by Mark New
‘What’s the Island Breakfast? Is that the fruits in a basket they serve at the hotel?’
‘Yes, but probably a better version of it than in one of the resorts.’ I was trying very hard to make an effort even though I wasn’t really in the mood.
‘We’re at the Canton.’ Oops. I probably should have guessed that he would have picked the most expensive place to stay. It had only been completed last year at enormous cost and comprised individual bungalows that were the height of conspicuous six-star luxury. The publicity also boasted that it had an environmental impact of zero. The monthly rent on my hut would buy me about a five minute stay.
‘Then don’t pick the Island Breakfast.’ It’s a basic bartender skill that you can be witty while being personally miserable. Possibly. It did actually make him chuckle though. Joe arrived at the table bearing a mug of steaming coffee for the American and tea for me. National stereotyping or what? I nodded thanks. My new best friend pressed the screen with a flourish and looked at Joe.
‘I don’t suppose the grill comes with grits?’
‘Certainly, Sir. I’ll just slip out and shoot another grit or two.’ I grinned. For a second I thought it had gone over his customer’s head so it was a pleasant surprise when my host laughed in what appeared to be good-natured fashion. Maybe it was my imagination.
Joe wandered off, presumably to load his shotgun. My companion extended a hand.
‘We haven’t been properly introduced. I’m George Latimer.’ I shook his hand.
‘John Harvard.’ By all means try a deep database search on me. Some people reduce their digital profile by taking a menial job, insist on cash in hand, continually move around and consequently live ‘below’. It’s called that because generally it means you live ‘below’ the poverty line. Alternatively, you can obtain a new TAG to assume a separate identity but, as it means building up from scratch with someone else’s DNA and registering illegally, it’s only for the seriously rich or the seriously criminal. That’s called ‘ghosting’. The third option was to do what I’d done. There’s no slang term for that because, as far as I know, I’m the only one who has ever done it. Feel free to look me up.
There was a soft chime in my right ear. Mr Latimer had indeed connected Online. I don’t really like wearable tech such as he was employing. I’ll use it if the occasion allows but in my previous line of work, wearable tech is only useful whilst you have it. The first thing that happens if you’re captured - assuming your enemy plays by the Geneva rules - is that you get a bright new zero-tech jumpsuit in exchange for all of your expensive kit. Those of us who were in the most special kind of special forces had received implants. The chime came from a cochlear insertion which was almost undetectable unless I was put in an industrial scanner. Of course, once anyone left the service the implants were deactivated permanently. Removal wasn’t an option without killing the patient and there were rumours that some less polite nations than the UK did indeed remove the problem that permanently. Reactivation for private use was close to impossible because of the scrambling procedure. I hadn’t found it too difficult. I’m a precocious talent at heart.
I tried to get a look at what he was using to connect. There was a slimpad attached to his cap which he hadn’t touched so he must have a remote driver for it somewhere. Maybe it was part of the design on his t-shirt. It seemed to be only a connector module so he would have to use the pad to do anything.
My right ear chimed helpfully again, a different pattern this time. I had to make a conscious effort not to sit bolt upright like a startled meerkat. Mr Latimer had just connected to some seriously heavy-duty kit, military grade without a doubt. No brash tourist, for sure. How the hell had I missed that? He had definitely tweaked a connector and the pad was now fully Online using some tight-security portal. I ruled out a military angle even though the kit was service grade. Nobody would ever use someone with his physique as a field agent and it would be a strange way for a unit to contact me directly even if they could find me. That left, what? Intelligence agencies? I was yesterday’s news to most of them. I had to conclude that he represented a private interest, maybe a corporation. It was at that point that the futility of trying to reason while on the edge of a depression became obvious. I should have caught it the moment he told me his name. It wasn’t exactly unknown.
I looked at him. He looked back, a small smile flickering into life when he knew that I’d caught up.
‘You’re a hard man to find, Captain Harvard.’ he said ‘Becky sends her love.’
