by James Flynn
“Name?” The familiar distorted voice asked through tiny speakers projecting into the room.
“You know my name,” he replied sharply.
“Name?”
Sighing with resignation, he replied, “David Mulberry, Head of Field Operations, MI6.” He had to state this on every meeting, it made him feel naked.
“Good evening Mr Mulberry, you are speaking with Medea, thank you for joining us.”
“My pleasure.” Mulberry hoped the sarcasm was detectable, he knew full well by now who the voice belonged to.
“How are the preparations coming along?”
Mulberry stared at his reflection.
“All proceeding nicely.”
“How much research did you do in recruiting the team Mr Mulberry?”
The question took him by surprise.
“A lot. All the players were checked and double-checked, we went into great depth. You have the files I gave you. If you don’t mind, have I been…”
“We’ve read the files Mr Mulberry,” the voice interrupted, “there are certain aspects that concern us regarding the CO of the team – a Mr Temple.”
“Mr Temple came highly recommended from many sources,” Mulberry lied.
“Like you said, Mr Mulberry, we have the file.”
This made Mulberry flinch slightly.
“Seems very odd, Mr Mulberry, because we cannot find anything about his operating history at all; only that he now works for the financial firm Nissell and Randall in the City as a…Risk Analyst.”
Mulberry twitched.
“All we find when we delve into Mr Temple’s history are dead ends.”
“Believe me, I have done my research. I’m sure you are not a naive man, some information even I can’t access. There is nothing to worry about with Temple, my sources are reliable.”
Mulberry was sweating, Temple had been a gamble, and he was praying that it had been a calculated one.
“I do not like unknown entities, and I definitely do not like problems. Problems lead to failure and failure leads to blame…which ends in punishment.”
With that Mulberry could hear the speakers go dead, the strip lights went out and he was once again left in pitch black with the damp ceiling, although this time the darkness felt like a soft blanket.
The door crashed open and the light from the hallway flooded in to make a corridor of amber leading to Mulberry’s chair. In the doorway lurked the silhouette of the bald South African.
“Let’s go, Mr Mulberry,” the rough voice commanded.
Mulberry stood up and felt as though even the soft light was judging his every move. He was now weaving a very intricate web of lies to those who were not people to lie to; Sir Peter, Medea, Temple. If everything went to plan then none of them would be any the wiser, and he would start a new life.
9.
The screen flashed on in a dim blue colour, illuminating Luke’s face. He could feel the tension building in the pit of his stomach as he sat waiting to hear the dreaded beeping noise, alerting him to a message.
It never came.
Luke pressed the soft rubber button on the pager to switch it off, and placed it back onto the belt loop on his jeans. The electronic car clock showed him that it was now 8.05 p.m. Satisfied that there were no problems with tonight, he felt it was time to head back to his dingy hostel and await the team’s visit at 9 p.m.
He shifted a pile of rubbish that covered the gear stick, and prepared to gun the engine. Having spent the best part of six days living in the Chevrolet Kalos, Luke was more than glad that tomorrow would be the last time he saw the machine.
He wound up the tiny crack that he’d left open in his window so that the vehicle didn’t steam up, always the biggest giveaway to an occupied car. He took one last look around and slowly pulled out from the kerb and onto West 59th Street, passing Razor in the Ford Focus. Luke had encountered both Razor and Lennon several times over the past week but there had been no acknowledgement between the three of them, they were silently going about their work.
Luke approached Columbus Circle, and was jammed into the traffic trying to shunt its way around the roundabout. He stared out of the window at all the tourists attempting to figure out which subway entrance they needed. Manoeuvring his way around to the third exit, he diverted off onto Central Park West and couldn’t help but glance out of his driver’s side window and spot Roosevelt Hospital looming between various buildings in the distance like an omen. He knew if something went wrong the following night he could well be taking up a valuable bed. From the right side of the long straight road, a huge black void drew Luke’s attention; he was amazed how nightmarish the Park seemed in the dark.
Luke had spent most of his adult life in isolated situations. He was only thirty-two years old but the life he had led was more than most people could imagine leading in two lifetimes. How have I ended up here? It was a question that he had been asking himself constantly over the past six months. He knew that what he was really asking was how he had ended up with the life he now lived?
At the age of twenty-one he had graduated from university with a degree in Geo-Politics and Mathematics. It certainly wasn’t an outstanding pass grade, he had enjoyed the lifestyle a little too much for that but it was a pass nonetheless. Like most students, he had not really thought ahead on a career, but leading up to his graduation the army had sent a recruitment team along to entice young hopefuls and they had sparked his interest. They offered money, a home and also a structured career path. Back then he wasn’t a fighting man but with his qualifications, and not much thought, he signed up to be a military strategic risk assessor.
Headlights shone through the windscreen as the Chevrolet edged down Central Park West, rolling light over Luke’s face intermittently. Buildings lifeless during the day now seemed imposing and menacing.
