by Gary Tulley
CHAPTER 6...A call from the wilderness.
Removing a wild animal from its habitual comfort zone, and then suddenly relocating it into a controlled environment, could mean you possibly winding up with somebody resembling the likes of Mike Eastern! His designer world, ranging from dusk until dawn, now seemed far removed from what could now be regarded as being the norm. The last eight weeks lapse that he had managed to stumble through following his interment, had long taken its toll, and reduced him to the dormant role of the man-in-waiting, who, at best, could be found to be intoxicated with utter frustration. But now, 'cometh the hour cometh the man', and all he had to do to justify his time spent in exile to order, would involve making one lousy phone call.
No pressure there then? His mobile almost slipped out of the sweat-lined grasp of his hand, as he tentatively thumbed the required digits as a means to a connection. The adrenaline rush he now found himself experiencing was par for the course at any time, when sanctioning that certain 'buzz'. This time around, though, this call would be different, due to the onus leaning heavily on a major breakthrough at one end, and the realization of a reunion with Brezznov, no less. Eastern heaved an unrehearsed sigh of relief as the dialing jingle kicked in. "At worst" he told himself, "The contact number he's supplied me with is at least kosher." So now we arrive at the waiting game, and patience as far as Eastern was concerned, now began feeling it owed it's allegiance to a pack of cards.
"C'mon...C'mon, just pick the bleedin' phone up why don't you? He asserted. His short lived diligence appeared to have paid off, but was quickly defused by the distinctive tones of a woman requesting information.
"Hello, you have reached the main office of Europa International Holdings. I'm sorry there is no-one available to deal with your enquiry. If you would like to leave your name and number we will endeavour to get back to you as soon as possible." Eastern could now be found struggling to accept the consequences of what could be a miss-dial on his part, or a sick joke instigated by Brezznov. The latter, at this point, seemed to tick all the boxes. The mere thought that four months of intense graft had evolved into a pre-meditated 'scam', now dogged Eastern's mind.
Eastern immediately set about back tracking the number and checked the digits that Brezznov had supplied. "There is no way I could have entered them incorrectly, there rubber stamped on my poxy mind for Chrissake!" His bottom lip then took the brunt of his frustration as his top teeth systematically clamped down on the soft flesh and, in the process, drawing blood, which he spat out when venting his anger. "The bastards set me up and hung me out to dry, unless of...." A glimmer of hope emerging from behind a wry smile now suddenly ambushed his thinking by registering a further option, and forced him into a reverse psychology mode of reasoning.
"Put yourself in his shoes and attempt to infiltrate his mind as to his thinking. Alternatively, the alter ego change in persona he now finds himself having to adapt to," he urged himself. "Of course! I should have known better. The number he has given me is more likely to be a security cover. Yeah, the game would be to stick with the voice mail request." Once, having repeated the call and divulging his details, he found himself floundering in no-man's-land, while anticipating a call that might never happen. Or so thought. Some forty eight hours later, while relaxing in his apartment, he found himself distracted by the familiar overtones emerging from his mobile.
A rapid glance at the numbers on show were clearly unfamiliar and as such implied that he needed to revert back to his covert non de plume. One false slip of the tongue would mean game over . With that in mind, he stamped his authority by kicking off. "Alex Ruark speaking." It was basic but nevertheless believable.
"Alex...it's been a while...Victor Brezznov. I recognized your voice. I'm pleased that you got back in touch. The truth of the matter is that we need to talk in depth and fairly soon. Incidentally, about the number that I left you with. It's a routine I use to give myself an edge. I like to know who I'm dealing with, but I guess you worked that one out for yourself. Congratulation by the way, the word on the street tells me that you're out the fucking system at last. Now that's what I call influence and I admire your style. I've got plans...big plans! And it's no secret I want you along for the ride, so in the meantime keep your nose clean Alex. One other thing, the number that's registering will become void when we finish this conversation. I will get back to you soon." And then he was gone, leaving Eastern to pick the bones from out of a situation, that would rank priceless to obtain. Even from the best 'snout' in the business. Suppressing his good fortune, also reminded Eastern of the pitfalls his future role could evoke. As from now he would be running the gauntlet, set in a world synonymous with fear and murder as a companion, compounded by the conclusion that his precarious cover could be blown at any one time. With Brezznov now firmly set in the driving seat, Eastern was given the impetus to reflect on his domestic affairs. To his mind, for security reasons alone, his apartment in Brunswick Square, should remain incommunicado as opposed to a working base.
