ONE

“My aim is true.”

Alison Ashe spoke the words through an anxious knot as she scanned Olive Street for the third time, expecting some detail to miraculously change. Three Gammas en route to Emery House, a pair of young lovers passing through the gardens after a romantic evening. Her heart was pounding and she was curiously out of breath– tough medicine for a quiet September stroll through the Quad. The mantra helped, to the extent that it could, to steel her nerves. But a shudder still powered through the nape of her neck and shook her shoulders visibly. Surely an onlooker wouldn’t give her a second thought. Unless that onlooker was in play. Should that reality arise, a few Elvis Costello lyrics wouldn’t be of much use.

The crest of Anthony Keane’s baseball cap was just visible above the ivy-laden balcony wall of the upper deck of Churchill House, where he kept watch. Alison reached for her handset to ask for another all-clear, but Tony had beaten her to the punch.

“It’s time, Aly,” blared Tony, a little too loudly in her earpiece. “The asset is in a brown duffel coat. Finish the drop and proceed to Frank Hall.”

“The play’s the thing,” replied Alison, breathing through another shudder and starting the ascent.

“Good luck,” Tony said, more softly, when he saw her take foot.

“You mean break a leg,” Alison countered. “Don’t wanna jinx it.”

“Right. Break a leg,” he remembered.

“And you call yourself one of the Lord Chamberlain’s Men.”

The brown duffel coat rounded the corner of Thayer and Euclid with enough clearance for Alison to hook a sharp left after the drop and move in on Frank Hall, the Life Sciences Lab. He had shoulder-length black hair and a day’s worth of rough stubble. He also had a stack of yellow flyers in his left hand, one of which he passed enthusiastically to one of the Gammas. When another sorority sister from the pack idly reached out for one, he looked flustered for a moment and handed her a flyer from the bottom of the stack.

Good, she thought. At least I’m not the only asset still struggling with tradecraft.

Alison made sure he could see her silver university pin secured firmly to the right lapel of her topcoat as she moved closer. With bright eyes, he offered her the flyer at the top of the stack.

“Did you hear The Format is doing a reunion tour? They’re playing the Strand next Saturday.”

Alison studied the flyer for something out-of-place. She didn’t have a lot of time, and she wanted to avoid looking conspicuous. She tried to memorize the sheet as she folded a crease down its center and slipped it in the front pocket of her backpack.

First off, 14/19/20 is not a date, so that’s something.

She kicked a few ideas around in her mind’s eye as she ascended the steps to the lab. Casually, she extended a hand toward one of the large handles on the double-doors. Locked. So much for casual. She gave the other side a try as well, fully aware it would not open, but the heart wants what the heart wants. To the right of the doors she noticed a keycard reader. “Yup,” she blurted out in a self-deprecating huff. “It’s like I’ve never seen a door before.” Through the glass, she could see a graduate student descending a spiral staircase, assuredly on his way out. He had a clean, dirty-blonde crew cut and a look in his eye that indicated he would most definitely cure cancer this week; next week, tops.

Okay, Aly, she thought. Let’s lean into that tragic energy that comes so naturally to you. The boy looks like he could use a damsel to save.

She unzipped her backpack and started digging around, trying to look frustrated as she searched frantically for a keycard that wasn’t there. She pulled out a five-subject notebook and tucked it under her arm, stashed a Sharpie between her teeth, and started furiously shaking out an Economics textbook. Mr. Wonderful was almost to the door when she dropped the book, lost her balance from the change in equilibrium, and biffed it on the concrete.

She was fine. The Lord Chamberlain’s Men had the best single-combat training of all the assets in play. If she wanted to give the boy the ol’ Ha-Du-Ken and make off with his keycard while he twitched on the steps, she could. But damsels had more leverage than street fighters, and she felt plenty empowered from where she was. On the concrete. Empowered and crumpled.

“Oh my god!” cried Malibu Biology Ken as he burst through the stage-left double door. “Are you okay?”

“I’m alright,” she let out in a tortured whimper. “I was just–” she trailed off there. He could fill in the blanks with his all-beef chivalry.

I was just leveraging your hospitality to break into your laboratory and steal priceless intelligence. Who’s a good boy? Are you a good boy?

At this point, Alison wasn’t sure even the truth would deter him. His “Mission Accomplished” banner was flying high as he helped her up and held the door, motioning her through with a sweeping gesture.

He is a good boy.

