If The Bed Falls In

by Paul Casselle

  Edwards put his pen down and picked up his drink.

  “If I’m to do the job you want me to do, you’ll have to trust me.”

  “Absolutely, old man. I do trust you. It’s just the CIA that don’t.”

  “So that’s it then? You want to risk it all being a cock-up because you’re scared of the CIA?”

  “I’m not scared, old man. But we have to play by the rules.”

  “Their rules, not ours. This is our country. They have to play by our rules!”

  “Take it easy, John. Your old patella will pop out.”

  “Thandie won’t be happy, you know. In fact, she told me that with you at the helm we can all relax.”

  Edwards sat back.

  “She said that?” Woodger asked.

  “I guess she was wrong.”

  Woodger waved his hand at a waiter.

  “Well, not totally,” Woodger said, then turned to the waiter and ordered another round.

  Edwards shuffled his papers and slipped the file into his briefcase.

  “You know she plays off of a nine handicap?” Edwards added without looking up.

  “Really?” Woodger said languidly.

  “Maybe she’d be interested in playing golf with the man that isn’t scared to circumvent some pathetic American paranoia?”

  “She’s a dark horse, that one. Plays off a nine?”

  Edwards nodded then stood.

  “Still, I’ll tell her your hands are tied. I’m sure she’ll understand.”

  The fresh drinks arrived. The waiter placed them on the table and retreated.

  “Look John,” Woodger said persuasively, “You don’t have to rush off right now. Sit down, old man. Finish your drink.”

  Eight security guards dressed in impressively tailored suits moved stealthily along the hallway. The two at the back trained their guns to the rear, likewise, the two at each flank concentrated on their sides, and the two leading crept forwards confident that their colleagues had their backs. One of the two at the front lifted his wrist to his mouth.

  “Black team moving down the corridor on eight.”

  A voice spoke into his ear via a small ear-piece.

  “Proceed with extreme caution. Miller’s a clever bastard,” Simmons said with a touch of pride.

  “So am I, Sir,” said the lead agent, then lowered his wrist, returning to a stable two-handed grip on his gun.

  “The next office on the right,” Simmons’ voice came again into the ear of the agent.

  A bead of sweat rolled from the agent’s hairline, tracked around his ear, and dropped silently to the floor.

  “That was his entry point back into the building,” Simmons continued.

  The agent responded, but this time craning his mouth forwards to his sleeve and keeping both hands on his weapon.

  “Roger, Sir.”

  The eight men crowded around the door making absolutely no noise. The lead agent nodded and the two biggest men in the group charged forward, smashing the door from its hinges. The others flooded into the room, scanning with eagle eyes, pointing their guns methodically into every part of the room.

  “Keep very still!” the lead agent shouted to a small, forlorn person seated at the desk, and appearing to be the only occupant of the office.

  The figure did not move. His head was slumped forwards as if he was completely exhausted or dead.

  “You!” shouted the agent, “you in the chair! Get to your feet very slowly. And keep your hands where we can see them.”

  The agent indicated to the others to move in. He raised his wrist to his mouth.

  “Sir, there appears to be only one person in the room. And I’m afraid he seems to be dead.”

  “No I’m not,” Cyril said slowly.

  “What?” the agent responded, startled.

  “I’m not dead,” Cyril repeated, rising carefully to his feet.

  All eight guns trained their sights on the target. Cyril turned slowly to face the lead agent standing at the demolished door to the office.

  “Identify yourself,” the agent ordered.

  “Cyril Proctor, Level Six profiler. Would you like my ID number?”

  “Correction, Sir,” the agent said into his wrist, “he’s not dead. He’s a Level Six profiler.”

  The agent stared hard at Cyril.

  “Where is he?”

  “Clearly not here,” Cyril said pointing around the room with both hands.

  “Keep your hands still!… Where’s Miller?”

  “He left about ten minutes ago. Via that aperture that used to be my door.” He paused. “I’m surprised you didn’t pass him in the hall.”

