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Part 15: UMBRELLA MEN
Captain Benson was a surly, portly man with thinning hair and a docker’s fashion sense. But he was a seasoned smuggler and an ex-captain, and this wasn’t his first time on the wrong side of the law.
The interrogation room was a concrete cell with a single table and three chairs, all bolted to the floor. On the table, securely fastened, was a recording device. In front of that was a handle; they’d uncuffed one hand briefly to chain him to this so he couldn’t escape.
He glanced to the side. People were surely watching him through the mirrored glass, in the dark room beyond. He stared into that mirror intently; looking at himself? Or looking at his observers?
The door opened and Gore entered. Benson’s eyes shifted to him, reflected back in those dark glasses. The Umbrella Man took a seat opposite him, awkwardly shuffling his legs under the table – he was taller than most, these rooms were not made for him. From amongst the papers under his arm he drew a cylinder wrapped in paper – he opened it up and slotted it into the recording device.
He pressed two buttons down. A needle arced up and began tracing a spiral into the wax cylinder.
‘Interview number three,’ he began, ‘the time is… eight twenty-two. Subject: Jarl Benson, ex-captain, independent vessel. Mr Benson, do you know why I’ve brought you in today?’
Captain Benson smiled mirthlessly and shook his head.
‘No, Gore, I don’t.’ He raised his hands up as far as he could, gave a shrug.
‘You put a call out a couple days ago,’ Gore continued. ‘An all-ships bulletin, looking for berths on a ship leaving… yesterday afternoon, short notice, for two people.’
‘No comment,’ Benson replied. ‘Should you really be asking this without my lawyer present?’
‘I know you did,’ Gore continued, heedless, ‘because yesterday afternoon I pulled in a smuggler whose ship answered your bulletin – a crewman aboard the Raven Moon.’ He sat back, reading through a file.
‘That crewman also told us he had the names of the passengers,’ he said. ‘They were for a Doctor Houndstooth and a Miss Herringbone, a physician and his grand-niece.’
‘No comment, Gore,’ Benson said, leaning forward. ‘Or did you come in here just to talk at me?’
‘The thing is,’ Gore said, ‘when I was at the docks yesterday, I intercepted a Professor Terpsichore Vaunt and his granddaughter – a known dissident and his close family – making for that same ship.’
‘I can’t possibly comment on any other passengers booked on an independent vessel,’ Benson said.
‘Professor Vaunt was in possession of a high-powered rifle,’ Gore explained. ‘A rifle that is capable of piercing the advanced protective materials used by the Umbrella Men. Now, testimony from the bank earlier that day suggests he had stored it in pieces in a lockbox, and his granddaughter put it together there in the vault.’
‘Well that sounds like quite the problem,’ Benson replied.
Gore dropped the file onto the table. The contents spilled out – on top of the papers were photographs, autopsy slides of the professor’s body.
‘I’m sorry,’ Gore said without feeling. ‘I know the two of you were friends.’
Benson stared at the images, his face a mask. He took a careful breath and sighed.
‘Shit,’ he said. ‘Did you do that? I’m sure you didn’t have to kill him, whatever he was doing.’
‘Other operatives fired without my order,’ Gore said. ‘I’m not very happy about it. We lost the girl too – she jumped rather than go with me.’
‘Are you surprised?’ Benson asked. ‘You’re right that I’m… I was friends with him. But I don’t know why he was at the docks yeterday. He and the girl weren’t due to leave for another week.’
‘I saw your telegrams,’ Gore noted. ‘Aboard the Fallen Star? Really?’
Benson scowled.
‘You think I’m stupid enough to name a decoy after that ship? No, Dorian’s daughter inherited the ship earlier this week; I ran with her a few years back, she called for some work.’
Gore turned to the observation window. He stared at it for some time, deep in thought; then he turned back to Benson.
‘You know,’ he said, ‘these old cells weren’t built for the jungle environment.’
Benson quirked an eyebrow.
Gore inclined his head. He raised a hand and made a brief, dismissive gesture.
‘It’s the humidity,’ he said, sitting back. ‘Gets into the walls, into the wiring. It shorts out the electronics. It’s why the light’s flickering.’
Benson glanced up. The light was resolutely stable, casting a bright light over the room.
‘And once the lights start going… Ah, Hell!’
Gore clicked off the recorder. Then he stood and turned off the light.
Darkness enveloped the room. The only light came from the dim observation room; Benson glanced over, saw that it was empty.
There was the tiniest sound, a delicate click as Gore set something fragile on the table.
