Clay Vernon swung from the bar before pulling himself up and down fifty times. The facilities in this gymnasium were second to none and he enjoyed the feeling of fresh blood pulsating around his body as he exercised. Next he moved onto the weights. Lifting a meaty looking barbell weighing several kilograms above his head, Clay knelt down and rose forty times before laying the implement down. Standing erect he stretched his tensed muscles as the sweat ran freely down his sculptured body. A six pack graced his abdomen and well oiled muscles, his shoulders, arms and legs. Clay was a powerhouse and exercised every morning before work. In his line of work definitely worked to his advantage.
Clay Vernon worked for Clydesdale Fire Department as a fully
fledged fireman. He had been with the service for ten years and enjoyed the
life. The long, often interminable pauses between fires and other accidents,
and then the adrenalin, pulsing rush to the scene and the ensuing incident.
Clay had held injured people in his strong arms, helped rip metalwork apart and
climbed wobbling ladders to reach people trapped inside burning buildings. It
was all part of the job.
After he had showered and dressed in his uniform, Clay made
his way down to the fire station. He was on duty from o nine hundred to
seventeen hundred, unless some tragedy intervened; then he would stay on and
aid the evening crew until the situation had been remedied.
Walking in through the main door he punched his time card; as
he made to place it in the slot on the board, he noticed a piece of paper
sticking out. It had his name on it. Opening it, he read that he had to report
to the Fire Chief as soon as he arrived. Putting the letter into his pocket he
wondered to himself the reason for the summons. There hadn’t been any problems
in his shifts and with the close proximity of the gymnasium to the fire station
he was very rarely late getting to work.
“Ah, Clay. Come in and sit down,” said Fire Chief Glen
Hadley, as Clay knocked on the office door. “Thanks for coming to see me so
promptly.”
Clay sat down opposite Glen’s desk. “Your note sounded sort
of serious, Glen,” said Clay glancing down at the chief’s desk, as if a clue to
his summons was there.
“Oh, relax. It’s not a reprimand,” Glen growled good
naturedly. “You are to be honoured, you big lunk!”
“Honoured! For what?” gasped Clay.
“You remember that kiddie you pulled from the burning house
in Malt Street ,
last month?”
“Yes, I remember. How is the wee soul? Did she make it?”
Clay asked. He had visited the hospital a couple of times with sweets for
little nine year old Alice Stormont, but each time, the child had been in an
artificially induced coma due to the second degree burns that had been
inflicted on her body.
“Alice
came out of the coma two days ago and her parents want to reward you!” Glen
blurted out.
“But, Chief, it was all of the team, not just me!” Clay
said, defensively. “The station should be rewarded, not just me!”
“Your modesty becomes you, Clay, but the rest of the guys
and I want you to receive the accolade, for the good of the station.”
Two weeks later Clay in full uniform stood on a platform
next to Clydesdale’s dignitaries that included John Pearson, the mayor and
received the Medal of Honour, the highest award granted to a fireman. A large
audience, that included Clay’s mother, father and other relations filled the
hall and as the medal was pinned on by the mayor, rose to their feet clapping.
It was a wonderful moment for Clay and one that he would never forget.
Afterwards at the civic reception that had been put on by
the town, Clay was the centre of attention. He stood next to Alice Stormont’s
parents and chatted with them.
“Alice
is getting better now, Mr Stormont?” Clay enquired.
“Yes and its Bill, Clay. If it is ok for me use your name?”
Mr Stormont replied.
“Thanks to you,” said Mrs Stormont gratefully.
The mayor suddenly appeared with two cigar smoking
gentlemen. “Clay!” he said loudly. “I want you to meet a couple of the town’s
old worthies.”
Turning to the Stormonts, Clay shook both their hands and
said, “Will you excuse me please?”
As Mr Stormont turned away, he reached over and shoved an
envelope into Clay’s pocket. “Something for you, Clay,” he whispered
enigmatically and moved away.
After that the day just vanished into conversations with
various people, drinking toasts and eating the beautifully cut sandwiches that
had been provided by the catering staff.
It was not until he had returned to his flat, tired but very
happy, that he remembered the envelope that Mr Stormont had given him. Ripping
open the envelope he found a blue coloured ticket inside. It was notification
of a two week fully paid holiday for one at the Hotel Riga on the shores of the
Krasian Sea
The Krasian
Sea Russia , but offering a safe haven
from the political intrigues of the surrounding land. Clay knew that Fezekyzan
was a virtual playground for the idle rich and privileged. It would be a holiday
of a lifetime for him, but – he could not accept it.
