by Graham Potts
It was a small silver medallion on a matching chain. Etched on the medallion was a snake coiled around a sceptre that was crowned with wings. It was a caduceus, she remembered. The necklace had been a gift, one of the only presents anyone had ever given her. It had been a gift from him.
She wiped the medallion with her thumb.
It’s time to see if I still have what it takes.
Elliot shoved the necklace into her pocket and grabbed her red coat.
A cold wind blew through the windows and the heavy curtains strained against their tethers. Across the bar, artificial leaves ruffled and napkins were swept to the floor. One of the oil paintings slipped on its hook and its corners clattered lightly on the rich maroon walls.
Simone Elliot’s eyes scanned the room.
The waitress shivered and rubbed her bare arms but she didn’t look up from her phone. She typed furiously with her thumb while balancing a silver tray on her hip. Her foot was propped on the leg of a stool and shook impatiently while she waited for the barman to finish mixing drinks.
The hotel’s bar was nearly empty. A man and a woman were entertaining a Korean delegation in the centre of the room. They all sunk into soft leather sofas and discussed “organisational imperatives”. The woman’s face was flushed from alcohol and her head flopped around when she talked. The man beside her nodded thoughtfully while sipping from his glass, laughing and snorting when the woman made a joke. The Koreans watched with lined foreheads.
At the end of the counter, hunched on a stool, a silver-haired man in a rumpled Italian suit stared solemnly into his glass of pinot noir. A 700-dollar bottle of stomped grapes from the Côte-d’Or sat behind his glass but he only noticed it when he reached for a refill. He sighed heavily, using a chubby finger to nudge his wedding ring around an empty ashtray.
The barman cleared his throat. “Karen.”
The waitress looked up lazily and blinked as the barman pointed to the drinks on the counter. She rolled her eyes, shoving her phone into her pocket and slapping the tray on the bar.
The barman placed a row of napkins on the tray, and then the glasses on the napkins, before watching his employee saunter towards the delegation. He muttered a curse before turning to his stock, ticking off quantities on a clipboard.
Elliot was the only other person in the bar. She sat on a stool with her back to the wall, spinning a packet of cigarettes on the timber countertop. The people in the bar were interesting but weren’t what she needed. Elliot needed a specific type of bit-player to make her con work.
The perfect mark appeared just after dinner. Elliot was sitting in the lobby on a bulging sofa, her legs crossed and a folded newspaper on her lap. She had scribbled notes on the newspaper as potential marks checked in: ‘bearded man in fedora hat’; ‘woman with mole wearing snakeskin shoes’. All had been crossed out. None of them measured up to who entered the lobby next.
The woman sashayed into the hotel and posed in front of the check-in counter surrounded by an entourage of luggage. She flicked her honey-coloured hair over her shoulder as she slapped the call bell over and over again with a jewellery-laden hand.
“I’m Siobhán Miller,” the woman declared loudly, and the concierge feigned patience while subtly placing the bell out of Miller’s reach. She had an itemised list of petulant demands, including special care for her brand-new Mercedes, a massage in her room, and a bottle of gin.
Elliot had immediately opened an internet browser on her phone. Instagram, Twitter, and Facebook. She found images of Miller’s husband posing in front of Montserrat and the Sagrada Familia, and Miller had added comments to the latest post: her tickets were booked and she was going to Spain to see him.
After checking in to room 314, Miller snapped her fingers to gain the attention of a hotel employee, sweeping her arm over her luggage. The employee scuttled over and scooped up the bags until he was teetering on his feet. Miller hissed at the employee to be careful before disappearing into the elevator, leaving the employee to trudge up the stairs.
Elliot migrated to the bar to continue the research. The more she read, the more she realised Miller was perfect.
Siobhán Miller had once been a fashion model, paid to look pretty and pout at the camera. She’d been lured away from her dead-end career by a man thirty years older. He’d drowned her in money, clothes and jewellery, and she had married him.
