2 A Month of Mondays

A Month of Mondays

Smoke on the Water

Smoke circled around the man's head like a halo. His
shoulders were immense. It looked as if someone had stuffed small boulders in
the sleeves of his Armani jacket. A dim light reflected from his bald head. He
held a cigar the size of a Sharpie in his fat fingers. His fingers looked like
white sausages, his nails trimmed and gold rings on three fingers of each hand.
He was a powerful man. Giselle hated him. Father practically worshipped him.

"So," he said, his voice like gravel being dumped
over a bass drum. "What are we going to do about the President, now? 
Hmm?"

Her father was composed. He sat in an old chair with his
legs crossed primly. The room was stuffy. It was decorated in a French style
reminiscent of the Second World War.

"The President's demise is the least of our worries now.
We have problems at home. Our clients are at each other’s throats. We are bound
to lose one or the other."

The man smacked his lips. They were small, but puffy. Giselle
understood that her hatred for this man came in no small part from the fact
that she had never learned his name. Her father did not even repeat it. It
disgusted her that this man would think he was so far above the rest of
humanity as to not use his name.

"This is your problem, Eilif. Galbraith can rot for all
my care. I am talking about power. Not money."  He stabbed the cigar in
the air to punctuate his sentence. The ember glowed for one second, a mystical
period suspended in the air.

"Our plan to entrap Monday, expose his government tail,
and put the President on notice failed in most aspects."

"Monday. An ant. Do you know what I do with ants, Eilif?"

They all knew the answer to that. Giselle saw her father
falter for the first time. He looked down.

She felt the need to rescue him. She pushed away from the
book shelf she had been leaning on and walked between them to the table by the
man's arm. She lifted the fluted glass canter of rare Glenfiddich 40-year
bourbon whiskey. She poured some in a tumbler, straight, about two finger's
worth. She watched its caramel color swirl for a moment as a chocolate richness
settled. She knew the man was watching her.

How could he not? 

She lifted the tumbler to her lips and sipped. She could
taste peat and smoke, honey and the deep flavor of one of the finest rare
whiskeys in the world. She exhaled through her nose and closed her eyes,
feeling the whiskey on her lips. She flicked her tongue out across her lips
seductively, acting as if there were no one else in the room, but knowing full
well the man's eyes were following her every move. She had his attention.

"The tail turned out to be a CIA agent, Camilla Cross. She
was killed by the proximity of the EMP blast. It ruptured blood vessels in her
brain. She was dead before she hit the ground."

"Impressive. Is that typical fallout from a weapon like
that?"  The cigar man asked, tapping ashes lightly onto the carpet.

She shook her head and took another sip. The Glenfiddich was
warm in her throat.

"No. Apparently, the proximity, angle, frequency, and
power were a dangerous mixture. It cannot be trusted to perform that way with
every target."

"That explains why Monday was unaffected," Eilif
offered. Giselle glanced at him.

He did not sound desperate, but his comment smacked of
pandering. This surprised her. Who was this man who produced such fear in her
father?

"Yes. And the President. This brings us back to the
business at hand. The President is not off the board, strictly speaking. He is
still priority, but not in order of chronology," Giselle said.

The man smiled.

"That is not how I understand priority, Ms.
Chaput."

It rankled her that he used her name like a blunt weapon
against her. He made it sound dirty.

"New definition. Priority in name only. He is to be
dealt with at a time appropriate to the deed. In other words, sir, he is dead
already. He and the world just do not know that yet."

She held the tumbler up in a mock toast, a playful and
prideful smile on her face. Cool confidence had always worked in her favor. With
her physical attributes, her knack for negotiation, and her wits, she rarely
had to resort to baser methods of manipulation. She watched his eyes flick from
her to her father.

"Your daughter is brave. I hope she can back up her
courageous speech."

Eilif hesitated. She need not look at him to know that he
was nervous. Not for his daughter, no. Her failure would mean his skin as much
as hers.

"I am not making a promise. I am merely stating what we
know as fact. Someone as powerful as the President of the United States is
surrounded by layers of security. This is especially true since Atlanta. We
need access, a trusted associate, and plausible denial," she said. She
struggled to not sound defensive.

"Who cares?  Once he is removed, the chaos that ensues
will create a vacuum. It will not matter who took his life. Besides, why am I
paying all these newspaper editors and news agency executives if not to twist
the public perception?"

