by Tom Field
“Everything is in order. Are you clear on the timing? It has to be at exactly 09:30am this morning in the location that we agreed.”
“Yes I am and don’t worry, everything will be exactly as you requested or at least within five metres. But just so you know it’s not too late to change location to the other sites I suggested. It will increase the death toll.”
“You measure the results in numbers. You are so short sighted, Asif. There is more to be gained from this than suffering,” the voice replied, irritation reverberating through the phone.
“It’s your money, do what you want,” Fulken replied nonchalantly, “But the last part, in New York, you promised me creative freedom. That still stands I hope?”
“Yes it does. The location is all that matters to me and the timing. After that, you can do what you see fit and aim for as high a number as you desire.”
“And my bonus, the four million dollars?”
“Just do what you’re told and you will get everything we agreed. Now tell me again, just for my peace of mind, exactly what time and where?” the voice asked.
“Time: 9:30am; Location: Front entrance of Westminster Abbey.”
“I will contact you again when you are in New York on the third number I gave you. No mistakes.”
And with that, the line went dead.
Fulken smiled to himself. There were people walking the street right now who were not going to make it home tonight. He thought back to the pretty waitress in Paris and wondered if any more women like her would perish. He then felt a need for sex wash over his body and promised himself that he would find a woman to quench his appetite when he had finished in New York.
FIVE
Ryan Ward had been recruited by MI6 straight from University eight years ago when he had been at Oxford studying Law. The initial interest from them had centred on his unusually high IQ. Ward regularly scored around the 175 mark which made him smarter than Albert Einstein, but not as smart as Leonardo Da Vinci - if you believed that the intelligence quotient accurately identified how smart a man was. Ward himself had never put any emphasis or importance on the IQ figures he achieved. He had always thought that if he had to choose someone to live and move in his world, and to be able to think and act logically and calmly under pressure, the choice between Da Vinci with his alleged IQ of 220 and Muhammad Ali with an IQ of 78 was a no brainer, unless there was a plan to draw someone to death. Then, he would be prepared to reconsider.
MI6 are master manipulators. They convinced Ward that he was earmarked to work as an analyst in their Headquarters on the Albert Embankment in Vauxhall, a south western part of Central London, on the bank of the River Thames. He soon learned that this was never the intention, before realising that he was being trained to kill.
Their headquarters were relatively new, and were based in a building that Ward absolutely despised for its ugliness. As the building was laid out over numerous layers, and there were 60 separate roof areas, and this had always made him think that the architect who had designed the building, Terry Farrell, added a roof every time he struggled for inspiration.
He spent virtually all of his time at headquarters, locked in a dark room way below street level. Hidden beneath the streets of London was where the majority of the sensitive work was carried out. This had a dual purpose: it made the people who worked there feel important, and it limited the security threat to the information which was squirreled away down there. This had suited him initially, because he was able to spend three hours a day in the state-of-the-art gym packed with enough equipment to fill a football pitch.
Their extensive background checks on him prior to his recruitment had shown them that he had all the designated characteristics to become an undercover operative.
There is a misconception about the spy world; that all operatives run around with guns, James Bond style, saving the world. In truth, most of the work is done following the electronic footprints of people by analysts who would not know how to load a magazine into a gun let alone shoot one. Of all those who work within the National Security Services, no more than three in five thousand have actually fired a gun in anger.
When an individual is identified as being one of the three in five thousand, a small persuasion team is formed to make sure that the desired candidates are recruited. This tactic is not used solely by MI6; all Security Services recruit from their most prestigious universities in this manner. It was established by Ward’s recruitment team at MI6 that not only was he very smart, but he was physically fit and a team player. He played Soccer for England Universities, and he had an edge to him. This edge was demonstrated when he had almost been expelled from Oxford for beating three fellow students with such ferocity that, two of them missed their finals due to extensive convalescence.
High spirits had gotten out of hand at the end of term and three members of the rugby team had thought a demonstration of strength against Oxford’s star soccer player was in order. They knocked on Ward’s door at 3am and when he opened the door; they burst in, armed with duct tape and a plan to kidnap him and post a video of him on the universities social media website declaring that rugby players were far superior to their feeble soccer playing counterparts.
It backfired.
He fought back with such ferocity, that two of the victims would not make a formal statement to the police, for fear of reprisal. Ward, to his credit, admitted the assault and told the police that his only thought was to hit out until no one could come back at him. This argument lost some of its validity when it was established that he had stamped no fewer than four times on the heads of each of his victims. At this point, there were serious doubts about his future at Oxford, his future working in law, and the likelihood that he would escape criminal charges and subsequently jail.
The assault on the rugby players was all that MI6 needed to make their move. They had already been watching him closely, and the incident confirmed his suitability to them beyond doubt. They intervened, made all potential police charges vanish and convinced the disciplinary panel at Oxford that no record of the incident should ever be filed. In return, all he had to do was agree to work as an analyst for MI6. It was an offer that he gratefully accepted.
