Jason pulled the carryon down the aisle of the airplane, full of people packing their belongings into the spots they'd have for the next eight hours. Tasha maneuvered ahead of him, stepping adroitly through the labyrinth of passengers, a camera case slung over her shoulder. The camera was real, but there was also a gun hidden in it, which they could fold out of the camera if they needed to after they got through customs. Inside both Jason's and Tasha's suitcases were an array of innocent-looking items, but were actually spies' tools in disguise: knives masquerading as pens, bugs that looked like coins, a camera disguised as watch. Everything fit in with their personas as reporters. Except the subsonic transmitter, hidden in the secret compartment in Jason's suitcase, which would be set up in the listening post and wouldn't see daylight. Unless, of course, they were caught.
A shiver of excitement ran down Jason's spine. It was going to be a long eight hours; he was ready to jump right into the mission.
They stopped at their seats. 22A and 22B. Jason's was technically by the window, but he figured he should ask Tasha if she wanted to sit there. After stuffing his suitcase in the compartment above, he gestured to the empty seat.
"No, you go ahead," she said, over the noise. "I'd rather sit by the aisle anyway."
What person in their right mind would want to sit by the aisle? he thought, but didn't complain, sliding in next to the window and looking out at the DC terminal, little carts zipping to and fro over the runway. It'd probably be another 45 minutes before takeoff.
Tasha slipped in next to him, shoving the camera case beneath her seat. She set her purse on her lap and pulled out a notebook and pen.
"What are you going to write?"
She shrugged. "We're reporters. It's what we do."
Jason nodded. He should probably start getting in character too; at least it might make the long flight more interesting. They had already started playing someone other than themselves as soon as they'd gotten their fake IDs and doctored passports at Headquarters. Jason was Dorian Cash, and Tasha was Nora Baker, both idealistic young reporters with a US communist newspaper. Donovan had given them a lot of leeway in constructing their characters, but also made sure they knew their story inside and out, especially concerning their life as reporters and their communist beliefs. Their main contact would be Munroe, who was in on the secret, but they'd have to withstand government scrutiny if it came down to it.
Jason picked up the briefcase he'd set down beside his seat and popped it open. He pulled out an issue of their newspaper, Red Dawn. The techs must have had fun coming up with its name. And Jason was pretty sure Dorian Cash was a play on DC, as in Washington, DC. Not too subtle, but nothing that would look like anything but a coincidence.
The newspaper was along the same lines. He'd read one issue; it was colorful and bold, especially the articles he'd supposedly written. He'd have to study it to get more into character, and to be able to write like the techs had if it came down to it.
He snapped the briefcase shut, set it down, and flipped to the most recent issue, March 1989. "Red Dawn" was emblazoned across the top in red letters.
Tasha cleared her throat. Jason looked at her; she held her pen poised above her notebook, already half-full of neat cursive writing.
"Are you sure you should have those out?" she said in a low voice.
"Why not? I wrote them."
Tasha sighed. "Yes, but maybe you should wait until we're in friendlier territory, if you know what I mean."
"I just want to go over the last few issues to get ideas for my next article."
"Just…try not to advertise who we are."
Jason nodded noncommittally. He wasn't sure if she was speaking as herself, or as Nora Baker. In any case, he figured it was up to him to know how his character would act. After all, when it came down to it, he was the one in charge. If he needed to, he had the authority to tell Tasha what to do.
He took his pen and started jotting down notes along the margins, and underlining words and subjects that stood out.
He was interrupted by the announcement for takeoff. He buckled in, clutching the papers in his hand, ready for the airplane to launch this adventure.
Gravity pressed him down into the seat, and he felt the exhilaration he felt every time he flew. He turned to see Tasha. She was gripping the armrests, her eyes closed.
"Are you all right?"
She looked at him. "Flying's not my favorite thing, that's all."
"Oh." He fought the sudden urge to grasp her hand and comfort her; she didn't seem like the type that would appreciate it.
