Chapter 19: Business
It was early morning before Arthur glanced up. Weak rays of sunlight stretched fledgling fingers through gaps in the embroidered curtains, chasing away the dark of the room. Slowly the surface of the coffee table was layered in thin segments of light, rousing Arthur out of his mechanical movements.
Arthur's eyes traced the path of these streaks of light that marked the sunrise. They illuminated his expanse of paperwork, a voluminous pile organized in a way only he could understand.
It dawned on Arthur that, at this moment, he was experiencing the same feeling that manifested when a job wasn't going his way; a strained ball of failure twisting knots in his stomach. Arthur had been collecting and profiling information on anything he deemed pertinent to the current situation, yet no eureka moment had been forthcoming. Arthur felt adrift, aimless in a sea of data.
Pausing as he took in the strands of light, Arthur forced himself to stop and evaluate. Alright. What is my goal? What am I searching for?
First, I know I am wanted for murder. Arthur had many forms of identification at the ready for himself, and money and resources to assure his escape. But why is it this time that I am so heavily implicated?
I'm not a novice. There was a reason why Arthur went only by his first name.
So, first - how did I get into this mess? What went wrong during the job? Arthur shifted the bandage that covered the burn on his forearm, his mind crashing back to his escape, his meeting with Eames, and finally the confrontation at the cafe. Eddie is missing, Arthur thought. But that's not far back enough. The question isn't what went wrong during the job - it's the errors made when casing the Jansens, when picking the team.
Arthur flashed back to all of his notes - and then to his err in judgment by letting Sandy handle Colin Jansen's profile. The scum, Arthur thought, thinking of Sandy's odd demeanor, her confirmed murders, and finally how she seemed to know all of Jansen's men. I assume she was compromised, but she's not my top priority. Arthur turned his chin sharply, cracking his neck. Let's find out more about the Jansens, he thought.
Arthur's breakfast, courtesy of Iris, cooled next to him as he sat rigid against the back of the couch. A bad taste was forming in the back of his mouth. He didn't think his disgust for Jansen could grow stronger, but apparently it was possible.
Before Colin Jansen attended college in the United States, Arthur unearthed a document originating from Catterick, North Yorkshire detailing Jansen's enlistment into the British Army. Further investigation showed another record - Jansen being dishonorably discharged due to accusations of espionage, as well as a sexual assault case. Arthur was appalled at the assault charges, but he was more worried about the possible espionage.How could someone with so few years in the military be capable of distributing sensitive information? … And why didn't Sandy mention this?
It's been a long time since I slipped up like this, letting team members get so out of hand. Arthur felt another swell of self-loathing rise over him, a sense of revulsion at his incompetence. The inception job rankled me, I won't deny it, but that's no excuse for mistakes. A sudden urge had Arthur reaching for his token, hidden under a layer of papers. As he rolled the loaded twin dice, one of the papers was jostled by the action. It fluttered off the table.
Arthur stared at the twin threes a moment before moving, reluctantly retrieving the wayward sheet from the hardwood floor.
At the movement, Arthur noted the stitches in his back protesting only nominally. Almost time I can take them out, Arthur thought. I'm ready.
Straightening, Arthur glanced at the paper in his grasp.
The bold headline of a newspaper article stared back up at him.
Stock Consultants Sway Investors Towards So-Called 'Miracle Drugs'
Arthur remembered this piece. He had already scanned this particular write-up weeks before. He had found nothing of note, just another sensationalist report about the uptick in value of medical stocks. The only reason Arthur's software flagged the article was because it contained the name of a drug that Eva Jansen invested in. One of the main ones, if I remember correctly… What was the name again? Arthur scanned the contents of the article, snorting at the flowery language of the writer. 'Revolutionary' 'outrageously expansive' 'the first of their kind'. This journalist should switch to something other than the business section, Arthur thought, rolling his eyes. Surely the public would have heard more about these pharmaceutical creations if -
Arthur's train of thought stuttered as his eyes registered a familiar name. Eszopiclone.
Why is that familiar?
A quick Google search had Arthur's eyebrows lifting in disbelief. He wasn't one to believe in fate, but this was just too rich, even for him. Somewhere, someone is laughing at the irony of my life.
Eszopiclone, as Arthur discovered, was a sleep aid, a medicine used to treat insomnia. Arthur scrolled down the page listing side effects, noting all the huge companies that produced and sold the prescription. This doesn't seem like much of a 'miracle'. More of a commonplace treatment.
Arthur picked up the news article from the table once more, his sharp eyes trailing back to the line where he had stopped. He finished the rest of the report, his frown growing deeper.
Arthur set the piece of paper back on the coffee table.
He linked his fingers together, resting them behind his head as he thought.
Eszopiclone was mentioned in the column, but it wasn't the 'revolutionary' breakthrough that the author had been praising. Rather, one of the 'miracle drugs' was a derivative of this Eszopiclone- a lesser known product called Pergamonium.
That was the one Eva Jansen invested in, Arthur realized, his mind flashing back to the research of the earlier months. She believed in this new 'Pergamonium', whatever it is - the very same drug that Colin believed would soon rise by 400% in price. The name had been hidden in Arthur's subconsciousness, buried by all of the other things that had plagued him recently. Eva had the money to back the drug… but Colin had the information to believe in it, maybe.
Arthur's hand shot out abruptly as he reached for a pen, jotting down the name of the drug onto the edge of the article. Hans was killed because of the wealth that could rise from these 'miracle drugs' , Arthur thought, his mind flashing back to their casual conversations and shared beer. He didn't deserve to die for this. But - what is this?
