by Dylan Madrid
“I’m very sorry…about what happened to the ambassador,” Quintin offered. “He was…a good man.”
“I wouldn’t know,” she replied. “I didn’t meet him until this morning. In the coroner’s office.”
Quintin lowered his eyes, to the mud stains Mallory’s shoes had left on the area rug in his narrow living room. “It’s very sad,” he said.
She fished something out of her pocket and handed it to Quintin: a white business card with words printed on it in black. “Please…ring my office if you think of anything else.”
“I will.”
“Do you need a lift back to the Bremington estate?” she asked. Quintin stared at her blankly in response. “To retrieve your car. It’s still there. Remember?”
Quintin sighed and smiled. “No…no, I’m fine. My coworker Fiona will take me. Thank you, though. I appreciate it.”
The Meeting
Quintin knew he was being followed the moment he stepped outside. A black sedan with tinted windows was parked at the curb. The car sprang to life at the sight of him, as if the shrouded driver had been waiting for him to appear.
Quintin hit the play button on his iPod and the energetic sounds of the song “Barcelona” by the Plastiscines filled his ears. He walked in sync with the punk-pop rhythm. Their music always made him feel alive, determined, on some sort of mission to rule the world. He had a white umbrella tucked underneath his arm. Even though the sky was currently blue and cloudless, you never knew what to expect living in London. Quintin moved quickly toward the intersection of Elgin Crescent and Portobello Road. He slid between two slow-moving strangers and crossed the street. He glanced back and the car was trailing his every step, keeping about a block’s distance away and driving ridiculously slow. The surveillance technique was so bad, it was almost laughable.
Instead of taking the train, Quintin hopped on bus 23, still gripping his umbrella. He paid his fare and took a window seat. He wiped a few drops of sweat off the sides of his face and breathed deep. It was an unusually hot day.
Whoever this woman was, Quintin hoped she’d keep her promise and lead him back to Luca.
As the bus rolled through the streets of London, Quintin couldn’t help but remember the moment he’d shared with Luca in the dark. Every detail was etched into his memory with crystal clarity—the warm, seductive sound of Luca’s rough-edged voice, the sweet and salty smell of his skin, the heat that radiated in his touch.
Quintin eagerly awaited their conclusion, their reunion. The spark between them had been so intense they could’ve burned the entire Bremington estate down with one more kiss.
Imagine what could’ve happened between us last night, how far things could have gone. But what could’ve been a beautiful night turned into a terrible tragedy when the ambassador was assassinated. May he rest in peace. Last night was definitely not the right time or place for us to get to know each other better. Maybe Luca and I will get a second chance. For now, I’m sitting on this crowded bus sweating my ass off and I’m still single.
Hopefully, not for much longer.
*
Trafalgar Square was unusually quiet. Only an occasional tourist appeared here and there, strolling through the bases of the statues and plinths. The historical area was so vast, so open, he wondered why she’d chosen to meet there. If they were being followed, as she’d warned, why appear in such a public place? They’d be easy targets.
Quintin scanned the steps outside the National Gallery. He circled around the base of Nelson’s Column, searching for a face that matched the low, sultry voice on the phone. Twenty minutes after arriving, he felt defeated. Maybe he was being stood up.
He glanced up. The sky above was darkening. Rain was ready to spill over the streets of London at any second.
Quintin moved toward the southeast corner of the square. Something was drawing him to the statue of Sir Henry Havelock. He checked his watch for a third time, vowing to give up within the next thirty seconds. It was then he felt a presence behind him. He turned and caught a faint glimpse of his own eyes, reflected back at him in the dark lenses of designer sunglasses.
“We must hurry,” she said. “We don’t have much time to speak.”
