Kyle Barbeau

The agent鈥檚 heart began to race as the train pulled into Pennsylvania Station, New York City. He hated arriving in the modern iteration of this once-storied railway terminal, much preferring the old-world splendor of Grand Central, further uptown, but his mission brief dictated otherwise. The agent had been on his feet since the train had entered the tunnel beneath the East River, and was now standing in front of the doors, eagerly awaiting arrival. Barely were they open before the agent stepped out onto the platform, checked to make sure that he had not been followed, and hastily ascended the staircases, first to the concourse and finally out to street level. He zipped up his leather jacket and set about to fulfill his objectives.


Mission Accomplished!

Although the weather was still cool, the agent began to perspire as he quickly made his way uptown. The excitement of a mission such as this always gave his senses a jolt; he enjoyed the thrill of the hunt. He did his best to weave through the throng of weekend tourists and busy New Yorkers as he hurried east. “Now is not the time for sight-seeing,” he thought to himself, making a conscious effort to avoid popular attractions such as the Empire State Building and Rockefeller Centre in order to reach his objective as quickly as possible. Crossing over Fifth, then Madison Avenues he soon found himself on Park, where he again turned north, cutting through Grand Central Terminal to throw off any potential tails. Heart still pounding in excitement, he continued his ascent of Manhattan until finally arriving on East 57th Street. His first objective was now at hand. Wiping a few drops of perspiration from his brow he pulled open the door to #42 and ascended the staircase to the second floor.

At first anticipating a cold reception, the agent was pleasantly surprised by his contact鈥檚 warm greeting and firm handshake.

“Good afternoon, sir,” the bespectacled, well-dressed young Englishman politely greeted the agent. His accent made the agent briefly forget he was in New York and not on Jermyn Street. “Is there something I may help you find?”

“Yes,” the agent replied, somewhat sheepishly. “This may sound like a strange question…”

The agent鈥檚 contact smiled. “Those are usually the best, sir.”

“Right. Do you by chance still stock the Pierce Brosnan ties?”

“Which movie, sir?” The contact replied, without batting an eye.

The World Is Not Enough. Looking to complete a collection.”

“Of course! I know the one you mean; excellent tie, one of my favorites. I actually wore it last week!”

“Well now I plan on wearing mine next week!” the agent replied.

“Let me see if I can find one for you sir,” the contact said before climbing the stairs to the next floor, returning soon with a small package, wrapped in clear plastic. “Here you are sir, mosaic tie in burnt orange as worn by Mr. Brosnan in The World Is Not Enough. Great tie. Did you see the movie Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy?”

“Of course,” the agent replied, “loved it.”

“We did the ties for that one as well,” his contact replied.

“Don鈥檛 tempt me, I鈥檒l have to come back next week!” the agent replied, fulfilling Objective A. with his American Express card. As he left the agent turned west and again crossed Madison before arriving at Fifth Avenue, where he turned south in pursuit of his next objective. Arriving at number 711, a burly security man dressed entirely in black and wearing an earpiece opened the door for him. The agent sized up this henchman, looking for possible weaknesses should he need to resort to his martial arts training. The odds did not appear to be in the agent鈥檚 favor. However his concern was soon dispelled by the greeting of his next contact, a strikingly attractive Eurasian young woman.

“Good afternoon, welcome to Omega.”

“Thank you. Here to collect my Seamaster,” he said, stepping past the henchman at the door. The agent was then directed to the second floor, where he found himself faced once again with a beautiful young lady, this one Indian, or perhaps Pakistani, thought the agent. She smiled as she greeted the agent.

“Good afternoon sir, welcome to Omega. How may I help you?” “Picking up,” he answered as he handed her the transport documentation. “Name鈥檚 Barbeau. Kyle Barbeau.”

“Ah yes, Mr. Barbeau, we spoke on the phone. One moment please.” The dark-haired seductress disappeared behind a door, to Q Branch perhaps, and returned with a gleaming stainless steel timepiece atop a cushioned tray. “Here you are sir, good as new.”

“Excellent work; I鈥檝e had this for ten years, and it looks like it just came out of the box. Any special instructions?” the agent asked as he returned the beloved gadget to his wrist.

“Just make sure to keep the crown closed when you take it diving, other than that we鈥檒l see you in another ten years!”

The agent resisted the urge to ask about lasers, detonators, and grappling hooks, returned the young lady鈥檚 smile, and left, completing Objective B. He consulted his beautifully refurbished Omega as he walked back towards Penn Station.

“Hmm,” the agent thought to himself, “time for one more stop I suppose.” He’d heard from a certain trusted authority that he should try the oyster stew and a bottle of Miller High Life at the Grand Central Oyster Bar!