Focal Point
CHAPTERS 1 - 3
 
By Alyssa Plant
 

Michael Cohen's dream was to protect and serve as a police officer.... That job didn't satisfy him until one day, when people without names came to visit. He wanted to make a difference, but he didn't expect it to make a difference to him, too...

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Chapter 1

*CRACK* the rifle jumped into my shoulder as my finger caressed the hair trigger. Through the telescopic lens I could see a perfect circle intersecting the two already on the bulls’ eye down range.

“Awesome shooting Mike,” chuckled Sergeant Harry Thompson beside me as he observed the holed target at the 500m line through his binoculars.

“Oh it’s nothing really,” I grinned, rolling onto my side and resting my head on my hand. “Someone’s got to be this good.”

“Sure.” Harry grinned. “They need somewhere to keep that ego.”

Throwing an empty ammunition carton at him, I stood and collected my equipment. It was early evening on the second Monday of the month, and as usual we had spent the day on the ranges outside London training. The door kickers, the men in the unit who’s job it was to enter hostile buildings, were working on room clearance on the other side of the training area, according to the infrequent bursts of popping gunfire, and aside from myself and Harry, 8 other sniper teams had been practicing on the 1000 yard range. Harry and myself had spent an extra hour on the range in the growing twilight, we were perfectionists, and I always tried to practice in as adverse conditions as possible. Nut jobs with guns rarely waited till it was calm and sunny.

Zipping up my rifle bag, I slipped it over my shoulder and followed my spotter out towards the car park.

“You coming out for a beer with the off duty team later?” Harry asked looking over at me.

“Maybe,” I murmured chewing my lip. “I figured I’d just stay in tonight,” I said with a non-committal shrug.

“You never come out mate. You got a bird on the side you ain’t telling us about?” He probed jokingly. “She must be fucking hot to keep you away from us.”

“Yeah, 5’10, Swedish, blonde, great rack,” I laughed. “If only…. maybe some other time Harry.”

Harry leant against the roof of his Car and looked at me or a moment before shaking his head and slipping into the driver’s seat.

“See you tomorrow Mike,” he waved as he drove off.

I stood for a moment in the growing dark, before shaking myself mentally and slipping the gun case into the boot of my unmarked police car and slipping behind the wheel.

I made the drive back into London on autopilot; the roads were quiet after the evening rush to leave the metropolis. I arrived back at New Scotland Yard without much trouble and returned my rifle and ammo to the armoury before changing into my jeans, polo shirt and jacket and slipping out of the station and onto the streets.

I had loved the work at first. It had been a pleasure to make a difference to the community… or so I thought. Policing didn’t really involve much actual crime solving, or helping of the innocent. Looking back, I think I had imagined the force as some sort of institutionalised super hero club; protecting the innocent and hunting down the guilty… Not quite reality.

I had joined the police straight out of 6th form: Fresh faced and eighteen years old, I’d gone into the Met to protect and serve, as the saying goes. After four years on the beat, I applied to the firearms unit and after an inordinate amount of vetting, shrinks and tests, I was accepted. I had shown exceptional promise in my training. Almost immediately I had been trained to become a marksman. I wasn’t some American redneck that grew up with a gun in my cradle, but I had a natural ability: An ironic talent for the son of a green peace activist and her City Stockbroker husband.

I made my way off the dark windy streets into the hot, bright caverns of the London Underground at St James Street and fought my way down into the hive of tunnels. It was after rush hour, so there was less of a crowd in subterranean London, but it was by no means quiet. I silently made my way, ignoring those around me as they followed suit. Two changes later, I was breathing in the moist cold surface air in Battersea Park. The car fumes made a pleasant change to the warm dry air below ground. A brisk walk later, and I was climbing the stairs to my apartment.

I owned the place; my parents had bought it for me when I left school so I could ‘make a go of it’. It had been my first place away from home, and I had felt quite alone… Shortly after moving in, I had advertised for roommates to occupy the two spare bedrooms in the place. I didn’t need help with the rent… there wasn’t any, but the money certainly helped with my pitiful Officer’s salary. My roommates were quite interesting characters. I had met Becky in a bar shortly after moving in. We had got on like a house on fire, but not in the sexual way. We seemed to click as friends, much to my dismay. She had confessed that she was looking for a new place, and my offer had been readily accepted. She was a perky little brunette, the sort of girl that was perpetually on a sugar high. Her enthusiasm was infectious; making her excel in her chosen profession as fitness instructor at a swanky city health club. The depressing thing was she probably made more than me. Pete was a stockbroker like my father, considerably lower on the tree however. He had studied at Oxford and had the air of public school boy about him. He had seen my advert in the paper, and had never looked back. He was the type of City processional that was native to London; perfect suit, receding short cropped hair, late 20s and air of confidence. The three of us got on surprisingly well.

I shoved the door closed behind me with a foot, dumping my keys on the sideboard and throwing my jacket near the coat rack.

“Uh-oh, he’s home.” Becky announced poking her head above the back of the Sofa. “Fun day?”

I shrugged noncomittally as I walked past her into the kitchen to get myself a beer out of the fridge. Walking back, I slumped into one of the chairs and opened my beer, taking a long drink of the cold liquid, flushing the dusty air-conditioning taste of the tube out of my mouth.

