Knowledge is Power (Part 2)

 

Following the world wide financial crash in 2008, Section 13 had been created
by a consortium of the biggest and most maligned banks in the UK,
with the simple mission of protecting their interests by any means
necessary. An anonymous, resourceful and divisive body, they
monitored both government activity and the world's press, countering
any banking world negativity with skilfully placed positivity of
their own. They lobbied receptive politicians, influenced big
business by selective lending and took any course of clandestine
action necessary against those considered a threat.

Jesse Wainwright had first appeared on their radar following her maiden
speech in Parliament and was now undoubtedly considered a threat.
Lobbying attempts to dampen her vehement campaigning against them had
simply fanned the flames, so now the gloves were off. Michael's brief
had been simple. He would infiltrate every aspect of Jesse
Wainwright's life by establishing a relationship with her. He would
insert himself into her life, bug her phone and computers, log her
every movement, capture her every word and steal her heart.

Michael Baker, intelligent, resourceful and unscrupulous had leapt at the
opportunity of employment with such an organisation. He had been
astounded by his initial visit to their secluded country mansion HQ
and even more astounded by his intensive induction course. In support
of their motto 'Knowledge is Power', the level of surveillance being
carried out, both visual and audio, was on a par with GCHQ. Section
13 appeared able to tap into CCTV both public and private and all
apparently undetected. It was a massive information collecting
operation, information that could be used to influence and even
control, those considered a threat to the status quo. He would, he
assured his employers, find this task both challenging and
entertaining.

His dream woke him at 03.07a.m. and put an abrupt end to yet another
argument with his mother. This had become a frequent occurrence over
recent years and it annoyed him intensely. He had switched her off
years earlier by denying her access to his life and feelings, yet she
still found a way into his mind. He turned over and closed his eyes
in search of dreamless sleep and as he did so, the soft, warm hand
shake on the upper deck of the No.15 bus surged into the vacant
space. He fell instantly into the arms of Morpheus.

Michael's article on Jesse Wainwright's fiery speech had appeared on the front
page of the Banking Times and had not gone unnoticed at Wainwright
HQ. It had painted her as an anti establishment warrior, bent on a
relentless campaign and it lay on Jesse's desk awaiting her arrival.
She had been strangely attracted to Michael Baker and had worked hard
to suppress the feeling, deliberately leaving him hung out when she'd
left him abruptly in the taxi a few nights earlier. Now was not the
right time for a relationship in her life. She had embarked on a
crusade, fighting fiercely against social injustice on behalf of her
constituents and relentlessly attacking the greed of big business
and the banks. Somehow though, her resolve had been ever so slightly
dented by her encounter with the Wakefield Trinity supporter.

The office phone rang and Jesse's assistant, Debbie, answered with her
usual brisk efficiency. She listened intently and then covered up the
speaker and looked across at her employer.

'It's someone called Michael Baker, Jesse, he's wanting to make an
appointment to meet you.'

'Put him through,' instructed Jesse, realising immediately those words had
tumbled out all too quickly. She picked up her phone and swung her
chair round to face the window, something else Debbie picked up on
immediately.

'I've just read your piece and I'm not impressed,' she snapped with an
accented disdain designed to influence Debbie's assumptions. ' I
thought we northerners should stick together.'

Jesse's words brought a loud smile to Michael's face, as the piece he'd
written had been carefully designed to bring about exactly this
reaction from her.

'I'm sorry you didn't like it Jesse, but there's nothing in it that you
can really take any offence over. I thought it was an honest
interpretation of your speech in the house and it reported most of
the points you were making, almost verbatim.'

'I should have known not to trust a Yorkshireman,' quipped Jesse,
softening a little. 'You're obviously on the side of the rich
bastards. How can you ever be objective when you take their pieces of
silver?'

'Look Jesse,' replied Michael in as conciliatory tone as he could muster,
'I do empathise with your stance on the world's banks, but for all
their faults they do keep the wheels turning in this exasperating
little nation of ours. Let me buy you a drink this evening so that I
can explain just how sympathetic with your cause I really am.'

Jesse thought for a fraction too long, looking for a response which gave no
real indication of interest or anticipation.

'I can give you about thirty minutes after my committee meeting later
this afternoon. Be in the Members' Bar at 6p.m. sharp. If you're not
there on time you needn't bother ringing again.'

