Keith Thomson: Once a spy

Fielding slumped against the wall opposite Charlie and Drummond.

Charlie snatched Fielding’s rifle out of the air. “That worked out a lot better than I hoped,” Charlie said, battling disbelief.

Looking toward the street, Fielding’s face dropped into an expression of shock. “You-!”

He fell the rest of the way to the floor. Blood spilled from his chest and darkened the water pooled on the carpet. He didn’t move, and wouldn’t again.

Any relief Charlie might have felt was superseded by surprise of his own, along with apprehension, as the shooter stepped through the newly created gap in the vestibule’s inner door.

“Why, if it isn’t Helen,” Drummond said warmly.

Her hair was red now and matted by what appeared to be dried blood.

“Actually, it isn’t Helen,” Charlie said, aiming Fielding’s rifle at her. He wished taking out Fielding signified that she was on their side. Given her track record, it was a good bet that she had a different agenda.

“I’m really Alice Rutherford, NSA,” she said. “I was watching from a bar across Broadway when you were brought in here, Charlie. It got to be a while. Then came that gigantic explosion. I was a little worried.”

“I don’t mean to be unappreciative,” Charlie said. “It’s just that, sooner or later, everybody in your line of work tries to kill us. And you…”

“I’m sorry I deceived you the other day.” She dropped her gun to her hip. “If I’d known then what I do now, I wouldn’t have let you set foot outside the senior center-at the least I would have called you a tank.”

“And now that you know what you know?”

“I don’t know what I can tell you to win your trust in the time we have-or the time we don’t have, I should say. The people outside probably have figured out by now where the gunshots they heard came from. And any moment this building, if it’s still standing, will be swarming with officers from every intelligence agency you’ve ever heard of, including my own, who all have you two as numbers one and one-A on their most wanted list. Having just killed the superspy whose orders they have been marching to, there’s not much I’ll be able to say on behalf of any of us-I’ll be on the list too. But if you’ll come with me now, and if we can just make it across the Hudson and to Newark Airport, we can get away on the private jet I have standing by with dummy flight plans.”

Based on intuition as much as any factor he could identify, Charlie was inclined to join her; he suspected he would have felt similarly had she merely suggested they try to get a cab. “At least a private jet is an upgrade from the places people usually try to kill us,” he said, lowering the rifle.

She smiled. “That’s a start.”

They both looked to Drummond.

“I’d really like to go to Geneva,” he said, “for some reason.”

“It’s possible,” she said. “We could try for Polish airspace, where we won’t need any documentation. From there, we’d still have the little matter of eluding every law enforcement agency in the world.”

“What, no air forces?” Charlie said.

“Not if we’re lucky.” She stepped into the reception area and raised a window overlooking the alley. The din of the crowd seemed to triple in volume. Sirens of arriving emergency vehicles shook the frosty air.

Drummond turned to Charlie. “Is it too risky?”

“Definitely,” Charlie said. “But that works for us.”

The Cessna sliced through the clouds above New Jersey and into a golden dawn. The right questions would net the information that the passengers aboard the Innsbruck-bound private jet were a young hedge fund manager and his wife on their honeymoon. Really, Charlie and Alice occupied the overstuffed leather recliners in the cabin, along with Drummond-the copilot, according to the manifest.

“An interesting piece of information,” Drummond said, “is Blackbird fighter jets fly so fast-twenty-five-hundred miles per hour-the pilots have to wear space suits.”

Charlie and Alice were enthralled, primarily because there was no evidence of such aircraft in the vicinity.

The remainder of the trip brought only clear skies.

As far as they knew.