Noel hit the floor in a sliding dive. His last glimpse of Curveball before the thick smoke filled the room had revealed a furious frown between her golden brows. Nerf balls were going to start flying. People above him yelped and cursed as the balls struck. Even though they were soft, Curve-ball's power was formidable. The mixers are going to be busy bleeping out the profanities. People were tripping over him, and he took a pointed toe in the ribs. Time to get up and face Curveball.
Noel sprang to his feet and pulled a long piece of fur out of the waistband of his leg-hugging black jeans. The smoke had him as blinded as the aces and extras, but as he came up against people he brushed the soft fur across exposed skin. It seemed to take hours before he heard a girl's voice say, "Fox?"
"Wrong," Noel said and shot Curveball.
He stripped off the blond wig, walked out of the vault, gathered up the duffel bag of fake money from behind the tellers' counter, and shrugged into his trademark black leather jacket with the diamond lapel pin in the shape of a comet. It nicely covered the skimpy tank top, and the tight jeans would pass for a male's attire. He paused briefly to pluck a Kleenex out of a box on a manager's desk. He wiped away the eye shadow and lipstick. Pulling another fedora out of the jacket pocket, he set it at a jaunty angle over his sweat-soaked brown hair and walked out the sagging front doors.
Heat shimmers hung like the hint of ghosts in the air over the baking sidewalk of the Warner Brothers backlot. Sweating, red-faced studio employees had gathered to watch the fun. Noel reached into the duffel bag and flung Monopoly money into the air. He then pulled his conductor's baton from another pocket, waved it in a complex arc around him, and took an elaborate bow to the cheering crowd.
The limo carried Noel from the Beverly Hills Hotel back to the Warners lot. He had dreaded leaving the rush of icy air and the chilled champagne that had waited in the room, but that was the price of celebrity. He had to go to the wrap party at the conclusion of the Rogue Ace challenges.
The sign for Mullholland Drive crawled past, and the limo crested the last big hill. The San Fernando Valley shimmered in the heat haze, and the setting sun sent flashes of brilliant light off millions of windows and acres of steel and chrome. It was as if a mad signaler was sending code on a global scale. But the code was a cacophony that no one could read. Rather like Egypt right now, Noel thought, and then forced his thoughts away from his real life.
The driver dropped him as close to the studio restaurant as possible. It didn't help; by the time he trod up the stairs to the etched glass doors his clothes felt damp. A PA from the show was waiting to open the door. Despite the heat, the kid still had that stunned, loopy smile that said, I'm in Hollywood. I'm working for a television show. I have five roommates, but it doesn't matter. Noel gave him one of his patented blazing smiles, and stepped into the marble-floored, blue lobby. There was a roar of conversation from the restaurant proper, and the blood-pulsing rhythms of a salsa band.
Nephi Callendar, the government ace who went under the nom de guerre Straight Arrow, was deep in conversation with Rustbelt, the Minnesota hick who looked like an ugly redesign of the Tin Woodsman for a proletarian remake of The Wizard of Oz. Noel shouldn't have been surprised. It was only natural that the American federals would try to recruit new aces for their Special Committee for Ace Resources and Endeavors from among the contestants.
Still, there were times when Noel's government found itself in less than perfect agreement with their American cousins. Despite his victory over the Hearts, Noel did not relish a matchup with some of the more formidable aces of American Hero, and Rustbelt was one of those aces. Any country with weapons made of steel, or bridges over strategic rivers, was vulnerable to Rustbelt's power.
" . . . and we have a great medical plan," Straight Arrow was saying.
"Are you going to tell him about the Old Spies Retirement Home, too?" Noel drawled as he strolled over. "Where's the romance, Nephi?" Noel lowered his eyelashes suggestively. The Mormon ace shifted uncomfortably at the sultry look. He knew what Noel was and he wasn't comfortable with it. Oh my, no.
"He's young and an ace with a very formidable power," Noel continued. "The boy wants tuxedos, martinis shaken not stirred, and trysts with beautiful and dangerous women." He gave Rustbelt a blazing smile. "You'd do much better joining the Order of the Silver Helix."
"Oh. So, what's that then?" Rustbelt asked.
"The British Secret Service."
"Wally is an American," Straight Arrow said shortly.
Rustbelt's ponderous head, with its steam shove jaws, swung between them.
"Ah, but we're such good allies. You wouldn't mind my poaching just a teensy bit?" Noel turned back to Rustbelt. "Think about it, old man. I could sign you up right now."
"I thought you were a magician," Rustbelt said in his absurd accent.
Noel laid a finger next to his nose. "Ah, that's my cover, don't you know. Travel to exotic locales, first-class accommodations. You'd love it."
"Now that sounds like a heckuva deal."
"He's a joker," Straight Arrow snapped.
With Rustbelt's metal skin no blush was readable, but the hick shuffled his feet, setting up a tooth-grating shriek on the marble floor.
"Ace, Nephi, ace," Noel reproved. "One might almost think you're prejudiced." Straight Arrow could blush. The blood washed into his face, turning his cheeks brick red. Just one more little twist, Noel thought. He laid a hand on Rustbelt's shoulder. "No, Wally is an ace, and a very powerful one at that. You know, you're far and away the most interesting ace in this mix. The others are all just flash and dazzle."
"You should know," Straight Arrow said, and the words had to fight to escape from between his clenched teeth.
Noel ignored the SCARE ace. "I think it's a travesty that you were voted off so early, but jealousy, alas, is all too common. We should discuss this over a drink. They have a very nice bar at the Beverly Hills Hotel. We can get to know each other . . . better."
"He's not recruiting you," Nephi warned Rustbelt. "He's making fun of you, and you're falling for it. Don't be a rube." The government ace drew in a sudden, audible breath, as if trying to suck back the words. But it was far too late. He might blame Noel, but it was Straight Arrow who had uttered the insult.
Rustbelt shifted from foot to foot and the big head drooped. "Oh, goshwell, a guy should think about this. It's all pretty confusing. It's getting late, don't you know, so I oughta head out. . . ." His voice trailed away and he bolted at a run for the doors to the restaurant. The marble cracked under his pounding feet.
The truth was that Straight Arrow had been trying to protect the young man. Nobility was always so easy to manipulate.
Nephi stared at Noel. "You are the very devil," he finally said. Noel smiled and took a little bow. A reluctant smile briefly touched the American's lips. "Flint should have had you in Cairo. You're more evil and cunning then the Ikhlas al-Din. You might have prevented that mess developing in Egypt."
It was one of those compliments that held a slap. Noel smiled. "And how do you know we didn't engineer it?" he countered, but it was hollow, and Straight Arrow knew it.
By tacit agreement they left the lobby, stepped down the dead-end hallway that led to the restrooms, and into the men's room. "Then you'd be incompetent instead of asleep at the switch." Straight Arrow glanced quickly beneath the doors to the stalls. For the moment, they were alone. "There are reports of rioting in the joker quarter of Alexandria, and whispers of wholesale murder of the followers of the Old Religion in Port Said and the necropolis of Cairo." He blew out a breath, and ran a hand through his graying hair. "I don't know why the imams and mullahs are reacting so violently. It's a totally made-up religion."
"Aren't they all?" Noel asked, and watched Straight Arrow's lips thin. "And it's not totally about religion. The Twisted Fists killed the Nur. The street is angry."