Scent of a Killer 3 (MI7 Assassin origins story)
He felt the familiar darkness sweeping over him that he had carried since the first day of the Somme. It was a bitter cocktail of grief and shell shock, and most of all guilt.
Welcome to MI7 Assassin! My new WW1 spy thriller kicks off with two origins short stories to warm you up before the main event.
Scent of a Killer just happens to be a story set on New Year’s Eve! You’ll never feel the same way about New Year’s Eve countdown again!
If you’re just jumping onboard now, you can read part 1 of Scent of a Killer here:
And if you missed the first origins story, His Master’s Voice, pick it up here:
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Scent of a Killer part 3
Stone duly wrote up his profile on Jayden that would appear in the national press. Like all MI7 articles it was uncredited, so no one would know it was propaganda, and readers would assume it was written by a journalist on the newspaper. In fact, the tone of most journalists was similarly patriotic, given that they wanted to keep their jobs.
Having written three best-sellers – The Young Contemptibles, Alf a Mo’, Kaiser, and Ragtime Infantry – Stone knew exactly what Captain Pollard wanted from the article. It was his memoirs of the trenches that had first interested Pollard and led to him offering Stone a job with MI7, joining such distinguished authors as A. A. Milne, the assistant editor of Punch, and Lord Dunsany, the fantasy writer of the classic The Gods of Pegāna.
Stone’s piece on Jayden was entitled The Dry Hero and talked about Irvin’s fervent belief in temperance, how he equated alcohol as the work of Satan and no less evil than slavery. It also mentioned that Irvin believed that the saloon backer was a traitor to his country, not least because most breweries were owned by German Americans. The fact that the United States was not actually at war yet, so strictly speaking they weren’t traitors, didn’t matter. It was the emotional tone that counted.
Stone’s article went on to say that Hoover’s right hand man had devoted his life to helping the starving people of Belgium. As Christmas approached, he urged the public to continue to give generously to this worthy cause. Stone made up some suitable quotes for Jayden. ‘I ask myself what will be their Christmas under the heel of the German beast? Through their misery and pain, are they even aware it’s the festive season?’ It was a powerful piece. Pollard usually went through Stone’s work with a green pen, adding extra lines if more patriotism was required, but there was barely a green mark on this one.
Knowing he didn’t mean a word of it, and neither did Jayden actually helped. He treated it as a work of complete fiction. Which it was, just like the fantasy novels he hoped to write after the war. That’s if he wasn’t discovered and shot by firing squad first.
Since starting at MI7, he had assumed that he was the only propaganda writer to be affected by the nonsense he was writing. So he was surprised to find this wasn’t the case when he went for a drink one evening with A. A. Milne. They had gone to the Princess Louise in Holborn. It wasn't their usual watering hole, but Alan suggested a stroll and Stone suspected he wanted to avoid his fellow MI7 agents. As they relaxed in the pub with all its brass and glass and Victorian splendour, Milne was getting progressively drunk.
‘Never mind the lies we spew out every day, it’s also such a waste of our talents, Sean.’
‘Pollard says it’s vital war work.’
Milne’s fine aquiline features were shadowed by stress, ‘That’s what I keep telling myself. But I know in my heart I’ve sold out. We’ve all sold out. So many of us writers and poets talk about ending this damn war, but none of us actually do anything. It’s all just blether.’
‘True,’ said Stone. ‘But what can we do?’
‘I know Sassoon wanted to kill Novello for writing Keep the Home Fires Burning, but instead he ended up sleeping with him.’
‘Pollard told me. He loves repeating that story.’
‘He probably made it up.’ Milne’s receding hairline exposed the creases of anxiety on his forehead. ‘How would writers of past generations have coped? I was thinking this afternoon, what if Shakespeare had worked for MI7? And he had to write lies all day?’
‘Not lies. “Terminological inexactitude”. That’s what Winston Churchill calls them. Remember?’
‘Thank you. Only you try writing making terminological inex– can’t even say the damn word now – inexactitude rhyme.’ His voice was slurred as he finished his drink and ordered another round for them both.
‘No treating,’ smiled Stone.
‘You know what they can do with their no treating rule,’ said Milne, his deeply sunken eyes glaring. ‘So, anyway, I just wrote a poem to stop myself going stark staring bonkers.’
He handed Stone a piece of paper. It read:
In MI7b,
Who loves to lie with me
About atrocities
And Huns Corpse Factories
Come Hither, come hither, come hither,
Here shall he see
No enemy.
But sit all day and blether.
The words stung, and never had Stone felt so close to a fellow writer. He swallowed an urge to confess his true feelings. Instead, he grinned and handed back the poem. 'Well done that bard.'
