Promethean Shadows

by Patrick Jean-Jacques

  “Our plan, I like that,” said Cameron. “I was beginning to worry about you my dear,” he said with an undercurrent of menace. “I need you to be certain my dear that’s why we placed you two together,” he said matter-of-factly.

  Maya felt uneasy about Cameron’s comments and dropped her had ashamedly. Cameron caught her reaction and changed his tone, “Look, you’ve had an extremely long drive,” he said, as he moved a strand of hair away from her face. “Why don’t you go and freshen up, lunch will be ready in half an hour,” insisted Cameron.

  ✽✽✽

  The man sat patiently outside the aged, solid wooden door. He looked it up and down, taking in the strong scent of mahogany. He could hear the conversation that was coming from inside, where two men were engaged in a heated debate.

  The men inside were senior members of the government and they had been agreeing-to-disagree all morning. For minutes, they exchanged allegations, suppositions and conjecture using their Oxbridge-laden vernacular skilfully.

  Both men were dressed in dark pinstripe suits with black, highly polished shoes. Their exchange carried on for at least another fifteen minutes before an impasse was tenuously agreed.

  A strong, yet weathered hand twisted the brass doorknob firmly and pushed the door open. As he left the room, Sir Anthony Wilson, Secretary of State for Energy and Climate Change, gave the man outside a casual look as he departed.

  Before he entered the room, the man’s eyes followed Sir Anthony as he walked down the hallway. “Morning Prime Minister,” said the man, as he strode powerfully across the room with his arm outstretched.

  “Good morning, John,” said Clive Baldwin-Jones decisively. “We’ve a lot to talk about,” he added, as both men sat downFor many years, John Bridge had served at her majesty’s pleasure. He was one of their most effective and decorated operatives in MI6, unofficially. Like most of his peers, he was single, privately educated and raised through a life of military service.

  To anyone who thought they knew him, he was a polite man but an extremely private person. Most people, who thought they knew John, would’ve described someone who was a simple chartered surveyor that worked for a large firm. All they knew was he frequently travelled the country and sometimes overseas.

  John Bridge held two underlying beliefs that balanced his morality. The first was his service for queen and country. The second was his duty and relationship with the PM, which was personal and dated back to 1982.

  After the conflict in the Falklands, where John Bridge served as a young officer with the Fifth Infantry Brigade, he spent considerable downtime in Dorset. It was there he first encountered Baldwin-Jones, who was a seasoned minister under Thatcher.

  A peaceful demonstration outside the Hermitage Hotel in Bournemouth had erupted into violence and all hell had broken loose. Bridge, who was frequenting a nearby bar, saw some of the dignitaries under threat. Without any thought fir his own safety, he jumped into action and saved a few important lives, including the current prime minister.

  Over the years, he received recognition and reward for performance in the field. Afterwards, he rose through the ranks of MI6, under the watchful eyes of his powerful mentor. John Bridge’s skillset worked to great effect in February 1985, where he made a successful and covert incursion into Russia. He was instrumental in the deaths of several foreign ministers, including that of Ando Kobayashi of Japan.

  For showing immense loyalty and dedicated service, John Bridge became the head of security to the PM. After exchanging a few minor pleasantries, they got down to business. The mutual tone of affinity between the two men was a testament to their long-standing history and friendship.

  “Tell me about the boy?” the PM asked authoritatively.

  “Well sir, the boy is one William Cox. He’s in his late twenties, five-nine and recently graduated out of Rowling College, Cambridge in Journalism,” replied Bridge factually. “He can handle himself and is a very competent investigator.”

  “Journalist, gods!” sneered Baldwin-Jones. “If there’s one thing I detest the more than the shadow cabinet John, it’s the paparazzi.”

  “Yes sir!” agreed Bridge. “He lives on his own on the north-eastern edge of the city in a one-bedroom apartment, completely bought and paid for.”

  Baldwin-Jones raised his eyebrow as he reached for a decanter, “How the hell could he afford that? Properties around Cambridge City are bloody pricey,” said the PM, as he poured two glasses of neat malt whiskey.

