Blonde Ops (23 page)

“You've been working hard. You need a little break.”

I wasn't buying it. My look may have suggested as much, because she added, “We can have some girl time. Chat, that sort of thing.”

Girl time? With Candace? Was the Ice Queen finally melting?

“Uh, sure.” She probably got around to talking with Varon.

The car rolled to a stop in front of a modern bistro, sleek and shiny. The maître d' greeted Candace warmly and ushered us to a quiet table near a back booth, away from the kitchen. Perfect place for an ambush, which I was sure this was, and I was the ambushee.

I fidgeted with my napkin, nervously expecting her to say my flight was already booked. The waiter bowed smartly and backed away. When Candace looked at me, there was an earnestness about her that was unnerving. It didn't help when I spied Ortiz at the bar—drinking coffee. I was sure that her presence wasn't a coincidence.

“The house chardonnay for me, and an
acqua frizzante
for my friend,” she said to the waiter as he laid menus by our places. “Or would you prefer a Coke?”

Friend?

Whatever. I guessed a glass of wine was out of the question. It was probably for the best, although I thought I understood now what Mom meant when she said she could really use a drink.

“No, water's fine.” We sat silently until the drinks arrived. Candace took a sip from her goblet, filled with a golden wine. Another waiter stopped by, putting down a dish of baby artichokes. The scent of garlic and crushed herbs made my mouth water. Under Candace's watchful eye, I took one and popped it into my mouth. She chose that moment to ask me a question.

“I know I've asked before, but this latest incident makes it so imperative that we have to be extra vigilant. Has anyone asked you for details about the First Lady?”

Who
hadn't
been asking? I chewed, swallowed, and cleared my throat.

“Taj wanted to take pictures of the outfit she's wearing tomorrow.” That was true and didn't seem harmful in any way. I'd keep the part about him touching the suit to myself. It was only two fingers anyway.

“And what did you tell him?”

I tilted my head. “I said no. He can take some when she's in the square. You and the Secret Service squad can keep an eye on him and everyone else.”

Candace smiled. “Good. And Dante?”

I didn't want to ruin Dante's life over something that might be nothing, but I wasn't going to stop being
mostly
honest. “Like everyone else, he wants to meet the First Lady.”

That
was true too—for lots of people. Let Candace and the Secret Service make of it what they would. It was their job to figure out if Dante was a threat.

Candace sighed, taking a big sip of her wine. “It's a nightmare trying to keep her movements and whereabouts quiet. She draws attention everywhere she goes, and she doesn't like to be crowded by bodyguards or have her movements restricted. We're hoping to get to the Vatican early tomorrow. The cardinals and the pope are more private and conservative about the news they share. I'm hoping we can be in and out of St. Peter's Square without much interference from the crowds.” Candace chose an artichoke and chewed it slowly.

“Here's the deal,” she said after swallowing. “There are extremists out there who threaten political figures or their families. Most of them are harmless. It's the few that are totally serious and might follow through that we have to find before anything happens. It's standard procedure for us to ask if anyone has been saying anything against the President or First Lady, either at the office, around Rome, or wherever you've been.”

I shook my head vehemently. “No, not at all. I haven't heard anything bad or even critical about Mrs. Jennings or the President.”

Candace leaned over, her gaze penetrating. “If you hear anything—and I mean
anything, from anyone
—that could be seen as a threat, no matter how silly it may seem, I want you to tell me. Or one of the Secret Service people if I'm not around. I'll make sure you have all the agents' numbers.”

I sat up straighter. “Is something going on?” Candace seemed more intense than usual.

Our food arrived: a flaky fish surrounded by baby plum tomatoes, zucchini, olive oil, and herbs for her; lobster ravioli for me. She waited until the waiter left before she leaned forward to say softly, “Some anti-American groups have been more active on the Internet lately. And of course, there was the attack at the prime minister's, harmless as it may have seemed.”

