Walking the Dog

"Rumours started to circulate in the late 90's that a large amount of Russian Federation foreign exchange had gone missing, largely D-marks and sterling, which is odd because most of the ex-Soviet hoods went for US dollars in a big way. At this point the good Colonel drops out of sight. He re-emerged a couple of years later in Gothenburg. He lost a short but valiant fight against cancer in a Swedish sanatorium and officially turned up his little pointed toes two years ago. We thought at first that this was a 'ruse de guerre' but we checked and it seems kosher. However, there was no trace of the missing millions.

"At this point some particularly nasty gentlemen appeared from out of the woodwork searching for the Colonel's Holy Grail. Attention focussed on Vika, at first. She had accompanied her dear Papa to Sweden. She turned up in a canal in Stockholm a few weeks back. Poor Vika. It appears she didn't know anything after all."

"How can you say?" 

"The Knights of the Grail came after your Ladyfriend. Angelika seems to have been something of a black sheep. She split with the family at the beginning of the nineties and moved west, first to Barcelona, where she studied Art and then to Britain by way of Paris and Frankfurt. She settled in the UK at the beginning of '93. About this time she changed her name and became Angela Sable, talented but struggling sculptor. With, and this is the bit that has everyone jumping, no visible means of support. A quick check on her bank records shows someone paid the rent and slipped her £500 a month from a Bank in Liechtenstein. We were wondering if that someone was you?"

I almost laughed; the idea was preposterous. Instead I gave him my best lawyer's poker face.

"Mr Smythe, I told you and I told the Police, I met Ms Sable for the first time on Saturday, purely by chance. Prior to that, well, I knew of her. I bought three of her pieces through a Gallery in the Fulham Road. I can tell you no more. But you might tell me why Her Majesty's Government are interested. I can see that it is a matter for the Police but where precisely do MI5 or 6 come in?"

He gave a tight smile and bowed to acknowledge my identification of him was close, if not entirely accurate. 

"Let us just say that the Foreign Office was asked for assistance by the Russian Federation Foreign Ministry in tracing a large amount of stolen currency. Thus far we have been unable to render that assistance. The man who introduced himself to you yesterday as a Detective Constable in Norfolk CID was in fact our own Inspector Willis from Special Branch. He went to Norfolk to interview Ms Sable. I believe he had an appointment to see her at around 5:30 pm on Saturday. That might explain the agitation you so acutely observed. 

"Unfortunately, when he arrived at her home, she was not there. However, there were no signs of the disturbance you discovered on Sunday lunchtime."

It was clear to both of us that I could shed no further light on events in Norfolk. He didn't waste time with small talk and left shortly afterwards. Bernie rushed in the moment Smythe left the building. 

"What did Michael the Mouth want with you then Mr Booth?" He spoke bitterly.

"Who, Bernie?"

"Michael-bloody-Cornell, that's who. Or Mickey the Mouth to his mates in Special Branch." 

"I see, he told me his name was Edgar Smythe. You know him, I take it?"

"Know him? 'Course I bloody know him. He's a fixer for SIS."

SIS, more commonly, if erroneously, known as MI6, is the foreign intelligence branch of the British Secret Service. They aren't supposed to have any domestic interests and the history of British Spydom is littered with cock-ups caused by interdepartmental rivalries. 'Mickey the Mouth' was obviously a liaison officer between the two branches and Special Branch, which is actually part of the Metropolitan Police. It didn't surprise me that Bernie should know him. He had joined our Chambers from another that specialised in some of the high profile criminal cases, including those involving terrorism. 

I told Bernie the full story. He listened in silence. Finally he said, "Sounds like Russian Mafia to me, Mr Booth. Best you stay out of it." I assured him that was precisely what I intended to do but a small voice in side contradicted me even as I spoke.

