Inspired by various experiences myself, research on the internet, and one incident in
, I present my episodic story of the covert agency, "Majestic Twelve".
This is the first part of the first episode, labelled "Majority Twelve".
Your comments are appreciated. Enjoy.
“Majestic” – Season 1, Episode 1 – “Majority Twelve”
The crisp autumn air of Union Station felt good as David Johnston stepped off the train onto the concrete platform. He looked at his watch quickly,
walking towards the station exit.
Eight O’ Clock, he thought. Just enough time to deliver the package.
He patted the suitcase in his right hand and maneuvered through the turnstiles. He’d worked hard to get that information, and if anyone ever knew he
had it, it was the end of him.
He chuckled to himself. The biggest intelligence agency in the world and not enough sense to keep track of their people.
As much as he enjoyed mocking them for their general stupidity, he was simultaneously relieved that the getaway was as swift as it was. The best
part, of course, was that no one knew a thing, nor did they suspect anything.
The sidewalk was empty – which was surprising for an evening. He quickly hailed a cab and was about to enter when a voice interrupted him.
“Hey,” said a woman from behind him. “I’ve been waiting for one for the past 15 minutes. This one’s mine.”
Johnston turned around to find a blonde-haired, stunning young woman dressed in a warm coat and an overnight bag. She gave him a look that he knew
meant she was not going to lose this cab.
Johnston smiled briefly, “How about we share this one.”
She looked him up and down and finally nodded. “Okay.”
When they got into the cab, Johnston spoke first. “Du Ponte Circle,” he said.
“And where are you headed, ma’am,” he said curtly, with slight amusement in his voice.
“Oh, I thought I’d have a nice quiet dinner at Rialto’s,” she said.
“Rialto’s is closer than Du Ponte,” said the cab driver from the front. “Which one first?”
Johnston ignored the cab driver, “So what’s a stunning woman like yourself eating dinner alone on a night like this?”
There was something about her that Johnston thought was irresistible. Her smile seemed to indicate the feeling was mutual.
“What makes you think I’m going to be alone,” she said with a smirk.
Johnston chuckled. “From the way you said it. A ‘quiet dinner’ is usually a dinner taken alone.”
“Well,” she replied. “Aren’t you the observant type.”
They trained me well, he thought.
“Well, I’ve got a bit of time before my meeting,” said Johnston, glancing at his watch. “How about you and I have dinner together.”
She chuckled after a brief pause.
“Oh this is fresh,” she said, gesturing into the air. “I can’t wait to tell my roommate I had dinner with a guy I met in a taxicab.”
Johnston shrugged. “So?”
She paused, still smiling, and sighed after a moment.
“Well,” she said. “Rialto’s it is.”
The cab driver put the car into gear as they made their way down the highway towards the eastern district of Washington, D.C.
“I don’t even know your name,” she said after a moment. “This is so embarrassing.”
Johnston chuckled. “Why?”
“Well,” she said. “I don’t think I’ve ever accepted a dinner from a guy I didn’t even know the name of.”
“First time for everything, I guess,” he said, extending a hand. “David Johnston.”
She shook his hand warmly and replied, “Emily Watkins.”
“I’ve never felt like this before,” said Emily Watkins as she and David Johnston sat at a small table in the corner of the dining room of Rialto’s
Restaurant in Washington, D.C.
“Felt like what?” asked Johnston, taking a sip of the fine wine he ordered for their Italian dinner.
“I don’t know,” she said, in a puzzling tone. “I don’t even know you that well, but you’re so easy to talk to and very charming and handsome …”
She trailed off as the waiter came over and asked for their orders.
“So what do you do?” she asked as the waiter left the table.
“I’m an engineer for Merck,” he said.
“Merck,” she repeated. “I’ve never heard of them.”
“They’re based in Virginia,” he added. “And what about you?”
“I’m a political analyst for the White House,” she said. “Well, sort of anyway.”
Johnston chuckled. “Sort of?”
“Well,” she continued. “I work for the deputy chief of staff. I don’t exactly work policy, per se. Nor do I advise the President. Rather, I’m sort
of the go-between when it comes to the NSA and the Whitehouse.”
“Exciting job,” said Johnston. “Probably much more public than mine.”
“Publicity is not always fun,” she said after a moment, taking a sip of her wine.
Johnston shrugged, “Do you smoke?”
“No,” she said.
“Oh,” he replied. “Well I’ve got to quit soon. I’ve cut it down to one a day. I’ve got to have mine now though, so if you’ll excuse me, I’ll step
outside for about five minutes.”
“No problem,” she said. “I have to go freshen up anyway. Traveling makes me weary.”
He smiled and headed towards the door. She watched him out of the corner of her eye and smiled too.
Maybe this is the one, she thought.
The air outside was even colder than at Union Station. Johnston’s breath was visible in the air as he lit his cigarette on the curbside next to the
She is something, he thought. It’s too bad I won’t be able to stay in the area. After this, I’m going to have to get the hell out of this region.
