spat off to the side, waving a hand in front of her eyes, blinking tears against the sudden swirl.
She turned up the road and moved toward the fence. The gate was running on a trolley, closing automatically. The guard sitting behind the desk, inside his small cubicle in the gatehouse, looked at her, a slight flicker of surprise in his expression.
She gave a little wave, hoping to put him at ease, but he didn’t return the gesture. He reached down, grabbed a steaming mug, and took a long sip of the contents. She could practically feel the disgruntlement emanating from him. Clearly, this was not a morning person, but Adele was on a mission.
“Bonjour,” she said, with a dip of her head. “Good morning.”
“How can I help you?” the guard said, skipping pleasantries.
Adele swallowed and spat, realizing there was still dust tinging her lips. Sweaty, spitting, in running shoes and a running outfit, she supposed it didn’t present her in the most professional light.
“Apologies,” she said, curtly. “My name is Agent Sharp. I work with DGSI and Interpol.” She reached into her side plastic pouch which was strapped around her leg with Velcro. The same place where she held her phone to listen to music. Of course, Adele didn’t particularly enjoy music when she was running. She considered the distraction cheating. Endurance was built through pain; distraction numbed the effect.
“I need to enter and speak with the manager.”
She flashed her credentials and held them up for the guard to see. He looked at them, and then his eyes flicked to her. His gaze scanned her outfit, and then glanced back at the credentials. He scratched at the side of his chin and muttered something beneath his breath.
“Interpol?” he said. “Are you from France?”
She thought it a strange question, and instead of answering, said, “Open the gate, please.”
He held up a finger and said, “Hang on, I have to ask.”
He turned promptly away from her, picked up a dial phone next to his computer screen, and lifted the dusty black device. He pressed it to his cheek, and, muttering to himself after taking another long sip of coffee, he dialed a number.
She waited patiently, sweaty, breathing heavily, feeling the itch of dust which stuck to slick skin. Then, after a brief conversation, the gate guard lowered the phone. “First building, first office.”
***
Adele clicked her fingers together, tapping one hand impatiently against her upper thigh. She could feel the sweat slick against her brow, could feel one of the factory workers ogling her tight running outfit from behind. Her blonde hair was tucked in the white headband. She ignored the attention of the employee, staring at the sealed wooden door with the single black laminate plate which read Coordinateur de l’Assemblée Gregor Fontaine.
Adele rolled her shoulders and shot a look off to the side at the loading dock doors. She spotted another truck piled with brown boxes, pulling away. She thought of the cloud of dust, choking on the dirt. She thought of the many other trucks she had spotted, lining the loading zone behind the factory.
A lot of trucks, a lot of candy bars. A needle in a haystack. And yet, she could feel she was getting closer.
At last, the wooden door swung open, and a small, stiff-backed man with an ankle boot hobbled out. He had an aluminum crutch under one arm, and moved toward her.
For a moment, some of her impatience vanished to be replaced by a modicum of sympathy. “You okay?” she asked, jerking her head toward the boot.
The manager looked at her, but didn’t reply. Instead, he leaned against his crutch, adjusting the boot and sliding it with a scraping sound against the cold stone factory floor. “How can I help you?” he said. “Gate said DGSI.”
Adele nodded. “I’m looking into a case.”
Before she could continue, the manager held up a hand that wasn’t gripping the crutch. He made a wiggling motion with his fingers. “Credentials, please, if you don’t mind.”
Adele sighed, but fished out her credentials from the plastic compartment against her thigh. She flashed them toward the manager, and he took his sweet time about it, but at last, he finished reading, wagged his head, and she returned them to the pouch.
He looked her up and down, not in a lecherous way, but certainly an intrusive one. She shifted uncomfortably, waiting. “You’re on the job?” he asked, wrinkling his nose at her outfit.
“In a way,” she said, briskly. “I’m looking into one of your delivery