by J Jordan
“And I would like a proportionate share too,” said Jacob, studiously. “There was a lot of personal risk with that awesome driving I did.”
“Well, guys, you aren’t getting proportionate shares, because Vandesko here wants a bigger portion.”
“A bigger portion,” said Tykeso, “for more work.”
“Okay,” said Romney, “fine. You saved me from the ninja banker. Great job. Just take your share already. But that leaves the rest of us with 5,020 ON.”
Tykeso moved to the duffel bags and began moving stacks of money from one to the other. Then he slung the heavier one over his shoulder. Cora and Jacob nodded. They were following along so far.
“That was pretty neat,” added Jacob, “how you figured that all out in your head.”
“Please don’t do that right now,” said Romney.
“Mr. Jacob,” said Cora, “how much time have you spent in preparation for this?”
“Well, I’ve done this a lot. Driving. It’s what I do.”
“Sure,” said Cora. “Would you say there was very little preparation needed?”
Jacob nodded slowly.
“Because you are an expert,” she added. “You were chosen for your abilities and your history of successes.”
Jacob nodded more quickly to this, grinning sheepishly.
“How much do you make for a usual job?”
“Around 500 ON, give or take.”
“All right,” said Cora, “that’s not very much. Especially considering your talents. Now, I want you to listen carefully to this offer.”
Jacob was listening, almost too carefully. At this point, thought Romney, she could offer him a T-shirt and a fond farewell. And he would probably take it.
“I propose we pay Mr. Jacob at twice his current rate. A reward of 1,000 ON for an exceptional performance.”
“That’s less than what he was going to get with equal shares,” said Romney.
This didn’t stop Jacob from rifling into the remaining duffel bag and taking exactly 1,000 Ontaran notes as one hundred-note stack. He slid the stack into his pocket with a satisfaction that showed in his lighter step and his smug grin.
“That leaves us with 4,020 ON,” said Cora. “Now, Mr. Balvance?”
“Nope,” said Romney. “You’re not pulling that on me. I planned and strategized too. We split this up evenly. That’s twenty ten.”
“Except that we didn’t spend equal time in preparing for this heist,” said Cora.
“No, ma’am. We certainly did. I was researching and investigating all of this way before I brought you on.”
“But you hired me because your research came up short, correct?”
Romney didn’t give an answer. He was already watching the conversation curve into a wall. This was going to be expensive.
“A research associate at Lanvale Prime makes 1,500 ON for a single project. And 2,000 ON if they have a doctorate. A project can take anywhere from a week to several months, depending on the scope.”
“All right,” said Romney, “just cut to the chase. How much do you want?”
“My doctorate in Camerran history entitles me to the higher pay rate, as you know.”
“Okay, Dr. Queldin. Then you’re asking for two thousand? Great. Fine. I’ll throw in another ten notes for good measure.”
“I’m asking for 4,000 ON. For completing two projects.”
She pushed her glasses back onto the bridge of her nose. This always seems to punctuate a situation, much like clearing one’s throat. Romney was flabbergasted. A fun Camerran word.
“No. At what point did we rob two banks?”
“Two projects. One involved researching the First Ontaran National Bank, of which there is no webpage and no listings in any directory in Lanvale. They have one branch in all of North Ontar, on Eighth and Perceval, for which I found a building license buried in public records. I searched through hundreds of records in Lanvale to find it.
“The second project involved something I am not accustomed to: shoveling large amounts of money into bags and having my knee nearly broken by a trained martial artist. It had very little research involved, but I will count it as a separate project. I ask for 2,000 ON per project, which is more than fair.”
“Fair?” said Romney. “That leaves me with a twenty note. How is that fair?”
“I see you as a project manager,” said Cora. “A supervisor of sorts. The average project manager in Lanvale makes 40 ON for an hour’s work, before taxes. You spent half an hour between drawing up the plans and briefing us on what to do. Half an hour equals 20 ON.”