Benson squinted, barely able to make out two pinpricks of glassy grey in the inky black, and he chuckled.
‘What is this, a scare tactic?’
‘For what it’s worth,’ Gore said, ‘I’m sorry the old man was killed. It shouldn’t have shaken out like that.’
Benson shrugged.
‘Is this the famous Umbrella Man interrogation technique, Gore?’ he asked. ‘So far I’m unimpressed.’
‘This is, Gore’s having a bad week and is tired of bullshit, Bens. I need to be certain you’re not fleecing me.’
Benson twisted in his seat, looking about himself. Those glassy pinpricks were still opposite him… so why did it feel like Gore was talking behind him? He brought his hands up defensively; the shackles rattled against the handle.
‘I’m being honest, Gore,’ he said. ‘The professor was booked on the Fallen Star next week! I can introduce you to Doc Herringbone and his great-niece-’
‘I know you can,’ Gore interrupted. ‘I think there’s more you’re not telling me. What did the bank run trigger, Benson?’
‘I don’t know what you mean, man!’ Benson practically yelled. He writhed in his seat – it felt like something was twining itself around him, constricting him. Unseen things moved in the dark, dancing up his skin.
‘The professor moved up his timetable. Whatever he was doing, it should’ve been next week; the bank run changed things. Was he worried about losing the rifle? His way out? I know you know, Benson; I need answers.’
‘Hey, I don’t know anything!’ Benson cried. His breath came in short fits, he was suffocating. His eyes rolled madly, the only point of reference those little grey spots.
‘Okay!’ he yelled. ‘Okay! He met me a couple days before, when the bank trouble was reported. He said the timetable had moved, I booked the second ship for him! But I didn’t know anything; my job was just to get the right people in the right place!’
The thing on the table clicked again. The light returned, and Benson groaned and flinched away from it. He blinked away the spots and looked about himself; he was untouched, still chained to the table.
He glared at Gore, who put his glasses back on and turned to face him.
‘Hey, what the Hell was that?’ he snapped.
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Gore said. He sat back down, clicked on the recorder. ‘Interview concluded… eight forty-eight.’
Benson’s eyes crossed as he calculated quickly.
‘Hey, you weren’t in here for five minutes!’ He strained at the chain, making to grab at Gore.
Gore clicked off the recorder and stood, taking the wax cylinder gently in its paper.
‘That’s the thing about the dark, Captain,’ he said. ‘Without a reference point, who’s to say how long we wait down there?’
The corridors of the Umbrella Security building in Medicine Leaf had lately served as an extension to the holding cell. Subjects who were under investigation, but for non-violent offences like distributing inflammatory materials or obstruction of an Umbrella Man (and here Gore noted that the cargo hauler who had blocked his path the other day was glowering at him from the bench to which he was chained), were left to await interrogation in these light, airy halls.
Halls which were steaming from the heat of so many massed bodies. Umbrella Security’s remit had expanded and expanded as more companies secured its services, but its offices had not, and so many more bodies were crammed into the same space to save money.
Gore pushed his way through the crowd to the reception desk, where a number of harried secretaries were fielding a mob of enquiries. He motioned to one, who sat back patiently; the receptionist rose and followed.
‘This man. What’s he done?’ Gore gestured to the dock worker, who glowered silently at him.
‘Obstruction of an Umbrella Man,’ the secretary answered promptly.
‘Me? From yesterday?’ A nod from the secretary to both. ‘Let him go.’
‘But sir-’
‘We’re not dealing with the chaff on top of bad optics,’ Gore interrupted. ‘He can go back to his protests, he’s not our problem. And let Benson go while you’re at it – but put a tail on him. He’s a go-between, I want to see who he talks to.’
‘Yes sir.’ The secretary wrote these down. ‘Anything else?’
‘The Umbrella Men who fired on the Professor, I want their badges on my desk by the end of the day; in fact, I want them charged with murder.’
The secretary blanched.
‘Are you sure, sir?’ he asked. ‘We are already overloaded here.’
‘We need to set an example: no one is above the law.’
The secretary swallowed, but nodded and scribbled it down.
‘And put out a bulletin,’ Gore continued. ‘I want any news on the Fallen Star; get an intercept on any verified sightings, I want it found as soon as possible.’
‘The Fallen Star is flying again?’ The secretary couldn’t hide his grin. Gore shook his head and groaned.
‘You can fan out over it when we’ve impounded it,’ he said. ‘Until then, let me know about any sightings. Dismissed.’
The secretary saluted and hurried back to his desk. Gore nodded; he glanced down at the docker who was still glaring at him.
