Covert Danger

by Jo-Ann Carson

  “You will find it in New York.” She hesitated for a moment and closed her eyes, “I fear it is your fate to find it.”

  “It has the dark power I need?” His throat felt drier than the desert.

  “It is pure power. When a person of light holds it, it becomes a force of light. When a person with a dark soul holds it…” Her left hand turned palm down, as if saying the words would invoke spirits she didn’t want in the room.

  “If I have that amulet, will I have the power I need?”

  She nodded, not looking him in the eye.

  The air cooled and a tingling sensation crawled up his spine. “What are you not telling me?”

  She waited a minute and then she said, “You have a worthy adversary.”

  16

  Chapter Sixteen

  Tuesday

  She woke to the sound of pounding on her door and Mitchell’s gravelly male voice shouting, “Get up Sadie.”

  In the darkened room the neon digits on the radio clock read: 10:00 a.m. The photo-shoot would start in fifteen minutes! Her stupid magazine manager would kill her.

  She wanted to run to the door, but after her first step she found she could only hobble. The blisters on her feet stung. Then the image of the finger came into her mind. This had to be a better day.

  Mitchell pushed his way past her and she closed the door behind him.

  He turned around to look at her a second time and assumed that obnoxious stance of a boss about to lecture her. Not something she needed now, from him or anyone else. She pushed the air out of her lungs. Sweet Jesus give me strength.

  But his sermon didn’t come out. Instead he gasped, “Sadie!” His eyes bulged to twice their size as they swept over her body and his mouth twitched.

  She tried to smile. “Sorry, I slept in. I’ll throw myself together.”

  “You look awful. He moved closer to her and touched her cheek, “What happened to your face?”

  She put a hand to her mouth and then her cheek. “My face?” All she could think about was the gruesome present that had been left at her door. How important could her cheekbones be compared to that. She rolled her eyes.

  “You’ve got no color except for the dark circles under your eyes. Are you sick or something?”

  Or something. “Mitchell I’m in a mess.”

  “Yeah. If you don’t get your cute little ass down to the Dam for a shoot in five minutes you can kiss your contract with Extazee magazine goodbye. Need I remind you how much we rely on them for cash.”

  She soaked in the warmth of his fingers moving her hair away from her face with care and gave him a, “I don’t give a flying eff” expression.

  “Shower. We’ll talk on the way over,” he said. I’ll text Knickers we’ll be a few minutes late.”

  Knickers, was Mitchell’s favorite name for the owner of the magazine who had taken it upon her fat-ass to micro-manage this tour. Knickers—as in knickers tied in a knot, splintered wooden baseball up her ass, grade-A, BITCH. Sadie laughed at the mention of her nickname. Only Mitchell could raise her spirits on such a horrible morning. This wasn’t the usual way models were managed, but there was nothing normal about the Lady Knickers.

  As hot water streamed over her sore body, the amulets came to her mind. Two left. Did Bakari al-Sharif know that? Delilah had said she didn’t think so, but then Dee had a stubborn mind, the kind that liked to believe whatever she wanted it to. It fascinated Sadie how Delilah processed the world. In her head she had her own moral-relativity-slash-reality-bending- warp-machine thing going on. So, if she could believe it to be true, it was true to her. Empirical evidence didn’t interest her. Only her own slimy slippery version of the truth. A murky life that now threatened to ooze into hers.

  If Sadie gave both the remaining amulets to al-Sharif now, she’d have nothing left to barter. There would be no way to be sure she could get Delilah back with the rest of her fingers intact. No way to meet the infamous arms dealer.

  But if she didn’t give him both amulets, she’d be toying with him. Only really stupid people pull the tail of a tiger. It was a dangerous game to play with a dangerous man, but unquestionably her best move.

  She stepped out of the shower and toweled off. After taking off the amulet necklace; a small ankh made of pure gold attached to a leather string, she put it into the tampon tube she kept in her purse. She grabbed the other amulet; the gold scarab ring inlaid with jewels, from its hiding spot in her luggage and put it in a jewelry case for the swap. Should she put a note in with it? Pausing, she shook her head. Putting anything on paper could prove foolish. She slipped the case into her purse ready for the exchange at noon.

