Personnel- Dossier Feldgrau

by Tyler Hanson

  A young, pudgy man with a bushy beard closed the door behind him. He turned to face Quentin. “How do you know me, if you aren’t with them?”

  Quentin shrugged. “I have nosy friends.”

  F scrunched his nose at the reply.

  “Look,” continued Quentin, “I don’t want to drag this out. You were in the tunnel the night the Princess died, oui?”

  F nodded while opening the coat closet near his front door. Quentin hesitated to remove his pea coat; his pistol was still in the pocket. He had no desire to intimidate the photographer, though, so he passed it along to be draped over an available hanger.

  The door closed behind F. “Yes. Yes I was, mister . . .”

  Quentin put a finger to his lips, looking around the apartment. “I think it’s safer if you know me as Q, and I know you as F. D’accord?”

  F sighed. “Yes, that’s fine.”

  Quentin held out a hand, gesturing for F to continue.

  “I was in the tunnel, though that fact wasn’t privy to most people,” F said. “I also haven’t shared them with ITV. I don’t know the right step to take yet. I’m not sure if it’s a government, or a private organization, or some grotesque combination . . .”

  Quentin raised both arms, palms pointed in F’s direction. “F, let me stop you. What is ‘them?’ What have you not shared with ITV?”

  F blinked, taken aback. “The photographs. The reason I haven’t left my home.”

  “I came here hoping you could share your testimony with me,” Quentin said, shaking his head. “Do you feel you have damning evidence against the ‘accident’ theory captured on film?”

  “Well . . . I can’t say ‘damning’ to any particular organization per se, but they are quite disturbing.”

  “May I see them?” Quentin asked.

  F held a finger up before disappearing into his bedroom area.

  Behind Quentin, the doorknob to the coat closet began to rattle. Quentin turned to examine the door, but the rattling stopped. He shrugged and looked away.

  The bedroom door reopened, and F appeared once more, holding a large envelope. “Let me start by saying I did not see any of this with my own eyes that night,” he said. “The tunnel was far too dark, and I took a gamble in catching some close-up shots of the Princess by snapping my camera blind. This is what I was doing just before the crash happened.”

  F opened the envelope. “The first day after it happened, I worried my camera’s flashes had startled the driver into wrecking the vehicle. I was so guilty I didn’t contact Mr. Owen or anyone else at ITV. Then I chose to have my pictures developed, and I’m no longer sure it was any kind of accident.” He produced four photographs in a stack and handed them to Quentin. “These were the last four pictures taken that night, Q.”

  Quentin flipped through them, steady-handed at first, but shakier as he paged through each image.

  F had taken all four photographs at a diagonal angle between the front and left sides of Diana’s car. From the view, it was easy to see the Princess; her blond hair, black Armani jacket, and bulbous earrings were visible through the passenger window. In the first photograph, she seemed to be smiling, as if someone had just said something funny.

  Quentin flipped to the second photograph. The windows of the car were now a solid black—as if they’d been painted that color. He looked over at F.

  “How much time is there between pictures?” he asked.

  “About two seconds,” replied F.

  “Is the film damaged?”

  F nodded his head at Quentin’s hands. “Maybe you should just keep going.”

  Quentin slid the second photograph to the bottom of the stack. Here, the Princess’s smile had faded. The rest of the car’s passenger cabin made clear what distressed her.

  She was sitting next to a dark silhouette of a person leaning toward her face.

  The Shadow Person.

  Quentin took a deep breath and pulled out F’s final picture.

  The Princess’s face pressed against the window, her eyes wide in terror. The Shadow Person pushed against her from behind, one hand near her neck. They weren’t watching her, though.

  No, their head was turned toward the camera. Toward F.

  Quentin stood to his feet. “What am I seeing here?”

  “Creepy shit, right?” F said. “The man wasn’t in the car, but then he was. Could he have used some kind of smoke to mask his appearance?”

  “I don’t think so, F. The windows were far too dark. And the car was still moving.”

