by M. K. Gilroy
She had nodded yes meekly as she looked into his burning eyes.
Truth was she had wanted to get a response from Burke, but that wasn’t it.
So whatever it was that Alexander wrote, his friends, enemies, investors, bankers, large companies, and governments desperately wanted to read the words. They wanted to know what was most important to Alexander.
Burke was always professional, but he couldn’t hide his attraction for Pauline. He hadn’t been able to the night he showed up as her knight in shining armor either. Cynically she suspected he wanted to take her for a test drive before placing her in Alexander’s site lines— and bedroom—for the data snatch, but he remained on task. Too bad. How would she have responded if he had tried? She was attracted to him and would love to have seen what might happen. But like a long line of other men, he was using her, even if no sex was involved—at least not with him. And despite a glimmer of hope that once flickered in her heart, how could she think he might be the man of valor and honor she had always longed for? He was sending her on an assignment that required her to sleep with another man.
That had settled what her response would be in her mind. She longed for him to make a romantic move so she could turn him down. She wanted to see a flicker of pain and rejection in his eyes.
Pauline was sure Burke was trying to impress her when he told her that Alexander wrote only with a Fulgor Nocturnus fountain pen made by Tibaldi of Florence. Alexander won it at an auction in China for a reported eight million US dollars.
After Burke’s firm and unmistakable response the first time she asked him what he thought was in the journal—you don’t want to know—Burke ignored any other questions she might raise about what made securing the ink on velum so important. But in their last prep meeting, she thought it was a slip, he told her all of Alexander’s email and phone accounts had been hacked for years—and that Alexander was well aware of the fact. This might be the only record of his true thoughts.
He immediately regretted telling her and told her to forget what he said.
“It is not safe for you to know things about Alexander that a woman in your position would not be expected to know. Believe me, Pauline, it will get you killed if something like that slips out in an unguarded moment.”
A woman in my position? Thank you, Burke. Please don’t forget you put me in this position.
Burke failed to mention that what he told her to do with that tidbit of information was impossible—how do you forget what you know?
It wasn’t hard to figure out—not even for a beautiful blonde, she smiled—that Alexander’s enemies or competitors thought he was on to something big, something major, some new world-changing business opportunity, that could only be discovered in the ink dispensed by an eight-million-dollar pen.
Stealing the notepad would be simple enough. But her job was to photograph every page and return it into Alexander’s care, undetected. She was told to take no risks—not a real possibility with the way Alexander lived his life under the watchful eye of Jules—and to take as long as needed—as long as that was within sixth months of her start date. The payout was all or nothing. Succeed and earn two million euros. Fail and get stuck with Alexander’s usual consolation prize of a hundred thousand euros when he discarded yet another mistress.
“Maybe he’ll marry me,” she told Burke defiantly.
“Never happen,” Burke responded curtly. “He’s married. Even his worst detractors know he is fiercely loyal to his wife.”
Huh?
“Don’t ask,” was all Burke added.
Two million euros or one-hundred-thousand euros. A big difference between the sums, but still hard to lose either way, she thought. A hundred thousand euros was nice, but two million changed everything for the rest of her life.
So when Alexander went into the aircraft bathroom to check his hair she nicked the portfolio from his jacket pocket that lay at the foot of their bed on the Gulfstream. Her heart was hammering so hard as she helped him on with his jacket that she nearly ran to the small bathroom for a shower.
“Don’t leave before I’m done darling, I want to see you off,” was all she eked out.
The journal was now carefully tucked in her fanny pack. Pauline knew the grains of sand in the hourglass to successfully complete her mission were nearing the end. No way was she going to settle for a consolation prize after living every day wondering if it would be her last within Alexander’s fortressed life. She had already determined this was the trip to do the deed and alerted Burke it was make or break time. She had been right. This was the one, singular moment she had access to Jonathan Alexander’s Holy Grail—and the promise of two million euros.
She had sex with Alexander most nights, but it was understood she was to return to her own room once finished. He preferred to sleep alone. Preferred was not quite an adequate word. Insisted was more accurate. But he wanted her to accompany him from London to Arkansas and then on to New York City, and the Gulfstream had only one small bedroom. Post-coital separate sleeping arrangements were not possible. That had been her cue that it was now or never.
She was a mile down the trail. Better get this done now and then get back to the car. Tell the driver you don’t feel well. Drop the journal under the bed as if it had fallen there. Get made up to look beautiful. Play your role. Mesmerize him. And hope Alexander never suspects you of treachery. He was always kind and patient with her, but she knew that was only a façade covering a dispassionate violence. She shuddered.
Pauline opened the portfolio. He had written in small carefully formed letters on almost every page. She remembered Burke’s words and was just as glad she couldn’t read the Greek alphabet.
I think it’s Greek.
After five months with the man, she knew Burke was right. She didn’t want to know what the words said. She wanted to be done with this business.
