Man on the Inside

3

"I feel stupid," Brontë admits into the phone, "and I still find it hard to believe he won't clock me immediately."

"He won't." Nimm isn't helpful here. She sounds far more convinced of his success than she should be. "Look. Worst thing he can say is no. He's got no way of proving you're a cop."

"I don't think you're looking at this realistically. I am going to try this, but you should expect failure."

"I'm glad you have faith in my plans," Nimm responds, deadpan. "Trust me. If we were trying to go the ooo, where can I purchase some molly, young man? route, of course it wouldn't work. But this story is believable."

Brontë is glad his superiors trust him to run the Volkov investigation however he wants, because he doesn't want to explain that he's following his subordinate's stupid infiltration idea. "Thanks for your confidence in me, Nimm. I'm glad my appearance screams depressed and divorced to you."

"Are you not divorced?"

"That's not the point. I'm certainly not depressed."

"We're all a little depressed," Nimm says with a laugh.

The building in front of Brontë has this heritage front that makes it look fancier than it probably is, but it's still intimidatingly nice, if small. It's one glass door in a brick wall, with a glass window beside, showing the one row of tables and the bar that Brontë will have to approach. Part of this little character he's supposed to be playing is that he's got money. Nimm was pretty convinced that if he seemed rich, stupid, and in need of Artemy's services, that should be all that's needed to get his name passed on.

"So are you ready?" Nimm asks when Brontë is silent.

"Sure." Brontë will never be ready. "I guess I have to hang up, then, huh?"

"What are the most important things you're going to do?"

Brontë closes his eyes and sighs. "You ought not to talk to me like this, you know."

"Ooooh, you're so bad at sounding like you're actually mad at me." He can hear the smile in her voice. "You're going to...?"

"Be subtle, act dumb, don't leave when he firsts says no." Brontë rolls up his sleeves a little more. He's wearing his nicest shirt, specifically unironed and slightly dishevelled, Converse instead of the 'cop shoes' they normally wear, the nicest watch he owns, and he didn't shave this morning. Nimm was very specific about it, like she knew exactly the giveaways. He just hopes she's right about it all.

"Because if you leave immediately, it's clear you were fishing. Good. Go get 'em."

She hangs up before he has a chance, and that leaves him alone to face the bar.

It's 7pm, but in the summer it's not quite dark, so it still feels far too early to enter any bars at all. This place feels better described as a whiskey den; the lighting is low and flickering over several dark wood tables, and most of the bottles Brontë can see on the shelves behind the bar look like spirits. There's no bouncer watching him come in, and seemingly very few patrons. A couple, a small group of friends, and nobody is sitting at the bar. There's just one bartender, and he could match the evidence.

Brontë is conscious of even how he walks as he approaches the bar. He tries to amble, like he's just stumbled across this place. He didn't go to the effort of pre-drinking, but he tries to conjure the feeling of being maybe three drinks in already. What does that even feel like?

He finds himself looking up at the roof. Behind the flickering lights, he sees no cameras in the corners. Nobody should ever be able to prove he was here.