Agency O

by Tor Fleck

  ‘What the hell’s going on?’

  ‘Someone’s following me.’

  Who?’

  Paul spun round. ‘I have no fucking idea. When you arrived, was there anybody suspicious hanging around?’

  Richard raised his eyebrows. ‘You mean apart from the fist-waving lunatic at our front door?’ Paul shot him a glance. This wasn’t the time for jokes. Richard lowered his eyebrows and changed tack. ‘What did he look like?’

  Paul poured himself a glass of water and gulped it down. ‘I don’t know. He was wearing one of those Peaky Blinders-style flat caps, pulled down over his face.’

  ‘And you didn’t just imagine it?’

  ‘No, I didn’t fucking imagine it. Jesus!’

  ‘Okay, okay,’ conceded Richard. ‘Calm down.’

  ‘He followed me all the way from the library. He got on the same tube. I think he followed me here too.’

  ‘Could it be, I don’t know, somebody who lives round here? You know, a coincidence?’

  ‘I slowed down, I stopped, I practically ran away from him. But he was still behind me, all the way to our street.’

  Richard grinned and shrugged. ‘Glasgow. The friendliest city in the world.’

  ‘It freaked me out.’

  ‘Acht, I wouldn’t worry about it,’ Richard reassured him. ‘It was probably just one of the fucked-up mates I owe money to. Either that,’ he laughed, ‘or you’ve been helping yourself to my Lynx Africa!’ He nudged Paul in the ribs.

  ‘You’re probably right,’ said Paul, filling up and downing a second glass of water. But something in his gut, something he couldn’t yet fathom, told him Richard was deadly wrong.

  6

  Richard arranged to meet the Omni executive on the other side of the city, in a wine bar neither he nor Paul had ever been to before. Less chance of bumping into any of his ‘savant’ friends and blowing their cover, he told Paul with a wink. But the incident a few days before had rattled Paul’s cage, and he protested about going somewhere unfamiliar, beyond their comfort zone, but, as usual, Richard got his way.

  They arrived ten minutes late, the result of Richard’s flawed map-reading skills and a spilled coffee, their cheap suits surprisingly in keeping with the pseudo antique furniture and décor, clearly shipped in – at little cost – from the Far East.

  ‘Perfect,’ whispered Richard, scanning the tables. Most were taken up by miserable-looking middle-aged couples, busy ignoring each other and grateful for the chance to do so away from home.

  ‘There,’ said Paul, spotting a young woman at a table on her own, glancing at her watch. He set off across the room.

  ‘Slowly,’ Richard cautioned, grabbing Paul’s arm and cleverly overtaking him. ‘Ms Lowe?’ he smiled, as they approached her table.

  Alice stood up to greet them. She was well-dressed, with an elegant beauty that belied her age. Paul had her down as late-20s, if that. Long auburn hair curled over the lapels of her tight-fitting two-piece suit, and the Gucci watch she wore was a far cry from the Apple Watch Paul had fantasised over since it first came out.

  Alice Lowe certainly looked the part, and Paul fancied her immediately. It was clear from Richard’s smarmy grin that he did too. ‘Yes,’ she said, shaking both their hands in turn. ‘Good evening, gentlemen.’

  ‘Sorry we’re late,’ said Paul, sitting down opposite and dragging his chair in closer to the table. Richard sat beside him and dragged his own chair in even closer. ‘We’ve just come out of a long, tiresome meeting,’ said Richard, raising his eyebrows. ‘You know what it’s like.’

  Paul shot him a frown. Jesus.

  ‘That’s okay,’ said Alice, flattening her trousers. ‘I’ve just arrived myself. So …’ She smiled, and Paul swore he heard a ‘Ping!’ bounce off her perfect white teeth, ‘… which one of you is Tor Fleck?’

  ‘Oh, er … neither of us,’ Richard replied, and coughed awkwardly. ‘We’re his representatives, his agents in the UK. He doesn’t do abroad. Never leaves Norway. He hates flying. And water.’

  ‘This is Richard Gann,’ Paul interrupted, before Richard could say too much. ‘… and I’m Paul Grant.’

  ‘Pleasure to meet you both at last.’ Alice’s smile seemed genuine, and infectious. She turned to Richard. ‘So you’re also the actor, in the movie shorts?’

