Agency O

by Tor Fleck

  The impact brought Richard around and he stared into Paul’s face. ‘I wish you’d stop fucking doing that,’ he said.

  Paul grinned. ‘What … saving your life? Come on, this way’s safer.’ He pulled Richard to his feet and they headed towards a stile that led to the mountain path.

  As they climbed the slope, the snow got deeper, slowing their progress even more. ‘Why are we going this way?’ wheezed Richard. Paul ignored him and they carried on, battling through thick snowdrifts and using the high line scrub to stay out of the moonlight. At the top of the ridge, Paul stopped and checked for anyone behind them. There was no one there. They were safe.

  Ahead of them, the path finally opened out and the headland appeared, bright moonlight glistening across the vast expanse of loch far beneath them.

  ‘What the fuck?’ cried Richard.

  ‘Trust me,’ said Paul, continuing on towards the point. When they got to within a few feet of the cliff top, Paul slowed. He had to navigate carefully around the cairn to avoid slipping and falling.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Richard asked fearfully.

  Paul inched closer to the edge. ‘Come on.’

  ‘I’m not going over there.’

  ‘Come on!’ Paul urged. Richard was reluctant, but shuffled forward anyway, his eyes fixed to the ground. When he got to the edge he peered over the side and down to the dark loch below.

  ‘I hope you believe me now and you’re not planning on tipping me over,’ Richard wheezed.

  ‘I believe you,’ whispered Paul. ‘Now give me the stick.’ Richard handed it over and Paul dangled it over the side. ‘Is this what you want?’ he roared into the dark. They waited and listened but there was no response, just the crash of waves against the rocks fifty feet below.

  ‘I don’t think this is a good idea,’ said Richard, his voice trembling.

  ‘I’m going to let it go!’ shouted Paul. He feigned a fumble. ‘Oops! Nearly.’

  ‘Please don’t do that.’ Paul and Richard turned at the sound of the voice, as onto the path stepped a black-clad figure. ‘Surprise!’ said Alice, flashing the same warm smile that had first seduced them both. She was holding a crossbow, aimed directly at Paul’s head. It was attached to a leather harness, strapped around her shoulders and waist. She looked like she was about to play a psychotic round of golf. She approached them slowly. There was a large gash on her forehead and blood streaked her cheek.

  ‘You’re … dead!’ exclaimed Paul.

  Alice smiled. ‘Not anymore, apparently.’ She raised the crossbow higher and squinted down its length. ‘Now why don’t you just hand that to me?’ She spoke with a menacing Scandinavian accent that had Paul confused. ‘Who the fuck are you?’ he asked.

  ‘I work for Agency O’, said Alice, then laughed. ‘Or is it the CIA? Or am I …? Oh, I’m not sure who I am these days at all!’

  ‘You fucking shot me!’ thundered Paul, his voice reverberating across the loch.

  ‘I’m quite proud of that shot,’ said Alice. ‘A millimetre or so in either direction and it would have been bye bye baby.’

  ‘My dad is lying back there. He could be fucking dead!’

  Alice’s voice hardened. ‘He killed my car.’

  ‘You’re a fucking bitch!’

  Alice pulled a face. ‘Aww,’ she said, ‘don’t be like that. I thought you had feelings for me. You were such a gentle and considerate lover.’ She glanced over at Richard. ‘Kind of boring, really.’ She grinned and shrugged her shoulders playfully.

  ‘You fucked him?’ Richard looked furious. ‘You told me you wouldn’t do that.’

  Paul spun round, incredulous. ‘You two are in on this?’

  ‘We were going to be partners,’ seethed Richard. ‘See the deal through, she said. Split the profits, she said. Bitch.’

  Alice ignored the slur and turned back to Paul. ‘He was so easy, your best friend,’ she said. ‘He was like a little plasticine toy in my supple hands. Such a soppy little bubble, weren’t you?’

  ‘Shut your fucking face!’ shouted Richard. ‘She played us both, Paul. And we fucking fell for it.’

