Spy Runner

by Eugene Yelchin

  “McCauley?” said Major Armbruster from the couch when Jake opened the door. “Grab a seat, son. It just began.”

  Jake was dying to tell Duane about the Russian, but he did not dare to disobey the major. He walked in and sunk into the opposite end of the couch from where Duane was sitting. The major sat in the middle. Before them, a twenty-one-inch Philco TV, the first television set on their street, beamed from a polished console.

  The major sat erect, with his elbows propped on his knees. Jake leaned casually behind his back, trying to attract Duane’s attention by rapid winking and nodding toward the door. Duane noticed, but he kept his eyes fixed on the TV. When Jake redoubled his efforts, the major looked at him in alarm. “Are you all right, son?”

  “Yes, sir,” Jake said. “Sorry, sir.”

  He looked at the TV screen, but could not focus on the movie, thinking about the Russian at his house. Besides, the movie was confusing. The jittery music kept playing, but on the screen, everything looked perfectly normal. People riding on a train somewhere, reading newspapers. Regular Americans on the way to work. The sound did not go together with the picture at all.

  “What’s this all about?” Jake said, baffled.

  “One of those fellows is a Russian spy,” said Major Armbruster.

  “Oh, yeah?” Jake said, instantly interested. “Which one?”

  “We don’t know yet.”

  “It’s the one in the hat,” Duane said. “That one, way in the back reading the paper.”

  “You’re way off, Junior,” said Major Armbruster.

  Just as he said it, the movie moved in close to show the fellow Duane had pointed out. With a hat worn so low that only the tip of his nose was visible below the brim, the fellow looked plenty suspicious. Jake thought of the Russian again. How could his mom let that man into his dad’s attic? Was he going to sleep up there, too?

  “Watch this, Dad,” Duane said. “He’s sitting on the dead drop.”

  “On the what?” said the major.

  Duane rolled his eyes, frustrated by always having to explain spy stuff to his dad. Duane knew a lot about spies from the comics.

  “It’s where one spy leaves something secret for another spy to pick up without them ever being seen together. Called a dead drop.”

  The major turned to Jake, grinning. “Ever heard of such a thing, McCauley? Dead drop?”

  “Yes, sir. It’s in the comics.”

  The major shook his head. “Comics,” he repeated, and turned back to the TV screen.

  The fellow in the hat that Duane said was a spy was still reading the newspaper, but his left hand sneaked down beside his knee, scraped something from under the bench he was sitting on, and came up again folded into a fist. The movie showed his hand real close the moment he opened his fist. A tiny black film cartridge with twin chambers lay in his palm.

  Duane turned to his dad with a superior smirk on his face. Jake, grabbing the opportunity to catch his eye, ducked behind the major’s back, furiously wagging his head toward the door. Duane frowned and looked away.

  “I always say you can learn things from watching television,” said Major Armbruster. “It’s educational.”

  “Yes, sir,” Jake agreed. “Better than going to school.”

  Major Armbruster guffawed and, twisting toward Jake, slapped him on the shoulder. “Better than going to school?” he repeated, laughing. “You’re a riot, McCauley.”

  Pleased that the major liked his joke, Jake laughed, too, but he laughed a little too hard. Duane turned to them, glancing anxiously between Jake and his dad laughing together. Noticing it and instantly ashamed for playing up to the major, Jake brought a fist to his lips, pretending to be coughing.

  Meanwhile in the movie, the spy was sneaking about the hallways and hiding in the shadows and eavesdropping on telephone conversations, but Jake had trouble paying attention. That Russian, that Mr. Shubin, with his cracked spectacles and his ropy hand with yellow fingertips, kept floating up before his eyes, and soon the Russian spy in the movie and the Russian his mom had brought to their house became confused in Jake’s mind.

  “Junior?” He heard Major Armbruster’s voice. “Shoot to the kitchen and tell Mother we’ll be wanting iced Coca-Colas. Bring some nuts and such.”

  Jake leapt up eagerly. “I’ll go, too, sir!” he shouted, hoping to be alone with Duane so he could tell him about the Russian.

