by Rees, Kevin
As they left, everyone passed a large, vulgar, ornate mirror that overshadowed the other portraits in the room. It appeared at first to be a living, organic piece of art growing out of the wall and deeply embedded in the wood, which ran around its tight black frame. Those who knew Thoragan would not be shocked to learn that sitting behind the mirror in a small dark room was Cruz-Smith. He was savouring the political slaughter of his paymaster with barely constrained joy.
Unfortunately, Aquino didn’t know the Praetor as well as Cruz-Smith did, otherwise he may have taken a different tact. Undeniably though, the man had fire and passion in his belly and would not turn away from the insults in front of his Senate. The spy was fatally pessimistic about another fifty years of rule under Aquino if Thoragan mobilised his resources to remove him. The Praetor had been politically ridiculed and damaged in his campaign to sit on the council. Cruz-Smith knew the self-delusion of the power and manipulation he could wield against more powerful individuals was the worst casualty. It lay shattered. Worse still, it had been done in front of certain people on the cusp of accepting his terms or burning in his flame.
Cruz-Smith began the computation of possible outcomes and fallout from tonight. He sat watching to see what conversations would be held next, aware an irritation in his throat was threatening to expose him. Thoragan hadn’t seen him enter the hidden room, and had certainly not given instructions to use the two-way mirror during the party. He picked up his coat and folded it into a thick cushion then buried his face in the material and coughed, glancing up anxiously to see if he had been heard. Nobody in the room moved. If Thoragan knew he was in here, the blow he received earlier would be a blessing.
His thoughts turned to Aquino again. Cruz-Smith was surprised when watching the confrontation; how the power of his voice contrasted so much with the soft, gentle tones of the man he spoke with a few hours earlier. He seemed able to make words resonate in the body as well as in the mind, making his message clear — even visual. Perhaps this was the trait of a seasoned politician, using all his oratory skills to touch the hearts and minds of his people. Was he now one of Aquino’s people?
When his exposure came in such a public manner, he felt an immediate weight landing on his chest. It meant Thoragan would certainly have to prove Aquino wrong, and therefore, logically, it would mean his services were now terminated. He was also forced to conclude that Aquino was, ironically, saving him, by exposing his link with the Praetor. The President had weighed him up after their meeting and correctly judged he would be too weak to do it himself.
As Morgan Cruz-Smith played back the evening’s exchange, he became aware there were times when Aquino glanced directly at the mirror. Could he have known?
Thoragan’s smile disappeared as quickly as the breath leaving his mouth. He screamed at the remaining supporters, who stood in a row before him like penitent children. As Cruz-Smith watched, he struck Senator Liu, leaving a familiar wound on her cheek. The woman fell to her knees in shock and disbelief. The others broke rank and assisted her, except one who stood rigidly staring at the far wall as if inspecting the quality of the grain.
The man was known to Cruz-Smith, and it was perhaps the sign that spoke loudest in the room. Bexx Camberley was younger, ruthlessly ambitious and some had said more evocative of men they’d known in their youth. He was also a very good infiltrator, but not as good a spy. Perhaps, Cruz-Smith contemplated sitting behind the mirror, neither was he a few years ago. What was he doing here? The obvious answer being, he was now in the employ of Thoragan. Did Thoragan hire him to spy on the spy? Cruz-Smith had very good instincts and a heightened sense of his own personal safety and would know if he were being observed or followed covertly. It was his trade after all. If Thoragan had tasked Bexx to spy on his own asset then his report would be pretty thin. In the last few weeks all he had done had been sifting information and observing the targets Thoragan paid him to watch.
The Praetor left the others to clear away the human detritus he had just discarded. With an almost imperceptible movement of his left hand, he signalled Bexx to remain. As Senator Liu was helped out of the room, Thoragan crossed to a heavily laden table of food and began stuffing his mouth with meat and other exotic foods. Bexx appeared unaffected by the sight of a man with his cheeks stretching to the limit of his skin, pressing even more into his insatiable mouth.
