by Lynn Mason
She stood and drained her cup, set it on the small, cloth-draped table beside her, and turned toward the door.
Konstantin cleared his throat loudly. “I think you do not trust me the way you should, Adriana,” he said.
She turned to face him.
“Your family and my country,” he went on. “We have had good times and bad times, have we not? But I assure you, I am the one you should stand with. Not von Muller and that wretched pup Hubbard.”
“Is that so, Konstantin?” she murmured, arching her brows suspiciously. “Tell me, why should I have faith in you?”
“My comrades and I, we are professionals. We know how to handle such things. Last week I had the pleasure of torturing and killing a CIA agent who was trying to penetrate our Taiwanese outfit.” His eyes glinted and his mouth spread into a toothy grin, giving him a rabid, feral look. “You should have heard him scream. Those Americans. They are always so loud.”
Sydney tried to mask her horror as she listened to him cackle. Nausea bubbled in the pit of her stomach and an icy wave spread from the center of her chest. But she somehow forced the bile back down her throat and met his eye, compelling her lips to smile. “Very gratifying work, Konstantin. I have no doubt you are quite good at what you do.”
Her answer seemed to please him. “So you will consider my request?”
“I shall reflect on it all night.”
“Very good.” He nodded at her smugly. “We will talk more tomorrow. Do svidanja.”
“Do svidanja.”
She watched as he picked up a candle and walked toward the door, his body casting a distorted, hulking shadow over the room.
Sydney waited a full minute after he left, trying to quell the gnawing sensation in her gut. Then she took a deep breath, picked up one of the lit tapers, and headed for the door.
She had just taken a step into the corridor when she ran right into Mrs. MacDougall.
“Och, ye gave me a start,” she said with a chuckle, placing a hand on the bodice of her faded blue housedress. “I've jus' come to fetch the tea things. My, but ye look unwell, m'leddy.” She peered closely at Sydney, her peacock blue eyes round with concern. “Perhaps ye should go rest a spell?”
Sydney paused, overwhelmed by the woman's warm, motherly presence. She had a sudden urge to droop against her plump shoulder and hear her croon words of reassurance in her thick, choppy accent.
But she remembered what Donaldson said. She remembered who she was. So she brushed on past and headed into the dark corridor, without returning a word or a smile.
10
Sydney found her luggage in an open room in the middle of the second-floor corridor. Someone—Mrs. MacDougall, she imagined—had already made a small fire in the fireplace, turned down the covers on the large four-poster bed, and lit the candles in the ornate wrought-iron sconces on the wall. Her clothes had been placed in a large oak wardrobe, and a pitcher of water and a goblet stood on a serving tray atop the bedside table.
All the comforts of the dorm suite, she thought. Except for the remote-controlled Sony and mini fridge.
She shut and locked the door behind her, set the candle on top of a dresser, and glanced about the dim chamber. The room had a heavy, musty smell about it, as if it hadn't been used in years. The sheer bed canopy, which had probably been bright white at one time, was now a dingy, toasted hue, and the scroll-patterned fabric on the walls was puckering at the seams. In fact, the only evidence of recent occupants was a freshly gnawed mouse hole along the wooden baseboard.
Just as in the parlor downstairs, a chill hung in the air, occasionally broken by waves of warmth from the fire. Sydney automatically hugged herself. The storm had worsened considerably. Lightning flashed at intervals, illuminating the gloomy room, and the wind howled through every crack and seam in the old castle. A stuffed chair with a crisp linen slipcover had been turned to face the hearth. Good old Mrs. MacDougall, Sydney thought as she settled into it, pulled off her boots, and stretched out her feet to warm.
She felt strung out, almost misshapen with fatigue. It was tiring, being someone else. She took off the wig for a moment and massaged her head. It felt itchy and tight. Then she put the hairpiece back on. Despite the locked door, she still felt uneasy. There would be no going back if someone were to walk in and see her long hair spilling onto her shoulders.
Once her hands and toes felt thawed, she got up and rummaged through her things until she found Graham's diachronic glasses. Then she walked over to the window and pulled aside the thick velvet drape.
