The Immortality Plot (a Mike Delaney thriller)

THE IMMORTALITY PLOT

a Mike Delaney thriller

by

David Callinan
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Copyright © David Callinan 2011. The right of David Callinan to be identified as the author of this
work has been asserted by him in accordance with The Copyright, Designs and Patent Act 1998.
This book is a work of fiction all characters are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons living or
dead is purely coincidental.
The author is indemnified against the content of any third party websites over which he has no control.
Cover art: © istockphoto 000004637
Books by David Callinan
THRILLERS:
The Immortality Plot
(a Mike Delaney novel)
Knife Edge
Bodyswitch
An Angel On my Shoulder
YOUNG ADULT FANTASY
The Kingdoms Of Time And Space
(trilogy)
CHILDREN’S BOOKS (7-10)
The Weather Kids
(series)
SELF-HELP, HEALTH & HAPPINESS
The 10 Minute Miracle
(published originally by HarperCollins
with co-author Gloria Rawson)
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CHAPTER ONE
Sham Shui Po, Kowloon, Hong Kong
In exactly ten minutes and fifteen seconds his life could end. And his memory of
existence might last a few moments or stretch to infinity. He had no way of knowing.
No one does.
Nor did he know that in exactly six hundred and fifteen seconds he was going to
confront bitter betrayal or sudden death. He had no inkling that these were the options.
No idea how the cards would fall.
It was dark and steamy in a slimy alley close to the waterfront. Nearby, the harbour
district was ablaze with vibrant life. But in the deserted streets around the fish market,
festering in the stench of rotting entrails, only a flickering glow illuminated the
darkened wharves and stalls with patches of light and shade.
Mike Delaney gripped his model 10 Smith and Wesson .38 caliber special revolver
close to his face. He tightened his knuckles and glanced behind to his left. He could
just make out his partner Bob Messenger in the gloom close to a dripping fire escape.
He altered the position of his gun hand a fraction and shuffled forward, staying in the
shadows opposite the target doorway. Under a gap at the base of the door a yellowish
light the color of bile seeped into the alley.
Inside the building, a secretive triad group was doing business with a team of nonChinese freelance criminals that had come together just for this deal: drugs in return for
people. A consignment of pure cocaine traded for human lives – lives that had no hope,
no future except the slavery of the streets and the pimp bars around the world.
Delaney had not set this up. There were four U.S and British citizens high on the
wanted lists of both countries inside the target building and they needed sensitive
handling. That's why the operational superintendent had requested the presence of
Delaney and Messenger – unusual in a task force situation on the streets of Hong
Kong.
The operation had been planned meticulously. The agreed plan was that behind
Messenger a small unit of armed officers awaited a signal. Another team under the
command of a senior officer was moving in at the other end of the alleyway, blocking

any escape. When the signal was given that team would go in first. Delaney could just
see Messenger's shadow shifting against the wooden planks of a storage shed.
A movement caught his attention. It was just a shape melding within the darkness
above and to his right. There was a momentary glint of something.
Was it metal?
Delaney was on full alert, but now his instincts triggered an additional surge of
adrenalin. He considered warning Messenger via their microphone link but knew it
could give away their position. Support units were to maintain radio silence at all costs.
So he hesitated. Normally he could feel the unseen presence of his fellow officers. But
now, all he could sense were emptiness and isolation. The gloom surrounding him was
engulfing. It was almost palpable. Delaney experienced a deep unease, a clammy sense
of betrayal. But, he couldn't be certain.
There was only one way to find out.
Delaney began to move silently across to the target doorway. There was a shuttered
window next to a cracked and sun-blistered door. Delaney sidled towards it, his heart
pounding, watchful and alert.
Yes. There was definite movement.
Delaney stared at the spot. All his experience told him something was wrong.
Someone was positioned about ten feet up from the ground on a low roofed building.
He was sure of it. But this wasn't part of the operational plan. Nobody had been briefed
to take up that position.
Sniper.
Delaney ordered himself to trust his instincts. As he moved out of the shadows he
heard a whispered click and a glimmer of reflected light as from a scope. Messenger
heard it too and was already moving into the open.
Delaney didn't hesitate. He sprinted into the open alleyway aiming at the shape on
the rooftop as Messenger started to crouch and run, swivelling to take aim.
The crack of the rifle shot echoed around the empty alley. There was no one behind
the doorway or inside the building.
There was no drug deal.
There was no back up.
There was only Delaney and Messenger as sitting ducks. There was only the bullet
speeding towards Mike Delaney. Messenger yelled and Delaney dived as the bullet
found its target – but not the one the sniper had intended. Bob Messenger screamed

once as the high velocity shell punched home and entered his lower back. He fell to the
ground with a thud. Delaney cried out with anger and anguish and saw the assassin
move, take shape, reflect light, and jump back over the other side of the building.
Delaney was torn between attending to his fallen colleague, a man who had become
one of his few true friends, and his desire to exact immediate and terminal revenge.
When he saw the look in Messenger’s eyes he knew what his friend would do if their
positions were reversed.
He chose the latter.
Delaney rammed the revolver into his waistband as he raced around the other side
of the building towards the lights of Yen Chou Street. He couldn't risk using a firearm
in full public view. The chase took little more than five minutes. His target was running
out of a narrow alleyway just ahead of him as Delaney vaulted a row of barrels and
wooden planks. The assassin was fast but Delaney was faster.
As he ran, Delaney picked up a heavy cudgel-shaped piece of wood and hurled it at
the moving target. It caught him between the shoulder blades and caused him to
momentarily stumble and slow. He had wisely dropped the rifle.
With Delaney approaching at speed, the assailant decided to stand and fight.
It was a fatal mistake.
Delaney smoothly sidestepped a jabbed punch, crouched and struck with the heel of
his palm deep into the solar plexus; a fraction later he stepped in with a shattering twoknuckle strike to the carotid artery. The assassin dropped instantly. Delaney stamped
his heel into the man's throat splintering his windpipe. It took him five seconds to die.
Delaney rolled the body onto its back. He had seen the man's face before - in a
coded, high security file at operational headquarters. Delaney walked a few yards to
pick up the rifle. He held the Remington 280 official police issue weapon in his hands
then swung it over his shoulder. This was no triad hit man. This was a trained police
marksman.
As Delaney retraced his steps to tend to his colleague and friend he called base
command for a clean-up squad. There was a crackle on the line and a series of rapid
clicks. Delaney had played it by the book but inside he knew. It was a set-up and he
wasn't supposed to have emerged alive. The response team sirens were already
screaming towards the scene.
And that's when an iron web of deceit and lies tightened around Mike Delaney.

