Naked (13 page)

The whole place had a lame, phony French country inn vibe, at least as far as Ed could tell. Just like Chad Carmel's house. Everything was either white or cream colored, except for the pale blue design on the wallpaper and the big floral arrangement in the shelves of the
center column, which was made up of blue flowers inside this huge sort of wheat. . .
wreath.
Was there such a thing as a wheat wreath? Ed had no idea.
All he knew was that there weren't any greasy fat men in white paper hats running around with greasy plates of greasy eggs.
That
was breakfast.

All of a sudden he felt nails digging into his arm, nearly puncturing the puffy orange sweater.

“You know, maybe this was a bad idea,” Heather whispered at his side. “I think we should just go.”

Ed turned to her. He couldn't believe it. She looked almost as miserable as he felt: flushed and anxious. Was this some sort of miraculous change of heart? Was the Heather he loved—the
real
Heather—bursting out of her self-imposed Hamptons bubble and fighting to break free?

“I want to leave now,” she whispered, increasing the pressure on his arm. Her eyes darted over her shoulder, back toward the door.

“Um. . . sure,” Ed mumbled. Then he laughed. “What's the problem? Did you just realize orange and khaki was a bad color combo?”

“I'll tell you later, just—”
“Heather!”
somebody called out from the dining area. “Heather . . .”

That voice.

Ed's insides seemed to clench, although he couldn't
quite place it. It
was
familiar, though—
grating and smarmy.
Ed stared at Heather as her face switched in an instant from wide-eyed anxiety to a big, fake smile.

“Hi!” she sang out.

In that instant it clicked: Ed knew who he would see when he turned around. He would see himself. Thanks to those goddamn mirrored sunglasses.

No guns or knives. Not much blood. Just some pummeling, which seemed to clear her mind completely.

TOM SLID THE KEY INTO BOX 214
and turned the lock. Sitting in the center of the empty aluminum locker was a slim black cell phone with a small yellow Post-it attached. As quickly as he could, Tom pulled out the phone and scanned the vast, smoky hall of the train station for potential surveillance. His eyes sought out, then passed on a number of suspects: the overweight woman with her poodle, the nondescript businessman reading a newspaper. They were civilians, though. He knew it. They met his gaze. Agents were always the ones who wouldn't stare back at you.

Static

So. It seemed as if Loki still hadn't located him. Which meant that there was still a minuscule chance that Loki hadn't gotten to the informant, either. Tom quickly hurried toward the rest rooms, examining the Post-it. His feet clattered on the stone, lost in the reverberating voices and loudspeaker announcements.

Frequency 74993. Wait for my signal.

He stuffed the note deep in his pocket and abruptly changed direction, heading briskly toward track 8.
Please let him make it this far,
Tom prayed. The station Zoologischer Garten was massive—inundated with equal numbers of Germans and tourists. The blaring sun was reflecting twice as brightly off the
huge steel-and-glass train platform on the main concourse. Tom removed his sunglasses from the front pocket of his black overcoat and slipped them on, constantly checking for tails in every available reflective surface: the metal of a garbage can, a coffee cart, the window of a magazine shop.

Suddenly he spotted a German family, with a young daughter about the same age as the girl from his nightmare. . . the same age as Gaia when they had last been a true family. This girl was also blond. For a moment Tom's concentration wavered. He shook his head violently and picked up his pace—a stupid move, as it attracted attention to himself. But with Gaia's life quite possibly at stake, his long-honed professional armor was beginning to show signs of wear. The nightmare was still haunting him.

I'm with you, Gaia. I'm with you right now. I haven't abandoned you. Everything I do now is for you.

With a final surreptitious glance over his shoulder, he climbed the stairs to the platform. The sunlight warmed his face. Track 8 was relatively deserted. There were only one or two people on both sides of the track. The informant had made a good choice. If they survived this transaction, the informant deserved a medal and a pension from the agency. Tom would vouch for him.

Whoever you are, I owe you one, friend.