  The thought of playing a man as dangerous as al-Sharif didn’t settle well. Her whole body felt restless, like it wanted to jump out of its own skin. Damn Dee for creating this sticky mess. Running a hand through her hair she set her jaw. Sometimes you can only go forward regardless of the risks. She’d give the scarab to the courier and tell him she had another amulet, but wanted to give it directly to the boss. Yup, playing the odds al-Sharif would agree to meet her, was her best move. So why did her gut keep twitching?

  Ten frantic minutes later she joined Mitchell ready for her day job. They’d do her makeup when she got to the set. No doubt they’d heap it on to hide all her dark shadows. The damned new cosmetician, Jenny who smelled of cheap perfume liked to say, “Our older models need more color, so honey I’ll be using a ton of it on you.”

  Oh hell, screw the Jennys of the world. There wasn’t enough blush in Hollywood to make her look good today.

  Mitchell gave her another visual once-over and made no comment. Not a good sign. Usually he’d say something like, “Lookin good,” or if that would be a stretch, he’d say, “Love the light in your eyes,” or if that wouldn’t fit he’d say, “The photographers can use filters to bring out your inner beauty.” Guess he thought there weren’t enough filters on the planet to fix the way she looked this morning. They headed out to the shoot, a five minute walk away. They wouldn’t get there any faster by taxi in this busy city, so she had to walk.

  As she slipped on her runners, the raw soars on her toes screamed for attention. She gritted her teeth and laced the shoes up. The uneven surface of the road would make walking difficult. She grabbed a couple mild pain killers from her purse and downed them before she stood up.

  “So what the hell happened to you?” Mitchell’s calm caring voice soothed her soul if not her feet.

  “It’s a long, long story, Mitch.”

  “Bad date?”

  “Bad life.”

  He laughed.

  A low gray cloud bank hugged the city giving it a moody morning light, fitting perfectly with the fashion shoot and her muddling spirits. She exhaled a long slow breath.

  “Sadie, talk to me. You know I’ll help you if you’re in trouble. I got your back. I’ve always got your back.”

  “We don’t have much time. But Mitchell, promise me one thing.”

  “Anything Sadie.”

  Out of her tote, she pulled out a silver key with a funky Tigger design sticker on the top of it and held it out to Mitch. “Take this. If anything happens to me, this key will open my safety deposit box in the Wells Fargo Manhattan bank. The manager will let you have access to it. Only you.” She handed him the key.

  Mitchell’s puppy dog eyes looked at her. “Sadie, nothing’s gonna to happen to you. We’re just having our pictures taken. Maybe we should get you some happy pills.”

  “You have to listen to me. In the box, you’ll find a pouch with diamonds, more than enough to cover your costs, my will, and an explanation of…”

  Mitchell took her hand, and held it in his. “Sadie, I won’t let anything happen to you. If you don’t think I can protect you, I’ll find someone who can.”

  “Mitchell listen to me, damn it.”

  “I am listening to you. We’ll work this out, honey. I know you don’t want to turn thirty.”

  “I have a son.”
Her stomach twisted. She’d finally told him.

  “What?” He stopped walking and grabbed her arm.

  She continued in the direction of the Dam, pulling him with her. “I have a son and I need to know that if anything happens to me, he’ll be taken care of.”

  He gave her a side glance. “When did you fit that in?”

  “Remember, a year ago when I did a shoot in Nigeria? You were busy taking care of your father’s estate and couldn’t come and I went with that insufferable full-of-himself Henri Bidou?”

  He nodded slowly.

  “That’s when. It’s complicated.” They were only twenty yards away from the site of the shoot in the middle of the Dam. Knickers, a buxom woman, stood with her hands on her hips. Raw fetid anger shot from the woman’s steely glare and punctured Sadie like a hail storm from hell. “I’ll explain later,” she whispered to Mitch.

  “Damn straight, you will.” He gave her hand a reassuring squeeze and pocketed the key. His face had lost most of its color. Though he’d never say it out loud, Mitch was worried.

