If The Bed Falls In Page 7
Considering he had been the nearest thing to a father for Joseph, after the death of his parents, it might appear to many that there was no real love between them, but that would be to misunderstand the type of person that populated the halls of British Intelligence. Emotion was a weakness, and Joseph’s natural rejection of it had made his recruitment inevitable under Simmons’ guidance.
“Where… are they now… Sherry and co?”
“I handled it. You have nothing to worry about,” Joseph intoned coldly, “My problem is that I don’t remember what I was working on. They gave me something… a drug. It’s left holes… gaps. I need you to fill me in… Tell me what’s going on.”
“Of course, old man, of course. Why did the CIA… grab you?”
“I was hoping you could tell me,” Joseph looked hard at Simmons.
“I’m afraid I have no idea, old boy… They grabbed you? What, forcibly?”
“Yes. For friends, they were very… unfriendly.”
Joseph searched the man’s face. If anyone knew what this was about, the head of British Intelligence should.
“So, you have no idea why the Americans would want to torture me?” Joseph asked.
Simmons shook his head blankly.
“No, Joseph,” he said, “They tortured you?… The Company?”
“They seem to think I know something… What do I know?”
“I don’t know what you know. Look, you need to come in; debrief… you know the routine when there’s a… unplanned detour.”
“Yes, of course,” Joseph said with an acquiescent nod.
Simmons half turned and removed one hand from his jacket to gesture.
“My car’s down here,” he said.
The two men started walking. The graveyard was bereft of people except for Simmons and Joseph, but as they turned a sharp left on the path, they almost fell over a man kneeling beside a headstone. Joseph smiled to himself as he noticed that the man’s hair was pulled back into a ponytail. And, as if that wasn’t pathetic enough, his hair was the colour of rusty wire-wool. The man apologised without looking up. He tugged at his upturned collar as if protecting himself from bitter winds. Simmons nodded towards Tilda’s grave.
“So, you bearing up okay?”
“Yeah,” replied Joseph almost inaudibly. The gravel crunched under their shoes. “What happened to my clean-up team?”
Simmons pushed his hands deeper into his pockets.
“We don’t know. They’re missing as well. The last report we had of you was that you had deleted Preston. Then… nothing.” He paused. “I assume you had a legitimate reason for that?”
“I did,” Joseph replied curtly.
“Deleting a Company operative is going to be hard to explain… to the CIA,” Simmons continued.
“He had a gun on me. I had no choice… Why would he consider me the enemy?”
“I don’t know.”
“What information did he think I had that would cause him to act like that?” Joseph asked. The older man simply shook his head. “What am I not remembering?”
Simmons’ driver had the back door of the Jaguar open as the men approached. Simmons stood aside, and with a kind hand on Joseph’s back, guided him into the vehicle. Halfway in Joseph stopped and looked back at his mentor.
“Simmons?…,” Joseph gently shook his head, trying to steer a memory through the labyrinth of his mind, as if the troubling thought was an unresponsive pinball, “does the ‘Spring’ mean anything to you?”
The hand, that was still on Joseph’s back, darted into a pin-striped pocket. Simmons shook his head vaguely.
“No… no, old man. Can’t say it does.”
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Chapter 9
Greg Thompson paid the black cab driver and walked through an ancient brick gateway into Lincoln’s Inn Fields. He moved around the perimeter of the large, grass covered quad, stopping at each doorway and looking carefully at the list of names posted on hand painted wooden plaques. He could never remember which of the many entrances led to Anna’s chambers, and this ritual of walking and looking had become his usual routine each time he visited. Thompson found the correct entrance and pressed the buzzer.
“Yes?” came a weary voice.
“Greg Thompson for Anna Jakes,” he said into the intercom.
“Is she expecting you, Sir?”
Although the voice referred to him as ‘sir’, the lack of grace behind it was very evident.
“Yes, she is,” Thompson replied tersely.