The next day he went to see Glen and showed him what the
Stormonts had given him. Glen’s eyes widened as he read all the material Clay
had got off the Internet regarding Fezekyzan. “It’s a virtual paradise, Clay”
said Glen looking up at the fireman.
“I think that the holiday should be raffled,” Clay said
decisively. “I wouldn’t feel right taking it.”
“Well, personally, I think you should, because I already
knew, Bill Stormont told me. And I have spoken to the crews and they all think
that you should take it. Go on Clay, cut yourself some slack. Accept the holiday,
you deserve it.” Glen said.
The flight to Fezekyzan was very involved. Clay left from
Heathrow and four hours later, arrived in Norway ’s airport, Bodo. From there
he flew by a two engined aircraft to Surgut
and then onto Yemelyanovo, both airports in Russia , landing at Yemelyanovo in a
blizzard. Welcome to Russia ,
thought Clay, as he made his way down the steps from his aircraft. I hope Fezekyzan
is warmer than this!
As Clay waited for his final ‘hop’ to Fezekyzan, he looked
about at some of his travelling companions. Most of them looked like Russians,
their strong features and distinctive clothes made them stand out. Several had
suitcases and others, cardboard boxes tied with string. They all chatted with
each other as the aircraft destined for Fezekyzan was fuelled. Clay felt quite
out of the groups of people due to his almost negligible knowledge of the
language. He had bought a tourist’s phrase book for Russia , but knew that different
dialects existed within Russia
and they tended to speak their own version of the Russian language.
Closing his eyes, Clay relaxed, but for some unknown reason
was suddenly conscious of being under scrutiny. Partially opening his eyelids
he scanned those about him without moving his head. He could see two women on
their mobile phones. They were standing next to a man who had a very long
beard, who was engrossed in his newspaper. A couple were handing out sandwiches
to two of their children, who were wailing and waving their arms. Once they had
received their food, peace reigned again. Then, Clay caught sight of his
observers. Two men both dressed in dusty looking clothes stood by a stand
selling tea and coffee. They were pretending to look elsewhere, but their eyes
always came back to Clay. They looked a wild pair and Clay hoped that he wasn’t
going to be the victim of a mugging.
“Flight 567 to Fezekyzan!” came over the tannoy and Clay and
his fellow travellers got wearily to their feet and began shuffling towards the
departure gate, where they produced their tickets and passports. Clay turned
round to see if his observers were following, but he could see no sign of them.
As the aeroplane touched down in Fezekyzan’s airport, Clay
could see the blue sky and white clouds through the aircraft’s windows. When
the stewardess opened the door for the passengers to deplane, Clay could feel
the intense heat wafting up the aisle. As he stepped from the plane it was like
stepping into an oven.
The travellers headed for the passport control building,
where they formed long lines as they waited to be seen. Clay looked about to
see if he had anyone watching him, but everyone seemed to be only interested in
themselves or their families and friends.
“What is the purpose of your trip to Fezekyzan, sir?” asked
a dark haired, swarthy looking uniformed official, looking at Clay’s passport
suspiciously.
“I’m here for a holiday,” replied Clay good naturedly. “Your
country looks beautiful.”
“Thank you sir,” replied the man automatically. As he
returned Clay’s passport to him he looked across the hall and gave a slight nod
of his head. “Have a lovely holiday,” he said, returning his gaze to Clay.
Collecting his two suitcases from the luggage area, Clay
made his way to the way out of the airport. He had decided to pay for a taxi to
Hotel Riga. It would be a grand way to start his holiday. He couldn’t wait to
get to the hotel, unpack and then chill out.
“Sir! Sir!” came a cry from behind him and Clay turned to
see two men rushing towards him. Although they were dressed totally differently
from the two at Yemelyanovo, he instinctively knew that all four were in league
with one another. Turning quickly, Clay broke into a run towards the exit from
the airport, eager to be in a taxi and away from these possible muggers.
All went well as Clay totally outdistanced his pursuers due
to his stamina and well exercised muscles; that was until a lady’s little dog
ran in front of Clay and tripped him up. With an almighty bang, Clay crashed
into a large floral display and cracked his head. His last thought before
lapsing into unconsciousness was; I hope that I took out enough travel
insurance – I may need it!
