Byerly smiles, and nods. And then, quick as a fleeting thought, he adds, "And I understand you're not always to be trusted around old ladies."
And then, with absolutely no change in tone, as if that didn't come from his mouth at all, "But for your next job. We do have something, actually, even before the Americans come through."
Most people having achieved a sense for normalcy after doing something dreadful have the good sense to at minimum feign embarrassment at having holes poked into the illusion. Michael Ralston, with his stick across his lap and his attention gloomily fixed on Byerly through the drifting haze of smoke, doesn't blink.
"It's our belief that a colleague of yours - a certain Dr Smith - is being trained as an asset by our most kind and generous counterparts in Whitehall. You know the man, I believe?"
A drag on his cigarette; a curious tilt of his head.
Now there, something in that warrants a reaction—a flicker of the dark eyes, something in his face narrowing with disapproval.
"I do. You're certain?" Of course they are. Or at the very least, asking the question here like this won't make a lick of difference and so he briskly moves past it. "Why not. He has the face for it."
Unassuming. Which may count as an insult to the both of them in this room as well, nevermind how Byerly Rutyer dresses.
"I endeavor not to have strong opinions about anyone too stupid not to know better. It makes all our lives more pleasant."
Smith, methodical and intelligent and reliably likely to select the most uncreative yet technically correct answer to any given problem. No wonder Whitehall has decided they like him. Creative thinking is a natural irritant to those people.
(Imagine chasing Dr. Smith when there are better options at your fingertips. Maybe if he himself were arranged to be concussed once or twice, Ralston thinks, then maybe he would start looking appealing to the SIS as well.)
The long, punctuating drag he takes on his cigarette is more dismissive than it is anxious.
"I have full faith in your ability." There is a tendency amongst assets, at times, to overstate the level of danger or effort involved in doing something that is - at the end of the day - rather ordinary. It's a frustrating one, because one does not want to actually send one's people into difficulty. Teasing out what is simple complaint and what is true warning - Well, it's tricky. But even with limited knowledge of Ralston, this seems to be the former rather than the latter. (Rutyer suspects it often will be.)
"Though I have my doubts that you've ever not had strong opinions about someone."
There's not much left to his cigarette and with no reason to ration what remains (he can get all the cigarettes and liquor and clean shirts and comfortable shoes and a great deal of most else out here in the world), Ralston spends a thoughtful moment or two sucking the rest of it down while he thinks. That it keeps Byerly Rutyer waiting is apparently of little concern.
With two blunt jabs, Ralston squashes the smoldering nub into the cheap little ashtray.
"Do you practice?"
Magic is valuable and dangerous. It's also reliable. Quantifiable. Telling. And while so many of the intelligence officers of England and America do have some hold on it, sometimes it's different elsewhere. The little old woman who had lived in this very flat had told him that she'd never learned. He'd made a cruel comment over it, and had carried the certainty like a coin in his pocket.
Rutyer smiles a moment, his face unreadable. Which answer will reveal more of interest about Ralston? Which will get under his skin? To be reminded of what he's lost, or to think that he's been so disrespected that he's once again being set under someone below his rank?
A lie feels like the wrong approach. In the service of their improvisational relationship.
And so: he lifts his hand and, with a snap, summons a small tongue of flame, sitting above his middle finger. Then he closes his fist once more, smothering it, and then reaches down to pick up his lighter.
"Not something I advertise widely," he says. "I'm not skilled enough to sacrifice the element of surprise."
Small as the demonstration is, the brief whiff of manipulated magic prickles at the back of his neck. Puts a tang on his tongue. Makes the teeth at the back of his mouth ache like he's woken up after grinding them. Without thinking, he adjusts the set or his jaw—briefly presses his tongue against a molar, and—
Then stops, rearranging the set of his teeth and his face about them. It a stubborn sort of pride. A heel digging in in protest of whatever the more immediate response is
(He can feel it tight in his chest, but it will be some times before he decides what to call it. If it's resentment or jealously or something else.)
"Clearly not," he says, laying a hand on the cane and adjusting how it lays across across his thigh. "I've seen children do better. I'm surprised you weren't encouraged to improve."
