Agency O

by Tor Fleck

  Paul woke to the sound of music drifting in through the open bedroom door. He pulled on a pair of boxers and shuffled through to the kitchen. Alice was at the cooker, singing along to the radio. Some god-awful pop tune Paul had never heard before. He was about to head back to the warmth of the bed when Alice whipped her head round.

  ‘Morning, sleepyhead,’ she said, grinning.

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Almost eleven.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Paul. ‘I didn’t mean to sleep so long.’

  ‘You needed it,’ said Alice, still grinning. ‘After last night.’

  ‘It was pretty intense, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Not that!’ Alice laughed, ‘I mean almost getting run over.’ She crossed the room and wrapped her arms around him, kissing him lightly. ‘Though that was intense and lovely too.’ She kissed him again, then broke off. ‘Coffee okay?’

  Paul nodded and sat at the kitchen table.

  ‘And some toast?’ asked Alice. ‘I’m having some. Or I could make you some eggs?’

  ‘Coffee’s fine.’

  Alice brought two mugs over and sat down. ‘So what are you going to do now?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about it, and you’re right. I have to go to the police.’

  Alice sighed in relief. ‘At last! You shouldn’t have let it go this far. It needs to stop.’

  ‘I’m still not sure they’ll be able to do anything,’ Paul said, sipping his coffee. ‘I mean, apart from the emails and the online stuff, I don’t have anything concrete. Last night could have been a drunken idiot who just lost control of his car.’

  ‘But you don’t believe that, do you?’

  ‘No, but that’s what they might say. There’s nothing connecting the threatening emails with the break-in or the incident last night. Just paranoia. My paranoia.’

  ‘But at least you’re doing something about it,’ said Alice. ‘Before you get really hurt. Of course, if you just did what – ’

  Another terrible pop song blared from the radio. ‘Could we turn that off, maybe?’ asked Paul, rubbing his temples.

  ‘Sure.’ Alice got up and turned the dial, catching the lead story of the eleven o’ clock news.

  … international banking group, London Regal. A spokesperson for the bank said administration had been inevitable, given the severe losses sustained by the bank following the death, last July, of their CEO. The financial auditing firm Tor-izon has been called in to help find a rescue package to save the bank. This is the third time in eighteen months the Scandinavian firm has been involved in such a high-profile insolvency case. However, there appears to be little confidence in the city that London Regal will survive, its share value falling by over 30% since last Tuesday, as many of the bank’s customers continue to queue at branches around the country in an attempt to close their accounts and withdraw savings while they still can. A spokesperson for Tor-izon was unavailable for comment this morning.

  Paul lowered his mug. ‘Do you have a computer?’

  ‘I’ve got a tablet in my bag. Why?’

  ‘Can you look up Tor-izon for me please?’

  ‘You don’t think you should rest a bit before – ?’

  ‘Please.’ Paul urged.

  Alice pulled her tablet from her bag and logged on. ‘What was that name again?’ she asked.

  You already know it. You wrote it on a post-it note.

  ‘Tor-izon,’ said Paul. ‘T. O. R. Dash. I. Z. O. N.’

  Alice typed in the name and scrolled down the results until she found the company url, which took them to a homepage in Swedish. She clicked on the English version and the language switched. They scanned the page, but beyond some bland mission statements, glossy corporate video shorts, and a few sterile hi-tech images, there was very little detail. Alice scrolled down to a map of the world listing Tor-izon’s global network of offices.

  Paul leaned in. ‘Check the UK.’ Alice zoomed in on northern Europe and clicked the icon hovering above Scotland. An address in Edinburgh popped up.

  ‘Do you have a pen?’ asked Paul.

  ‘You’re not thinking of actually going there, are you? To their office.’

  ‘No harm having a look.’

  ‘I’m not sure that’s – ’

  ‘Just write the address down. Please.’ Paul could feel his irritation rising and he struggled to contain it.

  Alice shook her head and dug around in her bag for a pen. ‘But you’ll go to the police first, yeah?’ she asked, scribbling down the address and handing Paul the scrap of paper.

  ‘I will,’ Paul promised, and of course he didn’t.

