It was a lonely job. Yes, there were briefings and assignments, but his work never actually allowed him the opportunity to talk to people in a social setting. Croft wasn’t sure if he was bothered by that or not. Most of his friends had been in the military, and only God and government knew where half of them were now. The others …well, they were six feet under or scattered on some field somewhere, their families left with sorrow and a pitiful military pension. And a part of him didn’t want that connection anymore, didn’t want to feel that pain, that gut-wrenching loss ever again. Not again, it was too much. So in a way, this job was ideal for him. He told himself it was all part of the healing process, but perhaps the mental scars had formed too thick. Perhaps he was dead inside.
There were moments when he thought about these things, and it was frightening just how empty his life actually was, filled with his routine of government work and exercise. Lifting the glass to his lips, Croft took a big swallow. He had to admit, he’d missed this. The pub was quiet, not surprising considering the fucking price they were charging for beer, and he pretended to watch the football match on one of several screens scattered around the establishment. But he didn’t really care about football, never had. It was just good to sit amongst humanity. That being said, he certainly didn’t entertain the concept of sitting with his back to any entrance, and he positioned himself to see every way in. There was no way he was going to ignore his training. He had his gun on him, and who could blame him following the day’s events? It wasn’t every day someone took shots at you. And he was going to limit himself to three pints. Getting drunk was tempting, but it wasn’t an option, which was why he wasn’t drinking at home. He had a strange feeling that if he let that cat out of that bag, he might not be able to put it back in. He was in no way an alcoholic, but there had been moments where he had let alcohol gain control of him, and the results had been less than pleasant. Not the thing to do when you had a loaded gun with fifteen loaded rounds and two extra clips.
The old ornate wooden door to the pub opened, and Croft raised his eyebrows in surprise and recognition. Craver walked in and went straight to the bar where he was served almost instantly. Croft watched the man. In his fifties, he had the bearing of competence and confidence. He looked like a pen-pusher, but Croft saw the signs, saw the training, saw the killer that lurked in him. The man had slain at least half a dozen people. Anyone who chose to mug him mistaking him for some city banker or accountant would be in for a nasty surprise. He didn’t know the MI5 man’s past, but Croft presumed it was as colourful as his own.
Craver gathered his drinks and walked over to Croft’s table. Placing one of them before Croft, Craver sat down next to him, also keeping his back to the wall.
“Quiet night for it, David.”
“Best way. I’m too old for nightclubs and disco music. Should you be drinking on a school night?”
“Every night is a school night for me, old chap,” Craver said. He took a sip of his whiskey and placed it on the table in front of him. The men didn’t look at each other, but stared out at the clientele. “I presume you heard?”
“What, that our captive killed himself? Yes, I was informed.” That had taken everyone by surprise. Not even the Jihadists they caught did that.
“Damn poor show if you ask me. Someone’s going to get a bollocking for letting that happen.” Craver swished the ice around in his glass, took another sip.
“Are we any closer to finding out who they were?”
“Not really,” Craver said. “The chap’s history didn’t really point to anything. ‘Mother’ is still looking for connections, but he wasn’t on any of our watch lists.”
“He didn’t strike me as a ghost. He seemed quite amateurish. Is this a new organisation we’re dealing with?”
“It would appear so,” Craver said. On the other side of the pub, a drunk man leapt from his chair and waved his fist in celebration at the TV screen. It would seem someone had kicked a ball into a goal. How the plebs loved to roar at such trivialities.
“Yes, you fucking beauty,” the man roared.
“Oy, what have I told you about bloody swearing in my gaff? Any more of that and you’re out,” the landlord said from behind the bar.
“Sometimes makes you wonder why we bother, doesn’t it?” Craver said, indicating the drunk. “The people, the society that surrounds us. It’s broken, sick. This country is not what it was.”
“Not my job to comment,” Croft said. He finished off his pint and picked up the one Craver had bought for him. “Cheers,” he said and he raised his pint to his companion.
