by Ann Raina
Ms. Monroe stood, a board clasped with both hands in front of her stomach. Her gaze judged Michael’s intention. She knew he hadn’t come after her for such simple questions. “She is new. And I can’t tell you if she got preferences. If the concept is not to your liking, I advise you to state it in your personal file.”
“No, it’s all right with me.” Michael sounded defensive and hated that she had put him in that position. He should do better than that. “I just like to get all information beforehand. It makes an evening much nicer. Especially under these circumstances.”
“She will tell you what she wants.”
And off she went, high heels clattering on the gray marble. Michael hung his head. So much for getting involved with the secretary.
Chapter 7
George Summerston stopped at the threshold to his office. “Kamal, I hadn’t expected you so soon.”
The dark-skinned man turned on the leather armchair at the white desk. His black hair was cut short, but the unruly locks still showed. He had a small, pointed face with black stubble as if he hadn’t had time to shave. His nose was straight, his brows thick and his eyes had the color of mahogany. When he smiled, women considered him handsome. He didn’t smile now. “George, we need to talk.” He turned his slender frame toward the manager.
George closed the door. The hair in his neck stood on end. When Katherine had asked him, she had chosen the same words. It didn’t bid fair. “Well, then, talk.”
“It concerns you as well as all of the staff.”
Kamal stood so suddenly, George backed against the door. Kamal was smaller and not really impressive. George felt stupid, but harm was already done. Kamal’s brows twitched. If of amusement or surprise, he couldn’t tell. “Me? Why?”
“Yes, and we could all be…” He made a gesture for he couldn’t find the right word.
“In danger? Compromised?”
“Both, actually. Sit down. You look like you need it.”
George sat on the chair Kamal had left. Now he had to look up and did not like it. He put his hands on his thighs. His palms were sweaty and the walls and low ceiling oppressed him. If there was imminent danger, he had no place to run. “In what kind of danger are we?”
“There might be a mole among us.” Kamal’s eyes were slits. Anger seeped into his voice. “I told you before that it could always happen. That our mission was not easy to keep secret.”
“Do you know who he or she is?”
“I have an idea.”
* * * *
Michael sneaked away when the guard didn’t look. Heart thundering in his chest, he made it down half the corridor when a deep, rolling voice called to him from behind.
“Searching for something, mister?”
Michael cursed in two languages, but turned with a polite, non-telling smile. “No, Freemont, just want to check the room I’ll be in tonight.” He thumbed over his shoulder.
“Ah, okay, it’s you, Matt. Go ahead.” And with a gesture, Freemont turned away again, looking down the stairway.
The permanent presence of a guard was a pain in the ass, yet not the only one. Michael had told Linda about him, but the only comment had been that he should have an excuse handy. Of course, he had an excuse as long as the guard didn’t check his pockets.
Letting go of his breath, Michael pretended to enter the room to his left and was gone downstairs before Freemont came back. His soles made no noise and he reached the dungeon entrance in less than a minute. He made sure no cleaning staff was around before he opened the secret door.
He listened, one ear pressed against the connecting door to the corridor. In the darkness, his breathing seemed loud, but there was only silence on the other side. Carefully, he opened the door. Dim light greeted him. He closed the door behind him and stood rigid for a moment, taking in what there was to see. He had spent two hours on the premises—while running a few miles as he should—to check on the staff and make sure that most of the foreigners worked at the stables or elsewhere. He had even chatted with one or two of them, who were not as reserved as the rest of the group. Compared to their behavior before, they had been real chatterboxes. Michael wondered if they had gotten order to behave politer.
He checked his watch. Only four minutes had passed since he had talked with Freemont. He might have another five until the guard would come to look after him. He didn’t expect Freemont to become suspicious quickly, but he wouldn’t want to bet his job on it.
This time he had a flashlight. In the small beam of light, Michael searched the computer room to install bugs under one of the towers and behind a cupboard close to the door. He was done in less than a minute. He crossed the corridor and turned the knob of the weapon’s room. It was locked. He pressed his shoulder against it, hoping it just stuck, but it didn’t budge. Quickly, Michael reached the corner to make sure he was still alone.
* * * *
“No more than an idea.” George took a deep breath while Kamal paced the room from the rear door to the front door, weighing his head. “And if there was a mole—for whom would he work?”
“A competitor, the FBI, the CIA. Everything’s possible. I cannot say. But when I was in the weapons’ room the last time, there was some blood at one of the doors. And none of my men said it was his.”
“Could have many reasons, right?”
Kamal shook his head.
George cleared his throat to keep his voice firm, meaning business. “Has he been around here for long? Is it possible he knows the plan?”
Kamal stopped in front of the manager and stooped to look George in the eyes. “What does it matter if he knows little or much? There is no toleration of such a man! I’m responsible here, but I have to answer to my superiors. If I must confess of a mole, I should better name him and be rid of him. It doesn’t matter if he stole something or just cheated.”
“But how can you be—”
“Hush!” Kamal swiveled around and faced the door leading to the rear corridor. “There’s someone there.” He faced George. “And I think, I know who it is. Wait here.”
