Yawning, number Two leaned out of his chair and tapped the button with the tip on his cane, bringing up the table as the Butler rolled the breakfast tray down the ramp. In his efficient, silent manner the little man slid the tray to the table and went about setting it. Number Two looked at the outlay sourly. He experienced no anticipatory pleasure at the thought of breakfast. The shine of the silver and the aroma of bacon and eggs were more of an assault than an enticement. During the night some of his new found resolve had slipped away, leaving in its stead the familiar anxiety.
The Butler bowed and waited.
"Just coffee." Number Two said irritably.
With a deft skill the Butler poured the coffee and dropped in two lumps. The streaming cup was passed to him with a smooth flourish. The moment he excepted it the Butler returned to his waiting position like some kind of automatron.
Through the steam rising off his cup Number Two observed him. Odd little fellow to be sure. He did his duty with impeccable competence and the unchanging expression of a wooden doll. He sipped his coffee and found it, like everything else, not to his liking. The eye he cast on the little man now was cynical. While he himself could be gone in hour, The Butler would always remain in The Village.
He had no delusions of extended career in this role, it only need be long enough. He glanced at his watch. It was early and he was loath to give the impression of apprehension. The Supervisor would call when he had found what he was after. Number Two sampled his coffee again with displeasure while the Butler waited with eternal patience of a servant.
Absently, he waved a hand."That will be all."
With a bow the little man started to turn away.
"Take the tray." Two said quickly. He couldn't bare to look at it and the smell was twisting at his innards.
Smartly the man wheeled back and swept the tray onto his rolling cart. He left as silently as he had come.
Almost out of compulsion Number Two switched on the screen. Number Six was asleep. Well past his usual time.
"Tired are we?" Two grumbled. "All this running about, trying to get the best of me, finally catching up?"
In sleep, Number Six, was somehow serene. But only a fool would believe it. The man had always been at war. From his first breath, till now, raging against the fabric of society as if it were the walls of a prison. His face still bore the fading marks of battle. A battle he would never win and one he would never cease fighting. Number Two touched his own lip, unconsciously tracing the unnatural thickness of it as he glowered at the screen.
The yellow phone buzzed pleasantly. He turned slowly to it, feeling again the calm that had threatened to elude him. The moment had come. He was oddly certain of vindication as he picked the instrument up.
The Supervisor voice said. "I have the information you requested."
"Very good. Bring it to my office." His attention went back to the sleeping man. "Number Six is in possession of a mirror. He is not authorized to have it. I want it retrieved and brought to me."
"Of course."
He set the phone aside and reached for his coffee. It had a pleasant taste now. He settled easily in his chair watching the screen where Number Six still slept.
What did he dream? O f his former life? Of escape? Or was it of revenge? A thing he could not dare to even contemplate during his waking hours. But in dreams all things are possible. A frown crossed Number Six's face, like a cloud across the sun. Trouble lurked beneath the quiet veil of sleep.
Number Two looked away as the metal door slid open admitting the Supervisor and his discovery, a thick file. He rose and came round the desk to take it from the man's hands. Everything in this moment felt right.
He opened the file and there on the first page was the answer he knew he would find.
A photograph of a much younger, more optimistic version of the Number Seven's father. From a time when he was still apart of the world. When he had been an associate and friend of Number Six. Hard years had changed the face, but not beyond easy recognition. And yet it had escaped notice. He wondered how his master's took this rather uncomfortable revelation.
"Peter Chambers" He handled the name as if it were fragile. "He came to the attention to The Village some time before Number Six was brought here, if I'm not mistaken."
The Supervisor smiled, thin and bitter. "In his work at the Foreign Office Chambers had inadvertently stumbled across some Village business."
Number Two was quiet, considering. Number Six had discovered his friend's danger much too late to warn him off. He had failed to save Chambers. What a burden for a man accustom to success. A world beater. But as surly as Number Six had failed so had the Village. Somehow Chambers had slipped their net and gone off to America. Where he had lived, undetected for years.
His personal recollection of Chambers' fate at the hand's of The Village was dim. It had all happened before his time and did not concerned him beyond the man's past association with Number Six.
He looked down at the photograph in the file. "What became of him?"
"He was captured in London two year ago and brought to The Village." The Supervisor said. "He was only held here for three days. Regrettably he died under interrogation before he talked."
"Regrettable indeed." He dropped the file down on the desk. The answers he sought were within it, but he wanted them from the Supervisor. He wanted the watchers to hear them spoken aloud. This folly was theirs, not his. "How is it that the connection between Chambers and Number Seven's father was never made?"
"A formal connection may not have been made, but The Village did track Chambers to America."
This surprised him. He searched the Supervisor's face but found it as a blank wall. "What do you mean?"
"Those men who were killed in Chambers' house were Village operatives Presumably sent to retrieve him."
"Presumably?" Number Two furrowed his brow. "Explain."
"I am afraid I am unable to."
