Watchers

by S. T. Boston

  Neither Sam nor Adam had married; Sam's long periods away from home meant he was never around long enough to meet someone and settle down, and Adam had travelled the world for his work. A relationship wasn't something he had the time for; he knew his line of employment was best suited to someone without any emotional ties.

  “Shit!” Sam grumbled, rubbing his eyes and stretching. “Ten to five! My alarm doesn't go off until half five! You know I hate getting up before the alarm. It's like cheating yourself.”

  “Sorry, bud, bad dream,” Adam said, staring blankly at the kettle as it began to boil.

  “Was it the village again?” asked Sam, reaching for a tee-shirt that had been folded with military precision and left on the pine coffee table.

  “Kind of,” Adam replied. “It was different though, we were— Never mind.” He decided to drop the subject; the dream still had him shaken and in truth, he didn't want to talk about it.

  “I told ya, mate, you need to learn to block that shit out, it will eat you up.” Sam pulled on his shirt, sliding it over the scar on his shoulder.

  “Yeah, well that's easy for you to say, that kind of thing was your life for over ten years!” Adam grumbled, picking up the kettle.“Tea or coffee?”

  “It would still be my life,” Sam began. “Don't get me wrong, all this peace in the area is great – it's just bad for business.” He shook out the sleeping bag and began to roll it back into its pack. “Tea please.”

  Adam dropped a teabag into each of the mugs and filled them with boiling water.

  “Make that a third,” came a voice from the hall. Lucie staggered into the lounge still half asleep, closely followed by Jinx, her well-groomed and slightly overfed tabby cat. She flopped into one of the large leather chairs as Jinx busied himself, weaving in and out of her legs, no doubt sensing the opportunity for an earlier than normal breakfast. “You guys really need to keep it down. I never even knew this time existed,” she groaned, sliding a scrunchie off her wrist and pulling her shoulder length brown hair expertly into a ponytail. “I didn't think your taxi was coming until seven? I know you kids must be excited, you've had this trip planned for ages, but I thought you'd be past waking up at silly o'clock.” She grinned at them as Adam passed her a steaming mug of tea. Taking the hot beverage, she tucked her legs up under herself. Jinx stared up at her disapprovingly, clearly annoyed by the lack of attention.

  “Well, Sam needed to do his makeup and straighten his hair. You know how long he takes to get ready,” joked Adam. The company of his friend and his sister was a welcome distraction from the nightmare.

  He had to admit, the early start meant it was going to be a long day; they had two hours still until the taxi was due to pick them up. The trip to Heathrow should only take an hour this early on a Sunday morning, but it was the flight to Denver Adam wasn't looking forward to. Despite the fact the trip across North America to take in the Rockies had been in the planning for the past two years, Adam felt drained. He'd only been back in the country for twelve days, after being hired by the Financial Times to cover the World Summit in Malaysia, and what an event that had turned out to be. The day after the summit, President John Remy had been found dead in the bathroom of his suite at the Marriott. The press was reporting that he'd suffered a massive coronary. The strangest thing, was the disappearance of the head of his security detail the night he'd died, not to mention the fact that during the same night, three of the delegates had also vanished without a trace. The American government was holding their cards close to the chest in regard to President Remy and the Secret Service Agent, some guy named Finch. The conspiracy theorists were already having a field day. Many people strongly believed the President had been assassinated, but over the last week or so, it became clear that no toxins had been found in his system. As usual, it had done nothing to silence the suspicions. Whatever had happened that night had caused a hell of a stir. Kuala Lumpur International had been on its highest level of security. Notices had been sent to all press travelling home in the days after the summit, warning that check-in times were as much as six hours before flights. Unfortunately for Adam, he'd been booked to fly back to London on the morning the whole mess started. He'd spent twenty hours at the airport, before finally getting airborne. Many of the media workers had opted to stay on and cover the story as it developed, but the Financial Times had no interest in conspiracies and manhunts and consequently, Adam had no reason to stay. He was sure there was a good story to be had out of the whole situation, but he'd missed out. Besides, with the passing of almost two weeks, there had been no further developments and no one seemed to know anything. From Adam's perspective, the press was just scratching about, reporting the same old stories repeatedly.

  Whatever the truth, it probably wasn't going to be the happiest time to be in the States. The country had been in a state of official mourning for the past twelve days. The memorial for President Remy was due to be held later that day. By the time they landed it would just about be finished, no doubt leaving the entire country in a sombre mood.

  “Well, I'm heading back to bed!” Lucie announced, draining the last of her tea before placing the empty mug on the table. “You guys have fun; don't do anything I wouldn't do.” She giggled. “See you in three weeks.” She got up and crossed the room, stopping to give her brother a farewell peck on the cheek.

  “Hey where's my kiss?” called Sam as she left the room. Lucie slipped her hand around the door frame and flipped him the bird.

  “Yeah, love you too, Luce,” he laughed.

  Adam watched her disappear up the stairs, leaving a rather frustrated-looking Jinx to wonder where his breakfast was coming from.

