“What are you doing?” she asks.
“Just a warning.”
“Take your hand off me.”
“We know about your past.”
“Let go of me.” Then: “What are you talking about?”
“You’ve had problems,” Bob says. He releases his grip. “You had” — finger quotes — ‘issues.’”
“Why did you make quote fingers around the word ‘issues’?”
“What?”
“I had issues. It’s how I lost my medical license. It’s why I’m here. No need to put that in quotation marks.”
“So you get my concern?”
“No.”
“You had issues — and what’s the first thing you want to do when you arrive? Seek out a bar. You feel me?”
“I wouldn’t feel you with oven mitts,” she says. “My issue wasn’t alcohol.”
“Still, Maggie. Maybe you and I just have this one drink and go back up?”
So Bob had been sent down to keep an eye on her, but not in a way she’d worried about. “Sounds like a plan. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to pee.”
She heads down the bar, gives the security guard a quick half smile, and pushes open the bathroom door. Alena is waiting. She has a phone in her hand.
“Where did you get it?” Maggie asks.
“It’s one of the men’s,” Alena tells her. “He’s with my friend. We, uh, distracted him. She still is. I don’t know how much time you’ll have. Use WhatsApp. Delete the call from his recent list when you’re done and leave it on the toilet in the second stall. I’ll come back to get it.”
“Thank you,” Maggie says.
But Alena is already pushing open the door. “Hurry,” Alena says before disappearing back into the bar.
Maggie steps into the second stall. The phone is unlocked. WhatsApp is up on the screen. She holds the phone in her left hand and is about to dial a number when she realizes something.
She doesn’t remember anyone’s phone number.
She has used her mobile phone and contacts for so long that she can’t remember Sharon’s number. The house’s number, yes, that she remembers from her childhood, but when the bills started stacking up, Sharon got rid of those phones. Porkchop doesn’t have a mobile. He uses the payphone at Vipers for Bikers.
Wait, hold the phone. So to speak.
The payphone. It’s old. Porkchop had been able to pay more to get the number personalized. She knows the final six digits correspond with the letters V–I-P-E-R-S.
What are the first?
The area code is 201. So it’s only one number.
It comes to her now.
How long does she have? Between Bob at the bar and Mr. Alena-and-Friend Distracted, she can’t stay on very long.
What are the odds Porkchop is at Vipers and by the phone anyway?
She doesn’t know. But what other choice does she have? Plus if what she thought was happening at home was happening, well, Porkchop could be resourceful.
She quickly loads the digits in with her finger and presses send.
Porkchop answers on the first ring. “Where are you?”
“Dubai.”
“More precise?”
“The Bugatti residence.”
“Do you need to be extracted?”
“No, I’m good. Listen, I don’t have much time. I went to Russia. Barlow hired me—”
“I know this,” Porkchop interrupts, because he listened when she said she didn’t have much time. “The mistress. Nadia Something.”
“What about her?”
“She specifically requested you for the surgery.”
Maggie makes a face. “What do you mean? She doesn’t even know me.”
“You said you’re short on time.”
“I am.”
“So don’t waste it. It wasn’t Barlow’s idea to hire you. He was just a go-between. Nadia wanted you in Russia. Any idea why?”
Maggie’s head spins. Nadia? Nadia requested Maggie as her surgeon? “Who told you that?”
“Barlow.”
“It makes no sense.”
“Make it make sense. This Nadia knows you. She wanted you in Russia. We’ve researched her and found nothing significant.”
We.
Interesting choice of words on Porkchop’s part. She gets his hidden meaning here.
“Why are you in Dubai?” Porkchop asks.
“They think Trace is missing,” she says. “They want me to help find him.”
“Would I be sexist and belittling if I said it sounds too dangerous?”
“A little, yeah.”
“So?”
“So I need to follow this through, Porkchop.”
“No, you don’t,” Porkchop says. Then: “Okay, what can I do?”
“They have a theory,” she says. “This CIA guy. His name is Charles Lockwood.”
“We’ll look into him.”
Again with the “we.”
“He told me not to contact anyone from home,” Maggie continues. “That it could be dangerous for you.”
“It’s handled. We’re safe. What’s the CIA guy’s theory?”
There’s a commotion outside. Maggie lowers the phone for a second. Then she hears a man shout in English. “What did you do with my goddamn phone?”
No time to stall, Maggie realizes. So she just dives in. “That Marc is still alive.”
From outside in the bar, she hears the voice of a placating woman: “Calm down, Arty. We’ll find it.”
“I’m not calming down! What did you do with my phone?”
Maggie puts the phone near her ear. “I don’t have much time, Porkchop.”
“We know that theory can’t be true,” Porkchop says.
His voice is almost too steady, but she still hears the slight hitch of Porkchop fighting back the choke.
“Maggie?”
“I’m here.”
“Marc was hacked up in North Africa. They’re lying to you. They’re trying to manipulate you.”
Porkchop’s words make her heart sink.
“Maggie?”
“They believe it’s possible.”
“Doesn’t matter what they believe.”
“They think maybe Marc faked his death,” she says, speaking fast now. “A violent Russian oligarch named Oleg Ragoravich was using WorldCures to launder money. Marc became an informant—”
“Maggie—”
“Ragoravich found out. That’s the theory. His people would have killed Marc — and me and probably you too. So Marc faked his own death—”
“Maggie—”
“To escape him.”
“And, what, he never told us?”
“Yes. To keep us safe.”
There’s more commotion outside. The American man is furious now, demanding that they turn on all the lights.
Time’s up, Maggie thinks.
“Porkchop, I have to—”
“So he’s been alive this whole time?” Porkchop half rants. “And he chooses to stay silent. Even now? He never tries to reach out to his wife or father and tell us...” He stops. “Maggie—”
“I know,” she says. Tears run down her cheeks. Her heart plummets deep in her chest at what is so obvious. “Marc is dead.”
“Then what are we doing here? It’s not our fight.”
The bathroom door bursts open.
“Bye.”
Maggie disconnects and deletes the Vipers number. The screensaver comes on. The center image is a man with a fake tan and blindingly white teeth in some kind of dark club surrounded by young, curvy women holding a huge birthday cake with the message “HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO THE ARTSTER.” The Artster. Maggie shakes her head. My God. Men. She flushes the toilet, puts the phone on top of it, and then hurries out. Alena rushes past her, not so much as glancing at Maggie. When Maggie gets back to the bar, she spots the Artster in a dark suit and blindingly white dress shirt with one too many buttons open. He is still ranting about someone stealing his phone while a young woman tries to calm him — “It’s okay, Arty, it’s here, Arty, we’ll find it, Arty” — and another digs through the cushions. Look at this clown, Maggie thinks. Arty the Artster. Another faux Master of the Universe. Arty shouts for someone to turn on the goddamn lights, but that doesn’t happen. Another young woman joins the search. Then a security guard. Alena hurries back out of the bathroom and immediately gets on her hands and knees to “help” in the search for Arty’s phone.