by Jen Cole
The fact she had neither luggage nor credit card would make the reception clerk uneasy, so a laughing, happy-go-lucky approach, like the one she’d used with Nadine the hairdresser, would probably work best. She reached into the bag and pulled out her wallet. It contained around four hundred dollars. That should be enough, she thought, looking down at her right hand. A plain gold band – her mother’s wedding ring, adorned her middle finger. Jo swapped it to the ring finger of her left hand.
A husband can be a handy thing, she thought, as she walked up the pathway and through the grand entrance doors.
“Whooo, it’s windy out there!” she said, crossing the foyer and smiling at the young woman behind the reception desk. The clerk, neatly dressed in the hotel uniform, with her dark hair pulled back into a smooth ponytail, returned Jo’s smile.
“Can I help you?”
“Yes, my husband and I would like a room for the night. He’ll be bringing the car around shortly, but he got so excited about being back in Brighton that he just had to go down to the beach! I said no thanks, you can drop me off at the hotel. I’m not walking along the sand in the dark and cold!”
The receptionist smiled sympathetically. “Do you have a booking?”
“No!” Jo laughed. “My husband’s so impulsive, but he loves this hotel. He used to come here before we were married, so we’re hoping you have a vacancy.”
“Well as it happens, we do.” The receptionist looked pleased to be the bearer of good news. “Number two-seventeen is free if you’re happy with a standard room?”
“That’s great,” said Jo cheerfully. “Andy’ll be rapt.”
“I’ll just get your details then. Name?”
“Andy and Judith Wiseman.”
“Address?”
“Fourteen Bridge Street, Rosedale, NSW.” Jo hoped there was a suburb called Rosedale in NSW, but was pretty sure this girl wouldn’t know in any case.
“We’re down here to spring a surprise visit on Andy’s brother,” Jo gushed, hoping to divert the girl from asking for a postcode. “He couldn’t come to the wedding, so we’re bringing the photos to him.”
The tactic worked.
“I just need a credit card now,” said the receptionist, sounding a little flustered.
Jo spoke breezily. “Andy’s got the credit card. He’ll have to bring it over when he comes in.”
“Oh, I... I can’t give you the keycard without a deposit,” said the girl.
Jo adopted a surprised look and then broke into a smile. “No worries, I can give you cash. How much do you need?”
“Well the room is a hundred and seventy dollars a night…”
“Right then, here you go. I’ll pay for one night and if we decide to stay longer, my husband can fix things up with you in the morning.”
She drew two, hundred dollar notes from her wallet and placed them on the counter.
The girl looked at the notes doubtfully. “We’ll need to record your credit card number for security, but I guess as long as your husband registers the card with us as soon as he comes in, it’ll be okay.”
She gave Jo the registration book to sign and wrote out a receipt for a hundred and seventy dollars, which she handed over with the change and the coded plastic card.
“Two-seventeen is on the second floor. Turn right when you get out of the elevator,” she instructed.
“Thanks, if my husband turns up before I come down again, can you tell him where to go?”
“Of course,” smiled the clerk, her confidence restored.
Jo gave a nod and headed for the elevator. In her room, she flopped onto the bed with a laugh. Yes, she thought in a Cockney accent, an “usband is an Andy thing.
That had actually been fun! Only twelve hours ago she would never have dreamed she could have done that. Now if the Hunter’s agents went sniffing around Brighton hotels after her coordinates had been sent, the people at this one would tell them no single woman had checked in here tonight. The husband ploy would also be wise when booking the limousine, should the Hunter’s agents think to contact the dozens of companies advertising. Now what time to book it for?
As soon as my eight o’clock coordinates are sent, she thought, the Hunter will move his agents quickly to block all exits via train, bus and cabs, and then begin searching the places I might go to after leaving the cinema – restaurants, pubs, nearby accommodation and so on. He won’t worry too much if he doesn’t find me in the first three hours after eight, as his agents will have surrounded Brighton, ready to converge when they get my eleven o’clock coordinates. So, I’ll have to make sure I’m well out of Brighton by eleven. If I book the limo for 10.30 I’ll have time to rest, eat and freshen up before I leave.
