I step into the immaculate marble tiles of Omega’s lobby.
Omega is a talent agency.
The building stands up to a whopping 1,110 feet and showcases modern state of the art architectural design. The security is impeccable too; two fully equipped guards stand sentinel at the either side of automatic glass door, both holding semi-automatic rifle across their chess ready to roll in action whenever the need arises. If you’re observant enough you will notice, security cameras hidden inconspicuously in every nooks and crannies. Before you gain entrance, you have to submit all your items at the guards and pass through a body scanner.
I walk up straight to the lobby without anyone looking at me, it’s as if they don’t see me. The receptionist continues to chatter away amiably, people sitting at the plush sofa flip through the celebrity magazines while they talk over it with gusto and others are talking to their smart phones with expressive faces and hand animations. There’s a huge flat screen hanged at the wall that flashes advertisements about Omega, while people in business suit stand in front gesturing at the TV, talking about ideas for better advertisement.
It’s a perfect and flawless act.
Everything is as what should be seen by passersby.
Omega is just a front.
At the back of all these cheeky and catchy decorations hanged and plastered at the lobby, all the jovial smiles and chatters, lies the real thing: Byzantine.
The guards upfront, the receptionist at the lobby, or in fact everybody else here in this building came from various field. Half of them are ex-Interpol, FBI and CIA agents; Byzantine also employs, chemists, physicists and any other professionals in various field that either has left or been shunned by their previous jobs due to alleged elicit workings.
The agency has only 5 branches all over the world. When there is a job in a foreign country, an agent is sent there.
Byzantine has also infiltrated different companies, big media, broadcasting and newspaper companies such as CNN, BBC, Agence France Presse, Reuters, Al Jazeera. Byzantine also controls security agencies such as FSB, FBI, Interpol, NSA and that’s just the tip of the iceberg, Byzantine’s influence and control is all encompassing, wide-ranging and inter-national. Assuming control over these media companies ensure the secrecy of the activities of Byzantine.
People think the worst thing in the world is having their government’s nose buried in their private businesses. How sadly mistaken they are.
Byzantine values, secrecy and loyalty; thus the motto: Semper Fidelis. And thus the only two rules we all live through:
One. Don't get caught.
Two. If caught, the organization takes no responsibility. Best-case scenario: it's as if you never existed, Worst-case scenario: You have to be eliminated in order to preserve the organization’s anonymity.
I tap the glass counter and the receptionist looks up at me, her plump, bright-red lips stretches into a perfect, effortless smile.
“Good Morning, Ms. Arianna Turner.” She greets.
“Good Morning, Evalyn. I have a meeting with the Director.”
“Of course, the Director informed me yesterday,” she opens a drawer and pulls out a light green card with a black line marking in the middle, “here you go, and have a nice day Ms. Turner.” She passes me the card, and then I go over to the elevator.
Once inside, I insert the card in the slot under all the buttons, the slot glows green. The elevator stops and a cool female voice speaks.
“Your request to enter the restricted area is accepted, please turn-off all non-issued devices by Byzantine.”
No need to do anything, I did not bring my phone. After about 20 seconds, the voice speaks again.
“Please stand over the scanner, align your eyes at the device and and wait for the confirmation.”
At the left side of the elevator the metal covering slides inward to reveal a small round device installed at the elevator wall, above it is appears an 11-inch screen that alternately flashes ‘no identity detected’ and ‘please align your eyes towards the device’.
I sigh, these tedious security checks are soon going to kill me.
I go over and stare at the device unblinkingly. A green light scans my eyes up and down and after just 10 seconds, my face flashes along with my name. My supposedly real name.
“Talia Rosenberg. Identity No. A27-08. Class 1A.”
The class number pertains to the ‘rank’ of the agent in Byzantine. The highest of which is 1A, this is where the classified, difficult and high-paying assassination jobs are forwarded. Byzantine runs background checks of the client and decides where to put their requests.
The elevator jolts and instead of moving upwards, it moves sideward for about 15 seconds before it stops again.
I’ll give the Director a piece of my mind after these, he seems to enjoy the idea of his agents going through these stupid procedures every damn time.
A small slot underneath the scanner opens.
“Please insert your dominant hand inside, hold it and wait for the confirmation.”
I slid in my right hand, the slot glows green and after 10 seconds again, a notification box with bold green letters which says ‘CONFIRMED’ appears underneath my information at the screen.
“Confirmed. Good Morning and Welcome to Byzantine, Rosenberg. Please proceed.”
“Finally.” I mutter.
I step out of the elevator and immediately I, as always, feel like I am transported to another place.
Unlike the lower floors, which are decorated with loud colors, posters and ornaments, the Byzantine headquarters looks like a cross-between a scientific laboratory and a space observatory. The place consists of nothing but bulletproofed glass panels, glass windows and doors and even the tiles. And also recently I found out the building has some kind of defense mechanism in case we go under siege by the authorities (not that the Director feels or thinks that it will be, he likes to think that it’s just a theoretical notion), the air vents releases a highly volatile chemical in a form of gas and sets the very air on fire, destroying every piece of incriminating data. If inhaled by the human body, you’ll burn from the inside.
The entire look of the room won’t give you the feeling that assassination contracts are made here.
I walk along the long aisle; my sneakers make squeaky noises as I walk. Every glass cubicle by is occupied, some of which has their glass condensed to maintain privacy on whatever they are doing.
