Chapter Three

Keyes looked at his watch. Seven-thirty. Two hours. An incomprehensibly long time. In war, a time where miles of ground can be won or lost. In politics, a time where scandal spreads from rumour to front page. In a boardroom, a time where nothing seems to happen at all.
In front of him, on the faux-marble table, lay a smattering of files that had more 'Eyes Only' rubber stamps on them than actual information. To his left and right the seats were filled with unfamiliar faces, dragged in from other departments. Though he knew similar meetings were taking place all throughout the building, the two hours of debating and arguing that had taken place over the course of the meeting had seemed like a torture that had been prepared especially for him.
He woke from his whiny daydream and focused back on the projector, the only source of light in the stuffy room. On the wall it now projected a series of photos, all of the same disgruntled-looking man. His administrator, Commander Ritten, stood next to the projection. A muscular, yet aged, african-american with eyes that had seen too many files and not enough sunlight. This morning they burned with a mix of adrenaline and caffeine. It had been a stirring twenty-four hours for both him and his team.
"So, to wrap things up for now," he said, laying his hands on the table in an expression of supreme tiredness, "We've got a large-scale problem coming up in the New York area. Leading the media around on a wild goose chase will work for now, but the objectives outlined to you all need to be seen through. This is a completely black project - the only one of it's kind. You are not to question anything handed down by your superiors over the coming week, and you are not to contact anyone you know."
He sighed.
"This is not going to be a pretty week for us." he said, and then pushed himself off the desk.
"Your groupings will be as follows, with your role in the two operations to follow at a later hour..." he began, moving his attention to another folder. However, as he unhooked the catch on the front of the wallets, the boardroom door opened. A woman clearly of hispanic origin stood in the door, her dark hair falling behind her head so as to leave most of her identity languishing in her silhouette. Ritten turned and snapped.
"I said no interruptions. At all."
She spoke with nerves, allowing an accent to drift in. Keyes didn't recognise the voice - no doubt another cheap secretary.
"I'm sorry, sir, but we've had a wire through. A murder happened in the New York area a little under two hours ago. The Agency's Lower Wing have already put a team down there. They say there's a connection with Ivan."
Keyes wondered what the Lower Wing was, assuming The Agency to be referring to the FBI, and therefore to Ritten's closest allies. Eyes turned to the intelligence veteran.
"I see. Get me a link with them and tell them I'll be right over."
He turned to the assembled group.
"I will have to brief you individually at a later time. For now, group up as detailed in your files and then head into the city. You'll be briefed there."
He picked up the file unopened and strode out of the boardroom, leaving Keyes to collect his things and take a look at his team. It was outlined in the last page of the file. His name, in cleartype, and one other.
Maria Candida.
He took a look around the boardroom, but most had already found their team and left. He stood, and moved to the door, taking a look down the corridor and catching a glimpse of the hispanic messenger's tail. Ritten had been right about one thing. It was going to be a very long week.

"Mr. Hatfield?"
A hand landed on his shoulder, catching him by surprise. His head whipped round, hands shuddering from a surge of adrenaline, feet moving from a lack of self-defence lessons. He felt stupid - a mix of instincts from an era long past.
"I'm sorry," said the voice again, a foreign slur creeping in from some unknown country or region, "I didn't mean to shock you like that."
Ray surveyed the man in front of him - and saw a personification of the cool, clean voice. The man was not much younger than him - perhaps even a little older - and was dressed from top to toe in black, despite the relentless New York sun. The sunglasses he wore reflected the world around him, whilst plunging his true identity into an obsidian darkness, yet from the sharpness of his suit lapels to the shine in his shoe everything about him told Ray he was not going to enjoy his dealings with the man. He was some Hollywood stereotype gone out of control.
Ray froze, unsure of which clichéd path to choose.
"What can I do for you, Mr...?" he let his voice trail off questioningly. The man did not pick it up. "You are a private investigator, are you not?"
"I'm a journalist." Ray replied curtly, "I tell people what's going on."
The man smiled, showing the rims of crisp teeth.
"Well I have a client who would like to know a lot about what's going on. Escpecially seeing as we seem to have lost the services of our previous investigator." he said, with an almost intangible nod to the café behind him.
Ray was familiar with the depth of the crime rings in the city. A constant battle between darkness and light, he knew that when the sun drooped behind the liberty-painted horizon the city left the hands of the local forces and returned again into the vice-like grip of true crime. The man he was facing was not someone who favoured the daylight hours.
Ray searched for something, some snappy line that would let him leave this horrible role he had been led into. He willed for some sniper to force the man into cover, some FBI agent to whisk him away - a UFO, anything. The man in front of him reached into his jacket pocket, and instead of his calm, journalistic reaction the word gun trailed across his thought patterns. He flinched slightly.
The man smiled and pulled out a business card. He handed it to Ray.
"Don't call us. We'll call you."
Ray smiled weakly, unsure of the joke's intention.
"But we will call you, Mr. Hatfield. Be sure of that."
The smile disappeared like the morning sun behind the massing stormclouds. Hatfield nodded as confidently as he could, and behind him heard an approaching car.
"I look forward to working with you, Ray." the man said as a sedan as dark and sleek as the man himself pulled up alongside him. The door opened and the suit got in, before disappearing around the corner.
Even dead, Walt managed to get Ray into trouble. He took a good, long look at the crime scene, and decided to head off somewhere and grab a coffee. He needed a kick.