Posted 03 December 2010 - 07:00 PM
And, here we go - my contribution (so very very very nervous for the debut of our new Double-Oh)
A FLYING VISIT
An Alec North Vignette
The plane rolled to a halt at Manchester Airport, the busiest airport in the United Kingdom outside London. The Icelandair Boeing 757-200 had left Keflavik International Airport at four thirty bound for Heathrow. With an hour to go, the pilot had announced that the airport had been closed due to snow and the plane was diverted to Manchester. A coach would be avaliable to take the passengers to London - but that wouldn't be ready to leave Manchester until the following morning.
Still - the brief delay in waiting for a landing window at Manchester hadn't been wasted: North had found a mobile phone number and the name of a hotel on a napkin when he ordered a vodka and coke. If he was going to need to spend the night in Manchester - it appeared that he wouldn't need to spend it alone.
A quick text to headquarters to report his situation resulted in a hotel room being booked for the night - at the Hilton in the city centre. This would be better than whatever hotel Icelandair had booked their staff into. If he was going to have company for the night, it looked like it was going to be at his own hotel.
He fingered the final toggle of his peacoat and tightened his red scarf as he stepped off the plane and into the chilly airport terminal. As he walked through the airport, he felt a bit jealous - four of his fellow agents had been sent to the South of France, to work a gambling ring that was funding Somalian pirates. And he'd just been sent to Reykjavik to recover the schematics for a next generation combined sonar/radar system - a routine mission with no complications.
North would ordinarly have taken a taxi to the hotel but, given the weather, he decided to take a train to the city centre. This would also allow him to check whether he was being followed. The Icelandair flight had been only half full. Out of the corner of his eye, he'd caught a man trying to look at him without being caught. The man was in his late-twenties, slim, dark haired and bespectacled. He looked Italian, but the cut of his suit suggested he wasn't: Italian-American then. If the man was following him - then he'd follow him onto the train.
North slipped into his chair on the train, thankful that the carriage was warmer than either the terminal or the train platform. If he was being followed, then his Italian friend would enter in a minute. And, sure enough, he slipped into the carriage and settled into a chair at the opposite end of the carriage. North slipped the latest Charlie Axworthy novel out of his Visconti leather messenger bag, opened it and continued reading - continuing to observe his pursuer out of the corner of his eye.
Forty minutes later, the train pulled into Manchester Picadlly and North stepped out into the freezing platform. The two options to reach the hotel were the taxi and the metro - so North picked the third choice: he adjusted his scarf and stepped out into the cold winter air. Taking the footbridge over London Street, he navigated the junction of Auburn Street, Aytoun Street and Minshull Street and then stepped onto Canal Street, the bustling heart of the cities thriving Gay community. It was only nine o' clock but despite the weather and the sub-zero temperatures, the clubs were already packed - and would only become busier as the night went on.
As he sidestepped the members of an already-drunk hen party he took the opportunity to see if his new friend was still following him. He was. Either he was very bad at covertly following someone or he wanted to be noticed - neither was necessarily a good thing. North hooked a right onto Sackville Street and another right onto Bloom Street, effectively turning back on himself. He ducked into one of the nightclubs, stepping down the stairs and into Eagle Black. The light in the bar was dim and there were several alcoves around the room that you could hide in and observe the entrance.
North melted into the clientele. At six foot two and fourteen and a half stone, most of that pure muscle, he would have stuck out like a sore thumb in some of the other nightclubs. But here, he was inconspicuous. He stood at the bar and ordered another vodka and coke, then stepped into one of the alcoves and waited. After two minutes, his Italian friend stepped into the club and attempted to cover his entrance by approaching the bar and ordering a Budweiser before winding his way across the room and looking for North.
The speakers blasted out a recent Kylie Minogue song (There were some things that would never change, considered North) and the patrons of the club flocked to the dancefloor. A ceiling mounted disco laser pulsed red, green and blue light around the room and a hidden smoke machine vented some smoke - all this made the environment more conducive to sneaking up on his pursuer.
A few seconds later, North had worked his way through the dancers to the alcove his pursuer was standing in. Taking the bespectacled man by surprise, he grabbed the mans wrist. Using the mans own bodyweight to gain the advantage, he swung the man around and pushed him up against the cold brick wall. The man grunted.
"Either you were badly trained, or you wanted me to notice you," said North, whispering into the mans ear. "So tell me, which is it? This will go a lot easier for both of us if you tell me who you're working for."
The man reached into the inside pocket of his tailored jacket and produced a CIA ID. North released the man and took the ID in his hands, turning it over and taking the details in - David Ruggiero, CIA. The slim bespectacled man in the tailored suit was from the CIA - he'd looked more like an accountant.
North released Ruggiero.
"Sorry about that, mate," the Double-Oh commented, offering the American his hand. The American shook it. "Can't be too careful, can we. Why were you following me, though?"
