William Palafox’s journey to becoming an author began on the decks of Navy ships, where he spent over two decades serving his country. As the son of a Navy man, the military life called to him
early – so much so that he would later find himself stationed aboard a vessel he had once assembled as a model kit in his junior high school days.
William Palafox’s journey to becoming an author began on the decks of Navy ships, where he spent over two decades serving his country. As the son of a Navy man, the military life called to him early – so much so that he would later find himself stationed aboard a vessel he had once assembled as a model kit in his junior high school days.
But it was during his deployment to Iraq that Palafox’s writing career would find its unlikely genesis. In the fading light of an evening in the war-torn country, an encounter with a restless crowd of Iraqis waiting for payment sparked what would become his first novel, “Sands of the Undead.” This work holds a special place in his heart among his four published books, its pages carrying the weight of his wartime experiences.
“Stories tend to stray from the original intent,” Palafox reflects on his creative process. “They get a life of their own.” This organic evolution of narrative is evident in his work “The Algerian,” which emerged from an unexpected combination of reading Joseph Conrad’s “Heart of Darkness” and receiving an article about NGO corruption in Washington, D.C. For Palafox, inspiration strikes in the most unexpected places – even, as he notes, during a Sunday homily at Mass.
His first published work, “The Frog Surrenders,” a satire of French military history, demonstrates both his persistence and the often-challenging nature of the publishing industry. Inspired by satirist Richard Armour, Palafox spent seven years bringing this book to print, navigating through a cancelled contract and ultimately choosing the self-publishing route. The day he received news of the initial contract cancellation coincided with both his daughter’s birth and his deployment orders to Iraq – a convergence of personal, professional, and literary milestones that would shape his path forward.
Currently, Palafox juggles multiple writing projects, with about a dozen plots awaiting their turn to be fully realized. Among these is a provocative concept about a serial killer with cerebral palsy who seeks recognition for his actions rather than his disability – a story that, in Palafox’s words, will be “politically incorrect and unapologetically so.”
When not writing, Palafox is an avid reader whose tastes range from James Clavell’s “Shogun” to Pierre Barzun’s “From Dawn to Decadence.” His favorite book, Richard Adams’ “Watership Down,” has been a constant companion since his high school days, when he purchased it for two dollars at a library sale, drawn to its rabbit-adorned cover that reminded him of his own pet.
His home reflects his devotion to the written word, with bookcases filling the spaces and volumes still spilling into corners. As he puts it, books are like firearms – “One simultaneously has too many and not enough, and they all need to be stored properly.” It’s a fitting metaphor for a writer who has transformed his military experience into a literary career, crafting stories that find their inspiration in the intersection of duty, daily life, and the unexpected moments that spark imagination.
Read The Algerian
CHAPTER 1
I had already done the job, my main purpose in coming, and could have cleared out. Entirely my call. It was taking on a huge risk, but I didn’t like leaving the matter unresolved. Darkness had already descended, and the traffic on both the road and sidewalks was sparse this Tuesday night in this sterile, artificial district where
the condo and apartment hives mingled with boutique shopping and haut cuisine restaurants giving the denizens, mostly childless government workers, the frisson of a life lived with a Parisian flair. A few restaurants still offered outdoor seating for those who fancied themselves of a hardier stock than the usual customer, the sort easily rattled by the vagaries of unexpected menu changes. These braver patrons who enjoyed the nip of the autumn air clustered under the glowing orange stalks of the towering propane heaters. None noted my passage. Nor did they note those seated with them, all intently staring at the thin prisms of glass and plastic in their hands.
The paucity of vehicles on the road meant most of the parking spots had been snapped up in this over-congested cityscape clogged with its over-priced cubicles and equally over-priced garage spaces. Ah, nothing bespoke urban freedom like having a curfew enforced by the need to bed down one’s automobile for the night. With no one following closely, I slowed and scanned for somewhere to ditch these hot wheels, but only after I had passed my destination was I finally rewarded with the sight of a vehicle pulling into traffic a block ahead of me. I accelerated and quickly paralleled the dead man’s car into the freshly vacated spot. It put me about four blocks from the diner, but the walk gave me another chance to both scout around for anything out of place and to reconsider whether I should even proceed.
