Orchard Capital Sin

1. Auflage 2024
ISBN: 978-1-83615-016-9
Verlag: Grosvenor House Publishing
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, 356 Seiten

Two people in a high-stakes race against time; and against the odds. Stephanie's father is murdered trying to stop the global crime group that has been getting away with murder, and billions, for decades. A stranger, Ben, in the wrong place at the wrong time, is dragged into the conflict when trying to save Stephanie's father. But is his appearance really a coincidence? To save themselves and everything dear to them, Stephanie and Ben must join forces against the crime group on a perilous journey around the world to avenge her father's death. They must outsmart a strong and ruthless enemy, capture the evidence to destroy the group before its greed brings the world's financial system to its knees. They have to avoid being killed, learn to kill, and to depend upon each other. The clock is ticking on their breathless race around the world.

John Orchard will be donating the profit from sales of copies of this book to charity, primarily, but not exclusively, to the one he works for: Nourish Community Foodbank, https://www.nourishcommunityfoodbank.org.uk/The other is a UK cancer charity.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Orchard, John

Leseproben

Chapter One
Ben lost himself in the bright Zurich morning as he gazed out of the conference room’s tall windows. A plane, high up, invisible but for its vapour trail in the clear blue sky, drew a taut, white line behind it, signposting its direction on the edge of the earth’s atmosphere. He cleared his mind and focussed on his opening lines. He knew that when he walked to the lectern, the audience of several dozen senior leaders from Global und Mercantil Bank would quieten. They did, and while he waited for them to get comfortable, he made eye contact with every person in the auditorium. ‘Good morning. I’m Ben Mason, and for the next two days I’ll be leading the team to take you through your leadership course. Over these two days, we will share with you some techniques of decision-making and leadership practices used in conflict environments and how you can apply these in your roles within the bank.’ Ben paused and listened for the questioning murmur that floated through the audience. The audience had been briefed on their military history, and the murmur always came when he mentioned conflict environments. ‘Please feel free to ask questions as we go along. Anything you don’t understand, or disagree with, just put your hand up.’ Ben knew that to clear the air early it was essential to provoke the audience. A hand was raised; it always was at this point. ‘Yes, the lady next to that aisle.’ Ben pointed. ‘Can we get her a microphone please?’ ‘Herr Mason, do you honestly believe techniques and decisions made during a war can be applied to a Swiss bank in peace time? Also, how does an ex-soldier understand how we make decisions in our bank?’ Ben patiently listened as assent murmured through the audience. The questioner’s voice sat closer to self-satisfaction than curiosity. ‘It’s a great question, thank you. For some years I was a director of one of your biggest competitors, so I know how a bank works. Before that I was in the army, so I know how that works. I’ve seen military decision-making more beneficially applied within banking than banking techniques being applied to the military.’ Ben could see the questioner was halted by the implied criticism of her profession. ‘Why?’ The questioner was defensive now. ‘Because the stakes are higher in a conflict, so your performance level must also be higher, or you can die. It’s as simple as that. As a leader in GMB, the consequence of poor decision-making is a combination of lower profit or dented professional pride. They’re important, but hardly fatal.’ The slightly chastened questioner mumbled a quiet ‘thank you’ and settled back in her seat. No more hands were raised as Ben continued. ‘First, it will help set the scene if you witness some real examples of decision-making in conflict environments. The following footage is reproduced under licence from the TV channel who included it in one of their documentaries. They made it using British soldiers’ bodycams on a real patrol that I led in Helmand Province, southern Afghanistan, fifteen years ago. We’ve added videos and stills from soldiers’ own mobile phones. They’re more graphic and tell a deeper story than the broadcaster’s. Some of the scenes you’ll see may be distressing. I’m sorry about that, but to be clear, this is not a glorification of war. This is to set the scene for you for the next couple of days. With that, Ben used the lectern’s controls to dim the lights and lower the window blinds. The audio-visual equipment powered-up as a soundtrack began and took the senior leaders of GMB into a different and less comfortable world. For the next ten minutes, Ben and his practised team rotated to narrate and explain what was unfolding in between the stills, the bodycam feeds, and smartphone videos. The images had been taken by Ben’s comrades on that patrol, then slickly edited to produce a gripping depiction of what decision-making in a Helmand conflict environment was like. To the audience, Ben was providing an objective narration for their Leadership Development Course. In reality, he was reliving a difficult history: Ben Mason was playing the character