As that was impossible, what passes for my witty repartee went for a walk along the beach.
‘Oh shit.’ I said softly.
George Latimer, Head of Security at Argonaut Industries Inc. and brother of the founder, Jason Latimer, laughed at me.
Chapter Two
I picked up my mug of tea and took a long drink. My mother was always of the opinion that there are very few problems in life that can’t be made better by a nice cup of tea. Clearly, she had never been pursued across half the planet by a global conglomerate. I wasn’t aware that I had done anything to annoy them but there were hazards in keeping a low profile in the way that I had done. There was also the complication of Becky’s involvement. It might be a small world but I had hoped it would be big enough that our paths wouldn’t cross again for a few aeons.
Latimer reached up and pulled a thin film of plastic from the peak of his baseball cap. The slimpad - which had been charged up by the morning sun - lit up and he pressed a couple of touchpoints, presumably initiating a full system log-on to whichever scary Online mainframe I’d detected. At the back of my mind, hope started striking a couple of flints together above a piece of kindling. Latimer was the security chief for one of the serious players. (I gave myself another mental kick as I should have realised.) It was reasonable to assume that as brother of the founder and holder of that post he would be given access to all of the company’s resources. That meant he would be using cutting-edge tech. And here he was with a slimpad and connector which, though very impressive by civilian standards, paled in comparison to my own implanted equipment. Luckily.
He glanced up at me and tapped the pad. ‘We’re secure’ he said quietly. Hope had to leap away from the burning-bright kindling. Anyone using tech would have been automatically alerted that a secure zone had been established. Latimer had told me because he thought I was offline, presumably because he couldn’t see any slimpad. In being polite he had just handed me a tactical advantage. I chose not to access my portal. There was no point in showing my hand. In addition, it occurred to me that he had addressed me as Captain. That meant that Becky’s security clearance couldn’t have been raised before she left the Secret Intelligence Service and nor had the UK military database been cracked. Hope started to build a bonfire. Maybe I wasn’t so outmatched after all.
Joe’s cook had produced our breakfasts at warp speed. It would have been uncharitable to wonder if it was last night’s fare re-heated. As long as it was fast, I didn’t really care. Joe was noisily bringing over the plates. Latimer touched the pad again and looked at me. I nodded very slightly at him: the secure zone was suspended while breakfast was served. Joe may or may not have been wearing tech himself but there was no need to risk him noticing the privacy setting. It was very common for two or more people out in public to engage a secure zone so that they didn’t broadcast any wider than their group but I approved of the precaution. Joe placed the plates and cutlery in front of us with a flourish. Latimer had grits with his grill. Joe grinned at him.
‘Did you shoot them yourself?’ asked the American.
‘Yes. We have a lot of wild ones around here.’ Latimer chuckled. Joe turned to leave and as he faced me where my companion couldn’t see he raised an eyebrow. I thanked him in neutral tone. He grinned again as he wandered back to the counter and the unfathomable game on the screen. Neither plate was exactly piled high but it would serve well enough and, crucially, not take long to eat. Latimer let me see hi
m re-engage the privacy zone. The electronic jamming was useful but, in a café where we were the only patrons, the subsonic white-noise generator was redundant.
‘What did you think of my tourist act?’ he asked as I took a mouthful of a rather good sausage meaning he had to wait for a reply. Even with the new affluence, the Cook Islands still needed to import nearly all its consumables. Frisque had told me that just lately the quality had improved considerably. Seemed she was right.
‘You were loud, obnoxious and a lousy tipper.’ I informed him ‘It was perfect.’
He grinned again. I tried not to warm to him. ‘May I call you John?’ I nodded. It’s always good to be on first name terms with your impending mortal enemy. He was fully engaged with his grits for a moment so the conversation was a little stilted. I took the opportunity to study his features as he ate. He wasn’t as pasty-faced as he had appeared at the bar the previous night. He had the sort of half-tanned look you would have expected from someone who worked in a tech company in California. However, it seemed that he was a little strained and suffering from some degree of stress. I know what I’m talking about - I’d seen it in the mirror every morning for years. Maybe business wasn’t so good for Argonaut Industries. Maybe they were down to their last couple of trillion dollars.
