He sighed heavily. “I’m confused,” he said.
“Of course you are.” She smiled and put her hand on his. “Just remember that the key to it is your work on the project.”
Somehow, to hear about the project again cast a pall over his meeting with this lovely woman. He wouldn’t have thought that possible a minute ago.
“What’s wrong?” she asked. He wasn’t very good at veiling his emotions.
“Oh…” He shrugged. “All this talk about the project—not to mention my possible death—has taken the… well, the romance out of our meeting.”
“Romance?” She looked as though she didn’t understand what he was saying. “There’s nothing remotely romantic about any of this, Mr. Barton.”
He sighed again. “I guess there isn’t.”
He noticed a ring on the finger of her left hand, still lying on his. “Interesting,” he said to change the subject.
“Early Roman,” she said, an odd tone in her voice. Chris looked at its crest—a lettered square with two winged angels supporting it.
He looked up into her eyes. “Does Veering have anything to do with all this?”
“Who?”
Oh, God. He felt like groaning. “Veering,” he said.
“I don’t know the name.”
“A CIA man told me that he did.”
She looked blank.
“Nelson?” he asked. “CIA?”
“You must understand,” she told him. “Whatever happened to you before you arrived in England, we know nothing about it. Except for the basic situation, of course.”
He started to reply when Alexsandra abruptly looked past him, her features tightening.
“What is it?” he asked.
She looked back at him. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I thought I saw someone I knew.”
“Someone you aren’t crazy about, from the expression on your face,” he told her.
She smiled. “No, it was nothing.”
“Can we—?” He broke off as the theater lights began to dim. Oh, damn, he thought.
In the darkness, he felt her face draw close to his, smelled her perfume and the sweetness of her breath.
“We’ll talk about this during intermission,” she whispered.
“All right.” He nodded.
“In the meantime—”
“Yes?”
“Be prepared for anything,” she told him.
5
It was agony to sit beside her, watching the first act of the play. Well, not exactly watching, he thought. His eyes were facing the stage, but his concentration was on the seat to his right, on Alexsandra.
Was it possible she was as beautiful as he recalled? Already, doubts were creeping in. No woman could be that exquisite. And a spy as well? For God’s sake, where was the logic? This was Ian Fleming country, not Chris Barton’s.
He wanted to reach over and take her hand in his. Impossible, of course. Her tone had been critical when she’d told him there was nothing remotely romantic about all of this.
He closed his eyes. Why were they sitting here anyway? The contact had been made. Surely, the play was irrelevant now. Why didn’t they just leave and go somewhere to talk? Why wait for intermission?
Unless…
He felt a delicate chill on the nape of his neck. Had she lied to him? Was there someone watching them?
Was something bad about to happen again?
He twisted restlessly. It couldn’t be. Not again. There’d been too much. He couldn’t handle any more. He was suffering from overload.
Chris drew in a deep, tremulous breath and opened his eyes. He wanted to look at her again, verify her beauty, hell, her very presence. But Veering had done a job on him. He wasn’t able to look. What if he did and saw, instead of Alexsandra, an old lady with a shopping bag on her lap?
Modi was right. The tissue of reality seemed paper-thin right now. No assessment of reasonable percentages could account for all the things that had occurred to him since he had woken up in his office, planning to drive home and get some sleep. He might turn and see the seat completely empty and be faced with the probability that Alexsandra had been nothing more than a hallucination.
He had to know.
He turned his head. As he did, she turned hers and they exchanged a look. In the light from the stage, she looked more wonderful than ever.
She smiled at him. He hoped he smiled back but wasn’t sure he had the presence of mind.
Then he was looking toward the stage again. One thing, at least, was clear.
Alexsandra was real and he was already in love with her.
***
After the first-act curtain, he quickly turned to look at her again. Before he could say a word, she asked, “Would you buy me an ice cream, Chris?”
A double reaction hit him: her addressing him by his first name, and, in light of everything that was going on, the banality of her request for ice cream. He couldn’t help but snort in amusement.
“What?” she asked.
“Nothing.” He shook his head. “Where do I—?”
“Downstairs.”
“All right.” He pushed up. “I’ll be right back.”
“Good.”
He hated to walk away from her. He almost felt as though, in doing so, he’d rend the tissue and she’d be gone from his reality. Oh, this has been a dandy period of time, he thought. And would it ever end?
He made his way to the stairs and descended them, edged in toward a table where a woman was selling ice cream in cups. When he reached the table, he bought one and started back for the stairs, wondering what was going to happen after the play. A romantic tryst in her apartment? He doubted that. It wasn’t that she wasn’t friendly. But romance? It seemed removed from her bailiwick.
What was the next step in this bizarre adventure, then? In spite of his ongoing uneasiness, he was curious to know.
When he returned to the seats, Alexsandra was gone.
Oh, now, don’t get started, he ordered his mind. The lady has gone to the powder room, period.
He sat with the cup of ice cream in his hand, knowing that his brain would not be satisfied with such an obvious explanation. Not after what had been occurring since…
The powder room? Indeed. More likely she had left him. More likely she’d been grabbed, abducted. Maybe she’d been murdered. Shut up! He tried to still his mind.
