Scarecrow and Mrs. King
"One Moment in Time"
Written by Anne Riener
April 2007
"One Moment in Time"
Written by Anne Riener
April 2007
I was being chased. . . again.
How had a supposed milk run turn into a matter of life and death? Why did this always seem to happen to me? I know I need to expect the unexpected, after all, I’m a spy—I mean intelligence operative. But how did I find myself in this situation? I was just the intermediary. All I had to do was pass the information onto another agent. Simple. It was not as if I had not done this before.
Sweat beaded on my forehead and my heart hammered. Trying to catch my breath, I surveyed the scene. The train platform was crowded with early morning commuters. Vendors were just opening their shops for the day. Newsboys pushed newspapers and magazines to potential customers. Fresh baked bread, mixed with exhaust, and a musty, earthy smell drifted in the air. I could hear the click-click-click of the train wheels running along the tracks.
My legs ached, my head pounded, sharp and heavy, adrenaline coursed through my veins. Nervously, I ran my hand through my hair urgently trying to think of a solution to my problem.
“Time for plan B, Scarecrow. Damn, I don’t have a plan B—plan C, anything? Take a deep breath. Think Stetson, think. You were taught to think on your feet, now do it. Okay, you’ve played football, throw a ‘Hail Mary’ pass and hand it off to someone else.”
I was running out of time, and I knew I only had a matter of seconds to convince a stranger to help before those men caught up with me. Clutching those classified documents desperately in my hands, I searched the platform looking for someone, anyone, to hand them off to.
Scanning the crowd, I observed a woman. She was attractive, with long scarlet-red hair and wearing a tight leather mini-skirt. “No—not her. Come on, Scarecrow, you’re not here to pick up a date,” I cursed myself. A moment later, I caught the glance of another woman in the crowd walking towards me. She was in her 30's and had chestnut brown shoulder length hair, her head held high, her gait quick. There was a kindness in her eyes, she looked like someone who would help a stranger. “Yes, she would do,” I had to admit. I quickly schooled my features.
“Entschuldigen sie bitte,” I said. Grabbing her, I spun her around, forcing her to walk with me.
“Do I know you?” she asked, obviously taken aback.
“Good, you’re American. I’m American, too.” Grinning, I poured on the Stetson charm.
“Oh really,” she replied, locking her eyes with mine for a moment.
“Just walk with me.”
“What?” I could feel her trying to break free from the firm grip I held on her.
“Please. I’m in trouble,” I answered, almost begging.
“Are you for real?” I watched her eyes dart back and forth and I was afraid she might bolt.
“It’s important that this envelope be delivered immediately. It’s a matter of national security.”
I observed the expression on her face change as her body began to relax. Her eyes closed for a second. “What is it you want me to do?”
“Take this, get on the Übahn, then get off at Marienplatz, walk over to Mary’s Column, and hand it to the lady in the red dress,” I explained, gratefully pressing the envelope into her hands. “Then you can forget all about this.” I waved her onto the train. Then I took off, hopping over the tracks onto the other side of the platform, and up the escalator steps. No longer being chased, I casually slipped into the shadows getting lost in the crowd of the subway station. Hearing the train the woman climbed onto thunder off through the tunnel, I finally breathed a sigh of relief.
Dr. Frobisher’s formula was safe. My associate Francine Desmond would say this had been unorthodox. After all, it was against all Agency policies to involve civilians, but Scarecrow always gets results. I just hope Dirk never gets wind of this.
Before I head back to the States, I think I’m going to go visit my good friend Emily Farnsworth, but first I think I’m going to call Margarthea, the young strawberry-blonde I meet at Nymphenburg Palace. I knew I would be adding her to my black books.
How had a supposed milk run turn into a matter of life and death? Why did this always seem to happen to me? I know I need to expect the unexpected, after all, I’m a spy—I mean intelligence operative. But how did I find myself in this situation? I was just the intermediary. All I had to do was pass the information onto another agent. Simple. It was not as if I had not done this before.
Sweat beaded on my forehead and my heart hammered. Trying to catch my breath, I surveyed the scene. The train platform was crowded with early morning commuters. Vendors were just opening their shops for the day. Newsboys pushed newspapers and magazines to potential customers. Fresh baked bread, mixed with exhaust, and a musty, earthy smell drifted in the air. I could hear the click-click-click of the train wheels running along the tracks.
My legs ached, my head pounded, sharp and heavy, adrenaline coursed through my veins. Nervously, I ran my hand through my hair urgently trying to think of a solution to my problem.
“Time for plan B, Scarecrow. Damn, I don’t have a plan B—plan C, anything? Take a deep breath. Think Stetson, think. You were taught to think on your feet, now do it. Okay, you’ve played football, throw a ‘Hail Mary’ pass and hand it off to someone else.”
I was running out of time, and I knew I only had a matter of seconds to convince a stranger to help before those men caught up with me. Clutching those classified documents desperately in my hands, I searched the platform looking for someone, anyone, to hand them off to.
Scanning the crowd, I observed a woman. She was attractive, with long scarlet-red hair and wearing a tight leather mini-skirt. “No—not her. Come on, Scarecrow, you’re not here to pick up a date,” I cursed myself. A moment later, I caught the glance of another woman in the crowd walking towards me. She was in her 30's and had chestnut brown shoulder length hair, her head held high, her gait quick. There was a kindness in her eyes, she looked like someone who would help a stranger. “Yes, she would do,” I had to admit. I quickly schooled my features.
“Entschuldigen sie bitte,” I said. Grabbing her, I spun her around, forcing her to walk with me.
“Do I know you?” she asked, obviously taken aback.
“Good, you’re American. I’m American, too.” Grinning, I poured on the Stetson charm.
“Oh really,” she replied, locking her eyes with mine for a moment.
“Just walk with me.”
“What?” I could feel her trying to break free from the firm grip I held on her.
“Please. I’m in trouble,” I answered, almost begging.
“Are you for real?” I watched her eyes dart back and forth and I was afraid she might bolt.
“It’s important that this envelope be delivered immediately. It’s a matter of national security.”
I observed the expression on her face change as her body began to relax. Her eyes closed for a second. “What is it you want me to do?”
“Take this, get on the Übahn, then get off at Marienplatz, walk over to Mary’s Column, and hand it to the lady in the red dress,” I explained, gratefully pressing the envelope into her hands. “Then you can forget all about this.” I waved her onto the train. Then I took off, hopping over the tracks onto the other side of the platform, and up the escalator steps. No longer being chased, I casually slipped into the shadows getting lost in the crowd of the subway station. Hearing the train the woman climbed onto thunder off through the tunnel, I finally breathed a sigh of relief.
Dr. Frobisher’s formula was safe. My associate Francine Desmond would say this had been unorthodox. After all, it was against all Agency policies to involve civilians, but Scarecrow always gets results. I just hope Dirk never gets wind of this.
Before I head back to the States, I think I’m going to go visit my good friend Emily Farnsworth, but first I think I’m going to call Margarthea, the young strawberry-blonde I meet at Nymphenburg Palace. I knew I would be adding her to my black books.