by Edie Bingham
As she moved the file to her lap, Nathan reached out as if to take it, but instead took both her hands in his. His unblinking gaze, and low voice, took her full attention as well. ‘Exactly. Cat, where we’ll be going, we can’t trust anyone but each other. Trust to watch each other’s backs, to do our job – and to remain professional.’ He squeezed her hands gently. ‘I know I can trust you. I just want you to know you can trust me, too.’
She nodded, agreeing with soft sounds, believing him. And wanting him – even as she drew closer to him, closer, slipping out of his hands and drawing him into a kiss. She felt him gasp as her tongue snaked into his mouth, exploring, before he pressed back against her, their arms encircling each other, Cat’s breasts aching against his chest as her hands moved up behind his head, then down to his shoulders. The file spilt out onto the floor.
They half-knelt like that for what felt like ages, his hands moving down to cup her cheeks through her dress. Cat knew this was wrong, but felt dizzy with the wanton passion as she let him ease her back, still kissing her, his leg slipping between hers as his hands cradled the back of her head, her hands grasping his broad shoulders, her lips and pussy buzzing and tingling. She felt his erection through his trousers, against her inner thigh, and she moaned into his mouth, so wanting to take this all the way.
But knowing better, and knowing to stop immediately or it’d be too late. The spell seemed to break with him, too, simultaneously. He withdrew as she pushed him away, gently but decidedly, both regretting and not regretting taking it in that direction. Nathan quickly untangled himself from her and withdrew, wincing as he manoeuvred himself into a sitting position, hiding his erection, his face dark with acute embarrassment. ‘I, ah . . . sorry . . . that’s, um . . .’
She felt flustered, and aroused, and didn’t want to lose the feeble advantage by showing either state to him. ‘That . . . was just our getting accustomed to each other, in preparation for our undercover work.’
Nathan swallowed, and then nodded. ‘Yeah. Yeah, that’s right. I think we’ve shown we can do that convincingly. If we need to.’
She nodded back ‘Bueno.’ Cat got to her feet, straightening herself up quickly. She had to leave, to go before it was too late. He started to rise, but she raised a hand, offering a weak smile. ‘Gonna go. No need to get up.’
As she exited, she hoped she’d make it home before having to pull over to the side of the road and quickly relieve herself.
She was wrong.
3
‘So . . . a double bed, huh?’
Cat was meeting Nathan for lunch, but stopped outside his office when she heard the question. The voice belonged to Leewood, one of their colleagues. She kept silent and listened further, not caring about breaking office privacy protocols. In the days since Hausmann approved her assignment, details had leaked out to the rest of the Department, inviting the expected puerile jokes and gag gifts – all directed to Nathan, who relayed them to her.
And his irritation was showing. ‘Yes, Denis, a double bed. We’re posing as a couple. Couples use double beds. Someday when you get a girl that doesn’t need inflating you’ll understand.’
‘Come on, Hound,’ snickered another voice – Chaney, Cat recognised. ‘You’re trying to tell us you won’t be sampling any of the goods again when that sweet little ass is up against you.’
‘I’m trying to tell you two dicks, once again, that I never “sampled the goods” in the first place, that all that talk about what happened last Christmas between Cat and me was bullshit. As for the assignment, we’re both professionals. In fact, she’s more professional than some clown shoes I can name around here, and deserves more respect than she gets.’
Leewood spoke up again. ‘Respect, huh? Does that mean you’re gonna excuse yourself before you slip it in her?’
‘Don’t you children have something better to do?’
‘Aww, Hound.’
‘Let me rephrase that: find something.’
Nathan’s tone had changed, grown sharper than Cat had ever heard before from the usually laid-back man, and she wondered just how much flak he’d been receiving about this assignment. To the sounds of mock indignation, the two men left his office, their chuckling dying out as they saw Cat standing there, staring back. They departed almost as quickly as their faces had reddened.
She ignored them and entered Nathan’s office. He was behind his desk, rubbing the bridge of his nose, but on seeing her he stopped and smiled, pushing aside the irritated look on his face. ‘Morning, Wildcat, you’re just in time.’
