The Trembling Of The Migratory Birds - Part 1: NREM
The Trembling Of The Migratory Birds
NREM
Moscow is shrouded in acrid smoke when Arthur walks across the Krásnaya plóshchad. The Kremlin disappears in eerie dry fog that burns his lungs and stings his eyes.
The wildfires around Moscow have the city in a literal choke-hold. The evening light tints the air orange and Arthur feels as though he's walking through a wall of solid fire. Brave Japanese tourists fight the losing battle against the smoke, traipsing around with surgical masks over their faces and cameras at the ready, but Arthur only spares them a passing glance. He's on a schedule. He still has no idea why Saito wanted to meet him in Moscow of all places, and most of all, why Saito couldn't give Arthur his business proposal over the phone, but you don't argue with someone like Saito. He snaps his fingers, you jump. With enough money offered, it really is that simple.
He reaches the brightly lit doorway of the Ritz Carlton and is greeted by a liveried concierge in fluent, if accented English, and wonders briefly what gave him away before he remembers Saito will have told them to expect him. The concierge motions for a young woman in an impeccable uniform and she leads Arthur through the bright marble grandeur of Russian imperialistic style to a restaurant he knows from research is hidden behind a hand-carved door. The hotel is built in a style Arthur usually only sees in dreams. He never indulges himself in this type of luxury, though since started dream work he's never had to worried about money, and he usually never meets his clients personally. That's a matter of keeping the business alive. If too many people know your face, the likelihood of getting caught at the next airport is a lot higher. It's enough that there used to be a warrant out for Cobb's head.
The door with the intricate carving of Cherubim surrounding a crest of arms swings aside and Arthur breathes in the scents of wood, wax, starched table-linens, caviar and age. The restaurant, which should be buzzing with wealthy tourists, is empty. Elaborate, heavy candle-holders illuminate the room and candle flames bring out the warmth of the wood. Only one table is set.
Arthur quirks a small smile. Of course. Saito doesn't want any listeners. It wouldn't surprise him if Saito bought the restaurant just to have it to himself for the night.
The table is set with shot glasses and mother-of-pearl plates and spoons. Offered a shot of vodka as he sits down, Arthur declines. As a rule, he never drinks on a job. Instead, he takes in his surroundings. The polished, dark burl and cherry wood décor along the walls of the Caviarterra imitates an ancient Tsar's palace, the furnishings are heavy and impressive, made to intimidate visitors. It's beautiful in an oppressive way. A buffet waits in the middle of the room, decked with bread, mountains of caviar, and fresh strawberries.
Saito shows up only minutes later and the woman whom Arthur has correctly pegged as a personal butler leaves the room so quietly he's left to wonder if she was ever there in the first place.
"It is good to see you again, Arthur," Saito greets him with a thin-lipped smile that through some marvellous magic manages to look both sincere and menacing. Arthur finds himself smiling in return.
"Likewise, Mr. Saito."
"I assume you're hungry," Saito continues and motions toward the buffet. "Please. Be my guest."
Arthur has never much liked caviar but takes some nevertheless. He watches Saito eat with the boredom of a man who has seen everything the haute cuisine has to offer. The simplicity of the caviar and the bread, however, seems to cheer him up a little.
"How is Mr. Cobb?"
Arthur swallows a bite of bread and fights the urge to cough. Saito and pleasantries don't go together well. Especially since Arthur is certain that Saito keeps close tabs on Cobb.
"Why don't you tell me?" he asks before he takes a sip of water.
Saito's eyes narrow, then he smoothes his face into blankness. "You overestimate my resources."
Like hell, Arthur thinks. "How's your airline?"
Saito smiles a real smile at this, the unspoken 'touché' hangs between them like a wisp of cigar smoke. "Flourishing. How is Miss Ariadne?"
"Brilliant." He knows she just finished her degree in architecture. He's sent her a gift. She's called to tell him she's bored. "How's your company doing?"
Something flickers over Saito's face, but it's gone before Arthur can decipher it. "Dominant. Have you talked to Mr. Eames lately?"
Arthur has to fight to keep his poker-face at this question and he wonders if Saito knows Eames has disappeared. Arthur lost track of him in Macao and hasn't been able to trace him since. Before the Fischer job Arthur would try to find him for months and only get hold of him when Eames called - "Been looking for me, darling?" - at which point Arthur had wanted to strangle him through the telephone line. Or with it. That has always been the game. One could only find Eames on his terms. Right now, it seems that Eames doesn't want to be found. Arthur wonders, again, if Saito has run into the same problem. "I wasn't in need of his services," Arthur answers and hopes it sounds smooth.
Saito nods and washes a spoonful of caviar down with a shot of vodka. "You seemed closer than business acquaintances. History?"
Arthur's shoulders knot and he feels a displeased frown appear on his face before he can stop it. "Saito, as much as I enjoy the chit-chat, was there a reason you called me here?" Inwardly, he winces at his bluntness. Outwardly, he laces his fingers, rests them on the table, and raises an eyebrow at Saito.
"Did I make you think of the proverbial elephant?" Saito asks and smirks.
Arthur wants to throw the damn caviar in his face. "Unless Eames has gained a lot of weight, I wouldn't draw that comparison." His tone stays perfectly neutral. He rubs his thumbs together. "The reason."
Saito reaches for the napkin to dab at his mouth, then leans back in his chair. "How is your work schedule?"
None of your business, Arthur wants to say, but answers, "Flexible."
This seems to please Saito. Irrationally, Arthur thinks he looks relieved. "Very good. In that case, I have some acquaintances who would be interested in a," Saito clears his throat, "man of your talents."
***
Arthur is back on a plane out of Moscow only two hours later with nothing but number on a business card in the breast pocket of his suit and an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. Easy job, Saito said. Easy money.
There is no such thing.
Arthur still smells smoke everywhere on himself and wonders if it's an omen.
***
The usual buzz of London has quieted when Arthur gets off the Heathrow Express at ten p.m. and walks from Paddington toward Sussex Gardens. He avoids cabs whenever he can; he doesn't have any hang-ups about trains like Dom does, in fact, he prefers the anonymity of the crowds on trains. Plus, four hours on a plane have him stiff and enjoying the walk.
His hotel is understated and comfortable, a former Victorian terraced town-house. He shields his face from the CCTV as well as he can without being obvious as he bends over the intercom to announce himself. Good tradecraft is a habit with him. The door swings open with a quiet buzz and he is issued the key-card to his room swiftly and without unnecessary chatter.
He closes the heavy curtains to block out the light from the Sussex Gardens below before stripping and stepping under the blessedly hot spray of the shower. He spends a good fifteen minutes there, knowing that during the upcoming job, he might have to forego the luxury of a nice hotel.
"It's quick money," Saito says. "Just a little extraction, no need for a big team. All you need to do is say yes. And get to London."
It is up to him what is necessary on a job, so Arthur hadn't reacted. If Saito is right and the client has already done most of the research, then it's a one-man job and he won't need a specialized extractor. But that is a big if. One-man jobs are a myth.
Dream-sharing is never a one-man job. It's too dangerous to rely on no one but yourself. And nothing ensures the success of an extraction so much as a good architect. Saito's promises don't change those truths.
He holds his face under the spray and lets the hot water gentle his niggling headache away. His mind is racing with the possibilities, the options. Who is available, who would he be willing to work with, who is willing to work with him without Dom on board too. (Who wouldn't work with him with Dom, but might now... )
Of course he knows that he doesn't really want any of the names he summons to mind. He's been spoiled, spoiled rotten, by Ariadne's quick thinking and precise work, and he knows that he'll never be satisfied with anyone who can do less than her. It's a matter of professionalism to only surround yourself with the best.
