The Orange Moon Affair – by the bestselling author of CONTACT – is the first book of a compelling new thriller series, an action-packed conspiracy with a hero and heroine you hold your breath for. If you enjoy the action of Robert Ludlum, the intensity of Brad Thor and the international intrigue of Daniel Silva, then this book’s for you!

Ex-British Special Forces soldier Thomas Gunn is drawn back into his old life of international intrigue and danger following the murder of his billionaire father. The deeper he digs the more complicated the puzzle becomes until he finds himself working for MI5 uncovering a global conspiracy that puts the freedom of the western world at grave risk. His girlfriend Julie becomes his accomplice surprising him with her loyalty, strength of character and physical prowess.

While traversing the globe being shot at, shot down and losing loved ones – a haunting question tears at his soul – was his father really at the heart of this evil conspiracy? Or was he a pawn in a larger more insidious game that even he could not control?

Seeking the final answer could cost Thomas dearly, ripping from him all that he most loves and cherishes and leaving him questioning his past, his future and what kind of person he is or wants to become. The final outcome depends on him. Or does it?

As a former Captain of Britain’s elite Parachute Regiment and son of an MI6 operative the author brings his own unique and eye-opening experiences to the character and exploits of Thomas Gunn, as well as an unsettling blurring of the lines between fiction and reality when exploring the ruthless abuse of power and position for personal gain.

And here, for your reading pleasure, is our free excerpt:

ONE

Mojave Desert – October 2012

 
Flying a helicopter requires a clear mind, concentration, balance and a delicate touch.

Flying a helicopter you are unfamiliar with, in the dark, with two nasty bullet wounds in a body that has not slept in thirty hours, is an exercise in surreal survival. I had ten hours flight time in this model MD 902 Explorer, so it wasn’t total guesswork.

I made sure Julie was strapped in tightly and flipped on the switches. There wouldn’t be enough time to sit and let the engines warm up completely. We needed to get airborne before the local police showed up. In the distance beyond the factory building, where the car exploded in the arroyo, a pall of smoke billowed into the moon lit night sky.

Once I got the machine off the ground, stabilised and then flying on the heading Danny had given me, I asked Julie to call him and write down the co-ordinates of the destination, then talked her through entering the figures into the GPS navigation system while I concentrated on the instruments. All I had to do was make sure I didn’t hit anything flying at an altitude of fifty feet across the desert, following the route on the EFIS from Mojave to Desert Rock airstrip, wherever the hell that was in the vast expanse of the Nevada desert.

As we flew, the rising sun glimmered just below the horizon to our left. Dark sky turning light blue just before the sun appeared as an orange-white ball throwing shadows across the desert. The distant terrain rose in craggy rock mountains, rising ever higher to about five thousand feet, and I had to fly the aircraft through the narrow gorges maintaining the pretence of a special operations training flight at ultra-low level.

“Can you see if there are any sunglasses in the side pocket,” I asked Julie, feeling my left arm begin to stiffen.

“Here you go.” Her voice sounded strangely distorted in my headphones. Or perhaps it was just my mind beginning to shut down as my body leaked valuable blood onto the seat from the wound in my side.

“Thanks.” I tightened the lock on the collective and flexed my left arm, ignoring the pain, just trying to get some feeling back into it. Estimated flight time was just under an hour and a half, and I wasn’t confident of being able to last that long.

“I’m sorry I got you into this,” I said stupidly, as if what I said would make any difference.

“I could have said no.”

“But you didn’t.”

“Nope. Don’t ask me why, but I didn’t.”

“Did you get the bug into the computer before they ambushed us?”

“I did.”

“Well at least one of us accomplished something today. How’s your head?”

“Hurts like hell. How’s your…?” she paused looking across at me. “Everything?” She laughed. A desperate sound hurled against a bleak outlook.

We hurt more than either of us could describe.

We didn’t know what the future held for us, but we laughed anyway as the sun rose across the desert, and I banked the helicopter into the first of the rising mountain ravines.

After an hour throwing the helicopter through the narrow canyons and rocky gorges, I could feel my strength and concentration ebbing slowly away. But that seemed inconsequential in the surreal experience that was the excuse for reality.

Julie massaged her temples, and when she spoke her speech was slow and slurred. I knew she was concussed and slipping into shock.

By ‘red-lining’ the helicopters engines I could force more speed, but as the sun came up the temperature would rise, and everything could go very wrong very quickly.

But there was no choice.

I inched up the collective, dropped the nose and advanced the throttle a touch, watching the gauges creep toward the danger zone.

Waves of nausea blurred my vision, so I used the only tool I had to sharpen my mind.

Pain.

By wriggling in the seat I could press against the wound in my lower abdomen, not too much, but enough pain to sting my sagging consciousness into wakeful concentration. Now was not the time to sink into peaceful, blissful oblivion. I had a precious cargo to deliver, a woman I loved more than my own life.

At any other time, flying low level through the desert canyons as the sun rose above the horizon, would have been an extraordinary experience. One of those almost vivid adventures that stays in the memory forever. But I wanted this experience to be over as soon as possible.

Every part of my body and soul willed the airstrip into view.

Flying is a slow inevitability.

You know you’re going to get there, and yet the more desperate you are to arrive, the more time drags.

Another rising ridge after fifteen minutes of undulating desert, and the sweat dripped down my face, arms and back, seeping into the wounds and causing more pain as my body salts stung raw flesh. I glanced quickly at Julie who sagged forward against the seat harness, semi-conscious, head flopping as the helicopter rose, fell, and banked through the ravines. I just wanted to take her in my arms, hold her and tell her everything was going to be fine, but now was not the time to drift into sentimentality, there was still the task of getting this machine on the ground.

The gauges swam in front of my eyes as I struggled to pick out the speed dial. That and the vertical speed indicator were my guides as we crested the ridge and Desert Rock airstrip lay in front of us just beyond a dry lake bed.

