The Fisherman E-Book

James Quinn

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Tom Lyth is a man of many parts; writer, adventurer and exiled American living in the UK.

He is also a man of secrets: a ruthless covert intelligence operative known as The Fisherman. A master manipulator, a seasoned spy and lover.

When one of the shining stars of The Fisherman’s weapons technology intelligence network, codename Sailfish, is compromised, an extraction operation is ordered to bring him back in from the cold. But there are other power players who want to get their hands on future weapons technology, and after Sailfish himself becomes a target for enemy assassins, only The Fisherman and his team of covert operators can protect him.

From the Souks of North Africa to the streets of London, Berlin, Vienna and beyond, James Quinn, author of the Gorilla Grant spy novels, introduces a new hero to the world of future covert intelligence.

Leseprobe

THE FISHERMAN

THE FISHERMAN

BOOK 1

JAMES QUINN

CONTENTS

Books by James Quinn

Introduction

Book One

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Book Two

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

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

About the Author

The fisherman will return…

Copyright (C) 2022 James Quinn

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2022 by Next Chapter

Published 2022 by Next Chapter

Edited by Lorna Read

Cover art by CoverMint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author’s permission.

BOOKS BY JAMES QUINN

A Game for Assassins

Sentinel Five

The Christmas Assassin

Rogue Wolves

Gorilla Warfare

Berlin Reload

Clandestine

And Yeshua said to them,

“Come after me, and I shall make you to become fishers of men.”

ARAMAIC BIBLE

“All men dream: but not equally”

T.E. LAWRENCE

“If atomic bombs are to be added as new weapons to the arsenals of a warring world, or to the arsenals of nations preparing for war, then the time will come when mankind will curse the names of Los Alamos and of Hiroshima.”

J. ROBERT OPPENHEIMER

INTRODUCTION

In 2015, the Russian President Vladimir Putin gave the order for an aggressive campaign to be initiated against the main western democratic countries. At the forefront of this assault was the need to create future technology and thus invent a new arms race in which Russia would dominate. Alongside the more traditional tools of war such as espionage, disinformation and sabotage, its arsenal would also include cyber, advanced weapons systems and next generation unorthodox warfare.

In order to achieve this mammoth task, private weapons developers in the civilian and military industrial complex were recruited semi-consciously to develop an arsenal unlike any the world had ever seen before. Some projects failed, others survived and some, probably the most deadly of the future-technology, went underground and disappeared into a black ops network ready to sell to the highest bidder.

This is the story of an organisation that tried to stop them.

BOOK ONE

SAILFISH

ONE

TUNISIA, NORTH AFRICA, JUNE 2018

The fierce heat of the day had begun to dissipate along the coast and had instead been replaced by the sultry warmth of the night. Along the harbour, people were making their evening pilgrimage to seek out bargains from the street sellers and the cockroaches were scurrying to and fro on the pavements, hissing when anyone approached them.

The Fisherman sat opposite his agent in the upper tier restaurant on the Nautilus, a sixty-foot motor launch that had been converted into a double level restaurant that specialised in the delicacies of Spain and North Africa. It was permanently moored in the harbour at the tourist resort of Port El Kantoui in Tunisia.

The Nautilus was exclusive enough that there were only a small number of private tables on the top deck; six, no more, the lower level belonged exclusively to the tourists. The layout suited the Fisherman perfectly as privacy was a thing that he valued more than most. The restaurant was tastefully lit with enough small lamps to make it practical, while still remaining discreet for its VIP patrons that night. The large fish tank boasted a selection of lobsters that could be chosen by discerning customers for their evening meal. The waiters and maître d’ were all immaculately attired in crisp white shirts and black bow ties and were subtle enough to give their guests privacy as and when it was needed.

He had booked one of the best tables in the restaurant. Both he and his agent sipped at their glasses of iced water, occasionally glancing down at the crowds who mingled around the harbour and at the guests seated at the other tables in the VIP area of the restaurant.

‘The Fisherman’ had many names and aliases, none of which were real, and even his true name was a secret that was known to only a select few within the organisation that sponsored him and the even more secure compartment of his own mind.

He was dressed in a light-coloured linen summer suit and open-necked light blue shirt. His watch was an expensive Fossil chronograph and on his left hand ring finger he wore a single, and simple, brushed steel ring that hinted at a discreet commitment from his past. His features could be, and had been, altered many times over the years by prosthetics and stage make-up so that he could blend into any environment. He was a human chameleon. He had to be if he was to survive and remain undetected. And while his current attire and manner was the nearest thing to the reality of who he actually was, he was also able to slip comfortably into a variety of aliases and facades should he need to. In his time, he had been an arms dealer, an Arab peasant, a playboy thug, a terrorist and many more besides. The Fisherman could be whatever was required of him. It was what had made him one of the best intelligence specialists in the world and also one of the most feared.

