Her lids peeled apart to the sound of shrieking.
5:00 AM.
An arm emerged from the coarse sheets, limp, as though directed by marionette strings. The hand balled into a fist and struck the clock sluggishly, finally killing its wails.
Morning hadn't come soon enough.
The woman lay on her back, motionless as a corpse. A sandpapery blanket covered up to her clavicles. The dark circles her eyes were buried in seemed like empty holes in her skull.
4:48 AM was when she'd last checked the time. Every few minutes she'd part attention from her intense study of the ceiling above her bed to glare at her alarm clock, the snide little thing; she wondered why she even bothered setting it. She never slept anyway.
When had she actually slept last?
A few months?
Several years?
It didn't matter. She couldn't tell. Two or three hours rest every couple nights seemed to suffice. The waking hours were a blur mostly. Days often bled into each other. Voices seemed to gurgle as though spoken from another plane. Aside from the daily anguish, she could function just fine. As long as she could do her job, nothing mattered.
The woman rolled over and pressed her forefinger and thumb to the bridge of her nose in an attempt to weaken the dull throbbing in forebrain. With an exhale, she peered to the clock again.
5:02 AM.
Her body didn't want to move, but it was time to "awake." She had work to do.
Slowly, like some great colossus rising from the ocean depths, the woman sat up, propped on her hands, and cocking her head, she yawned. She dropped her heels to the floor, which felt like ice. She stood up, steadying her legs, and with some effort, she hobbled over to her door.
Her knees never used get this sore. Poor sleeping habits perhaps?
She thought of the alternative possibility. The woman shuddered.
…
It was roughly 6:00 by the time she'd finished readying herself for the day. Suited, masked, and looking impeccable as usual, the Spy entered the cafeteria.
The room was nearly empty, say for a murmuring group of janitors seated in one corner. The Engineer sat hunched over a cup of coffee and a newspaper. He was dressed quite nicely, especially for the "rough-and-tumble" kind of man he usually appeared to be; his shirt was spotless, as were his slacks, and he even wore a tie.
Just as the woman was beginning to wonder why, she realized that it was Sunday.
She broke her attention from him, and instead continued on her initial course, to the coffee pot, as she began every morning. The coffee was actually fresh today, and she felt a flicker of happiness.
Taking the pot in one hand, the Spy poured her coffee into one of the mugs provided.
Mail was made open for workers on Sunday, and the company mailbox just so happened to be located in the cafeteria, right by the entrance, in a box labeled "MAIL" that was built into the wall. She strode over to it.
The woman rummaged through it, one-handed. There was a surprising amount of post. Perhaps her coworkers weren't as maladjusted as she'd thought originally.
She'd been going through the mail for a couple minutes. Two names kept turning up, "Matthew" and "James," over and over. It seemed odd, and the Spy found her eye drawn. There was a stack, two centimeters thick, of envelopes addressed to "James" and a smaller stack to "Matthew." There were only two different addresses in the entire pile of letters sent to "James." The first type from an American address, written curvy lettering, complete with pretty loops and pale lavender stationary. Those envelopes were far less numerous; there were only three, but they were newer, only sent within the week. The other type came from "Matthew" himself. The writing was sharp, controlled. It looked like her own. With more digging, the Spy found the strangest bit of information. The mail dates stamped onto the envelopes were quite old, dating back at least seven months. The dates were sequential as well, written almost daily, at least with the oldest of the letters.
"Matthew's" mail was very different. Aside from a rogue envelope every now and again, there were really just a lot of magazines, all to the same magazine subscription in chronological, monthly issues. The oldest magazine dated back seven months ago.
With further searching, the single letter for her was conveniently at the very bottom of the pile, addressed with the false name, "Nancy 'Ana' Dupont." The woman scoffed; she didn't pick that alias. There were a lot of American babies named Nancy, but not grown Frenchwomen. HQ was always out of touch with this kind of thing. Perhaps they were far too busy with their own crusades to really worry about something so minor.
Ana, which was the apparently preferred nickname of said alias, was a fantasy invented by her employers. The file given to her RED employers stated that Dupont spent life prior as a modest accountant with a family from a tiny wine town in France, and there was even something about a failed marriage. The Spy had studied her "part" scrupulously in the months prior to the operation, even using some method acting to get into character. This was all to sell a lie, to protect her true intentions should anyone peek at her mail or should she be interrogated. At the moment, mail prying was definite as the Spy could tell at a glance that her envelope had been resealed at least twice.