Jo’s watch showed a few minutes to seven. She took the notebook from her bag, and turned to the page with the limousine numbers. The first company on the list had promised Internet connectivity and this was the one she now called.
A clear, unhurried female voice responded. “Chronis Cars, how may I help you?”
Jo adopted what she hoped was an equally sophisticated tone. “My husband and I are interested in hiring a car with driver from 10.30 p.m. tonight, until ten tomorrow morning. Is your company able to provide this service?”
“Certainly,” said the woman smoothly. That period falls within a twelve hour shift, which is our maximum before we need to change the driver.”
“Good, now your advertisement says you can provide Internet connectivity?”
“Yes, our drivers carry broadband dongles to enable you to connect your laptop to the Internet while in the car,” came the prompt response.
“Are you also able to provide a laptop computer on loan?” asked Jo with her fingers crossed.
“I’ll check for you,” said the voice pleasantly. “One moment please.”
Quiet classical music played over the line and Jo let out the breath she’d been holding.
The voice returned. “Yes, we can provide a laptop on loan.”
“That sounds ideal. What will the total cost be?”
“Eleven and a half hours in a chauffeured Lexus with Internet access and laptop hire comes to 1,200 dollars. That includes the driver’s gratuity and GST.”
“Excellent, we’ll book it.”
“Very good,” said the woman. “May I have the name please?”
“Andy and Judith Wiseman,” the names now rolled off her tongue.
“And your credit card number?”
Damn! Jo put on a supercilious tone. “We prefer to do this without the use of credit cards. Your company’s advertisement emphasized it understood the confidentiality needs of your clients.”
“Absolutely,” began the woman reassuringly, “and we won’t charge the card if you prefer to pay cash, but we do need a record of it for security purposes,” she ended firmly.
“These may be your security purposes, but they are not ours.” Jo allowed her voice to grow cold. “To compensate for the inconvenience of forfeiting your security on this occasion, we are prepared to add another three hundred dollars to your fee. We are staying at the Brighton Savoy and will pay your chauffeur the full fifteen hundred dollars in cash, on his arrival.”
There was a pause and Jo held her breath.
“I’ll need to consult with the manager on this. May I call you back Mrs. Wiseman?
“As long as it’s within the next five minutes,” said Jo. “My husband and I are about to go out to dinner.”
“I will call you back immediately,” the woman said, and hung up.
Jo had been expecting something like this. The company would feel the need to confirm at the very least, that the callers were indeed guests of the hotel. It was now just after seven – still time to get to the cinema if they called back soon. The phone tinkled and Jo lifted the receiver.
“Yes?”
A male voice spoke. “Phone call for Mrs. Wiseman.”
The girl at the front desk must have finished her shift, thought Jo. Good.
; “Thank you, I’ll take it,” she said.
“Mrs. Wiseman,” began the familiar calm voice. “Our company is happy to take your booking on the understanding that 1,500 dollars is paid to our chauffeur on his arrival.”
“Very good. We will expect him at 10.30 p.m.”
“He will be there. Good evening Mrs. Wiseman.”
“Good evening.”
Jo hung up, exhilarated by this second successful negotiation. She wasn’t concerned about meeting the chauffeur alone. She could always say her husband had been called away on urgent business, but at least she’d given the impression that a married couple had made the booking.
Now she hung her jeans and jacket over a chair and checked their pockets. She pulled out a twenty-dollar note and tucked it into her bra for the cinema, regretting the lack of pockets in the track pants but deciding she’d rather pull cash from her bra than make anyone aware she was wearing a money belt.
