Milieu Dawn

by Malcolm Franks

Matt wanted to leave later in the day. She worked overtime to persuade him to rest a while longer. He got the impression Britta enjoyed the company, albeit only for a short time. Matt appreciated how difficult living alone could be, so he agreed, though this wasn’t his only motive.

  He spent the afternoon recuperating, trying to build up his reserves of energy. By evening he felt much stronger. Britta’s frequent massaging of his shoulder helped, easing a degree of mobility back into his aching limbs.

  Matt also needed time to reflect, think through some of the issues. Rosa’s words in Hallstatt nagged away at him, though he didn’t know why. He delved deep into his memory banks, trying to recall every detail of their conversations. Nothing came to mind.

  He realised the plans of his adversaries had been brilliant in their simplicity, out with the old and in with the new. All they needed was a fall guy and Matt fitted the bill. It irked him he’d acted in precisely the way they’d supposed, almost like they had a blueprint to the inner workings of his mind. Rosa was right to say he must have been under surveillance for a while. He must have been for them to know him so well. If there was one thing he could be certain of, it was that these people were clever.

  Once the original group of bad guys were dead the Milieu conspiracy would die with them, in the public consciousness; consigned to the political dustbin. Then the new group would be free to start afresh, beyond suspicion.

  Matt wished now he hadn’t killed Chen and Tanaka. They would have provided living proof of the ongoing conspiracy. As it stood, he had nothing. The USB in his possession was worthless. Whoever he passed it to would be located in very short shrift.

  He retraced his steps, from the beginning. Matt couldn’t believe how readily he’d fallen for their entrapment. He hadn’t recovered the addresses, they were left for him to find. And, in case he was too dumb to work it out for himself, they provided him with a guide. What were the chances he would meet a person with access to the resources he happened to need at exactly the right time? The kidnapping of Catherine Vogel was a stroke of genius. Matt stormed straight in, all guns blazing. The fact he had unwittingly killed a policeman must have had his enemies rolling around suffering from multiple orgasms.

  Even when their plan went astray, such as his escape from China, they had counter measures in place. First there was the attempted plane crash then the alarm feed fitted to the USB. The loss of one of their own, Gratia, would have represented nothing more than collateral damage.

  Matt concluded his only hope rested back in Victoria The only flaw to this risky plan was the old USB contained no references as to who these conspirators were. He wondered if they were part of the old guard or an entirely new breed. No, he decided, there had to be some kind of a link between the old and the new. Otherwise how would they have been able to pick up the pace again so quickly?

  Something else kept gnawing away at him. There was no American address detailed in the diary; though Hank Scurrelli, the original mastermind, was already in custody. So why was the CIA involved? Maybe his meeting with Catherine would fill in some of the gaps, provide more of the missing pieces.

  The next day Britta left early, to go to work. Matt had asked her for permission to use the desktop for additional research. After some deliberation he decided to investigate the original owner of the diary, Kestlemann, Schafen’s senior employee in Seattle. The homepage blinked onto the screen and he typed in the name. A small number of listings appeared.

  Matt clicked on each in turn. Little substance was revealed about the man. The words proverbial and dead end sprang to mind. The last entry was a reference to a social website. Matt opened it more in hope than expectation.

  A photograph emerged. The image of a tall, white haired man dominated the picture. To either side, a string of smaller figures fanned out. According to the caption, these younger people had received awards for enterprising business ideas in and around the Seattle area. The certificates of achievement were presented to the winners by Herbert Kestlemann. So this is what the man looked like, grey haired and mature. For some reason the facial features on display appeared unusually familiar.

  Matt glanced both ways at the lines of fresh young faces. One caught his eye, right at the end. He searched the row of names underneath the photograph, matching each one to an image. The recognisable face belonged to Kestlemann’s son. His surname was Cole, courtesy of his mother’s remarriage to a British banker. Matt knew who this man was. Only he didn’t know him by the name of Cole.

  “Jesus Christ!”

  If the odds were heavily stacked against him before, they were positively overwhelming now. He quickly understood the need to access the rigged USB, alarm and all. But to do that meant he had to leave, putting as much distance between him and Britta as possible.

  Matt raced up the stairs and gathered his belongings. He was about to exit the front door when his conscience pricked at his mind. There was no way he could leave without saying goodbye, not after everything Britta had done for him. Then again, each minute he stayed could only enhance the danger to her. What should he do? He was in two minds. Eventually Matt stepped away from the door, sat on the bottom stair, and waited.

  It was dark before the door finally opened. Matt had grown increasingly anxious at each passing minute. She was happy to see him.

  “You are looking good today,” she said.

  He stood and paced up to her.

  “Britta, I have to leave.”

  “What, right at this moment?”

  “Yes, right now,” he said.

  She failed to hide her disappointment. He felt as if he had let Britta down in some way. She recovered her poise quickly.

  “Have you got all you need?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “How will you travel?”

  “Bus or train likely,” he said.

  He could see her thinking, mulling over a decision.

  “I have a better idea. Follow me.”

