Michel hated this part of the assignment – truly hated it. He knew what Evelyn must think of him and that her confinement was for her own good. Women were not Michel’s specialty – sometimes he felt like he had missed the class that covered female human psychology, assuming that there was such a class. He did know that he did not enjoy causing her distress. From their conversation in the bar, Michel had concluded that Evelyn had already encountered sufficient trouble in the recent past – he had no desire to add to it. He was relieved that he would soon pass his responsibility on to Allen – that was much more of an Allen-type task anyway. Michel felt perfectly comfortable when he dealt with the enemy – he had long since observed that his real problems tended to be caused by his friends and allies. Let Allen handle the subtleties – Michel would be glad to handle any type of rear guard action.
But, speaking of Allen, why hadn’t he returned Michel’s call? That wasn’t like him. Michel fully realized the risks associated with leaving the apartment at this point, but he also fully appreciated the important of Allen’s role in this particular operation. And, of course, this was a Level 5 operation in a universe that was not designed to support Level 5 operations. And Allen knew that. So where was he?
Michel had not expected to find good news at Allen’s apartment – and he was not disappointed. The body was, of course, just that – a body. Just another corpse – Michel was used to it. How could he be so careless? How could they have been so complacent?
Of course -- the man in the bar. The original piece of scrap paper that Allen had given him with his new address. Michel had put the paper in his pocket, but hadn’t been able to find it later that night. “The jerk in the bar” hadn’t been interested in Evelyn after all -- he had been interested in Michel’s information. Michel had inadvertently led the guy to Allen.
Michel shuddered as the guilt hit him. How could he be so stupid? But, then again, how could his adversary have been so stupid? He obviously didn’t know who Evelyn was yet. She was the ultimate prize – not Michel or Allen. He had had her in his grasp – without even realizing it.
And where was King? King was Allen’s Siberian husky – “King” – kind of like “Rex”. No matter. Had Allen decided to board King is the kennel while he moved to the new apartment? King usually stayed in the bedroom in Allen’s apartments, but there was no sight of the animal. If King had not been in the kennel – if somehow his adversary had not noticed the dog in the bedroom – but the bedroom window was closed. It didn’t seem likely that Allen could have used King to escape. But Michel decided to check the kennel on the way back to the apartment. Not that he had much time for side trips – if the Adversary was around and about, it was especially important to return to the apartment.
Michel had a thought. This was definitely not his area of expertise – Allen would have known better – but it occurred to Michel that a bound body of a murdered Allen might frighten Evelyn just enough to get her to cooperate with the next phase of the operation. In any event, he certainly had no intention of leaving Allen’s body there for the police – an inquisitive medical examiner might discover that Allen’s navel, like Michel’s, was surgically created, and who could predict where that line of inquiry could go? So Michel wrapped the body in an area carpet, hoisted it onto his shoulder and walked out the door.
The trip back to Evelyn’s apartment was just long enough for Michel to revise the overall plan. Originally he was simply supposed to deliver Evelyn to Allen, leaving the explanations and travel considerations to his friend. This made sense, he thought, since his (Michel’s) specialty was security and martial tactics, while Allen was more entrepreneurial in his approach and capabilities. Allen’s death, then, was not just a personal loss for Michel – it thrust him well out of the comfort zone of his self-perceived capabilities. The idea of arranging and providing for Evelyn’s transportation was definitely not appealing – particularly under game conditions. Positive self-talk, Michel thought. Maybe he should try it.
Next stop was the kennel. The kennel owner was certainly not paranoid, given the simplicity and antiquity of his security treatment. Michel knew that he had another advantage – the dogs in the kennel would not pick up a scent from either Michel or Allen’s body – aside from visual contact, and any inadvertent noise that Michel might make, the dogs treated the intruders as though they were two stuffed animals.
No – no huskies at all – let alone King. This was a good outcome. If King wasn’t in Allen’s apartment, and wasn’t in the kennel, then maybe – just maybe – Allen had found a way to transfer his spirit to King at the moment of his death.
Michel knew only too well that the process of trans-species spirit migration was still highly experimental. The R&D department had been working on that project for, well, seemingly forever – and there had been numerous failures along the way. Still, technological progress was always necessary, especially since it was well known that the Adversary had an active development group as well. Contrary to popular opinion, the opposition’s talent pool wasn’t limited to former lawyers and politicians.
So Allen – more precisely, Allen’s spirit – might have escaped from the apartment – might still be out there. The possibility suggested that Michel should leave a trail for Allen to follow. If he had assumed the body of a dog, it would seem logical that he would possess the tracking abilities of that species. The problem was that, if Michel let a trail for Allen/King to follow, the Adversary would be able to follow it too. Michel’s knowledge of and experience in security issues had made him fully aware of that possibility and, as he made his way through the deserted, snowy streets of the city, Michel frequently doubled back and covered his tracks to ensure that he wasn’t being followed.
George couldn’t believe it – as Michel drunk? When he realized that Michel was merely trying to ensure that he wasn’t being followed, George couldn’t decide whether to laugh at the incompetence. He had come out on the short end of his dealings with Michel before, and the very idea that he could ever have been defeated by such an idiot, such a buffoon, such a moron – it was almost too much for George to bear. After killing Allen, George reasoned, it was natural to expect that Michel would have eventually shown up at Allen’s apartment. George could simply have hid in the apartment and waited – Michel was an unusually capable fighter, but George would have had the advantage of surprise. He was quite sure of his likely success but, attractive as the possibility seemed, he suspected that Michel could inadvertently lead him to the Woman. Michel – well, that was revenge, that was personal. The Woman, whoever she might be, was the real objective. Now, if there was even the slightest possibility that he might have a shot at both Michel and the Woman. . . now this would make his day. Year. Century. Millennium. Eon. The perfect tonic for his chronic boredom.
So instead of ambushing Michel in Allen’s apartment, George had simply inserted a small tracking device under the skin of the corpse. Almost insulting in its simplicity, in its obviousness, George thought. If anyone had ever tried to pull such a blatantly obvious trick on him, he would have been extremely insulted. But George was counting on the inelegant nature of the plan to help it to succeed. He had a well-deserved reputation for deviousness and complexity of planning, and he gambled that Michel would never associate the simple use of a tracking device with George. It was so easy that George almost felt guilty, but guilt was something that George generally caused in others – without ever making it on to his personal play-list.
Sometimes, though, it does seem that bad things also happen to bad people. In the midst of George’s lexical search for words to describe the vegetative state of Michel’s mind, the low battery light began to flash on George’s receiver. George’s mood changed for the worse – instantly. Traveling light, he had not packed a spare set of batteries and, while a more objective individual would have reflected on the irony of labeling a fellow creature as an imbecile literally moments before running out of batteries himself at a critical moment on the most important mission in a celestially long time – a Level 5 operation, no less -- George was totally lacking in that brand of objectivity. He barely managed to summon the self-control necessary to prevent himself from hurling the unit to the pavement. Instead, he confined his outburst to simple cursing -- and set off in search of an all-night drugstore.
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