The Huns Corpse factory was one of Pollard’s proudest stories where he claimed that the Germans were melting down their dead soldiers for soap. He was proud of it because the lie was likely to bring China into the war on the allies’ side.
‘You could write a poem about other famous writers at MI7. It could be very funny.’
‘Thank you. You see, making people laugh is what I do.’ Milne looked with a haunted expression at his reflection in the glass. ‘What I used to do, anyway.’
‘But does what we write actually matter? People can still make up their own minds,’ lied Stone, in an effort to cheer him up.
‘No, they can’t. Because we control the narrative and tell them what to believe. I fear the passions and the hatred that we are stirring up could easily pass the point at which either newspapers or books can contain them.’
‘That sounds scary.’
‘It is. The fanaticism of today that we – we, that’s you and me, Sean – are responsible for threatens to become even more disastrous to freedom than the Inquisition.’ Milne looked desperately sad. ‘Because all that hatred has to be unleashed somewhere.’
Stone reflected that was just what his voices had done: they’d unleashed the hatred, turning him into an assassin.
Milne stood up. ‘And talking of unleashing, I should visit those marvellous marble urinals below.’ He started to head off, then changed his mind and returned. ‘But. But. Before I go. The hatred.’
‘Yes.’
‘It could manifest itself in new ways we cannot possibly imagine.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘All right, I’ll tell you. Sometimes I swear I can almost see it as a black cloud hovering in the air over Adelphi Terrace.’ There was a faraway look in Milne’s eyes. ‘Then sweeping down into our offices. A cloak of evil wrapping itself around us.’
‘But supposing we could turn that cloak of evil into something … else.’
‘Such as?’
Stone hesitated.
‘No. Wait. Let me go for a leak first.’ Milne lurched away towards the back of the pub.
Stone realised he had almost said too much. He had had too many drinks himself. When Milne returned he adroitly changed the subject onto something safe. He steered him onto his favourite topic of conversation: cricket, and Milne happily spent the next hour recounting his humorous cricket exploits in the Authors XI with his fellow writers J. M. Barrie, Arthur Conan Doyle and P. G. Wodehouse.
It was now five minutes to midnight and Stone stood in the Cave of the Golden Calf surrounded by throngs of revellers eager to celebrate the New Year. He felt the familiar darkness sweeping over him that he had carried since the first day of the Somme. It was a bitter cocktail of grief and shell shock, and most of all guilt. The relentless need to atone for his role in sending countless men to their deaths. In feeding the propaganda machine so that it spewed forth more lies, poisoned more minds.
The darkness was about to be transformed with the death of Jayden.
He watched the body painters in action. Some imitated tribal arts, inscribing carefully patterned lines and dots and circles on each other. Others conjured living canvasses and murals from languidly draped bodies. All were impressive, colourful, creative and imaginative works of art. Except for one.
Jayden was painting a dollar sign on a naked woman’s back.
Stone sighed. It really was time Jayden left this planet.
Questions would be asked about why he was shot. There would be an investigation. Pull one brick out of the wall and others would surely follow. Francqui might publish his exposé of Hoover. If nothing else, it would deter Jayden’s successor from supplying food to the Germans and thereby dramatically shorten the war. He brushed his fingers against the reassuring weight of the gun in his pocket.
Stone was distracted from his introspection by an increasingly heated altercation behind him.
‘Now don’t mess me around, young lady,’ drawled a guest with an American accent. ‘I paid good dough for you and I intend to get my money’s worth.’ Stone glanced briefly back. The man was wearing a grinning skull mask and a frightened girl was pulling away from him, adjusting her clothes. She was young, how young didn’t bear thinking about.
Don’t get involved. You’re on a mission, soldier, Stone told himself.
‘Maybe I should go back to Madam Monnert and ask for a refund? She won’t be happy with your behaviour tonight. There will be consequences.’
‘I don’t care. I’ve done what you want. Now leave me alone,’ the girl was defiant, but Stone could hear the tremor in her voice.
‘It wasn’t enough. We need to make progress,’ said the Skull Mask. There was the sound of a scuffle.
Concentrate on your job, soldier.
‘You’re being very unreasonable, young lady. We had an agreement.’
‘Get your hands off me.’
Stone risked another glance over his shoulder and saw the Bodybuilder, wearing his ram’s head mask, had joined the Skull and was encouraging him. ‘Saucy little puss, isn’t she? She needs taming.’
The American grabbed her by the scruff of the neck, none too gently judging by the look of pain on her face. ‘Now are you going to do what I want?’
A further struggle from her gave him his answer.
‘You’re behaving like a child.’
‘I'm only fifteen!' she protested.
‘Then you shouldn't be doing this work. It's your own fault. You’ve only got yourself to blame.’
‘Gas is good,’ suggested the Bodybuilder. ‘Chloroform. Or Ether. It’ll subdue her and numb the pain.’