‘Praetor, we need a course of action,’ Bexx said with a lisp he didn’t try to compensate for. He strode stiffly to Thoragan’s side. ‘May I offer you a proposition that will alter the balance in your favour?’ Without waiting for Thoragan’s permission, or giving him time to swallow, he continued. ‘The President has raised serious doubts in others tonight. I suggest you ensure he is in no position to capitalise. The rumour went according to plan, but without the impact you needed to make any true gains. I think we might be able to improve on that if you considered taking a much bolder course of action.’ Bexx paused and looked directly at him. There was no challenge in his steadfast gaze, just a meaningful connection with his employer.
Thoragan was chewing on meat and now his jaws ached. He spat the remainder onto the rich red carpet. Bexx remained steadfast and watched the remainder dripping down from the Praetor’s chins. He didn’t even attempt to wipe any of it away before speaking.
‘How long have I employed you? Six…seven months? And you feel you can offer me advice on political tactics you have no understanding of,’ Thoragan spat. The bits of meat and fruit clinging to his chin were sent out in small showers onto the man in front of him every time he punctuated his words strongly.
‘I am not offering you political advice, Praetor. I am suggesting an action to bring you your political dream,’ Bexx replied evenly.
Thoragan allowed the interruption, as here was a unique individual who he wanted to move closer to his circle. For now, Bexx Camberley was a significant piece of rock orbiting a devouring Sun. If he moved too close to Thoragan, he would be sucked in and burned to a cinder. But if he moved too far away, the coldness would temper his fragile surface and fracture his very core. The gamble was his alone. Thoragan would use him in whatever orbit he chose.
Sitting behind the mirror, Cruz-Smith was impressed with Bexx’s boldness to stand firm in front of his paymaster and offer something he had to deliver, knowing what Thoragan would do if he failed. This undisclosed action was having an effect of making him jealous. If Thoragan were to be swayed by the plan, what use would he have for two spies?
The pair moved towards the painting Aquino had stood under earlier. Thoragan stared up at the canvas with a misty look rolling over his face as Bexx talked quietly of his plan. Cruz-Smith leaned forward, trying to hear. As he did, his foot tapped the glass. Both speakers froze. Thoragan turned to the mirror, recognising the sound coming from inside the glass. He strode across the room and stood before the mirror.
‘Bring me one of those candles. Quickly, man!’
Bexx did as ordered and handed the Praetor a thick candle burning with an orange flame. Thoragan pressed it up close to the glass and held it there. He cupped his forehead with a hand resting on the mirror, looking intently into the glass. Bexx stood behind, not knowing what the man was doing.
‘What is it?’
‘I think we may have a mole,’ Thoragan said. ‘A giant one requiring a giant trap, Bexx.’ He took several steps back from the mirror. ‘Tell me more about this plan.’
Aquino thanked his driver and bodyguard, as he always did, before getting out of his car. Another man came down the steps to meet them and flanked his back as he walked to his door. He allowed them into the hallway before insisting they get something to drink. Aquino couldn’t get his mind off the fine brandy in his study, deciding he deserved a glass before bed. The sound of footsteps descending the staircase did nothing but increase his desire for the drink.
‘What are you doing up, Giselle? It’s a little late.’
The woman flowed down the stairs with the grace of someone used to making f
ine entrances. She was tall, slim, with pale skin and jet-black hair. It was no wonder she could turn the heads of much younger men. That had always been a problem for Aquino, as his wife was younger than him with a flirtatious side that hadn’t sat well since the day he met her.
‘I wanted to see you,’
‘Or did you want to know what was said about you?’ Aquino snapped.
A silence held them in check, neither knowing if they should apologise or remain standing apart like strangers.
