ORPHANS: Time is running out!

ORPHANS

Time Is Running Out!

A work of fiction

First published in 2011

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2008 by Ian Dewar

The moral right of Ian Dewar to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the

Copyright, Designs & Patents Act, 1988

All rights reserved.

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For my wife

Madelaine

Acknowledgements:

There are many from both species to blame for this book finally coming to fruition. I would mention my wife for her patience and much needed encouragement. Sara Tomlinson, a fellow writer and my agent Elizabeth Hibbens for her support and advice.

In particular, I would thank

Gerald Masters, good friend and author for his cajoling, bullying and good advice.

1st December 2013

PROLOGUE

Darius considered the ornate handset for a moment, rotating it gently between his slim, manicured fingers before replacing it soundlessly on the delicately carved cradle. Even then, he was almost reluctant to relinquish all contact. Feeling the raised metallic symbols, he imagined they grew warm to his touch. There was something almost sensuous about so many smooth and intricate curves he thought, certainly an object of beauty more deserving of news, better than the last caller just conveyed!

Sliding his hand across to the inlaid intercom panel, he depressed the single ivory button, the movement of his hand reflected perfectly by the highly polished surface of his antique desk.

‘Yes Mr Vache?’ the soft voice in stark contrast to his own, broke the stillness of the room.

‘Ask Celestyn to come and see me please,’ he hesitated, quickly checking his watch then added, ‘in five minutes.’ There was a soft, audible click but no reply.

He glanced at the watch face again, appreciating, not for the first time the simple elegance; a testament to the Swiss craftsmanship that lay behind its unique design and construction. Depressing the small, almost invisible pin switch mounted behind the winder, he walked quickly to the large, glass fronted bookcases covering one entire wall of his office.

The fleurs-de-lis moved discretely under gentle pressure. Almost immediately, a section of the heavily laden, mahogany shelving slid noiselessly back into the wall, revealing the matching door, padded with studded green leather.

Darius moved his hand forward knowing the infra-red sensor was already activated by the small transmitter concealed in the watch’s heavy casing. Identified only by a muted hum, two heavy servo-locks on either side of the door’s solid frame were released.

Even after all these years, each time he operated this mechanism, his body tensed apprehensively. Had he been some unfortunate intruder seeking to gain access, he would now be convulsing, his entire respiratory system succumbing in seconds to the powerful spray of deadly poison gas. Life as he knew it would be ending as the extraction fans and filters mounted in the ceiling above cleared and cleaned the air, leaving no trace of any contamination.

Although designed to accommodate two people, the lift’s crafted interior still reflected the luxury of the office it served. The twenty two seconds descent transported Darius to the basement where dimmed lights brightened automatically on his arrival. Facing him were two, fully equipped treatment rooms, which would be the envy of any modern hospital. The heavy glass doors to both lay open. Only one however, was occupied. Here, the body of a middle aged woman lay strapped securely to a hospital bed. Under the crisp white sheet, her chest moved with a slow and steady rhythm, symptomatic of a deep, clinically controlled sleep.

As he approached, Darius removed the fresh plastic syringe and ligature from his jacket pocket and placed them carefully on the small table beside the bed. Pulling on thin, almost transparent latex gloves, he felt for the pulse at the woman’s neck. It was there and remained strong. Satisfied, he lifted the sheet covering her left side and fixed the ligature tightly round her upper arm. With great care and obvious tenderness, his fingers pressed the vacuum container into the syringe, watching it fill quickly with blood from the raised vein.

Allowing one finger to rest on the wound to ensure no bleeding continued; he gently removed the needle, feeling the warmth of her body through the thin latex. A lump surfaced in his throat and his eyes pricked threateningly. These private visits were painful and on each occasion he struggled with these emotions.

Freeing the ligature, Darius gently replaced the covering sheet. Removing the gloves, he checked the intravenous drip before taking a final look at the face of the woman lying before him. Her rejection of the synthetic had been swift and totally unexpected. Keeping her sedated was now the only way to protect her and safeguard others from the terrible consequences that would almost certainly follow.

Bending forward he kissed her pale lips briefly, allowing strands of wild, red hair to run through his fingers. Anger and frustration surged through every part of his being. Darius cursed silently, straightened his body and stepped back, consigning the gloves and ligature to the yellow disposal bin in one fluid motion. Almost blinded by tears, he walked away. Determined never to abandon the woman he loved, he slowly retraced his steps to the waiting lift.

