Flicking on the television, he flipped through a number of channels. The hotel had international cable. Channels from Spain, France, Italy, Greece, Germany, were at his fingertips. He stopped on a German dubbed version of Kubrick's "The Shining." Jack Nicholson speaking in German was a whole other nightmare. Dave loved it. Sadly, fatigue was setting in. The near loss to Mr. Harris had somewhat lowered his usual confidence, and with it, his chipper nature and boundless energy. He was tired. During a commercial for the new Audi, Dave got up, dumped the ice in the sink, relieved himself, and slipped back into bed. Having watched the rest of the movie (through fits of nodding off) to the closing scene of Jack's creepily smiling face in the old group photo (we all remember, don't we?), Dave clicked off the set and laid his head to rest.
Friday, May 1, 2009
Dave Goes to Europe Chapter 2: Reassignment
Dave went to the same posh hotel where he had last left Aldous. The Bugatti would be safe there. Dave had managed to clean himself up some in the men's wash room before checking in. As per usual, he generously tipped the porter that carried his large duffel. The porter thanked Dave by name (thus committing it to memory for future services and additional tips). Dave showered, washing the last couple of hours off his body. In a bathrobe, Dave retrieved some ice from the hall. Back in his spacious room, he rigged up an ice pack and set it against his ribs.
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It rained through the night and well into the next day. Dave received a waked up call around nine o'clock. Around tennish, Dave went shopping for some new clothes. One of the eleven quarters of central Sheffield served as a commercial district. He had little problem finding a store.
He settled on a pair of black dress slacks, black patent leather loafers, a matching belt, a dress shirt in a deep burgundy, and a black tie. The collared dress shirt and the tie were of a sturdy material, something Barett would wear. The dress shirt had the pocket flaps in black to match his trousers and his solid black tie. He looked good, serviceable. A light sports jacket in black complete the ensemble. It was an understated look for Dave. Looking in the full length mirror he looked close to professional.
Having paid the clerk, Dave stopped at his bank next. He took out a withdrawal and headed once more to the Treadle.
Despite his personality, and against expectations, Dave was not a reckless driver. In the rain he was even less so. Driving was one of the few things Dave took seriously. Furthermore, he was good at it. Anyone could get behind the wheel of a sports car and drive at high speeds. Not everyone could resist that temptation. Dave kept to the speed limit, was courteous to other drivers, eased into accelerating and braking.
He recalled when his father taught him how to drive. Sure he made mistakes at first, but he learned. Papa Rick was patient. As Dave improved, his father told him how proud he was of him. Most importantly he said that Dave had a feel for cars. That was true. The vehicle formed an extension of his body. Dave got a sense of the road conditions just as if the wheels were his fingertips. Of course, he could and did drive fast when necessary.
Apparently the Finns drove similarly. They took driving dead seriously, learning to drive at a very early age. Control was paramount. That dedication made them the best drivers perhaps in the world, consistently winning the top spots in races both on and off road throughout the whole of Europe.
Dave pulled into the Treadle parking lot near the side entrance, gently easing the Bugatti into the same spot he had seen it two nights ago. That should give them a surprise, thought Dave. Surely if the Bugatti was there, then Harris was back in town. Dave laughed as he got out of the car and saw the shocked face of an employee taking out the trash. The employee quickly darted back inside, the door falling shut with a solid clang.
Dave locked the car and walked around to the main entrance.
"Jerry in?" asked Dave.
The bartender pointed upstairs. Dave thanked the man and went up to the main office.
"I have the money," said Dave.
Jerry grunted. He sat at the desk and was going over some papers.
"Heads up." Dave tossed a wad of bills. The mouse looked up just in time to awkwardly catch it. "That covers the whole interest, additional taxes, fees, whatever else there may be."
Jerry leafed through it, nodded, stood up, and put it in a safe behind a picture of the mill.
Dave said to the mouse's back, "Decide yet what you want to do with this place?"
"Nah. 'aven't 'ad t' time to think about 't much now 'ave I?"
"Uh. I wouldn't know."
The mouse turned around. He was dressed in street clothes. A pair of dungarees adorned his legs. He wore a simple white shirt untucked. A pair of reading glasses were supported by his large, round ears. "Come. I 'ave a bit o' time at t' moment. If you like we can discuss 't downstairs. I'll buy you a drink."
"Thanks, but its only noon. Also, I don't drink."
"Don't you now? 't a religious thing or somethin'?"
"Uh, yeah," said Dave. "Something like that. I would like some water or some tea. Perhaps some kind of snack or lunch appropriate item would be nice."
Downstairs the two sat at the bar side by side. Jerry nursed a dark lager while Dave had tea and a cucumber sandwich. "So, no ideas at all, then?"
Jerry shook his head.
"No idea whatsoever what kind of changes you want to make."
"Don't rightly know where t' begin," said the mouse.
"Well," thought Dave. "How about start with the name? I mean, that is the first thing people will see or hear about right. Any fliers you hand out, any advertising, word of mouth, it's all about the name. What sort of name is the Treadle anyway? What even is a treadle.
Jerry nodded his head in the direction of behind the bar. Meanwhile the bartender, Thomas, a grey and white tabby, pointed at several objects adorning the wall.
"Foot pedals. That's a treadle? Like what you put your foot on when working a sewing machine?" asked Dave. "What kind of stupid name is that? I know it's a mill and all, but -"
Jerry took a sip of lager. "Wasn't my idea. Former owner named t' place. 'e was a bit o' a Monty Python fan."
So was Dave. He wasn't sure how he would have survived childhood without British comedy. He grew up on Python and Benny Hill. "That's a pretty obscure sketch to pull from, isn't it."
The mouse shrugged. The episode Dave referred to was one of the earlier Spanish Inquisition sketches. A Yorkshire man barges into the home of a wealthy young woman and exclaims that there is 'trouble 't 't mill,' and that something is wrong with the treadle.
"I mean, said Dave, "Why not call it the Dead Parrot or, or Inquisition?"
Jerry turned his head, his eyes twinkling. "Aye. I like that. I like that a lot, I do."
"Well, you better not use it unless you want to own a bondage club. Not that there is anything particularly bad about that. Only, is that the kind of clients you want to serve?"
"Aye. You're right there."
Dave looked over the sparse midday crowd. A few barflies, some nearby workers popping in for a pint. "Maybe we're going about this all wrong. Forget the whole Python thing. Look at this place. It's an old mill. There's history here. What is historic about this place other than a treadle? The whole of England is full of history. Look at the great plague, the blitz, the London fire."
"Blitz is good," said Jerry.
"You want punkers? Not that there is anything wrong there. Only, you would be competing with the Lead Mill."
"Aye, there is that."
"'ow about t' flood?" asked Thomas. "Way back there was a great big flood that come through Sheffield. Just think o' the rivers risin' up an' swallowin' up t' town."
"The Flood? I like it," said Dave. "But lose the 'the.' It's so last century. Call it Flood."
Jerry nodded, thinking. "It may work."
"May? It's a great name. You know, there is more to feng shui than just decorating apartments and offices. Names have power. The Chinese name their kids humble names so that immortals and demons think little to mess with them. Companies hire experts in the field to brand some new thing they wish to sell. Flood is great. A flood of people. A flood of money. Brilliant. I even have an idea for the sign."
Dave whipped out his notepad and a pen. He drew in block outlined letters 'FLOOD.' Midway through the word he drew a wavy line and formed the bottom half as a box.
"There you go. Your name looking like it's half submerged in water. The sign will be simple, just white block letters with simple white lights for night. This bit over the name will be a translucent bit of blue plastic. Maybe we could even hook up another light to mimic the rippling effect of water. Should be easy enough. Some wall art comes equipped with such a little device. You could flick that on for special occasions, you know, like for concerts or on weekends."
"Okay," said Jerry. "So we 'ave ourselves a name. What do we do with 't? You change t' bleedin' name and people are going to expect other changes as well."
"Give me a minute. I'll think of something, but I can't come up with every little thing, you know?" said Dave.
Thomas piped in, "Hey! 't was me that came up with t' name, you ungrateful sods."