She knew he was powerful. She wished her father had given
her more information before she had agreed to join him at this meeting. This
mansion on the coast of France near Cartegena was proof that he had power
globally. Her father was rich, but power was fleeting. His operations were
global as well, but the casual ease with which their host made his veiled
threats gave her cause to begin to worry for the first time.

Are we over our heads for the first time?
She
wondered. She wondered why they had allowed Clarence to convince them to work
with this man and his clandestine, global organization. Perhaps they were not
working with them. In truth, it seemed they worked for them. If her father came
to the same realization, she was sure he would be torn between pride and fear.

Giselle looked out the patio door out to the waves of the Mediterranean
Sea crashing on the moonlit beach. The night was lit in hues of blue. It was a
sharp contrast to the dark paneled room filled with books, an old green carpet,
antique cherry-stained furniture, bitter cigar smoke, and the ancient trophies
of a life lived in the last century. She sighed.

"What Giselle is saying is that it will take more time
to accomplish. Our focus is still the same. However, we will also be carrying
out several other missions that are less crucial, but use different personnel
and have a quicker time line."

The man looked at Giselle wistfully. His eyes roamed from
her tight calves exposed by the short Versace vintage dress to her hips. He
seemed to be tracing the gold and brown leaf patterns of her dress with his
gaze. He turned his head, a light smile playing at his lips. He enjoyed toying
with the two of them. With everyone, probably. It demonstrated his power. Giselle
felt a creeping sensation down her spine. She was not sure if it was fear or
disgust.

Eilif was putty in this man's hands, and therefore she was
just as much a pawn and toy as her father. She hated her father even more for
it.

Giselle put the tumbler down, the final ring of whiskey
giving her courage to stand up for herself.

"No. The President is one piece of the puzzle. The
biggest piece. But, without a consolidated client base, without control over
our cash flow, we will not be prepared to reap the harvest to come. Our organization
needs to be focused."

He twisted his thick neck slowly, his jowls sagging with his
frown. He breathed in deep. Smoke trailed from his thick nostrils.

"You speak of Galbraith as though it is yours. You are
just another client. How would Zeke Galbraith see your recent machinations in
his own company?"

Giselle shrugged.

"Our actions and success demonstrate the extent of our
influence."

"Your power?  Your foolishness and prideful arrogance,
perhaps. You play with fire. Trust me. I crossed Zeke once. Only a billion
dollars and half of my associates and assets would sate his revenge,” He
chuckled, a low, coughing sound, "We are fast friends now, you know?"

"It was your contacts with Zeke and his executives that
allowed us access to Galbraith."

"For your money, my dear. Or rather, your
father's," he said, his eyes reluctantly, meaningfully drifting to Eilif. The
tension in the room was as thick as the cigar smoke.

"Regardless, our success gives us the ability to use
Galbraith's extensive networks, technology, and influence to accomplish our
goals. Your goals," Eilif said. He stared disconsolately into his drink. He
usually enjoyed rare bourbon. He looked as if it were turning his stomach.

"I should be impressed. What about Monday?  You seem to
want to avoid that topic."

"He is not untouchable. However, he is almost as
difficult a target as the President."

"Really?  Since when does an ant threaten the great
Eilif?"

Her father was smiling. She was sure it was a defensive
mechanism. He was embarrassed at his weakness. Her father was a proud man. A
powerful man. But, facing this man, this mountain in an Armani with small eyes,
fat hands, and no neck, Eilif Nicholaisen was humbled. Giselle did not know
whether to be disappointed in her father or afraid of the man with the cigar.

Who are you? Why is my father so scared of you?

The flight back to Ventura should prove to be enlightening.

"Monday will no longer be a hindrance to our cause. He
still works for us."

"How much longer before he knows that you have been
messing with his memories?"

Eilif smirked.

"The studies show that his sort of treatment can
maintain traction for prolonged periods of time."

"Two years?  Really?  Maybe I should be investing in
this product, what do you call it?"

"It is a long scientific name, something based on
Latin."

"Of course."

"We call it Sychol," Giselle offered. His eyes
snapped to her again.

"Sychol. Have there been any side effects?"

She shrugged.

"He does not mention any. We believe, though, based on
the studies, that he has severe headaches, migraines, even, an elevated
temperature, heart rate, and increased sensory acuity," she explained. She
leaned against the book shelf again.

"So Mr. Monday experiences some good and some bad
effects from your meddling?"

"Yes. Of course, the drug is just one part of the
equation. During the two weeks he spent in Phnom Penh, Cambodia, he underwent
severe psychological memory altering. Several mental keys and verbal cues were
implanted. In addition, we implanted a device in his hip that transfers certain
blocks to his memory."