Chapter Three

The rest of that week passed normally. I had a slightly uncomfortable interview with the head of Chambers. He'd found about my uninvited visitor and wanted to register his concern but was unsure quite what it was that should concern him. I was taciturn rather than truculent - we never have seen eye to eye. So it came to Friday and I was having a quiet glass of wine in El Vino's on Fleet Street. The old wine bar was once the haunt of the 'fourth estate' but since the newspapers had all relocated to Docklands; the legal profession now claimed it as their own. 

I was chatting to couple of 'silks' - Queen's Counsels - when Joachim called me from behind the bar. "Telephone for Mr Booth!" He pronounced it 'Boot' but I'd heard his mangling of my name often enough to know he meant me. 

"Hello, Martin Booth speaking."

"Mr Booth, thank Gawd I've caught you."

"Bernie! What's the panic?"

"There's a young lady to see you Mr Booth, here in Chambers!"

"Do we have a name, Bernie or have you been unusually coy?"

"She won't give no name, Mr Booth, just says it's very urgent."

"Let me see, Five foot Eight and Blonde?"

"No, Mr Booth, about Five Six and dark with very blue eyes."

"I'll be right there."

I dashed back to the Temple. It had to be Angela Sable. I didn't know whether to be relieved or worried. In the end I managed to be both at the same time. She was sitting in the cubbyhole that passes for a waiting room in our Chambers. She rose as I came in and stared at me intently, as if it were me that was out of place. 

"Angela, this a turn-up. What are you doing here and what happened last Sunday?"

"Hello, Mr Booth."

"It's Martin, remember?"

"Ah yes. Martin. I have no one else to turn to. I need help, Martin. I'm sorry but you are the only person I could think of."

"OK. Let's get out of here and go somewhere we can talk in private."

She looked hurriedly about her and I indicated Bernie with a flick of my eyes. She gave the briefest nod of understanding and followed me out. I cudgelled my brain to think of somewhere we go where we could talk without being overheard. It was early Friday evening and the pubs and bars in that part of London were full of people celebrating the weekend. In the end I gave up and hailed a Black Cab. We went to my place.

I have a small Mews house just off Queensgate. I bought it for a song years ago, unconverted and run down. It had been a bit of a money pit in the beginning and my Bank Manager had not looked favourably on a Pupil Barrister taking on such a pile of debt. Fat lot he knew! Modernised and tarted up, it's now worth around a million. It's no palace, three rooms, kitchen and bath, as the Estate Agents would say, but Freehold houses in SW7 are as rare as hen's back teeth, especially ones with integral garages. Apart from anything else, it's quiet. No traffic, no pubs, no shops. It suits me very well. I looked at it as being a good part of my pension. When I call it a day, London won't see my arse for dust. I'll settle in the country somewhere, the Cotswolds, maybe.

I showed Angela into the sitting room and asked what she wanted to drink. She shrugged. Well, if she couldn't be bothered, I'd decide. I opened a bottle of Chateau Lestage, a very respectable little Haut Medoc. Once she got the drink in her hand, she couldn't stop talking. It was like a dam bursting. The whole story of the last week came flooding out of her. 

After I had left on the Saturday, two men arrived at her studio. She had been expecting them. They had contacted her earlier in the week, claiming to have to have been colleagues of her father. She had been suspicious, but not overly so. She had left Estonia years before and was not really aware of what her father had been doing latterly. She knew he had been in the Soviet Army, of course, but he had never spoken much about it and had been away a lot, when she was growing up. They hadn't been particularly close and rarely wrote to each other. She didn't know if these colleagues were from his Red Army days or more recent times. She only thought to ask after they had hung up.

The two men arrived, introduced themselves as representatives of the Russian Federation Ministry of Culture and started talking vaguely about offering her an exhibition. She grew nervous when it became obvious that neither had the slightest idea about her work. One of them mentioned 'your paintings.' Then they started to talk about her father. What a Grand Fellow he had been; how he must have been proud of his artist daughter. They were about as subtle as a charging Rhino. They kept asking her if her father had given her anything for safekeeping, just until his 'comrades' could reclaim it. She said she had nothing - had never had anything - of her father's. 