  “Are you trying to be funny?”

  “No. I’m just a little nervous with eight guns pointing at me.”

  “So would I be,” said Simmons appearing at the doorway. “Oh, for god’s sake, gentlemen, lower your arms.”

  “Hello, Cyril,” Simmons moved further into the office, “How are things going?”

  “A little more exciting than usual, Sir.”

  “Indeed,” Simmons replied blandly. He turned to the eight redundant agents. “Thank you gentlemen. I think I can handle things from here.”

  The eight shuffled out. Simmons moved to the window.

  “Is this where he came in?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  The older man turned to look at Cyril.

  “Did you let him in?”

  “Let him in, Sir?”

  “Yes, Cyril. Did you let him in? Did you open the window and let him in?”

  “No, Sir. The window was open a little as it is rather a warm day. I popped out to the loo, and when I got back he was here.”

  “Right,” Simmons said slowly.

  “May I sit down, Sir?” Cyril asked, “I’m feeling a little shaky.”

  “Of course,” Simmons said, extending an open hand towards the desk chair. “It must have been a bit of an ordeal for you?”

  “It was, Sir.”

  Cyril sat and watched Simmons walk around the room, looking at everything like a detective in a who-done-it.

  “He didn’t tie you up or gag you?”

  Simmons stopped probing and looked at the young man.

  “No, Sir. He had found my gun by the time I got back. He told me to sit and count to two hundred, if I wanted to live.”

  “Very dramatic.”

  “I love my job, Sir… and my country, but I believe I can serve them best if I stay alive.”

  “A reasonable choice, Cyril… How far did you get?”

  “Excuse me, Sir?”

  “Counting to two hundred… How far did you get?”

  “I didn’t actually count, Sir… I was… well, I don’t function well under stress. I think I just sort of blanked out.”

  “Okay, Cyril. That will do for now. Why don’t you go home? Take a couple of days off. Collect your thoughts,” Simmons said kindly, but tersely.

  “Thank you, Sir. That’s very kind of you.”

  “Not at all. We must look after our own, eh?”

  “Precisely, Sir.”

  Cyril rose and started towards the remnants of his office’s entrance. As he stepped over the splintered wood of the door, he could feel Simmons staring at him. He turned.

  “One thing puzzles me, Cyril,” Simmons mused.

  “Yes, Sir? What’s that?”

  “Miller is a ruthless assassin. He’s spent years eliminating some very prominent people, yet I’ve never seen him troubled by… sentiment.”

  “It’s a serious business, Sir.”

  “So, my question is… why didn’t he kill you?”

  Cyril paused and looked thoughtfully at Simmons.

  “I’ve been asking myself the same question, Sir.”

  The tube train was crowded, but after two stops Cyril won a race for a recently vacated seat. The upholstery was still warm from the previous occupant. He looked around the carriage. Most people were looking at their mobile phones, reading newspapers or s
kilfully avoiding eye contact with the other commuters. But one person, a bearded man of around thirty wearing a tweed jacket and a trilby, seemed to be staring at him. A moment after Cyril spotted him, the man flicked his eyes to the tube map above Cyril’s head. Cyril studied him. The man’s jacket was in good repair, but the fabric was flattened along the lower forearms. His right shoe had an elongated indentation running laterally, and the brown colour was slightly lighter within the indentation. Cyril also noted that he wore his watch on his left arm, but his right wrist was not as thick as his left. It also caught his attention that the man’s beard was unevenly trimmed and he had almost imperceptible red marks on the bridge of his nose and temples. His trilby also sat very high on his head.