She made haste to a private alcove near the stairwell and reproduced the flyer for further examination. Her breathing still hadn’t returned to normal and she was vaguely worried she might have inadvertently common-law married Sir Lancelot back there. When she caught herself chewing on a strand of too-straight medium-brown hair, she knew she wasn’t focusing.

“Hey, Tony. Do you think you could take a crack at this flyer? I can take a picture of it and send it to your phone.”

“Better not,” Tony countered. “It’s not a secure line. Elephants can compromise a civilian iPhone. Stay on the com and you can describe it to me.”

“Too late,” Alison replied through a smirk.

“Well, in that case I’d be happy to. Are you in the lab?”

“If the lobby counts.” Alison started taking in the floor plan, charting the least conspicuous route to the third floor and considering exit strategies in the unlikely event of a water landing, or more plausibly, a greased-piggy style chase sequence. “Oink, oink, dorks.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Okay, Aly. Is there any sort of locker area?” Tony had grown to accept Alison’s frequent and perplexing non sequiturs over the coms.

“I’ll have a look.”

Alison took a few strides up the stairs with all the confidence and wherewithal of a prairie dog walking into a cobra prom. I have got to calm down. She switched her earpiece from the com to her phone and thumbed through her recently played tracks, landing on Accidents Will Happen by Elvis Costello and the Attractions. Oh, Elvis. The music sent a shockwave of resolution through her body, straightening her posture and imbuing her with self-assurance. It was like she had a Fonzi* switch.

*A note to younger readers: Fonzi, AKA Arthur Fonzerelli, AKA The Fonz, was a character on an old-timey TV show called Happy Days. He was very cool and he wore a leather jacket and he could make a broken jukebox work again by hitting it. And he had a motorcycle.

Oh I just don’t know where to begin
Though he says he’ll wait forever
It’s now or never
But she keeps him hanging on
The silly champion
She says she can’t go home
Without a chaperone

At the top of the stairs, the hallway branched off in three directions. The south wing revealed a few nondescript classrooms and offices. Nothing of interest. Just east of the fork, an alcove tapered into two doors labeled Lab Eqp and Custodial. The north wing was blocked off by thick, clear strips of plastic. It looked ominous, like an antechamber in a slaughterhouse or Stephen King’s breakfast nook. As she inched closer to it, a knot of nervous energy was born in her stomach and bubbled up to her throat, where it came out as a giggle because Elvis Costello had just come in with the chorus and it was too much.

Accidents will happen
We only hit and run
He used to be your victim
Now you’re not the only one

A wave of tense curiosity slowed her to a crawl as she pushed a sheet of thick translucent membrane to the side and peeked into what lay beyond. She was moving like molasses. Dream running. Her skin turned electric as cold air rushed out of the space she had opened in the barrier. It swirled around her, a blood transfusion of adrenaline and existential dread.

“Excuse me.”

Her soul jumped out of her body, passing a crescendo of crackling fireworks in her skull on the way out. She turned slowly, pounding at her inner jukebox for any remaining essence of Fonzi. A woman manifested, John Lennon glasses, her hair in a tight brown bun secured with a long golden pin. Cute for the Grim Reaper. Alison let out a sharp, indecipherable syllable and prepared for a sloppy, unflattering last breath.

“Excuse me,” the woman repeated. “You need your lab coat if you’re going into the North Lab. Do you keep it in your locker?” She gestured toward the door with the Lab Eqp placard.

“Oh, right. Duh,” Alison choked out, practicing her Pulitzer Prize acceptance speech. “Yeah. Yes. Locker. It’s– in my locker.” Cool, Alison. Icy, she thought as she Fonzi’d over to the Lab Equipment room. It was bigger than the storage closet she was expecting. Clean, neatly-labeled cabinets bearing a buffet helping of goggles, gloves, and Bunsen burners. She took in the scene as she switched back to her coms.

“Aly. Alison. Do you copy?”

Oh, boy. Tony only called her Alison if he was worried. She must have zoned out a little. She glanced at her phone. Elvis was done crooning and The White Stripes had moved in with Blue Orchid.

“This is Alison,” she copied back with a spoonful of faux-southern honey in her voice. Tony let out a relieved sigh. “Found the lockers. Any luck with The Format?”

“Good. Yeah,” he replied. “Are the lockers numbered?”

“No, names. Grad students, I’m guessing. Looks like a student lab.”

Tony was silent for a moment. He must have been hoping for numbers. Alison could hear furious typing in the background. “Any Nates or Sams?”

