Part 2 – Lucas Ferring

Four years later, I was ensconced in my new home, and doing my best to just live life. I’d made the decision, that fateful day, that I needed to move on, not look back and not dwell on what had happened to me, but to embrace the opportunities I had open to me going forward. Mainly because of the money, let’s be honest.

While sitting in the suite at the Savoy, I’d sat and thought about what I wanted in the next phase of my life. I’d had my new identity delivered, - I was now Lucas Ferring. I’d been born in Hastings, in Kent and was now Man About Town, so to speak. Access to the money had arrived, and some of the first things I did was go out and eat, then take in a movie, buy some books and watch as much TV as I could, just to catch up on societal stuff.

I’d considered what I wanted, and narrowed it down to a few things. The first was, out of this country. I knew the UK government would probably keep tabs on me wherever I went, but I wasn’t about to make it easy on them. Plus, if any Middle Eastern country wanted to find me, I wanted to make that as difficult as I could, too.

If I was going to move abroad, then there were several things I needed. Wherever I went, English had to be spoken prevalently. I didn’t want to stick out because I couldn’t speak the local lingo.

It needed to be somewhere international so I could travel if need be, so the middle of Australia was out for example. It would need to be somewhere I could hide, have my own place, have stuff delivered by Amazon, - which did rule out New Zealand, - and that had convenience as a priority.

I wanted to be near water. The bullet that had struck my leg and the resulting wound that had not been treated appropriately was mostly healed, but the reality was that my biking time was now done. The pain in the thigh was too much. Plus, my fingers made using the bikes controls, – the brakes, the gears and so on, - just too hard. Add to that the loss of 20-20 peripheral vision and well, yeah. No more biking for me. I was quite sad about that. I ended up swapping this exercise for rowing instead. There was some pain with that too, but nowhere near the levels I’d had for biking. I’d tried running but that was just a nonstarter. So, rowing it was. And while I could do that at home, I’d discovered it wasn’t half as effective in terms of a mood boost as it was when I did it on water. Therefore, a home nearby water was required.

Not too hot. Not too cold. Near a metro area, but not in it. Somewhere I could disappear into. Buy a place that was a little isolated, but not so much it required a helicopter or a horse or a boat to get to. My trust of my fellow humans has never returned to the levels it once was, and as for women, well, forget it.

But I wanted to be close enough to civilization that I could get a decent meal, see a movie, go shopping at Asda. Or Walmart, as it ended up being.

Yes, I ended up in the good old US of A! In Maryland, more specifically, just outside of the city of Salisbury. I bought a place on the water, right off the Wicomico River that fed into the Tangier Sound, which in turn fed into the Chesapeake Bay. It was fine for my needs. Close enough to Salisbury to get civilization, but far enough out to have privacy, but still getting all the benefits of electricity and clean water and all the rest of it. Hell, even my cell phone (Yes, they call them Cell Phones out here, instead of Mobiles, like we do back home!) worked in my house. I got satellite internet, courtesy of Mr. Elon Musk, and had my Netflix and all the rest of it.

In my research, I’d also discovered that if you brought five hundred thousand dollars into the country, it was an instant green card! So, five hundred dollars transferred from my bank in the Caymans later, I’d been granted a green card within six months of moving to the US.

I’d found a place with three bedrooms, a lovely large kitchen with bay windows looking out over the small dock that came with the property, all sitting on three and a half acres. Private driveway, through a small wooded area, the nearest neighbor at least a quarter of a mile away! And not visible, either. I could see across the bay and make out a house on the other side of it, but even that was just a twinkle of lights.

The master bedroom had been built with skylights with retractable covers. It was amazing to lie in bed at night and look at the stars above me, so clear because of little-to-no local light pollution. I even ended up buying a really nice Meade Telescope, to do some stargazing. I upgraded the kitchen and wired the whole house for internet, put in Sonos speakers throughout and made sure the house was inspected and all things fixed that needed to be, including a new roof.

