Beating Ruby (26 page)

“It was an accident! I think I touched his . . . his—”

“Jesus Christ
!
”
March immediately reached inside his jacket. Gotta love a man who carried a mini bottle of antibacterial gel wherever he went. I took it, removed my shoe, and leaned on his forearm while I squeezed some on my toes and frantically cleaned them.

Good news is that I didn’t catch any kind of exotic venereal disease from my brief indirect contact with Wille’s turkey sausage. As March and Alex escorted me back to my room to debrief, however, I decided that I would retire from the spy game after we were done clearing Thom’s name and retrieving Ruby. My career as an operative, albeit a short one, had already taught me that sometimes, in order to fight for those who can’t fight back, you gotta step on more than just toes.

TWENTY-EIGHT

The Candles

“There was no stopping him now. She was a vodka-soaked rag he would set on fire.”

—Lacey Black,
The Fireman’s Searing Touch

I sat curled in a large cream armchair, drained, and feeling like Cinderella after midnight—mostly because my shoes lay at the other end of the room, and I had gotten rid of those ridiculous socks in the bathroom a few minutes earlier. March was leaning against a wooden desk, his arms crossed, and Alex stood near the bed while I summarized Premfield’s call and Wille’s revelations for them.

“So you think Van Kreft could be planning on auctioning Ruby?” Alex asked.

I scratched my nose in concentration. “Maybe. He could have stolen Ellingham’s money because it was the most easily accessible. With EMT’s mainframe at his disposal, and Ruby’s help, it probably wasn’t difficult for Thom to break into EMG’s systems and locate the target accounts. Plus, Van Kreft had to know Ellingham wouldn’t go public about losing money sleeping in tax havens. The way I see it, what we’ve perceived as the end of the operation until now might have just been a test, something to prove potential buyers what Ruby could do.”

“Then there’s only one thing left to do,” March announced coldly, moving away from the wall toward the door.

Alex followed him. “Wait a second, where are you going?”

“I believe, Mr. Morgan, that our collaboration is over now that we’ve identified the target.”

A smirk formed on Alex’s lips. “Very funny. I’m going with you. Your arrangement with Erwin doesn’t allow you to kick me out of this investigation.”

“If only . . .” March growled.

This time I got up too, barring their way with more than a hundred pounds of fierce determination. “I’m coming too. And March, you still haven’t told us about those faces you saw around Van Kreft’s manor!”

March’s features hardened, and for the first time in six months I was standing again in front of the icy professional who had once broken into my apartment and put me in his trunk. “You’re staying here.”

My hands balled into fists. “Wait a minute, we need to discuss this.”

March’s index finger landed on the tip of my nose, the cool warning in his eyes knotting my vocal cords. He removed it after a second to check his watch. There was some sort of red LED blinking on the bezel ring. He rotated it, turning the glass into an LCD screen. His brow furrowed.

I had no idea what was going on, but Alex apparently did. “You set a tracker on one of the cars you saw in Gaflei?”

“Yes.” March said, taking another step toward the room’s door.

I needed to act quickly. I went for the first plan that crossed my mind. Jumping around his neck without warning, I pressed my lips to his. I felt him startle at first, then respond, gathering me in his arms and allowing himself the brief delight of a French kiss.

“You can be such a douche,” I whispered.

March responded with an unapologetic quirk of his lips and a brush of his fingers in my hair. I was very aware of Alex’s gaze on us, but I figured that, beyond the initial purpose of the kiss, maybe Alex and I needed this—a final statement that things were over for good.

There were a few tense seconds, heated glances were exchanged between the two men, and at last, the door slammed shut behind them.

As soon as I was certain they were far enough away, I lunged at my laptop and set it to track the whereabouts of my precious CIA pendant, which I had “inadvertently” slipped inside March’s jacket pocket while kissing him. I was grateful for all that chatting with Colin; I had picked up a few things along the way. With the help of his expert advice and some of the tools he had recommended to me—he was somehow persuaded that I had some sort of future as a hacker—the device proved surprisingly easy to trace. March and Alex hadn’t made it far; the little red dot on my map had stopped moving already, somewhere on the outskirts of Vaduz.