  “Yes Minister, typically in excess of four to five hundred thousand,” said a very informed Bridge. “Turns out he had a mysterious benefactor who bought the property in his name some years ago, freehold!”

  Baldwin-Jones nearly spilled his drink, “Freehold!”

  “All legal and above-board, sir!” confirmed Bridge.

  “Interesting,” said Baldwin-Jones. “I’m entirely certain that his father had a hand in that,” handing a drink to Bridge.

  “Cameron Cox!” replied Bridge.

  “Unquestionably, cheers John!” said Baldwin-Jones, as the two men clinked their glasses together. “What about the investigation? Your report stated that William Cox had uncovered some potentially damaging information. Is this something that I need to be worried about?” he asked with mild concern.

  “Well, I retrieved the data and destroyed it, sir,” said John Bridge decisively. He sipped at his drink, “However, we were nearly compromised due to Mr Bruce’s belligerence,” he added.

  “Yes-yes, and you came under fire from an unknown assailant, whilst exiting the building,” said Baldwin-Jones with some sceptically. “Unofficially?” he asked.

  “Unofficially, Bruce’s incompetence nearly sunk the entire op,” insisted Bridge flatly. “He was unreliable, so I… let him go, sir!” added Bridge cagily.

  Clive Baldwin-Jones looked at John Bridge compassionately, “I’m not judging you John,” he said. “If you say it had to be done, then so be it. I just hope you’re not losing objectivity.”

  “Never, sir!” replied Bridge. “It made more sense to keep the kid alive.”

  “Because?” asked Baldwin-Jones, as he looked at John Bridge directly.

  “Because we can use him to track down Cameron and his nihilistic misfits once and for all, sir” smiled Bridge shrewdly.

  Bridge spent the next twenty minutes briefing Baldwin-Jones about the incident at the Rowling College, specifically, how he took care of Etienne McDonald. He also explained how he’d misdirected the police away from the investigation, which eased the PM’s anxieties.

  As he got up to leave, Clive Baldwin-Jones gave him some words of warning, “In spite of your training John, don’t underestimate him or his Prometheans.” He said. “Cameron Cox is ruthless as he is elusive and probably more coldblooded than you.”

  “Never sir,” replied John Bridge doggedly, as he got up to leave.

  “Oh, and if William Cox should continue to dig-up any sensitive material, ensure that the next thing he digs is his own grave,” said Clive Baldwin-Jones directly.

  “Understood, Minister!” acknowledged Bridge, as he emptied his glass. He turned and headed out the door. “Good day sir.”

  “Good hunting John,” said Baldwin-Jones.

  “Kent, sir!” replied Bridge. “I prefer Kent these days.”

  “Of course you do Mr Kent,” smiled the PM, as the door closed. “Of course you do!”

  ✽✽✽

  Strewn across the bedroom walls was a makeshift spider diagram, like the ones the police used. Will had created a mind map of everyone he thought or knew, had a connection to the Prometheans organisation.

  There were several images of people and places with red tape connecting them where Will thought it was appropriate or necessary. At the heart of Will’s diagram was an aerial photograph of the Chapelsfield Nuclear Facility. Will’s instincts told him that Chapelsfield was important but for what, he hadn’t worked out yet.

  Next to the diagram, Will had pinned a copy of
an e-mail on the wall. It was the one sent from username: ax@tigeye.com. He’d annotated the copy with a faceless image and scrawled ‘unknown, male or female, possible friend’ on it.

  Will stepped back and admired his work, then rested his chin in his hands thoughtfully. He angled his head to the left and then right, scrutinising the e-mail as if it was a work of art.

  He stared at the picture of his former mentor, Professor McDonald and wondered how such a man could be involved with the Prometheans, his father and Maya. Will tried to recall Daley’s words, “Did you know that Etienne McDonald was a two-time Pulitzer Prize winning journalist?” he remembered. “He did some exceptional work in Washington back in the eighties, working for the Post.”

  “The Post,” Will cried out. “Shit!” He grabbed his laptop and began to press the keys furiously. Will googled Etienne McDonald, cross-referenced it with the Washington Post and found his answers. “Bingo,” he said triumphantly.

