Optics (standard:mystery, 5611 words)
Author: Das Tier	Added: Aug 09 2001	Views/Reads: 3194/2177	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A hired hitman with his arsenal of weapons and visual devices is confronted by his victim, who seems to know more about spotting targets.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

gone and he will be a black motionless bulk on the floor. A good and 
sound plan. 

The gallery made a sharp turn, and suddenly instead of the wide passage
we seemed to be walking straight into a glass wall. My step halted, 
when suddenly I caught his reflection on the glass -- no doubt like he 
caught mine. He couldn't know who I was, couldn't know my face among 
dozens that were walking beside me, and still for a long moment his 
eyes were on me. He saw. And he noticed. It was time to act, before his 
subconsciousness delivers its subliminal warning and he starts to fret. 
I hurried to overtake him, manoeuvring between lazy walkers and earning 
an angry glance or two as I shoved some of them out of my way. His back 
was only a few steps away -- so vulnerable, so open. My finger found 
its place on the trigger. Soon I knew he was cornered -- the passage 
was a dead end, opening into a plaza-like circle of shops with only one 
way out. And you could bet I was in that way -- armed and deadly, as 
usual. 

He quickened his pace, aiming to dive into one of the shops, but I kept
close behind, getting ready... and suddenly I was blind. The spotlight 
in the middle of the circle beamed into life with the merry chiming and 
jingling of bells, flooding the fountain with glow and lighting up a 
myriad of flecks on everything that could reflect its rays. Glass 
windows, that only seconds ago revealed the shop interiors, thickened 
into shields of quicksilver, the smooth amalgam that immediately turned 
the circle into a maze of directions that didn't lead anywhere. 
Blinking, I rushed forth, and dozens of glassy Gallos dashed along, 
scurrying about madly in the exact mirror of my confusion. Shielding my 
eyes from the fierce beam of the spotlight, I looked around, and ranks 
of my mirror doubles mimicked the move, as if suddenly I got a hundred 
heads looking in all directions at once. But even that would be of 
little help, because my target was nowhere to be found. He had 
disappeared, as if dissolving in this reflected transparency. 
_________________________ 

"What? Are you saying you missed him? You couldn't do so simple a task
as to walk behind a man and get a bullet in his back?" 

"Blah-blah-blah. You weren't there. You ever been to a funhouse?" 

"You're saying you've been confused by noisemakers and eerie lightning?
No, man, this won't be getting you anywhere. A job is a job, and you 
must do it even when the world crumbles around you." 

The pathetic voice was my pal and colleague, John Boom-Boom Monroe. He
sat in a chair opposite me, his friend Boom-Boom S&W on his lap. No 
matter how I loathed the idea of admitting defeat, I had to ask him for 
help -- I had a strict schedule, and this task was quickly running out 
of control. 

"You know where he lives? Good, then we'll catch him unawares in his
lair." Two barrels against empty hands, the man didn't stand a chance. 
We'll mesh him when he gets homey under his own vine and fig trees. 

"What's the deal, anyway? Anything urgent?" Arriving at the place,
Monroe quickly scanned the area, and, having spotted no unwelcome 
witnesses, ushered me into the target's residence. I looked around. It 
was a standard, ordinary- looking two-room apartment. The scarce 
furnishing indicated its owner was used to spending most of his day in 
other places. Besides the few living essentials, the space accommodated 
an assortment of instruments and gadgets that betrayed the tenant's 
scientific devotion. Curious and puzzled, I gazed at various lenses, 
crystals and spheres arranged into an impressive collection of eye- 
cheats. 

"He's got an appointment for tomorrow. The bastard's selling the
company's secrets to a foreign intelligence rat. I have to intercept 
him before midday." 

"Doesn't sound too difficult. Any special notes?" 

There was one thing, nothing really important, but it troubled me, like
every thing that I can't understand does. "Just one: I must try to kill 
him indoors." 

Monroe shrugged philosophically. "Everybody's got his quirks, and you
are paid for fulfilling them. We'll take it into consideration, but if 
it becomes a question of "do or fail", I'd prefer to do it regardless 
of any special requests." 

