Now I had absolutely nothing to say. I was stifled, trapped like a fly between a wall and a door. I sensed that any attempt to explain this dramatic situation would end in a lashing, at best, so I remained spellbound, my eyes glued to the director's burgundy carpet. The director stood with his back to me, his hands clasped behind his back, staring out the window at the cars speeding by below. I didn't dare even look at him. I felt my heart pounding within me with incredible force, and my shirt was sticking to my body, damp with sweat. Although the office was gloomy, the tense atmosphere was palpable. You could almost touch it.
"What's your excuse, Wilson?" The man's voice pinned me down, and I couldn't even think straight. I didn't know what to say, how to begin to explain myself. My only reaction was a sudden surge of adrenaline, I felt it throughout my body, and common sense told me it was best not to speak. I waited for him to explode.
"What's your excuse?" the director repeated, and my head swam. The worst part was that this man was completely composed. The calm he exuded made my blood boil. I would rather he started hitting me over the head with a twenty-pound hammer than speak to me in his bass, booming voice. No one had ever seen Harrison, even in the slightest gesture, show a hint of nervousness. This man was always in control, even when his life was on the line. He always managed to somehow turn the tables on him, even when it seemed he was in the palm of his hand. A typical small-town, ambitious entrepreneur whose difficult childhood had taught him humility and precision.
"Mr. Director," I began, but I wouldn't have seen the end of my statement in the light of a thousand suns. "I wanted to apologize to you for all this confusion. I know it was my fault alone that I damaged the editorial office's reputation. However, I think I did the best I could. I was trying to finally put an end to this whole affair surrounding Senator Boullen. You see, being first in the state's press, perhaps all fifty of them, is a big plus for our newspaper, especially since Alan McPerson personally took care of the matter..." The director didn't bat an eyelid. He looked at me with the look of a father pondering the punishment for a disobedient son. In a sense, I was such a disobedient son, but dreams of fame and finally escaping this Somervalle hole blinded me; such a situation might never come again.
It all began three days ago, near our town, at the private estate of a senator. Like every weekend, Senator Boullen visited his home and his wife, whom, due to his good job, he saw only a few times a month, to escape the turmoil of Washington. Numerous Senate meetings and political constituency meetings, living under a tight deadline, and a lack of time for himself had transformed Boullen into a shadow of a man, unable to relax, even on vacation. He was chronically tired, so as soon as he returned home, he greeted his wife and children and retired haggardly to his bedroom. Despite everything, his standard of living was, at best, high. Boullen owned his own electronics manufacturing plant and took orders for equipment from all over America, as well as from the military and government, and from foreign investors from Japan and England. Of course, he didn't oversee everything alone. A staff of experts, economists, and analysts, nearly a hundred strong, guarded his estate. Many deputies did almost everything without his supervision. He hadn't even heard of most of the orders, and he'd never seen the company's staff or employees. That night, like several previous ones, however, no one could have dreamed of going to sleep. At least not in the senator's immediate vicinity. Through the lenses of Paul & Jackson, the man surveyed the senator's estate. A large house with a sloping roof, numerous balconies and extensions, surrounded the southeast side by a vast garden with wooden gazebos and a pond, creating a recreational area. A little further north, a densely planted deciduous park. If one stood in the middle of this park, one wouldn't be able to see the sky on either side; the property was truly vast. The park, or rather the forest, was shielded on two sides by a three-meter-high wall, enclosing the entire house at a maximum distance of two hundred meters. On the left, opposite the front of the building, was a smoothly trimmed lawn, abundantly planted with coniferous trees and shrubs. A gravel driveway several meters wide was paved through its center, leading from the entrance gate to the very porch of the residence. The old farm, which belonged to Senator Boullen's grandfather, had changed beyond recognition after fifty years. The distinct absence of garden gnomes and wagon wheels, resting on whitewashed walls, was a symbol of its current residents' sense of good taste. The fourth, and closest to the hidden observer, part of the property consisted of a former pigsty, a garage, and a generator, which served as the security headquarters, along with a small summer swimming pool and a relaxation pavilion. The whole thing testified to the owner's extraordinary wealth and sense of aesthetics. A restless male voice broke the night's silence.