It's not fair to her, though. She deserves a better life than the one they lead. Dom was right when he said that one reality would no longer be enough for her, though.
Arthur remembers her look when she told him that dream architecture was pure creation. She’d caught the bug then. He knows she'll never fight that infection.
He steps out of the shower when his stomach grumbles in protest about being ignored for the past six hours. Arthur writes a couple of e-mails, then looks up recommendations for Indian restaurants in the area, sitting cross-legged in front of his laptop on the bed with the towel slung around his hips until the drops on his skin dry and a chill settles in. His stomach rumbles again. It's time for a good curry and then a long night of sleep. He doesn't expect to hear from the client until the morning.
Arthur is slipping into his suit jacket on his way out the door when he checks his phone for messages. As though on cue, it signals a missed text message. The number looks familiar - of course it does. He's had more than enough time to memorise the number on the card Saito has given him. He opens the message, scans the few lines. "Angelus, 4 Bathurst Street, 10.45 p.m.."
He checks his watch and curses. Ten thirty-five. Damn it.
He races out of the door, doesn't bother calling a cab. He'll be faster on foot.
***
After forcing his breathing to slow, Arthur has a slight case of déjà vu when he enters the restaurant and is immediately led into the private wine cellar. He's awaited by a man and a woman sitting on silver-backed chairs in front of a wine shelf that spans the entire wall.
The man is wearing a grey suit that has wrinkles in the back, showing that he's been wearing it all day. He wears perfectly shined shoes and a watch that's pompous for the suit. His hair is a premature salt-and-pepper, while his features are the sort of handsome that is easily forgotten. Arthur assumes he's in his early forties or has a very talented cosmetic surgeon.
His companion is in her late twenties, dressed in a tan suit with a white blouse underneath that sets off her milk-and-coffee skin perfectly. Her dark hair is cut short and frames her well-formed skull. She smiles when she looks up. Soft pink lipstick. No mascara.
"You're on time," she says. "We weren't sure if it wasn't a little on short notice." Her voice has the gentle lilt of Yorkshire.
It's the words he notices more, though. Emotional intelligence. Put on the pressure by kindness, by needling the opponent's professionalism. Arthur sees through the strategy and smiles. "Not at all."
"Please, sit," the man speaks for the first time and motions for a chair. "Wine?"
Arthur declines. They still haven't introduced themselves, but Arthur knows they won't offer their real names, so it doesn't matter.
"My name is Siobhan Farnborough, this is Mr. Pollard." Put the man at a remove, make the woman the approachable one by giving her a first name. It's psychology 101 and Arthur wants to laugh.
"It is nice to meet you. I'm sure Mr. Saito has informed you about me," Arthur says, stopping the introductory round before it can get into full swing. He's tired and not in the mood for platitudes.
Farnborough smiles. "He has spoken very highly of you."
She falls silent when the waiter comes to take their orders. Arthur flicks through the menu, orders the first thing he reads, "Soufflé à la mûre, crème glacée au miel." His French, he's pleased to note, is still fluent. He finishes his order with a cup of coffee he hopes will be better than the one at the hotel.
Pollard, who's been silent until now picks up the conversation after the waiter has retreated, and compliments Arthur on his work.
Saito must have sung Arthur's praises; Pollard seems impressed. He also clearly expected someone older. Arthur sees it in the surreptitious looks, the slow up and down of Pollard and Farnborough's eyes. He hopes he doesn't look as tired as he feels.
"You require someone with my skill-set?" Arthur finally asks when he's had enough of the buttering up.
"We would prefer not to," Farnborough says, "but yes." The buttons on her suit, not-plastic, horn or shell, glisten with a nacreous sheen when she moves. Her earrings - pearls, expensive, real - touch her neck when she ducks her head a little as though embarrassed. It's a show. Well orchestrated, but a show.
Inwardly, Arthur is as tense as a violin-string, he just wants the offer out on the table instead of dancing around it. This is exactly the reason he normally doesn't take job offers in person. Outwardly, he maintains his placid persona. "How can I offer my expertise?"
The food arrives and puts the conversation on hold once again. Arthur sips his coffee and picks at the dessert he has ordered and finds that he can't taste either of them. He's too high-strung, too focused on the details of the room, the possible exit routes, the people across the table from him. He knows this stage, can only wait for his other senses to just shut down, because the challenges now are strictly intellectual. That doesn't mean this isn't just as dangerous as any other stage of the business they're negotiating, only that he needs to conceal he is aware of it.
Pollard takes a sip of his red wine - Château l´Evangile 1985, a younger brother to the quintessential Petrus - the bottle costing just over 200 Pounds. It's a show of strength in counterpoint to Arthur's 20 Pound dessert dish. Pollard makes a show of swirling the wine in the glass while looking at Arthur. It sloshes in the glass in lazy, ruby-red swirls. "Mr. Saito said you were the best."
Arthur inclines his head but keeps eye-contact. Pollard's eyes are an icy blue. Crow's feet surround them. His brows are plucked into shape.
"We find ourselves in a situation where we need the absolute best."
Just fucking say it, Arthur thinks and unclenches his hand from around the coffee cup when the heat burns his hand. "It would help, Mr. Pollard, if we stopped dancing around the issue."
Farnborough fights a smile and meets Pollard's gaze. "I told you you'd like him."
Pollard huffs, then reaches into his jacket pocket. Arthur tenses, his fight-or-flight reflex going into overdrive. He's not sure if Pollard will draw a gun. Physical threats aren't normally part of this stage, but they aren't unknown either.
Pollard puts a picture on the table. Arthur relaxes slightly and breathes a little deeper. The picture shows a young man with strictly-combed dark hair and a sickly pallor to his skin. Absurdly, he reminds Arthur of a vampire - one only in training, though.
When it finally happens, the shop-talk is over quickly.
"This is Ari-Pekka Saarela." Pollard pushes the picture toward Arthur. "He is your mark."
Farnborough hands him a flash-drive with a dossier on Saarela. Pollard tells him the issue is time-sensitive; their bosses need Saarela's information before the end of the week. The sum they offer in exchange for the rush job is handsome. Handsome enough to bring an architect on board instead of flying solo.
"In and out," Pollard says, "quick and dirty and simple."
Simple, hm? Arthur doesn't buy that for a minute. Nothing is ever simple. He steeples his fingers, looks at Farnborough instead of Pollard. "Tell me, Miss Farnborough, if it's so simple, why do you need the best?" He lifts a shoulder, then an eyebrow. "Anyone could do it."
She smiles, wide, and it transforms her into a devastatingly attractive woman. "Very well spotted," she appraises. The smile fades quickly. "Others have tried. No one has succeeded."
"Militarised subconscious?"
"Nothing that drastic."
Arthur frowns. "In that case I don't see - "
Farnborough raises a hand to stop him and leans back in her chair. "We hear you don't use Somnacin?" She reaches for her glass - water, sparkling, with a wedge of lemon inside - and takes a sip. Her gaze stays on him, gauging him for a reaction.
"You're well-informed," Arthur acknowledges.
A sneer flashes over Pollard's face before he smoothes his face into professional blankness. "In that case you're just the man we need."
"Forgive the bluntness, but, why?"
"The company he works for has a very strict anti-drug policy and requires a drug-testing bi-weekly. As you well know, Somnacin can be traced in urine samples up to a day and in blood samples up to five days after it has been administered."
