by Jim Jennings
Once again, Laurence’s eyes glazed over and his head dipped with exhaustion. One day since the events in Athens, Laurence found himself in the boardroom of the ‘Paris Museum of Ancient History’. He was just one of many suited bodies that were sat around the circular table that took up the huge room at the very top of the building. The revelations that followed the night’s events still resonated in his mind. Giorgio had followed Laurence as far as the café near the Gar du Nord due to a tracking device that was installed in a button on Laurence’s shirt. After that, Giorgio simply followed him by train, ferry and car and ended up delaying Randall’s intended obliteration of the world.
The rest now seemed like ancient history to Laurence, or at least a very long time ago. Wesley had been taken to hospital and patched up before he, Laurence, Giorgio and Ruby were summoned to a meeting to establish what had happened. Giorgio had made a call and all that remained of Pandora’s Box was swept into a dustpan and delivered with the utmost care into a plastic bag that one might wrap their sandwiches in; a most humble end for so great an object. A helicopter came to take it and the others back to Paris. The ashes of the box were then sealed, apparently, in a bullet-proof, bombproof, waterproof, burglarproof, childproof, titanium crate and shipped to a top-secret location, though Laurence thought it would perhaps have been more fitting if it had been returned to where it came, and was scattered over the Mediterranean sea. And now they all, with the exception of Brigitte, who was having a much-needed lie down back at her apartment, had been beckoned to the museum to provide a sworn testament of what they had experienced.
Having given his version of events, and in no way understating his actions, Laurence had fallen into a welcome but accidental slumber until he was awoken by a very rotund man who was sat next to him, and who permanently had a sour look on his face, as if he had just tasted something that disagreed with him. Wesley, fully recovered from last night’s travails, sat across the table from Laurence and looked at him with cold, hard eyes. They were shuffled quietly in an orderly fashion into an open, cold room. The back wall had the flag of France draped over it and, below that, a ten foot by ten foot map of Europe. The wall facing Laurence had one of those electronic white boards you would normally find in classrooms or lecture halls and on it were photos taken of ‘Site A’. An image came up of the burning rubble that was once the pyramid headquarters of Randall Johnson, his evil grand design. Then there flashed an image of the wrecked stage which Laurence had crawled across in desperation. Planks of wood were pointed in the air, broken in half or little more than a black and charred mess. On the table before him was a glass of water and around the table sat many strangers, and some familiar faces, who were no doubt very important; the toad-like man on his immediate left, the raven-haired French ambassador, the finely bearded Greek Foreign diplomat, Michele Vivant, Head of the museum, whose own head was barely above the rim of the table, Wesley Gilliand, now cleanly shaven and just generally clean, though his face still held an angry expression, an old man with chubby cheeks, the good-looking and wide-grinning Giorgio Carraciolo, the glasses-wearing Ruby Holland, who looked imposing in a turquoise coloured blazer, and other men and woman of varying shapes and sizes. Unlike Laurence they behaved in an exemplary fashion, except the French and Greek ambassadors when the subject of whose rightful property the box was. The latter extended his palm forward in a threatening motion not for the first time as he sought to make his point, but it only drew a yawn from Laurence. Noticing this, William Williams, the Head of Interpol, a solidly built man, who was sitting three seats to Laurence’s right motioned to the Greek to be seated, and turned to the yawning ‘hero’ of the hour. Williams had only spoken very rarely in the past two hours, but when he had finished, Laurence had been struck with admiration for the way Williams’ voice never strayed from a calm, dignified level and yet held great authority. To his right, and between him and Ruby, was his secretary, a nosey-looking man with a moustache like a brush and a bald head which was badly sunburnt. He had been scribbling away for the entirety of the meeting; every word, every cough, every breath. Laurence noticed Williams’ eyes were on him and sat up straight, as if he were a schoolboy who had realized he had erred and was now subject to a teacher’s condemning glare. Williams’ tone was far from judgmental,
