by KC McLaren
“Andrew?” Dimitri said clutching his head and by now feeling very dizzy.
Andrew coughed, clearing his throat and wiping his forehead. “I could be wrong, and I hope I am. But at this rate within the next twenty-four hours these amounts will run into the billions and we will have a major run on the bank. Not just the Central Bank, but every banking institute in Greece. The only money anyone will have access to will be the cash their pocket, wallet or purse and that will be worthless.” Andrew put the tablet to one side, his face crimson red.
Dimitri did not go red in the face, far from it, instead a pain in his head exploded like a bright flash of blinding white light. His face drained of all colour and he became disorientated forcing him to raise an arm, placing it on the wall next to the door to give him support. His arm would not move though. He tried to speak. The words in his mind screaming to be heard, but his jaw refused to move. Instead, saliva drooled down the left corner of his mouth. Where was Andrew? As he tried to force his legs to move forward, they buckled under him sending him down like a dead weight to the floor.
Andrew got out of his chair and raced over. “Mr Christakos, Mr Christakos. Sir, are you ok?” he said in total panic.
Dimitri could no longer see nor hear Andrew. The massive stroke ended as fast as it began. Dimitri had one final thought as his life faded out into the darkness of his own abyss. ‘Maybe I should have taken the lift…’
Chapter 10 | The Death
STEWART LET OUT AN INDIGNANT SHRILL but was no match for the man who raised both hands to each side of Stewart’s head. Like a whooshing clash of cymbals cascading together he clapped his open hands onto Stewart’s ears. The impact and rapid rise of internal pressure burst the ear drums. Stewart let out a terrifying shriek of pain. He tried to scramble up only to be met by the right arm of his attacker locked around his neck in a classic sleeper hold. The man pushed him back into the chair and with his free hand placed it behind Stewart’s head forcing it forward, within a few seconds he was unconscious. The man released his hold and standing up held Stewart keeping him from sliding off the chair.
Alarmed, Brown stood up, “This is not what we planned! For the love of God. I can’t be a part of this, David.”
Strickland glared at Brown, “Sit down, Roger!”
The other man, now with surgical gloves on his hands, opened the French crafted box. He took out a small vial containing a clear liquid and placed it onto the oak table. Then, from inside his coat pocket, removed a medical package, opened it up and took out a syringe.
Brown sat back down, “What the fuck is he going to do with that?”
“My dear friend,” Strickland replied, “You’re not in a position to ask. Just watch and learn. And please, don’t interrupt again or these two gentleman may find the need to help you, shall I say, relax?”
Strickland watched his old friend wipe his hand across his mouth no doubt trying to block out the conclusion that was fast developing in his mind. and transfixed by the site of the man drawing air into the syringe then picking up the vial putting the needle into the rubber top. After pushing air into it he turned it upside down and drew in the liquid.
The man turned and crossed over to his colleague, removed the syringe and pocketed the empty vial. His colleague, holding on to the back of the chair with Stewart’s limp body, pulled it away from the coffee table making space. The syringe man paused, first looked at Jacobs who nodded then at Strickland who once again nodded. He bent down in front of Stewart, took his left hand and then injected the syringe’s content between the index and ring finger. He removed the needle and stood up and strode back around the chair to stand next to his colleague. The only noise in the study came from the crackling fire, no-one spoke. After a few minutes the syringe man placed two fingers on Stewart’s neck. He looked over at Jacobs and said, “It’s done, Sir.”
“Thank you, Monroe. You understand what to do next?” he replied. The one he called Monroe, nodded.
Brown grabbed his glass holding his Jack Daniels and drank it then poured another one and did the same. “These two belong to you Jacobs?” he spat out at him.
“No, not really. They belong to MI6, but it’s neither here nor there,” Jacobs smiled.
Brown looked at Strickland, “We did not agree on this. You’ve just killed a man in cold blood in front of me,” he spurted out unable to contain himself.
“Calm down, Roger.” Strickland said as he patted Stewart’s hand. “The dear old boy was past his best and more to the point, he was on the verge of bringing all of us down. He wanted to take charge. He didn’t understand the stakes involved and was only interested in himself and what he wanted. Stewart never truly understood the bigger picture.”
“David, how the hell are we going to proceed without James?” Brown said trying to get a control of himself. “Do you understand the absurd situation you’ve just put me in?”
Strickland picked up his whisky from the table and replied, “There’s nothing to worry about, Roger, and you were not even here today.” Strickland paused saluting his glass towards Jacobs, “James is relaxing on his yacht in the South of France with two lovely young ladies, is he not?”
He gazed into his glass appreciating the aroma of the malt whiskey shaking his head in a mock gesture towards the dead body in front of him. “I warned him about the young girls, too much for him at his age.”
“Yep, at his age that old heart of his was sure to give out.” Jacobs said joining in with the charade. “As David says, it’s all taken care of, his body will be on his boat within the next twelve hours and we will carry on as normal. Nothing has changed. And before you go off on one about the dilemma you are in, we didn’t tell you as you didn’t need to know. The American’s call it deniable plausibility. Well, in this case, almost.”
