The third speaker in the night's program was just about 15 minutes into their presentation. Victoria Hawthorne could barely hold her anticipation any longer. She was well practiced in hiding her true intentions while engaging with the people around her - thats how she built her fortune after all - but tonight was the culmination of over two years of work and preparation. She needed everything to fall into place. She excused herself from her table, the one that made this night's gala so high profile - they sat her with the Egyptian Ambassador, his wife, some prominent art historians she had met that night and her beloved friend Charles Harrington, whose story about the Barcelona Port Olimpic hoopla at the Marina - the one she had heard at least four times already ever since they had gotten closer - meant it was her cue to leave her table, making up some lie about heading to the bathroom, a surefire way to avoid any further questioning. She headed straight to the main foyer, towards the corridor that connected the reception hall and the entrance to the kitchen. She sat until the waiters brought out the main dish, as to reduce the potential for any lull or pause that could cause additional, unexpected traffic. She wanted to get in and out as soon as possible, gather the information she came for and then head back to her seat just in time for everyone to chalk up her absence to a routine freshening up.
Just as expected, three palm trees sat on the left side of the hallway, their massive pots standing at just about hip height. Victoria pulled out her cellphone, and while staring at its screen her other hand dug down into the dirt of the middle pot, feeling around until it felt a distinct, small cardboard cylinder hidden in the soil. She pulled it out and held it as it rested on her side, eyes glued to the screen. Just by feel she could tell it was what she was there for. She fiddled with it, letting it slide between her fingers and on her palm, the thing being barely shorter and just as wide as a cigarette.
Making sure nobody was in the area, she put back her phone and pulled the two cylinder halves apart, revealing a small piece of paper tucked inside. She unrolled it and read:
BERLIN SUCCESS.199Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡiohAVOdGyh
SEARCH COMPLETE.199Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡseSVSCUjCs
FROM THE ASHES WE REBUILD.
She rolled the paper on itself again, stored it again inside of the cylinder, and put it in the right breast pocket of her vest. She had already identified a few sources of fire in the museum that could destroy the cylinder and its secret message. If anybody had been close by, they could have seen her face golden in the soft ambient lights of the hallway, a face on which now a wide, almost haunting grin took shape on its weathered yet timeless features.199Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡZ9TibeYWnf