She pulled out her smartphone and took a picture of the first two-page spread. Burke had installed a special app that would upload each image to a secure website as it was shot. She fanned the pages and estimated she would take about fifty or sixty pictures. Ten minutes tops she hoped. Probably fifteen. Her stomach knotted and her hands began to shake as she moved to the second and third pages. Would the images be blurred? The camera was designed with a motion stabilizer, but she was really shaking. Not her problem if some of the pictures were fuzzy. She was the one with her neck on the line.
She shuddered. It was as if she could feel Jules’ lifeless eyes on her now.
Just finish and make yourself look so beautiful that all Alexander can think about is being with you. On the plane. At dinner. The promise of the bedroom. Exploit his lust. Dump the portfolio under the bed when you get back to the plane. Let him think he dropped it there while getting ready this morning.
She heard a twig snap behind her and turned with a start.
A deer crossed the path and disappeared into the dense woods. She laughed uneasily. Her breathing was more ragged than when she was running.
She turned another page, centered the new spread on her screen and pushed the camera icon again. The sound of a shutter seemed to echo off the silence of the forest. Why do smartphone makers assume we need sound effects?
Another sound. She looked up. Nothing. Must just be the rustle of leaves in the wind. A trickle of sweat ran down her brow. She barely moved the portfolio in time to keep a salty bead from dropping onto the open page and smudging the ink on the nearly translucent surface. Alexander would have known someone was turning his pages. That would have been a disaster. That was too close.
She slowed her breathing, willing herself to calm down. Burke had taught her how to control her emotions by controlling her breathing. When had she ever panicked before? Her life had not been easy. Not as a little girl in a home with two ex-pat American alcoholics in Brussels and not since she had taken to the street to make a living turning tricks when she was fifteen. She had faced plenty of jams and always kept her poise. She had been in physical d
anger and instinctively found a way out. She had nearly killed a man by stabbing him in the stomach with a butter knife she snatched from a room service tray. Maybe she killed him. She never checked.
Maybe she would jam Alexander’s precious Fulgor Nocturnus in his heart when this was all over. It would serve him right for making her feel so insignificant and expendable, despite his stern and chilly politeness.
All was silent again. She bent her head to the task at hand.
Aim, shoot, turn the page.
12
New York City
BURKE WANTED TO SCREAM IN exultation. Had she done it? Had she pulled it off? The green light on his iPad app signaled she was transmitting.
I think I love you Pauline.
Did he just think that? Did he love her? If so, he had a funny way of showing it. Realistically, when you combine a beautiful woman with tons of stress, you’re sure to come up with crazy ideas.
Shut up, Burke. Keep your focus. You still haven’t got her out of there. Get the goods. Get the girl. Then do a dance—and figure out how to keep her and yourself alive.
He had checked into a hotel in Harlem under one of his many names near the Columbia University Hospital. When he checked out of his hotel in Manhattan he had spent almost an hour walking, stopping, changing directions, descending steps into subway stations and bounding up the stairs a block away, watching for suspicious movements in the reflections of store windows, and other counter surveillance measures until he was absolutely certain he wasn’t being followed.
Burke had inserted an app in Pauline’s phone that instantly transmitted any pictures she took to a secure website with an invisible and encrypted IP address only he could access. From there it automatically forwarded to an equally secure web folder that could only be opened by whoever was paying him.
The man with the metallically altered voice who is trying to pinpoint my location.
His client wanted to be the first and only one to see anything found in Alexander’ diary, but the fortune being paid wasn’t enough to let Burke be careless, even with those paying the bills. He had done that once before. One false step and he was a dead man. Heck, he might be the walking dead already.
So he rigged the program to keep a copy of anything his client got for himself. Insurance.
Burke was raised in Nixa, Missouri, where he was taught each week in Sunday School to eschew the sin of greed—and run from a whole host of other temptations he had succumbed to as well. But greed might be what exactly was going to kill him before his time to face his Maker.
He stared at the screen, raising a cup of coffee to his lips. One image uploaded.
Keep going Pauline.
A second image. He put the coffee cup down and raised his fists in the air.
Don’t stop now. I’ll get you out of there if it’s the last thing I do. Tonight.
The third image. He forced himself to stay seated, ready to bounce from wall to wall in the small room.
I won’t even hire this job out completely. I’ll be part of the extraction team myself.
Four. Five. Six.
Good work baby. We’ll disappear after this is over. We’ll have a long talk. We’ll start from scratch.
If she was shooting two pages per shot, how many pages had Pauline sent him? Eleven? Maybe twelve?
He watched the screen breathlessly. Nothing. Maybe a slow satellite Internet connection? He started counting the seconds. Twenty. Twenty-one. Twenty-two. Twenty-three. Twenty-four. Twenty-five. Twenty-six. Twenty-seven. Twenty-eight. Twenty-nine. Thirty. Nothing.
Why had she stopped?
C’mon Pauline. Just aim and push the button. Doesn’t have to be perfect.
He watched in stillness for another thirty seconds. Still nothing. Another minute passed. An excruciatingly long minute. His heart began to sink. He stood and stretched his back. He picked up a pillow and punched it. He slowed his breath and sat back down.