“You would know, I suppose,” Rutyer says with every indication of guileless admiration. No one in their right mind would buy it for a second, but he does play the ingenue quite prettily. Wide eyes and doe lashes.
“I’ve heard you’re an incredible magician.”
Nastiness, it seems, will receive nastiness in return.
"I am," he snaps back, sharper than the shape of his expression—curved in some purposefully arch fashion—would suggest.
In a flash of impatience, the cane is twisted free from where it lay across thigh and chintz cushion. The foot of it thumps definitively as it finds the floor.
"I lied, by the way." Is not contrite. Pride tastes nearly as sharp and bitter in the mouth as magic does. "The Americans. They've already sent us a slew of work. So you tell me which you prefer. That or Smith?"
There isn't anything about the man's behavior that becomes overtly, obviously threatening. His voice stays light and playful. He does rise to his feet, but not to lean over Ralston or anything of the sort. Instead, he moves to stand just behind Ralston's chair, to look out the window beside him - but there's nothing inherently ominous about that. And yet - And yet a frost creeps into the air, an edge, conveyed through Rutyer's tone, movements, the dark intensity of his eyes. A spirit of danger, unspoken, has been summoned by Ralston's taunt.
The quickening of his pulse is involuntary, and he ignores it. Though the impulse to scrape after a second cigarette— He doesn't turn his head to follow. The itch it puts under his collar, he decides, is inevitable. May as well feel it. Instead, he fixates on the dog headed handle of the cane, twisting it absently in hand so that the light plays of it. If he looks very hard, he can see a uselessly obscure smear of Rutyer reflected in it.
"I find a strange man here in the apartments of my last liaison, and no sign of her. He's dressed like you are, and talks like you do, and is more or less has seemingly been designed to placate me. You could be anyone," he says. "Why on earth would I tell you the full truth before I was certain?"
"No," says Rutyer, his voice even and calm and utterly certain. There's no question in it, nothing teasing, nothing probing: it is simply a flat negation of what Ralston has just said. A rejection of this story. Because: "If that were the case, it would have been a full lie. Not a partial one."
The sound coming from the man might be a little unsettling. The rustle of cloth, a shifting of weight. What might he be reaching for?
But Rutyer speaks again. "You don't need to be so nervous," he says. It sounds like a reassurance, and likely would be, if he didn't add - "This safehouse is quite valuable to us. Nothing is going to happen to you here." That emphasis on that last word hangs disquietingly.
Yes, what could he be reaching for? It's impossible to tell in the muggy reflection of the brushed metal. And across the room, Sibelius' suite is coming to an end as the record player's needle wanders through the last bars.
"Now see who's overthinking things. If I were nervous,"—though he can't help but tip his face faintly in Rutyer's direction—"I'd have said nothing else and let you think you'd had everything from me."
"Such a curious thing, that you didn't," the man murmurs in reply. No further creaks of shifting weight. No motion. No clarity on what his intentions are - just the man holding place in the corner of Ralston's vision, like a vicious hallucination.
(Though it does beg the question: why did he lie, and then why did he share the more complete picture? Was it mistrust of Byerly, poorly-executed? Or pride at war with greed, the desire to hoard defeated with the desire to gloat?
(Byerly wonders if he hates this man. He might. Humorless save for when he finds some cracking cruel joy, selfish and self-interested. No love for country, for people, for honor or virtue. Blood-stained without regret.)
"Did you know," he says, abruptly, "that some doctors back home have achieved some truly startling things. Undoing procedures that many thought permanent."
Is brisk. Practically reflexive. All at once, Ralston divests himself of that calculated would-be idleness so that—with a creak of cushion springs and the forward sway of his center of gravity over the planted cane—he may make to lever himself up from the seat and onto his feet.
From standing, he can see what Byerly has pulled out from his breast pocket. No gun, no poison needle - but an envelope. He offers it to Ralston, smile ambiguous, dark eyes coolly watchful.
He takes just one step toward the doorway of the little sitting room—he's hungry, and there may be something in the cramped little kitchen's cupboards to raid; or maybe he'll just go to prove the point that he isn't anxious, and as if he isn't reliant on what Rutyer does or doesn't ask for and does or doesn't tell him. But the envelope successfully hooks and stalls him. Stood there, half twisted round, Ralston judges first it and then Rutyer with an impatient twist of his mouth.
