The Unseen

by James McKenna

  At 1 a .m. Richard came out of his flat which occupied half the top floor along with the executive offices of PKL. The conference room was the first along the corridor, then accounts, then Snibbard’s office with terminal three. Downstairs was the main open-plan floor of the admin section. During the day this was full of busy, well-paid young women who accepted Snibbard’s grubby attentions with weary tolerance. Richard despised them for letting the geek get away with it, but then Snibbard agreed their joint bonuses and made sure they got paid. For Richard, that made them all whores.

  As project manager and Richard’s number two, Snibbard’s office had windows giving fine views towards the city, a little fridge provided cold drinks. Snibbard had never retained a secretary for more than two weeks. During his lunchtime, he went to watch pole dancing in a local wine bar, in the evenings it was a laptop bar. While students in Glasgow it was Richard who picked up the girls while Snibbard stood around open mouthed. After some weeks of Internet contact to place both the girls and Snibbard under SPI, Richard then sent them to the woods. There he could watch in secret frustration while Snibbard indulged his lustful perversities. It built a grudging one-sided friendship. Snibbard like a bucket of testosterone with a computer for a brain but never realising he was part of the experiment. No girl had ever openly given herself to Snibbard. It proved Richards first success with SPI, but like Zoby, it was now time for Snibbard to be sacrificed.

  Walking over the office floor that was partially illuminated by moonlight, he passed the mainframe server that had been activated by Faulkner in Milton Keynes. Stacked in a corner it chugged and clicked, chattering away with its sanitisation programme to erase and over-write all SPI on the Shoreditch system.

  Richard clicked rapidly with the mouse. The expected e-mail from the Morrison Hotel, Brighton, contained web addresses, the digital photo of two girls taken at prize handout, hotel register address and discount voucher number. From the voucher number he re-checked files for the address of the original PKL sales agent. As before the address did not correspond with the address given by Fagan when signing the register, nor the bank. For a moment Richard was puzzled. The present Mrs Fagan would have needed teenage pregnancy to be mother of the elder girl. So the current Fagans were most likely in a second partnership. Two houses in such a relationship were not uncommon, three improbable, particularly for a welder even if he had won money. It could possibly be a police undercover operation where one true address had been inadvertently revealed. He looked at the photograph of the girls, both beaming smiles of innocence. If Fagan was police, maybe he had visited the hotel with his kids and realised what was going on. One of the addresses, possibly the agent, could be the original parental home, Mr Fagan’s family enclave. But he had to be sure.

  He loaded PKL in the company’s prize winning format and sent a copy to each e-mail address, one where the hotel voucher had been sent, the other a hotmail address given by the prize-winning girls. He did the same with a second, special prize. While the main office server ground out files for disk scrubbing, whoever might intercept would stare at reams of print out. Until eventually analysed, a few more pages would pass unnoticed. He tapped commands giving T3 a priority external line, then entered a private chat room. As he expected, Zoby was waiting.

  Mission Code Name, Termination Road. Top Quality Females. Immediate Commencement. Confirm mission acceptance.

  The reply came in seconds. Combat proficient and ready. Good to be working, Colonel.

  Richard had a glow deep within his rib cage, a flutter of exhilaration which caused his skin to ooze sweat. He had never participated in multiple executions, both male and female. The males were a tiresome necessity, but females had become a sweet, secondary bonus to his overall plan. The sensation of watching them killed was far greater than the sensation of using Viagra to fuck. Pity to sacrifice Zoby and Snibbard, but then the world was full of Zobys, probably full of Snibbards too. Richard was confident he’d find more. He tapped words onto the screen.

  Security rating, code one. Go to pre-arranged procedures. Swapping line communications now. E-mails to follow.

  If the messages were being intercepted, Richard considered the words enough to start the police on a false search to nowhere. The real fun would be here, three, maybe four dead. He plugged leads from T3 and a mobile into a laptop then dialled out on the cell phone. Within minutes he was back to Zoby on a different line.

  Previous landline contaminated. Future communication via mobile, text messages and email. Mission objective. Abduction and detention of two, possibly three hostiles. Information sensitive. Receive on need to know only. Richard hesitated, his request was out of the ordinary. He needed a lure. Finally he tapped Zoby’s special skills required. Respond. He waited.

  Received and understood.

  Richard hunched his shoulders to type. Required ordnance. Prestigious limo, isolated interrogation room, personal equipment for female hostage restraint, commandeered mobile for non-traceable communications. Number to base control ASAP. Respond.

  Received and understood.

  Zoby to commence mission by transmission of PKL file, obey Crystal, trust Zoby. SPI rate three pulses per second. E-mail address below. No photos yet of targets. Suffice – top quality females, easy abduction. Richard typed the address and then, Respond.

  Received and understood.

  His fingers hovered. Zoby would not like what followed.

  Once hostages secured, method of interrogation to proceed on my orders only. He stopped typing. Never had he interfered with Zoby’s methods, but control of his overall plan was essential and secondary to any gratification gained through the remote violation of women. To add incentive he typed. Cash payment one k per hostile. Respond.

