The Jigsaw

Huh, it was a long month...
But I did it! Finally I can give you the next chapter.
I have a vague impression that it's not as satisfying I wanted it to be, unfortunately, but I promise to work hard and deliver something better next time :)
I hope you won't be discouraged.
Stay with me :)

Lusia - well, maybe they will get better :D Who knows? Oh, I do! :P
I have some more surprises ready for them.

cobraqueen - I guess I have a little surprise for you in this chapter ;) Ryan - yes, he's a bit slow sometimes. He's an idealist; they always have hard time accepting reality :]

Rawrry - I hope your paper didn't suffer too much because of me ;) However, I have to admit it was a reeeeeal pleasure to read that I had managed to tear you away from something...
I hope you won't be disappointed with this piece also. Things go on, after all ;)

Oh, and the titles of magazines weren't my idea. I found them on the Internet and decided to use. I fabricated their contents, though.

---

---

Threshold

The evening was cold and rainy. It was already getting dark, despite the early hour - a sign that the winter was coming. Casey felt as gloomy as the weather, dragging himself along the sad, empty streets. Thoughtlessly he splashed through the puddles, drenching his shoes, wading in streams of brownish water as it flowed down to the drains.

He had calmed down since yesterday, all his emotions more or less sorted out and analyzed. He managed to justify his exaggerated reactions and chaotic behavior with the situation of ultimate stress he had gone through before; actually, he decided it had been a kind of natural mental state that triggered unwanted psychosomatic reflexes. Now he was back to his normal self - composed, focused, thinking clearly. Well, almost. The problem was that some time ago he had already lost the clear vision of what his real self was like.

Nevertheless, he had tried to break his case down into its constituent parts - stress, fear, regret, fascination, lust, disgust, morals, conventions, pride - it was all there and he was going to deal with those factors one by one. His journey through November town was a part of the challenge he had taken up to explore his sexuality.

Until now his sexual life had been, well, normal. He had grown up in the conviction that man with woman was the only option, and even though he was fully aware of homosexuality as a phenomenon, he had never considered it a subject that might concern him personally.

So this all had come as a devastating blow, and seriously questioned his idea of himself. It wasn't easy to endure the inner earthquake and let the image he had been creating for years undergo such a transformation. But, well, nobody had never promised that truth would be easy, and Casey still believed that even the worst truth was better than a lie. And he decided to buy his truth in the small, yellow newspaper kiosk at the corner.

When he got back to his room he slipped the chip card into the slot, locking the door from the inside, and carefully took the bundle of magazines out from under his coat. He threw them on the bed and leaned against the door, his heart beating fast. Slowly he took off his shoes and socks and tossed his coat onto the chair. Still postponing the confrontation with the cheap truth spread shamelessly like a whore on his bed, he took his time trying to taste a tasteless warm beer he had forgotten to put into the cooler.

Yes, he thought, I need to relax, and he drank two more cans of plonk. Then, not really knowing why, he felt that taking off his shirt might be a good idea. Even as he thought it he did it, and then he approached the bed. He sat on it, his back against the wall and his legs crossed, and reached for the magazines.
"Instinct." He read a blue title across the wide chest of a model who was bent in a seductive pose. Shit. He shook his head with a sarcastic half-smile. "Gay Life" Casey considered as not interesting for the moment, but the next one, with a handsome face in fashionable sunglasses on the cover and the title "Unzipped" somehow seemed the right place from which to start his research.

He flipped the cover open and overcame the urge to close the magazine, forcing himself to concentrate on a nude, well built man flexing his suntanned body in front of the camera. Usually Casey would avert his eyes from such a picture, having an imprinted, deeply coded pattern that said he was not interested in men. But now he consciously, intently looked at that body, scanning all its details. Hands, arms...Casey ran his fingers over the glossy paper, tracing the model's limbs, shoulders, chest.... Something inside him rebelled strongly but he didn't take his hand away, determined to see the experiment to the end.

