Maxim Gunn and the Serpent Force

MAXIM GUNN

THE SERPENT FORCE

Nicholas Boving

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2007 Nicholas Boving

eBook ISBN 978-1-896448-02-2

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CHAPTER ONE

The man standing at the tall windows, gazing moodily out into the darkness, was called Proteus. It was not his real name, but it amused him to use it, and it was doubtful if his true identity would have meant anything to more than a handful of people around the world.

At first glance he was ordinary. Medium build, with the slightly thickening body of a man unused to exercise, and other than greying wings of hair above slightly prominent ears, he was bald. But it was his eyes that caught and held the attention. They were set marginally too close together beneath dark, arched brows, and their colour was of the palest blue, with jet black pupils. The effect was disconcerting, and left a hypnotic feeling of being a small rabbit confronted by a snake.

Proteus was a man obsessed. Obsessed by a discovery of such amazing proportions that it sometimes left even him with faint twinges of doubt.

His former profession, and current inclination, was that of historian. He was also a mathematician of considerable originality, and a keen follower of a new branch of science called astro-archaeology. The results of long years of study, tortuous calculation, and half a lifetime of historical research, had led him to the conclusion he was now pursuing with fanatical purpose. He turned to the man standing by the fireplace at the far end of the room.

You’re absolutely sure of this? he asked. There can be no mistake?

None, Proteus, the man replied. I double checked in case it was coincidence. There is no possibility of doubt. He is the man you think.

Lightning flickered across the sky and shed a blue-white light on Proteus’ face. He turned back and crossed to a well-stocked bar to pour a glass of retsina, the resin flavoured Greek wine. He sipped the drink before asking.

What do you know of Maxim Gunn, my friend?

The man shrugged. Nothing. He is merely a name to me, but I can guess he is of some importance. Does he disturb you?

Proteus gave a harsh laugh. Yes, to both points. He does disturb me, and more than any man alive I wish to avoid his attention.

The other smiled wolfishly. Then we shall have to do something about him. Say the word, and I shall give orders for his removal - permanently.

Proteus swung his piercing gaze at the man, and shook his head pityingly. Such ignorance, he said, softly. Such blind faith in the power of muscle and gun and knife. No, that is not the way with this one. He would take you, almost absent-mindedly. He would eat you for breakfast and spit out the bones like a tiger with a little forest creature. We must use cunning. We must make him come to us, and then we shall set a trap, one that even he cannot escape.

The man somehow managed to look insulted and intrigued at the same time. He was an assassin of considerable prowess, and did not take that kind of dismissal lightly. Jutting out his jaw, he asked, arrogantly. If this one is so marvellous, why have I, Wolf Lupato, not crossed swords with him before?

Proteus considered him as he lit a thin cigarillo. Listen, he replied, and I will tell you about Maxim Gunn.

CHAPTER TWO

Maxim Gunn threw his golf bag into the trunk of the Lagonda, slammed the lid and strode quickly towards the clubhouse. He was in a filthy mood, having just played eighteen holes of thoroughly unenjoyable golf with a man he had come to dislike very quickly, and intensely. He was met at the entrance by the club secretary.

Sorry about that, Mr Gunn, the man said, apologetically. The professional’s just told me.

Gunn was about to voice a few well-chosen words, when he realised it was nobody’s fault but his own. He needn’t have played after all. Instead he forced a smile, and shrugged.

Milo Bellamy is an ignorant boor. He is bad mannered, and totally lacking in any vestige of sportsmanship.

The secretary coughed delicately. It was not his position to voice opinions on his members, whether he liked them or not.

Perhaps you’ll let me buy you a drink, by way of apology, he said.

I could do with one, Gunn replied. But I’ll buy, provided you don’t mention that man’s name again.

They had their drink, seated in deep leather armchairs overlooking the eighteenth green, and Gunn relaxed. It was impossible to do otherwise in such beautiful surroundings.

The secretary drained his glass. Well, thanks for the beer. I must be off about my business. He got up, and was about to leave when he snapped his fingers. Damn. I almost forgot. He reached into an inside pocket. Phone call while you were playing. The caller seemed to think it was rather urgent. He gave the message to Gunn, who looked at the white envelope in puzzlement, and ripped it open with his thumbnail with a feeling of mild excitement. Maybe this would balance the awfulness of Milo Bellamy; and he made a mental note to check up on the man and do something unpleasant.

The contents were brief; merely a request to call a certain number in London at his earliest convenience. The number was a very private one, given out on a strictly need to know basis, but Gunn knew it would connect him straight through to the Secretary of the Cabinet in Downing Street. His puzzlement increased.

There had been a time, a couple of years earlier, when he had reported directly to that office; but that was before his resignation from the covert branch of the Government security service, known simply as the Organization. Since then, he had been a free agent, a man of leisure pursuing his own interests, apart from one brief excursion back into that murky world to deal with his old enemy, Wanda Liszt. He took out his cell phone and punched a number.

