Insequor (7 page)

It was hard to believe they’d touched down less than thirty minutes ago. There was no immigration or passport control for Daniel; an unmarked car with diplomatic plates had whisked the party straight through the awakening London streets. And what streets!

He had taken in as much as he could glimpse through the windows, misty with morning condensation; old Victorian townhouses, ancient cobbled streets and the famous red buses. At one point he’d even caught a glimpse of Buckingham Palace. He was already mentally planning his three months of sightseeing when they’d pulled up outside a grand hotel.

The driver stepped out of the large black car they had been travelling in; a tell-tale earpiece creeping around the back of his head and a self-assured pat of the firearm underneath his jacket. Two more cars had followed, but it was just him and Jones in this one. They got out and Toby appeared from the car behind, on his phone and motioning for them to enter the hotel.

As he walked through the revolving doors of the ‘Excelsior’ the palatial surroundings almost tugged him along. It was an old, majestic hotel; one of London’s finest. Outside darkness still loomed over the city; it was early morning, but the hotel was busy.

Inside, the staff were flapping around the lobby like seagulls at a rubbish dump. All with their noses in the air, feet planted firmly with each step and a look of self-assurance and confidence that would make a princess blush.

At the desk a beautiful young woman, with pale skin and green eyes smiled before speaking softly. “Welcome to the Excelsior. Do you have a reservation?”

Toby swept in from behind, “The name is Lynch.”

An alarm bell must have started ringing because out of nowhere the manager appeared, ingratiating himself with the three of them.

“Welcome back to the Excelsior, Mr Lynch, I’ll get someone to take your bags straight through to your suites.”

A porter arrived to carry their things and they made their way up red carpeted stairs, past statues and six foot oriental vases. On the first floor was a small, discreet elevator. They squashed inside; elbows poking ribs and shoes clicking. Toby reached across and pressed the ‘P’ button. Jones raised an eyebrow.

“Penthouse,” said Toby.

“The CIA has it pretty good,” said Jones, stepping back from the doors.

“I don’t work for the CIA, Detective Jones.”

“Who do you work for?”

Toby stared up at the roof, “Myself.”

The doors trundled open and they were greeted by another porter who took them though to a lavish foyer where he handed over some key cards.

“I suggest we all retire and get some rest,” said Toby, slipping the porter some money. “Tomorrow I have to meet the British Home Secretary and then we’ll probably have to attend a Royal Navy briefing; although I think some of our guys will be there too.”

“I could do with something to eat,” said Daniel.

“Just dial reception. They’ll provide you with anything you need.”

“Are we allowed to leave?” said Jones.

“Of course,” The question made Toby freeze for a moment. “But I wouldn’t; not until I’ve updated the British Secret Services. Remember, you came through diplomatic channels to get here. You don’t even have passports.”

Toby dished out the key cards and they each took a room; the third one being occupied by the accompanying agents. Daniel felt a bit sorry for them having to share until he entered his own room and saw what they would be ‘sharing.’ It was bigger than his apartment.

A large open plan living space complete with an enormous TV, sofa, armchairs, bar and even a grand piano caused him to stop and stare. He dropped his small bag and walked around touching things, opening draws, pushing buttons. Behind the bar he found every drink you could imagine. Along from it, a kitchenette was laid out with fresh breads, fruits and cheeses.

He crashed on the couch; it’s soft leather wrapping around him in a hug. His eyes closed slowly and his neck softened but he woke with a jolt. Something Toby had said on the plane about jetlag. ‘However hard it is try and get your body into local time as soon as possible. Meals are a great place to start,’ he’d said. He picked up one of the phones and dialled reception; noting there was also a number for the wine cellar.

“Good morning, sir. What can I do for you?”

“Hi, could I get a bite to eat.”

“Of course, anything in particular?”

“Do you have any meatloaf?”

“I’m sure chef can rustle some up.”

“Great. With maybe some mashed potato and a soda.”

“Very good, sir. Anything else?”

“No that’s great, thanks.”

Daniel pressed the hang up button on the phone and sat back, rubbing his eyes.

***

Downstairs Rupert Brooks got out his smartphone and started to text. As his fingers danced away his eyes looked back at the American’s food order.
What the hell was meatloaf?
Wasn’t it a singer?

