Deadly Inception

Prologue

This had to be the end. Of me. And the inheritance. Ending here. Amidst explosions. Scything metal and staccato hammering. Rotors coming closer. Blasting khaki dust. Too late for me though. I’ll go in their tornado. The burning in the back fading. Shouting. A face close up. Sweaty and bearded. Much loved. Saying something. Shaking my shoulder. I know what he wants. The words shaping through black whiskers. ‘Hold on. You don’t do this.’

What can he mean? He doesn’t understand. This end is right. My blood feeding this ground. Some legacies age badly. Generations of mine have passed here. Some with the flag. Others disguised. Spies, like me. Names often changed, but always with promises. Drunk the tea. Played the politics. Took the drugs. Lived with the mountain. And women. Sometimes the men. Time for it all to stop. The world is far from what it was. No longer a place for what they did. Nor me. The inheritor.

The hammering is slowing. Deep chirping now. From the helicopters. Delivering death streams from the sky. The face has gone. Others are lifting. Thumping in my head. The back an agony. I thought it got more peaceful at the end. Just my luck.

Chapter 1

Thorswick Village, Oxfordshire

Victory hung on the last ball of the post-siesta session. Not a soul stirred on the crowded veranda of the thatched pavilion, or under the deep shade of the old oaks around the church. In the humid October heat sweaty palms gripped amber glasses of beer and cider. Tension transfixed them all.

‘I can’t watch,’ breathed young Jimmy Robinson. He did though, of course. On the pitch an unprecedented drama was reaching its climax. In the fetid heat, tiny Thorswick was one ball and four runs away from claiming the county village cricket championship. Nothing less than a boundary from a single strike would do it. Never had Thorswick cricket achieved anything like this, and they were doing it against Hathleigh, a side whose name was engraved on the waiting trophy with impressive regularity.

The bowler was ready for the final effort. He had muttered with his captain. Then flicked his arm right and left to send the rest of the team to the edges of the pitch. Turning now, rubbing the ball down the front of his trousers, his feet began the shuffle that would turn into a thundering run. But he was forced to stop. At the far end the batsman had moved off the wicket and imperiously held up his gloved hand.

The escape of breath from the spectators was audible. They all stared at the batsman as he looked around the field placings, and seemed to take in the church, stately home and village as if seeing them for the first time.

The spectators wondered what might have distracted him. There was nothing moving behind the bowler’s arm. No cat or stray dog wandering onto the boundary. Not a single plastic cup or discarded napkin twitched on the crisped, brown grass of the outfield. After coming in at a lowly number seven the player had treated them to a virtuoso performance, lifting hopes and leading many to wonder why his obvious talent had not been revealed before. He was usually a steady, unflashy type. Today he was displaying a level of skill and intensity usually seen only in first-class matches. His pause now, after a brutally effective performance, was like the breaking of a spell.

Despite the baleful stare of the bowler, and the enquiring eyebrow of the umpire, the man they knew as Ash still seemed reluctant to pat down his bat and receive the last ball. It might have been assumed he was savouring the moment, or suffering from a momentary attack of nerves. In fact, he was gravely conflicted.

Ashley Moxon had seriously dropped his guard. He was a man who needed to live in shadows. Now, by his own hand, he was about to become a local hero. A person talked about and, chillingly, remembered. He could not have it.

Something about the heat and nostalgia for other games on dusty pitches far, far away had led him astray. Setting his mood also was the increasing tempo of an action coming to fruition in the lands he still considered home. It was something that would finally bring retribution for souls he loved. Even closure. Today’s play, so innocent in comparison, was a welcome distraction while he could do nothing but wait. But now he must throw the game, disappoint the village and return himself to being a nearly man.

Taking two steps down the wicket he looked fixedly at the ground for a moment and gave it a couple of prods with the end of his bat, before crouching in front of the wicket for the final ball.

From his vantage point down the wicket, umpire Walter Well Able, watched as he set, and didn’t like the look of him one little bit. ‘C’mon, boy,’ he muttered. ‘Only one more to go. You can do it.’

