NoFoolAnUndercoverMission

by Ann Raina

  With that, she walked out of the door and left it to him to trail along.

  Blueprints never tell about the looks of a house. They don’t reveal taste, quality or the feeling you have when entering a room. Michael judged the furniture worth more than a hundred thousand dollars, excluding the spa, training area and pool with a lounge that was too large to shout from one end to the other. Michael had grown up in a decent neighborhood. The family had never lacked money, but the show of wealth on the Summerston estate took his breath away. Small wonder that the ladies from New York, Washington, DC, and down to Boston came to relax and enjoy the surroundings. Quality and taste at its best and something to talk about. Lady Summerston probably never put an ad in any newspaper and had the farm booked nevertheless.

  “Your work starts at four AM,” Ms. Monroe explained on their way through the sauna with its cabins left and right of the wood-covered way. “To avoid repairs during business hours, you will check the main rooms, spa, restaurant and sauna every morning and make sure everything’s in order.” She glanced over her shoulder. “After that, you will work through the list the manager or I will give you.”

  “Okay.” Michael glanced into the cabins and a larger area, where the guests could meet if they wished. Otherwise, privacy was granted to an excess no other club provided. He supposed that if you didn’t want to see any other guest, you could stay all day and be invisible even to your best friends.

  They left the recreational area for the next building. In the restaurant, facing the lawns and paddocks with their beautiful horses, waiters were busily preparing tables for the first guests of the day. The white of the tablecloth matched in an elegant way the dark burgundy of the carpet and chairs. The room was quiet and very peaceful. Michael liked it instantly.

  “Whenever you meet with guests, Matthew, you will be polite, unobtrusive and quiet. Do your work as fast as possible and leave. Negative comments about you lead to negative publicity about the business.” She stopped and fully turned toward him. Her eyes were like diamonds—beautiful but cold. “Do you understand that?”

  “It’s not a hard concept.”

  His small smile almost won her over. Almost. The spark of amusement lit in those eyes was quickly quenched. “You’re on probation. If you pass, fine, but if there are complaints about your work or your behavior, you have to leave. We cannot afford bad publicity, Matthew.”

  Michael thought that a true handyman would have squirmed under her scrutiny. He hurried to look scared, short of putting his hands up in the air to surrender. “I know what you mean, Ms. Monroe. I’ll be quiet as a mouse and won’t stare. I promise.”

  “Good.” She gave him a very small smile that was stopped by wariness as if she remembered to never praise an employee too soon. She continued talking about the rooms and what his tasks would be. It was the longest list Michael had ever heard about aside from duties within the agency. Breaking into a high security building was cream compared to the new world he was confronted with. He sweated if he would make it.

  When they reached the main hall, Michael’s head swam. Shall I maintain the buildings alone?

  She spoke as if she had read his mind. “There are other helping hands, of course, Matthew, but you take responsibility for all maintenance and coordinate the workers if need be. If repairs cannot be done at once and you need an expert, let me know. We don’t want to interrupt service due to a leaking duct, do we?” Her smile indicated that she did not expect an answer.

  “What about the southern wing of the main house? And the first floor of the west wing? You haven’t shown them to me yet.”

  “These do not concern you. We already have employees working in those areas.”

  He tried a curious smile. “Is there anything strange about these floors?”

  Ms. Monroe walked on, willingly ignoring him. “You have your task sheet for tomorrow. If there are any more questions, feel free to contact me. And this—” She handed him a small black device— “is a beeper. Are you familiar with its use? Good. Mr. Summerston or I will contact you if immediate repairs are needed. You can reach us via house telephone or in person at our office.”

  “First floor, main house, above the main hall.”

  “That’s right. I’ll send someone with the overalls to your house. See you tomorrow.”

  “Yes. Have a nice day.” Michael smiled while she walked away.

  How do I get into that damned basement if I’m not allowed to work there?

  Change bulb on first floor, fix panel behind main hall, left side.

