Novel Two

NOVEL TWO

Jim Godden

Copyright 2012 Jim Godden

Smashwords Edition

CONTENTS

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

CHAPTER ONE

You had better put that mouthguard in. I said, placing the item on the dining room table. It was an inexpensive, generic guard. I’d bought it at one of the sports stores in town.

How come?

You’ll see.

John Smith sat at the table. A glass of red, half finished. It was a Henry of Pelham Baco Noir ’06. Good, but not too pricey. I like to show my clients good taste but at the same time I try not to be too pretentious. He looked a little uncomfortable when I didn’t explain further. He took another drink of wine, a rather bigger gulp than I think he intended.

I knew John Smith was not his real name, nor did I care that it wasn’t. I have fairly strict rules about anonymity with my clients. I don’t ask them their names and I don’t tell them mine. I don’t enquire anything about their private or business lives other than how it applies to the services I provide.

It’s time to put your hood back on, Mr. Smith. I said. I drained off the last of my red wine. I believe it’s time to get started.

I slid the neatly folded black felt hood across the dining room table. We both stood. Smith put the hood over his own head and turned so that I could pull the drawstring tight around his neck. I snugged it up, asked if he was comfortable, then secured the little lock on the drawstring toggle. John smith was wearing a navy sports shirt with red piping on the collar and sleeves, khaki Dockers, and pair of tan suede shoes that reminded me of the old Hush Puppies. I moved his collar a bit where it had got tucked up under the hood.

For my own part I wore what I usually wore at the outset of a session with one of my clients. That being a charcoal gray pinstripe two piece suit, white shirt and blue paisley tie. A good workman like suit but dressy enough to be formal. From the left jacket pocket I produced a set of blued steel handcuffs.

Place your hands behind your back please, Sir.

Not too tight this time, if you don’t mind, I’m playing squash in the morning.

Not to worry sir, relax your hands and place your thumbs so they’re touching.

He did so. I ratcheted the cuffs closed, wiggled them a bit to ensure they were in fact loose, then grasped his thumbs in my left hand. I pulled up on his thumbs with enough force to make him gasp.

Walk ahead slowly, please. I said as I placed my right hand on his right shoulder. I gave him a gentle push to get him going. Tightening my grip on his shoulder I then steered him out of the dining room and towards the stairs leading to the basement.

I led him carefully down the stairs into a small bare room. The walls were an institutional off white and the carpet an equally institutional gray wall to wall.

You know the position, sir, if you would.

I helped him down to his knees and steadied his shoulders as he spread his knees about shoulder width apart. I pulled his shoulders back square and placing my hands on his ears, positioned his head so that his neck was straight with his back. If he had been unhooded he would have been looking up slightly.

Do not move from that position. I said. Remain motionless until you are directed to move. Do you understand? Don’t speak! Nod your head once if you understand.

I moved slightly away and off to his left. I noted the time on my watch and set the bezel for five minutes. John Smith’s breathing became a little forced after a couple of minutes in the stress position. The black felt of the hood began to puff in and out. As the minute hand on my stainless steel dive watch hit five minutes I walked quietly up behind him.

I told you not to move! I yelled. You moved! I saw you! I didn’t know if he had moved or not but the sudden noise in the silence of the little room made him jump and a little cry of surprise came out of the hood. I grabbed the top of the hood, and a good hank of hair, and pulled his head all the way back.

Let’s try this again. I shouted. Do not move from this position until you are told. Nod your head if you understand. I threw his head forward and got another little grunt from inside the hood.

Square your shoulders! Head back. Back straight. Don’t move!

I moved quickly and quietly, out of the little room and into my dressing room. I’d laid everything out before hand so quickly changed out of my suit. I dressed in a black long sleeved T-shirt, camouflage fatigue pants and a pair of high top combat boots. I moved out through a connecting door into the main room of the basement. The last item I donned was a black balaclava of light polypro; the kind skiers or skidoo riders wear under their helmets. It completely covered the face except for two eyeholes.

There was a big sliding door that connected the main room to the little alcove where John Smith was waiting in a stress position. I grabbed the handle of this door and making sure to use maximum noise and violence flung it open.