CHAPTER 2
THREE YEARS LATER
San Rafael Mountains, California
His moving hands cast sharp shadows on the arid earth.
He was tall and graceful, powerfully built but surprisingly delicate, pushing and
stretching his arms and body in an harmonious display of Tai Chi high in the crisp
mountain air.
Mike Delaney was dressed in a loose fitting black silk suit. He was barefoot. His
eyes were partially closed and his facial expression fathomless. The casual observer
would never guess how much deep emotional pain and suffering was being suppressed
beneath his inscrutable exterior.
Behind him towered the San Rafael Mountains and in the distance the smoke from
a controlled chaparral burn drifted slowly into a brilliant blue sky. In a clearing below
lay the monastery and the long dirt track that led to its gates and then on for miles of
wilderness to the coast.
He moved with fluid grace and power, his energy compressed into a ball in his solar
plexus, able to explode in an instant to deadly effect. His focus was fixed on his
shadow, etched with clearly defined contours on the outcrop before him.
Suddenly, he noticed the edge of another shadow merging with his. It was
fragmentary. Fleeting. It almost blended, but not quite. There was no sound, no breath,
not even a footfall, yet he knew something or someone was behind him. No animal
could have been that silent. Delaney's hearing had been trained to detect the smallest
sound. He altered his balance imperceptibly, moving his weight onto the balls of his
feet, 220 pounds of trained muscle condensing.
When he moved, it was with bewildering speed for such a big man yet not even a
grain of dust rose from the earth as he turned, sank his weight, blocked and prepared to
strike. What he saw as he spun caused him to hesitate. Such hesitation, he knew as
soon as he paused, could cost him his life. Instead he relaxed and smiled at the elderly
monk smiling up at him, his simple white robe plucked by a slight breeze. Delaney

noticed the moving fabric, realising it was this and not lack of skill that had alerted him
to the play of shadows.
The little monk seemed to move yet appeared motionless. But it was an optical
illusion. As Delaney raised his striking fist, the monk drifted out of range yet Delaney,
for all his consummate skill, did not see his feet move.
"Brother Rama," Delaney greeted him. "I still can't see how you do that."
"Can you hear the Earth breathe, Michael, or feel the universe expand?" smiled
Rama. He paused for a moment. "I am personally very pleased you have come back to
us, even for a short time."
"There was nowhere else I could think of going," said Delaney.
"We did have hopes that you would join the brotherhood," said Rama. "Don't
forget, you spent two years here with us as a novice. Are you sure now, with all that has
happened to you since then, that you wish to live in the outside world?"
"I'm certain, Brother Rama," Delaney answered. "There are things I have to do. But
you know I carry everything I have experienced here within me, don't you?"
"Yes," replied the little monk. "And that knowledge will never leave you." Rama
paused and looked steadily into Delaney's eyes. "You know how sorry we all are for
the pain you now feel. You know where to come if you ever need to talk, or cry."
Delaney said nothing. He took a deep breath.
Rama continued. "Oh, there is a telephone call for you. We only have one telephone
as you know and it seldom rings. It caused a good deal of excitement amongst the
brothers, I can tell you. I explained to the caller that I would have to come and find you
so he would have to hold on for a while."
Rama trotted by Delaney's side as they made their way back down from the rocky
platform along a dusty path to the monastery. It had been constructed near the site of an
old Chumash Indian settlement, a collection of simple buildings surrounding a
courtyard. Water containment was by way of a series of connected wells and conduits
laid out to exploit the seasonal rains. There were meditation and contemplation areas
shaded from the sun and one or two battered vehicles to collect supplies - usually more
than a day's trip.
The order of The Brothers of Light existed to explore the true nature of
consciousness, which it saw as being all-pervasive in that everything in the universe
and in any other universe that may exist was all part of one, timeless, consciousness
from which everything, including all creation, emanated. To become a fully-fledged

monk an individual had to make a personal choice for life. But no one or nothing could
stop a Brother leaving the monastery at any time.
The two years that Mike Delaney had spent here had been the most challenging and
yet the most satisfying of his existence. It had been a momentous change in his life
direction from his US army days with the exclusive and secretive G-Force and later
with the Hong Kong Police elite. He believed at the time that he would have been
unable to shake off the effects of the traumatic events he had experienced in Hong
Kong without such a dramatic change. He realised after two years, however, that he
was not cut out for monastic life, not in the long term, not forever.
The reason for this was simple. He had fallen in love and got married.
Delaney followed Brother Rama into the main building, its ancient stucco walls
peeling, and removed his sandals. It was cool inside. Delaney noticed once again with
bemusement and wonder how Brother Rama, also barefoot, could walk noiselessly
ahead of him. They came to what passed as Brother Rama's office, a shabby, untidy
room, stacked with books and dusty papers, a yoga mat, a few handmade chairs and a
large desk, piled with more papers and bric-a-brac. There was a little bowl of sweets
perched close to an ancient black telephone with the receiver lying on its side. Brother
Rama picked it up and spoke into it.
"Hello," he paused. "Thank you for holding. Yes, he is here now. I will pass the
telephone to him."
He held the receiver out to Delaney, smiled and inclined his head, pressing his
palms together before gliding out of the room. The door closed behind him with a
creak.
Delaney put the receiver to his ear.
"Hello?"
"Mike, is that you? About bloody time, my old mate. It's Bob. Bob Messenger."
Delaney brightened at the sound of the clipped English accent. Messenger had been
his closest friend in the Hong Kong Police Force, to which they had both been
seconded to provide specialist training. Messenger had been his operational partner and
was an expert in IT systems, neural networks and covert electronic surveillance. In the
intervening period between then and now, Messenger had created an Internet
phenomenon, the confess-confess website. This was the first site of its kind dedicated
to exposing crimes and injustice, scams and confessions, scandals and secrets. It had a
global army of amateur sleuths and investigators and was continually battling against

legal writs, threats and intimidation. And yet, it had captured the imagination of the
public and was now used by officials, the media, law enforcement agencies, and
organised crime, to leak both real information and misinformation. Bob Messenger
himself had become one of the most potent voices and champions of freedom and truth.
"Bob, good to hear from you. You still in the UK?"
'You bet. We're still in Oxford. But we're opening offices all over the world. In a
couple of days we're launching our second US office in Chicago."
"You've gone to a lot of trouble to find me."
"I guessed where you'd be when you weren't at the house," Messenger said quietly.
"Remember, I called you as soon as I heard about Maria. The police have only issued a
series of brief press releases up to now despite the media speculation. When you told
me what had happened I just found it totally incredible. So, I'm one of few people right
now who knows most of the details," he paused. "Look, Mike, this is not just a social
call, old friend. I need to see you."
"It would be great to get together again. It's been a long time. What's the urgency?"
"We've had a disturbing post on the site. I haven't made it public and I'm not going
to yet."
"It sounds mysterious."
"It's more than that, Mike. It's grim. And it concerns you."
Delaney remained silent for a long moment. Then he said.
"What do you mean?"
Messenger paused this time. "Mike, it's about Maria."
Delaney stiffened, suddenly deadly serious and intense. "Go on," he said.
Messenger seemed to be struggling for words. "It's probably a hoax or a weirdo
crank. But there is something about it that makes my skin prickle."
"Bob, get to the point."
"It's a confession, Mike. He claims to be the one who murdered Maria. The post
includes an audio clip. I remember you mentioned the tape recording but this is the first
time I've heard it. Mike, he knows details that you never told me about. It just might be
genuine."
Delaney said nothing for a long moment. He walked around the office. He was
thinking hard. A well of emotion was bubbling under his usual iron self-control. Maria
Montalban had been the most important thing in his life. She had changed his world
beyond recognition. And she had been carrying their child when she met her untimely

and gruesome death at the hands of a maniac, someone whom Delaney would
passionately like to find.
"Who else knows about this?" he asked Messenger.
"Only Laura."
Laura was Bob Messenger's loyal and long serving personal assistant. Delaney
knew her and trusted her.
"What about the police?" he asked.
"No, not yet."
"What's your gut feel?"
"You've got to see this for yourself. Who knows? It could be a crank. It could be a
cop with a grudge. It could be someone who's uncovered a little information and is just
making waves but the confession tape details have never been made public and this
sick individual knows things that give me the impression that it just might be authentic.
How else would he have the recording? And I think you were right. Whoever murdered
Maria was not the same person that torched your house."
"I know. I've salvaged everything I could from Maria's office, which is what they
were trying to destroy, and I've cleared the wreckage. I just haven't been able to go
back since the funeral."
"I understand, old friend. So, what do you think?"
"Okay, I'll meet you in Chicago. And thanks for the call, Bob."
Delaney scribbled down details of the time and the launch venue and replaced the
receiver. However hard he tried, he could not prevent the here and now, with all its
stabbing pain and heartache, from overwhelming the deeply meditative states he was
able to reach. The wounds were still too raw; the memories too recent; the feeling of
bereft loss almost impossible to bear. He would never be a saint or a sage that was for
sure.
Only advanced human beings like Brother Rama could ever hope to achieve that
state of mental and spiritual development beyond the confines of religion and science.
But he had made himself a promise, if not a vow, that he would endeavour never again
to take another human life. He deliberately blocked out the memories of those deaths
he had already been responsible for. That was then. This is now. And they all were
mostly, in crude terminology, bad guys; even though his conscience told him they had
as much right to life as he did.

