The Sons Of Cleito (The Abductions of Langley Garret Book 1) (14 page)

'No, far from it. It's a very well funded international group that has connections to arms dealing, corporate mercenaries, illicit drug research, manufacture and supply and they also deal in nuclear technology among many other side businesses. As with many of these organisations, their basic tenet is only used as a basis to attract new and willing recruits. We believe they have agents working in the military and governments of a number of countries. So no, not a small group at all. Your wife was a classic example of their ability to infiltrate high level positions over a long period of time.'

'Do you know why she was killed?'

He passed me a few pieces of paper. It was a rough photocopy of a transcript of my mother's letter.

'I don't understand,' I said, as I looked at it quickly, knowing what it was instantly.

'As best as we can understand, this letter was purported to contain a coded message outlining the hierarchy of the organisation and the methods to be used in the ascension of new leaders.'

'Who gets the good jobs?'

'I suppose so. It also contained the methods deemed necessary to undermine and eventually overthrow the Greek government.'

'The way Greece is currently, they might have half succeeded.'

'I can't express an opinion on that,' he said.

'So what was the connection to Helen's death?

'We're unsure, but there are mentions in our intelligence that your wife used the letter as the means to initially infiltrate this group, and that she was seeking to financially benefit from this over some years. There are also interceptions of communications that refer to this letter and her as being a fake and an imposter.'

'Right.'

'I'm sorry I can't be more specific.'

'That's ok, but why did they grabbed me?'

'I think it may have been in error.'

'What? Taking me was just some silly mistake?'

'Yes, perhaps.'

'Oh I'm lost now.'

'I'm sorry Mr Garret, I don't have all the answers you're looking for. All we know is that there seems to have been some confusion between different factions and actors and by the fact that somewhere along the line you were handed over to a neutral government, it appears to tell us that you were seen as something to be offloaded.'

'A fuck up?'

'Your words, not mine.'

'Ok then. But do you know who took me from my apartment, and who grabbed me from the island, and then who belted the crap out of me? And how the hell I ended up in Ankara?'

'We're still investigating, but in short, we don't have all the answers. It's a complex web of agencies and organisations and with so many high level cross-contacts, it makes it impossible to draw simplistic lines. But we think this Greek anarchist group may have abducted you initially. We know them by a number of names and offshoots, but they are often referred to as The Sons Of Cleito. It's possible that they either had suspicions about your wife's activities and wanted you as insurance, or perhaps that there was some other connection with your mother that they saw as advantageous.'

'But I didn't have any connection to any of that.'

'That's not what they thought, clearly.'

'Yes, I suppose so. So who grabbed me from them?'

'We're not sure, but perhaps a concerned group or agency.'

'I was on British warships. I know that for sure.'

'Yes, but that's really irrelevant. It could have been any country or agency that wanted you for their own reasons, and the British may have assisted them logistically. As I said, this is a very complex situation and things are never really as they seem.'

'But maybe a government or an intelligence service?'

'I don't think it really matters now, does it? It was just by someone who thought you had something they wanted or needed.'

'But friend or foe?'

'There's often no difference.'

'My enemy's enemy is my friend?'

'I noted in your file that you spent some time in the Middle East, so yes, a very apt Arabic expression I would say to describe your experience.'

'All right, so who belted the crap out of me?'

'Perhaps a contractor.'

'Contractor. Geeezz. Are we talking about something similar to rendition?'

'I prefer contractor.'

'I'm way out of my depth, aren't I?'

'It's not easy to find all the answers I'm afraid Mr Garret.'

'Well, why did this contractor nearly kill me, but then send me off to hospital and then on to Ankara and to the Russians?'

'I have no idea. It's the way these things work sometimes. As I said, there are no simple answers. All I can say is that you became involved in a complex situation and that you were lucky in the end.'

'Ok then, I'll leave it at that, but there are a couple of things though, if you don't mind. Do you know if Helen married me to gain access to this Greek group initially?'

'It can't be ruled out that she married you for some professional purpose I suppose, but she was probably the only person who could've answered that definitively for you.'

'Or maybe someone who is active in this Sons Of Cleito group?'

'Yes, that's a possibility of course.'

'And do you know if Helen used my email and social media connections to drop me in the shit?'

'Internet connections and email are very easy to access and use I'm afraid. So perhaps, if not probably, if she had any basic technical knowledge she could've used your accounts without you knowing.'

'Ok understood. I suppose I'm a bit naïve about that sort of stuff. Look, there was something I was shown when I was on the island. It was a video of my wife with a man and their conversation indicated that whatever this group intended to do, it was going to happen soon. It sounded like it was the culmination of something that had been planned for a very long time. Possibly since she married me in fact.'

'Well we'll have to wait and see.'

'Are you telling me to walk away from it all and simply forget about everything?'

'I can't advise you on what to do.'

'Even if it was perhaps a plan to overthrow a government?'

'I don't think you really believe you can do anything about it now, so maybe it would be best to forget all about it.'

'All right then,' I said, understanding that he didn't want to discuss the matter further. 'But one last thing. Did you work with Helen?'

'I have a question for you,' he said, ignoring my question completely, except for an ever so slight wriggle in his chair.

'Yes?'

'If you would like a new identity, for your protection that is, I have been authorised to offer it to you.'

'Shit! Do you think I'm in that much danger? Really?'

'I can't say Mr Garret. It's up to you. But that was the main reason for meeting with you today.'

