Chapter 1

A man who walks in darkness, casts no shadow.

Michael slipped quietly through the night. There was no sound from his foot falls. No shadow cast against the black night.

The guard heard nothing before he died. Neck broken, he fell to the ground. Michael stepped over the body to the door and picked the lock. He turned and motioned, and his men filtered out of the trees and stood around him, waiting.

They entered silently. The commandant sat working at a computer terminal while three men were engrossed in a game of Five Card Stud. A pile of money sat in the middle of the table. One of the men grinned and reached out to rake in the cash as the others folded. A soldier was at the coffee urn, pouring himself a fresh cup. Another sat in a chair in the corner, head leaned back at a precarious angle, snoring loudly, his feet propped on a box. The commandant looked up, saw the invaders, and snatched for his gun as he rose but never made it to his feet. Michael aimed and fired. The commandant dropped. Michael's men took the others down in a bevy of fire. The sleeping soldier never woke. Falling onto the urn, the dying soldier took the coffee down with him, and it poured onto the floor with his blood. The card player never collected.

One of Michael's men laughed and sprayed the office again with his machine gun. A stray bullet hit the computer case.

"Friedrich," Michael said. The man turned to him, still laughing. "The computer is our primary target. The arms are extra," Michael explained softly. "You knew that." Michael raised his gun and shot Friedrich between the eyes. The other men froze in position. Michael turned and looked at each individually. They got the message.

"Get the armaments," he said quietly. The men went to the warehouse and began emptying it. Michael sat at the computer and checked it over carefully. The computer housing was damaged, but the bullet had apparently missed its vitals. As he started downloading files onto a floppy, he read the file titles, and his normally expressionless face registered a dry smile.

A good haul. The files should insure that he would be able to operate unmolested by the local police. If he were right, these data files would give him the leverage he needed over the government. Michael was usually right.

"Finished, sir," one of his men said, his cockney accent sharply noticeable. Michael looked up at him.

"Is the area sanitized?"

"Yes, sir. No prints, nothing left to identify us." He glanced over at Friedrich's body. "Except Friedrich."

"Take him with you. I'll be along shortly."

"Yes, sir." Marshall went to Friedrich's body and hoisted it over his shoulder. He glanced around the room once more to be sure everything was satisfactory and left, carrying his burden.

Michael completed his work at the computer and pocketed the floppy. He walked through the office into the warehouse, making a full circuit of the area. Finding nothing, he returned to the office and inspected it. The dead soldiers had been returned to their original positions and the coffee urn sat upright. He walked to the card table and saw that the money lay untouched by his men. Reaching out with the barrel of his gun, he flipped over the cards in one of the player's hands and then did the same to the next. The last still had one hand stretched across the table reaching for the cash. Michael flipped his cards over. Aces and eights. A dead man's hand.

"You won," he said softly and left.

The next day, Marshall rapped lightly on Michael's office door and waited. "Enter," said the softly accented voice from inside. He opened the door and walked into the room. A large Oriental rug in deep bloody tones of red and burgundy dominated the sparsely furnished room until you saw the man sitting in the black leather lounge chair, a book open on his lap. Michael looked up and no one, least of all Marshall, would then have been aware of anything in the room except his penetrating green eyes. They cut through Marshall like color shifted lasers. "Yes?" Michael lifted one eyebrow in query.

"Figures from the arms sale," Marshall said, handing over the paperwork. Michael glanced at the numbers briefly and nodded. While he did so, Marshall eyed the rug again. 1000 quid for sure, he thought. He was off by a factor of 10. Had he known, he would have been afraid to walk on it. Handing the papers back, Michael started to return to his book.

Marshall asked, "Don't give a fig about the money, do you?"

"Not particularly." He gave a Gallic shrug of his shoulders.

"But you always ask to see the numbers."

Michael looked up again from his book and considered the matter before responding. "Money is simply a way to keep score." Marshall looked uncomfortable. Not caring about money was not a concept his mind could get around. Michael was aware of his discomfiture. "That will be all."

I should disburse the entire take, he thought, as Marshall left the room. Marshall was a good barometer for the rest of the men. If he seemed uneasy, it meant they all were. The holding fund was more than adequate to cover any new projects or emergencies. Divide the take by ten, he frowned, make that nine. I need to recruit someone for Friedrich's position, not that Friedrich was much of a loss.

