by Tim Tigner
Lisa started feeling a bit dizzy. She set her cigar on the edge of the big porcelain ashtray, and took a sip of wine. “I’m listening.”
“What if Casteel reported us after hearing our individual plans. He clearly took us seriously. Suppose his assessment transferred up the chain of command, or down it, depending on your perspective. In either case, it could have set dangerous dominoes in motion.”
Lisa thought it through out loud. “You think the CIA uncovered our real identities, from which they divined our halted-aging status, and then set out to eliminate not just us, but all the Immortals?”
Pierce raised his eyebrows, then rested his cigar in the ashtray next to hers. “It’s possible.”
“But the killings started before we met Casteel.”
“No. They started before we met him together, but after we met with him individually. Because we both crossed the CIA’s radar at the same time, it was easier for them to connect us.”
“Huh, you’re right.” A terrifying thought struck as Lisa caught sight of her cigar butt. Could it have been poisoned? Was this whole talk a smokescreen? Was her throat about to seize up? Her heart about to stop? Had Felix felt this way just before—”
“You okay?” Pierce asked, his tone sincere, his face concerned. “The nicotine can be overpowering, especially the first time. I should have warned you. I honestly didn’t think you’d take more than a puff or two.”
She swallowed, then studied his face as she spoke. “I’m fine. You really think the CIA is behind the killings?”
“I think it’s worth considering, especially since we don’t have another solid explanation. I’m not saying it’s specifically the CIA either. That’s just a convenient term for black ops. I’m sure POTUS has multiple clandestine resources at his disposal.”
Her heartbeat was regular, her breathing normal. She took a deep breath and tried to relax. “Why kill Camilla? She’s no political threat.”
“Look at the history of political assassinations. When monarchs are killed, their families are typically eliminated as well to avoid comebacks.”
“When you explain it that way, I have to admit the idea’s not completely crazy. I suppose we should explore it further. But given that we weren’t the first to go, I think it’s highly unlikely.”
Pierce fiddled with his own cigar. “Agreed. That brings me to my second insight.”
What now? She found herself reaching for more wine. “I’m listening.”
“Regardless of who’s behind it, there’s a pattern you’ll want to bear in mind.”
“A pattern?”
Pierce set his glass down, then reached out for hers. A second later, she understood why. “So far, the assassinations have followed a pattern of boy-girl-boy-girl.”
Lisa felt the trembling return as her stomach seemed to fill with concrete. “You’re right. If it’s not a coincidence, then either Aria will die next—or I will.”
54
Cooked
TORY SMILED BROADLY as Sandy Wallace walked into sight. She’d opted for the professional look but with a twist. Beneath the short chef’s coat she wore black stretch pants. Highlighting her assets was a good sign, as was appearing five minutes early.
She had a black handbag slung over her left shoulder, with something protruding. Tory raised his binoculars and zoomed in. She’d brought her own omelet pan. A true pro.
To access a yacht moored at the Miami Beach Marina, one first had to access its dock. From land, that required a key. A tall, wide gate blocked every dock entrance, each with a frame surrounded by long spikes. If a vandal or voyeur or thief attempted to get around, he risked getting hooked like a fish.
Of course, an intruder could approach from the water. But from Tory’s stakeout perch, he had that covered as well. He was confident that once Sandy passed through that gate, she’d effectively be fenced off from the world.
For surveillance purposes, the dock gate made a perfect pinch point. If Zachary Chase had figured out Tory’s gig and was somehow working with Sandy, he’d be stuck on the other side. If he approached by water, he’d be a sitting duck. Or a swimming duck. Or a scuba diving duck. Didn’t matter to the suppressed automatic Tory held in his hand.
Tory had risen at 5 a.m. to begin his watch two hours before dawn. The captain’s chair on the top deck of the 60-foot rental was perfect for surveillance. Literally designed for it—albeit with sandbars and sunfish in mind.
