by Gareth Flood
‘Yo!’ yelled Pink through the phone. ‘You seen the news?’
‘Yeah. Hard to believe. What do you make of it all?’ Jonathan asked.
‘Well, it’s obvious the two of them were killed for a reason. The tricky bit is to work out what it was - if anyone can ever get to it. The even trickier bit is finding out who is actually behind it all. Assuming for now it is even the same person or Government.’
‘What does everyone else in the office think?’ Jonathan asked.
‘Oh the sweet political conversations in the corner abound. On the surface everyone is bouncing ideas no better than those in the news: terrorists, Nigerians, eco-whacko’s.
‘Middle American NRA members?’ Jonathan enquired.
‘Not funny.’ Pink said, ‘Beneath the surface, everyone is scuttling around like the bottom feeders they are. Sniffing each others dog butts trying to find out if a shake-up is coming in the organization.’
‘Yeah. I just had a call from Falcus. He was very excited.’
‘Case in point.’ Pink said. ‘I want to smack most of them with a hose filled with sand. Especially Lambdon - I’d beat him like a ginger step-child!’
‘For half of the senior management this is the greatest opportunity since the communist countries opened up.’ Jonathan said, ‘For the other half it’s protectum rectum time.’
‘Huh.’ Pink snorted. ‘All senior pricks are worthless bastards to a man. It’s hard to believe that each of those morons managed to individually beat out a billion other sperm. The whole place would cave if they didn’t have guys like us doing all the work.’
Jonathan laughed.
‘Let’s go out and hit the bars.’ Pink said, moving the conversation away from work. ‘I know this great Tex-Mex place just off Trafalgar Square. We’ll watch some baseball.’
‘You, my friend, are beyond redemption. You live in London for god’s sake – go and see a play or something.’ Jonathan said.
‘I did mention I’m not a pillow biter right? You know like you Brit guys do – bite the pillow - to ease the pain as you take it up the afterburner.’
‘I’m going to go for a run.’
‘Alright.’ Pink said, ‘Whatever eases the pain, chief feathertooth. Your loss, putz.’
‘Call me if you hear anything else.’ Jonathan said, earnestly.
‘You too. Stay safe.’ Pink replied.
‘Cheers.’
Jonathan put the phone down again as he heard the key to the front door being used; it was Harry coming home. Jonathan didn’t feel like dealing with his flatmate at that point and headed for his bedroom to get changed into running gear. Some exercise was just what he needed to blast the cobwebs from his mind.
Ten minutes later, he was hitting the pavement at a fast running pace. He made his way from the flat in Southwark towards the Thames and began following his usual exercise route, which was a large loop down the South Bank, across Westminster Bridge, up Embankment and across Blackfriars Bridge back into South London.
As he ran, he started to think about how his life had come to be in this situation. He had joined a global company for adventure, to travel the world on exciting assignments – he didn’t get any. He joined to make a difference in world events by changing an oil company from the inside – that wasn’t happening. All that happened was that he toiled on spreadsheets in an office to such an extent that he struggled to recall his interests outside of work.
How to change things? he mused as he ran between the tourists outside the Globe Theatre.
How do I get back to travelling the world and doing exciting things that make a positive difference in the world? he thought. First though, I have to get to the end of this assignment, otherwise won’t have the flexibility to change my fate – need a certain amount of money in the bank to have the luxury to switch lives.
This train of thought inexorably dragged his focus back to current events and the project he had to complete for Falcus or otherwise prematurely end his career and paycheck.
As the Festival Hall and the Hayward Gallery hove into view, he recalled something Falcus had said in the office, “Meeting of bigwigs in Moscow to decide new pipelines – the company needs to be in on the deal.”
Jonathan stopped running as a moment of panic overtook him.
What if my company is involved in the murders? he thought, involved in some secret backroom deal to push a new oil pipeline through? What does that mean for me if I’m doing work on that very project for them?
He walked to the railing of the walkway and looked out over the chaotically churning waters, which seemed to reflect his state of mind. He turned away from the angry river and put his head in his hands.
Don’t panic. he thought, there’s no proof of anything!
A random thought popped into his head from something a senior manager had said to him when he had first started out in the company – Focus on the things you can control.
Right, he thought, what does that mean in this situation - get the report done by Wednesday, then start a plan to do something different with your life.
He lifted his head up and started running again, with Westminster in his sights. As he ran he kept repeating to himself, “Report by Wednesday; start plan for new life.”
8
Moscow, London
Beneath the dome of the yellow and white Neo-Classical Senate building in the Kremlin, the President of the Russian Federation was going ballistic.
‘So let me get this straight.’ he yelled at the two people in front of him, ‘You are blaming the Jews and the Arabs!’
The supreme head of Russian Intelligence, Aleksey Kekushev, did a sidelong glance at Andrei Demetchev, his number two.
‘With current intelligence - yes.’ explained Kekushev, ‘These assassins, whoever they were - were too good. They left not a trace anywhere. Not one human hair. It’s like these men were killed by ghosts.’
