by Thomas Locke
Charlie waited, then asked, “And door number three?”
Elizabeth clenched her entire body, like a fist turning to stone. She trembled. Or perhaps she merely shook her head.
The receptionist walked over and said, “Mr. Credwell will see you now.”
Santa Barbara’s main shopping street passed beneath the Central Coast rail lines before ending at the entrance to the pier. Right of the pier, the Santa Barbara harbor formed a clamshell design holding million-dollar yachts. South of the pier was a waterfront park with jogging lanes and bike paths that rose to join the oceanfront cliffs. The park was lined by beachfront hotels and private houses and high-end offices. The Christie’s real estate office occupied the penthouse of a gleaming white cube at the park’s northern end.
“Ms. Sayer? Nigel Credwell. So sorry to have kept you waiting. How nice to make your acquaintance. And you, sir, are . . .”
“My associate,” Elizabeth replied for Charlie.
“Of course. Delighted. Please, do be seated. Can I offer you refreshments, a coffee, perhaps?”
“No thank you.”
“Splendid. Well then, perhaps you’d be so kind as to share with me what I can do for you.”
The British realtor had done what he could to transform the sterile cube into something suitable. Charlie’s chair was French and old and finished in silk. He was fairly certain the coffee table was rosewood. As was the desk. The chamber itself was framed in walnut wainscoting. Two display cases held antique scientific instruments. The oil behind the realtor’s chair appeared to be a Gainsborough landscape. Beyond the damask drapes, sailboats drifted across a turquoise sea.
Elizabeth said, “I want to buy an island.”
“Do you indeed. How fascinating.” Credwell was dressed in what Charlie assumed was that year’s mode for the yachtie set, a cream blazer with solid gold buttons, woven linen shirt, matching trousers. His Rolex was oversized and rattled on his bony wrist. “Might I say, Ms. Sayer, you have come to the right place. Christie’s has more—”
“Not just any island. I want one with nation status.”
The realtor studied her. Then Charlie. Then back to Elizabeth. “You wish to acquire a property which comes with sovereignty.”
“That is correct.”
Credwell gave her a long look. “Such properties are extremely rare.”
“But you have one.”
“Might I ask how you obtained my name?”
“No,” Elizabeth replied. “You may not.”
“This is most astonishing.” Credwell steepled his hands. “As it happens, I am personally in contact with one family with a property that is not officially for sale. Or perhaps you are already aware of this.”
Elizabeth did not respond.
“Yes. I see. Well. The family patriarch passed away some eight years ago. Since then, the property has been used during the summer months only. There is an ongoing feud between the surviving family members. However, I am led to believe that a suitable offer might be welcomed.”
“How much?”
“Somewhere in the neighborhood of thirty million dollars.”
When Elizabeth glanced doubtfully at Charlie, the realtor lifted his chin slightly. “Might I say, Ms. Sayer, these days such a hefty premium means the property is really only suitable for an entity with very special needs. Such requirements, if you don’t mind my saying, that are not—”
“Our reasons for needing the property are our own.” Elizabeth reached into her purse and came out with the Los Angeles bank documents. “We’re good for the money.”
The realtor’s eyebrows lifted at the size of their opening deposit. Five million dollars. “Would you mind terribly if I phoned the bank and confirmed this?”
“Go ahead.”
He started to rise, then settled back into his chair. “There is something you should know in advance. The property in question is a Channel Island, some eight miles off the northern tip of Guernsey. It is not, well, how shall I put this. To describe the accommodations as basic would be a vast overstatement.”
Charlie glanced at Elizabeth for guidance. She did not respond.
Credwell went on, “The island in question measures three miles long and two wide. But less than sixty acres are anything approaching level. The remaining landscape is quite hilly. Steep, actually. There is only one road, and that is of compressed shale. There is a manor, completed in the eighteenth century. Plumbing and electricity were added in the early twentieth century. Since then, very little has been done to the place. There are seventeen other permanent dwellings on the island, mostly cottages occupied by crofters and fishermen and shepherds.” He looked worriedly from one to the other. “I am told that in the summer it is quite nice. Welcoming, in fact. But between September and May the island holds a rather forbidding aspect.”
Elizabeth asked, “When can we do the deal?”
“Don’t you wish to view the property?”
“I’ll fly to London tomorrow. Go make your calls.” Elizabeth glanced at her watch. “We must leave for another appointment.”
45
Shane did not want to be on her own when she tried the iPod. Trent could understand that. But the instructions were clear enough. The single handwritten sheet said she was to be alone in a room where she could be absolutely certain she would not be disturbed, either by noise or by an intruder. Trent had studied that final word with a scientist’s care. The issue was clearly related to concentration, something that required such an intent focus that any outside interference was not merely a distraction but a threat. Even so, Shane had been adamant.
“I’m not doing this alone.”
“I might interrupt the process.”
“Then again, you might keep me from disappearing.” She was very solemn. “I need you here with me, Trent.”
He tasted the words several times before saying, “I like hearing you say that.”
“Will you stay?”