‘You’re free to go sir,’ Gore said. He bent down, taking a key from his belt, and brought the man’s arms up to unlock the cuffs.
‘As soon as I’m outta these cuffs, corpo,’ the stevedore growled, ‘I’m gonna-’
‘You’re gonna go back to your protest,’ Gore interrupted. ‘You’re going to tell your friends I was a complete bastard who deserves only their scorn, and you’re gonna eat a proper, non-liquid meal, sir, on account of you’re not gonna do anything that’ll force me to knock your damn teeth out. Am I right?’
The docker stared at those inscrutable mirrored lenses, behind which he felt the eyes boring into him. He closed his mouth, swallowed, and nodded.
‘I’m having a very bad day,’ Gore whispered. He straightened up suddenly, all professional, and added loudly, ‘And I hope yours goes better, sir. Sorry to have troubled you.’ He turned on his heel and marched up the stairs.
‘...Right,’ the docker muttered, rubbing at his wrists as he stared uncertainly at Gore’s retreating back.
Up the stairs, into the bullpen, and through to his office. Agent Gore had a private office, or semi-private; in these days of downsizing it was shared between the rest of his small team. A team he’d have to rebuild now; the thought of going through employee profiles and application forms made his head ache before he’d even started…
‘There he is!’
Gore started. Sitting in his office – on his desk – was Antrim Sojourner, newly-minted head of Sojourner Tech and chairman of Medicine Leaf. He was flanked by the three remaining Umbrella Men in Gore’s team, all staring at him with the trained blankness that suggested some nastiness was about to happen.
‘Gore!’ Antrim clapped his hands together and rose to shake Gore’s hand; Gore glanced down at his outstretched palm and let his stare bore into the smaller man’s eyes. But such tricks didn’t work on the Board; Antrim let the pause go on for slightly too long, then reached out and shook the Umbrella Man’s hand anyway.
‘Your, uh, friends,’ Antrim continued, gesturing to the three Umbrella Men behind him, ‘were just telling me about your noble efforts to avoid bloodshed on the docks today. It’s commendable, really.’ Antrim placed a hand on the small of Gore’s back and manoeuvred him around to a chair; Gore grabbed hold of it and refused to sit.
‘It’s basic common sense, Antrim,’ he said quietly. ‘You want to catch a conspiracy? You need people alive to tell you who else is in on it.’
Antrim waved a hand dismissively as he sat back on the desk, picking up a coffee cup and taking a sip.
‘Sure, sure,’ he said. ‘But we don’t need the conspiracy, do we? We got the weapon.’
Stony silence from Gore. He was aware of the other three agents staring at him – tall Bonetti; the squat Hardacre; and Wheeler, the muscle. They had been selected by the Board for their very specific characteristics: they shot first and thought later; they didn’t ask too many questions; and they didn’t stop until they got a confession.
‘You didn’t get the weapon, Gore?’ Antrim cocked his head theatrically. ‘That was the whole reason for this sting!’
Gore stared back into that smug, self-satisfied face once more.
‘Would’ve been useful to know that, Antrim,’ he said. ‘My brief was to investigate a conspiracy. That’s what I’m doing. And I can’t do it with these three goons.’ He turned to the agents, whose stares were hardening. ‘You’re dismissed. All of you.’
Wheeler visibly tensed and Gore faced him, but Antrim held up an authoritative hand.
‘None of that,’ he said. ‘I’d hate for this to get ugly. Gore, I’m afraid you no longer have the power to choose your own agents.’
‘What?’ Gore glanced down at him, and Antrim nodded.
‘I’m afraid so.’ He looked almost sympathetic, until he reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a crisp letter on yellow paper. ‘Came down from the Board this morning; you’ve got discipline problems, Gore, too much turnover in recent months.’
‘I need people who can think, Antrim!’ Gore stepped towards him and Antrim stood, putting a hand on his chest.
‘You call me Mr Chairman, agent.’ Gore focused on Antrim; his eyes were hard and cold, his mouth quirked up in a smug grin. ‘The Board have revoked your powers and reduced your pay, pending a disciplinary hearing next month. We’d hate to see you go.’
Gore stared at him. But then he turned and gestured to the agents.
‘I’m putting out an APB on the Fallen Star,’ he said. ‘First verified sighting, I want Hardacre on it immediately. Just Hardacre; take some Navy men with you, good ones, makes sure you do it by the book. No lethals. The other two of you, go process some tankies; I need to have a word with the Chairman.’
