Summer in the City

“Deena, I have a job for you.”

Her heart sank, as it always did when he called. “I told you, I don’t do that anymore.”

He laughed. “Oh, but you do for me. Call it a favor for an old friend. I need you to pick up a delivery from a friend of mine this afternoon. It’s urgent, and you need to be very discreet.”

“This is the last time, Bingley. I am not running any more risks for you.”

She could hear the continued amusement in his voice. “Deena, I’ll tell you when it’s the last time. I need you to go Queen Street at 2 p.m. Sit outside at the ‘My Nest’ coffee shop. My friend will meet you there.”

“Not good enough, Bingley. How do I know what he looks like? I could just walk into a trap – and you know I won’t protect you if I get caught.”

“Deena, Deena. Of course I won’t let you get caught. I’m very fond of you, you’re my most reliable runner. He’ll come out of the building just across the road. I’ll let you know when he’s about to come out. You can take a picture and I’ll confirm it.”

She checked the time when the call ended. She had a number of things to do before two o’clock.

* * *

“A pitcher of fresh lemonade, please. Oh, and a Nanaimo bar. That’s it, thank you.”

Deena loved the acid sting of lemonade, eating sweet pastries to maximize the effect. Contrast, she considered, was what made life worthwhile. She relaxed as the waiter went to fetch her order. It was a rare sunny day in Toronto, so she was taking full advantage of the outdoor café seating. Her clothes were casual; light but not showing much skin. She was wearing large sunglasses as she studied the world around her.

Sitting in the small fenced outdoor area, she looked at the steady stream of people passing by on Queen Street. Many were shopping, but quite a few were enjoying the sunshine, on bikes and rollerblades. The Canadian devotion to skating was both a winter and summer activity. The occasional homeless person sat or lay down on the sidewalk, largely ignored by the pedestrian traffic. Every few yards there was a post-and-ring stand for the cyclists to chain their bikes while they shopped.

Queen Street was full of restaurants and shops, and across the street she could see a gallery, a coffee shop, two restaurants, two boutiques and a bookshop, all in charming heritage buildings. Streetcars ran down the middle of the road.

She was flipping through her phone when the waiter brought out her order. She passed him a credit card before he had a chance to walk away. “Just in case my friend shows up early” she explained, smiling engagingly, “and I have to run.”

Deena sat for over an hour, eating, drinking, occasionally taking selfies, and scrolling on her phone. The phone rang once, and she put it to her ear. “Hello? Ah, good. Thank you.”

Her phone held high and angled down, she took another selfie. Then she put the phone at head height while posing in front of it. Sighing, she sent a short video to a contact. The phone vibrated a few minutes later with an acknowledgement. She watched the man across the road as he climbed into a taxi.

When the waiter passed the table again, Deena flagged him down. “My friend is joining me in a few minutes. Could I please have two butter tarts? And another glass for the rest of the lemonade. Thanks.” She handed him her credit card again, and he duly returned with a clean glass and two plates, a butter tart on each. She gave him a handsome tip to make up for occupying the table for so long.

A few minutes later, a cab stopped at the curb. Deena was taking another selfie, this time including the table and the street. The man she had seen earlier, a tall blond man in a business suit, emerged from the cab and walked to her table. “Deena?” he asked.

She offered him a dazzling white smile and peered at him over the top of her sunglasses. “Yes! You must be Mr. Swensen. Please join me. I’ve ordered fresh lemonade and a butter tart for both of us.”

Deena poured lemonade into his glass and passed him a butter tart. “It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it? I love summer in Toronto.”

Mr. Swensen nodded, although he sat upright, much less relaxed than Deena. He took a sip of the lemonade, then hastily bit into the butter tart to counter the sourness. Deena watched him with pure joy as she savored her own butter tart. He laid his phone on the table and reached into his pocket. He pulled out an envelope, shook his head, and then took out a charger which he attached to his phone. “I always forget to keep it fully charged,” he said, “and it’s all roaming here. I’m on a US network.”

Black squirrels ran around the busy street without fear. One squirrel darted in to pick up a crumb from the ground. Swensen picked a crumb from the edge of his butter tart and threw it towards the scavenger. Deena laughed. “Toronto squirrels are very urbanized. They hang around street corners and play in traffic. I bet if you shaved them, they’d have tattoos.”

They both studied the squirrel as he retrieved his bounty, then lurked for a few minutes in case they dropped any more. Eventually he went off to find more free food elsewhere.

Swensen looked at his elegant watch. “Thank you for the refreshments” he said “but I’m afraid I’m in a hurry. I look forward to seeing you soon.” He took a final sip of lemonade, then dropped the last piece of tart in his mouth.

Deena watched him as he picked up his phone and charger, then headed out across the street. She saw him stumble on the streetcar tracks, and he narrowly avoided being hit by a streetcar. As he disappeared into one of the buildings on the other side of the street, she picked up the envelope and put it in her purse.

Strolling down Queen Street, she passed a squirrel curled in a ball and twitching by the curb. As she got into her car, she put the envelope on the passenger seat before pulling out into traffic.

Down at the lake shore, she walked slowly along, just one more person enjoying the view. She cleaned the credit card with a wet wipe, then dropped it in a waste bin with other trash, close to the place where she had picked it from a stranger’s purse. The empty envelope went into a paper recycling bin. Then she walked to Union Station and texted one word: Done.

Bingley texted back “Good. Swensen confirmed he left the envelope with you. I’ll see you at the usual place in half an hour. I’ll bring your usual fee.”

Deena smiled as she returned to her car. Taking the memory stick that Swensen had delivered, she inserted it into her laptop and copied it. She put on heavy gloves and used a dropper to deposit a small amount of Novichok onto the stick, then put it into an envelope and sealed it. With extreme caution, she put the remainder of the poison away, next to the slower acting cyanide she had added to Swensen’s drink and pastry.

Once the handover to Bingley was complete, and she had collected her fee, she went home. This time, she texted a different number: Done.

The response arrived a few minutes later. “Any witnesses?”

“Not any more.”

“Good. You are free to go.”

She sighed with relief. She still had the data from the memory stick, and the video of Swensen, in case anyone came after her. You couldn’t be too careful in this line of business. Even squirrels could become collateral damage if they were too careless.