Chapter 5 – Secret Agent Man

1987. David has asked me to come see him. I'm not sure his reasons why, but I figure it's a good chance to catch up – we've talked, but haven't seen hide nor hair of each other for about two years now.

There's a professional side to this meeting, of course – I think Aurelius is building up a file on David. It makes sense; David had helped extract a KGB major by the name of Alexei D-, the same man whose ring I had been investigating after the Victoria affair in '83. I helped debrief him, and it was one of the most exhausting experiences of my life. Cross-checking every claim & reference Alexei made, wondering if he was telling the truth or inflating his own knowledge had taken a toll on me. I had thought he would give me a break in my conflict with Aurelius, but he claimed he didn't know him.

I had struck Alexei at that – I knew he was lying, but David confirmed his story. After that David convinced me to lay off the subject with Alexei. It had been maddening.

For so long I hoped for a breakthrough in my case, but even after some years I only had fragments. An age, a man who claimed to know him from the Soviet invasion of Czechoslovakia in 1968, and a blurry photograph supposedly of him taken by one of my men in Stockholm, those were some of the materials I had on Aurelius. So much is still conjecture.

But I know this – his spycraft is good, probably better than mine, but I can't back down at this point. I've sacrificed so much that to give up would be to dishonor those I've used as pawns, knights, and bishops.

The stakes keep being raised. Four of my people have died so far, and my retaliations have jailed, deported, or ruined the lives of plenty of Aurelius' agents.

Perhaps that's the difference between this assignment and the earlier ones with Kaji & David – there we only risked ourselves, but now my mistakes endanger others. It's a weight I can't get rid of, and I wonder if Aurelius feels the same, or is too calloused to care if he loses an agent or two.

The thoughts clutter my head as I park my car a distance away from David's safehouse. I know where a few of his are, and he knows where mine are, just in case anything goes pear-shaped. Fat drops of rain are cutting down, sounding like pebbles landing on my windshield. I grab my umbrella from the passenger's seat and open it up as I step out of my car – a mid-range Volkswagen.

Around me empty warehouses squat amid concrete parks – I'm in an industrial area not far outside Bonn. The puddles of water collecting in the depressions in the ground are large, and I walk between them. I pull my coat tighter around me as I go toward an unremarkable, low, white-painted building, it's walls smooth but for one shuttered window per side and a gray door. I can see a thin seam of light coming through the edges of the shutter, so I guess that David is here.

Going to the door, I knock a few times. After a brief wait, I hear several bolts retract on the other side. It surprises me – David's usually not so paranoid. It tells me I need to warn David about Aurelius.

The door opens, and I see my old friend's face. It's lost some of its aristocratic haughtiness through age, but as he welcomes me inside you'd think it was his manor in Kent we were in, rather than a concrete and metal box.

"Charles," he says, "it's good to see you well."

I shrug off my coat and hang it dripping on a hook, as David re-bolts the door behind me.

"You too, David," I reply.

I look around the building – it's empty except for a few tables scattered around, covered in blueprints and technical schemata. I sit down on one of them and face David. "I'm glad you called me," I say as David comes away from the door, "it's been too long, and I've got some information for you."

He raises an eyebrow at me. I don't think this was on his agenda, but I've got to warn him. "What do you mean?" he asks.

I pull out a cigarette. David declines the one I offer him. As I light it up I rub my left eye with the heel of my palm.

"I think Aurelius is building up a file on you," I say. I let it sink in for a moment. David doesn't respond, but I see his eyes have narrowed a minute amount.

"How did you find that out?" he asks after a short pause.

I blow some smoke toward the rafters, trying to act more nonchalant than I feel. "I've been getting reports of a new code-name, 'Aristotle'. And some of the reports on it match your movements." I don't mention that some of those movements match my own. It's a coincidence, and I was surprised to see that David and I had been traveling to some of the same places around Europe around the same times.

"You sure it's me?" he asks. He's keeping good control of his voice. You might think he's uninterested in it.

I shrug. "It might be. It might be someone completely different. But I thought you should know."

"What was it Kaji would say? Shigata ga nai? It can't be helped?" David replies. I chuckle. "I may not be such a prodigy with language as you are," he says, "but I can at least remember a few phrases."

