by Lynn Mason
6
“Would you like some tea or coffee, mum?”
Sydney stared bleary-eyed at the woman standing in the center aisle of the train. Her gaze traveled from the woman's trim, charcoal-colored suit to the gleaming stainless steel decanters on her pushcart. A whiff of French roast spiked the air.
“Coffee would be fantastic.” She pushed herself upright and lowered the built-in tray on the back of the seat in front of her.
“Thanks,” she said as the woman handed her a steaming cup. She cradled it between her hands, closed her eyes, and took a long, invigorating sip.
After taking an evening flight from LAX to JFK in New York, she'd immediately boarded a flight to London. When she'd left L.A., it had been Thursday. Now it was Friday afternoon and she was on the last leg of the journey—the four-hour express train from London to Edinburgh.
When she first started at SD-6, Sydney had assumed that the element of mortal peril would be the worst part about being an agent. Maybe it was. But all the hours spent sitting in a plane or train were a close second. And then there were the lies. . . . Sydney had given Francie the story about her aunt Lila's double-bypass surgery. In her friend's eyes, she was a saint. Nah, the lies are definitely the worst part.
She leaned her head against the plush first-class upholstery and stared out the window, watching as the scenery whizzed past. Ever since the train passed the low stone border of Scotland's Hadrian's Wall, the people and terrain had slowly become more rugged and robust. The colors seemed to have gone through a black dye rinse. The rolling kelly green of the English countryside had gradually been replaced by deeper teals and forest green hues. Sapphire blue waters had turned an inky indigo. And the exposed earth had gone from reddish, velvety chocolate to the color of dark fudge.
She thought briefly of Noah, and then Burke. Burke had called before she left. She'd been careful and guarded, and they'd left off with Burke giving her his phone number. Not that I'll use it, she thought. Or maybe I will? She shook her head as they sped past an industrial-looking complex. If Noah were a building, he would have a high-tech, barbed-wire security gate, guard dogs foaming at the mouth, and a giant No Soliciting sign. Burke, on the other hand, would be one of those warm, cozy inns you find off the interstate. The old-fashioned kind that smelled of pine needles and baking bread. He'd also have a welcome mat out front and the door would be open wide.
The thing was, she knew more about Burke after an hour or so of conversation than she knew about Noah—even after intensely working alongside him during the Paris mission. But with Noah it had always been something understated. She might not know his favorite movie or political party, but she had a strong sense about him. There was something behind his eyes that she recognized. The same something that seemed to live within herself.
Is that it? she wondered. Is that why things are always so confusing with Noah? If he was as screwed up as she was, it might explain why she felt drawn to him. Of course, it would also explain why they were doomed.
The best thing would be to forget about both Noah and Burke. Since when did she need to have a guy in her life? She'd never had one before. Trusting people with her feelings now would only get her hurt—and maybe hurt other people as well.
After all, she might not ever make the train home.
At that moment, a male voice with a thick Scottish brogue came over the loudspeaker. “We are approaching Edinburgh. Please make sure to claim your belongings.”
As the train came to a loud, squeaky halt, passengers began moving about the car, shouldering bags and lining up along the center aisle. Sydney sat patiently, waiting until most of the people cleared out. Then she picked up her bag and headed out into the station.
She mounted a set of cement steps to the street level and gazed about the city. An early-evening rain had darkened the tall brick buildings and left the cobblestone roads wet and polished-looking. On the hill to her right loomed Edinburgh Castle, like the backdrop of a movie.
Sydney strode briskly down the sidewalk, passing a long line of shops hawking wools, tartans, cashmere sweaters, and cheesy plastic souvenirs. A man in a green kilt stood outside a hotel lobby, helping wealthy-looking tourists from their cabs. The high, reedy notes of a bagpipe wafted from a nearby pub.
The pubs with quaint wooden signs, the people with Scottish accents, and the light mist gave her a heady feeling. I'm really here. In Scotland. She wished she could bring back a kilt for Francie. She'd get a kick out of that.