I nodded. He did a quick search of the apartment, making sure there was
no back-door for the man to sneak through, while I looked out of the 
window, trying to find a lurking place across the street that would 
render the best view of the flat. I noticed a good one soon, and turned 
to look how Monroe was doing. Right in front of me was a huge, almost 
man-sized mirror. 

"Hard to miss, eh?" Monroe re-appeared from the bedroom and nodded at
the looking glass. "The man's got to be an exhibitionist. He's got 
mirrors in every room. I never want to see a bigger part of me than the 
one I'm shaving every morning." 

He's a no-nonsense pragmatic, that John Boom-Boom Monroe guy. And I
again felt glad I asked him to assist me in that business before my 
target gets a chance to demonstrate any of his optical F/X skills. 
________________________ 

We were lying in wait. I had approximately 17 hours to remove my target
-- more than enough with the two of us setting about it. Mr. Taut would 
have more chances to survive against a troop of commando than against 
the Gallo-Monroe tandem. The barrels of our guns, like teacher's 
pointers, aimed at the apartment's door. We breathed evenly, each with 
his eye glued to the oculars of our scopes. 

At 7.14 pm, Taut cracked the door open. His hand was feeble, his foot
froze doubtful on the threshold. And still he entered, locking the door 
behind him, his ears pricked up. I heard Monroe cock the trigger of his 
Boom-Boom. 

"You can run, but you can't hide. Bingo, man." Our target seemed to hear
that. He rushed to the window, drawing the curtains tight, and I caught 
his reflection in the mirror opposite it. Curtains or no curtains, the 
red dot of my laser was on his chest. A deadly mark of the sentence of 
death. 

"Come on, Phil, do it. After all, it's your mission." 

I started to count my heartbeats. I always wait for seven heartbeats
before I shoot. Must be enough to make your last wish. 

"Damn! What is he doing?" Monroe was watching Taut with the infrared
binoculars, and the red contour of his circulating blood would betray 
the location of our target wherever he went. For now he was floundering 
around the room, a fussy mockery of escape. 

"I can't cover him when he's jumping like a March hare!" I felt my eye,
the one peering into the scope, watering, while the other was suddenly 
dry under the closed eyelid. 

"Wait... Wait... Now!" The jumping shadow in the room stopped short
right behind the window, the curtains trembled and were flung open, and 
my finger pulled the trigger, as if set into motion by the same hand, 
the same will, oh the joy of pure reflex... 

"Where is he?" I lowered my gun, then raised it again to look into the
scope. The room, naked behind the open curtains, was empty. The red 
laser dot reflected in the mirror and pointed back at me, denouncing my 
crime. "Perhaps he's on the floor?" I was already heading for the exit 
on my way to search the body for the stolen diskette. He was supposed 
to be lying right across the room. The window glass was still intact, 
held by the transparent adhesive tape we had stuck on it beforehand; 
the silencer had made the job soundless. The peace was unperturbed, and 
nothing stirred in the house. Nothing stirred in the room, but not 
because its tenant was dead. Dead or alive, he simply wasn't there to 
stir. 

"He's gone!" I didn't listen. Curious, I stepped up to the mirror -- it
was positioned at an angle, reflecting both the street and... I went to 
the bedroom, its mirror was tilted likewise, at the same time catching 
the picture from the previous one and reflecting the far end of the 
street. I looked into it. Through the cobweb of scrapes and scratches, 
through the coat of dust, I saw the street and the black human 
silhouette running along it. _______________ 

Monroe was behind the wheel, me on the passenger seat. The supposed
meeting with Taut's buyer of information was an hour away, and we were 
to use it for our advantage to be the first to arrive at the place. The 
night hours were lost, since our upstarted game could have gone 
anywhere in the city. We couldn't guess where he had spent his night, 
but we knew where he would show up in the morning. 

"Mirrors! Glass!" Monroe hit the wheel with an angry fist. "Look, even
if you're right, one couldn't get out through the mirror -- it's not 
transparent. It's got thick amalgam at the back. His logic must be 
working against him!" 

