Hocus Pocus by Michael Smith

Hocus Pocus by Michael Smith

          The lights dimmed. The audience hushed. Word had spread that this might be interesting. A lone figure strode confidently and purposefully to center stage, a single spotlight guiding his steps. He faced the audience, his audience.

          “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. My name is Max, and I’m a magician.” He paused briefly, then continued, “At least that’s what they tell me to say at Magicians Anonymous.”

          Thankfully there was some laughter, but he was not here to amuse those attending, he was here to astound.

          He continued, “Some of you may be here because you have heard that I can make things disappear. By magic.

“You, sir,” he pointed randomly out into the darkened auditorium, “is that why you’ve brought your wife?”

          More laughter. He knew it was old-fashioned, sexist, and politically incorrect, but, within the next five minutes, no one would remember this part of his act.

          His act was now three years old. The routine hadn’t changed much in that time; it didn’t need to. However, he had learnt not to rush. He had grown more comfortable as a performer, and now relished his few minutes of limelight each day. He strolled stage right, and stood behind the small table situated there. The props were in place. Deep breath.

          “Ladies and gentlemen, you see here an ordinary red rubber ball, the sort used by conjurors the world over. I will now place the ball under this top hat. There’s no reason why it should be a top hat. Maybe convention dictates that you, the audience, expect to see conjurors using top hats and red rubber balls? And I do not wish to disappoint you.”

          As he spoke to the audience, Max placed the ball under the hat, and took a step back.

          “I know what you’re all thinking. The red ball is no longer under the top hat. By some sleight of hand, I’ve managed to palm it into one of my many pockets.” Here, as always, he moved to the front edge of the stage and held out his arms.

          “What pockets? As you can see, my clothing contains no pockets.” He assumed here that the audience he could not see, due to the dazzling effect of the spotlight, would be becoming intrigued, possibly impressed, “And I have short sleeves!

          “Some of you may be of the opinion that the ball is no longer residing under the hat. Let’s check shall we?”

          Max returned to the top hat resting on the table. He lifted the hat to reveal the red ball still lying motionless on the table.

          “Haha! You were wrong, it’s still there!” He continued with mock surprise, “What? Some of you are clearly not impressed by the magical way that I didn’t make the ball disappear. Let me try again.” He then carefully replaced the hat over the ball, ensuring the audience could clearly see his hands on the top of the hat at all times, and never touching the ball.

          “For this piece of magic, I will need full concentration and, therefore, ask that you all remain still and quiet. Thank you.”

          Ordinarily, a conjuror would prefer a drum roll at this point, or some dramatic music, but Max insisted on silence. He closed his eyes and allowed his head to drop, his chin resting on his chest. The audience held its breath.

          After ten seconds or so, Max raised his head and opened his eyes. The deed had been done. He returned to the table and raised the top hat.

          The table was empty. Max loved this moment of his act, the gasp from the audience, and then the applause.

          He took a bow and asked, “Would you like to see another trick?” The applause continued, and Max drank it in. Once he had had his fill, he quietened the audience once more, and informed them that he needed another red ball. “I appear to have mislaid the first one.” More laughter.

          A stage hand shuffled on in that embarrassed way of all stage hands, and passed a new red ball to Max, who then placed it on the table and covered it with the top hat.

          “So you can know this is not just a conjuring trick, but real magic, can I have a volunteer from the audience to come up here, and check that all this is genuine?”

          A boy of about ten years of age ran to the front of the auditorium, up the steps, and onto the stage, accompanied by a worried female voice, “Darren, no! Come back here, you little …”

          Max was unperturbed, and shook hands with his latest assistant. “Darren is it? The sorcerer’s apprentice. Please check to see if the ball is under the top hat.”

          Darren did as instructed, allowing the audience to see the red ball still in situ.

          “Thank you, Darren. Before you leave the stage, could you take the pen that is on the table, and write your name on the ball?”

          Darren again followed Max’s instructions.

          “Thank you, Darren. And before you return to your worried mother, would you please place the red ball back on the table and place the top hat over it?”

          Darren obeyed for a third time. Max then led the audience in politely applauding Darren’s exit from the stage.

          Max then returned to center stage and, with a deft hand gesture, indicated to the audience he wanted quiet.

          “Ladies and gentlemen, you will observe a second table and top hat on the other side of the stage. It is my intention to transfer Darren’s signed red ball from under one top hat to under the other. For this I will need full concentration and, therefore, ask once more that you remain still and quiet. Thank you.”

          Max’s head dropped again. The audience waited.

          Max raised his head. There was not a sound in the theatre.

          He walked over to the second table and raised the top hat. Underneath was, of course, the red ball, which Max raised and triumphantly displayed to the audience like a trophy.