Four blocks of empty sidewalk later, I passed the diner without a glance, or at least hopefully not an obvious one, and circled the block before returning. Nothing obviously amiss. The diner had large rectangular windows so any passerby could ogle the customers perched on the brown vinyl stools that lined the U-shaped counter like so many fish in an aquarium, if fish ever decided to take a load off on bar stools. Hopper had used a joint like this for Nighthawks and except for it being devoid of the soda jerk, the two grim, square-shouldered gents wearing fedoras and, of course, the swanky road-worn redhead, it would have served quite nicely as backdrop for a film noir. Urban alienation. Concrete jungle. Million tales in the naked city.
My first thought was that someone who prided himself on possessing a heavy streak of irony had decided to show how wonderfully creative he was by uncreatively ruining another man’s artistic achievement. Nothing egregious was readily visible through the glass, and I realized I was going in because it all reminded me of a favorite painting. So much for cold, rational decision-making. As a Hopper aficionado, I steeled myself before entering but to no purpose. The gal running the counter wasn’t ironically wearing a poodle skirt or sporting a beehive hairdo or any other such aesthetic atrocity. The music softly playing made no pretense at being retro, but it also made no pretense at being anything else. Just music. Nothing I recognized, but then again there was little of the popular fare I would recognize. Just a reasonable facsimile of an old-school diner. Interesting that I had not noticed the similarity when scouting the site earlier. Then again, Hopper hadn’t titled the piece Dayhawks.
I settled down at the stool farthest from the door, the counter gal eyeing me as I crossed over, but I didn’t eye her in return. With the ten yards of plate glass now at my back, I got to experience things from the fish’s perspective. Given the prior events of the evening, not a comfortable sensation. Less visibility was what was desired. Not more. That’s why you give the guppy a cave to hole up in, and I very much needed a cave.
It took me but a few moments to give this venue the once-over. Slow night it appeared. No plates on the counter, so probably no other customers momentarily roosting in the restroom. No obvious cameras. I took a deep inhale, waited for the pulse to tell me I was being calm and only then did I lock eyes with hers, dark and sensual set off with a thick jag of liner that gave her a certain feline allure. She was probably on the wrong side of forty but still quite nice to take in. Bit heavy on the rest of the makeup, as well, and from her arms, I could see her summer tan hadn’t completely faded. Dangling earrings in the shape of dragonflies, another reminder of the idyll of sultry days past. She was trying really hard. Her hair that just touched the shoulders was dark with some blonde streaks thrown in, suggesting that she still had plenty of fun left in her; the idyll of sultry days filled with dragonflies was still of the present, not the past; won’t you please strike up a conversation and find out how much fun she could be? She also had some of the padding that comes with that age if you aren’t either pushing iron in the gym or pushing away the second helping on the plate. The sort of padding I happened to like on a woman, the sort that gave a nice curve to the way she filled out her jeans and the plunging neckline black T-shirt she wore. I felt a bit of a stir, but forced my mind back on business. Depending on how things went, I might get my fill of her later.
After all, she was a waypoint gal, and the gals who ran the waypoints expected to be pinned down and ravished, demanded it really. Waypoints. This outing hadn’t required one since it was a day trip for me, but they were indispensable to the cause. Safe house. Hotel. Armory. Clinic. Spa. Bordello. Since I had never come close to getting jammed up on a mission and always traveled with full kit, the waypoints had always been more recreational for me. Some Algerians thought we were imposing on them. On my first few sanctioned runs, I insisted it wasn’t necessary, as if they were paying me in flesh, but then I realized I had it backwards. That was their price for serving the cause. Innkeeper. Spy. Armorer. Medic. Lover. Whore. They did so much for us, and usually I was more than happy to oblige them. Occasionally, I had to close my eyes and do my duty.
