Seen And Not Seen (The Veil Book 1) (2 page)

FOUND

Special Agent Deborah Landelle stands at the window of an anonymous office staring out at the city, arms folded across a dark business suit. She wears a very late night, very early morning face, a weariness in her eyes as they gaze at the busy world in the streets below. A young American agent bursts in.

Landelle snaps around, “Can’t you bloody well knock!” The young agent is immediately subservient to Landelle, but that does not diminish the youth’s exuberance.

“We’ve got a sighting.”

It’s all Landelle can do not to roll her eyes skyward, “No, you haven’t. What you’ve got is another crank caller. One of fifty we’ll get today.”

“Not to us. On the S T tap.”

Landelle’s folded arms unbundle themselves. “Is she on the move?”

“She sure is. Just left the building on foot.”

“Get me an unmarked car. And for God’s sake, don’t spook her.”

The agent gone, Landelle puts a phone to her ear. A moment as the call is placed, answered and, “Looks like we’ve found him. He’s here in New York.”

* * *

The sidewalk is busy with pedestrians, but one soon stands out. A starkly handsome Sikh woman in her late thirties strides confidently along in an expensive, but conservative, executive suit. Her is demeanor cold and businesslike, her gait unnaturally smooth, like that of a model on a catwalk. But this is no fashionista. This is Sharanjit Toor.

Toor does not notice the black SUV pull up alongside. It cruises to match her walking pace, before a chirp of its siren gains her attention. The rear passenger door opens and out hops Landelle, to Toor’s immense irritation. She squares up to Landelle aggressively, but Landelle has only a sly smile for her.

“Sharanjit. Mind if I tag along?”

“Well, it’s not as though I have any choice, is it?”

A CHILD

Felton and Lucius pensively observe the child through an expansive observation window. She is more of a little girl now, cleaned up and in a medical gown. Perhaps six or seven years old, but so thin it is difficult to tell. With her is a nurse in a sealed body-form suit, no part of her exposed to the air. She shows the girl some toys. The girl takes one, eyeing the nurse suspiciously.

“No obvious signs of weaponization,” says Felton. “Blood work will throw up any viral pathogens or macrobiotics. Will take time, though.”

Lucius bristles at Felton’s cold manner. “And her general medical condition?”

The muted condescending tone is lost on Felton, “Unusually healthy, despite the apparent starvation. There are healing sores on her skin—we’ve taken a biopsy.” Returning his gaze to the child, “The sand around the podium is from the Sudan. She must be a refugee.”

“What we are seeing here—there could be more?” Lucius says, transfixed by the child.

“This one will likely be a sample. A tip off. But she is going to be missed. We need to find out where she has been and with whom as a matter of urgency. The nurse can translate.”

Lucius is not convinced by their approach. “You realize we can’t question her directly about it. You need a specialist in child therapy. I can make a recommendation.”

“No time for anyone else. You’re it. Besides, there’s no sign of mental trauma, she’s lucid, talking, and engaging in play.”

A wide-eyed Lucius confronts Felton, “That’s what bothers me.”

A MAN

The coffee shop is busy with commuters ordering skinny this, decaf that. Overhead a rolling news channel shows an area of ramshackle tents, and the starving people encamped there, as the anchor woman talks of the increase in refugees fleeing the famine in central Africa.

Robert waits uncomfortably in line, shyly avoiding eye contact with others while at the same time fidgeting nervously with his shabby suit. Two city slickers silently mock him behind his back. He reaches the front of the line, the waitress looking him up and down with disdain.

“Sir, if I take your order do you have the means to pay for it?”

A snigger from the city slickers before a hush descends on those standing nearby, making the news channel more audible as it talks of ecological hotspots around the globe. Robert shuffles nervously as people turn to stare at him. He produces a twenty dollar bill.

“Cash? You’re going to pay with
cash
?”

“A large Americano to have in.”

“I cannot serve you an Americano, Sir. Americano is now a trademark of…”

He could hardly blame them. It had been one of the oddest quirks of recent years. A strange alignment of circumstances creating the most bizarre of business opportunities. The opportunity had presented itself and it had been taken. He would have done the same himself and indeed had done something similar at about the same time. But right now, for the briefest of moments, it was focusing Robert’s mind and that was enough to abruptly shift his demeanor, the shyness melting away to reveal the tiniest glimpse of a profound confidence.

