Sleeper, p.1
Sleeper, page 1
Sleeper: the definitive collected edition
Cover
Title Page
Praise for Sleeper
Sleeper
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Acknowledgements
The Red Storm
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Copyright
Cover
Table of Contents
Start of Content
Praise for Sleeper
‘Sleeper is an exciting tale with pace and surprises; David Fennell can write up a storm’
James Patterson
‘A refreshingly energetic adventure’
Telegraph
Praise for Sleeper: The Red Storm
‘David Fennell is truly the rising star of action thriller authors’
Ragnar Jonasson
‘Sleeper: The Red Storm is thunderously good. Packed with action that leaps off the page, compelling characters and twists and turns galore, The Red Storm is a cracking read. David Fennell has created a gripping world of espionage, thrills and mysticism that is guaranteed to entertain. Highly recommend’
Adam Hamdy, author of the Pendulum trilogy
‘A stunning action and espionage thriller set during WW2. Sleeper: The Red Storm seamlessly blends real events with fiction. It is unputdownable’
M. W. Craven, author of The Puppet Show
‘Thrilling and compulsive, The Red Storm is an all-action adventure that grips from page one and doesn't let go’
Brian McGilloway, author of Little Girl Lost
‘Thoroughly enjoyable from start to finish. A fantastic thrill ride’
Chris McGeorge, author of Guess Who
‘A dark and entertaining spy thriller. Fennell juggles many elements including spycraft, family secrets, supervillains, even the supernatural, all whipped together at a breakneck pace’
Peter Swanson, author of The Kind Worth Killing
‘A thrilling World War 2 espionage thriller set in a parallel history where hero Will Starling battles the mysterious VIPER organisation to save the world. Fantasy and reality mix for a high-octane adventure!’
William Ryan, author of The Constant Soldier
‘WW2 thriller Red Storm is a splendid read by a new author that is sure to become a fixture on bookshelves. Red Storm sets forth a great and variable character gallery and the author takes no prisoners when setting up the tension and thrills that keep these characters on their toes. Had me reading long in to the night’
Yrsa Sigurdardottir, author of The Legacy
Sleeper
For my beautiful Mum
Forever loved
Forever missed
Chapter 1
Deception
Hastings, Saturday, 3rd May 1941, 10.34 pm
Many must die for the world to change.
Will Starling bristles at Colonel Frost’s parting words as he pulls his leather satchel onto his shoulder and hurries up the gloomy path through the woods. He tugs at the stiff, starched collar of his white shirt, giving passage to a bead of cold sweat that rolls from his nape and scurries down his spine. He shudders and tries not to think about Frost and his men who follow in the woods on either side. Armed, and invisible in the darkness, they watch his every move. His heart pounds like a hammer and he swallows. Despite his nerves, his excitement for this mission is at tipping point. So too is his anticipation for the twist that he is about to stir into the pot – a twist that would result in his torture and execution. If Frost catches him, that is. He would not let that happen. There was too much at stake for it all to go wrong now.
‘You are one of us, Starling,’ Frost had said. ‘Four years I have overseen your training and I could not be prouder. Today will be your baptism of blood. Do not fail me. Do not fail our masters.’
Masters! Starling had almost baulked at that. His hands curl into fists at the thought. He had held his tongue, his expression fixed, his face a mask, a mask he had worn since this all began just over four years back. To this day it still surprises him how he has managed to hide the truth of who he is from Frost. But then again, anything is possible when the desire for retribution runs so deep.
He is twenty years old with dark hair, well built for his age, and shifts uncomfortably in the clothes Frost made him wear: a navy blazer, a stiff white shirt, a red tie and black brogues. Expensive as they are, they feel a little snug compared to the military fatigues he has worn every day for the past four years. Four years. The time had passed so slowly yet it only seems like yesterday when he became one of them.
He loosens his tie, undoes the top button and breathes in.
That’s better.
These civilian clothes don’t sit well with him. They remind him of another time, when he was someone else.
Someone normal.
The stirring of old memories makes him tremble inside; he closes his eyes, takes three breaths and carefully pushes the thoughts from his mind.
‘Another time,’ he whispers, and recalls Frost’s orders: ‘Remember what you are, what you are capable of. The clothes are a ruse. You will fit in with the others,’ he had said. Loath as Starling was to admit it, Frost was right.
He stops when he hears the approaching drone of a Spitfire patrol. The air vibrates, the trees sway and rustle as the fighters storm overhead flying south over Hastings. A squadron to intercept random raids from German fighters, he guesses.
