One Canada Square, the fifty-story tall high-rise skyscraper with its iconic pyramid-shaped top, stood tall in the middle of Canary Wharf, London, glittering in the London night skyline.
On a vacated floor in the forties that once served as an office, Quinn overlooked the active civilization that ran along in its fast-paced city life with no time to stop in fear of falling behind. He sat on a leather chair with a glass of steaming slow-cooked salted caramel hot chocolate in his hand. His eyes followed the traffic of cars on the road and the group of office workers that shuffled out of their respective office buildings to return home— he extended his Legilimency senses but shook his head to himself when his range grossly fell short in reaching even five floors below much less people on the ground.
As Quinn wondered how to extend his reach, he heard the door creak open, and a chorus of footsteps entered the room with a chatter that echoed on the empty floor.
"Welcome, gentlemen," said Quinn; his eyes remained on a solitary man who looked to be a delivery man entering the nearby office complex. 'Maybe I should also order in today,' he wondered.
"Did we have to meet here?" asked a gruff voice as the footsteps came to a stop.
"Do you have a problem with the location? No one knows that we are meeting here. It's empty, isolated enough, and with guards who can be turned away with a snap of our fingers. Isn't it a perfect meet-up place?" Quinn swiveled in his chair to come face-to-face with nine grown men, all dressed up in clothing perfect for blending in the non-magical part of the country. "It was either this or inside a dark forest somewhere. I'm sure all of you fine people prefer this to a forest at night."
He snapped his finger, and nine comfy leather recliners appeared in a broad U-shape around Quinn's own chair. He motioned them to sit down, which they did, taking a seat each, with the man who had spoken before sitting in front of him. The man was dressed in leather and seemed to have more hair coming out of his head, beard, chest, and arms than a brown bear's.
"So, what do you have for me, Mason?" asked Quinn.
The nine men were hired by Quinn to follow people. They were a for-hire group that worked in the field of intelligence. After accepting a brief, they executed and got as much information as they could and presented it to the client. It was a secret society of people that Quinn had found in his years of exploring the country during summer breaks, and things had taken a spike when he had run away— his time had been spent in darker, seeder, hidden gaps where people of many skills resided.
"We did what you asked for," said Mason, rubbing his forehead. "Tailing and documenting the daily schedules of nine high-ranking Ministry employees. . . "
"Any problems?"
"No. . . no problems. It's just that this was a big job."
"Which I paid for. You already have your sixty percent as you quoted. Give me the information today, you receive another twenty percent, and when my job is done next week. . . and you keep me updated till that day." He had paid a good chunk of change— golden change— to finance the job.
"Yes, I know that."
Quinn snapped his fingers and clapped his hand. "Then, let's get started," he said. "Let's get started with. . . Head of Office of Misinformation. What is Mrs. Wambsgans doing these days?"
All eyes turned to the person third from the right, and Quinn followed them to face the lean coat-hanger of a man who seemed as though he hadn't eaten in days.
"Err, yes. . . Fiona Wambsgans is a woman who doesn't know how to have fun. She gets up every morning at six, tends her gardens for half an hour, freshens up, and is out of her house by quarter past seven. She takes her office by quarter to eight and is at work till five in the evening. She is home by quarter to six and then doesn't leave until the next morning, where the cycle continues."
"She travels how? Apparation or floo?" asked Quinn.
"Floo directly to her office and the back."
"If that is so, then how do you account for the gap in time in the morning and evening. She leaves at seven-fifteen and assumes her office thirty minutes later; what happens in those thirty later? In the evening, there's a forty-five-minute gap between office and home; what's there?"
The man took out a little tan notepad from his long jacket and flipped through the pages. "There's a night shift in the Office of Misinformation that she directly meets for what has happened since she had left— that covers the time in the morning. As for in the evening. . . she goes to this little cafe where she has tea, the same order every day, and then goes home from there."
'And there it is,' Quinn tapped the leather with his right index finger. He asked, "Any other irregularities in her behavior? Anything at all? Does she have a friend group that she visits— or maybe even an occasional dinner with guests— or if she meets with someone at the cafe. . . anything of that sort?"
