No. 65
Passing
The Ministry has no need for a thief. I am not required to steal, nor am I required to use any of my well-honed skills. Instead, I investigate supernatural occurrences and write.
The Ministry prefers to cultivate my image as a famous thief and turn it into legend. I have written novels for them, and they have turned them into well-selling novels. The public enjoys the idea of a gentlemen thief. I am left to be a detective (not a job I am suited for) and wake up to the dark, heart pounding.
I expect the Ministry prefers its control over my image than its control over me.
They want me to steal something for them. It is a supernatural item, it has gotten into the wrong hands—they want me to steal for them.
I am given no explanation as to why there is such a change of heart.
I cannot tell if they are tightening or loosening my leash.
I am too used to writing now to leave it behind in preparation for this heist. The old skills are coming back. They allowed me to create a workshop near the site of the heist, and I have spent the days preparing.
There is very little time to waste. This item—they have not told me what it is—is small enough for me to retrieve without some more complicated stunts. My only task is to get in and out without being seen.
A small enough task, I suppose. I have done the same thing many times.
This will be my last entry before I perform this heist. It should be an in-and-out attempt, no flaws. I have trained long enough, and I am in the best form I can be without months of additional training and practice.
There will be no slip ups.
---
The window slides open, courtesy of a nearly invisible hand. Trilby does not wear gloves, except on certain heists. This is not one of them, although he does have a pair of gloves handy when he needs them.
He soon slips inside, closing the window behind him with surprisingly steady hands. Closing windows scares him, now. It is an unreasonable thing, but it scares him.
It takes seconds to cross the room and move deeper into the complex. This heist should be easy, now that the old reflexes are kicking in. Not a second of practice can revive the feel of actually thieving. He smirks behind his mask, and picks the lock of the office.
There is one additional thing to do, now. He removes a small charm from his pocket and scotch-tapes it to the door, hiding it. The building’s wards (if there are any) will not detect him. He belongs to the wards, now.
This is one of the sacrifices he now performs when stealing for the Ministry.
---
Three floors down, Trilby presses to a wall, letting three men walk by. This is familiar, again. He scoots forward, grolly at the ready. He is not afraid to use the tazer, even if he dislikes it. But he has seen some of the works that the men here have done.
Reading files in locked cabinets is revealing, and the pictures even more so. Those are now tucked securely against his chest, waiting to be read thoroughly.
He doesn’t dare close his eyes, forging ahead into the even more secure levels. Luckily for him, they don’t expect a thief, let alone a legend.
“But we can’t do that!” He hears, and again he sticks to the wall, throwing himself up to the ceiling. He sticks, watching, and again two people pass under him. He can’t stay up forever, but he doesn’t need to.
He goes down and moves forward, going down another floor. There must be a meeting getting out, as there are more people as he progresses. Finally he presses to the wall, and before he can go up, too many people hurry by, talking.
It is only luck that keeps them from spotting him.
Trilby finds the meeting hall, nicks the meeting plan from the ledger, and barely makes it out before someone else enters.
---
Finally he finds his quarry. He stands in a small room packed with antiques. He can’t be sure, but only a few of them look supernatural.
He was told that his quarry would be a small object, and he would know it when he saw it.
Trilby isn’t stupid. When he sees the Defoe Idol, he knows what he was sent for.
Carefully—very carefully—he takes it, gloves on, and he tucks it away, wishing he could burn it. It was supposed to be in space by now!
There are possibilities—that it wasn’t meant to go into space, that it was stolen and he wasn’t told—but he knows that he needs to get it back to the Ministry and away.
He doesn’t touch anything else. One cursed item is enough.
---
It barely made it on. I was just in time. Another day, and I don’t want to think about it.
It felt good to be myself again, but I doubt that I will have a chance to do it again. I don’t know whether to thank the Ministry or to act against it.
It occurs to me that they must have need of a thief more often than not, but I suspect that they fear what I could do, should I be well practiced. They have learned their lesson from the Company.
For now, however, I am an STP agent.
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