One of the gals told me that after an adulthood of mostly celibate loneliness interspersed by the occasional shameful tryst with some mewling, milquetoast soy boy, she welcomed the excitement of a passionate night or two with a gunner. Or three or four. Many I’m told yearned to bear a son from one of the nameless soldiers of the revolution. That didn’t seem proper to me, fathering bastard children. Ran counter to all that I was fighting for. For me that had to wait.
I gave the menu a quick study and then dropped it on the clean surface of the counter. A good sign. She had been lounging by the old-time cash register, a detail not included by Hopper, but a good addition, nonetheless, sizing me up the entire time. With the menu down, she strolled over, suddenly a bit uneasy, her instinct informing her of what I was, realizing that in some way the course of her life was about to be altered. Little did she realize how much.
“Hey, stranger.” Her voice had an air of recognition in it, which I did not like, seeing how I was supposed to be running incognito. Maybe she was just a really friendly gal. Maybe she had been in the game long enough to know an Algerian when she saw one. Maybe I was slipping. Nothing I could do but give her a friendly grin in return as she leaned forward, elbows on the counter, giving me an easy, unavoidable read on her natural endowments, the shameless tease. A silver crucifix dangled from a chain around her neck.
“Hey, sexy,” I replied after taking an appropriate amount of time to show that I both noticed and appreciated what she was displaying.
“You from around here?” she asked.
Right to business. The age-old ritual of challenge and reply.
“Can’t say that I am.”
“So where can you say?”
“I’m from Abilene.”
She brightened. “Kansas or Texas?”
“Kansas.”
“How about that. I’m from Dodge City.”
She raised up off the counter. Show was mostly over. Pity.
“Small world.” My eyes drifted off of her and her name tag reading Stefanie that put my eyes in a position to continue appreciating to a lesser degree her enticing cleavage and followed the glowing path of a squad car that had raced past the diner front, lights strobing, siren silenced. Her eyes followed mine and for half a minute we stared into the outer world. What would that have looked like to Hopper, that sublime master of the interface between the internal and external? Had he ever thought to paint Nighthawks from the inside out? The world outside that austere, brightly lit diner, the streak of neon blue seemingly still lingering in the air? The two of us—how would he have represented the tension of those who had no desire to see any hint of the police, of the world outside the glass of the diner? Or would he have simply shown our reflections in the plate glass and nothing more?
Her eyes had widened with concern, her understanding that the passage of that police cruiser might have something to do with me walking into her establishment. I merely put a finger to my lips, but she would know what she could and could not ask, now that she knew for certain what I was. In unison, we exhaled and our joint attention returned to the menu lying before me.
“See anything you like?” I let my gaze drift down her voluptuous form and then returned to her eyes with what I hoped was an earnest expression. “Oh, indeed I do…Stefanie.”
That had the desired effect, and she bit her bottom lip ever so lightly. “That’s not fair,” she breathed.
“No?”
“You know my name. I don’t know yours.”
“Jack,” I replied. “Short for Jackson.”
“It’s a pleasure, Jack. So, do you see anything else you like?”
She was indeed fun, but the clock was running. I tapped the menu. “Patty melt. Fries. Iced tea, sweet. Like you. Please.”
“Gotcha.” She was the sort who didn’t need to write down the order, but I wasn’t sure she had gotten it, not because the order was at all complicated, but because I had intentionally tossed out a distraction on top of whatever else she must be feeling and she had instantly batted at the bait, her cat eyes excited, aroused, penetrating. She’d want to hear all about what had brought me into her life that night, and if I could pull off what needed to be done, I would tell her all that was safe for her to know. Life, death; love, hate; destruction, creation. I was the servant of Osiris or Shiva or Freyja. And I would serve her as well.
She scampered off to place the order and that left me floating solo in the fish tank. Hopper would have approved. Stark but practical. The old-fashioned coffee urns. And me. Alone. The counter separating me from her. Her. I had a strong desire to not have anything separating me from her. A hunger for her.