They were in her apartment, a typical student affair two blocks from the ocean cliffs. The building had been thrown up in the seventies and poorly maintained ever since. The place smelled of unwashed clothes and dust and cosmetics. Each apartment contained a cramped living/dining area, three closet-sized bedrooms, and one bath. But it was a five-minute cycle ride from the business school, and it was cheap. The waiting list for such apartments was three years long.
Trent walked to the French doors. The balcony was a foot deep and overlooked a scruffy bit of lawn and the West Campus Lane. He set his chair so that the two rear legs were outside the room. “How’s that?”
She settled onto the bed and leaned her back against the side wall. “Thank you, Trent.”
“No chance of your roommates barging in?”
“They both work afternoons.” The bed was narrow even for her. Even so, there was scarcely enough room to open the door or fit in the desk jammed by the far wall. Shane must have been thinking the same thing, because she said, “One night in luxury, and I’m ready to leave this place forever.”
“You can afford it.” For a brief moment, he wondered if she might consider taking an apartment with him.
She studied him, as though testing whether she might say the same thing. When she spoke, it was to say, “I’d be breaking the family mold, moving into something decent.”
“Sorry. I don’t follow.”
“My aunt’s happiest days were playing hippie. She never found a reason to work very hard or look for very much.” Shane picked up her pillow and bundled it into her lap. “My sister took that attitude and distilled it down to an essence made for the new millennium. She’s determined never to extend her horizons one inch.”
“I understand.”
“You really do, don’t you.” Her normal rigid strength, a determination that kept her entire body taut, was gone now. Her face was scrubbed clean. Her hair was loose and tumbled around her shoulders. She looked about twelve years old. Shane asked, “Do you find it strange, how we feel so comfortable a
round each other? I mean, given how weird it was the way we came together.”
“I know what you mean,” Trent replied. “And I think it’s great.”
“I guess I might as well do this thing.” Shane settled the pillow back in place and stretched out on the bed. “Remind me what I’m supposed to do.”
Trent did not need to read the page again. “Put on the headphones. Press the tab marked simply with an X. Close your eyes. Follow the instructions.”
He watched her adjust the headset. She looked his way, then keyed the controls and set the iPod on the covers beside her, and shut her eyes.
After that, there wasn’t anything to see. Not that Trent objected to being there. Normally the only way he could study her openly was from behind, when she didn’t know he was watching. From the back, her neck was a vase holding a perfect bouquet of copper hair. She usually wore it caught in a band, pulled back tight from her face and ears. He had come to think of them as fairy ears, delicate and perfectly formed and so pale as to be translucent. As he watched her now, a trace of hair trembled upon her right ear, beckoning him to lean forward and lick it away.
Ten minutes passed. Her breathing grew so shallow he could not see her chest move. Trent wondered if she had fallen asleep. A warm breeze pushed through the balcony doors, carrying the spice of eucalyptus and Pacific salt. A car drifted past, music spilling from the open windows. A pair of women cycled by, their tires slipping softly over the asphalt. One of them laughed. They turned the corner, and the world was silent except for the rush of wind through the trees. Trent checked his watch. Twenty-two minutes had passed. He wondered how long he should give her.
Shane took a long breath. Another. She opened her eyes and rose to a seated position. And stared at the wall opposite her. Frowning.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes.”
“Do you need a drink of water or something?”
“No. I’m good.” Shane started to rise, then dropped back hard. “Whoa.”
He was instantly there beside her. “Steady.”
“I feel like I’ve run a marathon.”
“Maybe you should lie down.”
“No. We need to get back to the bank before it closes. My passport is in the box with your data.” She gripped his arm and pulled herself upright. “I feel weak as a kitten. And dizzy.”
He steadied her as she left the bedroom and made a tight circuit of the front room. “Do you want to tell me what happened?”
She looked at him. “I have to go to London tomorrow.”
He caught the worry in her voice. “What’s the matter?”
“You weren’t with me.”
46
Charlie called Gabriella in the park across the street from the realtor’s office. It was the middle of the night in Switzerland, but Gabriella did not sound at all sleepy. Elizabeth strolled beneath the imperial palms while he described the meeting. Gabriella absorbed it quickly, then said, “I should travel with her to this place. What is the island’s name?”
“Starn. Eight miles off Guernsey.” He knew Elizabeth wouldn’t like it much. But Charlie said, “I think you should go too.”
“When is this happening?”
“Elizabeth leaves tomorrow morning for London Gatwick. She’ll make arrangements to travel on once she arrives. Christie’s has an office on Guernsey. They’ve been alerted and will be ready to take her over.”
“Tell Elizabeth I’ll meet her in London.” Gabriella hesitated, then asked once again, “When will you be returning to us, Charlie?”
“I’ve got to see about the kid and his girlfriend. And what role Reese Clawson plays in all this.”
“I can’t get over how that woman has resurfaced. Are you safe?”
“I used a false ID from my security days to check us into our hotel here in Santa Barbara. I masked myself from the security cameras with a cap and sunglasses. Elizabeth waited in the car.” His customary precautions were probably enough. Even so, once he was alone, he’d find another hotel with better back-door access.