~

Celestyn remained motionless, silhouetted in the open doorway until the older man beckoned him forward. Only a slight increase in room pressure told him the door had finally closed silently behind him. The summons had come as a surprise. Necessary communication between Darius and his few employees was normally a series of brief conversations on the telephone, or a precisely folded memorandum, hand written on cream laid paper. Darius accepted those who had abandoned the traditional means of communication in favour of email and text messaging; but he steadfastly refused to join them.

Carefully sized and hand cut paper was kept available for his use in each room of the building. Beside these, four identical fountain pens were arranged neatly on a small, cloth-backed tray. A former President of the United States visiting Darius had once remarked, the White House pens, used only for ceremonial signings, paled in comparison to the everyday tools at Darius’s disposal.

Within his small circle of close associates, it was widely known Darius studied the form and character of each piece of original penmanship crossing his desk. On several occasions, Celestyn and others had their memoranda or letters returned with a yellow ‘post-it’ politely requesting the punctuation or tense be corrected before resubmitting it for further consideration. People learned quickly through these uncommon procedures; and mistakes were subsequently rare.

‘Rose is now back here with us,’ Darius announced in a matter of fact tone. He saw no need to burden his companion with further detail at this point. ‘Have this processed tonight and let me know the results.’ He laid the sealed capsule on his desk. ‘I suspect it will confirm our worst fears.’

‘What then?’ Celestyn asked.

‘Naturally, she’ll need to be monitored and treated!’ Darius replied evenly. ‘I’ll speak to McKenna; and we’ll do what’s necessary.’ He looked up unblinking meeting Celestyn’s gaze, ‘You know the procedure!’

‘There have been no successes yet.’ Celestyn bit his lip realising too late his words were inappropriate. ‘What I mean is, wouldn’t it be better……?’

Darius slammed his fist down on the desk, his eyes blazing, his face suddenly contorted with fury. ‘No damn you, she stays here under our care until I speak to McKenna! Nothing else will be considered, so don’t even go there!’

Celestyn lowered his eyes, nodded and said nothing.

‘We have to find a cure?’ Darius’s voice, shaking slightly betrayed his unease. Celestyn was right of course; but this was all happening too fast. He - no, they needed time! ‘We have to find a way?’ he repeated, only this time his words were little more than a whisper.

Turning abruptly on his heel Darius moved to the heavily shaded window. Celestyn watched the moist imprint of the elder’s fist evaporate quickly on the polished wood then gazed at the vial of blood. There was nothing he could say to ease Darius’s pain. He too knew full well the final outcome that inevitably followed any rejection of the synthetic.

‘That’s all for now,’ Darius had regained his composure and turned back to face him. ‘Please get that analyzed,’ his voice was calm but his eyes still blazed fiercely as he nodded at the capsule.

Celestyn’s fingers closed over the warm glass, feeling the crimson liquid move within its opaque container as he removed it carefully from the desk’s surface. Their meeting was over, most likely prematurely as a result of his inappropriate comment? But as he reached for the door’s polished handle, Darius spoke again.

‘What’s news on our Albanian friend?’

‘Felix? We know his real name is Ishmael; but not much else!’ Celestyn hesitated, caught unawares by the question. He looked back into the room. Darius was seated behind the large desk, a thick file already open before him. Celestyn moistened his lips before continuing ‘He’s returned to Paris as we anticipated but…’

Darius raised a hand to cut him off. ‘I’ve had another enquiry from their committee. My source tells me they plan to recruit a new man, a hunter to track down this Ishmael, or Felix; and destroy him.’ The elder Vampire raised his head and Celestyn could almost feel the dark eyes burning into his. ‘In the circumstances, I need you to find him first!’

…

CHAPTER ONE

‘Holy shit…!’

Owen recoiled as the large chunk of masonry fragmented only inches from his head. Shards of ancient tiles flew in all directions. Some stung his face, whilst most could be heard pattering the dark beyond. The Albanian’s latest assault had caught him completely off guard but at least it confirmed he was still in the company of his elusive adversary.

Cursing his own carelessness, Owen levered himself up on one forearm before pushing his body upright.

‘Shit,’ he swore again, only this time no missile drew the expletive? Over anxious to be out of further harm’s way, contact with the sharp corner of the fourteenth century, coralloid marble font brought his scarred and recently healed tissue painfully alive. Unable to stifle the low moan hissing through clenched jaws, his whole body felt suddenly on fire. Twice he’d been careless, twice in as many minutes. ‘Damn Felix and yes, shit again!’

