The Jigsaw

Thank you very much for your reviews. They warmed my heart and really gave me motivation :)

Aleks—well, this time drinking had no serious consequences ;)
ASOTA—my batteries got charged wonderfully; thus the continuation ;)

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Under Pressure

5th of October

"Good morning, everyone." Ramson entered the meeting room. "We have a job."

Six pairs of eyes focused on him.

"For two months now the FBI and a group of specialists, computer scientists among them, have been working on the Milano Bank case. Casey, you know the problem, right?"

"Yes, I've been working on it for a while." That explains my presence here. Somewhat.

"They picked up a track and the perpetrator has been located. This is where we take action." The agent turned on the projector and dimmed the room light. "As you well know, this was the first explosion of an unknown number of threats." A slide showing an e-mail message appeared on the screen.

THE MILANO BANK IS MERELY A PRELUDE.
ANOTHER EXPLOSION WILL TAKE PLACE WHEN THE TIME IS RIGHT.
FEAR AND WAIT, AS YOU CAN DO NOTHING TO STOP IT.

"The tracks lead to the mob," Ramson continued. "At least they’re responsible for blowing up the bank databases. Jeffrey Karnov, or whatever his real name is, is the main suspect and our goal." The next slide showed a middle-aged man with dark hair, dark eyes, and an aquiline nose.

"This is the guy. Forty years old, living in Chicago. No wife, no children. No strong family ties. He has old records of some petty crimes like tax scams, fraud, thefts, and so on. Now he’s the owner of a catering company. Receptions, weddings, parties. He has ties to the VanGershon group that begin around eight years ago, when one of the middle-ranking members helped him out of jail while waiting for his trial. He was to be convicted on a charge of smuggling. They got him out of trouble and he joined them—there must have been some kind of deal involved."

The next slides showed Karnov at the beach, Karnov at the Orchid Club, Karnov standing next to his BMW, Karnov at a modern art vernissage, Karnov in jail, Karnov in a courtroom.

"Here, these are copies of his dossier. Read them after the briefing." Ramson handed the listeners grey files.

"Our task is to find, capture, and interrogate him. The matter is urgent as nobody knows where and when the potential attacks will be planned. The FBI still doesn't have any information confirming a connection between the explosion and the threatening message, but they assume that Karnov should take us to the source. It's not established whether he was working alone or on behalf of his patrons. Or maybe he was contracted by someone else. We have to figure it out."

"Why us?" Simon cut in.

"As I said, it's urgent. There’s no time for official investigations, interrogations, testimonies, lawyers, and so on. If he lands in court his pals will pull him out. Of course, the official machine is running too, independently. We have to do this quickly, quietly, and effectively. It shouldn't be difficult, a routine job. The guy’s probably in Chicago; he has no reason to hide."

"How did they find him?" Sam asked.

"I don't know. They have their ways."

"But if they discovered the guy they know what we know, possibly even more. Maybe they’re there already. How are we supposed to beat them to the punch?"

"The guy in charge gave us the green light. They want us to find the guy, so the FBI field agents don't have this information yet and they probably won't be given all of it. So we go straight to the point while they have to sniff around. We have a few days’ advantage. But in case they work faster than we expect, we’ll have to move in double- time."

The next slide was of a small beige house in a garden. The next was a view of the whole street: one-story houses, lime trees lining the road, new but rather modest cars.

"This is where he lives. It’s residential district, the address is in the files. He has two dogs." The next slide was a photo of a couple of Dobermans.

"We managed to dig out the property plan together with information on the security system." A detailed map of Karnov's land appeared on the screen, with cameras, sensors, and other safety or alarm systems marked.

"That's all we have. He doesn't stick his neck out, so his face is definitely not one that’s well known to the FBI. Small fry."

"If he’s such a quiet guy, why the explosives? He seems to be quite well set up. Why does he do that personally?" Simon drew his brows.

"Who knows?" Ramson smiled faintly. "That, among other things, is what we’d like to know. Now let's proceed to the operational details."

The light was turned up and everyone in the room blinked in the sudden brightness.

"Okay. In the files you have all the documents you need and all the information about your characters. You'll go to Chicago by different routes, in twos: Simon and Sarah, Bravo; Linda and Ryan, Charlie; Sam and Casey, Delta." At these words Casey jerked his head up and gave Sam an annoyed look. Sam didn't smirk although he felt the urge to.

I thought you’d smirk. Casey made a wry face.

Ramson continued, "Thera stays here to be my contact with you. Alfa." Thera knitted his brows and clenched his teeth, rubbing his forehead with his hand. Ramson just glimpsed at him warningly.

"I know, I didn’t say anything," Thera sighed resignedly.

"Good. That's what I thought. You’ll stay in three different hotels and carry out your inquiries. When you find Karnov, you have permission to take him. Keep in contact with me. A short report will be required every day at 22:00 to ensure that you're alive and kicking. If something happens, we’ll deal with matters as they arise, as usual. Questions?"

"Yes." The S hissed in Sam's mouth. "What is Casey's job there?"

Everyone knew what Casey's job was, including Sam. The question was asked not because it needed an answer but as a treacherous attempt to emphasize the fact that Casey was an outsider in the group of special agents. Casey could feel the oblique disrespect for his role among the team.

Ramson pretended he hadn't caught the hidden meaning.

"You’re going to interrogate the suspect. The matter regards the database system and who knows what else in the future. Casey's team has been working on it for a while. That's why he might be able to get important information there, directly from the guy, by searching his home, computer, or whatever."

Sam sneered and Casey clenched his fists in anger under the table. He’d done nothing to that guy. He wasn't pretending to be an agent, and on top of everything else this wasn’t his idea.

What is his problem?

For some time now Sam had been harassing him, and for what? For his existence, it seemed. Whatever he might do or say, he couldn't free himself of the “decent boy” label Sam had given him. Sam was the only person Casey couldn't manage to communicate with without nasty, biting remarks. It was cold comfort that he wasn't a special case; no one except Simon could find a way to deal with Sam. Not that Casey was a victim or felt like one. Actually he could stand up pretty well to Sam in their battles of words. But that wasn’t the point. He didn't like the situation, finding it simply tiring. He'd rather maintain normal, all-right relations with everybody and not get tangled up in weird, troublesome games. This was something he couldn't achieve despite the efforts he’d made. The worst of it was that he didn't understand why and couldn't stop trying. It was so annoying.

