by Haywood, RR
Assess the facts and make an informed decision. The Carlisle Group. Group means a collective, a number of individual parts and the call taker said there were different recruitment campaigns running for both police and military. Right, so The Carlisle Group are recruiting ex-soldier and the only reason anyone does that at the moment is for the private security contracts in the Middle East. Afghan and Iraq, they both need a constant supply of personnel trained to the standards of Western military to protect the diplomats, the politicians, the engineers, the politicians hookers and rent boys and fuck knows whoever else.
I would imagine they also provide ex-marine soldiers for the anti-piracy jobs on the cargo ships and oil tankers. Why police though?
I know some of the big conglomerate companies have fantastic internal investigation teams. The global oil companies, software manufacturers, pharmaceutical giants. They all have investigation response teams ready to deploy to negate the risk of any potential whistle blower.
But she asked if I had done any UC, or yousee as she put it. It’s a fairly well known terminology to use but that specific phrase is rarely used by anyone outside of the agencies. Covert intelligence gathering, covert surveillance, she could have used those phrases but she asked about yousee.
So they have need for covert operations? Again that could be down to the highly paid bods in the big companies being watched so they don’t leak important corporate data. Fuck it, I guess I’ll find out in a minute.
The area is purpose built for private industry firms with sleek executive logos emblazoned on sleek executive boards surrounded by perfect landscapes of short grass, shrubs and bushes. One of them even has a pond with benches and picnic tables filled with tie wearing office types eating wholemeal sandwiches stuffed with organic fucking olives. Wankers. Yeah, save the planet while you jab your fat sausage fingers at your iPhones while wearing your designer office wear knocked together in some Chinese sweatshop full of malnourished children.
Carlisle House doesn't have a sleek executive logo on a sleek executive board. It has a brass plaque discreetly mounted to the side of the double glass doors. Understated and a message all on its own. You are here because you should be here. Interesting. Approaching the doors and I can see straight away they’re made from thick panes, same with the windows. Armoured glass? If not then it’s very close to it. A big guy wearing a conservative suit stands at ease inside the doors. A slight incline of his head tells me he is wearing a covert earpiece and that someone is talking to him. He about turns, watches me approach and only when I’m almost there does he punch a code into a panel to open the doors.
‘Mr Humber?’ A polite tone with an expectant gaze. He looks sharp and well suited to his role. Clearly a former soldier and probably from the Paras or Marines.
‘Hi,’ I nod back and step through. Someone told him I was coming and someone made the assumption that the beardy weirdo walking towards their building was said Mr Humber.
‘Please,’ he taps the panel to secure the doors, ‘go straight to reception.’
‘Cheers.’
Reception is like a mile away across the bloody great big lobby. No armchairs, no sofas. Nothing. Just a tiled expanse of floor that sweeps up to the desk beyond which a woman wearing a telephone headset sits. She smiles as I get closer and stands to greet me, ‘Mr Humber?’
‘I’m impressed.’ I smile back.
‘Thank you for coming so quickly.’ She smiles as though meeting me is the highlight of her day. ‘We really appreciate the prompt response.’
She said we. Not the company, not I but we. That’s either good training or an honest respect for the company who employs her.
‘We have to sign you in.’ She taps some buttons on a keyboard. The counter top under my elbows lights up. ‘The stylus is right there,’ she indicates the black pointy thing I assumed was a pen, ‘name, address, date of birth,’ a perfectly manicured finger points at the lines on the screen, ‘and then sign there please.’
Using the stylus I write the details and go to hand the pen back before remembering it isn’t a pen but a plastic pointy thing that’s attached to a cord that’s attached to the desk. Why do that? There’s a seven foot gorilla standing right in front of the armoured door.
‘Right.’ She smiles up at me after checking I managed to write my own name correctly. ‘That’s the first test passed.’ She gives me a sultry look with much fluttering of eyelashes. ‘I will take you through.’
