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| The Wong Ray | |
| By Sir_Nigel | ||||||||||||
| 08 May 2007 | ||||||||||||
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All I wanted was to write the longest opening sentence in Christendom. But then, driven by the muse, I decided to go with the flow and see where it went. Now I seem to have ended up with some sort of…opening chapter. Anyone with a less refined air of unabashed insouciance would not have been able to so easily slip through the security cordon, charm their way past the armed guards, breeze through the marbled reception area, blithely enter the inner sanctum of the UN Security Counsel and there successfully negotiate a cessation to all conflict in the Middle East, an end to hunger and poverty and the stepping down of all of the world’s most unpleasant and unpredictable despots, but that was the sort of man Jack Straker was. When he emerged several hours later he reflected wryly on how his achievement would come as a surprise to the many people who knew him only as a gambler, bon viveur and international playboy. And also to those who knew him only as a successful Grand Prix driver, Olympic sharpshooter and former Special Forces Operative. But the greatest surprise would be felt by the very select few in high places who knew him by his true profession - an intelligence agent, undercover operative and ruthless political assassin. There would be many awkward questions to answer from the latter. Still, balls to ‘em, he thought. Jack Straker stood gazing out over the terracotta rooftops of Monte Carlo and lit up a cigarillo. The excitement over, he was now back where he wanted to be - in his favourite Cote d’Azur resort, in a discreet hotel with a naked blonde in his bed. It had been a tough few days in New York, he just hoped it had been worth it. He’d had enough of intrigue, assassinations and secret foreign missions - he’d reached the end of the line and wanted out. Now, with the world set to rights surely he would no longer be called on to topple governments or frustrate power-crazed tyrants or garrotte the hapless henchmen of renegade generals. The decision to solve all the world’s problems would make him many friends but also, he knew, many enemies. But for now he was happy that all that was behind him and he was grateful for the simple pleasures of a Cuban cigarillo, a fine French brandy and a good shag. ‘So, Contessa’ he said, turning towards the tousled lady on the bed, ‘had enough for now?‘ ‘Oh Jack’ she sighed, stretching her sweat-soaked limbs, ’I never dreamed it could be like this.’ He took that as a yes. ‘About bloody time.’ he thought to himself. The woman had been insatiable since he had first met her ten days ago in Paris. They had driven down to the Cote D’Azur yesterday, pulling over into the trees every now and then so he could give her a good seeing to. She had introduced herself at the ambassador’s ball and lured him into the janitor’s cupboard after barely ten minutes acquaintance. Then they had sneaked upstairs to the bedroom of the ambassador himself, and to round the evening off, she had jumped on him in the bushes outside on the way out. He smiled at the memory. ‘Hungry?’ he asked her. ‘Starving’ she said. ‘Good. Me too. Get your pants on.’ And with that he stooped, swept up a flimsy piece of lacy black nothingness and tossed it towards her. ‘No thanks.’ she said, flashing him a wicked look. ‘Ah Bonsoir Mr Straker, welcome! Your usual table? Straker’s face broke into a grin. ‘Pablo Pablo Pablo.’ he said, embracing the restauranteur. ‘Nice to see you again. The world would be a poorer place without your unmatched cuisine. This is the Contessa Di Cortino by the way. Contessa - Pablo Pablo Pablo. So good they named him three times.’ Pablo Pablo Pablo kissed her proffered hand. ‘Enchante’ he said and led them to terrace and the best table in the house. Straker ordered the house speciality and a bottle of their finest champagne. Below them lay the twinkling twilight vista of Monte Carlo harbour. ‘So’ said the Contessa as the food arrived, ‘- everything is OK with the world now is it not? ‘ ‘Hopefully.’ replied Straker tersely. ‘But…but how did you do it? - so many religious factions, so many despots, so many bomb-crazy fanatics.’ He smiled, and reached for her hand, ‘As I’ve told you many times Contessa, I can’t discuss the details with you. I just woke up one morning and decided all those damn problems had gone on long enough. Now eat your lobster – it’s very good.’ She broke off a claw and took a noisy bite. ‘Jack’ she laughed ‘always so mysterious, so guarded, so….’ but suddenly she swayed, her hand reaching up to gently touch her temple. What she thought his third secretive but endearing quality was he was never to know for now she slumped forward unconscious onto the table. ‘Nothing to worry about.’ shouted Pablo Pablo Pablo rushing over. ‘Too much sun, that is all.’ he assured his customers. ‘Nothing to do with the lobster’. But he and Straker now exchanged a furtive look. A look they had exchanged many times before. Straker held her under her arms as his old friend supported her legs and they carried her unconscious form into the back room. ‘No head for wine,’ joked Pablo Pablo Pablo to concerned onlookers, ‘no stomach for rich food. Ooh and no pants either.’ he observed quietly. They placed her on a sofa in Pablo Pablo Pablo’s private back room. ‘You know what you have to do.’ Straker said gravely. His friend nodded. Pants or no pants, she knew too much. ‘I was foolish to trust her.’ Straker told his old friend later over a Cognac. Pablo Pablo Pablo sympathised, ‘You had a lot on your mind – solving the world’s conflicts, brokering deals, banging heads together.’ ‘And maybe all of that is irrelevant anyway if the world is going to turn into a sun baked dustbowl as they predict’. ‘Ah yes, and not even you can fix that my friend.’ said Pablo Pablo Pablo. ‘No. Not even me.’ he sighed, idly swirling the Cognac in its glass. It was late, the customers were now gone, chairs were stacked on tables and over in the corner a wizened Ukrainian cleaning lady idly pushed a mop around the floor. ‘I‘d suspected since Paris that she’d been working for Krashnikov. Despite all her noisy moaning and writhing and her innovative pleasuring techniques, it seemed that the subsequent pillow talk was real objective. ‘Hmmm, so, old Krashnikov is still up to his old tricks eh?’ Straker nodded, ‘ Yep Krashnikov and his old tricks.’ he sighed. He rose to his feet and casually strolled over to the far corner of the room. ‘Yeah - those old old tricks. But you know, Pablo my friend, the trouble with old tricks is…..’ and now he made a lunge for the cleaning lady, yanking the tattered paisley shawl from her head – ‘they’re old! So, Krashnikov! - still pulling the old Ukrainian cleaning disguise eh? And the nymphomaniac poor little rich girl ploy. You need some new ideas, you’re losing your touch.’ The hunched figure of the erstwhile Ukrainian cleaning lady now straightened and the exposed former KGB puppet master Sergei Krashnikov grudgingly pulled off his grey wig and warty false nose to confront his old enemy. ‘So Meester Straker I can see I will haf to get up earlier in morning to fool you.’ he sneered. ‘But you would be surprised to learn just how often old Ukrainian cleaning lady trick still works. However, you are not quite so clever as you think you are. I am sorry to disappoint you but that girl was nothing to do with me. So - what a waste of hot totty and indeed a fine lobster too.’ Straker stared at him in shock. ‘Damn it.’ he cursed and turned to his friend, ‘Is it too late to save her?’ Pablo Pablo Pablo gave an apologetic shrug. ‘She’s in the freezer now.’ he said. There was an awkward pause. ‘I can see if she’ll defrost.’ he suggested. ‘Do it.’ barked Straker. ‘As for you…. Krashnikov…’ he said pulling out his 45mm Huechler und Splechl Automatic, ‘... you missed a bit over there. And when you’ve finished the floor I will finish you. Ukrainian cleaning lady.’ he sneered. Krashnikov now sullenly resumed his half hearted mopping. Pablo Pablo Pablo stood looking pensive, ‘Before I attempt to do this, I had a thought - could she have been working for Wong do you think?’ Straker looked puzzled, ‘Wong? But Wong’s dead - I saw him die. I watched him tumble into an active volcano - he would have dissolved instantly into ashes – you can’t get any deader than that.’ ‘But one hears rumours – Wong had fingers in many pies as you know and lately some of those pies are once more beginning to give off some very interesting aromas. Some people are even talking of maybe…. taking a bite. And old Wong was always a master of deception and illusion. Maybe he faked his evaporation into molten lava.’ ‘That is strange because I heard rumours too.’ said Krashnikov halting his swabbing and leaning on his mop. ‘I dismissed them as ravings of demented lunatics and half crazed nincompoops who had electrodes attached to their genitals but now, who knows? ‘The word is he’s developing a ray.’ said Pablo Pablo Pablo. ‘A ray? What sort of a ray? ‘No-one knows - but they say…. a big ray.’ Back in his hotel room Straker turned on the TV. The CNN headlines were now full of celebrity gossip, adverse weather conditions and skateboarding ducks. He clicked it off again. Had he misjudged the Contessa? Or could she really have been working for a resurrected Wong all along? Or some other unknown undesirable? It was not inconceivable that she could be a lady with both voracious sexual appetites and a fanatical interest in international politics and diplomacy. But both at the same time? He gazed ruefully at the forlorn little bit of lacy black nothingness now lying cold and abandoned on the bed. Pablo Pablo Pablo was still working patiently on reviving the poor girl but only time would tell whether this particular piece of discarded lingerie would ever again be warmed by the eager molten loins of a passionate Contessa. Best chuck it in the laundry, he thought, just in case. In a rare moment of compassion he’d let Krashnikov go. He had a soft spot for his old adversary and besides the Russian had given him some useful leads on this Wong business. But how could he have been wrong about Wong? He had pursued the man to the top of a volcano – not the harmless hollowed-out variety either but a live one, spewing out red hot lava onto its slopes. Cornered, Wong had lost his footing, teetered on the edge and reached out desperately for help. But Straker had simply looked into his eyes, uttered a witty put down and given him a shove. You Bastaaaaaaaaard…. Wong had cried on the way down, in his Mandarin accent. You Foooking Bas………… Then silence. And that was the end of that. Or so he thought. Suddenly the room’s antique telephone jangled. ‘Ah Straker’ said a familiar voice, ‘thought I‘d find you there. You’ve been a busy fellow – that little stunt in New York took us all by surprise here. However you’ll have to put your retirement off for a little while yet – I have some news which you may find a little surprising, nay shocking.’ ‘It’s alright Commander’ he sighed, ‘I know.’
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Of course the big difference between Jack Bauer and Jack Straker is that Bauer is a chav while Straker is a gentleman who knows which fork to use. Am I right?
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