+ If Only for a Moment, I Could [ 2 / 4 ]
Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four
It’s bright and early on Monday when Arthur steps into the Interpol headquarters. He navigates his way through the hallways with light steps, and no one picks up on the newcomer. The few who bother to give him a second glance just give him a brief nod and continue on their way.
Arthur runs into no resistance until he gets to his department where he is accosted by two women. The point man puts on his best British accent and curbs his French, feigning a bumbling but earnest illiteracy. The older of the women huffs and lets him by, muttering something about Brits under her breath. The other woman gives him a shy smile and points him further down the hall.
He sees Isaac then, who comes out to greet him. “Sam!” he says. “About time you crossed the Channel. I was wondering what took you so long.”
Isaac slings an arm around his shoulder and directs him to a lonely desk in the back corner. “You are here on my personal recommendation to my superior, so I hope you do not disappoint,” the man says with a grin. “Make the both of us look good, will you?”
Isaac claps him on the shoulder one more time and then leaves him in peace. Arthur sinks into his seat with a sigh.
***
It’s been a week and a half since Arthur secured an apartment, two weeks since he started working at Interpol.
He sits at his small dinner table as he examines a map; a spread of blurry photographs stick out from around the edges of the paper. The map is a large one of Europe, and at the current moment, it’s covered in a variety of circular stickers, each one marking where Interpol has noted a Cobb sighting. The dates of each incident are neatly written on their corresponding dot, cataloging the man’s journey across the continent.
Arthur adds another dot to his map and then leans back in his chair, balancing it on two legs. He scrubs a hand over his face and then studies the design Cobb’s painting over Europe.
The journey starts out in Venice as Arthur knows, and from there on out, Cobb’s dance across the continent is erratic. His path swings eastward to Belgrade, then down south to Kosovo. Cobb then disappears, only to turn up in Graz, Austria, two days later. He shows up in Warsaw in three days’ time, but not before he drops by Athens first.
Arthur traces the other’s journey with his finger, hands skating along the map as he covers and recovers Europe with invisible lines. He remembers the location and date of every appearance, could recite it in his sleep. Arthur envisions the scenery of each city that Cobb drops by, wonders about the landscapes of the places he’s never heard of.
Cobb’s path slowly takes him westward, but there’s something odd about his movements once he gets into France or even to its borders: he never enters the interior and always leaves shortly after, sometimes reappearing on the other side of the continent-Budapest, for example. Interpol sources have spotted him three times in Andorra already, and apparently, Cobb has been to Marseille twice.
The extractor has been to the northern border as well, showing up in Calais and Luxembourg. From the east, Arthur has a sticker on Geneva.
The point man studies his handiwork, resting his chin on a loosely curled fist. After a moment of idleness, Arthur traces a loose circle around Paris with his fingertip and then taps the map twice. Cobb has Ariadne as a friend there, as well as family, in the form of Miles. Arthur doesn’t doubt for a moment that the two would be willing to offer assistance should he show up, but Cobb’s likely hesitant about asking for it.
When it comes to Miles, Arthur has a feeling that Cobb’s not exactly willing to even meet up with the man. Kindly as the professor is, there’s still the matter of Mal’s death, the ever present elephant in the room. He was her father. He had turned her over to Cobb’s care on their wedding day, but his son-in-law had lost her-twice, no less.
Once in the dream world, and again in reality.
On top of that, Cobb dragged off one of Miles’ best students, and despite his promise, Ariadne had accompanied them into the dream world, going so far as to even touch limbo. Arthur knows that his friend is more than willing to push others and break a few rules to get back to his kids-he still feels angry about the sedation issue-but at the same time, Miles is family.
Family that Cobb has already dragged through hell and back, part of a fragmented connection back to his children. The last thing he needs now is to get Miles thrown in jail, anger Marie even more than he already has, and have his children whisked away by the rules of custody once he can go home.
No, Arthur doesn’t think Cobb will try to meet up with Miles until his name is clear.
Then there is Ariadne. Arthur still considers her an innocent; she remains an unknown in the field of mind crime, even if he doesn’t know for how long. With only one job-albeit an impressive one-under her belt, Ariadne still has every opportunity to continue her life as a civilian if she chooses to do so. In any other circumstance, Arthur would consider her a risky choice for Cobb to go to, but she’s already chosen crime once. What’s to stop her from choosing it again?
Arthur knows Cobb trusts her, knows he wouldn’t feel nearly as guilty about requesting her assistance compared to asking Miles. And unlike Cobb’s father-in-law, Ariadne has connections with the rest of the inception team.
If anyone could reconnect him to them, to Arthur, it would be Ariadne. She is, after all, the only one with an actual street address that wouldn’t draw curious glances or the attention of the press.
So why doesn’t Cobb make a move?
Arthur stretches, arms up and behind his head. “Interpol,” he mutters. Cobb knows he’s being followed, and he’s not willing to risk it. Every time he works up the nerve to come to France, he shies away at the last minute.
The point man thinks he sees his next objective, thinks he knows how he can best help Cobb now.
Of course, his idea of helping would, sooner or later, involve alerting his friend to the plan in order to set it in motion. Arthur frowns at that thought, unsettled once again by his and Cobb’s current radio silence. Grumbling, he fishes under the map and pulls out the small handful of photos there.
They’re all blurry and of poor quality, but apparently, this is the best that Interpol’s tails can do. Arthur looks at each photograph in turn, glancing briefly at the notes he’s scribbled on the backs. Again and again, he flips through them, hoping he’s going to find inspiration or a clue, and it’s on his fourth cycle through the pictures that he notices something odd.
Out of all the pictures, there is only one that has Cobb looking straight at the camera.
Arthur knows that even if the extractor realized where his tail was that he wouldn’t try to make eye contact. To make eye contact and possibly get your photograph taken was giving the opposition too easy of a time gathering evidence-a clear shot of the face could be damning, and Cobb was never so careless. Arthur studies the photo, trying to figure out what’s going on in his friend’s head, why he’s displaying such brazen behavior.
According to his notes, the photograph was taken in Leipzig four days ago. Cobb stands at the entrance of an alleyway, one hand braced against the brickwork of the building to his left. He’s facing the camera, and it almost looks like he’s posing. Arthur doesn’t think the man looks at ease, per se, but Cobb is in no rush to disappear from the scene; it’s as if he’s waiting for something.
Arthur frowns at the picture. There are enough cues in the photo that he could find the location if he tried, but he still can’t decipher Cobb’s motive. He strains his eyes, trying to make out details obliterated by the quality of the photographs. Despite this, Arthur still can’t find anything out of the ordinary after a solid hour of studying the picture.
All he has to show for his work is a huge headache.
***
“Intellectual property crime? Really?”
Eames sounds terribly amused over the phone, and Arthur is having trouble convincing himself to not just hang up right then and there. “Have you run into a file on yourself yet? I imagine that someone there must have a case on you. Possibly even two or three.”
“That’s not what I called about, Eames.”
“No, no, I’m curious, Arthur. Enlighten me.”
“No, I haven’t found any cases about myself. Can we move on now?”
“Did you find anything about me?”
“About you?” There’s a brief pause, and Arthur allows himself a small smirk. “Yeah, I did. There was this one case about you incepting the Archbishop of Canterbury into thinking that he needs to crown you the King of Egos. The file said it didn’t take.”
“You’ve a poor sense of humor, Arthur,” Eames says, quick and dismissive, as if he wasn’t the one causing the ruckus. “Now what was it you needed help with, hm? I’m a busy man.”
“You’re a poor liar for a forger.”
“Considering how a certain someone continues to waste his time at Interpol instead of coming to help me, I’ve had to take on more roles than I should have to, so rest assured that I am indeed very busy. In fact-”
“Eames.”
“Yes, Arthur?”
“Do you know of any hackers in the area?”
“You don’t?”
“The ones I trust are stateside.”
Eames goes quiet, and Arthur can practically hear the forger flipping through his internal rolodex of his less scrupulous compatriots. There’s a soft click, like the other had snapped his fingers. “If she hasn’t been locked up again, I think I might have just the girl for you.” Eames pauses. “Very easy on the eyes, too. Sylvie’s her name.”
“Is she good enough to crack Interpol?” Arthur asks, ignoring Eames’ extra comments.
“What exactly is it that you need to do?”
“I need to throw them off Cobb’s trail. Implant false information,” he replies. “I’ve got decent access rights where I am, but hacking isn’t exactly my specialty.”
“I imagine the girl can shake things up a bit. No guarantees they won’t track it back to you or her though.”
“I’ll take the risk,” Arthur says after a moment. He toys with his ID card, turning it over and over again in his hands. He tosses it on the table when the forger starts talking again.
“Whatever happened to specificity, hm? You’ve never been the type to go into something with risks like that. Why the change? At this rate, I really will have to work on forging your will.”
“Just get me this girl, will you?” Arthur mutters, massaging his temple with his free hand.
“Certainly. You can owe me.” Arthur can practically hear the smugness dripping off the other’s voice. He hates being in debt to Eames.
