I have returned with the next chapter of Under Attack. Enjoy!
Disclaimer: My list of worldly possessions (copyright 2003) still does not include 'Hannibal' or any of the wonderful characters dreamed up by Thomas Harris.
Under Attack
By Lyra Matsuoka
Rated PG-13
Chapter 7 : Break With Reality
The plans for my return to the states were made quickly and without much fuss. It was decided that I could not waltz back into the States without changing my hair color, though I protested vociferously that I would polka before I would waltz. My hair went from dark brown to auburn, Clairol #46 or something along those lines, and that change made my eyes glow with an amethyst light. My style was tourist, my new passport said 'Vivian Victors.' So plain, so unassuming; I made a face when I saw it.
"Was it absolutely necessary to create an identity that has the roman numerals 666 in it?" My brother grinned tightly. He was not pleased that I was leaving without him.
That is the secret of moving through the shadows of the world. Remaining on the outskirts is the key. Being slightly funny, polite and business like ensures that people like you and forget you as soon as you have passed from their sphere of existence. It is an art I have perfected.
My father knew of my plan, and hadn't spoken out against it. I was not so foolish to take his silence for approval, but the fact that he had stood by as I made my plans was encouraging. I knew that I could not, would not, fight my father, and that gave him a large advantage.
My brother was against it, as evidenced by his brooding silence and slightly satiric humor. My mother watched with patience, and I knew that any opinions she had would be held back. It is still in question what she remembers about her stay at Muskrat Farm - she has never volunteered and I was unwilling to ask.
At this stage in the proceedings, talking to my father or to me would resemble talking to a brick wall. It was useless, and my mother knew it. My brother is not quite as quick on the uptake.
I had spent some time pondering maps of Muskrat Farm, looking over blueprints and photographs that my father had obtained somewhere. Sometimes he amazes me. It is always helpful in obtaining information to have a rather elastic moral code. Just something to keep in mind.
I was rinsing my hair for the second time when my father appeared in the doorway. He extended a piece of paper, and I took it with a questioning glance.
"Read it."
I read quickly. It was a memo sent from Marcus Verger to a man named Andre Clairmont expressing a desire to meat Hannibal Lecter and his off-spring. Included was a shot of Jack, obviously taken with a telephoto lens while he was standing in Trafalgar Square, and a desperately grainy photograph of someone who might have been me. It was taken in New York. I new instantly it wasn't my picture...I'd never had hair that short and spiky. I shuddered when I saw it.
"That's why they went after Jack. They knew who he was. I was a shot in the dark."
"They would have taken you or your mother. I highly doubt they were being particular at that stage in the proceedings."
I smirked. "This is going to be like shooting fish in a barrel."
"Not quite so easy. You have your gun?"
"I have one on hold in D.C. There's a cell phone, and a good hunk of cash waiting in a D.C. safe deposit box. I'll call Mr. Verger and make an appointment."
"If he says no?"
"It won't be a request."
My father smiled and turned toward the window. I walked over and stood beside him.
"Marcus Verger believes that I killed his uncle."
I stepped back and listened. Questions would come later, but when Hannibal Lecter spoke, everyone with an iota of common sense listened.
"Or rather, that I killed his father."
I raised an eyebrow in invitation to continue. There is nothing my father loves so much as an audience.
"Did you?"
"Oh no. No no no, that would have been much too easy. And besides, I left him alive the first time for a reason. No, his sister killed him, at my suggestion. And I will never *deny* that I killed Mason Verger, and so everyone is safe. One more murder added to my long list of crimes, and Margot and her lover Julie were able to live happily ever after with the child that Mason unwillingly gave them. But it seems that the full proof plan was not proofed against inside enemies."
"Someone needs to straighten Marcus out."
"I'm certain that you are up to the job, my dear."
I caught a new note in my father's voice. His even, calm intonation had been slightly disturbed by an undercurrent of emotion that I was unfamiliar with. I recognized, with a shock, that my father was worried.
"I'll be careful," I said, attempting to smooth away whatever worry might be blooming on the surface of this situation.
"I go against my better judgment to send you into the proverbial lion's den all on your own."
