chapter 2 "The Unknowns" by RJ Dodd.

Chapter two.

Present day.. 85 Albert Embankment.. MI6 Headquarters. Vauxhall. London.

    Completely ignoring the gusting rain that sweep along the nearby River Thames, a man walks rapidly through the imposing front doors of the Secret Service building and out through the security barriers on Albert Embankment..hardly believing his good fortune a taxi is dropping off some passengers just as he reaches the pavement, he jumps into the now  vacant cab and tells the driver  “Coopers Arms please, Flood Street,  Chelsea.”

    Despite the  almost continuous downpour, the Friday night crowd of  City workers, bankers and traders begin to arrive in droves for their  weekly “Fizzy Glug” at The Coopers Arms pub. It takes only a few minutes for the ‘local’ area pub to go from  being occupied by a gaggle of old regulars nursing their tepid pints of beer to being  standing room only as the young and wealthy crowd begin to slake their thirst, downing copious amounts of alcoholic beverages.

    The Friday night extra  bar staff are busy supplying the demand, the popping of corks and the  ringing of the till is almost continuous.

    This popular pub, just off the busy Kings Road in fashionable Chelsea has recently seen an upturn in its fortunes, going from a sleepy backwater boozer it suddenly became the drinking hole of choice for the many young, well educated and seemingly wealthy clientele who have moved in from the slightly less salubrious area of Fulham and Battersea as the City of London started to boom and salaries plus bonuses began to rise accordingly.

     At the big square bar the crowd is now approaching several customers deep, all trying to attract the attention of the busy bar staff, no one wants to sit down at the many battered old tables in the spacious sitting area… except for the man who occupies one that is crammed into a corner as far from the bar as possible.

    One more occupant shares this secluded corner of the pub, it  is a full size stuffed brown bear, its once thick shaggy fur is now well worn with bald patches. Standing on its rear legs like some guardian of the quiet places. The man sits almost side on to the  bar and removes some sheets of paper from his brief case. He has a quick glance to make sure no one at the bar can see the papers as he begins to leaf through them. The first document is in letter form and is headed ..

Instructions Regarding Immediate and indefinite Leave of Absence…Terms and Conditions.

The one sheet memo is quickly scanned, folded in half and placed back in the brief case. Two more sheets, stapled together at the top left corner are also given a quick glance. Several of the lines at the top have been blacked out, obscuring the names of the subjects, below the redacted names is the heading..

DNA samples and comparisons for subjects named above. Strictly confidential.

The man takes his time with these sheets and looks carefully at the detailed DNA samples which are in graph form. After a minute or so of close scrutiny these sheets are also folded in half and placed in the case.

Taking the last item from the table the man  has a little smile, the envelope is sealed with a hand written message scrawled across the front.

For the sole attention of CIO Patrick Quinn.

Underneath that message and in the same scrawled writing it says..

Delivered sealed  and by hand via the USA Embassy London.

Putting a finger into the flap of the envelope the man rips it open and takes out a small card which is once again in the same handwriting  ..

Bendigo.. Oregon..Confirmed. Call me when in situ..B..x

    Putting down his half full glass of beer, Patrick Quinn picks up one sheet of paper, studies it closely and then does the same with the other one.

     Patrick is in his late thirties, over six feet tall and handsome in a certain Irish way with a finely shaped nose, broad forehead topped off with a thick curly head of slightly unruly hair and  bright blue eyes that even in this dimly lit part of the pub seem to have a sparkle to them.

    Leaning back in his rickety old chair, which matches the table, both bought from a junk shop sale by a long since departed publican, he slides  the envelope into the brief case which he carefully fastens. Slowly turning to look at the boisterous crowd, which he seems to be noticing for the first time, he smiles, picks up the glass of Youngs Beer and drains it. Standing up, he puts on his rather old fashioned raincoat, pulls out  an Irish tweed woollen hat  from the coat pocket which he jams on his head and picking up his briefcase he carefully skirts the drinkers and pushes his way out of the crowded  pub where he takes a right turn to head along the rain swept St Leonards Terrace.