"Okay, that's the last sad story for today. Let's talk about something more cheerful," Jane said.
"Sure, any special requests?" I asked.
She thought for a while.
"Tell me, what’s the most heroic thing you've done in your life?" She finally asked.
This time I had to think for a while. There were many heroic moments in my life. When I killed my step-parents, for instance, but that was rather a self-preservation-heroic kind of deed. I wouldn't bother her with my work for the CIA, where I’d seriously risked my neck many a time, especially as that period in my life was rather confidential. I finally recollected one nice story from the past.
"I remember, a long time ago, I must have been 7 or 8, just before my parents died, we were spending our holiday in a tourist resort. We were on a beach. The day was nice, sunny and warm. I was still young, gullible and stupid. We were on a small, low pier stretching a hundred yards or so out over the calm water. Suddenly my father became agitated and pointed to an animal, a dog, in the water and told me it was drowning. I jumped into the water, like a little hero, and swam clumsily towards the dog. It didn't seem to be in any distress, but what would an agitated 8-year-old know? So I grabbed the dog by the collar and tried to haul it ashore. It happened to be a Labrador, and those dogs are perfect swimmers, so it was the dog who thought I was in distress and hauled me ashore. My father and mother were laughing. It turned out that the Labrador belonged to my parent's friends who were visiting the village. Everybody was laughing at me. But then they agreed eventually that I was a really brave young lad ready to jump in to rescue the underdog. So that made me feel really nice and cool after all."
Jane was laughing. "Nice story. Is it really true?"
"It is," I confirmed. It was true.
Then we had a chat about various other trivial matters. Finally, I paid the bill and we drove back to Jane's house.
We had a quick shower and made love in every possible way. In bed, Jane wasn't a pro, but for her lack of skills in some areas she more than compensated with an eagerness to please me and she was very natural in everything she did to me. We paused for a moment, exhausted. And then we did it again. I hadn't felt so relaxed and happy for a very long time. I wished this moment would last forever. 'Is it time to retire and settle down?' I pondered.
26.
NEXT DAY I woke up refreshed and rejuvenated. Scientific research has established that testosterone levels are highest in the morning, and that must have been true. Jane's back was pressed against my body, and it was a pleasant sensation. I gently traced the outline of the side of her trunk, hips and thighs that were visible under the sheets with my fingers. I removed all the linen and did it again, lightly stroking the whole of her right side. She purred slightly with pleasure, which encouraged me to massage her buttocks. I moved my hands further down inside her thighs. We had more sex, not as crazy and passionate as yesterday, but equally satisfying. After we finished, I hugged her and we lay still for a few moments. I liked these brief moments of oblivion.
We got up, freshened up in the shower and headed for the kitchen.
I made my signature dish, scrambled eggs. Jane didn't have any salmon in the fridge, so I had to improvise. I found some prosciutto ham and sliced it into fine strips. I also found some shallots and chopped them up too. I turned on the gas on the cooker, found a pan, added a liberal amount of butter and put the pan on a slow heat. I added the shallots and sizzled them for a while. I got some eggs, broke them into a separate bowl, mixed vigorously to ensure an even, consistent texture, and added some milk to make the whole mix a little lighter in color and creamy in taste. I added the sliced prosciutto into the pan and stirred a few times. Prosciutto ham is very thin, so it fries quickly and too long is not good. Finally, I added the eggs from the bowl. I stirred the whole mixture until it was set but not dry in order to preserve the gentle moisture of the yolk and white. I sliced some bread and served it.
"Delicious," Jane said, chewing the second bite. "You really are a good cook."
"I just know a few simple things, but when I do cook, I’m meticulous and fully committed."
"I bet you are."
After we finished eating, I asked: "Would you like some coffee?"
"Mike, it's my house, I should be asking that question," she giggled.
"Then ask."
"I was thinking about something else."
"Yeah?"
"Let's have a walk in a park and then get some coffee in town. I know a place nearby."
"Sounds like a plan."
We strolled for half an hour in the park and then went to Starbucks. I ordered a cappuccino with soy milk and Jane ordered a latte. It was a large, two story coffee shop. It was located in a period townhouse, with rich front elevations, and large, gently sloping awnings above the doors and windows. We went upstairs and settled ourselves at a table facing the window with a nice view of the busy street.
We chatted about various little things. I didn't want to go into the details of my past too much. I think Jane preferred to talk about something lighter too.
"Would you like to stay another day?" she asked, with some hope in her voice.
"Would love to, but I have to come back and work on my assignment, I need to find the perpetrator of the school shooting."
"I feel safe with you, and you seem to be a very nice and caring guy. I know you have your issues and your lifestyle is far from settled, but I like you nonetheless."
"I like you too. I like lying with you in bed in silence, doing nothing. I like lying in bed with you doing something even more. I like it when you smile, I like it when you don't," I said.
I looked at Jane, she really seemed happy. I was happy too. However, I don't think I was ready to settle into any kind of committed permanent relationship. I wanted to, but something was holding me back.
