“Just as you like it, pal,” he said. “Shaken, not stirred.”
He dumped the food, mostly in the bowl, and smiled at his own joke. The dog was, after all, named in honor of Ian Fleming, creator of James Bond and even though he uttered the same lame quip every morning when he fed him, Perry was sure Fleming was laughing on the inside as he began to loudly devour the dry food.
“Too loud! Crunch quietly!” he chided.
The seven-year-old rascal expertly ignored him.
Giving up on muffling the sound, Perry moved gingerly back to the kitchen. As he poured his first cup of strong, black coffee, he reached out and gently touched a photograph, held to the door of his refrigerator by a magnet shaped like a bunch of bananas. It was a picture of a woman, in her late twenties, with long blonde hair and eyes so blue they redefined the spectrum.
“Good morning, Trina,” he whispered.
Taking a long sip of the steaming joe, Perry turned his attention back to the piece of paper he’d noticed upon opening his eyes. Even in his current condition, which day to day was somewhere between actively suicidal and flat-line apathetic, he tried to maintain the apartment the way Trina had kept it, and paper on the floor was a no-no. The letter-sized sheet was still close enough to Fleming’s bowl to elicit a good-natured growl as he reached for it.
“I just want the paper, goofus. Not your food.”
The paper was, as he’d first suspected, quite blank. He stared at it for a full ten seconds before enough brain cells fired and he thought to turn it over. But the reverse was pristine as well.
Finding a blank sheet of paper on the floor after another night of black-out drinking wouldn’t raise red flags for most, but aside from being a self-destructive probable-alcoholic, Perry was an operative for SpyCo, an international organization that worked outside of governmental oversight, and often used items such as seemingly random paper to communicate. Try as he might, he still hadn’t wiped out the instincts and training that ten years of being an agent had nurtured. He knew the unmarked sheet was anything but empty. He had another gulp of coffee then walked into his study, mercifully attached to the dining area and not requiring too many steps.
Half sitting, half falling into his brown leather chair, he pulled open a drawer on the dark mahogany antique desk, withdrawing a device that looked like a cross between a flashlight and a magnifying glass. At first inspection, it appeared to be the sort of gadget used by stamp collectors to view details of their treasures. But as he flicked the switch on its body, it bathed the paper in a pale, purplish light. The UV bulb brought three sentences into clear focus:
“Sober up. Feed your dog. I’m waiting in the garage.” He recognized the handwriting of Lyndsey Archer, another operative, and a life-long friend. Although Perry had not looked at another woman lustfully since Trina had…died (it still hurt to even think the word), Archer was more than easy on the eyes, and had long been supportive of him during his rapid descent from top agent to his current role: the man you called when the job probably meant the agent wasn’t coming home.
He started moving toward the door to his private elevator, which meant walking much farther than he’d managed to that point, when he remembered the first part of the terse directive: “Sober up.” He downed the coffee and poured a second cup, drinking that rapidly as well. He stepped into the elevator and pushed the button marked “SB,” indicating the sub-basement garage. Just as the door opened to the cavernous space, he thought to make sure he was wearing pants. Thankfully he was, and he stepped into the dimly-lit area, moving instinctively to his red Ferrari F430 Spider.
“Oh my god, you look like hell!” Archer said from the passenger seat as he landed heavily behind the wheel.
“Good to see you too, Lynds,” he replied. Although Lyndsey Archer had worked closely with dozens of SpyCo agents, and had even been romantically involved with Perry’s friend and fellow operative, James Burke, Perry was the only person she allowed to call her by that nickname.
“I’m serious, Perry. Every time I see you, you’re a little less my childhood friend and a little more one of the zombies from Night of the Living Dead.”
“That’s kind of the point, Lynds.”
“No, Perry Hall. It is very much not the point. Dammit, I know losing her crushed you. It would have messed me up too. Hell, it did mess me up. Everyone loved Trina. But do you think for one minute this is how she’d want you to be living?”
Perry’s eyes grew hard. “I didn’t ‘lose’ my wife, Venus,” he said, using her craft-name to indicate his irritation. “She was taken from me. Taken by a Scorpion agent we know only by legend and a horrid nickname—Flick. A very hard lead to run down.”
Perry had met Trina in Paris while on assignment and despite the obvious complications he knew would arise, had fallen madly in love with her. He’d been forced, during their whirlwind courtship, to keep her in the dark as to the true nature of his work, convincing her he was an international investment banker, a ruse his lifestyle allowed him to maintain. They’d been married in a quiet civil service, six months after they met. Burke had stood up for Perry, Lyndsey for Trina, who had no family and knew no one else in New York City—Perry’s home post at the time.
