Free The Bergamese Sect by Alastair Gunn Page A

reclusive millionaire. It was a meeting room for men who directed policy from behind the façade of federal government. A coffeehouse for the anonymous. They came and went at night, often in laundry vans or beaten-up Sedans, appearing just fleetingly and then dissolving quickly into the underworld that was their life.
     
    ― § ―
     
    By ten o’clock, all the visitors had arrived at the secluded mansion. Inside, on the second floor, they gathered in a large conference room, dimly illuminated. Portraits of past Presidents and Connecticut Governors decorated the panelled walls and an eight-foot stone fireplace, never lit, dominated the room. The central table was immense, almost filling the room. It was oval, made of dense, black wood, almost greasy to the touch.
    The ten men who sat at the table were well dressed, sombre and quiet. Each bore a disturbing seriousness. They stared at each other across the table, as if they were adversaries rather than colleagues. These were men of immense power and authority. But their purpose was never to wield it. The air in the room seemed thin, like all emotion had been sucked out of it.
    Walsh pressed his back firmly against the brushed velvet of his chair. He knew only two of the men at the table, and only those two knew him. At the top sat Bob Sewell, chairman of the Daedalus committee. He was an ageing man, dangerously tanned and sported a grey, straggly moustache. Sewell was head of a federal investigation organisation, the name of which appeared on no official document. Opposite Walsh sat Ted Daintry, a high-flier within the intelligence community. Daintry could do with losing a few pounds and had the annoying habit of coughing viciously when about to speak. He was one of Walsh’s least favourite people. His attitude was egotistical at best, downright elitist most of the time.
    The real identities of the other men were a mystery to Walsh. He knew them only by code words, for anonymity was the key to the committee’s effectiveness. Icarus had the look of California about him, minus the surf trunks. He was young, his black hair spiked but not seeming out of character with his dark business suit. Lupus, middle-aged, a Bostonian by the sound of him, dressed like Sherlock Holmes and insisted on smoking an acrid smelling pipe. Prospero, an obvious military type who would bang his fist on the table as soon as speak. The others were perfect incognito – Tantalus, Cervantes, Deimos, Praetorius. Characterless, groomed men in dark coats and tailored suits.
    Walsh was part of this odd coalition, every bit as mysterious as the others. But as usual, he found himself shivering, perturbed in the presence of these candid and obscure figures.
    Sewell looked up from the sheets of paper in front of him, tapped their edges together, and glanced around the table. All attention was on him.
    ‘ Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘I hope you had time to review the documents before you arrived. We don’t have much time.’ The chairman licked his moustache and glanced over at Walsh, eyebrows raised. ‘Dante, give us a summary, please.’
    Walsh remained seated and fumbled among his papers on the table. Deciding he didn’t need them, he pushed them aside.
    ‘ Sebastian has moved,’ he said, ‘yesterday. Surveillance identified a transmission to a target in London, though we didn’t intercept the body of the communication. We’ve still no information on Sebastian’s location or what he plans to do. We can only assume he’s preparing to reveal what he knows. An unknown subversive group identified the target within minutes and picked him up. Three bodies were recovered at the scene. Two were Argent operatives; the third appeared to be a member of the subversive group. We’re tracking the subversives closely but have taken no other action.’
    ‘ Repercussions?’ Sewell asked.
    ‘ Hopefully none. I’ve got a man at ground level trying to keep British Intelligence out of the picture. He’s making it