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Leaders of Hope, Part 2, Chapter 1

 Part Two
   If not us, who?
   If not now, when?
    –Unknown Author

1

Fifteen Years Later
The dark alley was littered with garbage. Newspapers, dated over a decade ago fluttered through the alley as the cool breeze blew into the isolated passage, the only noise to be heeded came from a scruffy calico cat rummaging in a tipped over garbage can near the back of the alley. Abruptly, the cat dived into the safety of the overflowing junk, frightful of the footsteps it heard approaching into its dark sanctuary. From its hide away, the cat watched as a dark figure ran through the alley, splashing into puddles of rainwater before reaching a dead end. The dark figure was cornered. Cornered not by the calico cat, but by those who followed it.
The mysterious character panicked, blazing its eyes through the alleyway, searching for anything that could be used as cover. Eyeing the overturned garbage can, the unknown person corrected it, placing the large pail upright and hiding behind it, being careful to tuck its feet in and curl up into a small black ball. Hopefully, the figure thought, it would be enough.

This individual was covered, from head to toe, in black clothing. Black shoes, pants, shirt, mask and gloves. The only part of the shadowy entity that was revealed was its deep green eyes. Any of the person’s white skin would have been easy to spot on a night when the moon was full. The slender shape was crouching in puddles of liquid, a nauseous mixture of rotting juices, rainwater and detergents leaking from the garbage, its fumes were noxious enough to almost encourage regurgitation. But the silent character dared not move, not yet. As the wind blew by the curled ball of a person, it could hear the thuds of weighty footsteps. The muscles of the dark figure tensed, hearing the footsteps grow louder. The men who were chasing this shady individual now entered the almost empty alleyway.

Whispering could be heard from the two heavily built military men. They slowly walked towards the dead end, kicking over nearby garbage bins, rifles in hand, ready to shoot at the fleeing fugitive that was now only meters away from them. These men were a part of the country’s new “civil police”, installed only several years back and tasked with quelling riots and to aid in the destruction of the rebellion that this escaping renegade was a part of. Brutal and merciless, this police force was more of a well paid mercenary force than men who would protect and serve. They rarely distinguished between civilian and rebel, killing before one could surrender and executing after one was to lay down their weapons. Yet despite the risk, this cloaked escapee knew that with the information it stole, being killed in an attempt to run was a more desirable fate than being captured alive. In this game of life, the losers, lost big.

The trash canister beside this rebel vibrated and in the dead of night, its sound reverberated through the silent alley. One of the policemen was now thrusting his hand down into the garbage can that the dark individual was crouching behind. The only movement that escaped its body was the quivering of fear. This must be the end. The end of me and the end of our hopes, the person’s thoughts were as dark as the clothes they wore.

As if fate itself was denying this figure’s statement, a calico cat bit the hand that trespassed its dark home and using its claws to climb up the man’s arm, it flew off his shoulder, landing on the ground and running off into the moonlit night. “Damn it! Son of a bitch cat!” The stricken man fired three bullets in the direction of the cat. The cat’s only reply was a loud meow a few seconds later. Laughter could be heard from the entrance of the alley. “Move your ass solider! Whoever it was, they must have run up the street.” In his rage, the man kicked the garbage can, exposing the dark figure that sat crouched behind it. Too afraid to move, the cloaked rebel peeked out from its arms that enclosed its face. The alley was empty once again. Whoever this person was, they were safe once again, as safe as one could be in such times that is. Picking themselves up from the putrid puddle at their heels, the figure quickly ran back into the night, sticking to the shadows. There was no time to wait, this information had to be returned and immediately.

The city was not what it used to be, especially in what were now the ghettos. Streets piled high with rubbish and rubble, collected by wind and sometimes high enough to be used as cover from gun fire. Road blocks and craters in the roads were common as well. Destroyed and leveled buildings were a frequent sight throughout the city and many of such tarnished structures were the only shelter left to many caught in the middle of a power struggle that started fifteen years ago, a struggle between the powerful and the people and this time, the people were not giving up. The people still had hope and the information this renegade had, carried this needed hope. Running though the broken roads of London, it took the fleeing character another two hours of ducking and dodging before it reached a make shift gate, built and guarded by the revolutionaries that called its insides “home”. The gate itself was of poor quality, made of wood, metal and brick, hammered, nailed and cemented time and time again.

