The Female of the Species: Is More Deadly Than the Male

By A. Machin Taylor

British secret agent Susan Collis is shot whilst on a mission in Croatia, and retires to Scotland under an assumed identity of Ann Cameron to manage a sporting estate owned by a successful London businessman, Anthony Barron. Ann falls in love with Anthony and the pair marry, but her happy settled life in the Highlands and London is disrupted when she and her former colleague, Rose Armstrong, discover evidence of corruption in Ann’s old department in the MOD. And when the life of Susan’s former partner and close friend, Jess, is put in danger, Susan decides to return to work to uncover the truth about the numerous threats, both foreign and domestic, which imperil not only their lives, but also the security of the nation.

Their investigation identifies a criminal in the MOD and a double agent within MI6 whose threats are removed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Sep 30, 2014
• ISBN: 9781326033590

Book preview

The Female of the Species: Is More Deadly Than the Male

THE FEMALE OF THE SPECIES

is more deadly than the male

By

A. Machin-Taylor

Other books by this author:

A Russian Rendezvous’

published in paperback 2015

‘A Highland Affair’

published in paperback 2015

‘The Arctic Tradition’

published in paperback 2017

Copyright

Copyright © A. Machin-Taylor 2014

Second Edition Copyright © A. Machin-Taylor  2018

eBook Design by Rossendale Books: www.rossendalebooks.co.uk

eBook ISBN: 978-1-326-03359-0

All rights reserved, Copyright under Berne Copyright Convention and Pan American Convention. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission of the author. The author’s moral rights have been asserted.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organisations, events or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

Dedication

To the female members of HM Armed Forces

Acknowledgements

There are many friends who have helped with advice and encouragement to whom I am extremely grateful.

Ros Borland who told me to write a novel, bought a pen and notebook for me and told me to get writing.

Jess Duncan who took my first raw script and started me on my way.

June Dromgoole who suggested that mixing romance and thrillers didn’t work, so the novel became just a thriller, with all the romance removed.

Janet Taylor, who has encouraged me throughout, read every version at least twice and has made sure that my French is correct.

All but two of the characters are fictional, the exceptions being; Norman, who really does run the Ravenshill Hotel, an excellent hotel in Lockerbie. The Brigadier is based totally on my good friend, Major Peter Clapton.

Chapter 1

The sign on the office door said, ‘Susan Collis MI-14 Operational Planning.’  Inside, all Susan had for company was a desk piled high with files and reports on previous operations going back over five years.  Within Department 14 of the Ministry of Defence Susan was responsible for the planning of operations and the analysis of all information that may or may not lead to a possible operation in the future.  If the high-ups decided on an operation, it was her job to devise a plan that would achieve the desired objective but with the minimum of fuss or force; the ultimate goal being that no one realised that an operation had even taken place.  At her last appraisal her annual report had included the words ‘devious and cunning, achieves results with great subtlety.’  Susan thought that the report on her desk certainly didn’t require cunning; it was covered by her doodles.  Being subtle and pushing paper wasn’t really what turned her on. She continued to draw a picture of an aeroplane.  Having once planned an operation it was the execution of the plan that got her adrenaline flowing.  She gazed out of the window looking at nothing in particular but remembering some of her missions from the past.  However, it had become obvious after a number of successful assignments that she was destined for management and a leadership role.  Susan was not at all convinced that it was where she wanted to be.

Susan’s former partner and closest friend, Jess Turner, had been transferred to another department within the MOD.  However, they made sure that their friendship was maintained through their role in the TA, during the twice yearly exercises at Netheravon camp.  They both enjoyed the hard physical effort required on the exercises and the friendly competition that existed between them.  Susan always passed the required proficiency tests but it was Jess who was the star.  At unarmed combat she was unequalled, the only reservation being that she was never matched against opponents who were bigger than her.  It wasn’t that she would lose; it was because the only way she could win was by causing injury to her opponents, with moves that she didn’t hesitate to use. Susan still thinking of Jess, ‘she wasn’t as good as her with the Glock 9mm automatic, but with all other weapons Jess came top.’ Jess’s weapon of choice was an old Czechoslovakian sub machine gun called the Skorpion. 

