Blackening Church (part 6)

Previously: Georgia Callahan and her team of spies were sent by their boss, the man called Uncle, to execute a Russian sleeper agent. Upon returning to the hotel, an assassin delivers a bottle of poisoned champagne. A gunfight ensues as the spies come to the incorrect conclusion that someone in the room has poisoned the fizz. After discovering that her girlfriend Alicia is a sleeper agent and witnessing the death of her two friends, Callahan falls asleep, to wake up the next morning with no memory. On her return, the man called Uncle sends her after a red herring to Strasbourg where she survives an attempt on her life and regains her memory. Organising a meeting with her assassin’s employer, Callahan finds herself waiting in church, a rendezvous point, wondering how the evening will end…

There was an eerie coldness in churches. In England, pretentious vicars try to combat this cold by the sheer will of denial- the application of shorts and sandals regardless of season doesn’t have the required effect and instead increases the assumed hostility radiating from such centres of pointless obedience and hopeless belief. The eerie coldness seems to seep into you, to infect you like some terrible disease. In this case, the only noticeable symptoms are a lack of surprise over the cobwebs clinging to the walls and an imposed reverence that made the sufferer wish to whisper regardless of their company.

Georgia Callahan buttoned up her black blazer and walked between the rows of pews until she reached the altar. It was a place of God, a place of holiness, but that kind of thing hadn’t bothered her since childhood. At the age of seven, Georgia had had the incredible realisation that religion was the worst thing to have ever happened to humanity. If something bad happened, it was humanity’s ridiculous mistake. If something good happened, it was the success of the Gods. If you wanted to be horrible, you could practise the will of the Gods and if you wanted to be nice, then that was the bare minimum that the Gods expected of you. Religion, to Georgia Callahan, was an excuse for humans to be put down and oppressed. Fate, destiny and the will of imaginary friends was a patchwork of your own decisions and the quicker you could accept that, the quicker you could actually achieve something with your existence. To Georgia Callahan, God wasn’t so much dead as having never existed in the first place.

Despite this, she said a quick prayer.

There was the tap of footsteps behind her. They echoed through the church like an ancient cavern. Her gun was in her hand between one echo and the next. She spun, the gun raised, the silencer fixed on the man in front of her.

“Hello Georgia.” Said the man called Uncle. “Fancy seeing you here.”

Georgia didn’t lower the gun. Her mind raced, connecting dots, making connections. “I assume you received my message which means you also sent the assassin to kill me. First in Compiegne and then in Strasbourg. Question. Why? The working theory was that it was to avenge Petrov but you sent me after him. So why? Why did you send the assassin to kill me?”

“The simple answer is, I didn’t.” His voice was scarred and crackled from years of smoking. In the light gleaming through the nearest stained glass window, his double chin looked larger than usual. His shadow was pompous and round, from many years of state dinners and Sunday roasts. “I didn’t send him to kill you. Didn’t you ask yourself why the poison in the champagne didn’t kill you? No? Too busy jumping to conclusions, Miss Callahan?”

“Why didn’t it kill me?” Georgia asked.

“Because it wasn’t meant to.” He stalked forwards a few steps, pointing to the row of seats to his side. “Take a pew. Literally.”

“I don’t want to.” Georgia said.

“I insist. My knees aren’t as good as they used to be.”

Georgia kept her gun trained on him. The two of them walked over towards the nearest pew, taking a seat. He turned to her, looking at her face as if he hadn’t seen it for years, then turned away, back towards the large dome in the roof. “It’s not a proper oculus, you know? It has to be a full circle to be an oculus. That just lets a little light through. An oculus lets in a full beam of light, as if we’re staring up at the Angels.”

“Or they’re staring down at us.” Georgia said. “Why wasn’t the poison meant to kill me?”

He sighed. “My father taught me golf. The serenity, the silence, I think it was a preferable option to him than actually engaging me. It was how I met the Home Secretary, in the same golf club, the one where a memorial picture of my father hung above the bar. It was where he spoke to me. The Lords’ Club. Where he told me he wanted Military Intelligence fixed. I took over, investigated and that was when I realised the truth. This country’s security is a shambles. I mean, it’s hardly surprising. Every secret we have is trusted with employed spies. And, obviously, some of them don’t work for us. I knew there were moles. I knew there were two. A little investigation revealed Petrov; he’d tried to hide it in plain sight but failed miserably. The other spy was harder to find. What method would you resort to?”

“A fake information trace.” Georgia said. “Different files for every possible suspect. Whichever one gets back to Mother Russia is the one which we deal with.”

“Except, the results produced a problem. Both your file and Alicia’s file made their way back to Russia where my own mole registered their appearance. I didn’t know which of you was the mole. My plan was simple. Get you to deal with Petrov and then invent a scenario where Alicia would have to leave the Situation Room. Once she was out in the field, you’d be drugged with the champagne, a new drug that not only knocks you unconscious but makes your recent memory a little hazy too- the boffins are proud- and then thrown into a mock Russian torture situation. All four of you would be interrogated for information by our ‘Russians’ and whichever of you blabbed to be a mole would be shot, before we released the others. Simple.”

Georgia looked at him and shook her head. “There’s a man who used to live down the road from me. A policeman. Twenty five years he walked the streets, a police constable. He was the cleverest man I ever knew, yet he was never promoted from the role of constable. I asked him once, in that blunt way that kids do, why he wasn’t a detective or an inspector. He taught me one of the most important lessons of my life. He said, only fools are promoted. That way they can’t do any harm.” She put out her hand. “Congratulations on your promotion.”

He looked at her hand and slowly, tentatively, raised his signet ringed hand. It wrapped around Georgia’s, shaking it. She gave him a harsh tug towards her, jabbing the tough metal of the barrel into his roast dinner swollen stomach. She pressed her lips up towards his ear, so close she could feel the bramble of his facial hair against her cold flesh. Her breath was hot inside his ear. “It’s a good job there’s no oculus in the floor. You wouldn’t want to see where you’re going.”

PFFT. PFFT. The gun jerked twice. The man called Uncle tumbled back, his eyes wide, blood pouring from his stomach. He tried to speak, tried to express his surprise, but he couldn’t. His jaw simply opened and closed like he was a goldfish's. Trying to stand, he tumbled backwards and hit the cold stone floor. His head bounced, the skull fracturing. It knocked him unconscious, despite the terrible wound in his gut. Georgia took his gun and threw it to the other side of the church. Then she marched down the aisle and out of the church. A black blazer over a white shirt, a gun with a silencer in one hand. The doors swung out as she kicked them. She crossed the pavement, past where she and Delon had sat with the laptop. Her Jaguar was parked across the road. She didn’t know where she’d go next. Maybe Switzerland. It was meant to be a neutral zone after all. She still had friends in the Service, or at least she thought she had. Maybe they could bail her out. It would depend, she supposed.

Of course, sometimes, running away was the best option. She remembered when she was little, halfway to Guilford, nothing more than a Duke of Edinburgh rucksack stolen from school, a rolled up copy of 2000AD and a can of Dandelion and Burdock to her name. The future had seemed wide, it had seemed like anything was possible. She could be a princess or a scientist, a composer or a knight. Instead she became a spy and look where that had got her.

It was at this exact moment that she was hit by a car.

It came out of nowhere. The sudden gleaming of light, the blackening church like a shadow in contrast, and then the most excruciating pain of her life. She was knocked a fair way, her gun clattering out of her hand. Her head bounced off the tarmac. “Crap.” The driver whispered into his phone. “I’ll have to call you back. Oh bloody hell.”

The door of the car flew open, the man called Uncle’s driver leapt out, running over to her. He reached her, pointed his gun at her and said, “Oh crap. You’re still alive.”

Georgia’s eyes were rolled so far back into her head, they were almost back out again. He kept his gun trained on her and ran back to the car. If Callahan was there, that meant the man called Uncle was dead. And if the man called Uncle was dead, it meant he was screwed.

He opened the car’s boot and pulled out a bottle of champagne. The last one; the boffin’s had only made three prototypes. He’d knock her out then put her in the boot before taking her back to Britain for trial. Or execution. He popped the cork and ran back around to the front. The glow of the headlights formed a circle of white in the centre of the road. And that circle was empty.

He heard the click of a loaded gun behind his head and then the soft press of metal against his bald spot. Georgia Callahan, slightly dazed, blood pouring down her head, said, “Road safety. I know they’re lax on using your phone in cars over here but that gives you no good reason to run me over.”

“Miss Callahan, you’re a traitor and a fraud-“

“No.” Georgia said. “I’m a spy. Now listen close, punk. Take a drink.”

The driver did nothing.

“You have no choice here. I have a gun pointed to your head. If you want to try anything funny, the insides of your head will become intimately acquainted with the pavement.” Georgia replied.

The driver sighed, knowing he was beaten. He raised his bottle and took a healthy gulp. In such a high concentration, the chemical must have been disgusting.

“Take another sip.” Georgia smiled. “I want you to have a headache in the morning.”

He did just that, gulping on it.

“Good.” Georgia said. “Now, get in the car. We’re taking a trip.”

The next morning, halfway down a motorway, the driver burst awake. He was sat in the passenger seat of his car, a woman with blonde hair and a bloody face driving. He felt cold metal in his hand and looked down, to see a Walther PPK with silencer. “What the hell’s going on?” He asked. “Who the hell are you?”

“The name’s Callahan. Georgia Callahan.” She smiled. “British Secret Service. You’re Jerome, aren’t you? Sector Chief of the Franco-German Office.”

“How… how do you know about the Franco-German Office?”