When his fingers reached the model’s impressive hanging member, Casey frowned and fixed his eyes on that part of the picture. Was it attractive? Could it be considered exciting? So far it didn’t repulse him, Casey noted. He tried to imagine touching the model himself, his real flesh. No, still no disgust, just an inner voice whispering that it was inappropriate and shameful. Then it isn't so obvious, huh? he thought. Is not feeling disgust enough reason to suspect I might be gay?

Hell no, he wasn't gay; he was sure of it. He really did like women. He had used to feel satisfaction in bed with women and had wild erotic fantasies featuring busty vamps. He decided that disqualified him as gay, which came as a huge relief. But there was still a wide range of middle ground to conquer, and he wanted to find his place on that axis. Why? Just because he liked to keep his life in order. Last months made a mess of everything, so he felt an ultimate need to get his act together as much as possible.

He remembered that Sam had once said something about being "nothing specific". Right - Sam didn't give a shit about anything: tags, opinions, rules, people. But, Maybe he was right. Maybe there's no sense in looking for a label to pigeonhole myself. Men, women - Who really cares? Casey smiled. He realized he couldn't really see any reason why sexual attraction to a man should be based on different rules than to a woman. Body with breasts, body with a dick... it’s still a body, still a human. Hands, legs, lips, stomach, ass, pleasure, orgasm...all those are in common.

He flipped a few pages and stopped at an explicit erotic pictorial. For a long while he studied the pictures of two men having sex in a luxurious bathroom. He bent over the story, bringing it closer to his eyes, and contemplated. The men were young and well built, of course. One was lecherously arched back while leaning his chest against the wall, his ass exposed and knees bent slightly. The other was taking him from behind, pressing his abdomen to his partner's buttocks with one hand and with the other embracing the man's neck.

The series wasn't vulgar; it could be even considered tasteful. Casey imagined himself being there. He'd probably feel shitless scared and ashamed - all habits die hard, and the first time is almost never smooth. But if...if it was Sam standing there, in the bathroom? If it was Sam leaning, naked, against the wet wall, ready and willing?

"Uh...." A silent grunt escaped Casey's lips as he closed his eyes and leaned his head against the wall, unintentionally crumpling the page. That was it. He felt a wave of heat roll over his body, and his hand roamed to his zipper. "Unzipped", huh? Bullseye....

He massaged his crotch slowly through his pants, provoking a rising tide of testosterone. Under his shut eyelids he summoned a tempting vision of Sam rubbing in heat against the black tiles and offering his body. "Mmmm..." Casey moaned quietly, spreading his knees wider and moving his hips forward as he slid down to a half-reclining position. He unbuttoned his jeans and slipped his hand inside to encircle his erection. His whole body started to cooperate with his hand, undulating to the rhythm of its strokes that were getting more and more impatient.

When the powerful charge of excitement gathered up in his manhood, he took his hand away and rolled over onto his stomach. For a moment he rubbed his lower body against the bedspread, then he raised to kneel and on all fours, with his head hanging down and knees spread wide, he continued the undulating motion of his hips, still not touching himself. With the eyes of imagination he saw a dark body decorated with a huge tattoo of an eagle writhing under him, buttocks stuck up in the air and asking for a load....

"Fuck!" He grabbed his dick almost angrily and, rocking violently as if pounding someone hard, he pumped it until finally the muscles in his lower body contracted. He arched his back, falling onto his elbow, and came straight onto the picture of the men having sex in the luxurious bathroom.

With a deep sigh of satiation, relief, and resignation Casey rolled onto his back, holding his wet hand up so he wouldn't dirty anything. He stared at it for a moment, then closed his eyes, covered his face with his other hand, and whispered, "Is it possible that I'm in love?"

Then he chuckled bitterly as he thought he couldn't possibly find a more unfortunate deposit account for his feelings.

---

"Do you hear me?" The voice reached Sam as if through cotton-wool. "That's right...wake up, son."

He tried to open his eyes, but something kept his eyelids firmly glued shut. When he tried to touch them he found his hands immobilized also.

"They're taped shut," the man’s voice explained, seeing his attempts. "And your hands are tied down so you don't hurt your eye unintentionally. I'll remove the bands." Sam waited patiently for the doctor to give him his freedom back.

"I'm Dr. William Novak. How are you today, son?" Sam could hear the man smiling.

