by Jo O'Neil
Chapter Fourteen
The Meeting
As A.M. and I walked out of Giorgio’s on to the pedestrian filled street, I virtually bumped into a Big Issue seller who was working the afternoon shift. I plunged my hands inside my pockets hoping God would feel as I did that the Big Issue was a worthy purchase; He didn’t disappoint me.
Walking back to the square with my magazine tucked under my arm, A.M. began my final briefing.
‘Armed with the knowledge I and your other mentors have passed on to you, Serena, you are to seek Hope Harper who can presently be found at MI6 headquarters here in London.
‘Hope has just successfully completed a missing person’s case for the Metropolitan Police. Now, MI6 require her services to locate a person who is missing of a completely different kind. The British Secret Service is very keen for Hope to find this individual.’ A.M. paused before he consciously stated, ‘God wishes this person to remain hidden from them.’
A faint smile traced my lips, but barely reached my eyes as I replied, ‘I wonder why I’m not remotely astounded at this news.’
True to form A.M. chose not to visibly or otherwise respond to my comment, and instead remarked, ‘It is time to go. I will orb with you to the entrance of MI6 headquarters, but it is there where I must leave you.’
‘Why won’t you come in with me, A.M.? I may need you, and surely the job’s success rate will increase with the two of us.’
‘There are dark forces currently at work within the walls of the British Secret Service. If they feel my presence, which they undoubtedly would, those of us on the side of righteousness would be at a disadvantage. So, my dear Serena, you will enter alone, but you will never be by yourself. All you need do if you require assistance is call.’
‘How do I call you, A.M.?’
I remembered the thought I’d had of speed dialling the angels, but I didn’t actually think this was the way to call God’s elite team as essentially it wasn’t sophisticated enough.
‘Just call to me in the name of God our Father, even if you do so inaudibly, and hold the image of me strong in your mind. The same is true if you need the service of another Archangel. You have the cards explaining our blessings so you know who to summon?’
‘Yes, right here,’ I said as I pulled out the works of art, but not from my coat or the pockets of my jeans as I had magically switched back to my angelic uniform, inclusive of cloak, just as seamlessly as I had switched to civilian wear. I looked up at A.M. who had also changed back to his gladiator appearance.
‘Oh, A.M., I’ve just remembered; I never did get the counsel and mediation leaflets from administration which Archangel Raguel promised me.’
‘Do not fear, Serena. I will arrange for them to be delivered to you,’ A.M. assured me. Somehow I didn’t think he meant by conventional courier service.
‘How will I know where Hope is once I’m inside MI6, A.M.?’
‘You will be guided.’
‘Guided how?’
‘Trust in God, Serena. Now it is time to go. Hope is currently waiting to meet with senior personnel, totally unaware of the events she is about to be entangled within. I am so very pleased, Serena, you were able to release your hatred towards Hope, for she needs you now more than she has ever needed anyone.’
‘I have more questions,’ I said with the panic in my voice clearly audible.
‘Serena, there is no time. Trust everything you require will come to you and it will.’
‘If time is an issue, let me ask Archangel Metatron to speak with Old Father Time. If Archangel Metatron requests Old Father Time slows time down so I arrive with Hope at precisely the right time, then there is time for my questions,’ I argued as I remembered Archangel Metatron’s earlier display with his considerably large watch.
With neither an annoyed, amused, or quizzical look, A.M. said, ‘It is done. What are you questions, Serena?’
With satisfactory relief I asked, ‘Firstly, how do I stay invisible, and similarly how do I become visible?’
‘Now you are an honorary angel, if you hold the intention to be invisible, then you will be. If you wish to reveal yourself, intend it.’
‘My second question is; if I need to travel internationally, what shall I do? As of course I can’t travel beyond the United Kingdom’s borders without being zapped, or something worse, by the time zone.’ I said this half heartedly as I struggled to see what could be so difficult about orbing around the globe, but A.M. thought it was a good point to cover.
‘If you need to travel transatlantically, then the Almighty will know.’
‘Probably, before I do.’
‘God is all seeing and all knowing. He will arrange your transportation if the need arises.’
‘My third and final question is . . .’ I looked uncomfortably down at my feet. ‘Eh . . . Archangel Haniel said a soul knows when an angel is present, yet I tested you, A.M.,’ I finished with anguish in my voice.
‘Serena, your soul knew my true identity. It was your mind deep in doubt and confusion that demanded proof. Do not berate yourself. Instead learn to trust your soul. Now, it really is time for us to go, Serena. Are you ready?’
