And the unexplained deaths of several members of the Order of the Black Sun just a few weeks later in Venice had to be investigated for the rumors of a biological agent engineered to cleanse the world of certain genetically predisposed races.
If such an ideology, even just the rumor of it, had to come out in the media… good God… it would have started a world war of ethnic proportions, he pondered as the burning elixir warmed his chest. And who came to their rescue? Special Agent Patrick Smith of MI6 and other nanny services specializing in cleaning up shit.
Paddy did not need this extra crap to stress him out. He quickly reported that Sam Cleave’s involvement in the drowning of the Black Sun members was limited to his investigation of cult suicides in the Mediterranean. In fact, Paddy had no idea just how Sam was really involved, but he knew that Purdue and Gould were in it with his best friend and therefore he knew there was far more to the story than what they told him about the Longinus biological weapon.
He could now feel the liquor begin to numb his senses a bit. Still he wished it would still his doubts and concerns, rather than just render him incapable of basic equilibrium. Before he relaxed completely he looked for James to confirm that he contacted the company that took care of materials testing for MI6.
The small jet commissioned for Paddy by Dave Purdue was occupied only by two flight attendants, three pilots, and two agents, including himself. It was not difficult to find James. There he was, fast asleep in the lavish seat with a magazine in his hand, his glasses askew as his head lolled. Paddy was tipsy enough to find it exceedingly funny and for a few minutes could not stop snickering by himself as he gazed out the window at the awe-inspiring beauty below.
Glistening rivers meandered through lush forests and crisp white mountain peaks that reached so high that it looked as if they tried to scratch at the belly of the plane. Soon they would take on higher altitudes, but first they had to pick up gradually through the perilous summits while the bright, clear conditions held out.
When Paddy woke up, the flight attendant stood by his side, tenderly nudging his shoulder.
“I’m sorry, Special Agent Smith,” she said almost in a whisper, “we are landing soon.”
“Oh, thank you, Maggie,” he said, still under the weather from deep sleep and whisky. He looked for James, but he had already woken, it seemed. They were nearing the landing strip in Ingliston when Paddy realized that James was not in his seat. He summoned the attendant, asking for his assisting agent.
“Oh, he is in the cockpit with Captains Dickenson and Hayward. He insisted,” she smiled.
“Of course,” Paddy replied. “The man is obsessed with aircraft and still nags me to come flying in his Cessna every other bloody weekend.”
“He does. He even asked me!” she replied, looking amused at the offer James had made. Paddy nodded. He was not surprised to hear that. The woman was extremely fetching. Had me not been a married man he would have made her a similar offer. She disappeared into the back to belt up for the landing. So did Special Agent Smith, correcting his hair and wiping his face to look more like his title commanded.
“Of course it’s raining. We’re in Edinburgh,” he sighed, wishing for the clear skies of Tibet and Nepal as they touched down in his gray, wet home city. When the plane came to a standstill he got up to get James. They were pressed for time and he had to get the Dewar to Exova as soon as possible, for fear of the contents expiring… or exploding, before it was identified. The pilots emerged from the cockpit, chatting, but no James Gallagher. Paddy approached them.
“Hello, lads, have you seen Agent Gallagher, by chance?” he asked.
“The bloke who was in the cockpit with us for a bit?” one asked. Paddy nodded.
“Oh, I don’t know. We talked Boeings and Cessna’s for a bit and then he left, about, uh, an hour back, eh, Graham?”
“Aye, if not longer. Why? Isn’t he here?” he asked Paddy.
“Nope,” Paddy answered, perplexed.
“Well he couldn’t really step out into the clouds now, could he?” the other pilot chuckled. “He has to be somewhere on the jet.”
“I’ll check. Thanks, lads. Just thought he was with you. No worries,” Paddy said.
“Maybe he is in the toilet, marking the occasion,” the head pilot laughed, joined by his two colleagues. With that they carried on talking.
Of course! Why did I not check the toilet? Doubt he was air sick, being a pilot and all, Paddy thought as he headed for the door at the back, marked “Vacant.” The flight attendants were cleaning up, occasionally casting a confused glance at the special agent for not disembarking the plane already.
“Jimmy-boy!” he said, knocking on the door. “Come on! We have to go.”
He waited, but there was no sound from the inside. James could not have been in there long, as he had to buckle in for the landing, which occurred only a few minutes before. The attendants looked up from what they were doing, waiting to see James along with Agent Smith. The pilots did not notice anything peculiar when they collected their blazers and fixed their uniforms.
“James, hurry up!” Paddy shouted, hammering on the door. Nothing. He looked at the women, who still stood with empty cups and utensils in their hands, shaking their heads at him.
“Maybe we should open it?” one of the attendants suggested. Paddy nodded and drew his gun, more in second nature than for any practical assistance.
“I’ll pay for the lock,” he said, and with a well-placed kick he broke the bolt of the door. The door sprung back into the aisle, and Paddy took a sharp breath at the sight inside.
“James!” he cried in shock. The women yelped and looked away. The pilots came rushing at the sound of the commotion and froze in their tracks at the sight of the mutilated MI6 agent that Patrick Smith had been training for the past few months. By the looks of the chemical burns that ate away the bottom half of his face, it was a safe assumption that he was murdered in a cheap and quiet manner that did not take much force. His pockets and his sling bag had been ransacked as well, the latter lying upturned on the floor with all his belongings strewn about the floor.
“Call airport security, Liz!” Captain Hayward shouted, but before Liz could seize the phone, Maggie coldcocked her and pulled a massive Desert Eagle on the men.
“Drop your Beretta, Smith!” she hissed, sinking her barrel accurately to lock on his forehead.
Paddy had no other option. Captain Dickenson sped toward the door, but she clipped him in the back of the head so quickly that she had recovered her aim on Paddy and the other men before the special agent could pick up his firearm.
“Don’t fucking move, boys. Special Agent Smith, dearest, you have in your possession a trinket I am pressed to obtain,” she chirped sweetly. “Your colleague died for it, so please don’t make me kill you to get it.”
“Who are you?” he growled, feeling the generator’s little silver coffin lining the inside of his jacket as he raised his hands to surrender.
“Give me the gadget,” she reiterated.
“First, tell me who—”
She moved her gun swiftly, splitting open the copilot’s skull with a skillfully dispatched round. Captain Hayward’s eyes rolled up and he started to sway slightly, fighting a looming fainting spell from the warm brain matter dripping from his face.