Michael Reagan - The Devil's Handshake

Seeing an ivory piece on the chessboard, Rufus suddenly picked it up and threw it towards his son. Catching it, Thomas looked at the piece and smiled: It was the Knight.

“Bring it back for our game!” he ordered his son and heir.

“So like his mother,” he thought. “Always swimming upstream as though he was a salmon to its fate.”

Nouakchott

A week later when sitting in his office, in the grounds of the Russian Embassy on the Rue Mamadou in the capital belonging to one of the poorest states in the world twenty-eight-year-old Anton Vasilyevich Sosnin, the local resident of the SVR, had nearly fallen off his chair when he received a call from his line officer at the Wood telling to make himself available for a team from the famous Planning Division that would be arriving that night.

He was even more surprised when he received his encrypted packet to find he was ordered to gather intelligence on the background on the villa of the now infamous warlord Wasir Osman Hassan, who was in Nouakchott.

Being his first posting overseas as a resident and only being in-country for just eight months to find out he had been sitting on the individual that his country had declared public enemy number one for his attempted coup d’état and his massacre of the United Nations Mission of Russia’s new ally in East Africa, had been a shock to say the least.

He also knew that failure wouldn’t be tolerated. With his contacts still quite limited, Anton immediately knew he was going have to do the job himself. The possible loss of operational security was too great.

Getting into his Toyota Corolla and grateful for the air conditioning, as the humidity at this time of the year was an absolute killer, the young intelligence officer drove the car to the Centre Emetteur district to case the warlord’s villa.

It didn’t take him long to find the compound for it was just off the main road. Driving past, Anton quickly made a mental note of the two guards out the front then parked up about 500 yards up the road, having seen a street seller that he could use for cover.

Once out of the car he then took a photo discreetly with his iPhone of the street at the front as he bought a bottle of cold Seven-Up.

He was able to do so without anybody noticing because he belonged to the forty thousand strong mixed-race community of Russia.

The product of a marriage between his Russian Father and his Cuban Angolan mother had given him features that in appearance that were similar in looks to a member of the Berber tribes that inhabited the countries of the Sahara, which is why he had been chosen by the SVR for a North African posting. When he was told he going to Nouakchott at the time he had disappointed. He had hoped for the very least for a posting in Rabat or Tunis. Now he could see that fate had dealt him a fine hand indeed. Get this right and he could have his pick of postings.

Finishing his Seven-Up, giving it back to the trader as was a tradition in the third world countries of the world so they could return to the bottling plant to fill it up and sell the contents again, Anton got back into the small car and then drove around the back of the compound whereupon he proceeded to do the same thing again. This time finding no guards at the back he was able freely take a set of photos of the back and each side. Finished he drove back to his office to make his report to Moscow.

Within minutes of sending the photos to the email address he had been given, his phone buzzed.

“Anton Vasilyevich,” he said announcing he was the line to the caller.

Five minutes later putting down his phone he got up, told his secretary that he was taking the rest of the day off and then drove out of the compound so he could take the short ten minute drive to the Residence Iman hotel. On reaching the small five-story pink hotel at the heart of the city he parked outside its front, got out, and walked up and through the entrance to the reception of the hotel.

“Monsieur Morris?” he asked in French to use the preferred language of the hotel staff of Nouakchott.

Taking a moment to check if the man was a guest of the hotel, the man at the front desk nodded then handed the young intelligence officer the phone so he could speak to the guest.

Receiving the room number from the same voice that had asked him to come to the hotel, Anton handed back the phone, entered the drain smelling lift and made the short journey to the third floor before stepping out and walking along the corridor to the end.

On reaching the door he was looking for, Anton knocked three times. The door opened immediately.

“Igor Valeriyovich,” the voice said introducing himself, offering his hand once the young officer was inside.

Half an hour later, briefing over, Igor thanked him for his support and let the young resident out of the suite and closed the door but not before giving him a purchasing list.

“I will call Fama and let him know we’re good to go,” Igor said to his number two.

London

Replacing the handset, his encrypted call with Igor over. Thomas left his office and took the short walk across the floor of the Berkeley Square townhouse and entered Mikhail’s office where he found his old friend behind his desk his feet up, drinking a cup of coffee.

Immediately the bodyguard knew why he was there.

“It’s on, Igor advises they are good to go,” stated Thomas as he closed the door behind him.

“I will let the pilots know,” answered Mikhail as he began to pick up the phone.

Unlike their usual mode of transport, this time they would be using an old cargo Boeing 737 they had chartered especially for the trip and all of them would be traveling on false passports of Canada, courtesy of the Special Services of Russia.

Leaving Mikhail and returning to his own office, Thomas closed the door, picked up the phone and then dialed the number of his father.

After their meeting at Litchfield House Thomas had over the last week put into place with Saul all the necessary documents to make his father in the event of his death the protector of Victoria’s trusts and most importantly her Guardian.

“Father I will be leaving tonight,” he said as his father answered.

“Good hunting,” was his Father’s short but sweet response.

“Thank you,” answered Thomas in return. Their relationship may always be complicated, but blood was blood.

He put down the phone as Mikhail entered the room to let him know they were good to go.

Thomas said, “I need to go home first before we go to Gatwick.”

Twenty minutes later they reached the house. He first found Tania who was sitting in the lounge.

The attractive woman had taken Nara’s death understandably very badly, and as he entered the woman quickly got to her feet out of respect to his position as he was the titular head of their family. He walked up to her and stopped her doing so.

“Sit,” he ordered as he gestured with his hands then followed suit at her side as she did as she was told. He took hold of hands then looked into her eyes.

“I shall be leaving tonight to avenge our beloved. If I do not return, you’re to stay with Victoria until she says otherwise,” he ordered in Turkmen.

“Yes, Thomas,” answered the woman her body and hands shaking.

“If its God’s will that it is my destiny for him to take me and join Nara, then my father will take care of you,” he continued using language she would understand.

Again the woman nodded before looking up him.

“Ar Almak,” answered Tania, meaning “Take Revenge,” in Turkmen before she reached up and kissed him on both cheeks.

Leaving Tania in the lounge, Thomas went upstairs to find Victoria. This would be a much more challenging conversation for although she had just had her first session with the grievance counselor, she still hadn’t spoken.