"So do it far enough in advance before the next test and you're fine with Somnacin. Why me?" Arthur's aware that he's playing a dangerous game here, his questions could cost him the job, but he wants the real motive. He's not going to take a job where he can't be sure about the true reason for them wanting him. There are a lot of good extractors out there, after all. Their offer flatters him, of course it does, but he still needs to know why.
"The tests rotate from blood to urine to hair samples. No one but the testers know which one will be administered next."
Arthur takes another sip of his coffee. "That's an employer with trust issues," he mutters against the rim of the cup and Farnborough cracks a grin that doesn't look rehearsed.
"Indeed," she says. "Which is why we need someone of your calibre to get around the Somnacin problem. The extraction itself is simple."
Arthur shakes his head. "You need a chemist for that problem, not an extractor."
Farnborough and Pollard share a smile that Arthur doesn't like. "We know from good authority that you are well-stocked."
Touché. Well-stocked with Yusuf's custom formulas, but they aren't so different from normal Somnacin that a screen won't catch them; they wouldn't work with the PASIV if they were. Arthur doesn't like dreaming with the really different drugs; Somnacin became the industry standard for a reason: its results are predictable. He decides not to explain any of this to Farnborough or Pollard; they think they know everything, correcting them with the facts won't endear Arthur to them and he doesn't actually want to convince them they don't need to hire him.
"Again, I ask you: Why me?"
Pollard shrugs. "Because we can afford it."
And that's that. Finally, the truth. Strangely enough, Arthur buys this over anything else they could have said. It's idiotic enough to be true. They have the arrogance and egotism to ask for the best just because they can.
The conversation dies quickly after and they part ways.
He relaxes a little.
Some extra money never hurts. He realises he no longer needs Dom to arrange jobs.
Every man for himself. For the first time since Moscow, Arthur feels a little optimistic.
***
The first flight to Helsinki leaves at six a.m., leaving him with under two hours of sleep before leaving the hotel.
He books it anyway.
The two hours he has left are hardly worth the hotel costs, and he knows that trying to go to sleep now will only make the next day harder instead of easier, so he stays awake.
He thinks about the uncomfortable meeting one last time over a cup of bad, powdered coffee from the complimentary coffee tray before he makes his decision. A client who wants the best because he has enough money to afford it. It'd be a compliment if the casual throwing around of money didn't disgust him so. Compliments or contempt aren't reasons to refuse a job. Also, the client comes via Saito. That counts as trustworthy in his book.
He decides to go over the intel while he waits to check out, to find the holes in the dossier he'll need to fill his own research. There are other arrangements to make as well. He can accomplish a great deal in two hours, even in the shank of the night. Like all great cities and whores, London is always awake for those willing to pay enough.
He'll need false IDs messengered from a trusted paperhanger to the first of several hotels he'll book. Needs to research a base of operations, as well as at least three different exit strategies in case something goes wrong. He's going to have to arrange for arms in-country unless he wants a lengthy discussion at Heathrow on why he's carrying a Glock 17 in his suitcase. Setting up several bank accounts online to pay for the arms and equipment he needs, but spread out enough so no dots can be connected, is old hat, a routine he perfected with Dom that serves just as well with his old partner gone. It's going to be a pricey stint, but with Saito overlooking the whole operation from afar, Arthur's sure that he won't be cheated out of his money.
In the end, the pay will make the uncomfortably tight schedule worth it. Arthur makes a mental note to call Saito once this is done and thank him for the recommendation.
But first, his stomach demands attention and then there is a phone call he needs to make.
***
Arthur calls Ariadne after a satisfyingly spicy take-out Vindaloo, with the heat still pronounced on his tongue. Her phone rings a good five times before she picks up.
Eventually, "Mnh?" is the muffled answer.
Arthur grins. "Did I wake you?"
She's not even surprised to hear his voice. "What makes you think I sleep at one-thirty a.m. on a Thursday morning?" Her voice is dripping sleep-muddled sarcasm.
He winces, realises that he forgot the time difference between London and Paris. "Your charming greeting gave you away," he offers. "Though you have to work on your eloquence."
She groans and he imagines her pulling the blanket over her head. "It's too early for this." Her voice sounds muffled. "What do you want?"
"What do you think about architecture in Helsinki?" he asks.
"Good music," is the deadpan reply. "Why?"
"I thought maybe you could Do the whirlwind."
She laughs, surprised as she catches the reference, obviously even more surprised that he's made it, then stops short. "You mean…"
"What I mean is, would you be interested in a - "
"Yes!" she interrupts him before he can even finish the question. There's no trace of fatigue left in her voice.
Arthur grins.
"When and where?"
"Seven a.m., Orly to Vantaa. Check your e-mail for details."
"You already booked a flight?" she asks, sounding incredulous. "Arthur, you didn't even know I was going to say yes."
"Didn't I?" he asks and doesn't bother hiding the amused inflection in his voice. "Good night, Ariadne. I'll see you in Finland."
***
His phone rings when he's in the middle of security at Heathrow. The woman behind the X-Ray machine gives him a polite if pointed glare and he shuts the phone off. He doesn't recognise the number anyway. Whoever wants to reach him will call again.
It rings again immediately after he has cleared security and turned it back on.
"Are you trying to avoid me?" The low, accented voice is impossible to mistake. Arthur doesn't need Eames to introduce himself.
"Get caller-ID, Eames," he says, but there's no heat in it.
An announcement for security advices and last calls drowns out Eames' reply. When it ends, he hears Eames chuckle.
"Say hi to Lizzie for me."
"She's your queen, not mine. Do it yourself."
"Oh, there are just so many ways to interpret that statement," Eames drawls, amused.
Arthur feels the corners of his mouth tip up. He's not going to admit it under the threat of torture, but he's missed this. "You're a hard man to find, Mr. Eames. Where have you been?"
"Did you miss me?" Eames laughs. "I'm touched."
Arthur suddenly has the urge to hang up. "Was there a reason you called?"
There's a pause in the line, Arthur strains his ears and thinks he hears the screaming of trains in the background. "This is a bit embarrassing."
Arthur snorts and starts following signs indicating the path to Terminal 1. "Embarrassing is not in your vocabulary, Eames."
Eames huffs a laugh, the exhalation loud against the phone's speaker. "The man just knows me too well."
"It's in the job description," Arthur replies, letting a smile colour his words despite better knowledge. "So?"
"I'll get this out quickly." Eames clears his throat. "Got a job, old boy? I'm a bit skint."
Arthur stops walking. Something cold trickles down his spine. "You're… skint?" Eames received the same insane amount of money from Saito that Arthur did. It's improbable. It's impossible.
"Afraid so."
On the other hand, it is Eames. It might be true.
"Eames." He inflects all his disbelief into that one word.
Eames starts to explain as people bustle around Arthur and he steps aside to not get pulled into a stream of travellers trying to catch a flight that's already on last call. There's a tale of a beautiful woman, a coffee planter's mistress, fleeing Rio in the dead of night, and expensive presents - bribes - bought to save his skin. Arthur tunes it out, as he knows it's false. Eames is a forger. He's good at spinning tales, but Arthur knows that for all his appearance, Eames is anything but feckless with money. A forger's life requires money. Eames has probably invested his well and safely. So, why is Eames calling him? He's never done it before to ask for a job. Ever. Arthur has always had to seek him out.
"Cut the crap, Eames," he interrupts Eames just as he's about to launch into a tale of the coffee planter being part of the local Mafia.
