The Tremor in the Porcelain
A retired spy's routine coffee meeting turns deadly when an old, forgotten face appears, tapping out a coded message that signals betrayal and a threat that is already in the room.
INT. COFFEE SHOP - DAY
Sunlight streams through the large front window of a quiet, tastefully decorated coffee shop. The air hums with the GENTLE MURMUR of patrons and the HISS of an espresso machine.
TERRY (70s), weary but sharp, sits alone at a small table. He nurses a cup of black coffee, but his eyes are not on the cup. They move with an old, ingrained economy. Scanning. Assessing.
TERRY (V.O.)
> Twenty years retired, and I still map every room. Calculate angles. See rooftops for snipers, alleyways for ambushes. It’s... exhausting.
LINDA (60s), the owner, approaches with a serene smile. She moves with a quiet efficiency that belies her pleasant demeanor.
LINDA
> The usual, Terry?
TERRY
> Please, Linda. And make it a good one. I have a feeling it’s going to be a long day.
Linda nods, her smile unwavering, and heads back to the counter. Terry watches her go. To the world, she's a woman who makes excellent scones. To him, she's Jocasta.
SOUND: The espresso machine hisses and gurgles.
Linda works, her movements fluid, professional. A few moments later, she returns, placing a fresh latte in a porcelain cup before him.
Terry looks down. His blood runs cold.
INSERT - THE LATTE
The pattern in the foam is not a leaf, not a heart. It is a crude, five-pointed STAR. A signal not seen since a botched exfil from East Berlin in '88. A panic code.
*Abort. You are compromised. I cannot help you.*
Terry's face remains a neutral mask. He lifts the cup, the porcelain trembling almost imperceptibly in his hand. He takes a sip. The coffee is bitter.
He meets Linda's eyes over the rim of the cup. Her gaze is steady, but the corners of her mouth are pulled tight with tension.
LINDA
>>(a little too brightly)
> Anything else for you?
TERRY
>>(the words like ash)
> No, this is perfect. Thank you.
SOUND: A small BELL over the door CHIMES.
JOHN (70s) walks in. He's thin, wearing a beige raincoat that has seen better decades. The sharp intelligence in his eyes has been replaced by a weary resignation.
Terry's heart seizes. John 'Horus' Casey. A man for whom Terry attended a closed-casket funeral thirty years ago.
John doesn't look at Terry. He moves to a small two-person table by the window and sits. A waitress takes his order.
Terry watches John’s hands. Long, slender. The hands of an analyst.
John's black coffee arrives. He picks up a teaspoon. He begins to stir.
SOUND: The gentle background noise of the cafe begins to fade.
CLOSE ON - THE TEASPOON
It clinks against the porcelain. Not randomly. In a rhythm.
Stir, stir, TAP.
Stir, TAP.
Stir, stir, stir, TAP.
A cold dread washes over Terry. Tap code.
His own hand grips his cup, knuckles white. The world dissolves. There is only the sound.
SOUND: The sharp, metallic CLINK of the spoon, isolated and clear.
SUPERIMPOSED TEXT appears, letter by letter, in sync with the taps:
D-O-T.
Terry’s breath catches. *Dot*. John's old callsign.
B-L-O-W-N.
T-H-O-R-N.
Terry flinches. *Thorn*. His callsign.
N-E-T.
C-O-M-P-R-O-M-I-S-E-D.
John pauses his stirring. He takes a slow sip of his coffee.
For the first time, his eyes lift and meet Terry's. They are flat. Empty. The eyes of a man following orders.
The tapping begins again. Slower. Deliberate.
SUPERIMPOSED TEXT:
I.
A-M.
M-O-L-E.
The air leaves Terry's lungs in a silent rush.
The final sequence. A death knell played on a teaspoon.
SUPERIMPOSED TEXT:
T-I-D-Y.
U-P.
John stops tapping. He places the spoon softly on the saucer. The sudden silence is deafening.
He looks Terry dead in the eye. A flicker of something—pity? regret?—crosses his face before it's gone.
JOHN
>>(voice clear, carrying)
> It’s a shame, Thorn. I always liked this place.
John reaches into the pocket of his raincoat. He pulls out a small, heavy object wrapped in a white paper napkin.
He places it gently on the table between them.
CLOSE ON - THE OBJECT
The shape beneath the thin paper is unmistakable.