The phone call from Bob Messenger had fanned the burning rage inside him. He
knew that one day he would find Maria's killer. He would track down the one who had
murdered his wife. He would never give up. And when he did find him, there would be
no agonising over right and wrong, no anguished discussion or metaphysical musings.
He knew he would be in for the battle of his life. And not just a physical battle with
someone that had infected his soul with hate. When it came to it, and he was face-toface with his wife's killer, would he be able to keep his pledge?
Or would he take his revenge and enjoy every moment.

CHAPTER 3
Mike Delaney loved Chicago. It was one of his favourite American cities. Although
he had been brought up in New York after his mother and father emigrated from
Ireland when he was twelve, and although he loved the anonymity of the Big Apple,
Chicago had something special.
Chicago was a good city to walk around and Delaney set himself a brisk pace
through River North's restaurant district, where he called into a few bars and sank a
couple of Goose Island beers.
He crossed over the Chicago River heading for the James Thompson Centre. He
wasn't following any particular route, just taking streets as they came. He was in a
reflective mood but the clatter of the Elevated Railway, the El, helped to drown out his
gloomier thoughts. But not completely.
He had no job, enough money to survive another few months, a partially burned out
beach home near Monterey, a life experience in covert services, combat, investigation
and undercover policing and that was about it.
He'd never made friends easily; he was too much of a loner. He'd met a lot of
people when Maria was alive. She seemed to know everybody on the planet. Maybe
this was why she had been such a fine and respected journalist. He had been happy to
just drift along in the backwash of her energy. He took odd jobs and gained a reputation
as a Tai Chi teacher with his daily beach classes. After a lifetime of regimentation,
discipline and, ultimately, of despair when he was framed in Hong Kong along with
Bob Messenger and they were both kicked out of their respective military service units
with nothing other than 'retired' on their records, he had relished the freedom.
Delaney liked the anonymity of cities and the push and shove of the myopic
crowds. He sat at a sidewalk café, leaning back in his chair, legs splayed out. He
ordered an industrial strength coffee and a cheeseburger and watched a couple of police
officers strolling casually on the opposite sidewalk, hands on their firearms.
Delaney ate quickly, drained his coffee then paid the check and headed for the
Magnificent Mile, threading his way impatiently through the hordes of retail therapy
junkies hooked on window shopping. An old black guy in a doorway was playing an
urban blues tune on a beat-up guitar. Delaney stopped and listened, oblivious of the

surging shoppers peeling around him surprised that anyone would want to stop moving
let alone listen to an old loser on the streets.
The twelve-bar riff matched his mood and acted as a relief valve. Delaney tossed
five dollars into the bluesman's cap and received a wrinkled wink in return.
Delaney reached the venue in exactly eight minutes and joined a stream of people
entering through the glass revolving doors into a nondescript lobby where security
checks were being carried out. Then he entered a large conference room laid out theatre
style. At one end of the room was a large table with screens either side and behind it
three people were seated, waiting patiently. There was Bob Messenger, looking a little
heavier than Delaney remembered; Laura, his assistant, looking brisk and efficient and
another man, whom Delaney took to be Messenger's business partner or the technical
guru sitting impassively by their side.
Soft music was playing in background; Delaney identified it as Dance Of The
Knights by Prokofiev. He had always loved music and poetry, especially growing up in
Ireland and with his father being such a great storyteller and singer of the old songs. As
a child he used to dance like a wild thing at the regular ceilidhs and music sessions
loving the sound of fiddles and bodhrans, flutes and pipes. But his father also loved the
classics and brought this love of music with them to America.
He moved to the side of the room but didn't sit. Instead, he sidled his way along
until he was close to the front, flanked by a tight knot of delegates. Bob Messenger
looked calm. He was wearing a neat tartan shirt with his sleeves rolled up. He had on
pair of thin, black designer spectacles and flecks of grey were starting to appear in his
short hair. He was gazing around the room, waiting until it was full and the
presentation could get underway. His eyes moved to the right and he spotted Delaney
leaning against the side wall in his grey slacks, sea island cotton shirt and creased linen
jacket. He smiled and moved back slightly in his wheelchair.
Delaney smiled in return and gave a quick salute. He noticed that Messenger's
wheelchair had clearly been custom designed. There were control panels built into the
arms and frame, a miniature screen and arrays of buttons and controls. Presumably it
was a fully interactive machine. Delaney could only guess at its full capabilities.
Bob Messenger watched as the attendant closed the conference room doors. He
cleared his throat and began his presentation in that slightly staccato delivery Delaney
remembered so well.

He began by introducing Laura Moore, his right hand woman, who handled the
administration and then John Farrell who was heading up the US operation under him.
He said that, although he would be paying regular visits to Chicago and other
operational offices, he would remain based in the UK. Bob Messenger then painted a
picture of the history of confess-confess.com, how the idea first came to him, how he
believed that there was a passionate need to try and build an outlet for ordinary people
to have some feeling of control and a platform for their outrage at injustice, crime,
unfair treatment.
He explained that the scope of the site had virtually run away with them, from
personal investigations into bigamy, affairs, cheating companies, scams and divorce
cases to really big crimes such as international drug smuggling, corrupt government
departments, victimisation, organised crime, murders, child abuse cases and almost
every crime you could think of. But the reason, he believed, why the concept of site
had worked so well, was the army of anonymous amateur investigators that had signed
up as volunteer sleuths each with their own individual code name.
This made confess-confess a true site of the people, driven by the people, he told
his audience. He ended his introduction with typical Messenger understatement by
saying that frankly the whole confess-confess team had been completely taken aback
and blown away by the success of the site. And they still were.
He then handed over to John Farrell who spent some time keeping the computer
junkies happy with slides and data about servers and security and the expectations they
had of expanding the business and adding new elements to the mix.
At the end there was a long question and answer session that Delaney, much to his
surprise, found unusually interesting. Finally, the launch drew to a close. Delaney
walked towards the podium. Bob Messenger reversed his wheelchair, turned and
headed down a ramp towards him.
"Mike, good to see you," he said.
"You too, Bob. Impressive presentation."
The two men shook hands.
"We'll go back to my hotel," Messenger told Delaney. "I could have suggested
meeting there to begin with but I wanted you to hear the presentation so that you have
some background."
Laura came over and shook Delaney's hand. They had met before. It was pretty
clear to Delaney that she and Bob Messenger were a little more than just work