          “Darren!” he called, “Catch!”

          As Darren caught the thrown ball, Max asked, “Is that your name written on the ball?”

          “Yes, yes, it is!” shouted the boy with astonished delight. The audience erupted.

          Max enjoyed the adulation but was conscious that the whole show was run to a tight schedule, and he felt a compulsion to move on to his finale. He called once more for quiet.

          “Ladies and gentlemen, to demonstrate that this magic is not produced by trick props, could someone please throw onto the stage a small object that they don’t mind if it disappears?”

          Following a few seconds of confused searching of pockets, a matchbox was thrown onto the stage. Max picked it up, held it to his ear and shook the box. “A few left in, I think.”

          The matchbox was then placed on one of the tables, and covered with a top hat. Once more, Max asked for quiet, and lowered his head in concentration. Judging that the tension in the audience had risen about as far as it was going to go, he then removed the hat from the table. The matchbox had gone.

          Max quickly strode once more to the front of the stage, held out his arms and concluded his act with, “And that’s real magic. Thank you.” He bowed.

          To tumultuous applause, Max exited the stage and headed straight for his dressing room.

          “Ladies and gentlemen, there now follows a fifteen minute intermission.” The raised house lights illuminated smiling faces sharing their excitement at Max’s magic, the closing act of this old-style variety performance at one of London’s premiere theatres.

& & &

          As members of the public left the auditorium, seeking either refreshment or relief, three figures remained seated in row K, one woman and two men, all early thirties. This was the third time they had seen the show. The woman nodded briefly to the two men and, quietly but firmly, declared, “Okay, let’s do this. Come on.”

          The two men followed the woman to a door marked ‘Backstage. Private.’ Ignoring the sign, they entered a short, dimly lit corridor, lined with yellowing light bulbs and badly painted doors. The woman knocked on the first door and entered without waiting for a response from within.

          “No star on the door, I see, Max,” observed the female intruder.

          “Who are you?”

          The woman moved into the small, badly furnished dressing room, allowing space for her two companions to accompany her. The door closed. She asked, “How do you make things disappear?”

          “Haha, trade secret. Seriously though, who are you?”

          “We’re from British Intelligence.”

          Max decided not to voice his opinion as to the oxymoronic nature of this statement, choosing instead to ask, “Really? Do you have identification?”

          “I’m Agent Gale Wilson, these two are Agents Cox and Allen.” ID badges flashed briefly across Max’s field of vision. Agent Wilson returned cooly to her original question, “How do you make things disappear, Max?”

          “As I told the audience, it’s real magic.”

          “We know.”

          “It’s not tricks.”

          “We know.”

          “What?”

          “This is the third time we’ve observed your act. We know it’s inexplicable. After yesterday evening’s show, when the theatre was closed, we gained access, and checked your equipment. As you can imagine, we found none of the usual conjuror’s tricks. We can only assume you are using something other than the sleight of hand or smoke and mirrors of regular magicians. So, we know you are not using normal methods to carry out these tricks. We are interested to learn how you make things disappear.”

          “Sorry, can’t help you. Goodnight.”

          “You mean won’t help. And we’ll decide if this is a good night.”

          “You can’t make me reveal my magician’s secrets. It’ll spoil my show.”

          “Oh, but we can.” With that, Agent Wilson snapped her fingers, causing the immediate production of a thin manila file by Agent Allen.

          “Recognize this?”

          “No.”

          “We didn’t think you would. It’s your tax file. Or, in this case, your lack of tax file.”

          “You can’t …” he floundered.

          “We can, we have, and we will,” she smiled. “Now, about your magic. Tell us how you make things disappear … or we will make you disappear. Potentially, for up to five years.”

          Max flopped down on the chair in his dressing room. “Can you at least promise me that what I’m about to explain will not be made public? This is my livelihood.”

          “I can assure you we will divulge this to no one.”

          “Thank you.”

          “Don’t fool yourself, though, we’ll be keeping it a secret not to protect you, but to prevent your special ability from falling into the wrong hands.”

          “What do you mean by the wrong hands?”

          “Let’s just say that more than his majesty’s government might be interested in your speciality, and they might not be so friendly about asking for a demonstration.”

          “I suppose I ought to trust my own government more than a foreign one.”

          “Exactly. Now, an explanation, please. How do you make things disappear?”

          “Well, actually, I don’t make them disappear.”

          “No?”

          “No, I just move them so they’re not where the audience can see them. So, they look like they’ve disappeared”

          “Go on.”

          The magician looked at Cox and Allen – no reaction; they stood by the door like a couple of night club bouncers.