At the head of the gate stood six men, each standing behind a small mound to be used as cover. They raised their rifles and aimed at the dark figure that slowly strolled towards them. The ranking guard was the first to speak. “Which shadow are you?”
“The Jaguar’s,” the individual spoke plainly.
“Rules are rules, unveil.” The guard was aware of who was behind the dark clothes, but one could never be too cautious. The dark figure pulled of its mask.
                First to be revealed was the red hair that fell behind the rebel’s shoulders. Next was the soft smile, a small button nose and then the green eyes. With the mask now in her hands, the woman looked at the guard who smiled kindly in reply. “May I?” The woman asked.
His reply was courteous as he opened the gate “You may enter, Miss Dalia.”

By Oscar Krol
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Leaders of Hope, Part 2, Chapter 2

2
The dark clothed Dalia walked through the streets of the rebel base. Their base, although rustic, to say the least, was equipped with all the necessities a rebel would need; split into sections with signs showing the way it was almost like a small village within the now devastated city of London. Kitchens, ammunition depots, armory, sleeping quarters, communal places and even a basic theater, they may be considered rebels but no war could be won without a strong moral. They were even able to commandeer a fire truck to use in emergencies. The base its self comprised of around 50 buildings. It was not much compared to the size of London but it was easy enough to defend and most of the structures were more or less intact. It was only through sheer luck that the military ran out of oil and gas and so could not power their planes and tanks, otherwise this rebellion would have long since died. This was headquarters for the rebellion in England, perhaps the best equipped in Europe, if one did not count the uprising in Moscow.

The rebels all watched the dark figure as she strode by the small lanterns lighting the street. Dalia had her reputation within the ranks but outside, to civilians and the military, Dalia was unknown, that is to say her face was unknown. Most of those in the military however knew of her work and her ability to acquirecertain information and goods from strongholds throughout the country. 

The civil police was the very last of the government slash corporate strongholds in all the major cities around the world. They comprised of former army generals, politicians from before the fall of the governments and several large corporate giants that still held influence through mercenary armies and production lines, capable only through their wealth, several of these included the federal banks of a country, or food and water monopolies, not to forget technology giants. The ‘governate’ was a term coined by the head advisor of the rebels, used to describe how the government and corporate leaders were one and the same in this day and age. Governates globally used their power over, food, water , ammunition and electricity to strangle the rebels out of as many cities as possible to the point where the rebels turned from re-education of the people and a peaceful overthrow to a more active and consequently violet route, this had been the method of confrontation for many years in England. Whist this specific band of rebels may have had hopes for a peaceful reunification of the country, that had long become history when governate men ambushed and killed the last negotiating party over eight years ago.

Perhaps what separated Dalia and her fellow peers from other revolutions across the world was their aim in what and how they wanted to change their world. In the beginning they followed the actions set out by groups in France and Germany. Groups of innocent people who banded together in order to survive but this rebellion had long since strayed from its goal of pure survival. What differentiated these revolutionaries from others were their ideals. Ideals not etched in religion, ideology or power but ideals based on a world that could come together through technology and understanding. Not a consumerist world based on economies nor a Marxist world that perpetuated out dated communal ideals. They cared not for race or religion. What Dalia and many others now wanted was a total obliteration of the ideas of contemporary power and structure. It was an idealistic view of the future but why strive for anything else than what was best for everybody but of course those in power desired to stay in power and so fought, violently and without mercy against Dalia and other dissidents.

The idea that they ironically fought for was for a world of peace, a world powered by what was called a resource based economy, based on the resources and technology created and available to people, instead of the imaginary power brought by wealth and stature. The idea was created by a man of unknown origins but it was perpetuated by another man that called himself The Fox. This self named Foxhad become a beacon of hope in France and Germany. Through his leadership, knowledge and pure luck he was able to organize and spearhead the charge against the Governates in both countries. Yet, even though he had been rumored never to have set foot in England, his stories and legend reached far beyond the shores of Dover and penetrated into the highlands of Scotland. It brought hope to many, even though to them, the Fox, was no more than just a story.