To the casual observer, he had the look of a tough businessman who had done prison time in the distant past. He was mid-forties, of medium height, with the build of the marathon runner rather than a fighter; although he was able to do both reasonably well. His slender face was stubbled and held at its centre relaxed grey-blue eyes that could, so he’d been told by women from his past, offer both intensity and confidentiality. His hair was dark with a hint of grey and had been cut short and styled to help with the North African heat. To that same casual observer, he looked like what he was; a confident gentleman and a successful businessman who was relaxing before dinner.

The waiter came over and spoke to them both in Arabic, asking if they would like to order. The Fisherman smiled and replied, “A few more moments, please, we are still undecided.”

The waiter nodded sympathetically and moved away. The Fisherman closed his eyes and momentarily enjoyed the calm swaying of the boat on the water, taking in the sounds and smells of the night. Then in a blink he opened them again, did a quick scan of the environment to ensure that everything was still the same. No watchers, no one taking too much interest in them.

His agent was beautiful. There was no other word for her; late thirties, tall, slim, dark eyes, dark-haired and dressed like she had just stepped out from a fashion shoot in Milan. She was the epitome of an Arab beauty. As well as being his asset on this mission, she was also his lover. The myth that agent-runners don’t sleep with their agents was nonsense. It happened more than spy-masters knew or would care to admit. But for the context of the Fisherman’s mission, it fitted perfectly. She was in love with him, would do pretty much anything for him and he, as a completely ruthless agent-runner and handler, was willing to manipulate her to do whatever was needed. If that meant a torrid love affair, then so be it.

He watched as she sat serenely, her skirt gently riding up to reveal one beautifully tanned thigh. Their eyes met and they smiled at each other. He had been told that he had a wonderful smile and that he should use it more often. And so he did; like a weapon.

“I’m so happy to see you again, François,” she said. Her voice was deep and husky, and added to her mysterious beauty. She knew him as François Lucerne, a French Canadian businessman with a sideline in cutting deals between parties and taking a finder’s fee. A broker, a deal-maker, bit of a crook. It was vague enough to explain his comings and goings and illicit dealings.

“I’ve only been back a day, I flew in from Egypt yesterday,” he said. “I wanted to catch up with you first before I did anything else. I missed you.”

His cover for the moment was that he was representing a consortium of Eastern European businessmen that were looking to invest in the region – Tunisia, Morocco, even venturing into Libya once the country was a bit more stable. However, these fictional ‘businessmen’ were looking for a trading partner in the region. So they were conducting a little bit of unorthodox due diligence. Which was where the equally fictitious François Lucerne came into play.

The Fisherman’s agent’s name was Solange Fayed and she was the local office manager based in Tunis of Gladius Holdings, a run of the mill import/export company. However, all was not as it seemed. Its owner was one Vladimir Petrov, former Russian Special Forces Captain and now striving to be one of the biggest illegal arms dealers in the region.

Gladius Holdings was a mere front for the much more lucrative arms trade that Petrov had chosen to inhabit. Petrov had indeed come to the attention of a group of individuals as his cover story had intimated. Unfortunately for Petrov, those individuals were a part of the organisation that the Fisherman worked for; The Prism.

Petrov had a long history of supplying terrorist groups in the region, which had caused him to be put on the ‘Active Target’ list of The Prism. What followed were the machinations of a powerful and well-funded private organisation that culminated in them activating the intelligence specialist known as the Fisherman. His mission was to gather inside information about Petrov’s whereabouts, isolate him and then neutralize him if necessary. It was a classic rapier rather than broadsword operation and was something that the Fisherman was very good at. After all, subtlety in the intelligence game was everything.

The Fisherman had recruited Solange Fayed six months ago. She had been targeted as a useful access agent, someone who would be willing to acquire and provide information. It had been a standard approach. Strike up a conversation in a public place, gain her trust and start a friendship. That friendship had led to them inevitably becoming lovers, albeit on an on/off basis. After that had come the recruitment pitch. She was what was known in the trade as a ‘semi-conscious’ agent. She knew the game and she knew what she was involved in. She was a willing participant, even if she didn’t know the full details of what she was doing. Once the recruitment had been made, then came the next stage; targeting the type of specific information that the Fisherman wanted. Slowly at first had begun the drip, drip, drip of intelligence about his target, the Russian, Petrov.

