Sea Spider (Chapter 1)

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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        The Unremarkable Man

Chapter 2        A Busy Man

Chapter 3        The Trio

Chapter 4        The Quartet

Chapter 5        The Bosses

Chapter 6        An Essential Enabler

Chapter 7        The Reporter

Chapter 8        Sea Spider

Chapter 1 The Unremarkable Man

The fluorescent lights of the Madrid station hummed, a low, persistent throb that usually blended into the background noise of clicking keyboards and hushed phone calls. Today, it felt like a physical pressure against Oscar Torres’ temples. He stared at the chron, the red numbers mocking him with the simple fact of Ethan Mitchell’s absence: 21 hours, 47 minutes. Twenty-one hours and forty-seven minutes since the last blip of signal from Mitchell’s secure phone. Twenty-one hours and forty-seven minutes since a ghost slipped through their fingers.

Oscar, the station chief for DoD Madrid, rubbed a hand across his stubbled jaw. Mitchell hadn’t been a glamorous asset. No field ops, no charming informants, just a quiet, almost invisible presence in the IT support team. The kind of guy who fixed your printer without being asked, who knew the network inside and out, and who you only really noticed when something went wrong. Which, now, everything had.

“Anything, Ramirez?” Oscar asked, his voice gravelly from too much bad coffee and too little sleep.

Ramirez, the head of security, shook his head. “Clean. Apartment’s stripped, but not ransacked. Looks like he packed light, left in a hurry, but there was no sign of forced entry. No struggle. It’s… unsettling.”

Unsettling was an understatement. Mitchell hadn’t triggered any alarms, hadn’t requested leave, hadn’t even hinted at dissatisfaction. He’d simply ceased to be.

The initial search had been methodical, exhausting. Every access point, every digital footprint. Nothing. Then came the breadcrumb. A minor credit card transaction, flagged by the financial oversight team. Cape Town. The V&A Waterfront Hotel, a beacon of luxury overlooking the harbor.

“South Africa,” Oscar muttered, running a hand through his thinning hair. “That’s a long way from network troubleshooting.”

The problem wasn’t just the distance. South Africa fell squarely outside of DoD Madrid’s purview, outside even the European Command’s reasonable reach. It was CIA territory, or, more likely, a messy tangle of private contractors and local intelligence.

“We need someone who can operate independently, discreetly. Someone who won’t step on too many toes.” Oscar swiveled in his chair, accessing a personnel file on his screen. “Fiona Jones. European Intelligence Division, black ops. She’s good. Cold. And she understands how to disappear.”

Fiona Jones wasn’t a name whispered in the halls of Madrid. She wasn’t a desk jockey, or a policy wonk. She was a shadow, a scalpel, dispatched when blunt force wasn’t an option. Oscar keyed a secure comm channel, his voice clipped and professional.

“Jones, come in. I have a situation. We’ve lost an asset, Ethan Mitchell. Last known location, Cape Town. I need you to find him. And I need you to find out why he went. I suspect a leak, and I need to know how deep it goes.”

A pause, then Fiona’s voice, cool and devoid of inflection. “Understood. Give me everything you have on Mitchell. And a point of contact in Cape Town, someone I can trust.”

“Trust is a luxury we rarely afford,” Oscar said, the hum of the lights seeming to amplify in the silence. “But I’ll authorize Major Vos. Ex-Eufrican Intelligence, now handles security for a private shipping company. He’s…resourceful. And discreet. Get moving, Jones. This feels like a static burst, and I don’t want it blowing up in our faces.”

Cape Town smelled of salt, diesel, and something floral Fiona couldn’t quite place. It wasn’t the sterile, climate-controlled air of Madrid, or the antiseptic scent of DoD facilities. It was…organic. Messy. And it irritated her sinuses. She bypassed the VIP lounge at Cape Town International, preferring the anonymity of the arrivals hall’s relative chaos. No point broadcasting her arrival. She’d requested a clean arrival – no pre-booked cars, no hotel reservations made in her name. She’d rely on Vos.

He was waiting, exactly as Oscar had described: a man built like a weathered oak, face etched with a lifetime of hard sun and harder decisions. He wasn’t wearing a suit, but well-worn chinos and a faded navy polo shirt, blending into the airport crowd. No handshake, just a curt nod.

“Ms. Jones?” Vos’ voice was a low rumble, barely audible above the airport din.

