Nurse Becky Gets Shot

by Gary Baker

  Ms White from across the table eagerly brought Roger up to speed: It turned out that Paracelsus was an outspoken 16th century Swiss alchemist, healer and philosopher. His public face and writings were abrasive and extreme for his time and made him many enemies. He committed his most secret and irreligious thoughts to an encrypted manuscript and founded his Special Association, der Zweckverband, later to become The KOPALDA. The page which Roger had translated 'on the hoof' was an extract from the beginning of part of Paracelsus' secret manuscript. A manuscript which had taken 15 man years to translate. Roger could have done it in a day or two.

  Ms White's earnest summary left Roger feeling uneasy. They all seemed taken in by this fake parchment. Perhaps they didn't know? Perhaps he was being tested.

  At the end of the meal Roger was introduced to an MP, a Police Chief, a local Councillor and some men and women of undefined professions. The stocking-top girl was suddenly everywhere. She hung feather-light on his arm. Light as a feather her name was Heather.

  You lucky dog, said Roger B. Roger C was more cautious; remember what happened last time? Roger could not.

  *

  People fell away from the dining room. New, nameless friends said goodbye, shook hands, kissed the air. Heather left a lingering kiss on Roger's cheek with a promise of more. He ached for her. You lucky dog.

  At last, it was just Roger, Meadhill and The Captain sat at the head of the empty table. Empty except for some Port and cigars. Roger accepted the port and, fighting the urge to conform, declined a cigar.

  There was that feeling again. Roger remembered going on a coach trip to the beach with his mother. It was a fantastic day. Sunshine, sandcastles, hotdogs, pop, games. The trip back was filled with laughter and silly songs. Roger prayed it would never end and the coach trip home would last forever.

  That feeling was back. Roger was crammed with good food and tingling with his success and popularity.

  'You look content,' said The Captain.

  'Me?' said Roger. 'Very content. Thank you. Thank you so much for your hospitality.'

  'I take it then that you approve?'

  'Approve?'

  'Of our little KOPALDA?'

  'It's … most agreeable,' said Roger.

  The Captain leaned forward. 'I'll get to the point,' he said. 'The KOPALDA can use you and in return you can have virtually anything you wish. For the time being, this house is yours.'

  Meadhill smiled gently, nodding slowly in agreement.

  'Just one thing,' said Roger. 'I'm sorry, but it's been bothering me since the … slide show.'

  'Go on,' said The Captain.

  'This whole KOPALDA thing, I don't know about the Paracelsus story but,' Roger took a deep breath, 'the parchment is definitely fake so, what's that all about?'

  The Captain narrowed his eyes at Roger. 'Why do you say it's fake?' he said.

  'The encryption model; it's too modern.'

  Meadhill and The Captain exchanged glances.

  'And it's simply encoded English. It doesn't decode to Swiss or German or whatever language this Paracelsus character would have spoken. Just English.'

  The Captain leaned forwards. 'You haven't disappointed me,' he said. 'It's – I'm almost too embarrassed to say it to a man of your obvious intelligence – it's a marketing ploy. Attracting good staff, committed staff, is very difficult. There are a lot of competing organisations in this line of business these days. We hired some experts and they came up with this … story. And the name? It's rooted in a smidgeon of truth, apparently. Paracelsus existed. So, according to our PR men, this gives the organisation gravitas, a banner to follow, a philosophy. And … ' the Captain leaned back in his chair, '… it works. The quality of our new recruits has never been better.'

  There was silence as Roger absorbed this extraordinary, almost comical, information. He wondered if the organisation had an Investors In People logo on its letterhead.

  'Regardless of all that,' said Meadhill. 'The basic philosophy was and is in place. The offer stands.'

  'Just say the word,' The Captain stood and held out his hand, 'and you will be offered the full protection, resources and, dare I say, riches, of The KOPALDA in return for simply doing what comes naturally from time to time.'

  Roger felt compelled to stand too. And the alternative? asked Roger C. Quiet!

  Roger clasped The Captain's hand in what he hoped was a firm and manly grip. 'I'd be honoured, sir,' he said.

