Author's note: Whew! Haven't updated in a long, long while… hope this chapter is all right. And do forgive me for the retarded title. Couldn't think of anything better – ARGH!
Chapter 3: Through the Looking Glass
Sorescu adjusted his gold tie, nudging it slightly with a forefinger to the centre. He took a step back to see how it looked. But no, too much to the right. He clicked his tongue and prodded it again, then leaned back a bit to see how his reflection looked.
Still not right.
The lapels of his coat were ironed to perfection, the cutting sharp and its sleeves ended nicely above the sleeves of his white silk blouse. The pants ended precisely above his polished Armani leather patent shoes and accentuated his solidly-built frame. Sorescu was grateful for the way his 53-year-old body was holding up: it looked as well-proportioned and athletic as it did when he had first shook The Crowbar's hand and pocketed his first gun.
All was perfect but for the but the damn tie.
"Let me do it." Sorescu let his hands fall to his side as those of his wife reached around his neck, loosened the tie and retied it. As she did so, he smiled to himself. They were the picture of domestic perfection, he thought to himself, feeling a surge of pride well up in his heart. All they lacked were children.
"What are you smiling about?" she asked, looking up at him and with a gentle smile of her own. He sighed and clasped his hand over hers. "I am happy. And I hope that you are too."
She scoffed playfully as she slipped her hand out of his grasp and continued to adjust his tie. "What are you talking about, Mikhail? Of course I'm happy."
"Do you know what I'd like?" he said wistfully. "Children, an heir for the family business, then I shall willingly and gladly die."
He felt the movements of her hand become tense when she moved them to adjust his collar. "Oh, I just remembered," she said, her voice sounding hollow, "Dimir, the fellow from Guest Relations, informed me a while ago that – "
"Do not change the subject," he snapped. An inexplicable surge of anger raged through his chest so abruptly that she froze. "Five years, Emilia – I have waited for five years for a child. Don't you ever wish to have one to play with on your lap? Don't you ever want one of your own to love? I have seen you with the children of minister Popescu – you will make an excellent mother. Why are you so reluctant to bear me my children?"
The expression on her face was cold and indecipherable. He felt the urge to hit her, humble her, strip away the layers of that tough, shameless skin and strike her where it hurt her the most. She sensed the tautness in his muscles, noticed how tightly his fists were clenched, but she did nothing but maintained her cool demeanour. She knew he wouldn't hit her because she was next to everything to him. And because they would be meeting the VIP guests shortly, after which was the brunch and the official launch of the anniversary week. Mikhail had a reputation to keep and a Western European venture at stake.
No, he wouldn't hit her, and they both knew it.
So he took a deep breath and turned to face the mirror again. He roughly yanked one loose end of the tie, ripping it lose, and threw it on the floor. He did not turn around, but he could see from the reflection on the mirror that she merely turned away without so much as a whimper or an apology. His throat caught.
Sometimes he wondered if she had ever loved him at all.
The helicopter took a sudden dip in the air, launching its passengers forward. Bond's hand shot out just in time to grip the hand-rest above his seat. Joel Woodwick, who sat beside him but, unlike him, had the sense to fasten his seatbelt, laughed. Bond shot him a glare.
"I hope your pilot knows what he's doing. That was nothing to laugh about."
"Come on, James, relax! We're on holiday here. You've been on edge ever since we touched down at the airport. You're about to experience some of the best weeks in your life and you're as sour as pickles. Do try to loosen up, if not for your own sake, then for mine. I don't want my tag-along to be an utter spoilsport. I'll look bad in front of Sorescu. Besides, Kaufferman the pilot has been with me for AGES, and I know his style. He likes to take a dip every now and then for the adrenaline rush, so I let him," said Woodwick with a grin.
Bond merely stared at him. "You're mad to hire him."
"Oh yes, I believe so. But he's good, Kaufferman, I tell you. Do you know that there was a time when I – "
Bond paid no attention to another of Woodwick's wonderful and deliciously close escapades, his concentration inadvertently switched to the rhythmic hum of the rotor blades. He reviewed his mission for the millionth time: somehow get to Emiliana Sorescu aka Evelyn Foster and ask what she had learnt during her time as a wife to one of the wealthiest men in Europe. And the conspiracy that surrounded the six murdered agents. From the pattern, she was obviously the next victim. Bond wasn't in the mood to play bodyguard; M certainly didn't gave him orders of that sort.
"James, are you listening?"
Bond managed a smile. "No."