I was pretty happy with it once everything was done. It had a nice wrap around deck, the master bedroom had a small balcony, and I even had a hot tub installed, for the winter evenings. Lots of natural light, and I built myself a small conservatory on one side for vegetables that would not die in the cold winter, and a grilling station on the other side.

I did raid the lockup with the furniture from the house Clarissa and I shared, but in the end, only took six pieces from there, giving the rest away to charity. The double lounger we had, where Clarissa and I had spent more than a few evenings curled up together, binge watching some TV show. A side table that I’d been given from my parents, via a grandmother. The plates that came from another grandparent. A table we’d found at an estate sale, that was designed for lots of plants, with lots of little bits sticking out to put pots on. It was funny, when I went and looked at all that was there, I realized that there were no keep sakes from her side of the family at all. No hand-me-downs or anything. Nothing with history. Clue number one, right there, that I’d just entirely missed.

For a vehicle, I had a Kia SUV, a small single sculling rower, an actual larger fishing boat with an outboard motor, and a small Harley Davidson motorcycle I used on occasion. The house came with an external two-car garage, and a very small boathouse on the jetty, just large enough to house the fishing boat during the winter months.

I’d filled my time trying various hobbies, determining that if I did work again, it would be something I wanted to do, rather than something I had to do. While I didn’t look back at the financial analysis, I did use what I’d learned in my own money management. The money from the UK went through several different accounts at different banks, and by the time it ended up in its final destination, in a bank in Jersey, there was no way anyone would have been able to trace it. It was mine and no one was going to be able to claw it back.

I’d tried learning to fish, and while I could do it, I found it a bit too melancholy for my tastes. It took just the right day and mood for me to take the larger boat out and start casting. The rowing I’d enjoyed, and I did that daily on the water, if I could. If it was storming out, or in the depths of winter, I used my machine I had in the second bedroom, while watching episodes of Stargate SG1 on the big TV I had mounted in that room.

I was still doing the photography, but now just for kicks. I’d even started doing astrophotography, once I realized that the telescope I’d bought could be converted into basically a large lens for the digital Canon I had bought. It was nice to get back to that, even if I wasn’t doing the stock photography thing much anymore. I did sell some of the prints I did of the moon and other planets.

I’d tried writing, since that’s what people did in my position, right? Yeah, I confirmed my original decision to move into financial management because my efforts were not good, to be kind to myself. I gave that up pretty fast and just bought a kindle paperwhite and read what other people wrote instead.

That said, I did find my reading material changed a lot. Before, if I read a book, it was usually fiction, often an adventure novel or sometimes science fiction. Now, I was reading nonfiction and particularly stuff to do with the intelligence business. I wanted to know more about Clarissa’s world, what she did in it and so on.

I tried bowling, but both the leg and the fingers made that really hard to be competitive. I did slightly better at shooting; I was in the US, might as well make use of that fact. I bought a Glock 9mm and went to the range just to see if I could hit the side of a barn. I soon discovered that like most things, it was all about a few good bits of advice starting out, and a lot of practice.

Among other things, I did travel this newly adopted country of mine. I saw places I’d always wanted to; I went to New York and saw The Book Of Mormon on Broadway. I went to Washington D.C. and spent three days in the bowels of the Smithsonian. I hiked down to the bottom of the Grand Canyon, and then took a helicopter ride to Las Vegas, where I spent several days haunting various Casinos. I did a grand tour of California, from San Diego up to San Francisco in a convertible. I ate sugared donuts and shrimp po’boys in New Orleans. I went to see the Cubs play at Wrigley Field, and I walked the grassy knoll in Dallas. I took a whale-watching cruise from Seattle, and I rode some of Route 66 on my Harley Davidson.

I enjoyed my time, even if it was mostly solitary. I soon learned there was a difference between lonely and being alone. For the most part, I was content to be alone. I found I didn’t need anyone in particular and my own insecurities and distrust stopped me from forming any really deep relationships with anyone, platonic or otherwise. That’s not to say I didn’t have friends; there were people I could hang out with if I made the trip into town, and I even hosted a BBQ or two myself on my property and took some guys out fishing. But I was in no hurry to really connect with anyone. I wasn’t looking for it, and I wasn’t putting myself in a position where it was likely to happen.