Was it a lakebed or a mirage?

I dropped the collective and pulled back slowly on the cyclic, slowing the aircraft down, establishing an approach to the runway. The speed bled off and I nosed down a little to keep the aircraft’s forward speed at forty knots, but my eyes refused to focus properly, and darkness appeared at the corners of my vision as if I was looking through a telescope at an image that kept getting smaller. No matter what my mind was telling my body it wasn’t responding, running out of blood and slowly shutting down.

But not before I got this machine on the ground.

Only a few more feet.

Maybe twenty-five, maybe thirty-five, maybe….

I didn’t know anymore.

Then I saw the FIM-92 Stinger ground-to-air missile spearing up toward us from a far ridge.

My reactions were slow and for a fatal moment I watched the white smoky trail from the rocket motor arc its way through the sky. I pulled on the collective and kicked the anti-torque pedals to port, almost escaping the oncoming death, but the rocket slammed into the tail boom.

The earth spun in a lazy arc as the helicopter arched over backwards at fifty feet above the rocky desert as I lost control, spiralling to the ground, pieces flying in all directions, the only section remaining relatively intact being the forward cockpit, saved because the main rotor head deflected the impact.

There was no pain, just a smashing, grinding, splintering sound. I felt a violent lurch as my head slammed into the side door, then silence. Almost lying on top of me, held by her seat harness, Julie stared into my eyes, blood dripping from her nose and ears, trying to speak.

“Julie,” I gasped trying to reach up and touch her face, but my arm wouldn’t move.

Car engine noises.

Voices.

I was struggling with consciousness.

With reality.

Where was I? What had happened? I didn’t know.

Images from the past flashed through my mind.

My father’s dead face.

Julie naked on the catamaran.

Julie. My Julie.

Then nothing.

TWO

Belfast – Six Weeks Earlier
It was an odd experience to look down on the dead face of the man who had once been my father. Not that I was unfamiliar with seeing dead bodies, I’d seen too many in my previous job, it’s just that I never expected I would be staring at him.

A single shot to the forehead had killed him instantly. The hole small and dark, not marring the rugged good looks of the man, but I knew that the back of his head would be non-existent. A round fired at close range from a powerful modern 9mm semi-automatic doesn’t leave much behind. I felt neither revulsion nor sorrow, somehow those emotions didn’t seem to fit with the sterile scrubbed surroundings, and perhaps he would have smiled and approved of my stoicism, or maybe just shaken his head and wondered what had happened to me over the years we hadn’t spoken. I knew the lack of emotion I felt meant I had not lost my edge, that I was still a soldier with all the instincts that had been honed in combat. But this wasn’t combat. This was murder.

“If you would please sign for these, sir.” The white-coated official stood with my father’s belongings in an incongruously cheap plastic bag. I duly signed. The formalities over, it wasn’t long before I was loading the body bag into my Cessna Citation Mustang 510 jet at Aldergrove Airport. An undertaker had been instructed to meet me at Norwich airport with an appropriate coffin, and until we landed it was just myself and the black rubberised bag lying on the cabin floor. Yet another reminder of my past, and images of dead soldiers insinuated themselves into my thoughts.

As the jet burst through the top of the clouds into bright sunlight, climbing to a cruising altitude of 31,000ft, my mind drifted back to what I thought was an ideal life in paradise.

Lying in the cabin on my catamaran, a lone fifty-seven foot Fountaine Pajot anchored in the crystal clear blue waters off the north western tip of the Mediterranean island of Gozo, waking from a disturbed sleep with one of those unsettling disconnected thoughts that the shit was going to hit the fan in a big way, was not the best way to start the day.

You know the feeling, that odd clawing at the pit of your stomach. A slight headache even though you’d stayed off the booze the night before. I hadn’t slept well, but that was nothing new, and it wasn’t the reason I felt like crap. What disturbed me was that the odd, undefined, premonition had no logical reason to be in my head.

Cold water and the sight of Julie standing naked on the aft deck washed away the uncomfortable feeling that crowded across my mind. She showered with fresh water from the transom faucet, head back eyes closed, then stood letting the sun dry her bronzed skin as the water ran in rivulets between her perfect breasts.

“I can feel you staring, Thomas,” she laughed and squeezed the water from her long blonde hair, her light New England accent drifting gently on the slight breeze.

“Can’t think of a better way to wake up,” I said, as the last images of the bloodied bodies of my colleagues faded from my ongoing nightmare. Eighteen months and it still seemed like yesterday. “Coffee?”

“Juice please. Pineapple and orange.”

I took the jug of freshly prepared juice from the fridge, and popped an ice cube into a tall glass as the coffee percolator started bubbling on the stove.

“You had another nightmare last night. Scared the hell out of me,” her voice drifted through from the cockpit. “Thrashing about and shouting.”

“Really? I don’t remember.” I did but there was no sense in talking about it. I carried a mug of coffee and the juice into the cockpit.

“Thanks.” She took the glass and drank a third quickly, and tossed her head back savouring the morning. “I’d like to go to the festival in the village tonight. Maybe we can eat at Lorenzo’s.”

“Sounds good.”

“And before that I thought we might take the horses out for a trot, have lunch at Godwin’s cafe…” she paused and reached her hand to my face, smiling wickedly, “…and then make love in our favourite grotto.”

“Got it all worked out, don’t you?”

“Of course.”

I slid from her grasp before she started something I couldn’t stop, and fled to the safety of the galley to prepare breakfast.

“Coward,” she shouted happily, wrapped a powder blue sarong around her slim tanned body, stretched out on the starboard cockpit settee, and sipped her juice.

“Want some melon with prosciutto?” I said, preparing two plates in anticipation. I leaned over and turned on the stereo, already tuned into the BBC World Service. It was my morning fix, that and the coffee.

