‘If we could get her into a different suite—do we have time to set up surveillance?’
Ben keyed his smartcom and spoke rapidly to one of his techs. He nodded and then turned to her.
‘What have you in mind?’ he asked, still holding the device to his ear.
‘A water leak,’ she replied, promptly. ‘I’ll go and see the duty manager. I know he quite fancies me, so I don’t see it being a problem.’
Ben laughed as she sped towards reception.
‘Let me know as soon as you have a suite number,’ he called after her, ‘and see if your charms can buy us some time too. We’ve only got about forty five minutes as it is.’
Her mark, Geoffrey, as his name badge proclaimed, stood in the resplendent reception lobby and watched a stunning creature approach him. Her presence excited him and he struggled to compose himself. Sam greeted him warmly and took his arm, guiding him over to a huge flower display. He listened intently, smiled and patted her hand. A few moments later, an immense grin lit his face and he blushed, fanning his reddening cheeks with his fingertips. Giggling, they parted.
Geoffrey, consulting a smartcom, hurried to the desk and gave crisp instructions to one of his staff. He turned to Sam who was already at the elevator and held up his fingers for her. She waved, blew him a kiss which he caught with a pout, and darted into the elevator. It was that easy.
She found Ben anxiously pacing the floor where she’d left him. He looked intently at her as she approached.
‘Any luck?’
‘Hmm, yes and no,’ she said, ‘the suite she’s going to is 323 and she’ll be delayed in the lobby for about thirty minutes—comp drink and all that.’
‘Fantastic, you’re wonderful,’ Ben said with admiration. He relayed the information to the techs and then looked back at her.
‘So what’s the no in this?’
‘Well,’ she said, struggling to keep her face straight, ‘you know I said that the duty manager fancied me?’
‘And obviously he does,’ Ben said, frowning.
‘Actually, no,’ Sam said, ‘I lied to you.’
‘But you got a result, Sam,’ Ben said, shaking his head. And then he stopped and stared at her.
‘You didn’t? You wouldn’t? You couldn’t?’ he protested.
‘Umm, yes,’ Sam said, hardly able to contain herself, ‘you’re meeting Geoffrey for drinks in the cocktail bar at five. Consider it your patriotic duty,’ she added, fleeing down the corridor.
*
Geoffrey was true to his word. When he met his VIP guest in reception, he was utterly charming in his apologies, promising to have the presidential suite made available within the hour. His offer of afternoon tea in the observatory restaurant with its enormous views of Sydney harbor and the Opera House by way of compensation was cheerfully declined.
‘Thanks anyway, but I’ve been pampered nicely all the way here,’ Sarah told him, ‘and even managed a shower and change of clothes before landing. It’s years since I was last in Sydney, so I’m off to The Rocks to buy some gifts for my boys before I have to knuckle down to work.’
‘How old are they?’ Geoffrey asked, signaling a staff member to take her luggage into care.
‘Six and eight,’ Sarah replied, laughing, ‘and helicopters are very much the flavor of the month.’
‘Got it,’ Geoffrey said, ‘a bit like one of my nephews. He’s into ships right now.’
He scribbled a few lines on a piece of paper and handed it to her.
‘You’ll find heaps of goodies for yourself at The Rocks, but the best place for kids is a little shop here,’ he said. ‘There are the most amazing puzzles and games, and I picked up an old-fashioned jigsaw there. Remember the ones you did after spreading all the pieces on a tray? I’m sure I saw some aviation ones in there too.’
‘Perfect, absolutely perfect,’ Sarah said, enthusiastically, picking up her purse. ‘They both love doing jigsaws on their flexis but it’s more screen time and they get enough already with their school work. This way we can all join in the fun.’
As his VIP guest left the hotel, Geoffrey picked up his smartcom.
*
When Sarah didn’t return during the afternoon, Ben thought it would be advisable to keep his drinks date with Geoffrey and insisted that Sam join him. Shortly after Geoffrey reported to Sam that Sarah had gone shopping, he’d gone off duty and had stopped answering his calls. He and Sam had agonized over tailing her, but their combined experience had taught them that to avoid detection it was advisable to leave some slack wherever feasible.