  17

  The Edinburgh branch of Tor-izon was located in the New Town, about a ten minute walk from Waverley station. It was listed as number 23, but the terrace Paul found himself on skipped from 22 to 24. He checked the other side of the street. An uneven line of small shops stared back at him. He turned around and looked again at number 22. A law firm of some sort, by the looks of it. Paul rang the bell. The door clicked open and he stepped inside. A young receptionist perched behind a polished mahogany monstrosity smiled as he approached. ‘Can I help you?’ he asked with a strong Edinburgh twang.

  ‘I’m looking for the offices of Tor-izon,’ said Paul. ‘They should be at number 23, but … there’s no number 23.’

  ‘22 and 23 are the same address,’ said the receptionist. ‘Don’t ask me why.’ He shrugged. ‘Something to do with the war, I think.’

  ‘Okay. Thank you.’ Paul turned to go.

  ‘But you won’t find anyone there.’

  Paul stopped. ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Tor-izon only use it as a P.O. box address.’

  A bespectacled middle-aged man in a light linen suit and tan loafers entered the reception area and dropped a letter onto the desk. ‘ASAP, please,’ he snapped. The receptionist rolled his eyes at Paul. ‘Are you are talking about next door?’ the man asked.

  ‘Yes, Mr Findlay,’ replied the receptionist.

  ‘Tor-izon. They’re quite the outfit.’ Mr Findlay removed his glasses and wiped them with his tie. ‘Scandinavian, I believe.’ He looked up at Paul. ‘I have an acquaintance in Norway. You don’t need to know his name.’

  The receptionist rolled his eyes at Paul again.

  ‘He told me they pay their staff in Bitcoin. Did you know that? And that everyone is referred to by reference number, rather than by name.’ Findlay smiled. ‘Bloody foreigners.’

  Paul cleared his throat. ‘So … there’s no one in the building then. The one next door, I mean.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Findlay, ‘although someone comes on the first Thursday of the month to collect the mail. Regular as clockwork.’ He clicked his heels together. ‘Vorsprung durch technik!’

  ‘Actually,’ said the receptionist, turning to Paul, ‘he’s sometimes a day or two late. He usually pops in to say hello, but I didn’t see him yesterday. Maybe you’ll get lucky and catch him later.’

  Paul nodded. ‘Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.’ As he pushed through the door back out onto the street, Paul heard Findlay bellow after him.

  ‘They make damned good bacon, I’ll give them that!’

  The façade of number 22 was a duplicate of next door’s, but with a more weather-beaten door and dirtier windows. Paul rubbed the grime off one of the panes and peered in. It was dark, but he could make out a corridor with rooms leading off on either side. He tried the door handle. Locked. Shouldn’t there be a plaque or logo somewhere with a name on it? Paul checked his watch. There was still another six hours until the end of the working day. He was going to need a stakeout, and some help. That café he’d passed at the far end of the street, what about that? It was close enough to keep an eye on the building, yet far enough away not to attract attention. He rang Richard.

  ‘Have you any idea how difficult it was to find this fucking café?’ Richard slumped onto the chair opposite Paul. ‘Where the hell did you go last night anyway?’ He
picked up the menu and scanned it.

  ‘I went to see my parents,’ Paul lied.

  ‘You walked all the way?’

  ‘I caught the night bus.’

  ‘Lucky you,’ said Richard. ‘I spent my journey back to the first world in the company of three delightful young socialites who kindly offered to carry my wallet and phone for me on our long, dark journey home together.’

  ‘So how come I was able to phone you?’ asked Paul.

  ‘The driver called the police and got the wee scrotal sacks arrested.’ Richard sighed and leaned over the table. ‘This better be fucking worth it. And before you start talking, I need coffee.’

  ‘See that building up there?’ said Paul, pointing, once Richard had returned with his latte.

  Richard peered out the window. ‘What about it? Bugger, that’s hot.’ He put his mug down.

  ‘It’s Tor-izon’s office.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Tor-izon,’ said Paul. ‘Sound familiar?’

  ‘I know a Tor Fleck,’ said Richard. ‘Don’t think he has an office though. Given that he doesn’t fucking exist.’

  ‘Tor-izon,’ repeated Paul. ‘As in … Tor’s eyes on … us.’

