"Take another spoonful," Sing advises. I do, and start the whole process over again.
By the time my bowl is empty, I'm sweating profusely, the heat of the day and the cooking around me, combined with the spice of the soup, leaving me a puddle of sensations. I gulp the last of my water, and Sing waves to another stall. A kid, about eight or nine, hurries over with a big bottle of beer and two plastic cups. There is condensation dripping off the beer bottle even faster than sweat is trickling over my brow. "A cold beer is the best thing for this kind of heat," Sing explains, pouring us each a small, frothy serving.
It looks so good…"I can't," I say. "I have so much more to do today. If I drink that, I'll just need a nap."
"A little won't hurt," Sing advises. "And it will help with the burning."
My mouth is on fire. And the air is so hot. And that beer is frosting the freaking plastic glass. No one could refuse it.
I pick it up, and Sing raises his cup. "To escaping the bubble," he says.
I click my glass against his.
It's good. So good. I smack my lips, and Sing laughs. "You really enjoy food and drink."
"I try to enjoy everything," I say. "We only live once."
Sing gets serious, leaning toward me over the tiny plastic table and empty bowls. "What did you think when you heard about Jack Axelrod's passing?"
I'm surprised by the question and take another sip of beer to gather my thoughts. I've answered this one a million times, but Sing lowered my defenses with his spicy stew and cold beer. "I felt sad for his family," I answer.
Sing nods. "You must have been worried about the future of the film."
"No movie is as important as a man's life."
"Meaning you knew it would go on."
"Oh, no." I shake my head. "But it wasn't my first concern. I felt bad that such a brilliant artist was dead.”
The way I said “ dead” sounded funny in my ears. Should I have used the euphemistic “passed”?
Sing just nods though. I glance down at the table and discover his phone is out, recording us again. That's fine; I knew this was an interview. I take a breath, and another sip of beer, and smile at him. "This was my first major role, and it's any actor’s dream to work with a director like Jack. I was heartbroken on a lot of levels."
"What about the rumors that have come out since his passing? That he took advantage of some of his stars."
I shake my head. "I don't know anything about that."
Sing leans even closer, lowering his voice. “You had dinner with him that night. It must have been shocking to hear of his passing.”
“Yes, very.” I nod my head and hold his gaze. I have nothing to hide. Everything is in the public record. These are not the droids you're searching for...
“And you were in a car accident that evening. Were you on your way home from his house when it happened?"
“Yes, close to my home, in Eagle Rock. Jack lived in the hills."
"I'm not familiar with Los Angeles."
"Well, if you ever come, you must allow me to introduce you to our street foods. The tacos are to die for." I should not have said die. Crap on toast.
"I would like that very much."
My phone chirps, and I glance down at it. It’s Sandra. I put up a finger to Sing, saying I’ll be just a minute, then answer it. "We're here to pick you up, where are you?" she asks, a note of panic in her voice.
"I'm not totally sure," I say with a laugh, looking around, not finding any street signs. "Where are we?" I ask Sing.
He holds his hand out for the phone, and I pass it over. He speaks with the driver, giving him directions, then hands the phone back. "They will be here in a few minutes."
As I slip the phone back into my purse, an old, hunched woman, weighted down by bags of merchandise, approaches our table. She holds out an arm draped with jewelry. I shake my head without glancing at it. But Sing pulls a strand off the woman's arm. "For you," he says, passing the woman some cash.
"Oh, I couldn't," I say.
He meets my eyes, and there is something there. Something new and different. "A gift from Temperance," he says.
My heart races, and I take a quick inhale as the woman moves onto the next table. My eyes fall onto the necklace Sing is holding out to me. It glitters in the light—it actually looks like real gold. I take it from him with a trembling hand. The chain holds a round locket with a dragon image inscribed onto it.
"Ah, and here is your car," Sing says, standing.
I swallow, take a breath, and put my face back on as I slip the chain over my neck. It falls against my chest, the weight of it so light compared to the reality of it.
