If The Bed Falls In

by Paul Casselle

  “… Kill President Harrington?”

  “Yes, Sir… that.”

  “You see, Cyril, the people at the top, the One-percenters, the bastards that really run the world, don’t come out into the open. They make their plans in secret. They meet in secret and they plot in secret. All their dirty work is done by their lieutenants; the CEOs, the senior civil servants, the politicians and the national leaders.”

  “Like Harrington?”

  “Yes exactly, like Harrington. They’re just puppets doing what they’re told to do, and stupidly thinking they’re safe, but when the One-percenters make their final move and bring in their New World Order, the puppets will simply be destroyed.”

  “Then I don’t understand, Sir? If the world leaders are just puppets, surely it’s the people behind the scenes that need to be stopped.”

  “But how do we get to them, Cyril?” said Joseph. “They are hidden away and heavily protected.”

  “Lure them out?” suggested Cyril.

  Joseph smiled at his friend.

  “Precisely,” he said.

  “But you said that people like Harrington are just puppets, and they’re unimportant. So how will killing him do anything?”

  “Because Harrington is special. He’s more than a puppet,” Joseph said. He sat on the bed next to Cyril. “At the top are the bankers, and at the top of the bankers are the banking families, and that’s who we need to get to.”

  “So again, Sir, what makes Harrington special? Why would the people at the top care about him?”

  “Because he isn’t just the usual puppet. This time they’ve made themselves vulnerable.”

  “Vulnerable? How so, Sir?”

  “President Harrington is the grandson of German, Jewish immigrants. His real family name is Erikfass… and he is a cousin of the Rothschilds. If I take him out, that will really hurt them. They won’t be able to stop themselves from coming after me. They’ll be forced to expose themselves… Then we can get to them.”

  Cyril looked nervously around the room.

  “What’s wrong, Cyril?”

  “Well, Sir… assassinating the US President. That won’t be easy.”

  “That, Cyril, I know,” said Joseph.

  Cyril closed his eyes momentarily and sighed.

  “… So that’s why you needed the Bedfellows?” Cyril said. Joseph nodded. Cyril furrowed his brow. “So what do we do now? Can you do it alone? As much as you praise me, Sir, I’m really only a desk-jockey.”

  “We need to find Tilda,” said Joseph.

  “Tilda?” echoed Cyril. “Are you sure she’s the best person?”

  Joseph gave Cyril a hard look.

  “I said we need to find Tilda. She’s my wife. We need someone we can trust, and someone that believes in this as much as us.” Cyril was silent. “You said you believe in me.”

  “I do, Sir.”

  “Well, we need to find Tilda,” Joseph repeated.

  Cyril opened his laptop.

  “I’ll see what I can do, Sir.”

  Joseph decided that although the weather was unusually cold and the room warm, he was nevertheless going for a walk. He needed space. He needed to set his mind free; to release it from the claustrophobic shackles of focused thinking. Joseph remembered a course he had done some time ago concerning Japanese Generalist Problem Solving. When experts are stymied by a problem, they get a group together from many areas of life that have nothing to do with the specialisation. They present the group with a simplified explanation of the problem and encourage them to suggest solutions however crazy they may seem. The generalist group look at the situation from their perspective, not the blinkered, limited expert’s perspective. And so the solutions are drawn from a free thinking space that the professionals would find impossible to enter; solutions that a specialist would quash before the fledgling idea had had time to stagger to the edge of the nest. The generalists have no fear of flying because they have not been indoctrinated by the industry’s learnt fear of heights. ‘I guess,’ thought Joseph, ‘it’s what we call thinking outside the box.’

  Whatever plan he formulated, he found himself at the same conclusion; he may well have to do this alone, and as much as he thought outside the box, that kept on showing itself as an impossible solution.

  Joseph had always been aware of this fact. That was why he had carefully selected the Bedfellows. He had even included an alternative shooter – Simon Morrison – in case, at the last moment, he was incapacitated and unable to take the decisive action. But now they were all dead, and he was alone. Cyril was wonderful as a back-room boy, but although he had performed well in the field, this would be a step too far for him. He needed help. He needed a trained and seasoned field operative. But it couldn’t be a hired gun. It had to be a willing gun. This would be the hardest trigger to pull. He had to be sure that, if it came to it, the shot would be fired. There would be no second chance; not for him… or society.