They clumped about some more and left with vague promises of being in touch. Once they had gone, she called the Russian Embassy. They confirmed her suspicions that there were no Ministry of Culture representatives currently in the UK and that the Cultural Attaché was presently in Edinburgh with the Ballet. Angela said that she had lived long enough under Russian occupation to know that all of this meant trouble. She was scared, she said. She thought of coming to see me but didn't feel she could involve someone she'd only just met. She worried late into the evening and decided it was high time to get out of there, to go to ground, so to speak. 

She packed up her few valuable belongings into her old Ford Escort and left at around midnight. She knew some Estonian friends in Leicester and had arrived there in the early morning. She slept in the car until it was light and then went to call on her friends. They had seen the story on the TV News. They claimed to be worried for her. What had happened? She told them her story, foolishly, she now said, as they became very interested in what it might be the men were after. They pumped her about her father. She became paranoid, jumping at shadows, perhaps, but she had to leave. 

On Tuesday she had made her farewells, unable to escape the feeling that they were desperate for her to stay but didn't know how to compel her to do so, without giving some kind of game away. She had fled, aimlessly. She stayed that night and the next in a Bed-and Breakfast in Shropshire. Then, she reasoned, if people were truly after her, they would have her car registration and description. She sold the car for £500 to a dealer in Oswestry and caught a train to Birmingham. She stayed in Birmingham one night and resolved to find me. She had gone to the City Library and found me in a Legal Directory. She was afraid to telephone so she decided to come to Chambers. She'd waited in Temple Court until the area quietened down and had slipped into our Chambers just as Bernie was about to lock up. 

She had a little money but not enough to live for long in London. Throughout her story she was calm, rational and held me with those ice eyes. Magic sat at her feet with his head on her lap, fixing her with his adoring gaze that he gives anyone who sits still long enough. Trotsky, being Trotsky, ignored us both. There was silence when she finished. My brain was whirling. There was something rotten about all this but I couldn't think what it was for the life of me. I'm a boring bloody Tax Barrister, for Christ's sake! I'm no James Bond. I liked Angela, admired her immensely as a sculptor, but that didn't seem enough to have me cast as the 'Knight in Shining Armour.' I suppose I must have just sat there with a stupid expression on my face for a full five minutes. She didn't say another word, just fixed me with her Nordic gaze. Eventually, I had to say something.

"You can stay here tonight, at least. I need time to think."

"Of course. It is most kind of you, Martin."

"Not at all, not at all. I, umm, I'm a bit stumped, to tell you the truth."

"Stumped?"

"Oh, puzzled. I mean, do you know anything about this 'thing' of your father's that you're supposed to have?"

"Nothing. Nothing at all. I haven't seen him in over ten years and we have not been close friends." 

I told her about my conversation with 'Mickey the Mouth.' Unless she was a superb actress, the shock on her face was genuine. She hadn't known about her sister, Vika's death. I asked her about her appointment with the man from Special Branch. She was genuinely surprised. The only appointment she had was with the two Russians; she knew nothing of any British policemen. Curiouser and curiouser, as Alice would have said. I was now completely flummoxed. My instinct was to get straight on the phone to our friend Mickey and tell all. Something held me back, though. For whatever reason, the whole situation was starting to make my flesh crawl. 

Angela hadn't eaten anything all day so I suggested dinner. There are a number of little Bistros in the area immediately around Queensgate. She shook her head emphatically. She didn't want to go out - she wouldn't feel at ease. So we agreed to stay in and I nipped down to the nearest Waitrose in Gloucester Road and picked us up some steaks and a pre-packed salad. Fifteen minutes later we were tucking in and another bottle of Lestage was called for. She began to relax a bit as the wine went down and for the first time since Steph left, I found myself enjoying company over dinner. 