"You need to learn to appreciate a good story," Eames says, not sounding disappointed in the least.
"What do you really want?"
Eames chuckles and Arthur realises too late that he gave Eames another opening. "More money, ideally," Eames answers, "you," Arthur can picture him counting on his fingers, "another tattoo, world peace, you, and blimey," a groan, it sounds as though Eames is stretching, "I'd kill for a good cup of tea right now."
Arthur clenches his hand around his carry-on. "Eames."
"Fine, fine, misery-guts." Eames takes a deep breath. His voice changes to something lower, something intimate. "I hear you're soloing?"
Arthur shifts from one foot to the other. "Yes."
"It's difficult after working as a team for so long."
"And how would you know about that?"
"I had a partner once," Eames says, more of a fleeting mention, meant to be forgotten, and hell if that doesn't bring Arthur up short.
"You." It's difficult to put the amount of disbelief he wants to into just the one word, but he tries.
Arthur hears, "Is that so unlikely?" and the words are meant to sound amused but fall short. He thinks this might be the most honest he has ever heard Eames sound.
"Yes, actually. You go wherever money goes, but you don't have loyalty to anyone but yourself. A partner doesn't fit your scheme." The words are unnecessarily harsh, and Arthur knows it, but he can't handle this sudden openness from Eames in the middle of frigging Heathrow airport with only bad coffee and a power-nap under his belt.
For a moment, he thinks Eames is about to hang up. Then Eames clears his throat. A burst of static accompanies it through the line. "Don't assume to know where my loyalties lie, Arthur," he says, voice mild and gliding over the syllables smooth. "You don't know the half of it." The simple statement jerks the rug out from under a carefully pieced together picture Arthur has of Eames and he feels like flailing.
"Eames - "
"I hear you have a job offer. I called to let you know I'm in."
"This doesn't require - "
"I'm in. I'll meet you in Helsinki."
"How the hell - "
The line goes dead.
***
Another city, another airport. When Arthur turns his phone back on as he makes it to Helsinki, there is no message from Eames. Ever since the phone call, Arthur's mind has been running in a hamster wheel, trying to deduce just how Eames knew. As an after-effect, he hasn't had any sleep on the plane, and is running on less than three hours in the past two days.
He cranes his neck when he gets out of the security area and into the airport's terminal 2, finds - no Starbucks. That's a surprise, since there is always a Starbucks. He tips his hat to the Finns for resisting the company's corporate raider approach and walks over to the inviting smell of freshly brewed coffee wafting from an elegant-looking café called Alvar A. The name of the famous Finnish architect is what made him choose the café as a drop for the additional information the client promised. He also needs a jolt of caffeine if he wants to be at least partly conscious for the rest of the day. Damn, but he hates being this tired when it comes to business. It's unprofessional. It's dangerous.
The café, from what Arthur read online, was designed in cooperation with famous Finnish designers. The sales counter imitates the contours of the famous Savoy vase by Alvar Aalto, the furniture comprises classically elegant chairs, abstract paintings adorn the walls, and the light is subdued and pleasant. Everything has clear, clean, elegant lines that, in combination with the warm colours, relax both the eye and the mind. Ariadne could tell him all about this interior, Arthur thinks, probably right down to the year everything was designed. He wonders if she'll stop by here on her way to Seinäjoki too. Realistically, though, she's not the type to feel comfortable by herself in a place like this, with its starched table linens and overly polite waiters. He imagines her outside of one of the smaller cafés instead, nursing coffee from a paper cup, trying not to nod off over a book. He realises that he looks forward to seeing her again, despite the jolt of uneasiness Eames' call has left with him.
Arthur orders straight-up double espresso instead of the local kahvi and sits in a corner with the Times spread out over the table. He fights to stay awake over the business section until a shadow falls over the paper, obscuring the small print.
"Do you have any idea how bloody difficult it is to get proper tea here?"
Arthur hides a flinch and wonders how the fuck he missed Eames approaching him.
"My heart breaks for you," he says without looking up. It's not a good idea for them to be seen together.
Arthur's cup disappears from the table into Eames' hand. He leans back in his chair, crosses his arms over his chest and looks up at Eames, who pulls a face and sets the cup down again.
"Disgusting." The word is heartfelt.
Arthur uncrosses his arms, makes a grand gesture toward the empty chair. It's too late now, anyway. If anybody's watching them, they know by now that Eames and he are acquainted. "By all means, Eames, be my guest."
Eames peers at the paper. "Davey running the country into the ground?"
"He's been Prime Minister since May," Arthur points out. "Hardly enough time for that."
"You can do," Eames steals a cookie from Arthur's saucer, chews and grins as Arthur rolls his eyes, "a lot more with a lot less time." The smile he gives doesn't reach his eyes.
Arthur scrubs a hand over his face to hide how uneasy Eames' vague hints make him. He resolves to do some more digging on Eames' background when he has the time. Right now, he's waiting for a call, though, and forces the niggling concern from his mind. This early in the morning, the café is packed with travellers enjoying breakfast.
Eames gestures for the waitress, who walks past with her arms full of dishes.
"Hetki pieni," she calls out, sounding apologetic.
Eames calls something after her in what to Arthur is nothing but a jumble of vowels. He blinks. "What the hell was that?"
"I ordered a cup of tea," Eames explains. "Not that it'll be any good."
Arthur narrows his eyes. "In fluent Finnish."
Eames shrugs and beams an insolent grin. "My good looks are just one of my many talents."
Arthur wants to reply, but before he gets the chance, the waitress is back with a cup and a Bauhaus-style small glass teapot in her hand. She bends forward to set it in front of Eames just as a patron walks past and jostles into her. The pot tips and spills its hot contents over the newspaper. Arthur just barely has enough time to pull his hands away to avoid a scalding.
The teapot clinks as she sets it down on the table, hard. "Anteeksi!" The waitress, a woman in her mid-twenties with short blond hair that frames a face with strong cheekbones, looks horrified. "Excuse me," she switches from Finnish to English, "I'm so sorry, let me clean this up." She dabs at the newspaper with a towel, realises that it's a lost cause and pulls it away from Arthur who has scooted his chair away from the table. There are tea stains on the crisp white table cloth.
"Please," she says. A blush stains her cheeks and sets off her big, watery eyes and pale lips. Arthur can't help catalogue her features and sees Eames doing the same, probably looking for a new forge. "I apologise. Let me get you another table."
Arthur shakes his head. "Don't worry about it." He checks his wristwatch. "I have a plane to catch, anyway. Just get me the check."
She nods and turns away with his paper bunched in her hands.
Eames watches them both with a raised eyebrow but says nothing until the waitress has left.
"Remarkably clumsy for someone working at a place like this, don't you think?"
"You didn't really want the tea, anyway."
"Mmh," Eames answers.
The waitress returns with the check and a new copy of the Times, "For your inconvenience." The copy is thicker than it should be. Arthur rests his hand on it as he thanks the waitress and feels the bump of what is likely a flash-drive.
Eames looks at the paper thoughtfully while Arthur pays. He doesn't say anything.
When they get up to leave, Eames bends close to Arthur and murmurs, "Very cloak and dagger."
Arthur straightens his shoulders and ignores the comment. The flash-drive burns in the palm of his hand.
"Don't get a seat next to me on the plane," he says to Eames as they walk toward their gate.
Eames rolls his eyes. "At least give me your paper, then, if you must deprive me of your cheerful self."
Arthur slaps the Times into Eames' open palm and gets out his passport.
