Assignment

10/05/----

“S -?!”

“Sir?”, comes the reply.

"I've brought you in for a special assignment."

"Sir."

This comes as no surprise. He's good and he knows it. So he gets a lot of "special assignments". It makes him feel good, in a way. As much as he feels good about anything; as much as he feels.

- hands him a plain folder. The usual drill. It will have details of the target and information deemed useful to the particular task at hand. Being S- that usually meant assassination.

“You may open it here” comes the surprising order.

S pauses, but then does so: it’s an order.

There isn’t much just a couple of photographs, an itinerary and some personal details: M.-. “Wait a minute, that’s the same name as …”. As realisation strikes, - nods. “Yes.”

S looks suspiciously at – “Am I being set up?” he thinks.

Perhaps he is not as good as hiding his emotions as his instructors had him believe. Either that or – has anticipated this; to be expected for one in his position, in actual fact. Regardless, the explanation is forthcoming without further ado. Although it leave him sceptical. And not a little annoyed.

“Buy a present?!!” He almost loses control and swears, but checks himself. Perhaps the trainers did a good job after all.

“Yes, that’s right” continues – “I want you to find out what my wife wants and buy her a present. It’s our –th anniversary in a few months’ time and I want something special, memorable.
“And before you ask” come the replies to his yet unasked questions “Yes, this is a high priority mission; yes, I do have the authority to give it to you; and no, you may not refuse it or take any time off sick.”

Now while it may have occurred to S that these were acceptable thoughts he would never, never, refuse an assignment. And as for pretending to be ill! It is this which annoys him more than the trivial task he has been given.

“If that’s what you think” comes the resolution, “I’ll make sure I do the best damn job ever!”. Or perhaps that’s what – wants all along. No matter. It is decided.

- has given S his home address as a starting point. Sensible. Against protocol, of course, but given S’ capabilities in this area it would be pointless to hide it. A sign of trust and maturity that he appreciates.

He sets to work.

The photographs show a woman, early 40s, he guesses, who, to be frank has let it slide a bit. Not that she had much to slide in the first place, he reckons when he first sees her in the flesh.

She holds a middle-management position in the city and leads what can only be described as a pedestrian life: drives to work in a slightly sporty, but not macho, woman’s car, does her job, has lunch at her desk, occasionally with business colleagues, goes home and meets her husband from time to time.

“I’ll buy her a life” thinks S, bitterly.

There’s nothing to go on, and it’s been two weeks.

Two dull, interminable, boring weeks. He’s getting a little out of shape and he needs to be 100%. Anything less and he won’t be taking any more assignments, just a trip to the morgue.

Then one Thursday afternoon, at 15.15, he strikes lucky. In a strange kind of way. She leaves the office and he follows. “A client to visit,” he thinks and considers blowing his cover, being taken off the case. Sod his commitment, there’s more to life than this.

He does not give himself away, however, but follows her discreetly; to an hotel on the outskirts of town.

His mind has already played out this scenario and he wonders if it will be the lovers’ tryst; people can be so predictable: it’s what makes them easy to kill.

And there he has it: the bored middle-aged woman and her toy-boy in the bar together. Not that they’re particularly passionate or rushing off to “Mr and Mrs. Smith’s room” for a hard, guilt-filled but conscience-muted shag. No. They’re just talking. But as they’re in plain view, it makes it easy to take pictures and even pick up a half-used glass for prints.

Not that this will be in any report he’ll be writing. Not yet, anyway. There’s a long way before it gets to that: if ever.

Still, he’s found the perfect present, hasn’t he? What man wouldn’t want his wife’s lover killed? That’ll put her in her place and a secure home is a happy home.

Background checks. Always dull. But that’s what the moles are for. Those geeks who want to be James Bond but who would never be. Still, their enthusiasm for the necessities of trawling through government records and making connections with all sorts of insalubrious groups more than made up for their bad jokes and fascination with…all things geeky.

And this time. This time, they’ve done well. J- asl and so forth. A feast of information.

But there’s something not quite right. Something’s nagging him, a voice in the back of his brain. Soon resolved. J and M have the same surname. So that’s it. A mere coincidence. Which turns out to be more than mere coincidence: they’re related. Mother and son, no less. “So – has a stepson”, S thinks. “He must know because in our line of business you don’t even go to a new restaurant without having it checked out first.”

So he’s back to square one. But at least M has interested him again.

So he watches her more closely. Less as a target, more as a personal challenge.

He begins to notice things that would otherwise have escaped him. The changes in her hair colour after each visit to the salon, the way her boss always seems to find something for her to do at the worst possible moment and the way she handles it: with resignation but good humour. He notices how – and M interact. Not like they’re in love. Not even like friends. Just like partners. But people who work together without collaboration. He notices the way she accepts –‘s put-downs in front of their ‘friends’ with good grace, despite her obvious discomfort and how she looks and moves on what is now every Thursday afternoon: so full of life and vitality for a few short hours before the trials of life weigh her down again.

