Graham J Thomson - The Secret of Hades Eden

The Secret of Hades' Eden

by

Graham J Thomson

This novel is a work of fiction. All characters, names, organisations, events and places are conjured from the authors imagination and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, actual events, or organisations is purely coincidental.

The Secret of Hades Eden 2011 Graham J Thomson

Cover art 2011 Graham J Thomson

All rights reserved.

Graham J Thomson was brought up in the picturesque Scottish coastal town of Kirkcudbright known as The Artists Town. After reading Genetics at the University of Glasgow he joined the British Army and served in the Intelligence Corps. Since leaving military service he has worked in international corporate crime investigations and information security. He lives with his wife near Cambridge.

For Annabel and Libby, for their love and the memories that make it all worthwhile.

And for Margaret, who will never be forgotten.

See how the god hurls his bolts at the greatest houses and the tallest trees. For he is wont to thwart whatever is greater than the rest.

Herodotus of Halicarnassus, 484-425 BC.

Monday

Hemera Selenes day of the moon

Chapter 1

0627hrs Glenancross, Scottish Highlands

A new day began on a remote highland beach in the far northwest coast of Scotland. The pale orange glow of the dawn sun pushed away the darkness of the dying night as it rose slowly over a damp green hillside. Morning dew sparkled in the short grass, a thin layer of mist hovered just above the ground. Down the hill and over the beach, the fresh sunlight spilled out onto the calm sea that stretched all the way to the horizon, while seawater lapped calmly at the shores edge.

A light onshore wind blew gently up the beach, over the rocks and onto the narrow country road where several sombre men dressed all in black waited impatiently by their vehicles. They fidgeted and shuffled to keep warm, it had been a long wait. One of them, a colossal hulk of a man with a shaved head, scanned the horizon with a large set of binoculars.

Further down the beach two men stood side by side, arms folded, and stared out to sea. Cold salty air filled their nostrils with a heavy scent of the ocean.

Theyre late, one said to the other in a broad Scottish accent.

Dont worry, they will be here, was the stern reply. The mans voice was deep, the accent Russian. Just be sure your men are ready. And stick to the plan, whatever happens.

I dont like this, the first man added. He blew into his hands and rubbed them together vigorously. Its too light. We can be seen for miles around. And this terrain carries sound for a great distance.

Then shut up, barked the Russian. Impatiently he checked his phone; there were no messages. Come on. Idiots.

The man with the binoculars waved frantically down to the two men on the beach. The Russian narrowed his eyes and nodded to him. The rest of the men reacted to the silent order immediately. They scurried away and took up their positions.

Slowly, from the distance the vessel approached. The jug-jug of its engine grew louder as it neared, breaking the calmness of the morning. It was a mid-sized fishing boat painted blue and white. Lines of red-brown rust ran down its sides from the gunwales all the way to the waters edge like tears of blood. Up on the bow was the silhouette of a man. He stood motionless, like a hunter stalking his quarry, and carefully scanned the coastline through binoculars.

When the vessel was only a few hundred metres from the shore the man on the bow adjusted his skippers cap and made his move. He raised both his arms out and held the position for a few seconds. Back on the beach the Russian in response raised his arms out in a similar fashion, but then moved them up over his head and down again. He repeated this movement twice. Seeing the corresponding response the skipper disappeared into the cabin.

Moments later the low rumble of the engine stopped with a grunt. Once again there was only the eerie sound of waves breaking on the sand and rocks.

The skipper reappeared, another dark figure joined him and they walked to the bow. The skipper threw an anchor overboard, while his first mate threw a rope ladder over. Together they lowered a small rubber dinghy into the sea and one by one climbed down into it. They rowed around to the stern of the vessel where the skipper precariously leant over the edge and untied a rope that was hidden somewhere below the water line. With the end of the rope secured, they turned and rowed towards the shore.

Once they had beached, the sailors jumped out. The skipper walked up the beach with the sodden rope dragging behind him, while the first mate pulled the dinghy up onto the sand. As he approached the skipper grinned and held out his arms to the side.

Your delivery is here, said the skipper. Jamaican in appearance and accent, he smiled widely as he spoke. His gold encrusted teeth sparkled in the sunlight.

The Scottish man took the wet rope without a word and dragged it further up the beach to a green Range Rover. He bent down and attached it to the winch at the rear of the vehicle. Another of the men then jumped into the drivers seat and started the engine. The winch turned and began to reel the rope in. At first it groaned and struggled with the weight. The vehicle was pulled a few inches down the beach until its wheels dug into the moist sand and held firm. Slowly two large black streamlined objects emerged from the sea. At the same time two other Range Rovers each fitted with a trailer were reversed down the beach.

As the objects were pulled further out of the sea they began to resemble mini submarines. Once they had been dragged a few metres up onto the sand, the rest of the team set about securing them onto the trailers.

Is it all in there? the Russian asked the skipper.

Yeah-man. Six tonnes of pure white, he said, still grinning. Now where is my... he held his hand out and rubbed his fingers,... money?

The Russian turned and nodded for the skipper to follow him. They walked up the beach and on to the road where there was a black BMW parked. The Russian opened the back door and leaned into the seat. The rest of the men stopped their work momentarily and turned to watch. Taking a few seconds to rummage around, the Russian then took hold of something, withdrew and turned to face the skipper.

The skippers eyes widened in confusion as they focussed on the short black silenced MP5 submachine gun that was held firmly in the Russians hands. Before the skippers brain had time to tell his legs to run like hell, the Russian fired from the hip. Almost soundlessly a quick burst of three rounds penetrated him in the chest at point blank range.

Falling instantly to the ground he looked up, his mouth soundlessly opened and closed as he crumpled onto the sand. Callously, the Russian aimed the muzzle at the mans head and pulled the trigger once more. A single silenced shot was sneezed out. The skippers life expired where he lay.

Seeing his skipper fall, the first mate staggered backwards, turned, and ran back towards the dinghy by the shore edge. In his rush his petrified legs failed him and he tripped and fell. Quickly, he picked himself up and ran at speed towards the sea.

The Russian calmly took aim and fired off several short bursts. Despite the distance most of the shots found their target. The first mate was thrown forward onto the shoreline by the force of the rounds that perforated his back. Struggling to hold on to his life he crawled away with all his might. Sand and water exploded around him as more rounds rained down. His struggle ended abruptly when a round rammed into his spine. Waves broke over his lifeless body; the water pulled at it trying to claim it for the sea.