‘Dumb idea,’ Ben said. He was beginning to feel anxious.
‘We talked about this,’ Sam said. ‘Look, we’ve had her under close surveillance for almost a week and we can safely presume her contact with Argon will be having her watched, along with god knows who else. We’re almost stumbling over one another with surveillance here.’
Sam looked around the bar. It was filling with an up-market, after-work crowd who could afford to hang out in a pricey establishment before heading home, or to a show. And Sam had to concede, the hotel was an elegantly designed, somewhere she’d feel very comfortable staying if she could afford a quarter of the room rate.
‘Do you think your Geoffrey’s kosher?’ Ben asked, stopping her little fantasy from going any further.
Sam thought for a moment.
‘My instinct tells me yes, although it seems strange that he’s dropped off the radar just when we need him. Argon are big, very big, and I guess he could well be in their pay and warned them. They could have picked her up outside the hotel and taken her anywhere.’
‘We’re no closer to working out what those bastards are up to, are we?’ Ben said.
Sarah sighed.
‘No, all we know is that they’re hell bent on getting Corsfield’s third book written. They must have him stashed away somewhere close for Sarah Marsden to be here now. And we’re no closer to working out what’s in the first two books that’s causing psychological distress to readers.’
‘And with the western world’s greatest psyche services available to analyze the books inside and out, all we have is a bunch of dissatisfied, pissed off psychologists. There’s no way I’m reading that stuff after seeing what it does to people.’ Ben added, mournfully.
‘What do we know about her contact, Cross?’ Sam asked scanning the entrance to the bar again. It was almost six.
‘There’s another mystery for you,’ Ben said, checking the notes on his smartcom. ‘He came out of nowhere—educated at Columbia, and he did so well they had him marked for a stellar academic career. He then surprised everyone by joining Argon as a lowly broker. But he didn’t sit there too long. As soon as he reached exec level, the shutters came down and we know nothing except that he has a reputation for being the most cut-throat operator in the business. They call him The Beast.’
‘What about his past?’ Sam asked. ‘He’s an intriguing sort of character.’
‘Not much there either,’ Ben remarked, ‘he’s certainly very mysterious. The teams are still digging around but they can’t find anything back from his university days. Even there, he went to great lengths to keep himself to himself—living off campus, no friends et cetera. It’s as if his entire past has been erased from the records.’
Sam was about to say something but stopped, staring intently over Ben’s shoulder.
‘Don’t look round,’ she hissed.
‘I hate it when people say that,’ Ben muttered. ‘What’s happening?’
‘Oh, Christ, he’s bringing her this way,’ Sam, moaned.
‘Who’s bringing who?’ Ben asked, resisting the temptation to spin around on his bar stool.
‘Hello dears,’ called a chirpy voice, ‘lovely to see you here.’
‘Oh, hi there, Geoffrey,’ Sam responded, with an enthusiasm she definitely did not feel.
‘Sarah,’ Geoffrey bubbled, ‘let me introduce you to some gorgeous people, Sam and Ben. They’re all the
way from the States—just like you.’
Ben rolled his eyes and turned around with a polite smile. It would take the right time and the right place but he was going to kill this guy.
As Geoffrey looked on, clasping his hands in delight, they both shook Sarah’s hand and muttered the usual right words.
‘Darlings we’ve had the most amazing afternoon’s shopping ever,’ Geoffrey gushed, signaling the barman. ‘Now, what would everyone like to drink? It’s on the establishment, of course.’
Ben caught Sam’s eye for a split second, clearly handing him the decision for them to stay or go.
‘We’ll have Elijah Craig thirty-year-olds, thank you Geoffrey,’ Ben said, keeping the malice he was feeling out of his voice. That’ll set him back.
‘Oh, bourbon aficionados, lovely, lovely,’ Geoffrey said, giving Ben a wink, ‘but I think we can do better than that.’
Geoffrey gave their orders, Ben’s bourbon and champagne for the ladies, to the barman and then shooed them into a plush corner seat that was pleasantly near a band playing low-key jazz numbers.
