It is a strange thing watching a 300-million-euro project you have spent two years preparing for crash and burn, pretty spectacularly, hours before deadline. The upside is the peace of mind from not doing a deal with dodgy partners; the downside is a blow to my boss, the Theo Reimann prototype, who I very much respect, and a less certain future for the rest of us. Looks like it's over, either way. Back to the plot; this chapter takes the tale to its halfway point.
…and a heartfelt thanks to you guys for leaving reviews; things have been somewhat crazy (see above) so I have been crap at answering comments, but they are truly appreciated. I will stick through with this one to the end, but knowing that people are having fun reading makes it more fun to write.
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"How's the view?"
To anyone who might be watching her, she looks like a typical gadget junkie, strolling around muttering as if to herself, in reality equipped with a Bluetooth earpiece – except that the earpiece is nowhere in sight, replaced by a tiny in-ear speaker and an equally tiny microphone on her collar.
To anyone who might be watching her other than Bruce, that is.
"Great. I'm looking at this gorgeous brunette walking around Circular Quay…"
Shameless flattery apart, he must be wielding some powerful binoculars, because there is no other way he could make her out from his perch on the 34th-floor. His ostensible concession to the low profile mode was booking the Deluxe Royal Suite at the Four Seasons off the western side of the quay instead of the presidential suite next to it, making him the target of subtle sniping on her part. She does not have much to complain about, with her spacious, light-filled one-bedroom suite at the Pullman Quay Grand at the beginning of Macquarie Street on the eastern side of the same quay, five hundred yards away from him and right next to the Opera House, albeit in her case, the top floor is the relatively pedestrian 12th; but the enforced absurdity of staying at separate hotels is a nuisance.
"If you're looking at me instead of my camera feed, you're defeating the object of the exercise." Half of it, anyway; the purpose of her casual stroll is to test out the mini-cameras and microphone they have picked up in Rio, now disguised as snaps on her jacket, to make sure they do their job before he can hide them inside jewellery, which she is yet to buy. The mike obviously works; now if only he can focus on the picture from her minicams instead of watching her.
"All I see from the cams is the quay and a bunch of tourists. I much prefer the view through the binoculars. Now if you'd walk towards a mirror window…"
"Be careful what you wish for." She pulls out a compact mirror, holds it in her hand just far enough for the camera to capture the reflection of her face, and sticks out her tongue in a ridiculous expression. "Happy now?"
"I have fantasies of so many things I'd ask you to do with that tongue next time we share a room…"
"Stop it, or I'll switch off the mike." It isn't bad enough that he has been sending her flagrantly explicit texts when she is away in Lyon; she could bet they were timed precisely to make her blush when she got them in the middle of class – if he now starts talking sex to her when she is walking around a crowded public space, she'll call off the test and go to her room so she can at least enjoy the performance in private. Even her love of public exposure has its limits.
"Sorry, getting distracted. It's these jeans you're wearing."
She rolls her eyes, even though he cannot see it. So now her jeans are to blame. OK, they are on the tight side, but if things go on like this, they can forget about the CIA database. "You're jeopardising the mission."
"Nothing of the sort." Now he sounds eager to prove that he can be businesslike. "I can tell you that I get full resolution video from both of your cams and unless you make really sharp turns, it stays in focus and holds up pretty well in motion. We'll wait until later tonight to see how they perform in low light, but for now it looks good."
"So I have your permission to get out of here?" It may be chilly and overcast, but it will not stop her from finally doing the Sydney Harbour bridge climb. The first time they were here half a year ago, Bruce mocked the hell out of her for wanting to do something so tame. To his credit, he rented a Cessna and flew her over it instead, but before that happened, she had to shoot down his suggestion to get wingsuits and land on top of it, or at least fly circles around it. She might concede that the idea of wingsuits, which seemed nuts to her in her pre-Rio hang-gliding days, might have some merit after all, but her argument of which part of becoming an instant media magnet interfering with the whole being dead thing do you fail to grasp was nonetheless perfectly sensible. Now, with Bruce conveniently out of the way, she is walking up that bridge, no two ways about it.
"Sure." He sounds a bit disappointed. "When are you going to the bar?"
