The Midnight Falcon

The Midnight Falcon

  By Graham Saunders

  Colby, not quite the man he used to be.

  Valentina, beautiful, a seductress, dangerous.

  Natasha, a child born to be a Queen...

  What could possibly go wrong?

  ***

  Copyright 2016 Graham Saunders

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  About the author

  Chapter 1

  It was not the physical pain that hurt, it was the thought that he had failed. Failed to keep the innocent child safe, only nine years in the world and already he was facing his last journey. The bullet that lodged deep in Colby Linden's shoulder was seeping dark blood across his crisp white shirt. It was a stain that he would carry for many years, marking him as a failure, culpable, untrustworthy. He could never bring himself to offer any excuse for what had happened. He should have foreseen the assassin standing in the doorway, it was his job to anticipate these things. He should have been aware of the danger lurking in the black shadows of the starkly bright north African sunlight.

  There was nothing to do for the boy now, he lay still and pale, the bright sun seeming to fill his corpse with life where there was no longer any spark. Colby brushed the hair from the child's unseeing eyes with all the gentleness that the tragedy demanded. If it had been possible he would gladly have traded his own life for the boy’s. Then he made the call, his mobile phone heavy in his hands and the silence that greeted his words deafening. Finally they spoke, just practicalities, no remorse. Colby had enough remorse for the whole of Equis.

  "You'll have to make your own way home." They said as if he were now disowned. "We'll inform the family and local authorities, arrange transport... get him home."

  Around Colby's neck, worn and polished smooth, was the silver chain his grandmother had given him when he was still a child. He slipped it over his head and placed it around the boy's neck. In a moment of sublime irrationality he felt maybe it would keep the boy safe on his last journey... Colby's grandmother had told him that the chain was magic, that it would always keep him safe just as it had brought her father home safe from the trenches of a conflict that had ripped the soul out of humanity a century ago.

  Then he stood and turned, winced as he tried to move his arm. He could feel the warm blood running down his sleeve, dripping from his cold fingers. As he walked away from the scene of the outrage his vision was blinded by scalding tears, his emotions numbed by sadness. Then a dullness fell across his eyes; a dullness that would rob him of his bright future and leave him broken.

  ...

  There was a mood of optimism in the small east European State of Sachovia. Optimism for the future which even the threat of an approaching winter could not dispel. Among the plotters and schemers who always seem to play a disproportionate role in the politics of men, there was a sense of urgency; an opportunity to be won or lost and on this pivot the whole future of the emerging state would turn. Sachovia was a small country now long liberated from the yoke of the communist years. Suddenly the country had discovered a new self awareness and some were casting a glance to their past to re-establish the lost days of pomp and majesty. Other minds were more focused on the economic opportunities that now lay almost within grasp.

  Nature had been kind this year; it had been a good growing season, good rain in spring and a long hot summer had matured the feelings of optimism. The swelling Riesling grapes of the reinvigorated wine industry were ripening nicely on the vines that ribboned down the verdant slopes to the lake. The spring flowers had cropped heavily and profitably in the benign climate – The political intrigues were also blossoming and would in time reap their own harvest.

  As the last rays of a late summer day faded to twilight, a softness of shadow fell over the lake. The view from the shoreline across the wind-rippled water was of the Constantine Conference Centre at Alexigrad. The building, newly restored from the decay and destruction of the war, stood framed against the distant mountains; a monument to past glory. To the occupants of the black Mercedes limousine that threaded along the narrow winding road, the white painted walls and turreted towers took on an almost fairy-tale aspect in the half light. The travellers' minds were however far from the pastoral scenery, there was a palpable nervous tension that sparked across the car's hushed interior. Few words were exchanged but each man was keenly aware that they stood on the edge of a momentous decision. The journey had been long; in excess of a hundred kilometres of new motorway and another fifty of winding mountain passes that connected the Capital City of Rubansk with this once isolated retreat.

  Adam Prochniak had considered arranging a helicopter for a swifter journey but on reflection had decided that adopting a lower profile arrival would be more appropriate to their mission. The sight of a non-military helicopter in Sachovia, no matter how innocent, was still rare enough to attract public attention. The group were well aware that the nature of their meeting was not one to be allowed to spark public interest. For the record this was simply a long weekend retreat; a little walking, a little fishing perhaps. Some good food and like-minded company to relax with before the start of the political year.

  The Conference centre offered a measure of luxury, the absolute discretion of the staff was a given. Away from prying cameras and eavesdropping microphones, the clandestine group of politicians arrived quietly and settled themselves into what had once been the magnificent Winter Palace. A monument built by Alexandra of Sachovia over three hundred years earlier. Since the untimely death of Gregori Kashinka ostensibly from a sudden illness, there was only one remaining descendant of Alexandra known to be still living. The Bolsheviks had been merciless in hunting down the heirs of their fallen ruler and only one family had survived in exile. A family now reduced to just one child of thirteen.

  As a sudden flurry of sharp wind snapped foam up from the lake edge, a flight of Greylag geese lifted into the darkening sky and noisily rode the currents of the warm air that rose from the water. For the assembled men such scenes of tranquillity escaped their notice. It was time to talk of treason; it was time to confront the dark malevolence of assassination.

