Watchers

by S. T. Boston

  Roddick Laney was standing with the usual diverse collection of people who were always waiting on the other side of the barrier in arrivals, no matter what country or airport you found yourself in. People eager to catch that first glimpse of a loved one, or limo drivers who were keen to make the pickup and get on to the next job. Neither Finch or Roddick would be pleased to see each other. Finch felt himself growing angry just at the sight of the lummox, as he remembered how Roddick had commented about being a few minutes late at the pickup in Kuala Lumpur.

  Finch spotted him first from a good twenty meters back, leaning lazily on one of the barrier poles, dressed in an ill-fitting suit which appeared to have been ironed with a cold Mars Bar. Roddick was busy leering at a small group of college girls, who were being showered in hugs and kisses by their doting parents. It crossed Finch's mind that he could just slip right past the useless idiot and out into the night, get a cab and vanish, not even have to worry about Buer or any of the others. He could hole up somewhere safe and just wait for the virus to do its thing. There were plenty of places a guy like him could hide and not be caught. He'd felt the same back in Paris. The desire had been there, to just carry on in into Europe and not look back. Whatever the issue was that had arisen in the seven or so hours he'd been away could sort itself out. He had done enough.

  As Finch pondered the idea, Roddick looked away from the small family reunion and spotted him. He raised a lazy hand in greeting, before turning and heading for the terminal doors, leaving Finch to make ground in order to catch him up. Purposely, Finch stayed a few feet behind so there was no need to engage in conversation before absolutely necessary. True, Roddick might know some of the details about what had happened, but he doubted it.

  Like Finch, Roddick was second generation Earth-Breed; they had been bred especially for the operation. The first of the Elders who had arrived some eighty years ago had set about the program, developing them so they could operate unnoticed by the Watchers. The likes of Buer had remained solely in the background. The first generation had helped set up the investment firm which cemented their place in modern society, allowing them to accrue wealth and assets. Finch's generation had been bred to infiltrate governments and businesses, to discover the identity of the four Watchers and see through the final steps of the plan. The likes of Roddick envied the ones like Finch, the Earth-Breeds who held the important roles. The ones who had been developed with abnormally high IQs. From birth, Roddick had been destined to be no more than a general dogsbody, never possessing the brain power to go to the best colleges and hold the powerful jobs. Positions in businesses and governments were beyond his reach. Finch was in no doubt that now he possessed The Gift, Roddick would envy and dislike him even more. He was sure that even the other Earth-Breeds who were on Finch's level would feel the same way. He didn't care, it wasn't his fault that he'd proved to be the best at what he did, nor was it his fault that he'd been handpicked to help head up the hunt for the Watchers and ultimately deal the striking blow in their demise. In truth, he'd always seen himself as superior to them, and now, even they couldn't deny it. Sure, by the time all this was over there would be other Earth-Breeds given The Gift, Buer had told him so, but he was the first, and as far as Finch was concerned, that spoke for itself.

  Slowly, over the last nine years, they had selected their targets. Remy had been the first one who had drawn their attention, even before he took the role as President. Back when he was just a Senator, he had shot to power, storming the elections at the end of the second Obama Administration. Thanks to an adoring public, his election was a landslide victory. His beliefs and ideas on unity and peacekeeping had been a giveaway. As soon as Finch was in close enough for day-to-day contact, it had been easy to gain a small sample of hair from the Presidential pillow. Any normal DNA scan would have shown nothing different at all from any other man or woman on the planet, but they knew exactly what to look for. Traces of his true roots were there if one knew how to find them, and find them, they did. Next came Francis Tillard, a man of the cloth who had spent many years carrying out aid and missionary work, feeding the starving in the less fortunate countries of the world. He became Archbishop in the year after President Remy had gained power. Tillard was also hotly tipped to be a future Pope. On the surface, President Remy had been a devout Catholic, often in close contact with Tillard during his many leisure visits to France. It was their unusually close friendship which had given them away. It sickened Finch to see Tillard promoting a belief system he knew to be false. It reminded Finch of the old days he'd been taught about as a boy, when his masters were all one people and worshipped as gods. The whole thing had been a mockery from the beginning. During one of the presidential trips to France, Finch had secured a DNA sample from the Archbishop, and as they suspected, it confirmed Tillard's true identity and target number two was acquired. The next to be uncovered was Jaques Guillard, an EU Politician from Brussels. As with the previous two, it was his actions and policies that eventually gave him up. Guillard was a keen financier and had been vital in holding the Euro Zone together following the collapse of the Greek and Portuguese banks. By eventually securing the financial wealth of the United Kingdom into the Euro, he'd managed to put together rescue packages that had saved the single currency. His idealistic views that one day the world could be united under one monetary system were as celebrated as they were ridiculed. To Buer and the others, it was blatant Arkkadian politics.