She’d found files in his boot. She hadn’t known that the weapon smuggling there was so much of a problem, but evidently its severity was enough to require a specific office. Compartmentalisation at its best. “I’m British Secret Service. Of course I know.” She lied. “Jerome, do you remember the case we were working on last night?”

“No.” He said. “My memory is hazy.”

“As I feared.” She said. Now for the big lie. “Uncle has been secretly aiding an International Arms Dealer. He sent Anton Petrov, the Russian mole, to retrieve specific files from extremist Catholic Father Jean Thomas in order to get the jump on the Dealer so that he could strike a better deal. When I and my team stumbled too close to the truth, he had them assassinated and an attempt made on my life. I fled to Strasbourg in an attempt to provoke him into revealing his true game, which he did by attempting to take my life himself.”

“Where do I come into this?”

“I explained my findings to you, believing you were at the right distance to be trusted, so he kidnapped you. I came to rescue you only to discover he’d drugged you with the poisoned champagne- the one that knocks people out and hazes their memory.”

“I remember it.” He nodded.

“Good.” She smiled. “You killed Uncle using the gun in your hand whilst I distracted him, then you dropped unconscious from the drugs. We’re on our way to London to explain the situation now.”

“You’re not looking very good for it.” He looked at the way her right arm was slung over her chest, indicating it was broken. It was a good job the car was an automatic. 

“It’s a dangerous life.” She shrugged despite the pain that must have caused her. “Now, it’s imperative that we tell the truth, the full truth and nothing but the truth to the people back in London. Nobody can argue with the truth, can they?”

“Do we have proof?”

“Yes.” She nodded. “I found Uncle’s laptop in the boot and it’s full of incriminating information. He wasn’t very tech savvy.”

Or rather, Lucas Delon was bloody brilliant at planting a fake trail on it.

“Right. I understand. Nothing but the truth.”

“Apart from in regard to your drugging.”

“What?”

She took her eyes off the road to look at him, but she was completely in control. It was as if the car was an extension of her body. “If the company discover you’ve experienced experimental, mind altering drugs, everything you say instantly becomes doubtful. It means your credibility will go straight out of the window. If we going to have any hope of saving our Service, you’re just going to have to emit those details from your report and support my story. It’s the only way.”

Jerome sighed for a second. It didn’t all add up but, then again, he’d been drugged. He couldn’t expect everything to make sense. He turned to her and said, “Run it all by me again.”

Georgia Callahan smiled. Piece of cake, or as the Russians said, “легко.”

Blackening Church (part 5)

Previously: Georgia Callahan has no memory of her team of British spies being murdered, and yet it is almost certain she was present. Given a chance to prove her innocence by her boss, the man called Uncle, Callahan travels to Strasbourg on the tail of Julian Gielgud, a prime suspect. It transpires that Gielgud was set up and murdered by the same assassin that tried to murder Callahan in her Strasbourg hotel room. As a local computer hacker attempts to gain her access to the assassin's computer, Callahan goes in search of the assassin's handler, sending a message to his employers to meet her at Saint Paul's church. Unknown to Callahan, the assassin's employer is her own, the man called Uncle. We rejoin the story as Callahan waits for him to arrive…

It was five to midnight. Georgia Callahan was sat on a bench outside Saint Paul’s church in Strasbourg with a cigarette on her lip. She thought over the events of the evening so far. Two attempts on her life, both failed, and here she was smoking outside a church. She supposed that was how this had all started, with her smoking outside a church, the company psychologist coming to talk to her. What had he shouted? I’m not the enemy. The words of a guilty man. She shook her head. No, it was a funeral. Everyone felt guilty.

She was on her third cigarette of the chain smoke when Lucas Delon turned up. A car was driving past, its headlights glaring against her eyes, so she was momentarily blinded. She told herself that was how he’d managed to sneak up on her. 

“I got it open.” He said. 

She reached out her hand to accept it.

He shook his head. “You promised me an extra fifty.”

She begrudgingly gave him the note, accepting the computer and flipping the lid open.

“What’re you looking for?” He asked. 

“I’ll know when I find it.” She opened My Documents, beginning to scroll through them. Then she realised Lucas Delon was still there. “Don’t you have feminists to troll?”

“Are you feminist?” He asked.

“I have common sense. I find that that’s mostly the same thing.”

“I’ll troll you then.” He smiled. “Who’d this laptop come from anyway?”

“A guy who tried to kill me earlier.” She said. 

“Didn’t succeed then?”

“Nope.” She replied. Her attention was directed towards the list of files. There were pictures of her team, pictures of Julian Gielgud, even pictures of her. Near to the bottom, the files became videos. The titles were a delicate code she couldn’t understand but the dates were all from the night of her team’s murders. She clicked on the first title. A video came up of the assassin walking from his car through the backdoor of the Compiegne hotel. She checked the time stamp and then opened the next video, fast forwarding it to that time. This video showed him walking through the kitchen in his Bellhop outfit. She followed his progress through the hotel, until he got to the lobby. Not because he stopped there but because there was another thing of interest.

Watching yourself do something you can’t remember doing is a wholly unnerving feeling. She had absolutely no recollection of entering the hotel that evening; all she could remember was driving into the town. After that it was a pool of empty blankness until she woke up the following morning with a banging headache and three dead friends. According to the video, she wandered into the lobby where Alicia was waiting for her. Oh, Alicia. She was so pretty, her hair short and black, her face so young. You couldn’t tell from her accent that she’d grown up in India but there was something about the way she carried herself, the way she acted that made Georgia believe it. 

According to the video, Georgia had run over to Alicia, shared a brief kiss with her and then the two of them had held hands as they’d walked across the lobby. It paused. Delon turned to Georgia, to ask her why she’d paused it, only to see a tear silently rolling down her face.

“Miss Callahan? Are you okay?” He asked.

“No.” Georgia said, staring at the frozen image of herself and Alicia crossing the lobby. “No, I’m not bloody okay. I’ve just remembered what happened next.”

The milky blank where her memories should have been was filled with the subtlety of an exploding rocket ship.

A week and two days ago. Centre of Compiegne. On the other side of a thriving lobby, this hotel wasn’t three stars, were two women. Georgia Callahan, still a smoking, alcoholic but one with a little more youth to her eyes, held hands with Alicia Mitra. The two of them spoke softly as they traversed the corridors.

“Don’t the others think it’s weird that you’re coming down to meet me?” Georgia said. “I mean, you wouldn’t normally.”

“They’re spies, Georgie.” Alicia smiled, squeezing her hand. “I bet they’ve known since the first time I stayed over. They probably have people who follow us around in our spare time.”

“Jesus, way to make me feel paranoid!” Georgia cried. “And less with the shouting that we’re spies. We’re secret agents for a reason.”

“Whatever you say, Mrs Bond.” Alicia laughed. No wonder she was excited. It was her first operation in the field. Normally she stayed back at their base in London running the Situation Room, covering every angle, but one night over dinner she’d told Georgia her wishes to go out into the field and so it had been arranged. A special favour from the man called Uncle; apparently he’d been considering it anyway. 

“Do you reckon the others would notice if I slipped into your room tonight?” Alicia whispered, leaning close. With a laugh, she added, “I could always climb out of my window, scramble across the balcony, and then sneak in through yours if that’d make you more comfortable.”

“You’re such an idiot.” Georgia smiled. 

Alicia pulled her tight and held her head in her hands. “You’re idiot, darling.” 

They kissed passionately. Although it felt as if they were locked together for an eternity, both women agreed it still wasn’t long enough. They continued the last few steps up to the room regardless, knowing that the others would be getting suspicious. 

Inside the hotel room, a cloud of cigarette smoke hung around a lampshade. Lexi was typing something into one computer whilst Jack was relaxing back into his armchair, a cigarette in one hand and a glass of Bourbon in the other. A phone and a laptop were next to him. “The wanderers return, hey?” He was Scottish, mid thirties and ginger. He also had freckles and a limp from his service in Iraq. As they constantly laughed about, there wasn’t much going for him. “Get lost on the way up, did you?”

“Something like that.” Georgia said. “Lexi, anything back from the clean-up teams?”

Lexi, a Polish computer expert, nodded. “All four bodies identified. Anton Petrov, confirmed dead on scene. Other three bodies belong to an assassin named Tulip, a mercenary named Bertrand and, get this, the Sunday School Serial Killer from Grimsby!”

“Jean Thomas really knew some lovely people, didn’t he?” Georgia said. “I got the files that Petrov had collected. They’re in the Jag. I’ll go get them later. Don’t want to be spilling champagne on them.”

“Hm.” Jack said, climbing up. “Will Alicia be going to get the files with you?”

Georgia could feel Alicia blushing from where she was placing Georgia’s gun back into the padlocked box on the other side of the room. “Just pour the bloody drinks will you, Jack?”

He grinned at Lexi and picked up a bottle of Bourbon from the minibar, filling a glass of ice with it. He passed the glass to Georgia and then poured two more glasses, one for Alicia and another Lexi. They all accepted their glasses and then, to a toast of, “To Petrov,” they downed the liquor.

“God.” Lexi winced. “I don’t know how you drink this dragon piss.”

“Years of headaches the morning after toughen you.” Georgia grinned. “Anyway, I thought I told you to open the fizz?”

“You can thank Jack for that one!” Lexi grinned.

Georgia turned, frowning. “Jack? Would you care to fill me in on the location of the champagne?”

“Aye, well, I don’t really think it’s important as such.”

“He forgot to pack it.” Alicia said.

“I bloody well wish you’d stayed in the control room, lassie!” Jack cried. He caught Georgia’s icy glare. “Look, I’m really sorry Georgia. I’ll go get some from the bar if you’d like me to.”

