Jesus.
Tuesday, April 12th
Paris, France
It was three A.M., and Toni couldn't sleep. The big bed in the French hotel was comfortable enough, the room insulated and high enough above the city streets so the traffic noise was but a quiet drone. She'd had a fairly quiet day, gotten a lot of material collected and assembled, and had a delicious, fattening supper. She'd even gotten a workout in the hotel's gym and spent half an hour in the spa, letting the roiling hot water bubble and relax her. She should be conked out like a baby.
Her mind was buzzing, and the sense of disquiet she felt might be due to the work, but it wasn't that. No, it was Alex. Something was wrong between them, and she didn't know what it was. He was upset with her, she could feel it, even though he denied it, and she didn't know what to do about it.
Oh, she had tried to find out: Alex ? Is everything okay?
Yep, everything is fine.
You sure? Have I said or done anything to upset you?
No, Toni, everything is okay. I'm just tired, is all.
Then he'd flashed her a tight smile that looked sincere but was hollow.
How could you get past that? How many times could you ask without being a nag? Once you'd asked and been answered, how much could you harp on it? Wasn't it his responsibility? If he said everything was all right, didn't she have to accept that?
Well, with men, no. Not in her experience. They weren't wired the same way as women. They'd say one thing and mean something else entirely.
Who could she talk to about this? She had girlfriends who would listen and offer advice, back in the States. Or maybe she could call her mother. What was the time difference between Paris and the Bronx? Six hours? It would be nine o'clock at night there, Mama would probably be dozing out in front of the flatscreen TV by now. Besides, this wasn't really the kind of thing you talked about with Mama. She'd been dealing with Papa for so long there was only one way to do such things in her mind, and besides that, Toni doubted if Papa had ever voiced a complex emotional thought to anybody in his whole life: Whaddya, some kinda sissy goes around whining about your feelings? Geddoutta here.
No, she'd just have to deal with this on her own, somehow. When she got back to London, she'd find some time--would make some time--to sit down with Alex and get him to open up. They'd get it worked out. She loved him, he loved her. How hard could it be as long as they had that?
Tuesday, April 12th
London, England
Angela's flat was one of a row on Denbigh Street, a small place, but very neat and clean: a sitting room, kitchen, bedroom, and bathroom. And she did have a massage table set up in the small sitting room. Michaels remarked on that: Did she do so much massage that she left the table out all the time?
No, she'd said. She'd gotten it out and put it up just today.
A small alarm went off in his head. Uh-oh.
She handed him a bedsheet. "Take off your clothes and lie facedown," she said. "Cover up with this. I'll get out of my work clothes and put on something less constricting."
She moved off into the bedroom, and Michaels found himself standing in the apartment of an attractive women he barely knew, holding a folded sheet, contemplating the removal of his clothes.
This was a bad idea.
Then again, she did have a real massage table, and she did seem to know a lot about bodywork.
He blew out a deep breath. What the hell.
He stripped to his underwear--a pair of black silk bikini briefs Toni had bought for him--stretched out on the table facedown, and pulled the sheet over himself.
When Angela came back into the room, she wore a pair of gray sweatpants and a tank top.
Sweatpants. Sweatpants were good.
"Ready?"
"Sure."
She started by digging her elbow into his upper back, and after a couple of minutes, he relaxed into it. Some tiny part of him was maybe a little bit disappointed--it was going to be a massage--but the larger part of him felt relief. She was bright and beautiful, but his life was already complicated enough. A back rub wasn't something he had to lose any sleep over.
She spent about thirty minutes working on his back. She moved to his legs, and he felt himself tense a little, but Angela was matter-of-fact about it, pummeling his hamstrings hard enough to be slightly painful, uncovering one leg at a time and folding the sheet so that the rest of him was under the thin cloth.
She worked on his feet and calves, then moved to his butt, hands under the sheet. "This won't do," she said, and she peeled his briefs off, slid them quickly over his legs and his feet.
"Uh ... Angela ... ?"
"Relax, Alex. I can't work the muscle properly if it's covered up."
He tried to relax, but with her fingers stroking his ass that was hard.
And, unfortunately, that soon wasn't the only thing hard about him.
But at least he was facedown, so that wasn't embarrassing, just a little uncomfortable.
After five minutes of kneading his buttocks, he was beginning to relax again when she said, "Okay, turn over."
"Excuse me?"
"The back is only half of you. I need to work the front."
Crap. How could he say this? About his, ah, current condition? "Uh, well, I, uh, well, turning over might be kind of, that is--"
"Got a bit excited? Don't worry about that, Alex. I've done this before. It happens all the time."
She lifted up the sheet. "Turn, I'll hold this."
He wasn't thrilled with the idea of rolling onto his back and showing her where his mind had gone. When she let go of the sheet, it was going to look like a tent. But all right, fine. He kept his eyes closed and rolled over.
"My. How lovely," she said.
He opened his eyes as Angela dropped the sheet to the floor and climbed onto the table to straddle him.
Her sweatpants were gone--how had she done that?--and she wasn't wearing anything under them. In another second, he was going to be wearing her, and he knew if that happened, his mind would shut down completely. He would be lost.
