“What a good job,” Sentinel interrupted him, “that I managed, at some great personal inconvenience, to persuade so many agencies to keep a lid on that whole German
fuck
up!”
“Yes, sir.” Greere sounded utterly deflated. Even his bug-eyes seemed to have receded slightly.
“Tin is one man. I’m not sure that’s enough.” The Bull twisted the knife. “Your credibility is in tatters, Brigadier. Anything less than a complete success, after the last two disasters, well....” He let his sentence trail off ominously.
Brigadier Crispin Greere sat silent. Defeated. His experiment was in shreds. He’d lost two agents already. One agent would not be enough to complete the mission.
Sentinel sat forwards, time had come to hand his minion the glimmer of a lifeline. He snapped the file closed so that the brown manilla cover once again shrouded the uppermost pages, which had been filled with photographs of Jack Vittalle. But there were more pages in this file. Tucked away underneath the top ones. Some of them describing a vehicle recently dredged from a nondescript Sussex reservoir. “Greere,” he said. “Flawed as your execution has been, there may still be merit in your idea. The highly distributed and loosely coupled nature of modern terrorism doesn’t lend itself to traditional prosecution. Sometimes the only way to fight fire
is
with fire.”
The toad nodded obediently.
Sentinel hoped the man had picked up on his deliberate repetition of their earlier discussion, when Greere had made his original proposal to him. Sentinel wanted to make sure Greere knew that he hadn’t forgotten whose idea this had been. “You’d better hope your man, Ebrahimi, continues to take his time wandering around Europe,” he continued.
“Why, sir?”
“Because I might have someone for you.” Sentinel didn’t continue with the remainder of his sentence: someone ultrahigh risk that I can make you take responsibility for, but who might, just, add enough extra firepower to save this mission from failure. “You can go now.” He picked up his cellphone, stood, turned to his windows, and watched with satisfaction as the reflection of his subordinate scurried out of his office. ‘It’ll be some time before I’m giving up this desk to you, or anyone else, you little weasel,’ he thought to himself. ‘Watch and learn.’
~~~~~
Barfold
I stand, with the handset lead stretching from my shoulder, and wait for Shaz to answer her phone. Whilst I listen to the recurrent ringtone I casually slip my narrow switchblades, one at a time, down out of their holster. It’s another of my own little creations and straps snugly around either bicep. With merely a jerking motion, and a flex of my powerful muscle, I can release one shuttered blade at a time. They slide down under my sleeve and into my palm, where I trigger their mechanisms with my thumb, and then toss them into the dartboard I’ve got fixed to the distant wall.
Double top...
Triple top...
Bullseye.
A satisfied smile teases the edges of my lips.
“Nick,” Shaz’s voice catches my attention. “What’s up?”
“Nothing,” I grunt. “I’m gonna be away for a while. Just wanted to let you know.”
“Oh, okay...,” she sounds distracted. “Anywhere nice?”
“Cheap rental cottage. South Wales. Need to get away.”
“Yeah, good idea. A change of scenery, eh?”
“Something like that.”
“How long will you be away?” I can hear a man’s voice in the background, asking if she’d like her wineglass topped up. Seems I might be interrupting something. I hear the rustle of a palm being pressed over the handset, and then a muffled but clearly enthusiastic, “Yes, please.”
“I’ve rented it for a month,” I rumble, blinking away the sudden stabbing feeling of loss and loneliness which washes over me. “You’re busy. I’ll not take up any more of your time.”
I sense her sitting up, dragging her attention toward me and away from her companion. “It’s okay, Nick. No problem. We can talk now, if you want to. I’m here for you. Whenever you need me.”
“Thanks,” I say and hang up.
~~~~~
London
“Problems?” asked the man, as he sipped at his wine.
“Nick’s going away for a while. Maybe it’ll do some good? The fixation with Omid has been becoming worse. That publishing deal, and all the renewed media coverage, haven’t helped.” Shaz Manjeethra got up from her armchair and wandered back over to the sofa.
The man laughed briefly as she sat down next to him. “Sorry,” he explained. “You just reminded me of the complete rubbish that the little turd wrote about
you
in that book.”
