Æquinoctium Ch. 03

Go outside and take the note out of the envelope. The paper is UV sensitive. You have about thirty seconds to memorise the phone number on it before the sunlight blackens it. At the station's south-eastern side are public telephones. Snort not, they will fulfil their purpose. Use one to dial the number. It leads to a virtual relay station, cloaking your real position. Despite this, do not use the clean phone for it!

Denise eyed the exotic apparatus sceptically. There was a row of them under a common glass roof, no separate booths. Still, privacy issues were not to be expected. Were people even allowed to still use one of those? In her current flat she hadn't even bothered to install a landline. Denise picked up the receiver and granted herself a moment of doubting. If she pulled this through, she would be a huge step closer to the point of no return. If she did not - then what? Begging Gabriel to give her life back to her? Testing how much water she could inhale strapped to a sloped table?

She punched the numbers in. Odd digital sounds piped up, then silence, then the usual dial-tone. Then a slightly puzzled male voice.

"Operator, JCTO?"

Denise swallowed hard and took a deep breath. JCTO. Joint Counter-Terrorist Operations.

"This is Denise Carlisle. You may be looking for me."

The sudden change of the operator's tone and hectic noises in the background, soundtracked by unintelligible voices going back and forth, told her that she'd guessed correctly.

"Yes, can you-- would you please wait a sec...?"

Another period of time went by, its duration slightly embarrassing for an organisation with a four letter acronym.

Then a second man addressed Denise, and with far more composure.

"Good morning, Ms Carlisle. My name is John Wollny. Please tell me how I may help you."

"Who are you, exactly?"

"I support the dialogue between parties in situations like this."

"Then please support my dialogue with the Housekeeper."

"Ma'am?"

"The gentleman who interrogated me two nights ago."

"I'm sorry, Miss Carlisle. I'm afraid it will take quite some time to--"

"Listen, Jacky-boy: I may be ginger, but I'm not blonde. Someone surely has him on speed dial. Make a bloody effort!"

They will attempt to hook you up with some well-spoken negotiator, somebody specialised in talking you into and out of things. Insist on speaking only to the Housekeeper. That way we make sure he stays tied into the case. Your disappearance has left him in a tight spot, and he is more likely to act rushed. Don't hesitate to be bold.

It took another couple of minutes - in which the JCTO of course tried to trace her call - until the Housekeeper's voice finally found its way through the receiver.

"Ms Carlisle, rather unexpected to hear from you. May I ask how you have managed to call on a secure line?"

Denise felt the muscles around her larynx tighten, almost choking her. Clearing her throat, she pushed all timidness out of her voice.

"What chance did I have? You never gave me your card, just leaving me in that cell all hot and bothered."

"The sooner you decide for a reunion, the less bothersome it will turn out for you."

Gabriel had been correct. The Housekeeper didn't waste time on power words like "support", "help" or "please" to develop a relationship. Instead he employed a toned-down variant of the same aggressive approach he had tried to browbeat Denise with before.

"Still no luck with your search for the Tristanium, I've heard?"

"That's one topic we will have to discuss, Ms Carlisle. After all, you are a relevant person in that matter."

"I'm always glad when I can be of assistance. Say, I stumbled upon two-thousand kilos of what you are looking for, would that tilt the discussion in my favour?"

The Housekeeper's voice kept its tone, but sped up just the tiniest fraction.

"What makes you think that?"

"Female intuition. Thirty-six hours ago you creamed your trousers by the sole mentioning of that stuff."

"Where is it?"

"Doesn't matter. But I could be motivated to tell you where it will be at midnight lest evil forces get their hands on it. Now what can a good law-abiding citizen expect for such a noble gesture?"

"What do you want?"

"Full amnesty sounds good. I trust you can have the paperwork ready by tonight."

"No way. You have to give yourself up."

"I have already outstayed your welcome. If I gave myself up, it would only be to the police, and only for something not even remotely related to terrorism."

"We don't negotiate with terrorists, Ms Carlisle."

Denise reckoned the negotiator (sic!) next to him was having a heart attack over the subtleness of this remark.