“Return as soon as you are able, Charlie. This place is not the same when you are gone. Especially now.”
Charlie said his farewells and stood staring into the sunlight, compressing the cell phone between his hands. Wondering if he should have just come out and said how he felt about her, and about her distance. Knowing he had not spoken for fear of how she would probably reply.
Elizabeth directed him north along the coastal road. They skirted Santa Barbara’s harbor and passed the art deco pool complex anchoring the port’s northern end, then drove through a neighborhood of overpriced sixties-era tract homes.
Elizabeth said, “Turn here.”
The parking area was nestled in a forested valley separating the city from Hope Ranch, a quiet enclave of multimillionaires, towering redwoods, and jaw-dropping homes. The park was clearly a locals spot, with no road sign indicating that it led to a beachfront playground. The lot was filled with pickups and builders’ vans and the sort of family vehicles that were largely absent from Santa Barbara’s better-known locales. The beach was wide and filled with kids. To the north, a rocky promontory extended into the Pacific, forming a point break for an overhead swell. The cliffs of Hope Ranch towered above the surfers clustered south of the rocks.
The Boathouse Restaurant was a throwback to a simpler era. The booths were covered in cracked vinyl, the floors linoleum, the tables scarred. Behind the counter and the oblong chef’s window, cooks hustled. The place was crowded and noisy and cheerful. The view was spectacular.
Elizabeth snagged a passing waitress and asked if they could take a recently vacated window booth. Charlie waited until they were seated to ask, “What are we doing?”
“All I know is, the third image showed us sitting here. In this booth.” She pointed at the clock above the chef’s window. “At noon.”
“If this happens again, do you think you could ask yourself when she comes from, and why?”
“I tried to this time.” She resumed her tightly distraught expression. “All she said was, ‘Pay careful attention.’”
“Look at me. Please.” Charlie leaned across the table. “If you won’t tell me what’s wrong, I can’t help you.”
Her gaze was as shattered as her whisper. “I wanted to lie to you about the third image.”
Charlie leaned back. He had no idea how to respond.
“I wanted to say I saw us going back to the hotel from here. And I saw me doing what I’ve longed to do since the first time we met.”
Charlie met her gaze. Which cost him. He searched for something that might diminish the moment’s discomfort but came up empty. Maybe because of just how tempted he was. That, and knowing how he kept trying to climb his own glass mountain.
When the words did not come, Charlie reached over and took her hand and sat there. Silently helping Elizabeth knit her world back together.
Eventually her breathing eased. But her voice held the same fractured note as she said, “I ascended to see if we would ever get together. Or when. If not, I thought maybe I could walk away. That’s why I didn’t ask you to help me out. But all I got for my troubles was another visit to the white room, another look at my older smiling face, another letter.”
Charlie sat with his back to the Pacific and facing the door. Which was why he was the first to see the woman enter. He released Elizabeth’s hand and straightened. “Heads up.”
“What is it?”
The woman saw him then. She focused on Charlie so tightly she almost collided with a bustling waitress. The woman did not even hear the waitress’s sharp warning. She just kept coming.
The woman stopped before their table. She stared at Charlie for a long moment.
He asked, “Can I help you?”
She replied, “It’s you, isn’t it.”
Then she burst into tears.
Elizabeth did not like sitting next to the tear-streaked woman, but Charlie insisted upon it. He wanted the table between h
imself and this woman’s traumatized state. A waitress had spoken with the cooks through the kitchen window, and now they were all giving him the stink eye. Elizabeth was too captivated by what she was hearing to notice the glares. Twice she started to interrupt the woman, but Charlie silenced her with a fractional shake of his head. He did not even know the woman’s name. He watched her fight for control and let her ramble.
When the woman finally ran out of steam, Charlie asked, “Do you want something to eat?”
“No, thank you. A tea would be nice.”
Catching the waitress’s eye was never easier. “Elizabeth, you want anything more?”
“Sure thing. Some answers.”
When the waitress was gone, Charlie said to the stranger, “Let me make sure I understand what you’re saying. This team run by a woman—what was her name again?”
“Reese Clawson.”
“Okay. So Reese operates a project under federal jurisdiction that utilizes a stolen program to elicit—what was the word you used again?”
“Transits.”
“When the subjects transit, they go to specific targets that Reese lays out. To steal secrets.”
“Yes.” She sipped her tea. “So far.”
The woman was a professional ghost. Charlie had met a number of them in his former life. They fashioned an unremarkable physical appearance into a cloak that masked them utterly. They could transcend danger in plain sight and go unnoticed.
Charlie asked, “What were you, DOD intel?”
“CIA. I had moved as far up the analysis ladder as I was going to climb. Then one day word was quietly passed, suggesting volunteers were being sought for a new form of field duty. I had just been through a nasty divorce. I didn’t even think about what I was doing.”
Elizabeth asked, “What is your name?”
“Elene. Elene Belote.”
“I’m Elizabeth Sayer. This is Charlie Hazard.”
