The Isle of Olympia. Andreas Karpasitis
pulled his dying body upwards so he could help him sit against the wall. He’s a mess.
“Hang on, buddy, everything is going to be okay.”
“Come on, man, I know I’m dying.” Blood was coming out of his mouth, his breath in spurts. “They took the photos and my notes, they took bloody everything.”
Murphy picked up his cell phone and quickly dialed 911, while James slowly moved his hand towards his legs, trying to reach his right foot, but it was impossible.
“You need to relax,” Murphy said. “Stop moving around, James.”
“The key,” James replied. “There’s a key in my right shoe…” he pointed down, struggling to finish his sentence.
Murphy kneeled and pulled his right worn down black leather shoe off. A key dropped, and as it hit the floor, the clinking sound filled the room.
“Murphy,” James struggled to speak, coughing up more blood, “they took my notebook, the photos, my notes,” he continued. “But they didn’t take everything. I was careful, I made backups, and they also don’t have the most important piece.” His breathing got slower as Murphy listened to the crackling noise of his blood-filled lungs.
“Where are they?” Murphy asked utterly oblivious of what was happening.
“Switzerland. Downtown Zurich, at Paradeplattz—Riese Bank, don’t let this—” his breath kept slowing down, “don’t let this get away and don’t forget the passphrase—the speed of a fly in a moving car,” James paused one more time trying to gain his remaining strength. “The speed of a fly in a moving car,” he repeated slowly and carefully one more time as his breathing slowed dramatically. “Remember the key to everything is the red—” his breathing became almost extinct, he stopped moving, his olive eyes locked with Murphy’s as his glare froze. His arm dropped to the floor as his head rolled to the side. His breathing completely stopped as the room went silent. Murphy was shocked and confused.
“Nine-one-one, operator twenty-seven, please state your emergency,” a female voice sounded through Murphy’s phone, breaking the silence. “Nine-one-one, please state your emergency,” the voice repeated as Murphy remained frozen over James’s lifeless body.
“Nine-one-one, please—”
“CIA Agent Murphy Lawson, there’s been a murder in the men’s restroom of Ritz Hotel Bar. The victim is dead, the perpetrators—”
In a moment of clarity, he remembered the old, shady Mercedes outside the hotel, realizing that whoever did this might not be far away. Murphy hung up the phone and, like a dash of lighting, rushed out of the restrooms with his gun drawn. As he stormed through the hotel, he saw the employees preparing the different sections for the next day. As he ran, everyone turned their head in surprise. Murphy knew that the possibility of catching up with that car was low. Murphy suddenly realized that he had gotten himself involved in something much more complicated than he initially thought. Seeing the signs for the emergency exit stairs, he rushed down as fast as he could.
Murphy reached the service ground floor. Cleaners were everywhere; steam hissing all around as Murphy ran through the corridors. Suddenly, a door marked “Emergency Exit – Alarm Will Sound” was the only thing standing between him and the outside. Murphy knew that by opening the door, he would attract even more attention from the hotel workers, in addition to the possible killers.
He had no choice; with his shoulder, he smacked the door open. Whatever silence had been present turned into a chaotic mixture of lights and sirens, as the alarm sounded. Murphy found himself in a dark New York street alley, and quickly scanned the area thinking about his next steps. At the far end of the alley he saw the black Cadillac at the side of the street, the dark silhouette of his driver behind the wheel.
Murphy took a few steps towards the car, holding his gun up, close to his chest, ready to fire at any moment. Keeping his full attention on the car, a silent shadow behind him creeped into the corner of his vision. One shadow became two as he realized he was being followed from the other end of the alley. The sound of a cocking gun echoed across the brickwork. Acting purely on instinct, he hurled himself behind a huge, green garbage bin just as gunshots started. Murphy could barely hear them. Silencers, he thought, wishing he wasn’t alone in this messed-up moment.
He could now see Ethan closer, who seemed oblivious to what was happening a few yards next to him. Murphy was looking for a way to grab his attention, and what better way than to return fire. Quickly, he raised his gun and fired two gunshots back. Ethan’s head jerked into full alertness as he slouched in the driver’s seat, taking cover.
Murphy quickly waved to him.
“Cover me,” he mouthed.
Ethan promptly grabbed his gun, slid the window down and fired two shots. The men quickly took cover in the shadows of the dark alley. Murphy quickly fired two more shots as he made his way towards the car. With every step he took, the thought of a bullet piercing his body was growing exponentially in his head. He knew that he could die at any second for reasons that were not yet clear to him and for a matter that he wasn’t even knowingly involved with. As he dived into the back seat, and Ethan quickly shut the door, Murphy remained still, as he listened to the last few shots fading in the background while Ethan sped away.
I’m safe, Murphy thought. In recent months, he realized that he had gotten older. With each brush with death, he would feel more intense, while at the same time creating a deeper sense of shock. Fear was becoming more real with every passing year. When he was younger, he believed that with experience, and especially as he got older, he would become more indifferent and braver in situations like this. What an illusion, he thought, unable to move.
“Murphy, are you listening to me? Are you shot?” Ethan asked, trying to sneak a peek while driving high speed in the now almost empty Upper West Side streets. The rain was pouring down horizontally, with the wind rendering the ability to move impossible.
“All good,” Murphy slowly replied, still not moving a muscle.
“I thought something was wrong. What the hell is going on, Murph?”
Murphy wasn’t even sure of what was going on. He followed some simple instructions to fly to New York. It was something between an order and a favor. It came from a supervisor who, in a way, tried to convince Murphy that it was going to be so easy that it would be a break from his daily, complex, and tiring routine. It was supposed to be a quick and straightforward task. Get in, have a conversation, probably get into an argument, but ultimately manage to be convincing enough to get the upper hand of the situation. Around twelve hours after the first mention of James, Murphy was in New York with a mysterious key, new unsettling information, and a dead body. Besides, Murphy was being shot at and hunted down by people he never met in his life. Indeed, what the hell is going on? Murphy thought as he forced himself to the sitting position.
“I’m not sure.” Murphy squeezed Ethan’s shoulder. “I’m not sure Ethan, but I’m going to try and get to the bottom of this.”
Murphy pulled the key from his pocket and looked at it. It was a worn-down key, engraved on its head was 541. From James’s last words, he assumed that this would open a bank safety deposit box in a private underground room in one of the many banks in Zurich.
“Let’s get back to the airport,” Murphy instructed Ethan.
Chapter 7
The dial tone kept ringing. This was the second time in five minutes that he was trying to contact one of his very close friends and ex-partners at the CIA headquarters. He kept pacing around the enormous hangar as the pilot was boarding the private jet. The tall, hangar doors every few seconds would shake and tremble under the heavy pressure of the strong winds. The heavy rain, hitting the metal roof, resonated throughout the hangar.
“Come on, Karl, pick up the goddamn phone.” Murphy rubbed his weary, reddish eyes.
Suddenly the persistent ringing