Exigence Ep. 01

None of it was interesting.

The bathroom was a bathroom, and we ended up back in the store proper. Working from every angle, we inspected the place for signs of violence or indications that the store carried something other than knock-off cell phones and Bluetooth keyboards that'd fall apart after a day's use.

Approaching one of the computer terminals, I switched the thing on. I was no hacker, but I guessed the password might be 'Admin' and got lucky. Scanning through the file structure, I didn't see anything exciting. Then, I heard a click.

"Got something," Skylar announced. She had discovered a button that released a latch. It kept one of the counters in place, and she could slide it across the floor with it disengaged. Doing so revealed a trapdoor.

"Fan-fucking-tastic," I smiled.

We were playing a game I liked. Investigations, guessing computer passwords, finding hidden doors, guns... Maybe I liked it too much, or maybe I liked it just enough to stay alive and keep my edge.

Opening up the trapdoor, Sky made a dry remark about horror movies and Alicia hushed her. My chief of staff was not keen on descending a ladder. It was tactically undesirable. "But we have no choice," she fessed.

There was light coming from down below. We descended carefully, one after the other. The room we entered was obviously where the store owners did their actual business, but it had been ransacked. Expensive components and servers were ripped apart.

The room smelled of electricity and sulphur.

We found four people down there. All of them were dead. Their bodies unceremoniously piled on top of each other.

"Bastards," I muttered.

"It's okay," Alicia consoled. "We'll find another way to crack the device."

I wasn't so sure about that.

07 • Footprints

The following day was the first time Lauren couldn't be found in the kitchen preparing breakfast. I thought I heard arguing from the room she shared with Skylar, but I didn't stop to eavesdrop. It was none of my business.

In any case, I didn't mind Lauren's absence. There was an upside to the tardiness of my chef in that I wasn't hungry and wouldn't have to refuse whatever she'd made. Instead of grabbing a bite, I went straight to the study, keen to ponder my next moves.

The day before had been disappointing as one of our best opportunities was taken from us. It seemed the only way forward was to commence with the long process of building a bespoke computer to decipher the storage device. It would take months, if not a whole year. We'd have to find ways of staying safe while we waited. The Archive's scorched Earth approach was terrifying, but I was confident I could outmatch them in a battle of wills.

We would search for this sheikh, Jaziri Laghmani, but I was sceptical. He seemed like a man who didn't allow intrusions into his personal space. Unless we planned on killing him, he was out of reach.

I thought about killing him, if only because the sight of the four bodies in that basement made me throw up.

I needed new options. Part of me thought about reaching out to Sardonis. The old banker to the world's spies had kept a low profile. He'd been too quiet. Unlike my other enemies, he was irrational and impulsive.

They played chess.

He played his own game.

Now that he'd figured out I wasn't responsible for the death of Wharry, I wondered what he made of me. We were at war, but it seemed there was a temporary ceasefire. If the Archive were out to get the both of us, we might make good allies...

Grabbing my phone, I decided to call my sisters. My brain had to tune out business and strategy for a few minutes.

"Olly!" Tecla answered.

Elle was quick to add her voice and a little contest emerged as the girls competed to see who could shower me with the most devotion. We had been in love since before we became lovers, and I could get lost in our relationship's incredible depth and feeling.

"What have you two been up to?" I asked.

Tecla answered, tending to be more assertive than our sister. "We just hit the gym with Mom, and then took a shower."

"Together?"

"Yip!"

"All three of you?"

I could hear Elle giggle in the background as her sister answered. "I bet you'd like that, perv. It was just Elle and me, and we didn't even play."

"We don't play while our brother's away," Elle added.

I was mildly disappointed. "You know I strongly encourage sister-on-sister action."

"We're still exploring," Tec answered shyly. "Plus, we're yours, Olly. Owned. Kept. Bound together."

"You have quite the way with words," I remarked, making my sister smile on the other end of the line as her twin raised an important issue.

"Mom's not happy."

I sighed, having expected the day to come. "Is she back to her old ways?"

Elle was quick to allay my fears, explaining it was nothing like when we were younger. Eve wasn't back to being the closed-off, enraged and selfish person we'd known. No, she'd overcome those traumas, but now she found herself with a new challenge; one she didn't know how to overcome.