"Well, I have a few radical ideas for how to run the nightclub aspect of this place. You know how must clubs around here have the premiere guest list and then anyone else is allowed to go in depending on whoever is working the door?"
Jerry said, "Yeah, what of 't?"
Dave raised a finger, his eyes beaming with excitement. "How about this? Let's do away with that whole thing. No more V.I.P. status. No more who's hot and who's not. Let's take that element of judgment away from the door people. Let's make it completely random as to who is allowed in or out. Hell, even turn away you and me. What would it say to people that even the owners aren't allowed in on some occasions? Of course there would be exceptions related specifically to work, but even then how would it be to have to deal with those issues without being allowed in the building?"
"Uh, there you've gone too far, mate," said Jerry. "Maybe you could get away with being turned away, but I would have to come in for some things."
"Okay, one exception then. Oh, and the employees of course, but no more friend of the waitress or the bartender's sister, no offense. Hold them to the same standards of complete and utter chance. Fate, if you will."
Jerry shook his head. "I'm not sure about that."
"Look. People like to gamble. Those posh folks, the lookers, the celebs, the who's who of Sheffield, they know that they're getting in. What if they didn't? What if perchance they got turned away? What if a street person had the exact same chance to be let in as a model or TV personality (provided said street person had enough to cover the door charge)?"
Still Jerry looked at Dave with doubt.
"It's simple. Give the door person a Magic 8 Ball or have them roll a die or something. Take choice out of the equation. Someone wants in, ask the 8 Ball. Yes. No. Ask again later (or go to the back of the line and try again). And ask per group so that friends or couples don't get split up. You could hook up a camera and monitor system as well so people no there is no cheating going on. Once word gets around the biggest names in town will come just to see if they WON'T get in. Regular folks will give it a shot as they have just the same opportunity TO get in. It's brilliant. It's egalitarian."
Thomas nodded along. "'e's got a point, Jer."
"That 'e does. We could get all types comin' to the Flood, sorry, just Flood. What kind o' music t' play, though?"
Dave, having finished his sandwich, stood and walked out into the center of the dance floor. He stroked his chin as he looked at the stage. "Hell. Whatever. Start small. Sign up local musicians. Audition talent. As the club generates more popularity, artist will come to us. Play an assortment of music. Keep it like how you run the line. Welcome all types whether pop, indie, dance, synthpop, metal, punk, goth, rock, whatever."
"Flood o' musical tastes then," said Jerry.
Dave pivoted with flare, the tails of his jacket whirling with the movement. "But not ticketed events like concerts. We want to appeal to the fan base. People must purchase tickets to get in. Also, no alcohol served during a scheduled performance. Speaking from experience there is nothing that dampens a concert performance like drunken people talking, laughing, fighting, or vomiting through the whole thing. Serve coffee, sodas, juices, whatever, but no booze or spirits."
Thomas shook his head. "I don't know about that, squire. Folks like a pint during a show."
"Sure they do. Look how well it works at a football tourney. Think of the pain that would save Security. Yeah, there may be a few gripers, but to hell with them. Concert nights should be for the fans, the true fans of the music, not just for those looking to get publicly wasted. They can do that on the other nights."
"Couldn't hurt too much t' not serve for events. We could let in t' young ones, too dependin' one who was playin' o' course," said Jerry.
"Oh, and speaking of security we could hire from local martial arts establishments. They should be disciplined enough not to start something unnecessarily, but skilled enough to take action when required. We could even allow them to wear their dojo's insignia, but probably not their actual gi as that might look silly. Oh, and when and if you can, add a second bathroom for the ladies. The line for the ladies is always much longer than the men's. We should account for that discrepancy, you know, keep in line with the whole populist theme. What to do during daylight hours I have no idea. That seems more your area of expertise, Jerry. What are your thoughts?"
Dave's enthusiasm was infectious. Not since buying the place had Jerry been so excited. Finally he could really decide on what he wanted. He kept to the theme of freedom during the day as well.
"How about we appeal t' t' local University students. We can make Flood a sort of coffee and tea house. Maybe we could sell more sandwiches and packets of crisps," said Jerry.
"I see. Go art house, bohemian. I like it."
"I'd like t' keep the locals comin', too. Keep t' local lads comin' by for a pint during their lunch interval."
Dave came back to the bar stool. He sat with his hands grasping the cushion and his knees wide. "How do you figure on doing both?" he asked.
"Tall order, isn't 't?" said Jerry. "There 'as to be somethin' they 'ave in common."
"Well, they both have this whole proletariat thing. I imagine you could use that. You have to be careful, though. You don't want the state recognizing Flood as a known meeting place for card carrying communists."
"Oh, surely not. I'm not decoratin' t' place with socialist propoganda or nothin' like that. Just want to make Flood a welcome place."
Dave nodded along. "Music. Play different music during the day. Indie and classic rock, reggae, art rock, folk, that sort of thing. The music should appeal to both students and the local factory and mill workers. You could always keep them separate, have a student area and one for laborers. You could do it by floor. Upstairs would make a good study area. Downstairs is great for drinking and dancing."
Dave looked at his Mickey Mouse watch. "And I have to go. I'd like to stay and hammer out a few more ideas, but I have an appointment I must keep. Seems you're on to something. See you again sometime." He shook the hands of the owner and bartender. Just for fun he went through the service entrance. The employee he had frightened off earlier was back there cowering.
"Relax," said Dave. "You won't likely see Mr. Harris around here anytime soon, not in one piece anyway."
The inner city was divided into eleven quarters. A major road formed an irregular ring around central Sheffield with only one quarter having land outside the road. Even this was under debate as urban organizers argued whether to move the road, redistribute the land, or leave well enough alone.
The quarters were arranged by function. Some were industrial, another centered around the university, others were commercial, and so on. Dave went into a quarter known for its many offices, among which stood the office of Dr. Towley (who was actually a Towhee, which surely led to some confusion).
Dave was early, not by much, but he was making an effort. The attractive receptionist, a grey tabby, had Dave wait. He leafed through the newspaper. He showed little surprise in seeing his exploits on the front page. DRUG GANG MEMBERS MEET THEIR ENDS. Not a great headline. Fisher could have written it better, something grabbing like GANGLAND KILLINGS SHOCK CITY or VIGILANTE PURGES CITY OF HEROIN GANG. The police investigation was 'ongoing,' but they suspected a rival gang. Law enforcement experts predicted more gang killings as rival gangs moved in to fill the gap.
Not as long as I'm in town, thought Dave. Anyone moved on Flood or the surrounding turf would answer to him. He may not have controlled a gang, but he protected his own interests, that is, when he had interests.
It was not unusual to read about himself in the paper. In fact, it was rare when his activities did not find their way in print. While he was in exile there were a few occasions here and there that he made a bit of a stink and got noticed, but for the most part he stayed under the radar, NOE as the brothers said. Nap of the Earth, the down low. During that time, Dave felt a little disappointed that his presence did not make it into the press.
The office door opened. A couple emerged, the woman sobbing softly on the man's shoulder. Couples' counseling, grief counseling, it didn't matter. Dave folded up the paper and set in neatly on the coffee table.
The tabby said, "Just give Dr. Towley a few moments and you can go in."
Dave straightened his tie. The office was very modern. Warm colored woods, subdued and recessed lighting, soft pastel upholstery, equally soft landscape paintings, etc. Dave leaned back and extended his arms over the back of the sofa. He crossed his legs. He waited.
Dr. Towley emerged from his office. He looked like a cross between a robin and a sparrow. The feathers of his face and hands were slick and smooth, giving him a regal elegance. He wore an expensive, grey suit over is portly frame. The only thing spoiling his overall presentation was a pair of specialized shoes adorning his oversized, taloned feet.
Dave stood up and approached the therapist, who in turn shook Dave's hand and with a hand to his back escorted him into the office. Once inside, Dr. Towley pointed to a leather chez lounge. "Please, make yourself comfortable."
Dave took him quite literally and seated himself leisurely upon the chair.