  Cyril tested the man by looking away then suddenly looking back. Each and every time, he caught the man looking at him. This was an easy subject for a talented profiler. The man in question usually worked in an office at a desk. The office was not well heated so he worked with his jacket on. The constant leaning on the desk wore the fabric under his forearms. He had a tendency towards insecurity, so kept his legs crossed under the desk creating the indentation in his shoe. He covered this insecurity with a desire to be different, so even though he was left handed – thicker left wrist – he wore his watch on the left rather than the traditional right wrist for a left-hander. And although he looked after his appearance, his hat did not fit; it was not his. His beard was also hastily grown on his usually clean-shaven face. And lastly, he was slow at reacting to the staring game Cyril had been playing with him, which suggested his eyesight was not good. Together with the marks on his nose and temples, it was obvious that he should be wearing glasses. The sum total of these observations were conclusive. This was an office-bound agent that had recently been sent into the field, and clumsily disguised himself with a hastily grown beard, abandonment of glasses and someone else’s hat that he probably picked up on his way out of the office. Cyril felt genuine disappointment that this sorry excuse for a tail was all Simmons thought he was worth.

  Cyril lost him at the next stop with a textbook false exit. As the train slowed, Cyril peered out of the window, affecting a concerned look and craning his neck to identify the station. The train stopped and he continued to stare out of the window trying to gauge his location. He then hurriedly got up and rushed to the carriage exit, just before the doors closed. The bearded man was not going to loose his mark that easily, and rushed for the exit himself. Almost treading on Cyril’s heels, Tweedy alighted onto the platform. At the last moment Cyril spun one hundred and eighty degrees and squeezed between the closing doors leaving the novice field-man wide-eyed as Cyril was whisked out of sight.

  It had been quite a day. And although Cyril had actually faced death at the hands of a ruthless killer, fortune had still smiled radiantly on him. He was far from being a religious man, but experiences such as these gave the most ardent atheist pause for thought.

  It was almost dark by the time he walked up the pathway to his front door, and at that moment fear gripped him. Although he had had a loaded gun held to the back of his head, had been tailed by an agent who was probably appointed by the head of SIS, it was now, just seconds before he found sanctity in his own home, that he felt his life may be snatched away from him. He increased his speed, and got his key ready metres before he reached his front door. In a last frantic rush, he attempted to insert the key, turn the lock and push the door open in one movement. But as the key impacted the keyhole the door flew open; someone was already inside his house.

  Cyril hesitated. He wasn’t sure whether it would be best to turn and run, or enter the house and investigate. Something, maybe his innate curiosity spurred him on to do the latter seemingly against his better judgement. He moved slowly down the unlit hallway, and instantly detected sounds from the front room. Someone was definitely there. Maybe Simmons had not left his surveillance up to that myopic idiot alone. Cyril knew that he was a key person in the eyes of the Big Man. Simmons had come especially to him to work on the secret project the old man always referred to as ‘Our little thing’. And there was still a way to go on ‘Our little thing’. Simmons is not going to do anything at this juncture; surely not?

  Cyril peeked around the frame of the front room door. A figure in the half-light was conducting a thorough search of the premises. Without warning the ghostly intruder spun around and looked directly at Cyril, then let out a strangled scream. Cyril threw the light on.

  His next-door neighbour stood petrified in the middle of Cyril’s front room.

  “Oh, my god, Cyril. I got the fright of my life!” she said.

  “Hello, Mary… What?…”

  “… I hope you don’t mind? I let myself in. Mocha must have climbed in through the window again. I guess she got stuck as she’s been meowing for the last half an hour.”

  At that moment a feline ball of fluff darted out of nowhere and leapt through a small open window to freedom.

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  Chapter 13

  Anna Jakes had spent the night at her Clerkenwell town house in Leather Lane, London. She had thought about driving out to Beechwood on Friday night, but had had a late meeting and thought an early Saturday morning drive would avoid the traffic jams of millions of people desperate to get out of the capital for the weekend.

  Her red Mini Cooper crunched on the gravel drive as she turned off the ‘B’ road and approached Beechwood House; the eighteenth century minor mansion left to her by her parents. The beautiful redbrick building stood in fifteen acres of fields, pastures and adjoining forest where, as a girl, she had spent many happy days shooting game and fishing with her father. ‘For a girl,’ her father had said many times, ‘you shoot like a boy’. But although she usually bagged a brace or so, she always believed he was enjoying the joke more than the prowess of his only child.