“Nah, it’s alright.” Georgia sighed. “We probably shouldn’t be celebrating this one. Petrov was a good man.”

“Aye, he was.” Jack nodded. “I mean, he was a blackhearted, treasonous, son of a gun and a lying, immoral, two faced traitor but he was a good man overall.”

“You know what I mean.” Georgia said. “We worked ops with him in the past, didn’t we?”

“Yes.” Lexi said. “I remember the case in Siberia. He came onto me twice. I nearly had to break his finger to stop him from trying it the third time.”

“And don’t forget the time he nearly blew the Berlin job so he could flirt with a waitress.” Alicia pointed out. “I enjoyed listening to that one fall apart.”

“Okay!” Georgia cried. “Maybe he wasn’t such a good man after all. But he did manage to deceive us all.”

“Just goes to show, you never can tell.” Alicia sighed.

“Isn’t that a song?” Jack grinned. “Anyway, I think what we need to take from this is the importance of honesty. Of making sure that everyone knows the full story constantly. Of making sure you’re not hiding anything from your team mates. Isn’t that right, Georgia?”

Georgia rolled her eyes. “How long have you known?”

“Since Alicia got the job in the situation room.” Lexi said. “We had a bet going.”

“Jesus! That’s real nice of you.” Alicia said. Then she began to frown. “Nothing was even going on when I got that promotion.”

“We know.” Lexi said. “The bet was how long Georgia would last before coming onto you.”

“I don’t know whether I should be offended or honoured you know me so well.” Georgia laughed. She put her arm around Alicia. “Okay, I suppose we can admit it then. It means you won’t have to sneak out by the balcony tonight, hey darling?”

“What?” Lexi laughed.

“Long story.” Alicia smiled. “We are very happy and very proud to announce we’re a cou-“

There was a knock on the door. Georgia rolled her eyes. “That’s just brilliant timing, isn’t it? Incredible timing.” She took her arm from around Alicia and wandered over towards the door, undoing the chain and pulling it open. There was a bellhop stood there, a trolley in front of him. At the time, she felt too loved up to think about how he looked too muscular for his costume. He pointed to the bottle of champagne on his trolley. “On the house, madame.” She didn’t register his British accent either.

“Fantastic.” She grinned, taking the bottle. “Give my complements to whoever is giving away free alcohol.”

The door swung shut, she redid the chain and then plodded over to the centre of the room. “Look at this! Free fizz!”

“God’s making up for your mistake, Jack.” Alicia grinned, patting him on the back. Georgia took the wire cage off the cork, unscrewed it ever so slightly and then forced it out. There was a loud bang and the cork flew halfway across the room. 

“Get some glasses, Jack.” Georgia grinned. Jack picked some off the shelf to the side and she filled all four with bubbling champagne. She put the bottle down, unfortunately there was no ice bucket, and took her glass up. “We need a toast.”

“We’re in France. They eat French Stick, not toast.” Jack grinned.

Alicia rolled her eyes and then held up her glass. “Love and friendship.”

Georgia smiled. “Love and friendship.”

“Love and friendship.” The other two cheered. 

They clashed their glasses together and then drained the champagne. For a second, they were all caught in the celebratory moment, drinking and laughing, smiling and thinking. Then Lexi frowned. “Somebody has poisoned the champagne.”

Jack spat the sip he was taking out. “What?”

“There’s something in the champagne. The aftertaste had a chemical flavour.”

Georgia frowned, sniffing her glass. “Crap.” She whispered. “There is.”

Jack said, turning towards the box of guns. “It must have been that bellhop. I’ll make him give us an antidote.”

“No. He has no motive.” Alicia said. “There’s no way he could know what our jobs are. They think we’re tourists.”

“Are you saying one of us must have poisoned it?” Lexi frowned. 

“I’m not saying anything. That just seems to be logical.”

“But who out of the four of us would want to poison the other three?” Georgia frowned. “We just toasted to friendship, for God’s sake!”

Alicia turned to Jack. “You forgot the champagne.”

“Aye, because I’m a bloody idiot, not because I wanted to murder you. You’re the one who went down to the lobby, and potentially the bar, alone, Alicia.”

“Yeah, so I could snog my girlfriend, not so I could poison champagne I didn’t know we’d need. Use your bloody brain!”

“Well, it couldn’t have been me.” Lexi said. “I haven’t been near the champagne once.”

“Then the only suspect left is Georgia.” Alicia said. “Baby, please. Please don’t tell me you poisoned it.”

Georgia could see the tears in her eyes. She wrapped her arms around Alicia, pulling her tight. “Why would I have poisoned it? If I wanted to kill you all, I could have done it walking into the hotel room when I still had a gun. Don’t be so silly.”

“Then the only solution is that the bellhop did it.” Jack said, continuing over to the gun box. “Just as I suspected.”

“What’re you going to do to him?”

“Make him giv- hang on. Georgia’s gun is missing.”

Georgia frowned. “I gave it to Alicia to put it away, didn’t I, sweet?”

“I’m sorry.” Alicia said. She pulled the gun from her pocket. “I got distracted.”

“You poisoned the champagne, didn’t you?” Jack said. He drew his own gun from the box and pointed it at her. “You poisoned us!”

“Calm down.” Georgia said. “Why would Alicia want to poison us? What motive would she have?”

“Why would she not put the gun away?” Jack asked. “It’s instinct! Muscle memory!”

"She's never been out in the field before!" Georgia cried. "She has no muscle memory!"
“C’mon, Georgia.” Lexi said. “Don’t you think it’s a bit odd?”

“She’s a Russian sleeper, you can tell.” Jack said. “Probably poisoning us in revenge for killing Petrov!”

“If I was poisoning you, why would I have drunk the bloody poison, you idiot?” Alicia cried.

“You didn’t deny being a sleeper agent.” Georgia said.

“What?” Alicia replied, frowning.

“You said you didn’t poison us but you never said you weren’t a sleeper agent for the Russians.”

Jack raised his gun a little higher.

“I’m, I’m not a bloody sleeper agent!” Alicia cried. “Why would I be? Why would I betray you guys to the Russians? Georgia, I love you!”

“Those words could just be a desperate plea.” Georgia said, tears rolling. “Prove to me that you’re not a sleeper.”

Alicia reached out with her empty hand and took hold of Georgia’s own. She squeezed it. “I promise I’m not a sleeper agent.”

“Georgia, you can’t be buying this crap.” Jack cried.

“I am, and if you’ve got a problem with it, I’m more than happy to argue it out. No? Good.” Georgia turned to Lexi. “Send a message to Uncle. Tell him we have a leak somewhere.”

“NO!” Alicia cried. 

“I bloody told you.” Jack said, raising his gun again.

“Alicia? Do you have something to contribute?” Georgia asked.

“There’s no evidence there’s a leak.”

“Poison has been sent to our confidential hotel room following our execution of a Russian spy.” Georgia said. “We have plenty of evidence. Lexi, send the message.”

Lexi stalked across the room, over to the laptop from which she could send the message. That was when a bullet cut straight through her heart. She collapsed to the floor, her head bouncing off the keyboard as she fell to the floor.

A pool of blood was beginning to soak into the carpet as Alicia spun from Lexi to Jack, shooting him straight in the gut. He was knocked to the floor, breaking the table his laptop and phone were on, his head bouncing off the floor and then settling back. He blacked out.

Alicia turned, facing Georgia’s gun at her. “I’m sorry.”

Georgia stared, dumbfounded, tears rolling down her face. After what felt like an eternity, Georgia said three simple words. “Was it fake?”

“Yes.” Alicia said. “Everyone knows you take confidential files home. Command thought seduction would be the best to gain access to them.”

“How long?”

“What?”

“How bloody long have you been a spy?”

“Since before I was employed by the company. It’s why I got a job in the company.” Alicia replied. “I’m sorry.”

“And, the Soviets? Are they good paymasters?”

She shrugged. “They helped my parents. That’s payment enough.”

“And the poison? In revenge for Petrov?”

“The poison wasn’t me.” Alicia said. “I swear. I’m a sleeper agent, yes, but I’m not a killer.”

“Try telling that to Jack and Lexi.” Georgia said, tears rolling down her face. “You’re a murderer Alicia. You killed our friends.”

“That was… that was…”

“Business? Part of the job. That’s what I told myself about Petrov, about the people I killed but it isn’t. Murder can never be cold. To pull that trigger, to end a life, you’ve got to care. You’ve got to hate the person with every inch of your soul because if you don’t, if you take a life without true emotion, then there’s something bloody wrong with you. So listen to me, Alicia. As cold as the spying might be, as cold as the betrayal of everyone you know might be, that murder then is not.” Georgia crept forward, took hold of her gun and pulled it up, pressing it aginst her forehead. “Are you going to kill me, Alicia? Are you going to end my life? Because I know there isn’t that level of hatred, or fear, or misery in your eyes. I know that you’re not going to kill me. I know that deep down, deep, deep down, there is some remaining love in there for me. Because murder and seduction, they aren’t things you can just do. There’s emotion there.”

Slowly, she pulled down the gun, bringing her face towards Alicia’s. “Tell me you mean any of this, Alicia. Tell me.”

Alicia’s head exploded. A crimson spray coated Georgia’s face. She let out a brief scream, then turned slowly to the direction of the bullet. Alicia’s body slumped onto Georgia, pouring blood over her shirt and trousers. Georgia didn’t notice the warm liquid coating her legs. She was too busy staring at Jack.

He laughed, blood from his mouth joining the blood on his shirt. “You said you really needed to hate someone to kill them. Well, I just killed her.”

