Nathan Fischer coughed his way to the bathroom, slamming the door but not drowning out the noisy hacking or distasteful sounds of his throat clearing. It was only morning and already he had crumpled his second package of cigarettes and opened a new one. Murray sat comfortably on the large sofa, a coffee resting on the stand beside him and the morning paper open on his lap.

In the world news section, an article on the recent rash of shootings and other deaths occurring in the port district of Genoa held his attention until he read that the police were stumped as to the reasons or the whereabouts of any suspects.

Murray folded up the paper and set it aside as Nathan returned, his face flushed his eyes watery.

"I'm seldom disappointed with you, Murray, but this is way beyond the pale Not only do we not have our money, we have lost the means to get it and a few good men as well."

"Marco was burned out of necessity and Hardy was careless. Did you want them hanging around the sidelines when we got the money back?"

Nathan lit a cigarette and puffed hungrily. "Probably not, but that doesn't matter much when we don't have our means of access, old boy."

"I have feelers out. There are people who specialize in uncovering runners."

"Richard is a professional, Murray; look how he's done so far."

Murray stood and went to the window. "They are still in Genoa, I know it. I'll find them."

"This time, when you do and after we retrieve the money, end our relationship with all of them - no errors." Nathan covered his mouth and coughed painfully. "Do you know where Monique is?"

"Not yet, but I'm certain she's still hanging around for a chance at the money the same as we are." He lied casually.

"You know, Murray, I've noticed a subtle shift in your attitude toward me." Murray turned and looked at him. "As my aide, I was used to your formal address when speaking to me, now it seems you feel we are somehow . . . equals."

An eerie silence surrounded them, Murray just staring and Nathan nervously puffing on his cigarette. A slow smile began on Murray's face and he nodded.

"I fully understand my position in all this and I apologize . . . sir."

The emphasis might have been sarcasm; Nathan wasn't sure. "Well, no harm I suppose, just a certain level of- of comfort helps things run more smoothly."

"Certainly . . . sir."

Nathan knew it was sarcasm this time and he felt an unfamiliar prickle on his neck.

"Good then. Uhm- these people you have looking, is that the team from The Chat Noir?"

"Just Louise and her assistant Robert."

Nathan pulled at his chin. "Is she uh- will she be doing . . . ?"

"If I direct her to, otherwise I shall dispatch our friends. Louise only uses one method and that could be disadvantageous."

"Such a beautiful woman to be so deadly."

"It's why we recruited her, sir."

"Yes."

Nathan lit another cigarette from the butt and tossed the spent one in the large ashtray. "I want to tell you, that when we get the money, I'm planning on a quick retirement. Somewhere far from Agency business. An anonymous cover and a small population. I will leave a letter recommending you for my position . . . or a better one if possible; your service has been both commendable and deserving."

Murray gave him a quizzical look and settled back on the sofa. "That suggests that there won't be enough for both of us to enjoy that quick retirement, sir."

Nathan pulled on his cigarette and moved toward the window. He knew there would be a moment like this where he would have to tread carefully. Initially, Nathan had no intention of sharing anything, especially with an underling like Murray. Now, circumstances had shifted to a balancing point between his authority and Murray's emerging hints of control.

"Naturally there would be a division of the spoils, Murray. I just didn't see you as wanting to leave your work."

"I don't. It doesn't necessarily follow that I wouldn't want to be wealthy as well."

"No, of course not. I just meant-"

"I need to contact Louise. I will call you when I have information. You can figure out a suitable share for me in the meantime, Merry Christmas, sir."

Nathan felt the heat of the cigarette as it burned down to his fingers; his eyes were riveted on the door as it closed behind a chuckling Murray.

**************

The sun came up above the mountains surrounding the city and stole through the opening in the drapes to paint a yellow path across the bottom of the bed. The comforter moved in little hills near the feet, ending with a sharp thrust and a curse.

Monique threw the cover down and sat up, stretching and shielding her eyes from the sliver of sunlight crawling up the bed. She leaned over and checked the time then swung her legs out and stood with a huge yawn and an arch of her back.

The hotel was one of the larger establishments in the city and the room was one of the most expensive. She looked at her reflection in the large wall mirror in the bathroom and made a face; the dyed red hair wasn't her favourite colour.

She picked up the dark-framed glasses and put them on, turning her head from side to side and nodding with approval at how the simple disguise completely hid the real Monique.

Using the emergency fund that she emulated from Richard was risky since she had no income currently but going up market was a move she didn't think the Agency would expect. Protection was necessary while she established her new identity and a bank account for the expected share.

She brushed her teeth then stepped into the shower, soaking pleasurably while she considered how to get revenge on Jean Tremblay. He and his sick mistress would pay dearly for her treatment at his villa. When she came out the phone was ringing and it sent a shock through her system.

Nobody knew where she was, or the cover name, Carla Vitti. And all her fake papers had been destroyed. Who could be calling? She stood looking at the blinking light and started each time it rang. After it stopped, she called the desk and asked if there was a message for her, explaining that she had been in the shower.

"Of course, Signorina Beauclair, a gentleman called, his message was- 'He thought Carla Vitti sounded more suitable'. I presume madam understands what was meant."

Monique sank to the floor, her towel puddling beneath her. It had to be the Agency.

"Did- did he leave a name?"

"Mister Tweed, Signorina."

Monique frowned. Who the hell was Mister Tweed? "Grazie." She dropped the receiver onto the cradle and slumped against the front of a chair, staring blankly at the pattern in the lush carpet.