‘Thanks, but I want her to feel the pain.’ The Skull tightened his grip around her neck and the girl cried out.
Stone clenched his jaw beneath his mask. It was one minute to midnight. Around him, the crowd was growing more abandoned, all inhibitions cast aside. There were roars for more champagne, more dancing, more everything. Stone stealthily drew his gun. It’s not your concern, soldier. All that matters is the mission.
The girl was calling for help now. Stone could barely hear her over the tumult. The few people nearby who saw what was going on merely laughed. ‘Don't be a party pooper, darling,’ slurred a dishevelled middle-aged woman.
Other revellers ignored her cries as they readied for their countdown to midnight. They were alone this wartime New Year: the bells of Big Ben would not be chiming for 1917 and its clock faces were not illuminated, so as not to be targeted by the Zeppelins. The games organiser Stone had seen earlier in the plague mask and pantaloons was standing on a chair, holding aloft a gold pocket watch to count in the New Year.
Despite himself, Stone tore his gaze from Jayden and looked at the girl. She was writhing in pain, crying openly now.
The mission, soldier!
‘Ten!’ called the revellers.
‘Please stop!' she begged.
'Nine!'
‘Do what I want or you’ll disappear and no one will know or care,’ snarled the Skull.
'‘Eight!’
Even the threat of death didn’t stop her from fighting to get away, her fingers scrabbling futilely to loosen his grip on her neck.
‘Seven!’
Stone turned around and shot the Skull between the eyes.
‘Six!’
He keeled over, dead before he hit the floor, dragging the girl down with him.
‘Five!’
She didn’t know what had happened to her tormentor, but suddenly found the grip on her loosened, and she squirmed away, stumbling into the crowd.
Stone was stunned by the way his subconscious mind – if that’s what it was – had chosen a different target over his conscious mind.
‘Four!’
A decision he had absolutely no control over. It literally called the shots without prior consultation or negotiation. It was a pure reflex action. He was nothing more than a puppet on a string, controlled by forces far beyond his understanding. Even his voices, who at least would explain their reasoning when they were in conflict with him, had never taken command of his body. They were silent now, perhaps as dumbfounded as he was. He stared disbelieving at his handiwork: the dead man lying on the ground just a few feet away.
‘Three!’
He collected his thoughts, forced his conscious mind to take control again, and swung round to shoot Jayden. But precious seconds had gone by. Awareness of the hit was hampered by the people’s blurred senses in the chaotic debauchery. But the nearby body painters had heard the gunshot, seen the assassin pointing his gun towards them and scattered into the crowd. Jayden was amongst the confused and screaming half naked throng, gone before Stone could identify and kill him with a second shot.
Two!’ shouted the guests in the rest of the Cave, unaware of the drama.
In quick succession Stone shot out three electric wall lights, plunging the cellar into effective darkness, save for a few lone gas lamps dotted around on tables. Those in the vicinity who noticed must have thought it was a jolly jape to encourage more hedonism, for no one seemed to care.
‘One!’
Stone took a step towards the exit when he was suddenly struck by what felt like a tram, launching him into the air and slamming him into the ground. His head struck the floor and the wind was knocked out of him, leaving him stunned. The tram was on top of him. It was the Strongman.
‘Happy New Year!' roared the crowd, jumping and surging around them.
As he struggled to get his feet under him, the Strongman pulled him upright and then picked him up effortlessly, raising him above his head. Stone flailed weakly, and the Strongman began to spin around and round, the dimly lit room and seething crowds blurring like a dark kaleidoscope.
His Mauser flew out of his hand and he ineffectually clawed at the Strongman, struggling to gain a purchase on his arms as he held him overhead. He then hurled Stone across the room. Stone crashed through a table, sending bottles and glasses flying. Even this violence was unnoticed by the majority of revellers who brought in the New Year with popping Champagne and cheers and kisses and hugs of celebration.
Stone’s head was still ringing from hitting the floor, but he was aware that apart from cuts and bruises he’d luckily suffered no serious damage from the collision with the table. He found an empty champagne bottle among the debris and smashed it against the floor and lunged the jagged end at his advancing opponent. The Strongman’s ram’s head mask was barely visible in the semi-darkness. Before his glass weapon could stab into the man’s heart, the Bodybuilder had swung a chair at him, smashing into his arm, sending him spinning and dropping the bottle.
Stone had been a trench raider, a killer, specially trained in jiu-jitsu. But his martial arts were no use in the darkness, up against this force of nature. Before Stone could react he darted forward like a cobra and effortlessly picked him up again, held him for a moment over his head like a set of barbells, then slammed him into the wall. Stone slumped down into unconsciousness.
Just before he faded out he was dimly aware of the Goliath closing in to finish the job.