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    The Makepeace Manifesto
    The Makepeace Manifesto
    The Makepeace Manifesto
    Ebook346 pages5 hours

    The Makepeace Manifesto

    By TONY NASH

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    About this ebook

    John Hunter and his chief are blissfully unaware that what seems to be a straightforward lesson in retribution has been carefully staged by Makepeace's devious mind, working a dozen moves ahead of the game. If his comprehensive plans come to fruition, not only would world stability be destroyed, probably forever, but the chances of atomic war breaking out would increase exponentially. Hunter believes he has a chance of stopping the megalomaniac mountain of flesh, unaware that he is watched every step of the way, and is destined to be the final, mangled bugle that blows in Makepeace's honour.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherTONY NASH
    Release dateSep 29, 2013
    ISBN9781301905409
    The Makepeace Manifesto
    Author

    TONY NASH

    Tony Nash is the author of over thirty detective, historical and war novels. He began his career as a navigator in the Royal Air Force, later re-training at Bletchley Park to become an electronic spy, intercepting Russian and East German agent transmissions, during which time he studied many languages and achieved a BA Honours Degree from London University. Diverse occupations followed: Head of Modern Languages in a large comprehensive school, ocean yacht skipper, deep sea fisher, fly tyer, antique dealer, bespoke furniture maker, restorer and French polisher, professional deer stalker and creative writer.

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      Book preview

      The Makepeace Manifesto - TONY NASH

      PROLOGUE

      The lighting is subdued and silence surrounds me; the patients are heavily sedated; breakfast and bedpans far in the future. My one thousand three hundred and twenty second nightshift, caring for Stage Four cancer patients.

      They tell me strange tales, these men and women who know they are about to make that final, terrifying journey into the unknown. Determined to confess their sins, they don’t give a damn that I’m not a priest. Some of their stories are amusing, some hair curling, and others so sad they make me want to cry, but one was utterly incredible.

      The old man, Jack Haldane, had only a few days to live when he came to us. His cancer had metastasized to all his major organs. Used to patients that are flabby, with no muscles left to speak of and completely out of condition, I was surprised by this silver-haired old man who stood erect and still had working muscles. He was unusual in other ways: he refused all pain-killing drugs, although the agonies of late-stage cancer must have been causing him untold suffering, but the most striking thing were his scars - all fully healed and years old, but signs of an unusual life.

      He had a puckered scar on his upper left breast, where a bullet must have missed his heart by less than an inch, another low on his right side, and one in the fleshy part of his right thigh. There were what looked like old knife wounds on his arms, chest, and right cheek, and scars that I thought resembled cigarette burns all over his body. He spoke with an educated accent and was extremely polite.

      He ‘d been with us three days when he said, ‘You like to write, I see. Would you like me to tell you a true story, that you can, perhaps, do something with?’

      Expecting another tale no different from the hundreds I’d heard I heaved an inward sigh and decided to humour him, ‘Why not? It’ll help to pass the time for both of us, and I write shorthand.’ I had no hope of it doing anything else, but if it kept his mind off the pain for just a little while it was worth it, and I certainly had the time to spare. It would make a change from the stuff from my own imagination that I scribbled down and usually threw away at the end of the day.

      ‘You’ll probably think it’s just too far-fetched, but I can vouch for the fact that it is true in every respect. It happened before you were born, during the time that was referred to as the Cold War, when the world stood on the edge of a Third World War, and we were expecting to be annihilated by atom-bombs at any moment. There were other dangers to world peace – things the public never knew, and one of them concerns the man I am going to tell you about, who was a spy, when the word really meant what it said.

      Of course, it was a much less sophisticated world then, and the public tended to believe what they were told, which in some cases tended to be very little. Everyone knows about the SIS nowadays, and books and films have extolled the James Bonds of that era, but although the fiction glorifies them and leaves out the dirtier side of the business, the fact is that they are based on reality.

