A Scandal In Switzerland | Scarson
Alex smiles indulgently, his eyes twinkling for half a second, as he peels off his long dress coat. “You look occupied. I take it you’ve heard from T?”
The cushions of the sofa sag under his feet as Jason turns to look at his friend. Strings are held taut in his hand, one end connecting to a frameless picture he’s taped onto a map which now covers his wall.
“Ah yes,” muses Alex. “Redecorating.”
“I’m on a case.” Jason turns to inspect the wall, looping the string in his hands towards another picture.
With his back turned, he can’t see the way Alex’s brows arch, but he can hear it in his tone. “So, it’s that again. T hasn’t assigned this, at all, has he?” Jason freezes. His arms feel suddenly heavy but he winds the string around and around the pushpin which links the second image to the wall. “It’s ok, you know. To miss someone-“
“I can’t imagine what you’re on about.” Jason cuts him off with a brusque wave of his hand and jumps down from the couch. “How was your mission? Would you like some tea?” He does his best to sound conversational while his chest is constricting.
“Where are you going?” Alex is looping his thumb over his shoulder as he turns to face Jason. “The airport is that way.”
“You go on. T would infinitely rather talk to you, anyway, I’m sure. I just have…a thing.”
“You have a thing, Jason?” Alex arches his brows significantly. “We have an appointment at HQ. We’re to leave Brussels, now.”
“You go. You can debrief me after. I just…I have to do this, Alex. Please don’t ask me to explain.”
Alex’s eyes drop. “It’s her, isn’t it? Scarlett. You think she’s here, somewhere.”
Jason sinks his hands into his pockets. He doesn’t say anything and Alex, in turn, nods and turns towards the airport.
“If I don’t see you in London in forty-eight hours, I will come back looking for you,” Alex calls over his shoulder as he walks away. Jason smirks and continues on his way.
A thick sheet of mist covers Brussels. The Grand Palace looms to his left but Jason doesn’t spare it a glance. His pace is swift and purposeful as he turns onto the next cobbled street. Barbwire lies to the sides of the streets but he sidesteps it deftly, moving towards the medieval church and its saint-studded spires. The next street, that’s where she’ll be, passing by the little cafes and shops that ring the square…She is to meet someone at one of those cafes and, knowing her, she’ll be sitting outside with her back to the place, where she can look out and see who might be approaching. He wonders, lazily, if she’ll be expecting him.
The church rises behind him as he walks towards the red awning that must be sheltering her from the spitting rain. The mist seems to clear as he approaches and, casting blue eyes downward, he scans the seating area. A terribly mundane ederly couple slice into quiche with their forks, a lone man sips on a pint (so early in the morning - prognosis: drunkard)…But Scarlett Papava is nowhere to be seen. She must be here by now. She’s too prompt to not be here.
A few quick paces carry him inside. A waiter is talking in his face, asking something about a table. Jason brushes past him, inspecting the ill-lit interior. “Where is she?” he turns abruptly to the waiter and asks the question, again, in another language.
The waiter answers in English. “Who?”
Jason’s blue eyes fix on the bald man. His shirt is crisp from ironing, an apron wrapped carefully around him. Precise, neat. He is the sort of man who does not forget details. “You would know exactly who,” he says, softly, “If you’d seen her.”
The agent steps back out into the spitting rain. He fixes his collar, again, though its already pulled up, and he pauses. He knows that if she’s not already here, she’s not coming. Jason tugs at his coat and shoves his hands into his pockets. The light is starting to filter through the mist, searing his eyes. A bloody fool, he thinks. He ought to have known, he should have known from the start. She wasn’t in the last two places. Why on earth would she be here? Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out his pack of cigarettes, his lighter. She was never going to come, at all, he thinks. She was never going to let him find her, at all.
“So they’ve sent you for The Woman?” asks Alex, sinking into his usual chair opposite Jason.
He smirks. “Oh, yes. Clever, this one. Almost,” he remarks. “As if she were trained.”
Alex sighs. “Careful, my friend. You don’t know what lies down that path.”
“No,” he agrees. “That’s the idea.”
“Freeze,” he orders. His words mist in the cold night. “Turn. Slowly.”
Red curls bounce as they tumble to the woman’s – the girl’s – shoulders. She smirks, one corner of her large mouth tilting upwards, and Jason sneers with disgust. It’s a mockery of an imitation, all bloated lips and cringing brows.
“Where is she?” he demands.
“The Woman. The woman. Where is she?”
“Right here,” says the redhead but he shakes his head.
