Saturday- as told by Ian Fleming

But what if I don't arrive first?  Concentrate, he reprimanded his mind, there's nothing to be gained from wondering.
The concrete chill finally found him, as it always did.  The winds, born of the endless frozen waste of Siberia, always found their way.  Even as his boots clicked on the gray slabs- each diving further down than the last beneath a torrent of wrapped and muffled cityfolk, even as he descended to the bustling underworld beneath the city streets, even as the last desperate blazes of brilliant blue sky were swallowed up behind him- even then the sepulchral gusts found him and bit through his coat. 
     He turned up his high black collar, fighting off a shudder, and begged his thoughts to focus.  He had to arrive at the underground junction before she did.  It didn't do to dwell on what might await him, if he wasn't the first one there.
     He checked his watch.  12:55.  It was almost time.  He swiped his chip at the entrance, turned the corner, and the earth opened up before him.
     This, then was the Labyrinth.  The network of tunnels beneath the city streets that housed everything you could need:  Grocery stores, trains, restaurants, bus terminals, places to buy dresses or erasers or cell-phone cases.  Through dozens of passages scattered throughout the city, a curious river of black wool coats poured into and out of the caverns.   The web of alleys stretched beneath the city above- a mirror of the open streets bathed in artificial sun.  An underworld where hawkers called their wares in the white-and-blue glow. 
    The meeting today was one of excitement, one of trepidation.  If the contact (a friend of an acquaintance who he'd never met) was who she claimed to be, he could learn the secret he'd sought so long.  The location of the Temple danced before his eyes, the place he longed to find.  There was a less encouraging option, however-- if his contact played him false, he could find himself taken by the agents of the great Northern tiger.  Those phantoms haunted the whisperings of everyone around him. They moved in the violent, chaotic shadows that you can only see on lonely late-night walks when your mind won't rest with the sun--made all the more frightening when you tell yourself the very thing you saw can't truly be.  The ghostly thoughts reminded him to prepare his phone to send the SOS at one button-- and pray he wouldn't need to.  He flinched visibly when the device rattled in his hand.

underground at the divergence of water.  I have a red scarf.

He smiled the harsh grin of a hawk that first espies the shadow of a mouse, his face illumined in the story-teller glow of the screen.  This was exactly what he needed.  In his mind, the needle-thin hand of a dial moved between him and this mystery contact, ticking one notch closer to him.  She didn't know his face, and hers was a mystery to as well.  If he identified her first, he could fortify his position against capture.  If, however, he was identified first, he knew that anyone who wished him ill would have time to get into position.  He'd been at a disadvantage all along, an obvious outsider in the land of One People.  This solitary clue- this red scarf- might be the flag he was looking for.
     He looked up, the harsh lights flashing off his telltale green eyes.  As his gaze swept further and further across the crowd, the awful truth hit him. 
Everyone has a red scarf.
Hundreds of red scarves now adorned the passers-by, as if suddenly called into existence all at once.  How had he never noticed before?  He'd have to rely on the other half of the message.  His mind lanced through the passageways, recreating everything he knew to be there, every turn, every shop, every detail, searching for anything that could be the place in the message.  Faster and faster he searched.
There it was!  At the blue junction a fountain sat between the pillars- splitting its water amid the icy marble titans who held aloft the solid sky.
12:59
He loosed his coat and bolted for the junction, ducking between the bags of peddlers.   Old men muttered as he thundered past.  Couples parted, then rejoined.  Children stared at the flying stranger in black.  He ground his teeth.  He was aware of every hammer of his heart's war-drum tattoo through his ribs. After seconds filled with days, the floor beneath his feet sloped downward, urging him onward as he neared the fountain. Right before the final corner, he slid to a halt.
He straightened his coat, fixed his wind-wild hair in the mirror, focused inwardly to calm his breathing as per his instruction by his sensei, and slipped easily into the crowd at the edge of the junction.
     Red scarves bloomed all over this underground valley.  People laughed and chatted, eating rice cakes and swapping stories, comparing purchases.  The fountain was there, but how to find his contact?  He needed a way to observe it all without attracting attention.  A glint caught his eye.  An idea flicked at his thoughts, a match hissing at a stubborn wick.  Could it work?  He needed to try.  Slipping in line for a bank teller machine, he sent a message of his own.

I don't see you.  Meet me at the fountain.

His turn arrived at the machine.  He thumbed idly through pages.  Balance inquiry?   Transfer?  Withdrawal?  He hardly saw the words-- their piercing white letters only distractions from the reflected fountain in the glass.
There!  A shorter girl in black, her red scarf trailing behind her moved out of the whirlpool of black coats and made for the fountain.  He watched her eyes, unblinking.  She signaled no one.  She sent no messages.  She wasn't followed.  She wasn't even watched by any of the hundreds of faces that swirled in the sea of black behind her.  He closed out of the machine and walked across the plaza toward her. 
Hi, he said, I'm Jeff.