“Jesus, Jack.” Georgia whispered. She looked down at Alicia’s dead body, slowing bleeding over her, and stepped away. She picked up the gun and then began to crawl across the floor towards Jack. He was slumped against his armchair, blood oozing out of his gut wound. He looked in excruciating pain, but that was no surprise. Everyone knew a gut shot was the most painful wound there was.

“Always pictured working as a spy as a Bond movie, not a Tarantino flick.” He laughed, but his muscle movement caused excruciating pain to cut through him. Blood soaked his top more. A small tear ran down his face. “I’d make a joke about your relationship being a complete screw-up but I’m the dead one.”

“You’re not dead yet. I’ll get a doctor.”

“There isn't a doc in the world who can save me, Georgia.” Jack smiled a sad smile, extenuated by the paleness of his face. “You patch this wound up, I’m still going to die of poisoning or you forget about that all of sudden? Nah, I dinnae think so. Anyway, even if I survive the poison, I’m still gonna be on tubes for the rest of my days. I don’t quite want that, Georgia.” He reached out and took her gun, raising it up. “So, what do you think? Fancy putting an old wretch out of his misery?”

“No. Nobody else is dying tonight. Nobody.”

Jack grinned but it thinly masked the pain. “We’re all going to be dead by the end of this. Please don’t make my death any more painful than it has to be.”

Georgia looked at him and decided he was right. She owed it him. She picked up her gun, held the barrel to his forehead and said, “Are you sure?”

His hands reached up, his fingers slipping over hers. He nodded. “Do it. Now.”

“Get a Bourbon in at the bar in Heaven.” Georgia smiled.

“Double on the rocks.” He smiled back. Then he pushed on her finger which pushed on the trigger. BANG.

Georgia clambered away from the dead body, accidentally stumbling onto one of Alicia’s fingers as if what remained of her was surrendering to the floor. Jumping away from that body, Georgia found Lexi’s, bleeding out over a fallen computer. She cursed and then wandered over to the nearest hotel room. She took a few sips of Bourbon and then wandered into her bedroom. Despite the blood covering her, she lay down on the fresh new sheets and closed her eyes.

The next thing she knew, she was waking up with no memory of the night before and her gun in her hand.

Now. The glare of another car’s headlights. Delon looked at Georgia. “Miss Callahan, are you okay?”

She smudged the tears from beneath her eyes and checked her watch. Twenty five minutes past midnight. She pulled her gun out and prepared it. “Lucas, get the hell out of here. It’s going to get bloody. I’ve got a date with the Lord.”

A car disguised like a taxi pulled to a stop behind the church. “Wait.” The man called Uncle said, looking at his watch. “Let’s watch for five minutes. See if anyone comes in or out.”

He slipped another magazine into his gun and pulled back the slide barrel. If Callahan was still alive, he’d shortly fix it.

Blackening Church (part 4)

Previously: Georgia Callahan has no memory of her team of British spies being murdered, and yet it is almost certain she was present. Given a chance to prove her innocence by her boss, the man called Uncle, Callahan travels to Strasbourg on the tail of Julian Gielgud, a prime suspect. As she relaxes in her Strasbourg hotel room, an assassin attempts to kill her. She manages to kill him first but not before learning the man who has put a price on her head is known as 'the Lord.' We rejoin the story as Callahan recovers from the fight...

Georgia stepped back into hotel room, took off her shirt and grabbed a towel from beneath the fallen bathroom door. She dried herself down, realising that smashing her head against that towel had caused a bleed and stepped over to the First Aid kit on the side of the bureau. She put a few plasters onto the cut, wiped away the blood running down the back of neck, and pulled her other shirt on. She picked up her gun from the floor, stepped out into the corridor and swung the gun left and right, sweeping across every doorway as she made her way to the reception. The girl was nowhere to be seen, but the door behind the bar was open, letting in a chilled breeze. She wandered over to it and poked her head out. There was a splash of blood against the large plastic bin at the back of the hotel. Pulling open the lid revealed the girl’s dead body lying on the rubbish, a bullet hole in her cheek.

Georgia slipped the gun away, took a bottle of whiskey from behind the bar and walked back to her hotel room, stepping inside and putting her bloody shirt on. She lay the gun and the whiskey on the bed and stepped into the bathroom, taking another complementary towel and using it to tie up the burst water pipe. The cold spray stopped and the room seemed to become calmer. She took her purple coat from where it was still miraculously hanging and carried it out, hanging it on the room’s door. Then she took a deep breath, before stepping back into the bathroom.

Clambering onto the dead body, she patted his pockets down. There was a flip phone in his back pocket, so she pocketed that and then continued to search him. A pair of car keys and a wallet were her only other finds. She stood up, tore down the shower curtain and covered the body with it. Then she stepped over to the sink and washed her hands of blood. Having dried her hand on the final towel in the bathroom, she dried the sink then emptied the assassin’s possessions into it. The car keys were for an Opel of some sort, she recognised the badge, and there was nothing in the wallet except for a dry cleaning ticket. She picked up the phone and opened the most recent text; her passport picture and a caption reading, “Georgia Callahan. British Operative. Alive if possible. Suicide if not.” She looked over to the body slowly turning the shower curtain red and smiled a grim smile.

“Done,” she said as she typed, her fingers too big for the tiny keys. She noticed she’d written, ‘Dobe,’ rather than, ‘Done,’ so she corrected her mistake and hit send. There were no other text messages; he must have deleted them after having finished the job. Slipping the mobile, the dry cleaning ticket and the car keys into her pocket, she went to fetch the bottle of whiskey. Her eyes happened to glance the clock which said it’d been five minutes since the assassin had turned up. The police hadn't turned up yet, so she still had time.

Georgia put the contents of her pocket into her bag and stripped off, bundling her clothes into the metal bin in the corner of the room. There was a complementary newspaper on the top of the bureau, so she tore a few pages of that out, screwed them up and threw them into the bin too. Then she sloshed it with whiskey, carried the bin into the bathroom and placed it onto the bathtub’s floor, between the assassin’s legs. She lit herself a cigarette, hung it on her lip and then filled up the sink with hot water, washing the dried blood from beneath her finger nails and in her joints. The back of her head screamed with agony as she took off her plasters, which had turned crimson with spilt blood, but she ignored it, throwing the plasters into the bin and taking some cotton wool from the First Aid kit. Her teeth clenched , her face grimacing, as she pressed the cotton wool, after dousing it in whiskey, to the back of her head. “Crap.” She whispered, staring at herself in the mirror. She was getting too old for this.

Once she was sure the wound was sterilised, she took a scalpel and some surgical thread. Peering over her shoulder into the mirror wasn’t exactly NHS standard medical care but she managed it, no matter how much pain it caused her. She once more washed her hands of blood, using the water to pull crumbs of dried crimson out of her hair. Taking one final drag on her cigarette, she threw it onto the alcohol doused bin. It began to burn.

She walked out of the bathroom, taking the bottle with her, and poured herself a glass of whiskey. She drunk it all in one sip and so she poured herself another, which again she consumed as quickly. Once her nerves were settled, she pulled on her other pair of trousers and her other shirt and stepped over to the door where her jacket was drying. It was still quite damp, so she left it where it was and pulled on her black suit jacket. It was the same one she’d worn whilst shooting Anton Petrov. And probably whilst my team died. The milky darkness that existed where her memories of that evening should have been made her shiver. It was as if some God had taken control of her brain, messing with it as they wanted. She wondered if they’d changed anything else.

She slipped her gun into her inside pocket, put the phone, keys and dry cleaning ticket into another pocket and then hurried out of her hotel room, down the stairs and through the bar. She walked past the bin holding the dead body of the receptionist and over to the Opel parked next to it. It answered to the click of the keys and so she walked round to the boot. It was an Opel Ascona, known to the British as the Vauxhall Cavalier, and that meant that the empty boot wasn’t what it seemed. She pulled up the floor, revealing the assassin’s hidden cache. There were two handguns, surplus ammunition, cable ties, masking tape and a laptop. She took the laptop round to the driver’s seat, climbing in and turning it on. Whilst it whirred and loaded, she slipped open the glovebox and looked inside. There was a bulb repair kit, a driver’s manual and a logbook. That was about it. The driver’s side map pocket held a half empty packet of Mento’s and a half dozen toll road tickets. She checked them over. They seemed to paint an image of a drive from Calais to Compiegne last week and then, the night after, a drive from Compiegne to Strasbourg. The same route as Julian Gielgud had taken.

The computer loaded to the login page. She tried the obvious passwords, ‘computer’, ‘1234567’, and ‘password’ but none of them worked. Sighing, she closed the computer and climbed out of the car. She needed a friendly computer expert. Good job she knew one.

Lucas Delon was still sat in the Internet cafe when she reached it. He was watching something unsavoury on his computer but he closed that tab as soon as he realised he had company. “Miss Callahan,” he smiled, “nice to see you again. Need a higher score on Pacman?”

Georgia smiled at him patronisingly before passing him the laptop and the phone. “I need all the deleted texts returned to the phone and I need the computer unlocked.”

“You steal these?”

“I inherited them.” She replied, wandering over to the kitchen. “Do you think the lady would mind if I had a cup of coffee?”

“Don’t expect so. The cow will be glad someone actually drinks that crap.” Delon replied. He plugged the laptop into his desktop computer and, whilst he waited for Windows XP to notice the connection, he turned to the phone. He clicked about four buttons and then handed it back to her.

Georgia took a seat opposite him, a cup of coffee on the table in front of her and a cigarette already in her hand. “Easy as that?” She asked.

“Easy as that.” He nodded. “This model has a backup system.”