He gave up trying to read and laid the book aside. Starting for the computer to initiate a search through his possible recruit file, he found himself instead standing in the middle of the room, absent-mindedly staring at the wall which held a painting by Caspar David Friedrich and shook his head. He couldn't pretend he'd been looking at the painting, he had in fact just "blanked out". Normally an intensely focused person, he realized that had happened several times lately. Perhaps after he finished applying a touch of pressure to his target, he should take some time off, go skiing in the Alps, or sailing on the Mediterranean. He couldn't afford to be this easily distracted. Recruiting could wait.

He focused on the painting. It hung slightly crooked on the wall. Every damn day. Apparently the vibrations caused by the nearby tram. Slipping a finger under the right hand edge of the painting, he nudged it until it hung square. He backed off, double checked, and nodded in satisfaction. The painting had struck a responsive note in him since the first time he saw a reproduction of it in an art book as a teenager. A line of monks in dark robes filed through the snow into a ruined abbey, barren trees framing the choir entry. The brooding intensity of the mood and the surface clarity of the German romantic work foreshadowed the surrealism of the twentieth century. A remarkable piece, it had hung in the Nationalgalerie, Staatliche Museen in Berlin and was supposedly destroyed during the last days of World War II. To say Michael had been pleased to find it among the loot from a raid on a former competitor would have been a radical understatement. He felt attached to the painting. A disquieting thought. He turned and walked to his desk.

Sitting at the computer, he began putting together a file on the Legalite de Secretaire. The Secretary was about to become a very unhappy man, but useful. Michael allowed himself a cynical smile. Unaccustomed as he was to actually working, the Secretary would probably find becoming useful the more difficult of the two to handle.

The next day, the Secretary whisked past his administrative assistant. "Mr. Secretary," she called out just as he reached for the door knob. He turned and glared at her.

"What?" he snapped. "I'm busy."

"The gentleman is here for your appointment. I let him wait in your office."

"Appointment?" he asked, then frowned. What appointment? He didn't remember an appointment. He fixed amb15081

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

Chapter 2

The lodge driver unloaded Michael's skis and luggage, another lodge employee raced to scoop them up and carry them into the lodge. Michael waited at the desk as the receptionist greeted him, "Monsieur? Your usual suite?"

"Yes, thank you."

"A pleasure to see you again, Monsieur. I assume you know Mam'selle Nice` is here?"

Before Michael could answer a petite little bundle of female crashed into him. Her blonde curls covered his face and blinded him as she leaped up and crushed him in a bear hug, wrapping her arms around his neck. "Michael!" she hugged tighter. He peeled her off his neck and held her at arm's length so he could look at her.

"Nice`! I didn't know you were here. What a wonderful surprise." His smile was like the sun breaking through clouds on a stormy day. It lit the room. The receptionist smiled; the luggage bearer smiled; it was contagious.

"Why didn't you tell me you were coming? How long can you stay? Are you alone? Come with me," she said in a rush. Before he could answer any of her questions, she grabbed him by the elbow and dragged him toward the lounge. He looked over her head easily and motioned for the bellhop to take his bags on up to the room.

In the lounge, she spun Michael around and shoved him into a booth in the far corner. He tolerated the abuse with amusement, leaned back into the corner of the booth, and laughed out loud. Then he reached up, snatched her by the arms and pulled her onto his lap. Looking over at the amused bartender, she waved two fingers in the air, and the bartender started mixing.

"It was impromptu. At least a week. Yes. Your turn," Michael said, still laughing.

The bartender sat their drinks on the table and left. "I'm here with some friends, also for the week. Oh, Michael, it is so good to see you," she said seriously. "I've really missed you. I tried calling you yesterday at that Berlin number to ask you to come skiing, but it was disconnected. I wish you wouldn't be so evasive. How am I supposed to reach you if I really need to?"

He considered the question and, shifting her over next to him in the booth, pulled a Mont Blanc out of his shirt pocket and scribbled a number on the cocktail napkin. "You'll always be able to reach me through this number. If I don't answer, just leave a message with your number. I'll get back to you. I didn't mean for you to not be able to reach me, Pseuda," he said using his pet name for her.

Nice` grinned and took the napkin. Ever since Michael's grandfather had dumped him on her family during the summer when he was only ten, she'd been his pseudo-older sister. Being stuck with a ten year old boy was pure pain for a 15 year old girl who had just discovered that teen age boys were a neat invention, and she had loathed him. Despite her parents insistence that she look after him, she had, instead, figured umpteen different ways to lose him. Unfortunately he had taken it as a challenge. By the time he was 15 and had spent every summer with her family, she had practically adopted him. He called her "Pseuda," and she called him "Pseudo". They became as close as brother and sister. She still remembered being nearly heart broken when his grandfather had died shortly after his eighteenth birthday and he had been shipped off to Bangkok to live with his father.

