Which was a surprise, since that girl cleaned up mighty fine for the evening.
I hate this dress. I’m gonna burn it when this is over.
Maggie looked down at her outfit for the umpteenth time that evening and marveled how it could stay on or how she could even walk. It was a shiny green number, shoulderless and sleeveless, that hugged her breasts, stomach, and hips like a vise. At least it allowed a range of movement for her to walk, given that the slit up the side exposed her leg a quarter of the way up her thigh. She’d wondered, the first time she’d put it on, how she was ever going to strap a gun to her leg in that getup, but a careful application of Mulholland’s misdirection, along with a quick emotional tug or two, got her past the bag search without incident — the pistol was safely sequestered in her clutch, tucked under her arm.
“Anything?” whispered Frank from behind her.
She turned and gave him a practiced, winning smile. “No, and it’s pissing me off,” she said quietly.
She could feel the waves of amusement off Frank, along with a sense of… was that pride? Camaraderie? It was positive, whatever it was. Why was it harder for her to identify the positive emotions? “Keep looking,” he said out the corner of his mouth, wandering off to introduce himself to another circle of delegates.
Thankfully, the women dragged out to this party — and let’s face it, they were only there for the men’s amusement — either stuck close to whoever they came with or huddled in small groups by nationality. Maggie only had to bust out her cover story once — “I’m married to that charming gentleman over there, the Deputy Undersecretary of State for Planning” — and that was that. The other American women smiled politely and nodded at her but quickly resumed their conversation as though she wasn’t there. She wasn’t part of their circle, and they weren’t chomping at the bit to make the new girl feel welcome. And the Russians, Zionists, Arabs, and Turks all left her alone. She did have to shoot down a drunk British envoy and a young Russian officer, the latter’s painfully earnest attempt leaving her with a twinge of regret. But it was working out.
Except that Yushchenko hadn’t bothered to show up.
I hate this dress. I’m gonna take a pair of scissors to this thing like nobody’s business. She looked at Cal’s uniform as he stood at Vandenberg’s right hand, thinking how much more comfortable it looked. And, for that matter, how comfortable Cal was becoming in his new role.
“Master Sergeant, would you be so kind as to inquire if these fine people have some proper Scotch lying around? I developed a taste for it during the war. Scotland, you know.”
Cal stood ramrod straight and nearly saluted — but he remembered that, no, the Air Force boys didn’t salute at every little thing. “Yes, General,” he replied, and turned on his heel to head for the bar, next to the violin players.
Except he never made it there — that was Vandenberg’s cue releasing him from duty so he could actually get to work. It was just another of Mr. Mulholland’s tricks, blending into the background until nobody even remembered you were there. Cal had stood there at Vandenberg’s beck and call long enough for folks to think he was part of the furniture, an accessory to the fancy couch or the chandelier. He’d gotten a few looks when he first walked in, of course — not hatred, but certainly not acceptance. Curiosity, like he was a sideshow at the carnival. But it seemed most folks had accepted that he belonged in the room, or at least that there were more interesting things to keep occupied with, like an obnoxiously tipsy Ellis, and he’d quickly faded into the background again. Which was the point.
Cal took a meandering route through the room, sticking to the walls and, where possible, the hallways and alcoves. He made to look a little lost, which worked well when he stumbled onto one of the delegates — a Frenchman, if he remembered the introductions right — lingering a bit too long in a secluded corner with a very tall Russian girl. “Excuse me,” the man muttered, bowing and turning quickly before anything more could be said.
So, he could find a couple making out like schoolkids, but he couldn’t find the Russian soldier with a face matching the grainy photo they’d been given, nor the composite sketch the CIA folks had done up. Cal reached down and gave his Handie-Talkie key a couple taps. Nothing yet. The Variants had discovered that the vibrations caused by opening and closing a channel could be just as useful as actual conversation and much more discreet, and so had devised for themselves a little code system.
Having done a circuit of the room, Cal sighed and shrugged. He swung back by the bar and asked about the Scotch — the bartender just shrugged — so Cal grabbed another glass of champagne and headed back in Vandenberg’s direction, waiting patiently until his presence was noticed.
“Apologies, General. No Scotch here.”
Vandenberg took the champagne off Cal’s hands. “Well, Sergeant, do me a favor and head on out to the cars. I think the Deputy Undersecretary over there might have a bottle or two of whiskey tucked away, and I do believe I outrank him sufficiently to warrant some.”
The crowd around the handsome Air Force general tittered at this, but only Cal caught his true instructions: expand the search.
Cal took his leave and left the room. If he walked fast enough, like he was on an errand, he could not only get away with leaving the party without being stopped but also cover a lot of ground. And these days, Cal had young, strong legs.
Frank had a couple European ladies on the ropes with one of his few funny war stories — where exactly in Europe he couldn’t remember and really didn’t care — when he felt his wallet vibrate against his chest. Twice… three times… four… five!
Drawing himself back up, Frank managed to bring his story to a truncated but amusing conclusion in under a minute and then excused himself to attend to his boss. Once out of sight in an alcove, he pulled out his wallet and opened it, turning his back to the crowd. “Yeah?”
“Outer courtyard, the one with all them fountains. Just sitting there on a bench, looking all tired. Couple others with him,” Cal replied. “You better get Maggie and get out here.”
Frank folded up his wallet and turned just in time to see Maggie sauntering off down one of the other hallways. Either she’d listened in or she’d figured something else out on her own. Either way, Frank did what he could to follow her lead without attracting attention, until he got to the hallway and broke out into a jog to catch up.
“Stop looking at my ass,” Maggie whispered when he fell in beside her.
“I wasn’t!” Frank hissed.
“Look. I see Cal up ahead.”
Cal nodded subtly as he walked toward them, then split off into a side corridor so he could circle around and emerge on the other side of the courtyard; his job was to keep watch and use the radio if he spotted trouble.
Maggie and Frank walked into the courtyard separately. There were a number of smokers who had congregated there, clusters of men and a handful of women scattered around the vast expanse, some alone, some in small groups sharing the international camaraderie of cigarettes. The setup made talking to a stranger plausible, and unlikely that they’d be overheard. Frank and Maggie split off — and after a few minutes of aimless wandering and smoking, Frank saw her sit down on a bench across from a man in a Russian uniform.
Yushchenko. INSIGHT.
Frank took out his wallet and tapped the channel key three times. Contact.