by Paul Cude
Peter,
Having applied my considerable brilliance and knowledge to your current predicament, I have used all the resources available to me to create a broad based multi-adaptive cure for the poison that you believe currently affects the owner of Cropptech based on the success of the mantra used to cleanse the house of the now deceased Mark Hiscock. The powder in the pouch stems from an ancient Egyptian antidote to an airborne plague. Combined with the mantra at the bottom of this sheet, the result should be an almost immediate reversal of the poison's effects. The powder has to be in the immediate vicinity of the individual concerned, i.e. on their clothes, hair, etc. Once the powder is dispersed the mantra should be chanted as powerfully as possible, out loud. As previously mentioned the reversal should be almost immediate. Please don't let this information fall into the wrong hands, as this powerful mantra in only known to a handful of dragons still in existence. Good luck with your task.
Your friend
Gee Tee
Poison and evil, out you shall seep,
The infections you caused while good people did sleep.
Purification, is nature's good way,
Of making sure, that gone you will stay.
Peter handed Tank the note, as he continued to study the fabric pouch, knowing that Gee Tee wouldn't mind his apprentice seeing what was written, in fact he was sure the old shopkeeper would count on that happening.
One of Tank's huge hands clasped onto Peter's shoulder, not quite surprising him enough to drop the fabric pouch, he was still holding on to.
"Well my friend, looks like all your problems might be solved by this," Tank commented, holding up the letter from his boss. "Douse Al Garrett with the powder, use the mantra and BANG, things are back to normal, Garrett can get rid of Manson and you'll be a big hero."
Taking the letter back from Tank, Peter carefully put it and the fabric pouch into the top drawer of the old wooden sideboard that stood along one side of the room, considering his friend's remark.
"The last thing I want to do is be a hero, as you well know," said Peter, clipping his friend playfully behind the ear. "I just hope though, it's as simple as you make out. Nothing would make me happier than curing Garrett and returning Cropptech back to the way it should be. Guards running around toting machine guns should be reserved for Hollywood, not Salisbridge."
"Perhaps you're letting your imagination run away with you, and just perhaps it will be as simple as all that. Don't over complicate things, and don't worry about things that haven't come to pass yet. Concentrate on the things YOU have control over. That's how you'll win, that's how things will get back to how they should be," urged Tank, getting up out of his chair. "Anyway, I have to go. I've got to pick up some coaching kit from the sports club as I'm coaching at one of the local schools tomorrow afternoon."
Peter shook his friend's hand on the way out, and they agreed to catch up later on in the week.
Drifting off to sleep that night, Peter's mind continued going over and over the eventual use of the mantra and powder on Garrett. Each time it ended with success, a fit and well Garrett once again controlling Cropptech, with Manson nowhere to be seen. It was all going to be soooooooo easy... at least in Peter's dreams.
He awoke the next morning, rested, more so than he had been in a little while, and vaguely able to remember snippets of his dreams, all of which centred around curing Garrett of the poison. During breakfast he toyed with the idea of taking Gee Tee's cure with him to work and keeping it there in his office, so that if an opportunity presented itself to get to Al Garrett without Manson around, he was fully equipped to go ahead with the plan. After much consideration, he decided that it was just too risky to keep it at work, and that he should concentrate on finding a way to track Manson's movements so that he could approach Garrett without fear of him getting in his way. So far he'd had little luck with the computer program he and Tank had developed, with Cropptech's mighty mainframe rebuffing it at every opportunity, but just maybe he could apply it in a different way to try and help keep tabs on the dreaded Major.
Over the next few working days he worked furiously to try and find a way to get to Garrett with Manson out of the way. Using the CCTV surveillance system seemed to be utterly useless, as his previous investigations had found out, and was no better at the moment with his nemesis popping up in unexplained places that he just shouldn't have been able to, bypassing some cameras while being caught by others. Speaking to the secretary in charge of the entire top floor, asking for a copy of Garrett's schedule, something he used to be given on a regular basis before Manson arrived, she told him in no uncertain terms that he did not need to know that particular information.
The break he was looking for only came late on a Friday afternoon. Having phoned across to the guard room to ask one of the managers for some much needed information regarding next week's duty roster, he'd been told by the lady on the phone that said manager was off the premises attending a meeting. She stated that had Peter checked the scheduling software that the company used on its main computer, he would have known that to be the case, and not be wasting her time. That's when it hit him. The scheduling software was the answer!
Over the moon, he apologised to the lady on the end of the phone, thanking her for helping him solve a much bigger problem, much to her bemusement. For the next hour, Peter busied himself on his computer, sifting through the scheduling software with a fine toothcomb, eventually coming to the conclusion that his program just might work, with just a little reconfiguring. Unlocking the drawer to his desk, he picked up the dark blue memory stick with the program on it and attached it to his key ring. Remembering to pick up his lunch and jacket, he headed home.
