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Austin Macauley Publishers - S. Dickson Gordon

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70 pages

English

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Des Pond is probably unique as special agents go! He is indifferent to the lifestyle usually associated with this employment, but his determination to catch those responsible for the murder of five Russians in a British prison leads him into adventures in several countries.Will he catch up with the murderers and bring them to justice?

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Adventure (Guyana)

Adventure

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Publié par	Austin Macauley Publishers
Date de parution	29 janvier 2021
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781528972369
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0175€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

D es P ond, S pecial A gent
Gordon S. Dickson
Austin Macauley Publishers
2020-01-29
Des Pond, Special Agent About the Author Copyright Information © Acknowledgement Chapter 1: London, England Chapter 2: MI6 Headquarters, London Chapter 3: 10 Downing Street, London Chapter 4: Istanbul, Turkey Chapter 5: The Casino Chapter 6: 10 Downing Street, London Chapter 7: Abdul’s Café Chapter 8: The Casino Chapter 9: 10 Downing Street, London Chapter 10: Abdul’s Café Chapter 11: 10 Downing Street, London Chapter 12: Saint Petersburg Chapter 13: 10 Downing Street, London Chapter 14: Saint Petersburg Chapter 15: 10 Downing Street, London Chapter 16: A Forest Somewhere in Russia Chapter 17: The Great Ras’ Office Chapter 18: 10 Downing Street, London Chapter 19: The Mansion in the Forest Chapter 20: The Aftermath Chapter 21: 10 Downing Street, London Chapter 22: The Pursuit Is On Chapter 23: 10 Downing Street, London Chapter 24: Japan Chapter 25: The Search Is On Chapter 26: 10 Downing Street, London Chapter 27: MI6 Headquarters, London Chapter 28: Kentucky, USA Chapter 29: The Trail Grows Warmer Chapter 30: The Escapees Chapter 31: 10 Downing Street, London Chapter 32: New York, New York Chapter 33: The Russians Are Coming Chapter 34: The Brooklyn Bars Chapter 35: The Bar Crawl Chapter 36: 10 Downing Street, London Chapter 37: Back in New York Chapter 38: 10 Downing Street, London Chapter 39: The Team Is in Despond Chapter 40: The Search Continues Chapter 41: The Dealer Chapter 42: The Stadium Rendezvous Chapter 43: 10 Downing Street, London
About the Author
Gordon S. Dickson was born near Inverness, Scotland, but left there at a young age when his family returned to Northern Ireland. He was educated at secondary and grammar schools and scraped through English ‘O’ level as essay writing was not his strong point. He was employed in the Civil Service for several years but is now retired and has only recently taken up writing novels. Des Pond, Special Agent is his third novel. He has previously written two books, Verdict Unknown and The Sheriff of River Bend . He enjoys reading several genres of books but mainly historical novels. He also enjoys gardening, going to the gym occasionally and to the cinema.
Copyright Information ©
Gordon S. Dickson (2021)
The right of Gordon S. Dickson to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781528949699 (Paperback)
ISBN 9781528949705 (Hardback)
ISBN 9781528972369 (ePub e-book)
ISBN 9781398418387 (Audiobook)
www.austinmacauley.com
First Published (2021)
Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd
25 Canada Square
Canary Wharf
London
E14 5LQ
Acknowledgement
With thanks to Joe Campbell and Lee Doran.
Chapter 1