The slender, arched panes clattered inside their mullioned frames as the wind and rain beat incessantly against the house. Between the frequent bursts of lightning and the rhythmic sweep of the lighthouse beacon, Sydney managed to piece together a view. The storm looked brutal—almost wrathful against the tiny isle and its inhabitants. Dark towers of seawater rose and fell in the distance. And peering down the cliff, Sydney could see fierce, white-topped waves battering the jagged boulders far below.
She put on the phony sunglasses and stared at the lighthouse beam. Sure enough, the lenses blocked out all but a tiny pulse. The Morse code transmission. Sydney carefully translated as she watched.
Storm worse. Snatch option out. Y-O-Y-O.
Sydney sighed heavily and took off the glasses. Y-O-Y-O. . . . You're on your own.
Even if it didn't exactly contain good news, it was nice to get a message. A sign from her people and her real life. And at least they didn't say they'd picked up on any imminent danger. She might be stranded, but at least she was safe.
Of course, should her luck turn, there would be no helicopter rescue. She wondered if Pinelli and Donaldson were working on an alternate escape plan. But what? How could they possibly penetrate the storm to get to her?
Sydney let go of the curtain and sat down on the edge of the bed. Tight, panicky feelings fluttered in her chest. She hadn't realized how much the snatch pickup plan truly meant to her until that moment. But now, knowing she had no options, no clear method of escape, made her feel as if she were slowly suffocating. The gloominess of the old house seemed to settle into her bones.
“Okay, take it easy,” she whispered, trying to reassure herself. If Noah and Wilson couldn't be there, she could at least try to take on their role herself. “The worst thing you can do is panic. Just take deep breaths and think things through.”
She was alive. She was safe, for now. Everyone assumed she was Adriana, and no one appeared to want to harm her. If she played her cards right, she could easily get through this in one piece.
All these thoughts wheeled through her mind as she slowly undressed and slipped into an ankle-length white silk nightgown. What she really needed to do was sleep. She could worry more tomorrow after she'd rested.
Sydney had just finished burrowing beneath the pile of quilted blankets when a low rapping sounded at her door. She jumped out of bed, checked her wig, and pulled on her matching robe. She wondered who it could be. Perhaps Mrs. MacDougall, coming to lay a mint on her pillow?
She opened the door to find Nigel Hubbard leaning jauntily against the frame. His blazer was off and the top three buttons of his pale blue shirt were undone, revealing a thin horizontal scar under his left collarbone.
“What do you want?” she asked, slipping back into Adriana's proud voice.
His clear green eyes slowly traveled from her feet back up to her frown. “I was in my room next door and could feel the heat from your fire. I thought maybe I'd come in so we could . . . talk?”
Sydney didn't even try to hide her revulsion. “We just finished talking. Downstairs at the meeting.”
“Right.” His lips curled in a sideways smile. “But I was thinking we could discuss things further, just the two of us. Maybe . . . get to know each other better?”
Sydney stood glaring at him, wondering what Adriana would do. Would she scream and yell? Would she slap his face like a soap opera queen? Her common sense was being drowned out by her own ang
ry impulses, all of which were encouraging her to break his jaw.
“We seem to have a lot in common, you and I,” he went on, undeterred by her silence. “We are probably on the same side. After all, I noticed you voted with me at the meeting.”
“Don't flatter yourself,” she retorted.
Just then, she caught sight of movement behind him. The door to the bedchamber across the hall was open a tiny crack, and someone was peering through, watching them. In the small shaft of candlelight, Sydney could see a sliver of a face with dark eyes, black hair, and ruby red lips. Carmina.
Sydney remembered her last hellish tangle with a member of Mercado de Sangre, a group infamous for collecting bounty for the severed heads of enemy spies. Of all the guests on the isle, Carmina was the one whose suspicions she least wanted to arouse.
“You know, it's right nippy out here in the hall,” Hubbard murmured. “Why not be a luv and share your fire?”
“If you are cold,” she said through clenched teeth, “go and put on your coat.”
