A Piece of Cake

“It’s your choice”, drawled Striker, his thin lips drawn back in something approaching a grin, “You can eat, or not eat. I really don’t care either way. Believe me.”

“If you don’t eat, in less than a minute, I'll press this squawk button and the entire café will be surrounded by my men, each of whom have been instructed to shoot you on sight. It will be messy, but brief, and we’ll all dissolve just back into the night, as if none of this had ever happened. Except, of course, there will be a bloody corpse, your bloody corpse, to be precise. for the authorities to clean up and explain away.”

“Eat, and fifty-fifty, you’ll have the slice that’s uncontaminated. I’ll eat the other, writhe on the floor for 30 seconds or so, froth at the mouth as the seizures set in, and then pass, painfully, into oblivion. You'll get up, walk away, and you’ll never hear from us again. I know you’re a betting man, Slick, so what’s it to be?”

Slick looked down once again at the slice of cake which had been laid on the table before him. It certainly seemed inviting, thick chocolate sauce dripping over the moist brown slab. It had been nearly three weeks since he’d last had a full stomach, and despite his training, he was certainly tempted. The odds looked good. Better, certainly than the prospect of becoming a human colander, which Striker had assured him was less than 50 seconds away.

He picked up the fork which the waiter had deposited with a cursory “B’tayavon”, about 5 minutes previously, and eyed Striker keenly as he switched plates. Striker was certainly a cool one, he'd give him that. Not a flicker of emotion crossed his face. Either he was botoxed up to the eyeballs or he'd been taking lessons from cucumbers. Slick could not discern anything from his reaction, or lack thereof. It seemed he'd have to resort to more subtle psychological methods.

“Cream?” said Striker, proffering a small jug in the shape of a cow.

“No thanks,” said Slick. “It looks rich enough already.”

“Very well”, came the reply, “You don't mind if I indulge, do you? Always been partial to a drop myself. It'll be the death of me. Have you quite made your mind up yet? I don't want to spoil your enjoyment of your last meal . You've 38 seconds, by the way.”

“I think I'm happy with this slice”, said Slick, really not sure whether Striker was playing a clever bluff, or if he had already sealed their respective fates. He knew, from the files at HQ that Striker had at most months to live., large B-cell lymphoma, apparently, so it should have come as no surprise that he showed no sign of hesitation as he accepted Slick's choice and poured the thick cream onto his own slice.

“I must admit ”, said Striker, “These last couple of months have been a real tonic, thanks to you. Really got the old blood flowing again, having a truly excellent agent on our tails.”

“Thank you”, said Slick, more from habit than anything else. “I must say that you've done your best not to give me an easy ride. The secret lair in the construction tunnels under Mount Rushmore was a stroke of genius. Iif I have to say so myself. It was more luck than judgement that led me to uncover that.”

“You do yourself down, Slick – may I call you Slick? My minions were regrettably lax in covering up the paper trail, but you stuck with it and exploited their carelessness. A fact for which both I, and the sharks of the Indopacific islands, remain eternally grateful. You're down to 20 seconds by the way.”

Slick instinctively glanced around his surroundings, searching for a means of escape which would have eluded lesser agents, and helped seal his reputation as of one of the foremost operatives of his age. Nothing obvious came to mind. It was a standard middle-eastern café with all the expected trimmings; no readily exposed wiring, no chandelier waiting to be cut down, and a coffee pot, which although boiling, was too far away to be grabbed and smashed into anyone's face. Ten seconds, by his reckoning. Not enough time to come up with his characteristic master-stroke and live to fight another day. But wait... Yes. It could be possible...

But. Why bother? He'd given 23 of his best years to Queen and country, and there were only so many fetid sewers you could wade through, before it became nothing more than going through the motions. He'd no dependants – at least, none that would be recognized as such, and his pension pot had already been bequeathed to his old regiment. He had always worked, lived and survived alone. In all likelihood he would also die alone, unless, by some roll of the metaphorical die, he faced oblivion in the vicinity of the one man who had almost proved his equal. Striker, who even as he mused offered a simple riposte.

“Five seconds, Slick.”

He needed no further prompting. Picking up the fork again, he grabbed the plate bearing the cream covered slice, and prepare to gorge himself. “Just one more thing”, he said, as he was about to slice into the moist chocolatey layers, “Are you sure this thing is gluten free?”