Jason M. Kennedy’s THE BLOOD COAST

1.

ON THE FAR SIDE of England. Deep in the West Country. Things where winding down. Drawing to a close in a simple quiet Cornish way. The same as it always had. It was the end of yet another warm sunny day. And the night was slowly drawing-in. The sky was blood-red and seemed almost angry. But in the small harbour community nobody noticed. Things seemed the same and nothing out of the ordinary. The last of the small fishing boats had already come in and landed their catch. And the seagulls had long since flown away to their roosts. And the last of the dockside trades had closed up. But further out, just past the point, another wasn’t ready to come in yet. The calm gentle sea gently lapped against the side of the old fishing boat. Wave after wave rolled over, danced and fizzed as it chugged along. Silhouetted against the horizon and the pitch of the bruised red sky, it didn’t look out of place.  

It was probably one of many, that had past that day. And no-one ashore would think any different, even perhaps if it was seen. But it sailed on. It had a purpose. An intent. And the two men aboard were bringing to a close the final stages of a dark one. Banking around the boat sat broadside. The engine was cut and the small vessel was allowed to drift on the gentle current. The two occupants in the wheelhouse gazed out at the vast sea surrounding them. And surveyed the shore-line through an old pair of battered German Naval binoculars. They were alone. Totally alone. No activity in the harbour. No other vessels coming their way. Not even a seagull flying above. The sun continued to sink slowly and majestically into the sea. And now only the harbour lights and bluff-point were faintly visible in the hazy shadow of the fading light. The darkness was now starting to take hold. Becoming ‘Witching-Hour’.

The door to the wheelhouse creaked open and together the two occupants slowly strolled out onto the old, weathered deck of the little trawler. They stared hard in unison at the large grey parcel that lay there. They seemed to be gauging it. It was really no bigger than a small under-croft fridge. So at least perhaps manageable. They circled it. Several times. Then their hesitation vanished and they both stooped and grabbed the ends as best they could. It was heavy. Slippery and cumbersome. The contents were uneven and even appeared to move and fight back at being man-handled. They struggled on. Then heaving it up, landed it with a thud onto the stern-cover. Just above the now silent engine. They paused studying it. Then with a shove, rolled it over and it splashed-down into the sea like a depth-charge. 

They both reeled, avoiding the spray, then finally leaned forward. Scanning the surf to make sure it had sunk. There was no mistake. It was gone. No sign of it. Only the tell-tale fizz and foam of where the sea had been broken in its wake. The older of the two turned and gave a slight nod. And the other sauntered back to the wheel house and started the engine and with a burble the little boat gathered pace and slowly moved away. The man on deck flexed his chest, taking in the salty breeze. Then reached in through his over-coat and pulled out a slim pencil-like cigar. He twirled it in his fingers then tore-off the wrapping and cast it out into the sea. With a flick of his silver Dunhill lighter, he breathed a spit of flame into it. And finally with a strong powerful exhale, kept a watchful eye on the last of the bubbles, just to make sure.

***

The turbulence was heavy. And seemed relentless. The 747 had a smooth flight. But as it neared the UK the bad weather kicked in and the sheer hulk of the plane rocked countlessly from side to side. Coupled with dropping attitude several times like a kite dancing in a gale. Those who weren’t awake, were now. Nervously shook from their slumber by the cabin floor coming up and almost hitting them square in the face. But finally, the wheels of the 747 screamed as they touched-down at Heathrow. And seat belt clicks reverberated through the cabin like metal castanets. As everyone made a sudden and eager scramble for their bags and the exit.

But one person remained still. He wasn’t in any hurry. And leaning forward from his seat, he glanced down the aisle. He could see the plane was almost empty. So realising this he finally made his move. He liked to hang at the back. As no one ever paid any attention to who was last. Everybody on board just wanted off. After almost 30 years of tirelessly serving the government. Peter Crane was ready for some leave. Indefinite! And long-overdue. Grabbing his bags at arrivals he sauntered through customs via a secret route. Being an operative for MI6 had its perks. Crane breezed on unseen down through a side corridor. And to his left through mirrored glass, he could see the holiday makers queuing-up. There were only two guys checking passports, so they would have a long wait. He’d seen this so many times. It was almost second nature. Tired mums and dads. Screaming kids. And grandparents who looked like death-warmed-up and ready to give-in and collapse were they stood.

Luckily, there was no sound. Crane was thankful for some small mercies and the genius of sound-proof glass was one of them. As he hated screaming kids almost as much as queuing. Finally stopping at the last door, he ran a card through a small metallic reader attached to the wall and the mag-lock cycled and clicked back. He pushed the doors hard and walked briskly through. Glancing at his watch it was a little after 2am. Heathrow was busy. As always. A collection of life from every corner on the planet. Either arriving or leaving. But no one paid him any notice. And dragging his small suit case behind him, that was the way he liked it. He didn’t stand-out. To everyone around him, he was nothing more than another weary tourist. But in truth he was a spook hiding in plain sight. But that was just SOP for every agent. As one of their greatest strengths was to look ordinary. To blend in. Disappear. Just be just another person or weary traveller going about their business.