What I didn’t have a hunger for was food, despite not having eaten in hours. Very common after a job. Keyed up. Adrenaline. Replaying the scene. Evaluating. Had I made any mistakes? Was anyone already on my trail? Not that they would find anything incriminating on me. No fingerprints. No blood spatter. No bullets for comparison. No tread impressions as I had worn booties in the apartment. More importantly, none of the items I had taken on the mission were still in my possession. I had commandeered my mark’s car, typical hipster electro-jalopy with the battery already on its last legs, and driven to a nearby park which had recently been swept of cameras. Fifteen minutes later, a kid on a skateboard rolled alongside and traded me the burner phone currently residing in the pouch of my sweatshirt for the mark’s laptop computer and the sundry details to access it. Someone should already be hard at work, infiltrating their network, possibly even stealing some of their money. They probably had until mid-morning when the poor fool’s place of employ would receive the disturbing phone call from the local PD that one of their employees had met an untimely and lurid demise. No doubt they would all solemnly agree that such things ought not happen to a scrawny-chested, mild-mannered fellow with a man bun, but once they learned his laptop had been taken, they’d shut down everything in an instant.
But did I have until midmorning tomorrow? Should I already be making a dash for it, scurrying back to the cover of the forest like a spooked whitetail? But this needed to be done. She was a damsel. She was in distress. She was one of us. I was going to save her, and I had already done the mission planning. More importantly, the Movement needed me to do this. And that meant I must take sustenance, but what I really wanted was her, this woman I had never laid eyes upon until a scant fifteen minutes prior. I had come full circle. The destroyer of condemned flesh now desirous of the pleasures of living flesh. Her flesh. But there was work yet to be done. Risks yet to be borne. Snares yet to be eluded.
With that cautionary but cheerless thought still ringing in my head, she reappeared through the swinging door that set off the loop of the counter from the kitchen and informed me that my order would be ready but quick. It wasn’t terribly late, not quite past ten on this Tuesday. Slow time even for a late-night diner. Only the two of us, though there had to be at least one or two cooks unseen in the back. She made a show of wiping down an already immaculate counter, and I cleared my mind of what had gone before and shifted to what must come next, nudging the backpack at my feet, folding my arm in on the pistol holstered in a belly band hidden by the loose fit of the sweatshirt, reassuring myself that my implements of destruction were still readily at hand, understanding all too well that a gunfight was the very last thing I wanted.
We both stole glances at each other, me liking more and more what was before me, hoping she felt the same. These waypoint gals often weren’t pinup material, rarely were, but they almost all had personality and passion and grit and for me that was far more important than anything else. Some of them made love as if it were their final night of existence. Since a fair number of them had been jailed or killed, it probably wasn’t a bad working assumption.
As for her, it was probably like it was for most of them, trying to square the mundane normalcy of appearance that sat before her with the savage reputation of the dread Algerian. Not that I cut much of a dread image wearing jeans, tennis shoes and a hooded sweatshirt with the logo of a local diploma mill. I made a habit of haunting garage sales hunting for cheap inconspicuous apparel that could not be traced back to me. Not exactly Joe Tacti-Cool, but that was how it had to be. To be an Algerian, one had to be the proverbial wolf in sheep’s clothing. Average height. Average weight, though that was deceiving since I could bench press double my mass. The hair already thinning. Nothing special to look at, especially since I had my cheeks stuffed with cotton balls and was sporting a stage makeup nose, all to thwart any facial recognition software. I wore glasses but that was a Clark Kent stunt. My eyes were fine, but no one expects the guy in horn-rimmed specs to be the one double-tapping you. Mounted on the frame were a dozen LEDs emitting in the near-infrared. The glow from the lights was supposed to blind any camera trying to get a read on your face. Supposedly there was a law in the works to make them illegal. Lots of laws in the works to make lots of things illegal. It wouldn’t matter. Time. Competence. Momentum. Dedication. All on our side. They could keep their laws. I’ll take moral and just any day.
She interrupted my musings with the meal. I hadn’t even noticed her duck into the back to fetch it. I thanked her and then tore into it as that wolf would. The body so often knows much more than the mind. She let me devour it in peace, no idle banter to slow things down. Another point in her favor.
