Hidden Steel

by Doranna Durgin

  His eyes narrowed, as though it meant something to him. “Irhaddan,” he said, making it a question. Word association.

  “Big mean guys.” Nothing new there.

  “Foreign.”

  “Embassy.” Well, obvious enough to anyone who lived near San Francisco, which housed a number of embassies; the society pages were always listing one event or another … “Antiques,” she added slowly.

  “Foreign antiques?” He shook his head, letting it pass. “Gun.”

  “SIG P22 … 6.” Dismayed, she barely spoke the last number. She had a gun. She must have a gun.

  He didn’t give her any time to think about it. “Antiques.”

  That brightened her. “Champagne!”

  He snorted. “You … you’re one of a kind, Mickey Finn.”

  But her grin barely made it to her face, replaced by a big fat lump in her throat. “Alone,” she whispered, keeping up the game. “Champagne and silk and indescribably good food and … a cat.”

  “Station.”

  “Chief,” she said, and made a face at him. “What kind of sense …?”

  He didn’t answer directly. “Dead.”

  “Drop.” Sturdy shelves divided into niches and half-finished pottery projects, brick wall looming high behind them, diffuse light of a cavernous room, carefree laughter … “Pottery?” She let herself flop backward, legs still crossed, and barely missed the headboard. “This is pointless.”

  “I’m not so sure.” And his words sounded so careful that Mickey raised her head to look at him and then tried to sit up, but the bed wasn’t firm enough and she only floundered.

  Steve took her hand and pulled her upright, and there she was, ruffled and frustrated and knee to knee with him. He looked down at their hands and put hers on the bed, releasing it to give his own hand a puzzled kind of glance. And then he said, “I lived with a paranoid schizophrenic when I was growing up. I spent a lot of time hanging with him on the street … hanging with him in clinics and hospitals. There were your average number of tin foil hats, alien abduction concerns, and the governmentally persecuted. I did my share of reading … it was a kind of self-defense, you know?”

  “Reading,” she repeated blankly.

  “Sure. I figured if the topic of conversation was going to be government conspiracies, I’d damned well have something to talk about. It was a while ago, but not so long that your words don’t mean anything to me. Station chief. That’s CIA. Dead drop—standard spy stuff. Foreign embassies—your basic spy breeding grounds.”

  Mickey groaned. “So not the innocent victim.” She flopped back again.

  This time he didn’t hesitate; he pulled her upright, and didn’t let go of her hand. “That doesn’t mean you’re guilty, either. You really think you’re part of the problem? Why not that you’re trying to solve the problem?”

  She pulled her hand free and covered her face—pure cowardly retreat. “Because,” she said, and her voice barely made it to the audible range, “it would be so awful if I was wrong.”

  And again he captured her hands, pulling them away from her face to cup them in his as he leaned close. “Okay, then,” he said, startling her with his intensity. “I’ll just have to hope for the both of us.”

  “But—”

  “Just this once,” he told her, fiercely enough so she wondered which of them he was trying to convince. “Just one more time.”

  * * * * *

  Mickey woke in a strange arrangement of arms and bedcovers, pillow optional. She took a deep, slow breath, not surprised to find herself surrounded by the scent of a certain Greek self-defense instructor. On top of the covers, but he’d flipped the bedspread back over her so she both slept on it and slept under it. Under her cheek, his arm gave an involuntary twitch.

  Sunlight streamed through the carelessly closed curtains; a squint at the hotel alarm clock told her they’d slept well into the morning. Through the room’s door, she heard the sound of a vacuum, a brusque knock on a nearby door. “Housekeeping!”

  Oh, please. Just a few more moments. Not being chased, not trying to remember …not being alone. Just being with this intense, caring man who’d seen so many unhappy endings and yet who still thought he could carry her through this.

  He had no idea what he’d gotten into. How could he? Mickey didn’t.

  But she was beginning to suspect.