With her mail and mug in tow, the Spy sashayed over to her usual spot, the seat nearest the back window in the right corner. She dropped into her chair with a sigh. From her coat pocket, right over her heart, she pulled a flask, and unscrewing the top, she poured some of the amber contents into the coffee. The woman never would add anything else; she needed her coffee as strong as possible, and she loved her coffee served in the Irish style.
The Spy took a sip. The coffee wasn't watered down as much today, as she could taste coffee rather than boiled boot. She tore the envelope open and pulled the folded letter from its sheath.
Mundane trite. All of it.
She could applaud the fact that the letter was indeed hand written, but she could barely even muster a groan for its contents. None of this was supposed to be interesting, only a method to pass a radio frequency, but still. They could have tried a little harder.
The letter was written by "Dupont's father," who was in truth, someone's pencil-pushing underling. The writing was in boxy capitals. As far as content went, the letter was full of childish slang, quite a few useless tangents, several misspellings, sappy nothings, and a bounty of patronizing complaints concerning his "lack of grandchildren." Disgust riled for her attention against this misguided interpretation of how a French father would conduct himself.
The woman scoffed again as she couldn't help but compare it. She thought of her own father who could at least write eloquently, much like any other intelligent adult. Her father was a sensible man, and a wiser man than she knew. Never once did he whine, and never did he patronize. He never rambled and made every word poignant, not like this pitiful drivel.
She wondered how he was getting along. God, did she miss him…
Abruptly, she tore herself from that vulnerable place; there could be no time for sentimentalities.
She needed that frequency.
The code was simple, however time-consuming and rather tedious. There was a bit of math involved, nothing terribly complex, just addition with the first letters of a row, and subtraction with the last few letters, with a dash of algebra thrown in. An understanding of Roman numerals was required as well. She double checked her subtraction; she would never and in no way could ever be a mathematician. She knew her limits, and language was more her forte.
What other tasks needed finishing…A new door handle and key for one, to get the blood stains out of her suit; she'd have to find a dry cleaner. There was no way to tell if a dry cleaner even lived in this town. Before anything else happened, the woman would have to check in with her "old friends."
…
It was 10:00 by the time she'd finished everything she'd sought to do for the day. She hadn't been able to speak with anyone at HQ, so she'd left a message. They were probably busy setting wire taps, interrogating sympathizers, or starting revolutions in Central America: the usual business. The Spy stopped by the local general store, but was unable to purchase the kind of lock she needed. The next shipment would be in the following week. The day wasn't all for naught. By some stroke of luck, she'd stumbled across a dry cleaner. Even more fortunately, their rates were half what she'd end up normally paying.
With nothing else to do, the woman returned to her room.
It was very quiet on base. Her fellow mercenaries were either out at the bar, or simply enjoying their day off in seclusion. Many of the usual background noises had ceased. Gravel mining teams often made a tremendous clamor what with the heavy equipment used in excavating mountains of earth and driving cargo from junction to junction. Many their machines would wail long into weeknights.
Oddly enough, all of the auditory turmoil was a taste of home for the Spy. Having grown up and lived in large cities most her life, she was very used to mechanical groans, backfiring of engines, and the rumbling of trucks.
The woman sat upon her bed, which was till unkempt since that morning, and she stared at her wall.
Empty white and devoid of substance.
There was a restless energy in her legs and fingertips.
This room…the bed sheets…They were crumpled, off-kilter; they needed to be straightened.
Hurriedly, the woman got to her feet and very meticulously, very carefully flattened the blankets. Pulling ever so precisely, she made the sheets into level perfection. The covers were completely equal on either of the long-way sides.
She was sure.
She checked…More than a few times.
It was 10:23 now.
What else had to be done?
The ashtray.
She inspected it. Not one cigarette butt and no ashes either.
It wouldn't hurt to clean it again. Just to be safe.
Gathering the tray in her hand, the Spy skulked off in search of a sink.
…
She returned to her room. The ashtray, absolutely and flawlessly clean, was placed gently back upon her bedside table.
What time was it now?
11: 05.
The table top could use a good scrubbing…It wasn't nearly glossy enough.
The Spy continued this way, feverishly, for the next two hours, and every so often she'd glance back at her clock.
Though she would never admit it, she knew that she was stalling.
