Peyton Riley

by Bianca Mori

  "Gustave," she said archly, sitting up and trying to cover up the triphammer of her heart with a cold and imperious manner.

  Gustave was not fooled. He looked her up and down with an amused smirk, and turned his sardonic gaze back at Carson. "I was just telling our friend Carson here that you must get all packed up and on the earliest train to Amsterdam. At this moment. We have wasted enough time."

  She merely looked back, mind still fuzzy at the improbable wake up call.

  "That is all I had to say," he replied cheerfully. He stood and gave her a courteous little bow. "And also that haste is required. The pieces are in place; Lady Anastasia is in agreement. Carson, it is now in your favor—" and Gustave gave her the most pointed and briefest of leers "—to work your magic on our Anja Rubinstein." He took a few steps, turned and buttoned up his jacket. "That painting must not be sold. By any means necessary. Understood?"

  "Yes," said Carson.

  Gustave was out the door with a flourish.

  At precisely 8:52 the gleaming red train pulled out of the Brussels station and sped towards Amsterdam. In first class, Peyton and Carson chose seats next to the window. Though the plush-covered chairs faced each other over a bolted-down table, each instead watched the old country flash beyond the glass.

  Since Gustave rang the bell to their hotel room that morning, Carson felt the loss of the spell breaking between Peyton and himself. The night before was intense and sexy. He'd finally consummated his desire for Peyton. It had never left him, since Cosa Imbah'i, and strengthened through the days when she was out of his reach. It had felt like a low-grade fever lingering in his muscles and bones. And then, last night: blessed, delicious release.

  Then came their employer to remind them of their duties, and the fire between them died, replaced by a hard frost.

  They'd packed up and checked out in silence, each consumed by their thoughts, but in the frown on Peyton's face and the terseness of her replies, Carson had a very good idea what ran through her mind.

  A trolley with their meals arrived, but neither was interested in eating it. Peyton sipped at her water, still resolutely looking at the window.

  "Peyton."

  "Mm."

  "When we get back to–"

  "I have it covered," she said absently.

  "Gustave wants us coordinating." He groped in his breast pocket and pulled out a pair of tiny devices, small, flesh-colored wireless ear buds.

  She looked at his palm then made a face. "I don't do puppetry."

  "You're the takedown specialist. I'm the charm offensive. We need to work together on this."

  She sipped her water. "Back to shop talk, I see."

  He pulled her uninjured arm across the table and held her hand. "Let's just get this job done and then–"

  "And then we go back to our lives. You to whatever racket you've got going on, and me to my boss in London."

  His grip tightened. "You and I both know that we've got something here."

  "Whatever we've got, it's best to leave it in Brussels." She turned to the window. "Never good to complicate things. As Gustave would say—the job is critical."

  "Look at me." His voice was hard enough to startle her, and she looked up. "I'm the sort of guy who'd die for a job well done. I have my own set of principles too, and I know what I'm paid for. But since I met you …since Cosa Imbah'i…"

  "Don't talk to me about Cosa Imbah'i!"

  "Peyton, you got me thinking that maybe there's more to things than the job."

  "I was just a job," she said, and though her voice was steady, her eyes flashed. "You said it yourself, you know what you're paid for, and you're still doing a great job getting me this far. Don't continue the play longer than it needs to be."

  "I'm not playing!"

  She snatched her hand from underneath his. "Don't think I'm stupid," she said. "I'm here till we're done, and then we're done. There's no need to mindfuck me, on top of everything else."

  "Last night…"

  "Last night was two people pretending they were someone else."

  Carson looked like he had been slapped. He turned to the window and ran his hand through his curls. For several long minutes only the sound of the train and the dim chatter of their carriage filled the space between them, the ambient noise of two people refusing to speak to each other.

  "Gustave still wants us to coordinate," said Carson.

  "Gustave can go choke on a dick."

  Carson bit his lip, trying not to smile. "I still need your help, you know. I don't know this takedown shit. I'm just the–"

  "The charm offensive, I know."

  He held the devices out to her again. "Please?"

  She pursed her lips and looked away.

