Yesterday's Hero

by Jonathan Wood

  Shit. I think I really like Felicity Shaw.

  What a stupid bloody time to realize that.

  “Just seems stupid is all,” Jasmine grouches from the back seat.

  “The heart is stupid all the time,” I say. Not loudly. Not really for her. For myself. A little bit for Aiko.

  “That’s what I keep hoping.” She gives me a soft smile.

  And here and now is really not the time for this conversation.

  I look up at Coleman’s flat. At the clock in the car. Five minutes elapsed. Jesus, only five. It’s going to be a long night with this crowd.

  Which is when one of Coleman’s windows suddenly flies open. Devon is there waving frantically. A tiny white rectangle flies out of her hand and away into some bushes below. She waves twice more, and then suddenly, violently, disappears back inside.

  We all stare.

  “What the hell?” Aiko bursts the silence.

  “She got it,” I say, staring disbelieving at the closed window. “She already got it.”

  “His pants are down already?” Jasmine seems caught between disgust and admiration.

  “We should get her out.” I’m worried. That is not a healthy timeline for pants removal.

  “No,” Malcolm is definitive.

  “She could be in trouble up there.” Malcolm is too big for me to add, “you bastard.”

  “We have a signal,” Malcolm says. “If she’s in trouble she’ll let us know. That wasn’t the signal.”

  “She’s not a trained field agent!” I snap back.

  “If you’ll forgive me,” Malcolm studies his hand momentarily then meets my eye square on, “I think she can handle herself as well as some trained field agents I’ve met.”

  Ouch.

  There again…

  “Just go and get the bloody card already,” Aiko says. “Quicker we get you to MI6, the quicker we get back here for any necessary extraction.”

  I hesitate, hand on the door. They’re right though. We’re committed. If we don’t pull this off, the world ends tomorrow. Time to go all in. I open the car door and go to get the bloody card already.

  85 Vauxhall Cross

  The biggest chance of disaster, it seems to me as I cross the lobby of 85 Vauxhall Cross, is that I’m going to sneeze this ridiculous fake mustache off. It itches like a bastard.

  The paunch is a little better. Some of Malcolm’s old socks held in place by reams of gauze to give that natural, I’ve been drinking pretty solidly for twenty years sort of look. The effect isn’t exactly flawless, but it is frightening how little else needed to be done to make me stand up to at least a cursory glance.

  Which is all the guard gives me. Though that isn’t as relieving as I thought it might be. Defense of our realm and all that.

  Sweat coats my palm as I swipe the ID before the metal scanner. There’s a dish for me to empty my pockets into. I do so. Keys. Spare change. The flash drive Jasmine gave me to copy the files onto. My wallet.

  Oh Jesus, my wallet.

  My wallet with its clear plastic pocket and my Arthur Wallace driver’s license on fully bloody display. I turn it over carefully, place it facedown in the tray. I glance back at the security guard at the door. And fortunately the whole eyes-in-the-back-of-the-head thing is still an unrealized security feature.

  But he must have some MI-sixth sense, because he looks back at me as I look back at him.

  “Let me help you with that.” He takes a few steps over.

  “Oh,” I start, and realize I sound nothing like Coleman. I try again. “Oh,” I say in the new voice, then realize this guy doesn’t know what Coleman sounds like and talking to him in two voices is probably not increasing my chances of looking like a regular employee. So then I just say nothing, which I’m not sure helps anything either.

  The guard takes the tray. The wallet rocks slightly on the bulge of change. I watch the lip of the driver’s license. Don’t drop it, I pray as the guard transfers the tray from one side of the gate to the other. Don’t spill a thing. Don’t try to hand me anything. He lays it down. The wallet rocks one more time and lies still.

  I let out a sigh of relief and then try and stifle it. The guard is still right there, looking at me.

  “Thank you,” I say in my Coleman voice. I figure I’ve committed to that now, and take a step towards the metal detector before catching myself.

  My gun.

