by A G Stevens
Blaze conceded. “Not the first time I’ve heard that, Savant.”
Savant was Blaze’s handler, and was still getting accustomed to his ways. “It’ll be your downfall if you’re not careful, which means it’ll be ours as well.”
Minerva smiled at the support. “Absolutely true.”
“And you, Minerva...you underestimate his necessity here.”
There were few figures in the House who Minerva would allow to second-guess her opinions. This young woman who reported directly to her was one of them. “He set off alarms, Savant,” Minerva reminded her. “He called attention to himself with some sort of Hollywood stuntman fight scene.”
Savant—no last name, at least not that Blaze had ever heard—had a softer touch than Minerva did. She folded her arms and stared Blaze down. “We all know those are the potential hazards, though. And he made it out all right. Gash included. Is it painful?”
“It’s fine, thank you,” Blaze said in Savant’s direction. “At least someone here cares about my well-being.”
“I’m concerned about our asset,” Savant corrected him. “Our investment.”
That sounded more likely. “Of course you are,” he said.
“I feel the need to remind you that you now work as part of an organization, Agent Blaze,” Minerva told him. “You are a cog in the grand machine of what we do at the House, no more or less important than any other figure.”
Blaze was reluctant to let her description pass. “Maybe a little more important.”
As his handler, Savant felt compelled to truly handle him now. “This is your second mission with us, Derek, and your second careless mistake resulting in forced reassignment. In three months. Whatever value you add to the organization is heavily balanced against the fact that you seem to take unnecessary risks resulting not only in property damage, but in potential exposure, to yourself and to the House. What Minerva is trying to say without clobbering you over the head with it—though I’m sure she’d be more than happy to do that with whatever blunt object might be within reach—is that you’re still on probation. Your knowledge and your abilities are greatly appreciated, but we need closer adherence to policy.”
Blaze was suddenly in no mood for his contributions to be diminished. “Have you ever hung head-down by your belt straps twenty feet above the floor attached to a strand of floss while surrounded by a network of lasers that would set off a cascade of deadly gases at the slightest careless slip?”
“I’m not a field worker, Derek,” Savant reminded him unnecessarily.
“No, you’re not. And no, you haven’t done any of that. The fact that I’m here alive delivering the Humanity Pearl to you as unscathed as I am is a testament to my value among your little coven.”
Minerva stalked back to her side of the desk and sat in her chair again. “Thin ice, agent,” she reminded him.
Blaze persisted. “And the fact that you asked me to do it rather than another agent is a testament to the fact that you don’t have a lot of other people around here who could do it, either.” Blaze leaned back in his chair. “I happen to have been in two situations so far that have come to unexpected confrontations, which, yes, have resulted in bloodshed—necessary for extricating myself from the scenarios, which stemmed from highly dangerous missions that you assigned me to.”
“Missions you insisted on doing the lion’s share of the planning for,” Savant reminded him. “Maybe if you were a little more open to instruction and collaboration this wouldn’t happen quite so often.”
Blaze could hardly tell them now that the reason for the alarm being triggered was a dropped glove. He would look thoroughly incompetent for letting something so unnecessary happen. “And maybe if you had a little more real-world experience in allowing for the unknown in these situations—for the need to think on your feet, and sometimes on your fists and elbows—you’d understand that the man on the ground knows better than the one sitting behind a keyboard feeding instructions through a microphone how a mission unfolds with variables every damn time, no matter how tightly the plan has been made.”
Minerva cleared her throat, a sign that what was said next would be absolute gospel. Even Blaze recognized the cue. “We took an incredible risk bringing you onto the team, Agent Blaze, especially in light of your flexible past as a freelancer. Your abilities are undeniable, but your tendency to play fast-and-lose in the field will not be tolerated any further. Do you understand me? Another slip-up like the one at Halex, and we’ll have no choice but to consider termination.”
Savant thought that might be going a bit too far. “Or reassignment.”
