- Building the Team -
Jul. 9th, 2010 03:33 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
notasuggestionHelga Sinclair
Atlantis: The Lost Empire
815 words
Preston Whitmore hires only the best, no matter their circumstances.
Obscenity required no translation. The glances the uniformed men exchanged, the way they looked at her, and the tones they used told Lieutenant Helga Sinclair everything she needed to know about their conversation.
The warden had guaranteed her safety in his letters to Mr. Whitmore and Commander Rourke, and he’d repeated his promises at the prison gate, after the woman had been required to surrender her Peacemaker revolver. Helga hadn’t bothered to tell him that if his men or prisoners attempted anything, she wouldn’t be the one in danger. Besides, she reminded herself, Rourke was waiting for her at the embassy. If she didn’t report in or came with fresh bruises, anyone she named would answer to him. While she had little desire to let someone else fight her battles it was a small relief to know he would—especially as she waited in a prison in a strange country.
Helga sat, still and silent, at the metal table in the middle of the room. She faced the door, watching the chatty guards. If she spoke their language, she was sure they wouldn’t speak. One leered at her, and she quirked an eyebrow. Her muscles tensed when a knock came from the other side of the heavy door. Three more men entered. Two were guards, and the man between them wore a prison uniform. Helga stood, and the convict sat across from her at the table. Once the four guards departed, Helga took her seat.
She took stock of the man silently. The last five years had not been kind to him, but they had not destroyed him. With some air, light, and activity, he would be perfectly fine.
“Signor Vincenzo Santorini,” she said, her Italian passable but far from fluid, “mi chiamo Helga Sinclair.”
“Americano?” he asked.
“Si.”
“Then why don’t we do this in English?” He had a light accent, but it didn’t make him difficult to understand. Helga had no difficulty admitting that his English was better than her Italian.
“Vincenzo Santorini, my name is Helga Sinclair.”
“Said that, y’know. Bad Italian doesn’t mean I didn’t hear you.”
Helga ignored him. “I am here on behalf of Mr. Preston Whitmore. He wishes to make you an offer.”
Santorini grinned as he said, “Must not be a good one if he has to send you with it. ‘Never trust a deal from a pretty lady,’ my father always said.”
“Did he now?”
“Well. No. But it’s still a good policy.”
“Thank you for the compliment, Mr. Santorini, but I hope you’ll hear me out.” When he made no objection, she went on. “Your skills caught Mr. Whitmore’s attention, and he intends to make you a very wealthy man.”
“Uh-huh.” The man looked entirely unimpressed. “Until somebody starts poking and prodding around and someone has to take a fall. Then—poof. Back here.”
“Not at all. Unlike your work in Italy, Mr. Santorini, everything Mr. Whitmore will ask of you is entirely legal.”
“Well, I’m listening. Not getting any younger either.”
Helga straightened. She took out papers and a pen from her bag. “This,” she said as she gave him the packet, “is a contract. You will work for Mr. Whitmore for five years. After that, you may have the opportunity to renew the contract, or you will be welcome to go your own way. Day-to-day work in the mining and construction aspects of his company pays a moderate salary. The precise figure is on page three. You will also be obligated to join a team of specialists financed by Mr. Whitmore. We protect and assist archaeological expeditions, and we are in need of a demolitions expert.” As the man looked through the contract, she continued. “These expeditions are dangerous, even life-threatening. Your first expedition would be in June and would give you a base pay of three hundred dollars. Depending on the assessment of your work, this could increase to five hundred dollars for the next expedition. You are also entitled to a small percentage of any profit made from the discoveries of the expeditions.”
The Italian looked surprised. “There’s a catch, isn’t there? What is it?”
“Only the dangers of the missions. You will serve under an extremely capable commander, Captain Lyle Rourke, but your safety cannot be guaranteed.” Helga smiled faintly. “I am also authorized to offer you five thousand dollars as an incentive for moving to a new country and establishing yourself there. Twenty-five hundred dollars is waiting for you at the embassy, and the rest would be presented to you after your meeting with Mr. Whitmore on American soil.”
“What’s to stop me from, y’know, getting the money and, oh, disappearing?”
Helga leaned forward in her chair, meeting his eyes. “I wouldn’t advise it, Mr. Santorini.” She rose. “I’m afraid I need an answer by Friday. The warden—”
Santorini stood and held out the contract to her—signed.
