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"Okay, Mr. King, begin at the beginning, please." Philip could tell that the politeness was an unfamiliar jester to the man. He said it like a man says an unfamiliar name--there had been a slight pause before the "please" and each syllable carefully drawn out and spoken. He suspected that manners were seldom used in this man's job.
Slowly, he opened his eyes to the blinding white room that had been his entire world for the last few hours that had felt like days. Philip knew that even if the lights had been the nice frosted ones, the starkness and lack of color in the room would have still hurt his eyes. His pounding headache assured him that it was an effective technique. Anybody would be willing to talk just to be allowed out of this room.
"I've already told you everything," he sighed, weariness showing in every word. He just wished his head would stop throbbing.
"Tell us again," the repetitive monotone ordered. Philip understood that he could ask for a break, but he had no desire for one. He wanted to get this process over with now. He never wanted to enter the overly-bright room ever again once he left it.
He also was hoping to avoid the two men sitting across from him. Only the man on the right had spoken, but it was doubtful that the second man had a more pleasant voice. The young man had found it amusing when they had first entered the room. They looked, dressed, and moved almost exactly alike. Unfortunately, that monotony had soon bored him, and he had started to wonder exactly how they managed to keep their face so still. Did muscle relaxers help keep their faces chiseled in stone? Or, perhaps, they were really made out of stone for all the emotion they showed, he had thought with a mild sense of hysteria.
Glancing over to the two-way mirror, Philip again began the tale of what brought him here. "It was my first semester at AU. I decided to take a class on the history of the middle east because my stepfather had told me a lot of stories about the various countries. I found them interesting and wanted to learn more. The class was taught by a Professor Luke Hamilton. It quickly became my favorite class. . ."
"Mr. King!" Philip turned, surprised to hear his prof calling for him. Laughing at their good-natured teasing, he said goodbye to his friends. He stood there nervously waiting for the man to catch up with him. "I'm glad I got you. Are you on your way to another class?" the older man wheezed.
Shaking his head, Philip smiled at the other man. "No, I was just on my way over to the dorm to grab a bite to eat."
"Good, good! I was wanting to talk to you. Please, walk with me to the cafeteria. I'll buy your lunch." Philip started at the idea of a prof buying a mere freshman lunch. "I want to talk to you about a possible job, Philip. I think you would make a good candidate, but I want to get to know you a little better first."
"What was the job offer, Mr. King?" the man with the monotone asked, bringing Philip briefly back to the present.
"Kind of like a teacher's assistant, but instead of being a regular TA paid by the school, I worked directly for Professor Hamilton."
The man showed no response to the answer. Philip was beginning to get used to it. Neither of them had shown any reaction to the more sordid details earlier. To be truthful, Philip understood that they were use to hearing worst. "What did you do?" the flat voice asked, attempting to be polite.
"I checked papers, ran copies, got him lunch. I was a general gofer, more or less. Sometimes I took his car to be cleaned or ran some notes over to another prof. Nothing spectacular," he answered sadly. He ignored the waves of nostalgia and melancholy coursing through him. He would have time later to deal with the emotions and the reality of his changed life. Right now, he had a job to do.
"Why had he chosen you?"
Philip thought for a moment before answering. "He said he liked my interest in class. Most of the people there were just there to get a credit, but I really wanted to know about the area. I spent a lot of hours in his office and at his home, and he often talked to me about current events over there. Prof found them more interesting than what was happening here politically."
"You spent a lot of time talking? So, you were friends?" Philip wished the man would go horse. At least then his tone would change a little. Several hours of questions by that same voice was enough to drive any man mad.
Opening his mouth to answer, Philip was struck by the question. A flash of pain told him something he had not realized until now. "If anyone had asked me last week, I would have told them no. I just considered him a friendly boss, but. . .Yes, we were friends."
"When did you begin working as a courier for him?"
Closing his eyes, he recalled the day everything about his life started to change. It had seemed like such an innocent day. Again, Philip looked over at the mirror. "About a year ago, I went to the profs house and. . ."
Philip watched his boss with amusement. He was use to seeing the man lying back and relaxing. The most excited Philip ever saw him was in class, talking about Middle Eastern tradition and politics. Now, the man's hair was mused from many swipes of his hand and he was pacing back and forth across his own living room like it was a prison cell. He only stopped occasionally to sneak glances out of the blinds. Philip briefly wondered why there were closed, but thought little of it. Starting to ask Professor Hamilton what was wrong, he flinched when the man suddenly swirled and looked at him. "Of course!" he exclaimed. "I never thought of it."
Philip was confused. "Thought of what?"
Hamilton, picking up a package from his desk, ignored the question. "Philip, I want you to do me a large favor. I want you to put this package in your backpack. I want you to leave here, go run some errands or whatever you need to do. Don't let anyone see this box! In the morning, before your first class, I would like you to take it and put in the mailbox on Dupont Circle."
Philip glanced down at the nondescript package. "You want me to mail this?"
"No!" Hamilton almost shouted. "I want you to take it to the mailbox on Dupont Circle. *Only* that mailbox! Do you understand me? It *must* be in *that* mailbox by nine o'clock tomorrow morning!"
"Okay," Philip said gently. He didn't understand what had the professor so bothered, but he trusted him. They had worked together almost four years, and had an easy relationship. He only wished Lee had enough time to meet the man. Unfortunately, both men were usually very busy.
Philip silently laughed at that thought. Little had he known that the two men shared a lot more in common than an interest in Middle Eastern politics and a hectic lifestyle.
To be continued. . .