Watchers

Chapter 2-2

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Finch checked his watch; ten minutes had passed since he'd left the suite. Fishing in his pocket, he removed the Presidential Panic Alarm and eyed it uneasily, expecting it to activate at any second and send a team of his best agents rushing to help the Commander in Chief. As the eleventh minute ticked by he relaxed a little. Surely by now, Remy was dead. Finch checked his watch again. Though only thirty seconds had passed, to him it seemed to have ticked away as slowly as an hour. Even though he'd clocked three deaths in a single night, this one had his nerves on edge. This was the final stage; his last nine years of service had all been leading to this one moment. The rewards for the completion of his mission would be great. He was to be given The Gift; it would push him through the ranks to the same social status as the few Elders who remained. He wondered what his new orders would be, no doubt something grand for the next stage of the plan. Once he possessed The Gift, no one could deny him a role in shaping the great future that was to come. Gazing down the hall he eyed Tom Richards, the agent in his line of sight. Richards was just another sheep, like the billions of others crawling all over the planet, ignorant to what was happening right under their noses.

Twenty minutes. Finch allowed himself to relax fully. He'd seen Remy drink half the water; just a sip was enough to kill him. By the time they found the President's body, there would be no trace of the poison left in his system. Even if they tested any water left in the glass, no trace of the substance would be found. No, it would appear to all that the great Jonathan Remy had died tragically of a heart attack during the night.

The nation would mourn his loss. No other president had been loved the way the American people loved Remy. In his nine years of office, he'd managed to repair the struggling Obama Care health scheme left by the previous administration. Now, thanks to Remy, good, fair healthcare was accessible no matter what the patient's social status. His peace-keeping work had seen the end of all conflict in the Middle East and doors had been opened for negotiations with countries such as North Korea. There had even been talk of changing the constitution to allow him to run for a third term. Remy had put a stop to it, claiming the constitution was sacred and should be adhered to. In truth, he'd been ready to take a step back. But the president had not been truthful to his people, they didn't know who he really was. Finch did. Finch had always known. After nine years of working next to his enemy, it was a relief to have finished the job.

Twenty-five minutes. Finch slipped the Presidential Alarm Fob back into his pocket. It wouldn't sound now. “Richards!” he called.

“Yes, sir?” The agent turned to face him from the other end of the hall.

“I'm needed down in ops, something about changes to the security detail for the morning. I'll send Agent Blake up to cover my post.”

Richards nodded, he was a typical ex jar-head. Stern features and a square jaw was complimented by a buzz cut, so short it made it hard to tell if his hair was truly brown or a little mousier. “Sure, no problem, sir. I can cover the hallway. Nothing would get past the elevator anyway,” he said confidently, adjusting his post so he could see both the door to the President's suite and the agent standing by the elevator.

Leaving his post, Finch made his way past Richards, patting him on the shoulder in appreciation. The agent by the elevator had the door open, the lift waiting and ready. Stepping in, Finch was whisked swiftly to the ground floor; a tinny, panpipe version of 'Greensleeves' keeping him entertained for the short ride before the doors slid open, depositing him into the lobby. Despite it being two am, the hotel was still a hive of activity. Many of the delegates from the summit were staying at The Marriott, and piano music and laughter emanated from one of the high-class lounge bars. It was obvious many of the visiting dignitaries were making the most of the free drinks on this last night. Finch flashed his all areas access pass at the armed police guard at the door and exited into the rear courtyard of the hotel. A wall of humid night air hit him, along with the noise of the city that filled the background. A siren was sounding somewhere in the distance, accompanied by the various beeps and blasts of car horns. Like all big cities, Kuala Lumpur never really slept. There was always someone going somewhere, no matter what the hour. Cutting across the courtyard, Finch entered the temporary ops centre. Usually housing the hotel's staff, the inside of this room was far less grand than the rooms provided to paying customers. The live-in employees had been shipped out for the full seven days of the summit and moved to less desirable hotels in the vicinity, all at the expense of the visiting countries. Various security teams had been assigned parts of the staff building; the lion's share, though, belonged to his Secret Service Team.

The agent at the door greeted Finch with a very formal, “Sir!” and a nod of the head as he stepped into the hub, a place where his tech team monitored not only the hotel's CCTV system, but all the city cameras for a two block radius. All incoming and outgoing calls were also screened. There was no privacy for anyone within a mile of the hotel. Teams of technicians stared at screens, flicking between cameras whilst others were seated at listening stations, no doubt relishing the ability to eavesdrop on every call, be it landline or cell phone. A few of the staff noticed Finch and offered up nods in greeting, all too busy to stop and chat, which was fine by him. Passing through the room and down a small corridor, he entered the break room designated only for the President's close protection team. Four agents were inside enjoying their break, as a live football game between the Washington Red Skins and the Denver Broncos played on the small TV in the corner of the room.

“Sir!” Agent Michael Blake noticed his boss first, prompting the other three agents to react in a flurry of taking feet off tables and trying to look as if they hadn't been caught off guard.

“Gentlemen,” said Finch, inwardly smiling at their reaction. “Agent Blake,” he continued, “sorry for disturbing your rest, but I've been called away to revise some of the security detail with the local authorities for our morning trip to the airport. I need you to cover my post outside the President's suite.” The disappointment on Blake's face was apparent. No doubt the football game was heating up and he didn't want to miss the end.

