The Newsmaker (Volume One Book 1) Read online

  Copyright © Tom Field

  Tom Field has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental except in the case of historical facts.

  Registered IP rights number 4928420270

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Contact details for the author can be found on

  www.therealtomfield.com

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  For my mum, Mary Ann Ryan,

  My hero and my inspiration.

  Volume One – Part One

  The

  Newsmaker

  Paris

  The Palais Royal Musée du Louvre never failed to impress him. He had spent many hours here over the past few days, meticulously studying every inch, yet somehow he was always pleasantly surprised by how beautiful it was. To the voice on the phone, the station was of particular significance as it gave direct access to the Louvre museum. This meant there was a constant stream of people entering and exiting the busy station.

  The voice on the phone had demanded that it be here.

  And total destruction was imperative.

  As well as the constant stream of Parisian commuters, there were the tourists; innocent men, women and children from all walks of life, each one desperate to soak up a part of the Parisian culture, to feel like a part of something.

  As much as he hated to do so he had to admit, it was a most impressive station. Underfoot it had a deep, shiny floor and on the wall, display cases full of carefully copied artifacts, modeled on the classical heroes of Ancient Greece and Rome. All of this was, to him, symbolic of the Western World; extravagance, waste and overindulgence.

  His mind drifted back to earlier this morning. Everything had been so simple. Nobody had noticed the discarded electric wheelchair, or the olive skinned Metro employee in the filthy, brown overalls, who had wheeled the dirty-red device onto the carriage and then slipped away into nothingness.

  Whilst perception is everything, people only notice what they’re told to notice; an unattended suitcase or lone bag on a train - even someone dressed too warmly for that day’s weather. People had become so over vigilant that they had become blind to everything else. The news constantly spat out instructions to be alert, look for anything out of the ordinary, and report anyone behaving suspiciously. They reminded him of sheep and it was only a matter of time before the wolf would get them.

  He watched as a young couple excitedly skipped out of the station hand in hand, lost in their love and the romance of Paris. They stopped for a moment, and after the man had whispered something in the woman's ear, she shrieked and kissed him passionately on the lips. It was a captivating moment and he briefly felt himself being caught up in it.

  He reluctantly averted his eyes from the couple at the sound of the pretty, blonde waitress’s voice, “Anything else Sir?” she asked, followed by the most beautiful smile, before turning to attend to another table. She liked him, he could tell. Usually he’d have taken the time to flirt, an act that would result in him sleeping with her. It always did.

  He checked his watch. It was 8:54am. He drained the last of his coffee from the cup and a perverse smile played on his lips as he left a generous tip for the pretty young girl, making sure she had seen him place it on the table. She smiled her beautiful smile in acknowledgment. He took pleasure knowing she would soon be outside to collect it, yet might never have the opportunity to spend it. The thrill of having control over her destiny and indeed her death, outweighed his desire to keep her alive as his reward for a job well done.

  He quickly moved from the café and up the metro stairs and into a recess out of harm’s way, but still with a good view of the carnage which was soon to unfold. He checked his watch again, and counted down the seconds.

  5…4…3…2…1…

  A satisfied grin quickly spread its way across his face. It was 8:55am, and the explosion had gone off exactly as planned. He covered his face with a scarf so as not to be identified at a later date on CCTV, and joined the crowds of people screaming as they ran away from the source of the explosion, reveling in the destruction and despair which he had caused.

  Now for London and New York.

  ONE

  London

  Ryan Ward sat on a bench in St James’ Square drinking his Starbucks coffee basking in the glorious July evening warmth, looking at the elegant Victorian buildings that circled the small square shrouded in trees. He always found architecture far more interesting than people. Their longevity and beauty was nothing short of impressive, but what really appealed to him was the fact that, architectural moments of madness aside, buildings were consistent and what you saw was what you got. In his line of work, people were rarely what you saw. He had learned that lesson the hard way.

  He gazed across the small, neatly tendered lawn that was the centrepiece of the square, and was amazed that the grass was so green in spite of the mini heat wave that had engulfed London for the past two weeks. He loved the seclusion of the square. It was the only place he could feel alone in a city that never slept.

  To passers-by, Ward generally went unnoticed. He was an unassuming man in his early thirties and anyone who did happen to glance at him would be forgiven for assuming that he was employed in IT or banking. Based on a glance, he had a sense of professionalism but harmlessness about him, which seemed to put ordinary people at ease. To them, there was no way that he could pose a threat. But they would be wrong. To the many who had heard of him, and to the select few who knew him, he was the most efficient and intelligent assassin that both the UK and American governments possessed.

  He was a ghost, and that was just how he liked it.

  Despite his ordinary appearance, if you looked hard enough there were tell-tale signs which hinted that there was more to him than met the eye. Most notably it was his eyes which set him apart from others. They were a deep, dark brown, and the horror that they had seen was firmly imprinted on his retinas, and despite his haunted stare they gave nothing away. No fear, no confusion, no emotion, just a hint that there were secrets.