  Chapter 4

  The mirror reflected back an image that was not his own. Finch stared for a few long moments and allowed the differences to sink in. Gone was his dark, swept back hair, replaced with a much lighter shade of brown, cut short on top and cropped neatly around the neck. Matching his new hair colour was a well-trimmed goatee beard. The transformation didn't stop there; his chin seemed sharper, more defined. The small prominent bridge of his nose had also been altered. The thing he found the hardest to get over was the change in eye colour. The once arresting ice-blue eyes he'd sported for the past thirty-one years were no more. The ones staring back at him were brown; they matched his new features well. Finch was confident he could pass any one of his old Secret Service team in the street and they wouldn't look at him twice. This was the new him, it would take some getting used to, but so far he liked what he saw.

  Tearing his attention away from the mirror, he made his way back into his room and removed the hospital gown he'd been wearing for the past few days, changing into a suit. Not the bland, Secret Service issued one he'd worn for the last nine years, but a smart grey Armani number. Tying his shoes, Finch stole one last glance in the mirror, allowing himself a wry smile. Yes, that will do nicely, he thought. He was a new man; the old Robert Finch was gone, as good as dead. The new Finch was destined for bigger and better things. Slipping out the door, he made his way down the long, sterile corridor and out of the medical wing.

  Following the most memorable night of his life, he'd been smuggled out of the country and back to the United States. It was amazing the things that could be done with a nearly limitless supply of money and the right connections. The rules are the same the planet over, he'd thought, everyone has a price and everything is for sale. Moving him across the globe had proved no issue, thanks to the materialistic, weak-willed nature of humanity.

  For the two days following Remy's death, prior to attending the headquarters medical wing, he'd kept himself appraised of developments in Kuala Lumpur – not from the news, but from sources inside many of the government organisations. Top investigators from each country who had mysteriously lost their high profile delegates, had been sent out to the city. Police and government officials from Sweden, Germany and France, all worked alongside the Malaysian Police, who were notoriously inept and not capable of handlin
g such a protracted enquiry. They'd been joined by the special investigators sent by the Gendarmes Corps, the Vatican's very own police force. Fruitlessly, they'd searched for some clue about what had happened to Archbishop Tillard. If only the church knew who he really was, and what he knew, Finch suspected they wouldn't be so keen to locate him.

  Regardless of the investigators' skills or experience, they'd all been left scratching around in the sand. The US Government was still on the fence in regard to President Remy's death. All toxicology and autopsy reports pointed to the fact that he'd suffered a massive heart attack. His room at the Marriott had literally been pulled apart, from the ground up. Everything was examined, but as Finch already knew, they would turn up nothing of evidentiary value. They were equally confused about Finch's own disappearance. Had he had something to do with Remy's death? Or was he just another unfortunate soul who had vanished into thin air that night? The only trace of Finch to be found had been his personal tracker, left in the toilet of the staff block. Every piece of CCTV had been examined and re-examined, every call had been combed through – the reviewers searching for any key words or clues as to what had occurred. In truth, they didn't know if Finch was linked to the death or not. Regardless, he was still a wanted man. The FBI was certain Finch held some knowledge regarding Remy's demise, and they desperately wanted to speak to him. It was one of the only things they were right about.

  The knowledge that President Remy had failed to see those hiding in plain sight gave Finch a warm glow. They'd been as skillful – if not more so – than the Watchers, at covertly installing their people in some very high level places. Finch's former role was no exception; he'd been right under Remy's nose for nine years. During his time studying Military Science, he'd learned that often the best place to hide from the enemy was in plain sight. It's the place they least expect to find you. Of course, this tactic only worked for those working covertly, spending years as a sleeper before striking a deadly blow, like the faithful dog which one day turns on its owner.

  Once safely back in the States, he'd been taken to the headquarters of the operation. Situated in Allentown, it was less than a two-hour drive to New York, where the official business face of the operation was located. The town's small airport housed their four Gulfstream jets and afforded them the luxury of being able to reach any part of the country by air, without the hassle of having to use one of New York's major hubs. With a quick fuel stop, the fleet of jets could spread their reach worldwide.

  Following Finch's arrival, he'd been taken into the medical suite, where he'd remained for the next eleven days. Not only had they masterfully changed his appearance, but on Buer's authority, The Gift had been bestowed upon him. There was no doubting his ranking within their society had been bumped up a great deal. He'd been the first in close to a millennium who'd been granted the honour, not only that, but the very first of his kind to receive it – but it had been well earned. It would still be many years before the other Elders truly accepted him.

  Stepping out of the building and into the parking lot, he noted the April air was pleasantly warm and smelled of opportunity. He wasn't relishing the thought of the two-hour journey to the city, but Buer needed to see him and he wasn't the kind of person Finch could ask to come to him.

