***None of this belongs to me. It's all Mr. Harris's.***
Truth or Dare
Pt 3
I stepped out of the gate at the Moscow airport, dog tired from twenty-three hours of too-small airline seats, recycled air, screaming brats, smelly restrooms, and disgusting airline food. Now I was in a strange country where I spoke not one word of the native language, a mass murderer was chasing me, and I was disobeying an indirect order from the institution which was my life. Screw the cannibal--all I wanted was a hot bath and a long nap. Bad choice of words, Clarice, I muttered under my breath as I hoisted my backpack and looked at the strange signs, wondering which one meant 'baggage claim.' An elderly businessman behind me saw my confused looks and smiled kindly. "Baggage claim's that way." He said. "First time in Moscow?" I returned the smile. Always rely on the kindness of strangers, a voice whispered in my mind. Whose, I'm not sure.
"Thank you...yes, it is." I follow him in the direction where most of the other travellers are going, and now I can see the baggage claim. I spot my brown leather suitcase and grab it before heading to what appears to be the customs line. I see three people who look like college students and manage in a tired voice, "This the right line for Americans who just want out of here as soon as possible?" I wonder if the sarcastic humor is more a result of the stress or the exhaustion. The young man has the gall to look me up and down as he replies, "sure is, miss." One of two girls shoots him a glare. I'm simply too tired to care. I set down my suitcase pull the bottled water I recieved two flights back from my backpack, grimacing at the now-warm taste. Oh well...it wouldn't do to swoon here. Dr. Lecter would probably find it amusing, and I'm not in the mood to humor him. For a customs line, it moves fast, and it's only about 15 minutes until I reach the harried-looking clerk. I hand him my passport and he barely glances at it, but when he sees my name he pauses.
"Ah, Ms. Starling. The police left you a package. I hope you enjoy your visit to Russia." With that, he hands me a box with a rather antique-looking lock and a key, then waves me on. I pick up my suitcase and move through the gate and collapse into a chair in the waiting area and take another drink of water. I pull out my cell phone, turn it on, and notice there are two missed calls. One is Jack's cell--he didn't leave a message, just called to verify he'd made it to Moscow. The other was Ardelia--why was she calling? I haven't heard from her in two or three months. A few years ago she got married and left the Bureau to be a stay-at-home mom. Her two daughters are adorable, but she's so busy now I hardly get a chance to see any of them. Just my luck she'd call while I was in the middle of...well, whatever this insanity was. I look at the slip of paper that has my hotel's name on it, then stick the box into my backpack and wearily pick up the suitcase, looking for something like an exit to this mess. A little girl about 10 runs up to man who just walked through the gates and throws her arms around him, her brown hair brushing my arm as she wizzes past. It reminds me breifly of my father before I brush the memory aside. I'm too tired for that now.
A ringing from behind me goes unnoticed for the first two rings before I realize that's MY phone. I quickly swing my backpack around front, fumbling with the zipper and manage to grap the phone on the fourth ring. The number is unfamiliar; I feel a sense of dread as I realize it's probably him. After another ring, I manage to press 'receive' and put it to my ear. "Hullo?" I curse myself mentally for the thick Appalachia accent that emerges whenever I get tired. I'm sure it irritates him, then wonder why I care.
"Good afternoon, Clarice. I trust your flight was no more miserable than must be expected?" His steel-and-silk voice sends alternating chills and warmth through my exhausted system. I feel something inside me snap. His voice says he's ready to play; I simply don't have the patience for this right now, and my exhaustion, or my outrage, causes me to snap at him before I can think about it.
"Doctor Lecter, the flight sucked and I'm dead tired now so you'll just have to wait for your little mind-fucking until I've had at least 6 hours sleep. I'm turning the phone off until I've had a nap. good-bye." I hit 'end' just as I realize that may not have been the smartest thing to say to a mass murderer. Oh well, what's done is done. The phone rings again immediately, and I pause a moment before answering.
"I apologize, Clarice, I forgot not everyone travels as well as I do. I will let you get some rest; in fact, I've arranged for a room for you at a much better place than that flea-stand you reserved space at. If you go through the doors to your left, a taxi will be waiting there for you. He already knows where to take you. Sweet dreams." This time, HE hangs up before I have a chance to think about what he's just said. The door to my LEFT? How can he know where I am? He's here! I can feel his eyes on me like a burning touch. I wonder what he thinks of my appearance even as I scan rapidly the area to my right and left. The casual suit I'm wearing, with pale grey pants and a emerald blouse, fits me better and cost more than the suit I wore when I first met him. I spent a lot on the shoes as well. I wonder if he notices. I spin around, and he's there, ten or so feet behind me. I get a glimmer of maroon eyes and white teeth underneath a fedora and a wave of electricity and adrenaline shoot through my already overwrought system. A large family pushes between us, chattering away in Russian, and by the time they've moved he's gone. I look around but I know I will not find him, so I turn to the door he directed me to. As I step through I see a line of cabs and don't know which one he meant. Luckily, a well-dressed man comes up to me and takes the suitcase from my hand.