I did wonder if I should seek out counseling or therapy, but then, what could I say? I couldn’t tell anyone the truth, that was for sure. If they believed it, which I highly doubted, then what? There was no way to corroborate my story, and even if there was, the UK government would Not Be Amused by any revelations I might make, even if they were for my own mental health benefit. And if you can’t actually be honest with therapists, then their usefulness was limited, that much I did know.

In the end, I just kept schtum (it’s a British expression, look it up!) and grew out my hair, to cover my ear. While the rebuild was actually fairly decent, and did actually help with hearing, the actual skin didn’t look quite right. It was a bit too shiny, and people who met me could tell something was off, but not exactly what it was, till they realized it was the ear. It was just easier to grow out my hair and cover it and be done talking about it.

So, I just lived my life and enjoyed it as much as I could, even if it was a little empty at times. Holidays, in particular, were hard. Days like Fourth of July or Thanksgiving were usually okay, because they weren’t my holidays, days I’d grown up with being special. But Guy Fawkes, Christmas, New Year, those were harder. I tried heading to a bar for New Year, see how the Americans did it, but it was noisy, and everyone was already in groups. I learned very quickly how easy it was to be very alone in a large crowd.

I give all these details so you get the idea of where I was mentally, and what my life was like, when the first of three incidents that changed the direction of my life, post USA move, occurred.

The first happened abruptly, without warning and gave context I didn’t know I actually wanted. Needed, is more like it. I thought I’d put that part of my life behind me, in fact. But past deeds have a way of forcing themselves into current consciousness. Or some shit like that. I need to read less Deepak Chopra and more Steven King, I think.

It was a Sunday, in May. We’d come out of the winter cold and were in the middle temperatures between winter and summer. It was perfect weather, in fact. I’d driven into the southwestern edge of Salisbury, to a small diner that did a terrific breakfast, and I’d tucked into my muesli, followed by ham, lobster, mushroom and avocado (yes! Even on this side of the country!) omelet, and I’d literally just paid the bill at the cash desk, tipping Mabel the waitress fifteen dollars when I heard a voice from my past behind me and without thinking, I turned round. I noticed it mainly because it was another British accent, and I hadn’t heard one in the flesh in some months. You can’t help but turn around when you hear one when you are an ex-pat.

The voice I’d only heard once before in my life, for like five minutes, yet it was etched into my consciousness like the seventeen-thousand-year-old drawings on the cave walls in France. It was the voice of The Major.

As I turned, I saw that he was standing in front of a booth, where a woman and two children were seated, and while he was looking at me, he was talking to them.

“Lucas!” he exclaimed, in an amazed voice, using my assumed name, directing his attention to me. “I had no idea you were around!”

He moved in close to me, put his arms around me to hug me and whispered in my ear, “Play along. Follow my lead.”

He clapped me on the shoulder and stepped back, a big smile on his face. “If you are here and you tracked me down, it’s got to be something important right?”

His smile dimmed and he turned to the blond woman who had now struggled out of the booth and was standing next to him, a pinched look on her face. The two children were next to her, one barely toddling, and the other more like a three- or four-year-old, gazing up at me. Clearly, they were little versions of the Major. His family, perhaps? That was interesting. I didn’t think field agents were allowed families. God knows the one I was married to sure didn’t seem to.

“Dear, this is Lucas Ferring. He’s a ... well, a client, of sorts. If he’s tracked me down here, he obviously has something important to impart.”

“Is this work, Darrell? We had an agreement...” her voice was surprisingly nasally and high pitched and she was clearly pissed off, arms folded, her whole-body language radiating her annoyance.

“Yes, I’m sorry, dear. This is probably something I need to deal with. It’s not my choice. My old mucker Lucas here clearly needs me to know something, and it may impact other things that are going on. I promise, just an hour, hour and a half, tops.”

He was almost pleading with her. Some field agent he was, henpecked by his wife.

She scowled at me and said, “Is this true? You couldn’t just leave him alone while he’s on his holiday, could you?”

