''How Soon Is Now?''

[You might want to stay up to date on the files with these earlier entries ''Walk, Don't Run'', ''Rumble'' and ''The Thrill Is Gone''.]


Subject: 452859. ''James''. Status: Bonded to the Union.

December 23^rd,

I have seen a lot of things in my time. I have seen hatred, love, anger and grief. I have never seen anything like what I saw after my capture. I was held by Bernard Deauville, psychopath mass-murderer chemist and also a double-agent. He was a Union man planted in State. He got to carry out all his dirty science in lieu of information that was needed by Union men. I had worked that out soon enough.

Chien was torturer-in-chief. Olga popped in occasionally to try and convince me. The act was good, for any outsider. I, however, had the inside dope. I let Chien think for himself. Let him see how Deauville knew I was coming on the island, how Tgonda had only one guard and how Johanssen was conveniently sacrificed. The conclusion was simple. Deauville was a traitor. Chien made the case. I supported him. Then Deauville played his trump card. He pointed out how Olga was ex-Union, how she could have easily done what Chien was accusing him of. The State jury was not very liberal. They sided with Deauville. After all, he was the one who threw all the nice parties. Chien was sentenced to death. Olga was relieved of State duties and held in a cell adjacent to mine.

At midnight, Bernard Deauville returned. He let us out. Olga shakes hands, grabs me and gets into the car. She drives towards the port. She knew this was the plan. Deauville was a coward. Chien was a true soldier of the State. He suspected Deauville. The Union needed Deauville. They played an ugly gamble. Now, Chien is dead and Deauville is safe.

Simple. Yet, I do not understand. Olga tries explaining. She was never very patient. She does not care who dies. I curse her for her part in this. She kisses me like never before. She guides me on the waiting ship, says something to the captain and heads back. Her job is not yet done.

Mine is. That is the story.

The carrier vessel Riga capsized off the coast of this island. We found the subject washed up on the island. He was found to be severely delusional. He has been actively encouraged to keep a journal as a way to help him regain his life. The subject broke out last night. The subject believes himself to be a spy. He could be dangerous. Unfortunately, there is no trace of his existence in his holding cell. Except for this note, devoid of any prints.

''The Thrill Is Gone''

[Keep your files up to date with these previous entries ''Walk, Don't Run'' and then ''Rumble'']

Subject: 452859. ''James''. Status: Bonded to the Union.

November 17^th,

The days pass quickly. There is not much to do. There never really was. In the past week, the Union managed to land a plump one inside the State hierarchy.

The position must be high up. News is we landed a breakdown structure of the State office. Since then, we broke two State operatives in the capital. I am currently in the midst of blowing another one.

The Union is anxious to protect their special interest inside the State. The target is Chien, Head of Operations. He is currently in the North. He is on a business trip. It is my job to cut that trip short. I am at my spot, at the 2^nd window, 3^rd floor of the red building. I caress my sniper rifle. I have been living on coffee these days.

I saw Olga last time around. She flew Chien out of our reach. We used to be married. Now she works State and I am Union. Ours is a Cold War. There will be no bloodshed, but in the pursuit of principle no stone will be left standing.
The love is dead. The thrill is gone.

No time for these thoughts. Peering out of my curtain, I can see the car arrive. It is supposed to deliver the target to my doorstep. A bowler hat wearing man steps out. I relax as he is not my target. Turns out he is someone else’s target. A bullet through the head and he goes down. He falls on his back. His mouth is open. The same look of wonder, my former partner, Johanssen used to sport. Johanssen is now dead. Murdered. I can only watch.

It does not take me time to figure out that the shot was fired from the floor below, 2^nd window. I grab my pistol and race along to the floor below. I kick the door open. Olga sits at the window. She is preparing to leave. We stare at each other. This was the target, I was meant to take out. So, this was the plan all along.

I drop my gun. I turn around, only to be greeted by a kick to my chest. I go down easy, gasping for breath. Chien stands in the doorway. He is smiling his creepy smile. The more people mask their identity, the more they end up expressing themselves. I look at Olga. She seems sorry. You never know.

I am kicked and I am beaten. I am captured. This was the plan all along.

''Rumble''

[Keep your files up to date with this earlier entry ''Walk, Don't Run'' ]


Subject: 452859. ''James''. Status: Bonded to the Union.