"I'm not your son," he answered coldly.

"Sure thing." The doctor seemed unmoved, although there was no sign of a smile in his voice any longer. "And from what I can see, I'd say we're both lucky." Strong, warm hands unbuckled the bands restricting Sam's hands. "Wait, don't touch it yet." Seeing Sam's impulse, the man held his hands. "I'll do it in a second." He gently carried out a small operation around Sam's eyes, taking off the plasters that kept his eyelids shut, and said, "Now, very slowly...."

The darkness reluctantly filled up with a bright fog, and patches of cold hospital colors crawled out from the background.

"So, how do you feel?" The voice came from a blurry white silhouette.

"I don't know yet," Sam answered. "You'll tell me that, I guess." He looked at Dr. Novak with aversion. The doctor was a tall man, in his forties, judging by look, in distinguished glasses and a white coat. He raised his eyebrow but didn't say anything, merely took notes in a small electronic notebook. From the cold gray eyes and a thin line of mouth that curved down slightly Sam concluded that the Dr. Novak was a tough one.

"Well, young man, I'd like to perform an examination. May I?" The doctor approached Sam with a portable optical computer. He placed the agent's head in a special helmet and started his job. "So far you're doing pretty well. You have a very strong body, it heals quickly," he commented.

"No shit!" Sam snapped derisively with a grimace, but there was no reaction from the doctor.

It took about half an hour to test, casually, the final results of five complicated surgeries.

"Well," Dr. Novak smiled politely but without a shadow of cordiality. "You'll stay here for one week so we can keep your injuries under control. Now let me tell you the kind of state you’re in - " the man made a mocking face - "son," he finished.

Sam frowned. "I'm nobody's fucking son," he said dryly, no anger imperceptible, but coldness in his healthy eye – off-putting.

"That's interesting." The doctor pretended surprise. "Or, well, rather sad. But that's none of my business." He shrugged and pressed a sequence of keys in his notebook.

Sam’s tired look rested on the man’s stiff figure. Oh, boy. Any more golden thoughts? Fucking coxcomb...

"You had some really serious injuries," Dr. Novak continued. "Multiple bone fractures: your ribs; internal injuries: ruptured spleen, punctured lung, and a crushed cheekbone connected with the loss of the left eye. Quite a massacre."

"My eye?" Sam looked surprised. "My vision is strange but I definitely have an eye."

"Not really. Well, you have a new, artificial one. Take a look." Dr. Novak handed Sam a small mirror. The agent looked at the reflection with both impatience and hesitation. The left eye, apart from the blue swelling and a number of discreet stitches, was bizarre and scary looking, a shiny black ball located in the eye socket. No pupil, no iris, no white, just an entirely black ball.

"God...what the fuck is this?" Sam whispered. "How does it see?"

"It's a processor. That's it. You have a small electronic device instead of an eye now. It looks strange, being all black, but it works better than the real eye did. It gathers impulses with its whole surface; there's no need to roll your eye, and you can focus in every direction at the same time. Additionally, it’s possible to record your vision; the eye has a camera. What else...oh, night vision and thermal vision."

"What the - what am I? A fucking machine?" Sam hurled the mirror at the wall, shattering it into shiny pieces. Then he drooped down onto the pillow with a moan as a sharp pain stabbed in his side.

Dr. Novak only raised his brow, unmoved, and that was his answer. Being a top class surgeon, he had seen a complete range of patients’ reactions during his career.

Sam gritted his teeth in helpless anger.
"Can this eye cry?" he asked all of a sudden.

The doctor, surprised, answered, "No, it can't. It's not needed."

"Right. What else?" asked Sam quietly.

"Your cheekbone. It was completely crushed, so we substituted a titanium plate for it. All the fractures and the plate were nicely put together with the use of bio-materials so that you won't have to wait until they heal naturally. The bio-glue keeps everything in place and will eventually be replaced by natural bone material. It will hurt for a week, more or less, as we can't give you painkillers now. They collide with other drugs you have to take for one week to keep the bio-material soft and elastic enough. That's it. You're like new, or even better." The doctor smiled, looking proudly at Sam as if the agent was his personal creation.