"About eight." Just under four hours from now; enough time for her to do the bridge walk and go over from the somewhat unfortunately named Dawes Point at the southern end of the bridge to the bar in the business district. "I'll let you know when I'm a block or so away from there so you can watch the feed."
"You sure you don't want me to go there instead of you?"
She can sympathise with his boredom, but years of successful heists have taught her that nothing can replace a personal recon run. "Yeah, I'm sure. You'll just have to take it easy and entertain yourself as best you can. Talk later, caro."
xxx
The Drunken Wallaby, as a preliminary check has informed her, is the in-house pub of the Grace Hotel, an upscale four-star just over half a mile south of Circular Quay and two blocks east from Darling Harbour, on the corner of Clarence and King streets. At a guess, that's where Jamie, her contact for tomorrow night, must be staying. The hotel building looks like a piece of typical 1930s Gotham architecture transplanted to Sydney – impressive if out of place in the mostly-modern, mirror-glass downtown district. But the pub on its ground floor, with thick dark curtains behind glass-pane outside walls, advertised by shabby-looking brass signs, could rival an accountants' office in terms of appealing design. On the plus side, it has entrances on either side of the corner, in addition to a third entrance from the hotel lobby, leaving her a getaway route if things get tricky.
Inside is a typical pub, dark, noisy, with chunky brown furniture and large TV screens lining the upper walls and hung above the long bar counter. It could be in Gotham, or London, or pretty much anywhere in the world; its only distinctive feature is its name. Not a bad thing when the objective is to stay inconspicuous; the place likely attracts a mixture of hotel guests, here today and gone tomorrow, and nearby office workers, coming in after business hours for a pint and a spot of gossip and maybe a look at broadcast games, who will hardly pay attention to non-regulars.
Even now, on a Sunday night, it seems busy thanks to a bunch of locals watching a cricket game with New Zealand and loudly cheering for their compatriots. She casually walks around, confirming the location of the exits and making mental notes about the best spots to either be seen or stay unnoticed. There are no cameras, either outside or inside – the only one she saw is at the doorway connecting the bar to the hotel, and that one is easily avoided. It looks like her bigger problem might be getting noticed by her counterpart rather than attracting too much attention.
Or maybe it is a hasty judgement. She asks for a half-pint of cider as the token reason for her visit, and while she is sipping it at the bar she watches, in a mixture of amusement and annoyance, one of the younger cricket fans detach himself from the group and walk, a bit unsteadily but deliberately, in her direction.
"Whassuch a beautiful laydee doing here all on her own? Are you looking for someone? Are you looking for meee?"
She is about to reply that no offence, but he is about the last person in the world that she is looking for; she could, in principle, just knee him in the balls and walk out, but she will be back here tomorrow night and should not make her today's visit too memorable for the bartenders. Besides, where's the fun in that? "'Fraid not. I have a husband."
The cheerful drunk is undeterred. "No problem, he's not here."
"A jealous husband," she insists, with exaggerated seriousness, knowing that Bruce must be laughing already at what he is seeing and hearing thanks to her gadgetry.
"Jus' means we need to be careful."
Some people won't take a hint. OK, time for the heavy-artillery punchline. "A jealous husband who may be watching you through a pinhole camera right now."
She is somewhat distracted in her enjoyment of the effect by Bruce's evil cackling – there is no other word for it – in her ear upon seeing the poor guy's expression. Still, it is a delight to watch. The man's face instantly grows a couple of inches longer and a couple of shades paler and he backs off a step, at which point he delivers his parting shot in a slightly shaky voice before beating a minimally dignified retreat back to his pals.
"Should've said so sooner, sweetheart."
xxx
Monday morning dawns bright and clear, and between the anticipation of a busy day, the jetlag, and Sydney's wintertime, she is up before dawn. So much the better; she puts on the warmest clothes she has and goes for a stroll in the beautiful, lush Botanic Gardens at Farm Cove to the immediate east of the Opera House, just in time to watch the dawn breaking and the rising sun washing the gleaming sails of the Opera House building in glorious golden light. It is the most peace she will get this day, and she enjoys it while it lasts.