Why had she decided to become a willing agent? In the Fisherman’s experience it could have been any number of reasons. There were all the usual incentives; money, revenge, ego. But in this case and knowing a thing or two about how an agent’s mind worked, the Fisherman liked to think that she was just trying to do the right thing and be a decent human being. But more than likely she was just trying to survive financially. Not easy for someone as beautiful as Solange Fayed, who had, unfortunately, gotten mixed up with some vicious people.

Solange reached out and took his hand in hers. She held it for a moment as their eyes met across the table and… that was it, the passing of the USB stick was complete. The Fisherman quickly slipped it into his jacket pocket. “Anything of interest?” he asked her.

Solange nodded and smiled. “Petrov always has something going on. There has been an increase in activity over the past few weeks. A lot of email traffic. Something big is about to happen.”

“In Europe?” he asked.

“No. I get the impression that it is more internal… perhaps here in Tunisia,” she said.

Petrov was a pig who would sell to anyone, and even though she was not directly aware of Petrov’s intimate arms deals, she knew enough to figure out that the Russian wasn’t selling tractors and ploughs. The Fisherman had trained her in anti-surveillance, espionage and the use of a covert sniffer program that lay undetected on a computer and that would take an instant snapshot of whatever was on the screen every three seconds. It was an invaluable piece of spy software. He would check the information later and then dissect it, before passing it over to the technical experts in The Prism.

“Any idea if and when Petrov is due back in town?” he asked, sipping at his water.

She smiled and shrugged. “I have heard that his arrival is imminent. He may already be here; his entourage keep things very discreet. There is some information on the USB stick. Do you still want to arrange a meeting when he is back in Tunisia?”

The Fisherman nodded. “Absolutely! My clients are eager to establish a trading partner in the region. The information that you have given us, a peek inside Mr Petrov’s camp, if you like, has shown us that he’s a man we may be interested in doing business with.”

But more than that, thought the Fisherman, he wanted Petrov locked down so that he could be eliminated once and for all. And to do that, the Fisherman needed a cast iron location to kill him.

“Anyway, that’s for another time,” said the Fisherman, smiling and raising his glass to Solange. For now they could both relax. The Fisherman turned his mind to more pleasurable matters. His eyes ran over her body, noticing the sensual shapes beneath the dress she wore. “How have you been?”

“I have been as well as can be expected, considering your absence,” she said, moving one perfect lock of dark hair away from her eyes and matching his gaze.

“Is there anything that I can help with?” he said, teasing.

“Maybe… perhaps later,” she replied flirtatiously.

“Okay. At least let me order some wine? We might as well be comfortable,” he said, calling across a waiter and ordering a bottle of white Tunisian wineand fresh lobster for both of them. They chatted and flirted while they waited for their food. It was easy to forget that they were both indulging in a very ruthless game of espionage. But sat here on a warm night in North Africa, they could have been honeymooners. When the food came, they both relaxed and dined well, enjoying the setting of the Tunisian night.

“I have a favour I need to ask you,” said the Fisherman. “I need you to get closer to him, to Petrov.”

The Fisherman had been toying with approaching the subject all night. It was a sensitive issue that had to be handled carefully, but eventually he had made the decision to push ahead with it. Solange was silent for a time, looking out over the sea, lost in thought. Finally, she said, “I understand. I just don’t know if I can do that. I don’t even know if that’s possible, François?”

The Fisherman nodded. He understood what he was asking of her and he knew that he would have to tread carefully here. Pushing Solange had to be done delicately. It was as much about making her see what needed to be done for the mission, rather than what he wanted her to do. But hard information about the whereabouts and movements of the target were needed and time was running out fast and putting Solange in Petrov’s bed was a quick route to a quick kill.

“It won’t take much… a casual glance, the right clothes… You’re a good-looking woman,” he said, lowering his voice and leaning forward across the table.

The violence of her reaction took him back momentarily. She thrust herself forward across the table and glared. “Fuck you! I know what you want me to do… FUCK YOU! I’m a spy, not a whore,” she hissed.

He took in her reaction and recognised the sign that he had pushed too hard and too early. She was right, she wasn’t just some whore, she was an asset and an asset is not a robot to be programmed. An asset is a human being with real emotions and free will.

“I’m sorry,” he said, quickly trying to turn it around and recover the conversation. “That was crass, I apologise. I am under a lot of pressure from my bosses. I would never let you do that, I would never let another man touch you… ever!”