Easing himself forward, he willed the pain to ease but with little success. Barbed tendrils continued to flay his tender flesh and another curse formed on his lips, only this time Owen stopped short. Never a believer in the true sense of the word, he would somehow suppress the need. After all, he was in church.

Owen sensed the movement only seconds before he realised the Albanian had broken cover. Now his prey was retreating into the gloomy, hostile interior. He gritted his teeth and forced the physical torment to the back of his mind. There was no option, he would have to follow. Crouching low to minimise his profile, Owen inched forward. Felix was on the move and there was no way he was going to lose the bastard again.

His quarry’s irregular footfalls and the changing of shadows might have been enough; but the Albino’s conspicuous white hair more than anything betrayed his short, stumbling flight down the South Aisle, that was up to the moment he disappeared into the myriad of glinting metal poles.

Somewhere above the clock chimed four. A full hour had passed since Owen followed his adversary into the building; an hour since their game had changed. No longer were they running in pursuit, or being pursued through the narrow, almost deserted streets of the Marais’ residential district. Now they were playing out a new game, a bizarre hide and seek in the ever deepening shadows of the deserted church.

Outside, daylight was fading fast and only the highest aspects of the gothic interior remained illuminated. The tall arched windows, flanking the North and South aisle, were already cloaked completely by darkness and only a few feeble rays from the pale, setting sun managed to penetrate the large gothic panes that once formed the crowning entrance. Above, diminished light filtered weakly through the higher Clerestory glazing, barely enough to cast eerie shadows over the ceiling’s gilded boss-faces or illuminate the topmost reaches of the scaffolding filling the church’s gloomy interior.

Warily, Owen rose slowly to his feet and crept forward, wincing in annoyance as lumps of discarded plaster crunched noisily underfoot. There was no mistake. Faint, tell-tale sounds told him Felix was still moving somewhere in the darkness ahead; but in these conditions it was impossible to judge exactly where? He paused in his stride. There was always the possibility the hunchbacked albino had doubled back and was even now lying in wait for him to appear. His fingers moved to the butt of the revolver. The leather of the holster tucked neatly against his belt was new and hard to the touch; but being armed brought some extra comfort, though in truth, he experienced some strange and inexplicable reluctance as he handled the heavy weapon. Cautiously he brought the gun forward, ready to use at a moment’s notice, his arm braced firmly against the side of his body.

The loose flap of protective polythene had relinquished its hold on the statue it was originally intended to cover. His free hand caught the edge and gently moved it to one side but the opaque material concealed no immediate threat. Owen hesitated and looked down. His hand holding the heavy revolver was unaccountably trembling. Nerves? He forced himself to take several deep breaths until the unwelcome tremors ceased. Relax, he told himself, glancing up at his silent witness. The smile on the serene marble face seemed somehow pitying, as if acknowledging the growing sense of hopelessness in his mind. Owen knew time was running out! If he didn’t find the Albanian soon, another chase would be over and with it his best opportunity yet. Damn Felix! He peered again at the statue and frowned. There in the gloom, below the spreading marbled arms, a worn inscription read, ‘Notre dame de Grace’.

‘Grace,’ he pursed his lips and shook his head angrily. ‘Damn you too Grace,’ he muttered grimly.

~

He’d forgotten just how small Grace Crombie was for a policewoman. At half an inch short of six feet, he was strangely conscious of his own height as she rose quickly from behind her clutter-free desk to greet him. They’d met some years before, twice actually and, as he recalled, he’d made a point of checking the minimum height required for policewomen following that first encounter.

Back then, Crombie had been much younger than he’d expected, slim and quite attractive. Owen took in the warm smile. Hell, she still was! Admittedly the face had a few more lines to show the stresses associated with her meteoric rise; but age had not yet taken its toll on the blonde hair, although this seemed to be cut much shorter than he remembered.

Grace Crombie’s profile had appeared in a number of

Police Review articles some years before; and always made interesting reading. Identified in the early stages of her career as senior officer material, she’d been fast-tracked for promotion, attaining the rank of Inspector at the age of twenty eight. Less than a decade later, as a Chief Superintendent at the Met, she’d resurfaced on his distant horizon, hitting the tabloids in spectacular fashion with her progressive, if somewhat tough and radical views on City policing. Now, an Assistant Chief Constable, she not only held considerable sway amongst her fellows; but was widely respected throughout the European policing community.

