by Stuart Keane
The dull brown walls of the hallway seemed to close in on her slowly, threatened to crush her, and the slick floor stretched out into unending miles before her very eyes. The new security guard extended high into the ceiling, like some crazed, nine-foot-tall gatekeeper, a large entity who protected the sacred doorway, the very doorway she needed to enter to complete her mission.
She squeezed her eyes shut and murmured the words to herself, once again.
"All part of the bigger picture, everything is but a piece in an intricate puzzle."
Fiona had no choice.
She took a gentle step forward, shattered her disturbing reverie, and moved towards the door. The hallway shaped back to normal as she reached the security cordon, a thin oak counter with worn sheen to its surface, adhered from years of leaning and sliding of the sign-in book. A small monitor sat behind the counter on a tiny ledge, accompanied by a beaten, black radio and a chipped china mug. An unknown black liquid swirled within, sending curled white wisps into the warm air.
The security guard sat on a chair, the seat engulfed beneath his wide frame, his chunky legs spread wide, a hanging belly distended between them. His attention was solely focused on a magazine bearing images of cars and half-naked women. His sweat-stained white shirt bulged with rolls of fat, pushing the buttons to their limit, and his stunted breathing came in heavy, wheezy gasps. Fiona wondered if he could catch anyone at a mild jog, let alone a sprint. Her eyes located his name badge on his portly chest.
Connor.
His mess of ginger hair and his pale, reddened complexion indicated he was of Irish origin. She could be wrong, on both the country of origin or cause of the inflammation, but she didn’t care.
All she cared about was getting inside.
And right now, Connor was preventing her from doing so.
She sighed. I hope the others are having better fortune.
*****
Timothy Christie knew he wasn’t the key cog in the mission plan, he was nothing but a distant tentacle, a cipher, someone who existed as a Plan B or C or D, and nothing more. After today, regardless of the outcome, no one would know his name, and no one would remember it after his potential fifteen minutes of fame.
But he wasn’t in it for the fame.
Born and bred an Englishman, Timothy knew his home country well. For forty-two years, he'd shed blood, sweat and tears for his nation, provided for his loved ones, worked a strenuous twelve-hour day, six times a week, pumped his hard-earned money into the dripping economy, and got absolutely nothing back. Timothy had done what millions of other people do routinely – he'd kept his country chugging along.
And what did he get for his service?
Nothing. Squat. Nada.
When he was fired, after twenty-three years of loyal service, it was the final straw.
He had no pension or savings to fall back on. Weeks earlier, his money-sucking wife had left him for someone wealthier and stronger-minded, someone who'd stabbed multiple people in the back to make blood-soaked progress in his career, such was the acceptable way nowadays. She'd taken Dominic, his three-year old son, with her, gaining full custody since the courts preferred to side with the mother, especially one with a hefty disposable income provided by her wealthy prick of a boyfriend.
He no longer saw his son, and no longer wished to, the thought of such contact tainted by the betrayal of his money-hungry whore of an ex-wife. She'd sucked him dry and abandoned him by the roadside with absolutely nothing. He couldn’t even say her name, no, think her name. The very word made his flesh erupt in goose flesh, made him shudder, and brought on an overwhelming wave of nausea. Dominic would never know who he was, and he was fine with that. To hell with them both.
Divorced. Unemployed. Failed father.
No prospects. Nowhere to go.
Then They had come a knocking.
They. An organisation clever enough to remain completely anonymous, no name, no credentials, and no presence on social media. A company clever enough to remain in the shadows, to headhunt their operatives directly, in person, without leaving a paper trail. Their preferred targets were experienced people who knew the inner workings of their home country, people who had interior knowledge and access to vital components of infrastructure that kept the United Kingdom running.
Timothy's twenty-three years as an international truck driver suddenly carried some merit.
He finally felt wanted, important, despite his role being one so minor. Minor, yes, but also vital. Very few people had unrestricted access to other countries, but he was one of them, he had the ability to drive across Europe unopposed. Whoever They were, the organisation provided him with full, legitimate documentation, confirming he was able to resume his previous job role, fully funded and unhindered. He had his old job back, on a better salary, but it would one day come with the ultimate price, one they could call on at any time.
One he was willing to pay.
After all, days before the organisation had found him, he'd attempted suicide twice, failing with both attempts, which didn’t surprise him. It summed up his life perfectly – he couldn’t even kill himself with any reasonable degree of success. He had nothing to live for, and despite this sudden calling, one that alleviated his grief, he still didn’t see a point to his miserable existence.
At least, this way, he could go out on top when the moment came.
He glanced through the dusty windscreen and watched the empty pier before him. The morning was beginning to stir, the country was awaking in unison. His window of opportunity was growing slimmer by the second, disappearing with every waking soul that tapped their intrusive alarm clock, or came to terms with their insomnia, or showered their foggy dreams away.
The chance was slipping through his fingers.