"Ms. Starling, let me take this. I'm to take you to the hotel, yes?" His english, although accented, is very clear. I wonder, only briefly, how he recognized me as I follow him to a Mercedes. He opens the door for me and I get in. I know it is unwise to blindly allow a stranger, apparently under the direction of Dr. Lecter, to drive me around Moscow, but I'm too tired to care. He pulls away and drives through the city, then pulls up in front of a very nice-looking hotel. I can't read the sign, it's in Russian, but the exterior screams taste and money. The driver leans back and hands me a room key-card. "It's room 304, Ms. Starling. I hope you enjoy your stay in Moscow." He gets out, opens my door for me again, and hands my suitcase to the waiting attendant. Before I can blink, he's gone again. I shrug and follow the attendant inside the tastefully expensive lobby, into the elevators, and to my room on the third floor. He puts the suitcase next to the closet then leaves before I can give him a tip. It should make me nervous that Dr. Lecter has gone to such lengths, but I'm too tired to worry about it. I glance around the room. It certainly is nicer than whatever I had reserved; an antique bed, a sitting area with a small television, a large bathroom with a huge tub AND a separate shower. How expensive. But tasteful. Of course, nothing less could be expected of Hannibal Lecter.
I put open my backpack and pull out the box the customs agent gave me. Jack said he arranged for me to borrow a gun and get a temporary permit to carry it, so I'm not surprised to see a .45, a drivers-license style permit, with large print showing it valid for 1 month. Also inside is a note from Jack letting me know his trip went fine and that to return the gun I should just go to the police station and give them both the gun and the permit. He ended the note with the same warning he'd given me when I first went to speak with the esteemed doctor: Never forget what he is. I put all that on the bedside table, get up long enough to lock the door (not that that would stop him if he really wanted to get in) and change into my pajamas, barely managing to fold the easily-wrinkled slacks over a chair before collapsing into bed. Just before I drift off, I remember I'm supposed to call Jack. I fumble for my phone, dial his number and leave a quick message when the answering service picks up immediately. He probably turned it off so he could get some rest.
"Sir, it's Starling. I made it here, now I'm going to sleep. I'll keep in touch." I manage to shut the phone off before dropping it to the floor and lapsing into sleep.
Fin
Pt 3
Truth or Dare
Pt 3
I stepped out of the gate at the Moscow airport, dog tired from twenty-three hours of too-small airline seats, recycled air, screaming brats, smelly restrooms, and disgusting airline food. Now I was in a strange country where I spoke not one word of the native language, a mass murderer was chasing me, and I was disobeying an indirect order from the institution which was my life. Screw the cannibal--all I wanted was a hot bath and a long nap. Bad choice of words, Clarice, I muttered under my breath as I hoisted my backpack and looked at the strange signs, wondering which one meant 'baggage claim.' An elderly businessman behind me saw my confused looks and smiled kindly. "Baggage claim's that way." He said. "First time in Moscow?" I returned the smile. Always rely on the kindness of strangers, a voice whispered in my mind. Whose, I'm not sure.
"Thank you...yes, it is." I follow him in the direction where most of the other travellers are going, and now I can see the baggage claim. I spot my brown leather suitcase and grab it before heading to what appears to be the customs line. I see three people who look like college students and manage in a tired voice, "This the right line for Americans who just want out of here as soon as possible?" I wonder if the sarcastic humor is more a result of the stress or the exhaustion. The young man has the gall to look me up and down as he replies, "sure is, miss." One of two girls shoots him a glare. I'm simply too tired to care. I set down my suitcase pull the bottled water I recieved two flights back from my backpack, grimacing at the now-warm taste. Oh well...it wouldn't do to swoon here. Dr. Lecter would probably find it amusing, and I'm not in the mood to humor him. For a customs line, it moves fast, and it's only about 15 minutes until I reach the harried-looking clerk. I hand him my passport and he barely glances at it, but when he sees my name he pauses.
"Ah, Ms. Starling. The police left you a package. I hope you enjoy your visit to Russia." With that, he hands me a box with a rather antique-looking lock and a key, then waves me on. I pick up my suitcase and move through the gate and collapse into a chair in the waiting area and take another drink of water. I pull out my cell phone, turn it on, and notice there are two missed calls. One is Jack's cell--he didn't leave a message, just called to verify he'd made it to Moscow. The other was Ardelia--why was she calling? I haven't heard from her in two or three months. A few years ago she got married and left the Bureau to be a stay-at-home mom. Her two daughters are adorable, but she's so busy now I hardly get a chance to see any of them. Just my luck she'd call while I was in the middle of...well, whatever this insanity was. I look at the slip of paper that has my hotel's name on it, then stick the box into my backpack and wearily pick up the suitcase, looking for something like an exit to this mess. A little girl about 10 runs up to man who just walked through the gates and throws her arms around him, her brown hair brushing my arm as she wizzes past. It reminds me breifly of my father before I brush the memory aside. I'm too tired for that now.
