by I C Cosmos
“There is something I have to hand over,” Helen finally said when Andreas remained silent.
“What’s that?” He looked at her hopefully.
You want the data that much, don’t you? Helen tilted her head.
“Oh, just a couple of props that were in the envelope you gave me before Operation Sardegna.” Helen smiled pleasantly and handed Andreas two little ring pouches she scooped from her bag. His face fell, the disappointment palpable. Helen ignored it, took the champagne bottle from the bucket, filled two flutes, and gave him one.
Andreas put the rings in his pocket without inspecting them and thus accepted the high-quality fake Helen submitted in place of the original engagement ring from Nic.
Helen lifted her flute, cherishing the small victory.
“To doing a great job,” she said innocently, registering the exasperation that filled Andreas’s eyes.
Amsterdam
University of Amsterdam
Jon May stood up, leaned on the windowsill, and let his gaze drift over the rooftops of Amsterdam, all the way to the sleek wind turbines of Westhaven. He had seen enough student cleavage for one day. Hopeful cleavage, shy cleavage, blatantly provocative cleavage… What happened to girls in turtlenecks?
He looked back at the student slumped in the chair next to his desk. A careless cleavage held together by an ill-fitting push-up bra.
“I definitely see myself as a forensic psychologist,” she said.
Why do they all want to be forensic psychologists? Jon tuned out. The girl ranted on about her career plans, too self-absorbed to notice that he was no longer listening. Jon ran his fingers through his unruly blondish hair, not in the mood for lengthy discussions.
“I take on only top students. You’ve barely passed,” he interrupted her.
The girl’s eyes filled with disbelief.
“What…? That’s rude…no one…I thought you’d help me!” The struggle between hurt and anger crumbled her face.
“I am helping you,” Jon said gently, willing to suggest an alternative study path.
But the girl grabbed her bag and ran out of his office, slamming the door behind her. Anger won.
Jon returned to the window. Not thinking about anything in particular, he watched the blades of the wind turbines turn elegantly, their silvery lightness in sharp contrast to the dark clouds moving in from the west.
Without warning, a decision that had lingered for months in the foggy outreaches of his mind burst out. He’d quit the university and become a full-time consultant.
He was fed up with the whole business of being a professor. Publish or perish. Annoying students. And the biggest nuisance of them all: grants. The noble pursuit of science gave way to chasing after the mighty dollar. Or euro. Whichever, professors were expected to bring in bags of money or else.
As a consultant, Jon could make more money in two days than the university paid him per month. He imagined the freedom consulting would give him. Burgeoning happiness flooded him briefly and drained away with a swish when he realized that he was getting the high-paying consulting jobs only because he was a well-known professor.
He was trapped.
He winced and shoved his laptop into a worn leather bag. Enough slaving for one day. Maybe he should take a sabbatical. Go to some quaint place and rethink his life.
Jon rushed home along the Nieuwe Achtergracht, his raincoat flying behind him like an angry dragon. The wind hit him hard when he came to the sidewalk along the Amstel River. On a whim, he turned left instead of right and walked to the Amstel hotel.
He ran up the red-carpeted steps leading to the entrance, thanked the uniformed porter who held the door for him, and crossed the lobby to the stairs leading down to the water-level bar.
“Biertje, meneer?” Jon was a regular here, and the waiter knew he loved a beer or two after teaching a class.
Jon nodded but quickly changed his mind. “No, I’ll have a cognac today.”
“No problem.”
The bar was empty, and Jon sat down at a table overlooking the river, noticing the unusually rough and choppy waves.
“A major storm coming in from the west. England has huge floods already.” The waiter put down a generously filled cognac glass.
“Looks like it…thanks.” Jon sat back in the deep, comfortable chair and savored the first sip of the cognac. A sabbatical. Where would he go? What would he do? No answers came to him, so he let another sip melt on his tongue.