After that, David walks into a small, square office that juts inside the room. Coming out, he carries a small bottle of wine and two glasses. I'm not terribly surprised that he has fine wine glasses in a bare-bones safehouse. Sweeping the blueprints from the table, David puts down the glassess and, opening the bottle with practiced ease, pours a generous measure into each. He hands one to me, and I take it with a thanks. I'm still a little confused. I thought David might want to ask me more details, but he seems to not care so much. Perhaps he already knew about it.

"I had hoped we could avoid talking of our profession, at least for a little while," David says, "but I thank you for the warning." He sighs, and takes a long drink from the glass. I follow. The wine is good and cool, and makes me think it's a Rhineland make.

"It's good," I say after swallowing.

David smiles. "I know you prefer your whiskey, but this was what I had on hand."

We drink in relative silence, but I can see David fidgeting with his hands. I guess he wants to ask me something about Aurelius.

"Charles," he starts after a while, "Yomiko has been asking me about you."

I stop the glass as it's at my lips, and put it down. "What? About what?"

Another sigh from David. "She's worried about you, Charles. She knows something isn't right. She's afraid you're having an affair."

I try to catch my thoughts. "What did you tell her?"

"Little. But something's going to have to change. Have you told her you've seduced a good number of women over the years?"

"It's just a job," I say, more forcefully than I intend, "I don't..."

David's looking at me like I'm an idiot. "You think she'll listen to that excuse?"

"Fuck you," I shoot back, "You're not one to goddamn talk."

He shrugs. "At least my ex-wives knew I was a cad when we married. She thinks of you like one of her little plaster saints."

"Don't you talk like that. Don't even dare." This is not something I expected to hear. Does he enjoy springing this on me?

David puts his hands up in front of him. I'm not sure what to expect from him anymore. "Look, Charles, I'm just telling you what happened. You don't have to bite my head off."

I take a quick swig of wine, and realize I'm feeling a little light-headed.

"Charles, have you thought about retiring?" David asks after a moment.

I let out a breath that might be a laugh or a dismissal. "No," I lie, "have you?" I can see something in David's eye. Is he worried about me?

David's staring, not at me, but at some point over my shoulder and behind me. This is different.

"I just wonder sometimes. What do you think will happen to men like us when the Wall comes down?" he says. I take a second to parse it.

"When?" I ask, with more scorn than intended. "That's pretty goddamn optimistic of you, David. I didn't think you had it in you."

He turns his eyes to mine. "Look," I say, "that Wall? That thing'll be up for years. Decades. And as long as there's that Wall, bastards like us will have a job to do. We'll just do what we've always done."

David's eyes are stuck on mine, and I feel intensely uncomfortable under his gaze. "We can't keep going like this forever," he says, quiet at first, then getting louder, "what if Aurelius figures you out? Hell, what if he catches you? What will you do even if you finally get him? You don't know! And even beyond that," David gestures with his free hand, "the whole war is crazy. At some point a damn fool is going to push that big button, the missiles will rain over the world, and end all of us! Every single one of us, Charles." He stops for a second. "Do you understand?"

Shit. Something's wrong with David, and I have no idea what it could be, to cause him to talk about this and my wife.

"I know Reagan talks big," I start, "but he-"

"I'm not talking about that cretin, Charles! It doesn't matter if it doesn't happen now, or five years down, or ten, or 100, eventually someone's going to turn all that Man has done into dust in the hand. Don't you get it?"

David is breathing deeply now, flustered. I'm not sure he wanted to say all that, but he did, and I'm lost. He's looking at me, and I can see a tiny point in his eyes, some notion of him wanting to explain what's going on with himself to me.

"No," I say, "I guess I don't."

With that, it's gone. His eyes are hard. He takes a long drink of wine, then looks at his watch, then to me. "You should probably head out soon," he says. I nod, and do so, making sure to get my coat.

The rain has slowed down only somewhat. I make my way between the puddles to my car. Sitting down, I hit the steering wheel. "FUCK." Again. "GODDAMNIT." Something went wrong, and I'm not sure where or why. Something's changed between me and David, and it hurts.

Why had he been so worried about the future, not only our own, but the world's? Did he think of bowing out of the spy business? He obviously thought I should, but I can't. Not now. I can't worry about the fate of the world – it's not my job.

My thoughts are bitter as I drive home, and the mood creates yet another useless, painful argument with Yomiko.