“Yes please.”

“….and now at the top of the hour, the news headlines from the BBC World Service read by Jonathan Davis.” The familiar music played for a moment or two before the newscaster began talking, and for a few minutes I forgot about my self-imposed, albeit luxurious, exile.

“On his recent trip to the United States, the leader of the new British National Independent Party, Nicholas Hansard, said in an interview with The Wall Street Journal, that the Governments of both countries ‘have skewered National Defence’ with their failure to increase military spending, and left the door open for increased terrorist activity….”

‘Yet another extremist group leaping to the forefront. Left wing, right wing, they’re all the same,’ I thought cynically wondering why I listened to the news at all, but the BBC World Service was a comforting connection with home.

“Republican Tea Party leader, Wesley Bradford, welcomed his remarks. The recent elections in Israel have seen the Prime Minister and the Likud Party retain control but with a much reduced majority, and the extreme Zionist Ysrael Party led by American born software billionaire Elias Stevens claimed eleven seats in the Knesset….”

“Great. More Middle East problems,” I said, aloud this time, thinking of my friends and former colleagues who were still serving in Afghanistan.

“I can hear you muttering, Thomas,” Julie called from the aft sun-bed.

“Just bringing your breakfast, milady,” I answered in a mock English butler accent, walking through to the cockpit.

“…Sir Ivan Gunn, the billionaire chief of Gunn Group Industries, has been kidnapped in Belfast. Details are not available and a spokesman for the PSNI (Police Service of Northern Ireland) has stated that no ransom demands have yet been received. Sir Ivan, a leading and-influential industrialist…”

I didn’t hear the rest; just felt a numbing sensation between my ears and let the plates crash to the deck.

To me funerals are a morbid display of egoistic emotion, but that’s probably my own denial having had to attend too many of them. The experience was uncomfortable, and I was glad to be back in the car headed home. My stepmother Mary had recovered somewhat from the initial shock but tired easily. She lay back in the soft deep leather seat with her eyes closed. Heavily applied make-up did little to hide the lines around her eyes, and when she spoke her voice was thin, brittle.

“You are the head of Gunn Group Industries now Thomas. Control of the company should remain in the family. I know you don’t like the idea, but you are just going to have to get used to it.”

“This is not the time to discuss it, Mary.”

“This is the right time.” Her eyes became bright, burning, feverish. “You are going to do it. Tell me you’ll do it. Tell me now.”

“Let me think about it.”

“No. There is no discussion. No debate. You will do it just as your father wanted. What you or I want is immaterial. You’ll do it because it is the right thing to do.” Her voice rose to a shout, loud enough for Henderson to glance in the rear view mirror.

Julie sat quietly listening to the exchange. “Mary’s right. It is the Gunn family company and you are the only one left.” Her remark surprised me and I looked angrily at her. I knew they were both right, but I just didn’t want the job. I wanted to go back to Gozo and resume my life with Julie. Laze around in the sun, make love, and forget everything. For years I had lived off the family fortune without contributing anything. Now it was time to assume responsibility and I felt the shackles closing around me.

“OK, I’ll do it,” I said gently, thinking that at least being on the inside I’d have a better chance of discovering why my father had been murdered.

Mary visibly relaxed and closed her eyes again.

The wake that followed the funeral was like a subdued cocktail party. Everyone making meaningless small talk, knocking back as much free booze as possible and pretending all was right with the world. However, it did give me a chance to corner Adrian Newell and tell him the news.

“Don’t worry, Thomas, you will pick up the reins in no time.” Sarcasm rested easily with Adrian Newell. “If you need to know anything just ask. Your father left a lot of the running of the business in my hands. He didn’t like to meddle too much in the mundane day-to-day dealings.” I could see what he was angling for. If he could keep me under tight control and out of the running of things, then he would be the man in charge. I must say the idea did have its attractions, a thought he must have known had obviously crossed my mind otherwise he would not have been so open in his suggestion.

“I do plan to find out all there is to know about the way the Group operates, Adrian,” I said watching the CEO of my father’s company’s eyes carefully. I didn’t like him and I didn’t trust him. “What was my father doing in Northern Ireland?” I was expecting a reaction, but not quite as dramatic as he visibly turned pale and I thought his eyes would pop into his champagne glass. “Is anything wrong, Adrian?” I asked.

He coughed and made little choking noises. “N… n… no. It’s OK. I just swallowed a large mouthful of champagne. It went the wrong way.” He coughed again and recovered his composure. Adrian seemed to have developed a nervous tick at the corner of his right eye. “It’s a new project. A proposed micro-electronics factory to be constructed just outside Belfast. It was your father’s own personal project. I’m afraid I don’t know much about it.” His composure returned and before I could question him further, he excused himself and mingled with the other guests. I let him go as this seemed hardly the time or place to pursue him with the ferocity I felt.

“Adrian seemed to be in a hurry to escape from you.” The voice of Hamish McDougall came from behind and I turned to see his friendly face smiling at me. He had been my father’s closest friend since before I was born. An MP and Minister of State for Trade and Investment, he seemed to drift through life, tidying up other people’s problems quietly and efficiently. He would never be Prime Minister, he just didn’t have the flair, but then again he was quite happy looking after his constituents and carrying out a worthwhile job in the Government.

“Yes. I seem to have struck a nerve, though why I don’t know.” I took a sip of champagne. “Presumably you’ve heard that I’m taking over as head of the Group?” He nodded and patted me on the arm.

“Yes, I’m glad. It’s about time you came out of yourself. You’ve been ducking and weaving for too long.” I tensed ready to let my anger rise again, when I caught his eyes. They were laughing at me. “You have to learn to control that quick temper of yours, too. It just might get you into trouble and there is no room for histrionics in the Board Room.” He was right, of course. The shock of grey hair, laughing eyes and relaxed attitude of the man always defused any situation.