“No.” He lowers his gun. “Not you.” His smirk is belittling. “You were at the card table the other night and not even clever enough to leave while you were ahead. You might have been trying to learn something about me, yes, but you were much too excited. Flushes, and laughing too loudly. No. You weren’t thinking on your feet, not probing. If anything, you may have been drunk. The Woman is not given to childish mistakes such as that. No, The Woman is clever, much too clever. Others come to her when they’re lost. You’re just another hired mark to take the fall. You see, she does plan for inevitabilities. She’s been doing that a long time.”
“Oooh, sore because you tracked down five other girls before you even got to me?”
“No. Sore because you’re an idiot.”
The girl arched her brows. “Because I was making merry last night, I couldn’t possibly be her? You can do better than that, Agent. What makes you think I’m not her?”
“I’m glad you asked.” He looks her up and down before taking another step towards her. “I’ve been following The Woman for some time, now. I’m familiar with her habits. The Woman’s entire empire is built on one thing: her ability to be one step ahead at all times. It’s not law-abiding people she’s dealing with, it’s the worst kind of scum who would betray her in a heartbeat for quid. No, no. She must stay above it all, stay out of reach: that much is critical. You, on the other hand, were rubbing elbows and giggling. If The Woman were to meet with her cohorts, she would need to be smart about it. Not dull and predictable.
“Granted, she’s shown she has taste for histrionics: explosives and expense. But tastefully done, if I might say. There’s nothing gaudy about her, no. She must stick to the shadows, they keep her safe. She makes a statement, a grand one: to me, to you, to everyone, and points us like a gun wherever she wishes.
“She knows us, too. She knows MI-6: our protocols, habits, even – I suspect – our agents. She is aware of all the strings of her web, keeping track of a million different petty crimes and a score of larger ones: her brain is constantly at work. She can ill afford to ‘make merry,’ as you put it. Not like that.
“She has a habit of turning down cases, even profitable ones. She takes the cases with spark, the interesting ones, not just the ones that will make her rich. Conclusion: she’s not in this for the money. Oh, yes, she likes that and she makes it, but her reasons are different.” He paused, brows dipping softly over his eyes as they searched the restless streets before him. “Probability: she wants the diversion of it. She hungers for this. Because, to her, this is the best kind of game you could ever possibly play. This, you see, is how it feels to be alive; the thrill of the chase, the blood pumping through your veins. Boredom is the enemy, here. Not me.
“Unlike you and your petty search for quid, The Woman does this because she likes it. She’s good at it, yes, but she enjoys it.” His gasp turns to vapor, clouding away in the dark of the night and, suddenly, he laughs. “No, it’s not you, is it?” To no one, he whispers, “She’s not you.” When his minions have led the girl away, he finds himself alone. Switzerland is a blanket of snow. His hand hangs loosely at his side, gun in hand. “Julia,” he murmurs fervently, pressing his eyes shut. “Julia, where are you?”
Her hair is piled in soft coils atop her head. Draped in black, her red painted lips smile ruthlessly to herself. Jason holds his breath, concealed for now by the construction. It hadn’t been hard for him to guess where he might find her alone, once he’d finally decided it could be no one else. He watches her in silence. Her arms are crossed, eyes distant in thought. She’s pensive, her jaw set like that.
It’s all he’s wanted: just a glimpse. Just a glimpse to tell him that she is there, she is alright…She is fine without him.
Candles light her face, shadows dancing about her. Her skin looks rosy and, catching his breath, he thinks how soft she is against his fingertips…
"Julia,” he whispers. The word seems to hit the ceiling and echo back through the room from a thousand directions. She gasps, suddenly, hands dropping to her sides, eyes wide. Without another word, he slips into the shadows and disappears down the gallery, lost to the black of night.
The file drops on M’s desk heavily, spilling photos and forms on its collapse. “For Christ’s sake!” she exclaims. “What’s this about, Walters?” she demands.
Jason’s eyes seem to glow. “I am here to surrender. I can’t find her. She’s too good.”
For a moment, M composes herself, lacing her fingers at the edge of her desk. “I assigned you, 003, to this case specifically because you do not back down from a challenge. You thrill at it and, as you are always pleased to point out, you have never once failed an assignment. So tell me, again, Walters. Exactly what is this all about?”
"It’s simple, my dear M." He smirks softly, his fingers briefly caressing the file before he steps away. Better for her, he thinks. Better for her than the rope. “The Woman has beaten me.”
yousharknotpass
turnnoffyourmind
kaledo-art
andulkaphoto
jacobvanloon
theartofmadeline
jbbartram-illu
janainaart