“It was range day, of course I had fun,” I replied sarcastically. “You know I like getting paid to shoot stuff.”

Becky chuckled as she flipped the page of her book. She was dressed as usual at home, in her shorts and a vest, cross legged on the sofa. “So you keep telling me Mr Oswald,” she grinned impishly.

“Knock it off you.” I replied shaking my head. “Anything fun in endorphin land?

Becky proceeded to tell me all about the clients she had coached that day, and the different bits of celebrity gossip she had heard. I tuned out slightly, all the while nodding politely and drinking my beer.

Pete got home about an hour later and proceeded to inform me of the vital goings on in the money world. He was a nice guy, but very wrapped up in his job. As he told me about the value of the dollar relative to the euro and what it meant to potatoes, Becky feigned a suicide attempt and it was all my bodily control to not laugh. Pete still noticed, and with the practiced ease of three friends, knew exactly who to aim his cushion at. The indignant squeak that followed the impact proved the last nail in my coffin and I burst out laughing. After a series of repeats and increasingly dull quiz shows I was yawning, so dragging myself off the sofa I bid my roommates goodnight and retired to my room: Sleep was fitful.

I woke the next morning to the radio alarm blaring out some mindless poppy tune by some other clone. Blearily, I dragged my feet from under the covers and sat up, rubbing the sleep from my eyes: I hated mornings. Reaching out, I slapped the alarm and made my way into the bathroom. The sight that greeted me in the mirror dragged me back to the land of the living almost instantly. I looked like I’d gone 20 rounds with an assortment of garden tools and lost, my hair was beginning to make its way past my collar in terms of length; when it was tamed. At the moment however it stuck out in every direction resembling some sort of afro.

I rubbed my chin thoughtfully for a moment, screwing up my face with annoyance when I realised I was rubbing smooth skin for the 4th day in a row…. When was I going to get some damn stubble? I was 24 for god’s sake! I was sick of being considered the baby of the unit, even guys who were younger than me called me the baby!

“Oh well, at least I SHAVE ten minutes off my bathroom time.” I chuckled to myself as I climbed into the shower and turned on the water, wincing as the cold water hit my body.

Shortly after, I felt refreshed and clean, and made my way back into my room to dress. Pulling on yesterday’s jeans and a new tee shirt, I grabbed my jacket and shoved my feet into the same worn trainers before heading out to forage for breakfast.

Becky was in the Kitchen when I surfaced.

“Hey, Morning,” she beamed with incomprehensible perkiness. She was wearing her running gear, the sweat marks suggesting she had just returned.

“When am I going to get you to join me huh?” she mock scolded with a hand on her hip. “You know you could use some bulking up,” she grinned slyly.

“Lay off and pass the coffee,” I growled with as much menace as I could muster..

Chuckling, Becky shoved the coffee pot across the table towards me. “So why are you in a good mood today?”

“I didn’t sleep too well,” I murmured into my coffee.

“It happens,” Becky agreed. “Look, I gotta jet, hon, See you after work?” she called cheerily bouncing out of the kitchen without waiting for an answer.

“Sure, Becky,” I mumbled to myself as I dumped my now empty mug on the worktop; I’d wash it later. Grabbing my jacket, I collected my keys on the way out the door and jogged down the stairs out onto the street. A tube ride later, I was walking through the main doors of New Scotland Yard, the Home of the Metropolitan Police Force.

The building didn’t feel like a police station in the classical sense… I had moved around several stations in the London area during my time on the beat, but nothing quite compared to the bureaucratic grandeur of New Scotland Yard. It was a tower block by any other name, a great steel clad monstrosity in the centre of London. It didn’t feel like a police station, it didn’t even have cells! I caught the elevator up to the 3rd floor, where the firearms team head offices were. The ready teams usually stayed around the armoury in the basement or out around London in patrol cars, but off rotation officers, and supporting specialties like myself kept ourselves to ourselves in the suite assigned to the Unit.

The elevator was full of white shirted officers, not one stab vests or set of body armour here save the guard on the door … Dress uniforms and pressed shirts filled NSY’s halls. I felt rather under dressed wearing my tee shirt and jeans. We did have standards … somewhere …. But the firearms team was more relaxed in our formalities unless under inspection, or for special occasions. We did our jobs, and we did them well, there was little point in the off teams wearing their jumpsuits or dress uniforms all day.

I walked through the door into the office and after nodding to Janice, the boss’s assistant, slunk away to my desk in the far corner.

I had loved this job, but it wasn’t everything. I hated the down time when I wasn’t on rotation. It wasn’t living…

It was midmorning when Janice knocked on the divider of my cubicle, I had been reviewing a shooting the previous week. I hadn’t known the officer that pulled the trigger, but I knew of his unit.

“Sergeant Cohen, The boss wants to see you… you got your uniform handy? There’s some bloke with him…” She trailed off nodding in the direction of Chief inspector Farvey’s office.

“Sure thing Janice.” I sighed reluctantly. The boss calling you by name wasn’t ever good…. “How long have I got?” I asked hopefully.

“Minus 5 minutes.” She hissed vanishing again.

“Shit.” I swore and began to drop my pants in my cubicle, praying she didn’t come back.

Three minutes later, I was knocking on the Chief Inspector’s door.

