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Deleted Scene: Breakfast with Agent Reuben

(Formerly in Chapter Four)

The restaurant was on the far side, with floor-to-ceiling windows on three sides that each had a different view of the harbor. Rebekah and I both ordered large plates of eggs, bacon and hashbrowns, starving from a night of bad sleep and no food. Reuben asked for smoked salmon and a bagel.

We selected a table in the corner, near a small heater and a wall-mounted television.

“Was the hotel alright?” he asked, staring up at the TV. CNN was giving in the morning news.

“It was fine,” Rebekah answered.

“Good, good, good.” The waitress brought him a cup of coffee, and he took a sip. “Okay. Everything is all set. If you haven’t figured it out already, you’re on San Juan Island, about twenty miles off the coast of Washington, in Puget Sound. Basically, you’re in between Seattle and Vancouver.” There weren’t many people in the small café, but he kept his voice low anyway.

“Are we staying here?” I asked.

“For the time being.” He glanced back up at the news.

“Why this place?”

“Simple, really,” he said, looking at me again. “It’s out of the way, so no one would really think of it.”

“Except,” I countered, “that when people are thinking about the Witness Protection Program, they’d expect we’d be somewhere out of the way.”

Reuben thought for a minute and then nodded. “Even so, it’s not like we’re going to put you in some obvious, not-out-of-the-way place just to out think the bad guys. Besides, there’re other reasons: during the summer, this island is overrun with tourists. None of the locals will think twice about you. Also, it’s not uncommon for people to come here and stay several months. Odds are, no one will really try to get to know you and be neighborly, because you’re just tourists. The only thing locals will do is try to sell you souvenirs.”

The waitress brought us our food. Rebekah poked around at her plate for a minute, but I dove right into mine. I tried not to look at Reuben’s salmon, and secretly hoped that living on an island didn’t translate into eating a lot of fish. I hate fish.

Reuben pointed his fork at a thick manila envelope that was lying on the table. “Inside there is everything you’ll need – ID and keys and things.”

Rebekah picked up the envelope and began emptying the contents onto the table. She pulled out a passport and looked inside.

“Jennifer Sagan?” she read.

Agent Reuben laughed. “Yeah. Everybody is named Jennifer.”

I looked at mine. “Hugh Waltz? Nobody’s named Hugh.”

“Sure people are,” Reuben said, and took a bite of bagel.

“Are we actually going to need passports?” I asked. “I thought we’re staying here in Washington, and not heading up into Canada.”

“Just keep them,” Reuben said, shuffling through the stack of cards and papers. “It’s good to be prepared. Here, you’ll need these.” He handed us each a credit card, bearing our pseudonyms. “Whatever you need, you can get. I mean, don’t buy any Ferraris, but you can get food and clothes and whatever.”

“Do we have jobs?” Rebekah asked.

He snorted. “Are you kidding? You’re supposed to be tourists. I guess you could get one if you want one, but I don’t see why. Your housing is paid, and you have the credit card for anything else.”

“Then what are we supposed to do?” Rebekah asked. She wasn’t the type to sit still and wait. Personally, I was hoping that I wouldn’t have to leave my hammock again until the trial.

“You’re supposed to not get found,” he answered. “Speaking of which, Eric, we want you to grow some kind of facial hair – a beard or a goatee or something.” He leaned back in his chair and stared at my face. “Don’t grow a mustache, though. You’d look stupid.”

Rebekah smiled.

“And you,” he said, turning to face her. “We want you to do something with your hair – length and color.”

Her smile disappeared. “No.”

“Sorry. Them’s the rules.” He turned back to his plate and took a large bite. “You really should try this salmon.”

“How short?”

“The purpose is so that you don’t look like you,” he said, pausing a moment to dig his tongue between his lips and teeth, finding the last bits of fish. “Do what you want.”

“What if I want to wear a hat?”

“Color and length,” he repeated, a little more sternly. “I think you’d make a great platinum blonde. Yeah – lighter, not darker.”

“I’m supposed to be hiding,” Rebekah insisted. “No one will see me.”

“The salon will,” he replied. “This afternoon. You have an appointment at two.”

Agent Reuben wasn’t winning any friends.

The waiter returned to the table to refill our glasses, and I had to wonder what he thought – passports, drivers licenses and credit cards were spread everywhere.

