Day Three
July 23, 1952
Wednesday Morning
Bristol’s cab headed south away from the skyscrapers of the financial district and then even deeper to where the insane congestion of the city began to ease. Waverly stared through the windshield as they followed, being sure she didn’t break the line of sight. The driver was staying back just the right amount. “You’re doing good,” she said.
The man moved the rearview mirror.
His eyes suddenly appeared in it, looking into Waverly’s.
“We try our best for Russian spies,” he said.
“Good.”
“You never said thank you, by the way.”
“For what?”
“For not running you over.”
She smiled.
“Thanks.”
“No problem.”
“The last person I didn’t run over gave me a pretty good tip,” he said.
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“I’m not suggesting, I’m just stating a fact.”
“I understand.”
A photo of a woman with two blond girls was taped to the dash.
“Is that your wife and kids?”
He looked into her eyes for a heartbeat, then back at traffic.
“Yeah.”
“They’re nice.”
“I married out of my league,” he said. “What can I say?” A beat then, “You got a family?”
“No.”
“Get one,” he said. “That’s my advice.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“A family keeps you sane.”
“I’ve heard the opposite, too.”
Waverly suddenly realized where they were headed-the San Francisco Municipal Airport, on the east side of the bay thirteen miles south of downtown. That had to be it. There was nothing else down in this section of the world worth going to.
“They’re going to the airport,” she said.
“That’d be my guess.”
Her heart raced.
There would be at least some minimal wait before they boarded a plane. The woman would powder her nose at some point.
Waverly would be there when she did.
She turned out to be half right-they ended up at the airport, but Bristol and the woman bought tickets and boarded a plane almost immediately.
The flight was headed for Denver.
Waverly’s first instinct was to get a ticket and jump on. Her second instinct was that her first instinct was insanity. There’d be almost no possibility of Bristol not spotting her. In fact, with her luck, the only seat left would be right next to him.
She headed to the ticket counter.
“When’s the next flight to Denver?”
A man in a brown suit checked.
“Two hours,” he said. “At 12:15.”
“I’ll take a ticket.”
Denver.
Denver.
Denver.
Of all the places in the world, why was Bristol headed to Denver?