Paths of Courage (2 page)

Frank Ryder awoke as early morning rain battered the windows of his London flat in Norfolk Mansions. He reached for a non-existent packet of cigarettes before realizing he'd given them up. Despite a slight hangover, his brain kicked in and he hauled his naked frame out of the crumpled bed, determined to do his regular run. He quickly donned a tracksuit and joggers and left the flat. The rain sheeted down as he crossed Prince of Wales Drive and entered Battersea Park. Ryder enjoyed running through the park no matter what the weather, especially in the early morning with the wind and the rain lashing at his body. It made him feel alive. When not on assignment, these daily runs served to maintain his fitness, and the isolation gave him time to focus. Early morning running had become a habit since his days with the 1
^st
Battalion Parachute Regiment and then the 22
^nd
SAS. He'd spent many a good time with fellow soldiers, pounding in the driving rain around the Welsh hills, taking regular hikes up Pen-y-Fan, the highest peak in the Brecon Beacons, and putting back a few in the Hereford pubs. Morning runs had become a firm habit; even on the day he was ‘badged' and handed the sand-coloured SAS beret. Ryder had come a long way since those earlier rough days growing up in Brixton before deciding to join the army at eighteen. Surprisingly, he did reasonably well at school with an aptitude for languages and sport. The army, however, gave him the opportunity to discover his full potential; it gave him discipline and purpose. He learned to channel his newfound energy and knowledge into an effective fighting machine. The SAS gave him the independence he had always craved and, strangely enough, satisfaction despite the fact that killing other humans was part of the job. At twenty-eight, in his current civilian/military capacity, he considered himself to be at the top of his game, finding fulfilment of a kind as a no-holds barred paramilitary operating covertly in some of the world's most dangerous places.

As he pounded the footpath passing the lake, he decided, if the weather cleared, he would do a spot of fishing later. He was a keen angler, had been since an early age, first on Clapham Common for tiddlers, then graduating to other nearby fisheries and now the lake here in the park. He enjoyed the serenity and ‘get-away-from-it-all' feeling in this oasis of calm, angling for roach, perch and bream, especially in the early morning and at dusk. He still used the sturdy old rod, colourful floats and basic equipment given to him by his grandfather. Lately he'd been contemplating doing some serious fishing in the carp lakes of Kent and Devon. If nothing came through in the coming week, he'd made up his mind to head off to Kent.

An hour later, he arrived back at the flat barely winded and with his head just about cleared. Jumping into the shower – hot first, then cold – he dried, slipped into a grey sweatshirt, jeans and trainers. He then made himself a cup of coffee, fighting the urge for a cigarette, having given up for over a month. It was still hard, though, hanging around between assignments without a smoke to keep him company. Suddenly the bleeper on his belt chimed and relief of a sort swept through him; he was wanted at HQ.

*

Ryder swung his Harley ‘Fat Boy' through the gate and into the yard of a two-storey building in Lots Road. Parking, he removed his helmet and placed it on the side rack. He then strode easily towards a modest entrance. His slim, six-foot lithe frame clad in blue jeans and black leather ‘bomber' jacket reached the single entry door where he looked directly into a small circular glass aperture on the side wall. The iris scanner confirmed his identity and the door clicked open. To any casual observer the plain entrance was nothing more than the way into a small commercial office. A plaque on the wall displayed the sign – “General Commodities Ltd.”

The building in Lots Road, Fulham, which wasn't far from Chelsea football ground, had been purchased for its innocuous aspects and for its out of the way location in the backstreets of an area colloquially referred to as “World's End.” The plain brick building in its heyday had been a modest factory warehouse, then offices and now served as the headquarters of Omega Unit, the ultra-secret ‘off the books' arm of the British Secret Intelligence Service.

Ryder entered into a narrow corridor leading to a flight of stairs up to a first-floor reception area. Here he was met by a plump, fiftyish woman with greying hair tied back in a neat bun, wearing a dark blue trouser suit and frameless spectacles.

