Danes hardly noticed the scenery or buildings as they walked.Danes had never been to Grand Cayman before and
normally when he visited somewhere for the first
time, he would drink in all the new sights, sounds and smells with
enthusiasm.  Not today.  Today there were some whales flying around in
his gut, and not in the good way.  Before he knew it they were
standing in front of a nondescript office building.  Short and squat,
like most of the buildings around here, and made of concrete in the
brutal architectural style of the late '70s early 80s.  The only
indications that it was a bank was a small plaque, maybe the size of
an A4 sheet of paper embedded in the concrete of the front wall.  It
was stainless steel, engraved only with `Epicurus Industries Bank'.
Danes had bever heard of it before, though the same could be said of
any number of the hundreds of different banks, investment firms and
what-have-you that peppered the streets of George Town.

Most of the ground floor was like the rest of the building, weathered
grey concrete embedded every metre or so with a small-ish window.  The
middle third of the ground floor, however, was fronted with reflective
glass panels, tinted slightly bronze.  It was hard to see but there
was a small door handle protruding from the right-hand side of the
centre panel.  All Danes could see was Himself, Matroska, and the rest
of the street-scene behind him reflected in the building's glass fa\c
cade.  A narrow concrete path extended from the street running
straight to the glass door.  to each side of the path was a graveled
aread interspersed here and there with various potted plants probably
designed by some long-gone landscaper to soften the stark corporate
feel of the space.  It didn't work well, most of the plants were dead.
Still, despite the dismal state of the `garden' the building seemed in
active use.  There was a semi-constant stream of suited figures coming
in and out of the building.  Most of them fired up cigarettes as they
emerged and milled around on the gravel near the glass wall for a few
minutes as they sated their nicotine hunger, sometimes chatting with
one-another (if another smoker was present) in muted tones before
stubbing out the butt in a conveniently placed ash-tray on the ground,
and returning from whence they came to go about whatever banky
business they might be engaged in.

They had been standing on the path in front of the building for 5
minutes or so Danes guessed before presumably they were taken notice
of.  Matroska had made no attempt to enter the building, or to
indicate in any way to any of the passing suits that they had an
appointment.  He simply waited.  Waited and watched.  Yet another man
in a business suit emerged from the glass door.  This one, however,
looked straight at them and walked over.  He had obviously either seen
or heard of Matroska before as he didn't look surprised in any way at
his formidible appearence.  He obviously hadn't seen Danes before but
was not surprised at seeing Matroska accompianied in this way.  He
simply looked Danes quickly up and down before his gaze rested once
more upon Matroska.

He spoke, ``Ah Mr. Matroska, welcome,'' and turning to Danes, ``and
you must be Mr McKenzie?''  Danes nodded and the man gave a weak smile
before turning back to Matroska and continuing, ``They're waiting for
you upstairs.''  His voice was slimy and obsequious.  Danes disliked
him already.

``And everything has been prepared as per my instructions?'' Matroska
asked in his low monotone, pitch black eyes focussed intently on the
man's face, as if probing his soul for imperfections (of which Danes
was sure there were many).

The man cringed slightly under Matroska's glare.  ``Of course, of
course, to the letter.  If you gentlement would follow me?''  He
turned and walked back towards the building.  They followed.

The inside of the building was in much better condition than the
outside.  It was cool and refreshing, obviously having good
air-conditioning is a critical requirement of a functioning office
environment in the Caribbean.  The lobby looked much the same as every
other in the many office buildings Danes had had the pleasure of being
in.  Opposite the door was a large counter, behind which was sitting a
slightly bored-looking woman, mid twenties and demurely attired.
Receptionist.  On the wall behind the counter was a larger version of
the stainless steel plaque which graced the wall outside.  Two large
potted plants flanked the door, an additional smaller one sitting off
to one side on the reception counter.  Against the walls there were
several comfortable looking sofas for waiting guests, with coffee
tables placed conveniently near them.  Everything was normal.  Too
normal?  What does that even mean?  Danes didn't have time to
speculate as they were led around the wall behind the reception
counter, which did not extend the entire width of the lobby, but was
in fact the building's elevator shaft, with the elevator doors facing
the back of the lobby.  He made note of a door in the rear wall of the
lobby which (if the sign on it could be trusted) lead to a stairwell.
It always paid to make sure of an alternative exit, and no one wants
to wait for the elevator when a quick exit is desired.

