by Josie Brown
Varick and Gunter have aisle seats: Varick's is in front by an aisle, whereas Gunter sits in the row opposite mine, where I've taken the window seat.
Gunter must be dying for a cigarette. He smacks his mouthful of nicotine gum so loudly that his seatmates are giving him evil looks.
My seat partners are a twenty-something couple with an adorable baby: Emma and Arnie.
Their disguises are so good—an auburn-haired wig and bushy beard for him, glasses and a fun bun for her—that even I would not have recognized them except for the toddler in their arms: their son, Nicky.
Apparently, he recognizes me too because he gives out a squeal and a laugh. But before he can call out his name for me—“Dahnahnahnah”—Emma puts a pacifier in his mouth.
Arnie takes his time shoving his family’s bags into the overhead compartment, so that he can give Emma the coverage needed to whisper, "We had a hell of a time finding a thumb drive that matched the one Eric gave you. The moment we reach cruising altitude, we'll try to crack it and see what’s up. If so, we can give you a dupe with muddied intel."
I nod ever so slightly. “Where was Nicky when you were undercover?”
“Ryan was keeping an eye on him, in the TSA employee lounge.”
This truly is a family affair—my office family, that is.
Suddenly, I miss my children. Heck, I even miss Aunt Phyllis. It seems a million years ago since I held any of them in my arms, or heard their laughter.
I imagine Jack is thinking the same thing.
So that Emma can’t see the sadness in my face, I open the airline magazine and feign interest in an article about fly-fishing on the Rogue River.
It looks beautiful. Maybe Jack and I will go up to Oregon sometime.
I tear up at the thought that I may never see him again.
I wipe away the dampness on my face and just in time: Varick, annoyed that Arnie is blocking his view, stands up so that he can look over the seats in order to see what I'm up to.
I smile up at him, as if I don't have a care in the world. It’s the only way I’ll survive this living hell.
The moment we reach cruising altitude, Emma lowers her seat table and places soft toys on it for Nicky’s amusement. At the same time, under the table she passes me a couple of pair of surveillance contact lenses, as well as some audio earrings.
Arnie has already put the thumb drive into his computer, and is running it through an encryption program.
With each minute that passes, I’m chewing my nails down to the quick.
When Gunter glances over, invariably his eyes fall on Arnie’s screen. From his point of view, what he sees is a hologram of a replay of a Lakers basketball game. It’s appropriate, considering the grunts and curses Arnie gives as we wait for program to run its course.
Finally, Arnie crows, “Boo-YAH!”
The other passengers turn, annoyed or curious—including Gunter and Varick.
The scary sound from his daddy causes Nicky to wail. “Henry, please! The baby,” Emma scolds him with a punch to the arm. “It’s only a basketball game!”
Arnie nods meekly, even as he downloads the encrypted file onto his computer. When he realizes what he’s looking at, he lets loose with a low whistle and mutters, “We can’t turn this stuff over to the bad guys! It contains the coordinates for the secret undersea fiber-optic cable that carries all broadband communications between our government's defense department and its EU counterparts!”
“I can see why it’s so important to the Russians,” I murmur. “There are close to a thousand cables crossing under our oceans. Knowing the right cable will allow them to monitor it via a wiretap.”
Emma nods. “They want tit for tat. We’ve done the same to them.”
“Worse yet, when they finally hear something they don’t like"—Arnie scissors the air with the index and middle fingers of both hands—"Snip, snip!"
“What can we do to muddy this intel?” I ask.
Emma shrugs. “Change a coordinate or two…or three.”
“Hmmm…” Arnie stares hard at the screen. “Do you think they’d believe we’d route such an important cable to the exact site where they found the Titanic?”
“Who knows? I say go for it,” I whisper. “And hurry! This is a short flight. Any moment now, the pilot will start his descent into San Francisco.”
I look out the window. It’s already getting dark. There is enough light emanating from the inside of the plane’s cabin to catch Arnie’s reflection as he jiggers with the diagram’s coordinates before downloading it on the second thumb drive.