  Ms. Monroe’s clear handwriting filled the list. Ten tasks waited for him and more if he added the checks he had to do on a daily bases. Michael added to change a neon light in the basement, then took the case with tools and a neon lamp and went through the main hall. The stairway to get on the first floor was further down, but the one leading into the basement was right before him. A large sign-board on an easel advertised Summerston’s Fine Wines. Catch the summer every time of the year! There was a cask drawn beneath the curved letters and an arrow pointed toward the stairs.

  Michael whistled while he hurried down. It was semi-dark at the end of the stairway. The corridor looked like a cavern, but was warmer to the touch than real stone would have been. The excavation had been added for the wine cellar and the blueprints indicated that only a part of the main building had been excavated. The rest—assumed that it had been built and was undocumented—would suffice for a lot of secret activities.

  Michael made a quick assessment of the corridor. To his right there was a door at the end of a short way. Another door lay opposite with a sign that said Office. To his left he found a small desk with an open book and to the far left a wide open door, double the width of the others. He could see the outlines of casks. Torches at the walls gave the impression of being in a real wine cellar built into an old castle, but overhead were lights.

  A man came up from behind the desk. He wore dark gray pants, a black turtleneck and a gray, buttoned jacket. His dark-skinned, clean-shaven face was unreadable, his brown eyes wary. The nametag read Joseph. If he is a true Joseph, he had read his Bible backwards. “Can I help you with anything?”

  “I’m here to change the neon lamp, Joseph.” Michael smiled pleasantly, the incarnation of the harmless handyman just here to serve.

  “None’s broken. Look.” He pointed at the ceiling. Four neon lights shone in a row.

  “What about those around the corner?”

  “There is no around the corner here, mister. You probably didn’t listen correctly.”

  Michael spotted a bulk in the guy’s left side of the jacket. Cross drawer. Is the wine worth it to shoot someone for it? “I mean, inside the wine cellar, maybe?”

  “There’s no overhead light in there. Sorry, but someone sent you the wrong way.”

  “Hum.” Michael glanced at the wall behind the desk. Is it a real one? He remembered the blueprints like a photograph. Behind that wall was enough space for five bowling lanes at least. Yet, the wall appeared to be solid. “Sorry, man, to have interrupted you in…well, whatever you’ve been doin’.”

  “No problem. I’m just here for the customers to take their orders.”

  “Stylish.” Michael smiled broadly.

  “Yes, Mr. Summerston’s in for all things stylish.”

  “Oh, right. Mr. Summerston? Is he in right now?”

  “No, he’s not.” Joseph’s expression changed slightly from being the friendly guy to a man aware of his job. “You better find that broken lamp now.”

  “Yeah, you’re right. Hope, I don’t have to walk through the whole building. Would take a day, I suppose.”

  “Right. At least.”

  “Bye.”

  “Bye.” Joseph returned to his desk.

  Michael walked upstairs. Only when he reached the hall again, he realized he had clenched his fists the whole time. He made an effort to relax. He was a handyman, no big deal. He could make mistakes.

  Linda Berns
tein was a role model for every young female CIA agent who wanted to climb the ladder of success. She had started out early—recruited during college—and never wavered. If asked why she had chosen to become an agent, she answered that the service for her country was worth every sacrifice. Following her own credo, she had never married, never had children, but dedicated twenty-four hours a day to her job. Undercover missions were her specialty. She spoke four languages and had been on more journeys than an international manager.

  She looked fabulous for a woman of forty-three. Her light brown wavy hair touched her shoulders, framing a round, powdered face with large, almond-shaped eyes of a deep green. Her makeup was always done as if she planned an entrance at the opera, but she liked it that way, saying it distracted from her full cheeks and too broad nose. She used to wear tailored two-pieces to cover her full bust and round hips. Men called her a thoroughbred woman and were always wrong, expecting her to be everybody’s darling. She could be tough as nails if she wished.

