She has certainly seen me at my worst, and she is still here. Perhaps she sees something in me that I don't? A good man, buried by the violence of the tasks her undertakes? I can't fight pessimism where this is concerned. I have been so burnt by the opposite sex that loving trust in another person is not something I can configure or mould. I feel safer on my own. It's easier.
But there is something about Amina… Something I can't pinpoint. She is strong in so many ways. Dedicated. Driven. Honest. There are so many characteristics about her I admire.
But have I ever thought about meeting somebody? Have I ever thought about that very meeting somebody progressing to the level of a relationship?
I suppose I haven't. Family, is what I want. To love and to give life. I tried that once before, but the bitch aborted my child without letting me know. I thought my life was set, and I was ready to dive straight into it, then all my hopes were smashed on the rocks by the time my fall into love had reached its end. I will never let that happen to me again, although I know, that where such things are involved, I do have a considerable gap in my armor. Realistically, it is more like a chasm that I keep smoothing shut.
And here is this beautiful Kosovan girl, pulling the torqued edges of my armor wide apart.
Be careful, Ben.
I don't know what to do, even worse than before. My more primal urges scream at me to roll over and kiss her, and let nature take its course. If it is meant to be, it is surely meant to be. But if that's the case, then surely I can get away with doing nothing now, and it will happen if it's destined to at some point further down the road. Yes, that sounds good.
Besides, I'm far too nervous. I wouldn't have a clue what kind of move to make, let alone the right one. I'd love to just ask her what she is doing her, and if she gives me any kind of invitation I could go with it. I'd love to explore that with Amina. Love to. She is smart, capable and knows what I am like. She knows what darkness lurks within. There can't be too many girls out there that would tolerate me and my eccentricities in the way that she has, and yet still come back for more. She could be my one in a million.
But I can't let anyone in. I just can't. There's too much at stake, and I already feel weakened by her presence. I already know I would do anything necessary to protect her, and I don't want to compound that with any additional feelings.
I'm scared. Face it, Ben. You are a wimp. And with that I pretend to go back to sleep, and think firmly on all the could-have-beens.
*
When I awake naturally the next morning, I am alone, save for that soft hint of pineapple on the pillow. It's nice, even simply waking up with a whisper of someone's presence. I try not to wallow in her scent, finding the act of doing so foreign and a bit creepy, but it is unnervingly comforting.
Dread hits me like a sneaky hammer strike, right to the parts that jar, and layers itself thickly on the nervousness I already feel about the day, as the thought dawns that I'm actually going to have to see her, and speak to her.
I swallow hard. I'd much rather do yesterday morning's gunfire-spattered breakfast call, than try to fathom quandaries as serpentine as feelings, never mind how I might have trodden on someone else's.
23
A car arrives for us at 6pm, the first sign of external life at our sanctuary since the arrival of Jeremiah's helicopter yesterday. Amina and I are already waiting on the steps, having spent the whole day in quaint denial that anything nearly maybe almost happened last night between us. It has been a jam-packed day, fused with purposeful conversation and steady preparation, and as the silver BMW saloon pulls up in front of us, its solitary driver hopping out to help us with the bags, I feel like a political dignitary being ferried from a plush hotel to a conference hall.
The driver introduces himself as Sam and, on seeing that there is only one bag here and it doesn't look like I'm going to be letting it out of my sight any time soon, he opens the passenger door for us. We swap perfunctory greetings, nothing more, assuming he is already well-briefed. As we settle in the car, and scrunch gravel away, I look back through the rear window at the house, and spy Jeremiah in the downstairs bay window, watching us depart.
I'm led to believe that there was an intense period of negotiation overnight, regarding our attendance at this ridiculous auction, and Jeremiah filled us in over breakfast. Kirsten Sweetmore wanted us both hung, drawn and quartered, me especially, for obstructing the actions of government and the murder of Ministry of Defense employees, and leant hard on Grosvenor to give us up as soon as Apex is handed over. Grosvenor resisted, thankfully, while reminding here that we could just as easily destroy the infernal stuff, and Jeremiah pointed out that when we are at the auction site, it isn't Kirsten's show anymore - despite her having set the wheels in motion for its execution. It turns out Jeremiah was spot on when he surmised there was a team in the UK on standby ready to run an auction when called upon, fully third party financed, accountable only to that very same third party. To curry favor, it seems Kirsten has told them that I am somehow on her side, a trusted sub-Black Ops man, keeping the damned substance safe under radar after the 'accidental' plane crash. She really will stop at nothing to get what she wants.
'Why are you taking your bag with you?' Amina asks, slicing through my cognition.
'Habit,' I say. 'I just feel better that way.'
'Oh,' she replies. 'Should I have done the same?'
'You're fine,' I say. 'It'll all be over soon.'
'OK.'
My mind diverts back to the people we discussed today, to all those mysterious parties destined to attend tonight's little get-together. How little is known of their true identities, but how awful some of the suspected parties are. It will be a time for a cool head, and a steady grip.