A ringing from behind me goes unnoticed for the first two rings before I realize that's MY phone. I quickly swing my backpack around front, fumbling with the zipper and manage to grap the phone on the fourth ring. The number is unfamiliar; I feel a sense of dread as I realize it's probably him. After another ring, I manage to press 'receive' and put it to my ear. "Hullo?" I curse myself mentally for the thick Appalachia accent that emerges whenever I get tired. I'm sure it irritates him, then wonder why I care.
"Good afternoon, Clarice. I trust your flight was no more miserable than must be expected?" His steel-and-silk voice sends alternating chills and warmth through my exhausted system. I feel something inside me snap. His voice says he's ready to play; I simply don't have the patience for this right now, and my exhaustion, or my outrage, causes me to snap at him before I can think about it.
"Doctor Lecter, the flight sucked and I'm dead tired now so you'll just have to wait for your little mind-fucking until I've had at least 6 hours sleep. I'm turning the phone off until I've had a nap. good-bye." I hit 'end' just as I realize that may not have been the smartest thing to say to a mass murderer. Oh well, what's done is done. The phone rings again immediately, and I pause a moment before answering.
"I apologize, Clarice, I forgot not everyone travels as well as I do. I will let you get some rest; in fact, I've arranged for a room for you at a much better place than that flea-stand you reserved space at. If you go through the doors to your left, a taxi will be waiting there for you. He already knows where to take you. Sweet dreams." This time, HE hangs up before I have a chance to think about what he's just said. The door to my LEFT? How can he know where I am? He's here! I can feel his eyes on me like a burning touch. I wonder what he thinks of my appearance even as I scan rapidly the area to my right and left. The casual suit I'm wearing, with pale grey pants and a emerald blouse, fits me better and cost more than the suit I wore when I first met him. I spent a lot on the shoes as well. I wonder if he notices. I spin around, and he's there, ten or so feet behind me. I get a glimmer of maroon eyes and white teeth underneath a fedora and a wave of electricity and adrenaline shoot through my already overwrought system. A large family pushes between us, chattering away in Russian, and by the time they've moved he's gone. I look around but I know I will not find him, so I turn to the door he directed me to. As I step through I see a line of cabs and don't know which one he meant. Luckily, a well-dressed man comes up to me and takes the suitcase from my hand.
"Ms. Starling, let me take this. I'm to take you to the hotel, yes?" His english, although accented, is very clear. I wonder, only briefly, how he recognized me as I follow him to a Mercedes. He opens the door for me and I get in. I know it is unwise to blindly allow a stranger, apparently under the direction of Dr. Lecter, to drive me around Moscow, but I'm too tired to care. He pulls away and drives through the city, then pulls up in front of a very nice-looking hotel. I can't read the sign, it's in Russian, but the exterior screams taste and money. The driver leans back and hands me a room key-card. "It's room 304, Ms. Starling. I hope you enjoy your stay in Moscow." He gets out, opens my door for me again, and hands my suitcase to the waiting attendant. Before I can blink, he's gone again. I shrug and follow the attendant inside the tastefully expensive lobby, into the elevators, and to my room on the third floor. He puts the suitcase next to the closet then leaves before I can give him a tip. It should make me nervous that Dr. Lecter has gone to such lengths, but I'm too tired to worry about it. I glance around the room. It certainly is nicer than whatever I had reserved; an antique bed, a sitting area with a small television, a large bathroom with a huge tub AND a separate shower. How expensive. But tasteful. Of course, nothing less could be expected of Hannibal Lecter.
I put open my backpack and pull out the box the customs agent gave me. Jack said he arranged for me to borrow a gun and get a temporary permit to carry it, so I'm not surprised to see a .45, a drivers-license style permit, with large print showing it valid for 1 month. Also inside is a note from Jack letting me know his trip went fine and that to return the gun I should just go to the police station and give them both the gun and the permit. He ended the note with the same warning he'd given me when I first went to speak with the esteemed doctor: Never forget what he is. I put all that on the bedside table, get up long enough to lock the door (not that that would stop him if he really wanted to get in) and change into my pajamas, barely managing to fold the easily-wrinkled slacks over a chair before collapsing into bed. Just before I drift off, I remember I'm supposed to call Jack. I fumble for my phone, dial his number and leave a quick message when the answering service picks up immediately. He probably turned it off so he could get some rest.
"Sir, it's Starling. I made it here, now I'm going to sleep. I'll keep in touch." I manage to shut the phone off before dropping it to the floor and lapsing into sleep.
Fin
Pt 3