Well Able was a Thorswick man, born and raised. He made it his business to know what was going on. However, Ash was still something of a mystery. His playing talent was obvious, but he seemed adept at never revealing much about himself. There was something else too. He tried to describe it one night to Maureen, who ran the bar.

‘He seems to take everything in. What do you call that?’

‘Absorbent?’ Maureen also did the cleaning.

‘Sort of, but more than that.’

Maureen liked a puzzle though. ‘Instinct?’ she hazarded.

Walter Able rolled the word around for a moment, before his face gave the slightest glimmer of a light bulb moment. ‘Got it. He’s intuitive. Or,’ he hesitated. ‘Empathetic. That’s what he is. And I’ve never seen anything like it.’

Crouching over the wicket Well Able heard the bowler running in behind him. The man was more than competent, and might even be described as talented. Right now he was putting everything into a final, lung-busting effort to smash the wicket of a batsman whose shoulders had suddenly slumped. With an explosive grunt the ball was unleashed in a cartwheel of legs and arms. Riding the heated air, with polished surface uppermost and stitching at an angle, it curved, then cut viciously into the ground before heading with the speed of a striking snake for off stump.

It deserved to succeed. At the moment of release however, there was a change. Ash squared, rising on the bat. In a blink he was perfectly placed to take that last precious effort midway through the final stage of its destructive flight. The sweet spot in fashioned willow connected, the bat following through as the red spot travelled upwards in a sky flecked with gossamer clouds. It was a six from the moment of connection. Two more runs than were actually needed.

‘Over,’ said Umpire Well Able. ‘And match,’ he added unnecessarily to the bowler, who was still watching the fate of his last effort.

The dot was falling beyond the small road that skirted the cricket pitch, impacting unseen to the sound of breaking glass around the small row of aged cottages. From the pavilion there arose a wild whoop and cheers, mixed with the thumping of feet beating a tattoo on the floorboards. ‘You could at least have hit your own bloody house,’ said Able.

Behind the deep peak of the claret and yellow cap, the grey eyes flickered. ‘My aim was off. It hit the blue one next door.’ He really should not have done it. But the man had fallen for his lure. He had bowled to hit the perfectly good piece of ground Ash had patted with his bat. Ash was not a superstitious person. He could not afford to be. Even so, as soon as the ball left the man’s hand, he knew his final mind game of the match had worked. It would be churlish not to accept the omen.

There was no time for more self-examination. Ash was engulfed by a rush of players from the pavilion, and even some from Hathleigh. Well Able noticed a grimace of real pain as Ash received a particularly enthusiastic back slap before he was hoisted onto shoulders for the triumphant procession to the pavilion.

Able let them go. There would be plenty of time before the presentation and the party would be long. In the meantime he savoured the moment. It was certainly one for the annals. He looked around, taking in the bucolic familiarity of his village and the milling throng below the low thatch roof of the pavilion. Never mind that the oaks were dying, the square-towered church was falling down and bestsellers were being written by computer code. As long as men and women hit balls without a bloody machine being involved, all was right in the world.

A thought occurred. He would need that ball. At least the blue cottage was empty, and had been for nearly a year. Someone would have to go and search around. A presentation case in the pavilion could be made and the ball taken out for special club occasions. The annual dinner for example. That’s how traditions were made. You simply couldn’t have enough of them.

He pulled the wickets to the sound of loud clapping and whistling from the clubhouse. Ash was being applauded up the wooden steps where he turned, briefly touched the brim of his cap and, with a sweep of his arm, indicated the open door. It was time to party. Not that Ash stepped through. He caught the eye of young Jimmy, who slipped through the press and handed over a mobile. It was an expensive one.

With nods, smiles and a few ‘I’ll be there in a sec’s, Ash edged along the veranda pressing buttons as he went. His phone was alive with messages. In a secure chat room was the information he badly wanted to hear. ‘The bride is about to arrive. Principal guests will be travelling within the day.’

Ash checked the timing. He had less than twenty-four hours. A tremor passed through him as his heart picked up pace. Pause, he thought. No need to rush. He had known for weeks what he would do at this moment. Briefly he sent a message into the room. ‘We’re on. I’ll fix the bouquet.’

