Maxim Gunn and the Chaos Project

MAXIM GUNN

and

THE CHAOS PROJECT

By

Nicholas Boving

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2007 Nicholas Boving

eBook ISBN 978-1-896448-05-3

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PROLOGUE

Maxim Gunn decided if there was one thing he disliked more than bad whiskey it was probably wading knee-deep through raw sewage. He thought sewage took on a whole new meaning when it was up close and personal.

His flashlight beam probed the brick-lined tunnel, lighting the turgid flow of dark liquid and slimy walls. He tried not to let his mind dwell on what washed around his hip waders, concentrating instead on the job in hand.

Somewhere about fifty meters ahead, if he had read the plans right, would be a metal ladder leading to a trap door. The door, possibly jammed by the dirt of ages was supposed to open into a storage room deep in the unused cellars of No. 37 Ulrichstrasse. Gunn hoped, somewhat dispassionately, that no one had piled forgotten boxes on it. If they had he would have to retrace his steps and enter No. 37 by the front door, a tactic that would be considerably more difficult due to the presence of armed guards.

There was a scurrying from an exit high on the wall to his left. A half-dozen sleek, wet rats jumped and plopped with small splashes into the stream ahead. Gunn grimaced. Nature sure the hell was adaptable. The rats swam a few yards, scrambled onto a narrow ledge and disappeared, no more concerned with the sewage than if they’d been for an evening dip in some peaceful river. Gunn didn’t like rats, but then neither did they bother him. He thought it was the red eyes glinting in lamplight that made them feared: red eyes and sharp teeth and the thought of gnawed corpses.

The flashlight beam caught the horizontal rungs of the ladder. It was rusted with age and looked unsafe. Gunn sighed. Just another little thing to brighten his day. Hell, nothing was safe. Getting out of bed wasn’t safe. You could catch your toe on the carpet, fall and break your neck.

He reached the ladder and shone the beam up. The trap door looked as if it had never been used. Gunn sighed and adjusted the waterproof pack on his shoulder.

At the top of the ladder he put his hands flat against the trap and gave an experimental shove. Nothing happened; no movement, not a grain of disturbed dirt. He shifted the pack around to his front, took a couple of steps up, jammed his shoulders under the door and heaved. There was an ominous creak and the rung under his feet snapped. Gunn grabbed thin air, then the top rung, and hung like the daring young man on the flying trapeze. Sotto voce he let fly some very choice language and made a mental note to add it to his list of grievances about the man in No. 37.

He regained his footing, gave the rung a thorough test then, with all the subtlety of a charging rhino, slammed his shoulders against the trap door.

There was a moment when it seemed Greek had met Greek, and then with a protesting creak and a splintering sound, the trap flew open, showering Gunn with dust and straw. He hung on the ladder, still as Lot’s wife, alert for the slightest sound that would betray an ambush, and then poking his head above floor level, shone the flashlight through three-sixty degrees.

It was a large, stone-walled, empty room with a vaulted ceiling: exactly what you might have expected to see in the cellar of a 17th century house in one of Auatria’s biggest cities. Gunn heaved himself through the opening, closed the damaged trap and went to investigate what lay beyond the opening at the far end.

Dust, cobwebs in profusion, and wine racks: dozens of wine racks lining the walls and standing in serried rows like the stacks in a library. He went a long the racks, taking out a bottle here and there, and decided the labels made for more interesting reading than your usual run-of-the-mill library.

He placed the last bottle back in the rack and shook his head. Not that he gave a damn about wine, but the label told him it was probably worth a lot of money to someone who cared.

He divested himself of the hip waders to reveal a rather well-cut pair of designer denims and soft moccasin shoes. He straightened his navy blue roll neck sweater and patted down the pockets of his well-worn jacket. He picked up the waterproof pack and slung it across his shoulder. The black rubber waders sat collapsed like the remains of some body-sucking zombie’s feast.

In one corner of the cellar in the approved fashion was a steep flight of stone steps. At the top was an old-fashioned, iron-studded wooden door of the kind that would need a battering ram. Gunn ran lightly up the steps and examined it. He sighed again and smiled. Lady Luck was in his corner, for the moment.

In stories the butler always kept the keys to the wine cellar, but from the age of bottles and the thickness of dust, Gunn doubted the present owner cared. In fact he shouldn’t because Allah in his infinite wisdom had forbidden the Faithful alcohol. Of course that didn’t mean it didn’t happen and he’d known at least one much respected Imam in Northern Nigeria who definitely liked his orange juice with a bit of a kick attached.

With infinite care he turned the door handle, prepared to freeze the second a mouse, or a bit of rust squeaked. But it seemed they made doors and hinges well in those days. Patience was the name of the game in the initial stages. Unless you wanted to go in boots and all with guns blazing, and he had a sneaking suspicion the Vienna Bundespolitzei would take a dim view of an unauthorized commando raid, no matter how good the justification.

