An Extra-Ordinary Beginning (The Adventures of Eric and Ursula Book 1)

by A. D. Winch

  Both were standing still in their living room. The rose light reflected off their faces and spot lit their hands as they held each other tightly. Over the last two days, they appeared to have aged. Their backs had started to curve; their steps dragged; Granddad Benjamin’s jokes had dried up, and they both looked to have shrunk. Ursula had promised them that they could have all the money she had won, but no money could replace their granddaughter. They felt selfish and knew deep down that this was a wonderful opportunity for Ursula, but this thought did not help them to feel any better.

  Thirty minutes earlier Andrea had called on them. She had brought, among other gifts, enough top quality medicine for the next two years for Granddad Benjamin. She gave them the video phone, set it up and showed them how to use it. She also gave them a laptop for email and handed over the prize money. After reassuring the elderly couple that their granddaughter would phone every night, she picked up Ursula’s luggage. It was a beaten, brown suitcase scratched by time. Originally it had been Granddad Benjamin’s and was so old that it was made of stiff card. The plastic handle was, by modern standards, like a razor blade, but Andrea did not notice.

  Inside the suitcase were Ursula’s clothes and a few sentimental possessions - Fred, a silver outfit she had worn as a baby and a photo of her grandparents. Only one item of Ursula’s was not in the suitcase. It was too precious to be kept amongst her clothes and losing it was too big a risk. The object looked worthless but to Ursula it was priceless. Granddad Benjamin and Mémé had given it to her on her sixth birthday, and it was a small piece of rock from her parents’ last climb. Her grandparents had told her that it was the only item they had left from Ursula’s parents. All the other mementos and photos they had owned had been destroyed in the fire when Ursula was still a toddler. The little, coin-sized rock was her only link to them. It hung around her neck, turned into a necklace by Mémé as a leaving present, and Ursula promised it would always stay there.

  The necklace swung in front of Ursula’s chest as she leaned forward to see what was happening seven floors below. She watched as Andrea left the block with the suitcase. Ursula did not know yet if she liked Andrea or not. Andrea seemed fine, but Ursula had thought that about some of the teachers at school who soon became monsters. From far below, Andrea looked up. Swinging her arm in the air she beckoned Ursula down and walked away.

  This was the moment which Ursula had been dreading - the time to leave. Before coming up to the roof, to avoid an emotional scene in front of a near stranger, she had said a long tearful goodbye to her grandparents. She had then come up on the roof to say goodbye to her neighbourhood. On the road next to her block, she could see that Andrea had reached a silver Range Rover and had put her suitcase down on the tarmac.

  Pulling her legs back up to the roof, Ursula stood. She pirouetted until there was no roof below her, and only her toes clung to the ledge. Calmly she took a deep breath in. With her eyes closed she tilted her head up towards the sky, and as she opened them again, she hopped backwards. She dropped like a stone past her grandparents’ window and caught the balcony before she fell any further. She had fallen two and a half metres. At the same time as her hands clenched hold of the railing she heard Mémé shout, “Wait!”

  Six floors above the ground Ursula hung onto the railing. She heard the creaking, balcony door, followed by the shuffling of feet as her grandparents came outside. On looking up, Ursula was greeted by her Granddad’s smiling face.

  “I’m looking forward to using this new video phone thing,” he said and grinned broadly. “Take care, my love.”

  A hand appeared and pulled him out of the way. Mémé appeared in view.

  “I’ll miss you, ma cherie,” she said.

  “I’ll miss you too, Mémé.”

  A tear fell from Mémé’s left eye onto Ursula’s forehead. It felt as heavy as an ocean. Unable to support the weight, Ursula opened her bony fingers, let go and dropped down to the next balcony, grabbing hold of the railing as she had done previously before falling further.

  “You’re going to be filthy before you even reach the ground, and you know I worry to death when you do this,” scolded Mémé.

  “Last time,” shouted back Ursula, smiled and let go.

  She fell to the fifth floor, then fourth, third, second...

