Different Objectives

Different Objectives. This story contains violence.

High in an anonymous grey building in Amsterdam, James Scott paced his office. In his right hand, he held a sheet of white paper. This tall, middle‑aged man stood erect. He moved his head in rhythmic jerks as he walked, keeping time with his feet.

James stopped at a window and looked down into the street where people, plain, ordinary people, went about their business. A tramcar passed with its accompanying clatter. The sun reflected off the canal, and the surrounding cafés, adorned with garish umbrellas, pursued their trade.

He read the letter again, slower this time. The words seemed to pulse on the page, as if someone had written them while standing behind him. You have forgotten the commandments. You shall not murder. You shall not commit adultery. You shall not steal. God will find you. A shiver ran through him. For a moment he felt the old tightness in his chest. One he thought he’d buried long ago. Fear was a luxury he no longer allowed himself.

James shrugged as he thought, “Dead men tell no tales.” He went to his desk, ran a hand through his silver‑grey hair and seated himself, tossing the letter and its white envelope into the bin. That evening when he left his office, everything was as it should be, in its proper place.

Early next morning, James left his home, his wife and children, carrying one suitcase and his well-worn leather briefcase. He placed these into the boot of his Mercedes. He drove, listening to the weather report. In due course, he turned onto the Schiphol Airport Road. Half a kilometre later, the traffic stopped, and he tapped the steering wheel. A sign apologised for any delay due to the planned road widening.

In twenty minutes, the traffic moved at a constant speed. On entering the cargo area, he parked in the short‑stay car park. James strolled, having no care in the world, to the flight office. Here he filed his flight plan and completed the mandatory documentation.

On leaving the office, the smell of aviation fuel hit him, sharp, familiar, comforting. He had always trusted machines more than people. Machines didn’t lie, didn’t ask questions, and never betrayed you.

Following the mechanic, he walked towards his Cessna Latitude.

The mechanic handed him the checklist. “On your own today, Mr Scott.”

James nodded and, with the checklist in hand, walked around the aircraft, checking the flaps, elevators, and other external components. Satisfied, he signed the acceptance form and handed it back. Clambering on board, he clambered into the pilot’s seat, fastened his safety belt and completed the final check. With the engine running, he checked the gauges once more. Satisfied and in a cheerful voice, he contacted the control tower. The formal reply allowed him to proceed after a Hollandia Airlines flight departed.

When airport control confirmed, he eased the craft to its waiting position on the tarmac. Two aircraft were in front of him, but he was in no hurry; Christine would be waiting, and they could live the life. On the co‑pilot’s seat lay his briefcase, and inside it, the means to realise a dream.

Clearance came from the control tower. Gently he moved the Cessna to the end of the runway, stopped and opened the throttle wide. With the brake released, the Cessna raced forward and was airborne after a comparatively short run. At one thousand metres, he levelled out and set a course for the north.

Twenty minutes later, he contacted Amsterdam control. “Mayday, Mayday, this is Alpha Charlie One Two Six en route Amsterdam to Aberdeen. My fuel pressure has dropped, and I’m losing height.” He repeated this twice more, then switched off the radio.

The sudden silence was worse than any noise. It was as though the world had paused, waiting to see what he would do next. The Cessna shuddered as he dropped, the wings trembling in the crosswind. Spray flecked the windscreen long before he touched the water.

James looked at the grey, forbidding sea beneath him as he lowered the flaps and began his descent. In a few minutes the craft was skimming across the sea at a height of twenty metres. His brow wrinkled as the concentration required to control the craft heightened; too low, he would hit the water; gain height, and the radar would find him.

His eyes scanned ahead as he searched for the motor fishing vessel that was waiting. He saw it, banked, and surveyed the surrounding area, checking for other vessels. Christine was on the aft deck, waving a red‑and‑white flag; their signal.

Something was wrong, and for the first time James felt a flicker of unease. She had always been hard to read, but never unreadable.

His mind raced as he prepared to land in the sea. The wind was light and the waves not high. He thought the best option was to land into the wind. The moment the craft touched the sea, spray covered the craft. Under control, it bounced across the waves. Stopped, it began to settle lower in the water.

James, as if he did this every day, calmly opened the cockpit door, pulled the small life raft from behind him and tossed it into the sea. It inflated automatically. Picking up the briefcase, he slithered into the raft. With one hand, he pushed himself away, released the two paddles and paddled towards the boat that remained some distance away.

He turned his head and watched as his pride and joy tilted its tail skyward and then dived beneath the surface.

The light wind made his rowing demanding, and he cursed Christine for not bringing the boat closer. Sweating, he drew alongside and looked up; she was waiting. Standing on the port side was a beautiful, young, ebony‑black African, her face unsmiling.

He passed up the briefcase. “Whatever you do, don’t drop that.”

She placed the briefcase flat on the deck and watched while he punctured the raft with a knife.

“James, do we have all the stones?”

The raft was sinking as he placed both hands on the side of the boat, ready to pull himself inboard. “Every one of them. The company safe is empty.”

She stamped on his fingers.

“What the hell?” He tumbled back into the raft.

James stared, his mouth wide open, when she pointed a Browning 9 mm pistol at him.

“What are you doing?”

She laughed. “Your case is full of blood diamonds. They are the horrid images of suffering.”

“We planned this so we could have a life together.”

She cast her disapproving eyes over the man in front of her. You do not know how much I hate you. I spent years finding you. It took me a week to get you into bed. A few months later, you fell into my trap.”

“You convinced me to steal the stones.”

Her mouth opened, showing her white teeth. “When I sell these stones, the money will go to improving the lives of those ruined by conflict. Think of this as your donation to the poor.”

Blood seeped from his mouth. “The perfect honey trap and double cross.” He waved his hand. “I salute you, Christine.”

She squeezed the trigger.

Still alive. James lay in the base of the sinking raft. He clawed at the side of the boat.

Another shot echoed across the sea.