Mason Breck's New Job
The ground floor flat was cold and dark. Not cold like a change in the weather, but cold like it has been empty for too long. There was limited noise from the street below, despite the age of the building. It was 2237 on a Wednesday and suddenly, in a way that almost made the flat draw in a sharp breath, there came a light metallic scratching sound from the front door. The sort of sound that a key makes when inserted into a lock, only quieter. The scratching continued, getting ever so slightly louder, until the noise was discernibly and obviously the sound of someone picking the lock.
A professional would have been inside the flat within moments; even the most high end lock could not have prevented a determined burglar from gaining entry. Whilst only slightly more than mere moments, the door finally opened slowly, pushed by the hunched figure on the stoop. The human shape was silhouetted by the flickering streetlight, filtered by the plane trees swaying in the breeze in the square outside. There was a barely imperceptible clink of metal-on-metal, as some very delicate tools were placed within a small leather pouch, which subsequently found its way into the intruder’s inside jacket pocket. He stood and hesitated a moment on the threshold, his now standing form holding a stance like a gunfighter in an old western. His feet were planted shoulder-width apart, arms by his sides, hands flexing like he was about to reach for a revolver strapped to his belt. For a brief moment, he inspected the flat from the open doorway, as best he could, before deciding it was safe to enter.
Gathering his thin polished walnut briefcase from beside his left shoe, Mason Breck stepped through and closed the door behind him. The flat was instantly plunged back into darkness. Remembering the location of the light switch from his reconnoitre, Mason reached across, finding the dimmer switch with ease and raising the lights gradually. He blinked his eyes a few times, as his accumulated night vision slipped away, and surveyed the room in more detail.
Mason did not like what he saw. The decor was overtly modern, mostly grey and black soft furnishings, with glass and polished steel highlights. He had to resist the urge to go back outside, onto the Chelsea street just off Kings Road, to check that this was the right converted Regency house he had been allocated.
Books lined one wall of the sitting room; a broad window another, with an Empire desk sat beneath it. The books all looked fairly old, an impressive collection of original and classical works, but the faint line of old dust caught in the valley where each of the leather spines met suggested they were rarely enjoyed. Only a substantial World Gazetteer and a book on 20th Century politics showed signs of excessive use in their binding. Pity, Mason thought, that the black and chrome appointment seemed incongruous to the bookshelf contents.
Mason placed his briefcase on the floor, shook off his navy-coloured overcoat and stepped across to the closet in the entranceway. Opening the door and reaching in, he couldn’t help but notice a set of luggage - both cases were the same, once expensive pigskin material, but the attaché case had clearly seen more use than the Revelation suitcase.
He also spied a pair of black leather sandals tucked in a corner - worn, yes, but also exceedingly comfortable in appearance. He made a promise to himself to try them one evening when he was back at home.
Returning to gather his briefcase, he found himself at eye level with a set of keys - presumably the ones to the flat. Why they couldn’t have just given him a set was beyond him, rather than the silly charade of making him break into his own home. He made a mental note of the layout and started with the kitchen. Leaving the briefcase in the sitting room, as Mason believed business had no place in the kitchen, he stepped through the door and was confronted by an immaculately clean space.
Every flat surface was empty save for an hourglass coffee-brewer in one corner, any washed dishes had been put away and there wasn’t a speck of anything, anywhere. The Chemex had the appearance of a carafe and it was only the discolouring on the bamboo collar and worn leather retaining thong that belied its likely age - apart from the broken-in elements, it could have been straight out of the box that morning.
Absent-mindedly, Mason opened first the fridge and then a cupboard, finding only very basic provisions, but good enough to get breakfast in the morning. He wasn’t really focusing as he pulled open a second cupboard when a small barrel, made from untreated wood, caught his eye. Mason had never claimed to be a coffee connoisseur, but even he was aware that Jamaican Blue Mountain was luxurious. The barrel had a handwritten note taped to it - “Only the best to start the day right." The note was signed "Maya”
Mason was advised that he would likely meet the housekeeper tomorrow - the role had been in the same family since the property had come into his employer’s hands all those decades ago. He understood that the incumbent keeper, Maya, was at least third generation. Looking around the kitchen again, he mentally acknowledged that the family knew how to keep a tight ship.