  ‘Yes. I studied at RADA, in Glasgow,’ Richard lied.

  ‘I have to say the videos are very impressive. You’re a good actor, Mr Gann.’

  ‘Why thank you. I’ll take that.’ Richard’s grin was so wide you could have slid a banana in sideways.

  ‘Oh, Christ,’ Paul muttered under his breath.

  ‘Perhaps a drink before we start?’ Alice did a little drumroll on the table with her fingertips. ‘What would you like?’

  ‘Oh no,’ said Richard, the banana grin now fixed, ‘let me get them. What would you like?’

  Alice thought for a moment. ‘Oh, what the hell, it’s Thursday. Could I have a small white wine spritzer, please?’

  ‘And I’ll have a tonic water and lime,’ said Richard. ‘And whatever you’re having, Paul.’ He nodded towards the bar.

  Paul threw his so-called friend a sneer and sloped off for the drinks. From the bar he watched Richard prattle on, and prayed to God he wasn’t trying to chat Alice up. An experience like that would scar the poor woman for life. Not to mention scupper their chances of selling her the script.

  As Paul returned with the tray of drinks, Richard broke off from his conversation and leaned back. ‘I’ve just been telling – may I call you Alice?’

  Smarmy git.

  ‘Of course,’ smiled Alice.

  ‘I’ve been telling Alice about how we came to acquire Tor’s manuscript.’

  Paul’s stomach flipped like a fortune-telling fish. ‘Uh-huh …’

  ‘And how you were best friends at University.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Paul recovered. ‘We studied creative writing together.’

  ‘So, he used to like travelling?’ Alice asked.

  Paul nodded. ‘Yeah. Back before – ’

  ‘ – the accident,’ Richard added, quickly stepping into the breach. ‘He was on his way to Espoo in Finland in a chartered plane when it went down in the Baltic Sea. Apparently, he was out there for days – pelvis broken, collarbone shattered – stranded on an iceberg. The rescue services said it was a miracle he survived.’

  ‘Oh wow. I can see why that might leave a scar.’ Alice winced at the thought.

  ‘Indeed. Physical scars, and …’ Richard’s voice dropped half an octave to emphasise the gravitas of Tor’s condition. ‘… deep, deep, psychological scars.’

  ‘Anyway …’ Paul jumped back in. ‘Tor and I shared a flat.’

  ‘So was he fluent in English then?’ Alice asked.

  ‘Well, he loved our theatre and writers, didn’t he?’

  ‘Don’t we all.’ Alice sipped at her drink with the dreamy seductiveness of a wartime spy.

  Paul continued. ‘Some of my friends found him a little eccentric, but that’s why I liked him.’

  ‘How so?’

  Shit. Paul felt himself teeter on the edge of a sinkhole. ‘He was … er … ten years older than the rest of us, so … he had a life going on beneath the surface. More experience. You know?’ Paul was unaware his foot was tapping against the table leg until Richard kicked him and he stopped. ‘He liked to write about the darker side of the human mind. I think it freaked some people out. His favourite book was ‘The Strange Case Of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde.’

  ‘A man of good taste,’ nodded Alice in approval. ‘So, what happened next?’

  ‘Next, he went back to Sweden. Got a job with the government. Some hush-hush project I was never made privy to.’ Paul was beginning to enjoy this game.

  ‘You said Norway.’

  ‘I said what?’

  ‘Earlier. I think it was Richard who said Tor never leaves Norway.’

  ‘Bloody Scandinavian countries,’ scoffe
d Richard. ‘They all look the same. If they’re not covered in snow they’re covered in tourists.’ The remark seemed to appease Alice.

  ‘And you don’t know what he did for the Norwegian government?’

  Christ, she’s persistent, thought Paul. He shrugged. ‘I didn’t see him much after uni, to be honest.’

  ‘But you stayed in touch, didn’t you?’ Richard prompted clumsily. ‘Didn’t you visit him a couple of times in his … what was it, a log cabin?’

  ‘Log cabin?’ Paul had to mentally think if they had log cabins in Norway. ‘I’m not sure it was a log cabin, though he did live out in the country, near … eh … some trees.’

  Alice laughed. She clearly thought Paul was kidding. He ploughed on regardless.

  ‘We never talked about his job. I don’t think he was allowed to. He thought he was being followed.’

  ‘By whom?’

  ‘Mercenaries.’