I heard in that statement a promise. My father was going to follow me, and there was nothing I could say or do to prevent it from happening. I paused for a moment, then reached for my father's hand. He was a wonderful artist, my father. In more ways than one. It was sad to me that so few people would ever know the mannered, educated, well-dressed and well-spoken man that my father was. Many called him insane; more called him evil, believing that insane was too human a term for what Hannibal Lecter, M.D. really was. But in that moment, and in so many others throughout the course of my life, all I saw was my father standing straight and tall, ready for anything.
"I'll call if I need help."
My father nodded and I walked away reluctantly, unwilling to let the moment go. We both knew I wouldn't call, no matter what happened to me, and we both knew that I wouldn't have to. My father would be there, lurking in the shadows, waiting for an excuse to attack.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Can I say again that I..."
"No."
My brother closed his mouth under the force of the glares that my mother and I sent his way.
"This is a bad idea."
"Thank you, Jack. Thank you so very much for that captivating insight. You've said it five times now. I'm certainly glad you said it again, or I might have missed the point."
This time around my brother glared and I smirked.
"I'd feel better about you going if I could go with you."
"You would, I wouldn't. They know you, Jack. They know who you are, what you look like and they have a good idea of how you move in a tense situation. You would be in the way, and I have neither the time nor he inclination to protect you and watch my own back."
"I protect you, you protect me. It's a perfect system."
"I protect me, Mom protects you. How's that sound?"
"I hate you."
"What a lovely thing to say. I'm blushing. I am."
With a saucy grin I kissed my brother on the cheek and hugged my mother for good luck. And I walked out the door and swung into the chauffeured jaguar. This was the life. I looked back to see my mother and Jack walking back into the house. I saw a curtain drift shut on the third floor and smiled up at my father. I was on my way to settle an old score.
It hadn't been my score to settle. There shouldn't even be a score.
I didn't create this mess. But by God, I was going to be the one who cleaned it up.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Thirty six hours can be very long when they are uneventful.
I left Argentina braced for an adventure, ready to face a foe who threatened my family and my security. But once I was aboard the plane, the hours seemed to crawl by, leaving me with my adrenaline rush. And so I forced myself to relax, to smile, to read and watch the in-flight film.
I changed planes in Bogotá, Columbia, and flew to Dalles, then Chicago, and finally to Washington, D.C. I affected a southern accent, then a Scottish one, passing through customs and various gates without complication. My red hair shimmered in the D.C. sunlight as I hailed a cab. I rode in silence to the bank where a cellular phone and $6,000 cash waited for me.
Don't ask how I got the money. You don't want to know.
I retrieved my belongings without trouble, checked into a hotel and headed for the Air and Space museum as I dialed information.
"Information, how may I help you?"
"I'm looking for a Mr. Marcus Verger," I said, offering up my best Southern Belle.
"One moment please."
A pause, and cheerful music. Then...
"There are seven numbers listed for Mr. Marcus L. Verger."
"And I'll bet none of them are his home number."
"His home number is unlisted."
I pondered this for a moment. The operator was a woman, and I had nothing to lose...
"Let me guess. You have access to his home number."
"I do, but I can't give it to you. I could lose my job."
"I understand," I said. "The truth is, Marcus and I had a brief relationship, and I'm a little pissed off that he broke it off."
"Honey, don't I know how that is."
"You might know the company...they send dead flowers to your ex? I really want to fry him, but the bastard never gave me a phone number or an address. Doesn't want the wife to find out about me I bet. But I understand. Could you just..."
"Well, I can't give you a phone number, but his address is public information. You want that?"
I smiled. "Perfect."
From there on it was simple. I called the office of a senator who was known to have been bought off by the Verger family on more than one occasion and convinced the receptionist to peek at her boss's little black book. I settled down in full view of the Washington Monument, punched in a few digits and waited.
"Verger residence. How may I direct your call?"
A man this time. I didn't bother with an accent.
"Marcus Verger please."
"And whom shall I say is calling?"
"Just put me through."
For reasons that yet remain unknown to me, that authoritative tone works with everyone. I was put through with a minimum of fuss.
"Verger."
"Mr. Verger. This is Alexandra Lecter."
A long pause. I studied the capitol while Marcus gathered his wits.
"Miss Lecter. What a surprise."
"Not going to ask what you can do for me?"
"I hadn't planned on it."
Marcus had a deep, cultured voice, but I knew he wasn't any older than me. Only a year and a half older, which made him twenty. But age was irrelevant to the game we were playing.