I literally didn’t get a word in edgewise. I spread my hands before saying, well, I don’t know what, really. But ‘Darrell’ – the Major – got there first.

“Don’t blame him, hon. That’s not fair. Obviously, whatever it is, it’s critical and can probably impact other things that are going on. You know there are several pots boiling right now, we probably just need to turn the heat down on one of them, right Lucas?”

I just nodded and didn’t say a word. It seemed safest.

“Look, take the kids. Go check out that Farmers’ Market down the street? The one with the stalls with all that old stuff? Please, dear. I know this isn’t what we planned, but it’s only an hour and a half. It’s obviously important. I’ll meet you right back here in ninety minutes.” It was half whining, half instructing. I could almost admire it, if I didn’t already know he was a master at this kind of bullshit.

His unnamed wife sniffed, and then put her hand out and said, simply, “Keys.”

The Major fished them out of his coat pocket, handed them over, and then said, “I’ll text you when I’m on my way, and you can wander back here, okay? Kids, be good for your mother. I’ll see you shortly.”

Then he turned to me, and said, “Okay Lucas, this is your show, shall we?” and he gestured at the door.

I just nodded again and turned to go. “Oh wait,” he said, as his wife and kids streamed out past me.

“Need to pay the bill first!” he quipped, smiling and holding up his wallet.

As he walked to the desk, I followed, and he paid quickly, watching out the window as his family climbed into a small SUV and then pulled out into traffic.

“Okay,” he said, turning to me. “I know you have questions, and I’m here to answer them. I have, as you heard, about ninety minutes, so, let’s get somewhere private, and we can talk.”

We walked outside, and I was glad I’d brought the SUV into town that morning, instead of the Harley. Wondering what the hell I was doing, we climbed in and I decided the best thing to do was head for home. It was, after all, only ten minutes away. I did have a nice deck, facing the water, and it was private.

Apparently, the Major – Darrell? – seemed to know all about, as he mentioned, “Let’s go look at your view! I understand it’s quite nice? Water and all that?”

I held my tongue as we drove, uncharacteristically. I had learned from those years in captivity, don’t volunteer anything you don’t have to. Let him do the talking.

He didn’t say much on the journey, which is just as well, as I was stewing quite nicely. What the hell was he doing here? How had he found me? What did he want? What was all that bullshit with his family? Were they even his family? Or some sort of cover, like I was for Clarissa?

We arrived quickly and I drove in, parked, and we got out.

He looked around. “Yes, nice place! The pictures I saw don’t do it justice.”

“Pictures?” I asked, as I opened the front door.

“Well yes. You don’t think they aren’t watching, do you? They need to be sure. Whether it’s that you are a good boy or that you are actually having a decent life, I don’t know. Probably more of the former than the latter, if I am any judge,” he replied, cheerfully, as though it was no big deal. Well for him it probably wasn’t.

“Let’s have a beer?” he suggested, and waved at the window, “I’m not driving, and I doubt you will want to after all I have to say. Let’s sit out there and enjoy the rest of the morning. I’ll get an Uber back into town, later, okay?”

I grabbed two LandSharks and followed him outside, where I had two Adirondack chairs, just outside the back sliding door.

“Ahh,” he said, dropping into one chair and taking a long drag. “This is the life. You landed in clover here, Richard. Sorry, Lucas.”

He shifted a little, and I just remained mute, waiting for whatever he had to say. He shifted in the chair again, a little uncomfortably.

“Okay, well. What to tell you? Errr, first things first. I am no longer with the security services. I left just over two years ago. Obviously, the family thing took off, the kids and so on. Right now, I work for myself. I do some security consulting, training bodyguards, protect against corporate espionage, that sort of thing. Set a thief to catch a thief, so to speak. I do keep my ear to the ground, and pass around some information when it comes through me. Still keep up with lots of contacts, you know how it is. Not officially working for anyone, but unofficially, working for everyone, sort of thing. It keeps me busy and the money coming in.”