The first chore of the day takes her to the hotel business centre to type up and print out a fake article headline, which she sticks to an inside page of the Sydney Morning Herald as a message for Jamie at the upcoming rendezvous. St Kilda housing boom: it's a seller's market, it says in bold, ¾-inch letters; hopefully the few Sydneysiders who may see it at the pub won't be interested in buying real estate in a Melbourne neighbourhood, but the seller's market should get the other girl's attention.
As soon as the shops are open, she takes a taxi to the suburb of Parramatta fifteen miles west of downtown Sydney for her fake-identity props. The Indian dress shop she saw online looks less appealing in reality, but further down the same street is another one selling beautiful saris. A look around and a bit of bargaining gets her two of those, gorgeous swathes of silk with long narrow underskirts and fitted cropped tops to wear underneath, one in dark blue and one in burnished gold. She hopes she will have enough time in the afternoon to practice moving around wearing these in her suite; they are notoriously tricky for novices to walk in.
A further two blocks away she finds a jewellery store selling just the kind of ornate, intricately detailed gold jewellery that a rich Tamil woman might wear, and after a careful study of the shop's offerings and more bargaining, she is the proud owner of a necklace just this side of gaudy, a pair of long, heavy-looking but surprisingly lightweight earrings, and half a dozen gold bangles – there is no way they can hide anything inside those, but they are such a typical accessory that it would be strange for her not to wear a few. Back at the hotel, she leaves the necklace and earrings at the reception for Bruce to pick up so that he can further embellish them with the gadgetry; he has brought a soldering iron and a precision laser cutter courtesy of Quimetal for this very purpose.
Her next trip is more scenic but less relaxing. The first half is very leisurely, that is – she boards a boat from the Opera House quay to the eastern suburb of Manly facing the ocean on the other side of the expansive Sydney Harbour half an hour away, and on the way there she enjoys both the harbour views and the fresh salty breeze. Manly reminds her of a Mediterranean resort town, with a row of mid-rises backing a wide beach, the tree-lined promenade running along it dotted with ice cream shacks and surfing gear rentals, and sleepy back streets beyond, between the ocean beach and the harbour-facing Manly Cove where the boat docks; but once she has been to the MailBoxes Etc and picked up what turns out to be a pretty hefty briefcase, she finds herself hurrying back to Manly Wharf in a less laid-back mood. She is used to carrying valuables, but they have tended to be much more compact than this hulk. They promised her the million in twenties, she remembers; using the most widespread denomination is a wise move, but still a damn inconvenience. There is no way she is taking the briefcase to the bar; if the money is called for she'll have to deliver it separately.
Back at the Pullman once more, she heads to the spa and surprises the hairdresser girl by asking to have her dark chestnut hair dyed jet black. The girl does not look convinced, and in fact looks relieved when Selina tells her to make it a temporary dye that will wash off in a couple of weeks. In all likelihood, she will not need to maintain her persona for longer than that, anyway.
By the time she is done and is examining her reflection in the salon mirror, she gets an instant message on her "mission" phone from a local mobile number. Rocco's Pizza; Bruce is having fun with his pretend name. Your order is ready for pick-up. So she walks down Alfred Street running the length of the really rectangular-shaped Circular Quay to George Street and the Four Seasons reception, and picks up the familiar package containing the jewellery box. Once she is in her room, she hurries to open it, curious to see how well concealed the surveillance gear is.
It is splendidly disguised; she picked a necklace consisting of carved-gold disks, each one with a polished-gold hemisphere at its centre about a quarter inch across, and there is no way to tell that the one in the middle disk has been replaced with a fisheye camera lens. They asked for a couple of the cameras to be gold-plated and to have gold-coloured coating over the lens, knowing that gold jewellery was her best bet of wearing them; other than giving the camera feed a grey tint, the coating does not really affect picture quality. The microphones were even easier to hide inside hollow mesh barrels dangling from the earrings; and to make sure that all of these could be rendered undetectable, Bruce has done as intended and rigged the necklace clasp and earring backs as power switches – she can shut the gadgets down and turn them back on by lightly pressing these, as if checking that they are securely fastened. With the power off, they will be invisible to a bug sweep lodged as they are inside a metal necklace. All in all, it is a top-notch job.