Arthur thought of a second objective. Why were the stock codes that could access Eva's investments so important?
He surveyed the mound of research that was laid out in front of him, mutely registering the amount of work he had ahead of him. Analyzing the stock market is not exactly my idea of a good time. He glanced at the clock on the wall. Iris will be up soon.
Arthur made a decision, placing the laptop on the table in front of him. He shut it down with a few flicks of his fingers. Stretching as he rose, Arthur felt his muscles protesting at their disuse. Maybe I'll make tea for a member of the Eames' household for once.
He was in the middle of working out when he got the message.
Arthur tended to bottle things up, work himself through a problem no matter the personal cost, physical or mental. He knew this, knew it was unhealthy, and while the military hadn't given him many benefits in life, it had imprinted one action on him. A release through exercise.
Arthur was on his third rep of fifty pushups. He had already completed a set of one hundred burpees, in between sprinting around the house a good dozen times. Before that, he did a box jump routine using a rock near the house's edge. Arthur would've liked to go for a long run, but he didn't feel comfortable leaving Iris alone at the mercy of anyone who could track him.
So Arthur settled for pushups.
His eyes were trained on blades of grass in front of him, his sweat dripping to mingle with the dark soil. Up, down. Up, down. At the completion of his set, Arthur sprung back to his feet, intent on sprinting to the house where he intended on doing pull ups using the door frame.
"Arthur. Arthur!" Iris called, standing in the doorway, an obstacle to his workout.
"What?" Arthur snapped, his politeness vanishing with a rise in his heart rate. "What is it?" Arthur amended, slightly calmer. He raised his sweaty arms above his head, feigning a stretch as his pulse calmed. I need to get back in shape, he thought. I don't know if I could pass the minimum requirements for the Green Berets right now.
Iris took in Arthur's disheveled state as he walked closer, her pink rimmed glasses slipping down her nose. "Getting in a little early morning exercise, love?"
Arthur reached up, retrieving his discarded shirt from around his neck. He patted at his forehead, swiping away sweat from his eyebrows. His skin prickled, hot to the touch.
Arthur briefly glanced up at the sun, unimpressed. "I've been up for awhile," he said. "Did you get the tea I made?"
"I did," Iris replied. "And I was looking to thank you properly."
"I can't begin to thank you for all of your help - the tea is of no consequence, Iris. I'm living in your home, a complete stranger."
Iris just waved away Arthur's gratitude, motioning for him to come inside. "But that's not why I came out here. Your telephone buzzed love. A message from my son, perhaps?"
Arthur was inside before Iris finished her sentence, intent on finding his cell phone. Eames.
E -
smll pub london need ur advice ip. come asap good news w/johnson stuff
look on cmptr for meeting plce. dont b dumb disguise urself k
c u soon darling
Arthur looked at the message on his phone, internally cringing as he tried to decipher Eames' text. Are the vowels on his keyboard inoperative? Arthur shook his head. He doesn't have time to use capitalization or proper grammar, but he can spell out 'darling'?
Sitting down once again with his laptop, Arthur mulled over Eames' shortened words. He would have been skeptical it was actually Eames, except for the file Arthur discovered once he searched the computer.
'In Case of Separation' the document was titled, and at first glance only contained an address to a nondescript bar. Scrolling down three pages, Arthur found another message.
Just in case something goes awry in the future and you come back here. I have a feeling once you wake up we'll have some business to take care of. Plus, did I mention this place has bloody good pints?
~ Eames
P.S. This is an example of me having forethought, love. You have accused me of none before, remember? Yet there you are, unconscious in my bed from a bullet wound as I type this. Speaking of which, I should probably move you. What would my mother think if she came home early and found you in my bed? She'd probably be delighted I have friends. I guess I could move you over to my childhood room instead. You're welcome, darling.
The last edited date on the document was some time ago, correlating to weeks earlier, back to when Arthur first arrived at Eames' residence. Arthur puzzled over the postscript, realizing Eames 'childhood room' was referring to Arthur's sleeping area now.
Arthur thought about the cheery atmosphere of his current resting place, with pale blue walls and the hand-painted landscape. Eames' childhood room, Arthur thought. Who would've thought?
But this idea of going back into London - it was preposterous. Arthur couldn't dodge every security camera, and not to mention his likeness was plastered over every available news source. Can't forget about my recent stunt with the motorcycle when trying to find Eames. Arthur hadn't been checking the television in order to preserve his own sanity, but he knew reports of that would come back to him eventually as well. Stupid. Careless.
But I need information, and whatever Eames needs to tell me must be important if he wants me to come. Arthur once again picked at the bandage on his forearm, the linen damp with sweat. Eames would understand if I didn't show. His hand picked up the phone by his side, and his thumbs hovered over the keys. It would be easy to send a text, to tell him -
A thought flitted across Arthur's consciousness - uncalled for, inadvertent.
Eames would meet me if I asked him to, no matter what. Arthur could hear the man's voice right next to him, as though the forger was there. "Damn the bloody rules, Arthur! It's no time to play by the book."
"Iris?" Arthur called, setting down his phone.
"Yes, dear?" Iris appeared from around the corner, an open book in hand.
"Would you mind removing the stitches from my back?" Arthur questioned. "I have some business I'd like to attend to in London, and I'm not sure how long I'll be gone."
Iris set her novel down on the kitchen counter beside her, primly bookmarking a page. "On one condition, Arthur."
"What condition?"
"Take a shower afterwards, love. As much as your bare chest might be appealing to the people of Britain, I don't think it could quite make up for the smell coming off of you at the moment."