Back out in the living space, there were two other obvious rooms - one of the doors was closed and the other clearly led to the bedroom and ensuite. By process of elimination, Mason had it in mind that the closed door was likely his office space; the discreetly hidden handprint scanner built into the twist handle kept it a private office space. He idly wondered if Maya was responsible for keeping that room clean too.
Bypassing the probably locked study, Mason headed to his new bedroom. It wasn’t particularly spacious, probably only slightly larger than the admittedly small kitchen, and there was a peculiar echo. A combination of soft furnishings and thick, almost padded, white & gold Cole wallpaper should have tamped down the noise more, Mason thought. Given the small size, Mason didn’t need to turn his head through many degrees to take in the deep red curtains and dark blue counterpane on the bed. Odd, pondered Mason, that they aren’t the same colour, even if they managed the same shade of their respective hues. He suspected that the room didn’t get much use once the ‘job’ started up.
He stepped straight to the built-in wardrobe, which he had been warned was still fully decked out with what was now his new attire. He groaned inwardly before pulling open the doors, convinced it wasn’t going to be his style.
It wasn’t a complete loss though, it seemed. Dark blues and blacks made the inside of the cupboard seem darker, but the bright white heavy silk shirts stood out on one side. Mason wrinkled his nose at the dogtooth suit, but he wasn’t unhappy with the overall selection. Opening a few drawers, he found white silk handkerchiefs (to match the shirts), some dark blue socks (ribbed and thick) and a black silk tie (odd colour, unless you were headed to a funeral). Is that why it’s there?, Mason wondered, a little unsettlingly. And who in their right mind still wears long pyjama coats, silk ones no less?
At the other end of the rail, almost too far back and out of sight, there was a well-worn leather holster. Mason lightly touched the material and suspected it was more than just regular cow leather - maybe goat in origin? He noted with disappointment that it was set up for a right-handed draw.
“Yes.” Mason spoke aloud firmly, as if to assert his position as new master of the house, “Some changes will need to be made.”
Closing up the doors and setting his briefcase in front the cupboard, he moved to appraise the facilities. Small and relatively impersonal, the white-tiled bathroom contained an all-glass shower cubicle, a basic mirror over the wash basin and an old-fashioned toilet. It could have been taken from a Victorian boarding school, but Mason didn’t mind as long as it was functional. He briefly fingered the navy blue towels (that matched the counterpane in colour) and appreciated the soft plushness, reckoning an exceedingly high thread count. It was almost like Maya knew he was coming.
Noting from the analogue alarm clock that it was past midnight, Mason returned to the kitchen for a glass of water and considered the new day in prospect.
Once more his hand went to the envelope in his inside pocket. On the front was printed only his new coded designation; the single sheet inside was so thick, the print embossed so deeply, that it could quite easily have passed for branded animal hide. He slipped the envelope out, turning it over in hands as if he could imbibe the contents without having to remove them. Withdrawing the heavy paper, he considered the crest that headed the communication – the symbols that he not only stood for, but now was oathed to defend. A lion; a unicorn, a shield and a crown – all icons of strength and determination, an unstoppable desire to survive, so that one may protect many others.
He re-read the six words, typed in capitals across the middle of the page. Six words, two of them the same, and all that was required to sum up what he was to become from 0600 hours. His instructions were to memorise everything about this short sentence – embody what it represented to both the current owner and all those who had imbued it prior. Once again, he recited these words in his head, steeling himself for the moment he would need to utter them aloud.
Returning to the small mirror, he took in his reflection and for just a moment, doubted himself, believed himself unworthy. As quick as the thought presented itself, he brushed it aside, knowing that he hadn’t worked so hard to get to this point only to walk away. One last time he looked at the paper, muttering the words in barely a whisper. And then, he looked himself square in the eye, drew himself to his full height of 6ft and said confidently: ″The name is Bond, James Bond.′