As I was finishing up the last of the fries, she slid the check across the counter to me. I confirmed the tally and then turned the ticket over. In a flowing hand, she had written her phone number and address on a Maximilian Street, the i’s dotted with hearts. They usually did that. A sign I suppose, letting you get a sense of the mood, the expectation, the promise. Beneath her particulars, in a block style so different that it could have been written by a different woman, it read: I can promise you a good time. I wanted to study those provocatively flirtatious words, but I had been sitting in that display case long enough. Instead, I fished out a debit card and tossed it down. The card and the account it was connected to, the money in the account, all created for this moment, none of it linked to me in the slightest. Cash would have been easier, but the idea was to get the police to waste their resources on tracking these things down. Some of the rabbit holes also had a nasty surprise waiting at the end for whatever SWAT team fated to kick in those particular fatal doors.
She took the card and processed it at the register on the other side of the counter, leaving me to my thoughts. I can promise you a good time. A vulgar come-on that, more importantly, also happened to be her duress code. She was indeed in trouble, but that was not a surprise. That was actually the reason I had walked in the door. One of my comrades had somehow gotten himself killed three months ago after leaving her waypoint. An occupational hazard, no doubt, but the vague circumstances demanded answers. Had it been incompetence on his part? Treachery on hers? Plain ol’ bad luck? Had the auguries been unfavorable yet unwisely ignored? Had our network been compromised?
I did not know him or even his name. Only his call sign: Golf Two Tango. But that was of no import. He was one of us and his death would be avenged in due time. The very first step in the process was to extract his last waypoint handler, both to get her out of harm’s way and to learn what she knew of his fate. I would be more than happy to be the man delivering vengeance, but on this night I was mightily glad to see that duress code. Without it, I would have had but two choices: Walk away or shoot her. There was a distinct possibility I would end up having to ice her when it was all said and done, but for the moment at least I could work from the assumption that she was still on our side. Then again, she could have figured that I would be suspicious otherwise and was just playing me. Either way, I was going to find out.
She returned and handed me the card. She then held the receipt before me on the counter so I could sign with my own pen without having to touch paper. I nodded my appreciation at that minor detail.
As I put the card back in my wallet, I asked, “What time does your shift end, good looking?”
“I’m going to close shop as soon as you leave, hon.”
She must have noticed my surprise at a late-night diner shuttering so early. “Can’t find anyone to work the graveyard. We were already cleaning up in back. Slow night.”
“It’s about to pick up.”
“I sure hope so.”
“Me, too.”
“See you soon.”
I tarried long enough to get directions I didn’t need, in case our conversation was being listened to. It had been hard to decide how to run this since she and I didn’t have our own code set and, even if we did, I wasn’t sure I could trust her. Going to her home seemed the cleanest approach since it would look like I was just another Algerian looking for some hot waypoint gal action. She opened her mouth as if to add something else, but let it drop. I gave her a tip of my ball cap, pulled up the hood of my sweatshirt and then swept out onto the deserted sidewalk, the air early October cool, most of the other restaurants surrounding the diner also shuttering for the evening.
A half-dozen blocks opposite the direction I had parked, the pulsing lights from an armada of emergency vehicles froze my attention, the alternating flashes of blue and red warping the night. Police. Fire. Ambulance. My earlier handiwork already discovered… as I had intended. Primary mission now serving as diversion for secondary. Their second visit of the evening to that apartment complex. The first coming from a fire alarm I had pulled hours earlier in that stultifying roost of urban smugness, as if living within walking distance of a dozen restaurants was the ne plus ultra of human existence.