“Listen, if you need someone to talk to, just give me a call. Mary has my number.” At that moment Julie came over and told me that Mary had gone to rest. Hamish excused himself and we were alone.

“How is she?” I asked.

“Just tired. She’s more relaxed than she has been for a long time, probably relived that you’ve taken the job. Doesn’t like Americans much does she?”

“I’m sure she’ll make an exception in your case. And she already has in my case.”

“How so?”

“I have dual nationality, my mother was American, born in Santa Barbara California.”

“I knew that. Well your step mother is relying on you to pull the family together.” She hesitated and then, with a touch of mockery, added. “She also wants to see you married and have an heir.” She looked at me with a sideways grin, gauging my reaction to the comment.

“No way. Not yet. I like the practice we are getting, but I don’t think I’m ready for children.”

“That’s what I told her. Well, not in so many words, but close enough.” We both laughed, awkwardly. Julie had changed over the past few days.

When I first saw her, she was a dream vision floating through the evening twilight and soft streetlights. A sophisticated poised and confident beauty that most men hungered after and very few had the balls to approach. Her grey/green eyes and direct look I knew could freeze any unwanted attention without her having to utter a word, and I was immediately fascinated. I was sure I had seen her on the cover of Vogue, or Elle magazine and continued to watch her easily brush off the young rich ‘bar-flies’ that frequented Café Carlo.

Perhaps it was the scar that looped across my forehead where the shrapnel had carved my flesh open and cracked my skull that caught her eye, or that I sat quietly watching her, frankly admiring her beauty, amused by the murmur of excitement that ran through the restaurant in Capri.

She turned and saw me, smiled, and walked over, much to the dismay of would-be suitors who were left standing at the bar with their mouths open.

“Carlo tells me that the Fountaine Pajot Sanya 57, is yours.” Her New England accent surprised me as I had assumed her to be European.

“It is.” I stood and indicated a seat for her to sit down, which she did with the elegance and assurance of a Royal Princess. “My name is….”

“Thomas Gunn,” she interrupted easily, smiling. “I do my research, something my father taught me was very important.”

“Then I am at a disadvantage, Miss….”

“Sutton. Julie Sutton.”

“And your interest in the yacht?”

“Purely selfish. I was looking for a private charter for a week or two and Carlo said you were available.”

“Carlo said that did he?”

“He did.”

“And how much did you pay Carlo to ensure I was available.”

She laughed quickly, a musical sound and mischief in her eyes. “A lot. Too much. Money is not the issue, my privacy is. And I like adventure. You seem to fit the description.”

“I wondered why I suddenly had no business this week.”

“You are available then? As I said I will cover whatever you lost on your previous charter.”

“If you have done your research then you know money has no interest for me. I’m sure Carlo told you that too.”

“He did. But I like to pay my way.”

“Privacy does have a price.”

“I see we think alike.”

We fell in love on the second day and sailed to Gozo, where we stayed, anchored in a solitary bay for six months. Julie refused all work, much to her agent’s frustration, and I had little to do anyway during my extended convalescence, until the real world crashed our paradise.

Julie squeezed my arm, snapping me back to the present and my duty as host as some of our guests were leaving.

With most of the people gone, I cornered Adrian again and told him that I would be down at Head Office some time during the week to make a start on learning the business.

“I want to know everything about this micro-electronics factory in Belfast before any more decisions are made,” I told him firmly.

“But there are still some negotiations to be completed, and other formalities. I really think they ought to be dealt with now, not later,” he said in a tone that implied I should let those who know about these things get on with it.

“No. Under the circumstances I’m not rushing us into any decisions.” I took vicarious pleasure watching him squirm.

“If you insist,” he said stiffly and walked out to his waiting car.

“You seem to have ruffled his feathers a bit,” said Julie, standing beside me. “Something tells me you are not going to have an easy time with him.”

“I don’t trust him.”

“Is that why you’re goading him? Or do I detect a spark of interest in the Group?” She was laughing at me again.

“I want to know why my father was murdered, and my gut tells me it has something to do with this new project in Northern Ireland.”

I knew that the Gunn Group was complicated. It controlled many companies in the fields of electronics, engineering and chemicals. The assets were enormous and profits almost equal to the largest of multi-nationals. No mean feat for a privately owned business. Obviously with the amounts of money involved, there must be very tight controls on security, especially as the areas of micro-electronics and chemicals were high risk and the competition cut throat. I could understand Adrian’s reluctance to talk business at the wake, but still there was this nagging doubt in my mind.

“I think I’ll have a talk with Mary. Perhaps she can shed some light on the matter.”

Julie shook her head. “Don’t disturb her just yet. It is the first real rest she’s had. How about taking me for a walk around the grounds instead?”

“You’re right and they’re quite beautiful at this time of year.”

We passed the rest of the afternoon wandering the grounds talking. It was the first time since we arrived that we had been alone for any length of time and now that the funeral was over we could look forward to happier times ahead.

I led Julie around to the nondescript barn set aside from the main Hall. The only thing that could give away the fact that the barn was an aircraft hangar was the small round concrete helipad thirty metres from the hangar building.

Julie looked at me askance. “A helicopter?”

“Wealth does have its perks.”

“A private jet and a helicopter?”

“Well actually the Gunn Group has two helicopters and two more private jets.”

“Of course it does,” she said sarcastically.

The electric hangar doors slid open at the touch of the ‘app’ on my iPhone and revealed the interior of the barn, aside from the helicopter, there was a small yet comprehensively equipped workshop and maintenance area, and outside a five hundred gallon tank of Jet fuel. Julie watched as I wheeled the aircraft out of the hangar onto the pad, disconnected the ground handling wheels, stowed them back in the hangar and checked the fuel. My father always kept the helicopter fully fuelled and ready to go at any time. It made trips to London easy and quick.

