“See that guy two rows back, one over? He’s been following me since Rome.”

“What?” I looked to my right at the guy who had passed out after two mojitos and a portion of god-awful microwave lasagna. It wasn’t him speaking to me.

He nudged my arm then, the guy sitting to the left of me on the airplane. Flight 177 non-stop Honolulu to LA. He’d been reading the latest Wired magazine last I looked.

“Do it,” he repeated. “Turn around carefully so he doesn’t know you’re looking at him.”

I did so. There was a big red headed guy with a beard listening to an Ipod in the seat my fellow passenger had described.

“Red beard?”

“Bingo!” He laughed and chewed his gum with whitened teeth. “Call me Zack.”

I hadn’t paid much attention to him when he sat down, but now I noticed his sharp suit, the thin frameless glasses, nerd chic, as my girlfriend would say, and the big grin. The tan color of his skin and dark hair made him one of several racial possibilities; half Asian, half black. I couldn’t tell. Not that it mattered in our post-racial world.

He was a few years younger than me, just out of college, and the remnants of acne clashed with the business attire and the big metal briefcase across his lap. He was the new breed of self-confident geek, fresh out of Stanford probably and already working for Google or Apple. Enamored by computers and had “The meek shall inherit the earth” tattooed on his shoulder from that one time him and his buds when to Mexico during spring break. I knew the type well.

“You wanna know why he’s following me?” I didn’t say anything, so he kept going. “This– right here.” Zack held up the briefcase so I could see it was chained to his wrist.

“You want to know what’s in here?”

I allowed myself a shrug this time.

“The world’s newest alarm clock ring,” he said smugly. “And I programmed it.”

I took that opportunity to look back at the red head. Who would follow a man around the world…for an alarm clock tone?

“You see the classic beep-beep-beep you hear each morning, that’s played by 90% of alarm clocks. The speakers, well, they make it sound different on each one, and then there are some people who still use spring loaded clocks.” He placed a protective hand on the case. “This is a whole – oh crap.”

Zack stiffened and lowered his head. “This is worse than I thought.”

“What now?”

“Yakamoto is here!”

I peered around the front of my chair and saw a gaunt Asian man with a shaved head standing by the lavatory. His suit was gun metal gray, the same color as his expressionless eyes.

“I thought I gave him the slip in Tokyo,” he sighed. One leg was jittering, causing the chain to rattle on his case. “He’s from Sony, those bastards. This time he’ll kill me.” He blew a large bubble and it popped loudly.

“For an…alarm clock sound?”

“You don’t understand!” he cried. “This isn’t some beep! It’s the perfect noise.” The gum cycled furiously. “We researched noises that could penetrate REM cycles without disrupting them. It comes gradually and wakes you up in a way that’s completely natural. It works on the deepest sleepers and the lightest. Imagine waking up each morning with no incessant blaring…just natural. And once you’re up, you aren’t going back to sleep. You won’t want to.”

I said nothing.

“It’s that good. Revolutionary. The same technology can be used to keep soldiers, EMTs, doctors awake, if tweaked slightly.”

I realized that however important (or unimportant, rather) I felt that an alarm clock sound was, it didn’t matter. Someone had taken the care to chain it on Zack’s wrist and someone was paying Red Beard and Yakamoto to hunt him down and cut it off. The world of alarm clock espionage could exist without my consent or care.

“This is your captain speaking,” squawked the intercom. “Please return to your seats, we’ll be starting our descent momentarily. The weather in LA is partly cloudy, and the temperature at LAX is 72 degrees, Fahrenheit. Thanks for flying, have a great day.”

Zack checked his watch, a simple movement made harder by the handcuff.

“Can you help me...? What did you say your name was?”

“I didn’t,” I quipped.

At that moment Yakamoto strode by and made eye contact with Zack. When he was back in his seat, Zack turned frantically back to me.

“At the airport there is a limo waiting for me. Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum,” he motioned to his pursuers, “will know that already. But I’m going to go to the limo anyway because you will be carrying this.” He produced a key quickly and unlocked the suit case. Inside there was a small flash drive nestled in a bed of foam.

“This is password protected and I doubt you have the skills to crack it...”

“I could care less.”

“Good. That’s why this will work. They’ll never suspect you.” Now he fished out a pen and paper. “All you have to do is call this number, and an agent will retrieve it from you.”

He shoved the flash drive and paper at me hastily and snapped the briefcase shut.

“I’m counting on you.”

“What’ll they do to you?”

“Scotty - that’s Red Beard to you - he won’t kill me. Yakamoto...I’m not sure.”

To the right of me, the man stirred from his drunken slumber with a groan and I saw a sad smile draw up Zack’s face.

“You really care about this don’t you?”

Zack stared ahead and straightened his tie. “Yes,” he whispered.

***

I got off the plane unmolested, far behind Zack. He scurried off quickly while I lounged about like your average jet-lagged traveler, the flash drive an unusual weight in my breast pocket. Red Beard was hot on Zack’s tail, followed closely by Yakamoto. The two presumably competing men didn’t care much about each other.