She checked the texts. There were only three other texts. One was the address of the hotel she’d stayed at in Compiegne, another was a room number. The final text was the picture of Gielgud that the man called Uncle had shown her, probably from his Driver’s Licence or passport. It was accompanied by the caption, ‘Julian Gielgud. Bellhop. Make look guilty.” The replying text, sent by the assassin, was the word, ‘sunflower.’

She slipped the phone away and took a sip on her coffee. “How long will that take?”

“About three hours. Depends on how new this laptop is and how antiquated my software is in comparison.” Delon replied. “If you’ve got other things to do, I’ll come meet you when it’s ready.”

“That’d be appreciated.” She replied, checking her watch. “It’s nine now so say, midnight? There’s a church on the river-“

“There are a hell of a lot of churches in Strasbourg. You’ll have to be more specific.”

“I think it’s Saint Paul’s.”

He nodded. “Two spires?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll meet you there at midnight with your computer freshly hacked. I’ll have to charge you.”

“How much?”

“Call it a hundred.”

She gave him fifty. “You can have the rest at St Paul’s. I’ll see you then.”

“Where are you off to?”

“The morgue.” She said. “I’ve got a date with a corpse.”

The guard sat in the morgue’s lobby was at first reluctant to let her in but a fifty euro note changed his mind and she was able to prowl amongst the bodies in no time. Julian Gielgud’s corpse was being kept in the section of the freezers for unidentified corpses. There was a file in a pocket on his door which stated he’d been fished out of the river and that his Post Mortem was pencilled in for the next day. Preliminaries reported that the cause of death was drowning. Despite this, she had her suspicions. She pulled open the door and wheeled out the body. Delon was right; the head had been shaved. It was still recognisably Gielgud. He had the horrible smell about him that corpses generally do. That was partially why she’d lit the fire in the bathtub; so the smell of smoke would outdo the scent of corpse.

Bending over towards the body, Georgia pulled his mouth open and took a deep inhale. The smell was obvious; Gielgud had been poisoned with something that smelled like bitter almonds. Cyanide. She was willing to bet that the poison on the assassin’s trolley had been cyanide too.

She pushed the body back into the freezer, locked the door, returned the file and began the walk back to the assassin’s car. The assassin had been ordered to kill her team and then frame Julian Gielgud before throwing him in the river to fake his suicide. Then there had been the order to finish his original job and kill her. The orders had been coming from ‘the Lord’, whoever the hell that was. She decided that the answers to all her questions would lie with that man and that meant finding him. Her next move was a hunch but successes had come from less.

She gave the guard another twenty to wipe the security footage and then hopped into the assassin’s car. It wasn’t quite her Jaguar Roadster but she could hardly be driving that, considering she was meant to be dead. She pulled out the assassin’s wallet and checked the dry cleaning ticket. The address was printed at the top. She accelerated away, quickly.

The Dry Cleaners was open, which was strange considering the time of night. She parked the car a block away and walked the rest of the way, smoking to calm her nerves. She squashed the cigarette beneath the heel of her shoe and then pushed open the dry cleaners’ door. There was a chime as it swung open and so she walked in, over to the counter. A woman with short black hair stared back at her. In French, she asked if she could help.

Georgia replied in English. “I want to collect some washing.”

“Do you have a ticket?”

Georgia handed over the ticket from the wallet. The woman looked it up and down, glanced nervously over her shoulder and said, “I’ll just go get your item.”

She wandered into the backroom, disappearing for a second. Georgia heard her picking up a phone, typing a number and then hitting ring. Whoever she was calling picked up straight away. They conversed in rapid French for a second and then the woman put the phone down. That was when Georgia heard the cocking of a revolver. “Bloody hell.” She whispered and whipped out her own gun, shooting the woman’s shoulder.

As the owner of the Dry Cleaners fell to the floor, Georgia hurried around the counter and into the backroom. There were three computers, a fax machine, a printer and a dozen telephones. One wall was covered in clocks for different timezones. Georgia put the gun in the woman’s face and said, “Tell me everything. Right now.”

“They will kill me if I do!” She cried. Her accent seemed to intensify with her discomfort.

“Who will? Who will kill you?”

“My employers.” The woman said.

“Who are your employers?” When the woman didn’t reply, Georgia slapped her with the gun and demanded an answer. “Who are your damn employers?”

Still, there was no response. The woman seemed too transfixed with terror to be able to reply. Georgia sighed and stood, sliding her gun away. Kicking the woman’s revolver out of reach, she stepped over to the nearest computer and turned it on. No password this time, but there was an open dialogue box. The most recent message that been sent was signed L- for Lord?- and read in French, ‘Supply asset with necessary capture gear. Target is to be held until she divulges information.’

Frowning, Georgia took the gun from her pocket and looked down at the woman on the floor, applying pressure to her shoulder wound. “You have one last chance to tell me who your employers are.”

“I don’t know!” She screamed. 

“Shame.” Georgia said and shot her. She stepped back towards the computer and typed, ‘Complications. Meet at St Paul’s church. Half midnight. Come alone.’ 

Then she flipped the Ouvert sign to Fermé and walked back to her car. She had two hours until she was due to meet Delon but it would do to get there first, to have a chance to prepare. She didn’t want anything left to chance. This time, she was going to walk in and out in complete control.

London. Military Intelligence building. A soft knock on the door. “Come in!” Hailed a voice damaged from too many years of smoking.

The door swung open. Becky, a new technician, stuck her head in. “Uncle, we have a bit of a situation.”

The man called Uncle frowned as he looked up form the piece of paper he was reading. “What the hell is it?”

“Callahan, sir. We’re not quite sure what’s happened with her.”

“You said that the asset texted to say the job was done.”

“Well, yes, sir.” The technician said. She’d said they should tell the man called Uncle the truth but the duty officer had insisted they just told him Callahan was dead. “You see, the asset texted back ‘Done’ which implies the job is done but breaks with protocol. Normally assets text ‘sunflower’ when a job is completed.”

“Is that so, hm?” The man called Uncle pondered. “The fool is probably just a bit giddy. Probably enjoys killing women, French wretch.”

“The asset was British, sir. And that isn’t it. About five minutes ago we had a call from a French handler reporting that Callahan had wandered into the Dry Cleaners safe house in Strasbourg. She was apparently carrying the ticket given to the asset.”

“And?"

“And we ordered the handler to kill Callahan but since then, we’ve had radio silence. Except for one text transmission.”

“Reading?”

“Reading, ‘Complications. Meet at St Paul’s church. Half midnight. Come alone.’ In English.”

The man called Uncle glanced at his wall, heavily sighing. “Want a job done, do it your bloody self. Ready the plane. I’ll fly over immediately. And get me a gun.”

Blackening Church (part 3)

Previously: After a routine operation to take out a Russian mole, Georgia Callahan's team of British spies were assassinated in front of her. Despite this, she has no memory of the occurrence. After the funeral, she drunkenly beats up a group of lads and is arrested for her troubles. Whilst in prison, she is visited by the man called Uncle, the head of her branch of Military Intelligence. He gives her a chance for redemption by sending her after Julian Gielgud, a suspect in the murder investigation who fled to Strasbourg shortly after the murder took place. We pick up the story as Callahan arrives in France...

The Jaguar let out a healthy purr as Georgia pulled to a stop in the outskirts of Strasbourg. In the far distance, the city’s cathedral loomed up from the square it was situated in like a cliff of pure shadow. The buildings clustered around it were confused, some in the dress code of medieval Italy, others looking like they’d come straight from Bavaria. The part of the city that Georgia was in, overhanging the river in the glare of light reflected from the European Parliament, seemed to favour the architectural style of early twentieth century America. She didn’t have any complaints; having grown up in a terraced house in Accrington, she found it all rather beautiful.

The hotel was marked by a large neon sign declaring its business. A small sign on the door mentioned it had only received three stars. She’d stayed in better but she’d also stayed in worse. Life was one hotel after another when you were a spy.

Inside was a brief reception. The woman behind the counter spoke good English, handing over Georgia’s room key and explaining the bar was just through the doors at the back. Georgia thanked her and went up the stairs to her room, unlocking the door and placing her bag on the table. She locked the door, slid the chain into the place and then began to unpack.

Hotel rooms don’t have cameras. This isn’t a particularly surprising truth but it was an important one. It meant that you could do whatever the hell you wanted and nobody would know. Georgia opened her bag and took her gun out, studying it to make sure there was no damage. She gave it a wipe down with her cloth and then stored it in one of the bureau’s drawers. She then quickly hung a dress in the wardrobe next to a clean shirt and an extra pair of trousers before stashing the suitcase on top of the wardrobe and checking herself in a mirror. She picked up her jacket, a purple great coat that wasn’t overtly practical but would keep her warm against the cold outside, and pulled it on. The splash of rain grew louder as she buttoned it so she grabbed her umbrella and carried it quickly downstairs.

“Out already, Miss Callahan?” The girl behind the reception asked.

Georgia nodded, smiling at her and continuing out into the streets of Strasbourg. The umbrella was black, quickly extending and protecting her from the worst of the downpour. Around her neck hung a velvet scarf  and she reached up a hand to straighten it as she walked. There was a tough wind that played with her umbrella and her blonde curls. She was beginning to regret not driving.

The police station loomed up soon enough and she walked in, shaking off her brolly and sliding it into a box by the door. The desk sergeant looked up immediately and frowned. She looked as if she should be attending a mobster’s funeral, not gracing the lobby of a police station. He said something in French to her.

She replied in English. “The name’s Callahan. I’m looking for a missing person.”

“Name?” He asked, switching languages effortlessly.

“Julian Gielgud.” She said. “Mid twenties. Carrot top.”

The desk sergeant frowned.