“Hello, Frank,” said the boss's PA. “He's waiting for you.” She led him along a short corridor to be shown into a tidy, rectangular office, sparsely furnished, with only a large flat- screen TV on one wall and a few landscape paintings adorning the rest. The room was devoid of windows and said much about the man who occupied it.

George Conway rose from his desk and came to meet Ryder. “Good to see you, old boy,” he said, thrusting out a hand. “Take a seat.”

They shook hands and Ryder took the only other available seat in the room. Looking relaxed, brown eyes rested intently on his boss as he waited for him to lead out.

“Tea?” Conway asked, reaching for the white china pot on a silver tray.

Ryder nodded. “Why not? Always good to sip tea before business. Biscuits too, I see.” Biscuits only came out when things were serious.

Conway smiled dryly, lifted the pot and poured the contents into two white bone china cups, handing one to Ryder and indicated towards the plate. “Do have one.”

George Conway was a thin, bespectacled man, middle-aged with a shock of white hair. He could easily have been taken for a professor rather than a high-ranking officer of the SIS. However, he had not risen to be deputy head of the SIS's Special Operations Directorate by using the old school tie network, but by sheer hard work in the field and a shrewd understanding of those who operated in the murky and often nefarious world of espionage. The byzantine nature of his calling demanded insight into the threat of evil and the courage to face it when necessary. He had been given the unenviable task of running the Omega Unit and the several agents operating within its tenet. To academia, Omega referred to the last letter of the Greek alphabet, but to the Establishment, the last resort. Only the Chief of SIS and a handful of others were aware of its very existence.

Omega had evolved within the folds of the Secret Intelligence Service more from necessity than from design to primarily combat the ever increasing terrorist threat without the constraints of the law. Conway believed, as did his boss, ‘C', the Chief of the British Secret Intelligence Service commonly referred to as MI6, that killing was the only way and the only thing understood by fanatical terrorism and wayward government-sponsored criminal activities. Quasi-international justice and legal niceties could not be allowed to stand in the way when protecting the Realm. It was considered by the Establishment too difficult to have regular Special Forces carrying out assassinations and other unpalatable activities likely to involve media attention and prison time. Ryder knew the risks and fully understood the legal consequences of his role. Should he get caught, the Establishment would deny all knowledge of his existence.

“I suppose you're wondering what we have for you, O-Three?”

When the boss called him by his official designation (Omega Three) instead of Frank, he knew something heavy was about to be delivered – hence the biscuits.

“You could say that, George,” he grinned, softening the rugged, high cheekbones that were topped with a mop of thick, dark hair. “‘Ours is to do or die,' so they say. The ‘Queen's shilling', mind you, is hard to turn down,” he said. Familiarity between them was not unusual.

Conway's eyebrows rose, ignoring that last remark; at the same time a ghost of a smile creased his features before he came straight to the point. “We want you to lead a team into North Korea.”

“North Korea! You must be kidding!” he exclaimed, stunned. He knew the SIS rarely carried out field operations in that part of the world. “How soon?”

“As soon as.”

Ryder felt a little bewildered. “The reason?”

Conway was all business now. “Briefly, our Moscow network reports a North Korean virologist working for a bio-warfare unit has defected to the Russians, saying his country has developed a deadly super virus unknown to the West.” Conway paused to let that sink in. “But, wait for it: they also have an antidote and that leaves us very exposed indeed. Intel from our Seoul and Beirut networks suggests the virus may be used soon against a Western power. Seoul says a North Korean general was assassinated on a visit to the South Korean capital because he was about to inform the South. Beirut has been watching an NK agent and an al-Qaeda rep, suggesting the terrorist group may be planning to attack a Western country using this virus. We believe all three may be connected. The defector believes the virus is being manufactured in a subterranean bio-lab in the Hamgyong Mountains, somewhere near a town called Pyorha-ri.”

Ryder shot an asking glance.

“Close to the Chinese border in the northern region. We want you to take in a virologist to find out if such a lab exists.”

“Army?”

“Yes, specialist scientist from the Army Medical Corps out at Porton Down.”

