H

I've found L. Well, I've found H.

A fews days ago, I was approached by a very small man in a very large suit wearing a Stetson hat. He sat in the booth behind me, the brim of his hat almost brushing the back of my head. Back to back was the ideal way to hold a secret conversation.

This impeccably disguised fellow revealed himself to be H, formerly known as L. Shockingly, I realized that I recognized his voice. He was the barista who had served me at the Dunsinane Cafe. I asked him how business was there.

"Good," he replied, "I once sold two coffees to a sailor about to board the Argo,"

"What?" I replied.

"You don't know that one?" he replied.

"I don't," I replied.

"It's a secret code," he replied.

"I gathered as much," I replied, "What is the meaning?"

"Of life?" he replied.

"Of the code," I replied.

"Not much," he replied, answering both.

I was briefly distracted as a waiter brought my order of bagels and lox. When I turned back, H's booth was empty, save for the Stetson hat and a note scrawled onto the tag on the inside.

"Q knew something she shouldn't have," it read, "I don't know what it was but I suspect that it has something to do with the Agency. Contact B, and you may be able to infiltrate them. It will be dangerous and you will most certainly die. Dry clean only."

This is where fate will take me, I suppose. There will be no peace until I understand why she died, and so to the Agency I must go.

I've already sent word to B asking to meet. B is a mysterious sort, a neutral mediator in the divide of the Agency and the Organization. I do not trust B. How can one be trusted when they watch chaos and evil and do nothing about it? Yet, I have not the luxury of choosing who to ask for help. I would deal with the devil to solve the mystery of Q's death.

I must know.

- A.M. Ham