Bulletproof Mascara: A Novel

by Bethany Maines

  “But what is it that they don’t want Lawan to reveal?” asked Laura, sniffling into the phone. Nikki grimaced at the noise. “What could a shipping company want with a free health clinic?”

  “I don’t know,” Nikki said, “but we’ll find out, I promise. We’ll find Lawan. It will all be all right.” She tried to sound as if she believed it herself.

  “I just wish there was something more I could do. I could go to the clinic and look at the patient records?”

  “No, I don’t think it’s necessary,” Nikki said quickly. The last thing she needed was one more person in danger.

  Laura said goodbye and promised Nikki she would wait by the phone.

  There was a mirror behind the desk, and as she hung up the phone, Nikki took in her reflection. Her eye makeup was smudged from the water in the bathroom. Her hair had decided that the humidity was unacceptable and was sending out tendrils as if seeking escape. The room was a disaster area: shoes scattered across the floor, her purse leaking onto the floor, clothes spreading like a slow lava creep from her backpack. Nothing was where it was supposed to be. She remembered the way Z’ev had looked at her purse in disbelief, and she sighed.

  Her purse was a just a smaller picture of her suitcase. Her suitcase was just a miniature of the room. Her room was just a snapshot of how she lived her life. It was all the same: she jammed things in and then couldn’t find them later, and all the things she could find were never the things she wanted. The universal truth that a woman was her purse hit her with an impact that left her ego stinging; it was something she wished she didn’t know.

  The instant messenger sound dinged, interrupting her misery.

  I DON’T SUPPOSE VAL HAS APPEARED? Jane typed.

  NO, Nikki typed.

  DR. HASTINGS IS GOING TO LEAVE PERMANENT BITE MARKS ON MY A$$—GOT TO FIND VAL QUICK.

  IS SOMETHING WRONG? Nikki typed.

  DON’T KNOW, Jane replied, BUT DR. H HAS GOT A BUG UP HER BUM ABOUT SOMETHING. IT DOES SORT OF SEEM LIKE SOMETHING’S UP. NOT THAT ANYONE IS GOING TO TELL ME.

  DOES SHE WANT TO TALK TO ME? offered Nikki.

  I DON’T THINK SO, Jane replied. ACTUALLY, I GET THE FEELING THAT SHE DOESN’T WANT ME TALKING TO YOU AT ALL. SHE JUST WANTS VAL.

  I NEED YOU TO WORK ON THE STUFF FROM VICTOR, typed Nikki. I THINK THERE’S A CONNECTION BETWEEN LAWAN’S CLINIC AND RIVAL SHIPPING. I THINK LAWAN FOUND OUT ABOUT IT AND THEY KIDNAPPED HER DAUGHTER—THE GIRL IN THE PHOTO. I NEED TO KNOW WHAT THE CONNECTION IS.

  I HEAR YOU, BUT DR. H JUST DUMPED A CASE REVIEW ON ME AND TOLD ME IT WAS TOP PRIORITY.

  At the desk Nikki fumed, drumming her fingers against the glossy wood.

  FIND ME VAL, AND MAYBE I CAN GET BACK TO YOUR STUFF, typed Jane. Maybe? Nikki could practically hear the hopeful tone in Jane’s written message.

  I DON’T KNOW WHERE SHE IS, typed Nikki. She didn’t want to tell Jane what she was really afraid of—that Val was either still mad at her, or that Nikki had left her vulnerable to an attack.

  WELL, NOT TO BE FLIP, BUT YOU ARE A TOP-OF-HER-CLASS CARRIE MAE AGENT, AREN’T YOU? was Jane’s response. FIND HER!

  Nikki sighed. It wasn’t that easy. Val was never that easy.

  I’LL TRY, she typed, and got a smiley face and an abrupt TTYL back, before Jane’s IM icon disappeared.

  THAILAND XI

  Party Like It’s 1999 . . .

  Again

  Without much hope, Nikki crossed the hall and banged on Val’s door again. When no one responded to her repeated knocking, she went back to her room. If Val wouldn’t open the door, she would have to open it herself. Rooting through the gadget box, she found the digital lock pick/eye shadow compact and went back across the hall. Moments later she slid into Val’s room and flipped on the light. She wasn’t sure what she had expected to find, but it hadn’t been a perfectly ordinary room.