  A whistle from the kitchen startled Quentin. “Were you expecting someone?”

  “I’m sorry, Q. I was making tea when you arrived. Let me—“

  “Ne t’en fais pas,” Quentin interrupted. “I’m the one intruding. I’ll pour you some. May I have a cup as well?”

  “Of course.”

  Quentin went into the kitchen, the wall partition blocking his sight of the living room area.

  In the kitchen, Quentin moved the kettle from the stove eye, and the whistling subsided. He rummaged around the cabinets to find proper teacups. After pouring two cups, he tasted a little of his own and choked a little. The tea offered the faint taste of berries, but it was far too bitter. A few more seconds of searching yielded sugar cubes. He plopped two of the cubes into his cup and tried again.

  Much better this time.

  “I forgot to ask, do you like sugar in your tea?” he called around the partition.

  No answer.

  Quentin shrugged and grasped both cups, carrying them back into the living room.

  “I may have spoken too quietly. Do you like—“

  F hunched over sideways on his couch, blood pouring from a gash in his neck. He seemed to have been fighting for air, but just as Quentin entered the room, rebellious light left his eyes. His body relaxed, sliding to the floor.

  Behind him, the coat closet was halfway ajar.

  Quentin set the cups on the coffee table near F’s body and reached for the photographs.

  They were missing, too.

  A floorboard creaked behind Quentin, and without thinking, he dove to the side. Glass and ceramic shattered out of his field of view. He turned to see a living silhouette.

  The Shadow Person had come for them.

  Now that he was closer and in a well-lit room, some of the Shadow Person’s mystery stripped away. Quentin recognized the figure of a lean, muscular person wearing an all-black outfit, capped with a featureless black mask. The suit had probably been designed for anonymity rather than intimidation, though in a dimmer setting, it performed both roles rather well.

  The Shadow Person picked themselves up from the floor, a black-painted knife in hand. They’d lunged for Quentin’s back, and when he’d dodged, the specter had fallen into the coffee table, breaking it. They pointed their knife toward Quentin, their stance menacing.

  Quentin had received some hand-to-hand combat training at the DPSD, but as with his firearms training, he hadn’t put it to much use. He was in no condition to spar against a professional, especially an armed one.

  Still, with his gun stashed in the closet, fighting was his best and only way to survive.

  The Shadow Person lunged, bringing their knife down toward Quentin’s neck. He grabbed a decorative pillow from the couch beside him and held it up, forcing the blade to plunge into the soft stuffing. Quentin twisted the pillow around his opponent’s hand, freed the weapon from their grasp, and threw both items across the room.

  The intruder swung a fist at Quentin’s head. Quentin tried to block, but his reflexes weren’t quick enough. The blow glanced off his arms and struck him in the forehead, still carrying enough force to knock him off-balance. He fell against the wall, while the Shadow Person reached into their boot to retrieve a small, triangle-shaped blade, fitting it snugly between their middle and ring fingers.

  Quentin scrambled toward the coat closet. The silent assassin chased him in his peripherals, a dreaded nightmare manifested into rea
lity. They both reached the closet door at the same time, and Quentin snatched his pea coat from the hanger before rolling to the floor. His choice allowed him to avoid a bladed punch from the Shadow Person, and splinters fractured from the wood of the doorframe.

  Quentin took advantage of the misdirection and lunged his entire body against the attacker’s shins, flipping them over his shoulders and leaving them prone on the ground. He jumped over the destroyed coffee table and back into the kitchen area, fumbling in his coat pocket for the pistol.

  Glass crunched behind him, and he turned to see the dark silhouette sprinting at him, already almost at the kitchen entrance. In a blind panic, Quentin dropped his coat, snatched the hot teakettle from the stove, and hurled it at their face. It struck them right where their nose should be, stopping them in their tracks, and some of the hot water spilled onto the front of their shirt. They pulled against their outfit to keep the steaming water away from their skin.