  She led him upstairs to her room. Wandering over to the bedside table Britta lifted a key from the drawer

  “Marcus’ car remains in the garage. I drive it occasionally and have it serviced each year. Silly, I know, but I could never part with it.”

  “Then you must keep it.”

  “No. The vehicle casts a shadow over my life. Until it is gone, I can never be free. The time has come for me to move forward. Take the key.”

  Matt reluctantly accepted.

  “I can never repay you,” he said softly.

  He could see indecision in her mind.

  “There is one thing, perhaps.”

  “Anything,” he said. “Just name it.”

  She reached into the drawer and threw a rectangular sachet onto the bed. His eyes examined the shiny brown packet. Matt was familiar with its content.

  “I have been on my own for many years.”

  He wasn’t sure how to react.

  “I can not compel you,” she said.

  Matt felt the change in temperature immediately. A door or window had been opened. He gripped Britta’s arm and pushed her up against the wall, listening for movement. He could hear nothing.

  But someone else was here.

  “Do not move,” he ordered.

  Matt slipped out of the door and closed it behind him. The sound of feet along wooden flooring came from the bedroom he had occupied last night. Matt edged towards the door. He stepped to the other side of the threshold and waited. The door slipped open revealing the barrel of a fitted silencer. This was no burglar.

  A large head came into view. It turned and looked down the passage from where he had just come. Matt’s fist crashed into the temple, jamming the skull against the frame. He pressed the head down with both hands to meet his upcoming knee. A sickening thud preceded the body sinking to the floor where it lay, motionless.

  There would be three, he estimated. Where were the other two? Floor boards creaked across the landing. Matt knelt and fired twice. The dark clad figure moaned then collaps
ed to the floor. Matt relieved both bodies of their weapons and crawled on all fours to the top of the stairs. Another black clad figure was halfway up. He fired twice more. The figure was thrown against the rail and then tumbled backwards. He knew he had to ensure the job was complete. Matt crawled head first down the wooden steps and reached the prone figure. A quick pulse check confirmed death. Three, he confirmed with satisfaction.

  Suddenly, light filled the stairwell.

  “Matt, what’s going on?” said the woman’s voice.

  “Britta,” he yelled. “Get back inside.”

  The blowpipe sound he knew too well came from his right. Britta screamed. Matt rose and fired, throwing a dark coloured shape against the wall. He sped to the figure, slumped untidily on the floor. A pair of defiant eyes looked up into his. He saw the shoulder wound. Matt hammered the butt of the gun to the covered head and the eyes closed.

  He leapt up the stairwell, three at a time. Britta was backed unevenly up against the wall. Blood ran from the wound close to her heart. Her eyes were barely open, serene and placid. He inspected the injury. Britta’s hand fell on to his arm.

  “Let me go,” she said softly.

  “No, Britta. No.”

  “There is nothing to be done. I am a doctor, I know.”

  He shook his head in disagreement.

  “While you’re alive there is hope.”

  Her eyes glanced up to his.

  “It is time for me to leave. I want to go.”

  “No, Britta. I won’t allow it.”

  Her body shivered. Panic rose inside him. Britta’s life was ebbing away. He roared in anger.

  “Matt,” she whispered. “Please do not be angry. Marcus waits for me. He wants me to join him.”

  A smile forced its way onto her lips. It weakened, and then stilled. Her eyes remained open. He recognised her spirit had flown. Matt lifted his hand and gently closed her eyelids.

  “What the hell is wrong with you,” he said to the sky.

  Consumed by rage Matt hurtled back down the stairs and stood over the fourth assassin. He ripped away the balaclava covering revealing a mass of jet black hair. The body stirred in discomfort. A pair of eyes opened and widened at the sight of the barrel. She was of Asian descent, the skin of her face partially camouflaged against the similarly coloured flooring. Matt pointed the gun to the assassin’s head. Her eyes closed in silent acceptance. Matt’s finger began to exert pressure. The woman’s eyes re-opened.

  “What are you waiting for?” she groaned.

  He didn’t know. Inexplicably, uncertainty had decided to enter his mind and confuse him. This woman had murdered Britta. She would kill Matt, given the chance. So he had every right to pull the trigger. For some reason he couldn’t muster the desire. Matt checked his watch.

  “Are you the last of this team?” he asked the figure.

  “Screw you.”

  “This is the only chance I’ll give you. Are you the last?”

  The figure hesitated.

  “A ten second silence is all you get,” said Matt.

  Matt’s finger slowly tightened on the trigger.

  “Wait,” said the woman.

  He relaxed his grip.

  “How do I know you won’t shoot anyway?”

  “Because I told you I wouldn’t,” he said, coldly.

  Matt watched her eyes shift from side to side. They stopped the moment she’d made her decision.

  “Yes,” she replied. “But there are two more teams outside, fully equipped. They’ve got both vehicles blocking the end of the drive. You can’t get out.”

  Now it was Matt’s turn to make a decision. He searched for the two way radio. Matt held it to her face.

  “This is what you’re going to tell them,” he said.

  Chapter Thirty Five

  Running