CIA PROFILE

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NAME

John Jackson

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AGE

40

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RESIDENCE

Boston, Massachusetts, United States

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OCCUPATION(S)

Office employee; part time CIA agent

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PHYIQUE

Relatively tall, darkened hazelnut hair, often slicked. Green eyes of his mother’s, his father’s build; muscular, but not over-muscled.

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PREVIOUS MISSIONS INCLUDE

Taking down a major drug deal from Miami to Trinidad (2006)

Putting a stop to a proposed terrorist attack in Bangkok (2010)

Keeping tabs on Russian spies trying to sneak into the White House to find out the President’s every move (2011)

Uncovering a serious bomb attack on London by Islamic State to try and ruin the 2012 Olympics (2012)

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MARTIAL STATUS

Single

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PETS

N/A

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NEXT OF KIN

N/A

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Chapter 1

 

Boston, Massachusetts, United States

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About to call it a day and turn in for the night, the sun knocked the flask of purple-coloured medicine onto its blue bedsheets, creating a more mauve-like colour across the Boston skyline. Down below, many of the office workers were finishing their shifts and catching the subway to get home. John Jackson was just the same. He finished his stint at the estate agency office at around 7pm, an hour after closing time, just to tidy up his desk and organise tomorrow’s main focuses on rents and house prices. At around quarter past, he’d stroll downtown and grab a quick bite to eat at a local McDonald’s or Burger King to have as a nibble on the subway home. He would then make his way to Washington Square station to catch the same old evening subway home to Pleasant Street, along the green line of the Boston subway map. It was the same, usual fourteen stop journey, and John sighed as again he rode the subway home alone.

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John arrived back in Pleasant Street at roughly 8.05pm, but his phone had died on him a couple of hours back and he’d left the Casio his grandfather gave to him in his will at home much to his annoyance, so therefore was forced into estimation. By the time he’d turned the key in the lock it was 8.10pm and it had started to drizzle. He hung up his coat (now spattered with rain) on the hanger by the door and slipped his Suedes off directly underneath on the floor, in a neat pair. He wandered into the kitchen, still wondering how much happier his life would be with company, and poked his nose into the fridge to find some milk. He reached over to the counter where the kettle was now singing in its high-pitched squeal, and scooped it up by the handle with the drops of the boiled water echoing around the mug. A couple of minutes stirring later, he picked up the mug and made his way to his favourite chair in the living room and put CNN on. There was a chilling wind from the open window by the door and John went to close it, but instead of the transparent glass panelling, he found himself face to face with a mini pistol, with the safety latch flicked off…

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BANG! John Jackson lay dead on his living room floor, surrounded by a puddle mixed with tea and blood. A gash from his head allowed the blood river to keep flowing, and pool around the corpse of the now-dead John. A balaclaved figure appeared from behind the door, and pocketed the pistol into the waistband of its trousers.  The figure crouched over the dead body and went through the carcass’ shirt and trouser pockets. The gloved hands felt around cautiously and the figure had to keep looking up at the door in case of anyone barging in to find out where the bang had come from.

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The hands found nothing, but a scrunched up note on a torn piece of A4. It read:

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1) Take jacket to dry cleaners.

2) Write out Christmas cheques of $20 to each niece and nephew (get it out of the way)

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It was a checklist. What use was this? The figure got up, as surreptitiously as possible, and went to search the apartment. The figure found the usual; wallet, keys, phone. The figured pocketed these “normal” items before creeping into the kitchen. The figure again found nothing interesting until the eyes, peering through tiny slits in the balaclava, came across something on the counter. The gloved hand swiped it away and, as quick as a flash, found a spot for it in the back pocket of the dark Nike tracksuit bottoms that the figure sported. The figure, with an eerie air about the way it walked, quietly but confidently strutted back into the living room where the body of John Jackson lay. The tea and blood solution had been engulfed by the beige carpet and now there was a manky-looking purple patch around and underneath the body. The figure glanced around furtively, concerned that the neighbours would have heard the gunshot.

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For the second time that evening, the figure crouched down to the body. It looked down at John Jackson through the tiny slits, before breaking the deafening silence with a hushed voice. The balaclava covered the figure’s mouth, but you could tell it was smiling an evil, darkened smirk.