colleagues. John Farrell was introduced but then said he was going out to lunch with a
group of potential advertisers.
"We're staying at the Hilton and Towers," Messenger said. "Laura, why don't you
take some time off and do some shopping. It's a nice day, Mike, and the hotel is only
down on South Michigan. Why don't we walk down together and get some fresh air?"
Although Messenger's wheelchair was fully motorised he was happy for Delaney to
take control and push him out through a back entrance into a breezy East Wacker
Drive, turn right and stroll along to the lights then right down South Michigan Avenue.
For a long moment neither man spoke. Delaney found to his surprise that he was
enjoying pushing Messenger along, smiling at pedestrians as they spread like waves
parted by the prow of an ocean liner.
Finally, as they approached the Chicago Orchestra Hall, Messenger spoke.
"You're looking good, Mike. All that meditation and spiritual mumbo-jumbo must
be doing something for you."
"I'm just exploring my inner self, Bob. At least that's what I think I'm doing. I had
to get away and I couldn't think of anywhere better to try to get my head together."
"I've been doing a lot of thinking about this weird message," said Messenger. "The
more I stare at it the more genuine it feels," he glanced up at the big man. "The police
still have no clues?"
"Not one," Delaney replied. "He left no trace, not even a drop of sweat. The police
may not be telling me everything, of course."
"Are you still a suspect?"
"I am as far as Maria's friends and family are concerned. They just know she was
murdered. They don't know the details of how she was killed; the barbarity and the
mutilation. I have an alibi for the time of her death but the police are not convinced.
They're just not sure about me. If they were I'd have been formally charged by now. So,
what does this message say?"
They were strolling opposite Grant Park. The street wasn't busy but Messenger still
glanced around from force of habit.
"It's partly in rhyme. There are some biblical quotations and then it replays Maria's
confessions and, well, describes things. Oh, and he calls himself the Priest."
Delaney's pace increased involuntarily as his hands gripped the wheelchair handles
more tightly.

Messenger continued. "Whoever wrote it seems to have some kind of religious
fixation. It's anti-female – as though he's getting revenge on women in general – which
makes him extremely dangerous. He also hinted that Maria wasn't the first and won't be
the last but that she was a special case. When we get to the suite I'll show it to you on
my laptop." The two men were silent for a time. The watery sun was flickering through
the branches of the oaks in Grant Park and in the distance Delaney could just see the
rainbows sparkling around the central water fountain.
It had been a very different scene that night in Kowloon three years earlier. Delaney
had been seconded from the highly secretive G-Force unit in the United States to the
Police Training College and Messenger from the British Army's crack SAS outfit to the
Covert Intelligence Unit. Gradually they found themselves snarled up in assignments
controlled by the operations wing, in particular the Police Tactical Unit and specifically
the Special Duties Unit, or SDU, known as The Flying Tigers. This unit was based at
the Police Tactical Unit headquarters in Fanling.
The unit had been set up in 1974 as a Government response to the escalating threat
of international terrorism. The first Flying Tigers used existing weaponry and devised
its own tactics until an appraisal of the unit by the British Special Air Service led to
considerable changes in equipment and tactics.
It was his involvement with the SDU that led Delaney into his fiery and brief
liaison with the wife of the operational superintendent.
The special assignment in Sham Shui Po had come straight from the
superintendent's office.
When it was over, Delaney found he had killed a serving officer in the Flying
Tigers and was immediately summoned back to the United States and Bob Messenger,
now paralysed from the waist down, was recalled to England.
He would never walk again.
The official investigation had swirled around Delaney, stage managed behind
closed doors. He remained numb and helpless throughout amid the treachery and
injustice of the whole affair. In the end, it was clear it was an official whitewash. A setup. Nothing would appear on his record. No opportunity to challenge the events and
reveal the truth would ever emerge. It was all sewn up with no redress. No risk of any
future investigation.
No pension.

Only there was a third loser in the whole sickening business. There was a new
widow in Hong Kong whose husband was just following orders and who had happened
to run into an avenging Mike Delaney.
Bob Messenger had had the worst of it. He endured years of painful physiotherapy
and counselling. He was unmarried and went back to England to live with his parents.
He came through several attempts at suicide largely with their help. Since then, he and
Delaney had not spoken about the events of that night in Hong Kong. Delaney knew he
owed Messenger his life and Messenger, having adjusted to life as a paraplegic and
come out the other side a success with his self-esteem restored, did not want to stir up
the memories. But there was now a bond between them. No words were necessary.
Delaney and Messenger reached the opulent entrance of the Hilton and Towers
hotel. Ten minutes later they were sitting around Messenger's laptop in his wellappointed ground floor suite complete with wheelchair access. Messenger opened a
bottle of Sancerre and poured two glasses.
"Okay," said Messenger. "Are you ready for this?"
"Yes," said Delaney.
Messenger switched on the computer.

CHAPTER 4
BRUSSELS
The tall, skeletal man was standing exactly dead centre of Grand Place. He had
calculated the distance from one end to the other by walking its entire length in
carefully measured footsteps and then returning to the centre point. From his elevated
position he had a clear view of the market square. Evening lights flickered into life
under an overcast sky and the beautiful world heritage buildings – a mixture of gothic,
baroque and Louis the fourteenth – glowed in the increasing intensity of a soft amber
light.
It was a magical place but Claude Rattin was unaffected by such beauty. When a
chattering Japanese tourist held out a small, digital camera and indicated in signs that
Rattin oblige a nearby troop of visitors, goggling at the sights, Rattin glared. It was
enough to send the little Japanese scuttling back to his friends.
"Are you completely unmoved by your surroundings, Claude?" a soft voice spoke
behind him.
Allowing his lips to stretch into a smile of welcome, Rattin turned to see an
elegantly dressed man standing before him.
"You choose some exotic locations for our meetings, Herman," Rattin replied.
"I do my best, kamaräd, to improve your appreciation of the finer things of life.
And, besides, it is never wise to meet in the same place twice – not for the matters we
have to discuss." Herman Letski glanced around him. "It is wonderful here, don't you
think?"
"I imagine you are right, Herman," said Rattin. "Are we going to discuss things out
in the open?"
"I've booked a table at Maxim's, but we can talk about one or two matters right
here. There is a certain anonymity in the midst of a crowd."
"The last assignment went well. I hope you are pleased," said Rattin.
Letski remained silent, framing his thoughts. Then. "Yes, and I have new
assignments for you here," he indicated a small valise in his left hand.
"I thought you might be angry because he has started to attract attention," Rattin
ventured.

"And it is a recent development, Claude. In the past he was discreet, invisible,
contracts terminated professionally and without trace. We are using someone who is a
perfectionist – someone truly unique. I do not think enquiring eyes or Internet amateurs
will ever do more that chatter online like parrots."
"Nothing can lead back to us then?" enquired Rattin.
"Nothing will ever lead back to me," Letski told him with a touch of steel in his soft
voice. "Divide and rule, or operational segmentation, is an admirable philosophy."
Rattin started to reply but thought better of it.
Letski continued. "I have faith in our liquidator but I think I understand why he has
recently made his work public and attracted the attention of the authorities."
"It is a message," said Rattin.
"Oh yes," replied Letski. "I understand that very well. I will be seeing him soon in
New York. I will assess the situation then."
"You have made him promises," stated Rattin.
"Of course. I make everyone promises."
"You only have to say the word and I will arrange the final solution."
"I know," said Letski. "And that word may yet come." He paused and glanced
around the square. "The demise of the most recent individual was not part of our
normal work; it was a one-off. She was particularly perceptive and resolute and could
have caused us difficulties, as you well know."
Rattin nodded. "She had to be removed."
"Yes, but her eradication could shine an unwelcome light." He paused. "We have
two more current clients to satisfy so I will use our liquidator irrespective of his recent
and publicly vile atrocities," said Letski.
"Really," said Rattin in surprise. "Is he forcing your hand?"
"No one forces my hand, kamaräd. These will be his last assignments. I intend to
source a replacement. People with the skills we need are not standing on street corners.
They are hard to find. Until I discover a new liquidator I may decide to suspend
operations temporarily."
"I see," said Rattin.
"Our enterprise has made you a very rich man, Claude. You have no need to do a
day's work for the rest of your life," Letski said with a smile.
"And our liquidator?"