‘Jonathan,’ the soft voice using his Christian name intruded on his brief recollections. ‘Thank you for coming at such short notice.’ Belying the years, Grace Crombie still bristled with an uncommon energy; her hand extending effusively, seeking his.

‘It’s so very good to see you again,’ her words carried a genuine, if somewhat surprising warmth. ‘How long has it been? The question was polite but in the same breath she casually dismissed the need for any response. ‘No matter, please,’ she inclined her head slightly. Relinquishing ownership of his hand, the ACC pointed to the overfilled seating crowding one entire corner of the room. ‘Let’s make ourselves more comfortable, shall we?’

Owen nodded obligingly and followed her lead.

‘Would you like some coffee, or perhaps tea? She paused, elevating a questioning eyebrow.

‘No thank you Ma’am.’ He’d already noticed the percolating coffee and pristine, non-issue porcelain waited patiently to be used. His response might have seemed too formal, possibly abrupt; but the fact Grace Crombie had addressed him by his first name on arrival was still unsettling? Had this casual approach been deliberate he asked himself? A reference to his impending departure perhaps; or did it indicate something else? Christ, he thought, his paranoia was getting worse! Owen forced a facsimile of a smile. He’d seen the senior policewoman’s bright, green eyes narrow slightly. She was obviously trying to gauge his reactions, read his thoughts but all the time keeping that warm, welcoming smile fixed.

Patiently, he waited for her to occupy the only single armchair before allowing his body to sink onto one corner of the wide settee cushions. It was a bad mistake; the needle sharp pains returning in an instant to punished him cruelly for his misdemeanour.

Grace Crombie was quick to recognise his discomfort. ‘I’m sorry Jonathan,’ she was using his Christian name again and her tone was full of genuine concern? ‘Would you prefer a different seat?’

‘No, I’m really okay,’ he forced another pained smile and waved one hand dismissively to reassure her. ‘It just twinges now and then.’ It was a lie; but what point was there in admitting the pain was almost constant, sometimes near to being unbearable? Owen allowed the smile to fade and settled back as best he could. Given time he knew the burning sensations in his body would subside, somewhere near to being bearable.

Compared to most accommodation allocated to senior police officers, Crombie’s was exceptionally generous. On her appointment, she’d moved out of the glass and concrete tower in central London and established her own domain on the third floor of this, the force’s previous headquarters.

Windows on two sides afforded impressive views over most of the city’s famous landmarks. The topmost parts of the ‘Eye’ could be seen in the distance, challenging the mid-morning fret that lingered on the river. The office décor was plain, the gentle beige and browns offset the mainly austere, dark-stained furniture, adding an element of unexpected warmth to its featureless dimensions. The exception, a sombre white veined, maroon marbled fireplace, which at some time past had surrendered its original purpose to hosted a robust arrangement of dried flowers.

As his eyes quickly scanned a plethora of framed diplomas, certificates of achievement and photographs of various and more important handshakes opposite, he resisted the temptation to smile. Some he could name; but most were only vaguely familiar.

‘Comes with the job I’m afraid.’ Grace Crombie missed very little. She sounded almost apologetic as her head inclined slightly towards her personal achievement gallery. ‘People do expect to see these; but you might think it’s vanity I suppose?’

Owen nodded. He would leave it to her to decide if he was feigning understanding or sympathy.

‘Shall we move on…?’ she suggested quietly.

Owen turned his face from the carefully managed display and looked back at his host. The same troubling question that had tested his reasoning for the past forty-eight hours flashed again through his mind. What possible reasons lay behind this invitation to the Assistant Chief Constable’s inner sanctum?

Carefully avoiding any more sudden movements, Owen rekaxed back against the plump cushions and crossed one foot over the other. His eyes never left hers, conveying she now had his undivided attention.

For a few, uncomfortable moments Crombie remained silent. Owen suspected she was composing her opening gambit carefully before delivering whatever bad news awaited him.

‘You’ll be wondering what this is all about?’ she said eventually.

‘I’m certainly curious?’ he admitted, the inner tension easing slightly now the silence had finally been broken.

‘Iraq wasn’t it?’ Crombie leaned forward again, her voice bearing the merest hint of uncertainty. ‘Sorry, what I mean is, well… how’s the recovery going? I understand you’ve had a pretty difficult time?’