When a person joins MI6 or the CIA, like any job, they start with the basics. He spent his first three months at Vauxhall learning how information was collected and managed. How key words in search engines and text messages were immediately flagged up, and he was amazed to discover just how much of the data that people send is monitored, and the sheer volume that is sifted through on a daily basis. He learnt how easy it was to listen in on people’s telephone calls, access cell phones and read their online messages. He enjoyed this.
His recruitment team noted with satisfaction how inquisitive he was and how his intense appetite for learning grew, and after three months they considered him ready for the next phase of his development.
To test his ability to remain controlled and composed when faced with the most horrendous situations, he was allocated his own case to investigate. It was a case that had been progressed to an extent by MI5, the sister agency of MI6, which is specific to protecting the UK and its citizens at home, but they had hit a brick wall. It involved a paedophile ring in Birmingham that was abusing children as young as three and using the dark web to distribute pornographic material showing the abuse.
He embraced this challenge with such commitment and sense of duty that he was working eighteen hours a day, seven days a week, and by using his new found skills in tracing digital footprints, within three weeks he had identified the two ringleaders of the group and every paedophile who had shared the material.
He presented his findings to his recruitment team and was surprised to be faced with the question of what he thought an appropriate punishment would be. He stated that he felt there was no place on earth for those kinds of people, but the courts would no doubt take the correct action.
Two weeks later, he was informed that the ringleaders of the gang c
ould not be prosecuted, due to a technicality, and breaches of their human rights, in the way the data evidence against them was collected, and now their hotshot lawyer was countersuing the Government for defamation of character.
This was Ward’s introduction to the politically correct madness that had engulfed Society on both sides of the Atlantic. He suffered a crisis of faith and confidence in what the Agency stood for, and decided that he wanted no part of it.
He submitted his resignation and was told that assault charges could still be brought against him for up to seven years for the incident at Oxford, and his resignation was being declined. He was then asked again what he felt an appropriate punishment for the paedophile ringleaders would be. Again, he simply stated that there was no place on earth for people like that and someone would administer the appropriate justice.
Six months later, after he had finished his intense firearm training, the two ringleaders were found dead in an apparent double suicide, and eight members of a paedophile ring had been killed, the police assuming by the father of one of the victims, but they weren’t digging too deeply to find the culprit. After that, according to the records of MI6, Ryan Ward the analyst never existed. Ryan Ward, the assassin, the killing machine, the deniable quantity that no one was responsible for, had been well and truly born.
SIX
The headquarters of UKBC News was a giant building; it reminded Ward of a giant greenhouse. There was no character to it at all, the entire façade composed of thick, fifteen-foot high glass panels.
“I think we are here,” he said to Lawson, pointing to the gaudy twenty-foot high ‘UKBC NEWS’ lettering stuck on top of the building like a cake topper. This raised a smile from Lawson as he pulled to a stop in front of a checkpoint. Ward looked into the tiny booth and took note of the overweight guard standing by an x-ray machine holding a clipboard in his hand. Next to him, a frustrated young woman tapped her foot impatiently as her handbag was scanned through multiple times. Lawson groaned at the sight of this. There was nothing worse than dealing with a rent-a-cop carrying an over-inflated sense of self-importance, gleaned from the fact that his uniform loosely resembled that of a real police officer. Eventually, the guard was satisfied that the handbag did not contain any contraband, and allowed her to enter, and then approached Lawson’s side of the car. He rapped on the window.
“Good morning Sir, your details please.”
Lawson looked at the guard quizzically.
“We have an appointment with Martin Walker. My name is Lawson.”
“And what is your meeting about, Sir?”
“That’s of no concern to you; just raise the barrier so we can park.”
The guard scanned down the paper on his clipboard and then said, “Well, according to my records you are late by twenty five minutes, so unless you give me a good reason I am going to have to advise you to make another appointment.”
Lawson immediately stepped out of the car, much to the guard’s surprise. All sense of superiority vanished as soon as he caught sight of the giant of a man unravelling before his very eyes. By the time Lawson was standing upright, the guards’ mouth was wide open, and he was too stunned to flinch as Lawson leaned in to within six inches of his face.
“Listen, fat stuff,” Lawson spat, “I’m having a bad enough morning without some donut-guzzling moron telling me I can’t get to my meeting. Now raise the barrier before I punch a bullet-sized hole through your stupid head.”
The guard looked up at Lawson with real fear in his eyes and then the most bizarre thing happened.
“Back off and put your hands on the car!” he screamed.
Lawson sighed, Ward burst out laughing and the guard imitated a strange Sugar Ray Leonard shuffle before raising his hands into the sparring position. At this point two other guards appeared from behind a small attendants’ hut. They looked more senior and certainly more sensible.
“Problem Gilbert?” one of them asked
“Nothing I can’t handle, Sir.” Gilbert replied, still holding his hands up.
Lawson frowned and took the more senior looking of the two aside.