And now he had been paired with Sam, with the prospect of spending days in his irritating presence. He wished it was someone else. Of course, it would mean exactly the same torture for Sarah, with her “allergy” to Sam's sexist attitude, and probably for Ryan too. Usually Sam ignored Ryan, but if Sam had nobody else to play with, Ryan would get a drubbing. Casey wouldn't care so much about them being in trouble if only he could trade the partner he was stuck with. Unfortunately he couldn't. The only option he had was to prepare for hard times ahead.

---

The nearly empty plane set down smooth on the runway and slowly taxied to the concourse. The few passengers quickly dispersed in the enormous, deserted airport hall.

Neil Wesley and David Lindt approached the first cab in line. The driver helped them load their suitcases in the trunk and turned on the meter.

"Where to?"

"Forty-eight, Washington Avenue. La Palma Hotel," Neil said, straightening the slip of paper with the address written on it.

"I'm right on it!"

They fell silent.

---

Here we are, Casey thought, but neither of them said a word when the door to the two-room suite clicked and opened. They hadn't talked much that day. Some hackneyed sentences, yeses, noes. It was a nice surprise for Casey, who had been like a cat on a hot tin roof for the entire journey, constantly expecting skirmishes with Sam.

Not wanting to spoil this delicate balance, Casey stood at the door with his suitcase waiting for Sam to choose his room first. But Sam just threw his luggage on the floor and lit a cigarette. Then, with a “home at last” sigh, he sprawled on the big brown sofa in the living room and threw his head back, ignoring everything, including Casey. Or maybe Casey in particular. Casey put on a moderately resigned expression and headed for the nearer bedroom. Just as he turned the knob, he heard, "That would be mine."

"We had it coming, huh?" Casey answered with a bitter half-smile. "But no problem, I'll take the other one." He didn’t even look in Sam's direction as he moved to the second door. He was just about to go in when Sam started, "You know.."

"Yeah, I can guess. You've changed your mind, right? I knew you’d say that and you knew I’d ignore it this time." Casey was determined not to get provoked. Not yet, at least. He pushed the door open and placed his stuff on the bed.

"Get out of there. Please," Sam was still lying on the sofa, observing the smoke circles floating in the air.

"Stop looking for pretexts, no one needs them. Get to the point. Wanna fight or what?"

"Nah, not particularly."

"Good. Whatever it is, then, I don't give a shit." Casey closed the door carefully, refraining from slamming it.

"Sure. Let’s just see for how long," Sam whispered to himself, sneering, and dragged on the cigarette.

Casey felt anger boiling up inside and everything in his body and mind was looking for a vent for his suppressed emotions. He was furious at Sam for his casual wickedness, at the situation for being stuck in it, and at himself for being unable to stay unaffected. What was more, he couldn't even fight with Sam; as soon as he got provoked it would be his defeat. Literally and figuratively. It was a deadlock.

He grabbed a T-shirt and sweatpants, put on his sneakers, and left, flying across the living room fast enough not to get caught by another of Sam's ideas. To run until his mind was empty was the only way to relieve the tension and vent his anger.

Sam smiled to himself and slowly got up. He entered Casey's room and sat on the bed near the opened suitcase. He casually rummaged through Casey’s personal belongings, not particularly interested nor looking for anything special, but just because it happened to be so close, and open. Kind of pro forma.

The feeling of irritation had been building for weeks. To Sam's surprise it wasn't Casey who was so irritating. What was so infuriating was the fact that he actually WASN'T. Sam found it quite entertaining to wait for Casey's reactions and answers, to watch the younger man struggle in his trap. Sam didn't like him for that. He didn’t like himself for being interested, or for having such endurance. If Casey was only weaker or more impulsive, this would be so much easier. Sam would have pushed his patience beyond the limit and that would be it. Game over. But Casey was too smart, that son of a bitch. Not being patient by nature, he was nevertheless wise enough to keep avoiding open confrontation. Sam, on the contrary, was pushing for it, partly because he liked Casey's dodges and striking back, partly because he wanted to break him and have the man under control. He thumbed mechanically through a tattered book and threw it back into the suitcase. From the corner of his eye he caught the title: “Hagakure”. What is this shit? He reached for the book once more and opened it at a random page.

"To hate injustice and to preach justice—this is a difficult objective. However, if we accept preaching justice as the highest value and strive only after this, we will make many mistakes. The Way is something higher than justice. Recognizing this truth is not easy. It is the greatest wisdom. Justice and the like watched from this height are but trifles."

Well, that's kinda good.

"Righteousness is a strength to take without hesitation the way shown by reason. The way, which dictates to die when it is needed and to strike when it is needed."

Sam drew his brows together and flipped through some pages.

"On a battlefield you must try not to be outdistanced by anybody and think only about breaking through the enemy's defenses."

Sam snorted a short laugh and lay down on the bed. Bullshit, my ass. He didn't even notice when he had became involved. The sound of the door opening shook him out of the reading. Very briefly he considered putting the book back in the suitcase and just sitting there, but he gave that thought up and stayed as if he hadn't heard anything.

"Enjoying yourself?" Casey asked dispassionately, leaning against the door frame. He was all sweaty, his T-shirt clinging tightly to his body. Drops streamed down his temples and dripped from the wet strands of tied-back blond hair.

"Yes, thank you. So this is your bible, mister warrior?"

"I'd appreciate a direct revelation from a prophet like you, but as you don't give a shit, I have to settle for what I have."

"It's not bad, you know? There’s some bullshit about honor, bravery, the master and servant thing, and all that jazz, but in general I like it."

"Fantastic. Every samurai would be delighted." Casey stepped inside and took his towel, not bothering to comment on Sam's presence in his room or the fact that his property had been dug through, and disappeared into the bathroom.

---

"Sheeesh. Home sweet home!" Ryan stretched.

"You adapt easily. Already feeling at home?" Linda smiled. She had a nice, calm smile. “Calm” was a perfect word to describe her in general: character, behavior, smile, expression. Very composed, introverted, she preferred listening to speaking. She had short, thick, dark brown hair and hazel eyes with long eyelashes that gave her face the gentle look of a doe. She was not particularly beautiful, rather inconspicuous and of stocky build; all her charm was concentrated in those big, sad eyes.

