The Zimmerman Cypher

The night of September 23, 1993, in Newcastle, England, is meant to be a night of celebration. Danny Chang has planned a surprise retirement party for his good friend Lieutenant Colonel Simon Broeck, who is ending his career as a decorated army officer-but a group of thugs has a different plan. Without warning, a van careens through the front of the restaurant; a violent confrontation occurs, with one man left dead and many others wounded. For the partygoers, it's a meal they won't soon forget. For Markov Ransky, leader of the Albanian gang, it's just the beginning of a reign of terror and violence, as his men commit acts of sexual torture, kidnapping, and murder. Detective Police Inspector Smokey Rover and his team launch a desperate hunt to catch these men who are wreaking havoc throughout the country. But Rover is not the only one interested in bringing the ruthless gang to justice.

From the Back Cover

In Newcastle upon Tyne, England the evening of September 23rd, 1993 is meant to be a night of celebration. Underworld kingpin Danny Chang has planned a surprise retirement party for his sometime good friend. Lieutenant Colonel Simon Boeck is ending his Army career as a decorated, highly trained occasionally shadowy Special Forces operative. No ordinary army officer, Boeck possesses amazing, incredible psychic powers. Unbeknown to the two friends a group of terrorists are intent on destroying the evening. Too late Boeck realises their intentions as, without warning, a van careers through the front of the restaurant followed by a violent confrontation which leaves one man dead and others seriously wounded. For the partygoers it's certainly a meal to forget. For Markov Ransky, leader of the Albanian gang, it's just the beginning of his reign of terror and violence as his men continue their campaign of kidnap, torture, sexual depravity and brutal murder. Physically damaged Detective Inspector Smokey Rover and his team are tasked to launch a desperate hunt to catch these men. The police are not the only ones determined in finding them as Chang eventually persuades Boeck to unleash his incredible skills in an attempt to exact, at any cost, justice. Yet unknown to all concerned is the fact that there are others waiting, unseen, ready to unleash their own kind of deadly revenge...