“Just Fiona will do.”

“Right. I have a vehicle secured. Discreet. We’ll talk on the way.”

The “discreet vehicle” was a Land Rover Defender, the colour of dried earth, its suspension suggesting it had seen more off-road action than paved streets. Vos didn’t offer pleasantries, launching straight into a briefing.

“Mitchell checked into the Waterfront Hotel two nights ago. Penthouse suite. Paid in cash, American dollars. Minimal interaction with staff. Ordered room service, mostly bland stuff – fruit, yogurt, bottled water. No visitors. No discernible pattern.”

“Security footage?”

“Reviewed. Nothing obvious. He’s careful. Too careful for a systems admin on holiday. Hotel staff say he spent most of his time on the balcony, overlooking the harbor. Seemed…distracted.”

Fiona absorbed the information, her gaze sweeping across the bustling cityscape as they drove. The Waterfront was a curated paradise of shops and restaurants, a world removed from the gritty reality of the townships just a few kilometers inland. A fitting place to disappear, or to make a deal.

“Any sign of contact with anyone local?”

“We’re digging, but nothing concrete yet. The hotel’s records are clean. I’ve put a quiet tail on him, though. Discreet observation. They reported he left the hotel this morning, about 0800 hours. Took a taxi.”

“Destination?”

Vos shrugged. “That’s where it gets interesting. The taxi driver claims he dropped Mitchell off near the Bo-Kaap. Said he asked to be let out a few blocks from the main tourist area, wanted to ‘walk around’.”

The Bo-Kaap. The brightly coloured, historically Malay neighbourhood clinging to the slopes of Signal Hill. A labyrinth of narrow streets and vibrant houses. A place to lose oneself deliberately.

“Let’s go,” Fiona said, her voice clipped. “I want to see this ‘walk around’ for myself.”

The Bo-Kaap was a sensory overload. The air thrummed with the rhythms of daily life – children laughing, calls to prayer, the clatter of cooking pots. The colours were jarring, almost overwhelming, a deliberate defiance of the grey realities of apartheid’s past. Fiona found herself scanning faces, trying to reconcile the image of a pale, unassuming IT technician with the bustling energy of the neighbourhood.

Vos’ team had already canvassed the area, showing Mitchell’s photograph to shopkeepers and residents. A breakthrough came from an elderly woman selling spices from a stall overflowing with fragrant powders. She remembered him.

“The quiet man,” she said in Afrikaans, Vos translating. “He asked for directions. To the Auwal Masjid. The first mosque.”

The Auwal Masjid, built in the 1790s, was a small, unassuming structure tucked away on a quiet side street. Fiona walked slowly towards it, her senses on high alert. It felt…wrong. Too quiet.

She found Mitchell not in the mosque, but in a small, dilapidated café across the street, tucked away from the main thoroughfare. He wasn’t praying. He was hunched over a chipped Formica table, nursing a lukewarm cup of tea, and talking.

Not to a local. To a man Fiona recognized instantly.

Igor Golubev. Former SVR, Russian Foreign Intelligence Service. Specializing in digital exploitation and signal intelligence. A ghost with a rap sheet that stretched across two continents.

Mitchell didn’t see her approach. He was too engrossed in the conversation, his face pale, his hands trembling slightly. He looked less like a vanished IT technician and more like a cornered animal.

Fiona signaled to Vos, who was positioned a block away with the backup team. No need for a scene. Not yet.

She walked into the café, the jangling of the door chime momentarily silencing the murmur of conversation. Mitchell’s head snapped up, his eyes widening in a flash of recognition – and fear.

He opened his mouth to speak, but Fiona cut him off.

“My love. We need to talk.” Her voice was devoid of emotion, a cold, hard edge that brooked no argument. “And I think you have a lot of explaining to do.”

“Sorry Miss, we are in private conversation,” Igor interjected, his voice a smooth, practiced baritone. He hadn’t bothered to look up from his tea.

“Mr. Golubev, nothing is private when I am here.” Fiona countered, her voice a shard of ice. She didn’t raise it, didn’t need to. The quiet authority in her tone was enough to draw every eye in the small café.

“Do we… know each other?” Golubev asked, finally raising his gaze. His eyes were the colour of chipped flint, assessing, calculating.

“I know you, that’s enough.” Fiona’s voice was cold, devoid of any pretense of politeness.