Woodwick sighed. "Very well, James. I get you all the way to Romania and this is how you repay me!" Thankfully they had arrived at the helipad on the rooftop of the hotel. But even after the helicopter had landed, Woodwick still wasn't done talking. Or rather, shouting. "In exchange for a marvelous holiday, all I ask is that you put up with my yob. Is that so hard to do? Do you know that no one ever listens to me unless I talk about cigars? It's so boring!"
"You sound like a sexually frustrated woman," commented Bond wryly as a man dressed in crisp suit approached them.
"That's because I am – wait, what am I talking? I'm not sexually frustrated! Just emotionally deprived!"
"Good afternoon, Mr. Woodwick, Mr. Sandborn," said the man as he shook the hands of both men. "Did you have a pleasant flight?" Bond was intrigued. He had all the courtesies of a hospitality officer, and yet he had a heavy built and a stern set of jaws. This was a man more suited to fistfights than reception. Sorescu took no chances with anyone.
"Are we late? The pilot of my jet was most incompetent, you know, Mr. Hospitality, he caused us to be behind schedule for nearly an hour with his stupid safety checks," said Woodwick.
"No sir, you're just in time for the official launch of Anniversary Week. It begins in fifteen minutes."
"What about food?"
"Brunch is served there as well, sir."
"Fantastic!" yelled Woodwick even as they entered the small rooftop lobby which contained the elevators. "I'm hankering for a mouth and eyeful, aren't you, James?"
The man stared at Bond. "It's David," muttered Bond.
"Oh right! Of course you are," Woodwick grinned apologetically at the officer. "Mixed him up with his twin, James. They both look bloody alike, you know." All three men laughed weakly, but Bond knew that what looked like a small slip for Woodwick translated into a big gaping hole for the officer, who was probably sent to observe him, the last minute baggage. He didn't say anything more other than handing them their keycards and assuring them that their luggage would arrive at their respective suites safely and bid them a good day.
Once they were safey inside the elevator, Woodwick turned to him, but before he could speak, Bond silenced him with cool glare. The other man took the hint. As a result, the elevator ride to the grand ballroom was thankfully silent.
Evelyn took her seat on the immaculate banquet chair, complete with green trimmings and a large gold ribbon at the back. She was pleased with the way the centre piece had been arranged exactly to her precisions: white roses laced with lavender in a squat glass vase that shone in the sunlight. She fingered the gold-trimmed napkins folded in the shape of a swan and then the cool surface of the wine glass.
Perfect.
A hand tapped her back and she jumped, looking up. It was Beatrix Popescu, the elegant and rather high-nosed wife of Defense Minister Popescu. She wore several strands of pearls that were so long they clacked as she moved. Evelyn wondered why she hadn't heard her coming at all.
Her senses and reflexes were being dulled, that was all, from doing nothing other than shopping, chatting with socialites and deciding which trimming suited the center piece. She resisted a dry and frustrated laugh.
"I must say, my dear Emiliana, what a wonderful job you've done for the ballroom. It all looks so charming!" said Beatrix Popescu, as they exchanged kisses on the cheek. She took the seat next to her and immediately let out a sigh of appreciation. "The roses are so lovely. I've always argued that they will never go out of fashion but no one ever listens. I do declare that today is their comeback as timeless classics."
"Thank you, Beatrix. I've always thought the same," Evelyn replied with a smile. The waiter arrived and presented the wine list. After they had made their choices and returned the wine list to the waiter, Beatrix exclaimed again, "An excellent wine list, my dear. Pinot Gris is so perfect for a delightful, simple brunch like this. Who knew you have so keen an eye for fine wine?"
Is this what I've become good for? Flower arrangements and wine? she wondered to herself as she sipped her glass of wine. Her eyes wandered to the massive double doors that led into the ballroom, which itself was enormous and had a vaulted roof for a ceiling, from which hung about 50 chandeliers that glittered like gold coins. As Beatrix chattered away about the virtues of Wagner, Evelyn busied herself with people-watching. She spotted her husband, Sorescu near the entrance with a glass of red wine in his hands, talking and laughing with a group of men she recognized as his 'business associates'. She watched them. They were normal businessmen who dealt with real estate, beer and even fresh produce, but she knew that they were also the main men in the underworld that Mikhail Sorescu lorded over together with The Crowbar.
But what use was that information if she had no way of giving it to MI6? Even though Sorescu claimed that he loved her and trusted her the most, there were little signs of that trust he claimed he had for her. She knew that in her cell phone was embedded a tracking device, there were bugs even in their own suite and her wardrobe, and every time she went out, his men would be disguised as one of the paparazzi that photographed her no matter where she went.
Then she saw him.
