literature

The Agent

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       There are 99 coffee shops in downtown Washington DC. 45 of them are Starbucks. I'm continuously surprised about both of those numbers. I see this stat at least once a week, not sure where but I see it none the less. Each time, the surprise remains. I see coffee shops on every corner and every block. I guess this city isn't as large as I thought.

I don't even know why I know this. I don't even drink coffee. I drink a lot of hot chocolate. I guess I also like paying a crap load of money for a decently sized cup. And I guess there's something to be said about a young male adult in a coffee shop. It kind of feels like I belong here. Plus there's heat in coffee shops. Heat is nice.

I'm at one 45 Starbucks, one of the few in Dupont Circle, after spending close to six dollars on hot chocolate. That hot chocolate is waiting more the feeling on my tongue to return, so that it may scorch the taste buds once again. I'm scribbling on a note pad. It's mostly useless gibberish; I just want to look like I'm doing something.

The snow outside is said to have past six inches by now. But there's no way to tell right now. The streets are covered in slush. The sidewalks are in a similar state. The snow keeps falling, and it looks beautiful. If only it looked this way on Christmas, I think to myself.

At 2:27, a man walks through the door. He's wearing a long black overcoat, doubtless covering the business suit he's probably wearing. He peels off his leather gloves as he makes his way to the counter. I don't catch what he orders, but it doesn't take long for the barista to make it. Once he gets that beverage, he joins me at my small table.  

It doesn't take more than a glance to know what this man is all about. He's dressing like a businessman, so I'm guessing he's a businessman because no one dresses like a businessman for kicks. His face is clean shaven, like he hadn't considered a beard once in his life. All of his clothes look expensive, so I'm also guessing that that businessman thing is working out pretty well for him.

Of course, this is my third meeting with him, so I know all of there really is to know about him. Except for his name. I don't know that. I do know that he is a business executive, making well over six figures in a yearly salary. I know he works for one of those big corporations that the liberals think kill America. And I do know that this corporation has a lot of global interests to protect. Interests in areas you wouldn't believe if I told you.

That's where I come in.  

"I was hoping this place would be more populated," the man says to me after taking a large swig of his drink.

"There is a lovely snow storm outside," I tell him. "Not many people leave the comfort of the homes to overpay for coffee." I take a quick look around the coffee shop. Including us, there are five patrons and three people working behind the counter. None of them are paying attention to us. "Still, we probably should've gotten a rain check."

"A rain check?"

"C'mon, you're not that old," I tell him. I'm merely being courteous. Grey hairs are taking over the hairs on top of his head. And his face is sprouting some wrinkles. I'd guess he's in his late forties or early fifties. And in an unrelated note, I think that saying has been around for a while, so it wouldn't matter how old he is. "It's what you say when you want to postpone an appointment or something."

"And you call it a rain check?"

"Well, yeah," I say. "It's like when a baseball game gets postponed to next month because of rain."

"Oh, now I understand," he says. He takes another sip of his beverage. "Perhaps a rain check would've been wise."

"There are less….onlookers," I point out to him.

"You're not that young, Kix," he says to me. "More people drone out the conversations. Less people, easier to hear."

"Oh yes, because everyone here gives two shits and a damn about what we're saying." I don't know why I say that. Two shits and a damn, so childish. Like the man said, I'm not that young. "Besides, shouldn't both of us know better than to be talking like this in public?"

The man chuckles, kind of creepily if I might add. "Well, like you just said, everyone here clearly cares about what we're saying." He looks around the coffee shop for himself. "Maybe that barista is interested."

I look at the barista he's referring to; there are three, but I know he's talking about the attractive blonde. Her name is Taylor, assuming I remember the name on her nametag correctly. She's got a wonderful figure from what I can tell. And that blonde hair is what's lighting up the room. She has a beautiful smile, the kind of smile that belongs to a lucky man who calls her his girlfriend. Or at least there's a late night caller that she wants to turn in something more real. There's some hope in me that she's only glancing over because she finds me attractive, but I doubt that. I don't know why, but I just don't think that's the case.

"I don't think it would take more than 50 bucks and a new purse to keep her mouth shut," I mutter softly so she does not hear, getting my mind back on course.

"People are smarter these days," the man says. "They know when they've heard something they're not supposed to have heard. And they know when they can get more to keep shut." He takes another drink from his beverage. Judging by the sound it makes when he places it back on the table, he's almost done. I take another sip out of my hot chocolate, which is about halfway done, and that's being optimistic. "Times are changing," he says.

"And it's my job to keep them the same," I say. I considered adding something about the reason why I'm doing this, which to my knowledge is just that it's in his business' interests.

The man smiles. "And you are doing a fine job, Kix." He gestures for me to hand over my notepad. "May I?"

This is the real purpose of this meeting. The man flips through my notepad to the first blank page he finds and starts writing things. This is my mission. This is whatever he wants me to do; rather his bosses want me to do. I just wish he wouldn't write in cursive. He says it's harder to read, which may buy us an extra few minutes if I get caught. Then again, it takes me a good while to cipher it for myself.

It takes him about five minutes to write whatever he is writing. I do know he is a very prolific writer. He uses his status and position to get books published. He's published seven books. I've read three of them, and they aren't that bad. Rightfully not winning awards or getting movie adaptations, but not a bad read. However, I do not like it when my briefing is a novel.