Emerging from the trees he hears a swing band and laughter coming from a house beyond the vast wall. He sees two guards standing by a pair of tall iron gates watching the Spitfires disappear into the night. With a light tread, he approaches and coughs politely. The men jump and spin around with pistols pointing directly at him.
‘Hello,’ he says in a friendly tone.
‘Stop right there,’ says the guard on the left.
A dim light sweeps Starling’s face and body.
‘What do you think you’re playing at?’ asks the guard.
Starling smiles and steps forward. ‘You must excuse me…’
‘I said, stop right there!’
Starling inches closer, arms raised in a conciliatory gesture. ‘Please accept my apologies. I’m so terribly late for the party. What will the Grandmaster think of me? I’m afraid my car broke down back in town and I had to walk.’
‘All guests are accounted for. We weren’t told of any late comers, so you can just turn back the way you came.’
‘But gentlemen…’
‘Them’s the rules. Weren’t made by us. Now you better just go back and get someone to fix your car.’
Starling cracks a sweet smile, shrugs and makes to turn. The guards look at each other, snigger in a mocking fashion and pocket their weapons. But Starling seizes his moment and swings his fist at the guard on the left, who drops the torch and falls backward, slamming his temple on the gate pillar, slumping to the ground unconscious. Before the seco nd guard can pull out his weapon Starling is on him, his fist slamming into his jaw in a fierce blow. The guard is out cold before his hand reaches his gun.
‘Easier than I expected,’ he mutters.
He crushes the torch with his foot, killing the light, and glances behind him, aware that Frost and the agents of VIPER are watching. He swallows hard, trying his best not to give himself away. Four years of hard training, all of it leading up to this moment, this sweet deception. Dragging the guards away from the path, he removes the Welrod silencer pistol from his satchel, stands where he knows Frost can see him, points the pistol toward the men and shoots.
Hurrying toward the manor house, he darts between the bushes that line the drive. He hears water trickling and stops, his foot cracking a twig. A confused face appears from behind a tree. A guard relieving himself. Their eyes lock. The guard shouts out and fumbles for his gun, but Starling slams the man’s head against the rough bark and lets him fall forward into his urine.
Rapid footsteps crunch on gravel. The fourth guard. Starling dips behind the tree and pulls a small tube, the length of a pencil, from the inner sleeve of his blazer. He locates a row of small darts beneath his collar, removes two and slips one into a rest inside the tube. He hears a pistol cocking as the footsteps become slow and cautious on the grass near the tree. His assailant’s breathing is fast, making his location easy to determine.
Starling slides around the trunk and shoots a dart at the guard. The man stiffens as he grabs his neck, his face contorting as the poison works fast and renders him temporarily paralysed.
He pops the second dart into the pipe and slips it back into his sleeve. No one from the party will have seen or heard what is happening outside. The music is loud and the windows are draped with heavy blackout curtains and anti-blast tape.
‘Every cloud…’ he whispers.
The party will be in full swing. He imagines revellers dressed in dinner suits and cocktail dresses drinking champagne and dancing as if they don’t care that there is a war on and the world is in crisis. He wonders if the Grandmaster and his henchman, the Pastor, are present. He is the one person he fears the most: Gideon the Pastor, or the holy man as some people call him, an innocuous title for a monster of a man. Starling shivers at the thought of the bloody stories he has heard about him. But there is no time to think about those now.
He circles out of sight to the side entrance, removes a lock pick from his inside sleeve, picks the lock and cautiously opens the door. The reception hall is dimly lit with a scattering of candles and the smell of alcohol and smoke lingering in the air. The space is vast and ornate, but in an old style, as if it is somehow stuck in time. Crossing to the drawing room, he freezes, thinking he sees a shadow flit across the landing. Could it be that not everyone is at the party? He squints, but sees no one. A trick of the light, or a symptom of nerves, perhaps.
Reaching into his satchel, he removes three round metal balls, each the size of a fist. He presses a button on each one. They make a ticking sound, a countdown of ten seconds before the ether gas will be released. He opens the drawing-room door and rolls them along the floor towards the partygoers and the band.
The balls pop and hiss loudly as he closes the door.
And then the music stops, he hears bodies fall to the floor and glass smash on the hardwood. Someone tries to leave the room, a fist bangs weakly on the door, but Starling holds it tight. A moment later, all is quiet. The party is over.