Owen inclined his head to one side. ‘Getting there,’ he said simply with a minimal shrug of his shoulders. ‘Some days are better than others.’ He pursed his lips. For God’s sake, what more was there to say? He’d been back for over a year now. Would she understand the sleepless nights or the recurring nightmares when sleep finally did happen? No, never! How could he explain the sudden flashbacks to that last night in Basra, the disintegrating car consuming his colleagues in screaming flames? Would she comprehend the guilt of survival, or those other sensations too complex even for him to understand? And let’s not forget the physical pains that exploded through his body without warning, sometimes so acute they caused him to scream out loud.

No, he thought, there was too much he just wanted to file away in the darkest recesses. Admittedly the pills did help. They helped with the pain and they allowed him to live with himself; but even his private quack round the corner from Harley Street was beginning to questioning the ever increasing demand for repeat prescriptions.

~

Belying its curious name, the church of St. Jacques des Guérets had served the people in this part of the City for over seven hundred years. Within its sombre walls and contrary to many visitors’ expectation, the nave, chancel, the crossing below the massive clock tower and even the transepts to the north and south are unusually spacious. For the last two years however, a matrix of builders’ scaffolding stretching from floor to ceiling created a daunting barrier for any opportune visitor, with the wide, supporting aisles serving either side of the main chamber, now merely storage for a mass of bagged cement and stacked timber.

Jonathan swore under his breath. A sudden realisation dawned. His quarry had planned this route, knowing it afforded him the best chance of eluding capture, or worse! On entering the church, Owen had wrongly believed he understood Felix’s logic and choice of refuge. With the imminent loss of daylight, apart from following the dark, central aisle facing him, the man made jungle of near invisible steel structures looming on either side denied any pursuer a realistic chance of successfully continuing the chase. As it was, any rash move even now could quickly prove to be his undoing

The gilded eagle on the lectern glared malevolently as he reached the inner crossing under the massive clock tower. Here, plush crimson carpeting masked the sound of his footfalls but Owen still moved with extreme caution. Continuing through the chancel he knew Felix had two options, either to confront him, or find some way out. Owen weighed the gun in his hand and moved tentatively forward. Whatever the risks involved, he meant to finish this business here, today!

~

‘I understand you’ve decided to leave your current employ?’

He was suddenly aware the ACC was still speaking. An expression somewhat akin to worry had appeared on Grace Crombie’s face. She’d noticed his retreating into himself. Abruptly, she rose and strode back to the desk. The thin blue folder she slid across the polished surface contained a single sheet of white paper. She already knew its content off by heart but forced herself to re-read the paragraph, neatly highlighted in places by the author’s broad, yellow marker.

Expressionless, she glanced back at the seated Owen, relieved the distracted look that had haunted him moments before had vanished: Once more he seemed alert but if anything, more wary. She glanced again at the closely typed lines and moistened her lips. No matter how often she read them, the psychologist’s comments left little room for any doubt.

‘Yes.’

He couldn’t believe how it all sounded so clinical and matter of fact now. For thirteen months his assignment to the army, working with the fledgling Iraqi intelligence unit, had brought all the usual dangers and excitement; but the car bomb incident had cost the lives of his friends and left his damaged. Since then he’d had plenty of time to think about the future; and the thought of being stuck behind a desk held no allure whatsoever.

Grace Crombie sighed inwardly and replaced the paper in the folder. ‘And your plans for the future?’ Once more the eyebrows rose expectantly.

Owen unclasped his hands and shrugged. ‘Until the paperwork comes through I’ve been assigned to a Close Protection Training Unit at Longmore,’ he paused, waiting for her to comment. Crombie merely nodded, allowing him the opportunity to expand. ‘They’re currently setting up some more in-depth briefings on counter terrorism,’ he continued with a barely suppressed hint of resignation. ‘Such is this brave new world we find ourselves living in; everyone is now keen to have their drivers and bodyguards up to speed on all the latest thinking.’ He looked out the window. A frown crossed his face before he added quietly. ‘After that…?’

‘I imagine it’ll be very different to what you’ve been used to?’

‘True,’ he nodded in agreement. Owen looked back at the Assistant Chief Constable, his guilt causing the frown to deepen. Why couldn’t he just tell her the truth? He was going to be bored shitless; and at thirty seven years of age there would be few other options open to him. ‘There’ll be plenty of spare time that’s for sure; and that’s not a luxury I’ve had before,’ he added softly.

