Brendan DuBois - Final Winter

He reached into his coat pocket, took out the tiny clipping, something taken from a USA Today last week. With all the news these past few days, he was surprised that the story had gotten any play. But he was glad to see it. Always nice to see a loose end tied up.

The door to the office opened up. A man with a closely-trimmed beard, white shirt buttoned at the collar with no necktie, and a black suitcoat came out.

‘I am ready for you,’ the man said.

‘Very well,’ he said, standing up and putting the clipping away, the story of a mysterious accident outside Memphis the night the AirBox flights had taken off, an accident involving a Ford Explorer that had blown up, the body of its driver burned beyond recognition.

Ah yes, the driver, whoever he had been, had no doubt thought he had been so lucky to find a brand-new Ford SUV with the keys in it and a full tank of gas.

Luck. It was where you found it, it was where you made it. He had gotten this far and survived for so long not by trusting in others, especially unseen others, no matter how generous their pay had been.

Inside the office he noted the flag behind the man’s desk, the flag of the Islamic Republic of Iran.

‘My name is Vladimir Zhukov,’ he announced, ‘and I have a business proposition for you.’

‘Very good,’ the man said. ‘We are eager to hear it.’