Room 6

Agent Jonah Watkins fiddled with a small radio receiver in the passenger seat of his car. The small, square device looked a little bit like an old mobile phone, so there was no reason for any pedestrians to be suspicious. He was dressed down, in skinny jeans and a flowery button-down shirt and to anyone passing by, he was just a hipster in a beat-up Volkswagen. The radio crackled, and he leaned in a little bit closer. With any luck, the bug he planted would tune in remotely any minute now – it was programmed to activate at a certain decibel level. Watkins didn’t care for the technical aspects of it all; he was a grunt, the ground-working muscle, and he was more than okay with that. He was paid well, sent out on missions every once in a while, had hazard pay and dental… Life was good. So when his director had sent him out to investigate a small, but rich, extremist group in the arse-end of France, Watkins had agreed easily.

Garbled French spat out at Watkins’ end and he frantically pressed the red ‘REC’ button on the recorder beside him. Despite taking Italian through elementary school, he had no appreciation for European languages – they all sounded the same to him anyway – and so he was more than happy to kick his legs up on the dashboard and let the language nerds over at HQ deal with all the translation stuff.

He rummaged around behind his seat without looking, until his skinny fingers finally caught the edge of a days old chocolate bar. Watkins could feel it; it was just out of reach. This was going to be more effort than it was worth. He briefly considered driving up to a gas station to procure another, but then remembered that he was officially ‘on the clock’ and that his radio would drop out if he drove down even half a meter from the ramshackle motel he was eavesdropping at. He had rented a bug-infested room for more than it was worth exactly one week ago, so the not-so-subtle crooks would be used to the sight of him by the time he started the real surveillance.

Watkins pushed up with his feet, balancing the receiver on his lap as he made a last-ditch grope for the chocolate. His arm stretched to the point of possible dislocation and he felt his shoulder muscles start to burn… Gotcha. There was a moment in which he was consumed with the feeling of success, as he shrank back down into his seat and began to unwrap his prize. His movement was too much for the receiver, which slithered off his lap and clattered down onto the floor of the car.
“Balls!” Watkins cursed, leaning forward to try and grab it. His hand grabbed at thin air, so he sighed, took a bite of his chocolate and bent down. His head ended up almost resting on his knees in the tiny car and he was annoyed to find that he had got caramel in his beard. That would take ages to wash out.

He could see the receiver, but he just couldn’t reach it. Cursing, Watkins attempted to stoop lower down, eye level with his skinny calves, fingers just barely ghosting over the metal receiver.
“Watkins. Jonah Watkins…” A nasal voice came over the receiver, tilted heavily with a posh French accent. Watkins froze, shoulder wedged uncomfortably under the dashboard.
“I trust you are listening by now, no?” Fear, ice cold, dribbled down Jonah’s spine and into the pit of his stomach. A metallic type taste invaded his mouth and his head began to swim. No one was supposed to know his name, or why he was here…

“Your name is Jonah Maurice Watkins, son of Tomas Watkins, born in Bristol. Your take your coffee black with three sugars, your favourite music is folk and you have never had a girlfriend. The last film you saw was a comedy and your mother is the closest person in your life.” Jonah’s mind raced faster than a starving greyhound on the track. He tried to move, but his shoulder was jammed right under the dash and he was caught too awkwardly to shrink back.

“By now you will have deduced that we are more than just a fly for you English fools to swat. Unfortunately, this is knowledge that we cannot yet give to you. It is, how you say? Premature.” Jonah jerked his torso wildly and his arm came loose from its socket with a sickening ‘pop’. He landed back against his seat, out of breath from pain. Sweat trickled down his brow. He was caught, he was caught and injured…
“And so, Jonah Watkins of Bristol, this is goodbye.” A sense of unnerving calm washed over Jonah and he realized he had to get out of the car and then out of France.

The rented Volkswagen exploded violently, scattering pieces of debris over thirty meters down the road. Some of the remaining windows had blown out from the shockwave and inside room 6, Pierre von Troub smiled with pointed teeth.

“Gentlemen!” He clapped his hands. “To work!”