Edge of Tomorrow (14 page)

Sara rapped on the door.

“
Enter,” said a muffled
voice.

Sara opened the door and ushered Syd into a
spacious room tastefully decorated in English antiques. An ornate,
massive antique desk faced out from the far wall. The woman behind
the desk was not what Syd had expected. Instead of a white-haired
old crone—Syd’s guess of what “Mrs. Chamberlain” would look like—a
buxom lady of about forty-five, wearing a tailored, yellow suit
with a short skirt stood up and walked toward them. Her face seemed
as if it had just jumped off the page of a cosmetic ad. Her hair
was short, stylish brown curls, without a speck of gray.

“Mrs. Chamberlain, this is Syd Steppe. She
will be Hatch’s guest for a day or two. She needs a suite, and some
clothes, since we can’t retrieve hers just yet,” said Sara
sweetly.

“Very pleased to meet you, Ms. Steppe,” Mrs.
Chamberlain answered with a pleasant British accent. She shook
Syd’s hand, then retreated back behind her massive desk and sat
down. She opened a leather-bound, loose-leaf binder and consulted
the page she had in front of her.

“
First, Sara, put her in the Blue
Suite, 2A. I think she shall be quite comfortable there. Now for
the clothes. You shan’t need many, I suppose, but we’ll get you a
selection, just to be safe. Underwear, a couple of bathing suits,
something casual, something for dinner.”

She was writing on a pad as she spoke,
mumbling to herself. She peered up at Syd and scanned her body from
head to toe.

“Shoe size?” she asked.

“Nine and a half, medium,” replied Syd.

“Let’s see. You would be five feet eight or
nine, 135 pounds. Bra size 36-C. Do you prefer bikini panties?”
Mrs. Chamberlain rattled on as she scribbled. She never commented
on how Syd looked at the moment.

Is she used to guests that are such a
mess?

“Wow! You’re good! Five eight and a half, 133
pounds, actually. Bikini is fine. How did you get so good at this?
You could be in a circus,” Syd chuckled.

With a haughty stare, Mrs. Chamberlain
answered, “Just part of my job, dearie. I’ll send someone out right
away to fetch these things for you. In the meantime, Sara will have
to scrounge something up for you. Now, I suggest you visit your
shower.”

“Thanks, Mrs. C. I’ll see what I can dig up,”
said Sara.

“Now, Ms. Steppe, if you need anything, just
dial 10 on your house phone and it will reach me. I’m here to serve
you,” she said, all business again.

Syd felt like that was a dismissal, so she
shook her hand again and headed for the door. Sara followed,
closing the door quietly behind them.

When they were at the bottom of the huge
circular staircase, Syd turned to Sara and whispered, “Christ! I
expected her to be an old crone. That lady just stepped out of the
pages of Vogue!”

Sara whispered back, “Don’t let her looks
fool you! She runs a tight ship. Technically, she works for me, but
I would never tell her what to do. She is very good at her job.
She’s in charge of meals, too. I don’t know what she has planned
for dinner, but you’ll be impressed. It will be five star, whatever
it is. It’s the same, even when Hatch isn’t here.”

“I wonder what Mr. Chamberlain thinks about
going to bed with a Gestapo Colonel?” giggled Syd.

“There is no Mr. Chamberlain. She’s a widow.
She’s currently seeing a male model about half her age. I’d like to
be a fly on their bedroom wall!” chortled Sara. “I can guess who
would be on top!”

“Sara!” exclaimed Syd. “Why the ‘Mrs.
Chamberlain’? Everyone else around here seems to go by first
names.”

“Her first name is Hermione. ‘Mrs. C.’ is
easier. Besides, nobody has had the nerve to do otherwise.”

“Not even Hatch?”

“If he has, I’ve never heard him do it,”
shrugged Sara.

“You guys are a strange bunch,” commented
Syd.

“That we are. But likeable. I apologize for
being so rude to you when we met. I was just concerned about Hatch.
We all have our good points, now and then—even Mrs. Chamberlain.
Hatch had the British Ambassador here once, and Mrs. C. taught us
all the correct protocol, then had the Ambassador eating out of her
hand. Led him around like a puppy dog. She squeezed that great body
of hers into a strapless evening gown and he—and we—kept waiting
for her tits to pop out of it. They never did, much to his
disappointment. Hatch got his favor from the Ambassador!”

