更多英文有声读物中英对照同步视频请加V信公众号：yyxxzlk
prologue
West Central Africa
Four years ago
This is where he would die.
On the ground, palms flat to the earth, fighting against thirst and the urge to drink from a mud-filled puddle.
Blood was in his hair, on his clothes, and, beneath dirt and grime, it painted his face. It wasn’t his blood. And he could still taste it.
They would find him. Kill him. They would cut him to pieces just as they had Mel, maybe Emily, too.
He ached to know that she was still alive and heard only the quiet noise of the deep forest broken by the strike of machetes against foliage.
Filtered light escaped the rain forest’s canopy, playing tricks with shadows.
The sound of the blades carried long in the stillness, bouncing, making it difficult to gauge direction.
Even if he did escape his pursuers, he wouldn’t survive a night in the jungle.
He needed to move, to run, to continue east until he crossed the border, though he no longer had a bearing on where that was.
He willed himself to his knees, struggled to his feet, and spun, disoriented and dizzy, searching for the way out.
The machetes were closer now, followed by shouting not far behind.
He propelled himself forward, his lungs on fire and his eyes burning.
Time had lost meaning long ago.
In the dimming light, jungle plants loomed large and ominous. Was this hallucination?
Another shout, closer still. His legs buckled, and he fell to the ground, cursing himself for the noise he made.
He wrestled out of the backpack; it wasn’t worth his life.
Hope came with the low grumble of dilapidated jeeps vibrating through the undergrowth.
The road was a marker pointing toward escape, and now he would find it.
He crouched, then peered above the leafy cover, implored providence for no snakes, and ran, following the sound.
Without the pack he moved faster, should have thought of it sooner.
A chorus of voices erupted a hundred meters behind. They’d found the pack.
Carry on your body what you cannot afford to lose.
Wise advice from a cousin who had spent time in this godforsaken wilderness.
He had bought time, minutes— maybe his life— by dumping it.
There was a shaft of light twenty meters ahead. Instinctively he moved toward it.
It wasn’t the road but a village, small and silent.
He scanned the deserted scene for the one thing he wanted more than all else and found it in a corroded oil barrel.
An assortment of water insects made their home along the surface, and mosquito larvae skirted about the bottom like miniature mermaids.
He drank greedily, risking what disease the barrel had to offer; if he was lucky, it would be curable.
A jeep drew nearer, and he retreated to the shadows and lay hidden within the foliage.
Soldiers spilled from the vehicle and spread between the baked-mud structures, shattering slatted doors and windows before leaving.
He understood now why the village was deserted.
Another fifteen minutes until total darkness.
He followed along the edge of the village track to the road, listening intently.
The jeeps were gone, and for a moment there was no sound of his pursuers.
He stepped from cover onto the main strip and heard Emily yell his name.
She was far down the road, running, stumbling, soldiers close behind. They hit her, and she crumpled like a rag doll.
He stood in shock, trembling, and in the darkness watched the machetes fall, glinting in the moonlight.
He wanted to scream, he wanted to kill to protect her.
Instead he turned east, toward the checkpoint less than twenty meters away, and ran.
chapter 1
Ankara, Turkey
Vanessa Michael Munroe inhaled, slow and measured, focused entirely on the curb of the street opposite.
She’d timed the motorcade from Balgat to the edges of Kizilay Square
and stood now, motionless, watching from a shadowed notch while the target group exited the vehicles and progressed down a wide, shallow stairwell.
Two men. Five women. Four bodyguards. A few more minutes and the mark would arrive.
Multistoried glass buildings reflected neon onto broad streets still alive with late-evening pedestrian traffic.
Bodies brushed past, seemingly unaware of her presence or of how her eyes tracked movement in the dark.
She glanced at her watch. A Mercedes pulled to a stop across the way, and she straightened as the solitary figure stepped from the backseat.
He walked casually toward the entrance, and when he was fully out of sight, she followed,
down the stairwell to the Anatolia: private of all private clubs, Ankara’s holy of holies, where together the wealthy and powerful fattened the cogs of democracy.