"You could say so. Citizen of the world." Ryan returned her warm smile. "Are you tired?"

"Not particularly. I’m used to being on the go. Why?"

"You want to rest today or wander around? Or anything else?"

"We could take a walk, I think. Just let me get a shower first, okay?"

"Yeah, sure. I'll grab one too."

An hour later, refreshed and in clean clothes, Linda and Ryan were sitting in the little fast-food restaurant at a nearby intersection.

"May I ask you a question?" Ryan started.

"Well, I guess so."

"I—hmm, you’re—well, you were Sarah's tutor. What is she like? I mean, I know her. But it's different for you."

"You like her?"

"I won’t deny it. It's pretty obvious, anyway." Ryan grinned at his confession.

Linda felt a slight prick of resentment. Of course she’d noticed the way Ryan and the others were followed Sarah with their eyes. It was absolutely understandable. Sarah was a beauty. And there was nothing special about Ryan, that she should feel jealous or hurt. She wasn't even looking for a man, convinced that it was easier to be single while a job like this. But there was that little part of her feminine nature that always felt disappointed at having to listen to men's fascination with another woman. As if she wasn't even considered in that context.

Well, not “as if”. I'm just not. She smiled, swallowing the familiar taste of bitterness.

"She is attractive. Very attractive," she said thoughtfully.

"Yeah, you bet she is."

"Aaand… she knows it."

"Would be difficult not to know."

"Aaand… she doesn't like it, I think."

Ryan knitted his brows in confusion. "Why? Isn't it nice to be admired?"

"I don't know. I'd say it is. But she might think differently. You know, it’s nothing special to her any more. She probably got used to it and now it’s a bother. All these men seeing only her face and trying to seduce her in more or less sophisticated manner. I like her. She works hard and disregards preferential treatment. She’s nothing like a conceited princess. I-I'm not that pretty, so I should feel very unremarkable around her, but I don't. She’s kind of supportive, you know?"

"You’re not unremarkable, Linda. You have the most beautiful eyes I've ever seen and I’m sure Sarah bites her nails out of envy every night, when nobody sees."

"Wow, that's… hmm, nice. Thank you," Linda blushed slightly, thinking that was really enough. She didn't need much to feel good and in place. Why should I expect attention if I never try to attract it? Maybe if I did.. Whatever. She gave up her speculations, cheered by the honest compliment. "Well, if I were to advise you, I'd say she won't be taken in by gallant manners and royal treatment."

"Thanks for the hint. I’m not good at it, it seems."

"As many different ways as there are people in the world."

"Reservation for Mister Corell?"

"That's right."

"Sign here, please."

Simon signed the hotel register.

"Thank you, here are your keys. Jeremy," the receptionist beckoned the bellhop, "will show you the way."

The young boy called Jeremy bowed politely and grabbed the two suitcases.

The elevator took them to the seventh floor.

"Wow, this is quite an apartment." Sarah looked around the room. When her eyes rested on the double bed, she froze. "What’s this supposed to mean?"

"What does it look like?" Simon answered with a question. He’d been expecting this sort of reaction.

"I’d rather sleep alone."

"I know. But you don't have a choice."

"Please understand." She clenched her teeth for a moment, trying to sound reasonable. "It's not that I’m a moody puritan, for whatever it’s worth. I just want to know why I have to pretend to be your wife, girlfriend or whatever it is. Why can't we stay in separate rooms?"

"Because we’re trying to remain as banal and easy to forget as possible. With that face of yours it'll be difficult enough, so let's try not to add more things for people to wonder about. Let's be as normal and boring as possible. Okay?"

"Look who’s talking. I saw how the receptionist was sneaking peeks at you."

"Well, that's all the more reason."

"Okay. I'll live. I just wanted you to know that jumping into men's beds isn't exactly what I consider good fun."

"I’d know without you telling me that." Simon rolled his eyes impatiently. " Remember that I’m not the one who planned this, I'm not the one who booked this room, and finally, I'm not someone who’s just waiting in his bed for any willing girl who’d like to jump in. And now that we’ve got that straight, which side: right or left?"

"Whatever." Sarah ignored the question and, shrugging, started laying out toiletries in the bathroom.

"Fine, then I’ll take the right." Simon sat on the bed and took his shoes off. "You’re lucky it's not Sam, anyway," he said teasingly.

"Yeah, I know that without you telling me." She smiled and winked at him, not sulking at all. They both laughed, relaxing.

"Do you like him?" she asked suddenly, leaning her hip against the sink.

"What?"

"Do you like him?"

"How could I not? He's my brother."

"No, no, no. Because he’s your brother, you love him. But do you like him, as a person?"

"Hmm, that's a difficult question." Simon knitted his brows and fixed his eyes on the ceiling. "I guess I do."

"Why?"

"Well, why not?"

"Oh, there are plenty of reasons."

"Right." Simon laughed. "Maybe because I understand him, partially at least. I’ve managed to learn about him, more or less, over the years. Maybe because he’s constant and loyal. Or maybe because he likes me?" He smiled.

"How do you know he likes you?"

"Because he doesn't behave towards me like he does towards people he definitely doesn't like."

"That’s almost everyone, I'm afraid."

Simon didn't answer, just arched his brows.

Sarah scrutinized him for a moment before asking, "And how do you know you know him well? How do you know your assumption of him being constant and loyal is correct?"

"Every experimental theory is good until you find an exception. I haven't."

"Yet," she emphasized.

"Yet." He nodded in agreement. He was perfectly aware of the fact that his brother might have some dark recesses of his soul that were closed even to him. Everyone has their secrets. Everyone can be unpredictable sometimes.

"It's difficult to know him, isn't it?" Sarah asked softly.

"Very. Why?" Simon tilted his head and looked at Sarah with a thoughtful expression on his face.

"I don't know. Curiosity. He’s like an iceberg. Well, a very mean and nasty iceberg. Only you seem to get through to him."

"That's because it’s only me who’s his brother."

"You might have a point." Sarah turned off the light in the bathroom and got down to unpacking her suitcase.

---

Sunday morning was fresh. It was already October and the days were becoming shorter and chilly. A gusty north wind raged through the streets, raising clouds of dust, lifting skirts, and blowing hats off. Casey shuddered slightly and took a deep breath. For a short moment, until the air in his respiratory tract warmed up, he took delight in the wave of cool air that slowly animated his brain.