"How are you, Matt? Tell me your position."
"Well, finally, I was starting to worry, I've been standing here for ten minutes. The walls of this guy's house tell me this won't be an easy operation. Especially on the other side of them.
" "Don't worry about a thing, if the boss plans something, there's no way it won't go well.
" "I hope you're right, when do we start?
" "We have to wait for that idiot Watson and his rusty van. He'll be arriving soon. He'll be driving with his lights off, so I'll see him from no closer than three hundred meters away, I'll let you know when we're starting. You can start climbing over that fence, surely that's not difficult for a clever guy like you?
" "I think I detect a hint of irony in your voice. Am I supposed to prove to you that hiking the Grand Canyon hasn't taught me anything?
" "Okay, enough of this talk, let me know when you get to the middle of those woods." An unseen figure on the eastern side of the walls began frantically searching for something in his backpack and after a moment pulled out a sharp, silvery object. "I hope you won't disappoint me this time, mate," Matt said quietly, and began feeling his fingers along the wall. He found a special spot and, with a hammer, drove a steel wedge into it in a few strokes. Then he stood firmly on it and felt for another spot a few dozen centimeters above his head. There, with a quick movement, demonstrating considerable skill, he placed the blade of a small pickaxe and pulled himself up with both hands until the edge of the wall was within arm's reach. He gripped it firmly with his right hand, holding the pickaxe with his left, and after a moment stood firmly on the three-meter-high barrier. He untied the rope, which he had previously fastened to his belt, and began to pull the large leather backpack up, humming an incomprehensible tune to himself. Meanwhile, a pickup truck, its cargo side covered by a dark, tar-patched rubber hood, sped along the cracked road leading to Somervalle. Its battered engine could be heard from the hill where the observer still lay, staring down at the darkened property. "Oh!" he thought, "it looks like a transport is coming; that idiot Watson can't even afford a decent car. My grandmother would have heard that old wreck.
" "This is Watson, a swallow has found its nest, over." Watson had heard this line on some television show and its meaning caught his eye. Although even the best police interceptor wouldn't have picked up his signal in this remote area, neither of the other two partners was eager to use code names.
"It's good to hear from you, Phil. Wait for further instructions." The figure lying on the hill would have preferred Watson's absence rather than dealing with him, but then they wouldn't have had a way to abduct the senator from his home. The plan had to be complete, just as the boss had decided, but promoting Phil Watson, his godson, incapable of rational thought, and entrusting him with a responsible role was a risky move, especially for such a demanding task.
"Okay, Daniel, I'm inside, how's the neighborhood?" Matt's voice took on a tone of concern.
"Everything's fine. Those idiot security guys wouldn't expect a robbery, even if there were a hundred masked guys running around the gate. Do you know what you're supposed to do?
" "No, enlighten me, Master. Hee hee. Don't talk to me like I'm an amateur. I'll give you the signal when I'm finished." Daniel put down the binoculars and pondered. "This time tomorrow, I'll be sleeping soundly with twenty thousand in my pocket. Now I just have to try." He rose from the ground and, to warm up, ran down the hill to the south wall. He searched his pockets and checked his watch. It was one-fifteen. He walked along the wall and peered around the corner toward the gate. It was lit, and he could see the man guarding it. Daniel knew the senator's security men didn't have radios, only inbound and outbound telephones. He could kill everyone in the residence without risking capture, and the tragedy would be known within a dozen or so hours. He was completely certain the operation would succeed. He smiled and lit a cigarette.
