No One Lives Twice (A Lexi Carmichael Mystery) (17 page)

“Well, I think the twins trust you and that is in your favor,” I said. “I guess I’ve just developed an
X-Files
complex—you know, ‘Trust No One.’”

He chuckled, apparently also a fan of the old television show. “I assure you,
cara,
there is no government conspiracy here. I came because you needed me. You still do. Now listen to what I have to say and perhaps it will reassure you.” Slash sat back down on the bed. “But you must understand that what I will say now is a matter of critical national security. You must promise to keep it confidential.”

I looked at him intently. “Do you really work for the NSA?”

“Si.”

“Anyone else?”

He smiled slightly.
“Si.”

“Who?” I demanded.

“The good guys. Don’t ask any more,
cara.
I can’t tell you.”

“But you’re sure it’s okay to bring me in on an NSA restricted operation?” The last thing I needed to do was add spying or obtaining classified information to my burgeoning criminal activity list. “Are you sure I don’t need to fill out some paperwork, have a more thorough background check or take another lie detector test? Even more importantly, are you sure I have the required psychological make-up to withstand torture and starvation if I fall into enemy hands?” I was really worried about the starvation part. The enemy would just have to withhold Diet Coke or donuts for a couple of days and I’d be ready to spill my guts.

Slash rolled his eyes. “If you fall into enemy hands, I’ll open the cyanide capsule in your mouth myself.”

I searched for a glimpse of humor but didn’t see one. “Gee, while that’s thoughtful of you and all, I’m not sure I want to go down this path. I really,
really
don’t want to be America’s weakest link in national security.”

Now his lips twitched. “Come on,
cara,
don’t you want to know what’s happening with your friend?”

“Yes,” I admitted.

“Then understand that there are risks involved.”

Hello? Like I didn’t already know that. Case in point, I had a strange man in my bedroom to prove it.

“I’m well aware of that,” I said. “It’s just there’s a lot more risk than I expected.”

“It’s up to you.”

I sighed. “Okay.”

“Good. Then I must start by telling you those two men who were bodyguards for Prince Al-Asan—they showed up dead about nine months ago in Genoa, Italy.”

“Dead?” I squeaked and then hated myself for sounding like a scared teenager.

“Murdered, actually. They had just delivered a package to the Bright Horizons fertility clinic and were on their way back to the hotel when they were ambushed and shot in their car.”

“Ambushed? Why?”

Slash shook his head. “Their murders have not been solved. But both the CIA and the FBI have taken an interest in the case.”

“The FBI
and
the CIA? Why would they be interested in a case of two Saudi nationals in Italy?”

“Terrorism. The FBI requested and obtained the ballistics report from the Italian police and reviewed the other evidence retrieved at the site. There is no conclusive evidence but the CIA is convinced it’s the work of the followers of Samir Al-Naddi.”

I drew in my breath sharply. “Samir Al-Naddi? Not that terrorist nutcase from Yemen?”

“The one and only.”

I suddenly felt sick to my stomach. I didn’t like where any of this was going. And I
really
didn’t like that it seemed to be going in my direction.

Slash leaned down and picked up his briefcase, pulling it onto his lap. He punched in a code and the briefcase snapped open. I peered inside curiously and saw a precisely organized workstation complete with a sleek-looking laptop, a bunch of neatly rolled cables, computer tools and a sheaf of documents. The briefcase was deep, so I was sure there was more cool stuff in the bottom, including more expensive and top-of-the-line equipment.

Slash pulled out his laptop and I looked with unabashed envy at his ultra slim machine, which looked to weigh about half a pound and was less than an inch thick.

I whistled in appreciation. “Sleek set-up. Can you tell me who makes it?”

“Sorry. That’s classified,” he said with a shrug.

He probably changed computers as often as he changed clothes, I thought. Sheesh, if I made his paycheck, I’d probably do the same. To him, my laptop was likely a dinosaur.