‘Would you consider staying if I could offer a return to another form of active duty?’ the ACC‘s face remained impassive but he knew she was watching, waiting for some reaction. ‘Maybe something more in line with what you’ve been used to…?’ Grace Crombie let the words hang, hesitating briefly before continuing. ‘I must emphasise,’ she said, ‘I’m not asking you to go back to intelligence work as such; but…’ another short pause and intake of breath, ‘there are other areas where your, let’s call it more recent experience and expertise could prove very useful.

‘Actually, of late I’ve been thinking more of a small farmhouse in Italy,’ Owen replied defensively, thinking of his pension and the attractive lump sum that went with it. ‘Maybe grow grapes or something? Anyway,’ he looked up sharply, ‘I’m led to believe recent events wouldn’t exactly work in my favour?’

‘That’s something we can explore later.’ The ACC smiled mysteriously, ‘but now,’ she looked at her watch, ‘we’re going to have some lunch… and meet a friend?’ Before he could react she reached over and placed her hand on his, her bright, green eyes softening with her smile, ‘and I think the grapes might wait for another day.’

~

The hollow chimes of the bells somewhere above announced another fifteen minutes had elapsed. Owen placed his free hand on the small, wrought iron gate marking the steps leading from the choir into the south aisle. If the church followed the basic design of being built in the shape of a cross, somewhere nearby on the opposite walls, two passages would lead off the main hall and one at least would have an exit. That one he knew, would be the Albanian’s obvious objective.

Still fearing a surprise attack, he stopped and scanned the centre aisle peering in both directions as far as he could see; but there was nothing. No sound, no movement. The situation was getting desperate. If he retraced his route, he could simply wait for Felix to reappear from the building in due course; but that too threw up all kinds of problems?

The decision was made for him in that instant. Without warning Felix’s troubled figure materialized only a few meters to his right. Owen’s finger tightened on the trigger but before he could move, the opportunity was lost. Seemingly oblivious to Owen’s presence, the Albanian had dashed between the lectern and stone pulpit, disappearing in seconds behind one of the church’s many supporting pillars. Owen clenched his fist and rapped his knuckles against the wrought iron in frustration. He’d been right. The bastard was heading for the nearest passageway, one leading off the aisle on the south side of the choir somewhere beyond the transept. At the end of that corridor would be a door; and beyond that, freedom!

‘Fuck,’ he muttered, was he going to lose him after all? ‘Another…,’ somewhere in the blackness ahead he heard a heavy handle being rattled followed by a faint cry of frustration. Owen’s heart missed a beat as he felt a sudden exhilaration. Felix had reached the outer door and found it locked or jammed.

‘Okay,’ he straightened his body and smiled grimly, ‘you’re mine, you bastard!’

~

Carefully positioning the knife alongside the fork, Owen’s sigh was one of genuine regret as he pushed the plate away. Only a small part of a most generous serving of shepherd’s pie remained despite his valiant effort. Away from operations in the field, he was constantly fighting a secret but loosing battle with an ever tightening waistband; and even now the meal was starting to lie heavily.

‘Enough?’ the ACC smiled across her clean plate.

‘The old adage of eyes being bigger than the stomach springs suddenly to mind,’ Owen nodded briefly at the remains of his lunch, ‘but that was certainly very good.’

I found this place quite by accident some years ago,’ Grace Crombie leaned back and looked around the empty dining room. Owen, ignoring the first rumbling protests from his abused body, followed her gaze. He nodded in quiet appreciation. At least the heavily oaken, low slung ceiling was devoid of the glistening imitation horse brasses and pseudo pewter tankards, which in recent times had become an essential element of all tourist expectation throughout the city.

‘Believe it or not, it’s recently been acquired by an American living here in London.’ Crombie paused, waiting until she had his full attention then smiling unexpectedly at his momentary embarrassment.

‘You’ll like him I’m sure,’ her eyes glinted mischievously as she fingered the menu, ‘Now, Banoffie Pie?’

‘I thought you were going to offer me a job not kill me off with gluttony? Owen laughed, recoiling in mock horror. ‘No, seriously,’ he raised a feeble hand in protest, ‘a coffee would be fine.’