  Dark secrets.

  His short brown hair was always neat, styled with wax to hold it in place. He had a slightly rounded chin, with a strong jawline, and eyebrows that were soft and perfectly positioned above his eyes, which made him seem approachable, particularly to women. He could appear to be of average height and unnoticeable when wanting to fade into the background, or seven feet tall when standing over a man with his Glock cocked and ready to fire.

  But today, as he sat on the bench in the square, he wasn’t working for either government. He was working for those that couldn’t defend themselves.

  Eloisa Hammond was Irish by birth and every inch the Celtic queen with her porcelain skin, emerald green eyes and thick, dark hair, which flowed down to her waist. But beauty aside, she was not a woman to be messed with. She was tough, stubborn and never shied from confrontation, possessing a steely determination which was more in tune with his own than any woman he had ever met, or was ever likely to meet. She was the only woman he had ever come close to trusting. In his line of work, trust left you open to vulnerability,
but Eloisa had proven time and time again that she would never betray his confidence. She had been privy to his deepest, darkest secrets and yet never once had she come close to uttering them to another soul.

  She was a UNICEF Executive based in their New York headquarters, and despite her Irish heritage, she felt more American after living in New York for ten years. She was officially an Administration Executive, but in reality, her role was to feed droplets of information to Ward of any wrongdoing against children, which the Executive Committee of the United Nations Economic and Social Council were powerless to act upon, due to the political impact it would have.

  The governments of the UK and US could never officially sanction murder.

  Last week she had given him the name of an Estonian man, Urmus Misker, who was trafficking children as young as ten into Europe with the promise of a better life. In reality, Misker was grooming them for a life driven by fear which would invariably end in prostitution and drug addiction. All of these children were managed by cells of fellow Estonians, who handed over their obligatory twenty percent of profit to Misker at the end of every month.

  Ward had done his homework and established that Misker lived in an obscenely expensive Mews house in affluent Mayfair, in the heart of London. He had used his unique contacts to arrange a meeting on the promise of taking no fewer than 60 girls a month for distribution throughout the UK. Unsurprisingly, this proposition was readily embraced by Misker who was eager to set up a meeting. Once the date had been confirmed, Ward had carried out covert surveillance to obtain a definitive description of Misker and his trusted Lieutenant, Otto Kukk, a former Estonian Special Forces commander.

  The meeting had been arranged by a contact of Ward’s called Charlie ‘Dunno’ Dunman. The nickname had been born out of typical East-End wit – Charlie knew everything about the criminal underworld. Clear instructions had been sent via a third party that Ward would be sitting on a particular green bench in the square at 10:30pm, drinking a coffee from his right hand, with his left arm stretched out along the back of the bench, to show that no weapons were at hand.

  Staring out at the immaculate lawn, transfixed by the greenery of it, his mind wandered again to the impressive structures which surrounded the park. Directly in front of him, and only two hundred yards away, was a row of buildings that housed the affluent and those who held prominent positions in London.

  Today, these buildings also housed a ghost - one whose reputation was even more legendary than his own. This ‘ghost’ was known to him only as ‘The Optician’, the nickname that he had acquired because quite simply, no one could ever see him but he saw everything. They had never met, yet Ward considered him to be one of his only true friends. He was also the only man of whom he was truly afraid.

  He had first worked with The Optician four years ago in Syria during an operation to eliminate a highly sophisticated terrorist cell. Ward had simply been told that the best sniper in the world would be assisting him, and that they would never meet face to face. Their only communication would be conducted via cell phone. During the mission, a solid friendship had been born, based mainly on the fact that they were both keen supporters of the New York Mets. They still regularly spoke on the phone to discuss the latest game or, as was becoming more and more common of late, the poor form of the team.

  He was never too sure how to take The Optician’s claim that he would eliminate the Mets coach if results did not pick up, as he had been witness to his work countless times, and had seen his accuracy from over a thousand yards away. Ward had no doubt that a packed baseball Stadium full of witnesses would not cause The Optician any problems; no one would ever see him.

  From their first contact, he had promised The Optician that he would never seek to identify him. He largely kept his word, however the temptation burning away inside him had led him to begin to piece together The Optician’s background. He refrained from seeking his name, but he had deduced that he must have been in the military - a Navy SEAL or DELTA Force without a doubt. He had a thick Brooklyn accent, and his admiration of certain ex Mets players all being of a particular generation, led him to deduce that he was also in his early thirties, but due to the youthful verve and energy of him, he could equally be younger.

  He felt the hairs stand up on the back of his neck and turned his head sharply. His highly heightened senses told him that Misker and Kukk were within thirty feet of him, and approaching from directly behind him. He prepared himself for contact. Ten seconds later, he felt a hand grip his left arm in a vice like grip. Another hand brushed across the front of his body looking for hidden weapons or wires.