“Yeah, a Nathan Russel.”

“That’s it! Try 14, 19, 20.”

Alison made an indignant huff. “I said that first,” she whined sarcastically. She was starting on the locker. “Fourteen is not a month.”

“Did you say it, or did you think it really loud?” he teased.

“How did you figure out Nathan Russel?” she changed the subject.

“Oh, just a wild guess. Wikipedia says the members of The Format were Nate Ruess and Sam Means.”

“Gotcha. Good thinking,” She said, idly. “That band is not getting back together by the way. Those Gamma sisters are going to be so confused when they show up at some smooth jazz concert.” The locker emitted a satisfying click as its tumblers fell into place. “I’m in.”

“You’re such a dork, Alison. Never change.”

The locker was empty albeit a single ivory figurine, four inches tall, depicting a Gupta king on an intricate throne.

“Wha–” was all Alison could muster.

“What is it?” Tony inquired. “Notes? Journals? Spreadsheets?”

“It’s–” she could scarcely believe it herself. “The Raja.”

Tony was silent. He must have been taking a half-rusted slide rule to the mental calculus on this one. The prime objective. Sitting in a locker on an intel drop. She scooped The Raja into her bag as she waited for Tony’s take on this one. It did seem a bit odd on second inspection. The figure wasn’t a king, per se. Female features. More of a Mantri than a Raja. Through the com, she could hear Tony’s laptop snap shut.

“Deuce,” he exhaled. “This was an ambush. I’m seeing company.”

“Deuce,” she mirrored, adding a couple more for good measure. “Double deuce. Did they ping your phone? Elephants.”

Tony’s voice was being swallowed up by a cacophony of grunts, pants, and bangs. “Don’t worry about the phone.”

“Tony. This is my fault,” Alison forcefully whispered into the com.

“Don’t worry about the phone, Alison. Just get out of there!” The com went dead there. Dead people don’t talk.

Alison took a deep, shuddering breath and switched her earpiece back to her phone. “Speak of the devil,” she exclaimed as she hammered through the door and shot down the south wing. Nate Ruess’s melancholy tenor was thundering over the orchestra in the final chorus of Be Calm. Alison’s stomach churned out a one-syllable laugh and she hit a full sprint down the hallway.

Take it from me, I’ve been there a thousand times
You hate your pulse because it still thinks you’re alive
And everything’s wrong
It just gets so hard sometimes
Be calm
Be calm

Her flat-footed gait and threadbare gray Converse All-Stars produced pounding echoes in the narrow corridor. That, or another set of footfalls. She didn’t dare look. Around the next corner she could see the dim red glow of what she urgently hoped was an emergency exit sign.

Alison’s All-Stars squealed against the laminate flooring as she rounded the corner, nearly sending her through the opposite wall. She lept for the emergency exit. The heavy metal door cracked against its jamb like a thunderclap, resonating past her down the hallway. It was locked.

“That’s against the fire code,” she blurted in frustration. A lot was happening. It was the only thing she could think to say. Now that she wasn’t moving, she confirmed that the second set of footsteps was definitely not hers. She crouched down out of sight behind the sharp corner landing and waited for the sound to get louder.

“My aim is true.”

A leg came into her field of view and she tumbled low, taking her pursuant down like a linebacker. A tangle of arms and legs crashed into the far wall as Alison somersaulted over the toppling body. She caught a glimpse of his face as his shoulders battered squarely into the blue and white tiles. It was Malibu Ken. The exit light flashed against a polished silver pin on his lapel.

It was Malibu Ken– and– he was an Elephant.

For a split second, his eyes looked unable to focus as he reoriented himself. Alison wasn’t going to give him time to fight. His head was practically in her lap. Her training and instinct took over. She was in full Costello-mode. She threaded her arm under his chin and reached for the nape of his neck, right at the fold of the collar. She closed her eyes and twisted. And that was it.

At the end, his features fell into a look of indignance and irritation. But he didn’t say anything. Dead people don’t talk.

Alison Ashe walked home with a heavy feeling in her chest. She had walked right into an ambush. Two asset identities were compromised. She had killed a man. And Tony was dead. Tony was dead, and it was her fault. She looked down at her palm, in which she carried a gleaming silver pin, the likeness of an elephant etched into its surface. Another lump manifested in her stomach. This time, it stayed there.

***

“Hey.”

“Hey Aly.”

“Sorry I got you killed.”

“It’s okay.”