Forever in Your Service

by Sandra Antonelli

  “Flunitrazepam.”

  Bryce set the cup down. “Thank you. My wife will be pleased to not be a widow.” Bryce’s green gaze flicked to Mae for a moment.

  Mae knew her mouth hung open, and she stared at the mocha-latte, stared at Bryce, stared at Kitt, muttering, “Yer gits, the both of ya, feckin’ gobshite gits.”

  “It’s nothing personal, Mae,” Bryce said, chuckling. “I’d have done the same.”

  For a second, Kitt’s laugh harmonised with his colleague’s and Mae went on muttering while the two eejits went on laughing. Her heart be damned, the rational part of her brain sent out the suggestion that it might be best to get up from the table and walk away from these two men, forever, to leave the life where colleagues who were also trusted friends thought trying to poison each other was nothing personal, except the curious part of her brain held her lashed to the chair.

  Kitt reached for the black ceramic cup of coffee and had a gulp of lukewarm brew, which, thank Christ, wasn’t bad. “Llewelyn’s theory is someone got to me, that I’m a rat. Is that it then?”

  “The theory was someone in the department—Gettler, Springer, or you—had a bit of dirt under their nails. You ticked a box, particularly after the matter with your butler last July.” Bryce smiled at Mae. “If you recall, you broke with protocol then too. Then you and Dalton died. That threw a spanner in the works.”

  Kitt had another gulp. “Why didn’t you come to me first, why didn’t you ask me or outright accuse me?”

  Bryce sat back. “There was thought you three might have been working together.”

  “Yes, I see how it looks bad, even if Reed authenticates.” Kitt swallowed more coffee. “If I were you I’d haul me in and have me charged with treason.”

  “I am thinking about it.”

  “How does Mae fit?”

  “Yes,” Mae twisted in her seat, crossing her legs. “How do I fit?”

  “Sir Ivar Hillary and Dr Julius Taittinger were among names that came up frequently on shipping logs that Molony flagged. Home Office had been tipped off that a handful of wine boffins might be dabbling in counterfeiting. Hillary and Taittinger were top of the list.”

  With a testy sniff, Mae leaned forward “Fakes and frauds and pretending, that’s what you and this entire thing is about.”

  Bryce went on, “Rather than think it a coincidence, the theft of pieces, the freeport units in Geneva, the security force payoffs, the suspected corruption, the suspicion around you, Gettler, Springer—we couldn’t be sure, we had to rule out if the offences might somehow be...”

  “Intertwined.” Kitt found the word Bryce was searching for.

  “Yes.” Bryce’s mouth pursed. “Intertwined or separate, whichever, it was a remote possibility Llewelyn wanted covered, and it eventuated in Mae’s recruitment.”

  “He wanted to keep an eye on her, thereby keeping an eye on me. A test of loyalty on both parts.”

  “Exactly. You know, Kitty, we could always share the iced mocha.” Bryce tapped the plastic cup.

  Kitt’s grin was slight and short-lived. “There’s a certain freedom in forgetting unpleasant things.”

  Without a word, Mae seized the sweating iced mocha, pushed back her chair, moved across the orange-red linoleum, and dumped the drug-tainted coffee in the rubbish.

  When she sat down, Kitt said, “Flunitrazepam is Rohypnol; it alters memory, Mae. It’s what Taittinger—and Reed—put in the wine yesterday. It would only knock Bryce out, not kill him.”

  “I’d have a shit of a hangover and a fuzzy memory, Mae.” Bryce nodded reassuringly. “Of course, it’s nothing like the impending hangover Kitty is facing.”

  Kitt smirked dryly. “Indeed, it looks dire for me, but let’s move to something else, Bryce. Can you explain why Llewelyn decided to remove Mae?”

  “He wanted to maintain surveillance on Taittinger, and he wanted to keep an eye on her. Originally, the plan was to place her with Sir Ivar Hillary and his house of hounds, when you and Dalton went off to Singapore, but she declined. Later, after you died, she changed her mind and she was placed with Taittinger. Her volunteering was a surprise, one that made you both look...”

  “Involved in the crimes,” Mae muttered.