Dr. Towley sat in his matching club chair. He pulled a notepad from his jacket pocket and a pen from a cup on a side table. "Margaret tells me that you are American. You are a long way from home. Any trouble getting customized to our country?"
Dave shook his head. "Nope. Actually, I think I fit in here better than back across the pond. There is a great impetus to be macho, rugged, independent, a real man's man."
"And you are not those things?"
"Here and there, but mostly no. My brothers, yes. It seems the younger the brother, the less macho he is. There are four of us. The eldest are twins, so they're equally macho. The middle one is somewhat macho. Me, I am only a little macho. Machismo, I find, is best in small servings. Generally there is less of that here in England. I imagine not so in Italy or Spain, but here, like I said, I fit right in."
"I see. So is it your family you would care to discuss?"
Dave shrugged. "They are pretty close. I would have trouble not bringing them up in conversation, but no. That is not why I had set up the appointment."
Dr. Towley gave one of those psychotherapist looks, the kind that in conversation would go like, "I better pay attention and write this down." In actuality, the doctor said, "Go on."
"Well, I just recently came across a psychological profile that a former employer had for me and it was cause for some alarm."
"Well, I wouldn't worry too much about that. We all have issues, complexes, neuroses, what have you. Moreover, such profiles are not always that accurate. Many are based on a simple questionare that may provide distinctly different results depending on the day."
"No, this was a high level government job. They knew what they were doing. I had several face to face interviews and that sort of thing."
Dr. Towley made a note of that in his pad. "Uh-huh. Continue, please. What did this profile say about you that made you upset."
"Concerned, not upset."
"My apologies. I can see there is a difference."
Dave said, "Well, it said I suffered from an antisocial personality disorder."
There was an awkward pause. "Beg your pardon? ASPD? Also known as sociopathy? Psychopathy?"
Dave shrugged. "Yeah, what of it? Can you help me out?"
The doctor closed his notepad and set in on the side table. He leaned back in the manner of someone who could no longer play the game as the stakes were too high. "Mr. Coontail is it? Well, I'm afraid there is nothing here I can do for you."
"What do you mean?"
"It is the opinion of the psychiatric community of England and Wales that your condition is quite frankly untreatable. I am truly sorry to have wasted your time. I will advise Margaret to to bill your account."
Dave felt as if he were a boat at sea and the wind had just ceased. He was stuck in the middle of the ocean. "You're telling me that there is absolutely nothing you can do." It was more of a statement than a question.
"That is correct. Yes, I could pretend to offer to assist you in overcoming this disorder, but it would be a ruse. I would only be taking your money. I'm afraid you would see no improvement. Personality disorders are uniquely ingrained into the psyche. The antisocial personality is even more so. I know by telling you this I run the risk of angering you, but it is my duty and my sworn oath to present you with my findings and my honest opinion regarding your case."
Dave smirked. "Oath? You mean the Hypocratic oath? The one that says to do no harm, to help those in need, et cetera, et cetera?"
"That is the one. I can see the argument you wish to make. Yes, by treating you I would be causing more harm. Studies have shown that persons with your disorder have exhibited even more untruthfulness and deception. They adopt the psychotherapeutic methods into their patterns of dissocial behavior. Moreover, they learn to better evade the very psychological profiling that brought you here."
Dave laughed. It was not sincere. "That's funny. Back in the colonies a therapist had set up weekly appointments along with a monthly group session. He seemed certain he could help me."
Dr. Towley nodded. "I am not surprised. You Americans have always been more optimistic. Although I applaud a positive world view, I do not think it should be at the expense of realism. Realistically speaking there is no treatment, no medication, and no cure."
"Then what is left to me? How am I to move on from here?" asked Dave, now sitting at the edge of his seat.
"Sadly, many cases end up in prison or in an asylum."
"An asylum? Without treatment or medication how is that any different from a prison?"
"Well, for one there is the absence of other prisoners."
"So, those are my two choices? Get imprisoned or institutionalized?" asked Dave.
"I didn't finish. Some with your condition can lead seemingly exemplary lives in sales or politics. Some may even attain a position of leadership."
Dave was silent for awhile. Just as Dr. Towley was about to suggest that he leave, Dave asked, "Do know the story of Rasputin?"
Dr. Towley did not expect this of all questions. However, now that he knew with whom he was dealing he answered cautiously, "Yes. I am familiar. The mad monk of pre-soviet Russia. He advised the royal family and tended to the Romanov's hemophiliac son. He warned the royal family that if he something should happen to him then it would be an end to the royal line. Later he was poisoned, stabbed, shot, castrated, and drowned. Soon after communist rebels assaulted the Romanov palace, kidnapped the royal family, had them shot, and dumped the bodies down a well."
"So you are familiar. Did you know that as a boy Rasputin studied to be a priest? The story goes that he was born with webbed toes. Now however embarrassing or grotesque the disfigurement, we know today that it is a simple matter of genetics. However, an elder told Rasputin that he was the spawn of the devil, that his webbed toes were a clear indication of witchcraft and general devilry. What do you think that information did to the boy's psyche? How do you think that shaped his future?"
Dr. Towley stood. "I know a threat when I hear one, however how well veiled. Leave my office. Do not contact me or my secretary or I shall have you arrested on the spot. Am I understood, sir?"
Dave stood up slowly. "It was not a threat. It was a warning, however. Not about me, mind you. You have nothing to fear from me. I will look for aid elsewhere, that is all. I merely warn you to not tell your future patients that they are devil spawn and will never improve. Such blanket statements can have long term effects, such as the rise of communism and the death of a royal line. Now, I bid you my farewell."
With that, Dave left the office. Margaret seemed surprised to see him leaving so soon. He bid her a kind farewell and told her he was frightfully sorry he would not have the chance to see her again.
He had wanted to tell the doctor one more thing. Dave had wanted to confront him about being a poor representative of not only his species, but of his order and family. Dave knew before saying it that it would come off wrong. It would make him sound like a racists. Dr. Towley was a bird, but he was not a true representation of every other bird. To think so would be prejudiced. Perhaps Dave was getting better despite what the therapist had said. Still, he could not do it alone. He would have to look elsewhere.
The rest of the evening and upcoming weekend showed little promise. Dave had no objective. He considered looking into finding another therapist, but his heart wasn't in it. He could head back to Flood, but didn't really care to. Besides, too much of his presence could lead to him being perceived as a nuisance. He had already put in his thoughts on the club. It was time to leave well enough alone.
So what? Go to the other clubs? Probably not a good idea at the moment. In his condition he had little patience for other people. Some time to himself was probably best. Too bad Fisher wasn't there, not that she was a comforting shoulder. Indeed she proved unsympathetic at best. She did have her charms, though. She was good for relieving his stress for a few hours anyway.
No. Time alone was best. He decided upon heading out on the road, perhaps drive through town to better adjust to the layout. Maybe then he would hit the M1 and just drive. He wanted to get a better feel for the Bugatti. Afterwards, he could decide upon what modifications needed done.
Dave was well into the north of England heading towards Scotland when his cell phone rang. He had a hands free set up. With a touch of a button the other end was put on speaker.
"Hello? Lt. Dave Coontail?"
"What?" asked Dave. He was in a mood. It was rare he was so irritable, but his session with the doctor had not gone as well as he had expected. In fact, it was a huge step in the opposite direction.
"You are to meet with the high command at Crowe Manner in Sussex. The meeting is to be held at 8:00 this upcoming Monday morning."
"What is this meeting regarding?" asked Dave.
"I am not privy to that information, lieutenant. I am confident that you will be assessed on the details."
The phone disconnected. "Finally," said Dave to himself. It had been awhile since the brass had anything for him. It had been a number of weeks since he had instructed a few classes on unarmed self defense methods (pragmatic jujutsu techniques) and assisted in training (small scale assault team tactics and operations). In the latter he performed as team leader and head instructor as well as help man the oppositional forces. Maybe, finally, they had something real, something tangible for him to do.
Whatever the EoH had planned was a ticking bomb. The Brits were twiddling their thumbs. At least Barett and Utah had had some results in Africa. Now Rick and Barett were in France on some training exercise. If that is what they had in mind for Dave, he would have to tell them to forget it. If they wanted proof of his usefulness then they could consider what he had done to Harris and his men. That was real. An exercise was just an exercise, a meaningless gesture with no real stake at hand. No true loss other than pride.