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The Zimmerman CypherBy N. D. ScottTrafford PublishingCopyright © 2010 N. D. ScottAll right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4269-4424-6Chapter OneOdour of DeathBattle Farm, 15 miles East of Durham City, England — October 1992 The crunch, momentary grind, as tyres proceeded slowly up the pot holed single track tarmac road had an unnerving similarity to the driver and tenant farmer's life. Luke Darling world was a cauldron of despair, swirling towards rock bottom. As the four year old Subaru, which the loan company still owned over sixty percent of, lurched up the slope, Luke somehow knew in the depths of his mind that he was at the end. Having just visited Barclays Bank on the corner of Blackgate East Street in Coxhoe, the meeting had been a one way passage of sad, regretful insistence on the manager's part. Whilst waiting to see the manager, Luke had glimpsed the bank clerk swinging the incredibly thick John Tann safe door open, exposing the root cause of his woes, money or in Luke's case the lack of. Wondering back down Church Street Luke knew there was no tomorrow and any further advance wouldn't be forthcoming. The bank wanted its money and was no longer prepared to keep extending credit and, as the house wasn't Luke's, there was certainly no chance of a mortgage. These thoughts permeated his very being as the tall, gaunt, middle aged farmer crested the hill on the final quarter mile towards Battle Farm. The shitty irony of the farm's title not lost on the driver. Life was, had been for a number of years now, an all encompassing campaign which, having defeated so many enemies in the past, had finally culminated in the financial onslaught. With no emotional ammunition, strength, or now seemingly will, the reality was that Luke's war had been lost. A few sheep scurried away from the battered, similarly tired estate car as Luke closed in on the farm house. Moments later rounding the corner of the six-foot high wall next to the side of the extensive, local stone built farm house, welcome party absent with no one outside. It was as if somehow the family occupants were aware of his woes. The first member Luke came across was his son. The lad was pushing a wheel barrow full of cow shit towards the back of the out building where a fresh pile of steaming manure wallowed. Seeing his father's car, Mathew put the barrow down on its sleds and sauntered over, "Dad look I've nearly finished moving all the cow poo. You said you wanted it out of the cow shed by the time you got back and this is my twenty-fifth and last trip. Have I done well?" As if opening the car door somehow lifted the weight of depression and resignation from hunched shoulders, Luke smiled at his son. Mat was such a bloody good worker, never ever complained, tireless no matter how demanding or manual the labour, and excellent with the sheep especially during lambing. His large rough hands as gentle as a child's. With a tired grin Luke looked up at Mat, yes child was the correct description. Mat was eighteen and had Downs Syndrome. "Yep, Mat you have been a good boy." "Man dad, I'm a man now. Eighteen means I can vote for the mayor if I want." Luke didn't have the strength to correct his son, "yes, sorry son you are a man now and work as well as any man I've ever known." Luke recognized, instinctively knew that Mat was, in a tangent almost abstract sort of way, smart. That said, most people who had only limited experience of individuals with Downs Syndrome, took one look and seeing those big eyes and broad crooked grin instantly, ignorantly thought he was a simpleton, mentally damaged, disabled. How wrong they were. The farmer and his wife, Mary, had come to understand that, although some things were plainly beyond their son, he had other skills and amazing attributes. Actually Mat's only disability was that he trusted people and just wanted to be friends and love, in an innocent way, just about anyone he came into contact with. The other thing the Darlings' had, over the years, come to recognise was that their son had other talents, amazing skills some of which, on a tough hill farm, were a blessing. Although not tall, at only about five foot six, Mat had shoulders broad enough to do justice to any Durham City rugby team front row. His strength was impressive, yet it was his stamina which was without bounds. Luke was never quite sure if this was due to the workings of his brain or the fact that Mat was genuinely bloody fit. His other talent being music, something which had absolutely no benefit to the farm, yet Mat's little sister just loved. At that moment, as if by simple telepathy, Eve Darling came skipping out of the house's side door and leapt, limpet like, to her father. Looking down into those early morning sky blue, flecked golden innocent loving eyes, Luke still couldn't believe that, even at the age of forty nine, considering all his wife's other illnesses, she had produced a perfect healthy daughter. Of course the sibling had been an accident after far too much whisky four Christmas' ago, however the joy she brought was a shining beacon in his otherwise dark monotonous struggle of life. Eve on the other hand was the love of his life, for it was her and her alone who kept him struggling on, in a desperate attempt to make the farm work. "Daddy, daddy I've painted you a picture. Mummy says you look just like a horse, come and see." "Oh really, do I indeed? OK in a moment poppet, Daddy needs to put the car away and must move the cows out into the field. Once I'm done I promise to see your painting." "Oh Daddy please, Mummy says it's