He was Alistair, the CEO of a regional airline. It was a small operation by international standards, but he wanted to change that. His trip to Spain was funded by a Spanish aerospace company desperate for investment. According to his Twitter, he was drunk in a bar in Barcelona. According to Google, the bar he’d named was actually a strip club and he was probably doing body shots off a belly dancer. At least that’s what Elliot believed, though it didn’t really matter.
Siobhán Miller was due to check out the next day so she could fly to Spain to meet her husband. In the meantime, her massage and gin would keep her occupied in her room for at least two hours, which was more than enough time for Elliot.
“What can I get you?” the barman asked.
Elliot looked up from her phone. “Scotch. A double, neat.”
The barman nodded and fetched her drink.
Another couple entered the bar and Elliot placed her phone on the counter before turning around on her stool. He wore designer labels and twirled an Aston Martin key ring on his finger. His smile was flashy, his cheeks dimpled and his eyes deep. She was desperately pretty, with a light orange tan and bright gold jewellery. Her skirt was short, her top was low, and she thrust her chest forward and swayed her hips as she walked. She threaded her arm through his and laughed, running her hand through his thick hair. Elliot immediately named them John and Jane, stifling a laugh when they attempted to sit gracefully on the big leather marshmallows in the middle of the room.
“Here you go,” the barman said, placing the glass of scotch on the counter.
Elliot nodded her thanks and turned back to John and Jane. The waitress, Karen, was hovering around their sofa and Jane scowled, wrapping her fingers tightly around John’s arm when the young girl neared. John smiled readily and Jane’s face flushed as she sneered at the waitress. The young girl took their orders and retreated back to the bar, leaving the couple to indulge in banal conversation. John talked about his car and Jane smiled and nodded vigorously.
Elliot gulped down her drink. “I’ll have another,” she said to the barman. “Plenty of ice, this time.” He nodded and ladled ice cubes into a fresh glass before pouring in some scotch. “And I’d like to borrow your pen.”
“Uh, sure,” he said, handing her his ballpoint.
She took a napkin from the bar and flicked the lid off the pen with her thumb. Jane and John finished their first round of drinks and he gestured to Karen. The young girl approached cautiously and John smiled warmly. Jane hissed their order and the waitress retreated again. Jane started to scold John, telling him to stop flirting with other women. He was dismissive and told her that she was overreacting.
Elliot scrawled a note on the napkin: “I want to pick up where we left off. Meet me at 11 pm, same place. XX Karen.” Elliot saw that the waitress was again preoccupied by her phone, but she had left the tray on the counter while the barman busied himself with the drinks.
Elliot placed the napkin on the tray, but the waitress didn’t notice. The barman set the glasses down and waved her away. Elliot watched her reluctantly tuck her phone away and walk towards John and Jane.
Elliot gulped down her scotch.
“Who the fuck is Karen?” Jane shouted.
The waitress held the empty tray like a shield.
“I don’t know,” John replied with a shrug.
“Karen?” the barman asked the waitress loudly. “What’s going on?”
“I don’t know,” the waitress protested.
“Are you Karen?” Jane shrieked. “You bitch!”
She jumped to her feet and tossed her drink into the waitr
ess’ face. The waitress burst into tears and ran away, hiding behind the counter. Jane waved her arms violently, shouting at John while he sat silently on the sofa. Jane tossed John’s full glass against the wall. The barman grabbed the phone, dialling security.
Elliot was in the hallway before the barman had hung up and saw the two security guards tumble through the door of the security centre. They were in such a rush that they left the door of the security centre to close under its own weight.
Elliot stepped into the room and immediately sat down in front of a computer terminal, placing her glass on the desk. The computer was still logged on to the system and she navigated through the program easily. She initiated a reformat and the bank of security monitors went black. A dialogue box appeared on the screen, asking if she wanted to proceed and announcing the reformat and reboot would be completed in forty minutes. Elliot clicked “continue”. As she stood, she noticed an open thermos of soup on the desk beside her. She tipped it over, spilling the soup across the keyboard.