A few minutes later, he declares, “Touchdown!”
“You’re supposed to be watching a basketball game,” Emma reminds him.
He shrugs. “Tomato, to-mah-toe.”
“Silly man.” She tweaks his nose.
He kisses her cheek.
I look down at my hands, not because I’m embarrassed for catching them at this intimate moment, but because I’m missing Jack so much. I wish he were here to kiss me.
At that very moment, Nicky goes boom boom in his diaper.
In unison, the noses of those in the seats in front, beside, and behind us wrinkle up as they sniff the air.
Even Varick can smell it. He rises up and looks at me, as if I’m the culprit. When Varick sees Emma and Arnie trading Nicky and the diaper bag for the computer, his eyes roll skyward. It’s enough to make him sit back down.
In a flash, I’ve slipped on the contact lenses and my earbud. “Hello, gorgeous,” Ryan murmurs in my ear.
All my angels are watching over me.
Soon they will be watching over you too, Jack, I vow silently.
As Arnie heads down the aisle toward the lavatory, Emma murmurs, “Dominic will be shadowing you at the party. Abu is following Eric.”
I squeeze her hand to say thanks.
She opens a magazine and holds it up to her face so that Gunter can’t see us talking. “Has Eric given you any clues as to where he’s stashing Jack?”
“No. And even if I do everything he asks, there’s certainly no guarantee that he’ll live up to his word to let Jack go free.”
Emma frowns, but she keeps her eyes on the magazine. “What do you mean, ‘everything’?”
“What? …Oh! No, not that!” I feel my face warming. “I meant successfully completing the missions he’s lined up for me.”
“Of course. I’m…sorry I inferred…the other.” It’s Emma’s turn to blush. “Please don’t worry, Donna. We’ll do our best to stay one step ahead and stop whatever damage is caused. Just keep playing Eric—no matter what it takes.” Her eyes shift from the page to my face to see if I catch her meaning. “Jack would never blame you if you…well, you know—had to do everything you could to win Eric’s trust.”
Just how far would I go to win Eric’s trust in the hope of getting Jack back?
I don’t know how to answer her.
I’m glad I don’t have to, because the flight attendant’s voice informs us that we’re to stow our electronic equipment and put up our tray and seats because we’re just minutes from being on the ground.
Arnie is chasing his toddler son down the aisle. Somehow, Nicky got hold of Arnie’s fake beard.
Thank goodness, Arnie slaps it on just as Gunter looks up.
Right then and there, Emma remembers that she, Arnie, and Nicky aren’t really on a family vacation. She pulls both the real thumb drive and the counterfeit one from the computer.
She hands me the counterfeit one as she scoops up her son and smothers him with kisses, while Arnie takes his seat beside her. “Close call,” he mutters.
Something tells me this will be a week filled with close calls.
The Quorum has rented a safe house for the evening, in which Varick, Gunter, and I dress prior to the Russian reception.
Gunter leaves an hour before Varick and me. Considering that his social skills don’t go beyond grunts and smiles, I presume it’s because he’ll be part of the co
nsulate’s wait staff.
Closer to the witching hour, I slip into my gold lamé gown. I tuck the thumb drive into my matching clutch purse.
Varick and I share an Uber to the reception. The ride will be billed to an untraceable credit card. He asks the driver to drop him off two blocks from our final destination. That way, we reach the consulate separately. He looks smart in an Armani white tux. Despite being several yards away, his eyes never leave me. I still have to prove that I won’t run.
He should know better than that. Jack’s life depends on me being wherever Eric wants me.
I time my entrance to the Russian Consulate’s gala to coincide with that of a large throng of other guests. The consulate is housed in an eight-story Edwardian brick mansion, located in San Francisco’s crowning jewel neighborhood, Pacific Heights. Like Varick, the other men are in tuxedos, some studded with Russian Army chest candy. And like me, all the women are in sparkly gowns. Most of the guests are conversing in Russian, but I also hear English—with American twangs, British lilts, and Australian cheekiness—as well as a smattering of Spanish, French, and German.