The door opened into a deserted corridor. There were coats on hooks, a few boots and shoes in racks and a couple of those long staffs hill climbers use. All very innocuous and might have led anyone else into thinking he’d possibly got the wrong address and was breaking into the servants quarters of some thoroughly respectable businessman.

Gunn knew better. No. 37 indeed belonged to a businessman, a man wanted throughout Europe and the Americas on charges of financing terrorism, gunrunning, drug sales on a major scale and as a sideline a hugely profitable white slavery ring. Unfortunately he had at his disposal an army of international lawyers and had been compared to the late and unlamented Teflon Don John Gotti in his ability to slip out from under. Which of course was why Maxim Gunn had taken it upon himself to do the international crime agencies a favour as, despite his official position as a representative of Her Majesty’s Government, he felt this was one piece of dirt under the collective shoe which needed scraping off without going through all, those tedious official channels. Gunn, quite frankly, didn’t give a damn what bumbling officialdom might think, what political games might be upset, what careers hang by threads. The man upstairs was going to find himself in a 6’ by 8’ police holding cell before the cock crowed twice. However, if he resisted, then that would be just too damned bad for him.

Left or right. Gunn looked both ways, saw a strip of light under a far door and cat-footed it towards the invitation. A door to his left beckoned invitingly. He listened for a few seconds then opened it. It was a store room, a place where whoever ran the house kept cleaning materials, brooms, a carpet sweeper and sundry unidentified cartons. Gunn putdown his pack, unzipped it and took out what was quite obviously an explosive device universally called an I.E.D. He glanced at his watch, did a bit of quick mental arithmetic and set the timer. He slipped back out into the corridor, cracked open the door at the far end and was just about to slip through when he heard voices. Through the crack he saw a door open. A large man came out, laughing. He called in Arabic to someone over his shoulder. There was a muffled answer. The man laughed again and closed the door. Footsteps crossed a tiled surface, another door opened and closed and silence came back. Gunn opened the door and slipped out. He was in a large, high-ceilinged entrance hall complete with deer antler hat and coat stand, a particularly ugly gilt mirror and a scattering of portraits of men and women who looked as if they had pokers rammed up them. Smiles were noticeable by their absence.

Gunn took a small canister from the pack, an M7A3 gas grenade. He pulled the pin, yanked open the door the man had come out of, tossed in the grenade and slammed it shut. There were shouts from inside, a small bang no louder than a balloon exploding, more shouts, coughing and a vain attempt to open the door. Gunn hung on like a limpet while he counted ten then let go. He picked up the pack, looked around and, as he made for the sweeping staircase he murmured.

Upon the godly he will rain snares, fire and brimstone, storm and an horrible tempest.

He’d never quite understood the bit about the snares, but he liked the King James version, it was so much more poetic than the modern efforts which rather reminded him of Doctor Zeuss. He raced up the staircase taking the stairs three at a time. The landing split both ways, corridors running along the house with four doors in each. He spun a mental coin and went right, stopping at each door to listen. At the third door he smiled, straightened, opened the door and went into the room.

There were two people on the large ornate bed. A man and a woman, obviously much preoccupied with what they were energetically doing. Gunn closed the door and leaned against the jamb. He shook his head and said in passable Arabic.

Well, well, Achmed. What would all your wives say if they could see you now?

There was a startled shout form the bed, rapid disconnection moves engaged in, and the man, hairy, bearded and about forty, twisted around, mouth open. Gunn shook his head.

You’ll catch flies.

The woman: young, blond, beautiful and pneumatic was dumped unceremoniously on the floor as the man reach for the automatic on the bedside table.

Gunn again shook his head as his Colt Python appeared like magic in his hand.

Bad move Achmed.

The man had the sense to know that a .357 Magnum in a competent hand is not something with which you should argue unless you have a death wish. He didn’t.

The man stopped dead, hand hovering as if he was calculating the odds. He decided the odds were very poor because he swore comprehensively in English and sat back, eyes bleak and baleful, sending the message that Gunn’s days would shortly end in a most painful manner. Gunn smiled and disagreed.

Good choice, he said.

The young woman meanwhile had got her priorities right, ignored the Colt and was scrambling for something to cover her ample charms. Gunn, ever the gentleman took a flimsy gown from a chair and tossed it to her. She opened her mouth to say something, maybe a thank you, perhaps to scream, but Gunn put a finger to his lips.

"Schweigen ist golden fraulein. Silence is golden."

She appeared to understand because she sniffed, managed a head toss as if she didn’t give a damn what Gunn thought and struggled into the gown. It did little more than emphasize what lay beneath. The man swung his feet to the floor, covering his lower half with a sheet.

You’re a dead man, he said.