  They walked over to their manager.

  “Nice of y’all to come,” said Knickers, her course voice dripping with sarcasm that hung on her Alabama accent like ice on fire.

  “Sorry,” Sadie said as she brushed by her to start the shoot.

  Knickers grabbed her arm and dug her long fake fingernails into her bicep, which hurt—a lot. Like sharpened razor blades. Up close, the woman smelled of yesterday’s coffee.

  “Sorry doesn’t cut it. You models are all the same. You think because it’s your face in the picture you can run the show, but not on my shoot, honey. You’re just a stupid model. If you’re late one more time, I’ll cut you.” Knickers sincerity hit like a megaton bomb. “You’re not the only pouty smile in town.”

  Sadie’s gut wrenched. She needed this job for her cover. “I said I’m sorry, and I am sorry. I…”

  Knickers released her arm and shoved her forward with force. “Save your excuses. I don’t need your shit.” Her accent faded with her anger.

  Sadie started walking towards Jenny to get her blush on.

  “You look like hell,” Knickers added, the words hitting her back like poorly aimed darts. “You’re getting too old for this, honey. No one wants old whores. Maybe, it’s time you found yourself a new gig.”

  The industry had wined and dined her when she was fifteen, and hadn’t started using the whore analogy until last year. The certainty that she edged closer to the end of her modelling career left a taste so bitter in her mouth she could choke on it, but she didn’t.

  Sadie’d liked modeling in the beginning and had grown to love it as a cover for her life as a spy. She spent her days in beautiful parts of the world and her nights taking care of dangerous business. It suited her fine. Stilettoes and stealth. She’d survive this annoying gig and develop a new cover when she needed one for her undercover life.

  Ten minutes later Jenny said, “You’re done.”

  Sadie walked over to the set. Time to sell fancy clothes and fantasies.

  Mitchell stood, hands on his lean hips, waiting in front of the cameras. The angular lines of his face made him look more like a Renaissance sculpture than a breathing man. His mouth grimaced as he held his usual start-up stance, a let’s-get-the-eff-going so we can get the work over. A defiant in-your-face attitude smoldered in his eyes giving him a touch of bad-boy allure. Attitude with a capital A, looked good on him.

  She’d never get away with a rebel look. People wanted women sultry, bold, erotic, smoldering…a whole lot of things, but not angry.

  Sadie took her place beside him, tilted her head and smiled with her eyes. She needed to dig deeper to make a good picture. Drawing into her mind the memory of Sebastian’s sexy grin, the one that made her quiver inside-out her lips spread, and she smiled seductively into the lens with every fiber of her body.

  The photographer gave the satisfied groan that Sadie equated with a fat paycheck.

  ***

  Sebastian woke with the taste of stale beer lingering in his mouth. Looking at his clock he did the math. Less than three hours sleep. He stretched his back trying to twist out the fatigue, but he knew stretching wouldn’t be enough. Not nearly enough.

  His mind had spun most of the night trying to piece together Sadie’s crazy behaviour, with the few clues he had about the looted art. Every time he had a thought that might pull it all together, his mind slipped to Sadie’s legs—long toned… And then there was the sweet taste of her full lips. They took up a fair amount of his brain space too.

  As he drank his morning coffee he sent a text to his assistant Paul to check again, whether anyone had complaints from the night before. He sent a message to Zaneke thanking her for coming to his show and sending his love. His third text message went to Xander to see if any news had surfaced about the looted-art exchange planned for today.

  He leaned back with a sense that something was wrong. He paced the floor for ten minutes going over all the details in his mind. Then he sat down again.

  The International Herald, his usual morning read, offered little today. The Euro bounced low, Greece continued to tank in every way possible and political scandals in Italy were threatening the government, again. All of this would be easier to read on a full night’s sleep. He poured a second cup of coffee from the French Press and remembered his younger days when tea would be enough to get him going. He downed his mug in three gulps and headed for the shower.

