City of Spies (3 page)

“You're seeing him tonight?” Pagan had known about Thomas's preference for men since Berlin, but few others did. He was a handsome young actor trying to make it in Hollywood as a leading man. Pagan thought he was good-looking and talented enough to get to the big leagues, if no one discovered his secret. It was horrible, him having to live like that. But it was a fact of life. Even Thomas's mother and sister, with whom he shared a small bungalow in West Hollywood, didn't know.

Thomas nodded. “I'm going to his place after we drop you off. Mother doesn't expect me until late because of the party.”

“You are...over Devin after what happened in Berlin, aren't you?” she asked.

Pagan harbored hopes, which she shouldn't still be harboring. But she tended to do things she shouldn't.

“Occasional flare-ups of resentment and memories of lust past,” he said. “Don't worry. I won't mind if you fly off to paradise with him. You deserve it.”

“Well, it's better to date a man who's actually, you know,
around
. I probably won't see Devin again unless I take the job,” Pagan said.

Thomas shook his head. “He is the worst tease. But I bet he still likes you.”

Pagan frowned. “He did look very happy to see me. But he made it very clear there won't be any of
that
on this trip.”

“The two of you, working together, facing danger in a beautiful city far from home?” Thomas grinned. “There's absolutely no chance he'll change his mind.”

Pagan smiled over at him. “I can be persuasive.”

“And you said he knew all about your movie shoot in London, knew you'd been legally declared an adult, had a birthday... None of those things are connected to this new mission of his. He's probably following us right now.” Thomas turned to look out the back window of their big-finned limousine, half in jest, and froze. “I was joking, but I think the same white Plymouth Valiant was behind us on our way to the party, as well.”

“Very funny,” Pagan said, frowning out the back window. It was hard to tell in the dark, but the 1960 Valiant behind them did look familiar. “There must be a million cars like that in LA.”

“There's a million of every kind of car in LA,” Thomas said. He'd frequently remarked on the ridiculous number of vehicles populating the city's roads, but of course anywhere would appear jammed with cars compared to East Berlin. “But how did he know where you'd be tonight?”

“It wasn't exactly a state secret,” Pagan said without conviction. Devin had posed as a studio publicity executive when they first met, and he'd exercised some kind of power, probably blackmail, over Pagan's agent, Jerry. He'd also somehow persuaded the judge who convicted her of manslaughter to let her out of reform school more than a year early. “He is a man with a lot of powerful connections.”

“So it's probably not him following you personally,” Thomas said, turning back to settle into his seat again. “It's someone working for him.”

“Or it's just another car heading home on a Friday night.”

She changed the subject to the party—Thomas was still agog at having met Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin—and the white Plymouth Valiant stayed behind them all the way through the Valley and up Laurel Canyon. But when they turned up the tiny side road leading to Pagan's house in the Hollywood Hills, the Valiant kept going down the hill toward the city. Pagan saw Thomas eye its red back lights with relief before it vanished around a curve.

“Don't worry, no one would be following you,” she said. “No offense, but you're not famous enough yet.”

“I'm sorry,” Thomas said. “I shouldn't be so paranoid. But if anyone ever found out about me...”

“No, I'm sorry,” she said. “Sorry that you have to worry about that.”

The limo had stopped in front of the house. The porch light illuminated the big wooden front door and part of the slightly ramshackle two-story building that climbed up the hill behind it.

“Say hi to Mercedes for me,” Thomas said as the driver opened the door, and Pagan gathered up her stole and her handbag.

“She's probably up studying,” Pagan said, glancing out at the house. The front porch light was off. That was odd. Maybe Mercedes had gone to bed after all, and turned it off automatically. “You and your family are still coming over for Christmas Eve, right? I'm determined to start some new traditions. Mercedes is going to make tamales. They're delicious.”

“I'll call to see what we can bring,” he said, and leaned in to kiss her cheek. “You're going to take the job with Devin, aren't you?”