The place was pleasantly crowded. Crowded enough to create a buzz, but not so much to make it uncomfortable or prevent conversation. People were drinking coffee, eating cakes, chatting and amusing themselves. Some were couples, some alone. Some were chatting, some reading newspapers, some browsing their tablets, some texting or doing whatever one could do with the phone these days.
There was a couple next to our table, they had love in their eyes, their hands clasped together, an idyllic scene. They were probably little aware of the statistics which said that married couples lose their fire within the first 3-4 years of marriage, or even earlier if a baby comes along. You couldn’t beat statistics. Another elderly couple were sitting at an adjoining table – they were engrossed in their newspapers, occasionally exchanging comments on the topics they came across. The fire seemed to have been long gone, but love seemed to be still smoldering underneath. Young man was typing furiously on his laptop. What was he writing? A book, an article to a newspaper, a letter to his fiancee, a job application, a status update on his Facebook profile, or perhaps he was working on something else. What about the young blond beauty that had just entered and was sitting two tables away from us, smiling at me? Was she hoping for a date, or was she just being polite? Our eyes met fleetingly and I could detect a tinge of sadness or mystery in her eyes. I registered her slim legs, her perfectly proportioned hips and buttocks in tight jeans, in addition to her impeccable skin and good-sized breasts that must have been a delight for her lover to touch and hold, and to do whatever pleasant one could do with female breasts. And I tell you, I had a good eye for detail after years of working in my trade, so rest assured she was a very nice specimen. She had a book which she started reading while drinking her coffee. The book must have been some crime story judging by the amount of blood on the cover. She was having a small latte in an elegant, transparent glass shaped like an inverted cone. I was sure there was a very fancy name for that kind of glass. She spent perhaps five minutes reading, drank half of her small latte, picked up her things, and left, casting a farewell smile at me.
Odd, you wouldn’t come to a coffee house to read a book and have c
offee, and only stay for five minutes. And not finish your coffee. If somebody called you unexpectedly, I supposed you might rush out. But nobody had called her. Very odd.
I looked around the room, nothing unusual.
I turned the topic of my conversation with Jane to the vintage 1963 Aston Martin DB5 parked outside on the street, just to be able to look out of the window to see her coming out. The Aston Martin, if I remember well, was the same model that featured in the James Bond film 'Goldfinger' in 1964. Would you believe it was exactly fifty years since that movie had been screened? Half a century.
The girl just left the building. To my surprise she approached a male who was standing some twenty feet from the Aston Martin. She pointed at the windows on the second floor of the coffee shop where we were sitting. They exchanged a few words and he smiled in a rather unpleasant way. They turned back and started walking away at a brisk pace.
I felt worried. I looked at the table where she had sat and noticed a small handbag hanging on the backrest of the chair. I was sure she’d come into this place with her bag.
It took a while to describe the whole situation, but in fact it all played out in a split second.
Bomb was my first thought. In fact it was “explosive,” not “bomb” that I thought, but let's not dwell on the detail. When I had my training at the CIA, they told us that “bomb” was a casual term, and often referred to air-dropped explosive, whereas explosive was the explosive material used in civilian applications. Bomb, in its casual meaning in civilian applications was meant to be used in mining or construction (or rather de-construction); however, people were very inventive and often found other, even more civilian applications for bombs. Like a coffee house.
"Can you fly?" I asked Jane in a serious tone of voice.
"With you I can fly anywhere in the world," she smiled.
"How about the ground floor," I said getting up.
I shouted so that everyone in the room upstairs could hear me: "Get out of here right now, there's a bomb on the table over there."
You probably wonder why I just lectured you to use the term “explosive” and myself used “bomb” instead. Well, just for clarity of communication, a bomb sounded more threatening in public opinion, as opposed to “explosive,” which sounded a little geeky and didn’t inspire the kind of awe that “bomb” did. Communication was key. Simple language.
Some of you must have been wondering why I had just created a panic and cut off my line of escape. Well, the people in the cafe had a right to know they were in danger. That was one thing. I liked helping people if I could. It was no fault of theirs that I happened to be in the coffee house and somebody had planted an explosive to kill me.
Secondly, I had plan B.
The glass in the window was quite thick and I knew a chair wouldn't suffice. I asked Jane to move away, grabbed our table, which happened to be made of wrought iron, moved it a few paces away from the window, lifted it with both hands, gathered momentum and smashed it against the window pane. The impact was significant. The window glass shattered into pieces and landed a few meters away from the shop front. Luckily it didn't destroy the awning over the ground floor door just below the windows of the first floor. I was hoping to use the awning to escape.
I grabbed Jane's hand and yelled, "We're jumping."
She hesitated for a second, which was what was to be expected of civilians. I hugged her with both my arms and jumped.
The awning yielded under our weight and collapsed, but managed to cushion our fall. Just as we were sliding off the awning, a massive explosion ripped through the building.
The whole front of the second floor vaporized. Splinters of glass, masonry, and ironwork were flying everywhere. The floor of the second floor was intact, though, which saved our lives. The blast went out through the window into the street and the building on the opposite side of the street. But we were shielded by the floor – we landed close to the front wall, and were outside of the range of flying shards, splinters, and shrapnel.