  'Excellent,' said the Captain. 'Now to sleep, for tomorrow we play.'

  Meadhill stood and clapped Roger on the back. 'Welcome aboard,' he said.

  *

  It was a strange, familiar meeting. It had been a long time. Roger and Jennifer studied each other.

  Roger was the first to speak.

  'You look well.'

  'I look terrible.'

  Roger looked around the space. Jennifer stood looking at Roger.

  Roger spoke again. 'I'm going to need your help.'

  'I thought so.'

  'Will you help me?'

  'Do I have a choice?'

  'We all have a choice.'

  Jennifer hugged her arms.

  'I'm going to have to do a job,' Roger said.

  'I know.'

  'It will most likely be illegal.'

  'I know.'

  'But it will be worth it.'

  'For who?' Jennifer asked.

  Roger couldn't hold Jennifer's gaze. He walked around the space.

  Jennifer said, 'It was good to get the manual out again.'

  Roger smiled. 'You always loved that stupid manual.'

  'It's not the manual,' Jennifer said, 'it's the memories. The fun. The people. The work. And the manual isn't stupid. It's my … '

  'The work,' Roger said. 'Yes, you loved the work.'

  '… what is the word?'

  'Crutch?' Roger suggested. 'Tooth fairy? Bible?'

  'Yes,' Jennifer said, 'I suppose it's all of those things.'

  Roger stood in front of Jennifer. Held her gaze. 'So you'll help me?' he asked.

  Jennifer smiled. 'What choice do I have?'

  'I love you, Jennifer.'

  'I love you too, Roger.'

  'I'll be in touch,' Roger said.

  'Give my love to Harry.'

  'I will,' Roger promised. 'The instant I see him.'

  Chapter 6

  Roger was woken by a persistent beeping from a small black plastic travel clock by his bedside. It glowed 7:30am. He slapped down, shutting the alarm off. Roger didn't remember setting it. Didn't remember the clock. Okay. Someone wants him awake and up.

  Roger fumbled for the light switch. The photons hurt. A bit if a thick head. Too much port.

  Twenty minutes later and Roger was showered and dressed in some plain dark clothes he'd found in the cupboards. He followed the smell of breakfast down to the dining room where all traces of the previous night had been cleared away. Meadhill, dressed in black, sat reading a newspaper, eating buttered toast.

  Through the window, Roger could see the River Humber was busy. Gulls bobbed and weaved against a bright grey sky. No sound penetrated from the barges and tugs straining against the tide.

  'Morning, hope you slept well.' Meadhill indicated a hotel style buffet along one wall of the dining room. 'Help yourself.'

  A selection of breakfast food was on display complete with a waiter who took a plate and loaded it with Roger's choices. Scrambled eggs, toast, a slice of bacon.

  The waiter placed Roger's breakfast selection on the table opposite Meadhill. Interesting use of the phrase 'help yourself', thought Roger sitting down.

  'Tea or coffee, sir?'

  'Coffee, thank you.' Roger started cutting a bite sized piece of bacon, very aware that Meadhill was watching him. He took a self-conscious mouthful before realising he had neglected to unfold his napkin and place it on his lap. Meadhill's napkin lay used and crumpled to his left.

  The meal continued in, as far as Roger was concerned, awkward silence, unti
l his coffee was placed on the table in front of him.

  'I understand you've had certain … difficulties in the past,' said Meadhill, 'so please be assured we will do our utmost to make … all aspects of your stay as stress free as humanly possible.'

  'Clearly, you have access to my personal files,' said Roger with no hint of annoyance. Roger felt he could be candid and open. 'My, gift, for want of a better word, does come at a price, I'm afraid.'

  'Yes, I understand,' said Meadhill.

  'But, I suppose I should be grateful.'

  Meadhill raised his eyebrows questioningly.

  'You know what an autistic savant is,' said Roger. 'The savant's ability seems to come at the cost of the rest of his personality. He's almost incapable of surviving without help from others, yet a part of him has a most incredible gift. A talent for art, music or, like me mathematics. I'm very lucky, it seems.'

  'You mentioned, a price,' asked Meadhill.

