“No,” Sydney lied. “They're great.”
“No, you're right,” he said, shoulders slumping. “They're the right tools for the job, but they're not very sexy.” All of a sudden his face lit up. “Oh, I have something for you! Something very cool.”
Turning to a file cabinet piled to the ceiling with junk, Graham opened a drawer and extracted a small white envelope. He shook something from it into his upturned palm and proudly extended his hand to Sydney. She had to look twice to see the tiny iridescent oblong, an eighth the size of a grain of rice, resting in his lifeline.
“What is that?” she asked.
“Edible transmitter,” he said, beaming. “You put this in Mr. Vincent's coffee, and its density keeps it floating right in the middle of the liquid. The coating reflects surrounding colors, making it almost invisible. He swallows it, none the wiser. Then you can listen to him on your earpiece and record him on your pen. You'll get every word he says—so long as you're both in the building.”
“Wait. We have to be in the SST building?”
“Or within a hundred yards of each other somewhere else,” Graham said, his smile dimming slightly. “That's the only drawback with all three of these devices: I had to scale back the signals to avoid detection during scans. SST has got to have somebody sweeping for bugs. I mean, I hope they do. Unless they're stupid. Which, now that I'm thinking about it, would explain a lot. . . .”
A faraway look entered his eyes as he considered that pleasant possibility.
“Anyway,” he said abruptly, snapping back to the present, “once Vincent swallows this, you're golden until it passes out of his system. Twenty, thirty hours—maybe longer.”
“That's pretty vague,” she protested. “Can't you narrow it down?”
Graham shrugged. “Depends how regular Vincent is. When you're serving his coffee, steer him away from the bran muffins.”
“Right,” she said, sorry she'd asked.
“Which reminds me, you might get some background noise,” he continued matter-of-factly. “Stomach acid, gas, that type of thing. And then, of course, the device will eventually pass. . . .”
“Super,” Sydney said weakly.
She could only hope she wouldn't be listening then.
By the time Sydney climbed the last flight of stairs to her dorm room, she was ready to collapse. The past three days had been exhausting; all she wanted to do was sleep and forget about them.
Put in two good hours with the books and then you can go to bed early, she promised herself, walking up to her room. Maybe Francie will want to split a pizza before we crash.
She opened her door hopefully, looking forward to finally spending some time with her best friend, but the scene inside stopped her dead in her tracks.
Three girls were crammed into her small room, surrounded by shopping bags and tissue paper. Francie sprawled diagonally across her twin bed, another girl lounged on the floor, and a total stranger had commandeered Sydney's bed, her back propped up with Sydney's pillows. The CD player was blaring, but no one seemed to be listening to the music. Instead, the girls were talking animatedly among themselves, breaking off their conversation when Francie caught sight of Sydney.
“Hey, Syd. There you are,” she said, turning down the stereo. “You're home early.”
“Not really.”
Between her shift at SST, her visits with Wilson and Graham, and ditching her Kristin Jarvis disguise, she was over an hour later than she'd be on a normal day at the “bank.”
“No? I guess I didn't notice.” Francie shrugged, turning her attention back to her guests.
“Anyway,” the girl on the floor said, completely ignoring Sydney. “We have to go tomorrow. If there's any chance he'll be working again . . .”
“Oh! Oh!” The one on Sydney's bed cut in. “One, two—”
“Free!” all of them cried together, dissolving into uncontrollable laughter.
Sydney smiled uneasily. She wanted to be friendly, but she had no idea what they were talking about. Not only that, but there was nowhere good left to sit. Picking her way through the mess on the floor, she set her backpack on her desk and managed to pull her chair out far enough to squeeze into it sideways, twisting around to see Francie and her new friends. All three girls were wearing cropped baby blue T-shirts—identical baby blue T-shirts, with UCLA in gold letters across their chests. They looked like a sorority.
A sorority of three.
“I was thinking maybe we could call for a pizza,” Sydney said when the giggles died down. She ventured a smile at the girl on her bed. “If you guys are staying, we could get two.”
