Copyright© 2013 by mthommotoo
Drama Sex Story: Chapter 1 - They are loyal, talented and idealistic, and someone wants them dead. Their most talented is their facilitator and he is in love. My humour is laconic and irreverent, and all is written in Australian English as usual. Go a bit on the wild side and live with it.
There are few words I can say about the punctuality of others, that do not make me look like a martinet. When expected, and not supplied, it can be damned annoying. When the person you are expecting supplies it, and you need it to facilitate later plans, it can be an utter pleasure.
The man calling himself Arnold Berthold, was on time almost to the second. He did not know the importance his punctuality had to my, our, mission. 'Mrs. Graham' was looking at me with ill-disguised contempt yet she didn't know the complete plan, only her small part of it.
When our target came around the hotel lobby corner with his customary strutting gait, I smiled for the first time for what felt like days, drawing him to me with a welcoming handshake, a 'man hug', and dual cheek kisses.
"On time, as usual, Mr. Berthold. It is lovely to have a person one can rely on. Mrs. Graham, Mr. Berthold's luggage will be with a following porter. Tip him and please facilitate it to arrive at Mr. Berthold's suite. Also see to Miss Ferguson's whereabouts if you please. She should be at home office and expecting your call. She knows what is required."
This was the third and final meeting. In the first two, we had ironed out financial and security issues. His agreed upon, two personal bodyguards, were in the background. They had a three hundred and sixty degree field of fire, though their firearms were not well hidden. The Uzi one was holding was always so hard to disguise, the M16 used by the other, impossible. The plan was for them to join us on the twenty-fifth floor of the hotel, once they were satisfied that Mr. Berthold's security from outside attack was complete. As requested, both were British ex-paras and were remarkably efficient.
I smiled benignly again as Arnold Berthold strutted behind me at my left heel like a well-trained blue healer cattle-dog, towards the elevator doors. I moved aside and prompted him to enter ahead of me. I am a gentleman, after all. This placed me in front of the lift door, facing the door itself, when it closed with him behind me.
A tall dark-haired chap was already at the rear of the lift, having come up from the basement level. We did the ignoring that one does, in these 'close encounter' situations; as did he.
Up to now it has been unnecessary for Berthold to utter a word as everything was as he had expected. He also did not utter a sound as he collapsed against me. I turned to hold him erect. Sergeant 1st Class Hanson reached and held him under his arms, as I dipped to grasp his knees. The door opened on the seventh floor where Corporals Riley and Pozywio (wearing London Ambulance Service uniforms) were standing beside Berthold's luggage, and an hospital stretcher. The sergeant and I set Mr Berthold on it. Riley passed me a doctor's black bag and stethoscope that I hung around my neck, while Pozywio gave Hanson a ubiquitous white medical coat, which he immediately donned.
This floor was officially under renovation, and therefor unoccupied, it being a Sunday. Seeing the good sergeant had made the usual security camera inoperable, it made the complete operation unobserved. I sent the lift, empty, to the twenty fifth floor, where he was expected. I had punched buttons for sixteen stops on the way, delaying any interruptions to our mission.
We placed a white London Hospital Service blanket over the stretchered body, covering it entirely, especially the face. The two privates, clad in long white linen jackets and white trousers, carried it to another elevator at the end of the corridor. A lit sign was in place that read, 'STAFF ONLY.' It was used exclusively by in-house security and service staff ... oh, yeah: and medically companioned corpses. This lift's camera had been inoperable for more than a year and the staff appear to prefer it this way. The doors were wide open, held so by a length of doweling, supplied and kept in one corner of the lift by hotel security for their own convenience and for just this purpose.
We entered with the luggage crowding us, and were carried to the loading bay in the under sub-basement. On the way down two separate hotel employees, on different floors, stopped the lift. Finding it full, they waited for it to come back to them. It appeared that a body being removed for medical reasons from the hotel, using the non-public route, was standard procedure.
As the elevator doors opened for the third time, this time on the loading bay dock itself, an ambulance was reversing towards us. It stopped a few metres short of the truck bed height raised loading dock. Gunnery Sergeant Ferguson swung out of the driver's side and opened the rear doors, her attractive, well-shaped, muscular legs were being closely inspected by a truck driver. He was unloading cartons and crates of assorted fresh fruits and vegetables, onto a mostly full timber palette. The manual palette truck was being pumped up by an hotel employee, to be tucked into an open cargo lift. That lift only went as far as the food storage area and kitchen floor. Neither man would later remember anything about the people on the dock, except the sexy girl driving the ambulance.