The door buzzed.
“Third floor,” the voice said, challengingly.
Thompson climbed the uneven stone staircase to Anna’s chambers. He breathed in the musty, almost church-like, aroma of the old building.
Living in London, Greg Thompson was used to being surrounded by extremely old architecture, but being here at the Inns of Court was always humbling. Thompson had been a fixture of England’s capital for a mere forty-one years, whereas these solid bricks had been here for nearly six hundred. ‘No contest’ thought Thompson.
He pushed the heavy wooden door open, and was presented with the cramped space of the barristers’ offices. The grand expanse of the exterior of the building gave no indication of the Lilliputian dimensions of its interior. It was like Dr Who’s Tardis in reverse.
“Mr Thompson?” whined the receptionist. Thompson nodded. “This way please… Sir.”
He followed the young lad to Anna Jakes’ office. The young man knocked bolshily on Anna’s door. Thompson turned to thank him, but the boy had disappeared, instantly. Thompson felt no disappointment at not being able to extend his gratitude.
“Come!” Anna’s voice came from within the room.
Thompson pushed the door open.
“Hi, Greg. Come on in,” Anna said cheerily.
“Hi,” Thompson replied as he entered, and took a chair on the visitors’ side of the barrister’s desk. The door closed behind him on its antique, mechanical butler spring.
Anna handed him a large, brown envelope.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“The Opinion… for your documentary.”
“Oh, yeah. Of course. Any problems?”
“Not really. A few years ago, a BBC docco about homosexuality would have been a minefield, but these days, my Opinion is really a formality.”
“Weird really,” Thompson commented.
“What’s weird?” asked Anna.
“That Auntie was so sensitive about homosexuality years ago. But back then it was almost a compulsory requirement to get into BBC management.”
“True, but it was also a criminal offence, well until nineteen sixty-seven, but even after that the subject remained a can of legal worms. What is done, what is legal, and what we are allowed to talk about are not always the same thing,” she said with a wry smile. “So what did you come in for if it wasn’t for the Opinion?”
“The Spring turned up,” Thompson intoned heavily. “I waited at the cemetery in case he visited his wife’s grave, as we all thought he might. Well, he turned up.”
“Right,” Anna chewed her lip, “Did you speak to him?… Where is he now?”
“I couldn’t talk to him. The Big Man turned up. They went off in a car together.”
“How did he seem?” Anna asked.
“Upset!” he responded, judgement bubbling in his throat, “How do you think he’d be… looking at the grave of the wife he’d just buried?”
“Of course… I mean… well… were there any clues as to where he’d been?”
Thompson shook his head blankly.
“I only saw him for a few minutes. What do you think?”
“We’ll have to have a meeting,” she said matter-of-factly.
“Without him? What’s the point of a meeting without the Spring?” Thompson fiddled with the large, brown envelope.
“Well, we’ve got to do something, and I think it best if we work out that ‘something’ together.”
“I don’t know. I don’t like the idea of deciding things without him,” he said.
Thompson absentmindedly started to fold the large envelope in half.
“But that’s the point. We need to work out what’s going on… what he’s up to. I don’t think we have a choice.” Anna grabbed the envelope from Thompson’s hands, and pointedly laid it on the desk. “Do you have a better idea?”
Thompson scratched his head through a thick tangle of red hair, then shook it slowly. He tentatively reached towards the desk. Anna jerked the envelope away.
“Well, do you?” Anna repeated.
Thompson shook his head again.
“Okay,” she said, “I’ll call Ezra and The Voice. You call Brass Tacks, and we’ll meet tomorrow at the usual place at one, okay?”
“I’ll call Brass Tacks, and we’ll meet at the usual place tomorrow at one,” Thompson confirmed.
“Good,” Anna said with a smile, handing the envelope back to Thompson.