  “Sit tight, son,” said Major Armbruster. “Junior will go.”

  “Yes, sir.” Jake sat down, watching Duane shuffle out of the room with his eyes fixed on the TV until the door shut behind him.

  In the movie the jittery music was up again. The spy was slinking down the street, glancing from under the brim of his hat to check if he was being followed. Beside Jake, the major’s regulation army oxfords were planted side by side on the white-carpeted floor. Two little blue squares, the reflections of the TV screen, flickered in the round patent leather toes. Within each square, the tiny upside-down spy was clearly visible. Watching the reflections in the major’s shoes was far more interesting than watching the screen because the spies seemed to be in competition, and it looked to Jake that the one on the left was a little sneakier than the one on the right.

  “McCauley? Mind if I ask you something?” The major crossed his legs, and both spies vanished.

  “No, sir.”

  “I’ve been thinking about this morning. About Junior standing in front of his classmates.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “I’ll be frank with you, McCauley, it worries me. Is he always that way at school? Quiet-like?”

  “No, sir. He talks like most everybody.”

  Major Armbruster’s radiant green eyes burned into Jake’s face, and he could tell that the major was skeptical of his answer.

  “Duane is real smart, sir,” Jake assured him. “His grades are good.”

  The major’s green eyes slipped off Jake’s face, and he sat back, peering gloomily at the TV. “Oh, McCauley, McCauley, it’s not his grades I worry about.”

  “What is it, then, sir? I don’t understand.”

  “How could you? You’re loaded with character, McCauley. You’ve got spirit, son; you go after things, but Junior—”

  The door opened, and Mrs. Armbruster walked in with two Coca-Cola glasses and little plates on a shiny tray. Duane slipped in behind her, but hovered in the doorway, his eyes darting back and forth between Jake and the major, clearly trying to guess what they were talking about while he was gone.

  “What are you doing in here, Mildred?” the major snapped, annoyed. “I told him to bring it.”

  “He’d spill it, honey,” said Mrs. Armbruster.

  “Where’s the third Coca-Cola?” the major said, looking at the two glasses on the tray.

  “I don’t want any,” Duane said, and slinked back to his seat.

  Mrs. Armbruster held the tray before Jake. “Thank you, ma’am.” He took one of the glasses.

  The major waved the tray away. “I ain’t thirsty.”

  “I’ll set it down on the side table, boys,” said Mrs. Armbruster. “Maybe you’ll change your mind or Jake will be wanting another. Dinner’s coming.”

  She sailed out of the room and carefully closed the door behind her. They went back to watching the movie, but Jake, taking hurried icy pulls through the straw, was only pretending to watch it. The conversation with the major had confused him. Jake should have thought of smarter answers to his questions. He should have made the major feel good about Duane. But what was there to feel bad about? There was nothing wrong with Duane. He was Jake’s best friend since kindergarten and he had read more comics than anyone in their whole school, and if that stupid spy on television was not caught real soon and that movie was not over and done with so that he could tell Duane about the Russian in his house, Jake was going to explode. His patience, always in short supply, was quickly running out.

  “Watch him now, Dad,” Duane said. “He’s going to photograph the
top secret stuff.”

  Jake glanced at the major, expecting him to say that Duane was wrong again, but the major kept silent. Jake looked back at the screen, where the spy was sneaking into some office. Jake could not tell what kind of office because he did not have enough time to make out the words on the frosted glass door.

  Moving in and out of shadows, the spy approached a massive steel box. It was a safe like the one they had in the Valley National Bank downtown. The movie showed the round combination lock close when the spy’s black-gloved hand turned it clockwise, then counterclockwise until the safe’s door swung open. The safe was empty inside save for one cardboard folder. The folder looked like the folders Mr. Vargas used in their classroom for special projects, but when the spy took the folder out of the safe, the jittery music went up a few notches.

  “Told ya,” Duane said smugly. “Top secret.”

