by Holly Hart
“Frankie!” I say, with a warning in my voice. She takes the hint.
“Fine,” she grumbles. “It’s your loss. So, tell me about this job which you’re abandoning me for, then.”
I shrug. “I don’t know that much about it. It’s all a bit hush-hush: some private bank or something. They need someone to help develop an algorithm, but they didn’t say much more. I have to sign all sorts of non-disclosure stuff.”
Frankie whistles; then catches the attention of a street side food van. “Two of your finest fries,” she giggles. “We’re celebrating.”
I grab my purse, but Frankie bats it away. “You kidding?” She grins. “If you’re buying when I come visit you in England, it’s only fair I pay for you now.”
“I never said –”
“Speaking of,” she grins, cutting across me. “Where are you staying?”
“The company has apartments by the river,” I reply, leaning against a lamp post for stability. I blink, realizing that the alcohol has affected me a bit more than I realized. “They pay for everything. Cool, right?”
“Kim,” Frankie begins in a schoolteacher’s hard tone of voice. “Listen to yourself. You’re about to be employed by some fancy European bank. They’re paying for you to live in a penthouse by the river… If you don’t find yourself a hot guy over there…” She says, shaking her head. “I’m coming over to kick your ass. Got it?”
I think about disagreeing with her, more out of habit than anything else, but something stops me. One last outbreak of nerves. I grab Frankie’s arm.
“What if I can’t do it, Frankie? What if I’m no good, what if –.”
She laughs. “Shut. Up. You live computer code, Kim. I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s like it talks to you. Trust me, whatever you come up against – you’ll do fine.”
I stare at the floor. I’m not so sure.
“And about that hot guy?” Frankie grins. “Any thoughts?”
I bite my lip, avoiding her questioning gaze. I don’t know what to say. Maybe this is exactly what I need to kick start my life. Maybe I should throw myself into it wholeheartedly.
I bite my lip. “I’ll think about it.”
3
Nate
Don’t get me wrong, the Army was great. Getting to live, work, drink and play alongside your best friends every day? You can’t beat that.
The perks they promised to get me to sign up? Yeah, that didn’t work out so great.
Sure, there’s travel: tons of it. I flew from hotspot to hotspot around the world week after week, year after year. Some of it was fun, some of it less so. But the one constant was how goddamn uncomfortable it was. Let me tell you, a C-130 transport plane is not designed with human creature comforts in mind: it is made to haul tanks, personnel transport vehicles, towers of c-rats, weapons great and small (with matching ammo), and prefab walls to build compounds. Sure, there was always plenty of legroom, but the engine noise?
Now, that was almost unbearable, even with sound reduction headphones.
So maybe they would front us some sort of in-flight entertainment?
Riiight …. That was so not happening.
The destinations they sent me were no better. Syria, Afghanistan, Iraq… all of them hot, sweaty and uncomfortable. I see myself more as a citizen of the world, these days: Tokyo, New York, Istanbul …
London.
Plus, it should go without saying; I sure as hell don’t fly coach these days. First class, always – unless I’m undercover. Even then, it’s business class.
“Sir, sir!” The receptionist cries out as I stride through the lobby of the huge glass and steel offices at One Tottenham Court Road, situated at the beating heart of a city, which itself is located at the beating heart of the world. I stop dead and spin on my heel.
A tall, pretty blonde is tottering towards me on heels that are a couple of inches too tall for her to manage comfortably. Her surgically altered rack threatens to over balance her entirely. I flash her a thousand watt smile. I do it automatically. I know the effect it has on women. I’ve got no plans with this one – I don’t think. She’s not my type. But it never hurts to lay the foundations, just in case.
“Can I help you, young lady?” I ask. Young lady: Hell, she’s probably not more than a couple of years younger than me, but her hands fly to her mouth and cover up a girlish giggle.
“Sir – you need a pass to get through. Else I’ll have to call –”
“Security?” I grin and glance at a tubby man in a guard’s outfit, slumped back in a spinning office chair. I eye him carefully. Not because I have any intention of causing trouble, but because it’s the way I operate. I like to be prepared. It’s safer that way.
“I could outrun him, don’t you think?”
She licks her lips. “I’m sure you could, uh, sir… Do you work here?”
“You could say that.”
She pauses, nonplussed. “Oh, okay. What company? Um, do you have a name, Mr. –?”
“Call me Nate,” I reply, following her to the reception desk by a bank of elevators. “The company’s called The Paragon Group.”
“Nate…?” The blonde asks, fishing for my surname. “Oh, Paragon – the new guys? They’re, right on the top floor.”
“Nate will do fine.” I say. I don’t hand my name out to just anyone who asks for it. Especially not to some gold digging wannabe blonde who is only asking so she can fish around for me on Facebook. I don’t care if she sees whatever name the boss put on my entry badge. That’s just a cover. It won’t take her far.