‘Ash!’ It was Jimmy, eyes shining, his own mobile readied. ‘I need a picture of you for the league and our drumbeat account. All I’ve got so far is lots of your cap!’

His efforts were forestalled by the pavilion door being swung back with a loud bang as Thorswick’s captain and Jimmy’s father heaved his way through, beer in hand. ‘You,’ he boomed. ‘In here. We’ve taken a vote and we decided you still have to wear the newbie blazer, you poor sap, but you don’t need to buy a drink. Hurry up, it’s like Hamlet without whatsisname in there.’

Ash went, slipping his mobile into the pocket of his whites. Face smiling, and cap still pulled low over his face as he passed Jimmy, he shrugged into the proffered, stained blazer, his mind calculating. He knew all too well it was one thing to bait a trap, quite another to make sure nothing happened in the next few hours to spook the prey. There was also a lot to be done to get everything in a row. He needed to calm down. Successful closure was still a long way off. Before him people were cheering again. Raising their glasses. The noise was incredible. He was going to have to spend time here. Minutes he could ill afford. It would be too odd just to disappear.

Ash smiled. Nodding around. Thanks. He would have a bitter shandy, heavy on the lemonade. No definitely. Just for the moment. He was dehydrated and didn’t want to add to whatever was down his blazer. Laughter.

Chapter 2

Walter Well Able eased his bulk through the crush to his stool at the side of the bar. With a beam and wink that gave the full benefit of her green eye shadow, Maureen pushed over the waiting pint of mild before addressing the counter in general.

‘One at a time bless you. I’m all on my lonesome. Now which of you lovely fellas is first?’

The aged pavilion was suited to clubbable conviviality. Military badges and gaudy sporting pennants jostled with gold-lettered honour boards bearing the names of presidents, honourable secretaries and captains. Amidst the memorabilia were faded pictures of beneficiaries, the Clarey name from the big house being prominent amongst the pointed beards, mutton chops and moustaches. The latest portrait though, was not of that breed. It depicted a man in a red tie smiling through full lips and cheeks, his blue eyes hard in a hairless head. Amidst all was a large electronic screen showing a montage of images from the cricket game. Young Jimmy had been busy.

From his roost Well Able caught the eye of one of the elderly Thorswick players, who shambled to the summons. ‘Sorry about the dropped catch,’ mumbled Ben Whistledown. ‘Had it right there. Easy as pie. Don’t even want to blame the sun. Just slipped through.’

It should have been a certainty. The batsman was already walking to the pavilion. Instead the entire field watched Ben Whistledown shout ‘Mine’, as if the point was ever in contention, put himself into a squat, rise up and drop it. ‘Well,’ said Able, ‘at least we got him next ball.’

Ben scratched through his thick beard as he looked across at the visiting team. ‘I think they’re still arguing about that.’

‘Nonsense. One of my easier decisions. Trapped right in front of wicket.’

‘Robinson didn’t even bother to appeal it. He thought it was well off.’

‘Yes, he’s young. He’ll learn.’ Able took a slurp of his mild. He did not think much of Whistledown. He was not really a club man, and apparently made a living as some kind of aid worker while being all too apparent around Thorswick. Often he was in a Pakistani shalwar kameez or, in winter, a plate-like woollen hat from Afghanistan. Carrying on like Mahatma Ghandi might have been all right for the youngest of the last Clarey resident at the Hall, but Well Able felt such affectations were best left to aristocrats. On this occasion though, Able was prepared to overlook the rubbish fielding, because he wanted a favour.

‘Get over to Blue Cottage will you, and have a search around? I want that ball.’

Whistledown scratched his beard. ‘Well, I’d have to ask the owner first, obviously, and from the noise it made it sounded like something got busted. So they might be annoyed.’

Able was surprised. The house had been empty for months and not even on the market. The former owner had been taken away to die in an old people’s home having come to Thorswick late in life. His evaporation was so far in the past that speculation about the house had long since dried. ‘I didn’t know it was sold,’ Able said testily, ‘when did that happen?’