  He headed back to the hotel, and found Cyril hunched on his bed staring at the laptop screen. Cyril looked up.

  “Any luck?” asked Joseph.

  Cyril pointed to the computer.

  “I hacked into the SIS system, but could find nothing definitive. Then I tried the CIA system…”

  “What did you find?”

  “I’m… I’m really sorry, Sir,” said Cyril.

  Joseph moved across to the computer on the bed. Cyril distanced himself from the machine. Joseph read the document being displayed. He re-read it then looked at Cyril.

  “Is this true?” Joseph asked. His voice mechanical and devoid of emotion.

  “It seems to be,” said Cyril. “It’s a standard ‘Killed in Action’ document.”

  “But it’s a CIA ‘Killed in Action’ document.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “That suggests that Tilda was CIA.”

  “I’m really sorry, Sir… There is something else,” said Cyril.

  He tentatively moved back to his laptop.

  “If I may, Sir?”

  Joseph gave the small man room. Cyril summoned up a second CIA document, and stood back. Joseph studied the screen.

  “He’s not dead?” asked Joseph.

  “Whoever tried to poison him seems to have done a bad job.”

  Joseph continued to read the detailed report.

  “He’s in hospital and unwell, but alive,” said Cyril. “Simon Morrison is still with us.”

  Part Three

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  Chapter 28

  Joseph awoke suddenly. He rolled over in bed without opening his eyes. Although he felt wretched, he did at least feel rested. The events of last night played over in his mind. Tilda, his wife, the only person he had really loved… and trusted, was dead. A deep sickness swelled inside him. He pushed it down. He had to go on. He had a job to do, and now with Morrison alive, possibilities flooded in.

  As much as he tried, he couldn’t remember going to bed. Somehow the events between seeing the CIA documents and this moment, alluded him. He opened his eyes and turned to Cyril’s bed, but it wasn’t there. Instead he was presented with dusty old curtains hanging awkwardly. He sat up and looked around the room.

  The scene was totally familiar, but also incongruous. Joseph’s nostrils flared and his breathing became rapid. He got out of bed and padded onto the landing. Ahead of him was a steep staircase. He descended it and found himself in a small kitchen. He called out.

  “Cyril!… Cyril!”

  Nothing, absolutely nothing. He was alone, and realised that he had fallen again into the drug induced hallucination of being Tom Friday. He walked into the living room and stood in front of a mirror hanging on the far wall. And there he was; bald, fat and blue eyed.

  Returning to the kitchen, he sat down at the table and looked around. ‘This is all so real,’ he thought. He banged the table with his fist. ‘All so fucking real… Okay, I’m seeing all of this, but where am I really? Am I still in t
he hotel with Cyril? Am I asleep in bed? Have I been re-captured by the CIA? Have they pumped me full of yet more drugs; is that why I’m having this experience? And what do I do now? Do I just wait for this to pass? Fuck! Do I carry on making plans to kill Harrington?’

  Joseph shut his eyes and visualised the CIA document regarding Morrison. He was at the University College Hospital. He could go to the hospital. See if Morrison is actually there. ‘Maybe I’m just seeing what I’m seeing,’ Joseph thought, ‘but I’m actually moving around… in real life.’

  He took the tube to Euston Square and started towards the hospital. A shiver came over him as he passed the alleyway where he had encountered Simon Morrison during his last period as Tom Friday. Joseph couldn’t resist the urge to look into the gloomy passageway. Apart from some overflowing dumpsters, it was empty. His reaction was mixed. Part of him wanted to see something significant, but he had no idea what, and furthermore, he had even less idea what it would have meant if there had been a sad looking group of business people staring back at him.

  He reached the hospital and pushed through the revolving doors. The lobby was full of people, busy with busy-ness. No one looked at him. No one gave him the slightest attention that would indicate that he was somehow out of place. But he knew he was. He was a British Intelligence agent in the body of a fictional man, and moving in the twilight area between reality and illusion.

  As he arrived at the reception desk, a young man greeted him.