  "For the sake of the job." His hand was warm against hers and stupidly reassuring; as corny as it sounded, it was like her skin yearned for his touch.

  She took one of the devices and fiddled with it. "Fine."

  The train pulled up in the busy Central Station. They stepped out, Carson gallantly carrying her overnight bag.

  "You hungry?"

  Peyton thought of the untouched meal on the train. "Sure."

  He led her across the street to an old building, where a café nestled within high arched windows, some diehard patrons braving the chill on the colorful outdoor tables.

  Inside a man beckoned Carson over to a dim table well away from the large windows. Peyton shot Carson a curious look, which he returned with a self-assured smile.

  "Carson," said the man. He was short, dark and shifty, with a ridiculously stiff mustache waxed so that the tips pointed upwards like Salvador Dali. He had a thin package on his lap, under the table, and his fingers twitched when he handed the leather envelope to Carson.

  "This it?"

  The man's eyes darted to Peyton.

  "She's with me."

  "It is," said the man. He had an Eastern European accent.

  "Do you want to see it?" Carson asked her.

  "Not here!" hissed the mustachioed man.

  "Ivor, Ivor," Carson shook his head. "Do you really think I'll take this sight unseen?"

  "Come on man," said Ivor, his voice taking on a reedy, whining quality. "You know my product; I'm quality, man."

  "That's what I'm afraid of," Carson smirked.

  "Is this the–?" asked Peyton, as Carson surreptitiously tore the wrapping under the table.

  Ivor looked like he was about to sweat bullets. "Carson, man, be careful, eh?"

  Peyton eyed the small man. "You jonesing, Ivor?"

  He flinched. "None of your business."

  Carson tutted. Half the package was now open on his lap; Peyton ducked her head and made out a violent abstract full of agitated reds and angry yellows. He ran a finger over the pigments, which seemed to have been applied with such force that the paint bunched up in some places. Ivor leaned over the table, darting eyes shifting from the painting to Carson's fingers to Peyton's face and at the nearly empty chairs around them like a particularly strung-out reptile.

  "See man?" Ivor whined. "Mid-century canvas. Period-specific paint. Not easy to come by. You see the strokes, man? That's skill, that is."

  "Who did it?" Carson murmured, squinting at the frame.

  "You know I can't tell you that."

  He raised an eyebrow. "We had a price point, Ivor."

  "You said we're selling to a dealer. They'd know."

  "Ivor…"

  The small man spasmed and tugged at his mustached. "Just a couple grand, Carson, you know how hard it is to put things together."

  "Bullshit," said Carson cheerfully. "I called this out two days ago, Ivor; if you didn't have this lying around looking for a rube to hack it off to then I'm a monkey's uncle."

  He tugged his mustache so hard Peyton worried he's pluck it right off. "Alright, alright man!" He spread his hands on the table and looked up at them with a junkie's most pitiful begging face. "Listen, what if I give you some information, man? You need a hook with that Rub
instein girl, don't you?"

  Carson slipped the painting back into the folder. "You holding out on me, Ivor? After all I do for you?"

  "Hey man, I just got this tip hot, yes? What if I tell you I know how you can meet the girl? Guaranteed."

  "Continue," said Carson.

  He cocked his head in a particularly lizardlike gesture. "Nothing in life is free, eh?"

  "What do you want?" said Peyton, covering one of his hands with her own and then twisting his pinky finger back so quickly he bit back a yelp, eyes watering in pain.

  "Peyton!" Carson scolded.

  "I'm getting a little tired of the back and forth, sirs," she said, giving the finger a little more pressure and causing Ivor to press his forehead on the table. "Clock is ticking. He's either shitting us or he can help; either way, he's wasting time."

  Carson gently pried her fingers off Ivor's. "There's no need for that." Ivor cradled his pinky and glared at her balefully. "But you heard the girl, Ivor. Time's a-ticking."

  "Fine. I want two grand, down. Then I speak."

  Carson peeled some bills off his money clip. "This is coming off our per diem, Peyton," he pouted.

  "I don't like eating cheap," she glared back at the mustached man. "You better talk and it better be worth it, sir, or I snap that clean off."