"He believes he is going to receive the same reward as our clients who have paid
millions for our services. Normally, I would have kept my promise but his recent
behaviour has caused me to think again. Our liquidator is going to be disappointed.
And he may require the final solution you mentioned in due course. But enough of this
talk. For now, let us enjoy the best that Maxim's can offer."
With shadows lengthening in Grand Place and the market square erupting with
evening revellers, the two men made their way across the cobblestones and faded into
the night.

CHAPTER 5
The words scrolled upwards. Delaney stared at them, totally focused.
'And the daughter of any priest, if she profane herself by playing the whore, she
profaneth her father: she shall be burnt with fire.
'Behold, I will cast her into a bed, and them that commit adultery with her into
great tribulation, except they repent of their deeds. And I will kill her children with
death; and all the churches shall know that I am He which searcheth the reins and
hearts: and I will give unto every one of you according to your works.'
At this point the tone of voice changed.
'No trace of me within or without. Neither breath nor fluid shall find me out. Ave
Maria, she had served her time. Curiosity was her great crime. Her sins she confessed
and she died repented. The cross of salvation carved and indented. On her back in
blood by her saviour in life. Carrying a child as would a good wife. But was she true
and who was the father? That's the question you must answer. In the name of the
Father and of his Son.'
The message paused, then continued on another level.
'You can look for clues as long as you like. You will find no DNA, no footprints, no
fingerprints, no weapon. You will find her last words, her final confession. I did that
for her. I saved her. She carries the sins of all women. And there are many like her. I
carved delicately, noticing the mole in the shape of a star and her tattoo in the shape of
a small fish, just under her left shoulder blade. She was dead at that point. The
marvellous Ms Montalban had written her last lie. I let my hands slide down and along
her body. I was envious. To save you pondering and guessing I used a six-inch scalpel,
the kind you can find in any hospital. And by the time you trace the IP number of this
Internet café computer I will be long gone. Listen with mother follows. Until the next
time. Kissy, kissy.' The Priest.
Delaney stood up and walked to the window to gaze out at the Chicago skyline. He
was fighting the onset of rage mixed with intense pain.
"You'd better have another drink, old man," said Messenger softly. "There's more."
Delaney relaxed his shoulders and returned to the sofa where Messenger had
poured him a glass. He clicked on an audio link and Maria's voice crackled into the
room. Delaney had heard this before, when the police played him the miniature cassette

tape – the type used in a thousand offices to take notes. At that point the police were
clearly treating him as a suspect. But no matter how many times he might hear it, the
sound of his wife's last words on Earth stabbed him in the guts and he had no defence
against the pain. Her words were interrupted by a series of clicks as her killer switched
the tape on and off to avoid his own voice being heard.
'I swear, this is my final and true confession. Yes. My name is Maria Delaney. I am
known as Maria Montalban. Please... don't do this...I don't know who you
are...CLICK...yes, I hated my father.. Yes, I am sorry...no, please...CLICK...I have felt
jealousy and hate...CLICK...no, please, not again, I can't take this...CLICK...I lied, yes
I lied to my husband, to Mike, I told him I didn't know the sex of our child but I did, I
did...CLICK...yes, I have lusted after men, you're right...please let me go... CLICK...
yes, I am a whore, all women are whores...'
It got worse. Delaney snapped off the audio. Maria's killer clearly had control of her
and she had started to babble and cry in pain. Delaney couldn't take any more. Once,
now twice, was enough. He wasn't going to listen to the very end when the sound of
the death blow exploded out of the tape and Maria screamed for the last time.
"I've heard this already. I don't want to hear it again," said Delaney.
"I'm going to have to give this new stuff to the police at some point," said
Messenger.
"I know," said Delaney.
"The Internet café is in New Jersey."
"New Jersey? Maria was murdered in San Benito."
"Mike, do you want to bring me up to date?"
Delaney nodded. "Maria was murdered two months ago. The same day she was
killed someone tried to burn down her office at our beach house. I managed to keep the
damage to a minimum until the fire service arrived and I've stashed the remains of her
files and her computer away from the house. Gut instinct. After the funeral I just
couldn't stay there a moment longer. That's why I went back to the monastery."
"So they carried out an autopsy, but they decided against an inquest, correct?"
"Correct, because in the circumstances the coroner's office felt an inquest would
serve no purpose. The tape identified Maria but they still needed a non-relative to
formally identify her body. I told them to call her New York agent, Miles Dunning.
There were no witnesses and the circumstances of her murder were bizarre, out of the
ordinary. I was giving a Tai Chi class at time of Maria's death. I have witnesses. That's

a cast iron alibi. And then there was the fire. It took place around about the same time
she was murdered. I was there and so were a team of firefighters."
"So, what have we got?" asked Messenger.
"Not much. Maria left for an appointment. She was excited. She was working on
something big but she never discussed it with me. She never came back. They found
her body in a disused chicken shed about fifty miles outside of Monterey on the way to
San Juan Benito. I returned home from the beach and found our house on fire.
Neighbours helped and we managed to contain it until the fire department arrived.
There was still no word from Maria. She didn't come home that night and there was no
response from her cell 'phone."
Delaney paused and sipped some wine. Messenger could see how tough this was.
He'd never seen Delaney near to cracking before.
"A couple of days later, after I'd been tearing my hair out, calling anyone who
might know where she was, officers from the San Benito police called, led by a
Lieutenant Nachez. That's when I knew."
"A chicken farm. Must have been covered in chicken DNA and a mountain of
chicken shit. That's where they found her but is that where she was killed?" said
Messenger.
"He carved the sign of the cross, vertically down along her spine and horizontally
across her back and arms. A blow with an unknown weapon to her neck snapped her
spinal cord and was the cause of her death," Delaney said hoarsely. "Then there was the
mutilation, the body parts." Delaney stumbled over words. Could not describe the
details.
"And, of course, it gets worse," said Messenger quietly.
Delaney had to pause for a moment.
"She was three months pregnant, Bob. We were going to have our first child. It
would have changed our lives completely."
Both men remained silent for a few seconds.
"What do think 'who is the father' means?" asked Messenger.
"Probably some warped religious reference to God The Father," said Delaney.
"Who found her?" asked Messenger.
"A couple of sixteen year olds looking for somewhere to make out. They called the
police on a cell phone."

