Ryan walk out of the bathroom, drying
off his hair as he padded across the carpet. Night,
he thought. Why is it always night? What are we, thieves?
Ryan had once prided himself on being able to maintain a healthy
sleep schedule in an age when most people relied on sleeping pills
and stimulants. He had abandoned it when he became a Watcher, and had
never fully recovered.
He sat down on a
worn recliner, and picked up the unusual object he had pilfered. He
turned it over in his hands, feeling its weight, watching as the rich
amber lights played off its highly-polished brass exterior. Twisting
it, he felt a faint turning and clicking inside it, as some unseen
component carried the inertia he imparted to it. Small, raised
buttons peppered its surface in clusters, alongside a few ornate
dials and riveted windows. The windows revealed nothing but an inky
blackness to him; holding one of them up to the light proved to be
fruitless. Frustrated, Ryan dug under a pile of paper scraps, pulled
up a small laser pointer, and directed the pencil-thin beam of red
light into one of the onyx facets. Multi-colored whisps of light
emitted from the other windows, dancing and slithering slightly in
the air as he held the sphere with an unsteady hand. Emboldened, he
tentatively prodded and twisted the buttons and dials, keeping the
laser aimed into the device as he did. He found a combination of
button-presses and dial-turnings that made the lights flicker and
change color, but little more. He tried other combinations when the
device began to vibrate slightly, its dials turning on their own. The
lights flickered about more and more quickly, overlapping and tracing
arcs through the air as the sphere trembled with increasing fervor.
For a fraction of a second, a face appeared in the lights. Ryan gaped
at the image, and, forgetting all about holding the laser pointer,
dropped it. No sooner did the laser turn off than did the device
quickly cease to hum, and the hologram disappear.
Ryan
leaned back, frowning. He glanced at the laser pointer on the floor,
feeling foolish. The clock on the wall chimed twice, reminding him
that it was half past the hour, and that he needed to see Cohen soon.
Curmudgeonly old fart, Ryan
thought glumly. He stuffed the sphere into his bag, paused briefly,
and threw a shirt over it. No need to get interrogated by
both of them. He slung the bag
over his shoulder, snapped up his keys and walked briskly out the
door towards his car.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“You're late,”
quipped Cohen, not looking up from his screen as Ryan entered.
“I'm– uh, I
don't think that I am, my–“
“Can it. I'm not
your babysitter. You're not working for me anyway. Here, give this to
Sciarpa when you see her. Don't fucking open it, don't fucking look
at it. We'll both know if you do.”
He handed Ryan a
thin manilla envelope, sealed shut. Ryan felt the slight shift of
papers inside it. He frowned, looking at Cohen. He was a plump man,
but possessed the kind of thickness that hinted at a muscular past.
His bushy eyebrows bunched together when he was irritated, as he was
now.
“Why couldn't
you just send these to her mobile? She'd get them faster.” Ryan asked.
“Oh, sorry
boss,” Cohen said, finally looking away from his monitor. “I
can't believe that idea slipped my mind, it's such a good one. Why,
maybe you should be in charge instead of me, now there's a swell
idea!”
Ryan turned red,
and began to stammer an apology.
“Shut up. Don't
ask questions. God, how she stands you, I can't understand. Do you
know what your problem is, Kesseler? You know what your fucking
problem is?”
“No, sir.”
“You don't
think, particularly before you speak. You're small-time, low-rank.
You do what you're told until you prove you're good enough at that to
start thinking on your own. This is highly delicate shit we're doing,
Ryan. This thing here, with Sciarpa? This is your chance. You fuck
this up, there won't be any more. So when I tell you to jump, what do
you think you should do?”
Ryan thought for a
moment before answering. “Jump, sir.”
“Yeah.
Preferably after asking 'How high, sir?' or 'Off which bridge, sir?'
Now, when you go to Sciarpa's, try not to take the same route each
time.”
“Er, why is
that, exactly?”
“Enemies
of the state, Kesseler. Enemies of the state. Dismissed.” replied
Cohen, returning to his screen.
Ryan left,
muttering his impotent rage under his breath. Slamming the door to
his car, he sped off towards Sciarpa's office, doing his best to
respect the posted speed limits.