"You reboot him?"

"In essence, yes. It has been proven that the first memory
blocks, the ones that block the memory of a subject's childhood, his or her
loved ones, and most technical training are suppressed."

"So, how is he able to still perform?  How can he read,
or talk?  Are we not a culmination of our experiences?"  The cigar man was
more interested than she had considered. Or was this just a way for him to make
another assertion of his power over them?

"The memories are suppressed. Not the values. Not the
training. The mind has been blocked. The body and the mind, still can draw from
the well of experience to perform latent talents and use learned skills, but cannot
access the specific memories."

"Hmm. This all sounds so futuristic."

"It is old technology and it is not an exact
science."

"Is that why the Russians abandoned it?"

"In some subjects, failures can be violent. Messy. Often,
the very scientists that created the procedures, the drugs, and the literature
fell prey to these failures in one way or another. Soon, the whole project was
stalled. Three facilities were abandoned in the eighties. What we use now is a
combination of older Russian cases and more modern Chinese studies and
advances."

"I see. And because of this…Sychol you feel you can
control Mr. Monday."

"Control is too specific. Influence would be a better
term. Deputy Director Smith tried the control method and you can see the
results."

He arched his eyebrows.

"And Deputy Director Smith is now…?"

"Dead. She was found in her pool yesterday. She had a
heart attack."

"I will say you people are efficient. And
ruthless."

"How else do you expect to rule the world?" 

Just a Cup of Joe

What Jake really hated about
Mondays was that it meant he had to go back to killing again. He felt the
weekend was a great getaway from the hustle and bustle of the weekday drudgery
of being a high-end assassin for the Galbraith Alliance. On weekends, he
especially enjoyed playing volleyball on the beach and slamming the ball like a
heated missile toward some bikini-clad co-ed. He loved watching the skin turn
pink where the ball ricocheted off their forehead or thigh.

As he headed for the office at the
top of the Galbraith Tower, he daydreamed about the past. At least the past he
could recall. Jake wanted desperately at times to remember his childhood, or
his friends from university. Sometimes he would just like to remember what he
did last week.

He pieced together the ordeal in
Atlanta. He vaguely remembered the trip there and the briefing with Deputy
Director Smith on Thursday. She had outlined a plan to trap his CIA tail. The
rest was a blur. If he dwelt on remembering specific details, he would
experience a sharp pain in his head and feel so nauseous that he could think of
little else than breathing.

When he arrived home, the most
curious thing he remembered involved the lady who had given him the silver
locket. He remembered her body lying limp on the ground. He had difficulty
fighting the feeling that she had somehow sacrificed herself for him. But, why? 
He had assumed she was the CIA tail he had exposed. Who had killed her, if not
him? That question haunted him.

Of course, there was his botched attempt
to assassinate the “Leader of the Free World.”  Remembering the knife in his
pocket and the EMP devices he had stationed strategically in the park made Jake
weak in the knees. He was not scared of dying. He just did not like feeling as
though he had no control. He had somehow arrived in Atlanta in a sort of mental
fog. No other explanation could suffice for his sudden willingness to take the
life of the President of the United States.

Hundreds of questions had passed
through his brain this weekend. He had decided finally that he was better
served leaving the tough questions for Monday. He expected a team of
professionals to arrive on the yacht, taking him or more likely eliminating him.
Nothing like that had transpired, so he imagined he would receive his
punishment today.

The only consolation to the danger
that he knew he was about to face, was that he had thoroughly enjoyed his
weekend on a yacht, relaxing and running these impossible questions through his
head until he was satisfied that the only answers would come from Galbraith.

Jake wanted the weekend to go on
forever. He enjoyed the spray of the salt water as he watched the moon rise in
the darkness. He loved the way the inky darkness of the night sky sparkled
against the gently rolling waves. He became transfixed by the way the moon
reflected off the peaks of the waves as they slapped against the brilliant
whiteness of the sixty-five-foot Sea Spray.

Standing at the bow, holding a
cold drink in his hands, feeling the humidity moisten his linen shirt, Jake
could almost forget the past week. Almost. The whole ordeal left him worried. He
had prepared himself for the worst. He gathered that since he was allowed to
return without a security team hunting him down that perhaps he would be given
a slap on the wrist or a demotion. Or worse, maybe they would assign him to
Team Lars again. Jake cringed at the idea. He did not trust that man. Of
course, after this weekend, Jake did not know who to trust.