It was a bitter irony that he was in the city that had set his life on the path he now trod. In his first year in his new job the world changed forever, the image of the World Trade Centre being struck by passenger jets was seared into the world’s consciousness. It changed the game; the entire global approach to intelligence and military campaigns was altered. Before 9/11, he was in a comfortable office housed within GCHQ, the nerve centre of collated intelligence in the UK. Due to his reputation as a swift and decisive assessor, plus an almost preternatural ability to calculate operation outcomes and their risks, within two years of 9/11 he had been fast-tracked through the system and was sent as an ‘on site’ assessor in Afghanistan and Iraq where he had to give live assessment and strategic guidance. It had been a baptism of fire.
The Museum of Natural History jolted Luke from his thoughts as it loomed up on his left, it was an architectural beauty. Luke gazed blankly at it as he drove past; it was yet another place that Sarah would have wanted to visit.
He had met Sarah while at university; she was a friend of a friend. The first time he had seen her she had been incredibly shy, hiding behind her long wavy blonde hair. She only spoke to him a couple of times but he couldn’t get her out of his head for a week. She was funny, intelligent and always dressed scruffy in jeans and a beanie hat. Luckily for him she had agreed to go out for drinks, and they had never looked back.
Luke grimaced in the car at the rush of pain.
He turned the car left onto West 105th Street and purposefully drove two hundred metres past the hostel entrance, picked a spot on the left curb, and turned the engine off. He did this every time he returned to the hostel; he sat in darkness to see if he had picked up a tail.
It was silent outside; no tail. Luke took a deep breath and forced himself to suppress the pain. Focus Luke, there is work to be done. He knew that it was the pain that had led to his transformation. The silence around the hostel was total: the New York street was completely dead.
The foyer of the hostel was buzzing with life; there were tourists from all over the world talking in their own languages, preparing for the night ahead in the big city. Luke shot p
ast the wooden curve that constituted the reception desk and headed down the single corridor leading to the stairs that took him up to his room. He had specifically paid a measly five dollars more a night to have a room to himself rather than share with the hordes from around the globe. At the top of the concrete steps a low hum of talking and giggling emanated from a room on his right. As he got to his door he froze: the piece of tape across the bottom of the door had been torn. The door had been opened.
10.
Prussias was unceremoniously dumped onto the wooden chair and the familiar hood was pulled off. The light flickered to life, he was once again sat in front of the mirror and now his appearance was frightening. He calculated that he must have been kept captive for almost a week. His beard was thick and flecked with grey and his face looked haunted.
There was a new addition to the room; in front of him stood a television screen that was in turn sitting on top of a metal stand with wheels attached to the bottom. An array of wires led out of the back and disappeared out of the room. The bull stayed in the room this time, standing behind him. Eventually he relented and spoke with Prussias, telling Prussias that he could call him Aegeus.
Suddenly the screen let out a high-pitched noise as the tubes screamed to life. Blue digital text flashed up: Incoming Live Feed. The picture that then appeared seemed to be a CCTV image of a hotel room. It was a small room, nothing but a well-used single bed and a side table furnished the room, and the camera shot was at an angle looking downward. Prussias knew that by law hotels were not allowed to place cameras in guests’ rooms; this camera had been put there by someone else. He began to feel uneasy, like he was spying on something he shouldn’t. The person that emerged into shot made Prussias Latvik’s blood run cold.
Viktor Struanz was pacing around the small, grotty room. Every two seconds he was checking his watch and looking impatiently at the door. A long time passed and Viktor sat on the bed. Behind Viktor, the hotel door opened, only a crack at first, but Prussias saw it. It was then inched open and a man dressed in a jet black suit entered silently. The door was closed and Viktor jumped to his feet. There was no sound feed so Prussias couldn’t hear what was being said between the men, but it didn’t take a body language expert to see they didn’t know each other. Viktor had backed instinctively into a corner. What happened next was brutal and unexpected. The suited man put on a pair of gloves very calmly, and then lunged at Viktor with an object Prussias couldn’t make out. He jammed it into Viktor’s neck. Viktor staggered, holding the wound, and in an instant he collapsed onto the floor.
“Viktor, Viktor!” Prussias screamed at the screen in vain.
The suited man moved swiftly; here was a man in control. He dragged Viktor to the middle of the small floor space and began rolling up his sleeves. Next he pulled an object out of his interior coat pocket. At first Prussias couldn’t make the object out, but then, as the suited man raised it to the ceiling and flicked it twice, Prussias gasped at the sharp needle. The man plunged it into Viktor’s right arm and then placed the syringe into Viktor’s other hand. Without pausing the man stood, took one last look around the room and exited through the door. Prussias went to stand, but Aegeus was on him and forced him back down into his seat.
“No, you can help him still... Why Viktor? No!” Prussias felt breathless, as though he was watching a terrifying moment in a horror film.
The last image Prussias saw of Viktor Struanz was his twitching body.
“That was just a taster. Your daughter is next, Mr Latvik.” The alien voice clicked off.
Prussias screamed at his reflection.
11.
Instantly, Luke’s mind focused in on the situation; he slowly clasped his hands around his keys to kill any noise. If there was someone waiting for him, he wasn’t about to broadcast his presence. He pressed his body against the wall.
