The eye of the lion

It was at about that time, not too far from there, that various events were unfolding, all of vital importance to the future of our investigation work, and ultimately, to the future of humanity itself.

It was almost six, and outside Randall’s house, where we had gathered for a very important meeting as a team, it was starting to drizzle steadily and the temperature had dropped perceptibly.

Standing in front of the window that looked out onto the garden, I was watching the distant flames of Chelmsford gasoline refinery, a few miles away, and I was pondering the strange conversation I had had with Colonel Carter that morning.

It had been a surprise to us all, as we were starting to fear that something had happened to him, considering the heart

problems that he’d been suffering from for several years.

Although it reassured us that we were still receiving the necessary funds to continue the investigation, which the Colonel always deposited into my account in person, we knew that this prolonged silence was not normal for him, and I soon had the opportunity to confirm that.

Randall had taken the call while I was trying, for the tenth time, to draw a more or less exact plan of the factory plant, as I had seen and memorized it.

I took special care to mark the location of the mysterious guarded metal door, and the area of Waiss’ office, where the hidden safe was located with Kelly’s precious note-book inside it.

The invaluable photo which our friend from CNN had sent us via the Internet the day before, had confirmed the accuracy of my memory: It showed a smiling Kelly in the entrance of the crypt, and poking out of his safari shirt pocket was the green edge of his note-book.

“Haile,” Randall interrupted me, telephone in hand, a look of surprise on his face. “It’s for you. It’s the Colonel.”

I took the phone, a thousand thoughts spinning in my head, and I heard the Colonel’s voice which sounded hollow on the other end of the line.

“Hello? Colonel?”

“Haile...” said the Colonel, and I could feel the tension in his voice, his strange apprehension.

“Listen well, son. I don’t have much time. I’m making this call in secret, from the street, so that they can’t track it... I managed to lose them for a few minutes but they’ll find me!”

I turned towards Randall and stood up, unable to understand what I was hearing.

“What? Lose who? Who are they, Colonel?”

“There’s no time, Haile, listen! A man’s going to come to see you today to join the investigation, as a consultant, he has a letter that’s signed by me...”

“As a consultant? Colonel, I don’t understand. What is...?”

“Listen, for God’s sake, son, there’s no time! They’re dangerous! Don’t trust him, and whatever you do, don’t let him get hold of anything that Waiss is investigating. Don’t let him!”

“Why? Colonel, who are they?!” I asked, confused.

The old soldier’s voice seemed to sink suddenly, and he murmured with fear,

“They’re here... They found me. I have to go... Look

after yourself, son... And, don’t let them get it!”

“Get what? Colonel? Co...?”

He’d hung up.

I turned around, telephone in hand, astonished at what had just happened, and found myself faced with the questioning looks of Randall and Mark.

That was the last time we heard from Colonel Carter. We never saw him again.

At 8:30 pm, as we were coming to an agreement as to who would accompany me to dinner with Waiss, and discussing the details of the operation whose objective would be to recover Kelly’s note-book, the door-bell rang.

We all looked at each other in silence. The memory of the strange call from the Colonel and his even stranger advice, were still floating in the air, mingling with the cigarette smoke.

Randall began to stand up, to go and open the door, but I motioned him to stop. We knew who it was.

I went to the door, firmly wedging my Heckler and Coch revolver between my back and my belt. I wasn’t going to take any risks after what I had heard. I opened the door and before me was a young military-looking man, blond, thin and solid-looking, who looked at me and smiled as he held out his hand to greet me. He was dressed completely in black and was

carrying a long leather coat which made me think of an Aryan German SS official. The hair on my arms stood on end.

“Good evening, sir,” said the man in English but with a strong Eastern European accent. “Colonel Carter sent me.”

We shook hands and immediately he drew from his black coat a white envelope on which at a glance I recognized the Colonel’s handwriting. The young man smiled again as he held it out to me.

“My name is Michael... Michael Kratz. I’m your new tactical consultant.”