A toolbox was stored on a low shelf and she unlatched it before rummaging through the tools. She grabbed a shifting spanner and a rusty bolt, shoving them into her back pocket before retrieving her glass.
Back outside, there was a lot of shouting coming from the bar, but the hall was empty. Elliot locked the door from the inside and closed it behind her before heading for the parking garage.
The guests’ cars were parked in neat lines, bathed in fluorescent light. The hotel’s plumbing crisscrossed the ceiling of the garage and the fire suppression system for the kitchen was tucked against the wall. The system consisted of two highly pressurised bottles of argon gas that were caged in an alcove. Flexible lines were connected to fittings in the brickwork, the gas pressurising the system in the kitchen, ready to extinguish a fire. Siobhán Miller’s white Mercedes was parked right next to the alcove, isolated from the other cars by request.
Elliot unlatched the cage and allowed the door to fall open before turning off the valves on the gas bottles and using the spanner to disconnect one of the lines at the wall. She twisted the line and threaded it through the cage, aiming it directly at the windshield of Miller’s car. Finally, she poked the rusty bolt into the hose before fishing an ice cube from her glass. The ice cube was too big for the line, but Elliot forced it in with her thumb until it was deep inside the hose. Satisfied, she opened the valve and the gas squealed as it pressurised against the ice, the hose resting against the bars of the cage, its aim true. She pocketed the spanner and latched the cage before retreating back up the stairs, knowing she had less than a minute before the ice cube melted.
Elliot left her glass on a side table and was at the elevator when the sound of a car alarm wailed through the lobby. The security guards dashed from the bar and trotted towards the parking garage to investigate. Elliot stepped into the elevator and pressed the button for the third floor.
By the time the doors opened, Miller was in the hallway wearing a complimentary robe and the masseuse was retreating towards the service elevator. Elliot could hear Miller talking on her mobile phone. “No, I know,” Miller said. “Look, I’ve got to go, baby. Something’s happened to my car.” She paused and giggled. “That sounds great. Look, I’ll meet you in the bar tonight and you can buy me a drink. Then you can prove it to me in private.” She giggled again. “Okay, baby. I’ll see you tonight.” She palmed her phone and closed the door, tucking her swipe card into her pocket.
Elliot pulled out her phone and marched along the hall, typing an imaginary text message. She crashed into Miller.
“Watch where you’re going,” Miller sneered.
“Sorry,” Elliot mumbled.
Miller elbowed past and headed for the elevator while Elliot kept walking. The elevator arrived and Miller walked in. Elliot doubled back and used Miller’s swipe card to get into the room.
A tower of luggage was stowed against the wall but one bag was on the bed, its contents spilling onto the quilt. There was also a suit bag hanging from the cupboard door with a charcoal Chanel suit inside. The jacket was a little long but it was good enough. Miller’s purse was on the bedside table. Elliot grabbed it, rummaging through the contents. Cash, $1000. She paused.
Tonight? But her husband is in Spain.
Elliot left the cash in the purse and found Miller’s computer tablet sitting on the bed. She skimmed through emails and images, taking some snaps with her phone before returning the tablet.
She grabbed the Chanel suit and left the room, dropping the swipe card on the floor in the hallway.
MOSCOW, RUSSIA TUESDAY 13 SEPTEMBER 11:55 PM MSK
Grigoriy slowed the car and craned his neck, scanning the crowd in front of the terminal, but he couldn’t see Stepan Volkov. He pulled over into the pick-up zone and put the car in park, deciding to wait.
The car lurched and Grigoriy looked into the rear-view mirror, watching Stepan Volkov toss his luggage into the boot of the BMW. Volkov slammed the lid shut and opened the passenger door, pausing when he spotted Grigoriy’s laptop on the seat.
“Open it, Boss,” Grigoriy said. “I got what you needed.”
Volkov placed the computer in his lap and rubbed his hands in front of the heater. “Any trouble?”
