The Fisherman (The Fisherman Series Book 1) - James Quinn

The Fisherman (The Fisherman Series Book 1) - James Quinn

Book excerpt

Tunisia, North Africa, June 2018

The fierce heat of the day had begun to dissipate along the coast and had instead been replaced by the sultry warmth of the night. Along the harbour, people were making their evening pilgrimage to seek out bargains from the street sellers and the cockroaches were scurrying to and fro on the pavements, hissing when anyone approached them.

The Fisherman sat opposite his agent in the upper tier restaurant on the Nautilus, a sixty-foot motor launch that had been converted into a double level restaurant that specialised in the delicacies of Spain and North Africa. It was permanently moored in the harbour at the tourist resort of Port El Kantoui in Tunisia.

The Nautilus was exclusive enough that there were only a small number of private tables on the top deck; six, no more, the lower level belonged exclusively to the tourists. The layout suited the Fisherman perfectly as privacy was a thing that he valued more than most. The restaurant was tastefully lit with enough small lamps to make it practical, while still remaining discreet for its VIP patrons that night. The large fish tank boasted a selection of lobsters that could be chosen by discerning customers for their evening meal. The waiters and maître d’ were all immaculately attired in crisp white shirts and black bow ties and were subtle enough to give their guests privacy as and when it was needed.

He had booked one of the best tables in the restaurant. Both he and his agent sipped at their glasses of iced water, occasionally glancing down at the crowds who mingled around the harbour and at the guests seated at the other tables in the VIP area of the restaurant.

‘The Fisherman’ had many names and aliases, none of which were real, and even his true name was a secret that was known to only a select few within the organisation that sponsored him and the even more secure compartment of his own mind.

He was dressed in a light-coloured linen summer suit and open-necked light blue shirt. His watch was an expensive Fossil chronograph and on his left hand ring finger he wore a single, and simple, brushed steel ring that hinted at a discreet commitment from his past. His features could be, and had been, altered many times over the years by prosthetics and stage make-up so that he could blend into any environment. He was a human chameleon. He had to be if he was to survive and remain undetected. And while his current attire and manner was the nearest thing to the reality of who he actually was, he was also able to slip comfortably into a variety of aliases and facades should he need to. In his time, he had been an arms dealer, an Arab peasant, a playboy thug, a terrorist and many more besides. The Fisherman could be whatever was required of him. It was what had made him one of the best intelligence specialists in the world and also one of the most feared.

To the casual observer, he had the look of a tough businessman who had done prison time in the distant past. He was mid-forties, of medium height, with the build of the marathon runner rather than a fighter; although he was able to do both reasonably well. His slender face was stubbled and held at its centre relaxed grey-blue eyes that could, so he’d been told by women from his past, offer both intensity and confidentiality. His hair was dark with a hint of grey and had been cut short and styled to help with the North African heat. To that same casual observer, he looked like what he was; a confident gentleman and a successful businessman who was relaxing before dinner.

The waiter came over and spoke to them both in Arabic, asking if they would like to order. The Fisherman smiled and replied, “A few more moments, please, we are still undecided.”

The waiter nodded sympathetically and moved away. The Fisherman closed his eyes and momentarily enjoyed the calm swaying of the boat on the water, taking in the sounds and smells of the night. Then in a blink he opened them again, did a quick scan of the environment to ensure that everything was still the same. No watchers, no one taking too much interest in them.

His agent was beautiful. There was no other word for her; late thirties, tall, slim, dark eyes, dark-haired and dressed like she had just stepped out from a fashion shoot in Milan. She was the epitome of an Arab beauty. As well as being his asset on this mission, she was also his lover. The myth that agent-runners don’t sleep with their agents was nonsense. It happened more than spy-masters knew or would care to admit. But for the context of the Fisherman’s mission, it fitted perfectly. She was in love with him, would do pretty much anything for him and he, as a completely ruthless agent-runner and handler, was willing to manipulate her to do whatever was needed. If that meant a torrid love affair, then so be it.