“Or termination,” Minerva repeated staunchly.
Even knowing the cue, Blaze couldn’t resist. He cast his director with a steely gaze. “You hired me for a reason, Minerva.”
Minerva met his steely gaze with an equal one. “And you accepted our offer for a reason, Derek. We both have skin in the game.”
Blaze knew he’d been bested. He exhaled. “No more slip-ups, then.”
“I hope not,” Minerva asserted, closing down the conversation.
“And speaking of reassignment,” Savant said, firing up her tablet and swiping the screen toward the digitized wall behind Minerva as the tinted glass in the office windows dimmed to limousine darkness. “Since you’ll no longer be working at Halex—”
“Because I retrieved the vial, as tasked,” Blaze reminded them. “Not because I exposed my identity.”
Savant chose to ignore his plea for acceptance. “We have something entirely new on the docket.” A photograph appeared on the wall screen, growing large as she spread her fingers against the display.
“And this would be...” Blaze asked, leaning forward to drink in the image of a haunting face with a gaping mouth and goggling eyes, each set with glimmering emerald lenses. The form of the mask was stone; the exposed areas revealed a pitted and pocked surface. But the skin that remained was inlaid with a mosaic of turquoise tiles, like a sky-blue pox from forehead to chin.
“A pre-Columbian mask depicting Tlaloc, a principal god from the Toltec tribe of South America. The figure is more commonly known as Quetzlcoatl.”
Blaze shrugged. “I can’t say that I know either name.”
Minerva didn’t like what she was hearing. “You’re a spy. You’ll study, and you’ll learn.”
Blaze preferred the term espionage professional over spy; he felt it rang of greater expertise. But he’d caused enough tension with Minerva for one encounter. “Of course.”
Savant slid her finger briskly across the screen, and the image changed to a gallery wall—stark, white, and coolly-lit, with a collection of masks hung in protective glass encasements. “Tlaloc currently resides here, in the collection of billionaire real estate magnate Nicholas Parrick. His mansion on Thane Island—his private Caribbean compound—is the site of an expansive trove of indigenous artifacts, all procured from dealers of varying legitimacy.”
“I’ll presume he doesn’t attend auctions at Sotheby’s?”
“Sometimes, yes,” Savant countered. “He gathers his collection wherever and whenever pieces become available, through whatever methods are at his disposal. The artifacts of the gods, he considers them.”
Savant’s finger slid yet again, and an image of Parrick appeared on the wall: a broad, well-kept man in his late-fifties with a groomed beard and an expensive haircut. His suit was highly tailored, as expected with a billionaire, but his cheeks were ruddy, and his smile emanated a strange, unexpected warmth. “He’s an insidious collector of the sacred, then,” Blaze asserted.
“He’s avid, let’s say. And don’t let the jolly smile fool you; his competitive quest to own items from pagan cultures who worshiped pre-Christian deities borders on compulsive.”
“And why this mask in particular?” Blaze asked. “Why am I chasing it down?”
Minerva took over. “It wasn’t willingly made available for purchase, and the original owner isn’t pleased that it was stolen
from him in the first place, then sold on an underground antiquities circuit before he could track it down.”
“And so he’s engaged the House to get it back? Does that seem like the best use of our time?” Blaze realized almost immediately that he’d overstepped. But he let his questions hang regardless.
Minerva shifted in her chair. She rested her elbows on the desktop, her fingers interlocked. “Do you have an issue with the assignment?”
“What I mean is, certainly we have better things to do than chase down stolen masks.”
“And who are you to decide the importance of our pursuits, agent?”
Minerva said it as if to remind him of the pecking order, and Blaze let the implication regarding his status in the organization settle. “I’m the foot soldier who’s going to put his neck on the line in whatever manner necessary to get it back for the House,” he said, “without making a mess or drawing unwarranted notice.”
This surprised the director. “That’s the sort of dedication I have in mind, yes. But without the sarcastic undertone, or the suggestion that your role is more significant than it actually is in the greater scheme of things.”
