Utilising sixty percent of the proceeds, they'd just completed setting up the promised trusts for each of the families of their murdered business partners. The balance would be divided between Greg and Oscar.
“I have to say,” Oscar smiled, rubbed an imaginary beard on his smooth chin. “I often wondered if this day would ever come.” He looked at his friend. “Now here we are! Quite honestly I still get a shiver when I think of those Syndicate killers. The whole episode was like a prolonged nightmare. I feel a great sense of relief knowing that now we can avoid any more confrontations with the forces of evil.” He shook his head slowly. “We are comfortably well off, yet I don't feel elated. The memory of our dear friends fills my every waking moment.” He looked sad. “Without them and their faith in me, I would never have been able to kick my drug addiction; in fact I would certainly have been dead long ago.”
Greg smiled understandingly.
“Sadly, we can't change the past but we have honoured our friends' memories and ensured that their families are financially secure - for a couple of generations at least - haven't we?” He looked seriously at Oscar. “So, isn't it time to make further use of our share?”
Oscar looked at his friend cautiously.
“Just what harebrained scheme have you in mind?” he replied slowly.
“Well,” Greg started, clearing his throat. “You remember the old map?”
He looked up questioningly. Oscar nodded without speaking.
“Then you'll remember when you translated those notes written in Japanese just near where the Island of Corregidor appears on the map?” He wrinkled his eyebrows and looked cheekily at Oscar.
Oscar raised his hand.
“Oh no, not another treasure hunt.” He shook his head vigorously. “Count me out, I told you before, I simply couldn't cope with any more of your style of excitement!” He paused, thinking desperately for something to say. “Haven't we enough money now? We can buy homes and put funds in trust that will ensure you have everything you need for the rest of your life.” He raised his hands in supplication.
“I hear you Oscar but it's not the money. You know very well that it's the thrill of the chase and the urge to succeed that we love. That gold is down there somewhere, of that I'm certain. After all we did find the stuff they left behind on land, well at least some of it didn't we?” He didn't wait for a response. “It does mean that we would be starting with much more certainty of success, yes?” he reasoned with a wry smile.
“But the odds of finding some treasure at the bottom of a shark-infested sea are pretty poor. That makes it a much more perilous proposition than scratching around in the foothills doesn't it?” Oscar protested. “Who's to know if that location was correct? It could be miles out,” he added hopefully trying to suppress the bubbling enthusiasm. “We don't even know if that's the position of a rendezvous or of a wreck.” He tried again to cool down the conversation.
“You are well aware of the report! Damn it, you translated it!” Greg persisted. “On the night that last submarine left Manila harbour, there was a huge explosion reported in the general area of that location and the sub never returned,” Greg smiled encouragement. “So with the modern sophisticated equipment available these days at least we could scan the seabed for a wreck.”
“There'll be hundreds of wrecks out there surely?” Oscar protested. “How could we be sure we had found the right submarine - the one supposedly full of gold?”
“We dive down and take a look!” Greg concluded simply, looking up sporting his most infectious grin.
2
Stiletto knife in hand, the attacker lunged forward in a head down rugby style charge. Alex dropped to his knee and fired two rapid shots into the man's massive chest, killing him instantly but in spite of the impact of the soft nosed .38 slugs, the momentum of his vast bulk was not hindered. Alex staggered under the weight and fell back. The knife sliced into his groin as the man fell on top of him. Yet in spite of searing pain in his abdomen, it was the nausea brought on by the halitosis stench from the gaping mouth that dominated his senses, giving him an additional burst of strength to heave the massive dead body to one side.
“Hey, take it easy big guy! You don't have to wrestle with me. I'll submit willingly!” Rosie called out as she hauled herself up from the floor where Alex had pushed her in his rambling nightmare.
Alex returned instantly to consciousness with perspiration soaking his body and face and peered blearily towards Rosie's voice. A sharp pain in his groin reminded of his dream.