A red silk scarf covered her long, dark hair. She lifted her sunglasses to reveal bottle-green eyes, adorned with false eyelashes. She resembled a young Sophia Loren. She had high cheekbones, full lips, and seductive eyes that exuded both power and mischief. She was exotic, dangerous, alluring. She was chic from head to toe, dressed in couture. Red coat. Black skirt. Black heels. She looked like she had somehow traveled forward in time, maybe from the set of a classic Michael Curtiz film playing the ultimate femme fatale.
She held a gold lighter in her hand. She used it to light a cigarette. A French one, probably. He watched as she slid the filter between her slightly parted and heavily painted red lips. She inhaled deeply. She exhaled and the smoke drifted above them like a comic-book balloon just waiting to be filled with the words they spoke.
“Luca wants to see you,” she explained.
“Why?” Quintin asked. “I mean, we hardly know each other.”
I want her to tell me he hasn’t stopped thinking about me since last night.
“He did not say. But I can see it in your eyes…you want to see him, too.”
Her Italian accent was not as deep as Luca’s. Her English sounded near perfect while his had been more broken. But the way he spoke had only made Luca seem sexier.
Speaking of sexy…men must fall at this woman’s feet. Straight men, that is. Maybe even a few gays ones, too.
“Where is he?” Quintin asked.
She glanced around as if she were making sure no one was eavesdropping on their conversation. “Go to Belgium,” she instructed. “Today.”
“That’s pretty vague. Any particular place in Belgium?”
“Just go,” she insisted. “Others will help guide you along the way.”
“How do I get there?”
“There’s a ticket waiting for you at Victoria Station. Take the train to Dover. From there, a taxi will take you to the docks. You’ll take a boat.”
“To where?”
“To Calais.”
“And then?”
“Someone will take you to Luca,” she said. “He’s in Belgium. He’s waiting for you. In a safe place.” She turned away as if to leave. Quintin stopped her by grabbing the sleeve of her red coat. She looked annoyed by the gesture. She shielded her Mediterranean eyes again with her dark designer shades.
“Why all of the secrecy?” he asked.
“For your protection,” she said. “I must go now. They’re watching us.”
“Who?” he said. “Tell me. What am I being protected from?”
“You already know too much,” she said.
“You have the wrong person,” Quintin said. “I know nothing. Trust me.”
“The situation is complicated,” she said. “Someone will try to stop you from leaving the city.”
“The detective?”
“No,” she said. She took another quick, almost frantic drag on her smoke. “A man who works for Regina Bremington. He’s been assigned to bring you to her.”
“Who do you work for?” he asked. “Luca?”
She shook her head. “I work for someone you know very well,” she said. “But it’s a secret I cannot tell.” She dropped what was left of her cigarette to the ground and killed it with one quick twist of the toe of her black stiletto.
“Who are you?”
She leaned in to whisper in his ear because, like everything else, her name was obviously a secret, too. “Arianna,” she said.
With that she disappeared. She moved too fast for Quintin, rounding the square stone edge of the sculpted British hero before he could say another word. It took a second for the realization to sink in that she was gone. He moved, following the same range of motion she had. On the other side of the statue, only a handful of tourists were in view. Their phones were in
their eager hands, aimed and ready to capture Sir Henry Havelock in his frozen glory forever. Unlike Arianna, the statue was stuck in the southeast corner of Trafalgar Square for the remainder of time. She was another story.
She had vanished.
Like a beautiful Italian ghost.
*
Unsure how long he would be in Belgium, Quintin decided it was best to go to his office. He needed to let someone at the magazine know about his unexpected trip out of the country. He needed to tie up loose ends and cross off some items from his never-ending to-do list. Since Quintin had woken up five months ago to discover Kevin had slipped out of his life forever, his job had become everything. It filled the void—or at least provided a distraction from the sadness of his situation.
In many ways, the Pensioner Weekly had saved his life.
When Quintin stepped off the bus at the stop in front of the glass-and-chrome skyscraper, he knew he was still being followed. The black sedan was well within sight. He slid into a moving section of the revolving door, welcoming the blast of air-conditioning that greeted him once he entered the grand building. Outside, the air had become unusually sticky and damp. The heavy clouds were threatening to split apart without warning.