Susan was still sitting supping a mug of tea and still dreaming of past excitement when the head of department, Mr. Donaldson popped his head round the door and said, We might have a job for you and Jess in the Balkans in a few weeks’ time. I’ll give you more information as soon as I have it.

No more information had been forthcoming and Susan had put it to the back of her mind.  She’d just finished writing a report for the Foreign Office on an earlier operation and had no idea what the future might hold.  Ten days later she arrived at the office ten minutes late and found that the big chief had put a note on her desk, ‘Please join me for lunch in my office at 12-30, I will arrange for the canteen to provide sandwiches.’  When she arrived at Donaldson’s office on the fifth floor, lunch was laid out on the table which was also covered with various maps.  After a terse welcome, Donaldson pointed her to a chair at the table, I’ll come straight to the point.  I’ve a mission for you in Croatia.  I want you to find a man called Marko Savic, a Bosnian Serb.  He was an officer in the Serbian army during the Balkan Wars.  As far as we know he was probably involved in some of the atrocities that took place but up to now we’ve had no interest in him, it wasn’t our problem, however that’s all changed. 

Susan frowned, So what’s he done to attract our attention?

Donaldson replied, It’s the rumours about him that interest us, some say he’s just a petty criminal trying to break into the big time in drugs and people smuggling.  However it’s his suspected involvement in supplying ex Serbian arms and explosives to terrorist groups that we want to know about. Susan commented, Surely that’s more to do with Interpol than us.  Since when have we become the police?

Donaldson continued, There are also rumours that he’s a psychopathic killer who has carried out a number of minor atrocities since the end of the war.  I would like you and Jess to go over there to find out what you can about his activities and more importantly, what his ambitions are for the future?  I suggest that you go as journalists or maybe you are researching for a book on the civil war.  Either way, you should be innocent visitors so try to avoid asking too many direct questions.  If the rumours about him are true you will need to take the usual precautions in case he turns unpleasant.

Susan thought, ‘this sounds as if it could become an interesting assignment.’

I’ve arranged that your next exercise at Netheravon be brought forward by three months.  You can spend a week or ten days down there getting to know your subject and train for all eventualities.

Donaldson then pointed at the map of Croatia spread out on the table. We don’t know if he has a permanent base somewhere. I suggest that you start at Split, hire a car and spend some time exploring the Dinaric Alps that form the border between Bosnia and Croatia.  It’s thought that he has interests in both countries and uses the border to disguise his activities. Someone there must know something about him.  I want you to sort out the plan and the logistics yourself, bring all the travel chits and expense claims to me directly.   It will be easier if I put them through my account. One last thing, you will need this number to contact Jess Turner.

He passed Susan a piece of scrap paper on which there was a typed address and telephone number, the sandwiches were finished and she was not offered a second cup of coffee.  Donaldson walked across the room and opened the door.  The meeting was obviously over.

Chapter 2

The following week Jess and Susan were back at Netheravon camp where they’d done all their earlier training, so that this time it was more of a refresher course rather than learning anything new.  In between exercises Susan had plenty of time to research Marko Savic; most of the time this involved searching through European newspapers for any mention of the man.  The French and German newspapers she could read, but the Balkan, Italian and Spanish reports that mentioned Savic had to go back to London for translation.  The more she read of the man the more Susan became convinced that he was a thorough villain; the French newspapers were particularly scathing.  Figaro as usual pulled no punches and described him as a ‘fils de pute’ which she understood to mean, he was a right bastard. Someone at Netheravon also disliked the man because they found that his picture had been stuck on all the mobile targets that were used on the range.  It was this part of the training that Jess particularly enjoyed; every day Savic jumped out of hiding and every day Jess shot him.  When they were practising on the range or actually working on an operation it was easy for Susan to carry and disguise the Glock automatic.  She’d deliberately chosen a cagoule with a big floppy pocket in which she could carry the gun without it being obvious, and which also enabled her to pull it out quickly.  Jess had a more difficult problem with her Skorpion automatic rifle; this was much bigger than the Glock and though smaller than the modern army weapons, it was still difficult to disguise.  Jess usually carried it partially hidden by a cagoule or thin spare sweater draped over her right arm. When she fired it she never moved the cover so that on several occasions she’d put a bullet hole in her own jacket. 

