by Gary Tulley
"At the very least, Mike. And beyond that I venture to say."
"Guess you're right. Moving on from that, assuming that we're in a position to operate 'Cuckoos Nest', how does Brezznov fit into the scheme of things, should he suddenly decide to make a move, publicly of course?"
"Good thinking, Mike. The fact that we need to catch him 'bang-to-rights' in our 'scam', would mean that we could throw the key away, and mark him down as a has- been." At least his remark afforded a smile from Eastern before replying.
"Yeah, I like that. Porridge for life. Let him screw on that. So, I presume that in the meantime, you'll instigate a 'softly-softly' approach, by issuing a restraining order, on any unforeseen police action?"
"Precisely. I'll get, Milton involved. Admin is his territory. He'll make sure that the process is put into place straightaway." A few minutes later, following a brief phone call, a contented Rogon picked up where they had left off. "Coffee? I suggest that we adjourn for ten minutes before regrouping. Incidentally, Mike. On the strength of your long-term commitment to Spooks, I have had a word with the catering staff, and have been assured that certain measures have been put into place, thus ensuring your personal satisfaction."
"Nice try, Rogon but utter bullshit. I don't suppose, for a minute, that the Government-issue coffee I've been used to in the past, tastes any different than it did before. On the flipside of things, I'd like to run a proposed 'scam' past you. Hopefully, it might turn out to be something that we can both agree on, for a change."
"I'm open to offers, Mike. So, try me."
"Are you adverse toward auctions in any way?" Seemingly taken aback, Rogon looked completely out of sync with their conversation.
"Auctions, you say. I think I'm missing something here. Can you elaborate on that, Mike?"
"Indeed I can. Crazy as it may seem, my intentions involve, setting up a fake jewellery auction, to include lot number five, the 'Kimberley Legend', as the main attraction. What does that do for you?"
"This is a joke, right?" demanded Rogon. Unperturbed, Eastern continued to expand on his alleged 'joke'.
"I can categorically state, that I have never been more serious in my life. I realize, that, on the surface, the whole scenario appears bizarre, and basic to say the least. But basic works for me. You place a carrot in front of a bleedin' donkey, and you've got it's attention. Whether he likes it or not, Brezznov including his poxy alter ego, will be sucked into a web of intrigue, all for the want of a diamond. And that, I prophesy, will be his epitaph."
If ever a plastic agency man could do shell shock on demand. Then, Rogon was in the running for an 'Oscar'. "It's sheer madness, unbelievably stupid, but hell, I love the whole damned nerve attachment you've placed on it. The more I think about it, the more its growing on me. Reverse strategy, Mike. It speaks volumes. I can see where you're coming from at last. The 'Mountain going to Mohammed'."
"Exactly. All we have to do now is to create a plan of execution, which he will hopefully adhere to. To save time, it might pay you to set up an extraordinary meeting with the PM. Without his blessing, we can forget the whole damned charade. For what its worth, and it is only a technical point, you might make it clear to him that the 'Kimberley Legend' itself won't be seeing daylight, outside of the alleged auction house."
"Leave it with me, Mike. Getting through to me was the hard part. If anybody can convince the PM, then I'm your man. Actually, time I've finished putting our case across, and the benefits resulting from it, of course he'll be only too pleased to 'rubber stamp' our proposal."
"Tomorrow won't be soon enough for me. Going off the subject for a minute, I'm going missing for a couple of days. That is until we get written confirmation on where we're heading, there's nothing to keep me here for, besides which, after London, the sea air in Brighton, and Joan of course, will clear my head. Have you got a problem with that at all?"
"Good God, no. At best, I can only make preliminary enquiries at this stage. I suspect that Fuller will be back in touch any time now, if so, you'll be the first to know, should his report contain any viable information."
After 'God-knows-where', and as many days, Eastern's flat in Brunswick Square, verged on a parallel with Utopia. The minute he stepped through the door, Joan was all over him like a rash. "I'd almost forgotten what it was like to be human." He quietly told himself, in a benevolent manner, and toyed with his glass of scotch, before turning his attention toward, Joan. Relaxing in his favourite chair, earlier on that evening. Eastern found himself reflecting on his spontaneous decision, to abort the agency in lieu of Hove, "can't tell you how good it feels, Joan. Life after the agency, know what I mean." For her part, Joan had already written the script, by suitably bypassing any form of confirmation.