Now, with four hours left to the start of the Drunken Wallaby's 7 pm happy hour, she has her opportunity to practice wearing the sari and work on her English accent. She has already done a fair bit of prep, what with finally watching My Fair Lady last night, sticking to the BBC as her default TV channel, and UK radio podcasts running non-stop on her mp3 player for the past couple of days, but she has spoken relatively little in the meantime, though she made an effort to mimic an English accent when she did. Now, as she walks around the room taking care not to trip up on the long sari skirt, she repeats the news announcer's words, taking care to drop the r and lighten the l and replace the vowels in the likes of last and fast.
…until, with an hour left before showtime, it is time for the final exam. She switches on her usual phone and calls up the number.
"Hello Alfred."
"Good morning, my dear. How have you been?"
"Fine. It's actually evening where I am, but we've been fine. Bit busy, but it should get sorted out in a few days." She trusts Alfred to draw his own conclusions about what is keeping them busy.
Which he unfailingly does.
"Anything I should be worried about?"
She laughs. "No, not really. There's something I should probably worry about, but you tell me. How do I sound?" She hopes he has at least noticed her accent.
"Marvellous. I've been meaning to ask you about your switch to proper English. Is there a reason for this?"
She chuckles at the proper English quip. "The reason is part of what's keeping us busy. I'll tell you all about it when we're back. Should be a few more days. Maybe I'll fly over to London then and we can meet for dinner."
"That's a fantastic idea."
"Anything in particular you'd like to suggest in terms of the way I say things?"
"Not at all, you are spot-on. Of course to be absolutely flawless you'd have to spend a few weeks here, but you sound perfect for someone who's never lived in England."
"That's the trouble. I'm supposed to be a half-Indian upper-class Cambridge graduate…" Half-Tamil, really, but she does not want to bring up the details over a mobile channel.
"Well, then there's something you really need to know. You should refer to yourself as a Tab instead of a Cambridge graduate. A Tab alumna, if you wish. That's the term they use for themselves. Speak as formally as you can, and watch out for the words. You know the lot, flat for apartment, lift for elevator, pavement for sidewalk, and so on. Also, use quite and actually as often as you can, and you'll do just fine."
"Thank you, Alfred, you're a treasure."
"Always a pleasure, my dear. How's the boy doing?" Bruce may be almost nine years her senior and nearing forty, and Alfred allegedly called him sir back in the Gotham days, but he will always be a kid to his old butler.
"He's doing great." She remembers their chat on the Pedra Bonita platform. "We've just been back to the city…" Again, she knows that Alfred will figure out which city she is referring to. "…and he actually quite enjoyed it." She smiles at herself for her linguistic prowess. "Not in the sense of wanting to move back, but in the sense of having moved on from that life."
"I am so glad to hear it, my dear girl. You know, I've spent years and years waiting for it to happen. Now you finally put my mind at ease."
Hearing Alfred's voice grow unsteady at the words brings up a sympathetic lump in her throat. Now that she knows what it is like to unconditionally care about someone, she shudders at the idea of Alfred watching Bruce go into danger day after day and night after night, watching him get hurt and go on fighting. And she is happy that he has lived to see the day when his ward grew tired of flirting with death.
"It's the least I could do, Alfred. You take care, and I'll see you in a couple of weeks."
"I'll be looking forward to it. I trust you two will take care of each other in the meantime."
xxx
"How do I look?"
She is standing in front of the full-length mirror in her suite in full battle dress – dark blue sari, gold trinkets, her hair gathered in an elaborate bun, her eyes lined in black and her lips painted burgundy, and, invisible but important, the silicone pads stuck to her fingertips.
Bruce takes a second to answer, but when he does, he sounds impressed. "You look amazing. Really gorgeous. You always do, but this outfit is a knockout."
She has to smile. "I mean, do I look authentic enough? Do I look like who I'm supposed to be?"
"I think you look a lot better than her, but seriously, yes. I have a picture of her on my screen next to your camera feed and unless I knew her personally and knew her well, I'd believe you were her."
That's probably as close to a ringing endorsement as she can get under the circumstances; for anything closer to a perfect resemblance she'd probably have had to resort to plastic surgery.
"All right; here we go. You'll see how it goes, anyway."
