Chastity Flame (24 page)

Wait a minute! "Kevin, I've got an
idea. Get me some chocolate biscuits and tea. And red wine!" Could
it be done? Of course it could.

"What is this, a snack attack?" Kevin
laughed but looked quite puzzled.

"No, it's a short cut," Chastity
explained hastily. "Look, I know you don't think much of these
visions or whatever you want to call them, but if I can bring one
on and it helps, what have we got to lose."

"So why the Jaffa Cakes?"

"They're triggers. I've been doing
research on migraines. Chocolate, caffeine and red wine can all act
as triggers. Along with fatigue, hunger and a bunch of other
things. Maybe if I pile them all on at once—well, let's do
it."

"Right-o," Kevin said. "Meera, Tom—get
some chocolate, tea and red wine and bring it here. I hope this
works, but I have to admit, I'm not sure I can believe it." He
shook his head, but helped her grab some of the folders and head
into the small conference room.

Being back in the room evoked all the
memories Chastity could not bear to uncover at present. With an
effort she sent the images of Damien to the back of her
consciousness and focused on the problem at hand. She tried to
concentrate on that part of her brain where this strange process
occurred. If there was some way to consciously manipulate it, just
imagine how useful it would be. Meera and Tom arrived moments later
with the treats.

"I got a Malbec and a Shiraz," Meera
offered apologetically. "I didn't know what you'd prefer." Tom
poured the tea and sat a mug before her with a tray full of Jaffa
Cakes, Hob Nobs and a big Cadbury’s Whole Nut.

Kevin laughed and poured a glass for
each of them. "In solidarity," he said, clinking glasses with her.
"At least this way I can say I had a drink with you,
eh?"

Chastity shook her head and grinned.
"I just hope this works." She tipped the wine glass up, then
unwrapped the Whole Nut. Taking a few squares to nibble on, she
offered it to Kevin, who shook his head no. Chastity turned back to
looking at the folders of material, wondering whether she should
keep trying to force the migraine or wait for it to happen. It was
hard to be patient.

"Maybe you're trying too hard," Kevin
said after some minutes.

Chastity sighed. "Maybe it just won't
happen. Maybe it can't be forced."

"Try to relax," Kevin suggested. "It
was unexpected before, right?"

She closed her eyes and massaged her
tired eyeballs. Searching her thoughts, she tried to recall how
they had come on before. The speck in the eye was the first thing,
then the pressure inside her skull. The visions seemed to blossom
out of the back of her head, which didn't seem to make physical
sense, but that's how it had felt. Chastity tried to probe into
that part of her thoughts, looking for some kind of key to turn.
All at once she glimpsed Damien in his bed, a paperback on his lap,
but his eyes staring across the room as he thought of
her.

Was it just a wish? Imagination? In
any case, it wasn't useful for the present situation, wonderful as
it was to savor the sight of him. She needed to see Wesenlund and
know what he was up to. All at once her head was filled with a
raging bloody red, swirled and lined, which gradually made her
realize it was paint. The overpowering sensation of the oil's smell
filled her nose and mouth. She could very nearly feel the paint on
her lips. It filled her senses; it was nearly
suffocating.

Step back, Chastity told herself. When
she did so, she saw the black and the red together and knew where
she was. "Rothko," she said aloud, barely aware that Kevin was
scribbling the word down as he watched her intently. Now where was
Wesenlund? She willed herself to step away from the painting in the
sombre room and step out into the main gallery. Hearing a sound of
applause, she headed out to the foyer. Looking over the railing
down to the ground floor, she saw an immense crowd of people, many
of them children, all laughing at something the man onstage was
saying.

It was Wesenlund.

She wasn't sure how she knew it, but
Chastity was immediately certain that he had the incendiary device
on him and planned to place it himself. It would give him immense
satisfaction to do so. His arrogance knew no bounds and his desire
for revenge goaded him to recklessness.