“Deniable plausibility! I’m here for goodness sake,” Brown exclaimed.
“Are you?” Jacobs replied with sarcastic wit. “Well, one has to get one’s hands dirty once in a while, crack a few eggs and all that good stuff old boy.” Jacobs paused for effect. “Oh, that reminds me, how is that young man of yours, is it the blonde one now?”
Strickland observed Brown's face, savouring the moment. Poor bastard, mouth wide open, can't speak, that's a first. Looks like he is about to have his own heart attack. Now for the last move, “Reginald, please let’s not get all down and dirty. There’s enough going on without bringing up Roger’s indiscretions. However, Roger. From today, your little boys must stay well and away from you.”
He looked straight at Brown knowing it was the last part of the game play. “Reginald has been cleaning up your mess for years making sure, shall we say, your lustful thoughts have not gotten the better of you. He has quite a file built up I hear. You can read it when you get back to your car. I promise you, it’s the only copy.”
“And as for your question about James, and I'm sure Reginald would agree, he will be with us. It’s the media outlets throughout the EU we need on board and as I have stated, that is exactly what we have.” Strickland picked up the phone on his table. “Christopher, please ask James to come into the study. Gentlemen, let me introduce you to the new Chairman and CEO of Global Comms Industries, James Henry Stewart,” he paused, “the second.”
Chapter 11 | Up Close & Personal
JONATHAN EXITED THE INTERNET CAFÉ and gazed around. Crowds of onlookers gathered on the road to get a glimpse of the drama. Two fire engines and an ambulance had already arrived with police co-ordinating them through the crowds. The multitude of questions racing through his mind would have to wait. He headed left towards the Oxford Circus tube station. If he got there unhindered, would he be safe? Sure, he convinced himself, it was his only option.
The wet coat was cold to the touch, but he put it back on. No-one carried a coat around in winter. He gazed around a second time. The police as yet, didn’t have control over the scene, so he walked a few yards and mingled with the increasing numbers of on-lookers.
Don’t l
ook back. Don’t move too fast don’t bring attention to yourself, he told himself.
By the time he merged with the main crowd of shoppers, and away from the drama on-lookers, no one took special notice of him. He slowed to a stroll, was it a coincidence? He’d used the internet café on more than a few occasions without incident. But coupled with the message that appeared on the computer screen suggested he was the target. Yes, they had found him.
Had someone infiltrated the group he was working with? But who? That’s why it made it hard dealing with such groups. Too many conflicting interests, too many irons in the fire, too easy to penetrate. Whatever the explanation he could no longer use the same guise and would need to cut ties with any of the groups.
As his mind analysed the different events, he believed the computers had somehow overloaded with a surge of power causing the small fire. More to the point, the software on the USB stick must have had advanced code to circumvent his own firewall and security protocols. His mathematician's brain, cogs whirring inside his head computed different scenarios. He was missing something.
And the code he saw. Was it his?
He was sure he recognised the shape and the format – a signature of sorts. Had his own source code compromised him? That was impossible, ThornScope’s core code couldn't be replicated or reversed engineered. It was far too advanced. He let the thoughts drift – whatever he was missing he'll work it out.
Whilst he felt for the poor man in the café, the unexpected events had played to his advantage. Whoever was chasing him did not foresee the unfortunate incident. That meant they didn’t have an exact location of his position – not yet at least. Regardless, the computer episode had brought him out into the open and back onto the grid and compromised.
Up ahead the London tube station signpost lit up like a guiding beacon urging him to safety, at the station he could buy a ticket, anywhere should do. As the snow came down heavier Jonathan looked up, anything else you want to rain down on my parade today matey? In response the snowfall got heavier and getting colder he put his hands into his coat pockets which didn't make things any the better.
The urge to look back took over, OK one quick glance to make sure the coast was clear. And what if it wasn’t, then what? He couldn’t help himself and took a quick glance scanning the shoppers and on-lookers behind him, nothing. Time to pick up the speed and get as much distance from the drama happening behind him. Get to the tube station and all will be well.
Not long now. Another fifty yards and he could get lost on the underground.
He spoke too soon.
Up ahead two men, looking in his direction, walked towards him.
It’s just paranoia. Get a grip of yourself Jonathan. Either way, a chill ran down his spine. The type that pricked the hairs on the back of the neck warning of impending danger. Were they looking at him? Change direction, but the two men had already closed the distance.
What now? He stopped walking and looked around seeking an alternative escape route.
“Excuse me, Sir. We need to have a word with you,” said the taller of the two.
Both men dressed in black suites and overcoats stood in front of him. One of them produced police credentials and held them up for him to see.
“A word about what?” Jonathan asked. Where the hell had they come from?
“You were in the internet café.” said the taller of the two phrasing it as a statement, not a question. “My colleague and I are from British Transport Police. We require information about what happened in the café. If you don’t mind coming with us and getting out of this snow. We have a car waiting for us and it won’t take long.”
Jonathan stared back. How the hell did he know he was in the café and more to the point, what car waiting?
“I need to get going, I’m late for an appointment,” he replied and tried to push pass.
