“I will,” Bianca promised. With an inner sigh she registered that he was planning to attend. Not that she was really surprised. All the Society types, all the big money business people, all the movers and shakers in Savannah would be there.
“Who are you going with?” His forehead wrinkled in inquiry. His tone said that he’d known but forgotten. He hadn’t, because she hadn’t told him.
“Evie,” Bianca said. Doc had gone ahead to retrieve the car from the parking lot at Les’s suggestion. He’s getting me out of the way so he can ask you out, Doc had warned in an undertone before leaving. Doc now pulled his red Prius around in front of the brass-framed revolving doors and stopped, obviously waiting for Bianca to come out. She spotted him with relief. “There’s Doc. I should go. I hope you’ll give serious consideration to our proposal.”
“You can be sure of it. Dr. Ziegler is a little—unique, but he certainly does seem to know what he’s talking about. We’ll discuss it internally, and let you know.”
“Thank you.” Bianca left him with a smile. Trying to explain to him—again—that Doc was not actually Doctor Ziegler seemed like a waste of energy. And to be honest, anything that helped the cause...
“I’ll see you later,” he called after her.
Bianca responded with a wave as she pushed out through the door and headed for the car. Sunlight glinted off the windshields of the vehicles parked in rows just beyond the porte cochere where the Prius waited. The cool breeze carried a hint of car exhaust. Traffic was especially heavy because of all the tourists in town for the Food and Wine Festival. Considering everything—Les, the ridiculous costume she was going to have to wear, potential killers on her trail—she was tempted to skip the Preservation League function, the official name of which was the Historic Savannah Auction and Gala. Only the thought of Evie having to face her soon-to-be ex-husband, her disapproving mother, her angry in-laws and the entire gossipy Savannah social register alone kept her from backing out.
But she wanted to.
“So did he?” Doc shifted into drive as she slid in beside him. He was asking whether Les had asked her out, she knew. They were in his car instead of hers because Bianca was now officially playing defense and she felt that there was far less likelihood of an attacker following Doc’s car than her own.
She wasn’t going to answer that: kiss-and-tell wasn’t her style.
“None of your business.” She cast an assessing look around as they pulled out onto Broughton Street. A red tour bus was in front of them. Through its windows Bianca could see the passengers craning their necks to take in the sights being described by their guide, who was standing up in the front of the bus with a microphone. The black sedan directly behind the Prius was worrisome at first glance, but the white-haired woman behind the wheel was not. The wide brick sidewalks were packed with pedestrians, tables at the outdoor cafés were filling up, and students from the Savannah College of Art and Design (she could tell because their black T-shirts had SCAD printed in white on the back) were setting up displays of giant, wildly painted papier-mâché flowers at the intersections.
As far as she could tell, no assassins in the lot.
“He did.” Doc was clearly pleased at having been right. “You know, you going out with him would probably go a long way toward helping us get that contract.”
“You sound like Evie.” She glanced over at a horse-drawn carriage as they passed it. The white carriage horse was clip-clopping along next to the curb. The driver was a wizened little man in a top hat and tails. The tourists in the back looked like a honeymoon couple: no assassins there, either. The problem was, among so many people it would be surprising if she did spot an assassin. Like Groton, she was most likely to discover that a killer was nearby when a bullet drilled through her head. “I refuse to be pimped out. Besides, I think we’ve got the contract in the bag anyway. You did a great job explaining what their weak points are and how we can fix them. Really impressive.”
“Thanks.” He sounded almost bashful. Bianca was reminded that this—the legitimate business side of hacking, the corporate arena, his real-world job at Guardian Consulting—was all new to him. He might consider himself to be the best at what he did, but he was used to being on the wrong side of the law and to hiding rather than showing off his skills. He wasn’t quite comfortable being Guardian Consulting’s head of cybersecurity yet.
Baby steps.
She smiled at him. “How about I take you to lunch? As long as we eat fast. And keep an eye out for death squads.”
Doc rolled his eyes in her direction. “Not funny.”
The thing was, she wasn’t kidding. The other thing was, he knew it.
On the drive over, she’d fed him her cover story about the source of the danger she thought she might be in, framing it as an offshoot of the international seek-and-destroy mission that had been launched as a result of the Bahrain debacle.
“Oh, crap, does that mean they’re after me too?” he’d replied, because of course he’d also been in on the job in Bahrain. He’d seemed to take heart from Bianca’s reassurance that nobody had even known he’d been there.
He had further reassured himself with, “I have standing alerts set up on myself. Nothing’s come up, so I think I’m good.”
The situation was made slightly more complicated because she also hadn’t acquainted him with the fact that her not-father, the mastermind behind the Bahrain job who’d supposedly perished in it, was not, in fact, dead.
Oh, what a tangled web and all that.
But the need-to-know principle was something she’d been brought up with, and in this case Doc didn’t. She was keeping quiet out of loyalty to the man who had raised her, out of training, out of caution.
She trusted Doc. She really, truly did. But—
People can’t tell what they don’t know.