“Come in,” came the muffled reply.

I opened the door, straightening my tie with one hand. “You asked to see me sir?”

“Come in Cohen, You aren’t in trouble, don’t look so worried. How was Bisley yesterday?” smiled Chief Inspector Farvey broadly.

He never asked how range time went … he never smiled … who the fuck was the plain looking man sat at his desk who was now regarding me intently …. 3 questions I really did not want to know the answer to.

“Fine sir, but I don’t like the new batch of lapuas, you ought to send them back.”

“Good good, I’ll make a note.” He smiled, clasping his hands in front of himself on the desk top and flexing his crossed fingers.

“This, Sergeant Cohen, is Mr Benton. He works for the foreign office … and was wondering if you could spare him a few hours for some questions?”

This had brain crippling waste of time written all over it…

“Yes sir, not a problem, ah, where?” I asked sheepishly. The man, Benton nodded at the boss and stood, turning to face me. Straightening his suit jacket, he stuck out a hand in greeting.

“Chris Benton.” He smiled politely, grasping my hand firmly. “I’ve heard a lot about you Michael.

“All good I hope.” I smiled politely, hoping this civil servant tosspot would hurry up and get to the point. “What is it you need?”

He looked at the boss, who nodded. “Get your things Sergeant, we are going for a drive.”

I shrugged, and smiled, “I’ll just get my Uniform Jacket, excuse me.” I replied, turning to the boss. “Sir,” I intoned before exiting the office.

Before the door had closed, Harry accosted me from behind.

“What was that about?” he asked.

“Some foreign office lackey wants to take up my afternoon.” I grumbled. “Can’t fucking wait … Anyway, how do you know? You probing Janice for information again?”

“Not at this moment.” Harry grinned, waggling his eyebrows.

I just rolled my eyes and collected my jacket and phone before returning to the boss’s office, where Mr Benton was waiting for me.

“Ready?” he smiled.

“Sure, can you tell me what this is about though?” I asked as we left the suite.

He hesitated for a moment. “Yes, but can it wait till we get to the car?”

I shrugged, and we boarded the lift down to the garage level.
 
 

Chapter 2

There was a green Focus parked at the end of the garage, as we existed the lift, the car purred to life and slowly pulled up in front of us.

After waiting for me to get into the car, Mr Benton circled around and took a seat next to me.

“Back to Vauxhall Cross Mr Benton?” asked the driver,

“Yes, Martins, but take a scenic route.”

That name rang a bell… but I wasn’t sure why.

“So, to the point,” announced Mr Benton with a new sternness he had previously masked. “Michael Cohen, Sergeant Met firearms team, 24 years of age, you share an apartment in Battersea with two friends, good grades in school, joined the force in 2003, 4 years rotating around inner London Stations, before finally qualifying for the firearms team in 07 where you graded Advanced marksman … need I go on or do you get the point?”

“You have read my file,” I stated bluntly.

“That I have, but we have done more than that Mr Cohen. “I work for the Secret Intelligence Service, I have been sent here today to ask you for your help, we have a situation, and your … particular skill set would be of value to us.”

The news hit me like a brick to the stomach. I had been selected by Mi6 …. To do something…. I didn’t really care what, I wasn’t sure I wanted to be involved.

“I see,” I replied, my poker face lying horrendously. “What about my skill set?”

A slight smirk crossed Mr Benton’s lips momentarily. “Your experience with long range rifles Sergeant”

I chewed this information over in my mind. What could they want me for? Well no, that seemed painfully obvious, but why seemed more pertinent, to do what? For whom?

“I’m not killing anyone,” I stated firmly. “I don’t care what they did.”

Mr Benton regarded me for a moment, before smiling slightly, “Oh no Mr Cohen, You misunderstand me. We want you to teach one of our agents …. Teach them how to do what you do.”

I sighed inwardly, this wasn’t what I was expecting, and to be honest, the idea almost tempted me.

“What would you need from me? I mean specifically?” I asked slowly, careful not to agree to anything yet.

Benton waved a hand dismissively. "They can shoot, of course, but they require some coaching in the finer aspects …. How you behave, how you would BE a sniper, so that anyone who interacted with them, in that capacity, would basically take them as they appear … Need I remind you that should you turn this down, you will be required to sign the official secrets act regarding this discussion …” he continued raising his eyebrows.

I looked out of the car window for a moment, we had just passed the Tate Modern gallery and the car was heading across Vauxhall Bridge. I turned to Benton, “I don’t get to sleep on this do I?” I asked, knowing the answer before I the question left my lips.

“Regardless, I’m in, but,” I said holding up a finger to emphasise my point, “I reserve the right to tell you if your agent doesn’t make the grade.”

Benton nodded slightly. “Perfectly amicable Mr Cohen.” He smiled. “Need I remind you that your country is proud of your effor ….”

“Don’t bother.” I chuckled. “I don’t want to know what you are doing, but I will help you to satisfy my curiosity.

Benton raised an eyebrow.

“I always wanted to see where James Bond worked.” I chuckled.

He rolled his eyes and grinned with an exasperated sigh, he knew I was yanking his chain.

“Drop us at the embankment, Martins.” Benton ordered the driver.