She looks at me expectantly, obviously waiting for me to continue the conversation. When I don’t – and the uncomfortable silence stretches out just a couple of seconds too long, she fishes for my badge and hands it over.
“Well, nice to meet you, Nate. I’m Tilly. Maybe we can –”
“Thanks Tilly,” I say, cutting the blonde off half way through her sentence before she can ask me something I’m only going to deny. “You’ve been very helpful,” I say, striding off.
I catch a glimpse of her in the mirror of the elevator, still staring at my departing back.
***
“Nate,” my handler, Natalie Morris, says, the second I step out of the elevator. She’s got a sour look on her face. “It is nice of you to join us.”
“Nice of you to invite me,” I grin back. It does nothing to melt Natalie’s icy demeanor.
“Do not forget, Nate,” she intones, staring me down. “There is a reason we pay you what we do.”
I hold my hands up apologetically. “I’ll be on time next time. Early, even. I was up late… working.”
“Do not lie to me,” she snaps, turning on her heel in an almost military fashion. I fall in behind her. We pass through a fingerprint-operated set of double frosted-glass doors which hiss open and close behind us. It reminds me of a scene from Independence Day.
An armed security guard trains his eyes on me. I can tell he’s ex-military, like me. It’s obvious in his bearing. His back is ramrod straight; his shoulders pulled back.
“Does he have a permit for that weapon?” I ask, already knowing the answer. No way is the guard’s submachine gun legal – not over here. Typically, Natalie doesn’t answer.
“Nate is with me, Frank. Get him a pass, will you. No names.”
The guard’s gruff: “yes boss,” drifts past my ears as we march past him and down a long hallway lined with frosted-glass conference rooms. Analysts whisk past us on either side, not looking up from beige folders cradled in their hands like priceless artifacts.
“Nice place you’ve got here,” I observe. It feels like Area 51. I’m just looking around for the aliens.
Natalie doesn’t reply.
Another set of frosted glass doors hiss open in front of us, and I follow her into a conference room. It’s already occupied by three men, all staring intently at a wall lined with large high-definition screens and tapping away at laptop keyboards. They barely look up as we e
nter. All have the pale, pallid complexion of people who don’t spend enough time outside.
“Guys,” I acknowledge: still, no response.
Natalie clears her throat, and all three jump in unison, eyes snapping right to her. What’s this broad have that I don’t?
“Better,” she smiles – though it’s thin-lipped. “Now, let’s get started.”
I choose a chair on the corner, and rest my crossed legs on another. Natalie stares daggers at me. I don’t know much about her, but I can tell that she likes order. I, by contrast, don’t. I like life a little bit messy. Rough around the edges, you might say. It’s more fun like that. And the way I see it, Natalie needs to loosen up a bit.
She clears her throat. “Nate.” She says, with a hard bite to her voice. “Something you want to tell us?”
I grin and wave my hand. “No, go ahead.”
I watch as Natalie clenches her jaw. I don’t know why I’m messing with her, but it’s hard not to.
“Fine,” she says. “Did you read the package I had couriered over to you?”
“Here and there,” I reply, acting casual. Truth is I read it cover to cover.
“Then we should best get started. Stan?”
A reed-thin beanpole of a man gets to his feet and clears his throat nervously. “Have you,” he stumbles. He clears his throat again. “Have you heard of Landwolfe and Co?”
“Whispered speculations.”
The beanpole looks down at his laptop and starts to read. “Established 1869, headquartered out of Geneva, Switzerland, but that’s just for secrecy reasons. The main office is right here in London: Fleet Street, not too far from the Bank of England.”
I let out a whistle of appreciation as a picture of a stone building flashes up on the screen. “Nice offices.”
“The, uh,” he glances at Natalie for approval, who nods, “agency contacted us last week. They’ve been watching the bank for a few weeks. They believe that the Templar Cartel has cut a deal with senior executives in the London office. It has become a front for moving massive amounts of drug cash in and out of the stock market. Once money goes in…”
"… It becomes untraceable,” I reply, nodding. “But what do we have to do with it? This is the CIA’s catch – why are they handing it over to us? Plus paying us, no less!”
Natalie shoots me a hard look. “Oh, come on,” I laugh. “It’s not like we don’t know who the client is.”
“That is beside the point, Nate,” she snaps back. “Operational security is paramount.” She stares me down until I nod. “Better. Stan?”
Stan looks like a kid who’s seen his mom and dad fighting. His eyes flicker back and forth between the two of us for a second before he finds the courage to speak. “Diplomacy,” he answers. “The CIA is not supposed to operate in London. It’s like…” He says, casting around for an analogy. “… a safe zone. The British Secret Service doesn’t operate in America, and the CIA –”
“Just pay someone else to do their dirty work,” I laugh. “What a world.”