"Care to tell me where it is this time?" I ask when he hands me back the notepad and pen. He probably won't say it.

"Walk with me," he says. He stands from the table, as do I once I realize he's standing. He puts on his gloves as he takes the final sips of his beverage and throws it away. I would do the same if I had a pair of gloves and if I had finished my hot chocolate. All I do instead is put the notepad into my black messenger bag and button up the military coat I acquired on a trip to Germany. Yes, it was on a mission.

The cold air punches my face as I walk out of the Starbucks. I now wish to turn back and marinate in the warmth for ten more minutes, but the man is already walking away. He's paying no attention to me, expecting me to be walking step for step with him at his side. He is also giving no sway with the snow. It is having no effect on him.        

"Do you like the snow?" he asks me as we walk step for step down the street. I can tell we are heading for the metro station, doubtless he realizes that that is where I'd be going to. I suppose I'm going home to pack once we are done here.

"I guess," I say. "I don't really mind any kind of weather one way or another."

"What about beaches?" he asks me. "You like beaches?"

"Who doesn't?"

"I take it you would not object to spending the next three months in the Bahamas," he says.

He's is absolutely right. I would not mind spending three months in the Bahamas in the slightest. My body almost immediately warms at thought of it. "You sure know how to spoil a kid," I chuckle.

"No jokes on this one, Kix," he says. We arrive at the escalators down to the Dupont Circle metro station. The man grabs a firm hold on my left arm. "Your plane out of Regan leaves in four hours. You've already been emailed your flight itinerary."

"I understand."

"I wrote down some basic information that'll get you through customs," he says. "Make sure you have it memorized by the time you land." I nod. Unless it's a novel of information, this shouldn't be an issue. "I also wrote down instructions for when you arrive. They'll get you through the first few days, but get in contact with us as soon as you arrive."

"I will."

He lets go of my arm. "Good luck, Kix. And remember, no joking around."

I take the metro to my apartment, located in Friendship Heights. Packing does not take long. I just throw in a bunch of clothes into my large suitcase; I don't even bother to fold them. I print out the flight information, which also includes a hotel reservation in Fort Lauderdale. Looks like I've got a layover. After swapping my military coat for a much lighter hoodie, which will serve me more in warmer weather than a military coat, I make sure all the lights in my apartment and anything that can be switched off are switched off.

Before I walk out of the building, I pay the office of the apartment building a visit, just to let them know that I'll be gone for three months. This building is owned by one of the executives for the corporation that is sending me on this trip, as well as every other one I've been on, so I don't doubt they will learn why I'm not paying my rent and why my mail is piling up. They usually take care of everything that happens while I'm doing their dirty work. Nevertheless, I poke my head in and let them know.

Back onto the metro I went. Regan Airport is on the other side of the city, so getting there takes up a large chunk of the time I have until my place takes off. But even then, I still arrive with ample time to kill. The plane doesn't take off until 6:45, and it's barely 5 when I get to the airport. Checking in and getting through security doesn't take more than an hour. My stomach insists I get a greasy, fast food meal, a request I comply with full-heartedly.

I spend the entire flight to Fort Lauderdale memorizing the information written, thankfully not in cursive, on the notepad. Turns out I'm a web designer who's been hired to work at Trooper Web Designs. Almost immediately, I recognize that the company name. The term "Trooper" is our giveaway. Any business beginning with the word "Trooper" is a sub-business of the big corporation; sometimes they are real businesses and sometimes they are faux businesses that just serve as headquarters for agents in the field like me. This tells me I'm going to have a few friendly faces down at the Bahamas. The notepad also gives me the address of an apartment building where an apartment has been leased for my temporary stay. Everything seems to have been taken care off, allegedly by me.

At around noon the following day, I am stepping off the plane in Nassau, breezing my way through customs. I'm fighting the urge to swoon at the warm air, especially given the snow and winter I am leaving behind me in Washington. A cab takes me to the apartment building. Finalizing the apparent agreement over my residence, the landlord hands me my key.

The apartment is similar to the one I live in at Friendship Heights. It is pre-furnished, has most utilities paid for in the rent, and lacks any personalization, which I doubt I'll change. There is a TV, decently sized, which would ail some boredom if it comes. Being here for three months tells me that I'm going to be appearing as a normal citizen for most of the time, and that my mission will likely involve some intelligence gathering.

But before I start with any of that, I take a second to look out the centerpiece window of my apartment. I have a nice view of Nassau the city, as well as the bright blue oceans. A cruise ship is sailing into the harbor, and I doubt that's the last one I'll see. I'm too high up to see any people.

I just take a second to think about this. I'm in the Bahamas. There are some perks to this job, such as good pay and the adventure. Though there are days when I think otherwise, they out way the cons. Like right now. I know that there some "serious business" that I need to take care of. But I'm in the Bahamas. I think I'm going to enjoy a few leisure days when I get the chance.
Should be sleeping. Wrote this instead. :P

Who can't resist a little corporate espionage? 007 and all that fun stuff.

And it took me an hour to research what I wrote in those first few sentences, so deal with it if they are not right on the money.

Edit: A follow up story can be found here [link]
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