"You don't have to - that's the beauty of it. You will be the hero who has secured the Tristanium before the bad guys even got their fingers on it."

Denise could almost hear his gears working at the other end of the line.

"I have to make some calls. Would you excuse me and hold on?"

"But of course."

The negotiator took over again whilst the Housekeeper set forth to seek legal guidance. Mr Wollny immediately engaged in damage limitation, smoothing the waters his successor-turned-predecessor had churned with his more invasive angle. And he was good, really good. Like during an out-of-body experience Denise was able to witness herself being lulled by all his understanding and connecting. In the nick of time she interrupted the mellifluous flow of words.

"Hear that sound?"

She held the receiver in the general direction of the station forecourt, then realised she might have been a bit too over-enthusiastic and that some JCTO geeks could determine her location from background noises.

"Heard that? That's the sound of a T-bomb not detonating in the heart of the city. I've done everything within my power to keep it that way, so you better make an effort!"

If the negotiator was taken aback by her controlled outburst, he had no time to express it. The housekeeper tuned in again.

"Ms Carlisle?"

"Still here."

"'Improper storage of hazardous material'; one year on parole, a four-digit fine. The prosecutor will take the deal if the complete payload is handed over. If there's a single gramme missing, it's off."

Denise paused for a moment, pretending to consider his offer. She did need the pause, though. During the ten minutes the Housekeeper was gone, the phones of important persons had rung. Persons who had watched her whole case from behind the curtain. Persons who had decided about her fate in the blink of an eye. Sort of pardoned her at will, but with every pardon a crime was presupposed. She hadn't even been officially accused of anything yet!

How could she put herself into the mercy of such a shadowy system? Luckily, she hadn't to.

"Alright. Expect my call to this number with the when and where at 11:45 tonight."

"No. Here's how this will go down: First--"

"Toodles."

Denise hung up.

And make sure to leave a lasting last impression, Ms Carlisle.

With a sigh of relief she dropped against the wall, knees weak and trembling. What the hell was she doing?! Denise jumped as the mobile chimed. Pulling herself together she checked the display. Unknown caller. But then again, who could it possibly be...?

"Hello?"

"Ms Carlisle?"

"No, sorry, she took the rest of the day off."

Gabriel emitted the audible pendant to a courtesy smile.

"Your talk went expectedly well."

"I take it you listened in?"

"I did indeed. I really liked the 'hear that sound?' part. Added a nice edge to the conversation."

"I do what I can. Now what?"

Her sarcasm was smoothly ignored by Gabriel.

"Now you may prepare for the nightly events to come and will therefore receive a new batch of objectives..."

I assume you have found your day quite exciting so far, Ms Carlisle. Hence a phase of recuperation is well-deserved. Cross the forecourt and head down Market Street.

Market Street she knew! Prada, Bulgari, Yves Saint Laurent - perils without number for her bank account. Denise followed the semi-pedestrianised street south, and even in her pre-occupied state the shop windows held a strong allure to her.

In due time you will reach a merchant of electronic compost and pre-branded individuality. Avoid eye contact and turn right. After some hundred metres you will encounter the Pheasant.

Bearing west behind the oh so fittingly described all-glass Apple Store Denise found herself in a lovely narrow side street, occupied by small shops, a photographer, and finally the aforementioned restaurant. By now it was close to lunch time, and the wee tables under the awning were attracting a rising number of guests. A duet of waiters was looking after their wishes with servile speed. Parallel to the Pheasant's entrance a small corridor led her into the building. A propped-open door to the right allowed access to a storage room, but Denise climbed per instruction the steep stairs at the end of the hallway.

On the first floor you will find a door without a handle. Hold your new phone in front of the lock to open it.

Indeed the mobile acted as an electronic key and granted access to a tiny flat, basically a single room with a kitchenette and an adjoining bathroom. The main room's sole window was covered with a dark plastic film. Denise opened it to let in light and fresh air. Not that there was much to see to begin with: a bed, a table with chair, a wardrobe. Walls and doors covered with foam absorbers. The view outside wasn't exactly spectacular, either. The window opened to a concrete courtyard surrounded by chimneys. Rubbish containers indicated a connection to the street. Left to the window a metal contraption, not unlike a lightning rod, ran up the wall. From its shaft a wire had been threaded through the wooden frame, with its bare leads ending near the table. That, the sound proving, the blackened window - might this humble domicile have been one of those eerie numbers stations back in the day? Denise pushed herself away from the sill and immediately inspected the small refrigerator next to the sink. It was empty save for two bottles of water. Not cool, Gabriel.

