Shades - The Demise of Blake Beck

by Anders Rauff-Nielsen

  “We're just across the street. Apparently, there was a leak in one of the sewage pipes that run beneath King Street, so we're here to do the repairs tonight to make sure that we disturb the traffic as little as possible.”

  “Ah, OK. I'll let you get on with that then,” Blake said with a smile before letting himself out of the back of the trailer. Once outside, he navigated the maze of traffic cones, roadwork signs and plastic tape that were closing off the area around the trailer, and after making his way around two other vans, he walked across the street to Christie's.

  Vincenzo was on his way to King Street to make the second part of the switch, his speakers filling the streets with rock n' roll. He drove along the south bank of the Thames knowing full well that the timing would be more than tight. He had to reach King Street, locate the fake Flamel manuscript, make the switch, and bring the fake back to vault 3b before 8:45 p.m. at the latest. He looked at his wristwatch. He had just about an hour, and if traffic was reasonable and there were no traffic jams he would spend half that time in the car. “It shouldn't be a problem because there is no way Blake will see this coming,” Vincenzo thought to himself. Then he let his mind drift into the music and left his body to pilot the Cadillac through the early evening traffic of central London. As the song faded out, Vincenzo saw the great London Eye, wreathed in hundreds of lights, looking down upon him from the edge the Thames until it disappeared out of sight behind the Shell Center.

  Inside Christie's, Blake began his tour to check that all was ready and in place for the auction, starting with the foyer setup that included a team of five CAC agents. Two of them were set up as Christie's security guards, and the remaining three were posing as part of a TV crew doing a documentary on Christie's. However, the innards of their cameras, sound desk and other gear were unlike those found in real TV production equipment. As Blake walked through the front entrance and made his way over to the CAC team, he eyed the team’s lead operative, Clarence Jacobs, an overweight, but muscular Englishman of African heritage. He was setting up and testing an infrared heat signature camera and several pieces of high tech abomination detection equipment that had been developed by the CAC over the years.

  “So?” Blake said as he reached the agents.

  “Sir!” Clarence replied, turning his attention to Blake and standing at attention. “We're just setting up the heat scans and are running the final tests, so we're on schedule. Also, the basic detection is already in place and running, so we should pick up any suspect entrants even now, sir!”

  “Good! And just so we are clear about it, there are no excuses for not being on your posts tonight – for either of you. No sneaking away for just a minute for a quick phonetic romance with your girlfriend, and no unscheduled bathroom breaks! If you need to take an unauthorized piss, you do so in a cup with your eyes on your target and not your johnson,” Blake barked, beating the agents to their reply. “Are we clear?”

  “Yes, sir!” all three men said in unison. This time around, Blake was not just the Director of Operations. He was the Hunter brought in to make sure that everything was done with immaculate precision. The CAC agents knew this only happened on the most important assignments and that the authority of the Hunters was literally out of this world. Blake took a quick look around before giving Clarence a nod, and then he turned on his heels and headed up to the auction room where the real auction was being held. On his way up, he ran into Judith who had left the truck in order to assist with some tech difficulties in the auction room. Her phone rang as she passed Blake, but she refrained from answering it. Instead, she looked at the number and sighed, rolling her eyes as she hung up.