I made her up the spare bed in my study and we parted for the night feeling quite mellow. She said the dogs made her feel safe. I didn't disabuse her that they would both be utterly useless if anyone tried to break in. Trotsky would ignore any intruder and Magic would try to lick them death. I don't keep them for their machismo! 

I lay awake a long while trying to make sense of everything I had seen and heard. Item: Angela's studio had been thoroughly trashed. Item: The police and presumably, the Security Services, were taking it very seriously. The opposition, whoever they were, were also playing hardball. They had apparently got to Angela's friends in Leicester. I had just decided to go straight to Michael Cornell, aka Mickey the Mouth, when sleep finally claimed me. 

Everything looked much better the next morning. It was one of those delightful, crisp winter mornings when the sun shone and the light had the diffused golden quality of a Turner painting. I was up early and Angela soon joined me in the kitchen where the dogs were bouncing vertically in their excitement at the prospect of the morning walk. We strolled up Queensgate and crossed the road into the Park. We wandered eastwards behind the giant wedding cake that is the Albert Memorial. There was hardly anyone about at that hour and we walked in companionable silence, like two old friends just out walking the dog. Angela threw a ball for Magic to practice his retrieving and Trotsky sniffed and pissed his way along a little in front of me. I was starting to feel that the whole thing could be cleared up very quickly. All we had to do was go and see Cornell, explain that Angela knew nothing, hadn't seen her family in years. He could report that back to the Russians and the heat would move off in some other direction. Sometimes you just know it's wishful thinking, even as you're doing it. 

A sudden thought struck me.

"Angela," I said, "Cornell also said something about money. He said someone is paying your rent from a bank in Liechtenstein. I think he thinks it was your father." 

She shrugged. "He's wrong. It is an old German Lady who chose to be my patron. Her name is Helga Meyer. I have her address in Frankfurt so he can check." 

I felt a sense of relief. The only mystery now remaining was why she did not know about the interview with Special Branch. We walked on around the gardens, cut up to Hyde Park and watched as Magic threw himself enthusiastically into the Serpentine for his morning swim. There were a few more people around now and I found myself growing more and more uneasy. I suggested we should head back home and was mightily relieved when we got indoors. Just because I'm paranoid doesn't mean that they're not out to get me.

I made coffee and we sat down in the lounge. It was time for a plan of action. I had barely begun to organise my scattered thoughts when the phone rang. 

"Mr Booth? It's Bernie"

"Bernie! To what do I owe the honour of a call on a Saturday morning?"

"It's Mickey the Mouth, Mr Booth. I was having a couple of jars with some old mates from Kings Bench Walk and I happened to mention he'd been sneaking about Chambers. Well it seems our Mickey is no longer persona grata with our friends in Vauxhall." (He meant the Security and Intelligence Service.) 

"The bastard got the elbow, Mr Booth, and is now a freelance. The word is that he's mixing in some dodgy company these days. I thought you ought to know, like, seeing as it was you he was sniffing around."

I thanked Bernie for the information but didn't know what to make of it. Only one thing was clear. We needed help. Someone was far too interested in Angela's whereabouts for it to be healthy. For whatever reason, it now appeared that I was well and truly involved. You didn't need to be a genius to figure out that Michael Cornell, and whomever he was now working for, could find me easily enough. I've never made a secret of my address and my number is the phone book. If they realised that Angela had made contact with me, it wouldn't be too long before we had a visit. I decided it was time to send for reinforcements. 

I immediately thought of the O'Farrell twins. Liam and Niall O'Farrell were old school friends and typical of the sort of 'muscular Christians' turned out by Ampleforth. I will never know why we became friends. They were robust, athletic boys and I was much more the academic type. For some reason, they 'adopted' me and I had good cause to be grateful for their friendship many times during my school days. Without them, I would have been bullied unmercifully. 

