Ghost Order

Chapter 3

Chapter 3

London

Below, the patched squares of green fields, snaking roads and dotted buildings spread far into the distance, fading on the horizon where the blue sky appeared. Sunlight glinted off the wing and Frank turned away to sip on his black coffee. The captain announced over the PA system that they were to be arriving at Heathrow airport in ten minutes and went through the usual monologue of resetting seats and tray tables.

Frank hardly heard any of it as his mind drifted back to how his life had changed in the last few months. The family he thought he was part of had been shattered when Maria asked for a separation.

Temporary, of course. See how it panned out.

It had knocked him off balance, shooting him between the eyes like so many of his adversaries had tried to do. Anger, hurt and betrayal all mixed into a cocktail of negative emotion had boiled up inside.

Then, after weeks of talking it through, he began to understand. The kidnapping of Joe and Maria must have percolated in her mind, giving her a different perspective of their relationship. The safety of their family was paramount to her and so she had dealt him the separation card. There was no way he could argue about being able to keep them safe in his line of work. Now he believed he was done with all that. There had been a few short-term contracts in security work. Nothing too dangerous but the damage, it seemed, was already done.

He loved her still. How could he not? She was the mother of their children. The one woman he would kill for and, indeed, had killed for.

Frank made his way through the lines at immigration, picked up his gym bag and made his way out into the harsh New Year’s air to flag down a taxi. The cab driver gave him a nod at his instruction and Frank stared out from the rear window, still lost in thought, as they weaved through the hectic London traffic towards Stoke Newington. After thirty minutes he exited the taxi outside his small flat located above a twenty-four-hour convenience shop. People went about their business at all hours on this busy road. An Asian man unloaded boxes of vegetables onto the pavement. In his peripheral vision he caught a glimpse of a figure throwing a cigarette butt onto the road before moving off. Out of habit, Frank took note; middle-aged, tall and dark-haired, wearing a black leather jacket and faded jeans who was looking his way.

Was there something in it? Or was he being paranoid?

Frank bought cigarettes from the shop, then came back out and caught another glimpse of the same man turning the corner. He took his time fishing out his keys, managed one more glance and noticed the figure had disappeared.

Frank unlocked the door to the apartment block, edged past the bicycles parked in the hallway and climbed the stairs. Once through his door, he looked around the sparsely furnished flat, checking each room for any sign of tampering.

Satisfied everything seemed in order, he grabbed a ready meal from the fridge, placed it in the microwave and grabbed a bottle of Jack Daniels bourbon and a glass from the cupboard before slumping onto the ageing sofa. The TV sparked into life and he tossed the remote aside, wondering how he had ended up back in the single life. He should be in Islington with Maria and the kids in the house that they had bought after moving from the flat in Shoreditch.

Now here he was, back in bachelor mode; alone in a cold, spartan flat.

Perhaps his idea of starting a new life in Ireland was too much of a stretch? It was barely affordable with his meagre savings and Maria hadn’t worked since the kidnapping episode a year before.

Yet the farmhouse had felt perfect. Isolated but calm.

A family could live there under the radar. It could be a lovely card to play; an olive branch to offer her.

Who was he kidding? She wanted this. He wasn’t to blame. Perhaps it was karma from when he left Jodie all those years ago. He had been young – what a naive i***t. The beep told him that his prepackaged meal was ready so he grabbed his Bolognese and wolfed it down.

Although he barely admitted it to himself, a deep part of him missed the adrenaline rush of being in the field, taking risks and holding the cold steel of a weapon in his hand. Instead, he had the prospect of an early morning shift, merely walking around a warehouse checking that everything was in order while his thoughts stewed and swirled.

Frank tossed the empty plate and cutlery in the sink to fester and turned in for an early night, knowing that the turmoil in his mind would deny him sleep for hours despite his tiredness.

***

The following day Frank clocked in for his shift at a machinery warehouse further north in Woodford after as much sleep as he anticipated. Two hours at most. The work was mind-numbingly dull but it paid a few bills. Frank stepped into a small, claustrophobic office where another man sat slumped in a chair, a bank of CCTV monitors in front of him and the room reeking of takeaways and human sweat.

“Morning, Toby. Jesus, it stinks in here,” said Frank, covering his mouth and nose with a glance of his palm.

“A New Year present for you, Frank,” said the younger man, grabbing his phone and wallet from a side table and standing up with a sudden eagerness to leave. “You’re too kind,” said Frank with undisguised sarcasm.

“Oh yeah, the boss man said he wants a word with you this morning. Guess he’ll pop by?” Toby added with a half shrug.

“Oh right, thanks, Toby,” Frank replied, curiosity mildly piqued.

The young man typed in a code to the console panel and left the security office with a slam of the door, leaving Frank alone to get on with his routine. Coffee first, then login to check the night logs and take a first of several walkabouts to check the integrity of various exits and entrances inside and outside of the warehouse complex. Fifteen minutes later his employer, Mr Parkinson, walked in. He nodded to Frank.

“Morning, Frank. How’s it going?”

“Not bad, thanks. Not bad. Toby mentioned you wanted to see me?”

Parkinson nodded, his face serious. “Yes, I’ll not beat about the bush, then,” he muttered, hesitating for a moment. “Your contract – the company are re-structuring a few things. The short of it is, I—”

Frank held up his hand, unable to listen to anymore. “My contract isn’t being renewed?”

Parkinson sighed. “That’s it. I’m sorry, Frank.”

Frank shrugged. “It’s the way it goes. Not ideal, but I’ll find something else.”

