Memory Traffic

Chapter 2: The Team

I packed the watch back into its box, then placed it in the bag. Food was next on my agenda. I didn't know how long it had been since I ate, but hunger was gnawing at my gut. The idea of a big, heavy meal tempted me, but I knew if I gave in to it, I'd get sleepy, which could be dangerous. I didn't know if anyone was after me or if I was relatively in the clear. The thought was sobering, and I promised myself to be more careful.

I tucked myself away in a diner, ordered an omelet, and sipped coffee. No one seemed out of place; most travelers were chugging caffeine against the early morning hours of their journey. I succumbed to boredom and poked around on my phone, doing internet and social media searches of myself. I was a mystery.

My food eaten and paid for, I hefted my bag and fresh coffee-to-go and headed to my gate, stopping to buy a book along the way. At the gate, I settled in again and began reading, discretely looking around me for any odd behavior. I saw none; to everyone else, I was just a regular joe, traveling with nothing special. This was good.

I thought about the watch and the symbols I saw on it. Nothing had been familiar except the watch face I was used to. I wished I knew what it did and what it was for. Alex had said the team would help me. I could only hope that was the case since he had died for it. I didn't want to suffer the same fate.

~

The flight to Zurich was uneventful, and I slept much of the way. I dreamed about Alex off and on, snippets of memory that solidified my sense of loss. I felt guilty for just leaving him behind; I knew it was the nature of the job, but he deserved better.

I disembarked along with the rest of the passengers but needed to figure out where to go. My only real choice was to head to the main exit and then on to a hotel. I didn't know how the team would contact me.

I needn't have worried; as soon as I emerged from the secured terminal area, I spied a smartly dressed man in a suit holding a sign with my and Alex's names on it. I took a risk and approached him.

"I'm Ethan Johnson," I said as I walked up.

He looked me over, a haughty expression. He apparently did not approve. "Yes, Mr. Johnson. I am Baines, and I am to escort you to headquarters. Do you have any checked luggage?" His voice was as elegant as he was, and his speech, while accented, was clear. I instantly disliked him.

"No," I said, hefting the duffle, "this is all I have."

"Will Mr. Smith be joining us?"

"No," I stated but didn't elaborate, swallowing past the lump in my throat. It didn't seem prudent to announce he was dead while standing in the airport.

"Would you like me to carry your bag for you?" he asked, scowling.

"No, I will hang on to it if you don't mind."

"Very good. If you will come with me, the car is waiting."

We made our way curbside to get into an upscale black sedan. As the driver wove us through the city's traffic, Baines asked questions, most of which I couldn't answer due to the memory issues. By the time we got to the high-rise building downtown, both of us were angry. He for not getting answers and me for being blamed for not having them.

We descended into the car parking garage under the building and around the corner to the nearest set of elevators. I followed Baines out of the car and watched as he pressed his wrist up to a sensor on the elevator. It dinged, and I was surprised when the car began to descend further since no buttons marked deeper levels.

The ride was just long enough for me to feel uncomfortable riding in silence. I was thankful when the car dinged again and slowed, opening the door on a well-appointed corridor with elegant walls and marble floors. Certainly, Baines belonged in the space. I, in my jeans and t-shirt, did not. Perhaps that's what his judgemental stare had been about.