He scanned the images quickly. Two pages for every picture except for the first. He had just eleven pages in total. Surely the man wrote more than that in his leather journal. His client seemed certain that Alexander’s journal was the Holy Grail of corporate espionage. Eleven pages? Had to be more.
What’s happening Pauline? Why have you stopped? I know you aren’t finished.
He stared at the short column of six static, unblinking icons on the computer screen. Even as he racked his brain for explanations he knew better. The program was failsafe. His stomach knotted up in a tight ball. He tasted bile in the back of his throat.
Pauline, I know you said yes of your own volition, but I’m sorry I put you in harms way. Just talk to me. What is happening Pauline?
13
Hodeidah, Yemen
NICKY MET HIS MAN AT a small café on the south side of Hodeidah, the closest town to the port of Mokha. He would like to be closer to the spot where he would climb aboard a speedboat to depart the dust and sand of Yemen, but the port only had one main pier with no commerce.
Platters of humus, grilled halloumi, tabbouleh, shish tawook, and dolma rested on the table between them. Nicky was ravished. He had lost fifteen pounds during his sixty-day tour of the Arabian Peninsula. He forced himself to slow down his chewing and count to five between bites. With a high speed boat ride ahead of him, he didn’t want to sabotage his stomach’s attempts to hold down the product of gestation.
The man across from him barely touched the food. His eyes smoldered in rage. He was the youngest son of Sheikh Sulaymon and the brother of the handsome Arabian prince who died at the hands of Malmak. Nicky was surprised the old man had sent Labeeb to acquire the precise location of Malmak and his warriors. Labeeb meant sensible and intelligent—two qualities that Nicky suspected the young man missed out on at birth. The kid was of an age to head to Europe or America for college, but he was a fanatic who didn’t understand the long game. Why waste four or five years in study when you could be killing enemies of Allah and the tribe right now? The old man should know that there was a decent chance Labeeb would go Rambo and seek to avenge his brother in a solo kamikaze attack.
Nicky and his uncle fought over the same issues when Nicky was eighteen. In his case, he couldn’t wear his uncle down. The fact that this kid was marching toward the front line of war rather than being secured on a safe university campus told him something about Sulaymon as well. He did not possess his uncle’s strength and will. He doubted Sulaymon would be a player in the bloodbath that was to come. He was just one or two steps up the food chain from Malmak.
Of course, twenty years later, Nicky still forced his way to the front lines to his uncle’s consternation. He looked at Labeeb closer.
He won’t be alive in a week. Time for you to grow up and do your work from a distance.
What the kid did or didn’t do was irrelevant to Nicky. One more casualty from a minor player in his uncle’s grand drama was nothing.
What amazed Nicky most was that in exchange for telling Sulaymon where Malmak was encamped, he was bringing home a huge payday that would largely fund the weapons he had delivered to the man who had killed his eldest son.
That was the beauty of his uncle’s plan. Pit both sides against each other. Let them do the dirty work—and pay the bill. Priceless.
Nicky would return the check for a bottle of beer or glass of wine to wash down the delicious local fare. Not smart and not possible. And it was definitely time to go. Every minute he remained on the peninsula was tempting fate. He had three men watching his back, including the Chechnyan military officer who deserted Malmak’s camp the previous night.
“You aren’t paying me enough to lose my head to a madman.”
“Things are happening faster than planned,” Nicky told him, giving him instructions on where to meet him in Hodeidah.
“Do I still get paid full amount?”
“Of course. And there will be more work for you soon. We’ll leave together from the port. You’ll go to Paris and await further instructions.”
“Tell me again how you got these—and why you are giving this information to us?”
Did Sulaymon give the young man instructions to ask these questions or was he thinking through all that had transpired in past two days on his own? He hoped the former.
“You already know how we came by this information. We are expanding our business in Yemen and are paying for information from many sources. You also know why we are passing on this information to your father. He is paying us a significant sum of money.”
The young man’s face was a mask of conflicting thoughts and emotions. It was obvious his suspicions weren’t satisfied by Nicky’s answers. But what could he do? How long would Malmak wait before moving against Sulaymon? He was there as emissary of his father. He had to make the deal. Nonetheless, Nicky gave an imperceptible nod to the Chechnyan. Be ready to shoot anything that moves, including the kid, if this goes south.
The young man scowled and slid an envelope across the table to Nicky.
“Do you want to verify the wire transfer details and instructions?”
Indeed, Nicky wanted him to, but knew everything would be in order. Sulaymon was not going to risk losing an immediate chance to avenge his anointed one. Nicky shook his head no, stood, gave a small bow, and answered, “Not necessary. I trust your father. I know that he knows what is at stake.”
“As we trust you know what is at stake.”
The two men locked eyes and glared at each other. Nicky almost wanted Labeeb to make a move at him so he could let the boy know his proper place in the universe. He knew what his uncle would do. Defer in order to win the battle that mattered. Nicky broke eye contact and nodded to the young man, granting Labeeb the victory.