He leaned toward her with a devilish glint in his eye. “You know what they say, eh, doll? Nu te uita la cojoc, ci te uitã la ce e sub cojoc.”
For a split second, Sydney let go of all mannerisms, completely taken aback by his speaking in Romanian. She translated mentally: One should not look at the coat, but what is under the coat.
Yuck.
“That may be, Mr. Hubbard,” she replied with an icy grin. “But as they also say, Porcu-i tot porc si-n ziua de Pasti.” No fine cloth can hide a clown.
“Just trying to be neighborly and make you feel at home,” he said, cocking an eyebrow at her. “As you can see, I'm quite good at romance languages.”
Give me a break, Sydney thought.
“You liked that last bit? Wait till you hear this.” He took a breath and began muttering in a low, raspy voice. To her horror, she understood none of it. It was Romanian—at least, the consonants and inflections seemed right—but nothing at all sounded familiar.
Sydney could feel her scalp start to sweat in spite of the cold, and a paralyzing numbness raced through her limbs. This was bad. Hubbard was probably speaking some filthy street-talk Romanian as a lame come-on, or some specialized vocabulary she'd never gotten around to studying. Either way, she could end up looking like a fool in front of him and Carmina—and possibly even expose herself as a fraud.
This was what she got for blowing off her studies to go to a party with Francie. If she ever got out of this, she'd be the best, most dutiful agent recruit the CIA had ever seen.
Hubbard ceased his muttering and waited expectantly for her reply.
Don't panic, Bristow, she reminded herself. Think it through.
“How dare you come here and harass me!” she shouted. “Do not speak to me in that language again. I am no longer a Romanian citizen, and I do not wish to hear it—especially from you!” She stepped back and slammed the door in his face, then quickly locked it.
She leaned against the wall, catching her breath, as the resulting sound waves echoed through the corridor outside. She really hoped they bought it. It was heavy on the drama queen factor, but it was all she could think of to do at the moment. At least Donaldson would be pleased to hear how snotty she'd been.
What I wouldn't give to be back with him and Pinelli, she thought. Or Wilson. Or—she shut her eyes as her body throbbed with the memory of a desperate, hungry kiss—or Noah.
She walked over to the bed, threw herself onto the mattress, and curled around one of the pillows. She suddenly felt fearful and small, like a child lost in a department store. With no one working alongside her, she had no idea if she was doing a good job. The whole situation was starting to overwhelm her. The house was gloomy, the people were shifty, and her brain ached from being two people simultaneously. She just wasn't sure she could pull the mission off alone anymore.
But then, she hadn't been entirely deserted. She still had Pinelli's messages—her one ray of hope. In fact, there could be one headed her way that very moment. They could have had a recent breakthrough.
Sydney jumped out of bed, grabbed the sunglasses off of her nightstand, and pulled back the drapes to check the coded message again. But it was the same as before.
Y-O-Y-O. You're on your own.
* * *
Sydney awoke with a start, her heart thumping in her ears. She sat up and looked around her bedchamber, remembering where she was. The thumping sounded again, only this time, it didn't seem to come from her, but from somewhere in the room.
She slid out of bed and peered about her, searching for the cause of the noise. It was cold, and difficult to see. The fire had crumbled into glowing coals, and the single taper in her candleholder flared fitfully, its wax overflowing the small basin below it. Her pulse slowed as a quick search revealed no one near. So what had she heard?
The sounds came again, and Sydney traced them to a point in the ceiling above her bed. Someone else must be awake—and on the third floor, the one von Muller said was off limits.
Her heart filled with a frantic resolve. She put on her robe and snatched the half-melted candle from the dresser. If something was going on, she had to find out what it was. Better that then get caught unprepared, or lie tossing and turning for hours on end.
As quietly as possible, she twisted the small, burnished doorknob as far as it would go and gently pulled open the door. Then she padded out into the hallway and closed the door behind her, turning the knob to avoid a loud snap from the latch.
