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“Uh, no,” Avery said.
“Something to drink?”
“Just the sandwich. Ruben with extra slaw.” She spoke the words slowly for the man to hear each syllable.
“Ten-fifty,” he said, never once peering over his cheaters.
Avery hesitated before she paid the man, moved to the side, and waited for her order. A few minutes later, a plastic bag was dropped onto the shelf outside the second window of the food truck.
“Ruben, extra slaw,” a woman yelled.
Avery walked over and retrieved her sandwich. She looked inside, just a quick glance. It was all that was needed. An envelope accompanied her Ruben. It took all her discipline to stop from reaching into the bag to grab it. Instead, she walked another block and sat on a bench before she opened the bag. She pulled out the envelope and opened it. Another index card.
Old St. Pat’s Church. Walk. No subway. No cab.
—André
Avery looked up from the note. Her gaze moved around the sidewalk and street. No one, it seemed, was paying her any attention. Despite this observation, she still felt terribly exposed, as if unseen eyes were watching her. With her heart rate spiking and the perspiration rolling down to the small of her back, she stood from the bench and headed east on Fulton Street. When she reached Broadway, she turned left and started the two-mile trek north to Old St. Pat’s Cathedral. It took thirty minutes.
The noon mass was comfortably crowded and well in progress when Avery found a spot in the back pew. She sang with the parishioners. For thirty minutes she sat and stood and sat again, scanning the crowd for André. She stayed seated during communion. After the final blessing was offered, the church slowly emptied. She failed to recognize a suspicious face. If she were being followed, those who were on the prowl were invisible.
She sat in the back pew of the cathedral, the long center aisle to her left. Ten minutes after the service ended, a few patrons still occupied the church. Some knelt in the front pews, deep in prayer. Others walked the center aisle with necks craned heavenward, admiring the ornate cathedral ceiling and the splendid beauty of the church. A few people snapped photos.
Avery spotted him walking up the side aisle. André moved slowly and acted like the other tourists in the church, looking up at the ceiling and around the cavernous interior. He wore jeans and a sport coat. His midsection threatened to pop the single button holding the coat together. His beady eyes darted around behind the tiny wireless glasses, and Avery noticed a large manila envelope in his right hand. He entered the pew from the side aisle and walked the entire length of it until he sat next to her.
“What’s going on?” Avery whispered.
“You’re being followed.”
“What? How do you know this?”
“You’re blown in the worst way. Probably our mutual friend, as well, I’m sorry to say.” The German-Brooklyn accent made his rapid speech difficult to follow. André placed the manila envelope on the pew between them.
“Everything’s inside.”
“The passport?”
André nodded and stood to leave.
“Who’s following me?”
He pointed to the envelope. “Everything you need to know is there. Good luck.”
“I still owe you money,” Avery said.
André shook his head. “I owed him a favor. Let him know we’re now even. And whatever it is you have planned, I’d do it quickly. I doubt you have much time.”
André skirted past her and into the middle aisle. Avery twisted in the pew to watch him exit the church, walk down the steps, and disappear into the crowd. She sat unmoving for another minute until finally she lifted the manila envelope, resisted the urge to look inside, and quickly hurried out of the church.
* * *
It was a straight shot up Broadway near Old St. Pat’s, then east to the Lowell. Twelve blocks that she power-walked in ten minutes. Through the lobby and into the elevator, all the while she clutched the envelope to her chest. It wasn’t until she bolted and chained her hotel room door that she finally opened the manila envelope. Sitting on the edge of her bed, she fumbled with the envelope’s button-and-string clasp. When she finally had the flap open, she poured the contents onto the bed. A blue passport tumbled onto the comforter. She examined it—it looked exactly like a US passport—blue exterior with gold embossed letters. She opened the front cover and saw the picture she had given André last week. She read the name aloud.
“Aaron Holland.”
It had a delightful ring to it.
As much joy came from seeing the passport, something else sat in the pit of her stomach. She felt no relief having made it this far. She felt terror and dread, and couldn’t stop the sensation that the manila envelope held her worst fears. She dropped the passport back on the bed and looked into the envelope. She caught the reflection of glossy photos and reached in to retrieve them. Several eight-by-ten photos emerged from the envelope. Avery saw that each was a still photo of Walt Jenkins.
