Read [The Fear Saga 01] - Fear the Sky (2014) for Free Online

appears massive and terribly beautiful as its surface flies by.
    They look on, as across this canvas their eight smaller cousins blaze their meteoric fall to Earth.

Chapter 5: Blissfully Ignorant

    The Waterloo Club in downtown Brussels is as well adorned as its frequent and honorable guests. Dressed in a tailor-made dark grey suit, crisp white shirt, and one of his trademark colorful bowties, François-Xavier Marchelier walked from his car to the back door, passing the familiar doorman of the club with a genial nod and smile. Two discreet armed guards stood to either side of the door, a series of cameras above it leading to a room where people identify which of the club’s guests the guards should, or should most certainly not search.
    “Bonsoir, Monsieur Marchelier.” the footman said as he gently laid the club member’s white cashmere scarf and calfskin gloves over his left forearm.
    “Bonsoir, Arthur, tout va bien avec le dîner?” inquired François-Xavier.
    “Naturellement, Monsieur, tout es prêt.” says Arthur without a smile, his eyes momentarily closing as he nodded slowly to his esteemed guest.
    “Excellent, Arthur, excellent.” The minister smiled back, turning to make his way into the lounge.
    Deep green, studded, leather chairs, older even than most of their inhabitants, dotted the highly polished, well-worn parquet floor in groups two or four, sometimes paired with matching burnished burgundy leather sofas. François-Xavier strolled amongst the auspicious men toward an unoccupied table with an old and faded ‘reservé’ sign.
    “Ah, mon ami honorable, qu'est-ce qui se passe?” a man hailed as the minister walked passed. François-Xavier bowed gently to the man but did not stop, walking onward with an ingratiating smile. Arriving at the empty table, François-Xavier turned the reserved sign onto its face and sat, plucking a copy of Inventaire magazine from under his arm. As he started to read the magazine, a waiter appeared with a glass of chilled Versinthe, set it on the table in front the minister and then retired without a word, taking the reserved sign with him.
    In a back room of the club, a group of drivers and assistants sat sipping free coffee from a set of glass pots on heating pads in a corner. Among them, First Lieutenant Jeanette Archalle of the French Army Intelligence Service, Special Assistant to the Minister of Defense, sat with her tablet terminal, running various encryption programs on e-mails coming in to the minister.
    Attached to her wrist by a titanium handcuff and weapons grade two-foot stainless steel chain was a briefcase. The case literally never left the assistant’s side for the eight hours she was on duty, at the end of which she would transfer it to one of her two colleagues using an additional chain, seeing to it that it was never separate from one or the other at any time.
    Jeanette had commented to her cohorts at a briefing that it was surprising how quickly you forgot the briefcase was even there, as it literally and figuratively became part of your body for eight hours a day. They had agreed, but had mocked her for saying she thought she might miss it when she went on vacation the following day.
    They had every right to mock her. Getting one of the jobs on the minister’s team of three special assistants was extremely hard and very prestigious. The security process you had to pass was beyond rigorous, and because of that there were no substitutes. While Jeanette was away, the other two would have to make up for her absence by working twelve-hour shifts, and they had made sure Jeanette felt every inch of their gratitude.
    But Jeanette hadn’t been joking when she had said she didn’t notice the briefcase anymore, and unless they were updating its closely guarded contents, or running a drill with the mock codes and protocols it also contained, she almost forgot it was there. Thus the briefcase was not the subject of the lieutenant’s thoughts as she read the