The corridor was ice cold, and heavy with darkness. All the doors were shut tight, and there was no sign of anyone else stirring on their floor. She stealthily crept forward in her dim circle of light until she reached the end of the hall and the staircase. She passed the steps leading downward and tiptoed across to the other side of the landing. Then she lifted her candle and illuminated the circular path to the third floor.
Again she heard the bumping noise. Sydney's heartbeat accelerated. She blew out the candle, set it on the floor, and slowly made her way up the stairs, letting the smooth wooden banister guide her. Whoever it was, she didn't want them to see her. Not until she'd discovered what was going on.
The murky darkness seemed to close in around her, confining her sight to alien shapes and various shades of black. Her ragged breathing and her heart hammering in her ears combined in a disjointed, irregular rhythm. The only other sounds were an occasional groan as the old house shifted and resettled, and the high, mournful note of the wind blasting through breaks in the stones.
Eventually her feet reached the third-floor landing. She paused and stared into the blackness of the passageway, holding her breath and straining to perceive the slightest sound. A moment passed and she heard it again, this time coupled with movement, a rapid shifting of the shadows at the far end of the corridor. A violent chill swept through Sydney's chest. Something was definitely stirring in the darkness ahead.
She gripped the stair rail tightly and took a slow, shuddery breath. The fear she'd managed to drive from her thoughts still asserted itself physically. Her hands trembled, her pulse echoed through her head like a jackhammer, and her nearly useless eyes darted around the cavernous gloom, searching desperately for something to focus on.
After an immeasurable pause, her mind reasserted itself, commanding her limbs forward. She groped her way along the wall toward the spot where the darkness had rippled. Layers of dust and bits of cobwebs clung to her hands, while drafts of stale air swirled the fabric of her gown about her legs.
A chill seemed to snake up off the castle floor, traveling through her bare feet into the core of her body. She sensed she was almost at the end of the hallway. The distance seemed right. And her vision had sharpened, her eyes able to use the minimal light more efficiently.
She could see a window in front of her. It was nearly invisible behind layers upon layers of thick drapes, but her eyes could make out the glimmers of lightning that briefly outlined it in brightness.
Clu
nk! Clunk!
The noise sounded again, and Sydney jumped from the nearness of it. It was coming from behind the curtains.
It's just the wind rattling the shutters, she thought, her shoulders slackening with relief. Great. All this fuss because of a loose window latch. This spooky old house must really be starting to get to me.
Oh, well. As long as she was up there, she might as well try to bolt the thing so she could get some sleep. At least her trip upstairs wouldn't be for nothing.
She pushed aside the drapes and reached in for the handle. But instead of a cold metal latch, her fingers closed around a very warm, very human arm.
Sydney jumped back with a gasp. Curtains thrashed in every direction, and a pair of hands flailed about. Then a brilliant bolt of lightning sliced through the air outside, illuminating the owner of the arm.
“Malcolm!” she cried, grasping hold of the wiggling boy.
She could hear him suck in his breath. “H-how do ye know me name?”
Another flash of lightning streaked behind the glass, lighting up both of their faces.
“Ah no. It's one of them visiting folk,” he said, looking crestfallen. “I thought ye were a ghost. Ye look like one in yer white dressing gown.”
“What are you doing up here?” she asked, resuming Adriana's haughty manner.
“Looking fer ghosts. They like attic floors best.”
“Does von Muller know you are up here?”
His silence conveyed his guilt. He swung his bare feet as he sat on the window ledge, causing his heels to bang against the wall. Clunk, clunk!
“If you do not want me to tell him of your insolence, you must go back to bed at once. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Now off with you. Quickly.” He brushed past her and ran down the corridor, the now familiar patter of his footsteps reverberating off the walls.
Sydney slapped a hand to her forehead. She would definitely not include this in the mission report.
She waited until her blood pressure had returned to normal and then stole back down the hallway to the stairs. Just as she stepped onto the second-floor landing, another rush of movement caught her attention. This time it came from downstairs, in the direction of the kitchen. At first she assumed it was Malcolm grabbing a snack before he headed off to bed. But as she reached the edge of the hallway, she caught a glimpse of red on the floor below.