  Michael thought of all these facts and even some unfriendly rumors cruising around her person when they met in a small café in downtown Leesburg.

  “Did anyone follow you?” Linda did not lift her head and hardly shot him a glance as she took the tea bag out of her cup. It was an act. She had watched him since he had left his car, ready to go to countermeasures if her colleague messed up his approach.

  “A very nice day to you, too, Linda.” Michael sat down and ordered coffee.

  “What will you say if your meeting with me is watched?”

  “I will say that you looked so glamorous I couldn’t walk by.”

  Her hard glance hit him like knives. “Seriously.”

  Michael sighed, leaned back and dropped his hands in his lap. He had never worked with Linda so he gave her some slack to be cautious. “I’ll say you are an old friend of mine, someone from my past.”

  “I’m much older than you.”

  “You were a friend of my family, Linda, not my lover.”

  “Understood.” She raised a well-formed eyebrow. Her voice became warmer, a more friendly undertone that—under different circumstances—would sound seductive. “What did you find out so far?”

  Coffee was served and since they sat in the smoking area, Michael pulled out a pack and offered Linda a cigarette. She accepted and he lit both while he answered. “The rule is that certain employees work certain areas of the complex. It’s huge. My job is to maintain pool, spa, sauna, restaurant, garden and parts of the wings where the higher-ranking employees live. Other areas are restricted and I cannot access them.”

  She squinted at him through rings of smoke. “Did you say you’ve found out nothing?”

  “I wouldn’t say nothing. It’s just that I cannot confirm yet that they’ve got some crooked business running.” He smoked and tilted his head. “I made a trip to the basement. There’s a wine cellar, an office and maybe a small closet for stuff, tools, whatever. And a guy stood there, pretending he’s there for customers. I asked myself if some of the customers get aggressive when visiting down there.” Linda frowned and let him know with a look she didn’t appreciate his humor. “He had a gun.” Her expression became serious again. A gun was a good indicator that someone protected something or someone. “The walls appeared to be solid so I can’t say if there are false doors. I couldn’t enter the wine cellar without rousing suspicion.”

  “What about the employees I mentioned in my report?”

  He inhaled deeply and tapped the ash off of his cigarette. “It’s true that many employees come from the Middle East. They speak Arabic when they think they’re alone. But they are cautious. If Americans or Mexicans are present, they switch to English—as much as possible. Some have only basic skills. I talked with many, mostly the Americans and they don’t have a bad word to say about their colleagues. Hard-working fellows, who like to keep to themselves. Something like that.” He shrugged. “You were right so far, it’s obvious that the managers, George Summerston and David Callahan, prefer immigrants over American competitors. If some of them leave, there are others to take their places. Some stable hands left last week, said they got a better employment elsewhere. Couldn’t say if it’s true or if there were other reasons.”

  “Where did they go to?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t even know their last names.”

  She let that go. “Did you talk with the immigrants?”

  “They’re stonewalling on purpose. They’re polite, they help if they’re ordered to help, but you can’t talk private stuff with them. They just looked at me as if I had sprouted a second head. Playing the friendly handyman from around the corner doesn’t impress them, obviously.”

  “Obviously. Which means you’ve been there for three weeks and don’t have a single clue.” She stubbed the cigarette in a rash, angry movement. “What about George Summerston?”

  “Haven’t seen him at all. He’s either traveling or gets in too late for me to be around. He’s got an office in the basement and another upstairs, next to that of David Callahan. The latter walks around like Lagerfeld, adding a touch of color here and there and chatting about upholstery and the mysticism of colors.” He shook his head, smiling about the memory of his last encounter. Within minutes, David had lectured him about the necessity to arrange flowers in a vase to their greatest advantage. Only afterwards had Michael realized that within this harmless conversation David had pumped him for his background.

  Linda put her arms on the tabletop and leaned forward. “You’ve got to get closer, Michael. There’s something going on in there, and we’re blind if you don’t do your job.”