He looked down at the screen. “MADE CONTACT. THX FOR TIPOFF MATE. NO IDEA WHO HE IS THOUGH.”

Brooks made his way to the elevator, making sure to give the agent that had been posted there a friendly smile as he brushed past in his purple livery. The jacket itched and as the doors closed he unbuttoned the top.

Good old Smith. He always produced the goods. The call had come through to Brook’s office at the London Herald less than an hour ago; from there they’d called him to pass on the lead and Brooks was already in the area. Three travellers; Americans, diplomatic plates and lots of security. From his vantage point in reception Smith always made sure Brooks got the best tips; for a price. Pop stars, Hollywood stars, politicians he’d gotten them all. The pictures. The stories.

Brooks smiled to himself. This chump would be no different – whoever he was. Another one for the collection. He loitered outside the entrance to the kitchens which was shared by the hotel and the exclusive restaurant that resided within. The manager wasn’t in yet but he still couldn’t risk being seen by one of the more astute members of staff.

As he waited in the shadows at the back of the lobby, making sure to stay too far from the front to be harassed by a guest, he checked every face that came in before, eventually, Smith appeared. Short, bearded and with eyes like a cat he casually pushed a trolley with a salver and several cans of soda on top. He left it near Brooks without a word before walking away to the desk.

Brooks took the trolley and headed back to the elevator. At the top the security guard took a cursory look under the salver and sniffed one of the sodas before beckoning him through. He knocked on the door to the suite before letting himself in. Inside the TV was on. He called out, “Room service!”

A bleary faced young man appeared from behind a pillar. “What?”

“Room service, sir. Your meatloaf and sodas.” The guy had been asleep.

***

“Thanks,” said Daniel.

The porter started to unload onto the table, “Looks like you need it. Just got in?”

Daniel wasn’t in the mood for small talk. He rubbed the sides of his nose. “Yep, still a little bit jetlagged. The guy I’m with advised me to eat meals according to the time of my destination. So I am, although for me it’s dinner – you guys are still having breakfast.”

The porter smiled and started to put ice in a glass before pouring the soda. “And how long are you in London for?” He offered the drink, the ice swishing around just below his smile.

“No idea.”

“Business, then?”

“Yes, sort of. I’m not really sure.”

The porter nodded and got to work on setting up the table. “Pardon my rudeness, sir. But I’m not familiar with Hollywood. Are you a movie star?”

Daniel blinked. “Me? No. What made you think that?”

“The clientele we attract here at the Excelsior are often what you might call ‘A-listers,’ sir, if you pardon my French; especially when it’s our American cousins. Excuse my ignorance, it was wrong for me to assume that just because you’re an American you must be a movie star. I presume you’re a businessman then?”

“No.”

The porter winced. “Again, I’m sorry, sir. I’ll shut up.”

“It’s okay,” said Daniel. It was a little endearing the way the guy seemed to ask a question then apologise.

“People say I’m a good listener,” said the porter, “perhaps I should just stick with that. Your meal, sir.”

Daniel sat down and started to sift through the dishes. The meatloaf looked delicious; smaller than he was used to and with a bit of garnish on top but the meat was steaming, dark and inviting. He closed his eyes as he breathed in deeply. For a moment he was back home, a kid at the table with his mom and dad. The TV on, his dad ruffing his hair up, mom fussing over a pie. Then he was back. In a strange country, in a strange room with a stranger.

He looked back at the man; something about his smile wasn’t right. It was glazed, almost painted on. “How long have you worked here?”

“Me, sir? Oh, about three years now, the name’s Brooks.”

“Daniel.”

“Please to meet you, Daniel. So, what line of work are you in exactly?”

There it was again. He placed the napkin down over his lap deliberately. “I’m going to eat now.”

For a moment the porter looked lost before he snapped with recollection. “Of course, I do apologise, sir. If there’s anything you need just call.”

Then the guy left, leaving Daniel alone with his meatloaf and his thoughts.

Later that morning Jones knocked and Daniel sat down with him for coffee. The old detective was looking pretty fresh, all things considered. He’d been out and bought some clothes, taken a look around the block and even had his gun returned; something Toby assured him wasn’t easy considering the British stance on firearms.

“We’re not in any danger though, are we?” said Daniel.