Maybe it would be beginning the minute by minute countdown until the next match, perhaps she'd decontaminate her entire room for the fifth time, or maybe she would give thumb twiddling a shot…
She knew it was all a sorry attempt to occupy herself, to keep herself from confronting anything within. To be adrift, alone, in that inky-black ocean of thought…of emotion…of memory…
Shaking her head, the woman took her desk chair and seated herself in it, facing only the window and not her clock.
Pale blue was the sky.
No clouds.
Just endless blue.
It was so quiet, say for tapping.
Curiously, the woman peered down to find that both her hands were held on her thighs. Her fingers drumming away like overworked pistons. What was more, her left leg was jostling in position, quivering leaf-like. She hadn't noticed either.
In a sort of embarrassed way, the Spy crossed her legs and arms.
As though affronted by the woman's audacity, her forefinger beat on her elbow almost instantly.
It was time for a cigarette.
…
The woman exited the building in a hurry, but just as she opened the door, a blast of heat struck her like a freight train and nearly stole the breath from her. Sweat prickled behind her mask, and her mouth was parched in an instant. Keeping to the shade, she inhaled and lit a smoke.
As the Spy was just beginning to enjoy solitude, the door she'd exited from whined open. Out stepped another woman. With dagger heels and an even sharper suit, the newcomer exuded lavish authority. She was not Pauling; this woman was older, middle-aged at a glance and was made of something far sterner. The deep purple hue, silken fabric, and the superior cut of her suit gave the impression of luxury, almost to the point of decadence. An unlit cigarette was held between her bony fingers.
The older woman eyed her company in a dissecting manner, and her thin lips twisted slightly; however, the Spy could not discern if it were in disgust, annoyance or simply her common countenance. The woman in purple's stance was stiff and statuesque. She wrapped an arm around herself and balanced her other elbow upon it in order to bring her hand near her mouth.
In what the Spy could now confirm as annoyance, the woman in purple began to twiddle her smoke around, obviously miffed by the hold up. The Spy knew what the other woman wanted, even without the extra cue. The masked woman took a leisurely puff of her own cigarette as she pulled the zippo from her pocket. She peered up in a snarky fashion to the other woman, who appeared to be quite irritated at this point. Lazily, the Spy sparked the lighter and extended the flame to the purple-clad woman.
"It's about time you made yourself useful," The older woman quipped, taking a lungful of smoke.
The Spy said nothing.
"Now, where are my manners," The other woman said in faux sincerity. "How is our new Spy finding work here?"
"People try to kill me on a regular basis, broiling to death is a distinct possibility, and this place is so backwater it makes a lone outhouse in the woods look like Versailles," The Spy took another inhalation. "All things considered, it is far better than my previous job."
The purple-clad woman made a halfhearted laugh. "Glad to hear it, but refresh my memory if I am wrong, you were an accountant before you took this job?"
Ready to answer any question about her cover, the masked woman replied, "Accounting was my day job. I would clean intermittently as well." The Spy cocked her head lightly. "You are the Administrator, and you were the one who hired me; why do you ask?"
"So you do know who I am," The woman in purple acted impressed. "I was only curious, you don't strike me as the…" She paused, as if to either think or add emphasis. "Janitorial type, but I have been wrong in the past."
Cleaning never really meant cleaning. Cleaning with a rifle, yes, but never with a mop and broom, in this context. It was an obvious attempt to be condescending, and the Spy was not amused by such heavy-handedness.
"That is a fine suit you have," The Administrator questioned, motioning to the Spy's burgundy pride. "Who is the designer?"
"Brioni."
"I find that interesting."
"Why is that?"
"There is no way you could afford a Brioni suit with an accountant's salary."
Was she implying something?
"I've made wise investments…" The masked woman responded levelly. She dug her nails into her palm.
The Administrator nodded, but her expression seemed shrewd. Though her lips were locked firmly, the corners were slightly, ever so slightly up-turned into a smile, a smirk more rather.
The Spy conveyed only a neutral temper as she chewed on the inside of her cheek.
An uncomfortable silence nestled among them, only punctuated with the sounds of cigarette drags.
"You're one of the more capable mercenaries I've seen, and I wouldn't want something to happen to you," The woman in purple didn't even bother to hide the condescending tone in her voice. "Take care, will you?"
The Administrator dropped her cigarette butt to the ground, its embers still clinging feebly to life, and with her foot, she crushed it dead. Then, she turned through the door and left the Spy alone again.