With a new goal in sight, Dave was on target. He had purpose. There were things to do. With things to do, his weekend no longer seemed like a blank page to a blocked writer. There were possibilities. For one he would have to have his dress uniform, the one generously given to him by the Royal Army for such occasions, pressed and dry cleaned.
He would also have to move up his checkout time. Chances were he was not going back to Sheffield after the meeting. If he was, he could find a more permanent residence. Oh, and he had to give Jerry notice that he would be gone for awhile.
At the next opportunity Dave got off the motor way, went through some town ending in 'shire', got back onto the motor way, and headed south.
He left Saturday night, leaving plenty of time to arrive refreshed. Of the grand landscape of England, Sussex county was perhaps the most diverse. From the jutting white cliffs of Beachy Head in Eastborne and from the mountains and sprawling wilderness of the Weald to the beaches of Brighton and the marshlands of West Sussex, the South West of England served a feast for the senses.
Sussex was rich in history as well. Numerous ruins and still extant castles dotted the landscape. Located on the coast near the English channel, the area had been host to many wars and battles, usually against the French and the Normans. It was no wonder that the War Department selected West Sussex as location for one of its headquarters.
Dave stayed Sunday in the small Hamlet of Crowe, formerly known as Petsworth. Apparently the town had undergone a change of name. It seemed obvious why they would change the name. Petsworth could esaily be construed as offensive to the animal-human hybrids living there. It would particularly offend cats and dogs of which there were many.
So, they named the town after a humanitarian, statesman, and war hero, Stephen Alexander Crowe. Apparently Crowe Manor had been left him by the English government for his contributions to the State of England and the European Union. He was a bit of a local hero, long dead now. Pictures of the famous blackbird decorated the quaint inn in which Dave stayed.
That Monday morning Dave partake of a light breakfast (toast, omelet, grapefruit, and a few slices of ham) before setting off, looking sharp in his dress uniform. Crowe manor stood well outside the township. It sat upon a 700 acre deer park. Surrounded by marshlands and under an ominous, grey sky, the mansion made an imposing and austere impression. The building was massive. Constructed of stone, Crowe manner resembled a giant, windowed brick, a colossal block standing alone upon the sparsely wooded park.
Dave drove up to the guard post. Sir Crowe had apparently left the manor to the state after his demise. Dave left his weapons with the guard and drove up the long path to a parking area a safe distance from the giant edifice.
It looked more like a hospital or university than a residence. Several armed sentries were positioned around the building, which by itself seemed quite fortified. The mansion was of a 17th century design.
Guards posted at the main entrance opened the door for Dave as he headed into the main foyer. Inside, Crowe Manor was filled to the rafters with art and period furniture. Numerous landscapes, many by Turner, represented the surrounding marshes, even capturing the image of the manor itself.
A Lance Corporal Tabitha Longtail, an orange and white tabby, escorted Dave to the meeting hall. Her heels clicked, clacked, and resounded throughout the halls. She opened the massive double doors and once Dave was inside, closed them behind him. He heard her footsteps recede back down the hall. Dave took a look around, quickly apprising the room and its inhabitants.
"Nice place you got here. I feel a little like Kirk Douglas in Toad Hall." However bizarre a statement this seemed, Dave had two reasons for announcing it. First, Dave felt like Kirk Douglas because the room reminded him of Kubrick's "Paths of Glory." The meeting hall was spacious and opulent. Dave could picture portly men with sifters of Brandy and thick cigars as they pointed fat fingers at a map of the trenches. Through bushy mustaches they came to the conclusion that the best way to defeat the Germans was to send thousands of young, British men into a hail of bullets. Apparently Germany had come to a similar conclusion and sacrificed a number of Her own men.
Those who refused to go over the top were considered cowards and were shot. Kubrick's movie about summed it up. Kirk Douglas played the role of one of these so-called cowards. Only in war does common sense equate to cowardice.
The second reference had less to do with the space (although it was a manor house) than the inhabitants of the room. The dais sat a badger, a rat, a toad, and a mole. All four were major characters from "The Wind and the Willows," a beloved series of children's books. The only person besides Dave that did not fit in with this dynamic was the clerk taking down the minutes of the meeting. She was attractive enough, Dave supposed, but a little sad. She was an almost fully human Deer.
"No, you are not to be executed, Lt. Coontail. Also, yes, we are well aware of our appearance and have made the same association," said the rat, apparently a very well-cultured individual. He dressed in an R.A.F. uniform. Strangely, he didn't look the type to have ever been in a cockpit.
"Lt. Coontail, be seated," said the badger in a gruff voice. He looked career military. The number of medals pinned to his chest attested to that fact.
Dave sat in the only chair facing the dais. It was a period style chair with hand carved accents and plush, upholstered cushions. Instead of sitting upright and attentive as a good soldier would, Dave managed quite the opposite. He sat as if it were his throne and he a spoiled prince. He lounged, he luxuriated. One would expect barely clad slave women to feed him grapes by hand. He held his cap not on his lap, but let it fall to the floor at the foot of the chair.
Before the dais it looked less like Dave was the guest. He looked more like a fascist dictator receiving information from his inner circle. Such was the confidence in which Dave sat. He owned his space.
The toad was livid. "Lt. Coontail, sit up properly." He sounded like a substitute teacher, authoritative, but ultimately powerless and out of his element. He wore the uniform of a Navy captain. Dave wondered if the Toad knew his bow from his aft.
Dave relented, though. He sat upright and like a dutiful little soldier set his cap on his lap.
"Very well. Now that you are settled we can begin," said the badger. It was beginning to look like the badger was the only real military figure in the entire room. Dave certainly did not consider himself a soldier. In fact, he would have cringed each time they called him lieutenant if it had not been for the English accent. He could stand being called 'left-tenant.' He found it adorable, if not a little silly.
The badger continued. "I suppose you are wondering why you were removed from the training regimen?" he asked.
"Not particularly," said Dave. "I figured it was because the brass and I don't see eye to eye as far as training methods go." This was true. The military followed a strict regimen of repeated drills, hammering information into each recruit. Dave could have instructed like that. Taekwondo training had a similar approach. However, Dave conformed to the instruction methods of the Daoist sages, who taught by example. They did, the student observed. It was up to the student how much he learned. If he was attentive, if he was persistent, if he asked the right questions at the right moment, ten he learned. Dave followed that model. Each of his students learned what they needed to for their own, individual progression. Each went away with something to aid them on their own, separate path. This was not how armies were trained.
The badger confirmed this. "Yes. That is true. However, many of your students made remarkable, though inconsistent progress. But, no. That is not why you have been taken off the training program."
"Then why?" asked Dave.
"There were those who felt it was not the best use of your talents, that you would be better suited for other duties."
Dave tilted his head and raised an eyebrow. "Such as?" He expected a test, something like what Barett and Rick were going through.
"It proved difficult determining an assignment worthy of you, to be quite honest, which explains the delay. We had to wait for such an opportunity to present itself."
"I see." What Dave wanted to say was, "Get to the point."
Instead, the badger opened what must have been Dave's file. He leafed through its pages, some of them tabbed for quick reference.
"Is that my file? Do I get one?"
"No. You don't get to see your file. It's sensitive," said the toad. Again he scolded Dave like he would a petulant child.
"I hate to break it to you fellas, but I have already seen my file. Your information can't be that different. Besides, isn't all the stuff in there compiled from information given freely by me and my brothers? Ah, forget it. How about I get to leaf through your personal reports and make my own conclusion? We can compare notes."
The toad's greenish skin turned pale in anger. "This is a mockery. We can't afford to leave something so important up to this blithering idiot."
"An idiot? I would have you know that that particular term is a misnomer. The original Greek term refers not to a stupid person, but to a private one. An idiot was one that stayed clear of politics. Of course, in Athens, that would make one appear to be stupid." Dave was a font of such useless information.
"It is interesting that you would mention having some familiarity with the greek language," said the rat.