“I'm so sorry,” he pleaded quietly, realising what he must have done.
It was almost twelve months since that bloody brawl with the Syndicate enforcer and it was not the first time that he had relived the heart-stopping moment.
“Perhaps you'd like to get back into bed and I'll try to make it up to you?” his face set in a cheeky grin as he quickly recovered his composure.
“Some chance young man. You go back to what ever you were trying to do - I've got more important matters to attend to.” She moved away haughtily.
Alex knew Rosie too well so, smiling inwardly; he lay back and closed his eyes. About ten minutes later Rosie re-appeared carrying a tray of fresh coffee; she slipped off her flimsy dressing gown and jumped into bed. Alex stirred slowly and placed his arms around her.
“That coffee looks far too hot to drink,” he suggested slyly.
Rosie scowled.
“So?” she teased.
“So come here.”
He pulled her gently towards him and kissed her softly on the lips.
“I hope it's very very hot and needs lots of time to cool,” he whispered.
Rosie understood only too well the inner pain her beloved man frequently endured and knew that only time and loving understanding would ever purge his memory of all the unspeakable things he had been obliged to do in order to survive.
“Who cares,” she purred and nuzzled into his arms.
f
Special Operations National and International Co-operation (SONIC), was a top-secret NATO organisation with the task of “Protecting the soft underbelly of Democracy” or “Nipping trouble in the bud” as The Boss euphemistically explained the role to a recently elected Prime Minister. “And that Sir means fighting the enemy by a set of rules somewhat removed from the politically correct image that any democratic country would want to be associated with!”
Sir Adrian Jordan, known to his colleagues and closest friends simply as The Boss, was head of SONIC. He ruled the department in his own unconventional style and reported only to the Prime Minister or the Minister of Defence.
Alex Scott was SONIC'S senior operative.
“How has Agent Scott survived for so long in such a dangerous environment?” the Prime minister asked in wonder as he gradually learned about the secret killing machine that only he and the Minister of Defence had knowledge of and authority over.
“Alex is a quiet man who always engages his brain before opening his mouth or flexing his trigger finger.” The Boss thought for a moment more. “That's as well as being a thoroughly tough bastard.”
In the days of the âCold War', SONIC's role had occasionally included the neutralizing of troublesome dissidents. Now it all too frequently involved skirmishes with terrorist regimes and political pariahs but increasingly with The Syndicate, a powerful and vicious international crime organisation. Uncompromisingly ruthless, they made sure that opposition was almost always fatal.
The leader, his name unknown by the authorities, and founder of the Syndicate was in fact a trained lawyer and former industrial tycoon. He had fallen from grace when his plan to corner the world supply of titanium was revealed as a giant scam and caused one of the greatest stock market scandals, sending numerous relatively innocent men to jail and causing others to commit suicide.
The four others who formed the Syndicate hierarchy were also disillusioned former business or professional men, filled with hate and vengeance against a system that they believed had cheated them in one way or another.
SONIC had been badly embarrassed during its last clash with the Syndicate during Oscar and Greg's earlier Philippine adventure. Not only did SONIC fail to fully protect them - in the event the Syndicate managed to steal almost twenty tonnes of gold from under everyone's noses and murdered four other partners as well as causing the death of several innocent bystanders.
The final embarrassment for SONIC was when they discovered that their operative, Chris Williams, was a double agent who had very nearly succeeded in killing Alex Scott.
Determined to even up the score, Alex finally managed to lure two of the Syndicate's directors into a terminal trap. Although it was not known at the time, the loss to the Syndicate of two of its most active partners caused severe disruption to their organisation from which they never fully recovered; in fact the ultimate destruction of the organisation was probably triggered at that time.
Alex, unsurprisingly, was now at the top of their “most wanted” list. The Boss had therefore deemed it wise for Alex and his new wife to stay out of sight for some time. “At least until the heat dies down,” he had reasoned.