“Who are you then?” Golubev pressed, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face. He was a pro, but even pros disliked surprises.

Fiona didn’t reply, instead, she turned to Ethan. “You need to come with me.”

“Sorry, we are having a private conversation.” Golubev said, and his hand began to move, subtly, towards his backpack resting on the floor beside his feet. It wasn’t a draw, not yet, but a preparatory gesture.

“Don’t!” Fiona reminded, her voice sharper now, a warning edged with steel. “Don’t repeat your expression, and don’t try anything that costs your life.”

Golubev retrieved his hand, shrugging with a practiced indifference. “I will find you.”

“Good luck.” Fiona paused, a ghost of a smile playing on her lips. “I mean, after you find me.” She didn’t bother waiting for a response.

Ethan followed her out of the café, a visible wave of relief washing over his face. “You are too slow, you are late.” He complained, his voice laced with nervous energy.

“Not now,” Fiona snapped, stopping him just outside the doorway. The Bo-Kaap’s vibrant colours seemed to shrink around them, the noise fading into a distant hum.

Vos escorted them to the safehouse – a nondescript apartment in a middle-class suburb, stripped bare of any personality. He dropped them off with a curt nod and vanished, leaving Fiona and Ethan alone. The silence felt oppressive.

“You know me?” Fiona asked, turning her attention back to the man who had triggered an international hunt.

“Yes. I mean no, not personally. But I read your files. You are Fiona Jones, nickname ‘Slash’.”

“Interesting. I don’t even know that.” Fiona chuckled, a dry, humourless sound.

“You are a covert agent. Most of the covert agents have a nickname.”

“Do you know why mine was ‘Slash’?” Fiona couldn’t stop the curiosity from creeping into her voice. She rarely talked about her past, and the nickname was a relic from a different life.

“Easy. People who see a slash, are slashed.”

“That’s funny.” Fiona laughed, a genuine, if brief, expression of amusement. “Ethan, why did you say I was slow and I was late?”

“Because you just arrived, almost cost my life.”

“I don’t catch you.” Fiona felt lost. This wasn’t the panicked flight of a spook who’d simply jumped ship. There was a level of calculation here that didn’t fit.

Ethan, finally seeming to gather his wits, began to explain. He’d fled the embassy in Madrid two days ago, deliberately erased his digital footprints, and made his way to Cape Town. He’d left a breadcrumb trail – the credit card transaction – precisely because he wanted to be found. He’d been certain Oscar Torres would send someone, a dedicated asset from Madrid Station. But the moment he’d seen who’d walked into the café, he’d known something was terribly wrong.

“I was sure Oscar would send someone from DoD, but not a former Russian SVR agent.”

“What are you suggesting?” Fiona asked, her voice carefully neutral.

“Only very limited persons could know that I am in Cape Town, how could a former SVR agent know? How could he arrive earlier than you do?”

“You mean Oscar Torres is defect?” Fiona was straightforward. The thought was jarring, but it explained a lot. Oscar was meticulous, a career professional. He wouldn’t have authorized a freelance operator like Golubev unless…unless he was compromised.

“I am not sure.” Ethan shook his head, his face etched with worry. “But it doesn’t feel right. Something is very wrong.”

“Then why did you run? What did you do?” Fiona asked, cutting to the chase.

“I panicked.”

“For what?”

Ethan hesitated, his gaze dropping to the worn carpet. He took a deep breath, finally meeting Fiona’s gaze.

“I… I found something. Something in the network. A hidden data stream, routed through a secure server in Geneva. It wasn’t traffic related to our usual targets. It was… communications. Encrypted, but definitely not ours. And it wasn’t just communications. It was financial transactions, moving through shell companies, all pointing to a single offshore account. A very large offshore account.” He paused, his voice barely a whisper. “An account linked to… Senator Harrison.”

“Did you tell anyone? The Russian guy in the café?” Fiona asked, her gaze fixed on Ethan’s face, searching for any flicker of deception.

“No, nobody. You are the only one.” Ethan confirmed, his voice tight with anxiety.

“Why do you trust me?”

“I don’t. But I have got no other choices.”

“Let’s start one by one. Why did you run in the first place, and then indicate Madrid Station that you are in Cape Town? Why all the hassles?” Fiona was trying to unravel Ethan’s motive, to understand the thread that had pulled him from a comfortable, if unremarkable, life.