“We already ate,” the girl replied, pummeling one of Sydney's pillows to make it more comfortable.
“Sorry,” Francie added. “I didn't know you'd want pizza.”
“It doesn't matter. I'm not that hungry,” Sydney lied, ignoring her growling stomach.
“There's some caramel corn in one of these bags,” Francie offered, pointing without getting up. “I couldn't finish it all.”
“You went shopping again, huh?”
The girl on the floor gave Sydney a disbelieving look. “We didn't whip up a batch of caramel in here.”
“No. Right.” Sydney shifted her weight uncomfortably. “I'm sorry. I didn't get your name.”
“Didn't I introduce everyone?” Francie roused herself a little. “This is Shauna and Carly,” she said, pointing to the floor and Sydney's bed, respectively. “And this is my roommate, Sydney.”
Roommate? Sydney caught her breath, hurt.
“So are we going?” Shauna demanded, looking from Francie to Carly. “We are, right? We have to.”
“I'll tell you what we should do,” Carly said, rolling onto her side. Her bare feet scrabbled on Sydney's bedspread, tangling it into a lump. “Operation Ego.”
“More like Operation Afro,” Francie said. “Puh-lease!”
They all started laughing hysterically, not the least bit concerned that Sydney didn't get the joke.
“You're bad!” said Shauna, reaching up to slap Francie's leg.
“What's bad is that guy's hair!” Carly gasped between giggles.
“I have to study,” Sydney blurted out.
Francie gave her a startled look. “Okay. Go ahead.”
Sydney glanced meaningfully around the room. Francie just stared blankly.
“In the library,” Sydney said at last, rising to her feet and slinging her backpack over one shoulder. Every cell in her body protested, crying out for a shower, a pizza, and bed. But there was no way she'd ever get any of that with Shauna and Carly around.
Besides, she obviously wasn't welcome.
“See you later,” Francie said as Sydney headed out.
Sydney opened the door, then stopped, turning to face her best friend. “See you later. Roomie.”
Francie didn't flinch. She didn't even get it.
“So, what are we wearing tomorrow?” Sydney heard Carly ask as she closed the door.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Sydney
Received your message and am distressed to hear you didn't know Sydney was recruited. Arvin implied you were in the loop. You must realize he'd have activated her with or without me, but as her handler I've done my best to keep her out of harm's way. She's an exceptional girl, Jack. You must be very proud.
Reg
5
“I'M NOT SURE WHY you'd volunteer for this,” Rachel said, pushing her glasses up her small nose, “but I love you for it.”
She and Sydney were alone in the SpaceSoft lobby, confronting a pile of mail to be processed, an unusually active switchboard, and a new “filler” project involving typing individualized labels for three hundred folders.
“No problem,” Sydney replied. “I'd much rather pass around coffee and sandwiches than tackle those phones again. I was a waitress once, you know.” No need to mention she'd been fired her fir
st day.
“Weren't we all?” Rachel said with a sigh. “Okay, you know how to find your way back to the main conference room. The food's already in there. All you have to do is make the coffee and—”
“Completely under control,” Sydney assured her. “Don't worry. I'm on it.”
“I'm not worried,” Rachel said. “It's just that these client meetings are a pretty big deal, and Owen can be surprisingly particular if he thinks—”
The telephone rang, then rang again, a cascade of blinking lights.
“Why?” Rachel asked the ceiling. “Why does it always have to be five lines at once?”
“I'll just go get started,” Sydney said quickly.
Rachel switched on her headset. “SpaceSoft Technologies. This is Rachel speaking. . . .”
Sydney had to force herself not to skip as she escaped down a series of back hallways to SST's most deluxe conference room. Rachel had taken her there in a panic just fifteen minutes earlier, which was when Sydney had first learned of the major client meeting Owen Vincent was holding that Wednesday afternoon.