* * * *
The corridor was deserted. Faint and muffled through the wall were the voices of customers and another one, explaining the different wines. It was a lively conversation, broken by laughter and the soft clinking of glasses. Some people had a really good time.
Back at the door, Michael had his briefcase out and took two picks for the lock. It wasn’t high security. The door opened with a soft click and in he went.
Installing bugs in a room full of weapons was either superfluous or would be the absolutely best thing to do. When the flunkies showed off with their skills, the CIA would be listening. Maybe parts of the plan were revealed. Linda had insisted, stating that Bellard wanted bugs wherever possible, so who was Michael to argue such order? However, as he peered at the weapons displayed on tables and in open wooden boxes, he wondered if there would be such pep talk among the men. If they were professionals, they would never reveal more than essentially necessary, even among themselves. Michael had studied terrorist cells. Anonymity and secrecy ranked as high as religious beliefs.
With practiced haste, he placed three bugs in the room. They were small enough to go undetected, but strong enough to catch a conversation even if the protagonists were only mumbling. Done, he was about to leave when someone came running down the corridor. Michael had no time to dart for the cupboard where he had hidden before. He stood pressed flat against the wall behind the door, ready to defend him.
The door flung open. Michael bit his lips as it crashed against his toes. It swung back. The young man, who had entered, closed it quietly. He panted, and in the darkness hastened along the wall toward the cupboards. Michael heard the door open and squeal as it was closed.
Silence settled in.
Michael swallowed. Who plays hide and seek in the basement? Is it actually a game? He didn’t count on it. Upstairs, Freemont would patrol the corridor and maybe or maybe not find out that Matthew hadn’
t just checked a room. He already thought about a plausible explanation when the door was opened again. Light flooded the room.
Michael held his breath. What should he do if he was detected? He was not allowed to compromise his whereabouts and intention. His thoughts ran amok of a solution. Being caught by whoever was in charge here would be worse than three Freemonts could ever be.
“Habib?” The rest of the sentence was Arabic and didn’t sound like a friendly request but a harsh reprimand. The man hurried through the room, pulled open the cupboard doors and the young man out of it. He crashed against the table and cried out. More Arabic, so quick that Machine Gun Mo would have been proud, followed. The other man answered in a pleading voice, but was shouted down and pushed out of the room hard enough to make him stumble against the doorjamb. The lights went off and the door was pulled hard into its lock. Michael heard the browbeating go on down the corridor. Slaps and cries followed.
He leaned against the wall for a moment, waiting for his heartbeat to slow down before he left the room to reach safety beyond the fake wall.
Upstairs, Freemont waited for him with the expression of a man running out of lenience. “Maybe the concept’s new to you, but I don’t like to be lied to, Matt.”
“Sorry, pal, really.” Matt shook his head, reaching the last step and hoping Freemont wouldn’t smell his sweat. “But you know, that dungeon down there… It intrigues me, more than I can tell. Can’t wait for someone to take me down there.”
Freemont’s posture slackened and his anger made way for understanding. “Why didn’t you tell me? I thought you got lost in one of the bathrooms. Y’know, there once was an escort, who missed his appointment because he couldn’t, for the life of him, remember where the lady waited.” He laughed and slapped Michael’s shoulder. “It’s my job to know where you are and give you a nudge in the right direction.”
“You get a plan, too?”
“Certainly.” Freemont put both thumbs in the waistband of his black jeans, leaning back on his heels. Weight of responsibility on his shoulders. “Security means, I have to know what’s going on and where. I know you got an appointment—” He checked his watch. “In forty minutes. You think, you gonna make it?”
“I surely will.”
* * * *
George retreated to the wall behind him, not knowing that three folders slipped and fluttered to the floor. His eyes were wide open. “Why do you bring Habib here?”
Kamal pushed Habib to the ground like a sack of flour, then closed the office door. “He’s the one. He eavesdropped our conversation and tried to run.”
Habib knelt on the floor, gaze directed at George. Pleading, knowing what awaited him and desperately searching for a way out. Kamal smacked the back of his head so that Habib faced the floor again.
“Didn’t you, Habib?”
“I just stopped to knock.” Habib shook his head. “I didn’t mean to listen to you.”
“But you did!” Kamal grabbed the other man’s collar and ripped him back on his feet to hiss in his ear. “I know what you took yesterday. And I’m sure I find it in your room.”
“No! There’s nothing there! Nothing!”
“What are you talking about?” George asked. The knuckles of his hands were white against the edge of the shelf behind him. Papers lay scattered on the light gray floor and one sheet of paper followed slowly as if caught by a wind. He didn’t care. He knew he must show strength and not fear. Never fear. It was a rule. “What did he take?”
“A hard drive.”
“A hard drive?” George echoed.
“I didn’t take anything!” Habib shook his head, not daring to look at Kamal. He lifted his hands yet there was no sense of aggression in him. His eyes showed too much white. He feared for his life. “I swear! I don’t steal!”
“You replaced it.” Kamal let go off the collar.
