Once a Spy by Keith Thomson Page A

Charlie rebuked himself. Because the keys were in the truck. Because why would anyone steal a truck like that?
    “Looks like Sergeant Reilly’s on it already,” he said, hurrying back up the block.
    Drummond opened the driver’s door for him and moved to the passenger seat. “Best you drive, Charles,” he said. “I don’t have my license with me.”

16
    Stretching his feet as far as he could to operate the clutch and accelerator, Charlie had to strain to keep hold of both the gearshift and the wheel. The truck’s girth made the four-lane stretch of Flatbush Avenue feel like a narrow path. Expecting half the police cars in Brooklyn on his tail, he looked to the rearview mirror to discover that the truck had no rearview mirror. There were two side mirrors; and in his, the closest thing to a blue and white cruiser was a teal Dodge sedan two blocks back.
    Still, the cops would have no trouble finding them. The Hippo was as conspicuous as any ride outside Coney Island. Charlie decided to ditch it at the first place they could hail a taxi. Brooklyn College was just a few blocks away.
    “So, Dad, now that we have a relatively quiet moment,” he said, “would you care to enlighten me as to exactly what kind of crazy motherfucking shit you’ve gotten me into?”
    From Drummond came no reply.
    Warily, Charlie took his eyes off the road. Drummond was reclining in the passenger seat, watching a darkened factory bound past. He probably would have been asleep if not for the icy air whistling onto him through the cracked glove compartment.
    “Sorry if I’m keeping you up,” Charlie said.
    Drummond shook his head, as if trying to align his thoughts. “I wish I knew.”
    “What about the eight million dollars? Does that have anything to do with this?”
    “What eight million dollars?”
    “You said you had eight million dollars in a bank account.”
    “Oh,” Drummond said. No recollection.
    He snapped upright, his eyes drawn to something in his side mirror.
    Charlie saw a dark industrial block not much different from the last one or the one before that. Behind them was a Lincoln dating to Detroit’s infatuation with the look of cruise ships, followed by a battered pickup. Next came a dump truck, then a late model Nissan. The teal Dodge that had been two blocks back was now even with the Nissan.
    “Am I missing something?” Charlie said.
    “This may have something to do with—” Drummond cut himself off.
    “Work?”
    Drummond fixated on his mirror but said nothing.
    “What might we be talking about?” Charlie asked. “A customer really hot under the collar because his dryer takes too long to dry a load?”
    “It’s nothing like that.”
    “Okay, what is it like?”
    “It’s complicated.”
    “How about I get twenty questions?”
    “I can’t talk about it.”
    “Why the hell not?”
    “For one thing, knowing would put you in jeopardy.”
    “As opposed to, say, now?”
    Drummond nodded, ceding the point. He began to speak, only to stop.
    “Come on,” Charlie said. “The suspense is going to kill me first.”
    Again Drummond hesitated. “The truth is, Perriman Appliances is just a cover,” he finally said in a whisper. “I really work for the government, in clandestine operations.”
    That would explain a lot of tonight. But knowing Drummond as he did—the man who complained the History Channel aired too much violence—Charlie couldn’t swallow it. “So, what, you’re a spy?”
    “Company!”
    “Like, the CIA?”
    “Behind us!”
    Charlie glanced at his side mirror. The players had changed only in that the teal Dodge had drawn half a block closer. “Which one?” he asked, doubtful it was any.
    “The teal car,” Drummond said, as if it should have been obvious.
    “If you say so.”
    “Teal cars are very often rentals.”
    “I guess no one would buy a teal car …”
    “They may fire.”
    “With all these other people around?”
    Charlie’s side mirror burst into particles of glass.