From the arrival gate I wandered over to a set of pay phones when I decided that I wasn’t comfortable dialing on my cell phone. I dialed the number and a voice answered on the second ring.

“I, uh, have your flash drive,” I said blandly. ‘“From Zack.”

“Where are you?”

“The pay phones, by gate 17.”

“Meet me in the Barnes and Noble. Two minutes. I’ll be wearing a blue scarf.”

The line went dead.

***

I stood in the bestseller aisle deciding between John Grisham and Lee Child when a hand tapped me on the shoulder. It was a tall man with a blue scarf.

“Do you have the flash drive?” In his hand was his cell phone, his thumb perched over the call button.

“Yeah, I...” Then I noticed something strange. The cell phone in his hand was made by Sony. Yakamoto was Sony. “Yeah, I know where it is,” I stuttered.

“You said you had it!” he cried impatiently. The cell phone went into his pocket.

“I didn’t feel comfortable carrying it,” I lied. “But I know where it is.”

He muttered something and then pulled his hand out of his pocket quickly. In it was a small caliber gun, fitted with a silencer.

“How did you get that past security?” I said loudly.

“Shut up!” he hissed, grabbing my arm. “Take me to it, or your Swiss cheese.”

Together we awkwardly walked to the entrance of the store. Across the front were three revolving book displays, carrying the latest cheap paperbacks. People stood browsing, requiring us to enter one by one. He nudged me in front of him and I pushed back hard, sending him sprawling and darted out into the crowd.

In the post 9/11 world, airport security has surveillance down to a science. The slightest commotion is noticed and dealt with accordingly in minutes. Guards and security cameras alternate every fifty feet and together they cover nearly every inch of a terminal. Naturally, I decided to make as much commotion as possible.

“Help! There is a man with a gun after me!” I yelled. To my surprise, Blue Scarf did not try to run away. He was running towards me, along with the security guards, though his gun was hidden.

Next thing I knew I was tackled to the ground by a 5’7” guard who must have weighed close to 250 pounds. His name card read Jerry and the breath streaming from flared nostrils smelled strongly of peppermint.

“I’m a US Marshall, and I am responsible for the transport of this man!” a voice cried out. Jerry slumped off of me and I saw that the voice came from Blue Scarf, addressing the ring of Taser-wielding guards assembled around me. He waved his badge in their faces.

I groaned, but not from the pain.

***

Blue Scarf escorted me, in handcuffs, out of the airport to where a limousine was waiting. Inside were Yakamoto, another man, and Zack. The suitcase was gone from his wrist and he had new handcuffs now. Blood ran down the side of his face.

“Hey partner,” he said without enthusiasm. I didn’t say anything. There was too much going through my head.

Blue Scarf signaled to the driver and we got going. I knew Los Angeles well, but I stopped paying attention to the twists and turns after it became clear that the driver was turning randomly to throw off any possible tails. Finally the limo sloped down into the dry Colorado River’s concrete bed. We all got out and they removed our hand cuffs. Each of the three men had their guns drawn, casually. The driver stayed at the wheel, keeping the car hot.

“I know you didn’t hide the flash drive,” Blue Scarf said. “Give it to me now, or I will shoot you and take it off your dead body.”

Yakamoto took a step closer to me, hand outstretched and I closed my eyes. See, up until this point the situation had been very wrong. On the plane it was merely amusing. Now, I had to do something. I had to prepare myself for what was going to happen next.

I grabbed Yakamoto’s wrist and yanked him into the path of my swinging fist. My knuckles collided with his throat. It was very satisfying. Before Blue Scarf could react, I was already diving forward, rolling under the inevitable bullet. He fired his shot belatedly, the bullet whizzing overhead, while I came to my feet two feet away from him. One hand stabilized his gun hand and the other punched his elbow the wrong way, forcing it backwards. Inside out. The sound of a man’s elbow breaking is like a fortune cookie being snapped open, except there is no fortune inside.

The third guy was fast to shoot his gun, but not fast enough that I couldn’t pull Blue Scarf in front of my body. The shots thudded into his friend and he paused when he’d realized what he’d done. I caught Blue Scarf’s gun as it tumbled from his weak hands and fired twice in quick succession. The third man fell in a heap.

Zack took one look at the carnage and gasped.

I dropped the gun and pulled the flash drive from my breast.

“You see Zack, or whatever your name is, I am a real spy. CIA.” That wasn’t the exact truth, but he wouldn’t have recognized the name of my agency anyway.

I tossed him the flash drive. He barely caught it.

“Don’t worry about the bodies, we have people for that.”

Zack’s mouth worked like a fish out of water. His gum dropped out.

“I miss the good old days, when people killed people because of nuclear weapons and that kind of thing.” I checked my watch. “I’m late for a meeting.” With that, I entered the limo and gave the driver directions. We drove off in a puff of dust.