Conversation was sparse, and any words spoken were only filler. They were both tired, having spent far too many hours during the night planning and then rehashing options, and if it weren’t for the prearrangement to meet Munroe and Heidi here for breakfast, Logan would have been happy to steal another hour or two under the covers.
He glanced again at his watch and took a sip of coffee. The girls were ten minutes late. He wasn’t familiar enough with Heidi’s patterns to know how many minutes past an appointment defined her version of tardy, but he knew Munroe. She was her own woman and worked her own schedule, but if she committed to be somewhere at a certain time, she would show—on time—always.
Logan took another sip and then another glance at his watch. Gideon, noticing the movement, chuckled. Logan ignored him and, his face to the window, saw Heidi pass on the other side. She entered the café, eyes scanning the room, and seeing Logan, approached the table.
“Where’s Michael?” Logan said.
Heidi’s head turned puppy-dog sidewise. “I thought she was with you,” she said. And then in response to Logan’s deadpan expression, “I overslept—didn’t hear the alarm—I just figured she left without me.”
Logan blanched, and his heartbeat, fast and heavy, made it impossible to attempt conversation. To the others, Munroe’s absence would mean little—a stroll about the neighborhood or the desire to check out a lead—they would assume she would return in her own time. But he knew better.
Her promise to get Hannah repeated in his mind, a mantra that was the calm against his panic. Munroe had given her word—her word—but perhaps now, in her current state with the medicating—the drugs—her word meant little.
“Heidi, I need your key,” he said. She looked at him quizzically, and he remained silent, hand outstretched. Finally, after a moment, she pulled the room key from her purse and handed it to him.
“Don’t go anywhere,” he said. “I’ll be back in half an hour.”
He left for the hostel at a near run.
The room was as he’d expected, with Heidi’s things on one side and most of Munroe’s few belongings on the other. Stacked neatly on the bedside table were the documents he had given her, and he could see from the way things were laid out why Heidi assumed that Munroe had simply gone ahead.
He browsed through the stack of papers, heart still pounding, until he came to the end and saw that those he’d held back, the ones he’d finally handed over yesterday, were missing. For that, there was hope.
Frustrated and sick to his stomach, Logan left the room to find a pay phone. He didn’t know what to expect, didn’t even know what he hoped to gain by the call, only knew that he had to make it, and that if there was anyone who knew what Munroe was up to, it would be Miles Bradford. Using a calling card, he dialed Capstone Consulting.
He asked for Bradford, the receptionist requested he hold the line, and then, in less than a moment, Miles was on the phone. No transfers. No waits or stalls, no voice mail or notice of being out of the country, just the man himself, listening, while Logan ran anxiously through the reasons why he’d called.
When Logan had expended himself to the point of emotional emptiness, he paused, and in that space there was silence. Unsure if Bradford was still on the line, he was about to speak when Bradford broke the quiet.
“Michael left a message for you,” Bradford said.
Stunned, Logan made no reply. Munroe had known that he would go to Bradford—had made preparations based on it. Realizing, finally, that Bradford was waiting for a response of some kind, he said, “I’m listening.”
“She’s made you a promise,” Bradford said, “and intends to keep it. But she can’t work with the three of you hovering. You need to take a step back, stay out of her way, and trust that she knows what she’s doing.”
Logan paused and then said, “That’s it?”
“She wants you in Buenos Aires,” Bradford said. “She might even need you at some point, so stay where she can easily find you. Just don’t go anywhere near anything concerned with the assignment, okay? And Logan?” Bradford paused. “She means anything.”
Logan nodded to empty space. “All right,” he said. “If that’s what she wants.”
Courtesy of the bottle, Munroe slept, and in that sleep was peace from the living and peace from the dead. From sunrise around the clock to three in the morning she bathed in sweet oblivion, and when she woke, she checked the time and the day’s date to get her bearings, then set the alarm for eight.
When the hours passed and the buzzer sounded, her feet hit the floor before her hand found the stop. The bottle’s purpose had been served, and the go signal, like a checkered flag to a race-car driver, launched her forward. Today she would begin to dredge the road toward bringing Hannah home.
She showered and left the hotel in search of a salon already open. As with every assignment, there was a role to play, and with any role, illusion was everything. The human subconscious filtered out that which was familiar, and to err in any detail, no matter how subtle, was to jar reality and place a role at risk.
To become and to blend required more than understanding the language or speaking as they did, more than mannerisms and walk and copying dress. To become was to synthesize completely, and this illusion meant that everything—from hairstyle to shoes, even imports—had to be acquired locally.
Hair shorn into a neutral gender look, Munroe took a cab to Paseo Alcorta, one of the city’s several upscale malls. She moved through stores and boutiques with the speed and efficiency of experience. Styles, colors, weights, and textures changed from country to country, but the concept of blending was the same. Suitcase, clothes, shoes, backpacks, jackets; several collections to fill the needs of the neutral gender, all of it on her own dollar.
