Irene

Sitting in the bar was becoming a drag. Besides, for the regulars, our continued presence was shifting from "curious" to "downright suspicious." Irene mentioned she hadn’t been to the movies in ages. Fine. A movie it is. We had plenty of time before I needed to be home—couldn't spoil the landlady by showing up too early, after all.

Fate dealt us with a horror flick. The kind I never watch voluntarily and certainly never recommend. It had the requisite jump scares and, naturally, the obligatory softcore love scenes—because who are they trying to surprise with that anymore? Still, we sat through it until the bitter end.

Outside, the world was drowning. The rain hadn't changed; it was still that fine, miserable drizzle that soaks right into your soul. Visibility was garbage, like looking through a wet veil.

"You’ve gone quiet," Irene said. "Why the long face?"

"I’m not sad," I lied. "Where’d you get that idea?"

"I can see it."

Somewhere beneath the pavement, water gurgled into the storm drains, a hollow, lonely sound. Judge for yourself—what kind of mood could anyone be in with a soundtrack like that?

"Let's walk," she suggested.

Irene took my arm. To a casual observer, we were just a mundane married couple out for an evening stroll.

"You aren't planning to take a look at the Lair, are you?" I asked, keeping my voice low.

"And why not?" She answered a question with a question, a bad habit of hers. "It’s quiet. No pedestrians, it’s late, nobody will bother us. And the tail? They’re probably tired of chasing our shadows. I bet they clocked out ages ago."

"That depends," I countered. "If the surveillance team is pro, you never shake them. You just think you have. You can't know for sure."

"And how do you know that?"

"A little birdie told me. Or maybe it was the BBC."

I didn't object to the walk, so we drifted slowly toward the objective. The fade of three-story building faced a narrow alley. The approach was exposed—one hundred percent visibility. Getting close unnoticed was impossible. And since I’m inclined to assume the guards aren’t sleeping on the job, getting closer wasn’t just difficult, it was ill-advised. For the first reconnaissance, this was enough. As Sun Tzu said: “When you engage the enemy, know where they are strong and where they are weak.” We still had to figure out the weak parts.

The pale mist obscured not just the sky, but the neighbouring houses too. It was a scene worthy of a watercolour masterpiece, but I’m no painter. I’m an artist of the detective genre. I must admit, though, the water situation on this planet is excellent. Unlimited quantities, and completely free of charge.

"Why do you think the thing we’re hunting is in there?" she asked.

"Just because."

Ask a vague question, get a vague answer. We had both silently concluded that we shared a burning, singular passion. We didn’t speak of it, didn’t debate it, but we were professionals; we were supposed to understand each other without words. Besides, I tended to trust Irene. Compared to me, she was practically an old-timer in this city.

We both had skeletons in our closets. I hoped she hadn’t dug down to mine yet. But me? Before I shipped out, HQ let me peek at the dossiers. Some of those files were very curious, especially the ones concerning foreign agents on Ceres. Need I mention that right there in the photo album, bold as brass, was my "secretary"? Different name, naturally, but wearing epaulets and rank.

It didn’t surprise me. Marusya Klimova... Imagine that. A name that screams "undercover vice squad" to anyone who knows the old songs. But I don’t judge. Not at all. Everyone has the right to have a hobby. After all, under one of my passports, I’m Sebastian Pereira, a descendant of a blackwood trader. Though I could have easily called myself the Duke of Nottingham. I even have his driver’s license, complete with a photo in a pith helmet. And let’s not forget the 1673 certificate belonging to Sir Henry Morgan, Lieutenant Governor of Jamaica, the pirate who terrorized the Caribbean. He got a "Sir" for his service to the Crown, by the way.

Why didn’t Irene—or Marusya—react to the name Pereira? The youth today... what can you do? They read too little, know too little. In my day, he was a famous merchant, partner to the great Alvez. Supplied America with slaves, cheap labour... It’s impolite to call them "Negroes" in public now; you’ll get slapped with a racism charge. But you can say that even on a tram.

"Look..." she whispered.

"Where? At what?"

" The attic. The windows are draped, but there’s light bleeding through."

"Wonderful, my dear. But you’re raising a panic for nothing. Someone’s working late, that’s all. Burning the midnight oil. Balancing the books, checking debit against credit."

"Think about it!" she hissed. "Why do you stay that late for paperwork?"

"Well... Mahjong lovers aren't just Mahjong lovers; presumably, they’re businessmen too. From what I hear, they have a decent turnover—chains of shops, hotels, cafes. It’s not impossible that there’s a duty officer up there, or a break room for the guards."

"On the top floor? No. I think that’s where they keep the secret archive."

Oh, women. Who pulls their tongues? You can think a thought without speaking it. But the rain was intensifying, and the umbrella had surrendered. It was time to retreat.

Gallantly, as befits a human and a gentleman, I walked Irene (or was it Marusya?) home. I wished her a good night and graciously accepted a friendly kiss on the cheek. Then, wet but happy, I headed for my own door.

