Of All the Gin Joints

"I'll have a Manhattan—but hold the Manhattan bits," I said, sliding onto the red leather stool at Bar Forty-Seven, named for its spot by the United gate.

The tattooed bartender raised her perfectly manicured eyebrows at me before asking, "Do you want the whiskey neat or over ice?"

"Neat, and then maybe you can add in the other stuff for my second."

"I'll have what she's having, but make mine a double. And pour us some of that Whistle Pig. My treat. Charles," he said, extending his hand. "Mind if I join you?"

Charles. Not Chuck. If I hadn't been so tired, I might have recognized the tightening in my chest as heartache, but in that moment, I was thinking of that scene with Bogart and Bergman: of all the gin joints, he walked into mine.

"Seat's empty, I can't stop you." I kept my gaze forward, watching him in the mirror without acknowledging his tiny nod. His eyes didn't flicker with recognition, but I knew they should. We'd lain in each other's arms in musty hotel rooms in Paris, in safehouses in Istanbul. He knew me. And he knew I knew him.

"Thanks. Do you have a name, or do you prefer to be aloof and mysterious?" Charles asked dispassionately.

"I'm Lydia," I lied, striving to make my voice light, despite my hammering pulse. His gaze remained steady, unreadable, like he didn't know my real name was Stella. So, he's playing it that way, I thought.

We sipped our drinks as he made casual talk about delayed flights and overpriced drinks. His words were surface level, but his tone told a different story: every pause, every inflection was a carefully placed signal. Something was off, but he couldn't or wouldn't say. "Headed anywhere interesting?" he asked casually.

"To meet an old friend in Lisbon," I answered, deliberately choosing the phrase. Lisbon—our code for imminent danger. I remembered the night we decided why we had to repurpose an old spy phrase for ourselves. We'd broken the rules, and that made us vulnerable. Becoming lovers wasn't permitted by the Agency for obvious reasons, but when you face death with someone multiple times, survival—and surviving—give a person a new perspective on living without a guide. Once the code was spoken, I'd armed each of us to do what was necessary to survive.

He blinked once, the only sign he'd understood. "Ah, Lisbon. Lovely this time of year." He stirred his drink with a practiced hand, eyes flicking sideways—I followed the glance.

A woman in a vintage white Chanel jacket strolled into Bar 47 and sat beside Charles, dropping her designer bag on the bar. She looked him up and down possessively, then turned to the bartender with a dramatic sigh, holding a laminated bar menu. "Is this all you serve? I thought this airport had a first-class lounge."

A diamond the size of a marble caught the overhead light. I studied her carefully: her face had a familiar look, definitely one I had seen in the Agency files. She'd aged well, but now she bore the look of a professional who'd been in the field too long, someone who'd lost their compassion. Not his wife but a lover from the other side, I guessed. A rival operative. Russian, perhaps.

Charles let out a practiced, easy laugh. "I thought you were meeting me in Berlin."

"I can't let you have all the fun. A new friend?" she asked, nodding toward me with a strained smile on her lips.

"My apologies, darling. Lydia, this is Svetlana. She's… not one for airport bars," Charles offered apologetically.

Svetlana's eyes cut to me, cool and assessing. She looked at me like a lioness preparing to pounce. The way she toyed with the diamond ring was a signal, too. I needed my wits about me and pushed the drink away. That feeling, the electric thrill of the game: three spies at a bar, each trying to read the others' thoughts without revealing their own. And you thought this was a simple assignment. I swallowed a groan. This was about to get messy.

"So, Lydia," Svetlana purred, accent thick and deliberate, "where are you flying today?"

I raised my glass. "I'll see where the wind takes me. No plans for a few weeks, and nobody is waiting for me back home."

"A woman of leisure. Not my thing. I prefer having a plan with a detailed itinerary—more efficient, you know," she smiled, but her eyes held no warmth.

I shrugged and nodded at the tattooed bartender, making eye contact with her while also watching Charles and the lethal woman beside him.

"Manhattan with or without the Manhattan?" she teased. I let out a slight laugh. If the third spy hadn't walked in, I would have had another whiskey. "Not tonight. Is there any chance the coffee in that pot is fresh?" Her eyebrows raised again, asking if something was wrong. I shot a glance to my right, hoping she would read into my silence—that three was a crowd.

"It was here when I came on five hours ago. I can make you a fancy coffee," she nodded toward the espresso machine at the other end of the bar.