Where did the time go? Jon had come to Amsterdam sixteen years ago as a visiting professor for a few months. Amsterdam welcomed him with open arms, and Jon had stayed. The Dutch government paid for his research, the university treated him like royalty, and his Dutch ex-girlfriend had helped him start his dream art collection. His research caught the attention of the media, and the multinationals with their lucrative consulting contracts followed. And then—
Jon’s phone vibrated in the pocket of his jacket. He looked briefly at the screen. Unknown. He put the phone to his ear nonetheless. “Yeah.” Jon answered all his phone calls, not wanting to miss an interview or a last-minute invitation to appear on a talk show.
“Professor May?” asked a commanding male voice.
“Yes.”
“Professor, good to speak with you. I hear you are the go-to expert when one needs a forensic psychologist.”
“Who’s calling?” Jon asked, flattered.
“A client. My associate is on his way to you as we speak. He’ll explain everything. Considering what an art lover you are, I am sure you’ll be pleased with our offer.”
The line went dead.
Amsterdam
March
Helen walked briskly along a group of sleek houseboats, relishing the crisp morning air, enjoying the seagulls flying overhead and diving into the thin layer of fog hugging the Amstel River.
She was looking forward to her last session with Jon May. Working with him turned out to be more useful than she had thought possible. Not that a shrink could ever solve her problems, but talking with Jon was almost like talking with a friend.
Almost. Because Jon was a hired gun. Helen had no illusions about that. He didn’t work for her but for them.
It couldn’t have been a coincidence that from the hundreds of psychologists working in Amsterdam they selected the one with an insatiable art-buying habit and debts up to his ears. But did Jon know they were using him to get information out of her?
Did he know about the minuscule cameras covering every room in his apartment, including the toilet? Probably not. Helen smiled as she recalled the camera in the mouth of the rare Tabwa mask that hung in Jon’s study, right above his chair. Watching over his clients.
Helen loved Jon’s art collection. The mixture of modern paintings and tribal art resonated with her. Jon went to great lengths to let each piece shine on its own while its display added to the power of the collection as a whole. Except for one painting. A landscape by Alexander Keirincx, a seventeenth-century painter. It didn’t fit in.
What is the story behind the painting? Helen burned to ask Jon, but the right opportunity hadn’t presented itself yet.
She passed the opera, walked over the little bridge to Staalstraat, and peeked in the window of Puccini Bomboni, thinking about treating herself to their delicious pralines after the session with Jon. She crossed the street and checked her watch. Still too early.
She scanned the display of the antique jeweler on the corner, and her eyes fell on a spectacular pair of entirely modern black opal earrings. Her curiosity piqued, she wanted to find out where the earrings came from, but the shop wasn’t open yet.
Helen’s mind switched to the meeting with Jon. Although he had been fishing for information, he had genuinely tried to help her. Working on the Project was nerve racking, and Helen planned to use the last session to learn a few new stress-reduction techniques.
She strolled along the canal to Jon’s building. pushed the heavy door open, and scaled the steep
staircase leading to Jon’s apartment, which also served as his office. She stopped briefly to check her surveillance apps. The cameras were in the same places as the last time. Helen pressed the bell.
The ring sounded inside the apartment, but Jon didn’t show up. Helen waited a moment and pressed the bell again. Nothing. Did he forget about their appointment? Helen scrolled to Jon’s number, ready to call him.
A loud bang resonated through the building.
Dallas, Texas
Collin sat up straight in his chair. Where did the noise come from? The front door? The close-up of Helen’s tense face recorded by the camera above Jon May’s door required action. Collin dialed his Amsterdam contact. It was 2:05 in the morning his time, but Collin was glad that he had decided to watch this session live.
The call hadn’t yet connected when Helen shook her head and gave a relieved smile.
“You look happy to see me.” Jon appeared at the top of the staircase. “Sorry to let you wait. I have a busy day today, so I ran out to grab something for lunch,” he explained, waving a bag from a deli on Staalstraat.