Jake stopped in at the café in the
first floor lobby. He scanned the menu. He stared at the pretty head in front
of him of some new co-worker he noticed last week. His friend and co-worker, Gary
constantly griped at him about his date choices. Gary seemed to always land
dates with supermodels, movie starlets (usually just as they flamed out), CEO’s
of magazines and other more powerful—and rich—ladies of various ages. He
claimed once that he would date someone as old as sixty-five if she were
interesting, driven and passionate. Or rich, of course.

“I’ll take a poppy-seed lemon
muffin and an espresso,” the girl said. She pulled her auburn hair behind her
ear and half-turned. Jake could tell she was a field agent. She scanned the
lobby efficiently. He knew she was counting. The drill was too familiar.
Suddenly, he felt a chill. It was a familiar feeling that usually was
accompanied by a painful headache.

He looked at the menu again,
swallowing hard and gripping his key ring in his front trouser pocket. He
glanced back at the girl—Hallie, he remembered. Her black wool jacket was open
in the front and he noticed the large bulk under her left arm. Packing in
public was not discouraged, he knew, but only someone newly out of boot camp
actually kept a firearm in such an obvious position. Jake felt the sudden urge
to reach around her back and take the Browning he knew she carried there as she
reached for her espresso.

Instead, he checked his watch and
wondered how late he should purposefully be today. The meeting was scheduled
for seven in the morning.

Who made up these hours,
anyway?

He would spend all day in
briefings, debriefings, research, planning sessions, coaching sessions from Vladimir
Vissarionovich
,
working out at the gym, an hour at the range, and then tonight his mission
would kick off and usually not finish until late. It never occurred to him that
perhaps he would not be assigned another mission after the debacle in Atlanta.

Jake occasionally lamented to Gary
that he could not figure out why he didn’t just take a long vacation to Africa
or lose himself in the Outback. Gary loved the life, but he actually got
assignments that would take him away from the office more and his schedule was
not as stressful as Jake’s. Gary worked on the technical end. He set up the
scenarios and laid out the groundwork. Jake was involved in the wet work. At
twenty-six, he was the youngest agent at Galbraith.

He lost interest in Hallie, but
evidently she was waiting on him to say something. He did not have anything to
offer, so he stood there clicking his nail on the ignition key to his 2009
Bugatti Veyron. He continued to stare at the menu as if it had changed
overnight. It didn’t matter. He would order the same thing as he did every
weekday.

“Caramel Macchiato with a side of
cinnamon and a strawberry cream cheese Danish. To go,” Hallie said. She stood
beside him with a smug look on her face, sipping her espresso. The muffin lay
on the counter, looking forgotten.

“Hmm. Yes. And an extra shot of
espresso today, Barb.” He had noted the café clerk’s name badge earlier. He was
perturbed that Hallie already knew something about him. All he knew about her
was that she chewed her nails. Maybe that was something. He stored the
information for now.

“Wanna join me in the elevator on
the way up?”

“It’s a long voyage. I’m not sure
I want to make that sort of commitment.” He still had not looked at her. The menu
still held his interest. He watched as a fly crawled across the “We serve
soups!” sign.

Hallie pursed her lips and watched
Barb’s back as she turned to grab the caramel.

“I see. Tom said you were a hard
nut to crack. I just thought…”

“Yeah. Well, don’t think, rookie.
React. You will live longer.” He congratulated himself. He was imparting sage
advice and putting the new girl in her place at the same time.

“Is that what you call what you
did Thursday? A reaction?” She nodded and picked some poppy seeds off of her
muffin with the nubs of her ragged nails. Her smug smile was barely visible out
of his peripheral vision. She rolled the seeds between her thumb and finger.

Jake left a ten dollar bill on the
counter and took his Danish and macchiato from Barb. He remembered to smile.
Barb always gave him extra caramel. Barb had a wart on her left cheek and a
chipped front incisor. She wore White Diamond perfume and Avon hand lotion. She
was right-handed and she spoke with a southern drawl, probably from Texas, he
thought.

Hallie followed him. Predictable.
He thought about her nails. Her jacket: wool, yet it was June. Her heels were
purchased from JC Penny. Her necklace looked like an heirloom. Probably her
mother’s. He could not make out her accent. Possibly Pennsylvania? It didn’t
matter. He developed a profile in his mind and worked diligently to decipher
this annoyance. He couldn’t let a rookie have the upper hand.

