Echoes of The Past

  ~ Switzerland ~

  Click, Click, the cameras shutter snapped down at incredible speed. Stanley Muddingfield was photographing the facial expressions of people walking in and out of a Swiss bank. As unusual as it sounded, it was a hobby of his, studying facial expressions, and the best place to do this, he figured, was outside a bank. Their emotions plain as a day, easy to read when around banks and his camera picked these out flawlessly. Stanley’s hair was black, the occasional grey streak flashing out and his eyes were possessed by an intelligent blue. Thin lips were set into a hard, clean shaven face. His skin was a permanent tan, his figure stocky and muscular.

  Stan was snapping off shots, through the viewfinder, he caught sight of something odd; this man was wearing a fake moustache and goatee beard, the contours of the facial hair didn’t match the pure white-blonde hair on his head. The man looked around himself arrogantly and slipped in through large glass sliding doors. Picking up on this, Stanley immediately snapped five images of the man’s face. When he was certain he had disappeared inside the building, he cautiously followed.

  So much for this hard earned holiday, Stanley frowned, he just couldn’t help it; work plagued him everywhere he went. Glancing at the digital LCD screen he scrutinised the face staring out at him; narrow eyebrows, straight nose and thin lips. Disconcertingly it looked strangely familiar, though he couldn’t quite place where he’d seen it before. It was the ice cold blue eyes that tugged at his memory. He heard a well-spoken British accent drift across the lobby entrance, towards the glass doors he was standing next to.

  ‘…and if you could mention that I wish to withdraw large sums in cash, that would be appreciated.’

  The man, whose blonde hair was so white it was hard to believe it was real, had a voice which oozed superiority. Not a please or a thank you. Stan immediately began to take a dislike to him.

  ‘How large a sum would that be sir?’ inquired the receptionist.

  The man took his time, turning round lazily to ensure he had the attention of everyone present in the lobby, before replying coldly.

  ‘That is between him and me only. You of all people should be aware of this policy.’

  ‘Of course sir, I do beg your pardon sir, I shall alert him at once.’ The stammered reply of the chastised receptionist sounded loud and clipped as the Swiss accent grew more distinct, courtesy of humiliation.

  It was a combination of both the manner in which the man had addressed the receptionist and the glimpse of his face which turned Stanley’s complexion ghostly white. He double checked the earlier photos from outside the bank on his LCD screen. His fears were confirmed. The man who had just finished giving the receptionist hell had supposedly been the victim of a terrorist bombing fifteen years ago. The reason that Stan knew this was because of his job.

  Stan was not your average American citizen. He worked for ATIS; Anti-Terrorism Intelligence Sector, a secret unit belonging to the CIA. The CIA was unable to operate on U.S. soil according to law and this small sector, run independently, was the only way the CIA was able to keep tabs on events and information they would normally have to rely on the FBI for. He was also an ex FBI field agent, a convenient fact which his superiors had not ignored.

  Fifteen years ago, during his FBI days, a case involving a terrorist suspect, Mathew Smith, was underway and Stanley worked on it with his close friend and field partner, Ben Brown. The case was abruptly closed when their suspect Mathew Smith was killed in a terrorist bombing in Fiji. The irony was not lost on Stan. Smith had been with his wife, and according to witness statements, the couple went upstairs to their room and shortly afterwards died as a bomb shredded their suite into debris. Parts of two bodies were found, both burnt beyond recognition, only enough evidence left to suggest a male and female.

  ‘Is something amiss Monsieur?’ The receptionist inquired politely. The question shook Stanley from his memories, tuning him into the present.

  ‘Nothing at all thank you, but I was wondering who that gentleman that was in here but a moment ago, was?’

  ‘Oh that,’ disdain and humiliation fluttered across the face of the receptionist, before it was wiped away by a clinical customer service smile, ‘that was Signor Ramon, sir. A very wealthy man.’

  ‘Ahh well then, thank you.’

  With that Stan settled himself down in one of the lobby’s lush armchairs to wait for “Signor Ramon” to make his appearance. He’d changed his name and appearance, enough to fool anyone who didn’t know how to recognise such things.

  Stan pulled out his phone, an ordinary looking mobile, which like most of them, had a camera. The truth, however, was far from ordinary, his phone worked from any place in the world, and he could make or receive calls without this being traceable.

  ‘What’s wrong? I thought you were on holiday?’

  ‘Yeah well, Ben, plans change… especially when you see Mathew Smith walk into a Swiss bank with false identification and demanding cash withdrawals from an account.’

  ‘That son of a... I knew his death was too convenient. All this time he’s been alive. We lost our jobs, were blamed for everything. Have you got the account details, or his name?’

  ‘Got a name, he’s currently occupying the identity of a “Signor Ramon.” Don’t have the details, I’ll try and get those off the receptionist sometime later, you reckon I should use credentials?’

