The Fox at Dawn

Margaret found him in the garden at sunrise, eating the last papaya from her tree. The fox—sleek russet fur, too bold for daylight—looked at her with amber eyes, teeth sunk into fruit she'd been nurturing for months.

"You're late," David said from the terrace. He wore that ridiculous fedora, the one he'd started wearing after his promotion. The hat that made him look like a character in a play he'd misremembered.

"Working late." She set down her bag. "Again."

He didn't ask about the project. Didn't ask why she'd missed their anniversary dinner two nights running. Just watched the fox finish its breakfast, methodical as a surgeon.

The papaya had been a gift from her mother—seeds smuggled through customs years ago, a piece of home grown foreign in this English garden. Now it was gone.

"The agency needs those files," David said. "By Monday."

Margaret nodded. They'd been friends once, before the marriage, before he became her handler at MI6. Before "friend" became synonymous with "asset" and "husband" became synonymous with "cover."

The fox licked juice from its whiskers. Something golden glinted in the morning light where it had been digging.

"Your mother's seed stash," David said, following her gaze. "Buried it with the papaya seeds, didn't she?"

Margaret's heart stopped. "You knew?"

"I've known since the wedding." He tilted his hat back. "I'm your husband, Margaret. I'm also the one who's been reporting your mother's resistance activities since 2009."

The fox trotted away, a microfilm canister clamped gently in its jaws. Not a fox at all. The agent her mother had promised would come.

"Friendship," David said, "is just surveillance with better lighting."

Margaret watched her walk away—her fox, her contact, her way out—and began to plan her husband's funeral.