      The British secret services were, at that time, three separate entities, two of which I’m sure you know – MI5 and MI6. This man worked for the third one, which ceased to exist in 1973, when all its records were sealed for one hundred years. It has never been publicly acknowledged and was the most secret of the three. It was known only as ‘The Department’. The name of the agent was John Hunter, and he was a killer.’

      CHAPTER ONE – AN EYE FOR AN EYE

      Waiting in line for customs the machine had misfired for just a few seconds. The way the russet-haired woman three ahead of him in the queue flicked her hair back took him back thirteen years to the evening when Claire Risslan, the psychiatrist Sir Michael had insisted on, pulled back the sheet, mounted him for the first time and helped herself to one of the few parts of his body still functioning perfectly after the crash. His broken arms had still been strapped to his sides.

      John Hunter smiled, remembering how he’d kept silent until she’d recovered from her explosive orgasm and pulled back.

      ‘Was that part of the treatment you give all your patients?’

      ‘Would you believe me if I told you it was the first time I’ve ever cheated on my husband, and I have never had sex with another man?’

      ‘Strangely enough I would, but what made you do it?’

      She looked bewildered, ‘I had a sudden compulsion---I really don’t know. I must be going mad---’

      She made a move to lift herself off him, but he told her, ‘No, stay there for a bit longer.’

      She felt him hardening again inside her---

      She was wildly different from the type he normally bedded: forty-four, married with two grown-up children, a pleasant enough but rather dowdy, slightly overweight woman, with a long, horsy face and a somewhat overlarge nose, but with striking green eyes, youthfully clear skin and glossy russet hair that curled down over her shoulders.

      The ‘treatment’ was repeated daily for the rest of the two months he remained in the private hospital, and with a perfect understanding of his needs and those of his job she’d finally laid all his ghosts to rest with a striking professional flair, remaking him into the perfect agent.

      Before the enforced sojourn he’d so often been plagued with bad dreams and painful self-searching after a job, often close to ending it, one way or another. Conscience was something an agent could not afford. It could get you killed.

      Spending hours every day, using hypnotism and meditation techniques, she’d convinced him he must no longer think of himself as a human being, but as a programmed machine, without feelings or conscience. She repaired his mind while his body repaired itself.

      ‘Remember, John, even when you fuck, you’re a fucking machine.’ He’d been surprised at her use of the ‘f’-word, and would have been even more surprised had he known it was the first time in her life she’d spoken it aloud. The important thing was that she had been right all along the line, and there was no doubt in his mind that she was the reason he was still alive and active.

      Not for the first time he wondered if her husband had ever guessed. With a secret smile he thought of the surprise the guy must have had when his wife suddenly wanted a lot of sex after a long drought.

      The woman with russet hair turned her head and he saw that there was no similarity at all. This one was beautiful.

      Thirty-three minutes later he settled back into the deeply padded recliner, well satisfied with the way the operation had gone.

      He’d come into Rio de Janeiro’s main airport, Galeäo International, on the midday BOAC flight, shot the local red spymaster at twenty past one, returned the weapon to the left luggage box at the airport and caught the PANAM 747 to London at quarter past two.

      It had been an unusual mission – a killing which, despite the popular, media-driven misconception, was the great exception, not only in the Department, but in the Secret Services of all the countries of the world. Such executions led only to reprisals and counter-reprisals, and interfered with the smooth course of espionage.

      In this case it had been unavoidable.

      Three days before Sir Michael had called him in.

      ‘You know Nikolai Belyayevski, I believe?’

      ‘Yes, I know him. Is he still around? We came close to killing each other once in Berlin.’

      ‘You were wounded in the stomach.’

      ‘And he took one in the shoulder. Not one of my best shots, but he was behind a pillar. What’s he been up to lately?’

      ‘He’s been the Soviet spymaster in Rio for the last two years. For some reason that we can’t fathom he shot James Dalton in cold blood and apparently without motive.’

      Dalton had been a good agent, who’d done his initial training with Hunter and, like him, had also held the Alpha prefix, one of the few authorized assassins of the country’s enemies, until his nerve had given out two years before, and he’d been reassigned to standard field duties.