They're getting more frequent than I'd like.

April 10, 2000
T-minus 156 days

The sun had already set by the time my plane landed in Salzburg. After waiting a few minutes for the ramp stairs to be attached to the plane, I stepped out onto the tarmac. The yellow lights of the airport cast a pallor on the other passengers walking past me. I stretched my shoulders, and winced at the twinge of pain it created in my back. It's manageable, though. Taro had patched me up pretty well, considering the bullet that hit me had grazed my right lung. I had come close to drowning in my own blood.

After waking up, I had spent a few more days recuperating at Taro's. He challenged me to several games of Go. I didn't win a single one. He never asked me about the wound, or the notes he had to at least have noticed, and I was grateful for that. Before I left he told me that he had been approached by someone unknown to him – an American, who claimed that he had worked with me before – was looking for me. He had denied meeting me. Another event to keep in my mind. I was amassing them, now to try and find the connections between them.

Even as we played, I was forming a list of objectives to complete if I wanted to start looking into Gehirn. But still in the back of my mind 'Seele' disturbed me. 'Body' and 'Soul'. Had Takahiro just assumed one couldn't be without the other? But that was beyond my reach. Kaji had thought there was some significance to this "3rd Geological Expedition" done by the UN, so I figured I would start there. There had to be public information on it somewhere.

I was in Salzburg to reconnect with some of the assets I had left after 10 years. There was a whole shopping cart of things I needed to get done if I wanted to be smart about this, and not get caught by whomever was looking for me.

Taking a taxi from the airport into town, I found myself noticing the changes the city had gone through since I had last been there. The lights were on, but I saw fewer people on the streets, even relatively early in the evening, than I had in the 80's. Salzburg felt tired.

Going through the outskirts of the city, I headed for a live-in hotel I remembered being a good and private place. I knew I would need time to restart what fragments of my intelligence web remained. Time to send out missives and requests, and time to do preliminary research on my target. Getting out of the taxi a few blocks from where I remembered the place standing, I thought for a moment I had misremembered the neighborhood. Around me were dark buildings with barred windows, the only sounds being the electric hum of the street lamps and the distant murmur of cars.

I began walking down the street, and sure enough I noticed the street sign hung up on the outer wall of one building. I stared at it for a few moments – it was the same street as I remembered. I made my way through the empty streets to where I last remembered the hotel being, hoping it was still around. Luckily, it was. But I could see how it had fallen on hard times. The 19th century facade was cracked in several places, and a little ways down the road I could see a band of prostitutes talking amongst themselves. It didn't sound like they were speaking German. I vaguely wondered where they had come from. One of them must have caught me looking at her, as she tried to saunter towards me. I waved her off, and entered the building.

I made the arrangements with the old & bored concierge behind the front desk – I was to have a room to myself on the 4th floor for 3 months, with no neighbors. I gave him a false name, and paid the first deposit in cash. The concierge, with his drooping jowls and bad comb-over, asked no questions. Perfect. The room itself was dilapidated, and I could see one or two holes in the walls made by mice, but I could get an internet connection (an extra charge, of course), something I realized I might need these days.

The next day I went to the local branch of the Krause Bank to check the safe-deposit I had left there. Its neo-Modernist architecture stood out amongst the historical fronts of Kulasstrasse. The attempt to channel the hollow spirit of the age had succeeded too well, and the edifice seemed some insubstantial ghost of steel & glass, leeching the vitality from the buildings around it. I entered, noticing the several armed guards posted around the main floor. I went to the receptionist and gave her my account number and the signature attached to it – one Mattathias Lukacs. She lazily grabbed it and walked through a guarded door behind her. I hoped I wasn't too rusty, after not practicing the signature. Around me the normal business of the bank continued, with bored men and be-suited women coldly directing the economic fates of multitudes.

After a few minutes the woman returned, much more helpful and interested in me than before, and directed me toward the elevator to my right. I relaxed the grip on my briefcase as I quietly let out my breath; I hadn't realized I was holding it in. I made my way into the elevator, taking it to the second floor. There I passed by three more armed guards and was directed by one of them into a thin, beige-colored room, consisting of a bench on one side and a table on the other. On the table was a metal box. Standing by there was a thin man in a business suit, smiling obsequiously. I could see he had several gold teeth. He shook my hand, addressed me as "Herr Lukacs," and let me know that if I had any questions or concerns I could let him know. He mentioned that he was somewhat surprised that someone with such a sum in the bank had spent so long away from it, but he assured me that the box had been perfectly safe, even when they had remodeled the bank 4 years ago.

