Mark of the Two-Edged Sword

by K A Bryant

  The shops across the cobblestone street remain open. Michael Kors, Louis Vuitton, and a few others are permitted to encourage a semblance of normalcy for the dignitaries with their staff subject to the same scrutiny as the hotel.

  I needed something more than my leather jacket and blue jeans for this event. I go up to my room and no sooner is there a knock on the door.

  "I am the hotel concierge, I was told you may require clothing so I took the liberty of bringing the in-house tailor for measurements. How may I serve you, Mr. Driven?"

  I have to get used to that name. Jason's idea. He knew as I do, if this succeeds, I'll need to disappear.

  "Yes, order a black suit, black shoes, two white long sleeve cuff-link shirts, platinum cuff-links slightly decorative but modest."

  "Excellent, Sir. Will there be anything else?" she says with modest eyes.

  Her shoes are freshly polished but I can see deep scuff marks beneath the polish. The tailor steps forward and guides me to extend my arms, circling around me extending and the his tape measure, jotting down numbers, then repeating.

  "Yes, from Laderach, The Pralines and Truffles 18 ct box from their Masters Collection. Two of them," I say.

  "Excellent choice, Mr. Driven." She smiles, knowing of the Laderach.

  "One is for you. Charge it to the room," I reply.

  Her pause made it worth it.

  "Sir, I'm flattered, however, we're not permitted to accept gifts from the guests. I do thank you though. I have heard it is quite a treat."

  It does something to you. Being in service. Abundance of work, lack of gratitude. A luxury can set you back for months.

  "I understand," I say.

  "Your items will be delivered within the hour, Mr. Driven. It is my pleasure to serve you."

  She looked past my beat up leather jacket, jeans and old shoes and saw a human being. No doubt sophistication is stifling in this hotel but its elegance creates a home for it. The balcony is calling me.

  The air is cold and crisp. Leaning on my elbows on this balcony rail feels just like standing on a New York balcony to me. Both views, unforgettable for different reasons. Snow-capped Swiss Alps are beautiful with clouds drifting past them. I could stand here forever.

  My phone rings.

  "Are you secure?" asks Jason.

  "Yes. You?" I can see my breath in the cold air.

  "There's more hands in the pot than I thought," says Jason.

  "Why am I not surprised? Who is or was our shooter?"

  "A ghost with a Russian tattoo. That's all I know so far. Someone inside had to do this."

  "What's your plan?" I ask.

  "For now. Stay alive long enough to find out who burned me. I have a good idea though. What do you need from me?"

  "Nothing. He's not alone, I'm sure. Send me a picture of the tattoo," I say.

  I receive the picture of an image on a hand clasped around a steering wheel.

  "Where are you?"

  "Knowing that won't help right now. I'll keep my eyes open for this tattoo. Oh, Jason, when this is over, I'm treating to dinner. I'm loaded, you know."

  In my mind, I can see him smiling.

  "I don't want to eat with you. Two guys, alone, that's just sad."

  "Pool?" I ask.

  "I'm in. Russians are not a people to be played with. Caleb, I don't know who to trust here," he says.

  "Trust no one," I reply.

  A pause.

  "Caleb, is your man in place?" Jason asks.

  "Yes," I reply.

  Jason is quiet. Too quiet. He is always spewing instructions or advice.

  "If you don't hear from me by morning, Caleb, you know what to do," Jason says.

  "You've got to see Italy. It's a beauty. I'll buy your ticket."

  "Alright, Caleb," Jason says exhaling.

  I hung up on him this time. He gets why.

  Dressed from head to toe, these new shoes are killing my feet. Sitting on the side of my hotel room bed, on the top floor of the Hotel Schweizerhof St. Moritz, this hotel is everything it advertised.

  I curl my toes into the thick carpet. The cool mountain air and moonlight slides over their dark peaks. My room is facing the rear for the view.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Chen, Head Butler & Agent

  Prime Minister of UK Hotel R

  "Lord, help me serve to the best of my ability and-" I say pressing the elevator button to the Penthouse floor.

  "Who did you pay off?" asks Thomas.

  Thomas, my reluctant assistant speaks. Answering a prating fool is a waste of words. Thomas is full of words. He'll continue without me. He usually does.

  "I know you paid someone off! Until yesterday, I was assigned to the top two. The Prime Minister of the U.K. and the President of France, then, all of a sudden, I'm your rutty assistant. And for God’s sake, stop mumbling," says Thomas.

  For God’s sake, I am mumbling. All his weight is on his physique. Wearing a king’s crown doesn't make one a king. Only someone playing dress-up.

  "As soon as they are gone, I'm going to the director. I'll have an investigation put in. You did something. Smug little Chinaman. You and your smart sayings can go to hell.

  “This was my opportunity to get out of here. But you don't think that way... no, it's beneath you to think that way. To finally work for someone important. They would have seen it. I'm sure of it. They would have seen how keen I am and hired me if it weren't for your scheming," continues Thomas.