They lost track of one another for a long time after that until he knocked on her door in Istanbul three years ago. She remembered opening the door, and there he stood. "Hello, Pseuda," he had said, nonchalant as though they had been together only the day before. I am never going to lose track of him again, she vowed.

He challenged her to a race down one of the trickier ski runs. She accepted. They called back and forth to each other from their chairs on the ski lift. She was still talking to him as he took off from the top of the slope. Michael always took contests so seriously. She lost with graceful petulance and shoved him into a snow bank when they reached the bottom. It was a damn good day.

It was, in fact, considerably better than the evening. Gathered around the huge stone fireplace in the ski lodge, she had introduced him to her friends. And then watched him slide easily from friendly to merely polite. It was doubtful her friends were aware of the change. They didn't know him, she did. His manners were too good for him to become glacial to someone she introduced him to, but for all the warmth he threw off, he might as well have been dripping icicles. What the hell is your problem, she wondered.

When they had a few minutes alone at the outer edge of the group, he told her. In no uncertain terms. "Eurotrash. Nice` what are you doing with these people?" he demanded.

"Well, excuse me. Since when do you pick my friends? I don't see you for six months at a time and then you criticize."

He closed his eyes and let out his breath. Starting again, he tried to explain patiently, "Nice`, I know who some of these people are." He nodded toward one tall blond man leaning on the mantle, "Heime is a big coke dealer." Indicating a woman with smooth dark hair, "Kristal is hooked into half of the drug deals in Germany."

"They're fun. I play with them, not do business. Loosen up, Michael."

He clutched her by the scruff of the neck and pushed her from the room. In the hall, he shoved her against the wall and held her chin captive with one hand, tilting her head so the overhead light shone into her eyes. He studied her eyes intently, then released her chin. Holding one hand with his and using his other hand to shove the sleeve of her sweater above the elbow, he raised her arm and inspected it carefully, then did the same to her other arm. "You're not using," he said. It was a statement, not a question.

"Of course I'm not. How dare you accuse me?"

"Nice`, please." His eyes looked very sad and she stopped just short of belting him. She was still angry, though, when he continued. "We should talk, Nice`. Let's go to my room."

"No. I want to spend the evening with my friends."

"Nice`, please. There's something you need to know. Something I should have told you about. Please."

She relented to the plea better than she would have to more domineering. She also knew him well enough to realize that phrasing it as a request rather than an order meant a great deal. It was contrary to his nature to ask rather than tell. She loved him, but Michael was a real control freak.

Still fuming a little, she sat on the end of his bed, watching him pace back and forth in front of her. Finally he stopped and faced her, "Didn't you ever wonder where I was between when I left for Bangkok and when I found you again in Istanbul?"

She responded sarcastically, "I seem to remember having asked and not gotten an answer. I respected your privacy and let it go. Why don't you try it?"

He reached out and took her hands in his and knelt before her, looking up intently into her eyes, "Because I love you, Pseuda."

"Damn you." She slid off the end of the bed and sat next to him on the floor. He turned and they both used the bed's foot board as a back rest. He put his arm around her. It was impossible not to remember the number of times they had sat like that in his room at her parent's summer home, talking late into the night. She told him about her dates, her heartbreaks. He listened better than anyone she had ever known, before or since. The staff thought they were having an affair, even her parents had worried about it occasionally. It was far more complicated than that, and much simpler. They just loved each other, would have died for each other, but there was no "click," never had been. "OK, Michael, talk."

He closed his eyes, couldn't or wouldn't look at her, while he talked. "I murdered someone in Bangkok. Father arranged for me to go to an English prison." He stopped but before she could question him, he continued. "It was better than prison in Bangkok, I'm sure. But. Nice`, whatever you do, don't get sent to prison. You can't know what it's like. You mustn't ever find out. Get rid of this Eurotrash you're hanging around with or you'll end up there."

"I wouldn't do anything to get put in prison."

"You wouldn't have to do anything, just be in the wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong people."

His eyes were open now, but he was staring into the past. She looked at his profile, considered his perfect good looks, and wondered just how hard prison inmates would have been on a man like this. He was gorgeous, refined, and intelligent; it must have been a horror. She slipped her arm through his and leaned her head on his shoulder. "Who did you kill?"

"My best friend."

