THE HIT BACK SERIES (Order From Chaos)

Chapter Five

Chapter Five

                   “In taking revenge, a man is but even with his enemy; but in passing it over, he is superior.” — Francis Bacon.
  
The setting sun peeked from behind velvety curtain of clouds, with its dully forehead streaking the western horizon behind the MI6 building on Albert embankment with a speck of orange. Nicely set up with roughly one hundred, and thirty thousand feet of glass and aluminum on the bank of River Thames, Vauxhall; a south western part of central London. And with about sixty separate roofs, and its largest part below street level; the postmodern tiered building, built in the architectural style of Mayan and Aztec temple was a sight to lay eyes on. However, the most awing feature of this grand work of architectural art was of course, how it seem to grow and develop simultaneously on all sides as you walk around it.
There were only four of them, which was the more reason they had chosen this very technical area on Vauxhall cross, for their gathering. Though not ample as many technical suites of the building, the room was a safe harbor in itself, with its triple glazed windows and electronic eavesdropping deterrence.   
Being a closely knit group, bound to serve as Intelligence machineries to the United Kingdom government, they were compelled to sit under the same roof, to share intel and views, even with their distinct differences and credos.
“Semtex has been found has the core component of the bomb used in the Buckingham palace attack.” Loopy-haired MI6 Chief began in a clipped tone.
“And lucky enough for us, we’ve got a tangible hit through the taggant trace.” His tall, skin-head counterpart from MI5 added as a follow-up.
“Which enemy state comes up on the trace, Director Harry?” asked Director Aaron Drew; a man with clear, blue eyes and heavyset build. He was evidently the oldest in the room and also the Director at the GCHQ [Government Communications Headquarters].
“Oh well, there’s a little twist to the script right there. Believe me people when I say, we’ve been betrayed by our very own, just like Jesus.” Denoting the quizzed expression on the much older man, he quickly added. “Ireland. The Semtex are made by our neighbors.”
“Dissident Irish Republican Army at work, its seem then.” Those words came as a stated fact rather than a guess from the Chief of Defense Intelligence, who leaned back in his seat, stroking his clipped moustache.
“I’m afraid, we can’t be ascertained yet as to who’s behind the attack, Sir McColl.” The MI6 Chief clarified, stirring in his seat to adjust the fit of his suit.
“There’s been no credible chatters, or intel linked to the RIRA to the prelude of this attack at the ‘Doughnut’.” Director Aaron hinted.
“Anyways, with the taggant trace solved, we’re just inches away from the truth.” The MI6 Chief was unyielding.
“Or best hope those responsible come out claiming responsibility.” Director Aaron was quite the optimist.
“The Russians,” Said McColl, drifting away from their line of discourse. “Are they taking all these in good faith?”
“Yes, at least for now.” Director Harry’s answer was curtly unintended.
“In return, they want to be filled in on every of our progress on the attack investigation.” The MI6 Chief shortly added.
“Meaning we’ll share intel with the FSI, FSB, and other Russian military intelligences.” Director Aaron was taken aback by such news.
“We ‘must’ share our intel.” Director Harry corrected. “Here’s more spoiler; they want us to set up a wing comprising of Russian and British elite military intelligence.”
“And you all think this feels right?”
“Nothing feels right Director Aaron. Not at the time we’re in.” Sir McColl came forthwith in his bid to make light of the subject.   
“So, what’re the security measures flesh out for the funeral of the late PM at the palace, Chief McColl?” It was the MI6 Chief that asked this time.
“Aside from the double figures of Queen’s guards that will be on hand at the perimeter. Several RAF’s Alphas will keep a close watch from the sky for about one-mile radius of the palace. And also, we’ll have men from other armed forces, MI5 and MI6 agents crowding the locale.” He explained to their eager hearings.
“If that’ll be all,” Director Aaron said while rising to his feet. “I’ll like to take my leave as I have other things on my plate for today.”
Almost at once, the other men shot to their feet, like some wind-up toys, exchanged the briefest of pleasantries and shuffled out of the room.