"I know where it is," Chastity
announced to Kevin. "We have to be ready."

Chapter Nineteen

Chastity walked across the bright wood
floor of the Tate Modern, following a path she had walked many
times before, weaving between the knots of people to the special
room. As she stepped into its quiet darkness, she was startled to
see a familiar figure. He sat staring at the dark red of the
painting as if mesmerized, the boot cast flung our in front of him.
After staring at his back for a long moment, Chastity went over and
sat down beside him.

The surprise in his eyes was genuine.
"What..?" She could see him resist the urge to wrap his arms around
her. She was fighting the same urge.

"Work," she said simply.
"You?"

Damien sighed, lifting his hands only
to let them fall again. "I needed to see the Rothkos. He
understands grief and despair. I—I don't want to give up on you,
Twelfty."

"I know," Chastity said quietly. "But
what can we do? They'll be watching our phones, our computers, our
flats. Just about every inch of this city is under
CCTV-surveillance. Every technological tool will be pointed at
us."

They were silent for a moment.
Chastity noticed for the umpteenth time how much quieter this room
was than the rest of the museum. The paintings cast a spell of
reflection if not reverence that people quickly became attuned to
when they walked in. She always found it restorative.

"What about old tech," Damien said at
last. Chastity looked at him, an eyebrow raised. "I mean it. All
their surveillance is focused on high tech methods." He was excited
now, but tried to keep his voice low. "They won't be looking at
that. At the risk of sounding like a Regency hero, may I write to
you, miss?"

Chastity lifted her pinkie to brush
against his on the bench. "44 Tavistock Square," she whispered,
only the slight tremble in her tone revealing all that she was
trying to suppress. Without another word, she got up from the bench
and, she told herself, like a perfect heroine never looked back.
She felt numb as she walked out of the gallery and over to the
railings. The crowd below was laughing at something the man at the
front was saying.

It was Wesenlund, of course, at his
most charming. As at the business conference, he demonstrated that
he knew well how to win over an audience, offering just enough
bonhomie to make them think he was sympathetic. He was dressed in a
light grey suit and gestured broadly. As the audience applauded,
Chastity kept her eyes glued on him.

How could they have missed it? His
corporation had helped fund this special event at the Mod. It all
fit together neatly—and more than a little ironically for such a
greedy man. The sponsors supported the microlender that was making
a real difference in the lives of women and children across the
world and they had linked their cause to an artist who had risen
from that poverty to worldwide acclaim. The artist's work brought
together the whimsy of childhood in giant-sized toys and games. She
modestly blushed before Wesenlund's praise, eschewing the chance to
appear beside him. A final crescendo of applause signaled the end
of the speeches and the crowd began to disperse.

Chastity kept her eyes on Wesenlund.
He shook hands with a few people, smiling his shark's grin at them,
looking very pleased with himself. As he probably should be,
considering he had every reason to believe that his plan was safe.
After all, how could they know? Chastity still marveled that she
had been able to extract this information from her brain, but there
wasn't time to wonder about it now. Monitor had been both puzzled
and pleased. "I just want to be sure you're not hurting yourself,"
she had finally said, once she believed it was really possible. "We
need to have you examined carefully."

"Six, relocating, gift shop," a voice
chirped in her ear. There was a large team today. Things were going
to be happening soon, she should also move into place. It was based
on a hunch, but she suspected it was the right one.

"Three, relocating, espresso bar," she
said into the mic. There were more people there than anywhere else
in the museum on a Saturday afternoon like this. Bags and jackets
and other items sprawled between the tables and chairs and there
was a constant flux in and out. Chastity waited, hoping Wesenlund
wouldn't immediately spot her with her hair pulled back severely,
in oversized glasses and loose-fitting, drab clothes.

Chastity felt a charge of adrenaline
fill her veins as she saw him round the corner into the bar with a
handful of hangers-on. She held up the gallery guide and dropped
her head, keeping her eyes trained on him nonetheless. His group
ordered coffees and, once served, made their way to the far side of
the bar to find a table.