"In the time I've been following her, she has had dinner with others twice. Both of them happened in one of those high-end Ministry restaurants. She doesn't meet people outside of working hours."
"A bit strange for a high-ranking Ministry official, but if that's what her behavior says, then she's unique," said Quinn. He had already guessed where she was going to get attacked; it didn't matter if she was outside now. "Alright, moving on, what's the deal with the International Magical Trading Standards Body's chief. Who was on that?"
The one who spoke next among the nine men was the most average-looking man Quinn had ever seen. This was a man whom one could look at and then forget the next second. It was quite frightening.
"Colton Hirsch is, I would like to say, is completely opposite of Wambsgans. He's in the office for four to five hours, but other than that, he's always out meeting someone at salons, bars, restaurants, private clubs— I can confirm with absolute confidence that the man is a functioning alcoholic. In the days, I have tailed him, there hasn't been a day since he hasn't been drunk."
Quinn pursed his lips. This was different from the previous one with various variable factors, which didn't bode well for him. "What are his go-to places?" he asked.
The man took out a sheet and passed it on to Quinn. There was a list with various establishments' names on it. "There's no set pattern of how he chooses where he goes, but he makes sure that he doesn't repeat one place in a week."
"What about reservations?"
"He visits the places so much and spends so much gold that they give him a room, table, appointment whenever he comes."
"In other words, he's a regular," Quinn sighed. "Can you get me his schedule for the next week? His secretary must have a schedule on which we can get our hands?"
Mr. Average glanced at Mason, who spoke after a few seconds of silence. "We can get that for you; it might take a couple of days."
"Not more than three," said Quinn. If he could get the schedule, he could try to find the weakest point in the day. He didn't have the time to keep a constant eye on the target because of the work burden on the day, meaning that he needed to ensure that he had the exact time and location so he could prepare.
"Let's continue; who would like to go next?" asked Quinn.
One by one, the men continued to feed Quinn with information on the targets he had specified, which he got from Lucius Malfoy. There were some which he found easy, while there were others which he found to be increasingly harder than the previous. He posed questions, in return, got answers— for those which he didn't get one, he asked the team to get the answers.
Quinn stood up, and his drinking glass and chair disappeared into thin air. "Today was a great day, gentlemen. I'm quite satisfied with your work, and if you get me what I asked of you today, I'll be elated as well," smiled Quinn. "Now, let's get to the part everyone has been waiting for." Quinn took out a small briefcase from his bag and put it on the floor. He opened it and continued, "This is the twenty-percent cut that I promised you; anyone of you gentlemen can go inside and confirm an amount."
Mason nodded to one of his companions, who went inside, and after a minute, the man came out. "It's the correct amount."
"Great," said Quinn. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to leave." Saying that, Quinn headed toward one of the floor's exits.
"Who are you?" came Mason's voice.
Quinn turned and looked at Mason in surprise. "I'll be honest, Mason, I wasn't expecting you to ask me that. I'm your client, not a target. Or did someone hire you to investigate me?"
"I prefer to know who I'm doing business with," said the spy. "But we haven't been able to find out who you are, not a single fact. . . it's like you're a ghost. In usual circumstances, we wouldn't even take a job without a proper background check—"
"But you did because of the money," smiled Quinn. It wasn't strange they hadn't found anything on him. "You don't need to know who I am, Mason. You can treat me as a ghost if that's what you'd prefer."
Mason sighed. He took out a smoking pipe and twisted a bronze ring on it that lit a fire inside. He took a puff before saying, "I would've preferred what I was getting into, John. I have been hearing chatter about the very people you asked us to investigate. I don't know what this is all about. . . yet, but I'd like to. . . know."
Quinn laughed, "Don't we all. But be careful; knowing can be a curse." He turned away and walked off, humming a tune that seemed a little sad.
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Quinn West - John - I need to prepare; it's going to be a busy week
Mason - Intelligence Seller - Can feel it on his skin. . . something big is coming.
