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There are three reasons people display agitation: firstly, danger to oneself; secondly, illness; and thirdly, weak points. These last-named are many and varied. It can be a beloved profession – the delicate lemon-coloured petals of a lady’s slipper in the hands of a botanist, or the dull gleam of the thirty-six centuries old Nebra sky disc under the touch of an archaeologist. It can be a political cause – a rebel falling to the floor of his cell, his cold lips smelling sharply of almonds, in a sacrifice to a glorious future he will never see.
Sometimes, it is a person. Parents, siblings, lovers: they’re all a natural source of worry.
The only part of Diana he can see is her black-gloved hand. It rests on the arm of the seat in front of him. A minute tremble passes through her fingers.
“I told you to avoid going directly for Cage.”
47 gives this some thought. He disobeyed her command. He didn’t like doing that, and she has every right to be displeased. But it has always been understood that the mission priority takes precedence over the specifics of her directions.
She has not questioned him before.
“Yes,” he says. “I calculated the risks. If the target had been allowed to pass by any personnel not wearing adequate protection, the entire facility would have succumbed within minutes. Getting close to him was unavoidable.”
The emergency floor path illumination glows green under the tip of his left shoe. If he leans forward just so, he can see the same green gleam on one of her lacquered kitten heels. The rest of her body appears still; it’s only the hands she doesn’t seem to be entirely in control of.
She would tell him if she were ill.
Would she tell him if she were ill?
“You didn’t know that Lieblied had an antidote.”
“I hypothesised that he might. Still, even if he did not, I had ample time to eliminate both targets.”
The mission file was very clear on that point. Contain the virus at any cost. Any cost. That was his task, and he has never failed to perform to the highest possible standard.
“You would have died.”
The interior of the plane smells faintly of toothpaste, cleaning fluid, and cold air.
There are three reasons people display agitation-
“I have taken comparable risks before.”
The little frustrated intake of breath he hears in response suggests that Diana isn’t pleased with his answer. He thinks about it more, searching for the words she’s clearly expecting to hear.
“I am a valuable asset,” he says finally. “My loss would’ve been regrettable.”
These are not the right words. He feels a lurch of irritation at himself. Words have always been difficult when not filtered through a disguise.
“This is not why-” she cuts herself off. A steward passes by them. 47 waves him away, but Diana orders coffee.
Two sweeteners and cream. Her fingers grip the armrest tighter, and don’t shake.
He thinks about how easy it would be to kill her if he so desired. If someone bought his loyalty. If he were the kind of man whose loyalty could be bought.
Poison in the coffee. A syringe to the forearm. An accident involving the safety systems of the plane.
He has helped her hide once before, but in this world of theirs, alliances are a shifting and flickering thing. A client one day, a target the next. A superior today, a traitor tomorrow.
She trusts him too much. He doesn’t understand why she trusts him.
“It will not happen again,” he offers.
This pleases her more than his previous attempt. He can hear her blow on the coffee to cool it down. A funny habit. He likes it.
“It better not,” Diana says, but without much heat. A few moments pass in something approaching contented silence.
“47…” she begins, and hesitates. That’s not a name, she told him once. Now, she says 47 the way he’s heard civilians say the names of friends or family members. Evening, John. Good to see you, Leila. Come over for dinner, Peter.
Good luck, 47.
“47,” she says, “could I-”
She turns her hand over, palm up. He looks at it for a while, frowning, unsure of what exactly it is she wants.
Then, slowly, something clicks.
47 carefully raises his own left hand and puts it into hers. Her fingers curl over the edge of his palm, and her thumb rests on the strip of bare skin at the base of his wrist. He feels her warmth, muted through the thin layer of suede leather.
It’s very different from the last time he held her hand – cold and slippery with blood. It makes him feel – odd. There’s an unfamiliar tugging in his chest, just beneath the tip of the xiphoid process. His nose and the corners of his eyes feel ticklish, as if he’s drunk something heavily carbonated. It’s difficult to say what these feelings are. He’s sure he’s not supposed to have them.
He was never designed to feel, period.
(Carbonation. Who came up with that idea? People have the oddest tastes in drink.)
He remembers the way she seemed momentarily lost for words when he came close enough to Cage for the virus to spread. For a second, her voice – the ever-present source of calm assurance and understated dry humour he hears even in his dreams – caught and fell silent.
Then it returned, telling him urgently that he has to go, he has to save himself, find the antidote, quickly, 47, you have to do something.
He leans forward a little, resting his forehead against his right hand. Diana’s still holding his left one, as matter-of-fact about it as she always is about everything. Then she lets go. She opens the blind on her window, letting the sunlight paint the rows of seats a saffron yellow, and she sips her coffee.
47 looks down to find that his own fingers have developed a curious tremor he can’t seem to control.
Sometimes, he thinks, it is a person.