Frequent Traveller (Chapter 1)

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

www.murphyseyes.com

E-mail: [email protected]

Content

Chapter 1        Preempted

Chapter 2        Head Down

Chapter 3        Gay Bowers

Chapter 4        Blindside

Chapter 5        Wright & Co. Antiques

Chapter 6        Palais Royal Station

Chapter 7        Dossier Barcelona

Chapter 8        New Handler

Chapter 9        The Cat Syndrome

Chapter 10      Caffè Sant’Orsilino

Chapter 11      Back to Berlin

Chapter 12      El Clásico

Chapter 13      Somewhere safe

Chapter 14      President arrived

Chapter 15      It’s Too Late

Chapter 1 Preempted

Liège Central Railway Station sat in the heart of the Belgian city and buzzed with constant motion. The vast concourse echoed with the rumble of rolling suitcases, re-occurring overlapping announcements from loudspeakers, and hurried footsteps against polished marble floors. Trains glided in and out beneath soaring glass arches, their arrivals and departures brought a restless ebb and flow of passengers, some local, most just passing through.

Two railway tracks would never intersect, but total strangers could meet here, though most of them would never interact. Each figure in the station hall, whether a solitary observer near the ticket machines or a group clustered by the timetable, might carry more than meets the eye.

Eyes could be easily deceived, even those careful, trained ones.

In this hive of fleeting glances and shifting crowds, every stranger could be friend or foe. The boundary between the innocent and the schemer blurred. Subtle gestures and hidden eye sights vanished into the throng, making the station a paradise for hidden agendas and silent signals.

On crowded platforms, commuters in smart coats checked their watches, youngsters laughed in clusters, and baristas shouted out steaming lattes and crisp croissants while fast food staff called orders for burgers and fries. A group of uniformed policemen patrolled the station, their presence both reassuring and vigilant. They moved slowly through the crowd, eyes scanning the bustling concourse and ticket halls. Radios buzzed on their shoulders, badges gleamed under the station’s bright lights.

Luisa sat at a corner table in a modest café tucked to the edge of the station hall. The golden croissant on her plate was still warm, and steam curled from her untouched cup of black coffee as she watched the crowd through the wide glass windows. Her coat draped loosely over her shoulders, nobody would bother to take a second look at such an ordinary figure among the early commuters.

At a nearby table, a middle-aged man in a navy trench coat tapped rhythmically on his laptop, his brow furrowed in concentration as he sipped espresso from a chipped porcelain cup. Across from him, a young couple shared a plate of waffles, their laughter rising above the hum of conversation, fingers occasionally brushing as they reached for the same bite. Near the entrance, an elderly woman in a burgundy scarf stirred her tea slowly, her gaze drifting between the arrivals board and the dog-eared novel in her lap. A trio of students huddled around a table strewn with notebooks and half-eaten pastries, their animated debate about train schedules and exam dates adding a lively pulse to the morning calm.

She was expecting someone to arrive at 9:45, a ‘blind date’.

At 9:38, a man in a charcoal trench coat materialized by the ticket machines. He bought a ticket, glancing around as he slipped the ticket back into his wallet, holding returned coinage in his hand. He approached a newspaper vending machine, pointing at various options before selecting Le Quotidien Liégeois, exchanged coins for a newspaper. Instead of entering the café, he paused beside a marble post just outside, leaned against it, and unfolded the newspaper, positioning himself directly in Luisa’s line of sight through the windows.

The man took a glance at his watch, 9:45 sharp. The post where the man stood was only two meters from the window in front of Luisa, she could observe his every move. As he read, he tapped his right index finger on the newspaper in a distinct pattern. Luisa recognized immediately that he was signaling in Morse code, repeating the same sequence twice: B15779297.

This was the moment she’d been waiting for, and the person. Morse code tapped on Le Quotidien Liégeois page 4, the Editorial Section. B15 was the serial number of a locker in the station hall, 77 indicated a blank space in the pre-defined code system, and 9297 was the code to open locker B15. She had everything she needed.

She savored her croissant and black coffee, the warmth spreading through her as she finished the last bite.

Returning the plate and cup to a nearby trash cart, she put her coat on with no sense of urgency.

Without breaking stride, Luisa made her way toward the row of lockers near the west exit. She registered her pulse, a steady anchor in the rising tide of her thoughts – a testament to years of practiced control.

Whatever waited inside the locker would determine her next moves.