“Why, that’s pure
sexism
! Using a female employee’s body to
influence a business decision,” Syd said facetiously, showing mock
horror on her face.

“It wasn’t Hatch’s idea, it was hers. She
would do anything to help Hatch in any endeavor. We all would,”
Sara said solemnly.

“Why is everyone so dedicated to Hatch?”
asked Syd.

“We all have our reasons; all different, I
guess. In Mrs. C.’s case, her husband—who was about Hatch’s age—was
in British Intelligence, MI-5 or MI-6, I think. Hatch knew him
since the eighties, and when he was killed in 1997, Hatch brought
his widow over here and gave her a job. He said he had promised Mr.
C. that he would look after her if anything ever happened to Mr. C.
I don’t know any details. I just know that Hatch is a very
compassionate man. Once you’re his friend, he always looks after
you. And you him.”

That explains why Sara reacted the way she
did about Hatch. I have to know more about this man! And I wonder
what Sara’s story is? Does Hatch go around collecting unfortunate,
distraught people? Maybe he’ll collect me! I should have been more
distraught!

She chortled under her breath. She followed
Sara up the wide circular staircase to the second floor landing. At
the top of the staircase, Sara turned down one of the three
hallways that intersected at the landing. It was lined on both
sides with door after door. It reminded Syd of a hotel corridor.
Sara stopped in front of a door with a brass “2A” on it and opened
it. They stepped into a spacious, elegantly decorated suite. Syd’s
mouth was agape at what she saw.

“The bathroom is in there. You can either
shower or soak in the tub. Now for some clothes for you until Mrs.
C. works her magic. I’m a little taller than you, but you can
probably wear my clothes in a pinch. Underwear can be a problem.
That blood on your shirt most surely soaked through into your bra,
and my bras won’t fit you. I’m a 40-D and you’re an itty-bitty
36-C,” teased Sara.

“Itty-bitty! I’ve never had any complaints
from men before!” snorted Syd.

“Everything is relative, Syd,” laughed Sara.
“I can most likely get you some panties from Maria, the maid. Her
butt is about your size. Her tits are much smaller though, so no
bra from her either. Hell, you can just go braless! The men will
love it! Go get cleaned up and I’ll see what I can rustle up for
you to wear.”

She turned and left the room, closing the
door behind her.

Wow! I don’t know what to make of her. But I
think I am beginning to like her. Who would have thought she had a
sense of humor after that greeting downstairs? She must have been
worried about Hatch. She seems to really care for him. But who
wouldn’t? I hardly know him and I could get to care for him easily.
He is such a sexy hunk!

She strolled into the extra large bathroom
and pulled off her bloody shirt and dropped it on the white tile
floor. The blood had stained her white strapless bra. She unhooked
it and it joined the shirt on the tile. Her breasts were also
spotted with blood. She put her hands under her breasts and lifted
them as she looked at herself in the large mirror.

Itty-bitty! Hah! More than adequate!

She finished undressing and climbed into the
roomy shower and started washing the blood off her body. She even
washed her hair with the shampoo she found on the shower shelf. She
got out of the shower and dried herself with a large, fluffy bath
sheet. She dried her hair as best she could with the towel and
wrapped a smaller towel into a turban around her head. Then she
wrapped a dry towel around her body and tucked it in between her
breasts. She walked out of the bathroom and found Sara sitting on
one of the beds. There were several selections of clothing laid out
on the other bed.

“There you are,” Sara said, smiling. “I
brought you a selection of styles and colors. Take your pick. The
underwear is red. It seems Maria is partial to that color.”

“Thank you so much, Sara. You shouldn’t have
given me so many choices,” stated Syd, looking over the
clothes.

“Well, if you want to show off what you’ve
got, such as it is,” Sara giggled, “I suggest the yellow tank top.
It’s a little tight on me, so it will fit you better than some of
the other tops. As you can see, I prefer tight. You can always wear
the red sweat shirt and hide your gender altogether.”

Syd picked up the red underwear, sat down on
the bed and stepped into them. Then she stood up and pulled them
on. She took off the towel and put on the yellow tank top. She
studied herself in the mirror on the closet door.

“Fits pretty good. I think I will wear
this.”