‘As ready as I ever will be,’ I said as we took flight.
As promised, A.M. orbed with me to the embankment where the home of the British Secret Service sat reflectively in the river Thames. When it was time for him to leave, I hugged his muscular body wishing in all honesty I didn’t have to let go, as the thought of my journey ahead terrified me; it was like leaving the security of childhood for the big bad world, but one hundred times worse.
I stood alone for some time, contemplating it would actually be easier to throw myself into the Thames and let Old Father Time hold the clock still for always so the all important meeting Hope was about to attend, which I was meant to be present at, would never happen, when I heard A.M.’s voice reverberate around my head.
‘Rely on my strength, Serena, and forge ahead fearlessly,’ A.M. advised me.
These words were enough to snap me out of my quagmire and deal with the situation at hand. With a new zest for justice, I transformed into my orb in front of a handful of unsuspecting and oblivious tourists, and entered MI6.
A little part of me expected to set alarms blazing as I penetrated the high security building, yet undetected I floated, led by an unexplainable golden light, straight to Hope Harper.
Hope was seated in a spacious boardroom, very much alone, to one end of a large oak table which would quite easily accommodate twenty-four personnel. Her relaxed posture held her hands, palms gently curled upwards, neatly placed in the skirted lap of her crossed legs. Her writing pad and pen lay redundant on the highly polished table in front of her. She wore smart Collins, Harper, and Jones Solicitors attire, which not only matched the colour of my sapphire hanging in full view around her neck, but also complemented her baby blue eyes.
As I surveyed the room further, I couldn’t fail to notice the predominant wall was lined with portraits of past great leaders, who stood in their magnificent golden frames against a background of dark wooden panelling. Opposite, a wall of windows, which Hope faced, scanned the Thames below and spied on the Southern banks of the Capital.
I sat on a cabinet underneath a painting of Cain Caldwell Fagan Hart, whose pinstriped suited, shiny black shoed full length profile had been captured some sixty years’ earlier. Mr. Hart was a serve looking gentleman with slicked back jet black hair, a handlebar moustache, and piercing blue eyes. With my back to him, my spine tingled as the hair started to lift on the back of my neck giving me the distinct feeling this man was not a being of light, and even though he was no longer tangible, having departed from this world sometime earlier, the eeriness of his portrait made me rethink my position.
As I made my way over to the windows where I was planning to perch on the low ledge (I could hardly pull out a chair without spooking Hope, even though there were plenty to choose from), the boa
rdroom door swung open admitting three men, each with the same black hair and intense blue eyes as the portrait.
I stood alert. My instincts warned me to shout at Hope to run and hide, but I realised to show myself would be disastrous to God’s mission, so I opted to keep a very close eye on the three I assumed were related to Cain Caldwell Fagan Hart. Besides, Hope had my very old and valuable, Himalayan, Devil and evil spirit banishing, cornflower blue sapphire amulet on her person to keep her safe, and A.M., the Lords protector, was only a call away.
The three men walked the length of the boardroom to greet Hope, who stood to attention before leaning into the table to shake their hands.
‘Good to get the chance to work with you again, Hope,’ the man dressed in a Metropolitan Police uniform said.
‘You too, Caldwell,’ Hope politely responded as her left hand instinctively reached to touch my sapphire.
Jumping as he made contact with Hope’s person, as if he’d been electrocuted, Caldwell neatly covered up his strange behaviour by commenting, ‘That’s a beautiful necklace. Is it new?’
‘A frien . . . it was an inheritance,’ Hope uncomfortably said.
‘I believe you met my brother Fagan when you last helped MI6,’ Caldwell gestured towards the grey suited, identical looking man next to him.
‘Yes, hello, Fagan,’ Hope said as she courteously extended her right hand again, not daring to let go of the amulet with her left.
Fagan shook her hand, yet he pulled away abruptly as if he’d been burnt. ‘Sorry, static,’ he blamed his behaviour on; whereas I thought it was more likely my amulet at work.
‘May I introduce my brother Cain Hart, who also works for Queen and country as the Head of the Intelligence sector for MI5,’ Caldwell informed Hope as he summoned his sibling forward.
Cain’s navy, expensively cut suit rose slightly as he reached to shake hands with Hope, exposing an opulent, gold watch worn unusually on his right wrist, with two crossed horns either side of a fiery, red face.