"I don't need to tell you this, but please be careful."
"I don't need to tell you either, but please stop worrying."
He chuckles. "I happen to be married to you. It comes with the territory."
Look who's talking, she thinks, but does not say it. After all, he is the one sitting it out tonight.
xxx
The taxi drops her off at the Grace fifteen minutes after the start of happy hour. As expected, the place is busier – not enough to block the other patrons from view, but enough to necessitate a careful look around. At first sight, Jamie is not there… but Bruce is, looking like a banker or a high-flying stockbroker after hours in a smart navy blazer and dress shirt with the collar undone. He seems absorbed in his tablet; her guess is that he is watching her camera feed is proven right when he looks up at her, seemingly without a hint of recognition, at the exact moment when she notices him. She rolls her eyes and begins reluctantly to turn away, but he then flicks a sideways glance at a corner booth further down, and sure enough, there is the girl, likewise busy with a smartphone. About Selina's age, her face looks rather harsh with the dyed hair, its flat black giving her grey eyes a washed-out quality. Selina walks to the bar counter and takes a seat at the end closest to Jamie's booth, all the time feeling Bruce's eyes on her. Damn, it was nice of him to show up, but it is one hell of a distraction. She asks for a half-pint of alcohol-free Kronenberg, pulls out her paper, and folds it so that the fake headline is facing in Jamie's direction.
When the girl looks up a minute or so later, she initially regards Selina with a measure of benign curiosity. Not without reason; it is not completely unheard-of, but still very rare for an Indian woman, or someone who looks like one, to come to a pub alone. She might, of course, be waiting for a companion; that is the cover story Selina has for any other curious onlookers who might have the impudence to ask. But the moment Jamie notices the headline, her eyes narrow in an expression between consternation and resentment. Well, this is getting off to a splendid start.
Jamie gets up, deliberately, almost lazily, and walks over to Selina's end of the bar. She is two or three inches shorter than Selina, athletic, almost tomboyish in appearance, especially with the short bob and the motorcycle jacket.
"I see you're interested in real estate?" she asks dryly, tipping her head at the paper section Selina was pretending to be reading.
She flips the paper so that the headline is facing both of them, and replies in a close match to Jamie's cut-glass accent. "Not really. I'm more into equipment trading, actually. But they are quite right about the seller's market." She looks the girl in the eye.
Jamie returns her look with a long stare. "Perhaps we'd better move over there." She gestures to the booth; Selina nods and follows her – but steps ahead jus in time to pick the seat that has its back to Bruce, so that he can watch the Brit.
"Can I have your phone?" Jamie asks coldly when they sit down. "If you don't mind," she adds as an afterthought. No introductions, no pleasantries.
Selina hands it to her – it is the "mission" clean phone anyway – to see Jamie pull off the cover and take out the battery. "I apologise for the precaution, but I'd rather be certain that our conversation is private," the girl explains perfunctorily
That's assuming you've done a bug sweep in here, sister. And anyway, it looks like you have no idea of what else I've got on me besides the phone. But she can play up to the paranoia. "Actually, I'd ask you to do the same. For the same reasons."
Almost surprisingly, Jamie complies. "May I ask what sort of equipment trading you're talking about?" she asks next.
Selina pretends to be evasive. "Various kinds. Hi-tech hardware, defence-related, plus supplies and spares." Obviously talking about weapons and ammo, but not naming them. "Highly confidential contracts, of course, I cannot talk about the details. I am here in the capacity of a buyer, actually."
"I understand." Jamie pauses. "You said as much in your message. How did you get the initial information?"
Selina figured that some sort of interrogation would be forthcoming, so the question is no surprise and her answer is well-rehearsed. "I have multiple contacts in the region on the demand side and quite a few on the supply side, and in my recent dealings with one or two of them I heard about this… asset being put on the market. One of them expressed an interest in it, actually. As a matter of fact, I myself – my operation that is – would very much benefit from this kind of application, so I am also considering the option of buying it in my own right."
Jamie's expression is just a shade away from a full-blown scowl; she changes it to neutral with what looks like conscious effort. "You know that there are other interested parties."