'Fuck! Um, I'm sorry, but this is all just so damn crazy. Do you really think I need a new identity? Am I that much of a threat to anyone?'

'That's up to you to decide.'

'How am I supposed to know the answer to that?'

'As I said, it's up to you. I can't advise you one way or the other.'

'Do I have to tell you now?'

He handed me a business card. All that was printed on it was a mobile phone number. 'Call if you decide to accept,' he said as he stood up. I looked up at him not knowing what to say next. He helped me by saying, 'Thank you for your time Mr Garret,' as he stood up and walked away and then melted into nowhere.

'Thanks,' I said, but I don't think he heard me.

I bought another two bottles of Dôle du Valais on my way home, in readiness for a quiet evening of contemplation, and worry.

Routine

Three months had gone by since I met with the anonymous man on the terrace of Café du Commerce. I didn't call the number on the card to change my identity and instead, decided to move on with my own life, minus a wife, and get on with forgetting about the ten weeks that had been stolen from my life and work on building a new and meaningful existence for myself. While Switzerland specialises in making the process of finalising an estate and will, which they call succession, quite long and painful, it was moving along slowly and when it finally reached its conclusion, I would be reasonably secure financially.

I had thoughts about moving, but I liked where I lived and decided to stay, struggling with my French a little but loving the culture, landscape and people around me. It was time to relax, write and find new challenges. After consulting with my doctor and then a specialist, it was decided that my hand needed further bouts of surgery in the hope of regaining some limited use of my fingers, although it was clear from their expectations that it would never be returned to normal. Luckily though, my thumb had full extension and was undamaged. As for my nose, I passed on more surgery and satisfied myself with it adding some rugged character to my face.

There was however one question that he could answer for me. While he was more concerned about my remodelled nose, I thought he would be the most reliable source to ask a question that really needed an answer.

'What do you think these are?' I asked, pointing to my neck. He moved around from the desk and took a look.

'Yes, I noticed these before.'

'So what are they?'

'Tattoos.'

'I must admit I had thought they were, but I don't ever remember going to a tattooist as a kid.'

'I doubt you would. These were done when you were very young, probably when you were a baby judging by the skin growth and fading. Perhaps only a few days after you were born. Did your parents belong to some kind cult of Eastern hippie sect?'

'I don't know. They both died when I was very young. But you make it sound like circumcision or some kind of birth ritual.'

He continued looking at them closely for a minute or so. 'Yes perhaps something like that. They weren't done by a professional tattooist, that's for sure, and they look to me as if they were made using something like a sewing needle and ashes.'

'What?'

'Tattoos were originally created using ashes from totally burned wood mixed with water to create a carbon dye. This gave a tattoo the dark brown almost black colour that these on your neck have, or used to have, as they are quite faded now. It's a process that's nearly as old as time.'

'So they're home made?'

'Yes, definitely. And that's why the lines are irregular and why they have faded so much.'

'Well, at last I know how they were done.'

'Have you met anyone else with similar marks?'

'A couple of people.'

'And did they had any connection with your parents?'

'I'm not sure really. Like you said, it was probably a result of some weird hippie thing in the sixties.'

'It could well have been, given that time. Anyway, if you want them removed it's possible, but it would involve a little surgery.'

'No, I don't think I'll bother.'

In between doctors, surgeons, lawyers and throwing out all the memories of Helen from my apartment, I accidently stumbled into a job through a friend of a friend. Teaching English creative writing wasn't going to make me rich, but it was going to give me a reason to get up in the morning, meet new people and feel I had a purpose in life. The past was slowly moving behind me and the only way now was forward and better, with less wine, less worry and with far fewer messages of impending doom from my stomach, liver, spleen and manic depressive prone intestines.

Once the officialdom of Helen's estate was behind me, I planned on taking a short holiday in Weston-Super-Mare. I had never been there, except to be born, and even that fact I wasn't entirely certain about, but the pier and the beach looked lovely in photos. Then off to somewhere warm for a longer break. Perhaps Bangkok or Singapore. In the meantime, I enjoyed my daily life in Neuchâtel, with its cafés, its lake and culture, as my life returned to a thoroughly boring, yet enjoyable routine normality.

Tuesdays are spectacularly famous; along with Thursdays, for being one of the,
nothing happens at all today
, days. I was enjoying my Tuesday's predictable nothing happens quality as I walked along the lake in my new habit of taking a long healthy walk in the early morning. Along with less wine, more exercise and a lot of creative writing teaching, I was feeling healthy, happy and modestly worthwhile. On my way back home through the narrow streets of the city I heard something that in all honesty, I knew I really didn't want to hear. Especially on a nothing happens at all Tuesday.

'Excuse me, do you have a moment?' a stocky man in an ill-fitting suit said as he approached me on rue de Musée, as I was slowly making my way back home.

'Sorry, I'm in a hurry,' I said, as I turned on my heels immediately and started walking back from where I'd come. I could see someone in an equally ill-fitting suit loitering near the corner of rue Pury. I walked towards him, with his friend ten steps behind me. When I arrived at the intersection, I darted right suddenly and ran as fast as my forty-six years could carry me, towards the hopeful protection of the small streets over Place Pury, and perhaps allow me to lose my new Tuesday friends. My heart was thumping in my chest as I urged my legs to use the investment I had made in my health in recent weeks. My guts though were a bit late in catching on to the danger and only just caught up with the bad news my new acquaintances posed and belatedly started sending their twisted messages of impending doom. Ignoring all my internal organs, I sent a message down to my legs. 'Run you fuckers, Run!'