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“That was for Bangkok.”

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The voice was male. British. Menacing. The figure took out the item from the kitchen out of its back pocket. It placed the item on top of the dead body. Then he left, without a word; without looking back. The item on John’s body was his CIA ID card.

 

 

Chapter 2

 

Moscow, Russia

 

“I’ve come to see the boss.”

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“He doesn’t want to talk to you. Leave. Never come back.”

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“I just want a second chance.”

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“No. You’ve already let him down once.”

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“I won’t let him down this time. Just let me in to see him.”

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“You’re not trustworthy around these parts anymore, and you’re really starting to get on my nerves.”

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“But I can do a job for him. And I’ve got exclusive information for him.”

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A pause. The intercom crackled as it reconnected.

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“Alright. Get your butt in here. But if this info’s not legit, you can be sure that you won’t receive a warm welcome here again.”

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“Deal.”

 

*

 

CIA HQ, Langley, Virginia, United States                         

                                         

“Does MI6 know about this?”

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“Sir, the murder of John Jackson is global. Check this out.” He flicked a nearby TV onto BBC World News. A British reporter with a grave expression on his face was standing on a Boston street reporting and answering questions about the agent’s murder.

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Switching channels, the same news story came up, but yet different reporters, a different Boston avenue and this time it was CBS News. The suited secretary turned to face the also suited Head of the CIA.

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“You see what I mean, sir?”

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 The Head of the CIA sighed, and ran a hand through his silky, styled hair.   

                                                         

“Deakins?”

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“Yes, sir?”

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“You do have a plan, don’t you?”

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“No... sir...” he said, hesitantly.

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“Well, shit.”

 

*

 

London, United Kingdom
 

It was approaching dusk. Around 6.30, and the rush hour hustle and bustle was nearly extinguished. Dan Thomas, though, had caught the 18.27 from his office in Canada Water, before a quick stop off at the pub in Baker Street with his mates, and then carrying on his Jubilee Line expedition back home to Swiss Cottage. Face deep in the Metro, Dan kept reading about the murder of John Jackson. The train pulled into Swiss Cottage at around 8pm. The station was practically empty, with the exception of a group of four teenage boys who didn’t look any older than 16. They were the type of youth who didn’t abide by the rules, and were purposely smoking electronic cigarettes under the “No Smoking” sign.

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“Oi, granddad.” The taller one shouted at Dan.

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Dan declined to reply, choosing instead to silently grumble at their lack of respect. “Tall” strode forwards confidently towards Dan, and eventually the dimming light lit up his face, which was a horrific image for Dan’s eyes to program. Darkened eyes thanks to illegal drugs and blackened pupils of hatred showed a rough background, giving Dan the impression that he and his “gang” were from one of the less pleasant London areas, like Luton or Dagenham. “You fink you can stare at us ‘cos you fink you’re all superior and that, bruv?”

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Dan’s posher, more polite tone received giggles from the other three “gang” members who had also taken a few steps forward to back up Tall.

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“I’m afraid, young fellow, you are quite mistaken. I didn’t mean you any harm.”  More giggles from the “gang”.

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“Now, if you don’t mind, I have two cats to feed and the news to watch after that.”

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This however was not deemed a legitimate excuse by the “gang”, especially Tall.

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“You posh twats, judging people like us. You fink you’re all superior, wiv your flash pads and that, owning Lambos and Jaguars.”

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It was at this moment that Tall took a few more steps forward, and jabbed an accusing finger into Dan’s chest.

“You’ll be wishing you never bump into us again, granddad. Piss off and go cry to your cats. Only pussies you’ll be getting in your sad little life.”

