by James Flynn
“I assume they will ransom her for a very large price?”
“That seems likely, Sir. I am still running sources on their exact intentions.” Mulberry wished Sir Peter would turn towards him so he could at least try and read his reactions.
“And you are happy with the team?”
“Extremely, Sir, it is strong. As requested, Sir, I have put them together off the books. We will snatch the target before the terrorist group can, and then extract her to safe soil.”
Sir Peter finally turned his head to face Mulberry. “I am sure you don’t need reminding, my boy, of the need for utmost secrecy. Our American cousins won’t like the idea of a government-sponsored team operating on their patch.”
Mulberry saw no sign of distrust in Sir Peter’s aged face. “The team is aware that it is covert, if things go wrong they are on their own. They are there for two weeks maximum, tracking any possible suspects then making the lift.”
“Well, let us hope they don’t fail, even if certain things have changed in regards to funding. I owe Prussias Latvik our protection and Seona is…well she is incredibly dear to me.” Sir Peter turned back to the fireplace. “Could you imagine being able to own anything you laid your eyes on, David?”
Mulberry felt as though the question was a test. “I suppose that is what drives many people, Sir, the new precedent that has been laid down by the so-called ‘super-billionaires’.”
“Yes, all rather worrying. Icarus would be crying in his grave. It is a shame that it seems as though we will have to wait until our wings are burnt until we learn the lesson.” Mulberry could see Sir Peter drifting into thought. “How that wealth could be used, my boy ...”
The things I could do with that wealth, thought Mulberry.
Sir Peter stood and strolled slowly over to the bay window behind Mulberry’s head, he parted the curtain and the bright white spotlights lit his face.
“Thank you for your time, keep me updated with the progress.”
“No problem, Sir, I will have you updated as soon as I get word.” Mulberry was more than relieved to be leaving the room.
“David.” Sir Peter’s voice stopped Mulberry in his tracks.
“Do you feel that money corrupts people? Or is money a product of the corrupt?”
What is he getting at? Mulberry could feel the sweat gathering on his lower back, he didn’t like all the questions about money. Does he know something? He can’t do. Keep calm.
“I have never really thought about it, Sir … I suppose that money is a powerful entity in the generation we live in, I guess I feel that it has the power to corrupt.”
“Take care getting back to the city.”
Christopher walked Mulberry back out to the car and waved him off. Mulberry told the driver to take him back to the SIS building, before opening his phone and punching in a number.
“Everything is on track.”
6.
Prussias Latvik was dropped onto the flimsy wooden chair; he grunted at the pain. Fear had given way to anger and frustration; the only contact he had had was with the bald bull of a man who had just dragged him into the new room, dumped him in the chair and ripped off his hood. There had been no demands made, no action taken and the only hint of violence was the aggressive manner in which the bull had forced food and water down his throat. He had no idea where he was and had given up asking questions. He got no responses. The room was lit from the hallway, and then, as the bull left the room, he slammed the door shut, casting Prussias into darkness. The only noise was a drip emanating from somewhere in the room. He felt completely alone.
Does anyone know what’s happened? They will want money.
Being a successful businessman carried added risks in the modern world and he had always been told that he was a target. The voice of his closest friend rang in his ears: Always be vigilant, safety is not a luxury you are afforded in your position. He had always assumed they were the words of a paranoid military veteran but now he wished he had heeded the warnings. At least he could draw comfort from knowing his old friend would soon join the hunt to find him.
A dusty strip bulb blazed on, filling the room with light. Prussias was sitting in front of a mirror that ran the whole width of the wall. He stared at his reflection, grimacing at how different he already looked. His shirt was ripped and his dyed black hair was pointing in all directions. He had always been paunchy but already his stomach seemed to have shrivelled and his eyes were swollen from lack of sleep. Previously hidden speakers hissed to life and a strange distorted voice made him jump.
“Mr Latvik, my name is Medea. I need to be clear with you from the start; there are a series of events that have been put into motion regarding people close to you.”
Prussias strained against his bonds; the mention of people close to him was terrifying. “Why are you doing this? Is it money you want? I can get you money!”
“Mr Latvik, please do not take us for common criminals. We are not. At this point we will not be giving you any information, except to say that there is no way of escape, no one knows where you are and you will be punished for your crimes.”
Prussias had no clue what the strange voice was talking about. “Crimes? What crimes? Please, I can get money; just let me call my people ...”
“Mr Latvik,” the voice had intensified, “the gifts of a bad man bring no good with them. We do not want your money, there are things that matter more than money, all will be revealed.” With that the speakers went dead.
Prussias screamed at the mirror, “No, wait, what do you mean?! What have I done?” He got nothing but silence. The light flicked off and he was again shrouded in darkness.
7
“Excuse me Sir, are you sure I can’t help you at all?” The little shop clerk was starting to lose her fake smile as she asked Luke for the third time.
