"Syd, I'm home!" Francie called as she walked through the front door. She glanced around the apartment, looking for signs of her roommate.
"I guess she's still with her dad," she said aloud as she set her keys on the kitchen table. Shrugging her shoulders, she carried her suitcase into her bedroom, emptying out its contents. She had just thrown a load of clothes in the washing machine when the phone rang.
"Hello?"
"Hi, is Sydney there?" a woman asked on the other end of the phone.
"I'm sorry, she's not here right now. Can I take a message?" Francie tried to hold back the sigh that was threatening to escape from her lips. If I have to take one more message for Syd . . .
"Oh, well, maybe you can help me. My name is Abby, and I work for the Register—"
"Will's paper," Francie interrupted. "Wait a minute—I talked to you Saturday night. Francie Calfo, remember?"
"Francie? Oh, hi. Well, I wrote down your message, but he never got it. He hasn't been to work at all this week. Have you talked to him since then? Or do you know if Sydney's talked to him lately?"
"I haven't heard from him. I think Sydney talked to him Saturday night," Francie said slowly, trying to remember. "But then she went out of town on Sunday, so I doubt she's heard from him since."
"And he hasn't called and left a message?" Abby pressed.
"No. I just checked the machine, and there was nothing from him." Francie chewed her lower lip. Where are you, Will?
Abby sighed. "Is there someplace we can meet? Someplace private?"
"Why?"
"I can't tell you over the phone," she said in a low voice. "It must be in person."
Francie's heart raced. "You could come over here," she said finally. "There's no one here but me."
"Good." Abby sounded relieved. "There's something I need to show you."
********
"I'm sorry, sir, but that lift is not operating. The other one should be here momentarily," a hotel clerk told Jack.
He stepped away from the elevator and nodded. Weiss looked around the lobby and muttered, "Nice place."
Jack nodded.
Three minutes later, the empty elevator finally returned to the ground floor. The two men stepped inside, and Jack pushed the "6" button.
"What room are you in?" Weiss asked as they exited the elevator.
"633," Jack answered as he stopped in front of his room. "I'll call your room when our . . . Parisian partners have arrived."
"Wha—oh, right. Our Parisian partners," Weiss repeated. He nodded. "See you in a bit."
Jack pulled out the key card and inserted it in the door. He was greeted by a small living room, complete with a bright yellow couch and red throw pillows on it.
He placed his suitcase next to the couch and turned to the left, where he noticed the spacious bedroom and a door that presumably led to the bathroom. He walked over to the right side of the bed and inspected the furniture. Just as I remembered. He opened up the refrigerator that stood at least three feet tall. He glanced at its contents for a moment before resolutely shutting the door. It would be best not to repeat Madrid.
Instead, he turned to the dark green drapes that covered one wall and opened them. By being on the sixth floor—really, the seventh, he mentally noted—he was higher than most of the surrounding buildings and could see their rooftops.
Sydney would like this room. It's just like Mary Poppins, he thought, pleased that he could remember one of her favorite childhood movies. The idea that you could step into a completely different world had appealed to his young daughter . . . . . . just as it had appealed to his wife.
"Look at this view!" Laura called out, beckoning for Jack to join her at the window. He stood behind her and wrapped his arms around her, an amused smile on his face.
"So what do you think of London?"
"I love it!" she said eagerly, turning around and impulsively kissing him.
Jack laughed. "Just wait until you actually get to see the city, not just the bedroom," he teased.
"Well, I wouldn't mind staying in either," she said in a sultry voice.
Jack blinked. "If you keep this up, I'll never get my work done," he growled. "And if I don't take care of this, I'll never be allowed to bring you with me anywhere again." He leaned down to indulge himself in another kiss.
"Fine then," she pouted. "You go and do whatever it is you have to do, and I'll just stand here and enjoy the Mary Poppins view." She waved at the window. "Isn't this great? Just like the movie. Chim, chimery, chim, chimery . . ." she began singing.
Jack rolled his eyes. He loved his wife, but her singing skills were severely lacking. "That's a children's movie," he chided.
"So? Does that makes it a bad movie?" she questioned, a glint in her eye.
"Well, no, not a bad movie, just not a movie that I would enjoy watching," he said.
Laura bit her lip, fighting a grin. "So you're saying that you will never take our son or daughter to the movies?"
"Laura, that's not what I said at all. I—I—what did you say?"
"What do you think I said?" she asked playfully.
"It sounded like—like—are you—do you mean to say that—?" Jack stared at her, flabbergasted.
Laura threw herself on the bed and began to laugh. "Jack, you—" laugh "are so—" laugh "cute when you're—" snort "confused!!!" she finished in a high pitch, succumbing to the laughter that had built up inside her.
