by Albert Able
Alex stood up. “I’m doing fine thank you, Roger, and it’s no trouble at all,” Alex added, shaking the offered hand.
“Follow me please.”
The young man swiped a box on the wall with the plastic identity card hanging from his neck on a linked chain. A panel in the wall opened silently. As they walked through Alex had the distinct feeling that he was reliving a scene from a James Bond movie.
The young man offered timidly: “I understand that you have arranged to meet with our head of archives?”
“That’s correct,” Alex replied, taking in the new surroundings with interest as the man led him into a small room with several wall lockers, a chair and a low table.
“You will have to leave any personnel belongings here. It’s quite safe,” the young man grinned, trying to make a joke of it. “Your jacket, mobile phone, etcetera.”
Alex put his mobile into his jacket pocket together with his wallet. “I’ve counted the cash,” he smiled, responding to the young man’s efforts to make light of the situation.
“Your wristwatch as well, I’m afraid, Sir,” the man added apologetically in response.
Alex raised his eyebrows, grinned and added the watch to the other items in his jacket.
“You also have to wear this.” The man held out a white lab coat and pinned the ‘Visitors Pass’ to the lapel. “Now you’re cleared. Follow me please.”
He swiped the box on the wall; another panel opened. Clearly more relaxed now, the young man asked conversationally “First time in here is it?”
“Yes it is, and it certainly appears to be a pretty amazing place!” Alex encouraged the young man. “So is it a fact that the entire nation’s security stuff is in here, under one roof now?”
The young man cocked his head to one side knowingly: “I can’t answer questions like that, of course, but let’s say it’s much more efficient than it used to be!”
They stopped at another barrier. “The final test.” He smiled again and waved Alex through an airport style detector unit. “After you Sir, please.”
Alex obliged. There was no reaction from the device as Alex walked through.
He asked jokingly, covering up his relief that the miniature transmitter buried in his neck had not been activated the detectors: “Do you keep the crown jewels down here too?”
The young man had been made well aware of Alex’s credentials and that he had been given fast track clearance by security. So he reasonably assumed that such influence could only mean that the way he handled today’s visit would be reported to his superiors at some stage.
“The country’s security is in good hands, Sir. I can assure you of that!” He answered with determination and strutted forward to swipe his card with a professional flourish at the door marked ‘Archives’.
Hans’s voice chuckled quietly from the tiny implant buried into the skin behind Alex’s ear his ear: “I sure hope for all our sakes that they can do better than this when the real enemy invades.”
“Here we are; the person you are booked to meet will be along in a moment or two.” The man held out his hand again. “Nice to have met you, Mr Scott, someone else will escort you back to Reception when you’ve concluded your business.”
He shook hands formally. Then, relieved to have concluded his part of the unscheduled visit, he scurried back into the corridor watched with some amusement by Alex as a feminine voice interrupted his thoughts.
“Mr Scott, I presume?”
“That’s me.”
Alex turned to face the kindly smile of a tallish mature lady. She gestured Alex to a large, well-lit, comfortably fitted office. He followed silently.
“Lydia Rowland,” she introduced herself. “Please make yourself comfortable.”
She pointed to one of the high backed leather chairs, which were completely out of character with the rest of the room.
Lydia Rowland, ‘Head of Archives’, sat in a similar chair facing Alex. “The Boss tells me that you are, to use his words ‘one of us’?” She cocked her head waiting for a reply.
“If the Boss says so, then it is so, eh?” Alex responded cautiously.
She asked politely: “I hope I may call you Alex?”
“Well that’s my name,” he smiled warmly.
“Now listen, Alex.” She spoke quietly. “Graham Watkins and I are the only ones left here who served with the Boss. We have been what you might describe as left to vegetate out of harm’s way until our pension rights are at their maximum benefit. We readily accepted that and were pleased to have a modestly responsible role to play in the new regime.” She lifted her chin. “I think we have done our best but this business about the missing documents, could be a real spanner in the works for him.”
Alex sat forward in his chair speaking in an equally low tone: “Just a minute Lydia, I don’t think we are on the same wavelength here? I don’t know about any missing documents.” He smiled gently. “I’m here to find out about Graham Watkins work, especially what he was up to during the last few days.”
Alex stopped suddenly as he wondered if Lydia knew about Graham Watkins demise. “Tell me, what do you know about his current situation?”
“All I know is that Graham hasn’t been to the office for two days, and hasn’t reported in either.” She held a hand up to her mouth. “Why, is there a problem?”
As gently as he could, Alex relayed the tragic news.
“I just don’t understand. His flat is here in Cheltenham so what was he doing in London?”
Lydia buried her face in her hands, broke down and sobbed uncontrollably as the tears flowed down her face, dripping on to the polished desk.
Alex jumped up and moved to Lydia’s side and placed a reassuring arm around her heaving shoulders, trying to comfort her.
Eventually, as she relaxed a little, he said gently: “I think Graham was on to something very important and urgently trying to contact the Boss, which is exactly why I’m here now.”