I made a few perfunctory answers, and eventually got the toadie to leave me in peace. I closed the door to the room and locked it. I placed my briefcase by the box, and then opened both. The box was filled with materials – mostly cash in various currencies. $100,000 in greenbacks, $50,000 in Deutsche marks, $40,000 in British pounds and francs, and $70,000 in worthless DDR marks. This was good. I didn't want to use my traceable accounts anymore, and the cash would have to do. I started moving over the bundles of paper to my briefcase, thankful for large denomination notes. As I was digging, I found other files. I flipped one open – a passport, birth certificate, and driver's license for one "Walther Helnwein," a citizen of the Federal Republic. The other files had other persons. Realizing I would need to update these, I set the other four into my briefcase as well. Closing it, it was much heavier than when I brought it in, but I imagined I would need it all in the days to come.

I had no problems leaving the bank, and getting the briefcase into a safe place in my room. That evening I began the process of renewing my false identities. Fake papers, new photographs, the whole process would take longer than I expected.

The day after that I bought myself a portable computer, and spent the evening doing searches on different websites for the 3rd Geological Survey. After two hours of frustration, I found an official description and the results of the survey from the United Nations itself. The entire report ran for almost 200 pages, so I scanned through it quickly. The genesis of the project had been in using a United Nations team composed of multinational scientists to map out areas of geographical interest in unclaimed territory – with Antarctica being the prime example. The first survey had been done on the area of Antarctica known as Graham Land in 1993, and the second on Marie Byrd Land in 1996. The third had begun in 1997, but had continued on for another Antarctic summer in 1998.

These areas had been photographed in a series of missions in the 40's and 50's, but more intense work had to wait until the past decade. The 43 scientists and workers had surveyed much of the Transantarctic mountains bordering Victoria Land. And unsurprisingly enough, most of what they found was fairly boring: low-grade coal, bauxite, iron oxides, perhaps the only thing that leaped to my eyes was the mention of oil deposits situated in Pre-Cambrian strata, but it would be decades before the pockets could be efficiently tapped.

It seemed fairly straightforward and open to me, and again doubts crept into the back of my mind about Takahiro's mental state. The only bit of data that seemed out of place was a reference to "faulty equipment" giving some strange data near Mt. Markham. Two of the technicians had testimony in that section of the report, talking about how their sensors could have screwed up that 15-kilometer chunk of land. I furrowed my brow as I read that, even though the director of the survey, Vinzenz Fichte, vouched for the story. I saved what I thought would be helpful leads – the personnel list, the list of financial backers, etc. It was the list of backers that I was most interested in – 'follow the money' was never bad advice.

I spent that night laying in bed, listening to a woman rage at her lover in the room below me. I never heard why she blew up, or if it was ever resolved.

The next day I began to look through the list of backers. Most of them were fairly obvious – mining groups, oil consortia, and the like. What interested me was the mention of Gehirn, which had donated several expensive pieces of high-end equipment. There was the official connection. But was that all? I couldn't see why the gift of equipment to a geological survey would arouse the interest of Takahiro. There had to be something else.

To look for that, I decided to see what I could find on Gehirn, and there my efforts were stymied. All I could uncover was the most irrelevant information – that Gehirn had been founded in 1952, originally called the "European Science and Technology Consortium," as a scientific and private counterpart to the European Coal and Steel Community, that it now had research laboratories in 13 states, including Germany, Japan, and the United States, and that it was a world leader in artificial limbs and "Metaphysical Biology," a term I had never heard before.

I tried to get more than that – a list of directors, tax returns, anything. And I got nothing.

After the third fruitless day, I slammed the heel of my palm on the desk. I looked around the room, and realized I was swimming in empty coffee cups, cigarette stubs, and bags of half-eaten take-out. I rubbed my temples. 'Patience,' I tried to tell myself, 'if it were so easy, then more people would have found whatever it is you're looking for.'

