Agency O Read online

  ‘No, no, no,’ Richard protested. ‘This is the one.’

  Paul sipped his coffee. Maybe if he didn’t feed the fire this time, the flame would just putter out and …

  ‘It’s so obvious!’ Richard enthused.

  … or not.

  ‘I genuinely can’t believe we haven’t thought of it before. God … we are so thick.’

  Paul knew he was beaten. He was fighting not a losing battle, but a losing war. ‘Okay,’ he said grudgingly, ‘spit it out. I know you’re going to tell me anyway, no matter how much I protest, so we might as well get it over and done with.’ With a theatrical flourish he threw out an arm. ‘The idea, please. If you will.’

  Over the years there had been endless half-arsed business schemes and scams* to try and make them money. All, without exception, fluttered on the fringes of fraud and were doomed to fail even before they left Richard’s head.

  *Scam 1: Bendy Wendy, the world’s first online sex doll rental scheme

  *Scam 2: Blue Sky Thinking, an eBay shop using The Cloud to sell … actual clouds

  *Scam 3: Socks Appeal, based on the mistaken belief that there’s a global demand for celebrities’ used socks

  Richard leaned forward, revelling in the unexpected attention. ‘It’s so obvious.’

  ‘You’ve said that.’

  ‘And the perfect solution to our cash-flow problem.’ The words came spluttering out through a mouthful of buttery dough.

  ‘But, I’m guessing, illegal.’ It wasn’t that Paul was a natural sceptic, but his default position with Richard tended to waver between disbelief and fuck right off.

  ‘No, that’s the beauty of it,’ Richard argued. ‘It’s totally legit.’

  ‘Yeah, right.’ As in, fuck right off.

  ‘No, listen,’ said Richard. ‘We write a drop-dead brilliant block-fucking-buster screenplay, and then we sell the rights for gazillions of dollars to some big-shot studio exec.’ Richard’s head started bobbing up and down with excitement. Paul imagined taking a chainsaw to his friend’s neck.

  ‘That’s it?’ Paul asked. ‘That’s your ‘stayed up all night’ idea?’

  ‘There’s more.’

  ‘Go on.’ Paul could barely contain his excitement.

  ‘We call the movie, Agency O. Good title, eh?’

  Paul raised a single eyebrow. No.

  Richard persevered. ‘So, here’s the pitch. Young slacker guy, maybe an actor with low prospects.’ Wink. ‘Answers an ad for an assistant’s post for some fat cat billionaire and his fat cat conglomerate. Doesn’t think he’ll have a fat cat in hell’s chance of making the shortlist, but to his amazement he gets the call from the recruitment agency, called –

  ‘Let me guess,’ said Paul. ‘Agency O?’

  ‘The very same. But the thing is, this agency, they’re a bit ... eh … weird.’

  ‘How’d you mean?’

  ‘I dunno. I haven’t worked that out yet. Maybe the guy has to go through some strange psychometric shit. Tests, and other mind-fucking bullshit, you know? Anyway, he fucks up his interview, like he always does, but … he lands the job. So far so good?’

  Paul waved him on like the world’s most depressed bus driver.

  ‘Aha! You’re getting into it. I can tell.’

  ‘Finish the bloody story.’

  Richard grinned. He had his audience hooked. ‘So,’ he continued, ‘he goes to work for this rich dude, who seems to like him. Pretty soon, he gets promoted, and makes his way up the oily pole, until he’s living the high life: fast cars, drugs, chicks – ’

  ‘Where’s this going?’

  ‘Slow down, mister. We’re getting there.’

  A rolling of the eyes from Paul.

  Richard lowered his voice to a conspiratorial mezzo-soprano. ‘One day, a couple of years down the line, the big cheese calls him into his office and tells him something that blows his mind sky fucking high.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’re definitely hooked. I can tell.’

  ‘I’m just trying to speed things along. What did he tell him? And don’t do that voice. It’s creepy.’

  Richard reverted to his normal voice. ‘Okay, so the head honcho tells the young turk that he’s going to hand over the reins of the company to him – the whole shebang, lock stock.’

  Paul leaned back in his chair. ‘Oh, come on. Why would he do that when he’s just his assistant? That doesn’t make any sense.’

  ‘Let’s just say he trusts him to do the right thing.’

  ‘And what’s that?’

  ‘Kill him.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Or ‘assist’ in his suicide.’

