Dragged into Darkness Read online

  Mack pressed the automatic into the back of the man’s neck. That shut him up.

  In the kitchen, Mack said, “Put the parcel on the table and sit. Keep your hands on the table at all times.”

  The biker did as he was told.

  Mack slipped into a chair at the opposite end of the table, always keeping a fixed aim on his target. “Helmet off. Let’s see who you are.”

  The biker raised his arms carefully and removed his helmet. A flushed face appeared, distorted by the helmet’s padding. His hair stood on end. Mack wasn’t sure if fear or static had caused it.

  “Talk,” Mack ordered and the Beretta demanded.

  “Ben Harker sent me. I’m here to collect a package.”

  “Who am I?”

  “You’re the Headmaster. You’re Terry Mack.”

  The biker started to babble. Mack raised his hand. He wasn’t anyone and if this was what passed for an agent these days, God help us.

  Mack didn’t drop the pistol. It would be a good character building exercise for the biker, helping him to work under pressure. It might save his life one day.

  “Where’d the package come from?”

  “It was on the doorstep.”

  “Open it.”

  “What?”

  “Open the parcel.”

  “What with?”

  “Use your imagination.”

  The biker tugged off his gauntlets and ripped at the package with his fingers.

  “That could be a parcel bomb,” Mack offered.

  The biker froze. He stared dumbly at Mack

  “I doubt it though, but never take anything at face value,” Mack reassured. “Continue.”

  The biker was in disarray. He didn’t know whether he was on foot or horseback. He was broken. He’d do whatever Mack told him to do.

  The biker bent back on the flaps and pulled out a wad of stuffing. He recoiled, knocking his chair over. “Jesus!”

  Bingo, Mack thought. He placed the Beretta on the table and pulled the parcel over to him. He examined the contents.

  “It’s a fucking hand,” the biker spat.

  “So it is.” Another anonymous body part sealed in plastic. Mack didn’t remove the hand. What was the point? He could guarantee there was nothing to help him to make any connections. He slid the package back to the recovering biker and retrieved a roll of tape from a drawer. “Seal it up. That goes back with you too.”

  ***

  Mack was dozing on the settee when the phone rang. By his watch, it was early evening. He shook off the effects of sleep by answering the phone in the hallway.

  “Mack, it’s Ben.” Harker sounded anxious.

  “Did you like my bonus gift?”

  “Loved it. I’ve got Jack Davenport’s delivery too.”

  “It’s the same foot.”

  “I know. He told me his was a left as well.”

  “No, you don’t understand. Jack’s foot and your foot are identical. They came from the same person.”

  Mack wanted to laugh. “Are you saying there’s some guy out there with two left feet?”

  Harker exhaled. “To be exact, I’m saying there’s a guy out there who used to have two left feet.”

  “No wonder we’re going round in circles.”

  Mack’s comic relief wasn’t appreciated.

  “Christ, Mack. I don’t know what to tell you. Yes, it looks like the feet came from the same person. No, I can’t say I understand it or even want to believe it,” Harker finished, exasperated.

  “Could we be dealing with twins?”

  “No. The DNA is absolutely identical. No doubt about it. We’re dealing with one person.”

  “And the hand?”

  “A match too.”

  Mack scratched behind his left ear, like he always did when he was confused. He didn’t get it. And he wasn’t surprised that Harker didn’t either. They dealt with intrigue, espionage—not medical mysteries. Mack felt as green as his biker—totally out of his depth.

  “Mack, meet me. Let’s see if we can’t make sense of this.”

  “Where?”

  Mack descended into the depths of Charring Cross Hospital in search of the morgue. He found Harker pacing in the hallways, waiting.

  “Thanks for coming, Mack.”

  Harker led Mack into a dimly lit, chilled room filled with wall freezers, a row of stainless steel examination tables and several inhabited, sheet-covered trolleys. A pathologist covered an adult male’s remains that he had been examining.

  “Dr. Kempton, this is Terry Mack, he’s one of the recipients.”

