MasterStroke (16 page)

“Of course.”

“And you know how concerned I’ve been about you. Ever since you met this Jack person, you’ve been like someone else. It’s a wonderful change and about time it happened and that’s why I wanted to make sure you’d made the right decision.”

I don’t like the sound of this. What has she done?

“Mariel……..”

Mariel held up both hands in protest.

“I only did it because I’m concerned about you. You’d do the same for me.”

Sandrine’s scalp should have been tingling by now but the expected flash of anger didn’t occur. Ordinarily, she’d have been affronted, viewing it as an invasion of her privacy, no matter how good the intentions had been. This time, however, she registered little more than curiosity.

The whirlwind of her relationship with Jack had left her with questions that she’d never got around to asking. Who was he? What did he really do for a living? How could he exist the way he did?

A slim, young waiter returned with Mariel’s drink. She examined it, noting the beads of condensation freckling the glass, sniffed the contents and sat back, apparently satisfied.

“Thanks, sweetie. That appears about right.” The high-wattage smile she sent in his direction was enough praise by itself. The waiter blushed like a schoolboy and, almost beatific with gratitude, scampered away. Mariel had that effect on men.

“What did you do?”

“What you’d do in the same circumstances, babs. I checked him out.”

Sandrine pursed her lips and looked around the room. At this time of night, the place was packed with gaggles of women and prowling single men. They were all largely of a type – young, attractive and well-dressed, professionals intent on blowing off steam after a hard week at the corporate coalface. With its clientele and studied air of retro nonchalance, Russet & Browns was one of Mariel’s favourite haunts. She was known to all the staff, from Andre, who favoured her with one of the room’s best tables, superbly positioned for people-watching, down to the kitchen hands. The men, especially the gay men who considered her somewhat of a style icon, were in awe of her and the women loved her flamboyant and good-humoured chutzpah. This was Mariel’s personal fiefdom and Sandrine knew she was also under the spotlight. She was careful not to make a scene.

Swinging her attention back to Mariel, she said, “And what did you find?”

“It’s not so much what I did find but what I didn’t. And what happened afterwards.”

Sandrine sipped the chilled Californian chardonnay slowly. She waited. It wasn’t wise to rush Mariel who loved to indulge the telling of secrets with a theatrical flourish. To prod her along would only prolong the process.

“Jack Lucas. Not a lot to start with. A middle name would have been handy.”

“I don’t know his middle name,” Sandrine admitted.

“So I tried Jack as well as James, John and Jacob, which throws the net far too wide in my opinion. Pain in the bum. I started with a Google picture search because that would bring up social media. Drew a blank there. No Facebook, MySpace or Twitter or, so it appears, Tumbler, Pinterest or any of the others.

“So he’s private. I am, as well. I’m not on any of those.”

“I then tried searching for public records. Zip, nada, nothing. No criminal records I could find, not even a parking ticket. Doesn’t even seem to be registered as a voter. So I took a different tack, working from the other direction. I used the little you mentioned about his address to find his warehouse and used that to search for property information, thinking that would give me his full name. Luckily, the county assessor’s office is on-line. And here’s where it starts getting interesting.”

Sandrine had to admit Mariel had a way of unfolding a story. As a journalist, she often said, she liked the research best. It was a matter of joining the dots to see what pattern emerged.

“That building, along with one on either side and a couple directly behind it on the parallel street, is owned by a corporation named Intaglio Inc.”

Sandrine recognised the word but couldn’t quite place it.

“It’s something to do with art, I think,” she ventured.

“Exactly,” Mariel agreed. “It’s a printmaking technique using engraved copper or zinc plates. Been around for centuries.”

Sandrine nodded. Intaglio Inc. A nice little pun. She still had no idea of where the conversation was going or what was so urgent she needed to rush out to meet Mariel in the middle of the night.

“Anyway, I then tried searching for information on Intaglio. That led into a maze of related companies then eventually a dead end. I gave up for a while. My head was spinning and I needed coffee. There’s a great coffee shop near the office with the cutest Venezuelan barista you ever did see. Tall, dark and handsome. And with such beautiful eyes.”

