the maze of quiet, shabby streets which surround the British Museum, and came to a stop in front of a dark, four storied building that had definitely seen better days. For a moment he sat, looking at the unkempt entrance with its grubby glassed doors, then shrugged, got out, locked his car and went up the worn stone steps.
Inside, he was confronted by a gloomy hall, painted in uniformly dull colours, at the far end of which stood a glassed-in porters booth, and beyond that an antique elevator.
In the booth sat a broad shouldered man in his early thirties, who observed him dispassionately over the top of a racing paper. Gunn advanced to the booth, slid his identification card through a slot, and waited. The man put the card in a computer slot, his eyes still on Gunn’s face, and as the console bleeped, once, switched his gaze to the screen. Apparently satisfied, he passed the card back, then his craggy, well used face broke into a smile.
“Morning, Sir. You’re clear.”
Gunn retrieved the card. “Good morning, Sergeant,” he replied. “Any idea what this is about?”
Sergeant ‘Earthquake’ Magoon, ex Special Air Service Regiment, shook his head. “No, Sir. But you’re to go straight up.” Magoon pressed a button on his desk and the elevator doors clanked open. Gunn nodded and got in. A couple of minutes later he emerged on the top floor, to an environment totally at odds with everything so far seen.
Gone was the seedy, run down atmosphere and general feel of gentile decay, to be replaced by carpeted corridors, concealed strip lighting, pastel paint and an all pervading sense of quiet, efficient activity with a background chatter of a vast communications network of computers and electronics, and somewhere, the crackle of radio static. This was the nerve centre of the department he worked for, known simply as the Organization.
Other Government security agencies had mnemonics or identifications such as MI5, MI6, SIS and so on, and all were well known, the buildings that housed them tourist landmarks. The Organization was set apart from all that. Whereas the others had budgets, defined by parliamentary appropriation, and were subject to checks and balances; the Organization had none that was known. It had carte blanche to operate where and when required, in or outside the country, and to further enhance its uniqueness, reported solely to the Prime Minister of the day. It was that very uniqueness, questioned by some, that attracted Gunn. He detested red tape with a passion, and revelled in complete autonomy. Once he was on a job, he was his own master, subject to no one but the person who ran the operation, and with only one requirement. Get the job done.
Still, he thought, as he knocked and entered one of the anonymous offices, all this is going to end shortly. This is the last one. After this - whatever it is – he was definitely going to quit.
He closed the door softly behind him and leant against the jamb. “Good morning, Polly,” he said. “Where’s the fire?”
Polly Anders looked up from the papers on her desk, asking with a twitch of a smile. “What took you so long?”
Gunn gave her a fond look and a rude noise, wondering for the thousandth time how anyone with her looks could work in a place like this. Her smooth golden hair and wide open china blue eyes gave her a slightly stupid air that brought the description ‘dumb blonde’ instantly to mind, and should by rights have fitted her for the life of a movie starlet or minor model; but Gunn knew those looks were totally deceiving, and that behind them lurked a brain like a computer, the ability to speak half a dozen languages with remarkable fluency and, when occasion demanded, total ruthlessness. The willowy figure was also capable of explosions of efficient violence as many had found to their cost. Her nominal position in the Organization was personal assistant to the Director. Her real work depended on circumstances.
“I believe the Chief wants me,” he answered.
Polly’s lip curled. “What he really wants is . . .”
Gunn wagged an admonishing finger. Polly shrugged. “Seriously though, he’s waiting, and not in a very good mood.”
“Since when was ever he in any other kind?” Gunn asked, straightening. He went to a green baize covered door at the end of her office, knocked, and without waiting for an answer, went in.
Casimir Vileman, Director of the Organization, sat behind a large morocco leather covered desk, half glasses on the end of his nose, thumbing through a file and making notes. He looked up at Gunn’s entry and indicated a chair. Gunn nodded and sat without a word.
Vileman by name and, some said, possibly a little unkindly but not much, by nature. What was without doubt however, was the efficiency with which he ran his department. Gunn sat, studying him, and came to the added conclusion that the man was also one of the reasons he no longer wanted to continue doing what he had been for so long.