***
The Saturday after his conversation with Eames, Arthur finds himself in Toulouse to pick up a hacker. He’s standing on the doorstep of a quaint, little house with white shutters. When he rings the doorbell, an explosion of yelling erupts from within. Before he has any time to think about the noise, however, the door’s yanked open by a woman.
Arthur can see straightaway why Eames likes her so much, what with the swell of her breasts under the over-sized t-shirt she’s wearing and the golden stretch of skin over long, bare legs.
“M'man, ta gueule! Il y a quelqu’un à la porte!” she yells over her shoulder before leaning against the door frame, completely at ease with herself. Her hair is wild, and judging from the sleepy look on her face, Arthur guesses that she has just rolled out of bed despite it being two in the afternoon. When her eyes focus on him, though, they’re sharp, and he can feel her gaze raking over his body.
The point man starts to wonder if it’s a good idea to work with this Sylvie character.
“The stick-in-the-mud looks better than originally thought. Much better,” she comments idly, turning away from the door. Sylvie ambles back in the house and leaves the front door open; Arthur takes that as his cue to step inside. When he does, the first thing he sees is Sylvie arguing with an older woman-her mother, he presumes.
“Qui est cet home et que fait-il ici, Sylvie?"
Sylvie looks over her shoulder and simpers over, looping her arms around Arthur’s shoulders and leans in close-cheek to cheek. “Mon p'tit copain,” she answers, and the point man tenses, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. “On part pour Lyon. C’est pas comme si je serai restée ici plus longtemps.”
The mother stares him down, and Arthur quickly settles his face into a neutral expression. She looks him over, and then after a good, long minute, she huffs and goes back into the kitchen. “Au moins, celui-ci a l'air respectable!”
Sylvie lets him go when she disappears and rolls her eyes. “I am sorry about that,” she says. “My mother and I do not get along, so I had to pretend-”
“I heard,” Arthur replies stonily.
Sylvie looks surprised for a moment before a sultry smile spreads across her face. “Do not fall for me now.”
“I won’t.”
The expression on her face makes Arthur wonder if she takes that as a challenge, but she doesn’t say anything else about the matter. “You have room for me in Lyon, do you not?” she asks, wandering further into the house. “I do not like working far from my client.”
“I’ve arranged for a hotel room for the length of your stay and-”
“Hotel?” Sylvie rounds on him and closes the distance between them once more. “Eames told me you had an apartment.”
Arthur just stares at her for a moment. “Let me get this straight,” he mutters, voice low. “You want to stay with me?”
“I cannot cater to your every need if we do not see each other often,” Sylvie answers, smirking. “He did not tell you about that part of the contract?”
“No,” Arthur says carefully. “No, he didn’t.”
***
Arthur lets Sylvie have the single bedroom as her living quarters and office. He takes up residence in the living room.
***
On Tuesday, it rains, but otherwise, it starts out as normal a day as ever.
Arthur spends hours going over patents and claims. A handful of mind crimes eventually pop up and catch his interest, relieving the mind-numbing boredom he had been experiencing. The point man labels the culprits amateurs-partially because he doesn’t recognize any of the names but mostly because they let themselves get caught. It isn’t until he gets up to go to lunch that things stray from the ordinary.
Isaac shows up at his desk with an accusatory look on his face. “The department head wants to see you,” he says. His words don’t reveal much, but Arthur reads his expression loud and clear. Isaac, it would seem, is worried that Arthur’s thrown both of their reputations on the line. “I have no idea what he would want to speak with you about though.”
The point man walks stiffly down the line of cubicles, face carefully arranged into a neutral expression. He feels dozens of eyes follow him, can feel Isaac’s boring a hole through the back of his head; the man’s walking behind him down the aisle. Arthur almost takes solace in reaching the end of the room, and would have done if not for the fear of being ousted once he stepped inside.
It’s still too early. If Arthur loses his position now, then coming to Interpol would’ve been for nothing. Time and resources would be lost, he’d likely be forced to go on the run, and Eames would never cease to use this moment to poke fun at his decision.
Nevertheless, he knocks on the door, and the second the man inside grants him entrance, Arthur slips in, not bothering to hold the door open for Isaac. Much to his dismay, the other comes in all the same.
“Ah, Monsieur Bennett.” Arnaud Lefevre is an aging man; research shows that he’s closing in on eighty. Time has not treated him well, and his face is lined with wrinkles; his hair is white and sparse. The department head has always looked tired since Arthur’s arrival, and he can’t help but wonder what keeps the man here.
He looks at Arthur over reading glasses and offers him a smile, ambiguous and unreadable. A gnarled hand pulls the glasses off, tosses them on the desk. “I apologize for pulling you away from your work, but there was something I needed to discuss with you. It will only take a moment.”
The man glances over at Isaac, who quietly excuses himself and leaves the room. Arthur swallows; he knows his pulse is racing right now, knows that there’s nothing that he can do about it. Arnaud gestures to the two chairs in front of his desk, and Arthur sinks into one of them, willing himself to relax.
“How are you enjoying Lyon?”
“It’s a beautiful city, Monsieur Lefevre,” he answers, forcing a small smile on his face.
Arnaud appears to catch his uneasiness, and he laughs. “I do not mean to put you in any sort of discomfort. I merely wished to see if you were adjusting well. You have been clocking in so many overtime hours that I was starting to wonder if there was something wrong.”
“Oh, that’s not the case, sir,” Arthur assures him. “I just didn’t want to look like I’m some sort of lazy transferee.”
“Are you sure? A young man such as yourself should go out and enjoy life.”
“I’m here to work.” Arthur pauses. “I hope my late stays aren’t causing any problems.”
“No, they are not. I wish we had more workers who are as productive as you.” The point man keeps his eyes on Arnaud’s face, but the other remains perfectly unreadable; he can’t figure out if these are innocent questions or if the man is trying to probe for holes in his cover. “Your colleagues...” The man squints. “They are not causing you any trouble, are they?”
“No, sir,” Arthur replies. “Why would they?”
“Some may be slow to trust an outsider.” Arnaud leans back in his chair and sighs. “But Isaac seems to like you. Perhaps his popularity will eventually rub off on you.”
“I can only hope for the best.”
The man offers him another vague smile and nods his head. “Go join your fellow workers for lunch,” he says, already turning his attention away from Arthur. “You are dismissed.”
“Thank you, sir,” Arthur replies. He wills himself to exit slowly, but his mind is screaming at him to get out of that room. Arthur is quietly thankful that most of his coworkers have disappeared for their lunch break already. He opts to join them today in an effort to blend in better and avoid that deceptively bleary stare that Arnaud had.
Arthur still stays late that night but only accesses the files he really wants to see after the department head leaves.
***
All the lights are on in the apartment when Arthur gets back, and he dumps his stuff by the door. He checks the living room, the bedroom, and the kitchen, but they’re all empty; it’s not until he checks the bathroom that he finds Sylvie.
She’s seated on the bathroom vanity, her back against the mirror and a laptop resting precariously on her knees. A pair of large headphones rest over her ears, and she doesn’t look up until Arthur stops a foot away from her.
“Oh, hello, Arthur,” she coos, pulling the headphones off her ears and onto her neck. She pats the counter space on the other side of the sink. “Come sit with me.”
“What are you doing?” he asks flatly, the disapproval clearly apparent on his face. Sylvie sighs dramatically and retracts her hand, settling it on her laptop. “Working. I would have thought it was obvious.”
“In the bathroom.”
“I go where I feel inspired to work.” Sylvie turns the laptop so that it’s facing Arthur. “See? Work.”
All Arthur sees is a page of script. Sure, it looks like she’s working on a code for something or another, but for all he knows, Sylvie could be designing a program for a game. As if reading his mind, she refutes his suspicions. “It is not to make monkeys dance around on your computer. Such a task is too elementary for me.” Sylvie flashes him a smile. “Would you like to discuss how your day was? Did you have fun tracking your friend?”
“I wouldn’t call it fun.” Arthur holds up a flash drive and tosses it over to her; she plugs it in with a coy smile.
“Do they know you’re copying work material?”
“If they do, I’m sure you can take care of it.”
Sylvie rolls her eyes, but the grin stays in place. “It is fortunate that you are so attractive, Arthur. I do not normally perform extra services for free.
“Now then, what prize did you want me to see?”
“Computer whiz like you should know to look for the most recent file.”
Sylvie crooks her eyebrow at him. “I was asking out of courtesy.”
When Arthur doesn’t give her a response, she proceeds to open the file in question before adjusting the laptop so that they can both look at it. The photograph-this one from Krakow-she’s pulled up is just as blurry as the last few the point man has managed to grab.
“He should smile for the camera,” Sylvie comments. She points at Cobb’s face. “Especially if he is going to be looking straight at it.”
“Cobb’s not looking straight at the camera,” Arthur corrects. “He’s looking over his shoulder.”
“But his eyes are still looking at the camera! You cannot deny that.” As if to prove her point, Sylvie zooms in on the photo, which only serves to pixelate the picture. “Look!”
“And what if he is?” he mutters, leaning against the wall. “Zoom out.”
“What?”
Arthur brushes her hands away from the keyboard and zooms out. His friend is again heading down an alleyway, and once more, he has one hand pressed against a wall, which is, Arthur notes, brick again. He shakes his head slowly.
