Hot Ticket (44 page)

“He didn’t get back to Belize in time for Louis to make enough fresh medicine. It was a long shot in any case. He was terminally
ill when we met.” I snapped on my helmet. “Duncan’s back in Berlin. I wouldn’t call him refreshed from his road trip. He thinks
Cecil pushed Justine off her balcony. He’s probably right.”

“Duncan knows about Cecil?”

“Not completely. But he might after reading Justine’s diary. His mother’s sending it from Cleveland. Apparently Justine left
it behind in her rush to get back to Bobby.”

Maxine considered the implications. “Duncan’s a big boy,” she said finally. “Let him read it first. Are you aware that Bobby’s
coming to Berlin in a few weeks?”

“What for?”

“NATO meeting. He likes to look military before elections. You’re going to see him. Says he’s got a few questions for your
ears only.” The bench creaked as she slowly left it. Without comment she watched me zip on a black leather jacket. She was
probably trying to figure out how, out of seven brilliant and ruthless agents, I could be the only one left. “Did you really
marry Fausto?”

“Yes. Any more questions?”

“None that you could answer.” Maxine stepped aside as I gunned the Harley into the night.

For a few days, the newspapers went mad. I was reading a hilariously mendacious interview with ex-senator, mother-redux Perle
at her new residence in Switzerland when Duncan shuffled in. He looked awful.

“Hey, your cast’s off.”

Only a dispirited grunt in reply. I brought him to the kitchen, where Curtis was making Wiener schnitzel. “Look who’s just
in time for lunch.”

“What can I get you, Duncan?” Curtis asked, wiping his hands on his apron.

“Beer and a switchblade,” Duncan moaned, drooping into a chair. He drank half the beer in one go. “I’ve never been so humiliated
in my life.”

Curtis brought a pile of noodles to the table. “Eat. You’ll feel better.”

Duncan obliged, but his mood did not improve. My manager and I kept up the small talk until the third bottle of beer. “Say,
did you get Justine’s diary?” I finally asked. A dismal nod. “Read anything about the pager?”

Duncan burped. “Nope. All she wrote about was Bobby Marvel. She was obsessed with him. They were going to ditch Paula the
second he left the White House. Move back to a farm, raise tobacco, ride horses, all that crap. Of course he was the stud
of her life. This wasn’t a diary. It was a porno fantasy.”

“You mean you didn’t even get mentioned?”

“A few times. I was Doofus Dunko. My mother was Ma Blimp.”

“What a bitch! After all that dancing.”

“I should have listened to you. She was beginning to hallucinate at the end. Imagined she was screwing two Bobbys at once.
Sick.”

“One way of dealing with pressure,” Curtis said. “Poor girl. I understand she had a substance abuse problem.”

“She had a Bobby problem! Mentioned you a few times, Les.”

“Highly complimentary, I’m sure.”

“Different ways she’d like to kill you for turning Bobby’s head. I had no idea Justine had such a violent imagination. She
wasn’t too fond of Fausto, either. He’s lucky she didn’t gas him.” Duncan reached for another mound of noodles. “I wish I
had never read the thing. At least I would have been left with my delusions of grandeur.”

“Can’t win ’em all, Duncan. You’ll meet someone else.”

“I don’t think so,” he said softly. “Not like her.”

“So what are you going to do with the diary?” I asked.

Duncan tossed a small notebook on the table. “Burn it for me, would you, Curt?” He flexed his wrists. “Maybe we could read
through some Brahms. See how far out of shape I am.”

My pianist followed me to the music room.

I played a dozen concerts. Meanwhile, across the Atlantic, Jojo Bailey got a huge funeral. Chickering’s was barely covered,
Fausto’s never even mentioned. After lying in a coma for weeks, Justine opened her eyes and moaned, “Bobby.” He picked a new
vice president, this one a vegetarian senator who had recently married an Asian heiress. They’d look great in Jojo’s mansion.
Meanwhile, a Middle East arms dealer dropped dead in Jerusalem right in the middle of a manicure. No one could figure out
what had happened to him.

Maxine called. “Looks like Louis finally earned his five million bucks. He’s back in Richmond, at any rate.”

Two days later she called again. “Bendix Kaar was found dead this morning. Doctors think he had a heart attack. The cleaning
lady found him slumped over his desk.” The Queen chuckled. “He had been composing a two-part invention.”