“Yes, it looks good on you,” observed
Sara.

Syd tried on several of the pants and shorts,
and settled on a pair of black shorts that fit all right, though
they were looser than her own.

“Let me help you with your hair. There are a
hair dryer and a brush in the bathroom cabinet,” offered Sara.

While they worked on Syd’s hair, Sara
asked, “Are you ready to tell me what happened at
The Blue Grotto
today?”

“What has Hatch told you?”

“Nothing yet. He sent me off with you, if you
remember.”

“Well, the short version is that two men
attacked me and I think they were trying to drag me to their car.
That turned out to be a big mistake for them. Hatch came to my
rescue. He killed one, I killed the other,” Syd stated calmly while
slipping into the shorts she had chosen.

“Oh, My God! It’s worse than I thought! What
is the police’s position on things?” gasped Sara.

“I’m not really sure yet. There was an old
lady who saw the whole thing and the story she told was favorable
to us. Hatch knew the detective at the scene. Lt. Jerry Jackson. He
let us leave, but we will have to make statements,” Syd
replied.

“Those two men. Were they the two Arabs?”
asked Sara as she sat down next to Syd.

“Yes. How did you know about them?” Syd asked
with a puzzled look on her face.

“Hatch called me as soon as he got
suspicious. They seemed to be watching a woman, whom, I suppose,
was you. I sent a guy over to get pictures of them to see if we
could ID them, but they were dead by the time he got there. He
still got some head shots while they were on the ground, but one of
them had a real messed up face. Considering the blood on you, I
assume he was yours?”

“Yeah. I kneed him in the face, as well as
his balls.”

“Jeez! I want the entire story, but we had
better get downstairs. Hatch wants a damage control meeting,” Sara
said, rising from the bed and walking toward the door. Syd strapped
on her sandals and followed her.

Klaus Haus, Marco Island, Florida

Wednesday, August 1, 2001

1:30 P.M.

Earlier, when Syd and Sara went to get
Syd cleaned up, Hatch and Bruno went to a large library and sat
side by side at the long, mahogany conference table. Hatch gave
Bruno a quick review of what had happened at
The Blue Grotto
.

Bruno said, “I talked to our Antiterrorist
Desk in Langley and they found out that four Iranians entered New
York at JFK two days ago. They came in from London on Iranian
passports. The FBI put a tail on them—their normal procedure—but
lost them after an hour. They could be anywhere now.”

“Sara mentioned that. They must have been
looking for a tail if they lost it that fast,” opined Hatch.

“We need to track down those Iranians fast,
Hatch. If, in fact, they are related to your fracas,” stated Bruno.
“It would help to know if the cops have got an ID on the two dead
guys.”

“Yes, to both of your statements. I don’t
think the cops would tell us anything though. They might tell the
FBI if they think it’s more than a simple assault. Syd could still
be in danger. There is definitely something fishy here. Why was Syd
a target? They were certainly following her. I don’t want us
getting the FBI involved until we have some facts. But I have an
idea,” mused Hatch.

Hatch glanced at his watch. It was now 1:30
P.M.

“Let’s see. It would be 8:30 P.M. in Tel
Aviv. I think I’ll try a long shot and call Uri Stein. He was made
head of the MOSSAD about a year ago. He signed a contract with
Triple Eye to provide their daily, weekly, and monthly intelligence
summaries—among other things. He might help me out. The MOSSAD
keeps close tabs on the movement of terrorists in the Mideast,”
Hatch explained to Bruno. “I’ll call him at home. I’m sure I have
that number in my private Rolodex.”

He went to a computer terminal that was on a
desk in the far corner of the library. He logged on and typed a few
keys.

“Ah, there it is,” he said.

He pulled out his Blue Phone and punched in
the number for the MOSSAD chief’s home in Tel Aviv. Hatch heard the
clicking noise that told him that the encrypted signal was going
through many repeater exchanges. The number Hatch had dialed was to
a secure phone.

“Uri Stein,” a pleasant voice answered. Stein
would wait until the caller spoke so he would know which language
to use.

“Hello, Uri, this is Van Lincoln. I hate to
bother you at home at this time of night,” said Hatch
pleasantly.

“Mr. Lincoln! Don’t tell me that my people
forgot to pay my bill!” laughed Stein.