When Clay came to he found that his hands and feet were tied
and he lay in a darkened room. His luggage lay next to him. He could hear two
voices arguing and slowly he began to recall all what happened to him. Although
the first two men he noticed watching him hadn’t come on the aircraft, they had
obviously contacted the other pair to await his arrival. But, what could they
want? thought Clay. It can’t be a simple mugging, it was too involved.
The door of the room opened to admit one of the men who had
chased Clay in the airport. The man looked down at Clay and uttered something
in Russian. He stood waiting expecting an answer, but Clay hadn’t a clue what
he had said.
“I am a British citizen and I wish you to release me right
away!” shouted Clay angrily.
“Ahh, you are talking in English,” hissed the man. “Well, so
be it. We know why you have come to Fezekyzan and we are here to stop you.”
“Look, I don’t know what you are on about. I am on holiday.
All I want to do is lie on the beach and get a tan!” Clay pleaded.
“Very good Rachmael. You are very convincing, but we know
you are here under an assumed name and passport. Admit it!” the man grunted.
“Honestly, my name is Clay Vernon and I am here on holiday!”
Clay blurted out, suddenly afraid.
There was a shout and the other man entered the room. He
shouted something in Russian and the man standing over Clay, stepped back in
shock. Both men began jabbering away, every so often pointing at Clay. All at
once they were silent and both turned towards him. “We seem to have made a
mistake,” began the man who had originally been speaking to Clay. “You are not
who we thought you were.”
“I told you so,” said Clay. “Now untie me and return me to
my hotel and we’ll say no more about this.”
Both men looked at each other sheepishly and began to walk
towards the door.
“Don’t go!” shouted Clay. “Let me go and I won’t tell a soul
about this, I promise!”
The door of the room shut leaving Clay in the dark once
again.
Left alone, Clay began to work on his bonds. Although his
hands were tied behind his back, he was able to pull his tied hands over his
feet and bring the bonds to his front. Now he began to worry the knots with his
teeth and very soon the restraints began to loosen. All at once Clay’s hands
were free and instantly he began to untie the ropes around his ankles. Eventually,
Clay was able to stand up and massage the blood back into his hands and feet.
Now to attempt to escape from wherever he was being held. Clay suddenly heard a
noise in the next room. It sounded like the men had returned. Looking about him
he saw that apart from a chair and his two cases, the room was empty. Heaving
the chair above his head Clay went and stood behind the door and waited. Soon,
the door swung open and someone entered. Quick as a flash, Clay brought the
chair down on the figure, knocking him to the floor. The first person was
followed by the second man who Clay punched hard on the chin and felled him to
the ground. Now Clay had ‘the whip hand’ and was totally in charge of the
situation.
Finding a light switch, Clay switched it on, flooding the
darkened room with light. Before the men regained consciousness, Clay tied them
both up. Both men were dressed in dark clothes and wore western type trainers
on their feet. They looked like real hard cases and Clay was glad that he had
managed to immobilise them.
As the men awoke, they both looked at Clay with respect.
They knew that the big man was strong and although they had been the captors
originally, now they were the captured.
“Right,” said Clay. “Which one of you is going to explain?”
The first man who had originally questioned Clay spoke up:
“My name is Achmed, I only speak English. We were alerted to your arrival, but
you were mistaken for another.”
“Who was I mistaken for?” Clay demanded.
“Rachmael Glych,” grunted the man.
“And who is he?” Clay asked.
The man went silent for a few minutes and then said: “He is
an assassin.”
Clay looked down at the man. “And who is he here to kill?”
“Our beloved King Dmitri,” replied the man and then hung his
head.
What Clay learned from Achmed was that Fezekyzan was ruled
by King Ivan and his queen, Natasha. The royal couple had a little boy called
Dmitri, who they both loved dearly. Sadly both parents were killed in a skiing
accident leaving the little prince to be made king. Due to his tender age of
eleven, Dimitri’s uncle Arkady was made regent, to rule until Dimitri came of
age and took over the kingdom. Uncle Arkady was a proud and very status
conscious individual and rumours began to circulate about Arkady’s desire to be
a permanent monarch, which he could only achieve if something untoward happened
to Dimitri.
So, a league of supporters was forged to protect the young
king. They were infiltrated into the palace and royal buildings to be on hand
should there be an assassination attempt. Many of Dimitri’s followers were to
be found haunting railway stations, local streets and airports. Information was
sent to them regarding the descriptions of would be assassins and ‘hired guns’.
They had received news that Rachmael Glych had been approached by factions loyal
to Arkady to assassinate young Dimitri and the league had been on standby. This
was why Clay had been mistaken for Rachmael as both were very well built and
tall.
