John Steel Collection - Books 1-3

Chapter 2

It had been nearly a week since the operation had happened. First, there had been two days of debriefing and an after-action report given, then some downtime before the flight that Thursday.

It was early Friday morning when John Steel’s transport had touched down in RAF Brize Norton in the early hours of the morning.

Steel took a train from Oxford to Paddington station. From Paddington, he had taken to tube to Victoria station. Now he was finally on the train to Maidstone, Kent. It was a one-hour journey from Victoria Station, but it gave him time to relax – if indeed that was possible for Steel. He saw threats all over the place. That was what he was trained to do.

Sometimes, it got tiresome for him, but he was still alive then. But he was tired, and the train was warm and comfortable.

He rested his head against the cold glass of the train’s window. It made his warm skin tingle. He smiled gently at the sensation as the train had pulled out of Victoria.

The gentle metallic clickity-clack of the wheels on the track was soothing. Clickity-click, clickity-clack, clickity-click, clickity-clack.

Clickity-click, clickity-clack, clickity-click, clickity-clackSteel felt the train rock from side to side as the engine powered the white tubular snake along the winding track that cut through the country’s south. They passed fields and towns, villages, and woods. But all Steel saw was his dreams of home as he closed his eyes and sank into a blissful sleep.

Miles away from the sleeping soldier, a man in a dark pinstriped suit walked briskly down a long corridor on the Albert Embankment building.

His hurried footsteps echoed through the white walls and white marble floors maze.

The high concave ceilings bowed over him like some modern cathedral while natural light poured through the windows on his left. These were tall and wide with two-inch-thick panes of armoured glass. The building was Britain’s Secret Intelligence Agency headquarters, and the man had a message for the head of MI8.

MI8 was sharing the building for the moment with MI6. A temporary solution which did have its benefits now and then. From time to time, MI6 would borrow an agent if they were stretched or indeed pass it over if they deemed it ‘not their trainset.’

The ministry had found a suitable place for the new intelligence agency; however, funds were tight, and MI8 had to prove itself.

The man in the pinstriped suit stopped at a gloss white door. Around eye level was a brass plaque with black lettering in the centre of the door, which read, Miss Monday. Secretary to the Head of MI8.

Miss MondaySecretary to the Head of MI8.The letters were in Times New Roman font and stood an inch high.

The man swallowed hard, knocked sharply, and then waited for the ‘come in’ from Miss Monday. Instead, a voice like an angel came from the other side. There was a friendly warmth to it, but it rang with authority and no natural trace of an accent.

He entered the office quickly and looked over at an attractive woman in her late thirties. She was slender with a long neck that extended gracefully through a white blouse. She wore a dark blue skirt suit and black pumps. The light from the sun made her dark skin and styled black hair glisten. Her dark eyes were wide and curious. The whites of her eyes were pure, with no trace of red from tiredness. Her face had traces of Jamaican and European. Her nose was pointed, and her lips were thin but full. She was an attractive woman, as well as brilliant. She spoke three languages – French, German, and Italian, and was currently learning Mandarin. Also, she had a doctorate from Oxford in computer science and a law degree from Harvard. Miss Monday had been in the Navy for ten years before being snapped up by MI8 after she’d assisted in resolving an incident in South Korea.

Miss Monday looked up at the man with big brown eyes and smiled.

‘Morning, Staff,’ she said.

The man, Stephan Larkin, a Staff Sergeant in the communications wing of MI8, was simply known as ‘Staff.’ Returned the smile. ‘Morning, Miss Monday, is he in? This one’s urgent, I’m afraid,’ Staff explained. His tone and manner screamed he was uncomfortable. Whatever this news was, it wasn’t going to make CO happy.

Miss Monday sat behind a long-angled desk, nothing more than a plank of varnished wood on metal legs which was to the right side, so he had to look past the door to see her.

A stack of files, a monitor and keyboard, an intercom system, and a telephone sat on the desk. The desk behind her was a single-window with lace curtains that dulled the sunlight. To the left of the door was a row of grey metal filing cabinets. On top of one of these was a potted fern. The office was twelve feet by twelve feet square with two doors. One was the entrance to her office and another to the right of where he stood. This was covered with marron-coloured padded leather.

Above the door were two lights. One was red, and the other was green. If the red light was on, that meant the CO was busy, and the person would have to wait until it was green, or the CO would announce over the intercom.

‘OK, Miss Monday, I’ll see him now,’ a stern gravelly voice came over speaker.

Miss Monday nodded at the man, and he made his way through the double doors.

CO’s office was vast compared to Miss Mondays. It was full of oak furniture, bookshelves, and Chesterfield office chairs. The floor was polished wood with a Persian rug on which sat a grand; oak and red leather topped desk. In front of the desk were two high-backed burgundy leather chairs. The aroma of pipe smoke and furniture polish hung in the air. It reminded Staff of a headmaster’s office in Cambridge. He smiled as he entered that inner sanctum.

Staff looked over at the head of MI8, who was busying himself at his desk with an open file. CO was a short, stocky man. He was in his late fifties with a round head that had lost most of its brown hair. His grey-blue eyes were small, with baggy sacks underneath. He wore a brown suit with a tartan waist jacket and a red and blue striped tie. His skin had a red complexion, as though he had just been coughing moments before.

‘What’s so damned urgent, Staff?’ CO said, his voice growled.

‘Chatter, sir, soon after that Bosnia incident, the red flag went up on the organisation,’ Staff said, handing over a buff-coloured file.

‘An organisation that we still haven’t confirmed exists, just your damned informants saying it does. Granted, if this Bosnia thing panned out, but there was no proof that this organisation you keep jabbering on is involved,’ CO said. He sat back in his chair. The wood and leather creaked. ‘So, what’s the new chatter – as you colourfully put it?’

‘They’re going to hit the ones they think are responsible,’ Staff said. He felt the dryness in his mouth as he spoke.

‘What, the SAS team?’ CO asked, a serious look on his face.

‘No, someone else, sir,’ Staff nodded towards the file. CO opened it and stared at the report. His face became pale.

‘Dear God. I hope you’re wrong, Staff.’