Superior And Assistant

Decisions

“Pat, do you reckon an assistant would be nice?” Tord swivelled in his chair, took a tube of Smil, and popped one of them into his mouth. He loved those growing up as a kid and when Norway started to crumble and he was the only dubious hope for the nation, he first ordered for a lot of candy to be brought to his holdout.

“An assistant? What good would one do? Aren't Pau and I good enough for you?” Pat teased and promptly dismissed the recruit that rolled in a trolley into the office. He then handed Tord three stacks of paperwork from the trolley.

“I said it yesterday, you both are great. But! You both are also very busy. I can't always call on the both of you—what are these?” Tord spoke with a mouthful of chocolate.

“They’re the certificates of the lives that you've taken into custody for the Norwegian army. Each paper is one person. Sign every one of them, and they'll be all at your disposal for whatever use.” Pat explained. “I warn you, though, this is only a quarter of them. The rest are still being printed downstairs.”

“Hmm…” Tord clicked his tongue. “Is there a deadline for this?”

“Not that we received there was a fixed date, no. I suppose not. But you are to get them done. The longer you take the more they'll be agitated and come back to take their locals.”

“You’re talking about the Brits and Americans?”

“Yes. So, the deadline is flexible but it doesn't mean it's non-existent.”

“Impatient worms… What do you gather about them, their ways, styles?” Tord pushed the stacks away, noting to himself that perhaps another day he could start on them.

“I don't think I have much to say. Less than the three you specifically called for. Say, why them? What about them is special? Did they know you before the war?” Pat dragged a cushioned stool—even the stools were plated with silver or something extravagant—and settled himself on it.

“They were my friends. Old friends. When Papa started to go away for long periods, I would leave the house and play in the snow. Then, one day, three boys came up to me while I was building a snowman. I spoke not a lot of English at the time, but not too little that I couldn't catch up with them. Edd was nice. Today, I am fond of him. Matt… He's still the same, more or less. Tom…” Tord paused. His boots clicked from under the table, and his prosthetic fingers moved and drummed on the surface of his mahogany wood table.

“That bearded brunette doesn't seem to like you that much.”

“Hm, no,” Tord agreed with a small smile. “Tom told me of his God, his religion. I said it was stupid, because if God was real why would he allow so many people to die, to suffer, and let my dad not play with me as much?”

“Ahh. Religion tends to strike a nerve, doesn't it?”

“Yes, even after all these years, Tom does not like me one bit.”

“I think he has a reason not to, considering the circumstances.”

“I don't blame him. But there's nothing he can do.” Tord stretched himself out on his chair and sat horizontally on it, such that his legs were now dangling off the left armrest. “Have you convinced him?”

“I’ve persuaded the wall for sure. The man? I don't know.” Pat smiled and got up from his seat. “I’ll go check on him. When would you like to see him?”

“Six, afternoon.” Tord simply mumbled.

ROOM 14-10

Tom did not get any comfortable wink of sleep the night prior. He slept for two hours, give or take, and then awoke in the early morning to stare up at the canopy and pat his hand over his heart, wondering if he was going to play along to the crazy plan that brewed overnight. He told himself, “Yes, I would.” But truly executing it was another thing. Working for Tord meant he was in close proximity to the guy all the time, which gave plenty of opportunities for assassinations if he timed it right. In the shower, Tom began to overthink—but in the case of some tasteful individuals, it was a form of extra critical thinking.