Nice going, Louis: a few more hits and that poison might win you the Nobel Peace Prize. “Maybe he died happy,” I said. “Poor
bastard.”

I phoned the café in San Ignacio and said I’d call every day at this time until I got through to Ek. Eventually he was there.
“I hear Louis went back to the States,” I said. “What are you doing for the winter?”

“I’m a tour guide.” Pause. “Easy walks. Nothing like yours.”

My insides slid over a bottomless waterfall. “Louis settled your score. The man who killed Dr. Tatal is dead.”

“Should I send money?” Ek asked.

“Of course not. Just take care of Louis as best you can.”

“Thanks, Cosima.”

One innocent soul corrupted, or perhaps civilized: great work, Smith. I spent a lot of time on the Harley chasing dead leaves.
A few reporters wouldn’t go away because they kept hearing ugly rumors about me dancing in an all-night muffin market on A
Street. Fausto’s lawyers visited with a pile of papers to sign. They were aghast that I had already scattered his ashes. Their
client had married, died, and vanished within a space of three days: was that another of his huge jokes? Wish it were, boys.

I stopped reading newspapers when the NATO conference began wresting headlines from the debacle across the sea. One fine evening
I had just blown in from a little Autobahn therapy when the phone rang. Curtis took the call. “Go wash your face,” he said.
“President Marvel’s waiting for you at the embassy.”

Traffic wasn’t bad for three in the morning. I drove to the new digs near the Friedrichstrasse station. “Leslie Frost,” I
told the marines guarding America’s most valuable human being.

They let the Harley and me inside. I passed the metal detector and another few guards who tried not to look at my black leather
legs as I was escorted to a room with heavy curtains and deep chairs. Bobby was inside smoking a cigar. He looked a lot wearier
since the last time I had seen him, but he had been stabbed in the back a half dozen times. I knew I didn’t look any younger.

We stared across the room for a few seconds, taking in the wreckage. “Welcome to Berlin, sir,” I said.

“Smith,” he answered, tossing the cigar. “You tricked me.” Another long glare, then, “Get your ass over here. Tonight
you
sit on
my
lap.”

I obeyed. “Sorry about Aurilla.”

“I’m sorry about Fausto.” He patted my thigh. “Mother-fuckin’ weasel. The gall of him, thinking he could just get some clown
to impersonate the president of the United States. I still want to tear him in itty bitty pieces.”

“He was just trying to get Louis out of jail.”

“That was only half the fun, sugar. You know that. Burning my ass was the other half. Where’d that shit impostor go? You have
no idea how irritating it is knowing someone’s walking around with
my face.”

“He’s getting rid of it,” I said. “I think.”

“He’d better be. You’re as bad as both of them, putting me to sleep like a mad dog while your impostor tells Aurilla to pack
her bags. I didn’t know what hit me the next morning when she resigned. She wouldn’t speak one word to me. Simply left town.”

“I was just trying to spare you some aggravation.”

“The hell you were! You and that faker just wanted to play one last joke! Why didn’t you just tell me the truth and let me
take care of it?”

I ran a finger over Bobby’s unshaven cheek. “The truth, my dear, is that your wife found out you were seeing Polly and had
her killed. That’s how this whole mess started. I came to Washington to pick up the pieces.”

Obviously the Queen had not informed the president of this preludial detail. He was stunned. “Why would Paula do that?”

“For God’s sake, think a little.”

He did, and sighed. “Oh.” He thought some more. “Did she try to kill you, too?”

“Chickering volunteered for that job. It was a little over her head.”

His eyes sharpened as he finally understood her sudden death. Bobby’s head, overloaded with thought, dropped back to the up-holstery.
“What a mess. Your boy Fausto was right. I sold my soul for nothing at all. I wish I could start over again, with Justine
instead of Paula.”

“You wouldn’t have ended up in the White House without Paula.”

“Wrong, sugar. She wouldn’t have ended up there without me.” More long, glum thought, ending with a snort. “I think she only
deserves one term.”

I didn’t like the sound of that. “What do you mean?”

“I’m going to leave her. Marry Justine as soon as she leaves the hospital. That should be around Christmas.”

“White House divorce. It will be a first,” I said unenthusiastically. Poor America!

“Paula will go quietly. She wouldn’t want to be convicted of homicide. Besmirch the office of First Lady.”

I had to smile: tarnishing office was one area in which Bobby clearly outperformed his wife. “What about your approval ratings?”

“What does a lame duck care? First they’ll drop. After I make a few speeches about love and marriage, they’ll go through the
roof again.”