He started his day with a quick warm-up and five-mile run, as usual.

When he got back to the hotel, the shower was occupied by Sam. Still hot and panting, Casey took the mineral water out of the refrigerator and drank a few long gulps. Then he pulled off his wet T-shirt and threw it on the floor. He knocked his roommate's sportswear, drenched with sweat, off the couch and sat down, continuing to drink. He sank into the soft velour and closed his eyes. He still felt his heartbeat racing and the blood pulsating in his temples.

The sound of running water died away and after a few minutes of silence the bathroom door opened.

"Hi." Sam smiled nicely. He was still wet. Apparently he hadn't bothered to dry himself. He must have gone to the effort of ruffling his hair with a towel, as the black strands were a wild mess, but water still dripped from the wisps that fell over his face. He had a white hotel towel wrapped around his hips.

"Hi," Casey answered warily, expecting a catch. But to his surprise there was none. Sam turned around and Casey sighed, confused and even slightly amused by his own impulsive anticipation of trouble after the simple “Hi”. Then an amazing sight met Casey's eyes. Sam’s back was covered by a great tattoo of an attacking eagle. The bird's wings reached Sam's shoulders, and the snake in its talons meandered down his spine and disappeared behind the towel. The picture was incorporated into an ornamental circle with strange words and tribal symbols, and only the wings and the snake crossed its boundaries.

"Wow." Casey couldn't stop himself from expressing amazement. The design was exceptionally impressive.

"Wow what?" Sam stopped and looked back. "Oh, right." He immediately guessed the reason for Casey's reaction. "You haven't seen it before?"

"No."

"How could that happen? We've been training together quite a lot, after all."

"I don't know. I've always seen you in your training clothes or something."

"Yeah, I don't remember inviting you to the beach party either," Sam smirked.

"As far as I remember you don't need a beach party to get rid of your shirt," Casey snapped back. He stood up, grabbing his dirty T-shirt from the floor. Just a few seconds earlier he had intended to ask about the meaning of the tattooed symbols, but the moment had passed. He entered the bathroom and closed the door behind him. The air inside was still warm and humid, scented with a fresh and sensuous combination of shower gel and perfume, bittersweet and heavy. Soft but with an indefinable sharp, aggressive accent, wrapping the body and pleasing the senses.

"To be honest, I like them," he stated after brief consideration, as he was taking his pants off.

"What are you mumbling there?" Sam shouted back from his room. It was the room Casey eventually had to leave the evening before.

"Your tattoos! I like them," Casey answered and ran the tepid water.

"Sure you do. Everybody does." The words were said quietly, more to Sam himself than to Casey.

The shower took Casey ten minutes, washing his sport clothes another fifteen. When he left the bathroom, wrapped in the towel and with his wrung-out laundry, Sam was already dressed. He sat at the kitchen table drinking coffee and reading the newspaper. An intensive coffee aroma permeated the air.

The red, fitted shirt with a black design on the left side of the chest, unbuttoned at the neck, went well with Sam's black hair and the neck tattoo. Loose black military pants with big pockets on the thighs and a heavy leather belt with a massive, tarnished buckle completed his outfit. He wore a modern, casual watch with a wide, heavy black strap, and a remarkable necklace with a silver clasp at the front. A glowing cigarette was stuck in the corner of his mouth.

An advertisement. A real advertisement for something very expensive and very tempting.

"What?" Sam stopped reading and gave Casey a questioning look.

"Nothing. I just thought you looked like an advertisement."

"For?"

"I don't know. Probably something that doesn't really need advertising."

Sam's gaze became cautious.

"Deal the final blow, will ya?"

"Artificial and misleading," Casey sighed, opening the balcony to hang out his clothes.

Sam laughed in his sleeve and changed the subject. "Want some coffee, mister content-over-form? Only black is available. I'm not your servant."

"Sure, thanks, mister form-over-everything-else."

They both burst into genuine laughter.

Casey liked these rare moments when they seemed to be on good terms. Indeed, it would be unwise to lower his guard, as Sam was just waiting for it, ready to stick in the sting. But it was always a pleasant surprise to find a flower growing between flagstones.

"Where did you get the newspaper?" Casey asked, sipping his mocha.

"Hotel lounge."

"Something interesting?"

"Nope. Here, read if you want."

"Nah, I'm just asking to keep the conversation going."

"Oh! Sorry. I didn't mean to thwart your efforts."

"No problem, I have some reserve subjects. This is what I've learned during our supposed cooperation."

"So what’s your next standby topic?"

"You were running early today."

"Yes, indeed." Sam stared at Casey with a half-smile and fake, kind interest on his face.

"Aaand—" Casey took a look around and suddenly realized there was no sign of Sam's clothes anywhere— "what did you do with your sportswear?" It was a stupid question, Casey knew it before he finished asking, but the thought somehow slipped out of his mouth.

"Threw it into a bin."

"What?"

"I got rid of them."

"Are you crazy? Why?"

"They were dirty, weren't they?"

"Washing. That’s what you do with dirty clothes!"

"No, that’s what you do with dirty clothes. I don't wash sportswear. End of discussion."

"Sheeesh, you’re a freak." Casey shook his head in amazement and fell silent.

They finished their morning coffee and Sam ordered, "Get dressed. We're going to take a look at the house. We'll grab something to eat on the way."

"No hotel breakfast?"

"No, we’re not going somewhere the other guests will remember us."

"Sure. Your tattoo’s really something they’d forget right away."

Sam’s warning look preventing him from continuing the subject. Casey just stood up and marched off to his room, holding up his towel, which had loosened while sitting.

He showed up again five minutes later wearing jeans, a black turtleneck, and a leather motorcycle-style jacket. His hair was still damp so he put on a herringbone tweed flat-topped cap.

"Here. Take a look if you need to." Sam was bent over the files they’d got from Ramson, pictures of Karnov, his house, and places he used to frequent.

"I remember it. I have a good memory."

"Really? So what kind of trees are growing around Karnov's house? How many?"

Casey drew his brows and concentrated. "Fourteen or fifteen, from the picture. I don't know about in reality. Chestnuts."

"Fifteen," Sam said after the short silence, his eyes fixed on Casey. "You have a good memory," he admitted.

"Mm-hm, I’m a visualizer."