  Three minutes, no reply. Zoby was essential. Zoby was conditioned to obey. Zoby must obey – must.

  Received and understood.

  Richard’s escape of hot breath clouded the screen. Zoby had never let him down. Zoby was totally stupid. To whet his appetite he entered the address from the sales agent package, the most likely to be real, the most likely house to contain a woman who might satisfy Zoby’s appetite. First female. Observe only. Report on any other occupants, possibly adolescent girls. Stand to. Over and out.

  Richard shut down the terminal and stood looking from the window to the moon bathed rooftops of London. He found himself soaked in sweat. So many years of planning were rapidly coming to fruition. With a secret copy of SPI installed on WorkWell programme, he would have the same means as Wileman to send SPI to any Starways user world-wide. His influence would have no boundaries. It gave such sweet excitement to kill their women and take their money. Not bad for a boy out of nowhere. Pleasure came to every nerve, filling his mouth, his belly and his brain. They would never catch Harry Woods, no never.

  Sitting before Sean’s PC, Danielle completed her essay and sent it to print. She yawned and waited on the first page to clatter through the machine, the inkjet was slow and her bed was waiting. Passing time she checked her e-mail in the hope of something from Frankie. She found two. Once from PKL prize department, the other from PKL publicity. Ignoring advice, she downloaded both. The first informed that Sophie and Becky had won a trial set of PKL, the second, showed a cute cartoon character, the handsome youth she recognised as Princess Kay-ling’s charioteer, Zoby. It said winning the first prize made them eligible for a second, surprise package. If she entered sizes and address on the following form, two PKL sweatshirts would be despatched by return. She felt so pleased, so happy for her lovely girls. She typed as requested.

  When the printer finished she closed everything down and went to her room. Beneath the sheet, she pulled a pillow to cuddle, knowing Frankie would be unfaithful. She was far away, always popular with other girls, always one of them on the back of her Harley Davidson.

  “Gotta trust the Colonel,” Zoby said to himself. “The man pays, the man knows.” He did not care for the Colonel’s interference, but then two, maybe three k was h
andsome compensation. One female for immediate observation. It sounded good and got his juices boiling in anticipation. Top quality, he liked that.

  Zoby set to work. He sent the “Trust Zoby, obey Crystal” virus as instructed. Once opened they would spread quickly, activating instructions concealed within PKL games previously placed on hard disk. Zoby was careful with the procedures. The Colonel had given detailed instructions prior to their first mission. He was proud the Colonel trusted him with this delicate and covert commencement of an operation. He imagined a real slick female opening the file and smiling at the cute little charioteer who waved out at her.

  “Hi baby, who’s right behind you?” he said aloud. He wondered who lived at the address given. He liked covert watching, liked to observe the pretty ladies he would soon be on top of. He would wait for daylight, he preferred daylight. It put people at ease, made them feel everything was normal.

  The electronic notebook in Zoby’s briefcase provided a client list that he read in conjunction with a road map of the Home Counties. Isolated interrogation would be difficult. He also needed people away for at least a week. In the end he short listed three properties and marked each with a blue circle. Now he needed to check no family members were left behind, no pets or nosey neighbours. He figured a drive of three hours for a fast reconnaissance. He had no worry about acquisition of a prestigious limo, London was full of them.

  CHAPTER 14

  Sean woke just after dawn and lay in momentary peace, the covers thrown from his body, his skin bathed in filtered light. He checked his watch, 0600 hours. Within moments the spare room had closed in on him like a sterile box, a place for junk and the unwanted.

  The fish had tasted good, the wine had eased him and seemed to cheer Victoria. Classic FM had provided them with Beethoven and Brahms, music enough to mellow any woman; but Victoria had kept conversation on turmoil in the Middle East and the burdens it placed on MI5. Sean respected her stance and determination. He made no suggestions, no innuendos, or tried a surreptitious touch. He had faith in his cooking as a covert means of seduction. It failed. After the meal and a period of grace, she went to bed. Sean drank more wine, listened to the radio play Bach and went alone to the spare room. Dawn always brought a new day.

  In the early morning light he lay contemplating. Should he switch his mind on and be confronted by the stress and horrors of his professional life, or should he just laze in moments of peace? He heard Victoria rise and move across the floor. Moments later his door opened. Her face was soft from sleep, her eyes wide and close to tears. She was dressed in lace pyjamas.

  “Good morning, Mrs Fagan.”

  “Sod you, Mr Fagan.” She began to undo her buttons as she crossed the room and climbed under his duvet.

  He always knew his granny was right, perseverance wins.

  Danielle awoke at 9 a.m., nestled a few moments then reluctantly swung her legs from the bed. She threw back the curtains, ran fingers through tousled hair and stretched herself as she looked from the small bedroom window over a well-tended garden. She kept it so for the girls to enjoy, for Monsieur Fagan to watch them play; all children together. Her witness to his poignant acceptance of her lesbianism touched a tender instinct never realised for another man. She would sleep with him if he asked, if it helped until he found a good woman.