  From his comfortable, office chair, Agent Hoover watched via satellites. Before Ursula reached the ground, he lost her. There were no working security cameras near the ground in Saint-Denis and too many places to vanish. He sunk back into his chair, adjusted the air conditioning and turned his head to scan the other small screens. That was when he saw it.

  A silver glint caught his eye. It was on the screen marked strada Stadionului/Stadium Street, Sfantu Gheorge, Romania. As he watched, he saw a rusting bulldozer remove it from the ground. It was covered in mud, but it was unmistakably a silver bulb shape, approximately the size of a small car. It was the object he had been instructed to find. With sweaty palms, he lifted up the black phone on his desk and started to dial the number he knew by heart though he had never read, seen, heard nor been told it. Behind him, lurking in the shadows, a sinewy figure wheezed expectantly.

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  ***

  Chapter 6 - Finding the Treasure

  The referee put the whistle to his lips, blew forcefully, and FC Sfantu Gheorghe kicked off against their rivals. The football pitch had baked hard over the summer, and the ball bobbled on the bumpy surface. On hitting a divot it was miskicked, bounced around all the players and rolled off the pitch for a throw in. The small crowd, who were watching from a grass bank, booed. Amongst them was a man of average height with well-kept, black hair down to his shoulders. He was dressed in a purple shell suit and wore a new FC Sfantu Gheorghe scarf around his shoulders. He was known as Mihai Ionescu and his forehead was dripping with sweat. Despite his scarf, Mihai was not a soccer fan and watched the match half-heartedly. From where he stood he could see almost all of Stadium street, the potholed road where the match was being played. In between breaks in play, so as not to draw attention to himself, he tried to take the location in.

  Mihai saw the hilly road he had driven up to get to the stadium, and could see only one other road wide enough to get away. His car was a black GMC Yukon, a Sport Utility Vehicle or SUV. It was big, fast and powerful. He could drive it almost anywhere and he could bully other drivers with it.

  Dotted between these two roads, or ‘exit points,' as Mihai called them, were seven apartment blocks known as panelaks. The balconies and windows had been painted recently, but the plaster on the walls was cracked and crumbling.

  Almost hidden beneath two panelaks was a brightly coloured school. Around its grounds were tall, dense trees which stopped the sun reaching the car park and hid cars from the sky. Further along, and opposite the stadium, a rundown hospital ejected smoking patients out onto the road. They mooched outside the main entrance in their pyjamas, holding cigarettes and listening to the sound of the football game. When they heard the referee whistle for the end of the first half, they lost interest. Back in the stadium the sweaty players trotted off the pitch towards the changing room.

  The man known as Mihai Ionescu watched them leave and turned around. Behind the stadium was a newer, unnamed road. It ran away from Stadium street, towards a dead end, and what looked like a building site. Green, sloping fields on the outskirts of the town, had been divided up like a patchwork quilt and were now being dug up. On every available plot, houses of all shapes and sizes were being built. They stretched all the way to the edge of the forest.

  At the top of the sloping fields, overlooking the haphazard building site, Mihai could see a Roman style villa. It was the house he had been told to locate first - the marker. To the right of it was a plot of land where nothing had yet been built. Large piles of bricks and breeze blocks were scattered around its border like badly constructed pyramids. Near the centre a clogged up, concrete mixer stood idle against sacks of sand and a dirty tarpa
ulin covered an unseen object. The intelligence had all been good, and everything fitted. Under the black tarpaulin, he was sure he would find the object they had code-named ‘the treasure.’

  Four deeply tanned workmen, with skin like leather, chatted amicably in the sun. Dusty mud covered them from head to foot and in their hands they held well used shovels. Nearby, a rusty old bulldozer carved out a hole in the ground and dumped the soil in a pile beside them.

  Mihai Ionescu touched a small device resting in his left ear with his index finger.

  “This is Agent Ion. I have found the X that marks the spot,” he said in English, and pretended to scratch his head.

  Agent Hoover considered what he should say. In front of him, a thin microphone stood upright on his glass desk. Before he had a chance to reply a strong hand gripped his shoulder and pushed him away from the mike. Agent Angel stepped forward and spoke. His deep voice, scarred by years of smoking, boomed the response and filled the room.