His call was answered before the tone had rung twice. He gave his name, and waited. Twenty seconds later, the well-bred tones of the Cabinet Secretary came over the line.

Sorry to spoil your game, Gunn, but needs must when the devil drives. I’d appreciate it if you could make your way here with all reasonable dispatch.

I’m no longer with the Organization, you know, Gunn replied, mildly.

Yes. I am aware of that.

Then what can the Cabinet want with me?

I’d rather tell you in person, the Secretary replied. How soon can you make it?

Gunn felt mild irritation at the assumption that he’d obey the summons, even though he knew he would. Today? he asked.

Oh, certainly. It is important.

Gunn glanced at his watch. Give me two hours to be on the safe side.

By the way, I may bring someone with me.

There was a slight pause. A little unusual, even for you.

Gunn masked his irritation. It’s not really an option.

Does this person have a name?

Again Gunn found the tone irritating, and wondered why anyone would ask such as question, and frame it like that. For Christ’s sake, of course this person had a name, and was probably more intelligent than the entire Cabinet rolled into one political ball.

Anders. Polly Anders.

Ah. The name meant something to the Secretary. He asked no further questions. Then I shall look forward to seeing you, both. He chuckled softly. By the way, how was Milo Bellamy?

Most unpleasant. I’m tempted to do something about him, Gunn said, shortly.

The Secretary laughed. Yes, he does rather give the impression that the most important event in the history of the world was his own birth, doesn’t he. Well, whatever it is, it will be well deserved. In two hours then. Au revoir. And he hung up.

Gunn snapped the phone shut, and went back to his beer. Two hours would give him time for lunch, if he was quick.

On his way back to the car, he stopped briefly at the professional’s shop, took Milo Bellamy’s cheque out of his pocket, endorsed it and gave it to the man. It was for two thousand pounds. The game had given him no pleasure, but taking Bellamy’s money had. The professional demurred, but Gunn insisted.

I didn’t have to play with the man, he said. You did. I got pleasure in beating him. You spend his money. Take your wife out to dinner or something.

As he passed through Richmond, the bright late April afternoon disappeared, to be replaced by low cloud and a spatter of windswept rain. It suited his mood. Kings Road, Victoria Street, with a diversion that took him close to the British Museum to pick up Polly Anders, then Parliament Square, and moments later he had parked his Lagonda under the anxious eyes of a policeman, who nevertheless let him stay without question.

Five minutes later he was ushered into a quiet office, and noted, with private satisfaction, that exactly two hours had passed since his phone call.

The tall, elegant man behind the desk rose, and offered his hand. Gunn introduced Polly and was amused by the Secretary’s slight confusion at finding out that the woman who was no doubt a bit of a byword in covert circles, should look so beautiful and at the same time give the impression of the classic dumb blond. He eased her from her coat and solicitously guided her to a seat.

Glad you could make it, Gunn, the Secretary said. Can I offer you tea? He smiled. Just what did you have in mind for Bellamy, anyway? Not that it’s any of my business.

Not a thing, Sir, Gunn replied. The moment has passed. It’s just that he gave such an irritating display of bad manners, and embarrassed two very hard working golf professionals that I wanted to give him a resounding kick in the pants. Enough said. What did you want to see me about?

There was a pause as their tea arrived and was poured. The Secretary handed Gunn a cup. You know Doctor Jardine, I believe. Harry Jardine. Used to be one of your old tutors, didn’t he.

Gunn nodded. That’s correct.

Well, he now heads an establishment at a place called Depedean, in Sussex. You know anything about it?

The Secretary raised an eyebrow at Polly. She nodded. A little. Rather a weird place, almost scary.

"Yes, I suppose it could be called that.

How about you, Gunn?

Gunn shrugged. Not a thing.

Well, that’s not so surprising, I suppose, as it was started after you left your old job. The whole thing is kept pretty well under wraps, mainly to keep the taxpayer quiet, apart from anything else. Basically it’s a kind of think tank, specifically designed to monitor anything out of the ordinary, and that gives it the widest scope imaginable. I won’t go into details: Jardine will do that when you see him. But you name it, and they probably have an eye or an ear on it. Sorcery to cybernetics; E.S.P. to E.T.’s, and lots of even funnier things. And I, or rather the P.M. wants you to go down there and listen to what he has to say. All I’ll say is that a great deal of importance is being placed on some of his recent findings. You may find it all very far-fetched, but do listen, carefully, and if you agree, take it from there. Jardine’s expecting you to stay the night, so pack a toothbrush. Any questions?

Gunn took a sip of his tea, put down the cup, and sat back.

Yes, he said. What makes you think I’m going to do anything about it in the first place?

The Secretary frowned. It was not at all what he expected.

I don’t understand, he said.