They had joined the army after leaving school and attended the Royal Military Academy at Sandhurst. From there they had joined the Parachute Regiment and served with distinction during the Gulf War. They left the army in 1999 and had set up a Security Consultancy. I had loaned them the capital to get started and made a few introductions. They quickly gained a reputation for efficiency and discretion and had repaid my loan within two years. If anyone could help me sort out this mess, it was the O'Farrells. Within an hour of my phone call, they were on my doorstep.

If you met one O'Farrell, you'd be impressed. Meeting two can be intimidating. They were, of course, exceedingly fit and, apart from the odd tinge of grey in their black curls, looked ten years younger than their thirty-seven years. They stood a couple of inches under six feet and seemed to be almost as wide. Liam sported a spectacular broken nose but otherwise they were utterly identical. In another life they could have been absolute thugs but God had given them a different nature and they were possessed of sunny dispositions that seemed to shine out from their lively green eyes. I have never known them but they seemed to be always on the point of breaking into a smile. It was something of a shock, then, to see them so grim-faced when they arrived.

I had outlined the problem to Niall on the telephone and he had briefed Liam. Their first words were "You're being watched, old son."

Chapter Four

I had never seen Liam and Niall in action before. They walked into the house and took over. Half an hour later we were being hustled out of the door and into Niall's Range Rover. We had been instructed to pack a bag with spare clothes and were to be taken a 'safehouse.' Niall gave his best impersonation of Michael Schumacher to shake off any tail and an hour or two later we were speeding down country lanes to the west of London. Trotsky and Magic in the back were not happy as the car made its split-arse turns through the winding roads. After a while we arrived at the house, a small picturesque cottage just outside that Berkshire village made famous for its concentration of racing stables. I should have guessed. The O'Farrells had that Irish passion for horse racing.

The place belonged to a well known Trainer and friend of the twins. 

"Don't get too comfortable," said Liam. "We're only here for the night. You can bet the opposition will soon know you called us and they can make the connection to this place pretty quickly. Niall is sorting something else out." 

Angela appeared to have gone into a state of shock, shaken, no doubt, by the speed of events. I just reverted to my childhood and let the twins take over - it had been like that in school - and they were the experts. 

We sat around the dining room table and worried once more at the puzzle. Angela sat quietly and would only nod or reply 'yes' or 'no' when called upon to confirm some detail or other. Niall prepared some unidentifiable gloop in the microwave and we ate supper in silence. Niall produced a bottle of Bushmills and we sipped the whiskey as we carried on trying to find a solution. I was still in favour of going to the police but Niall and Liam were adamant. Until we knew just who was involved, that was not an option. It seemed clear that the mysterious plain-clothes man from Norfolk was in on the affair, unless, of course, that was just disinformation by Mickey-the-Mouth. The only thing that Angela could not, or would not, accept was that her father had stolen a large amount of money. 

"It is not possible! He was a soldier not a banker. How would he gain access to foreign currency reserves?"

I had to admit it had us all perplexed. Liam and Niall agreed with Angela. As ex-soldiers, they had some feeling of solidarity with another soldier, even if he was a Colonel of Spetsnaz. 

"She has a point," said Liam and Niall concurred.

"I don't see how he would have had the access or the contacts. It's been pretty hard to move money through the European Banking system since 1994. The anti Money Laundering rules are pretty tight now. You'd have to good contacts in the banking system or organised crime. It's possible, I suppose, but I think it would need a team of people, not just one rogue soldier."

When I thought about it, I had to agree. I have a number of contacts with the financial world as a result of my profession. There are plenty of scams out there but they are usually the work of organised groups. One maverick acting alone would have little chance of pulling off such a major operation. But if we discarded the foreign exchange story, what were we left with? We packed it in at around Eleven. We weren't getting anywhere and Angela was obviously drained by the sequence of events over the last week. 