  Pressing the vehicle's remote key fob, his eyes searched the lot, scanning the variety of cars all neatly lined up. A shrill chirp followed by the brief flash of both indicators caught his eye. At least he had a nice car to endure the drive in. The shiny new, top of the range BMW 5 Series was definitely one of the better vehicles. Such luxuries were saved for those in the higher-ranking positions. Luxuries were definitely something Finch could get used to. Rolling out of the parking lot he took a right, cruised out of town and picked up State Highway 2055.

  Finch emerged from the Holland Tunnel in a little under two hours, swinging the car onto Canal Street and heading for New York's financial district. After another twenty minutes of negotiating the city traffic, he drove the BMW down the ramp and into the underground car park of an office building on Liberty Street. Using the elevator's large mirror, he took a few moments to straighten his tie and dust himself off as he was whisked to the top floor. It was done out of nervous energy more than a need to tidy himself – Buer always made him uncomfortable. Head of the whole operation and currently the only Elder here, he'd seen and experienced things Finch had only read about in their history books. Buer had been waiting many lifetimes, for the chance to strike the blow that was about to be dealt.

  The lift deposited Finch on the top floor. Stepping out of the sliding doors, his feet were met by thick, plush red carpet. The sign in front of him proclaimed he'd entered the offices of Integra Investments . The large brass plaque was as lavish as the carpet, around four feet high and seven feet long. There was no doubt someone spent a fair bit of time each day polishing it, as Finch's reflection bounced off the surface, slightly distorted by the large black, highly glossed letters.

  The company had been set up over eighty years ago, and to those who visited and dealt with them in the business world, they were just another highly successful investment firm. Behind the scenes, it was the bank account for their whole operation. Over the years, they had slowly accrued enough wealth and assets to finally put things into action. Buer had been there from the start, although never as the official face of the business, because he couldn't risk being in the public eye. Even a newspaper article showing his name or face would have spelled the end of their operation. Finch was part of a new generation; born specifically to infiltrate key areas advantageous to them. They possessed normal everyday names, they worked in high profile, yet ordinary jobs, and each of them was completely unknown to the Watchers. Like a game of chess, they had slowly positioned their pieces. It was almost time for the final move and… check mate!

  Navigating his way through the top floor corridors, Finch arrived at a large, opaque glass door. Clearing his throat, he knocked twice.

  “Enter!” The voice seemed to boom through him, despite the thick glass.

  Finch unlatched the door. A grand office lay before him, one which appeared to have a similar square footage to a small family home. The glass walls of the office building provided an awe-inspiring view over the southern tip of New York. Liberty Island glistened in the water of the Upper Bay. The sun bounced its rays off the gleaming World Trade Centre One building. A variety of decadent sofas and expensive antiques furnished the office. It felt more like an apartment than a work space; all that was missing was a bed. At the very end of the room sat a slightly elevated platform which sported a large black glass desk. Buer stood behind it with his back to Finch, taking in the view.

  “Mr. Finch,” he began, turning slowly to face him, “please come in and take a seat.” Buer gestured to the chair opposite him. He was dressed in a fine black suit, topped off with a slate grey tie and a pair of well-polished, expensive Italian leather slip-on shoes. Buer stood at an impressive six feet six inches, and was as wide as a barn door; his jaw looked as if it had been cut by a skilled stonemason from a block of granite. Finch doubted even a twister would move Buer if he stood in its way. Even though Finch was just over six feet himself, he felt dwarfed by this man, whose very presence seemed to fill the entire office. His jet black hair had the appearance of being freshly cut and his smooth, tanned complexion highlighted his dark features. To anyone else he would look like a fit, muscular forty-something, who obviously spent hours at the gym pumping weights.

  It seemed to take an age to cross the office floor, Buer's piercing grey eyes following him with every step. Finally reaching the chair, Finch sat down and tried to make himself comfortable.

  Buer took his seat, regarding Finch for a few seconds before he asked, “How did you like the car?”

  “Car?” The random question had caught him off guard.

  “Yes, the BMW I had sent to Allentown, the car you just drove here in,” Buer said coldly. He had a short fuse and this one small moment of stupidit
y on Finch's behalf had lit it.

  “Oh yes, sorry, the BMW,” Finch added hastily. “It was very nice, thank you.”

  Buer stared at him, the way a person might look at a mosquito just before they crushed it. He broke his gaze, swung his chair around and stared out of the window. “During my time here, I've come to realise that there are many fine things, such as your car for example, the buildings of the city, useful things like road networks and ships.” He gestured toward the view beyond the window. “Many of these things will be useful to us in the future. It's much more habitable than when we first tried. Back then, it was all shacks, carts, wilderness and shit. Now you could say it will be just like moving into a furnished apartment.” A grin spread across his face, his moment of anger gone. “You excelled, Robert, you really did. It was argued that the task of dealing with the four Watchers was too big for one man, especially one who was not even an Elder. I'm glad those who doubted you were proved wrong.”

  Finch began to relax a little, also glad of the fact the doubters had been proven wrong. He wondered if Buer had been one of those doubters, but he didn't dare ask. Had they been right, there was no way he would be seated here now. No, he would have been the one who disappeared. “It was an honour, sir,” he replied truthfully.