The Organization

The Organization

Lucy di Legge

Supposed Crimes LLC, Matthews, North Carolina

All Rights Reserved

Copyright © 2016 Lucy di Legge

Published in the United States

ISBN: 978-1-938108-84-6

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

For B.

Part I

Chapter One

Charlotte woke up to the pitch-black room. Two large windows in her studio apartment used to look out onto a formerly spectacular green park with its lush trees that used to flower in the spring and turn golden and sunset red in the fall. These days the light from the window was sealed out with black contact paper and duct tape. In case the duct tape ever loosened on a particularly bright and damaging day, she had hung a heavy corduroy cloth from the curtain rod. Those who could afford it had their windows walled over or treated with a special, protective tinting, but Charlotte had to make do with what she could buy for cheap.

She reached for the lamp and pulled the chain, knowing exactly how far to extend her arm to find the glass bobble on the end of the chain. The compact fluorescent bulb, once hailed as a better, eco-friendly light bulb, would take a few minutes to reach its full luminosity.

“McGillicuddy, weather report,” she spoke to the room’s computer. Everyone gave their room computers a name or combination of words that wouldn’t easily arise in conversation, thus decreasing the odds of accidentally ordering the computer to respond to human-to-human conversation.

“L-location?” stuttered McGillicuddy, glitching in a soprano voice.

“London,” Charlotte replied impatiently, mumbling afterwards, “Where the hell else.” She pulled on dirty cargo pants that were half a size too large and fastened the belt tight around her hips. The pockets were already full from the day before; they held all her emergency provisions for leaving her apartment: plastic baggies, pocketknife, aerosol antibiotics, and extra sunscreen. Others might call her paranoid; she preferred to think of herself as prepared.

“Forty degrees C-Celsius,” answered McGillicuddy. “UV warning: orange.”

“Beautiful,” Charlotte said to herself. At least she could go out today.

Her apartment was a tiny studio with a bathtub, toilet, and sink hidden in the corner behind a cloth, floral-print shower curtain. She hadn’t been able to get the bathtub to work for over a year, and she suspected that the pipes were corroded. Most of the time, when she didn’t feel like showering at work, the sink did double-duty for washing her body and her dishes. Her space was cluttered and dusty in a way that was never going to come clean again. She saved materials that could be useful, and this included various examples of glass, wire, and scrap metals. Occasionally, when the city’s smog level restrictions made manufacturing too costly for a week or more at a time, she would sell back her empty bottles and discarded circuitry for re-use. Today fell during one of those occasions.

She finished dressing, throwing on a light, long-sleeved jacket and a pair of boots. She pulled her sandy blonde hair back into a ponytail and slipped it through the hole in a plain blue baseball cap. After a generous application of sunscreen to her face, hands, and neck, and after grabbing her sunglasses, she was ready to go. She quickly loaded a dozen empty glass bottles into her sturdy canvass bag, and she was out the door.

#

The city was a much more pleasant place now that cars and trucks were a rarity, mainly reserved for emergency services. Rumor had it that the European Union’s peacekeeping forces kept truck after truck parked tightly together in warehouses in case they were ever needed, but Charlotte had a hard time visualizing that.

Charlotte crossed a relatively busy cobblestone street, people brushing shoulders as they passed, and arrived at her destination in the shade of a bridge, a former roadway that had been converted into a pedestrian overpass. She was sweating after only a ten-minute walk, and she was thankful to be sheltered from the sunlight as she joined the queue. Four people – all men – waited patiently in front of her with bags of scrap metal and other odd finds. Their faces were unshaven, hair unkempt, and clothes looking as though they had not seen water and soap in ages. Scavenging was a dirty job, and not everyone cared about hygiene as much as Charlotte did. Then again, for Charlotte scavenging was supplemental income, maybe even something of a hobby, but for others it constituted a fulltime job.

A small piece of paper no bigger than an old-fashioned business card fell at her feet and began to disintegrate from having landed in a sparse pool of liquid, perhaps water, that was leaking from a nearby pipe. The paper was as thin as one-ply toilet paper but certainly expensive, as all paper was expensive. Charlotte looked up to see where it came from and saw a barrage of similar papers fluttering and drifting in the wind as a man – barely a man, more like a boy – was trying to empty his satchel as quickly as possible over the side of the bridge. Was this a form of distribution or was he trying to get rid of evidence?

A whistle blew, interrupting the beautiful sight that Charlotte imagined was what falling snow might be like. The man-boy slung his bag over his body and ran fast in the other direction as a bobby in reflective police blues chased after him.

Down below, several people looked suspiciously at the papers but hurried off, wary of being associated with the environmental crime of littering. Where the street had been packed with people moments before was now an empty, avoided space. On an impulse, Charlotte walked the few paces over to the vacated area and picked up one of the pieces of paper that had landed safely on dry cobblestones.

The crowd began to fill in again as Charlotte read the tiny piece of paper that she cradled in her palm: “Break Free of the Fortress and Reconnect with your American Cousins. The Power to Help Is In Your Hands!” Her brow furrowed, but she slipped the paper inside one zippered pocket as she returned to the queue. The man in front of her moved a step forward as his friend from the front of the line finished his business, his bag now empty, his digicard valued at a few credits greater.

As Charlotte advanced in line, a voice whispered behind her, asking, “Friend of George?”

“Excuse me?” Charlotte turned and asked.