"Making out in a chicken shed? They must have been desperate. And it's almost
impossible not to leave traces at a crime scene. To do so indicates a remarkable level of
attention to detail," remarked Messenger. "Have they searched your house?"
"First thing they did. But they haven't checked through the stuff I salvaged. They've
carried out house to house canvassing, checking us both out."
"Routine procedure," remarked Messenger, "What else?"
"They've been contacting people she worked with, looking for enemies she may
have had. We both know the basic processes they will be going through. At this stage,
they're trying to develop a viable theory about what took place. From the analysis of
the crime scene and Maria's background they will try to come up with at least two
theories about what happened."
Messenger was entering in some numbers on his wheelchair keypad.
Delaney told him. "The first thing I'll do when I get back is to sift through the
debris of the fire. There must be some connection between whatever it was she was
working on and her murder."
"And you have no idea what that was?"
"Maria kept her professional work to herself. She didn't like to discuss it. I
respected that."
"How does the timing work out?" Messenger asked him.
"The timing fits. It would take an hour max to reach the mission, so she could have
spent hours with this guy. Her body was found two days after she was murdered. And
they put the time of death at approximately the same as when I was putting out that
fire. That's about all we know."
"What about Maria's car?" asked Messenger. "Surely that's the first thing the police
would be checking on?"
"I asked the same question. Her car was nowhere near the crime scene. It hasn't
turned up yet, or, at least, I haven't been told. So, this could mean Maria met the killer
somewhere between Monterey and San Benito County."
"And she jumped into this guy's car, just like that?"
"Looks like it. It means she didn't feel threatened. It could also mean the perpetrator
offered to drive her somewhere and show her something."
"Which brings me to my next point," Messenger said, pouring the last of the wine
into their glasses. "What are your plans? What are you going to do, Mike?"
"I'm going to find him, however long it takes," Delaney replied.

"What are you going to do for money? What resources, apart from your undoubted
physical and investigative skills, do you have going for you, old mate?"
Delaney did not reply at once. "I can work. I can get by."
"That's not good enough and I think you know it," said Messenger.
"So, do you have something in mind?"
"Isn't it obvious? It's right in front of you. Confess-confess has built up a grudging
relationship of sorts with law enforcement departments all over the world and with all
kinds of official and unofficial organisations and information sources. That's the reason
I wanted you to come to the presentation. I wanted you to know about the site and how
it worked. Mike, become an investigator with confess-confess. It's no guarantee of cooperation with county police officers like Nachez and you would have no official status
but you would get the power of the website behind you as your eyes, ears and research
partner. And, you get publicity and, in this case, you get funded. What do you say?"
Delaney said nothing. He just nodded.
"In this case, I would like to tell the story of Maria's murder by treating it as a
challenge. Has anyone ever come across an M.O. like this? It's distinctive. How did the
perpetrator avoid leaving bio clues? And the confessions, with their religious and antifemale content, what're they all about? All you have to do, Mike, is post regular
information on the case. We'll ask Sheriff Nachez to do the same. You'll need a
pseudonym, of course. Yes, I have it. We'll call you the Monk. We could do your first
post right now."
Delaney smiled despite his black mood following the so-called confession. He
thought about it for a moment and knew that it made sense in his circumstances. He
would have resources, money and access to a huge audience.
"Okay," he said. "For Maria's sake."
The two men drained the last of the wine. Messenger smiled over at Delaney.
"For Maria," he agreed. "Don't forget, it was me who brought you two together and
I was best man at your wedding. I want to find the bastard who did this to her almost as
much as you do."
"So, I owe you twice," said Delaney.
Messenger just smiled in reply, and then became serious again.
"There's no time like the present. Why don't you just tell the story more or less as
you've just told me, straight into my laptop. I'll check it through and edit where
necessary and add my own comments."

Delaney just nodded.
"Mike, will your weird beliefs hamper you when it comes to the crunch?"
"I'm not religious in a conventional sense," smiled Delaney. "I know it all sounds a
little esoteric and I realised after two years at the monastery that I couldn't live like that
permanently. I'll have to remain a monk in spirit if not in practice."
"It sounds like either escapism or a true vocation, old man," said Messenger.
"Sometime soon we'll get very drunk together and I'll try to explain. I'm no expert,
Bob. I'm just as confused about life, the world, the universe and whether it's just
oblivion or continuation when we finally shuffle off this mortal coil as anyone else."
Delaney touched Messenger's shoulder in a gesture of rare trust and intimacy. The
two men understood each other. Delaney sat down at the laptop and began to tell the
story. It was a cathartic release and an emotional experience but Delaney knew he had
to go through with it. Messenger was right. This was the only way in which he could
take control. He knew without doubt that he would find the killer, however long it took.
As he typed the words, memories of his life with Maria came flooding back. Delaney
was unaware that tears were running down his face until he tasted salt on his tongue.
The room had darkened and Messenger had quietly pushed himself to away to stare out
of the hotel window.
Delaney sat back when he had finished writing and rubbed his eyes. He was filled
with a new determination and now couldn't wait to get to work. He turned to see
Messenger watching him. He had switched on the lights in the hotel room. He wheeled
himself over. Then he pressed some buttons on the arm of the wheelchair and a screen
flickered. It was a duplicate of the laptop screen Delaney had been using.
"Leave the rest to me, Mike. We need to set up some funding for you. It won't be
much but it should cover the basics and your expenses. Leave your banking details
with me before you leave."
Messenger paused and looked serious. "Remember, once the real story of Maria's
murder gets out there is going to be national media interest. Maria had a lot of business
associates, contacts and friends, apart from the people you both knew socially in
Monterey."
"Thanks, Bob. When are you heading back to the UK?"
"Soon as I can, probably in a couple of days. You have my address and telephone
number and the site will be our main interface. I'll give you a special email address. If
you need to speak to me securely the only way is to use a pay phone."

"Thanks for everything, Bob."
"Get out of here, old friend," Messenger said gruffly. "The sooner you get back to
Monterey the sooner we can get started. Make sure you can access the site from your
cell phone. Now, go on, get moving."
Delaney stood and shook Bob Messenger's hand. Then he scribbled down some
notes and numbers on a notepad, tore off the sheet and handed it to Messenger. And
Messenger did likewise. Without another word, Delaney turned and left the room.

CHAPTER 6
Lucius Gynt awoke early with the watery New York sun filtering through the slatted
blinds of his Yorkville penthouse apartment. As usual when he opened his eyes after
sleep he was filled, almost to the point of being overcome with elation, with the
excitement of just being Lucius Gynt for one more day. In a display of true narcissism,
his first and only thought was about himself.
He knew he was beautiful. He didn't have to be told, although he accepted
compliments as though by right. And he knew he was different. He knew there was no
one in existence quite like Lucius Gynt. This sense of his own uniqueness pleased and
satisfied him. He started each day with a personal homage to himself. He stretched
languorously on his waterbed and thrilled to the sensuous shiver of the silk sheets that
covered his tall, slim but exceptionally powerful body.
The apartment was decorated in pink and saffron with soft furnishings, garish wall
coverings and, what Gynt thought of as, avant-garde art discoveries that included some
minimalist sculptures and examples of art-deco objets d'art.
He had hung some of his own works bathed in subdued lighting. One day the
mainstream art world would discover him. It was only a matter of time. Already a new
and exciting gallery in Long Island City had a hung a select number of his artworks. He
had made a particular friend of Quentin, the gallery owner. 'New Brutalism' was how
Quentin described Gynt's work. He thought Gynt could be the next big thing.
Fluffy rugs and mats were strewn around the timbered floor of the large, open
space, from the centre of which a cast iron spiral staircase wound its way up to a railed
gallery that circled three sides of the room. Large warehouse windows gave the
apartment a light and airy feel.
In one corner of the room space was stacked Gynt's mountainous collection of
teddy bears, their button eyes staring sightlessly from mounds of fur and fabric, their
ears pricked listening for the sound of their master's voice.
Gynt's bears were his only really true friends. They knew how special he was and
how lucky they were to be sharing their lives with him. And Gynt consulted them
frequently, especially about the details and plans for his special assignments. They
were very seldom wrong and were particularly good at reminding him if he had