Vileman and Gunn had an understanding. They disliked each other. The dislike was total, but involved only personalities which were as different as possible. Gunn was tall, dark, good-looking, athletic and able to charm birds off trees when the occasion demanded, and was not dependent on his work for money - another good reason to call it a day. He was adding up the reasons to quit, and so far they far out-weighed reasons to stay. Casimir Vileman was medium height, balding, rather less prepossessing than a wart hog, and running to fat. He also had about as much charm as a hyena. They did however respect each other. Gunn knew his Chief was good, would back him to the hilt, and would get the job done come hell or high water, and had a monstrous contempt for red tape and bureaucracy. Vileman knew Gunn was the best and would never let him down. Gunn would fail on a job through only one reason, and the fact that he was still alive proved that reason had not yet come to pass.
Vileman closed the file with a snap, threw his pen on the blotter and leant back, scowling.
“You work for me Gunn, not some bloody cowboy freelance operation.”
Gunn remained expressionless and silent. It was a standoff. Vileman broke first. He grunted.
“The Austrians sent me a message of thanks, but did you have to blow up half the street.”
Gunn frowned. “C4 can be a bit touchy. I can never remember the right amount. Anyway, it was only part of one house.”
Vileman grunted and flipped open another file.
“What do you know about ODOUR?” he asked, abruptly.
Gunn raised an eyebrow. “You mean as in smell?”
“As in O.D.O.U.R.”
“Virtually nothing, except it’s the acronym for a rather unpleasant gang of thugs.”
“There was a memorandum on it a month ago. Don’t you read your memoranda?”
`A month ago I was in North Africa, if you remember. The chemical weapons plant?” Gunn pointed out. “Arranging that fire rather took my mind off memoranda. What about them anyway?”
Vileman ignored the jibe. “About who?”
“About ODOUR,' Gunn replied, patiently.
“I keep hearing rumours.”
Gunn’s eyes narrowed. “You brought me here to listen to a rumour.”
Vileman’s face hardened. “I brought you here to do just that, Mr. Gunn, and after listening to what I have to say I shall want you to do something about them.”
Gunn’s pulse quickened imperceptibly, and for a fleeting moment he wondered if he would really be able to carry out his threat of resignation. Maybe Cynthia was right, maybe he did live for the excitement. Vileman went on.
“ODOUR is an acronym for the Organization for the Disruption of Order, Unity and Rationality,” he said, and asked as an aside. “Why the hell do they have to choose such stupid names? Anyway, as I said, I’ve been hearing rumours, and I don't like what I hear. And, despite the name, these people are nevertheless damned dangerous. Their specialty is, of course, creating chaos: deliberately wrecking an economy or industry, and then picking up the pieces.”
“They must have a lot of organization, not to mention money, to do that,” Gunn interjected.
“They do,” Vileman agreed. “Frankly I don’t know where the money comes from, but I expect you’ll find out.”
Gunn smiled, mirthlessly. “Now we come to the funny bit. You hadn’t told me this was an operation.”
Vileman gave him a cold look. “I did. I told you I wanted you to do something about ODOUR. Anyway, why the hell d’you think you’re here; think I just want a chat?”
Gunn returned the look, at an even lower temperature. He didn’t much care for being spoken to like that, but he controlled himself and waited for the rest. Vileman went on.
“As for the organization, that seems to be extensive from what little I can gather, but they also use a lot of good old extortion and downright fear.”
Gunn shrugged. “I’ve never gone in much for that kind of thing myself, but I’m told it can be very effective.” Vileman snorted his disbelief. Gunn ignored him. “Any idea who’s behind it?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. Your old friend, Wanda Liszt.”
If Vileman had been expecting a reaction from Gunn, he wasn’t disappointed.
“What?” Gunn half rose from his chair, and then sank back, as somewhere in the back of his mind a muted clarion call sounded as it always did when there was the promise of high adventure.
“I suppose you know you've got my attention,” he said, his voice dangerously quiet.
Vileman’s look wouldn’t have melted butter. “I thought I might.”
“What leads have you got?” Gunn snapped.
Vileman shook his head. “I’ve got very little to go on.”
“Which is about par for the course.”