  “Find the treasure,” he bellowed. “Find the treasure!”

  He stepped back and let Agent Hoover reclaim his desk.

  The screens which dominated the front of the room were no longer showing images from cameras around the world. A very small number were showing footage from every security camera in Sfantu Gheorghe. The rest of the displays had become an IMAX size screen and were showing footage from a satellite positioned directly above the stadium.

  As the players came out of the changing rooms for the second half, the man known as Mihai Ionescu left the stadium. He was followed by a man and a woman. He walked past the changing rooms, stepped into the street, and made his way to the plot of land. It was time to retrieve the treasure.

  A temporary fence made of differently sized planks of wood enclosed the plot. To its left was the villa and to its right a half-built home. It was made of breeze blocks. Both had mean looking dogs in the gardens patrolling their territory. On seeing Mihai approach, they growled and began to bark menacingly. He was not bothered by the barking as it was usual in the town. However, he did not want to go any further until the workers had left. He stopped next to a shed by the dusty path. The shed’s low window had been removed and underneath it, lined up like soldiers, were American cigarettes and fizzy drinks on a roughly made shelf. Crouching down he ordered a cola, in Romanian, put his money on the shelf and waited. An old lady took a cola bottle from a small fridge and handed it shakily to Mihai.

  “If you are going to take it away, you will have to pay for the bottle as well,” she replied and sounded as if she was telling off a small child.

  “I’ll drink it here, don’t worry,” replied Mihai with a kindly smile.

  The woman had given him a good excuse to stay exactly where he was and watch what was happening on the plot of land.

  A man in a stained vest, which barely covered his hairy beer belly, got out of the bulldozer. Tapping his watch he signalled to the four men that it was time to go. The workmen, obviously tired from their day’s work, threw their spades to the floor. They were happy to be going home and moved towards the gate with a spring in their step. As they did so an old truck with a brown cab chugged past Mihai. Thick smoke billowed from its exhaust and caused him to cough until his lungs were clear. Even though it was not going fast, the brakes screamed as it slowed down near the plot’s gate. It stopped in front of the workmen and blocked their way. The engine ticked over with a horrible grinding sound and more smoke coughed from the exhaust pipe. A bald driver put his head out of the cab, waved a small black wallet and spoke with the workers. What he was saying was obviously not welcomed by the tired men. A man in a red, baseball cap leant out of the other window and pointed at the tarpaulin. From the looks on the workmen’s faces, and their tense body language, Mihai could see that they were far from happy.

  The driver retreated into his cab and re-emerged with a stack of bank notes. The workers’ shoulders relaxed, but they did not look any more co-operative. One bank note after another was counted out to each man until they stopped frowning. Stuffing the money into their pockets, they walked in the direction of the dirty black tarpaulin. Gears crunched; smoke spewed from the exhaust pipe and the truck followed them.

  Everything that was happening was unexpected, and Mihai was confused. Bribed men and an empty truck were not part of the brief he had been given. Rocking back on his feet and leaning against the shed he felt the comforting shape of his gun pressing into his back. He raised his finger to his earpiece.

  “There are pirates on board. Stand by.”

  The man and the woman, who had followed Mihai, suddenly appeared from hiding places around the plot of land. They nodded and then disappeared again.

  The earpiece fizzed into life and Agent Hoover’s Texan drawl could be heard clearly.

  “Do not engage the pirates, gather intelligence, stay put.”

  Mihai did exactly what he was told. During the next twenty minutes, all he did was buy himself a second drink and watch.

  With a loud screech, the truck came to a stop next to the concrete mixer. From the passenger door, the man in the red cap slowly got out. He looked around the plot as if expecting someone else to be there. Once satisfied that the surroundings were clear, he jumped down from the cab. His red cap was worn low over his forehead, and he was wearing large, mirrored sunglasses. Below them, his face was covered in black stubble that had been stylishly trimmed. His only distinguishing feature was a long, pink scar which ran across his right cheek from the corner of his mouth to the top of his ear. He was wearing a tight, red T-shirt which emphasized his lean figure and large arm muscles. Despite his build he seemed to be deliberately slouching, keeping his chin close to his body and never looking up.

