CHAPTER 54

CHAPTER 54

GREG WAS ESCORT to MI6 Headquarters at Vauxhall Cross, where a custody room had already been prepared for him.

Vauxhall Cross is home to Britain's Secret Intelligence Service, which took over the occupation in 1995. To the staff who work there, it's known as "Legoland". The building cost one hundred and thirty million pounds to build, it became famous when it appeared in the opening sequence of the James Bond movie, "The World Is Not Enough". It's a modern fortress, boasting bomb-and bullet-proof walls and windows, and supposedly a wire mesh to keep out electromagnetic information. Much of the complex is below street level, to protect the most sensitive areas from terrorist attacks, while its internal layout is covered by the Official Secrets Act.

— I hope our facilities are to your liking, Mr. Evans, — said Charles Smith mockingly.

— So this is the famous one, circus?

— An unfunny joke by the author of 007, Vauxhall Cross is also affectionately known as, 'Babylon on the Thames', need I explain why?

Greg shook his head in the negative.

— I've slept in a five-star hotel, as well as slept on the floor, it doesn't matter to me.

The investigator pulled out the chair and he sat down, Greg immediately saw some puncture marks on the table, he knew better than anyone what it was.

— I believe these handcuffs are unnecessary.

— You are an elite policeman, Mr. Evans, will be treated as such.

— I appreciate the compliment, but my pseudo elite is intellectual. Chances are, if I even think about trading punches with any of your team, I'd be the one to take the damage.

— I see, that's why you cowardly killed one of our best cops, didn't you?

— All is not what it seems, Agent Smith.

— Everything is as it is, Mr. Evans, you killed an innocent man, caused a power outage downtown by trespassing on private property, I'm sure if we start digging up more stuff, they're sure to show up. It's easy to be the best in the world without having to be somehow good, isn't it?

— Feel free to look around, and you're probably right, maybe even from experience.

Charles Smith, who had a white, almost albino skin color, turned red with rage when he was interrupted.

Igor came in and said uncontrollably.

— What do you think you're doing with this man?

— Who gave you permission to enter here, Zumerick?

Igor didn't answer, Smith took a deep breath and went back to being the arrogant old man he always was.

— Blessing, Father — Agent Smith said mockingly.

— Let him go immediately. — You are our guest to solve this crisis.

— Nice guest they've arranged, isn't that right? — This man steps on this sacred ground and takes the life of an Englishman, I don't know in his country, but here it is a crime and will be judged as such.

— You'll regret it, Smith, write what I'm telling you, this man is innocent.

'He shot Benjamin Morant in the head in front of the Prime Minister, what's that called?' Explain to his wife the lipstick mark on his underwear? Oh! Forgive me, I forgot that priests don't know what that is, don't you, Zumerick?

Agent Smith made the sign of the cross and chanted in Gregorian chant:

— Aaaaammmeeeeeeeeeeemmmmm.

— I'll get you out of here, Greg, don't worry, I'll talk to Prime Minister Hughes and we'll sort this out as soon as possible.

— Good luck... but... he's here exactly at his request, I don't know if that will solve much of anything.

Igor looked at Greg who nodded.

— Oh! I was already forgetting one important thing, Zumerick, they asked you to get off the case too, that's no longer under your jurisdiction, then leave everything you've got on my desk, I'll be taking over the operation.

— If you're in charge, you might as well fend for yourself, you bastard.

— Oh! Our priest on duty lost his temper...?

— I haven't lost anything, you've only found what you deserve.

Charles saw Father Zumerick leave and another agent arrive at the scene.

— Sir, we have a problem.

Charles put his hand to his head as if he was having a headache.

— Does this problem have a solution?

'I honestly don't know, sir.

Charles looked at Greg and said:

'Is it always like that with Americans too?'

Greg shrugged as if he didn't know what he was talking about.

— Speak up, man.

The agent took a deep breath and tried to keep as far away from Smith as possible, who always had tantrums when he received bad news.

— Benjamin Morant's body is gone.

Smith took a few seconds to assimilate that.

— How come his body disappeared?

Greg looked at Smith's despair and was glad his plan worked.

Now we have a chance to get these motherfuckers...

CHARLES GRIPPED GREG by the neck and yelled,

— Where is he, you fucking American shit?

— Where what or who is? — Asked Greg with the greatest calm in the world, but it was impossible to hide his smile of satisfaction at that moment.

'Don't make fun of me, I'm not in a very good mood today... you heard very well that Benjamin Morant's body has just disappeared.'

— And since I know if I was in your custody, it would have taken a ghost to get me out of the handcuffs and miraculously show up at the morgue and disappear with his body, don't you think?

Agent Smith felt like an idiot in that instant.

— What do you know about this?

— I already told you that things are not as you think they are, other than that I can't say much about the fact.

— Can't or won't?

— I can't speak at the moment and for you, I just don't want to, simple as that, Charles.

Charles Smith lifted the hem of his pants and pulled out a huge Rambo-style knife and stabbed it into the table in front of Greg in an attempt to intimidate him.

— Let's just say I have a way of getting people to talk, Mr. Evans, very special, by the way.

— I imagine so, things don't always work out as we wish, no matter how expert you are. And believe me, Charles, in Vietnam I saw people who really knew how to use that little toy there, you don't even come close to them.

Smith pulled out the knife and ran it lightly over Greg's face.

— Ever heard of Finger Roulette?

Greg had heard, it was a game inmates loved to play to scare or torture new inmates.

Smith placed Greg's hand on the table and tied it with duct tape.

— Keep your fingers wide open, it's for your own safety.

said Smith in a sadistic tone.

