Sydney had a feeling he was only half kidding. She squeezed her eyes shut. “I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that.”
9
“ON EMPLOIE EN AVEC les noms de pays masculins à voyelle initiale,” Madame LeFèvre said, passing out sheets of paper filled with geographical names and the corresponding French rule for preposition usage.
Taking a refresher course in French grammar in a small room at the Maple Leaf Lodge wasn't exactly how Sydney wanted to spend her weekend. French had become one of her favorite languages since she'd begun studying it in earnest the past fall. But it was lots more fun actually using it in real conversations instead of the stilted dialogue she was yawningly engaging in here.
“Israel is masculine. En Israël. But Mexico isn't and you still use en. En Mexique. Right?” Maureen whispered from the chair beside her, jabbing at her paper with her pen. “French always mixes me up. Give me something nice and easy, like Japanese. No sweat.”
“It's au Mexique,” Sydney replied automatically. “All countries that end in e are feminine except for Mexico. You use au for masculine countries that begin with a consonant.”
“This is all completely pointless,” Greg complained with a sigh. “We could learn this with a click of a button on our tutorial language programs back in our home offices.”
As Madame LeFèvre prattled on, Sydney was only half listening. Why had that intruder invaded their room? More importantly, who was it? He hadn't taken any of their valuables—jewelry, money, and Graham's high-tech gadgets had all been left untouched. Stephanie had been very upset when Sydney had taken her aside and quietly told her what had happened. She had methodically gone through all her personal effects in their room after breakfast. Nothing seemed to be missing.
Sydney snuck a peek over at Paul. He was scribbling something down in his notebook, an earnest expression on his face. The night before, he had left the vineyard early—and Sydney was convinced someone had been in their room. That day, he had been the only one not down for breakfast—and a masked intruder had broken in.
Are these just coincidences, or is Paul Riley involved in this in some way? His absences were starting to seem a bit too convenient.
Then she glanced over at Stephanie, who was aimlessly twirling and untwirling a long lock of blond hair around her finger. And what does it mean for Stephanie if he is?
“Mademoiselle Bristow!” Madame LeFèvre gave Sydney a look that said this wasn't the first time she had called her name. “Où allez-vous?”
Um, space? Sydney wanted to say. Instead, she smiled weakly at the stern-faced teacher. “Um . . . je vais à Rome, Madame?” she tried, guessing at the right answer. If this was a quiz she was going to be toast. French toast. “C'est magnifique.”
Madame LeFèvre regarded Sydney with a raised eyebrow, and Sydney knew she had squeaked her way out of that one. “Ah, oui. Rome. C'est bon.” Then she looked at the clock and snapped her fingers. “Maintenant, mes amis, dix minutes.”
The others stirred in their seats. Sydney pushed her chair back and hurried out the door before anyone could stop her, especially an irate Madame LeFèvre.
The ladies' room was just down the hallway, and Sydney locked herself in a stall and leaned against the cold metal door. She didn't like being suspicious of the people around her. It gave her an uneasy, unsettled feeling.
She heard the outside door open, and footsteps entered the stall beside her.
“Syd?”
Sydney blinked. It was Stephanie. “Yes?”
Underneath the stall door fluttered Stephanie's fingers. “Here.”
“What—” Sydney began to say as Stephanie shoved a crumpled piece of notebook paper under the partition and let it drop to the floor.
“You've got to read this,” she pleaded, her voice low and shaky. “Please.” The toilet in Stephanie's stall flushed, and seconds later Sydney heard the door to the hallway open and close.
Sydney picked up the paper. On it was a Web site address, www.sd2medical.org/patients/hist. She memorized the address, then reflexively shredded the paper into bits, letting the tiny scraps drop into the toilet.
She checked her watch. Only five minutes left before she had to return to the classroom. There had to be someplace in the hotel to get online, she decided. And I'm a spy. I sure as heck should be able to find it.
Back in the hall, she checked to make sure no one in her group saw her. The coast was clear. She walked briskly over to the hotel registration office. It was deserted. The cold cup of coffee sitting on the desk told her that whoever was supposed to be manning the post had been gone for a while.
