Wilderness of Mirrors (26 page)

Samantha’s gaze scoured each car parked along Kew Road. The lots up front would be full tonight with families carrying skates and money for hot chocolate.

Two cars, similar to his, approached. But neither was quite right.

Once she had come skating here, and the day remained crystalline in her memory. Textbook twirls of snowflakes landing in Dickens’s London. Kirstin had taken work off because Sam was on Christmas holiday. Even Granddad, forever complaining about being frozen since he’d left Hong Kong, bundled up enough to go along.

They’d skated and skated. Fallen over one another and laughed when the hot chocolate left a mustache on her upper lip.

But when a man, handsome like she imagined her father to be, offered to take her mother for a loop in exchange for a kerchief to wipe away the chocolate, the day’s joy had popped.

Sam had cried about it later when her grandfather had tucked her in bed.
“She’s a right to happiness, your mum. You and I both know that. Now, think hard, Poppet, what’s the Chinese phrase for ‘I’m sorry’?”

“Duìbùqi,” bubbled out. Even now, so many years later, it was familiar to her tongue.

The word vanished when a flash of expensive silver shot past.

Her guess was right. Even now that came as something of a surprise. All along, the threats, the promises –
Turner’s
. Her heart sped like it was working Shooters Hill at the end of the London Marathon.
I understand now, Mum.
All those strange little musings about one disloyal and dangerous son of a bitch were being sent by Sam’s attorney straight to MI6.

Her eyes followed Turner’s steps until he vanished into Kew itself. She ran then, along Kew Road to where a narrow fire brigade path divided a golf course from the back lawn of the Pagoda.

No dogs
.

A squeeze of despair choked her empty stomach. That yellow blare of a sign had never meant a thing before now.

Before this moment when Tam was not beside her.

Sam shouldered the fear and delved through shrubbery until her bared fingers found plastic-coated chain link. She scaled it before dropping to the pine-needled ground inside. Then she wended her way through the fragrant low-growing evergreens until she had a lamp-lit view of the towering Chinese-red pagoda.

Evening was drawing on, secreting distant views under the darkness of its cloak. There was a fog too. She cut short a hiss of disappointment. If he couldn’t see her approach, he’d move off and she’d lose the element of surprise. She slipped closer to the Pagoda’s geometric brick base.

There was a stir of movement to her right. Some revelers, content in the atmospheric evening, had taken a longer route to the rink. For a moment, Sam imagined being a part of their tight knot. It had been a long time since she’d allowed herself the luxury of friendship.

Anger welled, thick and black as oil. If she got through this, if Tam did, she would come here – free at last - with Jane, Brad, and, if he’d have her after all the lies, Nigel. The hope lingered before a sharp breeze carried the group away, leaving her alone with the worst kind of company.

She stiffened. Even without a downwind, her nose caught him before his silver hair and thickset shoulders were visible. If he had ever considered using scent to track, it wouldn’t be tonight. She’d purposely ground enough pine into the air to keep any scent of her own from penetrating his open-mouthed breathing.

Thank God for deviated septums.

Nigel was altogether different. His face tilted fractionally when she neared him. He was drawn to her scent, and she to his.

It would not have surprised Loch.

‘…only the best, Samantha. And a little at that. On your wrists and your neck. Never your clothes. Besides discoloring them, it won’t mix with your pheromones.’
He had gifted her the exotic bottle of Soleil inside Le musee du parfum’s Beaux-arts townhouse on the rue Scribe in Paris on her fifteenth birthday.

Much later, she had done a final project at Parsons in homage to both influences. Gilt, seemingly out of fashion during the height of platinum, had popped the eyes of her professors when she’d used it alongside the blue-greens of recycled glass and the mellow fortitude of old Parisian brick. Beyond that, she had maintained a hint of Solieil in the exhibit. Even Marc, forever joking of her talent as
Bohemian Vuitton
, had been impressed.

The silver head, now in view, contemplated its surroundings.

Sam froze. Stopped breathing and forced the shivers to die along her frozen limbs.

Seconds rolled by, slow as elephants navigating sultry Indian marketplaces.

When he finally turned toward her, she remembered exactly why he was so terrifying.

