Anonymous Sources (33 page)

It was tricky when we knew so much more than we were able to say.

The word
nuclear
, for example, didn't appear until the very bottom of the article:

The possibility of produce deliveries as a security concern was raised at a recent conference organized by the Department of Homeland Security.

Officials described how nuclear sensors installed at major ports and airports are designed to detect radioactive material. But certain
cargoes—including bananas—are rarely stopped. The potassium in bananas routinely sets off the sensors, according to one former official from the Los Alamos National Laboratory.

As a result, he added, “They just wave them right through.”

“Good,” said Hyde, when we finally leaned back from our keyboards. He had been standing behind me, reading along over my shoulder and making suggestions as we typed.

“Not great, but good. At least we'll have put a marker down on the story. Now, why don't you two go get some rest? We'll reconvene here in the morning and figure out our next line of attack.”

I stretched my arms above my head and nodded. I needed to do another emergency shopping expedition so I would have something to wear tomorrow. My plan was to force Elias to accompany me. He wasn't obvious bodyguard material, but he was better than nothing.

It was after 9:00 p.m. when we trudged up the hill again toward Dumbarton Street. I felt bone weary and I was lugging two shopping bags. I'd grabbed the first dress that fit, a silky wrap with a caramel-and-ivory swirl pattern. Also a buttery-tan pair of Tod's ballet flats: after marching around all day in high heels, my toes were screaming for mercy.

Back at his place Elias produced a well-thumbed pile of take-out menus.

“Your call, Ginger. Thai or Mexican? I think the Mexican place might deliver faster.”

I kicked my Manolos off beside the door and plopped down beside him on the futon.

“I don't know. I don't think I can face a burrito. Any chance we could just throw together something here? I feel like I haven't eaten anything besides plane food and takeout in weeks.”

I got up and rummaged around the kitchen. The refrigerator held slim pickings, but I found half a loaf of bread, a dozen eggs, and a few wilting vegetables.

“Tell me you have butter and salt somewhere, and I can whip us up an omelet,” I called through.

“Sure. Breakfast for dinner. Love it,” he yelled back.

A few minutes later I was cracking eggs into a bowl. Elias found a frying pan for me, then settled on a stool and launched into an impersonation of a constipated-looking Jill outside the White House this morning.

“ ‘Carry this back for me, will you, Elias, you ignorant twit?' ” he mimicked. “I nearly gagged when she handed me that grotty mug.” He wrinkled his nose. “Did you see there were teeth marks on top, where she'd gnawed the lid?”

“Eww. What a cow. But you should have seen her once we got inside. Barely said a word. Hyde, though, he was great. He— Ouch!”

I'd been trying to chop a tomato and the dull knife nicked my finger.

“Oh, here—use the tomato knife.” Elias reached into a drawer. “So what did Hyde do? I think he and Carspecken have a long history—”

“Did you say this is a tomato knife?” I interrupted, studying the oddly shaped utensil he had placed in my hand. “As in, a knife specifically designed for cutting
tomatoes
?”

“Yep. It's awesome.”

“Wow. I don't know many bachelors who can boast of owning their very own tomato knife.”

He shrugged. “My mom gave it to me. It's kind of a family inside joke. We exchange crazy kitchen gadgets as stocking stuffers for Christmas.”

My eyes lit up. “What else do you have?”

“Let's see . . . a mango pitter . . . a tortilla press . . . Don't think I've ever used that one. Poultry shears, obviously . . .”

“You have poultry shears? I don't even know what that—”

“Doesn't everyone? Did I mention my reversible meat tenderizer?”

I started to giggle.

He opened a drawer and began pulling things out. “There's an egg
cuber here, but that was a given. An olive-wood lobster mallet, my personal favorite. A lemon reamer . . . Nah, too pedestrian. Aha. Here we go. The pièce de résistance.”

He held up what looked like a deep-sea-diver's mask.

“What's that?”

“Onion goggles,
mais bien sûr
.”

I laughed until tears rolled down my cheeks.

“Personally, I still think the spring-loaded ravioli stamp I gave my sister last year wins for sheer usefulness.”

I kept laughing and crying until suddenly the tears falling were real tears. I realized I was weeping.

“Alex?”

“Sorry,” I sobbed. “I'm—I'm just exhausted. I guess this story is getting to me.”

“Oh,” he said awkwardly. “I guess having someone attempt to murder you would do that.”

“Yeah, there's that. And I keep feeling like there is something . . . terrible going on, and all we've managed to do is nibble around the edges.”

“We just have to keep nibbling tomorrow.”

I sniffled.

“We'll get there, don't worry. And at least your love life is looking up, right?” he asked.

“What?”

“ ‘Good morning, luscious legs'?”

I felt my cheeks flush red. “He's not a boyfriend or anything. Actually, he's . . .” A cackle escaped me. I couldn't help it. “Actually he's more like Petronella's boyfriend.”

Elias looked lost. “Petronella? Petronella Black? I thought Thom Carlyle was her boyfriend.”

“Things got a little complicated. Make that
very
complicated.” I started laughing again through the tears.

Elias stared at me as if I might be unhinged.

I reached for a wad of paper towels. I blew my nose, wiped my eyes, and tried to think of a way to change the subject. “So. A spring-loaded ravioli stamp?”