They had chosen the wonderful backdrop of Alaska as their temporary new home, assuming new identities while happily leading a normal domestic life. Their son, now a healthy nine months old, had been born there.
Then one day Alex received the inevitable summons to a meeting in London, the first since their seclusion in Alaska.
A call from The Boss was always answered immediately.
The transpolar flight took Alex swiftly to London; he was met at Heathrow Airport and taken by a private hire car to the City.
They always met away from SONIC's Whitehall headquarters - the Boss was paranoid about his office being bugged and so always called his special assignment meetings at one of a variety of old London public houses.
“Much safer - and you have the benefit of a modest libation at the same time!” was his unchallenged justification.
On this occasion they were sitting in The Ship Tavern, which was situated at the end of a typical cobbled courtyard. It was just a couple of minutes' walk from the twentieth century London Bridge, yet sitting there you could still feel the presence of a bygone age.
“In my opinion,” The Boss said conversationally, “the beer here is the best anywhere in the City - not that I drink much of the stuff - as you well know!” He looked at Alex expectantly.
“Perhaps a Gin and Tonic?” Alex stood up abruptly, responding to the oblique request.
“What a good idea,” was the simple reply.
Alex moved to the bar and ordered the drink, adding an orange juice for himself, and returned to the table.
“Cheers! Got quite a lot of brain work to do today - need to keep a clear head.” Alex raised his freshly squeezed orange in the traditional toast.
The Boss nodded understandingly and savoured his own drink.
“Ah,” he exclaimed. “Now that's just what I needed.” He seemed to relax, then looked directly at Alex. “Cheers to you.” He took another sip. “Thanks as usual for coming so promptly,” he started. “I am just sorry you had to travel halfway round the world to get here. I did promise not to involve you unnecessarily but we have a potential problem, one that needs your specialist knowledge and experience.” He looked directly at Alex. “I know that leaving the family out there is something of a trial for you, so the sooner we sort this out the better eh?”
“To be honest, in some ways I was almost hoping for your call,” Alex replied, relaxing a little. “Alaska is fantastic for us - the most wonderful place on earth - but once winter settles in around October time it's pretty tame until the spring!” He smiled to himself, his mind fleetingly imagining his lovely wife curled up on that pile of soft fur rugs by their enormous log fire. “So what's it all about then?” Alex questioned, returning reluctantly to reality.
“It's a delicate one as usual. Seems as though the Syndicate has been contracted by one of the fanatic Middle East terrorist groups to provide intelligence information together with a mountain of arms and equipment to their colleagues in the Philippines. It's thought they're planning some kind of raid, possibly on American industrial companies in the area. The whisper on the street is that a major prestige target is on the cards.” He looked absently at the ice and lemon floating gently in the glass. “Have you heard of the latest cruising wonder?” He looked casually at Alex.
“Well yes, actually it's a cruising apartment block isn't it?”
“That's exactly what it is; it's called âThe World' and describes itself as âThe World of ResidenSea'. She will leave soon on an endless world cruise, following the best weather and international events. She has one hundred and ten luxury two or three bed roomed apartments. She has about ninety luxury guest suites. The apartments cost between one point five and five million pounds. It doesn't end there though because there is a maintenance charge of up to a quarter of a million pounds per year.” He smiled. “Just outside my pension range.” He shook his head gently. “The guest suites rent out at about a thousand pounds a day!” He raised his bushy eyebrows. “If you want exercise, they have a golf range, jogging track and two swimming pools. The theatre's a bit like the Albert Hall! This is going to be the prestige address of all time. Only the richest people in the world will be able to afford such opulence.” He stared directly at Alex. “What a target eh?”
Alex shifted in his chair. “How sure are you?”
“We're not sure at all. In fact it's just one of several potential targets on the most vulnerable list and therefore receiving the highest level of security. The problem as usual is that the possible threat is only a hint - or what our US cousins call a hunch.” He took a large draught of his drink.