“No, but it gives me comfort,” said Jones, idly patting his new tweed jacket.

“Nobody has guns over here. Not even the police, right?”

“Some of them do I’m led to believe, but mostly not.”

“Do you ever wish you didn’t?”

“No. Never had to use it, never would want to. But I always want to know it’s there.”

Daniel leaned back and looked out of the window. The shadow of the building opposite blocked most of the late morning sun and dark, black stone that had seen many years of smog stared back stoically.

“Wouldn’t you like to live in a world without guns, detective?”

“Of course, wouldn’t we all? But it ain’t ever going happen.”

Daniel smiled as he noticed that slight drawl trickle back into Jones’s voice. Was it southern? Louisiana maybe? Whenever his friend felt passionately about something it was there. But most of the time, when he was ‘on duty’, he was just formal; short, to the point and well spoken.

“Why?” Daniel was worried about probing, but it interested him. He lived in a world where guns and bombs didn’t seem to achieve anything. The robot wasn’t going to stop; no matter what you fired at it. But what if the rest of the world was like that. What if guns were useless?

“It’s in people’s nature to take any advantage they can. Take Communism for instance. Now, I might not be popular for saying it but it’s not a bad idea. Everybody’s equal, the state owns all the resources and people get a fair share. Now you tell me what’s wrong with that.”

“Nothing.”

“Right, but people ain’t like that. They always want more. They see something someone else has and they have to have it. Somebody thinks someone else is getting more, they want more. Call it greed. Call it ambition. Call it ‘keeping up with the Joneses.” The detective smiled, enjoying the poetry of his words.

“So that’s the problem with communism. The ‘Jones’ factor?”

Jones laughed and drained the rest of his coffee. “People aren’t all like you and me. Take it from someone who’s walked the streets for far too long. Some are greedy, some are cheats and some are downright evil.”

He contemplated the few people he’d truly known. What friends he had he wasn’t that close to. Sure, he went over at thanksgiving, he was usually invited out of pity, but they probably didn’t
know
him. There were a couple of guys he watched the games with but they just talked about work or sport. He couldn’t think of anyone he’d ever describe as evil or indeed have a conversation with about the subject.

His mind drifted to the robot. Was it evil? Was it even alive? Maybe someone else
was
controlling it. It was something that had already occurred to him but he kept coming back to the same answer. Why him?

“You’re thinking about the robot, right?”

Daniel snapped back, shook his head.

“That’s okay,” said Jones. “Truth be told; I don’t know how you sleep at night.”

He scoffed. “I don’t.”

There was a knock at the door; after a pause the porter came in with the trolley to take away the cups.

“Has Toby told you what the plan is for today?”

“No.”

“We’ve got to head over to the ministry for a meeting with some British general.”

Daniel cast a look at the porter, but he wasn’t paying attention. “Did he say anything else?”

“Just that we should relax this morning until he’s done what he needs to do. Then we’ll join him for the meeting and head back. I got the impression the British don’t believe this thing is after you.”

The porter let a cup drop, audibly on a saucer. Daniel shot a look at Jones then caught the porter’s eye. Brooks smiled as he eloquently re-arranged the cups on the trolley.

“That’s great, thanks,” said Daniel.

Brooks nodded, cleared up the rest of the things and then left. Jones had immediately assessed the situation.

“Who’s he?”

“No one.”

“You say anything to him?”

“No,” said Daniel, “but he was asking me questions. I don’t know; he might have just been making conversation. I didn’t tell him anything.”

“Keep it that way. This thing gets out and you’ll be on the front page of every newspaper on the planet. We don’t want that, right?”

“Right,” said Daniel.

Jones decided to head back to his room to take a nap against Toby’ advice and Daniel found himself scanning the TV channels. The robot was everywhere.

It was being studied and pondered; there was no shortage of opinion and comment. What would people think if they knew it was following him? He imagined stepping out of the hotel into a sea of reporters. Cameras and microphones shadowing him everywhere he went.

Like anyone he’d thought about fame. Fantasised about it; clubs, cars, girls, money. But this was different; this was infamy. The daydream quickly turned into a nightmare and he snapped back into the real world staring at the drizzle on the window.

He was starting to fade so decided to get out for a walk, grabbed his coat and stepped outside into the corridor. Immediately, from nowhere, a secret serviceman was at his side. Sunglasses, hand in coat, whispering into a hidden microphone.

