Naked

by Francine Pascal

  Paul laughed. “It’s all right. We’re all born this way.”

  Gaia squeezed her eyes shut. The self-flagellation began. You idiot. You moron. You fool. You shit head. Why the hell hadn’t she thought to knock? Actually, she knew the answer to that question. She hadn’t thought to knock because knocking hadn’t been an issue in a very long time. After all, when you lived in solitude, you were never in danger of barging in on anyone.

  “Gaia?” Paul asked.

  “Yes?” She groaned.

  “Don’t sweat it. It’s the price of sharing a bathroom. It happened to Mary and me all the time. It comes with the brother-sister territory.”

  Gaia opened her mouth, then closed it. “Oh,” she said finally.

  Her embarrassment began to fade, and it was replaced with an emotion that felt oddly like. . . annoyance. But why? She was annoyed with herself, of course—with her own thoughtlessness and stupidity. But something about the simple directness of Paul’s tone bothered her. And she couldn’t figure it out. He was obviously thinking of her as a sister. And why wouldn’t he? She thought of him as a brother. It made perfect sense. They were close. . . almost intimate. Even after such a short amount of time, he was comfortable enough around her to joke around about nudity. Which was perfect as well. Which was as it should be. So what was the problem?

  There was no problem. Right. She had just been a little shocked. That was all. She was overthinking this.

  The door flew open, and Paul strode by her, a towel firmly wrapped around his waist. He patted her shoulder with a wet palm.

  “It’s all yours,” he said.

  Gaia watched as he disappeared into his room.

  Don’t think, she reminded herself.

  “OH MY GOD, YOU LOOK GREAT!” Heather gasped gleefully when Ed emerged from his apartment building. “Why don’t you wear clothes like this more often?”

  A Sucker for Sure

  Ed paused outside the glass doors as they swung shut behind him. He should have known she would compliment him. And it pissed him off.

  Maybe it had something to do with the fact that he’d never felt more uncomfortable in his entire life. It wasn’t the crutches digging into his arms or even the khakis—which made his legs look like packages that had just been delivered by the U.S. Postal Service. It was this goddamn orange turtleneck sweater that his sister’s fiancé, Blane, had given to him as a present.

  That was the kind of guy Blane was. He thought it was the most generous act in the world to give a sweater to his future wife’s poor, crippled brother. He kept on patting himself on the back about it. Never mind that the sweater itched like hell and practically cut off the circulation to Ed’s head.

  “Are you okay?” Heather asked, frowning at him in the harsh, late winter sunshine.

  “Sure,” Ed said.

  Secretly he had been hoping that Heather would burst out laughing when she saw what he was wearing. This outfit was about as un-Shred-like as he could get. There was absolutely no question that he looked like a big hobbling orange Popsicle. A sucker for sure. In fact, this color combo was pretty much straight-up Chad Carmel. Blane and Chad had a lot in common, actually. They might even be the same person. Maybe there was a secret factory out in the Hamptons where they cloned rich, insensitive morons—then sent them out into the world to make it a more dismal place.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked, fighting to keep smiling.

  “Nothing.” Ed tried to smile, too. “You look beautiful.” He wasn’t lying. It was a warm day, warmer than it had been in months, so there was no need to bundle up. Heather was wearing an open black velvet jacket, a white T-shirt, a long black skirt. Her hair was down, rustling in the brisk wind. She was as close to perfection as any girl he’d met (at least on the outside). While Ed. . . well,Ed still had a ways to go.

  Heather glanced down the sidewalk toward First Avenue. “Shall we?”

  Ed lifted his shoulders. Yes! There’s nothing I’d rather do more than eat brunch at Sarabeth’s with your snotty friends from the Hamptons!

  “I guess we should take a cab, huh?” Heather asked absently.

  “Or we could just bag the whole thing,” Ed mumbled under his breath.

  Heather shot him a withering stare, then started down the street by herself. Ed rolled his eyes. That hadn’t been a smart move. If he was going to get back on track with Heather, he had to keep his mouth shut. He hobbled forward and tried to catch up.

  “Look, I’m sorry,” he called after her. “It’s just. . . I just can’t stand your East Hampton friends. You know that.”

