She had spent the remainder of her afternoon at SpaceSoft trying to pick up the signal from the bug inside the client, but he wasn't saying much, and most of the other voices were too far away to make out. She'd recorded the meeting on her pen anyway, in case Graham could enhance the transmission enough to make sense, but she didn't have a lot of hope. At least Rachel had been able to give her the name of her unintended victim: Robert Armstrong.
“He's new in town. Independent contractor. I'm not too sure what his deal is,” Rachel had told her, sticking labels to folders at a furious pace. “But,” she'd added with an ill-concealed grin, “so far as I know, the future of SpaceSoft Technologies doesn't hang on him getting a clean plate.”
“I should have left it alone,” Sydney had said, groaning. “I just wanted everything to be perfect. You said Mr. Vincent can be particular.”
“True. But you have to know what he's particular about. Making a scene in front of a client is huge—much worse than a smudged plate.”
“I figured that out,” she'd said miserably.
“It's not like you offended someone important,” Rachel had reassured her. “Owen and Robert met at some lame association picnic. Besides, my bet is that Robert's only posing as a consultant until he can hit Owen up for a real job. Forget about it. Honestly.”
But the debacle in the conference room was all Sydney could think about. She had driven from SST to the school gym in a haze, stripping off her Kristin wig and clothes in a toilet stall and stashing them in her locker. A couple of makeup-removing cloths later and she was Sydney again, but her mind was still far away as she hurried to the dorm to change clothes once more, this time for dinner with her father. She would have loved to cancel, but she couldn't think of an excuse that wouldn't create worse problems than simply showing up.
Suffer now or suffer later. Besides, he'll be gone again soon. These bouts of togetherness never last.
Although Jack hadn't actually told her yet how long he'd be in town this time. He was only taking a break from his tour of South America—that much she'd deduced—but when he'd be going back to work was anybody's guess.
Soon, I hope. She just didn't know how many more awkward, cold, emotionally draining evenings she could stand while everything else in her life was so—
“Sydney?”
She had been dodging her fellow pedestrians without thinking, almost without seeing, so Burke nearly got mown over by stepping out in front of her.
“Burke!” she exclaimed, stopping just in time. “Sorry. My brain was somewhere else.”
“Yeah. I could practically hear you thinking from all the way over there.” He pointed to a wire-topped table a few feet away, where an open book and a cup of coffee sat abandoned. “You just getting back from work?”
“Yeah. It was a nightmare. I mean, we've got all these projects. . . .” She blinked a few times, trying to reorient herself to the set of lies that comprised her “normal” life.
“Your eyes . . . they're blue!”
Sydney's heart nearly stopped. In her rush to leave the gym, she'd forgotten to take out Kristin's contacts.
“Well, I just thought . . . I mean, as an experiment . . . ,” she fumbled.
“You're so beautiful,” he said, laying his hands on her cheeks and staring more deeply into her eyes.
“Really?” she said, relieved. “You like them?”
“I hate them. Which only proves my point.”
“I . . . huh?”
“If you still look this good with those ridiculous things in your eyes, imagine how gorgeous you are without them.”
He had caught her off guard. The blood rushed to her face. She could see that he meant what he'd said, and his eyes were suddenly full of other things too—things she wasn't sure she was ready to hear.
“You're not bad yourself,” she joked uneasily.
“Have dinner with me tonight.”
“I can't. I have . . . that history quiz Friday, remember? And a paper due next week. And . . . a bunch of other stuff.”
She might have told him about Jack, but she didn't have the time. The nature of her relationship with her father wasn't a two-second explanation to be tossed off in the middle of campus. It was more like a Russian novel; to understand it required patience, a box of tissues, and several vodka shooters.
“I have to go,” she said, trying not to notice how sad he looked. “I'm sorry.”
She stretched up on her toes, dropping a kiss on his lips, but Burke didn't perk up the way she had hoped.
“When will I see you?” he asked. “I mean, really see you. When are you going to have time for me?”
“Soon,” she promised, feeling awful and guilty and probably wrong. He was so sweet . . . and she was such a liar. “Just let me get through finals, okay?”
He held her eyes a moment longer, then reluctantly let her go.
“Don't forget,” he whispered, touching the tip of her nose. “I'm going to hold you to that.”
“I thought the food here would be more authentic,” Jack remarked, prodding a half-eaten chile relleno with his fork. “This is tourist fare.”
“Not on Olvera Street!” Sydney exclaimed, pretending shock. She knew she was being obnoxious, but his choice of dinner location was incomprehensible to her. The single long block on which their restaurant was located was the oldest, most historic spot in downtown Los Angeles, but it was also a magnet for tourists in search of tacos, T-shirts, and strolling mariachis. “Didn't you get enough Mexican food in South America?”
“Perhaps next quarter you'll take geography,” he said, pushing his plate away. “It doesn't matter; I'm full. How about you? Flan?”
“No, thanks.”
Sydney stared at her father across their mosaic-topped table for two, trying to read his mind. Ever since they'd met up that evening, he'd seemed determined to treat her as younger than she was, and she couldn't figure out why. The aggressively festive restaurant, the fuss he'd made when he hadn't heard the “virgin” in her margarita order, his constant references to school . . .
