Falling. Outside, the snow was falling lightly.
In the warm university bookstore, he carefully kept his face toward the pages of a magazine while his eyes slid sideways, watching through the window beside him. He turned the pages automatically. The article on Ford’s defeat by Carter went unread.
Presently, he saw the dark shape of the expected courier appear out of the swirling snow, near the entrance to the university library. The courier pulled the door open and entered. The watcher kept turning pages, waiting. Within two minutes, the courier left the library, glanced self-consciously left and right, then vanished into the snow again.
He returned the magazine to the rack and walked to the exit, bundling himself against the weather outside. It was a short walk from the bookstore to the library. Within minutes, he was on the fourth floor in a row of oversized art history books that were dusty from disuse. Halfway down the row, he lowered himself to a squat, and drew a large brown book – Gauguin at Tahiti – from the shelf. He carried it negligently under one arm, climbed the stairs to the next floor, and then sat at an empty carrel in an isolated corner of the library.
When he was satisfied that no one was nearby, he began to leaf through the large brown book. At page 26, he noted that the packet of hundred-dollar bills he’d left earlier was gone. At page 52, he found a large manila envelope, which he withdrew and opened. It contained papers with mathematical formulae and diagrams of equipment. The pages were stamped CONFIDENTIAL and SECRET. He smiled.
There were the expected ten pages. No, eleven. Puzzled, he pulled out the last page. Unlike the others, this had no formulae or diagrams, only a simple typed message:
This is the last delivery. I know your secret. I’m dropping our arrangement.
He was furious, but he automatically clamped down on his rage, so that no one would notice his expression. He continued to turn the pages of the book, oblivious to the sun-soaked art within.
The last delivery? He smiled crookedly. He would decide when the last delivery would be, if ever.
His secret? His expression sobered. That was more serious. Merely a threat? A shot in the dark? But – what if true? The crooked smile returned. He could deal with that, too, as he had before. Many times.
Dropping the arrangement? He collected the papers and slid them back into the large envelope, which he concealed within his coat. He stood, leaving the book on the desk in the carrel. He tapped it with a finger, once.
He knew all about what – and whom – to drop, and from just how great a height.
In the warm university bookstore, he carefully kept his face toward the pages of a magazine while his eyes slid sideways, watching through the window beside him. He turned the pages automatically. The article on Ford’s defeat by Carter went unread.
Presently, he saw the dark shape of the expected courier appear out of the swirling snow, near the entrance to the university library. The courier pulled the door open and entered. The watcher kept turning pages, waiting. Within two minutes, the courier left the library, glanced self-consciously left and right, then vanished into the snow again.
He returned the magazine to the rack and walked to the exit, bundling himself against the weather outside. It was a short walk from the bookstore to the library. Within minutes, he was on the fourth floor in a row of oversized art history books that were dusty from disuse. Halfway down the row, he lowered himself to a squat, and drew a large brown book – Gauguin at Tahiti – from the shelf. He carried it negligently under one arm, climbed the stairs to the next floor, and then sat at an empty carrel in an isolated corner of the library.
When he was satisfied that no one was nearby, he began to leaf through the large brown book. At page 26, he noted that the packet of hundred-dollar bills he’d left earlier was gone. At page 52, he found a large manila envelope, which he withdrew and opened. It contained papers with mathematical formulae and diagrams of equipment. The pages were stamped CONFIDENTIAL and SECRET. He smiled.
There were the expected ten pages. No, eleven. Puzzled, he pulled out the last page. Unlike the others, this had no formulae or diagrams, only a simple typed message:
This is the last delivery. I know your secret. I’m dropping our arrangement.
He was furious, but he automatically clamped down on his rage, so that no one would notice his expression. He continued to turn the pages of the book, oblivious to the sun-soaked art within.
The last delivery? He smiled crookedly. He would decide when the last delivery would be, if ever.
His secret? His expression sobered. That was more serious. Merely a threat? A shot in the dark? But – what if true? The crooked smile returned. He could deal with that, too, as he had before. Many times.
Dropping the arrangement? He collected the papers and slid them back into the large envelope, which he concealed within his coat. He stood, leaving the book on the desk in the carrel. He tapped it with a finger, once.
He knew all about what – and whom – to drop, and from just how great a height.