Atlantis: The Lost Empire
815 words
Preston Whitmore hires only the best, no matter their circumstances.
Obscenity required no translation. The glances the uniformed men exchanged, the way they looked at her, and the tones they used told Lieutenant Helga Sinclair everything she needed to know about their conversation.
The warden had guaranteed her safety in his letters to Mr. Whitmore and Commander Rourke, and he’d repeated his promises at the prison gate, after the woman had been required to surrender her Peacemaker revolver. Helga hadn’t bothered to tell him that if his men or prisoners attempted anything, she wouldn’t be the one in danger. Besides, she reminded herself, Rourke was waiting for her at the embassy. If she didn’t report in or came with fresh bruises, anyone she named would answer to him. While she had little desire to let someone else fight her battles it was a small relief to know he would—especially as she waited in a prison in a strange country.
Helga sat, still and silent, at the metal table in the middle of the room. She faced the door, watching the chatty guards. If she spoke their language, she was sure they wouldn’t speak. One leered at her, and she quirked an eyebrow. Her muscles tensed when a knock came from the other side of the heavy door. Three more men entered. Two were guards, and the man between them wore a prison uniform. Helga stood, and the convict sat across from her at the table. Once the four guards departed, Helga took her seat.
She took stock of the man silently. The last five years had not been kind to him, but they had not destroyed him. With some air, light, and activity, he would be perfectly fine.
“Signor Vincenzo Santorini,” she said, her Italian passable but far from fluid, “mi chiamo Helga Sinclair.”
“Americano?” he asked.
“Si.”
“Then why don’t we do this in English?” He had a light accent, but it didn’t make him difficult to understand. Helga had no difficulty admitting that his English was better than her Italian.
“Vincenzo Santorini, my name is Helga Sinclair.”
“Said that, y’know. Bad Italian doesn’t mean I didn’t hear you.”
Helga ignored him. “I am here on behalf of Mr. Preston Whitmore. He wishes to make you an offer.”
Santorini grinned as he said, “Must not be a good one if he has to send you with it. ‘Never trust a deal from a pretty lady,’ my father always said.”
“Did he now?”
“Well. No. But it’s still a good policy.”
“Thank you for the compliment, Mr. Santorini, but I hope you’ll hear me out.” When he made no objection, she went on. “Your skills caught Mr. Whitmore’s attention, and he intends to make you a very wealthy man.”
“Uh-huh.” The man looked entirely unimpressed. “Until somebody starts poking and prodding around and someone has to take a fall. Then—poof. Back here.”
“Not at all. Unlike your work in Italy, Mr. Santorini, everything Mr. Whitmore will ask of you is entirely legal.”
“Well, I’m listening. Not getting any younger either.”
Helga straightened. She took out papers and a pen from her bag. “This,” she said as she gave him the packet, “is a contract. You will work for Mr. Whitmore for five years. After that, you may have the opportunity to renew the contract, or you will be welcome to go your own way. Day-to-day work in the mining and construction aspects of his company pays a moderate salary. The precise figure is on page three. You will also be obligated to join a team of specialists financed by Mr. Whitmore. We protect and assist archaeological expeditions, and we are in need of a demolitions expert.” As the man looked through the contract, she continued. “These expeditions are dangerous, even life-threatening. Your first expedition would be in June and would give you a base pay of three hundred dollars. Depending on the assessment of your work, this could increase to five hundred dollars for the next expedition. You are also entitled to a small percentage of any profit made from the discoveries of the expeditions.”
The Italian looked surprised. “There’s a catch, isn’t there? What is it?”
“Only the dangers of the missions. You will serve under an extremely capable commander, Captain Lyle Rourke, but your safety cannot be guaranteed.” Helga smiled faintly. “I am also authorized to offer you five thousand dollars as an incentive for moving to a new country and establishing yourself there. Twenty-five hundred dollars is waiting for you at the embassy, and the rest would be presented to you after your meeting with Mr. Whitmore on American soil.”
“What’s to stop me from, y’know, getting the money and, oh, disappearing?”
Helga leaned forward in her chair, meeting his eyes. “I wouldn’t advise it, Mr. Santorini.” She rose. “I’m afraid I need an answer by Friday. The warden—”
Santorini stood and held out the contract to her—signed.