‘It’s taken us nearly a year to find you, John.’ I tried to look inscrutable but, damn, I really was good if a major security team had that much trouble tracking me down. It was a bonus that Joe’s bacon was good, too. I started shovelling it in. ‘I’m a little disappointed you didn’t recognise me,’ he went on ‘what with your reputation and everything.’
‘What makes you think I didn’t?’ I answered mysteriously, not fooling either of us for a second. Clearly, he was making an effort at being affable. I wondered where all of this was leading.
Out of the corner of my left eye I saw the door to the café open. I looked casually over that way as a local lad shuffled into view. I knew him by sight - he ran errands for the businesses up and down the beach. I mentally crossed him off the threat list and turned my attention to the eggs on the plate in front of me.
‘Old habits, huh?’ Latimer enquired, looking casually over at the newcomer. It was still hard to believe I hadn’t recognised the George Latimer. To be fair, he had a much lower profile than his brother and wasn’t often pictured in the real-media. His Online avatar, like everyone else’s, didn’t resemble him at all. Still, I’d have to consider the possibility that I was seriously off my game.
‘You know how it is.’ I reached for the mug again. He nodded and attacked his plate.
‘I can guess. I imagine you’re wondering why we went to such great lengths to track you down?’
You think? ‘It fleetingly crossed my mind.’ He smiled. The man was acting like a human in direct contrast to pretty much every other corporate suit I’d ever encountered. It was worrying.
‘You’re not in any trouble with us if that’s a concern for you,’ he said, so airily that I wondered if I’d misheard. How much had it cost them to chase me across the globe for all these months if I wasn’t a hunted man? Mind you, I supposed it was a drop in the ocean of the Argonaut profits. Maybe I was a tax write-off? Maybe Becky wanted to know where to send the Christmas greetings? ‘Quite the contrary, in fact,’ he continued, ‘I’d actually like to hire you.’ What? I tried not to choke on the sausage.
Even in the mid-twenty-first century there are a number of good reasons for hiring ex-military types. Modern warfare means that we’re all experienced and advanced tech users. We understand strategy and tactics which can be useful in a commercial setting. Depending where we served, you could find experts in logistics, engineering, intelligence-gathering, communications and various other specialisations. Pilots, mariners, you name it; they’re all available when the fighting’s done (or the budget is cut). Hell, we even look good in uniform if you want a security guard in the lobby. What bothered me was that with Becky as his Deputy (not that I’d kept an eye on her career) he must have had a good idea of what I used to do for His Majesty. Why in the name of all that’s holy would Argonaut Industries want to hire a retired assassin?
The look on my face had given me away but my new pal George was smiling again. Perhaps it would have been better if I was a wanted man, after all. What was going to happen when I declined to become a major corporation’s highly illegal paid killer? Was he just going to say ‘shh, don’t tell’ and go home? Despite the animosity of our current relationship, I couldn’t picture Becky consenting to hiring a killer at all but especially not me.
‘It isn’t what you’re thinking.’ Somehow I wasn’t reassured. ‘More tea?’ More tea was undoubtedly what I needed. See, Mother? You were right all along. Latimer waved his empty coffee mug in the general direction of Joe and indicated both of our empties. Some people just seem to have a knack of attracting the waiter’s attention and George apparently had it in spades. To my left Joe called out. ‘Be right with you, gents.’
I suppose it’s because I carefully cultivate a low profile that I don’t get such service anywhere. I could have thrown my almost-empty plate at Joe and he wouldn’t have noticed. Latimer drew my attention to the index finger of his left hand which was deactivating the secure zone again. An interlude for drinks and small-talk before the main event. George was still intent on demolishing the remains of the grill on his plate whilst I had nearly finished my own. I hadn’t realised that I was that hungry.