I was driving my Mustang about 80 km/h when, in the glare of the headlights, I spotted a truck parked on the shoulder. It was completely unlit and posed a certain hazard to careless drivers. After all, you didn't often see cars on THIS route at that time, so, curious, I slammed on the brakes and pulled up beside the truck. I pulled an old flashlight from the passenger seat, shook it a few times, and switched it on as I climbed out of the truck. Being a journalist isn't without its dangers, but after all, that's what I get paid for, I thought. I knocked on the passenger door of the truck and waited for a while. I figured the driver must have fallen asleep, so I walked around the truck, stood on the running board, and aimed the beam of light into the cab. I only saw my reflection, but when I looked from a different angle, I could see the interior of the car. The first thing that caught my eye was the radio on the driver's seat. Headphones with a microphone, connected by a wire to the receiver. Strangely, there was no one inside. I felt an unpleasant shiver. The thought crossed my mind that the strange driver had spread blankets on the bed and fallen asleep there. I jumped down and cautiously approached the back. At such a moment, I would have been accused of theft if the owner had caught me snooping through his luggage, but I felt almost obligated to—or so I thought—"rescue someone in distress." A tarp with a row of framed holes was tied with rope to the posts supporting the canopy. However, they were only slightly tangled, so I easily pulled aside a piece of cloth and peered inside. Darkness. Nothing. I had to use a flashlight, but I feared the consequences. Curiosity, however, got the better of me. I held my breath and illuminated the space between the four walls of the trunk. On a small barrel lay ropes, a piece of rag, and... Nothing. No one in the bed or in the cabin. My legs began to wobble involuntarily. If no one was inside, the driver must have gone to the nearby woods to relieve himself, I consoled myself, but newspaper headlines like "murdered in ambush" were racing through my mind. But why would he go so far if there was no one within a few kilometers? Well, except for Senator Boullen. He could have relieved himself peacefully in the fallow field without straying far from the car. But within sight, as far as the darkness and the faint light of my flashlight allowed, there wasn't a soul. I walked toward my car, flashlight in hand, and casually aimed the beam at the senator's property. Inside the bright sphere reflected off the wall, I saw a human silhouette running toward me. I was speechless. I felt heat rush through my entire body, a strange surge flooded my eyes, and my heart began to pound furiously. I stopped, as if struck by lightning. Suddenly, I leaped for the Mustang's door. Ignition. Clutch. First gear. Gas. I took off. I drove along the road, constantly accelerating.The engine roared mercilessly, but I was safe now. Gasping for breath, I recovered. Only now did I begin to shake. I could barely control the steering wheel. I instinctively glanced in the rearview mirror. Empty. Even that infernal journalistic curiosity couldn't control me at a time like this. I had to escape, that was certain, but now that curiosity was growing, and somehow I didn't care. I stopped.
Making his way through the thicket of Senator Boullen Park, Matt headed west, following the illuminated compass built into his watch. He was nearing the end of this filthy bush, seeing a distinct difference in the color of the trees and the sky. He could see the rays of garden lamps filtering through the gaps between the thick trunks. He reached the edge of the plant wall, crouched down, and began to carefully examine his surroundings. His task was easy. "You'll cut off the senator's communication with the outside world," his boss had told him before the operation, a few hours ago. "Even if that bastard figures it out and tries to use his cell phone, he won't have any reception; I've checked that." Matt knew that once he completed his role, Daniel would immediately spring into action, and he could retreat to the safety of the vegetation. There was absolutely no one on this part of the property. Matt ran as quickly as he could across the lawn, trying to tread quietly and ducking as if under fire, hiding in the shadow the building cast over much of the area. From the eastern wall, in the harsh light of dozens of lamps, he could see the gatehouse, the garages, the generator, and his target – a simple box containing telephone wires and cable. This was the more difficult part of his task. He feared detection, because the success of the mission now depended on him. Former Commando soldiers rarely feared only for themselves. He mentally mapped out his route. First, under a clump of trees, then under the round gazebo, next to the pool, then to the back of the gatehouse and under the generator. Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. Now! He ran as fast as he could towards the spruces. Drop. He stood up and ran to the wooden wall of the gazebo. A moment to catch his breath. The sudden change in light blinded his eyes. The front and the gate were bright as day. Once he had adjusted, he checked his watch. One thirty-two. He wasn't actually on a time limit, but the Commando operations had ingrained that in his subconscious. Matt, however, would be in his element. He always complained and cursed during missions, but he loved his job and would sooner give his life than give it up entirely. A few seconds later, he was standing behind the gatehouse. "Daniel," he whispered, "I'm close, get ready." He took pliers, a screwdriver, and a lockpick from his backpack pocket and approached the box.