      ‘That’s almost unbelievable. Dalton was out to grass, wasn’t he?’

      ‘Yes, he was, and inactive. There was no mission involved - he was shot leaving a nightclub. We received the usual Nothing To Report signal from him that afternoon and no unusual action was planned. In fact Rio has been exceptionally quiet for months. I had his deputy, Richard Melton, search through every piece of paper in Dalton’s office and he found nothing to indicate that his boss had been pursuing any enquiry regarding the Russians. Melton told me, Dalton’s just been going through the motions in the job, avoiding doing anything that might make any waves. He said Dalton gave him the impression he was just marking time until his retirement. What you might call a ‘grey’ man.’

      ‘Has there been anything unusual about Rio in the radio and teleprinter decrypts from intercepts at GCHQ and NSA stations?’

      ‘No. Nor, in fact, anywhere in South America. The killing makes no sense, but Belyayevski was positively identified by two other Embassy officials who were with Dalton when he was killed. The Russian made no attempt to hide and laughed at them before walking away. Unfortunately neither of them was armed.’

      ‘And he didn’t shoot at them?’

      ‘No.’

      Hunter was puzzled, ‘Belyayevski is a seasoned professional. It just doesn’t sound like him at all.’

      ‘I agree, but there seems to be no doubt. Perhaps there was something personal in it, although I’ve checked the records and they’ve never been anywhere near each other in the past. The only possibility is that Moscow ordered the hit.’

      ‘But then Nikolai would have used one of the half dozen killers he’s got on the payroll. He wouldn’t do it himself.’

      Sir Michael shrugged, ‘Nevertheless, he did, and we can’t let him get away with it. Would you like to volunteer for the job?’

      ‘Of course, Sir.’

      ‘Belyayevski has set himself up as a rich merchant-banker in the Avenido dos Tres Rios, half a mile from the University, using funds obtained from drug smuggling through official Soviet mail channels. He’s living the high life. Amazing how these Communists forget their credo once they get a taste of Western freedom.’

      ‘He won’t enjoy it for much longer, Sir.’

      ‘Good.’

      After picking up the Luger pistol from the left luggage locker at the airport, Hunter took a taxi from the rank outside as far as the old Naval Building, then walked round the corner to the Touring Club of Brazil and hired a Hertz Rentacar, using a forged passport and driving licence in the name of Anthony Berkeley. From there he drove the length of the broad Avenida Rio Branca, its fancy, tessellated pavements shimmering in the noon heat, and turned into the Beira Mar, following that wide boulevard, with its royal palms, along the curve of the bay for over three miles, passing the exotic Praia Flamenco and the Praia de Botafogo en route. Finally he turned left into the Avenido Pasteur and parked the car in the car park of the University, on the northeastern slope of Babilnia Hill, just half a mile short of the golden sands and glittering high life of Copacabana Beach. He knew Rio well and knew the suburb on Botafogo Bay was one of the most sparsely populated in Rio, and inhabited mainly by ‘Cariocas’ – the well-to-do citizens.

      He hired a taxi from the rank opposite the main building of the University complex and told the cab driver, ‘Dezesseis Praia Cotunduba.’ He’d checked on the large-scale map of the city in the airport and knew that number sixteen was just round the corner from Belyayevski’s house. He told the cabbie to wait.

      It was fourteen minutes past one.

      He’d obtained from GCHQ the contact schedules of the Soviet clandestine transmissions from Rio before leaving London, and knew that Belyayevski would be inside the house at this moment, making his daily radio contact with Moscow. Today’s times were one-twelve to one-seventeen local time. Hunter also knew from the Belyayevski dossier he’d been shown that the Russian, unusually for an agent of any country, had become a creature of habit living the high life in Rio, and always ate lunch at Kempinski’s on Copacabana Beach, where they served the best borsch in South America. His table was permanently reserved for one o’clock and he would be in a hurry to get there.