"Oh, yeah? Pray tell why that is, exactly?" asked Dave.
"Your report mentions that you know several languages, mainly of the Orient, but Spanish as well. Your brothers say you are keen on picking up new languages, that you were not so much taught as adopted the language of your surroundings, whether Chinatown or Bolivia."
Dave nodded along. He did have an ear for languages. He wasn't great with accents or dialects, but speaking and listening were decent skills, enough to get by. "I suppose. What of it?"
The rat looked squarely at Dave. Dave liked him, even if he was an impostor of some sort. "What is your current knowledge of German?"
"Don't you mean 'Sprechen sie Deutsch?' Ja, ich spreche ein bisschen, aber nicht so gut," said Dave. It was basic German, a bit sloppy, and the accent was no doubt American. However, Dave spoke with confidence. That mattered.
"I guess that answers that question," said the badger.
All this time the mole had said nothing. She simply scribbled things down. She would stop, watch, listen, and then make another note. Dave had seen that kind of pattern before. There was a familiarity there.
Dave went on. "It is funny that you would mention German. I watched some German television just the other night. Horror movies in German, now that's overkill! It is an interesting language, though. You can see how English has its roots in German. This is mainly in family relations like vater, bruder, tochter, mutter, and the like. It is also in the names of body parts like blut und fleisch, harr, nase, that sort of thing. Curse words, too, but I will not go into that as there is a lady present."
Dave took hold of the conversation, on topic now. Words flowed from him like water from a spring. "It's such a harsh language, though. Fantastic for shouting. Great for training dogs (and it is a good thing none present are dogs as they would find that offensive). Not a romance language like French, Spanish, or Italian. German is not for love making. It is for building cars and war. It is precise. The Germans are keen on creating words."
Dave watched the mole as she wrote a few things down. "It is also the language of Psychology. Freud and Jung spoke German, albeit with an Austrian flavor. There are great words like schadenfreude, taking joy in the suffering of a friend. Now that is a German word! There is also angst, unruhe, zeitgeist, what we would call a sign of the times. Zeitgeist. Timeghost. That about explains it. Geist is a fantastic word. Supposedly it means guest, ghost, intellect, and a number of other things."
The mole was watching Dave with interest. She had stopped writing. Here beady little eyes twinkled behind the thick lenses of her spectacles.
Dave brought it home with the following. "You know how they pronounce Psychology in German? Zoo-ko-low-gi. Isn't that great. You can't help but smile when you hear it. It sounds like a children's cartoon character. Today zookolowgi and I are playing hide and go seek. Can you find zookolowgi? Is he behind this tree? Is he under this rock?"
"Would you stop talking for one moment for the love of all tat is holy?" said the toad.
Dave grinned. "Yes. I speak some German. Am I to go to Germany?"
"That is what we are here to determine," said the badger. He, too, seemed frustrated. Perhaps Dave had laid it on a little thick. However, their frustration with him only encouraged him. Inviting Dave to this meeting was like inviting the Marx brothers to a gala ball. One would expect some conflict.
"You mentioned something about building cars," said the badger. "Your report says you have some engineering experience."
Dave realized that they were waiting for a response. "Yes. I do have experience in that field."
Another long pause until the dais realized he had finished. "Care to elaborate?"
"Are you sure? I'm not going to get scolded or told to shut up?" said Dave with mock indignation.
"That depends on how long you speak or how little you say," said the badger.
"Okay then. We grew up around cars, electronics, machinery, and that sort of thing. Dad was always fixing stuff around the compound. He brought us along to teach us, but also because he could use the extra hands. We all learned how to repair one thing or another, whether cars, appliances, weapons, whatever."
"As the youngest, one would assume you had learned the least, yet you have considerable knowledge of engineering. Why is that?" asked the rat.
"Well, with Utah it was about control. If a vehicle, weapon, or what have you failed him, that was a problem. So, he developed the skill to prevent that from happening. He maintains his weapons and vehicles. Barett is the same way, only instead of being a control issue it is more pragmatic. Being able to repair and maintain a vehicle is a valuable skill in the field, one which is necessary on occasion. Furthermore, he has a touch of curiosity. He likes new technology. He likes to know how things work. Rick shares this same level of curiosity, only his love of technology is even greater. He is absolutely swish with computers and electronics. You should have seen this stereo set up he had. It took up a good portion of the room."
Sensing that he was going astray, the badger brought Dave back on topic. "And what is your interest in technology?"
Dave shrugged. He had never really thought that much about it. "Decent, I suppose. Yeah, it's nice to know how things work. Sure it's good to have control over machines. Yeah, new gadgets are pretty cool, but not that cool. I'm more simple I suppose. Sometimes a more basic approach is better. It seems the more advanced the technology, the more expensive, inefficient, and complicated it is. My interest I suppose lies more within the principles of why something does what it does. How does a car work? Energy is created by burning fuel. That fuel generates an explosion that moves the pistons. The pistons rotate the driveshaft. Energy is transferred from the drive shaft to the axel. The axel rotates the wheels. The wheels push against the pavement. The car goes. It is this chain of reactions that interest me, how each part of the car has a function. I guess I looked beyond how just machines worked and looked into why the stars rotated as they did, why your shadow gets longer in the evening, why water expands when frozen."
"You studied engineering and mathematics," said the badger.
"I suppose you could call it study. I think more along the lines as having observed much as the Greeks did, aspect ratios, transfer of energy, newtonian mechanics, trigonometry, algebra, probability theory. Quantum mechanics and relativity theory gets a little weird. Don't get me wrong. I like theoretical science, just applied science is more immediate, empirical. For instance, consider that after the big bang the universe is expanding. Not only is it expanding, but it is accelerating at such high speeds that the very end of the universe is traveling over the speed of light. Now, consider there is a planet much like our own on the rim. Imagine people living there much as you and I. Now imagine them looking up at the sky in our direction. To think that from their perspective it is we who are traveling past the speed of light."
"Interesting," said the rat.
"Yes, very, but ultimately pointless. Does it really matter in the long run? No. Not really. Life here goes on whether at light speed or at a standstill. The world is flat, the world is round, it goes around the sun, the sun around it, whatever. People still live and die."
"That's very philosophical," said the toad, seeming surprised at Dave's knowledge.
Dave shrugged. "Eh. Physics. Mathematics. These are just things we have invented to better understand our universe according to our own terms. They don't really exist outside our minds. They only match what we presume to see. In truth, there is no truth, no objective truth anyway. There is no absolute, no certainty. Even gods are unaware of the 'true' nature of things. The best anyone can offer is an opinion. We either accept that opinion as 'fact' or dismiss it as 'fiction.' We accept 'good' and reject 'evil.' Now that, my friends, is philosophical."
After a long and awkward pause the badger said, "Tell us of Bolivia."
Dave took a deep breath. "I have told you about Bolivia many times."
"Not in person. Not to this panel," said the badger. "What happened?"
Dave no longer sat upright. He allowed his body to slump a little. He crossed his legs, cocked his head, and he spoke. "Absolute devastation. The buildings remained intact, outside the broken windows that is. Death everywhere. We saw the weapon detonate from the mountain. There was a flash of light and then a ringing in our ears. The weapon gave me a headache and my nose bled. Those in the city were less fortunate."
"As an engineer, what is your estimation on the weapon's function and make-up?" asked the rat.
"I am not a weapons manufacturer. What I think is just a guess."
"Then guess," said the toad.
"Well, the effect is extremely localized. Otherwise I would not be alive to tell the tale. The weapon must be deployed by aircraft, so the prime targets will likely be coastal cities like Brighton, Antwerp, and my home town of San Francisco. Inland targets run the risk of interference by air defense. Perhaps they may look into deploying the weapon from a rocket, but that is conjecture," said Dave. "We suspect that Bolivia was just a test. Perhaps larger weapons will be deployed in future."
"You've described its effects. Now tell us how it works," said the toad.
"I don't know. I would suppose from the broken windows and the ringing in our ears that the weapon was sonic, likely hypersonic. Theoretically such a weapon could adversely affect the organs. The shock wave could cause the lungs to fill with blood, or the brain and other organs to liquify. I did not get the best look at the bodies. If you want a medical opinion you should ask Barett. He is better informed than I on those points."