Greg complied.

— Let's just say it's been a while since I've played with anyone about this, so I'd appreciate it if you'd collaborate with me, because, you know… sometimes it can get out of my control where the knife point will fall and, zaz! Losing something you think is very valuable.

— You know torture is a heinous crime.

— Heinous crime is terrorism, Greg, innocent people died, what I'm doing is paying back, now... either you cooperate or...

He took the first lunge at the table and the knife caught between his index finger and thumb.

— The fun is about to begin, Greg, it's up to you...

As if by magic, the knife passed between one finger and the other, but it got dangerous when Smith did it while looking at Greg.

— I am waiting...

— I have nothing to say.

— People say that until they find out their skins aren't tougher than this cold steel here, and believe me…you're no exception.

Greg was motionless when an agent walked in and Smith stabbed the knife between his fingers again.

— Can't you see I'm busy?

— Sir, we have a lead on the next attack.

He nodded and motioned with his head for him to leave.

— I will, but 'we' are back — he said emphasizing the knife — and we want to play a lot with you until we have the answers.

As soon as Smith left, Greg thought:

That was close...

***

CHARLES SMITH was one of the most complicated MI6 agents to deal with, any psychological profile that someone could have within the police did not fit him, he was an overtly complicated person and he prided himself on it, from his teamwork to his personal relationships, everything was always temporary. His glories always lasted until the next failure, his relationships lasted until the women knew him well enough that they knew they would never have a place in his life, even his rise in MI6 was due more to missions no one wanted to accept than its competence itself.

Smith was a kind of English Rambo, he always liked to solve things with his knife, however, that caused him more problems than it helped his career, he had never ascended to the command posts in his career, due to his unconventional methods, however, he knew that someone had to act that way, and especially his superiors also knew that and kept him on stand by, for missions where no one liked to get their hands dirty.

During his training as a field agent, his instructor said:

— Gentlemen, to get used to killing someone, first kill a mouse, then kill a cat, then kill a dog, if you feel no remorse in the process, you will be prepared to kill a human.

Charles was the only one in his class who felt no remorse about beheading the poor animals.

He was in many different places and was always seen as a problem for the team, however, he did the jobs that no one else wanted to do, This was how he managed to keep himself, doing the dirty work brilliantly and the simple work dirty.

Arguably, Charles Smith was a lone wolf, he couldn't get along with anyone and in this particular case it was no different, no one from Benjamin Morant's team agreed to support him. After seeing a community committed to its failure, he said:

— I only have one thing to say to all of you... fuck you...!

And he left the room with his dignity in tatters once more.

***

CHARLES SMITH arrived at the London Eye, which was cordoned off by the police, and went to the office where Erick Hughes' guests were staying. There he found a figure glued to the glass.

He analyzed every detail of the drawing and had no idea what it meant.

— Do you already know what that means? — What else do we have here?

— We've done a search and so far we've only found one mention of him, and that's a drawing of...

— William Blake — interrupted Smith — I know very well what the fuck William Blake is... — Your hunch about the attacks being linked to William Blake worked — What else do we have here?

— Only that.

— You send me over here just to show me a fucking drawing of a man who died who knows how many years ago?

The man nodded.

Charles Smith took a deep breath, trying to keep his anger under control.

— Has the papillocopist done his work around here yet?

The man nodded and Charles stared impatiently at the man, waiting for an answer.

— Then...

— Nothing found, sir, all fingerprints were from Mr. Erick Hughes and his friends.

— Including the drawing?

— The drawing is clean, sir, there is no fingerprint on it.

Smith's impatience was already on edge.

— We can deduce then that our man was among the guests, can we not?

— It's impossible to say that, sir... it's a random drawing, maybe someone could have seen it as a decoration of the event, everyone knows that Erick Hughes is a little...

— Eccentric...

The agent agreed.

— So you're telling me that someone might have left this here even before our big boy Hughes' Roman party?

— It is possible, sir.

— And that no one noticed it?

— It's a hypothesis, sir. Bearing in mind that Erick Hughes is widely known for his sex parties, people like that wouldn't pay attention to a somewhat insignificant detail, while having more interesting things going on.

— But we can also interpret this here as nothing, can't we?

— We're deducing from the way the previous attacks took place, that's the only unusual thing we found on the site and...

— And that it has to do with William Blake.

The agent nodded once more.

CHARLES WALKED around trying to think of something, however, absolutely nothing came to his mind, he was lighting one cigarette after another.

I'll get you motherfuckers...

— What the fuck… — he kicked a trash can next to him — have you already collected the testimony of the people who were at this damn event?

— No sir, Prime Minister Hughes wanted to get people out of here as quickly as possible.

— Are he or are we the fucking police? — He said between the among those possessed with rage.

'He's the Prime Minister, sir.

— I know what the fuck he is, you retard…but we can't afford not to do our jobs because someone thinks they're better than we are…at what we do.

Charles Smith took a few steps around himself.

— Get me the guest list and provide the location of each one, I'll interrogate them myself.

— Yes sir, I will arrange it.

Charles looked up and saw the place where the booths had exploded, lit a cigarette and puffed up, thinking what the fuck that drawing meant.

When you think nothing else can happen in your life, this comes...

— I'll get you bastards — he said to himself — nobody comes to my country and does what they want, even if it's the last thing they do in their lives.

Suddenly, Charles Smith hears the sound of iron breaking.

— Smith! Careful... — shouted one of the policemen.

When Charles started to look up, a Millennium Wheel cabinet fell on top of him, crushing him, putting an end to an imperfect career, with yet another beautiful mistake.