"Oh, do relax Mad Alfred. Get a teacup for that Earl Grey. There's nothing macho about drinking tea from a coffee mug. Plus, it demonstrates a lack of sophistication. Now back to the question I'm asking. On that battle ship's deck are F22 fighter jets. Either the US is lying to the public that they funnelled billions into the improved F35's, or this is old footage. That satellite AMS 3579, was a private Russian one that the previous South African government piggybacked on during the time that sanctions were stacked nice and high. It's been decommissioned by a company whose software I helped design and was the birth of.... " Olaf looked around the muted boardroom to ensure he had their undivided attention when - even Alfred slowly decided it was time to rather fill his deep and comfortable seat again.
"Well it was the time MOTLEY, or rather the rumours of its existence surfaced, wasn't it? Ladies? Gentlemen? Anyone? Even my consultants would figure that out from the projector image... I'm I correct?" Olaf just pulled off a massive bluff that would make even the best players blush with shame.
"Correct sir" Olaf's yet to be introduced three men, took a short step closer and acted out an intensely concentrated study, then nodded in agreement. Olaf, realising that his luck was about to run out, opted for cashing out, before he had to show his hand in an unpredictable following round.
"I'm sorry gentlemen, please help yourselves, there's coffee, tea and mineral water and a few eats at the back. Please make yourself at home. We'll tour the facility in a while. I'll be over here" After showing them to the dimmer-lit far end of the oversized boardroom, over to a small low four-seater table, Olaf, who apparently continued to declined the courtesy of introducing the men, to some of the most influential faces in world, took up his rightful seat near MI5's Alfred, and South Africa's minister of defence Elize Moolman.
"And? Just because I'm a little late - and I have apologised for my rudeness - why was the agenda changed? Am I missing something?" An uninteresting looking five foot balding man, mumbling in a Swiss accent and hiding behind thick framed glasses, straightened his out-of-place navy blue tie and pulled on the brown buttons as he buttoned up his cream coloured suit jacket as he stood up.
"I'm Emil, and I represent the International Monetary Fund. Good day Mr. Kasparov, and thank you for sharing your time with me... or rather, with us. May I call you Olaf? Just because my curiosity is getting the better of me... Are you related to...?"
"I am not, no. But since you asked, you can imagine how frequently I'm asked precisely that. Hmm... I'm the curious type, and much like you, I'm sure, curiosity, has always apportioned me the advantage to be two steps ahead of my opponents" Olaf interrupted the man.
"Like chess? The banker couldn't let go of the striking resemblance that Olaf bore with the familiar chess master.
"Much like chess, yes. Quite correct. You want to add something before we start Elize?" Olaf saw Elize was about to interject, and imagined exactly what it was that had been gnawing at her.
"Thank you. Yes. The men you haven't introduced, you realise of all the protocols we have to adhere to, these meetings warrant the highest in society Olaf?"
"All good Elize, they share the same security clearance as all of us. You don't imagine I'd walk into a facility like this with people off the streets, who I've just met, do you?" Olaf just un-boxed an almost-perfectly manufactured surprised-look from the conveyor belt of his round-the-clock factory of lies. The current head of South African Intelligence winked at him, fighting the urge not to look over to the back where Olaf's men were quietly helping themselves to fresh cheesy scones and steamy aromatic ground coffee.
"Like they own the place. At home and acting oblivious to the severity of this world event taking stage." The head of National Intelligence fought off not smiling, and deciding biting the back of his pen would be wise tactic.
"We would very much like to interest you and the board in an attractive prospectus the IMF had prepared for your consideration. Sir" The banker remained standing, with the projector's remote control he was hovering over a low tower of stapled paper stacks on the table in front of him.
"So, you want to seduce us into handing over Sam, and when you've had your fun, what then? Do you even understand who Sam is? I'm not sure what you've heard, or led to believe?"
"Mr. Kasparov, Olaf. I would lie if I said that I can appreciate your human like attachment to the program. Frankly I cannot. But I can at least bring myself to somewhat understanding the pride you must have in such a flawless design. We understand the real threat of... MOTLEY, or at least the rumours of its existence..."
"Rumours!? What about a short trip into wonderland Mr. banker?"
"Excuse me?" And that small measure of possibly unintended arrogance from the IMF's side, was exactly the amount of excavation into the skin that Olaf had protected dearly.
"Sam?" Olaf knew she was listing-in and also knew the pitch of his voice that would be ignored for maximum impact.
"Sam my girl, are you there?"
"I always am Olaf. Good day all"
"Sam, we have someone from the IMF that is against me taking you to France one day. They want to offer us money to hand you over. They believe that MOTLEY is a rumour and that you don't deserve protection"
"I see"
"What are we to do Sam?"
"Is that the man opposite Alfred, wearing those so-last-season glasses Olaf? The sixty-two kilogram one whose breath analysis indicates he'd better not miss his insurance-medical next Tuesday at ten in the morning in Berlin? That one?"
"Who the hell's that?" Growing embarrassment got the better of the normally composed banker.
