Lesson Learned- Mission Report 1 Read online

  Lesson Learned

  G J Stevens

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © GJ Stevens 2012-2020

  The moral right of GJ Stevens to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs, and Patents Act 1998.

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright under the Berne Convention

  British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  Cover Illustration Copyright © 2020 by Gareth Stevens

  Cover design by Gareth Stevens

  ISBN: 9798629589051

  Other Books by GJ Stevens

  Agent Carrie Harris Series

  OPERATION DAWN WOLF

  Grab your free copy at www.gjstevens.com

  James Fisher Series

  FATE’S AMBITION

  Post-apocalyptic Thrillers

  IN THE END

  BEFORE THE END

  SURVIVOR – Your Guide to Surviving the Apocalypse

  DEDICATION

  To the men and woman who tirelessly work to make our world a safer place, putting themselves in harm’s way so we can sleep soundly.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thanks to all those who helped me along the way, be it big or small, I am grateful.

  Have you read Operation Dawn Wolf?

  If not then grab your free copy by joining my mailing list and read it before LESSON LEARNED.

  Operation Dawn Wolf is a spy-thriller following Recruit Harris as she endeavours to survive the near-impossible Special Operations selection process. If you like high-stakes thrills, strong female heroes, and action-packed adventures, then you won’t be able to put down GJ Stevens’ intriguing novel.

  Get your free copy at www.gjstevens.com.

  1

  Closing the message window and clicking the default icon just in time, I gazed at Celina’s slender feet as she descended the stairs into the open-plan living room. Turning in the swivel chair, I peered to my right, still watching as she walked past the front door near the foot of the stairs and across the room before balancing herself on the edge of the armchair opposite.

  All this whilst I listened to the hard disk’s gentle rattle, confirming the script hurriedly searched out all trace of my keypresses and messages sent and received in the last half an hour, replacing at furious speed with a benign digital footprint.

  “Good morning Catarina. Couldn’t you sleep?” she said, her soft, accented voice croaky as if she’d just woken.

  I tried not to stare at the lace edges of her night clothes, just visible through the thin silk gown draped over her shoulders.

  “No,” I said, pulling my towelling robe tight around my chest in an effort to hide my cleavage. “I thought I’d email my sister before I get on with the day. She worries about me.”

  “I bet she does. I would too if you were my sister and had just turned twenty-one, then headed to a foreign land to become an au pair. I’d imagine all the new people you’d meet and the exciting experiences you’d have,” she said, laughing as she swept her long blonde hair behind her ears. “How’s that going for you?”

  I gave a one-sided smile.

  “Can I get you a coffee?” I asked.

  “You carry on,” she replied, nodding towards the computer.

  “It’s fine. I’m done,” I said, standing and arranging my robe for the second time.

  “Okay then.”

  “And for Mr Rozman?” I asked as I took a step through the doorway leading to the dining room.

  “No. You should know by now my husband doesn’t like to wake before the sun at the weekend,” she said with a grin which seemed a little forced on her sleep-puffed face.

  It had nothing to do with the bottle of whiskey I clear away each Saturday morning. I didn’t voice the thought as I headed to the kitchen, leaving Celina curling her feet under herself in the armchair, her hands spreading the thin gown across her legs.

  Refilling filter paper, coffee grounds and water, I couldn’t help but again wonder why someone so young — she couldn’t have been more than five years older than me — would marry a man in his late fifties and take on his two teenage kids.

  He didn’t live like a rich man, despite the large house in the suburbs and her active social life. Perhaps it was their shared nationality, both foreigners in this land; giving each other a level of understanding they wouldn’t get from a native.

  With ash blonde hair running down her back, blue eyes which made me think there should be a deeper meaning to her life other than her duty to him upstairs, and long, pin-straight legs, she was way above his grade.

  With a pug-face and rotund belly, he worked all hours, barely appearing during the week, then spending most of the weekend in bed whilst seeming to insist she be at his side when he woke. He never bothered to hide his furious grunts from travelling across the house as he climbed on top of her.

  Perhaps she pitied him.

  His first wife had died five years ago in a horrific fire which destroyed his last home. The children were away at their aunt’s. He was on his way home for the candlelit dinner which caused the tragic blaze.

  At first, Celina had seemed happy enough, but as my first few weeks with the family passed by, her loneliness became obvious. She insisted on employing the hired help; not only myself, but the part-time gardener, too, to manage the grounds which were fifty-times bigger than the house. All kept perfectly manicured. Each blown leaf picked up the next morning. Each blade of grass shorn back at the first sign of growth.

  The gardener was a tall native of the small town. His tanned, leathered skin pulled tight with a constant smile and with arms like tree trunks, I could see why Celina had handpicked him for the task.