October 21^st,

Codename 'Black Rhino'.
Josip Tgonda. Former African arms dealer. Now special witness for the union. I am here to protect him.

I escort him to the airport in a battered Oldsmobile. I spot Johannsen leaning against a booth. Reading a magazine. Trying to look casual. He never fits in. I am relaxed. Tgonda is not.

We are moving towards the airplane. A mass of people. Each one to his own. We move at a normal pace. Tgonda has recently testified against the State. So, it is not surprising that Tgonda gets assassinated. It is expected. They know that we know that they would send someone. So, we let him be killed. We hope to nab his killer. A tat for a tat.

The airfield is open. One minute Tgonda is walking alongside me. The next he is sprawled on the ground, clutching his chest. There is a clean hole through it. He is dead. The pigeons scatter. The crowd behaves as it should. Commotion ensues. I spot the assailant. He is a short man clad in black running away from the scene. He is making his way towards one of the privately held planes.

The crowd is there to help him. It is a clever tactic. In a public place, determine which way the herd moves and then head in the opposite direction. There is a name we have for this. Rumble. The killer has sprinted clear of the mess. I run after him. I am tall and I run fast. The killer turns and fires. The bullet grazes my cheek. I recognize him. Chien, State employee. The bullet does not slow me down. It hits Johannsen in the shoulder. Chien is heading towards a Cessna that is gathering speed slowly.

I consider myself a good leader if not anything else. I cannot leave a man down. Not even a bumbling fool like Johannsen. I crouch down beside him. Chien manages to get on the plane as it slowly gathers speed. I take out my weapon. I decide to take out the pilot. I fire and knock her helmet off. Her golden hair billows in the cold air. She turns around. That excellent image is fresh in my mind. It would have been better if she wouldn’t have fired back.

She misses. Intentionally I hope. I look into here blue eyes. I find her looking into mine.

She pouts and blows a kiss at me. It just kills me.

You would expect some discretion in a public place like this.

''Walk, Don't Run''

[Following is a diary page retrieved from the files on Subject: 452859. ''James''. Status: Bonded to the Union. ]

September 1^st,

The job was simple. Get in. Do it. Come out. As simple as that.

The target is on an island. Sir Bernard Deauville. Chemistry genius. It is in the middle of a sea. Naturally. A submarine takes me within nudging distance of the island. A nudge is not a poke. A poke usually snowballs into a full blown slap fest. It is cold. The water is grey. The sky is tepid.

The villa is painted pink. Just great. Just my fucking life. I am tired. It has been 17 years now. 17 years of not having a life. 3-4 guards. A night watch that could be bypassed without the moon over me. No wildlife on the island. No four-legged wildlife at least.

I am sitting in a bush. The bush is close to the night outpost. The guards don’t expect me. They are busy seeing colours on a dark night. Ganja. It is grown locally. The target is known to be a patron. I slip through easily. For the villa now.

The guard is slow. I hit him in the throat. He gags. I punch him in the spleen. The spleen ruptures. Death is instant. No one will miss him tonight. I move on. Two occupants. Both guards. 3^rd guard should have been here. I pop a pill from my utility belt and toss it in. Special hypnagogic agent. Guaranteed to bring down an insomniac elephant. These were just men, itching for a nap. They go down. Real easy.

I hear a toilet flush. The door behind me opens. Guard #3. One high-kick and he falls like a pin. Silent. I listen. There is no one else. The target is through the big door. He stands with a  semi-automatic gun pointed at me.

(The following washed up diary page containing this sketch presumed to be by the subject was found on examination of the files.)

He says to me, I remember exactly, “Greetings, recruit. Caught you young, didn’t they? I was a fool when they found me. I gave in easily. I have changed now. I do not want any part of this madness. Turn around.” he says. “Walk, don’t Run.”

I know and he knows too. He will shoot me the moment I turn around. I conjure up one of those fancy pen-guns and click. It misfires. The bullet ricochets off my utility belt and slugs him in his stomach. He is hurt but not badly. The belt, however, is terminal. It gives out with a sick man’s dying gasp. The gas is an irritant. A door closes.

When I come to, the target has vanished. I heed his advice. I don’t run. I walk.