Once a Spy by Keith Thomson Page B

board of elections site had linked to and automatically opened a PDF of the elaborate paperwork required, in light of all the Social Security benefits fraud, for a change of address. It requested that Isadora VanDeuersen Clark’s checks be forwarded to Charles Clark at 305 East 10 Street in New York City. The original address was General Delivery, Monroeville, Virginia. No news there. But the form stated, in oversized bold caps, that if the original address were a post office box or general delivery, the applicant needed to supply a physical address below. So to learn Isadora VanDeuersen Clark’s actual whereabouts, in theory, all Mickey had to do was scroll down.
    “What’s going on?” asked Charlie and Sylvia, almost in unison.
    “Just a sec,” Mickey told them both.
    Sylvia stomped into the room. Mickey’s back was to her. Still, her look made him wither. “One more second, please,” he begged, scrolling furiously toward the address.
    “Okay …” She eyed the ceiling for about one second, then seized the computer’s power cable, shifting her weight toward the outlet, to pull the plug with maximum dramatic effect.
    “Stop, please!”
    She did. But only to twist the knife. And what could he do? The crib stood between them—not that he could overpower her if he wanted to. He knew of no way to persuade her. Out of spite, she usually denied even his simplest requests, like “Pass the salt?”
    “Tell her you’re trying to help me find a place in Virginia,” Charlie said.
    Sylvia heard. “Really?” she said with enthusiasm. She relaxed her grip on the power cord.
    Mickey’s own look of mystification gave up the game. Sylvia reared back and jerked the power cord as if starting a lawn mower. The plug whipped past him, a prong grazing his cheek. The hard drive fizzled. As the screen faded to gray, however, he was able to make out Isadora V. Clark’s street address.

7
    With the address firmly in his memory and corresponding bounce in his step, Charlie hurried from the parking lot pay phone and down the still-dark breezeway. Night Manager A. Brody sprung out of the vending machine room, directly into his path.
    “Top of the morning to you, Mr. Ramirez!”
    Although the vending machine room was just a few steps from the office, Brody was bundled into a coat, scarf, and hat. And he hadn’t purchased anything.
    He’d been waiting.
    Swallowing against an upsurge of dread, Charlie said, “Top of the morning back at you.”
    “You have rather fair hair for a Ramirez, don’t you?”
    “My mother’s Swedish.”
    Brody laughed derisively. “Listen, I’ve had so many weird middle-of-the-night check-ins that a man giving a fake name counts as fairly normal, especially if a second person’s waiting in the car. I can’t see the parking spaces around the corner from my office, but while you were checking in last night, I could distinguish the rumble of your car from that of the highway. Most people, fearing car thieves, don’t leave their vehicles running. Unless there’s someone else in the vehicle.”
    “Is there a charge for a second person?” Charlie asked, hoping the objective of this third degree was merely the collection of a few bucks.
    “No, up to four can stay at no additional fee. I wanted to share with you the message in a fax I just received from the FBI. They’re seekingtwo fugitives, an older man and one about your age. And height and weight and hair and eye color.”
    “Thanks for sharing,” Charlie said. By it he meant, “What do you want?”
    “I’ll tell you what, a thousand in cash, and if someone asks me, a man matching your description may or may not have checked in here in the middle of the night—it was dark, you were all bundled up, who could tell?”
    A thousand dollars was a small price to avoid capture. Charlie wished he had it. He fished the wallet from his pants and flipped it open to display bills totaling $157. He saw no need to mention the twenty he always kept in a