Double Cross and Crescent , livre ebook

Double Cross and Crescent
Kristen Kisembuty
Austin Macauley Publishers
2019-05-31
Double Cross and Crescent About the Author About the Book Dedication Copyright Information Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve
About the Author
Kristen Kisembuty, alias Kris Browne (1951-2009), was the son of a Kenyan Chief and a Bavarian Princess whose family was exiled from Kenya after his father was assassinated in the Mau Mau uprising.
He came to Australia in the early seventies and changed his name to Kris Browne because he used to say ‘I’m not black, I’m brown’.
He drove a Bentley and wore huge diamond rings on his fingers. He drafted this manuscript before being diagnosed with a brain tumour. Knowing he was dying in St. Vincent’s Hospice, he gave the manuscript to his friend Tim Leonard.
About the Book
The story of this book is a political deception set in 1984. Russia conspires to trick America into de-stabilizing the Middle East to gain control of the oil. General Yuri Solkov is sent on a top-secret mission to deliver a proposal to the United States government. Blinded by the billions of dollars they are going to make, the United States government accepts the proposal. It is imperative to the Soviet Union that America accepts the proposal, because this will allow them to take over the Straits of Hormuz (the main shipping channel for oil from the Middle East). The President of the United States doesn’t realize he is having a nervous breakdown. He becomes completely irrational and the decisions he makes are dangerous for the country and the world. Russia double crosses the United States of America and Iran. The United States government double crosses the Middle East, Britain, the EEC, and its own people.
Dedication
This book is written by and dedicated to the life and memory of:
His Serene Highness,
Prince Kasimo Josef Franz Friedrich-Wilhelm Maximilian Augustus
K“51” Todemgemsy-Mutwane IV; K&cmbury Todemgentsy-Kamar Baron (Freiherr)
Kress von Kressensiein Baron von Uxhull-Gyllenden.
Copyright Information
Copyright © Kristen Kisembuty (2019)
The right of Kristen Kisembuty to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781528914048 (Paperback)
ISBN 9781528960717 (ePub e-book)
www.austinmacauley.com
First Published (2019)
Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd
25 Canada Square
Canary Wharf
London
E14 5LQ
Chapter One
Yuri Solkov squeezed himself from the small sedan which had brought him to an underground garage in uptown Newark. As he reached into the back for his large attaché case, he spoke for the first time since being collected at Kennedy Airport.
“Wait here for me.”
The driver smirked as his huge passenger made for the elevators. Probably on his way to a girl . These trade officials were always flying down from New York on sex jaunts, the lucky bastards .
He was wrong on both counts. Despite his ill-made garb common to people from the Eastern Block, Solkov was not a trade official, nor had he come from New York in search of pleasure. He had arrived from Moscow on a mission of the utmost importance.
Although he had spent many hours travelling and was feeling the effects of jet lag, Solkov still managed to run an appraising eye over the rows of gleaming automobiles parked in the underground garage. Ah! These Americans! Such luxury, such decadence , he thought as his gaze rested longingly on a bright red Ferrari. As a dutiful Soviet citizen, he gave a sniff of disapproval at such ostentatious extravagance. As a man who loved sleek sports cars, he sighed and calculated how many years’ salary it would take to buy such a machine.
A ‘ping’ from the arriving elevator broke his reverie. He entered and rode up to the mezzanine level. Two women who had been chatting animatedly fell silent and involuntarily stepped back as the doors hissed open to reveal the huge bear-like Russian.
The Russian, in keeping with his race, was a big man but his size was not his most striking feature – his eyes were. They were a pale, almost colourless, blue with unusually small pupils and they seemed to penetrate to the very soul. They were eyes which could not be ignored, yet repelled at the same time. Because of their colouring, they were expressionless, and although he did have a good sense of humour, they never betrayed it. They were the kind of eyes few people dismissed.