  She toured the room, dragging her fingertips across the smooth fabrics in Val’s closet. There was an empty hanger in the middle of a row of four dresses. The makeup was organized with rigid military precision. The clothes she’d worn earlier in the day had been tossed negligently across the bed, which seemed out of character. Perhaps it indicated some sort of time constraint? Perhaps she had dressed in a hurry? Her favorite pair of black stilettos were present, but a pair of very expensive Manolos were conspicuously absent.

  “She wasn’t wearing any of that at the restaurant,” Nikki muttered to herself, picking up the clothes from the bed and shaking them out. A cell phone slipped from the jacket pocket and hit the floor. Nikki picked it up and stared at the butterfly logo. Val had left her Carrie Mae phone behind. Either she’d been in an unbelievable hurry or she’d done it on purpose. Neither explanation was particularly satisfactory. Nikki thumbed through the menu and hit the most recently called number.

  “Mandarin Limo Service,” a voice said.

  “This is Mrs. Robinson,” she said.

  “Ah, Mrs. Robinson.” The voice was polite and slightly eager. “Did you change your mind about pick-up service?”

  “Pick-up service?” Nikki repeated, stalling. “Uh, yes. That would be good. Could you repeat the address?”

  “Certainly!” the woman chimed, sounding relieved. “The address was . . .”

  Nikki snatched a pen from the desk and scrawled the number and her best guess at the street name on the hotel stationery.

  “Thanks,” she said, and hung up the phone. What the hell was Val up to?

  Returning to her own room, she tiptoed to the bathroom and peered in. The cube was waiting for her, she knew, the lid flung open in a Grendel-like leer. Rachel had packed it with an infinite variety of gadgets, and sooner or later she was going to have to use one of them. Sighing, she approached the case and pressed a button, then jumped back as a series of shelves telescoped out.

  Letting the tiers and drawers sprawl out like octopus arms, she surveyed her resources. Next to the official Carrie Mae equipment, she placed the Colt 1911. The black metal finish looked extra threatening next to the graceful lines of the silver, gold, and purple Carrie Mae equipment. Peering into the depths, Nikki began to explore her options.

  “Ooh,” she said, lifting the lid on a small compartment. “Earrings.” She remembered Rachel’s pride in creating earrings that acted as a tracking device or bug and still looked cute. Picking up the earrings, she got closer to the kit—might as well see everything. Peering into the depths of the makeup kit she saw something made of a shiny, slick-looking fabric. Reaching in, she felt the unexpected weight of Kevlar, but holding up the garment, she saw it was no ordinary bulletproof vest.

  “The Anastasia,” she read from the label, and held up the bustier in front of her. It was hard to tell if the corset was designed for under- or outerwear, but it looked like it was her size. She pulled it on and took a walk to the mirror.

  “Nice,” she said, eyeballing her cleavage in the mirror. Rachel had done a masterful job on this one—it definitely enhanced her assets.

  Returning to the box, she poked into another compartment. Small bottles of nail polish stood in neat ranks. The shelf below held lipsticks and a stack of compacts. Nikki sifted through the entire case and pulled out everything that looked useful. It was probably overkill, but she didn’t want to be caught without the appropriate gadget.

  From the bottom of the case, she pulled out the equipment manuals that Rachel had left for her. One cover read Eye Shadow, and What You NEED to Know About It, the other said Choosing the Right Foundation for You. Flipping through the pages, she tried to spot some useful nugget of information.

  “How to construct a silencer from found objects and the contents of your Carrie Mae kit,” read Nikki, stopping at one chapter title. Her eyes slid over the edge of the book and down the long drop to where the .45 was lying in wait.

  In training, she had tried to picture herself shooting someone, but the thought had sent shivers through vertebra after vertebra until she shook herself like a dog after a swim just to ge
t the feeling out. But now she was sitting pondering her next move. And that next move might very well involve guns.

  Val had gone out dressed to kill in Manolos and a dress. That spoke of some sort of party or date, so Nikki should probably dress the same. But on the other hand, it could mean that she would be at a disadvantage should there be trouble.

  She put on foundation and applied waterproof mascara, thinking of Mrs. Boyer. There were two types of missions: infiltration and assault. If Val was doing infiltration, then that left it to Nikki to do the assault. She didn’t need party clothes; she needed sneaky clothes and comfortable shoes. That sounded right. Maybe . . . she chewed her lip and wondered if she needed a contingency plan.