---

Ramson turned up the collar of his coat and pulled his hat down over his eyes. It was so freaking cold! Who would have thought the temperature at this time of year would drop below zero? He rubbed his hands and stamped his feet a couple of times to get his blood circulating faster.

He stood in deep shadow, leaning his back against the concrete pillar of an underground parking garage and peeking at his watch from time to time. The garage was already closed, only a few lamps giving faint light here and there.

Quick steps echoed loudly in the wide space as someone emerged from the darkness. The figure approached Ramson’s position confidently and stopped right before him.

"You're late." Ramson spit to the right, his face showing disgruntlement, but the deep shadow hid its expression.

"Sorry," the woman said. "You didn't tell me which entrance would be the best to get in."

"I never miss a chance to test people, kid," he smirked. "You ready?"

"Yes."

"This is your job. Everything I have on them." Ramson handed the woman a black case. "And don't haul ass this time. There won't be a next chance."

There was no answer. The woman in a long black coat with a hood hiding her face turned back and without a word left Ramson at his pillar. The sound of heavy footsteps died at the far end of the hall.

"If you blow it, I'll blow you," Ramson hissed, breaking away from the pillar.

---

Mario Manzani entered The Golden Fish with two long-legged women - Karin and Natasha, or something like that. They'd just met and had joined forces in search of fun.

"Hi, Leo!" Mario patted the bodyguard with his ring-covered hand. "How're you?" he asked in a characteristic, melodious English that betrayed his Italian roots.

"Very well, Mr. Manzani, very well." Bows, full of respect and discreet humility, were proof of Mario's position.

"Your wife? Children?" Mario asked politely, questions about family being an unwritten rule among the members of the organization.

"They are all right, thank you."

"I'm glad to hear that. Pass my greetings to them."

"Of course, Mr. Manzani. I will." The bodyguard bowed one last time and Mario moved forward, grabbing his beautiful new companions at their waists and pulling them closer.

A table was found for them immediately, no reservations needed. Mario had already reached the level in his group where the ordinary troubles of everyday life were no longer exasperating.

"Three Coco Tangos, sweetie." He gave an order for drinks to an Asian waitress attired in a scanty dress and then sprawled on a sofa, groping Karin and Natasha in delight. "Mmm...that's a treasure you have here." He brushed long blond hair from Natasha's chest and squeezed her breast. She giggled flirtatiously and threw out her chest to give Mario better access. He availed himself of the opportunity to slip his hand inside her low decolletage. She wasn’t wearing a bra.

"Wait for me here, girls." He smiled and tried to rise, not without difficulty. "I'll be back in a minute." He kissed the women on their lips and directed his steps to the restroom.

Returning to his table and the two beauties who hopefully were waiting for him, he spotted a shock of red hair belonging to a tempting body in a short red backless dress. The girl sat alone at the bar, and that fact alone made her interesting enough. Mario didn't think much; his feet made a decision without consulting his brain. He approached the woman with seeming indifference, making a wide circle to the bar to see her face first. He smiled slyly, seeing that she was equally attractive from both sides. But before he had a chance to take a first step, she turned her head slowly and looked straight at him. Her red lips stretched in a lazy, mocking smile as she said, "Looking for some company for tonight?" She lifted a slender glass of bubbling champagne and took a small sip, eyeing him appraisingly.

"Not really." Mario smiled, pleasantly astonished by the girl's initiative. "I have some already. But I'm always open to new proposals." He leaned his elbow on the counter and tilted his head to the side.

"So you came here to hear my proposal?" The woman was visibly surprised. "That's a rare strategy." She raised her brows.

"Rare doesn't mean bad, I guess," he stated philosophically.

"Nicely said." She smiled more widely, showing a set of even teeth. "I'm Sarah." She held out her hand for him to kiss.

Mario took it with pleasure, thinking that this too was rare. He kissed her fingers and said, "I'm Mario. I'm delighted to meet you."

"We'll see about that," she laughed and gave him a wink. "But so far I’m lapping it up, Mario."