"Perhaps so, but the amalgam was scratched." We were tossing these eerie
remarks with a sceptical sneer in one corner of the mouth and a painful 
confusion in the other. "Whatever tricks he has, just remember, this 
Copperfield is made of flesh and blood. It's only a middle-aged 
academic highbrow who believes he has enough brains to outsmart his 
employer. He's not accustomed to be hunted, I bet he's already getting 
paranoid after a sleepless night. He's moving fast, but he hasn't the 
nerve to go on for long." 

I wished I could believe my own convinced voice, but every time I closed
my eyes, I could see Taut, the lean, tallish man with a pair of 
spectacles on his nose, look down on the red dot on his chest, and then 
turn, nonchalantly exposing his back, turn to the mirror... and 
disappear. 

They were meeting in a bistro near a business centre downtown. I admired
the clever choice of their rendezvous place: with lots of people 
around, it would give us a hell of trouble to come close enough and 
then get away unnoticed. Trusting my luck, I was hoping for the best, 
and the worst development would be to follow Taut to a less crowded 
spot after the deal, while Monroe would take care of the buyer. Either 
way, the day seemed to be labelled 'now or never'. 

Safe behind the incognito of the sunglasses, I surveyed the area and the
crowds swarming under the warm spring sun. Looking at the watch, I 
realised it was almost noon, but I could see that by the sun standing 
as if right in the middle of the pale blue sky and the short, almost 
absent shades of things and people around me. It was lunchtime, and 
people streamed into several cafes, waving to the waiters and 
scrambling for chairs. Monroe and me kept the place under 
cross-observation, sifting out faces. 

We didn't know the buyer. It could be anyone in several dozens of Cola-
drinking, hamburger-chewing diners, and they remained for us an 
anonymous crowd until the sign of Taut's presence would mark the right 
table. After ten minutes I spotted him. His gait seemed measured, but I 
could see a good deal of self- control behind this casual facade. His 
clothes looked disarrayed, and his spectacled eyes seemed to scan the 
place with X-ray penetration as he made his way towards a table in the 
rear end of the cafe. I signalled to Monroe to be on guard. 

A noisy family of five at the adjacent table made it clear we would have
to stick to Plan B. I froze by the exit, while Monroe hid in the 
restroom in case our target should want the privacy of the WC. Time 
ticked away. At one moment, Taut, taking a stealthy glance around, 
shoved something across the table under the cover of an innocently 
white napkin. The other man capped the gift with his palm, and before I 
could notice the details, the black diskette disappeared in his pocket, 
and the napkin wiped away a drop of ketchup. For an unsuspecting eye 
his thankyou nod seemed to refer to this gesture of table etiquette, 
but I knew better. The man has just decided his fate. 

They rose to leave half an hour later, after Taut had stilled his hunger
with a big sandwich and washed it down with two cups of coffee. The 
other man waited patiently, his knee against a small black suitcase 
under the table. When he stood up, his foot toed the suitcase towards 
my target. Taut's pay-packet has arrived. 

I dialled Monroe's mobile, and saw him emerge from the restroom. He
marched across the room and drifted out in the wake of the buyer. I 
pretended to study a salad leaf on my sandwich and let my assignment 
near the exit before I followed. All was going smooth, and then that 
family with three kids decided to join us, the boys with three playful 
jumps blocking the door between Taut and myself. Their mother hurried 
to apply her pizza-enhanced authority, but three young spirits seemed 
too much to handle at once. I waited, helplessly watching Taut's back 
as he walked down the passage outside the building. I still could see 
him, and besides, Monroe was still out there, so I didn't worry at 
first. The door jam dissolved right in time, and I covered the distance 
in wide strides to see my target leave the building and appear on the 
large sun-lit square in front of it. He turned to look back, his 
awkward tall figure casting a long black shadow. 'Try to kill him 
indoors.' What the heck! Inside or outside, dead is dead. 

