The Exchange

“Stonehenge?... Are you there?”

The air was undisturbed in the old barn, the night a crisp autumnal presence embellished with a starry ensemble. Silence was abundant.

“Stonehenge?”

“Stonebridge. My call sign is Stonebridge idiot,” a deep voice came from the darkness in an empty stall, moonlight touching a deteriorated horse bridle that hung from a secular hook. A man stepped out from the shadows, clad in black. He wore a hat, despite the lack of sun; a personal preference to mask his appearance no doubt. Arthur had heard many tales of Stonebridge, a man shrouded in myth and legend.

“Sorry…I’m just a bit… nervous.”

“There’s no room for nerves in this game Arthur.” Stonebridge said walking towards him, and Arthur blinked in surprise at hearing his real name instead of his call-sign from the mouth of a man he was meeting for the first time. It was also his first time in the field, and he had been given the call-sign Journeyman. Stonebridge lit a cigarette, the smell of it instant, the smoke thick and ghostly. Arthur watched the man closely.

“If you haven’t got the stomach for this, there’s the door.” He gestured a gloved hand to the barn door, its wooden beams rotted away from weather damage.

“I have a stomach”, Arthur blurted. “-I mean, I have.” he corrected with a unconvincing nod. “I have the stomach for this.”

“Good.”

Arthur nodded again.

“…Well?”

“Oh- right yes. The package. I’ve got it right here.”

Arthur fumbled and pulled a thin, cylindrical item concealed within his jacket out which Stonebridge snatched at immediately. The man was a mystery, carefully avoiding the light of the moon as Arthur tried to decipher the contours of his face. No one had described Arthur’s contact to him when he was told he would be meeting with Stonebridge tonight. Or rather, everyone who described Stonebridge to him had described him as no one. He could be sure of one thing, that the man was Irish. But then again, he couldn’t rely on an accent alone. The man was a master of spies notorious for his countless alias’, some of which MI6 weren’t even sure if it was really him. Arthur would be a fool to think that Stonebridge would reveal his true heritage, especially since he kept his physical appearance so well hidden. The spy was rolling the cylinder out on the floor of the barn where the light streamed in, smoothing his gloved fingers around the edges.

“A painting?” Arthur stepped closer to him in surprise, bending over slightly to get a closer look.

“At first glance,” Stonebridge responded nonchalantly, reaching into his coat pocket after his evaluation. He held a small bottle in his hands and began to unscrew its lid. Arthur hadn’t been told that he was carrying a painting before leaving London, only that he was to travel south to an abandoned property outside of Haywards Heath in Sussex, and to wait in the run-down barn for his contact, and give the parcel to him in exchange for information. The painting intrigued him. It looked old and fragile, as if plucked straight from a museum. It was an oil painting of a landscape, impressionism. Was that? It couldn’t be. A Monet? Arthur moved closer to the artwork, making out the distinctive black signature in the bottom of the right-hand corner. A real Monet! He drew in an audible breath, and Stonebridge responded with a muffled sound that confirmed any doubt. This was the real deal. Something this valuable should not be touching the floor of a run-down barn. He watched in shock as the painting began to dissolve suddenly in front of him, the scenery fading into itself.

“What are you doing?” Arthur blurted, horrified. Stonebridge had used the stopper in the bottle to drop some sort of corrosive substance onto the painting. It disappeared before his eyes.

“Relax,” he answered, raising a finger to him.

Arthur put his fingers to his mouth. That painting was worth millions. It occurred to him then in that moment that perhaps his superiors had chosen him for this rendezvous because of his background in art history; something of which could often be overlooked in an intelligence agency.

“What is that?” he found himself asking.

“A specialised solvent. It’s fluid is obtained by the distillation of resin harvested from trees,” Stonebridge said eloquently.

“Woah.”

“It’s common name is turpentine.”

“Oh…” Arthur silently cursed himself for his stupidity.

He must look like an absolute wanker. As he watched the remainder of the Monet disintegrate, Stonebridge took out yet another stopper bottle, dropping several drops of another unknown liquid onto the now bare canvas. Within seconds, dark ink started to appear from what seemed inside the canvas itself, forming patterns and symbols. It was a schematic. The two men stared at it for a moment, until Stonebridge stood, rolled the canvas back up and tucked it into his coat sleeve.

“Aren’t you going to tell me about it?”

“No.”

"But-"

“-I thought you said you had the stomach for this,” Stonebridge tilted his head to the side as he lit another cigarette.

Arthur was confused. Why would British intelligence send him to meet with an incredibly dangerous man who had no allegiances, only to hand him a multi-million-dollar piece of history in what seemed to reveal secrets. Secrets they would be wanting. It seemed… unbelievable. Stonebridge spoke.

“You’ve done well Arthur.”

“What do you mean? You haven’t told me anything,” he responded boldly.

“And I don’t need to. MI6 has held up their end,” he blew out smoke.

“What end?”

“You’ve made the drop, now you leave.”

The spy turned to exit himself, and Arthur felt his frustration boiling over. What was it he had just witnessed? The agency had told him Stonebridge would give him a message, although what the specifics of it was he wasn’t privy too.

“I was told you were to give MI6 information,” he straightened his shoulders, hoping to gain some semblance of agency.

Stonebridge turned back to him and walked slowly towards Arthur until they were face to face in the dark. Arthur drew in a breath but stood stock still, feeling unnerved by the shorter man. Although Arthur was armed, Stonebridge would be also and his experience outweighed Arthur’s own exponentially. Journeyman. Why on earth did the agency send him?

“When I have information worth giving, I will inform your superiors. For now, just be thankful I’m not going to kill you.”

Arthur tensed, and contemplated grabbing his gun out from the holster at his side. He’d never had to use it before. He wanted to do a good job, he’d worked so hard for several years and now he'd been given the chance to prove himself in the field. The agency trusted him to bring back that information.

“I’m not leaving until you give me what I came for,” he said with renewed strength in his voice.

“Then you won’t be leaving.”

Quick as a flash, Stonebridge unsheathed a blade and held it against Arthur’s neck. Arthur gulped. His eyes, now adapted to the darkness, could make out the man’s features. Cold sweat slid down his back.

“Journeyman,” Stonebridge snickered. “It looks as though your journey is now through.”

Arthur closed his eyes, as a sharp sound rang through his ears. He felt the pressure of Stonebridge's weight against him and opened his eyes. Stonebridge looked confused, and his face contorted as he dropped his blade and his hands went to his neck. There was something stuck there, and he pulled it out. A dart. The two men looked towards the barn door, a dark figure standing in position and lowering his weapon. Stonebridge looked back at Arthur and stumbled a moment before falling to barn floor. Arthur didn’t know what to do, paralysed with shock.

“Journeyman.” The man with the weapon spoke smoothly. Arthur nodded.

“Stonebridge…. he…he,” he stepped back and allowed for the newcomer to enter the barn. He touched his own throat where the blade had just been. This man also wore black; gloves, coat and hat just like the man now unconscious in front of him.

“That isn’t Stonebridge,” the man spoke directly to him.

“I am.”