The woman was an interesting find, definitely. Mario couldn't wait to explore his new acquaintance more deeply and find out what the girl really had to offer. But for now he just ordered a drink he never got to receive at his table, and started testing his seduction skills. He didn't know that regardless of his skills Sarah already had a plan to end up in a hotel room with him.

---

"Hi, bro." Simon smiled at seeing Sam sitting on the bed and reading a book. "How're you?"

Sam only cocked his eyebrow, but he returned the strong handshake.

"What are you reading?"

"Some Japanese shit." Sam closed the book to show the cover.

"Boy - that's 'Hagakure'!" Simon looked at his brother in surprise.

"So? What are you so worked up about?" asked Sam, disheartened.

"Oh, whatever." Simon wasn't in the mood to argue with Sam, and Sam was clearly heading for an argument. Well, it meant he was feeling better. "I brought you something." Simon threw a small chip on the bed.

"What's this?"

"The recording from the action. Wanna see?"

"And what makes you think I want to see that again?" Sam twisted his mouth in an ugly grimace.

"You could see things you missed. They're much more interesting. Besides, it's only from the outside. So, what do you say?" Simon unrolled a polymer screen and connected the card.

"Bring it on, then. " Sam tossed the book aside, waiting for the show with a sour face, slightly tense.

The screen brightened and soon they saw Casey's impressive jump. The black, armored silhouette on a racing bike looking like an arsenal; the magical acceleration and take-off; the flight, the figure detaching from the machine and bending gracefully to shoot the ropes; the struggle to hold on to the bar; the explosion....

"Fucking incredible, isn't it?" Simon shook his head and rewound to the moment of splitting from the motorcycle. "And who would've thought?"

Sam didn't say anything. He was following the action with a furrowed brow and tight lips, his fingers clenching on the sheet.

"Sam?" Simon looked at his brother hesitantly. He had thought the recording would be a milestone in Sam's relations with Casey. He felt in his bones that they could be a good team, if only Sam saw a valuable agent in the engineer. So what was all this about? "What do you think?" he asked, trying to feel Sam out.

But Sam only shrugged, already relaxed, and answered, "Good for him."

"Good for you, you mean! You’re a right idiot. If not for him, you'd already be dead." Simon crinkled up, irritated.

"Thanks be to Casey almighty! God, he makes one jump and you work yourself into a frenzy." Sam's voice was cold.

"What the fuck?" Simon had confusion written all over his face. "You're a fucking idiot, really. And a bastard, needless to say," he said quietly, shaking his head. Then he rolled up the screen, stood up and left, not looking back. He wanted to ask how Sam was feeling, how his eye was, how everything was, but now he just couldn't. Sam was heartless, he knew that. But to the extent of being blind? That was something new. And scary.

When the doors closed behind Simon, Sam hurled Casey's book against the wall furiously and swore voicelessly. He felt like he was caged by some strange inner imperatives forcing him to behave in uncontrollable ways he didn't really want to follow.


After dinner, a shitty one – as he judged, Sam had yet another guest.

Casey knocked on the door and, hearing no objections, he slipped inside. Sam wasn't sleeping. He welcomed Casey with a sharp look.

"Hi," Casey’s voice was not much louder than a whisper. He was feeling extremely nervous. Those scary eyes, or rather one scary eye and one scary...black something, made it difficult for him to became familiar with the thought that he had fallen in love with someone like this. He had been convinced that the situation, as well as his feelings, had been more or less handled, but now he changed his mind.

"Hi, Batman," Sam sneered derisively. There was no appreciation in his smile.

Casey frowned and stopped halfway across the room, before he reached the bed. He fixed wary eyes on the man in the bed and waited alertly for whatever would come.

"You came to get your thanks? I guess you're proud now. Everyone loves you and you've finally became a man. Tell me, how does it feel to have balls at last?" Sam felt inexplicable rage boiling inside him and was looking for a way to vent it. He spurted the words out cruelly, as if he didn't want Casey to miss even an ounce of his frustration. He watched Casey's face contort with unmerited pain and his posture flag like a flat tire, a clear sign that Sam’s words had hit their target.

But the anticipated satisfaction didn't come. The pain Sam had inflicted wasn't soothing but returned to hurt him instead. He didn't understand why he had to say things like that. They were unjust, they were cruel - they were lies.