  Paul shook his head. ‘This is stupid.’

  ‘That’s the twist,’ said Richard. ‘Five years before, Agency O had hired this guy to be the PA of the previous CEO. He was made an offer he couldn’t refuse, and before he knew it, he was living the life in big buck town.’

  ‘Can you stop with the clichés? Please? You’re making me feel sick.’

  ‘But then … boom! It’s payback time, and our man is the CEO’s replacement stooge.’

  ‘I don’t get it.’

  ‘Don’t you see? Agency O recruit receptive personalities like those bozos to do their bidding.’

  ‘But why would this boss let himself be killed? You said he was a billionaire. He can do whatever he likes. Why would he give that up?’

  Ah. Richard hadn’t considered that. ‘Okay,’ he said, wriggling a little, ‘I’ll need your help on that. You’re the one with the smarty, scribbly brains. I’m just the thick actor. It’s all about Agency O and what they’re up to.’

  ‘And what are they up to?’

  ‘Agency O is a secret organisation whose primary goal is to initiate chaos around the world,’ explained Richard, taking another slurp of coffee. ‘Business, governments, infrastructure, media, whatever. Their goal is to plant seeds of disorder in every corner of society.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why’d you think? To gain control and power over our lives.’ Richard warmed to his theme. ‘When chaos and uncertainty reigns, fear prevails. And when they’ve cranked this fear up to eleven, they intervene. Suddenly, they’re benevolent champions of all things good. But their motives … their motives are pitch-black and downright evil.’

  Paul burst out laughing. ‘Where do you get this shit from?'

  Richard was unfazed. ‘Billionaire suicides.’

  ‘What?’

  'I was reading about it the other day. They’re all the rage, apparently.’

  ‘Are they really?’

  ‘There was a guy recently, some CEO of a multinational transport conglomerate … threw himself in front of one of his own trains. Then the journalist investigating it got murdered. It’s the stuff of conspiracy thrillers.’ Richard downed the rest of his coffee and lowered his mug, smacking his lips in appreciation. ‘Ahhh …’

  ‘Okay, so first of all,’ reasoned Paul, ‘you’re expecting me to write a thriller. I don’t write thrillers. I hate thrillers. I would rather have colonic irrigation than write a thriller.’

  ‘It’s not a thriller, it’s a screenplay of a thriller.’

  Paul cut back in. ‘Second … I have never written a screenplay. I wouldn’t know where to start.’

  Richard sighed.

  ‘And third, if that journo got himself killed, do we really want to fuck around with that kind of fire?’

  ‘Oh, come on, Paul,’ Richard grunted. ‘Stop building walls. You’re a writer. Any writer worth his salt would jump at the creative challenge.’

  Paul considered this. Was he worth his salt? What was salt worth? Why the fuck were they talking about salt? ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘I’ll humour you. For now. Let’s pretend I’m interested.’

  ‘Aha! I knew it!’

  ‘I said “pretend”. You know? Like an actor?’ Paul stared at Richard as though he was a child. ‘Do you have any idea how difficult it is to sell a screenplay?’


  ‘Of course I do,’ replied Richard, feigning offence. ‘Plus, I know exactly how to sell it.’

  ‘Oh fuck, we’re still not done.’ Paul drained the last of his coffee, wishing the grounds at the bottom were miniature cyanide capsules.

  Richard was pumped. ‘We make short films of key scenes and put them up on social media. We get hits – major hits – and before you know it, we have a cult following. And then we pitch it to the money monsters. You write it and I act it. Dream team!’ He thumped the table.

  Paul put down his mug. ‘I’m going for a shower.’

  ‘Come on, Paul. We can do this.’

  Paul was almost out the door. Richard couldn’t let him leave. Not yet. ‘I tell you what!’ he yelled, stopping Paul in his tracks. ‘If you give this a go, I’ll get a job!’

  Paul stopped and turned round. Now Richard was taking the piss.

  ‘I’ll be the breadwinner,’ said Richard, ‘and you can be the stay-at-home scribe.’

  There was something in Richard’s voice that Paul couldn’t quite dismiss. Something … genuine. ‘This really means a lot to you, doesn’t it?’ he asked.

  ‘Like you wouldn’t believe. I mean, I feel it in my kidneys. Come on, Paul. It’s all I’ve got.’

