In the mirrored, gold metal of the elevator, Darren noticed the spot on his shirt.  The presence of the other two riders stopped him from reacting with the panic it deserved.  Something about being observed gave him a calm that an empty elevator wouldn't have.  Although he was being watched either way, somehow the opinion of the anonymous security guards behind the cameras didn't worry him, like the judgment of his fellow occupants.

The young woman got off on twelve.  The duffer who would have looked like an exec, if not for the lack of a tailored suit, got off on twenty-six.  Darren wasted no time to get out his handkerchief.  He licked one of its corners moist, before furiously going to work on the splotch of coffee.

Of all days, he cursed. 

Here he was about to finally meet the big boss, and he looked like a slob.  He scrubbed the spot, then licked the white hanky again, cleaning himself like a cat.

The elevator slowed just before the forty-fifth floor.  A light on the camera came on.  Darren straightened up and jammed the cloth into his pocket as the voice came over the intercom.

"This is a secure floor.  Please state the nature of your visit."

"I'm here to see Mr. Jorgenson.  I have an appointment," he said holding up his ID card.

He glided up what felt like another few feet.  Just before the doors opened, he smoothed out his hair and adjusted his jacket to cover the damp spot on his shirt, making sure his reflection was presentable.

The reception area was ridiculous.  It was the size of a gymnasium.  Off in the distance, the executive assistant was talking on the phone behind a chunky glass desk, the top was a good six inches thick.  The wall of windows to Darren's left revealed the Hudson River.  It was a view that half the executives in the company would not hesitate to kill for – they would have happily thrown their flabby, white bodies into a death cage and beat some poor son-of-a-bitch to a bloody pulp to get a desk by that window.  And here it was wasted on the few privileged souls who walked by it on their way to meet the king.

When the company first hired Jorgenson, Darren told his wife that no good CEO would make redecorating his office his first priority.  Over the years his opinion of Jorgenson hadn't improved much.  But being a privileged soul suddenly made him view the whole use of corporate real-estate differently.

Walking across the carpeted expanse, the leather soles of his shoes seemed to glide on the plush surface.  His thoughts turned to his little girls playing in the backyard of their new house.  There was absolutely nothing similar about the two actions.  But the house, the yard, and the joy of his two angels were the reward for his hard work, just as surely as this meeting was.

A few years ago, the large Westchester County home would have only been a dream.  A townhome in a New Jersey suburb, with a postage stamp yard and a killer commute, was all he could afford.  Then he got recruited by Connor for his team. 

Charles Connor.  Better known as Cap'n Connor, behind his back.  The nickname had been given because the man had the look of an old, gnarled sea captain.  He had deeply tanned, weather-beaten skin and a trimmed but scruffy gray beard.  His eyes looked out from a raisin of creases.  The appearance was more suited to running a fishing boat off of the Florida coast instead of wandering the halls of power.  But there was nothing humorous about Charles Connor.  People might snicker when he wasn't around, but his presence demanded a somber attitude and respect.  He had the demeanor reserved for undertakers and executioners.

He was a man that cared deeply about results.  And the only people he had time for were those who got them.

Darren had proved himself as someone who did just that.  He followed orders, did what needed to be done, never flinched.  Even when it meant terminating the very project that had been his golden ticket.  He cut that rope as soon as Connor told him to.  Despite the knot of worry that twisted and built itself up to Gordian levels in his stomach.

Darren wondered if he would be let loose, thrown aside in favor of a new up-and-comer.  Would he be left for dead, parked in some cubicle, with blood on his hands he'd never be able to scrub off?

He had moved into dark realms with his new work. 

Every day as he commuted home, he blasted Mozart on the stereo in his Lexus.  The strains of the genius's music washed the black, devil tar from his brain.  At work, he could allow himself to be a demon.  But by the time he got home, he had to be a husband and a father.  He couldn't let the taint on his skin ever reach his dear Carrie and Madeline.  The two sweet girls were so pure, so innocent.  He would do everything he could – anything he could – to ensure they had only the brightest of futures.

He had been given an order that tested him: obey and put that future at risk, or refuse and... There was no second choice.  There was only obey.  Obey and perhaps be deemed irrelevant, or refuse and be declared a liability.

But when he told Connor it was done, the man said not to worry, he was in safe hands.  Darren was ready for the next level, and Jorgenson wanted to meet him personally to discuss his continued role in the operation.

He reached the desk.  The blonde woman was young.  Much younger than most of the executive assistants at the company.  She looked like a model.

Is he banging her? Darren mused.  Wouldn't surprise me.

She pushed the mute button on the phone and said, "You can go in.  He's waiting for you."

Waiting for me.  Did I keep him waiting?  No, I'm early.

He tried to be unobtrusive about wiping the sweat from his palms on the tail of his jacket.  He looked down to make sure the spot on his shirt was still hidden.  His tie sat flat on his chest.  His heart was beating so hard he felt like it should be fluttering like a flag in the wind.

The office of the powerful Walt M. Jorgenson was breath taking.  It was like stepping into a museum.  In particular, a museum of Viking history.  It was a grand hall as big as the reception area – each of the rooms took up half of the floor.  The waiting area was all cream and birch wood – light and airy.  The office was heavy dark woods, black surfaces, and rough stone pillars held up decorative hewn beams, which masked the generic architecture – turning the contemporary building into an ancient Norse longhouse.

Sprinkled at uniform intervals, artifacts sat in glass cases on pedestals.  Darren passed daggers, pots, horned helmets.  On a low platform beside the massive onyx desk sat the full figurehead of an antique ship.  It was carved to resemble a dragon with a tongue spit out between its teeth.

Although the more he looked at it, the more it resembled a wolf.

The man himself stood in silhouette.  The windows were tinted giving only about half of the outside daylight to the office, but a heads-up display lit up the glass behind him with a chart of the phases of the moon.  It was the same image Darren had on his own computer.

Faintly, masked by the image of the approaching lunar eclipse, the Statue of Liberty stood, looking impossibly close.

"So nice of you to come on such short notice."  Like the wood on the figurehead held a patina of age, Jorgenson's voice still held a touch of his native Norwegian accent.

"It is my pleasure, sir."  He walked towards him praying he wouldn't do something stupid like trip.

His brain wasn't functioning properly.  He knew he had would need to give a report of the operation, but the wheels in his head were spinning like all the teeth had worn off of the cogs. How would he explain that things had been set in motion to rob the government of their prize?  His mouth was as dry as the desert surrounding The Music Box.

The great man was lanky, tall and almost gaunt.  His hair was a mop of blond, coiffed to perfection.  In the lobby, there was a twelve-foot high portrait in oils of the megalomaniacal bastard.  He looked almost identical right down to the black suit.  Except that in the painting, he had a bushy mustache, which he had since shaved off.  It left a wide, bare, semicircle plane of tender pink flesh with a deep crease down the center.  Darren found he was unable to keep his eyes from drifting to it.

Jorgenson reached out his hand.  "Please, call me Walt.  That is how my family knows me.  And what do they call you at home, Mr. Palmer."