[some couple months back] 
Like most pedestrians crowding down the sidewalk through the silty hail of the glorious snowy morning, he was muffled head to toe. Only that, there was something off-human about him. First in his outfit; a hooded sweatshirt and pants, black as the tarred roadway inches away. Likewise, in his black, beady eyes, which stared sneakily and obliquely across the street as he made springily down the walk.
He snaked through the swarm, like an athlete would in a hurdle race; hands tucked in his sweatshirt’s pocket, and his gaze trained anywhere but the way ahead.
Caught unaware, he was bumped into by someone, he couldn’t ascertain was either a man or woman, owing to the fact that, the individual was mantled almost to the brows in heavy quilted clothes. Little worried by the act, he waited for a sorry, which never came from the figure, who passed him without a glance.
Without much in reaction, but a slight shake of his head, he was totally collected once again, drifting through the throngs ever sinuously as a snake.
A while later, he was grabbing at a wall in an alley to right himself, just as a fog of dizziness settled over him, drawing him closer to the cliff of his consciousness.
In his heart of heart, he knew something was amiss somewhere. Which of course, he couldn’t figure out just yet.
Just in time, there was an unmistaken rueful shake of his head, as realization dawned on him in a rash flash.
He should’ve seen it coming, if he wasn’t too wary of being caught on the tape of the streets’ CCTVs. He should’ve felt the graze of a needle-like object against his forearm, when the cloaked figure had bumped right into him. He should’ve also known that there was more to the urgency in the figure’s gait, just after he had dealt this his way. But since he was incognizant, he knew damn well it was way too late to regret.
It was indeed late, he knew in the minutes that followed, all because he had fallen off the cliff and was dropping at a rapid rate to the abyss of his unconsciousness.
He was down on his side on the alley floor, before he felt the jarring impact of the fall, which set his neurons into convulsive motility. After which, his vision narrowed thin.
But before he was plunged into the stygian darkness that drew ever so near by the seconds, he caught the glimpse of a form, smiling down at him with spangly set of white teeth before the world went dark around him.
He was way too lost in that dark chasm to notice or resist two pair of hands that grabbed at him, tugging him into the bowels of a waiting van, which slipped off the alley in no time, almost imperceptible as a mist.
{Present day}
Late in the evening of what had once been a fine but hot summery day, President Mikhail Mayor was taking a stroll through the Rose garden of the White House, watching the imposing Washington Memorial towering against the purplish evening sky in the distance.
Like most every other day, the President was having a private time, enjoying the heavenly bliss brought about by the calmy breeze, while his security details hovered not too far off.
The enfolding stillness and his solitary moment was lanced through the minute his cellphone sprang to life with a ring. While the respite meant so much to him, he knew there were many other things that comes right before his own gratification.
Giving it no further thought, he dipped a hand into his pants’ pocket, retrieved the cell ever-so smoothly and answered the phone at a glance at the caller ID.
“I meant to call you later tonight.” He said on first thought.
“Then I guess I already saved you enough time and money.” The voice on the other end rejoindered with a chuckle.
“It’d seemed I owe you one then.”
“I’ve got some high-priority talk, Mikhail.”
Everything changed right then. President Mikhail who was all-smile in little but a minute ago stopped short in his tracks, and in a fickle change had his face set straight, all humor gone.
“The Russians,” The voice of his counterpart from the UK, who also happened to be a close acquaintance of his squeaked.
“What’s with them?”
“They demand to be loop-in on every of our inquisition into their PM’s death.”
“Well, I think that’s a fair thing to ask, Adams.”
“Yeah, I know. But I’d wager you and I both know this is another way of Kremlin fucking with the West.”
“We’ve this coming a long time, y’know,” He said with the overtones of resignation. “And I’m doubling down Kremlin will press harder till we bleed.”
“We’ve reached a consensus here anyway. And we’ve decided to have a task force with the Russians under the service code name; Section Zero. I just thought I should keep you up to speed.”
“Oh well, that’s some good news, eh?” President Mikhail said in his attempt to make light of the matter. “Thanks for the heads-up mate.”
“Ahem…” The Prime Minister made a show of clearing his voice before he eventually added. “And knowing well they’ve some hidden agendas to sock us right in the face, as an old guard how do you propose we win this war?”