“No,” Grigoriy replied. “The Australians need to update their firewall protection.” He cleared his throat and tightened his hands on the steering wheel.
Volkov glanced around before studying his assistant. “Are we going, or what?”
“Anna gave me a lap dance,” Grigoriy blurted out. He felt his face go red and sank into the seat.
“Okay,” Volkov said slowly.
“I wanted you to hear it from me.”
“No offence, Grigoriy, but why would she give you a lap dance?”
“She was worried,” he said quickly. “I ran into her at the club and she took me into a private room. She took her clothes off and told me what she’d been hearing around the club.”
Volkov nodded. “Clever girl.”
“You’re not mad?”
“What did she tell you?” he asked, gesturing for Grigoriy to start the car.
“Apparently, Maxim is keeping track of the bombings. He’s been marking targets on a map that he keeps on his tablet.” Grigoriy turned the key and the car roared. “The men get excited every time another bomb goes off.”
“These guys get dogs to fight for fun,” Volkov shrugged. “They get off on violence.”
“I know, but—”
“Has she seen this map?”
Grigoriy shook his head. “It’s just gossip.”
“Anything else?”
"She mentioned koala bears.” Grigoriy put the car in gear and pulled away from the kerb. “Does that mean anything to you?”
“I’d say she was just looking for someone to talk to.”
"Speaking of which,” Grigoriy said hastily. “I told Nikolay everything about your trip to Australia.”
“Everything?”
“I didn’t mention Simone.”
“Risky.”
“Maybe.” He licked his lips. “Anna was angry with me. She thinks I ratted you out.”
“In my experience, making women angry is easier than keeping them happy,” Volkov said, staring through the window.
“Perhaps that rule applies to both genders,” Grigoriy said, shifting into fourth gear. “Nikolay is pretty mad. He insists on a meeting. Our first stop is the club.”
“Fine.” Volkov drummed his fingers on the computer in his lap.
Grigoriy braked, the car gliding to a stop at a red light. “Aren’t you going to open it?”
“Just give me a minute.”
“I think you should pretend you didn’t see her.” Grigoriy cleared his throat. “Maybe it would be better if she didn’t exist anymore.”
“I’m not so sure.” Volkov looked down at his lap and opened the computer.
“Apparently, Simone has been masquerading as a police officer for three years.” The light turne
d green and Grigoriy steered the car through the intersection, weaving between the potholes.
Volkov skimmed through one of the documents on the screen. “According to this, she actually is a real police officer. The identity is false but the rest is genuine.”
“Why would she join the police?” Grigoriy asked.
Volkov didn’t answer.
“I heard from a contact overseas a few hours ago,” Grigoriy said. “She’s been picked up by the Australians and brought into their investigation, just like you predicted.”
“Who’s the lead agent?”
“A man named Levan Singh.”
Volkov raised an eyebrow.
“You know him, don’t you?”
“Forget it. What else?”
“Singh has been paired with an analyst, a young girl with no field experience. I think her name is Emily.”
Volkov muttered an acknowledgement.
“Should we be worried? I mean, you said this would happen.”
“No,” he said, looking down at his lap. “The constable is the bait. They think I’ll target her because she can identify me.” Volkov continued scrolling through the documents.
“If Nikolay finds out, you might have to kill Simone.”
“No, I won’t.”
Grigoriy stopped the car at another red light. “What if he makes you?”
“Stay out of it, Grigoriy.” Volkov closed one of the windows and saw a document bearing the Great Seal of the United States. “What’s the story here?”
“Oh, right,” Grigoriy wriggled in his seat. “Nikolay wanted me to talk to you about that. The Americans placed a new operative inside the US Embassy. Apparently, his mission was to find you. The guys pulled him off the street last night and I did a social profile on him today. Nikolay wants you to interrogate. There’s an envelope under your seat that has everything you need.”
“Did the men rough him up?”
“A couple of slaps,” Grigoriy said defensively. “Is that roughing up? What about a punch in the nose? Or a kick in the rear?”