  He learned that Etienne McDonald had written some highly profile articles on several eco-disasters. Specifically, he’d covered the Fyodorgrad disaster in 1985, the Tlilatl spillage in 2010 and his final piece was about Satoshima-1 disaster.

  Smiling triumphantly, Will realised that these weren’t coincidences and he’d put together important facts. The Professor, his parents and Maya’s father were all at the same place at the same time.

  After rubbing his eyes warily, Will stepped back proudly. He wondered out loud what he was going to do with the information, ‘Should I go to the police? Do I go to Daley? Should I tell my mates?’ he thought.

  Before Will decided what he was going to do next, he grabbed a shower and some food. He heard the notification sound from his laptop, which indicated he’d received a new message in his inbox but he ignored it.

  Almost zombie-like, he threw his clothes over his laptop and trudged into the bathroom. After a few minutes, Will felt more alert and with steam still seeping from his body he went over to his laptop. He lifted the screen and read his e-mail out,

  “Your life is in grave danger. We need to meet! I will be in touch, Ax.”

  The glare from the screen reflected off Will’s face, as he read and reread the email. He tried to pick apart the username but Ax meant little to him and he couldn’t reconcile it with anyone he knew.

  Will started to read out the message again, “Your life is in grave d…,” when suddenly, the phone rang. Will jumped like a startled cat and took a breath before he answered the phone.

  “William Cox, do you know who this is?” asked the mysterious voice.

  “I’m guessing that you’re Ax?” replied Will, trying to sound confident. Although he couldn’t identify exactly whom he was talking to, he understood the gravity in their tone of voice.

  “The time has come for us to meet face-to-face,” said the disguised voice. “Your life depends upon it!”

  “How and where?” said Will.

  “You got mail!” said the voice cryptically before hanging-up.

  Upon hearing the notification ping again, Will instantly read his new message, “Head to where the last wolves were slain. NN913628, Ax!” He stared at the screen for a while, trying to make sense of the email.

  After everything that had happened up this point, the thought of being in danger didn’t phase Will. He thought long and hard but his inability to decipher the code was beginning to frustrate him. NN913628 meant nothing to him, that was until he squinted through the bedroom door and saw the hardcover book under the coffee.

  Will berated his inability to see the obvious, “Effing idiot,” he cursed. Then he praised the mysterious Ax, “Coordinates, very clever,” he said admiringly. He flipped through the pages of the road atlas, “Let’s see how rusty my grid referencing is, shall we?”

  ✽✽✽

  Killiecrankie was a lovely, idyllic little village in the heart of Perthshire, Scotland. Sitting near the River Garry it was a principal supplier of mineral water for most of the United Kingdom. Lying on the Pass of Killiecrankie was a power station that formed part of the Tummel Hydro-Electric Power Scheme. Not far from the village, in the magnificent Scottish Highlands, was a dense wooded gorge where the river ran and the springs flowed.

  Will crumpled the information leaflet in his hand and sat-up attentively. He’d parked his car near the visitor centre of the Cairngorms National Park and remained there, staking out the area.

  As he waited patiently, he admired the fluffy white snow-capped peaks of the Grampians in the distance. Hidden behind puffs of misty low-lying clouds, they exuded an unnerving aura that made Will feel uneasy.

  With each breath, cold air left his mouth and hung in the air. Like any good investigator, Will was meticulous as he surveyed his surroundings. He looked for anything conspicuous and inconspicuous. He could almost hear Daley’s voice in his head, ‘If it doesn’t feel safe, then chances are it’s not safe,’ he would say to Will.

  Will took several necessary precautions as he headed to Scotland. He drove through the late evening via York and took several detours off the M1 motorway. When he arrived at Leeds, he took the train. At Glasgow International, he changed yet again and headed directly to Perth in a hired car. After that, the journey up the A9 to Killiecrankie was relatively straightforward.

  Will’s phone pinged to indicate he’d received yet another e-mail. With a casual swipe from his finger, he unlocked the phone and read the new message, ‘Look under the passenger seat. See you soon!’ He allowed his hand to search underneath the seat and find what he was looking for.