Friday night was spent in front of the computer, trying to put the finishing touches to his computer program. Not one to go out very much apart from with his friends or the hockey team, which normally meant a Saturday night, it was no different from what he normally did. Working well into the night, he finally stopped, pleased at his slow and steady efforts. His technical abilities were there, they were just more suited to taking the computer apart and putting it back together, rather than playing with lines of code. Letting out a series of yawns, he figured it was time to hit the sack, in the hope of getting some rest for his away game of hockey the following day.
The weekend didn't pan out quite the way he'd hoped. By his standards, he had a very poor game, with his side losing 4-1, their worst defeat of the season so far.
Monday came round, and as Peter drove through the security gate into Cropptech, he couldn't help feel a little guilty about the program contained within the memory stick attached to his key ring, even though he had the best interests of everyone in the company at heart.
Once in his office, he got on with all the relatively boring tasks associated with his job: emails, filling in log books, checking the CCTV system and its backups, were just a few of them. By late morning, most of the mundane tasks were out of the way, so he carefully uploaded his program. Almost instantly he knew it was going to work, because the mainframe hadn't blocked it in any way, shape or form. His alterations to the program now meant that it would only attach itself to the scheduling software, something the mainframe clearly considered little or no threat at all.
Feeling more than a little pleased with himself, he decided to treat himself to lunch in the staff canteen, something that had become a rarity since his little run in with Manson's gun toting maniacs.
Logging out of his workstation, he made sure to lock his office door, something he never usually did, before walking round to the other side of the building to see what was on offer for lunch. As soon as he caught sight of the decorative coloured writing on the giant chalk specials board, he knew exactly what he was going to have.
'Steak fajitas... ummmmm,' he thought, his stomach rumbling as he grabbed a tray and joined the back of the queue. With each step forward, the sound of the sizzling steak, onions and peppers became louder, the smell of the sumptuous dish m
ore intoxicating. Eventually it was his turn. Smiling as the friendly staff gave him the fajitas and the sizzling hot skillet, he knew he'd made the right decision to come to the canteen. So pleased was he with his lunch, that he totally forgot all about the program left running on his computer. Leaving the canteen some forty five minutes or so later, he took a roundabout route back to his office, hoping he might bump into Richie, wary of meeting Manson. He didn't see either, but ended up having a leisurely stroll through the site, burning off just a little of his delicious lunch. Upon returning to his office, his thoughts turned to the computer, which he quickly logged back on to. He couldn't believe his eyes.
'Success!' he thought. His program had searched the entire scheduling database and had found exactly what he was looking for. On Friday 4th of November, just a little over three weeks away, Manson was scheduled to attend the Annual Security Awards of the Year dinner, on behalf of Cropptech, at a hotel in London. Starting mid-morning, the event was supposed to go on well into the evening. It was ideal.
'Maybe just a little too ideal,' he thought suspiciously.
Spending the next ten minutes on the internet double checking that the awards were genuine and were due to take place on the date that he'd seen in the scheduling software, he was delighted when it did indeed check out.
Over the next half hour he erased any trace of his program, tucking the memory stick back on his key ring before getting on with his mundane work, happy that everything was going to be cleared up and better within the month. Disappointment with just a hint of helplessness played on his mind at the fact that he had to wait so long to put his plan into action. Part of him wondered how much further downhill Garrett would go in that time. He had everything he needed, he just lacked the opportunity for three more weeks. Frustrated as he was, the more he pondered, the more it seemed clear that the best thing was to wait until 4th November when Manson wouldn't be in a position to ruin things.
* * *
Listening to the guards surrounding his truck bark out orders in a language he didn't understand, despite not being able to speak Russian, he knew from his many trips here that everyone was agitated. All the guards were alert, with most having at least one hand on the machine guns that they wore over their shoulders. None were smoking.
'That,' he thought, 'is a tell-tale sign that the tension is higher than normal.’
Once again, ice started to form on the inside of the windscreen. Reaching over, he turned the fan up to its most powerful setting, hoping against hope to keep the ice at bay. This was the part of the job he hated most... the waiting! In this most foreign of places, it wasn't just cold, it was absolutely FREEZING! When you mention Siberia to anyone, they immediately think of cold, snow, ice. But until you've actually been there you can't imagine how cold, desolate and bleak it really is. In some ways it's almost like another planet.
A quick glimpse in the side mirrors showed the forklift trucks, with their orange flashing lights, loading the cargo carefully into the back of his lorry. Soon, he told himself, soon he would be able to go. At least he would be away from those damn guards. No matter how many times he'd been here, they always gave him the creeps, regarding him with some degree of suspicion, even though he was almost a regular, having done this dozens of times before. He, on the other hand, thought they all looked the same, steely jawed, lean with just a hint of stubble around their faces, all seemingly smokers.
A sharp knock on the window jolted him out of his reverie. A guard waved a clipboard at him, with some documents on it. Instinctively he depressed the button to operate the electric window on the cab's door, but of course, it did nothing.
'Damn cold!' he thought.