He had been scouring the bric-a-brac items in her shop for the past twenty minutes as he watched the café across the road, and, given that the shop was only tiny, he could understand her annoyance, especially as he was the only customer at that time of night. He had been playing the innocent tourist, eyeing up each item with caution, debating whether it was worth taking home or not.
“I’m just looking, thank you. There are so many lovely things, hard to choose what to take back with me.”
At least in Greenwich Village on MacDougal Street, just off the south west corner of Washington Square Park there were various nationalities to blend in with, all examining the home of Sex and the City. Luke had quickly popped to an internet café near his hostel the previous evening to search for Caffé Reggio, get a bit of info on its location. He could have used the computers the hostel provided but knew if something went wrong then the first computers anyone would search were those. He wanted to at least make their work as lengthy and complicated as possible.
It turned out that Caffé Reggio was established back in the 1920s and claimed to be Greenwich’s number one coffee hotspot. It also featured as a backdrop to movies such as The Godfather and Serpico. The website also claimed that it had been frequented by many poets, the most famous of which were Kerouac and Corso. Under different circumstances, Luke would have enjoyed drinking in the same place as his favourite beat poet. With all the tourists around this area, and the self-implied popularity of the place, three Englishmen and an American could interact quite freely. A crowd offered more anonymity than a dark alleyway or hotel room.
Checking his watch, Luke saw that it was now 9.10 p.m. He had seen the American arrive around 8.55 p.m., and then the two Englishmen arrived together two minutes later. He had felt a pang of irritation when they had shown up together – they should never be seen together, it caused complications; the whole team must be utter strangers aside from the work. The three men were all visibly older than Luke, but he had known that would be the case. He was in charge and they would just have to accept the dynamic.
Finally Luke was satisfied that none of the three had been tailed and ten minutes was long eno
ugh to keep them waiting. He grabbed a miniature wood carving of an elephant, threw down fifteen dollars and told the prickly assistant to keep the change. He strolled out into the warm evening air, crossed the road and headed under the small green awning entrance into the café.
Inside, he was actually quite impressed with the place. The tables had marble tops and the backs of the chairs were made out of ornately carved black iron. The paintings that adorned the walls made Luke feel as if he had walked into an art gallery. He could see why the place had been used in films like The Godfather. He felt as though he had stepped into a small piece of Italy. Sarah would have been in her element, she had always adored art, in all its forms, often dragging him to London to explore the Tate.
He clocked the two Englishmen first. They were now sitting separately: Razor at a table nearest the counter, Lennon with another gentleman on a table just behind. Luke was comfortable that the man sat with Lennon was no connection, just a tourist who was exploring the village alone. He decided to go for a famed cup of their finest cappuccino. Cradling the cup, he took a table by the window; it housed four chairs and offered a good view out onto the street. As he took his first sip he saw the American sitting two tables in front, reading a copy of the New York Times. After a few mouthfuls of cappuccino, the three men slowly, one by one, made their way over to Luke.
After the initial false greetings and pats on the back, the men settled into their seats and focused on the subject at hand.
“Here’s the target.” Luke wasted no time, he delved into his rucksack and produced pieces of photocopied paper, passing them out to the team. He continued: “As you can see, she’s top-end. She’s got a room at the Plaza over on Central Park.”
“Nice place,” chirped the American.
In the flesh Luke was unsure about the soldiering pedigree of the Yank. He wore a silver-edged pair of glasses, had a slight frame and didn’t carry the air of someone who had seen physical combat. The small bushy moustache suggested intelligence service.
“She’s definitely a looker,” commented Razor in his cockney accent. He was a direct contrast to the American; he had short black spiky hair that was thinning, was easily six feet tall, his hands alone could have crushed the American’s head, and under his grey t-shirt Luke could see that he was no stranger to the gym.
“I’m sure I don’t have to mention the risks this job carries, guys. New York is not known for turning a blind eye to illegal kidnappings. Our friend Bobby here will testify to that.” Luke and the others flicked their eyes to the little American.
Smiling, Bobby agreed, “We’re not the greatest fans of terrorist activities, well, certainly not on our own soil anyway.”
Luke continued his briefing, “Ok, here’s how I see it; she won’t be travelling without security, my bet is close-quarter bodyguards.”
“If it’s close-quarter then the numbers will be minimal, highly visible as a deterrent.” Lennon spoke with a lot of measure, a real assurance in his tone. His pale grey eyes held an intense focus; his greying hair was the only signal of his years.
Flicking the photocopied sheets over to the back page, Luke stared at the men in turn. “Once lifted, the target is to be dropped at this private airfield just outside Hamilton in Ontario.” He let the detail sink in.
“Once there, our job is done.”
“Easy money,” joked Razor.
The group mustered a smile, and Luke laid his cards on the table.
“She’s probably a typical rich daddy’s girl, no brains and likes to party, and that suggests to me erratic time patterns and locations. She is only scheduled to be here for two weeks. Chances are she won’t be visiting many places more than once. We know the one constant that she has.”
“Her plush little haven, man,” Bobby said to himself.
“Yep, the hotel will be the place to make the hit; I reckon that the best option is to lift her outside.”