It was Aquino who capitulated first, sliding down the wall to sit on the polished floor. He looked up at his wife, who stood on the bottom step, not knowing if she should go back up the stairs or stay. He made the decision for her and extended his hand. Giselle began to cry and moved to be with him. She sat down and folded into his body, sobbing uncontrollably. He cradled her head and stroked her hair. He so wanted to believe the rumours were false about the affairs.
‘I’m so sorry, Giselle. All this is because of me.’
‘No matter what has been said, someone paid them to say those things about me,’ Giselle said, dropping her eyes from his.
‘I know... And I know who started the rumours. He sees a man who holds something he will never have. So, if he can’t have it, like any spoilt child, he’ll destroy everything.’ Aquino drew her in close to him, feeling her warmth. ‘He’ll do it, piece by piece. He thinks he can de-stabilise things to a point when he can come and take what he wants.’
‘You’re talking about Thoragan,’ she said, looking up at him.
He nodded wearily. ‘Thoragan!’
‘What happened tonight? Tell me,’ she urged.
‘I think I have unleashed the child, and in doing so I may have put someone’s life in danger.’
He struggled to his feet, noting his limbs were getting stiffer. The process of ageing for him was measured in decades rather than years, and he felt all of his tonight. His thoughts went back to the brandy. His wife’s eyes held another thought which had been absent since Thoragan’s poison had polluted their marriage. He offered his hand again and she stood up, leaning into his shoulder.
‘Let’s be together tonight. It’s been so long, Gabriel.’ Giselle walked to the stairs.
Aquino glanced at his study door and wondered if anyone was sitting alone in the dark waiting to be rescued. What could he do? He was tired by the exhaustive existence of being the President. His wife reached out to him and he took her hand like a drowning man reaches out for any hope. Tonight, all he wanted was someone who cared enough to rescue him.
17
The point man moved with the grace and fluidity of a puma as he scouted ahead of the team, aware of every tiny sound that occupied the same space. His name was Tork — just Tork. He carried the respect and confidence of the team, just as Roman had. Eddie observed a palpable sense of honest relief amongst the others when he took point, a job he accepted with the discipline of a seasoned veteran. The risk for the lead man wasn’t always as great as the rest of the team following behind. Most ambush scenarios let the first man through to cut the trailing team to shreds. However, it seemed unlikely, even with the opposition they faced, that Tork would miss any sign or clue to any potential ambush. He covered everything: up, down, sideways, with all his senses alert to any small changes.
The door he was looking for was along a short corridor. It seemed promising and easily opened from inside. It led out onto a poorly lit square of open area used as a car park. It looked quiet, though Tork didn’t believe Father would leave this piece of ground unguarded. He tapped twice on his throat mic, signalling it was safe to move forward quietly. He looked out cautiously across the tarmac. Soon the sun would be up and the mission would have to end before its rays lit up the massive hospital to the watching eyes of the First Bloods. Tork hadn’t expected it to take so long to get to their objective. It was as if the plan was deliberately over-cautious and didn’t factor in the team’s ability to move fast and strike quickly. Before they were briefed, the First Blood Colonel had been seen speaking with Karl and tracing something with his finger on the blueprint. Karl appeared to shake his head and stab repeatedly at something on the map.
‘Ay, ay!’ Lars approached the crouching man. ‘Anything out there?’
Tork pulled him down and pointed to the tall chimney. Lars screwed up his eyes and stared to where Tork indicated, not seeing what his friend was looking at. Tork nudged him and pointed again. On the side of the chimney a hand was laying flat along the curve. Only the fingers seemed to flex as the palm was held rigidly along the smooth surface. Lars frowned. Father was anticipating every move the team were making. Although, it seemed he’d only sacrificed one of his people, unless there were more hidden on the other side. No doubt the Bloodeater was intended as a spotter who would be in communication with his radio operator. He was well placed, Lars thought. It wouldn’t matter from which door they exited, or how stealthy they were — crossing to the ladder would expose them.