“Mariel,” was all Sandrine had to say to bring the conversation back on course.

“Yes, sorry, anyway, I get back to the newsroom and I can see the editor has visitors. A couple of earnest-looking men in dark suits. Anonymous right down to their identical haircuts and conservative ties. Very official. They were talking and Mr Hopkins, well, he can be the most fearsome editor I’ve ever worked with, he was listening. Intently. And nodding. If he had hair, he would have been tugging his forelock. Whoever these men were, they were scaring him badly.”

Mariel took a hefty swig of her martini and signalled the waiter for another. Obviously her editor wasn’t the only one who was nervous.

“I tried to keep a low profile, just sitting at my desk and sipping coffee. But Mr Hopkins saw me watching. When they left, he called me into his office. They wanted to know who had been accessing information on such-and-such a computer at such-and-such a time. Luckily, I’d been using someone else’s computer and he was away in London on assignment. Mr Hopkins stonewalled them, told them it could have been anyone, all the journalists, researchers and sub-editors had access to each and every computer and often used whichever one was closest.”

“Who were they?”

Mariel shook her head so violently, her Louise Brooks bob flew from side to side.

“That’s just it. They didn’t fully identify themselves, not FBI, NSA, CIA, Secret Service, Federal Marshalls, Homeland Security, nothing. Mr Hopkins said they flashed Government identification but it wasn’t one he recognised and they wouldn’t allow questions. He said they were seriously scary. They didn’t exactly threaten him but the menace went unstated. He told them they’d need a subpoena if they wanted any information and, anyway, the newspaper was protected by the First Amendment. Get this, when he said that, they replied that there was no First Amendment, no amendments of any kind where they worked.”

“Wow,” was all Sandrine could say, sitting back in her chair and letting the information wash over her. Whatever it meant, she had no idea. “What’s your take on the situation?”

“Cause and effect. I’m ferreting out information on your new boyfriend and, in a distressingly short space of time, some humourless Government types who are so secret they won’t even mention who they work for turn up in the office. My search set off some big-ass alarms in Washington. To recap, who is your boyfriend and what exactly is it he does? Is he a good guy or a bad guy and why does the Government care?”

They went back and forth, examining various possibilities, suggesting alternatives, weaving the theories together until they were both thoroughly confused. In the meantime, Sandrine decided that she should bring Mariel up to speed on the entire story, in the process adding some more pieces to the puzzle.

She laid it out in detail, starting with the arrival of the Russians in the bookstore through to that day’s events. Mariel sat open-mouthed the entire time. By the end, the colour had drained from her face, leaving just a slash of bright red lipstick.

“Why didn’t you tell me all of this?” she demanded.

“I didn’t want you to worry.”

“You’re damn right I’d worry. This is dangerous. You should call the police.”

“I didn’t know what to do and Jack was been so protective. He’d never put me in danger, I know that.”

“And considering what we know, or don’t know, about Jack, do you still feel the same? Is it a coincidence he turned up around the same time the Russians did?”

Sandrine considered the question carefully. Mariel had raised an interesting point, one that hadn’t quite occurred to her.

“It has to be a coincidence. Couldn’t be anything else. Oh, and one more thing.”

“What else could there be?” Mariel demanded.

“I’m in love with Jack.”

“Oh, no. Sandrine, you must be kidding. Lust is one thing and a very therapeutic thing it is. But love, and in love, that’s so unlike you.”

“I know,” Sandrine nodded. “I’ve always been the one in control before. But with Jack, I’m helpless. I never thought I could feel this way and the realisation hit me suddenly but it happened.”

Mariel knocked back the last of her martini and signalled the waiter. He was at the table in seconds, with the happy expectant expression of a puppy being taken for a walk. If he had a tail, it would have been wagging. She ordered iced water; Sandrine went for another white wine.

“Can this story get any more complicated? You meet a guy who may or may not be what he says he is but who initially appeared to be a knight in shining armour. He’s impossibly cute, sexy and, I assume, very good in bed. But he’s also into S&M, has his own bondage room and is still in love with another woman. And you’re being threatened by a bunch of Russian thugs. Have I left anything out?”