  Ignoring her doubts, she began to compile her assault wear. Proudly she pulled out the pair of sneakers that Val had bought her. Black and comfy, with breathable mesh, they were the perfect shoes for Thailand. The Anastasia, a black shirt, and black pants completed the look. She packed her gear bag and adjusted the strap so that it fit snugly against her back. She had packed the interior of the bag with regimented care, determined to fight the universal truth currently being spelled out by her purse and prove that she could be more like Val.

  The address from the chauffeur service led her to a house. The house, unlike most others in Bangkok, had managed to retain a large parcel of land surrounding it, partly due to the fact that it was situated high up on a hill. From down in the street, Nikki could see that the first floor was lit up like the Fourth of July, and explosions of laughter and music shot forth into the night and rolled down the hill.

  Nikki paid the cab driver and waited until he’d pulled away before scaling the wall and dropping down into the lush garden. There was a security system in place, and it took a great deal of dodging and weaving to avoid both the living security guards and the cameras stationed throughout the garden. Her bag of Rachel’s tricks came in handy, and eventually she found herself sitting below a wide veranda watching the party from the dark. She could see the partygoers walking to and fro. One woman threw her head back and laughed, the pitch rising in intensity like a hyena. The dresses were both low and high, and the suits were all hand-tailored. Nikki knew she was not going to fit in dressed as she was.

  She hung her head; she’d been afraid of this. Her perfect theory of infiltration and assault clothing was not working out. It was time to go to contingency plan A. Pulling off her black shirt, she revealed the cleavage-enhancing Anastasia and jammed a pair of Carrie Mae butterflies in her ears. Then she slid on a necklace that she was pretty sure was the detonator to the explosive lipstick, pulled a handful of water out of the birdbath, and slicked back her hair, wished she were wearing heels. She knew that even with the bustier she still didn’t look appropriately slutted out. Black pants were a universal fashion, but the flat-soled sneakers were a dead giveaway.

  She walked confidently into the house and straight into the bathroom, where she upgraded her makeup, slathering on a layer of lipstick and smoky eye shadow.

  “Don’t get close to an open flame,” she muttered to herself, drawing a strange look from one of the women in the bathroom. “Too much hairspray,” she said, and the woman nodded, but moved subtly away from her.

  Coming out of the bathroom, she converted her bag to the ‘stylish purse’ option and went to find Val. Three propositions and a glass of champagne later, she finally spotted her. She was with Sarkassian, holding court in the main foyer. The sight of the Armenian made Nikki shiver—she really hoped Val knew what she was doing.

  Sarkassian had his arm around Val’s waist, and she had hers draped over his shoulder. Occasionally, he would steal a kiss during a pause in the conversation. He looked crisp in a white button-up and dark slacks. Val’s silk dress clung in all the right places; the black fabric accentuated the pale luminosity of her skin. There was a band playing, and she heard Sarkassian jokingly call for Val’s favorite song.

  “‘You Got a Fast Car,’” he announced, and Val smacked him on the shoulder playfully.

  The band leader paused, clearly offering to play it, but Val waved him off.

  “He’s joking,” she said, her voice carrying across the room. “He knows I hate that song.”

  Nikki shrugged. She’d always kind of liked Tracy Chapman. She thought about sending Val a note, but hesitated. Val seemed in control of the situation, and Nikki wanted to find out a little more about Sarkassian—maybe even find where they were keeping Lindawati. With Val occupying Sarkassian’s attention, it might be the perfect time for a little search-and-rescue. Of course, there was a guard on the stairs; she’d spotted him earlier, a thug in a monkey suit, with an ill-concealed gun under his jacket. He had grimaced and flashed a Heckler & Koch MP7 personal defense weapon. Nikki’s brain had run down the stats on a small-size assault rifle, but none of the numbers was going to help her get past the guard. She walked slowly toward him, racking her mind for a plan.

  “I’m telling you,” said a young man coming into the hallway from the other end. “My series on modern beauty has more to do with the harsh juxtaposition of softness against the cruel realities of the current era. The nudity is not gratuitous. The two of you should pose for me.” He wore all black, had a girl on each arm—a blonde and a brunette—and a camera slung around his neck like an extra penis. Nikki wondered if he’d left his beret at home; he seemed like an unbelievable cliché of an art photographer.