London, England
In Her Majesty’s Maximum Security Prison, Old Gate, South London, the Governor, Humphrey Simpson MBE, sat at his desk; a desk which was piled high with paperwork. He had three in-trays, all full, and an overflowing waste paper basket. He was a worried man, wearing a worried frown.
He was ranting at his prison officers, assembled in his cramped office: standing room only! All the prisoners were in lockdown!
‘How could you let this happen? How? Of all the incompetent bungling, five Russian prisoners have been murdered under your very noses! Five! How? How?’ the Governor demanded to know.
The five Russian men had been arrested for spying and were awaiting trial.
‘Seems it were poison put in their lunches, Guv’nor. Arsenic or something we think. Turned their skin blue, it did,’ said one officer, Al Johnson, looking sheepish. ‘They was all like delirious ’n vomiting all over the place! It must have been in that there Russian soup what they like, er, liked— borscht, it’s called. Very tasty it is, too.’
‘Not if it is full of arsenic, it isn’t! Who served the lunches? Have you got him detained?’ demanded Governor Simpson, incandescent. Steam was almost coming out of his ears!
‘One of them trustee prisoners, sir,’ Johnson said. ‘Bert Higgins, him what is a fifteen-year-man. He said he was “caught short” like, on the way from the kitchen to solitary, and went into the gents’ for a call of nature. I won’t repeat his actual words. He said he were in there for ‘bout ten minutes like.’
‘What were his actual words?’ a Yorkshire voice, sniggering, piped up from the back of the room.
‘Shut up, you idiot!’ another officer whispered and nudged him with an elbow.
‘Is that Smithers?’ the Governor demanded, trying to peer over the officers’ heads.
‘Er, yes, it is, sir. Sorry, sir,’ said Smithers, regretting he had opened his gob. Some sniggers from his mates.
‘I might have known. This is not a subject for jest, Smithers. Remind me to have Smithers transferred, Mr Harkins,’ said the Governor. Harkins was the chief prison officer.
‘Aw, sir! It were nowt but a joke,’ pleaded Smithers. He was ignored; his plea fell on deaf ears.
‘Verby dood, dir,’ said Harkins. He had a bad cold, so had not spoken so far. I wish I had stayed at home this morning, he thought.
‘Now, where were we?’ said the Governor. ’Ten minutes! Ten minutes! When any one of two thousand prisoners, not to mention staff had the opportunity to tamper with the meals! The result, well, you know the result—a veritable massacre! We will all be under suspicion, ladies and gentlemen.
‘How did arsenic get in here? I mean, is it too much to expect some security in a “maximum security prison”, and in the isolation wing of all places!’ His voice rose to almost a scream. Humphrey Simpson then slumped back in his chair, his head hanging down on his chest, with an air of utter defeat.
‘I hab obbered every dell an’ prisonber to be searched, an’ interrogated da prisonbers dat is, not da dells, dir,’ said Harkins the chief prison officer. ‘It dill take a while, but we dill find the culprid, I probise.’ He blew his nose noisily. Other officers edged away as far as possible.
‘I didn’t think you would be interrogating the cells!’ Why do I have to put up with these idiots? the Governor thought. ’ Finding the culprit still won’t stop the repercussions of all this. We will be lucky to keep our jobs. Lucky to avoid World War III, with the Russians involved!’ cried the Governor.
‘And me just a year away from retirement. A year! Ruined! Ruined! Bang goes any hope of my Knighthood! My wife was looking forward to being “Lady Simpson”, and now I will never hear the end of it! Nag, nag, nag!’ he mimed her mouth with a hand.
‘I want all CCTV records checked thoroughly, since those Russians were sent here on whatever date it was. No prisoners to leave their cells till you find the killer.’ And he put his head in his hands. ‘Get out, get out, the lot of you!’ he yelled.
‘You herb da guv’nor. Leb’s go,’ said Harkins, and he sniffed.
The officers filed out quickly, breathing sighs of relief, glad to be away from the Governor and cold germs, and headed off to their respective prison wings to start the searches and interrogations.
Every cell was systematically searched from top to bottom. Prisoners likewise, and questioned as to where they were, exactly, at the time of the murders. They all claimed they were at lunch in the canteen, or working in the kitchen.
‘The Governor is not going to be pleased,’ an officer muttered.
The Governor was not pleased! Not pleased at all!
Chapter 2

MI6 Headquarters, London
‘FIVE! I don’t believe it! I just cannot believe it! You could not make it up. Five Russian agents murdered in one of Her Majesty’s Prisons! A supposedly top security prison!’ Sir Leonard Darling CBE. MC, the Head of MI6, exclaimed. He was in his office in MI6 Headquarters, London.
He was a widower; a thin, gaunt-faced man, aged sixty-one, with neat grey hair and a neatly trimmed moustache, and goatee beard to match. He would be described as “distinguished” rather than handsome, or good-looking. He wore a dark pin-striped suit and a plain white shirt, which were his habitual attire. He had the suit dry cleaned when he had a few days off on holiday. Two suits would have been an extravagance! He occasionally wore a different tie, or a different-coloured flower in his buttonhole on special occasions, but that was as far as he was prepared to go for variety. A laundered white handkerchief was always in his breast pocket, and his black shoes always gleamed. He took great care to always look his best, as he was ex-army, Coldstream Guards. ‘One must maintain standards, mustn’t one?’ he always said.
‘Alleged Russian agents, Chief,’ Miss Print, who was his second in command, reminded him.
Miss Dorothy Jane Print OBE had worked there for so long she was like part of the building. If she left, people felt the whole edifice would collapse. Nothing, but nothing, escaped her notice.
She was a small woman, aged forty, who had black, but greying, hair tidied in a hairnet at the back, wore thick black-rimmed spectacles and a dark blue lady’s suit with a white blouse. A large cameo brooch was at her throat, a family heirloom. She always wore “sensible shoes” as she called them. No make-up ever touched her face. “Good old Bright’s Coal Tar Soap and water has served generations of us Prints, and w