We were left at the side of the road by the footbridges leading towards the main doors of Vauxhall cross. Benton led me towards the visitor’s entrance and I had my photograph taken, and my face scanned by some camera before a pass was printed off and handed to me. I was given pin instructions and told how to operate the pod things we had passed. It was all going over my head, but being inside this building was almost a letdown. I expected to see super spies, semi naked girls and catsuits everywhere, but everyone looked normal… right down to the bored expression on the security guard that processed my pass…

Benton grinned knowingly at my expression of wide-eyed surprise as he escorted me through the foyer to a bank of lifts. Guiding me into a car, we ascended to the 5th floor where he led me down a corridor to a conference room overlooking the River Themes.

Ashamedly, the first thing that caught my eye on entering the room was the .308 Mini Hecate sniper rifle, perched on its spindly bipod legs in the centre of the mahogany table. Further down the table, a young woman, around my age sat quietly.

I turned to Benton with a questioning expression.

“This Is Ms Carlisle, she is the agent you will be training. Ms Carlisle, this is Sergeant Cohen from the Met,” he said by way of introductions.

The young woman had risen and approached me with her hand outstretched. “Good to meet you Sergeant, I really appreciate the help.”

“Ah, no problem,” I blushed as Ms Carlisle looked me over unashamedly.

We sat at the conference table; my eyes kept drifting to the beautiful rifle on the table.

“Is that what she will be using?” I asked, out of curiosity. “Bit flashy isn’t it?”

“Yes,” replied Benton with a roll of his eyes, “All you need to know, is that it fits with her legend …. Cover,” he added on noticing my confused expression.

“First orders of business,” he announced, reaching into his briefcase, “We require you to read and sign this,” he said, handing me a document and a pen.

I shrugged, and began to read through the document, they could be guaranteed I would read every word till I was happy I wasn’t signing up to vanish or something equally suspicious.

One part of the document made me raise my eyebrows. “I’m being paid to do this?” I asked looking between Mr Benton and the  £10,000 figure on the document.

Benton nodded. “Yes, you didn’t expect us to ask you to do it for queen and country alone? Let us just say, the money is an incentive to not reveal this assistance,” he replied firmly reminding me of the secret nature of the task. I nodded, and signed the document, handing it back to him. Benton rose, slipping the document into his briefcase, and after shaking my hand, left without fanfare.

Turning back to the table, I looked Ms Carlisle over. She was medium height, around 5’6, an inch shorter than my own 5’7. She had sandy blonde hair, tied back in a bun. Her charcoal grey skirt suit fitted her form well; she looked every inch the corporate executive, nothing remotely resembling a spy…

“Ok, shall we start?” she prompted, breaking my stare.

“Sure.” I started, “But you’re going to have to tell me what your cover … legend is.”

“Didn’t Mr Benton say that was not your concern?” she replied with a hint of annoyance.

“He did.” I began, “But if I am to teach you this, I’m going to know at least what you are supposed to know, I don’t need to know everything. But give me the basics … Is your cover ex-military? Ex-law enforcement? What nationality? What country did they serve with? What related details are there? Right or left handed? It all matters.” I replied defensively. “If I don’t know that, I can’t teach you,” I said with a sigh.

Ms Carlisle looked thoughtful for a moment. “I suppose it won’t matter,” she replied with a shrug.

“Well, She’s meant to be ex-British army. Out about 5 years working freelance for a PMC company, then herself in less than entirely legal circumstances, but that’s about as much as I can tell you,” she said with a hint of an apologetic smile.

I shook my head. “That won’t work. You’re a woman.”

She was about to protest when I held my hand up. “You people don’t research things very well do you? An error like that would blow you instantly.” I snapped feeling a little annoyed at getting dumped with such a task. “The British army do not have female snipers or females in combat roles, so that would stand out. You can either be Israeli, Swedish, or Russian if you insist on being ex-military, and I’ll tell you now, you will pass for maybe one of those three,” I offered. “OR, we can use the ex-law enforcement angle, Make you a retired sharpshooter.”

Ms Carlisle looked like she wanted to argue, but sighed and nodded instead.

We got no real work done that day. Most of the afternoon was spent working on the legend details with Harriet; Ms Carlisle. By about 6pm, we decided to call it a night, and I had my first experience with the pods. She escorted me downstairs to the lobby, where she informed me that she would meet me the next day at 9am. As she returned to the lift, I made my way over to the wall of pods. It all looked awfully complicated.

There was a security guard sat behind a desk off to one side, turning to him, I waved the card and held up my hands in confusion. “I don’t suppose you could show me how to work this please?” I asked tentatively.

The guard nodded and walked over, “You put this in the slot sir, and enter your pin. New sir?”

“Ah, you could say that,” I replied with a shrug. “Good night.”

“Good night sir.” Replied the guard as the pod doors slid shut behind me. After a few seconds, the outer doors slid open and the cool night air washed over me.

After a short tube ride, I was home again, after possibly the longest day I had yet to experience. For some reason, I did not think it would hold that record long.
 
 

Chapter 3

Unlocking the door, I slipped into the apartment; it was quiet. Out of habit, I dumped my keys on the sideboard and wandered into the living room. Becky was on the Sofa reading her book. She looked up for a moment when I walked in and smiled. “You’re back late,” she stated matter of factly without looking up from her book.