Habib stumbled backward against the door, panting, hoping in vain for George Summerston to help him if just by words.
The manager was thunderstruck. He had trouble swallowing and his voice betrayed how upset he was. “You mean he handed information to the enemy?”
Kamal gave a small shrug. His stare never left Habib. “We’ll know soon. Very soon.”
“Not here.”
Kamal’s smile defined condescending. “Don’t worry about your precious business, George. There are other places. Where no one hears him.”
Habib lifted his hands as if to pray. “Don’t do this, Kamal, I beg of you! I did nothing wrong!”
Kamal opened the door again and shoved the young man out to glance back over his shoulder. “I’ll let you know what he talked.”
The door closed and George stumbled two steps forward to slump into his chair. “What a mess.” Only then did he realize the scattered papers.
* * * *
Michael checked the cuffs of his cream-colored dress shirt while he stepped down toward the waiting room with view on the park and outer swimming pool. He shrugged the jacket into place and made sure the fly of his pants was closed. Though he might not wear his clothes for long, it was more to the women’s amusement than arousal if the man was not properly dressed in the beginning.
Upon entering, the sight of the woman stopped him dead in his tracks. He had had nice looking ladies beyond age forty while others of the escort service had boasted with their young and eager millionaires. He could hardly grasp his luck. At the patio window stood a young woman with long, black hair, wearing a dark red T-shirt with the Nike logo, sand-colored pants and sports shoes. She searched for something in a purse so large she could have hidden the contents of her bathroom in it. And maybe she had for she couldn’t find the right thing. She cursed quietly, oblivious to Michael’s presence.
A thick strand of hair fell before her face, and when she stroked it back, she revealed a small, tanned face.
Michael wet his lips. “Mrs. Smith?” The question seemed superfluous. She was the only person in the room.
She turned as if caught with her hand in the cookie jar.
“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he went on when she gaped at him. Chocolate brown eyes. Full lips, hardly any makeup. He was mesmerized. “I’m Matthew, your escort for today. May I take you to your chosen room?”
“Uh…” She stopped the search long enough to frown at him. “And that would be where?”
“Upstairs. The Sunset Suite as you requested.”
“Oh, yes.” She ended the search in the purse with a shrug and stroked back her hair again, followed by a brief look back to the door that led to the outer hallway.
Michael followed the soft flow of the strands down her delicate back. He wished to run his hands through it.
“We can go, can’t we?”
Michael got back into present tense, smiled apologetically and held out his arm as he had learned. Mrs. Smith seemed astonished at the old-fashioned gesture, but put her hand on his forearm.
They went upstairs and he opened the door for her. She stopped in the center of the room and took a look around as if she had been in an expensive hotel suite just minutes ago and expected more than just furniture and windows. “Nice.” It came out like a breath.
Michael would have found many words, but nice was truly an understatement. The large room—in which ten persons could have slept and have space to walk in between—contained a king-sized four-poster with a carved headboard and clawed legs. Cupboards and sideboards were ponderous as well, made of dark, polished wood. Heavy, dark golden drapes framed the two large French windows and matched the thick carpet. The place breathed wealth and taste for exclusive materials. Michael loved to be here.
Mrs. Smith turned around to him, eyes cautious. She kept one hand at the strap of her purse, the other in the pocket. “So, fine, we are here.”
Michael closed the door and came up to her. He cleared his throat and kept his hands in front of him. “I was told you would be the dominant part in this arrangement. So how can I be of service?”
Mrs. Smith’s eyebrows raised. She opened her mouth, but for a few seconds no words came. “Oh, yes, right.” Her right hand put up the strap again while her left went into her hair, stroking it back once more.
“Is there anything wrong, Mrs. Smith?”
“Of course not.” She regained her composure. Not smiling happiness, but a small nod. “What do you have to offer?”
Michael had preferred to fall dead on the expensive carpet than to answer this question in full. “If you allow me a suggestion?” He pointed toward the sideboard, which occupied the space between the windows. “You can take a look at what there is to offer.”
“Yes, show me.”
“Very well.” They crossed the room. Michael had been told to never question the ladies’ motives or their behavior. He was here to serve. He opened the top drawer for her to look at its contents.
“You will be so kind as to add some explanations. What’s your name, by the way?”
“Matthew.” Again, he forbade himself to ask why she had forgotten. After all, the women chose the men. “And how shall I call you?”
She was about to say her name, but stopped the last moment, flushing. “Mrs. Smith is fine.”
Michael bit his lips to keep the grin from his face. She didn’t notice.
“Matthew, tell me about this.” She pointed at small metal devices, connected by a silver chain.
“These are nipple clamps.” He took out a pair. “They are used on the sub’s nipples and cause pain, but also pleasure. When released, the nipples are most sensitive to the touch.”
Mrs. Smith pursed her lips. “If I’m the dominant part in this, does it mean you’ll do whatever I want?”
“In reasonable limits—yes.”
She swallowed. Her right hand clung to the strap of her purse. “Which means, if I tell you to drop on the floor, you do it?”
