Page 37 of Sigma

The man swivels to face me, catching up his gun, still clutching the coffee. His eyes are blue and cold. He’s not shaved in a few days, and he’s tired, his eyes heavy-lidded with dark circles under them.

He stares at me in silence for a moment, then gestures at the coffee station. “Coffee?” He has a distinct German accent.

I shrug. “Sure, thank you.”

He nods, unfolds from the chair slowly, heavily, as if it’s nearly too much effort. He slides a cup from the upside-down stack still partially enclosed in the plastic sleeve, fills it with coffee. Glances at me. “Milch oder Zucker?”

“No, thank you. Black is fine.”

He hands me the cup, and I sip; it’s strong, and cheap, but it’s hot and I’m going to be awake for a while, I assume. “Setz dich, bitte,” he says, gesturing at a chair with his gun.

I sit. He resumes his seat, after refilling his cup.

He eyes me expectantly. “No questions?”

I keep my expression carefully neutral. “A million of them.”

“But you do not ask.”

“You’re not in charge. You didn’t bring me here.” I shrug. “You’re here to watch me until the next phase of whatever this is happens.”

He smirks. “You are very calm.”

“Are you going to kill me?”

He rolls a shoulder. “Nein.I mean, if I have to, I can and will. But you are correct in that I’m only to watch you, for now.”

I blow across the top of the coffee. “Exactly.”

I have a feeling my moment is near at hand. Not yet, though.

“You are hungry?” he asks.

I shake my head. “No, thank you.”

He frowns. “I should say, this is most unexpected. I have assumed when you arrived to here, you would be so angry,ja? Kicking, swearing. Ready to tear my eyes out. We have your daughter, after all.”Kickink, sverrink…vee haffyour daughter, effter all.

“Is she here? In this building?” I ask.

He shrugs. “Nein.”

I shrug back at him. “Well, then.”

He sniffs a laugh.

A long period of boredom. He drinks cup after cup of coffee, mostly ignoring me. Occasionally types out a message on his phone, one-handed.

Finally, a call comes through. He answers it in German, listening more than speaking, and when he does, it’s only a series ofja, ja, ja.

He then, unexpectedly, hands me the phone. “For you.”

I take it. “Hello?”

“Mrs. Roth. How nice of you to join us.” The voice is low, cultured, with a Greek accent.

The accent, and something in the voice sends shudders down my spine. Reminds me of being locked in a cell on a Greek island. Being beaten, having my head shaved with a dull knife.

It can’t be. We ended the Karahalios clan.