forgotten some very important, minor aspect of a mission. Lucius Gynt thought of
himself as a perfectionist, a consummate master of his trade.
In a corner of an adjacent room were the accoutrements of his profession. Locked
pull out drawers from a sideboard housed his weaponry. A narrow closet was home to
his clinical and pristine work wear and by the side of the closet was a very small but
purpose designed, free-standing cryogenic cabinet and clinical workbench. Inside this
cabinet, Gynt created and preserved his very special weapons.
All in all, life was so good to Lucius Gynt, he thought, as he rose slowly from his
bed. As usual, his first port of call before taking his morning leak and conducting his
careful ablutions was to stand in front of his floor-to-ceiling mirror and examine
himself minutely.
What he saw pleased him. His body was tall, well honed and lightly tanned. He
carried no spare flesh and he was in perfect proportion. Of particular note were the
main tools of his trade. His hands were exceptionally powerful. They had been trained
to perfection and turned into perfect killing machines. He could crack walnuts in the
palm of one hand and grind the shells into small particles. He owed this skill to his
racial background and his unusual past life. One of the reasons he liked living in the
relatively innocuous middle class neighbourhood of Yorkville was its past history as an
area settled by Hungarian and German immigrants.
Most mornings, Gynt tiptoed to the drawer of an antique writing desk and took out
his sacred scrapbook, a fading, worn, leather-bound book with its rich, dark cover
decorated with newspaper cuttings, snippets of photographs , advertising headlines,
cartoons and arcane symbols. He touched it reverentially. The scrapbook was part
diary, part photographic album, part sacred tome. He opened the cover and began a
rapid journey through his life. He found that living his life again backwards could
enhance his experience of the present moment. This was something he had learnt from
reading Gurdjieff, his favourite spiritual teacher. He touched the images of his parents,
of himself as a boy and the sepia toned street scenes of Seoul.
Gynt's father had been Hungarian and his mother Korean. This gave him a slightly
oriental appearance with a central European physical legacy. Most of his life he had
been shunted around the world but had his spent formative years in South Korea. His
father ran a shady business exporting dubious South East Asian artefacts. Lucius Gynt's
life on the streets had been a hard education. It was kill or be killed. His father largely
ignored his son, apart from the tortuous sexual abuse he had inflicted on him when

drunk and before beating his mother. In order to give young Lucius, real name Li, a
fighting chance of survival she enrolled him in a private Hapkido school and paid for
his tuition with her most precious possession, her body.
For years, Li was trained in the merciless disciplines of the Korean martial art. His
mind was trained as well as his body in a harmonious wholeness. Through Hapkido he
was taught three important basic principles.
The principle of the circle was paramount. All movements are round. The Hapkido
fighter moves as inside a ball. Forces from outside of the psyche are rerouted and
neutralised at the surface of the ball.
He learned the principle of the river or how to adapt extremely flexibly to the
environment. In this moment of build-up enormous strength is developed. Li, as a
Hapkidoka, also sensitively reacted to his opponent in order to let his pent-up Chi or Ki
flow into the opponent at the crucial moment.
Finally, Li was taught the principle of influence. By lightning movements, which
can hardly be noticed, the aggressor is manoeuvred into reflexive counter movements,
which then are used to overpower him.
Gynt paused at the only photograph he had of his Hapkidoka class. He ran his
finger over the lifeless faces of indoctrinated juveniles with the glazed, staring eyes
until he found his own. A small tear trickled over an eyelash. He blinked it away and
remembered that it was shortly after this photograph was taken that his life had
changed forever.
Li ran away from home just as soon as he figured out that there was a bigger world
out there, but not before his father was mugged and murdered as he returned from a socalled business trip and his mother had to go on the streets full-time to scrape some
kind of living. Nobody had suspected young Li at that time and the crime was never
solved. Li changed his name to Lucius when he eventually left the violently strict
environment of Hap Lau special Hapkido school, bribed and threatened a government
official and eventually secured a passport in his new name.
He headed for Paris where his exceptional beauty and instincts for survival led him
into the seedy underbelly of Pigalle. When things got too hot for him in Paris, where he
had built a reputation for sadistic violence, Lucius Gynt travelled: to London, Hong
Kong, Naples and, finally, New York. Behind him he left a trail of petty crime, murder,
extortion, identity fraud and passport violations. Throughout his career in this septic
underworld, Gynt had never been caught, never been accused of any crime and never

been imprisoned. He had no criminal record. His sense of timing, coupled with his
survival skills,, had been given to him by God. He knew that to be true. There was no
doubt about it.
It was only during a routine sex haul by the NYPD that he eventually came into
contact with the law. It was also the moment of his salvation. God had sent his saviour
to him. The man with whom he was having lunch on this bright but frosty New York
morning had rescued him from further investigation into his dubious past. This was the
man who had paid a high price to save Gynt from the authorities and from himself and,
recognising how useful his special skills could be to him, released those true talents
and encouraged them to flower. He was also the man who had made Lucius Gynt the
greatest and most treasured promise of his life. Gynt now knew he owed everything to
God. That meeting was the moment of his salvation when God pointed His finger and
chose Gynt's life path and destiny.
Gynt closed the book and placed it back into the drawer. He stood for a moment
allowing the memories to seep into his subconscious and rest within his psyche.
Before he ran his morning bath, Gynt firstly laid out his selection of clothes for the
day and then his cosmetics. Next he went through his daily Hapkido routine, including
hand and wrist strengthening exercises. He needed two accompaniments to his
preparation. He switched on his favourite cable channel. The Salvation programme
broadcast hell fire and damnation, explained the truth of the Bible and railed and
screamed at the unbelievers, the liars and cheats, the whores and the devil worshippers.
Then he selected Queen's 'Who Wants To Live Forever' from his digital music system
and turned it up full blast.
Who wants to live forever?
Who wants to live forever?
There's no chance for us
It's all decided for us
This world has only one sweet moment set aside for us
As Gynt worked out he knew Jesus was on his side. He was a soldier of Jesus, on
Earth to do his bidding and rid the world of deviant tendencies, particularly those of
women, most of which were whores at heart. How devout is the convert, he thought?
Why else was I born so beautiful?

"Who wants to live forever," Gynt shrieked hoarsely and tunelessly at full volume.
"Yes, Jesus, I want to live forever. I will vanquish the whores and devil worshippers. I
want to live forever."
He sank to his knees, his blood humming and bubbling from his exercises, his spirit
exulting. His day had begun. He switched off the radio and sound system.
What to wear, what to wear? After Gynt had bathed, flossed, shaved carefully,
lightly glossed his almost shaven head, applied copious body oil and patted himself dry
he was ready to dress for lunch.
Silk underwear was a must. It made him feel so exclusive. Next came a pair of
Ricci pants, sleek and comfortable with a button fly. Over this, he pondered, yes, a
milk-white tunic style brushed cotton shirt by Verdun topped with his favourite bomber
jacket, found in a second hand store in Venice, California.
When he was finally ready he estimated it would take twenty minutes to stroll along
Second Avenue to Elaine's. He checked out the apartment's security, including the
double barred window and loft shuttered locks, switched on the alarms and triple
deadlocked his front door.
Outside it was a cold but pleasant day with the first tang of winter in the air. It was
good to be alive. It was even better to be alive and to be Lucius Gynt. If he'd really
wanted to he knew he could have been a celebrity. There was nothing to it really. He
had the looks and the charisma. And he had the artistic talent. Maybe he would decide
to be famous. Maybe he would. The art world was enticing and seductive and it
beckoned. For now, God had cast him in this subversive role in life. He liked it. He
liked knowing what others didn't know. He swaggered along Second Avenue with the
air of a man who has the world at his feet.
He contemplated his recent change of plan. He had deliberately made his work
public in order to force the hand of his mentor who had promised him the immortality
he craved. He wanted to live forever and he would. Only two more assignments and his
dream would be made to come true. He had been made that promise. It was a pledge.
He wanted to ensure the promise was kept.
But he knew he had taken a risk and wondered how his employer would react. He
had left no trace of his earlier assignments. Gynt expected his employer would be
surprised that Gynt had taken the risk of expressing his unusual and vicious proclivities
and displaying them in full public view without warning. He would take it as a
message, of course, saying clearly, it's my turn now. Keep your promise. On the other