Not all the people upstairs were that lucky. I hoped many of them escaped after my warning, but I was sure some had perished.
I noticed a few bodies on the street, some wounded, but some undoubtedly dead.
The explosive was meant to wreak havoc inside of the coffee shop, at least on the floor it was planted on, but not to destroy the building.
Still, the damage to the cars and windows on the other side of the road was significant. The vintage Aston Martin DB5 was hit by some debris, and an iron bar was sticking out of the door of the car – a remnant of the bomb blast. Fortunately, the driver was not in the car as he would have been pierced right through.
There was still a ringing in my ears and I could hear little. I tried to reassure Jane that everything was all right now, but she probably didn't hear me either and was kind of in shock too.
My eardrums were aching, and I felt groggy. The dust caused by the blast was settling slowly. Emergency service sirens could be heard in the distance.
I slowly regained my hearing and assessed the situation. Jane wasn't hurt, apart from some bruises and scratches.
I called Martin Keenan.
"Martin, there was a bomb explosion at Starbucks in Pittsburgh. I was there. I'm sure I was the target."
"Are you ok?" Martin asked, seriously worried.
"I'm fine. I need you to check something. The explosion was 5 minutes ago. There was a young, blond girl leaving the shop just before the explosion, less than 30 seconds before the explosive went off. Get our guys to hack into the CCTV, or ask Dermot from Research & Execution if you have any problems."
"Sure. Where are you exactly?"
"I am pinging you my location right now," I answered. My phone had sophisticated anti-tracking software. You never knew who was watching. However, I had an application that allowed me to send my coordinates to a selected person, which was useful in this case. In fact, at our office we did have some special software to track the locations of all our associates, including me, but it required just a little more time to set it up and log in. So sending it from my phone was easier.
"Let me know as soon as you have some intel on who she is and where she lives. I'm positive she must have been in on it. I’ll have to visit her."
"Will do."
"The question is," I asked, "who did it and how did they know?"
"Morgenthal?" Martin suggested.
"That's my guess, that's the only serious job I’m working on right now," I continued, thinking out loud. "Surely in this business I must have a few other enemies apart from Morgenthal. Enemies who I haven't had the pleasure of meeting yet, or who haven't revealed themselves yet. We must have trodden on quite a few toes in the past, don't you think? But this is Morgenthal, I bet."
"This motherfucker is costing us a lot of effort and resources."
"I’ll send an extra invoice to Dermot Clenaghan from R&E in due course," I joked. We don't issue invoices, Dermot sends a courier with cash. I keep some cash in our office, some in bank lockers all over the country, as well as in some major cities across the world. I also put some into current accounts, from which I wire small amounts under anti-money laundering reporting thresholds to accounts in the Cayman Islands, Bermuda, the Channel Islands, Switzerland, Hong Kong, Singapore, and other places. Diversification. To transfer money without suspicion, I use a number of ways. As I’ve already mentioned, small inconspicuous bank transfers, purchase of bitcoins here, and redemption elsewhere. I actually have some interesting ideas for bitcoins for the future, but I still have to do some planning and thinking over. Also, I often buy good old silver eagles. Each coin has a face value of one dollar, and is legal tender. When traveling across the border, you can usually take ten thousand dollars with you. So you can take ten thousand coins, face value ten thousand dollars, but worth two hundred thousand dollars at current silver prices. It's weighs six hundred pounds though, not practical when flying out of the US, but I did use this mode a few times in Europe between Germa
ny and Switzerland or Luxembourg – all legal. In addition, our computer geeks have invented ingenious software to move money without a trace, which I also use. It so happens that one of our analysts used to work in a bank as an anti-money laundering, AML, specialist for a good few years and held some, as she boasted, prestigious AML qualification. She had to do, whatcha call it, continuing professional education courses every year, which we gladly paid for. And she was even getting a monthly magazine with all things AML as part of the package. And we’ve also sent her to the AML conference a few times, just to keep in touch with the most recent developments in the AML world. So she was up to date with this sector to help us steer clear of the scrutiny of financial crime law enforcement. She said it wasn’t ethical, and I said I believed her. A pay rise and an extra bonus soothed her conscience. Needless to say, she was only joking, but I appreciated the service anyway, so she did get the rise and bonus after all. I loved to pay my share of taxes, but I didn’t like politicians squandering my money. You could call me hypocritical, as a significant part of my business's income came from the government, but what they paid me was of course money well spent.
27.
JUST AS I was finishing the call with Martin, my phone started ringing again. I didn't recognize the number.
"Hello, who's this?" I asked.
"Hello Mr. Greystone, Erebus Loki speaking," he answered.
"You have a different number, I have your number in my phone but this is a new one?"
"Indeed it is. I use various phone numbers."
"What do you want? I’m kind of busy right now," I said impatiently.
"I know you are. How was your coffee?"
"What the fuck. You know already? It wasn't more than five-ten minutes ago. You couldn't have seen me on the news?" I was surprised.
"No, not on the news. I have my own sources," he answered.
I thought for a few seconds.
"Who was it?" I asked.
The Hunt (Mike Greystone, Book 1) Page 13
