Calypso Directive by Brian Andrews Page B

credenza opposite her desk, picked up a Baccarat rocks glass, and filled it one quarter full. Neat. Nicolora was a connoisseur of fine scotch, and it was he who she credited, and blamed, for indoctrinating her into this very expensive habit. She took a mouthful of the amber liquid; she let it linger on her tongue and wash over her palette before swallowing. The initial astringent bite of alcohol quickly subsided, giving way to fragrant waves of smoke, earth, and oak. She closed her eyes and exhaled.
    She set the glass down and turned to leave.
    It was time to pull the trigger.

Chapter Ten

    Boston, Massachusetts
    A J FOLLOWED BRIGGS from his new lab, up a flight of stairs, and through a hallway until they reached a pair of floor-to-ceiling double doors. The doors were crafted from solid mahogany, and fitted with polished brass handles and hinges. Briggs placed his thumb on a steel plate next to one of the hinges; a green light flashed, and he pulled the rightmost door open.
    Seated at the end of a long mahogany table was a man AJ knew could be none other than Robért Nicolora himself. The man was dressed in a dark, perfectly tailored suit. His hair was onyx, brushed with silver at the temples, and meticulously trimmed. His hands were folded, resting comfortably on the edge of the table. Like fictional characters brought to life, to his left sat the oaf in the Red Sox cap from the Public Garden. To his right, the siren in the flowing silk blouse. AJ blinked twice, doubting himself.
    â€œWelcome, AJ, to the Founder’s Forum,” Nicolora said. “More importantly, welcome to The Think Tank.”
    AJ wanted to answer; he should have answered. Instead he stood, stupefied by the scene in front of him. First, the bizarre recruitment by Briggs at BU. Now, a charade in the Public Garden revealed to him. Who were these people?
    Briggs coughed politely. “AJ, this is Robért Nicolora,” Briggs said, nodding in the direction of the man seated at the head of the table. “He is one of the founders of this organization, and he is also the Principal Director.”
    AJ took a breath and this time forced words from his mouth.
    â€œNice to meet you, Mr. Nicolora,” he managed.
    Nicolora smiled, amused. He then gestured to the man in the baseball hat, who produced AJ’s wallet from the pocket of his jacket and set it on the polished table. Nicolora picked up the leather bill-fold, and studied it a moment. “This belongs to you, I believe,” he said and then slid the wallet across the table to AJ.
    AJ caught the wallet, tipped it in the air toward Nicolora in acknowledgment, and then sheepishly slipped it into his back pants pocket. It had been over an hour since he had been pick-pocketed in the Public Garden, and he hadn’t even noticed his wallet missing. He glanced at Briggs with both hope and doubt in his eyes, but Briggs’ face offered no safe harbor. He turned again to Nicolora. “Does this mean that I failed some sort of test?”
    Stifled laughter filled the room. AJ’s face flamed red.
    â€œNo, certainly not. That was just Kalen’s way of saying hello.” Nicolora’s voice was soft, reassuring. “Kalen is an RS:Physical. And to my right is Albane Mesnil. Albane is an RS:Social. She will take over orientation duties for Briggs, now that the recruitment process is complete.”
    â€œNice to meet both of you, officially,” AJ said, and then added, “since I suppose the Public Garden doesn’t really count.”
    His response earned him a grin from Kalen, but only a mute stare from Albane.
    He looked back at Nicolora. “Can I ask you a question?”
    â€œOf course, but first, take a seat. This is not an oral exam, AJ.”
    He slid into an open chair next to Briggs. “What do those titles mean? RS:Physical and RS:Social?”
    â€œRS:Physical is our shorthand for a Physical Resource. Think of Kalen as a Navy SEAL, an