by Mary Calmes
But even though we were, in fact, friendly, she still could have been paid to murder me.
“You’re positive you don’t have an ice pick that you’re going to shove into the back of my head?” I called over.
A few people walking by with their kids cast me glances of pure horror, and Sello’s face scrunched up in similar disgust.
“What?” I asked, still keeping my distance.
“You’re revolting.”
“It’s a logical question.”
“If you say so,” she said with a shiver.
“So you’re really here just to talk, not to shiv me?”
“Shiv you?” she repeated, horrified.
I chuckled.
“Are you done?”
My grin made her smile in return.
“I’ll come over there,” I acquiesced, joining her beside the lamppost that looked newer than the 160 years the park had been open. Gazing at her bistre skin with teak-and-gold undertones, I smiled as her warm gaze flitted over me.
“First things first,” she began, her voice soft but resonant running through me. “Should I call you something other than the name I know?”
I had a lot of names.
Darius Hawthorne was on my birth certificate.
Terrence Moss was born when I turned nine, after my parents were killed in a home invasion. Then I was moved to Detroit from Bloomfield Hills.
I was sent to live with Emile and Vanessa Moss. At the time, I didn’t understand why I had to have a new name, but once I was older and appreciated what witness protection was, it all became clear.
My mother, an assistant district attorney, rolled over on her boss, who was accused of and indicted on bribery charges. Once she testified, she had a giant target on her back, and between her and my father, a successful real estate broker, they were easy to find. It took only a bit of digging years later with the right clearances to find out that they were murdered. So when I was the only member of the Hawthorne family still breathing, I was rechristened Terrence Moss and started over in a big city. It had been strange—and when Vanessa left Emile, even weirder—but he and I coped with it, and in the end, he’d changed for the better. I’d been sad when he died, wondering if I’d ever have a family again.
After I graduated from high school, I joined the Army and moved up through the ranks, becoming first a Ranger, then a Pathfinder. I changed my name again once I left the military and took up with the CIA. Ten years later, at forty-five, I’d built a deadly and dependable reputation as Conrad Harris.
“It depends,” I said. “What am I here to discuss? A business proposal or something else?”
“Business,” she assured me.
“Then please, Conrad Harris it is.”
“Excellent,” she sighed. “Now tell me, Conrad, have you ever heard of the vault?”
I had heard it whispered about, mentioned offhand by people who didn’t know and glossed over quickly by people who I thought maybe did. “I have a very vague idea,” I told her.
“Tell me.”
“I think it’s some giant warehouse of things that no one wants found.”
“Not exactly,” Sello replied as she slipped her gloved hand around my bicep, pulling on me gently so I would stroll casually beside her, in step. “The vault is not a place. It’s an individual who keeps safe the secrets and possessions, and even the whereabouts of others, for some of the most powerful people on the planet.”
“Really? It’s not a huge underground bunker where things are kept.”
“No, it’s not.”
“It’s a person.”
“Yes. It’s an office, like any other position.”
“And this person, this vault, knows where things are.”
“Knows where people are, things, all manner of secrets.”
I grinned at her. “Like what?”
“Whatever you can imagine,” she admitted. “There are things hidden all over the world, some in the most obscure places and some in plain sight. The vault, and only the vault, is given the key code that makes finding them possible.”
“Why tell me?”
“Why do you think?”
I shook my head. “Enough with the cloak-and-dagger bullshit. Just tell me what the hell’s going on.”
“Why do you think I would come here and speak to you about all this?”
“I have no idea?”
“Oh?” One eyebrow lifted skeptically. “You have no more imagination than that?”
Letting go of her arm, I rounded on her. “I can imagine all kinds of things, but what this could logically be makes no sense.”
“Tell me,” she prodded, her eyes gleaming in the dusky light. “What do you think I’m trying to tell you?”
I shook my head.
“Speak.”
Taking a quick breath I said, “You want me to be part of the vault’s team and—”
Her cackle made me stop, but my scowl sent her into peals of laughter.
I knew better. No one was going to trust an ex-CIA operative to take part in a team that, from the little I knew, worked internationally. Everyone connected to the vault I’d ever heard whispered about had no ties to the United States.
“I’ll see you around,” I muttered under my breath, ready to walk away from her.
She grabbed my arm to stop me and then took hold of the lapels of my topcoat. “I’m telling you about the vault because you’ve been nominated to take the position.”
It took a long moment as I listened to the sounds of the park around me: the movement of the crowd as it flowed by, the distant sounds of excited screams from the rollercoasters, and the squeals of children closer as toys and treats were lavished on them.
“Are you listening to me?”
I dropped my head to meet her eyes.
“It’s you. You’re going to be the next vault.”
I DID not take the news well. She used the time that I was gobsmacked and lost in confusion to steer me out of the amusement park and into a cab.