The black Jaguar pulled off the south bank of the Thames, and headed down into the executive carpark beneath a towering, sand coloured building. The British Secret Intelligence Service HQ was not at all secret. The massive building was very beautiful architecturally, but not only did it announce itself cathedrally, it was also common public knowledge as to exactly what it housed. Although now officially called the Secret Intelligence Service or SIS, to Joseph it was still MI6. That name remained magical and reminded him of countless black and white films from the fifties and sixties, as well as the world’s favourite spy, James Bond. For a time, when he was first recruited to the service, he had insisted on carrying a Walther PPK, the small arm favoured by the fictional spy. The Arms Masters at MI6 were not happy with this choice. In fact, the semi-automatic had ceased production in nineteen ninety-two, ten years before Joseph had joined the service in two thousand and two. However, now that he was a matured assassin, Joseph’s side-arm of choice was the Beretta PX4 Storm.
Simmons and Joseph left the car and moved through multiple security points until they reached Simmons’ office on the ninth floor. Claude Maddison was already waiting in the office for them. He stood up as they entered, and shook hands with both of them. Maddison reclined on one of the two large sofas that were dwarfed by the cavernous proportions of the room, Simmons and Joseph took the other.
“Apparently,” Simmons said to Maddison, “Joseph was abducted… forcibly, by the Company.”
Maddison widened his eyes reactively, driving his eyebrows into his hairline.
“Forcibly?” Maddison echoed.
“Do you have any idea what this is about?” Simmons asked.
“No… none.” Maddison turned to Joseph, “I’m guessing you have no idea either?”
Joseph cleared his throat.
“I had to kill them, I’m afraid,” Joseph reported quietly.
“Dear god!” choked Maddison.
“You killed them?” Simmons reacted, “Joseph, Preston’s deletion is a difficult conversation to have, but multiple killings? That’s going to be a little hard to smooth over, old man.”
“They had my balls in a bolt-cutter,” explained Joseph.
“That’s a strange expression,” said Maddison, “American, is it?”
“No, Maddison. They actually had my balls… in a bolt-cutter.”
“Dear god!” Maddison exclaimed, taking a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbing at his forehead.
“How many?” asked Simmons, as if doing a simple accounting exercise.
“Four definite. Sherry… I can’t confirm. I stabbed her in the thigh with the bolt-cutters. I think I may have nicked an artery. She might well be dead.”
“Sherry?” interjected Maddison, “Sherry Goodman?” Joseph nodded. “Didn’t you have something with her… a while ago?”
“Yeah, we did… a while ago,” Joseph answered.
“Doesn’t that make it difficult to… kill a person… if you have had a relationship with them?” Maddison probed politely.
“Killing someone when it’s necessary is never difficult, but you’re right, it was… awkward.”
“No,” said Maddison, sitting forward on the sofa, “treading on someone’s toe is awkward. Accidentally letting a door close in someone’s face is awkward. Killing someone is definitely, considerably more than awkward!”
“You’ve obviously never worked in the field, have you?” Joseph mocked.
“I don’t have to work in the field to know that to have so little compassion about killing is… is…” Maddison struggled to find an adjective that would not overly provoke a professional killer.
“Psychopathic?” offered Joseph.
“Well,” Maddison responded, holding his hands out in front of himself, and sliding back onto the sofa, “it’s a harsh word, but… yes.”
“We do employ Joseph as an assassin,” Simmons reminded Maddison.
“To delete our enemies, yes,” Maddison leant forward, sliding to the front edge of the sofa, “not to wipe out five of our friends.”
“You’re forgetting Preston… that’s six,” interjected Simmons.
Maddison paused and shook his head.
“What the hell is going on?” Maddison’s voice rose by at least an octave. “First they abduct one of our operatives, then try to castrate him… what the hell is going on?”
“That’s what I need you to find out, Maddison. Please, have a word… find out what they’re up to.”
“Do I tell them about the… deletions?” asked Maddison.
“Probably best to avoid that for now, if possible,” suggested Simmons.