He opened the computer, booted up quickly and then opened a file. Looking over his shoulder I saw several computer-generated photographs.

“Can you look through these and tell me if you see anyone you recognize?” he asked.

My lip trembled. I wasn’t sure I was up to all of this. In my heart of hearts, I knew the unabashed truth—I was a coward. A coward with a degree in math and computer science who liked chocolate éclairs, doing the Sunday crossword puzzle in
The Washington Post
and leading a really boring, tedious life. I wasn’t at all equipped to deal with the fact that my best friend had vanished, people were pulling guns on me and talking about superterrorists. I felt like crying.

I closed my eyes and suddenly had the absurd realization that Slash and I had never left my bedroom.

I abruptly stood. “Let’s go to the kitchen,” I said.

He put a gentle hand on my arm. “I know you’re afraid,” he said quietly. “You can back out if you want to,
cara.
No one will blame you.”

I pulled away from his touch. “Then what happens to Basia?”

“Perhaps nothing.”

“Or maybe she ends up dead.”

He didn’t disagree, and I could see sympathy in his eyes. “You didn’t ask for this,
cara.
It’s your decision.”

I gritted my teeth and tried to screw up the courage to tell him to get out of my apartment. Instead I exhaled. “Okay, set the laptop up on the kitchen table while I brew some coffee.”

For a moment it seemed like he might urge me to change my mind and back out. But then he looked down at his briefcase.

“I think perhaps the occasion calls for something stronger,” he said. To my astonishment, he pulled a bottle of red wine from the bottom of the briefcase and handed it to me. I wondered if all Italian men carried wine in their briefcases.

I glanced at the wine label. Red, Italian and old. Most likely the most expensive wine I’d ever drink in my life. If my life lasted all that much longer.

“What’s the occasion?” I asked.

“Italians don’t need an occasion to drink wine, but if you insist I’ll say it’s the start of what is likely to be a fruitful partnership.”

I wasn’t sure what he meant, but I nodded. I seriously needed a drink.

Slash followed me into the kitchen. As I pulled out two wine glasses from the cabinet, he set up the laptop on the kitchen table. I dug out a corkscrew from one of my drawers and handed it to him. He popped the cork and poured the wine. I took a sip. It was light, fruity and full-flavored. Excellent.

“Superb wine,” I said, like I was some kind of connoisseur.

He seemed pleased. “I thought you would like it.”

He was right and that made me nervous. I sat at the table, clutching my wine glass, and avoided looking directly at the computer. Slash sensed my reluctance because he patted me on the back.

“Courage,
cara.
Come take a look.”

I chewed on my lower lip, still refusing to look at them. “Who are they?”

“You tell me,” he said.

I steeled myself and stared at the photos. They were all men—different ages and races. I let out a small gasp and pointed to the middle of the third row.

“That’s Mr. Middle Eastern Guy! That was the man in my apartment. Who is he?”

Slash looked at me for a long time without saying anything. Then he looked back and forth between the photo and me.

“Look again,
cara,
” he said. “It’s very important. It was dark in your apartment. How sure are you that this is the man you saw?”

I looked back at the picture. There was no doubt in my mind that this was the same guy. “It’s him,” I said. “I’m positive. Who is he?”

Slash rested his chin in his hand. He definitely did not look happy. His finger rested on the corner of the picture and he tapped it slowly.

“His name is Rashid Bouker,” he finally said. “He’s the military attaché at the Yemeni Embassy in Washington.”

“Yemen?” I choked, nearly spewing the expensive Italian wine all over him. “You’re joking, right?” Like he’d joke about this.

Even Slash looked worried. “Those papers,
cara.
Think. What was in them that would have everyone, including a high-ranking official of the Embassy of Yemen chasing after them?”

“You’ve seen them for yourself, haven’t you?” I asked.

“I have, but you and Basia are the only ones who saw the original.”