“What the hell are you talking about?” I railed when my voice and brain were finally back online. “And where the hell are we going?”
“We’re going to have dinner at Geranium,” she announced. “I always tell myself I’ll eat there when I’m here in Copenhagen, but I never get the chance.”
“Too busy killing people?” I baited.
“Yes,” she said drolly. “I’m always so busy with murder that I never get to have dinner.”
I grunted as she leaned forward to tell the driver we were going to Denmark’s national soccer stadium in the center of the city. From his chuckle, I understood that he knew exactly where the restaurant was, and he didn’t need her to give him the location.
I ignored her as she sat back, wedged beside me instead of giving me space, even though I was aware she was staring at my profile.
“You would be the first US citizen to head the organization,” she informed me. It felt out of the blue to me, but I could tell from her expression of almost boredom that she thought we were continuing our conversation.
I didn’t bite.
Heavy sigh from her. “Would you like to know how the vault is chosen?”
I finally turned.
“Every vault chooses their successor,” she explained slowly, carefully. “The name is given, that person vetted, and then, if the choice meets the criteria—”
“Which is what?”
“Military background, leadership skills—freelance as well as associated operative—fluency in at least six languages, but more than all of that, a person with the respect of the community at large.”
“And what community is that?”
“You know which one that is.”
And I did, the global one of professional contractors. “You’re saying I was chosen.”
“Yes.”
I wasn’t ready to get to the rest; there were more important questions first. “What happened to the last vault?”
“We lost her ten da
ys ago in a car bombing in Tehran.”
“Someone came after her because she was the vault?”
“No. No one knew who she was in our organization; she was killed because she was a woman of power in Iran.”
I nodded. There were still so many men threatened by women, and though I’d never been one of them myself, I’d known my fair share. “I’m sorry you lost her.”
“As were we. Zineb Faris was excellent, and we were sorry to lose her.”
“I knew her,” I said, surprised. “Zineb. I worked with her when I was lent out to the Republican Guard five years ago. She made Egypt bearable.”
The woman I’d known had been fearless. I remembered eating dinner out with her in Cairo, and on the way back to the hotel, her long brown-black hair falling around her, we’d been jumped by men who would have been reported as street thugs but who were really highly trained extremists who did not want her there trying her damndest, along with her team, to work toward a united Egypt. Of the six who came after us, she took down five alone, and when she was done, she’d asked if I wanted a drink.
“She was funny,” I said.
“Yes, she was.”
We both went silent for a few minutes as we reached the soccer stadium. Once outside on the street, Sello took my arm and steered me into the building. Up eight floors with people who worked there getting on and off the elevator, we reached the restaurant and had to suspend our conversation as we were warmly greeted by the hostess, who took our jackets before introducing us to one of the chefs, who came to take us on a tour of the open-concept kitchen, some other smaller preparation areas, and the massive wine cellar. The view of the stadium was impressive, and from our table we had a view of a massive park.
Once seated, we met our server, who explained about our meal, and while I zoned out, Sello listened and asked questions. I was about to interrupt and ask for a drink, but Sello shushed me, to the delight of our server, who turned and left.
“What was that?”
“I want you clearheaded,” she informed me, “so we’re both having the juice pairing instead of the wine.”
“You’re kidding,” I groused.
“I’m not, and I understand it’s amazing, so stop fretting.”
“I don’t fret,” I clarified coolly, making myself understood.
The condescending look she gave me let me know precisely what she thought of me.
“You know,” I said, leaning forward on the table. “It doesn’t sound like the vault is such a great position to have if they can be killed off so easily.”
“It’s not easy,” she assured me, hands laced on the table. “The vault in fact has their own team, but you know as well as I do, if someone truly wants you dead, and they’re willing to trade their life for yours—there’s very little to be done to deter that sort of madness.”
It was true; I’d sadly seen it happen many times in my life.
“I liked her,” I breathed.
Sello smiled. “As did I. The position was safe in her hands, and normally there is concern from at least one quarter.”
“So you’re saying everyone was comfortable with her.”
“She had a strength about her.”
“Yes.”
I regarded her for a moment. “You know not everyone would be comfortable with a man like me taking the helm.”
She squinted at me. “I’ll have to disagree, because when your name was reported to us by her bishop, everyone agreed you were an excellent choice.”
“Is that right?”
“Yes,” she said firmly, as though I’d argued the point adamantly instead of with only a trace of sarcasm. “When we convened to agree on the transfer of power, there was not one person who disagreed with your nomination after reading your dossier.”
“And that nomination came to you through Zineb’s ‘bishop.’”
She nodded instead of explaining as the waitress placed a wine glass beside me.
“I thought you said we were having juice,” I said to Sello.
