The season of betrayal was ending. Spring had arrived with warm breezes and budding oaks. The patio of The Black Labrador was made for such days he thought, as he reflected on a golden beam slicing through the shade of towering branches newly filled with green leaves. Its radiance imbued his Sauvignon Blanc with a polished luster that brought sparkle to his mood as well as his glass. He had pulled it off and he was rather proud of himself. The mini camera Zorkov had supplied kept any record of inappropriate images off his cell phone should authorities demand access. The disposable gloves insured no telltale prints, and had been burned as directed. The drop had gone smoothly. After placing the package in the receptacle he had walked fifty yards to the park bench, stooped to tie his shoe, then looked back to see Zorkov retrieve what he’d left. Now he waited for Mr. Z to bring proof that the money had been deposited in the offshore account. Paper proof that could be disposed of, not electronic proof that might leave a cyber trail.

Initially, he wondered if he’d feel remorse. Zorkov said that was to be expected. But he didn’t feel bad, not really. While the money would secure an untroubled retirement, he believed in his heart he had done the right thing. Duty to country must always be subservient to universal brotherhood. That’s what he and Zorkov had talked about so many times. Lies and treachery, while tawdry, were simply necessary evils. In pursuit of some goals, such behavior is essential, even laudable if it helps achieve the desired end. Zorkov had convinced him of that.

“May I sit down?”

He recognized Z’s voice and recited the preplanned greeting to check that all was well.

“Do you prefer white wine in the afternoon?”

“Yes, and red wine in the evening.”

“So it’s done. Do you have proof the funds were transferred?”

“In my pocket.”

“I’m glad it’s over.”

“There is one last thing.”

“What’s that?”

”You recall our last conversation?” Zorkov asked.

“About the potential for collateral damage?”

“Yes.”

“Well.”

“I’m afraid you’re it. Traitors who sell out one country will likely sell out another.”

He started to address Zorkov’s startling condemnation but the impact of the bullet took his breath away. He felt the burn before hearing the muffled sound of the silencer. Pain overwhelmed comprehension and speech. He simply sat stunned, shocked, disbelieving.

Moments later, a waiter arrived and looked at the man slumped in the chair.

“It appears my friend has dozed off. Let him rest, but bring me something to drink while I go to the toilet,” Zorkov added, knowing he would be long gone when the waiter returned.

“Will you have what he’s having?”

“No. I prefer something darker, more complex. Pinot Noir will do. Only dreamers and idealists are attracted to white wine in the afternoon. They’re fooled by the allure. While it’s pretty and starts pleasantly, it seldom finishes well.”

# # #

Joe Kilgore is an award-winning writer of novels, novellas, screenplays, and short stories. His work has appeared in magazines, anthologies, creative journals, and online literary publications. One of his stories was recently selected by The Kurt Vonnegut Museum & Library to appear in their Literary Journal. Joe lives and writes in Austin, Texas. You can read all about Joe and his work at his website: https://joekilgore.com

Photo: Ramakant Sharda