I should ask where we’re going but I don’t care. I’m rendered speechless and turned into a dithering drooling idiot that dumbly follows the nice smiling woman. She leads me past the desk to a nondescript door. She swipes a card through the reader on the wall, then presses a series of buttons in the number pad before finally leaning ever so slightly forward to mutter quietly into an unseen intercom. She glances back with an apologetic smile as the door buzzes, clicks and swings inwards.
‘Mr Humber,’ the suited security guard standing on the inside greets me with the same proficiency as his comrade on the main door, ‘Please empty your pockets into the tray and step through the detector, thank you, Sir.’
He indicates a clear plastic tray and it takes me all of about two seconds to empty the meagre contents from my pockets. My last ten pound note, duty free tobacco, rolling papers and a lighter. He shows no reaction but motions to the door-frame sized metal detector which I step through. He still waves a wand over me and quickly pats down my legs with a high level of thorough skill. ‘Your belongings.’ He holds out the tray.
The receptionist beams at me like I just scored high on a Mensa test and indicates to follow her, which I do, seeing as she keeps smiling so nicely.
A wide staircase leads up and I step quickly to gain her side rather then walk behind and be at risk of staring at her backside. She seems to acknowledge the gesture with another smile but this one looks genuine, not that the others didn’t look genuine, but this one just looked more genuine. Fuck it. She smiled nicely.
At the top we head down another corridor before she stops and opens a door to the side. ‘Take a seat,’ she says brightly. ‘Now, forgive me if I’m wrong,’ she says as the door closes behind her, ‘but you look like a coffee drinker, yes…’ she adopts a pseudo look of examination, ‘strong, with milk…and one sugar?’
‘Well done,’ I grin. Truth be told I would have said the same thing if she offered me a bucket of piss to drink.
‘I’ll be right back, make yourself comfortable.’ She exits the room through an internal door as the hairs on the back of my neck prickle. I’m being watched. I can feel it. This place has better security than the bloody counter terrorism unit headquarters, but then that is guarded by men with guns so I guess they don’t need all the electronic shit. Armoured glass. Highly trained elite soldiers young enough to have only just left the service. And I’m being watched.
Those thoughts frolic through my mind within a split second as I cast a casual glance round at my surroundings. Leather armchairs adorn the room with a nice dark wood coffee table in the centre. Magazines of general interest and the daily broadsheet newspapers stacked neatly. A basket of fruit and a plate full of individually wrapped mini chocolate chip brioche rolls. My mouth waters at the sight as I haven’t eaten today but pure stubbornness kicks in. I’m craving a smoke too but I can’t imagine they’ll take too kindly to me lighting up in here.
No artwork on the walls. No crappy posters either. Plain walls but with a large LCD clock fixed to the middle of the wall opposite me. That’s where the camera is. Wide angled and no doubt with audio so I offer a wry smile and wave to whoever is watching me.
‘Here we are,’ she beams again as she bustles back into the room holding two big mugs, ‘your coffee.’ She holds one out and takes a seat next to me while gripping her own mug with both hands. ‘Do say if you don’t like it.’ She gives me a look of such earnest intent that I would happily chew a finger off if it meant pleasing her.
‘Smells nice.’ I can’t believe
I just said that. Smells nice? What a dick. Who the fuck smells coffee these days? Like some fucking cheesy Nescafe advert.
‘I love the smell of coffee,’ she imparts quietly and thereby saving me from a whole new level of self-hatred.
‘On a break?’ I ask politely.
‘Keeping you company.’ She laughs lightly. ‘It would be rude to leave you alone.’
‘Oh I don’t know,’ I reply with a first sip at the coffee. ‘I’ve got the camera watching me…did you see me wave?’ Fuck me this coffee is delicious.
‘Yes,’ she laughs again, ‘I saw you wave and smile. Well done, by the way, only a few realise they’re being monitored.’
‘Do I get a prize?’
‘You do.’ She flutters those eyelashes again. ‘I made you an extra special coffee.’ The way she says it with just the slightest of over accentuation of her lips as they shape the words has me shifting with slight discomfort. ‘So,’ she says without taking her eyes off me, ‘you’re Mike Humber.’