“Good health.” Craver finished off his whiskey and slammed it down on the table. “Have to admit, this place is a bit low class for me. I’m worried I might have to dry clean my suit just sitting here.”
“I doubt you’ll get fleas,” Croft said with a smile. He could see the idea hadn’t even occurred to the MI5 man.
“Oh Christ, now you’ve made me itch.” Croft took another swallow.
“Why are you here, Arnold?”
“Because you killed two people today. Despite your training and despite your past, there’s no escaping that. And as I’m not one who believes in those bloody mind rapists, I figured you could do with someone to talk to. And I figured you could do with getting drunk.”
“You think you can outlast me, do you?” Croft said wearing the first smile of the evening. He was now looking at Craver.
“Oh undoubtedly – I used to drink for Eton. But not here. That shit was barely drinkable,” he said pointing to his empty glass. “I require a much more superior vintage if I’m going to damage my liver. I have standards.”
“Where did you have in mind?” Croft said, downing his pint.
“My driver’s waiting outside, and my club is only a ten minutes’ drive away.” Craver stood. “Coming?”
“Why the fuck not.”
9.00PM, 14
th
September 2015, Hayton Vale, Devon, UK
Jones stood in the doorway, watching the black Land Rover approach the house along the gravel road. The last visitor of the night. The gate in the distance had closed automatically as soon as the car was through. He stood with his arms crossed, inhaling the fresh autumnal air. It could get stuffy in his laboratory, despite the powerful extractor fans and the air conditioning. It wasn’t natural to be cooped up like that. It wasn’t how mankind was supposed to live, and what was he doing all this for if not to remind mankind of how far they had fallen from the Grace of God?
At least that’s what he told the likes of Brother Abraham. God? Really? People still believed in the concept of an invisible friend, living in the sky? Did they really think there was some entity up there judging them, creating them? That there was some blissful afterlife for them to go to when they died? What on earth would be the point of that? It was weak, and it was pathetic. Ironically, Jones knew that the events over the coming days were going to send billions of them hurtling into the arms of their false prophets, begging him for forgiveness and salvation. Humanity, such potential, but such a disappointment. Better to just end it all quickly and let the planet reset. He bent to pick up the case as the car stopped several metres from him and smiled. There was no turning back now. The car door opened, and an elderly man stepped out. The man’s tailored suit was immaculate.
“Brother Zachariah, how is God’s servant this evening?” Jones said to the newcomer. Jones displayed an aura of friendship and respect, but really he felt neither for the man.
“The Lord Our God keeps me busy. His children are aimless and corrupted by the pleasures of the flesh.” Walking forwards, he pointed at the case Jones held. “I presume this is the last of it?” The man’s accent was from the American Deep South. And although he hid it well, Jones truly despised him.
“Yes, you are the last emissary to pick up the Lord’s message,” Jones said. He couldn’t believe how easy it was for him to spout this bullshit. These were not the words of a scientist, but of an actor, playing a part to fulfil his own agenda. “This is the last of it,” he said, gently patting the case. Zachariah held out his hand, and Jones passed the case over.
“The Lord thanks you,” Zachariah said. Jones watched him turn around and get back into the car. That was it – that was his part in all this done. He had been offered a flight out of the country, but Jones had declined. As the car moved away, it’s blacked out windows obscuring most of its occupants, Jones felt no relief from the excitement he had been feeling over the last couple of weeks. Brother Abraham and his little death cult had their plan, and Jones had his. Standing there, the wind gently playing with the trees far off behind the perimeter fence, he realised he had gotten away with it. Now he just had to sit back, put his feet up and watch the world burn.
10.03PM, 14
th
September 2015, White’s Private Members Club, London
So this is how the other half lives
, thought Croft. He had never been in White’s before; he never even knew it existed. He sat in a dining area more opulent than he had ever experienced, eating quail. Who the fuck ate quail? The dining area had a low murmur to it, important people talking about important things with the security that everyone would respect the privacy of those around them. There was a feeling of calmness, of order about the room, and Croft felt strangely comfortable here.