"You know that he and Utah Blaine have confiscated a similar weapon?" asked the badger.
"Yes. We like to keep each other informed."
"We have been studying the weapon, its dimensions, its construction, and so on," said the badger.
"Oh yeah? And how is that going?" asked Dave.
The badger said solemnly, "Not very well at the moment. However, let us move on from that point. It says here in your report that you are a skilled driver."
"I would like to think so. I just obtained a new set of wheels. It's sitting outside if you want to go for a ride."
"That won't be necessary," said the badger. "Perhaps you could just fill us in on your qualifications."
"We are well aware of his achievements in that field, colonel," said the toad. "It is all here in his profile. Even his brothers attest to his skill. I see no pint in pursuing this line of questioning"
"Be that as it may, I still have a few questions. What exactly did the Death's Run races entail?" asked the badger.
"Well, they were underground races. The first was from Seattle to San Diego, keeping to the highway. The second was a shot through the desert. Utah and Rick road in the Doberman. Barett rode his bike. I took my car. The races were hardcore. You were allowed to drive people off road, even take shots at their vehicles."
"Excuse me? The Doberman?" asked the toad.
"The Grunting Doberman, our freight hauler. It was big, mean, and growled. The name seemed appropriate. They managed to block the road with the trailer, taking out most of the competition."
"And you won this underground race twice," said the badger.
"With my brothers' help."
"Why only twice?" asked the toad as if insinuating ineptitude on Dave's part. Dave took it in stride.
"Well, by the third time I had made several enemies. Also, the races were not the same. The mafia had their hands in the whole thing. On top of that they were smaller and I was otherwise engaged at the time. Mostly, I didn't want to race. I wasn't invited to take part. Besides, the prize money was just enough to repair our vehicles. Finally, I was getting endorsement offers. Once the races went commercial it was time to stop."
"And before that you worked at a raceway?" asked the rat.
Dave nodded. "Mostly in the pit crew. However, I did take the car around the track a few times. Racers party pretty hard as you can imagine. Sometimes drivers are sick, incarcerated, or just absent. I would get behind the wheel. Never really won, but I placed well enough for the team to advance."
"Satisfied?" the toad asked the colonel. The badger took no offense at the gruff and informal tone. He seemed accustomed to it.
"I don't know yet. Have you anything else to say in regards to your driving experience?" he asked Dave.
"Well, I escorted several people. I had experience as a chauffeur, a taxicab driver, a courier, pretty much everything but a getaway driver."
"Speaking of escorting, you claim to have been the bodyguard of your president's daughter for a short time," said the toad. "How did you manage that between hamburgers and watching tele?"
"As opposed to eating fish and chips at a football match? Yeah, I was her bodyguard. It's a funny story. It started with her abduction."
"That's funny?" asked the rat.
Dave smiled and continued. "I was working with the anti-terrorism task force at the time. I got the call. As you know, with kidnapping timing is important. If you don't get the victim back within a few days, you won't see them again unless in a shallow grave. Well, I did manage to track down her abductor to a grocery store. I took him out. The feds took him away."
"You didn't kill him?" asked the toad, surprised.
"No. Authorities thought it best he should be questioned in case he was working with someone. I agreed."
"Was he working with someone?" asked the badger.
"Never found out. Anyway, the president wished to reward me for my service. He offered me $10,000 for the safe return of his only daughter. I refused."
"You refused a cash award from your president," said the toad. "Why?"
"Simple. The amount was too small. I did take enough money to cover repairs and expenses, but I felt the figure was an insult. This was the president's daughter, the light of his life. The thought that he valued her life by such a paltry sum disgusted me. I'm not greedy. If he offered me nothing but his thanks I would be satisfied. So, not only did I refuse, I gave him a piece of my mind."
"I'm surprised you could spare it," said the toad.
The badger stood. "I think I have heard enough for now. Please, Lt. Coontail, if you would leave us to deliberate we will determine your qualifications. Please enjoy the grounds as we discuss what we have heard."
Dave stood. "Righty-O. Shout out my name when you're done."
The badger addressed the clerk. "You, too, Mrs. Foal. If you would please take a break."
The sad looking deer quietly packed up her stenograph and walked off, her heels clacking. Dave opened the door for her. Lance corporal Longtail sat outside near a flight of stairs. Her black pumps lay by her feet.
"Lance corporal, your out of uniform!" teased Dave.
She slipped on her shoes and stood. "Forgive me, I..." she began.
Dave waved her off, implying that she not take him too seriously. "It seems we are to take a little break. Care to walk with me?"
She looked to the door of the meeting hall, then to Dave. "They may need me."
"What is it you do here exactly, Longtail. This is a great place to be assigned, if you like being in an Agatha Christie novel."
"I am special liason to Colonel Graybeard."
"I see. Well, he is currently in discussion with his comrades over my effectiveness. Personally I find it will go either way. On any account, I don't think you will be too terribly missed." Dave kept it subtle. He was an officer. This technically could be regarded as fraternization. Dave didn't care. It was harmless flirting. He wasn't even all that into her. He could do with or without company.
"If I do go with you, who will tell you when they are ready to see you again?"
Okay then, no, thought Dave. "Very well. Have a seat. Rest your feet. I think I will have a look around."
Dave left. The door opened to a fantastic view of the car drive, the deer park, and the grey expanse of sky. The smell of damp lawn filled his nostrils. The cool morning breeze caressed his furry cheeks. So, this was Crowe Manor.
"No," said the toad. "Definitely not. it's...it's...it's impermissible."
"You know, Edward," said the mole, "he could have told you exactly what you wanted to hear. He could have behaved just at you would like. He did not."
"Why didn't he, then? He's sabotaging his own chances. It's just a game to him. He is laughing at our expense."
"You don't believe that, Edward," said the Colonel. "Not really."
The toad had turned his chair to better face his companions. "Perhaps not. Still, the lad talks too much. He is reckless and self centered. If he could assume a more amiable attitude, then why did he not? I beg you, why?"
The rat said simply, "He let us know exactly what he had to offer, the good and the bad. That was in part the idea of this meeting, was it not?"
The badger stroked his grey and white beard. "What do you think, Emma?"
"Yes, what do you think?" asked the rat.
Emma pushed her thick glasses up her nose. "I think this was a farce."
"Here here," seconded the toad.
"Not him, us. We are the farce, pretending to be what we are not. He has seen through it all. You, Edward, just look at the state of you. You are in such a steam that your judgment is clouded. If he were to goad you on more, who knows what you might say."
"Well, I...I never."
"As for me? Why do think he went on and on about psychology?"
"We know he had made an appointment recently. Perhaps it was on his mind," said the rat.
"Perhaps, Jon, but I doubt it. That was for me. He watched for my reaction. He knows I am a psychologist. I would guess he knows the reason I am here."
"A profiler," said the badger.
"It was a bad idea to play dress up. I imagine he suspects you as well, Jon, though I doubt he has made you as MI-6."
"Or you as Interpol," said the rat. "Let us get to the meat of the matter here. He is what he is, a decoy. The real reason we are here is that there is a mole in are midst (excuse me, Emma)."
"Don't mention it. I forgive the turn of phrase. However, that brings me to my second point. Why not come clean with the lieutenant? He will not appreciate being used like a pawn. In short, you have all failed to follow the recommendations left you in his personal report. The greatest mistake is too have used deception not only in these flimsy disguises, but in withholding pertinent information from him."
"Are you quite finished?" asked the toad. "Decoy or not, he is too risky."
"What say you, Jon?" asked the badger.
"Oh, he is qualified, and yes there is risk, but there is risk with all the best agents. However, the risky ones work best when the job goes pear shaped."
"Well, I've made my decision," said the badger. "You may deliberate at your leisure. But before you do I must say that we have been friends for many years now. I cannot express how important your help has been to me in this matter."
The rat said, "And I think I can speak for all of us in thanking you for alerting us to this leak of yours. If it is at such a high level as you suspect, then our help is more an obligation that it is an act of kindness."