  “I was going to say guilty, but ‘involved’ is kinder. Anyhow, Kitty, I could not stop her from volunteering, I was not prepared to incapacitate her, and the assignment with Taittinger is merely observational, low-level risk.” Bryce glanced at Mae. “I determined it harmless enough to render her static. I have to say you’re a natural, Mae. Llewelyn was right. She’s good at this, Kitty. She sticks to facts, doesn’t waffle in her reports, takes clear pictures. Her paperwork is excellent.”

  “I fell for the crock of shite.” Mae hunched forward, elbows on the table, heels of her palms grinding into her eyes.

  “I did try to talk you out of it, Mae.”

  Kitt leaned forward slightly. “I don’t mean static. I mean liquidate. When did Llewelyn decide she needed to be liquidated as an asset?”

  “Remove. Incapacitate. Liquidate.” Mae huffed dropped her hands. “Can’t you intelligence types just say murder?”

  A deep frown of astonishment darkened Bryce’s face. “What?”

  “The day before yesterday a bearded hipster hit one target before realising he had two. The dead man, Russell Grant, was a butler like Mae. Grant’s former girlfriend was Stella Yeoh. The Yeoh family once had connections somewhere in the south-western part of the US. I never got the chance to find if those smuggling network connections had been re-established because the fancy little man killed Grant and then tried to kill Mae. Before I removed him from play, I—”

  “Removed him from play? That’s grand.” Mae hissed air through her teeth. “Your entire profession is built on euphemisms, inconsequence, and worn-out stereotypes.”

  Bryce nodded and let out an absurd chuckle of agreement.

  “Hipster-man mentioned Llewelyn, and she’s here doing him a favour. Why does Llewelyn want her,” Kitt glanced at Mae, mouth twitching once with faint amusement, “dead?”

  Bryce exhaled and shrugged. “He doesn’t as far as I know. Are you saying you think Llewelyn is your rotten apple?”

  “No, I think Dalton is my rotten apple, but one never knows who’s working with whom. He had to have help—Gettler or Springer...or maybe Roger Llewelyn.”

  “We have your rotten apple’s DNA, remains, teeth, all pulled from a shipping container at the Port of Singapore. Dalton is dead.”

  “You had my remains and DNA too.” Kitt drained the coffee from the mug and returned it to the table.

  “Have you got proof Dalton isn’t dead?”

  “Not yet. The potential proof I had was killed on New Year’s Eve. But then there’s the art in the wine cellar, an assassin, and Llewelyn. Rats I haven’t found. More proof I have yet to prove.”

  Bryce pinched the bridge of his nose. “This makes no sense, Kitty.”

  “Does this work ever make sense?”

  “No, and that’s half the fun.”

  “Fun? You think the work is fun, Timothy?” Mae’s brow arched.

  Bryce tipped his dented chin forward. “It does keep you sharp.”

  “Kitt,” Mae set her eyes on him and tapped a finger over lips that curved into a peculiar smirk. “Timothy thinks the work is fun.”

  “Fun is relative.”

  Bryce reached for the postcard. “So it’s suspect everyone, trust no one. You know I can’t help you. You’ve dug a hole and both of you are now standing knee-deep in that hole. Is there anything you do know?”

  “Did Mae brief you?”

  Her smirk faded to a frown. “I thought you listened in.”

  Bryce looked at Kitt and then at the little stickpin on Mae’s lapel. His mouth compressed for two seconds. “Well, I certainly missed that.”

  “Which is why you’re a paper-pusher, not a field officer. Taittinger isn’t a tiny wheel in a non-existent counterfeit wine ring. He’s an antiquit
ies conservationist and smuggler.”

  Bryce rubbed the dent in his chin and began to nod. “Right. Yes. I see where you take this. You think it links back to the Geneva Freeport.”

  “Yes. It won’t take much digging to find he’s also used several different freeports, Singapore in particular.”

  “Which proves nothing. A lot of collectors use freeports all over the world.” Bryce set his green eyes on Mae. “You can prove he’s not counterfeiting wine?”

  Mae said, “I’ve found no evidence of fabrication. However, his friend Hector is opening a winery. Perhaps you should check him out.”

  “Then Taittinger’s bottles are gen-u-wine?” Bryce’s left eyebrow arched.

