Chapter Text
Lawrence Brown paused in the tiled vestibule of the hotel. His hand gripped the cold metal handle of the exit door. With his other hand, he fumbled for his cigarettes in the side pocket of his briefcase, his fingers brushing the sharp edges of the documents buried within. His mind raced with what ifs as he finally pushed through and hustled himself out the door.
It was dark outside, the neon sign above him bathing the surroundings in ultraviolet hues. It read Balkon bar - food - pizza. The glow reflected off the slick pavement where rain had pooled in the dips of the wonky cobblestone some hours ago. An arrow sign pointing up was attached next to the neon letters. It was flashing in an erratic rhythm, as if to remind him that he had no time to linger. All that he was allowed was a quick smoke break.
Lawrence lit a cigarette, the flare of the lighter illuminating his haggard face for a brief moment. The pieces are finally coming together. He closed his eyes and took a slow drag before exhaling. The smoke curled into the chilly night air. It's bigger than anyone has anticipated. The aromatic burn of the sun-cured Turkish tobacco and the rush of nicotine calmed his nerves. His eyes wandered to an orange cat perched on the curb, cleaning himself carefully. He beckoned the cat over and, to his surprise, the stray showed no hesitation in approaching. At least the Park knows now. The rest depends on tonight. Holding the cigarette between his lips, he reached into the briefcase strapped over his shoulder and pulled out a tin of cat food. He crouched, peeling the small tin open. The lucky cat rubbed his face on Lawrence's knees before settling to eat. One of his Turkish colleagues had told him her bag always had an ample supply of cat food in it, in case she saw a hungry one. 'In Istanbul, cats run the city, mate,' he remembered her saying. After that, he had decided to make a habit of buying a couple of packets of wet cat food whenever he went grocery shopping.
He heard the door open and close behind him. A middle aged man stepped into his view, with a cigarette dangling from his lips and a cheap plastic lighter held up with his free hand cupped around the flame. Lawrence recognized him as the gentleman who sat behind the reception desk.
"Oh, not necessary to feed her, sir," the receptionist said. Though he sounded fluent in English, he retained traces of a Turkish accent, "He works here, you know. Breakfast, lunch, dinner. All covered."
Lawrence smiled faintly, unsure how to respond. The receptionist's eyes stayed on him, studying him, as though he were trying to decide whether to say more.
The men finished their cigarettes in silence, absorbed in thought.
Lawrence crushed his cigarette under his foot, nodding towards the man to acknowledge him before he turned back inside the hotel. The briefing to the handler was rushed, but it's better than nothing. He climbed the stairs up to the terrace bar. The sound of the music grew louder as he stepped through the threshold and the melody of some rock song washed over him. All I need now is this asset to confirm the final piece. He paused at the entrance for a moment. His heart leaped up into his throat. His contact was still nowhere to be seen. Because of the urgency of the subject matter, there was no flexibility to reschedule another live drop meeting. He stiffened with the unnerving thought that he had the wrong place. He swore this was where he was told to meet the asset.
Hotel Fresia.
9 pm.
He moved to the heavily lacquered wooden bar, ordering a beer to steady his mind. The bartender slid the bottle across the counter without a word. Lawrence turned, bottle in hand, and discovered his previous spot was taken. He started scanning the room to find another table. His hand absentmindedly went to his phone- no messages, no notifications from the secure email service. No missed calls. Nothing. He scanned the room again, more carefully this time. Was the asset delayed, or was the location compromised? He debated in his mind whether he should reach out to his handler. He noticed, as he lifted his head from inspecting the phone screen, that a man was watching him with a stern mouth. He could feel anxiety's fist wrapping around his heart. He glanced at his phone to check the time. 9:13PM. Intuition told him something was wrong and he knew it. His fretting eyes strained to detect the tiniest sign that would mean this location was compromised. The anxiety he was already feeling suddenly intensified tenfold.
Shit.
Shit.
He was losing it. He took a deep breath to calm himself. He needed to get it together and keep it together.
"The fuck you looking at?" A voice growled behind him and Lawrence turned his head.
He shuddered when he realized it was the man that had been staring at him earlier. "I'm sorry?"
"I said, what the fuck are you looking at me for?"
"Sorry, I wasn't looking at you or anything, just your direction."
"You call me a liar? What the fuck is your problem? Why don't you fuck off, huh?" He squinted at him, annoyance already plain on his face.
"I don't want any trouble, please," Lawrence said, raising a hand in placation and taking a step towards the empty table he'd spotted earlier. The stocky man blocked him and Lawrence watched his fists tighten at his side.
"Trouble? There's a fucking fine line and you've just crossed it," he said, his voice rising above the murmur of the bar.
The room got a little quieter, save for the music. Conversations around them died and people started to stare. The stranger spit and then glared into his eyes like beams through a magnifying glass. Lawrence didn't flinch, but the man's expression got uglier as he leaned closer, like he wanted to provoke him. The man was almost chest to chest with Lawrence's thin frame now.