Ordinarily Bianca would have suggested that they grab food at the City Market, or at one of the tents set up all over town in conjunction with the Food and Wine Festival, but the idea of walking around in the open gave her the willies. Instead, they ate inside, at a back table in Huey’s Southern Café. Doc, who was in the process of falling in love with (most) Southern food, ordered the low country boil, a spicy crab, shrimp and smoked sausage dish, while Bianca had her usual grilled chicken and salad.
Then, because it was close by and the longing looks Doc cast at it practically begged her, they ducked into River Street Sweets where he got a bag of his favorite pralines and she got a single licorice Twizzler.
The two of them were alone in the elevator on the way back up to the office when, between munches, Doc said, “I’ve been thinking—are there any pictures of you as Beth McAlister out there anywhere? Like in any newspaper or anything that could be searchable online?”
Bianca’s pulse was already beating faster than it should have been because of the risk that went along with entering the building. The good news was, a hit man had to locate her before he could lie in wait, which she was almost—almost being the operative word here—sure hadn’t happened. The bad news was, the niggling uncertainty had made her ditch her half-eaten Twizzler before they’d even entered the building.
Sticky fingers and throwing stars were a bad mix.
Bianca said, “I don’t see how there could be. Why?”
“Because whoever pulled that picture now has that name, and they’re going to be looking for a photo to go along with it. And if they get a photo of Beth McAlister...” Doc didn’t finish. He didn’t have to.
If they got a photo of Beth McAlister, they’d run it through every search engine and computer system they had access to, which was basically every search engine and computer system in the world. Since the face of Beth McAlister could potentially be linked to a multitude of names, including Bianca St. Ives, there was no telling what might turn up.
“I was only four years old.” Bianca was thinking alo
ud. “We were in hiding. I can’t imagine there’d be any pictures at all.”
“You know, I could fix any photos of you that are online. Switch ’em out for something similar, but that couldn’t possibly ring the bell in the biometric data searches because it isn’t you. What are we talking about here, driver’s license and—”
The elevator dinged as it reached the fifteenth floor and stopped. Bianca instantly tensed as every instinct she possessed screamed, battle stations.
9
The elevator door rolled open. Bianca focused on the space in front of them—
Clear.
With Doc still talking, they stepped out. She darted a quick, comprehensive look over the terrazzo-floored, white-walled hallway, including the nine-foot ceiling: it was surprising how few people ever looked up, and how often an attacker took advantage of that.
Nothing.
Guardian Consulting’s suite of offices occupied one-half of the fifteenth floor. The offices of the floor’s other tenant, Hoover Investment Group, took up the other half. Hoover’s door was closed.
As she and Doc walked toward their own black-painted office door with its silver-lettered Guardian Consulting sign, Bianca made a mental note of the hallway’s vulnerabilities: four windows, two of which had direct sight lines from a nearby building and thus could provide an opportunity for a sniper. Two restrooms, a men’s and a women’s, either of which could conceal an assailant. Like the door to her own offices and the Hoover Investment Group offices, the doors to the restrooms were solid and closed.
Anybody could lurk behind those doors.
Damn it. What was she supposed to do, nail them shut?
Doc had quit talking and was waiting for a reply. Bianca had heard every word even as she assessed the area for threats, because she excelled at Criminal Multitasking 101: looking normal and surviving at the same time.
She said, “Any time I had to have a picture taken, I took care to make sure that facial recognition software wasn’t ever going to be able to get a hit on it. You saw that with the photo that came up.”
“I think I should still change the pictures,” Doc said. “Just in case.”
“Actually, that’s smart. I agree. Candid shots, too. They’re what I’m most worried about. Things like Facebook, Snapchat, pictures I don’t even know are out there,” she said as they walked into the office. She didn’t realize how tense she’d been until the door closed behind them and her shoulder and neck muscles unknotted.
What did it say about her life when the fact that she hadn’t been murdered on the way in to work made her want to emulate Quincy’s fist pump?
“How’d it go?” Evie asked. In the act of carrying a tray loaded with what appeared to be tall glasses of iced tea out of the kitchen, she paused to look them over as they entered.
“Really well,” Bianca responded. “I think we’re going to get the contract.”
“Yay, bonus,” Evie responded with a grin. “Let’s make it ten percent. Was Les...?”
“You do not want to go there.” Bianca fixed Evie with a gimlet gaze. “Trust me.”
Evie laughed and turned an inquiring look on Doc.
Shaking his head, he held up both hands as if to say he wanted no part of the conversation. The River Street Sweets bag dangled from one hand. Glancing at it, he appeared to find inspiration.
“Praline?” he asked Evie, swinging the bag back and forth as if to tempt her with it.
“You can’t bribe me,” Evie replied.
“Next time try Oreos,” Bianca said to Doc. “Or ice cream.”
“That’s just low.” Evie tossed her head. “Fine. Don’t tell me what happened. I’ll hear all about it from Les anyway.” As Bianca narrowed her eyes threateningly Evie added, “Your two o’clock’s here. Pete Carmel of Carmel Construction. He’s got four of his site supervisors with him. That was a little much for the size of your office, so I went ahead and put them in the conference room. I’ll just take this to them.”