Blaze was finally exasperated. “So where and when? And who am I this time?” His former life as a freelancer involved assumed identities, as Minerva had pointed out, but they were far more subtle; no costumes, no characters. Just personal details, the more complex the better. It had always been a shadow dark enough to hide in. It was that blending that had attracted the House in his direction. They hadn’t known about his tendency to blow his cover until he began working for them.
It was a disappointing discovery.
“You’re Liam Keller,” Savant informed him, “an art insurance agent with Davenport-Frasier. Buttoned-down, sewn up. Quiet and unassuming, though knowledgeable to a fault about his field.”
Blaze nodded. “I can make that work.”
“You’ll have no choice,” Minerva reminded him.
Blaze didn’t respond.
“Parrick is changing insurance companies and has requested an appraisal,” Savant continued. “The House was able to intercept and insert you instead. Parrick is notoriously private about his collection; he only allows experts in the fields of prehistoric art into his collection room. However, acquiring the mask is something of a feather in his cap, and to commemorate the catch—”
“The catch,” Blaze echoed.
Savant ignored him. “To commemorate the catch, he’s decided it’s time to show off a little. He understands the greater value of what he has, and he wants to establish a new, higher value insurance policy before the unveiling happens. And so, you’ll be onsite to do just that. You’ll also be a guest during Thunderhead, the gala weekend he’s holding in the mansion to introduce Tlaloc among his collection of 47 other pieces, all of which will be under assessment by you for future reference by the House.”
“Thunderhead?”
“It’s his name for the mask.”
“So I’m gathering intel about his whole collection?”
“Correct.”
“And my task is to steal the mask out from under his nose.”
“No,” Savant clarified, “we need Parrick to believe he’s still in possession of the mask, so your task is to replace it with a replica and then steal the original out from under his nose.”
“That seems...simplistic,” Blaze commented.
“Remember our ‘no-more-slip-ups’ conversation from three minutes back?” Minerva prompted him. “The replica will ensure a cleaner get-away. You’ll finish the mission as Mr. Keller, shake Parrick’s hand good-bye, kiss his wife on the cheek in the continental manner, and board the Davenport-Frasier helicopter for a safe ride to the airport, where you’ll fly back to headquarters with absolutely zero incident, the true Tlaloc mask tucked safely in the hidden compartment of your personal attaché case.” She tilted in her chair, swiveling as she rested her hands in her lap. “Is that sophisticated enough a plan for you?”
“It...is, yes.” Blaze kept looking at the mask’s eyes. The jewels were transcendent...practically hypnotic. The rest of it wasn’t quite up to his taste in art. “It’s rather ugly, isn’t it?”
“It’s not our place to judge the client’s aesthetic sensibilities,” Savant said.
“No, I mean...one art fiend wanting it seems plenty. Another procuring it through nefarious means seems a bit overkill. And then the first fiend going to all this trouble to have it stolen back again. For something that looks like...that.”
His casualness was concerning to his superiors. Minerva felt the need to remind him of something incredibly vital in their line of work. “We vet our clients with a rigor like few other agencies, Agent Blaze. I assure you the man who wants this back is legitimate. And wealthy enough to pay us very well for our services.”
“But it’s just so—”
“Which means we can pay you very well as a result,” Savant continued in a tone that warned Blaze not to question things any further.
Blaze understood. “Of course, beauty doesn’t always denote value. As an experienced espionage professional, once I learn the details, I’m sure I’ll fully recognize the significance of this...piece...as a treasure worth pursuing.”
“You also thought the vial had perfume in it...” Minerva reminded him.
“That was a joke,” Blaze insisted.
“Was it?” Minerva asked blankly. “It’s nearly impossible to tell when spies are joking and when they’re lying. You might want to do less of both when in this office.”
Savant’s cocked eyebrow and stifled laugh made Blaze think better of pushing his luck even further. “I’ll do my best,” he assured her.
