pointed to his shabby, faux-leather portfolio. “Business. Ah…” He shrugged and opened the portfolio, withdrew a twofold brochure for a medical line of penile catheters. He began to demonstrate how they work.
That was enough for the security guard. He stamped the passport and pushed it through the half-circle opening in his Plexiglas shield.
“Thank you. Welcome to Canada. Next!”
* * *
Within the Trudeau terminal, a woman with a baby stroller knelt near the baggage claims carousel, digging through a massive backpack for a clean diaper, baby powder, and wipe-ups. After Khalid Belhadj passed her with his portfolio of catheters, the woman spoke into her sleeve.
“We have Bowler.”
New York City
Midmorning on Wednesday, Daria landed at JFK with a white canvas beach tote and a glowing golden tan. She looked anomalous amid the snow shovels, bulbous parkas, and sallow complexions of New York in November.
She didn’t know what Colin Bennett-Smith’s situation was, but she owed him her life a couple of times over. If he wanted a life and death meeting—his words—she would show. If she could help him, she would. If not, she’d have some time, a few days, to enjoy New York City. Even in November, cold as it was, the city was lovely. The Christmas decorations were in full bloom and, while Daria wasn’t the holiday sort, she did love the vivid colors of the season.
She hefted her tote and joined the queue walking or half-jogging toward baggage claim and ground transportation. Her almond eyes swept the crowd methodically, although subconsciously. It was the habit of a lifetime.
She just passed a news kiosk as the airport’s P.A. system sounded: Dee Jean D’Arc. Please return to the Alaska Airlines booth to retrieve your purse. Dee Jean D’Arc. Please return to the Alaska Airlines booth to retrieve your purse.
She froze.
Dee was Daria.
Jean D’Arc was Joan of Arc.
Translation: Daria … you are burned.
It was an old code. Far older than her time with Shin-Bet. It was a code from her childhood.
Her first assumption was she was being followed. If so, then the surveillance team was good because she hadn’t spotted them yet. Shaking them would be a good idea. Just on principle. Step one: thin the herd.
She gave up on the notion of collecting her luggage from baggage claim. The bag contained nothing she couldn’t replace. In fact, if push came to shots-fired, Daria could ghost out of her own life, just like she’d been trained to do since before she’d hit five feet tall.
She stopped in the women’s restroom, waited a few minutes in a cubicle, then stepped out and returned to the news kiosk. She spotted a businessman with a carry-on bag eyeing a rack of magazines. Daria had a copy of that week’s Time magazine in her tote. She pulled it out, caught the man’s eye. “Excuse me?”
She gave him her brightest smile. He glanced over, turned away, then did a double take. Beautiful women didn’t smile like that at him every day.
Daria proffered her magazine. “I’m done with this one and I hate to just throw them away. Do you want it?”
The guy had been looking for Field and Stream or Golf Digest , but free is free. “Sure! Thanks.”
Daria had noted his wedding ring before she approached him. She winked at him. Predictably, the wink made him glance around, to see who else had noticed.
“Business or pleasure?”
“Excuse me? Oh, my flight. Ah, I’m … I’ve got a business thing. In Atlanta.” He shrugged. “Conference.”
“Lovely. Well, bon voyage. ”
He gestured toward the magazine. “Thanks. Um, hey, you know, thanks. Bye.”
Daria felt just a little bad that she was so good at flustering married men.
* * *
A janitor in a jumpsuit, with a water bucket and mop, touched the comm unit in his ear. “Batsman just made contact. Unknown male. She handed him a magazine. He’s glancing around, looking for surveillance? He hasn’t made me. He’s putting
That was enough for the security guard. He stamped the passport and pushed it through the half-circle opening in his Plexiglas shield.
“Thank you. Welcome to Canada. Next!”
* * *
Within the Trudeau terminal, a woman with a baby stroller knelt near the baggage claims carousel, digging through a massive backpack for a clean diaper, baby powder, and wipe-ups. After Khalid Belhadj passed her with his portfolio of catheters, the woman spoke into her sleeve.
“We have Bowler.”
New York City
Midmorning on Wednesday, Daria landed at JFK with a white canvas beach tote and a glowing golden tan. She looked anomalous amid the snow shovels, bulbous parkas, and sallow complexions of New York in November.
She didn’t know what Colin Bennett-Smith’s situation was, but she owed him her life a couple of times over. If he wanted a life and death meeting—his words—she would show. If she could help him, she would. If not, she’d have some time, a few days, to enjoy New York City. Even in November, cold as it was, the city was lovely. The Christmas decorations were in full bloom and, while Daria wasn’t the holiday sort, she did love the vivid colors of the season.
She hefted her tote and joined the queue walking or half-jogging toward baggage claim and ground transportation. Her almond eyes swept the crowd methodically, although subconsciously. It was the habit of a lifetime.
She just passed a news kiosk as the airport’s P.A. system sounded: Dee Jean D’Arc. Please return to the Alaska Airlines booth to retrieve your purse. Dee Jean D’Arc. Please return to the Alaska Airlines booth to retrieve your purse.
She froze.
Dee was Daria.
Jean D’Arc was Joan of Arc.
Translation: Daria … you are burned.
It was an old code. Far older than her time with Shin-Bet. It was a code from her childhood.
Her first assumption was she was being followed. If so, then the surveillance team was good because she hadn’t spotted them yet. Shaking them would be a good idea. Just on principle. Step one: thin the herd.
She gave up on the notion of collecting her luggage from baggage claim. The bag contained nothing she couldn’t replace. In fact, if push came to shots-fired, Daria could ghost out of her own life, just like she’d been trained to do since before she’d hit five feet tall.
She stopped in the women’s restroom, waited a few minutes in a cubicle, then stepped out and returned to the news kiosk. She spotted a businessman with a carry-on bag eyeing a rack of magazines. Daria had a copy of that week’s Time magazine in her tote. She pulled it out, caught the man’s eye. “Excuse me?”
She gave him her brightest smile. He glanced over, turned away, then did a double take. Beautiful women didn’t smile like that at him every day.
Daria proffered her magazine. “I’m done with this one and I hate to just throw them away. Do you want it?”
The guy had been looking for Field and Stream or Golf Digest , but free is free. “Sure! Thanks.”
Daria had noted his wedding ring before she approached him. She winked at him. Predictably, the wink made him glance around, to see who else had noticed.
“Business or pleasure?”
“Excuse me? Oh, my flight. Ah, I’m … I’ve got a business thing. In Atlanta.” He shrugged. “Conference.”
“Lovely. Well, bon voyage. ”
He gestured toward the magazine. “Thanks. Um, hey, you know, thanks. Bye.”
Daria felt just a little bad that she was so good at flustering married men.
* * *
A janitor in a jumpsuit, with a water bucket and mop, touched the comm unit in his ear. “Batsman just made contact. Unknown male. She handed him a magazine. He’s glancing around, looking for surveillance? He hasn’t made me. He’s putting
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