IV – MR. WHITE

Words for posterity

Being a finder these days isn’t what it used to be anymore. After returning from a three weeks vacation on the Caiman Islands I was caught off guard once I realized I was out of a job. My former employer, Mr. Lyle, had opened up a Chinese restaurant – its slogan 'We serve Chinese' could be quite disturbing if you happened to know what the mean ate – and my contract on Jarod's family was no longer effective.

Actually, it was, but with no one to pay me, I had better things to do with my time. It was true that the disappearance of The Centre had left me without a profitable source of income. Fortunately, I wasn't without the means with which to obtain another form of revenue. All I had to do was go into the right places and talk to some people. The Centre still had many secrets and there were hundreds of newspapers interested in knowing what used to went on in its deepest bowels.

I knew their secrets. Perhaps not all of them, but enough to get paid a lot of cash if I decided to blow the whistle. Although I was at a lower rank than Cox, I had access to things he didn’t. We had both come from South Africa and we were both assigned to work under Lyle’s supervision. The only difference between us was that I had been sent to Blue Cove because of my skills. Cox had been sent there because he had screwed up. Maybe that was why he had killed Mutumbo.

Three years. That’s all it took for me to find Jarod’s family. I still remember the last time I met him, the look in his eyes when I threw the envelope containing his sister’s information into that incinerator. How I wished that I had a camera with me back then. I had no grudge against Jarod – I was just doing my job – but I always knew a good picture when I saw one. The same way a good journalist knew a good story when he heard one.

With that in mind, I really can't say I was surprise when the first journalist contacted me for an interview. Although, I have to say I was very surprised when I found out that the journalist was Jarod’s sister, Emily. That was no coincidence. I was sure of that. What I wasn’t so sure about was what would happen after I told her my story.

I decided to accept her invitation. We met at a coffee shop. It felt awkward to be with her in such a social situation. She took her tape recorder out of her purse and put it on the table.

“I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all.”

“Good.”

She took a small pad and a pen from her purse and then we waited for the waitress to bring us some coffee. I wasn’t sure whether she knew who I really was, so I decided to go for some “casual” conversation.

“So... How long have you been a reporter?”

“Almost eight years.”

“Do you like it?”

“I think so. It’s a bit stressful. It keeps me moving constantly.”

“Yeah. I know what you mean.”

“What’s your connection to The Centre?”

“I was a file clerk.”

She nodded and the look in her eyes told me she had bought it. I was safe from exposure as long as I kept my activities discreet.

The waitress came and brought us two cups of coffee. There was something about her, but I couldn’t tell what it was. A young girl passed by. She had a tattoo on her left arm – some obscene drawing that was catching everyone’s attention.

“That’s disgusting.”

“I like yours better.”

“What did you say?”

I hadn’t realized I had spoken out loud. Damn!

“I said she’s probably eager... for attention, you know?”

“Right... Let's get started, shall we?”

We took a sip. Emily pressed the red button and the tape began to roll.

“This is Emily Russell, for the Daily-zine, the day is February 10th,2003, and I’m interviewing Larry White, a former employee from the corporation known as The Centre.” She looked me in the eye. Is it okay if I call you Larry?”

“Sure. Larry is as good as any other alias.”

“Good. Tell me Larry, how did you begin to work at The Centre?”

“The Centre hired my services fifteen years ago. At the time they needed someone to manage their storage file. A friend of mine gave me the tip and I decided to apply for the job.”

“Do you have a degree in Public Administration?”

“Yes, I have. I finished my course in 1978. Top of my class.”

“Interesting. You were working at a storage file and you had contact with all sorts of information. Wasn’t that boring sometimes?”

“Not really. Like you said, I had access to all sorts of information and I had to read most of the files in order to file them properly. Besides I had other hobbies to entertain myself with.”

“Such as?”

“Photographs. Every once in a while I like to grab my camera and just go out hunting.”

“I see. About those files, what can you tell me about them?”

“Everything. What do you want to know?”

“Everything.”

I pointed to the tape recorder. “This is going to take a while.”

“Don’t worry,” she replied, “I have plenty of tapes.”

She took a sip from her coffee. I did the same and began talking.

“The Centre was what you call a think-tank. Its research was sold worldwide. Their most ambitious and profitable project ever was something called The Pretender Project. Its planning was initiated in 1958, although the first subject wasn’t brought in until 1963…”

Emily listened attentively while I told her everything I knew. Or so she believed. Occasionally I would stop to take a sip. At those times she would also stop to take a sip or to scribble something on her note-pad.

“...hen, a few weeks ago, when I came back from my vacations, The Centre had been turned into a supermarket. And that’s it.”

“Really? That’s all you have to tell me?”

“Were you listening for the past two hours?”

“Look, Jarod and Kyle are my brothers, so I already know most of what you told me. And what I didn’t know isn’t enough to pay you the amount you asked me for.”

“You must be joking!”

“I’m not. If I was joking I would say: What is the main difference between Lyle and Cox?”

“I don't know? What is it?”

“One is missing a thumb, the other is missing an eye. Get it? It's a taxidermy joke”

“I don't get it.”

“Never mind. So, unless you tell me more, I will have no choice but to consider this information irrelevant.”

She became silent. And so did I. I had no intention of telling her anything else – I had already told her everything I could without compromising myself – but I had to tell her something, otherwise I wouldn't get any money and this would all be just a waste of time.

“Well?”

I considered my options. I had to choose very carefully what I was about to say. And once I decided, I began.

“My real name is Mister White. I'm not joking. My first name really is Mister. I was part of a covert team assigned to do specific projects.”

“What sort of projects?”

“Everything from kidnapping, to extortion, some times murder. I’m afraid I can’t give you all the specifics right now because it is too much information. What I can tell you is that those assignments came directly from The Triumvirate.”

“That’s the consortium that owned The Centre, right?”

“They didn’t own it, they were more like a sponsor. The Triumvirate funded most of The Centre’s official research. All The Centre had to do was keep up with the deadlines.”

“Enough talking! FBI, you’re under arrest.”

I felt the barrel of a gun against the back of my skull.

“Don’t even think about turning your head.”

I didn’t have to turn back to know who it was – it was the waitress. Emily smiled. She sure had me fooled. I had deliberately signed my own death certificate. But I couldn’t let it go that easily. I wouldn’t.

“I knew you weren’t a waitress right from the start.”

“Is that so? What give it away?”

“You have your bullet proof vest over your uniform.”

That caught her off guard.

“Damn! Now I’m gonna have to shoot you.”

I heard the trigger being squeezed and then my head exploded into bits of meat and blood. Hints of blood hit Emily’s white silk shirt and she got up from her chair furiously.

“Look what you’ve done!”

“He started it!”

“Did not!”

“Did too!”

All right! Stop it, you two.

“She started it.”

“Did not!”

“Did too!”

“Did not!”

That’s enough! (sigh) See what you’ve done? I was trying to write something serious for once and you had to ruin it, didn’t you?

“It wasn’t my fault,” said the FBI agent.

I don’t care whose fault it was. You blew it.

“Hey! You can’t talk to me like that. I am an FBI Agent!”

You don’t exist. And neither does she.

“Oh yeah? In that case why are you talking to us?”

Damn! I forgot to take my medication!

“See?” said the FBI Agent to Emily. “I told you he was crazy.”

I’m not crazy! I have a condition…

“That’s what they all say.”

THE END