  Quentin dropped to his knees and pulled the gun from his pea coat. Invigorated by the weapon, he racked the slide, aimed it at the Shadow Person’s chest, and pulled the trigger.

  The trigger didn’t move.

  He looked at the gun, excitement turning to panic, and pulled again, but the trigger still wouldn’t budge.

  The Shadow Person was back on their feet, and they took two steps forward before noticing the gun. They kicked the now-empty kettle in Quentin’s direction and turned to flee.

  Quentin dodged the kettle, groaning as he realized his mistake.

  The safety!

  His thumb flicked the switch, and he aimed around the partition at the fleeing silhouette. The recoil surprised him as he squeezed the trigger, and the bullet penetrated the plaster wall instead of the Shadow Person’s body. They ignored the gunshot and ran into the coat closet, shutting the door behind them.

  Quentin pursued the assassin, passing around the couch and gripping the doorknob. It rattled as if near an approaching train, refusing to turn. He kicked against the wooden door, but it was like striking cement. The barrier refused to move, break, or splinter. Raising his pistol, Quentin fired low at the door, trying to reach the legs of the person inside. The bullets ricocheted away from the wood and buried themselves into the carpet, not even scratching the paint on the door.

  A few seconds passed before the rattling stopped, and Quentin tried the doorknob again, more cautious this time. It opened with no resistance, but inside he found an ordinary coat closet. A sparse number of coats and hangers lined the space, but it was otherwise empty.

  Quentin reached for F’s home phone and dialed the local police, leaving the receiver off the cradle as he prepared to leave the apartment. He considered searching the back panel of the closet, seeking some secret passage, but he knew it wasn’t that simple. Whatever happened here was the same as what happened inside the phone booth—and inside Princess Diana’s car.

  This isn’t just some clandestine group with an agenda, Quentin thought. No, this was something alien, far beyond the natural realm. Something the most unhinged conspiracy theorist would never consider. Something Quentin wasn’t equipped to handle.

  Something that wants me dead.

  Paris, France

  September 8, 1997-A

  Quentin awoke to Maddie’s light growling.

  He had only just made it home, and he’d wanted a few hours of sleep before pursuing the new information gleaned from the disaster with F. Using his knowledge of digital forensics, he was able to strip his pistol’s records from the international intelligence community’s registered weapons database, preventing law enforcement from accusing him of murder. Afterward, he collapsed into bed, setting his gun on the nightstand.

  That had been—he glanced at the clock. 4:37AM.

  Two hours ago.

  Quentin grumbled, looking at the foot of the bed where Maddie curled. Any other night, he would have attributed her noises to a dream. After the last week, however, Quentin could no longer afford to presume such things.

  He flicked on the nightstand light, illuminating an undisturbed room. Maddie turned her head to see him, her tongue flopping from her grin. Then her radar ears perked up, and she turned to the bedroom door, growling again. Quentin reached for his gun.

  It was gone.

  Searching on and around the nightstand and bed, he failed to locate the weapon. He knew where he’d set it before falling asleep. If it had moved, someone else moved it.

  Quentin tiptoed from the bedroom to the connected closet and bathroom, confirming they were also empty. As he stepped back into the bedroom, he heard the sounds of floorboards creaking elsewhere in the house. Footsteps trickled to Quentin’s ears in muffled pieces.

  He turned off the bedroom light and cracked open the door—just a little—surveying the living room and kitchen in his field of view. A person, dressed head-to-toe in black, furtively moved from room to room, searching for something. Quentin’s gun was stuck in the waistband of their clothing.

  Quentin left his door cracked and led Maddie into the closet, closing the door to keep her safe. He crept into the bathroom, which had a second door leading into one of the guest bedrooms. In that room was yet another entrance connecting to an open study and kitchen area. He followed this path, maintaining absolute silence.

  Once he reached the kitchen, Quentin rose up to glance above the countertop. The Shadow Person walked toward his theatre, where Quentin had left the confiscated photographs from days prior.