“And as an observation, Gunn, about as helpful as I might expect from you. However, I shall ignore that and merely say that I’ve heard something very nasty is stirring in the woodshed. Quite what and where, I don’t know; but I want to know, and damned quick. All the indications are that people are getting badly stirred up. No hard information, mark you, just subtle hints and feelings, and it’s a bit like a piranha getting let loose in a goldfish pond - the inmates are edgy. Frankly, I don’t much care if these particular inmates all go off their collective heads, but I do want to know what’s making them do it.”
“Well, you said this ODOUR thing.”
“Right, but what is ODOUR up to that’s got so many nasty little beggars worried?”
“And you really have no idea?”
Vileman sighed. “No. They’ve carried out a couple of major coups in the last year or so.” He mentioned names and Gunn’s eyebrows raised as he recognized a multinational corporation that had gone belly up as a result of internal bickering and union problems, and was only now making a comeback; and a minor African country that had suffered an ultra-rapid change of government.”
“Wanda engineered those?” he asked.
“With her own little twisted mind. Clever, isn’t she?”
Gunn frowned. ”Why wasn’t I told?”
Vileman smiled sweetly. “You were busy, remember? I think there was something about Afghanistan for the first one, and weren’t you swanning around in Central America when Motumu’s party got kicked out?”
“Touché,” Gunn replied.
“Anyway,” Vileman went on. “Neither of those affairs were anything to do with us directly. I mention them to give you some idea of what she’s capable of.”
“And you think she’s up to something even bigger this time?”
“Damned right. Those were just warming-up exercises.”
“And no clues.”
“Nothing. Nada. Nichego. Except . . .”
“Except what?” Gunn pounced.
Vileman pulled a face. “Just the littlest feeling; the tiniest idea that it’s something to do with Africa.”
Gunn breathed out a long, slow sigh. “It would be. The woman’s got a bee in her bonnet about that.” He uncoiled his length from the chair, knowing there was nothing more to be gained, and made for the door. “I’ll start making inquiries.”
Vileman watched him go without a word, then turned back to his papers with a small smile of satisfaction. Gunn occasionally needed a trigger to get him going, and Wanda Liszt had been it. There was nothing more he could do but watch, wait and help, if asked.
Polly Anders looked up as Gunn came back into her office.
“Another assignment?”
Gunn returned her gaze through lowered eyelids and crossing to the window looked silently out. A slight breeze stirred dead leaves in a scruffy bit of park across the road, and some pigeons busily polluted a pompous looking bronze general, frozen for ever on a highly improbable looking charger.
“Yes,” he replied, softly. “Though what I’m supposed to do, and where, I haven’t the slightest idea. Do we have anything for ODOUR?”
Polly gave him a surprised look. “I don’t think you need anything. And anyway, your friends would have told you by now.”
“Ass,” Gunn laughed, fondly. “I mean as in MAFIA, or SPECTRE.”
“Just joking,” the girl replied. “I’ll buzz records and have them send it all up to your office. Like some coffee?”
Gunn nodded his thanks and went down the corridor to his office. As he sat down he glanced at his watch and sighed. Better miss lunch as it looked like being a busy afternoon, and nothing was going to stand in the way of his evening with Cynthia Ffoote.
CHAPTER TWO
Daylight was fading, and the desk lamp made a yellow pool on the papers by the time Gunn had digested the available information on ODOUR. The reports were many and varied. One, from the CIA gave assumed manpower, and mentioned a couple of names that were familiar. The French Deuxième Bureau had gathered, in typical Gallic fashion, some very vital statistics on two of the more important female members, and there was a curious appraisal from the KGB, unusual in that it had been provided in a spirit of co-operation in the pre-glasnost days. And there were others; snippets of information picked up here and there, and comprehensive evaluations of the two operations Vileman had mentioned. In between there were cryptic emails and hastily scribbled reports from people as diverse as a bookmaker in Adelaide, a silk merchant in Singapore, a banker in Zurich who divulged information about numbered accounts that was normally sacrosanct, and a mining magnate in South Africa who had a greater understanding of the local under currents and feelings than most.
A picture emerged, albeit indistinctly, of an organization dedicated to the disruption of society by means of industrial mayhem, financial chaos and breakdown of trade. It seemed CHAOS had no particular axe to grind; it didn’t aim at any one particular country or political persuasion. Its aim was money, and power, and didn’t care how it came.
