The Seven Sequels bundle

by Orca Various

  NINE

  PURSUED

  I had my clothes on in a flash and was soon following her. But she had vanished. I whipped along the corridor, pulling my jacket over my T-shirt and getting anxious. I looked up at the panel above the elevator doors and saw numbers lighting up in descending order, heading all the way down to the lobby. I realized now what she had been carrying—her coat. Angel was going out! She was sneaking out!

  I took the stairs and must have done five steps at a time, fourteen flights down. With my long legs, it took me about five seconds per flight. It seemed like no time before I was in the lobby. I looked out over that huge circular room with the marble floor and spied her all the way across it, about to go through the revolving doors into the street. She glanced behind her as she did, and I darted behind a pillar.

  I had no idea how to tail someone. I’d only seen it in the movies. But I had to follow her. I had to know what she was up to. This might be the key that unlocked everything.

  She didn’t make things easy for me. She moved as if she knew someone actually was tailing her. That made me even more suspicious. She strode quickly and nimbly, in and out of the surprisingly thick crowds that were funneling down the wide Avenue of Americas from our hotel’s location near Fifty-Fourth Street. She glanced back occasionally, but most of the time she simply moved quickly, looking straight ahead, sometimes craning her neck up at the amazingly tall buildings that lined every street in midtown Manhattan. During the day, the crowds had been so dense—absolutely packing the sidewalks—it was evident to us that it would be hard to get places fast, though many New Yorkers seemed to know how to negotiate their way around that problem. They were expert crowd wranglers. It helped that no one seemed to pay any attention to the streetlights. People just moved. If you stopped in New York, it seemed you might not get going again for a while. Every block had great stores and famous buildings. The loud sounds of cars and horns and voices and the gas fumes from all the vehicles, mingled with the smell of the big New York pretzels and chestnuts roasting at the food trucks, made for an awesome scene. Even at this hour, there was a buzz. It was indeed the city that never slept.

  I had to keep Angel within view and not pay any attention to the sights. Earlier, I had made sure she had money, and the only time she slowed now was to give some to beggars. She seemed to stop at every one she passed, and there were quite a few. I began to wonder if this nice person, as she was beginning to appear to be, could really be fooling me, working against me somehow. Despite her strange and unloving upbringing, and her occasional sourness, she seemed to have an innate kindness. She cared about others. She seemed to care about me. Was she helping me somehow? But where was she going?

  We passed huge glass buildings and others made of concrete. Then we passed Radio City Music Hall, and she kept walking, all the way down to Forty-Seventh Street. There she turned right, and about a block farther, we were at Broadway, perhaps the most famous street in the world. Though New York is always lit up, 24/7, Broadway seemed even brighter. Then I realized why. We were approaching Times Square.

  Some people, mostly Americans I guess, call it “The Crossroads of the World.” And it is amazing: a legendary city square in the shape of a bow tie that stretches several blocks south from 47th along Broadway. It’s where they always do the New Year’s Eve celebrations, where all the American morning TV shows like Good Morning America and The Today Show are broadcast. It’s right near famous theaters too. And it seems as though every popular clothing store in the world is here, from Aeropostale to Forever 21 and The Gap. But perhaps what stands out most are the billboards. They are massive! And many are really just humongous digital screens, football fields of light, advertising jeans or cell phones or whatever you need or don’t need. It’s kind of America at its best. Or worst—I’m not sure which. In a way, it’s kind of like my Walther PPK: it’s awfully exciting, but it doesn’t seem like it’s entirely good either. “Sodom and Gomorrah,” I’ve heard it described as—I’m not exactly sure what that means, but I don’t think it means heaven.

  As Angel crossed into the square, I could see her slow down, almost stagger, and look up. Times Square must have seemed absolutely incredible to her. Here in the early hours of the morning, the place was packed, and it was lit so dramatically it seemed like the middle of the day. She was staring up at a billboard for Guess Jeans that made the model look like she was a thousand feet tall, a sort of giantess, a goddess of our times—her open mouth, painted with scarlet lipstick, seemed the size of my entire body.