‘Thank you my friends. I can see this debate will rage long on into the night and perhaps into tomorrow as well,’ at this the Greek man and the French woman both gave a tut of disapproval in each other’s direction. ‘But rather than arguing over where the box should end up, let us thank the man who brought the box back in the first place. Are you alright, Mr. Swift?’ All heads turned in Laurence’s direction; he stared back not knowing what to say or do and so he just grinned; in truth Laurence had not listened to anything that had been said. After saying his piece he had fallen into a peace of his own and as such had missed the chance to contribute whatever meaningful argument he might have given to the debate. William Williams smiled understandingly at him, ‘What a tremendous ordeal this must have been for you, Mr. Swift. I’m sure we can excuse your tiredness. We cannot repay you enough for the great humanitarian work you have done; thanks to your bravery and quick thinking, the world is a safe place again. Mr. Gilliand paid a glowing tribute to you in his report.’ Laurence looked at Wesley in pleasant surprise. Wesley returned his gaze and smiled warmly, breaking his outwardly angry bearing. Laurence reflected on the journey between them; not so long ago he had thought that Wesley had regarded him as a complete buffoon, but the truth was that Wesley thought he was only partly a buffoon. They had saved each other’s lives and it seemed to him that he had made a good friend. William continued, ‘Perhaps Mr. Kelly may have a job for you in the near future?’ and he looked over at Wesley’s boss, the chubby bulldog of a man, who merely grunted at this suggestion. ‘At any rate, if you ever need a favour from Interpol, you have it without hesitation.’
‘Thank you very much, Mr. Williams. I certainly hope that every journalist I speak to is as kind as you’ve been!’ Laurence beamed and daydreamed about how his family and friends would admire what he had done. The look of pride on their faces! Their joyful voices barely managing to contain their admiration! And what about Quentin Derry! He would give all the money he had to see his face when he looked at the morning papers and saw the headlines celebrating Laurence as a hero. This daydream, like all others, was to be smashed into bitter reality.
‘Ah, Mr. Swift, unfortunately I cannot allow that,’ William’s carefully chosen words hit Laurence like a punch in the face and thanks to his newly-found experience of these, he knew how much they hurt. There was a change in William’s countenance; he looked like he was carrying the world on his shoulders. ‘This must be kept a closely guarded secret. The world must never know what happened last night in Athens. If word got out that we were only seconds away from apocalypse, panic would grip the streets and unrest would follow.’ Laurence wanted to shout out in objection but his heart had deflated like a recently popped balloon and his spirit faltered.
Mr. Kelly grunted and pointed his glass of gin at Laurence. Here came the lowest blow of all. ‘As such, certain steps must be taken to ensure that you remain tight-lipped. If you even mention anything that happened last night, or in the days preceding, your girlfriend, Miss Girard will never be allowed to work in this, or any other continent, again. If anyone hears of what transpired from your lips, I will personally see that your life, and hers, is destroyed. Do I make myself clear?’ Mr. Kelly looked like he took no pleasure in telling Laurence this, but his tone was unshakeable and showed no remorse. ‘I’m sorry Mr. Swift. The press would have a field day if they knew what happened, and what could have happened. An elaborate cover-up story is being put in place as we speak.’
Williams added to this in an attempt to soften the blow, ‘But we will attempt to ease the transition back to normal life for you. I’ve spoken to Mr. Derry in London and, although he took some persuading, I’ve managed to get you your old job back
. And as a token of our gratitude and esteem, we’ve just transferred £500,000 into your bank account. I hope this atones in some way for all that has happened to you.’ It was more money than he had ever dreamed of having, and more than he expected to end up with when he first began the search for Pandora’s Box, but it was not enough. A part of him felt ungrateful, but a bigger, stronger, more emotional part felt aggrieved. He didn’t want his job at the museum back, he wanted recognition for his achievements and to be able to receive the praise he deserved. He would have argued with Mr. Kelly but however much he cared about his own feelings, his concern for Brigitte was too great a barrier. Almost as if he had been programmed to say it, Laurence delivered an unemotional parting remark and rose from his seat. ‘Thank you, that’s very kind of you.’ He said, and William made his way over to him, shook his hand and patted him on the back.
‘Well done Mr. Swift. Thank you.’ He smiled a genuine smile that was full of appreciation and returned to his seat. Laurence left the room with a whimper.