“And you ain’t my muvva!” I shot back, in a fairly accurate facsimile of The Classic soap opera line.

Becky looked up and chuckled shaking her head. “You’re too good at that.” She grinned. “What’s her name anyway?” Becky asked with a sly grin.

I coloured slightly but hid it well with a look of theatrical shock. “You’re out late, and you won’t tell me why…. What’s her name?” She persisted.

“I wasn’t out with a girl, okay? I just had to work late. Some report the Boss man made me write,” I shrugged. “What can you do?”

She grinned. "Why did you blush when I asked if it was a girl? Does that embarrass you?” she asked quietly as I sat down in one of the empty chairs.

“Not really,” I mumbled, “I don’t like you taking the piss though, I don’t get a lot of dates.”

“Sorry,” she mumbled, biting her lip, “You know I’d never do it to upset you, I … I just joke with people ….” She trailed off.

“No it’s fine, it’s just me,” I shrugged. Oh well, here goes. “I guess the subject just gets to me … I never really had a girlfriend,” I shrugged, feeling myself turning red.

Becky looked at me for a moment, wondering if I was serious. “How come?” she asked curiously.

I shrugged sheepishly. “I guess in school I never really got a chance; It was a boys’ schoo.” I grinned embarrassedly. “Not many girls around. I guess when I got to the police I was too focused on getting ahead and making something of myself. I never really had chance …" I tailed off.

I couldn’t bring myself to look at her, I knew she would laugh, I felt so stupid admitting these things. Poor Mike: The baby faced virgin! The next thing I know, I felt a hand on my arm. Becky slipped onto the arm of the chair and wrapped her arms around me.

“I’m so sorry Mike,” she whispered as she held me. “I didn’t know, and believe me, there are loads of girls who will fancy you.”

“I feel pitiful, Bex.” I muttered. “I’m a shit guy, I avoid going out with the guys at work, I don’t socialise, I look like a fucking kid, and I’ve never even really wanted a girlfriend.”

“Now you stop that, mister …” Becky scolded playfully tapping me on the back of the head. “I’ll have none of that negativity from you …

“You need some feel good time,” she announced. “You work too hard, and you don’t play. Look, if you don’t want to go out, we can do it here!

I looked at her curiously for a moment before realising what she meant. “Oh, okay, sure.” I shrugged. “I guess it can’t hurt.”

“You stay here.” She grinned, wagging a finger, “You’re Doctor Becky’s patient tonight!” She chuckled as she walked out of the room.

I was running scenarios through my mind as Becky returned. “Right you.” She announced, "Get into your room, and get back here in Pjs … that’s an order.

Shaking my head, I walked off to follow her orders. It could be fun I guess. I duck into my room and pull off my uniform. I place it carefully over the chair, I’ll need it tomorrow …

I pull on my jog bottoms and a tank and head back into the living room. Becky has her duvet over the sofa, and is doing god knows what in the kitchen.

“Right, I’m here,” I announced.

“Good.” She grins, returning from the kitchen, a bottle of white wine in one hand, two glasses in the other. Now I realised what she was up to….

“You’re going to subject me to a girls night?” I ask incredulously. “Have you forgotten one big part?”

“A, yes I am, and B, they aren’t just for girls! Nobody ever said only girls can drink wine, or watch romantic comedies…. Anyway, when I’m down, it makes me feel better, so I'm sure it will work for you, too …. And if you’re so bothered by my pink duvet, you can go get yours … or ask Pete for his.” she replied with a grin.

“Fine, but I draw the line at painting my nails and fucking with my hair,” I laughed.

I decided to play along, It really couldn’t hurt. We jumped on the sofa, popped a movie in, and had a relaxing drink under the blankets and just relaxed. I have to admit it was actually fun. Somewhere in the time the movie was playing, I ended up lying against Becky’s shoulder … That was when Pete came home.

First thing I heard was the door close, and for some reason, I just sat there, under that pink blanket, sipping my wine and chatting to Becky.

“Hey Becky.” Pete called as he walked through to the kitchen to grab a beer. “Who’s your lady friend?”

I turned around at that moment and fixed Pete with a shocked expression. The look on his face was priceless.

“Woah, Mike. Sorry dude.” He stammered. “I swear you looked like a bird from behind mate.”

“Oh come on.” I snapped exasperatedly. “I don’t look anything like a girl!”

Pete raised an eyebrow. “Mate, you’re watching a chick flick, drinking wine and sat gabbing away with Becky under her GIRLY duvet, what do you expect?” he chuckled, taking a swig of his beer. “Sorry mate. I didn’t mean anything.” He shrugged apologetically before making himself scarce.

“Whatever,” I muttered, sinking down into the duvet and returning my attention to the Tv.

I didn’t look like a girl. How blind is Pete? It was just the situation … I’d get my hair cut at the weekend. That was probably it.

We watched another movie, and I had to admit, she was right. It did make me feel better. The wine relaxed me nicely, and I was able to unwind for the first time in a while. We would have to do that again I mused as we sleepily headed to our respective bedrooms and bid each other goodnight.

I slept a lot better that night. And when I woke in the morning, my alarm had not yet gone off. Seizing the initiative for a good day, I hit the off button to pre-empt the damned device, and headed for the shower.

