Where exactly did this saga begin? It all began on a warm September day, the last of them before the “autumn feel” would set in. I, 26 at the time, was working hard on the city’s budget for fiscal year 2009. My secretary, Kendra, walked into my office with a man following her.
“Sir, this man would like to see you. He says he is an old friend from Brockton High School,” she said.
“Thanks, Kendra,” I responded. She smiled and walked out of the office.
“Good afternoon, Mayor Crater,” the man said. He was a white male, about 5’10; blue grey eyes and had a slim build. Jet black hair was greased with moose and cut perfectly. His face did a great job hiding his age, for it was ageless.
“I’m sorry, but I really don’t remember you. Are you sure we went to Brockton High together?” I asked as he sat down.
“No, we didn’t. I couldn’t tell your secretary who I really am. I’m Mr. Smith and I work for the ISA.” he introduced himself.
“The ISA?” I asked.
“Yes, the ISA. The International Security Agency. We work low key.”
“So you work for the government? Listen, I know I haven’t paid taxes in two years, but damn don’t you think this is a little over excessive?”
Mr. Smith chuckled. “Mayor Crater, it’s nothing of that nature. Have you ever heard of Darius Vikolo?”
“Darius Vikolo? The Russian billionaire that owns that oil company, Russia Petro?”
“That’s him. A month ago, Mr. Vikolo opened a new oil rig off the coast of Siberia.”
“So?”
“The oil rig is nowhere near an oil reserve. We’ve checked the geological data. We think he’s up to something.”
“Why exactly are you telling me this? I mean, no offense, but I don’t give a damn.”
“That brings me to my next point. We sent a guy to his oil rig undercover as a journalist. His body was found in a dumpster outside of St. Petersburg,Florida this morning.”
“So what, you choose some small city mayor to replace him? I ain’t got much experience in that field.”
“Your father did, one of our best, actually. That’s why we came here, Anthony. That agent was your father. Agent Rodney Crater.”“What?” I jumped up from my chair. “My father’s been alive all these years?”
“Yes, but he’s been undercover since his ‘death’ back when you were twelve. In the event that he would pass away, he secretly trained you. Those father son trips you guys used to take, remember?”
I did remember. Mountain climbing, swimming, scuba diving, hiking, all of those activities. We took the father son thing to the extreme. That was nine years ago. I’ve taken a turn towards politics, not the outdoors.
“I’m a politician. I’m not meant to be a secret agent,” I protested.
“Don’t worry, Mayor. We’re going to prepare you before we send you in there, of course. Besides, don’t you want to revenge your father’s death?”
Mr. Smith stared at me with his blue grey eyes. Those eyes wanted an answer. They demanded an answer.
“I’ll do it,” I said finally.
“Great. Can you meet me in front of City Hall at 7PM?”
I agreed. Mr. Smith got up from his chair and walked out of the office. If only my mother, Patricia, didn’t have to go through the final years of her life as a false widow, unaware her husband was an undercover agent. I turned out to look at my view of central Brockton from the fifth floor of City Hall. Traffic was inching by on Main Street and overhead, the sky had turned a violet blue. A 747 jetliner was descending over the city heading northbound towards Logan International Airport in the north. Talk about a long day at work.
I glanced at my watch. It was 6:58 PM, not exactly 7 yet. It was a warm evening. I was wearing a plain black sweatshirt and blue jeans. I sat on a bench outside City Hall’s main entrance. Mr. Smith asked me to meet him in front of City Hall at 7PM. How am I going to be mayor of Brockton AND a secret agent? My father, was he really a secret agent? One of the best, Mr. Smith said. A smile spread across my face. That thought alone got me excited. What if I end up like him? The smile was gone just as fast as it had come. Where’s James Bond when you need him? Now I was getting nervous. Why are they recruiting me? What kind of training do they want me to do? I was so preoccupied with my thoughts; I didn’t notice a black Lincoln Town Car pull up to the curb. The back door of the driver’s side opened and Mr. Smith got out of the car, wearing a long, heavy black overcoat despite the warm weather.
“Good evening, Mr. Crater. Are you ready for your mission?” he asked in his monotonous voice.
“Yeah, I’m ready,” I replied.
“Before we get to the training facilities, I thought I should tell you about Darius Vikolo.”
Mr. Smith handed me a manila folder. I flipped through the contents, which were all about Darius Vikolo. Mr. Smith began his story.
“Darius Aleksandr Vikolo was born in Saint Petersburg, Russia on April 26, 1976. His mother, Klavdiya Vikolo died when he was two. She had lung cancer. Nikolas Vikolo, his father, owned Russia’s largest oil company, Russia Petro. When Darius went on a school camping trip to the Ural Mountains when he was 10, he would fall in love with nature. It was him that made it his sole duty to protect the environment at any costs. As a result, he majored in Environmental Studies at the University of Massachusetts in Boston. He led the fight against the Deer Island Sewage Treatment Plant in Boston Harbor. However, he was unsuccessful against that but his focus drove him deeper into radical environmentalism. In 1989, he, along with three other people, was suspects in the investigation for the Exxon Valdez oil spill in Alaska. They were later dismissed as suspects for reasons undisclosed, or that’s how the government explained it to the public. His father died in 1991, and left Darius everything. He took this opportunity to secretly fund radical environmentalism. The ISA tried to bring several cases against him but no one wanted to mess with him. Like I mentioned in your office earlier today, he constructed a new oil rig north of the New Siberian Islands in Siberia. Now why would he build an oil rig that’s nowhere near an oil reserve? We think Luke Abbott may have been hired by Vikolo, and that’s why we’re sending you up there.”
“Luke Abbott?” I asked. “The scientist that invented the microwave?”
“Luke Abbott did much more than invent the microwave. He’s the world’s number one expert on electromagnetic technology. If Vikolo’s building something up there, we want to know, which is why we’re sending you up there. That is, if you’re up for the job.”
Mr. Smith looked at me. I stared out the window. We were on Interstate 93 and had just passed South Boston. Being mayor was a very fulfilling job, but my father’s murder hurt deep inside. I wanted Darius Vikolo to pay.
“I’ll do it,” I said
“Great. Welcome aboard.”
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