Three and a Half Weeks

by Lulu Astor

  The moment he enters the large air-conditioned room—he intentionally keeps it at a chilly 64 degrees to ensure that cool heads prevail—an immediate hush drops over the suits clustered around the long mahogany table. Ian is used to silencing a room with his entrance—he actually feeds off it, savoring the tension percolating just beneath their polished veneers as they adjust their clothing, pick up pencils, avert eyes, or clear their throats. Nodding to each person in acknowledgement, he convenes the meeting.

  “We all know why we’re here so I won’t waste time on pleasantries or preliminaries. Jarvis, an update on Alexis Martinez, please?”

  Jarvis leans over the table, checking his notes. “Yes. Last night I received intel from the twenty-four-hour tail we placed on Ms. Martinez. Currently, it appears that Ms. Martinez didn’t satisfy and is no longer an engaged player. Night before last she left town rather precipitously with two large pieces of luggage. We checked and she turned off her power and phone and a quick check of her condo revealed measures in place that suggest an extended absence.”

  Smirking, Ian comments, “I won’t ask how the condo tour was accomplished.” His eyes make a complete circuit of the table, scanning the faces that watch him with rapt attention. “The other good news is that we now have photos of the two people who broke into our building last week. They’re grainy but Belarus has managed to clean them up enough for facial recognition and comparison. I’ve had copies of the photos Fed-Exed to an acquaintance in New York whose firm experienced a similar attack. It’s a long shot but it’s prudent to leave no stone unturned. The CEO in question will compare them with those he has on file for his raiders.

  Struggling for calm but finding it elusive, Ian hones in on Belarus. His voice is low but sharp enough to draw blood. “Can you give us an update on what’s happened since last we spoke?”

  The words Blackmon flung at Belarus yesterday were not quite as diplomatic. While he was in New York with Ella, Excalibur’s system was hacked into yet again, the accomplishment of which smarted like a vicious slap in the face, a kind of we can always get in no matter what precautions you implement type of thing. Ian came roaring back to Portland, determined to send heads rolling like bowling balls.

  Fortuitously for Belarus, his head of tech security, he was miles away in New York City at the time of the breach, for Ian’s blood was bubbling over, superheated by flames of black fury. He loathed incompetency and any evidence of it served to drive him into a feeding frenzy, searching out the scent of blood. “Can you tell me” he’d shouted to the tech expert, “why the hell I’m paying you a king’s ransom if you can’t keep the system protected? Remember, I pulled you out of the gutter for God’s sake, Belarus, one step back from a long jail sentence and a boyfriend named Bubba. What the hell am I wasting my time and money on if you cannot succeed in keeping the integrity of our system inviolate?”

  Right now the Russian whose nickname is Belarus boosts himself up in his upholstered chair, straightening his back, and shifts his eerie blue eyes around the room, ending reluctantly upon Ian Blackmon. “Once again, our system was compromised at the highest level—their hacker is world-class and has breached every firewall we erect to obstruct him. I contacted Peerless, the best tech security firm available, bar none—the government uses it for classified document retrieval and storage—and PPS will develop another tier of protection for us. Meanwhile, I’ve implemented other interim protections; I won’t get too technical here but I’d say we are as protected as it is possible to be with current technology.”

  Ian nods and with his peripheral vision sees Delacroix make a slight hand gesture. He swivels his frozen gaze to the attorney. “Jackson? You have something to add?”

  And so it went.

  Most of the afternoon was spent in the closed-door conference. He’d included Jonas, Jarvis, and Belarus from Excalibur, and they joined a complement of corporate attorneys—M&A specialists—who Delacroix pulled together to keep control of TES. The good news was that most of the best legal minds with whom they’d consulted agreed their chances of maintaining both the control and integrity of the energy firm were more than excellent. The most harm that was done came out of the system hacking, getting their hands on confidential and delicate correspondence. Now the hackers could go after the government contracts Excalibur was courting—the closed bid amounts were contained in the compromised files so they could easily undercut Excalibur’s bid submissions. Still, it wasn’t the end of the world and if he could prove exactly how they undercut Excalibur’s bids, their bids, winning or not, would be nullified.

