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[what-is-sibling-test]

from 'RittenhouseTL' for all things Timeless https://ift.tt/2Owasx2 via Istudy world

The Procurator: 1

Rating: M (may change to E) Summary:   Garcia Flynn is a widowed single father and specialist in complicated acquisitions, who has worked for a shadowy international syndicate for almost seven years and – until now – asked no questions. Lucy Preston is an American history professor leaving her past behind to start a new life in New Zealand, but who discovers that it has followed her in unsettling ways. When they’re thrown together unexpectedly, and when Flynn’s clients start mysteriously dropping dead, sparks may just fly. If they don’t kill each other first. Available: AO3 Notes: Ahaha. We’re all surprised this happened. So we’re clear up front, it is my intention, contingent upon the idiots cooperating, for this one to be considerably smuttier than SSM. When that happens, let us knock on wood, I will change the rating to E.

Samarkand, Uzbekistan

4:57 AM UZT

Garcia Flynn wakes up three minutes before the alarm, reaches over to switch it off, and lies there for fifty-eight seconds, blinking the sleep out of his eyes, before he sits up and swings both legs over the side of the too-short bed. The air is still and stuffy, and smells like the takeaway box of plov on the chair, which he evidently forgot to put into the minifridge. He supposes there isn’t much point bothering now, and makes his way to the bathroom, where he switches on the overhead light and removes a small case from beneath the sink, flipping it open and wedging it onto the counter. There are a number of wigs, hairpieces, facial prosthetics, color-changing contacts, and even sets of false teeth inside, and he removes a dark beard, made of real human hair and backed with latex, and a vial of spirit gum. He is quite good at applying these damn things by now, though they’re always a pain to get off, and there’s part of him that admittedly enjoys the subterfuge, the illusion and invention. Maybe he missed his calling as an actor.

Flynn carefully glues the piece onto his chin, checking it in the dim light of the hotel bathroom for accuracy, and holds the sideburn in place while the gum dries. Then he dons a woven skullcap and a pair of thick glasses, goes back to his suitcase, and dresses in a plain dark suit, tucking his gun into the inner pocket and making sure it is not causing the jacket to bulge or sag or otherwise draw attention to it in any way. His ticket stub from yesterday is still in there, after he flew into Tashkent from Chisinau via Istanbul, on one of the rinkidink regional airlines that operate a fleet of aging Soviet turboprops and are banned from EU airspace. They also aren’t terribly conscientious at checking IDs, and despite the obvious fact of taking your life in your hands, in this case, it was best. Took the Afrosiyob high-speed service to Samarkand, and if all goes well, he’ll be en route to Bangladesh tonight.

Flynn ensures that he’s left nothing in the room, bins the plov, and steps out into the corridor, heading down the stairs to leave the key with the night clerk. The Samarkand Plaza Hotel is a small, attractive European-style establishment about a half-hour walk north of the magnificent Registan Square, the historic heart of the city, and the clerk wants to know if he can phone Mr. Taymazov a taxi. Flynn thinks about it, then declines. Even under a disguise and an alias, probably better not to give anyone too good a look at his face. Just in case.

(Conversely, if this doesn’t go well, he could be experiencing the delights of an authentic Uzbek jail tonight instead, but never mind that. It’s par for the course, besides.)

Flynn thanks the clerk – he doesn’t speak Uzbek, but he does speak Russian, and in all these former Soviet states, that’s the lingua franca and you can get by in it anyway – and steps outside. It’s still mostly dark, the stars just starting to fade in the red flush of the eastern horizon, and the air is cool. It’s May, so it will be plenty warm later, and Samarkand is more temperate than the high, arid Kyzylkum Desert that covers much of the rest of the country, but it still has that sharp Central Asian clarity, dry and crisp. He takes a deep breath, then starts to walk. He can probably make it to Registan in twenty, but no need to hurry.

The streets are mostly empty as Flynn strides down the sidewalk, except for a few cars and buses, the latter of which whiff of diesel. Samarkand is one of the most ancient cities in the world: continuously inhabited since something like the eighth century B.C., a major stop on the Silk Road, conquered by Alexander the Great, Genghis Khan, and Tamerlane (among countless others – it’s basically a prime spot on the historical warlord bingo card), visited by Marco Polo, and vastly admired for its beauty, culture, architecture, and learning. The old city is full of splendid mosques, madrassahs, and mausoleums, the main reason that people visit here, and Flynn’s present appearance will allow him to pass as one of the scholars, imams, or other authorities associated with such places. Uzbekistan is overwhelmingly Muslim on paper, but mostly non-denominational and secular, and actual levels of observance vary. No terrorism, at least, though it shares a short border with Afghanistan to the south. But it’s a repressive authoritarian state run by a strongman president, with a corrupt bureaucracy and rampant slavery in the cotton industry, so they have other problems.

[read the rest on AO3]