  So he talked.

  The Stedelijk was shaped like a giant kitchen sink and stuffed with people enjoying contemporary art on an improbable weekday. Peyton stood behind one of the bookshelves in the museum's large and airy bookshop, watching Carson browsing among hipster children's books (graphic design alphabets primers and artsy pop-ups), waiting for their mark. In her ear was the device: a combination mic and earphone, a flesh-colored button pressed into the canal, unobtrusive to only the most curious and intimate of inspectors.

  She hated it. Save for the required safe phone, Peyton preferred the clandestine, the analogue, the tactile. Roi sometimes called her Smiley after John le Carre's 70s spymaster—but it wasn't an endearment; rather an impatient shaming of her Luddite tendencies. She saw her old boss's white-blonde mustache once again, how it squirmed when he chewed and worked his lips (a surefire sign of annoyance), and an answering panic rose within her. She'd have hell to pay when this job was done, and she was sure that an impatient nickname would be the least of her worries when she returned to London.

  She pulled out a heavy art book and turned the pages absently. Nudes leapt out at her—angular and abstract and fleshy and hyperreal and some rather on the porn-y side. Scenes from Brussels flashed in her mind and she shut the book with a snap, her cheeks heating. Peyton was the farthest thing from a prude or a scrupulous Catholic schoolgirl (her 'upbringing' made sure of that), and she felt irritated at the heat in her cheeks. But the truth was that being with Carson, from the island where they met under false names (not that Carson had volunteered his own), to the night in Brussels that had brought out all their borrowed intimacy back to the surface, was something unlike she'd ever felt before. She was used to using sex for control, for leverage, and sometimes simply for release. But with Carson, it turned to–

  A flash of white blonde killed her train of thought. Anja Rubinstein entered the bookshop, her distinctive hair nearly luminous against the black of her coat. She browsed among the displays, looking ludicrous with her shades indoors.

  "Blondie's inside," Peyton murmured. Carson's head snapped up and scanned the room. Locked on his target, he crossed over to the displays. Peyton retreated into a shadowy corner behind a couple of shelves, the gaps between the volumes giving her a muddled view of Carson and Anja taking their seats by the sunny windows.

  "Miss Rubinstein," Carson said. She could hear the smile in his tone. Charm offensive indeed.

  "I am sorry," said Anja. "How did you find me again?" She sounded nervous, her voice shakier than when Peyton had overheard her in the Grand Amrath hotel. Peyton could make out the crossed arms protective in front of her coat.

  "A friend of a friend told me of a talented dealer."

  "A friend of a friend could be anyone," she answered. "Tell me, or I'll walk out this door."

  "Careful, are we?"

  "One needs to be, in this business." A thumb went to rub her lip. "The name."

  "Ivor Rasimoff of the Imperial Gallery."

  "Warsaw," she said quietly.

  "You get around?" Carson asked, his tone light.

  "Where the business takes me." She tried for nonchalance but failed miserably. Anja Rubinstein sounded like a breathy little girl, trying to get into a conversation with the grown-ups.

  "You're very pretty," said Carson, leaning in his seat, and Peyton rolled her eyes. "Did you ever model?"

  "Mr. Varis," she said, and Peyton heard a trace of a giggle. "I really don't have much time. Um. Can you tell me what it is you wanted to meet about?"

  "Call me Carson." He went and took one of her hands. Peyton would get a migraine from rolling her eyes too hard, if he kept this up. "That is, if I may call you Anja?"

  "You may." The little blonde trollop was smiling.

  "I assume you did your research on me?"

  "I did."

  His fingers stroked the back of her hand. "And what did you learn?"

  She giggled again. "It can't all be true, can it?"

  "Sadly, as you know, damaging reputations is really a poor way of handling competition, but many of our colleagues are not above it."

  She tilted her head and tucked her hair behind her ear, keeping her other hand underneath Carson's grasp.

  "Here's the deal," he continued. "I have a hot piece and a ready buyer. But I can't be involved."

  "One of those stories about you?" she asked shyly.

