Distant Annihilation. (Tarquin Collingwood Adventures Book 1) (2 page)

It never does to berate a fellow officer in front of the men. I took Sinclair aside and when I judged we were out of earshot, “I told you to stay in the hamlet,” I scolded him.

Sinclair looking unperturbed replied, “The circumstances changed after you left me.”

I raised my eyebrows quizzically.

“You left me in the hamlet believing we had the enemy only on our left shooting at us. However within minutes of you disappearing in to the forest we were subjected to fire coming away to our right and they were moving across to our left. You were I judged going to be sandwiched between those whom you had gone after and those moving to our left who would’ve been coming up behind you. I could have followed you orders and allowed you to have been wiped out and done nothing. I decided instead to use my initiative. Shouldn’t good army officers use their initiative?” he challenged.

“It’s awfully dangerous Sinclair,” I chided

“Another platoon - that of Arbuthnot’s arrived at that moment and reinforced me. At my suggestion we practically all moved in to the forest. There were about 20 of them, they were outnumbered and taken by surprise. We killed 11 and the rest fled. And here I am bringing you the good news,” he beamed.

“What’s that sporadic gunfire we heard moments ago?” I demanded.

“Just mopping up old boy,” he said proudly.

He had completely disarmed me. If what he said was true; and it subsequently transpired to be so he had saved my life and those of my men. Seconds ago I was contemplating death in an ambush and now the danger had passed and here was Andrew looking as proud as punch. He had shown courage and presence of mind. I was indebted to him of that I was in no doubt.

“Well done Andrew. A brilliant bit of soldiering,” I praised.

Suddenly Andrew’s expression changed as he looked over my shoulder. He then violently shoved me to the ground. I was bewildered and heard the rustle of leaves and a twig snap. Simultaneously, in a beautifully executed reflex motion Andrew whipped out his pistol in a single action and started firing several shots into some vegetation behind me. He ceased firing and then there was silence – but for the sound of some birds that had taken to flight in fear. Andrew stood there as if frozen; his arm still outstretched holding his pistol. And then in the direction at which he had fired there was a rustle of leaves as something fell through the foliage just a few metres from our feet. It was one of those militia men. His blood soaked clothing testified to Andrew’s accurate marksmanship. The man fell dead - machine gun in both hands. From where he had been standing, it was clear that he had been about to open fire into my back. At such range I would have stood no chance.

“It seems pulling my chestnuts out of the fire is becoming a habit with you today,” I said as Andrew extended a helping hand to pull me to my feet. I then dusted down my uniform, trying to restore some dignity.

“I dare say you’d have done the same for me,” he said casually as he placed his pistol back in his holster, whilst Hopkins and the men searched the immediate area for anymore snipers.

“I think I owe you a good dinner,” I promised.

Andrew smiled, “Yes when we’re back in London if you please, the restaurants here aren’t up to my normal standards.”

We both laughed our friendship reaffirmed.

CHAPTER 2 – A PROPHECY, ROOM SERVICE AND AN SOS.

I‘d been at home lounging around, wondering what to do with the rest of my life when I’d received an invitation to meet Jules Faversham in Stockholm. A few days later here I was. The prospect of seeing him was always to be welcomed, especially when such opportunities came round so infrequently.

Glancing across at him as we walked along the cobbled streets and avenues of the Gamla Stan – the old town area of Stockholm on this wretchedly cold spring day, “Well at least you’re looking well. Been somewhere sunny?” I asked referring to his tanned complexion on his otherwise fair skin and against his blonde hair.

He nodded and suggested we visit a coffee shop. I’d not seen or heard from him for a year. Jules Faversham was four years older than me. We had first met at school in the Army Training Corp when I was thirteen. Being young and impressionable, we younger boys regarded many of the older boys with awe; not just because they were bigger and cleverer, but because in the case of a few, such as Jules he also had an easy and likeable manner and showed a paternal regard to us younger boys, as a benign elder brother might. After leaving university he had gone to Sandhurst, where his father had been before him. Jules was by all accounts an exemplary soldier and rose to the rank of Major by 30. He’d been seconded to the SAS for two years. He’d also been on missions of which he never spoke. Although we’d never served together, he had a dedication to his profession which I had reliably been informed had rarely been excelled. He was discreet, intelligent, and loyal
; and paradoxically enough you might think for a soldier – regarded as a bit of a scholar. He also spoke several languages.

We sat inside by the warmth of a log fire and ordered two lattes.

“How are your parents?” he asked politely.

“They’re well,” I replied.

“Give them my regards.”

“I shall,” I assured him as I glanced round the coffee shop and saw that they were so accustomed to foreigners here that all the signs were in English, including the price list - which I had just noticed for the first time. This explained why no Swedes appeared to be drinking here. Accordingly I regarded my latte with a new found reverence as I savoured each sip and dwelt fondly on my Delonghi
Bean to Cup
Coffee Machine at home.

“So how are things in your “world”?” I asked cheerfully.

He placed his cup back on the table after having just taken a sip and sat back, his brow became furrowed as if he were visibly contemplating an answer.

“Do you remember Thornton School?” he asked at last.

“Yes, of course.”

“It had been around since before our own school was founded. Over the years our school flourished whilst Thornton languished and shrank. But nevertheless it was a constant, a permanent fixture, even a symbol of stability. And then when we returned at the beginning of a new term when I was in the upper sixth, we were told that it had closed down. Thornton had been consigned to history and our school had taken over some of its buildings and most of its pupils. What had longevity and was seemingly permanent had ceased to exist overnight. Everyone carried on as if Thornton had never existed. Today’s status quo can be become tomorrow’s history in an instant.”

I nodded, recalling the episode, before taking a sip of my latte; intrigued at where this was leading.