I scratched the wood. Naturally, they were waiting for me. I knew I’d be warmed up, fed some warm milk, and if I was lucky — lucky — they might even let me lick the sour cream off a spoon.

It is so good to have a home. And to sleep under the roof of one's own house...

Yesterday’s rainy promenade cost her a cold. Irene was lying in bed in a state of alluring disarray, as invalids in our line of work tend to do. Playing the perfect gentleman, I delivered a variety of medicinal potions and even offered a back rub—a gesture she politely declined—but secretly, I was pleased with this turn of events.

Her misfortune was my tactical advantage. Now, without interference, I could scrutinize the landing zone — the attic — a little more closely. Irene’s appearance in my life was a lucky star, a happy accident. But if you know how to wait, accidents transform into rewards.

Just the day before, we had been theorizing. How does one penetrate a secret archive unnoticed and seize the "Ark of the Covenant,» metaphorically speaking, of course? We agreed that a calculated spectacle was the best bet. A flash mob. A fire truck screaming up to the building, a team of "rescuers" rushing in—with Irene and me blending into the chaos. Start a small, controlled fire, evacuate the building, and the house is ours. The only variable was how long it would take for the real fire brigade to show up.

But there is no time to lose. Irene might recover, and I had no desire to burden her with the gritty details of my plan—or to reveal my second self. Life has taught me never to trust a single soul. Money, not labour, is what sets a man free. It liberates him primarily from morality and the tedious obligations imposed by employee handbooks. I intend to help myself break free from those rusty moral shackles. But I must hurry. There is no guarantee Irene won't rise from her sickbed and do something foolish, ruining an operation that has cost me considerable effort.

Note to self: Visit Irene. Ensure she stays healthy but remains "sick" just a little longer. Long enough for me to prepare my evacuation from this planet. I planned to make a "French exit"—leaving without saying goodbye to my old friend, Batman. I don't want to upset him, but I’m doing just fine.

Mentally, I wished for Irene to recover by Sunday, or better yet, Monday. To ensure this timetable, I utilized a stash of ordinary sleeping pills disguised as a mixture prescribed by a family doctor. Plus, a little something extra—an additive outsiders don’t need to know about. That buys me two days. We love to care for our friends, but only as long as they remain just friends.

What’s left? Only the final "forgive me" to my darling, who, thanks to my prayers (and perhaps a miscalculation of the dose), was already sitting up. Irene was pale, but that did nothing to diminish her assets.

"Coffee?"

"Thank you, yes."

A man cannot refuse a woman he likes. Whether she likes me is another matter entirely. Deceiving a woman, in my humble and worldly experience, is harder than scratching your left ear with your right foot. They possess a primal radar gifted by Mother Nature. It’s better not to try. I had the feeling she understood everything without a word being spoken.

Irene sat opposite me, carelessly crossing her legs so that the hem of her robe fell open, revealing almost everything. But that was irrelevant now. My thoughts were fluttering far away from the charms beneath that floral silk.

"What’s new?" she asked.

"Same old," I answered evasively. "How are you?"

When we deceive others, we deceive ourselves first. We know—we were taught in childhood—that honesty is the best policy, but it’s a policy rarely suited for survival.

"So-so. Recovering, as you can see."

We sat in a room filled with a heavy, oppressive silence, the harbinger of separation. In her floral robe, she was undeniably enchanting. A fact.

Irene looked into my eyes but asked nothing. Ah, what a woman! In moments like these, a non-verbal link forms between kindred spirits, a telepathic contact where words are superfluous. I felt like the lowest kind of animal, the kind guided by the simple rule: "Love yourself, to hell with the rest, and life will put you to the test."

"Who do you work for, darling?"

"You know I can't say. Intelligence officers don't wear uniforms or badges. But I assure you, I’m not working against you."

"We could have been a great pair."

"We could have."

"But why not?"

"Fate, perhaps, my dear. Your gaze holds depth and danger. Like a river vortex. Like a black hole in space—a region of space-time where the gravitational pull is so immense that no mortal can leave without your permission..."

"But you are leaving me..."

"Solely because you permitted it. Forgive me, if you can. And thank you for everything."

I kissed Irene—a long, farewell kiss. She clung to me, her whole body trembling, fighting back tears. Why, oh why, is my space shuttle a single seater?

But what would it solve? Where I am going, there is no place for her. Impossible. At least, not now. Perhaps later, who knows? In that moment, for some reason, it seemed we had met before. That I had kissed her just like this, and she had wept and promised to wait, no matter how long. I just couldn’t remember where. I was truly sorry, but my contract didn't cover passengers.

But Irene... The only thing I could do for her today was to warn her. Under no circumstances should she return to Earth; the Secret Police would arrest her on sight. What else? I could give my Irene a traveller's check for a substantial sum, enough to start a new, comfortable life in some cozy corner on another planet. A chalet in the mountains? A cottage by a warm sea?

I don’t know. That part is up to her.