But, he obeyed his orders. Timothy didn't panic. He flexed his hands on the wide steering wheel, the plastic squeaking in his sweaty palms. He groaned inwardly and waited. His alert gaze roamed the beautiful seafront, and observed the murky cerulean depths beyond. A flurry of white gulls swooped and curled through the air, nothing but white wisps on a stark blue canvas, their squawks subdued by the padded interior of the truck. Off to the left, a female ice cream vendor dressed all in white wheeled a steel trolley out onto the boardwalk.
Not long now, he thought.
He knew his role didn’t figure into things, unless Fiona failed.
And she never failed, he knew that.
She was their main hope for a reason.
But he had to wait anyway. After all, it was the contingency plan.
His role was secondary. The vital role fell to Fiona – well, if that was her real name. Anyway, he fathomed early on that he was totally disposable, and expendable. He didn’t mind, it was just nice to be wanted for once. As for the mission, everything revolved around Fiona because she had the primary access, the one gateway guaranteed to work, the one that ensured their mission would be a total success.
And if she didn’t call his mobile phone by five minutes past nine, he was to act.
He shivered, cold sweat dripping down his back and sides. He clenched his arm muscles slowly, breathing out, and gazed over his shoulder at the sixteen oil drums. The rounded barrels, dented in numerous places and rusted at the edges, sat there silently, lined up perfectly, their contents a mystery to the average passer-by.
He could hear the contents sloshing about gently, or was that his imagination?
Timothy knew what was in there. He flinched involuntarily, a chill running up his spine, and checked his watch.
08:49.
The day of reckoning is upon us.
*****
"You're all set. Go on through."
Fiona stared at Connor, dumbfounded. He shot the woman a smile and returned his gaze to the magazine. She slung the unopened rucksack back over her shoulder, breathed out, and smiled. Felt the weight in the small of her back once more. A wave of relief overcame her as the items clinked in the bag behind her.
She
almost broke face, but resisted.
Acting weird or funny or thankful sticks in the mind, remember. It can be misconstrued in various ways. Keep calm, thank him, and be on your way.
"Thank you, Connor." She stepped beyond the cordon, and pushed the door open.
"No troubles. Ben told me about you, asked me to look out for you. I think he has a soft spot."
Fiona stopped. Dropped her shoulders and lowered her head in disappointment.
I'm late anyway, another minute won't hurt. It'll take one minute to check.
She sighed, turned, and sidestepped back to the cordon.
Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.
She drew level with Connor. "He does?"
"Huh?" Connor looked up.
Fiona narrowed her eyes. "You said Ben has a soft spot for me?"
"Yes, indeedy."
"I'm married," she said, thankful she had that sentence to fall back on. She held up her ring hand nonchalantly. Her cover was working, but would it hold up?
"Unless you've spoken with him at length, I doubt he knows that. Ben never was a details kind of guy. The fact he's a security guard is beyond me."
Fiona nodded. Feigned an appreciative smile. "Good to know. Thank you, Connor."
He nodded. Went back to his magazine.
Fiona strolled through the doors. She smiled as the shadows of the interior hallway absorbed her. She felt a sense of achievement at spotting the unexpected challenge. Any woman who simply ignores attention from a guy, no matter who it was, would automatically stand out. Her simple decision to enquire a little, to seem a little interested and surprised, would keep her cover intact, and make her seem normal.
It's not like she'd be around much longer anyway.
Today was her last day, but no one knew that.
She walked quickly to her desk and placed the rucksack on her chair gently. She tapped her keyboard and watched her screen light up.
The clock read 08:52.
She slipped the mobile phone from her pocket and dialled. After a second, the phone was answered. "Yes."
Fiona smiled. "We're a go. Be ready for my second call."
"You got it."
She hung up and dialled a second number. It was answered immediately. "Yes?"
"I'm in position. Start your descent now."
"Affirmative."
She hung up and slipped the phone into her pocket.
Her people were in place.
The day of reckoning is upon us.
ONE
Jeremy Markos leaned forward in his small office, sighed, and studied the static screen saver of his beautiful wife. His fingers moved from the empty desktop and traced the pixelated image with a fond degree of care, caressed her perfect jawline as if she was standing right before him. He marvelled at her possessive gaze and saw abundant life and happiness in that look, one that had entranced him since the first day they met.
Jeremy closed his eyes and imagined stroking her flowing mane of beautiful charcoal hair, peppering her soft skin with gentle kisses, as he often did in the dwindling twilight hours, the only time he got to spend with her. The only time when she wasn't in motion or out of the room, or avoiding his husbandly advances. The screen's glare warmed his fingers, but provided no comfort in his time of worry. He dropped his hand, adjusted his glasses with a sniff, and opened his top drawer.
He removed a thin manila file and slapped it onto the desk surface.
He paused, his unsteady gaze on the folder. Do you want to see this?
This could end your marriage.
Fiona will be gone if she finds out what you did.
You could lose your Fi Fi.