The Fox did not bother with his background and so people did not know much about him, instead the people and himself focused on his message, and the change he presented to society. He was a man who had came out of the woodwork, one like any other. Except that this man, The Fox, created hope when before there was only despair. His actions rippled throughout Europe and spread into Asia and Africa, until about 6 months ago when he suddenly disappeared. Germany and France had no information and there were no sightings of him in neighboring countries. Many simply feared his death or capture. Some thought he went underground for fear for his life, fewer still believed he turned traitor, seeing the folly in his ideals and running out before he was finally killed but Dalia knew that rumors were rumors. In reality, he did little for them there in England, his story accomplished little more than the legend of Robin Hood had done since its inception. Despite that, she did hope that the man would live to see his actions bear fruit.

Finally she reached her destination; a plain 4 storied building, with only broken windows and chipping paint to show for its age. A wooden sign hung above a pair of nonfunctional electrical sliding doors. The white words that were painted onto the sign started to peel but one could still make out the inscription: “Advisor’s Office”. The idea of having advisors was another distinguishing factor between England and other countries that were rebelling against their Governates. It made little sense to preach about a world without a power structure when a rebellion would use a hierarchy, much like the military’s, such was the reason for the creation of advisors. A team of men and women, young and old, those most experienced in their fields, coming together and constantly trying to forge a path forward. Engineers of all types, ex military and even changed politicians made the bulk of advisors but their duty was not to lead. Only to try and focus on the best way forward, using their combined experience, knowledge and wisdom.

It was as far from a hierarchy as one could get without utter chaos at such a desperate times. Nonetheless this was meant to amplify the ability for any one man to aid in constructing a new future. Advisors were not only meant to discuss amongst themselves but with the people and to listen to any and all who came to them with ideas and thoughts that might benefit the group as a whole. The advisors took on all ideas, they considered all plans from anybody involved, they did not sleep in separate buildings, eat better food or had any luxuries, they were exactly equal to those that they fought with. They were a part of the community and part of the revolution; this made them an essential part to the passion that fueled the revolution.

The downside to this of course was impending chaos within the advisor’s building. People would often swarm with ideas or complaints that they deemed important or essential. Some were, some were not, and it was that simple. Dalia walked through the disabled sliding doors, electricity was often unpredictable, between black outs, blow outs and cut offs. Inside the building was a great bustle. Advisors were discussing and often answering questions of anybody who came to their doors. They may have tired from the repetition of some questions, but they perhaps understood better than most that a uniformed mass was prone to be chaotic and a much easier populace to discourage. Dalia did not stand out so much from the crowd because she was considered a shadow of London but because of the fiery hair that bounced atop her shoulders as she strode by. Some became accustom to seeing her whilst others still stared in-between their conversations with one another. Most people here were hunched over papers and maps that spread across tables, discussing ideas or planning movements but Dalia continued into the back where a stair case lead to the other floors in the building.

She walked up to the top floor where the final decisions were finally agreed upon. For each floor the level of importance increased. The ground floor ranging from supplying food to repairs, the second varied from minor movements of rebels. The third floor conducted larger scale assaults and intelligence operations. The fourth floor is where the advisors gathered to met and discuss. Each floor was completely open, doors had been purposely removed to show that there was no hiding of information, and movement between the floors was completely free apart from a security check which inspected people before they entered the fourth floor but this was merely a check for weapons and did not limit the flow of people.

People understood the meaning of importance and respected the levels of the building, only rarely did a random person walk onto the fourth floor to talk about repairs but instead of being scolded and sent out, the advisors carefully listened to what the person had to say, and came to a decision, but they did make sure the person understood that those ideas remained on the first floor. After the routine pat down, which Dalia knew the guards enjoyed, she walked onto the fourth floor. Here there were a few desks and a few chairs. The desks varied from school desks to large oaks.