"I assume you are tracing this call," I said.
"It would be foolish to miss this prime opportunity."
"It would indeed. After your hired guns made such a mess out of the last one."
"Good help is so very hard to find."
"True."
Another pause. I fancied that I could hear the crackling of the trace flowing down the phone line. I knew the instant he made the connection.
"The Washington Monument? Touring the city, Alexandra?"
"Nursing a grudge, Marcus?"
He drew in a sharp breath and then laughed. The laughter was strained.
"My men will be arriving shortly. I hope you will accept my invitation to stay at my home for the duration of your visit."
"I'm very sorry, but I've made other arrangements."
A pause while Marcus turned his options over in his head. I would likely be gone before his men could get to me, and that meant that he needed to try another tactic.
"Dinner, then? The Northern Aurora, and oh, say, 7 p.m.?"
"I'd be delighted. Ta ta."
I ended the call and walked briskly toward the metro station. As I rode the escalator down I saw that three men in dark suits and reflective sunglasses had descended on the bench where I had so recently been sitting. They scanned the area, and I shook my head. I had three hours, and I had some shopping to do. And a few phone calls to make.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Northern Aurora was an elegant black tie only restaurant frequented by upper crust D.C. and by those who could afford both the clothing required for admittance and the astronomical price of the food. I, of course, could afford both, but I was willing to bet that paying for the food wasn't going to be an issue. I was betting that Marcus Verger was an old fashioned gentleman, one who would drug me rather than club me on the head and drag me off to his limousine.
I entered the Northern Aurora in a figure-hugging gown that was beaded from top to bottom. My strappy black heels and perfume combined to make certain that doors opened for me and that every possible courtesy was extended. I had banked on that as well.
"How may I help you, miss?" the maitre de asked, the model of propriety and discretion.
"I'm meeting Marcus Verger," I replied, equally polite. The maitre de nodded and handed me off to a waiter.
"Marco will show you to the table. Mr. Verger is waiting for you."
I nodded. It was 7:00 on the dot.
I was shown through tables, up a flight of stairs and to the back of a balcony, where alcoves were hung with draperies and lighting was dim. This was a place for lovers, illicit or otherwise. I was dropped off at an alcove where the curtains were already drawn. I smiled slightly and pushed one of them aside, knowing that I was walking into some kind of trap. One of the first things my father taught me is that walking into a trap is all well and good, but one must have a way out of said trap.
It was a lesson I never forgot.
The alcove was spacious, more so than I would have imagined. The table was set with gleaming silver and nearly translucent china. And in the shadows, a man stood.
"Alexandra."
"Marcus."
And just that easily, the dance began. Marcus stepped into the light, and I sized him up. He had dark hair with lighter highlights, tall and muscular, dressed in a tuxedo that looked like it had been made for him and, if we were being honest, it probably had. I was glad that I had taken the extra time and money to spring for a professional hairstyle and manicure that afternoon. I might have felt like the poor cousin otherwise.
Marcus reached out a hand, the palm tilted slightly up. I slipped my hand, palm down, into his and was unsurprised when he raised my hand to his lips and grazed my knuckles with a kiss. It was more audacious than I had assumed him to be; I'd been betting that he would have placed the kiss in the air just above my hand.
"Won't you sit down?"
"Thank you."
Marcus pulled out my chair for me and made sure I was comfortably seated before returning to his chair.
"Are you enjoying your stay in Washington?"
"The city never ceases to enchant me," I replied. I could play the pleasant social interaction game just as well as he could.
"You have red hair. My informants were sure that it was brown."
"I wear many faces, and many hair colors to go with them."
"You look remarkably like your mother, save for the lack of a certain beauty mark on your cheekbone."
"My mother has no beauty mark. She has a badge of honor, and a remnant of her courage."
"Of course," Marcus said, leaning in to the table. "I've taken the liberty of ordering for you. I hope you don't mind."
"As I have no intention of eating anything you place in front of me, I don't mind in the least."
"You don't trust me."
"You are not so naïve as to believe that I would."
We sat in silence for a few moments, preparing our next offensive/defensive battle of words. The food was delivered, steaming and smelling wonderful with a bottle of wine chosen, I was certain, to compliment the meal. I studied the presentation.