As she walked along, Sydney could feel herself sliding into fifth gear. Her senses sharpened, her body became alert, and her mind bundled up all extraneous thoughts and concerns, leaving her free to focus on the task at hand—namely, finding the SD-6 safehouse and her European contacts.
Wilson's directions led her down North Bridge to High Street and then to a maze of back alleys. She turned into the second one she came to. A row of weathered wooden doors checkered the back walls of the buildings. Sydney approached the third door on the left and rapped on it loudly. Three quick knocks, followed by three slower ones.
Almost immediately the door opened and a round-faced man with a bushy black mustache poked his head out. He ushered her inside while quickly glancing to and fro, and bolted the door behind her. Inside, it was pitch-black.
“Follow me,” the man said gruffly, switching on a flashlight.
He led her up two flights of stairs to a small landing. Doors stood to the right and left, and a weak beam of sunlight shone through a high transom window. The door on the left was wide open. Peeking through it, Sydney could see a dusty room containing a few abandoned power tools and two rickety sawhorses holding up planks of plywood.
The door to the right was shut tight. The man walked over and slowly pushed it open, beckoning her to follow. Inside was a small, cramped space with dozens of cardboard boxes piled high in towers, a few even reaching the ceiling. There was barely any room to walk. Sydney was just beginning to wonder why he'd led her in there when the man hit a hidden switch. Instantly, a side wall slid open, revealing a narrow passageway.
They ducked through the opening into a wide, windowless space, this one full of computers and radio equipment. A husky blond man was sitting at one of the monitors. As soon as they entered, he took off his headphones and stood up.
“That's Donaldson,” said the mustached man, gesturing toward the blond guy. “And I'm Pinelli.”
“You're a little young, aren't you?” Donaldson said. He was American. “How old are you?”
“Old enough,” she replied.
Donaldson shook his head. “I don't like this, Pinelli. Look at her. She can't be more than twenty. What kind of a—?”
“Save it.” Pinelli held up a stubby hand. “You want to complain to the boss, go ahead. But I'm not covering your ass. Besides, I saw her file. She's got the right stuff.”
Sydney stood unwavering while Donaldson fixed her with a long, hard stare. Eventually he sank back into his chair. “It's your call, P. But I'm not here to do any baby-sitting.” He swiveled toward the monitor and jammed the headphones back onto his head.
Pinelli placed his fingers on her arm and guided her to the other side of the room. “Don't mind him. He's a hothead, but he's a good agent. He's just a little thrown because you're so . . .”
“Young?” Sydney concluded irritably.
Pinelli nodded. “And female and pretty. He's under the impression that only big, ugly lunkheads like him can do the business.”
“I know the type,” Sydney muttered.
“But I don't have any doubts,” Pinelli went on. “Wilson and I go way back. He trained me. And I've never heard him express such a high opinion about anyone the way he did for you. If he says you're the one for the job, then you are.”
Sydney tried to stay plain-faced and professional, but her mouth automatically curved upward. It felt good to know Wilson had praised her.
“All right,” Pinelli said, glancing at his watch. “We've got a little more than fiv
e hours until drop-off time. I'll go over the itinerary and check supplies; Donaldson will check the latest satellites and infrareds.”
“What about me?” she asked.
“Get changed. We've got wigs, makeup, and wardrobe in that room through there.”
She followed his finger to a smaller, adjoining room in the far corner.
“Grab what you need, and take as long as you want,” he went on. “Just make sure when you come out you're no longer Agent Bristow . . . but Adriana Nichita.”
7
The Loch Ness monster.
Ever since they'd begun their journey west in their boxy black van, it was all Sydney could think about. Looking out the tinted windows, she glimpsed the hard, almost mystical-looking terrain. As they bumped along the left side of a rough two-lane highway, the surrounding countryside varied from grassy pastures to windswept heaths to rocky lunar landscapes. A few times they passed the crumbling remains of a castle or an old fortress. And tucked here and there between the heather-covered hills were long, narrow chasms filled with midnight blue water. The lochs.
Without intending to, without even being a believer, she found herself trying to catch a glimpse of the famous tapered head and bowed, slender neck.