Talk about timing! she thought, letting one hand stray to the pocket of her linen pants, where Graham's tiny edible bug was hidden in a wad of Kleenex. The receiver was already in her ear. I could have waited weeks for a chance like this!
She strode into the empty conference room, determined to take full advantage of the opportunity.
A double-long burled hardwood table dominated the center of the oblong room. The curved walls were covered with dark red silk, and plush silver carpeting snuffed the sound of her footsteps as she entered. The ornately carved ceiling likewise seemed to have acoustic properties. The entire room was so quiet she could suddenly hear herself breathing.
Soundproofing. But that's not a problem since I plan to eavesdrop from inside, she thought, touching her pocket again. Way inside.
At one curved end of the room, a white screen had been set up in preparation for some sort of presentation. Sydney headed toward the built-in bar at the other end, where two pink bakery boxes and an array of deli sandwiches waited beside a sleek black coffeemaker.
Coffee first, she thought, focusing on the reason she'd volunteered to waitress in the first place.
Fifteen minutes later, when Rachel ushered the first clients into the meeting room, the steam from a fresh pot of coffee perfumed the air, the sandwiches were arranged on two platters, and a dozen assorted gourmet pastries waited on individual dessert plates. Sydney had already put sandwich plates and mugs in front of twelve black leather chairs, and now she stood nervously to one side, waiting to serve the food and coffee.
Especially the coffee.
“Have a seat, gentlemen,” Rachel said, shepherding her charges to the part of the table Sydney had prepared. “Mr. Vincent will join you soon.”
She flashed Sydney a quick thumbs-up before exiting again. A moment later, Owen entered the room, offering a pained smile when he caught her eyeing his suit and fresh haircut.
“I know,” he mouthed silently, shrugging to indicate that the situation had been out of his hands.
Sydney found herself smiling back, actually pitying him.
He hadn't opted for his brochure crew cut this time, but his hair was inches shorter than before, well above his stiff white collar, and all of the sun streaks were gone. His suit was gray, his shoes shiny black, his tie a masterpiece of bland conformity. He held his briefcase like a prop, abandoning it on the floor as he began greeting his guests.
“Hello, Mac,” he said, reaching to shake a hand. “Anthony, glad you could make it.” The atmosphere was formal, but the men all seemed to know each other, leaving Sydney to deduce who they were without the benefit of introductions.
Rachel reappeared with another group, this one including two women. Her brown eyes turned wistful as she watched them take seats at the table, but she didn't hesitate long, stopping only to whisper to Sydney, “Just three more, and they're here all the time, so I'll send them in on their own. Start serving the sandwiches.”
“Okay,” Sydney whispered back, springing into action.
The other three clients arrived in short order, and for a while, the conference room sounded more like a diner than a high-tech business meeting. Sydney carried the sandwich trays around, using the opportunity to memorize faces. Nine of the clients were men, two women, and Vincent made it an even dozen. None of them mentioned the reason they'd come; instead, talk revolved around the unseasonably hot weather and whether it would continue into summer. No one paid attention as Sydney worked the edible bug out of her pocket and into the palm of her left hand. She was just an invisible waitress.
“Coffee?” she asked brightly, beginning to make her first round with the pot. “Coffee?”
She lifted each cup to fill it, establishing a pattern so Vincent wouldn't think twice when she handled his. Everything went perfectly as she worked her way up the table, her pulse getting faster with every step. She was reaching for Vincent's cup, relieved to see that her hand was still steady, when disaster struck.
“No thanks,” he said quickly, covering his cup with his hand. “I never drink the stuff.”
“But . . . but . . . you have to drink something,” she protested. “I could get you some tea. . . .”
“There's bottled water in the refrigerator. Bring out a few, in case anyone else wants one.”
Sydney nodded, abandoning the remaining empty coffee cups in her hurry to fetch the water.
Back at the bar, she yanked the paneled mini-fridge open, retrieving three bottles of Evian. She had planned to open one and drop the bug inside with her back still to Vincent, but now she hesitated, afraid the device might be visible through the clear plastic. Or what if it didn't float right in water? The density of coffee couldn't be significantly different . . . but did she need to factor in temperature?
