The beginnings of a spy story

Another day passes and he's still not back.

It's evening by the I come back from my investigations. I rap on the door of our apparentment and wait. No response. Not even the usual noises that tell you if someone's inside. No creaking floor or TV buzzing. Just silence. “Come on, Jim,” I plead, knowing it's no use. “I'm back from the store. I picked up the like little potato dumplings you like. I even got you some smazhek, whatever the hell that is.” I'll admit, my Czech isn't as strong as I thought it was. Three weeks here taught me that quickly enough.

I give him another moment, just in case, but nobody comes. With a sigh I let the grocery bags fall by the door and let myself in with the key he keeps under the mat. You'd think an international super-spy would come up with something a little more clever, but that's not Jim's style. He said if the wrong people ever learned where we live we'd be dead, simple as that, and no fancy lock would save us. He was probably right.

I step inside, dragging the groceries behind me, and the place looks untouched since this morning. The apartment is nothing special: two bedrooms, a tiny kitchen, some crummy couches facing a crummier TV, but still a steal at 1800 euros a month considering the locale. The view of Prague from the living room window is stunning when the street lights go on. When I first signed on to this job, I pictured  nothing but private planes and lavish hotels. Turns out that's the quickest way to draw attention to yourself when you want to blend in.

After a long shower I slump down on the couch with a plate of cold dumplings in one hand and Jim's case notes in the other. The TV's on and I've already tuned out whatever nonsense it's blaring. The Secret Service doesn't cover cable, so I'm stuck between soaps, Star Trek reruns, and the local news. Dubbed in Czech, Captain Picard sounds like a burly street thug who's probably named Ivan. That actually makes some of the earlier episodes more tolerable.

 Jim's notes don't prove to be any less frustrating. Half of his writing is vague conjecture, and the other half is written in a cypher I can't decode. It's like he was expecting them to fall into the wrong hands. That, of course, leaves me worried about who might come looking for them, hence the SIG in the holster under my jacket.

I take out my decoding tool and flash the screen over the encrypted text. After a minute of loading, it comes back with no result. I already knew that, but it feels wrong not to try one more time. The thing's still running on old algorithms, I remind myself. It helps keep me sane to tell myself that's the problem. With a shrug I turn the decoding tool off and put back into my jacket pocket. Most agents would be idiots for keeping their tools in plain sight, but as Jim put it, “No one thinks twice about the gadgets when you look like a dork.” He didn't exactly have a way with words.