Somebody bumped into me, I mumbled a hurried sorry and manoeuvred
outdoors. For a moment I panicked, blinking at the empty square ahead, 
but soon noticed the familiar tall black figure about to disappear 
behind the corner. He was moving fast, his now uncontrolled nervousness 
making his silhouette a flickering shadow. His contour was a clear 
black outline against the white wall, he seemed almost unreal in this 
exposure that was both careless and dangerously inviting. As if luring 
the possible pursuer to follow. And I bit the bait. 

He made a sidetracking turn into a by-street, and I followed several
spaces behind. We were like a badger dog with a long invisible body 
between its two pairs of legs, one of which have already walked behind 
the corner, and the other are only coming to it. And just like with the 
real dog's limbs, one of us was bound to follow where the other goes. 

The lane was empty, and I couldn't risk waiting for a better
opportunity. I did what I had been hired to do. Looking at the body in 
front of me lying face down, I heard the buzz of my phone. 

"Phil? Where are you?" Monroe's agitated voice hissed through the
membrane. "I got the buyer, and..." 

"And I got our elusive friend." I came up to the body, registering all
small details. The man seemed thin, almost exhausted, and his black 
suit did nothing to solidify his build. 

"You got him? And who the hell is the man that I just had here breathing
into the muzzle of my Boom-Boom?" ___________________ 

"They wanted to keep their information secret? That's why I decided the
buyer was the priority target with the diskette as hard proof." He was 
right. Taking care of one of the two was risky enough, and Monroe 
couldn't afford a blitz shooting session in the downtown centre in open 
daylight, trying to cover the other one. "Look, now without the 
software and documentation, he's got only his head to sell. And it will 
take him time to find a new buyer." 

I nodded. I checked the case of my rifle and pocketed an extra Browning.


"Your outfit suggests you're embarking on a field operation," my friend
remarked cautiously. 

I gave a sinister hum of agreement. Bruno Taut had really got me on the
raw. In all those years my profession had made me trust my eyes. My 
eyesight was the key tool in my business, to which all other 
instruments and weapons were only accessories of application. If I 
can't rely on what I see, my reputation isn't worth a tinker's damn. In 
that lane, I was sure as sure can be that the man I had been following 
was the one, and a dozen yards' distance between us couldn't have 
deceived my eyes enough to misguide me after a wrong semblance. He 
looked a perfect double of Taut, at least from the back... Kill him 
indoors. Where there is no sun and where his long lean figure wouldn't 
hover like a sundial pole, casting a clear black contour that flickered 
and moved as if it were alive. 

"You were right to say it's my mission. I will track him down. It's my
work, and he has only his nerves to keep him running." 

"And a sum with six zeroes to keep him company. It's really not that
little to have." 

All true, but I can't admit defeat. If I do, if I fail to reach him in
this duel of theoretical science against practical skill, my world will 
turn upside down. I've always been on the right end of the spyglass, 
and he's trying to turn it in my hands and look at me through the other 
end, where I will be a helplessly-- and harmlessly-- diminished 
cardboard toy. 

Driven by a sudden inspiration, I checked the timetables of all
transports available to a hasty traveller. He knows he will be hunted 
after in this city, and with the money in his hands and the connection 
to his first bidder gone, nothing should stop him from leaving 
immediately. A pilgrim on a voyage for fame and glory. 

A late night train was the soonest to depart. I rushed to the railway
station in the descending dusk and lazy spring drizzle. 'If you don't 
call me when you arrive next morning, I'll board the next plane and go 
to save your ass.' I knew the value of Monroe's promises, which was why 
I asked for a round- trip ticket. But I wasn't sure if I was just 
following his half-serious advice or tried in earnest to secure my own 
confidence. A pretence at a certainty which I sure didn't have. 

At the platform, I looked around. It's been a while since I just looked
at what surrounded me, simply seeing things without making them mean 
something bigger than what I immediately perceived. I smiled looking at 
this full railway traveller kit, complete with porters, timetables, 
refreshments, newspapers and parting kisses. Here I trusted my eyes. 