  ‘You think I feel sympathy for you, you prick?’ said Paul. He was enjoying this, knowing that Alice hadn’t a clue what they were up to. ‘You both fucking lied.’

  ‘Oh, I do so love your simple little brain,’ said Alice, tilting her head condescendingly at Paul. ‘It’s one of your more attractive features. You’ll break someone’s heart one day.’ She moved closer, the crossbow still aimed at Paul’s head. ‘Did you really think a major film company would set up its head office in Glasgow? Create a Scottish Hollywood?’ She laughed.

  ‘But the company is on the Internet,’ said Paul. ‘And your profile.’

  ‘Can I let you in on a little trade secret?’ Alice whispered. ‘We let you see that.’

  ‘It’s fake?’ Paul was quite impressed by his own acting. ‘But it’s everywhere. On public computers … everywhere. You can’t do that.’

  ‘Oh, we can do anything.’

  Paul thought about what Alice was admitting to. ‘So, Alice Lowe …’

  ‘Ah, poor Alice,’ said the fake Alice. ‘Such a beautiful young thing. Funny how those gorgeous ginger locks of hers didn’t seem to hold her back.’ She sniggered. ‘Loved her flat though, didn’t you? I bet her London pad is only half the size.’

  ‘So you stole her identity?’

  ‘Borrowed sounds more polite.’

  ‘What did you do to her?’

  ‘Poor Alice is currently on long-term leave. Or is it permanent leave? Not sure.’

  ‘They found a body in the flat, after the explosion. Whose was it?’

  ‘The thing about diets,’ said Alice, randomly, ‘is that quite often you’re tempted by something you shouldn’t have. Something that isn’t good for you. Say, for example, you suddenly give in to the temptation of a big fat steak, but in all the excitement of cooking it you forget to switch off the gas …’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Paul had no idea where Alice was going with this.

  ‘I’m surprised they didn’t think it was more than one person they were scooping up,’ continued Alice. ‘But then Operative Quinn did have a lot of weight to lose.’

  ‘Quinn?’ Paul was mentally putting two and two together. ‘It all makes sense now. And here you are,’ he added, ‘sent by Tor to do his dirty work.’

  ‘Nice,’ said Alice, jabbing the crossbow at Paul like a cheeky finger. ‘I see what you did there. It’s the accent, isn’t it? You’re not such a stupid face after all.’

  ‘And Mrs McGilvray. Was that you too?’

  Richard jumped in. ‘She’s not dead as well, is she?’ he said. ‘Christ, I liked her.’

  Paul’s brows narrowed. ‘Really?’

  ‘Lovely woman,’ said Alice. ‘Interesting hair. We had a really sweet chat on her landing – riveting – but she knew who I was. She’d recognised me from the break-in. Feisty though, I’ll give her that. And pretty handy with a bread knife.’

  ‘Is there anyone left you haven’t fucking killed?’ snapped Richard.

  ‘Give me a chance,’ said Alice, rolling her eyes and stepping closer. Paul noticed the shoes she was wearing. They were men’s brogues, the moonlight glinting off the polished black leather. Alice glanced down at them. ‘I’m into shoes, so shoot me!’ she laughed. ‘They’re Doc Martens, though, so not entirely impractical.’

  ‘But I still love you,’ Richard said suddenly, as Paul inched to within arms-length of Alice.

  ‘That’s so sweet of you. And I so wish I could love you back, but you see I have a problem with actors and the way they tend to blur the lines between truth and fiction.’

  ‘Grab her, Paul!’ Richard cried. But before Paul could make his move …

  ZING! The crossbow sang and an arrow shot into Richard’s thigh. He screamed in agony and dropped onto one knee. ‘Oops,’ said Alice. ‘Butterfingers.’

  ‘Stop, for fuck sake!’ pleaded
Paul, dangling the USB stick out over the cliff edge again.

  ‘I really wouldn’t do that if I were you,’ snarled Alice.

  ‘Why the fuck did you shoot me, you fucking psychopath?’ moaned Richard, clutching at his leg.