She sat back, calmer now that she had vented. Then she smiled at him once again, those beautiful dark eyes interrogating him. “That’s just as well. That fat pig Petrov has more of an interest in the beach boys that hawk fake watches along the coast than he has in the females who work for him.”

The Fisherman raised an eyebrow at that. Ah… so the rumours about Petrov were true. Maybe that was something that could be taken advantage of at some point. Useful…

She leaned forward kissed him gently on the lips and then sat back, placated. “I love you, François.”

Before he could respond, something strange happened. It was the red dot that he spotted first, so beautiful and clear and centred on her forehead. It shook him for a moment; first the intelligence on Petrov and now the little red dot. The Fisherman knew what it meant and what would happen next if he didn’t act fast! He tried to move, tried to grab her, push her, and do anything to get her out of the line of fire. But the Fisherman had faced lethal weaponry before and he already knew that she would never make it.

One moment the little red dot was there and then it was gone, replaced instead by the thwack of a bullet as it entered Solange’s forehead. A halo of blood spread out behind her, spraying the other diners and then her body collapsed forward onto the table in front of her, all life gone from her in an instant.

“Noooo!” he screamed.

The waiter got it next, his head exploding and then his body slithering down into a nearby table. Whoever the sniper was, he was using a large calibre weapon judging by the mess of blood, thought the Fisherman. Unfortunately for him, and because of the angle of the boat, the Fisherman was partially protected by a mast. Solange and the waiter had been the optimum targets on the nearside.

The boat erupted in screams and panic. Now the bullets were coming in thick and fast as the sniper, wherever he was concealed, was trying to target the steps that led down to the quayside. It was a smart move. The Fisherman looked over at Solange. She was so beautiful, even in death. He chanced a look in the direction of the gunfire but saw nothing. His eyes searched for an escape route from the restaurant which was fast becoming a huge bullet magnet.

He became aware of screaming from people in the area, apartment lights had suddenly come on, doors were being half opened. Things had become noisy and overt and anybody out on the street was running for cover to escape the killing ground. He knew that if he stayed there, he’d be a dead man within minutes. He kissed Solange gently on the lips one last time and then closed her eyes.

A quick glance over to a nearby side street and then, when there was a break in the shooting, he heaved himself up, sprang away from the table, down the stairs, then the ramp onto the quayside and then he ran.

Behind him he could hear the bullets tearing up the boat and peppering the road where he had just been. His feet hit the pavement with force and he ran for the darkness of the streets ahead, putting as much distance as he could between himself and the carnage behind him.

While his body was working at full speed to escape, his mind was going even faster to figure things out.

The hit-team had obviously tracked Solange to see who she met with, he reasoned.

The Fisherman assumed that the sniper was concealed in a room somewhere in the myriad of buildings that surrounded the harbour complex, and hence had prior knowledge of their movements. He thought back through the events of the last hour or so.

The intelligence on a USB stick? Petrov back in his home base of Tunisia? A concealed sniper with a high calibre long range weapon… ready and waiting for us? Too many coincidences to ignore! And now his agent… his lover… dead, murdered! It was all too much to comprehend. Too abstract and yet he knew that he had to focus.

He ran, whizzing through the back alleys, a plan already forming in his head to get to The Prism’s operational safe house in Tunis. If he could make it, he could report in and set the wheels in motion to act on Solange’s intelligence as quickly as possible.

In the distance, he could hear the wail of the police sirens and knew that he would be on the run as much from the police as he would from Petrov’s hit-team. The Fisherman was used to operating in a deniable world and enemies could either wear a mask or a badge. It just depended on the target and the location where you had been sent. He came to a halt at a crossroads in the old town and decided to head north; from there, he could hot-wire a car to get himself out of the city and head to the safe house.

He began to slow his pace; nothing says ‘guilty’ more than a man running for no reason in a street full of tourists. He moved slowly through the streets and it was only when he checked his back for the third time, as he was turning a corner, that he spotted what he suspected had been there all along. A man, tall, thin, with a shaved head and neck tattoo; a Russian perhaps? One of Petrov’s leash dogs? They locked eyes and the Fisherman quickly turned away and carried on walking, upping his pace and looking for future escape options.

He moved up past the tourist shops, hair braiders and restaurants, until the crowd began to thin out. This was the quiet part of the street, with fewer stores and people. Then, with a sudden spurt, he sprinted, hoping that the Russian wouldn’t be able to see where he had gone. At the last second, the Fisherman ducked into a side alley that intersected both the main tourist streets. His plan was to dog-leg back and then carry on with his original escape plan once he had dumped the suspected Russian surveillance team, which, at that moment, he had no idea how many it consisted of.

