I was on a couch. Very comfortable. My head hurt. I reached my hand around the back, felt my hair. It was slightly matted. Small bolts of pain shot into my eyes.
I rubbed my hand over the top of my head and down my face. It smelled of alcohol; medicinal alcohol. And blood.
Broken glass. Shards… projectiles. A loud explosion. Almonds. Honey.
The miasma was beginning to lift. I sat up. I was in a very fancy office.
There was a pitcher of water on the table in front of me. Beside it was a plate full of small sandwiches. A bottle of Aspirin stood off to the side.
My head pounded. The broken glass must have cut the back of my head. I reached for the Aspirin bottle; it contained only two pills.
I downed them with a glass of water and started in on the sandwiches. I fished for my cigarettes; they were gone. But my flask remained.
I let it be. It was time to think.
Fifteen rings. Fidelio. Get in the car and drive. Cut off and kidnapped.
How did these goons know where I was driving? I didn’t even know. Hell, half the drive I wasn’t even paying attention to the road. I was on autopilot.
The door at the far end of the office opened and a small portly man walked in. Quite the contrast to the men who brought me here.
“Mr. Armstrong. I’m glad to see you made it here in one piece.”
Suddenly I realized who was speaking. That fat, little sweaty man from Place Vendome.
“Don’t tell me… your name is…”
“Fidelio.”
Moses Armstrong. Agent provocateur. I work alone. Some may say I'm a mercenary, but that would imply I care... I am an agent of fortune, a spy, an undercover intelligence office. My past is checkered. I had a wife named Madeilene, a son names Jonas. They were killed. I take lovers, prostitutes, women, blonds, into my bed for succor. I drink heavily, scotch whiskey, alcohol. Some would say I'm an alcoholic. They'd be right, but it's only self-medication. Some have called me Jack Bauer, 24, James Bond, but they have more scruples than me. I'm more like the Joker, Batman and his Dark Knight. I fight against both governments and criminals; against terrorists, terrorism, Muslim fanatics, pirates (Somalis, African, Kenyan, doesn't matter), enemies of justice. I have no friends, excpt the bottle and my cigarettes. I live by night, sleep by day, visit the underbelly of Paris, my current landing place. I am American, lived in London. My fees are high, because I only deal in bodies: blonds and corpses.
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