The record player's needle bumps off the end of it's track and cedes to whisper soft scratching as Ralston snatches the envelope off him. He tears promptly into it.
It's not the easiest thing to interpret. It takes a certain amount of knowledge of medicine and all the nomenclature thereof, the jargon, the subtleties. To say nothing of the fact that it is in German, and rather clearly not originally so - the long sentences, full of dependent clauses resting precariously on elaborate participial phrases, hinting at its Russian origin. Something translated, evidently, for East German allies.
But a clever mind will be able to dig into what this document is really about. It is about a procedure to give Talent to the Talentless. A secret Soviet procedure that has proven ineffective on those born without it - but rather more so for those who, for whatever reason, malady or trauma or deeds done during the war, had lost theirs.
Byerly pulls out another cigarette as Ralston reads and reclaims his prior seat. Watches his face.
There are a slew of Germans working for the defense ministry, most of them forcibly relocated after the war lest they fall into the hands of the Soviets—to say nothing of the proliferation among the ranks of the Americans. And while it's rare to deal with documentation in the language (being somewhat gauche to advertise the level to which everyone is cheating off the Third Reich's homework), there's a certain cadence to notes in translation that leaps off the page. It's strange to recognize it so readily in Russian turned German as he does in German turned English. The novelty of it almost overrides the annoyance inherent in frustrated urgency.
Almost.
It takes him some minutes to work it out. His frown deepens as he goes. Privately, the sensation of something cold like a corpse's hand clamps slowly down on the back of his neck. Click, click, click: the gentle whisper of the record turning.
When he at last looks at Byerly, there's something pale and furious animated in Ralston's face.
"If it's not - " He gives an easy shrug. "Then there will be some dishonest researchers with much to answer for."
He stands, then. Walks over to the record player. Lifts it up and turns it over. It's likely this meeting will conclude soon enough, but even so - good to have music playing, in the case of surveillance.
"My level of honesty, good Ralston, perhaps exceeds yours."
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And then, with absolutely no change in tone, as if that didn't come from his mouth at all, "But for your next job. We do have something, actually, even before the Americans come through."
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Yes, that's true.
"Go on."
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"It's our belief that a colleague of yours - a certain Dr Smith - is being trained as an asset by our most kind and generous counterparts in Whitehall. You know the man, I believe?"
A drag on his cigarette; a curious tilt of his head.
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"I do. You're certain?" Of course they are. Or at the very least, asking the question here like this won't make a lick of difference and so he briskly moves past it. "Why not. He has the face for it."
Unassuming. Which may count as an insult to the both of them in this room as well, nevermind how Byerly Rutyer dresses.
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He goes on, “You know how to go about it. No need to ingratiate or to wheedle - just acquaint yourself.”
Then, “You dislike the man?”
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Smith, methodical and intelligent and reliably likely to select the most uncreative yet technically correct answer to any given problem. No wonder Whitehall has decided they like him. Creative thinking is a natural irritant to those people.
(Imagine chasing Dr. Smith when there are better options at your fingertips. Maybe if he himself were arranged to be concussed once or twice, Ralston thinks, then maybe he would start looking appealing to the SIS as well.)
The long, punctuating drag he takes on his cigarette is more dismissive than it is anxious.
"Finding the time will be difficult."
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"Though I have my doubts that you've ever not had strong opinions about someone."
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"There's something else I want to know," he says, neither agreeing or disagreeing. "In the interest of our improvisational relationship."
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With two blunt jabs, Ralston squashes the smoldering nub into the cheap little ashtray.
"Do you practice?"
Magic is valuable and dangerous. It's also reliable. Quantifiable. Telling. And while so many of the intelligence officers of England and America do have some hold on it, sometimes it's different elsewhere. The little old woman who had lived in this very flat had told him that she'd never learned. He'd made a cruel comment over it, and had carried the certainty like a coin in his pocket.
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A lie feels like the wrong approach. In the service of their improvisational relationship.