“But you know what an Americano is, right?”

“
Sir.
”

A testily delivered response that Robert considers to be a clear indicator of enough buttons having being pressed with no value to be gained from pressing more. “Triple espresso with water.”

“You want space for—”

“Black.”

The service is efficient and the coffee already made. Robert hands over the money, takes the cup and steps away under the mocking gaze of the slickers. The bustle of the coffee shop resumes as he shyly looks about for a seat. A table frees up and Robert quickly secures it. A group of three other patrons, also looking for a table, are not amused.

“Oh, come on, man! There’s a single seat at the window.”

Robert ignores them, fidgeting nervously. The altercation is slight and doesn’t attract much attention, but the leader of the group steps it up a gear.

“Hey. Did you hear what I said? There’s three of us. Can’t you take a single seat?”

A few people start to stare Robert’s way, this time with questioning expressions. He stares awkwardly at his coffee, seemingly unable to deal with the situation confidently.

“I don’t want any trouble,” Robert mumbles.

The waitress spies the situation with a questioning look of her own, eyes narrowing quizzically.
Something about that guy.
Time to intercede.

“Hey, Mr. Americano, take a single seat. We’re busy.”

The patron is delighted. “Well, come on then.”

Robert’s demeanor wobbles again, “Look—”

“Are you going to shift your ass or what?

Out of nowhere Toor steps in, eyes locked on the patron. “Have we got a problem here, sir?”

Before the patron can get a word out Landelle confronts him, discretely revealing an official badge. The patron looks Toor and Landelle over and decides that the intimidating front is likely a façade for something quite different altogether and not conducive to his day. He backs down, shuffling his group away.

Toor and Landelle seat themselves at Robert’s table. More people are looking their way, some whispering among themselves. The news channel has rolled on again, the sound drowned out by the hubbub of the coffee shop. It’s an interview with Senator Blake, the caption reading ‘Afrika Project—Senate Hearings.’

Landelle relaxes into her chair and eyes up Robert as he continues to stare into his coffee.

“And how are you today, Bob?”

This particular person pushing that particular button is enough for a more prolonged awakening for Robert, his nodding acknowledgment of what would have been needed to bring the three of them together at this moment manifesting in the glimmer of a cynical grin.

“I would imagine that you had to commit several indictable offences to join me for coffee this morning, Debs.”

Landelle leans in close to him to make her point, “Just be thankful it’s me and not the F.B.I.”

“Speaking of which,” says Toor, “We need to leave. Now.”

Robert shifts his gaze to the stern Toor. “I’m minded to finish my coffee, Shaz. Cost me twenty dollars. That’s nearly five pounds in real money.”

This serves to only exasperate the businesslike Toor, but Landelle has another way to play this game. “Sure about that, Bob?” gesturing at all about them, “Sure you want to stay here?”

Robert follows her gaze, his newly acquired confident demeanor ebbing away again, the crushing shyness returning. The coffee shop falls silent. Everyone stares at him. It is with some dismay that he observes a black town car pull up outside.

Resigned to his situation he gets up and nonchalantly makes his way to the serving counter, past the group of patrons from earlier who now track him with agape mouths. He arrives before the waitress who served him. It’s all she can do to stare back wide-eyed with astonishment. She knows who he is, just as everyone else does, and can’t imagine that there’s a living soul the world over who does not. This man, who had been hidden in plain sight, now revealed from under a cloak in invisibility not of his own making, but which has been seen to dog him these recent times.

Robert sets his coffee mug on the counter, “I’d like this to go, please.”

With a robotic action she pours the coffee into a take-out cup, a slight shake to her hand. As she does so the rolling news channel, silent for a brief transition, moves onto a new story, the anchor woman talking over a picture of a man’s clean shaven face. Robert’s face.

“So where is he? Billionaire Robert Cantor has now eluded all attempts by Senator Blake to serve him with a subpoena for ten days, despite the astonishing move by the Senator of using the F.B.I.”