‘What an unusual watch,’ Hope commented. Curious, she let go of my sapphire and extended both arms towards Cain to inspect the demonic piece more thoroughly.
Determined to prevent further exposure of his gift from Lucifer, Cain sharply pulled his hand away, concealing his watch once again with his cuff before Hope had a chance to touch him and scrutinize Lucifer’s trademark.
If Hope had been looking closely, she would have noted all three brothers were wearing the same watch, and all three had matching cufflinks which were identical to the satanic detail on the watches.
With the introductions complete, the four sat down. Cain’s anomalous behaviour didn’t go unnoticed by Hope who no longer sported a relaxed look. Purposely staying the opposite side of the table, she posed with her pen in her right hand ready to make the necessary notes so she could escape the darkness which flooded the high ceiling room, despite the wall of windows, for the bright sunshine filled London streets.
Caldwell, the supposed elected spokesman, led the meeting.
‘Pandora, the head of human resources here at MI6, has checked our records. It appears you signed the official secrets act last time you acted as a consultant for MI6. Even so, I’m obliged to remind you of your duty to your Queen and country, in that, all that is said within these walls is confidential. If a hint of a whisper is released, whether intentional or not, the crime will be charged as treason. Is that clear, Hope?’ Although Caldwell’s voice was pleasant, it had an undertone of seriousness that marked a man not to be crossed.
‘You’ve made yourself perfectly clear, Caldwell. Thank you,’ Hope answered calmly as her exterior self didn’t betray her inward unease.
‘Good,’ Caldwell continued. ‘This is a very special operation concerning; the Metropolitan Police, which explains my involvement; MI5, which is why Cain has come into the equation; and MI6, which is why we are here with Fagan at MI6 headquarters. Her Majesty’s authorities have dedicated their best people to this operation, and no expense is to be spared because, quite simply put, the successful conclusion of this taskforce is paramount to national security.’
Caldwell paused. After checking Hope’s demeanour, which didn’t alter due to her strong resolve even though Caldwell had expected at the very least a glimmer of surprise, he carried on.
‘Due to the seriousness of the matter at hand, the highest rank of command has sanctioned your services to MI6 payroll.’
‘How may I be of service?’ Hope asked, anxious to conclude the meeting.
‘An agent with top security clearance has gone rogue. The agent’s name is Ryan Joshua Scott. This is his service file complete with photograph,’ Caldwell held on to the agent’s dossier as he slid a passport size shot to Hope, ‘and these,’ he dealt out a half dozen larger photographs on the table, ‘are the most recent images we have of Scott.’
I moved around the table to stand behind Hope to get a clear look at the man God wished to remain at liberty. When I was barely a foot from her she shuddered as if someone had walked over her grave.
‘Is there anything wrong, Hope?’ Cain who had been quietly observing the meeting asked.
‘No, but thank you for asking, Cain,’ Hope cautiously answered in her soft, sweet voice.
Hope and I studied an attractive, dark blonde man who Caldwell referred to as Scott. Standing next to him was a ginger headed man who had the same flaming colour facial hair under his nose and around his chin.
‘The man with Scott is Hugh Carlisle. Carlisle is believed to be a CIA traitor who is leaking American intelligence to the Russians. From various sources we have reason to believe Carlisle is introducing Scott to his Russian contacts. Britain cannot stand the fall out such a coalition will bring. This is why it’s imperative we find Scott, who fled without a trace along with Carlisle the day these photographs were taken.
‘My counterparts at the CIA are naturally keen to locate their man Carlisle. To this end, they are giving British Forces every possible assistance. If the information you provide us with leads to the capture of Carlisle, the CIA have agreed to pay you a very generous bonus.’ Caldwell passed a folded piece of paper to Hope. ‘That’s in US dollars. However, I’m sure you’ll agree its sterling equivalent is most fair.’
Hope, who had been note taking as Caldwell spoke, put down her pen and carefully unfolded the American’s sweetener. ‘The CIA is undeniably most fair and generous in its offer,’ she remarked.
I peered over Hope’s shoulder making her shudder again. She was being offered a tidy sum, which I could well understand would be very attractive to a solicitor’s clerk. But what I didn’t understand was why, with this secret service increment to her salary, didn’t God guide Hope to buy my sapphire she was currently wearing for herself?
My thoughts were interrupted by Hope who asked a hesitate Caldwell, ‘May I keep these photographs.’