Time being of the essence, he lost no time in contacting Rogon at Spooks HQ, requesting that he should come in to discuss the latest surge of information. And more importantly, to organize the necessary use of a 'safe house'. Firmly seated in his chair, Rogon expressed a short plastic speech of gratitude. "Mike, I congratulate you. It seems that together we have achieved more in the last hour compared to the last three or four months! I don't have to remind you how well this is going to look once my progress report hits Whitehall." As self appointed opinions come and go, Rogon appeared to be in a class of his own, leaving a fuming Eastern to remind Rogon that one plus one only equates to two in mathematical terms only.
"I'm not so sure about the bleeden' 'we' business. I suggest that you might want to add a third party rider to in your bloody report Rogon. That while you and your Government tossers were out on the golf course or 'lording it up' in the West End. I just happened to be fucking 'banged up'! simply, for their convenience in order to make that report possible. Am I getting through to you?" As usual, Rogon was unbowed by his prompted outburst and attempted to gloss over what he classed as, "An official error." He then concluded by stating. "That won't be necessary, Mike, the top brass are well aware that the lower ranks are the real bread-winners."
"Bloody amen to that!" retorted Eastern. "Now, about this 'safe house'? As I'm still paying rent on my existing office, I suggest that we could use the premises as a base of convenience, operational as from tomorrow." Heaving a sigh of relief, Rogon nodded his approval before replying.
"For once we are solidly in agreement, Mike and I'll push to get your electrics updated, new hot line...numbers etc, so I'll need a key." He paused briefly to digress.
"I note your firearms licence still remains tenable. Should you feel a situation arising whereby you require that extra touch of security, then Metcalf will look after your needs. You'll find him down below in the armoury. Well, that just about sums it up from where I'm sitting, Mike. So, on that note, good luck and good hunting. Oh, and remember, I'm always here should you require anything." Rogon's fragile attempt to bolster a form of unity via expression, obliterated as Eastern rose to the occasion.
"So what you're saying is, should the situation arise where I find myself staring down the barrel of a gun, waiting to have my bloody brains blown out, I can tell the asshole who's pulling the trigger to wait until I've phoned you first...is that right?"
"Your sarcasm precedes you, Mike. I can only say in my defence that today's worldly criminals are much more avant-garde in their approach to persuasion." Eastern had heard enough and indicated that he was about to leave, but still determined to get the last word in.
"I don't have a problem in knowing that your theory regarding the criminal fraternity is true. In fact, next time I see Brezznov I'll tell him that your his number one fan. He'll' appreciate that." Smiling broadly to himself he left hurriedly, leaving Rogon scratching his head while seeking a suitable meaning to his logic. Some time later a St
ate Limo dropped him off at Brunswick Square and left him to his own devices. Once inside his apartment, he threw himself into the nearest armchair and flopped out in disarray. The next voice he heard was the dulcet tones of Joan as she emerged from the dining room.
"God! You look as if you could use a drink, Mike. If I didn't know you any better I'd have to say that creep Rogon is responsible." They say, and I quote, 'that time is a great healer'. In Eastern's case the time in question terminated beyond three glasses of Scotch later. Being somewhat relaxed and fully at ease with himself, made it possible for him to unwind. It was also an opportune moment to put Joan in the picture following his debrief.
"So you see darling, as from now, the name Alex Ruark, for obvious reasons, is dead and buried. As far as you're concerned the guy never existed. He then went on to divulge (within the bounds of security requirement ), that his future hinged solely on the strength of a pre-arranged phone call collection date unknown.