Jesse dropped the phone into its cradle with the just the amount of
contempt required to dispel any assumptions Debbie may already have
made.

'Put that in the diary Debs, will you? He may be a rich bastards' lackey,
but he might just be useful. Michael Baker, Banking Times, 6p.m.'

Debbie reached for the embossed House of Commons desk diary, opened it up
and buried her knowing smile inside it.

* * *

They moved out onto the terrace overlooking the Thames and drank Pinot
Griggio to a backing track of Thames barges and Westminster traffic.
Jesse's earlier telephone abruptness had quickly dissipated under the
heady mixture of Michael's growing effect on her and the second
bottle of Pinot. He'd arrived sporting a carefully nurtured five
o'clock shadow and wearing an expensive Paul Smith charcoal suit with
crisp white open-necked shirt. Jesse positively glowed as she railed
against the unfairness of the capitalist system, her freckled pink
cheeks slowly beginning to match her fiery red hair. Michael gave her
free reign and sat back, mesmerised.

As Jesse spoke, an unexpected emotion began to build inside him, a
startling mixture of attraction, unease and most surprisingly, self
loathing. He quickly forced the intrusion into his reject box, where
it would be in the equally rejected emotional company of his parents.
It went in reluctantly and began banging loudly against the lid in
protest, but Michael had learned to phase out such annoyance, like a
seasoned tinnitus sufferer.

They left the Commons and walked across to the Red Lion on Parliament
Street. The pub was buzzing with the early evening homeward bound,
noisily putting the world to rights whilst enjoying just one more
before the tube back to Metro-land. Jesse ordered fish and chips and
Michael the steak and ale pie, both with pints of London Pride and
they settled into a small table by the window. Jesse's piercing brown
eyes stared directly into Michael's for several seconds before
speaking.

'Tell me who you really are Michael Baker,' she demanded with an unexpected
intensity. 'Tell me what makes a Wakefield Trinity supporter leave
his native land to work for the rich bastards in London?'

The question took him by surprise and he was forced to improvise.

'Because I want to be a rich bastard too,' he replied unconvincingly. 'So I
thought I'd come down here and take some of theirs for myself.'

Jesse looked at him again, decidedly unconvinced. 'You'll have to do much
better than that,' she replied forcefully. 'You're clearly a man with
an agenda and I want to know what it it is.'

An idea suddenly struck him and he decided to run with it. It was time
to make his move before the lid on his emotional reject box became
too much of a problem.

'OK, I'll confess, but it has to remain strictly confidential or I'll deny
everything.' He leaned back into his chair and released an enigmatic
smile.

Jesse leaned closer across the small table and grinned from ear to ear.
'Scouts honour,' she quipped, holding a two fingered salute up to her
temple. Not a word.'

'Well I'm not really a journalist you see, I actually work for a secret
organisation run by the bankers and the task I've been assigned, is
to target you. I have to penetrate your formidable defences, sweep
you off your feet and become a totally indispensable part of your
life.'

She looked nonplussed for a second or two and then burst out laughing.

'And what's the name of this secret organisation.... MI5?'

'Good grief, no,' Michael replied through a broad smile, 'it's called, er..
Section 13.' Deliberately adding the 'er' to suggest he'd just
invented the name.

Jesse took a swig from her pint glass and pulled a funny face. 'Ugh!
Southern dish water. Should have stayed with the Pinot.' She pushed
the glass to one side and stared across at the secret agent.

'Section 13 eh! And just exactly how does this Section13 operative plan to
penetrate my formidable defences?' Jesse enquired, with a mischievous
twinkle.

'A formidable combination of my rugged charm, copious quantities of
booze and sheer bloody persistence,' grinned Michael, with matching
twinkle.

Jesse thought for a moment, one of those watershed moments we have in life
when we make a snap decision on the strength of two bottles of Pinot
Griggio.

'Well, you can make a start by replacing this piss with a decent bottle of
white and look sharp about it,' she quipped, it'll soon be my
bedtime.'

Michael did exactly as he was told

* * *

A heavily over painted plaster ceiling rose forced its way slowly into
focus above him as Michael struggled blearily into the land of the
living. He stared at it intently, trying to remember exactly whose
ceiling it was and why he had woken up staring at it. He lifted the
duvet from his chest and peered down into the bed. He was naked.