“It was big, and I couldn’t trust anyone. I still want to bring this to justice. DoD had less influence in South Africa, it’s relatively safe for me. I didn’t want to die of a ‘heart attack’ or in a ‘traffic accident’,” Ethan explained, his words tumbling out in a rush.

“Smart move.” Fiona conceded. “Next, Igor Golubev. Why did you meet him in the café, not in your hotel?” She was trying to sort out the fragmented pieces of information, to build a coherent picture.

“I got a message. A small note slipped through the door gap. I thought it was a public place, maybe good for my safety, so I went there.” Ethan recalled, his brow furrowed in thought.

“What did he want from you?”

“Same questions as you asked. Why did I run? What do I have?” Ethan paused for a second, running a hand through his hair. “And he threatened me.”

“I assume you didn’t tell him anything?”

“Nothing! But it was close. If you’d come later… I’m not sure. Golubev was scary.”

“Don’t worry, you’re safe with me. Now comes Torres.”

“What about him?” Ethan asked, his voice laced with apprehension.

“The man who drove us here, he’s Torres’ contact. If Torres is compromised, then the driver is also compromised.” Fiona paused, letting the implication sink in, until Ethan nodded slowly. “And suppose Golubev and Torres had connections, then Golubev would know we’re here. Right?”

“Yeah, sure.” Ethan nodded again, his eyes wide with realization.

“So, we make a small test.”

“Test? How?”

“We wait and see if anybody comes for us.”

“You mean, wait and see if anybody comes to kill us?” Ethan raised his voice, his composure finally cracking.

“You could say so.” Fiona confirmed, her tone matter-of-fact.

“Test? With our lives? What if they really come?”

“I slash.” Fiona laughed, a short, sharp sound.

Ethan didn’t respond, instead, he started to shake his legs like massage vibrators, a nervous tremor running through his body.

“I’m kidding.” Fiona added quickly, seeing the panic in his eyes.

“It’s not funny at all! There must be a better way!”

“I’m open to any proposal. Tell me, what’s your plan?”

“Ah…” Ethan stalled, his gaze drifting around the sterile room. “I don’t know… yet.”

“Good. Until you have a plan, I need some rest. It was a long flight.” Fiona glanced at Ethan, her expression unreadable. “Always stay within my sight, otherwise I can’t protect you while I’m sleeping.”

“But you don’t see anything while you are sleeping.”

“Use your imagination.”

“What about the bathroom?” Ethan asked, his voice barely a whisper.

“You heard me.”

Nothing happened until the next morning. The silence in the safehouse was oppressive, broken only by the occasional drone of traffic from the street below. Fiona had spent the hours meticulously reviewing the information Ethan had provided – the encrypted data stream, the shell companies, the offshore account linked to Senator Harrison. It was a tangled web, and she was beginning to see the larger pattern.

“Thanks.” Fiona accepted the hot coffee that Ethan handed over. The ceramic mug warmed her hands, a small comfort in the fresh morning air. “Let’s move on to the next steps.”

“Good. What is your plan?” Ethan sipped his coffee, the warmth visibly easing the tension in his shoulders.

“I need to eliminate you.” Fiona also sipped her coffee, very relaxed, her gaze unwavering.

Ethan spit out his coffee, a spray of dark liquid landing on the worn carpet. “What? What do you mean by ‘eliminate’?”

“Eliminate is eliminate.” Fiona stayed cool, her expression impassive.

“But you can’t do this to me? Fiona, I trusted you!”

“You said you didn’t trust me earlier. Now you’ve changed your mind?” Fiona shrugged, a gesture of calculated indifference. “Don’t worry too much. I won’t eliminate you physically.”

“I am totally lost.”

Fiona explained her plan in detail, her voice calm and methodical. She would disseminate information – carefully crafted leaks to the right channels – painting a picture of Ethan Mitchell as a rogue operative, a security risk who had been neutralized. She’d use her connections to arrange a new identity for him, a clean slate, and ship him off to Moscow. Russia would offer the first layer of obfuscation, a bureaucratic labyrinth for the DoD to navigate. On the other hand, if the Russians did decide to pursue him, they would likely begin their search outside their own borders. In the worst-case scenario, Ethan could leverage his knowledge in exchange for his continued safety. By crafting this narrative, Fiona would become the sole keeper of the full truth, while ensuring no one was entirely certain what she knew.