In the far back was one advisor leaning back on a small wooden chair. The advisor was deep in thought, but his thought track was broken at the sight of the red haired shadow.
“Ah, you have returned. Did you get it?”
“Yes, but sector 7 should remain quarantined for a few days, they are going to be on high alert there for a while.”
“I see, hand me the drive.” The advisor said opening his hand, he was an older man; a white beard decorated his face and wrinkles peculated across his face. Dalia took a hand sized computer drive and gave it to the advisor. The rate of change in technology had been stunted, to stay the least since the revolts started fifteen years ago. “Beautiful, great job, now let’s see what they are up to.” The advisor walked over to a nearby computer and monitor, the computer was in no ways modern and had been greatly modified to last as long as it has. It was plated with several metals to enforce the case, a great majority of colored wires sprouted from nooks and crannies that littered through the back and sides of the technological dinosaur. The advisor started inserting wires into the drive and the computer. Soon he was browsing through the various documents in the driver, Dalia peered at the screen from behind his shoulder watching as he opened and closed various documents.

“Ah, here it is,” he exclaimed and the paused to read. “It says here that there is a rebel official who is being moved from London to Dover within a week, that’s got to be The Fox.”
Confusion, surprise and disbelief became apparent across Dalia’s face.
“Yes,” the advisor said turning to look at her. “The Fox was captured by the governate six months ago. We managed to retrieve bits of information here and there since his capture but we are now certain it’s got to be him. Nobody else of high profile has gone missing in the last 6 months.”
After all this time, Dalia thought, the Fox was captured and most likely tortured. “We need to be sure” she said, her voice calm but urgent. It did seem unlikely that the Fox would disappear in France and then reappear only to be captured in England. Was he trying to relocate into England? The thought briefly danced through Dalia’s mind.

“Yes I know, that’s where you come in again. There is a governate party being held in a mansion outside of the city tomorrow, we’ve already prepared the necessary documentation to get you in there, all you need to do is find a way to get into Church’s office and get definitive proof.”
If she was surprised before, Dalia was shocked now. Neil Church, often thought of as the evil twin to Winston Churchill was the leader of the governate, his ruthless tactics had lead to almost constant confrontation. He rose to power through connections, wealth and a strong loyalty from the army and it was now Dalia’s job to infiltrate his highly secure office and find the necessary information.
“I know it sounds impossible, but we have learned that Church has no escort for the evening, if you’re clever enough you might be able to get that position. As a womanizer he often takes trips to his office with various women during the parties. I’m sure you would have no problem attracting his attention.”

The idea of Dalia having to seduce the murdering mad man sickened her, but it was not the nastiest thing she would have to do in this war. “Fine,” she sighed “I’ll do it but why is it that if we have been able to get so close to him, why did we not kill him already?”
“Killing him will not do anything, only promote their propaganda. There will always be somebody to take his place; he may be a killer and a leader to the military, but it is the corporate bigwigs that hide behind the scenes that are the heads of the hydra.” And with that Dalia walked away from the advisor, down the stairs, through the room of bantering rebels and out the broken electric sliding doors. Once outside she started walking left and after passing several buildings, she entered a small 2 floor building nudged in-between two larger buildings. There were no signs leading to this building, nor were there many people around. Dalia entered the building and was greeted by two other dark figures leaving. Unable to tell who was who, they all nodded in acknowledgement and continued in their own directions.
Once inside, the corridor stretched for a long length, the building was not large, but it was long, she walked towards the steps and looked into a nearby room whilst passing, she saw about seven people sitting on chairs and a couch, all of them talking and laughing. This house was for the shadows of London. This is where they slept and this is where they changed from dark figures to middle class rebels. It did not make them special but it gave them a staging point for their operations. Walking away from the room Dalia crept up the stairs and into the dorms of the building, 15 beds in total all lined up in this cramped room, all with some small storage spaces just in front of the bed: a box, a trunk or even a table with no legs. At the end of this room were 2 bathrooms, equipped with a sink, a shower unit and a toilet. 

She walked to the last bed on the right, closest to the bathroom and fished out clothes from her storage space which was no more than just a cardboard box. Taking the clothes into the bathroom and locking the door Dalia walked over to the nearby sink and mirror and placed her clothes on the floor beside her. Twisting the faucet open caused the aged pipes in the house the squeak until the sink coughed out cold water. With her hands at opposite sides of the sink she looked at her own deep green eyes as if they would answer her question, “What have you gotten yourself into Dalia?”




