The chilly mist of the gray morning wraps itself around her as she stands leaning against the weathered brick corner of the building, legs crossed casually, coat unbuttoned, mobile phone in one hand, coffee in the other.
She taps out a response to Medic’s email, starting off by chiding him for using his real name and ending with a reprimand for taking so long to write her. In between she taps out something that she hopes will come across like a vague job offer, a meeting location, and a time.
She’s curious about why the agency picked this guy; seems like just another lost, doe-eyed civie. Then again, he figured out the card pretty fast so there’s that. “We’ll see,” she says quietly to herself as she taps SEND, drops the phone into her pocket, swivels on her heel, and heads north.
She passes under the steel girders of the expressway, the overhead din of cars drowning out the engine of the dull gray sedan that’s been tailing her. The driver is undoubtedly still slumped behind the steering wheel in the same way-too-casual way as when she spotted him last, his bad brown suit sticking out among his partners’ black ensembles, all four of them looking out of place as their car crawled along the empty street. They had that same look when they were following her on foot.
She wants to bide her time but is doing her best not to be obvious about it. While pretending to take a call she’d recorded a video of her tails and sent it to Dmitri. With his “custom” tech he’s trying to figure out who they are, maybe where they came from.
Noting the make and model of the car he responded to her email with an estimate of how long she can keep the vehicle driving around before it runs out of gas. Based on this he’s come up with a plan, including a timed series of locations to visit, and he’ll be in touch with his part en route.
“Sounds fun,” she confirms as she heads toward the first waypoint. In about forty minutes she arrives and heads toward the large oak doors. The cathedral is filled with opulent silence.
She slides a pair of wireless buds into her ears, positions the small multi-directional microphone discretely into position, enables GPS, and opens an app on her phone. Moving slowly beneath the soaring architecture, she makes her way toward the apse and seats herself in one of the front-most pews.
Switching the app from CALIBRATE to MONITOR, she can now hear the sound of traffic from outside the cathedral amplified over the constant hum of the city beyond. Every creak of wood within the building produces a tolerably sharp scream in her ears, every gust of wind on the stained glass sounds a ghostly whistle. This is the opposite of noise-cancelling.
She bows her head as if in prayer, closes her eyes, and listens.
In a few minutes she can’t help but hear the heavy doors of the main entrance opening, followed by thudding footsteps that quickly terminate with the cracks and creaks of a settling pew.
It sounds like there’s two of them and it sounds like they’re eager not to be noticed.
She opens her eyes to confirm her predictions with the app and is pleased to see the machine agreeing with her: there are almost certainly only two of them and they’re most likely at the opposite end of the building.
A quiet ding interrupts the amplified audio, telling her that a text message has just arrived from Dmitri. “No go. Too exposed,” it says. That means that she has about twenty minutes to idle here before moving on to the next destination.
She closes her eyes again and listens intently.
About ten minutes later, a few quiet but discernible words echo into her ears. She grins with satisfaction, not because she understands any of it but because she got a recording.
Starting a new session, she sends the first audio file to Dmitri for analysis. Hopefully he can do something with it.
At the twenty-minute mark she rises, crosses herself, and slowly turns around. By the time she’s facing the other way the hurried sounds of receding footsteps have been overtaken by the sounds of the city coming in through the closing doors. They’re gone.
She leaves the church and makes her way slowly through the streets to the old market.
The two-storey building would’ve been the shit for locals back in its time but it’s now mostly geared toward tourists. She’s been here often, knows the layout, and could use a nibble. A text from Dmitri lets her know that she’s got some time.
Selecting the perfect croissant, she takes the opportunity to spot one of her tails in the reflection of the bakery’s display case. He’s dressed in a generic black suit and tie; tall, thin, looks Asian. She also notes that they make the croissants here with some kind of fancy butter. Goddamn if they’re not excellent.
She spots the second tail in a mirror hung over a sink at the back of the smoothie place as she waits for her heavily customized order. He’s pretty much the same as the first guy, just shorter. And with her first sip she realizes that the addition of wheat grass was a mistake and she tosses the undrunk cup into a nearby trash bin.
Next she visits the Italian eatery on the lower level, ordering a veal sandwich and Brio combo which she enjoys leisurely at one of the tiny tables nearby. Looking around occasionally she spots her tails engaging in loops of pointless produce selection, meandering window shopping, and directionless strolling.
Her final stop is at the “Bee Hive” where, in a pleasant twist, the samples are offered before she has to insist on them. At this point Dmitri texts her to let her know that he’s finishing up; all she has to do is waste a few minutes enjoying the deep floral essence of the Tasmanian leatherwood honey. As suggested by the shopkeeper, she imagines the dark viscous nectar draped thinly over some bold cheese. Yes, that would be terrific, and she’ll take the “sample size” please.
With the large tin of honey weighing down the plastic bag by her side she checks the time on her phone. Dmitri had texted her about two minutes ago to let her know he was done.
She leaves the market and heads to the Lion’s Head.
She’s been here before too. The darkened pub is long, narrow, and busy. A British-inspired decor lines the claustrophobic room. The old wooden floorboards groan beneath the patrons. Age, smoke, and ancient fermentation permeate the air.
She heads slowly toward the back and down a sideways flight of stairs into the basement. At the bottom she grabs a broom that’s resting against a nearby wall, takes the door to her right, and walks up another flight of stairs to a large steel panel in the ceiling. Pushing it open, she exits upward and into the alley.
Sliding the broom under the doors’ handles she blocks the exit behind her, jumps onto the rusty fire escape that clings to the outside of the building, and climbs to the roof. Constantly checking to see if she’s being followed, she walks gently over the row of conjoined properties to another fire escape and descends into a perpendicular alley.
Pulling her hair back with an elastic, she puts on a hat that she’s been carrying rolled up in a pocket, removes her coat, flips it inside-out, and puts it back on.
Checking around her one last time, The Handler exits the narrow alleyway to join Dmitri at the designated rendezvous with a gift of honey.