I get the feeling that, with a delicate concoction of corrupt government figures, terrorist representatives, and absurdly rich criminals, that tonight's recipe will be spicy to say the least, if not downright flammable. One bad move could initiate World War 3, both at the auction site and out in the real world, if certain parties rub each other up the wrong way.
'Won't be long now,' says Sam. 'About 20 minutes or so.' He speaks cheerily, as if he's about to drop us off at the theatre for an early evening showing of ‘The Mousetrap’.
Five years ago, it would have appalled me that we were entering a situation like this so devoid of back up, but unfortunately, those are the rules we have been given. Jeremiah's negotiations with Kirsten revealed that the powers that be won't sanction the auction in any way unless it is completely covert, and to the bare minimum. No extra faces are permitted. It is a buyers only event, and on invitation only. And the invitation is, in a move I find oddly charming and old fashioned, a password. Each attending party has been given a separate one, to be submitted on the door, and each one only admits one person. On telling the mercenaries about us, the secret protector and the micro-biologist, we were assigned one each, valid and applicable only to ourselves. It feels vaguely ridiculous, but I understand it. It keeps numbers down to a minimum, as it does for possible frictions. If each and every buyer was accompanied by five goons, the likelihood of all hell breaking off is amplified.
I glance to Amina, who stares out of the window. She is a picture of focus, and such is her desire to see things through, we had to almost invent a role for her in this. The mercenaries actually conceded it would be a good point to have a microbiologist present, in the event of accidents. I get the picture that this is one of the rare things they have overlooked. It crossed my mind that perhaps that was the occupation of the woman on the plane, but never mind. She's helping nobody now. So Amina is filling in in her professional capacity, and judging by her determined stare, it is a duty she is taking very seriously.
The time passes quickly, and as it does, I distill what is to happen in the coming hour as concisely as I can, but as simple as it is, - namely get in, hand over Apex, and get out while catching glimpse of who bought it - but I can’t find even the tiniest comfort in it. I'
m not happy with what I seemingly have to do. I hold something of such innate danger and value, that handing it into the wrong hands seems in direct opposition to everything I stand for. And this place we are taking it to will be absolutely jammed to the rafters with the wrong hands. No one is a safe bet, a good horse for me to back. I suppose in such circles, hoping for a super rich shining light who would buy Apex for good was always going to be a bit of a stretch. But I have it, now, in my possession. I know I am not necessarily the most conventional force for good, but surely my intentions would be better than anybody else there. I can't hand this over, can I? Grosvenor's argument was so tight, Jeremiah's reasoning so astute, that it certainly does seem the lesser of a great many evils.
Just do it, Ben. As Jeremiah put it earlier, 'Just go, hand it over, and come back here so we can try that nice pub in the village.' I'd love to, for all the world, take him up on the second part of that offer, but I'm struggling with the first.
'How are you feeling?' I ask Amina.
'Fine. I finally get to use my qualifications for something a bit more interesting than mushroom bugs,' she says.
'Keep smiling,' I say. 'Follow my lead and it will be over soon. And I won't let you out of my sight.'
'With your habit of getting into trouble, that's what worries me,' she replies, with a smile. The old Amina is nearly back. I fight the urge to reach to her, knowing that to do so would further complicate what is already complicated.
'Two minutes,' says Sam, and I look ahead down the road we travel. It is quiet, and leafy, with high trees on either side of the road that have been buffeted into a certain tunnel shape high over the concrete, thanks to the presumed routine of heavy goods vehicles passing through. Must be thanks to the frequent transport of stock and supplies to and from the factory site. We round a bend, and the farm opens out ahead of us, beyond a thick green gate that stands shut ahead. Two armed guards patrol it. I think of Jeremiah's men, and where they must be. They are reporting back to Jeremiah from a distance, since there is an enforced ban on radios and cellphones inside, plus the CCTV has been forcefully switched off. The intel exercise has been reduced to little more than a spotting exercise, with surveillance operatives secreted in the woodland surrounding the site. It's my intel and Amina's that they are relying on primarily - and Sam's I would guess.
We pull up at the gates, behind a couple of other cars, each one of which looks like a nondescript airport rental - ostentation has clearly given way to secrecy. I see guards clad in grey overalls checking out the cars and the occupants, before ushering them through one at a time. Within a moment, we are approached. I spot a shouldered automatic weapon before anything else. A youngish terse man, broad and solid with a no nonsense expression gestures for Sam to lower the window, which he does. This is our first sight of the clandestine team behind the auction, and it’s a fascinating one.
'I have two for you here,' says Sam, with calm and poise. He must be a field operative. Myself and Amina lean forward for examination.
'Ladies first', says the man in a deep tone, but not rude. Another man of experience it seems.
'Piccolo,' she says, and the man's eyes divert to me.
'Pegasus,' I say, trying to measure the man who looks back at me.
'Have fun,' replies the man. 'Park in the parking bays on the right with the others. Only Piccolo and Pegasus to approach the building.'
