"Mark, it's a Saturday..."

"I know, I'm sorry. There's been a break-in at the warehouse," he said, pulling on his shirt. The morning sun was coming in through the wooden blinds, casting golden slats of light across the sheets and the Sophie's bed-mussed hair. She watched him from beneath sleep-heavy eyelids and pouted.

"They call you in at all hours," she said, out-raged on his behalf. "You should tell them where to put it. Or ask for a pay-rise," she added, with a smile.

Josh smiled back and shrugged on the navy pea-coat that had been thrown over the back of a chair. "Maybe. Maybe I'll ask the bastards who think an I.T company is worth breaking into to wait until a weekday next time."

"You should. Give me a call when you get back? I'll pick up lunch on the way over to yours," she said, falling back into the pillow and nuzzling her face into the cotton.

"Might take a bit longer than that," said Josh, leaning in to kiss her before straightening back up to turn towards the door. "But I'll call."

By the time he was out of her apartment, Sophie was sound asleep once again, a body-shaped suggestion in the sheets beside her. She was sweet and funny, gorgeous too, in a upper-class Kings Road sort of way, though a little too naive for Josh's tastes. Surprisingly, she was sticking around. Not since his ex-wife had a woman been able to put up with the odd hours and emotional distance for more than six months; he'd been seeing Sophie for eight and counting.

But from now on in, he was leader of the newly formed Section E and the hours might be getting even longer. The Section was supposed to be going into operation on Monday but, as ever, it seemed a baptism of fire was on the cards...



Like many of the divisions in Thames House, the offices of Section E were windowless and lit by stark fluorescent lights, all grey polished floors, white-washed walls and chrome. Josh stepped through the code-locked automatic doors which slid silently shut behind him and walked into the empty office. Six desks were positioned about the open-plan room and the far wall was a sheet of white frosted glass behind which lights glowed. A name-card, bearing the legend 'Section Leader: Joshua Hale' sat quietly on the desk closest to the doors. Josh picked it up and turned it over in his hands then walked around to examine his plasma computer screen and the computer tower next to it. They were state of the art; far better than the whirring monsters in his old section.

He didn't bother looking at the names on the other desks. He knew them all already and, of course, had scrutinised their personnel files many times over just as they had doubtless done with his. But words on a screen could only tell you so much. They couldn't tell you how long someone would hesitate before shooting or how long they'd last during an interrogation. They couldn't even tell you how good they were, not really. People changed; someone who'd been a good operative years ago might be one ripe for turning today.

"Joshua?"

Josh glanced up to the see the familiar face of Jennifer Spindlow, his old (and new) boss, sticking out from behind the door of the frosted glass briefing room. A hint of warmth flickered across her steely features before she gestured inside. Jen; if there was a spook who was as good now as twenty years ago, it was her. As hard as granite and just as warm and inviting, she didn't have a habit of handing out compliments. But as the sole member of Section B she'd poached for the newly-formed elite Section E, Joshua felt flattered.

"You're the last one, Joshua," she said sharply. "Ready to meet the rest of your new team?"

"As ever," he said, following her into the briefing room.

Behind the frosted glass, there were five others sitting around a central black-gloss table. Jen didn't bother with introductions.

"I won't pretend we're at a dinner party," she said, moving to the head of the table and switching on the projector at the far end of the room. A square of light appeared on the far wall. "You already know each other's names so we'll leave the small talk for the pub, shall we? Suffice to say I've picked you because I think you're the best. I don't like being proved wrong. Now, I do apologise for calling you in on a weekend but it seems that GCHQ have intercepted something that might be of interest..."

The square of light changed and a photograph of a man flickered onto the far wall. Joshua took and seat and turned to look. The man was middle-eastern, in his forties and well-groomed with immaculately-parted black hair and an expensive grey suit. The photograph must have been taken at a convention or press meeting; he was reaching out to shake the hand of an unseen partner, lips stretched into a smile over bleached-white teeth. He had the look of an ageing playboy about him; a Saudi prince on an eternal Grand Tour, living off an oil-enhanced inheritance.

It came as a mild surprise then, when Jen told them who he was.

