“This sounds like fun,” Veronique says.
“We are in no hurry,” Grace says.
Veronique locks eyes with Grace, who suddenly feels she might faint.
—
FROM THE MOMENT Veronique touches Grace’s hair, Knox turns his back on the voyeur mirror. If he was in therapy or could drink away the memories, he might find them tempting, but there’s a history buried within him that neither a shrink nor Scotch can ameliorate. And so: avoidance.
The observation room consists of a twin bed and a nylon mesh chair, the same cozy decor as the bedroom where the two women are currently undressing. He’s about to leave as a second mirror in the room reflects Veronique stripping. Next is Grace. When there’s nothing left but the red thong, his pulse races and his throat feels dry. Knox breaks out of his trance, aroused. He leaves the room and heads upstairs.
The room marked PRIVAAT is at the top of the stairs to the right. The toilet is to the left.
Knox carries a pick gun, an automated tumbler decipher that picks nearly any lock with the squeeze of a trigger, illegal worldwide and available on eBay. He removes it from the Scottevest pocket. There was a time a person needed actual lock-picking skills. He prepares the iPhone for camera mode and sets up its digital recorder to record from his Bluetooth headset. He’s accustomed to ad-libbing, has to slow himself down to remember to ask for Kreiger if anyone’s inside the office when he opens the door. He and Grace have worked through half a dozen contingencies.
—
VERONIQUE TOUCHES GRACE FIRST.
“No.” She pauses. “Not yet.”
“You are new to this,” Veronique declares.
Grace feels her cover disintegrating. “I like to take my time. I will do the touching.”
“Whatever you like.”
Veronique lies back. Grace avoids intimacy but touches the woman’s stomach and neck. She tries to appear interested. After a few minutes, Veronique turns to draw on Grace’s abdomen, which contracts under the touch.
“Not yet. I’ll let you know.” Grace starts to pull up the sheet, but Veronique catches it and returns it to their knees.
“For him,” she coos. “He’s watching.”
“Lie back, please.”
Veronique lies on her side. Grace runs her hand over the woman’s muscular buttocks and up from the small of her back and into her hair at the nape of her neck.
Veronique purrs, “A man lacks nuance,” as Grace busies herself with both hands.
Knox opens the door without knocking.
Grace swallows a gasp.
He looks at her first, then quickly he settles his eyes on Veronique.
He smiles, immediately playing his role. “My turn.”
—
WEARING A SILK ROBE with her purse slung over her shoulder, Grace listens to the voice recording Knox has sent to her phone. She flushes the toilet before leaving the washroom without having used the facilities. Although charged with adrenaline, she adopts a lazy stroll on her way down the hall to the office.
“The pick gun is behind the speaker to your left as you face the door,” Knox’s message said. “Laptop, front and center. Wireless router on the lower shelf to the left of the desk as you face it. Vaulted ceiling with natural light. Blinds on the lower windows were open. Now closed. Important you remember to reopen them before leaving. I swept it. No devices found. You’ll want to do better. Twenty minutes. Less, by the time you hear this.”
There’s a text from Dulwich.
meeting wrapping up. unable to hold him.
It’s time-stamped seven minutes earlier.
Now inside the office with the deadbolt locked, she texts:
how long?
Doesn’t wait for a response. Her bag is open. Game on.
on his way there now
She slips into the office chair. The key tracking software will provide them with passwords which will allow her to attack Kreiger’s laptop. She opens a port on the router to skirt virus security software. She video-bugs the top bookshelf where dust on the volumes tells her they’re rarely touched. She wants the audio closer to home. She’ll take over the laptop’s microphone and video once she’s inside.
She packs up her wires and shoulders the purse. Turning off the lights, she crosses to open the blinds. There are windows on opposing walls.
She twists the blinds open. A man on the sidewalk below jerks his head in her direction.
It’s Kreiger. He’s caught the movement in his own office windows. Whether instinctively or by chance, it hardly matters.
Without hesitation, Grace waves down to him.
He stops, head still aimed at her.
She waves again.
Kreiger waves back. He then marches furiously toward the front door.
—
“YOU ARE?”
Grace displays herself resplendently on his love seat. Her best Mata Hari pose, borrowed from an Ingrid Bergman film she’d seen while getting her master’s in criminology at USC.
“A friend of John Knox,” she answers in English.
Kreiger waves off a bouncer and enters. He places down a briefcase that catches her eye.
“I lock my office,” he says, not having moved. “It’s marked private in case you can’t read. How, in the name of God, did you get in here?”
“I am a friend of John Knox,” she says.
She wins a laugh from Kreiger. “Yes, well, that would explain it.”
“I . . . I was interested in company . . . female company . . . and Knox recommended your establishment. He made me promise I would say hello.” As she sits up she makes sure to let a good deal of leg show. He must be immune to such sights, but she tries anyway. The robe comes open far more than she would have wished, but she makes no attempt to close it. Let him ogle her. To her surprise, he does just that. Men.
“I would expect nothing less,” he says. “Drink?”
“Vodka rocks, please.”
She regrets having placed the video camera on the bookshelf. Of everything she’s done, the video camera is the most likely to be detected if he gets suspicious. And how can he not? All the charm in the world cannot nullify breaking and entering.
He pours them both drinks, his back to her.
“He sent you to spy on me,” Kreiger says, paralyzing Grace’s diaphragm.
“I was to get the wholesale cost of the rugs, if I could,” she says without hesitation. “I won’t tell, if you won’t?”
“Identify the wholesaler,” he speculates. “Eliminate the middleman. Knox is not stupid. I might have done the same.”
“He is annoyed at the time it is taking,” she says.
“Yes. I’ve just spoken to his money man.” A wave of realization spreads over Kreiger’s face. “Oh, very good.” He hands her the drink and pulls out a chair to face her. He shows no further interest in her body; she pulls the robe shut and ties it tightly. “He’s a clever one, our Mr. Knox.” He lifts his glass and they toast. “Now . . . what to do with you?”
She peers over the rim of the glass, attempting to look unaffected by his comment.
“I find it most instructive to send a message when such advantage is taken. You are bold to have stayed after I spotted you up here. Very bold indeed.”
“I don’t get paid unless I can deliver actionable intelligence. The laptop is password protected. The desk drawers locked.”
“Hold your purse by the bottom two corners, turn it over and shake out its contents, please.”
“Is that necessary?” she pleads. She has nothing with which to bargain. Sex is a nonstarter in a place like this. She can’t buy him. This is the part of fieldwork she understands requires experience, and she has none. He sits between her and the door. To assault him would be easy enough, but would put Knox in a terrible bind. She’s already done enough damage.