Minerva grimaced. “Try to do a little better than that.”
T H R E E
“You need to pull back when you speak to her,” Savant told Blaze firmly as they walked. “She is your far superior in this organization. She may have brought you in, but she certainly doesn’t have to keep you.”
“Then she can let me go,” Blaze answered. “I won’t hurt for work. I’ll be back on the circuit in minutes.”
The House operated in an office complex six stories underground known as Cathedral. Its structure reflected the name: vaulted ceilings with dark arches and stained glass windows at the peak that spread natural light throughout, funneled into the space via a periscope-like series of mirrors. Savant and Blaze passed briskly down a hallway beneath ancient-looking pillars that stretched over their heads; their path was lit in cool modern contrast by a chain of LED lights that glowed cobalt blue like a runway.
They reached a steel-gray pocket door and paused before the facial recognition scanner.
“But you don’t want that, do you? To be back on the circuit?” Savant stood still and stared straight ahead as the scanner processed her, and a soft green halo of light signaled their passage as the door slid silently upward.
“I—”
“You escaped the underground,” Savant cut him off as she entered the tech lab, “by going even further underground, correct?”
Blaze had a thousand volts of energy left to argue with. But right was right. There was no need to discuss it any further, and disputing it more would only lead him back to the same conclusion: he was with the House for a reason. He couldn’t compromise that. “Fine,” he conceded finally. “I’ll pull back.”
Savant softened a little hearing that. “Please do. Your attitude should be the least potential liability in this enterprise.”
“That’ll be a first,” Blaze mumbled.
The tech lab was clean and sterile, a working development station and storehouse the size of a small airplane hangar, with a multi-level industrial-style workspace housing all manner of weapons, gadgets, and experimental vehicles. A small crew of engineers milled about working intently on various projects, some behind thick sheets of blast-proof glass, some dressed in several layers of protective gear, which seemed to be the norm judging from the few times Blaze had been behin
d the door.
“Welcome back to Xanadu, my friends,” said a cheerful voice that stood in stark contrast to the sere tone of nearly every other member of the organization. “How may I deliver your ecstasy this morning? The sensation, not the club drug, obviously...although the drug does impart the sensation. But that’s not what I meant, and I think you know that.” Zed Hammill was the head technician, and an anomaly in the House, with a shock of orange hair that illuminated the room, blazing like neon flames against the subdued black and gray fixtures and stark white floors. Being the genius that he was with all things tech and development, his eccentricities were among the few allowed.
Savant walked purposefully toward his desk and wasted no time with pleasantries. “I’ve brought Agent Blaze up to speed on his new mission. We need an update on Thunderhead, please.”
Zed tipped his head. “And an update on Thunderhead you shall have.”
He slid a rolling table toward them, and Blaze’s stare lingered on the items resting there, each cataloged and stored in its own tray. His hand reached longingly for them without him realizing it was happening. It was met with a sharp smack, and he pulled back. “No touchy—‘kay, new guy?” Zed warned him. “You don’t know what they do.” He pointed at a small silver rectangle with a tiny red LED light at its center. “That one might detonate a nuclear warhead attached to a submarine off the coast of Maldavia.”
Blaze grimaced. “Does it?”
“Well, no...it doesn’t. It starts my car. But you don’t know that.” Zed waved his hands like a magician to add unexpected showmanship to his debriefing. “Mesdames and messieurs, may I present for your edification...” He lifted a smooth black disk that looked like a palm-sized flying saucer.
“Does that open your garage?” Blaze asked.
Zed chuckled. “No, smart guy. It opens everything else, though. I call it Scramblr, and it...scrambles. Security codes. From the inside. Call it a stealth universal security system deactivator. Nicholas Parrick’s compound uses a proprietary in-house electronic locking network called Watchman, which can’t be disabled by remote. I know. Because I’ve tried. Bummer, right?”