The Game

      The Connecticut Committee met every Thursday evening. One particular evening in late October, they decided that immediate action was necessary half-way around the world. Committee member Barbara O'Reilly left the meeting and caught the next available plane from New York's Kennedy International Airport. Her destination was Australia.

      One week later, after five days in Sydney, she was lunching al fresco at the Bondi Trattoria Café on Campbell Parade.

      People moved along the sidewalk either toward Bondi Beach, or the opposite direction toward downtown Sydney. Few took notice of the pretty, tall, well dressed brunette having a seafood salad in the open air. Barbara eyed each pedestrian carefully, her sapphire eyes noting every detail. Blending well into the busy scene, she was just another thirty something business woman having a leisurely lunch.

      When the waiter returned with Barb's check, she carefully laid out the exact amount of the meal. Tipping is considered rude in Australia, and she didn't wish to stand out. She soon spotted what she was waiting for. The swarthy waiter standing by the cafe's side door nodded almost imperceptibly to an elderly woman that was shuffling along the opposite side of Campbell Parade. With no change in his facial expression he dropped his cigarette, stepped on it, and slipped inside the cafe.

      Barbara took one last swallow of Perrier and stood. She slowly arranged some items in her purse, smoothed her skirt, pushed her chair in, and stepped into the light flow of pedestrian traffic. She and the ancient woman were both heading downtown.

      Barb strode briskly along the street, keeping the old lady in sight. The crone seemed unaware of being followed, but Barb knew better. Ten blocks and five direction changes later, Barb was standing in a dark alley, her back against the rear door of a closed haberdashery.

      After moving ahead of her subject, she'd stopped at a public toilet and disposed of the chestnut wig and dark business suit she'd been wearing. Now, she was a tall, striking redhead, wearing a white turtleneck, yellow vest, and designer blue jeans. She held a small silver colored revolver in her right hand.

      Barbara's target entered the alley from the street. Her suddenly youthful step belied her age, and her pace quickly carried her to within a few feet of the waiting redhead. Suddenly the door of the abandoned men's store burst open. Barb was slammed into the wall on the opposite side of the narrow alley. As she crashed into the wall she recognized her attacker. It was the waiter who'd served her lunch. 

     Barbara reflexively raised the Colt and fired. The knife in the menacing waiter's hand froze in mid-air. The stiletto's razor-sharp blade had missed Barb's throat by less than an inch.

      A small dark hole appeared between the waiter's eyes. The wound looked like a tiny third eye, as the man crumbled and fell to the damp bricks. Barb quickly retrieved the dagger with a gloved left hand.

      The young man disguised as an old woman, had by then come face to face with Barbara and the waiter. He had no time to retreat. The long thin blade slipped silently between his ribs and through his heart. His last few seconds were wasted trying to understand his fate. "Allah Akbar," he whispered, and his eyes lost their light.

      The untraceable Colt was placed in his lifeless hand. The knife remained in his chest. His plot would be exposed by Sydney police, and his homemade bombs would be found and destroyed during the investigation. The Holy War had come to an end for the young Jihadist named Amin.

      Tropical music from her iPad filled Barb's ears as the Boeing 767 lifted into the warm Sydney night.

      Next week, she thought as she closed her eyes. Next week, perhaps there will be another game.

The Game

By Don Winfield