“Is something wrong?” Sylvie asks, looking up at Arthur curiously. He disappears from the bathroom without another word but reappears a moment later with the Leipzig photograph. Arthur holds it up to the screen and compares the two pictures; Sylvie looks from one to the other. “You were saying, Arthur?”
He doesn’t give her an answer.
***
“Did I wake you up?”
“It’s two in the morning, Eames. What the hell do you want?” Arthur sits up and settles his feet on the floor; he rubs a hand against his eyes, trying to instill some alertness into his system. Eames laughs, possibly at the way he’s slurring his words a little, possibly because the forger has managed to irritate him, as per usual.
“I just wanted to see how your little hunt for Cobb is going.”
“Fine. Just fine,” grumbles Arthur. “And before you ask, no, I’m not coming to help you out right now.”
“On the contrary. I want you to stay there at Interpol.” Arthur finds himself silently double-taking at the other’s response. “I’ve a favor to ask you.”
The point man remains quiet for a moment longer as his brow knits into a deep furrow and his lips pull into a frown. He seems to recall owing Eames a favor or two, but if the other has chosen to forget about it, he’s certainly not going to mention it. “You’re asking me for a favor?”
“Oh, don’t make me repeat myself, Arthur. It’s embarrassing enough as it is.”
Arthur settles back against the couch and closes his eyes. “What’s the favor, and what are you willing to give for it to be done?”
“I need you to do a background check for me.” Eames pauses. “There’s a man I’d like to use for the information he may know, but unfortunately, I’m having some trouble confirming whether his claims are true or not. My usual sources have utterly failed me.”
“So you’re saying that you hate doing research, more or less.”
“You think I’d go risking my ego for such a trifling matter? Arthur, I’m disappointed.” The forger sighs. “I’m not sure he’s done what he’s stated on his CV, and I want you to use Interpol’s databases to check.”
“Why don’t you just drop him if you think he’s lying?”
“If he is who he claims to be, I’ll have better access to all the information I could ever want. What he knows-if he’s legit, of course-is more than worth the trouble of bothering you,” Eames explains. “Now will you do this for me or not?”
“I’ll do it if you, one, stop telling me it was a crappy idea to work at Interpol, and two, pay Sylvie for her services.”
“It was a crappy idea, Arthur. I still think it is, but if it makes you feel better, I suppose I could oblige such a request. And I’ll pay Sylvie, too.
“See? Now we’re even. You’ve paid off your debt to me, and I don’t owe you anything, save perhaps a small amount of courtesy.”
Ah, so Eames had not forgotten.
“Deal.” Arthur forces himself off the couch and fumbles around for a piece of paper and a pen. “Who am I looking for?”
“South African named Emmerich Gottlieb--or so I have been lead to believe. The fellow’s a known drug trafficker, so I assume Interpol will have something about him.”
The point man scribbles the name down, cradling his phone between his ear and shoulder. “You got a picture of this guy, or am I going to be flying blind?”
“I’ll send it along once I hang up.”
“See that you do. I’ll let you know when I have some details.”
***
Arthur does not, of course, go straight to work on finding Eames’ man. In fact, he decides to go on the down-low when Lefevre keeps checking up on him-either in person or by sending a lackey. The questions are never dangerous, the smiles never steel-edged, but there’s something about the whole situation that doesn’t sit well with Arthur.
He’s reassured himself on more than one occasion that he’s just used to being on alert for signs and cues that something’s gone wrong. It’s in his nature after so many extraction jobs, and Sylvie tells him he’s cute when paranoid, which is not something Arthur cares to acknowledge.
The point man considers “careful” a far better term.
Whatever the reasoning behind his worry, though, Arthur opts to stay clean for a solid week. He does nothing but proper Interpol work. Projects get completed, he starts a few friendships with coworkers, and Isaac tries to get him to go out for a drink three nights in a row.
Arthur finally agrees to it on the third night, but only because Isaac’s hand is gripping his shoulder far harder than is strictly necessary.
Isaac picks out some nondescript bar in an equally nondescript part of town; the place reminds Arthur of Il Mulo, albeit cleaner. They take a seat in a dark booth not quite in the corner of the establishment, and Isaac settles his hands on the table. That’s when Arthur knows for sure that they’re not here for a friendly conversation, not with the set of the other’s shoulders and the crease in his brow.
“Have you the money?” Isaac asks after their drinks arrive. Arthur settles back, fingers loosely curled around his glass, and shakes his head. He watches the Frenchman’s knuckles go white around his liquor. “When do you intend to pay us?”
“I’ve never defaulted on a payment to those who deserve it,” the point man replies coolly. He shrugs and downs some of the beer; Arthur doesn’t like the taste it leaves in his mouth. “You should’ve stuck me in a department whose head wasn’t so keen on checking on the welfare of his employees.”
Isaac snorts and shakes his head. “The other choice would have been accounting. Would you have been happy there?”
“You’d be surprised by how much you can learn from staring at expense receipts.”
They lock eyes, and Isaac is the first to look away, muttering a curse quietly in French. “Fine. What must I do to convince you that Henri and I are ‘worthy’ of getting the second half of our payment?”
“Get Lefevre off my tail.” The Frenchman stares at him, disbelieving. “You’re my superior. Recommend me to him. Assure him that I’m a competent, well-socialized, and trustworthy worker. Tell him that he doesn’t need to worry about me.
“Or you could be the one to check up on me, if that’s easier for you.”
“You want me to risk my neck for you, monsieur.”
Arthur shrugs. “How badly do you want to get paid?”
“I could sell you out,” Isaac responds, but the point man doesn’t rise to the threat.
“And so could I,” the point man counters. It’s not a bluff; Arthur’s done his homework on his contacts. “I’d hardly call your record clean, Isaac.” He smirks, knowing that he’s struck gold with the way the blood drains out of Isaac’s face. “Or would you prefer Mathieu?”
“I will see what I can do,” the man says, rising stiffly. Arthur watches him leave the bar and orders another beer.
***
Sylvie welcomes Arthur back home with a box of cereal in her arms. She’s eating it right out of the carton, and he pushes her aside when he comes in. “You are not going to say thank you for opening the door?”
“Thank you,” he mutters before wandering off to the living room. Arthur strips off his jacket, carefully folding it over a chair. He feels her watching him, and he turns, a single eyebrow arched.
“Yes?” he asks tiredly. Sylvie shrugs. “Did you get any work done today?”
“You do not rush the artist,” she replies with a wink.
Arthur turns away and removes his tie, resting it on top of his jacket. “We’re on a schedule. I hope you realize that.”
She snorts, and judging by the soft “whump” behind him, Sylvie has taken a seat on the couch-his bed. “You are no fun,” she mutters. “Not like Eames.”
Arthur closes his eyes for a moment and takes a deep breath before turning around to look at her again. “I doubt he advertised me as such.”
“He did not, but I was not expecting someone so obsessed with his work either,” she answers, still munching on her cereal. “Is that all you think about?”
“I’m goal-oriented.” Arthur carefully rolls his sleeves up to his elbows. “Got a problem with that?”
“It might be unhealthy. You’re toying with Interpol, you know.” Sylvie looks at him, daring him to challenge her. “You could be in more trouble than Cobb if you get caught. Do you realize this?”
“I’m just doing my job as his point man.” It’s a lame answer, and Arthur knows it the second the words leave his lips. Sylvie’s eyebrows rise, and then she laughs, like she suddenly understands it all. She gets up and starts walking out of the room. “Point man. How cute. It sounds like you are going above and beyond for your extractor; he must love you for your devotion.
“Well, good night, Arthur. I have some more work to do for Monsieur Cobb.”
He doesn’t bother replying. When he hears the bedroom door close, Arthur sinks onto the couch, head rolling against the back of the cushions.
***
The smiles Isaac sends his way nowadays are strained, but there isn’t much that Arthur can do about it. He’s not here to make friends with the Frenchman; the other is a questionable business associate at best, and at the moment, Arthur doesn’t have the one thing that would lighten Isaac’s expression: money.
Arthur prefers other methods of staying in the favor with his contacts, but he’s stuck with threats of blackmail for now. Still, it seems like Isaac’s gotten something right, pay or no pay.
Lefevre hasn’t come to check up on Arthur in several weeks now. The man still occasionally looks his way on the way to his office, but their conversation never goes beyond a simple greeting, which suits Arthur just fine. He doesn’t know or care how Isaac got the man off his back, so long as it happened.
The only issue with this newly found freedom is that Isaac has once again taken to inquiring about his payment. The man never openly asks, but Arthur can hear the question in the sharp looks Isaac sends his way, the too-firm handshakes they share, and general frigidness of attitude. In any other circumstance, the point man would at least hand over a bit more cash, if only to appease his contact for the time being.
Unfortunately, with a Proclus Global check far away at this point, Arthur doesn’t have the funds for that. Instead, he hopes that by blackmailing Isaac he can draw out his stay at Interpol long enough to get Cobb the hell out of Europe, away from faceless persecutors.