Inside is something dangerous. A pill, a powder? I don't know. But something I must slip into a man's drink. As I stand, I notice my hands are still shaking. I grip my purse with both of them and smile at Sandra, who is standing next to the car.
"Enjoy the party this evening," Sing says, walking toward the car to see me off.
I smile at him. "Thank you, will you be attending?"
"No, but if you need anything while in the city, don't hesitate to call." Sing pulls out a card from his pocket and passes it to me.
We are standing at the car now, the door open before me. I glance down at the card. It has his name on it, “Vogue Reporter At Large” printed under it, followed by a number. "Thank you."
"Enjoy the rest of your stay in Shanghai," Sing says as I climb into the back of the car. I give him a nod before Sandra closes the door, leaving me once again ensconced in chilled, filtered air and the feel and smell of black leather.
She gets into the front seat with the driver, and we merge into traffic.
"You have a few hours to rest now and get dressed," she tells me. "Then the party at the consulate."
"Okay, thank you." I lean my head back against the seat and close my eyes, willing my mind to settle. But the weight of the necklace around my neck is heavy, my task feeling suddenly very real. My hands itch to open the locket and see what's inside.
I still don't know how I'm supposed to get whatever it is into Vladimir's drink. I'm not a freaking magician…or a waiter. But I guess now I am officially a spy.
Closing the hotel suite door I stand for a moment in the hush of luxury. Floor to ceiling windows expose a cloudy day, the high-rises around me reflecting the silver gray of the sky.
My hand comes up to the locket and my head bends down so that I am curling around it—mimicking the pose of the dragon figure depicted on the quarter-sized locket cover. The horned beast, with its long body, delicate wings, and split tongue, has a jade eye set into the gold.
I run my finger over the clasp, heart pounding. What is inside? Part of me wants to rip it open, face whatever my future holds. But another part is terrified and urges me to flush the necklace down the toilet. It’s too heavy. It would just sit at the bottom of the bowl. Fine, then throw it out one of those giant windows. They don’t open.
There is no escaping this.
Just open it!
My nail dips under the clasp and I pause, holding my breath, blood rushing in my ears. I apply light, sustained pressure, my teeth digging into my bottom lip, and the locket opens with a soft click.
Pulling the two halves apart, I find a ring nestled into a velvet cushion—a gold band with a white stone half the size of my pinky nail. I tip the locket, dropping the ring into my palm and stare at it before returning my attention to the empty case.
There are no instructions.
Casting my gaze around the sitting room, I taste blood in my mouth, and realize I’ve bitten my lip hard enough to cut it.
Nervous energy forces me to move. Gripping the ring in my palm, I hurry into the bedroom, drop my purse on the bed and sit next to it, staring down at my fisted hand.
Slowly, I open my fingers and it’s still there. I pull the chain over my head and inspect the locket casing again, hoping for a clue. Finding none, I return my attention to the ring. I should put it on.
The metal slips
over my knuckle, settling onto the base of my middle finger. The stone shimmers like freshly fallen snow. It’s a simple and elegant adornment.
Feeling the underside of the ring, I discover a small notch. I press it and the stone pops out, skipping across the white carpeting and disappearing into the thick weave. My heart skips along with it. Crud, where did it go?
I drop onto my hands and knees, running my fingers over the floor. Crud, crud, crud. What kind of a spy loses the damn poison pill?
Its hard surface brushes my palm, and I let out a long breath as I scoop it up and sit back against the bed. The ring band has small gold tongs, now empty, meant to hold the smooth stone in place. I put the oblong, shimmering gem back in the center of the ring and push at the ridge on the underside again. The tongs grasp the pill, and all is as it was.
So, I just have to get my middle finger over his drink and release the pill. That's all. A laugh bubbles up in me, and I bite my lip hard enough to shoot a zing of pain through me.
I check my watch—I have about two hours until I need to be ready. The weight of my day and the last few weeks lands on my shoulders. I'm exhausted and I need to shower after my spicy, sweaty meal.
