Agent in Place Read Free

jogger; and the small flagpole that marked the convergence of four paths—the one he was following, the one that continued to the north, the one that led west across rolling meadows, the one that came in from the Sixty-ninth Street entrance. Thanks to his run, he was arriving in good time after all, with one minute to spare. He was a little too warm, a little dishevelled, but outwardly calm, and ready to face Mischa. He straightened his tie, smoothed his hair, decided to button his topcoat even if it was stifling him.
    He might not have appeared so calm if he could have heard his lawyer-accountant-illustrator-advertising types. Once they had passed the flagpole on its little island of grass, they had dropped behind some bushes to cool off. It had been a hard pull up that hill.
    “Strange guy. What the hell does he think he’s doing, walking alone at this time of day?” The red face faded back to its natural pink.
    “Stranger in town.”
    “Well dressed. In good training, I thought. Better than he pretended.”
    “Wouldn’t have had much chance against four, though. What now, Jim? Continue patrol, or double back? See what that wolf-pack is up to?”
    “Looking for some other lone idiot,” Jim said.
    “Don’t complain. Think of the nice open-air job they give us.”
    Jim stood up, flexed his legs. “On your feet, Burt. Better finish our rounds. Seems quiet enough here.” There were three other joggers—bona fide ones, these—plodding in from the west towards Sixty-ninth Street and home; a man walking two Great Danes; a tattered drunk slumped on the cold hard grass, clutching the usual brown paper bag; two sauntering women, with peroxide curls, tight coats over short skirts (chilly work, thought Jim, on a cool November night), high heels, swinging handbags. “Nothing but honest citizens,” Jim said with a grin. The wolf-pack had vanished, prowling for better prospects.
    “Here’s another idiot,” said Burt in disgust as he and Jim resumed their patrol northward. The lone figure walking towards them, down the path that led from the Seventy-second Street entrance, was heavily dressed and solidly built, but he moved nimbly, swinging his cane, his snap-brim tilted to one side. He paid no attention to them, apparently more interested in the Fifth Avenue skyline, so that the droop of his hat and the turned head gave only a limited view of his profile. He seemed confident enough. “At least he carries a hefty stick. He’ll be out of the park in no time, anyway.”
    “If he doesn’t go winging his way down to the zoo,” Jim said. He frowned, suddenly veered away to his left, halting briefly by a tree, just far enough to give him a view of the flagpole where the four paths met. Almost at once he came streaking back, the grass silencing his running-shoes, the grey of his tracksuit blending into the spreading shadows. “He won’t be alone,” he reported as he rejoined Burt. “So he’ll be safe enough.” Two idiots were safer than one.
    “So that’s their hang-up, is it? We’ll leave them to the Vice boys. They’ll be around soon.” Dusk would end in another half-hour, and darkness would be complete. The two men jogged on in silence, steps in unison, rhythm steady, eyes alert.

2
    They arrived at the flagpole almost simultaneously. “Well timed,” said Mischa and nodded his welcome. There was no handclasp, no outward sign of recognition. “You look well. Bourgeois life agrees with you. Shall we walk a little?” His eyes had already swept over the drunk lolling on the grass near the Sixty-ninth Street entrance. He glanced back, for a second look at the two women with the over-made-up faces and ridiculous clothes, who were now sitting on a bench beside the lamp-post. One saw him, rose expectantly, adjusted her hair. Mischa turned away, now sizing up a group of five people—young, thin, long-haired, two of them possibly girls, all wearing tight jeans and faded army jackets—who had come pouring in from