The giggling from the room down the corridor had intensified into raucous laughter; a thousand thoughts went through his head. Was someone waiting inside? What was left in the room that could jeopardise the team? Two hours to Stanton Airport. Just walk away. If someone was still present, he needed to know who they were and what they were looking for. Drawing in a lungful of air, he held his breath and gently placed his ear against the thin wooden door. He didn’t want his breath blocking the slightest sound. Just as he was about to remove his ear he heard it … a small shuffling sound.
He gently placed himself back against the wall, inwardly cursing that he had decided not to carry a weapon. His mind instinctively began running through scenarios, options and outcomes.
He made a fist around his keys, allowing the metal section to protrude through his clenched fingers. Judging by the flimsy nature of the door and the black DIY hinges that loosely held it in place, kicking his way through would not be a challenge. The element of surprise had to be his biggest weapon; to get to the person before they could make their move.
He silently placed himself three steps back from the door; he wanted to be moving as he crashed through.
The lock was ripped from the frame, throwing splinters into the air. Luke instantly honed in on the intruder; the person was stood facing the far wall inspecting the white plastic chair. Luke estimated around ten steps before he could get to him. He had to drive his legs across the room. The shock of the intrusion had worn off and the man now began to turn. Luke caught sight of a silver object in his left hand; it had to be a gun. There was no more time, Luke leapt off the floor and brought his improvised claw up to plunge it into the man’s neck, but before he could hit the spot the man managed to jerk his head to the side and the key scratched down his cheek, causing him to yelp. Luke’s momentum knocked both men to the floor, but like lightning Luke was soon up and grabbing the man who lay face down next to him. He levered the man over and instinctively kept his focus on the hand with the gun.
“No, no, wait!” The man was pushing out the words at speed.
Luke turned him and jammed his forearm across his neck. For the first time he saw his face…it was Bobby. His moustache was still finely trimmed and blood seeped down his face from the key wound.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” Luke dragged Bobby literally off his feet and pushed him onto the bed, keeping his weight on him; the fist containing the key was primed for another blow.
“What the fuck are you doing here?”
“Ok, ok, cool it man, I came for the meet … the … the briefing,” Bobby was tripping over his words and panic filled his eyes.
“That’s not for another half hour. What the fuck are you doing here early?” Luke was being purposefully aggressive to let Bobby know he was not playing. Trust no one.
“I … I was doing a sweep of the room … for our protection.” Bobby’s eyes glanced at his pinned arm.
As Luke’s gaze followed the American’s he realised that the silver object was not a gun, it looked like a small silver cigarette case with a green LED on top. A bug scanner.
“How did you get in?”
With his free arm, Bobby moved towards his brown jacket pocket, very slowly and deliberately to show Luke that there were no tricks. He produced a small black, flat object that had a piece of putty at one end. Upon closer inspection Luke could see that the putty was shaped almost like a jigsaw piece. Luke recognised it as a digital skeleton key. This guy is definitely ex-intelligence. A skeleton key was a fascinating device that moulded to any lock shape. The material retained ‘physical memory’ by passing an electrical current through the putty, hardening the material when necessary.
“I … I knocked and when you weren’t in, I used it to see everything was ok … I was just a bit early, that’s all dude … Thought I’d check to see if anyone had tapped the room … Just in case, that’s all man. We all need to cover our asses.” Blood was still seeping down Bobby’s cheek.
“Seeing as you’re so safety conscious, let’s make sure you’re nice and clean.” Luke grabbed the electronic detector from Bobby’s grip and, with force, beg
an sweeping the machine over Bobby’s clothes and inside his jacket, waiting to see if the LED lit up.
“Shit man, I’m clean, I’m clean. I was just covering our asses, in case someone had picked up our scent, y’know?” Bobby was now slightly relaxing in his tone.
Luke took a moment to stare into Bobby’s eyes searching for tell-tale signs of lying. “If you deviate from the plan again, I’ll kill you, get it?”
“Yeah, yeah … cool man.” Bobby visibly relaxed though sweat beads clung to his forehead.
Luke was not entirely sure that the little American had been completely honest. This was a high-pay contract which meant the players had to be experienced, and Bobby would know that you don’t just do things on a whim. American intelligence was no fan of improvisation. There was nothing he could do; the lift was happening in twenty-four hours. He would just have to get on with things, even if his gut was telling him otherwise. Lifting himself off Bobby he walked over to his little bedside table, picked up a pack of tissues and threw them at the American.
“Wipe the blood off your cheek, it’s just a scratch. The room already stinks of your stupidity; we don’t want the added mistake of leaving your DNA everywhere.” Picking up the chair, Luke planted himself on the cold plastic, watching Bobby clean himself up. A knock at the door clicked his mind back onto the task at hand.
12.
“Hello, is that Seona Latvik?”
“Yes, who’s this?” Seona used her shoulder to keep her phone by her ear.
“I’m sorry to call you on your trip Miss Latvik, but I’m afraid...I’m afraid there has been some bad news.”
Seona didn’t like the tone; it had grave depth to it.
“My name is Larissa Hitching and I work for your father’s company in London. Actually, technically I work for Mr Viktor Struanz.”