  A few minutes earlier, Mr. Thompson had returned to the truck trailer. Upon his arrival, he moved to take the faked manuscript to the auction room, but Judith stopped him. She explained that Mr. Beck had given specific orders that the manuscript should remain in the trailer until he returned. Angry that he had not been included in the decision-making process, Mr. Thompson accused Judith of using her feminine wiles to bend Mr. Beck to her will to disrupt Mr. Thompson’s own well-laid plans. While Judith had been just about ready to – at least, verbally – rip his head off, her focus was broken by her cellphone. The CAC agents in the upstairs auction room had problems with the abomination detection setup and needed her ASAP. Judith gave Mr. Thompson a quick passive-aggressive verbal lashing, which, to her great annoyance, escaped him completely. Then she headed into Christie's to aid the agents, leaving Mr. Thompson behind in the truck accompanied only by his slightly enlarged prostate. He realized that he had been so focused on getting back to the truck and taking the manuscript to the auction room that he had completely forgotten to urinate. The urge to relieve himself grew stronger as the minutes passed, and what was worse, he had spare time in the back of the truck to think about it. “Dammit,” he thought to himself, “just as that damned girl has stepped out . . . Why is she never around when she's needed and able to do something useful for once?” He gave Judith a call on her cellphone, but she didn’t answer. He couldn't hold it much longer. “Damn, Damn, Damn,” he thought to himself as he looked around the trailer hoping to find a suddenly materialized loo to save him from the horrors of incontinence. He would have to step out. “Or use a cup?” he thought in a moment of weakness before deciding that he – Mr. Thompson – could not pee in a cup. It was simply beneath him. That was the sort of thing young people did. But he couldn't risk leaving the truck and walking into Christie's to use the loo because someone would undoubtedly notice him. Then an idea popped into his mind as he realized that he had noticed a pub just a few yards down the road. He thought they must have a toilet and he quickly decided to go for it. He was certain that he would make it back before Judith could return to have her ill misconceptions of him validated by seeing him sneaking out. It was something he would never do – except this was an emergency, although she would obviously never understand.

  Vincenzo drove past the massive roadwork roped off outside Christie's and parked his Cadillac in a vacant parking space just outside the Golden Lion pub. He sat in the car for a minute to get the lay of the land, scoping out possible locations for the CAC agents who might be set up outside, as well as inside Christie's. His theory was validated by an elderly gentleman in a lab coat stepping out of a large Volvo truck that was supposed to belong to the roadwork crew fixing a sewer leak beneath King Street. The man seemed to be in a hurry and looked worried that someone might see him. Half running and looking over his shoulders, he passed Vincenzo. Vincenzo knew that this could very well be his moment and – briefcase in hand – he got out of the Cadillac and hurried down the street to the truck. He tried his best to listen for anyone inside the truck before he slowly opened the trailer’s back door and peered inside. Finding the truck abandoned, he jumped in and closed the door behind him. Without delay, he searched for the faked manuscript, disturbing the order of the truck as little as possible. He soon found the manuscript, which was carelessly left on Mr. Thompson’s desk, barely covered by miscellaneous paperwork in an attempt to keep the manuscript out of plain sight. Vincenzo took the fake manuscript and put it in his briefcase. Then he placed the real Flamel manuscript on Mr. Thompson's desk, already savoring the fact that this would be on the head of Blake Beck. He quickly let himself out of the truck and walked back to the Cadillac. As he opened the car door and got in, the elderly gentleman exited the Golden Lion looking relieved but slightly guilty. As Mr. Thompson noticed the attractive young woman getting into the Cadillac, he sent her an awkward smile and a courteous “hello” before hurrying back to the truck. Once inside the trailer, Mr. Thompson checked on the single most valuable item in the truck – the manuscript fake. He realized it was still there and breathed a sigh of relief.

  Vincenzo had already turned off King Street by then. While Blake examined the auction rooms and made sure that the decoys, guards, flyers and greeters were in place, Vincenzo drove back to Christie's Fine Art Storage Services, making good time. About the
same time as Blake returned to the CAC truck to take the manuscript up to the decoy auction, Vincenzo walked into vault 3b and placed the fake Flamel manuscript on the stand, returning the old sheet music binding to his briefcase. Now he just had to wait for the transport to take the fake manuscript to the real auction before he could drive back to Christie's to buy the real manuscript from the fake auction set up by Blake Beck. And that was just what he did.

  VIII

  For the second time that evening, Vincenzo parked his Cadillac on King Street, but this time he strode into Christie's boldly. “It’s perfect,” he thought. For once he didn't have to hide from the CAC. He wanted them to know that he was there. And sure enough, as soon as he walked through the front door he saw minute telltale signs that several people in the crowded hall were with the CAC. As he approached the stairs that led to the auction room, a young blond woman wearing a long, black dress approached him.

  “Excuse me, miss. Can I offer you a catalog of the lots of rare books and manuscripts on auction tonight?” she asked and handed a Christie's catalog to Vincenzo.

  “Yes, please. Thank you,” he said with a soft voice, sending the woman a smile.

  “You're just in time. They're just about to call the auction,” she said.

