Directive RIP

by Stuart Parker

  *

  The man stepped out of the Beauty Parlour looking fresh and particularly well groomed - a facial, manicure and detox sauna session had seen to that. The sun was glistening off his smooth, olive tanned cheeks but was lost to the ice cold black sunglasses swallowing the upper half of his face; his black suit and white silk shirt hung loose and breathed their expense like a fertile animal did its pheromones.

  Furn was watching him from across the road. He already knew which car was his and had to admit even in the flash suburb of Brighton, the grey Porsche was a standout Mostly, however, Furn only knew the fake things about the man. He knew his fake name was Ralph Lang. and his fake permanent address was just down the road – the place was real enough though the man was almost never there. And he knew his fake occupation was in sales – not that the man made any claim to actually be working. Small lies, each and every one of them, but what made the sum of these so dangerous was the professional quality of the fakeness: nothing illegal enough that a good lawyer couldn’t spring him from custody with his fakeness still intact. As the man neared, Furn could see how the gold and diamonds on his watch glistened and it occurred to him that in his social life there were plenty of people with fake Rolex watches whereas in his working day the watches were real and the people fake. Not that the difference was as large as it sounded.

  Furn slipped the plastic safety cap off the ring that Riley had dubbed the Mosquito and lunged at the man, slapping him hard on the base of the neck. The Mosquito had a small needle, which was designed to remove a sample of blood whilst at the same time inject a quick acting poison – a paralyzing agent. It was an invention of Military Intelligence and was how Riley and Colonel Skidmore had first come to be acquaintances. It had worked so well on the first few occasions that Furn had been on the verge of requesting from Riley an introduction, so that he could express his appreciation in person, but then there was an incident with a body builder already so souped-up on steroids that one more chemical in his system virtually went unnoticed - a particularly bruising incident, and Furn’s enthusiasm for all things Skidmore was dramatically subdued. Especially when his request for a stronger dose was turned down: apparently not being Military Intelligence meant the light, sugar free version was all that could be afforded. And that was why even taking on someone as well manicured as Ralph Lang was not without risk. The Rogue Intercept Police had a policy of always working in pairs in case the target was in any condition to demonstrate a resistance for the Mosquito, and the only reason Furn was alone now was the early hour of the beautician’s appointment: remembering how tired DC had been when he had dropped her off at her hotel the night before, he had not had the heart to try wrestling her early out of bed today. He would take care of Lang, put the blood sample in for analysis and hope DC was awake by then.

  As he ran down the Brighton street, it struck him how far this was from what he had once considered police work: running from a criminal, after all, was unlikely to make any city the safer, but then, he did not even know that this man was a criminal; in fact, his own actions were the only crime he was sure had taken place. It was unfortunate he did not have a spotter letting him know his back was clear, that he could walk instead of run – it would have been it the more palatable.

  Nearing his car, he finally remembered to slip the plastic cover back on the Mosquito. He glanced at his watch and was surprised how late it was – almost eleven o’clock: Lang must have spent longer with the beautician than he had first thought. He was hungry. He would just have to dig himself into DC’s minibar. He put the Mosquito into the glove box and drove the four blocks to DC’s hotel, the Brighton Savoy on Bay Street. It was an elegant grey block building with tinted glass. The car park that was clogged up with limousines on wedding days was currently all but empty. Furn was still looking over his shoulder as he stepped out of his car; there was something about that Ralph Lang that made him uneasy: a man that needed two hours of cleansing at the beautician’s must have been coming from a great reservoir of muck. And the beautician had not been able to touch what was going on in those eyes: the closer Furn had got, the darker they had become and the sudden glance Lang had flashed as the Mosquito struck was pure snake. Furn strode into the hotel reception, thinking the sooner he was buried in DC’s minibar the better.

  Then it occurred to him that DC was unlikely to be the name on the register. Furn had to concentrate to recall the other.

  ‘Cantrell?’ the receptionist clarified with professional impassiveness – the voice had a South American accent. ‘No one by that name, sir.’

  Furn nodded and described her. He flashed his badge at the end of it, which was something he always did when he felt ridiculous.

  The receptionist somehow managed to become even more impassive. ‘You might be referring to Ms Alexander, sir. Following her instructions I have been placing a wakeup call to her room every fifteen minutes for the past hour. She has been answering but falling right back to sleep.’

  ‘A chronic sleeper.’

  ‘It seems so, sir. But in her defense, we have some of the most comfortable beds in Melbourne.’

  ‘Well, if you give me a room number, I’ll be happy to kick her out of it.’

  Some of the receptionist’s facial muscles actually moved. ‘I’m sorry, sir. She had a badge too. She showed hers just in case there was a moment such as this. She said it wouldn’t be the first time someone kicked down her door fearing she was a junkie passed out and overdosing.' The receptionist picked up the phone, aware that he had better try something. ‘I’ll give her room another call.’

  As he dialed, he looked past Furn to the door and he lowered the mouthpiece and called out, ‘Can I help you, sir?’

  A feeling of danger flooded through Furn and he reflexively spun and whipped out his Glott. If he had excelled at the shooting gallery with cardboard cut-outs flashing at him, this was much easier: a living, breathing Ralph Lang was standing in the doorway, staring his way, hand lost inside his jacket. Furn shot him in the shoulder even before he had stopped spinning and Lang was sent spinning too.

  ‘Oh, my,’ gasped the receptionist.

  ‘Call an ambulance,’ said Furn.

  Gun aimed, he edged towards Lang, who was curled up whimpering loudly.

  ‘You have the right to remain silent,’ Furn snapped.

  ‘What’s going on?’ shouted DC, rushing into the foyer with her gun at the ready.

  Furn smirked her way. ‘A wake up call.’