He stopped to take another drag in the bottle, and then continued. “The wife knows what I used to do, and has some idea of what I do now, which is why she wasn’t surprised when you suddenly popped up. That sort of thing happens. She’s just mad that it happened on our holiday. And yes, this was no coincidence, as I’m sure you’ve surmised. We, – I, – came here, expressly to see you.”

He stopped and looked at me, presumably to see how I was taking this. Given the last time I’d seen him, he’d extolled my ex-wife to shoot me, I wasn’t exactly thrilled with him. And he could see that.

“Look, I’m not here to harm you, or destroy your tranquility or anything. I’m here because ... well, when we last met, I was of a different mindset, shall we say. Things have changed a lot since then, family, wife, moving occupations. I have a very different perspective on what happened now than I did then. I know I said some things that were ... well, while they were technically right, they were designed to hurt and for that, I do apologize.”

I wondered how I felt about that. Did it make any difference? Not to me, but it probably did for him. Whatever.

Encouraged I hadn’t started shouting at him yet, he carried on. “Lucas, there’s some background you need to understand who I..., who Clarissa was. Is. Well, she probably is, but I’m not. Look, this is just confusing. Let me back up and explain some of the way the world is. You’ll understand better if I do that.”

He settled back, took another pull on the beer, and stared out over the estuary past my property.

“I was career MI6. So was Clarissa. Some of what she told you, her background story, was true. Some was not. Her mother is not still living. She died when Clarissa was seven. She never knew her father, who was career Navy, and who died during the Falklands war. The woman you met was one of our old staff women, who retired. She still kept her hand in, doing odd tailing jobs for us, acting the part for cover stories, that sort of thing. Much as she did for you. Clarissa was recruited at university, as was I. I went to Hertfordshire University. We were two years apart in age, her being older.

“Now, while we are part of the security apparatus, most of the field agents come from the services, usually from the intelligence groups. I came via the Army. Clarissa came in cold, although she holds rank in the Air Force, despite never having actually been in it. It’s a weird services thing, a holdover from the original SOE group in World War Two. Rank doesn’t actually mean much in the field; I’ve given orders to generals before, and they obey them because they know I have the experience and they don’t. Clarissa is now a full Colonel rank, by the way, in case you were interested. That’s about as high as it goes when you are still in the field. She may well get to General if she sticks it out, but by then, she’ll be running a desk, designing ops rather than running them.

“So how do I fit in all this?” I asked, interjecting for the first time. “Seems to me the last thing she’d need is a husband?”

“Well, for that, I need to give yet more background. Sorry, lots of knowledge required to understand how that came to be.”

He paused, another large gulp of beer, and an examination of the bottle, to see how much was left. Not enough, obviously. “Thirsty work this, perhaps another?”

“Got get it yourself,” I grunted, sipping mine more sparingly. He gave me a mirthless grin, and jumped and sauntered into the kitchen, returning with another bottle.

After settling, he continued.

“Okay, Lucas. So, I don’t know what you know about the realities of working as a field agent for British Intelligence, but it’s not like it is on TV or in the movies. We don’t go out there, infiltrating super villains and their organizations, and sleeping with lots of exotic women, while killing people left right and center. Field agents, or operators, as we are called, are used sparingly and with specific situations. We recruit specific targets, for example. Once recruited, they are handed over to a handler, who works for a spymaster, who handles a specific ring of human assets. They can be anywhere from an office cleaner to the spouse of an officer, to the officer themselves, and any level in between. Anywhere we see a chink, an angle to go after. For some it’s money, for some ideology, for some it’s love or sex or lust, or even orientation. Everyone we deal with has a lever, and it’s up to us to find it and use it. That’s one aspect of being an operator.

“We have other functions too. We escort assets out of dangerous situations, where they’ve become untenable, and yet still have value to us. Sometimes we are sent in to recover information that an asset cannot give to us directly, for one reason or another. I’m sure you can see that an operator’s remit can be broad and wide. We aren’t double-oh-bullshit, but we do have skill sets, and we do go into extremely volatile and dangerous situations. And inevitably, at some point, your luck runs out. We all know that, going in.