In unrealized silent despair he waited for Casey to leave. But Casey suddenly lifted eyes that had gone calm and empty and stared at Sam for a long while, smiling sadly yet with distinct mockery. Finally he shook his head and snorted in a short laugh. "Jesus Christ," he said with resignation and only then turned and left, his steps surprisingly energetic.

Sam closed his eyes. His rage flew away in a moment, leaving him empty and tired. Oh, yes, he was so tired now - of people, of life, of himself. He wouldn't mind dying at all. He had fucked it up. Like always. But for the first time he was fully aware of that fact, and what was more, it hurt.

Sam couldn't know that just behind the door from him Casey had broken down and tears welled up in his eyes. He voicelessly cried out his pain, humiliation, and yet another disappointment. "A fool...a master of fools." He laughed at himself through the tears as he marched back to his room.

Just when he’d managed to accept the difficult possibility, just when he’d decided he would try - why such a blow? Why such a bitter lesson? He'd gone one bridge too far. Now it was time to go back, to regain what he'd lost, save what could still be saved, and knock that psychopath out of his head. He should have done it a long time ago; he was an idiot.

---

Simon sat motionlessly on the chair, his hands lying flat on the table. He stared intently out the window but he didn't see anything, being deeply immersed in his thoughts.

After a long while, having reached some conclusion, he stood up with a decided air and went straight to Casey's room.
He knocked and after hearing a quiet "Come in," he pushed the door open.

Just like Simon had been earlier, Casey was sitting at his table, his face emotionless and his look distant.

"Am I interrupting?" his guest asked.

"Yes. And it's a very lucky thing, actually." Casey closed his eyes and sighed heavily. Then he turned back and smiled sadly. "Sit." He gestured toward the bed.

The agent sat down and rested his elbows on his knees. "Something wrong?" he asked.

"Everything is wrong, I'd say. But that's nothing new, right?" Casey put on a melancholic expression.

"What are you getting at?"

"Nothing. I'm just still off my old balance. I overreact, and I can't regain my inner peace. Maybe you can tell how to do this?" The question was serious.

"Time, Casey," Simon sighed. "Nothing else."

"What about sessions with shrinks?"

"You want to do that?"

"Does it work?"

"I guess. But be careful. If they decide you can't handle something, they'll poke about in your head again." Simon reminded Casey of the memory-clearing procedure.

"Shit." Casey combed his fingers through his hair. "So," he started after a moment of silence, "what did you come for?"

"Well, I—I can see you’ve already talked to Sam, haven't you?" Simon entwined his fingers.

"Huh, fucking pathetic. Yeah." Casey snorted in disgust.

"I thought I might catch you before you went. But since that’s not the case...don't pay too much attention to him. I think it's post-traumatic stress and other shit that makes him hate the whole world right now."

"You think so? So he does react like a human to some situations?" Casey jibed.

"Sometimes." Simon pretended he hadn’t noticed the scorn. "I just don't want you to take it to heart, what he says and does now. We have to last him out."

"Well, good luck," said Casey in sharp, serious voice. "I'm not his brother and I don't have your endurance. I won’t spend my life here trying countless times to approach him and hope I won’t get kicked. Maybe that seems funny to you, but somewhere inside I discovered some dignity. Would you believe it?" He half-smiled with one corner of his mouth.

"Just the opposite, Casey," answered Simon after a moment's thought. "You have so much dignity that you treat everything as a challenge. You have the imperative to pass virtual exams, fulfill expectations, prove your value. That breeds frustration."

"Don't tell me what I am, mister know-it-all!" Casey raised his voice, irritated by the words that mercilessly made him aware of his weaknesses.

"Sure." Simon shrugged, his voice indifferent. "Do what you want, then. Drown in self-pity." He stood up and moved to the door. It wasn't his business, after all. Why should he care? "Just one more thing." He stopped and turned back. It was only fair to give Casey some advice. "As I know my brother better than you, I just want to tell you that what he does is play games. He tries people, pushes them, checks their endurance, waits for their mistakes. That's sick, I know, but that’s how it works and I can’t do anything about it. The thing is, he only loses his control when he can't find a way to rattle you." Simon lifted his brow pointedly.