Unfortunately he was right. I played a little with Bobby’s tie. Red: probably a gift from his second wife. “I understand Bendix
had a heart attack.”

“He died of frustration. Aurilla didn’t even have the decency to attend his funeral. Although I’m sure she has her hands full
with that little abomination of hers. What a perfect punishment.” Bobby absently stroked my thighs. “Tell me something. Was
I just another job to you?”

“You started out that way.” Then all the other tin soldiers melted.

He tugged my head to his shoulder. “The war’s over, sugar. We’re the only ones left.” Survival: what a tired punch line. Ah,
Fausto. “Will you stay in touch? I became rather fond of our little talks.”

If I ever returned to Washington, I’d be going to a clinic on Wisconsin Avenue, not the backseat of Bobby’s limousine. “Didn’t
you just say you were marrying Justine?”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

Hopeless. I just couldn’t get mad at the guy for nosing through the jungle as best he could. Neither of us could have guessed
that the plumed birds like Fausto and Barnard would expire first … leaving us bugs behind. “I’ll think about it,” I said,
sliding off his lap.

“Leslie,” he whispered, catching my wrist. “Thank you.”

For what? Salvaging his presidency? We both knew Aurilla would have been a better leader. But Bobby was a nicer guy, and he
had gotten there first. So much for survival of the fittest: morality imposed its own exceptions to the rule. I kissed the
top of his head. “Good luck, sir.”

Rode until the night ceded to dawn. Chilly outside. The cool air was like a gift, a reminder of civilized life—whatever that
was. I crept up to bed but couldn’t sleep: Fausto pressing on the heart. He had come and gone much too quickly. Something
unfinished there. Perhaps I should defy the gods one more time, reclaim what they had snatched from me in a simmering jungle.
Fausto had provided the means to hold him in my arms again: what I had lost in the heat I might yet find in the ice. Wouldn’t
that be the ultimate flush against a Dealer who always won in the end.

Went to the window. Only a few leaves remained on my trees. It was going to be an early winter. Maybe I should forget saving
the world. If statesmen like Marvel were running it, I had nothing to save. The wind lifted, a few more leaves fluttered to
the ground. When I closed my eyes, I heard Fausto playing Brahms and, ever so faintly, a woman’s low laughter.

I SPY …
SIZZLING ACCLAIM FOR
HOT TICKET

“A joy to read. Men
and
women will love sexy super-secret agent Leslie Frost.”

—NELSON DEMILLE,
bestselling author of
Plum Island

“A cross between Ian Fleming and Erica Jong… . By turns smart, funny, and sexy, superspy Leslie Frost fiddles while Washington
burns, and the lucky reader has a front-row seat.”

—M
ICHAEL
W
ALSH,
author of
As Time Goes By

“I haven't had this much fun reading a novel in a long time. It's fast-paced, fresh, and sophisticated. Leslie Frost
is my new hero! I want to read the first one and everything that comes after.”

—NANCY PICKARD,
author of
Twilight

… AND FOR
FROST THE FIDDLER

“An amazing tour de force… . Turns the espionage thriller into a magnetic lure which won't let you go even after you have
read the last word.”

—
New England Review of Books

“Leslie Frost … a person one would very much like to know better. May she return.”

—New York Times Book Review

“A brash spy novel … witty, and sexier than I dare to say.”

—Boston Globe

“Thanks for coming.” The President of the United States peered at my face in the dim light. “Can I get you something?”

Sure. Gin and a chastity belt.

HOT
TICKET

S
uper-secret agent Leslie Frost, a concert violinist who rides Harleys and breaks men’s hearts, begins her assignment in Washington with a black-tie concert at the White House. Within an hour of her last encore, she is dangling from a ninth-floor
balcony at Watergate as murderers make off with the body of Agent Barnard, a brilliant fellow operative who last reported
to Controller Maxine from a bubble bath—with President Bobby Marvel.

Frost’s hunt for Barnard’s killers resumes in the arms of a randy commander in chief and takes her from the salons
of Washington to the sweltering jungles of Belize, where a slightly mad ethnobotanist labors to distill a compound whose deadly
effects will reach directly back to the Oval Office. Her search is complicated by a vice president in the last throes of dengue
fever, by a chillingly perfect female senator, and by a Rabelaisian insider with the finances—and the chutzpah—to turn the
Beltway (as well as Frost’s heart) inside out.