Part 2: Finland
NREM
Moscow is shrouded in acrid smoke when Arthur walks across the Krásnaya plóshchad. The Kremlin disappears in eerie dry fog that burns his lungs and stings his eyes.
The wildfires around Moscow have the city in a literal choke-hold. The evening light tints the air orange and Arthur feels as though he's walking through a wall of solid fire. Brave Japanese tourists fight the losing battle against the smoke, traipsing around with surgical masks over their faces and cameras at the ready, but Arthur only spares them a passing glance. He's on a schedule. He still has no idea why Saito wanted to meet him in Moscow of all places, and most of all, why Saito couldn't give Arthur his business proposal over the phone, but you don't argue with someone like Saito. He snaps his fingers, you jump. With enough money offered, it really is that simple.
He reaches the brightly lit doorway of the Ritz Carlton and is greeted by a liveried concierge in fluent, if accented English, and wonders briefly what gave him away before he remembers Saito will have told them to expect him. The concierge motions for a young woman in an impeccable uniform and she leads Arthur through the bright marble grandeur of Russian imperialistic style to a restaurant he knows from research is hidden behind a hand-carved door. The hotel is built in a style Arthur usually only sees in dreams. He never indulges himself in this type of luxury, though since started dream work he's never had to worried about money, and he usually never meets his clients personally. That's a matter of keeping the business alive. If too many people know your face, the likelihood of getting caught at the next airport is a lot higher. It's enough that there used to be a warrant out for Cobb's head.
The door with the intricate carving of Cherubim surrounding a crest of arms swings aside and Arthur breathes in the scents of wood, wax, starched table-linens, caviar and age. The restaurant, which should be buzzing with wealthy tourists, is empty. Elaborate, heavy candle-holders illuminate the room and candle flames bring out the warmth of the wood. Only one table is set.
Arthur quirks a small smile. Of course. Saito doesn't want any listeners. It wouldn't surprise him if Saito bought the restaurant just to have it to himself for the night.
The table is set with shot glasses and mother-of-pearl plates and spoons. Offered a shot of vodka as he sits down, Arthur declines. As a rule, he never drinks on a job. Instead, he takes in his surroundings. The polished, dark burl and cherry wood décor along the walls of the Caviarterra imitates an ancient Tsar's palace, the furnishings are heavy and impressive, made to intimidate visitors. It's beautiful in an oppressive way. A buffet waits in the middle of the room, decked with bread, mountains of caviar, and fresh strawberries.
Saito shows up only minutes later and the woman whom Arthur has correctly pegged as a personal butler leaves the room so quietly he's left to wonder if she was ever there in the first place.
"It is good to see you again, Arthur," Saito greets him with a thin-lipped smile that through some marvellous magic manages to look both sincere and menacing. Arthur finds himself smiling in return.
"Likewise, Mr. Saito."
"I assume you're hungry," Saito continues and motions toward the buffet. "Please. Be my guest."
Arthur has never much liked caviar but takes some nevertheless. He watches Saito eat with the boredom of a man who has seen everything the haute cuisine has to offer. The simplicity of the caviar and the bread, however, seems to cheer him up a little.
"How is Mr. Cobb?"
Arthur swallows a bite of bread and fights the urge to cough. Saito and pleasantries don't go together well. Especially since Arthur is certain that Saito keeps close tabs on Cobb.
"Why don't you tell me?" he asks before he takes a sip of water.
Saito's eyes narrow, then he smoothes his face into blankness. "You overestimate my resources."
Like hell, Arthur thinks. "How's your airline?"
Saito smiles a real smile at this, the unspoken 'touché' hangs between them like a wisp of cigar smoke. "Flourishing. How is Miss Ariadne?"
"Brilliant." He knows she just finished her degree in architecture. He's sent her a gift. She's called to tell him she's bored. "How's your company doing?"
Something flickers over Saito's face, but it's gone before Arthur can decipher it. "Dominant. Have you talked to Mr. Eames lately?"
Arthur has to fight to keep his poker-face at this question and he wonders if Saito knows Eames has disappeared. Arthur lost track of him in Macao and hasn't been able to trace him since. Before the Fischer job Arthur would try to find him for months and only get hold of him when Eames called - "Been looking for me, darling?" - at which point Arthur had wanted to strangle him through the telephone line. Or with it. That has always been the game. One could only find Eames on his terms. Right now, it seems that Eames doesn't want to be found. Arthur wonders, again, if Saito has run into the same problem. "I wasn't in need of his services," Arthur answers and hopes it sounds smooth.
Saito nods and washes a spoonful of caviar down with a shot of vodka. "You seemed closer than business acquaintances. History?"
Arthur's shoulders knot and he feels a displeased frown appear on his face before he can stop it. "Saito, as much as I enjoy the chit-chat, was there a reason you called me here?" Inwardly, he winces at his bluntness. Outwardly, he laces his fingers, rests them on the table, and raises an eyebrow at Saito.
"Did I make you think of the proverbial elephant?" Saito asks and smirks.
Arthur wants to throw the damn caviar in his face. "Unless Eames has gained a lot of weight, I wouldn't draw that comparison." His tone stays perfectly neutral. He rubs his thumbs together. "The reason."
Saito reaches for the napkin to dab at his mouth, then leans back in his chair. "How is your work schedule?"
None of your business, Arthur wants to say, but answers, "Flexible."
This seems to please Saito. Irrationally, Arthur thinks he looks relieved. "Very good. In that case, I have some acquaintances who would be interested in a," Saito clears his throat, "man of your talents."
***
Arthur is back on a plane out of Moscow only two hours later with nothing but number on a business card in the breast pocket of his suit and an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. Easy job, Saito said. Easy money.
There is no such thing.
Arthur still smells smoke everywhere on himself and wonders if it's an omen.
***
The usual buzz of London has quieted when Arthur gets off the Heathrow Express at ten p.m. and walks from Paddington toward Sussex Gardens. He avoids cabs whenever he can; he doesn't have any hang-ups about trains like Dom does, in fact, he prefers the anonymity of the crowds on trains. Plus, four hours on a plane have him stiff and enjoying the walk.
His hotel is understated and comfortable, a former Victorian terraced town-house. He shields his face from the CCTV as well as he can without being obvious as he bends over the intercom to announce himself. Good tradecraft is a habit with him. The door swings open with a quiet buzz and he is issued the key-card to his room swiftly and without unnecessary chatter.
He closes the heavy curtains to block out the light from the Sussex Gardens below before stripping and stepping under the blessedly hot spray of the shower. He spends a good fifteen minutes there, knowing that during the upcoming job, he might have to forego the luxury of a nice hotel.
"It's quick money," Saito says. "Just a little extraction, no need for a big team. All you need to do is say yes. And get to London."
It is up to him what is necessary on a job, so Arthur hadn't reacted. If Saito is right and the client has already done most of the research, then it's a one-man job and he won't need a specialized extractor. But that is a big if. One-man jobs are a myth.
Dream-sharing is never a one-man job. It's too dangerous to rely on no one but yourself. And nothing ensures the success of an extraction so much as a good architect. Saito's promises don't change those truths.
He holds his face under the spray and lets the hot water gentle his niggling headache away. His mind is racing with the possibilities, the options. Who is available, who would he be willing to work with, who is willing to work with him without Dom on board too. (Who wouldn't work with him with Dom, but might now... )
Of course he knows that he doesn't really want any of the names he summons to mind. He's been spoiled, spoiled rotten, by Ariadne's quick thinking and precise work, and he knows that he'll never be satisfied with anyone who can do less than her. It's a matter of professionalism to only surround yourself with the best.
