by Ethan Jones
He thought about the hot Indian food he and his wife had enjoyed last night. Could it be those spices? He shrugged and glanced at the headlines. The Prime Minister was looking to replace the Foreign Office Deputy Secretary after the latter’s resignation. Fox’s lips formed a small, cunning grin. He thought he was going to have my head. But here I am, still standing. He cursed the Deputy Secretary under his breath and flipped the page.
Then he took another, longer sip. That strange flavor hit him again. This time the taste was chemical, almost metallic. Is it the chlorine, or detergent left in the cup when they washed them? He glanced at the half-empty cup, then at the bar counter. No sign of the barista, but still Fox stood up and took his cup. If I’m paying five quid for my coffee, they better get it right.
He cut in front of the queue and looked at the other barista. The man had turned his back to Fox and was working on blending a frappuccino. “Hey, barista,” Fox said in a commanding voice louder than necessary.
“One moment,” the man replied without turning his head.
“Your friend here got my drink wrong—”
“I’ll fix it right away; just give me a moment.”
Fox frowned and tapped his foot.
The barista placed the half-prepared drink on the counter and said, “Yes, what seems to be the problem?”
“This drink; it’s—”
A sharp pain erupted deep in his chest, near his heart, and cut off his words. Fox clenched at his chest and groaned.
“What is it?” the barista asked.
Fox tried to answer, but no words came from his mouth. He felt his throat tighten, and found it difficult to breathe. It seemed his heart was slowing down, and he had trouble forming the response in his mind. “I . . . the drink . . . oh, I’m . . .”
The barista shook his head. “I don’t understand. But . . . are you okay, sir?”
Fox shook his head. “No, I can’t . . . I can’t breathe.”
He tried to turn around and wave at his driver. But the gesture proved to be too much. His weak knees buckled underneath him, and he began to fall to the side. He dropped his cup as he reached for the nearest chair, but his hands slipped. His head hit the side of the table, and Fox collapsed onto the floor.
The patrons of that table and others in the coffeehouse scrambled to their feet, spilling their drinks. Most of them were confused, while a couple stepped closer to Fox.
The driver’s face came into Fox’s blurry view. “Sir, sir. What’s going on?”
“I’m . . . not well. My heart—”
“Call an ambulance. Someone call for help,” the driver shouted.
He glanced at Fox, who was not moving.
“Sir, sir.”
The driver checked the side of Fox’s neck for a pulse, but did not find one. “He’s dying,” he shouted. “Someone, call for help.”
The driver began to administer CPR, pressing hard on Fox’s chest. He tried a half a dozen times, then checked for Fox’s vital signs. No pulse, and he was not breathing.
The driver cursed and tried again, this time pressing harder.
The young woman barista appeared with a phone in her hand. “I called the hospital,” she said. “They’re on their way, but . . . I don’t think they’ll arrive in time.”
The driver cursed again and continued the CPR.
The barista knelt next to him. “He’s gone, I’m sorry.”
The driver shook his head. “No, he can’t be. He was . . . he was fine just minutes ago.”
The barista shrugged. “That’s life,” she said; “one moment you’re here, and the next you’re gone.”
Epilogue
CIS Headquarters
Ottawa, Canada
Two days later
Javin paced the small waiting room outside his boss’s office. Their meeting was starting in ten minutes, and Claudia had not arrived yet. She had sent him a message, informing him she was stuck in traffic. Javin had relayed the note to Martin, who hesitantly had agreed to postpone their meeting.
Javin glanced at his phone and rechecked his email. No new message from Claudia. He thought about the London episode and wondered how much Martin knew or suspected. It was not evident that Javin had been behind Fox’s demise. The old man had made many enemies through the years; some of them even within MI6 or the British cabinet. And Mila and her team had been meticulous in all details. Unless one of them stabbed him in the back, there was not a shred of evidence connecting Javin to Fox’s early departure from this world.
Javin’s fingers played with the phone keys. He stepped outside the waiting room and walked all the way to the end of the hall. He passed by the elevators, then returned to Martin’s office, when the phone beeped in Javin’s hand with the arrival of an email. Javin thought it was Claudia, but when he checked, it was a Facebook notice about a message coming from someone nicknamed “MiC.” He frowned. Not only he did not know anyone with that nickname or initials, but the message was sent to his wife’s Facebook account. Shortly after her death, Javin had reconfigured Steffi’s account so he would be the one receiving messages sent by her friends and acquaintances. Besides the occasional spam, Javin had not received anything else in weeks.
But the note did not seem like spam. It appeared to be genuine, at least as far as Javin could tell from the title. His finger hovered over it as he was unsure whether he wanted to tap the screen and read the message.
He debated with himself for a long moment, then his curiosity claimed the victory. He read the message and almost dropped the phone. He read it and reread it in disbelief. What is this? Who is this MiC?
The message read: “Dear Steffi. Sorry I have been incommunicado. I’ve received all your calls, but I was scared to get in touch with you. But no more. Please contact me so we can chat now. You have my number.”
