The small room was being lighten up by a single, yellow bulb, hanging under the ceiling. The room was more like a prison cell than a hotel apartment, but it was enough. It had to be enough for some time. The only furniture was a table under a wall, facing to an unmade bed by the opposite wall. There were two doors in this room - one going out to the corridor and the second one leading to a claustrophobical bathroom. A lone laptop was glowing faintly on the table.
A clinking noise of a key, being placed in the lock of the door echoed in the room.
A well-built man with dark, short hair, bright, green eyes and a stubble on his face went into the room, scanning it with a bored look. He had grey jeans, black, heavy, leather boots and an undone, black, corduroy jacket, under wich was a red T-shirt with logo of a for long forgotten rock band. He looked for his fourties, though he barely was twenty five years old.
" Some rest. At last..." He said in fluent Polish. He wanted to lay down on his bed after a whole day of travel, when suddenly he heard a well known noise, comming from the laptop. When he was taking it and sitting on the bed, he grunted something about the spam, but then he saw the sender of a new e-mail - "Resource Development Administration".
" Americans? What the hell would they want from me?" He said in his native language, adding some mean epithets silently. The whole message had only two informations: a phone numer and a name: "Michael Whitemond". On the bottom, the Postscript was attached: "PASSWORD: Time of Contempt"
"Password in English. How typical. But it's correct, after all. Damn, looks like no rest for me this time. Fu*ck." He grunted and turned off the laptop, putting it back on the table. He stood up and bent down by the bed, grabbing an ordinary, touristic case from under it. He put in on the bedclothes and opened it, showing it's contents - some clothes and an old photo of a girl on the top. He took it all out, putting it away, showing the main contents beneath - a silenced pistol, a sniper rifle, few professional knife sharpeners and a whole collection of knives and blades - from combat knives of all kind, through the throwing knives and fine engraved daggers, finishing on two, old machetes.
Time to go.
Money don't grow on trees.