By : Oscar Krol
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Leaders of Hope, Part 2, Chapter 3

3

It was a great comfort for Dalia to be driven around the city in a Mercedes S class salon. The rebels had been saving this car for a ‘special occasion’ and this was car was essential to play the part today. It may have not been the classiest but it would add to the charade. Dalia could not come up to the mansion in old rusted car, nor could she just walk there, too many suspicious people could cause alarms for such a delicate mission.

Dalia was to play the part of a single and very rich countess who had been hiding out in the south of France until now when she is finally return to her estate near York, such a profile should have Church interested, especially since Dalia was taking the life of a woman who was alive not more than a week ago. It would be unlikely that the governate would have been keeping tabs on a random rich woman. Dalia sat in the back of the silver Mercedes behind the driver. She watched as they drove on the few roads that could still be driven on. Since the revolution started, cars had been reduced to almost nothing since gas was almost inaccessible to most people. The cars had no value yet they had a great prestige, merely driving a car, let alone a well kept Mercedes signaled that you were one of those the governate appreciated. She watched as the ruins of the city laid there, continuously becoming more degraded over the many years of fighting.

Once in a while she could see people on the street but they immediately ducked for cover when the car drove by. The people had learnt that the governate meant trouble, even as innocent bystanders, harassment and accusation were common, so common that many had chosen to fight against the governate, at least giving cause for any harassment they would endear. The city was destitute. Dalia could still see it as it once was, before any of this ever happened. The streets were well kept, trees used to grow in pots along that road, a small Indian run grocery store was in that building. 

All of it was gone yet even though reality had changed Dalia’s memories had not, it was comforting to Dalia. Reaching the outside of the city she could see a great contrast to the style of living. Out here houses were still large and untouched. Their gardens were neatly trimmed so they were not to overflow over the vast white walls and black gates engraved with crescents and other designs. Each house had a small army guarding it. Yet in this false atmosphere of safety there were still no people walking the streets, they obviously did not feel as safe as their houses proclaimed.

As they neared the location of the party the driver spoke for the first time “Ok Dalia, we are coming close. Remember, get what you can from the office and then come straight back to the car, I’ll get us out of here fast. If you’re compromised you’ll need to find another way out of here because I and the car will be the first targets.”

“Thank you for the reminder.” Dalia replied. She did not need reminding, in fact the reminder depressed her a tad. The driver turned into a road that had large oak trees lined up on either side, at the end of this road was a large house and in between the car and the house was a road block often guarded by civil police and military. The car slowed down to a stop at the road block, the driver opened his window and presented the correct papers. Both the driver and Dalia were nerve racked, but tried their best not to twitch, fidget or sweat. On demand the driver popped the trunk of the car and even the gas flap. Soon after they were asked to step out of the car. The driver was convinced they were caught and was about to switch the gears into reverse and try to escape, but Dalia’s agreement halted his action.

 Confused he opened his door and then opened Dalia’s. She stepped out, her long black dress covering one of her legs but revealing her right calf. The driver and the muscular military guard could not help but look at her unveiled leg, as if they were teenage boys once again. Dalia pretended not to notice. The men suddenly snapped back to reality and the guard continued to step into the car and started searching it. Another guard picked up a hand held metal detector and waved it slowly around the bodies of the driver and then Dalia. Not a beep, she was glad she did not bring her gun. Once the guard exited the car he addressed his superior with “All clear sir!” His superior immediately walked towards Dalia and said “I’m sorry for the inconvenience Countess Erika; we cannot be too careful these days.”

Dalia replied in a proper northern English accent “Not at all my dear Capitan! Those rebelscannot infiltrate any fortress that you protect.” Her accent spotless and her hand brushing against the Captain’s clean shaven cheek. He bowed his head and stepped back. Dalia entered the car, with the driver closing the door behind her with care not to make too much noise. He then entered the driver’s seat and drove onwards.
“That was amazing!” the driver exclaimed looking at Dalia through the rear view mirror.
“I couldn’t have let you suddenly freak out and endanger the whole mission; we won’t get another chance like this again.” The driver, embarrassed that Dalia had read his mind did not speak again for the rest of the short drive, the silence allowed Dalia to focus once more. She closed her eyes, shielding her intense green irises from the world and took a deep breath. She exhaled and opened her eyes and she was now looking at the large mansion that was directly to her right.