A man in a black cap and beige overcoat walked up
onto the opposite platform. For a moment he seemed to look across the tracks at Tom, but he didn't look directly at him. He paced a bit. Checked down the track for the train. Checked his watch. This was the man. Tom was certain of it.

A train appeared from around the bend, sounding its horn. As the horn grew louder and the train neared the station, the man in the beige coat suddenly pulled out a small black cell phone and began to dial. Tom felt a flicker of hope. He thrust his hand in his pocket and whipped out his own phone, pounding the frequency code into the keypad. Again the horn sounded, deafeningly. The platform vibrated. Tom slapped the phone against his ear, switching his gaze back and forth between the informant and the train. The informant was obviously planning to deliver his message and immediately board the train, but what about the noise factor and the potential interference? And the lack of time—

“Can you hear me?” a deep, emotionless voice asked through a sea of static.

“Just barely,” Tom hissed. He glanced toward the train again. They had maybe fifteen seconds before the call was lost altogether.

“I'm sorry,” the voice said. “This—
shhh
—best—
shh
—could do.”

“You're breaking up,” Tom shouted. “Can we change frequencies?”

“I'm ru—
shhh
—of time. You—s
hhh
—listen closely.”

Tom's gaze shot back to the informant. A man had appeared directly behind him: a man in an overcoat and suit. He was folding a newspaper and beginning to walk toward the informant. Panic shot through Tom's veins.

“Behind you!” Tom whispered. “Move away from—”

“Listen—
shh
—me.”

“Can you hear me?” Tom breathed, his eyes pinned to the slow-moving man with the newspaper. “Goddamn it, listen! He's right—”

“
. . . shhh
—talk, just listen!” he insisted. “It's Gaia. . . they're planning a kidnapping—
shh
—operation involves DNA—”

The train sliced through Tom's line of vision, roaring into the station and cutting him off from the informant. He stood in silence, with the phone to his ear, his mind spinning with the words he'd just heard. He wouldn't jump to conclusions. He couldn't. They didn't make any sense. He swallowed, staring at the train as it stopped with a loud hiss.

A German voice blared from a loudspeaker. But the voice on the phone was silent. Tom forced himself to breathe deeply and evenly, waiting as the train filled with passengers, waiting for it to pull away, waiting and waiting....

Finally, with another steamy hiss, the wheels turned and it began to rumble out of the station.
Tom's jaw tightened when he saw the empty platform. The informant was gone—probably dead already. He didn't waste another moment. He thrust the phone in his pocket, raced down the platform steps, and disappeared into the crowd. There was no time to consider the puzzle pieces of information he'd heard. Gaia was alone. Tom would be on a plane home within an hour. If not sooner.

THE OPPOSING TEAM HAD ALREADY
come to fear her. As well they should. Nobody could tackle her, and nobody wanted to stand in her way, either. Gaia was having a blast. She'd just scored her second touchdown. It was so easy. All of Paul's friends kept staring at her with looks of bewilderment and awe. The question of the day seemed to be: “Are you
sure
you've never played football before?”

Transparent Hustle

She hadn't, of course. But if she'd known what she'd been missing, she would have started a long time ago. She felt so
alive
—with her clothes all muddied and her cheeks rosy and the crisp air tearing into her
lungs. On TV, football looked so boring.
A bunch of guys stand really still, and then they pile on top of each other.
Then they wait while idiot commentators make moronic remarks. And then they do it again. But now she understood the true nature of the sport, the
strategy.
In some ways, football was like chess. The pawns protected the king, which was the quarterback. Every play was another move. . . .But the best part of all was that football was an institutionalized means with which to express as much aggression as possible. No guns or knives.
Not much blood.
Just some pummeling, which seemed to clear her mind completely. There was no past, no confusion, no suffering—just a lot of easygoing camaraderie, the kind of bonding that people her age must experience on a daily basis all across the country. Normalcy was a beautiful thing. She'd underestimated it for far too long.