Finally Gunn leaned back in his chair, rubbed tired eyes, and looked for inspiration at the lithograph of Sherlock Holmes - a tongue in cheek gift from Polly - which adorned one wall.
“This is going to take our best effort, Maestro,” he murmured. “Instead of Moriarty, we now have Wanda Liszt - but where is she? Where do we start?”
He got up, stretched like a panther, locked his desk and called down for Records to collect the files. As he waited, he planned his moves over the next couple of hours before dinner, mentally compiling a list of people to see who might give him a lead.
The clerk from Records came; Gunn signed the return docket and left his office, heading for the elevator. The corridor was deserted, but the signs of life were still there in the mechanical buzz and chatter of the signals section. He popped his head in at the door, said goodnight to the duty officer, and rode the clanking cage to the ground floor.
Sergeant ‘Earthquake’ Magoon was still on duty, solid and rock-like as ever. Gunn had often thought that if the time came when he wanted help; if he was ever in a situation when hope was the only thing left, he would rather like the unshakable presence of Magoon at his side. The nickname, Earthquake, was not an idle one, and it had been said by those who knew those things, that even the Special Air Service, of which he had been a proud member, had felt a little anxious when Magoon got angry.
“You still here, Sergeant,” he said. “No home to go to?”
Magoon folded the Times and glanced at the clock in his booth. “Just finishing the crossword, Sir. O’Rourke got a bit held up. You off then?”
Gunn nodded. “Indeed I am. A bit of last minute work, and then dinner.”
“Another job, Sir?”
“Yes. No rest for the wicked.”
“Well, good hunting, Sir.”
“Thank you, Sergeant, and goodnight,” Gunn replied, and with a sketchy salute, walked out into the gathering dusk.
His trail over the next couple of hours would have greatly interested certain people had they known of it. Gunn, however, took great care to make sure he wasn’t tailed, and when he decided that, a bloodhound would have given up in disgust.
He visited the dingy office of a Lebanese fruit merchant in Covent Garden, and was told some things that would have caused a couple of minor heart attacks in the Foreign Office and State Department.
He then called on a London based senior member of the African National Congress, and found him more worried about the path industry and inter-tribal tensions would take than any aspect of apartheid ever had: and the man had good reason it seemed.
Later, he disturbed a well known banker in his home in St John’s Wood, dragging him away from a pre-dinner drink with guests, and got some disquieting information about the future price of gold in relation to the South African mines. And finally, his wanderings took him to the over decorated apartment of a prominent labour leader in Wimbledon, where his fears were confirmed, and it was in a very thoughtful mood that he drove back to his home in Clarges Street to change for dinner.
He wasn’t surprised that Vileman hadn’t been able to get a handle on what was going on. Vileman was a spider, a weaver of webs who pulled strings that motivated others. He was not a field man. He had not spent his days in the dark corners of the earth. He did not get shot at, mugged, threatened with death and, above all he did not descend into the depths where the real information lay.
Gunn did, and his contacts were as varied as there were people in the great city. The people Gunn had spoken to knew of Vileman; it was their business to know the secret things. They also knew of ODOUR, and they were afraid. One of them, the banker, had also mentioned Wanda Liszt by name. Gunn stopped the Lagonda in front of his house, got out and locked the doors.
The attack was very fast and noiseless. Gunn saw the flicker of movement from the corner of his eye, and the glint of light on steel as the man came up the basement steps, the knife held low for an upward belly thrust. He whirled in a classic defence, slammed his right hand down in an axe-like chop and rammed his leg out like a piston.
His attacker screamed once, chokingly, and collapsed retching in the shadows with a broken wrist and shattered knee cap. The knife clattered harmlessly to the pavement.
Gunn took one look at the crumpled body, carelessly pushed it down the same steps it had come from, and with a fluid movement scooped up the knife.
A wide-eyed woman stopped, hand in front of her mouth as if about to scream. Gunn turned on his most reassuring smile.
“Jehovah’s Witness. They just won’t take no for an answer.”
The woman scuttled past like a demented crab and broke into a shambling run. Gunn watched her until she got to the end of the street. He felt a little sorry for her.
He then strode up the steps as the front door opened, to be greeted by his manservant and friend, James Sweetstory.
“Good evening, Sir. A pleasant afternoon I trust.”