Clean and refreshed I returned to my room. I was about to reach for my uniform shirt when a though struck me. Should I wear my uniform? I was not there on any official capacity, and they had repeatedly stressed how secretive this was … In the entire time I was there the previous day, the only person I saw in uniform was the door guard … I’d stand out a little if I returned in uniform for a second day ….

I chuckled to myself as I realised how I was thinking. One day in that place and I start thinking spy!

Dumping my uniform, I reached into my wardrobe and extracted my rarely worn suit. It was the sort of thing you bought for formal events that didn’t require a tux …

A few moments later, the suit had been combined with a shirt, tie, and my body, and I was leaving the house to make my way to Vauxhall Cross. One morning commute that I had never envisaged taking …

As I approached the footbridges that led to the banks of pods on the front of the building I was shocked by the queues leading up to those unconventional doors. I wasn’t sure if this was normal or not, but I took a place in line and waited.

There were conversations going on around me, and I felt like an intruder. I didn’t hear anything I supposed was confidential or secret; it was almost like being new again.

“I hate these bloody waits,” said a voice beside me. I turned and saw a guy in his mid 30s taking a sip from his takeaway coffee cup.

“Ah yeah,” I agreed noncomittally. “It’s a good job it isn’t raining,” I replied.

“Sure.” The guy grinned. “I’m Martin Hammersmith,” he said, offering his hand. “You new here? I’ve not seen you around.”

“I guess so.” I replied sheepishly. “Sort of my second day,” I admitted.

“Ah ok.” He smiled. “Its overwhelming isn’t it?” he chuckled. “I remember when I started I felt like I didn’t belong.”

“That about sums it up.” I admitted.

“So which department are you with?” he asked conversationally, as the lines slowly progressed.

“Ah, I’m working up on the 5th floor, I’m not sure if I can say much,” I shrugged apologetically.

He nodded knowingly. “Probably not, though that’s not unusual for here. Nobody can talk to each other about work,” he chuckled.

We chatted for a few moments till we reached the pods and swiping myself in, I entered my pin and stepped into the clear pod and onwards into the lobby.

“See you around,” Martin said with a wave as he headed off in another direction.

I met Ms Carlisle by the lifts as we had agreed, and instead of making our way back to the conference suite on the 5th floor, she told me we would be spending the day at a range outside of London for the beginning of the practical instruction. We left Vauxhall Cross in a ‘6’ car and drove out of London towards Salisbury.

We spent the day out at an MOD range, where I observed her technique and attempted to offer suggestions to improve her overall impression. I was quite disappointed to say the least.

Ms Carlisle was familiar with firearms; that much was clear, but she was no marksman. It was almost like being back at training again, watching the ham-fisted early attempts of some of our less accomplished shooters.

When we returned to MI6, or Legoland as she referred to it, I requested to speak to the agent in charge of this operation, and was escorted down to the lower 5th floor in the basement where the Controlerate leading this operation was located. From what I gathered, this was the Middle East and Far East controlerate. I was shown into an office where Ms Carlisle introduced her boss; a Mr Tornworth.

Mr Tornworth was a tall man in his late 50s, still in reasonable shape beneath his expensive Italian suit, but the grey hair and weathered skin of his face betrayed his age. Mr Tornworth seemed annoyed by my presence, an outsider.

“What is it you want?” he asked, going straight for the point with predatory haste.

“I need to know how long I have for this training assignment.” I said with as much resolve as I could muster. “I may not be ‘read in’ or whatever you call it, and I already know I’m told as little as possible: I’m an outsider, A civilian, but you need my help, and I’m a professional, I would like to be treated as such, not like a child,” I replied getting slightly angry.

Tornworth regarded me for a moment. “You have 3 weeks to teach Ms Carlisle,” he replied with little feeling.

“I’m sorry Sir; I don’t think I can do that.”

Mr Tornworth sat up in his chair and looked. “Why not?” He asked knitting his brow.

“Well you want her to be believable or you wouldn’t have recruited me for this job. Yes? You want her to be able to shoot, I’ll wager. And while I was told she can shoot, and I am very confident she is proficient with other firearms, she is not Marksman material.”

He was about to say something but I held my hand up. “Look, the British army sniper school is 10 weeks. I was sent on that with a group of other Police firearms marksmen, as advanced training.” I said, letting my ability sink in. “But I’m sure you know that. My point is, you have to be a reasonable shot to attend that school, and it still takes 10 weeks to get them from a good shot to Snipers … Even then a shooter is not as experienced as her legend dictates till they see action. There is a lot that can be faked, a lot that can be told, taught and acted, but with respect, and I’m sorry.” I said, turning to Ms Carlisle, who was sat by my side. “She can’t do it in three weeks.”

Mr Tornworth looked mildly annoyed. “What do you suggest?” he replied tersely.

I thought for a moment, I hadn’t really expected to be required to offer other solutions other than the one they had. “Find a female who is already an experienced sniper and send them on your mission. I don’t think you will find anyone able to teach any novice how to do this in that time.” I replied confidently.

Mr Tornworth nodded slightly. “I think you are right,” he said with resignation. “Thank you for your honesty,” he said smiling weakly. Hitting the button on his desk, he called his secretary and asked her to invite his deputy and a few other names I didn’t recognise into the room. Turning to Ms Carlisle, he asked her to take me up to the canteen and get me a coffee.