“I risked my life trying to reveal this, I can’t just hide.” Ethan was not totally satisfied, his jaw tight with frustration.

“We don’t see it in a right or wrong, black or white way.” Fiona tried to explain, her voice softening slightly. “This isn’t about morality, Ethan. It’s about maximizing impact while minimizing risk.”

“But we need justice.” Ethan insisted, his eyes pleading.

“There is no absolute justice. Justice has sides, depending on who has the power to claim justice. Survival is the first thing to do.” Fiona countered, her gaze hardening. “We can expose them, but only if we survive long enough to do so.”

“I can’t simply drop this.”

“We don’t. You are an IT expert, Ethan. Do what you’re good at when you arrive in Moscow safely, and we keep in close touch.” She didn’t elaborate on what “close touch” meant, leaving him to fill in the gaps.

“So, you’ve got my back? I just vanish?” Ethan was still uncertain, his voice laced with a fragile hope.

“Do you need a hug? Or quietly wait for my guy to pick you up?” Fiona’s tone was dry, devoid of sentiment.

“You don’t go with me?”

“You are an adult. I am not your babysitter. I have my own business to deal with.” Fiona leaned back in her chair, resuming her coffee, her expression unreadable. The implication was clear: her priorities lay elsewhere, with the bigger picture. She wasn’t a rescuer, she was a chess player, and Ethan was simply a piece on the board.

Fiona returned to Madrid, the scent of Cape Town’s salt and spice already fading from her memory. She bypassed the usual security protocols, requesting a direct debrief with Oscar Torres. His office was as she remembered it – minimalist, functional, the only decoration a faded map of the Iberian Peninsula.

“How is the situation?” Oscar didn’t waste any seconds, his expression betraying no surprise at Fiona’s swift return. He’d always been a man of efficiency, a master of compartmentalization.

“Ethan Mitchell eliminated.” Fiona replied calmly, meeting his gaze directly.

“Eliminated?” Oscar tapped his desktop with his fingers, a subtle rhythm that betrayed a flicker of irritation. “I heard it went well, didn’t go nasty?”

“In the safe house, after interrogation, Ethan refused to come back. He tried to attack me and escape, hence I made a quick decision.” Fiona explained, keeping her tone even and devoid of emotion. She’d honed the art of detached reporting over years of black ops.

“It is typically your style.” Oscar paused for a second, his eyes scrutinizing her. “How was the interrogation?”

“Ethan Mitchell discovered unauthorized communication originating from a Madrid Station server. He attempted to sell the information to MI6.”

“London is not that far away, or Paris. Why Cape Town?” Oscar asked, his voice laced with a quiet intensity.

Fiona explained the details. The meeting in Cape Town had been arranged by MI6, who believed they had a stronger local presence there than the DoD. But something had gone wrong. Igor Golubev, a former SVR agent, had arrived before any MI6 operative, leading Ethan to suspect a leak within the British service.

“Could be us.” Oscar interjected, his voice cutting through the silence.

Fiona knew, better than most, that Oscar was a veteran, always sharp and quick-minded. But in the Ethan Mitchell case, she hadn’t expected him to turn the lens inward so quickly. A leak within DoD Madrid would be catastrophic.

“Could be.” Fiona pretended to hesitate, allowing a beat of uncertainty to pass before continuing. “Should we look into this?” She kept her tone neutral, carefully gauging his reaction.

Oscar didn’t comment on her suggestion, instead, he asked for the details of the unauthorized communication. Fiona explained it wasn’t just communication, but also financial transactions funneled through a bank in Geneva, the account ultimately linked to Senator Harrison.

Oscar typed rapidly on his computer, his brow furrowed in concentration. After a moment, he looked up, his eyes fixed on Fiona. “There are two Senator Harrisons. Which Harrison?”

“Woody Harrison.” Fiona confirmed, watching for any flicker of recognition on his face.

“Ah, there.” Oscar’s gaze shifted from the screen back to Fiona, his expression unreadable. “Look into this, everything, everyone. No noise. Understand?”

“Sir.” Fiona replied, acknowledging the order. It wasn’t a request; it was a directive. Oscar wasn’t interested in speculation, only in concrete evidence. He wanted the source of the leak, and he wanted it silenced. And Fiona, as always, would be the one to deliver.

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Step into the shadows—Murphy’s thrillers await.