Bollocks. I hate this bit. ‘Afraid so,’ I mutter and take another sip. This is when she either tells me what a hero I was for beating that creep up or what a fool for letting such a dangerous man walk free. But she doesn't. She doesn't say anything until the silence feels oppressive even to me and I’m the king of using oppressive silences. I refuse to take the bait and sip my coffee without uttering a word.
‘Stubborn,’ she remarks, ‘with an awareness of social manipulation.’
‘Eh?’ I glance over in surprise, ‘you trying to socially manipulate me then?’
‘Of course.’ She grins coyly.
‘And there was me thinking you liked my company.’
‘Of course,’ she repeats this time with a trace of humour.
‘I wasn’t going to fill it.’
‘Fill what, Mr Humber?’
‘Mike. I wasn’t going to fill the silence.’
‘I know you weren’t. So,’ she lets the words hang for a second, ‘is this the point where people pass judgement on what you did? They either tell you what a hero you were or perhaps they offer some disdain for the consequences of your actions.’
‘It is and they do.’
‘Well,’ she says with sincerity ‘then I shall do neither of those things.’
‘Thank you.’ I glance over with genuine sincerity and for a second the bantering mask slips and I see the real woman staring at me. ‘It gets…’
‘What?’
‘Nothing, nice coffee.’
‘It gets what?’
‘Tiresome,’ I mumble, ‘it gets tiresome.’
‘They were your actions, Mr Humber…sorry, Mike. They were your actions and…’
‘Every actions has an equal reaction,’ I finish the sentence off. ‘It does, and yes…my actions had a reaction and a consequence which I accept and take responsibility for. However, it doesn't mean that it sits lightly.’
‘But you did it though,’ she persists in such a politely flirtatious way it knocks me off guard.
‘Yes, yes I did it,’ I shrug at her and take another sip.
‘Tell me, Mike. Was it worth it?’
My reply is instant. ‘No.’
‘No? No sense of satisfaction? No perception that perhaps you gave justice but…’
‘He was a child rapist,’ I cut her off quickly. ‘That means he raped children. He hurt them in ways you cannot imagine. I caught him and I allowed my own reactions to dictate the situation and as a result he walked free. Yeah he was beaten and yeah he was hurt but those injuries healed. Where is he now? Is he in prison? Is he locked up with the other nonces?’
‘He’s in Belgium.’
‘Is he…what?’ I stare hard at her words. ‘What did you say?’
‘I said, he’s in Belgium,’ she replies quietly, ‘he lives there now.’
‘How the fuck do you know that?’
‘We know lots of things, Mike.’
‘What the fuck is this?’ I feel the first simmer of anger starting to bubble up.
‘Please.’ She smiles at me with genuine warmth. ‘Drink your coffee.’
‘I don’t want the fucking coffee. How do you know where he is? Nobody knows where he is. He disappeared.’
‘He did,’ she agrees, ‘to Belgium.’
‘Cryptic fucking bollocks,’ I spit, ‘what the fuck…’ I glare at her then round at the room, ‘did he do this? Is this a fucking trap? The money he got…he paid for this to get me trapped…fucking cunt…where is he?’
‘Mr Humber,’ she says calmly, ‘I can reassure you that is not the case.’
‘What is the fucking case then?’
‘That is why you are here.’ She smiles again.
‘What? What the fuck you on about?’
‘For the case.’ She tilts her head back. ‘We’re going to offer you a case.’
Three
Sometimes things move so fast that it generates a feeling of floundering and confusion. That it’s being done on purpose is only another worrying aspect of it all. Thoughts race through my mind, questions that demand answers but then sometimes doing fuck all is the right thing to do. So I sip my coffee and wait.
She sips her coffee and waits.
We sip coffee and wait.
‘Were you looking for me?’ I ask after a long pause. It stands to reason this is the right question to ask.
She sighs before answering, ‘the ego of man. I rather think that’s the first unintelligent thing you’ve said so far.’
‘Thanks for the coffee.’ Placing the mug down I start towards the door.