He strode through the doors with the air of a man on a mission. Her reflexes may have been dulled, but not her instinct. Immediately, he was pulled to one side and introduced to Sorescu by a man she recognized as Joel Woodwick of Goldman Cigars. She watched as Sorescu smiled politely and spoke something trivial that incurred laughs from everyone in the circle. Then Sandborn and Woodwick moved to find empty spots for themselves.
His eyes met hers, and Evelyn had an odd feeling that he somehow knew her. There was a knowing look in his eyes. She kept her ground and sipped her wine as if nothing was wrong. She tried to reassure herself. She was a celebrity in these parts after all, so it was normal that people recognized her. Perfectly normal. He tilted his head as if it was a small, polite yet understanding nod before moving away.
It was her, Evelyn Foster.
She was, like all the famous, good-looking personalities, more good-looking in person than in the tabloids. Her eyes were an intense, deep blue and Bond could feel shivers running down his spine. This was not a woman to be trifled with. He knew that she knew him, the same way the hospitality officer knew his name. Surely, being the wife of an influential and powerful man as Sorescu, she had equal access to that kind of information.
He gave her a little nod. A sign of acknowledgment among agents, even if she didn't know he was one.
"I see you've seen her," said Woodwick, nudging him with a wink. Bond quickly pulled away. "Enchanting, isn't she? Those eyes! And those legs, if you've the chance to see them. I was with them on a yachting thing and she was wearing one of those old-fashioned Chanel swimsuits – " he let out a whistle as they sat on some ornately decorated banquet chairs. "Enough said."
"You make her sound like one of your many dirty little girlfriends," said Bond. He glanced back at Foster, who was joined by Sorescu and his gang of 'chums'. They all looked like simple men, save for Sorescu, who had the true airs of a rich and powerful gentleman. As soon as Sorescu sat, Foster took his hand in hers as she spoke to him in a personal and private matter. Bond tensed, for a moment it felt as if his identity was about to be given away, but he reminded himself that she could not have known about him. Eventually he smiled and kissed her. Bond tore his eyes away from them. He never liked watching couples in action.
The rest of the afternoon passed uneventfully enough with few to mention: Sorescu gave a generic speech on how much he appreciated everyone's presence and how much hardwork he had poured into it, Woodwick held court at their table and thus befriended everyone (and so did Bond, unavoidably, he sat through it all with polite smiles, short sentences and wine) and Eurovision and Romanian singers took centrestage. Only one thing registered in his mind, and it was Evelyn Foster. Every now and then he watched her, kept her in his sight as he pondered how he could speak to her without being seen by Sorescu, or any of his men for that matter.
It only took one sip of wine and a morsel of bass. Bond turned to look at her and she was gone from her seat. His eyes quickly caught a flash of her white silk frock as it disappeared through the entrance. He wiped his mouth hastily with his napkin and threw it down. "Can I borrow a smoke, Woodwick?" he asked his friend quietly.
"Of course. But I didn't know that you smoke," replied Woodwick as he handed him a box of cigarettes and a lighter from his pocket. Even he was too prudent to smoke his own cigars. Bond merely smiled and patted him on the back in thanks.
Bond strode rapidly out of the ballroom. The dimly lit corridor outside was littered with a few guests lounging on the tastefully arranged chaise lounges, but Bond made a hunch that she had gone to the ladies. There was a mini smoking lounge outside the toilets, and it wasn't only men who came out for a breather. Bond leaned against the wall beside one of them and lit up his cigarette. He usually didn't smoke, but he could use one now both professionally and personally.
A few minutes later the door to the ladies swung open and out came Foster. Bond took a few moments to admire the graceful sway of her hips as she walked and the confident square of her slender shoulders before he timed and made his move. He stubbed out his cigarette and walked calmly into her path and, as calculated, bumped into her and made her drop her purse and shawl.
"Sorry," he muttered as they both knelt to pick them up. She shook her head. "It's all right," she replied. Before she could straighten up again, he grasped her wrist. "I know who you are," he said in a low voice.
She looked at him directly, surprise clearly struggling not show in her expression. "Of course you do," she said seconds later with a funny smile. "You must be one of Mikhail's business associates."
He smiled as well, playing the well-mannered gentleman. "I don't do business with Mr. Sorescu directly. But I'll be direct here. I know that you're Evelyn Foster and that you work for M."
She froze, but her smile was still fixed on her face. "And who are you then if you're not David Sandborn?"
"I'm Bond. James Bond. I'm working for MI6 as well. We need to talk."
Dun dun dun! Is it good? You tell me! :D