“They’re identical, other than the penciled code on the bottom of page three that we decided meant Acheron. I have no idea what an official from Yemen would want with the documents. From what I could tell, it was a contract between unnamed clients generated by Bright Horizons and written in Polish. Living arrangements, including the rent of an apartment in Warsaw, a car, medical services, a bank account and a generous stipend were all provided to an unnamed recipient. Finn thinks it may have been a contract drawn up to provide for a surrogate pregnancy. But he said to his knowledge, the company did not involve itself in such contracts.”

“To the best of his knowledge?” Slash asked.

“Yes,” I said, irritated that his voice held a note of disdain every time we talked about Finn. “He told me tonight that he found out whose names were part of that contract—Al-Asan and Basia’s cousin, Judyta Taszynski.”

“Who translated the contract for you?”

I hesitated, not wanting to bring Paul into this. “A friend of mine,” I said. “I don’t want to involve him.”

“You already have,” Slash said, but he didn’t press further. He shoved his hand through his dark hair in frustration and I felt envious of his fingers. “We need to get more information.”

“How?”

“I’ve already sent a copy of the electronic version of the contract to another expert to have them translated again for us,” Slash said. “But it isn’t likely we’ll learn much more than you’ve already told me. Maybe your meeting with the lawyer is a good thing after all. He may be the key that breaks this for us.”

My anxiety level was ratcheting into the stratosphere. “Look, if this whole thing is now a matter of national security, I should probably tell my boss. At first I thought I was just protecting my best friend. If there is some kind of international intrigue going on, possibly involving terrorists, I could get fired for keeping this to myself. Not to mention I might also get myself killed.”

To my surprise, Slash touched my arm in what I think was a gesture of comfort, but instead, I felt a streak of heat race from his fingertips through my skin and directly into my veins. Jeez, guys needed to stop touching me or I was going to die of heart failure at twenty-four.

“You have told someone at the NSA,
cara.
Me. I have informed those persons who need to know. Rest assured that you have completed your duty.”

“But I’m not even sure you work at the NSA,” I said in frustration. “Not to mention the fact that I don’t even know your real name. I mean you could just be some guy who broke into my home and is pumping me for information about this situation. You could even be working for Mr. Middle Eastern Guy or Beefy.” I knew I sounded scared and desperate, because I was. This situation was spiraling way out of my control.

Slash exhaled a deep breath. “You want me to prove that I work for the NSA? Then I shall visit you tomorrow at work. I shall stroll past your workspace and say hello. But you must not call me by name or tell anyone how you know me. Would that make you feel better?”

“It might,” I said. Actually the suggestion both intrigued and relieved me. If Slash didn’t work for the NSA there was no way he could get to me. You have to be pretty high up to just stroll wherever you want. The complex has a slew of buildings, some adjoining and some not, and is twice the size of the CIA. At the NSA we are strictly compartmentalized and each of us only has authorization to be in certain parts of the building. And that was after a series of exhausting security checks including holographic IDs, hand prints and retina scans. I had been working at the NSA for two years and I had never seen him on my side of the building. It would be a true test to see if he could actually get to me.

“Eccellente,”
he said with smile. “Then we shall have no more secrets between us,
si?
”

“I guess,” I said uncertainly.

I drained the rest of my glass, feeling a slight bit better. If Slash really was who he said he was, then his help could be invaluable. Moreover, I would fulfill my duty to both my boss and my country. Slash refilled both of our glasses and I felt some of the tension go out of my neck and shoulders. But I still didn’t understand something.

“The Yemen connection is still bugging me,” I said.

“It bothers me, too,
cara.
I have been unable to determine why the FBI and CIA think terrorists under the control of Samir Al-Naddi would kill Al-Asan’s two bodyguards in Genoa. Al-Naddi and Al-Asan have no obvious connection to each other, no known animosity or political differences. Now you say an embassy official from Yemen broke into your apartment and threatened you with a gun while trying to get his hands on this contract. It does not make sense to me either.”

