Free Days of Rage by Brad Taylor Page B

confusion, and Aaron knew he’d made a mistake. He said, “Sorry. I’m in the wrong place.”
    He exited, kicking himself, but he knew there was nothing else he could have done. Getting out swiftly was the best chance of not being remembered. He surveyed the other two cafés and began thinking like Boris. Thinking like a spy. Who would he trust? Not a kid. Someone else. Someone who’d probably done espionage for Boris in the past.
    He studied the clerks from the other two Internet shops and focused on the smaller café, with only three computers that were years out of date. How did that guy stay in business with the other cafés next to him using more modern systems?
    He approached and repeated his request. The man saw the key and became wary, saying, “Where did you get that?”
    “From a friend.”
    The clerk took the key and bent down, removing a metal lockbox. He used the key to open the lid, then pulled out a sheet of torn paper, reading the words. Inside, Aaron saw a thumb drive.
    The man picked up a cell phone and dialed a number from the paper, a number that Aaron knew wouldn’t be answered. He waited patiently until the man put the phone down. He said, “I’m sorry. My instructions were to call and confirm. I cannot help you until the man answers. Perhaps try again tomorrow.”
    The clerk was visibly shaking, worried about his answer. Aaron smiled, disarming him. “Of course. I would expect nothing less. I’ll come back tomorrow.”
    The man smiled in return, nodding.
    Aaron left, took a seat outside, and waited.

14
    A aron had grown bored from the stagnant sitting, hating the slow pace and tedious reality of intelligence work. Used to planning missions, then executing with a definitive result, he had little patience for the endless pools of potential outcomes that was the life of a case officer. He dealt in concrete operations, with a clear-cut end state, but the world of Mossad was not like that. It was a universe of possibilities, with the case officer trying to decide if this or that dedication of effort would pay off, but never knowing for sure if he wasn’t missing an opportunity elsewhere.
    Eventually, as the night grew long, the clerk left his shop. Sitting in a chipped plastic chair next to a barbershop, his head nodding, Aaron caught the movement and perked up. He concentrated on the security in play at the café. To his relief, there was none. The clerk turned on no alarms nor set any other electronic trip wires. He simply locked the glass door to the little cubicle he’d rented in the bus station. Which, given the location, made sense. It would be very hard to break into his shop inside a bus station that operated twenty-four/seven, especially since the café to the left—the one with the kid—never closed.
    Aaron focused on where the clerk put his keys, then faded back, letting the man take the stairs. He followed discreetly behind.
    The clerk went directly to the metro station, descending into the darkness. Due to the time of night, there wasn’t a lot of traffic accessing the train, and Aaron realized he was in trouble. If he entered, the clerk would recognize him from his previous encounter, precluding any further operations. He hung outside for a moment, debating, then heard a crowd approaching. He looked behind him and saw a large crew of men and women, all wearing waiter and waitress uniforms. Something had just closed for the night, and the employees were giving him some cover.
    The group walked down the stairs and he tagged along in the back, reaching the station platform five steps behind them. Dodging in the flow of people, he located his target, now standing at the edge and waiting for the train.
    The platform was fairly new and clean. He would have appreciated something a little more archaic, with faded lighting, strange odors, and shadowed crannies like other countries he’d operated within, but this one was modern, well lit, and had digital cameras on the fore and aft of