The Spy Coast

“What’d she do to you?” I pause, searching for words to describe how Diana lit the tinder that destroyed my career. My life. “She turned me into a traitor,” I say. The truth is far more complicated, but when you live in a world of mirrors, the truth is always distorted. Too often, it’s what we choose to see while ignoring all the inconvenient bits,

Outside it’s started to snow, and fat flakes swirl beyond the window, the kind of snow that’s a delight to walk in. Bianca doesn’t look like a woman who delights in snowflakes. “As you can see, I’m settled in here, and I have a new name,” I tell her. “I’m perfectly safe.” “But Diana may be in trouble.” “Diana in trouble?” I laugh. “Yeah, that’s a g

When I was young and imagined the setting for a perfect retirement, I dreamed it would be a hilltop villa in Koh Samui, or a tree house on the Osa Peninsula, where I would be serenaded by birds and howler monkeys. These were places I knew and loved, places that, in the end, I could not flee to. Because that’s where they would expect me to be. Being

I think of the go bag next to my bed and how easy it would be to drop out, skip town, even skip the country. But this is my home now, and I’ve spent two years building this life, settling into its rhythms. I’m tired of moving, tired of searching for a landing spot. This is it. This is where the wandering stops.

On the platform, I see girls in miniskirts, boys in jackets with football logos, all of them thirsty for their next drink. I am stone-cold sober. I never drink before an operation, and that’s what this feels like. Operation Danny. It’s only dinner and maybe sex. And after that? I know how to disappear. It’s my specialty.

Ingrid and Lloyd will of course confirm the boring truth: that we met tonight for a potluck dinner and copious wine and a spirited discussion of The Travels of Ibn Battutah. It’s exactly the sort of evening that we retired folks are believed to indulge in. I doubt the police will ask what we are all retired from, because when you are over the hill,

In the two years since I moved onto the adjoining property, he’s no doubt gleaned a number of details about me. He knows that I turn off my lights every night around 10:00 p.m., that I’m up early to feed and water my chickens. He knows I’m a novice at tapping maple trees, that I mostly keep to myself, and that I don’t throw loud parties. And today

“What do you do?” I take another swig of water, a pause to cue up my backstory. “I’m an import analyst for Europa Global Logistics.” “Europa? As in Jupiter’s moon?” “Very good. Most people don’t know that.”

As I stand in line waiting to pay for the groceries, I could be mistaken for just another farmer or housewife or retired teacher. For years, I taught myself not to stand out, not to draw attention, and now it comes effortlessly, which is both sad and also a relief.