“He’s ginger. He should have washed up just under a week ago. Hails from Compiegne.”

“We haven’t had any requests for anyone of that name. I can add him to the register, if you’d like.”

“I’d appreciate that dearly.” She replied. “If I give you my phone number, would you mind calling me should you hear anything?”

“Yes of course. Why are you looking for him?” The sergeant's eyes drifted up from his keyboard.

“He killed some of my friends.” She smiled and strutted out of the station. Her umbrella opening back up again, she set off in the direction of the underground. 

Georgia found a bridge crossing the river towards a C&A. There was a drunk on the bridge failing to direct the traffic but he wasn’t as interesting as the people beneath it. She plundered down some rain drenched steps and joined the group of hooded youths smoking weed in the rain protected shadows beneath the arch. One of them whistled when he saw her. She smiled at him and broke his nose with her umbrella.

“Any of the rest of you try something funny, you’ll receive much worse.” She said. “I’m looking for someone off grid. Who should I talk to?”

The hooded youths continued to stare at her.

She sighed. Maybe breaking the lad’s nose had been a little too strong. She pulled a cigarette from her pocket, let one of them light it for her, and took a deep drag. “Ginger guy. Mid twenties. You seen him?”

When they didn’t answer this time, she repeated it in French. This seem to snap the teenagers out of their trance. “You should try Lucas Delon.” One of them said. “He knows everyone.”

They told her where she could find Delon. She thanked them, finished her cigarette, and then flicked it into the canal before flicking her umbrella back up and marching on.

Lucas Delon could be found in a shady internet cafe so far into the back streets, it was almost out of Strasbourg. The Spice Girls played on a radio from the early two thousands and computers running Windows XP brought up the temperature of the room by about ten degrees. A Chinese woman behind the counter offered her a cup of coffee but Georgia ignored her, instead stepping over towards the only other occupant of the claustrophobic space.

Lucas Delon sat in front of one of the computers, staring at an email opening page. He was wearing a grey hoodie which Georgia pulled down with the tip of her umbrella. He turned around, pulling white earphones out. “What the hell do you want?”

She frowned. He was the first person that day to have greeted her in English.

“What?” Despite his English words, the French accent was strong. “You might as well be wearing a Union Jack in those clothes. You scream British.”

“It’s only called the Union Jack if it’s on a boat.” She replied.

“I know that, you know that. The general public doesn’t. I don’t wish to alienate them just because they’re stupid.”

“You don’t want to alienate people, you say, sat in an empty internet cafe with more grime on the windows than the average abandoned building.”

“That’s only because of the average abandoned building’s windows are smashed out. What do you want? I’m busy here.”

“You look like you’re buried head deep in work, aye.” Georgia said. “I’m looking for someone. Ginger. Mid twenties. Goes by the name of Julian Gielgud. Went off grid here about a week or so ago. Heard of him?”

“Got a picture?” Delon asked.

She reached into her pocket and gave him the hasty print out the man called Uncle had given her. Evidently this guy was a professional; he was the first person to have asked for a picture too. He studied the image for a second and then handed it back to her. “Yeah. I’ve seen him.”

“Where?”

“Morgue. Police fished him out of the river two days back.”

“They didn’t mention that when I spoke to them.”

“That’s because he had his head shaved. Your average uniformed grunt can’t look at a bald guy and a hairy guy and realise they’re the same person, but I can. I promise you, Gielgud is dead.”

“Which morgue?”

He wrote her the address on a sticky note. “That’ll be twenty euros.”

She flipped him a note. “Don’t spend it all on sweets like you youngsters are prone.”

“Funny.” He said in a voice that illustrated it wasn’t. “I didn’t catch your name?”

“Callahan.” She said. “Georgia Callahan.”

“Well, Miss Callahan, anything else I can do for you? I don’t just sit at a computer, you know. I can use one.”

“When I want a higher score on Pacman, I’ll come find you.” She said, and walked out.

The downpour had died down to a light drizzle, but such a drizzle was just as apt to soak her clothes and so she kept her umbrella up. Her flat shoes delivered her through the streets as she thought. There were a few workable possibilities. One was that Gielgud had thrown himself into the river shortly after arriving out of guilt. It was possible he’d shaved his head to avoid detection then realised he didn’t want to. She didn’t know how much she believed it but it was possible. Another option was that whoever had sanctioned the murder had killed Gielgud on arrival to tie off loose ends. The final possibility was that someone was framing Gielgud and that this murder was to stop him from being able to convince her he was innocent. Whichever way it was, she’d be able to tell better once she’d seen the body.

There was a school of thought that said you could buy your way anywhere you wanted to go but Georgia didn’t subscribe to it. Her school of thought was that, seeing as she was the good guy, she might as well try to act like it, and if that meant booking a ticket to the morgue for the morning so be it. She could enjoy the the wonderful weather whilst she passed the time.

She got back to the hotel and shook off her umbrella, stepping inside and peeling off her drowned jacket. The rain had begun to move diagonally towards the end of the trip so her umbrella had been unable to protect her complete. The same young woman was still on reception duty. She had dark brown hair and a lovely French twang to her English words. 

“Miss Callahan,” she said, “are you quite alright? You look drowned.”

“Nothing a towel and a stiff Bourbon won’t fix, I assure you.” Georgia smiled. “What time does the bar open?”

“When my shift ends in five minutes.” The young woman smiled.

“And I don’t suppose there are any other visitors to the hotel who you suspect will come down for a drink?”

“I don’t imagine so, Miss Callahan. You’re our only guest at this current moment.”

Georgia frowned for a second and then let a smile cross her lips. Alicia would understand, up there. She’d probably have done the same. “Would you like to have a drink with me, then? I find drinking on my own wonderfully miserable.”

“I, well,” the receptionist looked genuinely surprised. “I would love to but my other job begins in five minutes.”

“The pay here not very good?”

“Not really. My other job is to man the bar.” She said with a smile.

Georgia let out a laugh. “Well then, I’ll get changed and see you in five minutes.”

The receptionist smiling, Georgia set off up the stairs towards her room. She walked in, chained the door, stepped into the small bathroom and hung her jacket over the bath. She was giving her hair a rub with the towel when there was a knock on the door.

“She’s eager.” Georgia frowned, wandering over to the door. She flicked the chain off and pulled the door open. A man in a Bell Hop uniform smiled at her. His red velvet uniform looked recently dry cleaned and his pillbox was straightened on his head. He had a trolley in front of him, hidden beneath a white linen cloth. It held a bottle of champagne and two glasses. 

“I didn’t order anything.” Georgia told him.

“On the house, madame.” The man in the Bell Hop uniform said. He looked far too muscular and tall for such a costume. His accent was British.

“Hm.” Georgia said. Then she caught a glimpse of the champagne brand. Frowning, she looked up at the man and saw he had realised what she had seen. He looked worried. She shoved the trolley into him, forcing him against the opposite wall, and then slammed the door shut. Before she could slid the chain into place, however, he had kicked it open and sent her stumbling back.

She scampered across the room as he reached to his side, drawing the gun concealed there. She reached out and took an empty coat hanger from the wardrobe, hitting him with the wooden side and then trying to dig the hook into his eye. He forgot about his gun for a second and tried to swat it away but she ducked under his swings and jumped behind him, hitting him from behind. The small hotel room was much better suited to a woman of her stature than a man of his and she intended to make use of the advantage. As he turned, she caught his ear with the hook of the coat hanger and pulled it forwards. His tragus tore clean off, blood running down the side of his face. She dropped the hanger and threw out three quick punches, her thumb on the underside of her index and middle fingers, her nails digging deep into his face. She felt one of his teeth moving but it was as she considered this that she lost her advantage. He hit her hard and, as she stumbled to the floor, he jumped on her and began to strangle her.

Amateur. He wasn’t even trying to restrain her arms! She picked them up and began to hit his ears, applying lots of force to the one that was bleeding. It took three punches, by which point her smoker’s lungs were burning, but eventually he let go of her neck. It was at this point she swung up her knee and hit him straight in the groin. He rolled backwards and she jumped up, kicking him in the face and running towards the bureau at the front of the room. She reached for the drawer containing her gun when she heard the clicked of a gun being loaded.

“Stop where you are.” The man said.

She paused. “Who sent you?”

“I've been ordered to make it look like you killed yourself.”

“Well, I can tell you something, mate. I won’t have shot myself through the back.”

“I have poison on my trolley. You'll drink it.”

“Or what?”

“Or I will blow your brains out from under your chin and make it look like you shot yourself.”

“That sounds pretty effective.” Georgia nodded. “Go fetch your poison then.”

“No funny moves. My trigger finger gets nervous.”

She shrugged her shoulders in a way that said, “Funny moves? Me? As if.”

As she backed across the room, she gave the drawer the smallest tug. It seemed quite loose. If she pulled it with enough force, she could probably manage it. She’d have to be quick though, otherwise her would be assassin wouldn’t give her the chance to complete her spin. She’d have to very quick.

“No funny mov-“ The man began. Georgia didn’t give him a chance to finish his repetition. She pulled back with all her strength, tearing the drawer from the bureau and swinging around. The wood connected with his gun, knocking it out of his hand and clattering towards the floor. She grabbed her own gun from the swinging drawer, kept in place by centrifugal force, and fired a shot straight into his shoulder. The Walther, with its black silencer protruding from the front like a Victorian factory’s chimney, let out a soft thud and a spray of red jumped from the man’s shoulder. She stuck the gun into her waistband whilst he tried to recover and ran forwards, swinging one leg up and kicking him with such force, he broke down the bathroom door. It fell against the bath and he rolled off it, leaving a bloody smear after him. She ran towards him, clambering over him, reaching towards her gun when he grabbed her legs and knocked her down. He tried to leap onto her, to start strangling her again, but she didn’t give him the chance. She kicked him straight in the face, dislodging another tooth, and rolled backwards across the floor. They leapt up together, facing each other. The only difference was that, as Georgia Callahan stared at her would be assassin, she had her gun pointed at him too.