He realises that it’s not her who’s dowdy: it’s everything else. She’s just fine, more than fine; it’s just the weight of her life that drains the colour from even the brightest blouse she wears and makes her shoulders droop in apparent defeat.

He remembers his assignment, his promise and vows “I shall get her an unforgettable present. The perfect present.”

Even assassins have hearts. Cold and blackened they may be, but this was not always so. A newborn heart is a beating heart and it rejoins with a different beat to that of the 50 bpm machine.

"Everyone's an individual" he thinks "and they should be treated as such. It was only proper. Yet everyone should be treated equally. A conundrum very few could reconcile within the tangled, traumatised, blooded mess they called their 'self' ".

He has a memory. This so strange for someone who has been trained to forget all, yet remember every detail. Like closing one eye and losing those few degrees of perspective.

But this is a real memory; it has a time, a place: character. It is not the rigid, angular data that he would recall in standard format and then file away, compressed, under 'completed'.

He remembers - . There is no name although she had one; many, in fact.

He remembers how he felt when he looked at her: gossamer, spun from ageless silk, so gentle and soft, yet so strong, enduring. How the air seemed to be afraid to touch her, reverent, begging approval to approach and know the joy in her touch. How the li - "Enough!"

Some memories should never be enjoyed, never be remade.

He shivers and drifts into a side alley.

He wants to get her something. A token. A keepsake. A...remembrance.

"Please. Don't forget me. I was here. Once. I need you to - ". Was that it? Or just a part? Just a part:

"Do you know how you make me feel? Do you have any idea of what is happening within me? And without? I wish I could show you, just for a second. Then you'd understand; I know you would. I wish I could lead you inside. Physically. Take you and join you to my beating heart; my life-givers combined.
"But I fear for you. I fear the passion that grows with every beat of my heart, the blood surging like angry waves against those defiant rocks. And were you there beside or even before them I know you could not stand as you would; much as you would wish. The first wave would break you and you would be helpless; the second would drown you and all hope would be gone; the third would bury you.
"You are strong, but you are too precious. To risk over a whim; anything.
"And so I must show my feelings in another way for I too, cannot contain the beating waves within myself."

* * *

It's never an easy task, but he sets to it. A task is a purpose and a purpose is a good thing. He sets foot on foreign soil. He tries assistants, relatives, friends. He tries it all. He looks and looks and - nothing. What can he get her?

Chocolates? She likes them, she'll enjoy them and remember and be pleased: her thank-you circling his head like a giddy star before sinking down into his shoulders - an epaulette for sweetness.

But no. They're not a present. Not a real present.

Jewellery? It has a permanence that many other things, flowers, underwear, a manicure don't have. But like so much it's cold, hard, easily turned into the forgotten.

A puppy? She's often wanted another - a replacement for the last. Think of her reaction: the squeals of delight, the incessant hugging and tugging and stroking. She'll be a young girl again: re-living innocent days.
Maybe. The fact is she's not a girl and the initial flare of enthusiasm would, perhaps, be tempered by stolid realism. That's one for another day, when they can choose...together.

The search consumes him, eating into him, his time more and more as the failures line up like Christmas drunks against a relieving wall.

It starts off as an hour a day, a little foray into town rather than a visit to the pub "Not today lads. Just a one-off. Y'know!". One becomes two, becomes every. Shops, internet, memories, he's ransacking everything just for a clue. At home, at work, at college. It impinges upon his consciousness.

Some come close. Real close. At times he wants to take one, it'll 'satisfice'*. Guilty, he'll buy them all. Together they'll add up to what he wants, surely? The lie is cold even before he finishes it, but he pushes it out anyway. Get it out of the way and get on with something, something else; with his search.

Then, when lost in the blindness of his own (perhaps) misplaced desire he had happened upon something. Something ordinary, yet not so. He just happened upon it and it spoke to him; it chose him. It immediately said “-“ and he knew, instinctively that it was what he had been looking for, what she would want. It was right.

This time reminds him of that testing time. Now he knows this one, wants to know this one more, he wants the same. But the thought makes him pause. “This isn’t like then, this shouldn’t be like then” although he recognises much that tells him it will be otherwise.

He knows what he’d like to get this one. He’s seen how – is treating her and knows how unhappy he makes her. And with -s' benefits….

They train you to think the unthinkable, you know. To think it and do it. If that’s what it takes to do the job. So these thoughts are not at all strange to S. Not at all. It’s part of his trade, this invention. The difficulty lies in the practicality, not the resolution; that’s been made and now all he has to do is complete his assignment.

Still, it seems Fortune favours him. – calls him in for a progress report. Progress? What does he expect? S tries to explain that it is a different kind of job to what he’s used to doing, but – is having none of it. “Three weeks. Or I’ll have to put you on review.”

“Review!?! Might just as well shoot me,” S thinks “ I know what that means!”

But now he knows what he’d like to get this one. He’s seen how – is treating her and knows how unhappy he makes her. And with his pension….