  “Perfect. I was running a little late because I had some business to attend to,” Vincenzo replied. A bell rang and cut their conversation short before an omnipresent and distinctly British voice requested that the attendees of the auction please move to the auction room.

  “Good luck! I hope you win your lot,” the woman said as the crowd began to move.

  “Thanks. I'm sure I will,” he said and proceeded upstairs to the auction room with the rest of the crowd.

  Blake was downstairs in the foyer observing the cluster of low-ranking CAC agents posing as newly arrived auction guests and waiting for the vampire buyer to arrive. Suddenly, he got the call in his in-ear headphones that the vampire had just arrived. The voice of Clarence Jacobs explained that it was the young, sleek woman with the dark A-line bob who had just walked through the front entrance. Blake quickly made her out among the crowd and signaled to one of his agents that she should present the vampire with the Christie's catalog for the night’s fake auction. The catalog had been fitted with a microscopic wireless microphone just in case they needed a tap on the vampire. As the vampire took the catalog, Blake gave the go ahead to call the fake auction. It was twelve minutes until the real auction would start, which Blake figured was perfect. This would allow the real auction to fill with those auction attendees who were running late, as well as a second team of CAC agents on standby. Yet, there was no question about who would be the buyer of tonight’s star lot number three: the Flamel manuscript. No one would be able to outbid Dæth or Mr. Ferre. As the auction was called, Blake left Clarence Jacobs in charge of setting up the second group of CAC agents to attend the real auction. Then Blake followed the vampire buyer to the fake auction himself. Vincenzo walked up the stairs amid the crowd, following the Christie's usher to the auction room. As he sat down on a chair in the back, he noticed Blake casually walk into the room and sit down on a seat two rows behind him. This was turning out to be one of the best nights of his life, Vincenzo thought as he unfolded the first stage of his revenge against Blake Beck. For minutes they sat there in the relative silence of an auction room filled with strangers who saw little reason to chit chat with the possible competition.

  The auctioneer took the stand ten minutes late and the crowd was growing restless, although the grace and conservative form of British high society prevailed, making for little ruckus. To make sure that all went as planned and that the CAC buyer won the real auction, Blake’s earpiece transmitted all that was going on at the real auction simultaneously. Almost in unison, the two auctioneers opened the auctions.

  “Welcome to this evening’s auction of rare books and manuscripts here at Christie's. This is a highly anticipated auction as tonight’s lots include a hither-to unknown manuscript written by the famous medieval alchemist Nicolas Flamel. Lot number three.” Blake heard the words in a strange stereo, the sounds of the real auction in his right ear lagging slightly behind the sounds of his surroundings. But the words were the same.

  “I will open the bidding on lot number one: a mid-thirteenth century Bible that was produced in Tuscany. This four hundred-page, illustrated vellum manuscript contains a prologue with Latin interpretations of Hebrew names, and the bidding will start at 12,000 pounds” said the auctioneer from the real auction through Blake’s earpiece at the same time as the first lot of the fake auction was presented in front of Blake.

  “I will open the bidding on lot number one: a commonplace fifteenth century book including rules and grants concerning ecclesiastical benefices under Antipope John XXIII. The manuscript consists of twenty-three leaves in a single binding, and the bidding will start at 9,000 pounds.” A man raised his paddle. Then another joined in and soon bidding was well underway. The auctioneers in both auctions called off “12,500 pounds” and “13,000 pounds,” and “16,500 pounds is the lady's bid over here” until the bidding subsided and the lots were sold. Lot number two was sold in a similar procedure before the evening’s star lot was opened.

  “Now I will open the bidding on tonight’s star lot, lot number three: the Flamel manuscript. This 68-page, leather-bound vellum manuscript dates back to the early 15th century, and it was written by Nikolas Flamel in the last years of his life. The manuscript has been in a closed private collection and the seller wishes to remain anonymous. I will start the bidding at 1.5 million pounds,” the auctioneer announced. Bidding began immediately and quickly reached 2 million pounds before the vampire and the CAC buyer joined in at the fake and real auction, respectively. As bidding subsided, Vincenzo joined in. In a calm and collected voice, he immediately raised the bid from 2.1 million to 2.5 million pounds, sending an awed hush through the crowd. At the same time, Blake could hear the CAC bidder in the real auction joining in, albeit more carefully, upping the bids by the standard 50,000 pound increments. An elderly, overweight British gentleman with a distinct comb-over tried to challenge Vincenzo for the manuscript, but as the price turned the 3 million pound corner, even he gave up. It was clear that the young woman in the back was more than intent on getting the manuscript.