"After 20 years locked in her room, she doesn't know who she is or what she wants to do with her life," my sister explained. "She's depressed."

Tecla added, "It's really a shame. She's never been in better shape. After all the plastic surgery, she looks like someone who should be having fun. She's sharp and fit, but nothing we give her to do seems to hold her interest. Aside from working out, she has no hobbies or projects."

"It's not like she's aiming for anything," Elle concluded. "Sure, she likes the gym, but she's not turning herself into a bodybuilder. She's just there to stay in shape. There's no purpose to her."

I ruminated on the problem for a few seconds. My strategic mind wanted to attack the problem from a different angle. If we couldn't satisfy her by keeping her occupied, she'd have to become happy doing nothing.

Tecla worked, Elle worked, I worked, and even Natasha earned her keep. For people whose wealth was inherited, we didn't lay back and live the lives of the idle rich. It was more than fair that at least one of our family members -- Eve -- got to indulge in leisure and nothing else. But it wouldn't be as simple as just convincing her there's nothing wrong with being without a mission. Oh no, I'd have to give purposelessness a purpose, sculpting a new identity for her. Moulding her into a member of the lethargic class.

While running some thinking by the girls, I spotted the morning newspaper had been laid out on the coffee table. I was surprised to see my name on the front page...

'OLIVER ORWELL'S TOXIC WORLD TOUR'

Grunting, I picked up the edition and opened it up. The article in question was written by a journalist I'd never heard of before, detailing the extreme carbon footprint of my recent world travels. Apparently, I'd been a major contributor to global warming over the past few months. Part of me was even a little ashamed about it.

"Fuck."

"Huh?" Tecla asked on the other end of the line.

Suddenly, I remembered the interview I'd had scheduled with Danika Dalton the day before. Unfortunately, I'd been so busy hunting down the supercomputer that I completely forgot about our appointment. No doubt, some corporate functionaries deflected her questions and requests for an explanation as she sat in a waiting room for hours on end. No doubt, she was pissed. No fucking doubt she fed the story about all my private flights to one of her friends to get my attention.

I assumed environmental activists were already glueing themselves to the Pellinore headquarters as business rivals took out online ads critical of my penchant for big planes and lots of pointless flights aimed at obscuring my actual travel plans.

I explained the situation to the twins.

"I'll handle it," Elle offered, having taken on the role of our plotter-in-chief on matters that fell a little below my level.

"Thanks for offering," I replied, "but this is my mess. I've treated Danika poorly, and I underestimated her determination."

"She sounds like a good shag," Tecla chortled, affecting our cousin's English accent. "If you fuck her, she can't write about you."

"I don't think it'll come to that," I smirked, recalling how Ms Dalton looked at me when we met.

The intrepid reporter was intent on getting her sit-down. Very intent. Which could only mean she had a story -- something big. It might be that she followed the footprints I'd been leaving all over the world, or maybe the Archive were feeding her damaging information. Either way, I had to prepare myself for a showdown.

She'd get her interview, but I would ask the difficult questions. Maybe, just maybe, I could use her to turn my luck around... You see, I thought I had a plan that would kick over the table and scatter the pieces on the floor.

A plan that no one would see coming.

08 • Danika Dalton

Once you realise you've underestimated someone, it's wise to proceed as though you remain ignorant of their true strength. There's a good chance the person relies on downplaying their ability to gain the upper hand.

Make them feel comfortable, but be ready to charge their defences when they least expect it...

"Mr Orwell," Danika greeted, shaking my hand. She seemed somewhat agitated, having already been frisked and asked to leave most of her possessions at the front door. The only thing she'd been allowed to carry into the room was her vape pen, which seemed like her idea of a stress ball.

She wouldn't be allowed to take notes or make any recordings. Simply by accepting such conditions -- which must've gone against her journalistic code -- she showed she was desperate to speak with me.

"Thank you for agreeing to the change of venue," I said, offering her a drink from the trolley in the corner of the room.

We were in a private lounge at the townhouse. Natasha was spending the night at her mother's house. I'd had sent Skylar and Lauren to an all-expenses paid romantic dinner, hoping it could ease some of the tensions in their young relationship. The rest of the staff were in their separate accommodation. As a result, Danika and I had the place to ourselves.

