I wish there were some way to rewind—to go back to the time when Sam and I would have rather cut off our limbs than let lies come between us. But I can’t go back because Sam won’t go there with me. I look at him and see that he’s changed. He’s no longer the guy I fell in love with. He’s somewhere else. Someone else. He’s like a bad actor imitating himself. Keanu Reeves as Sam Moon.
And I’m not the same girl with him, either. I have my own lies, my own secrets.
Come to think of it, I’m an actress myself.
ED
Ontology. The study of “being.” I learned that in MacGregor’s lit and philosophy seminar just before we started reading Camus, while I was still Ed of the Wheelchair. It sounded like a tub of crap at the time— all these extremely anal scholars splitting hairs over what it means to “be”—but now here I am doing the same thing because I’m walking. One moment I’m The Cripple—and then hey, presto, King Crutch.
Not that this has anything to do with anything at all. But that’s philosophy for you: the rambling thoughts of a bunch of old guys who had way too much time on their hands.
I wish I could just talk to Gaia about what’s going on between us. I wish I could put my questions on the table and hash them out in our old, blunt way. But it’s too stilted between us for me to get anything real out of her. We can talk, but onlyabout external problems. Not about us. We can’t be frank about our feelings—not that I ever really have been about my own feelings with her. But maybe that’s the root of Gaia’s head change: maybe I’ve subconsciously been revealing the feelings I’ve always had for her, and maybe she’s picked up on it.
Not a good thought. I’ve been squashing those feelings ever since she first made it clear she didn’t like me that way. And it’s been cool for the most part. Okay, not “cool”—but at least we’ve had some kind of relationship. I think I’ve done a good job. But maybe since I’ve been so happy/terrified/self-involved with the new me, I’ve let it all hang out. I sure as hell hope not. Been there, done that. I don’tfeellike I’ve been sending Gaia hidden messages. But who knows? I’m not exactly “myself” these days. Ontologically speaking, that is.
And what happened to the decision I made at the Botanical Gardens? The big, bold, lifechanging decision to finally confess to Gaia that I’ve pretty much been in love with her from day one? I guess it went the way philosophy always seems to go. What I mean is: in theory, philosophy is a nice idea, but the second you’re back in the real world, you pretty much forget about it. It doesn’t do you much good. In fact, it scares the shit out of you.
the sewer
Maybe globetrotting with uncle Oliver wouldn’t be so bad. Anything was better than this endless parade of rejection.
Awful Memories
“THERE’S A MAN HERE TO SEE YOU.”
Gaia froze as she closed the apartment door behind her. Olga, the Moss family’s cook and housekeeper, was standing in the foyer. She smiled pleasantly. Gaia barely noticed that Olga had spoken in Russian. A flash of adrenaline coursed through her veins. It was ironic: she was feeling something close to fear, or as close to fear as she could get.Over a visitor. Not that she was truly afraid, of course. Or even all that surprised. It was more that she was sickened. This place was supposedly a safe haven, a sanctuary. The outside world wasn’t supposed to intrude.
“Who?” Gaia whispered, her eyes darting toward the living room. She couldn’t see around the corner, but if it was a man, it was probably one of two people, her father or her uncle. And she was in no condition to see either of them. Not when she was so confused on so many fronts. She still hadn’t come close to making up her mind about her uncle’s proposition. Oliver had said he’d give her time to think. . . and her father, well, her father was the same old question mark he’d always been.
Could it be Sam, then? But then Olga would have used the word forboy.
“I don’t know who he is,” Olga replied, shrugging and returning to the kitchen. “He won’t say.”
Oliver.Gaia swallowed. Definitely her uncle. Only Oliver would be so secretive. She took a deep breath and forced herself to march into the living room. Maybe when she saw his face, she’d have a clearer picture—
“George?”
Whoa.Gaia hadn’t been expecting George Niven. But then, why not? Technically, he was still her legal guardian. Of course he’d stop by to check up on her. And she couldn’t help but feel more than mildly disappointed.Hewas concerned for her welfare, but clearly her blood relatives were not. She forced a smile as she sat across from him. It wasn’t easy. He looked terrible, as if he were sick. His hair was grayer. Sunlight poured through the windows, casting shadows on skin that was as pale as milk. And he was thin—too thin in his suit. His dry lips twitched as he tried to force a smile in return.
