Consideration of Tragedies

Consideration of Tragedies

Prologue

July 2002.

Calle Marte buzzed as tourists began their day in glorious sunshine. Children held their parents hands and chatted excitedly walking towards the ashen sands of Playa de Los Pocillos. Hired cars and local drivers politely stopped at a pedestrian crossing allowing a conveyer belt of couples and families to reach the opposite sides. The mixture of airport coaches, taxis and delivery vans added to the busy scene. The volcanic island of Lanzarote was the perfect destination for all ages and celebrations.

Chris and Mary Freeman held hands while perusing rails of sun clothing in Centro Los Pocillos. The small commercial centre had a blend of restaurants bars and souvenir shops shaded under awnings.

“How about this one?” Mary released Chris’ hand. She removed a floral cotton top from a hanger.

“I know we said we will buy extra clothes instead of lugging two large suitcases, but we are on honeymoon,” Chris said.

“Yes, but I promise to only buy something that catches my eye before shopping in Arrecife tomorrow.” Her eyes focused on his taut body. “You need different vests. That light blue one appears stuck to you.”

“I brought two and a few other colours.” He kissed her cheek. “Need lighter coloured shorts though. These dark ones attract the heat.”

Mary’s eyes widened. “Oh look.” She walked along the rails. “You need a hat. Don’t want that lovely dark hair of yours bleaching.”

She took a weaved Stetson from a hook. “This colour suits you. Here, try it on.”

“Reminds me of Uncle Phil.”

“Go on. I think it’ll look sexy on a tall man like you.” Her smile had always won him over since childhood.

Chris placed the straw coloured hat on his head. “Where’s my pistol?”

Mary hugged him. “Where it always is.” Her loose yellow top slipped up her slim pale body.

He patted her behind. “There are children about. Behave.” He put the hat back.

“Hum. Okay, what about along the Jameos prom?”

They both turned and faced the calm sea.

“Yeh. Why not.” Chris looked at his watch on his right wrist. “We can have lunch in Matagorda.”

“Yes. Be good to see Dave and Marie in the Auld Triangle again.”

To the shopkeeper’s dismay Mary hung the floral top back. “We have other sizes inside. Come, look.”

“No, it is okay. We’ll be back later,” Mary said smiling.

The happy couple held hands and walked down steps leading to a tiled footpath.

A local bus worked its way around a roundabout opposite as Chris and Mary reached the kerb. A group of chatty Irish women waited beside them. On the other side of the crossing an elderly couple smiled to the bus driver as it stopped. A Spar delivery van slowed to a stop as one of the Irish women waved a hand in thanks. A car purred in a kerbside loading bay behind the van. The drivers eyes focused on the crossing.

Mary began crossing the road in step with the group. Chris barely a foot behind. Car horns blasted too late as a white Seat mowed into the tourists and kept going. An alert taxi driver eased around the injured people and gave chase. His frantic Spanish words shouting into his base radio. People ran to the scene as the bus and van drivers climbed out to assist.

“Mister. Mister,” the van driver called to Chris. He didn’t reply.

Three of the Irish women tried to assist their friend. The elderly couple reached Mary.

“Oh my god.” The woman held Mary’s hand. “She’s barely breathing.”

“The man is breathing but his right leg looks bad,” the bus driver announced. “Ambulance on way.”

“Gloria are you okay?” an Irish woman asked her friend.

Gloria held her head. “That bastard.” She strained to look at the couple prostate beside her. “Oh my god. They’re dead.”

The van man had taken a blanket from his vehicle and placed it over Mary. The dismayed shopkeeper placed a large beach towel over Chris. Spanish and English words lost in the confusion.

“Where’s the fucking ambulance?” a tourist yelled.

“On its way sir,” the bus driver repeated.

Sirens sounded as two local police cars approached the bloody scene. Four officers climbed out to assist the injured, ask questions and address the increasing traffic problem.

Chris and Mary remained still.

Minutes passed; twenty minutes to be exact when more sirens were heard. Two ambulances were welcomed with multilingual shouts of abuse from observers, helpers, and Gloria.

“About fucking time,” she roared as a friend tried to comfort her.

The paramedics moved to the injured to examine them. Gloria, bent over, was led to one ambulance by a policewoman.

“What kept you? It’s been ages and that fucker has gone.” Gloria cried.

“We are sorry Miss. Something is wrong with emergency service today. A taxi driver had lost the car that caused this. We will get him. It was a hired,” the policewoman said as Gloria was attended to.

“That couple, I saw them at the shop. So happy. It was quick.” Gloria shivered under a blanket around her shoulders. “The car hit the woman and drove over her hitting the man and me at the same time – a split second - now they’re probably dead.”

She saw two bodies wheeled to the other ambulance. One completely covered with a blanket, the other had an oxygen mask hiding the face.

Gloria cried.

**

1

The Latest Asset

July 2003.

Somewhere in mainland Europe.

One man was a late participant to a small conference via speaker phones.

“I do apologise to the group. Family matters. Sorry, that’s the youngster in the background just learning to talk. Did I miss much?” he hurriedly said.