  “Yes, can I help you?” he said.

  “I’m here to visit one of your patients.”

  The man consulted a screen.

  “What’s the name of your friend?” he asked.

  “Simon Morrison.”

  “Simon… Morrison… Simon… Morrison… Simon…,” muttered the young man as he scrolled around the screen. “Sorry,” he said looking up momentarily, “the computers are really slow at the moment.” He looked down at the screen again and drummed his thumbs on the edge of the counter. “They’re transferring all the paper records to digital… Ah, your friend’s under police escort!”

  “Yeah, I know,” said Joseph.

  “His record is marked ‘No Access’,” the receptionist reported.

  “What does that mean?” asked Joseph.

  “I’m afraid it means you’re not going to see your friend today.”

  Joseph strained to look at the screen on the other side of the counter.

  “Okay…, but what room is he in?”

  The receptionist swivelled the screen further from Joseph’s view.

  “What does that matter? You can’t visit him.”

  Joseph felt under his jacket and his hand felt the familiar shape of the Walther PPK he found in the waistband of his trousers.

  “There’s no way ‘round that?” Joseph asked.

  “Sorry,” answered the young man with a marked lack of contrition.

  Joseph stared hard at the problem man who had no idea that he was saying ‘no’ to a confused killing machine.

  The man shrugged.

  “Really, there’s nothing I can do,” he waved Joseph away. “Sorry I can’t help you. Have a nice day.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want to re-visit this problem; maybe look at it a different way?” suggested Joseph.

  He wrapped his hand around the gun and slid his finger onto the trigger.

  “Look… Sir, no, there’s nothing I can do, so if you’d move along, I’ve got other people I need to help.”

  Joseph looked around himself. He was alone at the reception. He smiled broadly and took his hand off of the weapon.

  “Thanks anyway,” he said, “you have a nice day as well.”

  Joseph walked away from the counter.

  A group of visitors had huddled together. He joined them and attempted to see what they were all focussed on. It was a TV mounted on a bracket that hung dramatically from the ceiling. An old man wearing a surgical gown and slippers turned to Joseph. He clung to a sturdy, metal drip-stand with great tenacity, as if he would collapse instantly if he let go of it.

  “Can you believe this?” he said angrily, “what’s this world coming to?”

  “Can I believe what?” asked Joseph.

  “Look,” the man said indicating the TV, “twenty-six people shot in Germany.”

  Joseph stared at the TV then back to the old man.

  “Where in Germany?”

  “Berlin,” the man said pointing at the screen, “some Arab bastard… El Kiddah probably.”

  “Al-Qaeda?”

  “Yeah, whatever,” the man said, “bastards!”

  Joseph spotted a cafeteria across the hall. He decided to have a coffee while he worked out his next move. He also wanted to rest this out-of-shape body that was having trouble coping with the workload Joseph was putting on it.

  He sipped coffee and wondered if Sarah would be here. Tilda was dead, but what if he could see her again… as Sarah. The possibility took his breath away. The idea that he could resurrect his dead wife within this hallucination was mind-bending. ‘What other possibilities could there be?’.

  Joseph took the lift to the seventh floor. He stepped into the corridor and started towards Sarah’s office. He knocked. There was no reply. He tried the door, but it was locked. A voice came from behind him.

  “Can I help you?” asked a middle-aged man in a white lab-coat.

  Joseph spun around.

  “What?”

  “Are you looking for someone?” the doctor asked pointedly.

  Joseph pointed to the door.

  “Sarah Stephens. I’m looking for Sarah Stephens.”

  “Doctor Stephens is away at the moment.”

  “When will she be back?” asked Joseph.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, where has she gone?”

  “I’m not sure… Listen, if you take the lift to the ground floor you can ask at reception… okay?”

  “You’re sure you don’t know where she is?”

  The doctor took Joseph forcefully by the arm and tried to man-handle him towards the lift.

  “You can’t stay up here unless you have an appointment. So, this way, please,” insisted the doctor.

