A Date You Can't Refuse (15 page)

Because I wasn't sure I trusted Alik.

He picked up a
Los Angeles Times
and began to read, drinking his coffee. I watched him. I had a strange impulse to reach out and touch a lock
of his hair that was drying in the sun coming through the skylight. What would he do? I imagined he'd respond in kind. I wondered how real spies did this, ingratiate themselves, form friendships and all the warm fuzzy feelings that went along with that while maintaining a baseline level of suspicion.

A loud voice coming from the next room got our attention. Alik followed the sound, and I followed Alik.

In the great room, a large—not just large by L.A. standards—woman was facing off with Kimberly She wore a long, capelike wrap in a tangerine color that complemented her auburn hair, which was fluffed and sprayed. She had on a lot of makeup, including false eyelashes.

“I prefer to be driven in a limousine,” she said. “It is what I am used to.”

“Naturally, when you're performing, but this is a training. You have no need of your driver here. We'll take care of your transportation needs.”

“In a limousine?”

“No, in a modified, fuel-efficient—”

“Ms. Bjöeling.” Alik stepped in deftly, and Kimberly moved back a step, toward me. “We heard your beautiful voice from the kitchen. Hello, I'm Alik Milos. We are honored to have you with us.”

Ms. Bjöeling, whoever she was, was not immune to the charm and Baltic good looks of Alik Milos. “Yuri's son?” she asked, thawing slightly.

Alik nodded.

“I was expecting Yuri himself to be here on my arrival. It was my understanding that your exorbitant fee guarantees the man himself and not his apprentices. Also, I do not take English classes. My English is excellent.”

Alik didn't blink. “Yes, it is. Yuri flew last night to New York on short notice, and returns this afternoon. I apologize on his behalf. And I promise you, Yuri is involved in all aspects of MediasRex. That said, Ms. Bjöeling—”

“You may call me Bronwen.”

“Thank you. That said, no staff member here is an apprentice. Kimberly's a world-class personal trainer and a licensed nutritionist. I've got
a master's in psychology from Yale. Nell, a renowned linguist—whose seminar you need not take—has coached countless film and stage actors, including two Oscar winners, as I'm sure you read in the résumé section of your packet. Nell's brushing up on her Norwegian, to make you feel welcome.”

Bronwen Bjöeling now turned on me. “And who is this?”

“Wollie Shelley,” I said, stepping forward and extending my hand. After a moment, she extended her own very white, puffy hand, from which protruded long tangerine nails.

“Wollie,” Alik said, “is my opposite number, in charge of transportation, logistics, and the social needs of half our trainees. Wollie, you no doubt recognize Bronwen Bjöeling, renowned lyric soprano.”

I didn't, but decided it best not to volunteer that.

“And are you a psychologist?” Bronwen asked me.

“No, I'm a graphic artist,” I said.

She looked around the great room, perhaps thinking I'd painted the walls. Before she could ask for my résumé or alma mater, Kimberly caught my eye and said, “Bronwen, I'll—”

“He
may call me by my first name,” the woman said, turning on her. “Not you.”

It was so rude, even Kimberly, whom I'd thought completely redoubtable, blanched. I spoke up. “For the rest of us, do you prefer ‘Miss’ or ‘Ms.’?”

“‘Miss’ will do. I'm no feminist.”

I wanted to ask what Bronwen considered herself, what feminism's opposite number was, but Alik was watching me. He winked, then looked at Kimberly and shook his head. Kimberly turned and left the room.

“I'll give you a tour, Bronwen,” Alik said. “And do you have your passport handy?”

“Why?”

“We make copies, in case they're lost or stolen. It saves time and headaches.”

Bronwen said, “My driver has it.”

“Fine. We'll walk that way,” Alik answered. I was interested in how
he'd smoothed her feathers, and I expected he'd dispense with her limo just as gracefully. “This is the great room, where many of our meetings take place.”

Donatella came down the hallway toward us. “Wollie, there is a phone call for you.”

“For me?” I asked, startled. “From whom?” Who knew I was here?

“Wendell.”

“Wendell who?” I asked.

“You don't know him?” Donatella shrugged and handed me a piece of paper. “Here. He said you are to call him now, as he will be at that number only a few minutes.”

