Spotless (5 page)

The rag in my mouth now soggy with saliva, I let out a series of inarticulate grunts in hope that my new tour guides would get the hint and take the gag off. I guess hopping up and down helped, since the driver eventually gave a rough tug on the cloth and freed my lips.

I coughed and gasped. “Who are you? Do you work with March? I already told him I know nothing! I—”

“Don’t waste your time,” the driver said curtly while Greasy-jacket glared down at me.

This answer did little to alleviate my concern that I might have signed on with one of the worst travel agencies in the area. “What is this place? What is he doing in there?”

“Preparing his stuff. He doesn’t like to have people in there while he does that. We’ll bring you in a moment.”

I didn’t like his tone. It sounded like he felt sorry for me. I looked away. I could feel tears building again, and I didn’t want to look like a chicken, even if it was precisely what I happened to be. Perhaps sensing my distress, the driver went on, offering what sounded like a pity-ridden piece of advice. “Look, once you’re in there,
talk
. Whatever you’re hiding, it ain’t worth it.”

“You mean to that guy with the hat? Who is he?”

Greasy-jacket grunted in warning, and the driver shook his head. “Can’t tell. Trust me, just tell him everything and spare yourself the mess.”

All right, now I was chickening out. “Look, I swear you’re making a terrible mistake. I have no idea—”

Greasy-jacket casually slapped me with the back of one huge paw. “Shut up.”

Stunned as much by the gesture as by the stinging pain on my left
cheek, I cowered, once again thinking of March. What if he had been the bad cop they sent first before handing you to the really bad cops? I figured it wouldn’t have made much of a difference. I knew nothing about the diamond he had been rambling about, and he had left anyway, likely aggravated by the lack of meaningful answers, or maybe the uncontrolled barfing.

This time I couldn’t hold back; hot tears started to roll down my cheeks. The driver saw this and opened his mouth to speak again, his expression softening. He was interrupted by a muffled bang coming from the woods, and Greasy-jacket fell to the ground with a blood-chilling howl.

It took me a couple of seconds to put the pieces together. There was blood everywhere on his right leg, and his friend had pulled out a gun that he was now frantically aiming at nothing in particular. Someone was shooting at us. For real.

I freaked out at the realization that I wouldn’t be able to go far with the handcuffs and hopped behind the driver to use him as a shield. It was useless. A second detonation resounded, and the guy fell in turn, kneecapped in the same fashion his friend had been. I stood frozen, fighting the urge to wet myself and unable to decide whether to run or lie on the ground. More experienced than I was with these sort of things—or perhaps less indecisive—Greasy-jacket struggled with what must have been a considerable amount of pain and took out his gun to point it at me. Albeit no expert at criminal protocols, I believe the message he was trying to convey was “keep shooting and no one gets her.”

In retrospect, I now understand that this strategy was completely stupid. The sniper shot him again, except this time it was his wrist that got ruined, and his long black gun landed at my feet. My legs were shaking, my eyes were wide with terror, but my bladder was still holding on, so things were good, I guess. Or not, since Creepy-hat finally decided to come out of the barn, strolling toward me with one hand tucked in his coat pocket.

Barely glancing at the two men panting in agony at our feet, he looked in the direction the gunshots had come from and yelled cheerfully, “You make a compelling point, partner! Why don’t we try to discuss this change in our arrangement?”

His invitation was met by a deep silence in the surrounding woods, occasionally troubled by shrill bird calls, until faint steps echoed in the distance, crushing twigs and dry leaves. A tall silhouette appeared between two trees—broad shoulders, long gray coat, a scary sniper rifle, nothing like the old Remington my grandpa hunted squirrels with . . .

I didn’t want to look at his face. I already knew.

March covered the distance between us with a tranquil stride, his gentle smile belying the way his gloved index finger still rested on the weapon’s trigger. Creepy-hat seemed to be about to greet him, but before he could open his mouth, March glanced at the two men curled on the ground behind us and spoke in a cold voice. “Leave your weapons and drag yourselves to the car.”