Once the explanation had been given Clay released both the
men. After shaking both men’s hands, he went over and picked up his suitcases.
“Could you organise a trip to the Hotel Riga for me, guys?” he asked as he made
his way to the door.
After a taxi had been called, Clay stood by Achmed and
reaching into his pocket pulled out a piece of paper and a pen. “Here’s where
I’m staying Achmed. If I can do anything to help over the next two weeks,
contact me.”
Achmed laughed:” I think you would want to see the back of
us and settle down to enjoy your holiday. Sorry, once again, for delaying you.”
Clay looked out the back of the taxi as it pulled away. Both
Achmed and the other man stood silently, both had a serious look on their
faces. Rachmael could already be here in Fezekyzan, thought Clay bitterly. I
hope they recognise him next time.
The Hotel Riga was beautiful. No expense had been spared
with the building. Marble, lapis lazuli and jet decorated its front; and
inside, it was palatial. Clay signed the register and was escorted to his room,
which overlooked the Triumphant
Square , a large open area where parades were held.
It was a lovely room and Clay knew that he would be happy there.
For the first couple of days, Clay sat at the side of the
hotel’s pool and drank soft drinks. He had bought a couple of paperbacks at
Heathrow and intended to read as he soaked up the sunshine before exploring the
neighbourhood.
The following day he went on an organised bus tour, visiting
churches, monasteries and other religious centres. It was very educational and
it gave him a chance to meet up with other ‘Brits’ who were holidaying there.
Towards the end of the first week, Clay went scuba diving in
the Krasian Sea
The next day he decided to tour the royal palace. Joining a
bus tour organised by the hotel, Clay was soon winding his way, with other
tourists, through high ceilinged halls and exotically furnished rooms within
the palace. As ever a fireman, he checked for escape routes from the building
and was pleased to see a wrought iron fire escape attached to the outside wall.
In one of the antechamber he saw pictures of the late king and queen. Their
pictures were bedecked with black crepe. Next to them there hung a picture of
the current king, Dimitri. Clay thought that he was a fine looking boy with an
eager friendly smile on his face. Alongside the young king’s portrait, hung a
picture of the regent, Uncle Arkady. Clay saw nothing except jealousy and
avarice on his face and gave a shudder as he turned away.
On Saturday the weather changed and Clay was unable to go
sight seeing for several hours due to an electrical storm. He watched the
forked lightning dancing on the surface of the sea and listened to the loud
roars as the thunder growled.
Soon, it was over and the land dried up as the temperature
rose. Grabbing his towel and paperback, Clay went down to the hotel’s pool and
lay and read till the sky began to darken into evening.
Returning to his room to take a shower and dress for dinner,
Clay was surprised to see his hotel room door ajar. He was sure he had locked
it before leaving, but now it was open. Pushing the door he entered the room
and found someone covered with blood sprawled face down on his bed. Upon Clay
turning him over, he realised it was Achmed and he had been badly injured.
“Aaah!” groaned Achmed. “You must help us. Rachmael is here
in Fezekyzan and we have information that he will attempt to assassinate the
young king tonight.” The man’s eyes closed and he lapsed into unconsciousness.
Clay rushed over to his bathroom to get a wet cloth to bathe his injuries.
Gently, he bathed the man’s head and as he did Achmed’s eyes
flickered open.
“Have you managed to get a message to the rest of your
followers?” asked Clay urgently.
“No, there was no time. Rachmael was waiting for Ali and me
when we left our dwelling house. Ali is dead and I just managed to escape,”
blurted out Achmed.
“Where is the king at present?” asked Clay.
“He is in the palace tonight. Tomorrow he is intending to go
on a tour of the country,” replied Achmed. “You must get to him and warn him.”
Clay crept through the darkened streets towards the palace.
There was no one about at that time of the night and he hoped that he would not
be challenged as he approached the royal building. Dashing from one shadowy
area to the next, he managed to approach the palace wall unnoticed.
Looking up he saw the ladder that hung from the bottom of the
fire escape was still ten feet up in the air. He realised that he would have to
jump for it, so checking up and down the road, he stepped back about six feet
and then suddenly ran and jumped as high as he could. His first attempt failed
with his finger tips just brushing the bottom of the ladder, but his second
jump allowed him to grab the bottom rung of the ladder and then pull himself
up. Quickly he ascended the fire escape, ever mindful of making as little noise
as he could.