Javin scratched his full beard. What scared MiC? What story was Steffi working on? She had been a journalist with Ottawa Times, the largest and the most prestigious newspaper in the country. Steffi did investigative reporting and had written pieces that were featured on the front page, at times even making the headlines. She was constantly working on a number of themes and had gone undercover for a couple of them.
Who is MiC?
He racked his brain, but he just could not remember Steffi ever mentioning someone by that nickname. It was not unusual, since Steffi always kept her sources confidential. I’ve got to find out who this person is and what they want.
He sighed and glanced again at the phone. Then rushed footsteps came from around the corner and Claudia walked in. “Sorry, Javin, the traffic was a mess.”
“Accident?”
Claudia nodded. “Yeah, a triple-car crash. Ambulances, fire trucks. A mess.”
“No worries. Martin was okay with waiting, and you’re not really late.”
“Yes, but I wanted us to grab a cup of coffee and talk about this meeting.”
Javin shrugged. “We’ve talked a lot about it. And we’ve got nothing to hide.”
Claudia stepped closer to Javin. She looked deep into his eyes. “Really? Nothing?”
“Nothing of consequence. Fox’s fate, if Martin brings him up—well, that was predictable. He was on a collision course with so many people.”
“Including you,”
“Yes, including us, among many, many more powerful and enraged than us.”
Claudia shook her head. “You’re not going to look me in the eye and tell me you had nothing to do with Fox’s death?” She dropped her voice to barely a whisper.
“No, I wouldn’t lie to you. Not after all we’ve been through.”
“Oh, Javin, this . . . this could go wrong in so many ways.”
“It won’t. Martin may not condone my actions, but deep down he knows it was the right thing to do. He would have done the same if he were in my position.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure. Martin used to be a field operative for a long time. Impeccable record.”
“There’s no such thi
ng.”
“But there is, there could be.”
Javin shrugged. “Too late now. Let’s go in and face the music.”
Claudia sighed and walked in front of him. She knocked on the door, just underneath the silver sign with their boss’s engraved name and position: Hugo Martin, Director of Intelligence for the Europe Division.
“Yes, come in, come in,” Martin’s strong voice invited them in.
Claudia said, “Good morning, boss. How are things going?”
Martin shrugged. “Eh, they’re going. But it could be worse, so no complaints.”
“Morning, sir,” Javin said with a sliver of hesitation in his voice.
“Morning, Javin. Take a seat.” He stood up and gestured toward the desk near the file cabinets.
After they all sat down, Martin opened the red folder in front of him. “The Istanbul operation and the side trip into Syria,” he said in a soft voice. “Everything has been wrapped up quite well. The Turkish police and MIT have their suspicions, but nothing to tie them to us—well, to you and Claudia.” He tipped his head toward the two agents. “The DGSE will keep a tight lid on this, I hope.”
Javin nodded. “Louis is a man of honor. He’s not going to betray us.”
“That’s good, very good.” Martin flipped a couple of pages in the folder. “I’ve highlighted a couple of things in your report. The suspicions about the SAS involvement. Is that not an assumption, in the absence of any evidence?”
Claudia shifted in the seat.
Javin glanced at her, then gave her a small nod to go ahead.
She said, “There was some evidence that was considered insufficient or perhaps inconclusive, depending on who we talked to. Our conclusion is that SAS was indeed involved in the attack against the houses. Perhaps they didn’t realize we were holed up there; perhaps they were given the wrong coordinates. Nonetheless, they were there.”
Martin shrugged and said nothing for a long moment. He glanced at Javin, who offered a firm nod, then returned to the report and said, “The role MI6 played has been overstated. We can’t really know their motives, especially in the firefight in Istanbul.”
Claudia leaned forward, but Javin coughed more to get her attention than to clear his throat. He said, “Their motives, while unclear in the beginning, became quite obvious after my conversation with Fox. MI6 wanted the thumb drive, and they were willing to do everything to get it. Even killing operatives of a friendly, partner agency.”
“Yes, yes, the misunderstanding.” Martin waved his hand.
“I’m talking about the threats, real and perceived threats, and the betrayal of Zeki. All evidence that MI6 and Fox would stop at nothing.”
Martin frowned. “You’re stretching the truth, Javin. I’ll have these reports reviewed and revised. They’ll go to the minister, and we can give him only facts, what we can prove, not what we wished we could.” He gave Javin a scolding glare.
Javin shrugged. “Okay, sir.”
Martin said, “On the topic of Fox, I’m sure you heard about his . . . well, accident.”
Javin nodded but said nothing.
Claudia said, “We did, sir, yes.”
“He died of what was deemed a heart attack,” Martin said. “He hadn’t been doing well for a while. High blood pressure and other coronary-related issues. A double shot of espresso seemed to have been the final blow.”
He gave Javin a look full of suspicion.
Javin shrugged. “That’s too bad for Fox. Stress is a killer.”
