snack and turning in. Monday morning is just around the corner. Gotta get up early for work.”
“Where do you work, Mr. Greene?”
“I’m the Screen Man. I repair screens, screen doors, install storm windows.”
“Really? I’ve seen your van! You have a card? My screens are in terrible shape.”
“I have them back at my apartment. Just look me up, and I’ll come by and fix what needs fixing.”
“Wonderful! Well, have a good night, Phil.” She backed off the porch.
“Good night.” I latched the door and threw on the useless chain, hoping that was the end of the visitors for the night.
Nice ’n Easy was as advertised, and I quickly had the goop combed into my hair waiting to work its magic. It said forty-five minutes was all it would take to make my hair snowy white.
I put on one of Fred’s velour track suits—not a bad fit—and sat down at the computer. Typing in my password to the flash drive’s encrypted browser, I accessed the private network tunnel and secure sessions service.
I typed into Google and went into my backup Gmail account, the one I only used at the library. I composed an email to
[email protected]:
Hi, Tim: I decided I might take you up on that fishing trip to your lodge. You must be shocked after all the times you invited me. Think you could teach me to bonefish? I’m between jobs with a severance package and am thinking about coming for a month to clear my head. Hope you can accommodate. Email ASAP as I am booking a flight for Nassau tonight. Looking forward to catching up with an old army buddy. Yours, Gill.
I wanted them to think Trudy was alive, that I was at the beach house, that I was dumb about phones, and that I was headed to Iceland. A misinformed adversary can be your best ally. The name on the passport was so generic that even if it fell into the wrong hands it would be of little use.
It seemed inevitable that when those Serb shitbags returned from their beach holiday they would get wind of what was going on and confront the Hong Kong friends. In fact, I hoped they would. Let them go after each other instead of me.
I went to the Bernard’s Cay Bonefish Lodge website. It boasted that it catered to the hardcore fly-fishing angler as well as their “non-fishing spouse” who might like lounging by the pool, snorkeling, or combing the white sandy beaches. There were lots of grip-and-grin shots of people with silvery fish in the bright sun and blue waters, as well as happy couples hand in hand frolicking in the surf and sipping drinks by the sunset. That had been me, once, a jillion years ago, and never again. My only hope was that one day I might somehow think back on Trudy and be warmed by the memory instead of chilled. The regret was acid on my tongue, my mouth dry with fear of being alone.
The out islands of the Bahamas looked perfectly isolated, yet at the same time accessible by air and boat, and a guy with cash could keep moving. It looked like you could hit a new island every couple weeks for a year. I’d never really known what fly fishing was. I opened a new Explorer window to YouTube, where I found videos showing how it was done. Unlike the kind of fishing where the line is cast from the reel, fly fishing was all about using the plastic line to draw itself out by swinging it through the air. The casts looked freaky, like a slow whipping action. There were a lot of details to how it was done, and with what kind of equipment, but the exactness and complexity attracted me. It was tactical: the fish were adversaries to be outmaneuvered, and teamwork was often required. As a tactic for my situation, going to a remote location alone with a guide on a motorboat with lots of escape options was ideal. I’d fit right in.
It would help if I had the equipment when I went to complete my cover as a genuine traveling angler. I flipped out of YouTube and searched for a fly-fishing store in Manhattan. There was one in the Twenties on Fifth Avenue, and I
“Where do you work, Mr. Greene?”
“I’m the Screen Man. I repair screens, screen doors, install storm windows.”
“Really? I’ve seen your van! You have a card? My screens are in terrible shape.”
“I have them back at my apartment. Just look me up, and I’ll come by and fix what needs fixing.”
“Wonderful! Well, have a good night, Phil.” She backed off the porch.
“Good night.” I latched the door and threw on the useless chain, hoping that was the end of the visitors for the night.
Nice ’n Easy was as advertised, and I quickly had the goop combed into my hair waiting to work its magic. It said forty-five minutes was all it would take to make my hair snowy white.
I put on one of Fred’s velour track suits—not a bad fit—and sat down at the computer. Typing in my password to the flash drive’s encrypted browser, I accessed the private network tunnel and secure sessions service.
I typed into Google and went into my backup Gmail account, the one I only used at the library. I composed an email to
[email protected]:
Hi, Tim: I decided I might take you up on that fishing trip to your lodge. You must be shocked after all the times you invited me. Think you could teach me to bonefish? I’m between jobs with a severance package and am thinking about coming for a month to clear my head. Hope you can accommodate. Email ASAP as I am booking a flight for Nassau tonight. Looking forward to catching up with an old army buddy. Yours, Gill.
I wanted them to think Trudy was alive, that I was at the beach house, that I was dumb about phones, and that I was headed to Iceland. A misinformed adversary can be your best ally. The name on the passport was so generic that even if it fell into the wrong hands it would be of little use.
It seemed inevitable that when those Serb shitbags returned from their beach holiday they would get wind of what was going on and confront the Hong Kong friends. In fact, I hoped they would. Let them go after each other instead of me.
I went to the Bernard’s Cay Bonefish Lodge website. It boasted that it catered to the hardcore fly-fishing angler as well as their “non-fishing spouse” who might like lounging by the pool, snorkeling, or combing the white sandy beaches. There were lots of grip-and-grin shots of people with silvery fish in the bright sun and blue waters, as well as happy couples hand in hand frolicking in the surf and sipping drinks by the sunset. That had been me, once, a jillion years ago, and never again. My only hope was that one day I might somehow think back on Trudy and be warmed by the memory instead of chilled. The regret was acid on my tongue, my mouth dry with fear of being alone.
The out islands of the Bahamas looked perfectly isolated, yet at the same time accessible by air and boat, and a guy with cash could keep moving. It looked like you could hit a new island every couple weeks for a year. I’d never really known what fly fishing was. I opened a new Explorer window to YouTube, where I found videos showing how it was done. Unlike the kind of fishing where the line is cast from the reel, fly fishing was all about using the plastic line to draw itself out by swinging it through the air. The casts looked freaky, like a slow whipping action. There were a lot of details to how it was done, and with what kind of equipment, but the exactness and complexity attracted me. It was tactical: the fish were adversaries to be outmaneuvered, and teamwork was often required. As a tactic for my situation, going to a remote location alone with a guide on a motorboat with lots of escape options was ideal. I’d fit right in.
It would help if I had the equipment when I went to complete my cover as a genuine traveling angler. I flipped out of YouTube and searched for a fly-fishing store in Manhattan. There was one in the Twenties on Fifth Avenue, and I
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