And with the wail of that alarm and a trash can fire set in a common area to really sell it, many of the denizens had indeed removed themselves to those restaurants and, in the confusion, I had strolled unimpeded into my mark’s unlocked apartment. Bit disappointing actually. I had recently purchased a new lock-picking device and wanted to give it a proper field test. The man himself, more girlish boy than anything, proved even less of a challenge than the disengaged lock. Then again, he himself was of no importance. Where he worked, or at least drew a paycheck, was of far more interest, a stylish boutique consulting firm engaged in the nebulous business of advising non-governmental organizations. Slick websites, high-toned mission statements, pretentious bordering on the self-parodic biographies of employees without last names and with accompanying art deco portraiture, nearly all recent college graduates with no obvious experience or education to recommend them for such work, all earnest about changing the world by serving as fronts for the sort of money laundering operation that would render even a Mexican narco-cartel envious. My earnest, young, college-indoctrinated stooge sashayed through his front door and to his premature doom an hour later. He only needed one jolt from the stun gun to persuade him to cough up all the security tokens and passwords required to access his firm’s files on his laptop computer. It had gone quick and clean.
But instead of declaring victory and clearing out, I lingered outside the diner to watch the results of my handiwork, if only at a distance. I had never before had the opportunity to spectate one of my efforts. Gratifying, for certain, but even so I had loitered there on the sidewalk long enough. Not that there was much risk of some observant cop detecting my interest from a quarter-mile off. After all, at first blush, it was a suicide of the most lascivious sort. The medical examiner would set them straight on that point soon enough when he discovered the electric burn marks and the bruise on the back of his head from where I had pistol-whipped the ill-starred lad.
The lights of the diner flickered and then blinked off, plunging the area into blackness, but that, of course, was a momentary illusion. The street was fully illuminated, the smug urban dweller fearing nothing so much as the dark.
Not more than a minute later, Stefanie stepped out and startled at the sight of me.
“I wasn’t expecting you,” she gasped. Her hands trembled as she locked the restaurant door. “You scared me.”
“I’m good at that.”
The keys in her hand still jangled as she joined me to watch the light show that had been entertaining me.
“I bet you are.”
She held out her hand and I took it. It was soft and warm, and we walked down those empty sidewalks like a couple that knew each other well, away from the orderly chaos of strobing lights and bustling bodies in uniform frantically doing very little, toward the promise of quiet freedom and intimacy. I enjoyed the feeling, wishing it could last, knowing it couldn’t. In my prior recon around the diner, I had spotted an entry into an alley that had checked out free and clear of video surveillance. I steered her into it.
She didn’t resist as I pushed her face first against the nearest brick wall. I didn’t rough her up exactly, but I also wasn’t gentle as I quickly frisked her for a wire. Given all the miniature gear the Feds had at their disposal, it wasn’t enough, but I was really riding more on a gut feel about her than anything. All I did find on her was a compact pistol nestled in an appendix holster. Hadn’t noticed it in the diner. Given how tight her T-shirt was, she must have armed up before stepping out onto the mean streets.
“Clean?” she asked.
“Clean enough.”
“I was hoping you were just in a rush.”
“Couldn’t take a chance.”
“You know they can embed cameras and listening devices in belts, buckles, anything really.”
“You wearing one?”
“No.”
“Works for me.”
“I think you should frisk me more closely.”
I spun her around. “Don’t you worry, good looking. We’ll get to that soon enough.” I had a firm grip on her arm, and she resisted me enough to make me work a bit. The little devil knew exactly what she was doing. I dove in and we made out like randy teenagers for a good thirty seconds. Then we both backed away, panting. Satisfied for the moment, she leaned against the wall where I had just braced her, one foot planted against it.
“How’d they make you?” I asked.
“Indirectly.” It was a cagey answer, but I let it ride. “How’d you make them? And don’t say indirectly.”
“It wasn’t my screwup.”
“No one said it was. Start from the beginning.”
“It was supposed to be a one-night stop over. No mission support. No nothing. Just a place to grab some sleep. But the gunner who showed up on my door was really skittish. Never seen one of you Algerians so nervous. Figured it must have been his first solo. I didn’t even try with him, he was such a wreck. When I heard he had gone missing . . .” She swapped legs in her flamingo stance.
“You figured he suspected he was being tailed.”
“Yeah, and the idiot put them on my scent.”
“So you’re guessing.”