She handed him a twenty note, as she slung the last duffel bag over her shoulder.
“I will keep the bag and the towels too,” she said. “As a farewell present.”
Romney looked down at the twenty note. The conversation crashed and this was the only survivor. It was time to cut his losses on the loot. There was a bigger prize at hand. He decided to keep up the charade, to make sure no one got suspicious.
“Are we all happy now?”
Cora and Jacob nodded. They made their way to the door. From outside, they would walk a mile to a bus stop on Gawain and return to their cars parked outside the Lanvale Museum of Art. Jacob was holding the door open for Cora when they turned to Tykeso. The elf was staring at Romney.
“You had something else.”
Romney tucked the twenty note into a back pocket and made for the door. He completed three entire steps before Tykeso blindsided him, propping him against a wall with an outstretched hand. Cora stepped back inside.
“Is there still a problem?”
With his free hand, Tykeso reached into Romney’s suit. The first inner pocket held the stone.
“What’s this?”
Romney thrashed at Tykeso’s arm. He reached for the stone. His fingertips were inches away.
At this point, Jacob decided his 1,000 ON was enough. He waited politely for Cora to reenter, and then passed through the door. And out of history. When asked if he regretted this decision, he would point to the many events that stood on this one point. He would say his only regret was that he should have asked for 1,500.
“Give it back.”
“What is it?”
“I don’t know,” said Romney, “but it’s mine. Give it back!”
“You were supposed to clean out all those boxes. You promised us a payday. You promised us an easy mark.”
“You got your money. I got a twenty note out of this, plus that stone. It’s my part of the loot, so give it back.”
“May I see that?”
Tykeso glanced at Cora. She was staring fixedly at the stone amulet. He let it drop into her open hand. She caught it gingerly.
“You got your shares, okay? There’s no negotiating this one. That is mine.”
“Shut up,” said Tykeso. “What’s going on, Cora?”
Cora ran a finger over the stone’s smooth surface. She watched it carefully. After a long interval, she held the stone to the sunlight, twisting it side to side. She was looking for something in particular. And, after another long and silent interval, she found it. There was a blue flash as flecks of Katarin caught the sunlight.
“Oh my Goddess.”
“What?”
“It’s mine, okay? Give it here.”
“This is a Katarin stone. And it’s made from real Katarin.”
Tykeso’s grip loosened around Romney’s collar. Absently, he hovered beside Cora, his gaze locked on the stone. Both remained silent, carefully watching the stone as if it might fly away. When they received nothing for several seconds, Tykeso ventured a question.
“How much is it worth?”
“It’s priceless,” said Cora. “This must be from the Ancient era. Just look at this! Well preserved. The strap is intact. And that blue sparkle there? That is real Katarin. Katarin is nearly impossible to mine, even with modern tools. Katresean priests would wear these during ceremonies to store blessings from Katrese, the Goddess of Creati
on. Usually they were made of granite or limestone.”
“I was asking Romney.”
“What’s it to you?”
Romney’s question fell down with him. He wasn’t prepared for Tykeso to let go. Tykeso stood beside Cora, watching the stone with the same caution.
“This is Katrese,” said Tykeso, distracted by the stone, “the matron Goddess of Creation. She built our world. And now she can watch us from inside that stone. She is the Creator.”
“And the Destroyer, in some cultures,” added Cora.
“The Balancer.”
Romney stood and brushed the dust off his pants. Then he snatched the stone from Cora’s hands.
“One genuine Katarin stone and 20 ON,” he said. “We’re all squared up. So, I take my leave. Have a nice day, a pleasant evening, and a wonderful life.”
“Where did you find that? That is the only genuine Katarin stone known to exist in the whole world.”
“In a lockbox at the First Ontaran,” said Romney, as he passed through the doorway. “Thanks for helping me get it. It’s been real.”