They train you to think the unthinkable, you know. To think it and do it. If that’s what it takes to do the job. So these thoughts are not at all strange to S. Not at all. It’s part of his trade, this invention. The difficulty lies in the practicality, not the resolution; that’s been made and now all he has to do is complete his assignment.
-
Not an easy task. Work would be impossible, for obvious reasons and – is a home/work person. Home being almost as secure as work. He knows he’s been picked up by the cameras, but that he’s being ignored; on –‘s orders. But if something were to happen to him there….

20 days, 19, 18,17…this time he’s feeling the pressure in more ways than one. Now it’s about self-preservation of a different kind and he decides he’ll leave it as close as he can before he settles on his fallback plan. The stakes are too high to be a perfectionist on this one, much as it hurts him to think like that.

Five days and he goes to B-. It’ll max out his credit cards – plural, but he decides to buy the diamond necklace and earring set: a safe bet that no-one will ever think of as such cause they never do where money’s concerned.

Two days to go and he’s had enough. He’ll admit defeat tomorrow and hand over the jewellery. He’ll get the money back, -‘ll will have ‘his’ present and he can get back to normality. “F…ing -!” S realises just how much they hate each other.
It’s not stated, of course, but he realises that it’s there, it’s always been there. The distasteful looks, the muted sarcasm, the shitty, shitty assignments that he always gets. – must be jealous. “I can understand that,” thinks S, “His day’s been and gone and soon I’ll supersede him in the organisation as well as all the other ways I do already.”

Before tomorrow comes, however, today must run its course and even though there are only four hours to go, - decides to call him in ‘for an update’.

When he gets there, he knows something’s amiss. – is agitated. More than usual. He doesn’t even bother with ceremony “What the f—k have you been up to?” comes the immediate cry as soon as S enters the room.

It’s easy to lie when you’ve got a cover story you’ve rehearsed and a whole lot of ‘proof’ to muddy the waters of truth, but when you don’t and when you know that the person asking the questions doesn’t want answers, because they think they have them, they just want to put you through the mill, it’s a different situation.

“Wha-?” is all he can manage before – turns his monitor around and S sees his recordings of M and J at the first meeting he observed. “But surely – knows about this?” he thinks while at the same time cursing himself: “Of course – will be getting jumpy, of course he’ll be curious, won’t he? And even though I’ve kept the files secure, who could get my passwords overridden?”

“Who’s this with M? How long has this been going on? What else is there that you haven’t told me?” The questions are accusations thrown rapidly like darts, precise and piercing.

“I-“ is all S can muster before he’s falling, twisting, dodging.

“Shit! He’s quick!” is the thought as his overtrained reactions take him out of harm’s way and the paper knife that was aimed for his heart, scraping down his left arm instead.

The second lunge is almost part of the first, fluid, agile, deadly. But S is ready and his block is intended to protect and disarm. It does neither. Somehow instead of falling to the floor, the knife juts out of –‘s chest and he turns back from unlikely assassin to the unwieldy lump of weight S has always considered him to be.

________________ _________________ _______

Internal affairs are surprisingly quick and …well, understanding about the whole affair. In fact in only 6 months S finds himself in a new position: in –‘s old office, old chair. He’s been there 3 days and he’s finding he quite likes it. More than he thought he would.

And he’s got access to most of –‘s old files. Not all, though, some have been removed and some are locked, but he gets to read more than he should: someone’s been a bit careless. “Damn geeks!” he curses, while pleased that he’s getting the lowdown on some…interesting stuff. There’s one file that he wants to look at, of course – his own, but he can’t find the password to that one.

He looks at his watch: 11.50. Ten more minutes and he’ll have his own secretary. Someone new; the old one was, understandably, too distraught to be able to work there again.

He tries a couple of the words he's tried before: M, J, his own name. No luck. His mind wanders and he thinks of his assignment: the present. He still has it. In his draw, in fact. He takes it out and examines it. So costly, so precious, so pointless. Just like a life. Just like..., he wonders? He types in ******.

And he's in. So simple, yet so difficult!

Then he knows disappointment: the file isn't about him but -. Oh well. He reads out of boredom. It seems - was more than he made out. In fact, he had been under surveillance for....Boredom turns to interest to fascination. No?! Really?! The case seems as clear-cut as any he's seen. And - knew it. He had this information since the 09/05/---- and it was only a matter of time. A matter of time before he was charged, tried and convicted. And that would be the end of his cosy life, his cars, his mansion, his...ah! Pension and death in service benefits? And the date for his arrest was even noted - the day after...ah ha! He was a sly one, wasn't he?

S grinned. He might have hated -, but he could appreciate his ingenuity, his foresight, his sacrifice even. For that's what it surely was?

The intercom buzz interrupts his reverie and S presses the button to open the door.

He swivels to greet his new secretary: "Wel-..."

And in walks M - .

Reference:

* taken from a source that I can't remember - some social scientist type bod. (good referencing, huh?).