"The Village found him. He killed our people." his voice trembled with barley suppressed emotion. "How is it possible he escaped, evaded us for years after and there is not so much as a whisper of it in our records?"
"Obviously the records were somehow manipulated." The man said without feeling. "It could only have been done from the inside."
The Village had been infiltrated. He glanced back at the screen where Number Six still slept. Could it have been done by him?
"What does Number Six know about The Village's involvement with Chambers?"
Only a slight shrug of a shoulder. "He knew Chambers was looking into a matter that would cause trouble with their superiors. He was set to meet with Chambers, but somehow Chambers had gotten spooked. He bolted before Number Six got to him."
"But we can't be of sure of that, can we?" Number Two gestured at the file. "Our records are not to be trusted."
"Number Six's record shows no sign of tampering." The Supervisor reminded him coolly. "Only those of Chambers and Number Seven. There is no indication that Number Six ever knew the nature of Chambers' discoveries or what become of him."
That was of little comfort. Perhaps nothing was known for certain by Six or his co-conspirator. But their kind relied as much on intuition as facts. It would explain a great many things, including Number Seven's desire to kill him. How this information came to her was immaterial for the moment. He must accept she possessed it and was acting upon it.
He said, "If the girl doesn't know for certain her father died in The Village, she strongly suspects it."
"And Number Six?"
"His reckless devotion to her is evidence enough of that." Number Two sneered. "He let his dear old friend down. Whatever he risks for that girl is penance for his past failure."
He looked up at Number Six, quiet in slumber. The Village had killed the man's friend. He would not allow it to go unpunished. The cold knot was back in his stomach. Number Six would strike a blow. A far more viscous one than the primitive savagery of murder. He would never risk the unsavory consequences of such a limited act. Whatever vengeance that man unleashed would be unexpected. And it would be leveled at the powers that controlled The Village. His masters were to be the target of Number Six's wrath.
Relief came suddenly. Number Two knew it at once, in the depths of his being. Number Six would not allow the girl kill him. Six no doubt had already formulated a plan to neutralize her. He would let nothing jeopardize his retribution against The Village. As he went back to his chair, Two found himself smiling. He was safe. Everything was going to his advantage. It is a simple matter to compel a man to do what he already desires, even if that desire will lead to his own destruction.
"What was Chambers' number?" He asked, his focus had gone back to the screen. Back to watching Number Six.
"Twenty Four." The Supervisor said. "He was buried in The Village cemetery."
How many of Number Six's former associates were buried there? How long before Six himself was laid to rest on that sandy shore? He felt it would be soon. But not before the man had drank deeply of bitter defeat.
On the screen Number Six had awoken. For a moment he lay tense, as if trying to discover what had stirred him from his sleep. Then he came out of the bed in a coiled rush, eyes on the door, responding to some inner impulse. Two lifted his coffee, watching over the rim of the cup. The man always knew more than he ought.
The door to Number Six's room opened and five men rushed in. It was impossible to predict when Six would fight and when he would feign submission. Sipping his coffee, Number Two found it, like the moment, to be delightful.
Three of the men pushed in hard, forming a half circle around Number Six, daring him to resist them. The other two began a noisy and untidy search. No one spoke. As Six faced the invaders, Number Two set the cup aside, tension rising within him. The man was as territorial as a wolf. If he were to make a move it would be now.
Leaning forward, Number Two tried to read the intention in the other man's face. The face was angry. But it was an anger contained. An anger that would wait for the right moment to be released. The only movement Six made was to lift his eyes to the camera. Condemnation poured out of them.
It was bit of a disappointment. Number Two leaned back against the cushions of his chair. The calculating mind had overruled the volatile nature.
The item was found in the pocket of Number Six's coat. He'd made no attempt to hide it. He was far too conscious of being watched. Not allowing himself to forget them, even for a moment. He paid no attention now as the mirror was collected and the men left the room. His unforgiving eyes never wavered from the camera.
He picked up the file again and opened it to the image of Chambers. Number Six was above all, loyal. To betray a friend would be unthinkable. To be compelled to do so, the ultimate failing. A sign of weakness. Devastating for a man who held such a high opinion of his personal fortitude.
Though a man like Number Six was nearly impossible to break, he might be persuaded to believe he had broken. And perception, if handled correctly, could be every bit as powerful as reality.
Number Two closed the file and handed it back to the Supervisor "I'm going to have Number Six in for interrogation."
"Conventional interrogation has never worked on Number Six."
He accepted the Supervisor's rebuke graciously. "What I have in mind is most unconventional."
"May remind you, Sir." The Supervisor said with some delicacy. "Number Six must not be not damaged."
"No harm with come to Number Six." He was smiling. It was not a nice smile. "But when I'm finished with him he will be forever changed."
Number Two's attention was drawn once again to the screen. Number Six was heading for the door. That would do nicely.
Quite suddenly, he recalled his skipped meal and realized he was hungry. "Have the Butler prepare breakfast. For two." He said. "I'm expecting a guest."