Chastity drifted through to the other
side and marked where they sat. "Assist, espresso bar," she said,
just low enough to be heard on the headpiece. One and Five affirmed
they were on the way. She never took her eyes off Wesenlund, who
was chatting amiably, a set of gift bags arrayed by his side.
Occasionally he picked one up and put it back down, after pulling
something out to look at it or show the gathered group. It was
going to come from one of those bags, she was certain.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw
One and then Five move into the area, Five buying a coffee and One
wandering around as if looking for someone. Both passed by and
continued on their way, having also marked Wesenlund. Chastity
continued to observe and felt a shudder of horror rise up her spine
when Wesenlund went once more to his gift bag, pulled out a book to
pass around, and deftly dropped something else to his lap while
they were distracted with the colorful pages. He leaned forward as
if to enthuse about one of the images and stuck something to the
underside of the table. Then he leaned back and laughed loudly.
"Mark," Chastity said into the mic. She turned away and walked
toward the lifts, confident that he would want to be out of there
as soon as possible.

She had guessed correctly. Wesenlund
came around the corner, making farewells to his friends and
pressing the call button. Chastity got behind him and stepped into
the car silently. Unfortunately, a small family also made their way
into the lift. Wesenlund winced as the pushchair ran over his toe,
while the father apologizing profusely. Chastity hid a smile, but
it was a serious matter. She had to hope that Wesenlund wouldn’t
spot her until the family was out of the way, so she kept her head
down. Idiot, she scolded herself. You should have let someone else
bag him. But she wanted it.

"I want ice cream," the daughter
demanded. She looked to be about seven or eight. Wesenlund smiled
indulgently, but only for a moment. Chastity could sense him
stiffen, which had to mean he had spotted her.

"I think we need to talk," she
murmured to him, hoping the arguing family would pay no attention
to them. "You'll find that there are many of us who wish to talk to
you."

"Ms. Flame, such a disappointment to
see you here. I thought you had less frivolous things to do with
your time." He plastered the simulacrum of a smile across his face
but there was no humor in it.

"I find art essential to life, Mr.
Wesenlund. Without its beauties, life would not be worth living."
Chastity tried to keep her tone light, although every atom of her
body tensed in readiness. "Life is precious, is it not?"

Wesenlund gave her an unpleasant look.
"Mine is."

They heard the ding that indicated
they had reached the second floor and the River Entrance. The
family began to shamble its way out the door and Wesenlund stepped
forward. Chastity laid a hand on his arm. "Shall we let them out?
Such a trouble negotiating a pushchair in small
quarters."

Wesenlund looked down his nose at her
and his malevolence seemed palpable to her. He paused, however,
long enough to let the family out and exited the lift behind them.
"Shall we take this outside?" Wesenlund said easily, his aplomb
suddenly returning. They were just stepping out the doors when he
seemed to stumble, grabbed the young girl and turned back to face
Chastity.

She saw at once he had a small Berreta
in his hand, which he pointed at the girl's head. The child began
to shout angrily. "I think I will walk away from here now," he said
evenly, as the astonished mother gaped silently at him. The father
was trying to get the strap of a bag unstuck from between the
wheels of the pushchair and had not yet seen his daughter's
peril.

"It's useless, you know, Wesenlund,"
Chastity said gently.

"Tell your crew to get back or I will
shoot this child." The tone was as commanding as ever, but Chastity
saw the sweat popping out on his brow. The mother shrieked and
reached for her child, but Wesenlund pulled her away. "Tell
them."

"Back off," Chastity said simply.
"They'll leave you alone now, Wesenlund, but you will not be able
to leave the country. Even now, how many people are photographing
you with this child?" It was true. While people had backed away
from what appeared to be a hostage situation, loads of them were
taking pictures with their phones from a safe distance.