I'm surprised he didn't ask the waitress for a booster seat.
The worst part was that the younger he treated her, the younger she acted. She could practically feel herself regressing.
“Well, if we're done here, let's go outside while the shops are still open,” he said. “Maybe one of them has something you'll want.”
Like a pony?
Jack dropped a tip on the table and the two of them made their way to the cashier. Sydney stood off to one side while her father paid their bill, wondering what she was so mad about. After all, she had wanted his attention. So why wasn't she happy now that he was finally making an effort?
Because he still doesn't see me, she realized. He's lost in some fantasy world where he's a dutiful dad and I'm a little girl. He doesn't know me at all.
Outside the restaurant, the narrow pedestrian street was deep in evening shade, but the sun hadn't yet disappeared. Sydney followed her father past a burbling, triple-tiered fountain and along a row of shops with wares spilling onto the pavement, creating the illusion of stalls in an open-air market. She saw clothing, piñatas, woven blankets, huaraches, and, peering into the stores' dim interiors, brightly painted ceramics, candles, and glassware.
“What are you doing this summer?” Jack asked, falling back to walk at her side.
Sydney shrugged. “I'd like to get through finals before I worry about summer.”
“But afterwards,” he persisted. “Any plans?”
“I don't know. Whatever.”
“I see. And what, exactly, does ‘whatever' consist of?”
He wasn't going to take the hint, and his questions were making her squirm. There was no doubt in her mind that Wilson would plan her entire summer. But what could she tell her father?
“The bank has a filing backlog,” she said. “If I help get them caught up, they might let me start teller training.”
Jack nodded thoughtfully. “I admire y
our initiative, but it's misplaced.”
“What's that supposed to mean?”
“You're nineteen. You're an English major, Sydney. Where are you going at Credit Dauphine? What I mean to ask is, what are your long-term plans there?”
The sudden intensity of his gaze made Sydney feel weak in the knees.
He knows, she thought. He knows about SD-6.
Then reality kicked in.
There was no way her stodgy father could have a clue about her involvement with the CIA. He was only being parental. Or attempting to be, anyway.
“Some people might be glad their kid was trying to earn her own way,” she said. “I remember a spending-cash shortage before I started my job.”
Her father's thin lips pressed into a line. He seemed about to snap out a retort.
“Did you know your school offers a summer session in London?” he asked instead. “You could be attending an English university, studying British literature with British professors. Wouldn't that be more valuable than filing paperwork at the bank?”
“Valuable to whom?” she asked sullenly.
Jack gave her an exasperated look. “I'm trying to help you, Sydney! If you want to go to London, I'm more than happy to pay.”
The most annoying part was, she did want to go. She'd heard about the summer-abroad program, but hadn't let herself even consider participating. Money wasn't the problem; she just couldn't be gone that long. Not with Wilson counting on her . . .
“I'd like to go, but not this year,” she said at last. “The bank needs me.”
“The bank does not need you—that's my point. Quit your job and go to London.”
“Why don't you quit your job?” she retorted, sounding exactly as childish as he obviously thought she was. “I suppose the airplanes of the world would fall out of the sky if you weren't the one who sold their parts.”
Jack looked skyward, pained. “Now you're just being—”
“What? What am I being?” she challenged. “What makes your job more important than mine?”
“You don't know anything about my job.”
“I know it's kept you out of my life! You go where you want, do what you want, and only see me when you want.”
“You can't honestly believe that.”
“No,” she said spitefully. “You probably never want to see me. You only show up when you think you have to.”
“That's not true.”
“Then tell me, Dad, what goes on at Jennings Aerospace that's more important than raising your own daughter?”
Her voice had been rising by degrees, and now she was practically shouting. Jack glanced self-consciously around the crowded plaza.
“I'm not going to discuss this here,” he said in a low voice. “I didn't have to come to L.A. this week.”
“So why did you?”
“I don't know anymore.”
“That makes two of us!”
She could feel the tears about to burst free, but that only made her more angry. She stood there glaring, out of words, then abruptly turned and ran across the plaza. There was music playing and people were laughing, but all Sydney heard were her own ragged breaths and the sound of her rapid footfalls. She didn't glance back once until she'd reached a grassy park.
Jack hadn't followed her. She hadn't expected him to.
He's gone, she realized, torn. No way would he stick around town after that.
Her father hated emotional outbursts. He hated emotion of any sort.
He's gone, she thought again. Good riddance!
6
“YOU'RE GOING TO MISS class,” Francie warned.
A flying pillow hit Sydney's head, launched from across the room.
“It's early,” Sydney complained, opening her eyes and squinting into the morning light. Francie was already up and dressed, her backpack slung over one shoulder. “Hey, what time is it?”
“It's exactly half an hour since you beat your alarm clock into submission. If that thing doesn't work tomorrow, you have only yourself to blame.”
“Oh.” She did vaguely remember knocking something across the room. “I'm just so tired.”
“I'm not surprised. You were out awfully late with your father. I thought you were only having dinner.”
