No Time For Heroes (My Modern Epoch) Preface: Once Upon A Time In Paris… Jack Morris always kept his wits about him and never walked into any situation without knowing exactly what to expect. This was an exception and perhaps the only exception to that rule in his entire life. The outside of Le Antoinette appeared to be legit with its red, white and blue facades and overpaid bellhops at each door. His slicked back brown hair and professionally tailored suit did not stand out among the crowd of hoity toity French patrons. Except for his accent and demeanor, Morris blended right in. For extra measure, Jack looked himself over in his car window. Clean, that was how his suave personality was best described. Smooth from head to toe. He tossed the keys to the Agency’s red Camaro at a twenty-year old valet, who caught them with unenthusiastic agility. The valet barely moved before Jack had him by the wrist. “It only takes one scratch,” he warned with a scowl. “Oui, monsieur,” the valet agreed without taking notice of Jack whatsoever. Passing through the swirling glass doors of Le Antoinette, Jack waved off two more bellhops; who were about as eager to help an American as Jack was to be in Paris in the first place. The phone message on his secure line was still fresh even after a twelve hour plane ride from the States. He knew that he should not have come, especially without some sort of back-up. Jack glanced down at his watch. 9:01 pm: right on time. He made his way to the front desk and spoke to the blonde receptionist standing behind it, “Excuse me. Can you help me?” “Oui, what may I do for vous?” That was one of the only things Jack liked about traveling; the accents. European accents especially, and when combined with femininity his icy heart melted. In just those few seconds his mind already had its way with this French Vixen and moved quickly back to the task at hand. “I need to find the lounge. Can you point me to the correct area?” “The sitting room is down the hall and to the left, monsieur.” “Merci.” “Is there anything else you need assistance with?” “No. That will be all.” On his way to the lounge, Jack began to notice things again. Little things that nobody else ever thought about seemed to jump out at him; each of these telling a different story. To his trained mind these details were as obvious as the alphabet or basic math to a normal person. For instance the small stain on the collar of one bellhop’s shoulder spoke of a small case of drinking on the job, while the subtle hiding of a ring finger by a passing brunette said: for money, not love. It was amazing how much people divulged without even knowing it. To catch onto these hints took great cunning and skill; a training that took Jack the better part of his life. The rest came from experience. Finally, he came to the lounge entrance on his left hand side. He took another glance at his watch which now read 9:04; perfect. Jack waited another few seconds in the hallway before entering and immediately spotted his target: sitting at a rounded back table with two filled glasses sitting on top. The man saw Jack and waved him over to take a seat. It took less than twenty seconds for Jack to cross the room and begin his descent into the chair, but in that time his mental radar read over his host: sixty to sixty-five years old, he smoked cigars not cigarettes due to their more refined quality. The eyeglasses were worn to give an impression of feebleness even if it was not true. The gentleman was definitely of the wealthy and powerful end of the social spectrum; was a foreigner and well traveled, and, most importantly, waited in that very spot for the last few hours. “Agent Morris, it is wonderful to finally speak with you face to face. I judge that your flight was uneventful. However, you have surprised me with your tardiness. Did I not say 9:01?” “Came just late enough to see if you were going to be here first,” Jack replied, keeping close watch for sudden movements from the old man whose snide refined accent pulled on his nerves. “And to see if anyone else was coming,” the old man smiled, “Ah, just like a good agent of the government should be; ever observant and constantly on guard. Trust me Agent Morris; there is nothing to fear here besides an elderly man past his prime. Though your typical American paranoia is welcomed.” “Not trusting people is how I’ve stayed alive this long.” “Touché. Please have a drink. I took the liberty of ordering for you some time ago.” “I’ll pass.” “The French do not take kindly to the waste of their best liquors.” “Like I said, not trusting people is how I stay alive.” “Your loss, Agent, your loss. Now, shall we get to business?” “Sure, let’s start with who you are.” “You should know better than to ask me that, Agent,” the old man grinned again and took a sip from Jack’s glass, “Not telling people my name is how I stay alive. But, if you must call me something I suppose the name Becker is adequate for now.” “All right… Becker. How did you get a number to our secure line? Only the Agency has those numbers, and not everyone in it knows them.” “I am a man who knows much, Agent. As you notice and observe, I take the next step; to know. Let me explain myself,” at this moment Becker