I stared at the unfamiliar number. The only Wendell I knew of was Wendell Willkie, who'd run for president against someone like Herbert Hoover or Dwight D. Eisenhower. It probably wasn't him.

“Is there a problem?” Donatella asked.

“No, but—is it okay to get personal calls here?” I asked.

“Not much choice,” she said. “Since we don't get cell reception. You didn't get the team logistics sheet? Come to the office. I will find you one as you make your call. Oh, these last days have been chaos.”

“Well!” Miss Bjöeling said, overhearing. “That does not inspire one with confidence.”

“Creative chaos, Miss Bjöeling,” Donatella said, leading me away. “You as an artist will understand that.”

I followed Donatella through the library, where Nadja, Zeferina Maria, Zbiggo, and Felix sat in a semicircle, facing the taciturn Nell, conjugating the verb “to be.” They looked up and I gave them a little wave, then entered the office. Wendell was probably one of Bennett Graham's people. The frozen yogurt guy, maybe, to get a progress report.

I dialed the number, aware of Donatella beside me, going through a file drawer.

“Hello,” I said when a voice answered. “This is—”

“I know who you are,” he said, cutting me off. “The question is, where the hell are you?”

Not a frozen yogurt FBI agent at all. Simon.

I took a deep breath.

I
'd pissed off Simon Alexander often enough—and I don't consider myself a contentious person—that you'd think I'd be used to it. But I wasn't used to it. And my boyfriend was definitely angry This was apparent from the note of tight control in his voice.

“Yes,” I said, “not to worry, Wendell. I'm fine, but I've been working, and it turns out my new job puts me out of range of cell phone communications.” Donatella was now looking through paperwork on the desk next to me.
Don't be paranoid, she's not listening
, I told myself. “How did you get this number, by the way?”

“Phone book” Donatella answered, as though this were a three-way conversation. “Or the website or one of twenty-two publications we advertise in.”

“Who's there with you?” Simon asked.

“One of my colleagues.”

“Which one?”

Which one?
He'd done homework. “Donatella Milos,” I said.

“Jesus. All right, look. We need to schedule an appointment. I'm worried about your carburetor and I want to get a look under the hood. When's good?”

“I am so anxious to make that happen, you have no idea. Hold
on. Donatella?” I said, covering the receiver. “Do I have an actual day off?”

“In theory, yes.”

“But in practice?” I asked.

She considered this. “In fact, until Zbiggo's trainer arrives, it is difficult. The first week we are completely crazy, so … Why? What is it you need?”

“What did you have in mind?” I said into the phone.

“Tonight.”

“Tonight?” I asked Donatella.

“Tonight is impossible,” she said.

“Tonight is—” I said.

“I heard.” He was working to keep it together, I knew.

I said quickly, “I am, however, eager to know the nature of your concerns. Regarding—my car.”

“Let's just say you're parked in a bad neighborhood.”

“How bad?”

“Bad. But unless you're well versed in the political upheaval going on in several former Soviet bloc countries, I'd rather—”

“Stop!” I screamed. Next to me, Donatella jumped. It hit me that if the FBI was wiretapping the phones in the house, they would hear this conversation. The word “Soviet” might get their attention, and worse, one of Simon's colleagues could recognize his voice. “I've gotta go, Willkie. I mean Wendell.”

“Wait—”

“Work thing. Sorry. Bye.” Panicked, I slammed down the receiver, then stood there, stunned, thinking,
I've just hung up on him. The man I most trust, the voice I most love
.

“Wollie,” Donatella said. “Did I not just say you could make this call? Any call. Communication is fundamental. It is the thing that matters most in life.”

“Yes, okay. I didn't know whether I should tie up the phones. You better give me that rule sheet.”

“Team logistics. And here are the fact sheets on the trainees. Also the schedule. You didn't get this either? At orientation?” She handed me a small stack of papers.

“No, I—” I was about to say I'd had no orientation, but realized that this might come in handy at some point, as an excuse. “Uh-uh.” I shook my head.

“We have many phone lines,” Donatella said, “and Parashie has perhaps already set up a voice mailbox for you, I will ask her, and then you may receive messages. So you did know this man, after all? The Wendell?”

“Yes, he's—a guy I'm supposed to meet. I'd forgotten. Car guy. Long story.”