It's not fair to her, though. She deserves a better life than the one they lead. Dom was right when he said that one reality would no longer be enough for her, though.
Arthur remembers her look when she told him that dream architecture was pure creation. She’d caught the bug then. He knows she'll never fight that infection.
He steps out of the shower when his stomach grumbles in protest about being ignored for the past six hours. Arthur writes a couple of e-mails, then looks up recommendations for Indian restaurants in the area, sitting cross-legged in front of his laptop on the bed with the towel slung around his hips until the drops on his skin dry and a chill settles in. His stomach rumbles again. It's time for a good curry and then a long night of sleep. He doesn't expect to hear from the client until the morning.
Arthur is slipping into his suit jacket on his way out the door when he checks his phone for messages. As though on cue, it signals a missed text message. The number looks familiar - of course it does. He's had more than enough time to memorise the number on the card Saito has given him. He opens the message, scans the few lines. "Angelus, 4 Bathurst Street, 10.45 p.m.."
He checks his watch and curses. Ten thirty-five. Damn it.
He races out of the door, doesn't bother calling a cab. He'll be faster on foot.
***
After forcing his breathing to slow, Arthur has a slight case of déjà vu when he enters the restaurant and is immediately led into the private wine cellar. He's awaited by a man and a woman sitting on silver-backed chairs in front of a wine shelf that spans the entire wall.
The man is wearing a grey suit that has wrinkles in the back, showing that he's been wearing it all day. He wears perfectly shined shoes and a watch that's pompous for the suit. His hair is a premature salt-and-pepper, while his features are the sort of handsome that is easily forgotten. Arthur assumes he's in his early forties or has a very talented cosmetic surgeon.
His companion is in her late twenties, dressed in a tan suit with a white blouse underneath that sets off her milk-and-coffee skin perfectly. Her dark hair is cut short and frames her well-formed skull. She smiles when she looks up. Soft pink lipstick. No mascara.
"You're on time," she says. "We weren't sure if it wasn't a little on short notice." Her voice has the gentle lilt of Yorkshire.
It's the words he notices more, though. Emotional intelligence. Put on the pressure by kindness, by needling the opponent's professionalism. Arthur sees through the strategy and smiles. "Not at all."
"Please, sit," the man speaks for the first time and motions for a chair. "Wine?"
Arthur declines. They still haven't introduced themselves, but Arthur knows they won't offer their real names, so it doesn't matter.
"My name is Siobhan Farnborough, this is Mr. Pollard." Put the man at a remove, make the woman the approachable one by giving her a first name. It's psychology 101 and Arthur wants to laugh.
"It is nice to meet you. I'm sure Mr. Saito has informed you about me," Arthur says, stopping the introductory round before it can get into full swing. He's tired and not in the mood for platitudes.
Farnborough smiles. "He has spoken very highly of you."
She falls silent when the waiter comes to take their orders. Arthur flicks through the menu, orders the first thing he reads, "Soufflé à la mûre, crème glacée au miel." His French, he's pleased to note, is still fluent. He finishes his order with a cup of coffee he hopes will be better than the one at the hotel.
Pollard, who's been silent until now picks up the conversation after the waiter has retreated, and compliments Arthur on his work.
Saito must have sung Arthur's praises; Pollard seems impressed. He also clearly expected someone older. Arthur sees it in the surreptitious looks, the slow up and down of Pollard and Farnborough's eyes. He hopes he doesn't look as tired as he feels.
"You require someone with my skill-set?" Arthur finally asks when he's had enough of the buttering up.
"We would prefer not to," Farnborough says, "but yes." The buttons on her suit, not-plastic, horn or shell, glisten with a nacreous sheen when she moves. Her earrings - pearls, expensive, real - touch her neck when she ducks her head a little as though embarrassed. It's a show. Well orchestrated, but a show.
Inwardly, Arthur is as tense as a violin-string, he just wants the offer out on the table instead of dancing around it. This is exactly the reason he normally doesn't take job offers in person. Outwardly, he maintains his placid persona. "How can I offer my expertise?"
The food arrives and puts the conversation on hold once again. Arthur sips his coffee and picks at the dessert he has ordered and finds that he can't taste either of them. He's too high-strung, too focused on the details of the room, the possible exit routes, the people across the table from him. He knows this stage, can only wait for his other senses to just shut down, because the challenges now are strictly intellectual. That doesn't mean this isn't just as dangerous as any other stage of the business they're negotiating, only that he needs to conceal he is aware of it.
Pollard takes a sip of his red wine - Château l´Evangile 1985, a younger brother to the quintessential Petrus - the bottle costing just over 200 Pounds. It's a show of strength in counterpoint to Arthur's 20 Pound dessert dish. Pollard makes a show of swirling the wine in the glass while looking at Arthur. It sloshes in the glass in lazy, ruby-red swirls. "Mr. Saito said you were the best."
Arthur inclines his head but keeps eye-contact. Pollard's eyes are an icy blue. Crow's feet surround them. His brows are plucked into shape.
"We find ourselves in a situation where we need the absolute best."
Just fucking say it, Arthur thinks and unclenches his hand from around the coffee cup when the heat burns his hand. "It would help, Mr. Pollard, if we stopped dancing around the issue."
Farnborough fights a smile and meets Pollard's gaze. "I told you you'd like him."
Pollard huffs, then reaches into his jacket pocket. Arthur tenses, his fight-or-flight reflex going into overdrive. He's not sure if Pollard will draw a gun. Physical threats aren't normally part of this stage, but they aren't unknown either.
Pollard puts a picture on the table. Arthur relaxes slightly and breathes a little deeper. The picture shows a young man with strictly-combed dark hair and a sickly pallor to his skin. Absurdly, he reminds Arthur of a vampire - one only in training, though.
When it finally happens, the shop-talk is over quickly.
"This is Ari-Pekka Saarela." Pollard pushes the picture toward Arthur. "He is your mark."
Farnborough hands him a flash-drive with a dossier on Saarela. Pollard tells him the issue is time-sensitive; their bosses need Saarela's information before the end of the week. The sum they offer in exchange for the rush job is handsome. Handsome enough to bring an architect on board instead of flying solo.
"In and out," Pollard says, "quick and dirty and simple."
Simple, hm? Arthur doesn't buy that for a minute. Nothing is ever simple. He steeples his fingers, looks at Farnborough instead of Pollard. "Tell me, Miss Farnborough, if it's so simple, why do you need the best?" He lifts a shoulder, then an eyebrow. "Anyone could do it."
She smiles, wide, and it transforms her into a devastatingly attractive woman. "Very well spotted," she appraises. The smile fades quickly. "Others have tried. No one has succeeded."
"Militarised subconscious?"
"Nothing that drastic."
Arthur frowns. "In that case I don't see - "
Farnborough raises a hand to stop him and leans back in her chair. "We hear you don't use Somnacin?" She reaches for her glass - water, sparkling, with a wedge of lemon inside - and takes a sip. Her gaze stays on him, gauging him for a reaction.
"You're well-informed," Arthur acknowledges.
A sneer flashes over Pollard's face before he smoothes his face into professional blankness. "In that case you're just the man we need."
"Forgive the bluntness, but, why?"
"The company he works for has a very strict anti-drug policy and requires a drug-testing bi-weekly. As you well know, Somnacin can be traced in urine samples up to a day and in blood samples up to five days after it has been administered."