She closed the office door and took the seat in front of his desk. ‘Just in time to catch the last moments of your boys’ club meeting. So, the official line is that you never “sampled the goods”?’
‘A little disinformation never hurt anyone.’ He looked up. ‘I hope you don’t think I’m encouraging anyone to talk about us, or the assignment?’
‘No. I don’t.’ In the days since that visit to his flat, Nathan had been true to his word, behaving professionally and treating her with regard and decorum. And as they worked, planned, and talked about anything and nothing of consequence, she found they were forging a satisfying working relationship.
The trouble for Cat was that it made him all the more desirable to her. She’d watch him secretly whenever they poured over paperwork, or sat outside for lunch. She was almost glad that they kept their contact limited to office hours, except for the odd late-night phone call about a forgotten matter.
Her attention returned to the here and now, as he set out two chunky-looking cellphones. ‘Just signed these out from Equipment, had to beat up a British secret agent to get them: secured signalling, digital recorder/camera, forty gigabyte high-density encrypted memory and leech programs, Word and Excel –’
‘I know the specifications.’ She pocketed one phone. ‘Who’ll be our contact?’
‘Gordon Green.’
Cat rolled her eyes. ‘Gordy the Geek. Puta.’
‘What can I say? He’s on the rota for the weekend.’
Cat was less accepting, never having any patience with the über nerd and his effusive, schoolboy-level prurience. On the other hand, while it was standard operating procedure for field agents to have a contact for information and assistance, that didn’t mean she had to use him. ‘So, still think you can control yourself this weekend?’
‘Sure. Why not?’
She glanced at his PC screen, saw the logo of Southern Spirits Tours on Wheeler’s homepage: a figure resembling an ornate Celtic cross with a second circle inside the first, and a serpent, in the shape of an elongated S, mounted on the extended vertical bar below. It was suitably Gothic, like a piece of church railing. ‘Well, with all your friends teasing you here, and the pressure you’ll get from the swingers onboard the train, it might all get, if you excuse the expression, hard for you.’
‘Pressure?’ He regarded her with a mixed look. ‘Do you know anything about what really goes on in these places, Catalina? It’s just that you might want to enter the environment with fewer preconceptions.’
Cat hated to admit that he might have a point. So she said nothing, and in the following days considered doing some research on the subject, before concluding that it was irrelevant to the issue. She wasn’t interested in swingers’ parties, just in the man organising this particular one.
* * *
Wheeler’s instructions had been suitably cryptic, but boiled down to Cat and Nathan reporting on the scheduled Friday afternoon before sunset, at a place called Verge, an abandoned train station in rural Georgia. Cat’s initial nerves had settled down during the short domestic flight from Miami to Jacksonville, in the northern part of the state, where they took a rented car further north into an anonymous landscape of dark-green foliage and winding black ribbons of roads, thankful for their satnav system.
And now they stood in a large, weed-tufted clearing, with a small ramshackle wooden building sitting by a set of railroad tracks. A weather-beaten, bul
let hole-marked tin sign barely hanging on the side of the building said simply VERGE, and there were a few vehicles of different makes parked outside.
‘Dios, what a dump.’
‘It has atmosphere,’ Nathan quipped.
‘Yes, just don’t breathe any of it or you’ll get swamp fever or something.’ Cat stretched, glad to be out of the car after what seemed like days rather than hours. The heat made her black T-shirt and jeans cling to her body. She collected her case as did Nathan and proceeded inside, where the original purpose of the building as a station was more obvious, with the wooden benches and counters, a cracked chalkboard on the wall for departure and arrival times, and a ticket booth mounted into one wall. But the furniture was unpainted, the chalkboard empty and the ticket booth unmanned, with life and activity provided by the five people sitting about.
‘Southern Spirits Tours?’ asked one of them, a woman younger than Cat, short and shapely, with skin the colour of polished walnut, full lips and a mischievous grin to match her tight white T-shirt and torn black jeans. She offered her hand. ‘Of course, who else would come out here? Hiya, I’m Tara Gilbrand.’
Cat shook first. ‘Cat Montoya. This is my boyfriend Nathan Ames.’