He remained standing while they made themselves comfortable.
‘Aren’t you joining us,’ Sarah asked, patting the seat next to her.
‘Sadly darlings, I have to catch up on my paperwork,’ he said. ‘You lovely people just enjoy yourselves—it’s so nice to have you here.’
As he turned to go, he paused briefly, looking pointedly at Sam
‘Oh, my apologies Sam, I believe reception has a message for you. Would you like me to have it delivered to you?’
Sam took the cue and slid off her seat.
‘No, I’ll come over with you Geoffrey, thanks,’ she said taking his arm, ‘see you guys in a minute.’
‘Well,’ Sarah laughed, ‘it seems we’ve both been abandoned by our escorts.’
‘But not the bar,’ Ben chuckled as their drinks arrived. ‘What have we got here?’ Ben asked the barman, who’d brought the drinks out himself.
‘Sir, this is Booker's, Knob Creek, a rare bottling that is now a collector’s item. It’s from the manager’s locked reserve that we keep for special guests.’
‘Wow,’ Sarah said, when the barman had gone, ‘I’m honoured to be in such august company.’
‘I think he fancies me,’ Ben said, with a wry grin.
‘Oh, I don’t think so,’ Sarah said, laughing. ‘He has two youngsters and an absolutely stunning wife. He told me that he just puts on the airs and flutters as a bit of fun. He’s found it really disarms people and gives him a professional advantage in the hospitality industry.’
‘I’ll never look at any of my gay friends the same way again,’ Ben said. You cunning bastard. ‘So, what are you doing in Sydney?’
‘Working actually,’ Sarah said. ‘I’m a writer, although I’m not really sure when I’m going to be starting.’
Ben moved to allow Sam back to her seat.
‘Rare bourbon from the boss’s secret stash,’ he said, handing a glass to her. ‘Sarah was just saying she’s a writer.’
‘Hmm, this is gorgeous,’ Sam said. ‘What sort of writer, Sarah?’
‘I write stuff for other people usually,’ she replied, ‘bios, that sort of thing.’
‘Aha, you’re a real live ghostwriter, are you?’ Sam said, appearing to perk up.
Sarah blushed slightly.
‘Well, yes, that’s what we’re called, I guess.’
‘Now that’s exciting,’ Ben said. ‘Do you write for anyone famous?’
‘Sorry Ben,’ Sarah said, ‘that’s where I get boring. I just can’t say who my clients are, unfortunately. Not unless they want me on the front cover like Marko Stiles did.’
Sam clapped her hands.
‘Of course, you must be Sarah Marsden. That was a brilliant piece of writing you did for Stiles there. You got right inside his head and did him the world of good in the public eye at the same time. Great golfing stories too. Was he as hard to work with as they say he is?’
Ben sat back slightly as Sam and Sarah continued talking about Marko, thinking that the ‘chance’ meeting that Geoffrey had engineered may prove invaluable after all. Sarah was becoming very chatty and the staff, obviously under instruction, had already topped up her glass a couple of times. Picking up on a remark from Sarah about making time to write, he rejoined the conversation.
‘So how long does it take to write a book—the average bio or novel, for example?’
‘Once I have all my research done, or interviews recorded, a bio should be completed to first draft in about three to four months,’ Sarah said. ‘That’s writing steadily on the one project and not locking myself away for the duration. It is about balance too. My theory is that the conscious part of the brain needs to recharge itself from the depths of the mysterious unconscious. Every time we write we use up our conscious allocation and need to do something different to help the regeneration process—that’s why proper sleep is so important.’
‘Wow,’ Sam said, ‘a novel every four months—that’s amazing.’
Sarah laughed.
‘Funny you should say that—in fiction the resources drawn from the unconscious are even more important. That’s when the three or four month timeframe becomes less realistic.’
‘Why?’ Sam asked.
‘Because the unconscious mind can only supply so much material each day, it’s only the truly prolific who can keep up the pace and produce good work. Creative writing is also hugely draining.’
‘Is that because it’s hard to sit in one place for long periods?’ Sam asked.