Sydney was completely entranced by the wild beauty of western Scotland. There was a scrappy hardiness about it. The same deep-seated stoutness that had been bred within herself.
“We're only a few minutes out now,” Pinelli said, twisting around in the left front passenger seat to face her. “You might want to do a final check.”
“Right. Thanks.”
Sydney ran a hand over her head. Her hair had been squeezed inside a mesh cap so tight, she could almost feel it reshaping her skull. On top of that, she'd fitted a snug wig, mirroring the sleek black, bobbed hairstyle from Adriana's file photo. A pair of special contact lenses floated over her irises, changing them from deep chestnut to Adriana's lighter, amber-like hue.
Wilson had seen to everything. Her black pantsuit and boots had European labels. Her diamond stud earrings and white platinum Rolex glittered. Her leather Louis Vuitton luggage was filled with appropriate changes of clothing, and a coordinating Prada handbag was crammed full of both British and Italian currencies, since an Italian island was one of Adriana's last known whereabouts before her arrest. The bag even held an antique gold compact mirror with the letter N etched on the top.
Sydney removed the compact, powdered her nose and cheeks, and applied one more coating of wine-colored lipstick. Then she carefully studied her face in the small round mirror. She didn't look like herself at all. She didn't even feel like herself. Her chin was raised at a higher, more privileged angle, and her newly manicured nails made her hand gestures more elegant and sweeping.
She was Adriana Nichita. Pampered yet sheltered, and bitter about losing the life of power she'd been born to inherit.
“You all set?” Pinelli asked.
“I'm ready,” she replied, her voice taking on the lilting cadence of a native Romanian.
Pinelli grinned. “Good.” He gestured toward Donaldson, who sat on the right, sullenly driving the van. “Remember, we're your bodyguards. Your hired help. Snipe at us and boss us around a bit while we're there.”
Sydney brightened at the thought. Maybe she could order Donaldson to lick her boots shiny, or throw himself across a puddle so she could walk over his back.
“Do we have a boat?”
Pinelli nodded. “Fishing boat. There's no regular transportation to Balfour unless you count von Muller's yacht. But in accordance with the rules of the summit, von Muller sent his boat and crew to Aberdeen. Plus, the crossing can be tricky with all the Atlantic currents converging. We felt it better to hire a local than try to pilot a boat ourselves and take unnecessary risks.”
“Right.” She nodded solemnly.
“After we get there and search the house and grounds, Donaldson and I will head to an outpost where we can visually monitor the island and try to pick up radio signals from the other guests' backup people,” Pinelli went on. “A few days ago Donaldson planted the signal device on the lighthouse glass. Check the beam as often as you can. If we have any pertinent information to pass on to you, we'll send it via Morse code. Otherwise, you're on your own.” His features wrinkled into a sympathetic gaze.
“I understand.” She smiled at him, grateful for his kindness.
“Here's the bay,” Donaldson called out, swerving the van into a gravel lot fenced off by wooden poles. Up ahead lay the jagged, rocky coastline and a ramshackle dock. A decrepit forty-foot fishing boat was moored at the far end.
Pinelli jumped out of the van, opened Sydney's door, and offered her a hand. While he checked the latest weather image on a hand-held computer, she slipped into her fur coat and matching muff. Meanwhile, Donaldson jogged up the pier to check with the boat captain.
A few minutes later Donaldson came puffing back. “The old guy says to get a move on. Bad weather is coming and he needs time to check his traps before the end of the day.”
Pinelli and Donaldson grabbed Sydney's luggage out of the back of the van and the three of them headed for the dock, Pinelli offering Sydney his arm to guide her over the rocky path. Once they stepped onto the creaky planks of the pier, Sydney gazed out over the water, searching for the isle. But all she could see were wooly clouds resting along the horizon.
A man stood waiting for them at the end of the dock. His gray hair stuck out in thick bristles beneath his brown knit cap, and his face looked as dry and withered as the parched wooden sides of the boat bobbing in front of them. “Come aboard,” he said in a thick brogue. “And mind ye the longlines,” he added, pointing to coils of fishing line heaped on the boat floor. “Ye'd hate to go over with a six-inch hook in yer shank.”
