ONE
Manhattan, New York 2018
I walked past the sweeping steps of the New York Public Library and kept going, stopping at a food cart down the side street on the next block.
“Getcha somethin’?” The vendor shouted at me over the noise of midtown traffic and the display of canned beverages stacked high on the narrow counter between us.
“Coffee. Cream and sugar.” I loathed coffee, but I would have hated what passed as hot tea from a street vendor far more.
The reality was I hadn’t come for a beverage. The stop provided both an opportunity for me to make sure I wasn’t being followed and an excuse why I’d passed my destination.
“Two-fifty.”
I took a few American dollar bills out of my pocket and shoved them at the man in exchange for the covered paper cup.
How long had it been since I’d had British pounds in my pocket? Six months? No, closer to eight. Too long.
“Keep the change.” I nodded my thanks to the man, taking the opportunity to scan again for any possible tails before I turned back toward the way I’d come.
The short trip to the library had taken me hours longer than it could have as I made numerous stops and side trips to ensure I wasn’t being followed. Not to hide my movements—nothing secretive or covert about a trip to the New York Public Library—but rather to see if I was on anybody’s radar.
I needed to protect my contact with whom, with any luck, I’d be meeting very soon.
My cover story—low-level paper pusher at the British Embassy—allowed me to travel openly between the British consulate in New York and the embassy in Washington D.C..
But if anyone suspected my informant of passing secrets to me—it wouldn’t matter that I was MI6 rather than an embassy worker—I might not be able to protect him. It could cost him his life.
I paused on the sidewalk and took a sip of the coffee . . . and wrinkled my nose at the taste. It was as unsavory as I’d feared it would be, but it served as a good prop and right now that’s what I needed.
My dark glasses hid my eyes as I glanced one more time at the other pedestrians surrounding me.
I paid particular attention to the homeless man digging through the trash as I took another sip of the foul beverage and pretended to enjoy it as well as the scenery. In reality, I watched for any sign the man wasn’t who he seemed to be.
When he moved down the street without a backward glance at me, his near to overflowing plastic bag of cans and bottles clutched in one hand as he shuffled his way toward the next trash bin, I moved to toss my cup in the trash he’d been perusing and strode up the wide stone stairs.
Inside, the library was quiet aside from the soft hush of whispers that seemed to float up to the high ceiling before being bounced back down again to the patrons.
Sliding off my sunglasses I moved to the desk and smiled at the woman seated behind it. “I received a message the book I’d requested is being held here for me.”
“Name?” she asked.
“Fairchild.” I pulled out my library card and slid it across the wooden surface as she turned to the shelves behind her, looking for the book Ivan had placed on hold under my name.
I held my breath, waiting, nearly vibrating on the inside while on the outside I managed a balance between patience and boredom.
She emerged with a thick volume bound in leather—red leather.
I blew out the breath I’d been holding. Taking the card and the book, I thanked her and did my best to hide my disappointment.
Basic spy craft—my contact would submit a request for a specific book under my name. I’d get notified by the library and come pick it up. Red binding meant no meet-up. I’d been hoping for green, telling me our monthly, prearranged check-in was a go.
Turning, I headed for the exit, dumping the book in the return slot on my way out, my mind spinning as I walked.
Why had Ivan canceled? Was someone on to him or was he just afraid they might be?
I smothered a curse beneath my breath. I needed the information he’d promised me. We were so close. All I needed was the physical proof . . .
The memory of how I’d been this close before and had been disappointed was never far from the forefront of my mind. That night in Kenya came back to me now.
The reminder of my failure kept me grounded. Prevented me from getting too cocky and self-assured. There were no sure things. And even if it worked out differently this time and I got everything I needed, I wasn’t getting it today.
Pocketing my disappointment and accepting that fact, I visually swept the street as I descended the stairs as much from habit as caution.
Let them follow me. I had the whole day and all of New York City to explore.
It was a nice day to take a stroll.
Maybe I’d work my way over to the park later, visit the Central Park Zoo. I hadn’t been there in a while. I felt a certain affinity for the polar bear. We were both far from home, living in a strange land.
I turned and headed in the direction of Grand Central Terminal first, whistling as I walked. After leading whoever might be tailing me on a wild goose chase for the day, I had a dinner scheduled with Brent Hearst this evening.
That oddly random meeting should really confuse anyone who might be watching. I smiled at that thought and was on my way.