      Hunter stood under a brazilwood tree at the end of the driveway of the big house, twenty yards from the front door. Checking the files in London, he’d been astonished that the house was not permanently guarded, but then Rio was such an easygoing posting it was understandable that what would be normal procedure in somewhere like Paris or Berlin would not be necessary here. He loosened the Luger in its holster and eased the safety off and on, to make sure it moved freely.

      He had only moments to wait.

      Belyayevski pushed the door open. He turned, laughing, shouted, ‘Da! Da!’ at someone out of view, and turned to walk to his car in the drive.

      Hunter stepped out from the shade of the big tree.

      The Russian stopped, startled for a moment, then recognition dawned.

      He and Hunter had been adversaries in many Cold War battles in the old days, when he had still been a humble triggerman, and though they’d only come face to face once he had studied Hunter’s portrait often enough.

      Now he smiled, ‘John! Starii tovarisch. Kak vee pojivayetye?’

      Hunter did not smile back. He said, grimly, ‘Draw your gun, Nikolai Nikolaivitch! I won’t shoot a defenceless man, even if he deserves it.’

      Belyayevski, frowning, started to ask, ‘Schto eta?’ but saw that Hunter had started to move to draw his own weapon.

      The Russian tried desperately hard, but was badly out of practice. He’d piled on weight and his reflexes had slowed from two years of living the dolce vita in Rio. He knew even as his hand touched the butt of the Makarov automatic pistol that it was no contest.

      His gun had not yet reached the aim position before two slugs entered his heart – the ‘double tap’ used by all British agents, often followed by another two to the forehead.

      Belyayevski’s hand went to his breast, blood oozing out through his fingers. He went up on one leg. An uncomprehending look, a reproachful look, came into his eyes and he tried to shake his head.

      He gasped, ‘Nye snayo---’ and fell, hard, on his face.

      A woman appeared in the doorway.

      She looked at the corpse, not believing what she saw, then at Hunter.

      Realisation hit her. She screamed, over and over again.

      Hunter turned, slipping the gun back into its holster. He walked quickly, but without undue haste, back to the waiting taxi.

      Within twenty minutes he’d returned the rented car. Another ten saw him in the airport lounge, drinking the second of two well earned ‘horse’s necks’.

      Now he glanced casually out of the window of the jetliner, relaxing, the adrenalin that always accompanied a job slowing draining out of his body.

      The pilot had just finished the circle of the city for the sake of the tourists on board, and was giving a running commentary over the loudspeaker system:

      ‘We are just passing the ninety-eight foot high statue of Christ the Redeemer, erected on the summit of Mount Corcovado, also known as ‘The Hunchback’. Sugar Loaf Mountain can be seen over to the left; below us now is Botafogo Bay, with Copacobana Beach stretching away on the right.’

      As they flew over the Bay at three thousand feet Hunter could see Belyayevski’s house clearly. There were two police cars in the driveway, their strobe lights flashing, and three officers stood around the body lying on the step. As he watched, another vehicle with strobes came into view, nearing the scene, an ambulance.

      ‘You may remove your safety belts and smoke.’

      Hunter selected a Sobranie Black Russian from the packet he’d bought at the airport shop. It was a small parting gesture to a fellow creature. However bad he may have been, Belyayevski was in the same line of business, a victim of his training.

      He must have had good reason to kill Dalton – no choice, in fact, if Moscow had ordered it, but Dalton had been out of the loop for a couple of years – it made no sense, unless it was something he’d done in the past.

      Hunter would normally have dismissed the entire incident from his mind, but there had been something in the Russian’s eyes when he had said those last words, ‘I don’t know---’, which troubled the agent. If Belyayevski had murdered Dalton he would have known why he’d been targeted.

      Hunter tried to shrug it off and think of other things, and became aware of one of the stewardesses.

      She was big, blonde and beautiful, with an hourglass figure and hips that swayed invitingly, and she was giving him the eye, running the tip of her tongue over moist red lips.

      She was a sensual girl and what she saw excited her. She felt the sudden warmth of desire dampen the crotch of her panties, and had to press her legs tightly together and breathe deeply to try to control the reactions of her body.