          “Remember that box of matches in my show?”

          “Yes.”

          “Well, it’s here.” He leaned over to the dressing table, collected the matchbox and handed it to Agent Wilson.

          “And this is the same one that was on stage with you?” she asked, while inspecting the box.

          He nodded.

          “And what about all the other objects that disappeared? How about the sealed pack of cards you used in yesterday’s matinee?”

          “It’s in that trunk over there.”

          She nodded to Agent Cox, who opened the trunk, searched briefly, and pulled out the pack of cards.

          A glance passed between the three agents. They looked pleased.

          “We need details now. For example, during the show yesterday evening you took a pearl necklace from a member of the audience, placed it under the top hat, and made it reappear under the top hat on the other side of the stage. You also caused the red balls, this matchbox here, and several other objects to either change location of disappear completely. How?”

          “It’s all the same trick really. I just move stuff. Either it’s across the stage, or from the stage into here, my dressing room. I always insist on having the dressing room closest to the stage.Occasionally, I move stuff from the stage to the audience; but that’s a little trickier.”

          “Thank you, but that doesn’t answer my question. How do you do it?”

          “To be honest, I’m not a hundred percent sure myself how it works, I just know it does. You see, if I concentrate really hard – that’s why I insist on silence from the audience – I can actually move stuff from one location to another, just by thinking about it. I know it sounds crazy but that’s how I do it. It’s a sort of mind trick. I’ve been able to do it since I was a kid.”

          There was that glance again between the agents. Outside the dressing room noises indicated that the second half of the show was about to commence.

          “Can I ask you something now?” said the magician, “Well, two things, really.”

          Agent Wilson smiled and nodded.

          “I’ve told you what you came to find out, so what are you going to do about the … er, the tax problem?”

          “You have been very cooperative, so I suppose I should respond by saying, ‘What tax problem?’”

          Now it was Max’s turn to smile.

          “You’re not the only one who can make things disappear. And what was your second question?”

          “Why do you want to know about my act? I mean, what happens next?”

          “Actually, that’s two questions; two very distinct questions. To answer the first, we wish to know because your little talent might prove useful to his majesty’s government. And, to answer your second question, what happens next depends on how cooperative you wish to be, and how much of a taste for adventure you have.”

          The magician looked perplexed.

          “We have already given you much food for thought. I suggest we discuss this again tomorrow. Sleep on it,” she said as she rose to her feet, adding enigmatically, “We’ll be in touch.”

          And with that they left.

& & &

          On reaching his dressing room during the interval of the next matinee performance, Max found an envelope on the table. This, in itself, was strange, considering he had decided to lock his dressing room door to discourage further enquiries concerning his special talent, especially from foreign agents. He opened the envelope and read the brief note contained therein. It gave the name of a local hotel, a room number, a time, and concluded with the initials GW. The arrangements for this assignation were such that he would be unable to find any excuse not to attend. The hotel was within easy walking of the theatre, and the prescribed time slotted neatly between the matinee and evening performances.

          Upon the conclusion of the matinee, Max waited for the audience to disperse, and then walked briskly to the hotel designated by the agents. The room was on the third floor and, at exactly the correct time, he knocked as confidently as possible on the dark wooden door.

          Agent Allen opened the door, said nothing, but stepped aside indicating to Max that he should enter.

          Agent Wilson stood, walked across the bland carpet and offered Max her hand. “I’m glad you could make it. Tea?”

          Taken aback by this polite, almost formal, greeting, Max agreed to take tea.

          “We’ve also taken the liberty of ordering sandwiches and cakes as well. Please help yourself, Max.”

          “Er, thank you.”

          Max inspected the room from behind the safety of his tea cup. He saw nothing other than a regular, modestly sized hotel room. He suspected, however, that hidden gadgetry would be observing and recording his every move.

          “Sugar?”

          “Oh, er, no thanks.”

          Once the serving of afternoon tea had been negotiated, Max felt it necessary to ask a simple question, “What’s going on?”

          Agent Wilson placed her cup and saucer purposefully on the table, and smiled. “As we indicated yesterday, we would like to learn more about your special talent. Furthermore, I think we also indicated yesterday that we can rely upon your full cooperation.”

          “The tax, you mean. Yes. I don’t see that I’ve any alternative, really.”

          Agent Wilson smiled again; this was beginning to irritate Max. She continued, “Would you please summarize for us what you can do in terms of making objects disappear? Or, as you told us earlier, how you simply move them.”