The alley was a hundred-foot dark haven of filth, waste and street rats and at the end he could see the light that announced his escape. To the Fisherman, it looked like a tunnel to heaven. His legs moved fast as he increased his speed, almost slipping twice as he jumped over the boxes and crates. It was when he was no more than twenty feet from the end that he felt like he had been lifted up by a giant force of energy and thrown against the wall. The air was knocked out of him and huge hands were grabbing for his head. Powerful arms placed him in a side headlock and began to squeeze his throat to let him know who was in charge. He felt like a toy in the hands of a giant child.

“Stoi or I hurt you even more,” said a guttural Russian voice as it dragged him further back into the alleyway.

Another Russian? So, a three man Russian hit-team; one sniper and two street operators ready to handle the rough stuff. Just then, he became aware of feet approaching at speed.

“Well done, Yevgeni,” said the tall, thin Russian with the tattoo as he got nearer. “I thought I’d lost him. Now let’s find out what this piz’da knows.”

The Fisherman began to struggle, trying to loosen the grip that the Russian had on him. But it was no use; the man was built like a bear and was just too strong. The thin Russian started to search around on the floor of the alleyway, looking for something to use. Finally, he stood up straight and inspected a half house brick that he had found.

“This will do perfectly,” he said. “Hold him tight, Yevgeni, the boss said that we are allowed to fuck him up before we kill him. I expect this to get messy.”

The Fisherman felt the big man’s arm tighten even more around his throat; he could feel his air supply diminishing fast. Everything was speeding up. He glanced up quickly and saw the other man stalking towards him, carrying the brick; confident and cocky, assuming it would be an easy kill. The Fisherman didn’t need any more information than that. The only thing that he could think of was that he would never see his home again, make love again or have pleasure again; and that he would not allow to happen!

The Fisherman had come back from more deadly environments than this many times over and he knew he would from this one, too. He had the confidence of the born survivor. But he also knew what was coming; his brains would be beaten out of his skull and he would die in this alley and Petrov and all the future Petrovs would be allowed to carry on maiming, killing and plundering, because the Fisherman had been taken out in a back alley in Tunisia. All hope would be lost forever with his death.

But the Fisherman wasn’t finished yet. He quickly shifted his bodyweight so that his right leg was suddenly stretched out behind him, lowering his centre of gravity and allowing access to the rear of his waistband area. It was all the room that he needed and then he would be back in the fight before the Russian killers had the chance to smash in his skull.

Like most agent-runners, the Fisherman rarely carried a firearm; for a handler, most of the time they were more trouble than they were worth, the only exception being when he was there to eliminate a target. Instead, he was an expert in expedient weapon and edged weapon combatives and it was the latter that he utilised now. He carried, as would befit a man with the title of Fisherman, a knife.

And, without being too modest, he was very, very good with it.

He managed to get his fingers to the knife in the small of his back, just the index finger and the thumb and instinctively he felt them snake around the handle. He pulled, felt the tug of resistance as he pulled harder and then the body of the knife was free from the Kydex sheath and was in his hand. His fingers instinctively curled around the handle of the small, curved knife. The knife was a bespoke Japanese handcrafted paring knife that had been made at the Fisherman’s commission by a master knife-maker from Tokyo; it had a three-inch curved blade. It was small, sharp and, in the right hands, deadly.

With his left hand, he grabbed hold of the Russian’s upper leg for support and placed the tip of the knife carefully on the rear of the man’s thigh. Then, with all his strength, he pushed the knife forward so that the blade penetrated all the way to the handle. The Russian howled with pain as the blood poured from his wound. But that was only half of what the Fisherman had to offer him.

The Fisherman had learned an edged weapon technique years ago, in training with Special Forces, called PIGS: PLACE – INSERT – GOUGE –SHEAR.

By pushing the blade into the Russian’s thigh, he had completed the first two parts of the method, but now, for added effect, he was going to finish off the Russian completely by gouging and shearing. He tightened his grip on the handle of the knife and dropped his right elbow down forcefully, all the time twisting the knife in the open wound. What had once been a three-inch knife wound had now been opened up to cover the circumference of the whole thigh. Not only was the cut wide but it was also deep, ripping out tendons and ligaments. The effect was instantaneous and the Russian let go and dropped to the floor, his leg useless. Just for good measure, the Fisherman shot out a powerful hook thrust with the knife to the man’s kidney area, confident that he would bleed out and be the first one to die.

