For Emilio

"You need an alias," said Bravo one evening, in his usual nonplussed way, over a cup of coffee in Tallinn.

"You've never even asked me what my actual name is. Now I need an alias?" I responded.

"Yes."

"For the next job, right?"

"No. From now on. Here." He slid a passport across the table. The name under the picture (how did he even get my picture?) was Rico Sabor. "Now let's go."

He stood and left the building. I hurried along behind him, clutching my new identity tightly. I could feel my heart begin to pound against the inside of my chest, just like it always did when it was time. (The ancient Greeks had a word for this--kairos, the appointed time. I knew exactly what they meant.) My heart's rhythm matched precisely the beating against the outside of my chest made by the .357 in my shoulder holster. I hated the gun, hated using it, hating everything about it, but it had saved my life many times. It was a lucky burden.

We were heading to the warehouse district. It was a 10-minute brisk walk from the coffee shop, but Bravo's efficient gate forced us there in eight. We walked along the steel facades until we reached the door of one of them. Upon it was painted the number 27. The door was slightly ajar, and we slid into the darkness.

After my eyes adjusted, I knew why we were here. Before us was a lone helicopter. It was one I had seen before. It belonged to a Colombian drug lord, and no friend of Bravo's. The man had, in fact, "disposed of" the only family Bravo had ever had, a half-brother named Emilio. The drug lord had disappeared a number of months ago and was presumed dead. Bravo was furious at the news (although only a skilled observer could tell this--it was the split-second look in his eyes), but apparently he had learnt otherwise.

"Stand watch," Bravo ordered. I thought I had seen that look again, for the briefest moment. Nevertheless, I drew my weapon and stood by the helicopter as Bravo entered the cockpit. Five minutes later, he exited. "Let's go."

Exactly nine days later, we were in Gdansk. I was watching the BBC news, when I saw footage of a lone helicopter. A tourist had captured it on tape. The helicopter was flying erratically, like a drunken bumblebee, although there was no sign of any mechanical malfunctions. The pilot could be seen waving his arms wildly, as if vehemently refusing an order of rancid steak. Then, without warning, he stopped, crossed himself, and jumped out of the cockpit to the city streets below. If he had a parachute, he did not deploy it.

"That was for Emilio," said Bravo, looking up momentarily from his book. For a split second, I thought I saw a look of joy mixed with sorrow.