‘Partly,’ Sarah replied, ‘although numb bum syndrome can be overcome by disciplined stretching and, hey, you’re not looking at a good example here either. I’ll find any excuse to raid the fridge or the cookie jar and that’s not good either.’
Sarah looked questioningly at her full glass and shrugged, taking a sip.
‘Actually,’ she continued, ‘the exhausting thing I find about writing fiction is that I’m living in the book the whole time, even when not I’m not physically writing it.’
‘What do you mean “living in the book”?’ Ben asked, perplexed.
‘Is it like you’re totally self-absorbed?’ Sam asked.
‘That’s it exactly,’ Sarah agreed, ‘I’m in what I call la-la land. I can function perfectly well, shop, cook, and hold a conversation but, because it’s so real to me, I’m constantly slipping back into my fictional world. I have snippets of dialogue running through my head, my protagonist struggles with a life and death issue, or I need a plot scenario, that sort of thing.’
‘All the time?’ Ben asked.
‘Pretty much,’ Sarah admitted, ‘although a yoga session or a good walk can bring me back for a while. Anyway, it’s not something I would want to discourage. When I’m writing a pot boiler my head needs to be there otherwise I’ll lose the thread of the story and have to rediscover it every time I write.’
‘“Pot boiler”—I love that term,’ Sam said, ‘so where does your material come from?’
‘Good question—you guys actually.’
‘Oh, how’s that?’ Ben said, flicking a quick glance Sam’s way.
‘No, no, don’t worry, you won’t be appearing in my next piece of fiction,’ Sarah laughed, ‘I mean day-to-day events, plane trips, conversations like these, interesting people like Geoffrey—they’re all great fodder for writing fiction. Something someone says or does can trigger a thread and away it goes. So what do you guys do back in the States?’ she asked, unexpectedly.
Ben was about to give their pre-agreed response, but Sam smoothly beat him to it.
‘Oh, I so wish we had something exciting to tell you about our lives, but we’re mid-pointers in Washington’s great grinding bureaucracy. Your life is out of this world in comparison. But what I’d love to ask is how much of your own life’s experiences find their way into your writing?’
‘There’s plenty of me in my writing and most authors reflect the
ir lives onto the page, but not in quite the way people generally believe. When a work of fiction is published, readers often assume the authors are writing about their own lives whereas, in fact, the author may be drawing on experiences, or the experiences of others, and then changing its essence to suit the story. Some readers believe that an author is what they write.’
‘I’m not quite sure I understand,’ Sam said, aware that Sarah’s words were becoming a little slurred. She caught the waiter’s eye, giving him a slight shake of the head. ‘Give me an example’
‘Sure,’ Sarah said, draining her glass, ‘think of a popular fiction writer.’
‘Hmm, most of my reading’s technical papers these days,’ Ben said thoughtfully. ‘OK, how about that guy that’s been selling like hot cakes, umm, Cranston is it?’
Sarah chuckled.
‘Wow, you guys do live in a different world. You mean Corsfield, Zachary Corsfield—he’s a household name.’
Ben shrugged apologetically.
‘OK, let’s take him, for example. He writes some very dark stuff and his characters emanate violence and hate. A huge number of Corsfield readers believe that he’s exactly like one of his diabolical characters. He has a cult following of weirdoes who want him to be their leader and his publishing company receives buckets of hate mail sent to him every day.’
‘Maybe he is a monster,’ Sam said.
‘Apparently not,’ Sarah replied. ‘From what I understand, he’s a really pleasant guy. He just loves to write about the dark side of human nature.’
‘Does he write his own stuff, do you think?’ Ben asked, casually, taking a sip of bourbon.
Sarah went silent and Ben cursed under his breath. He’d blown it.
‘You know I haven’t drunk this much for a long time and my head’s spinning quite pleasantly,’ she said.
‘That’s the upside of drinking the very best champagne,’ Sam said, ‘it doesn’t make you feel quite so bad.’
‘You’re both lovely people,’ Sarah said, peering at them both through one eye and then the other. I feel like I’ve known you forever.’
The Last Book. A Thriller Page 18