One boating family had left for The Keys an hour earlier. Their voices had carried clearly across the marina’s still water. Otherwise, the dock had been quiet.
No surprise there. The fishing charters ran off the less pricy piers. Pleasure craft marinas like this tended to be quiet places, especially during the week. He’d heard that most owners put less than a hundred hours a year on their motors. Such a waste of money when you looked at it that way. Of course, Tory understood that the people who leased slips here tended not to worry about their wallets. He looked forward to adopting a similar attitude sometime soon.
Tory sipped coffee from his thermos while rotating his chair and his attention from land to water and back again. He spotted Sandy as soon as she rounded the corner from the parking lot. Her behavior struck him as entirely normal. No furtive glances, no irregular stride. Just a lone woman walking to a meeting.
He watched her as she waited by the gate while continuing his 360-degree sweeps. For the first six minutes she stood attentively, occasionally glancing at her watch. Once Tom Bronco was officially late, she began thumbing through pages on her smart phone, glancing up every few seconds to look for the man who’d told her 8 a.m. sharp.
At 8:15 she turned to leave.
That was when Tory shouted “Sandy!” and headed in her direction.
She turned.
He bounded down two flights of stairs, across the gangplank, and out onto the dock. Once he’d closed the gap, he said, “So sorry I’m late.”
He opened the gate using the tiny knob concealed within a cup and ushered her onto the dock. After it clanged shut behind her, he said, “The bad news is that the Sassones were delayed in New York. The good news is that they’ve authorized me to make you an offer if I like what I see. And taste.”
“So it’s just you?”
“Just me. I hope that’s all right.”
“Only if you’re ready for the best omelet of your life.”
“I see you brought your own pan.”
“The right pan is very important, especially since I’ll be cooking over an unfamiliar stove.”
As a bachelor who ate most of his meals out, Tory hadn’t considered that aspect of the art. “How so?”
“Making omelets is a very hands-on process, when you do it right. You need to shake the eggs as they cook, forming curd. But it only works when the pan is the right shape and has been properly conditioned.”
Always interested in learning new tricks, whatever the field, Tory said, “I usually stir and fold.”
“Most people do. It produces an entirely different result. You’ll see.”
In Tory’s experience, one egg rarely varied from the next. Then again, his palate wasn’t particularly sophisticated.
The yacht he had rented was called the Lucky Seven. To turn it into the Grey Poupon, Tory had paid a sign maker to print the new name in nautical blue on two thick vinyl stickers, which he had then applied over the yacht’s given name.
There really was a wealthy pair of Miami socialites named Sassone who owned a yacht named the Grey Poupon, but of course Tory had no relationship with them. And Sandy would not have been able to learn that latter part during her Google search.
He led the eager chef up the gangplank, through the main saloon, and into the galley. Spreading his arms, he asked, “What do you think?”
Sandy stood in the center and slowly turned around, inspecting each piece of equipment. Cooktop, oven, microwave, refrigerator, freezer, dishwasher, exhaust hood, pots and pans. All of it quality and gently used. “It res
embles the kitchen in my apartment much more than the one at Café Au Lait, but then that fits the output requirement. I’m glad to see you use gas burners. I wasn’t sure, this being a yacht. And I approve of the French press. Simple is best when it comes to coffee.”
“I agree. You’ll note that the last chef took his utensils with him, so these are just stand-ins. And the owners asked to have the pantry emptied so everything would be fresh. I did pick up eggs, butter, and Gruyère in case you forgot.”
“That’s good to hear. Very sensible. But I didn’t forget.” She extracted a grocery bag from her large purse.
Tory raised a finger. “I’ve got a few questions and a bit of paperwork, but do you mind if we make the omelet first? I’ve been up for a while but didn’t eat, lest I ruin my appetite.” He really was starving. Since he needed the questionnaire completed, he’d have her cook twice, once before and once after the paperwork. But that shouldn’t be a problem. She’d likely be flattered. The second time, while watching over her shoulder “to learn her special technique,” he’d stick the needle in her thigh.