  ‘He said that?’ Even Richard was buying into Paul’s shite.

  Paul nodded. ‘Oh, yes. Not out loud. On account of the bugs. But he’d whisper it. He’d say …’ And here Paul leaned over the table and slowly licked his lips, ratcheting up the tension. As one, Richard and Alice leaned over too, eager to hear just exactly what the fictional Tor Fleck had whispered to Paul out there in his ice-cold Norwegian wood.

  ‘… fucking Congolese.’

  Alice and Richard stared back, stunned. It was Alice who broke the awkward silence.

  ‘Isn’t that racist?’

  Paul sat back and scratched his neck. ‘I’m guessing his reaction would have been the same if he’d thought Scotsmen were targeting him. Or the English.’

  ‘Especially the English.’ Richard downed his tonic water and lime in one.

  Paul was far more relaxed now. Let’s see Richard act better than that. ‘But we talked quite happily – and talked a lot – about his writing,’ he added. ‘After all, it was our mutual passion.’

  ‘That’s clear from the script,’ said Alice, back in smiling mode, all thoughts of racism sent back where they came from.

  Paul acknowledged the compliment with an almost imperceptible nod. ‘You have to understand, he was a very complex guy. After all,’ he explained, ‘the Nordics are, historically, a deep and conflicted bunch, full of mystery and intrigue, and very difficult to pin down, psychologically speaking.’ Paul took a large gulp of beer to refuel the yarn-spinning machine. ‘He definitely rubbed people up the wrong way. He was blunt and said it like it was, and some folks gave him a wide berth because of it. But he was always there for me, even though he remained, as I said, a bit of an enigma.’

  ‘Can you elaborate?’ Alice had pulled a notepad from somewhere and was scribbling frantically.

  Paul took a breath. ‘There were hints that things weren’t good with his family. There was also a woman he spoke of, his great love. I never met her, and we only spoke about her when he chose to bring the subject up. She’d clearly caused him great pain.’ Another long gulp of beer. Think, think. ‘But then one day I got the news that –’ he paused. ‘He had died.’

  ‘I know,’ replied Alice sadly. ‘Richard just told me.’

  Paul shook his head, his eyes lowered in faux respect. ‘Tragic,’ he said, desperately racking his brains trying to recall the plotlines he and Richard had previously agreed on. ‘Suicide, apparently,’ he added hesitantly.

  Alice looked up from her writing. ‘Richard, didn’t you say he’d been murdered?’

  ‘I did,’ said Richard, paddling like mad beneath the surface. ‘I certainly did. And I’ll tell you why.’ Richard glanced at the bar and grimaced. ‘His body was recovered on the Finnish–Russian border.’

  ‘Of all places.’ Paul was enjoying his friend’s discomfort.

  Richard returned the sneer thrown at him earlier. ‘Authorities said his death had been made to look like suicide,’ he clarified to Alice. ‘Hence Paul saying apparently. Isn’t that right, Paul?’

  ‘Yep.’ Well played.

  Richard continued. ‘The police investigation discovered that Tor had been involved in classified cross-border activities for a long time. This time, however, was the wrong time.’

  ‘That is so mysterious.’ Alice leaned forward in her chair. ‘And do they know why he was there?’

  Richard shook his head. ‘It remains an unsolved crime to this very day. It’s all very sad.’

  ‘Wow,’ said Alice. ‘That’s quite a story. But what about the script?’

  Paul stepped up to the fiction plate once more. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘about three months after I heard he’d died, I received a parcel, postmarked Norway.’

  ‘Not Sweden?’ Richard’s eyes bored straight through his co-conspirator, but Paul ignored him and ploughed on. ‘Of course, I knew it was from him. And I have to tell you, it scared the bejesus out of me.’ He took another sip of beer, replacing the glass carefully on top of the coaster. Crumpsall Brewery. He looked up at Alice, his eyes serious and unblinking. ‘Inside was the script for Agency O, along with a letter from his solicitor saying Tor had left the script to me in his will.’

  Alice gulped and fought back a shiver. ‘And do you still have the letter?’

  ‘Of course he does,’ Richard interrupted. ‘Not with him right now, obviously, but we can provide it, if necessary.’

  Alice exhaled. ‘Okay, good,’ she said. ‘We may need to see that at some point, just to establish your intellectual rights to the work.’