On a previous exercise Susan had asked Jess how she had come to join their outfit.  After dinner one night Jess said, I was studying for my A levels and hoping to go to university.  Just after my 17th birthday Dad had a heart attack and died. We were short of money so I left school and took a job in an office as a trainee. I’d only been at the new job for two weeks when a couple of the ladies came to my desk and said, We intend to start going to a ladies self-defence course at night school, are you interested?  Jess thought that it sounded like a good idea so she agreed to go along as well.  Jess said that she started the course but had thought it a bit pointless because she was not allowed to hurt her attacker.  At the end of the ten week course the instructor told her Jess you are a natural at this, I think that you would enjoy joining a Karate club, there are a couple that I can recommend."

Jess explained that she had joined a club in Clapham and it soon became obvious that she really was a natural at Karate.  She picked it up very quickly and enjoyed it, and as time went on she started to win inter club competitions. Jess had been a member for two years or more when the Karate club captain had told her that the time had come for her to leave the club.  He said Jess, you are outstanding, your techniques are Black Belt standard but you are hurting too many opponents.  Karate is a sport, not a fight to the death, you’re brilliant with the youngsters and beginners but with some of the better opponents, you fight as if you are the ‘Last Samurai’, no one should stand in your way, you have to win at all costs.  I’m sorry Jess but what you do isn’t Karate, nor is it a sport.

Susan said, You’ve always been very competitive, even on the range you have to be top.

That’s all right for you to say, you don’t have to be competitive, you come top naturally. Jess replied."

Susan said I don’t think that’s fair, I have to practice and train the same as everyone else.

Not fair. You were top at school, good at sports, head girl and then Oxford.  You get a 1st at Oxford.  I say again you usually come top naturally. 

Jess continued, saying that she’d missed the excitement and the physical competition at the Karate Club, so after a few weeks she walked down Timpson’s Lane by the station where all the pros hung out.  She waited until one of the pimps came over, told her to leave and threatened her.  I told him to piss off and he tried to hit me but that was a serious mistake on his part.  Susan asked, Why did you do that?

Jess laughed, I just enjoy a physical scrap, particularly if he’s big and brainless.

Susan smiled and shook her head knowingly. She interrupted Jess, I remember you telling me this when we were in Ireland but you mentioned something about an old Indian, somebody’s Grandad.  

Jess gave a big sigh and continued, One night after college I heard a shout and a scream; I looked across the road and saw a big lout had grabbed a little 12 – 13 year old Indian girl and had ripped off her blazer and torn her blouse.  I ran across the road and as I pulled his arm he swung round and threw a punch; my counter hit him on the side of his neck and he fell flat on his face lying on the ground. Susan asked, Was he hurt?

Jess snorted, Who cares! I took the young girl, who was called Naveen, home and her mother thanked me and gave me a cup of tea and some biscuits. I knew that the problem wasn’t over, that sort of man always has to have his revenge. 

Jess told Susan that after college one night she saw him waiting for her. She checked no others were with him and then slipped out of college by the back door.  Jess explained that she watched him for two nights and then on the third night she went out of the main door and walked past him, knowing that he would follow so she walked until they were in a quiet street and then turned to him asking him what he wanted.

The yob pulled out a knife and said, I’m going to get both you and your Indian friend.  As he moved in to Jess she removed the knife with a wrist lock, let him go and kicked the knife down a drain. 

The day after, Naveen found Jess at college and had told her that her mum wanted to have a word with her.  Jess said, I went round to Naveen’s house the following night, where her mother told me that Naveen was going to take me to see her Grandpa who lived just down the street. 