  Joseph resisted the doctor’s attempts to move him, so the doctor put a second hand on him. Joseph pushed the doctor away aggressively. The man in the white coat backed off and stood with his mouth slightly open. Joseph walked slowly backwards away from him, then turned and ran past the lift, crashing through double doors at the end of the corridor and descended a number of floors by way of the stairs.

  He stopped running and leant against a wall, breathing heavily. He looked around, trying to get his bearings. Hanging from the ceiling were a number of signs. Neurology, with an arrow pointing up; Pathology and Radiology, with an arrow pointing down; and a small sign with a drawing of a telephone, with an arrow pointing to the left. He followed the arrow through a set of doors which led to a bank of phone kiosks.

  The idea of seeing Tilda again had consumed Joseph. He knew that there were much more urgent priorities that he should be dealing with, but in spite of his two-year perfect record of drug abstention, this addiction was just too strong. He picked up a phone receiver and held it to his ear. ‘Who do I call?’ he thought. ‘Who might know where Tilda is?’. He dialled a number he found in Tom’s memory.

  “Hello,” a man’s voice answered.

  Joseph went icy cold.

  “Simmons?” he said.

  “Sorry,” said the voice, “you have a wrong number.”

  “No, wait,” said Joseph.

  “I told you,” the voice repeated tersely, “there’s no one called Simmons here.”

  “Taylor?” said Joseph.

  “Yes,” the voice replied tentatively, “who is this?”

  “It’s Tom,” said Joseph.

  “Oh, hi Tom. What you up to? What’s this Simmons stuff?”

  “No, sorry Taylor. I’m calling Simmons after you, and I thought I had di
alled him first.”

  “Oh, right. So how’s it going? Haven’t seen you for a while.”

  “I’ve… err… been away on an assignment… abroad,” said Joseph.

  “Nice one!”

  “Yeah Taylor, do you know where Tilda is?”

  “Who?” said Taylor.

  “Sorry… Sarah?”

  “No, old man, I don’t.”

  “I’m at the hospital and she’s not here. They’re being really cagey about it. I just wondered if you know where she’s gone?”

  “Really, no idea. Haven’t seen her for a good while either. I thought you two might have eloped.”

  “Is…” Joseph thought carefully, “Mona there?”

  “No, she’s gone off as well. I’m here on my todd.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Gone to gawk at that prat’s paintings. You remember, that wanker Preston. She’ll be in Berlin until tomorrow.” Joseph went silent. “Are you okay, Tom?”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. Got to go, sorry.”

  “Sure… Let’s get together soon,” said Taylor.

  “Yes, that would be nice,” Joseph said replacing the receiver.

  Joseph went back to the staircase and continued to the ground floor. As he emerged into the lobby he was hit with a wall of noise. The huddle that had been focussed on the TV had re-focussed onto the horizontal, writhing body of the old man that Joseph had spoken to earlier. His drip-stand remained upright, as if marking its owner’s position like a hole-flag on a golf green.

  Joseph noticed that the young receptionist had vacated his position, to deal with the emergency, and his computer lay unguarded. Joseph moved to the computer. He typed ‘Simon Morrison’ and hit the return key. A timer icon appeared on the screen and rotated slowly, languidly, like it was never going to disappear. Joseph glanced over to the young man who was still kneeling on the floor trying to help the old patient. The timer icon was still rotating, but had now actually slowed down. Joseph moved his head quickly between the computer screen and the young man. Three doctors arrived at the noisy huddle around the distressed man. The receptionist stood up. Joseph looked back to the screen. The icon was still circling like an unwanted perpetual motion machine. Joseph glanced back to where the old man had fallen and given Joseph the distraction he needed. The young man had turned towards the reception where Joseph stood over the computer. A doctor was talking to him and obscured the young man’s view of Joseph ransacking his work station. The doctor moved towards the patient and the young man started towards the reception. Joseph glanced quickly at the screen. The bloody icon was still rotating as if it had all the time in the world. The doctor, that had been talking to the receptionist, called something out to him. The young man turned back to the doctor, away from Joseph, and laughed. Joseph flicked his eyes to the screen again. Finally, the icon had gone and Morrison’s records had appeared. He was in room seven-seven-seven. Joseph hit the escape button, to return to the original screen, and walked quickly away from the reception, heading towards the lifts.