| General Fiction posted September 11, 2022 | Chapters: |
...6 7 -8- 9... 
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Ohmie travels Europe.
A chapter in the book The Best Time of Ohmie's Life
Best Time of Ohmie's Life pt 8
by Wayne Fowler
In the last chapter the two got made leaving a bank and became separated. Reunited, they broke into an upper crust hotel Presidential suite where Ohmie asked his father to level with him.
Dad walked all around the rooms. He’d already done that, but did it again. Probably giving himself time to think. He left the curtains drawn, telling me to do the same as he passed them by. He ignored the substance of my question in his initial response. But maybe he was going to work up to it. ‘What can you tell me?’
“We need to be out of here early tomorrow. We’re lucky that it’s Wednesday. After and before long weekenders. You can touch anything you want, but I won’t. There’ll be no reason for anyone to check for fingerprints, but ….”
“I can get you on a jet now,” Dad continued, “but it must be a direct flight. Paris is our best option there. I’ll have to get a hold of your mom, make sure she can pick you up.”
Make sure she’s there at all, I think he meant. But I didn’t say anything.
“I do contract work,” he blurted in reply to my question.
“You’re an assassin!”
“No, no. I, uh… I worded it wrong. I do certain work under contract.”
“You work for the C.I.A. doing espionage?”
He just looked at me.
“Mostly I write reports.”
That was a lie. His right lip twitched downward. I let it go.
“Look, your mom… I’ve had the batteries out of both my phones as well as yours since DC. I could maybe chance a text to your mother just before we board a train.”
“Send her a phonics code, like a word that means a date and time?”
Dad grinned.
“Why can’t you call one of your agent friends?” I asked.
He looked at me hard. “In this business… well, you have friends… I have several, some closer than others. But you never know who has their hands in a wringer.”
That was a pretty obvious euphemism for held captive and being tortured. Or at least being compromised. “And that’s why you can’t go to a safe house?”
“That’s pretty much for the movies, Ohmie. There are no real safe houses. There are places we can go to rest, or to send secure messages, but they’re all watched. Or at least we should expect that they are. If someone wants you dead, about all you can do is fight…”
“Or run,” I finished for him.
“Or run,” he said.
“You have anything to eat?” I asked.
Dad looked at me sheepishly. I got the distinct impression that he only ate about once a day. It was working for him though. He looked like two hundred pounds of sinew and stone.
“Uh, I can …”
“That’s okay. I can wait til breakfast.” I should have felt like a jerk, I know. I knew he didn’t have any food. And I also knew that he wouldn’t leave me here alone to go get some. Room service was out of the question. As was delivery.
“You sure?” he asked. “Because I could pay Bruno. He could have someone deliver a bag to the stairwell.”
“Too many people. Too risky,” I said to his nodding head. “Real cold ice water will help,” I said on my way to the kitchen. I was filling the glass of ice from the Presidential Suite fridge with water when Dad slipped into the kitchen carrying our bags. He hissed for silence. Hearing the voices of a man and a woman, I shut off the faucet and quietly followed him through the suite toward what I figured would be an obscure exit door. So much for the Presidential suite idea.
We used the stairs to get to the next floor down before getting on an elevator.
“Sorry kid.”
My bed at home was sounding real good to me.
At least I got something to eat. There was a McDonald’s. I knew what to do there.
We spent the night in an all-night movie theater – don’t ask.
The next train out went the wrong way, but we got on anyway. We’d change trains at Prague. Too bad Eastern Europe wasn’t on my bucket list. My list got a lot shorter the last few months. The only thing left on it at this point is a full body hug from Nurse May. And maybe a kiss. You know what Buckwheat said, dream for a BIG watermelon.
Krakow was as far out of the question as had been the Vienna Philharmonic. But at least the train to Paris from Prague had a berth unit available. Remember, Dad still couldn’t fly because of the camera business. By train it was supposed to be about sixteen hours. A couple meals, a night’s sleep, kill a couple people and throw them off the train – nothing to it. Only I spent nearly all sixteen in bed feeling like jellied crap.
On the train, Dad got someone to show him the Paris to DC flight schedule. He noted the flight numbers: 8028. Dad would send Mom a message of “Got nine knives, enough?” The date and the flight number. No question Mom would decipher the code. She worked at the Company, too.
“What?” I nearly screamed. “Mom’s a spy, too?” The last I whispered.
“She’s an analyst, glorified secretary, really. Does a little analyzing, mostly research stuff.”
“Does she carry a gun?”
“Of course,” Dad said as a matter-of-factly. “Probably why she left in a tiff the other day.”
“Last week,” I said.
“She probably wanted to shoot you.”
That shut my pie hole.
The next day we first went to a bank, of course. Then to the airport. Dad was disguised. I was wearing a wig and a bra. Before buying my ticket, Dad was going to text Mom. He’d spent gobs of time obviously struggling with his code. The problem was that the flight number had changed. He was getting frustrated, constantly glancing at a clock.
“What’s the number,” I asked. He wrote it on a page of my book: 3-712221029 and handed it back to me. I snatched the pen from his hand. “No wonder it gave you so much trouble, all those twos. In just about a minute I handed it back. “I assume the three dash means me, Ohmie.”
He nodded, the little twitch thing happened on his left lip.
“3 – got nine night’s nap,” I said as he read it and decoded: 3-7-1-2-2-2-1-0-2-9
Nervously, Dad tried to explain. “See, the secret’s in whoever intercepts it, not to even think that it’s code. They won’t even try to decipher it. But even if they try, all the silent letters in the English language…. They’re the same as vowels. Well, I see you figured all that out.” He grinned. “Maybe you did fall out of the sky.”