  Lenart Rozman must be weak, or lazy enough not to care. Or too stupid to know what he signed off.

  For my first few days, Celina would follow me around the house. Talking about nothing much, she would watch me work, slowing me enough that Lenart noticed my tasks were either incomplete or below his standard. She’d backed off when the threat of my dismissal became serious.

  Now we just caught up on the odd moment when the house was quiet and I’d finished my tasks, until the kids had the chance to wake and turn it upside down again.

  All the talk came from her, the same as always. With her hands wrapped around the coffee mug, she’d told me about the bore of a new tennis partner the club had assigned her; a lady of sixty, or thereabouts. Spritely enough to keep up, although with the conversation of someone a generation above, it just made Celina’s afternoons at that place even more of a chore.

  I’d long given up asking why she went. I knew Lenart was the reason. The women’s tennis club, in his eyes, was the perfect place for a restless young wife to spend her days out of temptation’s way.

  Celina had been my first focus.

  A young, blonde wife with a blemish-free face. White teeth. Flat stomach and bouncy tits. All lonely in the suburbs while her husband worked long hours in the city. It would be her face in the manual, if they’d ever printed one.

  The gardener was the second; bait for the lonely housewife. Large garden, just enough work, but not too much; a bit of neglect wouldn’t get noticed.

  I'd seen them together many times; their manner friendly, but no more flirty that you’d expect. They weren’t having an affair. Yet. I knew from the washing the only action she was get
ting was on the husband’s long weekend lay-ins.

  I considered the children outsiders to the process, but I hadn’t ruled them out.

  Lenart was the next focus, although I had very few dealings with him. He’d been in on the interview, his face lightening as he saw me; his nods as Celina looked to confirm her decision on the spot. Since then, we’d only seen one another in company, with Celina at his side or the children running around or screaming some injustice the way they do at that important age.

  It intrigued me as to how he’d react if we were ever alone. I hoped to discover who he was; what he was about.

  All I could figure so far were the few cursory words Celina had spoken about him. I hadn’t ruled out that those words could be the depth of her knowledge.

  He worked in high finance; company money. Investments and other such broad terms. The company wasn’t his, rather some multinational whose aim was to shuffle currency this way and that.

  That’s where I should have left it.

  My instructions were to settle in and become a part of the family; an efficient au pair taking the lion’s share of the chores and the childcare. I could only listen and get to know them; investigation strictly prohibited.

  I had no idea of my ultimate purpose. Maybe I’d never know. I could be out of here tomorrow, next week, next year, or given a command to execute within a few moments. To take something. Someone. Their life or to unearth their secrets. But so far, the coded messages read the same each week, despite my probing:

  Instructions:

  Observe. Report.

  2

  At first I did exactly as asked, reporting my findings in efficient paragraphs detailing the facts; a few lines for each of the family, describing their activities during the week.

  By the fourth week, I realised each report contained pretty much the same information. A quick copy and paste would have given the same effect.

  No change from last week, and the one before that.

  At the start of the sixth, I decided to give the house a deep clean. The decision had nothing to do with the new pace of life being too slow compared to the frantic chaos of the last twelve months of selection and training.

  On Monday morning I told Celina about my plans. She told me she’d love to help but couldn’t as she’d already decided to spend the day in the city, shopping for the upcoming Christmas holidays. I didn’t remind her they were three months away to the day.

  As the house emptied, I started at the top, sprinkling cleaning materials around the landing. Spraying polish in the air and with a duster tucked into my jeans pocket, I took to the marital bedroom.

  No investigation. Just cleaning.

  As I ran the cloth over dust-free surfaces, I found no secret compartments buried in the walls. No loose carpet at the edges. No safe in the floorboards. Nothing stashed in the cupboards in their ensuite.

  I found his dusty, dog-eared porn collection; long ago boxed away, the pages faded.

  I found her sex toys in her bottom drawer of her bedside table, shielded only by a small towel. No dust had settled. He clearly wasn’t enough for her.

  The whole house took the day and much of my energy. There were no documents, save for ancient payslips, the house and car insurance, diligent car service invoices and checklists, repairs and bills. All laid out so neat and tidy. Nothing marked Top Secret.

  Everything I found backed up their stories. The house was completely clean, free of dirt and my interest.

  I left it another few days, burying my head into the work. It had become clear that whatever I’d been sent here to observe was not in this house. After all, why else would they let me, a stranger, have free roam?

  I had use of a car; a little Fiesta for shopping and errands, but not on my one day off a week, which was still a few days away. Stepping out of the front door, which I’d done very little of these last few weeks, I took in the sight of the thin line of houses, double the amount lining the side we were on. My current home was the only one of two on this side of the road; the other, a few paces away, sat full of builders who banged and clattered all day long, with deliveries coming late into the night.

