It's the kind of cold, wet day where the thought of waiting for a commuter train or sitting in an under-heated office fills one with dread. Olrik watches the figures on the street far below scurry for shelter and is glad he doesn't have to go anywhere or do anything just yet. His shoulder hurts where the FBI bitch shot him years ago and this horrible weather is giving him a sinus headache. He phones the front desk for breakfast, a pot of coffee, and a bottle of aspirin and attempts to ease his aches and pains with a hot shower.
The traditional breakfast of hot rice, rolled omelet, salted fish and thin soup is delicious and bracing, but the coffee is merely acceptable, far below what one would normally expect in a hotel this expensive. Tea would have been more appropriate, but he needs something much stronger to feel alive this morning. Sharkey called this morning – too early as always. Olrik told him to go enjoy himself while he can and not to call again, for Christ's sake. The fool will probably spend his day insulting Japanese women with fumbling attempts at gallantry and end up in a bar with a dozen new friends. Well, if he's too hung-over to talk at the meeting tomorrow, so much the better.
Olrik is very careful with his drinking these days. He has just as much tolerance as he did 30 years ago, but more than two or three drinks means a bad stomach and worse sleep. He supposes that too many prison meals will do that to a person, although he doesn't recall a day of illness when he was actually doing time. He pours a cup of coffee and wonders sourly how long it will be until he has to limit this as well.
The problem is he never expected to get so old. By most standards, he's only middle-aged and could easily go another twenty years or thirty years. Hell, even forty is not impossible, although the thought horrifies him. Back when he started his career, he assumed he'd be either filthy rich or dead by forty; the thought of still being hard at work in his fifth decade seemed ridiculous. Now he's waiting to start a new job in a body that's seen more mileage than seems believable. He's worked, or been forced to work, on every continent in the world. He's been close to death a half-dozen times and has survived insanity, enslavement, explosions and exchanging physical bodies with a pipe-smoking professor. He's been shot at and knocked unconscious more times than he can count.
This is the last job. He's got to get out of this before he ends up permanently crippled or serving another jail term. It's ridiculous for a man with grey at the temples and what might be bursitis to make his living in the spy game. He's been risking his ass all these years while his employers have sat back and criticized, or worse, threatened to kill him or withhold his fee. Most of them have been idiots, madmen, or both. He thinks of Damdu, Voronov, von Stahl – lunatics, every one of them. Even Ostrog, the best of them, was quick to criticize and slow to appreciate, although he did provide Olrik with some of his best-paying jobs.
Olrik rises and heads for the little closet. As much as he'd like to spend the day lounging, he really should get dressed now, just in case he needs to go somewhere quickly. He glances at himself in the mirror. Not bad, really. His shoulder and back are still military straight and his muscle tone is good. He's a little thicker around the middle than before, but the overall effect is fine. The most obvious effect of aging is the grey streak of fur on his chest. The last person to see it commented that he resembled a badger. Olrik was not amused. He puts on a his trousers, shirt, and shoes, sets out a jacket and tie for later, and goes back to the sitting room.
Tomorrow he meets with The Scorpio Group. The meeting will probably last forever, Japanese business methods being what they are, but the job seems simple enough. The mark is some eccentric professor of cybernetics, not someone likely to put up a lot of fight. Within two or three weeks he should be headed back to Europe with a big payoff. When he touches ground, the first thing he will do is consolidate his accounts and arrange for the sale of whatever treasures he can do without. With the Scorpio money, there will be more than enough for a comfortable annuity and a good-sized plot of land somewhere in the world, maybe South America or Australia, or even Canada. He needs somewhere with a lot of space and not too many cops. Or maybe he'll offer his services to the Americans. The devil knows the CIA has arranged safe semi-retirement for plenty of men who face hanging or worse in their own countries.
The coffee and aspirin have helped tremendously. Olrik decides to spend the day reading, resting and drawing up plans. It might be fun to do something, anything, that isn't steeped in crime and shadows. He'll build a house; maybe take up archeology in a serious way. These days one can take classes in anything, at any age. Life is not so rigid and unforgiving as it was in his youth, especially in the newer countries where chances are thick on the ground. There are doctors who can alter a person's appearance without complications. Yes, he thinks, by this summer he will create a whole new identity. It will be his last big espionage project.
Olrik pours himself a last cup of coffee and picks up a pen and notepad from the dresser. He begins jotting a list of errands for certain bankers and lawyers he's worked with over the years. For the first time in many months, it pleases him to consider the future.
The End