They were both silent. Finally she asked, "There was a good reason?"

"I thought there was at the time. On the other hand, I was also drunk."

He leaned his head to the side, resting his head on top of hers. "Michael, what do you do now?" she asked.

"You don't want to know, Nice`."

Her parents had died in a car crash several years ago. Michael's father committed suicide. They were alone. All they had was each other. When her silent tears dampened his shoulder, he realized she was crying. He hugged her and kissed her forehead. "Don't, Nice`. Please don't cry."

"I'm afraid."

"Of what?" he asked.

"Of losing you."

"You won't," he said.

"Is what you do illegal?"

He didn't answer.

"Is it dangerous?"

He still didn't answer.

"I'll get rid of them," she promised.

"Thank you, Nice`." He let out his breath at last.

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

Chapter 3

Marshall stood, leaning on the fence, and watching his favorite, Thor's Vengeance, run the track. As Thor flashed past the finish line in a bay blur, he hit the stopwatch and smiled broadly when he checked the time. "Beautiful. Fucking beautiful." He motioned 'thumbs up' to the jockey.

Life was good. That last haul paid for the new stable. He sauntered back to the house through a light mist. Strange duck, Michael. Michael No Name, he called him, not to his face, of course. Fancy working for someone and not knowing their last name. Secretive son of a bitch. Ice water in his veins. Took care of his own, though, you had to give him that. He remembered Friedrich. Well, usually. Didn't pay to disobey orders. Friedrich had never really belonged. Crazy son of a bitch, Friedrich was.

In between assignments, they all returned to their normal lives. The men never contacted each other. And Marshall never contacted them until Michael told him to. Only Marshall would have known how to get in touch with them all. And it wasn't allowed. Marshall followed orders. He had been the best Sergeant Major in the Queen's own, he had. As for Friedrich, well, one more fucked up assignment and he would have cashiered the crazy bloke himself.

He looked back over his shoulder at Thor's Vengeance being walked in a circle by the jockey. Someday Marshall would have a string of racehorses. No reason for anyone to know where the money for them came from. Michael had helped him set up a way to launder the money so it was untraceable. Smart fellow, Michael No Name. He seemed to know the ins and outs of every illegal activity. Where the h**l had he learned it all, and still so young?

Despite his concern for Nice`, the vacation had helped. Michael felt focused again. The fact that his life had followed a path not of his choosing was something he had to accept. Not of his choosing? No one forced him to kill Paul, had they?

He didn't really regret Paul's death, just the outcome. There was no one to blame but himself. Seeing Nice`, and telling her the truth, had relieved a burden that he had carried for years. He hoped she meant it when she said she would ditch her new found friends. He believed her. The growing sense that his life had no point had been blunted. The vague feeling of discontent was held at bay. If not happy, he was reconciled. At least for the time being.

The following week, he stood at the entrance of a dark alley in Brussels, watching the last people leave the Ministry of Planning across the street. Only the night guard remained. He checked his watch and crossed the street. Ducking down the alley next to the building he walked quickly to the overhead fire escape. Jumping up, he easily caught the bottom rung of the ladder and pulled the fire escape down into reach. He pulled the ladder up after him to avoid calling attention to his activities. Then he climbed rapidly to the top floor and paused, hunkered beneath a window. He peered cautiously over the sill and studied the glass. No wires.

He slid a thin strip of metal between the upper and lower windows and popped the lock. He waited. Still no sound. Very quietly, he opened the window and stepped through to the office inside. Shining a miniature flashlight around the edges of window, he satisfied himself that he had triggered no alarms and went to the file computer.

A thorough search of the computer and the floppies in the desk gave up some of the information he sought, but not enough. He checked his watch and, switching the computer off, hid under the knee well of the desk. Very soon, he heard footsteps in the hall. The door opened and the night guard flashed a light around the room. Nothing appeared disturbed. He shut the door, and Michael could hear him stopping at the next door to repeat the routine. Sure that enough time had passed for the guard to leave the floor, Michael got out from under the desk and looked around the office. One entire wall was filled with file cabinets.

Paper files, he thought. How quaint. This is going to take forever. He checked his watch again. Just do the job, damn it.

He took his time. Do it right the first time, and he wouldn't have to come back. He found what he sought. "Usher." The architect of the new ministry building. Right at the end of the alphabet. Figured. Laying the file out on the desk, he turned on the desk light and began snapping pictures of the pages with a miniature camera.

