The Sideways Honeypot

            James Tarson bought a cup of coffee at the corner shop. It was a pleasant little shop, and had the feel of a corner store in Ravenfort. Omlos was an amazing city, but often it felt so big that it was hard to find places to slow down and relax. Retrons tended to prefer little cafés, but at least here in Omlos, there was a kind of expectation that you’d grab what you needed and then be on your way. People in this city walked twice the speed of people in other cities.

            He checked his watch. Nascine would be on her rendezvous with Yasik to make sure the meeting went as planned. Nascine presumably thought that Tarson was staying in the hotel all the time. Truthfully, he had been feeling cabin fever after only a couple days. So, when she left on her errands, Tarson would get out to stretch his legs. Nascine had a clockwork precision to her movements, which gave him plenty of leisurely time to go about and get some fresh air.

            The shop was not so much a café – it only had a single table indoors – as it was, well, a shop, but there was a nice little square that had been afforded some benches. Pigeons and squirrels scurried around, as well as people. It was chilly, and there was a slight threat of snow, but it was not altogether unpleasant.

            Tarson flipped through the pages of the Omlos Chronicle as he sipped his coffee – lots of cream, lots of sugar. There was a bit about the remaining tensions down south, and something about the ongoing feud between the President and the Prime Minister. All of this was old news, though, and not all that fascinating. Tarson preferred the science, technology and arcane section. There was a piece about the Sinret Project making some marginal discovery that would probably only mean anything to the scientists who discovered it. The article did note that they had nearly doubled their staff recently, which presumably meant someone with real funds was now backing them.

            He became aware that there was an attractive woman looking at him. She was stunning, in an understated sort of way, wearing tight denim jeans and a jacket that was maybe too thin for the temperature. He light-brown hair was just a bit longer than shoulder-length, and she looked to be twenty, or even in her late teens. She smiled. He smiled back.

            I suppose I’m done with my coffee, thought Tarson.

            He tossed the cup in a bin and folded the newspaper under his arm.

            “Hello,” he tried.

            “Hi,” she said. Tarson laughed on the inside. There was a sort of schoolgirl innocence to her voice. He was nearly giddy.

            He leaned in, perhaps a little too close, but he always thought projecting confidence could smooth these sorts of things. “I couldn’t help but see that you were staring at me.”

            “Staring?” she responded, with mock offense. “I was doing no such thing.”

            “I’m James,” he said.

            “Gwen,” said the woman.

            “Lovely name. Short for Guinevere?” he asked.

            “That’s the one.”

            “Well, Guinevere, you have a fascinating name. And I would love to learn more about it and the person to whom it belongs.”

            “I have a room in the building over there,” she said, and pointed to the other end of the square.

            This is remarkably easier than I would have expected, he thought.

            He followed her into the lobby of a small, but acceptably livable apartment building. They finally climbed the stairs to her room, and she unlocked the door.

            The apartment was completely bare, except for plastic sheeting lining every wall and the floor.

            Tarson spun around. “Gwen” had shut the door behind her. A very large man with an ornate tapestry of tattoos covering his arms and legs stepped out of another room. He looked like he could tear Tarson’s head off with his bare hands.

            Tarson laughed. All of this was utterly ridiculous. “Gwen” laughed as well, and finally, the Inked Man joined.

            “You made me very, very nervous there, Inky.” He turned back to “Gwen.” “I mean, I knew she was one of us. But when I saw that plastic I almost had a heart attack. Thought I’d somehow managed to fall sideways into a honeypot.”

            The Inked Man shrugged and smiled. “She’s good. Actually, she’s not new. She was out in Reben, but there was a compromise and she had to break her chain. She goes by Nightsong.” Nightsong leaned against the door, her arms folded. She had dropped any of the flirty innocence she had displayed before and now wore a satisfied scowl.

            Tarson turned around. “Oh,” he said, frowning sympathetically. “Condolences.”

            Nightsong shrugged. “I didn’t care much for my superior. He was a loud, lecherous prick. I bet he never suspected he would be my first kill.”

            Tarson waved his hand dismissively at her. “I didn’t mean about your chain. I meant the name. Nightsong? That’s a terrible codename. Just terrible. Sounds like a pseudonym adopted by a teenaged girl who dyes here hair black and pretends to be suicidal to get attention from boys.”