  After letting her bag slip from her shoulder to the hall floor, she climbed the curved staircase to her favourite bathroom on the first floor. She opened the large, worn chrome taps and water started to spit and gurgle into the cast iron tub. She knew she had just enough time to go down to the kitchen and prepare a cup of tea before the water filled to the requisite height. It was nine AM. The others were due to arrive at eleven.

  Anna sat in the East-wing reception drinking a second cup of tea. The grandfather clock in the hall struck eleven. She looked up and peered through the window onto the driveway. The morning sun had warmed the room nicely, and had now risen high enough to no longer dazzle her view outside. A large silver-blue car turned onto the driveway. The unmistakable vision of Thandie, driving her ostentatious Rolls Royce, cruised to a halt on the other side of the window. As Anna reluctantly pulled herself from the sofa, she saw another car enter the drive; Greg Thompson’s Vauxhall Astra, courtesy of the BBC.

  Anna went to the front door and let her first two guests in. Before they had crossed the threshold, the crunch of gravel made all three look up. They were each playing the same guessing game; would it be Morrison or Edwards? The silver Citroën C5 confirmed what they would all have put money on. It was Simon Morrison. Edwards would be the last to arrive – again.

  The four; Anna, Thandie, Morrison and Thompson, lounged in the East-wing reception. Anna had made tea for them and served it with Scottish shortbread fingers. The ensemble had arrived physically, but took some quiet-time, sipping tea and dunking biscuits, to arrive mentally while they waited for John Edwards to complete the group.

  Anna laid back on a plush cloth-upholstered sofa blowing on her tea and watching the others. A lot could be learnt from such an observation. Simon Morrison carefully nibbled his biscuit and punctuated this by distinct, short sips. A thoughtful man, adhering to established social conventions, only allowing himself to stand out when he felt totally secure. Greg Thompson was methodical. He took a bite-full of shortbread then drank tea over it, softening the dry biscuit with the hot wetness; letting them mingle in the safety of his mouth rather t
han dunking and risking the possible disaster of a timing failure and a soggy biscuit ending its days drowned at the bottom of his cup. Thandie Smith, on the other hand showed complete disregard for both convention and physics. She dunked with abandon, risking loosing a shortbread to her cup’s depths in the secure knowledge that there were plenty more. Anna had not taken a sip or consumed one bite of biscuit. She was too busy watching everyone else.

  “How long do we give him?” Thandie asked the group, petulantly.

  It was twenty past eleven.

  “‘Till half-past?” suggested Anna, scanning her compatriots’ faces.

  The group nodded in agreement and continued their tea ceremony. Thandie grunted in disapproval.

  The doorbell sounded at eleven twenty-nine.

  “About bloody time!” Thandie commented, pointedly.

  Anna let John Edwards in and they walked hurriedly to the reception.

  “I’m so sorry,” Edwards blurted, “I hope you didn’t wait for me.”

  “We had to wait for you,” Thandie continued her terseness, “There’s no way Anna would let us start without you.”

  “I didn’t say a word,” Anna complained.

  “You didn’t have to,” Thandie countered.

  “Come on, Guys. This isn’t going to solve anything,” Thompson chipped in.

  “I really didn’t want to cause trouble,” Edwards pleaded.

  “Well,” Thandie said quietly, placing her cup on the coffee table roughly, “You should set off in good time, then.”

  “But I did,” Edwards responded, scratching his head vigorously as if embarrassment was a skin disease.

  “But you didn’t, did you, John?” Morrison piped up. “If you’re late you couldn’t have left on time.”

  “I left in what I thought was good time. I’m very conscientious, just not very good at logistics,” Edwards explained.

  Anna waved her arms calmingly.

  “Look, we all have our strengths and weaknesses,” she said, “that’s why we’re a team. For god’s sake, we have a common enemy and that’s who we have to concentrate on. So… friends… can we focus on what we need to do and… please stop bickering?”