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  Slowly, but surely, an increasing part of his revenue came from this less than legal sideline. Being a cautious man by nature, he quickly understood that he had to watch his step. Up until then, none of his clients had initiated legal action, not even those who suspected he was responsible for leaks of insider information. He knew that, sooner or later, he would grace the benches of a courtroom.

  Wellens hired Sam, a close personal friend, as security advisor whose skills he had immediately put to work finding a trustworthy lawyer. In the course of the following year, Wellens' new-found friend and employee successfully staved off three potentially damaging lawsuits from former clients. Aside from that, his considerable advice and meticulous rewriting of the company's standard contract permitted Wellens to streamline his activities, and drastically reduce the risk of legal retaliation.

  With a rapidly growing clientele, the company had been forced to expand. Wellens set about forming a core of highly competent people around him, then had Sam carefully check the background of each to look for two vital qualities. First, he had to be able to trust them implicitly, safe in the knowledge that they would keep confidential information to themselves. Second, and probably most important, he had to be sure they had a healthy amount of greed. With the help of Sam's screening, he was able to weed out several undesirables. He then spent time with the remainder, talking, questioning and generally getting a feel for each individual's character.

  Once he was sure of their loyalties, Wellens set up a training camp in a secluded place in the country, where he taught his employees the skills they would need. They began with simple things like industrial espionage, but their success in this enterprise led them rapidly onto other competencies.

  Over the years, with the jobs becoming more and more complex, the necessary skills had changed. He now had at his disposal mechanics who could hot-wire a car in under one minute, security officers who could in an emergency convincingly act like police officers, accountants who could simultaneously create two sets of books ---one with real expenses and incomes, the other doctored to suit the requirements of the taxman.

  He sighed as he reminisced about his former successes, then glanced at his schedule for the day. At 10:00 a.m. he had an appointment with a Marion Grayson, a visit he had been looking forward to for a week.

  "Sandy, why isn't Sam here already? I thought I made it clear to him I had to go over something with him before my meeting with Marion Grayson."

  "He will arrive in ten minutes. He just phoned."

  "OK. Thanks, Sandy."

  Wellens still had a few minutes before his visitor was supposed to arrive. Sipping his coffee thoughtfully, he mulled over what he knew about her.

  She had contacted him two weeks ago, suggesting they meet to discuss a lucrative proposition. That kind of contact usually made him extremely suspicious and this time around was no exception. Obviously, Sam had immediately started checking up on a Marion Grayson. He was able to glean very little from his usual sources, but what he did learn was surprising, to say the least.

  She worked for the British Ministry of Defence. A contact Sam had in the British civil service was able to dig up an interesting story. Several years ago, an enemy agent had successfully defected with incomplete blueprints for a new type of radar, and had been handed over to the Ministry of Defence for interrogation. A week later the agent had been found hanging from the radiator in his room, dead. At first Grayson had been a suspect, but once she handed over a working prototype of the new radar, the whole debacle was quickly forgotten.

  It was Sam's contact in the civil service who had referred her to Wellens. He had warned Sam that, although he did not know her personally, what he had been able to glean from the records was interesting. What little he learned of her past was useless, but her actions since she had joined the Ministry gave the impression of a self-serving, ambitious woman. Armed with this knowledge, Wellens still knew he was in for a tough time. He had no idea what the British might want with him. Not only that, but he had to watch his step, it was going to be a tricky conversation. Maybe they had something in mind that required his services, but just as likely, they were setting him up.

  "Marion Grayson is here." His secretary announced over the intercom.

  "Please let her in, Sandy."

  The door to Wellens' office opened, and his secretary held the door open long enough for a woman of medium height to walk in. Like Wellens, she had a wide build, but she carried a layer of fat where he only had muscle. Her matching, loose-fitting trousers and shirt jacket hid her surplus weight effectively, but Wellens noticed the way her shirt stretched momentarily as she sat down. She was in her mid-forties, he guessed, as he studied her round, smiling face. He was surprised by the amount of wrinkles he noticed under the make-up on her forehead, but tried not to show it.