‘We have copies, Caldwell,’ Fagan interjected for the first time since the meeting commenced, before he directly addressed Hope. ‘All I ask, Hope, is that you keep them away from prying eyes and under lock and key when you’re not using them. After all, they are official MI6 documents and promising careers have been cut short for underestimating the importance of such documentation.’
Hope reached down for her briefcase. Placing the stylish, black leather case on the boardroom table, she collected the photographs and secured them, along with her notes, safely under lock and key, making it painstakingly clear to her colleagues she’d followed their instructions without exception.
‘I will need to speak to a relative or close personal friend of Ryan Joshua Scott’s who can give me further details on him. I would prefer to do this in person. Can you arrange this?’ Hope directed her question at the three men.
‘We all know Scott,’ Caldwell informed Hope, ‘so any questions you have can be directed to us.’
‘You were close personal friends before Ryan Joshua Scott absconded?’ Hope had a hint of surp
rise in her voice as she presented this question.
‘Well . . . no, not exactly,’ Caldwell answered.
‘I need to speak to anyone who was CLOSE to Ryan Joshua Scott,’ Hope clearly emphasised. ‘You can reach me on my mobile to arrange a date and time.’
‘How long before you locate Scott?’ With his face anxious and deeply etched with frown lines as he tentatively awaited Hope’s reply, Cain lent into his elbows which were resting on the table, as his well cut jacket shifted upwards so his shoulders swallowed his neck.
Hope gave him a look of contempt as she retorted, ‘The art of clairvoyancy is delicate. I do not, and I cannot give the spirits a deadline. Good day gentlemen,’ she chillily added as she assertively stood and proceeded to briskly shake unwilling hands, all of which suffered the amulets warning shock, before she turned on her heels and left.
For a fleeting moment I thought I would follow Hope out of the repressive room, but then I theorised my time would be best spent spying on the other side, or at least until their group dispersed.
Hope had left her seat pulled out, so I settled myself in the spot she’d sat only moments before, being extra careful not to knock a table leg and give myself away, placed my Big Issue on the gleaming table, and continued my new promising career in espionage.
‘He won’t be impressed if Hope starts poking her nose into Scott’s personal life. Why does she want to speak to Scott’s acquaintances? How is that going to help her find him?’ Cain asked.
‘I don’t know. Unfortunately, I’m not blessed with the gift of clairvoyancy,’ Caldwell added. ‘If I were, we wouldn’t need Hope Harper.’
‘We must control the information Hope is given,’ Fagan contributed.
‘That is the most sensible suggestion that has been made in this boardroom all afternoon,’ a strong male voice boomed that was neither Cain’s, Caldwell’s, or Fagan’s.
The hairs stood rigid on my icy cold neck. I was terrified of looking around, but I knew to qualify as God’s Angelic Secret Agent I must not fear. So ever so slowly and carefully I rotated my body to see who had spoken, as I clutched my star bearing the angel number 444.
I thought my Angelic Induction Programme had prepared me for the strange and the spooky, but standing in front of his portrait which declared he’d died some time before, wearing the same gray, pinstripe suit and shiny, black shoes that he had been painted in more than half a century ago was Cain Caldwell Fagan Hart.
‘It’s all under control, Grandfather,’ Caldwell addressed the man who looked so human and positively un-ghost like, despite his pale complexion, it seemed impossible he’d just moments before stepped out of his portrait which was still intact.
‘“Under control!” From what I heard it didn’t appear as if you had it “under control” in the slightest,’ Mr. Hart thundered.
‘Forgive me, Grandfather. I didn’t mean any disrespect,’ Caldwell groveled, and then thought better of it when he saw his grandfather’s stormy face. ‘We will take care of it so Hope Harper doesn’t speak to anyone who knows Scott,’ he said more self-assured.
‘See that you do; otherwise there will be consequences,’ Mr. Hart growled at his grandsons who all muttered compliance.
He glared at the three younger Harts for a moment, all of whom had the good sense to keep their heads inclined. Satisfied he’d been shown the right amount of reverence, Mr. Hart turned to face his portrait and was literally sucked back into the canvas.
Fagan mumbled something about convening in his office for a stiff drink before he turned on his heels and departed. I thought this sounded a most civilised idea so I was almost sorry I couldn’t join them. Caldwell and Cain obviously agreed as they swiftly followed Fagan out of the boardroom. As they did so, I saw the same dark shadow I had seen in Harry Goodwin’s office trail behind them with my Big Issue magazine in her skinny, long black fingernail hand.