Try to rest. I will call you at 23:00 to give you the details for the transaction.

Eleven tonight would be three-quarters of an hour before Denise in turn was to instruct the JCTO. She hadn't been told anything so far, presumably so she could not give vital information away under duress. Not a nice line of thought, but coherent from the spy angle. She had developed a working theory about the when and where, though.

When would most likely be midnight, thus giving the JCTO a mere fifteen minutes to move into position - maybe enough for a rapid response team, but certainly not for anything capable of surprising Denise's new masters. The where was a bit trickier. It had to be a public place that was more or less deserted at night and allowed control of the area without exposure, with few direct entry points, but many escape routes. And last but not least, it must be suitable for a 40-tonne semi. Denise had drawn clues from some of Gabriel's expositions. About the JCTO having become "over-enthusiastic" in its search for the payload and developed a fixation on Irish vessels. The area around the harbour, then. Either to sweeten up the whole humbug for the Housekeeper and his associates, or to stick it to them.

Might be a long shot, but better than nothing.

She put her handbag and the phone on the table and slumped onto the chair. A second later she grabbed her bag again and retrieved from its depths the melter. Keeping it up in her hand, slowly turning it, Denise pondered her options. She had no idea what Æquinoctium was up to. She had a very clear idea what the JCTO had on the menu. She would be a pawn at best and a scapegoat at worst. If she kept following Gabriel's Italic orders, that was. Maybe it was time to moonlight a bit...

"Okay, ginger-mug, think! If you were--"

First of all, ginger-mug should keep quiet. Chances were high this place was bugged. Maybe she herself was too, or she was carrying a tracking device? The Housekeeper had no reason to put one in her belongings, and even if, Gabriel's mates had surely scanned them before bringing them to their headquarters. But nothing would have hindered them to implant a dirty little helper of their own into her stuff.

With new-found diligence she went through the content of her bag, excavating crumpled tissue papers, overdue parking tickets and an impressive amount of make-up paraphernalia. Next the Gucci product itself was examined, yet every leather surface, every lining, stitching and rivetting presented itself flawless. Same went for her court shoes. Heels and platforms showed no signs of manipulation, neither did the inner soles. The rest of her attire was dealt with most quickly - it was designed to accentuate things rather than hide them.

Denise gaze fell upon the clean phone. Well, that was a no-brainer. She had to leave it behind for her little excursion. Yet she needed it tonight, and she could not re-enter the flat without it. Quietly she opened the door to take a closer look at its lock. It had no latch, only a deadbolt that retracted by use of the mobile or of the handle on the inside. An electric sensor-thingy in the frame made itself important when the door was closed and triggered the bolt again. Sure, she could keep it ajar. But if this system was anything like the one in the safe house, it could be remotely operated. Which implicated some sort of status feedback. Denise then checked the landing in front. It was tiled, no carpet or door matt to hide something underneath. No fuse box or fire extinguisher to stash the phone behind. Plus, Denise was unsure as to how precisely Gabriel and his killer satellite hacking fan girls were able to triangulate the mobile's signal.

Imprinting herself with the fact that overlooking details like this could cost her dearly, Denise produced from her handbag two items the existence of which she only was aware of thanks to her previous inspection. The credit card styled pass to her former gym back in Chicago had been expired three years ago - two years before she even had purchased the bag it strayed in -, but its relative sturdiness was all she needed. The second piece of equipment she recovered was a stick of chewing gum. She unwrapped it and shoved it in her mouth. Maybe chewing on it might hold the feeling of hunger at bay that had been rekindled by the manifold aromas waving up from the restaurant. The silvery wrapping found a new home around the gym pass, and Denise pressed the makeshift conductor against the sensor. To her utmost surprise the circuit was indeed closed, and the deadbolt snapped out. A short beep confirmed that the electronics believed to be in lockdown.