More likely she had never existed in the first place.
He groaned. “Come back,” he murmured. This could only be resolved by her return.
When she didn’t come back, be began to think that it was more Veering-do.
He looked around uneasily. This wasn’t Veering. It was the project and the plot against him, whatever it was. Had she seen someone she knew and was she meeting with him or her at this very moment?
The question was (and he remembered vividly the look of dismay on her face when she’d glanced past him), was the person dangerous to her?
He looked down at the ice-cream cup. It would melt soon. Like my self-control, he thought.
He put the cup on the floor. Now what? he asked himself. Act Two of The Little Minister?
“No way,” he muttered. If she wasn’t back by the curtain, he was out of here.
When the lights began to dim, he stood quickly, moved into the aisle and started for the lobby; he had no intention of getting further involved in Barrie’s machinations.
He took the precaution of going downstairs again to ask the woman at the ice cream table (who was just cleaning up) to check the ladies’ lounge and see if Alexsandra (no, sorry, he didn’t know her last name) was in there. He knew the answer before the woman came out, gesturing negatively. “Thank you,” he murmured and turned back toward the stairs.
As he crossed the lobby, his imagination, intent on mischief, saw multiple threats waiting outside for him: four toughs armed with steel bars; Meehan with an Uzi; Nelson’s or Basy’s ghost, hovering above the sidewalk; Veering smiling at him wickedly, chortling, “So. We
meet again, Dr. Barton.”
There was no one waiting outside. He shivered as he stepped into the cold wind. Jesus, what a comedown, he thought. The evening had started off with a meeting with the most exquisite woman he had ever seen. Was it going to end now with a cab ride back to the hotel and an hour or so of telly-viewing before he slept? That wasn’t very—
The roar of the engine behind him was so unexpected that he jumped in shock. Twisting around, he saw a Jaguar coupe zoom over to the curb, the squeal of its sliding tires making him wince. The driver on the right leaned over so quickly to fling open the door, he couldn’t make out who it was.
Then the figure straightened up and he caught his breath. It was Alexsandra, a look of alarm on her face. “Get in!” she cried.
For a moment, he was frozen, staring at her. Then his head jerked to the right as a movement down the block caught his eye—a long, black car picking up speed, headed straight for the Jaguar. “Get in!” Alexsandra shouted.
Chris lurched toward the car and flung himself inside. Before he had a chance to close the door, the Jaguar was accelerating from the curb, engine howling. “Jesus!” he cried. Reaching out, he grabbed at the handle and pulled the door shut, looking quickly at Alexsandra. Her face was tight with concentration as she slammed the gearshift around its box, clutching rapidly, increasing the Jaguar’s speed as quickly as she could. Chris’s gaze jumped to the speedometer; the needle was already almost to sixty. Jesus Christ, he thought.
He twisted around to look out through the back window.
“They’re behind us,” she told him.
He looked back at her. She was still exquisite but the grim expression on her face undid the beauty. She might have been a hardened race-car driver the way she drove, her right hand and feet a blur as she shifted gears with incredible speed, the Jaguar shooting down the street, the sound of its engine like the snarling of a huge cat.
Reaching the end of the block, Alexsandra downshifted suddenly and cornered with amazing skill; he tried to stay erect but found himself unable to as centrifugal force pushed him toward her. “Buckle up,” she snapped, startling him with the coldness of her tone. Without a word, he reached across his shoulder for the harness as the Jaguar picked up speed, shooting around a car in its path. He’d never been driven so fast in his life. Another first, he thought numbly, looking across his shoulder again in time to see the headlights of the black car as it sped around the corner, yawed temporarily, then came straight-on once again.
“Who is it?” he asked, sounding breathless.
Alexsandra didn’t answer. Looking back at her, he saw that she had time only for driving, her lips pressed hard in a red gash, her unblinking eyes focused on the street ahead as the Jaguar bulleted along, steering rapidly around one car after another. My God, it’s Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride, he thought, uncertain as to whether he was turned on or terrified.
Where are the police? he wondered as she downshifted at the next street, cornering with astounding speed again. What kept the car from skidding? he wondered in awe. It was like a crazy dream: the sporadic roar and howl of the engine; the shifting of his body as she needled through the traffic at high speed; the flash of lights in his eyes; her beside him, driving like a madwoman; the car behind them, pursuing. He closed his eyes for several moments. Is this really happening?
He swallowed hard; his throat felt parched. “There was somebody in the theater then,” he tried again.
She didn’t answer.
“Alexsandra?” he asked.
“Yes! Yes!” she cried, her sharp tone making him wince. She muttered something to herself he couldn’t really hear; it sounded like, “But how?” She floored the gas pedal and the Jaguar shot along an empty stretch, opening its lead over the black car. Chris clutched out at the dashboard for support as she braked and downshifted blurringly, making a right turn at the next corner.
“Won’t the police—?” he started.
“Don’t count on it,” she cut him off. He grimaced, teeth bared, looking at her. In the dashboard glow, he saw how tense she looked and felt a chill envelope him. My God, she’s terrified, he thought. The realization stunned him.