"He can't, my ass! He does it perfectly. Well, shame on me, right?" Casey snorted, already learning how to direct irony at himself and maintain a healthy distance.

"I don't think so," said Simon thoughtfully. "Your life has been subjected to destabilization in general, but that's not necessarily only his doing. And even if it was, he doesn't have to know about it, does he?" A faint, mocking smile flickered on his lips. "That's not so bad, huh? Think about it." Having said that, he left.

Think about it? "Man, if I think even a bit more, my head will blow up," Casey said with sarcasm to the closed door. Nevertheless, he didn't feel as miserable as before. Pathetic. Still pathetic. Now even more so.

---

The picture was vague, of poor quality. It had been taken on the day of their swearing-in ceremony, probably by some crummy amateur with a disposable camera. The young recruits were lined up and proudly throwing out their chests. Eh, those were the days! Ramson sighed and let himself become immersed in memories for a moment. It had been a long time since he’d remembered how it felt to be proud, enthusiastic, full of dreams and ideals. If he could, would he go back to the time when he could still tell the difference between right and wrong? Maybe. He didn't really think about it.

There, in the third row - his inspirational face and serious look. "Hey, buddy -" Ramson tapped the picture - "you wouldn't believe it if I told you what kind of future is waiting for you. You'd stay out of it. But you're so fucking innocent and naive." He rested his chin on his hand and looked at himself twenty years ago with pity.

His eyes glided over the photography to focus on a young recruit in the center of the fifth row. Ramson gritted his teeth. He brought the picture closer to his eyes and gazed at the young man intently. It was the only picture of George he’d managed to get. It wasn’t much. I found you anyway, buddy. You should have let it go.... He squinted his eyes, their expression cold. You should have let it go.

The sound of his mobile phone tore him away from his reflections.

"Yes, I'm listening."

"I got in," a woman's voice said. The number on the display indicated that the caller was Sarah.

"Good job," Ramson praised her. "How?"

"I just told him everything," she answered defiantly.

"What?" he almost shouted in disbelief, tensing suddenly. "Are you insane?"

"Nothing of the kind. I've built my credibility," Sarah explained calmly.

"Report!" Ramson muttered through his teeth. "Now!"

"I picked him up, as we agreed. He took me to the hotel. I thought it would be pretty hard to pretend I didn’t know anything about him when in fact I'm like a walking police file, so I told him I worked for the FBI."

The man kept silent for a while before he said slowly, "Okay, the double agent?"

"Exactly. He bought it," Sarah confirmed. "He was quite interested in my knowledge, of course."

"And then?" the colonel asked coolly.

"And then - " she hesitated for a second - "then I went to the bedroom and said I'd wait there in case he had some more questions to ask." The information about the huge load of drugs she’d pumped into her body to be able to complete the first step she kept to herself. She didn't also mention that after the intoxicating night she had pissed like crazy all day and thrown up her guts, a result of the drying-out treatment she’d carried out on herself. It was the price she had decided to pay for professionalism. An occupational risk - that was all there was to it.

"Facts, agent, facts!" Ramson was interested in effects, not in measures. "I'm not gonna listen to your romantic stories."

"That's it. No more facts," Sarah answered brusquely, thinking ironically of how twisted Ramson's idea of romanticism would be. "He came to the bedroom, of course. But he didn't have any questions."

Ramson snorted, smiling involuntarily. "End of story," he added, his voice a little nicer. "I'm delighted. Keep up the good work, agent."

"Yes, sir. Tomorrow, then."

She broke the connection and Ramson put down the phone, relaxed and satisfied. She did surprisingly well, he thought. For a woman who was almost pathologically allergic to sexuality with all its expressions, she had committed a real act of heroism. The colonel smirked at the thought of her ambition and determination that enabled her to effect such a miracle.

Of course, judging by Sarah's achievements to date he still might have expected everything. But having nothing to lose, he’d decided to try her. And although the investment was still unstable, the risk wasn't high, and so far things were going smoothly.

Give me his head, my Salome. Ramson tossed the picture in the drawer.

---

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