The Sons Of Cleito (The Abductions of Langley Garret Book 1)

by Haines, Derek

  It had all happened so quickly. One day I was persona non-grata in my cell in Ankara and the next, I was Langley Garret again complete with my brand new British passport, my Swiss Permit C permanent residency papers, my driver's licence and ID card and a one-way flight ticket from Amman to Zurich, plus one thousand Swiss Francs. Paul furnished me with a small carry-on suitcase for my clothes and within two hours of Urs Villiger giving me the news that I was free and handing me my papers, I was driven to an airfield on the outskirts of Ankara and flown by small private jet to Nicosia, in the company of a representative from the Russian Embassy. I changed planes and was boarded onto another small jet, but this time I was accompanied by a Jordanian man for the flight to Amman. Neither man was a conversationalist, but they were both polite, and the Jordanian man was particularly helpful in making sure I arrived in good time for my flight to Zurich from Amman airport. I think he was also charged with the responsibility of making sure I boarded my flight without mishap, as he accompanied me all the way to my seat on the plane and only left as the door was about to close.

  Taking the underground shuttle from my arrival terminal at Zurich Airport, the sound of clanging cow bells and yodelling that accompanies the ride sounded so normal to my ears, but the rest of me felt like a total stranger. When I alighted, I went by habit towards the railway station under the main terminal and then it hit me.

  'Where the hell do I go now?'

  Although it felt like it had been months, it had only been a little over ten weeks since I had been taken from my apartment that Sunday morning. Hardly longer than a decent holiday. I stood near the ticket machine, wondering what to do, as people pushed past me to buy their train tickets. I stepped back and watched as they all went about their rushing and scurrying and searching for their credit cards to pay the machine. It was then I realised I needed to go to the ticketing booth to buy my ticket, as I didn't have a credit card to use in the machines.

  Waiting in the queue, with people who also had no credit card, or mistrusted machines, it gave me time to arrive at my decision.

  'One-way to Neuchâtel. Second class please.'

  There is nothing as beautiful as the Swiss countryside, mountains and lakes, and as they filled my train window in picture postcard perfection, the polite chatter of Swiss people completed my homecoming, yet for some reason the feeling in my gut that I was a stranger here remained. Even when I stepped down onto the familiarity of the platform in Neuchâtel, and then out into the street, I had second thoughts about my decision to come home. The second hotel I tried had a vacancy, so I booked myself a room for two nights so I at least had a couple of days to decide what I needed to do and then of course, what to do after that. Whatever I did though, at least now I could put the shocks and horrors of the last ten weeks behind me and start my life anew. As the life I was leading before I was taken by Hazel Eyes had been altogether miserable on most counts, it could only be an improvement.

  Home

  I had made a short list and started on my way after breakfast the next morning to get as many items as I could, crossed off before lunch. Surprisingly, my first point of call at my bank proved painless. Firstly by confirming that my accounts had been untouched, and within less than an hour, all the paperwork had been completed to issue my new cash card and credit cards. They would be ready for me to collect in two days. Using the excuse that I had been robbed while on vacation proved useful and I decided I would use it again on my visits to my other listed items.

  The next stop was at my mobile telephone provider and using the same, stolen while on holidays line, they checked my account and told me my phone hadn't been used in over nine weeks. They blocked my old phone just to be sure and kindly issued me with a replacement phone on the spot. When I asked if I needed to pay they said there was no need, as it would appear on my next bill.

  With two successes, I moved down to the last item on my list and skipped a few that could wait. If I really wanted to go home, I needed a key. It was only a short walk to the real estate agent that acted as landlord for my apartment and they were very accommodating when I told them I had lost my key while on vacation. The rental manager recognised me from the few times we had met previously, and after having shown her my passport and Permit C for identification, she immediately arranged to have a duplicate of their spare key cut for me. I was extremely nervous when I left with the key to my home in my pocket an hour later. Did I really want to go back?