His mission is to find the notebook and spare no lives. But Starling has other plans. The notebook is in the library on the first floor, locked in the Grandmaster’s safe. He hurries up the stairs, glances around, recalling the layout from this morning’s final briefing.
‘Hello,’ comes a flat emotionless voice.
Starling jumps, his heart thumping. Emerging from the shadows is a tall thin man with long white hair brushed back from his head. His eyes are small, like coals buried in two deep pits. A small tongue darts out and dampens his thin lips, as if he is hungry. His suit is black, like a preacher’s.
Starling’s spine goes cold. It’s the Pastor.
‘I’m afraid the Grandmaster has retired for the evening,’ says the Pastor as he cocks his ear to the side. His eyes narrow as he registers that the party has gone quiet.
Something shiny opens in his hand. A razor.
Starling swallows, faltering for a moment, trying desperately not to think of the horror stories he has heard about this vile man’s reputation. He feels beads of perspiration prickling like frantic ants on his forehead.
‘Who are you?’ asks the Pastor.
Starling has to act. Deftly, his fingers reach into his sleeve for the pipe, but the holy man’s eyes flare and he runs at Starling, the razor raised in the air ready to cut. Starling is fast. He blows the dart at Gideon, whose attempt to deflect it leaves it lodged in the inside of his wrist. He grimaces and groans, his gnarly fingers stiffening as the poison seeps through his body.
Starling trembles, the razor is inches from his face. He steps back as the Pastor falls to the floor, his eyes mad with fury at this indignity. Starling edges around him, conscious that time is not on his side.
‘Gideon, what is that noise?’ comes a voice.
Starling looks up to see the Fellowship’s Grandmaster emerge from the library. He is old and decrepit, his blue eyes watery and confused.
From the satchel, Starling removes the pistol and points it at the old man. ‘Inside,’ he commands.
‘What have you done?’ asks the Grandmaster.
‘Nothing to worry about. Your henchman is incapacitated for a short period.’
The Grandmaster retreats into the library. ‘What do you think you are doing? My men…’
‘Quiet! They are unharmed. Your men and your guests are out of action for the moment.’
Starling glances around the room. There is a portrait on a wall. If Frost is right, the notebook is stored behind the painting. He points the pistol at it. ‘Open it. Give me the book.’
The old man pales.
‘I don’t know what you are talking about.’
Starling glances through the curtains at the grounds and beyond the wall. It’s only a matter of time before Frost figures out something is not quite right.
‘We have no time. In moments the agents of VIPER will storm this house and kill all of you. There is a chance you will survive, if you do what I say.’
The old man sneers. ‘Fool! What do you take me for?’
Starling’s eyes blaze. He grabs the Grandmaster’s wrist and drags him to the portrait with the barrel of his pistol lodged in the crook of the old man’s neck. Starling twists his arm and watches as his face contorts with pain. Guilt surges through him. What has he become? What have VIPER turned him into? But he has no time for morality now. There is too much at stake.
‘Open the safe.’
He presses the barrel deeper into the Grandmaster’s neck. The old man struggles for breath and coughs, his face burning red. Trembling, he lifts his hands and concedes.
He opens the safe.
Starling sees a small book-size parcel inside, wrapped in an aged oilskin cloth. His mouth dries and he hesitates before slipping it into the satchel and backing out of the room.
‘You can’t do this,’ says the Grandmaster. ‘You don’t know what you are dealing with.’
‘Better that I have this than VIPER. I suggest you hide somewhere. They will be here any minute. With me gone they may not waste time killing you and your guests as they hunt for me. But that is something that I cannot guarantee.’ He turns and hurries out of the library, skipping carefully over the twisted form of the paralysed holy man.
‘You won’t get far. Gideon will find you. I can promise you that.’
The Grandmaster’s words send a chill over Starling. He bolts down the stairs with a grim feeling that he should have finished the Pastor off for good.
Chapter 2
Escape
The plan had unfolded as Frost had predicted, with the exception of Starling’s modifications: the ether bombs and the pretence of killing the guards. Why should any more innocent people die? There’s a war on and too many people across Britain and Europe were dying already. He would not add to that number just for Frost’s cruelty.
Starling scurries along the shadows of the perimeter wall, with the parcel tucked safely into his satchel. He had done it! He had taken the notebook. He had handled it with tentative revulsion as if it was infected with some sort of disease. But the truth is worse than that. He knows what destruction its secrets could bring in the hands of VIPER. His only thought now is to get it far away from Frost and his ruthless pack of mercenaries.