My interviewer had arrived dressed in all black. Her pencil skirt was shorter than necessary, but I didn't hold it against her. She had style, complete with heels and stockings, which were, of course, the most stylish garments any woman could wear. Especially women like her.

Danika was a good-looking girl with platinum-blonde hair, dark brows and a model's body, albeit in a slightly more compact form. Take her legs, for example. They were the legs of a tall catwalk strider, but she was of average height. Her breasts were round, firm, and quite substantial (but also humble enough that she didn't look cheap). At 35, she was ten years older than me, or about the age of most of my girlfriends before I switched from dating strangers to loving my family members more intimately.

Passing her a drink and taking one for myself, we sat opposite each other and spent a moment nodding in silence as we considered the angles we could take. Then we turned to the fireplace. The logs crackled pleasingly, but the flames in my interviewer's eyes burned brighter.

I wasn't expecting an easy ride.

"So," she started, "why are there half-a-dozen government cars parked on your street?"

I played at being ignorant. "Government cars?"

"SUVs belonging to the Foreign Office. I assume the men sitting in them work for MI6."

"I don't know much about espionage, Danika, but I'm pretty sure MI6 doesn't operate inside the UK."

The blonde smirked in a way only pretty girls could pull off. I didn't look at her expression for long, noticing her hands shaking. She was anxious, maybe even a little scared.

Danika hadn't followed in her parents' footsteps, reporting from warzones and revolutions. Instead, she remained in a safe European city, writing stories about nothing particularly dangerous or sensational. Yet, secretly, she wished for more. As she sat facing me, she wanted to prove she could do what her mother and father did. She didn't just want journalistic accolades; she also wanted to feel what they felt. She wanted jeopardy, adrenaline, excitement... Call it what you like.

She was a timid girl looking for a thrill.

"You're a strange man," Danika noted, tenting her fingers. "You are surrounded by even stranger events. Would you care to tell me what you're hiding?"

"I'd rather not, but maybe you can convince me to change my mind."

Uncrossing and recrossing her stockinged legs, Danika seemed a little off balance. I wanted to ensure things stayed that way.

"You've been growing your fortune," she remarked. "Few people have noticed, but you seem to be the richest person in the world. Impressive."

"Who cares?" I asked nonchalantly. "I find those rankings rather distasteful. Don't you?"

"You're hiding something--"

"So are you."

"What?"

Noticing her glass was empty, I offered Danika another drink. She refused my first offer, but I made a second. "I've been trying to cut down," I said, pointing to my Scotch. "You'd be doing me a favour if you finish this off for me."

"Making me drink from your cup," she smiled wryly, reaching out to accept my offer. "The strategies of a master. You must have lots of women."

The remark made me roll my eyes. "Sure. Or, maybe I just don't want to finish my drink."

"You don't like being cast as a playboy heir? Maybe you should work on your reputation. I hear you've been cutting a swathe through the women of the world. I'll never understand it myself... The female urge to entangle themselves with powerful men. We get a kick out of being one of many in an endless harem -- successful women are happy to be courtesans, playthings, pets... Why?"

"Men tend to enjoy polygamy. I don't know why we outlawed it to be honest with you--"

"Some women like it too," my correspondent added.

"Exactly."

I didn't find Danika's questions particularly interesting. They weren't bad questions, but they weren't questions for me. There were no answers I could give. She was talking to herself.

"Men like me are hard work," I confessed. "My appetite for success is insatiable. I used to think everything in life followed a predetermined path; that the trick was finding the best way to take the route fate assigned--"

"It's not an outlook that worked for you," my interlocutor remarked, gaining confidence as we fell into a comfortable back and forth. "Time isn't a straight line for you. You move from moment to moment in irregular beats, out of rhythm and out of sync. You're a stutter in a poem while the rest of the world lives in paragraphs, not stanzas. It's half impressive and half disturbing and must be completely, utterly, devastatingly lonely. You're a living ghost -- a pulsing heart that thumps so loud it deafens crowds but remains buried so deep in your fateless soul that no one can hear it. So, let me ask my first real question: Do you cry when no one's looking?"