          Max took a deep breath and, unable to find an alternative strategy, decided to tell the truth. “Like I said, I don’t know how it works. All I know is that I can move small objects for a short distance. I’ve been able to do this for as long as I can remember. I had a few freaky scares when I was a kid, and so decided not to make this, er, talent, widely known. But, if I’ve got this gift, I might as well make some money out of it, which is why I decided to become a magician, and use that as a cover for the fact that I really can move stuff as if by, well … magic.”

          All three agents maintained perfectly straight faces, as one might see at a science lecture.

          Agent Wilson was clearly the one who was going to be asking all the questions. “You mentioned small objects and short distances. How small and how far?”

          “Generally, quite light objects. I tried a cauliflower once, just as an experiment, but couldn’t budge it. As for distance, the lighter the object, the further I can move it. Four or five meters is about my limit, though. That’s why I need a dressing room close to the stage.”

          “Interesting. Excuse us, please, Max.” Agent Wilson motioned to Cox and Allen to join her on the other side if the room for a hushed conference. Max took the opportunity to finish his tea and try a couple of the dainty cucumber sandwiches. The conference proved to be brief.

          “Max, would you be willing to give the three of us a demonstration of your ability, without all the trappings of a magician’s act?”

          “I don’t see I have much of an option, considering my fiscal predicament.”

          There was that smile again.

          “What do you want me to move, and to where?” asked Max.

          “Could you please pass me a cucumber sandwich?”

          “Sure.”

          “But, without touching it.”

          “Oh, I see.”

          “Well?”

          “Er, no. It doesn’t work like that.”

          “What do you mean?”

          “The object I’m moving has to be covered, not visible. And where I’m moving it to, has to be out of sight also. Otherwise, it doesn’t work.”

          “Wh..”

          “And don’t ask why,” interrupted Max, “because I’ve no idea.”

          “Cox, place the tea cosy over the plate of cucumber sandwiches.” Agent Wilson then turned her empty tea cup upside-down on its saucer. “Would that work for you, Max?”

          “It might,” he responded, “but no promises.”

          “Sure, just take your time. We’re more interested in the result than the performance. Do you really need quiet to concentrate, or is that just part of the magician’s act?”

          “No, I really do need to concentrate quite hard on this.” Max looked quickly at Agents Cox and Allen, “Okay, quiet, please.”

          Only traffic sounds from the busy London streets below remained, as the three agents allowed Max to perform. Out of habit, Max dropped his chin onto his chest while closing his eyes. The senses of the three agents were on high alert, hoping to glean any small clue as to what was happening in the room. After several seconds, Max lifted his head and opened his eyes. Now it was his turn to smile.

          “May I?” asked Agent Wilson, indicating the upturned tea cup.

          “By all means.”

          With arched eyebrows, she glanced briefly at Cox and Allen, grasped the cup handle, and lifted. The saucer contained not one, but three small cucumber sandwiches.

          “One each,” beamed Max, “enjoy!”

          All three agents exhaled. Cox almost started to applaud.

          “Still pleasing your audience, I see,” smiled Agent Wilson as she picked up a sandwich, inspected it carefully before popping it into her mouth. “Delicious,” she mumbled, before passing the saucer to her companions for their perusal.

          “Okay,” started Max, “I’ve performed for you. Now tell me what this is all about. And begin by telling me who you are.”

          “We are from one of the more extreme branches of His Majesty’s Secret Service, a branch that dabbles in the slight possibility of the paranormal. To that end, we are interested in you! Your special talent could be usefully employed in the defence of the realm, and other sundry assignments. Interested? The pay is good, and the sandwiches are excellent,” she added while licking her fingers.

          “I might be interested. Is it dangerous?”

          “Not for you. Other agents would be taking the risks, not you.”

          “Go on.”

          “Before I continue, we will require you to fulfil a task more challenging than the relocation of a few sandwiches, no matter how tasty they might be.”

          Max’s quizzical look encouraged Agent Wilson to continue. Placing a small device onto the table, she asked, “Could you move this small microphone into the hotel room next door?”

          “Yes, and no.”

          “Explain.”

          “I should be able to move it, that’s not a problem. It seems light enough and the distance is not too far. It’s just that I need to visualize where I’m moving it to, otherwise it won’t work. I need to memorize the layout of the target location. Like in my dressing room backstage.”

          “We can show you the other room.” She snapped her figures and Cox accompanied Max next door where he spent a minute looking round; same bland carpet, same fading curtains and the same lifeless paintings that were nothing more than visual muzak, fast-food for the eyes. They then returned to the original room where Agent Wilson asked, “Can we specify where in the room we want you to move the object to?”

          “Oh, yes. That shouldn’t be a problem now, provided no one rearranges things in the room.”

          “Okay, I’d like you to place this small microphone with transmitter into the top drawer of the bedside table next door. Is that possible?”

          He smiled, “Just watch.”