  Instead of answering my own question, I went for lunch. I'd finished my salad and was in the middle of waiting for my Emincé de veau à la zurichoise for the second course of my plat du jour when my new phone started beeping repeatedly. I took it out of my pocket and a long list of missed calls and messages filled the screen, as my new phone had obviously started catching up on what I had missed for the last ten weeks. I scrolled though them as I waited for my meal. Mostly friends saying 'call me', and a few from my telephone company warning me about international roaming charges. I scrolled further down to the older messages and saw a missed call from Helen, only two days after Hazel Eyes had visited me. I then checked my voice mail and found among the long list, one from Helen on the same day as her missed call. I hit 'listen'.

  'I'm so sorry Lang. God I'm so sorry. Look, get out of the apartment as soon as you get this. I'm in really serious shit and I don't want you to get involved. Please Lang, listen to me. Just get out of there straight away. Go anywhere, but don't stay there.' There was a pause and it sounded like she was crying. 'Please Lang just go. Go to the UK or anywhere, but don't stay at home because these people…….' The message ended as if she had been cut off.

  I looked up at the waiter arriving with my main course and must have had shock written all over my face.

  'Is everything all right sir?'

  'Um, yes fine thanks,' I lied, while my digestive system trembled as if a Richter Scale nine earthquake had hit it. He placed the plate in front of me but food was the furthest thing from my mind as I searched for any other messages from Helen. There weren't any, so I ate a few mouthfuls of my meal, paid, and then left in a hurry and headed immediately for our apartment. I tried to walk but my legs were more inclined towards running as I headed for our building. My hands were shaking as I opened the entry door to the building and I completely ignored our overflowing mailbox as I passed it. My hands were shaking even more as I exited the elevator and approached our door. I pushed the key into the lock. My few mouthfuls of Emincé de veau à la zurichoise were readying to make an upward exit as I pushed the door open. The odour of a kitchen rubbish bin in urgent need of emptying hit me instantly. I looked around as I walked in, and everything seemed to be as it had been when Hazel Eyes and her man in his ill-fitting black suit had dragged me out. Even my half finished cup of coffee was still sitting on the table next to the sofa where I had left it, festering with a forest of overgrown green mould.

  I opened every window, then grabbed my fungus filled coffee cup and headed for the kitchen. While it sat under hot running water, I took a deep breath and emptied the contents of the refrigerator into the bin and tied up the rubbish bag. I pulled it from the bin, turned off the hot water and then headed for the basement with the festering bag of slime. The smell was enough to make me retch, but after I'd deposited it in the garbage bin in the basement, I headed back towards the elevator. I passed the door to the storage area where the lock up boxes were and stopped. Then I turned and unlocked the door. I walked along the row of lock up boxes until I arrived at ours. I opened the gate and pushed aside dusty fans for summer, suitcases and boxes of files until I found it – my old metal trunk. I sat down on a cardboard box of old files and started searching through the contents. Old photos, documents and the assorted useless and forgotten memorabilia of a life. Mine. I scattered the contents in piles around me as I dug deeper. It was near the bottom, but when I saw the yellowed envelope, I'm sure I gasped in shock. I picked it up as if it were a bomb ready to detonate at any second, and then carefully pulled the
letter from the envelope.

  'My dearest Langley, there's a story I must tell you….,' it started.

  I folded the letter and returned it to its envelope. Shaking, as I loaded everything back into the trunk and then stacked the cartons of files, fans and suitcases back over it. I locked up our box, then headed back upstairs with my mother's letter burning in my hand, and the obvious question searing in my mind.

  'What in the name of fucking Hades is going on?'