  Paul couldn’t believe he was about to say what he was about to say. ‘Okay. If I do this …’

  ‘I love you!’ Richard shrieked, leaping to his feet and running at Paul with open arms.

  ‘I said if I do this …’ Paul felt uncomfortable with another man’s arms around him. Having to remove a human head from his armpit didn’t exactly thrill him either. ‘… I’ll need more.’

  ‘Don’t you worry about that,’ said Richard. ‘The wheels are spinning. I’ll have nailed it by the time you’ve scrubbed your arse. And you never know,’ Richard added with a smile of pure, undiluted hope, ‘you might even enjoy it.’

  Paul held his friend’s gaze. ‘If you renege on this – on any of this – the deal’s off.’

  Richard crossed his heart. ‘I betroth thine trust to the gods, Obi Wan.’ He grinned. ‘And of course, you do realise that, as the breadwinner, I will have full conjugal rights.’

  Paul had had enough of bad actors and bullshit for one day. His response to both was not only concise, but elegant and universal.

  ‘Fuck. Right. Off.’

  In the days that followed, and to Paul’s disbelief, Richard upheld his part of the deal: he landed himself a job. It may only have been three days a week at the local bookshop, but to say Paul was gobsmacked was an understatement; more so when Richard survived the first day without getting himself sacked.

  Richard’s out-of-character commitment to their pact meant Paul felt obliged to respond in kind. And so, with grudging reluctance, he borrowed a couple of books on scriptwriting from the local library, and began to write. The first few days were slow-going, and had him considering how best – and how gently – to let Richard down. But as he persevered he seemed to find a new kind of rhythm to his writing. Soon words and ideas began pouring out of him, and to his amazement he took to thriller writing like an old seasoned hack, revelling in his new-found voice. He would often write late into the night, hammering out page after page after page. When he’d completed the first few scenes he shared them with Richard, who punched the air and leapt around the flat with childish glee, screaming at the top of his lungs, ‘You got it, baby! You got it, baby!’ Soon they were living and breathing their project; bouncing ideas back and forth, carving, polishing, and fine-tuning scenes until they were tight as a drum. By the end of the month they had the bones of a completed screenplay. Paul wasn’t done with it yet, but it was a workable draft. The next stage was the videos, and once again, Richard had a plan and Paul’s heart sank further into the pit of his stomach.

  2

  Zurich, 12th July, 7.30am

  Hans Gleiber, Chief Executive of the Swiss banking conglomerate Strasse, steps out of his eighteen bedroom mansion in the super-rich Zurich suburb of Meilen. On the doorstep, his beautiful, kimono-wrapped wife Julienne, twenty years his junior, leans over, kisses his balding pate, and straightens his silk tie. His car, a top of the range, gleaming silver Mercedes, sits in the driveway, its engine purring. Hans’ driver, the portly Klaus, who usually waits obediently by the open rear passenger-side door, is today inside, tapping impatiently on the steering wheel. Julienne waves her husband off and checks her watch, shivering involuntarily. Hans fumbles with the door handle – does it go up or down? – until it swings open and he clambers over the pristine, squelchy upholstery.

  ‘In a hurry, are we?’

  Klaus ignores his boss’ sarcastic comment and sets off down the long drive, past the immaculately-manicured gardens and overly-ornate fountain bedecked with Roman nymphs and pissing cherubs. Hans leans forward. ‘I said, in a hurry, are - ?’ A loud burst of Beethoven’s piano sonata no. 32 fills the back of the car.

  ‘No music, please, Klaus,’ says Hans, irritated. ‘Turn it off.’ He clicks open his briefcase and lifts out a handful of papers. The music increases in volume. Hans drops his papers and leans forward again. ‘Klaus!’ He taps the back of Klaus’ seat. ‘Please. I have a lot of work to do and I need – ’

  A glass screen slowly rises, separating the two men.

  Hans bangs on the window. ‘Hey, Klaus! What are you doing?’ The music grows louder and the doors click shut. Hans thumps harder on the glass but Klaus only has eyes for the road, accelerating onto the approaching autobahn. Hans glances nervously out the window. The car is racing way above the speed limit, lane-jumping and weaving between vehicles. They drive past the exit sign to the city centre. A panicky Hans hammers his fist against the reinforced pane. ‘Where are we going, Klaus?’ he yells. The car speeds on towards the mountains in the distance. Hans pulls out his phone and stabs at it. Shit! There’s no signal. Furious and frustrated, he flings it across the back seat.