Real something, he muttered to himself. And he had almost made it to the sidewalk, when a large, silver-haired elf appeared beside him and stuck out a long arm to block the way. He tried stepping around it, only to find a shorter, ill-tempered elf standing on the other side. She was glaring at him.
This wasn’t the first time Romney had received Cora’s glare, but it was the first time it had been directed squarely on him. It had the same determination as her non-glaring gaze, but with a heat sharpened to a singular point, finely honed from years of practice. Over time, he would slowly build a tolerance to this terrible gaze. But this first, highly concentrated glare cut Romney like a plasma torch through a soda can. He stopped and watched her, caught in the concentrated field of utter contempt. Then, satisfied that he hadn’t turned to ash, he cleared his throat weakly and tried to pass her.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“Home,” said Romney. “No, you can’t come. No, you can’t have the stone. And no, I’m not telling you anything else.”
“That is an ancient artifact. And you are taking it to a museum the first chance you get.”
“Sure thing. Thanks for the tip. See you around town.”
Romney didn’t bother with the bus. Another ride with his new partners would only spell awkward in several languages, some of them dead. He cut across to Lancelot, then snaked down back alleys until he was on Beowulf. From there, it was a short stroll to the parking lot of the Lanvale Museum of Art. Finally, he was approaching his forest-green sedan.
He reached into his pocket and found nothing there.
As if on cue, Cora Queldin was behind him, jingling something metallic in her hand. It was a familiar sound for Romney.
“You left these back at the van. It’s difficult to operate a motor vehicle without keys. You can probably bypass an ignition switch, but it would be expensive to replace your window. More than 20 ON.”
Romney reached cautiously for his key chain. It withdrew behind Cora’s back. This was going to be expensive.
“I want to know where you found that Katarin stone and what you plan to do with it.”
Romney scanned the parking lot briefly for signs of any tall, muscle-bound elves. Then he leaned in and murmured.
“It was a tip from an old friend, okay? He said to check the lockbox at the bank. And there it was. That’s the truth. As for the what, that’s my little secret.”
Cora crossed her arms. Romney could see his key chain dangling from the crook of her arm. It seemed to be pleading for help.
“You’re going to sell it, aren’t you?” said Cora. “You’re going to pawn off ancient history to some collector.”
“I knew he was holding out on us.”
Romney yelped at the sudden shape that rose from behind his car. It was tall, muscle-bound, and displeased. An unmistakably Tykeso shape.
“How did you get here?”
“We took the bus together,” said Cora. “It gave us some time to discuss your strange behavior.”
“Also, your sudden departure.”
“So, you might want to come clean now.”
“Spill the beans.”
“Fess up. What are you going to do with that Katarin stone?”
Romney knew he was up against the wall. Literally, he was up against his car. The two elves had circled to face him and they were glowering.
It takes a special kind of innate talent to achieve a good glower. It requires a certain level of facial arranging accompanied by the proper stink eye. And, of course, everything hinges on the right mind-set. Cora and Tykeso had achieved glowers that would make history. Literally. In this moment, they had become forever linked to Romney Balvance.
With a heavy sigh, Romney confessed his plan.
Jacob Duffy and Agent Kinsey
Although Romney was in the running, Jacob Duffy had won the prize that day for worst turn of events. As he approached his apartment, two people in dark suits arrested him. One was a tall man with dark sunglasses and a head of silver stubble. The other was an athletic woman with her auburn hair tied in a bun. She had tackled Jacob to the ground when he failed to stop. She wouldn’t have done this had he not run for his car at the sight of her badge. The chase was brief, the ending tackle painful for Jacob. Currently, she had him pinned to the ground, her knee pressed into his back. The tall man read him his rights.
“Jacob Duffy,” he said in a cool Camerran accent, “you are under arrest for aiding and abetting a wanted criminal. Under Section 318-32-A-II, you are now a part of our investigation, and anything you say can and will be used toward said investigation. And under the same section, you will cooperate to that end on threat of imprisonment.”