His workday continues to grow longer and longer, as Arthur tries to make up for lost time as well as accommodate Eames’ request for information. More than a few of his coworkers express their worry that he’s spreading himself too thin, that he should take a vacation, but he just brushes them off with a few vague smiles and assurances that he’s perfectly well.
When he finds another photo of Cobb staring down the camera, this time in Minsk, Arthur decides that maybe his coworkers are right. Perhaps it is time for him to take a breather and go on vacation.
He makes plans to visit three separate places. His coworkers send him off with smiles. Only Isaac seems displeased with his decision.
***
It’s pouring rain when Arthur gets into Leipzig. The clouds hang low and heavy in the sky, and little rivulets course down and through the street. Water is streaming off of his umbrella, and despite the cover, he can still feel droplets on his face and hands, cool against his skin. Arthur glances down at the map in his hands and checks his location before looking over at the brick building to his right. He fishes out a photograph from his pocket and compares the location, eyes flicking back forth between the picture and reality.
When he’s certain that he’s in the right spot, Arthur starts studying the location, looking for a hint or a sign that Cobb was here. He doesn’t think it’s anything obvious-graffiti isn’t likely-but then again, when he has no idea what to look for in the first place, nothing is. The point man starts walking up and down the alleyway, toeing little pieces of paper on the ground, staring at cracks in the pavement.
It’s only when he starts poking at holes in the wall that Arthur finds something-or at the very least, he hopes it’s something.
In roughly the spot where Cobb’s hand was in the photograph, he finds a small, rolled-up piece of paper. Arthur has to dig it out using the tip of his pen, and even then, the paper is so wet that it still rips in half as he tries to ease it out. The disappointment only grows when he unfurls what’s left of the paper to find most of the message already washed out; all that remains is a simple “Watch for” and several blue-black smudges.
Arthur doesn’t consider it a complete loss though-not when he recognizes that this is indeed Cobb’s handwriting. It’s a bit of a risky move on the other’s part, but there’s a part of him that is quietly pleased that his friend trusts that someone-an ally, a friend, Arthur-would be out there looking for him.
He allows himself a small smile, even as it rains heavier and the water soaks his shoes.
***
Arthur books the next flight to Krakow.
He’s light on his feet as he makes his way through the airport. Arthur hasn’t been this excited about anything in ages, and to be honest, he’s a little surprised with himself. It’s not as if he’s found Cobb-not by a long shot, but there’s something about the hope of getting another little note from his friend that sends a jolt of excitement through his body.
Maybe with this, their line of communication won’t be severed anymore. True, it might be a one-way route, but Arthur isn’t exactly picky at this point in time. He’ll take anything he can get; the point man can work up any other leads from there.
As he’s waiting for his flight to take off, Arthur checks his phone and discovers that it hasn’t rained heavily in Krakow in the last few weeks. He tries to smother the smile that threatens to appear on his lips and fails miserably.
Arthur thinks he’s got a good chance of getting this next note in one piece; he just hopes he hasn’t deluded himself into a false sense of hope.
***
Krakow is beautiful at night.
Arthur’s not sure if it really is, or if his mood’s just playing with him. He strolls down the lit streets with a faint smile on his face, his hands tucked in his pockets. His fingers toy with the photograph there, but Arthur doesn’t need to take it out-he already knows where he needs to go.
And when he finds himself standing right there between two buildings, a narrow alley ahead of him, Arthur takes a moment to settle into business mode. He tries to squash the feelings of anticipation, tries to not feel like a kid about to open his presents on Christmas morning. Arthur reminds himself that even if he finds something here that it’s only a step in the right direction; it’s not like Cobb’s going to be waiting for him, stuck in the crack between one brick and another.
He ignores the slightest tremble of his fingers as he runs them against the rough brickwork, pausing whenever he hits a dip in the masonry. Arthur spends a good ten minutes with nothing to show for his efforts until he finally finds it: another tiny piece of paper, carefully rolled up and shoved in a hole in the wall. Arthur flattens the note out and reads it by the light of his cell phone, squinting at the messy scrawl of print there.
The point man recognizes Cobb’s handwriting immediately. Unfortunately, the only part of the message easily understandable reads, “No major problems thus far.” The rest of the note makes far less sense. There’s a crown and then a colon, the name “Deprez,” along with a rather squiggly “M” immediately followed by the number four. Right below that is a badly drawn stick figure of a woman with the letter “t” preceding it, as well as the characters “NW3.”
For a moment, Arthur just stares at the note. He can make neither head nor tail of the message, and the sense of euphoria that he had been experiencing slowly dissipates, leaving him feeling heavily disappointed. Safety precautions are all well and good, and yet, Arthur can’t help but feel a little angry that Cobb’s decided to play word and picture games now, of all times.
He looks over the note one more time until the backlight of his phone dims. Arthur remembers Deprez-the founder of an up-and-coming firearms producer whom he and Cobb had worked for several years ago-but how their former employer connects to any of the other scribbled symbols remains a mystery. He pockets the note and then starts back toward the hotel, pausing only for a moment to look over his shoulder.
Unlike when Cobb had done the same, there’s no one there.
***
It’s pouring when Arthur gets into Minsk, and his heart sinks as he climbs into a taxi. As the airport disappears into the grey of rain and clouds, he stares out the window of the car, and Arthur wonders if he’ll be left with another ruined note or if this one has been stuck somewhere a little drier.
Unaware of Arthur’s worry, the driver chatters away happily in Belarusian, never realizing that his passenger is nothing close to fluent in the language. By the time the point man’s reached his destination, he estimates that the cabbie’s already told him his life story twice over and is about to start on round three. Arthur murmurs an apology for leaving in the middle of the story before paying, his mind already returning to the task at hand.
Arthur fishes out the photograph from his pocket and shields it with his other hand as he walks. His eyes scan for the tiny little landmarks he’d picked out before leaving Lyon; he stops suddenly when he finds the now familiar corner: brick walls lining an alleyway, a worn placard, and a small assortment of potted plants.
Arthur immediately turns into the alleyway and starts searching for another note, hands skimming over the cold and wet walls. Cobb had been standing a little further down the alleyway this time, making it more difficult to pinpoint where he had been in the photograph. By the time he finally finds what he suspects is the note, Arthur’s hands are freezing; his fingers are stiff and awkward as they pry at the bricks, coaxing the paper out of its hiding spot.
Part of the note rips as he eases the paper out, but to his relief, it’s still legible when Arthur unfurls it. His wet fingers smudge the ink a little as he reads. Again, part of the note is easy to read and understand but provides little useful information. Arthur frowns at the words as his eyes drop lower and spot the little crown symbol once more.
This time, however, the letters and symbols arranged below are different. An arrow points to the top right of the page and the letter “l”-or was it the number one?-follows it. This time the name “De Vries” is written there followed by the letters “WtW” and what appears to be a rather crude drawing of a door.
***
Sylvie greets Arthur at the door of their apartment with curlers in her hair. There’s a spoon clenched between her teeth, and she smiles around it as he slips past the entrance. After she closes the door, she removes the utensil and waves it in the air before pointing it at Arthur. “You are going to come in and not say a word about how your travels went?”
He sighs tiredly and drops his luggage off at the door before slowly turning to face her. His hands move automatically to roll his sleeves up to his elbows before his arms shift to cross his chest. “He left notes.”
“And?” The woman gives him an expectant look.
“Most of it isn’t straightforward,” Arthur replies. He reaches into his pocket and produces the three notes, handing them to Sylvie. She looks at them, head tilting this way and that, before returning them with a slight shrug of the shoulders. “I have never been good with these sorts of games, Arthur.”
The point man isn’t exactly surprised by the statement and trudges into the living room where he rests the notes next to the map. Arthur studies them for a moment longer, slowly shaking his head. “All I know is that they’ve got something to do with previous jobs we did together.”
“Is Cobb reminiscing? Perhaps he wishes to go back to those times,” Sylvie suggests, plopping down on the couch in a decadent sprawl. Arthur doesn’t spare her a glance.
“I don’t know why he’d bother. The Deprez job doesn’t exactly stick out in any way, and the De Vries extraction is probably something he’d rather forget.”
“Then maybe it has to do with the subject material?”
The man finally turns around and moves toward the couch. He gestures at Sylvie, and to his surprise, she moves her legs to make room for him. “I already thought about that, and I don’t think either is significant. Firearms and banking don’t seem to have any common ground.”
At that, Sylvie stands up. She does this so quickly and suddenly that it startles Arthur, and he glares up at her, silently demanding an explanation. All she does, though, is take a few steps away from the couch and turn around, idly waving the spoon around. “Whatever the case may be, I am positive you will figure it out, Arthur.
“You are the person most familiar with his thinking, right? It will make sense soon enough.”
And without another word, she leaves the living room, pausing only for a moment to give Arthur a quick pat on the head. He swats her hand away without any feeling and then goes back to staring at the notes when her footsteps disappear. The longer he studies them, the less sense they seem to make.
Despite what Sylvie may say and think about his relationship with and supposed understanding of Cobb, Arthur’s not entirely sure he’ll figure it out this time. He’s a good point man-Arthur will give himself that much, but despite his usual ability to predict what the other wants, he has no idea what Cobb desires from him this time around.