Whether or not the time exclusion was deliberately intended to become a personal test of nerve, or for undisclosed reasons, Eastern was left in no doubt as to who was pulling the strings. The call, when it eventually came through a week later, was concise in nature. And to all intents and purpose had obviously been taped, thus allowing him no recall. "Alex! Be at the following address no later than 10.30 am Friday next." On investigation, the designated address turned out to be an apartment, set in a block of flats situated in Wilbury Road Hove. Putting the importance of the call to one side, Eastern typically reviewed it from another angle, "Yes Sir!...no Sir! Three fucking bags full Sir. Compared to you Brezznov, Napoleon was a nothing man. What I can say, is that as from now I'm on your bloody case twenty four seven. And I warn you that I only sleep when I'm paid to."
As expected, the next few day's, found him hell to live with. Finally Friday arrived. Selecting a bay at the rear of the flats, Eastern parked up and made his way to the entrance. Once inside he took the lift to the fifth floor. A quick time-check clocked him in at ten twenty six Taking a deep breath he rang the bell and hesitantly waited for a reaction. "It wouldn't be the first time the asshole has set me up" he muttered. Any further allusions he may have held, were then kicked into touch as the door opened to reveal the imposing figure of Brezznov himself, framed in the doorway.
When considering the facts relative to their past relationship, it became apparent that Brezznov still managed to retain an in-built bluntness in his manner. "Glad you could make it Alex. Step this way, there's a couple of 'faces' I'd you to meet."
"The man's colder than a bleeden' block of ice." Eastern told himself. Full of apprehension he tentatively made his way inside. The sight of two dubious looking figures, both of them by design, were strangers he noted, were heavily locked in conversation at the far end of a spacious and plush bespoke lounge. Completely ignoring them out of design, Eastern directed his attention onto Brezznov, and went for broke as a ploy to gain some ground. "I've got to hand it to you, this is what I call a class 'gaff' (building).Bit of a leg up from poxy Foredown you've gotta say. Even that asshole Donavon would have to agree on that score Victor."
"Yeah, fuck em all" responded Brezznov, "that's what I say, It's about happening now that counts. A drink....c'mon...let's have a drink to freedom yeah? and then we can talk some." Having fuelled their glasses from a well-stocked corner bar, it was left to Brezznov to do the running. Beckoning the two strangers over, he proceeded to put introductions into place. "Alex, I want you to meet Tommy Brandon, or 'Wheels' for short. I'm telling you now, this guy is the best driver in the business." A rehearsed but questionable look crossed his face before continuing. "So now you're probably thinking to yourself, what the hell makes you think that? So I then say, right up until the silly bastard took a 'bung' ( backhander), he was attached to the 'Sweeney' (Flying squad). Anyhow, their loss my gain....Alex meet 'Wheels'.
For a split second, Eastern's heart beat dropped like a stone. Coming face to face with a 'bent' cop could result into his worst nightmare. "Shit! If the guy recognises me it's fucking game over, accelerated his brain. Without hesitation, thinking on his feet, he swung into play and decided to call the guy's bluff. "So, what 'Manor' were you working when you were with the 'Bill' (police)?" asserted Eastern. At least Brandon's face wasn't familiar, he noted.
"Manchester...I was based in Manchester for a few years. Then following a stint in Birmingham I was relocated to London....why do you ask?"
No reason...no reason at all, just being bleedin' nosey. Know what I mean?" Smothering a huge sigh of relief, Eastern realized that he had wriggled out of a potential life-threatening situation. The twisted gut syndrome and sweaty palms he'd now inherited, he now regarded as a bonus. Brezznov then fortunately intervened by introducing the second stranger.
"Alex, take a good look. This is the guy who invented Cyber. Trust me when I say he's a fucking legend with a set of Tabs. As hackers go he's the best in the business. Putting it mildly, he's the biggest asset I've got, so I intend getting a kosher return on him. He answers to the name of Aubrey Thorpe Millington. Just out of interest he's a by-product of Eton and as his initials are ATM we call him 'cash' for short, seeing as how he's got this nasty unique tendency to obtain money, without holding a genuine account." Eastern likened his handshake to that of a defrosted sausage and delayed his grip before disengaging.