“And you thought what, they’d serve it in a tumbler?”
I had, actually. “You used this meeting as an excuse to eat at this restaurant.”
She nodded cheerfully. “I thought I said that already.”
I was quiet as a vegetable dish was served, and while it tasted incredible and I enjoyed it, watching Sello experience it was almost as good. “You didn’t think I was too dangerous to bring here?”
Her glare made me smile. “All your life you’ve adhered to a code,” she reminded me, her eyes taking me in. “I don’t expect you to become ruthless with me.”
She had a point.
I took a breath, breathed in the intoxicating smells in the restaurant, gazed out the window at the incredible view, and then returned my attention to my companion.
“All settled in your skin now?”
I was.
“Drink your juice.”
I waited until the second course of appetizers arrived to start talking to her again. “What is this?”
“Isn’t it gorgeous,” she sighed, utterly in awe of what was on her plate.
I had to give it to her “Yes. It’s art. I don’t know if I can eat this, I’d feel bad.”
The waitress was still there and chuckled at me. “First you see it, find it beautiful, and then you experience the flavors,” she educated me. “The chef would be heartbroken if you didn’t enjoy his food.”
The Jerusalem artichoke leaves, walnut oil, and rye vinegar looked amazing, and though it resembled a display in a high-end florist, the whole thing was edible.
“I think I want to live here,” Sello let me know.
“It’s too pretty to eat,” I agreed.
She smiled at me. “All right, ask your questions.”
“What’s a bishop?”
“The bishop is the vault’s second,” she explained. “They’re the person who holds the key code after the vault dies until it can be passed to the new vault.”
“And this bishop, you’re trusting them to not break this bond?
“Yes.”
“And what if the bishop kills the vault for their key code?”
“That could never happen.”
“Why not?”
She tipped her head to scrutinize me. “The bishop is someone who would never break faith with the vault. They are their closest advisor, their—”
“Friend.” I finished for her.
“Oh no,” she said quickly, brows furrowing. “The bishop is a soldier, a trusted ally, but not a friend.”
“Because?”
“A friend might get angry with you, feel that they have reason to bear a grudge, and change alliances. A soldier does not make those choices; they support loyalty, the defense of another, the guardianship of another. I’m speaking of the sacred trust between master and servant, where the master shelters the servant and provides a life, and the servant protects and stands between his master and the world.”
I understood what she meant. I’d been both in my life.
“So that’s why when Zineb’s bishop brought you my name, there was never any question that it was the truth.”
“No,” she said, receiving her charred potato from the kitchen. It was a single potato, a single bite, and though it looked like a round charcoal briquette, it tasted like heaven. The teaspoon of sheep’s butter that accompanied it was fabulous as well. “I’m going to have to bring my husband,” she said with a sigh.
To have her, in the midst of all this, so excited about food gave me hope. The simple pleasures in life, like eating great food, were still cause for bliss.
“On Zineb’s word,” I began, because I needed to be certain, “you’re going to pass the position of the vault to me.”
“Yes.”
“Because that’s what you do.”
“We do the background checks, but you were, or course, already on our radar, so it was simply a matter of pulling up your dossier and verifying that you were in fact, still al
ive.”
“That’s a good point. What if the person the vault wants is dead?”
“Then we look to the teams of the vault and evaluate.”
“Teams?”
“The vault has two teams. The first is the guild, which belongs to the doors—except for their team leader, the bishop, who is handpicked by you.”
“From a list of your people?”
“No. That person is designated by you. He, or she, is your vassal, if you will, your person, and they manage the retrieval team as your bishop—that’s what the position is called—and they belong to you but lead our team.”
“So this is the person doing all the traveling.”
“Yes and no. They direct the team that collects the items or people being placed into your care.”
“It’s basically a management position.”
“I prefer to think of the bishop as being more of a liaison between the vault and us, the doors, officially Global Research and Development,” she corrected, “and the team and you.”
“And the other team?”
“The other team, the court, is exclusively yours, and—”
“Guild and court,” I said, chuckling. “Really?”
“They’re not my names. The vault is a centuries-old position. I suspect that the men who created this international agency originally were trying for simple.”
“Sure,” I agreed. “Go on.”
“Well, the court, the doors have nothing to do with at all. They are your people, not to exceed five, who specifically protect you. Then we protect those you declare to us, as required.”
“Required?”
“You are allowed to choose ten people—family members or friends—who will be protected with our considerable resources until the vault’s death.”
“Why not for their entire lives?”
“If the vault dies, the people they love don’t need protection anymore. Why would they?”
“It’s like witness protection.”
“Yes.” She said liking the comparison, taking a moment to coo over the food that came and went, the appetizers arriving at perfect intervals.
“If the guy who could point the finger is dead, everyone else in his or her family is off the hook.”