matching blazer and slacks, but with one difference. I left my underwear off. Just in case.
My phone rang as I was slipping my shoes on. “Hello?”
“Go to the address you’re about to receive by text,” said a female voice that I thought was probably the same woman I had spoken to before, but I couldn’t be sure.
An address appeared on my phone a few moments later, and I set about figuring out where I was going, in other words, which of the London Underground trains to take. The Underground wasn’t that much trickier than the New York subway, but sometimes it took some figuring out.
I took the train to Green Park, and as I came out of the station, my phone pinged with another text. It read: Ring #3.
I walked a few blocks to the address I was given and was surprised that the building seemed to be a modern block of apartments. A mother escorting two young children was making her way down the front steps as I approached. I pressed the buzzer for number three. A moment later the door unlatched and I went inside. Number three was on the first floor, at the back. A large envelope with my first name on it was taped to the door. I opened it and pulled out a letter.
If you are to join us, the bond will be built on trust.
If you believe you can trust us, you will follow these instructions. Place your phone inside the envelope along with this letter and tape the envelope to the door again. Then take the Tube to Holborn. The address you seek is printed on the card.
Card? I looked in the envelope again and saw a business card at the bottom I had missed before. It had only a street address, no name or even the city. I put the card in my pocket, put my phone in the envelope, then stood there thinking.
This was fairly heavy cloak-and-dagger stuff, although it seemed very unlikely they were trying to steal my phone. I supposed they didn’t want me taking a camera where I was going, and they had to be careful I hadn’t brought the police or a TV news crew with me. They were probably watching me right now. I taped the envelope to the door and went on my way.
It felt distinctly odd to be without a phone. I’d gotten so used to having it, using it to check the weather, the map, read the news, and so on, all the time. Not having it was like wearing a blindfold. Which was probably the other purpose for them taking it away.
Fortunately, it wasn’t hard to get to Holborn Station, and there was a map on the wall of the train station that let me get my bearings and find the address I needed. I walked a few blocks from the station on a quiet residential street that opened onto a square running around a small park. The buildings here were what I thought of as brownstones, only larger than I was used to. Each was four stories tall and quite wide. The sidewalk was paved in large, flat stones, and each building had a front patio surrounded by a wrought-iron fence.
This looked much more like what I was expecting, but I braced myself in case this doorway, too, had another hoop to jump through. I went up the stone steps and saw the entryway had only one doorbell. There were no envelopes in sight. I pressed the button.
A moment later the door opened. A slender woman in a pillbox hat and stylish suit, her skirt tapering to her knee, looked me up and down. Her eyes were shadowed by the netting from the hat, and she looked like the starlet of a noir film. “Your name?” she said coolly.
“Karina. Karina Casper.”
“Come in.” She stepped aside so I could enter and then shut the door firmly behind me. I was in the plush-carpeted front hallway. A large staircase led upward and parlors were off to either side. She cleared her throat. “If you’ll go forward and to your right.”
I went down the hall and then into a sort of library or sitting room. One wall was built with cabinets up to waist height and then bookshelves going up nearly to the high ceiling. A rolling ladder was attached to one side. In the middle of the room was a
My phone rang as I was slipping my shoes on. “Hello?”
“Go to the address you’re about to receive by text,” said a female voice that I thought was probably the same woman I had spoken to before, but I couldn’t be sure.
An address appeared on my phone a few moments later, and I set about figuring out where I was going, in other words, which of the London Underground trains to take. The Underground wasn’t that much trickier than the New York subway, but sometimes it took some figuring out.
I took the train to Green Park, and as I came out of the station, my phone pinged with another text. It read: Ring #3.
I walked a few blocks to the address I was given and was surprised that the building seemed to be a modern block of apartments. A mother escorting two young children was making her way down the front steps as I approached. I pressed the buzzer for number three. A moment later the door unlatched and I went inside. Number three was on the first floor, at the back. A large envelope with my first name on it was taped to the door. I opened it and pulled out a letter.
If you are to join us, the bond will be built on trust.
If you believe you can trust us, you will follow these instructions. Place your phone inside the envelope along with this letter and tape the envelope to the door again. Then take the Tube to Holborn. The address you seek is printed on the card.
Card? I looked in the envelope again and saw a business card at the bottom I had missed before. It had only a street address, no name or even the city. I put the card in my pocket, put my phone in the envelope, then stood there thinking.
This was fairly heavy cloak-and-dagger stuff, although it seemed very unlikely they were trying to steal my phone. I supposed they didn’t want me taking a camera where I was going, and they had to be careful I hadn’t brought the police or a TV news crew with me. They were probably watching me right now. I taped the envelope to the door and went on my way.
It felt distinctly odd to be without a phone. I’d gotten so used to having it, using it to check the weather, the map, read the news, and so on, all the time. Not having it was like wearing a blindfold. Which was probably the other purpose for them taking it away.
Fortunately, it wasn’t hard to get to Holborn Station, and there was a map on the wall of the train station that let me get my bearings and find the address I needed. I walked a few blocks from the station on a quiet residential street that opened onto a square running around a small park. The buildings here were what I thought of as brownstones, only larger than I was used to. Each was four stories tall and quite wide. The sidewalk was paved in large, flat stones, and each building had a front patio surrounded by a wrought-iron fence.
This looked much more like what I was expecting, but I braced myself in case this doorway, too, had another hoop to jump through. I went up the stone steps and saw the entryway had only one doorbell. There were no envelopes in sight. I pressed the button.
A moment later the door opened. A slender woman in a pillbox hat and stylish suit, her skirt tapering to her knee, looked me up and down. Her eyes were shadowed by the netting from the hat, and she looked like the starlet of a noir film. “Your name?” she said coolly.
“Karina. Karina Casper.”
“Come in.” She stepped aside so I could enter and then shut the door firmly behind me. I was in the plush-carpeted front hallway. A large staircase led upward and parlors were off to either side. She cleared her throat. “If you’ll go forward and to your right.”
I went down the hall and then into a sort of library or sitting room. One wall was built with cabinets up to waist height and then bookshelves going up nearly to the high ceiling. A rolling ladder was attached to one side. In the middle of the room was a
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