  ‘That’s not a problem,’ Richard assured her, shooting Paul a fierce look.

  ‘And thank you for letting me read Tor’s original script,’ said Alice, taking a sip of wine.

  ‘Wait, you’ve read it? How?’ Paul was puzzled. The script was back at home. Wasn’t it?

  ‘I sent it over last week,’ explained Richard breezily. ’I thought it might speed things up.’

  ‘It does need quite a bit of work.’ Alice looked at Richard and Paul in turn. ‘But you know that, right?’

  ‘It was his first draft,’ Paul offered lamely.

  ‘But it has potential,’ Alice continued. ‘In fact, I would say it has great potential. The script has all the ingredients for a brilliant movie. It races off the page at breakneck speed. That’s absolutely critical for any decent action thriller. And considering what’s going on right now, the themes Tor explores are super-contemporary and bang on the money. Your late friend’s knowledge and insight into this secret organisation – ’

  ‘Agency O,’ Richard interrupted.

  ‘ – and their terrifying grip on the levers of power is compelling, utterly convincing, and an absolute winner as far as I’m concerned. I am very, very impressed.’

  ‘He did just make it all up, though,’ Paul reminded Alice. ‘He had a very vivid imagination.’

  ‘But one perhaps influenced by his mysterious, parallel life in Norway?’ Richard suggested.

  ‘I can see that.’ Alice nodded thoughtfully and took another slow sip of wine.

  Richard looked around the table. ‘Well,’ he began, ‘this is all just fantastic news, Alice. We couldn’t have asked for better.’

  ‘Before we get carried away, though,’ Alice cautioned, ‘I’ll need to present it to my production team. Our policy on potential projects is to make a collective call, and even if we do get the script through this stage there are a few more hurdles to overcome, including a thumbs-up from our executive board. However … I’m confident that Omni will love Tor’s script just as much as I do.’ Another flash of those fantastic gnashers. Ping!

  Richard took a breath. ‘Thank you, Alice, for your belief in our project. Genuinely.’ And he meant it. Genuinely.

  ‘One step at a time, horsey,’ she half-slurred, tackling the remains of her spritzer. She could feel its warmth drip down her chest to her legs.

  Horsey? Paul tried to conceal a smile. She couldn’t know it, but Paul had mistakenly ordered her a large spritzer.

  ‘A question.’ Paul asked, and Richard glared at him.
‘Your production company makes mainly European Arthouse movies. So why are you interested in this more commercial-type kind of thriller? Isn’t that a bit … downmarket for you?’

  Alice tried to focus, searching her booze-addled memory bank for non-equine related vocabulary.

  Richard butted in. ‘What my colleague means is, are you expanding and diversifying your brief?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Alice flattened her trousers again and regained her composure. ‘What you just said.’ She stopped and looked at them, waiting on a response, before realising they were waiting on her. ‘For the last five years we’ve been developing a stronger presence in Hollywood, and that means we have to diversify into more bloodstream - mainstream areas, including thrillers such as yours. It’s a slow, slow, slow, slow, slow …’ His eyes began to close. ‘…process, but we now have a foothold in a few on-going productions we believe will eshtablish … eshtablish … that’s such a funny word.’

  ‘It’s “establish”,’ prompted Paul. Richard booted him under the table, and Alice’s eyes sprang open again.

  ‘Anyway, they’ll eshtablish ush as a major player in the coming years. That … my young friends … is Omni’s ambition.’ Her grin had taken on the look of Nosferatu. ‘So … we still on board with this?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Richard, enthusiastically.

  Paul was a little more cautious. Why was she so pissed on a few sips of spritzer – a hard day? ‘Let’s see where it takes us.’

  ‘Great,’ said Alice. ‘Let me check some dates.’ Alice lifted her phone from her bag and promptly dropped it, causing her to giggle. Richard and Paul shared a concerned look.

  ‘Our next monthly script review is a week on Friday.’ Alice was on her knees scrabbling for her phone. ‘I can brief the team before then, so that should hopefully save some time and move things forward. C’mere, phone!’

  Richard peeked under the table. ‘And if your team approve?’

  ‘Got it!’ Alice grabbed the back of a chair and hauled herself up, holding her phone out in front of her like a pair of shitty pants. ‘Bloody GPS doesn’t work when you drop the bugger, does it?’