  Just a few more moments …

  Steve took a sudden deep breath, a waking breath. He stiffened—that moment of realization. Mickey smiled into his arm and said in a low voice, “Oh my God! I’ve woken up in a strange bed with some woman! I don’t even know her name!”

  He relaxed, his laugh nothing more than a gust of warm air on her neck. “That’s okay,” he told her, his voice morning rough. “She doesn’t know it, either.”

  She rolled away from him and off the bed, rueful to leave the nest he’d made for her. But this wasn’t a day she could wait for … this was a day she had to go out and chase down. “Dibs on the shower,” she said, stretching mightily. She turned, not surprised to find him watching, and affected great shock. “Good God,” she said. “All that beard overnight?”

  He gathered his dignity. “Most of it was there last night. You just didn’t notice.”

  “Mostly we were moving too fast,” she agreed. “You want the bathroom before I declare it off-limits, you’d better hurry.”

  He took her seriously enough, and vacated the bed. She put the Do Not Disturb sign on the door and plunged into the bathroom as soon as he left the door open for her, peeling off her shirt and underwear and deciding to wash them right along with her. With luck, she could recover her things from hotel fleabag, but until then she’d get clean when she had the chance. A quick scrub with overly floral hotel soap and shampoo, and she dug out the toothpaste from the compact kit Steve had left in the bathroom, scrubbing it over her teeth with the corner of a washcloth. Putting her wet clothes back on rated right up there with puddles of dead worms after rain, but at least the pants were dry.

  Steve knocked on the door even as she attempted to finger comb her straight hair into something styled; the image regarding her in the mirror wasn’t quite right. Cut-rate clothes, top-rate haircut.

  Tendrils of hair against her neck, the slight tug of an up-do against her scalp, champagne sharp on her tongue …

  “You have any scissors?” she asked, still staring at herself. Bright eyes… too bright. Too memorable. She needed shaded lenses or sunglasses.

  “If you’re decent, open up. I got you a touristy t-shirt to put on. That outfit of yours is a little … eye-catching.”

  Great minds think alike, she decided. Time to tone down the amnesiac so the amnesiac could go hunting. She opened the door. “Scissors?”

  He handed her a heather grey shirt with a colorful sun logo and San Jose in a fanciful font. “Cuticle scissors, I think,” he said, his expression full of doubt.

  “They’ll do,” Mickey told him.

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  Chapter 13

  “I can’t believe you did that.” Steve looked at Mickey, looked at the mess of hair in the sink, looked back to the cuticle-scissor hack-job on Mickey’s caramel brown hair.

  “Hey,” she said airily. “I left enough to trim into something decent when this is all done. And it’s not that bad. It’s just not what it was.”

  “It’s not what it was,” he agreed, and had to grin at her. It wasn’t so bad at that … and he couldn’t help but appreciate that she’d simply done what needed to be done. “Suppose I should grow a beard?”

  She snorted. “That’ll take what … another two days at most?” She pulled the T-shirt he’d brought right on over the obviously wet stretchy sports top, much to his relief.

  With dignity, he said, “It takes at least three days.”

  “Well, never mind then.” She rinsed out the sink and vacated the bathroom, gesturing that it was all his.

  He closed the door, had a sudden thought, and popped bac
k out again. She looked back at him in surprise, and he said, “Promise you won’t take off. Promise I won’t find myself alone in this room when I come back out.”

  Only the faintest flicker of annoyance crossed her face. Yeah, she’d been thinking about it … but she wasn’t going to make a big deal of it. “I suppose if I don’t promise, then you’re not going to take a shower.”

  He smiled most meaningfully.

  She flopped back on her bed. The one she hadn’t slept in. He took it as surrender and returned to the bathroom.

  Didn’t mean he didn’t make it quick. Or that he didn’t nick himself three times with the haste of his shaving. When he turned the water off he could tell the television was on, but didn’t find it reassuring. In a sudden surge of concern, he yanked the bathroom door open—

  To the sight of Mickey dancing on the bed in cheerleader fashion, singing lyrics that included her own name. That old Hey Mickey song.