Tara nodded. ‘Happy to meet you both. Excuse my forwardness, but as you’ll find out, there’s no reception committee waiting for us here, just some food and champagne.’ She nodded to a large open wicker picnic basket on the floor. ‘And a note from Mr Wheeler, inviting us to make ourselves comfortable until sunset.’
Cat watched Nathan walk over to the note, turning back to Tara. ‘And this is it? Here’s hoping the train accommodations are more welcoming.’
‘They are,’ said an assuring, educated male voice behind Tara. The woman moved out of the way to reveal an older, silver-haired man of light frame and saturnine expression, dressed in a well-cut dark suit. He sat alone, paperback in hand, never looking up.
‘Mr Richard Newholme, of Boston,’ Tara introduced. ‘He has ridden on the Silver Belle many times, he has said. But he would prefer to let us discover the mysteries ourselves, first hand.’
The older man turned a page in his book. ‘That is her diplomatic way of saying I’m a decrepit old grump who wants to be left alone.’ But though he tried to sound terse, he couldn’t help add a hint of amusement to his words.
A couple approached, hand in hand like teenagers, unable to go long without glancing at each other. They appeared a perfectly ordinary middle-aged white couple: the man was slight of build, with receding tight curly black hair and a strong Roman nose, and the woman looked a little younger, with long gamine limbs and a bob of bright honey-blonde hair. ‘Hello! I’m Benjamin Oliver, this is my wife Hannah.’
The woman, too, was friendly and charming. ‘This is our first time on the train. Yours?’
‘She’s one of the Imperial IIIs,’ Ben noted, before Cat could make a reply. ‘A real beauty!’
‘Uh huh,’ Hannah agreed, grinning. ‘And it’s got a genuine Cartier observation car, with an upper deck! Have you any idea how rare they are nowadays?’
‘None whatsoever.’
‘They’re very enthusiastic,’ Tara noted, smiling.
Nathan returned to Cat’s side, a flute of champagne and some Beluga caviar on a tiny biscuit for each of them. ‘Here you go, sweetheart.’
‘No need to go all romantic on me, Hound, I’m sure you’ll get some this weekend,’ said Cat. Tara smirked as Cat ate the biscuit, wrinkling her nose at the incredible saltiness of even a tiny amount, and downed her champagne in one. ‘Is this all of us? I expected more.’
‘Mr Wheeler collects the others at different points,’ Ben replied, ‘for the sake of convenience and security.’
It made sense. But Cat remained puzzled by something. She handed Nathan her glass. ‘Is there a ladies’ room here?’
‘Outside,’ Tara replied. ‘Round the back.’
The conditions inside weren’t exactly first class, and Cat finished quickly, emerging to run into the last passenger, one she’d seen watching her in the station. ‘Hey, darling.’ He was young, a pretty boy with short straw-coloured hair and a smooth, tanned face, clad in a black silk short-sleeved shirt and beige trousers. He lit up a smoke. ‘You’re too good looking to be a hick. You must be here for the swinging.’
‘The train, anyway,’ she said with a nod. ‘Cat Montoya.’
She could almost see the Charm turning up to eleven in him. ‘Donnie Kolchak.’ He had an attractive swagger that teetered on arrogance. ‘So, you’ve been a player long?’
Cat leant back. ‘Why do you want to know?’
‘Well, if you want to learn a thing or two from a pro, see me. Been at it for years.’
His body language – a barely concealed nervous excitement – told a different story. ‘Really?’
‘Yeah. You like Rolex? I own a dealership in Tampa.’ He reached to his wrist and withdrew a gleaming silver model, handed it to her. ‘I can get a discount for you. I’ve had this one for three years now, never had a problem.’
‘Interesting.’ She examined the crystal, hologram and band. ‘No girlfriend with you?’
‘Riding solo.’ He leant in. ‘Now, if money’s a problem –’
‘No.’ She handed it back to him. ‘I just don’t buy shit, that’s all.’
‘Hey, it’s not –’
‘Well it’s not authentic, any more than you are. Serial numbers on Rolex are engraved, not printed like on that one, and the holograms in the back are designed to wear off after a time, so yours shouldn’t still be there after so long. Nice try, cabrón.’