Ruggiero worked the shoulder of the arm that North had used to swing him up against the wall in its socket. It hurt - but he'd had worse. He did look like an accountant - but that was something he carefully cultivated, it led people to underestimate him. He wouldn't be a good CIA operative if he looked like one. North, in contrast, had played rugby and boxed for his whole life and it showed in his build - it leant to his carefully selected wardrobe in leading to his regular cover identity: Alec North, Fashion Buyer, Universal Exports: Fashion Desk.
"Well, we couldn't let 'Polyphemus' fall into the hands of anyone," replied Ruggiero. Polyphemus was the code name that MI6 had used to refer to the next generation combined sonar/radar system. A name which had obviously leaked to their cousins in Langley. "Just keeping an eye on our cousins."
North nodded. He needed to trust Ruggiero - in so much as you could trust someone in the business they were in. Ruggiero explained that he'd also been booked into the Hilton by his own 'company's' London office and that, if the weather hadn't improved the following morning, he'd recieved permission to call in the assistance of the US Airforce to deliver North to Vaxuhall Cross. The Americans were obviously taking the security of Polyphemus very seriously - and, for a moment, North wondered if he had really taken receipt of the schematics of 'just a next generation combined sonar/radar system' or whether the truth had been hidden even from him.
"Fancy something to eat? I'm famished," said North. Ruggiero was hungry - but it was ten o' clock. Most of the restaraunts in the city would be closed, if not fully booked or beginning to refuse admission. But that didn't matter - North knew an excellent takeaway only a hundred metres from Eagle Black.
The two men walked down Bloom Street to the takeaway in question. Ten minutes later, North had ordered a lamb shawarma with hummous and Ruggiero had ordered a burger and chips. Not the sort of high class cuisine that an MI6 assassin and a CIA field agent were used to - but, as North said to his new friend, sometimes you just had to satiate the hankering for some absolute filth. Plus - it reminded him of his childhood, growing up in Oman, Bahrain and even, albeit very briefly, Iraq. It was these experiences, as well as the fact he could speak six languages fluently and a handful more enough to conduct a conversation in them, that had brought him to the attention of MI6 upon his graduation from University. Unlike many of his fellow Double-Oh operatives, who had been imported to the Double-Oh section from the various branches of the military, North had risen through the ranks within MI6 itself - eventually being noticed by the Admiral himself and being offered candidacy for the Double-Oh Section. North had accepted. And that brought him here - in only his second month on the job.
North led Ruggiero off Bloom Street and onto Princess Street, they followed the road until the intersection with Mosley Street and then crossed the road, following Mosley Street into St. Peter's Square. Passing the library, they crossed the road onto Lower Mosley Street and followed that road around, past the GMex and turned onto Great Bridgewater Street.
It was often commented that the Hilton hotel in the city centre was a bit of an oddity. It formed the lower half of the Beetham Tower, a forty seven floor skyscraper of multi-hued glass that rose up in the city centre. It was the tallest building in the United Kingdom outside of London - but it was virtually invisible from most points within the city centre. You could notice it from a distance, or up close - but otherwise it seemed to vanish.
The two men checked into the hotel, then seperated after agreeing to meet up again in the morning to discuss if the assistance of the Americans was a necessity. North used the electronic swipe-card to enter his room, a King Executive Plus room (North made a mental note to send Athena the biggest box of chocolates he could summon. Many of the secretaries at MI6 would have dumped him in a standard room at this time of financial austerity.) and noted the jacuzzi bath with inset television and complimentary toiletries in the bathroom. North had texted his Icelandair admirer whilst he and Ruggiero had been waiting for their food at the takeaway and suggested that he might be agreeable to taking visitors at eleven.
At ten minutes past eleven, there was a knock at the door. North had spent the ten minutes since his arrival at the hotel taking a quick shower to freshen himself up. He slipped on a fawn short sleeve Ted Baker shirt that fitted snugly around his bicep, teasingly offering glimpses of the intricate tattoo that circled his bicep and shoulder, and pulled on a pair of jeans. Although, he suspected, it would not be long before the clothes were scattered across the floor. He answered the door barefoot -
His guest had changed clothes too - from the immaculate red Icelandair uniform to a neat pastel blue polo shirt, jeans and black shoes. He was definitely handsome - his olive skin, textured dark hair and simple black ear stud lending him an air of metrosexuality. North pulled him into the room -
"I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name -"
"Axel -" He had a gentle accent - not entirely Icelandic. There was a touch of something else hidden in there somewhere. And then he added - "Fortemente" - and there it was: The handsome air steward had Italian blood in his family somewhere.
North closed the door behind them amd pulled Axel closer, pulling the man's polo shirt over his head to reveal a toned (but not defined) chest. Pushing Axel down onto the double-bed, North straddled him and leaned in for a kiss. It was passionate - almost animalistic.
And as he broke it, both men smiled.
"Let's not make this a flying visit -"
ALEC NORTH, 0011
WILL RETURN IN
'ALL THE TRIMMINGS'
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