“I’m here to see Martin Walker, yes we are late, and no, I won’t disclose what it is about,” he said before putting his hand inside his jacket pocket and pulling out his warrant card.
The senior guy studied at it and apologised, before barking orders at Gilbert.
“I can’t apologise enough for the confusion sir. Gilbert, raise the barrier now. Drive through, park to the left and let Reception know you are here. It’s just through the double doors,” he said, pointing to the large double doors marked ‘Entrance’.
Lawson climbed back into the car and the barrier was raised.
“The guy wasn’t scared of you at all. Maybe you are losing your edge,” Ward teased.
“He was deranged. Anyway, what was that shuffle thing all about?” Lawson asked, “He must be one of those care in the community employees that big companies have to employ.”
With the car parked, they walked through the main entrance doors into the reception area. Lawson signed in to the visitor’s log book, taking care to flirt with the pretty young receptionist as he did so. As usual, Ward ignored it and waited until Martin Walker’s PA eventually arrived to inform them that Walker would be with them momentarily. Three minutes later, Walker appeared, walking down the stairs into the foyer and approaching them with an outstretched hand. Walker was in his late forties and in good shape, despite being a little wiry as a result of too many late nights at the office downing cups of coffee, as opposed to following a strict exercise regime. What little hair he had left was shaved neatly into a number two cut all over.
“Martin Walker,” he announced in a very clear, concise and well-educated voice that didn’t quite match his appearance. He eagerly shook Lawson’s hand first, as Lawson had, by habit, positioned himself so that he would be the first to make contact.
“Mike Lawson,” he replied, shaking his hand firmly, “This is Andy Chennell,” he added, pointing towards Ward.
Lawson always picked different names for Ward, and in all the time that they had worked together, he had never used the same name twice. It hadn’t crossed Ward’s mind to ask him whose names they were, although this time he couldn’t help but wonder who Andy Chennell was. Martin Walker looked at Lawson and handed him a business card. He then looked at Ward and clearly assumed he was too unimportant to need one.
“Come upstairs please gentlemen, the team are all ready for you. Can I interest you in a beverage at all?” Walker asked politely.
They both shook their heads and followed Walker up the stairs into an open plan office. It was occupied by at least seventy people, all either tapping away at their keyboards or walking across the floor frantically with bits of paper in their hands. At least two thirds of the people were women, and Lawson couldn’t help but smile at several of the more attractive ones as he made his way past. It was an impressive working environment.
Walker led them through the bull-pen and into a closed room at the far end. There were four people already in situ one side of a large oak table drinking coffee. There were three men and one very attractive woman, who Ward knew without introduction would be the news reporter.
“Right everyone; this is Mike Lawson and Andy Chennell. They are with MI6 and as discussed earlier, they will be working with you today,” Walker stated with an air of self-importance.
“Introduce yourselves one at a time,” he continued, his hand gesture signalling that it was their opportunity to speak. He then glanced down at his watch and frowned, clearly late for another appointment.
Ward studied the man closely, and concluded very quickly that he didn’t like him. He was jittery, nervous and disinterested in what they had to say. He hadn’t even attempted to hide that fact from either of them.
“Excuse me everyone, as much as I’d love to stay and chat I must dash. I have a busy office to run and I’m down four of my best people,” he said looking at thos
e settled around the table. He then turned to Ward and shrugged his shoulders before adding, “Nigel will answer all you need to know and he knows probably more than me anyway.” And with that, he turned and left the room, giving all the occupants one of the most forced smiles it was possible to produce.
“Hi guys, I’m Nigel Reid. I’m the producer at UKBC,” the guy sitting at the far left of the table said.
Ward thought he seemed rather mouse-like, a thought further cemented by the fact that he couldn’t keep a slight tremor out of his voice as he spoke. He was thin, dressed in a checked blue shirt, had patchy stubble around his face and greasy hair that looked as though it hadn’t been washed for weeks. He was the kind of guy most people have worked with before; the one who runs around all day and never gets on top of his work. Ward and Lawson both nodded a greeting back in tandem.
“Good morning gentlemen,” the attractive young woman said, holding her gaze for much longer on Lawson’s eyes than was necessary, “I’m Abbi Beglin, UKBC News correspondent. I have worked for the company for six years and have travelled extensively throughout the world. I majored in…..”
“That’s probably enough for now Abbi,” Reid cut in before she could finish, “They don’t require your resume.”
“One other thing, I’m single and looking,” she said, brushing her hair to one side and throwing Lawson a stunning smile that he promptly returned. She had long blond hair, perfectly formed features and beautiful blue eyes. She was definitely attractive, her look certainly impressed him, and she clearly only had eyes for Lawson.
“Thanks, Miss Beglin, but we are here to work,” Ward said brusquely, turning to Lawson and firing him a warning look. He then turned to Beglin and stared her down to ensure she had understood that Lawson wasn’t the subject in hand. She lowered her eyes, tucked her hair behind her ear, and fiddled with the papers on her desk. She looked suitably warned.