Mr Hook's Big Black Box

Kris Alexandros: The Master

I got back to my building. Up one flight of stairs and along the corridor, the path home. The porter on duty downstairs nodded at me as I passed. I nodded back. I just assumed this was somehow connected to Ferrari getting security on our side; the porters were the public face of security, and were competent to handle most disturbances in the smooth running of the campus.

Then I got home, and struggled with opening my door. As always, I had to insert my swipe card and then remove it again a half dozen times before I heard the faint click that told me I could enter. They'd told us that electronic locks were the next big thing, that we were the first to experience the future. It would have been great, if the things had been anywhere close to reliable. I know some departments used them for access to lecture halls and computer rooms, and they had little problems, so it seemed this technology wasn't quite ready for normal domesticated users yet.

When the lock finally released I slammed the door wide in frustration, yanked my card out of the slot, turned around to hang my coat brusquely and angrily on the hook, and then stopped. I'd carried on as normal for maybe a second or two before it hit me that there were people in the room. But a metallic click, the sound of a gun being chambered, got my attention immediately.

"Mister Alexandros," a voice said behind me. Harsh, guttural tones, an accent I couldn't quite place. He pronounced my name correctly, though, which is something many people in this area never quite managed. I froze in place. "No, turn around. The Master would like to see your face. But do not try to trick us."

I turned around slowly, keeping my hands roughly the same distance from my torso. I didn't want them to think I was going for something in my pocket, or something on the side. So I turned around without moving most of my upper body at all.

There were two men just inside my room, on either side of the door. Both had pistols, black metal that gleamed like it was oiled under the thin sliver of light coming between the curtains. The handguns were slightly raised, pointed in my direction so I was sure they would fire in an instant if I somehow managed to conjure a weapon of my own. The guy who'd spoken, I guessed, was in the far corner. He was holding a gun too, that looked the same as the others as far as my inexperienced eye could tell. He was dressed the same, too, like it was some kind of uniform. Heavy cotton shirt and trousers, with plenty of pockets, all in black. Little loops and lines of stitching that could be intended for the attachment of epaulettes, name tags, and medals. But not even an indicator of their unit or nationality.

I assumed these must be the soldiers Marco had mentioned yesterday. Their whole posture was different from Spenser's thugs. These were people who didn't need to put out a big macho image, because they were just there to do a job. Pride, or anger, or whatever personal motivations might have led men to kill; all those things had been pushed aside or beaten out of them by the passage of time. Now I was faced by three middle-aged men who all had the serious look of men who would do what they were ordered to, and not even think about the reasons behind it. They were military down to the bone.

The fourth man was different. He sat quite still, in my desk chair. Right in the middle of the room, sitting bolt upright, every joint in his body at a perfect right angle, and with no movement that I could detect. He was dressed in black, just like his men, but the smallest details suggested that his outfit was more expensive by some order of magnitude. His tunic was edged with ornate black frogging, and the double line of buttons down the centre of his chest were perfectly adjusted to highlight the shape of his muscles down one side. On the left, however, his shirt was pulled tight and gave no hint at what lay beneath. Some old injury or deformity, no doubt, such that he didn't want the curves of his musculature to be as well defined. His shoulders were covered by a short cape of what looked like black velvet, which extended upwards to be a hood, hiding his whole face in its shadows. Between that and the fine silk gloves – black, of course – I couldn't see any trace of this man's skin.