“Fruitful thank you, fruitful,” Gunn replied, as he entered the hall. “But the best is yet to come.”
“I am gratified, Sir,” Sweetstory said. “Your bath is ready, and there is a drink on your dressing room table.”
“Thank you,” Gunn said. “Oh, just one thing. Dispose of this, will you.” And he handed him the knife.
“Certainly, Sir,” replied the man, totally unmoved, and pocketed it like a master conjurer.
Gunn started up the carpeted stairs, paused and turned.
“One other thing. There’s a rather untidy mess on the basement steps. The knife belonged to it. Get it cleared away, will you, there’s a good chap. The local copper’s an excellent fellow, but he might not quite understand, and I have a feeling he’ll be around shortly.”
Sweetstory nodded, his face devoid of emotion. “Certainly, Sir. Will that be all?”
“Yes, I think so,” Gunn replied, with a twitch of a smile. “I shall be dining with Lady Cynthia.”
“Very good, Sir,” Sweetstory said, and disappeared like a wraith, totally unmoved by events which might have sent a lesser man into a mild hysterical fit.
Half an hour later Gunn was putting the finishing touches to his black bow tie. The bath and drink had done their work and he felt totally refreshed, and the incident on the pavement earlier had added another piece to the jigsaw forming in his mind. The knife, or to be more accurate the stiletto, was a Sicilian weapon, or Italian at least, and that tied in with one of the names he’d heard from the Lebanese fruit merchant; Al Ferno, one time boss of the Steelers Mob in Pittsburgh, who had escaped deportation back to Italy several years earlier by skipping the country. Wanda Liszt, Gunn knew, had used him more than once in the past. Admittedly, the connection between a knife and the man was tenuous to say the least, but Gunn believed in hunches, and his sixth sense told him the connection was there.
It also spoke of some very good intelligence on the part of ODOUR. Briefly he wondered if one of the men he’d spoken to had contacted someone. There had been time to organize an attack; or else Vileman had been asking questions too loudly and Wanda Liszt was taking pre-emptive action. It did not speak of coincidence. Gunn mistrusted coincidences in his business.
The tie completed to his satisfaction, he glanced at the effect in the mirror, Not bad really. Six foot two inches of superbly fit sinew and muscle, and not an ounce of fat. Going slightly grey at the temples in contrast to the dark hair - quite distinguished that - and cool blue eyes. Cynthia Ffoote seemed to like the result, but then, so had others. Gunn’s memory flashed back for a second, and then he wiped his mind. The past was history, to be remembered only for its lessons, not for sentiment.
He went downstairs to his study, poured himself another small Glenmorangie, his favourite malt whisky, diluted it a fraction with cold water, and stood sipping it in front of the fireplace. His mind was now totally focused on the coming evening, all trace of Vileman and whatever lay ahead gone, pigeon holed till morning. The world could wait another few hours.
He glanced at his watch, downed the drink, and went out into the cool evening.
At the touch of the starter, the Lagonda’s 5.3 litre V8 engine leapt into life with a muted rumble of promised power, Gunn’s face reflecting the glow of instrument lights. He engaged gear and moved gently away.
Lady Cynthia Ffoote, inevitably called ‘Pussy’ by her friends, glanced at her slim gold Longine wrist watch. It showed one minute to eight, which meant she had precisely sixty seconds to put on her coat. Maxim Gunn was rather more punctual and reliable than the sunrise.
She carelessly shrugged on her black three quarter length coat, studied the effect in the hall mirror, walked to the front door, counted down from five to one slowly and opened it. Gunn stood on the step, his hand poised over the bell push.
He gazed at her for a long moment, smiled, and inclined his head in mute surrender. “I had not thought it possible,” he said. “But you really do become more beautiful each time I see you. I think you must be a witch. Only magic could make that possible.”
Cynthia laughed delightedly. “You exaggerate, darling, but I love to hear it. Promise you’ll never stop.”
Gunn looked into the emerald green eyes, took in the tawny gold of her thick hair, and the statuesque perfection of her figure, and shook his head.
“If there’s one thing certain in this uncertain world of ours, it’s that,” he confirmed, and taking her arm, led her towards the car.