He didn’t have time to complete his thought. A black SUV pulled up beside the curb and four men in black military overcoats stepped out. There was
no chance of running.
His heart sank, Maybe they’re not as stupid as I thought. I have no idea how they found me.
“Johnston,” said one of the men as he approached. He had a Captain’s insignia on his shoulder. “Johnston, Johnston, Johnston…”
He repeated the phrase, as a disappointed parent would do to a child.
“Didn’t I tell you, in the conversation back at headquarters, not to try anything foolish?”
“Look, I --,” he protested, backing up from the curb towards the wall of the restaurant.
“’I’ nothing, Johnston,” said the man. “There are no excuses. You betrayed me, your team, and your country.”
“Look, the truth cannot be hidden for much longer.”
“The truth can
be hidden,” said one of the other men. This one had an Eagle on his shoulder, signifying the rank of Colonel.
His voice was deeper and more authoritative. “And as far as you’re concerned, we’re finished toying around.”
“Did you really think you could escape?” said the captain. “I mean, honestly.”
Johnston said nothing. The four men had all gathered around him and he was pinned against the wall by one of the men’s forearms.
“David?” came Emily’s voice from the door, as she poked her head out and turned towards the group.
The agent holding Johnston relaxed his grip a little and Johnston was the first to speak.
“Hi Emily,” he said. The nervousness was easily detectable in his voice. “I’m just finishing up with a few of my co-workers who were kind enough to
stop by. I’ll be in, in a moment.”
Emily eyed him for a moment and then nodded. The restaurant’s door closed behind her as she returned inside.
Again, the attention focused back to Johnston.
“You didn’t answer my question,” said the captain. “Did you really think you could escape?”
A moment passed and Johnston finally nodded, “Sadly, yes.”
The colonel chuckled. “You’re more foolish than I thought.”
The agent who was holding him against the wall punched him hard in the forehead. The blow stunned Johnston and he fell to his knees. Johnston
guessed he wore a ring, because he recalled getting punched before, but by nothing that hard.
“We’re finished with you,” said the colonel. “You’re of no more use to us.”
The colonel pulled out a gun from his holster, cocked it, aimed at Johnston’s head, and fired.
The shot rang out loudly, but no one was around to hear it. Johnston keeled over, dead.
As the colonel and the captain headed back towards the SUV, the two other men dragged Johnston’s body into the alley next to the restaurant and
returned to the car.
The SUV drove off quietly, leaving no trace of their presence except for the exhaust of the vehicle as it disappeared behind a corner.
“Why do mornings suck so much,” complained Detective Dylan McDaniel as he stepped out of his car onto the sidewalk of Rialto’s Restaurant in the heart
of Washington D.C.
“Probably because the suckage dies down at night,” chuckled his partner, Detective Todd Denton. “You have to make your quota, you know.”
McDaniel rolled his eyes and approached the police tape. Uniformed officers roamed the area, and a bunch of others were huddled around a draped body
in the alley of the restaurant. The owner of the restaurant was out-front, talking with another officer, making raving gestures into the air.
“Business is gonna suck for him,” said McDaniel. “A murder in front of a restaurant is definitely not something to attract customers with.”
They approached the body, and were greeted by the on-scene examiner, Jim Mortimer.
“He died of a single gunshot wound to the head, close-range,” Mortimer said.
“What kind of weapon?” asked McDaniel, taking the report sheet from Mortimer.
“Looks like a fifty-caliber. Probably foreign. Probably a Desert Eagle.”
“A desert eagle?” said Denton. “Isn’t that a bit – overkill?”
Mortimer looked down at the body and sighed, “I guess not.”
“Well, take him to the lab. I want an autopsy performed at once,” directed McDaniel.
“Sure thing,” Mortimer called after them as they walked toward the officer in charge.
“We got the call at 7am this morning,” said the officer. “Garbage crews were taking away the trash from last night… that’s when they noticed it.”
McDaniel nodded. “Any suspects?”
The officer sighed, “We talked to all the employees in the restaurant – even went so far as to call in the people who worked at night. None of them
saw anything suspicious… well except for one thing.”
“Oh?” McDaniel perked up.
“Yeah,” the officer continued. “One of the waiters … uhh … Joe Beckman … said that he saw the gentlemen and another lady here last night. He says
that the lady is a regular: goes by the name of Emily Watkins, and works for the White House. He said he’s never seen the guy before.”
“Anything else?” asked Denton.
“Yeah,” the officer said. “Beckman also said that they had ordered, and the victim stepped out to have a smoke, but never came back in. The lady,
Watkins, just left after a while, making a comment to the waiter about him going off with his buddies or something.”
“Okay,” said McDaniel. “That’s a start.”
He turned toward Mortimer, who had just walked up to the group. “I want an ID on the guy ASAP.”
“We’ve already got one,” Mortimer replied.
“Oh?” said McDaniel, curiously. “Who is he?”
“David Johnston,” he replied. “Lived in California.”
“Excellent,” said McDaniel. “One step at a time.”