Trina had remained unaware of Perry’s other life. They returned to Paris for their honeymoon, eventually leaving on separate planes as she returned to New York and Perry headed elsewhere on a “business trip.” She remained blissfully clueless until the night she answered a soft knock on their door. Perry had warned her a dozen times in the months they’d lived together before the wedding about looking on the monitor beside the door before opening it. Had she done so, she would have seen a well-built man dressed in black leather pants and jacket, a turtleneck sweater, also black, pulled high up and close to the chin. A dark newsboy’s hat, pulled low over the eyes completed the ensemble that should have warned her to run to the secure room—something she’d been told all investment bankers had—and push the illuminated yellow button that would have summoned the police. But she hadn’t seen anything, because she’d switched the monitor off earlier, feeling its glow disturbed Fleming’s beauty sleep.
She opened the door and scarcely saw the flick of the man’s hand, an action from which his name was derived. But she felt the sharp blade pierce her throat, severing her carotid artery, instantly dooming her. As she crumpled to the ground in a spreading pool of her own blood, the monitor’s security mic picked up a man with a distinct Mediterranean accent say, “As you die, think of this. Your husband is not a banker. He’s a spy. He did this to you.”
The camera though connected to digital video recording equipment, was blinded when Trina switched off the monitor, a flaw Perry rued, but retained a digital file of the audio. He had turned it over to SpyCo’s voice analysis unit, and listened to it a thousand times himself. But although he’d memorized every inflection of the words, no match had been found, no identification had been made.
Memories of the crime scene photos flooded Perry’s mind, burned there forever by trauma: nude—Flick had apparently undressed her postmortem—and surrounded by blood, her clothing wadded up and placed under her head.
Lyndsey gripped Perry’s hand and the anger in her voice gave way to compassion. “I know, Perry. And someday, somehow, we’ll find Flick, and no matter who runs him down, we’ll save him for you. But I need you to pull it together now. I need to talk to Eagle.”
Hearing his code name flipped a switch in Perry’s head. For some reason he couldn’t quite explain, when he was called upon to do his job, although he still didn’t give a damn about his own well-being, he was able to do what needed doing. His own life didn’t mean a thing to him, but those of his fellow agents and the people they served did.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
Lyndsey exhibited the briefest tic of a smile. “You’re not quite Eagle yet. You need some food.”
“I know just the place,” Perry said, simultaneously firing up the Spider and pushing the g
arage door opener. Before she could ask him if he was alright to drive they were speeding out of the building’s underground garage and onto 5th Avenue.
2
In Manhattan, it didn’t matter whether you drove a Ferrari or a Volkswagen. You were going to sit in traffic for at least a portion of your ride, most likely all of it. It moved as a single, monstrous entity, and did so at its own pace. Perry was used to it, but that didn’t make him hate it any less. Although there was no trace of any identifiable accent in casual conversation, he sounded like a native New Yorker when he shouted out his car window.
“For the love of hell, lady! The gas pedal is the long skinny one! Put ya foot on it!”
“Charming,” Lyndsey said, laughing at his sudden affectation.
Perry had enough money to live comfortably in his place on 5th Avenue and East 82nd Street indefinitely. The agency paid its top operatives well, and the cases he took usually involved extra risk, and therefore even bigger rewards. Yet even if he never drew another paycheck, his pockets would remain well-padded, thanks to the inherited fortune left by his parents when their flight from Boston to LA ended abruptly at the South Tower, taking them along with the sixty-three others on the flight, and countless more in the building. Lyndsey, whose family had been friends with the Halls since she and Perry were kids, knew all about that dark chapter in her fellow agent’s life as well and must have wondered why he insisted on remaining in New York City, with painful memories around every corner.
Eventually the huge crawling traffic monster oozed forward enough for them to arrive at their destination, the Midnight Express diner on 2nd Avenue.
Lyndsey groaned. “What is it with men and diner food?”
“It’s efficient. It gets the blood pumping while simultaneously clogging your arteries.”
Perry jacked the Spider into a parking spot, miraculously right in front of the diner.
Lyndsey emitted a resigned sigh. “How is it you can’t go faster than two miles an hour in New York, but you find a parking spot?” As she opened the door, she noticed blue paint on the curb. “Perry, this is a handi—.” Her words broke off as Perry dangled a handicapped placard on his rearview. “Oh my god. Is there no limit to the depths you will sink?”
“There may be,” Perry said, pushing the security button on the key fob. “Right now, I’m still falling.” The car chirped obediently and they walked inside.
“Hey, Bob!” called a large and friendly-looking waitress from behind the counter.
“Hey, Belle,” Perry replied sliding into an empty booth by a window, which provided him a view of both the door and his car. Spy craft and motor head 101.
“The usual?” Belle asked.
“Yup.”
“And for your friend?”
“Better wipe off a menu for her. She’s classy.”
The waitress smiled and reached behind the counter, pulling out a dust covered menu. Most of the Midnight Express’s patrons came in knowing what they wanted. She came to their table, wiping the laminated menu clean with a damp cloth that was probably dirtier than the dust.
“Choose quickly,” Perry said. “They turn tables over fast in here, and my meal will probably be delivered before you make your selection.”
“Just coffee, then.” Lyndsey closed the menu and slid it to the edge of the table.
“Hell no, eating was your idea.” Perry turned to call after the retreating Belle. “She’ll have two slices of raisin toast!”
