Andreas Karpasitis - The Isle of Olympia

Lucas, clearly exasperated, flicked his head towards the direction of the car and started walking. Murphy quickly grabbed James by the elbow.

“That’s it for me tonight, James,” Murphy said. “I’m heading back to the hotel, had a long day. I’ll pick up a cab.”

“I was hoping you would be more understanding, Murph. I was looking for some acknowledgment, at least,” James explained in disappointment.

“I’m sorry, but I think you are chasing ghosts, fairytales,” Murphy replied as he gently released James’s hand. “If you need anything else, you have my number.”

Murphy saluted him casually as he turned around and slowly walked away from the tunnel in search of a taxi. James went in the opposite direction and joined Lucas in the car, who accelerated into the tunnel.

10 Years Later

The rain was pouring down. Ominous, flashing thunders continuously lit up the dark sky. La Guardia airport had just received their last flight, a private jet, before its impending temporary shutdown. The storm was getting dangerously close. The plane slowly took refuge under the enormous empty hangar, which was being battered by the heavy rain.

A black, polished antique Cadillac from the nineteen fifties was parked on the corner of the hangar as the plane came to a slow halt. The driver, an old grey-haired man, leaned against the car’s hood with a cigarette in his mouth and an open newspaper in his hands. The paper was dated two thousand and twenty-one. He was lost in-between the sheets of paper, focused on the current events around the globe. The front-page article read, in huge black letters:

“Is this the end to the pandemic?”

The plane slowly opened to reveal a set of steps; the driver quickly threw his cigarette on the floor and agitatedly put it out. He shoved the newspaper into the front seat and quickly fixed his tie as he hustled towards the stairs. A lean figure started to emerge.

“Evening Murphy. How was your flight?” the driver asked while reaching for Murphy’s one-piece leather suitcase; Murphy shrugged off the help.

Murphy looked completely different at first glance; the almost ten years that had passed since he last met with James, were clearly visible. What he had experienced had created a wiser, more dynamic individual. The long hours were evident on his face, but his passion for his job had only intensified. The few strands of grey that were sprinkled through his dark hair increased the sense of wisdom and prestige surrounding him.

“The flight was long. Long and rough. I desperately need a drink,” Murphy replied while walking down the plane’s staircase. He looked grumpy and exhausted. “And it’s freezing cold, that’s one of the many reasons I don’t like New York,” he continued while removing a beanie hat from his luggage and covering his hair.

He wasn’t dressed for the occasion. The weather in New York was one of the worst in years, with temperatures struggling to inch past below zero. Murphy was not prepared at all, wearing his classic button-up shirt, blazer, and jeans. The only weather-appropriate piece of clothing was his cowboy boots, which he wore as frequently as possible.

“What other reasons do you hate New York for?” the driver asked with a grin on his face while following him towards the car.

“Well, people. There’re too many people in New York. How are you doing, Ethan?”

“Except for the fact that I’m running only on one hour of sleep?” Ethan asked sarcastically. “I’m doing great, but I don’t think it’s going to last. Am I right?”

Ethan opened the car’s back door for Murphy. Murphy, with one foot in, paused for a minute and looked at Ethan with a sense of compassion. He nodded in agreement. He didn’t want to make fake promises.

“I don’t think it's going to be a very long night. No promises, but I am hoping it’s just a quick thing. In and out.” Murphy quickly got in the car while Ethan took a deep breath.

A family man, Ethan ditched his wife and daughter in the middle of dinner. His last words to them, a simple promise that he would return before they got to bed. A commitment that he would not be able to keep. He shut the door to the back seat, forcefully.

Murphy quickly pulled a yellow dossier from the seat next to him and meticulously started studying the contents while Ethan fidgeted in the driver’s seat. The car’s engine resounded as the engine turned over.

“Where to?” Ethan asked.

Murphy was too absorbed in the folder’s intriguing information; his eyes nailed on the first page:

Name:

James Collin

Nationality:

British

Date of Birth:

16 thSeptember 1975

Employer:

MI-6

Background:

2000 to 2004 – British Special Forces

2004 to 2012 – MI-6

Skills:

Espionage, Cryptography, Cryptanalysis

The list went on, revealing numerous trivial and personal information of MI6 agent James Collin. Since their last meeting, they hadn’t had any crucial interactions, just casual crossings. Murphy did hear rumors about him. Reading through his file, Murphy was kind of envious of the information listed on his resume, but a few phrases stood out more profoundly: Ticking bomb; unreliable; liability; not to be trusted with sensitive information. Those phrases made Murphy feel a sense of relief, as they made his inferiority subside. He always considered himself one of the best-trained and best-skilled agents of the Central Intelligence Agency. He was certain that James’ pompous British accent would irritate him even more. A brief memory of their first meeting crossed his mind. It was a long time ago, in his early years in the agency, around fifteen years. Their paths crossed for the first time in a safe house; they exchanged a few hours of conversation, with a warm cup of coffee. He seemed like a good bloke back then, very committed to his duty to serve the Queen and the British people.

They would meet occasionally after that, and James seemed comfortable with Murphy. A comfort that led to the meeting of two thousand a ten, as James looked for someone to back him in his research into a dead-end, as Murphy called it, but he always gave James the benefit of the doubt.

Murphy could still vividly remember, how a few months after their meeting in Paris, he came across a newspaper piece. The article’s title read in large black letters:

“MI6 Agent Investigating Diana’s

Accident as a Cover-Up”

Even though the article did not mention the agent by name, Murphy was certain that it was about James. All the details were there. The article went on about some new details being exposed, and how a British MI6 agent was running a long and pointless investigation. It explained how the agent was convinced that there was something more to the accident that everyone was made to believe. Especially after he got hold of some new explosive evidence. The reporter was not so forgiving towards James, calling him a “roque nut case”.

Since they last met, James Collin’s name had been viciously slandered; he had been accused of corruption, foul play, and in recent years a tendency to turn to alcohol and clash with people around him, within his work environment and out. He was also known for some violent outbursts. When Murphy briefly talked to him on the phone a few hours before, it wasn’t the feeling he got. He did sound a bit jittery, but he wouldn’t have assumed that he lost his way.

Murphy absorbed the information he needed, knowing that he had the upper hand, psychologically speaking. He always took the steps to profile the people he would be meeting, to know who he will be talking to and his or her weaknesses.

“Murphy? Where to?” Ethan asked again.

Without taking his eyes from the yellow dossier, Murphy said, “It’s a hotel at sixth avenue and fifty nineth street.”