Run, Spy, Run

Janet came back with tea, sympathy and pill.

"Now drink that, Mr. Cane, and I'm sure you'll feel much better."

"My poor baby," Julia cooed.

Peter Cane managed a brave smile. "Thank you, Janet. Ill be all right."

Nick managed to choke down the tea. "By the way, did you want something?"

"Thank you so much for thinking of me in your delicate condition, but the answer's no. At least, not in front of all these people."

Their eyes met in a secret, knowing glance.

Down the aisle, Lyle Harcourt had put aside the newspapers and was now immersed in a stack of documents that were piled on the attaché case in his lap. He rarely looked up and he spoke to no one. The flight was as serene as the quiet weather above the ocean. The tiny clouds were thickening but the great plane sliced through their wispy fingers with ease. Not a bump, not a shiver. Well, I can't wait, thought Nick. One cigarette, and I'll make a move.

He lit one for each of them, and pondered.

The only action had been the inevitable brief trips to either end of the aisle. The passengers had settled in quickly and sleepily. He couldn't, of course, tell about the personnel of Flight 601. Janet Reed was the only one who had so far shown herself. There was no need for any of the others to emerge.

It was hard to sit around waiting. Nick's springy muscles ached for some activity.

The plane itself represented a problem. A bomb could be concealed anywhere. There were a hundred and one hiding places for small, lethal devices.

"I think I have to throw up," he said inelegantly, and stubbed out his cigarette.

"Congratulations. But don't do it here."

He rose abruptly, untangling his long legs from beneath the seat ahead.

"Keep an eye open while I'm gone," he murmured, clutching his stomach. Julie nodded.

Nick made his way down the aisle, his eyes skimming along the overhead racks as he passed. No funny looking bundles. But then, he could hardly expect to find anything labeled BOMB.

He made a precipitous entry into the lavatory.

His exit, a few minutes later, was more dignified, but his progress down the smoothly carpeted aisle was erratic. He was two paces from Lyle Harcourt's aisle seat when he stumbled, seeming to catch his toe on some invisible lump in the carpeting. He gave a cry of embarrassed surprise as he caught himself on the arm rest of Harcourt's chair and used his other hand to grasp the support of the baggage rack above.

"Dreadfully sorry! Please excuse me!" he gasped into Harcourt's ear, smiling awkwardly. "Damn clumsy of me…"

Lyle Harcourt's ruddy face was tolerant. "Quite all right. Think nothing of it."

Nick righted himself, still smiling.

"Why, you're Lyle Harcourt. I'd know you anywhere. Embarrassing way to meet you, Mr. Harcourt, but a privilege, sir. My name's Cane."

Harcourt nodded politely, his eyes wandering back to his papers. But Nick kept on, talking in jerky, admiring phrases, his eyes taking split second pictures that his mind would develop later.

"…A student, in a way, sir, of your methods. Of course, my field isn't political science, but as a private citizen I, well, I naturally have a deep concern for our foreign policy…"

Harcourt raised his eyes resignedly and gazed at him.

"…I was with you to the hilt on our bomb control program…"

The Ambassador's look became a little wary.

"…and so were most Americans, I'd say. Oh, I know there are people who insist that the Communists can't be trusted, but / say we have to make a start somewhere…"

His voice trailed off. Harcourt was smiling patiently but his sharp eyes were staring Nick into silence.

"Mr. Cane," the Ambassador said courteously, "while I appreciate your interest and support, such discussions are usually held on the floors or platforms of assembly halls. Please forgive me, but I really must pay close attention to a few matters before we land…"

"Of course, sir. Terribly sorry to intrude."

He nodded nervously and stumbled away.

A few people had glanced casually at the clumsy young man with the horn-rimmed glasses towering over the distinguished, older man, but as far as he'd noticed, no one had shown any undue interest.

Julia eyed him sympathetically as he folded himself back into his seat.

"Feel better, honey? I don't think you should be wandering around talking to people if you're feeling funny."

"Any watchers?"

"Only me, and a few stray glances that didn't seem to mean a thing. How was your scouting expedition?"

Nick slumped down in his seat.

"Rack over his head — empty. Not even a matchbox could be hidden there. His seat is the same as ours. The attaché case is clean. No buckles, just a zipper. The papers are just papers. People sitting near him all check out. Milwaukee housewife and child. Insurance salesman from Illinois. Two Roman Catholic priests too devout to do anything but sit and pray. No steel hands, no crutches, no sinister ticking packages. One accountant from General Foods. One middle-aged couple from Westchester…"

Julia gasped. "You didn't see all that in those few seconds!"