“No, that’s pretty much it. And while the S&M thing revolts me, I do find the bondage side of things very erotic. There’s something about being helpless and completely in Jack’s control, that gets me very excited.”

The waiter skated back in record time, laying down the drinks and picking up the empties. Mariel continued on with the conversation as if he wasn’t there.

“Be careful. It’s like that song. There’s a fine line between pleasure and pain. One moment, it’s silk scarves and butterfly kisses, the next it’s burning candle wax on the nipples and electric cattle prods.”

“Mariel!” Sandrine exclaimed with an outraged tone, casting a quick glance at the waiter who was standing stock still, an empty glass poised half-way between table and tray, an expression that alternated between writhing embarrassment and morbid curiosity stealing across his features. He slowly skated away with a wistful look. Mariel failed to notice. She was in full flight.

“I’m serious. I know what I’m talking about. There was a stockbroker I once knew. Looked angelic, like arbitrage wouldn’t melt in his mouth but he was one sick puppy. He had a Berkley horse set up in his dining room and liked to watch submissives being flogged during dinner parties. Tried to talk me into taking part.”

Mariel sipped her water with a carefully arranged nonchalance that demanded Sandrine ask her what happened next.

“What happened next?”

She shrugged.

“Tried it six or seven times before deciding it wasn’t for me. He did make a killer soufflé, however.”

It was typical of Mariel. No matter how much they disagreed and how heated the conversation became as a result, she could diffuse any offence with a burst of humour and a raucous laugh.

“OK, maybe we’re over-thinking this. Maybe this really is fate and Jack came along just at the right time. What’s bothering me is that it doesn’t explain the government men turning up in my office so soon after I start a background search.”

“I just don’t know but it doesn’t feel right. I’m certain Jack is a good guy.”

“And maybe those government types were the Men In Black.”

“That would make Jack an alien and I’m pretty sure he’s not.”

“Wing-a-ding,” Mariel crowed. “Wouldn’t that be something? He might have two cocks.”

“The one he has is quite enough,” Sandrine shot back defensively, then instantly regretted saying it.

Mariel leered across the table.

“Go, girl. Tell all. What’s he like in the sack?”

“You know I won’t say. I don’t do that kind of thing.”

“Oh, come one, Miss Prim. What’s the harm in a little light conversation? Anyway, I’ve told you enough stories over the years.”

“Over-shared to be exact.”

“Oh, poo.” Mariel pouted. The young waiter suddenly returned, sensing a prized customer’s dissatisfaction. She waved him away. “No, not you, Hans. Not this time. I’ll talk to you later.”

“You know him? Another story to tell?” Sandrine asked.

“Wouldn’t want to over-share,” Mariel huffed. “So what do you intend to do?”

“There’s only one way to find out about Jack,” Sandrine mused.

“You can’t ask him,” Mariel appeared horrified.

“I don’t like to think he’d be hiding anything from me.”

“But asking him straight out will only alert him that we know something.”

“I can’t lie to him. It wouldn’t be fair.”

“You’re in a lot of danger. Keep it quiet for the moment. See what happens next.”

Sandrine thought this over. On one hand, she knew she owed Jack such a lot.
He’s been there for me when I needed him most.
On the other hand, there were so many unanswered questions. Mariel’s revelations had shaken her equilibrium.
There is certainly something strange going on and there may be a lot he’s not telling me. He owes me an explanation.

“I’m not sure how long I can wait. I’m so worried. Maybe I’m foolish having fallen for Jack so quickly. I can’t explain why it happened.”

“I think it was just a matter of time before you lost your heart to someone. You’re the romantic type no matter how much you claim you’re not. You can’t go through life being totally in control of every relationship. Someone, some time, was going to make you forget those silly rules you live by.”

Sandrine looked around the room. The evening was getting on and the lighting had been dialled down a notch. The music had also changed, from the lively jazz violin of Stephane Grappelli to lush late 70s disco. It was almost dim within the restaurant now, with the result that those around them had begun acting like a teenagers’ party when the adults were absent. Groups had broken up into couples, hunched together over their tables, speaking close, chatting, laughing, holding hands or stealing discreet kisses.