It was Collin’s favorite deli in Amsterdam. His mouth watered as he imagined selecting the cold cuts and cheese for his made-to-order sandwich and eating it by the water, throwing extra bread to the seagulls.
Jon helped Helen out of her trench coat, shoved the deli bag in his fridge, and proceeded to the study. What a spectacular apartment. How can a psychologist afford a place like his? Twenty-four hundred square feet in the center of Amsterdam was worth a fortune. Collin knew because his sister relocated to Amsterdam a year ago and had complained about real estate prices ever since.
Collin felt a pang of envy but ignored it as Helen entered the study. He would swear that she nodded slightly and smiled into the camera hidden in the African mask. She sat down and put her phone on the desk.
“Recording still OK with you?” Helen asked.
“Sure.” Jon threw his hands in the air.
Collin chuckled, remembering how displeased Jon was when Helen asked him for permission to record their first session. He would be livid if he knew how many cameras had been placed in his apartment.
“So, where were we?” Jon consulted his notes. “Ah, the work incident. We haven’t had a chance to really get to it yet. Please tell me what happened.”
“I may not talk about it.”
Jon observed her, not saying a word.
Helen sat unperturbed in the chair, a paragon of elegance. Gray woolen slacks and a shade-lighter gray cashmere V-neck. Pearl earrings, chiseled cheeks. Blond hair in what Collin’s sister called the Grace Kelly chignon. Apparently it was in fashion again. Or timeless. Helen was looking straight at Jon, a minute smile lifting the corners of her lips. Collin wanted to meet her in person.
“Well, your boss agreed we should discuss it,” Jon tried again.
“My boss knows perfectly well I am not permitted to discuss it.”
“He told me all about it. Your partner abandoned an important mission. Left you when the heat became too much.”
“My contract is crystal clear. Work events are off limits.”
“But your ex-partner poses a risk. You may discuss that with me.”
Helen looked into the camera, eyes on fire. “Look, let’s don’t waste each other’s time. My boss wants me in tip-top shape, and I’d like to master several highly effective stress-reduction techniques. Can you help me with it?”
Jon cocked his head. “I could. But to be effective, I need to know what you do.”
“All you need to know is that I must make very quick decisions and be precise. Small mistakes have huge consequences.”
“OK. OK.” Jon put his arms up. “Just help me a little bit. Is your job similar to air traffic controllers?”
Helen thought for a while. “Fair enough—but the stakes are higher.”
Jon let out a startled laugh.
Collin wished he could interview Helen himself. The shrink wasn’t doing half of the job he was paid for. She was getting more information out of him than he out of her. Collin chuckled, amused by their verbal fencing.
Still, something didn’t add up, and Collin was concerned about it. Helen’s contract forced her to go to the shrink, while the shrink was hired to collect intel from her. Definitely not kosher. Wiring every inch of his apartment wasn’t kosher either.
Frank would say that it was a question of national security, but the whole thing looked like overkill to Collin. If they wanted to get information from Helen, they should’ve brought her in and interviewed her properly.
“She’s no angel. Could be dangerous,” Frank had warned Collin. “Possibly a double agent. Or an assassin.”
That’s why they put her under 24/7 surveillance. Collin didn’t buy it. The strangest things happened in this business, but she didn’t look like a double to him. Or an assassin.
Collin liked her. More than that.
She had a doctorate in cybersecurity from Georgetown, just as he did, which warmed his heart from the get-go. And she was straightforward with the shrink. No games, no drama. Whatever Jon May tried, she never betrayed her operation or the partner who quit on her in the middle of it.
Collin wanted to know who that bastard was. Was it the guy his team had spotted with Helen in Nice and Sardinia when they had been following Santini? They hadn’t been surveilling Helen yet then, and didn’t have the whole picture. Collin leaned back in his chair, raised his arms, and clasped his fingers behind his head.