  She stopped and turned, scowling. “These aren’t my East Hampton friends. I told you that Chad wasn’t gonna be there, didn’t I? These are my SouthHampton friends. You actually think I’d make you see those people again?”

  Ed stared at her. She wasn’t joking around. She actually thought there was a difference between her East Hampton friends and South Hampton friends. He didn’t know whether to be frightened or disgusted or appalled. . . or what. All he knew was that Heather Gannis didn’t nearly look as stunning as she had only seconds earlier.

  “We’re going to be late,” she stated coldly.

  “Fine,” he muttered.

  She marched to the corner and quickly flagged down a cab, then delicately stepped in, making sure her skirt wouldn’t wrinkle beneath her. The door stayed open. She crossed her arms and waited.

  For a fleeting instant Ed considered turning around and limping home. But he knew that would be an act of finality, one from which there might be no return. So he doggedly struggled forward, handed Heather each crutch, then pulled himself into the cab. At the last instant, however, his foot caught on the doorjamb. He tumbled across the seat. Heather scooted out of his way, and he landed on the car floor. A sharp tingle shot up his spine.

  “Ow!” he shouted.

  “Come on,” Heather grunted, yanking him into an upright position. “You’re gonna be fine.” She leaned across him and swung the door shut. “Sarabeth’s, please,” she called to the driver.

  Ed grimaced at her, struggling to ease into the seat and ignore the pain at the same time. “You know, a little sympathy every now and then wouldn’t—”

  “Oh, shit!” She groaned.

  “What?”

  She eyed his legs, shaking her head. “Your pants. Now they’re filthy.” She glanced down at the car floor, wrinkling her nose in disgust. “It’s dirty down there.”

  Ed’s jaw tightened. “I fell,” he said.

  “I know, but look at your pants. I don’t want to bring you in there with. . . ugh, forget it. I can’t take you anywhere.”

  He stared at her for another five long seconds. His blood was beginning to boil. There was no way she could possibly be—

  “That was a joke,” she explained.

  “High comedy,” he mumbled.

  They spent the remainder of the cab ride in silence.

  FRUSTRATION WAS BEGINNING TO set in.

  Loki had obviously chosen the wrong team, and there was too little time to make changes. Now he was forced to participate in the one activity he despised above all others: waiting. Waiting for them to find Tom. Waiting for them to find the leak, the traitor who stood on the verge of betraying the intricacies of Loki’s project. (The delicious beauty of the word project lay in its vast understatement.) Of course, he knew that in spite of all his planning—and a few minor successes and setbacks—all the years since Katia’s death had ultimately been spent doing just that. Waiting.

  The Great Machine

  He’d been waiting to reclaim what was his, to execute some long-required justice, to exorcize some of his sorrow. But most of all, he’d been waiting to accomplish something truly remarkable—something worthy of Gaia’s respect and admiration, maybe even her love. And after all those years of extensive and enlightened patience, his various enterprises were paying off. The great machine had finally been energized, its many cogs starting to spin in unison across many time zones. Pla
ns within plans were coming to fruition.

  Yet here he was, sitting once again at his laptop in his sparsely furnished loft, with no other option but to wait some more. All he felt was a combination of barely restrained anger and impatience. He pounded out yet another instant message. Probably his hundredth in the last forty-eight hours.

  Instant Message Board 20

  QR9-11 Status: Secure 12:32

  L: Progress report

  QR9: Enigma still out-of-pocket

  QR10: No progress

  QR11: No progress

  L: Leak status?

  QR9: No progress

  QR10: No progress

  QR11:Valid intelligence confirmed from Berlin. Following up immediately. May have a lock within thirty minutes.

  L: Excellent. If leak is confirmed, we’ll find Enigma there as well. Assigning QRs 1-4 to Berlin immediately. When leak is determined, terminate. Do not wait for orders. We cannot proceed until security has been reestablished.

  Loki breathed a sigh of relief. He nodded in satisfaction. Finally some competence. It was about time. If they could confirm the identity, then the leak was as good as dead, and they could finally proceed—with Tom under surveillance again. Loki had no doubts that the leak would lead them directly to him. The final loose thread would be clipped.

  He typed the necessary memo and sent it off through the secured server. Once he’d received his response, he rose from his seat and began to pace slowly toward the window and back again, assessing the remaining tasks at hand.