  The last piece of the puzzle was Euri Peterson. Zeon Developments, his green energy company, had first drawn their attention when they announced the development of cheap and stable hydrogen-fuelled engines. These developments had progressed fast, too fast, and in the last eighteen months the first of the Boeing X54 Oxy-Hydrogen Jets had been rolled out on test, and more quickly followed. The engine was a good few years beyond current technology. Peterson had been the easiest to get to, not protected and shut away like the other three. His true identity was soon uncovered, just as the rest had been. Finch had learned that throughout the ages, the four Watchers varied their involvement with Earth affairs – there were times when they had acted as mere observers, no different than any other person you would pass in the street. Then, like now, there were periods when they became more involved, helping to give humanity a gentle nudge in the right direction. No one knew how many generations of them had come and gone over the long years since the Great War. During times where they acted as mere observers and guardians, it was possible for them to live here for many years. The ones who held the public roles, like the four he'd dealt with, couldn't serve as long. Questions would surely be asked when a famous face never grew old or died. For the past fifteen months or so, his people had known who the targets were, and it had just been a matter of time before each pawn was in place. The G8 Summit had come and gone, with only two of the four in the same city at the same time. It was essential that his people took them in one go. With each of them holding high-profile positions, any one of their deaths would have made the news and alerted the others that something was amiss. Also, the kind of security afforded to Guillard and the Archbishop had not been so easy to get around on home soil. Whilst patience was key, Buer had been becoming increasingly anxious to take care of them all. President Remy would have been an easy target at any point with Finch working so closely to him, but the other three would have been a little trickier. Plans were put in action for a global strike on them all, but it would take much more time to get the players into position. In the end, it was their ideals and visions that had been their downfall. In the few months following the discovery of Peterson, President Remy, along with other Heads of State had arranged a World Summit; this was an event not limited to just governments. From heads of religion to heads of business and politics, they were all invited. Finally, each of them would be within a few miles of each other, like fish in a net. Any plans to take them out singly had been immediately scrapped.

  Finch followed behind Roddick as he pushed open the swinging glass door
, not bothering to hold it in place. Finch caught it just before it swung shut. Roddick made his way to a bright red Chevrolet Impala which was double parked in the taxi rank, a penalty ticket now securely fixed to the screen. Roddick tore it off, leaving a sticky residue in its wake and tossed it onto the passenger seat. Finch was in no mood to sit up front and ride shotgun. There were a few questions he needed to ask Roddick during the drive to wherever Buer was holed up, but sitting up front would just put pressure on him to hold more conversation than was needed. Opting for the rear seat, he jumped in and fastened his belt. Roddick's lack of personal hygiene had apparently not been limited to Malaysia. Despite the cool damp night, the slight, musty smell of his body odour greeted Finch's nose. Silently, Roddick gunned the engine and launched the Chevy out into the light traffic.

  “Where are we headed to?” Finch asked, leaning forward slightly in his seat.

  “Downtown,” Roddick grunted, eyeing him in the rearview mirror, “Buer and a few of the others are at the Hotel Monaco. It's about a twenty-five-minute drive.”

  Finch rolled his eyes, Great he thought. Twenty-five minutes of enduring Roddick and his blatant perspiration problems. The only blessing was at this late hour traffic would be fairly light. Roddick was never one to dawdle and tonight was no exception. He seemed to be driving even faster than normal. “You're not hanging around are you?” Finch observed as Roddick carried out a rather risky overtake on a large truck.

  “Instructions from Buer were to get you to the hotel as fast as possible,” he replied flatly.

  “I'm guessing you probably don't, but if you have any idea what the hell this is all about, I'd like a heads-up.” Even if Roddick knew, Finch didn't expect him to spill the beans. Roddick eyed the rearview mirror again, taking his eyes off the road for longer than Finch felt comfortable with at these speeds.

  “Sure I know,” he replied cockily. “But Buer wants to run through it with you himself. All I can tell you is that there's a world of shit going down right now and you're in the centre of it.” He smiled sarcastically in the mirror.

  Had his safety not been in Roddick's hands, Finch could have quite easily reached around and ripped his stupid, chubby face off. “Yeah, well thanks for the info.”

  “You're more than welcome,” Roddick sneered, obviously pleased he had one up on him.

  In a little over fifteen minutes, Roddick was guiding the Chevy through downtown Denver. A few high rise buildings lit up the stormy night sky, but it was nothing compared to New York, this city seemed to have a slightly more relaxed feel to it. Life here obviously wasn't quite so fast-paced and in-your-face. Finch couldn't deny Roddick's sense of direction; it was his one blessing. The guy could look at a map or drive a route just once and know exactly where to go. He was also pretty handy behind the wheel. It was those attributes which had guaranteed him the job as a driver. Whilst it was lowly and menial work in the eyes of many of the Earth-Breeds, Roddick was the best at what he did. He hadn't been dealt the best hand in life, but he'd certainly played it the best he could.