The second Russian broke into a run, trying to close the distance, the hand holding the brick ready to strike down. “Schas po ebalu poluchish, suka!” he screamed.

The Fisherman moved into a fighting stance position, his left arm held up in a boxer’s guard to ward off a strike and his right hand, the knife hand, was held back by his hip, ready to strike out when the attacker came within combat distance. The Russian missed with the first strike, the brick was just too weighty and cumbersome. Unfortunately, it left the Russian off-balance and exposed, and that was all the opportunity that the Fisherman needed. The hand holding the knife flashed out fast like a boxer’s jab twice, striking the Russian in the throat. The man’s eyes bulged with the enormity of what had just happened and the blood leapt free from the wide gash that had penetrated his carotid artery.

But even though the Russian was mortally wounded, he still managed to complete a heavy back strike holding the brick. It took all of the Russian’s dying strength, but he did it. The corner weight of the brick caught the Fisherman a heavy glancing blow to his right knee, sending him reeling.

The Russian, fast bleeding out and going into shock, dropped the brick and then collapsed face first onto the floor. The Fisherman had seen combat enough in the old days to know that the Russian wouldn’t survive this fight. And he was right, because within seconds the Russian’s blood was pouring out onto the filth of the alleyway and already the rats were everywhere, eager to feast.

The Fisherman had landed with his back against the wall, his right leg buckled from the impact of the brick. Everything was foggy, a blur, the pain from his knee was screaming at him internally, and he knew that he had to get out of this alley, injury or not. He was aware enough to know that being found with a bunch of dead Russians would make the situation a hundred times worse.

He stumbled out of the alley and onto the street, his injured leg plodding, but still trying to keep himself moving. He was sensible enough to keep his head down and he stuck to the walls to give him support… at least for now. He made it another two hundred yards, a miracle really, before he collapsed against the wall of an empty store. The few people on the streets ignored him, writing him off as just another drunken European who was foolish enough to indulge in alcohol.

But that pause was all that was needed before the Fisherman’s professional instincts took over again. Survival was done for the moment, now tradecraft protocols kicked in. With shaking hands, he pulled out his cell phone and began to text the emergency number that was the SCALPEL back-up team at the safe house. The text said: FISHERMAN/DOWN. That text would send out an instant message to the SCALPEL team and they would be able to track the location of both the phone and its owner at once via the GPS signal. He just had to hope that they could find him before he either passed out, or he had to deal with a back-up team of Russians.

He put the phone away and closed his eyes for a brief moment. He blanked out for a few seconds then came to with a jolt. The USB stick. Whatever was on it was worth killing for, or at least that was what Petrov thought. The sooner it was safely in the secure vaults of The Prism, the better. And then he thought of his agent, the beautiful Solange, murdered by an assassin’s bullet.

He dragged himself to his feet and started to hobble forward and, as he moved into the night, heading towards the safe house and hopefully the covert action team, he reasoned that a little part of him had changed that night. And that the man that he once was had gone… and that a new creature had been born. He didn’t know yet what this creature was capable of, but he would soon enough, and more importantly so would Vladimir Petrov. For him, the Fisherman would show no mercy.

He saw a van, recognised it. It was his back-up; the SCALPEL team. The Fisherman stumbled and ran forward towards it into the darkness, leaving the light behind him.

TWO

TRILLIUM SECRET WEAPONS RESEARCH FACILITY, LANGT ARR – PRIVATE ISLAND OFF THE COAST OF NORWAY, 2019

Professor Pavel Zeman was twenty minutes into his team briefing when the pain hit him low in the stomach. He reeled, tried to recover and hold it together, but the grimace on his face and the perspiration on his brow told his audience that something was wrong.

In front of him in the conference room sat his development team of thirty people, each an expert in their chosen scientific field and all under his direct control to bring the project to fruition. As Senior Technology Development Manager of the Pandora Project, Professor Pavel Zeman’s role was to give the regular weekly briefing on how the tech was developing, any problems and when they could expect to carry out the final batch of tests before completion.

He had spoken on the current problems facing the overheating of the catalysts and how the next generation of 3D printed parts would be available soon for them to test. He presented a slide on the silent hypersonic engine of Pandora and how it was in advance of anything that the Chinese and Americans had. The team had laughed because they knew that the Americans were remedial in hypersonic research and development and that they were so far behind the curve that it wasn’t even funny anymore.

He had talked through the success that they were having, the engineers and the electrical experts, on harnessing the electrical current propulsion system and its backup engines. He had read out the findings of the ‘stealth team’ and their production of the quantum holographic shell casing that provided Pandora with a level of invisibility.

