by AJ Frazer
Dominic went to his cabin and collected his bag before making his way aft. A much smaller inflatable was on the deck connected to the crane and being readied to launch. He swung his duffel bag into the boat.
“Leaving us so soon, Mr. Elliston?” called Davey.
“Yes. Much as I’d like to lounge around the Med with you lot, I have to get back to my own madness.”
Sagen strode down to the small inflatable. “Let’s get moving!” He threw a duffel bag into the boat before leaping in himself. “Come on, Dominic! In you get.”
The crane operator hoisted them over the side and down into the calm waters. Davey twisted the throttle of the outboard motor and they sped away from the ship, bouncing on the small chop. Five spine-shattering minutes later they pulled onto a narrow, pebbly beach.
“You sure I can’t drop you closer to the town?” asked Davey.
“This is fine, we need to be discreet,” replied Sagen. “See you around.” He pushed the inflatable back off the beach.
Davey reversed before putting it into gear and accelerating away. The small boat arced in a tight circle, heading back to the Eclipse Horizon.
Sagen walked back up the beach toward Dominic. The sound of pebbles grinding against one another with every step. “Right then, two hours should have us at the restaurant.”
Dominic fell in step behind Sagen as they slowly made their way over the pebbles and rocks of the coastline. The sun was warm but the gentle breeze kept them cool.
Along the way Dominic tried, unsuccessfully, to get Sagen talking. In the end Dominic gave up and focused on his footing and keeping up with Sagen. An hour and a half later, they rounded a small point and Dominic spotted a beautiful village built into the mountainside above a picture-postcard, golden-sand beach.
Ascending a flight of concrete steps, they strode across a few old stone terraces littered by darkly tanned people stretched out on deck chairs. Dominic wasn’t one for beachside holidays; sitting around doing nothing all day was terrifying.
Sagen went straight through the main door and up to the maître d’. “Table for two under Norris, please.”
The maître d’ checked the reservation book. “Of course, please come with me.”
The restaurant’s sandstone terrace was covered, the shade making it cooler. From their table, they had an utterly unspoiled view of the sparkling Mediterranean. The sunlight glittered off the ripples on the water, green vines grew up the terrace roof and danced gently in the breeze.
“Magic, isn’t it?” said Sagen.
“It is.”
“And what we did last night will ensure it keeps its magic.”
“I suppose so.”
“What you did last night was heroic. You are part of the Earth Ghost movement now, Dominic.”
“Ah, to be clear, I tried to stop Jared. I was there to observe and report. Not to partake in terrorism. I thought I’d made that perfectly clear.”
Sagen waved off Dominic’s comment dismissively. “Yes, yes, of course you did. Just reporting. Yes.”
Dominic considered pressing the point, but he really didn’t want to get into an argument over it here, so he let it go.
“The food is good, but it’s the view, quite frankly, that makes it so special,” said Sagen.
Dominic wanted to get the most out of his limited time with Sagen as possible. “So, where are you off to this afternoon?”
Sagen dipped his head, giving Dominic a conspiratorial look. “Best you don’t know.” He smiled. “I’ve enjoyed having you with us, perhaps you should join me again.”
“Perhaps.”
“I’m planning something quite remarkable next. You know, the others think I’m mad to have brought you along on this mission. They think you will lead the authorities straight to me. They think I should cut all ties now and never contact you again.”
“Who is they?” asked Dominic.
“Who they are doesn’t matter. Why is the only thing that ever matters. And why they counsel me this way has yet to be revealed.”
“I’m not really getting it, Victor. You wanted me to come along on this mission to report and recount what happened—against your people’s advice? I’m really not sure where this is all going.”
Sagen stared hard at Dominic, eyes burning. “Where’s the tenacity? The resolve to see something through? I thought journalists of your caliber were hardwired to bite like a pit bull and never let go?”
“Once upon a time, Victor. But not now. I’ve seen too much and it all amounts to the same thing—man’s pursuit of power.”