          “Why? What is there to see?”

          “Oh? Well, nothing really. Just wait, then.”

          Max covered the small microphone with his empty tea cup, closed his eyes, dropped his head and concentrated. Several seconds later he lifted the tea cup to demonstrate that the microphone had moved. Cox and Allen dashed to the room next door. They returned with satisfied smiles and the microphone transmitter.

          “Well done, Max. Okay, next challenge. Can you move the microphone transmitter from here to under the coffee table next door?”

          “Under? I’ve never tried that before. I’ve only ever moved things to the top of a table or into a basket or trunk. I’ve never tried to put something under.”

          “Can you try?” she asked while peeling something off the gadget, “There’s an adhesive pad on the transmitter that should stick to most surfaces.”

          He nodded, “Okay, I’ve not tried this before, but here goes.”

          The whole process was repeated, and when Cox and Allen returned from inspecting the neighbouring room, all three agents expressed their delight at Max’s work.

          “Okay, Max, we know you have to return for your evening performance, but there’s one final thing we’d like to resolve. You said you needed to see the target location before you could move an object there. My question is, would a photograph work, or do you physically need to be there?”

          Max thought before responding, “I really don’t know, that’s not something I’ve ever considered. Shall we try?”

          Agent Wilson was pleased with the transformation in Max; upon arrival he had been nervous and suspicious, but now seemed genuinely interested and enthusiastic about developing further his possibly unique talent. She walked over to the window and beckoned Max over to join her, “Do you see that coffee shop on the other side of the street? Meet us there tomorrow morning at nine.”

          “Okay. Why?”

          “One final experiment; but nothing too difficult for a man of your talents. I think we are done here for now. Thank you for your time, Max. See you tomorrow.”

& & &

          At nine the following morning, Max walked into the designated coffee shop to be greeted by only Agent Wilson. His face sufficiently expressed his confusion to the extent that her first words were, “They’re next door, waiting for something to be delivered. Sit down, please, Max. Coffee?”

          “Er, yes please, just a simple Americano.” Agent Wilson ordered two coffees, and then slid a photograph across the table for Max to see.

          “This is a photograph of the bank next door to here. Agents Cox and Allen are in there right now. They are looking at brochures for a new account while sitting at that table.” Here she indicated the table in the photograph. “On their table is an empty briefcase. So far so good?”

          “Er, yes, I think so.”

          “Good. Here is a small device weighing no more than ten ounces.” Agent Wilson slid a small silver box across the table leaving it next to the photograph. She then lifted her own briefcase onto the table, place the silver box inside, and closed the briefcase. “I’d like you to move the device from my briefcase to the one in the bank next door. Both the source and the target location are now out of view, the object is light, and the distance is less than five meters. The only difference this time is that you’ve only seen the target location from a photograph. Can you do it?”

          “I really don’t know, but I’m happy to try. Do you want me to do it now?”

          “Whenever you’re ready, Max.”

          Agent Wilson watched the now familiar routine as Max entered his own world of concentration and magic.

          “Two Americanos.” The spell was broken by the arrival of their coffees.

          Max looked up and whispered, “Sorry.”

          “It’s not your fault. Can you try again?”

          “Yes,” replied Max as he lowered his head once more. Agent Wilson took a sip of her coffee while she waited patiently for Max to perform his magic. She was beginning to grow concerned about the length of time he was taking when, suddenly, Max threw back his head, opened his eyes, and declared, “I think I may have just done it. Check inside your case.”

          Agent Wilson did as Max had instructed. She smiled, and turned the case round to show Max that it was indeed empty. Before she could start to congratulate Max, Agents Cox and Allen entered the coffee shop, walked over to her table, placed the second case on the table, and opened it to reveal the small silver box. All four stared at it. Max broke the silence, “What now?”

          “Max, on behalf of his majesty’s secret service, I am authorized to offer you a position as a special field operative. You will receive basic training and, of course, a salary. Your country can use your special talent. We hope you will accept.”

          Max looked at all three before answering, “And the tax problem?”

          “Already taken care of.”

          “Okay,” smiled Max, “but what should I do about my magician’s act?”

          “You should continue with it for at least a few more weeks, we don’t want to arouse suspicion. But you might consider being a bit more creative with it. Try a few new ideas that we could use on assignments.”

          “What sort of assignments?” asked Max.

          “Complete the basic training first, then we can discuss assignments.”

          “How long will that take and, when I’m done, will you be my, er, my …

          “Your ‘handler’? Yes, you will be reporting directly to me. And the training will depend on how quickly you learn. Thank you again, Max.” The three agents stood to leave.

          “Wait, wait. What do I do now?”