***
Part Three
It’s bright and early on Monday when Arthur steps into the Interpol headquarters. He navigates his way through the hallways with light steps, and no one picks up on the newcomer. The few who bother to give him a second glance just give him a brief nod and continue on their way.
Arthur runs into no resistance until he gets to his department where he is accosted by two women. The point man puts on his best British accent and curbs his French, feigning a bumbling but earnest illiteracy. The older of the women huffs and lets him by, muttering something about Brits under her breath. The other woman gives him a shy smile and points him further down the hall.
He sees Isaac then, who comes out to greet him. “Sam!” he says. “About time you crossed the Channel. I was wondering what took you so long.”
Isaac slings an arm around his shoulder and directs him to a lonely desk in the back corner. “You are here on my personal recommendation to my superior, so I hope you do not disappoint,” the man says with a grin. “Make the both of us look good, will you?”
Isaac claps him on the shoulder one more time and then leaves him in peace. Arthur sinks into his seat with a sigh.
***
It’s been a week and a half since Arthur secured an apartment, two weeks since he started working at Interpol.
He sits at his small dinner table as he examines a map; a spread of blurry photographs stick out from around the edges of the paper. The map is a large one of Europe, and at the current moment, it’s covered in a variety of circular stickers, each one marking where Interpol has noted a Cobb sighting. The dates of each incident are neatly written on their corresponding dot, cataloging the man’s journey across the continent.
Arthur adds another dot to his map and then leans back in his chair, balancing it on two legs. He scrubs a hand over his face and then studies the design Cobb’s painting over Europe.
The journey starts out in Venice as Arthur knows, and from there on out, Cobb’s dance across the continent is erratic. His path swings eastward to Belgrade, then down south to Kosovo. Cobb then disappears, only to turn up in Graz, Austria, two days later. He shows up in Warsaw in three days’ time, but not before he drops by Athens first.
Arthur traces the other’s journey with his finger, hands skating along the map as he covers and recovers Europe with invisible lines. He remembers the location and date of every appearance, could recite it in his sleep. Arthur envisions the scenery of each city that Cobb drops by, wonders about the landscapes of the places he’s never heard of.
Cobb’s path slowly takes him westward, but there’s something odd about his movements once he gets into France or even to its borders: he never enters the interior and always leaves shortly after, sometimes reappearing on the other side of the continent-Budapest, for example. Interpol sources have spotted him three times in Andorra already, and apparently, Cobb has been to Marseille twice.
The extractor has been to the northern border as well, showing up in Calais and Luxembourg. From the east, Arthur has a sticker on Geneva.
The point man studies his handiwork, resting his chin on a loosely curled fist. After a moment of idleness, Arthur traces a loose circle around Paris with his fingertip and then taps the map twice. Cobb has Ariadne as a friend there, as well as family, in the form of Miles. Arthur doesn’t doubt for a moment that the two would be willing to offer assistance should he show up, but Cobb’s likely hesitant about asking for it.
When it comes to Miles, Arthur has a feeling that Cobb’s not exactly willing to even meet up with the man. Kindly as the professor is, there’s still the matter of Mal’s death, the ever present elephant in the room. He was her father. He had turned her over to Cobb’s care on their wedding day, but his son-in-law had lost her-twice, no less.
Once in the dream world, and again in reality.
On top of that, Cobb dragged off one of Miles’ best students, and despite his promise, Ariadne had accompanied them into the dream world, going so far as to even touch limbo. Arthur knows that his friend is more than willing to push others and break a few rules to get back to his kids-he still feels angry about the sedation issue-but at the same time, Miles is family.
Family that Cobb has already dragged through hell and back, part of a fragmented connection back to his children. The last thing he needs now is to get Miles thrown in jail, anger Marie even more than he already has, and have his children whisked away by the rules of custody once he can go home.
No, Arthur doesn’t think Cobb will try to meet up with Miles until his name is clear.
Then there is Ariadne. Arthur still considers her an innocent; she remains an unknown in the field of mind crime, even if he doesn’t know for how long. With only one job-albeit an impressive one-under her belt, Ariadne still has every opportunity to continue her life as a civilian if she chooses to do so. In any other circumstance, Arthur would consider her a risky choice for Cobb to go to, but she’s already chosen crime once. What’s to stop her from choosing it again?
Arthur knows Cobb trusts her, knows he wouldn’t feel nearly as guilty about requesting her assistance compared to asking Miles. And unlike Cobb’s father-in-law, Ariadne has connections with the rest of the inception team.
If anyone could reconnect him to them, to Arthur, it would be Ariadne. She is, after all, the only one with an actual street address that wouldn’t draw curious glances or the attention of the press.
So why doesn’t Cobb make a move?
Arthur stretches, arms up and behind his head. “Interpol,” he mutters. Cobb knows he’s being followed, and he’s not willing to risk it. Every time he works up the nerve to come to France, he shies away at the last minute.
The point man thinks he sees his next objective, thinks he knows how he can best help Cobb now.
Of course, his idea of helping would, sooner or later, involve alerting his friend to the plan in order to set it in motion. Arthur frowns at that thought, unsettled once again by his and Cobb’s current radio silence. Grumbling, he fishes under the map and pulls out the small handful of photos there.
They’re all blurry and of poor quality, but apparently, this is the best that Interpol’s tails can do. Arthur looks at each photograph in turn, glancing briefly at the notes he’s scribbled on the backs. Again and again, he flips through them, hoping he’s going to find inspiration or a clue, and it’s on his fourth cycle through the pictures that he notices something odd.
Out of all the pictures, there is only one that has Cobb looking straight at the camera.
Arthur knows that even if the extractor realized where his tail was that he wouldn’t try to make eye contact. To make eye contact and possibly get your photograph taken was giving the opposition too easy of a time gathering evidence-a clear shot of the face could be damning, and Cobb was never so careless. Arthur studies the photo, trying to figure out what’s going on in his friend’s head, why he’s displaying such brazen behavior.
According to his notes, the photograph was taken in Leipzig four days ago. Cobb stands at the entrance of an alleyway, one hand braced against the brickwork of the building to his left. He’s facing the camera, and it almost looks like he’s posing. Arthur doesn’t think the man looks at ease, per se, but Cobb is in no rush to disappear from the scene; it’s as if he’s waiting for something.
Arthur frowns at the picture. There are enough cues in the photo that he could find the location if he tried, but he still can’t decipher Cobb’s motive. He strains his eyes, trying to make out details obliterated by the quality of the photographs. Despite this, Arthur still can’t find anything out of the ordinary after a solid hour of studying the picture.
All he has to show for his work is a huge headache.
***
“Intellectual property crime? Really?”
Eames sounds terribly amused over the phone, and Arthur is having trouble convincing himself to not just hang up right then and there. “Have you run into a file on yourself yet? I imagine that someone there must have a case on you. Possibly even two or three.”
“That’s not what I called about, Eames.”
“No, no, I’m curious, Arthur. Enlighten me.”
“No, I haven’t found any cases about myself. Can we move on now?”
“Did you find anything about me?”
“About you?” There’s a brief pause, and Arthur allows himself a small smirk. “Yeah, I did. There was this one case about you incepting the Archbishop of Canterbury into thinking that he needs to crown you the King of Egos. The file said it didn’t take.”
“You’ve a poor sense of humor, Arthur,” Eames says, quick and dismissive, as if he wasn’t the one causing the ruckus. “Now what was it you needed help with, hm? I’m a busy man.”
“You’re a poor liar for a forger.”
“Considering how a certain someone continues to waste his time at Interpol instead of coming to help me, I’ve had to take on more roles than I should have to, so rest assured that I am indeed very busy. In fact-”
“Eames.”
“Yes, Arthur?”
“Do you know of any hackers in the area?”
“You don’t?”
“The ones I trust are stateside.”
Eames goes quiet, and Arthur can practically hear the forger flipping through his internal rolodex of his less scrupulous compatriots. There’s a soft click, like the other had snapped his fingers. “If she hasn’t been locked up again, I think I might have just the girl for you.” Eames pauses. “Very easy on the eyes, too. Sylvie’s her name.”
“Is she good enough to crack Interpol?” Arthur asks, ignoring Eames’ extra comments.
“What exactly is it that you need to do?”
“I need to throw them off Cobb’s trail. Implant false information,” he replies. “I’ve got decent access rights where I am, but hacking isn’t exactly my specialty.”
“I imagine the girl can shake things up a bit. No guarantees they won’t track it back to you or her though.”
“I’ll take the risk,” Arthur says after a moment. He toys with his ID card, turning it over and over again in his hands. He tosses it on the table when the forger starts talking again.
“Whatever happened to specificity, hm? You’ve never been the type to go into something with risks like that. Why the change? At this rate, I really will have to work on forging your will.”
“Just get me this girl, will you?” Arthur mutters, massaging his temple with his free hand.
“Certainly. You can owe me.” Arthur can practically hear the smugness dripping off the other’s voice. He hates being in debt to Eames.