A croaky voice said, “Not at all. Amazing trying to speak at that age. Anyway, we have discussed your recommendations of two new recruits. Her Ladyship has made some good points.”

“Yes,” came a soft well-spoken lady’s voice. “I think your second choice may have a cross-over affect with your favourite recommendation. Some past events in their lives have a connection. Does that worry you?”

The family man breathed heavily. “My connection and indeed, another member’s more so, does have important implications to the tasks we may request of him. After all, he is closely related and as you are aware, may have hidden abilities yet to develop. My second choice will be restricted to data collecting rather than actions. Although that person does have vast knowledge in academia topics.”

“I agree,” a marbled tone said. “As you are all aware, I too have a connection with the second, albeit academic and I thank our esteemed member for his recommendation.”

“I must thank the society for their patience.” A distinct brogue interrupted. “Your first choice, dear friend, suffers in silence. His mind has not settled. He had shown some latent development but has regressed. I, above all, have faith in him as long as our society is in full agreement.”

“I trust your choices,” the lady said. “Though I doubt that their paths will cross, the second choice will be good for our society. We do need more intelligence operatives.”

“Do you agree to permit me to contact other members that could not attend this short conference and inform them of our decisions,” the marbled voice said.

‘Agreed’ echoed.

“Very well. I will draft and send an introductory letter to the two potential assets with a brief outline of why we wish to recruit them.”

A short lady-like cough interrupted him. “Do not tell them too much. If they do agree to at least stick to our rules, we can send them a trial task leaving the ball in their court as to how they perform it.”

Agreements once more echoed followed by phones disconnecting.

**

The Society of Justice’s latest asset laid a padded large brown envelope on a coffee table.

Well, this is probably the secret society’s notification. Very thick.

He breathed heavily and unsealed the fold carefully. He withdrew two white envelopes, one small, one large, and a two-page introduction letter. Placing the unopened envelopes aside, he perused the pages similar to the first letter.

12th February 2004

Dear friend,

We prefer this mode of correspondence due to possible tracking and listening devices connecting to us and our operatives. A fact that we are aware of owing to some of our manufacturing outlets. Please read carefully and reflect on the words within.

Firstly, we must point out that this is not a begging letter. Treat it as a cry for help from those who still grieve and suffer injustices. Known as The Society of Justice, we are a group of concerned independent world citizens not without influence and with extensive resources representing victims of injustice. The society’s amenities are at our operatives’ disposal, including passport and monetary exchanges.

Our research on subjects and operatives suited to each task is guaranteed to be accurate on date of issue. None are aware of names or places of residence of other operatives; therefore, autonomy is paramount to all tasks. In other words, all work alone.

To date, not one of our operatives have been involved in mishaps or caught by authorities. We do reach out to people who may have small parts to play to assist our operatives in completing their tasks. Their assistance cannot be traced back to either the society or individual members. All expenses are covered. Our operatives have been researched; therefore, there is no need to forward a current wage scale. This society is not for monetary gain, it is for justice.

As you are aware from experience, many crimes have gone unpunished through the fault of red tape, dysfunctional investigations, and government interference. Brown envelopes have passed via soiled hands to many misguided architects of criminal injustice. We need to put this right; straighten the narrow bends towards the true path of justice without compassion. Families of victims deserve to sleep soundly again knowing that their past loved ones now rest in peace. We realise your circumstances and would not ask any of our operatives to perform tasks we feel they were not capable of executing.

If you do decide to at least think about what could be done to right the wrongs, place this ad in The Telegraph by the end of the month:

Justice.

I found a solution to a problem. I will undertake all for consideration after success of the first.

Vive la France.

MM

He leaned back controlling his breathing.

This is a lot to take in.

He reread the first page and began the second.

Further communications will be delivered via post to your home address. There is no need to confirm the completed tasks; we will be mindful of them. We will make you aware of possible interests in your activities in the future. If in the unlikely chance that an operative draws compromising attention, their task will be delayed and passed to another operative who will deliver justice. We advise that you consider residing or at least have a business in East London due to ongoing developments that may be a concern to us in the future. If you do plan to change address, depart on a holiday or travel abroad for work, repost the same ad and you will be contacted accordingly. We do not intend to put pressure on any of our operatives; however, interest in undertaking a task must be notified within two weeks of receiving our notification by placing this ad in The Times:

Notification: En Casa

Permission is granted for the settlement in due course. Do not worry.

MM.

If not interested, do not place the ad. We do not hold anyone to commit to the causes outlined and will not undermine your decisions to withhold judgments. If you do partake in any suggested tasks but wish to stop receiving further communications from us, place the following ad in your local regular newspaper:

For Friends of Milligan:

He was correct. The end at last.

MM

You will find enclosed in the white envelope attached, evidence of one such crime left unpunished along with the subject’s details.

The asset relaxed.

Okay, seems reasonable.

He picked up the smaller of the two envelopes and slid the contents out.