  Roger smiled. 'I have, shall we call them, moments. Moments of confusion, depression, blank patches. Annoying, yes, but, thankfully, not too debilitating.'

  'And the trigger is … stress?' asked Meadhill.

  'Can be,' said Roger. 'Stress, anxiety, tiredness. The usual.'

  Meadhill nodded and returned to his toast. Roger carried on with his breakfast.

  The quiet was such that, when he stopped chewing, Roger found he could hear the noise of the river traffic beyond the double-glazed window and, through the seat and floor, could feel the mighty diesel engines pushing laden vessels along the thick, sluggish, waterway.

  When they had both finished, Meadhill stood, smiled showing his gold tooth, gestured toward the door. 'To work,' he said.

  *

  Meadhill and Roger sat in silence as they were driven a few miles through dour suburbs. Small patches of retail outlets broke up the monotonous housing. Clusters of optimistic entrepreneurs coalesced to open fish & chip shops, newsagents, Chinese takeaways, off licenses, betting shops. How can these people be bothered? What is it that gets them out of bed in the morning? The car slowed and Roger watched old people, sexless and bent, standing at bus stops. Young women, sexless and bent, pushing prams. Crooked nails, stuck in banality, hammered bent by the mallet of hopeless responsibility.

  The black Mercedes pulled into a small trading estate. A terrace of brick built, once blue, roller-shuttered units. Vacant. For Rent. Pine Stripping. For Rent. Sign Writing. For Rent. Filthy yellow skips spilled planks, springs, bedsteads, stained carpets and torn black plastic bags onto gouged and crumbling tarmac.

  The car pulled up in front of the unremarkable roller-shutter door of an industrial unit sporting a faded sign for ABC Imports & Exports Limited. Roger was about to get out of the car when the door rolled upwards. The car drove in, the door rolled down behind them.

  The unit fronted an entrance to a bigger space. The car moved forward into a warehouse of about 50 yards square. In the centre, set on the concrete floor was, what looked like, a huge packing case. Roger realised it was actually a room or set of rooms created from packing case material. The outline of a door faced him but he could see no windows.

  Six men, dressed in dark clothes similar to his own, stood or ambled around. One of them escorted Meadhill and Roger to the door into the packing case room where they were signalled to pause. The escort and Meadhill stood patiently looking into space. Roger noticed they both had small ear-pieces with a thin pink wire running behind their ears and down under their collars.

  The three stood for a slow count to ten before the escort opened the door indicating they should both go through.

  Inside was laid out like a classroom. Twenty or so desks faced blackboards, whiteboards and flip charts. There were maps and drawings and charts pinned on every available wall space. Some of them looked familiar to Roger. About twelve of the desks were occupied. Mostly men. All in dark clothes. All about thirty years old. All grim faced. The Captain stood at the front of the class.

  'Good morning, gentlemen,' he said to the newcomers. Addressing the class he said, 'The sergeant you know. Take a good look at the gentleman to his right.'

  Roger felt himself pink. He looked into the class. He recognised the grim face and dust bunny hair of one individual on the second row. It was Lenny Ludhoe. Lenny gave a friendly salute with one finger. Roger wasn't sure how to respond. Lenny had been about to hit him the last time they were together. Had he deserved it? Was Roger hysterical?

  'This is The Expert,' The Captain continued, 'who we've been talking about for the past few months. It's the delivery, deployment and safe return of this individual that is your primary concern on this mission.' There was a long pause as the class studied Roger. Some made notes. Roger felt uncomfortable. Lenny grinned.

  'Please sit down, gentlemen,' said The Captain at last.

  Roger and Meadhill settled into empty seats.

  'A quick summary of Key Points and Times,' said The Captain turning back some pages on the flip charts. 'Seventeen hundred hours tomorrow' - Tomorrow! - 'leave Paull airfield. Arrive RAF Northolt to equipment check and dispersal to Trafalgar Square and Whitehall. Twenty hundred hours, move to secure the three entry points.'

  Roger leaned forward studying some of the drawings. Although none were marked, he recognised Trafalgar Square, Admiralty Arch, the Admiralty Buildings, parts of Whitehall and Ministry of Defence, or MoD, buildings. Familiar outlines, not following the roads and buildings, were clearly marked.

