A few minutes later… a man in a long
black overcoat and Fedora approached the Hansom as I was adjusting my newly
acquired top hat and fretting over the hopefully unlikely probability of head
lice being in residency. A no vacancy sign inscribed on the brim would have
been comforting.
“Sir, follow that carriage,” instructed the
man flashing a shiny silvery government ID emblazoned with the acronym CIA. It was
not stated as a request but as a demand and since his left hand was holding an
object in his pocket, I decided to comply.
“Don’t get too close where your face could
be recognized,” said the agent.
Snow had been falling for a while and
building at a steady pace. I followed the carriage before me into the park
across from where 6th Ave ended on Park Lane South and onto Center Drive
which wound its way through the park in a serpentine fashion, transitioning
into East Drive. The lead Hanson before me eventually pulled up and stopped at
the statue of Balto on the left hand side. I stopped the horse one hundred feet
behind him. The cold crisp air was biting at my skin although it was easily eclipsed
by the unseasonal butterflies fluttering around in my stomach.
Simultaneously, one Boris Stroganoff had just locked the side door of the Russian Tea Room on 57th street and briskly headed to the park two blocks north, plunging in through the swirling snow, heading to this rendezvous point parallel to east 67th street. Boris wore a serious look of great determination and self-importance on his chiseled features as he trudged to the sculpture of Balto, wishing to be imbued with the canine’s strength of character, the animal famous for having carried Diphtheria Antitoxin Serum six hundred miles to the town of Nome, Alaska through many obstacles and terrible winter weather conditions, saving many lives as a result of his Herculean feat. Boris remembered reading that Balto himself had been brought here to the park on December 17th, 1925 for the dedication of his likeness. Boris mused that he only had to walk half a mile in the snow.
I
held my carriage behind the lead carriage before me where Boris Stroganoff had
strolled up and climbed inside. A second figure approached it on foot and I
recognized him as the driver who had asked me to watch his carriage. After a
few minutes, Mr Stroganoff exited the vehicle stuffing a folded brown Manila
envelope into his breast pocket and heading off into the storm. My CIA cohort
approached me now.
“Thank you very much,” he said. “You have
helped Agent Tanner in the lead carriage, and I very much. We were short a body
to drive this carriage while I got close enough on foot to the forward carriage
to overpower Mr. Stroganoff if things went awry.”
“You’re very welcome,” I exclaimed
climbing down from the carriage. I shook his hand and exited the park without asking
any questions. Upon arrival at home, as I was putting my coat away, I found a
sealed envelope in my pocket stamped U.S. Government, containing one hundred
dollars. The entire day had been surreal, like a bizarre dream.
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