"Ba-an?"
"What?" MI6 major Bancoran was flipping through a morning newspaper while munching a muffin. He did his best to abstain from smoking at home, but his hand felt empty, and Maraich's bakery fitted in neatly.
"What day is it today?"
"Wednesday, so what?"
"You ask me what?! And what about the date?"
"February 14th, so what?"
"'So what?!" Maraich shouted throwing a knife precisely into the back of Bancoran's chair. "It's a holiday for all couples, for romance and love, you blockhead!"
And he threw a heart-shaped chocolate from another hand precisely into Bancoran's nape. But the man stayed as cool as cucumber.
"My dear, it's just one more prop for capitalists to boost sales of chocolate and jewelry."
"But it did not bother you all previous years."
"Well, people revise their viewpoints often as they grow older. For me, such holiday is the date of our meeting, not some mythical anniversary of a mythical character. Also it would be too strange for us, of all couples, to relate our feelings with a saint from the religion promising hellfire for the likes of us."
Maraich dropped another knife in surprise, not cutting his toe by mere chance.
"Ban? Are you alright? You talk like a commie." In a matter of a second his mood dove into deep concern.
"Not communist, just a socialist." The major hmphed.
"As you say. Personally, I don't care if you are re-recruited or just work-stressed. But you can have problems if you say that shit at your office."
"Don't worry, I serve my country only, and will work for it only, but damn, what's wrong with a wish to get your labors paid?!"
"And they ain't?" Maraich sat gingerly on a chair beside Bancoran and patted him on the shoulder.
"That bastard Sanders delayed the subsistence by two days till tomorrow, and agrees to sign checks only after we complete an operation today and submit reports. Not the easiest operation. I suspect we won't cope today. That swivel-chair warrior haven't been in the field for ages and forgot how it feels to stay in ambush for hours under rain among construction debris. So–" he tensed, just in case. "I'm not sure I'll be coming today. Sorry."
He stood up.
"Oh." Maraich drooped, then smiled forcedly. "I'll be waiting, then. Good luck."
The door closed behind the agent, and the red-head clenched his hands on the table. Table top would have crumbled were it not made of air-craft-grade alloy – too many its wooden predecessors suffered terrible death during Maraich's tantrums. So, he only succeeded in breaking a nail. This did not improve his mood, but he knew better than to kick the offending furniture. To sate an impulse to squash something, he picked up the chocolate thrown into Bancoran before, and stopped. The red bit of foil and candy in his hand looked so fragile, so lost.
The young man cuddled it in both hands and carried back to the fridge.
"I will make you a present, Ban", he whispered tenderly and pulled out a drawer with knifes.
A cleaning man was scrubbing floor outside of Field Ops office in the building of the Secret Intelligence Service. When another secretary disappeared behind the corner, the cleaner looked around quickly, put the bucket quietly right to the office door and peeped into the keyhole. The field of view was not too wide but it covered a large part of table – with flowers in a vase, a bottle of cognac, candles, glasses and such like. The chief was not seen but heard, most probably by the phone.
"Yes. Fine… Fine, Bancoran, go on… Report to the office when you are over." Receiver clanked down in place, but chief Sanders continued talking, this time quietly and in altogether another cooing manner. "Oh, dear Bancoran, you'll come, and we'll have a wonderful Valentine evening. I'm sure he will appreciate an envelope with extra bonus and won't be as cold as usual. Ho, it's so cool to be a boss."
The cleaner swayed back from the door. His face expression was not seen behind a gauze respirator but the eyes squinted in fury. Then he shove a hand into the overall's pocket, rushed back to the door with a hiss… and tripped over his own bucket. But did not it stand some inches farther a second before? No one could tell, as both bucket and cleaner scattered all over the floor with mighty rattle. The door opened, and Sanders peeped out just to see a technician dragging a cleaner, bucket and mop away and muttering apologies. The department chief shrugged and returned to daydreaming.
Meanwhile the technician shove the cleaner into utility room, released submission hold and tore off cleaner's respirator and cap. Fiery curls flowed around a delicate, model-like face distorted with pain and anger.
"What the hell are you doing?!" Maraich (who else?) hissed and tried to kick the intruder but missed the target and received a painful stab with the mop handle.
"What are you doing, I should ask!" the other retorted in a muffed voice and pulled his own cap and dim glasses off.
"Black Onions", the former killer spat. "I should have known. You're everywhere like cockroaches. Why do you interfere, I wonder. It's my private matter, it has nothing to do with Malynera and its clown of a king."
"Patalliro VIII ordered us to keep an eye on you and major Bancoran," the Malynerian agent explained patiently as to a small child. "And you're clearly making a stupid thing. Mister Bancoran would hardly approve it if you attack his senior officer".
"Sheesh. How would he know it's me? I planned a perfect Valentine gift. I get rid of that bald bastard, Ban gets rid of a nuisance, extra hours, payment delays – and I'm sure he'll be promoted as the next department chief. He's the best agent, you know. "
"Quite logical", the Kurotamanegi wiped glasses with his wig still eyeing Maraich warily. "First question. I saw you were taking your knife, and there are not many skillful knife users around, so you'll be the first suspect."
"Oh, yes," the past-and-future killer winced. "I… I kinda flew off the handle. Seeing that old crock leeching after MY Ban! You should understand me! I didn't want to. My original plan was to push him some coffee with purgative and Lidocaine, Wait for him in the washroom and hang him on his braces while the drug freezes his voice. Then I return to his room, leave a ditching message and make it look like a love-sick suicide. Perfect, ain't it?"
The Black Onion agent scratched his chin and looked at Maraich with appreciation.
"Another question, then." He smirked nonetheless. "Not even a question, rather a comment. You know what I'm doing here. Gathering information. So I've come to know the principles of assigning a chief of Field Ops. And believe me, it's not skill, experience or intellect. It's dispensability–"
"Dis– what?"
"Uselessness." The Kurotamanegi sighed. "It's too difficult to train a good field agent to waste him on administrative duties, so it's non-achievers who become chiefs. In other words, Bancoran will be an agent forever, till he retires on age or injury, or dies."
"Uh-oh," Maraich let both hands stuck in his hair and plopped on the floor preparing to cry.
"Damn what should I do then? I agree to share Ban with his work, but not with his chief! Even if the post goes to another loafer I must get rid of this very bastard!"
The Black Onion coughed.
"Still it would not guarantee that the next boss will not approach Mr. Bancoran. May I make some corrections to your plan to leave Mr. Sanders alive, deeply hurt and not willing to see Mr. Bancoran so often?" he said tentatively.
The killer raised an eyebrow and stopped sobbing.
"Let's leave the first part of your plan intact," his would-be accomplice continued with a smug air. "I mean, the coffee with all admixtures. But when Mr. Sanders goes to the lavatory I lock him there, and you wait for Mr. Bancoran in the office in a very romantic atmosphere. Mr. Sanders won't be able to call for help, and if he bangs on the door I explain the passers-by that it is repair works. You spend a good evening, or take the stock home, and leave that message you've made. Just change the addressor to 'Bancoran'. And - profit!"
"Change their dresser? What do you mean?" Maraich snarled.
"No, change the name of the one who signed the letter," the Kurotamanegi sighed.
"What's the hell with using weird words when there are clear and simple ones," Maraich went on grumbling. He could not acknowledge so quickly that this cockroach made a better plan so easily, but it was for Ban's sake, right? He stood up and offered hand to the Black Onion guy.