"Of course." She makes it sound both deferential and dismissive. "I was expecting a competitive procedure." She leans in, pretending to be ingratiating her way into Jamie's good graces. "I would appreciate your help in letting me join it. I can give you a cash advance if it can help facilitate the process…" It may be risky using her CIA money as a bribe, but with any luck, she can keep the bribe small and they can replenish the missing part if there is, in fact, a deposit required and if it stands at a round million.
Jamie does not seem in the least impressed. "I am paid by my contact, no one else." So she herself is not in on the deal, just an intermediary.
"Would you pass on my request to your contact?" Selina asks, mirroring Jamie's cold voice.
"What would you wish to make known to him?"
"That a businessperson active in the relevant sector in South Asia is interested in buying the asset, at any rate in bidding for it, either in her name or on behalf of a client, depending on the amounts involved." That way, she may have room for manoeuvre if she needs to up the stakes to stall for time. "I'd like to know what the terms of participation are, and what my next steps should be."
Jamie gives her another once-over before a reluctant answer. "I'll speak to him about it and will let you know the outcome in a few hours. You'll hear from me at the same address. It was a pleasure meeting you." She gets up, as if to leave, and Selina has no choice but to follow suit.
"Likewise," she says icily, with a fractional nod to Jamie. They have not even exchanged names, she muses as she turns toward the exit.
She pauses in the doorway just long enough to survey the scene. With a measure of relief, she catches a glimpse of Jamie slipping her half-pint glass into a handbag before walking through the hotel lobby door, and with some bewilderment, she sees that Bruce is no longer there.
xxx
She understands the reason for his early disappearance when she hears the by-now-familiar Newsnight chime from behind her suite door. Sure enough, Bruce is sitting on the sofa in front of the TV and offers her an innocent smile by way of greeting.
"How the hell did you get in?" she asks in a passable imitation of a stern tone.
He tips his head sideways. "Balcony. I saw you on it from my suite earlier today so I knew which one to get to, and the room being on the top floor made it really easy. All I had to do was hang from the roof and jump down onto it."
Sure, hang from the roof by his hands some forty meters in the air and jump down. Really easy.
"I suppose for you, a day lived without risking your life is a day wasted," she comments dryly.
Out comes the puppy-eyed expression, followed by a more, for lack of a better term, salacious one.
"You can't expect me to see you looking like this," he slides his glance up and down her figure, "and not show up here."
"Didn't get enough at the pub?" she teases, walking closer but staying out of his reach.
He shakes his head, still smiling. "Never."
Call her a walkover, but this is enough to get her to sit down next to him. Which is apparently not close enough in his opinion, because she promptly gets pulled into his lap. She wonders vaguely how come he is so proficient at unwrapping a sari and undoing those tricky tiny crop top buttons.
The damn phone pings just as she is about to give in and pull off the underskirt herself. "Shit." She gets up, walks over to the sideboard where her bag sits, and comes back to the sofa phone in hand, ditching the skirt in the process; hopefully whatever message she has received will not prove too much of an interruption.
It is an email from Jamie to the dummy account – and while it mirrors the girl's in-person manner in terms of curtness, it looks like Selina has passed the test – or her fingerprints have at any rate, the moment Jamie ran them through whatever database she may have access to.
Bangkok Wednesday 8 pm The Huntsman Brian
"Trouble?" Bruce's eyes are fixed on her puzzled expression.
"Not sure. She has given me an appointment in Bangkok in two days' time. Presumably with the seller, or someone else up the food chain. Can you look up The Huntsman for me?"
"In Bangkok?"
"Yep."
While Bruce is busy doing that and before he confirms that The Huntsman is a popular pub on a busy road between downtown Bangkok and the airport – these people seem to have a thing for pubs – she calls up the travel planner site and looks at the flights. Not bad; there are three direct flights and several one-stops, though the nine-hour direct flight time is a bitch. Still, it gives them enough time to get to Bangkok tomorrow night or, at the worst, late Wednesday morning. She calls up a Thai travel portal next -
"Fffuck."
Bruce looks up. "What?"
