“Chicago. 1932. Anna’s father was a banker. During the early years of the Great Depression, as that time was called, he drank himself to death. Anna’s mother died of influenza a few months later. The poor thing had been in an orphanage for over a year when I saw her pick a man’s pocket with such skill and confidence that she reminded me of you, Dodger.” She gives me a sideways glance and chuckles.
We didn’t coin our nicknames. Fagin’s father—an aficionado of nineteenth-century English literature, and the man who taught Fagin everything she knows about high-class thievery—decided that our relationship fit the mold of Charles Dickens’ characters: Jack Dawkins, a light-fingered and stylish young pickpocket—called the Artful Dodger by his most intimate friends—and Fagin, the ringleader of a juvenile gang of thieves who bring him stolen goods to fence in exchange for food and shelter.
When I retire, I’ll read that book and see if he was right about Fagin and me.
A smirk lifts one corner of Fagin’s mouth, “Let’s hope she doesn’t inherent your penchant for completely disregarding rules.”
We enter her office, a spacious room filled with ornate French provincial furniture, crystal chandeliers, antique bookcases stuffed with first-edition books, and a large fireplace with an eighteenth-century carved mantle. The room is Old World elegance from floor to ceiling. The only concessions to modern contrivances are the computer monitor on the desk and the personal teleport pad in one corner.
“You see the irony in reprimanding a thief for disregarding rules, don’t you? If CVs were required for this job, ‘must ignore rules and laws’ would be a top requirement.”
I drop into an eggplant-colored chair nearest the fireplace, which casts a warm glow over the room as the fire blazes. A decanter of port sits on the side table, so I pour a glass. There is an explosion of summer berries and a hint of chocolate when it hits the back of my tongue. When I retire, I’ll buy a bottle of port for every room in my house.
“Have you forgotten something?” Fagin asks. Raising an expectant eyebrow, she extends her hand.
“No, but I was hoping that you might.” Smiling ruefully, I collect the leather pouch from the bottom of the messenger bag, and deposit it gently on her desk before returning to my chair.
She picks up it up, estimating its weight by juggling it from one hand to the other. “Hmpf. Seven or eight pounds, I’d wager.” She reaches inside. She pulls the diamond from the bag. Her lips part in surprise. “Oh, my.”
I watch as she examines it, smiling in wonder to herself. Finally, she puts the jewel carefully into a box that she locks with a key. The box goes into her desk drawer, which also gets locked.
“Worth ignoring the rules for, isn’t it?”
“The rules are there for our protection, Clémence. Without a code of conduct, it would be chaos out there. We’d lose the Benefactors’ protection and the full weight of GTC law would fall on us.” She pauses as I pour a second glass of port. “I don’t remember inviting you to help yourself.”
“Given that you interrupted my dinner, the least you can do is buy me a drink,” I reply, raising my glass to her and draining it as quickly as the first.
“You were late to the extraction point.”
“Why are you worrying? I always get myself out of trouble.”
“Not this time.”
I groan, thumping the glass down on the table harder than intended. “Carter reported me, didn’t he? Does he ever grow weary of hearing himself talk? You should have heard him scolding me like I was a child. He was ridiculous,” I laugh.
“This is not a laughing matter. The Benefactors are furious with you.”
“I’m sure you can calm them down.” I say, waving my glass at her. When I realize the glass is still empty, I grab the decanter and pour another drink. “Everyone respects and fears you, Fagin, because they know you have GTC leaders in your pocket.”
“Not all of them.” She pulls a sheet of cream-colored paper from a manila folder, and places it on the desk. She gestures for me to have a look.
My steps are wobbly as I shuffle over to the desk and lift the paper to the light. The handwriting looks blurred. God, why can’t anything be simple? I push it back toward her on the desk. “Read for me.”
“Being a cheap drunk is unattractive. You should give it up.” She doesn’t read the paper because she has memorized its contents. “You’re grounded.” She moves to the front of the desk and takes the glass of liquor from me.
“Grounded?” I repeat, stupidly, not understanding what sort of probation is implied.
“No regular missions until you prove yourself capable of following a commander’s orders, including making it to extraction points on time. Too many missed time jumps and the government gets suspicious that their machine isn’t so well-oiled.”
I feel dizzy, so I steady myself on the desk. “How long am I grounded?”
“Until further notice. Angering them earned you the wrong kind of attention. They think your arrogance puts their interests at risk. Until this blows over, we both have to play by their rules.” The look on her face is serious, and she holds both of my shoulders firmly, forcing me to stay eye-to-eye with her. “I have orders, too. If we don’t do as they say, everything blows up in our faces.”
The public view the Benefactors—a powerful cabal rumored to consist of anonymous billionaires and corporatists—as modern day Robin Hoods. If the people knew they hire mercenaries to steal riches from the past to fill their own coffers, their reputation as altruists would be destroyed.
Or maybe not. The public is quite forgiving if you tell a good story, and the Benefactors-as-philanthropists narrative had reached mythic proportions generations ago.
“They’re angry at me. I get it. Why’d they get you involved in all this?”
“Because you work for me. I’m expected to lead a specialized training