  She showered, creamed her skin. The day was hers, the sky blue, the sun shining. One essay to finish, then an hour in the garden before uni. In white bikini pants and new yellow T-shirt, she went down to the kitchen, opened the back door and stepped out onto the patio. The air was good, warm and fragrant. Within minutes she added the aroma of coffee and toast, eating a banana while passing between PC terminal and kitchen, checking her breakfast, changing her notes. She carried cup and plate to the computer, biting on buttered toast, brushing crumbs from her thighs as she tapped. Only then did she remember the e-mails from the previous night and logged on to the Internet. She entered Sophie’s hotmail address.

  Congratulations, Mlles, you win top prize from your hotel weekend. PKL will be in touch through Princess K’s charioteer, Zoby. Sounds fun. You can trust Zoby. He’s cute. Hugs and kisses, Danielle.

  Once the e-mail had gone, she checked for messages in her own post-box, pouting her lips at Frankie’s neglect. “Petite peste, tu ne me veux plus. You love like a man. At your convenience.”

  The doorbell came as a distraction. Jehovah’s Witness, doubling glazing? Too early. Maybe the milkman for his money? She opened the door to peer head and shoulders round the edge, her free hand attempting to pull the hem of her T-shirt below hips.

  “Seaboard Gas.” The man was young, good looking had his belly not been bulbous and his hair lank.

  “I don’t think we are Seaboard, Monsieur.”

  “Fagan property? My instructions are to read the meter. Could be my supply company has taken over your one. Happens all the time.” He lifted an ID tag hanging from his neck. He smiled.

  Danielle hesitated and kept her body hidden, conscious she wore little clothing. “This is not a good time,” she said. “Mr Fagan will return tonight or maybe tomorrow.”

  The man groaned disappointment and slid a notebook from his pocket. “I’ve done all the other houses. It means I’d have to come back just to do yours. It’ll only take a minute.”

  “The meters are in the garage, wait while I get the key.” She sighed away the nuisance, pushed the door almost closed and went quickly to the kitchen. On her return she found the door swung wide. Without cover she had no choice but to cross the hall, returning a gaze which never met her eyes. She pushed the door to hide herself.

  The man’s smile never altered. “Nice morning for sunbathing.” He winked.

  From cover she passed the key. “Please to return it, immediately.”

  “No problem, love.”

  Daniel waited, heard the swish of the rising garage door and went swiftly upstairs. A towelling robe hung in her bedroom. Securely wrapped, she returned with less haste. The man stood in the hallway.

  Zoby watched her descent, saw suppressed fear. He liked them worried. She jiggled beautifully. Top quality for sure. “Permission to commence immediate action,” he whispered into his head radio.

  “You say something, Monsieur? You must wait outside, please.”

  Zoby held up the key. “Don’t have a glass of water do you, miss? It’s already hot out there and I’m sure thirsty.”

  She half smiled but he knew it a sham, her body was retreating into itself, terrified. One kick behind and the front door would slam. No one around, he could play with her all day.

  “Please wait here,” she said and turned to the kitchen. Zoby followed silently. Nice long kitchen table. Ideal for fucking her. Nothing like a good slam across the kitchen table. Her hand shook as she passed the water. The other clutched at the neck of her robe. He knew the signs, had seen them many time before. He sipped, put down the glass. Time for the day’s pleasure. He grinned. Her eyes narrowed. The voice came through static bursts, faint but clear over the combat radio which sounded from his head.

  “Offensive action might jeopardise mission. Back off, Zoby. That’s an order.”

  She stepped away, her expression openly frightened. “Please, I’m very busy. You must go.”

  “OK, no problem. Thanks for the water.” Zoby turned to the front door. He waved on exit. “Enjoy the sun.”

  Minutes later he sat in a black transit van especially stolen for the occasion. His next stop would be the interrogation centre, a place off the A1, the last location selected from Travelpath’s client list. He whistled as he drove. A French woman, now that would be fun, real fun.

  For breakfast Sean cooked a light omelette with crispy bacon and Victoria made the coffee.

  “I’d get fat living with you,” she said. She was back in her platform bra with tight sweater and second-skin jeans.

  “No way, there’s more to life than food. I have a rigorous exercise routine which is best started early in the morni
ng.” He watched her smile, then watched her big dark eyes grow serious.

  “I meant what I said last night, Sean. Our lives are too demanding, too complex. Breakfasts together would be few and far between,”

  “So, you admit my cooking did seduce you?”

  She smiled momentarily. “Everything about you seduces me, but we both live with the dark side and our world is no place to sustain a relationship.” She checked her watch and stood. “I’m meeting Caswell at eleven and I’ve reports to write first. He tells me there is a project manager, Snibbard. Both he and Faulkner would be ideally placed to put SPI out over the Net and play at being Crystal.”

  “What if one of them is playing at Zoby? Going alone puts you at risk.”

  “Caswell thinks you’re the kind of guy who hangs around betting shops and pubs. If you came, he’d be suspicious. Playing thicko has its advantages, he’ll tell more to someone he believes is unaware. Also he’ll spend time chatting me up as part of his male ego. Your presence would hamper that. For today, I suggest you suss out Travelpath. Zoby is more likely to be there than in Shoreditch.”