False Flag

False Flag

  By Jay Tinsiano

  https://www.jaytinsiano.com

  Copyright 2013-2015 All rights reserved.

  Please help the author by reviewing this book on the ebook platform you purchased it on. Thank you for your support!

  This book is written with UK English spelling.

  False flag (or black flag) describes covert military or paramilitary operations designed to deceive in such a way that the operations appear as though they are being carried out by other entities, groups or nations than those who actually planned and executed them.

  Wikipedia

  Prologue

  1991

  Chiu Wah On smiled at his old friend; metallic black, compact and powerful. He felt the weight of the SIG Sauer P225 Pistol in his coarse hands and checked the recoil actions to ensure everything would work perfectly.

  Lighting a cigarette, Chiu inhaled and blew out grey smoke that wafted upwards, dispersing against the whirring ceiling fan. His fingers ran over the long scar that went from his forehead and around his left cheekbone; a constant reminder of that bloody night, before settling onto the solid form of the weapon again.

  Chiu knew the weapon inside out, as if it were an extension of his body, and had handled it many times in training. It was a widely used handgun and not easy to trace or be attributed to any particular source.

  The first time he had fired the pistol felt like it was only yesterday. The execution yard in Nanjing, capital of Jiangsu province, under a stark, grey sky. Two People's Liberation Army guards escorted a shackled prisoner into the empty concrete yard, pulling off his cloth hood to reveal the broken face of a man aged around twenty, eyes wet with tears as they settled on Chiu in anguish.

  His superior handed Chiu the loaded P225 and gave him a level stare. He took it and looked into the eyes of the prisoner for a moment, before swiftly raising his arm and firing point blank into the forehead. Every detail, every sound, was crisp in his mind. The shot, followed by the slump of the body on the hard concrete ground, and finally the words of praise from his superior. His first live kill gave Chiu a grim satisfaction, enabling him to move on from years of raw frustration.

  The cheap Bangkok hotel room was low lit. Net curtains across the open window wafted in the breeze and the walls faded into a sickly brown from years of stale cigarette smoke. A television flickered silently in the corner and the occasional roar of a moped or tuk-tuk filled the room. He had not left the hotel for three days now and it felt like the walls were closing in on him. Thankfully, the killing would soon begin.

  Chiu wrapped the pistol and cache of bullets in a cloth, tucked them into a red canvas bag and then placed it back into the bottom of the wardrobe. Patience, he kept telling himself, over and over. Patience.

  Chapter 1

  Two months earlier

  A strong wind swept the rain across the dual carriageway and through the valley where Frank Bowen had killed time in his teens. There would soon be dozens of red brick houses built and he wanted to hold and embed that place in his memory before it changed forever. There was something comforting to him about the trash and old car tyres lying abandoned on the unused road.

  "Here, boy!" Frank whistled to Scotty, who was sniffing around the ground and ignoring him, as he followed a scent trail. He was Jodie's pet, but walking him made for a great excuse to get away from the flat.

  Thick droplets of rain began to build and then within seconds it came down as a torrent. A nearby derelict car garage offered shelter and Frank ran inside. The windows were now broken black holes that had not seen occupants for over a decade.

  Further up the hill the last solitary houses stood on the rain-washed road set against the grey shapes of two North London tower blocks. He had heard the developers were waiting for the owners to either move or die, so they could get on with their big project.

  He considered going to look at the old house where he’d grown up with his parents before the accident, but the rain was coming down harder and it was getting late.

  Scotty, bored with being soaked, finally scurried over to join Frank in the dry and shook himself off, spraying his trousers.

  "Thanks for that," Frank sighed. As the terrier investigated the inner corners of the garage, Frank stared out at the relentless downpour. The rain always had a therapeutic affect on him, almost like a comfort blanket for the soul.

  Scotty came trotting back and looked up at Frank in anticipation. "Want to go home now?" The dog merely looked up at Frank, his tail wagging excitedly.

  "Great. Let's get out of here."