“Your boyfriend?”

“No. But—what do you know about my boyfriend?”

Donatella shrugged. “Yuri said you have a boyfriend.” She studied me, probably because I was beet red, which happens when I tell a lie. “So you meet with a car mechanic. But why? You do not need your car for three months.”

“For work, no, but what about my free time?”

“The Suburban is for your use always. Yuri says you should have no expenses.”

Except for lip pencils
. “I didn't know that,” I said.

“Do you want to call this mechanic and tell him?”

“No, later will be fine. Although—do I have time to run an errand or two?” I was desperate now. I had to talk to Simon on my cell phone.

“My dear,” Donatella said, “if you want to make assignations with a car mechanic, or any other man who is not your boyfriend, do so. I will not judge you. I am European, and I find your American morality stifling. I can tell you this, however: you are not drinking enough water.” She took the paper she'd just handed me, circled something, and handed it back to me.

“Yes. Thanks. Bye,” I said, preparing to leave.

“What has happened to your pocket?” she asked, staring at my blazer. “Are those threads? Have you broken a seam?”

“Where? What? No,” I said, clamping my hand over my pocket.

She moved my hand aside. “Wollie! You are not putting
things
in your pocket?”

“No, I—well, only a very tiny, flat little thing. A nothing. Paper, that's all.”

Donatella's eyes flashed. “Why not just carry a phone book there? That is also paper. You ruin the line of the jacket, you make it droop. It does not want to droop. It does not want to bunch up. You are not a tissue box.” She caught sight of something over my shoulder and gasped.
“Yuri, mio
. You startled me. When did you get in?”

I turned to see Yuri Milos standing in the doorway. He looked relaxed, his arms were crossed, and I wondered how much he'd seen or heard.

“Moments ago.” He moved in to kiss Donatella on both cheeks, lingering to murmur, “It's happening. I'll meet you in half an hour to fill you in. Now I want to hear from Wollie.”

Donatella left and Yuri closed the office door behind her.

“Sit, please,” he said.

I sat, feeling a strange combination of jitters. I had to remind myself that Yuri didn't read minds, that my cover wasn't blown, that he couldn't know I'd been talking to Simon, that I wasn't in high school, that this wasn't the principal. “Welcome back,” I said.

“Thank you.” He smiled, a smile so filled with warmth that it melted my anxiety. His face was both weathered and animated. He looked vital, not like a man who'd taken two transcontinental flights in the last forty-eight hours. “So. Tell me your impression of your first day.” He perched on the edge of the desk, his body language inviting confidences.

“It was… a full day.”

“A baptism of fire, Kimberly tells me.”

“Oh, not as bad as that,” I said. “I mean, no one drew their guns.”

He gave me a quizzical look. “Perhaps you can tell me how it came about that you were driving everyone from the airport last night. Not just your trainees, but Alik's too.”

That was intentional, I realized, the disarming smile, the charm, then the direct question. “I guess you heard about the luggage rack.”

He looked at me calmly. “Well?”

Wait. What if Yuri knew that I'd been asked to keep Alik's secret? What if this was a test, seeing if I would lie for Alik's sake, bond with a team member, value loyalty over authority? I made myself meet his eyes as a frisson of energy ran through me.

“Are you going to tell me?” he asked.

“About the driving arrangements? It was a question of—logistics. There were travel snafus all day, and everyone was helping everyone else. An improvisational kind of day.”

I tried to recall what Joey and Fredreeq had told me about effective lying, but it didn't matter. I couldn't pull it off, not without years of practice, not on a guy like Yuri Milos. He had eyes that sucked the truth out of you. I looked away, but that was probably a bad call. I bet he was as good as Simon at recognizing the techniques liars employ.

Liar
. Such an ugly word. But that's what I was, that's what I was here to do.

“Alik probably knows how it all came about,” I added, since Yuri wasn't saying anything. “You might ask him.”

“I might do a lot of things,” he said softly.

I looked at him again, and something in the air between us, highly charged—

“Yuri.” Kimberly opened the door enough to pop her head in. “I've got him waiting on line one.” Below her, Olive Oyl's head appeared too.

“I'll take the call in the bedroom.” Yuri kept on looking at me.