Smith was exactly where I had left him. I strode into the room.

On your feet! I shouted. I didn’t offer to help this time, in fact I gave him a good shove in the back with my boot that sent him sprawling.

Come on! Get up you piece of shit. Get up on your feet! I stood back as he flopped and struggled to get his feet under himself with his hands cuffed. I waited until he was standing straight, chest heaving, hood bellowing in and out.

Take all of your clothes off. I ordered. Strip naked. Everything off except for the hood. Nod your head if you understand. I removed the handcuffs.

Again I stood back and waited. His hands were shaking badly and I thought I heard a little whimper or a sob. He got his feet tangled in his pants, blindfolded as he was, and fell down again. When he was finally upright and naked I got in behind him. I put my hands on his shoulders and roughly turned him so that he faced through the door into the main room.

Put your hands behind your back and place your thumbs together. I said. I grabbed his thumbs and marched him into the main room.

When we were inside I ordered him to stop. I made a great theatrical show of locking locks, slamming bolts, and rattling chains. Once the door was secure I unlocked the toggle on his hood, it used the same key that opened handcuffs, I loosened the drawstring.

Take the hood off and toss it aside. Walk forward and sit in the chair in front of you.

There was a chair in the middle of the bare cement room. It was the only item in the room save for a row of metal lockers along one wall. It was a plain wooden chair with arms. There was a circular hole cut in the seat under which a metal galvanized bucket sat. John Smith groaned at the sight but was compliant and sat himself down. He even helped me to secure his wrists to the chair arms with heavy double Velcro straps.

I went around behind him, out of his sight line and retrieved something from one of the lockers.

Don’t you dare turn your head! I barked even though he’d made no move to do so. When I came around in front of him I showed him the Smith and Wesson .357 Magnum with a four-inch barrel. I opened the cylinder and spun it so that he could see the rounds in the six chambers. I snapped the pistol shut and forced the barrel into his mouth. I felt the big foresight bump across the rubber of his mouth guard. Told you so, I thought.

Do you know what a .357 magnum will do to the back of your head? I asked, my voice suddenly pleasant. I cocked the pistol slowly, the cylinder turning and locking into place. The gun was a double action and didn’t need to be cocked but the dramatic effect was good.

John Smith thought so too. He screwed his eyes shut, gave a loud groan, and I smelled and heard the effect as his bowels let go and splashed into the bucket.

Two more hours to go, I thought. A hell of a way to earn four grand.

CHAPTER TWO

I had just made it to work on time the next morning. It was well after two AM when I’d finally crawled into bed and my wife, Kathy, had put up a fuss about being woken up. We were a sullen, bitter couple later at six AM. I’d made coffee and toast but Kathy had made a great show of tossing her toast into the trash and pouring out a bowl of cereal.

Are you wearing a uniform today or civilian clothes? She’d asked.

Uniform. I said. Casual though, sweater and button down collar today.

Your sweater looks like shit, all covered in dust or something. Dandruff maybe?

It’s not dandruff. I was with a client, just spent two days in a paper mill up towards Pembroke.

Could be you’ve got scalp excema.

Maybe, I said, instead of trying to piss me off you could help me out when I get dressed and give me a brush off.

You want me to brush you off? Like some sort of valet? Brush your own sweater off. I’ve got to get my own clothes ready. Today is a big day at work for me.

I sighed. Every day was a big day at work for Kathy. She was a receptionist at a car dealership but to hear her go on you would think that she was the CEO of Ford Canada.

I might be able to get away a little early this afternoon. I said to change the topic.

So?

So…I don’t know. Just making conversation I guess.

Well don’t. I’m trying to eat my cereal.

And so it went, another morning of domestic bliss at the Godfrey household. As it was I couldn’t find my sweater right away. It had fallen off the hangar and Kathy had kicked it into the back of the closet. I’d had to rush getting dressed, and finally donning sweater, paper dust and all had driven like a maniac to work.