Once the security guards check my identification at the massive double front doors, I join the line in which the Consul General and his wife receive their guests. A tall, broad man stands on the other side of the Consul General. He glances over sharply when he hears me say the name, “Mona Henshaw.” From the way he looks me over, top to bottom, he apparently thinks he’ll find pleasure in the business we have to conduct.
He’ll be greatly disappointed. He won’t hear why from me, but from his superiors, once they realize the intel on the thumb drive is bogus. By then, Jack should be safely home to me.
The mournful twang of a violin concerto summons the revelers into the grand ballroom beyond the reception hall. That’s my cue to move on. I know my role well enough: Fit in and don’t stand out. Let him make contact. Give him what he needs, then get out.
He doesn’t keep me waiting long.
He does so by brushing his lips to my proffered hand, then declares, “So nice of you to make it here from Silicon Valley. My name is Konstantin Sumarokov. We welcome your company’s interest in doing business with our country.”
I dimple up. “It’s an honor to be here.”
I glance around in the hope that I see Dominic, but no luck. The place is jam-packed. Most of the attendees sit in chairs facing the string quartet, but others mill around the bars and food stations that are set up in strategic areas along the periphery of the ballroom.
The string quartet is playing a Stravinsky violin concerto when Konstantin Sumarokov’s curt murmur warms my neck: “I wasn’t told how beautiful you are.”
I force my lips into a smile before turning to face him. “Flattery will get you a thumb drive—and nothing more.”
He tosses his head back and laughs uproariously, as if I’d said something too clever by half. “How I love you American women! Madonnas or whores—no in between.”
“Expect to genuflect,” I warn him.
“A traitor to her country may one day need to seek asylum.” His hand strokes my naked shoulder. “Our safe rooms are quite comfortable. Come and see for yourself.”
Before I can say anything, his hand has found the small of my back in order to steer me up the circular staircase to the ballroom’s upper loge.
His hand slips lower when we reach the top of the steps.
I catch Varick watching us. He shames me by blowing a kiss. I would love the honor of poking his eye out, if only to break him of this very annoying habit.
“Oh, my God, Donna! I’m so sorry! I handed you the wrong thumb drive!” The desperation in Emma’s voice comes in through my earbud. “Brush pass with Dominic.”
“Too late,” I murmur.
“I beg your pardon?” Konstantin Sumarokov isn’t really listening. He’s too busy looking for an empty alcove. If the ones we’ve passed thus far aren’t occupied with couples looking for privacy for some slap and tickle action, they hold frowning men whose hushed, fervent voices relay the status of other clandestine operations taking place here in enemy territory.
If only these walls had ears.
Who am I kidding? Of course they do. Which could mean that everything I say and do can be used against me in a U.S. court of law.
Oh…hell.
I shove his hand off my backside. “I said, let’s get this over with.”
He wrenches my arm behind my back in order to steer me into an empty alcove. “Eric warned me you might be a little feisty.”
“He warned me too—that you might be”—I glance down below his beltline—“little.”
He slaps my face.
I have a knee-jerk reaction—
That is to say, my knee slams into his groin.
As he doubles over, I pick up my clutch purse.
Konstantin’s way of announcing his desire that we kiss and make up is to draw his Glock. “Not so fast, Ms. Henshaw. I don’t want to ‘shoot the messenger,’ as they say.”
Batting my lashes, I purr, “Aw, now, I don’t want you to go off half-cocked.” To make my point, I cup his crotch in my palm.
From what I can see, it has thickened instantly. He’s all smiles again. “That’s much better. Sometimes these transactions need a little finessing.”
Just as he pulls me closer, we hear, “Champagne, as ordered!”
The accent is Russian, but this is not your typical waiter: Dominic. The tray in his left hand holds an uncorked champagne bottle and two crystal flutes. The napkin is folded over his right arm, which is folded over his waist.
