Keith Thomson - Once a spy

Drummond was as nimble as a stag, despite the comically oversized lime green down coat lent to him in Brooklyn. He also wore turquoise slacks and turquoise and glittery gold shoes, the outfit they’d found in the bowling bag in the backseat of Brody’s Toyota. Charlie now considered that the pajamas Drummond changed out of might have been less conspicuous.

A quarter of a mile brought only more trees. Charlie had expected a No Trespassing sign at least. “I don’t suppose you have any idea where we are?” he asked Drummond.

“In the woods in Monroeville, Virginia,” Drummond said in earnest.

“I know that. I guess I was hoping you’d blurt out something like, ‘the forest surrounding the Monroeville Secret Agent Encampment,’ or ‘uninteresting frontage to convince interlopers there’s no point in continuing.’ But I’m afraid you’re right.”

The surroundings seemed to concur. There was the swish of trees in the light breeze and the trill of a few birds who’d either stayed here for winter or thought it far enough south. But there were no sounds of civilization, even at its most secretive.

Deciding to try a different approach to the club, maybe closer to the main gate, Charlie said, “I hope we can find the way back to where we parked the-”

He caught sight of a stone, at eye level, glistening in one of the few bits of sunlight able to breach the ceiling of branches. He flew toward it, until, thinking better, he slowed and approached with caution.

The stone was one in a wall of unmortared fieldstones, the type of wall the colonists built and identical to the one at the club’s main gate. Logistics suggested that the two were connected. This section extended through the woods for another half mile or so, then took a ninety-degree turn and went on at least that far.

“Building an enclosure this size in Colonial times would have required the participation of everyone within a hundred miles for years,” he said, abuzz at having been right. “But I’ll bet this was put up much more recently, like when someone decided that an old-looking stone wall would draw less attention than electrified high-tensile wire.”

“Should we see what’s on the other side?” Drummond asked.

“As long as we’re here, why not?”

Charlie struggled to find handholds and footholds. Gasping, he reached the top of the wall. Drummond was already there, breathing no harder than usual.

“You’re getting your money’s worth out of your Y membership,” Charlie said.

Drummond stared past him and said nothing. His reserve was not due to his condition but, Charlie realized with a start, the huntsman standing on the other side of the wall. The man’s camouflage field coat was classic deer hunting attire, but he looked like he made a living blocking linebackers rather than fitting pipes. Also the shiny black semiautomatic rifle he pointed at Drummond would tear apart a deer. Or a rhinoceros.

Really he was a guard, Charlie suspected. And hoped.

“Both of you, slide down real slow, then stand with your backs against the wall,” the man said.

They rode in a six-wheel all-terrain vehicle, their captor at the controls in a motorcycle-style seat, Charlie and Drummond dead-bolted inside a cold, dark, and windowless trailer, hands pressed against the icy metal walls and floor to brace against the bumps and jolts. Through a small ventilation grate, Charlie watched the browns and yellows of the woods give way to the uniform pale green of a golf course.

The three-minute ride ended with a skidding halt on damp grass. A rasp of the bolt and the guard opened the trailer, revealing a wall of red and brown bricks set in a herringbone pattern. With a flick of the rifle, he gestured for Charlie and Drummond to exit the trailer.

As Charlie slid out, and his eyes readjusted to daylight, he saw that the bricks comprised the first story of a three-story, oak-framed Tudor mansion nearly a city block long, topped with a steeply pitched red tile roof that was a mountainscape of gables and dormers and cut-stone chimneys. Charlie had anticipated an impressive clubhouse but nothing of this scale or majesty.

“That way,” the guard ordered. It was as much as he’d said since ordering them against the wall to submit to a weapons search. He pointed his rifle at a stone staircase that wrapped around one side of clubhouse.

The stairs brought the three of them to a polished limestone portico that ran the length of the building, with tall, perfectly cylindrical columns every five or six feet. Inside it, their footfalls sounded like applause.

Halfway down, they crossed paths with two men in their late sixties, wearing expensive tennis shoes and the sort of warm-up suits in fashion at Wimbledon. Flushed from a match, they both smiled, one giving a crisp military salute and the other offering a bright “Good morning.” In reply the guard uttered a deferential, “Sirs.” With far too much cordiality, Drummond said, “Hello, how are you?” Charlie simply nodded, while studying the players’ reactions to the assault rifle at his and Drummond’s backs. They appeared to find Drummond’s bowling pants and shoes of greater interest. As they passed, they resumed a discussion of whether it was late enough in the day for cocktails. Charlie wondered what would have fazed them.

At the portico’s end, the guard directed him and Drummond up a short brick pathway. It led to a flagstone terrace that had the dimensions of a Broadway stage and overlooked an expansive garden, beyond which were a trio of grass tennis courts and, after that, a good percentage of Virginia.

A silver-haired woman in a wheelchair rolled over to meet them.

Charlie hadn’t anticipated that she would be paraplegic, but it rated as a background detail. That his mother was really alive was almost as great a shock as her “death” had been. She looked to be in her early fifties, but unless Social Security were in on the deception, she was sixty-five. As ever, she was trim, her features were sharp, and her sea-glass-green eyes radiated intelligence. She wore a buttery blouse, a cashmere cardigan, and tartan riding breeches. Even with the wheelchair and the woolen blanket atop her legs, she had such windblown vitality that he might have believed she’d just come from breaking a horse-which she used to do on the ranch in Montana, where she grew up.

Or so he’d been told.

“It’s them, definitely,” she told the guard.

The guard looked from her to Charlie and back again. Probably the resemblance alone convinced him. He lowered his rifle, allowing Charlie and Drummond onto the terrace.

Crossing the flagstones to meet her, Charlie felt an otherworldly weightlessness. He considered that the guard had in fact shot him against the stone wall, and this was some sort of afterlife.

“Never in the thousands of times I dreamed of this were you so handsome, Charlie,” she said. “And this can’t be a dream, because Drummond’s here.”

Drummond didn’t react.

She turned to him with the mischievous grin Charlie remembered. “Of course I’m just joking, Drummond. It’s wonderful to see you.”

“Same,” Drummond said vaguely.

She reached up to Charlie. He leaned into a courteous if tentative embrace. Then she wheeled to Drummond, presumably for the same.

Stepping sharply out of the way, Drummond asked, “Where’s the dog?”

She looked to Charlie.

“Bit of a story there,” he said.

“Well, I’m in the mood for a story.” She turned to the guard. “Lieutenant, you can leave them with me.”

He dropped an eyebrow. “Ma’am?”

“My son and I need to chat.” Son left a glow on her.

“Yes, ma’am.” The lieutenant withdrew to the portico.