"Marwan Al-Qattan, the Palestinian billionaire owner of the Qattan conglomerate, arrived in London two days ago to attend a meeting about potential investment in the British chemical industry. Not a problem, except Mr Al-Qattan may also have his finger in a few considerably hotter pies," said Jen sardonically. "Our cousins over at the CIA suspect he's a substantial funder of Hamas and are a little tetchy that Whitehall are prepared to overlook this in order to get a cash injection into our floundering economy. Still, we wouldn't be doing anything more than routine monitoring but for the fact that GCHQ picked up a telephone conversation that suggests Mr Al-Qattan's life might be in danger."

Jen tapped the screen on top of the projector and the room was flooded with the crackle of static.

"-Knightsbridge Hotel on the seventeenth. We got a contact in the staff and along with your itinerary..."

"I doubt you will have any problem. You are aware of Mr Al-Qattan's alleged involvement with Hamas in Palestine, however. MI5 will have a presence in the vicinity. Of course, their attention will be directed inwards rather than outwards but I feel it is prudent to warn you."

"Yeah, don't worry. We're pros, it's gonna take more than a few wannabe James Bonds to-"

"This was recorded by the Metropolitan Police during routine surveillance of a criminal organisation in the Lambeth area and picked up by us because it contained just about every alarm word possible: 'Al-Qattan', 'Hamas', 'Palestine', 'MI5'... The gang has since gone underground," said Jen. "It's obvious they're just hired muscle, of course. But the question is, who's doing the hiring? Answers on a postcard, please."

"Israel?" supplied Josh, leaning back in his chair. "Wouldn't be the first time. Hiring a couple of local guns isn't really Mossad's style, though..."

Brie was sitting next to Torrie. Brie was dressed in a black tank top and jeans and was playing a game with Torrie. Torrie was Brie's life and she would hurt anyone that got in the way of that and threatened Torrie in anyway. Brie picked up her cell phone when it went.
"Hello?" Brie asked. She nodded and stood up and hung up. She closed the phone and opened it again dialing a number.
"Hi this is Trish Ouellet could you come watch Torrie for me because I have to head into work." Trish said.
"Thank you see you in a few minutes." Brie said as she hung up.
"Torrie sweetheart I need you to behave for Mrs. Fairfax because I have to head into work." Brie said.
"Okay mommy be safe." Torrie said.
"Will you open the door for her when she gets here?" Brie asked.
"Of course." Torrie said. Brie smiled at her daughter and left the room and headed toward her bedroom where she would change. She heard talking as she was buttoning her button-up shirt. Brie left her hair pulled into a ponytail as she walked out. She was dressed in a black button-up, black slacks, and black stiletto heels.
"Hello Mrs. Fairfax." Brie said as she walked into the living room. Brie was applying lipstick without looking in a mirror.
"Hello Trish and for the thousandth time call me Jane." Jane said as she looked up at Brie.
"Okay, Jane thank you so much for watching Torrie while I head over to work." Brie said as she picked up her leather jacket from the rocking chair by the opening of the living room.
"It's no problem it's strange for you to go in isn't it?" Jane asked.
"Yes well we have a big project that needs to be finished." Brie said.
"I don't know when I'll be back but I hope it'll be soon." Brie said as she put the jacket on.
"Go I've got it covered." Jane said as a smile. Brie nodded and walked out the door. She stepped to the curb and hailed at Taxi. She told the taxi to drop her off at one of the office buildings by Thames House. She payed the taxi and walked to Thames House.

Brie walked to Section E her heels clicking on the tile. Brie hadn't been in this building before but she was used to what she did. She smiled at all the hardware as she walked in. It was almost as if she was in heaven. Noticing her name card she looked at it and took a seat. She listened to the briefing and started to think.
"Maybe it is Israel and they're trying to throw us off by making us think it's not them." Brie said.
"I could check out all the hotel staff and anyone staying to do background checks and see if they have grudges." Brie said.