  As he fumbled around, Will bemoaned his carelessness and wondered how someone could have gotten into his car without his knowledge. Eventually, Will carefully retrieved a folded piece of paper and opened it.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Action/Reaction

  Before he entered the Killiecrankie House Hotel, Will looked around one last time and checked his surroundings. In spite of his precautions, he’d never have guessed that he was being watched by the figure hidden further away in the mountains.

  The man remained motionless, as he watched Will through the crosshairs of his rifle. He’d been perched in his hideaway for two days, roughing it out until his target appeared. When he saw Will walking into the hotel, Mr Kent knew his target was already there or would soon arrive.

  Will walked cautiously through the lobby, checking all the corridors, doorways and looking for exits. He felt like a professional, only more scared. Anything or anyone that seemed out of place warranted a second, lingering look.

  As he walked over to reception, he acknowledged the burly concierge with a courteous nod, “Hi! I'm here to meet…” started Will.

  “You can go straight through to the conference room, Mr Cox,” interrupted the man behind the desk.

  Completely taken by surprise, Will followed the instructions regardless. He headed in the direction of the pointing finger, “Uh, thanks. Thank you!” said Will, as he walked through the doors nervously.

  Two more men in matching suits appeared, seemingly from nowhere and ushered Will through. As the men closed the doors behind them, Will clocked their wireless earpieces and bulges under their jackets. He assumed they were either private security or government detail of some ilk. Regardless, they were nonetheless armed.

  Just before the doors closed, he looked back at the man standing behind the desk and it dawned on him he was anything but a receptionist. The last thing he heard was the man talking into the phone, “Sir, William Cox is coming through to see you.”

  “Ah! William, we meet once again,” said the gravelly old voice.

  Will walked slowly up to conference table to see who had greeted him. “Well, you wanted a face-to-face,” he said cautiously. “So here I am! Although, I can’t say that this place is inconspicuous,” Will said, as he admired the magnificent pictures on the wall.

  He continued to walk slowly down the table and then stopped warily. Although, Will still couldn’t see the man’s face, he saw that he had neatly
groomed, grey hair. From the way he sat, upright and dignified, Will could tell this man had an air of authority.

  “How was your trip to Scotland?” asked the man, as he swivelled dramatically in his chair. “I trust the A9 wasn’t too choc-a-bloc?”

  “Sir Anthony Wilson!” said Will.

  The Secretary of State for Energy and Climate Change continued prattling on but everything he said was lost on a very surprised Will. When Sir Anthony saw his bemused face, he stopped talking.

  “Judging by the look on your face, I’m clearly not what you were expecting,” said Sir Anthony. “You thought I’d sent you those emails?”

  Will tried to appear straight-faced but poker wasn’t really his thing, “How’d you know about the emails,” he demanded but Sir Anthony didn’t answer. “You’re not Ax, are you?”

  “No young man, I’m not!” confirmed Sir Anthony, “But I’m surprised that someone of your intelligence hadn’t figured it already.”

  Sir Anthony looked at Will’s blank face and saw he was uneasy. He insisted that Will sat down and poured him a whiskey. Will took the glass without hesitation and swallowed the golden liquid in one gulp.

  Will sighed, as the burning sensation from the alcohol warmed his stomach and eased his tension. “Malt whiskey, a testament to the finest traditions of Irish distillery,” said Will approvingly, as he admired the glass.

  “Another?” said Sir Anthony, with a self-satisfied smile.

  “Don’t mind if I do,” said Will, as he felt more at ease.

  When Sir Anthony saw Will had become was more relaxed, he started to talk about Clive Baldwin-Jones rise through the political ranks. He began with Baldwin-Jones’ life as a cabinet minister for energy and practically confirmed everything that Will had already known or suspected.

  Sir Anthony then filled-in some of the gaps in Will’s knowledge. He started with everything he knew since the conference in Washington 1980, when he’d have been a junior minister. He was also able to provide Will with some insight about the people in the picture, including Will and Maya’s parents.