Work for me was Intel-Com Security and Investigations. We did fairly high-end security jobs in Ottawa and in the surrounding areas. Ottawa, home of the Federal Government and also the heart of Canada’s high tech industry was just the place for our type of company. We hired only ex-military and ex-police, kept our involvement in the upper tier of security and avoided the more mundane, rent-a-cop kind of jobs. Often we would hire out one or two security supervisors to a company. These operatives would in turn sub-contract security guards for the reception, access control, and night watchman. We usually hired Commissionaires but, due to different regulations, had to use private security companies for some of our contracts across the river in Quebec.

And as I mentioned, I was almost late for work. Not that it mattered much as I was starting the day at my desk in the company offices in Kanata.

The company had once had swanky offices right downtown on Sparks Street, close by the Parliamentary Precinct and the House of Commons. Intel-Com had moved with the times. The development of the high tech sector and computer industry west of the city, in the once sleepy farming community of Kanata, had precluded our move to roomier, more modern office space. We got more room for our rental dollar here, not to mention plumbing, heating, and bathroom fixtures from the same century most of us were born in.

I had just sat down at my desk, logged on to my computer and, uncapping my pen, was about to note the fact in my journal when Ian Carso poked his head through my door.

There you are, James. I didn’t see you in the coffee room this morning. I was going to remind you about the cost estimates for the Mitel research center contract. You do have them don’t you?

Of course I do. I said. Why wouldn’t I?

I haven’t seen them yet.

That’s because I haven’t e-mailed them to you. I could see him deflate a bit at that.

Why not?

Because, I went on, you’re the same as me, mid level management, I sent a copy to Mr. Nesbitt. You’ll see the figures when I hand around hard copies at the meeting, day after tomorrow. I find it hard to not be condescending to folks like Ian, people who over estimate their own importance in the grand scheme of things.

You could have CC’d me. Whiny now.

I could have, but did not. You’ll have to live with that. You’ll see the numbers in two days. Same as everyone else.

Ian opened his mouth as if to speak then closed it abruptly as if he’s changed his mind about saying anything. He said, Hmmmm. And gave me one of those I’ll-get-you-someday looks.

If you don’t mind, I’ve got a shit load of work to do here. I’m in the field this afternoon and have to be out of here by noon.

At that he was gone. I thought briefly about shouting after him down the hall to close the goddamned door but felt that might have been too rude a dismissal. Besides, no one here ever closed their office doors.

When I had said to Ian that I was going to be in the field I hadn’t meant to imply that I was in any way going to be outside of the city or outside anywhere for that matter. It was the sort of term we ex-military types used to alienate people like Ian Carso, who came to us from Police Administration in Montreal.

I’d stayed hard at it all morning. Rough numbers for contract renewals coming up in the new year, a couple of incident reports that I had to read, comment on, and pass on. Nothing, thankfully that I had to take any action on. After a coffee and a muffin I’d worked the phones doing interviews for background checks. The biggest part of that job was tracking down the correct phone numbers for the interviewees.

My parents, who were still alive and living east of Toronto, had had the same phone number since the dawn of time. Personally, I’d had six or seven different numbers in my lifetime. Now the present generation seemed to change their phone numbers monthly.

At twelve noon I shut down my computer and cleared my desk. I pulled my journal close and made notes and comments on the work that I’d done so far today. I kept my journal in a Moleskine notebook. I’d read somewhere that Ernest Hemingway had used one so had taken to affecting the same. I liked it and it impressed clients. It made the fact that I had buy it from an upscale stationary store down town well worth it.

I was looking very much forward to getting out of the office this afternoon. The late night last night and the drama with Kathy this morning was taking its toll. I was starting to feel a little run down. In view of this, I opted for lunch at Starbucks where I had a big cup, I can never remember what they call their really big cup, of Bold and an overpriced ham and cheese on some sort of trendy Italian sounding bread.

Where I was headed was all the way downtown. The office complex at 240 Sparks Street to be exact but traffic was light through the middle of the day. I was driving one of the company cars, a slate gray Crown Victoria, so I wasn’t burning my own gas.