He heaved a deep sigh before giving an answer this time. “I think our only shot at a win this time is to make a good showing of our goodwill.” 
*****
Arnold, trimmed and primmed in a frock coat and acid washed, Denim jean stood before a heavily glazed window—the type you can see through from within but not from without, sequestering himself from his team and their ongoing discussion.
Needing a bout of distance to brainstorm some more on the thoughts prodding at his mind, he’d withdrawn from the exchange, opting instead to stay as far away from the group, huddled round a table in the staging area. 
There’s an answer somewhere waiting to be found, he was positive of that. And all requisite of him was, to dig deeper and look anywhere else but at the obvious. Then, he would get to join together the dots, gleening right in his mind.
If he was right, the blizzard of cataclysms had all began a week or so ago—first, with the massacre of nothing less than three hundred American soldiers in Southern Raqqa. And also, the recent attack at Buckingham Palace, which unlike the first was aimed at the visiting Russian PM.
Even though, the attacks had seemed nothing out of the ordinary, he had the sole conviction that, they’ve been looking into the superficial picture, which had shut them away from the underlying answers to the mystery behind them.
“The British have it that the Semtex used in making the bomb that struck the Buckingham Palace was produced in Ireland.” Aslam, the guy with distinct hooked-nose, and tar-dark eyes was saying, as he took several shorts strides back to the group.
“What if all these are coordinated attacks?” He started a little gibberish and followed with another daring question on the heels of the former. “What if there’s a sort of dark force from the shadows responsible for all these?”
Knowing he had a leash on their attention on cue, he went on. “What if it’s just one and not two enemies out there? And what if it’s endgame is to shred the world into pieces?”
Just as he expected, it took a while for his words to come home. And some more minutes, for the flash of intuition to flickered in their various minds.
“But what dark force goes out the way to reach its goals through all these bloodbath?” Heart-faced Audrey Atwood asked naively. She had her usual free-falling dark-brown hair ribboned in a bun. And her thick yet neat eyebrows slanted otherwise.
“One that’s ready to prove its point without any regard whatsoever for collateral damage, I’m afraid.” He was stunned to see Wycliffe gave an answer to the question directed at him. “Every single attack carried out by our unknown dark forces says it all. But we’ve been preoccupied with nothing to notice the real thing.” The follow-up knocked his socks off outright.
“If I’m really getting a hang on this; it seems we’re zeroing all these down to a lone cause.” Aslam said fluidly, as if reading from a text.
“A formidable one it seems.” It was honey-skinned Esperanza that added this time.
“Now that we’ve got a handle on this,” The COO [Chief Operating Officer] said, standing. “I say we up our game, ‘cause we’re not too far away from our sought after answer.”
*****
Director Wells paid no mind to the soft hum of the symphony breezing through the phonograph. Likewise, the little backchat from the group of well-groomed men and women seated with her behind the cockpit of the Boeing VC-25S of the United states. Instead, she chosed to center her attention wholly on the wave of discussion of her underlings down at Langley oozing through her headset.  
It was one of her many voyage on ‘Air Force One’. And just like every of her previous flights on the Presidential shuttle, this also came as a mission.
The off-the-cuff request to be among the company to escort the President to Russia, in a condolence visit had come in as a bit of surprise. An offer she couldn’t dare decline.
Long into the voyage, she sat a bit more reclined in her seat, gnawing at her fingernails and plainly lost in thought.
There was so much going on in her head. So much that she could barely get a fix on at the moment. So much that the weight of it was bearing down hard on her. And now, she had the feeling she was going to cave in, anytime soon, from the pressure on all sides.
“Sorry ma’am, would you prefer water or a coffee?” Someone was saying to her.
She snapped out of her reverie, and found the bulk figure of a blonde-haired flight attendant hovering over her.
“I hope everything’s okay ma’am?” He asked patronizingly.
“Oh, I’m just fine. I was only lost in the moment.” She waved in her defense, projecting her I-am-damn-alright look. “And what’s it you’re saying earlier?”
“I was asking if you’d prefer a cup of coffee or a chilled bottle of water.”
“Coffee would be nice,” She gave a small insignificant smile. “Black… and no sugar, please.” She hollered after him as he scrammed away.