He stood and offered me a hand. “Thanks again Mr Cohen.” He said, and with that, we left.

I shouldn’t have been surprised that the Mi6 building had a canteen, like any other work place, but I still was. The image I had held of the Secret Intelligence Service really didn’t fit ‘work’. We sat at a table overlooking the Thames and sat in awkward silence.

“Look I’m sorry.” I said. “I didn’t mean to put you down. I had to be honest, it was purely professional.”

Harriet looked out the window for a moment and didn’t respond. “I know,” she said without looking at me.

“Look, I know I’ve been a bit short with you, and treated you like an outsider,” she admitted looking at me. “It’s just how this is,” she shrugged. “I know I’m not up to the job. And that’s what it is, just a job, so I’m not going to cry because I don’t have a specific skill. For what its worth, you were a good teacher, but you are right, I can’t shoot that well, and we didn’t have the time I guess.”

“I take it the mission parameters required a female sniper, not 6 picking it as some part of a legend for you?” I asked, realising she didn’t want to talk about her failings anymore.

Harriet shook her head. “You’ve been here two days and you sound like you belong.” She chuckled.

“Hey I’ve watched my share of spy thrillers,” I replied smiling. “The reality seems depressingly mundane though.”

She nodded taking a sip of her coffee. “Sure. At the end of the day, this is just a job like yours, only our sphere of influence is larger.”

She was right of course. It was really just police work really … Only you would work in someone else’s patch without telling them and you didn’t always have to follow the law to enforce it.

“So what happens from here?” I asked, noting the early evening tinge begin to creep across the city. “I go home and never hear from you lot again?”

Harriet shrugged. “They haven’t said. But it’s possible.”

We drank another round of coffee as the sky outside grew dark before Harriet’s phone rang. After a short conversation, we were on our way down towards the lower floors of the building once more. We arrived at the MEFE entrance, and I copied Harriet as she swiped her card and allowed her face to be scanned by what I was told, was a facial topography recognition package. I was added to the controlerate’s access list apparently … that should have bothered me.

We made our way into the now empty controlerate’s main operations area and Harriet led me straight back to Mr Tornworth’s office.

There were three men and a woman in the room with Mr Tornworth who all turned towards us as we entered; I felt all their eyes boring into me.

“Harriet, Mr Cohen, please take a seat,” he smiled more broadly, waving at two empty chairs. “Mr Cohen, May I call you Michael?” he asked without waiting for me to reply. “This is Tobias Goodwin; my deputy head here at Middle East and Far East Controlerate, This is Daniel Green, our head of systems, Mark Sanford, our chief analyst, and this,” he said gesturing at the woman. “Is Jane North, our agent handler.”

I smiled weakly at the group, all of whom were still looking at me curiously.

“We have been discussing the situation at length, this is an awkward situation for us, and it is highly unusual, but before we discuss this, we want to read you in to the operation.”

“Ok,” I said feeling as if I was missing something. “Why am I being read in? I thought my work was over?” I asked cautiously.

Mr Tornworth looked at his college Tobias Goodwin and raised his eyebrows.

“Thing is,” Mr Goodwin said with a broad Scots accent. “We aren’t exactly overflowing with qualified candidates, and to be honest, you are probably the closest we have to the required skills, and it would be much easier to give you the required field craft skills than vice versa …” he said with a lopsided grin. Of course, we will would have to modify the mission parameters to take into account other factors … he said trailing off.

My bad-feeling-o-meter was now off the charts.

The younger man, Sanford stood and walked over to a laptop on Mr Tornworth’s desk and pressed a button, projecting an image onto a screen behind the desk.

“This,” he said, “Is Omid Dujani, a radical Muslim cleric with political aspirations. He’s a Syrian national, with connections throughout the Middle East. He’s quite high on our most wanted lists, and a bit of a naughty bloke,” he said with a straight face.

I heard a few chuckles around the room, but didn’t take my eyes off the screen and Mr Sanford.

“His group has been operating out of Syria, Lebanon and the West bank for some time; they have been involved in several major incidents in Israel, and we have intelligence that something is planned soon … What. we don’t know, and that scares us most. Usually, there is a lot more chatter, but there is nothing coming out other than the usual. With his track record, it will be significant, and within the intelligence time frame, there is only one possible target, The Beirut Treaty … Our PM is going to be one of the many in attendance …. That makes it our ball game too … Security is tight, but there are always holes in that area, and they are unfortunately viable to a focused group … Thing is, Dujani isn’t stupid, and he is also quite the feminist …” He said raising his eyebrows. “He has as thing for empowering women, usually with C4 strapped to them. He has said that some tasks are not fit for males, and thus his MO of using females to do his dirty work, usually where there is little hope of coming back. The news on the wire is he is looking for female assassins on the market at the moment. Clearly the market doesn’t know his track record.” Sanford smirked. “Women are not viewed as equals around that area, and its much easier to slip a female killer into a security net than a male, and we think this is where he is going with whatever it is …” he finished flipping off the projector and taking his seat again.

“How do I fit into this?” I asked unsure weather I wanted to hear the answer. “He’s looking for a woman, no?”