The elevator doors slid open onto an expensively carpeted and well-appointed hallway. This client or ours, ITCP Software, had the entire seventeenth floor. To get here you first had to press 17 in the elevator and then when prompted, enter a four-digit code on the scramble pad beside the console. The security desk was beside the elevator doors in a sort of little reception alcove. Anyone who entered, and knew the elevator code, would then have to pass our security operatives. Not being a techie, I didn’t really know what ITCP Software did other than that it was very secret, very sensitive, and involved encrypted communications for the military and government.

We maintained two operatives here during business hours and a night watchman at all other times. One of the pair here had a doctor’s appointment and I was filling in. We often did that. Mr. Nesbitt, our CEO and chief of operations, felt that those of us who worked in the main office should take every opportunity to get a feel for the companies varied security tasks. I agreed with him in fact and enjoyed the time away from my desk.

Both Intel-Com men were by the desk as I stepped off the elevator. Mike and Claude were their names and I knew them in passing. Mike was the one whose job I’d be doing this afternoon. They both wore what was known in the business as the soft uniform. It was a navy blazer, gray flannel slacks and a white shirt. We let the operatives wear whatever tie they liked as long as it was not too outrageous. Because of who they were we saw a lot of regimental ties and blue police association ties.

Do you want me back here after my appointment, Mr. Godfrey? Said Mike.

Call me James, and no, you’re done for the day. Enjoy the rest of the afternoon.

Hard to enjoy a colonoscopy but I’ll try.

Ouch. I said.

I can’t help thinking of a plumbers snake. Said Claude.

That’s enough out of you. Mike laughed. Your time will come.

You never know, you might like it.

Mike grimaced at me while miming strangling Claude as he shrugged into his topcoat. I punched the buttons and summoned the elevator.

Have a good one, all. Said Mike.

You too. I said.

They used discreet comms at this site so I took a moment in the waiting room to doff my sweater and clip the tiny radio to my belt in the small of my back. I put the earpiece in and attached the miniature microphone to my shirt cuff. Sweater back on and wires carefully hidden I was ready for duty.

Claude took the first turn on the desk. I did a walking patrol through the corridors to orient myself to the layout. I stopped in and said hello to the VP Operations. Security was his jurisdiction and he represented the client in our company dealings. This was not one of the accounts I handled personally so I only knew him in passing.

Around three, I escorted four visitors from the security desk, sat with them in the waiting area, and then ushered them into one of the offices. I was told they would be in place for about two hours so rode the elevator to the lobby and returned bearing two large coffees.

I spelled Claude at the desk later. A single visitor arrived and I duly checked his credentials against the visitor list, logged him in, issued him a visit pass, and had Claude escort him to his destination. He left not long afterward.

We spelled each other off between four-thirty and six for a supper break. Claude microwaved a frozen dinner in the company break room while I traveled again to the lobby for a smoked meat sandwich.

By six-thirty most of the ITCP employees had left. The log showed three diligent individuals still at their desks. The visitor log indicated no one arriving for the rest of the day so we settled in to finish out the shift. Claude retired to the break room with the Sudoko puzzle from the newspaper while I relaxed in at the desk with a book.

I was a little surprised later when the soft chimes sounded, telling me that someone had correctly entered the elevator code and were on their way up.

I set aside my book and watched the elevators progress up from the lobby. It didn’t stop at any other floors. The doors slid open and one of our operatives, Susan Callison stepped out.

Hello, Susan. I said. She had recently joined the company, working as a courier delivering internal mail from head office to the various posts and vice-versa.

Good evening, Mr. Godfrey. Not much in today’s delivery. She said placing a manila inter-office envelope on the desk.

I wouldn’t know, I’m just filling in here for the rest of the day. Call me James, by the way, unless of course we’re around Mr. Nesbitt or the other CEOs.

This is my last drop off of the day so I’ll just hang here for a bit if you don’t mind. Let the traffic settle down a bit before I head back.

No problems, you can fetch a chair from the waiting room there. I said.

Susan was one of our youngest operatives. She’d joined the army at seventeen, done a full career in the Signal Corps, and was now retired with a decent pension at age forty. She wore the same outfit that I did, what we called the casual uniform of navy pants and sweater over a light blue open necked shirt. At about five foot five with a slim athletic build, she wore the uniform a lot better than most of the operatives that I normally dealt with.

"What’s that you’re