Jeremy chuckled, and fought back a tear at the terrible thought. His trembling hands moved away from the file and rubbed his burning cheeks, the worst scenario imaginable forming in his worried mind. He breathed out, billowing hot air into the office. He cranked his neck to the left, ensuring that his door was shut. He had no reason to fret. Without an access code, he would have no unexpected visitors. A knock, and his receptionist's cursory vigil, would give him ample time to hide the documents, if required.
You need to know.
You love her, but you can’t continue to live a lie.
Not anymore. Not ever.
There must be a reason she's avoiding your advances.
Must be a reason she hasn't had sex with you in months.
A good-looking woman like that?
Jeremy clamped his hands to his head.
"No!"
He looked up and blinked away tears, refusing to come to terms with the potential information that sat before him. He tapped the folder, slid a finger along the spine.
Do it.
Rip off the plaster.
Your marriage depends on it.
With a groan, Jeremy hissed through clenched teeth and flipped open the folder.
He saw three documents.
Two black and white photos, and a type-written report.
Jeremy slipped the first photo from the file. It contained his provided head shot of Fiona Markos, his beloved wife of several years. The shot had captured her immense beauty from the perfect angle; he studied her magnificent cheekbones and flawless complexion, noticed that her Serbian heritage was radiant and dominant in her honey-coloured skin, dark lustrous hair and piercing grey eyes. Jeremy remembered the day he had met her; his life had completely changed, and his love for her was still as astounding. The photo ushered in a wave of blistering emotions, emotions that Jeremy found difficult to keep controlled, and he found himself coughing.
How can you live without her? You love her.
He shook his head.
For now.
He flipped the photograph over.
A second photograph showed Fiona, from a wide, distant angle, conversing with an unknown male. Her face was turned away from the lens, but the man was caught in a textbook frontal shot. Jet-black hair, a formidable amount of stubble, wide shoulders, sparkling eyes that could both entice or subdue with a simple glance. Jeremy studied the picture, and noticed a large warehouse standing behind them, all grey brick and no tell-tale signs or company names. He continued to scan for potential clues, his eyes becoming watery with every pixel covered. He needed clues, anything, something…
Fiona had her hand on the man's arm.
Jeremy sat up. Licked his lips and wiped his eyes.
That doesn’t mean a thing. You're reaching.
Yes, it does.
Women do that all the time.
Not my woman. Not my Fi Fi.
He pushed the photo aside and scanned the report. Basic information about the photo itself, the location – an industrial estate in London with minimal traffic – and the two occupants. A couple of theories on the photo itself, which revealed little; the investigator suggested a business transaction, work training, two old friends meeting up, Fiona getting her car repaired, and one other interesting possibility.
A drug deal.
Due to the suspicious box that Fiona was holding.
Jeremy returned his gaze to the photo and initially missed it. But, there it was, shrouded in the black and white shadow. A box in Fiona's other hand, which sat idle beside her waist. Jeremy pushed his chin to the desk, getting in close. It was unusual, and he'd never seen it before. Didn't recall it from any mantle or shelf in their home.
Maybe she brought you a present?
Maybe she didn't.
Don't be a fool. This guy – this overly handsome guy – is her new beau. You're expired goods, Jeremy. Fiona no longer has a need for you.
She's married to me.
This is nothing but speculation.
This is adultery.
So? Like that matters in this crumbling society.
Jeremy pursed his lips and lowered his head into his hands.
What are you going to do?
He blinked, dropping hot tears onto his cheeks.
"You know what?"
Jeremy bent down and collected his metal r
ubbish bin. He dropped the photos and the report into it. He rifled through a drawer and retrieved a can of deodorant, sprayed the documents, and placed the bin on the floor. He slipped some matches from his pocket and sparked one, before dropping it into the container.
The documents went up in a whoosh of flames. The edges began to burn black and curled inwards, crisping and crackling beneath the heat. A smile lit up Jeremy's face.
She'll be happy I did this. She'll be proud that I was the bigger man.
And she'll come back to me, no matter what.
TWO
Fiona swivelled her desk chair, and slid onto the crumpled leather with relative ease. Her body was rigid with nervous excitement and severe paranoia, every muscle contracting, the two feelings exploding like an intense chemical reaction. She began to shake, her tanned flesh prickling with goose flesh. Cold sweat oozed from her pores. Her hands trembled as she opened a drawer and collected the final two items she required.
An ID card and a long, metal key.
The card's laminate was milky, the cardboard within bent and creased. The faded photo featured an unknown woman who vaguely resembled Fiona. A quick glance from a security guard would be acceptable, anything more inquisitive a disaster. The key was speckled with orange and brown rust, angular and obtuse, old. An engineer hadn't designed a key like it in forty years, but somehow, They had obtained it, slipped it into her possession. Nothing was beyond their reach.
She smiled, and pocketed both items.
Unrevised engineering would be the downfall of humanity. How quaint.
And how apt, how righteous.
A people dominated by new technology, controlled by the portable device and mobile phone and telecommunications, it's only right that something so primitive be the catalyst that brings them to their dying knees.
A forgotten technology, cast aside when something new makes an appearance. Their disregard and disrespect for innovation will hammer the final nail into their coffin.