  God the last thing I need is the guy to wand me, to detect the strange unwashed sock odor emanating from beneath my shirt.

  I pull my pistol from my shoulder-holster and hand it to the guard. I compose myself, straighten for the metal detector.

  I glance over at the guard. He is looking at my gun. A quizzical expression is on his face.

  “Is there a problem?” I really don’t want to know the answer to that question.

  The guard drums his fingers on his radio.

  “This gun, sir,” he says. “Not exactly standard issue is it?”

  SIXTY-TWO

  Oh crap. And no. It’s not a standard-issue pistol at all. It’s the dodgy black-market pistol of dubiousness Malcolm gave me. Something to do with the bullets being difficult to trace and filed off serial numbers. Not something that sounded astoundingly legal.

  “No,” I say to the guard, unable to bluff in the face of such overwhelming evidence. “Not standard issue at all.” I have an urge to plunge through the gate and just see how far I get. I manage to suppress it, though.

  “Get a special dispensation for it, did you, sir?”

  “Yes.” I swallow and sweat harder than any innocent man ever would. “That’s exactly what I did.”

  The guard grimaces. I almost soil my underwear.

  “Been trying to get one for my Browning forever,” he says. “Don’t really like the action on the ones they give us.” He shrugs. “Above my pay grade, I suppose.” He gestures to the metal detector. “If you’d just step through.”

  I almost pass out with relief. I almost skip through the detector. I have enough trouble just keeping the grin off my face.

  I’m in.

  Outside Coleman’s Office

  There is a surprising amount of activity still going on in 85 Vauxhall Cross considering this is a government building, for people on government salaries, but MI37’s borrowed offices are mercifully quiet.

  I wonder if everyone is out together. Do they have a lead? Are they way ahead of us?

  I want to know, I realize. I want to know how all of them are doing. Is Clyde dealing better with being a mask? Is Tabitha? Is Felicity using my face as a target down at the practice range?

  I especially want to know about Felicity. If only I could see a way back to her.

  I swipe Coleman’s security card to unlock the office door and quickly push through. His desk is a large, ostentatious thing. Dark wood, severe edges. The sort I’d expect Wall Street villains in Oliver Stone movies to have. There are large official certificates on one wall—like the ones doctors always seem to have in excess. He has a bookshelf along another wall, heavy with thick leather-bound tomes that seem a mismatch with Coleman’s brash impatient demeanor. At least they do up until I touch them and realize it’s a thin veneer of spines over a wooden frame. He didn’t even bother buying real books he’d never read.

  As much fun as exposing Coleman’s flaws is, though, I’m wasting time. I sit down in the high-backed leather chair behind his desk. His laptop is still plugged into its docking station. I’m tempted to just yank the whole thing and run. But the whole point of this is to try and be undercover. Stopping the Russians will be hard enough without being actively chased through London.

  I flip open the monitor, press the power button, wait.

  For the password box to pop up.

  Shit.

  I stare at the blinking cursor.

  Double shit.

  Hacking. What do I know about hacking?

  Man, as much as I like Devon, I sort of wish Tabitha or Clyde had gone rogue instead, ri
ght now.

  The only thing I know about hacking is what Clyde told me. That way too many people use… Wait…

  I type 1-2-3-4 into the little box. I press enter. The screen blanks to an innocent blue. I hold my breath.

  The box reappears. It kindly apologizes to me but that is not the password.

  Triple shit.

  I think about Coleman. What do I know about him? He doesn’t strike me as being the most computer savvy of men. 1-2-3-4 isn’t too unlikely a password for him. But if not that, then…?

  I try a-b-c-d, but to no avail.

  Coleman thinks highly of himself. I’m staring blankly at all the framed certificates. He thinks he’s clever. He would do something he thinks is clever. Except it won’t be really.

  If I was an idiot who wanted to prove his smarts, what would…

  Something comes to me.

  But no…

  And what if I only get three tries at this password? That’s how it works sometimes. If I screw up, I’m done for. I can’t believe I wasted a chance with a-b-c-d.