“Let's hope he stays away for just a few more minutes,” Sydney muttered, slipping in front of the unoccupied computer screen and letting her fingers whiz over the keyboard.
www.sd2medical.org/patients/hist was a medical site affiliated with a hospital in New York City. Patient names, referrals, procedures all whizzed by her eyes as she clicked open and scanned the various screens. What had Stephanie wanted her to see?
MEDICAL RECORDS OF HARLING, STEPHANIE P.
Looked like this was it.
Sydney double-clicked the icon next to Stephanie's name and a list of dates and descriptions of services popped up on the screen.
Date of Service: 4/5 Two broken ribs.
Date of Service: 4/24 Shattered cheekbone. Broken left arm. Black eye (right).
Date of Service: 5/7 Trauma to the head. Laceration above right eye. Swelling noted on lip/upper mouth area. Patient kept overnight for observation.
Sydney's eyes flew over the list of injuries Stephanie had suffered. She knew from her own experience at SD-6 that the line of work they were in made physical exams routine, and that bruises and occasional broken body parts were part of the risk they undertook every day.
But these injuries?
These were a whole other story.
At the bottom of the page was a special section labeled Remarks.
Staff Drs. Delta and Thornton believe that injuries were inflicted at the hands of suspect's boyfriend, but Ms. Harling chose not to disclose his identity. As per the request of her commanding unit's superior officer, the hospital staff elected to—
“What are you looking at?” asked a familiar, friendly-sounding voice behind Sydney, startling her from her task and making her gasp.
Slowly, she swiveled in her chair, her heart sinking like a stone . . . and saw Paul Riley standing over her, his eyes locked squarely on hers.
10
“OH, MY GOSH. I can't believe you caught me in here. This is so embarrassing,” Sydney burst out, making sure to keep her voice confessional, her expression sheepish. She winced. “See, I went on a bit of a shopping spree at Fashion Island before I came here—you know, new clothes for the trip and all—and I've been panicking that my bank account was completely overdrawn.” Sydney gestured to the computer, where, thankfully, a hockey stick and puck screen saver was flashing. “So I couldn't take it anymore. I snuck in here to look up my checking account online.”
“And what did you find out?” Paul asked, sticking his hands in his shorts pockets and rocking on his heels. “Are the bank police going to be coming for you?”
Sydney made herself laugh. If anyone needs to meet up with the police, it's you, she thought, wishing she could break his arms after what she'd just learned. But what she said was, “Actually, I think that's them right now,” as she nodded to the area behind Paul. As he turned to look, she quickly moved the mouse to eliminate the screen saver, then immediately clicked the X in the upper right-hand corner to close the screen.
“I'm good for a few more trips to the Gap,” Sydney said, standing up and pushing the chair in. “Instead, we should probably start worrying about Madame LeFèvre's gendarmes, don't you think?”
“Yeah, she's outrageous enough to actually do that,” Paul said, giving Sydney a casual grin. For now, it appeared that he bought her story completely.
That was close, Bristow, she thought as they
walked back to the room.
But if the teacher thought she was a space cadet before, she was going to think Sydney was a commissioned officer now. There was no way Sydney was going to be able to concentrate on French or border regulations or immigration law or anything except the extent of Stephanie's injuries she had just uncovered online.
What's wrong with him? she thought as they took their seats. Didn't SD-2 make their agents undergo a rigorous screening process before they were recruited? Heaven knew she had been put through the wringer in Los Angeles. How could SD-2 let a psycho like Paul into the agency? What's wrong with them?
Sydney was at a loss as to what to do. Now more than ever, she was convinced that Paul was the one who had broken into her room.
Okay. Sydney had the information Stephanie had obviously wanted her to find.
But now that I have it, what am I supposed to do with it?
The rest of Saturday and most of Sunday was spent trailing after customs officers and learning more about how their operations were run. Sydney and Maureen were with Agent Sinclair, while Greg, Paul, and Stephanie were teamed with Agent Henry.
“So you're separating us?” Sydney had asked, dismayed, as she watched the other group pile into a waiting sedan outside the Maple Leaf Lodge.