"Good, it might be helpful. Let's go."

Sam grabbed his black military jacket and a grey backpack stuffed with camouflage clothes, just in case, and they left the apartment.

On the corner of Cavalry and Armstrong streets there was a little fast-food kiosk. They ordered two hamburgers and fresh carrot juice and ate the small meal while they walked slowly, in silence. It was nine o'clock. The garish, almost white sun rose, but the morning was still cold and the day promised to be chilly. The traffic at this hour was heavy: people in a rush to get to work, cars honking in traffic jams, parents walking kids to school and kindergartens students sauntering to classes, news vendors, beggars, and people wandering around for any number of reasons. With streets full of sounds and commotion, the city was welcoming the new day.

Casey did up his jacket and pushed his hands into the pockets. He looked around, curious about Chicago. But his impression was at most moderate: massive grey, box-like buildings, squalid tenements, crude, lousy graffiti on the walls, and rubbish in the streets.

i>Either we’re in the dull district or all of Chicago is like this.

"Have you been here before?" Casey asked to quiet his curiosity.

"Sure. A few times."

"Is this all there is to Chicago?" He gestured around with his head.

"No. The center is better," Sam answered lighting up a Marlboro. "A lot of skyscrapers, huge edifices, glass, steel. Not as dirty as here. But nothing particularly interesting. No match for New York or L.A."

"You smoke a lot."

"Yes, I do. Don't even think about saying it's killing me."

"But it is."

"Fuck, you love stating the obvious, don't you? That's a good start for cooperation today. Anything more to reveal, Einstein? You can walk ten steps away from me if you find it bad for your health."

Fuck you. Casey didn't say anything, just ignored Sam with an emotionless face, hiding his exasperation with difficulty. Before Sam had finished his cigarette they had reached the subway station.

Sam examined the subway routes plan, searching for Primrose Avenue. He found it, ground out the cigarette in the wastebasket ashtray, and started to the ticket booth. Casey followed him silently. They bought two tickets and after a few minutes they were sitting, facing each other, in the train, heading to the suburbs. Each of them pretended to be alone, ignoring the other's presence and staring through the window.

After the third stop a provocatively dressed girl approached them. For an instant she hesitated, examining them intently, and finally settled herself near Casey. He smiled to her politely, wondering if she had chosen this place because she had wanted to sit near him or specifically wanted to be opposite Sam. The latter seemed more probable as he caught the ill-concealed interest in her sidelong glances cast at the dark-haired man. Sam must have noticed too because he suddenly looked her straight in the eyes, totally disconcerting her, and scrutinized her without any sign of embarrassment.

Her skin was brown, almost orange, due to a generous dose of bronzer or self-tanning lotion. It looked pretentious and ridiculous in combination with her over-bleached hair. A lot of make-up didn’t help, nor did her scanty clothes, which emphasized her plump, ample curves.

Sam arched one brow and turned his eyes back to the window, his face expressing nothing. The girl must have misunderstood his reaction; she pulled down her tight-fitting, low-cut sweater to expose her charms even more and crossed her legs in a way she probably had intended to look seductive.

Casey smiled ironically, following her efforts out of the corner of his eye. On the one hand he anticipated Sam's shabby idea of fobbing the girl off; on the other he felt sorry for her. Actually, he really would like the girl to turn up razor-sharp and kick Sam's ass, but judging by her appearance that wasn’t going to happen. Fortunately for her and a bit unexpectedly for Casey, Sam completely lost his interest in their casual companion, closed his eyes, and became absorbed in his own thoughts. A shadow of disappointment appeared on both the girl's and Casey's faces.

You don't even know how lucky you are, doll. Casey smiled at her again and she returned the smile. For a moment he was afraid she would transfer her interest to him, but apparently he wasn't her type as she just fixed her eyes on the floor and got off at the next stop.

"Annoying," Sam commented, still looking out the window. He decided he should clear the air a little bit. They were going to spend the whole day working together, so a truce was desirable.

"Oh, so you do understand Sarah with her attitude." Casey was not going to bury the hatchet so fast.

"Sure." His partner made a philosophical expression. "If I didn't, I wouldn't know where to strike, would I?"

Casey opened his mouth to comment but closed it immediately and snorted with a disbelieving half-smile. "Shit," he said finally. You’re a hell of a bastard. And you know it, which makes you an even worse bastard. But instead of disapproval, a faint smile flickered across his face. It was a strange conclusion Casey had come to. There is a level of perfidy above which it becomes an art. Sam was a bastard on a grand scale. He handled being a bastard in a masterly way that was rarely observed. It was awful and reprehensible but, on the other hand, impressive, and Casey felt he was starting to like it. Well, he was annoyed by it, sometimes even disgusted, but still attracted. He had always admired people who could stump him and wished he had Sam’s incredible ability to find a sharp retort at the right moment instead of five minutes later.

The train stopped and the door opened with a quiet hiss.

"We're leaving." Sam rose and got off. Casey had to hurry to be able to jump out before the closing signal.

"Do you have a map?" Casey looked around, searching for the right exit from the platform.

"Sure. So you don't remember the way? Don't you have a photographic memory?"

"Never said that. I remember details, but I haven't been trying to imprint the map in my memory."

"Good. No need to spoil it."
They went up the stairs leading out of the station. The landscape had changed distinctly. Skyscrapers and barracks had disappeared and in their place was estates of both detached and row houses surrounded by greenery.

"Where to now?"

"There." Sam indicated the direction with his head, lighting his umpteenth cigarette.

"How do you know?"

"Because I have imprinted the map in my memory."

"Hey, didn't you say that’s spoiling it?"

"I did. I wasn't serious."

He could have knocked Casey down with a feather. Once again he had been left in the lurch.

"Come on, don't bear a grudge for that, okay?" Sam didn't sound mocking.

"Yeah. Sure."

"Okay, that's it." Sam's eyes rested discreetly on a neat, rather small house but he didn't stop.

"Mm-hm." Casey had been trained well enough not to stare openly; he just glanced indifferently at the mansion.

"Car’s not here. Either he left or he keeps it in the garage."

"So what are we gonna do now?"

"Check if he's home."

"Listen, don't make me ask questions about every detail, okay? Just give me an overview. As much as you find necessary."

"Your wish is my command." Sam smirked, inhaling the smoke.