There were two bedrooms in the cottage. One of the twins would keep watch while the others slept. Angela looked at me and said, "I stay with you" in a low voice. No one commented so we settled down in the larger bedroom. It had two single beds and I threw my bag on the one nearest the window. Angela disappeared into the bathroom with her bag. I heard the shower running so wandered back into the lounge. A half-hearted moon, shining through the light clouds, provided the only light and Liam was sitting in an easy chair drawn up to one side of the uncurtained window, where he could see without being seen. "Niall's getting his head down," he said, without turning his head, his concentration fixed outside. "Problems?" I asked. "Nah, " he said, "precautions." I left him to it. He had the dogs for company and I was way out of my depth. 

I heard the shower turn off and the bathroom door open and then close. I took a quick shower myself and headed back to the bedroom with a towel around my waist. Angela was tucked up in one bed with just her head peeking out of the covers. I turned out the light and, dropping the towel, slipped into my bed. Angela stirred slightly. 

"Martin?"

"Uh huh"

"I just wanted to say I am grateful. This has been very frightening for me but with you I feel safe."

"I feel safer with the twins around."

"They are dangerous men, your friends. They remind me of the young men who used to come to see my father when I was child. They always smiled but I knew they were deadly"

"Well, Liam and Niall are my oldest friends and they are very definitely on our side. In fact, they are the only ones I know for sure that are."

"I know, but they still make me a little afraid. Or, I should say rather that it is because we need men like them that makes me afraid."

"I understand."

"Martin?"

"Yes."

"I really feel I would like to have your arms around me this night. Would you mind very much if we pushed these beds together?"

I did the honourable thing and obliged her. She snuggled up to me and laid her head on my shoulder. I found myself wishing I'd taken the time to put on a pair of shorts after my shower. She was wearing a T-shirt that had ridden up around her waist and the feel of her soft skin against my side and thigh was highly arousing. Her arm was across my chest and she clung to me like a crucifix. I knew from the first that I was attracted to her. OK, she didn't have Steph's blatant animal sexuality but I found her a lot less threatening because of it.

I lay still and tried to relax. She hugged me with an intensity that Steph never managed. After a while I felt some of the tension go out of her and her breathing became deep and regular. Unfortunately I was wide-awake, with a beautiful woman asleep on my chest and a raging erection. What was almost as bad was that my left arm was going to sleep and developing pins-and-needles. I eased my self away, trying not to wake her. She stirred briefly and rolled back towards me, flinging her arm over me and her naked thigh across mine. I could feel the tickling sensation of her pubic hair against my leg. My erection seemed to double in size. I felt ghastly, like I was the worst sort of prick imaginable. She wanted a bit of comfort and I wanted... It was hours before I finally fell asleep.

My dreams were dark and troubled and my rest was fitful. Each time I awoke, she was still there, crushing herself against me. Her warm, womanly smell seemed to fill the soft night. The last time I woke up, just before dawn, my resistance collapsed completely. Before I knew what I was doing, I buried my face in her hair and breathed the scent of her. I think I groaned aloud. She made a small sound of contentment and snuggled in closer. 

"Martin? Are you awake?" I was stunned by the sound of her voice. I flirted with the idea of feigning sleep for a second or two before answering. "Yes, Angela, I'm awake." She nuzzled my neck. 

"I knew you were a good man, Martin, that day we met on the beach. Now you have held me all night and not slept I think, to protect me."

'If only you knew,' I thought, 'if only you knew.' My unruly cock was stirring again and I tried desperately to think about something else. She ran her finger over the stubble on my jaw. 

"Not so much the English gentleman now, I think. More like an Estonian peasant," she said and giggled, a rough, throaty sound that seemed to connect all my sexual synapses together at once. Her hand suddenly brushed my burgeoning erection and we gasped in stereo. I expected her to leap back like a scalded cat but instead she gave another throaty growl and made a grab for it. I think I bounced off the ceiling.

"Ah, poor Martin! I think I have been unfair."

I tried to stammer a denial but she silenced me with a kiss. It was gentle and sweet and reached down into the depths of my soul. I don't know if it was the tiredness or what, but I felt light-headed. She wriggled against me deliciously. My arms seem to go around her and draw her to me of their own volition. At the same time my brain was trying to scream a denial; No, don't do it! Something more primitive was telling my brain to go fuck itself. The primitive side won, hands down.