Manjeethra smiled, but he noticed that she took a large slug of her wine. “It’s not right,” she said quietly.
“No,” he agreed, suddenly serious. “It’s not right.” He changed the subject, “So tell me, what constitutes ‘fixation’ then?”
“Well, I already told you about Nick’s discovery of the little worm’s nightly drinking and debauchery, didn’t I?” The man nodded. “So on top of mastering tailing a suspect, there’s the relentless study of unarmed combat techniques and, on top of
all that
, becoming something of a lethal knife thrower too.”
“Knife thrower?”
“Yep. That’s why I’ve got a smaller target hanging in the kitchen. Nick is already faster and more accurate than me – it must be a hand-eye thing – and you should see the switchblades.”
He sat up next to her. “Switchblades?”
“Handmade. Custom. Not large; they’re less than ten centimetres long. With really narrow blades and razor sharp. Nick keeps them in some rig that straps on your arm. You can put three knives into it, then slip them one at a time into the palm of your hand.” Shaz shook her arm out in demonstration. “A quick flick of the blade release, and then throw. They’re brilliantly balanced. Nick says they’re no more difficult to make than a mechanised arrow; you know what I mean by that?” He nodded as she continued, “The ones where the tip changes shape on impact. Crazy stuff, huh?”
Her lover raised his wine glass to her. “That makes two of you then.”
“Three of us,” she laughed, and nestled her head onto his broad shoulder.
~~~~~
Javed Omid looked carefully out of the same back-bedroom sash window he’d used, unsuccessfully, as an exit a few months ago. Nothing moved in the garden or back alleyways.
It had been the same for several days.
Perhaps, whoever it had been, had stopped spying on him? Not that he cared too much. It was probably some stupid paparazzi, trying to get pictures. The glimpses he’d seen were just that: glimpses.
Some big bloke.
Dressed in dark clothes.
Once or twice someone had followed him in the car too, but there had been no approaches, and nothing in the papers...
~~~~~
The Gower Peninsular, South Wales
The tiny cottage stands on its own on the promontory. It’s a sturdy little property, made of roughhewn Welsh bedrock and looks out proudly from the cliffs, which provide fantastic views down onto the dramatic Gower coastline. It’s so isolated that it’s taken me ages to find it, even with directions.
I stand on the doorstep, drinking in the views.
Perfect.
There are no neighbours.
No-one around for miles.
I grab one of my holdalls, go inside and start to search for lamps to fit the timers onto. The rest of my kit will go into my backpack. I’ll be hiking back to town. The car can stay here while I’m away.
~~~~~
Tidworth, England
Jack stood nervously in front of the chipped green-painted front door. This simple terraced house was one of a hundred identical cubes. Each with its own unkempt handkerchief of sparse muddy grass and plain slab pathway in front of it. Each looking as run down as the next.
Eventually he could hear a chain being fastened and the door opened a fraction.
“Dominic? Is that you?” A woman’s voice asked from behind it.
He nodded. “Hi Julie,” he said. “Sorry I haven’t been around. I’ve been working abroad for a while.”
“I can see from the tan,” she said. “And the long hair. I nearly didn’t recognise you.” The door closed again and he heard the chain being removed. When it opened properly he could see she was looking tired and drawn. “Come in,” she said wearily. “I warn you though, the place is a mess.”
He smiled, stepped inside and made to slip his shoes off.
“No need,” the woman said. “This way.”
She led him through the small hallway, past a large photo of her and Mike – smiling happily through fluttering confetti – which was hanging on the wall. Jack glanced at the picture.
‘From another lifetime,’ he thought sadly as he followed her into the sitting room.
A child’s toys were scattered all over the floor.
“Where’s Junior?” Jack asked, seating himself respectfully at one end of the solitary, small sofa.
“Upstairs having his afternoon sleep. Would you like a cup of tea?”
“That would be nice,” he said, and she nodded and left the room.