Lyndsey smiled. “You still remember my favorite childhood comfort food. And my idea was getting you to eat something. I’m not the one who looks partially embalmed.”
“Don’t be so insulting. I look fully embalmed.”
True to Perry’s prediction, the food was at their table in a heartbeat. His plate was large and laden: eggs over, bacon and ham, and a pile of home fries large enough for the homeless to use to shelter in place. On a separate plate was a bagel smothered in cream cheese and dripping with butter.
Lyndsey fixed Perry with a disapproving look worthy of even the judgiest mother. “Jesus, Perry. Must everything you do be life threatening?”
“It’s my M.O.”
They sat quietly for a moment, the silence only briefly interrupted when two scruffy teenagers got too close to the Spider for Perry’s liking and he tapped on the window with his Walther PPKS .380, simultaneously waving the forefinger of his other hand in a “no-no” pattern. Lyndsey’s eyes grew wide at the breach in protocol, but Belle seemed unconcerned.
“Bobby. You know the rules,” the waitress said, walking toward the table with the coffee carafe. “You can’t shoot the neighborhood kids.”
Perry huffed as he slid the gun back into the holster under his jacket. “This country is totally going down the tubes,” he muttered. Still, he couldn’t totally conceal a smirk of satisfaction at the teenagers’ speed of departure. “I was mainly using it because it makes such a good noise on the window.”
“I’ll give you a good noise,” Belle retorted, refilling their coffees. “Why they’d let a security guard carry a gun like that is beyond me.”
When the waitress wandered away to assist customers at the other end of the diner, Lyndsey leaned across the table and whispered, “Bob the security guard? Is that the best you could come up with? You really have slipped.”
Perry shot her a dark look. “Uh, excuse me?”
“How many security guards drive Ferraris?”
“Maybe ten percent?”
“Try again.”
Perry’s voice picked up the merest hint of a whine. “I don’t know. I don’t have the research stats right in front of me at the moment.”
“I don’t need research to say that exactly zero security guards drive Ferraris.”
“Zero percent seems awfully low.”
Lyndsey sighed. “Rich people really do lose touch with reality, don’t they?”
“I certainly hope so,” Perry said. “Reality sucks.”
Lyndsey let the matter drop and watched as Perry wiped his plate with a final piece of bagel. “Feeling better?”
“Yes…no…not really. You?”
“My toast was perfect.”
Perry snorted. “I hope you didn’t get overly full on your single slice of four-inch square toasted raisin bread.”
“Couldn’t eat another bite,” she said, sliding out of the booth.
Perry left a fifty-dollar bill under the saucer of his coffee and waved to Belle as they exited the diner. Perry’s personality played a big part in people like Belle loving him, but a fifty for a twelve-dollar breakfast didn’t hurt either.
They climbed into the Ferrari, and headed off. Perry cut off a taxi to pull into the lane, earning a hearty round of cursing.
“So, Eagle is ready to listen if Venus is ready to talk,” Perry said, turning left from 89th back onto 5th Avenue toward the Metropolitan Museum of Art, which was directly across the street from his building. Lyndsey raised an eyebrow as he turned into the small lot in front of the museum and parked in a spot marked “Chief Curator Only.”
“He’s out of town till Friday,” Perry said. “And I want to walk in the park.”
“I’ve already been in your apartment while you were…resting. You don’t have to be shy about us talking there.”
“Shyness has nothing to do with it. Fleming’s food will be gone by now, and I guarantee he’s already started converting it to methane. The park on its worst day is better than Flem at his least gassy.”
They left the car and Lyndsey looked around nervously as an actual security guard approached.
The man waved to Perry and said, “Don’t forget to be out by closing time, Danny!”
“No problem, Paco,” Perry called over his shoulder as they walked to the end of the lot and turned right toward Central Park.
At the point they entered, the green oasis carved into the center of Midtown. One could walk straight through some trees to the softball fields or take a quick right and reach the J
ackie O, the huge reservoir named for the former First Lady which dominated the area. Perry veered toward the water.
“How many identities do you have?” Lyndsey asked. “Aren’t you afraid you’ll forget one day and answer to Danny when you’re actually Bob?”
“Don’t forget Sammy, Will, and Ethan.”
“More aliases? Seems a bit like overkill.”
“It’s a hobby,” Perry said, feeling defensive. “I’m beginning to feel like you rolled into town with the sole intention of making me feel like a toddler.”
“I’m sorry, Perry,” Lyndsey said, her voice softening. “I’m just worried about you, and I care about you.”
“I appreciate that, Venus, but sometimes having people care is the worst thing about living.” The use of the code name made it clear Perry was ready to abandon the personal for business.
Lyndsey stopped short. Her arms crossed and her eyes narrowed. “Now listen, Perry. That’s enough. You’ve had a really shitty time of it. I get that. And my heart breaks for you. But you have so much potential, so much talent, so many resources most others don’t.”
Perry felt a surge of rage in his chest. “Are you saying I should just get the hell over it?”
Assignment- Adventure A SpyCo Collection 1-3 Page 9