Luisa approached the locker section. The area bustled with morning activity, people traveling alone or in groups, all intent on either dropping off or collecting their luggage. By their varied appearances and attire, most seemed to be international travelers, blending into the constant flow of the station. A tall man in a tailored camel coat struggled to fit a bulky suitcase into a locker, muttering in French under his breath as he juggled a takeaway coffee cup. Nearby, a backpacker with sun-bleached dreadlocks and a worn guitar case slung over his shoulder carefully stashed a canvas duffel, glancing around as if mentally noting the locker number. A young woman in a sleek business suit tapped hurriedly at her phone while balancing a rolling carry-on, her expression tense as she waited for the locker next to Luisa’s to free up. In the far corner, a family of four – two parents and twin boys in matching red jackets – were unloading snacks and coloring books from a bright yellow suitcase, the children’s excited chatter echoing off the tiled walls.

Luisa entered the code 9297 without a second thought. The door to locker B15 clicked open, revealing a dark blue backpack inside. Luisa retrieved the bag, noting its lightness, just as she had expected. A USB drive wouldn’t add much weight, after all. Collecting only a USB from a locker might draw suspicion, but a small piece of luggage would help her blend seamlessly with the crowd of hurried travelers passing through Liège Central Station.

Luisa blended in seamlessly with the flow of international travelers as she made her way back to her hotel room, eager to examine the contents of the USB drive. She was staying at Hotel La Petite, a charming, family-run establishment with just eleven rooms, situated at the intersection of Rue d’Amay and Rue Pont d’Avroy.

Luisa already carefully calculated before she booked her room at La Petite. Rue d’Amay was a quiet, traffic-free side street, offering a discreet entrance rarely noticed by passersby. In contrast, Rue Pont d’Avroy was a vibrant shopping avenue where vehicles and parking were prohibited round the clock, ensuring a steady stream of pedestrian movement, ideal for blending in or observing unnoticed. Just three blocks from this crossroads, the city’s main thoroughfares were easily accessible, providing swift routes for quick exit from the city in case something went wrong. The hotel itself, with its modest façade and limited guest turnover, offered a level of anonymity that only someone with a practiced eye would appreciate.

The USB drive was encrypted, but standard protocols could bypass the protection. What the USB drive revealed was a routine mission dossier – nothing more. Luisa departed Liège and boarded a Thalys train bound for Brussels. Settled herself into a window seat in the compartment en route to Brussels Midi Station, she finally had the peace and time she needed to carefully strategize her next steps.

The Pentagon was intended to provide comprehensive information for each mission, but the rapidly changing world rendered even the best intelligence imperfect, absolving all parties of responsibility for the volving situation. Thomas Goldman arrived in Brussels two days earlier, at least the intelligence contained in the USB drive said so.

The Mission dossier was still flashing in Luisa’s mind. Thomas Goldman, UK citizen with address in London, businessman, was identified by U.S. DoD as covert agent working for French intelligence service DGSE. Luisa’s mission was as simple as eliminating the target without any noise. Luisa was extremely good at delivering results quietly, as for the reasons, she didn’t want to know. Over the years, she had learned not to question her directives. Her role was simply to complete the mission, no questions asked, and no questions should be asked.

The 17th Freelancers Conference Europe was taking place at the North Sea Hotel, situated next to Place Saint-Pierre and not far from Parc du Cinquantenaire. Thomas Goldman had registered for the event and was reportedly staying at the hotel.

The North Sea Hotel was hosting the 17th Freelancers Conference Europe, a sprawling event aimed at the rising tide of independent contractors. Workshops on ‘effective networking’, ‘personal branding’ and ‘monetizing your skills’ mingled with informal networking sessions. The atmosphere was merely a strange blend of entrepreneurial zeal and nervous energy, the hopeful chatter a constant undercurrent to the clatter of laptop keys.

Luisa called the front desk and requested to be connected to Mr. Goldman’s room. The receptionist’s polite refusal was immediate. “I’m sorry, madam,” she said, adhering to hotel policy, “I’m unable to connect you to a guest’s room or disclose their room number.”

Luisa moved to the hotel restaurant, already bustling with the morning rush of conference attendees. She secured a table overlooking the entire room and began to set down her belongings. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee and warm pastries hung in the air.

She joined the queue at the buffet, using the opportunity to scan the room from a different angle. It wasn’t long before she spotted him. Goldman was seated at a central table, hunched over his phone, utterly engrossed. He seemed oblivious to the activity around him—the clatter of plates, the murmurs of conversations, even the staff navigating the crowded space.