such a good picture. Will you come Mat?" With a wide grin full across his gentle face, her devoted brother replied, "now Eve, you heard Daddy. When us men have finished in the fields I'll help you paint a picture of Mummy, alright?" This seemed to work as innocence prevailed. Eve unclamped herself from her father before scampering back towards the side door to the large and, on a spring morning actually almost impressive, Victorian farm house. Swivelling straggly, sandy locks to look back as she pushed the battered door open, "don't forget you promised." "I won't," Luke replied before turning to his son, "Mat I'll need you to ride the quad bike, I'll take the tractor. We must move those cows in the top field back down towards the beck before it gets dark." "Whatever you say Dad, you know I love riding the bike," with that Mat pulled his Wham cap tight over unkempt jet black hair as he moved round the corner to the shed. The children's father climbed back in the idling car, drove over to the open shed round the back of the house. Here the car was dwarfed by the high corrugated covering which formed part of the quad square of out buildings. The remainder was comprised of a vast open hay loft, two large cluttered sheds and a covered gloomy shed where the farms muddy Daff tractor stood. Having worn a thick herringbone tweed jacket, slightly faded cords and strong badly scuffed brogues to go into town Luke couldn't be bothered getting changed. Climbing up and into the cab he recalled six years earlier, not being convinced by the salesman that they needed the 'farmer friendly cab'. His choice, basic with only an air compression chair and simple radio for luxury. Switching it on he drove straight out and up, following Mat who was now belting along the back lane, toward the crest of the hill. A couple of minutes later, with the steel gate shoved open Luke drove straight through. After clattering it shut, Mat followed with Blackie, their one and only sheep dog, bounding ahead of both of them, eyes sharp and alert, already certain of the imminent requirement to utilise his natural herding instincts. The two men followed, driving up the muddy field. In the near distance, standing at the top, thirty heifers, only marginally interested, looked up. Luke stopped the tractor twenty feet from the nearest animal, next to Mat, who was standing up on the bike whistling, not at the dog but a quiet lullaby he particularly enjoyed humming for Eve when she lay safely tucked up in bed. Regaining his son's focus, "Mat, you go round the back up yonder," nodding towards the far wall, "take Blackie and I'll drive them down through the field. When you get there drop into the bottom field and shut the gate after." "No problem," with that Mat skidded off at speed followed, easily, by Blackie. As he watched his son zoom off, Luke's melancholy like the racing, menacing clouds above, returned. Why did he have to have a son like this? Mat was such a gentle lad yet knew nothing of business and certainly could never be left alone with any wholesaler or passing salesman. On a number of occasions he'd had to phone a departing, delighted salesman to apologise and tell them that they did not in actual fact need another tractor. Recalling previous events, Luke watched as Mat and Blackie worked in harmony, almost as one, shepherding the cows, who although irritated knew that they would probably be better off in the bottom field under cover by the small stream. As the herd wandered, jostling through the open gate Luke engaged the gears and rumbled down the hill. The herd now without machinery, or a human form to cajole them were giving Blackie some physical resentment as the dog barked and skipped towards their hooves. Once through the entrance, the requirement for sheep dog abilities no longer required as the cows trotted down towards the vast large open shed. They recognized this would be shelter from the rain which instinctively they understood would be forthcoming fairly soon. Stopping only half way down the muddy hill, Luke swivelled in his chair to see Mat come scooting towards him at the same time as Blackie came dashing back up the hill, his work now complete. "Mat, you head on home and help your mum, I'm going to take a turn around the bottom fields to check on the sheep, alright?" "Sure Dad, looks like rain. See ya," with that Luke's son revved up the quad bike before zipping off, spraying mud up the side of the tractor as Luke rapidly closed the glass door. Cocooned inside his tractor, with the radio blasting out drive time easy listening, Luke set off on the ten minute tour of the bottom side of his tenement farm. The journey somehow a tour of resignation. Soon all this would be gone and he and his physically and mentally demanding family would be stuck in some council house possibly on a featureless council estate somewhere in Hartlepool or maybe worse the concrete new town Peterlee. Both prospects involuntary caused Luke to shake his head. Twenty minutes later, in the cab, depression hung like a near visible thick cloud. No amount of early evening music was going to release him from mounting gloom. Having quickly climbed back in after closing the final gate, Luke splattered along the dirt track. Now with the full headlamps on as the darkness, as Mat had predicted, induced sheets of driving near sleet crashing against the windscreen. Rounding the corner to the back of the farm, Luke could see the twinkling welcoming light from within the house, the side kitchen door wide open. 