The President flung himself into his official chair and buried his head in his hands.
‘We have a national crisis. Where the Vice President and a Global CEO are assassinated a short car ride from here - and we don’t know anything. My intelligence service is blaming it on poltergeists!’ The President yelled.
The newly promoted replacement Russian Vice President, Anatoly Kirkov, formerly the Energy Minister, stood to the right and behind the President’s desk. Kirkov had made sure not to stand in front of the desk - lest he be associated with the failure that was being presented to the President.
The security men shifted in their discomfort and the new VP smirked.
Kirkov could’ve said something that would aid them but didn’t - he was enjoying watching them squirm.
‘This is not good enough!’ yelled the President, as he banged the desk in front of him.
‘We have half the force on the case. Led personally by Demetchev here, our best man.’ Kekushev said.
The President leant forward. ‘And no elements of our own services were involved in this? No FSB?’
‘No. Not even from black operations.’ Kekushev replied.
Bullshit, thought the President, nothing of this scale would go down without some elements of them being involved.
‘The press all over the world is going crazy.’ The President said, ‘ We are looking extremely bad at the moment. Whatever comes out of this, we are going to have a hard time keeping a sanitized lid on it. Anatoly-’
The VP’s head whipped around.
‘- I want you to take personal charge of the investigation. You know I have to leave tomorrow for this World Bank thing. I want Kekushev and his men reporting to you, and you give me daily updates.’
Kirkov nodded. As the others turned their attention away from him again he allowed himself a secret smile.
His long due elevation was already working out better than he had hoped.
The vending machine made a horrendous noise before extruding brown ooze into a plastic cup. Jonathan picked up the cup and inspected the contents at th
e bottom.
‘So much for the coffee break.’ he said in disgust, before throwing the cup in the nearby recycling bin.
The coffee was off, but he decided to still spend his allotted break time in the refreshment area. BBC News was on the television mounted against the wall.
It was Monday and nothing concrete about the assassinations had surfaced over the weekend.
‘Godammit.’ A nearby colleague named Parsons swore, after spitting the coffee back into his plastic cup. Jonathan couldn’t help but smile.
‘Assume it tastes as bad as it looks?’ Jonathan asked.
‘Yes,’ Parsons replied, ‘Like it came out of one of our refineries.’
Parsons joined in him watching the television.
‘Anything new?’ Parsons asked, pointing at the screen.
‘Nah,’ Jonathan said, ‘just of shots of reporters standing outside the Kremlin or Westminster saying, “We are waiting for a statement.” Lots of speculation - that’s all it is at this stage.’ Jonathan said, shrugging his shoulders.
‘I bet,’ Parsons said, ‘That in all the offices of the Intelligence and Policing agencies of the major world powers - they are right now drawing up shortlists of suspects.’
Jonathan did not respond
‘What do you think?’ Parsons asked, turning to face Jonathan as he did so.
Jonathan did not know Parsons that well. He would not be drawn into sharing ideas with someone in the organization he had no basis of trust with.
‘I don’t know.’ Jonathan stated. ‘All I do know is - I have deadline to hit.’
Jonathan walked out the refreshment area and back to his desk. As he sat down, the view from the window caught his eye. He found himself staring distractedly outside.
He could see it was a typically bleak, Autumnal London morning. The clock was ticking on his project but his mind was still distracted by the whole affair of the assassinations.
If I exclude the possibility that anyone at this company was involved, he thought as he gazed out at the river, there are still plenty of obvious suspects. But who would be well organized enough, as well as funded, and have the motivation to take them out on the same day? Either they were into something they should not have been and were discovered, or just really pissed off the wrong people.
Maybe they were blocking something a few other groups really wanted? But how the hell were they connected - Maslov and Mitchell? Maybe they were similar motivations on two separate cases, which presented an opportunity when they were both in the same country? You could twist it around for ages.
He felt that minds greater than his would figure it out. He sighed as his eyes tracked a small police boat navigating its way upstream on the muddy river.
Focus on the things you can control.
In the meantime he was still staring down the double-barrelled deadline of the project review for Falcus.
What was bothering him most, was that he had the names of the two dead men in part of his analysis - that would have to be revised.
He was still tossing up whether to leave in the “before” snapshot of the situation, when the two men were alive, or delete the lot and just hypothesize on what the future situation could now be. He pulled his eyes away from the window with a heavy heart and focused on the computer screen.
Around mid-morning London time, a “virtual meeting” occurred amongst most of the world’s top security services. It was to be a teleconference, where a representative from each organization would share what they knew about current events.
The rationale behind the exercise was to discuss issues of mutual interest early. Issues that if otherwise left unchecked, had the possibility to mushroom into a global crisis between Governments.
It was Germany’s turn to chair the call, so it was always going to be a short and efficient affair.
‘CIA…has joined the conference.’ Came the pre-recorded voice of a polite woman over everyone’s headsets.
‘MOSSAD…has joined the conference.’
‘MI6…has joined the conference.’