The sergeant's hem slid up to well above mid-thigh and she was careless of her modesty, by my order if there were witnesses at the dock as we arrived, and as she left the driver's seat and opened the rear doors. She then slid out and lowered the ambulance's wheeled stretcher to waist height, then waited as the two privates carried the still body down the loading bay steps at the far end of the dock. Sergeant Hanson passed the luggage down to Ferguson who stacked the bags into the rear of ambulance.
They made a very professional transfer from the hotel's stretcher to the ambulance's gurney, and the sergeant slid it directly into the interior, with the undercarriage automatically folding out of the way. I made a perfunctory inspection of the patient. Yep, he hadn't moved a hair after his injection of the same drug, Propofol, that killed Michael Jackson, and in much the same dosage.
The 1st sergeant entered the ambulance with the 'patient' and luggage then the 'Gunny' slammed the rear doors behind him. She jumped back into the driver's seat, making her underwear subtly evident to the witnesses, then she drove off quickly with the lights flashing and no siren but with a slight squeal of tyres on the steel trowel smooth concrete floor. The two sergeant's task was the disappearance of the body and accompanying luggage. My influence ended as soon as the ambulance doors closed.
The privates and I walked casually over to a white sedan with a fictitious but authentic appearing private hospital logo on its door. It was parked in a bay signed 'For Official Vehicle's Parking Only.' Pozywio made the car 'beep, beep' with his security button and climbed into the driver's door. Riley entered the passenger door and myself the rear. Amazingly, it started at the first turn. I'm never going to hear the end of this morning's fiasco from the old bag.
We drove from the shelter of the underground loading bay, into the steady rain. We stopped, with the rain camouflaging the vehicle, as the three of us reached through the windows and removed the magnetic genuine appearing logos. On the way through the hotel's service entrance, we passed two more of Berthold's security team, with their Uzis half hidden under their rain gear, but at the ready. We went around the block to stop under the awning in the front of the hotel, to the waiting 'Mrs. Graham', aka Colonel Anderson.
Colonel Anderson joined me in the rear, as the three of us removed our white medical clothing. In all, the total operation had taken less than ten minutes. The only words spoken were my greetings to the soon-to-be-if-not-already late Mr. 'Berthold'. He was probably still alive, but that sort of overdose would kill a bull elephant. He'll never be seen breathing in public, again.
Anderson looked my way with disapproval, "You took a lot for granted, 'Third'. I would like a little more room for error, next time."
I attempted to look contrite as I replied, "Yes Ma'am! I hope the situation does not arise again, Ma'am. I'll do my best under the circumstances as always."
I could see Pozywio's eyes in the rear vision mirror with that look of insincere innocence, glancing back into mine. We'd had a problem with the car when we'd picked it up from the British Army in-house car pool. Pozywio had replaced the battery that morning and had not reattached the cables for some reason. He had removed them the previous day, to ensure the cars availability. It just hadn't clicked as to why it wouldn't start. Good labour is so hard to find!
I made no excuses to the Colonel and disapproved of the wry grin Riley was making towards Pozywio. I would have words with usually efficient privates, later. This was not the time or place for a dressing down. My silence without justifying myself left the Colonel with little more to say since the total thing went off perfectly like clockwork, and 'arse beats class', any day of the week.
The ambulance would be back in the hospital's service bay this afternoon at three, and the vehicle that we were currently inhabiting, would be in the local army base carpool carpark with its number plates changed back to the originals, in the hour it takes to drive there. If all goes to plan, the only thing that would be noticed by anyone, would be that yesterday's faulty ambulance would be found to be operating perfectly by the hospital's mechanics ... after the replacement of the ignition coil this morning at one o'clock. No, we didn't break it, we only replaced it due to it being faulty. Pozywio was an excellent mechanic, it was only his memory being brought into question.
The end result was that the gentleman in question, and all the client officials greeting him, disappeared without a trace. Who was he? I had no idea. What was he? Ah!