When we got to Grandpa’s house, Naveen didn’t knock, we just walked straight in and Naveen introduced me to her Grandpa.  Grandpa had a wizened, wrinkled face with white whiskers; I  found it difficult to guess his age but I thought that he would be about eighty.

Grandpa pointed to a chair opposite to his and told me to sit there. All he said was,

So you are Jess

He sat looking at me for ages; I’d heard the door close and noticed that Naveen was no longer in the room.  Grandpa asked about me, how old I was, which school did I go to and what I did at work; eventually he asked where I’d learned to fight?  I told him about the karate club and that I’d got to black belt standard but had been asked to leave.  He said nothing for fifteen minutes then said.

It is essential to have the mind at peace when you fight.  You must never have hatred or annoyance or revenge in your head.

Grandpa went on mumbling about something that sounded like Varda, Varda kali and Varda pari. After a while he stood up and asked me to show him what move I’d used against Naveen’s attacker.  I asked did he mean when he attacked Naveen or when he came at me with the knife.  He just said, The knife.

I demonstrated the move to him in slow motion. To my surprise he stood up and changed the move and repeated it a few times, to make it a completely different move.  All the time he was mumbling about Varda something.

He then sat down and told me that he would like me to come to visit him again soon.  Four nights later I went to see Grandpa, I knocked on the door and called, ‘Grandpa, it’s Jess.

The old man was sitting in the same chair as before and he and I talked about all sorts of things. Then as before he stood up and asked me to show him another Karate move.  Once more he showed me how to change it slowly in stages, until it was a completely different move.  After four or five visits to Grandpa I realised that he wasn’t showing me how to improve my karate; each of Grandpa’s moves, if executed properly, would be lethal.

******

Susan was intrigued by Jess’s story; she’d seen Jess in action during unarmed combat training; everything she did seemed unconventional. Most opponents found the biggest problem was getting a grip on her; fighting Jess was like fighting a bar of soap. Even the instructors struggled, whenever they started an attack her riposte was always totally unexpected.

Susan asked, So how did you end up here, did someone see you fighting?

Jess carried on, One day at college I’d gone for a coffee at the shop across the road.  I became aware of a rather dowdy, middle-aged man with round shoulders looking at me.  He wasn’t staring or ogling; he would look as if he knew me and then he looked away. I saw him a few times but we didn’t speak, until the time he walked across to my table and asked in a beautiful cultured voice if I would tell him my name.  A week or so later I saw him waiting outside the café. When I reached the door he asked if he could buy me a coffee. I was surprised and curious so I agreed and we sat at an unoccupied table.  After some very trivial conversation, he asked me what I was studying at college. I told him that I was a part-time student working towards the Civil Service entry examinations which were in a few weeks’ time.  I explained that after passing A levels in English, Geography and Chemistry it had been suggested that the civil service might be a good career for me.  The man just listened, he never said very much.  I learned that his name was Dunlop.

One day he asked me if I would join him for coffee and cake the following day.  I wasn’t at college that day so I told him that I would come after work, sometime between 5.30 and 6pm.  When I arrived we sat in silence for a while; Mr Dunlop didn’t touch his coffee and then I noticed a tear running down his cheek.  All he said was, She would have been twenty-one today."

I asked him who would be twenty-one today?

Mr. Dunlop explained that his daughter Chrissie would have been 21.  By now the tears were streaming down his face, I reached across the table and held his hands as he sobbed.  People around us saw him and politely looked away. 

After seeing his pain and anguish, I started to cry as well.  After a while he told me that his daughter had died of a blood disease just before her 18th birthday.  He and his wife had been told years before that she had the illness and could not expect a long life.  The strain of knowing that her daughter was dying had destroyed her mother, so he’d looked after his daughter. She was bright and full of fun and looked just like you.  When she was 17 the illness developed rapidly and she died within 3 months.  He’d taken out his wallet, in it there was a tattered photograph; he showed it to me and said, You look a lot like Chrissie you’re so much alike."