Maddison stood up.
“That could be problematic, considering that Sherry Goodman is the head of CIA operations,” Maddison said, the difficulty of his current task etched onto his face. “I’ll go and get started.”
He nodded at the two seated men, then moved towards the door.
“Oh, and Maddison,” said Simmons, “could you get one of your Level Six people to show Joseph up to the executive apartment?”
Maddison nodded again, but his mind had already left the room. He shook his head, deep in thought, and purposefully marched out of the office.
“So,” Simmons said slapping his hands onto his thighs and standing, “fancy a Scotch?” Joseph pushed his lips together in a rue smile, and shook his head. “Oh, yes, of course… sorry,” the older man apologised.
Simmons walked over to a drinks cabinet and picked up a bottle of whisky. He turned back to Joseph.
“Do you mind if I do?” he asked waving the bottle.
“Knock yourself out.”
Simmons returned to the sofa with a glass, and sat down.
“So, this memory thing? Is any of it coming back, yet?”
“Still pretty cloudy,” reported Joseph, “What was I working on?”
“Nothing actually. You were relieved of duties as soon as we found out about Tilda’s unfortunate car accident. You were at the funeral, then simply vanished,” explained Simmons. He sipped from his glass. “Can you add anything to that?”
“I can vaguely remember being at the funeral, then being at my house and feeling very confused, finding Preston there, killing him, then… waking up being interrogated by the CIA.”
“And…” Simmonds sipped again, “what’s all this Spring thing?”
“I don’t know… Are you sure I wasn’t working on something? I have memories of something… feels important.”
“Tell me anything you remember… anything at all,” Simmons said, encouragingly, “Doesn’t matter if it doesn’t make sense. Might mean something to me.”
“Sherry gave me something which kept me out cold for most of the time I was there. But while I was unconscious I had these strange… hallucinations.”
“Hallucinations?” Simmons echoed.
“Yes, I was someone called�
� Tom… I was a photographer, not involved with any of this at all,” Joseph motioned around the room with both hands, “But Tilda was there, and you, and Sherry, but you all had different names. My… troubled childhood was still there, though.”
“Troubled childhood?” Simmons questioned, looking up from another sip of whisky, “What troubled childhood?”
Joseph looked Simmons hard in the eye.
“My dad beating my mother to death? Me shooting him?… I was only seven!” Joseph held his hands up in ridiculing disbelief.
“What?” Simmons said, as if he was being told a joke in bad taste, “What are you talking about? You had a wonderful childhood. Until your parents were tragically killed in that plane crash… When you were… twenty-six.”
A knock came at the door, and a young man entered. Simmons looked up.
“Not now,” he shouted emphatically.
“Sorry, Sir,” the young man stammered, “but…”
“What part of ‘not now’ do you not understand?” Simmons demanded.
“There’s someone here from Level Six, Sir… for Mr Miller.”
“Well, tell them to wait,” Simmons bellowed.
The young man scurried away. Simmons turned to Joseph.
“A plane crash?” repeated Joseph.
“When you were twenty-six. That’s when you came to live with me.”
“Jesus, what the fuck did they give me?” Joseph shook his head vigorously and laughed ironically, “It all seemed so real.”
“Can you remember anything else?” probed Simmons.
Joseph suddenly jumped to his feet, as if an electric shock had just flashed through his brain.
“What is it?” Simmons asked, so shocked by the sudden movement that he accidentally spilt the last dregs of the Scotch onto the sofa. Ice slid off of the plush leather and rattled to the floor.
“Who,” Joseph asked Simmons slowly, “are the Bedfellows?”
Simon Morrison sat in a luxurious, dark blue leather chair. Everyone else at the Treasury had black leather chairs, but Morrison had insisted on blue; very dark blue; almost black. In front of him was a huge, highly polished desk on which was placed an impressive gold plated replica of a Colt 45 revolver, mounted on a mahogany stand.