Jo fastened her room’s keycard into one of the pockets of her money belt and was on the point of leaving when she remembered the blonde wig. She needed it for her photo, so the Hunter and his agents would keep searching for a girl with long blonde hair, but how would she carry it? Not in the annoying straw bag. That was staying behind on this trip. Jo looked around. The mini bin in the bathroom contained a fresh plastic liner. She pulled it out, dropped in the wig and tied the top. Seven-twenty – time to go.
As she reached the lobby, Jo shot a glance at the reception desk. Sure enough a middle-aged man was now at the post, typing something into the computer. With luck there’d be no further fuss about registering the credit card.
Outside the frigid wind had picked up in strength, but with the freedom of no more than a plastic bag in hand, Jo moved into an easy arm-swinging run, which ate up the distance. By seven-forty she was back at the cinema, red-cheeked and glowing with warmth.
She pulled the note from her bra and walked to the counter, casting her eye over the colorful posters and choosing a movie at random.
“A ticket for Revenge of the Ninjas please,” she said.
“That movie started half an hour ago,” the same pimply boy warned. He’d apparently been promoted from cup stacker to ticket seller.
Jo pushed the twenty towards him. “Well, I’d better hurry then.”
“Cinema three.” He handed Jo her ticket and a five-dollar note in change.
Jo entered Cinema three, pausing to grow accustomed to the darkness and to slip the change into her bra. The movie was in full swing and the few patrons scattered around had eyes for nothing but the flickering images in front of them. She climbed the carpeted stairs to the top and took an empty seat on the aisle. No one was back this far and she had the row to herself.
Quietly she pulled off the black wig, and removed the hoodie. Underneath was the dark shirt the Hunter already knew. Pushing hoodie and black wig under the seat, she slipped on the blonde wig. An explosion of action erupted from the screen and Jo sat back with a sigh.
Despite all, she became caught up in the movie and jumped when her alarm sounded. Quickly she silenced it, and keeping her eyes on the screen ahead, counted slowly to sixty three times. Then, to allow for discrepancies between her watch and the Play or Die timer, she counted off another two minutes.
Now Jo moved fast, returning the blond wig to the plastic bag and putting the hoodie and black wig back on. She tiptoed down to the heavy exit door and slipped into the brightly lit foyer.
At five past eight, the place held a dozen or so people. Some sat at coffee tables, while others examined the posters or queued for tickets. Jo noted with relief that no one seemed interested in her.
Outside she started for the hotel, hoping to look like an innocent jogger, though few were about at this hour on a cold winter’s night. No one stopped her, and twenty minutes later she was turning the knob of her room.
Closing the door behind her, Jo realized she was shaking with exhaustion, and stumbled to the bed. Though bone tired, she could only afford a short rest. She set a fifteen-minute alarm and stretched out.
She was running on a newly made road and strands of sticky tar were clinging to her shoes, making it harder at each step to lift her feet. Adding to this annoyance, a little bird on her shoulder was chirping right into her ear. She tried to shake it off but it held on tenaciously and chirped all the louder.
With a groan, Jo rolled off the arm supporting her head and silenced the beeping watch alarm. Then she grabbed the straw bag off the chair and upended it onto the coverlet. The new beige shirt had worked its way to the bottom and was now badly crumpled – hardly a corporate look. She searched in the wardrobe and found an iron and ironing pad, and soon had the shirt looking fresh and neat. A touch to the jeans as well and Jo was satisfied she would look acceptable.
With her energy returning, she unclipped the money belt and pulled off the hoodie, flinging it onto the bed, before heading for the bathroom. She stripped off the dark shirt, washed the underarm part of the sleeves and slipped it damp onto a hanger. Unlacing her shoes, she peeled off the stained, sweaty socks and dropped them into the bin. I have two packets of fresh ones, she thought.
The lancing hot water of the shower pummeled Jo’s tired muscles, bringing her fully back to life and reviving not just the memory of her audience, but the realization she was starving.