They found a phone booth at the crossroads. Sam fished a phone number scribbled on a piece of paper out of his pocket. He covered the receiver with a handkerchief and dialed the number. Five seconds. Ten seconds. Fifteen. The cigarette was burning away between his fingers.

"Hello, Martin Henster speaking. Can I talk to Mister Johnson? Oh, I’m sorry to have disturbed you. Have a nice day."

Sam hung up the phone. "To the bar, then." He flicked the ash from the end of his cigarette onto the sidewalk and slowly moved towards the Black Cat.

It was a typical low-class bar, a haven for those who spent hours sitting at grease-stained tables raising consecutive beers with hands that trembled more and more and looked for philosophical answers at the bottom of every glass, or just killed the time.

The inside was dark and seedy, with some kitschy plastic decorations, artificial flowers, and hideous paper Picasso reproductions.

"So, come up with one of your standby topics, would you? We're facing a long, friendly chat here," Sam suggested in hushed tones after they had sat down at the window table with beer mugs. Sam could observe Karnov's house from there. Due to the time of day the place was almost empty; just a few regular souses occupied the counter and two tables by the wall.

"We can be friendly to the extent of understanding each other without words," Casey answered, giving his partner a sour face.

"Clever. And enticing. But not agreeable."

"To be honest, I’m not that enthusiastic about the prospect of trying to entertain you while you thwart all my efforts. Your turn."

"Okay, so tell me something about this book of yours," Sam suggested.

"'Hagakure'?"

"Mm-hm."

"It means 'In the Shadow of Leaves'. That's an impression on the subject of bushido, the warrior code of the samurai. Actually it's not even an impression. It's the way one of the great samurais understood bushido."

"What is this code about?"

"Allegiance and obedience to one's master, perfecting oneself, courage, growing accustomed to the thought of death and being ready for it."

"Just like me, I guess," Sam snorted.

"Maybe a bit, but you don't believe in the rightness of what you do, do you?"

"If I didn't, I wouldn't be doing it."

"Perhaps I'm wrong, but I think you just have a reason. Faith and reason are not the same things. I mean, you’re loyal not just because of your respect and blind submission to Ramson, Turner, or whatnot."

"Shit, I'm not a samurai then. What a pity." Sam laughed quietly and pulled out a cigarette. He slid it between his lips and slowly opened his Zippo. The faint red glow lit his face for a second and his eyes sparkled demonically before they were veiled by the white cloud of smoke.

"So, if you could choose once again, would you choose to work here?" Casey continued the conversation.

"Dunno. If it paid."

"Do you always express everything in terms of profit?"

"Often enough, I guess."

"Don't you think it's kinda shallow?"

"Many people would say so. They can't assess value well enough so they take everything for a song. Their claims to do something for idealistic reasons are in fact just to satisfy their need to be acknowledged as good people and feel great. What's so noble about that?"

"What about sacrifice? Love? Honor?"

"They don’t come with any guarantee. They always work until they don't."

"You sound bitter."

"Just realistic. But call it what you want."

"You don't value human life much, do you?"

"Oh, no. I do value mine. That's still human, right?" Sam smirked ironically. "But indeed, I could show you lives that aren't worth a damn. Probably mine included."

"I could show you ones you can't put a price on."

"Everything has its price and everything is for sale. The only thing you need is a good measure to know the real value of what you’re buying or selling. And then you settle the price. For life you can always pay with a life, if you find it worthy."

"With mine?"

"Well, that's an option. It depends on your calculations. But I personally would prefer someone else's." Sam dragged on a cigarette.

"Jesus Christ."

"Geeez." Sam rolled his eyes impatiently. "That's what we do, right? It's our job. And don't be so noble. I bet my ass you could kill without thinking twice if you thought it was the right thing to do."

"No way! I mean, I hope not. But even if I did—although I don't think I would—I'd do it because it'd be somehow right. To defend someone, for example. There would be still some idea behind it, the faith. Or—" Casey stopped for a second, trying to imagine such a case— "what’s much more likely, despair."

"Oh, sure. You’re God almighty who knows what’s right. In both situations the man is dead, so what is the difference? I’ll tell you even more: you should be afraid of those who kill for ideals. Or those who are broken or in despair, as you so aptly put it. You never know what they have in their heads. Throughout history, ideals have been the cause of terrible massacres, you know? Sick fictions of twisted or broken minds. And the trade is always a trade. You always know where you stand. Clear and fair. Besides, it's better to kill for payment than for free, don't you think?"

"So you never do things that aren’t profitable?" Casey was still not convinced.

"Rarely."

"Shit, man." Casey shook his head in disbelief. "That's sort of a poor life."

Sam fixed his black eyes on Casey and stared at him intently. He didn't answer immediately, weighing his thoughts. There was something in those eyes that made Casey feel uncomfortable and he knew he had said something very tactless. He was expecting harsh words but Sam just blew a smoke in his face and said slowly, "Not at all. It's quite affluent if I look after my payment properly."

They fell silent. Casey felt the strange awkwardness between them and was aware of having gone overboard.

"I know what you’re thinking," Sam stated without a trace of a smile, still looking at him.

"You do?" Casey asked quietly, strangely confused. He gazed at the amber alcohol in his mug. I drink too much. I used to drink much less before.

"Yes. And you know what? You’re absolutely right. It’s none of your fucking business."

---

The phone started to vibrate. Ryan picked it up.

"Yes?"

"Hi, are you doing something constructive now?"

"What do you think?"

"Dunno, cause we've been drinking beer for—well, it's been three hours or so."

"The guy still hasn't left?"

"Mm-hm."

"We're checking clubs right now."

"How about we switch jobs? We're becoming a bit too recognizable here."

"I'll ask Linda." The muffled voices murmured into the handset and after a bit Ryan answered, "We'll be there in half an hour."

"Okay. We'll take off as soon as we see you around."

One hour later the table at the window of the Black Cat bar was occupied by new guests. It was already late afternoon and the number of clients had increased. Luckily no one else had taken that strategic position, maybe because people would rather pretend it was already evening and dark enough to start drinking. They had dispersed in shadowed spots, mumbling about everyday matters and telling old jokes. The atmosphere, filled with cigarette smoke, was growing thick.