  And sure enough, when the spy set the folder under the glowing circle of the desk lamp, you could read TOP SECRET stamped in the upper right corner.

  The major peered at the TV with such a glum expression that Jake felt guilty he could not defend Duane better, and he promised himself he’d say something really nice about Duane to the major the first chance he got.

  When he turned back to the screen, the spy was leaning over the folder so that the desk lamp lit his face from below. A line of beaded sweat glistened above his upper lip, and on his bristly chin each tiny hair cast an upward shadow.

  “He’s got a Minox,” Duane said.

  “He’s got a what?” the major said.

  “Minox is a spy camera, Dad,” Duane said, rolling his eyes.

  The spy in the movie brought a tiny camera up to his eye and went on snapping away at the top secret folder, quickly turning the pages and glancing over his shoulder at the door.

  “Geez, Duane, you could really tell about spies,” Jake said, looking at Major Armbruster. “Doesn’t he though, sir? Duane knows a lot about spies?”

  Jake expected the major to agree with him, or at least to smile, or to nod, or to do something that would show he felt better about Duane because he knew so much about spies, but instead the major said, rising from the couch, “That’s a lot of hooey, boys. We don’t allow for such things.”

  “It’s a movie, Dad,” Duane said.

  “No need to tell me that, Junior,” snapped Major Armbruster. “I should know the difference.”

  8

  The instant the door closed after Major Armbruster, Jake scooted toward Duane and breathed into his ear, “You’re going to die when I tell you!”

  “Don’t block the view, okay? Can’t you see I’m watching a movie?”

  “Forget the movie, bud! My mom took a renter in.”

  “So?”

  “So? Are you nuts? She rented out Dad’s old room upstairs. He’s a Russian.”

  “Who’s a Russian?”

  “The guy Mom took in. He’s from Russia!”

  Duane’s eyes darted past Jake to the door. “Keep your voice down, you fool. He hears you, he’ll blow his top. He already wants to take me out of school.”

  “Why?”

  “He says Vargas is a Communist.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Jake said, amazed. “The way he talked about Communism today, he probably is.”

  “He was lucky my dad didn’t hear him,” Duane whispered. “But it’s what he said about radio that makes him suspicious.”

  “Radio? What did he say about radio?”

  “Heck, McCauley! Where were you? He said we shouldn’t trust what they say on the radio.” He tiptoed to the door, peeked out, and whispered over his shoulder, “Can’t talk in here. Let’s go in the back.”

  The air felt cool and moist outside. The evening was coming. Creeping close to the wall, the boys sneaked around the Armbrusters’ enormous house, ducked under a low-hanging bougainvillea, deep purple in the dwindling light, and looped around the grassy knoll below which was a fallout shelter that cost more than Jake’s whole house. After Jake was allowed to visit the shelter last year—a deep cement bunker furnished with comfortable beds and stocked with food and water—he had always felt uneasy at the sight of its steel-riveted door. Any day, the Russians might drop the A-bomb on their town, but unlike the wealthy Armbrusters, Jake and his mother had no place to hide from the atomic fallout.

  Behind the shelter, Duane took a sharp left to the kidney-shaped pool, where he halted and wheeled round so abruptly, Jake nearly tumbled into the water.

  “Your mom took a Russian in?” Duane whispered. “Why would she do a thing like that?”

  Jake shrugged. No use explaining money trouble to Duane; he would never understand it. “It’s not her fault,” he said. “Her boss made her do it. A fellow named Hoover. He’s in the window shades business.”

  “Window shades? Who are they kidding, bud? But it’s a shady business, all right. A cover for the den of spies, if you want to know my opinion. Guess why that Russian moved into your house.”

  Jake looked at him anxiously, already knowing the answer. Their neighborhood was at the edge of the air force base where secret aircrafts were tested. “Why?” he said anyway.

  “Because we live right next to the air force base, you dummy.”

  “So what?”

  Duane’s eyes opened wide. “So what? You want to get my dad in trouble?”

  “Your dad? The Russian has nothing to do with him.”