  Each member of the meeting offered information or advice and by five o’clock, Ian Blackmon began to feel significantly more confident about the state of affairs at Excalibur. Only one thing continued to gnaw at his mind: he hadn’t been able to reach Ella today.

  Last night she’d called him when she got back to the hotel from dinner.

  “Hi Ian. Just providing you with your goodnight call.”

  “So you’re in for the night, Ella?”

  “Very much so. I miss you.”

  “And I you. I’m… sleepless without you.”

  “Sleepless in Portland? Doesn’t work as well as Seattle.”

  “No, I suppose not. Good night, baby. Call me when you’re done for the day tomorrow. I’ll be waiting.”

  “Yes, I will, Ian.”

  She sounded fine and he stopped worrying for ten seconds. Within the next breath, his heart lurched in his chest again.

  “I’m going to do some editing tomorrow with Lucien and then I’ll return to Portland the following day. I booked a very early morning flight, Ian.”

  “Where is the editing to be done?”

  “Um, at Lucien’s loft. There will be two other people there with us.”

  “I’m very uncomfortable with that idea, Ella. No.”

  “Ian, I’m not going to argue about it. This is my job.”

  “I really don’t give a damn, Ella. You are not going to the man’s loft unaccompanied. You barely know him, for God’s sake. Why do you take such ridiculous chances with your safety, Ariel?”

  “What’s ridiculous is your reaction. I’m not taking chances: I’m a grown woman, a summa cum laude graduate with a master’s degree, working with a filmmaker whose work is fairly renowned, albeit in esoteric circles. I realize I don’t know him all that long or well but he’s not a stranger either, Ian. And I resent your implications, as if I’m a wayward child incapable of looking after myself. Now I’m going to hang up. I will phone you tomorrow afternoon once we conclude and I leave Lucien’s company. Goodbye.”

  She hung up after that and a knot formed in his stomach. He considered flying back to New York but he had to again meet with Belarus tomorrow, after Peerless was through working on their firewalls. They had to protect the files.

  But Ella seemed to need protecting too… and she was far more important than any damn files. He raked his hands through his hair, indecision a rare and uncomfortable experience for him.

  By the next morning the knot in his stomach was twisted and bucking in his viscera like a living beast with a mortal wound. Ella hadn’t returned any of his calls. Checking his phone, he saw a single text message and quickly opened it.

  Ella.

  “Ian, all is fine. Just very busy. Talk soon. Later, A.”

  Nausea rushes in, overwhelming his gut. Later. Remembering a lighthearted discussion he and Ella had about language, how it evolves through misuse and slang. They talked about their pet peeves—later as a form of farewell was one Ella’s. She hated it. Why would she use it now? Was she trying to tell him something?

  Glancing at the antique Arts & Crafts grandfather clock in his library, he sees it’s just after nine p.m., New York time. He puts in a call to Daniel Butler.

  “Hello, Ian. How goes it?”

  “Daniel, not too bad. We’re holding our own. Tell me, did you speak to Girardi about Lucien Phillips?”

  “I did, and yes, he knows Phillip
s but very minimally. He didn’t have much to say about him, really, said he seemed nice enough. But Ian…”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m not sure how to say this without sounding a bit off… but I have… let’s call it enhanced intuition, if you will. I don’t want to alarm you but I think the man might be dangerous in some way.”

  Ian’s entire body flash freezes at hearing that word: dangerous. Scrabbling for a breath of air to inflate his lungs, he makes a titanic attempt to keep calm; nonetheless, he feels the panic slide in, his skin going cold, his blood running hot, and the nausea escalating, rising to his esophagus: a full fight or flight response, but at Ella’s peril, not his own.

  “Ian? Are you there?”

  “Yes,” he manages to spit out but his voice is strangely hoarse, “I suppose my instincts are enhanced too because I’ve felt that way all along. What’s more, Ella was working with him yesterday and now I can’t reach her. I’ve received only one text message from her and it was… odd.”