It had been a while since I flew the Eurocopter, demanding a different set of skills to the fixed wing Cessna Mustang. This one was equipped with a full EFIS (Electronic Flight Information System) digital ‘glass’ cockpit, so I could fly ‘blind’ from Norwich to the London Heliport in Battersea on the river Thames only eight miles from the Gunn Group offices. This particular aircraft had been configured for right seat flying. I liked it better than flying from the left seat, as I could lock off the collective and use my left hand for changing radio frequencies and other instruments.

“When was the last time you flew this?”

“About two years ago. We’ll take it tomorrow, I need to make an appearance at the office.”

“You’ll take it, I have my own business to run and that means mollifying my agent and getting some work.”

“Where’s your sense of adventure?”

“You get some practice in then we’ll talk about my sense of adventure.”

Mary reappeared for dinner. The rest had done her good.

Some of the old bounce was back in her walk and conversation. I didn’t want to spoil the atmosphere so suppressed my desire to bombard her with questions. There would be plenty of time after the meal.

She had been through a lot in the last eighteen months, having just recovered from a serious car crash the previous year in which two of her closest friends had been killed. After a long period in hospital and private nursing home she had pulled through.

“Mary, there are some things that have been worrying me about Dad,” I said, as tactfully as possible. She sipped the brandy delicately. “I keep wondering about this Northern Ireland deal. This afternoon I tried to talk to Adrian about it, but he brushed me off, virtually saying it was none of my business.” I paused, waiting for a reply. There was none. “Well, don’t you think it is more than just a coincidence?”

She placed her brandy glass carefully on the side table and shook her head. “The police came to the conclusion that it was probably a case of mistaken identity. If there is anything they will find it Thomas.” She smiled. “You concentrate on learning the business. Leave the investigating to the experts.”

“I need to know what the Northern Ireland deal is all about. Adrian just said it was one of Dad’s personal projects. If I’m going to learn about the company then it seems to me to be a good place to start. Did he say anything to you about it?”

“No, of course not. You know what your father was like about business. No work at home. All business was to stay where it belonged, at the office. Perhaps Adrian was just honouring your father’s memory by not discussing it here. I’m sure he will tell you all about it when you go in to work.” She drew a weary hand across her face. “I must go to bed, Thomas. I’m not really as together as I look.”

“Of course.” I helped her up and watched as she walked slowly across the room. “Are there any papers that Dad would have left in the house? Presumably, if he was handling the deal on his own he would have something here.” I felt I needed to press her on the subject. It was so strange that nobody seemed to know much about it at all. I know that the old man liked to keep business away from his private life as much as possible, but I also know that there were times when he brought very important documents home. Particularly those pertaining to projects in which he was personally involved.

“Please, Thomas. Enough. I never pried into his business affairs at all. Perhaps if I had I could have been a better wife to him. Now please, we can talk again tomorrow, but there is nothing much I can tell you.” She stopped at the door, turned and looked at me carefully as if trying to tell me something by telepathy. “I want you to do a good job now that you’re in charge,” she said, tipped her head on one side as if asking a silent question, then turned and left the room.

Still feeling very much in the dark, I went to my flat in what used to be the old servants quarters. It was private in a separate wing of the Hall and had it’s own entrance through the kitchen. Julie poured us two glasses of Pusser’s rum, a silent reminder of the catamaran and sunshine, and we sat in front of the large window looking out over the peaceful moonlit countryside.

“I know what you’re thinking, Thomas. And I know you want answers. But you’re not going to get them tonight.” She leaned across and nibbled on my ear, then got up and slowly took off her dress. Beneath it she was naked. She turned and headed for the bedroom

Well at least in this upside down world there were some things that had not changed. I downed the rum, picked up the discarded dress and followed her.

THREE

London – September 2012

The offices of Gunn Group Industries were not in Central London, as people would expect. They were situated in a tall building in Twickenham. Close enough to the hub of things, but far enough on the outskirts of the City to be easy to get to from the country. The building was called Gunn House and was, appropriately, built by a subsidiary company, Langhorne Construction Limited. It was an eyesore, as are most buildings of this type. I was still contemplating the follies of modern architecture as the lift carried me to the top floor, home of the offices of the Board of Directors.

The collar and tie felt uncomfortable and the suit as if it was four sizes too big. Julie had assured me it wasn’t, and Mary also made the correct noises. I was not convinced. The lift bumped to a stop, jerking me out of my daydream and the doors hissed open to reveal the reception area.

Directly opposite the lift was a desk at which sat a beautifully dressed and perfectly made-up young lady who looked up coolly as I walked towards her.

“May I help you, sir?” The standard question used a thousand times a day in a million offices.

“Mr Gunn,” I said.

“I’m sorry, sir, but Mr Gunn is not in.”

“I am Mr Gunn. Mr Thomas Gunn, the new Chairman.”

The girl looked at me blankly until she suddenly grasped what I had said.

“I’m sorry, sir. We aren’t expecting you. Mr Newell didn’t warn me at all.” I held up my hand to stop the flow. A young-looking thirty, with long fair hair, I didn’t look the part of a city tycoon.

“Would you just point me in the right direction for my office and tell Mr Newell I’m here. I’ll see him in ten minutes.” I hoped that sounded as a chairman should and having received her directions, she headed off for the office.

The old man really did believe in the Chairman having an office worthy of the position. It was huge. A thick carpet covered centre of the expanse of wooden floor; mahogany desk in front of the window, and table with settee and easy chairs for entertaining associates. Original modern paintings adorned the walls and the view across Twickenham and the Thames was breathtaking. Beside the desk was a complete console with a computer terminal, closed circuit TV and the usual intercom system. So this is where the Gunn fortune was generated. I could see why Adrian wanted to keep me out of the way. If this was a yardstick with which to judge the power wielded by the Chairman then he must be very upset that it was in my hands.