There was only one option, and it needed a lot of luck. Lars whispered to Tork. The point man nodded and moved slowly along the wall that concealed him from the watching eyes. He unhooked his weapon and took out a suppressor from one of his pockets. Tork quickly fitted it onto the barrel. He knew the accuracy of his MP7, but the shot was long, and it would have to be taken in a split second. He signalled to Lars. They lay on their bellies and shuffled forward, praying the half-wall was covering their movements. Lars signed he was going in three-seconds. Tork readied himself.
Lars kicked the door open. The sudden explosion of light from the corridor lit up the yard as the shadow of the Swede rushed to the right. The figure on the roof reacted immediately. He swung around the chimney and tracked Lars. Something in the way the man moved made the watcher freeze. He knew in that split second how easily he had been deceived. Tork’s accuracy didn’t fail as two silent bullets took the top of his head clean off. The Bloodeaters body fell forward into nothingness and smashed onto the tarmac. Moonlight lit his blood as it spread out in a black arc over white lines.
Lars ran to the ladder and reached the top in three strides. He looked for signs of another sentry who might have been up there with the dead man below. Thankfully, there were no others. Even so, it didn’t fill him with any relief. Perhaps there had been two of them, and the other one was already on his way to report the assault. He would have to assume this was the case, but he couldn’t afford any more time to be overly cautious. Lars tapped on the mic four times, signalling for everyone to rendezvous on him. From his point off the ground, Lars watched Tork provide cover as everyone made for the ladder. In less than two minutes the team was assembled on the roof.
Maya found the small hatch in the chimney and signalled it was locked. Tork moved to her side. He took a small disk out of his pocket and attached it over the lock. Tork turned to the team and held his hand over his eyes, gesturing for them to do the same. He pressed down on a syringe-like plunger. A contained flare of intense white light left behind the smell of hot metal, which was already being whisked off by a light breeze nudging between them. Maya reached out to the hatch before anyone could stop her. Tork saw her hand brush against the molten metal. He dived forward and clamped his hand around her mouth to stop the scream he knew would expose them. Eddie reacted quicker than the rest, reaching the twisting body of the woman held tightly against Tork’s chest. He saw a crazed look twist the beauty out of her face replacing it with the fear of a child. He already knew the effect molten metal would have and was prepared to see most of the skin burnt off. Instead, when he turned her hand over everything was intact. The skin was badly blistered, but there was no deep thermal damage. As Eddie prepared to treat the burn, he saw something was changing in the woman. Tork had pushed his finger firmly into the side of her neck and seemed to be rhythmically vibrating them.
Lars pushed past Eddie and took the woman’s hand from him. He whispered, ‘Give me the green bottle in your bag, quickly.’
Eddie found the bottl
e and handed it to him. Lars took it and ripped off the cap. He poured a golden liquid over Maya’s hand and gently smoothed the syrupy fluid onto the burn. Eddie watched, as Maya stopped twisting and began to relax in Tork’s grip as he kept manipulating the nerves in her neck. Lars was mentally ticking off the seconds this delay was having on the mission. He couldn’t ignore a team member down and hurt, and he especially couldn’t ignore that it was Maya. Perhaps she felt she had to show some contrition. Lars wouldn’t condemn her for trying to make amends, but she was causing so many delays. This was something even her own father would have to consider when reprimanding her conduct.
With a nod of heads, Tork and Lars released the woman. Maya sat up slowly, giving the appearance of someone coming around after having morphine injected into her vein. She stared blankly at Lars as he applied a field dressing and looked as if she had no idea why he was doing that.
Tork saw the amazement on Eddie’s face and leant over. ‘We discovered how to heal using the body’s own recovery system many, many millennia ago. We made it the first principle to master before anything else. We can heal ourselves, and your kind also,’ Tork said, smiling.
It was the first time he had spoken, and it surprised Eddie how gentle the man’s voice was, almost effeminate. ‘Do you heal those things as well?’
‘They can suffer and die. No, we do not heal them.’
‘But could you?’
‘It’s time to move,’ Lars ordered.