‘A van came, when was it? Must have been about three weeks ago. It was just after the Saudi Air Force bombed that hospital in Yemen, and I was already up to my eyeballs with villages getting swept away by a mudslide in Afghanistan. I thought I could get a call in to the Taliban to get aid moving faster there, and wanted to tip off a few websites about the origins of the bomb. Anyway, in the midst of all that, a van arrived and a couple of blokes started unloading stuff.’

It was always like this. Any conversation with Ben Whistledown involved a swim in an ocean of disaster. Able had no idea why a bunch of foreigners in the Middle East were destroying hospitals, or why it mattered. He gave Whistledown a brutal glare.

‘And an owner?’

Whistledown looked glum. ‘The removal chaps didn’t know much about all that. They’d picked up in Lincolnshire and were told to put everything where they thought best. Today I saw some curtains twitching, so I guess the owner is in.’

Able nodded a dismissal. ‘Looks like it’s your round,’ he added maliciously. A dropped catch of that magnitude required amends.

‘It was made in Britain,’ said Whistledown as he turned to the bar. ‘The bomb in Yemen. Took the place apart.’

Able shook his head. Ben really was a bizarre man. He seemed to take pleasure in finding out matters of no consequence, and his idea of what makes for conversation in a clubhouse left a lot to be desired. At least he was wise enough to get him a treble, which was just at his lips when the door of the pavilion opened. Framed by the bursting orange rays of the October sun was a tall young woman, with a cricket ball clasped in her fist.

Silence fell. Maggie Johnson would have preferred a far less dramatic introduction to her new neighbours. Something that did not involve staring, sweaty blokes and a cricket ball taking out several panes of her cottage. Also, as she feared in a place like this, her arrival raised significantly the percentage of people of colour. ‘Yours?’ she managed self-consciously. ‘I presume.’ And then felt more like an idiot.

The ball was taken by Berne, the home team’s gully specialist, a silver fox with a lean hungry look, honed by the need to fund two divorces. With his other arm and a low bow, he swept her over the threshold with a cheery, ‘And what’s yours?’

Someone new to Thorswick was always going to be a source of curiosity. Having gained a Pinot Grigio, Maggie informed listeners that Blue Cottage was indeed hers. It was all a bit of a surprise. A bequest from an old family contact, which came ‘out of the blue’, and, with a smile, ‘no pun intended’. It was especially surprising as she had never met him, even as a child. With a look that could have encompassed the entire bar she asked if anyone in the village knew much about him? She would be interested to know more.

‘This guy lives next door,’ said Berne indicating Ash. ‘He might know something, and he’s the one that hit your place.’

Maggie turned to the person indicated, taking in the public health hazard he was wearing and his swiftly suppressed annoyance. Ash was using the distraction of Maggie’s arrival to make for the door. Like a cartoon character he froze guiltily mid-move. He was now going to have to make polite conversation, while his heart jolted along with each new mobile message.

‘Sorry,’ he shrugged, ‘and I heard you speaking about the owner of Blue Cottage. He moved to a care home before I arrived, but I can tell you he was extremely well thought of. It sounds as though he was a thoroughly nice gentleman.’

‘Thanks,’ she said, and meant it. Then, ‘The jacket?’ she asked, doing a small wave with her wine glass to suggest an understanding that there must be some deeper meaning, rather than taste.

Berne butted in, keen to engage her again. ‘It’s the newbie coat. It’s worn by the latest recruit.’ He smiled at her in a winning way. ‘We like our traditions around here. If someone were to get you in the club, you’d have to wear it.’

A momentary silence after this was broken by Ash. ‘I suppose it’s as good a way as any to make sure the newbie works hard to get someone else to join,’ he said smoothly. ‘And yes, tradition and all these emblems of ships and regiments long gone. The snare of history’s tentacles, and empire in particular.’

Maggie blinked. For the briefest of moments, she thought about saying something about them both being, uniquely in the current company, colonial legacies.

‘Looks like it’s time for the presentation,’ said Ash, indicating movement around the portraits and a table being set up. ‘You see what I mean about tradition? They’re proud to stand in front of aristocrats whose ancestors made money from slaves and sugar before coming to the countryside to rule over more peasants.’