It was then that I had a flash of inspiration. I got out of my chair, wincing at the dull pain the inactivity had caused me, and went out into the wet night. Like many other times I had been in Salzburg, the city was struck by intermittent rain, never lasting more than half an hour. I walked around a few blocks, until I came upon a public phone. Pulling out some coins I dialed a long unused number. I looked around, and saw I was the lone pedestrian on the stretch of street. The receiver was silent for a short time, until an automated voice told me the number was not in service anymore. I slammed the phone down, picked it back up, and tried another number. That time a young woman answered the phone, when I asked for the contact name, she said the house had been abandoned before she arrived two years earlier. I thanked her for her time while I cursed inwardly, and tried a third number.

I licked my lips as the ring tone continued. When I was just about to give up hope, the other line picked up. I heard a woman's voice, older than I remembered, with more gravel and razorblades in her throat, ask what I wanted. "The summer's days are too oft remembered," I answered. I heard the other voice draw in her breath.

"H-how," she started, but I cut her off.

"I need someone good at finding private information. Get me in contact with him. Send the details to the proper location."

A small silence. "I'll try."

"No," I reply, "you will." With that, I hung up the phone, thankful that something had gone right.

Over the next week I tried to see what else I could get. "Metaphysical Biology" turned out to be an emerging field, pioneered by two Japanese scientists, Dr. Kozo Fuyutsuki and Dr. Hiro Ayanami. What papers I could find flew over my head, but some of the abstracts, mentioning destrudo, self-conception and idealization, some kind of "AT-Field," and other terminology, I found interesting, in an academic fashion, but not really relevant to what I was looking for.

Each day over that week I would take a taxi out of Salzburg itself, past Hans-Donnerberg Park, to walk around the Kommunal Friedof. The silent monuments were rarely visited, and the bouquet in my hands gave me ready reason to be there. Each day I would check the cracked side of a mausoleum, to see if there was anything there. When the seventh day came around, a pit had grown in my stomach over the failure of anything to appear. But it was that day I found a small slip of paper, kept in a little plastic bag to keep it from getting soggy.

"3280 Doktor Jeremias strasse. 22:30 PM. Furthest table from the door. Never call again."

I had my appointment. Pulling out my lighter I flicked it open and burnt the paper, dropping the remaining stub onto the wet grass, where it sent a lame and thin wisp of smoke up.

That evening I made my way to the street, and looked at the address. The meeting place was a dive, and barely visible from street-level. The night was foggy, and the headlamps of the cars going past me stood out in the dark. I crossed the street, taking care not to get hit, went down the stairs and entered the building.

The bar was dim and fairly quiet. A few sullen faces turned to look at me as I appeared, but then turned back to their drinks. I quickly noticed the table I was to meet my contact, thankfully empty, and ordered a whiskey and beer from the bartender. Taking my glasses I parked myself in the cramped wooden booth, with seats that looked like they hadn't been reupholstered since the late 70's. I took off my coat and laid it across the dark brown table. I almost regretted buying them when I took the first drink of the liquor. It had almost no flavor, but rather burned the inside of my mouth. Chasing it with the weissbier helped only a little.

I kept a lookout around the room. Most people were by themselves, still in their work clothes, obviously trying to dull the pain of their monotonous day-to-day. To the right of the door the crack of billiard balls could be heard, but that was about the only noise. I ordered several more beers over the next few hours.

Near twenty minutes after 10, the door opened and in walked a fairly beautiful woman. The hem of her long coat dripped a little from the rain. Her face was heart-shaped, and she wore thin glasses. Her breasts were deep and full, but I couldn't tell more than that with her coat in the way. I could see some of the other patrons eying her as well. I was torn between frustration and desire when I saw her walk towards me. When she sat down across the table, I heard quiet mumblings directed at me. One man in particular, slightly balding but heavy-built, looked at me with anger in his eyes, and began whispering to his two friends. I resolved to watch myself when I left later. When the woman spoke to me, it was in good German, with something of an Italian accent behind it. An expatriate, probably.

"Sir," she said as I took a drink, "could you please move?"

I arched an eyebrow at that. "I'm afraid I can't do that, miss," I said.

Her attempt at a smile failed. She looked frustrated and a little bedraggled. "Uh-huh, and why not?" she asked.

I took another drink and shrugged. "I like the view from here."