"Perhaps you can tell me what prompted your phone call this afternoon," Marcus said, lifting a fork.
"Of course I can."
"But you won't."
"I'm sure you've worked it out for yourself."
"You wanted to set up a meeting."
I nodded. "And now I have. Mission accomplished."
"And yet you refuse to eat."
"And to stay at your house. One refusal is directly linked to the other."
"You assume that I would use you to get to your father."
"If I assume too much than I shall leave now, and never darken your doorway again."
"It would be a great pity never to see that lovely silhouette again."
I smiled slightly at that and lifted my wine glass. I studied the color and sniffed the bouquet, noticing that Marcus was drinking wine from the same bottle. That might mean that the wine was not drugged. I preferred not to take the chance, and set the glass down again.
"You are very distrustful."
"You kidnapped my brother. Actions of that sort tend to lead to a dissolution of trust."
"So does the murder of a relative."
"Your uncle had already tangled with my father once in his life. For many, that would be enough. But your uncle tempted fate, drawn on by hatred and the desire for revenge. Mason Verger was a fool."
Silence again. I sat back in my chair, waiting to see what the result of my gamble might be. Marcus watched me carefully, sitting back in his chair, food forgotten.
"You have come to me, of your own free will, drawn by my opening gambit. You are here, in Washington D.C., and your father will follow you."
"Then you do want my father dead."
"Oh, yes. I certainly do. It is a matter of honor, and vengeance. My father, as I am sure you know, was not the epitome of an upstanding citizen. He was a criminal, he was insane, and he took a large risk that resulted in his death. But your father is also a criminal, and insane. My father died, and so too shall yours."
"You assume a great deal."
"And you too little. Andre."
I turned in my seat to see another man emerging from the shadows. A secret entrance to the alcove, hidden by the curtains, I had no doubt. Andre was the same man I had fought on the plane, one of the two who had held my brother. I stood and walked to a more open space.
"Please don't wrinkle the dress. It cost a fortune," I said calmly, hiding my growing apprehension. Andre looked at Marcus and Marcus nodded. I heard a slight waft in the air before the world went dark.
*****************
To Be Continued...(Silence of the Lambs theme plays)
Disclaimer: My list of worldly possessions (copyright 2003) still does not include 'Hannibal' or any of the wonderful characters dreamed up by Thomas Harris.
Under Attack
By Lyra Matsuoka
Rated PG-13
Chapter 7 : Break With Reality
The plans for my return to the states were made quickly and without much fuss. It was decided that I could not waltz back into the States without changing my hair color, though I protested vociferously that I would polka before I would waltz. My hair went from dark brown to auburn, Clairol #46 or something along those lines, and that change made my eyes glow with an amethyst light. My style was tourist, my new passport said 'Vivian Victors.' So plain, so unassuming; I made a face when I saw it.
"Was it absolutely necessary to create an identity that has the roman numerals 666 in it?" My brother grinned tightly. He was not pleased that I was leaving without him.
That is the secret of moving through the shadows of the world. Remaining on the outskirts is the key. Being slightly funny, polite and business like ensures that people like you and forget you as soon as you have passed from their sphere of existence. It is an art I have perfected.
My father knew of my plan, and hadn't spoken out against it. I was not so foolish to take his silence for approval, but the fact that he had stood by as I made my plans was encouraging. I knew that I could not, would not, fight my father, and that gave him a large advantage.
My brother was against it, as evidenced by his brooding silence and slightly satiric humor. My mother watched with patience, and I knew that any opinions she had would be held back. It is still in question what she remembers about her stay at Muskrat Farm - she has never volunteered and I was unwilling to ask.
At this stage in the proceedings, talking to my father or to me would resemble talking to a brick wall. It was useless, and my mother knew it. My brother is not quite as quick on the uptake.
I had spent some time pondering maps of Muskrat Farm, looking over blueprints and photographs that my father had obtained somewhere. Sometimes he amazes me. It is always helpful in obtaining information to have a rather elastic moral code. Just something to keep in mind.
I was rinsing my hair for the second time when my father appeared in the doorway. He extended a piece of paper, and I took it with a questioning glance.
"Read it."
