At five minutes to noon, I’m at the Queen Street stop closest to O’Toole Central. There’s no one else waiting. AmberLea and Toby are in the Cayenne a block farther along. They’ll follow and film the streetcar. I’m shivering. They’re probably not, snuggled in their Porsche. I don’t have time for that now.
I’ve never seen a spy movie where the hero takes public transit. Not that I’m a hero. Or that spy movies have much to do with real life. I creep my fingers up into the sleeves of my curling sweater and hug myself. It doesn’t help: I’m also shivering because I’m scared and confused. That’s not in spy movies either. How can I convince the SPCA guy meeting me that Grandpa was not a hit man and that the only music he ever owned was for the cheesy Broadway show tunes he banged away at on the piano? But all the time I’m thinking that, I’m also remembering that Wikipedia said Zoltan Blum was blown up by an exploding golf ball, and there was that bag of golf balls with funny writing on them in the spy stuff at the cottage. Oh, man.
Down the street I hear the rumble and clang of the streetcar. In Toronto, we call streetcars Red Rockets, which is a joke, because they’re slow. Now one rolls up. I climb aboard and drop my fare in the box. There are empty single seats before the back door. I scan every face on the way. There are only a few; none of them scream SPCA terrorist kidnapper at me.
Neither do the people who get on at the next stop and filter their way back. I wonder if the pregnant lady is really pregnant. A slender guy in shades, with a full blond beard and mustache, is right behind her. He’s got on a long tan coat, a purple-and-gold scarf over top and a leather messenger bag. He’s also carrying a full grocery tote. I get a deep vibe that says, Yurt, Salt Spring Island. Not really a Bond moment—until Hippie Guy swings into the seat behind me. As the streetcar lurches forward, I hear a familiar gravelly, accented whisper. “Do not turn around.”
“From a friend.” A hand in a striped woolen glove appears at my side. It’s holding Bunny’s CRAP ID and a wooly yellow-and-blue hat, just like mine.
“Hey!” I start to turn. Another hand presses my shoulder. “Be still. Low voice. Dusan speaks. We have Bunny. Is good for now.” The gloved hand now holds a cell phone. On the screen is a photo of Bunny, holding yesterday’s paper. He’s smiling. He smiled when they took him to Creekside too. “If you call poliss, not so good. And we will know. We monitor you.” The hand rises again. “He is safe return when you get us anthem.”
“What anthem?” I whisper. “I don’t know about music. Look, my grandpa—”
“Your zorga,” Dusan growls, “was double agent. Assassin who killed Zoltan Blum, greatest composer of Pianvia.”
“No!” I try to turn. The hand clamps my shoulder. I hiss back, “He was a busi—”
“A good cover. He was busy selling much, including talent for killing. Blum knew him as Clint, agent for CIA. Maybe true, maybe he work for others too. In 1962 Blum in Vienna, composing new national anthem for free Pianvia. And was afraid. Knew was being watched clock the round. Clint say CIA will have anthem recorded and played all over world to aid SPCA. Anthem was written only. Blum gave only copy to Clint at golf game. On thirteenth tee, boom, is blown to bits. Most found was ear, in a tree. Bomb in a golf ball. Clint and anthem gone. CIA never get. No one get. Except Clint. Your zorga was Clint. That means you have. We give you twenty-four hours to find and deliver or your brother dies.”
“But I…my…”
“Twenty-four hours.”
“I don’t even know what I’m looking for!”
“Listen. Is written by hand, green ink on thick music paper. Is signed with Z looking like lightning. This always his way.”
“But I don’t know where to look,” I plead.
“You will think. You knew your zorga. We know is not in your house.”
“I knew it was searched.”
“Voice down, pliss. We’d be surprised if you didn’t. All can say is old Pianvian proverb: best place to hide splotnik is in plain sight.”
“But what if it got thrown out? Or lost?”
“Your zorga would not. He knew was value to many people, that he might need for deal one day.”
I don’t know what to say. Or do. All I can do is blurt, “I found Bunny’s cell phone at your grow op. The crocogator ate it.”
“Vhat?” Dusan’s voice cracks upward. “Grow op? Croco…?” Then it hits gravel bottom again. “You have shock, shake-up maybe. Is okay. We toss Bunny’s cell phone on street after first message—could be traced. Anybody could get. Sound like someone else did. But you clever boy, Spencer, you find. That means you will find anthem. Think careful; time short. Now, take out phone and enter ziss number.” The gloved hand floats in front of me again, with the cell phone. I punch the number on the screen into my log. “Call second you find anthem. Brother Bunny home sooner and world will hear music that rally to our cause. You do great thing, Spencer. You help free a people and save us blotzing Bunny.”
I know what blotzing means. The streetcar is slowing. I haven’t even noticed we’ve been moving all this time. How many stops have we come? “I leave now,” Dusan growls. “No look, no follow. In building we stop at is man waiting, with AK-47. He watches for you. If you even turn before car starts again, he fires, at everyone on street but you. You we need. You don’t need be cause for more deaths.”
There’s a little jerk as the streetcar stops, then the hydraulic whoosh of the doors opening. “Damn,” comes a woman’s voice from somewhere behind me, “I forgot bananas.” Then it’s all feet scuffling and tramping, and I know no one’s there.
I’m frozen. My whole body is screaming to turn around, stand up, run after him, signal AmberLea and Toby, anything. I can’t take the chance. But I can text AmberLea: beard shades purple gold scarf bag. The instant the car starts, I’m running to the back window. I catch a flash of purple and gold, and blond hair in a low ponytail, then it’s gone. I pull the bell cord and dive off at the next stop. I run back, full out. I pass the Cayenne and keep running, dodging strollers and striders and a lady walking four dogs. Ahead I see a corner grocery. A sign in the window says, BANANAS 49. The store is closed. Whoever Dusan is, he’s gone.