  My eyes are focused on the floor. No audience for the court jester. He continues. I look upward at the elevator numbers rising.

  "See those jets they flew in on? I would've bloody well been on one with them flying all over this world. I'm going to get you. Believe me, whatever you did, I will find out!" Thomas says, straining his whisper. His face is beet red.

  My word bank is still full. The elevator doors open. There are fingerprints on the number panel. Not for long. I polish it quickly with my handkerchief and re-fold my handkerchief so it is flat in my trouser pocket. Not a distracting bulge.

  "Forgive me, Lord, for the interruption. And grant grace to finish my race. In Jesus’ name, Amen," I say.

  The elevator dings. We are on the penthouse level. I lift the heels of my shoes twice each, making sure my new shoes don't squeak. My routine pat of my three pockets, feeling for the items.

  A pen and small pad, in case those I serve should need one. Small polishing cloth. Mobile phone. Keys to the rooms. Check.

  The doors open. I pause. Few do. From left to right, I look. The hall floral arrangement is perfect, frames and table sparkling.

  Top to bottom. Light fixtures, clean. Floor, well vacuumed. I've mastered it. Completing my check before the elevator doors begin to close behind me. I lift my pocket watch hanging from my polished chain. Three minutes to arrival. I'm in place. Three feet away from the opening elevator doors with prattling Thomas to my right.

  The door guards ignore me completely. Their stare fixed down the hallway to the stairwell.

  My height, a gift. Born an unimposing figure. I disappear easily. The art of a good servant is to serve without imposition. Being present without being evident. The elevator is moving. Still rising. This must be she. It dings. Inhale. Pause and let her examine myself and the hall. Now.

  "Madame, Prime Minister, I am Chen, your butler. Please this way."

  I can't help but smile at my white gloves as I turn the key to her room. The Prime Minister of England received the Helen Bradrutt Suite. Door doesn't creak, good. Elegant three-room suite with center sitting room. It suits her. But something tells me she's frazzled.

  "I'll need you to fetch it from the plane. I get one assistant, just one," Madame Prime Minister of the United Kingdom says.

  She's not happy. Oh my. The rules are strict. Strangely strict. Each dignitary, assigned a room. Permitted only one companion.

  The gift package I placed in her room is lavish. Wilkes’ generosity cost him over five thousand doll
ars alone. She looks at it, her jaw tightens. Clearly it doesn't buy her cooperation.

  I have found dignitaries don't like rules. They are accustomed to making them, not following them. They'll remember their restrictions more than the Champagne gift baskets.

  "My apologies, Madame Prime Minister, but I can't leave you," says her assistant.

  Her assistant is physically fit. Her movements smooth and thoughtful. She studied a martial art. Her body moves as one. She is more than just an assistant, I perceive. I feel there is something more troubling Madame Prime Minister.

  Her assistant can't see it. It's not about the bag. She doesn't want to be here.

  "But of course. I forgot. An MI6 agent that can't remember a bag. Bloody rules... one assistant." She exhales. "My apologies," says Madame Prime Minister.

  "Madame Prime Minister, if I may offer a solution. I can arrange for your bag to be brought to you within the hour."

  She's wondering if she can trust me. I can see it in her eyes.

  "Mr. Chen, is it? How may you proceed?"

  "My assistant will personally retrieve the bag. Will there be anything else you require?"

  She exhales and smiles.

  "No, nothing else, Chen. I appreciate your assistance."

  I turn to Thomas who is standing near the door trying his best to be seen. I nod at him. The silent go-ahead to retrieve the bag from the private airport miles away.

  Thomas' smile drops and Madame Prime Minister notices. Thomas leaves the room.

  "Chen, it seems your hands are full."

  "Madame is truly observant. A good leader knows the best place for each one they lead." Madame Prime Minister smiles.

  Odd. The media frenzy drew a halo of unity around the gathering, successfully masking its true purpose. Soaked in hope for peace. So why does it seem that no one wants to be here? She was here once before. She doesn't remember me. If I've done my job well, they don't. They only remember the hotel. Then, she was calm and charming. Now, she's curt. There is something different, not quite right. I have served in this capacity for this very moment.

  Madame Prime Minister speaks to her MI6 Assistant.

  "Confirm the delivery, then get my son on the phone," she says, pulling the fingers of her gloves, placing them on the sofa table and glances around the room.

  The assistant presses the buttons on her smart watch in a specific combination and points the face of the watch as she walks through the rooms. A green light flashes and two high pitch beeps sound.

  "He'll never forgive me." She seems to be speaking to herself.

  "His fifteenth birthday for this bloody meeting. Quite ostentatious, isn't it?" she says, looking over the Champagne, gourmet chocolates and bouquets that dot the room. "You would think we wished to be here."

  "The room is clear," says her assistant, "delivery received."

  The assistant hands Madame Prime Minister a phone.

  "John."