He ran forwards. She fired but he was at too close a range, knocking the gun. The bullet flew over his shoulder and hit the pipes connecting to the shower head. Water began to spray everywhere; even over her drying purple jacket. She was a little preoccupied, however, to notice.

The man slammed her into the white tiled wall, bashing her against it so hard a tile cracked. She managed to duck a punch, so his fist smashed another tile whilst she hit him once more in the groin and then in the wound in his shoulder. He screamed and she used this chance to knock him back, dodging another punch before slamming his head in the sink until his nose broke. She brought her knee up to his stomach, smashing her hands onto his back in an attempt to weaken his spine. He tried to knock her away but she wouldn’t let him, bringing punch after punch to his back. When he finally began to weaken, she threw him back into the bath tub and grabbed her gun from the slippery floor. 

The water spraying both of them, she leapt into the bath tub and dropped the gun on his stomach. She used her legs to hold down his arms- because she wasn’t an amateur- and then grabbed hold of his head, smashing it over and over again into the space between the taps. He began to slip in and out of consciousness, blood oozing from the back of his head. She then grabbed her gun from his chest, water spraying over them both, pulled back the slide barrel and stick it against his forehead.

“Who sent you?” She demanded.

He shook his head. “I can’t say.”

She held the silencer against his ear and shot the tap. More water sprayed as he screamed. Her face didn't waver. “Answer my bloody question!”

“I can’t!”

She shot him in the other shoulder. “Tell me now!”

“The Lord!” He screamed. “That’s all I know! I was sent by the Lord!”

“Thank you.” Georgia said and then shot him through the head.

She climbed off the body, her shirt bloody and wet, clinging to her sweaty skin. She took a few deep breaths, trying to calm herself. Her hands were shaking. She dropped her gun onto the floor of the hotel room and wandered out into the corridor. The trolley was on the floor. She knelt down and picked up the fallen bottle, reading the name of the brand. She’d read it correctly. Champagne Compiegne. The address beneath was the hotel she’d stayed at just a week ago.

Blackening Church (part 2)

Previously: Anton Petrov, a Russian mole in the British Secret Service, was dealt with by Georgia Callahan, an honest British agent working with her fellow agents Jack, Alicia and Lexi. After finishing the job with a single shot, Callahan returned to their hotel to celebrate. We rejoin the story a week later…

London still got foggy. Not as much as it did when dear stalker attired detectives strode its streets but enough for it to be significant. There was a church in the fog, hidden behind black railings, and despite the efforts of its lone bell ringer, the funeral toll couldn’t be heard.

Her head bowed, her hands behind her back, Georgia Callahan followed the three coffins. A light drizzle rolled in, clear splashes of water cutting through the grey clouds, and bouncing against her blonde curls. There were only six of them at the funeral, counting the vicar, the gravedigger and the bell ringer.

That was the thing about spies’ funerals. They weren’t generally very busy. 

Georgia helped the gravedigger and the bell ringer unload the coffins from the carts, carrying them down to the centre of the church. It wasn’t a big place, St. Brigid’s Church, but it was a fitting burial place. She knew because she’d been there before.

Make that seven of them. The Undertaker, a short woman who had a name Georgia didn’t care about, accompanied the coffins and laid a Union Flag over each of them. Then she reached into her box and began to position the pictures.

Georgia took a seat on the front pew. There were two columns of twenty rows. She sat on the left column. The other two people that the church didn’t employ were sat on the first row of the right column. She didn’t look at them. Her eyes were fixed on the pictures atop the coffins. They stared at her with their monochrome happiness, their eyes so young, so unknowing. Jack. Lexi. Alicia. An extra tear ran down her face for the last of those names. She looked once more at the photographs, for as long as she could manage. Her team for so many years and now they were all dead.

The vicar stepped behind his podium. She held eye contact with the photographs for as long as she could and then stood, padding towards the doors at the rear. The vicar watched her leaving. The two gentlemen on the right column didn’t. They could hear the squelch of her shoes against the grey stone of the floor. They didn’t need to turn.

The bell rung again, its monotonous toll loud in Georgia’s ears. The old wooden doors creaked open and one of the two men from the front row walked to join her. He was much shorter than her, so she had a full view of his bald head. Or, at least, she would have if she’d turn to him. Instead, she continued to stare out at the open graves where her friends would be laid to rest, the rain beginning to turn the grass coloured fabric on either side an altogether darker shade of green.

“It doesn’t get easier.” The little man said. 

“You don’t have to tell me.” Georgia replied, taking a deep drag on her cigarette.

“I’m here if you want to talk.” When she didn’t reply for a few seconds, he added, “It must haunt you each time you close your eyes.”

Georgia turned to him. “It would if I could remember it.”

The cigarette tumbled to the ground, the embers disappearing in a splash of dirty water. She began to wander away, down the path that led to the fog obscured reaches of the Great Beyond.

“I’m just trying to help.” The little man shouted. “I’m not the enemy.”

Georgia didn’t turn back, continuing to walk. As she reached the black chipped railings, she shouted, “Neither am I.”

Whether the little man heard her, she didn’t know. The fog, like some ancient phantom traversing the halls of a long forgotten manor, had swept across the path and now he was gone.

The wooden door creaked again. The other man joined the little man. This newcomer was taller but also wider, fattened by years of golf club dinners and expensive wines. He readjusted the buttons of his bulging waistcoat. “What do you think?” He asked. His voice was gravelly. Old, but not in the sense that it had been around for a long time. Old in the sense that it had experienced a lot.

“She doesn’t believe she did it.” The little man said. “But then, I don’t suppose she would.”

“Shall we pull her in for an evaluation?”

“No. We can carry it out without her. Let her drown her own sorrows. She’s no use to us like this.” 

“Where do you expect her to go?”

“Her file gives me the best estimation, Uncle.” The little man said. “I’d assume from her regularity that she has a lot of sorrows to drown.”

A red glow oozed through the fog like blood through a carpet. Georgia Callahan strolled up the street, the collar of her black trench coat pulled up around her ears, her eyes fixed on the cobbled floor, her cigarette giving off its own little cloud. There was a bleak nip in the air, a morgue-like chill which bobbled her flesh and reddened her nose. The intense warmth of her cigarette, like her neck itself was on fire, was almost therapeutic. 

She stepped through the fog towards the red light, like the back of a dragon’s throat, deep inside a cave of shadows. The red neon sign hurt her eyes to look at so she didn’t bother reading it, instead taking hold of the metal handle beneath it and pulling open the door. It was warm and loud on the other side, a contrast to the quiet gelidity of outside. Dropping her cigarette, Georgia stepped in. The door slammed shut behind her. The metallic clang was like a butcher’s knife reaching the worktop on the other side of a chick's neck. 

A few steps led her down into a densely populated hall. There were strobe lights on the roof and seemingly a thousand bodies on the dance floor. The beat of the music, some Yorkshire rock from the early two thousands, radiated through the floor, through the bodies and then through her. She felt her heart pumping slightly faster. 

Georgia wrestled her way through the crowd, the lights flashing on and off as the clientele threw themselves up and down. The floor seemed to shake every time they hit the ground. Some punk splashed his beer on her. Georgia threw out her elbow into his groin. He doubled over in agony. She kept walking.

Eventually, she reached the bar. It was abandoned; the dance floor obscured the parade of steps that led down to the bar so not many of the spaced out kids had found their way down there yet. Georgia strolled over to the bar and took one of the stools.

“Well, I say,” the bar tender said from across the room. He was sat in the corner, his feet up on the table, a newspaper hiding his face. He folded the paper up, swung his legs off the table and strolled towards her. “Georgia Callahan. What’re you doing in Soho? Last I heard you were across the pond.”

Georgia turned to him. “Double bourbon. On the rocks.”

The bar tender frowned. “Something wrong, sweet? You don’t seem your normal perky self.”

“I’ve never seemed my normal perky self, cause I don’t have a normal perky self. If you must know, I’ve just been to a funeral.”

“Who’s funeral? Anyone I know?”

She shrugged and waited for her Double Bourbon.

He shovelled ice into a glass and then doused it in Bourbon, pushing it over the counter towards her. She picked it up and drained it in one. “Another.”

“Hey, you may want to take it a little slower. That’s some strong drink.”

“Another, Jimmy.”

He obliged her. “Your friends not coming with you then?”

She took a smaller sip. 

“Just, well, I don’t like bringing it up but Jack owes me some money.”

“You should have come to the funeral.”

“Why? Was it someone from work? Was he there?”

“He was in the box.” Georgia said. “And Alicia and Lexi each had their own.”

Jimmy frowned. A woman wandered down from the dance floor, stumbling on the last step and swaying over towards the bar. She opened her bag and began to do her lippy. The bar tender leaned closer towards Georgia. “You’re telling me all three of them are dead?”

“I identified the bodies.” Georgia said. There was something about her eyes that terrified Jimmy. Like she wasn’t even present, just a human body speaking its tale of woes, fuelled by alcohol and grief. “Alicia should have been the hardest to identify because of the damage to her face, but I could recognise her body so it was easy enough. Whoever shot Jack was kind to him; he’d been shot in the gut at first and then put out of his misery by another shot to his forehead. Lexi was pretty quick; a straight shot to her heart is a good way to go.”

“How were they killed?”