I looked at the crumpled photograph; his daughter had long fair hair and blue eyes like her, and the mouth and nose were a bit the same but not much.  The likeness was, in truth, just in his mind. I’d used up all the tissues in my bag to dry his tears and he then stood up and told me that he was sorry and started to leave.  As he got to the door I shouted to him and asked, Can we meet again.  He turned round and waved so I assumed that was a yes."

Jess said, I’d continued with my part time college studies and about once a week Mr. Dunlop and I would meet for coffee, one day I asked him if I could borrow the photograph of his daughter.  He said nothing as he passed it across to me.  I knew that in the Arts and Media studio at college they could do wonders to restore old photographs, to get rid of the creases and blemishes.  After the studio had finished with it, the photograph looked like new.  The media department had printed two small prints and a larger one, this I had framed and gave Mr Dunlop the little package the following week.  On the back of the photo in the frame I’d written.

‘To Dad with love. Chrissie.’

Jess hadn’t told him and she’d never know if he’d found it. 

Jess explained, As he took the photo from me the tears started to fill his eyes, he reached across the table and held both of my hands, he tried to say thank you but the words wouldn’t come out, his lip was trembling, we continued to hold hands in silence.

A week or so later Mr. Dunlop had asked Jess if he could take her to the theatre one night as a thank you.  They’d agreed on a date and which play they wanted to see and arranged to meet outside the theatre.

Jess said, While all this was going on I was still popping in to see Grandpa, usually about once every two weeks.  Sometimes we’d philosophise, other times just sit quietly, and occasionally he taught me a new move.  Grandpa always checked to see if I’d remembered what he had taught me in earlier weeks.

One night he’d asked Jess, what those yellow flowers were called that come in spring in the park.  Jess thought that he was thinking about Daffodils and told him that was what they were called. Grandpa had said nothing for a while and then he said, Jess I want you to close your eyes and imagine a lot of daffodils and then think of one particular daffodil and how beautiful it is.  You watch as someone walks by and treads on the daffodil, its stem breaks but as it lies there it is still beautiful.  Slowly it withers and loses its beauty.  The sun still shines on the leaves and all the energy and life of the daffodil pass down into the bulb.  When time has passed, winter has finished and spring comes, a new daffodil appears, just as lovely as the first.

Jess, you are that daffodil, life will knock you down, your stem will break and the beauty will fade.  However like the daffodil the energy and life is still there inside you.  After a time you will spring back and a new Jess will appear just as lovely as the first.       

******

Jess told Susan that a few weeks later she’d met Mr. Dunlop for their trip to the theatre.  I thought that the play was really funny, a clever comedy which we’d both enjoyed very much.  After the show we were walking at the top of Shaftesbury Avenue when two skinheads jumped out of a doorway, one with a knife who said, Your wallet and that bag, otherwise she gets it"

Jess said she’d stepped forward and with a simple wrist dislocation removed the knife.  The other man moved towards her, his weight was on his right leg when her transverse kick tore all the ligaments of his right knee. As he went down on one knee in agony Jess heard Mr Dunlop scream.

No Jess!

He had grabbed her arm and pulled her away and they had then run the short distance to the tube station.  When they were in the safety of the station Mr Dunlop said, Jess what you were going to do was wrong.  Jess had asked him what he meant.  Dunlop told her that he’d recognised her move and thought she was intending to kill her attacker.

Jess hadn’t said anything, she’d thought to herself that it had crossed her mind but she’d decided that she was not going to kill the bastard; his shattered knee would do quite well, he would be on crutches for quite a while.

We said good night and nothing more was said about the incident.  A few days later I saw Mr Dunlop waiting for me outside of the coffee shop. He asked me to meet him the following day dressed as smart as could be.  He told me that he was going to take me to meet someone who might be able to get me into the Civil Service, assuming that I’d passed the examinations.

Jess had taken a day’s holiday and had gone to the hairdressers in the morning.