  There’s actually a grandstand right in the street in Times Square, a set of red bleachers where people, tourists mostly, can sit and watch the commotion—watch life move past at jet speed. Angel fumbled her way up onto one of the benches. I say “fumble” because she seemed to be unable to take her eyes off the scene before her and was feeling around with her feet as she stared in the opposite direction. I couldn’t go up there or she’d see me. I had to stay on the street and watch, but I wanted to do that from the front, so I could observe her face. I crossed behind the bleachers and walked over to the other side of the square and leaned against a building where it would be hard for her to spot me. I was beginning to feel relieved. It seemed like she didn’t have any devious motives: she simply wanted to see New York at night. And who could blame her? I watched her for a few minutes. Her face glowed as she gazed at the scene. She looked innocent and sweet. My heart went out to her. Then I stopped myself. I needed to think of Shirley. Angel is mousy anyway, said Bad Adam. But it was hard not to admire this kind, intelligent girl.

  Then I saw something that changed everything. Walking down Broadway, on the far side of the bleachers, still wearing just a suit despite the cold air, muscles bulging through his clothes, gun holster evident, breath coming out in clouds from his mouth, was a blond man I instantly recognized. John! He was wearing his spy shades. In the midst of this cornucopia of the world’s citizens, he stood out.

  My heart began to thump. I didn’t know what to do. For a moment, I simply froze. Was Angel in danger? Would John exact revenge against her for helping me? Did he have orders from Grandpa?

  John seemed to be examining everything and everyone as he walked. He talked to a few people and was checking out the crowd, always keeping an eye on the bleachers. Then he began moving toward it.

  Angel suddenly stood up. Could she have spotted him in the crowd? He was getting awfully close. She began quickly descending the bleachers, going directly toward him!

  It suddenly occurred to me what was really going on. They were here to meet! This must have been prearranged! I had been wrong about her.

  Both terrified and intrigued, I felt for the Walther PPK, which I’d tucked into my jacket. It was a stupid thing to do. I didn’t even have any bullets. But I hadn’t wanted to leave the gun in the hotel.

  Should I watch or should I intercede? A funny thought ran through my mind. What would James Bond do? That must have been Bad Adam thinking, plotting with his stupid TV/movie/bad-side-of-America imagination instead of with his brains.

  There was no doubt that John had spotted Angel. And she definitely knew it was him. Her face had become tense. Another thought shot through my mind. Did she know I had followed her? Had she brought me to him? Were they setting me up? I remembered that wherever James Bond was, he always made sure he had an avenue of escape. I looked around. What was the best way out of here? What would a real spy do? I couldn’t remember what George Smiley had said about this in the Le Carré novels, if he’d said anything at all. He’d likely just slip away, disappear into the crowd.

  But what if I was wrong about what was going on here? Was Angel in danger?

  In seconds I had the answer. It was an emphatic yes.

  She was trying to get down the bleachers as fast as she could. I stepped away from the wall and moved through the crowd toward her, ready to either sprint to her rescue or run away from her. I could see that she was shaking, and as she reached the bottom of the first tier
of bleachers, she turned away from the beeline John was making toward her. He was trying to look inconspicuous, calm on the surface, but his hand had moved toward the holster on his chest and he had fixed his gaze on her. Or so it seemed, since his eyes were hidden behind those jet-black shades.

  I made for Angel.

  She spotted me and her face brightened a little. We were now moving toward each other. I thought I could get to her before he did. I actually ran in her direction, negotiating my way through the crowd, pushing people out of the way. It was New York, so no one seemed to notice. I got to her just as she jumped down from the last step and John was within a few yards. I pulled her toward me. She almost collapsed into my arms, which was the only thing that made me feel good at that moment. We pivoted together and moved as fast as we could across the Square, using the crowd to keep him away from us. She gripped my hand. Her hand was warm, even in the cold New York night. I could feel her shaking. We bobbed and weaved through the herds of people, stepping in front of some pedestrians, behind others, putting some distance between us and our pursuer. But I doubted that would last for long.