  When I got back upstairs, I put the letter on the dining room table, and half expected it to burn its way through the wood. The stench in the apartment was still sickening, so I decided to attend to that first and started on some cursory cleaning and emptying a can of air freshener. When I'd finished, I turned on the coffee machine and waited for it to heat up, as my mind raced. I made my coffee and then sat at the kitchen table. Totally lost and completely confused. Absolutely nothing made sense. I went into the living room and turned on the television, hoping perhaps for a news item to explain everything. Surely a missing political advisor might make the news, but found nothing after watching a full afternoon bulletin. It crossed my mind that if I had my laptop I could at least use the Internet to see what I could find, and then it hit me that I hadn't checked to see if my email worked on my new phone. I had to enter the set up details but in a minute or two my phone streamed with emails. Before wading through them I did a quick Internet news search for Helen Garret. Nothing. I tried Swiss political advisor and got some results. I tapped on the first listing.

  It read, 'The Swiss government said that is was concerned by the disappearance of one of its political advisors and was treating her disappearance as suspicious.'

  I went back and tapped another story.

  'Swiss authorities believe a political advisor may have been abducted.'

  One more said,' Swiss government unsettled by the disappearance of a high profile advisor.'

  The dates of the stories were all about a week or so after I'd been abducted, but after these there was hardly a mention apart from syndicated versions of the original story, and none of the news stories mentioned Helen's name. I went back to my long list of emails, but there was nothing at all from, or about Helen. I looked across at the letter sitting on the table and cursed it.

  With no food in the apartment, I used it as a good excuse to spend the night back at my hotel, have dinner, a quiet drink and a think. If I could sleep it would be a bonus. I grabbed the letter and left, leaving the windows open to do their freshening work overnight. After dinner and three beers, I felt sleepy and went up to my room, fell asleep quickly, only to wake a little after one-thirty and then fought a raging battle with my pillows for the rest of the night.

  A full Swiss buffet breakfast was on offer when I went downstairs in the morning, but all I needed was coffee. I was on my second cup, looking out the window at Neuchâtel busying itself for Wednesday when I took the letter from my pocket and decided it was time I finally got around to reading it again. Even if just for the exercise of seeing how much of it I remembered and how well I went in writing a paraphrased version for the Grey Lady. I took it from its envelope, unfolded it and laid it in front of me on the table. The first page was as I'd recalled. My mother wrote about how Chaos was created and from it, Gaia and Uranus were born. I turned the first page over to my right, but as I did I noticed something strange on the back of the first page. There were two very feint blurry grey lines running down it from top to bottom. I held it up and looked at it from an angle. There were no indentations at all from the pen the letter was written with. I held it up so I could get some light reflecting onto the front and then back of the paper. The fine layers of graphite stood every so minutely above the paper. The letter was a photocopy.

  Turning over the other five pages, the same feint grey lines made by the paper carriages of a well used photocopier or printer were identical. Who ever had made the copy went to some trouble though, as the paper used was not standard white office copy paper. I had a little knowledge of paper from my younger days working part time in a printery. It was what was called 16lb. bond writing paper and was common in the fifties and sixties, but still readily available. The aged colour of the pages of the letter could have been achieved by quickly dipping them in weak cold tea. Looking at the envelope, it was certainly the original with the stamp and postmark intact. I had never thought to look at the postmark before and although it was difficult to read clearly, I could make out 'ΑΘΗΝΑΙ', which meant that the letter had been posted from Athens.

  I folded the letter together and slid it back into its envelope and went back to my room to pack my few things, and start digesting this damn letter all over again. After checking out, there was only one thing to do. Go home.

  Wife

  Although the rancid odours had disappeared, my apartment felt eerie as I sat writing my shopping list. While I needed to fill my refrigerator with food, it was going to be more difficult to fill my apartment with my life. Somehow, even a bad marriage makes a home, and without knowing whether Helen was dead or alive, friend or foe, there were going to be voids that would only have a chance of being filled by finding answers. As I had little hope, or will, to find them today, I finished my shopping list and headed off to collect my new cards from the bank, and then to the supermarket for a caddie full of necessities, and a healthy dose of mundane reality. Another dose was waiting for me on the dining room table, as I had cleared my overflowing letterbox and after sorting the junk from the mail, I had two months of bills and reminders to catch up on later in the afternoon. If that weren't enough, changing my bed and doing some laundry would make sure I felt at home again by evening.