“You see, that’s confidential.” Georgia laughed, the type of laugh that accompanies deep cynicism and depression. “Make me another drink and I’ll tell you everything.”

Jimmy took up the whiskey bottle from under the bar and poured away. She smiled and took another long sip. Then she gestured for him to lean closer. About six lads had just walked into the bar and she didn’t want them hearing. Jimmy was different. He was paid to gossip, making him the most trusted person she knew. Gossipers almost never told the truth; why tell the truth when you could enhance it? It was the same as putting a message through an encoding device; it came out completely different to the one that went in.

“You want to know all about how they died? How the tragical story of my friends’ deaths went down?”

“If it’s not too much trouble, honey.” Jimmy said, leaning in further.

Georgia looked over each of her shoulders. No one to the left but seven people to her right. The six lads were messing with a pool table in the corner and the girl with the lipstick was still sat on a stool, squinting into the reflective material that backed the shelves behind the bar. She turned back to Jimmy. “The big secret is, I have absolutely no idea.”

“You what?”

“I haven’t the foggiest how they died.” She grinned. “Isn’t it hilarious? I, the big shot intelligence officer, don’t even know how her three best friends were slaughtered in her hotel room!”

“They died in your hotel room?” Jimmy frowned.

“That’s right. I was on the way back to my hotel to have a celebratory drink, we’d just caught this mole you see, and the next thing I knew, I was waking up on my bed covered in their blood, my gun in my hand, completely unharmed with the three of them around me, dead.”

“I’m not being funny, Georgia honey, but is there, you know, any chance you killed them?”

After several moments of silence, Georgia said, “My boss thought that too.”

“And? Was he right?”

“I wouldn’t kill my friends.”

The lads at the pool table began to slap one of their number on the back, urging him over to the bar.

“And you can’t remember anything at all?” Jimmy frowned. “Do you reckon it was trauma induced amnesia?”

“You’ve watched the Bourne Identity too much.” Georgia said.

The single lad shrugged the others off him. He straightened his shirt and began to plod towards the bar.

Georgia caught Jimmy’s expectant eyes. She rolled her own. “I can’t remember anything at all.” She sighed. “Nothing in the slightest. All I know is that my friends are dead and by now they’re buried and by tomorrow the worms’ll be chewing into their coffins. Born in the blink of the eye and gone in the flash of a gun.”

“That’s real heavy.” Jimmy said.

Georgia pulled out a cigarette and lit it. “Life generally is.”

The lad began to chat to the woman.

Jimmy shook his head. “I remember one of my mates died. Ol’ Al. You remember him?”

“When was this?”

“About ninety four.”

“I was in the Middle East in ninety four.”

“Well, you wouldn’t know him then. Lovely chap. Just keeled over one day in the early morning. I came in a few days later, cause we were closed for the weekend cause of those riots, found him just there by the Jukebox, dead.” Jimmy went on but Georgia zoned out. Her ears were drawn towards the lad and the young woman to her side. The lad had offered the woman a drink but when she’d refused, he’d continued to nag her. The woman politely told him to go away a few times and yet he didn’t take the hint. 

“C’mon love.” The lad said. “One drink. What harm could it do?”
"And there I was, walking in with Pedro, the whole dive stinking to high heaven of Ol' Al." Jimmy said.

“Mate, what part of no do you not get?” The girl asked.

“If you really didn’t want a drink, you wouldn’t be staying at the bar, love. That’s your subconscious at work.”

“Excuse me Jimmy.” Georgia said, stubbing out her fag in the ashtray.

“Look, I’m telling you, I’m not interested.” The young woman began to regret not bringing her pepper spray.

“And I’m telling you that you most definitely are!” The lad grinned. Before he could utter a single beer stinking syllable, he felt a strong hand clamp on his shoulder.

“She’s telling you, pal, that she most definitely isn’t.” Georgia Callahan said. “Now, sod off punk,  or I will end you.”

The lad slowly turned around, staring down at the average height, middle aged blonde haired woman in front of him, frowning. The smell of alcohol was strong on his breath, hiding equally horrific halitosis. “You getting jealous, little lady?”

Georgia kneed him in the stomach, grabbed hold of his head and slammed it into the bar. His nose pulverised and he found himself unconscious before she flung him onto the beer sticky floor. The other five lads all turned and stared at her. Despite the horrible situation Georgia had just saved her from, the young lady still wished she’d brought her pepper spray.

“She just done in our gaffer!” One of the lads shouted.

Georgia rolled her eyes. “Jesus. Assault me with your fists, not your language.”

“Can we hit a woman?” Another one of the lads asked.

Georgia wandered over, picked up the cue ball from the Pool table and threw it with such force that it knocked its target straight out. “No, you can’t hit a woman. But a woman can hit you. Get the hell out of here before I reacquaint you with the floor.”

The four lads took the invitation and legged it. Georgia wandered back over to the bar, reached behind it and grabbed the bottle of whiskey, pouring herself another glass. She took a sip, lighted yet another cigarette and waited for the police turn up.

The response time was good so she was being processed within half an hour. They ran a breathalyser test and identified she was drunk then made her walk in a straight line and saw she wasn’t. They put her in a cell whilst they read her file and that was when the man from the church turned up. 

Georgia’s cell door creaked open and an officer walked her, unspeaking, down the corridor and towards the interrogating room. The officer’s hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail and her stab proof vest sat strangely on her shoulders. She looked uncomfortable and the glance of impending doom on her face didn’t help. She pushed open the door of the interrogation room and gestured for Georgia to enter. There was something about her body language that said, “There’s no way I’m following you.”

Georgia walked in and took a seat in front of the table. The man on the other side stared at her for a moment. The folder in front of him was perfectly lined up with the packet of cigars to its side. They were a custom blend.

He fixed her with an almighty stare and then said three words in a voice damaged by years of smoking. “I’m not impressed.”

“I’m not surprised, Uncle.” Georgia replied. “But I had a lot of anger to let off and those punks happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

The man called Uncle fixed her with a stare for a moment. Then his wrinkled hands flipped open the file in front of him. “You have perfect timing, Miss Callahan. We received the call of your arrest mere moments before the close of your Psyche Appraisal. The company psychologist is begging us to fire you. He closed his argument with a line about the safety of the free world being in doubt should we give you an assignment.”

Georgia didn’t say anything. The man called Uncle had paused because his cigar smoking lungs had run out of oxygen, not because he expected her to speak.

“This file paints as pretty a picture of you as a hack cartoonist. Thrown out of the Marines for drug abuse, rejected from joining the army under false identities twice; according to this you’ve attended half the Alcoholic Anonymous groups in West London.”

“So much for Anonymous.” Georgia said.

“This isn’t a joke, Miss Callahan.” The man called Uncle replied. “You are a physical wreck. The very fact that you can walk in a straight line after having consumed enough Bourbon to take down a small elephant is evidence enough. I was brought into this department of Military Intelligence to root out the weeds ruining our garden. Not to feed them on fertiliser.”

“I was of the impression you’d been brought into the company because you play golf with the Home Secretary.”

The man called Uncle flicked to the next page. The golden ring on the little finger of his right hand glinted in the lighting above. “Miss Callahan, you do not need me to explain to you that our fine world is in its biggest mess since the Cold War. There is a place for cynical alcoholics and that is at her Majesty’s Pleasure. You either do as I tell you or you are dismissed. Allow me to lay the situation out for you. I sent you and three agents to execute a Russian mole. Of the five involved agents, four were executed. Anton Petrov by your gun as ordered and, according to a report I’ve just received from Ballistics, our mutual friends Jack and Lexi by the same gun that killed Petrov. Alicia, on the other hand, was killed by a gun officially sanctioned by the Tech department, with your signature on the paper. Five agents. Four of them dead. One survivor, and she’s the one in possession of all the guns. Now, tell me that doesn’t seem odd to you.”

Georgia said nothing. The man called Uncle took another long drag on the cold oxygen.

“But, just in case any doubt remains, you were present on the scene of the murder... drunk. And it’s drunk that you’ve been arrested, after assaulting a group of ‘punks’. So, explain to me why I shouldn’t have you arrested for three unsanctioned hits and a spate of ruthless assault”

“Uncle,” Georgia began, “I can’t prove anything to you but I can tell you one thing. I don’t kill in cold blood. I murdered Petrov because he betrayed our country. Jack, Alicia, Lexi, they loved this country as much as I do. I am a capable agent- no, I’m a damn good agent! Whatever happened in that hotel room was not my fault. Give me a chance to investigate and I promise I will find the man who ordered this.”

The man called Uncle surveyed her for a second and then sighed. “This is your last chance. We investigated the members of staff working at your hotel on the night of the murder. All of them checked out but one. A Julian Gielgud. He quit the night after the murder, packed up his stuff and left. Kept driving until he reached Strasbourg. He’s been off the grid since. No bank transactions, no parking tickets, nothing. He might as well have stopped existing.”

“You think he’s gone underground?”

“Either that or Mother Russia has supplied him with a false identity in return for his service.”

“You think the Soviets ordered the hit?”

“It’s possible.” The man called Uncle admitted. He shrugged. “If they got word that we were targeting Petrov, they could have arranged the hit in revenge. It doesn’t matter what we suspect, merely what you’ll discover. And you bet hurry with it. If you don’t produce any results quickly, I can’t imagine this ending well for either of us. Patriotism is dead, Callahan. It can’t protect you from reality.”

“No, Uncle. I don’t suppose anything can.”

The man called Uncle opened the packet of cigars and took one out, hanging it on his lip and lighting it. He took a deep inhale then said, “Good luck, Mis Callahan. You will need it.”