  “A pleasure, Mr. Mack. I won’t shake.” Kempton raised his latex-gloved hands and waggled his fingers. “Come this way.”

  The pathologist opened a freezer locker and slid out the contents. The body length drawer was under-utilized. Looking sad, the bagged body parts occupied only a small portion of the drawer. Mack was reminded of what many mothers told their growing children. “Don’t worry, you’ll grow into it.” Staring at the body parts, he didn’t doubt it. More would come.

  “Mr. Mack.” Kempton picked up the bag with the hand in it.

  “Just Mack,” he corrected.

  Kempton smiled. “Mack, you’ve given me one hell of a problem. The blood work, DNA, all say this is the same person. Our problem as you know, two left feet.”

  “So, we know he isn’t a dancer.”

  “Quite.”

  “So, what else do we know?”

  “Two things really. Either the victim is a freak of nature or…”

  “Or,” Mack prompted.

  “A clone.” Kempton replaced the hand in the drawer.

  “Shit,” Mack hissed.

  “I know what I’m saying is bizarre.”

  “No kidding.” Mack turned to Harker. “This isn’t me. I’m not into all the science stuff. My work was totally unrelated.”

  “But you’re involved,” Harker responded.

  Mack sighed.

  “Somebody is trying to tell you something.”

  “What, though?”

  The three men stood in silence, gazing at the body parts.

  Mack broke the silence. “Okay, this must have something to do with me since I’m being sent these things. So, to help me understand, what else is there?”

  “Not much.” Kempton concluded.

  “Fingerprints?”

  “They don’t match any records of any kind,” Harker said.

  “So, this Joe is new to us. Do we know an age?”

  “I would estimate thirty to thirty-five.”

  “I’ve been retired ten years, which means he would have been young, maybe too young for our paths to have crossed. Again, it points to us having never met.”

  “But you must have a connection,” Harker added.

  “Certainly. What about the amputations? They look neat. Did a doctor do it?”

  “Yes,” Kempton said, but immediately retracted his answer. “No. At first glance everything looks that way, but on closer inspection…the way the bone is cut and the tissue…”

  “Spit it out, doc,” Mack said.

  “It doesn’t look like the hands and feet were severed.”

  “What?” Harker blurted. “That’s not what you said earlier.”

  “I know. I wasn’t sure before. I’m still not. But, it’s hard to say. I don’t see tissue tearing left by a scalpel and I don’t see the damage left by a surgical saw.”

  “So, what do you see?” Mack asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “There’s no evidence to say an amputation took place. It’s as if the limbs were grown that way.”

  “This doesn’t get any better,” Harker concluded.

  “Are there any other tests you can do to shed some light?” Mack asked.

  “I want to do some more blood work. I wasn’t happy with it last time. And, I can double check myself. This has been a rush job.”

  “Okay, you do that,” Harker said.r />
  Harker nodded to Mack and they left a confused Kempton to his work. He escorted Mack out of the morgue and into the corridor. Harker leaned against the wall.

  “What do you think?” he asked.

  “Has Kempton been drinking the formaldehyde?”

  Harker wasn’t amused. “Jack received a hand this afternoon. It’s on its way down now.”

  Mack sighed and slumped against the wall opposite Harker. He wasn’t surprised. “The right one?”

  “Yes,” Harker replied. “Have you received anything other than the hand and foot?”

  Mack shook his head. “I’ve been expecting something other than the packages. Has Jack?”

  “No.”

  “I don’t get it. They’ve got our attention, so why hasn’t someone made contact?”

  “Don’t know. But the interesting question is who is someone? Communist hardliners? KGB?”

  “I thought they didn’t exist anymore.”

  Harker snorted and raised an eyebrow.

  Mack smirked. “Sorry.”

  “They’ve chosen to pick on the old guys and not MI6 directly, why? What’s so special about you and Jack?”

  “I did think of something that Jack and I do have in common. We were both spy masters.”

  “That’s right. You were East Germany. Jack was Moscow.”

  “And…” Mack prompted.

  Harker shrugged.

  “Think.”