  Almost bang on the twenty-five-minute mark as he'd predicted, Roddick delivered the Chevy to the front of the Hotel Monaco. It was an older, restored building. From the outside, it gave the impression of being a little retro with an art deco feel to it. It appeared expensive, but then again, Buer had never been one to skimp on personal luxuries.

  “They're in the Mediterranean Suite, sixth floor,” Roddick said, pointing to the top of the hotel. “I need to go park, but you can get out here.”

  Finch didn't bother with any thanks. Why should he? Not only did he dislike the guy immensely, but he'd also just been party in delivering him to Buer. He never liked his meetings with Buer, and this was one particular meeting he was dreading. He unclipped his belt and stepped out onto Champa Street, pausing for a few seconds to gaze up at the top floor.

  “Don't even think of doing a runner,” mocked Roddick from the driver's window, as if he'd read his mind.

  “Fuck you!” spat Finch, much to Roddick's delight. Laughing, he gunned the Chevy and with more wheel spin than was needed, launched it up the road. Finch watched him get to the lights and turn right. Allowing himself a deep breath, he walked into the lobby.

  The hotel was plush and grand, but not overly done. There were certain aspects to the decor that reminded Finch of parts of the White House. He didn't bother to speak to the receptionist who was regarding him eagerly, waiting to help; instead he went directly to the elevator. There was certainly no expense spared in this place. Even the elevator-car had an attendant in it. Finch couldn't even begin to imagine what a mind-numbing job that must be, spending your whole working day in a box going up and down. 'Not to worry' he thought, 'you don't know it yet, but soon we'll be putting you out of your misery.'

  The elevator attendant delivered Finch to the top floor. He didn't get a tip. Following the brass plated signs, Finch navigated his way to the back of the hotel where the suite was located. The door was auto locked from the outside, and having no key card, he had to knock. It felt like an eternity passed before he heard the sound of footsteps from the other side – though in truth, it was only a few seconds. He just wanted to get inside and find out what all the fuss was about, take whatever shit was coming his way and get on with whatever job they needed him to do.

  Mitchell Banks answered the door. Mitchell was a fellow second generation Earth-Breed. He was a few years older than Finch and of similar height and build, but his brown hair looked uncombed. It seemed Finch wasn't the only one having a bad night. Although Mitchell didn't hold a job like Finch, he was still one of the more intelligent ones. Mitchell was a whizz with computers and Earth-Tech. His very presence at the hotel meant they were using the Mediterranean Suite as a temporary ops centre. Mitchell and his small team would be busy hacking into networks with the help of their government and law enforcement placements, gaining them up-to-the-minute access to any information they needed, no matter how classified.

  Mitchell looked a little shocked, but also seemed relieved to see him standing there. “Robert!” he exclaimed, and Finch noted he looked both tired and stressed. “You had best come in; Buer is waiting to see you.” Finch slipped past him and into the suite, which consisted of a grand-looking bedroom area with a good-sized separate living room. At one end of the lounge was a large, oversized dark hardwood desk. Trestle tables lined one side of the living area, where banks of laptops had set up. Members of Mitchell's tech team were busy sorting a mess of wires out. It didn't look as if they had been there that long and things weren't quite up and running yet. Out of the other faces in the room, Benjamin Hawker was the only other he could place. Hawker, like Banks, was a computer genius. Last Finch had heard he was working on defence programs somewhere in the US government. From his spot in the lounge, Finch saw Buer seated behind the large wooden desk, already looking as if he owned the place. A glossy black telephone was glued to his ear, a grave and angry expression on his face.

  Buer looked up from his call and glared, making Finch feel like a naughty child outside the principal's office. Buer ended the call immediately. “Robert, there you are,” he said, rather more calmly than Finch had expected. “Take a seat.” He gestured to the chair opposite his. “I did wonder after speaking to you in France if you would actually get on that plane.” Buer watched him through stone-cold eyes.

  “The thought never even crossed my mind,” Finch lied. The sheer calmness Buer displayed was making him feel even more uneasy about the situation.

  “Robert, I have a question for you.” Buer leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands together. “That night, back in Malaysia, was there any possible way that one of them made a call, or spoke to someone before you took them? Was there any way at all they might have gotten a sniff as to what was happening?”

  “Not a chance!” replied Finch, a little too hastily, “All three were asleep when we drugged them, they never suspected a single thing. As for Remy, the poison in that water would h
ave killed him in seconds.”

  Buer watched him, his eyes narrowing, Finch could see the anger that had obviously been seething away just below the surface was about to erupt like a volcano. Suddenly, he shot up out of his chair and swiped a glass off the desk, causing it to shatter against the wall, soaking the very luxurious green and cream striped wallpaper in sticky orange juice. In seconds he was around the desk, his hand clamped around Finch's throat. In one fluid movement, he lifted him off the chair by his neck and rammed him into the wall, knocking an ornate oil painting to the floor.