  He walked towards the tarpaulin like a child approaching a Christmas tree. Crouching down, he lifted up a corner so that only he could see what was beneath. His face lit up. He placed his arm under the sheet and began to stroke whatever lay below it until the bulldozer pulled up beside him.

  The man in the red cap stood up and motioned that the object should be lifted, and then he pointed towards the truck. The bulldozer was skillfully manoeuvred to the object and the four workmen held it in place under the tarpaulin as it was moved. When the object was in position, and the bulldozer had reversed away the four workmen climbed up onto the truck and secured it. At one point, the tarpaulin brushed against a workmen’s leg and folded back to reveal a silver curve that glinted in the sun like a mirror. It was instantly covered again. Once the job was done the man in the red cap handed out more money and sprang back into the cab. As the truck drove out of the gate, the workmen followed, cheerlessly waving goodbye.

  Before the truck reached him Mihai covered his mouth and nose and held his breath. The truck chugged down the road covering everything in its wake, including Mihai, in polluting exhaust. When it reached the junction, it turned right onto Stadium street and disappeared from his view.

  As Mihai put down his cola the ear piece, once again, fizzed into life.

  “We are tracking the pirates using satellites, confirm the treasure is gone,” requested Agent Hoover.

  Mihai walked calmly towards the plot. He waited until the workmen were out of sight and then vaulted over the fence. After searching the area, he found what he had expected.

  “Confirmed. The treasure has gone,” said Mihai touching his ear.

  Agent Hoover watched as the truck slowly approached the school and the large trees that surrounded it. He leaned back in his chair and whistled through his teeth.

  “Well, I’ll be damned!” he exclaimed.

  “You will be if you lose that truck, Agent Hoover,” barked Agent Angel taking a drag on his cigarette.

  Agent Angel was a bear of a man, with arms and legs the size of logs and a torso like a barrel. He had no neck, but his shoulders sloped directly up to his hairy chin. Agent Angel was covered in grey hair. It was difficult to spot where his neat beard stopped, and his closely cropped hair began. Rumours circulated that he was
at least eighty but he was as strong as an ox and as sharp as any of the younger agents. Some agents joked that whereas the army, navy, airforce, CIA and FBI answered to the President, the President answered to Agent Angel. Nobody, however, would say this to his face. Agent Angel had been working at the OSS longer than anyone remembered, and he was feared like no other man.

  Slowly, almost lovingly, he stroked his finger and thumb around Agent Hoover’s ear lobe. Just as Agent Hoover was about to ask what was going on he felt Agent Angel’s nails pinch into his ear.

  “Geez, that hurts,” cried Agent Hoover and tried to shake his ear away from Agent Angel’s grasp.

  Agent Angel dug his nails deeper into the lobe and started to twist them. The pain got worse, and Agent Hoover shook his head wildly as he tried to escape.

  “You think this is something? Do you? This will be nothing if you lose that truck,” threatened Agent Angel and he released Agent Hoover’s ear.

  Swivelling on his chair Agent Hoover, who was not used to being bullied, looked the Section Head directly in the face. Agent Angel did not flinch. Pain and anger shone from Agent Hoover’s eyes. Agent Angel smiled sinisterly and held out his left hand. He opened his palm to reveal four truncheon fingers and a banana sized thumb. With the cigarette in his other hand, he pointed back towards the screens. Agent Hoover did not move.

  One by one the thumb and fingers were folded down, and Agent Angel mouthed slowly, “Five, four, three, two, one.”

  He savoured each word as he did so and was looking forward to what was to come. When he reached ‘one’ he broke eye contact and turned away to look into the shadows.

  Suddenly Agent Hoover felt a sharp prick in his head. All the things in the world that he didn’t know about, and had never thought about, began to enter his mind. His brain began to fill, but the thoughts did not stop. Just as he felt his brain was going to explode he spun away from Agent Angel and back towards the screens. Instantly the thoughts stopped, and his own voice in his head told him to follow the truck. It seemed like a good idea.