  Carson chuckled. "Less a story and more of a…hmm. Misunderstanding."

  "I got you," she smiled.

  "Offer a cut," said Peyton.

  Carson ran his hand through his curls. "Now all I need is someone who'll just put it together. Connect the piece to the buyer. That's all."

  Anja pulled her hand away and ran her thumb over her lips. "I don't know…"

  "You're a bright girl; people have been talking about you in our circles. I'm sure you can make your own decision."

  She began nibbling on her thumbnail. "Can you let me know the details?"

  "The piece is coming in from Warsaw. Ivor's got it. The buyer wants to keep it quiet so the interface will all be online. Anonymous. All the transactions are wired, too. No face time, no hard currency. Clean and quick."

  "And the fees?"

  "I take a five percent fixer's fee off the commission. The rest is yours."

  Peyton heard her gasp. "Just to put the buy together?"

  "Hey," said Carson. "I do this as a favor to Ivor. I'm in the area, I know there's someone who can help him out, I talk to you on his behalf. All it costs me is a conversation. Can't get too greedy over that."

  "Why didn't he talk to me himself?"

  Carson gave her a wry smile, and after a moment she smiled back. "Neither the buyer nor I trust Ivor. Would you?"

  "I want to see the piece."

  "Done," he said simply. She shot him a bewildered look, and he chuckled. "Dear me. What kind of dealer would you be if you didn't inspect it, right?"

  She continued chewing on her thumbnail. "I don't know. It sounds too good to be true."

  "You've quite the reputation. The O'Keefe sale—what a way to make a splash! Certainly you should not be surprised that business comes your way?"

  "But still–"

  Carson leaned back and spread his hands wide. "Don't get too comfortable," he laughed. "Deals like this, they come once in a blue moon. My advice is, grab it while the grabbing's hot. You'll not likely see something like this anytime soon."

  "Dangle the bait," murmured Peyton.

  "I mean, it's all up to you," said Carson. "But I need to know quick, because when I say this is a hot piece, I mean it's a hot piece. If you want to be careful, I understand, but I need to know now because I need to fi
nd someone else who can do it, if you can't."

  Peyton held her breath as Anja clutched her elbow and chewed nervously on her nail, the thumb nearly plugged inside her fleshy lips. Carson kept his gaze trained on the blonde.

  A troop of shrieking kids ran across the room, cutting Anja and Carson from Peyton's view. The pack of schoolchildren were giddy with the post-spring holiday high and spent quite some time laughing and generally being little idiots who blocked her view and scrambled her hearing. When they finally passed, Anja was leaning across the table and holding both Carson's hands in her own.

  "…I must, if only for him," she was saying earnestly.

  "Listen, Anja, the trouble that he's in, if there's anything I can do…?"

  "There's nothing," she said in her little girl voice, and the resignation in it tugged at Peyton. "I'll do this, Carson, but you have to promise me it'll be okay." She paused, the sunglasses halfway to her eyeline, staring beseechingly at him. "I need to be okay. For him. If something happens…"

  "It will…it will be okay…" Carson shifted his gaze from her face.

  "Then I'm in." She stood, replaced her sunglasses, and stalked out the door.

  Carson glanced at Peyton's way. "Not yet," she said. He gave a small nod and ambled off the opposite direction. After timing five minutes, she followed.

  They met by the brick exterior of the old part of the museum. Peyton found him leaning against the wall, hands jammed in his pockets, watching the pedestrian traffic.

  She popped out the earpiece and stowed it in her pocket. "That went well," she smiled brightly.

  He spared her a brief glance and shrugged.

  "What's with you?"

  He watched a family of incredibly tall Dutch laugh their way past—a blonde mother with a chubby pre-school girl in hand, a chuckling dad pushing a bike on which a small boy perched on the front wire basket. As their laughter echoed away, he shrugged. "I'm just tired. Next stop?"

  She glanced at her watch. "Anders Van Der Luyden."

  It seemed to take a superhuman effort for Carson to peel himself off the wall, and when he did, he had a sigh that was nearly petulant.

  "Are you sure you’re all right?" she stepped in front of him.