***
The Saturday after his conversation with Eames, Arthur finds himself in Toulouse to pick up a hacker. He’s standing on the doorstep of a quaint, little house with white shutters. When he rings the doorbell, an explosion of yelling erupts from within. Before he has any time to think about the noise, however, the door’s yanked open by a woman.
Arthur can see straightaway why Eames likes her so much, what with the swell of her breasts under the over-sized t-shirt she’s wearing and the golden stretch of skin over long, bare legs.
“M'man, ta gueule! Il y a quelqu’un à la porte!” she yells over her shoulder before leaning against the door frame, completely at ease with herself. Her hair is wild, and judging from the sleepy look on her face, Arthur guesses that she has just rolled out of bed despite it being two in the afternoon. When her eyes focus on him, though, they’re sharp, and he can feel her gaze raking over his body.
The point man starts to wonder if it’s a good idea to work with this Sylvie character.
“The stick-in-the-mud looks better than originally thought. Much better,” she comments idly, turning away from the door. Sylvie ambles back in the house and leaves the front door open; Arthur takes that as his cue to step inside. When he does, the first thing he sees is Sylvie arguing with an older woman-her mother, he presumes.
“Qui est cet home et que fait-il ici, Sylvie?"
Sylvie looks over her shoulder and simpers over, looping her arms around Arthur’s shoulders and leans in close-cheek to cheek. “Mon p'tit copain,” she answers, and the point man tenses, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. “On part pour Lyon. C’est pas comme si je serai restée ici plus longtemps.”
The mother stares him down, and Arthur quickly settles his face into a neutral expression. She looks him over, and then after a good, long minute, she huffs and goes back into the kitchen. “Au moins, celui-ci a l'air respectable!”
Sylvie lets him go when she disappears and rolls her eyes. “I am sorry about that,” she says. “My mother and I do not get along, so I had to pretend-”
“I heard,” Arthur replies stonily.
Sylvie looks surprised for a moment before a sultry smile spreads across her face. “Do not fall for me now.”
“I won’t.”
The expression on her face makes Arthur wonder if she takes that as a challenge, but she doesn’t say anything else about the matter. “You have room for me in Lyon, do you not?” she asks, wandering further into the house. “I do not like working far from my client.”
“I’ve arranged for a hotel room for the length of your stay and-”
“Hotel?” Sylvie rounds on him and closes the distance between them once more. “Eames told me you had an apartment.”
Arthur just stares at her for a moment. “Let me get this straight,” he mutters, voice low. “You want to stay with me?”
“I cannot cater to your every need if we do not see each other often,” Sylvie answers, smirking. “He did not tell you about that part of the contract?”
“No,” Arthur says carefully. “No, he didn’t.”
***
Arthur lets Sylvie have the single bedroom as her living quarters and office. He takes up residence in the living room.
***
On Tuesday, it rains, but otherwise, it starts out as normal a day as ever.
Arthur spends hours going over patents and claims. A handful of mind crimes eventually pop up and catch his interest, relieving the mind-numbing boredom he had been experiencing. The point man labels the culprits amateurs-partially because he doesn’t recognize any of the names but mostly because they let themselves get caught. It isn’t until he gets up to go to lunch that things stray from the ordinary.
Isaac shows up at his desk with an accusatory look on his face. “The department head wants to see you,” he says. His words don’t reveal much, but Arthur reads his expression loud and clear. Isaac, it would seem, is worried that Arthur’s thrown both of their reputations on the line. “I have no idea what he would want to speak with you about though.”
The point man walks stiffly down the line of cubicles, face carefully arranged into a neutral expression. He feels dozens of eyes follow him, can feel Isaac’s boring a hole through the back of his head; the man’s walking behind him down the aisle. Arthur almost takes solace in reaching the end of the room, and would have done if not for the fear of being ousted once he stepped inside.
It’s still too early. If Arthur loses his position now, then coming to Interpol would’ve been for nothing. Time and resources would be lost, he’d likely be forced to go on the run, and Eames would never cease to use this moment to poke fun at his decision.
Nevertheless, he knocks on the door, and the second the man inside grants him entrance, Arthur slips in, not bothering to hold the door open for Isaac. Much to his dismay, the other comes in all the same.
“Ah, Monsieur Bennett.” Arnaud Lefevre is an aging man; research shows that he’s closing in on eighty. Time has not treated him well, and his face is lined with wrinkles; his hair is white and sparse. The department head has always looked tired since Arthur’s arrival, and he can’t help but wonder what keeps the man here.
He looks at Arthur over reading glasses and offers him a smile, ambiguous and unreadable. A gnarled hand pulls the glasses off, tosses them on the desk. “I apologize for pulling you away from your work, but there was something I needed to discuss with you. It will only take a moment.”
The man glances over at Isaac, who quietly excuses himself and leaves the room. Arthur swallows; he knows his pulse is racing right now, knows that there’s nothing that he can do about it. Arnaud gestures to the two chairs in front of his desk, and Arthur sinks into one of them, willing himself to relax.
“How are you enjoying Lyon?”
“It’s a beautiful city, Monsieur Lefevre,” he answers, forcing a small smile on his face.
Arnaud appears to catch his uneasiness, and he laughs. “I do not mean to put you in any sort of discomfort. I merely wished to see if you were adjusting well. You have been clocking in so many overtime hours that I was starting to wonder if there was something wrong.”
“Oh, that’s not the case, sir,” Arthur assures him. “I just didn’t want to look like I’m some sort of lazy transferee.”
“Are you sure? A young man such as yourself should go out and enjoy life.”
“I’m here to work.” Arthur pauses. “I hope my late stays aren’t causing any problems.”
“No, they are not. I wish we had more workers who are as productive as you.” The point man keeps his eyes on Arnaud’s face, but the other remains perfectly unreadable; he can’t figure out if these are innocent questions or if the man is trying to probe for holes in his cover. “Your colleagues...” The man squints. “They are not causing you any trouble, are they?”
“No, sir,” Arthur replies. “Why would they?”
“Some may be slow to trust an outsider.” Arnaud leans back in his chair and sighs. “But Isaac seems to like you. Perhaps his popularity will eventually rub off on you.”
“I can only hope for the best.”
The man offers him another vague smile and nods his head. “Go join your fellow workers for lunch,” he says, already turning his attention away from Arthur. “You are dismissed.”
“Thank you, sir,” Arthur replies. He wills himself to exit slowly, but his mind is screaming at him to get out of that room. Arthur is quietly thankful that most of his coworkers have disappeared for their lunch break already. He opts to join them today in an effort to blend in better and avoid that deceptively bleary stare that Arnaud had.
Arthur still stays late that night but only accesses the files he really wants to see after the department head leaves.
***
All the lights are on in the apartment when Arthur gets back, and he dumps his stuff by the door. He checks the living room, the bedroom, and the kitchen, but they’re all empty; it’s not until he checks the bathroom that he finds Sylvie.
She’s seated on the bathroom vanity, her back against the mirror and a laptop resting precariously on her knees. A pair of large headphones rest over her ears, and she doesn’t look up until Arthur stops a foot away from her.
“Oh, hello, Arthur,” she coos, pulling the headphones off her ears and onto her neck. She pats the counter space on the other side of the sink. “Come sit with me.”
“What are you doing?” he asks flatly, the disapproval clearly apparent on his face. Sylvie sighs dramatically and retracts her hand, settling it on her laptop. “Working. I would have thought it was obvious.”
“In the bathroom.”
“I go where I feel inspired to work.” Sylvie turns the laptop so that it’s facing Arthur. “See? Work.”
All Arthur sees is a page of script. Sure, it looks like she’s working on a code for something or another, but for all he knows, Sylvie could be designing a program for a game. As if reading his mind, she refutes his suspicions. “It is not to make monkeys dance around on your computer. Such a task is too elementary for me.” Sylvie flashes him a smile. “Would you like to discuss how your day was? Did you have fun tracking your friend?”
“I wouldn’t call it fun.” Arthur holds up a flash drive and tosses it over to her; she plugs it in with a coy smile.
“Do they know you’re copying work material?”
“If they do, I’m sure you can take care of it.”
Sylvie rolls her eyes, but the grin stays in place. “It is fortunate that you are so attractive, Arthur. I do not normally perform extra services for free.
“Now then, what prize did you want me to see?”
“Computer whiz like you should know to look for the most recent file.”
Sylvie crooks her eyebrow at him. “I was asking out of courtesy.”
When Arthur doesn’t give her a response, she proceeds to open the file in question before adjusting the laptop so that they can both look at it. The photograph-this one from Krakow-she’s pulled up is just as blurry as the last few the point man has managed to grab.
“He should smile for the camera,” Sylvie comments. She points at Cobb’s face. “Especially if he is going to be looking straight at it.”
“Cobb’s not looking straight at the camera,” Arthur corrects. “He’s looking over his shoulder.”
“But his eyes are still looking at the camera! You cannot deny that.” As if to prove her point, Sylvie zooms in on the photo, which only serves to pixelate the picture. “Look!”
“And what if he is?” he mutters, leaning against the wall. “Zoom out.”
“What?”
Arthur brushes her hands away from the keyboard and zooms out. His friend is again heading down an alleyway, and once more, he has one hand pressed against a wall, which is, Arthur notes, brick again. He shakes his head slowly.