          “Finish your coffee. We’ll be in touch.” She smiled.

& & &

          The next few weeks proved to be very busy for Max, as he balanced his time between developing the magician’s act and carrying out basic training for the British Secret Service. Agent Wilson entered his life occasionally, but always briefly, assessing the progress of her special agent. She gave little away and, in the end, Max assumed that if anything was going awry, she would have complained. Eventually, and without ceremony, he was told to sign the Official Secrets Act, then given his badge, and told to await further instructions. It struck him as amusing that both types of agent in his life, the secret and the theatrical, worked on the principle of ‘Don’t call us, we’ll call you’.

          Within a couple of weeks, contact was made, and Agent Wilson, smile still intact, gave him two instructions, “First of all, Max, you should now quit your magician’s act. And before you ask why, it’s because we need you to be low profile; and standing on the stage of a London theatre twice a day, in front of hundreds of people, is hardly low profile.”

          “Okay,” replied Max, keeping his relief to himself. The juggling of the magician’s act and the agent’s training had been proving exhausting.

          “The other thing is, we’ve got our first assignment. The powers near the top want to test how your talent can best be utilized in the field. Some of them remain skeptical.”

          “Go on. What’s the job?”

          “No details yet, but here’s the outline. We’re going to begin with a simple low-key, low-risk operation involving the planting of a transmitter microphone into the room of a known drug trafficker.”

          “Why doesn’t one of you just enter the room when it’s empty, and plant the bug? I know you can do this because of that envelope you left in my dressing room.”

          “Using you is safer. No chance of being seen, and no clues left behind, fingerprints, shoe prints, a stray hair, that sort of thing. It’s clean and simple. All we need is a picture of the target location, which the hotel can provide us with, and the knowledge of when the room is empty, which we’ll do by observation. And, anyway, you’ve done this before as an experiment, remember?”

          “Sure,” replied Max and added, with a hint of sarcasm, “what fun.”

          Max’s first assignment proceeded well and, by the end, his masters were able to eavesdrop sufficiently to convict the drug trafficker.

& & &

          The second assignment to be offered (and how could he refuse?) involved a train journey, and was intended to seal another drug related conviction.

          “So, how does this one work?” he asked of Agent Wilson.

          “You’ll actually be sat face to face with your target, across the table on a busy inter-city train. We’ve booked you a reserved seat on tomorrow’s 9:06 from King’s Cross to Newcastle. Your seat is directly opposite a known drug dealer. As the train approaches York you will transfer from your brief case to his this packet of white powder.”

          “What is it?” asked Max cautiously.

          “Illegal. That’s all you need to know. The train will make an unscheduled stop at York, the Police will enter your carriage with sniffer dogs, search the briefcase of your new-found friend, and arrest him on the spot, supposedly acting on an informer tip-off. You will then continue your innocent journey up to Newcastle. And you’ll be pleased to hear we’ve bought you a return ticket.”

          “But they’re not actually his drugs, though,” observed Max.

          “Technically, that’s true. But, this drug dealer is known to have an eight-figure annual turnover. His business ruins the lives of hundreds, maybe thousands, of kids in the North-East each year. But he’s very clever, and very cautious. This is the only way we could ever nail anything on him. Of course, once in our custody, if he confesses to other drug related crimes, he’ll get an easier ride with the judge.”

          “But, what sort of justice is that?” asked Max.

          “Poetic.”

& & &

          The train assignment proved so successful that for his next, Max was going to be sent abroad.

          “The Caribbean? Really? Wow!”

          “Just remember, Max, you’re there to do a job, not take a vacation.” Agent Wilson handed over a large manila envelope. “All the necessary documentation is in here, including your fake passport.”

          “Cool. What’s the job?”

          “Open the envelope and find the photo of the man you are to meet.”

          Max did as instructed, and waited for further explanation.

          “Ever heard of Esteban Rodriguez?”

          “Played left-back for Benfica in the seventies, didn’t he?” quipped Max.

          “Please take this seriously. For this assignment, you’ll be on your own, so you’ll need to pay attention right now, and memorize as much as possible.”

          Suitably admonished, Max changed to his fully alert face.

          “Okay, Max, listen. Rodriguez is one of the world’s top thieves. Wanted in more countries than you can name. Recently, he stole a most valuable piece of jewelry from a British museum. There is a photo of the missing piece, a necklace, in the envelope. Look at it please. While the piece is of great intrinsic value, it also has a history closely linked to this country, and it’s loss would be a national scandal, and, I might add, a great embarrassment to the government. Basically, we need it back, and soon.”

          “So, how do we do that?”

