When Angels Weep
By Ray Drayton
“Great follow on from ‘Escape From Bosnia.’ Very well written, very clear story line.
Great to have the same characters. The author is so good at describing the scenery and the action, making you feel you are there.”
Synopsis:
“Really Charles, it would be better for all concerned.” Peter Ramsay offers Charles Mounsey a brandy balloon of French Cognac. “Special Branch will continue maintaining surveillance at Thorncroft Hall, of course.” The M16 Officer allows himself a petulant grimace before continuing. “However, should the boys from The Balkans be determined to get at you, they will. Special Branch or no Special Branch.” He buries his nose into the brandy balloon, savouring the aroma. “You of all people know how fanatical they can be.”
The former SAS Colonel was fully aware of the inherent risks of being exposed to a Bosnian hit team. Peter Ramsay was right. They are fanatics who don’t mind if they die in the process. ‘Let the bastards come. I will be ready for them.’
He feels his fierce determination waver when his beautiful wife’s image flashes before his eyes. ‘No Caroline, my darling. I cannot risk exposing you to the Bosnians. M16 is right, our time in England may well be coming to an end.’…
The Head Groundsman at Thorncroft Hall shakes with silent mirth. Part of stringent security alert requires Charles Mounsey’s car to be checked daily for sabotage. Staff Sergeant Bob McKenzie, formally of ‘D’ Squadron SAS is the logical choice to assume responsibility for security checks. But he isn’t. His real name is Dubravko Rastic of Bosnian parents raised in Bradford.
The stringent checks vetted upon him when he joined Special Branch were not stringent enough.
Charles opens the car door and places his brief case on the rear seat in preparation for his drive to London. His mind is on matters of the day and he doesn’t notice minute offcuts of wire and insulation tape on the floor by the driver’s seat. The ignition key is between the first and second click when a sense of foreboding engulfs him. In his mind Charles frantically tries to over ride his reflexes to start the engine. But it is too late – everything is too late…
I feel an icy blast of cold air when the Loadmasters open the tailgate. The C130 Hercules aircraft has reached our jumping altitude of 31,000 feet. The engine noise in the fuselage is horrific as a ‘Loadie’ holds up a word card telling me to stand up and prepare to be harnessed.
Like an automaton, I stand in front of Manny, one of the SAS jump team, in readiness to be clipped onto him. I am employed by M16 to guide an SAS hit team to a remote chateau in the Slovenian Alps to eradicate one of the most wanted mass murderers in the Balkans. The SAS have promised to look after me in the air. Then it is up to me to guide them to the lair of this vile monster.
The draft of cold air has turned into a howling gale as we shuffle along the tail ramp. Another of the SAS men comes forward, standing directly in front of me and gripping my shoulders tightly. His eyes smile behind the oxygen mask, indicating he will be our jumpmaster and despatch us before the rest of them jump behind us. He pulls Manny and I forward on our toes while I mouth the word ‘Ready’ into my oxygen mask.
It all happens quickly. I stare at my feet. There is nothing under them, then the slipstream hits us. It feels as though we are laying on a slab of concrete. I scream insanely into my mask as Manny rolls us over into the Freefall Position.
“We came out stable! We didn’t spin!! Thanks Manny!”
Now I peer down through endless darkness. 30,000 feet below us is Slovenia – and the man we were coming to get…
“You injured yourself skiing?” Maria asks while I wander around her art gallery at Bellagio on Lake Como.
“Yes, I took a fall up at Cortina d’ Ampezzo.” I reply, sticking to my cover story. The Italian ski resort was in the Dolomites. In the meantime, M16 have dumped me at lake Como to rest up and recover from my injuries. I can’t help thinking they wanted me out of the way until the heat died down.
“I am happy to help in the art gallery if you don’t mind a one armed Curator.” I say in reference to the advertisement in the window for a casual worker.
“Benne, that is fantastico.” Maria looks at my sodden appearance after I was caught in a shower of rain en route from the M16 safe house. “Use this towel to dry yourself.” She gets me a hot cup of coffee. “We often get sudden showers travelling across the Lake from the Alps.” Maria smiles. ”Local legend tells of it as When Angels Weep.”
“It should be me crying, not the Angels. I was the one who got wet.”
“Si Roberto, si.” Maria giggles, “now you have experienced the legend for yourself.” She leads me towards a large oil painting. “Comprehendo?”
It is a beautiful piece of artwork showing three angels suspended above Lake Como displaying sad expressions. When I look closer, their tears fall into the lake. In the background, thunderous clouds amidst turmoil in the heavens vent their anger on mortal souls below. The powerful scene mesmerizes me, making me feel in awe of its presence. “This is called, When Angels Weep?”