“Hello, Gaia,” he murmured.
Poor George, Gaia thought.Seeing him filled her with blackness every time; it dredged up too many awful memories.Ella’s body, in a puddle of blood. That decrepit apartment on the Lower East Side. Sam’s betrayal. George was somebody she didn’t want to confront. He was just too sad, too pitiful—a shell of a guy who neverdeserved what life had dealt him, a decent man who went out of his way for others and somehow always got shit in return. The truth was, Gaia didn’t know how to handle it. Part of her wanted to reach out to him—but guiltily, the larger part wished that he would just disappear.
“How are you?” Gaia asked in the silence.
“Fine,” he said.
She stared at him. She knew why he was here. He wanted her to come back to Perry Street and live with him in the brownstone. She would sooner live in the sewer. She couldn’t even bear to imagine it: Gaia and George, two wounded birds.A regular party.
“George, listen, I really appreciate—”
“You need to come with me,” George stated in an oddly cold voice. “Your father askedmeto take care of you. I’m your legal guardian. You’re not safe here.”
Gaia’s phony smile faded. “I make my own decisions,” she said. “I’m sorry. I know you’re caught in the middle of this. But if he cares so much about my safety and well-being, he’d be here with me now. Besides, Iamsafe.” She glanced toward the livingroom window, mostly to avoid looking at George’s desperate, anxious eyes.
“Your father is a good man,” George breathed. There was a fresh urgency in his voice. “Someday you’ll understand why he had to go. You have no idea how—” He broke off suddenly and stood. “I can’tdiscuss this. You need to come with me, though. That’s all I can say.”
“Well, that isn’t good enough,” Gaia muttered. She turned to him, then quickly turned away again. There was too much pain and vulnerability in that face. But there was tenderness, too. She just wanted this little visit to end as fast as possible.A good man. Your father is a good man.Sure, he was. He was a liar.A man who chose his job over his family. A man who killed people for a living.
George stepped toward her. “Gaia, I—”
There was a muffled, high-pitched ringing. He withdrew slightly and fished a cell phone out of his pocket. Gaia’s eyes narrowed. He didn’t say one word. He simply opened the cell phone, listened, and closed it. But a change had taken place. What little color remained in his cheeks had vanished completely.
“What is it?” Gaia asked.
“I’m sorry,” he stated. He shoved the phone back into his pocket. “I have to go. Gaia—this conversation isn’t over. I just. . . .” He didn’t finish. Instead he simply strode from the living room.
A moment later the apartment door slammed behind him.
Gaia sat still. And then, surprising herself, she laughed. It was pretty much all she could do at this point. Yeah, well, maybe George didn’t care for her as much as she’d thought. He’d gone the way of everysingle other man in her life. A fortuitous phone call, a surprise letter, an e-mail (it didn’t matter which), and—boom!—they were all gone. One little push was all it took to send them scurrying out of her life. Any excuse to split. No wonder
George and her father were such close friends.They both had their list of priorities very, very straight.And Gaia’s name was nowhere on it.
Screw it,she thought. Maybe globe-trotting with Uncle Oliver wouldn’t be so bad. Anything was better than this endless parade of rejection.
Useless Pessimism
“PLEASE TRY TO RELAX, TOM,” Charlotte van de Meulen pleaded. “Just have a seat in the living room. Have some brandy.”
Tom shook his head. He wasn’t budging from the front hall. Allowing Henrik to leave the apartment without him had been stupid. He was trapped here, alone with the man’s wife, in this place—endangering her. But Henrik had insisted that he go alone. He’d promised he’d only be gone for ten minutes. And now. . . .
Tom’s eyes flashed to his watch again. Nine minutes and forty-three seconds had already expired. How did he let himself fall into these kinds of situations? The old Tom had been in control. Enigma, the antiterrorist expert, would never had allowed this to happen. Enigma would have put as much distance as possible between himself and these people.