  “Don’t.” Mae shook her head. “Don’t do that. The wines in the barn cellar are real. I think the rare Bordeaux, Burgundies, and Rieslings are payment for the artefacts he’s helped smuggle.”

  Kitt’s mouth quirked for a moment. “I know artefacts in his wine cellar link back to Singapore.”

  “Can you prove any of this?”

  Kitt let his gaze settle on the front window. “Prove. This is what I know. I lost part of my fingers and a good deal of blood. I was concussed. My nose was broken. I nearly died of heatstroke. It took me a little while, but I recall the disagreeable events. The mosaics hidden in Taittinger’s barn,” Kitt smiled, his cold eyes brightened as he looked at Bryce, “were in the container where Dalton, Molony, and the NCB officer, the harbourmaster, the customs broker and her assistant were murdered by the local dockers who weren’t dockers or locals at all. The assistant was just a boy, nineteen at most, on an internship with customs, Bryce. Do you remember being that young?”

  “Barely.”

  “There were nine containers. We opened seven. The first few containers were full of knockoff handbags, shoes, jackets and watches. The sixth was loaded with knock-offs, but other items were mixed in: furniture, decorator bathroom and kitchen tiles, bubble-wrapped artwork in protective wood-framed boxes, all to pad out the shipment. Those sorts of things aren’t typically transported together, but Molony said the art and artefacts were reproductions, as phoney as the handbags. Fake with fakes. He said the same thing when we opened the seventh container, the one full of knock-off handbags. Raggedy Persian rugs were wrapped around mosaic tile samples, and corpses—Dr Vida Zora’s and probably Nigerian migrants who paid to be smuggled out of Libya.” Kitt scratched whiskers at his throat. “Then Molony screamed, Dalton was shot, and I was left for dead.”

  Bryce scratched his neck. “Molony’s comment about the mosaics being reproductions is why you think Dalton is still alive and running all this?”

  “It’s more the fact how Dalton wasn’t in the container when Reed’s man found me.”

  “Reed’s friend, Cureo, the Interpol local in Singapore. He sent the anonymous tip, and was there for the report. Did he set the container alight too? Not that it matters if he did, because we have Dalton’s remains, Kitty.”

  “You had mine too. We’re back where we started.” Kitt folded his hands together, elbows on the table. Expressionless, his eyes moved between them for a moment, shifted to the front window, then to the empty coffee cup. “Who knows you’re here, Bryce?”

  “Head office, Station SWUS, and a distant relative. Do you suspect me?”

  Kitt smiled, his chuckle all air. “Intelligence flows in two directions: information and misinformation. All that’s needed is an opportunity, and I supplied one last July.” His gaze slid to Mae. “You’re right, Mae. I overlooked the obvious. I am a dreadful spy.”

  “I don’t like the way you’re looking at me.” Mae frowned.

  “I don’t like the way he’s looking at you either.” Bryce leaned forward. “What are you getting at, Kitt?”

  “You and Reed, I’ve dragged you into it. We’ve been set up, tarred with the same brush, Bryce. You’re here to watch Mae while someone else has been watching you, keeping an eye on Llewelyn too, and here we all are, sitting together, watching each other.”

  “We’re all sitting here except for Reed and Llewelyn,” Mae reached for the napkin resting near the shortened fingers of Kitt’s left hand.

  Bryce sat back, jaw compressing. “Kitt, you don’t think Simon...” he said softly.

  Mae opened the napkin. “Reed said nearly the same thing about you.” She dusted the tabletop, removing drops of condensation left behind by the tainted iced coffee. “All this suspicion. Do you three trust each other?”

  “More than you know.” Bryce crossed his arms. “You’ve got two hours. Get out. Run.”

  Quiet, calm, devoid of an expression of any sort, Kitt lay a hand on Mae’s forearm, ending her fidgeting and needless tidying. “I didn’t ask.”

  “That’s why you’ve got two hours instead of one. Llewelyn, Kitty? Really? That’s the theory you want me go with, Llewelyn and Dalton? Dalton is dead. Stone dead.”

  Kitt’s chin rose slightly, his head cocked, the left corner of his mouth rose. “I never said it was going to be easy.”

