08-03-2014, 05:12 PM
Yesterday's remaining hours was devoted to two chores: both of which were completed alone. Enzo unpacked his belongings. There weren't many. Serviceable clothing made up the bulk of his duffle bag. Enzo typically wore sturdy, heavy fibered pants built for the rough terrain of rock climbing in dark colours that might blend in the night. His shirits were combinations of t-shirts, hooded sweaters, and warm pull-overs. In winter months he wore a dark blue stocking cap, such as the one pulled low over his forehead when he left Tehya's building. He had fingerless gloves and an overcoat that fell below the waist. There was plenty of room to conceal a weapon, but he typically carried no more than a sidearm and knife when not on the hunt.
Completion of the second task was what allowed him to journey smoothly to Nikolskaya street. He'd studied the rest of the night far beyond familiarity with the region. Corrado always said knowledge was the greatest weapon, and to make plans for every contingency. They would study the layouts of cities for days before considering an ambush. They had to know the territory as well as the thing they tracked and in many cases better-than if they were to walk away with the kill.
Maps were embedded in a wrist band currently concealed beneath his sleeve. The band, a blend of fiber-carbon and rubber, would also cover fares, provide identification, and transmit data such as map files as needed. Despite apparently walking out with nothing on him but the clothes on his back, Enzo was incredibly prepared for the day.
On the sidewalk, he zipped the coat as guardian against the cold, and headed for the nearest train station. The next time he emerged topside, he was momentarily stunned by the grandeur of frozen Moscow. The downtown district was truly a wonder. Everything in sight was designed to inspire intimidation and awe. Unlike the great cities of Egypt and Europe, where grandeur was synonymous with art, Moscow's elicited one emotional response from him.
'They say we will all be Soviets.'
He could almost hear the fear in his mother's voice carried on the wind. She'd been strangely unresponsive when he told her where he was going. A surprising response, he'd imagined some sort of comment about his destination. She said nothing other than I love you.
He entered headquarters through a decoy entrance in an alley a block away. Once inside, a heavy iron door with a giant round wheel for a handle swung inwards like portals in submarines. He ducked to step through and followed a long, narrow passage that despite his lack of height forced him to bend at the waist to traverse. The passageway was pock-marked with tiny ventilation holes and Enzo guessed would fill the steel tube with poison gas if necessary. This was a bottle neck, meant to protect headquarters from unexpected breeches, and perhaps, slaughter anything that attempted to pass within. He set his jaw and continued another thirty meters where a second hatch waited.
A computer-voice broke the silence.
"NAME"
"Zayin. Vincenzo Dolan. Atharim Identifier çādē-ṣāmek-ṭēt-ṭēt."
The phoenician code rolled from his tongue cloaked in a french accent.
There was a quiet mechanical sound that made Enzo look briefly over his shoulder. When he looked back, a slot had opened in the hatch and a sort of viscous screen was revealed. He took a breath and gently placed his fingertips against the reader. The first time he'd seen one of these devices was in Vatican City. It was used to program his identity into the Atharim databases. He'd assumed it had something to do with fingerprints. He was wrong.
An electric chill shot up his arm. His jaw clenched and the hairs spiked on the back of his head. It lasted only a moment, but his identity was confirmed and he pulled his hand away. His fingertips were blue. They quickly returned fleshy pink.
Magnets released the hatch and he stepped into a beautiful room. The floors, walls, and ceilings were covered with white glass that glowed from behind. In the center of the room was an onyx black desk. A man in a full black on black suit sat behind it. He was distracted by a screen that Enzo could not discern so he approached and waited quietly.
The man spoke with a thick Italian accent but he did not pull his gaze from the screen. His fingers continued to work on the desktop. "You are Vincenzo?"
Enzo nodded. "Yes."
"Door at the end of the hall. Knock once and enter. The Regus is awaiting you."
Enzo glanced down the hall.
"Thank you, sir."
He unzipped his coat and took a steadying breath. He was surprisingly calm as he approached the Regus's office, a lonely silhouette summoned for what, he would soon discover.
Completion of the second task was what allowed him to journey smoothly to Nikolskaya street. He'd studied the rest of the night far beyond familiarity with the region. Corrado always said knowledge was the greatest weapon, and to make plans for every contingency. They would study the layouts of cities for days before considering an ambush. They had to know the territory as well as the thing they tracked and in many cases better-than if they were to walk away with the kill.
Maps were embedded in a wrist band currently concealed beneath his sleeve. The band, a blend of fiber-carbon and rubber, would also cover fares, provide identification, and transmit data such as map files as needed. Despite apparently walking out with nothing on him but the clothes on his back, Enzo was incredibly prepared for the day.
On the sidewalk, he zipped the coat as guardian against the cold, and headed for the nearest train station. The next time he emerged topside, he was momentarily stunned by the grandeur of frozen Moscow. The downtown district was truly a wonder. Everything in sight was designed to inspire intimidation and awe. Unlike the great cities of Egypt and Europe, where grandeur was synonymous with art, Moscow's elicited one emotional response from him.
'They say we will all be Soviets.'
He could almost hear the fear in his mother's voice carried on the wind. She'd been strangely unresponsive when he told her where he was going. A surprising response, he'd imagined some sort of comment about his destination. She said nothing other than I love you.
He entered headquarters through a decoy entrance in an alley a block away. Once inside, a heavy iron door with a giant round wheel for a handle swung inwards like portals in submarines. He ducked to step through and followed a long, narrow passage that despite his lack of height forced him to bend at the waist to traverse. The passageway was pock-marked with tiny ventilation holes and Enzo guessed would fill the steel tube with poison gas if necessary. This was a bottle neck, meant to protect headquarters from unexpected breeches, and perhaps, slaughter anything that attempted to pass within. He set his jaw and continued another thirty meters where a second hatch waited.
A computer-voice broke the silence.
"NAME"
"Zayin. Vincenzo Dolan. Atharim Identifier çādē-ṣāmek-ṭēt-ṭēt."
The phoenician code rolled from his tongue cloaked in a french accent.
There was a quiet mechanical sound that made Enzo look briefly over his shoulder. When he looked back, a slot had opened in the hatch and a sort of viscous screen was revealed. He took a breath and gently placed his fingertips against the reader. The first time he'd seen one of these devices was in Vatican City. It was used to program his identity into the Atharim databases. He'd assumed it had something to do with fingerprints. He was wrong.
An electric chill shot up his arm. His jaw clenched and the hairs spiked on the back of his head. It lasted only a moment, but his identity was confirmed and he pulled his hand away. His fingertips were blue. They quickly returned fleshy pink.
Magnets released the hatch and he stepped into a beautiful room. The floors, walls, and ceilings were covered with white glass that glowed from behind. In the center of the room was an onyx black desk. A man in a full black on black suit sat behind it. He was distracted by a screen that Enzo could not discern so he approached and waited quietly.
The man spoke with a thick Italian accent but he did not pull his gaze from the screen. His fingers continued to work on the desktop. "You are Vincenzo?"
Enzo nodded. "Yes."
"Door at the end of the hall. Knock once and enter. The Regus is awaiting you."
Enzo glanced down the hall.
"Thank you, sir."
He unzipped his coat and took a steadying breath. He was surprisingly calm as he approached the Regus's office, a lonely silhouette summoned for what, he would soon discover.