Daniel rubbed his hands together to warm them. The gatekeeper hadn't changed his position for fifteen minutes, pacing aimlessly back and forth, and he was forced to watch him motionlessly, chilling him to the bone. He couldn't wait to unleash his skills and pacify these amateurs. There could have been fifteen of them, and he would have neutralized them all. They couldn't do anything to him. Him. Daniel Griffit. Double light heavyweight boxing champion of the United States Army, holder of a black belt in karate, decorated hero, spy, and scout. Was he going to succumb? His list of achievements was long, but finally, after years, he left the army and began hiring himself out for money on various projects. Now he waited frantically for a signal from his partner so he could finally start working. Matt Abramson, on the other hand, was a bomb disposal specialist. Not just any bomb disposal specialist. He could make a bomb out of almost anything. He impressed with his composure in difficult situations, even though he cursed mercilessly at everything. A born mountaineer, he practiced the sport as an amateur, counting among his successes climbing the Colorado Canyon, the Cordillera, the Rocky Mountains, and the Himalayas. Dexterous, fast, and precise. He hadn't lost any of his skills.
Matt did a few warm-up moves, rubbed his hands together, and reached for the lockpick. The padlock securing access to the box was a piece of cake for him. A minute later, he was examining the tangled coils of cables. With satisfaction, he unclipped the pin with his pliers and confidently cut one cable. He rubbed his hand over the light stubble, then moved on to the next wire, then the next, and in a moment, the mansion was silent and deaf. He quickly closed the door, packed his backpack, and, heading back to the long-awaited forest, touched his finger to the receiver.
"Done." One word was enough for Daniel to feel a surge of satisfaction. He was wallowing in a sea of self-indulgence, arrogance, and an inflated ego.
"Understood. Wait for my signal. Soon we will be masters of this house."
"I hope so. Just don't get carried away." Daniel pulled out a half-kilogram pair of brass knuckles and fitted them to his hand. He began to slowly move toward the small booth that controlled the gate mechanism. He stood in a shady spot between a high wall and a metal partition and cautiously peered toward the guard. The middle-aged man, with a prominent paunch and loud breathing, was easy prey. He was ten meters away from Daniel, and every now and then he reached into his pocket for sunflower seeds hidden within. The entire concrete square was covered with sunflower husks, and their pursuer was shoving them away with his boot toward the lawn. Daniel energetically jumped from behind the booth, silently ran up to the unsuspecting man, and delivered a powerful blow to the back of his neck. Before the guard could slump to the ground in a stupor, he grabbed him under the arms and began dragging him into the building. He opened the door, sat the man in an armchair, and pulled out a roll of duct tape. He carefully taped his victim's mouth shut and immobilized her, then began searching her pockets. He struggled to extract a bunch of keys and a packet of sunflower seeds from the nylon jacket pressed against his bulky body. He smiled and scattered the seeds on the table, spelling out "surprise." A moment later, he was outside the booth. He looked around a few times, walked over to the window, and placed his foot on its lower frame. He jumped, grabbed the roof, and pulled himself up. Now he placed one knee on the surface, placed his other foot on the surface, and crouched next to the adjacent wall. From this vantage point, he could clearly see the front of the house and survey half the yard. It was brightly lit, so he carefully examined every corner. Trees, bushes, shrubs, and decorative elements, through which the intense light of the bright lamps shone, combined with the ink-black spots where the light didn't reach, created a network of shadows on the ground, interwoven in the strangest shapes, resembling human silhouettes and other interesting compositions. It went smoothly. On such a cool night, the rest of the security guard sat quietly in their office, reluctant to even poke their noses out. There was absolutely no one in the yard. Daniel had complete freedom of action, and he intended to take full advantage of it. The windows of the property were also tightly closed. No one would see him. This operation was in no way similar to his previous ones, when he had to sit in one place for hours, waiting for the right moment to act. It was almost a miracle to avoid armed soldiers, dog patrols, and barbed wire. The machine gun positions were terrifying. One careless move and the entire camp would collapse on him. But he always managed to escape unscathed. Today, however, everything seemed child's play. He had another expert at stealth at his side, and the unaware inhabitants were fast asleep. "Good night," he thought, and quietly lowered himself down the other side of the wall.finally crushing Senator Boullen's well-kept grass with his boots.
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