A low-level spy's wife disappears on foreign soil. One of her shoes is the only thing left behind. He tried to track her down.
Their apartment was barely large enough for the both of them. He had been working for the intelligence agency for nearly four years now, but he still held an entry-level position. He had been happy to land a posting with the foreign services department. His wife had been happy too. They furnished their home away from home simply, but with an acceptable dose of taste.
This afternoon, all the photographs his wife had taken were scattered all over the floor, some of them ripped. The frames broken, shattered glass everywhere. That’s what saddened him most. The whole apartment had been ransacked; he could see that much from the doorway. He didn’t care so much about the furniture, dishes, appliances or clothing. Even the pictures could be replaced – but it felt to him as if the intimacy between him and his wife had been violated.
He bent down and picked up one of his wife’s shoe. There was a drop of blood on it. Just a tiny drop that wouldn’t have meant much to him if he could’ve found the matching shoe. Panic gripped his heart, made his blood run cold, but he didn’t panic. He never panicked.
He took out his mobile phone and dialed the number for the shift supervisor at the office. It’s protocol. He had to call his people before calling the local authorities.
He took a step back into the hallway and sat on the floor, waiting for his supervisor to come to assess the situation. He was dying to go through the apartment looking for a clue as to what had happened to his wife, but that was not protocol. He always followed protocol.