“George is watching your daughter,” Charlotte said comfortingly, as if reading his mind. She placed a snifter of brandy on the side table beside the fax machine. “Even as we speak.”
“I know,” he whispered. Yes, he knew that George had gone to retrieve Gaia from the Moss home. It was about time. The Mosses were good people, but they had no idea how to protect his daughter. Of course, he still hadn’t received confirmation that Gaia was in fact back at Perry Street. But it would come soon. He was sure of it. He couldn’t allow himself to be distracted by conjecture. George would accomplish his mission. Hehadto accomplish his mission. Just as Tom had to accomplish his.
Time’s up.
The numbers on his watch shifted. Ten minutes had elapsed. His fingers itched to dial George, to dial Henrik. But making a phone call wasn’t just risky; it was suicidal. Loki was probably counting on Tom to break down and use his cell phone. No doubt the trace had been in place for days, waiting to be triggered.All Tom had to do was dial, and minutes later assassins would burst through the door—
“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” Charlotte soothed. “You’re doing what you can. And your daughter will be fine. A parent can’t be everywhere at once. Guilt does not help.”
“Are you speaking from experience?” Tom asked grimly.
“In fact, I am. Our own daughter, Johanna, was almost taken from us several years back. Interpol had captured the head of a so-called liberation army in South America. Henrik was the arresting agent. The terrorists then sent a small army after our daughter. We had to hide her all over the place. We have her in boarding school in Switzerland because we think she’s safer there.”
Tom didn’t respond. He could only shake his head once more. Some life they all led. He barely even remembered the days when the Agency had truly meant something to him. When it had been about saving lives. Because what did saving lives mean if you couldn’t save your own child? He was wallowing in useless pessimism, though. He absently reached for the brandy and took it down in one gulp.
“Georgeiswatching her,” he said out loud, to convince himself.“No one can get past him.”
The front door burst open. Tom instinctively reached for his gun, then saw that it was Henrik.
“Your lucky day, Tom,” Henrik panted breathlessly, his overcoat swooping behind him. He shut the doorand grinned. His eyes shone. “We’ve struck gold. Tapped into the physicist’s phone line in Chechnya. Loki is to meet him there tomorrow.”
Tom’s skin prickled with anticipation. “You’re sure?”
“As sure as we’ll ever be. We have to get going if we’re going to get there ourselves.”
“Now?” Charlotte piped up behind Tom. Her voice was tremulous.
Henrik nodded. “We’re driving to Amsterdam. Our flight leaves tonight. From there we will fly to Chechnya. It would be quicker to fly through Brussels International, but if Loki’s men are watching, that’s the first place they’ll look.”
Tom didn’t need to hear another word. His hand was already reaching for the doorknob.
No More Slick Boy
“WAKE UP, SAMMY.”
Sam opened one bleary eye and found himself looking directly into Josh’s perfectly polished grin. He immediately winced. Even the slightest movement hurt. His head was ringing like a gong.He could still feel scotch burning through his blood.He licked his dry lips. Mistake. His tongue was like Velcro.
“Time to rise and shine, bro. Hate to do it, but I’ve got something I need you to run over to Chelsea for me.”
Sam turned to the digital clock on his bedside table. 5:45A.M.Was the son of a bitch out of his thick skull? Sam could barelymove.If he did, he’d vomit all over the place. Somehow, even in his sickly drunken state, he’d delivered some package to Queens only hours before. . . or did he just dream that? It didn’t matter. Dream or no dream, there wasn’t a chance in hell he’d be getting up and doing another errand. Not now.
Not ever,his inner voice pounded.
“Get out,” Sam muttered hoarsely. His chapped lips cracked, and he winced again. His tongue darted out of his mouth, and he tasted blood. “Get out of my room.”
Josh’s shiny smile disappeared, replaced by a dead glare. Then, just as quickly, the smile resurrected itself—as if a rain cloud had simply drifted momentarily in front of a bright, scorching sun.“I get it,” he said. “It’s our new ritual. You say no, I say yes. You finally give in. It’s cute, Sammy. Kinda like flirting. Now, if I didn’t know you better, I might think you were—”
“I said get out. I need my sleep.”