  The neighbours had moved out, the remodelling underway ever since I’d been on the scene.

  The estate, Celina had told me, had been originally built for the workers of the chemical factory which sat a short distance behind the houses, sold over ten years earlier when the chemicals market depressed. From miles around you could still see the single tall chimney looking as if rising from a forest of tall, stocky trees. A thin continual column of white smoke made it visible for miles around.

  Taking in the breath of forest air, I took the car, stopping part way to the supermarket and heading down a deserted track. For the next half an hour I roamed over and under its metal, inside and out, but found nothing to show any device tracking its movement.

  Still, I had a story ready; the dirt track was halfway up a hill and offered great views to the otherwise flat brown land spreading out at my feet.

  The rest of the journey to the supermarket took me along a narrow road which seemed to have been built to some imaginary constraints, making only minimal use of the wide sprawling dusty ground either side. In places it was so thin I had to pull onto the dirt when anything bigger than a car headed from the opposite direction. I’d often slow to a crawl as a coach or a lorry forged its way past me.

  With no clear reason, the developers had built the supermarket in the middle of nowhere. A twenty-minute drive from the estate, the squat building sprawled across a massive area behind a vast car park, which I’d never seen more than a third full, if that. The road continued, disappearing to the horizon and not touching civilisation until it joined the interstate after another fifty miles.

  The only companion to the supermarket was a diner guarding the entrance to the car park. Each time I’d visit, coaches would nestle around the building and I’d pause for a moment to watch the passengers coming and going.

  I’d stare on with intrigue as large parties of kids or disabled people or foreign tourists with cameras shuffled from the building. Groups of women seemed to be popular; I could only guess at some local attraction I hadn’t yet heard of pulling in charities from around the nearest towns.

  The chemical factory was the only destination I knew to be around, but I’d only been here a few weeks. The coaches were always parked facing the direction I’d come from. Not the other way around; seeming to never stop on the return journey, which I guessed would make sense if the destination were local.

  I made a mental note to take a coffee in the diner and find out about what drew them in. Maybe it would be worth a visit when I let myself have a few moments downtime.

  After the supermarket, I detoured past the house, visiting a short strip mall and stocking up on envelopes and writing paper of a quality I knew I could only get this side of the house. I paid with cash, not the family’s credit card meant only for the weekly shop.

  After another short detour, I rolled past the entrance to the Country Club, my gaze lingering on Celina’s small Mercedes parked at the grand palm-surrounded building.

  At home I’d barely put the shopping away before Celina, still in her short tennis skirt and white tank top, followed me through the door two hours earlier than normal. She lingered in the kitchen doorway, watching me thumb through a cook book with a thin sheen of moisture still covering her skin.

  She explained she’d had enough of dried up old ladies for the day and was dying for some conversation with someone who had something interesting to say.

  “It’s a shame you don’t play tennis,” she said as I tried not to look up from the book.

  “I do,” I replied, “but this place keeps me busy.”

  Celina laughed and I watched her bare feet out of the corner of my eye as she took a few steps towards me. Still thumbing through the book, I could smell from the salt and faint tang of alcohol she’d drawn close.

  Listening to the control in her breath,
I turned. “I have to prepare dinner.”

  She stood closer than I thought, her head nearly at my shoulder. With a wide smile, she shook her head.

  “I’ll be in the shower if you need me,” she said and turned to leave.

  Hearing her footsteps up the stairs, I took an involuntary deep breath. I turned the book over, saving the page and headed up the steps with my feet at either edge to dull its creak. Standing at her wide-open door, I saw her tennis clothes in a pile on the floor to the sound of the shower hissing in the ensuite with its door half open.

  Lingering for a moment, I gazed at the beige of her outline in the misted glass. Turning to leave I heard her pleasure, my gaze settling on the bottom drawer of her bedside table and the towel cast to the side.

  I hurried down the stairs and began furiously chopping vegetables, forcing thoughts out of my mind and pushing away ideas that could impede my task.

  Celina came down within half an hour, her face red, skin pink, breastbone flushed scarlet against the white of a low-cut top.

  “You didn’t need me then?” she said from the doorway.

  “No. I have everything I need.”

  “So do I,” she said with a flutter of laughter. “You do too much for us. You’re only supposed to be helping. A gap year is meant to be about exploring the culture.” She paused. “I should have advised you against this place. There’s nothing like that here.”

  “I like the work,” I replied. “And this place is okay.”

  “You don’t want okay. You need wow. You need to be out there doing new things. Experimenting with life. Finding yourself.”