  The penny dropped. “Yes, of course. Jerry Manning was Czecho. Dieter Ensman was Yugoslavia. And Marcus Gale was Hungary. You five controlled our interests behind the Iron Curtain.”

  “Have you heard anything from the other three?”

  “Cancer got Dieter three years ago. The bugger could never stop smoking. But not a thing from Jerry or Marcus.”

  “Worth checking out then?”

  “Yes, I’ll get you their addresses and you can let me know.”

  “Me! Why, me?”

  “Call it payback for scaring the shit out of my courier.”

  ***

  Mack tried the numbers Harker gave him with no success. Neither man answered his phone. He didn’t want to risk leaving a message, so that meant a road trip. The Beretta came too.

  He hit the roads before first post, missing an encounter with another package. He wasn’t heartbroken about it. It wasn’t like the contents would be a surprise. It would be a body part—he just didn’t know which one. The surprise could wait.

  Mack picked Jerry Manning to see first. He was closest. Bournemouth was only two hours away, whereas Marcus Gale was somewhere in the depths of Cheshire.

  Mack reached the seaside town before midday. He never fancied life in one of England’s designated retirement towns. He thought of it as surrender. Living there was saying he had written himself off and that he was finished with life. Although he had bitched at Harker for making him do MI6’s legwork, he was pleased to be doing something constructive with his life again.

  Thinking of Jerry, he chuckled. He imagined him in a bingo hall with a bunch of blue rinses, ex-bank managers and retired schoolteachers. After spending twenty years of subverting communist plots, he couldn’t imagine one of Britain’s best espionage agents excitedly screaming “House!” All Mack knew—it wasn’t for him.

  Mack found Jerry’s house off the coast road, overlooking the Solent. On a clear day, the Isle of Wight would have been visible. But today, grey sea met grey sky and cruel waves clawed at the beach. It wasn’t pretty but was no less dramatic than blue skies and sunshine.

  Walking up to Jerry’s door, Mack frowned. Four milk bottles and two packages sat on the doorstep. One of the packages he recognized. A hand or a foot, he guessed, but the second was neither. It was far too big, a leg at first glance. Mack knew a similar package would be waiting for him when he got home.

  But the parcels didn’t bother him. He was expecting them. The milk he wasn’t. Jerry, like him, lived alone. Service of one’s country didn’t make for a happy marriage. And Mack didn’t think Jerry was drinking four pints of milk a day. He rang the doorbell.

  No reply.

  “Hi, Jerry. It’s Mack,” he said loudly. “Come round the back? Right you are, mate.”

  Mack slipped through a side gate that led into a seafront garden. He pulled out his Berretta. Climbing roses smothered a trellis, providing superb privacy for the French doors. Putting the gun away, he picked the lock and let himself in.

  Mack found Jerry’s markers protecting the house against intrusion. Some habits died hard. Then he found Jerry. He was in the kitchen with an open parcel in front of him. Mack knew it was the first parcel. A left foot was poking out. That meant Jerry had been dead two days. There was no rigor mortis. His corpse was room temperature and beginning to smell. From the anguish carved into his face, Mack thought heart attack. The scenario wasn’t hard to guess.

  Mack took in the milk and remaining packages. He checked for nosey neighbors. Houses lined one side of the street only. No one lived opposite. Chances of his arrival raising too many suspicions were slim. Good, he thought.

  He placed the packages on the kitchen table with the one Jerry had already opened and opened the rest. He was right. The packages contained the left foot, right hand and left leg.

  Mack delved for his mobile phone and rang Harker to give him the news. He got Harker’s voicemail. “Ben, Jerry’s dead. Heart attack when he opened the first parcel. I’m driving straight to Marcus’. I’ll leave the front door unlocked for your cleaners. He’s got three packages. A leg arrived with this morning’s post. A pound to a penny, I’ve got one too. I’ll talk to you later.”

  There was nothing more he could do here. He left Jerry propped in his chair, the packages in front of him. He would be taken care of eventually. He was amazed at his detachment. How quickly the old habits came back. He was what he was. He closed the front door and drove north.