I think the driver and Greasy-jacket wanted to comply, but there are things you can’t do so well with a bullet in your leg, or in your wrist for that matter. Each movement tore groans of pain from them, and I couldn’t see this working. How would they get up to climb inside the SUV? Call me selfish: I chose to ignore such practicalities and scurried away from Creepy-hat to hide behind March, the handcuffs that locked my arms threatening my balance with every step.

Creepy-hat caressed his scar absently, his right hand still inside his coat’s pocket. “March, what sort of game are you playing? Since when do you take investigative jobs?”

“I’m taking care of the client myself. I don’t think your services will be needed any longer,” came his “partner’s” curt reply.

Creepy-hat’s grin turned almost maniacal. “Says who? The Queen? Somehow, I doubt that!”

“I’m merely seeing to my employer’s best interest. Don’t test me. You know better,” March retorted flatly.

“You’re seeing to your own grave, my friend.”

This particular remark made me wonder what sort of history these two had, because there was no trace of concern in Creepy-hat’s voice, but rather a barely contained joy. Glancing at his men resting near the SUV, neither of them able to get up due to the extent of their injuries, he let out an exasperated sigh. “Very well . . . have it your way. This silly dispute is only a minor setback. I’ll inform the Queen of the incident, and expect to recover my client soon.”

I wanted to snicker at the way Creepy-hat made it sound like he was indulging March, when it was clear that he didn’t have the balls to face him alone and was, in fact, retreating. I didn’t, because when I heard March’s voice, any fleeting relief, any amusement I had felt died right away. “Island. Close your eyes.”

I obeyed, inching closer to him, until I was almost brushing his back, smelling rain and cedar on his wool coat. I did register the noise, like two firecrackers bursting one after another, but I didn’t understand immediately. Until I opened my eyes again.

Creepy-hat was still standing in front of us. The hand that had been resting in his pocket all this time was now visible, holding a small brown pistol equipped with a long black suppressor. There was a little smoke, a smell I identified as powder, and his men were no longer moving. The driver had collapsed face-first in the muddy ground, whereas Greasy-jacket lay on his back, a bloody wound visible on his left temple.

For a few seconds, my mind couldn’t process that Creepy-hat had just killed his own men. All I could focus on was the sound of the gunshots, so different from the movies. He put the gun back inside his coat and knelt beside the driver’s body to retrieve the SUV’s keys from the guy’s jacket. I watched, paralyzed, as he unlocked the car and turned one last time, silently tipping his hat to bid us good-bye. I think I closed my eyes at that point because I don’t remember seeing him climb into the vehicle. The engine hummed to life, and when I peeked again, he was gone.

I thought of horses with broken legs, and I cried.

March turned to face me, his expression blank. Without saying a word, he produced a tissue from one of his pockets to wipe my nose and cheeks; I let him proceed without reacting, in a daze. Once he was done, he meticulously folded the dirty piece of paper until all that was left was a compact little square, which he wrapped several times into a second, clean tissue before tucking it back in the same pocket. My shoulders were still shaking, and he waited patiently until I was more or less in a state to form coherent sentences.

“Now . . . I believe we have some unfinished business, Island.”

I took a few steps backward, my eyes traveling back and forth between his indecipherable expression and the rifle, and I blurted out the question I needed answered the most. “Who were they? Are they looking for that diamond too?”

“Yes.”

“He called you his partner. Why would your boss hire competing forces?”

He appeared to hesitate, and what came out was a masterpiece of vague non-explanation. “My employers had second thoughts about their primary choice of professionals.”

“Why? Aren’t you both the same, with the guns and—” My eyes darted to the two bodies on the ground, but the words wouldn’t come out.

Something a little dark flashed in March’s eyes. “That man doesn’t work like me. He has his . . . kinks.”

I swallowed hard. March had rescued me from whatever Creepy-hat had been planning to do with me, but at what cost? From the looks of it, I had merely traded one soulless asshole for another. I suddenly felt terribly alone, half-incapacitated and trapped in front of him in the middle of nowhere. I figured it would be preferable if I kept asking the questions, given his track record with interrogation, so I shot first before he could threaten to break my arms again.

“I don’t get it. You had me! Why did you let them take me?”

