Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

It was a week later.  Balls stood at the open window of the 22nd floor office in the tall building in Vancouver’s Olympic Village that, while doubling as a condominium complex, also housed the Service’s Station K.  BC Place glowed progressively from green to blue to purple to red and back again.  The Science Centre lights twinkled on False Creek.

He picked up a black telephone from the row of four.

‘Duty officer’

‘Station H sir.’

‘Put them on.’

There was an echoing buzz and twang of the usual bad connection to Hong Kong.  Why was it always so bad?  Damn Chinese hackers! A voice asked, ‘Universal Exports?’

‘Yes’

A deep voice – London – said, ‘You’re through to Hong Kong. Speak up please.’

Balls impatiently replied, ‘Clear the line.’

A new voice spoke, ‘ Dickson here.  Can you hear me?’

‘Yes’

‘I’m going to need that shipment of mangoes by the tenth.’

‘Got it.  Thanks.’

The thought of the hot, humid, and tiny apartment in the Wan Chai district where Dickson was operating from made him glad he was pulling night duty in Station K.  He never liked being up against the Chinese.  There were too many of them.  So far, the work had been steady and quiet.  Bridget’s death was hurriedly covered up and explained as an accidental overdose of pills prescribed by her doctor for exhaustion.  The doctor had been made to comply and it was all placed in a Christmas box with a gold bow on it. Goodell had left town and there was nothing tying him to the murder.  Not surprisingly, there was no evidence left in Balls’ suite.

The red phone rang.  ‘Come to my office’

‘Yes sir.’

M had decided to take a holiday in Canada but, as he was M, he was never far from the office and checked in from time to time. ‘Sit down.’

Balls did so.

‘Quiet night?’ M had got his vaping pipe going.  His hard, healthy eyes regarded Balls attentively.

‘Pretty quiet, sir.  Station H…’

M raised his left hand an inch or two.  ‘Never mind.  I’ll read it on the log.  Here, I’ll take it.’  Balls handed over the Top Secret folder and M put it to the side. ‘Things change, Balls.  I’m taking you off night duty for the present.’

Balls’ answering smile was taut.  He felt the quickening of the pulse and the anticipation of what lay ahead.  M had something for him.  He said, ‘I was just getting into it, sir.’

‘Quite.  You’ll have plenty of opportunities later on.  Something’s come up.  Odd business.  Not really your line except for one particular angle which’ – M jerked his pipe sideways in a throwaway gesture – ‘may not be an angle at all.’  Balls said nothing. ‘Had dinner with the head of the Premier League before I left.  One’s always hearing something new.  At least this was new to me.  Sports – the seamy side of the stuff.  Payoffs, suitcases, all that.  Hadn’t occurred to me that the Premier League knew so much about crooks.  Suppose it should have with so many Russian owners.’

Balls said nothing but his interest was waning.  English teams had not been competitive in the Champions League for years and the Premier League had been taking the blame. Morale in the country was low and it seemed that all anyone had energy for was to fight amongst themselves.  The League had been trying to protect itself.  As long as the domestic picture looked bright, no one at the League cared if English teams failed abroad.  Balls snapped out of his reverie and focused on M’s words.

‘Now, it appears that the League is fighting a battle on two fronts.  The first threat comes from rich Americans buying football teams in the Premier League.  The second comes from the threat – no, I should not say that – promise of an American football team permanently playing in London.  The Prime Minister is convinced that the destruction of the Premier League from within combined with the rise of the NFL will soon turn the nation’s youth into fat morons.

At least fatter and dumber than they already are.  As you can see, this is a threat to our national security.  The common thread is the Americans’ National Football League and its commissioner Roger Goodell.’

Balls laughed.  He did not mean to, and quickly apologized.

‘What’s so bloody funny?’

Balls told him the story, leaving nothing out. M’s face cleared.  He listened with all his attention, leaning forward across the desk. When Balls was finished, M sat back in his chair.  He said, ‘Well, well….well’ on a diminishing scale.  He put his hands behind his head and gazed at the ceiling.  Balls could feel the laughter coming on again.  He was brought back sharply by M’s next words.

‘What happened to the twenty five thousand?’

‘Used it to pay for the funeral cost, sir.’

‘Really!  She had money.  Why not to the White Cross?’

The White Cross Fund was for the families of Service men and women that were killed on duty.

‘Sorry, sir.’  Balls was not prepared to argue that one.

M had never approved of Balls’ womanizing.  He decided to let it pass.  He said, ‘Well, that’s all for now.  Funny about Goodell.  Odd chap.  Seen him once or twice at events.  He’s the chap the League is after.’  M paused.  He looked mildly across the table at Balls. ‘ As of this moment, so are you.’

to be continued…