And so: he lifts his hand and, with a snap, summons a small tongue of flame, sitting above his middle finger. Then he closes his fist once more, smothering it, and then reaches down to pick up his lighter.
"Not something I advertise widely," he says. "I'm not skilled enough to sacrifice the element of surprise."
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Then stops, rearranging the set of his teeth and his face about them. It a stubborn sort of pride. A heel digging in in protest of whatever the more immediate response is
(He can feel it tight in his chest, but it will be some times before he decides what to call it. If it's resentment or jealously or something else.)
"Clearly not," he says, laying a hand on the cane and adjusting how it lays across across his thigh. "I've seen children do better. I'm surprised you weren't encouraged to improve."
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“I’ve heard you’re an incredible magician.”
Nastiness, it seems, will receive nastiness in return.
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In a flash of impatience, the cane is twisted free from where it lay across thigh and chintz cushion. The foot of it thumps definitively as it finds the floor.
"I lied, by the way." Is not contrite. Pride tastes nearly as sharp and bitter in the mouth as magic does. "The Americans. They've already sent us a slew of work. So you tell me which you prefer. That or Smith?"
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There isn't anything about the man's behavior that becomes overtly, obviously threatening. His voice stays light and playful. He does rise to his feet, but not to lean over Ralston or anything of the sort. Instead, he moves to stand just behind Ralston's chair, to look out the window beside him - but there's nothing inherently ominous about that. And yet - And yet a frost creeps into the air, an edge, conveyed through Rutyer's tone, movements, the dark intensity of his eyes. A spirit of danger, unspoken, has been summoned by Ralston's taunt.
"Why would you lie to me, Mr. Ralston?"
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"I find a strange man here in the apartments of my last liaison, and no sign of her. He's dressed like you are, and talks like you do, and is more or less has seemingly been designed to placate me. You could be anyone," he says. "Why on earth would I tell you the full truth before I was certain?"
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The sound coming from the man might be a little unsettling. The rustle of cloth, a shifting of weight. What might he be reaching for?
But Rutyer speaks again. "You don't need to be so nervous," he says. It sounds like a reassurance, and likely would be, if he didn't add - "This safehouse is quite valuable to us. Nothing is going to happen to you here." That emphasis on that last word hangs disquietingly.
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"Now see who's overthinking things. If I were nervous,"—though he can't help but tip his face faintly in Rutyer's direction—"I'd have said nothing else and let you think you'd had everything from me."
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(Though it does beg the question: why did he lie, and then why did he share the more complete picture? Was it mistrust of Byerly, poorly-executed? Or pride at war with greed, the desire to hoard defeated with the desire to gloat?
(Byerly wonders if he hates this man. He might. Humorless save for when he finds some cracking cruel joy, selfish and self-interested. No love for country, for people, for honor or virtue. Blood-stained without regret.)
"Did you know," he says, abruptly, "that some doctors back home have achieved some truly startling things. Undoing procedures that many thought permanent."
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Is brisk. Practically reflexive. All at once, Ralston divests himself of that calculated would-be idleness so that—with a creak of cushion springs and the forward sway of his center of gravity over the planted cane—he may make to lever himself up from the seat and onto his feet.
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The record player's needle bumps off the end of it's track and cedes to whisper soft scratching as Ralston snatches the envelope off him. He tears promptly into it.
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But a clever mind will be able to dig into what this document is really about. It is about a procedure to give Talent to the Talentless. A secret Soviet procedure that has proven ineffective on those born without it - but rather more so for those who, for whatever reason, malady or trauma or deeds done during the war, had lost theirs.
Byerly pulls out another cigarette as Ralston reads and reclaims his prior seat. Watches his face.
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Almost.
It takes him some minutes to work it out. His frown deepens as he goes. Privately, the sensation of something cold like a corpse's hand clamps slowly down on the back of his neck. Click, click, click: the gentle whisper of the record turning.
When he at last looks at Byerly, there's something pale and furious animated in Ralston's face.
"This isn't real."
See. He can sound certain too.
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He stands, then. Walks over to the record player. Lifts it up and turns it over. It's likely this meeting will conclude soon enough, but even so - good to have music playing, in the case of surveillance.
"My level of honesty, good Ralston, perhaps exceeds yours."
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