“A lot of external forces that are uncontrollable though.” Lennon was turning his mind to everything he heard.
“True,” Luke retorted, “but logistically to lift her from inside only creates more problems. Perhaps if time was our friend then we could do that, but with the situation as it is, I feel that a smash and grab would serve us best.”
“And assuming we grab her smoothly, the plan for the run to the border, my man? Are we just going to put the pedal down like Thelma and Louise?” Bobby chuckled at his own joke.
“I checked it out; it’s about eight hours to the airfield from here. We will need to change cars either before we leave the city or just after. That’s in your court Bobby, but we will then gun it to the border. However, there will only be two people accompanying her to the airfield, me and you, Bobby. The other two will peel off and exit the city, head home by whatever means they see fit. That way we lower the risk of being nailed.”
“And the border?” asked Lennon.
“We will find a way through, I have some ideas.” Luke didn’t want to give too much away.
“Risky business,” said Razor with a light tone.
“The rougher we keep it, the greater the chances of success. Our greatest ally in this will be surprise – we’ll hit them running.”
Lennon nodded slowly. “Probably best to keep two people on foot and the other two in a car for the next week, we can keep in contact on scrambled radios, cover every inch.”
Luke had considered this idea but knew what was involved in surveillance on a target and he knew the dangers of overcrowding the scene. He had seen people come to a bloody end in urban environments through overcrowding.
“No, I understand where you’re coming from, but this is a pretty unique situation, the city dictates that.”
Luke reached into his bag and produced four standard pagers. “This is our only means of contact until next Wednesday evening, that’s when we have a final brief of information and refine the plan for the lift. The pagers have been synced up; the number in the file connects all of them.” Luke said the next sentence in a much more purposeful tone, “We do not use this number unless it is imperative to the mission, or if something goes wrong. We turn these on every four hours as of midnight, if there is a message saying abort then we walk. No questions, just walk. I trust you have plans for that eventuality?”
The members nodded in unison. Luke didn’t want to know any details.
“And me?” chirped Bobby
“We need four cars, two for tomorrow morning, the other for the extraction, and the fourth to be left either in the city or outside to transfer the target for the run to the airport. Also you’re in charge of the route out of the city and up to Hamilton, keep it discreet, off highways as much as possible. I trust your knowledge of the roads is better than ours?”
A cocky smile was on Bobby’s face. “No worries, my man. You leave a message on the pager as to where you want the first two cars leaving for later; I’ll get it when we turn them on at midnight. I’ll sort the route out no problem. I’ll have it down when we meet next Wednesday. What’s your score with the hardware?”
“We will need pistols, close-range automatics and mid-range automatics.”
“You starting a war?” Bobby scoffed.
“Let’s hope not.” Luke quipped. He directed his attention at the two Englishmen. “Oh and I don’t give a fuck if you’re lovers, brothers or what, but the moment we leave this café we do not know each other, got it?”
Razor and Lennon looked surprised but nodded their agreement.
“Any questions?”
This was met with stares from the group.
“Good, get those pagers on every four hours from twelve. Let’s sync up, it’s 9.45 p.m.”
The group all synced up their watches.
“I’ll give details early next week about the meet for next Wednesday night. Right guys, it’s been a pleasure, now fuck off.”
Razor stood and smiled. “Happy hunting, gentlemen.”
Lennon was next, he turned to Bobby. “Make sure t
he weapons are clean and working. Enjoy.” He exited sharply.
“Man, you Brits are so uptight; we’ll ‘nail’ it, as you guys put it. See you around, chief.”
With that, Luke was left alone in the mock-Italian villa. He was not used to being on a team operation, he was trying to readjust. The team seemed legitimate enough, but this was still going to be a tough job. Lennon was right; there were many risks inherent in the environment. All he could do was what he’d been doing for the majority of his life: minimise them.
8.
Wednesday 20th July
The only noise sounding in the pitch black room was a constant drip originating from somewhere in the ceiling. He could not see a single thing, his eyes had adjusted to the darkness as much as he assumed they would, yet still nothing was visible. He had grown extremely tired of meetings taking place in such a manner, as far as he was concerned this was a ridiculous way to conduct an operation, even one of such a sensitive nature. This was the third such meeting now, the team had been in place for just over a week. Every time was the same, a meet in the Deptford car park where he would be ritually blindfolded, then have his ears plugged, at which point they would sit him in a car and drive him for what felt like an eternity to this location.
A strip bulb burst on to fill the space with a harsh white light, causing him to cover his eyes until the pupils had dilated.
The room contained only himself, the chair he was sitting on and the drip. As normal he was facing a mirror that stretched the whole width of the wall in front of him. He tried to avoid staring at himself, not wanting to see how pathetic he was made to look wearing his grey suit and freshly shined brown shoes, stuffed into this dank space. Mulberry knew he wasn’t an attractive man, his bulbous stomach hung over his belt and no matter how he styled his hair it always fell into a wavy side parting that skirted the top of his ears.