Phantom Agency

Do we ever truly know who we work for? In Chris East’s new micro thriller, the surprises keep coming. ~ Julian and Fran, May 18, 2025

From mermaids to spies and everything in between, May’s Sunday Morning Transport stories are ready to entice and ensnare you. Authors Suzan Palumbo, Kelly Robson, Christopher East, and Mary Anne Mohanraj will be your conductors this month! As always, the first story of the month is free to read.

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Phantom Agency

by Christopher East

Striding across the Bundesplatz, Elias Lannon hiked up his collar against the damp November winds. The chill had driven most people indoors, but he remained alert for suspicious eyes, negotiating the car park fronting the Swiss parliament building. Pausing to light a cigarette, he scanned the area. No signs of pursuit, but it was only a matter of time.

He continued to the bank. Fog descended, so thick that even nearby buildings were shrouded. Countersurveillance would grow more difficult in these conditions. It had been five days since he’d left Vienna, boarded a westbound train for Innsbruck, and vanished into the Austrian countryside, working his way west. After two days gone to ground in a remote safehouse, he’d crossed the Swiss border on a false passport and made his way to Bern.

Everything according to plan, so far. But the longer he ran, the greater his paranoia. His CIA colleagues at Vienna Station would only accept his absence for so long. Eventually alarms would sound.

Ten minutes later Lannon reached Größer Banque Bern and pushed inside, grateful for its light and warmth. The space was vast, ostentatious, with a high-ceilinged atrium, teller stations on one side, and glass-walled offices on the other. The floor was so shiny, you could use it like a mirror. He queued at the reception kiosk, and a young woman with black hair and glasses waved him forward. “How may I help you?”

“I have an appointment with Herr Richter,” Lannon responded in German. He withdrew the false passport from his overcoat pocket. “Alex Burchard?”

“Of course,” the woman said, glancing at a schedule book. “You’re expected. But I’m afraid Herr Richter is unavailable. Would you care to take a seat? I’ll let Frau Ewald know you’re here. She’s covering his appointments.”

Lannon’s adrenaline spiked. “I’d prefer to wait for Herr Richter. When will he return?”

“I’m afraid he’s fallen ill,” the woman said. “We can reschedule—”

Too late to change course now. “No, that’s quite all right. I’ll see Frau . . .”

“Ewald. Someone will collect you shortly.”

Lannon doffed his coat as he crossed the room to a carpeted waiting area. No one looked suspicious; therefore, everyone did. He found a chair with a good vantage and tapped another cigarette out of the pack. The warmth suddenly felt stifling. Richter’s unexpected absence unsettled him. He knew the banker by sight, had memorized his photo, the sound of his voice. Was Richter really ill? Lannon had made a career of going unnoticed but now felt painfully conspicuous, the whole bank a potential Big Store designed to pry loose his secrets.

Across the room, an older gentleman read a newspaper. The page was too far away to read, but the photo was clear: German citizens celebrating atop the Berlin Wall. The Iron Curtain finally coming down.

Lannon dabbed sweat from his forehead. He’d left just in time. Geopolitical upheaval meant new sources would emerge, new intelligence would come to light. And his house of cards would collapse. If they weren’t looking for him now, they would be soon enough.

Halfway through his cigarette, a slim gentleman with a precise mustache arrived and led him to the second-floor office of one Frau Ewald.

“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Burchard.” The woman who greeted him looked to be in her sixties, with pinned-back gray hair and unobtrusive spectacles. Her expression was neutral, humorless. “Herr Richter sends his apologies. I’m afraid he has the flu.”

Lannon tried on a smile as they shook hands. “Sorry to hear that,” he said, assessing her for signs of deception. “Nothing too serious, I hope.”

“I shouldn’t think so,” Frau Ewald said, retreating behind her desk. “How can I help?”

Lannon dropped into an overstuffed chair so uncomfortable, it might have been designed for interrogation. “I’d like to close out my account,” he said, withdrawing another cigarette. A defense mechanism, hands possessed of their own volition.

Frau Ewald’s nose wrinkled in commentary, but she pushed a spotless glass ashtray across the desk. “Of course,” she said. “Sorry to hear you’ll be leaving us. I trust it wasn’t an issue with the service?”

“Not at all. Herr Richter has been most helpful. But I’m moving back to the States, and I’d like to take my business closer to home.”

“I see,” Frau Ewald said. She retrieved a form from a drawer and slid it across the desk, along with a ballpoint pen. “Please fill this out. I’ll be happy to retrieve the funds for you.”

Lannon studied the form, surprised by the sparsity of it: modest typesetting, a handful of fields. He scrawled the information quickly and handed it to her along with his passport, feeling the weight of the moment. If he could just get out of the bank, out of Bern, then over the border into Italy, the money would get him where he needed to go. Which definitely wasn’t the United States. “Ten thousand in cash, the rest as a cashier’s check will be fine.”

Frau Ewald frowned, inspecting the passport. “Let me check. I’ll be right back.”

Let me check. Lannon chewed over that choice of words as he finished his cigarette. Something wasn’t right. Events had deviated. The sense of calm control that had gotten him this far was slipping away.

Minutes passed that felt longer. Then Frau Ewald returned, carrying only an envelope and a leather binder. “There seems to have been a misunderstanding,” she said, sitting primly. Her expression remained neutral as she handed him the envelope. “The account has already been closed. Herr Richter released the funds to your partner yesterday. But there was this.”

“My partner?” Lannon studied the envelope. Thick stock, corners sharp enough to gouge an eye. An old-fashioned wax seal secured it, lettering unreadably melted. He plucked off the wax and opened it. A crisply folded sheet inside encased a two-dollar bill. The cursive scrawl was so precise, it might have been typesetting.

I took care of everything. Odermatt Bar, 1900. Yours, Denis.

“There is a misunderstanding,” Lannon said. “I don’t have a partner.”