At that moment the door burst open and Jesse appeared, also wearing
absolutely nothing but a wooden tray supporting a full cafetière and
two mugs. She placed the tray onto her bedside table, walked across
to the window without a hint of self consciousness and flung back the
curtains with joyful abandon. Michael shielded his eyes against the
glaring morning light as Jesse returned to the cafetière and began
to pour. He propped himself onto an elbow and watched her,
purposeful, confident and gorgeously revealing. She held out a cup of
steaming coffee for him.

'To the victor, the spoils,' she smiled, as he took the mug from her.
'You can now inform Section 13 that my formidable defences have been
breached.'

Michael smiled warmly at her, wishing his memories of the said breaching were
more than just befuddled snapshots.

'Right,' said Jesse, dropping her mug onto the tray after a brief sip. 'You
enjoy your coffee in peace while I take a shower. And don't spill any
on my new duvet cover.'

Michael gazed at her shapely rear view as she disappeared from the room, into
what appeared to be an en suite. He sipped his coffee feeling
strangely unsettled and then flopped back into the bed, listening to
the sounds of the morning. The muffled traffic on Great Tower Street
below, a distant wailing police siren and Jesse, singing softly to
herself in the shower.

Suddenly, the lid on Michael's emotional reject box began to rattle again.
Something had happened to him that he couldn't quite come to terms
with. He'd spent his adolescence and university years Teflon coating
himself against emotional involvement. He'd locked out his parents
and repelled anyone attempting to develop anything more than a casual
relationship. But here he was, making real progress on his first
professional assignment and it was not at all how he'd imagined. This
lady was gorgeous. She had spirit and determination and freckles and
fiery red hair and she had lit something inside him that he couldn't
extinguish. Something instinctive, something distilled by thousands
of years of evolution, something overwhelmingly human.

'Are you going to lie there all day Michael Baker, or get out and earn a
living like the rest of us?' quipped Jesse, as she emerged clad in a
white dressing gown and matching towel turban.'There's plenty of hot
water left for you.'

Michael took the hint and slid his nakedness from under the duvet, scurrying
straight into the en suite in one fluid, self conscious movement.
Jesse was right, there was plenty of hot water left and he wallowed
in it for longer than necessary, in the hope that his undeniable
affections for this lady might somehow be damped down by the water.
They weren't.

He found his clothes in several different areas of the room and dressed,
feeling uncomfortably mendacious. He had to get out of there and
regroup. Pull himself together. Get back on track. He walked into the
kitchen ready to make his excuses to Jesse and escape, but she had
already departed, leaving a note propped up against the kettle. He
picked it up and slumped into a chair by the small two person table.
It read:

DearMichael

Got an early meeting, so help yourself to whatever you can find. Drop the
catch when you leave. xx

p.s. Meet up this evening in the Members' Bar, say 6pm?

Michael read the note and pushed it aside. It was too honest for him. Too
affectionate, too loving and it had all too easily pierced his Teflon
defences. He tried to force his feelings into the reject box, but
they wouldn't go. They were too natural, they wouldn't fit.

The kitchen led through to the very untidy lounge, where the remains of
the previous evening were still evident. Two empty wine bottles on
the coffee table and some of the clothes Jesse had been wearing the
previous day on the sofa. Michael forced himself into work mode.
This was an opportunity too good to miss. The flat all to himself,
giving him all the time he needed to plant the tiny devices issued
to him by Section13. He found his shoulder bag discarded by the door
and began preparing for the task. His eyes scanned the room, but
there was no sign of a computer or laptop.

A brief exploration of the flat quickly located a second bedroom, a
small room clearly designated as an office and here he found what he
was looking for. A laptop on the desk and next to it, a two drawer
filing cabinet, with the top drawer partially open. He sat at the
desk with a new found sense of enthusiasm for his task and pulled the
drawer fully open. It contained a row of suspended files, each with a
label tag arranged in alphabetical order. Michael flicked through
them systematically, looking for something of interest, but found
nothing worth recording until he reached a file tagged 'Section 13'.
Seeing the title shocked him to the core and he pulled it out, lay it
on the desk in front of him and opened it. He was greeted by a pink
post-it note stuck to the top sheet with the words:

Michael, please put this file back where you found it so that I won't ever
know whether you read it or not. xx