The money Logan and the other survivors had paid, although an exorbitant sum by their own standards, didn’t even begin to cover expenses on a job of this nature. What the others would never know was that in order to pull this off, she was contributing more to the project than all of their payments combined.
Shopping finished, Munroe returned to the hotel long enough to drop off the day’s bounty, and took a cab to the airport. She had the driver wait while she left for the arrivals area to search out Miles Bradford, who by now should have cleared customs.
She spotted him against the far wall, one leg kicked back for support, arms crossed, as if he had all the time needed to discover the world and no plans to do so. Beside him was a luggage dolly carrying two oversize lockers that functioned as trunks, an oversize carry-on, and a computer bag. He scanned the room with that disinterested look of his, which so belied the focus with which he observed all.
He met her eyes as she found his, and a beautiful smile transformed his face. He greeted her with a hug and then a kiss atop her forehead.
“You okay?” he said.
The question, so clean in its simplicity, so strong in sincerity, held so many complexities that Munroe simply nodded and returned his smile.
“How was the trip?” she asked. “Tired?”
“I slept,” he said. “I’m ready to roll.”
“Did you get the list?”
“Whatever I couldn’t bring, I can get here,” he said. “I’ve got connections in the area—I’m owed and have already started pulling favors.”
Munroe nodded, and as they walked to the exit where the cab sat idling, she hooked her arm in his. Though it was strange to have Bradford as an on-site partner, knowing he had her back felt good.
In the cab, Bradford briefed her on Logan’s call, she updated him on what she knew of the Havens, and between them remained the unspoken issue of whether or not she’d slept.
Bradford pulled an envelope from his computer bag and handed it to her. “It’s what I have on New York,” he said. “It’s not much, but I’ve got my ear to the ground, and it’ll eventually come.”
Munroe stared ahead, eyes on the road, thin envelope limp on her lap.
Bradford
put a hand on hers, his touch cautious, gentle. He said, “The killing was justified, Michael. You did the only thing to be done, let it go.”
This was that conversation for another time. Munroe inclined her head against the seat, turned to the side so that half of Bradford’s face filled her focus, and studied him as he watched the passing traffic. The way he spoke, that mixture of concern and respect, love and equality, was very rare and came from an intimacy grounded in complete acceptance and understanding of who she truly was.
From the airport, the taxi took them into Palermo, the vibrant northeast corner of the city just beyond the wealth-filled stretches of Recoleta. Munroe had originally come here simply to be across town from Logan and lessen the chances of accidentally running into him, but the hotel, large for the area with nearly thirty rooms stacked upon nine floors, and with a restaurant and wireless Internet, had all that she needed for a command center for the rescue—or kidnapping, depending on the point of view.
The room was on the fourth floor, and together they lugged the trunks inside. The local décor, as clean-lined and modular as any that Munroe had seen in Europe, added a variant to what would otherwise globally be considered a standard hotel room: two beds, a bathroom, a windowed balcony, corner chairs, a TV, and a desk against one wall.
Afternoon sunlight streamed through the balcony window and the heater took the chill out of the air. Munroe and Bradford rearranged furniture and cleared a wall upon which they taped a large sheet of paper that would double for a whiteboard.
But for brief questions or the occasional sigh or exclamation, Munroe and Bradford set up shop in silence, pulling matériel from among the clothing, assembling one piece after the other until the small desk was covered with machines and wires that overflowed and bled to the floor.
When Munroe had done all that she could, knew that she’d reached the stage of helpfulness that bordered on inconvenience, she left Bradford on his own and turned to the door.
“I’ll be back by dark,” she said.
Preferring to work alone as she did, an assignment rarely called for this level of assistance, but what she’d always had and currently lacked was time. The information on Hannah’s location was now over two weeks old, and with The Chosen—particularly Hannah—relocating often, Munroe couldn’t risk losing her before they’d even found her.
She needed a lot of information as quickly as possible, and even in a city the size of Buenos Aires, getting it without alerting The Chosen of their presence meant depending heavily on electronics and on the wallet.
In the hallway, Munroe slipped a DO NOT DISTURB sign on the door handle, and as a way to ward off curious eyes and unwanted visitors who might take a special interest in the electronic assembly upstairs, she let the front desk know that housekeeping wouldn’t be necessary.
With daylight hours fading, she returned to Nueva Pompeya, the neighborhood on the south side of the city where stood the midsize grocery store whose owner Gideon had so badly wanted to speak with the day before.
The grocery was on a narrow street, fronted by and set between a variety of smaller mom-and-pop shops. For this, the location was perfect. Far down the block, Munroe exited the cab and, zipping her jacket against the cold, walked toward the grocery, taking in the area and confirming what she had noticed on yesterday’s first pass.
A portion of storefront matched what she had seen in the blurry background of two pictures nestled among the many pages of documents and internal memoranda given her by Logan.
Gideon was correct that the owner of the store, a close friend of The Chosen, was probably still here, but Gideon’s urge to go to the source, while logical to the inexperienced, had great potential for ruin.
The photos were a dot-to-dot, pointing out who to avoid.
