The Cheese

[Ethan Neufeld 0]

Activity at the old chancellery had diminished with the greater part of his people away on business, leaving Samuel Remington to enjoy a bit of coveted solitude. Lounging on a taupe sectional with an unconscious smile, he turned the pages of a worn book as a fire snapped lazily in the central fireplace. Remington - a salt-and-peppered, middle-aged man with a slight paunch - bore less the look of a businessman and more a retiree that lived for alcohol and beaches of women, but he wasn’t lounging in a Florida resort. Comfortable furnishings starkly contrasted with the exposed ferroconcrete, harsh lighting, and security of the sub-level rooms that bore testament to a skilled businessman and tactician. Remington and his business partner had recognized the building’s potential as a hardened facility - keeping people out and secrets in - and purchased it for its inherent security at a bargain from the departing embassy’s government. Renovated to strengthen its choke-points, the main floor was still open to the public and retained its original class and comfort, notably in the lobby where clientele formed their initial opinions of his business. But the sub-level that once housed paper copies of sensitive files, servers, an armory, vault, and safe rooms for the embassy, had become a secured center of operations and where Remington spent much of his time.

 

Appearing engrossed, Remington immediately looked up to the sound of footsteps. He set aside his book, standing as his young protege approached and paused at the edge of the carpeted conversation pit. The air felt portentous.

 

“Blind transmission from Rodney Venczel on Xorax,” the younger man said, sullen as he extended a data slate to Remington. “High casualties on the Zoalus Expedition. Neufeld is listed critical.”

 

“What happened?”

 

“Our source says he was contaminated with some of the substance we were investigating, in addition to other injuries.”

 

“Where is he at?”

 

“On a mercenary ship called the Qob. They refused to transfer him to Xorax due to his condition.”

 

“Is the Qob still at Xorax? Do we know where they’re going?”

 

“We don’t know.”

 

“What d'you mean we don’t know? That’s what we do: we know things,” Remington demanded. His mind turned to the slate of legal documents he’d left on his desk; he didn’t want to look at them now. He didn’t want to even think about the ramifications.

 

***

 

Fingers resting lightly on the thick, alloy frame, Ethan pushed the door closed, the lock engaging with an audible click. He appeared relaxed, but couldn’t help second nature and made a subtle, visual sweep of the interior, again, in spite of his familiarity with the building and its security. He navigated several clear partitions set at the entrance to hamper the progress of unwanted entries, and moved left to meet Remington and a carrot-topped young man.

 

“Hey, Neufchatel,” greeted the young man as he neared.

 

“Neufchatel?” Ethan dryly questioned, brow rising.

 

“Careful who you’re callin’ the cheese, kid,” Remington quipped with a smile.

 

“Sorry, boss,” the young man nervously apologized, unfamiliar with Remington’s humor.

 

Ethan subtly smirked and gestured at the data slate the younger man was holding. “Intel?”

 

“Yeah, latest on the Rainmakers.” The young man relaxed, handed over the slate and perched to follow along as Ethan skimmed the contents. Remington casually sipped from a bottle of imported Pepsi.

 

Finishing in a few seconds, Ethan fixed the young man with a look. “You forward this to the Guardians?”

 

“Yeah, but they’re asking about the client again; they want to know where we’re getting our information.”

 

“Tell them the same thing as before,” Ethan answered.

 

Remington gestured in agreement. “I was just telling him that myself,” he said, waving his Pepsi bottle. “She’s in a bad position, kid. The Guardians have shoddy security and we don’t wanna risk leading the bad guys back to her.”

 

“Already told them,” the young man assured with pride and looked at Ethan. “But she’s been asking about you, too, so I guess we’re still holding out on the client?”

 

“It’s for her safety, kid,” explained Remington. “Plausible deniability and all that jazz."

 

"Right," the young man accepted.

 

Ethan nodded and passed the slate back to the young man; then produced another and handed it to Remington. “Updated legal documents.”

 

Remington groaned and lowered the Pepsi to his side, frowning at the slate. “Well, I was having a good day.”

 

“Can’t be helped.”

 

“Yeah, but you know me and legal stuff, Neufie. We don’t get along, especially when it’s about people dyin’,” Remington complained and stuffed the slate into a pocket. “I’ll read this crap later.

 

“Hey,” he added. “I’ve got something for you, too.” He pulled a white, paper envelope from his pocket.

 

“What’s this?” Ethan asked, genuinely surprised.

 

“Came by courier this morning. Can you imagine? Using a courier to send a letter in this day and age? Must’ve cost a small fortune. Dunno how she knew you were here,” Remington said, trailing off in the hopes that Ethan would explicate.

 

Ethan didn’t immediately respond, eyes fixed on the sender’s return address for a heavy moment. Unable to bear the silence, Remington continued: “Don’t worry; we scanned it for threats earlier. Though with a name like that, I can’t imagine why she’d want to write you, much less kill you, unless--”

 

“Keep it for me,” Ethan calmly interrupted, returning the envelope unopened; “until I get back.”

 

“Yeah, sure,” Remington promised in obvious bewilderment and wishing Ethan had divulged more, but unwilling to question his closest friend.

Edited February 5, 2012 by Ethan Neufeld