Tales of the Arcane - 0815 Read online

  Chapter II

  Codebreaker

  Interviewer: I take you don’t get difficult clients often.

  Welsh: Nope, all the time, actually. Normally we figure it out ahead of time, and tell them to go piss up a tree.

  Interviewer: In those terms?

  Welsh: Nah, Silk likes to talk pretty to them for some fuckin’ reason.

  Interviewer: I would imagine, considering the amounts of money that is seemingly involved.

  Welsh: Money don’t mean shit if the client is gettin’ up in our grill. Seriously, when we are workin’, it’s a seamless operation based on diligence, stealth, and research.

  Oh, and mattress bouncin’, if Silk’s in the mood for a Venus Op... which is like all the damn time. Fuckin’ nympho.

  Interviewer: Really...

  Welsh: Yeah, totally.

  Oh, sorry, did I ruin your impression of her being a white flower paragon of innocent untainted purity?

  Interviewer: Uh... not at all, Ms. Nixon.

  Welsh: Heh, you are such a totally dweeb, seriously.

  Tuesday, 4 March – 17:18

  Suuno Point Resort, Mbanika Island, Solomon Islands

  “Alright,” Sylvia says, still working on the kanji shorthand — as she has been for the entire afternoon. “I think this cypher is the key.”

  When it came around to dinner time, and Welsh’s continued complaints of cabin fever — after being sequestered away in the hotel room for only five hours — and the pangs in her stomach, Sylvia finally relented to the two of them visiting the larger of the resort’s four bars to get some dinner and indulge in the local beer — a meager pale lager of limited quality. This pub was selected by Sylvia due to its proximity to the hotel, the entrance leading out into the resort’s main lobby.

  “Are you listening to me?” Sylvia asks her redheaded associate. Welsh just waves at her and puts another forkful of a local tilapia fish dish in her mouth while her emerald eyes remain fixated on one of the few stations hosted by the Solomon Islands — in this case, the BBC.

  A football match is currently playing, riveting the attentions of several pub-goers — some of whom seem to have come to this pub specifically to watch the game.

  The current match is between Hull City and Crystal Palace. Being a Saints’ girl, Welsh doesn’t much care for the game’s outcome, but still watches to pass the time.

  “Uh huh, cypher works. Cool beans. Can we go yet?”

  Sylvia sighs, and returns to her work, having only the first few pages of the diary completed. To do the rest would take her easily another two days of straight work. Fortunately, she has a plan once she was certain than the cypher she devised was sufficient to the task.

  After another few minutes of furious scribbling, and a couple bites of her own dish, Sylvia is satisfied. She picks up her phone and speed dials one of her contacts.

  She waits while it rings on the other side of the ocean, casually checking the time to make certain she isn’t calling at too ridiculous of an hour.

  Finally the line picks up with a young man’s curious voice. “Ms. Havenwood? Hello.”

  Sylvia smiles at the voice from home. The two women spend so much time abroad; it is pleasant for her to hear a familiar voice.

  “Hello, Mr. Kucharski,” she says. “How are you?”

  “Good... I am good. Are you alright? I hope the assignment hasn’t gone badly for you.”

  “That Karl?” Welsh asks, turning away from the television.

  “No, we are fine, my dear,” Sylvia says, waving off Welsh.

  “Silk, tell him I say ‘hi,” Welsh presses.

  “I would like you to run some files for us with one of the cyphers I have selected.”

  Karl pauses on the other end of the line for a long moment.

  “Uh, of course, Ms. Havenwood,” he finally says with some uncertainty. “Might I ask what the timeline would be on these?”

  Sylvia frowns. Karl has always been so punctual, often immediately doing whatever strange task the pair has required of him.

  “Silk! Silk!” Welsh waves her hand at her companion. “Tell him I said ‘hi!’”

  “Ah, I am sorry, Mr. Kucharski,” Silk says, understanding his predicament. “I was not aware you might be otherwise engaged.”

  Karl pauses again for a moment, but says a little too quickly, “Oh, no. No. It’s fine, Ms. Havenwood. I will get right on it. Which cypher do I run?”

  “Otherwise engaged?” Welsh repeats Sylvia’s word. “Holy shit. The little dweeb’s got a date?”

  Welsh leans over the table. “You go, big stud!” she says loudly at the phone, attracting more than a bit of attention the women’s table.

  “Would you behave yourself?” Sylvia hisses at her business partner, and pushes the redhead back into her chair.

  Welsh harrumphs, and crosses her arms in annoyance. Welsh glances around the bar, but most of the other patrons have returned to their meals and drinks. Nearby, a young Japanese couple continue to dine in casual peace, seemingly undisturbed by Welsh’s outburst.

  The woman is pretty, slim, and obvious works out, judging by her form under the clinging short black dress she sheathed herself into. Her companion is just as a good-looking in a cold predatory sort of way. Neither seems to care about her — and possibly don’t even speak English.

  Ignoring the Asian pair, her eyes are instead drawn to growing turmoil out to the lobby where a large family, including the grandparents, has just arrived and are going through the arduous ordeal of the check-in hurdles.

  “Yes, that was Whispers,” Sylvia says to Karl’s question. “But honestly, I know it is late there. Just enjoy the rest of your evening. When you are able to run the cypher is fine, my dear.”

  Welsh would add something else, but her sadistic bemusement is now focused on the harangued mother of four young children as the exhausted woman tries to keep the herd contained after over twenty hours of travel from the US to the islands.

  Welsh sympathizes more with the contained children trying to escape confinement than the protective parents attempting to prevent the youths from running off into the South Pacific jungles around the resort. She even considers a pint-size revolution momentarily. But decides it’s probably not the best way to remain low-key while on the job.