And with that, he is off behind us, to inspect another car that has arrived. We move through the gates, and turn right as instructed, where a makeshift car port has been laid out with cones. Each car has people at the wheel, smoking cigarettes, reading or snoozing. Other drivers, whose charges must all be on their way inside. At the edge of the carport, I see suits walking to what looks like a path to the front door. The path itself is short, but well manned. Four armed security guards patrol the thirty foot walkway.
'Stay alert, Sam,' I say, as I open the door and hop out with my bag. Amina follows hastily.
'Of course. Take care in there,' he replies.
We immediately start the walk to the front door, and are ushered forward by the men lining the route, all of them exactly clad and equipped as the man at the gate.
'This way, please,' one says.
I take in the farm itself, which seems to be a series of interconnecting metal sheds, all feeding into a central smaller office hub. It looks clean, well maintained, and efficiently scientific. Great vents line the roofs, and fans. This is the perfect place for such an event.
As we reach the door, two more darkly clad guards bar the way, one with a clipboard. 'Names?' the clipboard wielder says.
'Piccolo,' says Amina.
'Pegasus,' I say.
'Do you have the item, Pegasus?' clipboard man asks.
'Yes.'
'We can take it from here,' he says, reaching out for my bag.
'No chance,' I say, holding firm. 'You know the terms.'
The man smiles, and loosens. 'I was told you were a stickler. Go inside but you guys go left. Through the double doors there is an office where The Chief is getting set up. He'll take care of you.'
We enter. It all feels rather jovial this, like we are at a movie premier. No one seems to get that there are potentially millions of lives at stake.
We turn left, and through the double doors, to a shallow flight of stairs. We take them, and faced with another door, which leads into a wide office. The window blinds are all shut, and the office is lit purely by the ceiling strip lights, and over to the right is a man adjusting a shirt and tie. He is red faced, with highlighted blonde hair, and a trim physique. As he looks up, there appears to be the suggestion of plastic surgery on his face. Certain parts don't move as naturally as they should, and others look cemented in place.
'The Chief?' I say. 'It's Pegasus and Piccolo.' On hearing that, he smiles revealing a too-perfect set of pearly whites, and comes over with arms wide.
'You're here!' he says in a jovial sing-song cadence. He walks over and hugs Amina warmly, as if they have known each other for years. Amina glances quizzically at me over his clamping shoulder, and all I can do is shrug back. I too am then given the full treatment. 'Thank you so much for coming!'
'Anytime,' I reply, very unsure of how to go. I feel he is just as likely to burst into a rendition of ‘The Hills Are Alive’ as much anything else. 'I have the item here.'
'Perfect!' he says. 'Right on time. Our guests are almost all here, readying themselves for the main event. So exciting! Now Piccolo, I wondered if, for the purposes of showmanship, since you are here, you would verify the item in front of everybody. I've been reliably informed that the equipment is set up out on the stage, for you to check the item in question over. It is just for show more than anything. I thought it would give the auction a special start, really drum up some excitement. What do you think?'
He speaks like a convivial firing squad, barraging the listener with enthusiasm and froth.
Amina seems unsure, as am I, and I think our faces show it. I don't think that is a good idea.
'It will only be for a moment. You don't even have to look at it! You just come over, say what you see, confirm what we all have been told about the item, and you're done.'
'I suppose I could do that,' she says, weakly.
'Splendid!' says The Chief.
'I'll be close by,' I say.
'Well, of course you will!' replies The Chief. 'We are nearly ready, and when we are, we will go out onto the platform outside the office. Our bidders are all below us, nattering away.'
'Where?' I ask.
'Just down there,' he says, while crossing to the shut blinds on the left hand side of the room. 'Have a little peek.'
I approach cautiously, and part the blinds with a couple of fingers. Spread out, ten feet below, is a large empty barn, clinical and clean. High lights have been pulled right up the ceiling, the walls are lined with feeding trays, dismantled cage sections pulled to the corners. And on the floor of the barn, stand thirty or so people, wi
th a couple of grey-clad guards for good measure. They are milling about, chatting to each other, and some even hold glasses of wine or munch on little snacks. There must have been a little buffet spread laid out for them in an adjacent room.
These are the buyers, the very people interested in buying Apex, and my anticipation grows. I spot Kirsten immediately, her shock of high peroxide hair a beacon. She holds a glass of red wine, and looks to be laughing too vociferously with… a man I recognize so quickly that it takes my breath away. He is packed tight into his suit, his thinning hair reflecting the glare from above, his mouth smiling thinly beneath a slender long nose. Russian Prime Minister, Valentin Lechkov.
I am stunned.
If I was ever in any doubt about just how big the big hitters involved with this auction are, they have been put to rest. The possibilities of this man's presence alone blows the magnitude of the circumstances to places unimaginable. Yet there they are. The British Government's Secretary of Defense and the Russian Prime Minister, laughing along at some in-joke while munching on canapés, about to bid against each other in a mad auction to acquire a hellish super-botulism.
Apex (Ben Bracken 2) Page 22