Surprisingly enough they didn't even have to wait for the elevator now
as it opened conveniently just as their host was about to press the
button to summon it.  A short trip, up just one level and the doors
opened.  They exited into a corridor which apparently ran the width of
the building with doors placed every few metres or so.  They were led
to the first door to the right of the elevator as they exited.
Nondescript, like the other doors, their host opened it and they
entered what appeared to be a reasonably sized board room.  The far
side of the room was the front of the building and Danes could see
people going about their business in the street a few metres below.
In the middle of the room was a long table with space for around
twenty people.  Only two of the chairs were presently occupied, on the
opposite side of the table from the door, with two more suits standing
a respectful distance behind the seated pair.  The rest of the room
contained only what one would expect in a modern office meeting room.
Projector screen on the wall at one end of the table, conference phone
sitting in the middle along with various cords sprouting up from a
hole in the table surface, ready and willing to be plugged into a
visiting laptop computer.  Around the walls, various cupboards
containing Danes knew not what, but probably random office-type stuff.

Everyone was wearing a suit.  What were suits to these people?  Danes
had never got that.  Maybe being a lower-level IT worker (back when he
did such office work) had exempted him from the great suit cult which
seems to permiate corporate culture.  Danes hated them, yeuch,
uncomfortable and hot, especially in this climate.  Still, the
building was well cooled so he supposed they were OK at least during
office hours.  Matroska strode the couple of metres to the table and
sat down immediately facing the pair.  He looked slightly comical
squeezing his mountainous frame into the office chair, obviouslt not
designed for one of his skyscraper height.  It didn't seem to bother
him though.  Danes took the chair to Matroska's left, sliding it out
from the table slightly to give himself a bit more breathing room.  He
looked around again, their slimy guide had left the room and shut the
door.  Only now did he get a decent look at the seated pair, and their
standing shadows.

Obviously the two behind were bodyguards.  Who else would stand like
that in whatever type of business meeting or transaction this was?  He
also thought he could detect the slight bulk of gun holsters under
their fancy armarni suit jackets.  Also they way they eyed the
newcomers and seemed to be constantly surveying the surroundings for
potential threats.  They seemed almost as aware of everything as
Matroska.  No take that back, Matroska didn't \emph{seem} aware of his
surroundings, he just was aware of them.  He didn't \emph{seem}
anything really, just was, like a rock.

The seated pair were clearly businessmen of some type.  They seemed
important.  Important enough to have bodyguards in any case.  The one
on the right was thin but tanned, reasonably healthy looking with
black slicked back hair.  Looked to be around forty years old and had
a snappy smile like a salesman.  He reminded Danes of a lawyer he had
once met.  The one on the left was quite a bit older and had obviously
let himself go in recent years.  Balding and grey with a terrible
comb-over, the man was pudgy with fat cheeks and a rotund belly.  Mean
fat, like Marco thought Danes, though obviously not of south american
origin.  They both had on the same sort of dark-blue suit, slightly
pin-striped, which Danes found rather odd, but then again, what did he
know about fancy banking types?

Once they were all seated silence reigned.  Danes suspected they were
trying some sort of psyche-out tactic on Matroska.  How did they not
know that that wouldn't work?

An underling entered the room with a tray containing coffee
parephenalia and a small plate of biscuits which he set down in the
middle of the table and then left.  Finally after a few minutes one of
the business men finally got uncomfortable enough with the silence and
spoke.