There was a knock on the door and a very correctly dressed, slightly overweight and rather severe looking woman in her mid thirties entered.

“Mr Gunn, my name is Jennifer Jordan. I am your assistant. I do apologise we weren’t expecting you. Would you like some coffee?” She stood in front of the desk, expressionlessly, waiting for a reply.

“Yes please. Milk, two sugars, thank you.” I said. She turned and made for the door. I stopped her before she reached it. “Jennifer?” She turned and looked enquiringly. “Please smile, I like happy faces around me.” She dropped her chin, smiled shyly, opened the door and left. She returned a few minutes later with a tray of coffee, followed by a tight-lipped, somewhat irritable looking Adrian.

“Thank you, Jennifer. Good morning, Adrian.” I knew the use of her first name would annoy him, and that was just what I wanted to do. To make sure that he knew who now sat in the chair. “Please don’t say it. I’ve already heard it twice this morning.” He looked a little nonplussed, as if I had just robbed him of a key phrase.

“You could have given me notice that you were coming in.”

“Why? What I want from you is a run-down on everything this Group owns, part owns or whatever. I reckon that would be the best place to start.” I hoped I sounded as if I knew a little about business. I hadn’t a clue and was going to have to do some pretty rapid learning.

“If you had given me some warning then I could have had all the files ready for your inspection. As it is it will take time to get them all together.” He spoke stiffly, with his head held up, looking down at me in disgust. Adrian categorised everyone as either a businessman or a layabout. I was one of the latter.

“Adrian, in this day and age all I need is the computer login passwords and I can get all the information I need by just pressing these little buttons.” I indicated the terminal by the desk. He had the grace to flush.

He glared at me tight lipped, turned and left the office. I swung the chair around and stared out over the city, watching the slow-moving traffic like a giant worm threading its way through the undergrowth of houses.

I hated cities. Hell I hated offices.

But somehow up here away from the noise, the colours, shapes and shadows had a dream-like quality. I thought through the exchange with Adrian. Why all the blocking manoeuvres?

What was it that he didn’t want me to see? Perhaps I wasn’t a businessman but eight years as an officer in the Parachute Regiment as part of SFSG (Special Forces Support Group), had given me a suspicious mind and a nose for trouble. Something was afoot, and sure as hell it involved the old man and the kidnapping. There was a knock on the door and Jennifer entered carrying a bulky, blue file.

“Sir Ivan’s personal files and computer login passwords, Mr Gunn,” she said. “You’ll be needing them.

“Thank you. Can you give me a walk through on how the system operates?” In the modern world where access to information was vital, everyone needed reasonable computer skills. As a member of Special Forces I was pretty educated on most systems, but I needed people in the office to think I was a little naïve.

She smiled awkwardly and came around to the side of the desk, laid the file down and opened it at the first page of the text. “You will find all the necessary instructions here. Sir Ivan insisted that the whole system be made as simple as possible. He said he didn’t want some computer programmer knowing more about the operation of the Group than he did.”

“That definitely sounds like my father. Was there any information that is not on the computer?”

“Not as far as I am aware, except for the design drawings for new projects, building plans, machinery and electronic devices. They are carried on a completely separate set of servers. Only the Chief Designer, the Chief Executive and the Chairman have access to those.”

“So the entire Gunn Group, its accounts, day to day running, personnel wages and everything are available from this terminal?”

“Yes. The file you have there has a limited circulation, again only to Board members. Other personnel in other departments have access to information that applies to their department only. Likewise with the Managing Directors and Chairmen of the subsidiaries.” She stopped talking and waited for my response. It was certainly a very neat way to keep abreast of all events. And all controlled from this office.

“What about the personnel files of all the Group Board members?”

“They are kept in the wall safe behind the Picasso.” She indicated the painting that hung on the wall above the small cocktail bar. I was beginning to get to know why Adrian was so against my appointment. I’m sure he would dearly like to have all the information that was in those files. People are most vulnerable through their personnel files and bank accounts. If you have neither, then as far as the world is concerned you don’t exist. Identity is a plastic credit card.

“Thank you, Jennifer. Oh, by the way, who appointed you as my secretary?”

“Sir Ivan. I’ve been with him for four years. Mr Newell was a little annoyed.” She seemed a little embarrassed and dropped her head, not meeting my eyes.

“In that case, Jennifer, I hope you stay on.”

She smiled, excused herself and left.

Well, at least, my secretary would not be one of Adrian’s pawns, yet another thing that was going to annoy him.

The rest of the morning was spent going through the blue corporate file, trying to make sense out of the meaningless letters and figures. By lunchtime I reckoned to have sorted out enough to be able to make a start removing the information stored in this vast system of circuit, breakers and microchips. Jennifer popped in at about midday to say that if I wanted lunch brought up to the office that could be arranged.

“Please, thank you. Tell me, do you know anything about the project in Northern Ireland?”

“No. I heard some talk, of course. There’s always that in an office of this size. Nothing of interest though, just people wondering if they would be promoted and transferred when the factory started up properly.”

“Why would anyone be transferred from Head Office? Surely that would be considered a demotion?”

“Oh no. It was common knowledge that the new factory was top secret and under the personal control of Sir Ivan. All the office staff and management would have been selected by him, therefore it must be considered a promotion?

“You say ‘would have been’. Why? Surely the project is still underway? There is no reason to stop it is there?”

“I don’t suppose there is. It’s just that we all considered it to be Sir Ivan’s own baby and nobody else knew any of the details including the Board. He was negotiating direct with the Government.” She turned to me frowning. “You do know that the factory is to be built with a Government loan of two and half billion pounds, don’t you?”

“I knew there was a loan, but not the amount. I’m intrigued to know how you know so much about it.”

