Compact with the Devil: A Novel (24 page)

Nikki woke up with a mouth that tasted like that time in third grade when she’d challenged Rory Henderson to a glue-eating contest. She waited, eyes closed, hoping to catch some clues about her situation before her captors were aware of her consciousness. She was slumped in an armchair, and she could hear the sound of a crackling fire—it was sucking all the heat in the room toward it and not giving much in return.

“You were supposed to gently but firmly request that she join us here,” said an annoyed English voice.

“Svenka got carried away,” replied a second voice that Nikki’s hazy memory thought might be Suzette’s. There was a slight protesting noise from the other side of the room. “She should be waking up soon; the injection only lasts a couple of hours. We’ll just tell her she slipped and hit her head on the ice.”

“She’s not going to believe that,” said Svenka, sounding surly.

“Nobody asked your opinion,” snapped the English voice again, and this time Nikki recognized it as Camille’s.

“I’m going to go with Svenka on this one,” said Nikki, yawning and stretching.

She was in an antique room with antique furnishings. A heavy wooden desk was in front of her, the fireplace to her left. Camille sat behind the desk in a fashionable coat; her hat and gloves lay on the desk in front of her, as if she had just removed them. There was a sparkle of melted snow on the felt hat. Suzette stood by the desk. Svenka leaned against the far wall. No door was in sight, which meant that it was behind her.

“I’m not going to believe it,” said Nikki, “because it didn’t happen.”

Camille’s smile was small. Botox was a factor in the size of the expression, as was the fact that she clearly didn’t mean it.

“Welcome to Paris, Nicole,” said Camille, giving her a hard glare.

“Thanks,” said Nikki, waiting for the argument to begin. Camille continued to stare. “Well,” said Nikki, refusing to be intimidated, “I assume you brought me here for a reason. What can I do for you?”

“I read your file,” said Camille, and Nikki felt a touch of nervousness. “You’ve never operated in the European theater before.” Nikki shrugged. “There are a few things that perhaps you should have been warned about before thrusting yourself into a situation that was none of your business.”

“I was assigned to the mission,” said Nikki. “You were there. Frankly, if I’d had my way, I wouldn’t have left Nina Alvarez.”

Camille snorted softly, as if amused. “You were trying to undercut me from the beginning.” Nikki gaped in astonishment. “I’ve met your kind before—always climbing over your betters. And maybe I could have let that go if you’d just minded your own
business, but you should have known better than to get between a mother and her son.”

“Camille, get a grip. This isn’t some showdown. I’m not trying to get between you and Kit. In fact, I think it would be great if you spent more time with him.”

“Don’t tell me how to parent!” snarled Camille.

Nikki took a deep breath. “I know you’re upset about Cano, and I promise you, I will stop him, but you have to trust me,” she said, trying to sound conciliatory.

“I have a letter here from Madame Feron, Paris branch director,” said Camille with a small triumphant smile.

Nikki sighed. She’d known there was going to be trouble the second Svenka had mentioned Camille and the head of the Paris Branch were friends.

“Due to the fact that you have entered Paris without obtaining permission from her—”

“You know domain permissions are no longer required,” Nikki said, interrupting.

“Do not lecture me on what I do or do not know!” hissed Camille. “Domain permissions are still on the books in Europe. You are in violation.”

Perhaps it was being knocked unconscious by her own team, or her lack of sleep, but Nikki’s temper finally rose to the surface. “I’m on an assignment and you’re interfering with the completion of it. I will stop Cano and I will protect Kit, and I’m not going to be sidelined by some paranoid hack who won’t admit when she’s in over her head.” Nikki enunciated each word clearly, and she could feel her face get cold as the blood drained from it to her rapidly thumping heart.

“The Paris branch will be handling Cano from here on out. You are no longer required. Suzette and Svenka will escort you back
to your hotel, where you will collect your belongings and leave. Read it and weep,” said Camille, as if Nikki hadn’t interrupted. “I don’t need you. Kit doesn’t need you. You aren’t wanted here.”

Camille slapped down the letter on the desk and Nikki felt a helpless rage; she had been outmaneuvered. Refusing to cave, she took the letter and read it. It was just as Camille said. She crumpled the letter into a ball and tossed into the fireplace. She couldn’t disobey an order from a director, but she’d be damned if she’d go without a fight.