  "You are absolutely sure that the room has been swept." Edward Waleski asked. He turned his gaze away from the view of the lake that was fading into a misty grey as the light faded. He had been focussed on the twinkling lights on the far shore. The distant hamlet of Zurmach huddled low beside the lake, sparkling under a clear starlit sky. He wondered if it really was an hour and a half away by car to the vineyards across the lake. Out here in this wilderness, time and distance seemed to have lost all their meaning.

  Stanislaw Pejic looked up from his notes. He was head of party security and took the question of the room's status as an explicit insult to his competence.

  "For the sake of Christ man come and sit down. We need to get this meeting under way. Nothing that passes between the four of us will go any further than this room. I need not remind you that our lives may well depend on that; the veneer of civilized democracy that has been stitched together in Sachovia is still gossamer thin. I ne
ed not remind you that absolutely no notes written or otherwise recorded will be taken during our meetings. So take care to commit to memory everything that we agree on."

  Waleski nodded then raised his hand by way of fleeting apology and took his seat at the waxed and age-darkened oak table. Polishing the lenses of his glasses, that he had specially made while taking a brief sabbatical in Paris, he considered once again how vulnerable his position was. He had absolutely no wish to ruffle anyone's feathers... Not until he could engineer sufficient support of others to bolster his own claim to the position of Party Leader. Walenski was a patient man but he lacked the true killer instinct to rise any higher in the party's hierarchy without the assistance of someone much more ruthless. Such people were not unknown to Edward Waleski and he was not without resources but he did not yet realize that time was not on his side; he was not the only party member with his eyes on the leadership.

  "We all know the reason for our meeting." Tomasz Cichowski said rather unnecessarily. A quiver of nervousness took the composure from his normal self confident baritone voice. "Unless we take action soon the child will be returned to Sachovia and our hopes of ending this ridiculous push to re-establish the monarchy will be dashed. That rotting carcase should have ended with the Bolshevik revolution. There is simply no place for a monarchy in modern Europe."

  He was of course preaching to the converted. Even so Waleski muttered an agreement and added his perennial view of being unconvinced that this child could possibly be the legitimate heir to the throne of Sachovia. Even if such a throne could still be thought to exist after nearly a century of communism had bridged the old days to the present.

  "We know your views on the matter Edward... The fact remains that there is a huge swell of public opinion in favour of returning the Monarchy to Sachovia. Even our esteemed Prime Minister poor naive Boris Koch has been swept along with the enthusiasm. We cannot allow him or his party to continue in power. A return to a monarchy would be an unmitigated disaster for the country. Even the damn Americans are in accord with us on that."

  "The Americans have no power to influence our sovereign State Adam... As well you know."

  "The Americans have more subversive leverage than you may realise Tomasz, but you are right they will offer us no support unless we can absolutely 'resolve' her claim to the throne."

  "Does she even want to be Queen?" Edward asked.

  "Almost certainly not but as the last surviving member of the Kashinka dynasty, little Natasha has little choice in the matter. The monarchists, for which you can read 'the government', have chosen to sacrifice her freedom for what they see as the good of Sachovia."

  Edward poured himself a glass of water and looked into the eyes of his co-conspirators.

  "I have to admit to qualms about..." He hesitated to say the words. "Killing an innocent child..."

  "Really Edward... you need to grow some balls, this is not a tea party we are engaged in."

  "Yes yes, I know all that Tomasz. Indeed on an intellectual level I am persuaded by the greater good argument... Its just... " He found it difficult to make his case without sounding weak and continued on a different tack. "In any case I have two questions." He rose from his chair and moved to the window. "Firstly do we still know where the child is with any certainty? And secondly where does Moscow stand on this? We cannot allow ourselves to slip out of favour with the Kremlin."

  Prochniak made a pyramid with his fingers and tapped his index fingers against his lower lip. After what might be considered a somewhat sinister pause he answered slowly and deliberately with the quiet self-assurance of a man familiar with being in control.

  "I have..." He said pausing for emphasis. "Someone whose identity I can not reveal, but who has a measure of access to Natasha Kashinka; our problem is not in locating her but in resolving what must be done with her. As for the Russians I have a commitment from a most senior level that they will not involve themselves in our internal politics. Indeed they are of a mind to be supportive of our Republik party should it win power in the next election. You must remember that Sachovia unlike the Black Sea states, has no strategic importance for Russia – not unless we make unwise approaches to join NATO. As you know this is an action which our party has made commitments not to pursue should we win the election. I also need not remind you that if the monarchy is re-established then the chances of our success in the elections will be much diminished."

  "Yes we all understand that Adam... So if we can discount interference from Russia, then why not just have Kashinka quickly and quietly killed and put a rapid end to this once and for all."

  "I wish it were that easy Edward... Unless Kashinka's death can be seen to have absolutely no connection with the Republik Party, our legitimacy would be threatened. The people, in their simple way, want their Queen. The Republik party needs to be seen to join the country in mourning her loss... Should that 'unfortunate' event unfold."