“Tell them I’ll be right there.”
Evie nodded and headed for the conference room with her tray. Bianca moved toward her office. She needed to drop off her purse and get her iPad, which she meant to use to illustrate the methods Guardian Consulting would employ to keep her client’s construction sites, which had been experiencing a rash of thefts and vandalism, secure.
Then she thought of something and turned back to Doc, who was likewise heading for his office.
“Yearbooks,” she said. “Institut Le Rosey. Sarah Lawrence College. I don’t know if they’re online or not, but—”
“I’ll check,” Doc said.
“Can composite sketches be used with facial recognition software?” She was thinking of an associate of Laurent Durand’s who knew she worked with her not-father, although said associate didn’t know the precise nature of her relationship with Mason or anything about the whole super-soldier thing. (She didn’t think; at this point, who knew?) He also didn’t know her name was Bianca St. Ives, although he knew the name he called her by—Sylvia—wasn’t real. Which was fair: she didn’t know his real name, either. She knew him as Mickey. He was some kind of cop/law enforcement/agent/whatever. Anyway, he’d seen her up close and personal. Actually, extremely up close and personal: as in, he’d kissed her twice. Not that there was any kind of “romance” going on. Both times were because of operational necessity. First hers, then his.
Jackass.
Despite the fact that the last time she’d seen him he’d been firing a shot at Grogan, who’d been taking a shot at her.
The point being, he could describe her well enough to get an accurate composite sketch going. Which left her with two questions: was he part of this? And if he was, could facial recognition software use a composite sketch to find a photo of her that could be identified as Bianca St. Ives?
“Depends on the quality and accuracy of the sketch,” Doc said. “If we change all the searchable photos of you, we shouldn’t have to worry about it.”
“Okay. Good to know. Go for it.”
Doc gave her a thumbs-up as Evie emerged from the conference room carrying the now-empty tray. She glanced at Doc, then lifted questioning eyebrows at Bianca. Silent message: what are you doing standing around? You’re messing up the schedule.
Evie—who’d have thunk it?—was big on keeping to the schedule.
“I’m going,” Bianca said, and strode off toward her office.
Behind her, she heard Evie say to Doc, “Your costume’s in your office, by the way.”
“My costume?” Doc sounded both surprised and wary. “You mean for that historic thing? I’m not going.”
Evie said, “You are now. We need somebody to take charge of tracking the bids who can actually work a computer. That’s you. And since Hay’s date has her own ticket, we now have an extra and you’re going to use it.”
Evie was the event co-chair, so she made those types of arrangements. Evie also, Bianca knew, had felt bad about leaving Doc out when she, Hay and Bianca were all going. Since the event had been sold out for nearly a year, there hadn’t been a lot she could do about it until now. Conscripting Doc to work was Evie’s way of making sure he was part of things.
Next thing Doc knew, Evie would be matchmaking for him.
Now that was something Bianca could root for. And laugh at.
Doc said, “I can’t. I—I’ve got plans.” There was no mistaking the note of rising panic in his voice.
Evie said, “We need you.”
Bianca walked on into her office, which meant she missed the rest of the exchange. Not that it mattered: she was as sure as she was that the sun would rise in the morning that Evie would emerge victorious. When she walked back into the reception area a moment later, iPad in hand, Doc had retreated as far as the doorway of his office.
He was still protesting. “I’m from Ne
w York. I’m a Yankee. If I show up, the Savannah historic people will probably stone me.”
“Just don’t put sugar in your grits and you’ll be fine,” Evie said.
“They’re having—” Doc began, only to be interrupted as the phone on Evie’s desk started to ring. Walking past him, Evie answered it with a crisp, “Guardian Consulting. May I help you?” even as he finished with “—grits?”
The word was full of loathing.
In the Venn diagram of Southern foods Doc had tried, grits ranked on the far side of the hate circle.
Busy talking on the phone, Evie replied with a nod. Doc groaned.
“Life’s a bitch,” Bianca commiserated as she walked past him.
Then she opened the door to the conference room, shook hands with Pete Carmel and the supervisors—okay, that sounded like the name of a boy band; not a thought she needed to be having right then—and got down to business.
* * *
After seeing the group from Carmel Construction off, Bianca had no more appointments for the rest of day. It was a little after 4:00 p.m., and if she went home she would have time for another power nap before she had to get dressed. Evie was busy at her computer, Doc’s door was closed and Hay wasn’t back yet. Bianca went into her office, meaning to gather her belongings and leave. First, though, she took a moment to recheck all the sites she’d visited earlier in search of information on Groton’s murder.
Still nothing. Not a mention. Not anywhere.
Bianca’s mouth went dry.
The best explanation she could come up with for that was an information blackout, a cover-up that was being orchestrated at the highest levels of what almost had to be the US intelligence services.
Why? To avoid spooking other, related targets.
It was the answer that made the most sense.
She knew about what had happened to Groton only because she’d been there. Otherwise she would have had no idea that a sniper had taken him out.
The Moscow Deception--An International Spy Thriller Page 10