Konstantin is as surprised as me. But before he can protest, I gush, “How thoughtful!” To emphasize my pleasure, I place my hand over his chest and squeeze his nipple between my index and middle fingers.
He’s still grinning with anticipation when Dominic does his pratfall. The tray clatters onto the marble floor. The glasses shatter, and the bottle’s contents drench the randy Russian.
Even as Dominic stutters profuse apologies and pats down Konstantin with the towel with one hand, he slaps the real duplicate thumb drive into my palm with the other.
I slip it into the plunging décolleté of my dress. I open my clutch, grab the coveted thumb drive, and slip it into Dominic’s tux pocket.
Slapping away Dominic’s hand, Konstantin growls, “Get the hell out!”
Dominic stutters inanities as he bows his way out of the alcove.
“My, my, aren’t we a mess!” I pick up where Dominic left off with the napkin, but by now it’s sopping wet, and all I’m doing is ruining Konstantin’s tux.
He realizes it too, and pushes my hand away.
I hold tight to his wrist. When he sees what I pull out from between my breasts—the duplicate thumb drive—he shrugs appreciatively.
I put it in his palm, closing his fingers over it.
Before he can say anything, I saunter out of the room.
He hasn’t noticed that I’ve slipped his Glock into my clutch.
I’m sure it’ll come in handy.
Chapter 6
Jack’s Diary, Day 2
Dear Donna,
The van has finally rumbled to a stop. Still, the engine is running.
It must be nightfall, because my box is much cooler.
The driver turns off the van’s radio in order to greet someone—apparently a guard. I know this because he tells him, in Spanish: “Take the cargo to the basement.” The driver knows guard well enough to call him by his first name—Tomás—and asks after the man’s wife. He then makes a jab at Tomás’s favorite soccer team, Club León, which must not be doing too well in the country’s playoff games. In response, Tomás’s growls, “Chinga tu madre.”
The driver laughs heartily as he revs the engine and heads on.
He takes a few turns before we lurch to a stop. He opens his door and walks around to the back of the van. He’s talking to someone. I can’t make out his words, but the next thing I know the van door opens a
nd a few men are shouting, “¡Vamanos! ¡Vamanos!”
I hear what must be some of the others in the van stumble to their feet. The van bounces as they jump out.
Next, I hear the scraping of heavy items being shoved forward toward the door—perhaps other boxes, like mine.
Then mine as well.
When my box hits the ground, I fly up, smacking my head against it. My grunt gives a sense of hilarity to those who open it: swarthy cruel-eyed men, muscular, but short.
A few have semi-automatic rifles slung around their shoulders. The rest have their guns pointed at the six men who have already been released. I presume one of these is Pedro, with dreams of escaping this prison known as Paraíso.
High bright lights blind me. When finally my eyes adjust, I see that we are in some sort of courtyard belonging to a three-story building. The yard’s high walls are made of thick cinderblock, and topped with barbed wire. Guards with rifles laugh and shout from their open stations at the four corners of the yard.
The other six prisoners from the van have already been placed on their knees in front of swaybacked anvils. I’m also shoved down in front of one. A guard grabs me by my scalp and wrenches my head to the left, so that I am looking at the others.
A tall brawny man with a long-armed hatchet stands over the prisoner farthest from me. I hear the kneeling man pleading for his life. I recognize his voice: Pedro.
The blade’s cut is swift, and silences him immediately.
His head rolls into the basket in front of the anvil.
By now, all the other prisoners are trembling. A few are babbling prayers. A second slice results in another thump in a straw basket.
Three more to go.
Is this how it ends for me?
To hell with that.
With all my might, I rise to my feet. My hands are still tied behind me, which is why the guard standing over me isn’t prepared for my head butt to his gut. He topples to the ground.
Two more guards come at me. Before the first one can swing his rifle into position, I’ve kicked it out of his hands. My second kick hits him squarely in the jaw.
