The excitement in the air was electric and infectious as preparations for the Mardi Gras parade ramped up along Bourbon Street in the French Quarter of New Orleans. Party revellers were already getting into the spirit, along with a multitude of colourful outfits whose owners were preparing for the three-day drinkathon. It was clear this year would be no less outrageous than the years before. Many were just sucking in the atmosphere, enjoying the calm before the storm, with a few groggy bar patrons sat in doorways, who had already got a head start on celebrations the night before. By the smiles gracing everyone’s faces it was clear that they all planned to squeeze every last drop of fun from the occasion, with the exception of one, who was making his way down the street quickly, with his Chicago Cubs baseball hat pulled firmly down over his face.
Michael Hanks was a man who knew how to blend into a crowd, and anyone who saw him wouldn’t have batted an eyelid at the man, but as the revellers and tourists alike sucked in the vibrant ambience of New Orleans, gearing up for the wild night ahead, he had far more serious things on his mind.
Hanks came to a stop outside Dr Bute’s House of Voodoo and glanced in through the window to the unpleasant mix of skulls and dark trinkets. He could already smell the heavy scent of opium joss sticks and as he entered the smell only got stronger.
The shop was empty of customers and as he made his way across to the counter he found the clutter claustrophobic. There was not a single bare space inside with every corner of the shop filled with the kind of crap, eclectic useless pieces of spiritual garbage that tourists happily passed over their hard-earned cash for, to gain a small slice of New Orleans mystery.
“Jesus, Dr Bute, you trying to poison customers or sell to them?” Hanks said, wafting his hand back and forth at the swirls of blue smoke hanging in the air.
Dr Bute stood behind the counter looking stoic with a white frilly shirt, black waistcoat and strings of black pearly beads dangling from around his neck. “You’re back then,” he said in a thick Jamaican accent, leaning back against the glass cupboards, stacked full of black candles, home-made oils, gris-gris bags and all centred around a pathetic-looking stuffed white chicken that had seen better days. “’Ow was the business trip, Michael?”
“Fine, just fine,” Hanks said, swiping away a dried-out bat carcass hanging above him by a piece of thin nylon. “When you said you were going to rearrange the shop front I didn’t know you meant make it shittier than it already was.”
Dr Bute raised his long finger and waved it warningly. “You’d be wise not to insult the spirits in this place, Michael. It’s bad juju, bombaclaat.”
“Shut up, Ralph,” Hanks replied, pointing his finger at Dr Bute, “and I keep telling you, voodoo’s Haitian, not Jamaican, you prick. Get the accent right, you sound like an idiot.”
Dr Bute’s whole cool, laid-back demeanour evaporated and he stood up straight. “Screw you, Mike,” he replied in a thick New York accent.
Hanks was already heading for the draped multi-coloured beads covering the back stairwell. “I won’t be long.” He disappeared up the stairs as Dr Bute flicked the bird after him. “You never are,” he replied, resuming his Jamaican inflection. “Pasty rassclaat.”
Dr Bute’s House of Voodoo was just a front, one of many safehouses used for Daedalus operations, and like the others the hired shopkeeper had no real idea of its actual purpose.
Hanks produced a Yale key from his pocket and slipped it into the lock of the heavy metal door. With a turn it creaked open and he headed inside before flipping the wall light switch. It was a typical back office housing an old wooden desk, with scenic pictures of New Orleans hanging from the lime-green painted walls. Hanks locked the door behind him and sat down at the desk before unlocking one of the side drawers and then pressing his finger against a small indentation inside it. A compartment rose upwards from the centre of the desk’s surface, revealing a monitor and keypad, which Hanks began to tap on. One password later and a thin metal strut unfolded automatically from the monitor’s casing into a retina scanner which Hanks dutifully rested his face against. After a dull beam of light passed across his pupil the monitor lit up and the scanner retracted and folded back to its original position.
Hanks leant back in his chair thoughtfully. The coming conversation could determine his future, whether long and illustrious or short and unrealised.
Hanks tapped his passcode into the blinking cursor box and after stretching his shoulders he waited.
Then he waited some more.
Five minutes passed until the image of a man popped onto the screen, and Hanks felt his body stiffen as Hans Bauer began to speak.
“I got your message, Michael. I assume you’re back stateside? Where?”
Bauer’s voice was calm, almost jovial in an unnerving way, and Hanks gave a swift nod. “One of our outposts, sir, but it’s a secure line. I just arrived and tracking squads are on the ground looking for Icarus as requested.”
“What news?”
“No contact as yet, sir, but it’s early days.”
“But we don’t have days, Michael. We need this put to a stop now.”
“I agree, sir, and we will have him back on a leash. I promise you that. I already have the teams—”
“I’m sure you do,” Bauer interrupted, his eyes becoming cold and ungiving, “but what I would like to know is how he got away from you after we spent so much political capital on scooping him away from the UK police.”