"So do it far enough in advance before the next test and you're fine with Somnacin. Why me?" Arthur's aware that he's playing a dangerous game here, his questions could cost him the job, but he wants the real motive. He's not going to take a job where he can't be sure about the true reason for them wanting him. There are a lot of good extractors out there, after all. Their offer flatters him, of course it does, but he still needs to know why.
"The tests rotate from blood to urine to hair samples. No one but the testers know which one will be administered next."
Arthur takes another sip of his coffee. "That's an employer with trust issues," he mutters against the rim of the cup and Farnborough cracks a grin that doesn't look rehearsed.
"Indeed," she says. "Which is why we need someone of your calibre to get around the Somnacin problem. The extraction itself is simple."
Arthur shakes his head. "You need a chemist for that problem, not an extractor."
Farnborough and Pollard share a smile that Arthur doesn't like. "We know from good authority that you are well-stocked."
Touché. Well-stocked with Yusuf's custom formulas, but they aren't so different from normal Somnacin that a screen won't catch them; they wouldn't work with the PASIV if they were. Arthur doesn't like dreaming with the really different drugs; Somnacin became the industry standard for a reason: its results are predictable. He decides not to explain any of this to Farnborough or Pollard; they think they know everything, correcting them with the facts won't endear Arthur to them and he doesn't actually want to convince them they don't need to hire him.
"Again, I ask you: Why me?"
Pollard shrugs. "Because we can afford it."
And that's that. Finally, the truth. Strangely enough, Arthur buys this over anything else they could have said. It's idiotic enough to be true. They have the arrogance and egotism to ask for the best just because they can.
The conversation dies quickly after and they part ways.
He relaxes a little.
Some extra money never hurts. He realises he no longer needs Dom to arrange jobs.
Every man for himself. For the first time since Moscow, Arthur feels a little optimistic.
***
The first flight to Helsinki leaves at six a.m., leaving him with under two hours of sleep before leaving the hotel.
He books it anyway.
The two hours he has left are hardly worth the hotel costs, and he knows that trying to go to sleep now will only make the next day harder instead of easier, so he stays awake.
He thinks about the uncomfortable meeting one last time over a cup of bad, powdered coffee from the complimentary coffee tray before he makes his decision. A client who wants the best because he has enough money to afford it. It'd be a compliment if the casual throwing around of money didn't disgust him so. Compliments or contempt aren't reasons to refuse a job. Also, the client comes via Saito. That counts as trustworthy in his book.
He decides to go over the intel while he waits to check out, to find the holes in the dossier he'll need to fill his own research. There are other arrangements to make as well. He can accomplish a great deal in two hours, even in the shank of the night. Like all great cities and whores, London is always awake for those willing to pay enough.
He'll need false IDs messengered from a trusted paperhanger to the first of several hotels he'll book. Needs to research a base of operations, as well as at least three different exit strategies in case something goes wrong. He's going to have to arrange for arms in-country unless he wants a lengthy discussion at Heathrow on why he's carrying a Glock 17 in his suitcase. Setting up several bank accounts online to pay for the arms and equipment he needs, but spread out enough so no dots can be connected, is old hat, a routine he perfected with Dom that serves just as well with his old partner gone. It's going to be a pricey stint, but with Saito overlooking the whole operation from afar, Arthur's sure that he won't be cheated out of his money.
In the end, the pay will make the uncomfortably tight schedule worth it. Arthur makes a mental note to call Saito once this is done and thank him for the recommendation.
But first, his stomach demands attention and then there is a phone call he needs to make.
***
Arthur calls Ariadne after a satisfyingly spicy take-out Vindaloo, with the heat still pronounced on his tongue. Her phone rings a good five times before she picks up.
Eventually, "Mnh?" is the muffled answer.
Arthur grins. "Did I wake you?"
She's not even surprised to hear his voice. "What makes you think I sleep at one-thirty a.m. on a Thursday morning?" Her voice is dripping sleep-muddled sarcasm.
He winces, realises that he forgot the time difference between London and Paris. "Your charming greeting gave you away," he offers. "Though you have to work on your eloquence."
She groans and he imagines her pulling the blanket over her head. "It's too early for this." Her voice sounds muffled. "What do you want?"
"What do you think about architecture in Helsinki?" he asks.
"Good music," is the deadpan reply. "Why?"
"I thought maybe you could Do the whirlwind."
She laughs, surprised as she catches the reference, obviously even more surprised that he's made it, then stops short. "You mean…"
"What I mean is, would you be interested in a - "
"Yes!" she interrupts him before he can even finish the question. There's no trace of fatigue left in her voice.
Arthur grins.
"When and where?"
"Seven a.m., Orly to Vantaa. Check your e-mail for details."
"You already booked a flight?" she asks, sounding incredulous. "Arthur, you didn't even know I was going to say yes."
"Didn't I?" he asks and doesn't bother hiding the amused inflection in his voice. "Good night, Ariadne. I'll see you in Finland."
***
His phone rings when he's in the middle of security at Heathrow. The woman behind the X-Ray machine gives him a polite if pointed glare and he shuts the phone off. He doesn't recognise the number anyway. Whoever wants to reach him will call again.
It rings again immediately after he has cleared security and turned it back on.
"Are you trying to avoid me?" The low, accented voice is impossible to mistake. Arthur doesn't need Eames to introduce himself.
"Get caller-ID, Eames," he says, but there's no heat in it.
An announcement for security advices and last calls drowns out Eames' reply. When it ends, he hears Eames chuckle.
"Say hi to Lizzie for me."
"She's your queen, not mine. Do it yourself."
"Oh, there are just so many ways to interpret that statement," Eames drawls, amused.
Arthur feels the corners of his mouth tip up. He's not going to admit it under the threat of torture, but he's missed this. "You're a hard man to find, Mr. Eames. Where have you been?"
"Did you miss me?" Eames laughs. "I'm touched."
Arthur suddenly has the urge to hang up. "Was there a reason you called?"
There's a pause in the line, Arthur strains his ears and thinks he hears the screaming of trains in the background. "This is a bit embarrassing."
Arthur snorts and starts following signs indicating the path to Terminal 1. "Embarrassing is not in your vocabulary, Eames."
Eames huffs a laugh, the exhalation loud against the phone's speaker. "The man just knows me too well."
"It's in the job description," Arthur replies, letting a smile colour his words despite better knowledge. "So?"
"I'll get this out quickly." Eames clears his throat. "Got a job, old boy? I'm a bit skint."
Arthur stops walking. Something cold trickles down his spine. "You're… skint?" Eames received the same insane amount of money from Saito that Arthur did. It's improbable. It's impossible.
"Afraid so."
On the other hand, it is Eames. It might be true.
"Eames." He inflects all his disbelief into that one word.
Eames starts to explain as people bustle around Arthur and he steps aside to not get pulled into a stream of travellers trying to catch a flight that's already on last call. There's a tale of a beautiful woman, a coffee planter's mistress, fleeing Rio in the dead of night, and expensive presents - bribes - bought to save his skin. Arthur tunes it out, as he knows it's false. Eames is a forger. He's good at spinning tales, but Arthur knows that for all his appearance, Eames is anything but feckless with money. A forger's life requires money. Eames has probably invested his well and safely. So, why is Eames calling him? He's never done it before to ask for a job. Ever. Arthur has always had to seek him out.
"Cut the crap, Eames," he interrupts Eames just as he's about to launch into a tale of the coffee planter being part of the local Mafia.