  “At the moment it’s better to go on tiptoe than storm the building. Yes, I know,” he stopped her reprove, “I have to be insistent. I have to get into the inner circle. But they need to trust me first. If I’m not even allowed to work in a bathroom on second floor, it’s no good to pry information out of one of the employees.”

  She sat up straight again. “I thought you were charming enough to bring the women on your side.”

  “You mean inside my bed.”

  “I wouldn’t be that blunt, but yes, I heard that your charm was irresistible.”

  He shrugged at her ignorance. “They’re few women among the Middle East employees and you certainly know that their religion forbids them to get intimate with a man of a different one.”

  Linda pursed her lips and slowly nodded. She didn’t let her cards show if his reprove hit a nerve. “So the only result of your three week enterprise is that you did not get fired.”

  Her scorn made Michael gnash his teeth. “I work hard, Linda. It’s not like I lie somewhere with my telescope and watch them work, I’m with them every day. The business is run very professionally, very strict. Summerston, Callahan and his crew make it all smooth like clockwork. I’ve hardly ever seen a crew working so efficiently to make it pleasant for the customers. I’d bet they make millions every year with this enterprise.”

  “What about the escort service?”

  He nodded. “I saw several young men on the premises. Some were accompanied by women, some alone. All good-looking types of different height and build. All of them are young. I tried to make contact with one of them, but—politely and very determinedly—he told me to go to hell.” He pushed a microchip across the table, hidden beneath a napkin. “Here are all the pictures I could take without risk. Maybe some of the guys and ladies are known to you.”

  “I’ll send them to Langley immediately.” She stowed away the chip and emptied her cup of tea. “Did you recognize some of the ladies?”

  He stubbed the cigarette, nodding. “Senator Kittridge’s ex-wife, Senator Mahoney’s wife, the widow of the district attorney, Emily Halsworth. Some more I know from sight, from newspapers, etcetera. Many famous faces. All with more money than feathers in their pillows.”

  “Yes, indeed.” She took out a small mirror to check her red lips. “I’m about to get myself into the inner circle of regarded ladies to hire
a man from the escort service.” She snapped the mirror shut. “Maybe that’ll get us ahead of any plan they have.” Her look became fierce. “I know, they plan something extraordinary, Michael. This is not just a wellness farm. But if we can’t provide Langley with hard facts, they’ll shut down this operation before it really starts.”

  Chapter 3

  Michael drove back to the estate, still in thought about the ongoing operation when his beeper went off. He was so eager to check it, he almost bumped into another car and cursed when others around him hooted. Callahan wanted him to call back. Michael stepped on the gas, parked the car ten minutes later, slipped into his overall and was informed that a ventilator in the sauna didn’t work properly.

  “Don’t forget, Matthew,” Callahan said in a high-pitched, lecturing tone, “that there are guests present. Hurry and be out of there before four PM.”

  Michael checked his watch. He had about thirty minutes.

  With his tool case in hand and dressed in the gray overall and working boots, Michael felt like a cockroach on a wedding cake when he marched through the corridor in the sauna area. Other employees, wearing white pants and short-sleeved white shirts, eyed him like an unavoidable evil, something they did not want to see but had to endure. He cursed under his breath and entered upon a short knock. He had expected the room to be empty and was startled to find a middle-aged lady wearing only a large towel around her body and another like a turban around her head, sitting on a wooden chair in the center of the room. Her face glistened with sweat. Mascara was smeared under her eyes. Choking on surprise, he recognized her. Emily Halsworth. What a joke!

  She smiled at his bewildered face and made a gesture to enter. “Ah, finally they send someone! Please, close the door. I don’t want to get cold in here.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Michael swallowed, insecure how to proceed. He pressed the door firmly shut, keeping the humid air inside. “I’m sorry to interrupt your…” What had she been doing? He couldn’t tell. He only knew it was very hot in the room. He felt uncomfortable.