He walked over to the bed and lay down next to her, anxiously waiting for her laughter to subside. It was several minutes before she calmed down slightly, her pale cheeks still flushed. "Laura, honey—what are you trying to tell me?" he asked as he took her small hand in his.
"Jack," she said softly, a huge grin appearing on her face, "are you ready to be a daddy?"
"You're pregnant." Jack leaned back on the pillow, stunned. "When—how—?"
"Jack, surely you know how," she teased. "You are the father, after all."
"The father," he said slowly. "We're going to be parents." He pulled Laura into his arms and held her tightly.
"I know! Isn't this wonderful?" Laura enthused as she looked up at him. "Jack, what's wrong?"
"Nothing," he said determinedly.
"Come on, Jack, you're using your 'CIA' voice again. What's wrong? Are you upset that I'm pregnant?" Laura asked as tears filled her eyes.
"No, honey, it's not that. It's just—what if something happens to me? You and our baby would be alone in the world." Jack looked troubled as he admitted one of his deepest fears.
"Jack, you'll live to be old and gray," she assured him. "I just know it. We'll look back on this at our fiftieth wedding anniversary and laugh at how worried we were to be parents for the first time."
"How can you be sure?"
"I can just feel it," she said softly, placing a hand over his heart. "Stop overanalyzing everything Jack. Just follow your heart. After all," she continued with an impish grin, "following your heart led you to me, didn't it?"
The corners of Jack's mouth crept up into a smile. "You—and our baby."
********
Francie opened the door. "You must be Abby," she said as she ushered the woman into her home.
"And you're Francie. I recognize you from a picture on Will's desk," Abby said, clutching a manila envelope with both hands.
"Please, have a seat." Francie gestured to the couch.
"Actually, do you mind if we go to the kitchen table? There are several different papers I have to show you."
Francie nodded, confused. Papers? What does this have to do with Will?
The two women sat down. Abby hesitantly began.
"Last week, Will came to me and gave me this envelope. He told me that he was going to approach his kidnapper."
"Kidnapper?"
Abby nodded. "Someone kidnapped Will several weeks ago to scare him off a story he was working on. Apparently he learned who it was." She shrugged. "He never told me who he suspected, just that he was going to approach him. Will told me that inside this envelope was a story he had written, but I wasn't supposed to read it."
"But why would he do that?" Francie interrupted.
Abby stared at her. "He only wanted it published if he was murdered."
Francie gasped. "Murdered? Will? But—how—he doesn't write stories that could get him murdered!"
"That's what I thought," Abby admitted. "But since he's been gone for several days, I was worried. So this afternoon on my lunch break I went home and brought the envelope with me. What I read . . ." she trailed off. "I'm scared."
"What does it say?"
Abby pushed the envelope across the table. "See for yourself."
Cautiously, Francie picked up the envelope and opened it. She removed several sheets of paper and four white letter-sized envelopes. The paper on top had Will's typically messy handwriting.
Abby,
I TOLD you not to read this just for kicks. This information is highly sensitive, on a need-to-know basis. If something happens to me, publish this. It's the only way my killers will be caught.
Thanks for doing this for me. I know I'm putting you in a horrible position, and I'm sorry for that. Whatever you do, I have two requests: 1) give the envelopes with my good-bye letters to my parents, my sister Amy, Sydney, and Francie; 2) don't pursue the story. Someone advised me to get off the story, and I didn't listen. I think you can understand why it's important that you walk away from this, because if you don't, they will find you too.
Will"Good-bye letters?" Francie said softly. "It's like he went into this expecting to die."
Abby nodded, her brow crinkled. She turned the page. "Read the article."
Francie lifted the sheet and began to read.
Every journalist wants to be remembered for that one great story of theirs.
If you're reading this, then my great story was also my last.
Last year one of my good friends, Daniel Hecht, was murdered in his apartment. There were no suspects in his murder, no clues at all. The police didn't want to investigate, so I made it my personal mission to find his killer.
What I found took me into a world I thought only existed in comic books and movies—somehow I found myself in the world of U.S. intelligence agencies, including a rogue agency called SD-6.
"Danny wasn't in SD-whatever," Francie said. "He was in med school."
"I guess he found out something he shouldn't have," Abby said with a shake of her head.
"And now this agency has Will."
Abby looked at Francie, her expression grim. "I think so."
Francie stood, walking quickly to the phone.
"What do you think you're doing? Abby asked, sitting forward in her chair as she watched Francie grab the phone.
"I have to call Sydney."
Abby jumped up. "You can't do that," she said nervously as she placed her hand over Francie's, forcing her to put the phone down.
Francie just stared at her. "Listen, Sydney needs to know about this. Will is her friend too. And Danny was her fiancé. She needs to know."
Abby let go of Francie's hand, returning to her chair. "I just don't think it's right that you bring someone else in on this," she explained as Francie dialed Sydney's cell. "It's not what Will wanted. As it is, he is going to kill me for showing this to you instead of Litvack." She dropped back into the chair. "I'll just be happy if he can."