Pulling up the hood on his jacket, he opened the door and grabbed the clipboard from the guard. The cold assaulted the inside of the cab, forcing all the warm air out after only a few seconds, the guard taking a perverse pleasure at this. Quickly he checked and signed the documents, waiting for the guard to give him his copy. Reluctantly the guard did so. Shutting the cab door, all the time watching the ice re-form on the inside of the windscreen, finally he heard the double doors of the container being slammed shut. From the side mirrors, he could see the forklift trucks retreat back into the warehouse, their jobs done. Once again the guard slammed his gloved fist onto the window, but this time indicated with a wave that he should get going. Not needing to be told twice, he engaged first gear and began crawling very slowly forward in the fresh snow. About halfway to the main gate of the facility, just when the heater had once again started to win the battle with the ice on the inside of the windscreen, his escorts appeared on either side of the snow laden track he found himself on. Nothing unusual there, apart from the fact that on previous trips there had only ever been one or two top of the line Range Rovers accompanying him. This time there were four, each full to the sunroof with guards.
'Wow,' he thought. 'Something must be going on.'
Holding the jinking steering wheel with one hand, he flicked on the interior light and pulled out his copy of the documents, giving it closer inspection. It took him a while to find what he was looking for. Once again he was transporting 'laminium', whatever that was. The only difference he could find this time was the fact that there appeared to be more than four times the amount of any of his previous trips.
'Come to think of it,' he mused, 'they were a long time loading up,' and the normally cooperative truck he was driving did seem a little more sluggish and unresponsive.
By now, the first Range Rover had reached the security barrier at the main entrance, and the driver showing his paperwork to the guards was waved through quite quickly, by Russian standards that is (about five minutes). As one, the convoy headed out, the snarl of the diesel engine just making itself heard over the howling wind, with two Range Rovers in front and two behind. As with the previous trips, the Range Rovers would shadow him from Magadan (his current location) through Siberia, beyond Moscow, leaving only at the Russian border with Belarus. From there another security contingent would accompany him through Belarus, Poland, the Czech Republic and on to Germany and France before the final leg to England, and then back to the processing plant at Salisbridge. All in all, the journey should take about three weeks, depending mainly on what sort of weather he encountered across Siberia.
'Oh well,' he thought, as snow started to pepper his windscreen, 'it may not be the Caribbean, but with the sort of money that Cropptech are paying me, at least I'll be able to afford to retire there.' The convoy disappeared into the snowy wilderness, carrying their rare and valuable cargo towards its final destination.
* * *
Back in Salisbridge, Peter was busy keeping his head down, doing his job and just trying to blend in. Secretly he couldn't wait for Friday 4th November to come round so that he could implement his plan to cure Al Garrett and return Cropptech back to normal. In everything that he did at the moment, he tried exceptionally hard to just look normal and not arouse anyone's suspicions, not wanting to do anything that would spook the ex-army Major and change his plans. Manson had to attend that awards ceremony. Everything depended on it. So here he was, resigned to all the new changes in the company and avoiding his nemesis like mad. He'd been doing this for the best part of a week now, and was quite sure he had perfected his 'I'm disappointed with the situation, but have agreed to accept it' face. It was, he was sure, the same face about ninety percent of the workforce wore as they got on with their daily business. Only a few people ever smiled in the complex, mostly visitors, or those gun toting maniacs armed with machine guns, who patrolled only certain parts of the facility. Theirs was more a psychotic grin than a smile though, as if they would really love to open fire on someone breaking in.
'Anyway,' he thought, 'all I have to do is blend in with the unhappy workers for two more weeks and then it will all be over, and everything will be back to normal.'
Later that week during breakfast, he sent out his consciousness to retrieve the latest edition of the Daily Telepath, as
he hadn't seen one in a while and was behind on what was happening deep down in the dragon domain. As his mind reached its destination, he became aware of a message flagging itself up to draw his attention to it. Finding the paper, with his consciousness he grabbed hold of the message and the paper, and commanded them both to return. Storing the Daily Telepath to read later, he immediately took a look at the message. It was from Councillor Rosebloom, demanding an update on what was happening at Cropptech. Caught up in everything that was happening at the moment, he'd totally forgotten to keep in touch with the councillor about the situation.
'Damn!' he thought.
As he ran the message over and over again in his head, cursing the fact that he'd virtually forgotten all about the vengeful Rosebloom, he noticed that instead of the usual, basic message, this was one of the new fancy ones that he'd read about, that had an attachment to add a reply to, much in the same way as an email. Knowing that Rosebloom would be aware of him having picked the message up, he decided to make use of the new automatic reply function. Composing what he thought of as a proper reply, he checked it over one last time before adding it to the message. It read:
Councillor Rosebloom,
Thank you for your brief message. Rest assured I have been working tirelessly to resolve the issue at Cropptech that I mentioned to you when we met in your office. All is going well and on track. The whole issue should be resolved to a satisfactory conclusion on 4th of November and I would hope that Cropptech itself would be restored to its former glory very shortly after that. Regards,
Peter Bentwhistle
Satisfied that it contained just the right amount of information, Peter used the automatic reply, keeping an eye on it until it was just out of range. Chucking his breakfast bowl in the sink, he grabbed his sandwiches and raced off to work, hoping his lateness wouldn't attract any unwanted attention.