  "Miss Grayson."

  She nodded her greeting, and settled herself comfortably in the chair, dragging the corners of her jacket round to cover the front of her shirt.

  "Mr. Wellens. Before I start, maybe we should clear up something. I'm sure you've done your homework; you know who I work for, et cetera. I am not here on behalf of the British Government or the Ministry of Defence. This is strictly a personal affair."

  "We don't normally deal with individuals. Our services are mainly for businesses. Is the British Ministry of Defence recruiting spies now?"

  "I knew before I even contacted you that you would never be prepared to accept me at face value. I needed a gesture of good faith, and it wasn't easy to find one. What could I, a complete stranger, offer you that could in no way be construed as being a set-up, a double-cross? Unfortunately, I was absolutely unable to come up with anything remotely convincing. I was relying on your sources to vet me."

  Wellens raised a hand, and buzzed his secretary. "Sandy, is Sam here yet?"

  "Yes, sir. He's gone to his office."

  His office? Wellens thought. Sam had never required an office before. What was she talking about? A few moments' thought brought the answer. Sandy was not being facetious; she was trying to explain to him in code. Marion Grayson could not be allowed to hear where Sam had gone. Of course not. Instead of joining them, he had entered the adjoining room, where the most sophisticated eavesdropping equipment available monitored the interior of the office. Sight and sound were relayed and automatically recorded.

  Good man. Wellens mentally applauded Sam. With the array of sensors in the chair opposite him, they would be able to take Marion Grayson at more than just 'face value'. The weapons detector, capable of recognising the shape and composition of objects, be they metal, wood, plastic or a combination, would warn them of any hidden microphones or recording devices. The sensors in the armrests would monitor her heart rate, arterial tension, and would detect excessive sweating through her hands. It would act like an informal lie detector. Once again, Wellens proudly congratulated himself on having found an employee of such amazing qualities as Sam. Without letting any of his thoughts change the expression of puzzlement on his face, Wellens continued the conversation.

  "I must say, at least, that I am intrigued. Can I offer you something to drink? Coffee? Tea?"

  "Just a glass of water, please. I'm on a diet."

  Wellens leaned over to his intercom "Sandy, could you bring a bottle of water for Miss Grayson, and a coke for me, please?"

  "Right away, sir."

  More to put her at ease, Wellens decided to put their talk on hold. She might not like the idea of Sandy hearing what she had to say. He had no such problem. Sandy had been with him for fifteen years, and she had become invaluable. She was among the stock of employees Wellens used for his 'other' activities, as they put it. As his secretary, it had been necessary, very early on, for her to be aware of the full extent of his activities, and she shared his need for absolute secrecy.

  Sandy put a glass next to the bottle of water, and handed Wellens a can of coke, then ducked back out of the office quietly.

  Wellens waited for the
door to click shut before proceeding.

  "Please, continue."

  You will be aware, I hope, that in nine months' time there will be a NATO conference here, in Brussels."

  He nodded.

  "From a source in Washington, I learned that the Americans are ready to spring a surprise on their allies. They have finally developed a working, practical laser weapon. The technical details are irrelevant at this point. The only thing that really matters is that the Americans will be bringing it here to present at the conference. For security reasons, they will take it apart and transport the four pieces separately, to be assembled only at the conference itself. Several marines will escort each piece, which can fit into a relatively small suitcase. They will cross the Atlantic, in normal passenger planes, and once they arrive, will remain in their respective hotels until the time comes to move the pieces to the conference hall.

  "I want that laser. I have a buyer who is prepared to pay enough for it to make us millionaires for the rest of this century."

  Unruffled, Wellens said, "And where do my company and I fit in?"