Originally I was Patrick, 'Pat' Newton, the Cadwalledar is silent (like the 'p' is silent in agnostic), those of our family fated to carry it refuse to acknowledge its existence, a university student, good son and brother to a widespread and prolific family. In my second life they called me 'Fig' Newton, Sergeant Major Cadwalledar Patrick 'Fig' Newton, in my government's land armed services. I was on loan to our Foreign Embassy, in Paris, France, as a security expert. The Cadwalledar is an inherited family name given to the first male births in each branch of my family. My late parents called me Pat, as there are another three Cadwalledar's through my extended family, to all our horrors, including my great uncle. The army now knows me in my third life as Staff Sergeant William Randolph the Third ... or, just more commonly 'Third' or 'Turd' ... by those who work with me. But that is a far longer story.
My fellow soldiers who were with me in the Paris embassy ... the few that are left, that still remember me ... knew me as 'Fig.' I doubt they knew the root of the nickname but it was better than calling me Cadwalledar; besides, they believe that I died in a terrorist attack, eight years ago. I am twenty seven years old and had as nondescript an appearance as a man can have, and still have a face. I am part of, and what is known as, the facilitator, of the supposed elimination department of Australia's security branch: ASIO.
The facilitator's responsibilities are as organiser and scrounger. That is, I design and arrange the hit, and then find the tools required to make my plan happen. I say my government, yet we never operate within our country's borders, similar to the CIA compared the USA's, FBI. We were currently in London, England, which was one hell of a long way from home. We're in what we call a 'friendly' base, as such. This friendly base would be less than impressed on learning of us being on their shores plying our expertise; so we just won't tell them, will we?
Why we were doing anything at all, only the Colonel knew in full. None of the rest of us were let in on the total story, and that was exactly how we liked it. Our identities were not known by any other 'Firm' to my knowledge, including GB, US, and any of the European, Russian or Asian government's security branches. We had never, up 'til now anyway, had an operation on the African continent as we wouldn't blend in (only a guess on my part). The Colonel and her woman use Durban, South Africa, as an R&R base; but they don't know I know that. I had reasons for keeping my eyes on their sanctuary and wellbeing. They have no idea who I am or was, in reality. I am as certain that I don't know their true identities. We can't be traced to each other as we had no idea ourselves who each of us truly are.
I know the CIA had me recorded as a small time conman who doesn't operate outside my country's borders but visits the US occasionally on gambling vacations. They were given this intelligence by the Queensland police, where I've never been, by our Federal Police, and by ASIO (even though their only experience with me, was the paperwork in their files placed there by myself). At this very moment in London, officially, the Colonel was my older sister. Her lover, Teresa Ferguson, was my common-law wife. Unofficially, they were a long term team of operatives who inducted me into their unit by order; by order of the documents I faked myself belonging to the true but regrettably late Randolph.
The sergeant and the corporals were circulated into and out of our team as required; although I had not, as yet anyway, been in any operation without Riley and Pozywio. Sergeant Alexander Hanson joined us a year after my first operation and was supposedly a member of our Special Forces and was officially based in Afghanistan. To be honest, I don't believe Hanson has ever been in Afghanistan or has ever been initiated into our Special Forces. He was, by far, much more dangerous than that. I had my own tacit thoughts on his role in our team.
We do owe each other our lives, though we never discuss our private lives, as is proper. The sergeant and the corporals never travel with us, or with each other. They were rotated back to home base as training specialists between each operation. The two women and myself set up each new operation. The relationship between the women was close, personal, and nothing to do with me whatsoever. I don't think the Colonel approves of me as I am an, unacceptably, heterosexual male.
A few unpopular scattered political thoughts: I had over time learnt that the people we remove were usually not my nation's enemies. The type of nation from where we originate has very few to no enemies. Almost all the wars we fight in were 'OPIH' (other peoples initiated hostilities) where no other hostility inspired by us springs to mind.
Our most powerful and second closest ally is the US and we had fought by their side in every non-civil disturbance since WWI. Our country has almost completely abandoned our original masters because they abandoned us to the enemy during WWII, whilst taking almost all our armed forces to protect themselves. We objected, and pulled our troops out of the Middle East, much to their chagrin, to protect our own country from the Japanese invading forces, which had landed in New Guinea.
I know this may not be popular; but I, personally, can find little difference between Iran, GB and the US, except basic lip service and size. The man who we just took care of, had never been in our country, nor had ever had dealings with or against anyone within my country. I am a 'Sergeant Schultz' in all these matters, and nobody has ever asked me for my opinion.