She was innocent until proven guilty, which didn’t take away that he had a job to do and facts to consider.
One of the facts was that Collin’s team had located her too many times in the vicinity of Santini. That Santini put a bomb in her car in Olbia could speak in her favor but was inconclusive without further evidence. What bothered Collin the most was that they weren’t able to infiltrate any of her devices.
She was better at cybersecurity than he and his team.
Amsterdam, the Netherlands
Helen walked home, the marvelous opal earrings and the delightful Puccini chocolates completely forgotten. The Consortium was after Nic. Because he “poses a risk.” And they thought that she could bring them closer to him. Jon had made that more than clear with his aggressive questioning.
She didn’t get it. What was the point of paying Jon to trick her into talking about Nic and the Nuoro incident? They must know she’d never break her contract. Or maybe they didn’t. Helen winced. After all the psychological tests they had put her through…
Why are they after Nic? They had his counterterrorism system and were in full control of it. It could use a few tweaks here and there, but nothing major. They didn’t need Nic to fix that.
Were they afraid Nic could sabotage their operations? He could, but a good shield would prevent it. To Helen’s knowledge, they hadn’t ordered any new protective measures.
So what was it? Yes, Nic had quit on them and defied them, but the Consortium didn’t look like a bunch of historians mesmerized by the past. Nic had to be threatening their future. Helen walked on, something tugging at the back of her mind, but she couldn’t grasp it.
Helen stopped at De Ysbreeker café, craving a cappuccino. She tried to get the waiter’s attention, but he was too busy flirting with two women sitting a few tables away. The games people play…
Games. There it was again, tugging at the back of her mind. What was it? Games, puzzles, sun breaking through the fog. What was it? A face. An elegant older woman holding down her large hat. “It’s sort of a membership, but the best part is that you get access to free games, quizzes, and puzzles. And brain exercises.”
The woman on the ferry from Livorno to Olbia asking them whether they were on TP. The way Nic tensed…
The waiter finally noticed her, but Helen was already on her way out of the café. She rushed to get home and look into Total Protection. She had visited their site once before, checking out whether they were competition, but their products were med
iocre, catering to a different audience than Helen’s cybersecurity products.
Helen took the elevator to her condo and carefully disengaged the security system. The condo was her oasis of safety. It was in a modern complex occupied by diplomats, politicians, international businesspeople, and wealthy young couples. Everyone taking care of their own business, anonymous. That’s why Helen selected the place.
The wind had blown over her neighbors’ potted plants, and Helen straightened them up, remembering that one of the guys had mentioned going to Spain on vacation the other day when they were waiting for the elevator. The plants were dry, and Helen watered them and swept the loose soil away.
Once safely inside her condo, she made herself an espresso and turned on her computer. She studied the products of Total Protection, not amused. Superficial at best. Helen created an account and was immediately pushed to the gaming site, which she got for free.
She scanned the home page, not sure what to try. She hadn’t played games since enrolling in Georgetown. Cracking cybersecurity codes was enough of a game. On the rare occasion she had some free time, she read books or fashion mags. A pop-up appeared on the screen.
GAMES AREN’T YOUR GAME? TRY OUR QUIZZES!
She clicked on the pop-up, and their most popular quizzes flashed in front of her eyes, seducing her to START NOW!
Know thyself: Test your personality
What’s your bliss? Find the vocation that’s YOU!
Are you a hoarder?
What colors tell about you
Love diagnostics
The ultimate anger test
Discover your inner visual guide
Jeez. This must be a quiz-lover’s heaven, Helen thought. Psychological quizzes, celebrity knowledge quizzes, geography quizzes, trivia quizzes, movie quizzes… More quizzes kept popping up as she scrolled down. Helen took several of them, seeing how addictive this could get. Especially because the site was giving her bonus points for every quiz she completed. And more points if she shared her results with others.
