by Attila Orosz
Yes, the HUM’s operations were at their peak and he was part of it. And he was sure there was a role that he could take in this, even with his new disadvantage.
There was a slight knock on the door. The man called Crowley entered the room, followed by Rickard, whom he knew quite well. Alex smiled politely and wanted to get up to greet them, but the older man would not allow it.
“Just rest, my son, we have plenty of time for the formalities, I believe. Sit, just sit.”
He sat and Crowley took a seat himself, pulling another chair next to his. Rickard remained standing.
Crowley was middle aged, had a large frame, and a great loud voice. Something in his demeanour showed he was quite used to giving commands, yet his voice was pleasant and warm. He wore a perfectly tailored, expensive looking suit, with leather shoes and a subtly purple neck tie. All in all, he gave the impression of a great man. And Alex knew that he was a great man.
“I’m very pleased to meet you again, Mr Crowley. I’ve heard a lot about you since I joined the organisation.”
“We’ve met before?” asked Crowley, looking up at Rickard for support.
“Yes,” said Rickard, “when we first recruited Mr Lewis here, you personally took care of the interview.”
“These things often escape me, I do apologise,” said Crowley to Alex.
“That’s fine. And please, call me Alex. I’m not used to hearing my family name.” He wanted to say some more, but Crowley interrupted him.
“You have done a damn fine job, my son. And you have been through a lot. I’m sorry about your arm. We will make sure you’ll have a prosthesis installed at the first opportunity.”
Alex looked at where his left hand used to be. He still forgot about having lost it, it seemed unreal. The damage caused by the drone’s bullets was heavy, the arm had to be amputated, he was told.
“Don’t worry about that, Mr Crowley. Listen—”
“Rest assured, you will be handsomely compensated,” said Crowley, interrupting him again.
He signalled to Rickard, who produced a small packet wrapped in paper. Crowley took it and gave it to Alex.
“This is yours, I believe. I’m sure it will help you forget about your loss,” he said, “but don’t use it all at once,” he added with a knowing smile.
Alex looked at the packet. He knew well what it contained and, by the looks of it, it would have lasted him a whole week. He used to call it sweet oblivion. With that much, he could have spent many days in a place he used to call bliss. Now he felt it would just be a waste of time. He did not know how to explain this, and he did not want to seem ungrateful. He took the packet and held onto it.
He hesitated for a short time then coughed and, mustering up his courage, finally said, “Mr Crowley, listen… I know now, or I think I know, how much you’ve done for these people—”
“And you don’t know the half of it,” smiled Crowley, and looked up at the unmoving face of Rickard, who did not seem to notice or, if he did, showed no sign of it.
“Yes. I know what you mean, it must be tremendous work, organising everything like this. To be so efficient. Yet, if I may say so, there were certain things that could be improved. I don’t mean to criticise your work, but— you see, I’d got it all wrong, I was in it for all the wrong reasons. I was selfish. I cared about nothing but my sustenance—”
“There is nothing wrong with that, as far as I’m concerned,” said Crowley with a serious face. “As long as you do the job, which you did.”
“I know, but… Look, I don’t know how to say this, but something changed. Somehow I see things differently.”
Alex paused for a moment then continued, “I’m still very grateful for the payment. But you see, I’m ready to do more, to serve more, to take things seriously!”
“Even after what happened to you only two days ago?” Crowley’s voice was filled with genuine admiration, or so it seemed to Alex.
“Yes, even after that. Especially after that.”
Crowley seemed to consider this. This is it, thought Alex. This is the opportunity. Seize it now.
“I want to become a ground level operator. If possible.”
Crowley still made no reply. He looked in front of himself, still lost in thought. Then he looked up at Rickard, apparently trying to read the unmoving face of the man. Rickard did not seem to mind, but he did not return the man’s glance.
Then he looked back at Alex and said, “All in due time, my son. We will have plenty of time to discuss this, but now you need to rest. And I believe that little packet there might just be of some help with that.”
Yes, thought Alex, only I don’t want to forget any more, I need to remember, I want to be present!
He decided to go along with Crowley’s request for now, and bring the subject up again later, when the time felt right. He doesn’t quite understand it yet. But he will.
“Sure,” said Alex, with a polite smile. “It will be put to good use. I really need to rest now.”
“Good, good,” said Crowley, getting ready to leave. “Make sure you report for duty, when you are through with it, will you?”
Alex had a sudden thought. The African! Whatever happened to him?
“Mr Crowley, just one more thing!”
“Yes, son?”
“What happened to that man… I never knew his name… the African, who I escorted in?”
“Your delivery? All is fine. It’s now in cargo. The wounds were treated and food was provided at the delivery stage. It was processed onto the last train, with a little difficulty, and is now en-route to safety. You can rest easy for that.”
“Yes, thank you.”
Crowley got up like he was ready to leave, but instead of going for the door he went around the heavy desk and sat down behind it. He looked at Alex.
“Still here, son?” he said with a smile.
