Dallas was feeling very Walter Mitty about the whole affair when the young woman suddenly left her seat and began moving toward him. He slapped the case closed as she approached. She stood before him, her navy trench coat fluttering in the chilly spring breeze. He stared at her, taking in her essence, a work of art whose comprehension took less than a second. She stood before him straight and sure, with a posture that some might describe as cocky, but which Dallas considered quiet confidence. She was not thin, but lean and, despite the coat’s effort to conceal her, clearly well muscled.
       “Who are you?” the young woman demanded, destroying the moment. “Where is Dr. Todd?” she added, threateningly. “You have five seconds.”
       Dallas blinked in surprise and then decided the personality most definitely fit. “Your Dr. Todd, was he an older gentleman, gray hair, balding, wears—or wore—gold-colored, wire-rimmed glasses?” “Yes,” she said.
       “Well, I’m sorry to tell you this but … he’s, well, he’s dead. Hit-andrun last night. He gave me this briefcase before he died, and he told me to find the Fisherman.”
       “He told you—a stranger—to meet me here?” She was incredulous.
       “No, not exactly. He had coded an entry in his diary. I deciphered its meaning and came here. Before you walked up I was beginning to think I had imagined the whole thing,” Dallas added with a chuckle. Her stern expression revealed no hint of amusement.
       “I’ll take that case now.”
       “Are you the Fisherman?”
       “Let’s just say I am.”
       “Let’s just say you’re not. Look, lady, I spent most of the night trying to figure out where to go, I lied to the police—”
       “The police!” she interrupted, with the first show of emotion he had seen. “You fool, they weren’t police. If they know about you, you’ll have led them right to me.” She shot glances over her shoulders in both directions. “Get up! We’ve got to go; NOW!”
       Her body language gave her away, and at that moment, Dallas, glancing around him, saw three pairs of neatly dressed, expressionless, plainclothesmen lounging in the tree line around the plaza. Aware that they’d been seen, the men began to move toward the couple.
       “What’s going on?”
       “You want to meet the Fisherman? Fine. Looks like you’ll get your chance.” She looked at Dallas with barely concealed rage. “Let’s go.”
       She quickly hustled him into her waiting SUV parked at the curb nearest the benches. One of her associates leapt out of the vehicle to open the door as they approached and the trio jumped inside. They had barely closed the doors behind them before the six men converged on the car. The driver paid them no heed as he sped away, leaving the dark-suited men with clenched teeth. From the line of trees, the old black man watched all the activity with a bemused expression, his fingers rolling the cigarette back and forth absentmindedly.
       Looking back at the men in dark suits told Dallas all he wanted to know
about not wanting to meet them. Were they FBI, CIA, maybe Secret Service? If they were, then who was he with, terrorists? Dallas shook his head. What had he gotten himself into?

back to page 1