  Kukk was a giant of a man, standing at about six-six by his estimation, and he had a neck the size of a tree trunk. His shaved head also told him that Kukk was tough; a thick, deep scar ran across his forehead. On closer inspection, he noticed that it broke in the middle. Perhaps they were two separate scars, or caused by an instrument that broke when it made impact with his hard looking forehead, he thought to himself. Kukk squeezed even harder on his shoulder to get a reaction. He had seen this from men wanting to be tough guys a hundred times, and never felt any shame in playing along with it. He feigned fright and intimidation, so that Kukk believed he had control. After all, it wouldn’t hurt. So he hunched his shoulders and let out a loud “Ouch!” and then added, “Your hands are hurting me.”

  The humour for his own benefit and totally missed by Kukk.

  Kukk looked beyond Ward’s left shoulder and nodded; this was the cue for Misker to come and sit down on the bench to his left, while Kukk took up position behind him, keeping a tight, almost painful grip on his right shoulder. He pushed down on his shoulder with excess pressure, keeping him firmly in his seat.

  “I do apologise for Otto, Mr. Lane. He takes my protection very seriously. One has to be very careful in our line of work.” Misker’s accent was heavily Eastern European, but Ward could tell that he deliberately tried to sound as well-spoken as he could to appear more menacing, compensating for a childhood spent living in poverty no doubt. It reminded him of the old characters in the James Bond films that used to fascinate him as a young boy. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes; any false move, no matter how insignificant could betray his cover. He forced himself to remain in character.

  “Yes I agree Mr. Misker,” he said with a slight quiver in his voice, deliberately playing along for equal effect.

  “So, Mr. Lane, you want sixty of my finest product every month?” Misker asked.

  “Initially, yes, and if the quality is as good as you claim, I will take more.”

  “I am interested to verify, and also for my own peace of mind, that you are not with the police. Tell me, Mr. Lane, how are you planning to distribute such a high number of products?”

  Ward knew this question was coming, it always did. The key was to have the answer prepared.

  “It’s simple, really,” he replied bluntly, adding a non-patronising smile so as not to humiliate Misker, “There are fifty cities in England, and I have contacts in each of them who run different parts of my organisation for me. Keeping things simple is how I have made my money, Mr. Misker. I never get too greedy. One girl in each city and eleven throughout London makes sixty. Additionally, if the police raid one of my establishments they are not going to think too much about finding one girl, but seven or eight in one place from one Eastern European country leads to Serious Crime Squad involvement. With their resources, that would invariably lead them to me. If I were greedy, I would have started at one hundred.”

  “But you are planning on expanding your operation at a later date, yes?” Misker asked.

  "Most definitely, but I have a question. How young can you get the girls?”

  Misker and Kukk looked at each other and smiled smugly. This was a sale that they could never be beaten on. Misker always had the youngest, freshest and prettiest on the market.

  “How young do you want, Mr. Lane? I am sure you appreciate that the younger the child, the more risk is i
nvolved for my associates. This drives the price up. If you want girls under ten, I want double.”

  “Ten thousand pounds per child? That is a steep price, even for the highest quality,” Ward exclaimed.

  “These are high quality units, Mr. Lane. Untraceable and prepared ready for use,” Misker replied, his smug grin never faltering.

  “What do I do if I am unhappy with the children you supply, Mr. Misker? I mean, how do I know that you are going to deliver what I pay for?”

  He felt the grip tighten on his right shoulder. Kukk clearly didn’t like his boss being questioned, and he felt Kukk’s nails begin to dig into his skin. If he hadn’t been taught to tolerate pain this would hurt, he thought to himself.

  “A business relationship is about trust, Mr. Lane. If you are unhappy with the merchandise that I provide you can return them and I will replace free of charge. This I will offer as a commitment to our relationship but only for our first deal.”

  “And what will happen to them if they are returned?”

  “What I do with them is not your concern, Mr. Lane. Questions like that make me suspicious,” Misker said, looking Ward up and down as he spoke.

  Kukk moved his hand around to the back of Ward’s neck and squeezed even harder. He sighed with irritation at the thought of putting up with this charade much longer.

  Kukk took the sigh as an exhalation of pain, which he believed, was confirmed when the Starbucks cup in Ward’s hand dropped to the floor. Unknown to him however, the cup had not dropped through pain or shock. The cup was the signal The Optician had requested. Within one second of the cup hitting the floor, Kukks grip had released and he was falling back onto the grass. A 7.62 millimetre bullet had hit Kukk right in the centre of his forehead and passed through the back of his skull. The blood and brain matter exploding from the back of his head had been kept to a minimum, but a small portion had found its way onto the back of Ward’s head and the right side of Misker’s face.