He watched as she sat serenely, her skirt gently riding up to reveal one beautifully tanned thigh. Their eyes met and they smiled at each other. He had been told that he had a wonderful smile and that he should use it more often. And so he did; like a weapon.

“I’m so happy to see you again, François,” she said. Her voice was deep and husky, and added to her mysterious beauty. She knew him as François Lucerne, a French Canadian businessman with a sideline in cutting deals between parties and taking a finder’s fee. A broker, a deal-maker, bit of a crook. It was vague enough to explain his comings and goings and illicit dealings.

“I’ve only been back a day, I flew in from Egypt yesterday,” he said. “I wanted to catch up with you first before I did anything else. I missed you.”

His cover for the moment was that he was representing a consortium of Eastern European businessmen that were looking to invest in the region – Tunisia, Morocco, even venturing into Libya once the country was a bit more stable. However, these fictional ‘businessmen’ were looking for a trading partner in the region. So they were conducting a little bit of unorthodox due diligence. Which was where the equally fictitious François Lucerne came into play.

The Fisherman’s agent’s name was Solange Fayed and she was the local office manager based in Tunis of Gladius Holdings, a run of the mill import/export company. However, all was not as it seemed. Its owner was one Vladimir Petrov, former Russian Special Forces Captain and now striving to be one of the biggest illegal arms dealers in the region.

Gladius Holdings was a mere front for the much more lucrative arms trade that Petrov had chosen to inhabit. Petrov had indeed come to the attention of a group of individuals as his cover story had intimated. Unfortunately for Petrov, those individuals were a part of the organisation that the Fisherman worked for; The Prism.

Petrov had a long history of supplying terrorist groups in the region, which had caused him to be put on the ‘Active Target’ list of The Prism. What followed were the machinations of a powerful and well-funded private organisation that culminated in them activating the intelligence specialist known as the Fisherman. His mission was to gather inside information about Petrov’s whereabouts, isolate him and then neutralize him if necessary. It was a classic rapier rather than broadsword operation and was something that the Fisherman was very good at. After all, subtlety in the intelligence game was everything.

The Fisherman had recruited Solange Fayed six months ago. She had been targeted as a useful access agent, someone who would be willing to acquire and provide information. It had been a standard approach. Strike up a conversation in a public place, gain her trust and start a friendship. That friendship had led to them inevitably becoming lovers, albeit on an on/off basis. After that had come the recruitment pitch. She was what was known in the trade as a ‘semi-conscious’ agent. She knew the game and she knew what she was involved in. She was a willing participant, even if she didn’t know the full details of what she was doing. Once the recruitment had been made, then came the next stage; targeting the type of specific information that the Fisherman wanted. Slowly at first had begun the drip, drip, drip of intelligence about his target, the Russian, Petrov.

Why had she decided to become a willing agent? In the Fisherman’s experience it could have been any number of reasons. There were all the usual incentives; money, revenge, ego. But in this case and knowing a thing or two about how an agent’s mind worked, the Fisherman liked to think that she was just trying to do the right thing and be a decent human being. But more than likely she was just trying to survive financially. Not easy for someone as beautiful as Solange Fayed, who had, unfortunately, gotten mixed up with some vicious people.

Solange reached out and took his hand in hers. She held it for a moment as their eyes met across the table and… that was it, the passing of the USB stick was complete. The Fisherman quickly slipped it into his jacket pocket. “Anything of interest?” he asked her.

Solange nodded and smiled. “Petrov always has something going on. There has been an increase in activity over the past few weeks. A lot of email traffic. Something big is about to happen.”

“In Europe?” he asked.

“No. I get the impression that it is more internal… perhaps here in Tunisia,” she said.

