Mac Macdonell

​

Mac stands patiently with Peter Habler in the hallway of the wretched apartment where the body has lain ignored for the best part of two weeks. Neighbours had reported the stench. The tech-team squeezes past them, their protective suits rustling quietly as if nothing dare disturb the ominous silence of the place. As if there is sanctity in stillness. The inaudible agony of death made reverent.

                                                                ***

 

Sam

​

Isamu drinks Glenfiddich whisky in front of his friend’s fire.

On August the sixth, nineteen forty-five, the American’s dropped the bomb on Hiroshima, instantly killing nearly eighty thousand people. Thousands more died in the aftermath. Isamu’s father had been visiting the ship-building facilities in Kure on that day. The rest of the family had perished. Many of them, just a stain on the pavement, or an oily, charred mess that even the most callous baulked at the cleaning away of. The less fortunate, those who were somehow sheltered from the initial blast, or were just beyond the total destruction radius, died in screaming agony from their untreated burns. In a way, they too were fortunate in that their ordeal lasted for only hours or days. For many, the agony continued for months. For some, the horror was eternal. The west’s account speaks to support, aid, rebuilding.
One rarely hears of the suicides. Those in such pain that they elected to fall upon whatever weapon they could hold in their baked and fused fingers. The people who shot dead their entire families. Not even the cruel minds of early religious scholars could have envisaged a hell that compared to Hiroshima or Nagasaki. Shortly after, the American’s destroyed most of what was left of the naval base at Kure, putting an end to the then, Japanese Navy. Thereafter, with MacArthur’s authority, the Americans helped re-build the country, presumably under the notion that their aid would ensure future unity and peace. For some, that prophesy did in fact become a reality. But never for Isamu’s father. Despite the love he would come to enjoy through his marriage and the son born of it, his father eventually succumbed to the searing temptation of own blade.
Isamu had studied medicine at a university that was sponsored by the west. That is where he had met Harold Frank. Harold’s father, Albert, had been a banker. A man of finance. Only later, would Isamu come to learn of the mycelium-like nature of the family’s underground roots and connections. An infrastructure so vast and yet so obscure, that it impacted the futures of everything it touched in a caress that was both irresistible and yet, for most, utterly intangible. For Isamu, that connection had been healing and phoenix-like. Together, he and Harold had delved into the most sacred and secret aspects of human design, and they’d discovered wonders. Marvels that, as adults, under the umbrella of the sprawling pharmaceutical empire that he and Isamu came to create together, they would painstakingly forge into tools that would change the path of human development.

Revenge is the privilege of only the sharpest of swords, the edges of which, can take a generation or more to fully hone.

​

                                                              ***

​

Mathew

​

Mathew leaves his rucksack at the foot of the stairwell. The house smells of flowers and a background scent of middle eastern herbs that his mother still enjoys cooking with. With a rising sense of intrigue, he goes to the library door and, resisting the urge to knock, he pushes it open and pokes his head around its corner as if he is expecting gunfire from within. Instead, there is a woman standing with her back to him, looking at photos that are resting on the large, wooden shelf that overhangs the open fireplace. She is tall. Her hair is black and cut short. She senses his presence and turns towards him, a genuine smile of happiness touching her exotic features.

‘Hey, Pricey,’ she greets him.

‘Sahara? What on earth are you doing here?’ Mathew is shocked. Sahara Desserres is the last person he ever expected to find in the library. Colonel Plumb of Cluedo fame would have been less surprising.

‘It’s Sara now. Sara Dufoe. Don’t I get a hug?’

Mathew steps into her open arms and wraps his arms around her. The woman’s body is trim and firm. Her back is strong and well-muscled. Yet, the version of this Sahara is still undeniably lovely.

‘You are behind my orders,’ he breathes in her ear.

‘Not exactly me,’ she holds him away from her, and she looks intently into his eyes. ‘Your mother is breathtakingly beautiful. How comes you’re so plain?’ she smiles.

‘Take a seat,’ Mathew instructs her. There is a leather settee and two armchairs that surround the fireplace. Sara takes an armchair and Mathew finds a spot on the settee in the knowledge that Hanna will want to sit close to him. ‘How are things with Gustav?’ he adds.

Sara grimaces, and replies. ‘They’re not. I have nothing to do with him. I only deal with Harold, his father.’

Hanna enters the room bearing a tray of tea items, her walking stick hooked over her forearm. Mathew rises to his feet to take the tray from her which he places on the coffee table as she takes a seat on the settee as close to Sara as possible. Mathew smiles to himself as he sees a plate of digestives biscuits neatly arranged.

‘Mathew’s favourites,’ Hanna explains the smile. ‘The English dunk them in their tea,’ she laughs as if the notion is ridiculous.

Mathew pours tea for them all. As he hands Sara her cup, she says, ‘I’ll take a biscuit.’

He hands her the plate, and she carefully selects a biscuit and then she dips the edge of it into her tea.

‘Better move quick, the little buggers fall apart on you!’ Hanna advises her.

Just in time, Sara manages to get the soggy part of the biscuit up to her mouth. ‘Hmm,’ she exclaims, ‘I see the appeal.’

‘English tea-drinking habits aside, whilst it’s tremendous to see you again, I don’t understand why either of us are here,’ says Mathew, soberly.

‘Tremendous,’ Sara smiles at him, ‘not even Mac used that one. How is he?’

‘Mac is fine. He lives in France with a lovely woman and her daughter. How can I help you, Sara?’ Mathew sighs.

‘Actually, it’s your mother’s help that I need.’

Hanna laughs, ‘All I can help you with are a few late parsnips from the garden.’

‘What does Harold Frank need from my mother?’ Mathew demands.

Sara looks to Hanna. ‘Do you remember Adam Bitton?’