“Maybe I should just call the police and tell them Mr. Bouker broke into my apartment and assaulted me,” I suggested.

Slash leaned back in his chair. “Accusing diplomats of a felony is a tricky matter,
cara.
Besides, it would be your word against his. And I have a feeling that he’d have a room full of people swear he was with them at the time you say he was here.”

I sighed. “I suppose you’re right. So, what do we do next?”

Slash thought for a moment and then logged on to the internet. He had a system going I didn’t understand, and had likely rigged his computer in ways I couldn’t even begin to imagine.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Making notes to myself of things to check out later,” he said mysteriously. He pulled up the Linux operating system, typed some unfamiliar commands and then snapped the computer shut. Then he stood, holding the black case in his hand.

“
Buona notte, cara.
Good night. Until tomorrow.”

I nodded mutely and he politely waited while I disarmed the alarm before he left. I reset the alarm, locked the door, the deadbolt and chain and then went back to my bedroom where I stripped off my clothes, pulled a baggy T-shirt over my head and, to my great relief, fell promptly asleep.

***

When my alarm went off the next morning at six-thirty, I hit the snooze button twice and then finally swung my legs over the side of the bed. When I stood up and took one step, everything collapsed. Every muscle in my body, including those I had no idea even existed, screamed in pain from my karate workout. Dragging myself to my feet, I stood, swaying precariously and then staggered stiffly into the bathroom like Frankenstein. I splashed freezing cold water on my face and my entire head throbbed in response. I realized on top of everything else, I had a hangover.

Sheesh, two glasses of expensive Italian wine and I was hungover. Of course, there had also been that glass of wine at dinner with Finn. Heck, maybe I was turning into an alcoholic or worse, a cheap date.

Somehow I managed to brush my teeth even though they hurt, too, and combed my hair. Just lifting my arm to brush was hard work.

I shuffled back into the bedroom, snipped the tags off the last of my new clothes purchases and managed to pull them on. The apartment was still a horrid mess—clothes, books, papers, shoes and knickknacks everywhere. I absolutely, positively had to do laundry today. Especially because I had a date with Paul tonight and nothing to wear.

My stomach roiled. A date with Paul Wilks. Laundry aside, how was I supposed to go dancing with Paul when I could barely walk?

I would have to worry about that later. First things first. Just get to work. Somehow I managed to get down the stairs, into my car and drive into the Dunkin’ Donuts parking lot. Trying to maneuver my way out of the car took me a full five minutes. I moved like a robot to the counter, where I bought a bottle of Diet Coke, a sesame bagel with cream cheese and two chocolate donuts with sprinkles. The donuts were comfort food because in the shape I was in now, a little comfort was a definite necessity.

I kept the top on the Miata up because the wind blowing through my hair would just be too painful. Even with sunglasses the sun seemed too darn bright. Worse than that, it was a sweltering hot Washington, D.C., day of nearly eighty-five degrees and one hundred percent humidity at only seven-fifteen in the morning.

I drove to work, shuffled my way through the security checkpoints and collapsed into my swivel chair. Opening a bottle of Excedrin, I took two capsules, washing them down with a gulp of my Diet Coke.

I logged on and then whizzed around the internet, looking for a phone number. When I found what I wanted, I picked up the phone.

“Natty Neatniks,” the cheerful voice on the other end said. “We clean, dust, vacuum and take care of the necessities so you can spend more time doing what’s important to you. How can I help you?”

“Um…I’d like to hire your company to clean my apartment,” I said. “How much do you cost?”

“How big is your apartment?”

“It’s a one-bedroom apartment,” I answered. “A bathroom, a living room and a small kitchen.”

“Where are you located?”

“Jessup, Maryland.”

“One hundred bucks,” she said in that cheerful voice.