‘Mike, sit down.’
‘You’re very beautiful,’ I don’t bother turning round to face her, ‘but I don’t like being played. It happened before…bye.’
‘You can’t get out.’ She’s out of the chair and following me down the corridor.
‘Watch me.’
‘Huntington House?’
I turn quickly to glare at her.
‘Huntington House,’ she repeats, ‘where you were played? Is that right? Tessa? The ghost?’
Tessa was the honey trap who I fell for and then saved when the people who paid her to fuck my life up turned on her, ‘is she here?’ the words come out quickly, ‘have you seen her?’ She walked out on me the day Lord Huntington was sentenced to life in prison, the only survivor from the stately home I burnt down. I woke up and she was gone. She left a note though saying sorry so that makes it all alright.
‘No, she’s not here but,’ she pauses to make sure I’m paying full attention, ‘we did speak to her.’
‘When?’ I take a step towards her. ‘Where? How?’
‘Mike, come back and sit down and we’ll go through everything.’
‘You’ll tell me right now or I’m gone.’
‘You can’t leave at this moment,’ she states with an almost apologetic exhalation of breath.
Can’t leave at this moment? I should stay and listen. I should put my tail between my legs and head back into that room and drink more coffee and maybe even eat a chocolate chip brioche roll. These people have made efforts to find me and find out about my life. They found Tessa. Tessa.
‘Fuck you,’ I’m too angry to do anything I’m told, ‘stubborn and aware of social manipulation.’
I head towards the stairs and spot the big gorilla glancing up with a head tilt as he listens to instructions being passed through the covert earpiece.
‘Mr Humber,’ his voice is deep and full of authority, ‘please go back with…’
‘I’m leaving.’
‘I’m afraid I can’t let you do that, Mr Humber.’
‘I’m leaving, get the fuck out of my way.’
He steps in front of the door which is just stupid as I don’t know the access code and I don’t have a swipe card to activate the door. I bet he does though and he’ll know the access code. ‘Open the door.’ I nod curtly. ‘Holding me here against my will is false imprisonment.’
‘Sorry, Mr Humber.’ Not a gl
immer of concern on his impassive face, hands clasped in front and his legs planted firmly.
‘You’re huge.’ I cross the floor and through the metal detector that bleeps with a soft warning tone as red lights fixed to the side flash quickly.
‘Mike,’ the woman shouts from behind me, ‘don’t do this, please just come back.’
‘Move,’ I growl at the guard.
‘Mike, he can’t let you leave.’
‘Let me?’ I snap. ‘Mate, you’re letting me out or I’ll…’
‘Mike, stop and think,’ she pleads with the first real show of human emotion, ‘he has the swipe card and the access code. He will not let you out.’
He’s a big man with broad shoulders and heavy muscles. Strong legs by the looks of it but his waist looks quite slim which means he isn’t carrying extra weight which also means he’ll be able to move fast. His eyes harden as he realises I’m not backing down, his stance stiffens and his hands unclasp to hang ready at his sides. I maintain my stride for the last few feet, then right at the point he thinks he’s established my approach speed I charge with an explosion of speed. He’s ready for it, bracing for impact as his hands come up. I launch a flurry of blows which he deftly blocks but it distracts him from my bony knee driving into his bollocks. He lets out a gasp while I throat punch him then box his ears with a double slap. Pain in his gonads, ears ringing and a nasty burning sensation in his throat. He staggers to the side coughing and bent over. Legs wobbly like jelly. I reach over and rip the lanyard from his neck.
‘Punch the code in,’ I mutter while working out which way the card swipes through. ‘Punch the fucking code in,’ I snap when he doesn't move.
‘No,’ he gasps, ‘can’t.’
I’m on him quickly, grabbing his right arm which gets levered up behind his back. His shoulders are strong and big and the arm gives resistance so I grab his thumb and bend it against the joint while twisting his wrist to give a double whammy of intense pain. He gasps again and starts sinking down to alleviate the pressure. ‘Put the code in or I’ll break your arm.’