Donnie’s brow furrowed with sudden irritation as he regarded her, then he grunted and returned his watch to his wrist. ‘You a watch expert or something?’
‘An accountant.’
‘Wow.’ The daylight had almost disappeared, as had his interest in her. ‘Sounds like the train’s finally here.’
He departed, as Cat picked up the distant, steady rumbling, which she had put down as retreating thunder, begin to grow in intensity. She followed Donnie to the front, as the others emerged from the station house. Nathan ambled up to her. ‘You OK?’
‘Of course, I’d been potty trained for years.’
Then he turned with the others towards one end of the tracks, where the approaching sounds were growing louder, stronger, like a stampede, or an avalanche. Thin trees of stark branches lining either side of the rails swayed in a dusk breeze as if trembling at the approach of the intruder into the bucolic setting. Cat was no child, and yet she couldn’t help but feel anticipation, an excitement that others seemed to be experienced openly, like the Olivers standing by Tara. And what was that older man’s name? Newholme? Even he had seemed to shake off his dour expression for one of almost childlike wonder – no, not childlike, like a man returning home.
Like Kolchak, he was on his own, too, seemingly flaunting Wheeler’s rules.
A chill ran up her spine as she glimpsed the single light cutting through the growing twilight, heralding the thunder, glowing stronger, even as it became clear that it was slowing down, the screech of powerful brakes on steel sending goosebumps along her skin.
And then she drew up to a stop by the depot: the Silver Belle. Cat had seen the pictures in the promotional items, of course, but nothing could have prepared her for the reality of it. And though Cat had never subscribed to the romantic notion of vehicles referred to in the feminine, she had to concede now that this train was a ‘she’. It was like it had slipped out of the nineteenth century, with polished silver skin and blood-red and jet-black stripes radiating out from the one round light, above the Southern Spirits logo, and back along the entire train. The engine was a massive and beautiful thing, all cylinders and pipes, rails and rivets and gears, fronted with a cowcatcher that looked like claws and topped with a stack that bellowed smoke above the closed driver’s cab. She was beautiful. She was elegant. She looked more like she’d been nurtured than manufactured. And as she came t
o a stop, she made a low sharp sound like a grunt. Behind her, she pulled cars carrying the identical colour schemes as the locomotive, most of them warmly lit from within.
Behind her, Cat heard Nathan whisper, ‘I thought they were all painted black for some reason.’
Before she could respond, she heard Ben Oliver say, ‘They were originally painted many colours, but eventually most companies moved to basic black because it cut down on cleaning costs.’
The door to the car nearest the engine clicked and slid open, revealing a large silhouette filling the entrance. Cat watched the figure reach up above the doorway and, a heartbeat later, a small metal ladder unfolded to touch the ground, and a miniature light illuminated him. He was a tall slim man with neatly trimmed dirty blond hair, moustache and beard, and eyes that sparkled with showmanship and promise. He was clad in an old-fashioned, neatly pressed white linen suit and black tie.
His voice completed the Southern barker’s image as he addressed those assembled. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, dear friends all. I am Jonathan Wheeler, your humble host for this weekend.’ He leapt from the doorway, ignoring the steps to easily land in the gravel with a crunch beneath his shiny shoes as he extended his arms wide. ‘And this sweet swift lady here is the Silver Belle!’
The Olivers applauded, at least. Others looked bemused, reserved or impatient. Cat, however, focused on Wheeler; like the photos of his train, the reality of the man seemed so much grander. He was larger than life, even as he began greeting people individually, shaking their hands with enthusiasm. ‘Welcome, welcome, one and all! If you get your bags, we can be on our way.’
Nathan, carrying their cases, leant in beside her. ‘Shall we board?’
‘Why not?’ Cat led him towards the steep steps, along with the rest of the passengers.
* * *
The interior of the reception carriage was an opulent display: rich red velvet and polished brass fittings, plush one– and two– seater chairs, ceiling lights designed to look like gas lamps, ornately framed black and white photographs of locomotives mounted on the walls between the shuttered windows, verdant potted plants in the corners and a bookcase at one end beneath some glass display. A woman tended a small bar at the other end. Cat could easily imagine Phileas Fogg making himself at home here during his travels.