Finally, the good news; he had field reports from the north of the island, where the team responsible for the development of the next generation of ‘liquid metal’ bullets that supplied Pandora’s rail-gun armament system informed him that the bullets were holding their integrity against a variety of robust targets.

Professor Zeman looked them all over, then watched as they made notes on pads and studied him gravely. He stated that the project was running behind schedule and that the data that he meticulously studied, analysed and presented told him that it would be another year before the project would be finished. The weapons and the stealth systems were in place – but the most important part of Pandora, the hypersonic element, the speed that they hoped would be eight times the speed of sound, was sadly in a state of hiatus.

He knew what he told them was a lie. The truth was he had the correct calculations and technicalities stored in his head, safely kept. The truth was the hypersonic engine was technically ready now. But by keeping the correct calculations back and replacing them with false data, he was wilfully sabotaging the advancement of the project for the next twelve months.

The pain in his stomach hit him again, stronger this time.

The liquid capsule he had taken an hour again had kicked in almost to the exact minute. The pill was designed to simulate stomach cramps and the pain, while not severe, was designed to whiten the skin and induce nausea in its host. The pill, and Pavel Zeman’s acting abilities, made it look halfway convincing. He bent over again and dropped his notes onto the floor for dramatic effect.

“Professor, are you alright?”

It was Lerhman, one of his support staff, who was up from his seat and holding out a hand to stabilise his senior colleague.

“I’ll… I’m… fine. I’ll be fine,” said Pavel Zeman, just as a third wave attacked him, lower down in the stomach this time. He started to dry heave.

“Perhaps we should leave the briefing until tomorrow, Herr Professor,” said Jurgen, one of the cooling system specialists.

Professor Pavel Zeman straightened up and took a deep breath. He was white as a sheet and trembling. God, this time he felt like he was about to vomit! “I… I think that is a good idea. I apologise, my friends, I will be much better tomorrow.”

“Perhaps we should call the doctor?” said someone else.

“No, it is fine. I will make an appointment with my own physician in Vienna, I will do it today. Thank you, my friends, thank you so much for your concern. I really appreciate your kindness,” said Pavel, forcing a smile.

And whatever else spies do to deceive the gullible.

Langt Arr, the long scar, was a privately owned island located twelve miles off the coast of the Norwegian mainland, facing the inlet to Narvin. It was eighty acres of isolated beauty that could only be reached by helicopter or speedboat and only by invitation.

On the right side of the island and protected by a forest of Norwegian pines were the personnel accommodations. They were cabins mostly, that housed up to five individuals at a time with private lodges reserved for senior operations directors. It was a paradise that allowed the staff on the island, in their down time, to relax, fish (cod and mackerel were the catch of the season), bird-watch or just enjoy the clean air.

The island had been bought directly from the Norwegian government over a decade ago through a series of front companies, but with the main end-user being Trillium Industries International for ‘Research and Development’ purposes.

What the R&D consisted of was never stipulated. But the fact that the island had a discreet, but well-armed security presence, both on land and around its coastline, suggested it wasn’t just conducting ecological experiments. In fact Langt Arr was one of the most secret R&D bases in Trillium Industries’ extensive range of facilities. It was here that the next level of UAV assassination technologies was being created.

The testing sites were broken down into four separate buildings, with specialists from each discipline – hypersonic, weapons, stealth and communications – being restricted to their own theatre of operations and cross-pollination was actively discouraged.

At the far end of the island was the track. The track was a half mile test rail, covered by a sheet metal canopy to hinder satellite surveillance, where the hypersonic engine was tested. On test days, it was not unusual to become aware of several flashes of light that would illuminate the sky as the test trolley was thrown from end to end, trying to reach its target speed of seven times the speed of sound, followed by a distant crack of energy that reverberated across the valley… or perhaps at the Weapons Station the faint suppressed noise of heavy automatic gunfire giving a DUD-DUD-DUD noise behind soundproofed walls… and occasionally the thump of controlled explosives as the limitations of the liquid chemicals against a variety of structures and targets were detonated.

But the jewel in the crown of the test site was the Box, an octagonal structure that housed the restricted and heavily protected prototype of the UAV assassination drone – the Pandora.

It was such a beautiful place to create a machine of death.

The story of Pandora’s Box was legendary. In mythology, it was where all of humanity’s fears and terrors were kept. So it was apt that the Trillium scientists, like modern day Prometheuses, chose to contain their terror weapons in secret locations.