'What the hell' they might as well turn the heating full on as Luke knew he would probably never be able to pay the final red demand before the courts inevitably declared him bankrupt. With the rain and radio blasting he swung into the quad, shifted the gears before smartly reversing into the shed. The rain, seemingly straight off the North Sea, continued to blast into the windscreen right up until the moment he switched off the tractor, before jumping down. As Luke dashed over to the farm house he failed to notice Eve's latest picture lying only just visible, splattered and smudged under the large tractor wheel. Slamming the door shut on entering the warm vast cluttered kitchen, "I'm home where is everyone?" Sitting, Luke picked up a worn kitchen towel and dried his hair and face. Removing the wet towel he watched his wife enter the room, slowly. Mary's speed a result of the crippling osteoarthritis which had, over the past three years, ravaged her body. Hands with grotesquely twisted knuckles now resembling exposed gnarled tree roots. Her ankles contorted into non bio mechanical positions. The two solid brass tipped walking sticks tap-tapping on the stone floor accompanied by the shuffle of Mary's near useless feet. "Hello darling, please tell me things went well at the bank?" Before Luke could raise his eyes to reveal the answer, Mat came striding in, "you haven't left Eve out in the rain have you dad, she'll catch a terrible cold out there." It was something indicative about the events of the whole day which swept the crescendo of concern over Luke's consciousness. "Well if you won't let her in, I will," with that Mat quickly dashed to the back door, flinging it open to let his sister in. Instead, all that re-entered was driving rain, accompanied by bone biting wind. "Where is she? She went out to surprise you when you came back?" Instant concern now permeated the walls as all the occupants understood something was not quite right. It was freezing outside and Eve could easily open the door on her own, so why hadn't she come back indoors? "I'll go and fetch her," Mat's voice failing to mask innocent worry. Body and mind so very tired, Luke stared trance like up at the clothes rail swinging below the ceiling. Everything, the rain, his wife's inability to do anything apart from love him. Love didn't make the tea's, tidy the house or do any of the domestic chores which farmer's wives traditionally undertook. He didn't resent her but love alone was now not going to save them. Neither was his son, as there was no way Mat was ever going to be anything other than a willing burden to the unsuccessful running of Battle Farm. Luke's lame smile met his wife's gaze as she slowly lowered herself into the high rocking chair. The solid worn mahogany chair was the only seat in the kitchen Mary could get out of without assistance. As Luke started to speak, in the distance he could hear Mat evidently starting the tractor. With a slight frown, the boy knew not to use it unless his father was around? The scream shrill even above the rain buffeted panes of glass. Luke instantly alert, leapt up at the same time as the kitchen door burst open. Eyes bulging, innocence unable to comprehend the enormity of the mutilated, gurgling body Mat bore in his strong arms. * * * Eve died from horrendous crush wounds less than twenty minutes after Mat brought her mangled body into the kitchen, and well before the ambulance turned off the main road. Inside the farm house Mat wailed like the child he was. Eve's mother just sat in the rocking chair quietly swaying back and forth, shock engulfing her every thought, her very being. It was only Luke who appeared to have any sense of reality. Staring, not listening to the Police Sergeant's kind yet professional words about what appeared to have been a terrible accident. For Luke, it was he who had killed the innocent child whilst not concentrating, hurriedly reversing the tractor. In doing so he had destroyed the very thing which his mind had clung to for hope. Without Eve, Luke had nothing. Now, as far as he was concerned, life was no longer worth living. * * * Ten days later after the necessary post-mortem, the funeral, like Eve's coffin, was a tiny affair with only Mary's sister and husband attending. The formal proceedings at the crematorium were not followed by a wake or even any kind of family gathering. Hours later back at Battle Farm, the remnants of the family were almost silent. Any conversation an insult to the events of the day. Luke had insisted Mat take a mild sleeping tablet. His only child now lay upstairs in bed, quietly sobbing on the verge of sleep. His tears just audible throughout the house. Within ear shot Mary just sat in her chair, total and utter desolation etched deep across her dry wizened face, creaking backwards and forwards. Also in the kitchen, Luke, with face in hands, could clearly see through his tear ridden fingers to the table, a pile of final notices and a plainly labelled 'urgent - private' letter from the bank. There was no going back and seemingly no going forward — he had finally lost the war. Clenching his fingers in a failed attempt to squeeze out the problems, Luke knew now, he had failed. (Continues...) Excerpted from The Zimmerman Cypherby N. D. Scott Copyright © 2010 by N. D. Scott. Excerpted by permission of Trafford Publishing. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

About the Author

N. D. Scott is a former British army officer with special forces training and experience all over the world. His previous work includes Moves with Spirits and a travelogue of Peru. Scott holds three degrees and is an experienced psychic, expert psychometrist, and practicing Reiki healer.

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