Glass condensation is another feature of this building. Simply put there are 2 glass panels sandwiched together and there is a small space in between these two glasses where a controlled form of hot air bursts through. Since the outside of the glass is cold due to air conditioning when there is a sudden burst of hot air in between the glasses, condensation happens and the glass fogs up inside. Basically it’s the same concept when you breathe close to a glass and fog forms.
I reach the biggest room at end, and it’s where the Director resides. He’s lounging at his swivel chair comfortably while taking sips at his coffee and reading something at the monitor. He notices me and beckons me inside.
At first glance you’ll think he’s the fatherly type. But if you take a second look, you’ll feel the silent kind of aura that radiates from him. It’s the kind of aura that makes people look up to him and listen, even the very tenor of his voice carries a certain cadence and lilt, that just commands attention. His blue eyes can carry a thousand expressions without you being able to discern the exact emotion and it can also become completely and unfathomably unnerving and piercing.
And that is Damian Novak, the prime mover of Byzantine. The one who found me on that faithful day, broken and close to death’s door. He gave me a second shot at life.
The glass doors slide open with a silent hiss then I go inside.
“Take a sit Talia, and what happened to your cheek?” He asks as he puts down his mug of coffee. I touch the small horizontal scar across my right cheek where the bullet from two days ago grazed it.
“I…I had a fight.” I simply say. His eyebrow rose and he steeples his hand above his chest as he leans back in his swivel chair; his carefully swept honey brown hair glistens like gold under the fluorescent light.
“What fight exactly?” he asks, his electric blue eyes look as if probing me.
“Well, somebody sent me a bouquet and naturally I traced the sender, only to find out that it was trap.” I explain shortly, somehow I don’t feel like telling him everything along with the masked guy, I don’t know if it’s because I am ashamed that I fell for such trick or because of something else. He continues to look at me probingly so I maintain a neutral expression.
“You should’ve have consulted me first before you made your move.” He says.
“I know. That would never happen again.”
He chuckles and straightens up.
“Oh come on Talia, relax I’m not angry. I am just worried that something could’ve happen to you, you’re like a daughter to me and you’re my best agent, of course, I don’t want to loose you,” he smiles and I nod then he sighs, “So serious all the time, Talia. Anyway I called you here for an assignment.” He finally says, his jovial voice changes into a serious, business like tone.
He presses a button underneath his table and the glass walls suddenly condense, hiding us from outside view. He passes me a tablet, which shows a face of a man, he has a neatly trimmed, full-beard and a wide brown eyes and has a rugged look about him. I swipe the screen and read through his information.
“Anton Salahov, 54. He engages in arms industry in Russia and one of the leading suppliers in the black market, and maintains a wide network of weapon cartel. He has connection as far as the Eastern Europe and Southeast Asian countries,” he pauses then continues, “Within the week he is going to have a private trade with a rising Chinese arms trader.”
“And I am going to kill him during the trade?” I ask, my brain immediately racing for possible strategies.
“No. You are going to protect him.”
I glance up at him.
“Protect him?” I repeat, in case I might have heard it wrong.
He gives me a perfunctory nod.
I place down the tablet at his table, “No,” I say outright, “I don’t do bodyguard duties, please leave it to the seniors.”
“The client expressly requested your services.” He says calmly.
“I am more liable to kill him myself rather than protect him.”
“You are suppose to protect him and kill the other participants in the trade.”
“The Chinese traders?”
“Yes. The client will break the contract if its not you.” He says, as he looks straight into my eyes.
I pick up the table and go over it again.
“He’s powerful and clearly has a lot of connection, he can employ half of the Russian Army and he wants me to protect him?” I say, feeling like I am not getting something, “and since when the Byzantine allowed the client to choose an agent?” I hold his gaze as I ask.
“He needs someone who looks harmless-“
“Oh that’s it.” I mutter, which he ignores and continues.
“And can make the opposite side drop their guard down, If he employs the senior agents it’ll just intimidate the Chinese traders and might go back on deal. Salahov has reasons to believe that they are the ones who are responsible for breaking his hold on some of his territories.”
“Fine. I’ll just snipe them on some rooftop.”
“You can’t. It’s an indoor trade, you need to be in flesh during the trade.”
I run my fingers through my hair and exhale.
“I made a compromise with the client. You are to be accompanied by one of the senior agents.” He says as the same moment the door slides open again and someone enters. It’s Velmar Drummond, one of the known senior agent of Byzantine, must be on his mid-30’s, we’ve been together on a mission once or twice and I find him eccentric and a good shot.
Drummond nods at me as he sits across me.
“We’ll be on the same mission again Rosenberg.” He remarks.
“I haven’t even agreed.” I state.
The corners of Drummond’s mouth pull up.
“You cannot pass this up child, it’s going to be one hell of an experience for you.” he coaxes me.
I lean back to my chair and try to ignore both of their expectant stares. There's a reason why I don't like this. I just...I don't protect...it's not my area of expertise, for me killing solves a lot of problems and...protecting...well, it creates a lot of problems.
I glance at D. Novak's expression, he's expecting me to take this up, I mean do I really have a choice? It's not as if I can say no to him and make myself look like an ingrate.
After a few moments, I decide to say what we all know I will say, eventually.
“Fine,” a flash of satisfaction colors Director Novak’s face, “as long as I don’t have to wear a dress, and I get to kill the traders.”
Somehow I feel like I am going to regret this decision.