“Sounds good to me. Cooking calms me, and to be honest, I’m a bit nervous.”
She put her personal omelet pan on the front right burner and lit the gas. “This pan’s made of five layers, stainless steel sandwiching aluminum sandwiching a copper core. That makes it tough but lightweight, easy to clean, and quick to warm, even on a low flame. And it spreads the heat evenly.”
She pulled a small bottle from her shopping bag. “Extra virgin olive oil with black truffles.” She poured a healthy portion into the pan. “My secret ingredient.”
“So much?”
“You’ll see.”
“I always use butter.”
“Butter’s fine, but this is fantastic. I’ll show you something in a second.”
She cracked three organic free-range eggs into a stainless steel bowl, ground in pink salt and black pepper, then began beating rapidly with a fork. So far, to Tory’s eye, she’d done nothing special. But he did like watching her work.
Satisfied with her mixture, Sandy set the eggs aside, ran her forefingers under water and flicked a drop into the pan. It crackled in protest. “Perfect. Now, look at this.” She took the omelet pan in her right hand, grabbed the bowl with her left and made room for Tory to watch. “The moment of magic.”
Tory stepped closer.
With a jerk fast enough to start a stubborn lawn mower, she brought the pan of crackling hot oil up into his face.
Tory’s world erupted in fire as his eyes flared with an excruciating pain more intense than anything he’d ever felt before. His hands flew to his face a second before his left ear exploded, turning everything mercifully black.
55
The Loneliest Place
LISA FELT THE TICKLE of an adrenaline drop hitting her bloodstream as Seven Star Island came into view. The physiological response reinforced what the back of her brain already knew. Coming here was not a safe move.
But she didn’t know what other move to make. She’d learned long ago that when every move was risky, the smart step was often bold.
Lisa had known in her gut that Pierce was not the killer. The two of them were fully aligned and completely committed to a codependent plan. They were excited about a future they could only achieve by working together.
Aria was an animal of a different stripe.
Under normal circumstances, or even less extreme abnormal circumstances, Lisa would have scoffed at the suggestion that Aria was capable of killing. Her sorority sister might be cutthroat in the business sense, but not in the literal one. At this point, however, Lisa was willing to consider all options and each candidate. Only four Immortals were left alive.
She jumped in her seat as the pilot’s voice came over the intercom, breaking her contemplative trance. “We’ve got a problem, Ms. Perera.” As he spoke, she felt the chartered helicopter pull up and back abruptly as if evading hostile fire.
Red dots of laser light began dancing around the cockpit as the pilot pulled higher. She traced them to the ground. Four men in body armor were braced in firing positions, assault weapons snugged to their shoulders.
The pilot came back on the intercom. “Obviously, I can’t land. Do you want me to take you to a neighboring island, or back to the mainland?”
“Just hold on a minute.”
Lisa pulled out her burner phone and hit a speed dial. As a security precaution, she had not alerted Aria of her impending arrival. On the off chance that Aria was the killer, Lisa hadn’t wanted to give her the opportunity to set a trap, prepare a poison, or arrange a fall. “Aria, it’s Lisa. I’m in the helicopter. Just me and the charter pilot. We need to talk about what’s going on.” She had to speak up to be heard. Even executive helicopters were noisy.
“Oh, thank goodness. The alarm went off when radar detected your approach and I’ve been locked in the panic room ever since, wondering if today’s my day.”
“Will you tell your assault squad to stand down so I can land?”
“Of course. I’ll see you in a minute.”
Lisa hit the comm switch and informed the pilot of the situation and the gratuity that would be forthcoming. Sure enough, the red dots vanished and the welcome party stood down. Sixty seconds later, the pilot put skids on the ground.
Although they’d shouldered their assault rifles, the soldiers remained ready for action, with three standing back while one approached the craft. “It might be best if you remained aboard,” she said, straining to keep her voice steady.