"Shit, what’s with this beer?" Ryan, disgusted, raised his mug and examined it against the light. "Cheap stuff! Your intuition was good." Linda rarely drank alcohol. She didn't have a strong head, and the few times in her life when she had let things get out of hand were definitely ones she didn't want to remember.

"Well, my juice isn’t any better, I suppose," she smiled.

"Really? Zero per cent, too?" Ryan laughed and clanked Linda's glass with his mug. "Cheers! At least we'll stay on guard. Oh, by the way, have you seen them?"

"Who?"

"Casey and Sam."

"No. They disappeared earlier. It would be really suspicious if we made an exchange here."

"You’re right." Ryan nodded in understanding.

"They’re probably waiting somewhere on the street. When they saw us, they left."

Time passed lazily, hour by hour. Clients, more or less sober, arrived, rarely leaving, and nodded off over beer froth to the accompaniment of drunken laughter and everyday stories about nothing special.

"You’ve worked here for a few years now. Tell me, on average, how much time do you spend on such wandering, sitting, observing, tailing, and so on? It's pretty boring." Ryan started another interview on the subject of agency life, slurping his Coke. They had already had enough of beer for that evening if they wanted to stay alert.

"Quite a lot, I'm afraid. This is the main part of my job, actually. The action happens sometimes just as a result of all this subterfuge. Why, does it bother you?"

"I'm not sure. I’m a restless soul, you know. I feel good having something to do."

"Get used to it."

"Nobody complains?"

"There’s no point in complaining. Nothing can be changed. It's our job. Take it or leave it."

"Why did you choose this job?"

"Well, there are a lot of reasons, I guess. I wanted to work at the FBI. It was my, you know, dream to be a special agent. Movies, books, and shit. I was good at all those boy-games and I gave it a shot. They accepted me and the next year they offered me a transfer to this group. I had to pass some shooting and physical tests, like everyone, but they said it was also for my machine mechanics knowledge and skills. My grandfather ran a garage, and then my father and brother took it over. It was my playground for years. If you add some manual skills and talent that I hopefully have, it makes me quite an expert, I believe. At least they believe it. Sometimes it’s useful."

"Fascinating. It's rare that a woman’s interested in things like that."

"What is there to do?" Linda smiled philosophically shrugging her arms.

"Have you ever, you know, killed someone?" Ryan turned serious.

"Yeah. Once. Nothing nice. Really.” She paused before continuing. “The guy was aiming at Thera so I took him down. I didn't kill him but he died anyway. He’d been seriously wounded. Later I had some problems. You know, it's completely different than what you think before it happens. You do it because you think it's right thing to do, or because it’s your automatic reaction. But then it gets to be too much and you can’t control your own mind. I had dreams, horrible nightmares; I was seeing this man everywhere. Plain old psychosis. Panic attacks, washing blood off my hands, aversion to guns. After things like that you have to meet with a shrink. They help. Eventually I came to accept what I’d done; I learned how to live with it. I guess if it happens again I’ll need some more sessions. But that's okay. Sometimes there’s no other way."

"And the others? What about them?"

"It depends. Thera came here almost the same time as I did. He has a clear record. Simon and Sam, that's a horse of a different color. I don't know the details but they’ve been here long enough. Like ten years or something. Just the fact that they’re still alive speaks for itself. Sam is a killer. From time to time he gets sort of contract jobs, alone or with Simon."

"Shit." Ryan felt goosebumps running along his spine. The awareness that one of his co-workers was an assassin was, at the very least, unpleasant and uncomfortable.

"Yeah, what's so strange about it? That’s what this division was created for. We need people like the brothers. You have no idea how many times they’ve helped us out of deep shit. Sam doesn't hesitate, even if we do. That's why I trust him and rely on him the most. Hey—Karnov!" Linda fixed her eyes on the man locking the front door of his house.

"We've got to move. Call the others. And a cab."

They left the bar, Ryan with a phone near his ear.

"Casey? Hi. The guy is on the move. We’re following, so the house is yours."

"Copy. We're on our way."

Linda and Ryan, Linda partially hidden under her hood and Ryan wearing an L.A. Lakers cap, headed toward the Karnovs’ house, laughing like crazy at each other's jokes. Anyone who observed them closely would get the impression that the laugh wasn't quite heartfelt. But who cared?

Karnov managed to take the car out of the garage. For a few seconds the classy black Mustang Shelby waited for the automatic gate to open, rumbling in a low register, and then it slowly rolled onto the road. Karnov clicked the gate remote button and watched the metal construction slide noiselessly shut. The young couple approaching unsteadily from the left was having a good time, laughing their heads off. He shook his head and gave them a forgiving smile but they didn't even look his way. When they passed him, the girl stumbled over the curb and plopped onto the ground.

"Hey, watch your step, sissy!" the man called to his friend, unfortunately too late, and helped her to pull herself together. They got back onto the sidewalk and wandered off, still cackling. Karnov followed them for a moment with his eyes, amused, before starting in the opposite direction.

"Where’s the cab?" The laughter stopped all of a sudden and so did the two agents. Linda pressed the button on her giant sport watch and a very general map together with coordinates of the GPS transmitters, changing every five seconds, appeared on the display.

"Two minutes, around the corner."

"Okay. He’s heading to the center. Confirm that we've attached the transmitter and the bug. I don't think a bug on the bumper will be of any use, but who knows?"

"Roger that, boss." Ryan smiled cheerfully and sent the message to Bravo and Delta.

Linda smirked, relaxing a bit, and showed her backpack, suggesting, "We should change our outfits a bit." They carried out a quick, superficial transformation and Linda waved her hand to get the cab driver's attention.

"To the center, please. Take the Irvin Park Road." Two points on her watch, red and black, moved slowly towards the lake coast. Suddenly, after half an hour, the red one stopped.

"Here we go," the woman whispered quietly. "Please turn on Halsted," she added aloud. The driver nodded his head and ten minutes later they got out of the car.

"Okay, he’s somewhere nearby. Let's check it out."

"After you, madam." Ryan bowed theatrically, laughing. Linda rolled her eyes gave him a smirk.

"Jeeez. Do you always have to clown around?"

"That's a good question. I don't have to, I guess. But it's fun, isn't it?" He winked at her.

"Oh, all right."

They passed a couple of crossed streets until the dots on the computer little screen coincided.

"This is it, then."