I kept out of the way when the first few passengers got into the cars,
when the few people became a steady stream, alarmed by the starting 
signal. The time on my watch and on the departure indicator had almost 
coincided when I spotted the familiar tall figure. He was among the 
last to get inside, and I jumped into the next carriage when the doors 
began to shut and the train started to pull off. 

It was late night, and I was right to guess most passengers would doze
off, lulled by the subtle rattle of wheels and wet splashing of 
raindrops on the windows. I got comfortable in my seat and estimated 
the situation. I tried to be objective, but in this case it depended on 
the conditions of the objective at hand. Surprising, but this time I 
seemed to have fulfilled all conditions. Indoors. No sun. No mirrors 
but the small one above the seat, and almost no glass but the one in 
the window, opening into a dim landscape streaming past at express 
speed. This time we're going non-stop, mister. 

The window was turning from black to grey when I stood up and went down
the corridor, pushed the sliding connecting door and crossed the shaky 
border between two carriages. This car was half-empty, and the open 
doors to unoccupied compartments made my elimination task a lot easier. 


He was alone, sitting by the window. The suitcase rested opposite him,
and they both looked like faded daguerreo-type pictures against the 
window framing a pale rainy morning. I stepped inside, my feet were 
noiseless on the floor. He didn't move. 

"Bruno Taut?" He turned. His hands fumbled something, a small
rectangular object that he balanced between the tips of his long 
careful fingers. 

"You're glad you found me?" He shrugged. "I guess that's what the hunter
feels. Skilled harriers on a hunting ground. A business or a hobby?" 

"The first." I paused, then added, considering what I had experienced
during my career: "For me." 

"It shouldn't be a matter of choice. You won't get anything when you're
constantly sacrificing one for the sake of the other." 

I nodded at the cash suitcase. "And you're the ideal with your hobby
that pays off very well?" 

Taut put away the thing he was holding and took off his spectacles. His
short-sighted eyes drifted over me, while he wiped the lenses 
carefully. Then he moved the metal-rimmed glasses to me. 

"Isn't it great when you turn your drawbacks so that you can score an
advantage? For years I've been wiping these pieces of glass, and every 
time it means a risk of getting into a world of indiscernible greyness. 
There are only grey spots crawling around. Sometimes I think if 
together with the dust on my lens I'm wiping away all things around me, 
as if they are a crust on the spectacles that mask my blindness. But 
without that risk, I would never know what a difference there is 
between looking and seeing." 

He peered at me through narrowed eyelids as if there were a mile between
us, and not a short aisle between the rows of seats. Imagine you are 
looking through a spyglass... I knew what he was talking about, with my 
eyes accustomed to focus through the scope that seemed to focus my 
thoughts as well, limiting out everything that wasn't related to that 
only highlight at the other end of the tube. 

"How? All I want to know is how. How did you manage to escape in all
those times?" 

The glasses saddled Taut's nose again, and his mope-eyed sight
concentrated into keen shrewdness. "You came to kill me or to ask 
questions? It was all on that diskette -- surely you got it. After you 
killed my partner. You kill everybody, right?" 

"No." I was getting angry at him -- for being able to remain so calm, at
myself -- for finding so much in common between the two of us. He just 
puzzles me, I kept telling myself. I had to foresee the state when my 
subconscious thoughts would burst in my mind, oozing through the gaps 
made by surprises and astonishment of the previous days. 

"But I'm thankful you're letting me talk about it -- to explain what it
means to me. For others it was just an invention, an applicable piece 
of dry knowledge. But you know what can happen if you start to live by 
it." 

Suddenly he smiled, a kind of a shy smile that crept over his face to
disappear into the nowhere it had come from. "But I hope you won't be 
using my theories in your practice?" 

I nodded, controlling an ironic sneer. He seemed to believe it enough to
continue. 