  ‘Hmmm, up to you. He might get suspicious if he receives a tip off that there was someone snooping, we’d lose him for sure but the information could be vital. Shadow him from the moment he leaves the bank, get a profile on him, find out where he’s staying; who he’s seeing and if that’s his only identity. Oh and of course, the amount he’s withdrawn and whether he’s coming back to withdraw more or not.’

  ‘Yeah that goes without saying; I wanna get him this time round. Look I’ll send you the photos I took, if you run a search on the database of the name “Ramon” and anything to do with him then we’ll be getting somewhere.’

  ‘Sure. I somehow think that we should keep this one on the quiet side.’

  ‘Absolutely, look here he is, and he’s leaving, so I am too. You’ll have the photos in a couple of hours. Send me everything you know, and as soon as you know.’

  ‘Take care.’

  Snapping his phone shut, Stan pretended to ease out a crease in his pants and casually got up. Smith was looking extremely smug, carrying a large briefcase that had a number lock on it. One guess as to what is in there, Stan thought, Smith wasn’t going to be looking that smug in a couple of days. He’d vowed revenge for what had happened fifteen years ago.

  Smith exited the bank flaunting his arrogance with the easy grace of one who is used to it. Armed with his briefcase filled with cash he continued to the car park where a black Subaru Forester was waiting. As he approached, the rear door opened and he gracefully slipped inside the car, his suit not crinkling the slightest bit. The door shut, the car’s engine growled in response to the gear shift and crept out of the car park with menacing stealth.

  Stan’s camera caught every last detail, even a snapshot of the number plate. Luckily, he thought to himself, there is only one hotel in the area which rents out armoured Subaru Forester limousines to its customers. The Hilton.

  As soon as it was safe to do so, Stan cut back into the building, disregarding any ruse he’d put on before; his steps carried an urgency and pace that attracted the attention of a number of other customers.

  ‘I need to see the person that Signor Ramon just had a meeting with, please sir,’ Stan asked the receptionist.

  ‘I’m sorry, but Mr Spencer only sees anyone through appointments.’ He genuinely sounded sorry as he made the excuse on behalf of his boss.

  With a sigh, Stan pulled out his credentials, flashing the badge which clearly showed him his international right to gain an immediate audience with Mr. Spencer.

  The receptionist’s eyes widened and a bead of sweat developed on his forehead. He nervously wiped
it away. ‘Give me a moment please sir, and I’ll let him know you’re on your way up. If you take the lift up to the top floor, you’ll be in his office.’

  ‘Thank you.’ With that, Stan strode briskly towards the lift, before he had the chance to push the button, the doors whispered open and he stepped into an elevator with mirrored walls. The buttons were inlaid in an oak panel, which gleamed beneath an excessive amount of varnish. His finger brushed the number twelve and the lift shot upwards incredibly fast. With a shy ping, the doors opened revealing another set of double doors. There was a round silver button, set into the right door, which appeared to be made out of marble.

  Money really doesn’t seem to be an issue here, marvelled Stan as he pressed the button. A loud chime rang through what sounded like empty space, but was then cut off and replaced with two words spoken curtly: ‘Come in,’ and with that the marble doors slid apart. He stepped through into an air-conditioned open office. Beautiful carpets smothered a tiled floor and added colour to what would’ve been a very drab office.

  At the far end of the lift doors there was a giant oak desk. From behind which, a tall, auburn haired man wearing a grey suit made his way over to Stan, his hand already outstretched. ‘Welcome, Mr…? I must apologise, I was not informed of your name.’

  ‘Stanley Muddingfield, I’m with ATIS.’

  ‘Mr Muddingfield, my name is John Spencer.’ His accent was very upper-class British, and when he spoke it was barely above a whisper, Stan having to strain to hear what he was saying as he shook his hand.

  ‘Please do take a seat,’ Mr Spencer said, indicating a couch and coffee table, to the right of the elevator doors, on which there were two glasses of water perched delicately.

  As soon as he was seated, Stan drained the water in one go. ‘I’m afraid that my time is extremely limited Mr Spencer, therefore please excuse my brief attitude. The individual Signor Ramon, does he often frequent your bank?’

  ‘Not this particular branch, but yes, he’s a very good customer with us.’

  ‘I am afraid that you have no choice in terms of answering this question, how much money did he withdraw?’

  ‘$10 million U.S.’

  ‘Is he coming back to withdraw more and are you aware of the total amount he’s withdrawn from other branches of your bank?’

  Stan acted like he knew the answer to this question, but was asking the banker out of interest.

  ‘That I am. This was his fourth and last withdrawal from us, making the total cash amount to $40 million U.S. leaving another $40 million U.S.’

       ‘Have you noticed any similar behaviour from other members of your bank?’

  ‘None that I am aware of Mr Muddingfield.’ The banker’s voice had now taken a steely tint to it.

  Picking up on this straight away, Stan knew he wasn’t going to get any further honest information out of him. ‘Well in that case Mr Spencer, I’d like to thank you very much for assisting with this serious matter and providing me with your time. I can show myself out, thank you.’

  With that, Stan left as fast as he could, the lift rocketing towards the lobby as if it sensed his urgency.

   

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