Alex realised that he was in the man’s office.
“Oh, I’m sorry I was under the impression… Yes, I’m ready to go. Thank you, Mr Crowley, see you soon. Rickard, nice to see you. Later, gentlemen!” and with that he shut the door behind himself.
***
Captain Rickard was looking at Colonel Crowley with an emotionless, calculated hatred. He knew it was impossible, but he felt hate without actually feeling it. He knew it. It was part of his intellect. This hate was a decision. Cold, and calculating, just like all his actions in the last few days.
When he had decided to coax the Colonel into bringing the subjects in, he had been perfectly aware that it would be a suicide mission, and the Colonel would put him in charge for cleaning up the traces, which would be an impossible feat.
There were seven dead soldiers, and one badly wounded, plus half a million European Dollars’ worth of damage in a drone’s sensors. Sure, replacing the drones was part of the whole point of keeping an army constantly combat ready, it was good for the economy, but there could be no incidents, all should have been planned to work together. Within budgets and according to plans.
No, this was a one-way street, a situation they could only go deeper into. He had known there was no way out, or if there was one he knew nothing of it. Yet he had accepted the assignment to be responsible for the cover-up, without a word. It made no difference. If they were to go out, he would make sure there would be quite a bang.
He could wave goodbye to his promotion now. He could be lucky to get out of this alive, or with a shorter-than-life prison sentence. His plans to humiliate his late father vanished into nothing. But if he could not rise above him in rank, he would destroy him entirely. Him, and all he once stood for. And the end-game was so close, he could touch it.
The Colonel seemed to care very little about it all, he was now dreamily looking out of the office window. The Captain knew all too well where his mind was. The old bastard only went through all that trouble to please that slut of a wife of his. Pathetic. But it did not matter now.
“Sir,” he said in a firm voice.
The
Colonel looked startled for a moment, but composed himself instantly.
“Ah, yes, Captain,” he said, “I believe you know your duties. Go and have the man processed. Whatever you do, however you do it, I don’t want to know. Your hands are untied, you are free to choose your actions. But remember, responsibility is also yours. The less I know, the lower the charges against both of us.”
“Of course, Sir.”
Yeah, right. Washing your hands clean. He knew the Colonel was talking bullshit. He expected him to. That was his nature. Screw it up, then disclaim all responsibility. Hell, he would even get away with it! He had enough connections, friends in high places. The Captain knew he would then be forgotten and discarded like a used tissue. He had done his duty, now he can go. But he would not go alone. Keeping Lewis alive and making sure he would recover to be able to talk was very important. The ‘agent’ was living evidence of the late incident.
“Captain, just one more thing.”
The Colonel’s voice brought him back to the present.
“I trust you understand the importance of perfect privacy. No names, needless to mention. The way you handled your mother’s case was absolutely brilliant. At a time like this, I expect such brilliance from you, nothing less. You will be cared for, rest assured. As for our little friend, I gave him a dose so pure his next trip will be the last. I understand your position of extracting information from him, but now we both have confirmed that the man knows absolutely nothing of value at all. Is that not so, Captain? Oh, and please change back into your uniform as soon as possible, preferably before anyone sees you.”
The Colonel’s smile bore no trace of trying to be honest. It was openly cynical, the Captain could see it. All right, that was it.
***
Colonel Crowley was smiling to himself as he watched the Captain leave his office. Everything worked out in the end. He could never have hoped for it all to play out so well. But he got what he wanted: the wife would not only be satisfied, she would be bought, she would be purchased! Nobody can refuse a gift like that, not even her! And then she would be under his total control, once and for all.
As for the Captain, he had done an exquisite job, and the Colonel was most sorry to lose a man like that. But it had to be done. Too much to clean up, too many traces to cover, and somebody had to take the blame. If the Colonel was only sure of one thing, it was that it would not be him. Captain Rickard was a fine man, but that would only make his sacrifice all the more dramatic. And the greater the drama, the greater the smoke which he, the Colonel, would use as a screen for his getaway.
Operation New Dawn was being closed down and, just like when it was first conceived, named after the infamous terrorist group, it unfortunately meant certain collateral damage to be expected. He had calculated upon it right from the start, ever since he was put into this present position to act on behalf of all interested parties, keeping a fine balance between the military operation and the logistics of smuggling goods. He did expect it, but he also hoped that it would be avoidable. It turned out that it was most possibly not. A sad turn of events, but nothing much to worry about, as far as the Colonel was concerned.
He was not sure what would happen to the former trafficker though. He felt deep inside, that he might just have gained himself a loyal man, who could even replace Rickard in due time. He could probably even take him inlands and let him into his operations slowly, one step at a time. That of course depended on what he would do with his ‘payment’. The Colonel suspected he would probably not use it now, which would mean that he could even live. After all, the man was absolutely oblivious as to what was happening, so there was no reason for him to be killed. But he could not, of course, be prevented from willingly overdosing on a substance he illegally possessed. He was always keen on the drug the Colonel fed him, just like most of the civilian HAs in his employment. The synthetic opiate-like drug worked miracles on one’s nerves. It was highly illegal now, being as addictive as it was, but he remembered it well from his younger days, when it was the expected way for officers under training to unwind their nerves for twenty-four hours at a time. For those twenty-four hours they were not even aware of their own existence, and after they woke the world just felt straight again. They used to joke between themselves, calling it ‘soma coma’. He could perfectly understand the man’s addiction.