"Olaf, would it be prudent to mention that he'd not hand deliver whatever the board agrees on, in time anyway?"
"And why exactly not? I'm I to understand that I'm being threatened, in the presence of this board? Do you know who and what I represent!" The man's true colour was beginning to show - evidently his ego and habit of pulling rank, apparently most in need of being massaged.
"I was waiting for you to say 'By the power vested in me, I declare you all my eternal financial slaves...' Or is that reserved for celebrating champagne-glass-talk where you come from Emil?" No one was stopping Sam - and she was toying with the man like a cat finding a thrill as it paws around a trapped mouse.
"And no Emil, I'd never threaten you. I'm not that type of girl. I was merely pointing out the urgency of having your life fluid checked. Your insulin levels lean towards your parents' diabetes. A show of gratitude would have been in order, had we met elsewhere. Don't you agree? I see one of Olaf's men is fixing you a stiff cup of bitter coffee. Unless Henry is having a third cup to wash down that side-plate of scones he's been scoffing. Is that for Emil, Henry? Some coffee would do him good during the presentation. Olaf would I ever have a butler named Henry?" The competition that Emil and Henry were unknowingly entered into by Sam, for the most uncomfortable and embarrassingly red-faced man in the boardroom was won by Henry - as it typically goes with racing - all bets were wrongly placed on the outsider that had been Emil. Elize tried in vain to frown her smile away as she pulled back on a small pouch of Kleenexes that Olaf and Alfred were grabbing simultaneously, as she retrieved it from her handbag - searching for the closest absorbing item to wipe their tears as they indulged in a stupor of non-stop loud laughter.
"This coffee...?" Henry mumbled through an entire scone that he had pushed into his mouth, and suddenly decided he'd work through the appetising bite without the aid of the coffee - that he hurriedly carried over, and placed on Email's glossy prospectus. The entire boardroom, who still didn't quite manage to compose themselves, were now gasping for air as they succumbed contagious laughter.
"Sorry Olaf... was that not fitting?"
"It was Sam, as we struggled to breathe yes. Sam, please continue. I don't recall asking for a presentation, but if there is something you feel that you need to add, the floor is yours my dear"
"The details of the origin of MOTLEY, have been archived off-site, for reasons I
'm not at liberty to mention. But following some crucial background information, I'll allow you to enter the lives of the individuals - who may be unknowingly steering it on its course" Sam dimmed the lights
"I'm highly doubtful, based on his detailed brief by the CIA while in Geneva, that MOTLEY is not a figment of someone's over active imagination" Emil just had to have the last say.
Ignoring his ignorance, Sam continued... "Except for André, who we cannot trace, here follows... Alfred, this was the last time, as I'm sure you would recall, that anyone had met André, and the only record of him" Sam; in her own voice, played back, as she masterfully hacked the corporate and private names that had popped up on screen, and within fractions of seconds, dutifully sifted through tonnes of bank transactions, top secret government paperwork, calls, emails and and both previously encrypted and open social platforms, of the thousands of visitors to Heathrow on the day André met with MI5's Alfred.
"In an attempt to investigate how far MOTLEY has evolved, and inspired by the still missing Malaysian Airlines MH370, MI5, in secret managed just once to lure André out of obscurity. For accuracy's sake, Malaysia Airlines Flight 370, registered as 9M-MRO, was a scheduled international passenger flight that disappeared on 8th March 2014 while flying from Kuala Lumpur International Airport, Malaysia. The Prime Minister of Malaysia, Datuk Seri Najib at the time had no option but to go on record to report that they have taken wrong steps, during the widely published MH370 searching campaign. A global search for a fully serviceable passenger plane; with every technology at every government's disposal including the high tech devices on board and in possession of both the pilots, the crew and passengers, ended up empty-handed..." Sam was on form just like Olaf expected and her captivated boardroom audience, was hanging on her every word as cross-referenced data.
"Or just maybe we don't want to know what happened..." Alfred added.
"Or that, Alfred" Sam noted as humoured him and carried on unceremoniously.
