The Janus Discord (ONC2024)

Chapter 1

Beatty & Spiers Mechanical Design. The brass plaque beside the heavy glass doors dazzled in the morning sun, a welcoming beacon for some - another day of drudgery for others. Somewhere in between, Matt Constable, held the door for two of the young women in accounting, smiling and nodding at their thank yous.

Following them up the three wide stairs to the office level was always a welcome start to the day - any day for that matter. For three years Matt sat at the large drawing board poring over complex design drawings in his role as checker of the outsourced design drawings from various government clients. A position obtained through methods Matt could only guess.

In reality, he was hunting for stolen secrets hidden in the data that were finding their way into criminal hands. Taking the job had been a questionable move, but Matt's was not to reason why, yadda, yadda, yadda.

The partners in B&SMD were exact opposites, in that Doug Spiers was a pleasant, intelligent listener, conscious of good relationships with the people who worked for him, and fair in all dealings. Whereas his partner, Solomon Beatty, was a pompous, whip-cracking martinet who, without his more reasonable partner, wouldn't have a clue about what the company actually did.

He enjoyed raging through the departments, reiterating deadlines, and terrorizing those tasked with completing them. One such sortie had just ended as Matt arrived at his drawing board.

"Morning, Connie. Managed to avoid the Beatty badgering, eh?"

Matt's attention was disrupted, and he cringed at the designation from his most disliked co-worker, letting him know with a dull expression.

"Catch the game last night? Hundred and fourteen to ninety-six - a blow out."

"No, I didn't, Arthur."

"We should go together some time. Guy's night out, eh?"

"Unlikely. You want something; I've got a lot to get through here?"

"Yeah . . . Connie, the deep thinker . . . catch you later."

Matt watched him go to his own corner of the room; a tiny wire of suspicion slid up his back. Of the nine people in the drafting department, Arthur Tate bothered him the most and he wasn't sure exactly what it was about the man that caused that. The phone by his desk rang and he looked around for Norma, the department secretary. Not seeing her anywhere, he slid his stool over and answered.

"Constable. No, Norma's away from her desk. Who's this?"

"Washroom. Five minutes." The line went dead.

He hung up, looking about the room. Only Arthur seemed to notice him, so he pretended to write down a message, then pushed his stool back, finished his coffee, and casually left the department. In the men's room, he stopped inside the door, listening.

"It's okay, we're alone." The voice came from one of the stalls, followed by the short, stocky man in a pair of jeans and a leather jacket.

"Just who is the other half of we?" Matt checked the room through the mirrors and stayed with his back to the wall.

"You can call me Devon."

"But it's not your name."

The man smiled. "No. But that's not important. What is important is that someone breached Icecap security, and a number of people could be compromised."

Matt's eyes squinted, and he wet his lips. Icecap was the code name for the mission of which he was a part - apparently an endangered part.

"Are you saying I'm blown?"

"You were in the data that was breached."

"Swell. Now what?"

"Just carry on. Nothing that would point to you as anything but what you are, and stay alert."

"For Christ's sake, that's what I'm already doing. What about a backup plan? When did this happen?"

"We are working to answer all those questions."

"How will I know when you have answers - Devon?" Matt's tone was laced with annoyed sarcasm.

The man moved around him to the door. "I'll be in touch. Just stay sharp."

Matt started to respond but the door swung shut, and when he opened it and stepped into the hall, Devon was gone.

******

Icecap, a pretentious code name dreamed up by some wag in operations, was a program created to infiltrate, surveil, and eventually bring down an organization of spies passing military design secrets through bona fide industrial drawings. Matt had been shown examples of the ploy, and was tasked with uncovering who was delivering and picking up the material. In his three years, he had learned very little, other than the fact whoever was doing it was damned clever.

He put his dinner dishes in the sink, popped the cap off a beer and flopped down in front of his TV, thinking about what Devon had told him. What might that really mean? What would be the action taken if he was blown? Physical danger or just exposure and . . . and what? He drank, and turned on the TV with the remote. After ten minutes of news, weather, and sports, he went to the fridge, cursing, to find that was his last beer.

Grunting into his jacket, he grabbed his keys, the empties, and headed for the store. A misting rain had started, and Matt yanked up his collar and zipper, ducking his head. At the corner he looked up and down the street, then stepped out onto the road to cross. The squeal of tires stopped him, and he turned into the blinding high beams of a vehicle racing right at him. Heart thumping, he dropped his carton of empties and made a headlong dive for the curb.

The crunch of tires over the bottles was all he heard as he banged his head on the cement edge, and rolled onto the sidewalk. Red tail lights disappeared down the street into the night, and he sat on the sidewalk, shaking. Beer wasn't going to cut it after that, he frowned, staring at the shattered glass on the road.

Protocol was, never contact operations except in the most extreme of situations. Problem was, nobody defined extreme, and having a ton of metal bearing down on you on a dark rainy night, might not meet the mark. Still, it had happened right after learning about the breach, and that was more than a coincidence he felt.

Using the burn phone, Matt dialled the memorized number and waited.

"Answering service."

"Designation Polar 2."

"I have no authorization for receiving Polar 2."

"Well, get some! I need to talk to Arctic."

"You will stand down and wait for instructions. This Polar 2 phone has been blocked and will no longer be recognized."

"Instructions? When? Listen, I--" The call ended. "Shit!" He slammed the phone down on the edge of his sink, smashing the case.