"Hey, Angela?"
"Mmm?"
"Look, I really can't do this."
"You obviously can. And certainly you want to. I can tell." She pointed at him.
"Yes. But the thing is, I can't. I'm involved."
"She'll never find out from me. Nobody will ever know."
He shook his head. "I'll know."
She leaned back, looked down at him. "You sure about this?"
He sighed. "Yeah."
Michaels came out of a troubled doze back in his room with the sound of his virgil playing "Bad to the Bone." Man, was that ever true.
Toni!
Oh, man!
He was in deep shit now.
The virgil kept telling him it was b-b-b-bad, and he got up and went to find it. Yeah, okay, he hadn't actually done anything, but he should never have gone to Angela's flat, he knew at the time it was wrong, and he had done it anyway. And if they could hang you for thinking, he'd be swinging by now. The last thing he wanted to do now was talk to anybody, and especially he did not want to talk to Toni.
He left the visual off. "Hello?"
"Hey, boss."
Jay Gridley. Thank God. "Jay. How are you?"
"Doing a lot better. I tracked down the security program that thumped my head and wrecked it."
"Congratulations."
"This is the easy part, boss. I still have to find the guy who created it. But it ought to be easier with this out of the way."
"Good."
"Uh, is, uh, Toni around?"
Michaels felt a cold hand squeeze his guts. "Ah, no. She's in Paris. Be back this afternoon."
"I'll give her a call, there's some stuff in her files here I need to access."
"Fine."
"How's London? You having a good time?"
Was he having a good time? Well, no, not exactly. He was busy becoming the biggest, unfaithful, lying turd in all the world. All rig
ht, technically he wasn't unfaithful, but it sure felt as if he had been. He'd been inches away from it.
"Yeah," he said. "I'm having a great time. Talk to you later, Jay. Keep me advised."
He shut off his virgil. Jesus Christ. How could he have been so fucking stupid? A few drinks, some good food, and a massage didn't sound so awful. His neck had been sore, right? Taking off your clothes in front of a doctor or a massage therapist, there wasn't any harm in that. But the thought that it might continue into something had rattled around in his head, he had to admit it. It was only by the slimmest margin that he could claim any kind of victory, and it felt more like a loss.
He was going to have to tell Toni about it, of course.
The question was: How was he going to tell Toni? Oh, by the way, while you were in Paris? I dropped round Angela's place, took off my clothes, let her rub my back, and almost let her rub my front?
When was that going to come up in conversation?
Man.
28
Tuesday, April 12th
London, England
Goswell glanced over the top of his Times at Sir Harold Bellworth, who sat brooding at his cigar, which had gone out from lack of attention. The old boy had called for Paddington to fetch him another match, and Goswell figured this was a good time to broach the subject he had in mind.
"I say, Harry?"
Bellworth looked up from his dead cigar. "What? Eh?"
"You recall that business you had with that ... Armenian fellow a few months ago?"
Bellworth snorted. "I could hardly forget that! Blasted damned rogue, the man was, mucking about in my business!"
"I heard he met with an ... unfortunate accident, the Armenian."
"I should say he did. Fell off of a platform in the tube station and was squashed by a train. Served him right, and no loss to the world at all, damned foreigner!"
Goswell waited as Paddington returned. Paddington struck a match against the box, let it flare, then bent and held it so Bellworth could rekindle his Cuban torpedo. A cloud of fragrant smoke billowed as the old boy puffed the cigar back to life.
"Decent of you, Paddington," Bellworth said.
Paddington moved the ash tray a hair closer--Bellworth was notorious for flicking the cigar residue onto the rug. "Not at all, sir. Will there be anything else?"
"No, no, this will do it."
"Very good, sir."
Paddington ghosted away.
Bellworth looked back to Goswell. "Why on earth are you bringing up such a distasteful subject, Gossie?"
"Well, I'm embarrassed to admit it, but I have a somewhat similar problem myself. I do believe I need someone ... discreet to handle it for me."
Bellworth took another puff, held the cigar away, peered at the lit end, and nodded through the gray cloud. "You have your own people to attend to such things, surely?"
"I'm afraid one of my own people is the problem. Having one of his underlings take care of him wouldn't do at all, would it?"
"Heavens, no, bad for morale and all that, I understand completely. Well, then, shall I put in a call to my fellow, have him ring you up?"
"If it wouldn't be too much trouble, Harry."
"Not at all, not at all, consider it done. Now, what do you make of Lord Cleese's proposal about bringing back the poorhouses? I thought it was rather a clever idea myself."
Goswell smiled. Here was a subject on which they could certainly agree. Putting the poor to work instead of carrying them on the dole. Bloody Socialists would be the death of the country, if somebody didn't stop them, and such suggestions were, for Goswell's money, right on the mark. It would never happen, of course. The bloody Socialists would have bloody conniptions if anybody tried, but still and all, it would shake people if Parliament actually considered such a thing. Indeed it would.
It would seem he was going to have to take direct control of his own personal war on the world's foolishness, given as how his primary tools had somehow gotten bent. He sighed. One should expect such things in this day and age, but they still came as rather a surprise. You simply could not get dependable help these days, not of the caliber that once was. Such a pity.