"It wouldn't be too strange if a military or civilian vehicle went missing at some stage or another. On land, when reported missing, it's probably reduced to a forgotten skeleton, as only the rust still has a memory of how it was stripped down for spare parts. And for the ones who proudly soared with the eagles, and navigated the cold air streams - which have webbed the continents since the first ever reported missing flight 'Ville de Pari' on the 28th December 1856, up to the fateful day of the 25th July 2017 when missing flight LV-MCV was announced - it's deemed to have sunk into the ocean, and its memory stapled to a long list of other similar yet unproven theories. In between these two unfortunate dates pinning the history board of aviation, there had of course and worth a respectful mention, also been the famous flight NR 16020. On the 2nd July 1937 a Lockheed Electra, with none other than Amelia Earhart, piloted herself into the recoded history of one-hundred-and-thirty-nine still missing aircraft. I'm adding a snip of where André comes into play... The Encyclopedia of Magic and Magicians by T.A. Waters, would have it that "parlour magic" suggests "not suitable for professional performance". Master magicians consider the term "parlour" old-fashioned and well, not exactly all-encompassing. Magic is everywhere - from one-on-one card tricks; more to reward us with a tingly barer wrist, for flashing that precious shiny watch, or that now flatter bulge in our pants pocket, that was a thick leather wallet just moments before, when we chose to escape reality for a quick flirt with seeming innocent entertainment. We realised later, with a scarlet blush, having filled up the tank - that fifteen oblivious minutes before, we stood too close and greeted an unfashionably dressed guy in a pink shirt, and matching sunglasses - poking a long and somewhat oversized coat upright on a 29° degrees Celsius, wind-still day - that we'd better phone a friend... Only, we don't know our friends numbers off by heart anymore, and we don't know the guy's number, who wore that coat like a cape - and who's probably at this very peculiar moment in our lives, grinning at the intimacies of things we 'used' to store on our phone - since he's now taken ownership of all our contacts. "Uhmm... can I leave my car jack and spare wheel here and my driver's licence (that I don't have on me...), to go and beg for money?" The magic feeling somehow wears off right about then. - Right up to bright birthday bashes and five-hundred Rand a velvet seat tickets, to witness a nervous looking white dove suddenly wearing a skimpy dress, as the showman's still dieting assistant high-heels' herself out of sight again and into a box with an overhead anxiously waiting guillotine. But it's rumoured, that there are magic shows dressed in such extravagance, that a single slide of a practised hand, can change the course of history. When all else fails for politicians and war mungers alike, an old man's number is dialled. In Limousine, France, in a modest but colourful esoteric shop, a message is usually hastily scribbled down... This is interesting..?"
"What's that Sam?" Olaf sat forward on his chair, and with his elbows leaned on the table.
"Here's a live feed of an African dictator... looks familiar, doesn't he? He's currently handing an enveloped request to the assistant in this shop. I'll track him on the bottom screen which I've split for your convenience, should you be keen to know what his movements are... Anyway, the owner of this shop, who seems to the world, deriving his income from the sale of soaps, quintets, incense and Tarrot cards, is actually never available there, nor can I find record that had he ever visited the overly decorated front-business. 'Platform magic' is engraved over the doorway in French, if that is of relevance to anyone? I see your credit card comes up for the purchase of a book here Emil. Numerology 101. It was yesterday, three years ago. I don't mean to embarrass you Emil, it is merely something that I came across..." Emil, having turned his chair to better face the large lit screen, didn't respond to Sam's comment, but could feel the heat of the eyes of the rest of the boardroom on his back.
"Here's the recording of the conversation the mobile service provider had deleted. It was on MI5's instruction and had to be sanctioned via the Court. But nothing's truly ever gone, is it? I found a transcription of this deleted conversation file in another file of a laptop that had been reported stolen, in a case where the CEO had been murdered. No record why he'd have taken this information off company property however. Splitting the frame again. This is the live security feed from a coffee shop in Baghdad where the man has just connected to their WI-FI. I'm following him too.
(Good morning André)
(Bonjour Alfred. If you say it's a good morning, I'll take your word. By the way, I'm not proud of myself that I got an old man out of bed in the dead of winter to prove...)
(Hey... relax my friend... have a beer or something, I know how thirsty you old SAS guys get. Not that I'm saying 2am is a fitting time for civilised people to stand around with a beer in hand... Look, we're the same age, well almost. I was referring to myself. Sorry to upset you)
(Shall we take it outside?)
(Wow a date! Just us? I have to decline... Besides, look, and don't take your eyes off the overhead electronic clock that flicked over to 2am. Flight BA 445 will soon be joining the odd-pins on the map of aviation history - which no one wants to talk about... until this iced-over morning... You're going to be part of history! Actually, it's busy fading away as we speak. Your men are brave to have volunteered to fill up a plane. No one could have predicted this unbearable weather though, and for that, I apologise. You asked when we met a month ago, whether a passenger plane could vanish, well... you paid what we agreed on. I must thank you, Alfred. Tell me, how deep are your employer's pockets?)
(What do mean!?)
(Well you made them pay me, to make a fully loaded passenger plane disappear. Have you at least considered the possibility that you have... I'm sorry 'may have' to pay me handsomely to get it to appear again?)
(André, you know who 'I"..., who 'we' work for, this is a dry-run only, an experiment if you will. To see 'if' it's possible! For the love of... could you please cover your mouth, I can read your lips from up here)
(Three things Alfred, in no particular order
of priorities.
One, ventriloquism is not my métier...)
(What!?)
(You're extremely rude Alfred, and then you say we French are rude? My forte, speciality, I'm a magician, not a ventriloquist.
Two, I was wondering why you were at my hotel when I was out. Found anything you fancied?)
(And 3, by experiment, do you mean "test flight?". I think we both know this won't be the first time a passenger plane vanishes? Surely Her Majesty's Special Air Service must have a some knowledge of the other darker part of aviation. You know, pilots being hushed about witnessing UFO's, missing planes... time lapses that can't be fully explained... Or does Her Majesty just keep you guys around as trophies...? I'm just pulling your leg...)
A Motley Crew Page 4