Gunn sighed. My God, that’s terribly corny, Achmed. By the way the name is Gunn, Maxim Gunn.

The name obviously meant a hell of a lot because the man blanched, his evening stubble standing out like someone had painted it on. And again it looked for a second as if he was going to take his chances with the automatic on the bedside table. But at a range of a mere twelve feet the mouth of the Colt must have looked as big and dark as a tunnel. He swore fiercely in Arabic. Gunn raised an eyebrow.

Now that really is very naught, Achmed, not to mention physically impossible.

He spun the Colt in approved Western movie style, then brought it back on the man with an audible snap. The man called Achmed flinched.

Scary things, guns, aren’t they, Gunn said conversationally. Quite useless of course, until someone pulls the trigger.

Achmed glowered. What do you want?

Gunn beamed. I want you dear heart. Get your pants on; we’re going for a drive.

You’ll never . . .

Get away with it? I’m here. I have a gun. Ergo, I already have. He saw Achmed’s eyes flick towards the door. Touch that button and I won’t bother about the drive. I’ll shoot you right here like the murdering bastard you are.

He jerked the Colt impatiently. "The pants Achmed, schnell."

The woman, some dignity regained, turned on Achmed and in a shrill voice demanded to know what was going on. He rudely pushed her aside, reached for his pants and did as ordered.

Gunn held up a set of handcuffs. He tossed them onto the bed.

Now put those on, there’s a good chap.

The toes dug in. The fires of obstinacy flared. The man reached for a shirt.

I will not. This is embassy property. I have diplomatic immunity.

Gunn tut-tutted. In case you haven’t figured it out, I don’t give a damn. It looked like being a minor stand-off until Gunn said. I shall count to five and then shoot you in your leg, the right one for choice. If you survive the blood loss and shock you’ll walk with a cane the rest of your life, if the surgeons can save the leg.

Gunn counted to three. It came predictably. Achmed grabbed one end of the cuffs and using them like a flail made an abortive attack. Gunn dodged effortlessly, caught the man off balance and gave him a short, stiff-armed jab on the nose.

Nothing takes the fight out of someone quite as much as being punched on the end of the nose. For a start it’s painful, and secondly it brings tears to the eyes in buckets full. Achmed staggered back, caught the backs of his legs against the chair and sat with a thump that shook the table lamps.

Gunn strode forward and in one quick motion did a double snap of the cuffs. He jerked Achmed to his feet.

Now you’re pissing me off, he said. Gunn stuffed a sock in his mouth and tied it with what look like an Old Etonian tie.

He dragged his captive to the door, opened it and smiled at the young woman.

I hope you insisted on payment in advance. He nodded at the Ormolu clock on the mantelpiece. You have three minutes to get out of here.

The man Achmed was in a predicament as they left the bedroom and moved onto the landing. He was handcuffed, his pants were undone and trying to surrender to gravity, and Gunn was towing him none too gently, which made using his hands to keep his pants up problematic.

As they reached the top of the stairs the man Gunn had seen earlier appeared carrying a silver tray on which stood a champagne bucket, a bottle of Bollinger and two glasses. As he reached the stairs Achmed gave a shout of warning. The man looked up sharply, took in the scene with commendable speed, dropped the tray and went for the gun stuffed in the back of his pants.

Gunn shot him.

The tray hit the floor with a clang. The bottle and glasses shattered, and long before the tray had stopped spinning, Gunn had dragged his prize through the hall, barged through a green baize-covered door that led to the kitchen and scullery where he scanned a board with a selection of tagged keys. He selected one and burst through the back door and out to the back alley where a large black Mercedes was parked. By that time Achmed had lost the use of his legs as his pants had settled around his ankles and was being dragged forcibly, losing a certain amount of skin in the process.

Gunn opened the trunk and pointed. Achmed didn’t seem to understand. His nose still hurt like hell, one of his toes was probably broken, patches of skin had been unceremoniously ripped off, and his dignity had suffered a near-fatal blow.

Gunn was in no mood for debate. He glanced at his watch. Time was running out. He grabbed Achmed by the scruff of his neck, hoisted him like a side of beef, dumped him into the trunk and slammed the lid.

Enjoy the ride, he said, ran around to the driver’s door, got in and seconds later the tries screeched as he floored it to the end of the alley.

The Mercedes’ brake lights flared briefly as Gunn wrenched it into the cross street, and at that moment the timer hit the go button and his carefully placed charge of C4 exploded, taking a considerable portion of number 37 Ulrichstrasse with it.

Gunn smiled sardonically. Sorry Achmed, but property values just took a beating. He wondered what the police and fire departments would make of the cases of arms and nicely wrapped kilos of heroine they find smouldering in one of the other basements. It had the makings of considerable diplomatic frostiness.

The sounds of muffled shouts and thumping came from the trunk. Gunn skidded the Mercedes around a