February 6, 2009. London. 11:57.
I ran out of the convenience store, ripped the cap off of my coke, and took a gulp of the sickly sweet black liquid. I drank again, this time swishing the sugary concoction around my mouth, hoping to cleanse it from the metallic taste left by blood.
"Fuck" I iterated in anger. I swore another 4 times. I let out a roar, less angry now more in elation. My phone rang, interrupting my rant. I fished it out of my pocket, looked at the caller ID, and unlisted number.
"Bonjour" I greeted.
"Is it done" Russ, my CIA contact, greeted me with a question.
"Yes." English now.
"Dead?"
"Yes"
"Good" He hung up. I did likewise.
January 3
rd
, 2009. New York City. 9:56 pm
I was state side, visiting the only civilian connection I had left: Pearl. Pearl is my connection to the human world. I visit her every month or two, she is my only known contact. This is a bit too regular for me, but well, Pearl is the love of my life. She is my friend, my lover, my absolution.
I got off the Air France flight from Charles De Gaulle, walked through the maze of intertwining corridors, going down escalators until I finally found my self to baggage claim and saw my first glimpse of New York in the New Year. Snowing again, typical, perfect, the way I like New York. It comforts me somehow, to know that one of the biggest cities on the earth is still subject to mother nature. Knowing that no matter what is thrown at them, the New Yorkers will continue to hurry after fleeting lives that just slip through their fingers. Comforting it may have been, yet it was also unsettling. To walk through the crowds, too aware that I didn't belong. Once you take a life you are never the same they say. Well that's a lie. Everyone else is different.
I picked up a plain black bag, unremarkable enough to be forgotten, cheap enough to be replaced. It's a hassel waiting for baggage off carasels now a days, and it slows you down and creates a possible opening, yet post 9-11 traveling without bags flags a little message in every security personal.
Normally it doesn't matter, they see your license, sometimes run a check, it is fine. But my I don't deal in computers, oil, politics, or one of a thousand other mundane jobs. My business is death. I don't like people looking into my background. I may use fake IDs, but it isn't worth the risk anymore. I don't want anybody to find me, much less to know my regular schedule. This way it is easier, a bag filled with cheap clothes, maybe a box of cheap chocolates, and even a fake watch; nothing too interesting to warrant attention, but nothing too sparse to puzzle a bag checker. Simple, medium, average, that's me.
I walked out of the airport, looked left, right, up, and off into the future. No one stuck me as dangerous. I jumped into a taxi.
"Where you going?" a gruff New York accent greeted me.
"Times Square" I replied, and rode the rest of the trip in silence. Look behind me, look to the right, check number plates. I barely even noticed doing it. This was my job, notice things, avoid danger, stay safe, stay alive.
I got at Times Square and immediately blended in. I walked the 18 blocks to Pearl and my rendezvous checking all the time I wasn't being followed. I arrived at "La Café", a traditionally American coffee house trying to adapt a sense of culture that it had no understanding for, with twenty minutes to spare. I pushed through the heavy oak doors and moved into the small cramped bistro that is so typical in Manhattan. France my foot.
I have sat and sipped lattés in cafés upon the Champs-Elysees, they are filled with culture, vibe, you instantly get the feeling you are just a fleeting moment in life. I love it. I crave it. Yet here they were determined to hang mirrors everywhere. I hated it, I loathed it, but Pearl loved it, and I love her. I ordered a disgustingly sweet latte and sat down in a too soft armchair and flipped through one of the magazines on the table, "Wild Hunting", once again I was struck at how badly the Americans could fail, they always missed out on the small details. I chuckled at myself, I had been here no longer than two hours and I had already remembered why I was desperate to get away.
I heard the little bell over the door chime. I looked up and froze. There she was! Pearl. Looking radiant in a thigh length leather jacket, long black two inch heeled boots, a pair of snug jeans, and a black turtle neck sweater. He illustrious golden-brown hair trickled swept across her face to rest mid breast. She saw me, and her face broke into a smile. I stood, shaky, and motioned for her to sit. She hugged me instead.
"Salut Charles" She greeted me, pressing herself into me, snuggling under my chin until her head rested over my heart.
"Hey Pearl" I answered. We sat, saying nothing, but drinking in each other's appearance. It had been too long. It always is too long.
"How have you been?" I asked, with a feeble grin, recognizing how typical it was.
Christ
I thought
I may as well have said How's the weather
. She let out a burst of soft laughter, my heart leapt.
"Good Charles, good." I loved the way she would call my Charles, saying it with a French accent.
We lay spent two hours on her king sized bed, our clothes strewn across the floor haphazardly, dropped were we had ripped them off. The sheets wrapped around us like a cocoon, warding off the cold from our naked, sweat, entwined bodies.
"I love you" I whispered into her ear.
"You better" She answered with a playful slap to my chest.