“A hundred bucks?” I exclaimed. “For a one-bedroom apartment in Jessup?”

“That doesn’t include windows. Windows are extra.”

My headache got worse. “I suppose cleaning the bathroom is extra, too.”

“No, that’s included.”

“What about laundry?”

“That costs extra. You provide the detergent. Ironing carries an additional fee.”

Sheesh, this was becoming more expensive by the minute. “Okay, so let me get this straight. You dust, vacuum, and clean the bathroom but no windows. Laundry and ironing are extra.”

“Exactly.”

I pressed my fingers to my throbbing temples. “Okay. I’d like you to clean the apartment and do the laundry.”

“When do you want this done?”

“Today, if possible.”

“Today?”

I sighed. “Let me guess. That will cost extra.”

“Yes, because we’ll have to squeeze you in,” she said and I could hear her shuffling around papers. “That means bringing someone extra on staff. It will cost an extra thirty-five dollars.”

I heard the sound of money being sucked out a window. But I really,
really
needed some clean, non-thong underwear. “Okay,” I agreed.

“Your name, please?” she asked.

She took my name, address, work and home phone numbers. We agreed to meet at the apartment at twelve-thirty, so I could let the maids in. I hung up feeling poorer by the minute.

I waited until nine o’clock before making my next call.

“
Richmond Gazette.
Carmichael.”

“Hi, Rock,” I said. “How you doing, bro?”

“Lexi,” he said, and I could hear a smile in his voice. “What a surprise to hear from you. Let me guess, you need a loan.”

“Hey, I don’t always call just because I need money,” I said and then sighed. “Well, okay, maybe I need money, but I also have something else to ask you about.”

He chuckled. “What is it this time?”

Rock works for the
Richmond Gazette
as an investigative reporter. He is a brilliant writer and has an uncanny knack for revealing rotten politicians, health-care scams and a wide variety of other unsavory activities. He’s already won numerous awards and a lot of people say he’s on the fast track to working for a big-time paper like
The Washington Post
or
New York Times.
He’s also a decent and fair guy, which in my opinion are his best characteristics, looks aside.

“I wonder if you could tell me anything interesting about CGM, Inc. down there in Richmond,” I said.

“The medical research company?” he asked. I could hear a note of curiosity in his voice and knew I’d piqued his interest.

“Yeah, that’s the one.”

I heard his chair creak as he swiveled. “Well it’s a big company, well respected and generates lots of money for the community down here. They contribute fairly generously to charities and a wide variety of political campaigns and causes. Why? You think something bad is going down with them?”

“I don’t know,” I said honestly. “I heard they were recently in some financial trouble before they got a healthy infusion of cash. Do you think you could check it out for me?”

“The infusion of cash?”

“That and anything else unusual you might find out about them.”

“Sure,” he said lightly, but I could hear the cautious excitement in his voice. Rock can smell a good story a mile away.

“Do you mind if I ask why you are so interested in all this?” he asked.

“It’s a long story,” I said carefully. “I don’t have time to go into it now. But Rock, be discreet, will you?”

“Discreet is my middle name,” he said cheerfully. “So, how much cash do you need?” He didn’t even suggest asking Mom and Dad because we both knew the cost of borrowing from them would be way too high and would involve horrible things like promises to visit and blind dates.

“Five hundred dollars,” I said. “I’ll pay you back by Christmas.”

“Okay,” he said without hesitation. That’s another thing I like about Rock. He’s got that oldest child thing going, meaning he’s responsible, dependable and doesn’t ask a lot of questions. “I’ll drop it in the mail to you today.”

“Thanks, Rock. Let me know if you uncover anything of interest with CGM.”

“Will do,” he said and hung up.

Sighing, I took out some papers from my in-box and began sorting them. After a minute, the back of my neck prickled. I turned around and saw my boss standing there silently.

“Jeez, Jonathan,” I said. “You scared me. What’s up with the tiptoeing?”