Now the trafficker had fooled himself into believing that his life had a purpose. That could have even been dangerous, but the Colonel worried little about it. Whatever befell the man, the Colonel would only benefit from it. If Lewis decided to come off the drug, the Colonel would find good use of him still. If not, another problem just solved itself. All was well. He wondered whether he should call his wife and tell her about what she could expect, or make it an absolute surprise. He decided to give it some more thought while enjoying a fine brandy and one of those illegal tobacco cigars he kept for special occasions.
***
Captain Rickard stepped out of his superior’s office. He was focusing on the rising hatred inside himself. It was slowly leaving his guts and entering his mind. He had to be careful not to allow it to become an emotion. He had to keep his cool. His plan had worked out until the very last moment, but now he saw that he was not the only one with plans on his mind. The Colonel was cunning, much more so than he had expected. One great mistake he had made, however, was to underestimate the Captain. Oh, no. I will not be beaten. Not like this.
He heard a door open down a far corridor, and he picked up his pace to catch up with Lewis. He entered the corridor and saw the former trafficker turning down the other end. He ran towards the corner. Just before he turned, he slowed his steps, caught his breath, and tried to move as quietly as he could. The trafficker did not notice him. The Captain put his hand on his weapon and undid the latch of the holster trying to make no sound. The trafficker did not notice anything. He pulled out the gun and began to squeeze the trigger, but then he thought better of it.
“Lewis!” he said half aloud.
The trafficker stopped and turned around. His face was pure interest, he had no time to assess the situation. Captain Rickard did not take the time to observe his face either. He aimed and squeezed the trigger. The explosion of the shot filled the corridor.
He watched the body of Alex Lewis, former Humanitarian Activist, or just ‘trafficker’ as they called him on their side of the operation, fall onto the floor. He stepped closer and kicked the body, but gained no satisfaction from it. Then with the gun still smoking in his hand, he turned around and started back towards the Colonel’s office, his face a mask of insane hatred.
Epilogue
It was a fine Tuesday afternoon, the streets of Brussels flooded with light. The early March sun was still weak but carried the promise of spring and, with it, new life. Jumaane was standing in the corridor, looking out of the window. He admired the view. In the past six months he had learned a lot about this ‘capital of the world’ as it was popularly referred to. The strange buildings, the clothes people wore and the many electronic devices flashing and buzzing no longer unnerved him. The strange languages they spoke did not make him uneasy. Neither did the collar he wore.
He had learned English and a little German, been taught to read and write, and educated about European culture and habits so that he would not make himself look so much of an outsider. Apart from the colour of his skin, of course. Not much could be done about that.
It was probably worth it after all, he thought to himself, as he watched the buzzing street. He could see the parliament building of the United States of Europe from here. He had been told that this was a really rich area, one that only the most influential people could afford to live in. He could believe this by just looking at the furniture in the house. He could never have imagined such luxury in his life.
***
It had not all started so smoothly though. He could not remember how he had got into the camp, his last memory being that of his only white friend, whose name he would pr
obably never learn now, supporting him as they rushed towards some hazy goal where there was nothing but forests and gunfire. He had lost consciousness on the road. When he came to, he was lying on a rough bed, surrounded by strange men all wearing plastic bags and helmets.
They injected him with something, and left him without a word. As he looked around, he saw many people, all lying on beds. Most of them were Africans. He sat up, looking for a familiar face. He was wondering if the women with the small ones had ever made it this far. Whatever this place was, nobody shot at them, and although it smelled strange and felt weird, it also seemed safe. He turned around and caught a glimpse of one of the women from the forest. She was talking to someone he could not see. On the next bed, one of the children was sleeping.
Jumaane smiled. He wanted to get up and go to them, but he could not move his legs. He soon discovered that his arms were restrained as well, but before he could call for help a great tiredness took over him and he fell into a deep, empty, dreamless sleep.
His second awakening was a lot less pleasant. There was cold and dark. He smelled piss and faeces. When he tried to get up, a stabbing pain shot into his neck and up into his head. He fell down, his whole body a cramp. When the shock was over, he lay panting a little while longer. Whenever he tried to move, the pain came again, so he soon learned to stay still. When his senses cleared a little, he already knew that he was lying in his own piss and his own soil.
He could not tell how much time had passed. He was in complete darkness and motionlessness. Time stood still, just like he did if he wanted to avoid the pain. He fell asleep and woke up seven times before something happened. A door opened somewhere beside him. He could see a blinding light and a silhouette of a man from the corner of his eyes, but he dared not move his head.