A soft glow permeated the darkness issuing a hazy light, that made everything in the caliginous room seem pale, frozen almost ghost-like in appearance. The juxtaposition of light and dark, and that obscure hue they created, allowed for a sense of serenity to pervade the room. The gloomy setting gained little appeal in his eyes, Thames' eyes; the same eyes which traced a threatening piece of steel sitting on his lap. His mind tried earnestly to find some procrastination, some distraction from the angst which had begun to tear at his chest. They played circles around the room, accompanied by his conscious which sought for some sentimentality worthy of detouring him from the recurring thoughts of suicide. But nothing was worth enduring the pain, no single object offered enough worth. He had accumulated enough junk to be appropriate of a hermit or an over-compulsive hoarder, and yet despite this, nothing he owned held significance in his eyes. Those eyes of his, those dreadful pools of milky-blue melancholy; eyes forced to bear witness to the death of his beloved Eleanore, glanced once more at the glock and then back at the mirror appropriately placed just before him on the opposite side of the room.

His face: a solemn mask in an incessant collaboration with its despondency seemingly self-contrived, gazed back at him through two sulking holes, expectant almost reassuring as they motioned down towards the gun.

"You disgust me," he replied to those eyes," you're a weak bastard." His voice bit through the silence and lingered on the occasional wind currents, their affect lasting long after the words had been delivered. In recognition of a faint, false courage his hands reached down and clumsily retrieved the pistol. Its cold, emotionless steel felt heavy in his hands despite the life he had made because of it. The weapon was once so familiar, an extension of his being if you will, a tool he was born to utilize, but now in the hands of a suicidal murderer it felt heavy, misplaced but most importantly: foreign.

He tested it for awhile, throwing it from hand to hand as he tried to build up courage. A failing architect. He pulled back the hammer and turned it on himself, a dark, unforgiving hole stared back at him, and at the bottom he knew, awaited his only means of relief, the only gratification he could find on this earth. The weapon glared back at him with one eye, a menacing cyclops hinting of promises of liberation. He contemplated pulling the trigger, even going so far as to put the gun in different positions, even imagining what it might look like; what it might feel like to pull the trigger. As he brought his arm up, the cold steel scraped along his temple. He winced slightly as the gravity of the situation rained down upon him. Everything leading up to this point had been superficial and dramatic; a perfect rendering of the scenario played out behind Hollywood cameras. But at this point, the closest he could get before squeezing that god-damned trigger, he felt a surreal understanding of his pain, as testimony, a solitary tear fell down his cheek. Imagine his incredulous expression as that tear swept down, betraying his true want, his passionate desire. Something in him sought life, but another even more significant part yearned for the freedom death would bring. This was it: he had only to squeeze his finger and he would find the abrupt relinquishment he had been pursuing. His finger pressed down, but only slightly, as if to test the validity of the situation. Tempted to go farther, to pursue his liberation, he made his last judgment and decided on pulling the trigger.

Beep. . .

Beep. . .

Beep. . .

He jerked backwards, his head suddenly thrown to the side, just out of the range of the bullet the flew by. First it was the sound of glass shattering, and then the heavy, melancholic sobs which pursue the initial shock that just moments ago, you decided to end your life. For several moments he remained as unmoving as stone, a concoction of disbelief, regret, shame, and disgust coursed violently through his veins. An unnatural and unnerving pounding beat violently at his chest, prompting a sharp pain to come and go occasionally taking his breath away as it did so. A bright, neon-green flash emitted from his PDA illuminated in his peripherals. He looked over and after several moments of a blank, thoughtless stare, realized that he had just received a message.

As he retrieved his phone and fished through his in-box he discovered the message had been sent from the agency he was contracted under. The ties of fate began to slowly wind themselves around him, unconsciously binding him into another mission, another opportunity to play death, or maybe, hopefully, be played by death. Some force, be it God, fate, destiny, or even Jennifer, had wanted him alive, at least long enough for him to meet his worth. He contemplated even showing up: for the past five years he had been struggling with the idea of retiring from the Intelligence business, just moments prior he seemed to have decided to finally call it quits. He couldn't quite discern the feeling, but deep within, some sinister, apathetic force tugged him towards it. Perhaps a life's long work of espionage and war had had more of an affect then he guessed.

He threw on a pea-coat and headed out the door leaving his mess behind. Maybe today wasn't the idea, most likely not even tomorrow, but someday he would die, this much was inevitable. He payed little attention while driving, his mind still lost somewhere in the predicament which had just transpired. A certain shame forced him to think on other innocent thoughts, the guilt of trying to end what which wasn't his, seemed to take its toll on him. His inattentiveness carried on into the meeting room, where he took his seat, paying no one any attention, and sat in absolute and resolute silence.