For the next hour we sat in his little kitchen, eating eggs and burned toast and comparing silly family holiday rituals. Elias's were far more entertaining than mine, although he did seem to enjoy my account of the Christmas when my father ignited his own eyebrows while attempting to make mulled wine.

It was nearly midnight before we slid the dishes into the sink and said good-night. I think Elias was trying to avoid the lumpy futon couch as long as possible. And I . . . I felt happy just to sit with a friend and talk about something trivial. I didn't even mind being sober. Anything to postpone thinking about all the questions rattling around my head. I knew that later I would lie awake, worrying about Thom Carlyle and Nadeem Siddiqui and Lucien Sly. About my daughter. About how to put things right.

    

    

FRIDAY, JULY 2

I
had a terrible night.

I tossed and turned and imagined that every creak and whisper of the old house above us was the footfall of someone coming to kill me.

As the hours ticked past, I grew irascible. I lay there and cursed my insomnia. Then I just lay there cursing everyone I could think of.

Hyde, for having agreed to send me to England and for not pulling me off this damn story ten days ago. Edmund Tusk, for not giving me anything on the record. General Carspecken, ditto. Jill, for being a stupid old cow. Thom Carlyle, for dying in the first place. Nadeem, for disappearing and now apparently dying too.

Then there was Lucien, simultaneously so alluring and so utterly unsuitable as a serious romantic prospect. When he'd called to say hi yesterday morning, he sounded odd. Quieter than usual. He had kept telling me to be careful, to move somewhere safe. But he had also taken the time to describe, in detail, everything he planned to do to me under the moonlight on a beach in Bermuda. Despite all the craziness going on, I listened and felt warmth wash through me. How often do you meet a man who can make you weak in the knees with desire, and then not ten minutes later make you fall over laughing? It was true. He was pure pleasure.

I was still turning it all over in my mind when my new cell phone rang.

I looked at the alarm clock: 5:51 a.m. The first fingers of dawn were just creeping across the window.

Hmm. Since Galloni had made me promise, I hadn't used the phone. But caller ID was displaying a UK number. Maybe it was Lucien. Who else would call so early? Curiosity got the better of me.

“Hello?”

“How
dare
you,” came the voice on the other end. She didn't bother to identify herself. No need. “How dare you. You little tramp.”

“Hello, Petronella.” I sat up in bed and squared my shoulders, pulled my stomach muscles tight. I imagined her doing the same thing. Two fighters circling the ring, girding for the first punch.

When she spoke again, she spoke slowly, her plummy voice pitched low and thick with rage. “I'm back in England, you see. I rang Lucien several times yesterday. But no reply. And no one seems to have seen him. Rather strange. And then this morning I bumped into that old dolt Peter. I gather the two of you have met.”

Peter? Oh, yes. Pete. Lucien's friend, the one with the glazed eyes, who'd fetched us a round of beers at the pub.

“He told me what a lovely evening you all had at the Eagle the other night,” Petronella continued menacingly. “He couldn't quite remember
your name, mind you, but he went on in excruciating detail about how Lucien was pawing at some ginger-haired American, positively drooling all over her. And how the two of them left together, and no one's seen Lucien since. Pete seemed to find the whole incident quite hilarious. Quite the jolly tale. So I repeat: How dare you?”

“You have got to be kidding me,” I shot back. “You're upset that Lucien and I hit it off? As if you're some loyal girlfriend and you've caught him cheating on you? Do you not see a tiny trace of irony in that position?”

“Please. Spare me the morality lecture. My relationship with Lucien—”

“You didn't have a relationship. You had a
fling
.”

She made a sputtering noise, like a deflating tire. Then she asked, “What exactly happened between the two of you?”

“None of your business.”

“I rather think it is.”

“No. It's not. Not anymore. You just admitted yourself that he's stopped returning your calls.”

There was a pause.

“Listen to you,” she said then, tauntingly. “Do you actually think you're fit to wipe his boots? Do you have any idea who he is? Who his family is?”

“I gather his father is a duke.”

“ ‘I gather his father is a duke,' ” she mimicked savagely. “You haven't the faintest clue. He's from one of the oldest families in Britain. His great-grandfather—oh, forget it. Do you really think he's likely to make a go of it with you? With some American, slutty, working-class hack?”

I couldn't think of a comeback for that one. It stung.

Perhaps because she was so insufferable.

Perhaps because she was right.

AFTER THAT THERE WAS NO
point trying to sleep.

I felt like punching a hole in the wall. Instead I dragged myself to the kitchen. Elias had left a note for me on the counter:
Headed to the gym and then straight on to office. See you there
? Yes. First, though, coffee. I couldn't be bothered with the espresso thimbles. I put a proper pot on to brew while I hit the shower.

I stood under the steamy spray for a long time, fantasizing about creative ways to torture Petronella. Then I moved on to trying to come up with a plan for the day. If I didn't think of something before I went into the bureau, I would have to go along with whatever Hyde had dreamed up overnight. Or Jill, God forbid. I was covered in soap and turning various bad ideas over in my mind when the phone began to ring. Not my temporary cell phone. Elias's home phone. I ignored it. Probably a telemarketer.