She paused to taste her food. I stuffed a ravioli into my mouth while I had the chance. She chewed carefully and swallowed, taking a small sip of wine before continuing.

“Can I depend on you?”

Now that was a phrase that wasn't used too often around me. And even though it was coming from Candace—or maybe
especially
since it was coming from Candace—it took me aback. No one ever asked me to do anything important like they needed or
wanted
my help.

She's seen what you can do, and she respects that. Is that so hard to believe?

It was. But I did.

She didn't say it, but I knew that she expected me to rat out Dante or Taj if they asked for too much. I'd always questioned authority, gone against the system. I never liked people telling me what I had to do. But I really liked Mrs. Jennings and felt protective of Parker. I'd do what I could to keep them both safe.

I had to ask myself where Taj and Dante fit: friends or possible foes? Their actions would determine that, not me.

“Absolutely,” I said. And as on that long-ago day when I had that heart-to-heart with Parker, I meant it. “I promise.”

 

TRICKS AND TIPS FOR
THE EDGE-Y GIRL

Modesty is the best policy for job interviews, first dates, and business meetings. Other than that, all bets are off. Show your wild side!

22

It was
Ortiz
.

Ortiz had searched my room.

And I was surprised at how unaffected I was by the discovery. Maybe it was because I had a better handle on what was going on now. But it did explain a few things—like why she opened up about the car possibly being tampered with. Maybe she felt guilty for constantly invading my privacy. She was only doing her job; I saw that now, and I'd make it a point to be nicer to her.

I'd have a good chance at St. Peter's. We were heading over to do Mrs. Jennings's last off-site shoot. I finished getting dressed and went out to meet Candace in the sitting room.

“You can't wear that,” she said, examining my outfit with an über-critical eye.

I looked at the dress I picked out. It fell a little below my knee, so not too short, and the boat neckline was beyond modest. My legs were bare, but it was warm and no one wore pantyhose anymore except old ladies and British royalty.

“What's wrong with it?”

“It doesn't have sleeves and it's too casual. We're going to be in view of the Vatican with Theresa Jennings, not picnicking on the back of Romeo's Vespa. We're going to be seen by the entire world.”

“It's Dante, not Romeo,” I corrected.

“He's not important,” she said. “The rules for dressing were outlined in the e-mail I sent out yesterday.”

How could I forget? No bullet points, just paragraphs and paragraphs. I had no time to read through all of it; I was surprised she had time to write it.

“I went to the Vatican City Web site and checked the dress code—”

“You are representing
Edge
and are part of the First Lady's entourage.” She fixed me with a stare. “Change.”

Sighing, I went back to my room.
Sleeves … not as casual …

I found a pair of simple black pants. Everyone wore them, and mine showed not so much as a centimeter of leg. Those, along with a silk tee and jacket, would have to work because I had nothing else that would be considered appropriate. All of me would be covered up. Candace would have to deal with bare toes—I wasn't meeting the pope, so my black studded sandals stayed. When I came back into the room, she nodded with approval.

“Much better. There's just one thing.” She reached into a flat white box printed with gold lying on the coffee table and pulled out a wad of black. Shaking it out into a meshy, lace trimmed square, she popped it over my head.

“Hey!” I looked in the mirror. Goth was all very well, but it wasn't my thing.

“His Holiness sent these to everyone, a little gift. You don't have to wear it in the square or any cathedrals, but if you do visit one later, remember to keep your shoulders covered. They're very strict about it here.”

“I will.”

She sat gracefully on the couch. “It's going to be a long, difficult day.”

I took the fluffy chair opposite. Candace didn't look her usual confident self but tired and a little older. Worry lines were visible across her forehead.

“Why?”

She eyed me for a few moments, as if she was weighing whether or not she should spill what was on her mind. “I tried to make Cardinal Tartoria see reason, but he wouldn't listen. We wanted to do today's shoot in one of the smaller buildings. The Vatican has a million nooks we could have used where we would have been out of the way, and it would have been much safer for Mrs. Jennings, but he wouldn't allow it. They won't give us access to any of the sites for pictures for a fashion magazine.” Her tone changed to a deep rolling baritone, probably in poor imitation of the Cardinal's rough English: “The
Vaticano
is a holy site, for prayer and meditation, not for photographing women's dresses. Use the square—that is a public place.”