“Alright,” Reuben said, after the waiter had left. “Getting back to business. Rebekah, here is a map to your house.”

She took the paper from him, but didn’t look him in the eye.

“I think you’ll really like the place,” he continued. “It’s nice and secluded. And it’s very secure – we’ve used it before.”

“Thanks,” she whispered, barely audible.

“And Eric, you’ll be staying in the hotel for a while, until some more suitable accommodations are found. Rebekah’s place isn’t far away – I mean Jennifer’s place – I guess I ought to start using the proper names.”

He took another bite of bagel, and looked up at the TV.

“What about our families?” Rebekah asked tentatively. “They know about this, right?”

“Oh yeah,” Reuben said, chewing quickly and swallowing. “Rebekah, your mom and sister have also been taken into protective custody.”

“What?”

“The FBI felt that, since they still don’t know who is trying to kill you– ”

“You didn’t catch the stabber?”

He shook his head. “Since we still don’t know who it is, or why it is, we have to assume the worst. Rebekah, since your mom was married to someone who might have been a terrorist, and who might be a target for either your father’s organization or the N.O.S., we felt we ought to protect her as well.”

“Revenge, is my guess. Just killing because they’re mad. That’s how terrorists are. Anyway, don’t worry. They’re both well-protected.”

“What about my parents,” I asked. “What did you tell them?”

My mom reminded me every time I talked to her that I hadn’t ever called while I was running from Felix. If I was running again – which I guess I was – I needed to let her know.

“All I know is that they’re informed. Whatever story the FBI uses to hide you, your folks will probably go along with it.”

“Can I contact them?”

He frowned. “Both of you write letters, send them to me, and I’ll make sure they get to your parents.”

“Okay,” I nodded. “So what is our cover?”

He took a long drink from his cooling coffee. “Excuse me?”

“Our cover?”

“You mean like a cover story?”

“Yeah,” I answered. “Like: I’m a wandering artist and she’s a traveling saleswoman, or something.”

“Sounds fun.” He laughed, and I felt dumb. “No – we didn’t come up with anything. You guys can feel things out and come up with your own, I guess. We had assumed that you both would just be tourists here for the summer.”

“That works,” I said, nodding. I have to admit that I was kind of bummed – I think all guys dream of being spies, working undercover in exotic locales. I really wanted a cover story.

“A wandering artist?” he repeated, grinning. “Where did that come from?” Even Rebekah couldn’t help but smile.

“I don’t know – I was just thinking out loud.”

“Here’s an idea,” he said, leaning back in his chair and looking out the window. “Jennifer is the one who got the big house. She could be some wealthy heiress, and you could be her personal assistant.”

Rebekah laughed. “Maybe I’m sick, and you could be my personal nurse?”

“Can I be a doctor?”

“You’re too young to be a doctor,” she said, shaking her head.

“Maybe I’m one of those quack doctors who went to school in Bermuda for a couple years.”

“And maybe that’s where you met me,” she continued, loving it. “I was extremely rich, and spent all day on my own private beach.”

“And then you caught a rare disease from a starfish,” Reuben said sarcastically. He tossed a couple of twenty dollar bills on the table and stood up. “Yeah, make up something if you want, but there’s no real need to – it is generally considered a good idea to stay out of deep conversations. Just because you have a cover story doesn’t mean you’re a good storyteller. Most people can see through a lie unless it’s told by someone who really knows what they’re doing.”

“Are you leaving?” I asked, suddenly nervous.

“I’ve got to catch the next ferry back to the mainland,” he replied, gulping down the final swallows of coffee.

“How do we reach you?”

“Jennifer,” he said to Rebekah, “at your house the first speed dial on your phone is set to call me. And Hugh, you’ve got a post office box out by your hotel. If I need to get something to you guys, I’ll use that. The key is in the envelope. There’s an address with it – mail your letters to that.”

“Wait,” Rebekah said, her own nerves showing, “do we have a car? How do we get to the house?”

“I gave you a map,” he said, glancing toward the door. “The key is in the envelope. Your car keys are there, too. Jennifer, yours is the black Honda Civic out in front. Hugh, yours is the little green thing parked next to it.” He smiled wide, and hurried out the door.

“Little green thing?” I asked, watching him disappear.

“That can’t be good.”

Rebekah sadly ran her hand through her hair, as if it were the last time she’d ever see it.

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