With a rumble of his case on the walkway mat. Coupled with some inaudible squawking through a tannoy, the large glass doors shooshed open. And then the cold night air hit him like a lightning bolt. Crane shuddered and mumbled under his breath. And hailing a cab, he haphazardly clambered in muttering his address. And he slumped down and peered out of the windows. There was no mistake he was back in England. It was dreary and the wind and rain seemed relentless. Shutting his eyes he pondered warmly on his recent assignment. For the last few years the weather had been good. As where the surroundings of palm trees and warm beaches. But after a lifetime of living out of a suit case, he’d had enough. Many operatives burn out after countless years in the field and some have even defected for the right price. So having done more than his quota. More than his fair-share. He knew, in some way, he was owed this. And it was time to collect his pension and stay-put for once. Angola. The Philippines. Sierra Leone. And then finally his favourite – ‘Latin-America and Cuba’. He loved it there. Plus Crane loved Cuban cigars and he smoked as many as he could. His final bus-stop assignment was to meet up with a former Cuban secret agent and buy the plans to a new type of armour-piercing round. Crane knew full-well this wasn’t new tech. Just a re-hash of what was already available. But this was apparently of Russian design. So his MI6 controller wanted to know what was going on. Wanted to know more. Even obtain one if he could. So he was assigned at the last minute.

This agent had supposedly been fired over embezzling. And had contacted a British sleeper-cell in Havana touting secrets for sale. Or so that was how the story went. And that was all he’d been told in his rushed briefing. Cuba was still basically a poor Communist country. But British Intelligence knew for certain that Castro had his sticky fingers in the till. And had been stashing money away in numbered accounts in Switzerland for decades. But no money ever filtered down through the ranks of his government. Or to the people at the sharp-end. As Castro had always traded on his country’s patriotism to the Socialist cause. But cash was king and always gave an advantage in this type of negotiation. So this agent was definitely up for making some money and selling what he knew. Cuba may have been a poor country but their army is one of the best equipped in the world. And most of it Russian in manufacture and design. That was apart from some odds and sods that the CIA had left behind when they supported Castro’s coup back in 59. 

Cuba’s army had Kalashnikov’s. RPG’s. Air support and full military infrastructure. The list just went on. And the Russian Cuban connection went further and deeper than the rest of the world really knew. The agreement was a simple meet and greet. Get the intel. Pay him and make a fast exfil. But Crane knew that meeting him in public was no safe cover option. The Cuban secret police wouldn’t care if they started a fire-fight in down-town Havana. They were notorious for it. And any civilians caught in the crossfire were nothing more than collateral damage. And to some – target practice. Cranes plan was easy. He kept it simple. To him, involving too many operatives for an op like this only muddied the waters. And the Brit sleeper cell in Havana only collated intel and weren’t really geared-up for any armed support if the shit-hit-the-fan.

Coming through customs at Jose’ Marti airport he made his way to left luggage and paid for a locker-rental. Placing his small suit case in, he slammed the door and jammed a match-stick into the hinge. If anyone tried to open it, at least he’d know and he’d abandon it. It wouldn’t be the first-time his luggage had been ‘Jarked’ and a transponder had been hidden inside it. The last thing he wanted was anyone following him back to the UK. And back home. Crane jumped into a cab. If you could call it that. An old American Oldsmobile. More rust and gaffer-tape than anything else. And coughing and spluttering they made their way towards Havana. And glancing out of the window he took out his mobile and clicked the position-finder. This would ping at the sleeper-cell and they would know he was in Cuba and they would triangulate him. Stopping at St Martin Square, Crane got out and slowly made his way to the Bolivar Café. He’d used this place before and had come to know the owner well. Crane had found his teenage son in South America involved with the communist group ‘Shining-Light Liberation Army’ operating out of Peru. He and his brother had run away to join them. And he revealed to Crane an assassination attempt on a French diplomat had gone wrong and they had tortured and killed his younger sibling for supposedly being a traitor and the reason for its complete failure.

He was made to sit and watch. As they took great joy in setting about him with a chainsaw. Cutting his off his hands and feet and finally his head and then cooking the lot on an open fire. And finally making him eat the charred flesh from one of his dead brothers hands. 

Unbeknown to him, Crane was on a joint intelligence mission and was there to take steps to prevent the hit taking place. And he now felt responsible in some way for his younger brother. So Crane got him out of there and back home to Havana. Moments before a squad of CIA ‘Wet-Boys’ partnered with an SAS unit, went in there and took them all out. And secretly disposed of all the bodies in a mass unmarked grave. His father swore he was indebted to him forever and when he wandered in, his bear-hug and kiss on Cranes cheek still showed this and confirmed his gratitude.

‘Good to see you my dear good friend.. Holiday..?’ – he growled in a deep gravelly voice.

Crane smiled – ‘No.. job .. one last job before home.. !