“You really don’t know much about office life, do you?” she laughed. “The grapevine is as good as jungle drums. All you have to do is interpret the sounds. You should hear what the information is on you. Even the best of bosses thinks that his assistant is a mere typing machine and not capable of rational or logical thought. There is a lot of information passed in the Ladies’ Room which should be classified under the Official Secrets Act.”

“I shall have to remember that in future. Do you know anything else about the Northern Ireland deal?”

“No, I’m afraid not.”

“Let me know if you hear anything.” I turned my attention back to my father’s personal files and ran through a breakdown of all the companies owned by the Group. I knew the Group was extensive, but had never known just how big it was. Each company had its own unique identity code, and all I had to do to get a detailed look at a specific company, was to enter it along with a confirmation password.

I was so engrossed that I didn’t hear the door open and Adrian come into my office.

“I see you’re hard at work, Thomas,” he said without smiling. “I wondered when you wanted to call a board meeting. The circumstances dictate that we should have one and I’m sure you are anxious to meet the other members. I think we had better clear up the obvious rift between us. I am quite prepared to hand in my resignation if you so wish,” he said formally, standing in front of my desk hands clasped behind his back. I looked at him and decided I needed to try another approach if I was to get anything out of him.

“Adrian, this is a private company and I am the majority shareholder, but I do I know my limitations, and I need somebody to teach me. We don’t have to like each other just so long as we respect each other’s position. If you feel you must leave, then that’s up to you.” My acting is quite good and I hoped I had just the right amount of sincerity in my voice to catch him off-guard.

“Very well. But I must be allowed to carry out the normal business. With respect, I know this company inside out, and therefore it seems right that I should run it. Your father never interfered with me at all.”

“Let’s call it a truce, then. Can I count on your support for information and advice?”

He inclined his head. Perhaps his loyalty to the company was stronger than his mistrust and dislike of me. He left without another word, and I sat for a long time thinking about him, wondering just where his loyalties lay. It was my suspicious mind hard at work again. There were so many things I didn’t understand, so many things that seemed very strange. Staring out of the window did little to add to my knowledge so I let my mind drift back to the time I told my father that I wasn’t going to enter the family business, but join the Army instead.

There had only been a few times in my life when I had truly seen my father’s dark side. I knew it existed, every immensely wealthy man was ruthless to some degree, but he had always been careful to hide it at home.

“Ungrateful little prick,” he exploded, throwing down his serviette and knocking over the glass of wine at his right hand. “You’ll get nothing.”

“I didn’t ask for anything,” I replied standing, pushing the dining chair back and nearly sending the servant tumbling as she walked behind me. “It’s my life and I will live it the way I want.”

“There are responsibilities.”

“To what?”

“To me. To this house. To the company.”

“What about my responsibility to myself?”

“Grow up.”

“And be like you? I’d rather not.”

He stared at me, his face puce with rage knowing that physically he was no longer a match for me, but I could see that if he had a shotgun in his hand instead of a dinner fork, then my life would quite possibly have ended at that point.

Eight years later, he came to my hospital bed. Sat with me while I lay unconscious hovering between life and death, until I slowly returned to the land of the living. The fury I saw in his eyes was not directed at me, but at the circumstances that nearly killed me. Circumstances that he had been unable to control, and I realised why he had been so angry all those years ago.

Angry because he could not express the fear he felt.

Angry because he loved me and wanted only what he thought was best for me.

Angry because he knew he could not keep me safe forever.

He held my hand and his eyes softened. “Come back to me Thomas. When you are healed, come back to me. I need you now. I need your help. I need your skills.”

At the time his words seemed odd, poorly chosen. I didn’t feel that he had ever needed me.

His eyes burned into my soul, and I shivered as if a cold wind had blown into the office, then his face faded from my mind, replaced by the grey London skyline, and I had the feeling that whatever had caused his death was already in play on that day nearly eighteen months ago. Eighteen months when I could have been helping him instead of taking my own sweet time with my convalescence and juvenile adventures. That night I flew back to the Hall.

In the following days, Adrian proved to be a good teacher. I returned to the Hall and we communicated via Skype whenever I had a question. With the computer codes in hand, I didn’t need to be in the office as there was a desktop computer in the flat.

Besides, it was stifling. A claustrophobic cavern that philosophically I could never understand.

I liked action, not inaction, and wading through the politics and shenanigans of business were proving to be more and more irritating each day. The only reason I stuck at it was because I knew that the riddle of my father’s murder lay in the company he built.

Adrian tried his hardest to make the dry, dusty world of figures, balance sheets and contracts come to life, and I wanted to learn because I felt that a knowledge of the financials would help me get at the heart of my father’s murder. My mistrust of him remained unchanged and I took great pains to hide my true feelings.

Mary suffered from highs and lows. Some days she was her normal, witty, charming self, others she stayed in her room and shunned all attempts to bring her out of herself.

It was worrying but the doctor said that it was a pretty standard reaction to the situation. Julie travelled for a few modelling jobs much to her agent’s great joy, and when not on location occasionally spent a few days in Cambridge visiting her father, a Professor of computer science at the University, whom I’d met four months earlier when Julie flew him out to Gozo. They had different surnames. She reasoned that using her mother’s maiden name, Sutton, as a ‘stage’ name for modelling, sounded better than Oldfield.

I was still ruminating on Julie’s father when Jennifer called me on Skype.

“You have something for me?” I asked.

“Yes,” she replied. “Not a great deal, just the minutes of a meeting. Seems out-of-place.” As my PA she had really settled into the job, taking all the mundane day-to-day problems away from me, allowing me to get on with my learning.

She sent me an instant message. “This is the passcode. OR – 41386/LN2.”

I typed in the code and rubbed my eyes waiting for the computer to access the file.

NEW PROJECT OR-41386/LN2

PROPOSED NEW FACTORY IN N.I.