~

Like the rest of the city’s inhabitants, the people of the fourth Arrondissement had enjoyed the exceptionally mild, late-November weather and around the carefully covered market stalls, windows of the curious, eclectic mix of old shops interspaced with new, trendy boutiques remained brightly lit.

Above the diminishing pedestrian flows, beads of lights decorating the almost leafless young oaks punctuating their protective iron grills; heralded by way of their incandescent streams, the onrush of another festive season. With daylight now a recent memory, only a few, hardy and determined souls refused to abandon their wicker tables, content under the hissing, overhead heaters offered by those few cafes remaining open for business.

Most, walking or sitting nearby, stared quite openly at the strange, breathless figure, emerging unexpectedly from the side entrance of the old church. Felix ignored them. Wasting no time, he half ran, half stumbled across the cobbled surface of Place Leon Paul. To the intrigued onlookers, it was obvious the stranger’s deformity was the cause of his curious, stooped gait, but the shock-white hair and pale, almost deathly pallor more than anything drew their attention to his conspicuous and somewhat disturbing appearance. Openly transfixed, Felix’s audience couldn’t be expected to know, hardened by years of ridicule and cruelty, the subject of their study had long since been oblivious to such pitying or suspicious stares.

Reaching the far side of the square Felix paused briefly and looked back. Satisfied no one was following him, the hunchbacked Albanian pulled awkwardly on the hood of his dusty jacket. Hair and head concealed, he bent low and ducked into the narrow, bricked passageway that would take him back to the safety of the busy river.

~

The aroma of Jamaica’s finest Blue Mountain coffee lingered in the space between them. Against one wall, synthetic, flickering flames curled lazily around a realistic log feature, whilst the ambient, electronic crackling was curiously reassuring. From the comfort of the half moon armchair Owen found himself admiring this modern ‘sondé et luminaire’ under the original smoke blackened beams of the former ale house.

‘Quite a treat,’ he said approvingly.

‘I’m glad you enjoyed lunch,’ Grace Crombie responded, ‘I thought it might…’

‘Actually I was referring to the coffee,’ Owen interrupted. ‘This is now very hard to find,’ he added, ‘but yes, the food was also excellent.’ He patted his stomach gingerly. ‘I just need to remember that when the indigestion kicks in later.’

His host laughed and once more they lapsed into a comfortable silence, any residual feelings of awkwardness completely gone and for a few minutes they simply took mutual enjoyment in one of those rare moments where conversation is quite unnecessary.

Owen frowned at the sudden interruption. The first heavy, spattering of rain dispersing against the heavy, leaded glass intruded on their self imposed solace. The skies beyond the bowed window had already darkened, promising them a wet journey home.

‘Time to talk business,’ Grace’s tone was unexpectedly formal. Easing forward, she refilled both cups with the dark, aromatic liquid. ‘I said earlier, I believe we may be able to find you something more suited to your particular talents and expertise?’

‘We?’ he asked quickly, ‘as in ‘we’ the force? I’ve been away from the police for some time you know.’

The ACC sipped her coffee. Her eyes dropped away as she carefully replaced the white, bone china cup precisely on the centre ring of a matching saucer. Using the nearest napkin she dabbed her lower lip. Owen noticed a trace of peach lipstick remained on the crisp Irish linen. He watched as she refolded it, almost as neatly as before. Replacing the seamless, white triangle on the polished surface of their table, she finally looked up and answered his point.

‘Not exactly,’ she said meaningfully, ‘but you might like to think of it as an extension to your more recent employment.’

‘If it’s private security…?’

‘Nothing like that I promise,’ she sounded almost too anxious to reassure him. ‘We’re a small group of let’s say ‘academics’ - a ‘think tank’ if you prefer, one which is quite well placed to monitor the activities of those who might fall outside the normal scrutiny of either the police, or the country’s security services…’

‘Criminal?’

‘On occasion yes…’ Crombie’s brow furrowed, she resented being hurried along or any needless questioning, ‘but much less frequently than we find in the rest of the population.’

‘So what makes them so different as to deserve the special attention of this think-tank?’ Owen moved his chair closer, suddenly intrigued. ‘It’s beginning to sound a bit like Marvel Comics stuff.’ Grace Crombie’s smile returned and he noticed her eyes were once again, unusually bright.

‘I don’t have to tell you we live in dangerous times Jonathan. Terrorists and criminal organisations are a constant threat to the good order of our lives. They seek to exploit every weakness we have and, when opportunities present themselves, do us real