Wellington Turner should have been a handsome man. He was tall and well built. His English face spoke of strong ancestors and old money. He wore tailored clothes. And he smiled, often and agreeably. A handsome man, ‘Boots’,
except
for his eyes.

Like Nigel’s, they were fashioned of wintry blueness. Unlike Nigel’s, they mimicked a blind man’s. Just under the painting of azure, their depth ended, crisply joining the whites – like those on a porcelain doll.

They swept the pattern of trees neighboring her. Back and forth, up and down. Searching for any deviation or movement.

Sam wasn’t stupid enough to guess he’d seen her. John had taken her duck hunting in New York’s Finger Lakes more times than she could count. Taught her how to stand. How to impersonate her environment. Taught her to be still like a hunted animal. How not to stir until the predator had moved on.

Of course Loch had stormed to no avail, warning them about drunken idiots who’d mistake Sam for a deer. It remained unmentioned that John’s brick-shithouse build prevented him from being categorized as Bambi-material.

She didn’t need to worry about being spotted either. Her sweater was dark with dirt and Tam’s blood. Her face and hands as well. Her breath was held. She was still as death.

The jackal-like face swept by a final time. Not stopping.

Sam waited longer, until his well-dressed back reintroduced itself.

Mr. Turner had made his decision. He entered the Pagoda’s cylindrical spine, where he’d lose sight of the main pathway as he swung round the endless stream of stairs. She doubted he would survey the gardens each time the spiral allowed him access. He’d assume, since she had not started down the path already, that he would make it to the top ahead of her arrival.

She had no need to fret about the rear. Those windows had been covered with metal sheeting after erring golfers had done them in.

Sam sprung into action, whipping through the low-growing vegetation until the thick wood to the left of the Pagoda obscured her.

She had two intentions: terrifying, yet simple. A curious union to which she’d grown altogether too accustomed.

B
rad spun into the icy car park ten minutes late. He angled his BMW motorbike against a curb and jerked the helmet from his head. Hair still damp from the shower, he chucked the BMW’s keys into his pocket and thrust the black helmet under his arm.

What the fuck had happened?

Nigel’s call had hit Brad seconds after he booked his alias a trip to Paris. One of ‘Giovanni’s’ drug cartel contacts had lit up his radar, signaling the time was ripe for a meeting. He would have been dining at L’Auberge Quincy in La Ville-Lumière, but for Nigel’s terse words.

‘
Get to the Slough-branch Medivet. Tam’s down and Sam’s a mess. The bastards hit Eton, sprayed up the end of Slough Road by The Trimballs, took William out.’

Brad’s teeth clashed. The motherfuckers had drilled Nigel’s nephew over what…the business in Russia? Seemed unlikely. Then again, Brad knew Jaak had been let loose and probably headed straight for his boss. Pieces of shit like him didn’t care about family. Nigel should’ve saved his breath and drilled the bastard when he’d had the chance.

Brad avoided the vet’s automatic doors and yanked open the side entry.

The place was swarming with all manner of animals. He set a finger down for a nearby cat to sniff while his eyes scanned for Sammy. He had been in London less than two days, and his brilliant idea had nearly gotten a beloved friend killed.

Bloody hell, this is the last time I’ll try matchmaking.

He noted her mittens, stacked beside a cooling tea. The bench was occupied to an extent that Brad guessed she had been gone for some time. Ten minutes, given the change of people and the lack of steam coming off the Earl Grey.

He found her keys on the counter where Nigel said he’d leave them. “When you’ve got a moment.” Brad tilted his head at the receptionist.

Her glasses listed dangerously across the spine of her nose. “Might as well keep my left ear busy. The right one’s full up.”

Brad flashed a smile. “My friend, the cup of tea over there with the big Alsatian, have you seen her?”

“Not in the past few minutes. Check the loo.”

Brad had seen someone exit the lavatory just as he’d come in. Single stall. No room for Sammy. He was about to ask how Tamar was faring when the receptionist spun to catch a loose whippet. “Oi! What did I tell you before? Keep ’em leashed and under control. It’s not bloody Piccadilly in here!”

Brad glanced back the bench. From behind a ferret’s crate peeked the cuff of Nigel’s field coat.