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That blew Dan’s fuse, and he charged forwards like a battering ram, rugby tackling Tall to the ground. A couple of punches to the face and he was sure that he was out cold. The other three however were still conscious and charging towards him. Despite being at pure disadvantage, Dan’s seemingly parochial home life belied his exemplary fighting skills and he expertly grabbed hold of the first member’s lunging arm, wrapping it tightly behind his attacker’s back. The gang member yelped in agony as Dan tightened the arm lock, but he let go when he heard a sickening crunch. His other two mates looked anxiously at Dan. However, the smaller, more agile-looking of the two pulled out a pocket knife and lunged at Dan. Dan felt a surge of adrenaline as he waited for the attacker to pounce before effortlessly tripping him, sending him sprawling to the tiled station floor. It was unfortunate that the corner of the blade had ripped Dan’s trouser leg, and showed a gross start of a gash. Blood seeped out as Dan elbow-dropped onto his fallen attacker’s back. The victim girlishly squealed in pain, dropping the knife. Dan seized his opportunity and stabbed his attacker in the back. He ripped the blade out, accompanied by a splurge of blood, before shanking the unconscious Tall in the heart, guaranteeing his death. Broken Arm was hobbling back to his feet, clutching his broken, smashed arm, but Dan put him out of his misery with a punch in the face and a stab in the gut. That left the last member, who looked at Dan with mercy in his eyes. He only looked about thirteen, and he looked as if he’d rather be back home playing FIFA on the Xbox with his mates than being faced by a total stranger with expert moves and a knife. Dan let the knife arm droop by his side.

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“Come here.” He said to the boy, a sense of a calm and compassion in his voice. Something you wouldn’t hear after a man had just killed three other men thirty odd seconds ago.

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The boy nervously trudged over, eyes glazed, making it seem like he’d been crying. He pointed to Tall.

“That was my brother you murdered.”

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As he said this, he reached into his back pocket and pulled out a Swiss Army knife. Taking Dan by surprise, he darted forwards, knife aloft. He knicked Dan’s shirt, but Dan’s compassion had since gone now and had turned to anger. Dan skilfully expelled the knife from the youngster’s grasp, but only earned himself a punch in the face and a bloody and presumably broken nose as a consequence. Unfortunately, Dan didn’t have the courage to kill a thirteen year old, kicking him down to the ground with a vicious boot in the balls and a sock to the gut. He smashed him out cold with a head butt, and glanced up at the unmistakable oval-like shape of a black CCTV camera.

 

 

Chapter 3

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Dan pelted it out of the platform, up the stairs, and took the escalator stairs two at a time. He sprinted out of the station’s entrance onto the high street, running for another good fifty metres before stopping at a dimly lit newsagents to buy a bottle of Buxton water, as he was still dehydrated from the fight just ten minutes before. His mind kept flicking through potential consequences when security guards found the bodies on the ground of a Swiss Cottage platform. This would possibly be front page news the following day. Dan’s mind was flooded with a mixture of fears, possible consequences, possible plans of escapism. But in reality, his mind was focussed on one thing: his self defence skills were still intact and top notch. Dan was 33, an aging man (if we can say that about 33 year olds nowadays) with an office job, two cats and only exercise was walking to and from the stations and an occasional jog through the local park at weekends. But he still remembered his self-defence classes with Mr Barker over thirty years ago at self defence club in Wimbledon, which he’d go to after school on Mondays. He sat down on a nearby wall, examining his gashed leg, which had stopped bleeding, and all the blood had hardened and encrusted the wound into a gruesome looking scab. Dan whimpered as he scratched his nose, which he’d forgotten about completely in his sense of panic. He knew it wasn’t safe to be hanging around in public with a crooked nose and blood-caked suit, so he decided to check the time on his phone and head home to his cats. He pulled out his Samsung which refused to respond as it had run out of power. Dan sighed in a temper, cursed, and slipped it into his jacket pocket. The five minute walk back to his block was nerve-wracking and full of terrified glances over his shoulder. However, nothing troubled him and he got back to Flat 17, and collapsed through the doorway. He thrust himself into a chair and plugged his phone in. Whilst he waited for it to wake up, he sauntered gingerly into the bathroom to get himself a plaster and bandages for his leg. He’d worry about his nose tomorrow; get to work late, go to the hospital and get it patched up.  He put the bandages and plasters onto the footstool in front of him and glanced at the Samsung’s list of notifications on the lock screen. His mate Phil had had too much to drink and a few crude messages from him cheered Dan up a little, but it was three emails that drew Dan’s attentions:

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Gmail   9.25pm

MI6

Dear Mr Thomas, we have...

 

Gmail  9.31pm

MI6

Dear Mr Thomas, please res...

 

Gmail  9,37pm

MI6

Dear Mr Thomas, don’t worry...

 

Dan gasped. Oh no, he thought. What have MI6 found out? Anxiously, he typed his code in, and tapped the first MI6 email.