The black car chasing them was death.
Another corner, a screech of tires; Alexsandra’s right hand was slamming at the gearshift, her left foot jarring in and out at the clutch, her right foot flooring the gas pedal again, the Jaguar leaping forward with a maddened engine-howl.
They almost hit a taxi pulling out of an alley; only Alexsandra’s instantaneous jerking of the steering wheel prevented it. The taxi driver honked in rage. “Sorry, mate,” she muttered.
Chris looked back and saw the taxi jarring to a front-dipping stop as the black car sped around it. Now he’s really pissed, he thought.
At the next corner, Alexsandra turned right. He saw her look into the rearview mirror and twisted around again. The black car hadn’t made the corner yet. Abruptly, she turned left into a narrow alley. Chris hissed involuntarily, positive that she was going to hit the building wall to her right; in fact, he thought he heard the rasping of its fenders on the brick.
He realized then that she had done it calculatedly, knowing that the larger black car would have a hard time making it through the narrow alley. His fingers whitely gripped the dashboard as the Jaguar shot along the alley, the wall on each side seeming no more than a few inches away from the car. Despite this, Alexsandra kept the gas pedal nearly floored. He didn’t want to know how fast they were going but his eyes swung frantically to the speedometer anyway. Eighty-two. Oh, God, he thought, we’re doomed. The walls of the dark alley were flying by so fast it was as though they were hurtling through a tunnel.
Then, abruptly, it was over. Reaching the next street, she shrieked into a right turn, and skidded to the left, adjusting with frantic but skilled precision until she had the Jaguar under control again.
Suddenly, she turned to the right again and Chris gasped, thinking she had cracked and was steering into a building. He closed his eyes, hunching his shoulders for the impact, then felt the car sharply nose down and he opened his eyes again. The Jaguar was shooting down an inclined driveway to an underground garage.
Alexsandra braked and made a sharp left turn, then braked again and turned in sharply for the wall.
The car stopped hard, throwing him forward until the harness caught him. Alexsandra’s hand snapped forward and in a single movement, switched off the engine and the lights.
They sat in silent blackness, breathing hard. Then both were mutely rigid as, out in the street, they heard the black car speed by, the sound of its motor fading off in moments.
“What—?” he started.
“Shh,” she said.
He looked at where she was sitting but couldn’t even make out her silhouette, it was so dark. Seconds went by.
“Right,” she said then.
Turning on the engine and headlights, she backed up fast, turning; she braked, accelerated to the driveway, then quickly drove up it, slowing to a crawl before she reached the street. She nosed the Jaguar out, eyes searching down the block.
“Right,” she said again and throwing the transmission into first, made a fast left turn and accelerated up the block.
“Why are you—?”
“They’ll be back to check,” she cut him off again.
She turned left at the corner, then right down another alley two blocks down, and pulled into a covered parking slot behind a building, switching off the lights and engine once again. “This should be all right,” she said. She drew in a long, rasping breath and held it in, then released it slowly. “God,” she said.
“Who was in that car?” he asked, appalled by the thinness of his voice.
“No one you’d want to meet,” she said.
“Alexsandra.” His voice was stronger now, demanding.
“I don’t know who they are,” she said. “I only know they want you.”
He was going to ask “For what?” then didn’t have to.
Clearly, what they wanted was what he had collected in his brainpan.
He made a faint scoffing sound. “Little do they know how jumbled it all is,” he said.
“What is?” she asked.
“The contents of my brain; I presume that’s what they want,” he answered coolly, put off by her distant behavior.
“That’s what they want all right,” she agreed. “The contents of your brain are certainly in big demand. What in God’s name do you have in there?”
She cut him off before he could reply. “Never mind, it’s not my place to know.” She drew in another heavy breath. “The less I know, the better.”
They sat in silence for a few moments. Then, trying to ease the tension between them, Chris said, “What are you, a race driver?”
She laughed softly. “Just my training,” she answered.
“Are you… a spy?” he asked.
Another soft laugh. “Too dramatic a description,” she told him. “I work for the government.”
A government agent, he thought. It was that kind of story: Le Carre, Fleming, Follett, et al.
As he pondered, all the tension that had gripped him during the chase suddenly relaxed and he was super-conscious of her by his side: he could smell the delicate aroma of her perfume; see, in his mind’s eye, her magnificent face. In spy novels, men and women kissed at moments like this, after emergencies had been dealt with.
“Alexsandra?”
“Yes?” she said.
He leaned over to kiss her.
As he did, she turned to look out the window and he bumped his nose on the back of her head. “Ow,” he muttered.
She turned back. “Was that you?” she asked.
He rubbed his nose, feeling like an idiot. Some romantic moment, that.
“You all right?” she asked.
“Yeah, sure.”
“What did you do?”
He sighed. “I tried, totally ineptly, to kiss you,” he said in disgust.
“Oh.” Was that a stifled laugh? No doubt, he thought.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
Leaning over, she put a hand on each of his cheeks and planted a gentle kiss on his nose. “There,” she said.
“Thanks,” he mumbled. He felt absurd.
7 Steps to Midnight Page 13