Mac Macdonell

 

Loire region of France.

​

 

It has rained all day, and all his aspirations are washed away.

Only the few, naked, bare-backed boulders that lay strewn around the fringe of the trout pond appear immune to it, seemingly oblivious and untouched. Mac knows differently. He understands that they are scrubbed by the eons. Eroded. Tainted by the same brush that human activity has wiped across the canvass that depicts the modern world. He pushes the notion from his mind. He knows where it will take him. There is a pathway in his mind that leads to drunken despair, the gate of which he mostly manages to keep firmly shut.
He sits beneath a large umbrella. It is angled up at the front to allow him a view of the float of his fishing lure, but otherwise, it’s fabric almost touches the soggy earth. Protecting him from the elements. Isolating him from the world. The rain clatters in comforting harmony upon it. The raindrops are the only thing to disturb the fishing lure.

Even the trout are subdued and disinterested.

He regards the small picnic basket that Emerentienne has prepared for him. Lifting away its blue and cream chequered tablecloth covering, all the aromas of this new life fill his senses. Despite the allure of ripe cheese, meaty garlic, and freshly baked bread, he selects only the silver flask that contains his favourite English tea, and he reclines looking out at his new reality, uncaring if a fish decides to bite, allowing the luxuriously hot liquid to slide down his throat and warm his empty belly.

Emotional gates have names on them, and he permits himself to consider some of them.    

The horror of his recent torture.
The agony of the slashing of blades and the vile trespass of gunshot wounds.
The memory files containing all the abuse and dismay he has been forced to witness in his long and troubling career.

And then he allows himself to smile at his own foolishness.

The rain cannot wash away his aspirations. This instant, along with all the other wonderful moments that come hand-in-hand with this new life of his, is everything he has ever aspired to. Like the writing on the wall that the rain washes down, he too, is gradually cleansed. The memories are diluted. Fading. The anguish suffused.

It’s an epitaph greater than anything he could have ever hoped for. And he will fight tooth and claw to preserve it.

 

 

 

 

                                                        Sara Dufoe

​

 

The Frank Family home, Switzerland.

​

Sara sits opposite Harold Frank, separated by a small, highly polished wooden drinks table upon which rests two glasses of Courvoisier XO Royal. It is late Autumn, and the open fireplace lends the dimmed room warmth and subtle light. Just enough so that Sara can see Harold’s features. The man is getting on in years, but he has that slender, regal darkness about him that renders him eternally attractive. Just like his son, Gustav. The wine from which she takes an occasional sip is amongst the most expensive on the planet. A few, well-informed people would know that. However, there are far fewer individuals who know that Harold Frank is by far, the wealthiest and most influential person to have ever existed. By comparison, the Pharaohs, had they a pyramid or two situated close to the Frank Family home, would have definitely been the poor neighbours. In the two years that she has worked for the FO, Sara has come to realise that their real power is their ability to appear totally innocuous.

Harold lifts his brandy bowl to his nose. He tastes it carefully and, regarding her from above the rim of the glass, he says, ‘Busy two years.’

‘Busy. Rewarding. Intriguing. Occasionally frustrating,’ she admits.

‘That’s about to change. You have changed. I’m not just referring to your identity. I have witnessed your growth. I’m very content with what I’ve seen and heard.’

‘This is only the fourth time we’ve met since I joined the FO,’ she smiles.

‘You understand enough about me to know better,’ he smiles back at her.

‘I do. I also know that you like to get straight to the point.’

Harold laughs gently before replying, ‘Just two more things. How does it feel, living a new persona?’

Sara expects both questions simultaneously, but Harold’s pause is long enough for her to answer the first, ‘As Sahara Desserres, I lived in almost constant expectation of danger of one sort or another. Living beneath the umbrella of the FO feels safer and to be honest, it has allowed me to discover things about myself that I might not otherwise have done so.’

‘Such as?’ Harold urges.

‘I am influential. I can exert that influence not just because of how I look, but also because I have learned to speak with authority. Knowledge and wisdom beget authority.’

‘Is it ever justified to kill to maintain that authority?’

Sara takes a moment to consider those people she has known who have killed. Men like Mathew Price and Mac Macdonell. She asks herself if they were justified in taking peoples lives in order to maintain their own authority. She doesn’t need to consider the question for very long. ‘Absolutely,’ she replies.

Then she takes a sip of cognac. It is both smooth and demanding on her palate, ‘Do you want me to kill somebody, Harold?’ she adds.

Harold regards her for some time, ignoring her question. Eventually, he says, ‘May I ask you to place your glass on the table?’

Sara raises her eyebrows in surprise. It was not the reply she was expecting. She reaches down and places the brandy bowl on the surface of the table.

Harold reaches into the inside pocket of his black dinner jacket and retrieves his mobile device. ‘Jean has already programmed this for me. Apparently, all I have to do is hold it close while it scans.’ Harold is referring to his brother, Jean Frank, who is the scientist of the family. He leans forward and holds the device as if he is taking a close-up picture of her glass.

‘That’s got it.’ He reclines back into his plush armchair, still looking at whatever it is that is on his phone’s screen. ‘Does that feel like regular glass to you?’ he asks her.