“Is something wrong?” Sylvie asks, looking up at Arthur curiously. He disappears from the bathroom without another word but reappears a moment later with the Leipzig photograph. Arthur holds it up to the screen and compares the two pictures; Sylvie looks from one to the other. “You were saying, Arthur?”
He doesn’t give her an answer.
***
“Did I wake you up?”
“It’s two in the morning, Eames. What the hell do you want?” Arthur sits up and settles his feet on the floor; he rubs a hand against his eyes, trying to instill some alertness into his system. Eames laughs, possibly at the way he’s slurring his words a little, possibly because the forger has managed to irritate him, as per usual.
“I just wanted to see how your little hunt for Cobb is going.”
“Fine. Just fine,” grumbles Arthur. “And before you ask, no, I’m not coming to help you out right now.”
“On the contrary. I want you to stay there at Interpol.” Arthur finds himself silently double-taking at the other’s response. “I’ve a favor to ask you.”
The point man remains quiet for a moment longer as his brow knits into a deep furrow and his lips pull into a frown. He seems to recall owing Eames a favor or two, but if the other has chosen to forget about it, he’s certainly not going to mention it. “You’re asking me for a favor?”
“Oh, don’t make me repeat myself, Arthur. It’s embarrassing enough as it is.”
Arthur settles back against the couch and closes his eyes. “What’s the favor, and what are you willing to give for it to be done?”
“I need you to do a background check for me.” Eames pauses. “There’s a man I’d like to use for the information he may know, but unfortunately, I’m having some trouble confirming whether his claims are true or not. My usual sources have utterly failed me.”
“So you’re saying that you hate doing research, more or less.”
“You think I’d go risking my ego for such a trifling matter? Arthur, I’m disappointed.” The forger sighs. “I’m not sure he’s done what he’s stated on his CV, and I want you to use Interpol’s databases to check.”
“Why don’t you just drop him if you think he’s lying?”
“If he is who he claims to be, I’ll have better access to all the information I could ever want. What he knows-if he’s legit, of course-is more than worth the trouble of bothering you,” Eames explains. “Now will you do this for me or not?”
“I’ll do it if you, one, stop telling me it was a crappy idea to work at Interpol, and two, pay Sylvie for her services.”
“It was a crappy idea, Arthur. I still think it is, but if it makes you feel better, I suppose I could oblige such a request. And I’ll pay Sylvie, too.
“See? Now we’re even. You’ve paid off your debt to me, and I don’t owe you anything, save perhaps a small amount of courtesy.”
Ah, so Eames had not forgotten.
“Deal.” Arthur forces himself off the couch and fumbles around for a piece of paper and a pen. “Who am I looking for?”
“South African named Emmerich Gottlieb--or so I have been lead to believe. The fellow’s a known drug trafficker, so I assume Interpol will have something about him.”
The point man scribbles the name down, cradling his phone between his ear and shoulder. “You got a picture of this guy, or am I going to be flying blind?”
“I’ll send it along once I hang up.”
“See that you do. I’ll let you know when I have some details.”
***
Arthur does not, of course, go straight to work on finding Eames’ man. In fact, he decides to go on the down-low when Lefevre keeps checking up on him-either in person or by sending a lackey. The questions are never dangerous, the smiles never steel-edged, but there’s something about the whole situation that doesn’t sit well with Arthur.
He’s reassured himself on more than one occasion that he’s just used to being on alert for signs and cues that something’s gone wrong. It’s in his nature after so many extraction jobs, and Sylvie tells him he’s cute when paranoid, which is not something Arthur cares to acknowledge.
The point man considers “careful” a far better term.
Whatever the reasoning behind his worry, though, Arthur opts to stay clean for a solid week. He does nothing but proper Interpol work. Projects get completed, he starts a few friendships with coworkers, and Isaac tries to get him to go out for a drink three nights in a row.
Arthur finally agrees to it on the third night, but only because Isaac’s hand is gripping his shoulder far harder than is strictly necessary.
Isaac picks out some nondescript bar in an equally nondescript part of town; the place reminds Arthur of Il Mulo, albeit cleaner. They take a seat in a dark booth not quite in the corner of the establishment, and Isaac settles his hands on the table. That’s when Arthur knows for sure that they’re not here for a friendly conversation, not with the set of the other’s shoulders and the crease in his brow.
“Have you the money?” Isaac asks after their drinks arrive. Arthur settles back, fingers loosely curled around his glass, and shakes his head. He watches the Frenchman’s knuckles go white around his liquor. “When do you intend to pay us?”
“I’ve never defaulted on a payment to those who deserve it,” the point man replies coolly. He shrugs and downs some of the beer; Arthur doesn’t like the taste it leaves in his mouth. “You should’ve stuck me in a department whose head wasn’t so keen on checking on the welfare of his employees.”
Isaac snorts and shakes his head. “The other choice would have been accounting. Would you have been happy there?”
“You’d be surprised by how much you can learn from staring at expense receipts.”
They lock eyes, and Isaac is the first to look away, muttering a curse quietly in French. “Fine. What must I do to convince you that Henri and I are ‘worthy’ of getting the second half of our payment?”
“Get Lefevre off my tail.” The Frenchman stares at him, disbelieving. “You’re my superior. Recommend me to him. Assure him that I’m a competent, well-socialized, and trustworthy worker. Tell him that he doesn’t need to worry about me.
“Or you could be the one to check up on me, if that’s easier for you.”
“You want me to risk my neck for you, monsieur.”
Arthur shrugs. “How badly do you want to get paid?”
“I could sell you out,” Isaac responds, but the point man doesn’t rise to the threat.
“And so could I,” the point man counters. It’s not a bluff; Arthur’s done his homework on his contacts. “I’d hardly call your record clean, Isaac.” He smirks, knowing that he’s struck gold with the way the blood drains out of Isaac’s face. “Or would you prefer Mathieu?”
“I will see what I can do,” the man says, rising stiffly. Arthur watches him leave the bar and orders another beer.
***
Sylvie welcomes Arthur back home with a box of cereal in her arms. She’s eating it right out of the carton, and he pushes her aside when he comes in. “You are not going to say thank you for opening the door?”
“Thank you,” he mutters before wandering off to the living room. Arthur strips off his jacket, carefully folding it over a chair. He feels her watching him, and he turns, a single eyebrow arched.
“Yes?” he asks tiredly. Sylvie shrugs. “Did you get any work done today?”
“You do not rush the artist,” she replies with a wink.
Arthur turns away and removes his tie, resting it on top of his jacket. “We’re on a schedule. I hope you realize that.”
She snorts, and judging by the soft “whump” behind him, Sylvie has taken a seat on the couch-his bed. “You are no fun,” she mutters. “Not like Eames.”
Arthur closes his eyes for a moment and takes a deep breath before turning around to look at her again. “I doubt he advertised me as such.”
“He did not, but I was not expecting someone so obsessed with his work either,” she answers, still munching on her cereal. “Is that all you think about?”
“I’m goal-oriented.” Arthur carefully rolls his sleeves up to his elbows. “Got a problem with that?”
“It might be unhealthy. You’re toying with Interpol, you know.” Sylvie looks at him, daring him to challenge her. “You could be in more trouble than Cobb if you get caught. Do you realize this?”
“I’m just doing my job as his point man.” It’s a lame answer, and Arthur knows it the second the words leave his lips. Sylvie’s eyebrows rise, and then she laughs, like she suddenly understands it all. She gets up and starts walking out of the room. “Point man. How cute. It sounds like you are going above and beyond for your extractor; he must love you for your devotion.
“Well, good night, Arthur. I have some more work to do for Monsieur Cobb.”
He doesn’t bother replying. When he hears the bedroom door close, Arthur sinks onto the couch, head rolling against the back of the cushions.
***
The smiles Isaac sends his way nowadays are strained, but there isn’t much that Arthur can do about it. He’s not here to make friends with the Frenchman; the other is a questionable business associate at best, and at the moment, Arthur doesn’t have the one thing that would lighten Isaac’s expression: money.
Arthur prefers other methods of staying in the favor with his contacts, but he’s stuck with threats of blackmail for now. Still, it seems like Isaac’s gotten something right, pay or no pay.
Lefevre hasn’t come to check up on Arthur in several weeks now. The man still occasionally looks his way on the way to his office, but their conversation never goes beyond a simple greeting, which suits Arthur just fine. He doesn’t know or care how Isaac got the man off his back, so long as it happened.
The only issue with this newly found freedom is that Isaac has once again taken to inquiring about his payment. The man never openly asks, but Arthur can hear the question in the sharp looks Isaac sends his way, the too-firm handshakes they share, and general frigidness of attitude. In any other circumstance, the point man would at least hand over a bit more cash, if only to appease his contact for the time being.
Unfortunately, with a Proclus Global check far away at this point, Arthur doesn’t have the funds for that. Instead, he hopes that by blackmailing Isaac he can draw out his stay at Interpol long enough to get Cobb the hell out of Europe, away from faceless persecutors.