Putting the ring on the dresser top next to the now-empty locket, I strip and head to the bathroom. I spend a good amount of time in the shower, just letting the water pound over me, getting lost in its hum, letting all my thoughts wander at will. My trainer, Synthia Taylor, is always pushing me to meditate—now that I am actually involved in an operation, I understand why.
Just the fear of the unknown will suck you away, much less the actual heat of battle.
Wrapped up in a big towel, I dry my long black hair, being sure to get every last strand straight before climbing into the king-sized bed. I set the alarm, giving myself thirty minutes to nap, and promptly pass out.
When the beeping wakes me, I have to peel my eyes open. Not nearly enough rest. Rolling toward the heinous sound, I smack at the bedside clock until it shuts up, then keep rolling right onto my feet.
The sun, hovering now between the skyscrapers, streams into the bedroom. I blink against its brightness and feel a hot tear hiding among my lashes. Am I going to kill a man tonight?
Resolve hardens in my gut as the tear escapes. I reach for my purse, finding Sing's card. He picks up on the first ring. "I wanted to ask you about the locket you bought for me today," I say.
"Just a trinket," he says. There is traffic noise behind him.
"Yes, I do like it, though. Can you tell me what it's made of?" I twine the bathrobe's tie around my wrist, staring down at it, hoping Sing gets my drift.
"Made of?" he asks. A horn honks behind him.
"Yes, the material."
"I'm sure it's just painted metal. Not real gold or anything."
Was that code? Sounded pretty reasonable. Crap. I take a breath and try again. "What is it tempered with, do you think?" Tempered sounds like Temperance right? I want Temperance to call me. Is that message getting through?
"Sorry, but I don't know, Angela."
"Do you know anyone who might? Maybe they could call me."
"It's just a trinket from a vendor on the street, nothing of value."
"But…I want to know what it is..."
"I can try to find out, I suppose," he relents.
"That would be great," I say, enthusiasm lifting me to my feet. "I don't want it turning my skin green…or giving me a rash." I let out a small, genuine sounding laugh. "Or killing me. You never know with things you pick up off the street."
"Of course, but I'm sure it won't hurt you."
"You're sure."
"Positive."
"What if I was allergic to it? I mean, what if I gave it as a gift to a friend?" I'm pacing now, my brow furrowed.
"I doubt it—" A truck rumbles by, swallowing anything else he says.
"Right, okay, but, maybe you could try to find out. Just to be sure."
"I'll do my best."
I don’t want to hang up, but this is going on too long, I'm coming off like a nut bar. We say our goodbyes, and I take a deep breath. It's time to get dressed.
I have work to do.
Chapter Seven
The party at the American consulate is black tie—very fancy and sophisticated, as one might imagine a diplomatic reception to be. Our entire entourage is invited, and Julian escorts me up the long, elegant stairs into the grand entryway. The last rays of the sunset cast a pink glow over the handsome, early 20th century building and the other guests making their way into the event.
Julian is in a tux again, looking dashing. My black dress, edged in gray satin, has a tight bodice that pushes me up and clings to my waist and hips, cupping my ass before fanning out into a classic mermaid silhouette.
The designer, a young man based in LA, fitted me personally before the trip. "This silhouette was invented for bodies like yours," he said, marveling at me in the mirror. Clearly gay, his appreciative gaze was all about form and artistry.
But as we walk up these stairs, pass through the high doorway into the large and crowded entryway, the gazes that roam over me—staring at my breasts, my flat stomach and tight, high ass—feel almost like hands touching me, hungry for the feminine form, not as art but as sex.
I finger the ring, careful not to press the clasp but desperate to make sure it is still there. If I lose it, I fail. Temperance didn’t call. I still have no idea what the stone is made of, but I guess it will dissolve quickly. That I won't be caught because of a malfunction.
The danger here is me—my own failing.
Julian leans over and speaks into my ear. "You're absolutely stunning. No one can take their eyes off you."