He grabbed up Cranes hand and warmly shook it in his bear-like paws – ‘Anything you need.. anything my friend.. my home is yours.. !’

Crane straightened his eyes – ‘I need a piece.. nothing too fancy.. but full.. yeah.. !’

He slowly nodded. And understood exactly what Crane meant – ‘Coffee.. ?’ – and he waved to a far table near a window. Crane sat down and placed his satchel on the seat next to him and again pulled out his mobile. No sooner had he done so than a text pinged onto the screen.

‘POSITION NOTED – MEET & GREET IN 30’ and then it vanished from the screen. Just as the burly café owner came back towards him. He neatly placed a cup of thick black steaming coffee down in front of him and gently passed Crane a heavily folded magazine. Crane took it and uncurled the edge slightly. Inside the folded pages was a shiny nickel-plated Smith & Wesson snub-nosed .38 special.

He looked up at the café owner and winked. He returned the same and slowly walked away and re- took his place back behind the counter. Crane glanced around. The café was almost empty. As most were sitting outside basking in the glorious mid-day sun. He slowly slid the magazine down into his lap and gently took out the revolver. He thumbed the side catch and popped out the chamber. It was full. A full six rounds. He clicked it back into place, leant forward and slid the .38 special into the small of his back. And reaffirmed his shirt. Picking up his coffee, he raised it in a cheers-like motion to the café owner. He glanced over and shot Crane a side-smile and nodded.

Just as he was browsing through the magazine a young man of around 20 came bustling into the café. Crane paid no attention and continued to gaze back to what he was reading. When suddenly the chair the other side of his table slid back with a metallic screech on the tiled floor. 

Why don’t you make it more fucking obvious.. !’ – Crane whispered in a hushed angry tone without looking up. The young lad sat down and tried to mouth something. But nothing came out. And Crane noticed out of the corner of his eye that the café owner had moved to the end of the bar. And was fixed on the new visitor. A small burner mobile was slid across the table towards him. And seeing this Crane laid his magazine over it and placed a hand under it to retrieve it. ‘So fucking obvious.. where the fuck did they get you from.. Oxford ?’ – mumbled Crane as he slowly looked up at him. His face blank and dead-pan. Again the young guy tried to mouth something when suddenly the café owner came briskly walking to the table – ‘Yes.. ? .. Coffee..? .. Beer..?’ – he bellowed. 

He looked up at him and again tried to mumble something. Then suddenly realising that was his que to leave. He hurriedly got up from his seat and stumbled away towards the door. Crane gently shook his head and glanced up at the café owner again. He returned the same with a surprised look and slowly wandered back to the bar keeping an eye on the door. Crane drained the last of his coffee and put the burner phone into his pocket and shouldering his satchel he strolled up to the bar. He out-stretched his hand again and smiled. The café owner grabbed it again with both of his paws and shook it warmly. ‘Good luck my friend.. whatever you need.. I’m here.. !’ – he said nodding. Crane gave a gentle smile. And finished with a thumbs-up.

Walking back up the Street Crane fished the phone from his pocket and thumbed the power-button and the little phone bleeped into life. Jogging the menu, he found the pre-entered number for the ex-Cuban intelligence agent and pressed send. It only rang once and the agent came onto the line. And from the tone of his voice, he was obviously eager for his pay-day. Crane gave his simple pretext instructions and clicked off. And sliding the battery from the phone, pulled out the sim-card and snapped it in two. Then threw it all into a curb-side drain.

Crane put his plan into action and hired a small speed-boat. His pretext was going fishing. Plan B was If it all went boss-eyed he would pitch the Cuban agent over the side and then high-tail it to Miami. It was the only option as there were no black-ops for back-up. Once out at a safe distance the agent gave Crane an old mobile phone. His Government issue mobile. And Crane watched the footage and looked at the photos. Then transferred the intel to his own. Along with its address book as an added bonus. Happy. Crane shoved his mobile back into his trouser pocket and thrust a fat envelope towards the agent. He grabbed it greedily and tore it open and his face lit up like a pin-ball machine.

Five grand in English Stirling. All brand new fifty pound notes. Crane smiled inwardly and sniggered lightly. As he knew this was enough money for him to live well on for the next couple of years at least. The deal was done and Crane launched the agents mobile into the sea. There was no-way he could have kept it. Even if he wanted too. The agent. The contact. Could have been a ‘double’ working both sides for a bigger payday and his mobile could have been a transponder. 

And the last thing he wanted was some Cuban sleeper-cell paying him a visit in the dead of night. So time was of the essence. And now the deal was done, Crane sped back ashore and slammed the speed-boat onto the rickety old jetty. He didn’t look back. No pleasantries. No goodbyes. He just jumped onto it and walked briskly to the roadside. This was the most dangerous part of any op. The Exfil. As he could have easily been in the cross-hairs of a snipers rifle. An easy open target. Or a snatch and grab right on there on the road side. And heart pounding, hand on the .38 special, he stood momentarily. And no sooner had he appeared then an old rusty orange Chevy screeched to a halt beside him on the road.