  The Prime Minister removes her suit jacket, lays it carefully on the back of a single chair and sits gently on the settee, crossing her legs as if she were in a Parliament meeting.

  Gracious and kind-natured, her heart consumed with the good of her land and her people. Her decisiveness would be admired if she were a man, but twice as tough as one standing against the harshest criticism and judgment. Study those you serve. Only then, can you serve effectively.

  I read family became more important to her than ever during her campaign. Her husband died before the final vote. He supported her, stood beside her, shielded her and pushed her forward when her own doubts got the better of her. Maneuvering around their special days became mandatory in her sight.

  Now I know why she is so troubled. This meeting breaks her rule of family first. It made her leave her son on such an important day.

  I remember the first time I met Caleb in the monastery. As an agent of the Central Intelligence Agency, Jason thought I was the perfect candidate to dress as a monk and visit Caleb as a therapy counselor to help his depression. He wasn’t speaking to people. He was the perfect prayer candidate. I watched. Mostly, just watched and prayed his heart would heal. Deep in the garden maze, I taught him Wing Chun.

  The other monks thought it was a way for him to dispel his anger. He fought with Jason, mostly with himself as well. Now, he's fighting something more evil and vile. The cold hearts of men. I'm praying again for Caleb.

  I lift my watch discreetly. The time is approaching.

  "Happy birthday son. Do you like it?"

  There is a knock at the door. The MI6 Assistant nods, permitting me to answer it.

  A tray with a Fortnum & Mason tea set with full English tea. A three-tiered server with sweet, scones and savory sandwiches on the bottom, perfectly made and humbly delivered.

  "We didn't order that," says her assistant to the room service steward.

  "I learned Madam left quite early and had a delay. Refreshments," I say.

  The Prime Minister continues to speak on the phone. Her trust in her assistant clear. She nods at her. Now, her trust in me is clear as well.

  She doesn't even look up at the closing door. The steward backs out of the room and closes the door behind him with a slight bow of his head.

  Giving someone what they need before they even know they need it is a skill set that I take pride in, not shame. The idea that she may enjoy the tray and won't have to call for a single utensil or condiment, thus refreshing herself for her meeting, makes me happy. Her performance, like others I served, optimized because an aspirin was offered, a forgotten item provided or a smile lifted the moment making her free to focus on the larger tasks before her.

  Her MI6 assistant looks at me suspiciously. And I her.

  "When I get home, I have another surprise for you," says Madame Prime Minister.

  She looks at the tea tray and leans forward in her seat, makes her tea and takes a sandwich from the bottom tier. The assistant looks at me. No gloating glance returned.

  "If you require anything, just press this button."

  President of France Room

  I open the door.

  "Mr. President, I am Chen, your butler. How may I be of assistance?" I say.

  He completely ignores my greeting. At least I thought he did, but then, mid sentence, he looks at me and nods.

  "I don't understand you." He continues speaking to his wife. "It was you who insisted upon coming despite the instructed protocol that I come alone and you complain! I want you here, my love, you must believe me, but I won't have you questioning my political decision making."

  He sits at the left end of the sofa, legs crossed. His wife pauses from pacing behind the sofa for a moment, acknowledging my presence, then dives in again. They are comfortable with who they are, clearly. I feel a part of a family standing here. Not an unwanted intruder.

  She is elegant. Beautiful and clearly passionate about her point. She speaks.

  "I must question when it makes no sense. This man insults you, berates you and you come when he calls! You don't even do that for me." The First Lady throws her hands when she speaks.

  "I did what is best for France. I don't have the privilege of letting my ego get in the way," Mr. President says.

  "In this meeting, you must show your strength! You must let him see that you are not-" the First lady says.

  "Stop, Ines," says Mr. President.

  Ines sighs in frustration and turns quickly to the window, crossing her arms tightly. He is expert at drawing in his emotions at a moment’s notice and composing himself, leaving no crumbs for a searching mouse to pick up.

  Ines seems his polar opposite. Though they quarrel I see she realizes the depth of their dynamic. Expressing what he cannot. Wearing her feelings on her sleeve and not trying to hide them.

  I read that the President's advisers have stopped trying to cultivate her into the stoic-faced perfect picture of neutrality. This trait serves her surprisingly well. The people of France admire her. They see truth in her and like knowing sh
e is not a polished politician but that most of what she feels displays what they feel also. Now, I admire her as well.

  She's a significant tie of the people to her husband. Strong, educated, opinionated. She is his greatest asset because he doesn't ever have to wonder if she is telling him the truth. She doesn't have to bite her tongue for his favor in fear of losing her job.

  The papers misjudge their squabbles, inexperienced ears see them as the ending of a marriage but I see so much more. They know in their hearts that as long as they are free to be themselves together and voice their opinions without condemnation or refrain, their love breathes. They live and their marriage is alive and healthy.

  "Mr. Chen, I hear you are a trustworthy man."

  "Humbled by the compliment, Sir."

  "I would like transport arranged. This is to be between you and I, only. My wife-"