I could just say we made love and let it go at that but it was much, much more. Angela swung herself above me and pulled her T-shirt over her head slowly, teasingly. She was wearing nothing but a wicked grin as she straddled my chest. Her breasts were larger than I had expected and I was mesmerised by them. They were slightly pendulous until she arched her back like a cat and then her big, brown nipples pointed upwards. My hands moved to them of their own accord and I cupped the tender weight of her in my hands. She made that sexy, throaty, growling sound again as I touched her. I had the overwhelming urge to suckle and, as I lifted my lips towards her, she pulled me on to her, feeding her breast to me and making soothing noises as I licked and sucked on her nipple. I felt a sensation akin to worship as she swelled in my mouth and I flicked her lightly with my tongue.

My other hand kneaded her other breast. She made slow, undulating movements and I switched my hand and mouth from perfect tip to perfect tip. She ground herself against me and I could feel the wetness of her sex against my stomach. The pale light of dawn creeping into the room gave her skin the glow of alabaster but she was warm and soft; so warm, so soft. I reached down and cupped her buttocks, pulling her upwards until I could bury my face in the wild, soft tangle of her cunt. Her scent assailed my senses and I was overcome with a deep longing as I tunnelled with my tongue into her sopping core. She shivered, but it wasn't cold in that room. She was murmuring half-heard endearments and her hips began a snaking rhythm as I licked and nibbled at her. Her lips were quite pronounced and I sucked at each of them in turn before thrusting my tongue into her once more. She was absolutely dripping now and I found myself swallowing her offerings like a parched desert traveller, coming unexpectedly upon an oasis.

She moaned and pushed against me, her hands were tangled in my hair and she steered my efforts upwards to her clitoris. I needed no second bidding and fastened onto that sweet button, sucking it gently between my lips and rolling it with the tip of my tongue. Angela moaned and shuddered like a soul in torment and she gripped me tighter, urgent and insistent. It seemed that my entire existence was concentrated into that small area of contact between tongue and clitoris. I felt disembodied, aware only of the miraculous gem I held between my lips. She began to pant and suddenly stiffened, grabbing my head and pulling my mouth against her and I felt a series of thrills rippling through her. I flicked at her frantically, squeezing her buttocks and trying to drag her even closer, if that were possible. She gave a sharp cry and then another. I was licking her like a man possessed and she shuddered again and then a third time. 

"Ah no, stop please," she moaned at last, "It's too much, I cannot..." But she did and then collapsed over me, her head resting on the wall above the bed. I brought her back down gently, covering her mound with gentle kisses and stroking her back with my fingertips. At last she sighed and slid down my body. She trapped my erection between her thighs and eased down further until our eyes were level and my prick was stretched along the length of her crotch and nestling between the silky mounds of her buttocks. She had a slightly crazed look in her eyes, unfocussed and wondering. Then she smiled and my heart lurched inside of me. I stared into her incredibly blue eyes. I had the sensation of tumbling into their azure depths.

Angela started to clench her glutineal muscles and to exert a rhythmic pressure on my cock. I was overwhelmed by her sheer presence; the pulsing sensations she was now transmitting had me gasping for breath. Her smile turned into a wicked grin and with a deft flick of her hips, she engulfed my straining erection and I slid into her. Her eyes went round as we came together and she arched up once more, offering her breasts to my avid mouth and hands. She moved slowly, rocking her hips and giving me intermittent squeezes as she tightened and relaxed her pelvic muscles. I tried to match her rhythm but she wouldn't have it, urging me to stillness with a hand on my chest and a gentle shake of the head. "My turn now." 

