Those who can't, teach

Two days later…

The half moon's reflection set up a perfect atmosphere on the river Thames. It was late and there were very little people walking around with the exception of a few lovebirds and homeless people.

The silence was broken with an ear shattering roar of an engine. A black Ferrari, driven like a horse, drifted down the ancient walkways before turning onto the Vauxhall bridge. It was shortly and closely followed by a Porsche Carrera. The Porsche, as if injected with some drugs, caught up with the Ferrari and bumped onto its side.

The Ferrari's driver tried to gain control but the moment she turned the wheels, half of the car have already crashed past the barriers of the bridge. Seconds later and the car was half submerged in the river Thames.

Three minutes ago, both cars were parked somewhere near the Odeon Cinema in Leicester Square, with bright lights flashing, the night full of glamour and stars. The crowd were in anticipation. The Queen was attending the premiere of some spy film. Fans line up behind the fences in vain hopes of getting autographs or pictures from the stars. The press were also pushing and shoving to get some last minute interviews as the actors and the directors line up.

All was suddenly silence, or at least quieted down as the Queen's motorcade pulled over. Led by two motorcycles, her car was greeted by quiet applause as she waved to the audience. The applause grew as more people noticed what was happening. Some started cheering.

Somewhere in the crowd a woman watched on. She did not join the applauding crowd. She would not conform. She never has been a conformist, she has always been a rebel, and the rebel inside of her brought her here today.

She pushed and shoved her way to the front of the crowd to get a clear shot at the Queen. She managed to find her way to the very front lines (if there were any lines that is) despite some bad words whispered behind her. She was equipped and ready to take a clear shot at the Queen through the window of the Queen's car.

One of the fans looked at her and her equipment, then another. She should not be here. Too late.

Snap.

"Hey, the press goes over there" a policeman guarding the road walked up to her and said

"Sorry" she smiled and pushed her way out

At this very exact moment the Queen's car pulled over, oblivious to a small blipping device blinking on the side the photographer was previously at. It was the size of an eraser, but placed so near the fuel tank, a small explosion from this device would rip the car apart.

Three hundred meters away, the photographer placed her camera on the ground and took out her iPod. A touch to play button brought the small gadget to life, another touch to the centre button would end many lives, but most importantly, the Queen's, who was stepping out of the car.



The photographer herself was blown away, unexpectedly not by the sound of the explosion of the Queen's car. That never happened. It never will. The iPod in her hand though was in pieces on the ground before she could react. The soft wind of the approaching winter hit her face, frozen cold with the realization that she had failed.

She had failed. Somebody had intervened.

The silencer of a pistol touched her back.

"I'd finish you off right now, Miss Harrison, but we don't want to cause a scene now, would we?" A voice whispered, a strange but familiar tone attached to the mention of her name. She looked around, there were still a group of people scattered, some walking towards the premiere, there was a group of teenagers walking around, and at least three pairs of lovers enjoying a late London stroll. Doing anything drastic would not be helpful. Making a scene would do neither of them any good. She obliged and began walking, the gun behind her guiding her way towards where her car was parked.

She looked around. Maybe it would be alright for her to make a scene. He had more pressure not to do so. If she could hit the panic button on her car remote, that might catch some attention, distract him, give her time to run away, maybe after knocking him down.

Wait, it's too risky now. She waited until they were about five meters from her car. She moved her hand slowly, reaching into her pocket.

The remote appeared, not in her hand but in front of her. The man with the gun at her back held it out.

"Looking for this, Julia?"

She turned around, knowing they were not out of the range of people yet. Even with a silencer, he would not dare shoot her at this point. It would make too much of a scene.

Julia's brown eyes were greeted with another brown pair, slightly above hers. She was surprised it was him. It took a few moments for his face to register in her mind. It must have been - what? Six months? A year?- since she last saw him, an average, compared to others, student during her tenure as a teacher of bomb diffusion. She never expected him out here, doing the job for the place she used to call her second home, but now ready to literally, shoot her in the back.

He, on the other hand, remembered her the moment he saw her picture shortly after he arrived back from Bangkok. Unlike the others, "Miss Harrison", as he had so diligently called her as a student, was a very young teacher. In fact, he would not be surprised if she was actually younger than him. He even found her attractive at points. What a way to test your ability to kill in cold blood, he thought; send someone out to kill their teacher who happen to be very good looking too. Suddenly, though, he saw her in a different light, a light that he could never have seen before. Her brown hair and her shining, lively eyes registered something in his mind. She looked a lot like someone.