“I don’t get to come here as much as I like,” Craver said slicing into his steak. “It’s a treat I like to give myself at least two or three times a month.”
“I see your job has more perks than mine,” Croft said. He lifted up his glass still amused at the waiter’s face when he had asked for a beer. Craver had laughed, not at him but with him. Apparently, the only thing more heinous would be picking something off the vegetarian part of the menu. Allegedly, that was only there to weed out undesirables in the membership. Members of White’s were carnivores through and through.
“Oh heavens no, old chap; this has nothing to do with work. Family connections and family money. Silver spoon and all that.”
“And yet you still run around playing spies,” Croft said. “Worried you’ll get bored?” Craver took the steak and carefully placed it in his mouth. He let it sit there for several seconds and then delicately chewed the morsel, abject pleasure adorning his face.
“Oh absolutely, old boy. When you grow up being given everything, you soon realise that wealth has its limitations. And MI5 seemed the natural thing to do after leaving the Army. The old Etonian network saw to all that.” Craver attacked his steak again, and Croft looked at the man’s plate, a look of regret spreading across his face. “Anything wrong, old chap?”
“As nice as this is,” he said indicating the plate of quail, “I’m kind of wishing I’d chosen what you’re eating.”
“Happens all the time in here. The food’s so good it risks being made illegal.” The waiter passed the table and poured more red wine into both the men’s glasses. Croft felt the urge to order another beer, pictured the swearing and muttering waiter having to disappear into a dark cellar where he would scavenge for a dust-covered bottle that had been bought just in case any philistines found their way onto the premises. He resisted the temptation and thanked the waiter.
“A good red this,” Croft said.
“Of course it’s bloody good. That, my friend, is 1957 Chateau Lafite Rothschild, the best of the last century.” Craver picked up the glass and held it up to his nose, taking a long, slow inhale. He then took a sip and seemed to melt with the pleasure he was experiencing.
“Sounds expensive,” Croft answered.
“Very.”
“Isn’t this wasted on me? My palate rarely experiences anything better than a cheap supermarket merlot.”
“Oh dear boy,” Craver chuckled. “This isn’t for you; this meal and this red are purely for my enjoyment. And a good meal with good wine is never a waste of time. Even a condemned man is allowed one last meal.” Craver picked up another piece of steak with his fork and consumed it. “Which kind of feels like what this is.” The two men looked at each other.
“That sounds a tad ominous,” Croft quizzed.
“Chatter old boy, intelligence chatter. The last few days, ‘Mother’ has been throwing a hissy fit. Something big is about to hit.”
“How big?” Croft finished his beer; he was now well on the way to inebriation.
“Bigger than 911, bigger than the 77 bombings. Bigger than Madrid. Big, and it’s happening soon. So you see, I had a feeling I wouldn’t be able to come here for the foreseeable future, and I really hate to dine alone.”
“Well, I’m flattered you thought to invite me,” Croft said.
“Don’t be,” Craver said with a mischievous smile. “Nobody else was free.”
10.09PM, 14
th
September 2015, Hounslow, London
Jack Nathan sat half watching the TV program, half thinking about where his life was going. He looked over again at his sleeping mother, collapsed in the armchair she always occupied at this time. She wouldn’t be waking up in a hurry, and with his sister asleep upstairs, he basically had the house to himself. Picking up the remote, he changed the channel to the news.
He felt trapped. His obligations lay on his shoulders like a weight, slowly crushing the air out of him. Jack knew he needed to get out of here, needed to forge on with his life, but he didn’t know how he could achieve that. If only his mother could regain control, if only she could climb out of the bottle she craved and realised she still had responsibilities to be a parent. And although Jake hated to admit it and tried to hide the realisation deep within him, he knew he resented her. Yes, it wasn’t her fault Father had been killed, but it wasn’t Jake’s either. He needed to do something about all this, but he just didn’t know what.