Lydia raised her head slowly. “I’m sorry,” she muttered, dabbing her swollen eyes with a tissue.
“I know it is very distressing, so please forgive me, but I have to know what he had found and was trying to tell the Boss.”
Alex moved back to his chair and leaning down gently towards Lydia took her hand.
“I don’t know if you were ever involved with any of the Syndicate’s activities, but the Boss has a gut feeling that they may be back in business and getting up to something,” Alex whispered. “That something may have cost him his life.”
Lydia looked up, frowning as she tried to remember. “Graham did say something once about ‘a syndicate’ but I had never heard of them. I didn’t have that kind of clearance. My work then, was just clerical stuff; expense claims, you know, that sort of thing.”
Alex smiled inwardly, he certainly did remember the struggle of trying to clear his expense claims through SONIC’S penny pinching accountants.
“Do you mind showing me where he worked?” Alex coaxed her up from her chair.
“Just down here.” She braced herself and led the way out of her office and across the corridor. Lydia swiped her security card in the panel and the door to Graham Watkins domain opened. The centre of the well-lit office was dominated by a large crescent shaped desk with three flat computer screens and keyboards. Each wall was lined with floor-to-ceiling numbered filing cabinets.
“He literally lived in this room,” she whispered. “His job was to collate all the information sent to him and store it in the micro files.”
Alex looked at the desk; it was unusually tidy, without any of the random folders or bits of paper to be found on the average desk. “Was he always so tidy?” he asked.
“Oh yes, he paid great attention to every detail of his work; he is just as immaculate in the way he lives - or lived,” L
ydia corrected herself as the tears welled up again.
“You were obviously very fond of him?” Alex suggested quietly.
“Yes I was, but he would not let me into his life. He never said why, so we just remained good friends.” She wiped the tears from her eyes. “I tell you now, he would never have done anything to jeopardise his country’s security. I’m one hundred percent certain of that!”
“I believe you. In fact, I am sorry to have to repeat it, but I’m beginning to realise that trying to defend his country may have, in some way, led to his death.”
Alex moved to the desk and poking a finger at one of the keyboards asked. “Do you know how to work these things?”
“Yes let me show you.” Lydia sat on the swivel chair in front of the computer screen as it came to life. “There. Now, what do you want to see?”
“Well first of all, try to find out what he was working in the last few days. He asked hopefully: “Can you do that?”
“The easiest way to do that is to look at the most recently accessed and filed documents.” She tapped the keys. “There are dozens of random files here. What are we looking for?”
“I’m not really sure.” Alex shook his head. “Tell me about these missing documents, then?”
“Now I do know a little about that.” She turned towards Alex. “The documents apparently had something to do with American or Vietnamese Visas. In the normal course of events, such facts would be so obscure to us, that they would not be noticed. Yet Graham had noticed something unusual and was sufficiently interested to tell me. That was when he asked me if the Boss still had any influence. I said I didn’t know, unfortunately I had paid to little attention and simply reminded him that ‘we are not required to form any opinions as to the content of documents. Our remit is to simply store information’ and that was the end of it as far as I was concerned.”
Lydia stood up. “Until our section leader called down yesterday. I think it must be the first time I have ever met him down here. Anyway he asked for the paper files on the two dead Vietnamese, but with Graham off sick, I was able to say I didn’t know exactly where he would have filed them.” Lydia dabbed her nose with a tissue. “I did know where he should have filed them, of course, so when he left I decided to take a look.”
She slipped the tissue into her pocket and looked straight at Alex. “The section leader is like most of the others around here, new and has little or no time for us down here,” Lydia looked up proudly, “and I resented his tone. Anyway, I searched high and low and those documents were nowhere to be found.’ She shook her head. “It was not like Graham to allow anything to go missing like that.”
Alex placed a comforting hand on Lydia’s shoulder. “I’m sure you’re right. That is why the Boss has asked me to get to the bottom of all this. Now listen, it is going to be extremely important that you do not mention this Vietnamese Visa thing to anyone else. So when you are asked what I wanted - and I’m certain that you will be - just say it was a ‘good will’ visit by me, as one of the old contemptibles on behalf of the Boss, whose memoirs I am helping him to write. OK?”
Alex leaned across and kissed her gently on the cheek. “If you need anything, here is my secure number; you can call at any time. But what ever you do, do not call from this building. Chin up, OK?”
Lydia smiled weakly. “Thank you. I appreciate that.”
She led Alex to the end of the corridor where a young lady assistant met them. “Ah, Janice - will you take Mr Scott back to reception please?”
Lydia shook Alex formally by the hand. “It was nice meeting you, Mr Scott. I wish you well with the book.”
“Thank you, I know the Boss will really appreciate your help.” Alex nodded goodbye and left without looking back.
Janice escorted Alex in silence until they reached the locker room where he was reunited with his belongings. “I’ll take that now, Sir,” she said politely, as she removed the visitors pass before leading him to the curved glass entrance door. As he approached, there was a vague hiss; the huge panel vibrated but seemed to hesitate for a second and then slid silently open, allowing him to pass back into the outside world.