“Of course, sir, no problem, I'll just get my gear,” he replied, looking rather dejected. It was likely that Blake would be the one to discover his Commander in Chief in the morning when Remy failed to rise with the six thirty wake-up call. Blake was in for a long night, and an even longer day.

Finch gave the other agents a curt nod and left the room. Pacing down the long, drab and slightly musty-smelling corridor, he stopped by the communal bathroom, unclipped his tie pin and threw it into the hand towel bin. The pin contained a small tracking device which allowed the hub to monitor every Secret Service Agent. If he left the complex wearing it, they would know immediately that he was off plot. At least now if they checked on him, it would appear he was taking a quick bathroom break. He only needed five minutes to get clear; after that he didn't care.

Slipping out the back of the staff quarters, he made his way to the rear gate. Pausing for a few moments Finch watched as the guard went to the back of the hut and lit a cigarette, before fiddling with his mobile. Satisfied that his attentions were elsewhere Finch slipped by, completely unseen. Had he actually cared about the security of his president, a gaping hole in the site integrity such as this would have been inexcusable. As it was, the lacklustre attention to detail found in many of the local police and security firms suited him just fine.

Pacing quietly down the back of the hotel, Finch followed an alley that ran behind the Starhill Gallery. The upper market shopping centre was in darkness; Finch had studied the camera layout in depth and knew exactly how to leave the site without being detected. As he followed the tree line, the looming towers of the Ritz Carlton came into view. More sirens and horns sounded far off in the city, almost lost in the constant drone of traffic. Jumping a small wire fence, Finch landed in the car park of the Bintang Garden Hotel. Even their cameras were being fed back to the Ops Centre at The Marriott. Finch knew every system well; he'd studied the angles and view of each camera in detail for weeks before even arriving at the summit.

Striding across the grass verge and out of camera view, he watched as a pair of car headlights lit up in the far corner of the small parking lot. Sticking strictly to his pre-planned route, he walked briskly to the rather battered-looking Toyota Avensis. The car sported a dull red metallic paint job on the sides and trunk; the bonnet and roof were a pearlescent white. It looked exactly like the thousands of other tired taxis crawling around the city. Opening the back door, Finch slid onto the cool faux leather seat. The air-conditioning causing the sweat to chill instantly on his face.

“You're late,” the driver commented in an annoyed voice.

Finch checked his watch, “Yes, ten minutes. My apologies.”

“The pickup time was two am,” the driver protested, “not ten past two.”

“Listen,” Finch snapped, “it took me longer to get away than I would have liked. It had to look natural.”

“Is it done?” asked the driver, turning his bulky body in the seat. Finch knew him well. The man behind the wheel was Roddick Laney, an overweight grunt in his forties, with scruffy, unkempt, greying brown hair. It looked as if his hair hadn't seen a comb or barber's shop in a good while. The smell of BO poured from his body, despite the vehicle's air-conditioning; the putrid stench caught the back of Finch's throat, making him want to gag.

“Yes, it's done; now let's get out of here.” Laney's attitude was enraging him. The driver was far below Finch on the food chain. How dare he question him for being late to the RV point? Roddick put the Toyota into gear and guided it out of the hotel parking lot. Almost immediately, they melded into the countless other dirty and battered cabs packing the city streets.

“How far out are we?” Finch asked after almost fifteen minutes of stop-and-go traffic. So far, they had barely managed to achieve more than fifteen miles an hour.

“Two miles,” came the curt reply from the front.

Satisfied, Finch pulled his phone from his pocket. Despite it being secure, he hadn't trusted that the monitoring station wouldn't be able to decrypt it within close proximity of the hotel. He had the number ready to go; it was answered in less than one full ring. “It's Finch,” he began, “the matter has been dealt with as planned. I'm on my way back now.”

“Very good, Mr. Finch.” The man at the other end spoke in a flat and emotionless tone. The voice belonged to Buer, the head of the whole operation. Finch both feared and envied Buer simultaneously; if he'd failed in his task, Buer would have seen to it that he was disposed of, no questions asked, despite his long years of faithful service. “You've done well,” Buer continued. “It's time to leave your old life behind now – Agent Robert Finch is no more.”

“Yes, sir, I understand,” replied Finch, his heart pounding so hard, he could feel it pulsing in his throat.

“On your return to the States, we'll see to it that your appearance is changed and your new identity issued. It's all waiting for you. Even though it will appear to all that President Remy died of a heart attack, there will be questions asked about the sudden disappearance of his top Secret Service Agent. You'll no doubt be hunted.”

“I understand. And what of The Gift?” Finch heard his own voice grow a little shaky.

Buer laughed. The sound boomed down the phone and Finch held the echoing device away from his ear until the noise subsided. “You never take your eye off the prize, do you, Mr. Finch?”

“I just want what was promised to me!” he interjected, wondering if he was pushing too far.

“You will receive all that has been promised to you – you have my word. In a few weeks' time, the world is going to be a very different place. Your success is merely the start, there is still much for you to do.”

Before Finch could reply, the line went dead.