  The crowd was still thick at the bottom of the square near the famous One Times Square building, the place where the ball drops on New Year’s Eve. It also had the news of the day rushing along on an LED crawl about a story or so up. It said something about terrorists found on American soil, about the guns they’d been able to get. But we had no time to watch it. We dodged through the crowd and got out onto famous Forty-Second Street. There weren’t as many people here, which was both good and bad. It was harder to hide, but we could move much faster. If we could motor though, so could John.

  “We should find a policeman and tell him that we’re being chased!” I yelled.

  “What would we say?” she cried. Would we say that I thought my grandfather was a vicious man, a suspected double agent and spy who had tried to kill me? Did I want to do that? And wouldn’t John just disappear if we approached a cop? And then it would be us who would have to explain why we were complaining to the police about being chased by no one. I doubted they would take kindly to that at all.

  As the crowd thinned even more, our pace picked up. Then we started to jog, and then we ran. I play a little football, some hockey and even do track and field. I used to care pretty intensely about winning all the time. Not anymore. The most important thing is to be a good teammate, though Bad Adam often tries to tell me I shouldn’t pass so much in hockey. Anyway, I can really move when I need to, which is why it shocked me that Angel could almost keep up with me. She was a surprising girl. And I had the feeling that there were more surprises to come.

  She shook my hand loose, almost as if to say that she could run on her own, thank you very much, but also to allow me to get away.

  I wanted to keep her with me. I glanced back, puffing and sweating. John had emerged out of the crowd on the south side of 42nd and locked onto us. He started to run. I imagined that he could move even better than us. He was big and powerful, but without an ounce of fat on him.

  And so we all sprinted. No one in the street seemed to notice. And we couldn’t cry out for help. Or could we? Maybe we could fake that he was a thief or someone trying to assault us. But we both seemed to know, instinctively, that John could take any idea like that and turn it around. The best move was to simply get away from him.

  But he was gaining on us.

  I reached back, pulled Angel toward me, stepped in front of a big group of people in African headgear and long gowns, and turned west onto Thirty-Ninth Street. We lost John, but only for a few seconds. We kept running, turning left on Seventh Avenue and going south. We happened to hit the light perfectly, and this time the pedestrians had to stop, since the traffic was moving. But when I looked over my shoulder, anxious and breathing hard, I could see John taking a shortcut, knifing his way across Thirty-Ninth Street right through the traffic. For a second, I thought he was going to meet his death. But he seemed expert at getting through the lines of reckless big-city vehicles. How does a Bermudian do that? Or was he actually from somewhere else?

  On we went across the tight New York blocks, ignoring lights, crossing busy streets, putting ourselves in danger, across Thirty-Eighth, Thirty-Seventh, Thirty-Sixth, all the way down to Thirty-Forth until we could see Madison Square Garden—“The Most Famous Arena in the World,” as it’s known in America. I could picture my cousins rolling their eyes at that too.

  It was attached to the Pennsylvania Railway terminal, or Penn Station. It was kind of behind and above the station, a big round building like a massive gray cake. I could see two giant banners outside, each the height of a three- or four-story building, one an image of a New York Ranger, the other of a New York Knick. But at this hour, it wasn’t particularly crowded; there weren’t lineups teeming outside. I wondered if we could go through the train-station entrance, down the stairs or escalators in a flash and mix with people inside—there would likely be a warren of tunnels in there where we could twist and turn and try to get away.