"Yes. Yes. Cheers to all. But answer me this. If you suspect someone now, why wait? Nab the rotter. Why go trough the trouble of drawing her out?" asked the toad.
"I hold hope that this will not only expose the traitor, but draw out her associates as well. You are correct in one thing, Edward, this mission is important. The lieutenant will have his work cut out for him as they say. If, that is, you all decide with me."
Dave took a right turn and strode around the estate. The green of the lawn seemed unreal. Many deer bounded about in a fenced enclosure, their antlers seemingly too large for their delicate heads to manage. Behind the manor was Crowe Lake. Ducks and geese floated atop the serene lake like feathery toy boats. Dave walked up to just a few yards from the bank and admired the view.
His keen senses picked up the presence of someone behind him.
"Care for a fag?" asked a woman's voice.
Dave turned his head. "Excuse me?" Then he noticed the package of cigarettes that she held out to him. "No, thank you. I don't smoke."
"Do you mind?" she asked, ready to light up. She looked nearly human, which made it hard to determine her original species. She wore the battle dress uniform of the estate guards. A 7.62 mm Bren Mk V hung by a sling at her side. On her hip was a holstered pistol. She took a long drag off her cigarette. She breathed out through her nostrils, looking like some kind of machine. "I shouldn't have these, you know. Nasty habit, tastes shite, but what do you do? Right, lieutenant?"
"We all need our little indulgences, I suppose. It's a nice post of duty you have here. You stay at the manor?"
She nodded, then plopped herself to the green lawn overlooking the lake. Dave had been sitting for too long. He remained on his feet.
"I suppose it's swish for a first posting," she said. "Me blokes think it'll spoil me."
"New recruit, eh?" asked Dave, making conversation.
She took another puff and nodded. "In fact, your brother trained me some."
"You would have to be more specific," said Dave.
She thought for a moment. "Utah was his name," she said.
"Still is unless he changed it since the last time I saw him. I'm sorry."
"What? Sorry about what?" she asked.
Dave said, "That you were assigned to Utah. It must've been hell. He can be a handful."
"I survived. Best training I ever had, that. I think we met before, though I was in night gear at the time."
"The team assault training. I remember. You guys kicked our asses," said Dave.
"You got in your hits, too, sir."
"Private Dean, right? My brother was quite impressed with you as I recall. Believe me, that is saying something."
"Thank you, sir, those are kind words indeed."
A thought struck Dave. "Hey, shouldn't you be..."
She shook her head. "Breakfast interval."
"Then shouldn't you have something to eat other than cigarette smoke?"
"Already have done," she said.
"Of course." Dave finally gave in and sat beside her. He hugged his knees.
"What brings you to Crowe, lieutenant?"
"I don't know for sure. Even if I did I would guess they would rather I not tell you. No offense."
She shrugged it off. She had a hard and hungry look. She was a child of the streets like he was. "No matter. Enjoying your stay in England, sir?"
"Very much, thank you. I have acclimated very well. I will do well in Europe. Things here are, well, more my cup of tea."
She smiled at that. After a long pause, she asked, "Say, think we'll see any action soon?"
"Not sure. There are forces in motion, dark forces, but what is to come of it is anyone's guess at this point. You seem disappointed."
"Not really. Just feel like I should be doing more is all." She had a London accent. He liked her casual style. Somehow she knew that Dave was less strict when it came to protocol. Perhaps other recruits had mentioned Dave's lax nature.
"Well, just don't go looking for trouble. People who look for trouble usually find it," he said as he stood up.
"Speaking from experience?" She finished her cigarette and snubbed it out in a little tin for just that purpose. Butts on the lawn were frowned upon was Dave's guess. She, too, stood up and straightened out her uniform, brushing grass off her rump. She gave a salute. Dave returned it. "I better get back. Don't want a hole in the perimeter."
With that she walked off, leaving Dave to his thoughts.
Within the manor the conversation went on. The toad pointed a green, chubby, and webbed finger at the colonel. "Admit it," he said. Admit that you do not trust him either."
The badger said, "You're right. I don't trust him. I do not trust any of the Coontails, not implicitly."
"Then select someone else," said the mole.
"No. This job requires someone expendable. The Coontails are used to that from what their background tells us. If I had my choice, I would select one of the twins. They seem more reasonable. Alas, Dave Coontail is the only available brother."
"Wait," said the mole. "You would take Dave over the middle child? What is his name? Rick?"
The badger nodded curtly. "Rick is an enigma. Even in his report he remains a mystery. It seems he has just recently found courage to step out of his brothers' shadow. He is a man in transition. Normally acquiring such a remarkable individual during such a formative time would be an absolute boon. However, like his brothers he maintains a fearsome independence. There is no clear indication of where his loyalties lie. I would prefer not to use him in any assignment."
"And this Dave Coontail is better?" asked the toad in disbelief.
"Better? No, not better. At least he is upfront with his condition. In handling a snake it is best to know whether or not it is poisoned. With Dave I know the risk, with Rick I do not," said the colonel. "Besides, although the assignment is important, it is simple. This is the sort of job in which the youngest brother excels. He knows his place, he knows the objective, he has the freedom to stray from the beaten path if desired. That is the recommendation, is it not?"
"You are right there, Colonel," said the rat.
"I remain unconvinced," said the toad.
"What would convince you, then?" asked the mole.
The rotund figure considered the question for a moment. "I have reservations regarding his loyalty. He is American and not English. He is not even European. How should he care what happens to our union or our nation?"
"That is a fair question. Perhaps we should call him back in so that you may pose that question and any other that comes to mind." The colonel left the long table and went to the door where he asked Lance Corporal Longtail to send in Dave with the clerk.
Dave sat in the lonesome chair. Meanwhile, Mrs. Foal unpacked her stenograph and went through the ritual of inserting a scroll of paper into the feed. All the while she wore a sad expression. One would go so far as to call her doe-eyed. Finished, she said meekly, "I am ready, Colonel. We can begin."
"Very well. Thank you, Mrs. Foal. Did you have a refreshing break, Lt. Coontail."
"Indeed I did," he said. "I met Private Dean on by the lake. She seems awfully skilled to be used just for garrison duty."
"Duly noted, only this is an headquarters. Moreover, her posting here is to better develop her sense of protocol, which you may have found sorely lacking in her case," said the colonel.
"Quite the opposite actually."
"Enough banter." The colonel extends an arm to his right, indicating the toad. "Please."
With the floor, the toad asks, "Are you loyal to England? What does it serve you to serve us?"
Dave stood, leaving his cap hanging from the armrest of the chair. He paced before the table, emulating lawyers he had seen in courtroom dramas. Public speaking is not about just what is said, it is about how it is said and how you look saying it.
"Funny you should ask that. I thought the same thing in Bolivia. Why should I care what happens in this place. I have no birthright, no nationalism. This started because we were pursuing a very real threat. It turns out that your nation was pursuing the same threat. A common enemy makes for fast friends."
Dave stops, looks pensively out the window and over the vast landscape. The pause is strategic, yet natural. "However, that does not answer your question." He turned away from the window. "I like England. I enjoy British comedy. Most of all, I enjoy the music of England. The Beatles, the Rolling Stones, Black Sabbath, The Sex Pistols, The Damned, Joy Division, Bauhaus, Siouxsie & The Banshees, The Cure, Adam Ant, Bow Wow Wow, Duran Duran, The Human League, Depeche Mode, need I go on? You invented Acid Rock, Heavy Metal, Punk, Gothic Rock, Synthy Pop, New Romance, Industrial. How could I want a country of such cultural significance to fall?"
"I'm sorry, but your musical tastes are of little comfort to me," said the toad.