  "So how, in your view, can we engineer such an outcome Chairman Prochniak." Stanislaw Pejic asked over the rim of his reading glasses.

  "That, my friend, is exactly why I have invited you to this little weekend retreat. Gentlemen, if you are in agreement, I propose we consider the best way to precipitate the 'accidental' death of Natasha Kashinka – before she is returned to Sachovia – before she becomes Queen... To that end I have spent many hours considering how we might arrange an untimely end for the child. An end which would appear to have its origins in a foreign regime with no political interest in Sachovia, her death would be seen as unfortunate collateral damage. If you agree with my proposal, and its outcome is successful, then we may join our countrymen in expressing outrage and grief at the loss of our dear queen. And Sachovia's anger will be focussed overseas well away from the Republik party."

  "Bravo..." Called Stanislaw Pejic. "You seem to have worked out a solution without needing our input at all. Please tell us more, the suspense is killing us..."

  The rather sarcastic note did not escape the chairman's notice but he chose to ignore it for the moment and with a smile of self satisfaction Adam Prochniak began the careful explanation of his skilfully constructed duplicity...

  ...

  In London, within a week of the Sachovia meeting having drawn to a satisfactory conclusion, Colby Linden, at 42 still nearly handsome in a rugged slightly disreputable way, was feeling out-of-sorts. It was nothing specific just a general malaise. He knew without too much introspection that the lack of stimulation from his job was the probable cause. He still worked for Equis, the renowned city based security firm. Equis was a company which dealt with all aspects of security from the mundane installation and monitoring of alarm systems, the escorting of vulnerable goods and personnel, the settlement of hostage situation to the provision of close protection officers. All aspects of security were undertaken by Equis Security. Established in the sixties by Anthony Freeman, Equis had grown exponentially until it had risen to the premium company in Europe to deal with in its specialist arena. On the retirement of Anthony Freeman, his daughter Jane had taken the role of chairwoman and she had continued the growth and reputation of Equis.

  Colby had been set on course for a stellar career at Equis and it was not until a little before Jane would take the reins of the company that things went wrong. The media gleefully called it 'The Khan Debacle' and Colby was held personally responsible for the death of the young son of a wealthy Saudi businessman during an intrepid, if ill advised, rescue attempt. Not only was Colby held to be culpable due to negligence but it was rumoured that he had accepted a financial incentive to place the child in a vulnerable position. A brief action brought by the boy's family could present no real evidence to substantiate the claims against him. Indeed there was no evidence as the events as presented by the media were a complete falsehood. The case against Equis and by definition Colby Linden was readily dismissed but he nonetheless became the scape goat for the affair and was quietly and systematically edged out of public sight by Equis.

 
"Can I get you another?" Colby asked. He was not a man who normally sought solace in the bottom of a glass but sometimes a little softening of the edges was unavoidably required. Penny hesitated just slightly too long which put Colby a little ill at ease with his companion. Eventually She responded.

  "You may Colby, but I hope this is not going to cost me more than I'm willing to pay." She slipped a loose strand of hair back behind her ear. A soft, pink rather engaging ear Colby noticed.

  "Penny, I would never consider trying to buy my way into your affections; not for the price of a vodka and tonic in any case." He brushed his fingers across her cheek in a genuine attempt at affection. Penny smiled and slid her glass across the table. No longer married she twisted the third finger of her left hand that had once been imprisoned by her wedding ring. It was nothing more than a habit, a reflex action but Colby could not help noticing. He was trained to be observant.

  Colby had been trying to get her to accept his offer of a drink for months now. In a moment of self sacrificial pity or possibly just weariness she had finally capitulated; how much further she would let the evening go remained for the moment undecided. Her eyes scanned across his still athletic frame as Colby made his way to the bar. Many men of Colby's age would have sunk into a softly corpulent middle age by now. Colby had somehow kept himself fit, quite fit actually. To Penny's eyes there was no doubt that he was handsome; dangerously so, but his physical attraction was tempered by a shabbiness that spoke of yesterday's man and what she understood to be a seriously flawed personality.

  As personal secretary to Jane Freeman, she had access to his file. What she found there, at least in recent years, did not make a compelling case in favour of the man's character. He appeared to have a shadow over him and as a result had been sidelined from the elite team of agents into a rather secondary support role, a desk jockey. What surprised her was that Colby seemed to have accepted this as if it were all he now deserved. Following the publicity surrounding his botched mission in securing the safety of the Saudi heir, a pall had been cast over the whole of the Equis organisation from which it had only in the past few years fully emerged. Penny considered Colby rather lucky to have kept his job with Equis at all.

  On consideration as she watched him, not quite flirting, with the rather obviously buxom bar maid, she resigned herself to keeping Colby at arms length. He was just too dangerous a proposition to risk getting involved with despite the obvious attractions that rather urged her in a different direction. By the time Colby had extricated himself from the wayward barmaid and juggled his way back to the table with a vodka and tonic and a half of lager. He saw to his dismay that Penny's seat was empty. She had left leaving behind her just a slightly warmed leather chair and a hint of Chanel Number 5.