Fragments

[Sören]

Sören offered the phone without preamble, pulling it from his coat pocket and sliding it across the table. He'd made the call for a reason; for this very reason, though it was a contingency plan he'd not thought he'd been going to need. Watching Sarkozy check the tech, he wondered if the man was disappointed with discovering the truth. Though he played the friendly good guy it was not much of a front. When he looked at Sören, he clearly saw muck, so if smugness lit Sören's gaze upon the phone's return, it was well merited. He dropped the phone back in the pocket of his coat, made some vague gesture of understanding, and proceeded to wait.

And wait.

He sipped the coffee black, bitter and chalky on his tongue, and listened to the silence. They had nothing to hold him, he was confidant of that. The detective clearly thought Sören should have attempted to play the hero, but there was little he could have done even if he'd wanted to. The fact it didn't appear to lay on his conscience apparently painted him in shades of revilement, but the dismal opinion predictably made little impact either. Sarkozy had little notion of Sören's intentions, or his motivations. He saw the coldness of a piece of metal coveted over the flesh and blood preciousness of a human life, where Sören's horizon spanned far broader - and far further. Sometimes sacrifices were made in the pursuit of more worthy goals. He didn't expect that to be understood.

After a time his fingers drummed a rhythm on the table in front of him, the only mark of his impatience. He wondered if unconsciousness was the same as dreaming; certainly sleep was not the only way to reach the other place. But he was loathe to relinquish awareness of his surroundings to test the possibility, and his mind was too buzzed anyway. He was sure he would hear if the girl died. In the meantime, the tedium loosened irritation; he sighed, and glanced at the door.