“They're off to the Peace Bridge,” Agent Sinclair explained. “You lucky ducks get to stay with me at the Rainbow Bridge.” He patted his stomach. “Not only is the drive a helluva lot closer, there's a great burger joint that my buddies there have made a lunch reservation at.”
“Well, if they take reservations, there's hope,” Maureen had muttered as another car pulled up for them. After days of watching the burly officer only eat things that came in Styrofoam or paper takeout bags, Sydney had to agree with her.
Sydney was restless to do something concrete to find out more about Paul Riley.
But with Maureen glued to her side and a group of overeager Canadian officials keyed up to show off their operation to American CIA agents, there was nothing to do except focus on the very exciting ins and outs of immigration law.
“Okay, baby, time to take it to the streets,” Sydney said to herself Sunday evening. She and Maureen had been the first ones back to the lodge. She was alone in the motel room, sitting cross-legged on her bed. For the past fifteen minutes she had gone over a detailed map of the Canadian side of Niagara Falls that she'd picked up at the front desk, along with the notes Sloane had provided her back at SD-6. According to his instructions, she should head to the Table Rock Scenic Tunnels, which lead underground to three different views of the Horseshoe Falls. There, somewhere behind wet moldy rock, she should find Sanderling's notes.
This was probably the easiest mission she'd been sent on—and the one that was taking her the longest to accomplish. “If I weren't surrounded by SD agents morning, noon, and night, I might be able to get something done,” Sydney grumbled, tossing aside a coupon for free pancakes at a diner on Clifton Hill.
Just then the motel room door opened and Stephanie stepped inside.
Sydney took a deep breath. “Hey, stranger. You're back.” Focusing on her mission had been a respite from all the worry she'd been shouldering over the past twenty-four hours. She hadn't allowed herself to think about Stephanie—she hadn't even seen Stephanie. Her roommate hadn't arrived back yet the night before when Sydney went to bed at eleven, and when she had woken up that morning, Stephanie was already gone. But now that the two of them were alone behind closed doors, Carl Sanderling was all but forgotten.
Stephanie's face was white. Joining Sydney on her bed, she picked up the remote and turned the TV on, the volume loud enough to cover their voices.
“I have been dying to talk to you all day,” Stephanie said, tears welling up in her eyes. “I wanted to cry when Agent Henry told me to go with him. And you were sleeping so soundly last night that I didn't have the heart to wake you.”
“Hey, it's not Henry's fault,” Sydney said, arching her right eyebrow. “How was he to know that you'd just shown me evidence that you're a punching bag for your boyfriend, who would appear to be none other than our very own Paul Riley.” Sydney knew she sounded harsh, but she couldn't help it. How could someone as sweet and smart as Stephanie get involved with someone like Paul . . . and keep going back for more? Sydney had never been able to understand girls like that.
“Sydney, look. You have to listen to me, and more than that, believe me.” Stephanie swallowed. “I—I couldn't take it any longer. That's why I gave you the Web address.”
“But what do you expect me to do about it?” Sydney asked, confused.
Stephanie took a deep breath. “When I first met Paul at our SD-2 New Year's party, I thought he was really sweet. We'd passed each other in the hallway a lot, and I had had a crush on him for weeks. So I was psyched to actually get to know him in person.” She looked down at her hands. “And he was really great in the beginning. Sending me flowers, little cards, you know. That sort of thing.”
Sydney nodded. “But . . .”
“But then he started to change. He seemed tense all the time. He got angry with me over little things—minute things, really. And . . .” A tear trickled down Stephanie's cheek. “And he began to hit me,” she said softly.
Sydney shook her head in disgust. It was hard to reconcile the abuser Stephanie was describing with the friendly, sweet-demeanored guy she'd gotten to know in the past few days, but Sydney had no doubt that Stephanie was telling the truth. And besides that, the hospital data didn't lie.
“I know I wasn't in your shoes,” Sydney said, choosing her words carefully, “but to be honest, it's not like you didn't know how to defend yourself. Right?” If a guy she was dating ever tried anything like that on her, she would have him on his knees, begging for mercy.