The murder of Nigerian Osun State legislator Odunayo Onabanjo, bludgeoned to death outside his home in December 2001, has gone unpunished. Eleven suspected of the death were released within twenty-four hours without charges. Two other suspects were found guilty and sentenced for long prison terms; however, one, Theophilus Akande, was set free a week later and charges struck out. He was rushed to the airport after his release and flown to Paris. He resides in a large luxury apartment on Rue Thiers, around the corner from the embassy. Theophilus is the brother of Bisi Akande, the Osun state governor. They have connections with a French research centre that has been under investigation of deliberately adjusting results of untested drugs. Onabanjo had confronted the governor about his connections announcing publicly of having proof weeks before him being mortally attacked.

Coincidently, the research centre, Laboratoire d’analyses Medicales, is situated on Avenue Victor

Hugo, the same street as the Nigerian Embassy.

With this we wish you all the best in whatever your choices may be. One more vital act that must be performed when fully understanding our correspondence with you and enclosed details of the subject, destroy the correspondences, do not use a shredder.

God bless you.

Mors meritas (MM)

He read and re-read the larger envelope’s contents.

Okay, I get it.

He took abbreviated notes in his own coded format to outline relative information. After carefully inspecting photos of places and people, he eased his lean body back into his armchair and slowly sipped coffee from a mug. His face was motionless, but his mind ticked over: all was ready. He leaned forward, took the delivered material, notes, and set them alight before tossing them into a metal wastepaper bucket.

**

The Telegraph: personal ads.

Justice.

I found a solution to a problem. I will undertake all for consideration after success of the first.

Vive la France.

MM

Tables outside Cafe Lamartine on the apex of Spontini and Avenue Victor Hugo were almost full. Black waistcoats maneuvered expertly between a mixed clientele of the famous eatery; a couple held hands and kissed between whispered words; businessmen and women discussed the choice selections on the menus before debates. An elderly woman fed a toy poodle at her feet. Other customers read papers or chatted and texted on their phones.

One person sat at a table alone calmly observing movements along the avenue and Rue Spontini on his left. Only a well-dressed woman, peeking over her reading glasses, appeared to have concern of the portly red-haired man. Others were busy with their own interests. He hadn’t noticed her. His blue eyes remained focused on a customer about the same height as him.

A well-built black African rose to leave.

“Thank you, monsieur - we will see you tomorrow as usual,” a serveur said.

“Yes, of course Henri, adieu,” the man said.

He removed a mobile from a trouser pocket, pressed a key on the phone and strolled left along Spontini chatting loudly.

The red-haired customer shoved a large Euro note onto his table and quickly went right along Avenue Victor Hugo. He picked up his awkward pace and turned left onto Rue Thiers passing five-story apartment buildings before stopping at wrought iron gates of number six. A homemade key opened the locks of the gate and main door. He entered quietly, unconcerned of the exterior camera. He was alone in the dimness as his eyes focused on the silent staircase. Opting for the stairs beside the lift, he stepped sprightly, two steps at a time, making it to the top floor just as the main door echoed shut below.

An animated voice boomed while the lift whined from above. “Yes – yes Oscar - I know we can do it, but it must be done within the next -”

The lift door glided shut.

On the top floor, the red-haired visitor, alerted by the whir of the lift, looked at his watch and readied himself. The door slid open.

The African stepped out ranting into a mobile phone. “Just do it -”

Gargled mutterings disturbed the silence as an expert choke hold tightened around the African’s thick neck. A knee pressed into his lower back forcing him down as his hands gripped the arm, struggling to free himself from the compression.

“Easy now. You deserve to meet the devil,” the assassin whispered.

The phone slid through the weakened fingers, thudding softly on the carpeted surface.

“Aghk.” Corresponded with a soft crack as the African silently slipped prostrate on the floor.

The attacker’s speciality worked quickly. Pressure to both back and neck forced the last breath out of the man. His tongue and bulging eyes were still. The red-haired man glanced at his watch. It had taken about thirty-seconds to end Theophilus Akande’s undeserved life. A dark-gloved hand removed the dead man’s wallet from his white shirt pocket, took all the notes and credit cards.

Another would deserve this.

He then tossed the wallet onto the body. The red-haired visitor sauntered down the stairs and left the building to return to the crowded Parisian streets.

On a pavement, minutes from Rue Thiers, a busker stopped playing his guitar as a bundle of Euro notes fell onto the meagre coin collection in his basket. “Mon dieu, merci monsieur.”

The redheaded portly donator continued his stroll.

**

The new recruit to the Society of Justice soon received recognition of a task well done.

March 13th, 2004.

Hello friend,

We commend you on the prompt completion of you task. Your guile, skill and power had indeed been underestimated by the Society. We are aware operatives will, at some stage, retire with no regret from us. However, in your case, all loose ends must be tidied up, no matter the year or circumstances of all subjects.

We hope you have memorised the list and are keeping a close watch on the named subjects. These final tasks will announce to us your decision to come to an end of your road. It will declare your satisfaction that justice has been served on those that have unsettled people’s lives.

God bless you.

Mors meritas (MM)

The man lit the envelope and letter and placed in a metal waste bin.

**

**