          “We?” she laughed. “You … will fly to Little Cayman, where Rodriguez has his villa on the North coast. Through contacts, we have set up a meeting at his villa between Rodriguez and an expert from a very interested buyer. You’re that expert, visiting Rodriguez on behalf of your wealthy client. You’re there to verify the authenticity of the necklace.”

          “I’m expected then?”

          “Yes, the day after tomorrow, so we need to move fast. Once you’re in his villa, we want you to remove the item, which we strongly believe he keeps in the private safe in his study. How you achieve this will require a little planning, plus some flexibility and quick thinking on your part when you are there.”

          Max was given further details, including a map of the island and a plan of the villa, before being driven to the airport for his flight to the Caribbean.

& & &

          Considering the task before him, Max slept remarkably well in his hotel on Little Cayman. After a delightful breakfast of fresh fruit and perfectly grilled fish, paid for, he reminded himself, by other people’s taxes, he checked out, and climbed into the hire car waiting for him. He was travelling light with only a single backpack. He drove along the North shore of the island, heading into the rising sun, until he reached Rodriguez’s villa. The armed guard at the gate checked his passport before allowing Max to enter. So far, so good, everything as planned. But from now on he might need to ad lib a little.

          Rodriguez was waiting for him at the front double door, and greeted him like an old friend. Max decided playing aloof might be his best way to get in, get the job done, and get out.

          As he guided his guest into the study, Rodriguez played the perfect host, “Cigar, my friend.” Max declined. “Then a cognac, perhaps?”

          “I’m here to see the jewels,” responded Max in as firm a voice as he could manage, hopefully with an impatient edge.

          “Very businesslike, my friend, I appreciate that. I can see why they sent you. Please take a seat. This won’t take long.”

          Max placed his backpack on the floor, sat in a comfortably soft leather chair, and observed his surroundings. A door opened onto a patio running the full length of the seaward side of the villa, affording spectacular views of the currently placid Caribbean. A cooling sea breeze fought a battle with the warming sun that, by noon, it would lose. The study was neat, uncluttered and opulently appointed. As Rodriguez moved to the picture behind his desk, Max correctly assumed this was the location of the private safe. He needed to pay full attention. Rodriguez removed the painting from the wall, revealing the expected safe. Max heard the spin of the combination lock, and waited as nonchalantly as possible for the safe to be opened.

          “May I see the piece now?” asked Max, with mock impatience.

          “Of course, my friend. Here it is. Feast your eyes on this beautiful object. I shall be sorry to sell her but, as you can see, I have an expensive lifestyle I wish to maintain.” Rodriguez laughed at his own attempt at humour. Max didn’t. Rather, he turned his attention to inspecting each stone in the necklace using an eye glass he’d brought along. After three minutes, he returned the piece to Rodriguez without comment.

          “Well? Are you satisfied?” asked Max’s host, impatiently.

          “It is not me who will be buying the piece. I need to report to my client. For the purposes of security, please put the jewelry immediately back into the safe, and close it while I contact my client.” Max was impressing himself with how calm he was being, and how assertive.

          Rodriguez did as instructed, returning the jewels to the safe and locking it. Max rang a dummy number saved in his mobile specifically for this purpose. He would have to fake half a telephone conversation.

          “Yes, it’s me.” …

          “Yes, I’ve seen it.” …

          “Yes, I believe it to be genuine.” …

          “Yes, go on,” … Max then used a long pause to concentrate on moving the jewels from the safe to the backpack positioned next to his feet. Once he was convinced the move had been made, he started nodding and then speaking, “Of course … yes, I will … immediately I land.” Max then snapped his phone shut, turned to Rodriguez, and said, “My client is satisfied. You will be hearing from him soon. In the meantime, I have a plane to catch. Please excuse me.” Collecting his backpack, Max left the study and quickly made his way out of the villa, into his car, and onto the road to the airport.

          After a couple of miles, he pulled over to the roadside and checked in his backpack. The sun was now higher in the sky, and its rays glinted on the precious stones of the necklace he’d just stolen from one of the best thieves in the world.

          Having no idea how long it would be before Rodriguez checked his safe again, Max sped on to the airport and, later that day, completed a trouble free journey back to London. Agents Cox and Allen were at the airport to greet him, or possibly they were there to greet the necklace. Max suspected the latter was of more value to them.

& & &

          Max had enjoyed this last assignment. He’d been given some freedom, he’d been allowed to use his initiative, he’d succeeded, and, best of all, it’d all been done in an exotic location. Maybe those James Bond films weren’t all fiction, after all. It therefore came as a disappointment when Max learnt his next assignment would be back in dreary London, running the same old neighbouring hotel room scenario.