“Nice,” Nikki bit out. “If I want this countermanded I have to call Mrs. Merrivel. Meanwhile, you have the run of the field.”

“Glad you appreciate it,” said Camille with a genuine smile.

“I’ll have this lifted by morning,” said Nikki, standing.

“Feel free to try,” said Camille.

Nikki stomped to the door and slammed it satisfactorily behind her. She stood in the hallway and realized belatedly that she had no idea which way to go. The door opened, and Nikki whirled to face it. Svenka gingerly shut the door and jerked her head to the left.

“I am to drive you back to the hotel,” said Svenka as she walked. “I’m sorry about”—she waved her hands in the air—“all of this. The director is very big on etiquette.”

“I’m sure she is,” Nikki said, and Svenka looked at her worriedly.

“Do you think you can get the order reversed?”

“Yes,” said Nikki with more confidence than she felt. Mrs. Merrivel could be a miracle worker, but Camille seemed like someone who had probably tucked a lot of favors away over the years. It might be a tight match.

“I’ve never seen anyone stand up to a director like that,” said Svenka, impressed.

“You should get out more,” answered Nikki, feeling that she hadn’t stood up at all.

Once in the car, she dialed the home number and waded through voice checks and helpful on-duty intel officers to get to Mrs. Merrivel.

“Sorry, Nikki,” said the leader’s personal secretary, “Mrs. Merrivel’s in a situation. She can’t be disturbed.”

“OK,” said Nikki, biting back a string of swear words, “here’s the situation.” She ran down the problem, and she could hear the secretary typing as she spoke. The report would go to Mrs. M directly, at least.

“Sorry, Nikki, I’ll try to get Mrs. M on it as soon as possible.”

“Thanks,” said Nikki, and hung up.

“Not lucky?” asked Svenka, and Nikki shook her head. Dawn was edging into existence over the eastern edge of Paris. Beams of muted sunlight crept across the Champs-Elysées with the sparkling grace that made the poets talk about Paris and sigh. Even the lines of cars crowding the Champs managed to look glistening and romantic. In the near distance, the Arc de Triomphe anchored the skyline with the massive dignity of coffered stone. Nikki turned bleak eyes away from the view—the romance was lost on her. She wanted to go home. Home where there were hugs after a bad day. Home where there were snuggles on the couch. Home where Z’ev made dinner. Home where she could look forward to salsa on a Thursday night. She realized with a sinking feeling that Z’ev had come to equal home, and Z’ev wasn’t there anymore. And really, who did she think she was fooling? He wouldn’t have been there much longer. Even after he’d made plans for Mexico, he still had one foot out the door.

Z’ev was listening to Tricky, which was better than old-school Portishead. Nikki stood with her key in the lock, listening to the
thumping bass of the gravelly-voiced Euro trip-hopper’s music through the door of her apartment. Nikki preferred Portishead, but as an indicator of Z’ev’s mood level, Tricky was definitely better. Portishead was for serious depression; Tricky was for irrational grouchiness. She finished unlocking the door and kicked off her shoes, ditching her sunglasses and purse on the table by the door.

Z’ev was in the kitchen, cooking. She watched as he chopped small red potatoes with short, vicious strokes of the knife.

“Have the potatoes been bad?”

“Your knives suck,” he said without looking at her. “I’m buying you new knives.”

“OK,” said Nikki.

He threw the knife into the sink and dropped the potatoes onto a cookie sheet. Olive oil went on top of the potatoes in angry shakes, followed by bits of rosemary, salt, and pepper.

“So what are we having for dinner?” asked Nikki, leaning against the counter.

“Black bean salad, rosemary potatoes, and grilled chicken. Flan for dessert.”

This was a bad sign; he had been watching the Cooking Channel again.

“Honey, do you want to go to the gym later?” she asked. The man clearly needed to hit something. The potatoes were not helping.

“Don’t call me ‘honey,’” he snapped, slamming the oven closed on the potatoes. “You only call me ‘honey’ when you’re being patronizing.”

Nikki folded her arms across her chest. She had tried several methods of dealing with a Tricky mood in the past: joking, soothing, and understanding. Nothing seemed to work. She could just
walk away and let him stew in peace, but his mood seemed to follow her around the apartment. It was time to get tough.

