1 3 7 – ZOË

by C. De Melo

“You are Zoë Adams,” he said in a rich, exotic accent that was an unmistakable mix of British and Arabic.

  I stopped fumbling with the keys and faced him. I suddenly realized that it was the same mysterious, dark-eyed man who had attended the Christmas party. He reminded me of an old painting I’d once seen in a history book; a handsome sheik in sumptuous robes amidst a harem full of pretty women. As he stood there staring at me, I began to feel apprehensive.

  “May I help you?” I asked, trying to sound authoritative. For some reason, I didn’t like this man (despite his good looks and incredible fashion sense).

  “Forgive me, Mrs. Adams, I didn’t mean to frighten you. I just thought I’d save us both the time of having to go through the whole security thing again.”

  “Again?”

  He walked towards me slowly and confidently, stopping a couple of feet from where I stood. An image of a black panther stalking its prey popped into my head and I frowned slightly. His designer fragrance had been applied with a heavy hand and permeated the air around us.

  “Yes,” he said. “I have already provided my information and my vehicle license plate on the night of your wonderful Christmas party.” He paused. “I saw you, but I did not have the pleasure of meeting you that night.”

  I didn’t know what to say. I felt my cheeks burn under his gaze.

  After a moment, he said, “I don’t mean to be rude, Mrs. Adams. Where are my manners? Forgive me for staring. It’s not every day that one comes face to face with a cryo-person. My name is Joseph Greeling and I am here to see your husband. I have come all the way from London to negotiate a business deal with him.”

  I knew better than to ask what kind of business deal. “Oh, yes, of course. I’ve heard Michael mention your name once or twice,” I said with a little nervous laugh as I extended my hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Greeling.”

  He hesitated for a fraction of a second before politely shaking my hand. “The pleasure is mine,” he assured, his full lips curving into a smile.

  “Won’t you come in?” I asked, retrieving my hand. “I believe Michael is in his office- he’s usually in there working whenever he’s home.”

  He took a step closer. “Just a moment, if you don’t mind, Mrs. Adams.”

  “Yes?”

  “Please, if I may ask-”

  “How does it feel to come back after being dead for twenty years?” I said, cutting him off. He looked embarrassed before nodding his head and murmuring an apology. “No need to apologize, Mr. Greeling. I get asked that question often. It feels strange, very strange…as if life has passed you by and you can never catch up with it no matter how hard you try.”

  He nodded quietly, pensively. “If I may say, Mrs. Adams, I think you are incredible. Your interview article in Time magazine impressed me very much, and I feel honored to be here speaking with you today.”

  “I appreciate that, Mr. Greeling.”

  The front door suddenly opened and Michael stepped outside with a smile. It vanished from his face immediately when he saw Joseph Greeling. Both men stared at each other in silence for several seconds. There was palpable tension in the air.

  “I’ve been expecting you,” Michael said at last before tossing a nervous glance in my direction.

  “I snuck in behind your wife’s car when she went through the gates. I didn’t think you’d mind if I bypassed security,” Greeling said amiably.

  Michael’s mouth became a hard, grim line. I took it as my cue to leave.

  “I’ll leave you two gentlemen to your business,” I said, trying to smooth over the awkwardness. “It was nice to meet you, Mr. Greeling.”

  Greeling grinned like the Cheshire Cat. “I assure you, the pleasure was all mine, Mrs. Adams.”

  I turned to Michael. “I’ll be in my studio.”

  Without waiting for him to reply, I walked quickly into the house and ducked into the kitchen. Hiding behind the massive refrigerator, I held my breath and stood perfectly still. I wanted Michael to believe that I had gone straight to my studio. As he led Mr. Greeling through the living room and into his office, I heard him say, ‘I told you never to come to my house again.’

  Silently, I tiptoed into my studio and didn’t come out until I heard the front door close twenty minutes later. The Porsche was gone, which meant Greeling had left the house. I ventured into Michael’s office and found him pouring over a tablet.

  “Michael?”