She kissed him back and then wiped the lipstick trace from his tan skin with her thumb. “See the world by spying on it!” she said. “That's my plan.”

She was fumbling with her keys in the dark, waving at the limo driver to go on and leave, when the porch light flicked on, blinding her. The front door swooshed open.

“Mercedes?” She blinked into the dark doorway.

“Yeah, sorry. It's been a weird night.” Mercedes took her arm in an unnervingly tight grip and tugged her inside.

“What's wrong?” Inside, the house was dark, and Mercedes didn't let go of her gloved wrist. They'd been best friends since they met in reform school, but Pagan could count on one hand the number of times they'd touched. “You okay?”

“Someone's watching the house. Or they were.” Mercedes released Pagan to give the limo driver a quick wave, and shut and locked the door. “I haven't seen anything in the last two hours.”

Pagan glanced around the quiet house, instantly focused. Until recently, Mercedes had been an enforcer for one of the toughest gangs in Los Angeles, and her nose for danger was not to be trifled with. She must have turned the house's interior lights off to see outside better. Pagan said, “Thomas and I think a car might have followed us here from the party.”

Mercedes nodded. “Your people, then.”

“Probably.” Pagan's past experience with the CIA, MI6 and the East German Stasi wasn't extensive, but if anyone was following her and watching the house, it was most likely connected to that. “Where were they?”

“I was doing homework at the kitchen table, when I saw someone moving down the hill in the backyard.”

“Did they notice that you saw them?” Pagan got up and padded over the wood floors down the hall and into the kitchen, a large room at the back of the house with big windows and its own door opening onto the backyard. The upward slope was nothing but darkness and moonlight shifting through the trees.

“Not at first. He had binoculars. I was just thinking about calling the police when he left.” Mercedes came to stand next to her. “I've been keeping a lookout, but no sign of anyone else.”

“If they come back, they'll have an exciting night watching us sleep.” Pagan flipped on the lights and opened the back door. Cold night air rushed in, infused with the sweet medicinal tinge of eucalyptus.

She stepped out onto the back patio. The backyard was a short stretch of lawn followed by a series of grassy terraces cut into the hill rising behind the house. Pagan's mother had insisted on orange, lemon and avocado trees on some of the terraces, and a small pond with a waterfall. The pond had once contained Asian carp, but the raccoons had made short work of them.

“Maybe it was someone come looking for me,” Mercedes said. “The gang was not happy when I decided not to go back after reform school.”

“We're quite a pair, aren't we?” Pagan shivered. “Let's go inside.”

She clicked the lights off, locked the door, and followed her roommate into the living room. Mercedes sat down heavily on the couch. “I'm sorry,” she said, “I should have called the cops right away, but given my past history with them...” She shrugged. “I never should have moved in with you.”

Pagan went over to sit next to her and couldn't resist tugging slightly on her thick black ponytail. “Stop it. Having you as my roommate is the best idea I've ever had,” she said.

“Are you okay?” Mercedes nodded, turning to look Pagan in the eye. “What if my old gang has followed me here and they want revenge? They could break in, steal something.”

“I couldn't care less if anything got stolen,” Pagan said. “They could burn our house down—they'd probably be doing me a favor—so as long as you got out safe, it wouldn't matter. Don't you see?” Her throat tightened, aching, as she stared at her friend. “After everything that's happened, you think I give a damn about things? About
stuff
?”

Mercedes's cheeks were red. Her eyes glittered in the dim light. Pagan had never seen her cry, but she looked darn close.

“No,” she said shortly. “I know you don't. But you say ‘our house,' and you welcome me here. And what do I do? I study, and I can barely pay a few bucks toward the bills.”

“You don't need to work. My parents left me enough money for us to live for ages. But still you work harder than I do sweeping floors at that comics store while getting your high school diploma at the same time,” Pagan said.

Mercedes frowned at her. “I'm not going to sponge off you or anyone.”