“I just wanted to visit with you
to give you a heads up, Mr. Monday.” She sounded desperate now, but she caught
him off guard again. He was beginning to really not like Hallie. His thumb dug
into the soft sugary Danish and his hand pressed dangerously against the hot
cup of macchiato.

He turned on his heel and she
stopped abruptly. He could hear her heels slipping on the tiles of the lobby.
Her eyebrows shot up in surprise.

“Heads up, you say? Why, rookie,
why didn’t you say so?” He stared down at her. She was tall, especially in the
four inch heels, but he was still taller. Hallie looked down as if to make sure
she had not spilled. Jake tossed his Danish in the trash and licked the icing
from his thumb.

“Look, Hallie. I had a hard week
last week. We all are aware of that. If you have some sort of comment, why not
save it for the briefing? Or even better yet, keep it to yourself until you’ve
walked in my shoes for a while.” He straightened his Forzieri tie and smoothed
his Paul Frederick suit jacket.

She did not respond. Satisfied, he
turned and followed the mass of employees toward the elevators. He didn’t care
if he had upset her. He didn’t care if she followed. She had piqued his
interest and if she really had something to tell him, she would assert herself.

He waited with the throng of
sleepy-eyed and young coworkers for the elevators to arrive. Everyone was going
up and so he usually waited until the lobby cleared out to go up last. He
pulled out his smart phone and checked his e-mail.

“So, you really don’t want to
know?” Hallie sipped her espresso and glanced at him over the lid.

He looked up at her like he did not
know who she was.

“Excuse me? What do I not want to
know?”

“Well, for starters, you might
want to know about the contract on your head.” She raised her eyebrows to
emphasize her point.

He was not worried about being
overheard. The lobby was buzzing with conversation. The cameras could pick up
their visual, but he knew from experience that the audio was limited.

“And this is different how?” He
tried to seem calm. He wasn’t. He could feel sweat roll down his shoulder
blades. He fought the urge to remove his jacket and loosen his silver-and-gold
lined tie.

“It is coming from the very top,
for starters. Your actions last week evidently marked you as expendable.”  She
shrugged.

“Let me get this straight:  you
come up to me to warn me like you are looking out for my best interest?  I’m
confused, rookie. Aren’t you here to get my guard down so that you can be the
one with the feather in your cap?”

“Ambition is your calling card,
not mine.”

“Trust me, rookie. You are just as
interested in climbing the ladder here as I was when I started. I can see it
your greedy little eyes.” She appeared hurt. Her frown took in her entire oval
face. He couldn’t help himself. He felt a little sorry for her. This was
dangerous. He could not let her get the best of him like this.

I need to get in control of
this and fast.

“I think you are forgetting where
you came from,” she said, anger tingeing her voice. He could tell he made her
mad.

Despite this, he had to resist
with every fiber in his being from ripping out her beautiful little throat. He
felt his vision narrow, and his feet become lead. He blinked hard and stared at
the macchiato in his hands. Absently, he threw it in the trash. He looked back
up to see Hallie staring at him. The look of pity on her face turned his stomach.

As if in another world, he heard
the elevator chime. The doors opened with a thud.

“We’re the last ones up. Maybe we
should go.”  She seemed nervous. He caught her glance over his shoulder. His
sense of danger seemed muted, but he could not ignore the signs. Something here
wasn’t right.

“How can I be sure this won’t be
my last trip on this elevator?”  He asked. Hallie stood inside the elevator and
smiled back as she leaned forward to stop the door from closing.

“You can’t.”

“Well, I guess that will be the
best answer a man could ask for.”  He entered and deliberately turned his back
to Hallie, looking back out toward the lobby to see what had concerned her
earlier. He noted several employees from other floors walking or standing and
talking. No one stood out. He cursed his sudden numbness. It was sure to get
him killed. He crossed his arms across his chest. His right hand made a fist
and his left hand was shaped into a blade, his fingers doubled over.

As the doors closed, he became
acutely aware that as an assassin, he would have already pulled the gun out and
had it to the poor sap’s skull. Hallie had not moved.
Too bad. She had her
opportunity.
He would have to teach her a lesson.

He led with his left hand,
sweeping it under to hit her in the solar plexus. At the same time, he turned
his hips and prepared to drive his right fist at her temple. The only problem: 
she was not there. He felt something small and hard at his right pit. He froze,
his hands held out ridiculously before him like he was doing some sort of
elevator
kata.

“Put your hands down, you idiot.”

“I’m sorry...”

“Shut up!  Don’t talk right now. We
don’t have much time.”  She seemed nervous. He could not understand why. He was
the one that was going to die.