  I quickly ransack drawers looking for a piece of paper, anything, any scribbled notes. Nothing. There’s only a single fountain pen in a drawer and a single legal pad with a quick sketch of an improbably proportioned naked woman on it. That’s it.

  I stare at the blinking cursor one more time.

  Something an idiot like Coleman would think is clever.

  Oh screw it. Nothing ventured…

  I type it in, slowly. 4-3-2-1.

  I stare at the four asterisks. So bloody stupid.

  I hit enter.

  The box disappears. The screen is pure blue.

  And then folders appear. An MI6 logo appears. Outlook starts booting up.

  I’m in. I’m actually in.

  Jesus, not only do I look like Coleman. I’ve figured out how to think like him. Is this how I’m going to be in ten years? I need to find someone to kill me if that happens.

  There again, who am I kidding? I’m never going to survive ten years with this gig.

  I see the database I want and start with the clicking. After five minutes of frustration and butting my head against a wall, I finally notice a little search box some designer bastard decided to make as unnoticeable as possible. I pull a note with the names we discovered in Chernobyl out of my wallet, and start typing.

  Ivan Spilenski gives me a hit straight away. A grainier photo than the one from the Russian files, and from a worse angle. It lists him as deceased, so that could explain why Tabitha had trouble finding him. More hits on Joseph Punin, Urve Potia, and Ekaterina Kropkin. More on their associates.

  I look, but the bastard designer doesn’t seem to have given me a way to save individual files, which renders my flash drive useless. I start clicking on the “print” button.

  Next up is chasing the links the files have in common. More known associates. Mission files. Counter-intelligence operations. I click print again and again.

  Only Leo Malkin is missing. The teleporter who beat me up. Either a nobody or somebody too good to make our radar. I am very worried he’s the latter. My ribs ache just thinking about him.

  The printer grudgingly spools out sheet after sheet. I check my watch. I’ve been here half an hour now. Devon should be out of Coleman’s apartment, in with the others. Which means the chances of Coleman discovering the theft of his card are starting to go up.

  I check my printing queue and curse loudly. Apparently even inanimate objects Coleman owns are out to get me. I’m going to be here another fifteen minutes at least.

  I close my eyes and take a breath. No one knows I’m here yet. It would take Coleman a minimum of fifteen minutes just to get here from his house. I’m OK. It’s going to be OK.

  And then someone rattles the handle of his office door.

  SIXTY-THREE

  One hand goes to the butt of my pistol. The other checks that my mustache is still in place.

  How the hell did Coleman get here so fast? Something must have gone wrong with Devon. Why didn’t the bastards call me? Unless they’re all in the clink now. Oh God. It was all—

  “George?” says a voice from the other side of the door. “George are you in there?”

  Not Coleman’s voice.

  So much worse.

  Felicity.

  My heart hits my feet, tries to rebound. Fails.

  Oh Jesus. Two options flash through my mind: truth or bluff? And can I really bluff Felicity? But can I really trust her with the truth?

  God I wish I could.

  “Err,” I rumble, trying to hit Coleman’s pitch. “Don’t come in.” There’s too much at stake for the truth.

  “You’ve locked the door, George,” Felicity snaps.

  I don’t remember doing that. It must do it automatically when it closes.

  Felicity sounds tired. She must be under a lot of pressure. A lot of it must be due to me.

  “Just getting changed from the gym,” I lie. Coleman ought to go to a gym even if he doesn’t actually.

  “I’m fine missing out on that,” Felicity says, with an enthusiasm that warms my heart. “I just wanted to double-check the attribution in the third email blast about our so-called solar flare. Last thing we’d need is to have to apologize for a typo.”

  And that tells me the route they’ve gone. Spring the EMP on the British public and claim it’s a solar flare. Which means there’s been no traction finding the Russians. Which means that how I respond to Felicity’s statement is very important for the future of the world as we know it.

  I go with a grunt.

  In my defense, I think it’s harder to get more dismissive than a grunt. I wait. The printer keeps chugging. Has she gone?