Tuesday, April 12th
London, England
Toni didn't expect to see Alex waiting for her when she got through the throng at the Chunnel train station, but there he was. She was tired after the ride from Paris, and the air in the tiny tunnel under the English Channel had seemed particularly stuffy, though that was probably just psychological. All that unseen water weighed heavily upon you. Good thing she wasn't claustrophobic. She was beat, but her spirits lifted immediately when she saw him.
"Alex! What are you doing here?"
They hugged, he took her bag, and said, "I missed you. Welcome back, sweetie. How'd it go?"
"Okay. They really are well-mannered, most of the French. It's only the few who give them such a bad reputation. Well, okay, more than a few, but it wasn't so bad. As long as you don't pretend to understand the language and try to speak it, even the waiters aren't too nasty."
"You always liked anybody who liked Jerry Lewis," he said.
"He was a comic genius. Good slapstick isn't easy, you know."
He laughed. It was an old joke between them. But Jerry Lewis was funny; he had created that monkey character, built from it, and some of his later dramatic roles were as good as any actor working. He was underrated.
"Anything happening here?"
"No ... not really. Well, except that I got a call from John Howard. He's landed at an Air Force base north of here."
"The colonel? Why?"
"Plekhanov's hired gun, Ruzhyo. They traced him to England."
"Great. One more brick on the load."
He didn't say anything to that.
"You look tired," she said.
"I didn't sleep well."
"I bet I can help you fall asleep tonight."
"I bet so."
She squeezed his arm. He smiled at her. They'd been passing each other in the dark lately. It was time to get back on the same track. She said, "You talked to Jay? He called me. He's doing better."
"Yeah. I'm glad to hear that."
"And he says he is making progress toward finding our hacker."
"About time we had some good news on that front."
He seemed a little bit stiff, but just look at him, he was obviously tired. A nice hot shower and crawling under the covers together would do wonders for both of them. She had missed lovemaking with him. And, truth be known, she was getting horny from all the working out with Carl. Best drain that tension and be done with it.
Tuesday, April 12th
Cambridge, England
Howard sat in the backseat of the Ford behind Julio and the driver loaned to them by the RAF. They were on the M11, heading south, toward London. He passed signs for Bishop's Stortford and Sawbridgeworth, and except for the colors and shapes of the signs, it could have been an American freeway in the countryside of New York or Northern California. The greenery was similar, the look of civilization not all that different.
Well, except for being on the wrong side of the road.
Julio sat where an American would be at the steering wheel back home, and he seemed a bit more relaxed on the motorway than he had been on the surface streets. Leaving the base, every time they'd rounded a corner and seen cars coming from the opposite direction, Howard had seen Julio tense, his foot going for an imaginary brake. He understood the feeling, since he had put his own braking foot against the back of the seat a few times.
Why on earth had the British chosen to drive on the wrong side of the road?
It was maybe a little easier because the driver's controls were on the right, but it would take some getting used to before Howard wanted to do his own driving here.
They were still thirty miles from downtown London, the driver told them, but they were also zipping along at about seventy-five, and Howard knew that was miles per hour and not kilometers. They were going to
MI-6 to meet Commander Michaels and fill him in on the hunt for the Rine--which was what Ruzhyo meant in Russian. The guy had a warped sense of humor to go along with everything else.
"You doing okay up there, Sergeant?"
"Just fine, sir. Enjoying the lovely countryside."
The driver, a British airman, grinned. "I went to visit my uncle in New York City once," he said. "I thought I'd go mad first time I got out on the road in his car. Why'd you Yanks decide to drive on the wrong side of the road that way?"
"You are in error, Limey," Fernandez said. "What's the brand name on this beast? F-O-R-D, isn't it? We invented cars, so we got to pick which side of the road first."
"Begging your pardon, Sergeant, but where did you get that notion? Henry Ford was a Johnny-come-lately, now wasn't he? Making a lot of them is not the same as making them first, is it?"
"You're not gonna sit there and try to tell me with a straight face that the English invented the automobile, are you?"
"It's the king's truth, Sergeant."
"Bullshit it is."
The driver grinned wider. "Well, everybody knows it was the Frogs what made the first steam carts, Nicolas-Joseph Cugnot, with his tricycle steamer in 1769. By the 1830s everybody and the king's nephew had steamers up and running, in England as well as half of Europe. Even had those in the States by the end of your Civil War. But we're not talking about scaled-down steam trains that ran on dirt roads now, are we? We're talking about automobiles.
"The first real car with an internal combustion engine? Well, that was built and driven up Shooter's Hill in London by Sam Brown round 1823 or 1826, if you believe old Sam himself, who was admittedly a bit hazy on dates. Ran on carbureted hydrogen, it did. I make that a bit sooner than John Lambert, who put the first one together in the U.S. in 1891. He beat the Duryea brothers by almost two years, though they usually get credit for the first 'un, but that's only a drop in the bucket compared to sixty years, innit?"
"Great," Fernandez said. "Just my luck to sit next to the fucking Royal Historian slumming as an airman driver."
Night Moves (1999) Page 21
