| Family Tempo |

The Spy

By Zivia Reischer | March 6, 2019

“Why do I feel like I’m being kidnapped?”

“Hi, Mrs. Shulman.” Shuly fell into step beside the shadchan. “I’m so glad I met you, I had an idea I wanted to talk to you about. For Dave.”

“Walk with me. Who is she?”

“Her name is Varda Spookstein. Gorgeous and brilliant. I know her from work.”

“Oh, she also works in the White House?”

Shuly laughed. “I don’t exactly work in the White House, but yeah, something like that.”

“It’s amazing what careers frum girls can have nowadays.”

“Well, we can’t all be shadchanim.”

A black car with tinted windows jumped the curb and careened toward the two women. Instantly, Shuly dropped to the ground and rolled out of the way. The car wrapped itself around a pole. Shuly straightened. Mrs. Shulman was standing on the hood of the car, apparently having jumped onto it to avoid being hit.

“Wow,” Shuly said. “Nice reflexes.”

“Yours too,” Mrs. Shulman pointed out.

“Excuse me, ma’am, are you all right?”

From her place on the hood of the car, Mrs. Shulman looked down at the tall cop. “Uh, sure,” she said, hastily climbing down. “He just came out of nowhere.” The front door of the car was hanging open and there was no sign of any driver.

“Skedaddled,” Shuly said, shrugging. “He was a pro. This was no accident.”

“How can you tell?”

Shuly pointed. “Fake plates.”

The cop glanced at the plates and then looked sharply at Shuly. Possibly feeling like his job was being done for him, his tone grew more insistent. “Ma’am, do you need an ambulance?”

“No,” said Mrs. Shulman.

“Well,” he said, determined to assert his authority, “I’ll need to see ID before you can leave.”

Mrs. Shulman pulled a card from her wallet and showed it to him. He stared for a moment and then turned around to mumble into his radio.

“Why are there so many tall guys in shades?” Shuly demanded. There did seem to be many, suddenly lounging in doorways or crossing the street or window shopping.

“You’re the one who works for the president,” said Mrs. Shulman. “Maybe they’re Secret Service.”

Shuly made a face. “I don’t work for the president,” she began, just as an ambulance pulled up.

“Okay, lady, get in.” The tall cop had reinforcements now.

“I don’t need an ambulance,” Mrs. Shulman protested.

“Rules are rules,” said the cop.

“There’s no law—” Shuly began. She looked from one cop to the other cop to the pairs of guys in shades materializing behind them. “I’ll accompany you,” she said to Mrs. Shulman.

The doors of the rig were locked behind them. Mrs. Shulman and Shuly, both in perfect health, perched side by side on the stretcher.

“Why do I feel like I’m being kidnapped?” Shuly asked.

“Maybe because you read too many cheap thrillers,” Mrs. Shulman suggested.

Baltimore rush-hour traffic had no pity for ambulances. Shuly watched the cars through the square windows of the rear doors. “I think we’re being followed.”

“Ambulance chasers,” Mrs. Shulman replied.

“I guess we have plenty of time to talk,” Shuly said, finally finding the silver lining. “So let me tell you a little about Varda.” She did so, in great detail.

“Not for him,” Mrs. Shulman pronounced.

“Why not?” Shuly asked crossly.

“Trust me,” said Mrs. Shulman in an irritatingly airy tone. “Shadchanim know things.”

In the hospital too, guys in sunglasses swarmed. A pair of them stood in front of the women as they stood in line in admissions, and another pair stood behind them.

“Goodness,” Mrs. Shulman said disgustedly. “You’d think these FBI guys would be a little more discreet.”

“Who says they’re FBI?” Shuly snapped. “I think they’re CIA.”

“Definitely FBI,” insisted Mrs. Shulman. Neither of them spoke again until their turn came.

In the waiting area, a man in scuba gear lounged. He was reading a newspaper through his mirrored shades. A nurse hovered nearby, pushing an IV pole back and forth. Shuly watched them through narrowed eyes.

When they finally reached the front of the line, the receptionist looked at Mrs. Shulman’s ID and whisked her to a private room. A doctor appeared and promptly determined that she needed no medical attention.

As he withdrew, Shuly said, “Can we go now?”

The doctor nodded at the tall cop, still determinedly tailing them. “Up to him,” he said.

The cop sat down and asked Mrs. Shulman for her full name, home address, age, and Social Security number. (“Ask those Social Security guys out there,” Shuly whispered. Mrs. Shulman shushed her with a, “Do you want to get out of here or not?”) When he asked for her occupation, she replied, “Shadchanit.” He looked confused.

“Matchmaker,” Shuly offered.

“And what were you doing on Reisterstown Road?”

“Walking,” said Mrs. Shulman.

“Can anyone corroborate your story?”

“Me,” said Shuly, rolling her eyes.

“Any idea why someone would be trying to kill you?”

Both women stared at him.

“She works for the president,” Mrs. Shulman said, pointing at Shuly.

When the poor, plodding traffic cop finally left in frustration, a nurse stopped by. “You can wait in the waiting area. We’ll have your discharge paperwork soon,” she said.

“So, back to the shidduch,” Shuly pressed.

“I told you, it’s not a good idea,” Mrs. Shulman snapped.

“Why not?” Shuly snapped back, standing and facing the shadchan. “Let them meet and decide for themselves!”

The argument was getting loud. The nurse with the IV pole walked rapidly toward them. From the other side, the scuba diver was approaching. Shuly had only seconds left.

“You shadchanim think you know everything!” she cried, just as the scuba diver reached into his pocket.

“Hold it!” yelled the nurse, brandishing the IV pole.

Shuly looked over Mrs. Shulman’s shoulder at the nurse. “Varda?” she asked.

Mrs. Shulman looked over Shuly’s shoulder at the scuba diver. “It’s okay, Dave,” she muttered. “Some of us really do know everything,” she said to Shuly. She sighed and flipped her ID onto the table: CIA. “It’s real,” she added helpfully.

Shuly blew out a breath. “So you’re not really a shadchan,” she said.

“It’s a good cover.”

Shuly frowned. “Fine, so I’ll suggest it myself.” She turned to the scuba diver.

“Don’t bother,” Mrs. Shulman said.

“Why not?” Shuly was exasperated. She flipped her own ID onto the table. “FBI. I know a few things, too.”

“Because,” Agent Shulman said, pointing at Dave. “He’s CIA.” She swung around to the nurse, who lifted her sunglasses. “And she’s FBI. I told you it’s never going to work.”

(Originally Featured in Family First, Issue 633)

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