The Umbrella Men filed out, shooting glances at Gore as they went. But they understood the chain of command, and the room was starting to look awfully dark.
When they were alone, Gore turned back to Antrim and, in a low voice, continued:
‘Careful, Antrim. I’m not just another Umbrella Man, and I’m not a dog to be held at the end of a chain.’ The room around him darkened, and the glints of light playing on the rims of his glasses intensified. But Antrim’s smile only grew.
‘Oh, but you are,’ he whispered. ‘And that chain is getting oh so short! So you have a choice to make: do you roll over and beg? Or do I have to put you down?’
Gore put his umbrella down and put his gloved hands into his pockets.
‘Don’t do it, Ant,’ he said, enjoying the way Antrim scowled at the nickname. ‘Don’t make me take the gloves off. You’re not the first Board member to come down here and tell me how to do my job, and you won’t like how this goes.’ Gore’s mouth twitched, lips parting ever so slightly to reveal sharp teeth – had they looked like that just a moment ago?
‘Oh I think I will,’ Antrim hissed. ‘I’m not the first, but I’m the best; I know all about you, Night Eyes!’
Gore stepped back as though struck. The room was brighter, back to normal.
‘What did you say?’ It was barely a whisper. Antrim grinned smugly, strutting closer.
‘You might have the rest of the Board in fear,’ he said, ‘but I’m smarter than they were. I did some digging, learned all about you, Gore; they might’ve let you run this place however you want, but I’m not the soft touch my father was! You’re a weapon of the Board, and we’ll use you to our ends. Now find that weapon, or it’s your head!’
Gore regarded Antrim coolly. His hands were out of his pockets, still in their black leather gloves. He was tensed, like a predator ready to pounce.
And then he breathed out and he said, ‘So my review’s in a month?’
Antrim’s brow furrowed.
‘Uh… yeah,’ he said. ‘Yeah, about that. Why?’
‘I’m taking leave until then,’ Gore said. ‘We’ll say in lieu of handing in my notice, I’m taking a break. You’re right: I’ve had a lot of staff turnover, the stress of everything right now is taking its toll.’
‘Wait, you can’t just-’ Antrim began, but Gore’s hand shot out; he bunched up Antrim’s shirt and pinned him to the desk and suddenly, there was nothing in the world but Gore.
‘You bet your ass I can!’ he snarled. ‘Two years I’ve headed up this department, without a single break! Check my records, Ant; thirty days accrued, not a single one less! So I’ll be back in thirty days, and if I’m not having a review with the Board or back in my position with full, and I mean it Antrim, full responsibility over staffing, I might just have to hand in my damn notice. And you can ask the rest of the Board how they’d feel about having me around without a damn leash.’
Antrim quailed. But suddenly the room was back, and Gore was opening the door and halfway out.
‘Hey,’ Antrim said weakly. Then, ‘Hey. Hey! You can’t just-’ He got to his feet, but Gore was already halfway across the office.
‘I knew you’d see sense, Chairman!’ he called back. ‘I’ll see you in a month for my review!’
Gore slammed the bullpen door and stood in the hallway for a moment, steadying his breathing. Then he sighed and he started downstairs.
‘Uh, sir?’ He glanced up; the receptionist from earlier was addressing him.
‘What is it, kid?’ Gore asked. The receptionist swallowed.
‘Um, I tried to talk to Hardacre about your order. He said to take it up with the Board. Um, should I still-’ Gore held up a placating hand.
‘They’re staying on for now,’ he said. ‘Board thinks they’ve got potential. I’m going away for a while; I’ll be back next month. I’m sure Antrim will select one of the boys to do my job while I’m gone.’
‘And what about the Fallen Star?’ the receptionist asked. Gore nodded.
‘Put out the call,’ he said. ‘And keep me updated via radio; I want to know as soon as we get eyes on it.’ He headed down the stairs, Umbrella clutched in his hand.
‘...And what about the murder?’
Gore paused.
‘You know?’ the receptionist prompted. ‘The man that your agents killed? What about setting an example, “no one is above the law”?’
Gore took a deep breath and sighed.
‘Turns out that’s no longer my call.’ The words felt thick, crawling out of his mouth. He took another steadying breath, hearing the leather of his glove creaking against the umbrella; then he turned and shot a grin at the receptionist.
‘The wheels of justice turn slow, kid; but they turn. I’ll be back in one month.’
The receptionist smiled and nodded in understanding, going into the office to anticipate the Chairman’s needs; as soon as he was out of sight Gore let his smile drop. He continued down the stairs, making for the exit as fast as he would allow.
There were more important things to turn to.