Everything happened so fast. The only thing he registered before the room erupted in chaos was the stranger's fist colliding with Lawrence's jaw in a sickening crack. Then, his nose clicked loudly when the thug's forehead made contact with his face. Lawrence stumbled back and hit the edge of the bar ledge hard. He grunted in pain and his beer bottle fell to the floor and shattered. He received another hit, this time a kick to the gut, then another to his face before he reached back for anything to grab from the ledge. His fingers wrapped around the neck of an empty beer bottle. When the bottle shattered against the man's head, it sent him reeling. Blood dripped down the side of his face, but he recovered quickly. He charged again, this time grabbing Lawrence by the throat and slamming him to the ground. He was suddenly painfully aware of the calloused feel of fingers squeezing his windpipe. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't even wheeze.
"Stop! Stop it!" A voice cut through the commotion.
The person grabbed the man's arm, tugging him back. The goon held on for a moment longer, his chest heaving with exertion. Then he shoved Lawrence roughly, the back of his head hitting the floor with a loud thud. His attacker stood up and paused for a beat longer than necessary. A security guard had finally made his way over to where he was standing. The burly guy opened his mouth to protest, but the guard gave a sharp jerk of his head toward the door. Grumbling curses under his breath, he backed away, his boots scuffing against the floor as he left the scene. The guard followed behind him. The other bar goers were frozen, staring, their discomfort palpable.
Lawrence turned onto his side and blinked at the man who had come to his rescue. "Tesekkurler," he choked out, expressing thanks in the local language.
The good Samaritan who intervened let out a sharp breath, his hand on Lawrence's upper back. "What's your name, man?"
"Uhm, Tom." His voice was but a raspy gasp as his vocal cords strained and burned.
"Good. My name is Mehmet. Come on. Let's go out of here."
𓃗𓃗𓃗𓃗𓃗𓃗𓃗𓃗
The air was cool and Lawrence shivered as they walked out into the city noise. He leaned his back against the wall, pressing a paper towel to his split lip. Blood smeared across his knuckles. He scowled at the hotel windows above him.
"Are you okay?"
Lawrence took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders. They were still stiff with shock and his heart was pounding from the adrenaline racing through his veins. "Yeah, I'm fine."
"Look man," Mehmet said, "I don't know what you got going on, but I'm sure you got concussion or something. That maniac throw you very hard. You need to go hospital."
"I can't leave yet," Lawrence mumbled, tossing the bloodied paper towel onto the pavement. "I'm waiting for someone."
"No way hotel security is letting you back in, man. Tell your friend to meet somewhere else."
"I can't do that. I fuckin-" Lawrence exhaled. "I fucked up."
"Your lip probably need stitching. C'mon." Mehmet clapped him on the shoulder, Lawrence suddenly felt an almost brotherly bond simmering between them. It must be the alcohol, he thought. How many beers had he drank? Three at most, right? Damn, maybe he did have a concussion.
"Come on, Taxi," Mehmet said, and soon Lawrence registered a yellow car pull up beside them.
"What?" he blurted out.
"Hospital, brother," he waved his hand impatiently.
Lawrence placed himself inside. The taxi's engine roared a moment later, headlights slicing through the dark as they pulled away from the hotel, rushing to the nearest A&E.
𓃗𓃗𓃗𓃗𓃗𓃗𓃗𓃗
The next day, Regent's Park received a worrying update from Lawrence's handler. Agent Lawrence Brown, codename Woodlark, had disappeared after a bar brawl.
"Woodlark never made contact, according to his handler, ma'am," the officer reported.
When the asset showed up at the location of the live drop meeting, he was nowhere to be found. His phone had pinged at the hospital. The team in Istanbul had scoured the place but Lawrence was not there, and his cell phone was handed to the reception as lost, having been spotted outside the emergency ward. The security cameras showed no evidence of him leaving the hospital premises.
"He was okay when he entered the hospital. Bruises. Doctors said maybe a concussion. The man used him as a punching bag until a good Samaritan broke up the fight. No immediate suspects."
"The man completely vanished, I presume," Diana Taverner said, as she skimmed the report.
"Yes, ma'am."
"And where is this 'good Samaritan'? Who is he?"
"An ordinary man. His background checks out. Retired lawyer, married father of two sons, he was also active in local politics. He currently works as a program director for a day treatment center."
Diana hummed in response, her eyes impatiently travelling over the document.
"We identified him as Boran Sezer, ma'am," the agent added a moment later.
Diana finally lifted her gaze to the officer that was sent to update her. A clean-shaven face and recently trimmed short hair. Young and ambitious. Fresh out of university. She rolled her eyes in annoyance. What is going on with the new recruits? Are they all incompetent?
"He was no good Samaritan. He was an ex-agent who saw a chance to make some money," she said irritably.
The officer's heart nearly stopped. Did he just reveal how he fucked up the background check, in front his boss, the operational lead of MI5? He started to panic but he hoped it didn't show on his face, as he cautiously continued, "Before going dark, Woodlark passed some intel -completely unrelated to his mission there- uhm, something about a network in the West Midlands. But now we've lost him, and the trail might've gone cold."
Diana flipped through the report again to make sure she hadn't missed anything important. "We are up to our elbows in work right now."
She appeared to ponder for a moment.
"Pass it to slow horses."
The agent nodded and kept his gaze on her, with a very slight raise of an eyebrow.
She handed the document back. "And get me on the phone with Jade King."
"Jade King?"
"Now."