by Paul Starkey
He ejected the magazine and made to jack back the bolt, intending to pop the round the gunman had loaded before his demise.
He froze. His hands were suddenly cold as the blood rushed from his fingers, leaving only an uncomfortable tingle. He was staring down at the top of the magazine. He’d expected to see the dull brass of a bullet, but instead all he saw was the rough metal lip that sat atop the spring that was pushed down by the bullets…except there were no bullets. In a panic he slapped the magazine back into place and pulled back the bolt, praying that a live round would be ejected. Nothing but air escaped the gun.
He looked down at the body, his eyes wide now. “Son of a bitch,” he whispered. With one vicious swing he flung the rifle away, not wanting to hold it anymore. It struck the bodywork of the van with the dull clang of a funeral bell, but Tyrell barely registered the sound. He dropped to his knees. The ground was wet, from rain or blood he didn’t care.
The AK-47 was empty. The magazine he’d seen the man holding was the one he’d just expended. He had slotted it back into place, pulled back the bolt on an empty gun…to make the British agent kill him.
The emotions he’d almost craved mere seconds before now washed over him like an oil spilled tide washing over nesting birds, coating him in a thick, viscous fluid that weighed him down, and made it hard to breathe. It was as if a vice had clamped itself around his chest, and even his sobs came out as barely more than strangled gasps.
Logic told him he’d had no choice. He hadn’t known the gun wasn’t loaded. Logic was drowning in a sea of raw guilt though. When it came down to it he had killed an unarmed man.
John Tyrell knelt by the body of his enemy and wept dry tears, knowing that however bad he felt, the gnawing emptiness and guilt that came with what he’d done was something he would never get away from…something his conscience would never allow him to forget…
Chapter two
Now…
Absently, Chalice Knight wondered how best to murder the two women swimming ahead of her. The pool was crowded, which could prove both a help and a hindrance—more witnesses, but more confusion as well.
The most obvious method would be drowning. Chalice was a fit, strong woman who could hold her breath for several minutes if she had to—and once or twice she’d had to— and it would be simple enough to dive under the two woman, snag an ankle and pull. One of the two always lagged behind (curiously the younger, slimmer one) so that would be the best one to take out, her partner wouldn’t notice right away that her friend was no longer behind her. Pulled down to the bottom of the pool Chalice could either wait for the other woman to start trying to breathe chlorinated water, or she could expedite matters, a jab to the solar plexus to make her breathe out quicker.
The plan was fraught with problems. Drowning took longer than people thought, six or seven minutes at least to be sure, and there were plenty of people wearing goggles who’d easily notice one woman murdering another on the pool floor should they choose to glance down.
And of course there was the biggest flaw of all in drowning one of the two…namely that Chalice really wanted to kill both.
It was her own fault she knew, thinking she could swim at her usual pace and get her usual number of lengths done during a public session, but work meant she had to grab a swim when she could, and her financial situation ensured she couldn’t join an expensive gym, much as she’d like to.
None of this excused the two women who always seemed to choose the same time as Chalice to swim, and who always meandered up and down the pool next to one another chatting away like this was a coffee shop, not a swimming pool. They seemed oblivious of other swimmers who tutted at them and their languid pace.
Chalice never tutted, she preferred to contemplate murder.
Not in the pool then; a double fall in the changing rooms perhaps? No, too improbable. One person slipping and breaking their neck was believable, but two? The authorities would never buy it.
The two women had reached the end of the pool, turned and begun swimming back towards Chalice. Their heads were lifted above the water, chins only bobbing beneath the waves, and their banal conversation seemed to go on without pause for breath. Chalice tuned out what they were saying, but the dull monotone still seemed to drill into her brain. They actually parted as she approached, but Chalice took a deep breath and dived deep to swim under them to avoid the drone.
When she broke the surface beyond them and she swam the last few metres quickly. When she reached the tiled end she turned, treading water as she looked back down the length of the pool. The overhead lights twinkled magically against the water, in those few gaps between moving bodies. The two women were still heading away from her, but at such a sluggish pace that it barely looked like they were moving. The pool area was noisy, sound echoing from the walls and bouncing off the water, but the drone still managed to overpower even the cacophony of chatter.
Chalice considered waiting for the women to get to near the other end and starting another length, but decided she couldn’t be bothered. She’d done thirty lengths, a lot less that usual, but she’d likely get another session in this week. She hauled herself out of the pool and headed for the changing rooms. If the handsome lifeguard with the Mediterranean good looks had been in today she might have stayed—she was off men at the moment but, like a woman on a diet she still liked to at least look at chocolate cake—but the lifeguard was a flat chested blonde who a gaggle of teenaged boys were trying to impress.
Even as she left the pool area the dull never ending drone seemed to follow her.
Car crash, she thought, that’d be the best way to take them both out. Not cutting the brake lines though, it was difficult to make intentional mechanical failure look accidental. No, a better way would be to acquire an untraceable clunker and run them off the road, then burn the car out in some notorious joy riders’ graveyard destroying any forensic evidence she left behind…not that she would.
As she stepped into the blessed quiet of the changing room Chalice Knight was smiling, happy with the murderous solution to her hypothetical conundrum.