The whisper belonged to a middle-aged man wearing a long, tan overcoat and plaid cap. His dark eyes darted to the line in front, paranoid and assessing whether anyone was listening. His eyes felt intense and piercing to Charlotte, sending a chill through her body even in the heat of the day, as he stated, “You picked it up – and put it in your pocket. The paper.”

Charlotte looked him over and replied, “Listen, mister, I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She turned her attention back to the line and stared at the nape of the neck of the man in front of her, beads of sweat starting to collect in his dirty hair.

The harsh voice from behind her hissed in her ear. “Tonight, half past nine, at 85 Westchester Place. Come if you’re interested, but tell no one.” Charlotte didn’t turn to look behind her until she advanced another place in line, but she sensed the stranger had gone.

#

Charlotte wandered the stalls of the outdoor market, which was completely shaded by large white tents. Tomatoes, herbs, freshly baked bread, and oranges all beckoned to her. She needed something of substance to get her through the day. Finally, she stopped in front of a cheese stall where she had often been tempted but had yet to make a purchase.

“Got Lancashire cheese on special, just for you,” a fragile-looking old woman said to her from behind wheels and wedges of cheese.

She surveyed the cheeses on display before responding, “Yes, thanks, that’d be perfect. Just a small wedge, please.”

The old woman picked one of the smaller wedges from the stack and wrapped it up for her as Charlotte passed her digicard in front of a small register scanner. “Here you go, miss,” the attendant said.

She took the cheese and turned to go.

“Whereabouts are you from?” the woman asked.  “Your accent – it’s a bit muddied.”

Charlotte replied, “I’m from London.”

The woman smiled slyly, “No, I don’t think so.”

“Then I’m from nowhere,” Charlotte said. She called over her shoulder as she left, “Thanks for the cheese.”

Chapter Two

Charlotte was already struggling to keep her eyes open as she walked into work that night. In truth, she had meant to take a nap that evening before coming in to the lab, but her conversation with the stranger under the bridge had unnerved her. She had lain on her bed, sleep refusing to come to her, for the better part of an hour before she gave up, and now she regretted not being able to overcome her feelings of consternation. It would be a long night.

What would she have found if she had gone to 85 Westchester Place? Charlotte pondered this as she closed her locker door. She pulled on her white lab coat and tried to push those thoughts from her mind.

“The Boss wants you in Beta Lab tonight,” said Victor, entering the locker room.

She looked over at her shorter coworker with his meticulously styled hair, and tried to mask her annoyance. “I’ve got an ongoing project in Delta. I can’t leave it.”

Victor shrugged, his eyes already trained on his locker. “I’m just the messenger.”

It wasn’t that she disliked Victor, but rather that she couldn’t relate to him. Victor clocked in and clocked out. If he messed up an experiment, then he started over, unconcerned for any time, materials, or money that were lost. Fortunately for Victor, he didn’t often make mistakes, and she supposed that this was one of the few reasons that Victor’s contract kept getting renewed. Then again, competition wasn’t stiff for working the night shift in a biological lab, earning just enough to eek by, and always under the watchful supervision of “the Boss.”

Victor balled up his lab coat and shoved it into his locker before turning and leaning against said locker. “I’m sure someone will take over your Delta project. Especially for
you
.” He looked her over from head to toe – was this his idea of flirting or was he trying to threaten her?

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Charlotte asked, crossing her arms.

“Hey, don’t get snippy. It’s a compliment, all right? I’m just saying that it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world for a guy to be owed a favor from someone like you.”

“Take a shower, Victor – a cold one,” Charlotte retorted as she turned to go.

“I would if I could afford the water!” Victor shot back, half in jest. That was in fact one perk of the job – free showers.

#

The Boss was a fifty-something man with brown, almond-shaped eyes and a receding hairline. As overseer of four labs, each with its own name and mandate, the Boss was positioned in a single office from which he could monitor everyone else. The Boss, too, had a name – Mr. Cornwell – but among the chitchat of employees he was just the Boss.

Charlotte hesitated outside the Boss’s office just long enough for him to look up and see her standing there. He waved to her through the Plexiglas wall, motioning that she should come in.

The door slid closed behind her.

“Hello, Parker.”

“Good evening, sir.  I was told I’m being transferred to Beta Lab,” Charlotte replied, hoping her voice didn’t betray her emotions.

“Yes, and I’m aware of your carbon recycling project in Delta Lab.  I’ll ask you to brief Mr. Wellstone on your progress so he can adequately take over your duties.”

Charlotte tried to keep her brow from furrowing.  “Is this a permanent reassignment, Mr. Cornwell?”

“That remains to be seen, Parker.”  The Boss leaned back in his chair and made a steeple with his fingers.  “But consider it as something of a promotion. I think you’ll quite enjoy the work in Beta Lab.”  He paused before adding, “Mr. Collins is the supervisor of Beta Lab. After you brief Wellstone, report to Mr. Collins to get situated.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good evening, Parker.”

Charlotte nodded and left the office, more befuddled than when she entered. What kind of work went on in Beta Lab? And what had she done to merit a promotion? It was true that her performance evaluations described her as an efficient, diligent employee, a biochemist with considerable training, but how had she stood out among the others in the lab?

#

By the time Charlotte reported to Beta Lab, she was tired and annoyed from having to explain the details of her former project to her colleague. But upon entering Beta Lab, she felt a surge of energy at the anticipation of her new work. The lab was smaller than her old lab, and included workstations for about twenty-five scientists. A dozen or so employees were currently working in the lab, with the rest of the workstations unoccupied. She reported to the Plexiglas-walled office of the lab supervisor.