On A Mission

The electric commuter train pulled into the station, screeching to a halt with a flushing hiss. I scanned the crowd from the coach window for any sign of trouble before moving toward the door. Those waiting to board reminded me of wartime migration ahead of an advancing army. They were impatient, discontented, defeated, watching me hungrily poised on the top step of the open carriage until I stepped down. Low voices accompanied by the rumble of dragging suitcases and scraping cardboard boxes along the concrete followed me as I walked away.

The overhead canopy cast the platform in shadow. The late morning sun poked around the edges desperately, but the mass of travelers blocked every attempt to let even a thin slice shine through. It took some time for my eyes to adjust from shades of gray back to full Technicolor.

Fort Meade had given me a vague description of the woman I was to intercept; red dress, dark hair, carrying a small black satchel. I knew better than to ask what was in the case. I wasn’t even certain I wanted to know. My orders were clear. Confront the woman before she got on the afternoon train, retrieve the case, and stop anyone who stood in my way.

She would probably arrive barely in time to hop the last car as the train started to roll out of the station, so I had an hour or more to wait. Inside the ticket office, I grabbed a bag of crisps and an orange Fanta from the machines and waited on the platform where I could see the entry door.

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