It was a strange conversational tack, not least because he seemed distracted even as the words came in an even, considered way. She dismissed the thought that he was trying to impress her. That had happened countless times, and she could usually spot the drift before words were even uttered. At least he was proving interesting. She nodded her head toward the front. ‘Is the picture up there that Ellroy man?’ she asked.

‘The same. Norman. Carrying on the tradition of making a fortune at the expense of billions.’ Ash paused. ‘Global entrepreneur, current owner of Thorswick Hall with all its titles and honorary president of Thorswick Cricket Club. It’s said he farms data from ninety-five percent of the world’s population and gets the remainder if ever a canoe goes up a jungle tributary in South America. A man who saw early the potential for data-enhanced weapons.’

‘I knew some of that, but not that he lived here.’

‘He doesn’t, most of the time. But he likes to wear tweeds.’

‘He basically runs our government, if you believe what’s reported.’

‘You should be more careful about what you read,’ said Ash lightly. ‘As we are often reminded by the party, we are a democracy.’

Berne was giving him a disapproving look. Perhaps he heard, or maybe it was because Well Able was speaking, his pink head glistening as he rocked backward and forward. ‘Before we get onto the presentation of the Summer Challenge Cup to the captain of the winning team,’ he paused and gave a massive wink, ‘and that’s Thorswick, by the way, some news just in about our generous supporter Norman Ellroy.’

The big screen on the wall changed to show a live stream from a horse race meeting. Norman Ellroy, in a dark morning suit, stood with a woman in a silken yellow ensemble holding out a cup. A horse tossed its head, flecking them both. The caption running at the bottom read: Buzkashi owner Norman Ellroy receiving the King William Cup from Georgina, wife of Minister, the Right Honourable Carrick Vavasour-Rhodes, MP. That was Ash’s minister. The one who chaired the Intelligence Committee and oversaw the growing number of agencies charged with spying and counter intelligence.

‘Buzkashi,’ Ash thought as he watched the niceties of the photo opportunity. Interesting. Buzkashi was a Central Asian passion, involving a wild melee of horsemen, riding their wild-eyed mounts as they competed for a goat carcass. It was more than a game. It was a bonding experience and, historically, a training for the hordes that rode from the steppes to challenge empires. In so many ways it was war by other means. And then he stiffened. A woman in a large pink hat craned forward to get a better view, briefly exposing a face before it turned swiftly away.

Bearded and dark. Sharp. An individual with no right to be there at all. A killer. Transplanted. Hobnobbing with His Majesty’s Secretary of State for Security and one of the most powerful billionaires in the world. Years of training prevented Ash from giving any sign of the shock he felt. Even so, his armpits prickled beneath that hideous jacket.

‘As I say. A big day!’ Well Able was back on song. He gestured young Jimmy forward with his mobile. ‘Before we go any further I just want the man who gave us such a thrilling batting display this afternoon to come and take a bow.’

The bar erupted in cheers. Feet again thumped the wooden flooring as the entire gathering swung around. But the man they sought was not there. Looking back at them were Maggie and Berne, while hanging on a shield bearing the Clarey coat of arms was a stained blazer.

Chapter 3

Ash left through a side door to the changing rooms, pausing momentarily to make sure he was not followed. He then headed for the trees. Amongst their struggling boughs it was quiet, and he needed that.

‘Safedeen Khan.’ Whispering the name, while registering how the sound seemed to rhyme with the rustling leaves. He said it again. This time, adding a bemused ‘well, well’, and taking an appropriate sigh. Ash did not believe in coincidence. After months of planning he was about to close a trap with the aim of killing two of Khan’s blood-soaked allies. Him appearing on the TV screen, in that company, at this moment, was therefore not just a shock. In normal circumstances it would call for a reappraisal of the operation he was masterminding thousands of miles away.

It was definitely him. Even from the briefest glimpse caught on camera there was no mistake. They had been born within two days’ trek of each other. Both into families embedded in espionage amidst the countries, mountains and frontiers of the Hindu Kush.

Their first meeting was at St.