The pilot surprised her. “Don’t worry about me. I know how to talk to these guys.”
After a thorough, unapologetic pat-down, two of the soldiers escorted Lisa to Aria’s master suite, one walking in front, the other walking behind. Aria opened the door as they drew near. It was thicker than a brick and seemed to swing open on its own power.
Drawing closer, Lisa noticed that the doorway resembled the entrance to a vault. Clearly Aria’s security upgrades extended well beyond the welcome wagon. Lisa took that as a reassuring sign. A killer might camouflage herself behind window dressing, but she’d be unlikely to go whole hog.
The lead guard stepped aside, letting Lisa pass while addressing Aria. “We’ll be right outside the door. When you’re ready, I’ll show Ms. Perera out.”
Lisa knew the last remark was for her. The guard wanted her to know that there would be no getaway if any harm befell their charge.
“Thank you, Barry.” Aria placed her palm on a wall switch and the door swung shut with a pneumatic hiss.
The Immortals kissed cheeks.
Lisa placed her hands lightly on Aria’s shoulders. “I’m impressed. And sorry for the unannounced arrival. I’m taking my own precautions. I’m sure you understand.”
The two alpha females did understand each other. Probably better than anyone else understood them. They had shared their formative years, and were now the planet’s only Immortal women.
Aria showed her to the sitting room, where herbal tea and fresh fruits were waiting. Another reminder of what they had in common.
“I was just in Whitefish, Montana,” Lisa said as an opener.
“Visiting Pierce? I’ve never been.”
“Me either. It was much more alluring than I’d expected. Made me think of what you’d get if the Four Seasons opened a hunting lodge.”
Aria poured the tea. “Were you discussing your political plans or our shared predicament?”
“Both, but the accent was on the latter. I’ve been trying to ignore the threat but have come to realize that I won’t be able to focus on my future until I know I have one. Since that won’t happen before the killer is unmasked and caught or killed, I figured it was time to get proactive.”
Aria handed Lisa a porcelain teacup on a silver saucer. “What did the two of you conclude? Who’s behind the mask?”
“Pierce floated the idea that we, he and I, had caused all this by inviting scrutiny.” Lisa explained Pie
rce’s train of logic. How their top political consultant might have alerted the political parties to the affluent newcomers, with the ultimate result that the president put the CIA on the case—bringing all their investigative and black bag capabilities to bear.
Aria contemplated the convoluted hypothesis through a few sips of jasmine tea. “A proactive extermination policy would explain why we only get bozos running for national office. The powers that be are suffocating the competent contenders in their cribs. It would also explain the timing and perhaps the tactics. But I agree with your conclusion. If that were the case, you and Pierce would have been the first to go.”
Lisa nodded along. “The problem is, we couldn’t think of a more likely scenario.”
“What about Kirsten’s husband?”
“Pierce doesn’t think he’s smart enough to pull this off.”
“I didn’t know him. Kirsten was before my time. There were no other Kirstens? No other early Eos casualties?”
“Nobody.”
Aria plucked a small stem of purple grapes off an attractive platter. “Do you regret that decision?”
Lisa frowned and shook her head, then spoke with a shrug, “There was no other way. Eliminating Kirsten was the only option for keeping immortality a secret in the long run.”
“Remind me why.”
“She had a husband and was pregnant. She would have insisted on both becoming immortal of course. Then the child would want a spouse. Soon the Besankos would become like the House of Saud.”
“The ruling family of Saudi Arabia?”
“Exactly.”
“Reducing the stature of the rest of you given that you couldn’t have families of your own. I get it.”
Lisa reached out, put her hand on Aria’s, and squeezed. “Do you? I’ve been racked with guilt lately.”
“Absolutely. You had no other choice.”
Lisa felt a rock roll off her shoulders. “Thank you. That wasn’t the only consideration, of course. The family imbalance was bound to lead to conflict, and those have a way of boiling over—especially if you have eternity to simmer.