She closed the top of her coat and glared. "Look," she dropped her voice low and urgent, "I'm supposed to meet a business partner, if you could please just leave this spot." She pointed to the multiple empty glasses on the table, "You don't even have to move these! Just yourself. And then when my associate and I are done, you can come back. It won't take very long. So please, just [i]go away[/i]."

I found her condescension annoying, though I hadn't realized how much alcohol I had had until she had pointed it out to me. She poured herself a glass of water from the pitcher I had left untouched over the evening.

"Miss," I said, trying not to slur, "if you want me to leave, it might be a better deal if you offer to come with me."

I wasn't very surprised when she splashed my face. I wiped my face off with the arm of my coat. She was glaring at me now. She couldn't have been much older than 30, to my eyes. Her hair was loosely pulled into a brown knot on the back of her head, and I didn't see any rings on her fingers.

"Well, you could have just said no," I eventually replied.

"Look, you pig," she said, "just get the fuck out of here." Out of the corner of my eye I could see the man who had given me the death glare earlier get out of his chair with his friends.

"Did you ever think that maybe I have something to do here?" I quietly asked.

She scoffed. "Right, a drunk like you has something important to do."

I was about to respond when we heard another voice. Mister Death-Glare was standing just a few feet to my right, a little too close. His two friends, both about my size, stood slightly behind him. The one on the right was thin and mustachioed, and on the left was a bit obese.

"Excuse me," he said to the woman, "is this asshole bothering you?"

His friend to his left didn't wait for her response, as he grasped my shoulder and pulled me out of the booth. Realizing where things were heading, I decided to preempt it. Grabbing him by the hand and armpit, I threw him onto the table, shattering a couple of the glasses and spraying water and beer in the air. I ducked under the bald man's punch, and kneed him in the groin. He let out a yell as he clutched at it.

The first man was getting off the table, a broken glass in his hand, as the third one grabbed me from behind. As the thin man got close, he raised the glass to slice at my face. Instead of struggling with the fat man, I rolled forward with him into the thin man, knocking him and another table over. I could hear more yelling, but I wasn't sure if it was us or the other patrons.

As I stood up my legs were shaky, and those few moments were enough for the bald man to clock me to the left of my eye. I fell back to the floor, and felt his boot impact my ribs. I rolled a few times, trying to get away from him, but already I was feeling exhausted. I grabbed a beer bottle that had fallen to the floor, and as the bald man came up to me I smashed it against his right kneecap. He screamed again and fell to the floor, clutching his leg.

I got back up to my feet as the fat man came running at me, his arms flung wide to his sides. I thrust out my elbow and jammed it below his sternum, knocking his breath out. He stumbled away a few steps, gasping. I kicked the back of his knee to force him down. I put my hand to my eye, and when I drew it back I saw it streaked with blood.

Grabbing another empty bottle from a table I shattered it on the edge as I walked toward the bald man, trying to get to his feet. I grabbed him by the collar and threatened him with the shards.

"Try to fuck with me more, and you're dead. Got it?" I said, speaking between breaths. Each one caused a small ache in my back.

He nodded slightly, so I backhanded him. I looked toward the bar, where the bartender was peeking over the wood. He jumped to his feet and pointed at me, and at the woman, whom I hadn't thought was still inside.

"Get the fuck out! Out! All of you! Jesus Christ!"

Chuckling, I heeded his order, heading out into the night again. The woman followed me. As I stepped out onto street level, I started coughing.

"God damn it," I heard the woman say. I turned to face her, she was speaking to herself.

"Sorry," I said.

She turned her face and looked at me with a mixture of pity and anger. "God, if you had just fucking did as I asked, none of that shit would have happened!"

I started laughing loudly at the absurdity of it all. There went my chance at getting some help. I was fucked now. Laughing felt like the only way to deal with it. My lungs hurt more, but it had to be done.

"Jesus, what are you laughing at?" she asked.

I wiped a tear, or maybe blood, from my eye. I decided to shoot for the moon, and say the password for Agency members in Austria. "The green grass grows gray in winter," I said, still laughing. I had to put my hands on my knees to stay standing.

The woman stopped dead, and turned to face me slowly. My laughing died down a little, and I noticed her staring at me in wonderment. "But it always comes back in the new year," she said.

I stopped laughing. I looked up at her. And I said the first thing that came to my mind.

"Well, shit."