I called reception, asking for a cab. There was no time to change. I just slipped on my regular sweater dress over the flimsy silk one and hopped into a pair of sneakers. I was running across the hotel’s lobby when in my bag my phone started to vibrate. I picked it up while waiting for the cab.

Phyllis’s voice greeted me. “Good evening, Island. I need to reach March, and none of my calls are making it through. Is he with you?”

“No, he took off with Alex. March said he had seen people he knew around Van Kreft’s manor, and he set a tracker on one of the cars. The car moved, and they went after it. I know where they are, though. I’m on my way there.”

“Okay, but be careful, spygirl. What I needed to tell him is that something is off with Van Kreft. I’m not sure we’re looking in the right direction,” she said, clucking her tongue in what I understood to be equal measure worry and annoyance.

In front of me, a white Volvo with a taxi sign had stopped. I waved at the driver, and when he nodded back, got in. Once I had given him the address, I tried to focus on Phyllis’s words rather than the strong smell of tobacco surrounding me. “What do you mean? One of Alex’s colleagues sort of said that too. Is it because of his background?”

“No, more like the lack of recent background,” she said, while the car glided past Vaduz’s low buildings to reach a quiet residential area. I could make out dark roofs concealed behind high hedges. “Our man hasn’t made any credit card purchases for months, other than some auto-renewals of online services. He hasn’t been seen in public either, and—wait for it—I dug up medical results from a seven-month-old cardiologist appointment, along with several prescriptions, and Van Kreft never had his MRI, never bought any meds . . .”

I frowned. “Um, are you saying he’s . . .”

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

“Okay, I’ll make sure to let them know. I gotta go,” I concluded, seeing a familiar black BMW a few yards away from the cab.

I called to the driver in (likely broken) German. “Bitte halten Sie hier an!”
Stop here, please!

He parked next to the BMW. I fished some cash from my wallet in a hurry and stepped out. The street was quiet, snoozing under a starless sky. The place the magic necklace had led me to looked like a nice villa. One of those high, neatly trimmed hedgerows enclosed the place, and lanterns lit the path toward a massive wooden entrance door. Two big guys in dark suits stood guard. I walked toward them on unsteady legs, mentally reviewing every single pickup line I knew. As I got closer, I registered a dull, distant noise, halfway between a hum and a rhythmic pounding. Some sort of club? If so, how would I get in?

Dobby will improvise!

Indeed. Once I was facing those beefy bouncers with shaved and tattooed skulls, it became clear I’d have to come up with something good—it says something about a guy, I believe, when he wears sunglasses after midnight.

“Guten Abend,” I said.

A slight twitch of the tallest one’s fingers. No sign they had even heard me.

This wasn’t the way. I had been challenged by enough bouncers and barmen in my short time on this earth to know that the dynamics regulating nightlife were somewhat different from those regulating, say, a library. And I was in a foreign, Germanic land, a place where nothing mattered more than order. What I needed was to show these gentlemen that I understood the social etiquette ruling this mysterious den and therefore belonged among their guests.

I lifted my sweater dress to reveal the short silk dress underneath. Ignoring the cool night breeze whose embarrassing effects I could already feel—should have kept the damn socks—I cleared my throat and searched for memories of that German extracurricular class I had taken in high school. Yes, I was very lonely at the time. “Guten Abend, meine herren. Ich bin sehr reich, ich bin kaum bekleidet, und ich habe sehr geringes Selbstwertgefühl. Kann ich mich bewegen bitte?”
Good evening, sirs. I’m very rich, I’m barely dressed, and I have very low self-esteem. Can I please come in?

There were a few seconds of silence, troubled only by the imperceptible thrumming reaching us from inside the villa. One of the bouncers seemed to listen to someone talking to him in a tiny earpiece, adjusted his glasses, and broke down into a gravelly laugh, holding his stomach. The other one seemed on the verge of cracking up as well, but he held on to his composure better than his colleague did.

I blinked. “I . . . Uh . . .”

After a few seconds, the man calmed down and slammed a snake-shaped door knocker twice.