  Chapter 18

  The sun had begun to rise, turning the sky to the east soft pastel shades of blue and grey behind the cloud-heavy Sangre de Cristos Mountains. A fog of falling snow reflected the orange-toned lights still shining above the busy car park, the Fuller Lodge Art Center a rustic, giant log cabin glowing in the woods behind Mae. A steady stream of cars passed by, post-holiday employees returning to the Los Alamos National Lab. Bryce headed off on foot, moving down the snowy footpath on the opposite side of the street, his route taking him along half-frozen Ashley Pond, and trees wrapped with fairy lights.

  Mae watched Bryce walk toward a hotel in the distance until a yellow hatchback slipped into a parking space on the street and blotted out his figure. She brushed snow from the driver’s side door handle. “Now what, Kitt? Where do we go?”

  “Let me think,” he said, takeaway cup of coffee in hand, his eyes on her instead of scanning the car park, a task he’d carried out haphazardly when they’d exited the café. Yes, he was thinking, not about his curtailed time frame or what he could or couldn’t prove, but about what was important, about if it mattered if he finished this job, about who he had been and who he had to be now, and his eyes remained fixed on Mae. He slid his thumb across the bumpy remains of two fingers. The motion had become a habit, one he had to break.

  She opened the Ford’s door and scraped snow from her boots. “What?”

  “I have accounts. You can live quite comfortably for the rest of your life. All you need is the password. Antigua, Phoenix, pick a place. Go.”

  “I’m not running away. I’m not walking away. I’m not going anywhere without you.”

  “I’ve got to let you go.” Kitt poked up the brim of his cowboy hat, shoving it back on his head.

  Her boot scraping ceased. “You’re exhausted. You’re not thinking clearly. And don’t even think about trying to drug me with that coffee once we get in the car.” She straightened and shut the door so that a dual-cab pickup truck caked with reddish snow could park in the space beside them.

  “I would never do that.”

  With a snort, Mae pulled the collar of her coat higher.

  “I am a bully. I could force it down your throat.”

  She pretended not to hear him and set her attention squarely on the older Native American man who climbed out of the pickup.

  The man wore a knitted cap with bear ears on top. “Ms Valentine,” he said, smiling, delighted eyes beneath the teddy bear ears. The man reminded Kitt of an actor well-known for playing Zorba the Greek.

  “Hello, Mr Hector.”

  Hector kept on smiling. “You came for my Sunrise Art talk at the Lodge? That’s real nice of you.” His dark eyes shifted to Kitt.

  Mae turned to Kitt and pulled on her butler’s veneer. “This is Mr Somerset, a guest of Dr Jools’. He’s intrigued by Native American culture. And wine.”

  Hector smiled. “My wife said nobody would come out in this weather, just the folks going
back to work at the Lab, but you’re made of tough stuff. I’m happy you made it.” He took two steps forward, hand thrust out to Kitt. “Hiya. Hector Rodriguez.”

  Kitt shook the man’s hand. “Somerset. Ian Somerset.”

  Mae let out a snorty chuckle, quickly turning it to a cough.

  Kitt smiled genially. “I’m intrigued, Hector. Drunken Bunnies?”

  “Rabbits, Drunken Rabbits. Is Jools coming, Valentine?”

  Mae’s smile was pleasant and diplomatic. “I believe Dr Jools and his guests enjoyed many different wines after a rather stressful day. I’m afraid Mr Somerset and I are the only ones awake this morning.”

  “Yeah, I get it. Finding a deer like that isn’t pretty. That Nash guy seemed to enjoy it though.” Hector’s brow rumpled with disappointment he couldn’t hide.

  “So, it’s Mr Somerset and myself.” Mae glanced at Kitt, clasped and unclasped her hands.

  Hector heaved an unhappy sigh. “This is why the Aztec people ferociously discouraged younger people from alcoholic intoxication. Of course, the elderly Aztec were allowed to drink pulque and get drunk because the ueuetque were held in high regard for their life experience, unlike the elderly today. Some people aren’t interested, like Coyote and some of Jools’ younger friends who only respect money,” Hector sniffed. “Guess they’re no different than I was at that age.” Hector patted Mae’s snow-dusted arm. “I am glad you’re here. We start in five minutes, so you better hurry if you want a seat.” He smiled and walked off over the ruts in the snowy car park.