“I’ll be right here Dalia. Good luck.” The driver finally spoke again. The door was opened by a civil policeman who was dressed in a tuxedo but had a rifle sling on his left shoulder. “Welcome to Mister Church’s residence, May I have your name?” said the tuxedoed guard. Dalia stepped out from the car and rose to the height of the man’s shoulders. This man was well trained; he had not even so much as glanced at her calves. “Countess Erika” she said, being sure to add a dash of arrogance to her voice.
“Right this way countess,” the guard said extending his hand up the red carpeted stairs. He led her up the stairs whilst behind them, next to the car, an almost identical guard took his position, all the while her car started to move towards a nearby parking space.

At the top of the carpeted stairs were two towering mahogany doors that opened as if by magic when Dalia and the guard approached. Dalia had wanted to see how those doors opened so smoothly, even though she knew that there were guards trained specifically for that job. With the door opened she could now gaze upon the entire room. It was almost as if she had gone back two hundred years to the Victorian era. The room was bright with white walls engraved with several majestic designs and murals with yellow trimmings and boarders around them. The yellow trims made everything, from the mirrors and paintings to the chairs and tables, look like they had been plated with gold. Either Mr. Church was a great collector, or he took advantage of the Royal family’s escape to acquire some of their more luxurious items. To Dalia’s left she could hear a man announcing her entrance.

At the end of his sentence all eyes had been caste on to her. She felt momentarily paralyzed. As if the gaze of hundreds of people had pinned her to the wall. When the room was satisfied with what they saw it continued to its previous boasting atmosphere. Although the house was quite Victorian, the people were not. The men had worn tuxedos of all types and colors. Some wore black, others brown, one strange man even wore turquoise and had a diamond ear ring on his right ear; next to him coupling his arm was another more formally dressed man. Dalia did not know who was escorting who. 

The women in the room had all invested in dresses that had allowed them to show as much cleavage as possible whilst still pretending to look decent. By the time Dalia had been given a glass of Champagne by a wandering waiter with a tray full of glasses, she had already been asked to be escorted four times. She did not know if it was her attractiveness or her alias’ title that made the men gravitate towards her. It was probably both. She admired the Champagne for a while, being sure that nobody saw her staring at the golden liquid. She admired the way the bubbles traveled to the top, as if the glass had been punctured at the bottom.

Dalia did not see the infamous Mr. Church yet. A man like him would stand out from any crowd, especially one as pompous as the one tonight. Dalia continued to be courted by men as if they were flies invading sugar. She could not help but accept a dance from one man to help let time pass. He called himself Cooper, Kane Cooper. No title, but an avid associate to the governate Dalia learnt. They danced to Chopin’s waltz. Cooper had excellent form compared to Dalia’s, his hand firmly but ever so gently grasped her left hand, and his right hand was almost unfelt as it held Dalia’s back. She was glad she did not have to lead the dance. “So tell me, what bring you back home countess?” Cooper asked.

“It is my home, and I cannot watch it being terrorized by rebels in a foreign country. I intend to invest in the governate as much as I can to crush these terrorists.” Dalia needed to play the part but she was worried that she had made it over dramatic. “I see you have great love for your home Countess.” Cooper remarked. Dalia replied “My love for my home is great, but I have no love for politics, so let us just enjoy the party.” She hoped he did not take notice of the obvious change of subject. “As you wish countess.” Cooper said as the dance ended.

An older and balding man started talking into the microphone where the orchestra had played. Cooper had turned and looked at the man, but when he returned his vision to Dalia, she was no longer by his side. He smiled and looked directly at the man on the stage talking into the microphone and then nodded. The man on the stage acknowledged the nod by winking ever so slightly and covered it as if it was a joke to the audience, they laughed as if on demand, all starting at the same time with the same intensity and all hushing within two seconds. Dalia thought they were a pathetic mob; it wasn’t even a funny joke. She was now at the edge of the crowd near the door she had entered into. The man continued to talk and everybody listened as if they were dogs being talked to by their master, they realized they had to stay put but that did not mean they understood or cared what was being said. Dalia was the only one out of place not looking at the man on the stage; instead she was more concerned with looking around the room. Not only for its sheer beauty but also for potential exits and perhaps ways in which to sneak into Church’s office.