            “I didn’t pick it,” said Nightsong.

            “I should hope not.” Tarson looked around. “This leads me to my next question – well, not so much leads me as much as I have decided to move on to it. Why am I in a butcher room?”

            The Inked Man paced over to the window. “Nightsong here prefers we don’t leave any DNA around. Frankly, I think it’s a bit much, but better safe than sorry, right?”

            “Yes,” said Tarson. “You did miss the ceiling, though. Then again, without blood spray, it’s probably not much of a concern.”

            The Inked Man was stern and serious as usual. “So is there an update?”

            Tarson nodded. “Jaroka met with Yasik himself this morning, and rendez-vous is confirmed. Noon, Café de l’Hesaie.”

            “You got Yasik to go in person?” said Nightsong, skeptically. Good sign. She knows who Yasik is. So many new Agents are completely ignorant.

            “All they told me was that they needed him out of his safe house. I assume they wanted to do a rummage, but that’s off our chain. Not any of our concern.”

            “How’d you get him to go?” asked the Inked Man.

            Tarson scratched his chin. “That would be telling, wouldn’t it?” All told, it wasn’t a story he wanted to revisit. He hated to kill people when they were naked. It made the whole affair take on sexual overtones that he found somewhat revolting. Yasik’s assistant, a woman about his age who was very short, hadn’t had much of a chance to put up a struggle. He had tranquilized her and then made a few small incisions to make it as quick as possible. In and out, it had taken less than ten minutes, and despite Nightsong’s concerns, he never left any DNA behind.

            “So, regarding Jaroka. Do we grab her on the way in to the cafe?” asked Nightsong.

            Tarson shook his head. “Not exactly.”

            The Inked Man looked very concerned. “What are we supposed to do?”

            Tarson smiled. “Well, my superior sent a little information on the wire earlier today. Looks like there’s been a… reconsideration… on the subject of Jaroka. It would seem that her services are no longer required. Bit of a shake-up upstairs if you ask me, but don’t quote me on that. Anyway, that removes any sort of protections that existed, and it appears that our betters feel we’d all be a lot better off in a world that did not include Rosanna Jaroka. ”

            “And Nascine?” asked the Inked Man.

            “Oh, we’re not touching Nascine. Far better to send her back to Retrein with her tail between her legs. Sadly, that also means that I will be leaving once again. It appears that your dear friend and mentor will be spending a lot of time in the Royal Rookery. Arrangements will be made to take care of you two…” he paused, noting their horrified expressions. “I mean, take care of, not, you know…” he gestured to all the plastic sheeting. “Take care of.”

            They both relaxed. Nightsong leaned in slightly. “So what do we do with Jaroka?”

            “Be creative. Best if I don’t know.”

            “All right,” said the Inked Man. “Nightsong, give us a moment, ok?”

            She shrugged and walked over to the other room. The Inked Man leaned in, whispering. “What is this about a shake-up?”

            Tarson shrugged. “Don’t worry about it. You and I are way too low on the totem pole.”

            “I don’t exactly want to wind up in a butcher room myself, you understand?”

            Tarson nodded. “Here’s what you do. You’ve got your own personal funds, right? Make it liquid. Then, you get a name you’ve never used before. You put together some false ID – and don’t use anyone you know. All new people. No connections, no network. You buy yourself a little place in… some place you’ll never tell me. Things start to stink? You drop everything, go start your new life, and hope to hell the House doesn’t find you out.”

            “And how likely is that to work?”

            Tarson laughed. “You wouldn’t stand a chance.” He clapped the Inked Man on the back. “Listen, Inky. If the House wants us dead, we die. No use worrying about it. It either happens or it doesn’t.”

            The Inked Man sighed. “I wish I could share in your serenity.” Then he looked at Tarson again, with the appearance of surprise on his face. “Huh. You’re wearing glasses.”

            Tarson nodded. “Yes?”

            “When have you ever worn glasses?”

            Tarson nodded. “All my life. Bit of an affectation, though. I don’t need them. Just like the look.”

            “So that’s why you’re called Four Eyes?”

            “That’s why they call me Four Eyes.”

(Copyright Daniel Szolovits 2012)