  ‘This is where we’re at, is it?’ nodded Richard. ‘Actual people targeting us, that’s not enough for you, we have to have words as well. Can you fucking hear yourself?’

  ‘Listen,’ said Paul. ‘Tor-izon is a major financial auditing firm, okay? Those failing banks and corporations on the news? You know who they call when they’re in the shit? Tor-izon are up to their necks in all of this. They’re into everything. Data harvesting … personality mining …’

  ‘Personality what?’

  ‘All the bullshit conspiracy crap that’s in our script … turns out it’s all fucking real.’

  ‘Oh, God,’ groaned Richard. ‘You’re having one of your paranoid turns again.’

  ‘Please don’t start this shit again, Richard. Open your eyes and look around you, for fuck sake. What about that first car, the one that tried to flatten us?’

  ‘The guy saw me swear at him,’ Richard said dismissively.

  Ignoring the rage building in his chest, Paul handed Richard his phone. ‘Look at this.’

  Richard fumbled with the screen.’ What?’

  ‘Press fucking play,’ Paul growled.

  After more fumbling, Richard finally hit the right button and a video started. A middle-aged man with long blond hair tucked under his cap talked silently to camera. ‘Who’s this?’ asked Richard.

  ‘Tor Torrensen. CEO of Tor-izon.’

  Richard peered closer. ‘Is that that same Peaky Blinders hat?’

  ‘What do you think?’ asked Paul. ‘And that name? Tor Torrensen? Really?’

  Richard handed the phone back. ‘If a billionaire Abba looky-likey wanted to kill me, he’d have a minion do it. They’ve all got minions, those bloody billionaires. They’re minion-daft.’

  ‘Maybe this is who Quinn’s investigating.’

  ‘Quinn’s a fat lump of rancid cheese,’ said Richard. ‘He’s a fucking fraud.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Paul. ‘But the only thing we know for sure right now is that that grubby little building out there is Tor-izon’s main office in the UK. And they only use it as a P.O. box.’

  ‘P.O. box addresses are all the rage these days,’ said Richard. ‘It’ll be a tax dodge. Their actual registered office’ll be in Luxembourg, or the Caymans.’

  ‘Something’s not right,’ said Paul. ‘I had a look inside. It’s like no one’s been there in years.’

  Richard took a sip of his coffee. ‘So what do you want to do?’ he said, wearying of Paul’s persistence.

  Paul glanced round to make sure he wasn’t being overheard. ‘Once a month a guy comes to pick up the post. There’s a good chance he’ll be there this afternoon. I thought if we waited for him, and you caused some kind of distraction, I could duck inside and take a closer look.’

  ‘What kind of distraction?’ asked Richard.

  ‘Anything you want,’ shrugged Paul. ‘You’re the master bull-shitter.’

  ‘So it’s like “Miami Vice”, and we’re on a stakeout?’ Richard’s enthusiasm suddenly piqued.

  ‘If you want.’

  ‘I very much want,’ grinned Richard, rubbing his hands together. ‘Oh, just one thing.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘All respectable stakeouts involve eating vast quantities of food.’

  ‘Is that right?’ Paul asked sarcastically.

  ‘And this particular undercover cop is fucking starving after my night of the long knives.’

  Paul scanned the room. ‘I’ll ask about the specials. Lunch is on me.’

  Two Paninis, a large slice of tiffin, and four cups of coffee later, there was still no sign of the Tor-izon mailman. ‘Are you sure the target’s coming today?’ asked Richard, slurping loudly at the cold, dead dregs of his coffee.

  ‘Target?’

  ‘Play along, please!’

  The waitress stopped at their table and cleared away the debris. ‘Anything else?’ she asked.

  ‘We’re okay, thanks,’ said Paul.

  ‘It’s just you’ve been in here, what, most of the day, and – ’

  ‘We’ll have two cartons of orange squash please,’ smiled Richard.

  ‘You mean the kids’ orange?’

  ‘The very same.’

  The waitress let out a sigh, rolled her eyes, and returned to the counter.

  By five to five, with the waitress conspicuously plonking chairs on top of empty tables, and glowering at them both ferociously, not a single person had approached number 24.

