The Red Eagles

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Her contact stood with his back to the delicatessen window, in one hand the book with the green binding, in the other the spare pair of gloves. Though it was night, Amy could tell he had a rather nice face; there was a hint of innocence about it. As if by rote, she glanced up and down the street one more time, saw nothing, and then took the orange out of her bag and started walking toward him.

Amy was strangely nervous — she could tell from the way the sound of her heels on the sidewalk seemed to echo. He noticed her and the orange, looked surprised for an instant, then wary.

“Can you tell me the way to Grand Central Station?” she asked.

His face relaxed. “I’m going that way myself,” he said, as if it were an old joke.

“Harry’s sick and couldn’t make it,” she said, and it was at that moment that she saw, reflected in a window, a man staring at them. Her reaction was so quick she even startled herself. She took her companion’s arm and forced them both into motion with a suddenness that almost knocked him over.

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