He looked around. The place was clean and well kept, despite what she’d said, but he could tell things must be tough. The pension would be reasonable, but it didn’t seem to be stretching too much past the basics. A little, battered, portable television sat on Mike’s large TV cabinet in the corner. It looked tiny on such a large piece of furniture. “What happened to the plasma?” he called quietly through to the kitchen.
“Broke.” Came the hushed reply.
He’d seen a dish on the front of the house but couldn’t see any satellite box.
Mike had always loved his television. So had Julie, as far as he could remember. Back in that other life. When the two of them would welcome him regularly into a happy home. When they would have sat there, the three of them together, sprawled variously on the floor or chairs, supping beers, laughing. “We live for our telly,” she had told him, on more than one occasion. “I don’t know what I’d do without it, while he’s away.”
He was away for good now.
Jack got up and had a look behind the cabinet. Twin coax cables were coiled up, redundant, on the floor. A cheap digital convertor was leaning untidily against the wall amongst the usual mess of hidden dust and cobwebs.
He wandered to the sitting room door. She was standing, looking away, hunched over the work surface – she looked so sad. He cleared his throat politely and she jerked around, plastering a false smile onto her face, trying to make it look like she was okay. “Satellite’s gone as well, isn’t it?” he asked gently.
She nodded. “Michael needs lots of things,” she explained.
“I’ll be back in a few minutes,” he said. “Turn the kettle off. You can make me that tea when I get back.”
~~~~~
Swansea Railway Station, Wales
I heave the backpack onto the baggage rack, and sit on a nearby seat so I can keep an eye on it. It will take a few hours to get back into London but I’m glad to be sitting down. It was a long walk back to the main road, and a long wait for the irregular bus to arrive and carry me into Swansea. This train is welcome respite from the cold drizzle which continues to stream tiny rivulets over the coach’s darkening windows.
~~~~~
Tidworth
Michael Jnr. was valiantly defending his fortress, sitting safely behind walls which had been rapidly constructed from the forty-six inch plasma’s cardboard packaging. The wobbly defences were busy repelling invaders by way of a stream of soft toys which bounced around Jack as he squatted, facing away, wrestling with the various cables by the cabinet. One of the toys bounced off his head.
“Ouch!” Jack exclaimed, leaping to his feet and spinning around in mock anger.
The youngster dived for cover in his castle, squealing with excitement.
“Who threw that?”
Much giggling came from the other end of the upturned, nappy-padded backside.
“Ssshhh...,” Julie whispered furtively. She was smiling as she looked on from the safe haven of the sofa. “Dominic’ll spot you if you make too much noise.”
“Hmmm...,” said Jack. “Perhaps there’s someone hiding? Maybe in
here
!” He reached out with a foot and rattled the side of the box, prompting a fresh wave of giggling from his tiny adversary.
Something inside him churned at the sound of the happy noises. That lifelong need for love, for company, for family. It called to him. Begged him.
Mike had been one of the lucky ones. He had found himself a beautiful woman. Made himself a family. Loved them with all his heart. Would have stood by them, through everything. Supported them. Been there to watch his son grow. Been there to play.
He looked at Julie. She had been horrified when he’d reappeared at the door, laden with boxes. “Don’t worry, it’s only a vanilla satellite box,” he’d said. “There’s no subscription, but it’ll pick up the free-to-air channels well enough, and record stuff for you.”
Her eyes had filled with tears. “It’s too much,” she’d blurted, before rushing upstairs to answer the cries which had conveniently started to come from Michael’s bedroom.
That had been an hour ago.
“Okay,” he announced, throwing himself down next to her on the two seater. He could feel her warmth alongside him. “Time to test drive.” He handed her the remotes. “Let’s see if this all works!”
~~~~~
London
He snatched up the handset. “Sentinel,” he said crisply.
“I have an address for Mercury, sir.”
Major Richard Charles raised his eyebrows, swapped the phone to his other hand and reached across the polished walnut desktop to retrieve his errant Montblanc pen. “Good work. That was quick,” he said. “Tell me.”
He wrote for a few seconds onto a single blank sheet of paper.
“And the Sussex location?” He asked.
“Empty, sir,” the male operative at the end of the phone replied. “No sign of activity. The car’s gone too.”