Solkov gave a courteous nod and motioned the women to enter the lift which, after a nervous glance at each other, they did. Moving with surprising speed for such a big man, he stepped from the elevator as the doors were closing. He strode along the marbled, high ceiling mezzanine to a bank of elevators at the opposite end of the building, entered one and rode down two levels to an identical underground garage. A long, black limousine stood waiting, its chauffeur holding open a rear door. Solkov drew back as the man went to reach for his attaché case.
“No, thank you. I will keep it by me,” he stated as he climbed into the deep leather seat. Before the man sitting next to him had spoken, Solkov identified him from his KGB dossier. Dale Spencer, 37. Married. No children. Former executive of Orrizi Publications and now executive assistant to Chester Baynen. He was unfaithful to his wife but had no other known weaknesses. Good , the Russian thought to himself. Spencer’s seniority showed there was serious interest in his mission.
The American looked at his suit with amusement as he extended an immaculately groomed hand.
“Good morning, and welcome to the United States of America, General.”
Solkov grasped it with his own huge paw. “Good morning to you, Mr Spencer. At last we meet. I missed you when you were in Copenhagen. I too was in that lovely city but unfortunately in another part.”
A slight narrowing of the fresh-faced American’s eyes told him his point had scored.
Spencer was in the Danish capital but his visit was meant to be top secret.
“Allow me to congratulate you on your excellent English, General. I believe your German is as fluent and also your old French,” he reposted.
It was Solkov’s turn to be surprised. His only interest outside his work was translating obscure 13 th century French prose into Russian which he showed to very few people – mainly because the subject was less than interesting to most. He gave a wry smile, revealing steel dentures.
“Touché, Mr Spencer.”
The American grinned innocently. “I wasn’t aware we were en-garde, General.” They made small talk as the limousine pulled noiselessly from the garage and headed up the ramp. Two men sitting in a small delivery van parked further along the block scarcely gave them a glance as the black-windowed car drove past. Their discreet but intent watch was focused on the entrance at the opposite end of the building. They had followed Solkov’s sedan from the airport and seen it drive in, therefore he must be in the building and would emerge again at some stage. Standard procedure for Russian officials and citizens abroad: watch, follow and report.
Conversation lapsed as the limousine left the suburbs behind and drove through undulating countryside, lying bare under weak winter sunlight. After some time, they came to a halt at the gates of a private estate. A well-groomed, hard-eyed young man scanned the two passengers and courteously asked for their identification. Dale Spencer produced his and after the man verified it by walkie-talkie, he was given two plastic clip-on tags. Solkov was again surprised. The tag Spencer handed him carried his full title and what appeared to be a very recent photograph of himself.
“Please allow me to congratulate your intelligence organisations, Mr Spencer. This photograph looks as if it was taken today.”
“It was,” came the laconic reply. In fact, it had been supplied by the Russians when the meeting was arranged but Spencer saw no reason to say so.
The limousine rolled through the gates and along a tree-lined avenue. A sedan which had followed them from the garage also pulled through but stopped at the small gatehouse. Solkov felt growing tension as they drove along the avenue, eventually coming to a rest outside a sprawling mansion hidden in a fold in the hills. Two men, almost twins of the man at the gate, checked their identification and then led them through the ugly entrance and along a picture-hung passageway to the library. There, yet another clone showed them to seats at a large table which dominated the centre of the room. Although it was still daylight outside, the red drapes were closed and light spilled from a huge crystal chandelier suspended from the painted ceiling.
After minutes, the door opened behind them and a group of men entered. With nods to Spencer and curious glances at Solkov, they took their places in seats opposite, leaving the centre chair vacant. Moments later, the door opened again and a tallish, grey-haired man came bouncing into the room. Standing with the others, Solkov quickly thrust his hand into his pocket and wiped it on a handkerchief. He didn’t want a damp palm when he shook hands with the newcomer. In almost reverential tones, Dale Spencer said, “Gentlemen, the President of the United States of America.” The President jauntily thrust out his hand to Solkov.
“Good to meet you, Sir,” he drawled. So his palm is damp.