07-27-2014, 06:12 PM
The two younger men returned to their respective business. The one seated at the table was absorbed in his studies, perhaps too absorbed. At the very least, he should expect a quieter atmosphere. That he did not glare at the American suggested he was either deaf or he was trying overly hard to appear nonchalant. Armande doubted his sense of hearing was the issue. Meanwhile, the American fell into his own interests and soon settled in his own seat.
Armande sighed and retrieved his Wallet. His seemingly old eyes tilted the screen so that he might see it better. What they observed surprised him very little. Two of the men in his company were known to the Atharim. The Italian gentleman was one of them.
Giordano was the target of two Atharim missions in the past: assassinations that obviously failed for one reason or another. The first took place decades ago, the second almost twenty years later. This monster that could delve into the minds of others and twist their emotions to his own whims apparently sought his own kind. Aria was one herself by her own admission.
Armande blacked out the Wallet and returned it to his pocket about the time Giordano departed. The bell dinged, a rush of cold air licked the back of his neck, and Armande contemplated following. Instead, he remained in the Repository and even unbuttoned the top of his coat like he might stay a while. If this man had business with Aria, then Armande would deal with them later. If he was here to kill her, and she couldn't defend against herself, she was a poor Atharim. Armande doubted Giordano would be living much longer.
There were few seats remaining open, but Armande pulled a book from the shelf and joined the two younger men. He sat at ease, relaxed, with one leg crossed over the other and one hand balancing the book while the other flipped the pages idly.
When he finally spoke, he had a quiet, but firm voice like a suit of armor dressed with a velvet cape. His eyes peered casually over the top of the book until they accidentally landed upon the American's. To fill the awkward silence, Armande asked a casual question. "Comparative mythology? Would that be Professor Olmert's course in the Faculty of Classics?" There were few institutions in Moscow prestigious enough to offer such a course but Moscow State University was one of them. Daved Olmert, the man whom Armande referenced, was indeed a professor, but not of the Classics, and certainly not at MSU. He died thirty years ago in Israel, but Armande doubted the American would possibly know that.
Armande sighed and retrieved his Wallet. His seemingly old eyes tilted the screen so that he might see it better. What they observed surprised him very little. Two of the men in his company were known to the Atharim. The Italian gentleman was one of them.
Giordano was the target of two Atharim missions in the past: assassinations that obviously failed for one reason or another. The first took place decades ago, the second almost twenty years later. This monster that could delve into the minds of others and twist their emotions to his own whims apparently sought his own kind. Aria was one herself by her own admission.
Armande blacked out the Wallet and returned it to his pocket about the time Giordano departed. The bell dinged, a rush of cold air licked the back of his neck, and Armande contemplated following. Instead, he remained in the Repository and even unbuttoned the top of his coat like he might stay a while. If this man had business with Aria, then Armande would deal with them later. If he was here to kill her, and she couldn't defend against herself, she was a poor Atharim. Armande doubted Giordano would be living much longer.
There were few seats remaining open, but Armande pulled a book from the shelf and joined the two younger men. He sat at ease, relaxed, with one leg crossed over the other and one hand balancing the book while the other flipped the pages idly.
When he finally spoke, he had a quiet, but firm voice like a suit of armor dressed with a velvet cape. His eyes peered casually over the top of the book until they accidentally landed upon the American's. To fill the awkward silence, Armande asked a casual question. "Comparative mythology? Would that be Professor Olmert's course in the Faculty of Classics?" There were few institutions in Moscow prestigious enough to offer such a course but Moscow State University was one of them. Daved Olmert, the man whom Armande referenced, was indeed a professor, but not of the Classics, and certainly not at MSU. He died thirty years ago in Israel, but Armande doubted the American would possibly know that.