 

Dear Mr Thomas,

We have seen the CCTV footage of the incident concerning you and four teenagers at Swiss Cottage tube station this evening of 1st September 2016. The sheer bravery that you showed against four armed and dangerous youngsters was very creditable indeed.

Therefore we at Mission Intelligence 6 would like you to be present at our offices in Westminster at your earliest convenience tomorrow morning, 2nd September 2016. Dress however formally you wish.

Regards,

MI6

PS – Leave your nose alone – our doctors will fix it tomorrow for you.

 

Dan shivered. What did they want from him? Nervously, he tapped the second email open.

 

Dear Mr Thomas,

Please respond quickly, at your earliest convenience.

Many thanks,

MI6.

 

Dan smiled a little. However, that was gone as he read the last one.

 

Dear Mr Thomas,

Don’t worry. We’ve tracked your phone and we realise and understand that the power is off, and down.

Regards,

MI6.

 

That gave Dan a little chill down his spine. Would they be able to see his crude jokes to his mates? Could they see that he was using Tinder?

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Anyhow, these were puny thoughts that were easily pushed aside. Dan reached over to the footstool and grabbed the bandages. He wrapped his gashed leg with it, tied the knot tight, then got up and walked towards his bedroom in a bit of daze. He opened the wardrobe and looked at his suits. Pinstripe? Nope- too boring. He took a glance at his sleek tuxedo before taking it off his rail and placing it on his desk chair, ready for the morning.

 

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Chapter 4

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Moscow, Russia

 

Dennis Romanov pulled in his umbrella, yanked off his coat in two tries, and dumped them down on the chair by his office doorway. It was 6am on a cold September Russian morning in Moscow, and, to worsen things, it was raining. The cleaners had come and gone, but nobody got in till 7.30 at the earliest, so the office block was deserted.

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 The rain pattered onto the building’s glass shell, and Romanov glanced out of the glass panelling, looking out onto Red Square, which looked incredibly empty- something extremely unusual.

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You’ll probably want to know Romanov’s occupation if he’s in one of the spanking new offices in Red Square.

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He is one of FSB’s best mission operators, and has rejoined after three years away after his poor decision cost him his job, when the Russian President was nearly assassinated, inside the Kremlin itself. He was reinstalled by the President himself, and this was down to Romanov would almost be a second father to two lads- Nikita, of around 12, and Matias, who was four years deputy. He would help the President and his wife, not allowing the kids to sit at the table, but on the contrary taking their side when it came to staying up and watching late Russian trash of television. He was especially young ‘Kariao’ favourite, pretending to care about 8 year olds Lego models, but however enjoyed talking him through his collection of football stickers about the Russian league. Nikita followed his father by supporting CSKA Moscow, but Matias was more swayed by his mother and Romanov, and chose Zenit St. Petersburg, much to the President and Nikita’s annoyance. However, back to Romanov’s FSB office in Red Square.

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It was still an hour till most of the staff would arrive, and Romanov was alone in the deserted office block.

He stepped out of his plush office into a modernised corridor, and strolled down four doors until he stood outside the staffroom, with the door firmly locked.

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Luckily, Romanov was a senior and respected officer and had access to wherever he pleased, so he took out his keyring, which jangled with the 12 keys it was home to. He found the brass one which was for the staffroom, and crept in. He started flicking though a black, featured folder labelled ‘Most Wanted.’ He tossed open the cover and saw a mugshot of a balding man. His mind instantly recognised the face.

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His eyes flickered through the criminal’s factfile:

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NAME

Robert Kasim

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KNOWN AS

N/A

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AGE

Unknown

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LAST SEEN

Kiev, Ukraine   

                 

NATIONALITY

British (Immigrant) 

   

OTHER NATIONALITIES

Algerian

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DANGER LEVEL

10/10

 

Romanov’s eyes switched to the number in the top left corner- 1. Then he flicked back to the ‘Last Seen’ row.

Startled, Romanov pulled out an LG Smartphone and started dialling frantically.

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“Hello?”

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“Yeah, Kas, it’s me. They know you’re in Ukraine.”

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“What? You said that was secure.”

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“I know. Get to Kiev International ASAP. We’re going to London. I’ll meet you there.”