  Quentin slid a long kitchen knife from its wooden holster on the kitchen counter, holding it out in front of him. With his free hand, he activated his stove, opened a cabinet, and retrieved a package of stovetop popcorn. He set the package on the warming stovetop, hastened across the room, and positioned himself beside the theater entrance.

  Ten seconds passed.

  POP-POP-POP-POP-POP-POP . . .

  The kitchen screamed, announcing the presence of freshly popped corn. Footsteps thudded from within the theatre room, and Quentin readied for the upcoming fight. As soon as the Shadow Person’s leg crossed the threshold, the kitchen knife plunged down, passing through skin and muscle until it dug into bone. When he released the blade, only the handle protruded.

  The Shadow Person cried out in a deep, guttural voice, collapsing to the floor from the pain. They tried to sit up, but Quentin punched them in the center of their masked face, knocking them back to the ground. He saw his pistol protruding from their waistband, and he snatched it, checking the safety switch this time.

  He aimed at the Shadow Person and addressed them in English. “Let’s start with that mask, eh? I want to see who I’m speaking with.”

  The Shadow Person raised their hands, their heavy, augmented voice reverberating throughout the living room. “No! Don’t shoot! I’ll talk.”

  They reached for the black mask and pulled it away. Long, blond hair fell past their shoulders, highlighting a pale-skinned woman with piercing blue eyes. She looked down at the knife handle jutting from her leg, then back up at Quentin.

  “Bloody hell, you really fucked up my leg here.” When she spoke without her mask, her voice lost its depth, revealing a feminine British accent. “Want to get this out of me, or what?”

  Proxy’s Report

  01.14: “Infiltration”

  Paris, France

  September 8, 1997-A

  Quentin placed a tourniquet around her leg to stop the bleeding, his gun trained on her while she told her story.

  She claimed to be a former MI6 operative, and as far as she knew, the agency still employed her. She reported to them, and her directives came from the agency. The situation, however, was far stranger than a simple employee-employer relationship.

  One night, about a month ago, someone had taken B (the name Quentin had given her) from her home in the middle of the night and anesthetized her. Once she awoke, people she couldn’t see told her that her next missions would be exceedingly challenging, and MI6 required . . . reassurance. This reassurance ca
me in the form of a surgically implanted device beneath her skull. The hidden people warned her the device would allow for control over her neural network, giving them access to her movements should she stray from her assigned tasks.

  Unsure how to process her treatment at the hands of her government, B pressed forward. She tried to hide what happened from her husband, but he found the scars. When the darker version of MI6 ordered her to assassinate a Colombian senator, her husband tried to reach out to his own government contacts to learn more about what happened to her. They spent an uneventful day together.

  That night, B seized up in bed, as if an electric shock traveled down her spine. Her body numbed, in a way very similar to the sensations reported by paraplegics and quadriplegics. It moved of its own accord, though she was still able to watch; in fact, her eyelids would not close, so she was forced to watch. B walked into the garage, where she retrieved a Philips-head screwdriver.

  She then returned to the bedroom, forced the tool into her husband’s ear, and held him down by his throat until he stopped struggling.

  “Twenty-three seconds,” B sobbed, still sitting on the floor of Quentin’s living room. “My husband suffered for twenty-three seconds before he died. I know that I didn’t do it, but that doesn’t free me from the guilt.”

  B tried to learn more about her captors—and how they operated—but her searches halted when she was forced to comply with the missions passed along to her. She’d considered simply giving up, just letting MI6 take control rather than cooperate, but she always remembered her husband.

  “If I was going to be a spy and an assassin,” she said, “I would do it on my terms, and reduce collateral damage. That is, until the day I find the assholes in charge.”

  Quentin stared at her, uncertain of her loyalties. “Okay, I get what you’re telling me. Help me understand; how are you operating? Is MI6 surveilling you? And how are you moving around so quickly?”

  B wiped her tears away, clutched the living room couch, and stood, her feet shaky. Quentin’s pistol followed her movements.