TWENTY
I’d never been one to give in to feelings of guilt.
My mum being married to my father, who’d been part of MI6 for thirty plus years, knew the kind of life I lived and the demands on my time. She never made me feel bad for being away for long stretches of time and she’d been the only woman in my life I’d cared about.
Until now.
I felt guilty today as I watched D.C. grow smaller, more distant, through the window of the plane.
Good thing my cell was in airplane mode because with the way I was feeling, had it not been I would have been sorely tempted to call Chelsea.
That probably wasn’t going to be a conversation I should have by phone or while in public.
Leaving her—again—without a word, with only a note, had to be the stupidest thing I’d ever done in my life. By the light of day I knew that now.
I mouthed a curse and turned away from the window and the view that made me feel worse.
The only saving grace on this flight was that there was no one in the seat beside me. Having to make inane chatter for the whole flight, even with as short as it was, would have thrown me over the edge of insanity.
Lucky me. There was nothing and no one to distract me from thinking about Chelsea for the entire non-stop flight between Washington and New York.
My mind inevitably turned to that other flight I had yet to book—the one from JFK to Heathrow. At just the thought of leaving I felt the weight of dread press against me, as visceral as the G force during take off.
Leaning back against the headrest, I closed my eyes and chastised myself again for being stupid.
I must have fallen to sleep, which wasn’t a surprise given how little rest I’d gotten the night before. Before I knew it I was awakened by the wheels touching down.
It wasn’t long before we’d landed and I was in a taxi headed for my furnished flat. There I was reminded that I was supposed to be boxing up the contents of my life, everything I’d accumulated the past two years.
Even with my being a minimalist, just the necessities of living would fill a small storage unit. The problem was I didn’t want to spend my final days in the States packing boxes. I wanted to spend them with Chelsea.
Ignoring the packing for now, I tossed my bag on the floor. I needed to change clothes and grab everything I’d need for today’s meet with Ivan.
Preparing completely occupied my time and attention. I became single-mindedly obsessed with making sure this meet went smoothly. I plotted my path to the rendezvous point, and then planned out two alternatives, just in case.
My preparations spanned to the minutia as the smallest of details took on overwhelming importance and I spent more time choosing my clothes than I ever had.
I cleaned my guns and charged all my technology.
Finally, there was nothing more to do. I had no more time anyway. I strapped on my newly cleaned weapon, donned my chosen suit jacket and headed out for my planned route.
An hour later, after stops at the bank, a coffee shop and the post office to see if I had a tail, I made my way to the rendezvous point—the Glockenspiel in Central Park.
I’d seen most, if not all of New York’s landmarks not because I particularly enjoyed sightseeing, but more because they made good meeting spots.
With so many people visiting the spot daily, most of them tourists, no one would notice two more milling around.
I checked my watch, realized what I’d done and laughed at myself. I was standing in front of one of the most famous clocks in Manhattan. I glanced up at the face of the instrument that did so much more than tell time.
We’d set the meet here for noon, when the clock would perform a song and dance that literally stopped the pedestrian traffic walking by.
While everyone in the area stared up to watch the automated animals while the music played, Ivan would be able to pass me whatever he’d obtained. At least I hoped that was why he was meeting me today and that it wasn’t to tell me he was backing out of his promise.
The first notes of the Westminster chimes drew my attention. That was followed by the clock—or rather the bronze monkeys atop the clock—striking a bell twelve times for the hour.
I glanced around but didn’t see Ivan.
He was late.
The clock began its show, the animals rotating around the clock tower above the arches to the tune of a childhood lullaby as I looked around me one more time.
“Are you Tristan?” A child’s voice saying my name had me frowning as I glanced down.
“Yes.”
“A man told me to wait for twelve o’clock and give you this and you’d pay me twenty dollars.”
I lifted a brow. “Oh did he? And what did this man look like?”
“Old with gray hair. But not like Santa Claus. More like Scrooge. And he talked funny.”
I let out a bark of a laugh. Ivan deserved that description for promising the kid I’d pay him twenty dollars for the folded newspaper he handed me.
There had better be something worthwhile inside. I reached into my pocket to fish for the money to pay the lad. I held out the folded bill, but pulled it back. “One more question. How did you know I was the right man?”
“He said to look for a guy who’d be dressed real good, like he was on TV, but wearing too many clothes for the summer.”
I smiled at how spot on both Ivan and the child were. I only bought suits that were real good, as he’d described. And I was definitely wearing too many clothes for today’s heat.
Basic spy craft—wearing a jacket gave me the option of taking it off to change my appearance if I needed. So did the sunglasses I wore.
I handed the boy the money. He snatched it away and ran, probably to spend his earnings on something his mother wouldn’t have approved of had she known.
A park bench along the path provided the perfect place for me to sit and open the paper to try and figure out what in the bloody hell Ivan was up to.
I was relieved he’d made contact. It meant he was alive and well—for the moment. But that he didn’t meet me in person was disturbing.
He’d always come himself. Employing a street urchin was an oddity I hoped didn’t mean something was wrong.
I didn’t know what I was looking for in the paper, just that I’d know it when I saw it.
I was through the bulk of the main section and starting to worry I’d missed something when a circle drawn in pen drew my attention.
It was in the Obituaries, of all places.
Shaking my head, I stood and tucked the refolded paper beneath my arm.
It seemed I’d be attending a funeral this afternoon.
Lucky for me, I’d chosen my dark suit.