* * *
The changing room was chaos, with a couple of barely adolescent girls talking loudly about music and boys, and two of the three showers were already occupied. She’d barely stepped under the tepid stream of water before a small queue seemed to have formed, none of who looked especially patient. Chalice washed her hair quickly and got out before she had time to start contemplating further murders.
She dried herself off and dressed quickly; jeans, trainers and a grey hooded sweatshirt. She allowed herself a few seconds to look in the mirror, thankful for her spiky short hair that would be dry within minutes. She wished she could grow it long again, but it was too damn convenient short, and the fact that it looked good with little effort meant she had a lot more time for other things.
And time was something Chalice Knight never seemed to have enough of.
* * *
Home was a small first floor flat in Pimlico that made up for its size by being both quiet and convenient, being only a handful of tube stops from the office. She knew some of her co-workers thought she was mad for living so close, but given how many late nights and early mornings the job entailed, she preferred not to let commuting eat into her precious leisure time any more than it had to.
The downside was that, if there was an emergency, she was often the first one called, and for the small fortune she paid in rent she could have afforded something much bigger if she’d been prepared to move further out from central London. She thought it was an acceptable trade-off, especially tonight.
She’d left work almost an hour later than planned, and had still gone swimming, yet despite this, and delays on the Victoria Line, she’d still got home by seven o’clock. She sure as hell wouldn’t have been able to do that if she’d had to get home to somewhere like Brentwood.
The streetlights had just started to glow as she reached home, and there was that definite chill of autumn
in the air as she unlocked the door and scurried inside. It wasn’t that cold or that dark yet, but she still felt the involuntary desire to snuggle up somewhere warm and wait for the new day—she wondered if it was a race memory from when humans lived in caves? Well tonight she wouldn’t be hiding from sabre-toothed cats, tonight she would walk amongst them, and they’d better stay out of her way.
She was due to meet Alice at eight thirty, but luckily they were rendezvousing at a bistro within easy walking distance of her flat. It wasn’t really fair on Alice as it meant she’d have the longer journey home, but as she was a full time mother (who nonetheless had a full time nanny) Chalice didn’t feel too guilty. She knew who’d be up earlier in the morning. Besides it was Alice who’d been chivvying away at her for weeks to come out for dinner.
They were an odd pair, chalk and cheese in so many ways, and it never ceased to amuse Chalice that they’d stayed such firm friends since meeting at Oxford all those years ago, and despite the frivolous foundation that friendship was based upon. Namely the comment from the horsey young girl with awful purple hair she’d met in a queue for the phones; “Chalice and Alice? Oh we so have to be friends!”
And they were. Still.
Chalice smiled at her reflection as she applied her makeup. She was in her bedroom, the bathroom was nicely fitted out but it was too small to swing a kitten in, let alone a cat, and so she always did her makeup here, perched on the edge of her iron framed bed staring at the mirror mounted to the back of the door. Behind her the white curtains were drawn back to merge with magnolia walls, and the lights of the city racing past backlit her as if she were in a Broadway show.
She never wore much in the way of makeup, but she applied more than usual tonight, specifically using the vibrant red lip gloss that Alice had got her years ago, the lip gloss she only ever wore when she went out with her old friend. If Alice had noted that Chalice had dragged it out so long that she must barely use it, she’d never said. Probably she didn’t even remember buying it for her, or if she did, didn’t recall the colour. As Chalice’s mother had once remarked. “That girl is a conundrum. I don’t understand how someone can be so bright, and yet so stupid.” And it was true. Alice had graduated with a First, she had a genuine intellect, she’d just had no desire to use it.
Chalice frowned at herself as she thought about her mother. She’d texted earlier to ask how she was, and so far Chalice hadn’t replied. She’d tried twice the day before and Chalice hadn’t responded then either. It was always the same, she didn’t see her mother for months and found she increasingly missed her. No, more than that, craved her presence, an oasis of solidity in the fluid world Chalice inhabited, but after a short time in her presence Chalice felt hemmed in, trapped, and that claustrophobia persisted even after she’d returned home. It was almost three weeks since Chalice had arrived back from Tel Aviv, yet she still felt like mum was looking over her shoulder the whole time. I’ll call her tomorrow, she thought. Her reflection chuckled. Yeah right, a week tomorrow maybe.
Chalice hopped off the bed. She closed her makeup case and slid it under the bed. A place for everything and everything in its place, and Chalice was very good at that; compartmentalising her life; work, home, friends, colleagues, lovers, enemies…all tidied away in neat little boxes stashed under the bed in her mind.
She turned side on and regarded herself in the mirror. She wasn’t overly keen on what she saw. The black mini-dress was exquisite, but every time she put it on she regretted what she’d spent on it. Too much for the three or four times a year she wore it. She didn’t like wearing a skirt, never had. On a practical level she resented the loss of freedom of movement, and on a vainer note she didn’t like showing her legs off. They were shapely enough, swimming saw to that, but she wasn’t that tall, so even with a short skirt and heels her legs didn’t look long enough.