"Most people see often with their mind and not with their eyes. Instead
of colourful things they get ideas of things, they recognize the names 
and the shapes as they should be. Not as they are. You see a tall cube 
stretching high with glass-filled holes in its sides, and immediately 
you guess it's a house. A house! An animal! A man! A complex idea, a 
combination of qualities and traits. Whether it's stable or moving, 
your first recognition holds, you say, "it's a house/animal/man" before 
the retina of your eye will have a chance to prove otherwise. With 
words labelling the familiar shapes, you're as far from reality as you 
can ever get, and so little you know of real images and vision that you 
can claim 'this is beautiful' or' this is true' relying on just what 
you see." 

I frowned, confusion against scepticism. "Are you saying I saw you
because I believed I should be seeing you?" 

"You're simplifying. But for most occasions, this is true." 

"But what about mirrors?" I remembered the trick in his apartment that
had allowed him to escape... to evaporate instantly. 

"Ah... Mirrors!" Another slight, wry smile. His hand moved, and I
tensed, but quickly relaxed realising he couldn't have any weapon near 
him but in the suitcase that was on my side of the aisle under my 
elbow. Instead he took the thing that he had been holding when I came 
in. It happened to be a mirror, small and narrow. To my surprise, he 
turned his back to the window and adjusted the mirror so that he could 
see in its reflection the landscape outside. 

"Mirrors. Colours. Light. The things we can't touch. We have the surface
that reflects, but we can't hold the reflection. In the XVIIIth 
century, Isaac Newton said God was Light. They were so crazy about 
light and optics that now we call that century 'siecle de Lumieres'. 
This," he winked at the mirror in his hand, "was also an invention of 
that time. People believed a properly cultured eye shouldn't be 
offended by the crude swift changing of things around when you are 
moving fast. That's why travellers enjoyed views not directly but 
through the mirrors with a slightly darkened, brown amalgam. They 
believed it turns the messy wilderness into a neat painting." He 
stretched out his hand. "Care to try?" 

I hesitated. It all seemed... childish. And still, some inner voice
whispered persistently that I shouldn't linger, that I should do what I 
had been hired to do, and not waste time chatting about history... 

I took the mirror and turned it the way my target instructed me. Instead
of fresh greenery of spring, I stared at a combination of different 
shades of faded brown. Indeed, this way the speed didn't seem to affect 
the view, and I could see every detail as if fleshed out by a 
meticulous brush, fascinating in its unifying control over spontaneous 
outlines. 

"I didn't ask you name?" 

I glanced at Taut, but didn't take my eyes off the view in the mirror.
"Phil Gallo. You're the first who asked." 

"You mean your clients?" I heard him sigh, a small suppressed sigh
(fear? regret?), and felt his hand pull the mirror from my grip, 
claiming it back. Reluctantly I let it go, and the last thing I saw in 
it was my own puzzled and wistful reflection captured in brown colours, 
like a portrait in a frame darkened with age. I started, as if waking 
up from a daydream, and reached for my gun. 

"Sorry, Taut. It's my business." 

"Sure." He remained seated, the mirror balancing in his hands. The train
rattled on, swaying and jumping slightly over rail joints. 

"Nothing personal." 

"Nothing personal." 

I raised my gun. He blinked at me behind his glasses. His fingers
released the mirror, and it dropped on the floor, and hit the metal, 
and shattered. _______________ 

"...We're questioning all the passengers. So, you say your friend got on
that train, but you think he wasn't on it when it arrived? His name? 
Phil Gallo? Ok, I got the photo. We're searching. Yes, mister, I said: 
we're searching." 

"...No, me and my wife didn't notice anything. No, we didn't see this
man." 

"...It was late night, and I fell asleep at once. No, I'm afraid I can't
help you, sergeant." 

Bruno Taut sat among several dozens of passengers awaiting police
interrogation. He was the next but one in line. His suitcase was by his 
knee, like a faithful dog. 

"No, nothing out of hand. Oh, one thing, sergeant: when I was checking
the compartments for the left luggage, I saw somebody had broken a 
mirror. Brings you seven years of bad luck, you know... eh... sorry, 
sergeant." 

He watched the woman from the staff leave, and then it was his turn. He
looked at the photo and shook his head. 

"Who? Gallo? Never heard that name." 

THE END 

5,609 words 


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