A sound bite from the hawkish Senator, “In short we aren’t going to stand for it. Robert Cantor will be brought to book.”

The waitress’s eyes flick to the screen and back to Robert, shoving the take-out cup forward as the anchor woman continues on, “Cantor’s recent erratic behavior has caused some to question his state of mind.”

He deftly scoops up the cup and whirls around to face the coffee shop.

Dozens of camera phones appear.

A frenzy of shaky video and frozen moments capture Robert’s exit from the coffee shop, flanked by Toor and Landelle as two cops keep the patrons inside. Landelle opens the town car door and Robert climbs aboard.

THE JUDICIARY

Robert sits opposite a stern, tight-lipped Justice Garr, as Landelle and Toor climb in. The car moves off and Garr wastes no time setting about a braced Robert with a verbal club.

“For heaven’s sake, Bobby! Where have you been?”

“Hello, Alka.”

“And look at you! No better than a bum.”

Robert winces at the personal rebuke, knowing better than push back too early during an onslaught from this individual. Toor, never having fully understood the depth of history between the two of them, seeks to intercede.

“Justice Garr, perhaps…”

“No, Sharanjit. He needs to face up to his responsibilities.” But Garr sees that Robert is retreating back in to himself. “This…condition. It’s getting worse, isn’t it. Why won’t you see Lucius?” It’s enough to snap Robert out of it and snap at her.

“They still prescribe lithium, you know. You’d think it was the bloody nineteenth century!” Robert sinks back into a mood. Outside the city slides by. Garr leans forward.

“Senator Blake has been making considerable capital out of your evasion of his subpoena.”

“I am afforded the right not to be served.”

“And he is afforded the right
to
serve you.
And
he’s using the F.B.I. to do it. Manhattan is probably crawling with them already.”

Robert is more than ready to lock horns, “Blake’s committee is a political stunt and irrelevant. I have the popular vote, not him.”

Garr leans back, eying up Landelle and Toor before calling forward to the driver. “George, pull over,” followed by a polite request of the two women, “I need a moment alone with Bob.”

A compliant Landelle gets out followed by an irritated Toor, pushing the door closed behind her. The two of them linger beyond the privacy glass. Garr ponders Robert for a moment, his eyes averted.

“Where do you disappear to? And why?”

“I need to be alone to deal with the times when I can’t be.”

“It’s a wonder you’re never spotted, let alone…”

“People don’t see me when I’m that way, and that’s just fine with me.”

“Be as it may, your behavior has given Blake the mandate he needs. It no longer matters whether you have popular opinion behind you or not. When Blake lifts the lid on the Afrika he’ll find Five Earths, then Trinity and then the cat will most decidedly be out of the bag.”

Robert snaps back at her, jabbing his retort home. “Then get the coalition to stop him.”

“Monica lobbied them, but they won’t lift a finger.”

“Monica?” Shocked surprise from Robert.

“She still believes in Trinity, Bob. But Blake’s committee has everyone else distancing themselves.” Garr’s tone with Robert darkens. “The coalition want her to throw you to the wolves. So does your board of directors.” She looks away—at the world outside, “They are seeking to take control of the company and have you removed.”

“On what grounds?”

Garr keeps her gaze elsewhere, but she can hear the contempt in his voice.

She lingers on the outside world a moment longer, “That you are absent from your responsibilities,” before confronting him directly. “You can hardly blame them. If Blake finds Trinity they will be culpable. Your head on a platter might just stop him digging any deeper.”

Robert’s face boils with a rage. Garr rests back in her seat to make her concluding point.

“So there you have it. Blake is after you and the coalition and your own board want to hang you out to dry. The only person fighting your corner is Monica. Your only way out now is to confront Blake. You must appear before the Senate committee and prevail. You cannot let him find Trinity.”

Fighting back the rage, Robert wastes no time getting out of the car, Garr calling after him.

“Don’t give him the satisfaction of serving you with that subpoena.” But he isn’t listening so an exasperated Garr instructs Landelle, “For God’s sake, keep him out of sight and get him to the hearings.”