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six | warsaw

six | warsaw

a beloved symbol portrayed in countless statues and murals across the city, the Mermaid of Warsaw, Syrenka, stands naked and proud, wielding a sword and shield

JAKE

May 6th, 12:41 (GMT +2)
9 days until it happens

"ANDERSON," I GRUMBLE into my mic, "What have you got for me?" I take a chomp of my hamburger, swiping a serviette as grease dribbles down my chin.

The hectic noises of the office churn in the background. "Nothing, brother." A lewd chuckle, "I can't believe you called on that bird Petra. You know that bloke Freddy from accounting? He told me he heard from Hugh who overheard Ron tell about how she let four men stick their–"

I rub my temples, drowning out the indelicate details. It's early afternoon, and the pub I'm sat in is still relatively vacant, which is ace because I need some space to think properly. "Harry. Do you think I have time for this nonsense?"

Harry Anderson is a bloody brilliant computer engineer, but he's also an utter knob.

"Just be careful where you warm your todger, alright mate? I know you have chicks in every city across the globe, but maybe just lay off the fruit cake for a while."

Speaking of sweets. Petra makes the most scrumptious Polish coffee cake on the planet. Anderson thinks I paid her a visit to get my rocks off. But my phone's GPS app was showing that a certain CSIS agent had followed me all the way from Belarus, and I just couldn't help but toy with her a bit. Especially after the cheeky little thing tried peeping on me at my hotel this morning. She's slippery, I'll give it to her. If not for the bug I planted, she might've actually given me a right decent chase.

I drown a few chips in tomato sauce and scarf them down with a swig of my pint. "Tell me. Why was Giles monitoring my comms yesterday? Where the bloody hell did you scamper off to?"

Harry lets out a long, aggravated groan. "Oh, don't get me started with that rubbish. Those bloody Mounties have been attacking our systems all week. They don't sleep or eat or shit or anything. I've been running around trying to mend the holes, but our firewalls are getting buggered every second."

Those Canadian bastards. How very unpolite of them.

"Oh, by the way," Anderson adds with a laugh, "Did you hear that Victoria Dalton hinted she thinks whoever finds Cassidy should be knighted?"

My cheeks puff with air. Huh. Wouldn't my father be absolutely chuffed? (Sarcasm, in case you were too daft to tell.) Permanent and severe disappointment is ingrained into his character. Even if I won a bloody Nobel Peace Prize it probably wouldn't rile him.

"I'm gonna hop off. Just ping me if you find something, yeah?" I hang up and twist to crack my neck, the stress gnawing at my tendons.

The telly above the bar is broadcasting the BBC. The headline piques my attention. I ask the barkeep to crank up the volume.

They're interviewing Elias Dalton outside his Westminster townhouse. Pudgy, blond, clean-shaven. He sports a fine, bespoke suit, three-grand minimum. A reporter asks him why he hasn't just used his considerable wealth to fulfill the ransom demand. Surely his daughter's life is priceless, and five billion dollars is a drop in the ocean for him. I study his face as he replies. Something about his expression doesn't sit right with me, but I can't quite put a finger on it.

Into the microphone, he explains in his slick Canadian accent, "My strong, sensible wife Victoria and I came to the difficult decision not to barter with these terrorists. Instead of injecting such a large sum into the hands of criminals, we'd rather invest that kind of money back into the economy. Incentive for our national security agencies to do everything they can to bring my baby girl home safe."