“Si, it is.” Maria answers quietly. “It is also my favourite work.”
“Did you paint this?”
“Si,” She answers simply. “So now you understand the Legend.”
I understand both the Legend and talent of the diminutive Italian woman standing beside me. But a persistent voice in my head warns me there is more to it than that…
The former SAS Colonel was fully aware of the inherent risks of being exposed to a Bosnian hit team. Peter Ramsay was right. They are fanatics who don’t mind if they die in the process. ‘Let the bastards come. I will be ready for them.’
He feels his fierce determination waver when his beautiful wife’s image flashes before his eyes. ‘No Caroline, my darling. I cannot risk exposing you to the Bosnians. M16 is right, our time in England may well be coming to an end.’…
The Head Groundsman at Thorncroft Hall shakes with silent mirth. Part of stringent security alert requires Charles Mounsey’s car to be checked daily for sabotage. Staff Sergeant Bob McKenzie, formally of ‘D’ Squadron SAS is the logical choice to assume responsibility for security checks. But he isn’t. His real name is Dubravko Rastic of Bosnian parents raised in Bradford.
The stringent checks vetted upon him when he joined Special Branch were not stringent enough.
Charles opens the car door and places his brief case on the rear seat in preparation for his drive to London. His mind is on matters of the day and he doesn’t notice minute offcuts of wire and insulation tape on the floor by the driver’s seat. The ignition key is between the first and second click when a sense of foreboding engulfs him. In his mind Charles frantically tries to over ride his reflexes to start the engine. But it is too late – everything is too late…
I feel an icy blast of cold air when the Loadmasters open the tailgate. The C130 Hercules aircraft has reached our jumping altitude of 31,000 feet. The engine noise in the fuselage is horrific as a ‘Loadie’ holds up a word card telling me to stand up and prepare to be harnessed.
Like an automaton, I stand in front of Manny, one of the SAS jump team, in readiness to be clipped onto him. I am employed by M16 to guide an SAS hit team to a remote chateau in the Slovenian Alps to eradicate one of the most wanted mass murderers in the Balkans. The SAS have promised to look after me in the air. Then it is up to me to guide them to the lair of this vile monster.
The draft of cold air has turned into a howling gale as we shuffle along the tail ramp. Another of the SAS men comes forward, standing directly in front of me and gripping my shoulders tightly. His eyes smile behind the oxygen mask, indicating he will be our jumpmaster and despatch us before the rest of them jump behind us. He pulls Manny and I forward on our toes while I mouth the word ‘Ready’ into my oxygen mask.
It all happens quickly. I stare at my feet. There is nothing under them, then the slipstream hits us. It feels as though we are laying on a slab of concrete. I scream insanely into my mask as Manny rolls us over into the Freefall Position.
“We came out stable! We didn’t spin!! Thanks Manny!”
Now I peer down through endless darkness. 30,000 feet below us is Slovenia – and the man we were coming to get…
“You injured yourself skiing?” Maria asks while I wander around her art gallery at Bellagio on Lake Como.
“Yes, I took a fall up at Cortina d’ Ampezzo.” I reply, sticking to my cover story. The Italian ski resort was in the Dolomites. In the meantime, M16 have dumped me at lake Como to rest up and recover from my injuries. I can’t help thinking they wanted me out of the way until the heat died down.
“I am happy to help in the art gallery if you don’t mind a one armed Curator.” I say in reference to the advertisement in the window for a casual worker.
“Benne, that is fantastico.” Maria looks at my sodden appearance after I was caught in a shower of rain en route from the M16 safe house. “Use this towel to dry yourself.” She gets me a hot cup of coffee. “We often get sudden showers travelling across the Lake from the Alps.” Maria smiles. ”Local legend tells of it as When Angels Weep.”
“It should be me crying, not the Angels. I was the one who got wet.”
“Si Roberto, si.” Maria giggles, “now you have experienced the legend for yourself.” She leads me towards a large oil painting. “Comprehendo?”
It is a beautiful piece of artwork showing three angels suspended above Lake Como displaying sad expressions. When I look closer, their tears fall into the lake. In the background, thunderous clouds amidst turmoil in the heavens vent their anger on mortal souls below. The powerful scene mesmerizes me, making me feel in awe of its presence. “This is called, When Angels Weep?”
“Si, it is.” Maria answers quietly. “It is also my favourite work.”
“Did you paint this?”
“Si,” She answers simply. “So now you understand the Legend.”
I understand both the Legend and talent of the diminutive Italian woman standing beside me. But a persistent voice in my head warns me there is more to it than that…