“Where will we be going, sir?” The enormous frame held back the elevator door effortlessly. Funny, but Daniel always been afraid that the sensors wouldn’t spot him and they would squash his arm.

“I was going to take a walk around outside,” said Daniel, pressing the button for the lobby. “Is that okay?”

“Yes, sir. I’ll escort you.”

They plummeted in silence before a polite bell informed them they were on the ground floor. As they reached the doors a footman handed them both umbrellas. Outside the drizzle was consistent, if anything. He turned right and walked towards a crossing were a large statue of a general sat atop a horse. He put one foot forward deliberately and they headed off.

Daniel had only ever been to one major city in his entire life when, as a teenager, he’d taken a trip to New York. London was totally different; some of it looked so old. Gnarled stone facades and twisted towers shuffled up alongside glass skyscrapers and concrete blocks. Rounding the corner, he was surprised to be greeted by high ornate iron gates guarding the entrance to an enormous park.

“Where’s this?” he asked, his accompanying shadow.

“Hyde Park, sir.”

He crossed the road, narrowly missing a bright red bus and headed in. Behind him, the Secret Service agent spoke into a walkie-talkie.

“Daffy Duck is out with Minnie Mouse. Entering the park, secure.”

Daffy Duck? Minnie Mouse? Those must be the codenames being used, he thought, wondering who was who.

The air felt good, the breeze washing up his legs pressing his pants down before hurtling over his chest and face. The trees rustled around him and a lake bounced back the sky’s light. They walked for a good hour, Daniel exploring every corner of the park, the agent following at a discrete distance.

When they turned back they came up another street; this one was full of stores, boutiques and other places selling crap people didn’t need. Something across the road though caught his eye; two words. “Killer Robot.”

They were on a sandwich board outside some convenience store. He walked across, the traffic was at a standstill and he slipped through a couple of cars. The sandwich board was promoting a newspaper, but the words were crystal clear, “Killer robot attacks America!”

He stepped down into a bright cavern decorated in potato chips and candy bars. As he made his way through the aisles of foil and plastic treats he scanned the newspapers. At the end he picked four or five of them up and handed over the money to the bemused looking man behind the counter. As the guy sifted through to get the prices Daniel read each headline in turn; the robot’s face staring back at him from different angles and shots.

“Six fifty, mate.”

He dug into his pockets, looking for the money when he realised he had none. He felt his cheeks burn but from nowhere Daffy (or Minnie?) produced a note and then he was ushered out.

He folded the papers under his arm, almost hiding them like pornography. Was he ashamed? They set off back to the hotel with Daniel setting a brisk pace. He went straight through the lobby and back up to his suite where he dropped them on the table and started to read. And read.

Was it a terrorist attack? Was it the North Koreans? Was it a weapon that was out of control? Most of the papers had supplements and there were lots of pictures; some so close up it made him shudder just to look at them.

Editorials pondered over the meaning for humanity itself. Some questioned what, if anything, could be really done. Another pointed to the veil of secrecy seemingly to have been erected by the United States government. He sat back and put the paper in his hand down as his mind started whirling. He dialled room service and ordered some coffee.

It wasn’t long before Brooks arrived, a polite knock before he let himself in, wheeling a trolley. Daniel gestured at the table where the papers were strewn. “Over there, please.”

“No problem.”

At the table Brooks laid out a cafetière, a plate of cookies, some hot milk and a fine china cup. As he started to turn away he looked up at Daniel and caught his eye, before nodding back at the table.

“Been reading about the robot, eh?”

Daniel froze, unnaturally. It was only a split second and nobody else in the room would have noticed, but they both knew it.

Brooks brought the trolley to a halt and stood up straight. “It’s you, isn’t it?”

He said nothing, but shook his head slightly.

“It is.” Brooks looked at him; through him really.

“It’s okay,” said Brooks. “I can help.”

Daniel started to talk but found only air coming out of his mouth.

“I just need to talk to you,” said Brooks, as he softly walked to the table. “Let’s have a coffee.”

He watched as the porter sat himself down and started to pour; another cup had appeared from somewhere. His arms started to move forward in his shoulder sockets, willing him to sit at the table.

“You need to talk to someone,” said Brooks.