Keith Thomson - Once a spy

“Okay, except it feels like it might snap if I take another step.”

Drummond knelt on the blacktop and gently rolled up Charlie’s left pants cuff, purple and soggy with blood. On its way in and out of the denim, the bullet had carved a groove on the outside of Charlie’s calf.

Drummond said, “I wouldn’t say it’s nothing, but…”

“A paper cut by the standards of your industry?”

“Best not to worry about it.” Drummond pulled a set of keys from Flattop’s pocket. “Now, if our brief helicopter ride taught us anything, it’s that you ought to be the designated driver.”

Limping after him to the Durango, Charlie tried to ignore the repeated detonations in his leg. “When in Spook City…” he exhorted himself.

If there’s such a thing as a lucky gunshot wound, Charlie thought, he’d been lucky because the wound was in his left leg rather than the one used to press the pedals. He drove the Durango from County Route 1 onto a side road where it was less likely to be spotted.

Drummond sat on the floor of the spacious passenger footwell. Like Charlie, he’d replaced his bloody and torn clothing with one of the business suits that had been among the gunmen’s belongings. Charlie watched him power on the fresh-from-the-factory-case prepaid cell phone also found in the gunmen’s things.

“So who does a person typically call when his own CIA special ops group is trying to neutralize him and his son?” Charlie asked.

“There’s a reports officer at headquarters whose job is to monitor everything, down to the number of bullets expended,” Drummond said, his voice fluctuating according to the bumps and ruts in the road. “I don’t think it would be wise to call her, though. In light of the way the fellows have been posing as FBI and DIA, we can conclude that she either signed off on the operation, she was bullied into it, or she’s had a bad fall down a flight of stairs from which she won’t recover.”

Charlie started to grin, until realizing Drummond wasn’t kidding. “Wouldn’t the FBI or the DIA want to know what the fellows have been up to?”

“There are a number of agencies who would, and to whom we could turn. All have twenty-four-hour panic lines manned by veteran agents. The problem is those lines will be canvassed.”

The cell phone beeped its readiness.

“So what does that leave us?” Charlie asked. “Greenpeace?”

“Burt Hattemer.” Drummond clearly expected Charlie to know the name.

Charlie felt the discomfort of dinnertimes past, when his ignorance of current events, other than sports, was bared by Drummond’s choices of conversation.

“He’s the national security advisor,” Drummond said matter-of-factly, probably masking his disappointment Charlie hadn’t known. “He’s been a friend since college, and I would trust him with my life.”

“So wouldn’t it occur to the fellows that you’d call him?”

“I imagine he’s at the top of their list. We can reach him without their knowledge, though.” Peeking over the window line, Drummond pointed to a part of the shoulder shaded by particularly thick treetops. “Pull over there.”

He punched an 800 number onto the phone’s keypad. Charlie brought the Durango to a halt in time to hear ringing. A fuzzy recording of a Scandinavian-accented woman blared through the earpiece. “God dag, you have reached Specialties of Sweden, bakers of the world’s finest flotevafler — ”

Drummond hit 7-6-7.

“Please hold,” said the recording. On came whiney strands of an instrument that sounded to be a cross between a sitar and a fiddle.

“Nyckelharpa,” Drummond said fondly.

Charlie felt a familiar chill. “Wrong number, by any chance?”

Intent on the nyckelharpa, Drummond shook his head.

Charlie looked at the sky. No sign of search craft. Nothing but the setting sun, which seemed grimly metaphorical. “So you called a bakery?”

Drummond pressed a palm over the mouthpiece. “In ninety-nine, Burt and I went to Stockholm under nonofficial cover, posing as venture capitalists. Specialties of Sweden was in the red without prospect of a turnaround. We bought it because it abutted the Iranian embassy. When the workers went home, we drilled through one of our exterior walls and into what the Iranians thought was a secure conference room. We planted microphones, and the Iranians never caught on, so Burt’s ‘venture capital firm’ kept the business. The number I input, seven six seven, is S-O-S, alphanumerically. In a few seconds, I’ll input a code, known only to me. Then both numbers will be routed only to him. First, the system determines our location.”

Charlie’s doubt gave way to wonder. “How?”

“A cell phone can be tracked to within a few feet by triangulating its signal strength with the three nearest cell towers.”

The recorded woman returned. “To continue in English, dial or say ‘two,’ pour francais — ” Drummond dialed 10.

“What language is ten?” Charlie asked.

“There is no ten,” Drummond said. “It’s the first part of my code.”

“To place an order, dial or say ‘zero,’” said the voice. Drummond hit 16. “To track a shipment-” Drummond hit 79. “If you know the name of the person you are trying-” Drummond entered 11. “I will now transfer you to-” Drummond added a 3 and a 5, then snapped the phone shut.

“We ought to hear from him in a few minutes,” he said confidently.

Charlie was convinced of the validity of the system, but not of the code. It started with 10, 16, and 79-his own date of birth. Hardly a spy-like choice. “Any significance to one oh, one six, seventy-nine?” he asked.

“Only if you add the other four digits, one one three five, or eleven thirty-five in the morning-thirty-one minutes after you were born, or the precise time you and I first met, in the waiting room at Kings County Hospital. For a distress code, you choose a number you can’t forget.”

Charlie laughed to himself. He judged it prudent not to explain why, but out of his mouth anyway came, “Don’t get me wrong. If Mom did anything, she showed that you deserve Espionage Parent of the Century. But you forgetting my birthday was about the closest thing we had to an annual tradition.”

Drummond retained his composure, probably with considerable effort. “Regrettably, there were times where the goings-on at the office meant you were short shrifted.”

“It might have helped if I’d known why.”

“For security reasons I’m sure I don’t need to explain, children of intelligence officers are told, at most, that Mother or Dad is a functionary at the State Department. I hope it makes some difference now that you do know.”

“Some.” Charlie felt the hurt of the eight-year-old who believed that his father cared more about a line of cheap washing machines. For the truth to make enough of a difference, he thought, somebody would need to travel back in time and have a talk with that kid.

“Looking for a crutch?” Drummond asked. He sucked at his lower lip, which Charlie recognized as an effort at self-restraint.

“Ever have one of those days where you find out your dad’s a spy, your dead mother’s really alive, a spy too, and then she gets her head blown off? I’m just trying to put things in perspective.”

“You can write off your situation to circumstance or plain old bad luck. Throw up your hands, go seek solace in a bar-most people would understand. Just remember, that’s the easy way.”

Yes, of course, the Easy Way. Drummond used to speak of the easy way, the same way fire-and-brimstone preachers do the Road to Perdition. Charlie would have recognized the words just from the cadence. As always, they sent vitriol coursing through him.