  He looked up with a startled expression and immediately closed the page he was reading. “Zoë, I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  He seemed irritated. “What is it?”

  “Nothing…I just wanted to know if you felt like going out for dinner tonight. I was thinking about giving Juana and Maria the night off.”

  He let out a long breath and shook his head. “Not tonight, princess. I have way too much work to do. Why don’t you call your sister?”

  I had obviously interrupted something important. “You look troubled. I hope everything is okay,” I said, hoping to bait him into telling me what was going on.

  “Everything is fine, princess.”

  For some reason, I knew he wasn’t telling me the truth. “I’ll leave you to your work, then. Sorry for bothering you.”

  “No problem. We’ll do dinner another night. I promise,” he said with a forced smile.

  I nodded and walked out, closing the door behind me. I barely made it to the end of the corridor when I heard the door lock click from inside.

  Later that night, I woke up with a start. I felt several hands beneath me. As the hands lifted me from my bed, I gazed out the window. The moon was bleeding and I began to cry. The hands carried me down the dark hallway and up the steps that led to the attic. I wanted to scream but I could not. I saw the trunk glowing under the moonlight that poured from the window. The lid lifted of its own accord with a loud sigh. I tried to free myself and the hands tightened their grips. I was powerless as they carried me forward against my will. When I was directly in front of the trunk, I looked inside and saw nothing but blackness. The hands suddenly lifted me up and tossed me into the trunk. The lid closed with a sickening thud, locking me inside. I screamed as loudly as I could.

  “Zoë! Are you all right?”

  I was drenched in sweat and felt nauseous. I heard the tap being turned on in the bathroom. Michael came to the bedside and held out a glass of water. I took the glass with shaking hands, bringing the rim to my lips.

  “Bad dream?” he asked, sitting on the edge of the bed and placing an errant strand of hair behind my ear. I nodded. He kissed my forehead. “I could hear you from inside my office.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Do you want me to stay with you for a little bit?”

  I shook my head. “I’m fine, really.”

  “Want some tea?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Okay, princess. I have to finish up a few things. Goodnight.”

  He left and closed the door. I reached for my dream journal and pen, and began to write down the details of the bizarre dream. I couldn’t sleep for many hours afterward.

  ***

  Two days later, Michael announced that he had to go away on business. We were having breakfast and I could hear birds singing outside.

  “For how long?” I asked while pouring out a cup of coffee.

  He buttered his toast. “A few nights.”

  “Can I go?”

  He looked at me the way a father looks at a child before declining a request. “I wish I could take you with me, princess, but I can’t.”

  “Are you at least going to tell me where you’re going? Or is that a secret, too?”

  “London.”

  “Does this have to do with Mr. Greeling’s visit yesterday?”

  “Yes and no,” he replied cryptically. I was about to ask another question, but he held up his hand to silence me. “Zoë, please. You know the nature of business and politics.
I can’t always divulge my affairs and this is one of those times.”

  “Okay,” I said, defeated. “When are you leaving?”

  “Today.”

  Michael left after finishing his coffee, but not before kissing me in the doorway and promising to take me out for a ‘nice dinner’ when he returned from his trip.

  Chapter Eight

  Rio de Janeiro, Brazil

  “She saved us a step, didn’t she?” Colin Brady asked.

  Lance nodded to the man seated across from him. The fiery sun was making its descent. Long, violet shadows crept across the tables of the outdoor café. The owner had already turned on the strands of tiny colored lights that wound around the wooden posts holding up the tin roof. It made the café look merry despite its shabbiness.

  “The United States government should send her a check for services rendered,” Brady said.

  “Yes, they should,” Lance agreed.

  “So you’re back in your brother’s good graces thanks to Zoë.”

  “Thanks to Zoë,” Lance repeated.

  “Damn, it’s hot,” Brady said as he swatted a mosquito that had landed on his tattooed bicep.

  Since Brazil was below the equator, the seasons were reversed. February was smack in the middle of summer.

  “Boa noite,” the young waiter said.