  ‘He’s not coming,’ said Richard, pulling on his coat. ‘Let’s go.’

  BANG! The door was slammed and bolted behind them before Paul and Richard had even stepped onto the street.

  ‘One last walk up and down,’ suggested Paul.

  ‘Oh, Jesus,’ said Richard. ‘Really? Only if we go to the boozer after. And I mean right after.’

  Paul didn’t reply. He was already halfway towards the Tor-izon office. Richard had to run to catch up. Just then, turning a corner and heading straight towards them, appeared an elderly man in a grubby raincoat and tartan scarf.

  ‘Keep walking,’ whispered Paul. As the man passed, Paul and Richard turned as one and watched him climb the stairs to number 24, fumble with a set of keys, and let himself in.

  ‘That’s him,’ said Paul.

  ‘You think?’

  ‘When he reappears, be ready.’

  ‘I still don’t know what it is I’m supposed to do.’

  ‘Just do something,’ said Paul, running down the street and ducking behind some bins.

  Two minutes later and the man still hadn’t emerged. Richard shrugged his shoulders at Paul, who jabbed his finger frantically at the door behind Richard. The elderly man had emerged at the top of the steps clutching a fistful of papers. Richard bounded up to him before he could close the door. Paul couldn’t make out what was said, but both men laughed and stepped down onto the street, leaving the way clear for Paul.

  Paul slipped past unseen and entered the building. A gloomy corridor led to a solitary door at the end. Paul looked for a handle but the surface was smooth, offering no way in. He put his shoulder to it but the reinforced steel was not for moving. Pressing his ear to the door, Paul could hear a loud hum on the other side, like the dull whirring of a machine. A sudden laugh from outside made him turn and run back up the corridor. At the door, he peeked out. Richard was helping the man pick up some letters scattered across the pavement. Paul slipped out and was down the steps and away without anyone knowing.

  Back at Waverley, they stopped at the station bar to catch their breath. ‘So,’ said Richard, picking up the pint Paul had just bought him, ‘after all that, you didn’t find anything?’

  ‘No, but there’s something odd going on in there.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like
machinery, or a generator of some sort. I’ve never heard anything like it.’

  ‘So you think we’ve uncovered an alien invasion,’ said Richard sarcastically, ‘is that it?’

  ‘I’m just saying I don’t know what it is. But it can’t be anything good.’ Paul took a sip of beer. ‘It was bloody stressful in there. Well done for distracting the old bloke.’

  ‘Piece o’ piss. He just seemed happy to be chatting to somebody.’

  ‘Did he tell you anything about Tor-izon?’

  ‘No,’ said Richard, ‘but he did tell me about the two hernias he’s had. Oh, and his ex-wife used to live in Glasgow, but she … sorry, he, since the op … is now living in Ealing with a hairdresser. Interesting guy.’ He grinned. ‘He was a wee bit clumsy with his mail, though. He dropped it everywhere.’ Richard reached into his coat pocket. ‘I kindly helped him retrieve most of it.’ He pulled out a letter. ‘Except this.’

  ‘You stole it?’

  ‘Don’t be daft. I just forgot to hand it back.’

  ‘You are a bad person.’

  ‘I am that,’ said Richard, downing his pint.

  ‘So …’ said Paul. ‘Should we open it?’

  ‘Nah,’ said Richard. ‘I’ll just run after him and hand it back. Course we’re fucking opening it!’

  Tentatively, Paul picked at the corner of the seal.

  ‘Oh, give it here, for fuck sake.’ Richard snatched the envelope from Paul and tore it open.

  ‘What is it?’ Paul asked impatiently. Richard opened up the letter and scanned its contents. ‘Come on,’ said Paul. ‘Let me see.’

  ‘It’s an electricity bill,’ said Richard. Paul looked deflated. ‘But look how much is due.’

  Paul peered closer. £13,475.’

  ‘And that’s for a month.’

  ‘That’s an awful lot of electricity for an unused office.’

  Richard whistled the theme tune to ‘The Twilight Zone’.

  ‘You have to admit it’s strange, though,’ said Paul. ‘You think it’s got something to do with that hum that I heard?’