Ben Mason, in a film about Ben Mason. For them, it was projected on a screen; for Ben it was projected in his mind, and the scene on the huge screen was all too familiar to him. * The two camouflaged Jackal armoured vehicles bounced across Helmand’s rough ground, kicking up sand for the scorching wind to spit in their faces. The vehicles’ thick tyres bit into stone and sand, churning up a dust-funnel in their wake. Ben scanned the barren landscape beyond the village as he motioned the driver to slow. The other Jackal, ten metres to their left, slowed in time with them. Ben knew that tearing in there with their own sandstorm wouldn’t win any hearts or minds. Anyway, by now they’d have told the Taliban and the local War Lords, plus those getting rich from opium, or all three. Just depended on who was currently paying the best price for intel on British military movements. The arid heat pressed down remorselessly, sapping life from everything apart from the bloody flies, a fitting back-cloth to one of the most desperate places on earth. He felt the usual awakening as they approached their destination, and his senses welcomed the familiar hit. It’s natural and necessary, he reasoned. Nothing I can do about it even if I wanted to. Ben Mason knew his instincts and capabilities had kept him alive during two tours in Afghanistan. Otherwise, he would be as dead as so many of his colleagues. They had said it would be a straightforward patrol. They had said. The same they who decided to put thousands of boots on the ground, supposedly to handhold post-conflict Afghan reconstruction. Really? They said no detected Taliban activity, opium farmers, or their hired Jihadist fighters for miles around. Supposedly none of the dreaded Green Zones of irrigated wadis whose thick vegetation provided the cover much loved by Taliban fighters. Just an infinity of desolate sun-baked sand and rock. Turning in his seat, Ben gave an enquiring thumbs-up to the other armoured vehicle. Wrapped tightly against the heat and the sand, he received a thumbs-up from his Corporal leading the other Jackal. Ben nodded in acknowledgement as he leaned towards the driver. ‘Put her on top of that mound, Samsy.’ He indicated a small rise thirty metres short of the nearest building. ‘Point us away from the village. I want that 50 cal ready just in case,’ referring to the fifty-millimetre-calibre heavy machinegun mounted on the Jackal’s rear platform. Four years ago, joining the Parachute Regiment had been Ben’s salvation; his only option outside a young offenders’ institution. But the last two years in Helmand had robbed him of any remaining naivety. Too many good people needlessly killed through a lack of accurate intel and inadequate equipment. Their patrol today was to offer ‘compensation’ for a villager allegedly injured by their regiment in a recent Taliban firefight. A village of four or five dozen people who were not just expecting them, but who should have been welcoming them. Yet there was not a soul in sight. Ben trusted his instincts more than he did the Army’s intelligence. The Jackal circled and easily gained the slight slope as it turned to face the way they had come. The other vehicle faced forward, towards the village. Its four infantrymen stood and stretched. ‘Okay, boys. Ferret and Samsy, you’re Bravo One. Stay here with the 50 cal and be ready to go in a hurry if we need to. Smudge, you’re Bravo Two. Take your team and work parallel with us up the right side of these.’ He pointed to the closest buildings. ‘Bravo three,’ informed Ben, with a half-glove thumb jabbing his own chest, ‘we’ll take that main track through the middle. Now remember, on your toes. They said this one will be as close as we’ll ever get to a peacekeeping mission.’ Ironic gallows humour carpeted every word. Sand, the colour of burnt cream, puffed from under their boots as they jumped down, the hot wind hurrying to erase their footprints. Ben wondered if that was a metaphor for how long it would take to erase the impression made by the army of foreign soldiers occupying this land. Giving a thumbs-up to the two soldiers remaining with the vehicle, and slinging weapons in the familiar ready position, the two groups set off on their routes. They picked up the vibe from Ben. No-one to be seen, no sound apart from goats bleating somewhere further up the track. Just heat, dust, and the ever-present wind whistling past the built-in helmet microphones. Ben had learned the hard way that the Taliban were an unconventional enemy. They had two distinct advantages over their better-equipped invaders: They placed a lower value on their own or the enemy’s lives; and they chose the time and place to engage that enemy. This time, they chose to wait until the two teams were out of sight of the Land Rover, and of each other. He heard the fast metallic clang-clang-clang of semi-automatic machine gun fire milliseconds after the first deadly rounds thudded into the stone walls next to them. Internal chaos, as his heart rate shot up and his stomach churned; being shot at was that extreme. Even when you’re expecting it, an attack always comes as a surprise and is still the most frightening experience. Someone you’ve never met hates you so much they want to kill you for a reason you don’t understand. Diving head-first into sand and stones means nothing when fear this strong grips you. Ben forced himself to surface, to swim above the fear. He rode...