  Lance glanced up at the brown-faced boy, who looked to be about fifteen years old. “Um café, por favor.”

  “Oh, come on, Adams! Loosen up,” Brady said. Turning to the boy, he added, “Duas caipirinhas.”

  “Sim, senhor,” the boy said before scurrying away to get the order.

  “Fortes,” Brady called out after the waiter.

  Lance sat back in his chair and watched as his companion lit a cigarette. Brady was a tough son of a bitch with a hard face, steely eyes and a severe military crew cut. At age forty-eight, his muscular frame rivaled the bodies of weightlifters half his age. After twenty years of service in the Marines, he now headed a powerful CIA team- the same team that had been investigating his brother, Michael, for the last four years. The U.S. government was currently keeping an eye on Z-Lab Industries due to a lot of recent activity. Since Z-Labs were scattered throughout the Americas, there were two headquarters: one in Washington D.C. for North America, and one in Rio de Janeiro for South America.

  “Have you found anything yet?” Lance asked.

  Brady took a deep drag of his cigarette. “Not yet. Look, Adams, your brother is a master at covering his tracks. I’ve never known anyone as careful as he is, but you know what? They all fuck up eventually…even the pros. And it’s just a matter of time before Michael fucks up, too.”

  The young waiter came out with two glasses filled with cachaça, (Brazilian rum) mixed with a bit of cane sugar, plenty of lime and crushed ice.

  “God, these are good,” Brady said, holding up the glass.

  Lance took a sip of the potent drink. “Addictive is more like it.”

  Brady gulped some down and smacked his lips. “So you believe Zoë knows nothing.”

  “Not a thing,” Lance assured. “Look, I don’t want her involved in any of this. She’s been through a lot lately.”

  “What does your brother tell her? I mean, doesn’t she wonder where the money comes from? Or why he’s always taking off without telling her where he’s going? Judging by what you’ve told me about her, she’s not stupid.”

  “She knows Michael is heavily involved in politics and finance. She also knows he owns ALTSYS and Z-Lab Industries. I told her the cure for the Pod virus was discovered in Z-Lab, nothing more.”

  “You’ve always been straight up with us so I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. My team hasn’t found anything on her- yet. For now, we believe she’s clean.” He stopped to take a drag of his cigarette. “But if we find out she’s involved in these shenanigans, I’m not showing any mercy. We’ve come too far to compromise anything. Understand?”

  “For God’s sake, Brady, she’s been dead for almost twenty years,” Lance reminded him. “How the hell can she possibly be involved in anything?”

  Brady blew smoke out through his nostrils and took a sip of his drink. “That’s got to be strange. I mean, can you imagine just waking up one day and poof- it’s twenty years later?”

  Lance’s face was serious. “No, I can’t.”

  Brady shook his head. “Poor kid. She must feel like a freak.”

  Lance eyed Brady steadily. “Is there anything else or are we done here?”

  “We’re done, Adams. Thanks for your help.”

  Lance downed the remainder of his drink and stood to go. “Don’t mention it.”

  Picking up a black nylon gym bag, he pushed in his chair. He thought about taking a cab to his hotel, but a cool breeze was blowing from the north and the sun looked like an orange fireball in the sky. Better to walk.

  “Hey Adams, get some sleep you look like shit,” Brady called out after him.

  Lance looked over his shoulder and nodded. He started up the steep incline and the ocean soon became visible. In the distance, the dark silhouette of the famous Sugar Loaf with its statue of Cristo Redentor stood out in stark contrast with the golden twilight sky.

  It was not the first time Lance had been summoned to Rio. The U.S. government had received an anonymous tip that a well-known terrorist had been working at Z-Lab’s South American headquarters with other scientists before the cure was found- a potent vaccine capable of penetrating the cellular pod. Naturally, U.S. surveillance teams asked the question: why would America’s number one hero, Michael Adams, employ a notorious terrorist?