Petrov was a pig who would sell to anyone, and even though she was not directly aware of Petrov’s intimate arms deals, she knew enough to figure out that the Russian wasn’t selling tractors and ploughs. The Fisherman had trained her in anti-surveillance, espionage and the use of a covert sniffer program that lay undetected on a computer and that would take an instant snapshot of whatever was on the screen every three seconds. It was an invaluable piece of spy software. He would check the information later and then dissect it, before passing it over to the technical experts in The Prism.

“Any idea if and when Petrov is due back in town?” he asked, sipping at his water.

She smiled and shrugged. “I have heard that his arrival is imminent. He may already be here; his entourage keep things very discreet. There is some information on the USB stick. Do you still want to arrange a meeting when he is back in Tunisia?”

The Fisherman nodded. “Absolutely! My clients are eager to establish a trading partner in the region. The information that you have given us, a peek inside Mr Petrov’s camp, if you like, has shown us that he’s a man we may be interested in doing business with.”

But more than that, thought the Fisherman, he wanted Petrov locked down so that he could be eliminated once and for all. And to do that, the Fisherman needed a cast iron location to kill him.

“Anyway, that’s for another time,” said the Fisherman, smiling and raising his glass to Solange. For now they could both relax. The Fisherman turned his mind to more pleasurable matters. His eyes ran over her body, noticing the sensual shapes beneath the dress she wore. “How have you been?”

“I have been as well as can be expected, considering your absence,” she said, moving one perfect lock of dark hair away from her eyes and matching his gaze.

“Is there anything that I can help with?” he said, teasing.

“Maybe… perhaps later,” she replied flirtatiously.

“Okay. At least let me order some wine? We might as well be comfortable,” he said, calling across a waiter and ordering a bottle of white Tunisian wine and fresh lobster for both of them. They chatted and flirted while they waited for their food. It was easy to forget that they were both indulging in a very ruthless game of espionage. But sat here on a warm night in North Africa, they could have been honeymooners. When the food came, they both relaxed and dined well, enjoying the setting of the Tunisian night.

“I have a favour I need to ask you,” said the Fisherman. “I need you to get closer to him, to Petrov.”

The Fisherman had been toying with approaching the subject all night. It was a sensitive issue that had to be handled carefully, but eventually he had made the decision to push ahead with it. Solange was silent for a time, looking out over the sea, lost in thought. Finally, she said, “I understand. I just don’t know if I can do that. I don’t even know if that’s possible, François?”

The Fisherman nodded. He understood what he was asking of her and he knew that he would have to tread carefully here. Pushing Solange had to be done delicately. It was as much about making her see what needed to be done for the mission, rather than what he wanted her to do. But hard information about the whereabouts and movements of the target were needed and time was running out fast and putting Solange in Petrov’s bed was a quick route to a quick kill.

“It won’t take much… a casual glance, the right clothes… You’re a good-looking woman,” he said, lowering his voice and leaning forward across the table.

The violence of her reaction took him back momentarily. She thrust herself forward across the table and glared. “Fuck you! I know what you want me to do… FUCK YOU! I’m a spy, not a whore,” she hissed.

He took in her reaction and recognised the sign that he had pushed too hard and too early. She was right, she wasn’t just some whore, she was an asset and an asset is not a robot to be programmed. An asset is a human being with real emotions and free will.

“I’m sorry,” he said, quickly trying to turn it around and recover the conversation. “That was crass, I apologise. I am under a lot of pressure from my bosses. I would never let you do that, I would never let another man touch you… ever!”

She sat back, calmer now that she had vented. Then she smiled at him once again, those beautiful dark eyes interrogating him. “That’s just as well. That fat pig Petrov has more of an interest in the beach boys that hawk fake watches along the coast than he has in the females who work for him.”

The Fisherman raised an eyebrow at that. Ah… so the rumours about Petrov were true. Maybe that was something that could be taken advantage of at some point. Useful…

She leaned forward kissed him gently on the lips and then sat back, placated. “I love you, François.”