“But, we are all very gung ho, and all very patriotic, but between you and me, we are also a bunch of raving self-absorbed narcissists who believe we are just better than the opposition, and want to prove it. And the bosses know that, and use it. Now I’m out and looking back, it’s more obvious than ever to me.

“However, it’s also an extremely insular occupation. You can’t share it with anyone, except fellow operators. You are trained to lie, and lie well, and it becomes second nature. You are always weaving people away from any kind of truth, as you see it. You do become paranoid, but often with good reason. But, and this is the biggie, you lose contact with regular people. You can’t be open with anyone, up to and including your family. And then couple that with the fact that you can effectively find out anything about anyone you want. Plus the access to technology no one else has, and that your whole job is to fool the other guy, well ... is it any wonder that as time goes on, field agents lose touch with the society they are actually doing stuff for?

“You’ll hear a lot of crap about how noble these operators are, putting their lives on the line for freedom and the common man, and it’s all just that. Crap. You very quickly lose sight of the people you are doing this for, because you have nothing in common with them, and you are all so far superior to them anyway. It becomes about the mission, and outwitting the other side, who are the same as you. It becomes a means to its own end. It’s not about ‘The Big Picture’”, here, he used air quotes, “because you never see that anyway. You are doing the bidding of whatever political wind is blowing at the time. Taking the chance to one-up the opposition. Proving you are better than they are. That’s what it all comes down to, - a huge dick comparing contest, regardless of whether or not either person has a dick at all. Given it’s all one massive echo chamber internally, well, you can imagine how prevalent and agreed upon that thinking becomes. It becomes a very much ‘Them and Us’ mentality.”

He stopped, took another swig, and looked off into the distance.

“Lots of operators never come out of that mindset.”

He sighed and added, “I did though. Thankfully.”

“Anyway, given the atmosphere of how the work gets done, it will surprise you not one iota that there are a lot of burnouts and people who lose the plot. Now, when an operator loses it, it’s not like in the movies. They don’t suddenly turn evil and try and ransom the world. No, they tend to check out mentally, and start writing their memoirs with a particular political slant, or they start propagating conspiracy theories about lizards running the world. They don’t become arch nemeses, they become a problem of encapsulation. Of discrediting. Of losing yet another trained resource and having to replace them.

“So, how to combat that? Well, this is where you come in. Or your ilk, anyway. The thinking at the trick cyclists’ level was this. If people are becoming isolated from the common populace, then they need reminding of this. An attachment to the people they are doing what they are doing for, so to speak. People like you, old chap.”

“So, I was what, an emotional support husband?” I answered, both fascinated and appalled, at the same time.

“Well, that’s one way to look at it, I suppose,” mused the Major, dubiously. “I think the intent was more to be a grounding rod. To give the operator a grounding in reality. Of what life is really like for everyone else. An outlet to be ‘normal’, whatever that is. I mean, an operator’s life is anything but normal. Everything is a performance. All true intentions hidden. All that sort of thing. The idea, as I understood it, was to have an axis of life where that wasn’t true. Where they could relax a little, and be who they are deep inside, rather than who they think they have to project themselves to be, in order to get the job done. You get the gist.”

I did. It was revolting, but yes, I did get it.

“You were actually part of the pilot program, in fact. Clarissa and four other operators were tasked with finding a mate. Someone they could connect with. Someone where they didn’t have to be an operator, as much as a partner. She went through four or five people before she met you. You turned out to be, as she put it, ‘perfect fodder’. Yes, I know,” he interjected as I slammed my beer down, angrily. “I know. Not a nice way to categorize you at all. I get that, now. But you have to understand, at the time, we all thought this was a stupid idea, and treated it as though it were a mission. Something to be completed, but not something to invest in emotionally, right? So we went out, we did it, and then ... well ... the higher-ups knew that we’d treat it with contempt, but they figured that you can’t stay in a relationship, one that is loving, and make it work without it actually working, right? I mean, you can’t treat the other person with contempt because they are a mark, without them feeling that. You have to treat them as though they are your other half, and over time, that becomes a reality. That was the idea, anyway.”