Washington, DC receded below, its sprawling metropolis shrinking into the distance, shrouded by early morning mist. The city gave way to Virginia pastureland, draped in the green of mid-spring. Then, before he knew it, they were over the ocean, blue-gray waves like rumpled aluminum foil. The sun flashed into his eyes, and then they surged above the clouds, enveloped in white for a moment before rising above the cotton-like surface, a world all its own.
"Look, Tasha," he said. "It's beautiful."
She didn't respond. Then he remembered her name wasn't Tasha, it was Nora; shock stabbed through him at such an error. He wasn't used to working with a partner.
"Nora—do you see it?"
She nodded, though her brow was furrowed, as if in pain. He wanted to shake her and tell her there was nothing to be afraid of.
"Yeah, it's beautiful. Those clouds are not nearly as solid as they look, though."
"I know, but air is the –"
"Safest way to travel. I think I've heard that before." She shot him a scathing look. He retreated into his newspaper.
He was on the second paragraph of an original article by 'Dorian Cash', trying to get the tone down and get into the mindset of a communist, and Tasha had left to the restroom, when an older man walked by with a cane. "Excuse me," he said, "There's a scarcity of reading material on this plane—it's all about American Airlines and how it's the best thing ever invented. I couldn't help but notice you have a newspaper. Anything an old guy like me might be interested in?"
"Oh, of course," said Jason, glad for the opportunity to jump into character. "Would you like to read it?" He pulled a random issue from his pile.
"Thanks." The man looked at it; his face changed, wrinkles rearranging into a frown. His eyes narrowed. "On second thought—" he tapped it with his finger—"this borders on treason."
"Listen," said Jason, "you can believe what you want, and I can believe what I want. It's a free country."
"It wouldn't be free if you commies had control of it."
"We'd be freer than we are now, with the corporations in control of everything."
"As free as the Soviet Union?"
"I admit, the Soviets have made some wrong turns on their way to utopia—"
"Utopia!" scoffed the man.
"—but they aren't as bad as the US government paints them. It has demonized the Soviet Union because it's in the pocket of the capitalist oppressors."
The man shook his head. "I don't see how anyone can be so deluded. If you actually lived in a communist country, I doubt you'd be so glowing in your defense of it. Mass starvation. Prison camps. Torture chambers."
"More Western propaganda!"
A woman peaked over the edge of the seat in front of him. "If you like it so much, maybe you should go live there."
"Maybe I will."
"Traitor," mumbled a man behind him. "I'd push him out of the plane if I could."
Jason shook with anger, then remembered he was just playing a role. I am good, he thought. I even convinced myself for a minute.
Just then, Tasha returned. She glared at Jason.
The older man turned to her. "Do you espouse his views?"
"Yes. But I'm not about to get in an argument about it with someone who will never change theirs."
The man hesitated. Then he ripped the newspaper in two, and it fluttered to the floor. He stalked down the aisle, his cane clomping on the floor. Tasha picked the pieces up and sat down. She shoved them into his lap.
"What?"
"I told you," she said through clenched teeth, "not to advertise who we are."
"I can't help but be who I am."
She shook her head and went back to furiously writing notes; he wondered if they were about him.
Later, he went to use the restroom. He was just about to open the door when someone knocked on it. "Just a sec." He opened it; Tasha burst inside. Grabbed his tie, almost strangling him. "Listen, Jason—"
"It's Cash."
She rolled her eyes. "Jason. You're a professional. Start acting like it."
"I thought I was."
"That display back there? You think this is a game?"
"Well—"
"We're here for one thing, and one thing only. Any extra attention could get us killed. We're new at this, so we need to be cautious, not broadcast who we are at every corner. I hope you remember that once we land." She released him.
"I'm the one with seniority here, Tasha."
"Then live up to it." She turned and walked out the door. Jason followed her, straightening his tie as he went. People in the seats looked furtively up at them as they passed, whispering.
He ignored everything but the cloud formations out the window till they reached the airport in Paris.