At eleven p.m., Lawrence Hackett paced in front of the window observing the stillness of the square below.
Why is this year’s event going so badly?
He had called an emergency meeting and turned to face his three executives: Alan Peasely, Andrew Kenny and Rishi Patel and the directors whose projects had failed – Phillip Saunders and Richard Sinclair. He counted them off; Daniel Reid and Ian Gare were still in the U.S., Michael Germaine and Brian Davies were out of the country overseeing their Mastermind projects. Lawrence turned to Andrew Kenny.
“Go ahead.”
Andrew began. “At eight tonight, someone logged into the mainframe. They logged out at eight fifteen. The area they accessed was MM3.”
Several of the directors drew in sharp breaths.
“After eight, one of our employees came in to collect some work and found the computer had been logged into and saw the file MM3 and the game link. He went through to the game link but didn’t open the file, or so he said.”
“Where is he now?” Rishi Patel asked.
“Disposed of,” Lawrence said.
Andrew continued. “According to our systems, no one has physically broken in or entered the premises. No one has set off the alarm with the exception of the fourth floor which we are aware of and it is accounted for.”
Phillip Saunders spoke.
“So someone has seen the file – we don’t know who, we don’t know how. I think we should abort the project now.”
Lawrence looked around the room at his directors.
“Opinions?” he asked.
“If we sit tight,” the American, Alan Peasely, cut in, “what are the consequences?”
Lawrence nodded at Andrew.
“It could fall into the wrong hands and we’d have to defend ourselves in a court of law,” Andrew said. “Or if it’s a maverick, we might be blackmailed.”
Alan looked at Lawrence. “It’s all part of the game; I say we keep the project alive.”
Andrew disagreed. “I’m for abort.”
Lawrence paced again in front of the window.
“There are two weeks left. How watertight are our accounts?” he asked Andrew.
“Unbreakable. All funds are non-traceable.”
Lawrence sat on the edge of the window frame, facing the directors.
“Might be fun to see what they’ll do with the information. Better still …” Lawrence rose. “Let’s raise the stakes. Let’s invite them to play.”
“What?” Andrew choked.
“My gut instinct tells me it’s an inside job,” Lawrence looked around at the directors. “Someone has got in without setting off any alarms and knew what to look for. Let’s sit tight until we hear from them. They know how to navigate our system, so I imagine it’s only a matter of time. Then, we’ll invite them to participate; give us back the information and we’ll pay them what they want. What they don’t know is they’ll need to survive the handover.” He smiled.
“Lawrence,” Andrew started, “let’s think this through … none of us are skilled at combat or stealth.”
“Or surviving jail for that matter,” Alan cut in.
“Andrew, Alan, you worry too much. That’s why you’re good at what you do. We’re talking about meeting them for a handover, nothing more. Who’s in?” Lawrence looked around the room, his eyes alive with excitement. “I’ll make it worth your while. If we pull it off, I’ll double your bonuses; if we don’t, my lawyers will talk us out of trouble. Come on, it’s a win-win situation.”
“Lawrence, you need to think about the consequences of this,” Andrew started.
Rishi Patel cut in. “I’m in.”
Lawrence walked around and put his hand on Rishi’s shoulder.
“Excellent. Who else?” he asked with a grin looking around the table.
“A 3.4 litre?” Mitch asked, yawning and sliding down in the leather front seat of Adam’s Porsche Boxster S.
“Yep, 3.4 litre. Zero to sixty miles an hour in just over five seconds; sport suspension,” Adam said with pride.
“Beautiful.”
“Yeah. Did you get any sleep?”
“About two hours before you woke me. I feel worse for it.”
Adam accelerated, driving the Porsche out of the hotel onto the traffic-free road.
“So,” Mitch began, “why the Trans-national Crime Unit, if it’s not too personal?”
“Why not?”
“I’ve seen your record.”
“Ah,” Adam smiled. “So, you think I’m either on reprimand or having a career crisis.”
He glanced at Mitch waiting for a reaction.
“Something like that,” Mitch watched London go by from the window.
“It’s a bit of both – self-inflicted reprimand and career crisis,” Adam sighed. “I was on a mission in Bosnia, my third one and I saw something I shouldn’t have seen. So, instead of following orders, I intervened.” He looked over at Mitch. “It was one of those moral dilemma situations – you help or you turn a blind eye. I got hauled over the coals for helping. After that, I decided I needed a change to shake things up a bit and given I was born in the States, I decided to apply for the TCU. Now I do intelligence gathering with the occasional deployment instead of the other way around.”
Mitch nodded his understanding. “How did that go down with the British office?”
“With my record, they’re not real happy that I’ve changed to the TCU, but they’re giving me time out to think about everything. I gather they think I’m on the edge of a breakdown.” He smiled at the thought.
“How long have you been in time-out mode?”
“Six months.”
“Frustrating,” Mitch said. “I can’t imagine being desk-bound doing research, with only the occasional deployment throw in.”
“It hasn’t been easy. They’re waiting to see if I’ll crack and throw in the TCU, beg for another field assignment.”
“Are you planning to crack?” Mitch asked.
He shrugged. “Your mission has given me a bit of excitement … change in routine.”
“Our gain,” Mitch said.
“Thanks,” Adam said.
Mitch boarded the military plane bound for Miami. He scanned his fellow passengers, some in uniform, some in civvies. One of the airmen approached him.
“Sir, Mr. Windsor wanted me to give you this.” He handed over an envelope.
Mitch thanked him, settling into a seat, he opened the envelope to find instructions for the next leg of the flight once he landed in Miami and two Temazepam tablets. Mitch recognized the heavy-duty sleeping pills.
Bless you, John, Mitch smiled.