The other man stepped closer, hands in pockets, “What you feel pressing into your ribs? It’s not because I’m pleased to see you bud,” he said with a wry smile and dry American accent. “Whether you like it or not you’re coming with us. Let’s not make a scene… Jonathan.”
The accent along with his name spoken took Jonathan by surprise. The natural urge to flee took control of his senses.
“Please don’t try to run. There is another officer behind you,” the taller man said.
Officer? What officer? Jonathan looked over his shoulder. Shit, how did he get there?
After years of eluding such people, they were here. But who are they? Government? Worse? Not the UK Government? Damn it. He was in a corner with no way out, the gun up against him made damn sure of that. Would these guys shoot someone in public? Not a chance, he was worth a lot more alive than dead.
Being a good six inches taller than the American he looked down at him, eye to eye. “If you want to shoot you better do it now, bud,” he said in a low deliberate challenging tone. He was in no mood for this. “I doubt you’ll shoot someone in public, not least me. You know who I am.” Jonathan pushed himself forward pressing closer into the American’s body pushing him backwards.
The American was having nothing of it and pushed back with determined strength, the gun dug deeper into Jonathan’s ribs. He ignored it and snarled, “Go on, let’s see what you’re made of, shall we?”
The taller officer stepped between them pushing them apart. Jonathan noticed the frown on his face. Not just a frown, Jonathan thought, a glimpse of surprise and anger flashed through his eyes.
“Now, now. Let’s not get carried away,” the officer said putting his arms between both of them. “Take a step back,” he snapped at the American, “My apologies my friend sometimes gets carried away with himself. There’s nothing to worry about, but you are coming with us. We’ll explain everything when we get to Thames House,” he said to calm the tension. Both Jonathan and the American backed off from each other.
Thames House? British Secret Service? There is only one organisation at Thames House. MI5. “Why in the hells bells should I come with you? You can’t detain someone in the middle of the street for no reason,” he said smirking, trying his luck.
The taller officer returned the smile, “Simple, Jonathan – if you don’t? Four experienced no bullshitting hard ass secret service officers will have you on the ground. Handcuffed and trussed up like a Christmas turkey before you have time to say, Merry frigging Christmas.” He looked at the American with disdain then back to Jonathan, “We don’t need guns to have you come with us. Anymore questions?”
“It’s early for Christmas isn’t it?” He paused, “But since you ask so nicely...”
He wondered if he should stand his ground and argue or turn and run back to the drama behind him, take his chances with police at the café. But knowing there was another so called officer behind him it would be a fruitless exercise. With little choice he played out the charade. At least for now.
“So,” he turned back to the taller officer and with heavy sarcasm, asked, “British Transport Police with American accents are working for MI5 now? You realise the little stunt you guys pulled off at the internet cafe most likely killed someone?”
That got their attention. The two men looked at each other. Jonathan noted they didn’t understand, but they made no reply. The taller officer turned Jonathan to face the opposite direction back towards the internet café. He linked his arm through Jonathan’s whilst the American took hold of his other. The officer stepped aside and turned towards the road. As he did so a black Range Rover pulled up to the kerb a few yards away from them. The officer behind Jonathan strode over to the vehicle and opened the back passenger door.
With the two so called secret service officers up close and personal Jonathan knew he had no choice and being out of his depth, walked towards the Range Rover. How cloak and dagger. Well at least it will be warm in the car. But why Thames House why MI5? If they were MI5. He wasn’t on any watch list; he had made damn sure of that. And what was the American connection and the gun? Why was UK inte
lligence picking him up and snatching him from the street? For what purpose?
Chapter 12 | Another Henry
SOMEWHAT ABRUPTLY BOTH Brown and Jacobs stood up and turned toward the oak door as it opened. They looked at each other more amused than anything else. Even Jacobs was not aware of the third and final act of the game play.
James Henry Stewart II. The sole heir to the Stewart’s Media Empire known as a playboy of Europe with dashing good looks to go with it. He was groomed with in-depth knowledge and experience of his father’s business. And for the last eight years had been in reality the main driving force behind it. Not yet in his forties a man in his own right with a public image to match.
He looked at his father with secret disdain for him. Even though many years had passed since he held any real affection, he could not help feel the loss.
“My father, God bless him…” he paused said with meaning but reverted to the charade, “has been rather ill for the several months. We’ve kept this out of the public eye as much as possible, but things have turned rather worse than we expected.” He looked at his father slumped lifeless in the chair. “From today I will take full reigns of our business interests worldwide.”
The two agents left the room and returned with a gurney and a body bag. It was all carefully planned by Jacobs who was a master of death charades. The body would be put on ice and flown overnight courtesy of the RAF to the South of France. Then put on Stewart’s yacht where he would be found dead from natural causes. No post-mortem, no mess.
As they all watched the agents remove the body Strickland mused over the events so far. Like father like son. From day one the father presented problems that would be a risk to his plans. Too long in the tooth to see the bigger picture and so Strickland took action to search out the old bugger’s Achilles heel. And apart from the old man’s worn-out grandeur belief of himself, it was close and staring Strickland in the face. The son.