  “Hey,” she said, approaching, “aren’t you that photographer that does the modern beauty series?”

  “Why, yes,” said the photographer, graciously extending a hand. “I am.”

  “That’s so fantastic,” Nikki said, her Carrie Mae smile on full. “You know, I was looking at this security guard”—she gestured to the man by the stairs—“and I was reminded of one of your photos. You know, the one with the . . .” She left the sentence dangling, hoping he would fill it in.

  “Oh yeah,” he said, “the one with the soldiers during the coup.”

  “It’s too bad you don’t have any models here,” she said. “It would be a good photo.”

  “We can model,” exclaimed one of the photographer’s companions.

  “Uh, well,” the photographer said, taken off-guard.

  “Oh yeah, totally,” said Nikki, nodding. “They’re hot.”

  “Awesome,” shrieked the blonde, and she ran to drape herself over the security guard.

  “I don’t think . . .” began the security guard, trying to disentangle himself.

  “Don’t think,” commanded the photographer, already snapping photos, “just keep doing what you’re doing. Baby, try to get the gun in there more.”

  “Here,” Nikki said, grabbing the brunette and putting her into the picture as well.

  “Yeah,” the photographer said, “all three of you. Freaking Witches of Eastwick. I love it!”

  Nikki stayed for three more frames and then crept up the stairs when the security guard had his face buried in the blonde’s bosom.

  The rooms upstairs were immaculate, and Nikki was slightly disturbed by the lack of clutter. It was as if Sarkassian lived in a hotel all the time. And there was also something about the upscale, vaguely Zen urban decor that reminded her of Val’s house, although she couldn’t quite say why. Perhaps it was the hard lines of the metal modern furniture juxtaposed with the ornate but serene Thai antiques.

  Nikki walked slowly down the hall, listening carefully. The third door was slightly ajar and she could see the luminescent glow of a computer screen from inside. Ducking low, she tried to get a glimpse into the room from floor level. The room appeared empty, but she stayed low and slithered in carefully anyway.

  It was a strange office. She had expected the room to be something like Sarkassian’s wardrobe—expensive, hand-crafted, with European details. Once inside, she realized that she had been very mistaken. The office was much more reflective of the actual man than his wardrobe. The floor was a hard, dark slate tile with dark grout. One wall was a bank of louve
red cabinets. She opened them and found the shelves filled with books and ledgers, a plug-in for the laptop, various bits of computer accessories, and one long cupboard, meant to be a closet. The desk was a smooth sheet of glass on what looked like a pair of ancient wooden sawhorses, and was occupied only by a small basketful of desk equipment, a laptop, and Sarkassian’s Sidekick. There were two chairs in the room, both black leather with metal frames. Overhead, a ceiling fan moved the air in lazy chunks. In all, it was an empty, rather echoing place, full of hard angles and no unnecessary pieces.

  Sitting down at the computer, Nikki pressed the Space bar, and the screen saver stopped moving, hanging in place for an instant before changing to a log-in panel. She chewed her lip. She had no idea what Sarkassian’s user name and password were. She thought back to the computer classes in training. User names were most likely to be a variation of initials and names, with first initial and full last name being the most common. She typed JSarkassian into the User Name field, then hit the tab for the password. There was a rattling buzz and Nikki nearly jumped out of her skin. Sitting next to the computer, Sarkassian’s Sidekick vibrated, clattering against the top of the desk. Seeing the Sidekick sparked Nikki’s memory, and she confidently began to type in the letters she had seen Sarkassian feed into the phone so many months ago in Canada.

  “H-i-c. Latin for here. E-t, meaning and. N-u-n-c. Now. She typed the last c on nunc and confidently hit Return. She’d puzzled over Sarkassian’s password. Latin was unusual enough, but she wondered what hic et nunc meant to him.

  The log-in screen disappeared and revealed the desktop. The desktop was as spartan as the office. No files labeled “Super Top Secret” or “Dastardly Plan—Option A” had been conveniently left out. Figuring that she could spend at least an hour poking around the hard drive and still not find anything, she headed directly for the e-mail.

  “Corey100!@hotmail.com” had a long string of messages sitting in the inbox, and Nikki clicked on the most recent one. “Corey” didn’t exactly sound like the name of a hardened Mafioso. It sounded more like an escapee from New Kids on the Block. Nikki found herself wondering just what kind of dirt Sarkassian could really be up to with a Corey.