Everybody had turned up today. All the big players were now there: CIA, MI6, FSB, BND of Germany. DGSE of France, Mossad, MSS of China, Japanese DIO.
‘Right. I believe everyone who can join is now here. Let us begin.’ The German chairperson said.
‘First item on the agenda is the assassinations in Mosc-’
‘AISE…has joined the conference.’ A late entrant to the call interrupted the chairperson.
‘Ah, Italy has joined us. Late!’ The German said.
‘Scuzi.’ An Italian voice came sheepishly down the line.
‘We carry on!’ The German said, ‘Assassinations in Mosc-’
‘CNI…has joined the conference.’ The polite recording announced.
‘Ah, and now the Spanish!’ The German said, clearly annoyed with the late arrival of the Mediterranean contingent.
It was rare for everyone to turn up - even marginal players like Spain and Italy. Clearly the Moscow events were causing a stir.
The agencies had been collaborating together for a while now and apart from odd cultural misunderstandings that naturally occurred over phone lines, everything worked well.
Teleconference had been agreed as the best medium for the meeting. They had initially trialled some new videophone equipment, installed with special software to obscure faces and the true pitch of voices. This technology had been ruthlessly pushed by the Americans, as part of the usual subliminal bid to assert their technological superiority. It had failed dismally. Not for lack of performing its desired function, but because when the first call ended, it was seen on the split screen that the personnel of three agencies had tipped the biscuits on the desk in front of them into briefcases. The guilty agents had looked up to see their actions were still being beamed live - to at least six other countries.
The shame of their nations abruptly ended the march of the videophone technology.
‘Right.’ The German stated, trying to re-assert control over the call.
‘CNI…has left the conference.’ The recorded voice said.
‘Verdammen!’ swore the German.
‘This is Russian FSB – can we start please. Cannot wait for CNI to sort out their phone.’
Some of the old politics often came into play on the call.
The CIA was interested in what everyone was doing. The FSB was only interested in things that involved Russia. The Russian agent was normally heard tapping away on his computer keyboard, while others talked about their area. There was a bit of an in-joke amongst the Europeans, where they would take turns to say the word “Russia” randomly in the middle of a conversation. The keyboard tapping would immediately stop and there would be short silence, as the Russian desperately adjusted his headset to catch up what he missed. The conversation would then continue on the previous topic and the keyboard tapping would soon start again.
There was no keyboard tapping today.
‘CNI…has joined the conference.’ The polite woman announced.
‘Do not speak Spain, we are continuing.’ The German said sternly, ‘FSB, please start with any updates to share. Then we go around the table.’
The summary notes of the call basically stated that everybody had a lot of suspects around the assassinations but they were all a little weak. There were no standouts and not much proof of anything. A lot of resources were being piled into the case but at the end of the present day – all the big spy and security agencies had nothing, or if they did – they certainly weren’t sharing.
9
London
Falcus Loader scanned the British Airways first class lounge for attractive females. He noted a couple, but they were not really his type - too European looking. He took a seat near one of them. The plan was that he would hit on her if his appointment didn’t turn up.
As he sat down, the woman raised a suspicious eyebrow when the cowboy boots went up onto the table. Imaginary smoke rings being blown from an unlit cigar
did not help his case either.
British chicks, thought Falcus, so stuck up.
The mobile phone in his jacket went off and he whipped it out.
‘Falcus!’ he barked into it. ‘Ah, yeah. I see you boy. Over here!’ Falcus said as he waved at a fresh-faced man in his twenties, dressed in a black suit and talking on a phone.
Falcus had been looking forward to this. The Organisation had assigned him a new graduate for him to mentor.
‘Sit down son.’ Falcus said warmly, pointing to the seat next to him with his cigar. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Eric Jones, Sir.’ The young man said as he sat down.
‘Great. Great. We can chat as we wait for the boarding call’. Falcus said.
The opportunity aligned itself to one of Falcus’ great passions – talking about himself.
‘You made the right choice getting into oil, son. Let me ask you this; where else do get to jet around in business class, stay in five star hotels and rub shoulders with the high and mighty in business and Government?’
Eric Jones immediately thought of many industries and Government posts. He wisely decided to hold his tongue.
‘Oil! In Oil!’ Falcus answered his own question, while poking Eric in the arm.
‘Being in Oil gives you respect. Much more than being in some crap industry like air-conditioning, or ceiling insulation - something equally appalling. Everything is expensed.’
Including your ego trip, apparently. thought Eric Jones.
‘I have stalked the Siberian tundra by day and watched strippers in saunas with specially installed poles the same night - all for the company.’ Falcus continued, really getting his flow now.
‘I have crossed sand dunes in the desert and smoked from the Sheik’s Hookah before being offered a nubile Arabian daughter – all for the company. And you want to get down to South America - all the secretaries will shag you to get into your expatriate package.’
Eric shifted his tie and twisted his head uncomfortably. He had completed a course on workplace diversity the day before. As employees of the organization – they should not have been having a conversation of this type.