"Obadiah Stane?"
Matthew's expression flickered for just a moment.
Eleanor caught it immediately and stepped closer, lowering her voice. "Obadiah Stane. He's on the board at Stark Industries. He made the appointment a week ago. I did mention it at the time, but briefly, since you were in the middle of training."
She held out the file she'd been carrying.
The photograph was the first thing he saw. A gleaming bald head, a thick beard, the particular bearing of a man who had never once doubted that the room belonged to him.
A second ago, Matthew had been trying to place the name. The moment he saw the face, he didn't need to.
Iron Monger. The final villain of the first Iron Man film, sitting upstairs in his conference room, apparently having done business with his late father.
He took a moment to wash up and change, then headed for the top floor.
Obadiah Stane sat on the sofa with a glass of chilled whiskey in one hand and a half-finished cigar in the other, taking in the room. The decor was heavy dark wood, high ceilings, the kind of restrained grandeur that felt more like a private estate than a corporate office. He had to hand it to them. Whoever had decorated this place had taste.
He drew on the cigar and checked his watch.
Five minutes past the hour.
His gaze drifted to Eleanor, who stood nearby with the still composure of someone very good at their job. He exhaled a slow ring of smoke in her direction.
"Looks like the new man in charge hasn't picked up the punctuality habit yet."
Eleanor's eyes moved slightly. She was about to respond when the door opened.
"My sincere apologies." Matthew came through in a deep grey suit, completely unhurried, not a trace of apology in his actual tone. "When I heard Obadiah Stane himself had come to see me, I figured the least I could do was make a proper effort. Started getting ready at eight this morning and only just finished. I hope you'll forgive me."
Obadiah didn't believe a word of it. But he also wasn't the kind of man who made a scene on someone else's turf. He ground out the cigar, stood, and crossed the room with a broad smile.
"Of course not, my friend. Not at all."
They shook hands. Obadiah caught something underneath the cologne when they got close. Faint but distinct. Gunpowder, and something metallic.
"The new head of security, and his cologne smells like a firing range. I have to say, that's a first."
"I can get you a bottle, if you like."
Obadiah laughed. "I'll pass. I'm a 4711 man, personally."
"Their loss," Matthew said, and settled into the chair at the head of the table. "You had someone book this appointment a week in advance, Mr. Stane. I don't imagine you came all this way to talk about cologne. We're both busy people. What's on your mind?"
Eleanor slipped out of the room and pulled the door shut behind her.
The two of them sat in the quiet of the conference room. Obadiah reached into his jacket for another cigar, clipped the end, and lit it without any particular hurry. He let the smoke settle before he spoke.
"All right. Straight to it, then."
"January. Afghanistan. I need a crew from your company to intercept a convoy and eliminate everyone in it. No survivors."
A beat.
"I actually raised this with your father three months ago. Theodore and I were working toward an arrangement when he passed, so here I am. The fee is twenty-eight million total. Twelve up front, the rest on completion."
Matthew leaned back slightly. "Who's the target? What convoy are we talking about, and who's on it?"
He already knew, of course. But he wanted to see whether Stane would actually say it out loud.
Obadiah smiled and shifted in his seat. "That's not really relevant. Just a personal matter. Someone who's made an enemy of the wrong people."
"A personal matter," Matthew said. He waved the smoke away from his face. "Someone who's managed to become Obadiah Stane's personal matter doesn't sound like someone ordinary."
He paused.
"And if you'd prefer to keep the target confidential, that's your right. But in that case, we won't be able to move forward with this."
Obadiah took a slow sip of whiskey. "That's a shame. I was hoping we'd find a way to do business."
"That's just how it works now. Those are the terms."
"The terms." Obadiah let a small smile cross his face. "I wasn't aware Umbrella had a policy about client privacy. Theodore never mentioned anything like that."
"Theodore's gone. I'm here now. Things change."
Obadiah looked at him for a moment, then let out a short, quiet laugh. He hadn't expected to get turned down this cleanly. By someone this young, in a room this new to him.
They talked for another half hour after that. Nothing that went anywhere near the original subject. Just two men testing each other's edges without committing to anything. When Obadiah's second cigar burned down to the end, he stood, made his pleasantries, and left.
Matthew turned on the ventilation the moment the door closed and stood by the window while the air cleared. The afternoon sun came through the glass and landed across the bookshelves, warm and ordinary.
Down on the street below, the city moved the way it always did. Doormen, cabs, food carts, and tucked into the gaps between all of it, the usual scattering of people who had nowhere to go.
Even here, in the middle of Manhattan, with a building full of resources behind him and more money than he'd ever be able to spend.
He watched for a moment.
"Half a month in," he said to no one, "and the people are still suffering."
He straightened up from the window.
"Time to actually do something about that."
Not for the system rewards, obviously. That wasn't the reason at all.