He truly felt regret for Fox. If Javin had his way, Fox would have gone to trial for attempted murder and not escape with a simple, almost painless death.
Martin sighed. “Yeah, it’s really bad. But it happens.”
Javin nodded. “It does.”
Martin studied Javin’s face for a long moment. His boss seemed to be looking for something, perhaps a hint that Javin was involved in this affair.
Javin kept a straight face, hoping his boss would not ask a direct question. In the past, Martin had given tacit approval to off-the-books operations. They fell in the gray area, and he often opted for plausible deniability. That seemed to be the case this time as well.
Martin heaved a deep sigh and turned the page. He seemed to be eager to end the conversation related to Fox. After perusing the report for a couple of long moments, Martin shrugged, then closed the folder. “That’s it about this op. Questions?”
Javin shook his head.
Claudia said, “No questions, sir.”
Martin gave them a small head nod, stood up, and walked to his desk. He reached for one of the green folders, then returned to his seat. “This one is your new assignment.” He slid the folder to Javin. “It’s another botched op that needs correction.”
Javin read quickly through the first pages. A frown began to crease his forehead.
Martin said, “A prisoner swap took place three days ago between Al-Qaeda and Iran. An unconfirmed number of senior Al-Qaeda leaders were released in exchange for a high-level Iranian diplomat, who was kidnapped in southern Pakistan by tribal leaders, then sold to Al-Qaeda. A CIS team, working closely with the CIA, tried to break up the swap, and in the ensuing gun battle a number of Al-Qaeda fighters were killed. But two of the released prisoners escaped.”
“Where are they now?” Claudia asked.
“Their location is unknown, but we’re suspecting they’re hiding in Sana, Yemen’s capital.”
Javin nodded. “Sana is a hellhole, and we have hardly any assets there.”
Martin said, “Right, but Mossad and Pasdaran are very active all over Yemen. And so are a number of other players, including Russia. Let’s use all the contacts we have to find and eliminate these Al-Qaeda leaders.”
Javin’s lip twitched when Martin mentioned Russia. Does he suspect anything of my involvement with Mila and the SVR? No, he would have said so, if he did. But yeah, Israeli intel and the Iranian Revolutionary Guard might have some accurate intel. He nodded slowly, then said, “When do we leave, sir?”
“Right away,” Martin replied. “There’s a diplomatic plane scheduled to leave at midnight for Dubai.”
Javin glanced at Claudia.
“I’m ready,” she said in a firm voice.
Javin nodded. He smiled at Claudia, then looked at Martin. “We’ll take care of this, sir.”
BOOKS BY ETHAN JONES
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Pierce’s Personnel File
Covert Operative Name:
JAVIN PIERCE
Type of File:
GENERAL, PERSONNEL, REDACTED
Notes:
TOP (LEVEL 5) CLEARANCE AND DIRECTOR-GENERAL’S AUTHORIZATION REQUIRED TO REVIEW UNREDACTED AND/OR SPECIFIC OPERATIONAL FILES
CANADIAN INTELLIGENCE SERVICE
INTELLIGENCE SECTION, CIS Europe Division
PERSONAL DETAILS PHOTO
Covert Operative Name: JAVIN WILLIAM PIERCE
Gender: Male
D.O.B.: ; Age: 31
Marital Status: Widowed
Children: None Available upon D-G’s authorization
Citizenship: Canadian
Nationality: Canadian
Place of birth: Edmonton, Alberta, Canada
Height: 5'10"; Weight: 155 lbs
Vision: 20/20
Blood Type: AB+
Hair colour: Brown; Eye colour: Brown [Attach photo here;
Visible Markings, Scars, Tattoos: None do not staple]
DESCRIPTION/PROFILE DESCRIPTION (CONTINUED)
Codename: The JanitorSpecial Skills: Hand-to-hand combat,
AKA: “J”, “Sig”explosives, fixed-wing aircraft pilot,
Preferred Pistol: Sig Sauer P320evasion and detection, surveillance,
Preferred Rifle: C8SFWadvanced driving skills
Languages: English, French, Arabic,Partner:
Italian, passable ChineseHQ:
Security Clearance: Top (Level 5)Known Assets: Muath , Zeki
Previous Assignments: Assassinations,Turan, .
Diversions, and Retrieval OpsWeapons Proficiency: Expert
Current Designation: CorrectorPsychological Training Level: 5
Direct Supervisor: Mr. Hugo Martin
Director of Intelligence, Intelligence Section
CIS Europe Division
RECRUITMENT HISTORY
Pierce was recruited shortly after completing his studies at the Sapienza University of Rome. He graduated near top (10%) of his class at The Plant, then was initially engaged in surveillance, intelligence gathering, and asset recruitment. Pierce excelled at the latter, producing over a dozen trustworthy sources in a very short period of time (). His first asset, , was instrumental in breaking up the terrorist cell plotting a terrorist attack in New York City on the . Over ten terrorist attacks were thwarted, in part, because of information obtained through the operative’s assets. Complete operational records can be made available with proper authorization.