Climate of Negatives
Lovelocked
The tumblers purred as Illya turned the last dial. He could hear the tell-tale sounds that a vault makes just before she surrenders her secrets. It brought a small smile to his lips.
The iron box was meant to look strong, forbidding, and impregnable. Illya was not intimidated. Getting into the Swiss bank undetected had been the challenging part. Now all the security and safeguards served the young Russian, rather than the criminals who had filled this vault, insuring his privacy as he seduced the lock and swung open the heavy door.
A long flat box inside, minute stars studding finest velvet lining. Illya's eyes shone with the light they captured and magnified. He smoothed his hair back from his forehead before reaching past the wealth of minerals, deeper inside the dark interior. His smile became triumphant, and he withdrew the narrow packet of papers, bound with stained leather. This was what he'd come for.
Another man might just take the thing, let its absence serve as a message, proof of the thief's skill. Such an idea did not enter Illya's disciplined mind. He needed no acclamations; his quiet, private triumphs meant far more to him than any man's opinion. He worked swiftly to photograph the contents of the packet, carefully turning the pages and leaving no prints, smudges, or creases.
Soon the packet was back in the box with a million dollars worth of diamonds as a paperweight, and Illya was closing the door and spinning the lock. He turned the dials back to the places they were before he touched them. Before he left, he knelt and ran his gloved hand over the smooth metal of the vault, one last time.
Let Napoleon have his conquests; Illya's lovers kept their secrets longer.