sir.’
Without another word, the man ended the call. At the same moment, the CNN screen popped up with a new headline, appearing on the banner under the male newsreader's face. It joined the other report of the man found strangled on the looping news-feed, the reports streaming along the bottom of the screen one after the other, vice-versa.
Breaking News: Man found shot dead in New York City apartment.
The screen flicked to a gathering of news-vans and an ambulance outside a Manhattan building, the time still early in the morning there, the sun just starting to come up in the distance. He saw the doors open and a black body bag wheeled out on the trolley, moving down the steps and headed towards the open doors at the rear of the ambulance. The big man’s eyes narrowed with satisfaction. He picked up the pen and drew a line through the dead man's name. Four down.
Seven to go.
FIVE
Inside his office in the U.S Embassy, the CIA agent was still trying to place Charlie Adams when his assistant came in bearing coffee on a tray. He didn’t react as she placed the cup and saucer on the desk in front of him, the tapping of fingers on computer keyboards audible from the tech area next door. Normally affable, she noticed he seemed distracted and took her time placing a small jug of milk and sweeteners by the cup of coffee on the desk, waiting for him to turn and talk to her. He didn’t.
‘Can I get you anything else, sir?’ she asked instead, subtly trying to get his attention.
‘No, thank you,’ he said vaguely, looking at the screen, his mind elsewhere.
Turning, she glanced at the television he was glued to across the room, seeing the report of the politician's suicide.
‘A real shame,’ she said. ‘I saw him on the news last week. Seemed like a good man.’
Her boss looked over at her.
‘What was his background?’
‘He used to be a soldier in the British Army. All the papers here loved him. You can see why,’ she said, nodding at a photograph of him in a suit waving to a crowd that had come up on the screen. 'I wouldn't mind going home to that every night.'
The CIA agent switched his attention back to the screen, scanning the photo, as his assistant turned to leave.
And all of a sudden, the light-bulb flashed on.
He sat up straight.
‘Hang on, Lynn,’ he said, as she walked to the door.
He grabbed a pen and scribbled three names on a small pad, then tore off the uppermost sheet, walked around his desk quickly and passed it to her.
‘Do me a favour and run these three names through the system. Check every database you can. Military, NSA, FBI, police, DMV, medical and prison records. Anything and everything you can access.’
‘Yes, sir,’ she said, taking the paper.
‘Don’t let anyone know you’re doing this. Not a soul. Understand?’
‘Yes, sir. Is something wrong?’
He didn't reply. He’d shifted his attention to the television instead.
His secretary paused for a moment, then realised she wasn’t going to get an answer. She nodded, pulling the door closed, and headed off to her private workstation to start searching the names he’d given her. Alone, the CIA agent saw the studio shot change to one of Adams in combat fatigues, smiling up at the camera in some dusty courtyard somewhere in Iraq or Afghanistan.
Is something wrong, Lynn had asked.
'I hope not,' the man whispered, staring at the photograph of the soldier.
The shape of Grosvenor Square and the space on the western side of the U.S Embassy meant the area facing the building was a popular area for public protest. Pretty much every day of the year a group of people from some organisation or another would be out there, claiming civil rights or protesting against political injustice, chanting and waving painted signs, generally wanting to kick up a fuss and let their voice echo around Mayfair. The armed US marines stationed on the outside of the building were used to this, ready and alert for any trouble, but despite
Without another word, the man ended the call. At the same moment, the CNN screen popped up with a new headline, appearing on the banner under the male newsreader's face. It joined the other report of the man found strangled on the looping news-feed, the reports streaming along the bottom of the screen one after the other, vice-versa.
Breaking News: Man found shot dead in New York City apartment.
The screen flicked to a gathering of news-vans and an ambulance outside a Manhattan building, the time still early in the morning there, the sun just starting to come up in the distance. He saw the doors open and a black body bag wheeled out on the trolley, moving down the steps and headed towards the open doors at the rear of the ambulance. The big man’s eyes narrowed with satisfaction. He picked up the pen and drew a line through the dead man's name. Four down.
Seven to go.
FIVE
Inside his office in the U.S Embassy, the CIA agent was still trying to place Charlie Adams when his assistant came in bearing coffee on a tray. He didn’t react as she placed the cup and saucer on the desk in front of him, the tapping of fingers on computer keyboards audible from the tech area next door. Normally affable, she noticed he seemed distracted and took her time placing a small jug of milk and sweeteners by the cup of coffee on the desk, waiting for him to turn and talk to her. He didn’t.
‘Can I get you anything else, sir?’ she asked instead, subtly trying to get his attention.
‘No, thank you,’ he said vaguely, looking at the screen, his mind elsewhere.
Turning, she glanced at the television he was glued to across the room, seeing the report of the politician's suicide.
‘A real shame,’ she said. ‘I saw him on the news last week. Seemed like a good man.’
Her boss looked over at her.
‘What was his background?’
‘He used to be a soldier in the British Army. All the papers here loved him. You can see why,’ she said, nodding at a photograph of him in a suit waving to a crowd that had come up on the screen. 'I wouldn't mind going home to that every night.'
The CIA agent switched his attention back to the screen, scanning the photo, as his assistant turned to leave.
And all of a sudden, the light-bulb flashed on.
He sat up straight.
‘Hang on, Lynn,’ he said, as she walked to the door.
He grabbed a pen and scribbled three names on a small pad, then tore off the uppermost sheet, walked around his desk quickly and passed it to her.
‘Do me a favour and run these three names through the system. Check every database you can. Military, NSA, FBI, police, DMV, medical and prison records. Anything and everything you can access.’
‘Yes, sir,’ she said, taking the paper.
‘Don’t let anyone know you’re doing this. Not a soul. Understand?’
‘Yes, sir. Is something wrong?’
He didn't reply. He’d shifted his attention to the television instead.
His secretary paused for a moment, then realised she wasn’t going to get an answer. She nodded, pulling the door closed, and headed off to her private workstation to start searching the names he’d given her. Alone, the CIA agent saw the studio shot change to one of Adams in combat fatigues, smiling up at the camera in some dusty courtyard somewhere in Iraq or Afghanistan.
Is something wrong, Lynn had asked.
'I hope not,' the man whispered, staring at the photograph of the soldier.
The shape of Grosvenor Square and the space on the western side of the U.S Embassy meant the area facing the building was a popular area for public protest. Pretty much every day of the year a group of people from some organisation or another would be out there, claiming civil rights or protesting against political injustice, chanting and waving painted signs, generally wanting to kick up a fuss and let their voice echo around Mayfair. The armed US marines stationed on the outside of the building were used to this, ready and alert for any trouble, but despite
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