"Putting aside the hidden grief, and frustration for a minute, our indulgent relationship, Mike remains solid. What we don't need is baggage, and by that I mean....."
"......Rogon and the damned agency. He was quick to add. "For what its worth, Joan. I've already made my future intentions clear, should it ever become an issue. The Brezznov case, depending on it being sanctioned, will be my last. Win or lose, Rogon and the agency can go to hell, I'm done. My life is here, this is where I belong."
"That was quite a speech darling, I applaud you for it, welcome to the real world. An admission like that, shouldn't go unnoticed, what say you, we eat out tonight?"
"I could say, you've talked me into it, but then again, I thought you were never going to ask." Eastern gushed, "so, what'll it be, English or Italian? it's entirely your call." Knowing Joan like he did, the enquiry as he perceived, became a 'no-brainer', as their conversation slipped into gear.
" That's gracious of you, Mike. But 'Jamie's' Italian restaurant seems to be the in place at the moment, I think we'll give that a try."
"'Jamie's' , are we talking as in, Oliver? "
"There's only one. Apparently, he's got a place in Black Lion Street, it'll make a change from the Dolce Vita, don't you think darling?"
"Fine by me, I'll get a cab organized.." At least their evening had got off on the right foot. Just after eight o-clock that same evening, the pair were exchanging pleasantries, whilst absorbing the ambiance native to 'Jamie's,
"Well, what are your thoughts, Mike?"
"I have to admit that I was sceptical at first, but, no, I can see why its so popular. The menu reminds me of a 'Food Junkies' Utopia, I'm totally spoilt for selection."
"I'm told, and you are a steak person, that the Chuck flank steak with smoked cheese Mortadella, is the business. Me? I'll settle for the Prosciutto and shaved pear salad."
"The steak sounds great, but you know I'm not a cheese person." Joan allowed a knowing smile to take over her face.
"You should get out more often darling, the 'cheese' is a misnomer, in fact its a pork sausage cut into cubes."
"What do I know, Joan. One things for sure, I've a hell of a lot of making up to do, after this mission becomes a statistic."
Some thirty or so minutes later, Eastern had just finished refreshing their glasses via a bottle of Dino Pinot Grigio, when their memorable evening came to a shuddering halt, care of Eastern's mobile. It became clear, that Joan was not amused.
"Who the hell would want to...." She faltered, "oh no, it couldn't be, could it? tell me I've got it wrong, Mike." Imagine yourself holding a live grenade with a five second detonator. with nowhere to run, and then you realize its only a mobile you're holding. And the difference is? none! Stony-faced, Eastern pocketed his mobile way out of sight, lost in thought, somewhere, "Mike!" Exasperated, Joan felt that she was on the outside looking in, "for God's sake, Mike. Was it something I said?
Whatever way, I don't find your attitude at all amusing." Seemingly oblivious to his whereabouts, She became aware, that Eastern was laughing to himself. Seconds later, an off switch, submerged inside his sub-conscious, depressed. He was back.
"Joan? Are you there? “
“Sorry, for a minute I was......"
<
br /> "on another planet." He interrupted.
"The message, you know, the one on my mobile? Somehow, linked up to something you said earlier on. It was so bloody surreal. What was it you said? Ah, I remember know, you said something like, 'welcome to the real world'."
"Where is this all leading up to, Mike? I don't understand what's going on." Drawing on his breath, a controlled aura notably surrounding him, came into play.
"Basically, Joan. I could well become part of it, sooner, rather than later, on a permanent basis.'"
"This conversation has got Rogon written right through it, if I'm not mistaken." He smiled obliquely, in a manner that she was unaccustomed to, before finally speaking in a forthright manner.
"Regretfully, you won't have to worry anymore on that score, Joan."
"Regretfully?"
"I'm afraid so, there's no other way of putting it, unless, ever, fits the part." How does one define the word 'ever', when its handed to you in a throwaway line.
"I shouldn't have asked, It's Rogon isn't it." Eastern appeared to be fazed, as he took his time before replying.
