Connecting Trains / Short Story / WW2 Noir / Flash Fiction

Описание: Connecting Trains
Oct. 6, 1943

7:24 a.m. — Overnight train arrived late. No sign of informant.
7:59 a.m. — Asked Boston PD to question passengers and crew. No one fitting his description was seen.
8:05 a.m. — Called in. Instructions from Washington are to await instructions.
8:40 a.m. — Commuter traffic is growing heavier. Am watching for him.
8:53 a.m. — Station is choked with people. Too many minutes have passed to maintain a hope.
9:01 a.m. — Woman on east platform, apparently late for a train. Slender, medium height. Caught a fleeting glimpse of her light blue dress rushing through a sea of grey overcoats.
9:03 a.m. — No sleep for two days. Am ashamed of losing focus.
9:07 a.m. — Called in again. FBI and OSS have no lead on informant's address. Last known location: Norfolk, VA. —Possible Navy connection? Doesn't match up with counter-espionage tone of informant's telegram.
9:15 a.m. — Young man needed help getting bags together. In uniform, with Fifth Army Patch—a replacement headed for Italy. Told him about a friend from the first war who's now a colonel in the Fifth. Young man didn't smile.
11:02 a.m. — Across street from South Station. Police were asking for too much information. Entire operation has ground to a halt. Am in holding pattern.
11:09 a.m. — I called Margaret; she sounded worried. Wish I could lift that from her shoulders. Said I would see her tomorrow, without fail.
11:43 a.m. — Watching for watching's sake is an interesting pastime. Haven't had this much time alone with my thoughts in years.
Over a hundred thousand passengers pass under the station's pillars every day. Don't think our man was one of them. Almost 600 miles from Norfolk—why'd you have to take the overnight train to meet us here?
12:18 p.m. — There is a definite chill in the air. People are smiling. Grabbed a turkey sandwich and some coffee at the lunch counter. Kept a loose eye on the crowds across the street without knowing why or for whom I was really looking. The cold makes everything taste better. I haven't been in New England since courting a girl before Margaret. Forgot how nice the Fall felt.
12:55 p.m. — In his telegram, informant used the words, "root out the line." Trying to piece together from context of our former conversations what he could've been on to—in event that asking him in person is no longer possible.
1:09 p.m. — Light blue sky pierced through the soft clouds. Clouds are vanishing fast over the horizon. I cannot hear the wind that carries them; can barely hear the cry of birds over the cars.
1:26 p.m. — Bought a newspaper. They filled the paper, but there wasn't much new.
1:38 p.m. — Walking down Summer Street. The shop windows are bare. The store owners are making every effort to have cheerful displays. It's hard to hide the absence of something.
2:11 p.m. — Cannot get the young man out of my head. His journey to Italy revived many memories of my time in France. They are never far from me, but they have come very close today. I can see every one of their faces just as clearly as I saw the young man's. Their eyes before we went over the trench are burned in memory.
I will not grieve in these open streets.
The naïve or the willfully ignorant push off everything that was before their time as if it were long ago. But I see such a short, unbroken chain of events leading us here.
3:48 p.m. — A hotel room will be needed for the night. Had a feeling I can't explain.
3:57 p.m. — Summer Street changed; it skipped Autumn. It crossed Washington and became Winter.
4:46 p.m. — Was called in my room. FBI is sending over low-resolution, black & white print. Had photographer on roof across from South Station a week ago on unrelated assignment. Just identified what may or may not be our informant in the crowd, lower right.
5:25 p.m. — Received the print. It is difficult to be sure. The photo appears to show our missing man. —But why Boston? Why were you here a week ago?
Potential answers are generating more questions.
6:04 p.m. — Talked with Margaret; told her I was wrestling with what tomorrow might bring. She said, "I will be there for you, without fail."
6:43 p.m. — Had an argument with FBI. Insisted it was necessary to see the original photo. Cannot escape this holding pattern with half of the truth. Today, I have entertained half-truths at the cost of a man's life.
8:52 p.m. — It is dark out. No streetlights, no open windows, cars emit fragments of light. Found my way from hotel to the grey, square building where we are to meet. The station, across the street, was silent; no one was outside but the air raid warden. Am seated in a cold hallway outside the conference room. Listening to muffled voices on other side of wall; waiting to be let in.
10:30 p.m. — Met with FBI; examined photograph. Am at a loss and wrestling with a feeling of shame. Standing next to informant was a woman in a light blue dress.

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