      He was obviously a man among men; his face long and deeply tanned, with high cheekbones, dominated by steel-grey eyes flecked with green – eyes of an almost hypnotic quality – open, piercing eyes. Overlarge maxillary muscles betrayed part of an Irish/Gascon ancestry, of which he was proud. The nose was slightly hooked, but finely chiseled, lending weight to the overall faint suggestion of cruelty in the face. Fine, dark brown hair complemented the visage, and the slightest trace of a kiss-curl hung over the right temple. His figure was the kind that tailors and young girls dream about and rarely meet.

      The inexperienced eye might have taken him for a light-hearted, easy living man-about-town, but the cold calculation in his glance told a different story. Had he been of an earlier age he would have walked in the shadow of the skull and crossbones, perhaps, or had at his side a long sword dangling from a leather baldric, striking the rough side of his horse as he rode into adventure. His whole air was that of the swashbuckler.

      He was what he often felt himself to be – a throwback – an atavistic misfit in twentieth century society, more in keeping with his Gascon ancestors, who spent their lives seeking adventure and the fighting that went with it.

      She managed to regain control of her shaking legs and sashayed down the gangway towards him.

      ‘Is there anything you would like, Sir?’ There was no doubt what she meant by the invitation, and for just a moment he considered the chances of renewing his membership of the ‘Mile High Club.’

      ‘Not just now, thank you.’ His answer was equally meaningful.

      ‘Are you changing aircraft in London, Sir?’ It was the next move in the game.

      He grinned, ‘No. I shall be staying at the Carlton.’

      ‘Really? What a coincidence. I always stay there too. Perhaps we shall bump into one another?’

      ‘Yes. Who knows?’ Pact signed and sealed. He wondered idly for a moment why this always happened to him. What the hell? Accept Fate gracefully. After all, why should he complain?

      The aircraft lurched suddenly, and then again. He was sure that the even tenor of the motors had been broken.

      Another lurch, followed by a fast turn onto a reciprocal heading.

      Through the window he saw once again the skyline of the mountains over Rio, forming the rough outline of a reclining figure called the ‘Sleeping Giant’.

      He swore under his breath. What was going on?

      The Captain’s voice came over the loudspeaker again: ‘Please re-fasten your safety belts and extinguish all cigarettes. We have slight engine trouble. There is absolutely no need for alarm, but for safety’s sake we are returning to Rio de Janeiro. We shall land in five minutes.’

      Damn! They would be looking all over Rio for the killer now, and if he could not get another flight out in a hurry he would be in serious trouble. They would certainly include the airport in their search.

      He looked around. The passengers and even his pet stewardess, despite her attempt at a reassuring smile, looked worried, flustering with little possessions to cover their embarrassment at showing fright.

      They need not have worried. The big jetliner came straight in onto the main runway and made a perfect landing.

      Hunter kept his fingers crossed that they would allow the passengers to remain on board while the necessary repairs were carried out.

      He was to be disappointed.

      ‘Would all passengers please disembark and return to the departure lounge. The flight will be called again when repairs have been affected. An announcement will be made as soon as possible, telling you how long a delay is expected.’

      The big blonde certainly knew her job, he thought. He waited until the other passengers had disembarked and went over to her.

      ‘Couldn’t we stay in the aircraft?’

      She almost shook with anticipation, ‘Perhaps we can--’

      The captain had walked up behind them. He asked, ‘Would you mind disembarking with the other passengers, Sir?’ He knew Trixie of old. What would he do tonight, if this other guy got a look-in?

      It was obviously not going to be one of Hunter’s lucky days. He walked over to the terminal building, his mind working overtime.

      CHAPTER TWO – A TOOTH FOR A TOOTH

      Just sitting around waiting to be arrested was not Hunter’s idea of a clever move. He left the departure lounge and went to the information desk.

      ‘What’s the destination of the next flight out?’

      ‘The two forty TWA flight to Lisbon, Sir. They are boarding now at gate seven.’

      ‘Thanks.’