  Beneath the dense traffic, central London was riddled with tunnels dating back to the Second World War and beyond. Roger realised he was familiar with some of these tunnels. Some two years previously he had helped install a series of high security Programmable Digital Multiplexers, PDMX's, for the MoD. They were essentially communication and encryption devices that took numerous channels of data and information; voice, video, computer chatter; encrypted them, and passed them on to other PDMX's or out to secure channels across the Internet or private leased lines. Roger had built the encryption software. An unregistered and highly secret algorithm which, to date, no man or machine had been able to decrypt.

  Roger was not surprised. New memories told him this was his special skill, after all. It was the fact that they had known it was Roger who was responsible for, and probably the only man on the planet who could master, these algorithms that was surprising. Roger was a state secret of almost unprecedented sensitivity. Someone very, very high up the ladder must be involved.

  Like giant, ragged Manta Rays, some words glided over Roger's mind: trust, treachery, treason. Roger shook them off and forced his attention back to The Captain.

  'Green team will secure entrance Bravo, Old Admiralty Buildings. Yellow team will secure entrance Golf-5 Horse Guard's Parade. Red team, carrying The Expert, will secure entrance Alpha-1 and proceed to tunnel entrance Hotel 1.'

  The Captain flipped over a page on the flip chart. 'Following Red team carrying The Expert; negotiate and secure tunnel set Tango 1, deploy The Expert into room Charlie 1'

  I hope the other guys are following this, thought Roger. A photographic memory was not on his list of talents. It was all strangely unreal. A film. A movie in glorious 3D. It was exciting and Roger was an important element. The key element.

  For Roger's benefit The Captain took them through the routine a further three times. Essentially, Roger was to be 'deployed' into the communications room which was securely guarded and full of electronic equipment including the target PDMX. Roger would tap into a secure communications channel on the PDMX, receive further instructions and carry out whatever was required of him.

  Two extraction points were to be secured at Horse Guard's Parade and The Old Admiralty Building. The teams would disperse back to RAF Biggin Hill and fly North to Blackpool.

  'Any questions,' asked The Captain looking at Roger.

  Roger didn't want to ask any questions, didn't want to draw attention to himself. But The Captain's look wouldn't go away. 'Yes,' he said raising his hand unnecessaril
y. 'What am I to do with the Mux?' A real question. Thank goodness.

  'Mux?' The Captain looked puzzled at the unfamiliar word.

  'Mux. The PDMX. The communications device. What is it I'm supposed to do with it? If I don't know, how do I know what I'll need with me.'

  'I've been assured everything you will need is in your head,' said The Captain. 'Anything else?'

  Ask him, demanded Roger B. 'Yes, why Blackpool?' asked Roger.

  'We get good rates at the Holiday Inn there,' said The Captain smiling. 'Now if that's all. Gentlemen, ladies, you have a lot of preparation to take care of. I'll see you at Seventeen Hundred hours at Paull Airfield, tomorrow. Dismissed.'

  Roger began to stand but was motioned to stay by Meadhill. 'Back in a minute,' he said.

  The room emptied in silence. Some of the 'students' studied him as they left. Roger tried to look impassive. Cool. Concentrate on the sounds. He could hear vehicles being started outside the classroom in the warehouse. Men barked orders, 'Over here!' It sounded like quite an operation.

  When Roger was alone, he sat back looking at the charts and drawings again. RAF Northolt, Biggin Hill. This was serious stuff. Secure entrances. Deploy The Expert. Planning for months? This was very serious stuff.

  And what does your Daddy do? Oh, he sneaks into secret military communications bunkers and taps into all kinds of information. British intelligence, MoD, government communications, US Army, even some high level banking transactions. Now there's a thought. Some major banks had bought access to the super encryption technology for the money transfer and clearing systems. That is a thought.

  What does Daddy do mummy? Now then Harry, you know he's behind bars for robbing a bank. But you know we don't talk about Daddy anymore.

  Don't think about Harry. Just do this and get a pile of money and … then what? And … what does mummy look like?