As he walked down the steps Hans’ voice filled his ear. “That was close. I thought for a moment their detectors had spotted your transmission signature.”
Alex continued to the visitors’ car park and to the parked Range Rover where Hans, dressed in his chauffeur’s uniform, sat hunched over the wheel, carefully rotating the dial on an anonymous looking instrument sighted just below the dashboard.
He whispered: “Stall for a while can you? I’m going to have to check out a couple of things here.”
“OK.” Alex spoke aloud and moved to the rear door of the vehicle where he pretended to see if it was properly locked.
After a few seconds Hans’ voice sounded in his ear again. “It’s OK, now I think I got it.”
Alex returned casually to the passenger door and climbed into the Range Rover.
“What was that all about?” He asked quietly looking across at Hans who was surreptitiously making notes using some strange hieroglyphics on a sheet of paper.
After a few seconds he looked up and winked. “Don’t know yet. Ask me again when we’re back at the workshop. It takes time for the old grey matter to figure it out.”
***
It was almost two years since Carl Peterson, the leader and creator of the infamous Syndicate, had reluctantly accepted that his years of almost uninterrupted success had come to an end. It was also the first time that he had ever, personally, taken another man’s life. But as he saw it, he had been left without any other reliable choice, since the victim, his only surviving partner, was the only other person in the world who could reveal his true identity.
It had been surprisingly easy. They were in their Singapore office at the time and had just agreed that they had no practical choice left other than to disband the organisation.
It had not all been bad news, of course, because as a result of their other considerably successful activities over the years, they were now both enormously wealthy.
“Well at least we go into retirement with style eh?” Carl smiled at his partner.
“No doubt about that,” the Partner agreed philosophically. “Well, take care, my friend.” He offered his hand.
Carl Peterson reached forward as if to accept the gesture but his hand concealed a short steel bladed dagger, which he lunged with a lightening strike into the unsuspecting man’s chest. The blade shuddered for a moment as it encountered bone and then deflected from the sternum and into the man’s heart.
The man gasped in stunned surprise grabbing forlornly at Carl’s hand in a futile attempt to withdraw from the terminal attack, but his knees buckled and he sagged to the floor,
“You bastard,” he managed to hiss; they were his last and only dying words.
Elated by the adrenalin rush the ‘kill’ had generated, Carl Peterson stood staring transfixed at his former partner, then after a few moments took a deep breath and casually checked the body for pulse. Satisfied, he picked up the crystal decanter of Napoleon Cognac sitting in the ornate cocktail cabinet and poured the contents over the table and onto the body of the dead man. Once the decanter was empty he replaced it with reverent care on the cabinet before reaching across and picking up the heavy quartz cigarette lighter.
“Now there is no one left on this earth that can identify me.” Carl Peterson sneered quietly to the dead man, and then flicked the lighter.
The Cognac ignited immediately; a bright blue flame danced across the table and spread rapidly into the dead mans clothing.
Carl Peterson replaced the lighter carefully on the table and slipped quietly out of the office, locking the door behind him.
Confident that his true identity was now completely secure, he travelled untroubled back to h
is home and family and resumed his innocent role as the successful but reclusive industrialist. Local welfare groups in the area of his home in Austria knew Carl Peterson mainly for his generous contributions to their local events and charities. They in turn respected his desire, especially that of his wife and family, to be kept out of the public eye.
No one would ever have suspected that the benevolent gentleman living up at ‘The Chateaux’ [‘The Schloss’, if in Austria!] was in fact one of the most wanted men on the planet.
Carl’s parents, now deceased, would never have believed it either, especially as Mr and Mrs Carl Schwarz had wisely decreed that their only son should have the best possible internationally based education and so sent him to schools in Paris, London, the USA and eventually to Harvard, where he took his law degree.
His birth name was Wenceslas Schwarz, the forename abbreviated to Wim - pronounced Vim - a name the proud young Jewish boy cherished at home, being understandably more convenient than Wenceslas. Later at Harvard, however, the nickname ‘Vim’, the name of a famous western cleaning product, had different connotations, the ignominy of which still haunted him. Such interpretations as the ‘Polished Jew’ or ‘Scrubber Warts’ were frequently used, but only behind his back. Such an insult expressed within striking range would attract a vicious and violent attack. Consequently Vim, a big powerful young man with no sense of fair play, was feared and hated by most of his contemporise.
Although he gained some of the highest academic accolades he did not go on to practice law. Instead, he elected to enter the Diplomatic Corps where, largely through his rapidly developing skills in corruption and deceit, he flourished quickly.
Eventually he was unfortunate enough to be caught between the sheets with his boss’s wife and was ignominiously hounded out of the service.
Flushed with resentment, he vowed to punish the bigoted system, which had, in his opinion, so unfairly shattered his career. Thus the concept of the Syndicate was born.