  Lance was first contacted by the CIA almost three years ago on suspicion of being an accomplice to a terrorist plot. At first he thought someone was playing a practical joke on him, but after nine hours of continuous interrogation he realized they were serious. When the interrogators (one being none other than Brady) were finally convinced of his innocence, they told him why he’d been targeted in the first place. He simply could not believe the allegations against Michael, but Brady had provided enough evidence to raise many disturbing questions. Documents were missing, however; documents that would put an end to Michael’s brilliant career and privileged lifestyle.

  Lance was torn between civic duty and fraternal loyalty when Brady had asked him to work for his team. He loved his older brother and had always looked up to him like a father, but if the allegations were true, Michael was nothing more than a criminal.

  Lance reluctantly agreed to help the CIA. For months, he could find nothing out of the ordinary to report until one day, after playing a round of golf with his brother in the hot sun, Michael invited him back to the house for a cold drink. He asked Lance to wait while he took a quick shower. Lance seized the opportunity to search Michael’s office. There was a tablet on his desk with a message notification from flashing across the screen. The sender’s name was Al Majed. Sickened with disbelief, Lance grabbed the tablet off the desk at the same time that Michael had walked back into the office.

  Caught red-handed, Lance played dumb, claiming that he only wanted to check the real estate market online. Michael strode across the room and snatched the tablet from his hand, accusing his younger brother of invading his privacy. A terrible argument erupted between the two of them, and they had parted on unfriendly terms.

  Lance had not set foot in his brother’s house again until last summer when he visited Zoë. He had failed in his assignment and the CIA became suspicious of him once again. Brady had been pressuring him to make amends with Michael in order to obtain more information. Thanks to Zoë, he now had the perfect excuse to get into Michael’s good graces. Unfortunately, the CIA has had its radar pointed at her ever since she was discharged from the hospital. Lance didn’t want her involved in this mess. He cared about his sister-in-law…he loved her, in fact. He stopped at the last thought.

  He loved her…

  He took in the breathtaking scene before him and secretly wished Zoë could be the
re to enjoy it, too. He liked Brazil; the weather, the people, the food, the music…sometimes he wished he could just stay in Rio forever. The people wore smiles and seemed to have no worries.

  He sighed and turned to go. He reached the hotel and looked up at the towering, ultra-modern edifice overlooking the beach. It was the only American hotel on the block and of course, the most expensive.

  “O seu nome?” the female receptionist asked with a dazzling smile.

  “Lance Adams,” he replied.

  The woman pressed the computer keys until she found his last name, and then handed him an electronic key to one of the penthouse suites. Lance frowned. Brady always booked him at the best hotels, but he usually slept in a modest room.

  “You may want to recheck that,” he said. “Not that I wouldn’t mind the penthouse…”

  “Desculpa,” she said, hastily snatching the key back. “Wrong Mr. Adams. This one here is your key.”

  Lance accepted the key to a room on a lower floor and went upstairs. His wrist-phone went off just as he was closing the door. It was Brady.

  Lance could tell from the background that he was still at the café where they had just met less than an hour ago. “What’s up?”

  “I just received a call that your brother is in Rio,” Brady replied.

  “That explains it,” Lance said before telling Brady about the incident downstairs with the penthouse key.

  “My source didn’t mention anything about Michael staying in Rio, but it does seem like an uncanny coincidence to have two men with the same last name at the hotel. Let me get back to you. Stay put in the meantime.”

  “Will do,” Lance said and then hung up.

  He threw his gym bag on a chair and fished through it until he found a baseball cap. Tucking his shoulder-length hair into the cap, he put on a pair of sunglasses, grabbed his key and made his way up to the penthouse. There were only four doors on the entire floor, which meant there were four suites. He saw no one in the hallway and quickly walked past each of the doors until he heard noise coming from behind one of them. Pressing his ear against the smooth wood, he heard two people speaking. One voice was unmistakably Michael’s. To his surprise, however, the other voice belonged to a woman who was definitely not Zoë. He pressed his ear closer. The woman was laughing and speaking in Brazilian Portuguese, which he understood. She told Michael she was hungry and wanted to go out to dinner.