Sagen sat back, relaxing in his chair, a thin smile creeping over his face. “And this is what you need to ask. I already have power. I have all the trappings of wealth and, as you recently pointed out, I could be forgiven for thinking that my sense of justice and revenge have been satisfied. So, why am I still doing what I do?”
Dominic held Sagen’s crazy stare. “A perverse sense of legacy and righteousness.”
Sagen’s smile faded and his eyes softened. “Ah, and what’s the end game for a man who seeks to create legacy and righteousness?”
Dominic shrugged.
“And that, Dominic, is why you should stick around. To find out.” Sagen grinned like a lunatic and picked up the menu. “Let’s see what we have today.”
After lunch, Sagen paid the bill and was given a set of car keys by the maître d’. He and Dominic walked wordlessly back out into the hot sun to a parked Volkswagen Golf. The drive to the airport was uneventful and rather quiet. There was little conversation between the two of them.
At the airport, Sagen pulled over at the main entrance of the international terminal. Leaning over the passenger seat to the open window, he called out, “Go to the British Airways desk—your ticket will be there. Safe travels, Dominic. Be seeing you!”
He sped off before Dominic could respond, leaving him standing on the pavement, duffel bag in one hand and feeling like his pecker was in the other.
He arrived at Heathrow feeling beaten and exhausted. Normally, he—or rather Jacqueline—would have organized a car to meet him at the airport, but he hadn’t thought that far ahead. He opted for a black cab back to Glenraden. It was getting late and traffic would be light. Plus, he desperately wanted to wake up the next day in the English countryside, perhaps walk the grounds and enjoy lunch at a nearby pub.
Initially he saw the Il Toro operation as a revealing and dramatic subterfuge for his article: the context of what Victor Sagen was doing. But the more he got to know Sagen, the more he was convinced there was an ulterior motive—perhaps more than one. Regardless, the man was complex, inspirational, unhinged, extreme, driven, and unpredictable. Sagen was a puzzle that Dominic did not enjoy trying to put together, but one that he knew he had to.
The cab pulled up to his security gate forty minutes later. The sun had set and a warm dusk had settled on the countryside. The driveway lights were all on, casting a golden-yellow glow on the trees that lined the way to the house and creating looming shadows across the grounds.
He was glad to be home.
After showering, he called Ray and Jacqueline. Both conversations went as expected: relief, shock, disbelief. Now he was alone in his enormous mansion. Everything around him he had built from the ground up, designed to his tastes, catered to his whims. But in a world so uniquely his, somehow he still felt dislocated from everything.
Withdrawal symptoms. The thrill was gone and in its place was dull inanity. However spectacular his surroundings, they could not mask the fact that he missed being on the front line. There was a kind of muscle memory, or rather, adrenaline memory with which his body was familiar. He knew the come-down feeling well. As a young journalist cutting his teeth in the hellholes of the world, he’d turn to booze to help manage the dropping buzz as the adrenaline of pursuing the news stories ebbed. Now, with the wisdom of his years, he accepted the yearning and reminded himself that it was just a moment in time. It too would pass.
Dining
alone on what he could scrape together from the fridge, he scanned the news on his phone. The Il Toro di Ferro attack monstered the Jagged Edge news site. He read through the first article quickly. Two things caught his eye: the first was that the plant had been suffering from a series of notable and alarming malfunctions in the lead-up to the attack; the second, and what turned his stomach, was that two people were missing following the explosions.
“Jesus,” he muttered as he read with a growing sense of foreboding. This hadn’t been part of the deal. What if they were killed? People missing in an explosion weren’t usually found, not in one piece anyway. He could only remove himself from the guilt so much. Knowing that he had been there to observe and report was one thing, but even he now questioned his level of involvement in the mission.
Only a few days before, he had felt euphoric after his Mont Blanc expedition. Now he felt a kind of emotional whiplash, a bruising loss of control. The news had reignited something in him that he hadn’t felt in decades: dread.
Enlightenment, he thought, as he made his way to the liquor cabinet in his study. Enlighten a bottle of booze.
