The Practical Spy

by Doug Walker

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The flight to London was largely uneventful. It gave Orson time to think of the twins, growing stronger and brighter, their brains improving on a daily basis. He would of course carry out the original plan. Raise Alice as a spy and Dan as a foreign service employee.

  He sorely missed Delilah, particularly at times like this when the twins’ future filled his mind. He now would be the sole arbiter, a job he had no relish for. He must plan their education, employ tutors, select the topics. Fortunately there had been talks, and he and Delilah had laid down basics.

  He attempted to remember all her suggestions and would do his best to do her bidding. And he would inform the twins of that. He leaned toward the melancholy and could easily die, but he must live for the twins.

  He was in an aisle seat with a quiet young lady by his side. He began to wonder what idiot bought him a ticket for London in last class when he was headed for Liverpool. Maybe they had a free ticket. Mary was right, he was on a political mission and her political arm was suffering from major confusion.

  With his good memory and penchant for geography, he was keenly aware of Liverpool’s John Lennon Airport, plus another a few miles away in Manchester. Even Blackpool is closer than Heathrow. Oh, well, enjoy the rest.

  The girl next to him spoke up and said she’d like to discuss something if he didn’t mind. He looked at her with his good eye and said OK.

  “I read about a witch or a wizard of some sort turning a person into a snowball. You know one of those things you shake up and the snow flies?”

  “I’ve seen them. Was the actual person in miniature, of course, inside the snow ball?”

  “No. It doesn’t work that way. Inside was like a wood sprite, or an imaginary creature.”

  “Not like a human or a witch or wizard.”

  A slight pout and she said, “You don’t believe in such things.”

  “I have no opinion.”

  “Well,” she said seriously, “You have to believe, or they don’t exist.”

  “I can believe that.”

  “What I’m getting at, he could have been turned into any number of things, like a kitchen appliance.”

  “Like a dishwasher or a refrigerator,” Orson said.

  “No I misspoke. I think I mean a utensil, like a skillet, say an iron skillet, that’s something that would last and last. An appliance would wear out and end up on the dump, or recycled into something else. How would you like a chance at eternity on a bet like that?”

  “I seldom gamble.”

  “Well, this is what I’m getting at. The people in that house become deceased. Quite a natural process. Their possessions go into an estate sale, or relatives pick over them. Probably both. So a hundred years pass. Then one fine day another witch or sorcerer happens by, spies the skillet and realizes it is enchanted. On a whim he or she frees the trapped person who happens to be 26-years-old. How’s that?”

  “How’s what?”

  “Would the person still be twenty-six and what would become of that person?”

  “I don’t quite get your drift.”

  “It would be a new age. Everything would be different. Could that person survive?”

  “I’d say yes. Humans evolve very slowly. Abraham Lincoln was much like me, except he had two eyes. The young person could go on the road telling people about the old days, using whatever media might exist at that time. Hard to tell.”

  “I don’t know.” The young lady was thoughtful. “Maybe it would be best simply to remain as a skillet. I mean the person actually doesn’t know he is a skillet. They are used for frying eggs, perhaps bacon, maybe sauté mushrooms or some other wholesome food. We’re not talking vegetarians, well maybe for the mushrooms. But he does not feel intense heat or anything else. He is simply a skillet.”

  The young woman lapsed into silence for the remainder of the flight. Orson ate peanuts, drank a can of Bloody Mary mix and read the in-flight magazine.

  The final approach to Heathrow, seat backs up, belts on, now his mission. First to make his way to Liverpool. He wondered if he’d have to talk Scouse, a British accent peculiar to Liverpool.

  It was still the morning, but it took the better part of the day to get to Liverpool and find a hotel room. At the Woodcock Tavern, half a block from his hotel, he ordered a pint of beer and asked the waitress what looked good on the menu.

  “You’re in Liverpool, why not try Scouse?”

  “I thought that was an accent.”

  “It is,” she replied. “But it’s also a stew. They call us Scousers and they call us Liverpudlins plus a few other names I shant repeat.”

  “I’ll have the Scouse. Why not. I’m looking for a guy who might be a bartender, or a bar worker of some kind. His name’s Tony Morgenson. Ever hear of him?”

  “What’s he wanted for?”

  “No crime. Actually there’s a good job waiting for him in the States.”

  “I don’t know him, but I’ll ask the barkeep. It’s like a fraternity. They get together sometimes. Trade beer recipes.”

  Orson smiled. “I understand. And bring me another pint with the Scouse.”

  He sipped his beer like a typical English drinker and enjoyed his rustic surroundings. When the waitress returned with his stew and beer, she said, “The bartender thinks he knows the bloke. An ugly American.”

  “That’s him. Has a name as a brawler.”

  “He’s wanted in the States?”

  “Definitely not. I come with an attractive job offer. He’s a sharp political strategist.”

  “Whatever that might be. I’ll relay the message.”

  Halfway through his stew and working on a second pint of beer, the waitress returned and told him Morgenson worked a few blocks away and would join him in a few minutes.

  “Astounding,” Orson replied. “I just rolled into town and my wish has been granted. You are indeed a superior person.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. This Morgenson is one tough customer for a Yank. He could mop up the place with you if you cross him.”

  Orson shrugged. He thought this character must be one hell of a politico for Mary to put up with a bomb about to explode. Maybe there was a romantic connection. He didn’t have to speculate for long. Morgenson lurched through the door and the waitress pointed out Orson. He dropped into the chair across from Orson and asked, “Are you looking for me?”

  “I am. I’ve been sent by the President who sorely needs your services.”

  “You’re tampering with my good nature.”

  “Not at all. She’s tried to contact you. You should know that. She thinks you’re the only one who can move her up in the polls.”

  “She’s likely right about that. Do you want to fight?”

  Orson couldn’t suppress a smile. “I’m not unwilling. Do you fancy a beating?”

  “Son of a bitch, if you’re not a cool one. OK, what sort of reception will I get in Washington?”

  “The party in Georgetown is history. No problem. But you were OR’d, which meant you were expected to report back to court. It’s like giving your word.”

  “I know that. It’s the dead prostitute that troubled me. Not my fault now, Mate.”

  “I understand and it’s been cleared up according to Mary. She said the OR thing would be easily taken care of. She does have the justice department at her beck and call.”

  “She’s a good one. What’s your job over there?”

  “I’m the second chief of staff. Mostly errands like this, tamping down brush fires. I’d like to get you back there as soon as possible.”

  “I’ll go. I’ll pack tonight if you book the flights. You still want to fight?”

  “Frankly, I’d rather not.”

  Tony rose and slapped him on the back. “Good boy. Where’s your hotel?”

  “Just down the block.” He gave Tony his name and room number and said he’d try for an early flight. The brawler departed and Orson could hardly believe what had occurred. And the Scouse was adequate. />