I ripped that part of the page out of the book and ate it.
As soon as he got the battery in, the phone pinged him a message – “NO!” There was more.
In the last chapter the two got made leaving a bank and became separated. Reunited, they broke into an upper crust hotel Presidential suite where Ohmie asked his father to level with him.
Dad walked all around the rooms. He’d already done that, but did it again. Probably giving himself time to think. He left the curtains drawn, telling me to do the same as he passed them by. He ignored the substance of my question in his initial response. But maybe he was going to work up to it. ‘What can you tell me?’
“We need to be out of here early tomorrow. We’re lucky that it’s Wednesday. After and before long weekenders. You can touch anything you want, but I won’t. There’ll be no reason for anyone to check for fingerprints, but ….”
“I can get you on a jet now,” Dad continued, “but it must be a direct flight. Paris is our best option there. I’ll have to get a hold of your mom, make sure she can pick you up.”
Make sure she’s there at all, I think he meant. But I didn’t say anything.
“I do contract work,” he blurted in reply to my question.
“You’re an assassin!”
“No, no. I, uh… I worded it wrong. I do certain work under contract.”
“You work for the C.I.A. doing espionage?”
He just looked at me.
“Mostly I write reports.”
That was a lie. His right lip twitched downward. I let it go.
“Look, your mom… I’ve had the batteries out of both my phones as well as yours since DC. I could maybe chance a text to your mother just before we board a train.”
“Send her a phonics code, like a word that means a date and time?”
Dad grinned.
“Why can’t you call one of your agent friends?” I asked.
He looked at me hard. “In this business… well, you have friends… I have several, some closer than others. But you never know who has their hands in a wringer.”
That was a pretty obvious euphemism for held captive and being tortured. Or at least being compromised. “And that’s why you can’t go to a safe house?”
“That’s pretty much for the movies, Ohmie. There are no real safe houses. There are places we can go to rest, or to send secure messages, but they’re all watched. Or at least we should expect that they are. If someone wants you dead, about all you can do is fight…”
“Or run,” I finished for him.
“Or run,” he said.
“You have anything to eat?” I asked.
Dad looked at me sheepishly. I got the distinct impression that he only ate about once a day. It was working for him though. He looked like two hundred pounds of sinew and stone.
“Uh, I can …”
“That’s okay. I can wait til breakfast.” I should have felt like a jerk, I know. I knew he didn’t have any food. And I also knew that he wouldn’t leave me here alone to go get some. Room service was out of the question. As was delivery.
“You sure?” he asked. “Because I could pay Bruno. He could have someone deliver a bag to the stairwell.”
“Too many people. Too risky,” I said to his nodding head. “Real cold ice water will help,” I said on my way to the kitchen. I was filling the glass of ice from the Presidential Suite fridge with water when Dad slipped into the kitchen carrying our bags. He hissed for silence. Hearing the voices of a man and a woman, I shut off the faucet and quietly followed him through the suite toward what I figured would be an obscure exit door. So much for the Presidential suite idea.
We used the stairs to get to the next floor down before getting on an elevator.
“Sorry kid.”
My bed at home was sounding real good to me.
At least I got something to eat. There was a McDonald’s. I knew what to do there.
We spent the night in an all-night movie theater – don’t ask.
The next train out went the wrong way, but we got on anyway. We’d change trains at Prague. Too bad Eastern Europe wasn’t on my bucket list. My list got a lot shorter the last few months. The only thing left on it at this point is a full body hug from Nurse May. And maybe a kiss. You know what Buckwheat said, dream for a BIG watermelon.
Krakow was as far out of the question as had been the Vienna Philharmonic. But at least the train to Paris from Prague had a berth unit available. Remember, Dad still couldn’t fly because of the camera business. By train it was supposed to be about sixteen hours. A couple meals, a night’s sleep, kill a couple people and throw them off the train – nothing to it. Only I spent nearly all sixteen in bed feeling like jellied crap.
On the train, Dad got someone to show him the Paris to DC flight schedule. He noted the flight numbers: 8028. Dad would send Mom a message of “Got nine knives, enough?” The date and the flight number. No question Mom would decipher the code. She worked at the Company, too.
“What?” I nearly screamed. “Mom’s a spy, too?” The last I whispered.
“She’s an analyst, glorified secretary, really. Does a little analyzing, mostly research stuff.”
“Does she carry a gun?”
“Of course,” Dad said as a matter-of-factly. “Probably why she left in a tiff the other day.”
“Last week,” I said.
“She probably wanted to shoot you.”
That shut my pie hole.
The next day we first went to a bank, of course. Then to the airport. Dad was disguised. I was wearing a wig and a bra. Before buying my ticket, Dad was going to text Mom. He’d spent gobs of time obviously struggling with his code. The problem was that the flight number had changed. He was getting frustrated, constantly glancing at a clock.
“What’s the number,” I asked. He wrote it on a page of my book: 3-712221029 and handed it back to me. I snatched the pen from his hand. “No wonder it gave you so much trouble, all those twos. In just about a minute I handed it back. “I assume the three dash means me, Ohmie.”
He nodded, the little twitch thing happened on his left lip.
“3 – got nine night’s nap,” I said as he read it and decoded: 3-7-1-2-2-2-1-0-2-9
Nervously, Dad tried to explain. “See, the secret’s in whoever intercepts it, not to even think that it’s code. They won’t even try to decipher it. But even if they try, all the silent letters in the English language…. They’re the same as vowels. Well, I see you figured all that out.” He grinned. “Maybe you did fall out of the sky.”
I ripped that part of the page out of the book and ate it.
As soon as he got the battery in, the phone pinged him a message – “NO!” There was more.
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