  Waiting was so much easier when the reward was assured.

  ED HAD THE DISTINCT FEELING that he was in hell. No, purgatory. Right. That was where they sent you before you went all the way down to the fiery pits with the demons and the pitchforks and ironic punishments. Purgatory was more familiar. Purgatory was a place you knew and hated in life, where you were forced to await your punishment.

  Mirrored Sunglasses

  That was Sarabeth’s. It actually looked like a house in the Hamptons.

  The whole place had a lame, phony French country inn vibe, at least as far as Ed could tell. Just like Chad Carmel’s house. Everything was either white or cream colored, except for the pale blue design on the wallpaper and the big floral arrangement in the shelves of the center column, which was made up of blue flowers inside this huge sort of wheat. . . wreath. Was there such a thing as a wheat wreath? Ed had no idea. All he knew was that there weren’t any greasy fat men in white paper hats running around with greasy plates of greasy eggs. That was breakfast.

  All of a sudden he felt nails digging into his arm, nearly puncturing the puffy orange sweater.

  “You know, maybe this was a bad idea,” Heather whispered at his side. “I think we should just go.”

  Ed turned to her. He couldn’t believe it. She looked almost as miserable as he felt: flushed and anxious. Was this some sort of miraculous change of heart? Was the Heather he loved—the real Heather—bursting out of her self-imposed Hamptons bubble and fighting to break free?

  “I want to leave now,” she whispered, increasing the pressure on his arm. Her eyes darted over her shoulder, back toward the door.

  “Um. . . sure,” Ed mumbled. Then he laughed. “What’s the problem? Did you just realize orange and khaki was a bad color combo?”

  “I’ll tell you later, just—” “Heather!” somebody called out from the dining area. “Heather . . .”

  That voice.

  Ed’s insides seemed to clench, although he couldn’t quite place it. It was familiar, though—grating and smarmy. Ed stared at Heather as her face switched in an instant from wide-eyed anxiety to a big, fake smile.

  “Hi!” she sang out.

  In that instant it clicked: Ed knew who he would see when he turned around. He would see himself. Thanks to those goddamn mirrored sunglasses.

  steamy hiss

  No guns or knives. Not much blood. Just some pummeling, which seemed to clear her mind completely.

  TOM SLID THE KEY INTO BOX 214 and turned the lock. Sitting in the center of the empty aluminum locker was a slim black cell phone with a small yellow Post-it attached. As quickly as he could, Tom pulled out the phone and scanned the vast, smoky hall of the train station for potential surveillance. His eyes sought out, then passed on a number of suspects: the overweight woman with her poodle, the nondescript businessman reading a newspaper. They were civilians, though. He knew it. They met his gaze. Agents were always the ones who wouldn’t stare back at you.

  Static

  So. It seemed as if Loki still hadn’t located him. Which meant that there was still a minuscule chance that Loki hadn’t gotten to the informant, either. Tom quickly hurried toward the rest rooms, examining the Post-it. His feet clattered on the stone, lost in the reverberating voices and loudspeaker announcements.

  Frequency 74993. Wait for my signal.

  He stuffed the note deep in his pocket and abruptly changed direction, heading briskly toward track 8. Please let him make it this far, Tom prayed. The station Zoologischer Garten was massive—inundated with equal numbers of Germans and tourists. The blaring sun was reflecting twice as brightly off the huge steel-and-glass train platform on the main concourse. Tom removed his sunglasses from the front pocket of his black overcoat and slipped them on, constantly checking for tails in every available reflective surface: the metal of a garbage can, a coffee cart, the window of a magazine shop.

  Suddenly he spotted a German family, with a young daughter about the same age as the girl from his nightmare. . . the same age as Gaia when they had last been a true family. This girl was also blond. For a moment Tom’s concentration wavered. He shook his head violently and picked up his pace—a stupid move, as it attracted attention to himself. But with Gaia’s life quite possibly at stake, his long-honed professional armor was beginning to show signs of wear. The nightmare was still haunting him.

  I’m with you, Gaia. I’m with you right now. I haven’t abandoned you. Everything I do now is for you.