hand, it could blow up in his face. Except, that he knew his employer needed him and
his very special abilities.
The most recent high-profile assignment had nothing to do with their mainstream
business. It had been a precautionary measure. One of the useful services that pathetic
confession website served was that it provided invaluable information and advance
warning of any risks that their activities might fall under the spotlight. Gynt was proud
of his posting on the site. The Priest. He liked the name. It suited him.
Gynt had profited by his assignments: an apartment here in New York, an
apartment in St Lucia and a small house in Nice, plus a considerably inflated offshore
bank balance.
Before he arrived at the restaurant he knew that the man he was meeting would
have ordered a bottle of Chateau Valandraud Saint-Emilion 1995 and that he would eat
a simple fish salad.
He reached Elaine's and glanced over at a couple of celebrity hunters with their
autograph pads at the ready. He paused and posed. The two second raters looked at
each other uncertainly. Who was he? Wasn't he off that TV soap? They took a step
forward, preparing to pounce. Gynt gave them no chance. With a huffy shrug of his
shoulder he entered the restaurant and looked around.
His lunch appointment was already seated at a discreet table. He was late fifties,
early sixties. He had iron grey hair and a Cote D'Azur tan. He was handsome in
corporate leader way. He had the kind of face you could see beaming from the cover of
Business Week – but in reality you never would. He was elegantly dressed in a dark
blue pin striped suit, a custom-made shirt by Monetana and Gynt knew his brogues
would be by John Hobbs.
The man stood up as Gynt approached. He was shorter and heavier than the
younger man.
"Lucius," Herman Letski purred in accented voice. "How delightful to see you."
On a seat by his side was a large, brown manila envelope.
Two hours later and Lucius Gynt had said goodbye to Herman Letski. He had
stored the envelope containing briefings of his next two assignments safely within the
inside pocket of his jacket. He was happy but a little uncertain as he retraced his steps
back up Second Avenue and entered his apartment.

Lucius Gynt was trembling with anticipation. Even the bears were excited. His final
reward was in sight. He was surprised at how quickly it had come about. There was
usually a respectable amount of time between the sacrifices of his whores to the bosom
of the Almighty. It was not like Herman Letski to rush into things. In one sense, Gynt
was happy. The sooner he received his reward for services rendered the better. He tried
to imagine where it would take place. New York City was the favourite and obvious
location but it was up to Letski.
As he went through his preparations and his wardrobe selection he wondered what
would be entailed. Would it hurt? How long would it all take? Now that he was close to
achieving his dream he felt uncommonly nervous. He hummed a little tune as he
drifted around the apartment and checked elements of his outfits with his bear
audience.
He wondered too about Herman Letski. Was this really his name? He had hinted it
wasn't. He had explained how easily he could just vanish and his entire operation with
him. Could Gynt really trust him? Could he truly believe him?
He paused and replayed past conversations. He tried to recall firm promises with
details and he found his memory straining to remember anything with absolute
certainty. Gynt's life experience had taught him the value of caution and of precaution.
He stopped in the centre of his apartment, poised like a gymnast preparing for the
parallel bars. He was suddenly and depressingly swamped with doubts. Lucius Gynt
didn't like doubts. They disturbed him. It was time for a board meeting.
He assembled his bears in order of seniority and placed them in a semicircle. He sat
cross-legged before them and posed a number of questions – the ones that bothered
him most now that he was close to achieving his ambition. He always took note of the
bears' wise counsel. He listened without interruption as they advised him about the
precautions he should take. Gynt had suddenly realised how vulnerable he was to the
perfect double-cross. At any moment he chose, Letski could shop him to the authorities
anonymously.
Gynt would have to remain alert and attuned to the slightest hint that he was not
next in line. Letski could simply vanish without trace leaving Gynt bereft. Gynt knew
that Letski had an extensive global operation but very few, if any, close confidantes or
partners. The most insidious thought that penetrated Gynt's mind was that Letski could
simply have Gynt taken out. Letski knew where to find him in New York, St Lucia or
Nice. A dark night, a drive by shooting and that would be it.

Farewell immortality.
During lunch he had sensed disquiet behind Letski's urbane exterior and could tell
he was disturbed by the edge of steel in his voice. He wasn't happy about Gynt's public
demonstrations of vicious slaughter. Nevertheless, Gynt had made his point. Now it
was Letski's turn to deliver. If he was so sure he was untouchable then what was there
to worry about. If he wanted the Priest to return to the anonymous disposal of
unwanted assets he knew what he had to do. Keep his promise.
Lucius Gynt was looking forward to the evening when New York changed colour.
And he planned to change with it. He popped into Bloomingdale's and cruised the sales
departments eventually buying a little trinket, a pair of solid gold earrings in the shape
of woman. He liked them. He liked to buy something most days.
As the evening drew in and the sun set over Yorkville, Gynt prepared for the night's
entertainment. He needed company and he needed anonymity. He stripped, showered
and shaved his legs and underarms then went to his evening closet. Slowly he caressed
his body with a fresh, silk pair of panties before rolling on a pair of stockings. He was
old-fashioned. He liked garters.
He slipped into a breast enhancer cum bra with quick release tabs on the back. Now
he selected a dress to suit his mood. He plumped for a low-cut red number by Yves St
Laurent, which matched his Diamante encrusted necklet. He would never wear real
jewellery where he was going to hang out.
He picked for tonight a dark wig that suited his mood. It was razor cut and sculpted
to his features making him seem even more oriental. He knew this intrigued men and
women alike and he liked both at once.
He spent an hour on his make-up then selected a pair of Gucci shoes that showed
off his calves. He was almost ready. He had secured his money and a credit card in a
secret pocket designed into the false belt on his dress. All that remained was to check
his look in the mirror. Yes, he was devastating. He picked up his shoulder bag, paraded
in front of a captive teddy bear audience and went to the door.
Emerging from the apartment, Chantelle stepped daintily out into the New York
evening. Gynt smiled behind his alter ego as he noticed admiring glances from passersby. But Chantelle wasn't looking for passers-by tonight.
She was looking for love.
end of excerpt

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The Immortality Plot
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Books by
David Callinan
THRILLERS:
Knife Edge
Bodyswitch
An Angel On my Shoulder
YOUNG ADULT FANTASY
The Kingdoms Of Time And Space
(trilogy)
CHILDREN’S BOOKS (7-10)
The Weather Kids
(series)
SELF-HELP, HEALTH & HAPPINESS
The 10 Minute Miracle
(published originally by HarperCollins
with co-author Gloria Rawson)
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