Sam figured he should have been surprised at himself. His voice sounded so calm, so deliberating. So sober. But even though his half-drunk brain wasbarely functioning, he knew deep down that he was long past surprising himself. All the lies and acting had irrevocably damaged him.He had a hundred different personalities, and any one of them might reveal itself at any time.He had about as much control over his mind as an airline passenger did over a flight. Why not let the drunken rebel in him speak? So what if it was stupid? At least itfeltright.
“I’ll write down the address for you,” Josh said.
Sam smiled up at him. “You’ll have to kill me before you get me to do another delivery for you, Kendall. Got it. . .bro?” He felt like shit, but he felt pretty damn good, too. Josh actually lookedpissed.No more slick boy.He was at a loss for words. For once in his miserable life. Maybe, just maybe, Josh Kendall wasn’t the big wheel Sam thought he was. Maybe he was just some petty drug runner. Some lowlife trying to make a sleazy buck.
Ignoring the brutal pain of the hangover, Sam swung his legs out of bed. He didn’t take his eyes off Josh. He crossed the room and held his bedroom door wide open. He had to cling to this lie as long as possible: the belief that Joshwasn’tconnected to a force greater than anything Sam could imagine. Because Sam knew it was true. Josh could summon a laser gun sight at will. One was probably trained on Sam’s temple right now.
“Kill me or leave me,” Sam heard himself say. “That’s my final offer.”
Josh’s smile returned. “Fine. Have it your way.”
Sam’s grip tightened on the doorknob. Josh was reaching for his hip. The movement of his hand was very quick. The room started to spin. Sam could feel invisible energy rushing through his limbs, his brain—the adrenaline pushing him to get out, to get the hell out now.But instead he just watched as Josh withdrew a small pistol. Was he drunk? Was he awake, asleep?
You’re awake. You’re awake. There’s a psychopath in your room.
He turned. Not fast enough. A splintering pain pierced his lower back. Sam staggered forward, clinging to the door for support. He went down while he was still trying to process what had happened.Have I been shot?The floor rose up to answer him. Sam’s last thought was that he’d always hated that puke-orange carpet. Luckily it transformed into a thick white wall into which he could sink forever and ever.
&n
bsp; near-death experience
He tried to bolt upright but couldn’t. Heknewthis face somehow—andit was not the face of God.
Crossed Wives
CROUCHING ON THE FLOOR IN THE back of a car—particularly in these tiny French numbers, the Deux Chevaux, which were really no bigger than go-carts—could never be called comfortable. But comfort was the last thing on Tom’s mind. He was safe. Or at least safer than he would be sitting in the seat, with his head a moving target for some sniper. His bones rattled with every bump. No doubt he’d be aching by the time they reached Amsterdam.
“You okay back there?” Henrik asked from the driver’s seat.
“Fine.”
As the car curved around corners and sped toward the highway, Tom’s thoughts sped as well. It was going to be tricky piecing together exactly what Loki’s interests in Chechnya were. If there even were any.
“What has this physicist been doing since the fall of the Soviet Union?” Tom asked.
“What everyone else has,” Henrik mused grimly. “Trying to profit from the leftover scraps of the cold war.” He sighed. “I’m sure that’s why Loki has been paying him.”
“Maybe,” Tom said. “It’s likely just another decoy.” Yes, a sale of nuclear weapons on the black market certainly didn’t fit with the strange message theinformant had been so desperate to impart in Berlin.DNA. . . kidnapping. . . Gaia. . . terrorist. . .For the thousandth time the words ricocheted through Tom’s skull like bullets. But maybethathad been a decoy.
Or was Loki planning on bartering Gaia for some reason?
Under other circumstances, Tom might have laughed aloud at that possibility. But there was nothing remotely humorous about this situation. Such wild cut-and-paste versions of the informant’s message had to be considered. Every possibility was plausible. The absurd had always provided inspiration for Loki. Tom knew that better than anyone. All those years Loki had spent underground, he had been hatching something grand and obscene. He was nothing if not predictable in his unpredictability.
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