  “Did you have a chance to look at the damage projections for the blast?”

  God she’s bloody tenacious when she wants to be. And admittedly that is a charming feature, which I have to say makes me feel a certain amount of fond longing, but seriously now. I have no bloody idea if Coleman did or not. I grunt again.

  “It’s a lot of collateral damage.”

  I massage my skull. And now, of all times, she wants to have a conversation?

  I consider grunting again, but if I do then it’s going to sound like Coleman’s taking a dump in the trashcan. I need to shut this down fast.

  “It’s happening, Felicity,” I say as gruffly as I can. “Sooner you just accept it the better.”

  Fight it, I want to tell her. Fight for what you believe in. Fight Coleman tooth and bloody nail. Just do it later.

  “I accept it, George. I just wanted to make sure you acknowledged it.” She’s telling him this is on his head. Not hers. Politics. Always with the politics. Which is totally what you want the players to be primarily concerned with in an end-of-the-world situation. Yet another of Coleman’s little gifts to MI37.

  God, I just need her to go. Which, if I’m going to stay in character, means being as big an asshole to her as possible. Which is, of course, so much fun when what I really want to do is fling open this door, fling off my mustache, and start on the apologies.

  She thinks it’s Coleman, I tell myself. She’s going to blame him.

  “Eyes on the prize, Felicity,” I burble in my pseudo-Coleman voice.

  Another pause. Success?

  “You know, George—”

  Oh crap. Her tone really doesn’t make it sound like success.

  “—I have had it up to here with your insinuations about Arthur.”

  Oh double crap.

  Well, on the one hand I did manage to be an even bigger arsehole than I was intending to be. On the other, this promises to be about as entertaining as a colonoscopy.

  “I am committed to the success of this mission. My team is committed to its success. We are keeping an eye on his movements. We’re pretty sure he’s left the Ukraine—”

  Jesus, when did MI37 get so bloody efficient?

  “—and is likely to be here. The psych profile predicts that it’s likely he’ll tr
y to interfere with the EMP. We are prepared for his appearance. We will take him down.”

  OK, so my ex-girlfriend basically just announced she’s willing to shoot me. In fact she’s going so far as to insist upon her willingness to do it. As break-ups go, this is probably not going to make my top three.

  I grunt again. The noise comes as much from me trying to deal with the body blow of information as it does from any attempt to maintain my charade of deception. Silence from the doorway. Behind me the printer continues to chug.

  “You know what,” Felicity says. “Fix the damn e-mail yourself.” There’s unexpected emotion in her voice.

  God, if I could just open the door, could just tell her…

  I hear footsteps walking away, heels clacking down the corridor.

  Crap. Balls, and shit, and just, crap

  I sit in Coleman’s chair and wait for the final sheet to spill from his printer.

  Fifteen minutes later, outside

  I flip open my phone. I stare at Aiko’s number. I stare at it for longer than I intended.

  Felicity is willing to shoot me. I’m not wholly sure if she’s happy about it, but I’m not sure if that’s really important.

  I don’t think shooting me has even crossed Aiko’s mind. At least not seriously.

  God, I don’t know what I’m thinking about. I’m always bemoaning other people letting personal crap get in the way of saving the world and look at me. I just need to make the call, get picked up, get out of here.

  I push buttons, put the phone to my ear.

  “You got the stuff?” There’s no preamble from Aiko.

  “Got it.” We’re all business. Right now that’s a good thing. “Devon get out OK?”

  “I don’t know.”

  And apparently I’ve run out of good things already.

  “How the hell do you not—?” I start.

  “Flat tire,” Aiko snaps back. She sounds tense. “We’re stuck in the middle of Grosvenor Place. Malcolm’s changing it as fast as he can.”

  “So she could still be in there with Coleman?” I’m still too close to MI6 headquarters to shout it, but I come pretty close. The “Oh shit” signal is a double bump of the lights in Coleman’s apartment. It’s a signal that requires people to be there to see it.