His workday continues to grow longer and longer, as Arthur tries to make up for lost time as well as accommodate Eames’ request for information. More than a few of his coworkers express their worry that he’s spreading himself too thin, that he should take a vacation, but he just brushes them off with a few vague smiles and assurances that he’s perfectly well.
When he finds another photo of Cobb staring down the camera, this time in Minsk, Arthur decides that maybe his coworkers are right. Perhaps it is time for him to take a breather and go on vacation.
He makes plans to visit three separate places. His coworkers send him off with smiles. Only Isaac seems displeased with his decision.
***
It’s pouring rain when Arthur gets into Leipzig. The clouds hang low and heavy in the sky, and little rivulets course down and through the street. Water is streaming off of his umbrella, and despite the cover, he can still feel droplets on his face and hands, cool against his skin. Arthur glances down at the map in his hands and checks his location before looking over at the brick building to his right. He fishes out a photograph from his pocket and compares the location, eyes flicking back forth between the picture and reality.
When he’s certain that he’s in the right spot, Arthur starts studying the location, looking for a hint or a sign that Cobb was here. He doesn’t think it’s anything obvious-graffiti isn’t likely-but then again, when he has no idea what to look for in the first place, nothing is. The point man starts walking up and down the alleyway, toeing little pieces of paper on the ground, staring at cracks in the pavement.
It’s only when he starts poking at holes in the wall that Arthur finds something-or at the very least, he hopes it’s something.
In roughly the spot where Cobb’s hand was in the photograph, he finds a small, rolled-up piece of paper. Arthur has to dig it out using the tip of his pen, and even then, the paper is so wet that it still rips in half as he tries to ease it out. The disappointment only grows when he unfurls what’s left of the paper to find most of the message already washed out; all that remains is a simple “Watch for” and several blue-black smudges.
Arthur doesn’t consider it a complete loss though-not when he recognizes that this is indeed Cobb’s handwriting. It’s a bit of a risky move on the other’s part, but there’s a part of him that is quietly pleased that his friend trusts that someone-an ally, a friend, Arthur-would be out there looking for him.
He allows himself a small smile, even as it rains heavier and the water soaks his shoes.
***
Arthur books the next flight to Krakow.
He’s light on his feet as he makes his way through the airport. Arthur hasn’t been this excited about anything in ages, and to be honest, he’s a little surprised with himself. It’s not as if he’s found Cobb-not by a long shot, but there’s something about the hope of getting another little note from his friend that sends a jolt of excitement through his body.
Maybe with this, their line of communication won’t be severed anymore. True, it might be a one-way route, but Arthur isn’t exactly picky at this point in time. He’ll take anything he can get; the point man can work up any other leads from there.
As he’s waiting for his flight to take off, Arthur checks his phone and discovers that it hasn’t rained heavily in Krakow in the last few weeks. He tries to smother the smile that threatens to appear on his lips and fails miserably.
Arthur thinks he’s got a good chance of getting this next note in one piece; he just hopes he hasn’t deluded himself into a false sense of hope.
***
Krakow is beautiful at night.
Arthur’s not sure if it really is, or if his mood’s just playing with him. He strolls down the lit streets with a faint smile on his face, his hands tucked in his pockets. His fingers toy with the photograph there, but Arthur doesn’t need to take it out-he already knows where he needs to go.
And when he finds himself standing right there between two buildings, a narrow alley ahead of him, Arthur takes a moment to settle into business mode. He tries to squash the feelings of anticipation, tries to not feel like a kid about to open his presents on Christmas morning. Arthur reminds himself that even if he finds something here that it’s only a step in the right direction; it’s not like Cobb’s going to be waiting for him, stuck in the crack between one brick and another.
He ignores the slightest tremble of his fingers as he runs them against the rough brickwork, pausing whenever he hits a dip in the masonry. Arthur spends a good ten minutes with nothing to show for his efforts until he finally finds it: another tiny piece of paper, carefully rolled up and shoved in a hole in the wall. Arthur flattens the note out and reads it by the light of his cell phone, squinting at the messy scrawl of print there.
The point man recognizes Cobb’s handwriting immediately. Unfortunately, the only part of the message easily understandable reads, “No major problems thus far.” The rest of the note makes far less sense. There’s a crown and then a colon, the name “Deprez,” along with a rather squiggly “M” immediately followed by the number four. Right below that is a badly drawn stick figure of a woman with the letter “t” preceding it, as well as the characters “NW3.”
For a moment, Arthur just stares at the note. He can make neither head nor tail of the message, and the sense of euphoria that he had been experiencing slowly dissipates, leaving him feeling heavily disappointed. Safety precautions are all well and good, and yet, Arthur can’t help but feel a little angry that Cobb’s decided to play word and picture games now, of all times.
He looks over the note one more time until the backlight of his phone dims. Arthur remembers Deprez-the founder of an up-and-coming firearms producer whom he and Cobb had worked for several years ago-but how their former employer connects to any of the other scribbled symbols remains a mystery. He pockets the note and then starts back toward the hotel, pausing only for a moment to look over his shoulder.
Unlike when Cobb had done the same, there’s no one there.
***
It’s pouring when Arthur gets into Minsk, and his heart sinks as he climbs into a taxi. As the airport disappears into the grey of rain and clouds, he stares out the window of the car, and Arthur wonders if he’ll be left with another ruined note or if this one has been stuck somewhere a little drier.
Unaware of Arthur’s worry, the driver chatters away happily in Belarusian, never realizing that his passenger is nothing close to fluent in the language. By the time the point man’s reached his destination, he estimates that the cabbie’s already told him his life story twice over and is about to start on round three. Arthur murmurs an apology for leaving in the middle of the story before paying, his mind already returning to the task at hand.
Arthur fishes out the photograph from his pocket and shields it with his other hand as he walks. His eyes scan for the tiny little landmarks he’d picked out before leaving Lyon; he stops suddenly when he finds the now familiar corner: brick walls lining an alleyway, a worn placard, and a small assortment of potted plants.
Arthur immediately turns into the alleyway and starts searching for another note, hands skimming over the cold and wet walls. Cobb had been standing a little further down the alleyway this time, making it more difficult to pinpoint where he had been in the photograph. By the time he finally finds what he suspects is the note, Arthur’s hands are freezing; his fingers are stiff and awkward as they pry at the bricks, coaxing the paper out of its hiding spot.
Part of the note rips as he eases the paper out, but to his relief, it’s still legible when Arthur unfurls it. His wet fingers smudge the ink a little as he reads. Again, part of the note is easy to read and understand but provides little useful information. Arthur frowns at the words as his eyes drop lower and spot the little crown symbol once more.
This time, however, the letters and symbols arranged below are different. An arrow points to the top right of the page and the letter “l”-or was it the number one?-follows it. This time the name “De Vries” is written there followed by the letters “WtW” and what appears to be a rather crude drawing of a door.
***
Sylvie greets Arthur at the door of their apartment with curlers in her hair. There’s a spoon clenched between her teeth, and she smiles around it as he slips past the entrance. After she closes the door, she removes the utensil and waves it in the air before pointing it at Arthur. “You are going to come in and not say a word about how your travels went?”
He sighs tiredly and drops his luggage off at the door before slowly turning to face her. His hands move automatically to roll his sleeves up to his elbows before his arms shift to cross his chest. “He left notes.”
“And?” The woman gives him an expectant look.
“Most of it isn’t straightforward,” Arthur replies. He reaches into his pocket and produces the three notes, handing them to Sylvie. She looks at them, head tilting this way and that, before returning them with a slight shrug of the shoulders. “I have never been good with these sorts of games, Arthur.”
The point man isn’t exactly surprised by the statement and trudges into the living room where he rests the notes next to the map. Arthur studies them for a moment longer, slowly shaking his head. “All I know is that they’ve got something to do with previous jobs we did together.”
“Is Cobb reminiscing? Perhaps he wishes to go back to those times,” Sylvie suggests, plopping down on the couch in a decadent sprawl. Arthur doesn’t spare her a glance.
“I don’t know why he’d bother. The Deprez job doesn’t exactly stick out in any way, and the De Vries extraction is probably something he’d rather forget.”
“Then maybe it has to do with the subject material?”
The man finally turns around and moves toward the couch. He gestures at Sylvie, and to his surprise, she moves her legs to make room for him. “I already thought about that, and I don’t think either is significant. Firearms and banking don’t seem to have any common ground.”
At that, Sylvie stands up. She does this so quickly and suddenly that it startles Arthur, and he glares up at her, silently demanding an explanation. All she does, though, is take a few steps away from the couch and turn around, idly waving the spoon around. “Whatever the case may be, I am positive you will figure it out, Arthur.
“You are the person most familiar with his thinking, right? It will make sense soon enough.”
And without another word, she leaves the living room, pausing only for a moment to give Arthur a quick pat on the head. He swats her hand away without any feeling and then goes back to staring at the notes when her footsteps disappear. The longer he studies them, the less sense they seem to make.
Despite what Sylvie may say and think about his relationship with and supposed understanding of Cobb, Arthur’s not entirely sure he’ll figure it out this time. He’s a good point man-Arthur will give himself that much, but despite his usual ability to predict what the other wants, he has no idea what Cobb desires from him this time around.
***
Part Three