"You don't know how much I like music," said Dave. he went back to his pacing, his steps confident, showman like. "How about this, then? I fit in here. There is a reason why I stayed in San Francisco and L.A. while my brothers went off in every other direction. It wasn't because I could go no further West. It was because that is where I most fit in. You may or may not have noticed that I can be rather...expressive, perhaps even dramatic. I have a flair for elaboration. I am verbose, perhaps overly so. You brits have a fascination with the Wild West simply because that sort of frontier spirit is lacking here. Across the pond, that is expected of the men there. They must be tough, independent, strong, masculine, tight-lipped, stolid, all the traits common to the cowboy, traits my oldest brothers share. I am very few of those things. I tend more towards your heroic image of the charming fop, the noble highwayman, the musketeer. I am at ease, here. This feels like home."
Much to Dave's delighted surprise, the mole said, "Speaking of home, I hear you have chosen Sheffield as your place of residence."
"I have yet to permanently settle if you are thinking of relocating me."
The badger waved an oar sized hand. "That won't be necessary."
"I have bought into a nightclub and public house there. That should prove I have some interest in what befalls this nation. However," said Dave. "That isn't the reason you brought it up, is it?"
The mole peered at Dave through her thick spectacles. "Your instincts serve you well. We are very much aware of your exploits in Sheffield. For starters, the first gang killings coincide with your arrival. Furthermore, you were less than discreet. You left a Japanese fighting dagger near Totley Tunnel. If that was not proof enough, you signed your actual name at the inn's registry."
Dave sat down again. If he was to be accused he might as well play defendant. "For what it's worth I did try to turn the other cheek. I had every intention of moving on. Drug pushers and gang members are not the most reasonable of people. In fact, many are quite offensive. If things had gone better early on they would not have escalated that far. I admit that once I had been provoked, I gave in to my impulsive nature."
The mole shook her round, brown head, "Lt. Coontail, claiming your condition as an excuse for violent and impulsive behavior is no better than claiming alcoholism as a defense of drunkenness."
"You're absolutely right," said Dave. "I take full responsibility and turn myself in. Arrest me on the spot."
"We would rather not," said the rat. "The investigation has closed. In fact, you did our nation a service whether intentional or otherwise. The heroin that gang had been selling comes from the regions of the Middle East. As you know, Human Separatists have gained more and more control of the region. The selling of heroin not only weakens our communities, it puts money in our enemy's hand. So, I applaud your actions however impulsive, whether you have a distaste for praise or not."
Dave bore a sideways grin. "I have a distaste for praise? Does my file say that?" He had not ever really saw himself in that light. "Wait. Has this something to do with my assignment? Should you like me to pursue the rest of this organization?"
"No. We have a different agent on that assignment," said the colonel.
Dave cocked his head to one side. "Is it my brother, Utah?" He had wondered where he had gone.
The rat spoke. "We can neither confirm nor deny the location of your eldest brother at this time." Okay, the rat was definitely a spy of some sort.
"Okay. That clears things up because I could have sworn my assignment was to drive to Germany in order to escort an important person back here, that he or she may assess the device retrieved from Africa."
The panel just stared at him.
"Well, it seemed obvious that was where this was headed," he said.
The mole leaned towards the badger and whispered, "I told you he was clever."
"You are absolutely correct," said the badger. "As I had mentioned before, we have run into a wall in regards to the device. If we wish to prevent another Bolivia, we must determine the origins of the weapon and the means to render it inactive. We have contacted an expert in Germany. You are to bring her schematics of the weapon and parts and materials that she may perform an analysis. This will take some time, so prepare to stay in Germany for awhile."
"Am I to provide this expert security during my stay?" asked Dave.
"That will not be necessary as she will have a qualified team posted."
"I would like to evaluate this team just to confirm she will be provided adequate protection."
This statement raised some eyebrows. Was it some sign of professionalism?
"Uh, yes, certainly. That can be arranged. If you are unsatisfied, provide whatever assistance you think appropriate. When she has completed the analysis, you are to escort her to the location of the weapon."
Dave nodded. It was a simple mission, straightforward, clean. He preferred that sort of work. Drive to Berlin, hand over the stuff, wait for a call, driver her to England.
"I suppose I will be supplied with funds to cover the expenses."
The toad coughed. He squirmed in his seat.
The colonel said, "But of course."
"Also, not to belabor the point, but if you wish me to provide the best service I will have to modify my vehicle. At present it offers little protection to the passengers. I will have to armor the vehicle."
"Yes. That is a unique skill of yours. I could see how that would improve the success of the mission," said the rat.
"Agreed. How much time would you need?" asked the badger.
Dave shrugged. "That depends. I could use a few extra hands. Also, the windshield and so on will have to be custom made and fitted. I have a few other ideas as well."
"Bullet resistant glass can be prepared for you. As for parts and labor, we will provide whatever is needed," said the colonel.
"Beg your pardon," said the toad. "Our taxpayers are to pay for modifications to his vehicle? That is absurd. I won't stand for this. It is bad enough we must shill out government money to pay his salary. it is an outrage."
Dave smiled. So the toad was a politician. That made sense. Furthermore, he appeared to be the chair of some military finance oversight committee, or ministry, or whatever they had here.
"Would you rather I be paid as an outside contractor?" asked Dave. "It is my understanding that payments made outside of military branches are under greater scrutiny. Do you want journalists and the like poking their nose into why four American brothers are getting paid by the British government?" Personally, Dave didn't care whether or not he got paid at all. Sadly, that was another problem with his personality disorder. He had no true estimation of the value of money. If he wanted something, he either stole it or conned someone into giving it to him. He would have to work on that.
Nevertheless, Dave put the toad in his place. "Very well. Just be frugal and we want receipts."
"Keep moist," said Dave. "I've looked the car over. The former owner sunk a lot of money into it. All I need to do is add protection without overly affecting the weight."
"Then it is settled. You may set out once the vehicle has been modified to your satisfaction. Keep in mind that during Dr. Weisehund's transport, you are her only protection. She is most vulnerable at that time. If an enemy was to attack, that would be their window of opportunity."
"Are you expecting an attack?" asked Dave.
"No. I only wish to address the gravity of the situation. She is important to us," said the badger.
"Okay. Fine. Only you seemed a little redundant with all that talk of attack. It should be a cake walk. We'll be fine. She can sleep through it I'll drive so safely."
The colonel stood. The rest of the panel stood with him. "Very well, then. Get started."
Well, that's it for chapter 2. it is a bit wordy and there is a lot of dialogue, I know. I felt some exposition was necessary to shed light not only on the back story but the current events in Europe. It lacks in the action and adventure department, but there is a lot of character development. As character is the first and most important part of storytelling, I feel this chapter should stand on its own despite the lack of action.
Dave is first and foremost and antihero. Making the reader sympathetic to his plight is difficult at best. Thankfully, he is a comical enough character to soften the edges.
Some sections I had to split up simply because they were too many characters. As I said, wordy.
Stay tuned for more. I may wait until June before beginning the third chapter. As always, feel free to leave comments. By the by, anyone else posting to the older posts still?
I don't go to the older posts much, exept for reference and to keep time lines as smooth as possible. ( besides Barett in prison story )
I am curious about your views on the U.K. Military organization. What do you think ( Dave the person ) that they are going to do with the Brothers.
My ideas are that they didn't know what to do with us at first ( at least the local guys that were over us and the base commander) Other higher ups ( Miliitary and espionage ) knew that we held lots of vital info about the bomb and the E.o.H. and were trying to keep us occupied and distracted until they could get some missions up and running for us. Hence the training and missions to France and Africa.
I see the U.K. Invovled in a U.N./Nato Like organization, that did international peacekeeping and threat assesment type of work. What do you think ?
I am pretty much on the same page as you. I see the Brits juggling what to do with the brothers. On one side they (the brothers) have remarkable skills and have an invested interest in the E.o.H. On the other hand, the Brits are burdened with the brothers as they are a handful. Finding assignments is tricky. They want to exploit the brothers, but not let them inside too deep lest they learn national secrets, etc.
This chapter is pretty much about that whole scenario. How much do the Brits trust the bros? How will they best utilize them? The brothers are expendable, so they will likely get the more risky missions, often assigned outside England so that any exposure will not directly reflect upon England.
I see the U.K. involved in the security of not just their nation, but the European Union. I see them as separate forces throughout europe united against a common threat. I suppose there could be an elite international team like Interpol, but as a military power. However, I don't think so.
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