Pagan smiled. “Well, you're contributing the brains to this sorry partnership of ours, sweetheart, because I sure as heck don't have them. And I know you want to try for college. If that happens, this crazy world might stand a chance.”

“College.” Mercedes swallowed, her dark-lashed eyes flicking wide to stare into the distance. Pagan almost didn't recognize her for a second. Was
that
what M looked like when she was scared? “I have to pass my exams first.”

“As if that's in any doubt.”

Going to high school without distractions had given Mercedes an appetite for learning that left Pagan in awe. It was like her brain had been starved, and now she couldn't wait to eat up every piece of knowledge the teachers and librarians cooked up for her. The principal hadn't wanted to let her into the physics class. He'd said girls didn't belong in science except for cooking class. But Mercedes had promised him she'd get an A, and he'd finally given in.

It made her the weird girl at school, but she didn't care. Her affinity for formulas coupled with her access to comics thanks to her part-time job at a comic book store had made her one of the most popular kids in her physics class.

“All that time I wasted, fighting people.” Mercedes gave her head a small shake, as if she couldn't quite believe it. “Violence is so stupid. I'm never going to fight again.”

Pagan peeled off her gloves, easing her feet out of their punishing heels. The bottoms of her stockings were black from walking around the yard at Farralone. She leaned her head back and gazed up at the beautiful swirl of gem-like color that was the Renoir above them. The figure of a woman with a blue parasol was just visible through the press of lilacs and sun-dappled leaves. It was, literally, a masterpiece, and a grateful Dr. Someone had given it to Mama back when Pagan was eight years old.

Pagan had always loved the painting, and had moved it from above her parents' bed to the living room so she could see it every day. The move had marked the beginning of a new era. The house and the painting belonged to her now, not to her parents, and she'd gotten legally emancipated last month so that she no longer had to answer to a legal guardian.

But if Dr. Someone was who Pagan thought he was, the painting might not have been his to give. It would always be glorious, but maybe it no longer belonged in her living room. Its home was a mystery, a secret probably lost forever in the midst of the looting, murder and deceit of the Second World War. Seeing it now only made her throat tighten. Was there any part of Mama's life that wasn't tainted by her lies and secrets?

Never mind the dang painting. The night had been full of its own drama.

Pagan slapped her gloves onto the side table. “You totally should have come with us to the party. You would've enjoyed it.”

“And I told you I have to study.”

“I know, I know. I'm still getting used to this whole ‘taking school seriously' thing. And guess what? Devin Black came to see me at the party tonight,” Pagan said.

“He's like the Shadow,” Mercedes said, referring to her favorite crime fighter with psychic powers who posed around town as a wealthy playboy. She had never met Devin, but Pagan had told her everything that had happened in Berlin back in August. “You think he came here afterward to loiter in your bushes?”

Pagan snorted. “Can you imagine him in his thousand-dollar suit, crouched behind a cactus with binoculars? It wouldn't be him personally, but it could've been someone from the CIA. They've been keeping tabs on me because they want me to do them a favor.”

Mercedes smiled one of her rare smiles. “What if a government spook staking out your house ran into one of my old friends casing the joint?”

“A convention of ne'er-do-wells that would put Frank Sinatra's party to shame. All in our backyard.”

She started to tell Mercedes everything that happened that night, so they broke out the Oreos and milk. “Tell me everything about the party,” Mercedes said, dunking her cookie. “What was Nancy Sinatra wearing?”

Pagan gave her the details, dwelling on the things she knew Mercedes would like most—the tension between Frank and Dean Martin over Angie Dickinson, Tony Curtis trying hard not to stare at Juliet Prowse's legs, Jack Lemmon's gentlemanly manners.

Mercedes watched Pagan's face as she talked about Devin and sometimes frowned down at her own strong fingers, the nails clean, unpolished, short but not too short, lying relaxed on the polished wood of the table.

“They could dangle your mother's file in front of you for years to keep you on their string,” she said. “The file might not exist. Devin himself told you not to trust them.”