She turned off the water and wrapping a towel around herself, padded into the main room, putting on deodorant and fresh underwear. The money belt went on next, followed by the jeans, beige shirt and the new socks. She was in the process of lacing her shoes when a loud knock at the door froze her in mid-knot.
Shit! She hadn’t ordered room service. Could it be the management chasing up that bloody credit card? Jo decided to keep quiet in the hope that whoever it was would give up and go away. A shape materialized on her side of the door.
“First you insist I knock,” he said in mock petulance. “And then you refuse to answer the door.”
“Fitani!” cried Jo in relief.
“My dear Jo,” His grin was wide. “Surely you can bring yourself to call me Danny by now.”
The host’s costume on this occasion was quite conservative for him. A pair of black silky trousers tucked into dark red ankle boots, was topped by a deep purple bloused shirt, tied loosely at the waist with a lilac sash embroidered at the ends with the familiar gold logo.
“Thousand point time.” Jo made it a statement.
“And what a roller-coaster thousand they have been!” said Fitani. “My dear you are doing wonders for our ratings. People are tuning in from every pocket on Earth. Few Prey last as long as you have, and with the strategies you’ve been using, you’re odds-on at the moment to survive right through to your second day.”
“Hmm, thanks, I think.”
“Now,” Fitani rubbed his hands together. “Getting down to business, have you decided whether you’ll be asking three questions or using your technical assistance request?”
Jo considered. If she was going to be able to appeal to, or influence this audience from the future, she needed to know more about them, and in any case, she realized with a little thrill of joy, if she could keep Fitani hanging around by dragging out her questions, she’d have a husband to show off.
“I’ll opt for questions this time, but I’ll be asking the first one over dinner as it’s now…” she looked at her watch, “nearly nine thirty, and I need to be out of here in an hour.”
“As you wish. Have you ordered food?”
“No, we’ll be dining in the hotel’s restaurant.”
Jo finished lacing her shoes and put on the black wig. She collected her keycard and opened the door. “After you.”
In the foyer, Jo made straight for the reception desk with Fitani trailing along.
“Good evening,” she greeted the man behind it. “Is it too late for my husband and me to dine in the hotel’s restaurant?”
The clerk glanced at Fitani, poorly suppressing a smirk at his costume.
“Wiseman,” said Jo. “Yes, Andy and I are in room two-seventeen.”
“Well the kitchen will close soon, but if you go straight in they should be able to help you.”
“Thanks.” Jo turned to Fitani. “Come on Andy, we don’t want to miss out.”
The dining room was intimate with only a solitary elderly gentleman in one corner spooning up a dessert flummery in an absentminded way.
Jo chose a table visible from the doorway and sat with her back to the door. Fitani sat opposite. If an agent looks in, she thought, he’ll see a woman with short dark hair, dining with a companion. She considered the possibility of the Hunter himself turning up. He’d certainly recognize Fitani and realize who his companion was. But there’s little chance of that, she thought. With two detective agencies at his beck and call, the Hunter wouldn’t be doing this kind of preliminary footwork. Brighton’s too big, and at the moment he has no idea where in Brighton I am. He’ll be sitting at some command post, coordinating his troops.
A waitress approached and placed two menus on the table. “Would you care for something to drink?” She proffered the wine list to Fitani, who made no effort to reach for it.
“The water’s fine,” said Jo, indicating the bottle on the table. She had no intention of dulling her senses with wine. She picked up the top menu. “We’ll order straight away as I know the kitchen is closing soon.”
The waitress stood by as Jo ran her eye down the list. “Andy will just have clear soup as he’s not feeling well. I’ll have the porterhouse steak, medium rare.”
Jo returned the menus to the waitress, who tucked them under one arm, filled their glasses from the carafe and headed towards a doorway at the back of the room.
“Andy?” Fitani raised an eyebrow. “Couldn’t you have picked a better name? Ratings you know.”
Jo gave him a glassy stare and he fluttered his fingers before his mouth in an affected yawn. “Are we ready to move to the question-asking phase of this procedure?”