  He sagged against the door in relief.

  Then he retreated back into the bathroom. He combed his hair, dutifully patient with the tangled curls, and he gave it a part that would hold for about five minutes. Then he fumbled loudly with the doorknob, and emerged to find Mickey sitting in the chair in the corner, slightly flushed but completely relaxed, swinging her foot. “Hey,” she said, and turned the television off with a click of the remote. “Guilty pleasure movie. Bring It On. You know it?”

  He gave a single, baffled shake of his head, and moved to his backpack—stuffing what little he’d taken out right back in. Mickey reached for the thick phone book she’d left on the table and began flipping through yellow pages. By the time Steve made it over there to look over her shoulder, she’d found the pottery listings. She glanced back at him, smiled, and said, “Wherever it is … there’s a lot of pottery.”

  “Not someone’s basement?”

  “Not unless they live in the Batcave. Huge. Reminds me more of your place than anything.”

  “Pottery Co-Op,” he said instantly, not even thinking about the words. She was already flipping to the suggested alternate listing of Ceramic Arts, and there it was, big as life—under the Schools subheading. Pottery Co-Op. Not San Jose, but Palo Alto. “They get a lot of students there.”

  “You dated someone,” she guessed, stretching to reach for the hotel guest information book.

  Steve nudged it closer. “I did,” he said. “Once upon a time. Looking for breakfast?”

  “Gonna grab breakfast on the way. Looking for public transportation. VTA mean anything to you? How about Caltrain?” She shook her head at herself. “I guess I really do live around here. God, I hope someone’s feeding that cat.”

  He ignored the last, not having any words of comfort or wisdom to offer even if he assumed she’d remembered something about a cat. “VTA does connect with Caltrain to reach Palo Alto. But wouldn’t you rather hitch a ride?”

  She snorted. “That’s all I need, get myself into a bad situation hitching along the freeway. Then I’d—” She looked up at him, quite suddenly. “You have a car?”

  He only smiled.

  * * * * *

  Mickey liked motorcycles, she discovered. It didn’t feel familiar, hugged up behind Steve with a helmet encasing her head and occasionally knocking up against his. But she liked it. She wrapped her arms around his stomach and enjoyed the play of muscles as he maneuvered them through the streets and onto the Bayshore Freeway.

  She tried to avoid the bruises.

  The bike was a practical street bike, a lightweight Suzuki that took neat turns; Steve maneuvered it with casual skill. He’d had it stashed at a friend’s near the gym, and a quick taxi ride got them there. They stopped by Mickey’s fleabag hotel of choice and grabbed her modest grocery-bag luggage now stashed in the bike’s saddlebags; she wore Steve’s backpack.

  All neat and tidy, packed together on the bike. Tooling north on the Bayshore Freeway, heading for Palo Alto.

  Why not San Francisco beyond? Why not south, to Yuma and Arizona, and into the dramatic geography of northern Arizona and Utah?

  Why not anywhere?

  It would be so easy.

  It would solve so many problems.

  At least until the day when she finally remembered everything, and understood anew the consequences of her flight.

  A man had already died. Naia, daughter of Irhaddan’s president, stood in harm’s way.

  So no, there’d be no riding right past Palo Alto; no turning around to head south. Not even if Steve would have done it.

  He wouldn’t have.

  “Hey,” he said, turning to look at her as they idled at a stop light at the end of their exit. His body twisted under her hands. “You okay?”

  “Fine,” she told him, wondering how did he—? And then she realized how tightly she’d been gripping him—over those bruises no less—and forced herself to relax. “Sorry.”

  But she didn’t stay relaxed. As they headed down the Oregon Expressway and then on Alma Street toward the Caltrain station, her anxiety only became more intense. Inexplicable, but not to be rationalized away—or ignored. Finally Steve pulled over to the curb, putting his foot down to balance them. “Mickey,” he said. “I can’t drive this way.” But when he turned to her, his faint annoyance dropped away, replaced by concern. “You’re as pale as a ghost! Look, Bowden Park is right here—we can take a minute—Mickey?”

