Promethea Read Free Page A

Lyon’s international airport, I had finally felt at home. At the immigration gates, an exquisite blonde French muse in formal navy attire greeted me with a blindingly white smile that I felt compelled to mirror. One thing I learned during my decade-long residence in France was going the extra mile concealing my American background unless exceptionally necessary and so far, this had been serving me quite well. I was able to avoid snobbish smirks and nods of disapprovals targeting our dissident approach to politics, culture and lifestyle, which proved to be quite criticized in Europe. Luckily, a combination of my long forgotten French family ancestry and recently acquired fresh travel documents has been serving me just fine. I presented Cécile with my official papers, a black coloured passport with the words “INTERPOL” and “Passport” engraved in Latin and Arabic silver letters on its front cover. The words placed much confidence in her that she speedily stamped the document after a mere swift glance. “Bienvenue!” the French officer cheered gleefully as she handed me back my papers.
                  Arrivals have always been some of my favourite experiences; I had always hated loose ends and contrarily they have always struck me as closures of some sort. The strikingly post modern and beautifully incepted passageway expanding out of the airport hinted at what to expect from the architectural chef-d'oeuvre that is the Saint Exupéry TGV station. Even this late in the day, the sunlight-flooded bird shaped steel constructed hall felt like a deserved visual pat on the back after such an exhaustive journey. The station was relatively empty; it was too expensive to be a popular way back to the city. Yet, money was never an issue for me. I had always preferred paying extra just to enjoy Santiago Calatrava’s manmade wonder and limit human interactions to a confortable bare minimum. I took the space age like bullet train and before I knew it, a few metro line switches later, I finally made it home. I had rented a studio apartment in La Croix Rousse for about four years now and was finally considering buying it. Compared to the other apartments I rented earlier, this one was fairly close to where I worked, which gave me the luxury of enjoying a 30-minute walk everyday along the Rhone, crossing Winston Churchill Bridge to the Interpol’s headquarters. A blessing most working-class citizens do not usually possess. However and as pleasant as these strolls proved to be, I was not put off the idea of owning my own car, a white Peugeot 308 cc. The carmaker was not only overly popular in France but was also one of the scarce brands unavailable back in the US. Peugeot was also one of the few manufacturers that offered a line of coupé cabriolets, not to mention being the one to actually come up with and introduce the retractable hardtops to the world back in 1934. My brain was an encyclopaedia of random knowledge that I seem to have collected throughout the years. I would like to think that I have amassed some sizeable knowledge between its tiny curly grey creases.
                  That last train of thought fired up my OCD, I needed to check on my car and make sure it was still in order before going up and calling it a day. Yet as I loomed closer, I could not help but to notice a man leaning back by the driver’s door, apparently waiting for me. He turned his head slowly, as I approached, sporting a courteous friendly smile: “Hélène, you’re back!”
                  “Adam, you know very well that I hate it when someone touches my car…” I replied gloomily.

Chapter three
                  Werner Brunner took unusually shorter steps back to the Police Department offices where he was recalled for debriefing. The blond Viennese Police Inspector, who stood just shy of two meters tall, had no credible explanation to what he had experienced earlier that day. “An incredibly