On a personality rating, he instantly loathed Brandon more than he Millington. The stigma attached to a 'bent' cop could be found etched in granite and remains so, as an epitaph, even after death. "A right couple of 'tossers' (idiots) I've been landed with" grated Eastern to himself. "If I'm fortunate enough to come out of this poxy fiasco alive, the only reunion I'll be going to will be one held in a downtown morgue. And it won't be mine!"
On the plus side, the extreme pleasure of informing Rogon that his theory regarding a possible Cyber crime, could be considered a reality and, as such, not one to be dismissed. "The prospect of witnessing Rogon actually smiling, would be a commodity that even money couldn't buy", became his overriding priority. His inner thoughts were then dismissed, allowing Brezznov to interrupt his private space once again.
"Alex! .a refill my friend? And then we can get to grips as to why wer'e all here." As far as intrinsic computer science goes, Eastern would have been far better placed lecturing on tribal Swahili. Millington, on the other hand, as Brezznov predicted, reigned supreme in a class of one, by confidently outlining an initial instalment plan, setting Brezznov's Cyber-fraud into operation.
"Like I say, Victor, the choice of banking facility you decide to 'hit' rests with you. I can only recommend that it be highly rated European Corporation based in the City. The risk of success does of course apply at every level, so I'm suggesting that we go for broke on this one. Do you have any reservations with that in mind, Victor?" Brezznov chose to demand a stone wall approach when replying.
"I don't have a problem with your logic. I'm paying for the best, so now I mean to have full control of the fucking best!" A much relieved Millington was also adamant in return.
"Trust me, and you will have given time. If we manage to pull this one off, then I won't be able to live long enough to spend my cut." Eastern on the other hand had other ideas regarding Millington's pre-formed objectives on life expectancy, and as such committed himself to remain alienated.
"I wouldn't have any qualms on that score sunshine. I'll be making damned sure on both counts that you won't!" he told himself. Brazen as ever, Millington continued to exploit his designer format.
"Once you're in a position to expose which Bank we intend to 'hit', and you have quantified the fact, I'll then be in a position to start thinking about installing high profile key logging software onto the appropriate PC's. That, and I emphasize the fact, will be the easy part. Assuming of course Victor that you've got alternative designs on using a third party on the payroll as a middle man. If not, then your planning is totally flawed. It's far too risky." Tensing himself, Eastern looked on, anticipating a v
erbal backlash from Brezznov as a response to Millington's seemingly negative but direct conclusions.
Any suggestion of an anti-climax swiftly evaporated. As if on impulse, for reasons he held in check, Brezznov rose from his seat and swaggered across to the bar, intent on replenishing his glass while refusing to make any comment. His actions seemed to take for ever almost as if the scene itself had been pre-planned. From where he was stationed, Eastern could almost reach out and touch the aura of arrogance that Brezznov was now radiating. "I swear the devious bastard is holding something up his sleeve, I just know it," he told himself. "Any minute now and he's going to open up." His perception fell way short , resulting in a learning curve for him to take on board.
You cannot rush people like Brezznov. It was an inner trait that went hand in hand with his stature. Any attempt to upstage him would inevitably prove fatal in anybody's language. To listen and watch only became a reason for living. The tension in the room began to mount and thicken as Brezznov continued to demand the stage, simply by rotating the brandy glass in his hand, ceasing only to savour the aromatic bouquet it expelled. As stoic as he was, Eastern began to inhabit the pressure, forcing him to examine his own inner feelings. "If the air in here get's much thicker," he mused, "you could use it for carpet underlay."
Without warning, the charade came to a dramatic climax as Brezznov removed himself from the bowels of his glass, confronting his audience head on. "Gentleman! Your patience is commendable and duly noted. For that reason alone I can confirm that as a collective 'firm' (gang) , we are now operational and poised to rip the heart out of the world's financial banking system." A sustained silence ensued, long enough to allow any remaining tension to evaporate, while at the same time giving his rapt audience time to digest the impact issuing from an over-zealous statement.