The meeting was declared open by the Chairman, who handed out an outline sheet (see Annex A) to all members of the Board. Having read the details the members were asked to comment on them.

The Chief Executive, Mr Newell, agreed that the plan seemed a sound one, but wondered why the Board had not been consulted at the outset before the land had been purchased.

The Chairman replied that there was little time as the land is in a prime position and there were various tenders for it. He added that the CFO had been informed as had the Company Lawyer. Mr Newell asked if the negotiations for a Government loan had also been completed without his knowledge. The Chairman replied that a tentative approach had been made by himself, but as yet no final details had been decided. Mr Newell started to ask further questions but was interrupted by the Chairman who stated that he was taking full responsibility for the project and had merely approached the Board for their reaction before proceeding. The Chairman stated that because of the Top Secret nature of the company, few Board Members would have access to any information regarding its manufacturing processes.

There being no further business the meeting closed.

The meeting had obviously been very short and very sharp, and the minutes seemed something that a child might write, which struck me as very strange. Attached to the minutes of the meeting was an Annex that laid out the plan that my father had drawn up for the construction of the factory. Reading through it I could see why Adrian had been so upset. It was very detailed not only spelling out the exact nature of the business, the construction of micro-electronic components for the computer industry, but also down to a management and work force organisational breakdown. A footnote to the Annex stated that a complete list of equipment requirements would be available in a week. The minutes and the Annex were dated within a few days of each other. The following pages were the equipment lists, salary and wage structures, dated exactly one week after the first pages.

The last page was headed ‘Financial Requirements’. Beneath the heading was a computer code, which I naturally entered to be greeted with an accountant’s dream. Lists of numbers, forecasts, cash flow charts, income, expenditure, profitability, loan amortisation charts and so on.

I sat back. There was still no real information. Just an idea on paper and yet it was now well on the way to fruition, judging by the architects drawings and the provisional order for all the equipment that was listed. These last items had been received in the last few days.

Somewhere, there was somebody who knew what it was all about.

Somebody who was controlling the continuation of the project from somewhere other than the Group headquarters in Twickenham.

“Jennifer, can you ask Mr Newell to call me on Skype.”

Adrian waited over an hour before he called. The delay was a petty statement of his independence, but I was too tired to let it bother me.

“Presumably you’ve seen this,” I said. He nodded. “And presumably you have seen the drawings and the confirmation of the equipment orders too?” Again he nodded. “Then would you like to tell me who in the hell is running the project?”

“I’ve been trying to find out. Apparently, your father approached somebody outside the organisation to be Managing Director. As yet, we don’t have a name. For some reason, your father was keeping it strictly to himself. An act that, I may say, the Board did not consider to be in the interests of the company,” he said little too smugly.

“Not the Board’s call to make.” I said roughly, continuing before he could reply. “Where was the money coming from to finance it?”

“We have a fund into which each of the subsidiaries contribute. The purpose of it is to provide capital for new development. Venture capital if you like. Sir Ivan insisted that the control of this fund be his alone.” By the look on his face, Adrian obviously disagreed with this too.

“How much control of the Northern Ireland business does the Group have?”

“None,” he said looking acutely embarrassed.

“You mean, so many hundreds of millions of pounds have been handed over to a company that as yet, nobody knows about and we can do nothing?” I asked incredulously.

“Well, the Group has no control, but you do.”

“How so?”

“Both your mother and yourself are named as Directors of the company, which has been registered as Rathborne Micro-Electronics Ltd.,” Adrian said reluctantly, looking more and more uncomfortable with each passing moment.

I was dumbstruck. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me this before?”

“I had no idea myself until this morning. In fact, I had no idea what the company was called; none of us did,” he said and for what seemed an age neither of us spoke. We were too busy trying to absorb all the details and make some sense of it.

“What about the company server, Adrian? Do you think he might have put all the information on that?”

“I’ve already checked. I can’t find anything,” he replied.

“Well the files are missing, aren’t they?”

He cleared his throat and made himself comfortable before replying.

 Continued….

Click on the title below to download the entire book and keep reading

AFN Clarke’s The Orange Moon Affair>>>>

The Orange Moon Affair – by the bestselling author of CONTACT – is the first book of a compelling new thriller series, an action-packed conspiracy with a hero and heroine you hold your breath for. If you enjoy the action of Robert Ludlum, the intensity of Brad Thor and the international intrigue of Daniel Silva, then this book’s for you!

Ex-British Special Forces soldier Thomas Gunn is drawn back into his old life of international intrigue and danger following the murder of his billionaire father. The deeper he digs the more complicated the puzzle becomes until he finds himself working for MI5 uncovering a global conspiracy that puts the freedom of the western world at grave risk. His girlfriend Julie becomes his accomplice surprising him with her loyalty, strength of character and physical prowess.

While traversing the globe being shot at, shot down and losing loved ones – a haunting question tears at his soul – was his father really at the heart of this evil conspiracy? Or was he a pawn in a larger more insidious game that even he could not control?

Seeking the final answer could cost Thomas dearly, ripping from him all that he most loves and cherishes and leaving him questioning his past, his future and what kind of person he is or wants to become. The final outcome depends on him. Or does it?

As a former Captain of Britain’s elite Parachute Regiment and son of an MI6 operative the author brings his own unique and eye-opening experiences to the character and exploits of Thomas Gunn, as well as an unsettling blurring of the lines between fiction and reality when exploring the ruthless abuse of power and position for personal gain.

“… The Orange Moon Affair is timely, eye-opening, fast-paced … you will find you want to turn the next page, and the next page, and the next … the first of the Thomas Gunn series … you don’t want to miss them!”  5 Stars, Remy Benoit.

“Would make a great movie … riveting, thrilling and exciting … if you haven’t read it, you are missing out on one of the best books in the genre.”  5 Stars. Rarebird1.