  ***

  Mack was experiencing an annoying case of déjà vu. Marcus wasn’t answering the door. The only difference, no milk or packages were present.

  “C’mon, Marcus,” he muttered.

  “Are you looking for the Gales?”

  A neighbor crossed the road towards him. Unlike Jerry, Marcus’ home was situated in the middle of suburbia. Houses came left and right and in front and behind. It was impossible not to be seen, especially at six in the evening when the working world was arriving home.

  “Yeah, I was hoping to find Joan and Marcus.”

  The woman of early middle age with large hips leaned on the gate. “You’ll have a hard time, love.”

  “Why?”

  “They’re on holiday. South of France. Very nice for some.” She smirked. “Tenerife for us in June.”

  “Do you know when they’ll coming back?”

  “Who’s asking?” An element of steel flecked the neighbor’s question.

  “Terry Mack. I used to work with Marcus. I was visiting family in Chester and thought I’d pay a surprise visit.”

  “Didn’t think you were a Jehovah’s Witness.”

  Mack chuckled. “Is that a compliment?”

  “It is where I come from. They’re not back for another week or so.”

  “That’s a shame.” Mack frowned in mock disappointment. “What are they doing about packages?”

  “What packages? You send ‘em something?”

  “Not me. I was just thinking with crime the way it is. Unclaimed packages, deliveries, you know. It’s an invitation these days.”

  “You sound like the police.”

  Mack smiled wryly, shaking his head, like it was obvious and she should have known. “No, not plod, just a victim of my own stupidity.”

  The woman nodded. “Well, they learnt from your mistake. I’m taking in all their deliveries. Funny enough, they’ve been receiving a box every day for the last few.”

  “Good. As long as everything’s safe and sound.” He paused for a moment. “Anyway, I’d better get going. Thanks for your help. It was ni
ce meeting you.”

  The neighbor stood back from the gate, giving Mack room. He saw himself out and returned to his car. When he turned into the next street, he was on his mobile.

  “Ben, it’s Mack.” It was Harker’s voicemail again. “Marcus is on holiday. He doesn’t know about the packages. He’s in the south of France. Check with French immigration, find out when he’s returning and detain him. I don’t want Joan and him coming home to a war zone. His parcels are with a neighbor across the street. Address is 87 Hillcrest Road. A convenient B ‘n’ E is required to get those packages. I’m sure you can arrange it.”

  ***

  Mack barged through the morgue’s swing doors with two parcels. Harker and Kempton were waiting by three uncovered examining tables. Body parts were arranged anatomically on the tables.

  “These are my recent additions,” Mack announced, placing the boxes on a bench and removing the contents. “The leg is yesterday’s and the arm is today’s. So, which one’s mine?”

  “This one.” Kempton took the limbs and added the pieces to the second of the three body jigsaws.

  “And which one is Jack’s and which one is Jerry’s?” Mack asked.

  “This one’s from Jerry Manning’s.” Kempton tapped the partial corpse closest to Mack, then the one furthest away. “And this is Jack Davenport’s.”

  “Where’s Marcus’?”

  “I’ve decided to leave his in situ,” Harker replied. “It won’t do us any harm to leave the packages with the neighbor until we have everything. We haven’t tracked Marcus down in France but we do know he left by ferry and immigration is going to stop him on his return. I have someone house sitting at Jerry’s, bringing the packages as and when.”

  Mack shifted the boxes out of the way and leaned against the lab bench. “I suppose all three bodies are identical.”

  “Correct,” Kempton answered. “The cadavers share the same DNA. These people are, as you say, identical.”

  “But that’s not all,” Harker chipped in. “Tell him.”

  Kempton frowned and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “It seems that the limbs aren’t dead.”

  “You’re joking,” Mack blurted.

  “The body parts aren’t decomposing. Haven’t you noticed the smell?”

  “What smell?”

  “Exactly. Decomposition hasn’t started and doesn’t look like it’s going to either. I don’t know how best to say it, except that these limbs are dormant.”