“Ugh. Don't remind me.”
Forcing herself to sit up, Sydney swung her bare feet to the floor. “We got in this huge fight, and I ended up walking around downtown, trying to cool off. I wanted to tell you last night, but you were asleep when I got here.”
“You went walking downtown by yourself? At night?” Francie asked disbelievingly.
“No. . . . Well . . . for a while.” Sydney put both hands to her aching head. “Then I rode the Amtrak down the coast to Solana Beach and back.”
Francie stared, amazed. “Should I even ask?”
“The train station's right there. Tickets are cheap. I was crazed. . . .” Sydney shook her head. “The worst part is, Burke wanted to see me last night and I had to blow him off to meet my father. I think he's starting to get mad at me.”
“I'm not surprised,” Francie said again.
“Well, at least I don't have to worry about making any more time for my dad. After the fight we had, he was probably on the first plane to Brazil.”
“They don't have a train?” Francie asked, raising one brow.
“Very funny. Trust me, Francie, he's gone.”
“He wouldn't leave town without saying good-bye.”
“Yes, he would.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. . . . No.” Sydney heaved a sigh. “I don't know.”
Francie's features softened. “If he did, it's his loss.”
“I guess. Listen, do you want to get some breakfast? I'll just pull on some sweats and—”
“I can't. I'm meeting Shauna and Carly for breakfast.”
“Oh.” Sydney's shoulders slumped. She could have really used a friend.
“I would have eaten with you,” Francie said defensively. “But I didn't know you were going to be around.”
Asking if they could all go to breakfast together was obviously out of the question. Sydney found herself getting angry all over again remembering the way Shauna and Carly had excluded her Tuesday night. “Maybe if your schedule wasn't so full of Shauna and Carly,” she accused, “I wouldn't need an appointment just to—”
“Don't even go there. You have got to be kidding me!” Francie held up a warning hand. “If you weren't always so busy with your precious bank, I wouldn't need Shauna and Carly and we wouldn't be having this discussion.”
“But—”
“Correction—we aren't having this discussion. You've already made me late.”
With a toss of her head, Francie headed out the door, slamming it behind her.
“Great,” Sydney said, flopping backward onto her mattress. “The perfect start to another perfect day.”
“You're sure you're all right by yourself?” Rachel asked. “That copier can be pretty cranky.”
“I'm an expert at cranky,” Sydney said. “But if I get stuck, I'll call you.”
“I'd better get back to the front desk, then. Jamia will be wondering what's happened to me by now.”
“See you in a while,” Sydney said, doing her best to make her voice bored. Rachel might get suspicious if she seemed too happy about making four copies each of three phone books' worth of engineering reports. But she was. Working by herself in the copy room would give her plenty of time to use her eraser mike to listen through the walls.
Too bad Owen isn't here today, she thought.
Not that she was likely to be allowed anywhere near him after the cake incident, but at least she was still allowed in the building. She could get a stack of copies going, then do a bit of snooping.
Maybe I'll run into Noah again.
The thought gave her a pang. She hadn't even talked to Noah since Monday, when he'd bailed her out of the upstairs library. She missed him, but she hadn't had time to track hi
m down. At least she knew he understood when she couldn't be around. He was the only one who did.
He's probably here somewhere, she thought, removing a half-inch thickness of paper from one of the reports. Rachel had already programmed the copier to make four collated copies, so Sydney filled the automatic feeder, pressed Start, and stepped back, watching copies chug into trays. She waited until she was sure all was well, then turned her attention to more important things.
Pulling Graham's pen from her pocket, she pretended to jot a note while switching on the receiver already in her ear. Then she took out her eraser mike and wandered to the nearest wall, hoping to record something interesting.
At first all she heard was static. She pressed down on her ear, trying to tune her receiver to the signal the mike was sending. Faint sound came through in short, garbled bursts, as if she were spinning a radio dial in the desert. Giving up, she put the eraser back in her pocket—and suddenly she heard voices.
“It's almost finished,” a man's deeply muffled voice said. “A few more days, and I'll be ready to make the swap. Are things in place on your end?”
“My client is ready with half.” The second male voice was loud and clear. “Half on delivery; the other half when we verify the program works.”
“That wasn't the agreement!”
Irritation made the first voice sharper, and Sydney gasped as she realized who it belonged to. Owen Vincent was in the building . . . and so was Robert Armstrong. She had picked up the signal from the edible bug.
Trembling with excitement, she hit the record button on her pen.
“We are fully prepared to meet your price,” Armstrong said in a soothing tone. “But we need assurances.”
“So do I,” Vincent snapped. “Once you fire that puppy up, all hell's going to break loose here. I don't want to be around then, and if you're smart, neither do you. Pay in advance—or someone else will.”
“Perhaps we can arrange a trial from outside the country?”
“And then you stiff me and I'm S.O.L. Not a chance. You want to hijack other people's missiles? Pay me first.”
Sydney felt the air seep from her lungs. Wilson had guessed SST was up to something involving missile guidance, but if she understood what Vincent was driving at . . .
Father Figure Page 6