After finishing her meal, Luisa quietly left the restaurant. At 10:42, she returned, finding the staff cleaning up after breakfast service.

“Sorry, we’re closed.” A waitress said with a polite smile, voice not to high, not too low.

“Yes, I know. Sorry to trouble you, but I think I may have left my cell phone here earlier. Would you or any of your colleagues have seen it by chance?”

“I haven’t noticed anything, but I can check with the others. Would you mind waiting here for a moment?”

“Of course, thank you so much!”

While the waitress consulted with her colleagues, Luisa took the opportunity to quickly scan the guest book still resting on the restaurant’s reception table. On the third page, she found the name, Thomas Goldman, room 551. His signature looked precarious, like a fence about to be toppled by a gust from the North Sea.

Luisa resolved to pay Goldman a visit later, preferably late at night when the hotel would be quiet. The key to access, she knew, wasn’t always a matter of force; it was a question of leverage, a subtle understanding of the people who kept the place running smoothly.

Luisa returned to the North Sea Hotel at 10:47 PM, blending in with a group of guests as they entered. She stepped into the elevator alongside them, riding up to the eighth floor, the hotel’s top level. Pretending to head toward her own room, she waited until the corridor was empty before quietly slipping back to the elevator. She descended to the fifth floor, carefully peering into the hallway to ensure it was deserted. Finding no one around there, she trod softly across the plush carpet, making her way to room 551.

Taking out the key card she had prepared earlier that afternoon, Luisa unlocked the door to room 551. The room’s light was still on. Slipping inside, she quietly closed the door behind her, only to be confronted by a shocking scene. Two bodies lay sprawled on the floor, each with a gunshot wound perfectly centered on the forehead. Luisa quickly recognized one of them as Thomas Goldman, the other unknow to her.

A cold tendril of unease snaked around Luisa’s senses. Her mission had been preempted, but the ‘who’ and ‘why’ remained shrouded in a suffocating silence.

Luisa’s search was a blur of calculated movements. Her eyes scanned, her hands tested. A drawer opened and closed in a silent flicker. Beneath the bed, a quick sweep of her fingertips confirmed nothing. It was a process, optimized over years, leaving no space for chance.

A wave of nausea briefly twisted in Luisa’s stomach. The smell was unmistakable: a heavy, suffocating odor that instantly evoked the scene of a butchery. It was a smell she could almost ‘taste’, sharp and metallic. Beneath it lingered another scent, a grimly familiar one – gunpowder, the smell of her profession.

No signs of forced entry. No broken locks. Whoever had been here knew exactly what they were doing.

She knelt beside Goldman’s body. The gunshot wound was unmistakable, precisely centered on his forehead – a clean execution. Judging by the entry, it appeared to be a shot from a suppressed Glock 19, chambered in 9mm. The precision suggested a professional, trained to leave no mess. The pool of blood beneath his head had begun to congeal, dark and glossy against the parquet floor, indicating he’d been dead less than an hour. The scene repeated itself with the second body – face down near the window, a similar wound, the same caliber. No shell casings. No signs of a struggle.

Outside, the muffled hum of city life continued, oblivious to the violence that had unfolded just meters away. Luisa’s eyes scanned the room again, lingering on a half-drunk glass of water, a chair slightly askew, and a faint scuff mark near the doorframe – details that didn’t belong, but were subtle enough to be missed by anyone not trained to notice. They suggested an expert had meticulously searched the room, looking for something of key importance.

From the hotel room window, Luisa noticed blue lights flickering on the street below. She hurried over and looked down to see four police cars pulling up in front of the building.

Luisa’s mind was flooded with questions. Wasn’t it too convenient that the police arrived at this critical moment? Wouldn’t it be systematically wrong if the DoD sent a second team for the same mission? Then who did this? And why?

Her job was preempted, two bodies lay in the room, and questions lingered in her mind.

“Talking to the police would be too intimate,” Luisa thought. Realizing that something had gone terribly wrong, she wasted no time, slipped out of room 551 and escaped the North Sea Hotel through the emergency fire exit.

Luisa vanished into the glow of Liège’s shimmering streetlights, the ornate ironwork of a nearby Art Nouveau cafe flickering in her peripheral vision. Her destination was known only to the chill night breeze, and a busker’s melancholic accordion tune seemed to follow her down the deserted street.

---

Step into the shadows—Murphy’s thrillers await.