"Regretfully, no, Joan. Although it was the agency, who were trying to contact me. I'm afraid that, Rogon won't be bothering us, you, me, anymore. I've just been informed by Milton and I'm sorry, but there's no easy way of saying this, Rogon is no longer with us, in fact he's dead.
A sustained followed, in which time Joan found herself struggling to absorb a political 'bombshell', literally handed too her on a plate. "I...I don't understand, Mike. How, when, why? Its all so sudden. I'm so sorry, In spite of......."
"..........Don't beat yourself up over it, Joan." He interjected, "I'm as shocked as you are. The best thing we can do right now, if you don't mind of course? would be to get a cab home. I can't speak for you, but I've completely lost my appetite."
"That's understandable, darling. We can do all the necessary talking, once we're home." Twenty minutes later, a sombre looking, Eastern attempted to redress the situation.
"Milton has assured me he'll be back in touch shortly, Joan. Hopefully, through him, we can make some sense from out of all this. To be frank, I'd never have thought that somebody's death, let alone Rogon's, would effect me as much as it has. Love him, or hate him, he was flesh and bone after all. When I think back, the altercations, the poxy grief I hurled at him, and there's a man who once saved my life If you remember......"
"...........Including mine, Mike. Its so easy to forget. I think we both need a drink, gather what thoughts we have. God! What a damned mess."
Methodically, Eastern took the top off his scotch, savouring the content, before gulping it down. Slowly he raised his glass upward. Here's too you, Rogon I'm going to miss you, and your self-centered plastic image. I don't do promises as you know, but I won't rest until that bastard Brezznov, is out of circulation. I owe you that much."
Less than five minutes later, Milton phoned. The message portrayed, was brief and specific, 'drop everything, there will be a car available in fifteen minutes.' In no time, Eastern, was reluctantly saying goodbye to his belated 'real world'. "Once I now more, I'll be in touch, Joan." And then he was gone, foremost on his mind entailed a promise that he'd made too, Rogon. Unforeseen timing plus a sack full of unanswered questions, finally derailed any normality, existent in his body and brain. Tiredness gripped him, gracefully, he allowed his futile body, to slump back onto the leather clad seat. Within seconds, his 'real world' had become a distant memory.
"Ah, there you are, Mike. My apologies for plucking you out of obscurity, at such short notice. I just wish the situation could be reversed, but when needs must.....”
”Then it’s time to act accordingly, Milton. So without dwelling on sentiment, lets get some positivism ongoing. Rogon is dead, but we still have a job to do. As far as I'm concerned, nothing changes.”
Seated around a table, buried in the heart of Spooks agency Head Quarters. Eastern, along with Milton and Spooks second in command, Carl Levinson. Were conducting an extraordinary briefing. Also present, were a representative of a notable auction house, and a top ranking met officer.
CHAPTER 20...Day of reckoning.. Part 2.
Once all the formalities were out the way, It was left too, Levinson to get the briefing under way. "This is a sad day gentleman, and I take no pleasure by sitting in Rogon's chair. Present today, are Anthony de Ville representing the auction world, followed by CI Rogers for the Met, and Spooks agent, Mr Mike Eastern. As his acting predecessor, I fully intend to carry on, where Rogon had left off. Make no mistake, operation 'Cuckoos Nest', is still ongoing, hence the briefing. We all know why we're here, and that is to devise a co-ordinated set up, revolving around the 'Kimberly Legend’, strong enough to induce Brezznov's interest. We all have a part to play in our own genre's, so for, Rogon's sake. Lets get our heads together, and thrash out, an intimidation plan."
Eastern sighed, and drained the last remnants of his sixth coffee. "Well at least, Rogon got that bit right." He told himself, "even,Joan would have liked that." Levinson then alerted him to the fact, that he was satisfied, from what had come out of their meeting, that the content on the table was sufficient enough to warrant a full blown game plan. This in turn, would be faxed through to Whitehall, for the P.M's blessing.
After the briefing, Eastern approached Levinson with the intention of salvaging some details, surrounding Rogan's sudden, thus far, unexplained death. "Heart failure old boy, according to the paramedics at the scene, it was quick, so he wouldn't have suffered. Yes, that's what the autopsy will show."
"I see, so, where was he found?"
"Slumped behind the wheel of his car, in the agency's underground car park, terrible business old boy, he was only fifty eight you know."