Chapter Eighteen
For two days, Dominic holed himself up in his Surrey estate. Jacqueline and Ray came to visit and, of course, Hale from MI6 made an appearance. She had been frosty at best during the debrief and he felt certain she suspected there was more to the story than he was letting on. Ultimately though, there was nothing to warrant further questioning and so, after a lengthy discussion, she left.
He knew his contempt for MI6, his refusal to play ball, could get him into trouble. But he was also aware what they were capable of. Hiring publicists and management consultants to formulate cultural-change strategies couldn’t change his personal experience.
Writing the article on Sagen was proving to be tortuous. He realized why it was such a difficult piece to write: he was utterly conflicted by Sagen. Was he hero or villain, sinner or saint, insane or inspired? Dominic had landed on how he wanted to portray Sagen, but he wasn’t sure how readers would relate. Bugger it. He wasn’t of the age or standing to care much about what others thought anymore.
Finally, by the afternoon, he was finished. He had something that he thought was worthy and readable—which was about as much praise as he ever gave his writing. He sent it to Ray before anyone else. While Ray was no journalist, he had a solid eye, and he told Dominic the truth. Ruthlessly. Belligerently.
The phone rang and Dominic lurched for it. “Well?”
“Fucking love it. Amazing stuff. I didn’t think you still had it in you.”
“It warms my heart to know you were so confident in my abilities.”
“Seriously, I’m really surprised. Didn’t think you’d go at Sagen quite so hard—thought you two had a bit of a bromance going on.”
“Do you think it’s unfair?”
“No!” spat Ray. “He’s a hypocritical bastard. I think you’ve shown restraint.”
“OK, good. I’ll send it to Ed today and get him to take a wire brush to it.”
“All right. When are you coming into the office? We need to discuss Veda Analytics.”
“This afternoon.” Despite the utter disaster that the Veda Analytics problem had presented itself as, Dominic actually looked forward to dealing with something other than Sagen.
“All right. Over and out,” said Ray.
Dominic hung up, spun the phone around in his hand before putting it down, and headed upstairs content with himself. He showered and dressed in a charcoal suit, white shirt, and brown Church’s brogues. Back downstairs, he grabbed his phone off the table, and noticed a missed call from an unknown number. As he slid it into his leather attaché case, it vibrated again.
“This is Dominic,” he answered.
“And here I was thinking we were friends,” came a brooding voice on the other end.
Dominic felt his chest tighten. “Victor?”
“I read your piece and, frankly, I’m not thrilled.”
Dominic took a moment to compose himself, stunned that Sagen had somehow read the article. “I’m very sorry to hear that, Victor, but I’m not about writing puff pieces. If you wanted an advertorial, you should have called our advertising team.” He recalled the way Sagen had made contact through his laptop last time. Either Sagen had installed some sort of cloning bug or Earth Ghost had intercepted his email to Ray. Either way, he needed to tighten up his IT security ASAP.
“Dominic, please, let’s not play games. I want you to rewrite the article and paint both myself and Earth Ghost in a more palatable light for your constituents.”
“What if I say no?”
A long silence followed. He could hear Sagen breathing slowly and steadily. “I didn’t want to do this, but you give me no option. Take a look at the text message you’re about to receive.”
Dominic’s phone buzzed again. He opened the messaging app and saw he’d been sent a video. His blood ran cold looking at the dark but high-definition image of his face with the black helmet on his head and the life jacket around his torso. Playing the video he saw himself heaving the large black case that held the Javelin missile launcher. The point of view was from Jared’s helmet. No wonder he kept shoving that bloody light in my face!
Dominic wiped his hand across his mouth. His mind swirled, looking for a way out. He could feel sweat beads forming on his temples. How could he have been so stupid? He even remembered noticing all the appendages to Jared’s helmet at the time.
The video played on, showing him holding the launcher for Jared while he loaded the first missile.
“This is bullshit and you know it!”
“Of course I know it, Dominic. But do you think your board will know it? Your employees? Your readers? Your Indian takeover target? Barclays bank? MI6? Do you think they’ll all know it?”
