Globe trotting had its advantages, if jet-lag and bad airline food was your thing. It was not Meryl’s thing; Meryl’s thing was a saviour complex, or so her annual review said. Approvingly.
She couldn’t help taking delight in unravelling nefarious plots, even if half of them had no way of succeeding when left to their own devices. Contrary to movies, books, her hopes and dreams – most plotters were not rich geniuses. They were keyboard warriors with a modicum of social skills that enabled them to come together around an underfunded, ludicrous scheme to recast the world in their image via the medium of violence. Lofty ambitions were great, of course – they made her who she was today – but a firm grasp of reality was an infrequently articulated prerequisite.
“Meryl’s reports should focus on clear communication, not big words”. Her annual review said that, too, less approvingly. But what self-respecting saviour didn’t add a bit of flourish to their communication? Moses didn’t phrase the commandments as “less of the people killing, y’all”.
She joined the queue at passport control and glanced around. Two of the conspirators in this case were airport employees. They met while engaged in a bit of smuggling, demonstrating that modicum of people skills by joining forces rather than knifing each other for territory. Then they discovered what else they had in common, leading – eventually – to Meryl’s assignment.
The passport queue moved slowly. Half the kiosks were closed, and in the other half families were politely explaining that they were only there because school holidays made home unbearable and were not going to outstay their visa because, really, they all came from places with better schooling, healthcare, and fashion.
She looked around again, saw him, and quickly looked away. Tall, bad haircut, but good at his job – a smuggler couldn’t afford to draw negative attention to himself at his place of smuggling. He was the brains of the operation, which in this case meant adding some weapons to his normal smuggling menu, even though weapons were a dime a dozen in the city. Meryl herself, unable to carry a weapon on the plane, would be partaking of the local cuisine.
At the kiosk she was polite but to the point and got waved through in thirty seconds. Her passport, for one Philipa Ord, had only a couple of stamps in it. Enough to make it look used, but not enough to raise questions. Globe trotting was apt to draw attention people in her line of work didn’t need, even under an assumed name.
When she picked up her luggage she saw her other target. Also tall, better hairtcut, just good enough at his job to stay below the radar. When the two met, they met at his house. He had a slightly better grasp of technology and had, for a very short while, avoided being traced. As far as he knew, he was still a mysterious voice on the rabid corners of the internet.
Meryl had not only his name, occupation, and home address, she also had his medical records, his school records, notes of his family drama. He could have gone to an okayish university and gotten an office job, but working at the airport was better for smuggling, so here he was, on her list.
She had a room booked for three days at one of the nicer hotels. She wouldn’t need three days – the op was going down that very night – but it wouldn’t do to hop in and out of the country. Someone might notice and ask questions. The average tourist stayed five days. A long weekend was a respectable option, and she could take the time to file her big-worded reports and prep for her next mission while having someone else do the cooking. She loved hotels.
As she sat in the back of the taxi she worked out that she could get checked in, buy a gun, and have dinner by eight. Then it was on to her targets. In the past they’d have been arrested, interrogated, imprisoned. But the Powers That Be have decided these small-time conspirators were never worth the effort. They would remain a nuisance for the rest of their lives, and so “the rest of their lives” became code for “the rest of the day”. Her deadline for dumping the bodies was midnight. After that, she’d try one of the local clubs. She’d heard good things, and even saviours needed to party.
Arkin Prose 
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