Dateline: 1953 in New York City

Carol stopped one of those newfangled photo booths. She’d never been in one before, but she had reason to mark the occasion. It was to say goodbye to the old and to herald in the new. It felt strange to have her picture taken after so long.

It was below freezing on the streets. The buildings made a wind tunnel that blasted through the city, chilling everyone it touched. Even though the booth was inside, she still clutched her fur coat close to her neck. Plus, it gave her an air of mystery. The wind had tousled her hair but didn't take away from the charm of the new short cut. She had seen Roman Holiday and was struck with Audrey Hepburn's character cutting off her long hair and feeling so free. That's what she wanted. To feel free.

After ten years of hard work, she was finally going to retire. Her profession was well paid, and her needs were few. Even though she could have afforded more, she rented a modest apartment for $60 so that she could save money. The plan was to move to St. Albans in England. The photos she had seen made her fall in love with the ancient city, and it wasn't far from her other favorite town of Salisbury. Both were full of history, and she wanted to delve into Roman ruins and medieval sites that dotted the landscape. All of Britain was packed with a fascination for her.

She’d have the time now. History and archeology were her loves, and now she would explore at a slow pace to take it all in. From St. Albans, she would travel to London, Scotland, Ireland, and after that, she could head to Europe. No ruined castle or abbey, stone circle, Roman ruin, 0r museum (no matter how small) would escape her gaze, starting with St. Alban’s Abbey and the nearby Verulamium.

She would sit in smokey old pubs, listen to the accents, eat the new (to her) foods. Scotch Eggs, bangers and mash, whitebait, toad in the hole. She knew already her first pub would be Ye Old Fighting Cocks, which claimed to be one of the oldest in England. Taking a seat close to the fire, she would ponder how the monks, hundreds of years ago, picked their way through an ancient tunnel from the Abbey to enjoy the same things she would be enjoying. Perhaps a handsome chap would chat her up and buy her a pint.

But she wouldn’t call it “Ye Old….” She had been told by a colleague the locals called it “The Cocks” or "The Fighters, and so would she. Fitting in would be imperative, and she’d been rehearsing a decent accent for years, even working with a dialect coach. She picked The Queen's English and learned a Yorkshire accent because it was such a delight to her.

When she got there, she wouldn’t be Carol. That wasn’t the name she was born with anyway. Margaret was what she chose for her new life. Her grandmother was named Margaret, and she felt her grandmother would be pleased. There was a lot of practice saying, "Please, call me Meg, all my friends do."

Dreamily, she tucked her new photos into her purse.

One more assignment, and she’d be done for good—one more big paycheck. Dealing with people she wasn’t sure about made her nervous, but she was assured it would be an easy hit. She double-checked her 9mm before heading out into the cold.

Still dreaming about her future exploring history, it took her second to recognize another 9mm jamming into her back.

“Damn it!” she thought. She had let down her guard, and now St. Albans would have to wait.