A little frown creased his brow. “You were very unresponsive after you threw up in your bathroom, so I decided to let him make his move and tenderize you for me. Also, your apartment was messy. I thought you deserved a little chastening.”

“T-tenderize me?”

“Yes, I planned on rescuing you after you were on the table.”

“The table?”

He dismissed my concerns with a quick flick of his left wrist. “No need to elaborate on that.”

“What changed your mind?”

“You’re a bit scrawny. I realized that if he wasn’t careful enough, you might die before either of us had a chance to learn anything.” As he said this, a little disappointed sigh escaped him, which I found somewhat euphemistic considering the implications of his words.

I tried to breathe my rising panic out. “What makes you think I know anything about that diamond?”

He shook his head in disbelief and placed a menacing index finger on the rifle’s trigger. “This is getting ridiculous. I could shoot you in the knees, and you’d tell me everything you know.”

Said knees buckled at the prospect.

“Wouldn’t that cause permanent injuries?”

“Undoubtedly.”

I laid anxious eyes on the long suppressor extending the rifle’s barrel. “March . . . I don’t understand any of this. Please . . . at least explain—”

An expression of doubt appeared on his features, like he wasn’t sure what to do with me. “I assume you know what the Cullinan is?”

“The big diamond? The one they made the crown jewels from? You’re aware that those are in London and not in my bedroom, right?”

“Don’t play with me. I’m talking about the Ghost Cullinan, the one your mother stole from my employer.”

His words hit me like a slap in the face, dissipating my fear in favor of white-hot anger. “What? How dare you? My mom never stole anything from anyone!”

“I can assure you, she did. My employer has spent the past decade looking for it, until they learned from one of your mother’s former associates that she had entrusted it to you.”

“What are you rambling about? She was a diplomat! How would she have ended up involved in a diamond heist? March, I really think that you and those guys have the wrong person—”

March’s eyes hardened. “Are you Island Chaptal?”

“Yes, but—”

“Born on September 20, 1989? Daughter of Léa Chaptal and Simon Halder?”

“You’re not listening—”

He placed his index finger on my forehead and pressed gently, as if to force his words directly inside my brain. “
You
listen. Island, your mother was
never
a diplomat. Her position as a consular officer was one of many covers. Your mother worked for a criminal organization called the Board; she was a spy and a remarkably gifted thief . . . And believe me when I say that the CIA could fill an entire room with the classified files her name appears in.”

CIA? Spy?
My knees were shaking again, and I was tempted to hold on to something. I think March saw it: he took a step forward, and his left hand moved as if to catch me. I staggered back, holding my handcuffed hands in front of me in attempt to keep him at a safe distance; I’d sooner drink the milk from a thousand cereal bowls than collapse in his arms.

“You people are all insane!” I shouted. “You . . . you broke into my house, and then you kidnapped me, and I keep telling you that I have nothing to do with this, and . . . and—” I had to stop. My eyes were watering, and I could feel my voice crack.

“You’re a smart girl, Island. I doubt she fooled you entirely,” March said, his tone softer.

She had.

Maybe.

I wasn’t sure anymore. I needed air. Yet the air wasn’t coming. My lungs were contracting rapidly, struggling to find oxygen for my brain. I thought of my mother, of the little I knew about her career as a diplomat, of the car accident in Tokyo.

Had I unconsciously refused to see certain things?

I racked my brain for memories that might have served to back March’s claims, but I couldn’t find anything conclusive. True, during my first fifteen years spent with her, we had more or less lived from a suitcase, always gliding from one place to another too quickly to form any ties to the people around us. As a result, I had been homeschooled—make that self-schooled—which
might
have been the reason why I had blossomed into a socially inept adult. She had probably been aware that ten hours of Internet a day were detrimental to my development, but she’d always say that since we relocated so often, it would have been frustrating for me to change schools all the time; better not go at all.

So, yes, my mom had been weird, maybe even a tiny bit irresponsible at times. Yet, being a free spirit doesn’t make you a criminal. She had raised me as best she could, and with her I had visited many countries and become fluent in several languages. How many kids can say that?