“Kristin?” Vincent called behind her. “Is there a problem?”
“No! No problem,” she said, straightening up. She hurried back to the table, setting down two bottles and holding the third out to Vincent. “Is this okay?”
“Looks like water to me,” he said, reaching for the bottle.
She pulled it back. “I'll open it for you. Or how about a cup?” If she could pour the water into something that wasn't transparent . . .
“No, just give it here. I like the bottle.”
Sydney froze, stymied. Vincent raised an eyebrow at her. She handed the bottle over, unopened.
“Can I get some coffee now?” one of the clients she'd skipped before asked.
“Huh? Oh. Sure.”
For the next ten minutes Sydney hovered around the table, refilling cups, removing plates, and obsessing about her missed opportunity. Who knew when she'd be this close again?
She cruised slowly past Owen's chair, wondering if she could drop the bug down his shirt collar. She wouldn't get more than a few hours of surveillance that way, but maybe she'd get enough. At least she'd hear the meeting. Her hand strayed toward his neck. Closer, closer . . .
“Kristin?” he said, making her jump. He looked over his shoulder, right into her fake blue eyes. “How about that dessert? The sooner it's on the table, the sooner we can start our meeting and you can get back to Rachel.”
“Of course.” Palming the bug again, Sydney headed off to fetch the desserts.
“I'll have the chocolate,” one of the women said. Sydney handed it over, easily finding takers for the others she held as well.
“Did they send my carrot cake?” Vincent asked. “The one with the cream cheese frosting?”
The carrot cake he'd asked for was a gooey slice slathered in thick white icing with piped orange decorations. Sydney had already picked it up when inspiration struck. The tiny bug was still in her hand, and there was no way Vincent would see it tucked down in all that icing. Most likely he'd swallow it without a clue. If the worst happened, and he bit down on the device, he'd think it was a nut. Either way, she wouldn't get caught. Quickly, before she
could second-guess herself, Sydney dropped the bug onto the cake and pushed it into the frosting. Then, grabbing two more selections, she returned to the table and set the cake in front of Vincent.
“Mmm. That looks good,” a man sitting a few chairs away remarked enviously, eyeing the carrot cake.
“Here,” Vincent said, sliding his untouched cake down the table.
Sydney's stomach dropped to her feet.
“I couldn't.” The client pushed it back.
“This coconut cake looks great!” Sydney said, rushing in while she had the chance. She put it in front of the client, turning the plate to show its icing. “They're very similar. Really.”
“Then I'll eat it,” said Vincent, motioning for the man to switch with him. “It doesn't matter to me.”
“Well, if you're sure . . .”
Sydney held her breath. No, no, no, no . . .
“Of course. I can get that carrot cake anytime,” Vincent said, sliding it back over and snagging the other plate. “Besides, you're my guest.”
“Thank you,” the client said, pleased. He picked up a fork, preparing to plunge in.
“Whoops!” Sydney cried in a panic. “I think I see something dirty on that plate! Let me take it and get you a clean one.”
She lunged for the dessert, ignoring the heads swiveling her way. Her fingers touched china . . . then lost it again as the client pulled the plate from her grasp.
“This is fine,” he said, giving her an annoyed look. “I don't see a thing.” Aiming his fork again, he took a huge bite of the cake, making his point irrefutable.
“Thanks, Kristin.” Vincent's tone had gone ice cold. “Now leave us to our business.”
All the way across campus, rushing from the gym to her dorm, Sydney tortured herself with her mistake at SST.
Vincent's client had swallowed Graham's high-tech bug. Worse, Vincent had given her a truly nasty look as she'd left the conference room. Had she tipped him off somehow? Did he suspect her of spying, or just incompetence?
If it's incompetence, no worries, she told herself miserably. The incompetence part is true.
Father Figure Page 5
