Isobel spent a portion of her trip wondering where she had seen the file photo and heard of Val Pellian before. She was sure that they had met at some point, but she couldn't quite place him. Was it University? Had they encountered one another during the War? The problem wiggled in her brain until the hypnotic thrum of the engines -- combined with the two complimentary alcoholic beverages afforded to business class travelers -- lulled her into a doze. Hours later, she awoke to the announcement that they were welcome to Yag'Dhul. She stood and gathered her coat and tucked a copy of SpaceMall magazine, of which she had dog-eared a few pages for potential Life Day gifts, into her carry-on before making her way to the exit.
She felt that the fake mounted Colo Clawfish that sang and danced whenever anyone walked by would be just the ticket to spruce up Delilah's office.
Yag'Dhul was a bustling metropolis as far as Isobel could see from the spaceport. Traffic lanes moved at a brisk pace, with freighters dropping in and taking off from the commercial spaceyard regularly. She observed all this as she waited in line for the rental, and was pleased to find that her frequent flier miles made her eligible for an upgrade. Instead of the economy model speeder, she drove off in a comfortable midsized, her luggage tucked safely in the back as she pulled into traffic. Her hotel was one of the better ones, and again she was able to use club membership for an upgrade to a balcony suite. She had settled and unpacked her suitcase and washed the travel off in a hot shower when the doorbell chimed. She wrapped herself in an impossibly soft bath sheet, tucked her hair up in a damp tangle, and went to see who was at the door.
The who, it turned out, was a what -- a package. She picked it up and took it inside, subjecting it to a thorough investigation before determining that if it was going to kill her, it would do so in a way not yet discovered by the FOSB, so she had better get on with it. She opened it and found a picture of herself from some five years ago. It took her a moment to place the occasion, but the black jumpsuits quickly clued her in. Graduation from the FOSB training programme. The classmate to her side in the photo was -- Val Pellian, code-named
Crane.
That's why she had been unable to place him. Pellian had been a complete dweeb in the academy; Isobel vaguely remembered needing to be introduced to him three times before she recognized him. She had promptly forgotten about him, as had most of her colleagues, understanding that he would disappear into the bureaucracy and never be heard from again. She hadn't thought him suited to field work at all, and had expected him to be doing something painfully dull by now: approving expense account reimbursements or filing insurance claims for the Bureau or something. "What a difference a haircut and a war can make," Isobel murmured as she studied the photo, comparing it to her mind's eye memory of the one that Delilah had shared showing a gruff and grizzled operative. She flipped it over idly, then examined the attached postcard and attachment.
Bloody spy games, Isobel thought, her lips twitching up in a smirk. All right, she'd play the game. She quickly searched for the named location, then flopped on the bed and picked up the room's communicator and was connected with the front desk. "Good afternoon, it's Iris Grey in the Hanging Gardens suite. Can you connect me to the concierge, please? Yes, I'll hold." She drummed her fingers on the bedspread and waited a moment. "Yes, hello. Can you tell me what's playing tonight at the Golden Swan? Oh -- electro-symphonic? How... nice. Would you please get me two tickets? Best available. Yes, to the room. Very good, please let me know. I'll be heading out shortly; apologies for the short notice. Very good, thank you." She hung up and went to get dressed.
She wore a black peplum-cut cocktail dress when she emerged into the lobby, crossing to the concierge desk. "Pickup for Mrs. Grey," she said. The concierge nodded and handed her an envelope. "Mezzanine level? Oh, well done you," she said after peeking into the envelope. Isobel tucked a high-denomination credit chit into the concierge's strategically up-facing palm and the placed the tickets in her handbag before shrugging into her jacket. "Thanks so much. Have a nice night."
Twenty minutes later, as dusk settled across the city, emerged from the taxi on the roof of the Golden Swan concert hall. It was rather unorthodox, but here she was. Theoretically, this was the top floor, and although there was only one door -- the fire exit -- it could reasonably be considered a back door. She tied her trenchcoat around her frame and looked around, then pulled an electronic cigarette from her handbag and switched it on for a puff.
Smoke 'em if you got 'em, she always said.
[member="Val Pellian"]