‘How long have you been on Rarotonga?’ I asked. It was polite chit-chat but might offer some further intelligence on his aims and objectives.
‘A couple days. Unfortunately, I’ve accomplished my primary goal so I can’t stay much longer.’ Obviously, he meant me. ‘Pity. I would have liked to take a look around. It seems a really nice place. I can understand why you came here.’ No, trust me, you don’t.
‘The trek to the centre of the island is a must-do if you ever have the time.’ John Harvard - Travel Agent.
‘Not the round-the-island tour?’ he asked, amused.
‘Let’s just say that I’m not convinced of the value of that one.’ If Ranu wasn’t keeping an eye on his skipper, Bruce’s seamanship might well take them all to New Zealand.
‘I can’t wait to hear Taylor’s tales of the sea, then!’
‘Will you miss her much if she doesn’t come back?’
‘Sure. Good personal assistants are hard to find. Particularly those who are amateur vir-actresses.’ So she was an employee, it seemed. I bet that was a hard sell: come to a paradise island and pretend to be my partner, all (considerable) expenses paid for as long as it takes. And, by the way, we’re staying at one of the most expensive hotels on the planet. It didn’t escape me that he’d given me that information for free even though it had been an obvious probe on my part.
Joe arrived with fresh mugs and made the appropriate substitutions with our existing tableware. As soon as he departed, Latimer engaged the security zone again. Part of me was intrigued and the other part wanted to run away and hide. Unfortunately, I’d tried the hiding trick before and, though it had taken him a long time to find me, it seemed that I wasn’t able to hide quite deep enough.
‘I’m flattered at the attention, George, but my specialist knowledge these days involves mixing cocktails in exactly the right proportions to satisfy demanding tourists.’
‘I noticed,’ he said ‘but the reason we have been trying so hard to find you is because of your likely unique insight into a problem we have. I can understand your reluctance, John. You may assume that I have a great deal of knowledge of you and your previous career and I’m fully aware of why you chose to relocate in,’ he gestured to incorporate the café and, by extension, the island, ‘paradise.’ He was incorporating some bluff, I knew. He certainly didn’t know why I ended up here. I also doubted that he knew the full story of how I ended up as an assassin, in practice if not in job description. I was aware that my state of mind was what kept me thinking of myself in unflatterin
g terms. Being aware and forgiving myself were two utterly separate things.
‘With the greatest of respect, whatever Becky has told you is likely to be hogwash.’
He laughed. ‘It’s true that some of Miss Kingston’s descriptions were, shall we say, colourful but I should probably tell you at the outset...’ he broke off and cocked his head sideways. All the better to judge my reaction, I guessed. ‘Well, it just so happens that she was the one who recommended you for the job.’
My carefully-configured inscrutable look dissolved into pure astonishment. ‘It’s a suicide mission, isn’t it?’
This time Latimer only grinned. ‘She said you’d be suspicious. I’ll be honest with you, John: from the beginning she was adamant that you were the only person who could do the job. It also took her very little time to persuade me after she outlined the problem.’ He suddenly looked serious. ‘I appreciate that I’ve descended on you without warning and that you would probably have preferred to stick with your current career as a bartender. However, we do have a problem and time is becoming a factor. It’s also a highly sensitive matter. As it stands, only Rebecca and I know the full extent of it. My job in coming here was to impress upon you the seriousness of the situation.’ Well, the big cheese finding me in person had certainly got my attention.
‘I don’t know how far your search went but you must know that I don’t need the money.’ I wasn’t giving a lot away. My current world-facing persona was intended to look like a slightly eccentric, slightly affluent individual who preferred a low profile. Not entirely unlike the real me, come to think of it.
‘Yes. Obviously the company would pay handsomely for your services but the principal attraction we’re offering you isn’t financial.’ Oh? What other motivation could you offer except possibly some sort of threat? Surely if Becky was involved she would know that I don’t respond well to threats.