revealed a brown briefcase and pulled a manila folder from it, “Your name is Jacob William Morris. You live in the outskirts of Washington D. C. with Michelle Baker, your lady friend of eight years, and a two-month old German Shepherd pup named Sammy. You started your career as a low level Agent peon, but got lucky. Now you work as a government bloodhound who is an expert at tracking down those who don’t want to be found. Have I missed anything? I could give you your social security number next if you like?” “Impressive. You’ve done your homework. Are you MI-6? FSB? Mossad?” The uncanny information that Becker presented completely caught Jack by surprise, although he would never show it. Becker chuckled and pulled two cigars from a pocket inside his gray jacket. He offered one to Jack while the other went to his mouth. Jack turned this gestured offering aside as well. “I’ll leave it here in case you change your mind,” Becker said as he lit his own, “What makes you think that I am an agent?” “Your secrecy, mannerisms, place of choosing and ability to blend in…” The old man let out three puffs of smoke and grinned yet again, “Ability to blend in?” “Yes,” Jack replied while his eyes did a quick scan around the room for the tenth time since he sat down, “At first I thought that you were here for several hours, but I was wrong.” “Oh?” Becker inquired, enjoying his guest’s moment of epiphany. “These people know you.” “Could I have paid them?” “No,” Jack continued, “You’ve been here for several days, weeks even; getting to know them. They like you because they think you are from around here, but you’re not. Your French accent is just that good.” Becker applauded once Jack was finished, “Very good, Agent. I do believe that I have chosen the right man for the job. However, you were wrong about one aspect of my profile.” “And what was that?” Jack felt uneasy again. “I am not an agent as you once suspected. Espionage and spying are not my forte. That is why I need you, as it were. You see Agent Morris; I represent a contractor of sorts that is made up of some very powerful people. Lately our interests have hit a snag…” “Stop there,” Jack interrupted, “I don’t do contract killings.” This time Becker belted out laughter until he was able to regain himself, “I fear that you have completely misunderstood me. I do not condone murder at all. It is a deplorable action that my contractors and I do not want to take any part of. What we need is for surveillance to be done on those who may disrupt our operations. We are not asking that they be ‘taken out’ in anyway, quite the contrary, we want you to find them and convince each of them to take an offer from us. Most of them will not come easily, so I recommend you find something to hold above each of their heads so that they will come as voluntarily as possible. I have written contact numbers in their folders for each of them to call, if they accept.” “Who are they?” Jack felt more relieved than before. “Well, besides members of the before mentioned organizations…” Becker answered as he pulled thirteen more manila folders from the case, “There is a Medal of Honor recipient, a convicted mass-murderer, a hit man for the Italian mob, an assassin for the Yakuza crime family, a ‘holier than thou’ killer roaming somewhere in your country, a Ugandan genocidist, a Muslim terrorist in Turkey, a gang-banger in Miami, a good ole boy Aussie mercenary, a guerilla soldier in Uganda, and a retired drug lord muscle hiding out in the badlands of Mexico.” “Quite an entourage you have there. What do they have in common?” Becker reclined in his seat, “That is something that you will need to find out. This is only the first part of your assignment. My benefactors are a bit stingy with their funds so they could only offer you three million for each of the thirteen that you are able to bring in. There is plenty more where that comes from once you reach the second part of your assignment.” “Enticing… to say the least,” Jack replied, doing his best to remain completely void of emotional response, “How do I contact you to make sure you pay up?” “Call this number,” Becker instructed as he slid a piece of paper with the phone number written on it across the table, “It is 522-524-7337. A personal line of mine, so that I will know exactly who is calling. Does that mean I can count you in, Agent?” Jack Morris prided himself on playing it safe and never taking unnecessary risks; it was after all, what kept him alive. However, every man has his price, and Becker certainly found his. Government wages were on the down turn, even for a man in Jack’s position. The more than generous offer from the little old man would be a welcomed relief. For Jack, trust was earned slowly over time. He did not trust the cigar smoking antique sitting across from him, but the invitation seemed genuine. If the old man was tricking him, his senses would have registered it by now. Against his better judgment, Jack extended his hand to Becker and their eyes and hands met in agreement. Later on, sitting in first class on international Flight 206, Jack dreamt that he had just made a deal with the devil.
Posted on: Sun, 06 Oct 2013 00:25:26 +0000
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