It wasn’t worth the lecture she’d get from Alice to turn up in trousers though, lots of “you’ll never get a man if you don’t flash some thigh” type comments would be sure to follow. She smiled as she applied wax to her hair, flattening some parts down, teasing other parts up, it looked like chaos but it was anything but random.
She walked over to the window and closed the curtains, after first checking outside. No rain clouds that she could see, and no shifty looking men in overcoats reading newspapers either.
In the sitting room she sat on the sofa. The nearby coffee table was devoid of all but a single magazine, and a long stemmed glass, half full of white wine.
The sitting room featured a kitchen built into the back wall, yet it was still a glorious space, white walls and high ceilings aiding the illusion. Up against one wall was a bookcase. It was the only part of the flat that was cluttered, stuffed tight with books, folders, CDs and DVDs. The rest of the flat was meticulously clean, the bookcase was a mess, and she loved it. An ex-boyfriend had once remarked that he couldn’t figure out if the neat and clinically tidy image was a facade, and the bookcase indicative of the real Chalice, or if the bookcase was a decoy, designed to prove to people that Chalice Knight wasn’t quite as anal as she appeared. She’d laughed it off without providing an answer either way, and a week later she dumped him. She didn’t need an inquisitive man in her life.
She picked up the glass, sat back and crossed her legs. As she took a sip of wine she rubbed at a scuff mark on the heel of one of her black patent shoes. The clock on the wall said it was almost eight fifteen. She decided to finish the wine, then go.
The chirp of her phone ringing echoed through the room like an annoying early morning sparrow. With a sigh she looked over to the kitchen worktop where the mobile lay. For a moment she thought about not answering it, but this was never a realistic option. It wasn’t that she thought it might be Alice, she had her own ring tone, no, she knew it would be work, and she knew she was never really off duty.
It stopped chirping just as she reached the counter, and she guessed the person on the other end had hung up when the mobile tried to divert them to answerphone. She picked up the phone and waited. She knew they’d call back, and a moment later they did.
“Hello?”
“Hi there!” came an enthusiastic voice. “Can I speak to Miss Kite please?”
“It’s Knight actually,” she said with irritation she didn’t have to feign. “What can I do for you?”
“Ah, I’m sorry about that, Miss Knight. I’m calling from Network Power, I can see that at present you don’t have either your electricity or gas supplied through us, and I was just wondering if you could spare a few minutes for me to talk about our new price plans? We could save you over a hundred pounds a quarter.”
She closed her eyes, already she was craving another glass of wine, the whole bottle… “I’m sorry,” she said opening her eyes again and focusing on the clock. “I’m going out shortly, I don’t have time to talk.”
“That’s a shame. Maybe I could call you back. How about tomorrow?”
Tomorrow, she thought. She closed her eyes again. She could already feel a headache coming on. “Tomorrow is fine,” she replied with the indifference of a woman who knows she isn’t going to answer the annoying follow up call.
“That’s brilliant; one of our operatives will call you at six tomorrow evening. Have a good evening.”
“You too,” she muttered, but the other end had already disconnected.
Finally she opened her eyes and looked at her phone. She was angry and pissed off. Though not with the annoying nature of a sales call to her personal mobile, because after all it hadn’t been a sales call.
There really was a company called Network Power, but the Service made use of its call centre (and those of several other companies) as a means of communicating messages to agents in the field.
Authentication was twofold. Firstly the call was from Network Power; more importantly he’d mispronounced her name. There wasn’t a lot of information included in the call, she already knew everything she needed to know about Operation Bottlewood
except for one thing, the time. And now, thanks to Network Power, she knew that too. The op was to become active tomorrow, though not at six pm; she was supposed to subtract two and a half hours from the time mentioned, so that meant she needed to be at the agreed rendezvous at three thirty tomorrow afternoon.
It also meant she had to have a lot of things in place before then, which would necessitate multiple phone calls that evening, and one at least wasn’t going to be pleasant. She looked at the clock again. The Bistro was only a few minutes’ walk from her flat, but she doubted she could make the necessary number of calls on the way and still be on time.
She took a deep, calming breath and considered her options. She wasn’t about to cancel her date with Alice, not at this late stage, but she needed to make those calls. Quickly she composed a text.
Have 2 call mum, will b late but will b there by 9. Have fun flirting with the waiters! X
She was grinning as she sent it, because it was highly unlikely Alice would flirt with Brad Pitt if he were serving tonight, let alone some mere mortal. At the age of just 30 she was happily wedded for life to Peter, there was literally no other man in the world for her, hadn’t been since the day she met him a decade ago. Chalice was almost three years older than her, and her love life was far less certain. Of course maybe she’d already met the man she was supposed to be with, but if she had then that ship had long ago sailed, long ago been blown out of the water.
“Stop moping,” she said to herself. She had little time and plenty to do.
From one of the kitchen drawers she withdrew a plastic bag loaded with coins for the payphone. She jammed these into her handbag. The numbers she needed were all programmed into her phone, although she couldn’t dial them from her mobile even if she’d wanted to, because the ones in question were all entered incorrectly; encoded, and as such—unless someone stole her phone who also knew 3s were supposed to be 6s, 4s were 1s and all 8s were 2s—essentially useless.