I read quickly. It was a memo sent from Marcus Verger to a man named Andre Clairmont expressing a desire to meat Hannibal Lecter and his off-spring. Included was a shot of Jack, obviously taken with a telephoto lens while he was standing in Trafalgar Square, and a desperately grainy photograph of someone who might have been me. It was taken in New York. I new instantly it wasn't my picture...I'd never had hair that short and spiky. I shuddered when I saw it.
"That's why they went after Jack. They knew who he was. I was a shot in the dark."
"They would have taken you or your mother. I highly doubt they were being particular at that stage in the proceedings."
I smirked. "This is going to be like shooting fish in a barrel."
"Not quite so easy. You have your gun?"
"I have one on hold in D.C. There's a cell phone, and a good hunk of cash waiting in a D.C. safe deposit box. I'll call Mr. Verger and make an appointment."
"If he says no?"
"It won't be a request."
My father smiled and turned toward the window. I walked over and stood beside him.
"Marcus Verger believes that I killed his uncle."
I stepped back and listened. Questions would come later, but when Hannibal Lecter spoke, everyone with an iota of common sense listened.
"Or rather, that I killed his father."
I raised an eyebrow in invitation to continue. There is nothing my father loves so much as an audience.
"Did you?"
"Oh no. No no no, that would have been much too easy. And besides, I left him alive the first time for a reason. No, his sister killed him, at my suggestion. And I will never *deny* that I killed Mason Verger, and so everyone is safe. One more murder added to my long list of crimes, and Margot and her lover Julie were able to live happily ever after with the child that Mason unwillingly gave them. But it seems that the full proof plan was not proofed against inside enemies."
"Someone needs to straighten Marcus out."
"I'm certain that you are up to the job, my dear."
I caught a new note in my father's voice. His even, calm intonation had been slightly disturbed by an undercurrent of emotion that I was unfamiliar with. I recognized, with a shock, that my father was worried.
"I'll be careful," I said, attempting to smooth away whatever worry might be blooming on the surface of this situation.
"I go against my better judgment to send you into the proverbial lion's den all on your own."
I heard in that statement a promise. My father was going to follow me, and there was nothing I could say or do to prevent it from happening. I paused for a moment, then reached for my father's hand. He was a wonderful artist, my father. In more ways than one. It was sad to me that so few people would ever know the mannered, educated, well-dressed and well-spoken man that my father was. Many called him insane; more called him evil, believing that insane was too human a term for what Hannibal Lecter, M.D. really was. But in that moment, and in so many others throughout the course of my life, all I saw was my father standing straight and tall, ready for anything.
"I'll call if I need help."
My father nodded and I walked away reluctantly, unwilling to let the moment go. We both knew I wouldn't call, no matter what happened to me, and we both knew that I wouldn't have to. My father would be there, lurking in the shadows, waiting for an excuse to attack.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Can I say again that I..."
"No."
My brother closed his mouth under the force of the glares that my mother and I sent his way.
"This is a bad idea."
"Thank you, Jack. Thank you so very much for that captivating insight. You've said it five times now. I'm certainly glad you said it again, or I might have missed the point."
This time around my brother glared and I smirked.
"I'd feel better about you going if I could go with you."
"You would, I wouldn't. They know you, Jack. They know who you are, what you look like and they have a good idea of how you move in a tense situation. You would be in the way, and I have neither the time nor he inclination to protect you and watch my own back."
"I protect you, you protect me. It's a perfect system."
"I protect me, Mom protects you. How's that sound?"
"I hate you."
"What a lovely thing to say. I'm blushing. I am."
With a saucy grin I kissed my brother on the cheek and hugged my mother for good luck. And I walked out the door and swung into the chauffeured jaguar. This was the life. I looked back to see my mother and Jack walking back into the house. I saw a curtain drift shut on the third floor and smiled up at my father. I was on my way to settle an old score.
It hadn't been my score to settle. There shouldn't even be a score.
I didn't create this mess. But by God, I was going to be the one who cleaned it up.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Thirty six hours can be very long when they are uneventful.
I left Argentina braced for an adventure, ready to face a foe who threatened my family and my security. But once I was aboard the plane, the hours seemed to crawl by, leaving me with my adrenaline rush. And so I forced myself to relax, to smile, to read and watch the in-flight film.