Natalie.



His mind, without question, withdrew from the current setting and took itself back to the wallet, the picture. The main similarity was the hair, the colour and texture were almost identical, but there was also something with the face that reminded him of Natalie.

Damn it! Focus!

He closed his eyes to chase the thoughts away and when they were opened, they were staring at the ground, the silenced Walther P99 he held on so firmly a moment ago lay in front of him. He could hear fast footsteps fading into the distance and looked up to see Miss Harrison running towards her car.

He got to his feet quickly, grabbed the gun and headed to his Porsche Carrera parked nearby. Starting the engine, he cursed, again and again at how he managed to yet again let a clear shot get away from his hesitation.

He was temporarily blinded by a light of green, a small spot of green that flashed into his mind. Thomas Bleeck's tiger-like green eyes.

You've hesitated again. This time, you don't have a cheap knife to save you. Bleeck's pale white face, sitting in the passenger's seat told him.

"Shut up!" He screamed, fisted the passenger's seat, then realized that he was alone in the car and although it was started, it was still parked right where it was. Harrison's car, on the other hand, was disappearing from his view.

The roads of London parallel to the Thames lay in silence compared to the glitter and glamour that greeted the Queen at Leister Square. The concrete roads lay in smoothness in contrast to the cobbled sidewalks.

Trafalgar square's night was interrupted with a sudden screeching of tires, first from the black Ferrari, then from the silver Porsche.

He was panicking. This was not what he had in mind when he parked his Porsche near the theatre. It was supposed to be simple, stop Harrison for firing the device in the first place, escort her to his car and take her out. If only he found her earlier…

Both cars took a turn and entered the road that ran along the river Thames. The tires screeched as their roaring engines woke up Whitehall and could be heard all the way to the Prime Minister's residence as they passed the Downing Street corner.

Like a tourist in a tour he could see the iconic Parliament Square coming up in the distance but he did not care. He stepped on the pedal until it could not be stepped on anymore. A funny sensation of an adrenaline rush when one is sitting kicked in; a funny sensation because though one knows that adrenaline has kicked in and that adrenaline makes one want to run, jump and shoot but yet one is in a car, so all that could be done was to step on the pedal more. But he stepped on it as far as it would go.

He did not even know what to do next. Obviously he had to catch up with her but then what? He could try to ram her car but not only would that cause a scene, but it would be such a waste of two 

beautiful and very expensive cars. He could try to get next to her and take her out through the window, but that would not be easy if she was expecting it. Shooting her tyres? That might work.

He took out his gun, rolled down the window and stared down the pistol before firing. A shot goes just wide, then another. By the fifth shot the closest he got was hitting her license plate. He was one of the best shooters, but only in the practice field. It was different to do it while driving, he realized. It was said that men cannot multi-task.

And he nearly learned it the hard way when his car brushed past a lamppost just as he emptied his last bullet. He cursed and turned the wheels back on track and tucked the gun away. But then they have passed Westminster and were in front of the MI5 building. He allowed himself a small smile at the memory.

They approached the Tate museum of British and Modern art which have closed at this time of the night, but during the day is usually packed with tourists who have come to enjoy the exhibits. He did not care. He has never been to the museum and probably never will be. He took his last art lesson at the age of fourteen and was glad he did not have to do it since.

She too did not care about the museum, or any of the historic sights they have passed. All she needed to do was get away. She decided that she would turn at the next bridge and cross over, hoping to lose him if only for a while. She hit the pedal more to make him think that she was heading straight.

He was tailing her. He had taken his foot off the pedal slightly since that near collision to the lamp post, but still made sure he kept the distance so when she sped up he did the same.

Then suddenly, her car seems to disappear and all he could see was her backlights flashing from the Vauxhall Bridge.

Out of instinct rather than reflexes, his grip on the steering wheels tightened and he spun it to the left. The silver supercar reacted immediately and spun itself. Coming in at nearly 200 kilometres per hour, it felt like he was going to be thrown out of the window. He realized that although his grip on the steering wheel was as tight as a clamp, his was a sweaty clamp and the car's turn was a bit wider that he would have preferred. He went into the opposing lane and was lucky there was no car coming from the other side. For a moment his mind was not on the Ferrari but on simply getting his silver beast back on track.

When he did, he heard a thundering low bang of two metals colliding, accompanied by a small earthquake.