There must be one hell of a storm headed this way.
“Quintin?” a man’s voice said from behind, just as Quintin had reached a bank of steel-faced elevators.
Pretend like you don’t hear him. Damn it, you should be listening to your iPod right now. What in the hell is taking the elevator so long?
“Quintin Pearson?”
Shit.
He turned. “Yes?”
Quintin recognized the man in the expensive-looking gray suit and scarlet-red tie immediately.
“My name is Reed Ashton.”
Quintin tried to avoid the man’s eyes, but they were a beautiful light shade of blue. “I know who you are,” he said.
The well-dressed security man raised an eyebrow. “You do?”
“I saw you…last night,” Quintin said. He pushed the elevator call button again, even though it was already illuminated like a setting sun. “You work for Regina Bremington.”
Reed Ashton smiled. Quintin wondered if the man had a wife, children. Or both. He checked his left hand. No ring. “Technically that’s not true,” he said. His voice was gentle but had a take-charge edge to it. “I work for the government of the United States of America. I was assigned to protect the Bremingtons. I’m the head of their security team.”
The elevator doors slid open.
Finally.
“After what happened last night, you might consider looking for another job,” Quintin said. He expected Reed to follow him into the elevator. He didn’t. Quintin stared into Reed’s irresistible eyes and said, “I know you’ve been following me. I just don’t know why.”
Reed braced a shoulder against the black rubber bumper of the elevator door closest to him, keeping it from shutting, allowing their somewhat flirtatious eye contact and conversation to continue. “Mrs. Bremington wants to see you,” he said. “I need you to come with me.”
“What for?” Quintin asked. “The party’s over. I was just a guest.”
“She’s taking a liking to you,” he said. “She has a business proposal for you. It’s urgent.”
“It will have to wait, Mr. Ashton. I’m afraid I have plans.”
“I’m afraid she’s being very insistent where you’re concerned. She says she won’t take no for an answer.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“I’m curious,” Reed said. “Where exactly were you when the ambassador was killed? In the house, I mean. I can’t figure out where you went.”
“Shouldn’t you already know that, given your job?” Quintin replied.
Reed smiled. He had one of those melt-your-heart grins that seemed so sincere, Quintin couldn’t help but smile right back at him. Reed Ashton was the kind of guy mothers would kill to have for a son-in-law. He was too perfect to be true. Clean cut, conservative, sexy in a wholesome, boy-next-door way. “Regina was right about you,” Reed said. “There’s more to you than meets the eye.”
Quintin felts his cheeks blush. “I’m not sure if that’s a compliment…but I’ll take it as one.”
“She only wants a meeting with you. She says she only needs a few minutes of your time to convince you to say yes.”
“Maybe I’m not interested,” Quintin said. “Maybe my life suits me just fine the way it is.”
Their eyes locked. In that moment, Quintin wondered how perceptive Reed Ashton was. Could he tell what Quintin had been through? Was he able to see the pain the loneliness of the last five months had caused? Why Quintin never wanted to return to America?
“Take your time upstairs,” said Reed. “I’ll be down here when you get back…waiting.”
Reed stepped back. Their gaze remained locked until the elevator doors closed.
The car began its rise to the twelfth floor, the home of the Pensioner Weekly.
Quintin shut his eyes and exhaled, waiting for the fast ride to stop.
The doors opened. Quintin stepped out of the elevator. Immediately, he heard a combination of sounds. There was some humming. And music. Someone was listening to a radio, an old song by ABBA. He took a dozen steps farther into the magazine office—a bland maze of cubicles fading beneath the dull glow of overhead fluorescents—and stopped in his tracks. He was surprised to discover he wasn’t alone in the office. Given he was the second-youngest person on staff, he’d never known any of his older coworkers to show up on a Saturday. By Friday, they were worn out and heading for the nearest pub. They’d crawl back to their cubicles on Monday morning, complaining about their aches and pains, the current state of politics in England, and the high cost of everything.