  After my first day of homely normality, I celebrated my return with a dinner of frozen mixed vegetables and saucisse de veau, complete with my own home made onion sauce and a bottle of Dôle du Valais, which I happily continued with after washing up. With my day done and a glass of red wine for company, a disquieting cryptic message from my stomach and connected organs wasn't at all welcome. As usual it was all without any specific details, but the general sense was that it was not time for me to relax just yet. As my stomach performed its pirouette, I took a goodly sip from my glass and told it to piss off and leave me in peace. It was only overreacting now out of pure habit. When the bottle was empty it was bedtime, and feeling I had sufficiently anesthetised my stomach and bad news internal companions, I knew I had a chance of enjoying my first night's sleep in my own bed.

  After a peaceful and uninterrupted sleep, and waking feeling only the residual effects of my bottle of red wine, I started my day with confidence and a feeling that things could only get better. Of course my large intestines immediately disagreed, and unfortunately only an hour or so later when I'd go to check my mail, they proved to be irrationally correct.

  Sitting down at the dining table later, I stared at the three envelopes I had collected from my letterbox. In front of me were my electricity and cable bills, lying under a plain white hand addressed envelope.

  'Mr Langley Garret.

  URGENT'

  There was no address or stamp and it had obviously been hand delivered. I picked it up and hesitated in opening it as my lower intestines started saying, 'We told you so.' The envelope was not sealed, just the flap tucked in at the back. I opened it and took out the twice-folded piece of paper, unfolded it and read the brief hand written note.

  'I'm sure it's good to be back from Turkey. Be on the terrace of the Café du Commerce at 3pm today. I have some Hellenic news for you.'

  I kept looking at the few words, but it was the shock of being told that there was someone in Neuchâtel who knew I had been flown from Turkey, and was connected with Helen, Greece or probably both by the use of the word Hellenic. As I stood up to go and make myself a coffee, my stomach sent a pointless portent of impending doom message. I replied, 'Yes, I fucking know, now go back to digesting my cornflakes.'

  It was three fifteen and I checked my watch for the third time as
I looked around for someone trying to find me. There were only two other people sitting at the ten tables on the terrace, so I wasn't lost in a crowd. I checked my watch again; it was three-eighteen and I still couldn't see anyone heading in my direction. I didn't think of looking behind me though.

  'I'm sorry to have kept you waiting Mr Garret,' the man said, as he slowly sat down opposite me.

  'That's ok,' I said, as I tried to put a label on the man. Mid-forties, grey suit, dark blue tie, short dark hair, clean-shaven and with somewhat sad brown eyes. Banker would have been my first guess, but given the situation, secret agent, secret police or drug baron were my next guesses.

  'Your wife is dead, I'm very sorry to have to inform you, Mr Garret.'

  I sat, speechless for a moment. 'How?'

  'We're not entirely sure about the precise details, but shot we believe. It seems your wife was involved in the trade of sensitive information and we think she was linked to a number of intelligence services and also to a known terrorist group.'

  'What? I, eh, I don't understand. She was a spy or something?'

  'I wouldn't say a spy. That's a bit theatrical, but she was being paid by these agencies we understand.'

  'But she was only a political advisor.'

  'Not only Mr Garret. I'm sorry, but we have clear evidence that your wife was involved in clandestine activities for some considerable time.'

  'So if you'd known for some time, why was she still working for the Swiss government? Why didn't you arrest her earlier?'

  'These matters operate on a different level I'm afraid.'

  'Are you saying she was, I don't know how to say this. Useful?'

  'It's a very complicated business Mr Garret.'

  I shouldn't have been shocked by his news after what I thought I knew about Helen and my last ten weeks, but it was his forthright delivery that had me struggling to reply. 'I'm sorry it's a bit of a shock. Where did it happen?'