by Josan
Addressed to him: PERSONAL.
He shook it, knowing it was safe to do so. All external mail came through an
x-ray machine just in case. So it wasn't
a bomb. And it wasn't something on the reject list.
No return address.
Handwritten label in a strong, clear cursive.
Foreign stamps.
Scotland.
He didn't know anyone in Scotland.
He placed the box on his desk, stared at it. Decided to leave it for now. It
used to drive Sharon crazy that he could
receive something in the mail and leave it while he finished some work he had
started.
In this case, it was a meeting just about to begin with several agents who
were presenting case progress reports. One
of whom was Jeffrey Spender. Which meant he would need something to distract
him while Spender droned on,
pontificating. The box would accomplish that.
Almost too well in fact. He found he had hardly heard a word of Spender's
report when he realized that the table was
waiting for him to say something. He nodded, gave his usual form reply to
Spender's reports which always seemed to
satisfy the man. Was Spender the only one who didn't understand those comments
were formula by now?
By the time this meeting was over, he had a lunch meeting to attend with a
couple of the other ADs and one of the
Deputy Directors.
Then there was some crisis thing he had to deal with that was mainly PR
rather than cold hard fact. He really disliked
that part of his job. Hated having to answer questions in media-speak.
So, by the time he got to the package again, it was after eight and he still
had the rest of the afternoon's work to get
through. Kim had left hours ago after seeing to it that a sandwich and a cold
drink were on his desk. That he was just
now getting to.
He had taken off his tie, unbuttoned a couple of inches of shirt, rolled up
his sleeves. He was reaching for another
report when his eyes caught sight of the box, sitting there to one side of his
desk, looking like it was patiently waiting
for him to notice it.
He pushed back in his chair and stared at it.
It seemed to stare back at him, stoically patient. Still waiting for him to
unfold its mysteries.
He reached for it, moved it around in his hands. Wondered why he was so
reticent about opening it. It had been a
long hard day and it wasn't over yet. Maybe he felt the need of a treat of some
kind. Something that would egg him
on to finish the work that had piled up in his absence.
On the other hand, what was wrong with opening it up now? Could be something
mondaine: he would have
anticipated for nothing.
He laughed at himself. Put the box back down to one side. Probably nothing
more than an error, sent to him by
mistake. He reached for a report.
Still. It was addressed to him: W. S. Skinner. FBI Headquarters. J. Edgar
Hoover Building. Washington, DC. On
two sides of the cube. And "Skinner" was underlined on both.
He pushed the report to one corner and picked up the box again. Examined it
on all sides.
Thick brown wrapping paper. Folds crisply executed. The tape holding the
edges down was of the narrow packing
variety. Smoothed down for a firm fit. Someone had taken the time to ensure the
package would arrive its wrapping
intact.
He used his thumb nail to coax up one of the end tapes. Slowly pulled the
tape off the paper. His grandmother used
to open her gifts in the same measured manner. She could remove the tape off
any fancy wrapping paper without
tearing the tape or marring the paper in any way. Drove his mother crazy when
she did that.
He worked all the tape off before he even contemplated opening the wrapper.
He unfolded the end flaps, carefully
straightened the paper. He placed the semi-opened box on his desk, unfolded the
wrapper like an unveiling.
The box surprised him.
It was plain. White. Held shut with just a bit of tape at the front of the
lid.
Nothing to give him a clue as to its contents.
He was intrigued. He picked up the box, tossed it back and forth between his
hands.
His eyes followed it as he tried to judge its contents. Weight—heavy
enough but not so heavy as to overwhelm the
size of the box. Solid—no rattling. Or was it just well packed? He rotated
the box, sniffed it. No smell. Maybe there
was an internal wrapping, an envelope of some kind.
He set it down on the desk in front of him. Just looked at it. Could almost
feel it snickering at him: I know what I am
and you don't.
Finally, he stripped the last external piece of tape, opened the lid. Peered
in.
Oh, God! Was it... It couldn't be!
He held his breath. Carefully, reverently, he eased the bubble plastic
encased contents out of the box.
He was stunned. He blinked, not trusting his sight. This might still prove
to be a mistake. A mirage. A mis-reading by
his brain.
He unwrapped the bubble plastic exposing the exquisite reel for fly-fishing.
He cradled it in his hands, raised it to his eyes, not daring to believe...
Yes, there it was. The discretely etched
HARDY REELS with the even smaller "3—6 wgt" designation.
A Hardy. Top of the line. The Rolls Royce of British fly-fishing equipment.
Something he'd always wanted to own. Except that his one or two fishing
escapes a year didn't warrant the
extravagant expenditure of a Hardy.
He turned it over in his hands, rubbed his thumb over the etching. Realized
he had a stupid grin on his face.
God! Who would have sent this to him?
He checked the box, the wrapping paper. No clues.
Except... No... Wouldn't be... Could it?
He remembered an encounter he had had that spring, in an out-of-the-way
place eatery.
Had shared a meal, conversation with a one-armed assassin. Even shared his
tent with him for one night. Had, in the
early morning light, even demonstrated some of the skills the sport required.
Might, if he remembered well, have even mentioned the existence of Hardy
Reels. With some longing. He had never
discussed Hardy Reels with anyone else.
Why would Krycek have remembered... But it seemed he had.
Why would he have sent... What the hell was he to do with... He should
return it. But where and to whom? There
was no return address. No indication where it had been purchased. Only thing he
knew was that it had been mailed
from Aberdeen, Scotland.
What was Krycek doing in...
He carefully enfolded the reel in its protective wrapping. Placed it back in
its box. Closed the lid on it. Moved it back
to a corner of his desk. Sighed regretfully. Reached for a report and tried
hard to put it out of his mind.
Not very successfully.
The thing just sat there, patiently waiting for him to finish his work.
It was nearing midnight when he slipped on his suit jacket, turned off the
desk light. He was almost at the door when
he looked over his shoulder at the white box sitting on his desk, innocent, the
fulfilment of a wish he'd expressed
aloud only once.
In the car, he carefully settled the seat belt making sure it wouldn't crush
the box in his suit pocket.
Mail
he package was about six inches square.