  “Sold to the young lady in the back for 3.175 million pounds!” the auctioneer said as he banged his gavel. Around the same time, Blake heard that his CAC buyer had acquired what he thought was the real manuscript for 2.7 million pounds. The deal was done, the price could be paid and the manuscript would be collected. With the outcome of the auctions, the CAC had even made 475,000 pounds selling the fake manuscript to the vampire.

  “That felt good,” Blake thought to himself as he walked across the street to the trailer to inanimate. He was back, the job was well done and he could leave the CAC agents to clear out under the expert supervision of Mr. Thompson. As Blake climbed into the trailer, he found Judith alone preparing the capsule for his inanimation.

  “Mr. Beck,” Judith greeted him.

  “Judith,” he nodded.

  “Your gown is still in the changing room and you can just leave your clothes in there. I'll take care of them.”

  “Thanks, Judith,” Blake replied before stepping into the changing room as Judith finished the preparations. A few minutes later, Blake emerged wearing the same white hospital gown that he had reanimated in. “I'll just get in then?”

  “Yes, Mr. Beck. Just get in and get comfortable. That should make your next reanimation much more pleasant. Then I will reposition the chamber and you can inanimate at your own leisure.” Blake stepped into the capsule and tried to relax. “Mr. Beck, sir. May I ask you something personal?”

  “Sure, but I won't promise that I'll answer.”

  “Well, it’s just . . . Is it true that you were in the position that you arrived in because you died on the loo?”

  “Yes,” Blake said with a grin. Then he decided tha
t a short explanation might be prudent, but decided not to go into too many details. “It's true. It seemed like the best solution at the time. It was either that or the bathtub.”

  “I'm sorry, sir, but I don't quite get how the toilet is a better choice than the tub?”

  “That, Judith, I’ll let you figure out on your own. You seem like a bright woman. I'm sure it'll come to you.”

  “Alright, Mr. Beck. Now have a nice trip.”

  “Thanks. And take care,” Blake said before he closed his eyes and prepared to inanimate. Judith shut the capsule and started lowering it to a horizontal position. As she did, Blake shifted his position until he was comfortable. Then he let go. He let go of Judith, the truck, London and the rest of the world. He let his soul dissolve and let himself be pulled back into Shades.

  CHAPTER 4

  - MAKE IT RAIN -

  I

  At dawn, Blake woke up in his new home in the Entrance and ritualistically enjoyed his breakfast. Then he took a long walk along the waterfront. It seemed to him, thinking about it as he walked, that he was finally getting to grips with the concept of being dead. At first glance, it wasn't all that different. However, looking at the other souls in Shades, he could see Virgil's point. In the end it was all an act and nothing really mattered to them anymore. In due time they would all crack should they not be so fortunate as to have lived a life that would merit their departure into one of the afterlives. Blake dismissed this string of thoughts as his mind wandered off into the realm of right and wrong, and he decided that the question of right and wrong was probably not for him to argue.

  When Blake returned home, he sat down in his upstairs lounge with a glass of whisky and took a well-earned look and listen through the collection of vinyl LPs provided for him by Virgil. Sending him a friendly thought, Blake sat there listening to the music, until – much to Blake's surprise – the doorbell rang. He got up and headed downstairs, wondering to himself, “Who the hell might this be?” As Blake reached the door, he looked through the peephole out of sheer habit, and he saw Marie standing on the landing in a long white dress that perfectly complemented her long black hair and the blue autumn sky. He froze like a stray deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming truck. Marie rang the doorbell again, freeing Blake from his stupor and the stream of “what, who, why, when, and how?” running through his head. With the choir of repeating questions echoing in his mind, Blake opened the door, still trying to figure out the right words with which to greet the love of his life whom he hadn't seen in years. It seemed Marie was in a similar predicament, albeit she at least had had a chance to prepare herself for the meeting.