  ‘Don’t call me a psychopath,’ said Alice. ‘It’s not polite.’ She reloaded the crossbow. ‘You honestly think I’d be so stupid as to fall for your sixth form drama club performance?’ She giggled and turned to Paul ‘He’s such a ham, isn’t he? I was onto him the minute he tried on that stupid hat.’ But then her mood suddenly switched ‘Give me the fucking stick!’ she bellowed, her finger twitching on the trigger. Paul looked at her, then at the crossbow. ‘So what’s next?’ he asked. ‘The G20?’

  The comment took Alice by surprise. ‘Oh, you are a proper little Nostradamus, aren’t you?’ she said with a sneer. ‘Hand it over, now!’

  ‘No!’ Paul yelled defiantly, and dropped the stick over the edge. Alice fired and the two friends ducked, but Richard’s leg gave way and he tumbled over the side, taking Paul with him. On the way down, Paul’s coat caught on a branch and he hung there, dangling in mid-air, high above the loch, with Richard beneath him, clinging on for dear life to Paul’s waistband.

  The black brogues appeared at the cliff edge, just above Paul’s head. ‘Oh, how sweet,’ said Alice, peering over the side. ‘Like two peas in a pod. Don’t you make a lovely couple?’

  ‘Help!’ gasped Paul. ‘Help me, please!’

  ‘Just you?’ asked Alice. ‘Or would your duplicitous friend like to be saved too?’ Richard’s face was rammed tight against Paul’s arse and when he spoke his voice was muffled. Alice laughed. ‘He does talk shit, that man.’

  ‘Please!’ Paul pleaded.

  ‘I’m afraid you’ve upset me now,’ said Alice. ‘You’ve upset my people and my people don’t like to be upset.’

  Paul shook his head. ‘Sorry!’

  ‘ – seems to be the hardest word,’ sang Alice. The branch creaked and the roots became dislodged from the cliff face. ‘Oh, that’s interesting,’ said Alice, prodding it intently.

  ‘No, please,’ begged Paul. ‘That wasn’t the master. I swear to you.’

  ‘Oh, now,’ said Alice, ‘is that a teeny weeny porky to save your tinky winky bacon?’ She kicked at the branch. It loosened and sagged. Dangerously so.

  ‘I hid it back at the caravan!’ shouted Paul. ‘Under the gas tank!’

  Alice knelt down and stared into Paul’s straining, terrified face. ‘What have you done to your nose?’ she asked, concerned. ‘That’s going to need stitches.’ She reached down and brushed his cheek with the back of her hand. ‘I could have loved you,’ she said. ‘You might have been the one.’

  ‘We could still – ’ It was too late. Alice raised her foot and with one swift martial arts kick, snapped the branch in two. Paul and Richard tumbled out into the darkness and hit the freezing black water below like two sacks of potatoes smashing into solid concrete. Alice leaned over the edge to check they were gone, and then, whistling the Dr Zhivago theme, headed back to the caravan park.

  31

  What follows next is based on a combination of eyewitness testimony, speculation, and the limited DNA evidence recovered from the crime scene.

  Alice lay on her belly and scanned the approach to the caravan park, checking all exits and possible attack points. Even when she was convinced the coast was clear she still exercised extreme caution, keeping low to the ground as she ran, zig-zagging, across to the caravan. The gas tanks were tucked under the frame, easily located. She lifted up the first tank, and then the second. There was nothing under either of them. That fucking little – The sudden crunch of feet on gravel made Alice stop and turn.

  Paul’s dad stood in the driveway, flanked by the neighbourhood watch crew, his trusted shotgun resting on his forearm. ‘Gies a wee smile, hen,’ he sneered. ‘Ya son of a bitch!’ Before Alice had time to lift her weapon George had lifted his own and fired off two shots. The pellets struck the gas tanks and engulfed the caravan in a massive fireball, the shockwave blowing George and his mates clean off their feet, taking them almost as far as the loch. It was a good five minutes before George could raise himself from the dirt, his face like a coalminer’s, the arrow from earlier still sticking out from his shoulder.