The black Mustang was parked on the other side of the street. They looked around discreetly, trying to figure out which of the buildings might be Karnov's destination. Their eyes rested on the big neon sign that read “Callipso” hanging over the huge metal door and wall displays with some go-go dancing and strip-tease show posters. They glanced knowingly at each other.

"You think we should go in?" Ryan looked doubtful as he stuffed his sweatshirt into the backpack.

"First let's check what’s on the poster."

"It seems there’s no party inside. The door is closed."

"Yeah, but look, here we have 'Exotic lotus flower. Ta, ta, ta. Oh, Thai dancers here, eight p.m.’. Still two hours to go."

"Wow, sounds great!" Ryan grinned from ear to ear. "Dunno 'bout you, but I'm going." He laughed loudly.

"Shhh." Linda gave him a poke in the ribs. "Jeeez, just like a child!" Her face expressed a mixture of tolerance and pity.

"I can't deny that. They say every man has a child hidden deep within. I guess mine isn't hidden that deep."

"Okay, brat." Linda winked at him. "We'll wait somewhere nearby until they open."

"Strange habit. Do they open just before the show?"

"It seems so. Maybe they’re preparing it or something. Wait, no, look." Linda pointed at the door plate. "See? Seven p.m. It's a night club, right?" She patted Ryan's arm and turned to walk away.

---

The October sky was becoming gloomy. The soft shadows of dusk enveloped the quiet estate. Windows were lighting up one by one, and the streets were emptying. Only the corner where the Black Cat bar was located was full of life and gaily mumbling, singing and reeling enthusiasts for cheep beer and throat-burning vodka.

Old Scub Johnson's rheumy, cloudy eyes vacantly tracked two dark, blurred figures wandering along Primrose Street. He raised the big clay mug to his mouth and frothy trickles soaked into his frizzy, ruffled beard. A wide, childlike smile brightened his wrinkled face and he pounded the mug on the table with a loud burp, expressing pleasure. His look rested on the darkening street again but the two figures were gone. Johnson shrugged and devoted himself to celebrating the hop drink.

Far from the streetlamps the suspicious-looking characters, wearing balaclavas and dark stretch costumes over their normal clothing, were working on deactivating the alarm. When the sensor had been neutralized, two shadows sneaked over the fence at the rear of the back yard and crouched down behind the wall. They waited for the camera to turn away and, bent almost to the ground, set off at a run, trying not to make a sound. They flattened themselves against the house behind a column just in time to hide from another camera.

Suddenly, out of the darkness under the trees two large dogs dashed out, barking ferociously and baring their teeth. One of the shadows snuggled into the column made an instinctive movement to hide behind it, but a strong hand held him back. The Dobermans stopped a few steps from the masked men, tensed and poised to attack. Low, threatening growls rose from their throats. A hand in a thin black glove slowly reached into the costume opening and pulled out a black cat. It meowed shrilly and jerked forcefully, sensing predators. At the same time the man threw the cat onto the lawn, the dogs started frothing at their mouths and immediately took off in pursuit.

One of the men breathed a silent sigh of relief. Fine droplets of sweat broke out on his forehead. He wiped them with a soft handkerchief that he carefully put in his pocket afterwards. His companion was already tampering with the door lock, lighting his work with a headlamp.

"Shit, those dogs got the cat." A trembling whisper described what could be heard from the other side of the house.

"Good for us. Now they’re occupied." The second voice was calm and dispassionate. Its owner's fingers disarmed the lock with subtlety and virtuosity.

"Can you do it?"

"No, I can't. You'll be eaten by dogs where you stand. Shut the fuck up."

A quiet click announced that the coast was clear.

"Stay here." The lock picker slipped into the hall and turned on a small flashlight attached to his wrist. He had thirty seconds before the alarm would go off. The alarm case with a keyboard was attached to the wall on the left side of the door. It was a typical system which would turn on if someone tried to cut the power, as it had its own battery. But the alarm itself was nothing without speakers. All that had to be done was to disconnect the speaker cables, and that was the bread and butter of the specialist. Fortunately, the owner had no signal monitoring the exterior of the property, either at the police station or the security company. Being entangled in a dirty business, he had to avoid official services as much as possible.

The door opened wider and a hand gesture invited the waiting man inside. He hurriedly sneaked in, shooting nervous glances around.

For a long while Sam fixed his stern, inquiring gaze on Casey, keeping the flashlight directed at the wall, which created a grey semi-darkness. The feeling was oppressive and uncomfortable but surprisingly calming. Casey concentrated on those black, ominous, and threatening eyes and steadily returned Sam's gaze.

I can do it. I can fucking do it. I'm not that scared and I won't give you the satisfaction. He hadn’t even noticed his fists were clenched as he tried hard to control his emotions. Finally Sam relaxed and half-shut his eyelids, expressing conditional approval. With a brief movement of his head he indicated to Casey to go upstairs. They weren't supposed to talk. It was possible that there could be some bugs in the house.

On the second floor behind a heavy oak door they found the dark study. It was arranged with excessive lavishness that gave it the look of the exclusive office of a very important diplomat or the head of a corporation. Faint streaks of light glided over antique-looking bookcases along the walls wainscotted with dark, exotic wood. The huge, heavy desk, curved and inlaid, must have cost a fortune. The silver laptop that lay on the decorative desktop looked alien, as if from a different age.

Sam beckoned Casey to take care of the computer and gave him a look that said, “You’d better be good at it.” Casey approached the desk and settled himself comfortably in the chair. Finally he felt in a place where he was at home.

He’d definitely had enough of his partner's mocking and biting remarks. Not because they were unjustified—they were accurate, and that was what made it worst. Casey knew he was a burden and he hated it. But he’d had no choice but to grit his teeth and bear it.

Now it was his time. The computer was his kingdom and he sat down to open it like a king sits on a throne to rule. The phosphorescent blue glow lit his concentrating face like a blaze of glory. He felt calm, strong, and, more importantly, equal to Sam. Finally. The familiar murmur of the processor starting up made him relax. Windows. Always Windows, he thought as the progress bar slowly crept across the screen. All the better for me.

Casey shut himself off. He put aside thoughts about Sam, dogs, danger, and nerves. As usual, he just concentrated. His mind had tuned to a precise investigative machine mode. He became all eyes, brain, and fingers.

Sam watched him for a moment, then concentrated on the walls and furniture. He started to examine them carefully to find possible secret hiding places.