“Thank you, Mark,” Mr Tornworth said clasping his hands together, “I’ll be straight with you Michael, “We received an email to the account of one of our Legends. Her name has been put around by a few of our puppets, and her name came to Dujani’s attentions. We have had a request for her to meet him.”

“So how do I fit in?” I asked again. “You have another agent with more experience that you need me to work with?”

“The thing is.” said Mr Goodwin, rubbing his chin. “You are the only person qualified enough to fit the Legend.

“But he’s a man! said Harriet incredulously. “Have you not noticed that tiny fact?”

She said what I had wanted to. At the moment, I was too rigid with shock to know what to do. So I sat there, hoping I was imagining this.

“We appreciate that Harriet,” said Mr Goodwin staring daggers at the Field Officer beside me. “But as I said, we have nobody else, and we believe it may be possible to send Mr Cohen in as Anastasia. It’s not like he’s some 14 stone rugby player ….” He snorted letting the comment hang.

That was the last straw. “HE, Is here.” I yelled standing up. “He can hear every fucking word you say. Does HE not get a say in this?” I seethed clenching my teeth.

Harriet tugged at my suit sleeve pulling me back into my seat, “Look, calm down Mike. This is as unorthodox as it sounds, and from what we just heard, it doesn’t seem personal. Those two have a shit way of putting things,” she said, glaring at The Head and deputy behind me. “I think we need to go for a walk.” She said without any hint that it was a suggestion. “John, Toby, we will talk about this in the morning,” she said giving the two men a withering look. “You realise that this man is not used to this building, never mind the work we do, Dumping all that on him then this …. Woman business…. That’s just cruel.”

“That’s enough, Harriet!” growled Mr Tornworth standing. He was about to speak again when she cut him off.

“No, that’s enough from you,” she snapped, slamming the door as she dragged me out of the office, still half numb.

The pinging of the elevator doors closing finally broke me out of the shock that I had been wallowing in.

“I don’t believe this is happening,” I murmured quietly.

Harriet squeezed my hand. “Don’t worry, we can sort this out, there has to be another way. Come on, we need some fresh air and some coffee that doesn’t taste like hot water with gravel mixed in,” she grinned weakly.

I attempted a smile at her joke, despite the feeling of dread knotting my stomach.

We made our way out of the building and across the foot bridges and onto the Albert Embankment before walking south along the river’s edge. I didn’t know what time it was, I didn’t really care. There was the occasional person travelling the opposite way, but other than that we were alone.

Harriet stopped and turned towards me as she leant against the river wall. “Tell me what you’re thinking?” she asked softly.

“I don’t know,” I sighed looking out over the Thames and the lights on the far bank. “I guess I’m wondering if this is my fault…”

Harriet scrunched up her face, “How?” she asked indignantly. “You didn’t suggest that idiocy.”

“Would they have suggested it if I was, what was it? A 14 stone rugby player?” I replied sarcastically.

“That’s not the point and you know it,” Harriet said flatly. “You have image problems don’t you?” she asked quietly, knowing the answer.

“How did you guess?” I chuckled melancholically.

“It’s my job to read people, remember?” she replied. “This is hurting you more because you think you aren’t a real man,” she stated plainly.

“I guess so,” I admitted with a sigh. I watched a boat passing along the river while I formed my thoughts; “I never felt macho, or manly. I guess I never thought of myself as a man, just a boy that grew up. I feel constantly inadequate, I work in a hyper macho environment, in a hyper macho role, and I always feel like a letdown …”

“Maybe they are right.” I laughed turning away from the river and walking on. Harriet caught up with me and stopped me, putting her hand on my arm.

“Maybe then, you need to do this,” she replied with a sly grin.

“What?” I asked. “How do you figure that?”

“Think of it as excising the fear.” She shrugged, “You do this, and what’s the worst that happens? You realise you don’t look like a girl, they are wrong and you go back to your job and feel better about yourself … its free therapy.” She chuckled.

“I don’t know.” I frowned. “What if I do? I’ll probably kill myself out of shame.” I grimaced.

“No. If you do, you get to do something not many men can claim to have done …” she said seriously.

“What? Wear high heels?” I scoffed.

“No, saved the world in the name of HMG …” she grinned.

I stuck my hands I my pockets and walked on. The scary thing was, she was sounding more and more right, and admitting that took away some of the gripping fear I felt.

“Fine.” I shrugged.

“Pardon?” she asked curiously.

“I’ll do it.” I said, before I could back out mentally. “Let’s do it. I know I don’t look like a girl and it will seal that forever.” I said resolutely. “And it’s not like I'm doing this for free.” I shrugged. I still had a  £10,000 deposit from some ‘firm’ that probably didn’t exist in my bank account.

“That’s the spirit.” chuckled Harriet. “Look, are you going to be okay tonight?” she asked.

“Sure, I guess.”

Harriet hugged me, it was nice actually… there was no sexual tension, not a quick greeting hug, but a warm, comforting embrace.

“I’ve got to head back to the office and grab some things. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning OK? Come down to MEFE, and I’ll be around,” she said with a smile before turning and walking away.

I watched her go for a moment before making my way to the nearest tube station and beginning my commute home. It was gone 10pm, and I didn’t even feel hungry. Slipping into the flat, I quietly made my way to my room and to bed. Why was I going to regret this?

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To Be Continued...