"You need to learn to appreciate a good story," Eames says, not sounding disappointed in the least.
"What do you really want?"
Eames chuckles and Arthur realises too late that he gave Eames another opening. "More money, ideally," Eames answers, "you," Arthur can picture him counting on his fingers, "another tattoo, world peace, you, and blimey," a groan, it sounds as though Eames is stretching, "I'd kill for a good cup of tea right now."
Arthur clenches his hand around his carry-on. "Eames."
"Fine, fine, misery-guts." Eames takes a deep breath. His voice changes to something lower, something intimate. "I hear you're soloing?"
Arthur shifts from one foot to the other. "Yes."
"It's difficult after working as a team for so long."
"And how would you know about that?"
"I had a partner once," Eames says, more of a fleeting mention, meant to be forgotten, and hell if that doesn't bring Arthur up short.
"You." It's difficult to put the amount of disbelief he wants to into just the one word, but he tries.
Arthur hears, "Is that so unlikely?" and the words are meant to sound amused but fall short. He thinks this might be the most honest he has ever heard Eames sound.
"Yes, actually. You go wherever money goes, but you don't have loyalty to anyone but yourself. A partner doesn't fit your scheme." The words are unnecessarily harsh, and Arthur knows it, but he can't handle this sudden openness from Eames in the middle of frigging Heathrow airport with only bad coffee and a power-nap under his belt.
For a moment, he thinks Eames is about to hang up. Then Eames clears his throat. A burst of static accompanies it through the line. "Don't assume to know where my loyalties lie, Arthur," he says, voice mild and gliding over the syllables smooth. "You don't know the half of it." The simple statement jerks the rug out from under a carefully pieced together picture Arthur has of Eames and he feels like flailing.
"Eames - "
"I hear you have a job offer. I called to let you know I'm in."
"This doesn't require - "
"I'm in. I'll meet you in Helsinki."
"How the hell - "
The line goes dead.
***
Another city, another airport. When Arthur turns his phone back on as he makes it to Helsinki, there is no message from Eames. Ever since the phone call, Arthur's mind has been running in a hamster wheel, trying to deduce just how Eames knew. As an after-effect, he hasn't had any sleep on the plane, and is running on less than three hours in the past two days.
He cranes his neck when he gets out of the security area and into the airport's terminal 2, finds - no Starbucks. That's a surprise, since there is always a Starbucks. He tips his hat to the Finns for resisting the company's corporate raider approach and walks over to the inviting smell of freshly brewed coffee wafting from an elegant-looking café called Alvar A. The name of the famous Finnish architect is what made him choose the café as a drop for the additional information the client promised. He also needs a jolt of caffeine if he wants to be at least partly conscious for the rest of the day. Damn, but he hates being this tired when it comes to business. It's unprofessional. It's dangerous.
The café, from what Arthur read online, was designed in cooperation with famous Finnish designers. The sales counter imitates the contours of the famous Savoy vase by Alvar Aalto, the furniture comprises classically elegant chairs, abstract paintings adorn the walls, and the light is subdued and pleasant. Everything has clear, clean, elegant lines that, in combination with the warm colours, relax both the eye and the mind. Ariadne could tell him all about this interior, Arthur thinks, probably right down to the year everything was designed. He wonders if she'll stop by here on her way to Seinäjoki too. Realistically, though, she's not the type to feel comfortable by herself in a place like this, with its starched table linens and overly polite waiters. He imagines her outside of one of the smaller cafés instead, nursing coffee from a paper cup, trying not to nod off over a book. He realises that he looks forward to seeing her again, despite the jolt of uneasiness Eames' call has left with him.
Arthur orders straight-up double espresso instead of the local kahvi and sits in a corner with the Times spread out over the table. He fights to stay awake over the business section until a shadow falls over the paper, obscuring the small print.
"Do you have any idea how bloody difficult it is to get proper tea here?"
Arthur hides a flinch and wonders how the fuck he missed Eames approaching him.
"My heart breaks for you," he says without looking up. It's not a good idea for them to be seen together.
Arthur's cup disappears from the table into Eames' hand. He leans back in his chair, crosses his arms over his chest and looks up at Eames, who pulls a face and sets the cup down again.
"Disgusting." The word is heartfelt.
Arthur uncrosses his arms, makes a grand gesture toward the empty chair. It's too late now, anyway. If anybody's watching them, they know by now that Eames and he are acquainted. "By all means, Eames, be my guest."
Eames peers at the paper. "Davey running the country into the ground?"
"He's been Prime Minister since May," Arthur points out. "Hardly enough time for that."
"You can do," Eames steals a cookie from Arthur's saucer, chews and grins as Arthur rolls his eyes, "a lot more with a lot less time." The smile he gives doesn't reach his eyes.
Arthur scrubs a hand over his face to hide how uneasy Eames' vague hints make him. He resolves to do some more digging on Eames' background when he has the time. Right now, he's waiting for a call, though, and forces the niggling concern from his mind. This early in the morning, the café is packed with travellers enjoying breakfast.
Eames gestures for the waitress, who walks past with her arms full of dishes.
"Hetki pieni," she calls out, sounding apologetic.
Eames calls something after her in what to Arthur is nothing but a jumble of vowels. He blinks. "What the hell was that?"
"I ordered a cup of tea," Eames explains. "Not that it'll be any good."
Arthur narrows his eyes. "In fluent Finnish."
Eames shrugs and beams an insolent grin. "My good looks are just one of my many talents."
Arthur wants to reply, but before he gets the chance, the waitress is back with a cup and a Bauhaus-style small glass teapot in her hand. She bends forward to set it in front of Eames just as a patron walks past and jostles into her. The pot tips and spills its hot contents over the newspaper. Arthur just barely has enough time to pull his hands away to avoid a scalding.
The teapot clinks as she sets it down on the table, hard. "Anteeksi!" The waitress, a woman in her mid-twenties with short blond hair that frames a face with strong cheekbones, looks horrified. "Excuse me," she switches from Finnish to English, "I'm so sorry, let me clean this up." She dabs at the newspaper with a towel, realises that it's a lost cause and pulls it away from Arthur who has scooted his chair away from the table. There are tea stains on the crisp white table cloth.
"Please," she says. A blush stains her cheeks and sets off her big, watery eyes and pale lips. Arthur can't help catalogue her features and sees Eames doing the same, probably looking for a new forge. "I apologise. Let me get you another table."
Arthur shakes his head. "Don't worry about it." He checks his wristwatch. "I have a plane to catch, anyway. Just get me the check."
She nods and turns away with his paper bunched in her hands.
Eames watches them both with a raised eyebrow but says nothing until the waitress has left.
"Remarkably clumsy for someone working at a place like this, don't you think?"
"You didn't really want the tea, anyway."
"Mmh," Eames answers.
The waitress returns with the check and a new copy of the Times, "For your inconvenience." The copy is thicker than it should be. Arthur rests his hand on it as he thanks the waitress and feels the bump of what is likely a flash-drive.
Eames looks at the paper thoughtfully while Arthur pays. He doesn't say anything.
When they get up to leave, Eames bends close to Arthur and murmurs, "Very cloak and dagger."
Arthur straightens his shoulders and ignores the comment. The flash-drive burns in the palm of his hand.
"Don't get a seat next to me on the plane," he says to Eames as they walk toward their gate.
Eames rolls his eyes. "At least give me your paper, then, if you must deprive me of your cheerful self."
Arthur slaps the Times into Eames' open palm and gets out his passport.
Part 2: Finland