A deep but comforting voice came from behind Dalia “I’ve always admired this room more than I did the people in it.” She smiled as she turned, she did not need to see his face to know who it was. As she faced the man she did not know what struck her first, the reflection of the medals from his uniform or the large scar that crossed his left eye down to his upper lip. His full head of white hair handsomely made him exude maturity. He was clean shaven but it was his eyes that had scared Dalia, she saw something frightening that she could not describe in those eyes. All she knew was that this man was not always as charming as he pretended to be.

“I am Neil Church, welcome to my home, Countess Erika.” He had obviously done his homework before approaching Dalia, instead of asking how he knew and acting flattered, she decided to do the opposite.
“Yes and I am aware of who you are Mr. Church, and this is not only your home but your office.”
“My my, you do know more than I had thought, I must admit.” Church smiled.
“Believe me Mr. Church I know much more at my age than I perhaps should.’ Dalia replied as she looked into his eyes her eyebrow slightly raised. “How rebellious of you. Are you sure you are not a rebel spy infiltrating my home?”
Dalia smiled at the irony. “I may be a rebel, and perhaps a spy but I do not spy for the rebels Mr. Church.”
“How am I to believe that?”
He was playing right into Dalia’s game. She knew that Church had a fondness for women who had adventurous spirits. They had enough information to learn that most women he had taken an eye for were women who stood out from the crowd. Dalia had stepped closer to Church’s body and whispered into his ear. “Perhaps you should try interrogating me personally.” She then stepped back and waited for a reaction.
“If you would please follow me Countess.” He said motioning his hand to a door on the far end of the room. Bingo, she was in.

As Dalia followed Church, she was in desperate need to find a waiter. She followed but still scanned the room. A few walked by but none of them carried Champagne. They neared the door, there wasn’t much more time. Mr. Church, as if reading Dalia’s mind snapped his finger and a waiter with Champagne came rushing to him, Mr. Church picked up 2 glasses from the tray and turned to give one to Dalia, she accepted without saying a word.

Still following, Dalia quickly pulled out a small plastic zip lock bag from her left breast. Inside it were two small white tablets. She opened the zip lock bag and dumped the tablets into her drink. She swirled the drink to dissolve the tablets quicker. When they reached the door, Church was saluted by two more military men in tuxedos who guarded the entrance to the door but these men were none like she had seen before. They were not normal men, these men had been specifically chosen. Their bodies rivaled those of a bear, the scars on their faces, evidence of what looked like clashes with the bears they challenged. They stood there motionless but unnervingly alert to any small Champagne bottle that was opened.

 As Church started to talk to the guards, Dalia walked towards him and opened her hand to his Champagne glass, he let her take it and she walked into the room without invitation. Church could not help but admire that. She was now standing in the belly of the beast. It was nothing like she expected. She had imagined it to be a stale room with only maps and other strategic papers. Instead it was the contrast. It was a warm room; the furniture was aged and polished to perfection. To her left was a small fire in a fire place that illuminated the room. To her right were the massive bookcases cataloged with numerous books, she wondered if he had in fact read them all or not.

She walked over to the ebony desk with lions carved on its corners. The entire desk was a work of art. She placed the Champagne glasses on the desk near the middle. She then swiped everything off the sides of the desk, the papers, books, pens and small ornaments. The papers floated down to the floor. Dalia unclasped her dress’ left clasp, and then its right one and the dress cascaded to the floor with the grace of a waterfall. Exposing Dalia’s well shaped body and curves; her lingerie was black, just as her mood was. She could not believe she was doing this. She sat on the table just as the door closed.
“I see you’ve made yourself comfortable.” Church smile became devilishly illuminated by the burning fire. Dalia just crossed her legs slowly and shifted her weight which pushed out her breasts towards Mr. Church.