  ******

  The following morning the skies remained threatening as Frank jogged along the docks past the endless offices and suits making their way to work. His dark hair and heavy set appearance made him look older than his twenty six years. A fact not lost on him when he was younger and looking to get served in the pubs. An old man in combats and a tweed jacket tossed pieces of bread to a group of swans in the water. They rushed at the surprise snacks, beaks pecking gratefully.

  A sudden screeching noise pierced the peaceful calm. A sickening crash followed by painful screaming came from the main road that ran parallel to the docks. Frank slowed his jog down to a walk and moved towards the commotion. A man in his mid-twenties was lying on the cobbled street, his body contorted– along with his mountain bike – under a car. Several pedestrians stopped and gawped; some continued to walk by.

  "Quick! Somebody! Get an ambulance!"

  A woman had already jumped out of the driver’s seat, her hands on her head as she took in the scene in front of her.

  "Oh Jesus, I didn’t see…"

  A burley man in a grey suit stood transfixed as dark blood soaked the dusty, cobbled road. Frank kneeled over the man, trying to comfort him, impossible though it was—his face white and contorted, shrill screams and moans, short quick gasps for breath, eyes wide with fear. Eyes that were transfixed onto Frank’s.

  "It’s ok, mate … what’s your name? It’s ok. An ambulance will be here soon." Frank turned to the crowd: "Has someone called a bloody ambulance?" He looked back at the man on the ground, eyes frozen, staring skywards.

  "On its way!" shouted a voice. The driver of the car was weeping and being comforted by another cyclist. After an agonising wait, the ambulance eventually pulled up, quickly followed by other emergency services. A paramedic rushed over and immediately felt his pulse and for any sign of a heartbeat, but the young man's life was already over.

  *******

  Frank put down the keys on the kitchen bar and glanced at a pile of letters on the sideboard.

  Jodie came in with a quizzical look from the living room where a home decoration programme blared out, exclaiming the delights of living room renovation.

  "Hi, Frank. There's some post for you."

  "Yeah I saw, thanks," he said, ignoring the letters. "How was your day?"

  "Oh you know, the usual. The excitement never starts," she smiled at him thinly. "So, you’re home early?"

  "Yeah. I skipped work after what I saw going in. Some poor guy got killed. A cyclist was hit by a car."

  Jodie's face turned to shock.

  "Oh God!"

  "It was nasty, horrible. He really suffered. I don't think he was much older than me."

  Jodie rubbed Frank's arm in a rare show of affection. They embraced, her hands moving around him tentatively, as she patted his back. Frank bristled. She had been doing that a lot lately. He recently read in a book on body language it was a subconscious sign that the person was not entirely comfortable with what they were doing.

  "Makes you think doesn't it?" he whispered.

  She pulled away from him and tilted her head. "About what?"

  Frank moved to the kitchen bar and grabbed an apple from the
fruit bowl.

  "Life … and its rich tapestry. It’s so bloody short."

  Jodie rolled her eyes.

  "How many times have we had this conversation? I know you lost your parents, Frank, and then your grandad. I know how hard it's been for you. I just don't know what to say anymore."

  "What? I didn't say anything about my parents or grandad."

  "But that's what you meant! And what about me? What about us and a family?"

  "What about..? Jodie, I've just seen a guy, lying in his own blood, die in front of me!"

  The dog barked and disappeared into the living room.

  "Don't shout in front of Scotty."

  Frank shook his head while Jodie glared at him and snatched her keys off the kitchen bar.

  "I'm taking him for a walk. Away from you." The door slammed.

  The death of Frank's grandfather, Larry Bowen, a few months earlier had put a hold on the bickering, but now a return to past form seemed to be back on the agenda.

  Frank took a bite from the apple and flicked through the letters. He didn’t recognise one as a bill and opened it. It was from his grandfather’s solicitor, entitled ‘Inheritance’.

  He read the words slowly. It told him how he had inherited five thousand pounds from his grandfather’s estate. There was just the matter of signing a few forms at his convenience.

  Five grand. It was a nice rounded amount, not life changing, but handy nevertheless. He had expected to receive something but had no idea how much it was going to be. Larry Bowen had always scrimped and saved, despite not earning a great deal.