"Ha!"

And in her civil life she couldn't even get the copier working!

She used the chewing gum like a piece of tape to fix her invention into position. Very proud with herself Denise strolled back into the room, noisy on her heels before draping her Louboutins on the floor. She freshened up in the bathroom with the water running full force, drank some of it as soon as she was sure the pipes had been rinsed, then threw herself on the sagging bed.

"11 p. m. - hope you don't set me up, Gabe."

She adjusted the worn pillow and readied herself to pretend falling asleep, but couldn't resist exploiting the possibilities offered here.

"Why do all interesting men I meet turn out to be gay...?"

<~>

Denise opened her eyes with a slight start. She had actually fallen asleep for some minutes. How did those blokes on TV manage to soldier through for twenty-four hours straight without even a pit stop? Quietly she got off the bed, took her bag in one hand and her shoes in the other and tip-toed out of the room. Once outside she double-checked her chewing gum contrivance. It was working just fine, so she left it alone and set the door ajar. At the foot of the stairs she paused to put her shoes on, yet did not follow the corridor out of the building afterwards. Since the incident with the suited man Denise was pretty positive to have eyes on her. She slipped through the propped-open door on the ground floor and crossed the storage behind it. After negotiating steel shelves full of delectabilities she found herself in the rear section of the restaurant's kitchen. Two cooks were plying their trade closer to the front, their backs turned to her. From all sites Denise was attacked by the smell of food - baked cod fillet competed with caramelised mushroom; smoked salmon on rye bread was waiting on a nearby plate. With a rumbling belly she sneaked her way towards the rear door and jumped back as it suddenly opened. A waiter, dragging a trace of his cigarette break back into the kitchen, stood in her way.

"Oi, what are you doing here?"

Some mere hours before Denise would have been intimidated beyond believe, but dealing with the dreaded phone call and the surveillance issue had put her in the zone. She pulled her office ID card from her bag, yet showed it for too short a moment for the waiter to catch any details.

"Siobhán O'Paddy, Health Department. You are not the manager, I suppose?"

The waiter shook his head, a gesture distinctively lacking the verve of his initial "oi". Nothing to strike fear into the heart of the gastronomical brotherhood like a visit from the big bad inspector.

"Of course you are not. Please fetch him for me, sir."

"Why?" he attempted as a last stand.

The two cooks had uneasily shifted their attention towards the little scene, so Denise went all in. She wiped the tips of index and middle finger along the inside of a random pot and presented the non-existing residue they'd gathered to him.

"Because I want to talk to him about this...!"

The food soldier swallowed visibly and made haste to report to his commanding culinary officer. Denise flashed her contact lenses against the cooks who quickly minded their own business again, then she flit through the back - yet not without stretching an arm back inside to grab a piece of salmon from the plate.

<~>

As surly as Gabriel's boys were observing the old numbers station, the JCTO was mooching about her own flat and office. Gina's place was too hot also. Well-hidden in a squadron of Pilates moms Denise entered her fitness centre and made it to the front desk. The girl with the neat bob cut behind it she knew by sight.

"Hi there."

"Hello, how may I help you?"

Denise shoved her longsuffering handbag over to the attendant.

"Can you please contact Ms Freiberg that she left this in the locker room?"

"Of course."

Bob Cut took the bag, and Denise repaired to the vitamin bar where she hoped to stick out the least. Plus, she was thirsty again and still hungry. The bar was also an acceptable vantage point, allowing her to watch how the front desk girl made a short call with one hand on the Gucci piece. Ms Regina Freiberg - Ginny to her friends - would reply that she wasn't missing any of her belongings. But she worked not too far away, and soon enough her fierce curiosity would get the better of her.

Denise just finished a protein shake that was pale-green in both colour and taste as Gina entered the building. She, too, went straight for the counter. Of course she recognised her best friend's handbag at once and started to scan the gym for a cute redhead. Said person had to perform some slightly awkward gestures until Gina had finally spotted her. Denise mouthed "locker room" and took point.