There is a floor. In a building.
We do not know where this building is, do not know its specific location, time, or place, but we know that there is a floor. In a building.
On this floor is a room.
It is a nice room – there is a beautiful view of whatever city (we do not know specifically) lies below it, and shining skyscrapers brag from every edge of the rounded glass.
The blinds are almost always kept open. The occupant of this room sees no reason to have it otherwise – this high up, it is highly improbable anyone could see what could be happening – and so the windows are usually kept beautifully clean and open to the world.
Sometimes, though, the blinds are shut.
This is when the occupant believes that something should very well be kept within the confines of the room. Period.
Today the sun is beaming through the clouds and tearing its way into the glass without a second's pause. Rays glance off the beautiful (illegal) mahogany desk, showing a gleaming nameplate and various assortments of photographs, pens and neatly folded, stacked and ordered manila folders and papers.
There is a tall leather chair. It is quite comfortable, forbidding shadow and looming back aside, and the occupant of the room loves the chair dearly. It has been in the room for over twenty years.
In this chair sits a man.
His face is not shrouded in shadow, not hidden or veiled behind a sinister backdrop or insignia.
He is not ordinary looking, but he is, by no means, a frightening or imposing man. He is of average height and average build, with a rounded face and thinning hairline. His lips are slightly disproportionate with his face and his nose is narrow, but there is nothing frightening about him.
Except maybe the eyes. By his birth certificate and license (which no one has or ever will see) they are a light gray, but in his office, they are flinty, hard pieces of shale. Unbreakable. Unbending.
The eyes are merciless. There is no ending. And there is no beginning. The eyes see through whatever they are examining and know instantaneously what is going on. They sense lies, and they know truth.
Everything is normal about this man's appearance except his eyes.
And he knows this.
Inside this office, on his cell phone and within the safe that resides below his feet, he is known as the Trackman.
We do not know him by any other name and –perhaps– this is our one saving grace.
But that is irrelevant.
This morning, the Trackman is intently focused on a phone call. The pen ($200 fountain pen, courtesy of Four Seasons: New York) clutched tightly in his hand is the only clear way of determining that he is in an uneasy –if frustrated mood.
He listens to this phone call carefully, writing down on a notepad with nearly whisper-like accents.
If someone where to look over his shoulder (which no one would ever do, not if they wanted to see another day), they would glance at the writing and realize quickly that its not in any discernable language that most humans speak.
It is in code.
And it is in code that only the Trackman knows.
The Trackman listens to whoever is on the line carefully and asks curt questions every few moments to clarify whatever he does not understand.
He is speaking Russian.
Finally, the conversation ends. The Trackman gently puts the phone back down on the receiver, and carefully takes the paper he was writing on to a locked drawer in his desk. The slip goes beneath the obvious junk, slipped into the secret compartment below.
And then the Trackman locks the drawer, swiping his thumb over the scanner and making sure the compartment closes with a click.
The phone rings again.
The Trackman pauses, glances at it as though he is not expecting a call this early, and then quickly lifts up the phone.
He speaks in English.
Because that is (supposed to be) his native language.
"Jonathan Lansing speaking."
And on the other side of the line.
"Hi, Mr. Lansing?"
"Yes?" He responds, careful.
"This is Pamela Landy."
The Trackman stiffens because he has heard this name before and knows that it brings bad luggage with it.
But the Trackman keeps his cool.
"Hi, Pam," he replies. "How can I help you?"
A/N: My goodness!! The plot thickens:O
Now my question to you is this: did I pull this curtain up too early?
Many, many thanks to all readers and the reviewers G.A. Clive, Gostlcards, rebelsoccer, ClaMIA! and lazaefare.
Now, to lazaefare specifically:
You absolutely made my day with your list review and your knowledge of the books. It's been a while since someone has mentioned Mo or Sir Alex they way they used to be mentioned, and it got me thinking.
To make this into a full novel would be completely a blast and--now that I have these specific names and questions from you as to where to continue--I know I can do it. You asked who Lansing was, I thought we'd pull that out immeadiately and move from there, see what the reaction is.
To everyone: thank you for your enthusiasm. I beam whenever I get reviews but now I skip because each and every one of your comments on my stuff makes me want to write and write and write ad nauseum (without the boredom and everything...).
Enjoy. Tell me what you think.