I smile and raise my eyes to him. "You're pretty stunning yourself."
"Can we have that dinner soon? Just the two of us."
I'd been putting him off—scared of myself, of Temperance…of this whole thing. How could I agree to dinner with a man? More than dinner really. Julian’s made it clear he isn’t looking for just an affair. The man is serious about me. Patient. And isn’t that just the sexiest thing ever?
A flash makes me blink—a photographer, also in a tux, though his isn’t nearly as fine as Julian’s, bows to us slightly. Must be working for our diplomatic hosts.
A waiter holding a tray of champagne glasses offers them. Julian releases my arm to take two, passing one to me. I shiver as I stare at the bubbles. Will the pill on my ring dissolve in a cascade of bubbles?
The room fills, and we mingle with other cast members. The ambassador, who made the trip down from Beijing for this occasion, is introduced to us, a white-haired, handsome man in his late fifties. He smiles at me warmly before introducing his wife, who has one of those rich, white-lady haircuts, all pale blonde seashell.
We talk about Shanghai, what we think of it so far, how much we've traveled, how honored they are to have us, and how honored we are to be there.
"Excuse me.” I lean in toward the ambassador’s wife, whose name I forgot the moment I heard it. "Where is the ladies room?"
She smiles knowingly. Nature happens to all of us. "Down there to the right." I follow her lifted chin to where a guard in Marine dress uniform stands at the front of a hall. I nod and head toward him.
The size of a boulder, the guard’s shoulders are almost as wide as the entryway. As I approach he gives me a small bow, his hands behind his back, and steps to the side. "To your right," he says quietly as I pass.
"Thank you." He nods again.
I find the bathroom and push in. I'm alone, and the lightness of that is surprising to me. The weight of so many stares is something I've always craved. The attention usually gives me energy, but tonight I want to be hidden. I'm used to my secrets being in my past, not my future.
After using the facilities, I apply more lipstick and am turning to leave when there is a soft knock at the door. "Just a moment," I say, heading to open it.
I step back, surprised to see a dark suit rather than a slim
gown. At first I think it's the bouncer, but as my gaze makes it up to the man's face, I realize it's Vladimir Petrov. My heart skips a beat, and the breath I'm exhaling gets caught in my throat.
"Good evening," he says, with a slight incline of his head. His accent is thick but not unpleasant. Something about it makes me want to try to mimic it. I could play a great Russian spy with that accent. "I did not mean to startle you."
My hand is still on the door knob, and I nod, not sure what I'm agreeing to but feeling that this is a man who does not do well with dissent. In person, his power is palpable. It's not just his size, or that inherently threatening-to-the-American-ear accent. It's an aura that emanates from him—similar to the one that pulls eyes to my form, but also very different. Both are powerful: one projects sex, the other violence..
"I've been wanting to meet you for some time," Vladimir goes on.
I give a tinkling laugh. "Did you always picture it happening in the ladies room?”
Color creeps up his neck, climbing that thick edifice toward his cheeks. He’s blushing. “I do apologize. I just wanted to have a moment alone with you." He steps back, as if releasing me from the room. I curl my lips into a subtle smile and beam at him with amused eyes as I step into the hall, letting the door close behind me.
Glancing toward the main room, I'm relieved to find the guard still there. "I am a big fan of your work," Vladimir says.
I return my attention to him, having to tip my head back to meet his gaze. Even in my heels, he's still almost a head taller than me. "Thank you."
"Even when you modeled, I followed your career." He leans toward me, eager, like a schoolboy, not a ruthless oligarch.
"That's very flattering." Checking his hands, I find them empty. "Would you like a drink?" I ask.
"Yes," he almost stammers. "Let me get you one; it would be an honor."
I laugh, tipping my head back again to look up into his face. "I'm just a girl from Kansas. Not the queen."
His face turns serious. There is a glint in his eyes, something that sends a shiver of cold over me. "You are more than that to me." Oh that’s kinda creepy.
A Spy Is Born Page 7