"As you say, his age is irrelevant, the old 'Grim Reaper' doesn't take any prisoners, does he? By the way, who found him?" Strange to say, that Levinson at this point, appeared to be outwardly uncomfortable, at Eastern's systematic grilling.
"Uhm, lets see now, yes, a cleaner. Apparently, Rogon's body was slumped forward onto the steering wheel, causing the horn to continually sound off."
"So the engine was still idling then?"
"Well, yes, I presume so, of course, it must have been, otherwise the horn wouldn't have sounded off. Well, I must be off now. Milton will be in touch, regarding any Official statement connected to operation 'Cuckoos Nest'." Sometime later, relaxing in the comfort of his flat back in Hove, he had cause for concern, as he related his earlier conversation with Levinson to, Joan.
"I'm sorry, Joan. Call me over zealous if you like, but I've got this foreboding feeling, that something is amiss."
"Do you want to share it, darling?"
"Rogon's death, it’s all too bloody clinical, and convenient for my liking, but then again maybe you're right, I can't bring him back, can I?"
"You're not God, if that's what you mean, but I am struggling with the concept surrounding his death. I know you too well, Mike. Once you get your teeth into something, you won't let go."
"It's Levinson who alerted me to have hidden doubts, when I was questioning him; it was almost as if he was reading off an auto cue, when he answered me back. That'll be the next thing, Rogon's funeral."
"That won't be for some time yet, darling. In the meantime, you've got our Mister Brezznov to deal with. You need to put all your energies into that."
"You're right of course, Joan. I've promised, Rogon that much if you remember?"
Eastern was feeling restless; a full week had elapsed, since his arrival back in Hove. When contact was finally achieved, the agency's timing was as predictable as a chocolate fire grate. "Who the hell can that be at this hour?" Eastern growled.
"You'd better answer it, Mike, it might be Levinson, or whatever his name is."
"I think you mean, Milton but yeah, you're right, it could be important." Checking his watch, he lunged at the phone. "Eastern, speaking. You do realize its six o clock in the morning, who is this?" A pregnant pause
ensued, followed by the melodramatic tones, from an excitable, Milton.
"I apologize for the inconvenience Mister Eastern. I have been authorized to tell you, that operation 'Cuckoos Nest' has of now been officially approved. A 'code red' will also be enforced, as from eight o-clock am today. Thereafter, a car will be at your disposal an hour later, message over." He then hung up.
"I don't suppose for a minute you heard that, Joan. It was a message via, Levinson. I'd better get up, get my self ready and packed, can't believe its happening at last."
"Happening?"
"Yeah, sorry, operation 'Cuckoos Nest', its all systems go. Just after ten thirty am that morning, he arrived back at Spooks HQ, situated somewhere in London. On hand to greet him was, Levinson himself.
"Good to have you back dear boy, we have a big nut to crack, wouldn't you say?"
Eastern muttered something like, 'come back, Rogon all is forgiven,' under his breath, and followed him into the briefing room. As he had anticipated, Anthony de Ville and CI Rogers were present.
"If you'd all like to be seated gentlemen, then we can proceed with...." Stopping short, he acknowledged, Milton's presence, as he silently entered the room, "ah, there you are at last. Coffee's all round I think, Milton we have a long day in front of us.
Once seated and fully relaxed, Levinson went on to clarify the P.M's decision to sanction operation 'Cuckoos Nest'. "If I can reiterate on the confirmation, I suggest that Mr de Ville start the ball rolling." The latter explained, that he would put a full blanket coverage, advertising campaign into place, the subject being, the 'Kimberley Legend'. For authenticity sake, a room at his auction house, would be made available. For the sale itself, should either himself, or a representative of his, decide to participate in the proceedings. "Quite clearly," he emphasized, “any interest Brezznov shows, in his desire to obtain said stone, would be via phone bidding."
"How confident are you, de Ville that he will be in a position to outbid other prospective buyers?" Enquired, Levinson.
"Under the circumstances, at best, I'd have to say eighty per cent certain, bearing in mind his fanatical diamond perversion, and the finance he's accrued, that could be a conservative estimate. Going on from that, I have taken steps, to instil professional bidders, in situ, on line, phone, and even in the auction room itself."