Time for another kickoff. Gaia stepped into a huddle with four of Paul's friends. She wiped her brow with her forearm, smiling at all of them. They glanced at one another and smirked. It was unbelievable. She was actually having fun. Her absurd escapist behavior plan was working.

“Ready for another kick?” one of them asked.

She nodded. Her team had already relinquished all kicking honors to her, insisting that her whole I've-never-played routine was
a transparent hustle.
They clapped in unison and then lined up at one end of the field, facing down Paul and his team at the other end.

Gaia placed the ball on the kicking tee.

“Ready?” she shouted.

Paul's team nodded.

With a deep breath she sprang forward and kicked the ball as hard as she could. It sailed high into the air, and she sprinted downfield—almost managing to catch up with it. Her intention wasn't to show off, but what the hell? She smiled as Paul backpedaled and positioned himself for the catch. She was going to nail him. This was going to be good. That wasn't quite working out, but it was still a hell of a lot better than the reaction she'd get if she kicked the ball as far as she could. She wasn't even sure she wanted to know how far she could kick it.

The instant the ball landed in Paul's hands, she focused her eyes on him like a tiger preparing to pounce. A few of his teammates tried to block for him, but she sidestepped them easily, as if they weren't even moving,
as if they were stationary mannequins.
She actually felt competitive. It was glorious. Paul started left, then quickly bolted to the right. Poor guy. He didn't know about martial arts training. She'd been trained to spot and react to that kind of rudimentary fake out since she was a little girl.

The distance between them closed. She could see
Paul glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. He tried to pick up his pace. They both laughed out loud. And then she launched herself off the ground, flying headfirst into Paul's midriff, securing both her arms around his waist, tackling him hard to the ground and rolling him over twice.

Paul winced.

Gaia smiled down at him, straddling him, covered in dirt. “Are you all right?” she asked.

“Remind me to suggest basketball next week,” he said with a groan.

“Are you kidding?” She laughed, keeping Paul pinned to the ground. “I'm having too much fun. I think—”

“Gaia!”

The sound of her own name sliced through the air—in a voice she didn't recognize, a voice choked with rage. And when she turned, she saw why.

She'd never seen Sam Moon look so angry.

“
WHEN I HEARD THERE WAS GONNA
be a Hamptons reunion brunch, I couldn't resist,” Chad said, grinning from behind those ridiculous sunglasses. “I took the jitney straight in last night.”

Fake Smiles

Ed stared at him, wondering why the hell he didn't take those glasses off. It wasn't
sunny
inside the restaurant. But maybe he just wanted to avoid making eye contact. Which wasn't a bad idea, actually. Maybe Chad was smarter than he looked, sounded, acted, and generally presented himself.

Note to self,
Ed thought, matching Chad's fake smile.
Kill Heather and dump body in East River.

At least she was painfully anxious and nervous.
That provided him with some consolation.
Her face was so stiff that it looked like it had just been taken out of a freezer.

“So, anyhoo, we're sitting back there in a private booth,” Chad said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. “Carrie and Muffy and the whole crew. Why don't ya come join us?”

Carrie and Muffy. He was being serious. Ed glanced at Heather. She kept her eyes fixed to Chad. She wouldn't even acknowledge that Chad had just used the word
anyhoo.
Even
Blane
didn't use that word. In less than a minute Chad had already surpassed Ed's future brother-in-law in terms of sheer heinousness—a feat that Ed wouldn't have believed was possible.

Chad patted Ed's shoulder. “So, it's great to see you back on your feet, Ted,” he said.

“My name's Ed, Brad,” Ed replied. His lips were beginning to hurt. He'd never smiled so much for so long.

“Right,” Chad said, slapping his head for dramatic effect. “Ed, sorry. And, uh. . . it's Chad.”

“Oh,
Chad!
” Ed laughed his best socialite laugh.

Chad's sunglasses roved over Ed's crutches. “You must be so totally happy that you can, like, walk. . . or almost....”