  "I am prepared to share a quarter of what I'll get from selling the laser with you, if, between the time the pieces land at the airport and the time the laser is assembled in the conference hall, you can get your hands on it. Of course, if you agree to help me, I'll give you all the details about the couriers' flights, hotels and anything else I can find."

  "You realise that what you have said is practically a crime in itself. I'm toying with the idea of calling the police. After all, I am a law-abiding citizen, and this is a law-abiding company. I don't see how I could help you, even if I wanted to."

  "What I do realise is that you have to keep the pretence up until you are sure I'm not setting you up. If you hadn't been so diffident, I would have suspected you of trying to frame me. You are no doubt taping this conversation, and have some monitoring equipment directed at me at this moment. Once you analyse all the data, you will find that I am not lying. You have investigated my past, although the information you have will be of little use.

  "Naturally, I checked up on you, as well. Let me just say that in ten minutes I have to send an SMS on my GSM mobile phone. If I do not give the all clear, then my assistant will forward proof of your leaking the plans of the Eurofighter II. I am sure that NATO would be interested. They must be dying to get their hands on the person who gave Central European fanatics a way of shooting down the latest military planes."

  "Yes," murmured Wellens, "that was bad judgement on my part."

  "I see we understand each other. I will call you back in two months. So, until we meet again, goodbye."

  After she left, Wellens collapsed into his armchair. He breathed heavily for a minute until he felt his heartbeat return to normal.

  Sam came in and sat down, smiling at his boss's expression. "Surprising day, isn't it?"

  "That's an understatement," whispered Wellens.

  Sam laughed quietly. "Thought you would appreciate."

  Wellens rubbed his chin, thoughtfully. "Makes me nervous."

  Sam's mouth curled into a sly grin, "That's unlike you."

  "It sounds much too easy. After all, we're talking about stealing from the Army of the United States. Technically, I think we can do it, but it will have to be the last job we do with this company for at least a year. The media exposure will be high, and there will be repercussions. It will be impossible to operate in Brussels after this for quite some time. On the other hand, I was thinking of retiring this year, and what better way than going out in a blaze of glory? But before we do anything else, we need to be sure Grayson is for real."

  "Don't worry about that. As far as I could determine, she was being truthful all through your interview. She was slightly nervous at the beginning, but nothing untoward."

  "Before I take her seriously, I want you to dig deeper, get that contact of yours in the British civil service to check her out thoroughly. I want to know everything, down to her bra size."

  "Right."

  * * *

  Chapter One

  TWO WEEKS LATER

  Brussels, Belgium

  The building in which I work loomed large above the saplings lining the Rue de la Loi, and I rolled up to the automatic gate twenty minutes before shift handover. It had been an easy ride, the road being clear of traffic leaving the city. On the other side, in the lane going in the opposite direction, into the city, the cars were beginning to reduce their speed as they joined the budding queues.

  Brussels consisted of two concentric ring roads. The outer one, a three-lane motorway, circled what had come to be known as Greater Brussels. Encompassing the city centre, the inner ring road's twin double lanes, two in one direction, two in the opposite, handled an exceedingly high load of traffic. In French, one of Belgium's official languages, the inner ring road was called the 'Petite Ceinture', the small belt. Large radial roads linked up both ring roads.

  Seven years ago, back in 2015 at the inception of the Authority, the Bourgmestre had made a choice. In a moment of uncharacteristic lucidity, she had decided that the Transport Management Centre would be situated in the outskirts of the city centre for ease of access, just off the 'Petite Ceinture'. Centrally placed, but not locationally challenged.

  Rumours had immediately scrambled up and down our internal grapevine to the effect that her reasons had nothing to do with access. It was only by pure fluke she had actually come to a decision that made sense. Personally, I doubt whether deciding where to place another government authority was one of her most important decisions. Whatever the reasons, all of us who worked here were glad that it saved us a lot of grief and unnecessary stress.