  Frank did a quick calculation. He had around three or four thousand pounds of debt to pay off from the inheritance, which, on any other day would have irritated him. Today, however, he had seen a young man die and that experience had put all into perspective.

  He carefully folded up the letter, went to the bedroom and placed it inside a book that lay on his bedside cabinet and then sat on the bed, staring at the wall.

  The eyes of the young cyclist stared back at him as his life ebbed away. Frank supposed that at least someone had been there to comfort him at the end. Snuffed out, just like that. Going to work one minute and then…bang! Game over. It was life, but it was no easier to comprehend.

  Then a thought came to him and he went to the wardrobe and took out a cardboard box. Inside was an assortment of his grandad's possessions, including letters, photographs, a watch and a leather bound book. Frank hadn't really looked through all this stuff before and browsed through the items.

  The images offered a very brief snapshot of his grandfather's life. Larry as a young man in the boxing gym where he had been a keen fighter for a few years; Larry and his late wife, taken in the 1970's; Larry standing tall, with a group of other men, all proudly posing in their British army uniforms, smiling broadly at the camera—handwritten on the back in faded blue ink, read: 2nd Infantry Division June 1945.

  Then Frank noticed one of his parents that he hadn’t seen before: young, happy, together. Frank found himself wondering what it would have been like if they had still been alive. Would he have taken them on a trip somewhere as they had aged? Visits on Sundays for a slap up roast, maybe? Helping his mum with the parsnips that she always forgot to do, even though they were his favourite … listening to Dad moan about his beloved West Ham United. Yes, he would have done all that. No doubt about it, he would have been there for them.

  Frank realised he was tightly gripping the photograph, tears escaping his eyes. He was recycling memories again, memories that didn’t even exist. "What an idiot you are, Frank," he whispered out loud. He could not remember feeling more alone.

  Chapter 2

  The Waterfront bar, nestled on the Thames, bustled with the after work milieu of white collar workers spilling their work gossip of bad bosses and good bosses. Frank spotted his friend, Carl at the quieter end, gazing over at the boats that lined the dockside. He caught his eye and gestured with his hand as to whether he wanted another drink. Carl gave the thumbs up.

  "Alright, Carl?" Frank planted down the drinks and slipped into a chair.

  "Great, thanks. So, Mr Bond, how's tricks?"

  Both men clinked glasses. "I’m thinking of leaving Jodie, Carl."

  Carl's face switched from a smile to shock in an instant. He stared at Frank, waiting for the punch line. None came. "Oh Shit."

  Frank nodded grimly. "I know she doesn’t love me anymore, Carl. And I’m seriously confused about how I feel, but one thing I do know; I’m not feeling good right now."

  Carl exhaled slowly and stared at nothing in particular on the plastic table top.

  "Sorry to hear that mate. That is a shocker," he said quietly.

  He looked directly at Frank and added, "Most people who are unhappy can’t bring themselves to make that decision. They hide from it. But we’re only here once right? Anna and I are tight, but I’d be lying if I said we didn’t have our ups and downs."

  Frank sipped his pint and then looked out of the window at a couple strolling along the waterside. "I hear you. Part of me still wants it to work out, but I can’t see how it will."

  "How long have you been together?"

  Frank sighed. "Four years, give or take."

  Carl nodded silently and took a sip of his ale.

  "Listen, Carl, I know you have a lock up garage. I wanted to stash some of my things for a while."

  "Oh? Well, of course you can. Going somewhere?"

  "Yeah, to travel for a bit. I want to see some of this beautiful world before I pop my clogs. Also, I really should be getting some sun. This non-stop crap weather is getting me down."

  Carl smiled. "I'll second that. Good for you. Whereabouts?"

  "I'll start with Goa in India. Then go to Thailand and then see what comes up."

  Carl gave a whistle, "Nice! I'm jealous. Just avoid the Middle East right now. There's definitely going to be a war kicking off over there."

  "Oh right? Yes I'd heard something about that. No chance of avoiding it then?" Frank hadn't bothered too much with the news recently. He had other things on his mind and, although he worked at a newspaper, his department dealt with advertising rather than the stories of the day.

