The tiled wall felt cool under Tony’s palm as he steadied himself. Slight nausea, they’d said. Slight? His head swam as if he’d drunk too much the night before. What he’d give for a paracetamol right now, but that wasn’t permitted by the Agency. Just himself, a translation implant, and the clothes he was wearing. That was all he could bring with him.

  His hand went straight to his pocket, frantically feeling for the single item he’d smuggled past the Assistant. Relief swept over him as he wrapped his hand tightly around the metal edges of the illicit object. Good. It was still there.

  The nausea ebbed, and he surveyed the room. A toilet. Of course. The perfect entry-point. Guaranteed privacy: provided it wasn’t occupied, of course. The Assistant would have made sure of this detail.

  Tony stepped out into a dimly lit corridor and found the Assistant standing there waiting. A tall, blonde-haired man in his late twenties with a dispassionate expression. “Here, have some water,” he spoke in a monotone voice, handing Tony a metal canteen. “You’re expected in the Guardroom shortly. It’s down this corridor. Follow me and remember to keep any conversation brief and to the point.”

  Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

  Tony took the time to run over his cover story whilst the pair walked briskly along the corridor. Fuchs, the weary soldier from another regiment, new to this posting.

  As they approached, he could hear the noise emanating from inside becoming louder. The clattering of mugs, laughing and joking. The joviality sickened him. Beside him the Assistant seem to sense his apprehension. “Stay focused”, he said, opening the door, with a voice devoid of judgement or empathy.

  There were about twenty of them spread around the room. Standing, sitting; smoking and drinking. A mixture of ages from young men in their late teens, barely out of school, right through to late middle-aged veterans. The air, acrid with the smell of tobacco, sweat, and beer only seemed to heighten the sickness in Tony’s stomach.

  A lieutenant approached. “Fuchs? Yes?” Tony nodded and presented the papers the Agency had provided. “Good. I have a job for you. I’ve been told you’re good with the ladies, eh?” He smirked, and behind him, the other soldiers chuckled.

  Tony forced a thin smile. The Assistant would have primed the officer over the course of the previous week, planting subtle suggestions here and there, just to create this result.

  “Good. Grab yourself a beer. We’ve got an hour before the big show”, the officer added, laughing. Tony obeyed, gulping down the drink to mask the nausea that still lingered. Soon, his ‘big moment’ would arrive.