I laughed, but Candace didn't join me.

“Anyone can just wander around the square—and after what happened at the prime minister's…” She looked out the window and inhaled deeply. “There'll be some Swiss Guards, and they'll help keep any crowds back, but still.” She shook her head. “So many people…”

“Well, I'll do my part and cooperate,” I said. “You can count on me.”

She smiled. “I know.”

Whoa, Bec! You're fraternizing with the enemy.

But Candace wasn't the enemy. Not anymore. And in a way, it was nice not to be at odds with her.

“That means no incidents, right?” she asked, bringing me back to the conversation. “No getting in the way, no disruptions, and no disappearing.”

“Yes, ma'—Candace,” I said.

She nodded approvingly and rose, opening the door for me. We went downstairs and out to the street where a line of cars waited—a string of taxis and the black First Lady–mobile.

“I'll see you there,” she said, and I watched her as she squeezed into the special car with Mrs. Jennings and the other agents. I walked down the queue of taxis, looking for an empty seat.

“Bec! Over here!”

Sophie waved from the third car, a Fiat, like the one I rode in the day I arrived. She sat in the back with Kevin. Feeling like an intruder in an intimate moment, I slid into the seat next to the driver. When I shut the door the automatic belt almost strangled me as I clicked the one on my lap.

Our taxi flew down the Via di Panico and over a bridge that crossed the Tiber. Out the passenger window, I watched statues of men and saints flash by. When the driver hit the brake, I, like everyone else, lurched forward, the cross-body belt pressing into my chest as I strained against it. I heard Sophie gasp and on instinct, I stuck out a hand to brace myself against the dashboard. Looking up, I saw a group of tourists jump back onto the sidewalk. All of this happened in a matter of seconds.

“
Idioti!
” the driver shouted at them, then turning to me, said, “Sorry,
signorina
.”

“It's okay,” I assured him as I adjusted the belt, still tight across my chest. It had really held me in place, more than the lap belt.

The car turned onto another street, narrow and cobbled, the Borgo Santo Spirito, that ended abruptly at a white domed building that rose up like a glittering cloud.

Circling the building was the
borgo
, a mass of white marble, pointed cornices, and soaring columns. We pulled up to an ornate iron gate decorated with elaborate leafy scrolls and papal keys where two guards brightly dressed in Renaissance-era uniforms waved us through.

“Cute outfits,” I said.

“They're the Swiss Guards,” said Sophie. “They've dressed that way for hundreds of years.”

Those were the guards Candace was talking about? The hats were silly enough with the giant feathers, but the yellow court-jester pantaloons and tights didn't exactly inspire respect. No way could they convince anyone that they were fierce or deadly.

Through the gates, our taxi joined a line of other cars depositing people at the edge of the vast plaza. I didn't realize how huge it was until I was out of the car—it was a mammoth place to keep an eye on. No wonder Candace was nervous. The dome looked like a giant crown when we approached it from the street, and I could just make out the row of white statues that balanced along the top. In the center, a huge obelisk partially blocked my view.

As I got out of the car I saw my hand, red and mottled from where I'd slammed it into the dash. On the heel of my palm was embedded distinctly the number
500
—the Fiat's logo.

“Come on, Bec!”

Sophie and Kevin were out of the car and heading into the square. Crowds of people wandered around, some carrying signs addressed to Mrs. Jennings like at the Pantheon, except a few of these weren't friendly. So much for the Vatican being secretive about who was coming to visit. We'd only just stepped inside the oval ring when a group of raggedy-looking kids came running up.

“The English-speaking tour starts in a few minutes!” they said. “We can give you the best tour. Cheaper too.”