Vintage Human: Vintage Razors, Vintage Brushes, Vintage Fountain Pens
Eight minutes past one o'clock on the 24th. My contact was eight minutes late. What could have happened? Was my contact too nervous crossing the checkpoint, perhaps? A slight tremor in his speech, a bead of nervous sweat glistening under the Border Guards' spotlights? Were the Secret Police already on my trail, closing fast?
I willed myself to calm down. At this point panic would only get me killed, and the document I was attempting to smuggle across the border was far too important to lose to a case of weak nerves. It was worth more than my life - worth more than the lives of every miserable wretch in this ruined shell of a city.
I glanced at my trusty Swiss Army watch again. Time was standing still. I had to force myself not to touch the bulge of the silenced Makarov in my overcoat pocket. If the Secret Police were truly closing in on me, the pistol would be useful for only one thing: removing me from the reach of their torture chambers.
What the Hell could be keeping my contact? If he did not show up by one fifteen, I told myself I would try to make my own way across the border, perhaps a bribe with what little money I had left. Luck had been against me since the first day of this lousy asignment, so I was due for a break.
I was stuffing the document into the breast pocket of my coat when the sirens began. Smiling bitterly to myself, I checked the Makarov's chamber before stepping out into the bitter cold to face whatever fate that my bad luck had brought me.