  Our work consists of monitoring transport inside Brussels. Some people call it telematics, but we find, when talking to friends or relatives, that telematics is too close to television, and people think we repair TV sets.

  Without the Bourgmestre's fortuitous decision, we might have become the butt of media ridicule. Just one employee arriving late would have left us wide open to criticism. I can just see the headlines that would have engendered: 'Traffic controller stuck in jam during breakfast.'

  I lowered my window with one hand as I steered towards the gate, and stopped, fishing around for my access card. This always happened when I did morning shifts. Still in the process of waking up, it invariably took me a while to locate my card. No matter where I placed it, by the time I arrived at the office, I had forgotten where I had put it, and as usual, it turned up in the last place that I looked.

  Were I to be more organised, I suppose this would not happen. However, at a quarter to seven in the morning, my brain has a tendency to lie dormant until its wake-up call in the form of caffeine.

  Anyway, I finally passed through the entrance gate, having placed my access card in my mouth. I used to put it on the passenger seat beside me. Sadly, it was amazing how, in the time it takes to get from the front gate to the one at the garage, all of thirty metres, you can misplace something inside my car. At any rate, I can.

  In the underground garage, empty but for three cars, I parked as near as possible to the door to the lifts. An action that was not as easy as it sounded, since all the places beside it were reserved for the big bosses and visiting dignitaries, like the Bourgmestre.

  Today I decided to take the lift up to the ground floor. It was only one floor, but my body warned me that it was not quite up to any exertion just yet. It only submits to this type of abuse, walking about at this time of the day, because it knows it will get its caffeine fix before I do anything else. That was why I found myself in front of the coffee machine, with no recollection of having seen the security guards, whose inspection I must have passed. They are picky about whom they let in, especially at this unearthly hour.

  I grabbed my coffee, and let myself into the Transport Management Centre with my access card. Every door in this building, apart from the doors to the toilets, has a card reader on it. A door remains locked until a card with the
proper authorisation is swiped through the reader. This was for security, the Audit department said. For consistency, though, they added the readers everywhere, and if they had their way, there would be some on the toilets, too.

  Laying deep in the chair, with his legs on the desk, my colleague, Stephane, yawned. His bloodshot eyes lazily swivelled towards me, then widened in surprise. He glanced quickly at his watch, then sat bolt upright. A bit taken aback by this uncharacteristic behaviour, I approached him carefully.

  Stephane had started working here the same day I did. This was his second job, but my first. We had both turned up in sober suits and ties. Our future colleagues had been seated in a disorderly circle in the middle of the room, laughing. They had acknowledged our presence long enough to say 'You're the new guys? Sit.' The next day, we both abandoned the ties. I gave up the suit, too; I have never really felt comfortable in one. Stephane, though, traded his suit for a sports jacket, which he still wore occasionally. With no one else to talk to, we got to know each other better than most of our colleagues ever do. That had been our introduction to the Transport Management Centre.

  Nowadays, Stephane and I tend to welcome newcomers in the same light-hearted manner. Usually at seven in the morning, the rush hour has not yet begun, and we have about twenty minutes to chat, to spread new jokes or relay gossip. Later in the day, social intercourse is more limited, even impossible on especially bad days, so we make the most of it.

  I mumbled a hello in response to his greeting, and sat down next to him. On one of the screens was the shift handover, a written report of the unresolved problems. Not much going on, apparently, so I relaxed and turned back to my colleague.

  He looked a mess, hair ruffled, sweatshirt hanging out of his tracksuit bottoms, and the baseball cap he wore pulled forward, practically covering his face. As much as he tried to dress well during the daytime, at night he made no effort whatsoever. I had seen him in football shorts with a flimsy vest, walking about barefoot. It was as if he had to compensate for decent clothes in the daytime by shabby ones at night. Come to think of it, today he was quite smart. The ubiquitous slippers were missing, replaced by a sturdy pair of hiking boots. There's no accounting for taste.