Hidden Nexus by Nick Tanner Page A

the multitude of colours and types of paper on show. He caught a brief whiff of the paper’s particular vibrant smell snaking out from within the interior. It was a smell he didn’t particularly like – a cross between dust and perfume. As casually as he could he looked up and down the street. There was no-one following him – of that he was sure, and there was no-one that he recognised. He only hoped that no-one had recognised him . He was after all an eminent politician now infamous for his extra marital affair.
     
    At a fairly innocuous entrance he ducked to the left, tapped his shoes on the first step to loosen the snow from his soles, went up a flight of stairs to the first floor and entered a coffee shop, selecting an out-of-the-way table towards the back and the corner of the room. He quickly looked around and satisfied himself that it was free from prying eyes. No-one had so much as twitched an eye-lid as he’d entered. He took his seat, ordered a coffee, placed the flimsy, leather briefcase that he’d been carrying on the seat beside him and then waited.
     
    He was desirous that this particular meeting should be executed with the minimum of fuss and with the minimum of time expended. It was precisely on occasions like this that he valued Kinjo’s involvement – it was precisely this kind of escapade that Kinjo was expert at concluding. But Kinjo was no longer available and he felt utterly unable to trust anyone else with this particular ‘mission’. It was therefore with high levels of discomfort that he sat as inconspicuously as he could, knowing that he’d been forced into a position that was entirely laden with risk and was somewhat beyond his field of experience. He chewed at his lip. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had to walk anywhere so used was he to being chauffeur driven and as for sitting alone in pokey little coffee shops - well, he couldn’t ever recall a time when he had. He was definitely out of his comfort zone.
     
    Kinjo usually took care of all the dirty work.
     
    He thought again about his former colleague and the many services that he had offered. He recalled, with only a residue of fondness now, the time when Kinjo had broken into the headquarters of a rival faction in order to delete an incriminating e-mail that a third party had sent or the occasion when Watanabe had been sleeping over at the Faction apartment with a young woman he’d picked up, only for his wife to burst unexpectedly upon the scene. Kinjo, who’d been in the room next door, had managed to substitute himself for Watanabe just in time, while Watanabe had hid in the futon cupboard. It was true that he had been indispensible over the years. Indispensible and trustworthy – until now! It made it all the more painful that he’d had to dispense with him and even more disagreeable to have to listen to his pitying whining as he’d finally exited the office, still asking for forgiveness.
     
    None had been given.
     
    Watanabe had been steadfast. Once the trust was gone you never got it back. Not with Watanabe.
     
    His coffee arrived and he took a few tentative sips after which he poured in the cream. It was a peculiar ritual that he had adopted for a reason that he no longer knew. As he sat he examined the people around him but with no real intent. He was far too consumed in his own business and too obsessive about himself to be really, remotely interested in anybody else, particularly the average nobodies that frequented such a place as this. It was comfortably crowded and thankfully, he noted once again, none had eyes for him – at least so he thought. He glanced at his watch – it was five past twelve – past the designated time. He cursed to himself, wishing once again that Kinjo could have been on hand.
     
    Eventually the person he’d been awaiting came in. They took great care not to recognise each other and the new arrival sat at a table that was in full view of Watanabe. As agreed they kept