  But Mickey found herself swamped in sensation. Dread sat uneasily in her stomach; anticipation skittered along her spine and made her skin tingle. The same fear that made her fingers clench around Steve’s sore ribs turned her knees into Jello. And just as he looked at her even more sharply, as he turned the handlebars to take them to the park, she made herself say, “No. We’re in the right place. That’s what all this means.” Inexplicably breathless, she forced every bit of strength into her voice to say, “Let’s go.”

  * * * * *

  Naia met her opposition at the door of her apartment: Badra, and the often-present Fadil Hisami.

  This time, the often-present Fadil Hisami looked somewhat battered; he walked with a limp. But he was no less imposing for it.

  In fact, Naia took one look at his face, at Badra’s face, and knew that something had changed. She felt it as a certainty deep within, as though there wasn’t actually anything to think about at all. No decisions to make, because they were already made.

  So very similar to the evening she’d realized she’d truly made her choice to work with Anna.

  She’d been in Irhaddan for spring break … surrounded by the welcoming familiarities of home. The arid climate honed scents into whisper-thin blades of sensation, bringing out the spice oils, the fragrance of the gardens both inside and outside their home. A veritable palace of a home it was, with airy hallways and dark, rounded shadows. Mosaics ran along the top of the walls and down the corners, work that had much influence on her own pottery. Cunningly concealed fans kept the air moving, fresh against her face.

  The evening’s reception had been held in Naia’s honor—a celebration of her visit, and an invitation for all those heads of state, sons of the long-wealthy, and male cousins of politicos to express their interest in and admiration of the president’s daughter.

  Of course, circumstances required that she go veiled, even here in her own home. They required that she stare modestly at the hands folded in her lap while her educational accomplishments were feted. She’d had to compose a poem—her father read it, considering himself quite the orator—and she’d stuck to safe subjects, as instructed. Devotion to family, love of country, desire to please.

  It had been easier than expected, to write such a poem. She forced herself to look deeply, to write from the heart. To write true.

  She discovered that all the things Anna had seen in her, had admired in her, were truly there. She relearned how she loved this place; she understood how much she wanted to support her father. And she understood all over again that her opportunities to do so publicly were limited in the ex
treme.

  She’d been glad when the reception divided, sending the women to the room set aside for them while the men stuffed pipes with their rankest tobacco and puffed themselves into a nicotine haze. It hadn’t been hard to wander away from the women. She could hear the musicians strike up light background music—the jingle of the daff, the reedy tones of the mizwiz, and the nimbly plucked strings of the qanun.

  She went the other way. Into the darker, closer hallways, where offices and studies sprouted. It was a man’s domain, to be sure …but not off limits to the women who lived here, especially on this night when the men were otherwise occupied.

  It was a good place to think of loyalty to one’s country … and exactly what that might mean.

  Anna said that a woman had to work how she could. If she didn’t have a man to work through—and she lived in a culture where that was the norm—then she had to find other ways. Ways that felt right even though they might seem to obscure motivation.

  She’d said that if Naia’s father wouldn’t listen to her, then perhaps the enemies of her father’s enemies would. That such a route of action would weaken her father’s enemies just the same.

  She entered her father’s study. This wasn’t his public study, the place where papers were signed and visiting dignitaries were greeted. This was his private place. It held his beloved maps—tubes and sheaves and wall-hangings everywhere—and it held the most discreet of advisory meetings. Here he scribbled out his forming thoughts; here he kept his secrets. It smelled of his favorite spice and had wood furnishings, wood wainscoting—all rich southern hardwoods that gleamed in a deep shade just shy of purple.

  Since her conversations with Anna, Naia had become more interested in this room—in the manner of thoughts that passed through her father’s head while he worked here. She’d gone ahead with the dead-drop dry run only the week before, but she still wasn’t sure she’d ever fill that space with anything of significance—with anything she learned here at home.