‘Er… yes it certainly does,’ she responds, confusion causing her slight hesitation.

‘Watch the glass carefully.’ Harold taps at the screen of his phone.

Sara looks between him and her glass, wondering if the old man has finally lost his marbles.

‘Watch the glass,’ he insists.

Sara does as she is told. At first, the glass seems normal. Then, quite suddenly, it completely changes shape, transforming from a round bowl into a square shape. Just like a square-cut whisky tumbler.
She cannot quite believe what she’s seen.

‘It’s not glass at all. It’s called Bioplex. In a sense, it is a living organism. We can programme it to be almost anything we want it to be. It’s almost indestructible,’ Harold tells her.

‘Is it safe to pick up?’ she wonders.

‘Perfectly. And it will taste just the same.’

Sara picks up the tumbler. Except for the shape transformation, it feels exactly the same as before. She sniffs at the cognac and takes a small taste of it. The wine has been unaffected by the transformation.

‘Huh,’ she says.

‘The world is about to be transformed in a similar way,’ he tells her, simply enough.

She considers his words. Harold Frank does not say such things lightly. If he says that the world is about to change, he’s not talking about innovations such as the motor car or television. He’s talking world-order changes.

‘How long?’ she asks.

She sees Harold relax. It was exactly the right question. It says, I’m onboard. I’m yours.

‘Faster than you might imagine. We do not plan any sort of global domination. On the other hand, we cannot deal with opposing idealisms. For the time-being, only a few, select countries are invited to the table,’ he smiles, grimly.

‘What do you want of me?’

‘While Gustav is working hard with our European partners, I need you to concentrate on two, key players. One of them is Israel, the other is Mauritius.’

‘An odd combination,’ she points out.

‘Nothing to do with the other,’ he assures her. ‘First of all, I need you to approach the Israeli minister of science, Adam Bitton.’

‘The brief?’

‘We are in the process of gaining control of CERN,’ he confesses.

Sara finds it hard to smother her surprise, and she does so by asking, ‘What has Israel got to do with CERN?’

‘They are Member States. They contribute to funding on the basis that CERN employs their scientists.’

‘You want to buy them out. May I ask why?’

‘A by-product of the large hadron collider is hydrogen anti-matter. Shortly, this will become a commodity. One that we intend to strictly control.’

‘You don’t want the Israelis to have access to it because you’re frightened of them using it against their enemies?’

‘Not at all,’ he laughs, ‘Israel already has access to all sorts of terrible weapons. It’s more of an idealistic issue.’

‘Harold, you’ve used that expression more than once. Not even you can control different ideologies.’

He regards her without comment. It was a stupid thing to say. Harold Frank controls whatever he elects to control.

‘Very well,’ she changes tact, ‘how do I get to him and what can I offer him?’

‘We can arrange a meeting. However, in this instance, I’d prefer a more subtle approach. I believe you know of a woman called Hanna Price?’

‘Yes, she’s the mother of Mathew Price.’

‘She is also the former lover of Adam Bitton.’

Sara blinks a few times to clarify her thoughts. ‘You want me to approach Hanna and get her to set up a meeting for me.’

‘Is that so ridiculous?’

‘I suppose not,’ Sara agrees. ‘If I can get a meeting, what can I offer, and what exact outcome are you looking for?’

‘I want Bitton to convince his government of the wisdom of severing its ties with CERN. After all, Israel is at war on several borders. It needs the funds.’

‘What about their science teams already in Europe?’

‘We can guarantee them of continued research elsewhere,’ Harrold assures her.

‘That’s achievable. Do you want me to draw up a plan for your approval?’

‘No. Let us keep this between ourselves for the time being. I am going to temporarily base you in Geneva. You’ll be close to me, and report only to me.’

‘What about Gustav?’ Gustav who had once been her lover.

‘Gustav will be based in Germany. Which brings me to your second objective.’

‘Mauritius. One of a group of islands in the Indian Ocean,’ she recalls.

‘Exactly. We have negotiated a long-term lease with the British government to occupy one of the few remaining islands under their control. It’s called Diega Menor, and we intend to use it as a hub for certain technological developments.’

‘I was under the impression that the islands in the Indian Ocean were at risk due to rising sea-levels,’ she points out.

‘Which is why the British leapt at the chance of getting some cash for the lease.’

‘What do you want me to do?’

‘Mauritius contends the UK’s claims to the island. Right now, we have someone negotiating with the prime minister out there, but he’s making a hash of things. I want you to handle it.’

‘No problem. But might I ask why you’re interested in a group of sinking islands?’

Harold smiles. He tells her, ‘Because they won’t be sinking.’

Sara takes another swig of cognac. She regards the old man sitting opposite her. He appears so benign. So humble and understated. So genteel and mild-mannered. Eventually, she laughs and says, ‘OK, I’ll bite. Surely, not even you, Harold, can stop global warming,’ she states.

Harold smiles back at her. His eyes are bright and sparkling with intellect. His charm is almost irresistible. His smile turns into a gentle laugh. It is not one of irony. It’s not one of self-appreciation. It’s a laughter that is full of optimism and joy.

Harold Frank says, ‘Just you wait and see.’