"Perfect," I replied and went back to watching Charles and his ice-queen companion while pretending to be interested in the book I'd opened on the app on my phone. The pretense overwhelmed me with a whirlwind of emotions. First, there was confusion at his charade, then a sharp, inexplicable ache in my chest, and finally the white-hot fury that left me itching to bolt. Svetlana was here for a reason. Charles was here for a different purpose, and I was on a job unrelated to either of them. When the coffee arrived, I gulped it down quickly, burning the roof of my mouth. "We'll always have Paris," I muttered, then immediately realized the mistake. A blunder. Their eyes flicked my way—just for a second—before they went back to their act, acting like I wasn't even there.

A dangerous smile passed between Charles and Svetlana, both recognizing the phrase from the old Cold War playbook — a stupid code that meant it was time to get the hell out of Dodge. But I was thinking of Chuck in that damn room on the top floor of the modernized post-war building in the 18th Arrondissement. Damn, girl. You stuck your foot in it now. I leaned back, taking their measure. Was he with her now, or was he in the game because of her? At the worst possible moment, my phone lit up with a text. I turned slightly, with my back to Charles.

RED FOX ACTIVE. TERMINAL COMPROMISED. EXFIL IN 20 MINUTES.

The text on my phone burned my retinas. I shoved my phone into my backpack, slipped it on, and dropped two twenties on the bar before turning to look at Charles, who gave me a slight, knowing nod, his facade finally cracking at the edges. The clock had started. We'd have to either work together again or finish each other first. So much for Lisbon, I thought. I saw Svetlana's perfectly manicured fingers slipping into her handbag—slowly, deliberately, in the mirror. A shiver of fear mingled with excitement zipped along my nerve endings. A gun? A transmitter?

Charles' eyes flicked from me to Svetlana, calculating. His smile was still painted on, but his knuckles whitened around his glass. "Why don't we go find that lounge?" he suggested, standing smoothly.

"Finally, you listen to me," Svetlana replied, sliding off the stool.

My feet hit the floor just as Svetlana's hand appeared, revealing not a weapon, but a lipstick tube. I sighed. So 1980s. I knew this game: the lipstick was a dart shooter. Old-school, but effective. Without thinking, I grabbed Charles' arm, yanking him sideways. The dart zipped past us, embedding with a soft thunk in the bar's wooden face.

The bartender looked up, startled. "Hey! What the—"

Svetlana was already lunging, her diamond ring glinting. Charles suddenly leapt in front of me, swung his half-finished drink into Svetlana's face, sending whiskey flying through the air, and the glass shattered upon hitting the bar top. I slipped around to Svetlana's flank and slammed an elbow into her ribs. She doubled over, gasping.

"How's that for a detailed itinerary, bitch," I hissed.

"Go!" Charles barked.

We sprinted for the corridor as airport security began to converge, radios squawking. Charles grabbed my hand, weaving through stunned travelers. The terminal lights flickered overhead—a planned signal. It took me a second to realize that someone had cut the power to certain cameras or hallway lights. An ally? Or another player? My thoughts were jumbled, but my fight-or-flight response had kicked in, and I was running flat out. There would be time to untangle the mess later if we managed to get out of it.

We burst through a staff door into a maintenance tunnel. Metal walls reverberated with the shriek of alarms. Charles was breathing heavily. "I didn't think they'd send her."

"They didn't send her," I snapped, glancing behind him. "She was already here. My guess is, she's freelance now. Did you break her heart or, worse, cheat on her?"

"Perfect," Charles muttered. "That means she's got no leash. Used her for her connections," he pushed out.

"Geez, she isn't going to stop until you're six feet under," I managed with some effort.

We skidded into a loading dock where a black sedan was waiting, doors open. A man in a dark ballcap waved us forward.

"Exfil window's closing!" he shouted.

We dove inside. The sedan's tires squealed as it rocketed down the service ramp, plunging into the maze beneath the airport. My phone buzzed again:

RED FOX ELIMINATED. NEXT CONTACT: MADRID.

I slammed the brakes and skidded to a stop before slumping back into my seat, heart pounding. Beside me, Charles, wearing a sheepish grin. "So, Stella," he said, voice warm for the first time, "are we really going to Madrid?"

A wry smile flicked across my face, adrenaline still buzzing. "Depends. Are you buying the tickets this time?"

Outside, sirens wailed, and shadows moved. But inside the car, for a single breathless moment, we were partners in the only life we'd ever known. We sat shoulder to shoulder, the hum of the engine and the knowledge of narrowly escaping death knitting us back together, again. There was no telling who was friend or foe, or how long this fragile alliance would last—but in that moment, inside the dark cocoon of the getaway car, we were on the same side. Old betrayals and lingering feelings flared to life like sparks, ready to ignite, but I let them smolder—something to deal with tomorrow.

"Buckle up, Charles," I said, a wicked grin spreading across my face. "This time, I'm driving."