Eventually he reached the top floor area and carefully
looked through one of the windows. He was looking into a very sumptuous
bedroom, which was decorated in gold and jet. Someone was lying in the bed and
Clay reckoned it was the young king based on his slight form beneath the blankets.
Now Clay didn’t know what to do! Did he knock on the window, possibly scaring
the young man who would immediately call for his bodyguards and have him
arrested? How did he, Clay, know that what Achmed had said was true?
Suddenly the door of the room was thrown open and someone
entered. Clay could not make out a lot, but, he saw what light there was, glint
off what looked like a knife!
The person approached the sleeping form in the bed and
raised the knife above their head.
Instantly Clay started banging on the window in an attempt
to warn the sleeper. The figure turned and Clay saw that the person was dressed
in black and had an evil scowl on his face. This had to be Rachmael, thought
Clay. I must stop him!
Turning round, Clay swung his elbow at the glass, smashing
it, before he jumped through and into the room. Rolling on the floor, brought
Clay to the foot of the bed and without a thought, he flung himself at, who he
thought, was Rachmael. Grabbing the would-be assassin’s arms, Clay swung him
away from the bed and onto the floor of the room. The knife fell from the man’s
hand and slid under the bed. Clay leapt on the man and began to pummel him with
his fists. At first the man lay dazed under the onslaught, but he seemed to
regain his strength and began to fight back, crying out as he did so: “Nydal!
Sascan! Get in here!”
Two more people entered the room and turning round, Clay saw
Dimitri sitting up in the bed with a look of fear on his face.
“Quick, your highness!” shouted Clay.” Get out of the window
and down the fire escape. These men are here to kill you!” But the young man
seemed frozen with terror and unable to make a move.
Turning back, Clay swung his fist at one of the approaching
men, catching him in the face. He fell back into the path of the other men and
they both joined Rachmael on the floor.
Taking the opportunity of surprise, Clay reached over and
gripping Dimitri by the wrist pulled him from the bed and forced him out of the
bedroom onto a landing. Pulling the bedroom door behind him, Clay managed to
hold the door shut. There was no key, so he couldn’t lock it. Behind him, he
heard Dimitri speaking to someone and swinging round saw another man
approaching the young king, holding a knife.
“Uncle! Some men have tried to kill me!” shouted Dimitri and
Clay realised that the man was Arkady.
“Yes, I know, for it was upon my orders that they did so!”
hissed Arkady.
“But, why Uncle? You are supposed to be protecting me!”
Dimitri pleaded.
Just at that moment Clay released the door and Rachmael burst
out of the bedroom. Holding his knife by the tip, he swung it back over his
shoulder and prepared to throw it. Clay leapt towards Dimitri and threw him to
the floor, just as Rachmael’s knife flew through the air and buried itself in-
Uncle Arkady’s chest. The man instantly collapsed and his knife landed close to
where Dimitri and Clay lay. Picking it up Clay stood in front of Dimitri facing
an aghast Rachmael. He had inadvertently killed the wrong person and now he
would be hunted as a murderer. Turning about, all three men raced back into the
royal bed chamber, out of the window onto the fire escape and made their escape
into the night.
The noise of the struggle had brought the guards from the
lower floors. Clay was seized and held as the young king was helped to his feet
by two of his servants.
“Release that man,” said Dimitri to the guards who held
Clay.”He saved my life!”
Later that night Clay was escorted to the young king’s
drawing room. He had been treated with kindness and had had his superficial wounds
seen to by a doctor.
Entering the room Clay saw Dimitri sitting behind a large
oak table.
“Now, sir,” said the young king. “Would you like to join me
for a cup of tea and explain how you managed to be outside of my bedroom window
at precisely the right time to rescue me?”
Several guards stood around the room in case there should be
any more assassination attempts.
Uncle Arkady’s body had been removed and troops sent out to
scour the town for Rachmael and his men.
After Clay had explained the situation that had occurred,
bringing the plans for the assassination to his ears, Dimitri dispatched
soldiers and a doctor to the Hotel Riga to attend to Achmed’s injuries.
The next day, Clay and a heavily bandaged Achmed attended a
private celebration organised by King Dimitri, to honour his saviours. Both men
were awarded medals and a large sum of money for their bravery.
After the ceremony Dimitri took Clay aside. “I have a
personal request to make of you,” and the king inclined his head and whispered
something in Clay’s ear. Clay thought about it and then nodded his head: “It
would be a great honour, your highness.”
Now, when visitors arrive at the Royal Palace
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