Keith Thomson - Once a spy

He pulled his rented Chrysler into a parking space in front of the Rose amp; Crown. The century-old tavern exuded cheery light, warmth, and tinny Sinatra but little of the usual barroom chatter. Parked in the vicinity were just three cars, all of which looked like they belonged to old men.

Fielding would have enjoyed going in for a rum or two and a cigar nevertheless, but he’d stopped only to see if anyone else would do the same. The pickup truck that had been behind him zoomed past.

He backed out of the spot and circled back to the top of the block. He parked among the relative crowd of vehicles outside his actual destination, Eddie’s, a tin-sided boxcar diner. He sprung out of his car and, although he had a pocketful of change, bypassed the meter, where two hours cost a dime.

Inside the diner, many of the old checkerboard floor tiles were missing. From behind a chrome cash register dulled by years of grease, a fossil in a chili-speckled white apron nodded a welcome. Fielding tipped an invisible hat in response. A mailman and two mechanics or plumbers sat at the lunch counter, which was equal parts Formica and cracks; the men were pontificating about the coming Bowl games. The tables were a third filled by the range of the local social spectrum. Fielding, who was only recognized in towns with glossy society magazines, drew looks from most of the patrons, but none conveying familiarity, fortunately.

He approached a window booth, where a prematurely gray itinerant business type with a dour expression was eating alone. Eyeing his bowl, Fielding asked, “How’s the chili?” He waited for the correct response.

“Best I’ve had in years,” the man said. “The guys at the counter told me Eddie’s arm hair is the secret ingredient.”

“How could anyone resist after hearing that?” Fielding sank into the cushioned bench across from the onetime Green Beret who went by Bull.

“Honored to meet you, sir,” Bull said, reaching across the table.

Fielding shook his hand, cold and clammy from nervousness. Fielding engendered this reaction often-and after all these years, he still got a kick out of it. “So let me guess,” he said. “The rent-a-drones are still only giving us nature footage?”

The drones were five-inch-long robot reconnaissance planes the Army had in development at Virginia Tech, where the director of the Center for Objective Microelectronics and Biomimetic Advanced Technology was hamstrung by three alimonies and two child support payments. He had been happy to “lend” the drones to a “visiting researcher” in exchange for a “donation.”

“Just the dense canopy of treetops so far,” Bull said. “No helicopter or any sign of it, if that’s what you mean.”

“I was hoping for a picture of a five-foot-eleven man with white hair.”

The former soldier looked away. “I’m afraid all we’ve come up with is a signal from the beacon in Cadaret’s wristwatch.”

“What’s wrong with that?” Fielding asked.

“If the rabbit had been thinking clearly, the first thing he would have done is toss that watch out of the helicopter. Or toss Cadaret.”

“But the rabbit isn’t thinking clearly.”

Bull lowered his voice. “Sir, he took out five professionals, escaped from the Monroeville club, and stole a helicopter.”

“That stuff is second nature to him,” Fielding said. “If he’d been thinking clearly, he would have taken out the five professionals then simply picked up the phone and dialed Burt Hattemer.”

Bull input a hasty message on his BlackBerry. If any of the diners saw, they would take the display for an online simulcast of a hockey game with digital stick figures representing the players. A few keystrokes and clicks later, he told Fielding, “Okay, two of the hounds are on their way to the wristwatch.”

When Charlie awoke, he felt like he was floating in the air with thousands of diaphanous bits of light in orbit around him. He’d previously thought seeing stars was just the stuff of cartoons. It was the most magnificent and glorious experience imaginable, he decided, when- WHAM — he found himself prone on the cold forest floor.

The stars were gone, replaced by trees as far as he could see, and it felt like his head had absorbed the majority of the helicopter’s impact with the ground.

He tolerated the pain to take inventory of himself. His mouth tasted of dirt. His nostrils were caked with it. His skin was burned and scraped in multiple patches. The rest of him stung. Although slick with blood, his appendages remained attached. Incredibly, everything seemed in working order.

Fifty or sixty feet away, Drummond was pacing by what remained of the helicopter. The crumpled fuselage lay on its side, looking like it originally had been constructed of papier-mache. Drummond appeared to have suffered only scrapes. Of course, if half his ribs were broken, would he show it?

His gun was trained on Cadaret, who sat in the dirt, arms behind him, wrapped around the trunk of a tree and bound at the wrists by wire-probably from the helicopter. Blood trickled from his mouth, welling at his collar.

“Who hired you?” Drummond asked. His eyes were still sleepy, and he spoke clumsily, hunting for words as if English were foreign to him.

“It’s need to know and a day player like me doesn’t need to,” Cadaret said. He was oddly chipper.

Drummond took a running step and kicked him in the jaw. The killer’s head snapped back. His mouth went slack and reddish vomit spilled out.

“Again, who hired you?” Drummond said.

“How about I tell you what I do know?” Cadaret said, his congeniality intact.

Either he’d learned to disregard pain, Charlie thought, or he liked it.

“Fine, fine,” said Drummond.

“They call my office voice mail. The caller poses as a buddy wondering what I’m up to over the weekend. If he mentions the Jersey Shore, I check my Hotmail for instructions-the details of the op will be imbedded in a piece of spam hawking diet pills. If he says Hamptons, I service a dead drop.”

“And?”

“And I do the job, my bank balance goes up, I fly down to my vacation house on St. Bart’s, and spend all my time hunting for carpenters and roofers and painters to undo whatever the hell the latest hurricane’s done.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s all I know.”

“That’s nothing.” Drummond toed the dirt, preparing for another field goal attempt with Cadaret’s head.

Cadaret appeared no more alarmed than if Drummond were preparing dessert. Probably he would act the same way before a firing squad, Charlie thought. But whether or not another blow to the head bothered him, it could leave him unconscious. Or worse.

“Dad, don’t!” Charlie called out. He tried to stand. Pain grabbed every part of him that flexed. The ground seesawed.

Keeping the gun fixed on Cadaret, Drummond stomped over. His look of annoyance was that of someone interrupted during study. He declared, “This is war, and only one thoroughly acquainted with the evils of war can understand the profitable way of carrying it on.”

Charlie recognized this as a ragged version of the wisdom of Sun Tzu, the centuries-dead general whose wisdom Drummond used to recite impeccably, apropos of everything from current events to why a boy needed to make his bed every morning.

“I’m not thoroughly acquainted with the evils of war,” Charlie allowed, “but he’s useful only if he can speak, so how profitable can it be to knock him senseless?”

“Good point,” Drummond said. “Thank you.”

He trotted back to Cadaret with a benevolent air. Then swung the gun by the barrel. The heavy grip cracked the bridge of Cadaret’s nose, creating a spring of scarlet and leaving his head bobbing.