At the door she flashed the business card that had taken two weeks of greased palms and clandestine meetings to acquire.
In acknowledgment the doorman nodded and said, “Sir.”
Munroe replied with a nod, slipped a knot of cash into his hand, and entered into the din of smoke and music.
She moved beyond the hive of secluded booths, past the bar with its half-filled line of stools, through the corridor that led to the restrooms and, finally, the “staff only” door.
Inside was not much more than a closet, and here she shed the Armani suit, the Italian shoes, and the trappings of the male persona.
It was unfortunate that she was known as a man to the contact she’d used to gain access, when tonight of all nights she needed to be a hundred percent woman.
From her chest she shrugged down the sheath that would function as a figure-hugging dress and slid thin lacy sandals from the lining of the jacket onto her feet.
She pulled a mini clutch from the suit pocket and then, checking that the hallway was empty, stepped into the restroom to finish the transformation with makeup and hair.
Back in the main room, the motorcade’s bodyguards stood as homing beacons, and she walked, with long and languid strides, in their direction.
Time slowed. Four seconds. Four seconds of direct eye contact with the mark and then the slightest hint of a smile as she averted her eyes and continued past.
She placed herself at the end of the bar, alone, face turned away, body turned toward him.
Ordered a drink. And demurely toying with the chained medallion at her throat, she waited.
This final step and the job would be complete.
She’d estimated ten minutes, but the invitation to join the party came within three.
The bodyguard who delivered the message escorted her to the table,
and there, with only the briefest round of introductions, coy smiles, and furtive glances, she slipped into the evening’s role— seeking, hunting, prodding, all in the guise of the bimbo’s game.
The charade lasted into the early morning, when, having gotten what she wanted, she pleaded exhaustion and excused herself from the group.
The mark followed her from the club to the street and, in the glow of the neon lights, offered a ride that she declined with a smile.
He called for his car, and as she began to walk away, he came after her, fingers gripping her arm.
She pulled away. His grip tightened, and she inhaled deeply, forcing a veneer of calm. Her vision shifted to gray.
Her eyes moved from his face to the veins on his neck, so easily slit, to his throat, so easily crushed, and back again.
With blood pounding in her ears, she fought down the urge to kill him.
Against instinct she maintained the smile and sweetly said, “Let’s have another drink.”
The Mercedes pulled to the curb. The mark opened the rear door and, before the chauffeur had a chance to step out, shoved Munroe into the backseat.
He climbed in after her and slammed the door. Ordered the chauffeur to drive and then pointed in a brisk movement toward the minibar. “Have your drink,” he said.
With a flirtatious smile, she looked over her shoulder, seeing but not seeing.
It was the smile of death and destruction, a disguise to the fire of bloodlust now coursing through her veins.
She struggled to maintain reason. Focus.
Subduing the urge, she reached for the bottle of Jack with one hand, her clutch with the other, and said, “Drink with me.”
Reacting to her calm, and with the unspoken promise of sex to come, he relaxed and took the drink she offered.
She dipped her fingers into it and then pressed them to his mouth.
She repeated the gesture, playfully, teasing the Rohypnol into his system until the glass had been emptied,
and when it had been done, she staved him off until the drug took effect.
She told the chauffeur to take the man home and, without resistance, stepped out of the car.
In the cool of the predawn, she breathed deeply to clear her head.
And then she began to walk, oblivious to time, aware only of the lightening sky and eventually the morning call to prayer that sounded from the minarets across the city.
It was fully light when she arrived at the apartment that had served as home for the last nine months.
The place was shuttered and dark, and she flipped on the light.
A bare low-wattage bulb hung suspended from the ceiling, revealing a one-room apartment with more floor space devoted to cluttered stacks of books, file folders, and computers with their attendant wires and paraphernalia than to either the desk or the couch that doubled as a bed.
Beyond that, the place was empty.
