Up North

Peter Biddel slammed the door hard and immediately regretted it.  He paused in his stomping rage long enough to inspect the glossy paint for damage before storming inside and kicking the front door shut with such fury that a dusty tome toppled from the overloaded bookshelf.  Peter kicked it under the shelf as he fumed his way into the study and dumped his coat and bag on the sofa.  He quickly scanned the security panel for anything out of the ordinary, checked the video feeds from the cameras, then pressed his palm into the center of the brown leather blotter atop his desk.  There was a faint light as it scanned his palm, then a keypad faded into sight through the faux leather finish. He punched in the code then stretched, spine popping in six different places, and took a deep breathe.  By the time the chamber door opened, he felt calmer, but a steady stream of muttered curses tumbled under his breath, marking a kind of counter-rhythm to his echoing footsteps as he descended and the door slid shut behind.

The biggest problem, Peter thought, is that I hate her. He was sitting now behind an enormous oak desk, easily large enough for a game of table tennis though the lighting was far too dim and flickering for such pursuits here in his underground kingdom.  Intricate carvings covered nearly every surface of the desk, runes and hieroglyphs, scenes from Lovejoy, executed in detailed bas relief, pillars and gargoyles at the corners, and a fantastically comfortable rolling chair, hewn from the same dark-stained oak as the desk itself.  

He was working a Rubik’s cube while he thought through the problem at hand; scrambled randomly when he started, his fingers turned it in small, precise motions even as his brain kicked around the far bigger problem of how he could carry out the plan a full three months ahead of schedule.  Without getting himself killed. Without ruining everything he had painstakingly built over the past six years. Without being captured, or maimed, or arrested and held up for public ridicule.  

Still. All else paled in comparison to what she would do if he failed.  

He sighed and dropped the solved cube onto the desk. The meeting had been a disaster, made so much worse by his pathetic hopes for how it might have gone and by his drooling idiocy at the end.  

They met for lunch at the Pink Door. Peter had chosen it for the atmosphere, had hoped that she might like it as well: tucked into Post Alley, with a view of the bay from the patio, a trapeze artist swinging gracefully over the heads of the diners, the wait staff elegantly clad in white waistcoats and bow ties.  

To be honest, he had made the reservation weeks in advance, knowing she would be in town.  He requested a particular table, tucked in the back, away from prying eyes and ears, but with a commanding view of the trapeze.  He had daydreamed and planned: He would meet her on the patio for a drink so they could chat and enjoy the view of the water and the mountains.  Her hair, long and blond and flowing, would hang loosely down her back, the way it had so many years ago. She would smile and relax, let her guard down, talk about art and politics, laugh at his witty repartee. She might touch his arm, might take his hand while he led her inside to sit down. Then, she would listen intently while he laid out his plan. Her eyes would sparkle, blue and green with flecks of gold that seemed unreal. She would see how it all fit together, how if he succeeded it would change the whole field of battle and transform him into so much more than just a node in a vast network.  He would become powerful in his own right and not just because of the cloak or the book. He would finally be worthy. And she would remember how they had both felt before.

As it happened, though, she texted him that morning from the airport to say her flight had been delayed and she was already late for another meeting. Could they push back lunch a half hour? And when she finally arrived, her hair was pulled up tightly in a professional kind of way, she wore a gray, no-nonsense suit and she looked at him like he was crazy when he suggested they have a drink on the patio before lunch. 

A drink? I have another meeting in forty-five minutes. Then she led the way into the dining room and explained to the waiter they needed their food right away. She had actually ordered standing up, before they even reached the table, for both of them. 

Peter felt the shame burning his cheeks again, remembering how the waiter had stared at him. He knows, Peter had thought, he knows how pathetic I really am. 

At the table, the situation went from bad to catastrophic. She begin by telling him bluntly that plans had changed and she needed his mission to go ahead right away, the sooner the better. He must leave immediately, he must begin execution by Tuesday and he absolutely must be clear of the field by no later than Friday, whether he had achieved his final objective or not. Mission objectives one through four were critical to the larger operation. He could continue beyond that with his personal objectives only if time permitted and further work did not jeopardize the larger operation.

It was impossible. He knew it before she had finished speaking, before she had finished crushing his plans and dreams, blowing them away like so many leaves before a early winter storm. And worse, he could see that she did not care if he succeeded, she did not need him to succeed.  He was a diversion. A bit of misdirection to ensure the sucker was looking in the wrong direction while the real magic happened somewhere else entirely. 

Peter had listened carefully, seething beneath the fury of her indifference, marshaling his arguments for a brilliant counterattack.  Prepared to storm out of the restaurant, to walk away from it all.  

She had paused, while the busboy cleared their plates, and typed furiously on her phone.  Then she put her phone down and leaned across the table.  She smiled at him, her eyes sparkled just as they had in his daydreams, he could smell her perfume as she reached across space and touched his cheek softly.  She whispered: I know this puts a wrinkle in your plans, Peter. But, I need you to do this… We need you.

And lunch was over. He was still feeling the blissful shock of her touch when she said goodbye and stepped into the cab.  She grabbed his tie and pulled him halfway through the door, like a lover who can’t bear the thought of separation.  Her tone was cool and hard, her eyes glittered black and leaden silver: Don’t screw this up Peter. You do not want to screw this up. Some minutes later, Peter had found he was standing on the curb, tie askew, mouth open wide enough to accommodate a London cab, with his tongue hanging halfway to the street. 

Pathetic.

Calmer now, free from the spell of her eyes and her perfume, he knew he had no choice.  Walking away had never really been an option.  He flipped open his laptop and booked a ticket for Svalbard, then messaged Reidar: Open the cabin and prepare the gear. I arrive tomorrow night.