Gunn smiled. I am no longer one of Her Majesty’s Civil Servants, Sir. I am a completely private citizen. What makes you assume that I’m going to jump when someone from this office snaps their fingers?

The Secretary steepled his fingers, and said in his silkiest tones, Because you’re here and because you’re Maxim Gunn.

Gunn restrained a laugh. The ball had been put firmly in his court. "Touché," he said.

We need you, the Secretary said, softly.

Why me? Why not one of the others?

I thought I’d already made that clear. The Secretary smiled. Do you know what the P.M. said to me this morning when your name was suggested?

Gunn lifted an enquiring eyebrow.

It was a paraphrase of Hilaire Belloc’s little poem. I misquote. Whatever happens, we have got, Maxim Gunn, and they have not."

For a second Gunn felt acutely uncomfortable and embarrassed; it was such blatant flattery. Polly Anders smothered a laugh behind an acute attack of coughing.

Gunn got up and went to the door without another word, and turned as the Secretary said, I’m sorry you’re not going to do anything about Bellamy. One or two people would be very grateful if he got knocked down a peg or two. Well, there it is. Goodbye, and good luck.

As Gunn and Polly came out of the well-known front door the Policeman saluted and opened the Lagonda door for Polly. Gunn didn’t get the same treatment. For a moment he just sat, the wheels of his mind idling and then he turned the key and drove sedately out of Downing Street. Polly watched him. He was grim faced.

What’yer going to do?

Gunn politely waited for a harassed woman and a couple of crying children, waving them through with a charming smile, then floored the gas pedal. The Lagonda took off with roar, burning rubber.

What followed were ten seconds of incredible and totally irresponsible driving through traffic, then Gunn slowed to a sedate pace. Polly gave him a look.

"Feeling better?

Gunn grinned a little sheepishly. Much. And I suppose I’m going to do it. But you knew that, didn’t you?

Polly said nothing but looked like the cat that drank the cream.

He dropped Polly off at a dingy-looking pre-war office block near the Museum. She bent down to look through the window.

One assumes one will be seeing you soon?

Gunn’s answering look was bland as butter. Why else would one have asked one to hold one’s hand?

Polly straightened. Tell me all about Depedean. Gunn waved and pulled away

An hour later, he was threading his way back through the rush hour traffic of Richmond, wondering just what the devil he’d let himself in for this time.

The A3 road, south, unwound beneath the wheels of the Lagonda as he pressed on into the darkening afternoon. Rain and wind continued to buffet the car as he passed through Esher and Woking, and finally turned off after Guildford on the Petworth road. Just before Petworth, he turned up a side road, and within minutes found himself at the gates of an Elizabethan manor house, with a small sign at the roadside which bore the legend, Depedean Manor Research Establishment, which told him precisely nothing. He turned and drove in.

The house was divided into two parts by the massive front door. To the right was what he guessed was the working section, as every window was uncurtained and ablaze with lights. The left wing was in darkness, as was the upper story.

He pulled to a stop in front of the entrance, grabbed his bag off the back seat, and made a dash through the rain. The door was opened as he ran up the steps, and he found himself in a large, panelled hall, with what looked like good Persian rugs on the oak flooring, and a collection of dark portraits around the walls. He put down his bag, shook raindrops off his jacket, and turned to the man who had opened the door.

You must be Mr Gunn, the man said. I’m Andrews, Doctor Jardine’s assistant. He held out a welcoming hand. Leave your bag, and I’ll take you to him. I’ll show you your room later.

Gunn followed him down a wide passage to the left of the hall. Andrews knocked at a door and they went in.

Harry Jardine looked up from a stack of computer printouts, and smiled broadly as he saw Gunn. He hurried forward and grabbed him by the shoulders, giving him a searching look.

The world must be treating you well, Maxim, he said. You don’t look a day older than when I last saw you. How long ago was that? Good God, it must be all of ten years. But come in, come in, and warm yourself by the fire. It must have been a miserable drive.

He turned to Andrews. David, see if you can rustle up a pot of tea for us, and make sure we’re not disturbed till dinner. I don’t want to see a soul.

Gunn waited patiently by the fire, and studied the older man. Doctor Harry Jardine was exactly as he remembered. A shade older, a touch more white in his hair, but basically no different from when Gunn had studied under him at University.

Jardine patted his pockets, and pulled out a battered pipe and tobacco pouch, which he fiddled with. He smiled a little wryly.

I wasn’t much surprised when I heard you’d become one of Her Majesty’s cloak and dagger boys, he said. Not quite what I’d hoped for, I admit. You had a lot of promise in other fields. But I’ve no doubt you’re good at it. He chuckled. In fact you must be. I got a personal call from the P.M. He dug his pipe into the pouch and started filling it. Dammit, Maxim, I’m glad it’s you. No one else wouldn have understood what I’m going to tell you.

Gunn cut off the flow with a laugh. "Steady there, Doctor. I should tell you that I’m not in the cloak and dagger business, as you call it.