That's a bloody relief
, thought Ryder. Babysitting a civilian would add considerable difficulties to such an operation.

“If you find a super virus we need someone who knows how to ID, handle and destroy them. Most of all, that specialist will need to determine if a vaccine exists in the plant. None of our people have those abilities. Your job, Frank, will be to get the specialist in and out safely.”

“Who is this specialist?”

“A Dr Seymour. BSc (Hons) Biomedical Sciences from the Royal College of Defence Medicine, Birmingham and from De Montfort University, Leicester. ”

“Impressive, but they won't get him far out there in the wild. I hope he's fit; otherwise, we'll not reach a lab even if one exists.”

“The doctor is a she,” said Conway quietly.

Ryder looked at the boss in stunned silence. He then said, “Why not use army medics?”

“What we're looking for is potentially the most lethal virus known to man; exposure to it could mean certain, agonizing death. We need someone who knows what to look for. She's the best they have according to those who should know. Apparently her field reports are above average for fitness, weaponry and endurance.”

“Oh, that's bloody good! Bloody good! Just what we need: babysitting a female in a dangerous – no,
the
most dangerous country in the world.” He shook his head slowly and ran a hand through his hair in subdued frustration. “It's one thing to know how to shoot, another is to kill,” he paused. “Can she kill? Our lives may well depend on it.”

“That's not her job, Frank; that's yours,” Conway replied sharply.

Ryder was not prepared to give in. “You appreciate the fact that it could be weeks before we find the base. How will she cope, living rough in the hostile environment?”

“As I said, Frank, her records indicate she will be able to handle it.”

Ryder persisted. “Believe me, George, I'd like to think you're right, but it's difficult. Even if a lab does exist, getting in will be traumatic, not to mention locating the bugs. She'd have to be a superwoman not to break under the stress.”

“That's why you're here,” shot Conway, steel now in his voice. “We consider you to be one of our best operatives; she is considered the best at her game. Like it or not, she's it. You're to make her part in all of this as stress-free as possible. At the same time you need to make sure the mission doesn't fail. Now, if you can't handle that, we'll get someone who can. Do I make myself clear, O-Three?”

Was the boss bluffing? He could use one of the other Omega operatives. He narrowed his eyes in thought, silently absorbing the implications. It would not look good on his record if he turned it down.

“Perfectly,” he replied. “You'll need an Asian team if the op has any chance of succeeding.”

“Dr Seymour is South Korean, born here; the rest of the team will be of Korean origin so it won't be a problem.”

“Why me, then? Let one of the Koreans lead,” Ryder shot back. “C'mon, George, it will be difficult enough as it is; why complicate things? How can I possibly get away with being a Korean?” He pointed to his eyes. “These are a giveaway for a start.”

“Blepharoplasty.”

Ryder looked at Conway with a blank expression. “What the hell's that?”

“Cosmetic eye surgery.”

“You have to be joking this time, right?”

“I never joke; you know that O-Three. What I mean is something of a more theatrical nature, like what Western actors adopt when playing Asian parts. Use of plastic aids and a make-up artist's secret techniques. A kind of mini-nip-and-tuck, if you will, which I'm told will even stand up to relatively close scrutiny.”

“Why go to these lengths?”

Conway replied, slightly exasperated, “Because, O-Three, we have no one in the Unit, no one from the Increment, and the Regiment has only three Koreans we can call upon; none of them have your experience.”

“Make-up can easily wash away,” Ryder pressed.

“Not if properly applied and we can call on the best in the business.” Conway paused before changing tack. “This is high risk, Frank. You don't have to take it. We'll send whoever's available and hope for the best.” He waited, playing on Ryder's sense of duty, then said, “Will you take the mission or not, Frank?”

He considered for a long moment, letting Conway wait. Eventually Ryder spoke. “Of course, boss.” To refuse was not an option as far as he was concerned, but he didn't want Conway to know that. He now fully resigned himself to the mission and the blepharoplasty.

“Good,” said Conway, visibly relieved. He handed Ryder a file. “The team.”