  PSSSSSSS. The pungent odour of lavender seeps into the car through the air conditioning duct. It’s now very warm in the back seat and Hans is sweating. He takes his jacket off and pulls at his tie. He thumps the glass with the heel of his hand. ‘Klaus, please! What are you doing? I can give you money, if that’s what this is?’ He’s growing drowsy, his thought processes failing. He sits back. The lavender smell sticks to the back of his throat and he coughs. It’s as though the oxygen is being sucked from his lungs. It’s a struggle to reach for the door handle, an invisible force pushing him further into his seat. His eyes roll back into their sockets and he quickly loses consciousness.

  Hans wakes to the sensation of being hauled out of the car by his shoulders. He’s flat on his back and all he can see is blue sky. A deep paralysis prevents all but his head from moving. His gaze tilts sideways. There’s a pair of shoes in his eye-line: shiny black brogues. They drift out of view and now someone is on top of him. He forces his head around. Is that Klaus? I don’t pay him enough to afford designer brogues. Whoever it is has a ski mask on and is tying a rubber cord around Hans’ arm, tightening it until the veins pop.

  ‘No …’ Hans tries to scream but his throat and tongue are numb.

  Hans’ abductor has a syringe, filled with a dark amber liquid. Hans makes a final attempt to kick himself free, but he can’t. Nothing can stop the liquid being slowly injected into his arm. As it enters his bloodstream. Hans’ body soars with a euphoric rush. But then the rush becomes a barrage of exploding missiles inside his crumbling brain. Before his body can go into shock, Hans is dragged back to the car and bundled, limb by limb, into the driver’s seat.

  Hans is frothing at the mouth now, and his muscles have begun to spasm. He’s close to death, the heroin keeping him alive just long enough to appreciate his final ride to the great tax haven in the sky. His abductor leans over and releases the handbrake. As the door is slammed shut the car trickles forward, rolling off the road through a narrow gap in the barrier, snapping the wing mirror in the process. With a dull CLUNK it disappears.

&nbs
p; Hans’ abductor runs to the cliff edge and watches the car summersault and batter against the rocky mountainside, shedding its skin and disintegrating as it falls. When it finally comes to rest, upside down and barely recognisable as the half-million dollar car it was a couple of minutes before, there’s a split-second of quiet before the twisted remains explode in a colossal fireball, a mushroom cloud of smoke soaring skywards.

  A thin hand lifts Hans’ jacket from the side of the road and rummages through the pockets. The large wad of Swiss francs and the impressive collection of gold and platinum credit cards are ignored, the flicking fingers stopping at a small photograph of a child – Melissa, Hans’ two year-old albino daughter – which is quickly removed and tucked into a pocket. The thin hands roll the jacket into a tight ball and toss it over the edge, where it drops to join the burning broken body of its owner. The shiny brogues then leave the road, climb a splintered fence, and take the walkers’ path back down the mountain to civilization.

  3

  Richard told Paul to meet him at 11 outside the new Clyde Insurance building at St Enoch’s. Paul arrived bang on time, but Richard was nowhere to be seen. There were, however, three motley individuals at the bottom of the steps of this gleaming new symbol of modern Glasgow, kicking their heels around a pile of boxes, tripods, and what looked like a large 1950s-style spotlight. They reminded Paul of the half-cut women he used to see sloshing around their handbags up at Victoria’s. ‘Excuse me,’ he said, walking up to them. ‘You’re not waiting for Richard, are you?’

  The three men nodded in unison. ‘Are you Paul?’ one of them asked, a wispy beard tickling his prominent chin.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Richard said we’d be filming today, in here.’ Wispy Beard nodded towards the towering monstrosity looming ominously over them.

  ‘Here?’

  ‘Aye. I take it you’ve no idea what he’s up to either?’

  ‘As usual.’

  Wispy Beard stepped forward, his arm out. ‘I’m James,’ he said. The two men shook hands. ‘And this – ’ he motioned to a damp-haired Guillermo del Toro lookalike and a man Paul instantly thought had ‘pirate leanings’ ‘ – is Stephen and Douglas. We were all at drama school with Richard.’ Paul shook hands with each of them in turn. ‘Good to meet fellow sufferers,’ he said. ‘It’s like a Richard rehab meeting.’ They all laughed.