The ‘Box’ was a secure testing vault that was roughly the size of a small warehouse. It was here that the Trillium scientists devoted to bringing Pandora to life would run tests on the equipment and work on the prototype models, endlessly tinkering and tweaking it. The area was secured and closed off only to those engineers and senior project leads who had sufficient security clearance.

In the quiet moments, usually when the working day was over, Professor Pavel Zeman would come down to the box, swipe his security card, hear the hiss of the electronic doors and enter. Then he would ruminate and inspect the hypersonic missile in front of him. As Pavel Zeman, an expert in hypersonic advancement, he admired the technology in front of him, was even proud of it. But as Sailfish, the Fisherman’s spy and as a committed pacifist, he hated the creature that he had helped to build.

The Pandora was, like its namesake, able to pack a multitude of dangerous technology into a relatively small space. When completed, it would be capable of travelling eight times faster than the speed of sound, it was virtually silent in flight and had the added advantage of quantum holographic invisibility. Because it was capable of flying at very low altitude, it was able to ‘skim’ and therefore avoid any radar that was able to track it. It also had the added advantage of being controlled by a virtual pilot, or being directed through a remote GPS location system.

But to add to its delivery system was its advanced weapons arsenal, which made it truly terrifying. A plasma rail gun, with state-of-the-art facial recognition software, that was able to emit a linear burst of energy at a rapid pace, making it an easily directed energy weapon to a specific target for assassination. And of course there was the kamikaze element to Pandora in which, if the situation demanded it and there was no other option, it could be turned into an improvised explosive device; a missile.

Pandora was the length of a small family car, except that instead of right angles and sharp corners it was flat and sleek with rounded contours. The outer casing was dull, allowing it to have a low identification signature, making it virtually invisible to both radar and to the naked eye. The project team had nicknamed it the ‘Plectrum’ because of its arrowhead shape and slender profile. It was the next generation assassination vehicle.

The fact that Pandora was stalled was down to his technical sabotage. He had changed the calculations, subtly and cautiously over the years, making the missile clumsy, erratic and so far not fit for purpose. The correct information was stored safely in his extensive memory. He didn’t trust the cloud, or holding it on USB pen drives or any kind of digital hardware. No, it was in his good, old-fashioned memory where Pandora lived and that made it more secure, but also dangerous for him.

He knew that both he and Pandora were living on borrowed time. He thought of them both as intertwined secret lovers, ready in an embrace of death.

Oh, once his defection was secured, he was sure that Trillium would eventually find his successor to deliver their project to them. But that would take time and effort. Sailfish would have slowed down Pandora for years, maybe even a decade… he hoped.

Behind him, he heard the doors open and close automatically, a hiss of air, nothing more and he was shaken from his musings. He knew who it was instantly.

It was Markovic, the Serb, the spy catcher.

“I thought we could have a short briefing about your… how would you describe it? Condition? Illness? It is nothing to worry about, purely routine, when one of our people wants to leave the island outside of their normal specified leave time.”

The accent was deep and thick. Markovic sat in a suit that was two sizes too small for him. His face was bland, but his eyes radiated a concentration that was the trademark of the professional interrogator. They were sitting in the Security Chief’s office, a dark, foreboding room of wood and chrome, and before him he had a slim file in a plastic wallet that Pavel assumed was about him.

“You have been with Trillium for how many years now?”

“Five. Two at the Hypersonic Research Section in Oslo and the last three engaged on Pandora here on the island,” replied Pavel. “Since Schulmann, er… left. That was when I took over the day-to-day running of the project.”

Markovic nodded sagely. “Ah yes, when your esteemed colleague was removed, an unfortunate incident. But having dalliances with under-aged prostitutes made him a security risk. Sometimes it is necessary to remove people. It was unfortunate about Herr Schulmannn’s accident once he had returned back to Germany. A fatal car-crash, I understand.”

“He was a great loss to the project,” said Pavel blandly. It was like a game of chess; each trying to read the other.

“It says here that you have a sister in Berlin?”

“Yes. Sabina. She has a little boy, my nephew.”

“Just so. What does she do in Berlin?”

“She is studying art at the university. She is in her second year,” replied Pavel proudly, but really alarm bells were ringing at the mention of his sister and his nephew. That was dangerous ground.

“And how does she provide for herself?” asked Markovic, taking a ballpoint pen from his lapel pocket and clicking at the button triumphantly.

Pavel shrugged. “Part of my salary goes into an account for her and my nephew every month. She also works as a waitress to supplement her money.”

“And you speak to her how often?”