Adam nodded peremptorily at the thin, crooked figure of Peterson. Fortunately the deputy director of T14 was, as per usual, bustling about looking important and clearly didn't have time for a conversation. Adam breathed an audible sigh of relief as the man left the room. The other four occupants also seemed to visibly relax. It wasn't any kind of deference, respect or fear that made people avert their eyes in Peterson's presence, rather, in addition to his unctuous, unpleasant manner, his uncanny resemblance to the “Simpsons” character Mr Burns.
Adam continued his journey to the kettle and made himself a coffee. Even without the disturbing presence of Peterson, the room maintained an almost reverentially silent hush; this wasn't the sort of organisation where casual gossip was advisable, or even tolerated. There was also a well understood code of etiquette which meant that, by sitting in a corner on his own, Adam would not be disturbed unless it was absolutely essential.
He chose a comfy, Victorian-looking armchair that would be more at home in the House of Lords and sat down with his coffee and notepad. He desperately needed a brainstorming session away from his office, some space to think. He stretched out his long legs, brushed out an invisible crease in his trousers, and flattened down some imaginary wayward strands of his short, dark hair.
He had, of course, read the obituary on his way to work, but only to check that they'd spelled it correctly. He knew from checking Agent 45's email account that his message had been received and correctly interpreted so hopefully any immediate danger had been averted. Nonetheless, he still had little idea what, if anything, was really happening. Nobody he had encountered thus far today had said or done anything to indicate that there was something relevant he didn't know about. Peterson did seem to be even more agitated than usual but it was hard to tell with such a highly string, St. Vitus dance of a personality.
He should go straight to the top and talk to the director, but he was incommunicado for a couple of days, so Adam had had no choice but to phone in the obituary. Protocol meant he should have gone to Peterson, but he didn't trust him enough to put Agent 45's life in his thin, grasping hands.
Adam took a sip of coffee and began making some notes. The murder could, of course have been a coincidence. It certainly, from what he'd been able to glean from the pathology report, appeared to be a thoroughly amateur attack rather than the work of any professional killer. However, he simply couldn't dismiss from his mind the uncanny resemblance between the murder victim and Agent 45. A woman in her mid thirties, long, straight blond hair, five feet eight inches tall, blue eyes, similar figure - they could have been sisters. The location of the victim's home was also only a few streets away from the current residence of Agent 45. The killing had taken place at night so it would be perfectly understandable for it to be a genuine case of mistaken identity. There was no mistake about the viciousness of the beating though - it was clearly meant to kill her.
If it was meant to be 45, that obviously left the unanswered questions: did whoever had ordered the killing know it had been fucked up? If so, had they already instigated a fresh plan with a proper professional at the helm? If that was the case, how could Adam alert Agent 45 inconspicuously? She was already in hiding, so that was good, but with so little information he had to tread very carefully.
Peterson.
For some reason Adam drew the deputy director's name in block capitals and put a large circle around it.
It had never occurred to him before that he didn't trust him. Why? He trusted everyone else in T14, you had to because your life often depended on them. Something was wrong. He didn't trust something specific about Peterson. There was something nagging away at him but he couldn't place it – some reason to suspect Peterson of something. Well, it was currently the only starting point Adam could think of so he resolved to take every opportunity to observe the deputy director today and see if anything materialised. In this business a suspicion was enough to warrant an investigation but he was reluctant to put anything on an official footing without anything tangible to present. Still, there was no problem in his looking into Peterson this afternoon, that was well within his job description; he could easily invent a spurious technical reason for looking at some personnel files – some kind of random check.
Adam finished his coffee and made another one. He could hear that the people sat around a table were having a general conflab that he could legitimately join, so he went over and subtly steered the conversation around to Peterson and his private life.
After a few minutes a woman Adam had very few dealings with and consequently only knew as Agent 64 threw out a remark that almost made him spill his coffee. Fortunately he quickly regained his composure and masked it as humorously exaggerated disgust.
“Of course,” said Agent 64, “the creepiest thing about the old man was that time he made that awfully crass drunken pass at 45.”
“Aha!” thought Adam as he walked as casually as possible back to his office, “I knew there was something.”
Peterson turned away from the bar and almost fell over. This was the most drunk he'd been for decades but his marriage was in such a state that he just didn't give two shits anymore. He wasn't going to make director at his age anyway so the only possible future available to him was another few dreary years of stagnation and then retirement with his ungrateful, harping wife and revolting children. He could picture himself in years to come doing pointless domestic chores his wife had given him to keep him from under her feet.
“I'm fucked if I'm spending all day up a step ladder,” he spluttered, startling the barmaid.
She shook her head pitifully as he ambled off in the general direction of a wall.
On the other side of the room Agent 45 was looking at her watch and wondering how long it would be before she could politely leave. Not only was this 'social event' more tedious than an ITV Sunday, it was also in her opinion a flagrant breach of policy to have so many members of the organisation together at one time with no security and a free bar.
She was woken from her reverie by a nudge from a passing colleague.
“Run for your life, the old man's eyeing you up!” he choked as he sauntered past looking for a good spot from which to view the ensuing carnage.
She looked up to behold the terrifying spectacle of a man in his late 50s, who'd never been particularly attractive to begin with and to whom age had not been kind, looming towards her out of the tacky neon lighting like a pissed space-hopper. She grimaced and tried to ignore him but he ploughed into her with all the grace of a double decker bus driving over eggshells.
“Hey, the lovely Jennifer!”
She frowned and looked around their immediate vicinity.
“Don't use my real name you stupid twat!” she hissed, desperately trying to both control the security situation and rid herself of the company of this repulsive old stick insect.
Several witnesses observed from a distance as Peterson, just about managing to stay on his feet, grabbed Jennifer's left breast and squeezed it like a dog's toy. Half of them turned away wincing, the other half ran at top speed towards the unlikely couple. It was not concern at the event itself or for Jennifer's welfare that prompted either reaction, rather a genuine fear that she may well spoil her career by killing the old man before anyone could stop her.
Luckily she was far more in control of herself, merely grabbing his scrotum and twisting it ninety degrees anti-clockwise.
Adam shuddered at the memory of the deputy director curled up on the floor screaming his head off. That was over two years ago and Jennifer had been undercover, and therefore out of Peterson's view, for nearly eighteen months now. At least, that's what Adam thought. He was wrong.
He looked up the relevant regulations to see what scope he had. He would give Peterson the works. If he had been up to anything, he would have been pretty good at covering his tracks. However, Adam also knew that he was easily rattled, and likely to betray himself if he was trying to hide anything. Not that Adam believed he had actually tried to have 45 killed, that made no sense at all. But he had no firm leads and... okay, he admitted it to himself: he didn't like Peterson, and the idea of turning his house over appealed to him because the old man would hate it but could say nothing.
"He'll be in the office all day, damn," thought Adam. "I can't justify waiting until tonight. Although," he smiled, "that means I either get to kick the door in or scare the shit out of his stony-faced wife."
As he put the procedure in motion, Adam reflected on the unfairness of his last thought.
"Twenty odd years married to Peterson would be enough to turn anyone to stone.”