“Do you have a problem, Nate?” Natalie says.
“Not as long as I get paid,” I grin, relaxing back into my chair. “But what can I do? I don’t know if anyone told you, but I’m no banker. I’m more of a “bang, bang,” kind of guy,” I say, making my hand into a gun and pointing it at Stan and his colleague, one by one.
Stan gulps.
“Stop scaring the analysts, Nate,” Natalie says curtly. “Besides, I know exactly what your skill set includes: deception; charm; violence; manipulation. In short – you are perfect for what I have in mind.”
She picks up a remote control, and a screen on the wall flashes into life. “Peter Donaldson,” she says, pointing at a short, balding man whose image appears on screen. “He is the bank’s director in charge of its new high-frequency trading program.”
“Their high-frequency which-when-what?”
“Computer trading,” Stan says, piping up. “Buying and selling shares faster than you can blink.”
“Huh”
“I didn’t expect you to understand, Nate. Luckily, you will not need to. You are going in as head of security. Donaldson has a gambling problem, and gambling debts. Your job is to get close to him, or someone in his team and –”
“Show me.”
“Show you what?” Natalie replies. She’s clearly irritated by my interruption.
“His team: show me who does the work.”
Natalie jerks her head at one of her minions. Four pictures flash up on the screen – three men, and the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.
“Bad guy number one,” Stan says, “is Boris Mikhailovich –”
“Who’s the redhead?” I ask. I’ve not even looked at Boris, or any of his spotty accomplices. There’s not a question in my mind about who my target will be. It sure as hell isn’t Peter Donaldson, with his gambling debts and double size gut. If I have to infiltrate a private bank, I’m going to make it interesting. And the redhead, she’s more than interesting.
“Nate, we do not have time for you to indulge your cock,” Natalie spits, clearly infuriated. “The CIA wants this case cracked this month. I am not waiting for you to seduce her.”
I stand up, reach over the table, and grab one of Stan’s beige folders.
“What the hell are you playing at, Nate –,” Natalie says, spitting mad.
I held up a finger, ignoring her. “Kimberly Sawyers,” I read aloud; “age 26; graduate of Virginia Tech and MIT.” An impressed whistle escapes my lips.” She’s one smart cookie; file’s light,” I say, fixing Stan with a stare.
“We, we don’t know much about her.”
“Because she is no one, Nathaniel,” Natalie says, slamming her palm down on the table. “Now can we get back to –”
“No, we can’t,” I say in a low voice.
“What are the two golden rules of working an informant, Natalie?” I ask. When she doesn’t answer, I continue. “Money and sex. This,” I jerk my head at the screen, “Donaldson guy, he’s been around the block. He’s a gambler – he’ll take a chance that he could turn me in to pay off his debts. However, little Kimberly Sawyers here? She’s young, innocent: the perfect target.”
Plus, I don’t say, she’s sparking, smoking, sizzling hot.
Natalie stands in front of me, her ears smoking with rage. It’s a cold, determined type of anger. I can see the battle that’s going on in her mind, also taking place on her face. I know she wants to say no. But I can tell she knows I’m right.
“Three weeks, Nate,” she whispers. “The people I have breathing down my neck from above on this one: even you cannot imagine. You have only three weeks.”
I shoot the boss a cocky grin. “Anything else you want me to tackle while I’m at it?”
Natalie doesn’t say a word. I can tell she wants to lash out at me.
“Maybe … world peace?”
4
Kim
Butterflies are dancing in my stomach.
It feels like the first day of school all over again. I hated school. All seventeen long goddamn years of it, I hated every moment.
“Miss Sawyers?” a girl says. I clutch my purse to my chest. “Sorry to keep you waiting! Your new team is ready for you now.”
She smiles.
I don’t say anything, because that’s not like me, but to tell the truth – I am annoyed. I’m annoyed because they didn’t have to tell me to come in at 8 AM. Especially not if they were going to let me sit around until ten without so much as offering a cup of coffee…
“It’s no bother, really,” I say, lying through my teeth. “So… are you going to show me the way?”
The receptionist blinks, and then stares at me like I’ve asked for her hand in marriage, or something. “Well,” she huffs, “I suppose that wouldn’t be too much trouble.”
If I’d known you were going to act the martyr about it, I think, I wouldn’t have asked.
She takes me to a conference room a couple o
f floors up, huffing and puffing and sighing the whole way. “They’ll be with you shortly,” she says, plastering a false smile across her plastic face. “I’m sure you’re going to love it here!”
I take a seat, and cross my legs. And then I uncross them. The chair is just a little too hard, the conference room a touch too cold. I licked my lips, run my hand through my hair, and wait…
And wait.
It takes an age for someone to actually turn up. When they do, it only takes me a second to realize that the hiring pamphlet’s photos of a diverse rainbow of colors and genders were taken out of a stock photography website…