I confess I just lay back and let her wash over me, as irresistible as the tide. The heat in her loins was incredible and she seemed to be coming again and again. I could feel a succession of feathery, rippling caresses and her eyes were wild. Her mouth and breasts looked swollen, her nipples, bruised and wanton. A faint pink flush suffused the marble of her pale skin. It was the most erotic thing I have ever seen in my life. I couldn't contain myself any longer and forced myself further into her, thrusting and driving upwards, beyond control or constraint. My orgasm roared through every fibre of my being, expanding, all consuming, utterly, mind-blowingly absolute. She felt me falling into that delicious abyss and matched me, hurling herself repeatedly down onto me with total abandon until we were both completely spent. It was quite some time until either of us could move. 

We lay there for a while, holding each other in perfect silence, wrapped in a cocoon of languorous tranquillity, all of our own. For a short space, there were no monsters waiting to devour us. There was just us; and a new-discovered country called love. 

Chapter Five

No idyll ever lasts and ours was shorter than most. We were summoned back to the real world by Niall hammering on the door. "Martin, get up! Looks like we've got company!" My heart sank and a sick feeling permeated the rosy glow. I rose and dressed as quickly as I could with Angela following suit. About two minutes later we joined the twins in the lounge. 
Liam gestured to us to move to the side of the room. "Our friends are a little quick off the mark," he said and gave us a humourless smile. 

Niall asked, "How many?" and Liam grunted before replying. 

"Just spotted another one. That makes five out here and three more we've clocked round the back. I think we can assume two or three to each side so a round dozen at a guess. Good job they're amateurs!"

"Amateurs?" My voice sounded unnaturally loud. 

"Absolute bloody amateurs," said Niall, "We wouldn't have spotted pros in this cover." 

He nodded towards the hedgerows that fronted the cottage and flanked the road on either side. 

Angela spoke. "What are we going to do now?" 

The twins laughed. "Put the fear of Christ Himself into their little black hearts!" 

Niall glanced at Liam. "Everything Ready? 

His brother winked and when Niall nodded, pulled a small black object out of his inside pocket. He saw my quizzical look. "Remote detonator." 

He pressed a button and the peace of the Berkshire countryside was shattered by a series of loud explosions that seemed to ripple around the house. Angela grabbed me and hung on tight to my arm. It was over in seconds and before my ears had recovered from the shock, I heard men's voices, panicked and shrill. The local rooks had also been disturbed and their harsh voices added to the general cacophony.

"Right, grab your things and let's go," said Liam, " I'll take care of the dogs."

Angela and I sprinted back into the bedroom and threw our stuff into our bags. Niall had the door open and shoved us through into the waiting car. Trotsky and Magic seemed to find it all great fun and they were bouncing around in the back as Liam gunned the engine, slammed it into first and we took off like a rocket. The big four-wheel drive rolled alarmingly as we exited the gates and swung onto the road. Angela and I were thrown together in the back seat and we clung on to each other. The dogs complained loudly as they were flung into a heap. I thought I heard a gunshot. 

"That should wake the bloody neighbours!" Niall grinned back at us.

"What was that stuff?" I said. 

Liam laughed. "Thunderflashes, old son, all sound and fury! We keep a small stock." 

Thunderflashes are military pyrotechnics, used for exercises. They make an incredible noise but aren't at all powerful. 

"Scared the crap out of them!"

I smiled. "Scared the crap out of me, too."

We came to a crossroads and Liam turned right and then took an immediate left into a narrow lane. We were barrelling along at well over sixty and I found myself praying there was nothing coming the other way. We seemed to make several turns at random and the next thing I knew, we were driving into Hungerford and heading for the Motorway. To my surprise, we headed back towards to London.

"Where are we going now?"

"Plan B, old son. Confusion to our enemies. We're going to pay Mr Mickey the Mouth Cornell a little visit."

"He wasn't there then, this morning?"

"Very much doubt it. Wouldn't have been so easy. Besides, he wouldn't sully his lilywhite hands. Leaves the rough stuff to the mechanics, he's the engineer."

"Do you know where to find him?"

"Couple of phone calls was all it took. We have friends in low places."