Part 27 (1/2)

The FBI would have her apartment phone trace-and-trapped, her BMW bugged or under tight surveillance, her office watched. It was a matter of isolating those few moments when she would not be under surveillance, and then deciding if he could find any way safely in and out. A few ideas came to mind.

First, the elevators at her apartment complex. She would ride an elevator from her apartment to the parking garage, and it seemed unlikely that the FBI would have any way of listening in on her once she was inside the elevator. They would know her every move in her apartment; they would follow her car; but in between?

Likewise, in the BMW between her apartment and office building, they could follow perhaps even listen in but only from a distance.

Her office would be treated the same way: They would know when she entered and left; they might even have her phone wired; but without an agent lording over her, they could not follow her every move. It was unthinkable they would follow her into a restroom.

All windows of opportunity, but none without risk.

Killing her might be easier.

She had the only key to the storage locker that held Bernard's fire extinguisher. He needed her.

He had to think of something.

He arrived at the modeling agency of Bernstein and Wright five minutes before the appointment he had scheduled. He spent these five minutes leafing through dozens of photographs, from which he singled out three candidates who had Monique's general look and body. His first choice turned out to be pregnant. Apologies all around. ”She should have been pulled from the book months ago.”

His second choice agreed to come right over to discuss the ”shoot.” For the sake of pretense, Kort was a free-lance fas.h.i.+on photographer.

Cindy Axtell arrived twenty minutes later. The face was perfect, the bust a little flat, the hair too short, but that could be dealt with. At his request, they were shown to a conference room where they could discuss the job ”in private.”

He closed the door. ”Miss Axtell, I selected you in part because your resume included a few minor acting credits. I'm short on time, so I'm going to be very direct. I am not a photographer. No fear,” he said, raising his hand. ”I'm not what you're thinking. Nothing like that. What I have in mind will require some acting skills, and I'm prepared to pay for that. I can only hope there is a touch of romance in your heart, for without it, I doubt you will agree to what it is I have to propose.”

She crossed her arms and her legs, immediately suspicious. She looked like an insect fighting off the cold. ”I'm listening, but not for long.”

”Nothing s.e.xual whatsoever. Furthermore, you get to spend the entire afternoon driving a brand new BMW around town.”

Now he had her.

”Before going any further, I have to know right now whether or not you are seriously interested in the work. As I said, I have very little time. I can't waste it on you unless you're willing to go forward.”

”Interested in what?” she insisted.

”Acting. An afternoon of acting is all. Nothing s.e.xual. Completely alone. Twice your going rate. Four hours minimum. Cash, up front.” That raised her eyebrows.

”Cash?” He nodded. ”You'll double my rate?” He gave another nod. She studied him. ”There's something in the car, isn't there? Drugs, something like that? No thanks. I don't think so.” She reached out for her tiny purse.

”Drugs?” He laughed. ”You don't like the car, you leave it wherever, and whenever you want. You can keep the keys or throw them away. I don't care.” He could see he had her good and confused. He decided to push on. ”There's a woman I'm very much in love with. She is also in love with me. Her husband is having her every move watched. He's very rich and he hasn't accepted their separation well at all. You may know the type.”

She squinted, but he saw sympathy behind the attempt. He exhaled and relaxed.

He had her in the palm of his hand.

Monique braced herself for another wave of panic.

It came as a burning, twisting contraction that nearly buckled her over. She understood the importance of maintaining an appearance of calm, of continuing with her day-to-day activities, of avoiding paranoia. At the same time she saw conspiracy over her shoulder at every turn: the garbage man; the randomly parked car; the repairman fixing the office copier. All suspects.

Three people had asked after her health, so she obviously wasn't hiding it very well.

Five minutes to five. She grabbed her purse and was on her way out when her a.s.sistant caught up to her.

”A fax just came in for you. It's marked urgent and private.” She handed it to her. Monique accepted it with an unsteady hand. It had no less importance than a stay of execution.

She drew herself into one of the reception room chairs. Hand written, the message was a single paragraph. The return address was Dallas, Texas. Her heart jumped. From him. It had been sent by an ”Evelyn Macleod.” That provided her the two letters E and M which, when at the start of a word, marked where his coded message stopped. It required effort to break it on the fly. She searched the doc.u.ment for the letters EM and found them in employees, Employees was in the second sentence. She mentally extracted the second letter of every word up to the word employees.

re: Employee problems. Monique: Ugly confrontations at loading attempts for night flights. We've attached only nonunion, away-base employees to the night work, and it's causing problems. Suggest a price increase to match unions before it becomes more organized. Please advise by morning.

Eve She couldn't do it in her head. She stole a pencil from a Snoopy cup on the front desk and wrote it out: g-o-to-to-i-l-e-t-n-o-w She broke it out backward, and then she saw it: go to toilet now.

She crumpled up the message and was about to throw it out when she thought better of it. ”Good night,” she said to the receptionist.

”See you tomorrow,” the receptionist said. This stopped her. She knew better. She took one last look around the office. She had built a pretty good life here, she thought. G.o.d willing, she would never see it again.

The walk to the bathroom dragged on. The clicking of her pumps was like the ticking of a clock. She felt her pulse at her temples.

She turned the handle and stepped inside.

A blond woman stood at the sink, her head down. She was wearing a short red leather skirt and a black leather jacket. Another bolt of panic slapped her. FBI? If he couldn't make contact with her .. .

”Take the center stall and lock the door,” the blond woman said once the hall door had shut. ”We're alone.” When Monique hesitated, the woman added, ”Hurry! Strip down to your underwear and pa.s.s your clothes to me in the end stall. There's a shopping bag there. Put that stuff on.” The model dried her hands and then entered and locked the toilet stall next to the wall, the one immediately adjacent to Monique. ”If someone comes in, sit down. Make it look like you're on the John.”

Monique obeyed her. She shed her clothes in seconds and pa.s.sed them through. In the shopping bag she found a duplicate red miniskirt, the same sheer blouse, and a black leather jacket. All her size. At the very bottom of the bag was a blond wig, a pair of oversized eyegla.s.ses, and, beneath these, a pair of scissors. She stared at the scissors, but only briefly. She knew what had to be done. She clipped off great locks of her hair and dropped them into the toilet. For the wig to fit she had to have shorter hair.

He had thought of everything.

”Thank you so much,” she blurted out. She was crying again. She hated herself for it.

”You must love him very much,” came the voice from the stall.

Cutting off most of her hair was the final blow. Her life was over. She could feel it.

”Give me your keys, and tell me where you parked.”

That was when Monique understood Kort's plan.

”It's in the reserved s.p.a.ces,” she said. There was too much to do. She was all thumbs.

The door to the hall opened.

Monique froze and dropped to the toilet. She saw the other woman's hands seize the discarded clothing, and then she, too, sat down on the toilet. The woman who had entered took the only remaining stall. She urinated, flushed the toilet, and washed her hands. She left.

A tube of lipstick and a compact slid under the panel. Monique picked it up. With two more snips, most of her hair was gone. It floated in large clumps on the surface of the water. She flushed it away, and with it, the last several years. The short-haired blond wig felt horrible. She checked the compact's mirror and seated the wig properly. The bright red lipstick was awful, but it changed her looks dramatically. The gray-tint gla.s.ses polished it off.