Stephanie gave a little helpless shrug. “I know it sounds lame, but I kept thinking he was going to stop. But—but you saw the Web site. And he's getting stranger every day. He acts completely normal around everyone else . . . but with me, it's like he's another person.”
Sydney sat there. She didn't know what to say. If Francie were here, she'd tell Paul to shove it . . . but then again, Francie wouldn't know the whole story.
“Things just escalated out of control,” Stephanie finished. “And—and that fight you heard the other night—” She broke off, shaking her head. “I guess I'm so used to covering our arguments up to my friends and my landlord that I almost believed my story myself. You think you know someone, but then—”
A soda commercial blasted onto the TV, making them both jump. “Okay, what I'm not getting here is why you don't tell SD-2,” Sydney demanded. “Surely they'd put a stop to this!”
But Stephanie looked horrified at the thought. “Sydney, first of all, SD-2 does know. . . . The hospital I went to is an SD-2 hospital. Everyone there looked the other way.”
“But why?” Sydney persisted. Why would SD-2 want an agent like Paul as part of the team? It didn't make sense.
Stephanie picked up a bed pillow and hugged it to her chest. She blew out her breath. “Here's where it gets really messy. Not only are agents not supposed to become romantically involved, but . . . Paul's father is—is my handler at SD-2.”
“What?” Sydney cried out in disbelief.
“There's no way I can speak out against Paul without putting my life in jeopardy,” Stephanie said, her voice catching.
“This is big, Stephanie,” Sydney said slowly. “Really big.” She sat quietly for a moment, trying to filter the completely crazy ideas floating through her mind from the semicrazy ones. Should she call Noah? Sloane? She squeezed her eyes shut at the idea of trying to explain everything to their disbelieving, disapproving ears. Not only were agents not supposed to share their personal lives with each other, agents were most definitely not to be romantically involved. Sloane was a very by-the-book person, Sydney had realized. He wouldn't want to hear about Stephanie's problems—he'd be too focused on the fact that she'd gone outside protocol by bec
oming intimate with Paul in the first place.
Maybe another woman could help, Sydney thought, wishing she could call Francie. Emily Sloane? Whoa, Syd. That is beyond completely crazy. That would be completely insane.
Sydney shook her head, trying to focus. “Stephanie, I want to help you. I really do. But how can I?” She gestured to the maps littering the bed. “I don't even know what I'm going to wear on my mission tomorrow.”
Oops. Way to give up that she was on a job. But that divulgence paled in the face of what they had just been talking about.
“I have a disguise for you,” Stephanie said quietly. “In fact, it's staring you right in the face.”
“Huh?”
“Me,” Stephanie said. “Disguise yourself as me.”
Sydney gave her roommate a bewildered gaze. “Why would I want to look like you?”
“Because that's the only way you'll be able to see for yourself how Paul is when he's alone with me.”
“I'm not sure I understand why that's important,” Sydney said uncertainly.
“It's very important,” Stephanie told her, grabbing hold of Sydney's wrists. Her hands were cold as steel and her gaze was steady. “I need you to believe me when I tell you that he's a threat, and to see it with your own eyes. Because I want Paul dead.
“And Sydney?” Stephanie swallowed. “I need you to commit the crime.”
11
SYDNEY LET OUT A small gasp, then shook herself free from Stephanie's grip. “It's one thing to help you break up with Paul,” she said firmly. “It's a completely different animal to kill him!”
The idea sounded like a plot hatched on a TV movie, or a real-life drama where someone hires a hit man to kill their spouse. Knowing that she had actually been trained to kill, and that such knowledge was part of life as a CIA officer, was the part of her job she disliked the most. “From the moment I joined SD-6, I have never wanted to kill anyone,” she said truthfully. “I'll do it if it's in self-defense, but—” She held up her hand as Stephanie started to speak. “Obviously you are in a beyond-bad situation. But before you do something really stupid, you need to step back from this. You could come home with me, to L.A.” Sydney felt certain that her superiors at SD-6 could offer Stephanie the protection she needed.
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