By Jonathan Deacon, of Newport Business School. Part 3
He woke with a start - and effortlessly and silently in one movement slid out of the bed and was upright, gathering the ball point pen off the table by the side of the bed as he did.
The Aberdeen hotel room was actually quite plush and the drapes on the window would have been a good inhibitor of the available light - even at 2.30am - but Squirrel rarely slept with the curtains fully closed. This allowed the Business Intelligence specialist to just make out the shadow of a person in the darkest corner of the room - also the scattered female underwear littering the floor like so many fallen leaves in autumn.
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"Looks like the night after the night before an Ann Summers party," said the voice of the shadow.
"I prefer Agent Provocateur," replied the calm as a lightly chilled cucumber Squirrel, "and why can't you just knock the door like everyone else?"
The shadow considered this concept for a few seconds as Squirrel padded off to the bathroom. "Just wouldn't fit with the institute's protocol," the shadow called after Squirrel closed the door.
Upon his return the shadow had turned the desk lamp on and was busying making a cup of tea.
Preacher had been Squirrel's handler for too many years to remember and was the conduit between the agent and the institute - although, as a disavowed agent, no one was supposed to know that Squirrel was still involved - a sort of under cover, undercover marketing agent.
Preacher was a learned man. He looked like one too, Squirrel always thought, although the soft exterior gave little away of his inner capabilities.
He was a multi-linguist (of course) and was known to stand on one leg and play the flute, just like Ian Anderson of Jethro Tull. Squirrel had never seen this spectacle, for which he was thankful.
He also had the ear of the director and one or two interesting government types.
"What time are they picking you up?" asked Preacher.
"8.30, rear entrance. They want me to go with them to the US office, Washington, later today," replied Squirrel in a flat monotone befitting 2.30am.
Preacher looked over the top of his metal-rimmed specs.
"Sounds like something's going down in the world of lingerie," he said without a hint of comedy timing which was slightly disappointing given the line. "You had better tell me what you know so far about your friend Star and her taste in foundation garments."
"Well it's like this," began Squirrel, "Here we have a company, for all intents and purposes a lingerie firm, who claim to sell their garments over the web, but the office that I was taken to was completely devoid of underwear and as far as I could see there were few if any staff engaged with sales."
"Could be that they have a warehouse elsewhere?" suggested Preacher.
"Using a fulfilment company for stock holding and packaging is a sound idea, especially if your core expertise lies in other directions, it cuts down on the overheads and packaging costs but I'm not convinced of their core expertise. Even on the internet you need to make yourself visible..." tailed off Squirrel.
Preacher had by now picked up a discarded lacy item from the floor.
"Looks like expensive stuff too - difficult to move on the net when everyone is in a race to the bottom, excuse the pun," he said.
"That's the thing," mused Squirrel, "these samples they left me", he looked up to find a doubtful look on Preacher's face, "they are very good quality - now quality can and does sell on the net, no reason why not, just a matter of presentation, if you like the quality of the shop front - but this lot, none had a label of manufacture and so no authenticity or differentiation for the supposed customer."
"You mean that people like to know where things have come from as it adds a value to the shopping experience, that sort of thing?" questioned Preacher.
"Spot on. And another thing - the coffee boy in the office: he's a West Point graduate," announced Squirrel.
Preacher knew instantly that this was not traditionally the sort of occupation that a past student of the US elite military academy fell into upon leaving the employ of the government. Preacher drank his tea and made his exit - this time through the door.
"I'll do some digging, I have some friends in Langley - see if they can ident a cross dressing marine."
"I didn't say that he was a cross dresser," called Squirrel at Preacher as he made his way down the corridor.
The conversation had evidently roused the occupant of the room opposite, a rigger on shore leave by the looks of the love and hate' tattoos on his knuckles as he filled in his room doorframe annoyed at intrusion to his sleep. He looked at Squirrel, then the departing shadowy figure and the scattered lingerie on the floor of the room opposite and with a withering look on his face muttered cross dressers' and slammed his door.
At 8.30am sharp the RS4 Audi appeared at the rear entrance, as did the two front seat occupants.
First out was the ex-marine, Squirrel noted that today he was wearing black for a change, but thought better of saying it! On the other hand Star wore a grey velvet vintage Charlotte Halton mini dress with matching black leather stiletto boots - which meant that getting out from behind the wheel of an RS4 was more an act of escapology than exit from a vehicle - nice though the sight was!
They approached Squirrel - a little too hastily he thought, but perhaps Star could mind read! The ex-marine had grasped Squirrel's left elbow and was applying a little too much pressure on the ball of nerve endings that can be found there if you know where to look and was steering him towards the back door of the Audi.
"Hey why the rush!" asked Squirrel intuitively sensing danger.
"Sorry about this," replied Star in her soft French Canadian accent, "but we think you have something we need and we really can't take no for an answer."
"Better try this for an answer then," said Squirrel, as he slammed his heel into the soft and painful front of the marine's left ankle, he lost his balance and as he did so Squirrel brought his now free elbow up to meet the falling bodyguard's ear - causing instant pain and further unsteadiness - he began to fall forward semi-conscious and as he did so Squirrel jabbed a hand at his opponent's lower rib cage, as it passed his waist, breaking at least two in the process - all of which took no more than a few seconds.
Then he heard the unmistakable sound of the safety catch coming off a Canadian Para Black Watch .45 pistol.
Turning to face the now armed and extremely seductive Star, Squirrel thought where had she hidden that?' but asked simply: "Marine?"
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