What followed has no place in this story, except to say that it was a perfect evening, and there was not a man who saw her did not draw in his breath at the sight of Lady Cynthia, and not a woman who did not feel a flutter as Maxim Gunn passed. Much later, well after midnight, Gunn took Cynthia home and returned to Clarges Street. Normally he would have gone to bed, but he did not feel sleepy, went to his study and poured a night cap.
For a while he sat, thinking, and then went to the well stocked bookshelves and began searching. Something nagged at the back of his mind; something he could not put a finger on, but it was the Lebanese fruit merchant again who had placed the germ of an idea that was growing like a small plant, unseen in the dark.
Gunn ran his finger along the shelves, taking out a book here and there, then shaking his head and replacing it after thumbing through a few pages. What was it the man had said? Something about Africa being a ripe fruit ready for the plucking if one had the right tool to get it off the tree.
There was something else too, but what? He stood for a moment, hands clenched in frustration at the fallibility of memory; and then it came back. It was Cynthia. Some over dressed middle-aged woman had come into the restaurant, and Gunn had made the comment that she should learn that quiet elegance was the key, not overt show. Cynthia had laughed, telling him not to be a snob, and pointed to the diamond necklace the woman wore, saying. "Most women I know would commit murder for stones like those."
That was it. The man had said that in order to control a people as diverse as the many races and tribes of Africa, a person would need a key, a great talisman of some kind that transcended all their differences and bound them into a cohesive whole.
Quickly Gunn went to the shelf where he kept his boyhood favourites, and pulling out a book, went back to his chair. He flipped open the title page, shaking his head. “Come on, Maxim,” he murmured. “Be real.” The page said, “Prester John”, and the book was by John Buchan.
Three hours later, the object of the exercise forgotten in the excitement of the old story, he closed the book just as the first grey light of dawn silhouetted the rooftops across the road. It was a story of power, controlled by one man and centred around a great talisman, a magnificent necklace of rubies said to have belonged to the Queen of Sheba: and it had taken place in the Africa of the early twentieth century. That was what had triggered his memory.
Stiffly, Gunn got out of his chair, replaced the book and went upstairs for a shower. It was too late, or too early to go to bed. As he showered, he hummed to himself, smiling at the fanciful idea, and then, while knotting his tie, he looked directly into his own eyes in the mirror.
“Just suppose, Maxim old son,” he said quietly. “Just suppose it isn’t as stupid as it sounds.” He tightened the knot and ran a comb through his hair. “It’s the kind of thing Wanda would do, you know. What if something like that really did, does exist? The trouble is; how do I find out?”
He laid the comb down and took a jacket out of the closet. “Emil Thanisch. That’s who I’ll ask. Good old Emil.” And with that, Maxim Gunn went down to see if he could get some breakfast, and even at that cold, grey hour of morning the smell of cooking bacon and coffee told him that the ever present and semi miraculous James Sweetstory had managed to anticipate him.
Emil Thanisch worked in an office in the dusty catacombs beneath the British Museum, not five minutes walk from the headquarters of the Organization, and Gunn having used his knowledge in the past, had formed a peculiar friendship with the tall, gangling, untidy scholar.
When Gunn entered the unbelievably cluttered room later that morning, Thanisch looked up from a cuneiform tablet he was examining, and said. “You know, this guy Hammurabi must have been quite a fellow. The laws he set out about four thousand years ago are really still the basis of ours today.”
Gunn was used to the man’s ways, and took the information in his stride. Anyone else might have said something like “Good morning” or “How are you”, but Thanisch seemed to consider little things like polite conversation a waste of time; instead he offered a comment on a long dead Babylonian king.
“Then he’s got a lot to answer for,” Gunn replied. “As Mr. Bumble said, the law is an ass - much of the time.”
Thanisch grinned, his long, thin face lighting up boyishly. “Shouldn’t bother you much, I’d have thought. I imagine you follow Kipling rather than Dickens. The Law of the jungle?”
Gunn smiled back. “Neither is perfect, but at least the jungle version lets you take a swipe back without getting sued.”
Thanisch tossed the priceless tablet carelessly on his blotter, put his feet on the desk, leant back and asked. “What brings you here on this lovely morning, my friend: surely not the pleasure of my scintillating company?”
Gunn swept a pile of books and papers off a chair, dusted it and sat down. “No. And how would you know what kind of a day it is?”