There would be no drop tonight, no secret message, no orders passed from agent to agent. The game was up. For the man on the corner in the tweed coat, tonight would mark the end of his career and the beginning of a new pursuit, but the nature of his new endeavor would need time to reveal itself. He pulled his cap low and puffed on his cigarette. Its embers danced in the shadows beyond the streetlamp. There he waited. There he planned. There he envisioned the two possible endings to his tale. All he needed now was the woman.
She arrived at the agreed upon time. It was not their first rendezvous, but it might be their last. He watched her approach and admired that confident swagger as it taunted and mocked anyone who dared obstruct her path. Blonde wig perfectly groomed. Black coat and boots. Pale skin, red lips, dark mascara. He had always been one for subtlety and shadows, which made her bravado and lust for attention all the more alluring. He knew it was only partly an act. She could command an audience with a blink of an eye, but behind the façade lurked fear and vulnerability, albeit in limited supply.
When she stopped under the streetlamp, he stepped into the light.
“You are late,” he said.
“You are early.” She faced him, looking at nothing but his eyes. Her control was something to be admired.
“What of the world?” he asked.
“The world is at war, as always.”
“What must we fear?”
“Traitors,” she said with a seductive grin. “And fools.”
“Of traitors I know. What news of fools?”
“The Iranians build missiles they won’t acknowledge for warheads they pretend not to have. Venezuela undercuts OPEC, igniting Arab wrath.”
“And the Russians?”
“They are scared, uncertain, and bankrupt in all ways. The prime minister is too busy stirring up Olympic fury over men who play on ice to be focused where he ought to be focused, and the Georgian rebels stir. Independence never comes cheap, nor without agony. But you already know this or you would not be smiling.”
He watched his cigarette glow as he inhaled then flicked away the ashes. “All the fates of men,” he said, “eventually fall victim to a fool, or so I have read. It saddens me only somewhat to admit I am yet another dictator of Fate.”
She hesitated. “A fool then, but what man is not?”
“The whims of other men are not at issue tonight.”
“And are the whims of this fool the sort to be feared?” she asked.
“Perhaps.”
She licked her lips. “I have tasted the whims of this fool before. I have pleased them, and licked them, and punished them with ecstasy. What reason then to be afraid?”
“Fear has many flavors, and whims have myriad methods of persecution. You should be cautious.”
She laughed. “Caution is but a coating for flavorful fear, of which I have none, as you must know. But I can play these word games with you all night. I am better skilled and more often victorious, so tell me instead about the fool.”
He looked her up and down, studying the form he already knew, touching it with the fingertips of vivid memory. Was she worth it, he wondered. Were her games the sort he desired? The answer was obvious, and he had it known it long ago. All that remained was to embrace the end.
“This fool,” he said, prepared for whatever happened, “has betrayed you.”
Her hands moved quickly. Two guns pointed at his face. Her head swiveled in every direction. That she hadn't yet pulled the trigger was a point in his favor, but points are easily lost.
“What have you done?” she demanded, her swagger momentarily lost.
“Nothing yet, I admit. But you might do well to shoot me anyway.”
“Explain.”
“Not here. You have two choices. Kill me now, or listen and kill me later. Which will it be?”
“Tell me now.”
“No," he repeated.
Satisfied, it would seem, that no one approached their position, she lowered the guns and returned them to their concealed homes. “I will kill you later,” she said.
“Very well. Follow me.”