“Fuck you,” growled Dominic through gritted teeth, hanging up the phone before throwing it against the wall in the hallway. The phone split open and lay in two pieces on the floor. That it was only in two pieces infuriated Dominic even more. He was hoping for a million shards of plastic and metal to explode in front of him, giving him some sense of satisfaction.
Storming out, he saw Alex, his driver, and grunted as he threw himself into the rear seat and slammed the door shut. Apparently sensing his boss’ mood, Alex climbed wordlessly into the front and drove the Merc down the driveway.
The journey to the office felt endless. Dominic whiled away the time staring out the window, watching the countryside slip by until the dominating scenery became traffic, concrete, and pollution.
It had been a long time since Dominic had experienced being cornered and helpless. It made him feel sick to his stomach. He was at a complete loss as to what to do; torn between integrity and self-preservation. As much as it hurt his purist professional self, his more pragmatic side was kicking into action and he began building a solid mental case for rewriting the article and spinning it more in favor of Sagen and Earth Ghost. He could not afford to have a video like the one Sagan had in his possession shared publicly. It wasn’t so much himself that he was worried about; it was Jagged Edge. The company would be ruined if the public believed its founder and chairman to be a militant eco-terrorist involved in the death of two innocents. The other news outlets would have a field day. They’d slam Dominic mercilessly and relentlessly attack Jagged Edge Media.
He lamented the fact that he had been threatened by his own government and was now being blackmailed by a man he had once thought admirable and inspiring. His world was spiraling further out of control and there was nothing he could do to stop it.
In his office, Dominic looked at the laptop screen on his desk. He had spent the last few hours refining and softening the article so that it now really did read like a puff piece. He attached the rewritten article in an email to Ed, Jagged Edge’s editor-in-chief and hit send.
His head was pounding to the rhythm of his heartbeat and his hands shook fractionally, either from rage, stress, frust
ration, or, more likely, all three. He leaned back in his leather chair and exhaled deeply. Swiveling, he looked out the huge glass windows beside his desk. The gray buildings, gray road, gray sky, and gray people all reflected his mood perfectly. The last thing he wanted to do now was sit through an update with Ray.
It could wait. He was the boss, for Christ’s sake. Ray would get the update when he, Dominic, wanted. Time to get some semblance of control back into his life.
Following a sharp but polite knock, Jacqueline’s head appeared from behind the door. “Can I get you any food?”
“What time is it?” He continued to stare out the window.
“It’s quarter to three.”
He ran a hand over his eyes. “No thanks, Jacs. Fancy a drink though?”
“Well, it is Friday afternoon.” She grinned conspiratorially.
He got up quickly and reached for his attaché case, along with the new phone Jacqueline had organized for him. They walked to Boisdale on Eccleston Street in Belgravia. It was Dominic’s local haunt. He knew the owner and many of the regular staff. It was a place where he felt at home—helped enormously by their obsessive collection of malt whiskies.
As they walked in, the older crowd gawked at Dominic, some of them nodding, some waving hello. It still surprised him to know that he commanded notoriety in these parts. Being the owner of a significant media empire had that effect. The reality was he was both renowned and revered throughout London’s business and media scene. The drawback to Boisdale’s was that many of the clientele were familiar with him—at least they thought they were. He never really felt like part of the establishment. He wasn’t Eton-educated and his university years had been spent traveling the world before entering the military, but not as an officer, just a regular Tom. He sometimes felt he had more in common with the bar staff than the sophisticated elite, who stood around sniffing the bouquet of their Bordeauxs.
At the bar he ordered a Hendrick’s and tonic for Jacqueline and a glass of wine for himself. Truth was, he liked the sniff of a good Bordeaux too. They secured seating in two worn leather armchairs surrounded by old oak paneling in the dimly lit bar area. A jazz trio had set up in the opposite corner of the bar and a young woman began softly laying out the first verses of Nina Simone’s “Feeling Good”. Fucking irony.