      He glanced at his wristwatch. It was two thirty-three. He hurried over to the Trans-World Airlines desk.

      ‘Any room on the two forty?’

      ‘Yes, Sir, but you will have to hurry. Single or return?’

      ‘Single, please. How much?’

      ‘Two hundred and sixty-three dollars American, Sir.’

      He threw three hundred-dollar bills onto the counter.

      ‘Buy yourself some nice perfume with the change, beautiful.’ He took the ticket and started to hurry away.

      ‘But, Sir, your luggage?’

      ‘No luggage, darling.’ He blew her a kiss and hurried towards the departure lounge again.

      At the entrance door the girl who handed out the boarding passes was talking to a tall man with a drooping moustache and a hint of hidden vitality.

      Hunter smelled police. He slowed to an easy saunter, holding out his ticket to the girl and giving her a charming smile.

      ‘Thank you, Sir. Your boarding pass. Gate seven. Please hurry, they are boarding now.’

      ‘Momento, Senhor.’

      It was too much to have hoped – he was not going to get away with it.

      He flicked his glance around; was it worth trying to make a dash for it? He saw five uniformed police on duty in the hall, and guessed there were more not in uniform. He decided not.

      ‘Is your luggage already on board, Senhor?’

      ‘No, I’m traveling light. Just a short visit, you understand.’

      ‘Yes, I understan’, Senhor Berkeley, or should I say Hunter? I am Capitano Miguel Rodriguez. You will please come with me quietly. I noticed you observed the uniformed police. There are also eight of my men around you who are not in uniform. Now, into this room, please.’

      It was a small customs search room. Three men stood waiting for him.

      He was frisked expertly and his personal possessions taken from him. Finally, he was handcuffed to two of the plainclothes men.

      Rodriguez shook his head slowly, looking at his captive, ‘Well, Senhor Hunter, what an unfortunate trick fate has played on you today. You could have been well out over the Atlantic by now, over international waters and safe from the Brazilian authorities. I could have written ‘Murder by person or persons unknown’ on the file, and everyone would have been happy. Now I shall have much paperwork to fill in, and you, my fren’, you will be shot. It is the law of the game. It is funny, is it not?’

      Hunter replied cynically, ‘I’d say absolutely bloody hilarious.’

      ‘Ah, the English sense of humour we hear so much about. Excuse me a moment.’ He picked up the telephone and dialled a number.

      ‘’Ola? Rodriguez. Si, nós tê-lo. Está bem. Si, em dez minutos.’ He threw the receiver back on its cradle.

      ‘Soon you will know, Senhor.’

      Hunter was taken down to a waiting police car and driven to the new Municipal Building on the Avenida Rio Branca, where he was escorted into a small courtroom.

      Rodriguez knocked on a side door.

      A judge walked out, ignored the prisoner entirely and took his place on the bench.

      He looked at Rodriguez and Hunter was surprised that he spoke in English, ‘Present your case.’

      ‘The prisoner is John Hunter, a British spy. He shot and killed a local citizen, Nikolai Belyayevski at one-twenty today.’

      ‘Prisoner, do you plead guilty or not guilty?’

      Hunter was amazed that no evidence of any sort had been produced. It was a complete farce of a trial, ‘I have nothing to say, Your Honour.’

      ‘Do you wish to call your ambassador?’

      ‘No, Your Honour.’ He knew it would be a complete waste of time. It would only cause the ambassador great embarrassment, and he would know the rules as well as Hunter: if an agent was caught, his country disowned him completely. He had to fend for himself.

      ‘Do you wish to make any statement in your defence?’

      ‘No, Your Honour.’

      ‘Then you leave me little choice. In view of your silence, I must find you guilty of premeditated murder. Since you do not deny that you are a spy, you will be sentenced under the Terrorist Act, and not according to the Brazilian civil code. For an act of terrorism resulting in the death of a Brazilian resident, the penalty is clearly prescribed: death by military firing squad. The sentence will be carried out at dawn tomorrow.’

      That was it then. What an ignominious end to a glorious career!

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