The doors opened with an ominous creaking sound.

I looked up at the bouncers. There was no explanation to be read on those stony faces; I went in.

The doors were closed behind me, and I was plunged into complete darkness, save for a line of tiny candles on the floor, meant, I supposed, to guide me into this strange place. At first, I feared there had been a huge misunderstanding and I had accidentally stepped into some sort of Satanist party where I’d be offered a martini with an eye in the glass instead of the traditional olive.

“Wilkommen.”
Welcome.

I jumped and looked around. Something—or rather someone—had popped up a few feet away from me. A lean female silhouette, outlined by the golden candlelight. She came forward, and when a green glow came to life in her hands, I realized she had turned on a credit card terminal. Maybe they were pragmatic Satanists, after all. I pulled out my wallet again from one of my dress’s pockets and handed her my credit card. I cringed at the amount that appeared on screen. No Sabbath, even the most hardcore one, was worth a thousand Swiss francs entrance fee.

The worst part was that she didn’t even thank me! Once I had been billed, she pressed a stamp to the back of my right hand, leaving the imprint of a snake head glowing on my skin in the dark. Then without a word, she retreated into the pitch-black she had emerged from.

I took a few cautious steps down the shimmering path laid out for me, and I reached the end of a long hallway, guided by the beat of music, which seemed to be getting louder. On my left was a flight of stairs. By then, I could feel the bass of a popular electronic hit song vibrating through my rib cage. A little candle on each step still showed the way, but a cautious mind had made sure to also line their edges with a thin golden neon light—I figured even super-secret Satanist clubs didn’t want guests to trip and fall.

The stairs turned twice at small landings. The temperature had progressively risen, and the music was becoming too loud. Finally, I made out some sort of thick, dark curtain ahead of me. My hand rose to push it, but before I could, a giggling woman waltzed through, shrouded in a cloud of alcohol and perfume. I let her run past me and made a second attempt at parting the curtain. I was assaulted by a burst of colorful lights tearing through the darkness, and a wave of hot, humid air carrying more scents than I could count.

What lay before my eyes was something halfway between a club and a lounge. A few dozen people swayed and rubbed against each other in the middle of a dance floor, while all around the vast room, others appeared to be drinking themselves silly in alcoves where backlit cubes served as low tables. Those half-dressed girls kissing their partners with fluorescent cocktails in their hands made my own look seem conservative in comparison. Then again, there’s this rumor in Europe that for all their apparent rigidity, Germans are completely decadent behind closed doors. Two words:
German porn
.

I frowned at the long, dark lines I could make out on some cubes. There was more than just weird booze making the rounds in there. Half-blinded by the tangle of stroboscopic lights stabbing my eyeballs, I staggered my way through the partying crowd, wincing when I noticed that some guys had opened their shirts. Yucky sweaty chests, no hair—nothing to see there.

What the hell were March and Alex doing in a place like this? Did they need to unwind? No, March, at the least, wasn’t like that. He had once forbidden me to smoke a mere joint, so I assumed that the very sight of a coke line would cause him to shoot the offender on sight. My ears were ringing from the deafening beat filling the place; I was so confused that I almost missed the tall silhouette wandering along the alcoves. Bright blue and pink lights flashed across his face, highlighting a strong jaw and a slightly aquiline nose.

“March!” I yelled through the noise.

He turned to acknowledge me with a frown, standing still while I struggled across the dance floor. Behind him, Alex had emerged from the crowd as well. As I reached them, something moved at the edge of my field of vision. All I saw clearly was a silvery flash tearing through the crowd and latching onto March. Well, onto his lips, in fact.

I think I gritted my teeth so hard I could have shattered them. Some—admittedly beautiful—skank had grabbed March by the collar and was kissing the living breath out of him. I gaped at the hourglass figure hugged by a tight, silvery tube dress. Long black curls cascaded down her back, dyed bright blue at their extremities. That wasn’t the detail I paid the most attention to, though. What I doubt I’ll ever forget was her hands, the way they held on to his shoulders with a sense of desperation. I understood that, for her, it wasn’t just a kiss.