The quiet coffee shop is now a kill box.
FADE TO BLACK.
Sunlight streams through the large front window of a quiet, tastefully decorated coffee shop. The air hums with the GENTLE MURMUR of patrons and the HISS of an espresso machine.
TERRY (70s), weary but sharp, sits alone at a small table. He nurses a cup of black coffee, but his eyes are not on the cup. They move with an old, ingrained economy. Scanning. Assessing.
TERRY (V.O.)
> Twenty years retired, and I still map every room. Calculate angles. See rooftops for snipers, alleyways for ambushes. It’s... exhausting.
LINDA (60s), the owner, approaches with a serene smile. She moves with a quiet efficiency that belies her pleasant demeanor.
LINDA
> The usual, Terry?
TERRY
> Please, Linda. And make it a good one. I have a feeling it’s going to be a long day.
Linda nods, her smile unwavering, and heads back to the counter. Terry watches her go. To the world, she's a woman who makes excellent scones. To him, she's Jocasta.
SOUND: The espresso machine hisses and gurgles.
Linda works, her movements fluid, professional. A few moments later, she returns, placing a fresh latte in a porcelain cup before him.
Terry looks down. His blood runs cold.
INSERT - THE LATTE
The pattern in the foam is not a leaf, not a heart. It is a crude, five-pointed STAR. A signal not seen since a botched exfil from East Berlin in '88. A panic code.
*Abort. You are compromised. I cannot help you.*
Terry's face remains a neutral mask. He lifts the cup, the porcelain trembling almost imperceptibly in his hand. He takes a sip. The coffee is bitter.
He meets Linda's eyes over the rim of the cup. Her gaze is steady, but the corners of her mouth are pulled tight with tension.
LINDA
>>(a little too brightly)
> Anything else for you?
TERRY
>>(the words like ash)
> No, this is perfect. Thank you.
SOUND: A small BELL over the door CHIMES.
JOHN (70s) walks in. He's thin, wearing a beige raincoat that has seen better decades. The sharp intelligence in his eyes has been replaced by a weary resignation.
Terry's heart seizes. John 'Horus' Casey. A man for whom Terry attended a closed-casket funeral thirty years ago.
John doesn't look at Terry. He moves to a small two-person table by the window and sits. A waitress takes his order.
Terry watches John’s hands. Long, slender. The hands of an analyst.
John's black coffee arrives. He picks up a teaspoon. He begins to stir.
SOUND: The gentle background noise of the cafe begins to fade.
CLOSE ON - THE TEASPOON
It clinks against the porcelain. Not randomly. In a rhythm.
Stir, stir, TAP.
Stir, TAP.
Stir, stir, stir, TAP.
A cold dread washes over Terry. Tap code.
His own hand grips his cup, knuckles white. The world dissolves. There is only the sound.
SOUND: The sharp, metallic CLINK of the spoon, isolated and clear.
SUPERIMPOSED TEXT appears, letter by letter, in sync with the taps:
D-O-T.
Terry’s breath catches. *Dot*. John's old callsign.
B-L-O-W-N.
T-H-O-R-N.
Terry flinches. *Thorn*. His callsign.
N-E-T.
C-O-M-P-R-O-M-I-S-E-D.
John pauses his stirring. He takes a slow sip of his coffee.
For the first time, his eyes lift and meet Terry's. They are flat. Empty. The eyes of a man following orders.
The tapping begins again. Slower. Deliberate.
SUPERIMPOSED TEXT:
I.
A-M.
M-O-L-E.
The air leaves Terry's lungs in a silent rush.
The final sequence. A death knell played on a teaspoon.
SUPERIMPOSED TEXT:
T-I-D-Y.
U-P.
John stops tapping. He places the spoon softly on the saucer. The sudden silence is deafening.
He looks Terry dead in the eye. A flicker of something—pity? regret?—crosses his face before it's gone.
JOHN
>>(voice clear, carrying)
> It’s a shame, Thorn. I always liked this place.
John reaches into the pocket of his raincoat. He pulls out a small, heavy object wrapped in a white paper napkin.
He places it gently on the table between them.
CLOSE ON - THE OBJECT
The shape beneath the thin paper is unmistakable.
The quiet coffee shop is now a kill box.
FADE TO BLACK.