Unless she was able to move faster than the target—something she could only do once she was certain of where Hannah was located—to come so close had the potential to cause The Chosen to spook and scatter.
Munroe shoved her hands into pockets, crossed the street, and entered the shop opposite the grocery’s sliding doors. From the outside, the shoe store had appeared to fit what Munroe was looking for, but a cursory glance around the interior told her otherwise. A nod to the proprietor and she returned to the street and moved on to the clothing boutique next door.
But for the girl seated behind the counter, the shop was empty, and judging from the merchandise, it was probably often empty. The clerk was young, late teens, possibly twenties, and she sat bored and disinterested, her eyes glued to her hands and what Munroe assumed was a cell phone. From her position behind the counter, the girl had a nearly perfect view through the display window and across the street.
Munroe surveyed the room and glanced at the clerk once more. Here, although she could get what she wanted as a female, instinct said that the girl would be more eager to help a boy. Experience had taught her that dressed as she was—no makeup, neutral gender hair, and neutral gender clothing—unless she assumed the role of one gender over the other, people inevitably projected whatever made them most comfortable.
What most never realized was that masculinity and femininity were never so much about looks as attitude, and to create the roles and slip between them, one gender to the next, was a tool of the trade that Munroe had utilized for so long that it had become as natural as blinking.
Munroe moved through the store casually, slowly, holding up the occasional garment, and by all appearances completely out of her element. She lingered an appropriate time, held two shirts side by side, dropped her voice an octave, and requested advice from the girl, who until now had barely taken notice of her presence.
“Che, ¿te gusta esta remera para mi hermana?” she said. “I need to buy a birthday gift for her and don’t know where to start.”
The clerk placed her phone on the counter and stepped beyond the glass to the small floor space. Munroe smiled bashfully, and the girl returned the grin.
“I’m Michael,” Munroe said, “and thank you.”
“Bianca,” the girl said, “and how old is your sister?”
The banter between them was casual and friendly, a gentle rebound about the choices at hand, and personal conversation that veered just shy of flirtation. And then, with a decision made, Munroe stood at the counter and glanced beyond the window. She wondered out loud how boring it must be to spend the day watching the comings and goings of the street.
Bianca sighed and nodded.
“So you’ve noticed the van, then,” Munroe said, “the one with the children?”
“The children don’t come every week,” Bianca replied.
“But the van does,” Munroe said, and she leaned in and dropped her voice to a whisper, “the same day every week.”
The Chosen’s propensity toward multipassenger vehicles had been evident in the photos scattered throughout the documents, but other than that one fact, everything else Munroe said was based on guesswork. Right or wrong, it made no difference. Bianca, adhering to human nature, would contradict or fill in the blanks, whatever the case might be.
As if on cue, the girl added, “And always at the same time.”
“The van is gray, no?”
“White,” Bianca said.
“Yes, white.” Munroe grinned, this time blatantly flirtatious. “But I’m not color-blind.”
Bianca blushed, and then, either through embarrassment at the attention or from a desire to prolong the conversation, continued. She was an eager gossip, and Munroe plied the desire to share, questions intermingled with further flirtation and bashful smiles.
The van came weekly, always Tuesday around midmorning, and nearly always the same driver. He and his companion—usually a woman—would go inside for twenty or thirty minutes and then return with several filled crates. Bianca rattled off other details, but at this point they were superfluous. With a gasp at the time and a parting wave, Munroe left the shop for the hotel.
To pinpoint one Haven meant, with time and patience,
locating all three said to be in or around Buenos Aires. When tomorrow rolled around, she would be ready. The magnet had served its purpose, and she’d soon have the needle.
Chapter 11
Munroe sat beside the bed with her back to the wall and two sets of documents on the floor in front of her. It was after midnight, and Bradford, having claimed the bed closest to the window, had already crashed, his gentle snores assurance that he was either sleeping or doing a stellar job of pretending that he was.
Trying to keep ambient light to a minimum, Munroe had pulled the desk lamp down and settled it in the space between the wall and the bed. She had yet to go through the last set of documents that Logan had handed her, and they sat beside the envelope that contained information on the New York killing.
Munroe ran her forefinger between the two, a repetitive pattern of long internal debate until the documents were separated by a perfect line of tile. In a slow, drawn-out movement, she twisted her palms so that they faced her and gazed at the invisible stain of blood that marked them, urging away the tarnish, knowing full well that removal was impossible.
She was a predator, a hunter, hating the bloodlust that lurked always just beneath the surface, disgusted by how easy it was to kill and how good it felt when it was done.
Did it really matter that she killed in self-defense or that her dead were evildoers? Every kill had been a son or brother, father or lover to someone else. Death was death, killing was killing, and the urge to draw blood and the satisfaction it brought was as fierce as any addiction. For this reason Munroe didn’t begrudge the nightmares or the guilt she carried; these provided a form of proof that in spite of the euphoric rush of the kill, she did have a conscience, that she was yet human and alive.
The Innocent: A Vanessa Michael Munroe Novel Page 9