Satisfied at last that he had gleaned all the information he could get from the office, Michael returned everything to its proper place. He looked around to be sure he had left no traces behind. Stepping back through the window, he pulled it shut, hurried silently down the fire escape, and pushed the ladder back up. He crossed the street again and stood at the entrance of the alley, surveying the building. The guard came out the front door and lit a cigarette, lounging against the wall while he smoked. Michael turned and disappeared into the darkness.

He returned to Marseilles and settled back into his apartment. The information he had stolen from the computer should enable he and his men to clean out the largest armory in Brussels. While he didn't particularly care to supply armaments to the world's sleaze, it paid the bills and kept the men happy. The architect's plans in the cabinet had included a complete layout of the new ministry building. Now that would certainly come in handy. One had only to be patient. The sloppy security in the Brussels Ministry of Planning had unwittingly handed over the plans to the new ministry building, still in the building stage, to the best thief in Europe. It was time to call in the troops for some action, he decided and left for his office.

As he neared his warehouse, however, the hairs on the back of his neck prickled. A hunter by trade, he knew when he became prey by instict. His discomfort increased the closer he came to the warehouse. By the time he reached the corner of the building, he was as nervous as a treed cat. No one watching him would have been aware of it. His expression didn't alter. He didn't change his pace, but walked past the warehouse entrance, and turned left when he reach the corner. Paranoia was part of his life. He considered that fact as he continued walking. On the other hand, sometimes they really are out to get you. Was the warehouse being watched, or not? He caught the tram and crossed town, transferring frequently as he did so.

By a long circuitous route, he eventually returned to his apartment. It took a considerable period of time watching the building before Michael felt comfortable entering. He put the Bach Brandenburg Concertos on the CD player and prowled around the room. Bach's mathematical precision always helped him think. Who? How?

He worked his way methodically through all the possible twists and turns. Every piece of logic led him back to the Legalite de Secretaire who had both the means, as head of the police services, and certainly the motive. There was a possibility he was wrong, but he doubted it. He looked around the apartment, walked through it once, put all his floppies and several passports in several names into a briefcase and left.

Although it was early evening and rapidly growing dark, he caught a taxi and went to the Secretary's office. The building was completely lit up, most of the staff still at work. When he entered the Secretary's outer office, Michelle was still there. She looked up and smiled. Crossing to her, he held out his hand. She took it eagerly and he kissed it. "I couldn't stay away," he smiled at her.

"You said you didn't think you would return," she said, blushing.

"Fortunately, I was mistaken. Is the Secretary in?"

"Yes."

"Alone?"

"Yes."

"Good. I have a surprise for him." He placed his forefinger on her lips. "Shhh." She smiled as he went to the door of the inner office and entered.

The Secretary looked up and turned as white as a bleached corpse when he saw Michael shut the door behind him. He stood quickly at his desk and exclaimed, "You! But you're...." He stopped himself.

"Dead?" Michael asked quietly.

The Secretary slowly slumped into his chair, resigned and terrified. "Yes," he whispered. He looked up. Michael pointed a gun with a silencer on it at him. Michael fired.

"You will still be useful," he said to the Secretary's body. "I have no doubt the Under Secretary will behave more wisely with you as an object lesson."

On his way out, he stopped at Michelle's desk, leaning over her again, staring deeply into her eyes, his own a sparkling green. "He doesn't wish to be disturbed for the rest of the evening. He said you should go home."

"Of course," she said, holding out her hand expectantly. True to form, he kissed her knuckles lightly before offering to help her with her coat. They walked out of the building together.

"Where is your car?" he asked.

"Just across the street," she said, wishing it were further away. He walked her to her car, and held the door for her. As she drove away, she watched him walking away in the darkness in her rear view mirror.

No need to return to the warehouse. There was nothing there. He never kept files on the computer. Marshall would wait until hell froze over for a call from him. He would contact him when he had safely relocated. Time to move on.

Never keep anything you can't walk away from. He felt a twinge thinking about the painting. He shouldn't have grown so attached to it. He hoped it would be recognized and put into a museum.

He had made no personal friends in Marseilles. He was only on a nodding acquaintance with his neighbors. His women were casual encounters, hoping for, but not expecting, a call.

No one would notice he had gone. No one would miss him. No one would care.

He would simply vanish into the night.

A man who walks in darkness, casts no shadow.

Send suggestions and comments to Zzoomama
Unfortunately, Zzoomama has passed away. At this time, I do not know if her family is maintaining her email account. If you have enjoyed her writings (and who could not?) please try to send feedback, just in case. Thank you.