“The point is that we’re seeing a gradual and perceptible shift in the power balance between nations in this early part of the 21
st
century. Europe and America are declining relative to others, whilst Asia is becoming more powerful in every conceivable regard. Whenever this happens there is bound to be friction and tension, sometimes it leads to war.”

“You’re being rather dour. I was expecting our meeting to be a cheerful one,” I chastised.

Jules gave a little laugh, “I don’t mean to be. But let me say my say. The Middle East, China, Central Asia and those Russians; whether it be because of energy, border or water disputes, nationalism or just a explicit grab at power - these are the places to watch.”

His talk was ominous and I was not in the mood for it, “Rest assured, watch them I shall,” I said contriving a show of gravity.

We were both leaving Stockholm today; he this afternoon to god knows where and I this evening back to London. During a Swedish lunch of fried marinated Herring, potato puree and lingon berry preserve we spoke of many things; a new American heavy machine gun we’d heard of, sport, books and politics. The talk was amusing and convivial. We parted outside the restaurant with a firm shake of hands and a degree of solemnity; for we had no idea whether we would meet again and if so when. Had we been foreigners, we might even have embraced, but such a show of emotion would have been as unnatural to us as it was revolting. I returned along the Vasterlanggatan and then across Vasabron Bridge to my hotel where I had arranged a late checkout.

I had rarely seen a finer pair of breasts - pert, rounded and pleasing on the eye, as they bounced up and down glistening in sweat as the
twenty two old Swedish Chambermaid rode me as I lay on my back in bed. I had noticed her in the corridor the very first morning I had arrived at my hotel. Camilla was the type of girl a chap could hardly fail to notice - even though she was just a Chambermaid: five foot eight, brunette, blue eyes, flawless skin, slim hips and a mischievous smile. After lunch with Jules I could hardly imagine a more laudable way to spend the afternoon. She gave out a large exhalation of breath as one invariably does when reaching congress with me and sighed in admiration, “Oh.....Tar....quin.”

Camilla was quite exhausted, but impressed with her lover, or was I just flattering myself? She de-coupled herself and lay down beside me. Both of us breathed deeply as we recovered our breaths, our naked lean young bodies, sweaty with the exertions of an afternoon of unadulterated sensual debauchery. I looked to the bedside cabinet on my left and saw the time. If I was to make my flight to London, I would have to leave soon. I got out of bed and walked straight to the bathroom for a shower - without acknowledging Camilla in the slightest. The girl had fulfilled her purpose; proving useful in allowing me to sate my loins and thus kill a couple of hours before my flight. No point in developing any feelings for her. I stepped in the shower and turned on the water. The sights I have seen this afternoon in bed were preferable to any I have seen in the whole of Stockholm, I mused to myself as the water washed away an afternoon’s sport.

Heathrow was not as ghastly as it usually is. I sighed with relief after a wait of only 13 minutes as my luggage appeared on the carousel. I caught a taxi to Kensington where I lived in an Edwardian building
- Burlington Mansions; consisting of luxury mansion flats, one of which was bequeathed to me by my late uncle who died childless. I was loath to sell having become rather attached to the place. It was in a good neighbourhood, convenient for all the best parts of London. The flat itself was ideal: high ceilings, spacious rooms, quality fixtures and fittings and three bedrooms. I had sensitively modernised the flat in the three years I had lived there. Now I could barely countenance the thought of living elsewhere. After unpacking and putting away my luggage I reheated a beef casserole for supper and washed it down with a glass of Pinotage. After dinner I pondered on Nielsen an obscure composer whom I was trying to get to grips with, but instead settled on Haydn a rather underrated composer, whom I had modestly been championing since receiving a boxed set of Haydn symphonies several years earlier. I settled on symphony no 100, known as the Military; which I thought rather befitting. Moments such as this were one of utter contentment - a whiskey in one hand, free to think and ponder with no interruptions. I imagined where Jules might now be and reflected on his observations in the coffee shop.

As the finale of woodwind, brass interspersed with drums came to an end the flat fell silent. I sat there appreciating the quiet and contemplating bed when there was a rude awakening - the telephone had intervened. Who the devil could it be at this hour, I cursed as I answered.

“Hello”, I bellowed into the phone not making any attempt to conceal my displeasure.

“Tarquin?” the caller inquired rather sheepishly.

“Andrew?” I replied.

“Thank heavens it’s you. I need your help”

“
What is it?” I enquired rather concerned, my displeasure at the call having all but evaporated on hearing the voice of Andrew Sinclair an old friend.

“Listen there isn’t much time; I’m in a spot of bother. I think my li
fe’s in danger.”

“Where are you?”

“Moscow. I‘ve been doing business here and I’ve got in with the wrong sort. I think I may be in over my head. I’ve received several threatening phone calls saying something unpleasant would happen to me. I dismissed it thinking that it was a crank call. But yesterday someone broke into my hotel room and rummaged through my stuff,” he explained.

“I see
,” I stated, trying to sound composed in stark contrast to Andrew’s excited state, “Get on the next plane to London or get to our embassy,” I counselled calmly.

“I would do but I’m certain I’m being followed.
”

“Who exactly are these people?” I asked
in exasperation. Just then I heard someone entering his room, there was then a muffling sound, shouts and the sounds of a struggle.

“Andrew
are you there? Andrew……Andrew” I shouted but the line had gone dead.

“Hello…..hello!”
I cried, but it was in vain.

I looked at the receiver in desperation and reluctantly hung up. I called the operator and asked them to trace the number but they were unable to do so. The disappointment only served to accentuate my fatigue. The exertions of the day had caught up with me – namely the thrashing about with the licentious chambermaid. There was nothing else for it, I decided but to go to bed.