  “Odd in what way?”

  “The phrasing was… unusual for her. To say I’m concerned would be vastly understating my current disposition.”

  “Do you want me to pay Phillips a visit?”

  “I think I’m going to scare up the Gulfstream and return to New York immediately. However, since I can’t get there for some hours, I’d be grateful if you could manage a quick visit on some pretense.” He pauses. “I realize it’s quite an imposition on you, as I’m little more than a stranger to you, and the hour is late, but I would enormously appreciate it, Daniel. Deem it a second marker in your column.”

  “Consider it done. I’ll bring one of my security people as well and I’ll phone you as soon as I have any information, Ian.”

  “Thank you.”

  Placing the phone down, he nearly clutches his stomach in pain from an imaginary kick to the gut, as ugly fear transforms into a physical response. Something’s wrong: he can sense it. That motherfucker Lucien Phillips has finally made his move and Ella is in danger… and right now there’s not a thing he could do about it. Not a fucking thing. Kicking his foot out violently, he sends the umbrella stand flying across the room.

  An hour later he’s driving to the small airfield by the office, where Scott left the plane to be serviced and refueled. Ian had called him earlier and told him to stand by. Fortunately, Scott was available to pilot or Ian would have damn well done it himself. Time was of the fucking essence.

  His phone rang as Scott was taxiing to the runway and Ian was about to shut if off. Daniel Butler. He answered it quickly. “What happened?”

  “Nothing good. There was no one at his loft but I sense she’s with him… somewhere else. Did you check with her hotel?”

  Ian leans his head back and closes his eyes: he’s so close to a nuclear meltdown and he’s mustering all his strength to remain in control of his savage temper. “She checked out early this morning. The hotel manager informed me that she handled the check-out by phone call. Hence, she never returned to the hotel yet all her things were packed and gone.”

  He heard a muttered curse on the other end of the line—it was one more sharp pointy thing poking in his viscera.

  “Ian, I’m very sorry to alarm you but there’s something… amiss in this situation and the sooner you get here, the better.”

  “I’m sitting on the plane as we speak, taxiing to the runway.”

  “Very good. Would you like me to continue to look for her?”

  “What do you suggest?”

  “The address you gave me is not Phillips’ official address: the deed is in a company name, Expat Films. Phillips has an Upper West Side address on file. I’ll start there.”

  Action. Action is good, necessary, moving toward resolution. “Excellent. Please text me that address, Daniel, so I can go directly there when I land.”

  “Yes. In the interim, I’ll scope it out. I should be able to tell whether or not she’s there.” His voice drops lower. “I know the situation is terrifying.”

  “More than you know. I’m in your debt, Butler, and it’s an uncomfortable place to be but right now, I’m willing to take it on. Thank you… and please keep me posted. I’ll text you the telephone number on the plane so I don’t have to use my cell. Call me if anything new develops.”

  “Affirmative.”

  Chapter 28

  I feel hands. Cool, silken skin touching me, feeling me—my face, my breasts, my bare shoulders.

  Ian.

  The hands are gentle but insistent and in the next moment, there’s seductive warmth: tiny pockets of heated, humid air skimming my throat. Floating in some state of disconnect, neither dream nor awareness, my sluggish brain scrambles to make sense of the tactile sensations and somehow I manage to decipher what it means: a lover’s breath. He’s close to me, so close. His proximity comforts me and I surrender to him, drifting back into the undulating rhythms of Morpheus’s arms.

  Music. Plaintive notes waft in, as if through an open door from another room. It’s a familiar composition but I can’t place it: my ears discern the distinctive harmonies of harp, cello, violin—angel music.

  Now there are voices, low and deep. Male. The phrase sotto voce springs to my mind and I try to smile. Inside voices, children, Mrs. Lowell would say to our kindergarten class when we got rowdy.

  Surfacing gradually to consciousness, I drag my eyes open but see nothing. Too dark. My mind is yet hindered by cobwebs of sleep, and my body aches all over.