  His mind relaxed under the pressure of steaming hot water. The tension in his tired shoulder muscles eased. He’d figure things out. He always did.

  The doorbell rang. Strange. No one visited him in the morning. No one he knew would be that stupid.

  Wrapped in a towel, he checked his security camera. Xander. He let him in.

  He’d watched his friend’s face age over the last couple of years with the death of both his parents and more than his share of trouble sent his way. He’d seen him pissed off, and hurt. Today his jaw held that stern, Don’t-fuck-with-me hardness that brought the memory of all that crap back.

  “What happened?” asked Sebastian.

  “Here,” he said, handing him a gold chain necklace with a pendant on it. It looked familiar. They made jokes about it all the time. Girl stuff. The necklace held a weird place of honor in their extended family. Kat, Xander’s wild youngest sister had worn it when she ran around Holland looking for a lost Vermeer a year ago, and before that, Xander’s wife Angela had worn it when she chased a psychopath who’d stolen a Rembrandt. He held it carefully in his hand. For such an important piece of jewellery it felt awfully light.

  “I remember this,” Seb said. “It’s the Chinese pendant Angela’s friend Lin gave her.” He turned it over in his hand, a piece of precious medal the women thought held magical power. “It’s the Chinese character for crises, a melding of danger and opportunity.” He turned it over once more. Nope. Didn’t feel like magic. It felt like metal. He cocked an eyebrow at his friend. “You’re giving me jewellery now. Do you want to go steady or something?”

  Xander’s shot him a frosty look.

  Seb stepped back as if hit by a soccer ball in the stomach. Felt like it. “Hey. Just trying to be funny.”

  “Angela thinks you need it. Don’t ask me what I think. When you’re married you humor your wife, or your life becomes miserable. Trust me.”

  “I trust you.” Seb tried not to smile too widely. “Never figured you’d end up so whipped.” He put it in his pocket. “But can I ask why I need a necklace from China?”

  “Got news.” Xander said walking over to a chair in the kitchen area. “Sit down.”

  Sebastian sat.

  “The police found a body in the canal this morning.”

  They find bodies in the canals every morning. “So?”

  “This one had no hands or teeth left to make identification easy…”

  “Torture?” Seb’s gut wrenched. “So another low-life met a nasty end. Why sh
ould this interest me?” But the small hairs on the back of his neck rose, as if a part of him knew he was about to care a whole hell of a lot.

  “It looks like professionals covering their tracks. The victim, a man by the name of Leonard Bronski, known on the street as The Digger, because he knew where to dig up a good take even in the lean times. The guy was a real orifice, well-connected to everything shady in Amsterdam. The police figure he got tortured for information and then taken out. They identified him by an anchor tattoo behind his left ear.”

  “Sadie’s involved?” That must be what Xander was leading up to. He tried to breathe but all the oxygen left his lungs.

  Xander shook his head. “Not directly.” He looked away from his friend for a minute. “We have a lead on the art thieves. We have a picture of a well-known fence who goes by the name Delilah Sagwaski. After doing some time in a medium security prison in the states she came over to Europe and appeared to live off of wealthy men. But Interpol kept an eye on her. They thought she might be moving diamonds and other jewels, but they haven’t been able to catch her. Then they heard she’d become part of the group moving looted art. She and The Digger were more than associates.”

  Seb sat straighter. “A lead. We have a lead?”

  “It’s a start.”

  “We can look into everyone associated with her, turn over the stones and we’re good at that. We’ll find the scum hiding beneath the surface.” Seb took an easy breath.

  Xander shifted his eyes away. “There’s more?”

  Without looking at him, Xander pulled out his cell phone, keyed buttons, and placed it on the table between them. “This is a picture of Delilah.”

  Staring back at Sebastian was a picture of a middle-aged woman with black hair. Her arm draped over Sadie’s shoulders. They were both smiling for the camera like they… were best friends out for a good time. Shit.

  Sebastian scratched his chin, feeling the weight of the world collapse on him. “I can’t believe Sadie’s involved.”

  “I told Seamus you’d say that.” Xander crossed his arms in front of him. “Are you banging her?”