Three-thirty-seven was an odd time for a rendezvous, but Clare wasn't going to argue. She stood awkwardly by the subway entrance, shifting her weight from foot to foot, and her heavy bag--only one allowed--from shoulder to shoulder. Although designed for comfort, the nylon straps were straining with the weight of all she'd packed. She checked her watch again, and scanned the busy street anxiously for what felt like the millionth time. Clare spotted him, finally, at the street corner, buying a coffee and a hotdog from the vendor as if he had all the time in the world.
"Were you waiting long?" Ian asked, languidly, taking large bites of his lunch.
"Ian, you yourself said I shouldn't be conspicuous, and I've been waiting on this corner for ten minutes!" She exploded. He balled up his paper tray and carefully tossed it in a nearby trashcan, and then slowly sipped on his coffee. "It's not my fault you came early." He led the way down the subway stairs and she followed, still angry.
"I am a fan of your work," he offered her, as they hustled through the station underground. "Every Monday, I read your column in the Chronicle."
The praise made her annoyance abate, slightly. Clare kept quiet, waiting for him to continue.
"That's why I wasn't surprised to get your message. In fact, I wondered why you waited this long."
"I didn't think.....I had no idea that what I said....would cause so much trouble."
"Cut the shit, Clare," Ian laughed. "Two years' worth of incendiary and investigative columns about our president and his Establishment and you didn't think that it would get you in trouble?"
Clare blushed, grateful that he would not see in their gloomy surroundings. Freedom of the press had been quietly and quickly dying for the past number of years, and many of her colleagues who chose to write against the political Establishment had been just as quietly and quickly disappearing. An anonymous tip had encouraged her to see the services of Ian, to go into hiding, as she might be next.
"You can still write," Ian said, "and I'll make sure that your columns get printed. You can make lists of anything you want--food, clothes, books--and I'll see that you get them. Somethings, that might be 'tells', may take longer to get to you, because we don't want a trail, but you'll basically have all the comforts of home."
They were riding now, getting on and off at stops, zigzagging through stations and back on again in some kind of maniacal relay race. Clare felt dizzy and confused. "How can I pay you? The emails never said,"
Ian looked over at Clare and gave a long pause. "We can discuss that once we reach your place."
Clare was going to be living in some corner of a basement, and she had no idea where. The whole place had been divided into apartments, arranged so she might never know her neighbors. "Pain in the ass, I know," Ian said, apologetically, "But it's better than being dead."
She had one tiny closet for sleeping, one tiny closet for eating and cooking, and one tiny closet fixed up as a bathroom. "You'll only get plumbing for certain times of the day," Ian said. No internet. No phone. Ian would be her only connection to the world--he and his associates. Ian had an elaborate system set up--associates would come by with food, or dvds. Or just to talk so she wouldn't go crazy. He'd come by to pick up her copy, handwritten, if she wanted to keep writing.