Smiling, I rose to my feet and walked to the bar cart, where I picked up a book Alicia had bought at my request. In my hands, I held the memoirs of Daniel Dalton -- my interviewer's father and a brilliant correspondent. I stopped to look at the fire for a moment before sitting down again.

"You have his gift for words," I remarked. "To answer your question... No, I don't cry, but that doesn't mean I don't feel what you describe."

"Sad--"

"Fateless," I corrected. "Tell me, Danika, do you believe there's a path for all of us? I used to think there was a road to be travelled, leading to a good place. But this world is far more chaotic than I anticipated. I've seen and experienced things you wouldn't believe. I've met monsters and saints, emperors and dark princes, and I'm a little tired."

There was a tear in the corner of Danika's eye. She banished it effortlessly, maintaining her composure. Looking at her, I made a decision. Cassandra was right; when cornered by decisions foisted upon you by others, kick over the table and make your move. Surprise them.

Taking my seat, I decided to reveal all. "Soon after I inherited my wealth, I was stabbed in a London nightclub and fled to South Africa. From there, I slowly began to piece together the plot against me being orchestrated by a man named Edward Sardonis, Elizabeth Wharry's ex-lover. Now, I'm battling against a group known as the Doomsday Archive. They collect weapons of mass destruction, among other things, and appear to have infiltrated this country's government."

My interviewer wasn't expecting my revelation. Danika's awe-struck expression told me something had aligned for her. She didn't think I was insane, talking nonsense, unhinged... No, something about what I'd said resonated immediately. She'd found purpose in an instant, and now she was high on the rush. Maybe it was because she had the story she'd always wanted -- the big one -- or maybe something deeper was going on.

"My... My father once spent a month travelling from one place to the next," she revealed. "Edward Sardonis had promised him an interview but kept changing the location. He was going to tell my dad about how he'd laundered money for both the CIA and the KGB. It's a story my dad always wanted to follow up on, but he died before he could finish it."

Watching Danika recall memories of the parents she idolised did something special to my heart.

"Sardonis played both sides of the Cold War," I added. "Eventually, all the money became so intermingled that people lost track. Millions of dollars vanished like change down a seat cushion. Incidental losses in a global game of three-card monte. That's when Liz Wharry bailed out Western intelligence agencies, taking on their dysfunctional assets much like a central bank would intervene to prevent a financial crisis."

"Okay," Danika accepted, "but how does this Archive come into it? What's their connection?"

I shrugged. "Sardonis had all sorts of disreputable friends. All I know for sure is that they had a falling out. He was never supposed to know they killed Wharry, so they blamed it on me. My best guess is she'd been working with them on a weapon but decided to keep it to herself. Now, I have a part of that weapon, and I'm trying to decode it."

"Okay, so you claim the killed Elizabeth Wharry. Her death wasn't an accident? I don't get it... You said they steal weapons--"

"Yes," I confirmed, "but they must be a little bored. We designed the atomic bomb, the hydrogen bomb... All sorts of biological and chemical agents. It seems like every weapon of mass destruction that can be invented has been invented, so I think they decided to make one of their own. They probably don't even intend to use it. They just want to expand their collection."

Danika's eyes were wide and wet with anticipation. "If I pitch this story to my editor, he'll laugh in my face. I hope you have plenty of evidence; otherwise, this article will never get written."

"You're not going to write an article. You're going to write a book."

Danika wasn't sure what to say, so I gave her time to think (but not too much). Getting to my feet, I pretended I had to make a quick call and left the room, giving her a few moments to think through everything I'd said.

I spent ten minutes down the hall, waiting for my offer to simmer. As well as being a negotiating tactic, the break gave me a chance to perform a sanity check. I was committing a lot -- placing trust in a stranger based on nothing but her demeanour and her father's autobiography. If I was going to win, I had to be unorthodox.

A secret society is nothing without secrecy. Publishing their existence in a book would destroy them, but only if the book looked credible. She would need time and resources to collect evidence. But I'd rather have Danika do the legwork than spend my time chasing down some sheikh, waiting patiently as we build a computer that may not even achieve its objective. We could still do it all at once, but I had a feeling she was a sure bet while the other options were 50-50 at best.