By the time he turned left, there was a gaping hole on the side of the bridge. He did not even hear the Ferrari crashing into the water below. He was too occupied with a thousand thoughts, the main one being "this is not a good way to avoid causing a scene". He slammed the breaks on the battered Porsche, and although the crash had already taken the speed off it somewhat, the car still came to such a sudden halt that his face nearly hit the steering wheel and he had to spread his hand out to stop himself from being thrown right out the front window. He slammed back into his seat.

Normally this would be a time to take a big sigh and possibly call the insurance company, but his business was not finished. He opened the door and stepped out, took a step then realized he forgot his job. He stepped back to and reached for his pistol and a spare cartridge. He pressed a button to 

release the finished cartridge before hammering the new one in. He started to walk again, his heart all but hoping that the crash had already killed her so that he would not have to do what he had to do.

She disappointed him as he could see her slim figure climb out of the sinking Ferrari, which was quickly sinking into the bottom of the dirty river. He sighed, and reluctantly loaded his Walther P99.

He stood on the edge of the bridge, on the edge of the gaping hole the Ferrari made and looked down. She freed herself from the door, thankful that she did not have the time to fasten her seatbelt. She looked up. Even though they were too far away and it was too dark, they knew they were both staring into each other's dark brown eyes. She did not continue to stare, however, as she began to swim towards the side of the river they were just on.

Julia Harrison, he was told, defected to join the anti-Monarchist league about a month ago. "Little is known about this league except for its obvious purpose, to eliminate the monarchies around the world. We suspect that they are left-wing extremists." She planned to kill the Queen. She was guilty of high treason. She needed to be eliminated…

…but he could not do it. He had the gun held up, her head in sight, but he could not pull the trigger. It was as if some invisible force was holding back his right pointing finger from a simple muscle move.

Flashes of Thomas Bleeck's lifeless body and the picture of Natalie entered his mind. Julia never told him about her background. Their relationship has been strictly educational and professional, but he was almost certain she had a family, or at least a boyfriend. A beautiful and talented girl like her could not possibly be single. How would they be informed? That she was killed by one of her own students? Oh, they will probably make up some lie.

She was getting closer and closer to land.

Sweat began to take over his forehead. He closed his eyes in an attempt to clear his mind, but when he opened them all he could see was an image of a struggling woman. She may have betrayed the country. She may have tried to kill the Queen. But she was a living being, a daughter, probably a girlfriend, or wife, maybe even a mother. She was his teacher.

With one stroke away from reaching the land, she looked up at him. He stared at her, the pistol nearly slipping out of his sweaty hands. She set one foot on the ground. Pull the damn trigger, he told himself, it is your damn job! She's a traitor!

He couldn't do it. He couldn't do it because he knows her, because she was his teacher, because she was so damn beautiful.

Hurry up, you wanker, before people see you, before she gets out, before…

A single bullet to the head, right between the eyes, sealed the job. She looked at him, a hint of disbelief in her eyes. Disbelief that a student would shoot his teacher. Disbelief that one of her weaker students would come this far. Disbelief at what her ideals have cost her.

She seemed to take forever to fall back into the river, or maybe that was just his mind playing tricks on him. The scattered group of people who were frightened away from the crash started to walk 

towards the bridge to see what was happening. In the darkness he knew he would not be spotted, and these pedestrians would be taken care of. They would probably be interviewed and have to sign some documents swearing them to secrecy. He did not care. It was none of his business anymore. His business was done.

He watched, long after her lifeless body sunk back into the Thames. Three hurried breaths were followed by one long one, then another. He finally got a grip of himself and started walking, then picking up speed, back to the car. He called the cleanup team as usual, then stared out the window to the shiny towering structure that stood above him, overlooking the iconic river. Plated with windows and what appeared to look like gold, the place exhibited a modern air. Tomorrow he would walk into this place a different man. After two years, he was ready to take the next step. Two years of training he did not have to do, that have failed to help him at all in the past few days. The past few days have been such a mess. He had killed a man who he knows will haunt him for the rest of his life. He has just killed his teacher. Both of them had a life, they had families and friends. The man had a lover and the woman probably did too. He told himself that he has done the right thing. One was inhumane, making money out of selling lives for perverted services, the other conspired to destroy the pillars of the very land he stood on. He should take in this moment and he did. The jobs have been done. The requirements have been fulfilled.

Thomas Schneider-Williams smiled. He is now Agent Double-O-Six of Her Majesty's Secret Service.