“So help you, Goddess,” growled the woman.
“I didn’t do anything. You’ve got the wrong guy.”
The handcuffs clicked behind his back. With a clean pull, Jacob was on his feet and marching toward a black SUV. It had no markings on the sides.
“Are you guys Lanvale PD?”
Jacob was yanked backward, now eye-to-eye with the lady agent. He noticed the color of her eyes. They were green, but not the typical forest-green of an eye. They were hunter-green. Like the dark spots on camouflage.
“Worse,” she said, “I’m Agent Kinsey with the OIB.”
“And I’m Agent Salinger,” said the tall man, “and you, Jacob Duffy, are going downtown.”
“What did I do?”
There was no answer, only an opening door, a hard shove, and the door slamming. He was in the SUV, face-first on the seat cushion.
“Why am I under arrest?”
“I believe we covered that in the reading of the rights,” said Agent Salinger. “You were recently involved in a bank robbery. Over 15,000 ON in stolen property. That makes it a provincial offense.”
Jacob frowned at this. He wiggled onto his side and looked to the cool sunglasses reflected in the rearview mirror.
“You got it all wrong. I had no idea they were going to do that.”
“Of course,” said Agent Salinger, smiling back. “We’ll just take you downtown to clear this all up.”
Agent Kinsey turned in her chair to face him. Her scowl was made more threatening by her hunter-green eyes.
“We want everything you’ve got on Balvance.”
***
The Ontaran Intelligence Bureau was established in 1944, to protect the provinces from foreign and domestic threats with the fledgling craft of intelligence gathering. Even in the mid-1940s, the world was still learning valuable lessons from The Great Nations’ War. One such lesson was simple, yet it changed the ways of modern warfare: a well-placed secret can defeat an army.
Why search for enemy troops when you could read their positions from a misplaced document? You could send your battalion into the enemy territory and endanger good men and women along the way. Or, you could send one spy into an enemy factory dressed a
s a worker. The enemy would never suspect a thing, until their rifles fell apart on the front line. They might even blame someone else for it. There were no more surprises in the world, and no more secret weapons.
The Great Nations’ War ended and the world was in a relative peace, but secrets are always valuable. The Ontaran Intelligence Bureau, or OIB, is still Ontar’s primary intelligence agency. In 2015 ME, the bureau was focused on criminal enterprises, but their goal was still the same. Find secrets and use them. In the Modern era, they couldn’t just go around pulling secrets out of unsuspecting criminals. The methods had to be sanctioned.
Agent Arindale Kinsey used a sanctioned method of extracting secrets on Jacob Duffy. It had no fancy name. It was called “sitting and staring.” This method was always effective.
Jacob Duffy squirmed again. Kinsey continued staring at his greasy forehead.
“I get a phone call, don’t I?”
“Does he?” asked Agent Salinger, leaning against the two-way mirror. “He must be used to getting arrested. Doesn’t he look comfortable in that chair?”
Kinsey didn’t answer.
“You look right at home,” said Salinger. “Nice chair, isn’t it?”
Jacob shifted in his seat. His grimace spoke volumes.
“I told you everything. Balvance says drive to the bank. I do, then I wait for them to come out, and then I drive them back. I don’t know anything else.”
“To the bank?”
“He told me to park a block away. Then I saw them run to the bank.”
“Didn’t you park by the front door?” said Kinsey. “The security footage saw your minivan parked at the curb.”
Kinsey picked up his file from the table and pretended to examine it. She knew it front and back. Jacob was starting to fidget in his seat.
“I had no idea what they were doing in there, okay? Honest.”
“Mmm-hmm,” said Kinsey.
“They rush in with the bags. Then, they came out with heavier bags and told me to drive. By then, it was too late.”
Kinsey plucked a mug shot from the folder and slid it in front of Jacob. He flinched as it landed in front of him.