  But as we finished crossing Thirty-Third Street, John was reaching the other side. He was that close. Two policemen dressed in the distinctive blue of New York cops, looking tough like they all do, stood in front of the train station’s entrance. I wished we could just seek their help. We were about to be caught! I had no idea what John would do. I tried to become calm, readying myself for a little Wing Chun. But John likely knew what I had done to Jim back in Bermuda. I wouldn’t have the element of surprise this time. I didn’t like my chances.

  Then Angel betrayed me.

  TEN

  MOVIE MOMENT

  I was just a few strides in front of her.

  “Adam!” she cried out. I thought John had her, but when I turned, he was still about twenty feet behind. Was she giving up? I had to go back and protect her. I slowed down and stepped toward her. She ran right into me, wrapped her arms around me for a while, lingered there in the midst of all this and then let go and booted past. What was she doing?

  “Officer!” she shouted. She was running toward the cops.

  “Angel! Don’t!” Had she lost her mind? Was she so desperate that she was giving everything up to the police? John would just get away! We would be the ones in trouble.

  “This man is chasing me!” she cried. “He groped me! Up on Thirty-Fourth Street!”

  For an instant I wondered why in the world she would put it that way. Why would she characterize John’s actions like that? If she felt she had to do this, if she had to finger him, even though he would simply vanish the second he heard her cry out, why did she say it like that? Groped her? Why didn’t she say he had a gun and was after both of us?

  Then I realized why she was saying it. And I realized who the he was in her accusation. She was pointing at the man she was accusing of assaulting her. But it wasn’t John. It was me!

  “What?” I cried. “It was him!” I turned around to point out our pursuer. But he was gone. He had disappeared, just as I had suspected he would. There was no trace of him on Thirty-Third Street, Seventh Avenue or anywhere else. People were walking past, going about their business, unaware of or uninterested in our little drama. But I had the feeling he was watching from somewhere. I just couldn’t see him. He had assumed the color of the wall or, in this case, the New York crowd.

  “Angel, how could you do this?”

  One of the cops stepped toward me and took out his gun. The other guy pulled Angel behind him and reached for his weapon too.

  “Just relax, sir, and get your hands out where I can see them.”

  I did as he said. He approached quickly, holstering his gun as the other guy trained his on me. Not a single pedestrian even looked our way!

  Then I realized something else, something bad, something really bad. He was going to frisk me. My heart sank. The Walther PPK! Not only was I not going to find out about my grandfather, I was also going to go to jail for possession of a firearm.

  But what happened next shocked me even
more. The cop got me to lean against a wall, frisked me up and down and said, “He’s clean.” And he was right. The PPK was gone! Either I had dropped it or someone had—

  I looked over at Angel. I couldn’t tell whether she was trying to hide a smile. Her expression seemed awfully straight, kind of poker-faced. But I knew she had the gun. She had snatched it when she purposely ran into me. Why had she done that? She most definitely had the deft hands of a spy. She had my gun for good too. They wouldn’t frisk her—she was the victim. Is that what she wanted? Was it all about the PPK? Then I thought of something. Walther—it began with a W. The gun! Was the gun W? Was there something in it? A map? A message? Was that why she took it?

  But it didn’t matter now. If I told them she had a gun, they’d likely just laugh and I’d never see it again. I was willing to bet that Angel had never even told me her real name. I knew it wasn’t really Dahl, but maybe it wasn’t Hicks either.

  “Let’s get you into a car, sir,” said the cop. My heart was absolutely pounding. I was being arrested for assaulting a woman in New York City! I couldn’t believe it. Not even Bad Adam would do something like that. What would my parents say? What would I tell them when I exercised my rights and made my one call? Or do they even let you do that? Is that just a TV thing? Would I be put in a New York jail cell with hardened criminals? I was trying very hard not to cry. And I had thought Angel was a kind person. Who was she and what did she want? Would she meet up with John once I’d been taken away? Why did she save me in Bermuda just to do this to me here? Now I’d never know about Grandpa, about that eyeball on his desk, about W. Or was Grandpa behind what had just happened too?