I changed planes in Bogotá, Columbia, and flew to Dalles, then Chicago, and finally to Washington, D.C. I affected a southern accent, then a Scottish one, passing through customs and various gates without complication. My red hair shimmered in the D.C. sunlight as I hailed a cab. I rode in silence to the bank where a cellular phone and $6,000 cash waited for me.
Don't ask how I got the money. You don't want to know.
I retrieved my belongings without trouble, checked into a hotel and headed for the Air and Space museum as I dialed information.
"Information, how may I help you?"
"I'm looking for a Mr. Marcus Verger," I said, offering up my best Southern Belle.
"One moment please."
A pause, and cheerful music. Then...
"There are seven numbers listed for Mr. Marcus L. Verger."
"And I'll bet none of them are his home number."
"His home number is unlisted."
I pondered this for a moment. The operator was a woman, and I had nothing to lose...
"Let me guess. You have access to his home number."
"I do, but I can't give it to you. I could lose my job."
"I understand," I said. "The truth is, Marcus and I had a brief relationship, and I'm a little pissed off that he broke it off."
"Honey, don't I know how that is."
"You might know the company...they send dead flowers to your ex? I really want to fry him, but the bastard never gave me a phone number or an address. Doesn't want the wife to find out about me I bet. But I understand. Could you just..."
"Well, I can't give you a phone number, but his address is public information. You want that?"
I smiled. "Perfect."
From there on it was simple. I called the office of a senator who was known to have been bought off by the Verger family on more than one occasion and convinced the receptionist to peek at her boss's little black book. I settled down in full view of the Washington Monument, punched in a few digits and waited.
"Verger residence. How may I direct your call?"
A man this time. I didn't bother with an accent.
"Marcus Verger please."
"And whom shall I say is calling?"
"Just put me through."
For reasons that yet remain unknown to me, that authoritative tone works with everyone. I was put through with a minimum of fuss.
"Verger."
"Mr. Verger. This is Alexandra Lecter."
A long pause. I studied the capitol while Marcus gathered his wits.
"Miss Lecter. What a surprise."
"Not going to ask what you can do for me?"
"I hadn't planned on it."
Marcus had a deep, cultured voice, but I knew he wasn't any older than me. Only a year and a half older, which made him twenty. But age was irrelevant to the game we were playing.
"I assume you are tracing this call," I said.
"It would be foolish to miss this prime opportunity."
"It would indeed. After your hired guns made such a mess out of the last one."
"Good help is so very hard to find."
"True."
Another pause. I fancied that I could hear the crackling of the trace flowing down the phone line. I knew the instant he made the connection.
"The Washington Monument? Touring the city, Alexandra?"
"Nursing a grudge, Marcus?"
He drew in a sharp breath and then laughed. The laughter was strained.
"My men will be arriving shortly. I hope you will accept my invitation to stay at my home for the duration of your visit."
"I'm very sorry, but I've made other arrangements."
A pause while Marcus turned his options over in his head. I would likely be gone before his men could get to me, and that meant that he needed to try another tactic.
"Dinner, then? The Northern Aurora, and oh, say, 7 p.m.?"
"I'd be delighted. Ta ta."
I ended the call and walked briskly toward the metro station. As I rode the escalator down I saw that three men in dark suits and reflective sunglasses had descended on the bench where I had so recently been sitting. They scanned the area, and I shook my head. I had three hours, and I had some shopping to do. And a few phone calls to make.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Northern Aurora was an elegant black tie only restaurant frequented by upper crust D.C. and by those who could afford both the clothing required for admittance and the astronomical price of the food. I, of course, could afford both, but I was willing to bet that paying for the food wasn't going to be an issue. I was betting that Marcus Verger was an old fashioned gentleman, one who would drug me rather than club me on the head and drag me off to his limousine.
I entered the Northern Aurora in a figure-hugging gown that was beaded from top to bottom. My strappy black heels and perfume combined to make certain that doors opened for me and that every possible courtesy was extended. I had banked on that as well.
"How may I help you, miss?" the maitre de asked, the model of propriety and discretion.
"I'm meeting Marcus Verger," I replied, equally polite. The maitre de nodded and handed me off to a waiter.
"Marco will show you to the table. Mr. Verger is waiting for you."
I nodded. It was 7:00 on the dot.