They stepped onto the swaying boat, Pinelli holding her hand and guiding her like a good manservant. Then he and Donaldson heaped her luggage in a corner while she perched on a narrow, padded bench.
“An' here we go,” the captain said, turning the key and firing the motor. They untied the boat and shoved off.
Sydney felt a lurching sensation inside her. This is it, she thought, taking a deep breath of salty sea air. She was now officially embarking on her mission. She'd expected to be filled with dread at this point, but she wasn't. Instead, her mind felt revived, primed with a heavy sense of duty.
She was ready for anything. Even a fabled monster.
* * *
Sydney stood against the rail, gazing out over the choppy waves. The entire world was gray—from the steely water below to the smoky rain clouds above. Soon after they'd left the shore, a gauzy mist appeared all around them, narrowing their view and trapping them in a sullen nothingness. If it weren't for the rhythmic pounding of the surf against their vessel, she would have doubted they were moving at all.
The old boat captain, however, seemed used to such conditions. He half hummed, half whistled a sad-sounding folk tune as he steered the creaky ship through the water.
Sydney walked up beside him. “Is it much farther?” she asked in her newly acquired Romanian accent.
“Not far,” he replied, keeping his eyes straight ahead. “I don't know why ye'll be wanting to see Balfour. 'Tis a small, desolate place. Nothing there but the auld house, and many in these parts swear it's haunted. Many eerie goin's-on and bogeys have been spotted there. Most people think it isn't worth the long crossing, but ye're the third group o' the day to be ferried over.”
“Is that so?” she asked, hoping to glean more information.
“Foreign folk. Tourists, like yerselves. No locals would be wantin' a ride, that's for sure. Of course”—he cracked a near-toothless grin and patted the wad of ten-pound notes poking out of his shirt pocket— “I canna say I mind the spare quid.”
Sydney smiled. From over the man's shoulder, she spotted Donaldson beckoning to her. “Excuse me,” she said to the old man, and walked unsteadily to the back of the boat. “What?” she asked in a whisper.<
br />
“You're getting out of character,” Donaldson mumbled. “Don't be so friendly. Adriana is a known snob and would never chat with common strangers.”
Sydney narrowed her eyes at him. “Fine. From now on I'll be a raving witch.” She strode past him and leaned against the frame of the boat, pretending to stare out at the ghostly haze.
She knew she was being a little unfair. After all, he'd made a good point. But she didn't like being scolded. It made her feel like the naïve, clumsy teenager Noah had made her out to be during the first briefing. She did not need to be reminded of that. And it was way past time for doubt to set in.
“There's the island! There's Balfour.” The old man's shout broke through her thoughts. She looked over and saw him gesturing toward the mist off the port bow.
She turned and stared in the direction he'd indicated. A second later, a craggy isle appeared through the fog as if magically conjured. The captain had been right. It did look gloomy. Streaks of red granite rose out of the inky water like a bloody fist clutching a small, boulder-strewn spot of earth. There was no greenery except for a few shriveled thatches of weeds and the scrawny skeleton of a tree. And right in the middle stood a large fortress of a house made from dull gray stones.
She could definitely see why some would think it haunted. The mansion was tall and ominous, at least three stories high, and flanked on either side by spindly towers. A jagged, toothy-looking trim edged the roofline, and pale, yellowish candlelight shone from two tall, mullioned windows over the front archway.
The house looked like something from a classic horror film—dreary and colorless. In fact, the only spots of brightness on the whole isle were a large yellow speedboat docked in a small cove and two round, slate-green awnings that topped the front windows. Everything else was the dingy, faded hue of ashes.
The old captain steered the vessel to a small wooden dock jutting from the one sloping area of the isle, and they disembarked. Sydney recognized von Muller standing at the head of the dock wearing a long black coat with a high, round collar and attached cape. A charcoal-colored derby sat on his head, and his gloved hands held an open umbrella.