He had guessed it might be something like that with his contract renewal a few weeks away. There was no doubt it was a harsh blow to him and his plans to restore his relationship with his family, despite his outward show of nonchalance to Parkinson.

During his shift he had spoken to Maria but didn’t mention the work situation. Time was needed to sort that out. Then he had checked in on the kids; Joe and Zak. Baby Zoe was barely a year old and gurgled in the background. He would have some time to spend with them at the weekend, he said, and genuinely looked forward to it. It was Thursday.

After the shift finished, Frank decided to stop in the pub on the way back home, the pull of downing a pint was just too hard to resist.

He left his car parked on the street and began the short stroll to the pub. In an old Vauxhall Astra opposite, Frank caught a brief glimpse of a semi-familiar face. Was that the guy that he’d seen opposite his flat? He was making a call inside the vehicle and it was difficult to get a clear view.

Same man? Frank sneaked another look as he continued on his way but couldn’t be sure. What he did know was his senses were on full alert.

The pub was busy with the after-work crowd of punters desperate for some escapism at the bottom of a glass. A television relayed the news, the sound turned down while the closed captioning rolled over the bottom of the screen and a murmur of conversations, laughter and shouts filled the air. Frank was sitting away from the bar in a booth, the paper spread out in front of him, nursing a Guinness with a bourbon chaser on the side. He had positioned himself so that he had an eye on the door that he scanned every time it opened. Another familiar figure walked in and Frank instinctively lifted the newspaper higher to conceal himself.

“Hello, Frank.”

He peeked from behind the paper to see a familiar Afro-Caribbean face. The long dark coat, open at the buttons revealing a crisp suit and tie underneath. The epitome of a smart, hard-working businessman – maybe a debonair playboy or an aspiring entrepreneur, born to hustle. Except the face looking at him was worn and tired-looking. A stark contrast to the well-turned-out attire.

“Marcus? I thought it was you. This is a coincidence,” Frank said evenly, knowing it wasn’t.

Marcus gestured to the seat opposite. “May I?”

Frank nodded and folded up his paper as Marcus eased into a chair. Frank noticed the man in the black leather jacket entering the pub door before moving to the bar.

“How have you been keeping?” Marcus asked, keeping the conversation light.

Frank looked at him for a moment, pausing, wondering what this was all about.

“Well, it’s been better. How goes the world of Liberatus News?

“Good. Yes, good.”

Frank jerked his head at the man at the bar. “Who’s your friend?”

Marcus glanced over and then caught Frank’s level stare, a moment of embarrassment flashed across his face as if caught out with a hand in the piggy bank.

“Ah, you noticed.”

Frank waited, taking a sip of his pint, forcing the explanation.

“He’s security. A private detective hired by me.”

“To follow me? What’s that about?”

Marcus shook his head. “Don’t take it personally. I needed to make sure of your routine. And check no one was shadowing you.”

“There’s been no-one except your friend. He’s been shadowing me.” Frank sighed, not sure of what to make of it. He cut to the chase, draining the bourbon. “What’s going on, Marcus?” he asked, catching Marcus looking at the drink.

“Don’t judge,” Frank snapped, slamming the glass on the table.

Marcus shook his head and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the dark wood table.

“There’s no judgment here. You want another one?” gesturing at Frank’s glass.

Frank gave him a withering look that told Marcus where to go.

“Look, I have a message from John. All I can say is,” Marcus glanced around the pub, “he wants to talk to you, urgently.”

Frank let out a snort of derision. “I don’t owe him or you anything,” he snapped.

Marcus studied Frank’s face. “Look, I know I f****d up when it came to Pandora Red but lessons have been learned. You’re needed, and you’ll be well paid. At least hear me out?”

Frank leaned back and sipped his pint. “Not interested,” he snapped.

Marcus kept his face impassive but Frank could tell he was reeling inside. He surely couldn’t have thought it would have been that easy. After all that happened? It would be hard for Frank ever to forget. When Maria and Joe had been held captive by the criminal Viktor Kozel under the orders of David Devlin, the MI6 head at the time, Marcus Brady had royally screwed up. Frank had told Marcus to hold back the information from publication for three days to give him enough time to track down Maria and Joe to save them from execution. Yet Liberatus News had published the revelations about Operation Oculus – a massive surveillance programme a whole day early.

A mistake that had very nearly cost his family their lives.

Marcus Brady’s pathetic justification had been that “the police had raided their offices”, “the staff and journalists harassed” and “they had been followed by the authorities”.

The PI had moved from the bar to sit a table close to the front window and stole the occasional stealthy glance towards them.

“You can tell your man his job is done. It’s not happening, Marcus. I’m trying to restart my life, away from all that shit.” It was true, partly. On the one hand he wanted to look out for his family and be there for them. A steady, safe job could win Maria back. Convince her that his old yet brief life with the Dark State was over. On the other hand, there was the numbing mindlessness of a “safe job” just like the one he’d lost. He felt the pull of excitement associated with the very same world he just disavowed bubbling just under the surface and tried to dismiss it as a risk not worth taking.

Marcus placed his hands, palms down, on the table and dropped his head. “Alright. Your decision.” He rose to stand, then buttoned up his coat.

“There’s a time factor involved in this one. So if you change your mind, make sure you do it by Sunday.” There was now a more authoritative tone in his voice as if he was no longer bothered by what Frank decided. He tossed down a business card in front of Frank.

“Just in case you lost my number,” he said.

Then Marcus was gone with the PI quickly following him out of the door.