To Mathew, Hanna says, ‘Close your ears, Darling.’ To Sara, she says, ‘Adam and I were colleagues and, at one time, long before Mathew’s father was on the scene, we were lovers. Quite good ones, actually.’

‘Mother,’ Mathew complains.

‘Is he still alive?’ Hanna ignores him.

‘Yes. He is a well-respected member of the Israeli parliament.’

‘Here we go,’ Mathew sighs again.

‘Oh, do shut up, Mathew. What do you want me to do, Sara? Maybe I could sleep with him and get you some useful information,’ Hanna declares.

‘OK. That’s enough,’ Mathew also declares, slapping at the surface of the settee with both his hands, ‘I’m obviously not needed here. I’ll be up in my room if anybody has anything sensible to say.’

‘You stay right where you are, Major Price,’ Hanna orders, ‘while we listen to this girl.’

‘Major Price, there’s a serious reason for me being here. However, before I can divulge anything else, I need your mother to sign a secrecy document. One that has been ratified by the UK government.’

‘Why would I do that?’ Hanna asks her.

‘Because its possible that you might consider what we are going to ask of you is not in Israel’s best interests. As an ex, high-ranking member of its security forces, we need to understand your loyalties,’ Sara explains.

‘Child, I haven’t even had a holiday in Israel since I married Mathew’s father. However, I will not be a part to anything that threatens their security.’

‘I hope that you can trust me enough to believe that nothing of the sort would be required of you. What I seek is permission from the Israelis. Personally, I don’t believe it to be onerous.’

‘Mother, Adam Bitton is the Israeli Minister for science and technology. I’m assuming that the Frank Organisation, with the full support of the UK government, want the Israelis to concede something that the FO considers to be of value,’ Mathew interjects.

‘You think I should sign?’ Hanna asks him.

‘That depends on whether or not you’re prepared to meet him. I’m guessing that’s what’s on the table?’ Mathew looks up at Sara.

She nods imperceptibly.

‘Give me the document.’ Hanna stretches out her hand towards Sara, and Sara delves into the briefcase that is resting beside her chair and retrieves an A4 envelope. It is brown.

All such documents come in brown envelopes in Mathew’s experience.

Hanna extracts the one-page secrecy agreement and holds it so that both she and Mathew can read it.
Mathew considers the document to be innocuous enough. He’s signed enough of them himself.

He does not need to tell his mother that it’s OK for her to sign it. Hanna takes the pen that Sara is proffering and signs at the bottom of the page. She then passes it back to Sara who looks at it briefly before returning it to her briefcase.

‘Thank you. Mathew, what I’m about to tell you both is government sanctioned. It’s probably not as sinister as you might think, but it is classified at the highest level and leaking it would be considered as an act of high treason. I’m obliged to require that you both acknowledge that fact.’

‘I do,’ says Mathew.

Hanna says the same.

‘Great,’ Sara sighs, ‘The scientific institute known as CERN is about to change hands,’ she informs them.

‘What’s that got to do with Israel?’ Hanna wonders.

‘Israel is a member state,’ Mathew replies.

‘You want me to convince Adam to take a proposal to parliament that Israel should relinquish their share. Why? I thought we were allies.’

‘Mother, Israel is part Hebrew, part Arab. Neither of whom are necessarily welcome in the FO’s vision of the future,’ Mathew sighs yet again. It’s turning out to be one of those days.

Sara looks at him pointedly. Clearly, she is uncomfortable where the conversation is heading.

She takes control again by saying, ‘Mathew may have a valid point, but I happen to know that many good things are about to occur. Things that will be of great benefit to many people.’

Mathew has over-stepped the mark. Something he prides himself on not normally doing. If it got back to his boss that he was being obstructive, he’d get demoted straight back to Aldershot barracks. Maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing.

He says, ‘The future, if we are fortunate enough to enjoy one, lies in the hands of the technocrats. It is becoming increasingly apparent to me that the FO is seen as the West’s best chance of seeing us through the turbulence of the next several years. One of the problems they face is that, with so many differing opinions out there, their progress could easily be hindered. The likes of you and I will probably never know why the FO wants to control CERN, but if the UK government are onboard with it, then we are duty-bound to assist in any way we can.’

Hanna considers his words before asking of Sara, ‘I doubt very much that Adam would listen to me. What do you actually want of me?’

‘Just an introduction,’ Sara explains, ‘we would prefer if this entire thing was informal. We would prefer it if Adam honestly believed that Israeli money would be better off invested elsewhere. It’s reasonable. Most other countries are taking remarkably similar steps.’

‘You want Hanna to spin that?’ Mathew asks.

‘No. Just convince him to meet privately with me. I’ll do the spinning,’ Sara smiles.

‘A holiday in Jerusalem. All expenses paid. Even a nice hotel?’ Hanna asks.

‘Only the very best,’ Sara assures her.

‘Then let’s break out the sherry,’ Hanna suggests.

‘Sherry? Before lunch?’ Sara wonders.

‘Mathew, you should marry this woman. Teach her a thing or two about British values,’ says Hanna, helpfully.

Sara raises her eyebrows at him in a way that is both questioning and amused. ‘Hanna… has Mathew ever told you about his true sweetheart?’ she asks.

‘No. He’s rather shy in that department,’ Hanna confesses.

‘Mother, Sara is referring to an animal I once had the pleasure of semi-owning. A donkey, in fact. I called her Sweetheart,’ Mathew tries to explain.

‘A donkey?’ His mother regards him distastefully.

‘I know I just can’t win this one. Please excuse me while I take my gear upstairs and take a shower. I trust you’ll stay for dinner, Sara?’ he asks.

‘My pleasure,’ she grins mischievously at him.

‘Good. In the meantime, you can try and explain Sweetheart to my mother.’