Like a pouncing lion, Church rushed over to Dalia, in retaliation she straightened her back picked up the Champagne glasses and offered her glass to him. “Not until we’ve finish our drinks.” Mr. Church became enraged, grabbed the glass and gulped the Champagne, tossing the glass into the fire, causing the flame to glow harder and sizzle for a moment; Dalia smiled as she delicately sipped her drink. Furiously Church slapped the glass out of Dalia’s hand. It crashed onto the floor. “Now look at what you’ve done. Go get me another drink.” Dalia was being playful but instead of heeding her wishes Church approached her and placed his large hands on her shoulders, he took hold of the straps to Dalia’s bra, his grasp tightened, she looked into his eyes and saw his pupil’s dilate, “Good night” she said softly. He collapsed to the floor. If those sleeping tablets took any longer Dalia would have been a piece of meat in a butcher house. She got off the table and put her dress back on.

She had a great urge to find a letter opener and stab the unconscious murderer that lay at her feet, but she had agreed with the advisor that it would only fuel the cause for the governate. This was purely an extraction assignment. She needed to work quickly; the tablets wouldn’t last long with his large body mass. Dalia started to search the papers on the floor, there were papers on trading, others notes on internal issues. Dalia wanted to take all the papers but that would cause too much suspicion from everybody outside, not to mention Church would be aware that she was a rebel and her cover would be blown. She continued to skim through the various pages on the floor. Nothing, nothing on the Fox. She walked behind the desk and started to open drawers in the desk. The first drawer had nothing, just utensils and finance papers. Second drawer was empty.

The third drawer had papers stacked on papers, she searched through the papers, hoping not to miss anything. More trade, resource use, finance, then there was a few pages stapled together about transport. She read on and it showed specific dates, times and details for transports. It was the last one for the month that caught her attention, it was an armored transport to Doverin the early morning within a week but it had no extra details. That had to be it; there were no other entries for Dover in all the pages that she had skimmed though. She ripped out the page from the pack and placed it on the desk top. She walked to the other end of the desk and opened the small cabinet.

 Inside was a half filled bottle of Cognac and leaning against the inside wall of the desk was a hard backed navy blue book. It was no larger than half the size of an A4 sheet of paper, but it was filled with extra sheets all sticking out on the sides and was incredibly thick. It was held together by a small black leather belt. Some kind of diary? Dalia thought. A knock came from the door followed by a voice “is everything all right sir?” Dalia quickly took the transport paper, folded it and stuffed it into her bra. The notebook however she would have to walk out with in plain view.

She walked to the door, took a deep breath and slowly opened it with her left hand, holding the notebook behind her back with her right hand. When she opened it she faced one of the military bears staring directly at her waiting for Church to come from behind her. Dalia did not open the door fully and purposely squeezed through the small gap. “He’ll be out in just a minute.” Dalia said with innocence. The guard stepped back and let Dalia shut the door and walk away. As she walked away she moved her hand from her back slowly to her front to always obstruct the notebook from the guard’s site. She did not run, nor did she walk fast, she had to act like nothing had happened, although she knew that everybody in the room was looking at her flushed appearance. She pretended not to notice it, and as honorably as she could, walked out of the ball room and outside to the waiting car. The driver opened the back door to the silver Mercedes. He returned to the driver’s seat and the car drove away slowly.
As he heard the door shut, Church tilted his head to look at the door, nobody. She had left. Church rose from the floor without ale. He walked around to his chair, a black leather chair with one large leg at its center that spread out to 5 horizontal legs with wheels attached. He looked into the already opened cabinet in his desk and saw that the note book was gone. He then flicked through the pages in the third drawer and noticed that the transport document was missing its last page. Church could not help but lean back in his chair and smile. He then got up from the chair, walked to the door, opened it and barked an order one of the bears outside his door “Get him in here.” The guard saluted and walked away. Instantly another guard took his position in front of the door, Church shut the door and sat back down in his chair. He took the bottle of Cognac and enjoyed a long slow swig. He again leaned in his chair and placed his legs on his desk. No knock came from the door but it still opened. The man came forward into the room.

“Did she notice?” Church asked.
“Not at all” the slim and sly Mr. Cooper replied.
“Excellent, you did well Mr. Cooper, you may leave.” He followed the instruction and left Church alone in the room, alone to ponder his next moves as the fire illuminated his scared face.

By: Oscar Krol