“Z’ev, if you are angry about something, please tell me so you can stop being so aggressive with my cooking utensils.”

He yanked open the refrigerator. “I’m not angry.” He took out a dish of marinating chicken breasts and stomped away.

“You’re not?” she asked, following him out to the deck, where her barbecue was heating.

“No,” he said through gritted teeth. He flopped the chicken onto the grill and the marinade splattered up, splashing his shirt. “Damn it!” He barged back into the house, stripping off his shirt. With a sigh, Nikki followed him into the bedroom. He was digging through his drawer for a clean shirt.

“Did I do something to upset you?” asked Nikki, picking up his chicken-splattered T-shirt from the floor and carrying it into the bathroom.

“No!” he yelled.

“Then why are you yelling at me?” It was one of his favorites—bright yellow with a picture of a matador on it. Personally, she thought the shirt was hideous.

“I’m not yelling at you!” he yelled. She started to rinse it out in the sink; the sound of Tricky’s “Cross to Bear” filled the apartment. Z’ev was still rummaging in the drawer.

“If you want to wait, this will be clean in a minute and we can dry it out on the deck.”

“Don’t want to wait,” he grumbled, standing in the door of the bathroom.

“But I like it when you go topless,” she said, looking at him in the mirror. That almost got a smile, but he clearly wasn’t ready to relinquish his mood. She washed the shirt while he watched from the doorway.

“I got that shirt in Spain,” he said, but he still sounded slightly surly. Nikki nodded.

“Travel shirts are kind of irreplaceable.” The spot had disappeared to her satisfaction and she twisted the shirt, wringing it out. “There you go,” she said, unfurling the shirt with a wet slap, “good as new. Just have to dry it out.”

He pushed the shirt out of the way to kiss her.

“Mmm. I told you I liked topless,” said Nikki. He laughed, backing her up against the sink to kiss her again. Water from the shirt in her hand ran into her blouse as she put her arms around his neck. The scent of rosemary filled the air and the oven timer began to beep incessantly.

“Ignore it,” Z’ev said, and Nikki laughed, breaking away.

“The last time we ignored it we almost set the kitchen on fire,” she said. “I really don’t want to have to explain that to the maintenance guy
again
!”

“Fine,” said Z’ev, rolling his eyes and jogging to the kitchen to rescue the potatoes while Nikki took his shirt out on the deck to hang over the back of one of the chairs.

“So,” she said when dinner was through and the last of even the burned potatoes had been eaten. “Are you going to tell me what you were upset about?”

He grunted in response. Nikki ran it through her Z’ev translator and decided it most closely resembled “Yes, but don’t push me.” She waited.

“Doesn’t matter,” he said after a while. “It was a work thing.”

“That you can’t talk about?” Nikki asked, squelching a surge of annoyance. He grunted again; this time she guessed that the grunt meant, “Yes, let’s not have this conversation again.”

“I don’t like coming here when you’re working,” he said suddenly. “There’s nothing to do and I end up cleaning.”

“Works OK for me,” said Nikki, attempting a joke, but he shot her a sour look.

“I end up thinking of all the stuff I should be doing at work.”

“Ah,” said Nikki, sensing they’d reached the real crux of his bad mood.

“‘Ah’?” he repeated, looking suspicious.

“You were mad at me because you were here when you felt like you should have been at work.”

“I never said I was mad at you,” he said.

“You didn’t have to. Your moods tend to permeate.”

“I wasn’t mad at you,” he repeated. “I was mad at the situation.”

Nikki wanted to point out that she was the situation, but she didn’t have the courage. Instead she stared at the setting sun and wondered when he’d break up with her.

When they reached the hotel Nikki had every intention of leaving the younger girl on the sidewalk, but Svenka called her back.

“The director, Madame Feron, said I should give this to you,” said Svenka, reluctantly taking an envelope out of her pocket. “In case your conversation with Camille wasn’t productive. Those were her words. I don’t know what’s in it.” Svenka looked worried and guilty.

“It’s probably just another copy of that damn letter,” said Nikki with a shrug, tucking the envelope into her jacket.

“I could give you a ride to the airport,” said Svenka halfheartedly. Nikki gave her a speaking look and Svenka nodded. They both knew she wasn’t going to the airport.