That earned me a harsh glare, the sort I’d expect from a road-worn femme who slung hash at a truck stop diner, not the classy one she had just stepped out of. She went to her purse. I winced. Please, please, please. Don’t pull out a pack of smokes. Really wanted to enjoy this one and not have to close my eyes and ignore the fact that I had been forced to nuzzle a human ashtray. Instead it was a pack of chewing gum. She offered me a stick which I took, reminding myself not to thoughtlessly spit it out later.
“Educated surmise,” she continued after first making a show of chomping on her own gum. “I’ve been running a waypoint for three years without a problem. I know my business.”
“So what did you do with that fancy guess of yours?”
“I kept my eyes open. Started seeing the same people in the same place. The Feds really aren’t very good at surveillance.”
“No, they’re not. If there isn’t an electronic device involved, they have no clue. Lucky for us.”
“Then I sent myself a letter. Made it look like an invitation to some seminar. On the inside, I put a few strands of white hamster fur in the folded note.”
“Hamster fur.”
“Yes. From Mr. Fritz.”
Mr. Fritz.”
“He’s my hammy.”
“Your hammy.”
“You’ll meet him in a few minutes.”
“Can’t wait.”
“Anyhow, two of the strands were missing by the time I got it. Someone had gotten to the letter. I’ve been a nervous wreck for months now, thinking they might arrest me at any moment. Waiting for some help until I realized my waypoint had been burned.”
“Help is here.”
“Someone could have told me I had been burned.”
“You know how it goes. Sacrificed for the greater good. Anyway, I buy your story.” Out there wandering loose on the streets wasn’t the place for airing grievances, so I switched gears. “How much time do we have?”
“Not sure. Sometimes they’re really obvious. Sometimes they disappear for weeks. Are they really gone or hoping I trip up?”
“Sometimes they run with open surveillance, hoping you’ll panic and make a phone call or run out to meet your handler.”
“Definitely didn’t do any of that.”
“Still a chance they’ll have monitored us at the restaurant.”
She sniggered. “Steve, the owner of the restaurant. He’s the hard-core libertarian type. Super paranoid about government spying. Constantly has the place swept for bugs.”
“Find any?”
“Never.”
“How convenient. Stevarino probably has a hefty FBI dossier on him by now.” “That would actually make him happy.”
“Great.” Never understood that sort. Happier to have their theories on shadowy government agencies and malign conspiracies proven correct than to just live a quiet life… or do something about it. “And your apartment is the waypoint?”
“You think I’d be cleaning counters at a diner if I could put you guys up in a guest suite over the garage where I keep my Maserati?”
“Just checking. What have they got on you?”
“At least three devices.” She gave me an expectant glance.
“And?”
“And nothing. If they figured I had touched them, then they’d know I knew.”
“Oh, they know.” I motioned for her to stop talking. Obviously she was of interest to them, but round-the-clock human surveillance was expensive, especially when they needed every agent they had out in the center of the country where we were running roughshod over them. The periodic shows of overt spying were meant to spook her into revealing the network, but she had held firm. If she was right about the restaurant, and she seemed to have good observation skills to go with her nerve, we should be able to reach her apartment unobserved. Once we got there, the clock would start ticking. Thirty-minute response time tops if she were still a target of interest. Make it fifteen to be safe.
“Can you get us to your place through back alleys?”
“Sure. Why?”
“Playing it safe, and tonight’s the last time you have to worry about being under surveillance.”
“Is that why you’re here?”
“Partly. You’re the second item on my agenda. Are you ready to bug out?”
“You mean… ?” “Yup. This is an extraction.” “An extract—” I thought she was going to pass out.
“Me?”
“You.”
“But… they only send… you must be… oh!”
“Hold up. I’m none of that. You’re flying economy-class Algerian.”
“I doubt that.”
“You’ll see soon enough. Ready?”
“Am I? How exciting!” And that got me another kiss. Oh, yes. Lot of pent-up passion in that curvy body. She was definitely going to be one for the diary… if I kept a diary… which no Algerian in his right mind should.
*******