I was shown through tables, up a flight of stairs and to the back of a balcony, where alcoves were hung with draperies and lighting was dim. This was a place for lovers, illicit or otherwise. I was dropped off at an alcove where the curtains were already drawn. I smiled slightly and pushed one of them aside, knowing that I was walking into some kind of trap. One of the first things my father taught me is that walking into a trap is all well and good, but one must have a way out of said trap.
It was a lesson I never forgot.
The alcove was spacious, more so than I would have imagined. The table was set with gleaming silver and nearly translucent china. And in the shadows, a man stood.
"Alexandra."
"Marcus."
And just that easily, the dance began. Marcus stepped into the light, and I sized him up. He had dark hair with lighter highlights, tall and muscular, dressed in a tuxedo that looked like it had been made for him and, if we were being honest, it probably had. I was glad that I had taken the extra time and money to spring for a professional hairstyle and manicure that afternoon. I might have felt like the poor cousin otherwise.
Marcus reached out a hand, the palm tilted slightly up. I slipped my hand, palm down, into his and was unsurprised when he raised my hand to his lips and grazed my knuckles with a kiss. It was more audacious than I had assumed him to be; I'd been betting that he would have placed the kiss in the air just above my hand.
"Won't you sit down?"
"Thank you."
Marcus pulled out my chair for me and made sure I was comfortably seated before returning to his chair.
"Are you enjoying your stay in Washington?"
"The city never ceases to enchant me," I replied. I could play the pleasant social interaction game just as well as he could.
"You have red hair. My informants were sure that it was brown."
"I wear many faces, and many hair colors to go with them."
"You look remarkably like your mother, save for the lack of a certain beauty mark on your cheekbone."
"My mother has no beauty mark. She has a badge of honor, and a remnant of her courage."
"Of course," Marcus said, leaning in to the table. "I've taken the liberty of ordering for you. I hope you don't mind."
"As I have no intention of eating anything you place in front of me, I don't mind in the least."
"You don't trust me."
"You are not so naïve as to believe that I would."
We sat in silence for a few moments, preparing our next offensive/defensive battle of words. The food was delivered, steaming and smelling wonderful with a bottle of wine chosen, I was certain, to compliment the meal. I studied the presentation.
"Perhaps you can tell me what prompted your phone call this afternoon," Marcus said, lifting a fork.
"Of course I can."
"But you won't."
"I'm sure you've worked it out for yourself."
"You wanted to set up a meeting."
I nodded. "And now I have. Mission accomplished."
"And yet you refuse to eat."
"And to stay at your house. One refusal is directly linked to the other."
"You assume that I would use you to get to your father."
"If I assume too much than I shall leave now, and never darken your doorway again."
"It would be a great pity never to see that lovely silhouette again."
I smiled slightly at that and lifted my wine glass. I studied the color and sniffed the bouquet, noticing that Marcus was drinking wine from the same bottle. That might mean that the wine was not drugged. I preferred not to take the chance, and set the glass down again.
"You are very distrustful."
"You kidnapped my brother. Actions of that sort tend to lead to a dissolution of trust."
"So does the murder of a relative."
"Your uncle had already tangled with my father once in his life. For many, that would be enough. But your uncle tempted fate, drawn on by hatred and the desire for revenge. Mason Verger was a fool."
Silence again. I sat back in my chair, waiting to see what the result of my gamble might be. Marcus watched me carefully, sitting back in his chair, food forgotten.
"You have come to me, of your own free will, drawn by my opening gambit. You are here, in Washington D.C., and your father will follow you."
"Then you do want my father dead."
"Oh, yes. I certainly do. It is a matter of honor, and vengeance. My father, as I am sure you know, was not the epitome of an upstanding citizen. He was a criminal, he was insane, and he took a large risk that resulted in his death. But your father is also a criminal, and insane. My father died, and so too shall yours."
"You assume a great deal."
"And you too little. Andre."
I turned in my seat to see another man emerging from the shadows. A secret entrance to the alcove, hidden by the curtains, I had no doubt. Andre was the same man I had fought on the plane, one of the two who had held my brother. I stood and walked to a more open space.
"Please don't wrinkle the dress. It cost a fortune," I said calmly, hiding my growing apprehension. Andre looked at Marcus and Marcus nodded. I heard a slight waft in the air before the world went dark.
*****************
To Be Continued...(Silence of the Lambs theme plays)