          He found himself, once more, in the same style of bland, nondescript hotel room. Agents Cox and Allen were stationed by the door. For the first time Max noticed the faint lumps near the left armpit of their jackets. They seemed a little jumpy this morning, but Max let it pass. Agent Wilson passed to him the customary photo of the room next door, and indicated where she wanted the item placed. She then handed him a small electrical device, which he assumed was another surveillance bug. As before, Max covered the object, hung his head, concentrated, and then moved the object to the neighbouring room.

          He lifted his head.

          “Are you done?” asked Agent Wilson, urgently.

          “Yes,” laughed Max, who was then taken aback by the speed of what happened next. Agents Cox and Allen immediately opened the door and dashed outside to cover the corridor. Agent Wilson dragged Max by the elbow out of the room. He was then bundled into the lift with Agent Wilson. Cox and Allen ran down the stairs. They regrouped in the lobby and exited the hotel without looking back.

          Outside they stepped through roadworks covering the pavement, and out across a road strangely devoid of vehicles. All the traffic lights were on red.

          They were running now. Max had no idea why.

          Later, he couldn’t remember what he’d noticed first, was it the noise of the explosion above or the thump of the shockwave hitting his back?

          He was firmly bundled into the back seat of a waiting standard, government black car, which then drove steadily away from the quickly evolving scene of public panic. To his right Agent Cox looked out of the car window, to his left sat Agent Allen, his pose a mirror image of Cox’s. Agent Wilson sat in the front next to the standard, anonymous government driver, She was on her phone, probably reporting to her bosses. He felt so alone. He needed to talk to someone; had he just murdered the occupants of that hotel room?

          Agent Wilson snapped her phone shut and immediately turned to Max, sitting rigid on the back seat. “Well done,” she said, and smiled.

          “Well done? WELL DONE!” he bellowed. “I just, … we just, … you – YOU just killed … murdered … the people in that room!”

          Agent Wilson remained her consistent, calm self, and waited for Max’s anger to subside. Cox and Allen continued sitting impassively, possibly revisiting feelings from their own first deadly assignments.

          “I repeat, Max, well done. Really.” She was being firm now, but softened, “We deliberately gave you minimal information beforehand, so you wouldn’t be emotionally attached to the task.”

          “What?”

          She ignored his question and continued with her debrief, “The object you moved was a small detonator. You moved it, as instructed, to a particular part of the room where we were fairly certain explosives would be stored. The detonator was set to just two minutes. That’s why we had to leave quickly.”

          “But why?”

          This time she didn’t ignore his question, “The explosives were going to go off today whatever happened, either in that room, or in a tube station at rush hour. The three occupants of the room were terrorists, Max, and you have just help save the lives of many innocent Londoners. It was an anti-terrorist mission, and a successful one.”

          “But…”

          “You’re concerned that our methods might have resulted in possible injury, or worse, to innocent by-standers?” How did she know, thought Max. “Did you notice the roadworks covering the pavement in front of the hotel? That was us, wanting to prevent pedestrians from walking under any falling debris. And why do you think all the traffic lights were on red? That was one of our agents remotely controlling the traffic flow to ensure no vehicles were stationary underneath the hotel room that was destroyed. It was all timed to the second, Max. Oh, and we checked that the hotel’s insurance covers this sort of thing,” adding under her breath, “it needed renovating anyway.”

          Max slumped back into the plush leather of the back seat, and joined Cox and Allen in their mindless gazing at the passing street scenes. Eventually, without emotion, he asked, “What next?”

          Agent Wilson smiled, “Today or tomorrow, you’ll be seen by a psychiatrist, who will assess how you have been affected, if at all, by this event. We’ll decide your next move after we’ve seen the report.”

          “What might happen?”

          “Worst case scenario is that, following today’s events, you’ll suffer some form of trauma, and will be retired from active service. You’ll be given help to get over the trauma, of course. And then, maybe, you could return to your magician’s act.”

          “And, if not? If you think I can cope with all this 007 stuff?”

          “The best case scenario is that we see no signs of any adverse effects, and that you’ll be given a clean bill of health, ready for our next assignment. Personally, this is what I’m hoping for. Yours is a rare talent, Max, one that we really need to utilize for the good of the country.”

          They drove on without conversation, until Agent Wilson seemed to suddenly remember something. She turned to Max again, who was still sitting on the back seat in a state of shock, “Oh, I almost forgot to tell you.” She smiled.

          “What?”

“Officially, Max, you now have a licence to kill.”

* * * * THE END * * * *
Copyright Michael Smith 2024

Editor’s Note: This story was previously published in author Michael Smith’s second collection of short stories titled ‘Songs’ which is available for purchase on Amazon.com at https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0D29YZG73/