  Carl leaned forward and lowered his voice. "Not likely. Saddam could basically dance a jig and sing the Star-Spangled Banner; it wouldn't make a blind bit of difference. The Iraqi government somehow got the impression they had the green flag to invade Kuwait, but things have changed."

  "Well you can't go around invading countries, no matter what," replied Frank.

  "No, you certainly can't."

  Frank manoeuvred the ashtray and sparked a cigarette. "So, how is life in MI6?"

  "Busy. Between you and me, you ain't seen me, right?" Carl tapped his nose, winked and they both laughed. Carl had been an intelligence officer for six years and wasn't able to speak about any aspect of his job to anyone. It had never bothered Frank. In fact, he didn't want to know.

  Frank took a large gulp of his Guinness and Carl looked serious again.

  "I'm really sorry about Jodie. I'll help out any way I can. Just think of it as a new beginning mate," assured Carl.

  They clinked glasses. "A new beginning."

  Chapter 3

  The sleek black W126 S-Class Mercedes travelled north alongside the Temple of Earth Gardens in Beijing. Years before, Zhang had regularly visited with his parents, running along the tree lined paths that cut through gardens. The walkways converged on the central alter, Fang Ze Tan, where Emperors of the Ming – and later Qing dynasties – had made sacrifices to appease the gods and help the nation.

  It had been so long since he had visited any of the Temples, the others being the Temple of the Sun and the Temple of the Moon, which had all played an important part in the city’s history. Zhang considered taking a walk there later that afternoon, if only to offer credence to the sacrifices he himself was about to offer to the nation.

  The Mercedes turned east onto Hepingli North Street
, along the north border of the Gardens and into a quiet residential road, coming to a stop outside a restaurant. Zhang ordered his driver to stay put and climbed out of the car, walking up the steps to the glass doors, above which red lanterns hung, glowing in the dim light. He caught a reflection of himself in the glass – dark, swept back hair with his goatee beard, brown suit – and wondered if he would still be enjoying these privileges after the coming operation had played out.

  The head waiter greeted Zhang as he came through the door and showed him into the empty restaurant, escorting him to his favourite table. He preferred it because it was near the window and more importantly, away from the ears of the kitchen. Three waitresses lined up to receive him, menus in hand; their uniforms immaculate, ironed and crisp. Zhang had earlier ordered the restaurant to be closed to the public.

  The first waitress asked him what he would like.

  "Green tea. With two cups. My associate will be here shortly. Also, please bring my Xiangqi board."

  The waitress nodded and the three of them scuttled off as Zhang removed his jacket and placed it on the back of his chair.

  A tall, gangly, middle aged man in a dark suit entered and shooed away the head waiter as he walked across the carpeted floor, weaving between the empty tables. Zhang looked up and nodded as Peng Quan, his strategic advisor, hung his jacket over the spare chair and sat down, his sharp breaths suggesting he had been running.

  "Peng, have you been working out?"

  Peng raised his sharp eyebrows in confusion as he looked at his superior for illumination.

  Zhang sighed as he bounced one end of his unlit cigarette on the table top. "Maybe you need some exercise. You’re out of breath from walking from the car?"

  Peng grinned sheepishly as he understood, "My driver parked down the road, I just jogged a bit. Sorry I’m late."

  The waitress returned with a tray holding a pot of green tea and two small china cups, decorated with gold patterns, and placed it on the table. She arranged the cups in front of the men and poured tea into each one. Zhang nodded his thanks and a second waitress appeared, holding a wooden box.

  Zhang took it and placed it to his side, opening the lid to reveal the board and game pieces within.

  "Thank you. That is all. Please do not disturb us."

  The girl nodded and immediately disappeared.

  Zhang opened the box and took out the lined game board and placed it in the middle of the table. He then carefully counted out the disked pieces that were engraved with a combination of red or black Chinese characters. The game, also known as Chinese Chess, was a popular strategy board game representing a battle between two armies and the object was to capture the General. In the middle of the board, a gap represented a river between the two opposing sides.