Fiona Cassidy sensed his presence. She glanced over her left shoulder and reached for a knob on the little portable radio sitting in a corner of her messy desk. She muted the music quickly, as if she’d just been caught stealing. She stood up. As usual, her outfit was too suggestive and revealing to be considered professional—or appropriate for the office. She folded her arms across her recently enhanced chest and shot Quintin a look of inquisition.
Fiona was fiery, Irish, and opinionated. She was also the most disorganized person Quintin had ever met. Since she’d lived in London for the last decade and rarely went home to Dublin, her Irish brogue had all but faded away. In its place was a sharp, cutting tone peppered with an occasional English slang word and more than enough profanity.
In truth, she was the only person in London whom Quintin considered a friend.
“I’ll forgive you for being an American,” she’d said to him the first day they met, to which he replied, “Then I’ll overlook the fact you probably slept with someone twice your age to land this job.”
They’d been friends ever since.
“I waited for you to phone me,” she said, “after watching the telly and seeing the ambassador had been blown to bits.”
“Is that why you’re here?” he asked. “Were you looking for me?”
“I know you, Quintin Pearson,” Fiona said. “This is where you come whenever something strange has happened in your life. I think of this office as my personal hell…but for you, it’s a bloody sanctuary.”
“Am I that predictable?”
“I cannot answer your question for the simple fact I am no longer insulting people.”
He grinned. Weekly, Fiona selected one of her many bad habits and did her best to break it once and for good. “Since when?”
“Since I got drunk last Wednesday and passed out in the doorway of that Chinese eatery you love so much,” she said. “A minister found me and came to me rescue. I still haven’t located my missing shoe, though. It’s a shame, too. It was Prada.”
Fashion was Fiona’s second-favorite topic, after men.
“You had a religious experience while you were drunk and unconscious on a sidewalk?” he said, not able to hide his bl
ooming smile. He loved Fiona’s stories about her drunken moments of public humiliation.
“Rats could’ve had their way with me and I wouldn’t have known the difference. You know I can’t handle my liquor.”
“But you’re Irish.”
“And you’re gay,” she answered. “But you certainly don’t look it. Every gay bloke I know struts around London looking like a million bucks. You look like you’re selling Bibles for the monks and the nuns.”
“So much for your pact. I’ve been here less than five minutes.”
“Was that insulting?” she asked. He shrugged. “Cor, I’m a fucking failure, Quintin. So…tell me…did you see the gun? How many bullets did the cheeky bastard take?”
“I don’t have time to fill you in,” he said. He moved to his own cubicle and neat-as-a-pin desk. Fiona followed, wobbling behind in heels too high for her to handle.
“I bare my soul to you and this is how you treat me?” she said.
He reached for a computer bag beneath his desk. “I’m leaving the country.”
“Please tell me you’re not going back to America. You’re so much better than them now. I actually like you.”
He unplugged his laptop. “I’m going to Belgium,” he said.
“For the beer and the waffles?” she asked.
“No,” he said. “For a beautiful Italian man who’s there waiting for me.”
Her eyes widened and seem to sparkle with a surge of excitement. “What can I help you with? What do you need? Office supplies? A dictionary? Condoms?”
“I need to put you in charge,” he said, “while I’m gone. Howard’s rarely here anymore, so he probably won’t even notice.”
“Consider it done,” she said. “What sort of privileges does this new post entitle me to?”
“What is it that you want to do?”
“Fire that bitch Abigail.”
“She’s almost eighty years old.”
“I don’t discriminate, Quintin.”
“No reigns of terror while I’m away,” he said. “Tell Howard whatever he wants to hear, especially if he asks where I’ve gone and when I’ll be back.”