If Sammy had no need of the mittens and coat, Brad had less so. He scooped her keys from the counter and headed back into the graying dusk.
What drove you out, luv?

Sammy wasn’t over reactive. Didn’t jump to hysterics. Didn’t even cry as far as he could judge.

He tried sending her a text. When no answer came, he scanned the road, picked up the bus route’s number and got back on his bike.

You hate cold and rain, so you’re not walking. You don’t like cabs because you can’t read the driver’s lips unless the mirror’s just right. But you went somewhere…

He revved the r1200 GS up a notch when he neared the High Road. The light was green.

Which way, Sammy?

It was a local route, would spin and swerve past grocers, chemists, schools and libraries.

You took your bag, so you wouldn’t need to stop at the chemists for anything short of a surgical kit.

Brad made a left and wandered past a few empty bus stops and a Marks and Spencer.
You ignore the mundane.

He switched lanes, following bus shelters, and turned down Trelawney, where rows of Lego-style Council flats were scattered over brown lawns and melancholy gardens. The road was endless. When it turned at last, Brad noted a Catholic Church. But Sammy was a close-cousin to Buddha. If she’d gone looking for solace, the London Zoo would have been more likely.

He dipped his head in reverence, before studying the stores beside the rectory.

You weren’t looking for fire alarms or elderly housing services.

He spotted the newly renovated Langley Library. It was a thought. Sammy could’ve searched anything she wanted on her mobile; but if she hadn’t wanted it traced, she’d have come here.

He slowed by the curb, dropped the bike’s side-stand and dismounted. His neck was damp where the helmet dripped against it and he thought briefly about ‘Giovanni’s’ Sardinian villa.

He’d have loved to show Sammy around the place. Had wished her influence was more evident in the interior’s demeanor. Unfortunately, those two worlds could never meet. So he’d used
Blue
and done his level best to make her proud.

On the contrary, the library’s interior stupefied him. He imagined her reaction.

‘
Absolutely awful, Brad. Like that wedding I told you about. The one on Uncle John’s sister’s side. Aqua script on blood red stationery. Things nightmares are made of.’

And like that, with little drama, he spotted her things beside a vacant computer. He glanced round, hoping she’d drift into his space like she had the night they’d met. Utter sophistication on legs a couple klicks long.

Only she wasn’t there.

Coat, mobile, bag. All left for anyone to lift. He scooped them aside and leaned over the keyboard.

“May I help you?”

Brad turned on the librarian he’d watched approach him. “Yes, please. My wife, Samantha,” he said, gesturing good-naturedly to the pile beside him,” called me from home. The babysitter came down with flu and all but abandoned our baby at school. Sammy panicked and left everything here.”

The woman’s suspecting features softened. “Poor thing. Her nerves must be near shot. What was she doing when she got called away?”

Brad rolled his eyes. “Our anniversary’s coming up and apparently she was trying to surprise me with a party. Thought she might have left the computer on, logged in and everything. Didn’t want anyone to open her private emails. Bills and the like.”

The woman leaned in. “Let me guess. You’ve forgotten her email address and password.”

Brad grew shamefaced. “Too right. Mostly I text or phone her. Can’t think of the last time I used her email.”

“Fortunately,” the librarian’s fingers whirled easily around the mouse and keyboard, “the computers here have a keystroke logger attached. One simply needs to open a word file, type the access code, and…”

Brad watched as the last few days of information scrolled across the screen. The woman stepped back, averting her eyes. “I trust you can find it quickly?”

“Brilliant.” Brad scanned the words. “Ahh, so it was gmail.” He stood. “I’ll let you reset it.”

She did so.

“Thank you again.” Brad grinned and shook the lady’s hand. “Like as not, Sammy’ll be in here tomorrow with a plate of cookies.”

She smiled. “Make them chocolate chip.”

“Right. I’ll try to remember that.”

They shared a laugh and Brad pretended to check if the gmail account was still logged in. Three minutes later, he was out the door with Sammy’s belongings and a head-full of trouble.

He shoved her things into a weatherproof compartment and called The Firm’s ICT center on his helmet’s Bluetooth. “Milton here. Give me the subscriber on this account…”