  One of the neighbourhood watch crew – the octogenarian Erchie Todd, looking like he’d lost a fight with a blow torch – staggered over to where George was sitting up. ‘You okay there, George?’ he asked, a liver-spotted hand fluttering up around his own face, as though testing its solidity. George looked up at him and grinned. ‘Ah’m jim dandy, Erchie,’ he said. ‘Ye ken why?’

  ‘Ah hink ah dae, George, aye,’ nodded Erchie. ‘Cos – ’

  ‘Cos nae cunt messes wae a Grant!’ finished George.

  The End

  AGENCY ‘O’ will return this Autumn in…

  AGENT 2.0 (Book 2)

  Turn over for a Teaser

  AGENT 2.0

  PROLOGUE

  THE STICK

  In a deserted side street just off Byers Road, Glasgow, Axel Rhodes, former computer repair shop owner, replaced the receiver, checked the slot for change, and left the phone box. Keeping his head down, and his hands in his pockets, he dodged a barrage of rain-soaked shoppers and pedestrians until he reached Hillhead Library. Inside, as instructed, he made his way to a computer desk at the back, near the large print section. The desk was currently occupied by an elderly, rain-coated individual with thick glasses, staring at a giant letter G. ‘Excuse me,’ said Axel. ‘Are you planning on reading that letter or can someone else have a go?’

  Raincoat Man glanced up at Axel, then swept his gaze around the near-deserted library. ‘Thur’s plenty tae choose fae, son. Awa’ an no bother me.’

  Axel stood his ground, tapping his foot impatiently. Eventually, accompanied by a great deal of huffing and puffing, Raincoat Man picked up his Tesco carrier bag and shuffled over to a desk in the large print section, farting loudly as he went.

  Axel slid into the empty seat and glanced over at the librarian. She looked up and smiled. Axel smiled back. Once she’d gone back to her book-stamping Axel reached beneath the desk and searched the underside with his palm. Nothing. He switched hands and tried the other side. Gotcha! The item was hard, and he picked at it with his nail. Fuck. Chewing gum. He tried further back. Voila! Whatever it was had been securely taped. Slowly, he picked and peeled until, finally, he released the object from its gluey cage. He tucked it into his fist and sat for a moment, letting his heart rate slow, trying hard not to think about what was on the USB stick he’d just stolen. Fuck it. He reached over and wiggled the mouse. The giant G reappeared. Raincoat Man had forgotten to log off. Readjusting the font size from 1000% to normal, Axel inserted the stick. It contained a single folder: 01001111. He smiled, recognising the binary code for the letter ‘O’, and double-clicked. When the single document within the folder appeared Axel couldn’t help but grin. With shaking hands he shut the entire system down and slipped the stick into the coin pocket of his jeans. If he was quick, he might still make the last train to Oban.

  … to be continued

  A WORD FROM TOR

  Thank you very much for reading my novel.

  If you enjoyed Agency ‘O’, I’d really appreciate if you could take a minute or two to leave a review. It doesn’t have to be long or detailed - a few words will be fine - but it really helps other readers like you discover the book. It’s one of the best ways you can help authors you like, and I’m very grateful for every review I receive.

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  WHO IS TOR FLECK?

  Prior to 2012, very little was known about Tor Fleck: an uneventful childhood in Copenhagen, an early education in a prominent London boarding school, and intermittent attendance at Glasgow University. However, defence documents leaked during the Anders Behring Breivik trial in Oslo, and later judged inadmissible by the court, confirmed a return home to Norway following university and a brief spell with the Norwegian military. They also hinted strongly at a link to the Norwegian Intelligence Service, or NIS. Post-Breivik, the trail runs cold, with Fleck, to all intents and purposes, disappearing off the face of the earth …

  … until now.

  Rumour has it that Tor Fleck has returned to Scotland, where he now lives and writes from a secret location in the Highlands.