straight in the back seat. He was at least twenty over the speed limit most of the way, the asset noted, but the road congestion was significant, and every so often they would grind to a halt for a few minutes.
The contact’s apartment was in a ten-story block just off Av. Paul Cezanne. It was early evening and getting dark, and it was wet and drab, with numerous street lights either broken or burned out. The apartments were built with white concrete-and-rebar blocks; the building’s non-descript exterior was long mottled and stained by dirt and water, just another in a line of mottled concrete blocks. Across the street, a building was broken down completely, the two remaining exterior walls covered with elaborate graffiti. It was the last in a row and had fared worst; most of the apartments lacked balconies, making the surrounding buildings hard to tell apart from offices. Even the inhabited blocks had been scrawled upon with spray paint, though mostly by untalented taggers, the signatures woeful attempts at artistic style, slashing black scribbles that did little but accentuate the grime.
Six wide concrete steps ran up to the front doors of his destination. The asset scanned the street; cars were crammed end-to-end on both sides but it seemed quiet otherwise. Housing in the neighborhood was cheap, and along with the poor it drew the unfortunate and those who preyed upon them. He wasn’t surprised the contact lived here; the contact was considered unreliable and untrustworthy, a backup plan, to be used only in the most necessary of circumstances due to inherent risks. But the asset was working without a net; no handler, no support. He had limited assets and fewer options. Anyone more reliable might check back on him, as well; the last thing he needed was outside static.
The front security door’s lock was broken and it swung open freely. The building’s lobby was near featureless, a plain linoleum floor, the tiles dirty and torn, with the right-hand wall covered in tiny metal mailboxes. At the end of the lobby was the elevator. To its left was an office, and to its right, the stairs.
The elevator car smelled of urine. The asset took it to the fourth floor, the doors beginning to open before it had actually settled and was level with the hallway.
Only one hallway light bulb still functioned, along with an exit light at the very end of the corridor that cast a red shadow. The contact was in Apartment 4D and was expecting him. The door wasn’t the standard issue, but rather a steel reinforced barrier, painted off-white, with a spy hole and a camera above it. He knocked three times, the metal echoing deeply. After a pause, a panel slid back near the top of the door.
“Yeah?” The voice was deep.
“I’m here to see Petr,” the asset said in French.
The panel slid shut. Twenty seconds later, he heard the bolt being drawn back. The door swung open. The man guarding it was large, well-built in overalls and a t-shirt, toting a Mac-Ten machine pistol. Inside, the main hallway opened into a bachelor apartment, with everything but the bathroom contained in an open floor space. The walls were empty, painted a drab green and the floorboards were scuffed and dull. At the back of the room, a dark brown wooden desk sat before the windows, and behind it was the contact, Petr. He was short, with a mop of blond hair that went to just below his collar and green eyes hiding behind undersized glasses. He had a guard on each side, both muscular again, both standing with their hands politely in front of them. The asset didn’t see any weapons, which he assumed meant they were concealed, probably just tucked into waistbands. The one to the asset’s right had a bulge by his ankle suggesting a backup piece. Both seemed focused.
“Come in my friend, come in,” Petr said. “So I’m told through a mutual acquaintance that you require some special paper.”
“You got my specifications?” The asset had forwarded them before
The contact’s apartment was in a ten-story block just off Av. Paul Cezanne. It was early evening and getting dark, and it was wet and drab, with numerous street lights either broken or burned out. The apartments were built with white concrete-and-rebar blocks; the building’s non-descript exterior was long mottled and stained by dirt and water, just another in a line of mottled concrete blocks. Across the street, a building was broken down completely, the two remaining exterior walls covered with elaborate graffiti. It was the last in a row and had fared worst; most of the apartments lacked balconies, making the surrounding buildings hard to tell apart from offices. Even the inhabited blocks had been scrawled upon with spray paint, though mostly by untalented taggers, the signatures woeful attempts at artistic style, slashing black scribbles that did little but accentuate the grime.
Six wide concrete steps ran up to the front doors of his destination. The asset scanned the street; cars were crammed end-to-end on both sides but it seemed quiet otherwise. Housing in the neighborhood was cheap, and along with the poor it drew the unfortunate and those who preyed upon them. He wasn’t surprised the contact lived here; the contact was considered unreliable and untrustworthy, a backup plan, to be used only in the most necessary of circumstances due to inherent risks. But the asset was working without a net; no handler, no support. He had limited assets and fewer options. Anyone more reliable might check back on him, as well; the last thing he needed was outside static.
The front security door’s lock was broken and it swung open freely. The building’s lobby was near featureless, a plain linoleum floor, the tiles dirty and torn, with the right-hand wall covered in tiny metal mailboxes. At the end of the lobby was the elevator. To its left was an office, and to its right, the stairs.
The elevator car smelled of urine. The asset took it to the fourth floor, the doors beginning to open before it had actually settled and was level with the hallway.
Only one hallway light bulb still functioned, along with an exit light at the very end of the corridor that cast a red shadow. The contact was in Apartment 4D and was expecting him. The door wasn’t the standard issue, but rather a steel reinforced barrier, painted off-white, with a spy hole and a camera above it. He knocked three times, the metal echoing deeply. After a pause, a panel slid back near the top of the door.
“Yeah?” The voice was deep.
“I’m here to see Petr,” the asset said in French.
The panel slid shut. Twenty seconds later, he heard the bolt being drawn back. The door swung open. The man guarding it was large, well-built in overalls and a t-shirt, toting a Mac-Ten machine pistol. Inside, the main hallway opened into a bachelor apartment, with everything but the bathroom contained in an open floor space. The walls were empty, painted a drab green and the floorboards were scuffed and dull. At the back of the room, a dark brown wooden desk sat before the windows, and behind it was the contact, Petr. He was short, with a mop of blond hair that went to just below his collar and green eyes hiding behind undersized glasses. He had a guard on each side, both muscular again, both standing with their hands politely in front of them. The asset didn’t see any weapons, which he assumed meant they were concealed, probably just tucked into waistbands. The one to the asset’s right had a bulge by his ankle suggesting a backup piece. Both seemed focused.
“Come in my friend, come in,” Petr said. “So I’m told through a mutual acquaintance that you require some special paper.”
“You got my specifications?” The asset had forwarded them before
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