  Where am I? The last thing I remember clearly is finishing up the editing conference with Lucien and the two editors we’re working with—Michael and Nico.

  I lick my dry lips but even my tongue is too devoid of moisture to make any difference: there’s a terrible taste in my mouth. It reminds me of the time that Carrie and I, along with Emily Pedersen, the girl who lived around the corner from us and still wore diapers at age five, were sucking on pennies just for the fun of it… until Carrie’s mother caught us and washed our mouths out with yellow Listerine. No matter how long I live, I’ll never quite forget the taste of copper on the tongue, a sensory experience that sticks like glue. So does yellow Listerine.

  Right now I need water so I attempt to sit up, to seek out hydration, but my body will not serve its master. That is the precise moment when my heartbeat begins to take flight. Something is very wrong with me.

  A disembodied voice reaches my ears. I don’t recognize it at first.

  “Good. You’re awake. I’ve been waiting such a long time to speak with you.”

  Not Ian. Who then? The voice is familiar but my brain is slow, synapses misfiring, and the room is pitch black, disorienting in the extreme. I can’t see anything and I’m starting to panic.

  “Where am I?” A shout in the dark.

  Laughter. The harsh sound of it grates on my nerves: it’s not melodic; it’s… sinister. And then recognition rushes in; I know. The voice belongs to Lucien.

  “What’s going on? Why do I feel so ill? Where am I?”

  “Relax, you’re fine. You passed out, Ella. I put you on my bed. Can I get you anything?”

  “Water. Please. And can you switch on a light?”

  “Hmmm. I’m going to leave you in the dark for now but here’s some water.” I feel his hand lift my head and bring a glass to my lips. He tilts it and cool water flows into my mouth. Ah, thank God. Better already.

  “Lucien?”

  “Yes, Ella?”

  “Can you tell me what happened? What’s going on?” I again try to sit up but can’t move and I’m not exactly sure why. It’s too dark and my thinking is foggy.

  “Yes, but I thought I’d give you time to fully awaken. I can tell you’re not up to snuff just yet.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “That will be my little secret for now, Ella. Just drink your water and try to relax.”

  “Yes, but… I need to call Ian. He’ll be worried…”

  “I texted your oh-so-important boyfriend from you
r phone. It’s fine.”

  “Trust me, it won’t be fine unless I actually speak with him. He tends to overreact.” And right now I’m so grateful for Ian’s overreacting tendencies. I’ll take it any day over Lucien’s creepiness. “Lucien, where am I? I’m feeling very anxious. Please turn on a light.”

  A long sigh made louder by the insulating dark. “Very well.”

  I can feel his body heat move away and then a lowlight flashes on—a small lamp set on a table a few feet from the bed. I quickly take stock of my surroundings: it’s a room, a bedroom of sorts, but one I’ve never been in before. The walls are black and there are strange implements mounted on the walls. I feel something acid rush up my throat but I can’s sit up. “I’m going to be sick, Lucien—I need a bathroom!”

  In seconds, he produces a plastic bucket—as if he expected me to vomit—and lifts and turns my head to the side so I can regurgitate into the bucket. My body heaves as everything in my stomach comes gushing up, burning my throat on the way out, and nothing can stop my stomach from its pumping imperative. It continues until I’m dry retching, my throat raw and fiery.

  “I’m sorry you’re so ill, Ella. Would you like a cup of tea?”

  “Yes. Please, Lucien. May I also call Ian to let him know I’m okay? He is a worrier.”

  “I’ll bring you some tea. How do you like it?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  While he’s gone, I chance another glimpse around the room. My mind cannot accept the images my retinas are relaying to it. It’s not possible. Please, God, this is a nightmare. Now I finally see why I can’t manage to sit up: I’m tied down to the bed, naked but for my underwear. My wrists and ankles are restrained and there is a long leather strap that runs from one side of the bed to the other, pinning me down like an insect on a glue strip. I have some movement, but not enough to sit upright, and my whole body feels weak.