This was the part that Hanks had been dreading, but he raised his chin upwards confidently in near defiance. “We trained him well, perhaps too well, sir. It was a miscalculation on my part in trusting Davies to carry out Icarus’s interrogation. The idiot didn’t give him the respect he needed and our boy Icarus took advantage of that fact. He killed him and escaped before I returned. Davies was a poor choice, but I take full responsibility for putting my trust in him.”
Bauer stared silently at him and Hanks knew to now keep his mouth shut. There was little to explain except that he’d screwed up, and he banked on his previous operational record redeeming him.
Bauer continued to stare for a few more uncomfortable seconds before leaning closer to the screen. “There can be no more fuck-ups, otherwise… well, you know what happens to those who betray our life’s work, brethren or not.”
Hanks felt a wave of relief crash over him. He was being given a second chance, and it would not be wasted. “I understand, sir, and thank you. Your faith in me won’t be squandered.”
Bauer sat back from the screen, his eyes still intently displaying menace. “I hope not, for your sake. You don’t want me knocking at your door, Michael.”
Hanks only nodded respectfully as he now sought to move the conversation along. “And how goes the operation?”
“Operation Icarus is on course after some readjustments. The action we took in Parliament has opened just the opportunity we expected. Because of Ambassador Breams’s termination of the German Chancellor, and now the glorious takedown of Parliament, we have forged a new path to our destination.” Bauer now smiled, showing the whites of his teeth. “High command is pleased.”
The very mention had Hanks sitting up proudly, but it was short-lived. “But I’ve not mentioned your recent indiscretion, and I suggest you ensure I can keep it that way. Find Icarus, and use every one of our networks if need be. The moment you lay eyes on that wild animal you let me know. I want regular updates in the coming hours.”
Over the top of the monitor something stirred, and the metal door to the office swung open slowly on the weight of its frame. Hanks’s mouth dropped open.
He’d not even heard the lock being picked.
Stood in the doorway, wearing a bright flowery Mardi Gras T-shirt, and pointing a 9mm Glock directly at Hanks, was Icarus. He raised his finger to his lips and then moved over to the side of the monitor, out of view, and directed Hanks’s eyes back down to the screen as Bauer continued delivering his orders.
“I won’t have Icarus self-destructing and ruining the same plans he helped create. The Core feels we have no option. He’s too dangerous and knows too much to be allowed to roam freely… Are you paying attention?”
Icarus slammed the butt of his gun into Hanks’s skull, sending him off the seat and to the ground before taking his place in the chair and staring into the eyes of Bauer. “Hello, Hans.”
Bauer looked momentarily shocked, his mouth opening slightly, but he immediately slipped back into character as Icarus continued to speak.
“High command feels they have no option, Hans? Interesting way to put it, when they chose the option to have me killed.”
Bauer looked unrattled and he was already shaking his head. “That’s not true, David.”
Icarus snorted at the remark. “Only you could deliver a lie steeped in such bullshit and keep a straight face. And my name is Icarus. It’s a testament to all the others you had no ‘option’ but to kill.”
“There was no option, my friend, they were nothing like you. And you are nothing like them. Not until you decided to kill those two MI6 agents.”
Icarus dismissed the notion with a limp flick of his wrist and he rolled his eyes sarcastically. “They weren’t government spooks, Hans, they were DS5. Fair game as far as I could see.”
Bauer was looking frustrated, but his tone of voice was calm. “Either way, it was a poor decision. But it doesn’t matter anymore. Were back on track, and all I ask is that you come back to us, Icarus. It’s time to come home and be a part of the future… our future.”
Icarus stared at the screen blankly and then stretched out his arm and hovered his finger above the keyboard’s return button. “I appreciate the offer, you back-stabbing Judas, but I have my own agenda now. And it doesn’t include you.”
Icarus tapped on the keypad and the monitor went blank as he now turned to Hanks’s unconscious body. “But it does include you.”
He hauled the man up off the floor and dumped him back into the seat before ripping the long power cord from the monitor and then binding Hanks’s hands to the chair securely, whereupon he delivered a couple of sharp slaps to the man’s face until Hanks groggily opened his eyes.
“I’m afraid I’m not going to be able to offer you the same professional courtesy you once offered me, Mikey boy.”
Hanks said nothing, his eyes still glazing due to the blow, and he watched as Icarus stood over him, a cold unsettling smile spreading across his face. “I have some hours to kill, if you don’t mind the pun, and I’m sure we can find something to keep us both occupied.”
Hanks’s eyes now widened in fear as Icarus pulled a Sheffield knife from his pocket and unfolded it delicately between his fingers. “So, Michael. Where should we begin?”