"I'm screwed. Thailand requires visas for Sri Lankans. I'm supposed to have Norwegian residence, but not citizenship, and I'm supposedly blacklisted in the UK where I got my second passport so they never made a fake one for me, so I'm stuck without a fucking visa. I could ask the CIA for another passport but there's no way they can get it here in time before tomorrow night to let me make it to Bangkok by 8 pm Wednesday."
"In the worst case, you can travel through a third country and get in under your Swiss passport." He does not sound too sure himself. "It's risky, I know."
"Exactly. They know I'll be arriving at Suvarnabhumi Airport between tomorrow and Wednesday morning. What if they have a way to hack into the immigration records and run a facial recognition scan? She's seen my face now and has probably taken a picture for all I know. Looks like it held up against the Sivaparan record, but if they see a match between my face and my real name – my present-day real name I mean – I'm in deep shit. She may then find out that I freelance for the Interpol and then it's over."
"You're right. I guess you could write to her… no, wait." He puts a hand on her arm just as she switches the screen to the secure mail app. She looks expectantly at him. "Let's see if our friend in Lugano can call on any favours in Lyon. It would be a stretch, but there are direct flights from Europe to Singapore and Kuala Lumpur, both two hours away from Bangkok, so he could send it to either city. You could fly there as Celine, pick it up, and fly into Bangkok as someone else."
It sounds tricky even in the best case, but it looks like calling Theo is indeed their best shot. "OK."
Two minutes later, it is Bruce's turn to swear.
"He's not answering," she mutters. It is not a question.
"Phone's switched off. And Marisa says he's not in the office."
"Try an email," she says with a sigh. It gives them less certainty than a chat over the phone, but knowing Theo, he will at least get back to them the moment he sees it, whenever that may be. "And ask him if he can think of an easy way to bring a fucking briefcase full of twenty-dollar bills from Sydney to Bangkok," she adds, remembering the CIA cash. "I wish that bitch Jamie would have taken it off my hands."
Unexpectedly, Bruce leaps to Jamie's defence. "She wasn't that bad."
"Oh really?"
"At least she was polite. And to be fair, she thought you were a gunrunner."
"Nice to know that a turncoat murder suspect cares about manners and morals," Selina snaps. She feels bad about her outburst, but cannot help a sting of jealousy at Bruce's continued defence of the girl, especially now that he has seen her and, judging by his remarks, liked what he saw.
His next comment, however, puts her at greater ease. "Doesn't matter. We'll never see her again." Of course it may have been meant to placate, but anyway, it works; she shrugs the matter off.
Bruce sets aside the phone and pulls her close again.
"There's nothing we can do between now and the morning, and I don't feel like going back to the Four Seasons until six AM or so when I can stay here, if that's all right with you." She kisses his chin by way of endorsement; he unfastens the clasp of her necklace and puts it on the side table before doing the same with her earrings. "How about we forget about it for now?"
She does not feel at all inclined to argue.
.
TBC
.
The Drunken Wallaby name is fictional, but the location is real. There is, indeed, an ordinary-looking pub on the ground floor of the Grace Hotel called PJ O'Brien's Irish Pub. The hotels and other locations are true to life, and the Sri Lankan passport/Thai visa conundrum is real.
Should you want to see pictures of Sydney, I have a bunch at [http] 01cheers*livejournal*com/7337*html. By the way, the events in the story are supposed to be taking place in July, so Sydney's current trouble with forest fires is still a few months ahead.
And Bruce may be dismissive of the bridge climb, but it is worth doing. The site, bridgeclimb*com, is pretty thin on pictures, but I am sure there is a promo video somewhere. Trouble is, you are not allowed to bring cameras on the walk (they are understandably deemed a security hazard), so there are no user pics or Youtube videos, mine or others'. That said, wingsuits would, in fact, have been cool (though dangerous) - see here for an idea: [http www] dailymail*co*uk/news/article-2457774/On-wingsuit-p rayer-Worlds-flying-daredevils-compete-China-prove -fastest-planet*html (you'd need to delete the spaces in the address and replace asterisks with dots)
And the notion of bugged jewellery and dresses is nothing new, as shown here: [http www] dailymail*co*uk/news/article-2487472/The-secret-hi story-CIA-women-gadgets-including-surveillance-com pacts*html . The Daily Mail is a shitty paper but occasionally publishes interesting stuff.