  With a final surreptitious glance over his shoulder, he climbed the stairs to the platform. The sunlight warmed his face. Track 8 was relatively deserted. There were only one or two people on both sides of the track. The informant had made a good choice. If they survived this transaction, the informant deserved a medal and a pension from the agency. Tom would vouch for him.

  Whoever you are, I owe you one, friend.

  A man in a black cap and beige overcoat walked up onto the opposite platform. For a moment he seemed to look across the tracks at Tom, but he didn’t look directly at him. He paced a bit. Checked down the track for the train. Checked his watch. This was the man. Tom was certain of it.

  A train appeared from around the bend, sounding its horn. As the horn grew louder and the train neared the station, the man in the beige coat suddenly pulled out a small black cell phone and began to dial. Tom felt a flicker of hope. He thrust his hand in his pocket and whipped out his own phone, pounding the frequency code into the keypad. Again the horn sounded, deafeningly. The platform vibrated. Tom slapped the phone against his ear, switching his gaze back and forth between the informant and the train. The informant was obviously planning to deliver his message and immediately board the train, but what about the noise factor and the potential interference? And the lack of time—

  “Can you hear me?” a deep, emotionless voice asked through a sea of static.

  “Just barely,” Tom hissed. He glanced toward the train again. They had maybe fifteen seconds before the call was lost altogether.

  “I’m sorry,” the voice said. “This—shhh—best— shh—could do.”

  “You’re breaking up,” Tom shouted. “Can we change frequencies?”

  “I’m ru—shhh—of time. You—shhh—listen closely.”

  Tom’s gaze shot back to the informant. A man had appeared directly behind him: a man in an overcoat and suit. He was folding a newspaper and beginning to walk toward the informant. Panic shot through Tom’s veins.

 
“Behind you!” Tom whispered. “Move away from—”

  “Listen—shh—me.”

  “Can you hear me?” Tom breathed, his eyes pinned to the slow-moving man with the newspaper. “Goddamn it, listen! He’s right—”

  “. . . shhh—talk, just listen!” he insisted. “It’s Gaia. . . they’re planning a kidnapping—shh—operation involves DNA—”

  The train sliced through Tom’s line of vision, roaring into the station and cutting him off from the informant. He stood in silence, with the phone to his ear, his mind spinning with the words he’d just heard. He wouldn’t jump to conclusions. He couldn’t. They didn’t make any sense. He swallowed, staring at the train as it stopped with a loud hiss.

  A German voice blared from a loudspeaker. But the voice on the phone was silent. Tom forced himself to breathe deeply and evenly, waiting as the train filled with passengers, waiting for it to pull away, waiting and waiting....

  Finally, with another steamy hiss, the wheels turned and it began to rumble out of the station. Tom’s jaw tightened when he saw the empty platform. The informant was gone—probably dead already. He didn’t waste another moment. He thrust the phone in his pocket, raced down the platform steps, and disappeared into the crowd. There was no time to consider the puzzle pieces of information he’d heard. Gaia was alone. Tom would be on a plane home within an hour. If not sooner.

  THE OPPOSING TEAM HAD ALREADY come to fear her. As well they should. Nobody could tackle her, and nobody wanted to stand in her way, either. Gaia was having a blast. She’d just scored her second touchdown. It was so easy. All of Paul’s friends kept staring at her with looks of bewilderment and awe. The question of the day seemed to be: “Are you sure you’ve never played football before?”

  Transparent Hustle

  She hadn’t, of course. But if she’d known what she’d been missing, she would have started a long time ago. She felt so alive—with her clothes all muddied and her cheeks rosy and the crisp air tearing into her lungs. On TV, football looked so boring. A bunch of guys stand really still, and then they pile on top of each other. Then they wait while idiot commentators make moronic remarks. And then they do it again. But now she understood the true nature of the sport, the strategy. In some ways, football was like chess. The pawns protected the king, which was the quarterback. Every play was another move. . . .But the best part of all was that football was an institutionalized means with which to express as much aggression as possible. No guns or knives. Not much blood. Just some pummeling, which seemed to clear her mind completely. There was no past, no confusion, no suffering—just a lot of easygoing camaraderie, the kind of bonding that people her age must experience on a daily basis all across the country. Normalcy was a beautiful thing. She’d underestimated it for far too long.