The Backalley.
He knocked on the door twice. A small metal trapdoor slid open, revealing only a pair of eyes.
“Passcode?” the man said impatiently from behind the door.
“Control what you can,” said the man outside.
The door opened onto a dark corridor that led to a lavish room filled with dim lights and slow music. Guided only by subtle nods, he made his way to the second floor.
“You’re here!” said the man with the cigar in his mouth, buttoning one of his vests as he stood. “Please, sit.” He gestured toward an empty chair, then unbuttoned the vest and sat back down.
“What is this place?” he asked.
“This?” The man tapped the cigar over the ashtray. “It’s just a bar. But for those who know how to ask, it’s a lot more. When did the passcode change, by the way?”
“Last Monday,” he replied.
“So,” the man said, leaning back in his chair, “what brings you here?”
“I heard this is the back alley, where you come to trade informa—”
The man cleared his throat, cutting him off. “There’s no need to say such things. What brings you here?”
“I figured out how they’re communicating,” he said. “In the library—books, titles, stories—”
A waiter interrupted, setting two drinks on the table.