"Damn it!" Francie exclaimed as she slammed the phone down.
"What?"
"Nothing." Walking into the kitchen, she started rummaging through the drawers.
Abby got back up and walked to the bar that separated the living room from the kitchen. "What are you looking for?"
"I'm looking for her dad's number. She went on a trip with him and since her dad is one of the higher ups at her bank, I'm sure he'll check his messages. I'm just going to call and leave a message there, asking him to have Syd call home."
"Do you really think that's wise?"
Francie looked at Abby before returning to her search. "Like I said, Syd needs to know about this. Besides, maybe she will have heard from him." She paused, studying the number she'd just found. "Finally," she announced.
Retrieving the phone, she dialed the unfamiliar number. After a moment, she began to speak. "Um, hi, Mr. Bristow. This is Francie. Francie Calfo. I'm Syd's roommate. She called and left a message that she was going on a trip with you and I really need to talk to her. I called her cell phone and I'm not even getting her voicemail. It's about Will and it's really important. Actually, it's an emergency. So, anyway, if you could have Sydney call me, I'd really appreciate it. Thanks. Bye."
As she replaced the receiver, she realized that even when she was just leaving a message on his machine, Sydney's father scared the hell out of her.
"So what do we do now?" Abby wondered aloud.
Francie walked back to the living room. Placing the papers back in the envelope, she sat back down. Looking back at Abby, she finally answered. "I guess we wait."
********
"Relax, Sark. He hasn't broken into song yet," the doctor murmured from his seat.
"It's coming—I can feel it," Sark said through gritted teeth. His diatribe was interrupted by a shouting match in the neighboring room.
"Khasinau and Irina, at it again," the doctor said in a low voice. He shook his head. "How have they managed to work together for so many years when they scream at each other like that?"
"It works for them," Sark answered. "He shouts, she screams, they throw things—everyone's satisfied in the end. Why change a pattern that's worked for at least thirty-five years?" He turned his attention back to the interrogation.
"And how did your kidnapping make you feel?" the man asked Will.
The doctor hid a laugh behind a cough. God, I love irony.
"Feel?" Will asked blearily.
"Uh-oh," Sark muttered.
"Feel?" Will paused, thinking. "I know!" He bounced out of his seat and cleared his throat dramatically.
"My feelings would be best expressed by a song from the 1961 movie West Side Story. In this scene, Maria is thinking about her newfound love Tony." Will took a deep breath and began to sing and dance.
"I feel pretty, oh so pretty . . ."
"Make it stop," one of the men muttered.
"I feel pretty and witty and gay . . ."
The doctor began to choke on his laughter.
"And I pity, any girl who isn't me today . . ."
"That's it. Where's the final dose?" Sark asked the doctor.
He pointed. "Third room on the left."
Sark nodded and quickly exited the room. He returned a minute later. "Help me find it—now." The doctor stood up and joined him in the search.
"Such a pretty me!"
The two men who were interrogating Will quietly slipped out of the room.
In the next room, the screaming escalated. Glass crashed on the floor. Bodies were flung sharply against the walls—but no one was listening.
"I feel dizzy, I feel sunny, I feel fizzy and funny and fine! And so pretty, Miss America can just resign!" Will finished triumphantly, his arms spread wide. He looked around the silent room. "Where did everyone go?"
In the next room, a single gunshot disturbed the tranquil scene.
********
Irina rushed to Khasinau and felt for a pulse. Nothing. "Farewell, you son-of-a-bitch," she said as she kicked him one final time.
She ran to the next room and grabbed Will. This is going to be easier than I thought. "Will, we have to go," she said urgently. She tugged on his arm. "Will!"
"Sydney—what—where—?"
"Come on," she said as she led him down the hallway. We have maybe one more minute before they realize he's dead.
The pair ran outside. "This way!" she shouted as Will veered off course.
"There they are!" Sark yelled from behind them. Will stopped and turned around. Wow, British Dude and the old doctor sure can run fast.
Irina turned around and fired. She missed. The returning shot was more on-target.
"Sydney! You're hurt!" Will said as he tried to stay standing. All of a sudden the world was moving rapidly around him.
"It's nothing," she dismissed as she gingerly touched her left arm. "Get in that car over there—now!" She tossed him the keys.
Will obliged, unlocking the doors and getting inside. "Sydney! Do you want me to—"
"Start the car," she yelled as she fired another shot. This one hit its target as Sark's leg collapsed. He sank to the ground.
Irina ran and jumped in the driver's seat. "You will regret this, you stupid bastards," she said as she fired her parting shot.
The car sped down the road leading towards London.
"Sydney, are you sure you're okay?" Will asked, concerned even in his stupor.
"I'll survive," she said. "Come on, Will—we've got a plane to catch."