  “You’re not paying attention, bud.” Duane glanced up at the house, scanning the second-story windows, then turned back to Jake. “My dad is cleared on all the classified stuff. He’s got top secret files all over the place. What if your Russian sneaks in to take pictures of them? With a Minox? Like in that movie just now? Who’d be in trouble then?”

  Jake felt a sudden shiver passing through his body and he wrapped his arms around himself. It was definitely getting cooler. “Would he do that?” he said.

  “Sure he would.”

  “What if he doesn’t have a Minox?”

  “That’s what you should find out. Did you go through his stuff yet?”

  “What stuff?”

  “His suitcase. First thing you do is look inside the lining. It probably has a false bottom. He’s got to keep his tool kit hidden.”

  “What tool kit?”

  Duane rolled his eyes. “You’re just like my dad, McCauley. I’m not giving you any more of my spy comics; you’re learning nothing.” And leaning close to Jake, he speedily recited, “A shortwave radio. Invisible ink. Does he have an umbrella? Careful when you open it. Shoots bullets. He’s got to have poison, too. Check the heels of his shoes for secret compartments. Look for photographic equipment. Cameras, film, stuff like that. Come on, bud, use your brain.”

  Every word Duane whispered stung him, as if somehow it was Jake’s fault that his mother took in that Russian. What if he really was a spy?

  With a sharp click, the pool lights came on, startling Jake. Duane was leaning heavily into him, pressing Jake to the edge of the pool. Lit from below by the underwater lights, Duane’s face looked spooky, and his eyes, radiant green as his father’s, shone brighter than usual. Jake took a deep breath and pulled away from him. “I can’t go through his stuff.”

  “Why not?”

  “My mom would kill me.”

  “Forget about your mom! It’s your duty to fight the Communists.”

  “He may be a Communist, but he’s no spy.”

  “All Communists are spies, McCauley. My dad says you can be around someone for years and never guess he’s a spy, but I can always tell them! Always! My dad says that I am really good at—”

  Abruptly Duane stopped and narrowed his eyes at Jake. “What did he talk to you about while I was gone? Did he talk about me?”

  “Who?” Jake said, pretending not to understand.

  “Come on, bud,” Duane said. “What did my dad say about me while I was gone?”

  “What did he say?” Jake shrugged. “I don’t remember.” He flinched under D
uane’s intense gaze and turned away to stare into the glowing pool. A black inner tube turned lazily in the water, thumping against the tiles.

  “You don’t have to tell me,” he heard Duane’s voice beside him. “I know. He’d rather have you for his son.”

  “WHAT?”

  When Jake spun around to say that the major would never want any such thing, his foot slipped on a wet tile. Falling, he reached out to Duane to steady himself, but Duane took a quick step back, and Jake belly flopped into the pool. The water went into his mouth and up his nose. His eyes were open when he fell, and the underwater lights confused him. Instead of rising to the surface, he dived to the bottom and smashed his fingers into the blue concrete.

  9

  It was dark when Jake stamped wet footprints on the steps leading to the back porch of his house. The door was not shut all the way, and the light in the kitchen drew a swarm of night bugs to the mesh of the screen door. Jake had cupped his hands over a huge shaggy moth when his mother’s voice rose from the kitchen.

  “It’s hard on him growing up without his dad, and it’s hard on me, too. I’ve been doing this alone for too long.”

  Jake froze, feeling the moth’s wings throb under the moist palms of his hands.

  “He’s a good boy, a very good boy, and he means well, but he always manages to get himself in trouble. His teacher, Mr. Vargas, called the other day, complaining. He said that Jake is too impulsive. He said Jake gets these rash ideas and he can’t stop himself, he has to carry them out. Must be all those comics he reads. Spy comics, by the way.”

  Jake opened his hands, and the moth flew up and bumped against his cheek. He swiped at it.

  “And the way he rides that old bike?” his mother said. “He’s covered in bruises. He’s just plain reckless.”

  A chair creaked.

  “You’re making too much of it,” Shubin’s voice piped through the screen. “The kid’s eleven.”