Hecomes in a little hot, though, and our bottles don’t bump so much as they smash, causing a bit of a carbonation explosion that covers our table and what was left of our food in soda.
I’mchoosingnotto see it as a bad omen for this mission.
CHAPTER 9
JUNGLE GYM IN THE AIR, TURBULENCE ON THE GROUND
LEDGER
Sometimes, intelligence operatives get invited to nice events at nice places.Andby “invited,”Imean we forge invitations or get assets to hook us up.Exceptfor my brother,Miles.Heseems to get legitimate invites to the fancy events all on his own.
Mostof the time, though, we stay in sketchy hotels and meet people in alleyways and abandoned buildings.Sometimes, we fly by helicopter, on government aircraft, or on diplomatic flights.Butusually, we fly on commercial flights because it’s the most inconspicuous way to travel.Especiallywhen we’ve got impeccable falseIDsand a good cover story.
Andbecause intelligence almost always has to be acted on quickly, flights are often nearly full, and the only available seats are the middle seats in coach.
I’ma tall guy.I’vegot broad shoulders, too, and sometimes that causes an issue, but it’s my legs that are thebigger problem— they don’t exactly fit within the confines of the middle seat.
Usually,Itry to fold my legs up against the seat in front of me.Then,Imake friends with the person in the aisle seat, and within five minutes, they offer to swap seats with me out of pity.Onthis flight, though, the guy in the aisle seat, a man with a broad forehead yet narrow-set eyes, doesn’t want to chat.Anddoesn’t offer to swap seats.Hemostly just seems annoyed and keeps muttering something inSerbianthatIam pretty sure means, “Maybeyou should’ve booked your flight sooner if you didn’t want a middle seat.”
Which, fair enough.Heprobably booked his early to make sure he got that aisle seat.SoIjust sit with my knees folded like an origami crane against the seat in front of me, praying that the person sitting there wouldn’t lean their seat back.Iangle my shoulders soIwouldn’t hit the annoyed man in the aisle seat or the man in the window seat who apparently can fall asleep in four seconds flat.
Zoeis in a seat somewhere closer to the front of the plane.She’sprobably between two yoga instructors who take up no space, whisper motivational quotes during the flight, and offer to share the extra lavender-scented neck pillows they brought.
Tenminutes after takeoff,I’mwondering howI’mever possibly going make it through a five-hour flight when someone in the aisle seat one row up, on the opposite side of the aisle, gets up to head to the restroom.Wemake eye contact, andIgive her a big smile.Assoon asshe sees my predicament, she offers to trade seats.Ithank her profusely and swap.
Whatshe failed to mention before swapping is that her seat is next to a toddler with an unrelenting runny nose and a mom in the window seat who is fast asleep.Thetoddler is either hopped up on sugar or secretly downed his mom’s coffee, and for four hours and fifty minutes,Iget to be his jungle gym.Whichwouldn’t be so bad if it weren’t for the runny nose and the kid’sGoldfishcracker obsession, which he never stops attempting to hook me on.
Butat least my knees can be in the aisle.Wherethey beg to be hit by the drink cart.Andsometimes the flight attendants.Andevery passenger heading to the restroom.Oneflight attendant seems personally offended that my legs are the length they are and is targeting them.Iconsider asking if she is single soIcan hook her up withAnnoyedGuya row back.Ithink they’ll get along well.
Thelonger the flight goes on, the more tiredness settles on me.It’safter midnight my time, and with the rough night of sleep on the flight toIreland,Iam exhausted.Imanage to fall asleep and get in a solid ninety seconds before the toddler tries to push a stickyGoldfishcracker up my nose.
Wefinally land, andIhobble off the plane to find thatZoeis looking bright-eyed, beautiful, and refreshed.Ofcourse, she is.
Luckily, we have anEnglish-speaking,Serbian-nativeCIAoperative,DamjanPetrovic, pick us up so we don’t have to get a rental car.Forbeing a covert intelligence operative, the man has no problem giving us all theinformation about himself that intelligence operatives normally hold tight to.
Withinthe first five minutes of the drive toward our hotel, we learn that he grew up in a suburb ofBelgrade, went to theU.S. for college, has a photographic memory, was recruited by theCIA, and has been stationed inBelgradeever since graduating.He’sgot three sisters, two of which are married to guys who are “buldala”s, whichI’mpretty sure means idiots.Theother sister is married to a guy who’s been his best friend for years.Oh, and his favorite color is olive, like the long-sleeved polo he is wearing, and he’s obsessed with retro video games.
Allin five minutes.Theguy is an open book.Icould probably even ask him for his passwords and he’ll give them to me.Iwonder how he’s survived as a covert operative.
He’salso terrible at driving, which he doesn’t need to tell us, since we’ve figured that one out all on our own.He’llsuddenly turn onto a street when all clues point to him going straight, announcing that he’s taking a shortcut.Either“shortcut” doesn’t mean the same thing here, or it’s his way of avoiding surveillance.I’mhoping it’s the latter.
Theback seat is small, soZoeandIaren’t sitting very far apart.Butstill, whenDamjansuddenly turns right very unexpectedly, the momentum sendsZoehurling in my direction.Withthe grace of a startled cat, her arms fly out to stop herself, and her elbow finds a highly uncomfortable landing spot in my ribs.Iwish she wouldn’t have tried stopping herself becauseIcould’ve handledher falling into me just fine.ThenIrememberI’mtrying to divert my mind from thoughts like that.
She’sopening her mouth, possibly to apologize, possibly to tell me that it’s payback for comparing her to the woman in the painting at the gallery, whenDamjantakes a quick left, sending me towardZoe.Imanage to put one hand on the back window and the other on the front seat, keeping me from falling intoZoe.Inmy head,I’mputting a win tally mark in my column for that one.
ZoeandIshare a look.It’slikeDamjanlearned how to drive inside a pinball machine.
“Andhere’s your hotel,”Damjansays as he screeches to a stop in front of a building with sand-colored stone, windows framed in dark wood, and a broad archway leading to the front doors. “Itold youI’dget you here in one piece.”Helooks at his watch. “Andbefore ten p.m., just likeIpromised.Here’sthe spare set of keys.I’llget the car parked in the garage so it’ll be waiting for you in the morning.Keepme updated—I’mhere to help with whatever you need.”
Wegrab our bags and get out of the car.Aswe are walking into the building,Zoelooks at me with wide eyes and an expression that says she was left a little traumatized and a bit nauseous by that drive.Ijust grin. “It’sall part of the adventure, right?”
“Likeriding a roller coaster.”Thenshe adds, “Theday before they condemn it and tear it down.”
Ilaugh as we head into the lobby.It’spretty big.There’sa café that takes up a good portion of the space, and it looks like they serve coffee and pastries, with plentyof round tables to sit at.Eventhough it’s late, there are still a few guests chatting over drinks.TraditionalSerbiantextiles and artwork— maybe even by local artists— are displayed on the walls.Andall of the signage is not just inSerbian, it’s also inEnglishandGerman.
Wewalk up to the counter to check in before it occurs to me that maybe we should’ve askedDamjanto come translate for us.Serbianis a teeny bit likeRussian, whichIcan speak fine, but it’s not close enough for me to know actual words.Theguy behind the counter has a long nose, dark hair peppered with gray, and is wearing a tailored suit and an air of confidence.Hesays something, andIopenGoogletranslate and fumble over the words, “Moratode se prijavimo,” whichIdon’t even get remotely right, based on the guy’s expression.
Iturn toZoe. “Ican speakArabic,Farsi,French, andRussian, but notSerbian.Whathave you got?”