She removed the medallion from around her neck and paused, momentarily distracted by the blinking red light at the foot of the couch.
Then, with the medallion flat between her palms, she twisted it and removed a microcard from the opened halves.
She sat in front of the computer, slid the card into a reader, and, with the data downloading, reached for the answering machine.
The voice on the recording was like champagne: Kate Breeden at high noon.
“Michael, darling, I know you’re still wrapping up and aren’t expecting another assignment for a while, but I’ve received an unusual request. Call me.”
Munroe sat on the couch, replayed the recording, leaned her forehead onto her arms, and closed her eyes.
Exhaustion from the day’s work weighed heavily, and she lay back, eyes glazed in the direction of the monitor and the download status.
She glanced at her watch. Just after ten in Dallas.
She waited a moment, then straightened, and bracing for what was to come, picked up the handset, and dialed.
The effervescence in the voice on the other end brought the crack of a smile, and Munroe said, “I just got your message.”
“I know that you aren’t looking for new work for a few months,” Kate said, “but this is an exception. The client is Richard Burbank.”
Munroe paused. The name was familiar. “Houston oil?”
“That’s him.”
She sighed. “Okay, fax me the documents, I’ll take a look.”
There was an awkward silence, and then Breeden said, “For a hundred thousand dollars, would you be willing to meet in person?”
“In Ankara?”
“Houston.”
Munroe said nothing. Simply let the silence of the moment consume her.
Breeden spoke again. “It’s been two years, Michael. Consider it a good omen. Come on home.”
“Is it worth it?”
“You can always go back.”
Munroe nodded to empty space, to the inevitable that she’d so far managed to postpone, and said, “Give me a week to wrap things up.”
She dropped the phone into the cradle, lay back on the couch, and with an arm draped over her eyes inhaled long and deep. There would be no sleep today.
FOR THE FOURTH time in as many minutes, Munroe checked her watch, then the length of the line ahead.
Stamps hammered into passports. The irregular beat created a distracting rhythm, a cadence that patterned the background of her thoughts.
She was going home. Home. Whatever that was supposed to mean.
Home. After two years of shifting time zones and Third World countries, of living a nonstop clash of cultures through places alien and alive.
These had been worlds she could feel and understand— unlike home.
Teeth clenched, Munroe shut her eyes and exhaled softly, tilted her head upward and took in another drink of air.
One more person moved through passport control and the line crept forward a few inches.
She drew another breath, an attempt to invoke a temporary calm, to relieve anxiety that had been building over the last few hours,
and with that breath the tumult inside her head increased volume. The land shall be emptied, and utterly spoiled…
The transit had shifted through two sunrises and a sunset.
Her body said 3:00 in the afternoon yesterday, and the clock on the far wall said 6:48 in the morning.
…The haughty people of the earth do languish
Another subtle glance at the time. Another breath. A few more inches forward.
She hovered on the brink of panic, keeping it at bay one breath at a time.
Home. …The earth is defiled under its inhabitants…
Minutes passed, the line remained stationary, and her focus turned to the front, where the man facing the immigration officer stumbled through a few words of English, unable to answer the basic questions asked of him.
Six feet tall, with perfect posture and jet-black hair, he carried a hard-shell briefcase and wore a dark maroon trench coat.
Another three minutes that felt like a painful thirty, and the immigration officer sent the Trench Coat to a separate room at the end of the hall.
…They have transgressed the laws, changed the ordinance…
She tracked his path and pushed her bag forward with her foot.
…Therefore has the curse devoured the earth…
Each of his steps brought back the dread of her first entry into the United States.
Similar doors and a similar experience— how much could have changed in nine years?
…and they that dwell therein are desolate…
The Trench Coat was now a silhouette behind a translucent window.
She checked her watch. One more person in line. One more minute.
…The mirth of tabrets ceases…
She stood in front of the booth, passport and papers in hand, the mental noise now reduced to a whisper beneath the surface.
Perfunctory questions, perfunctory answers. The officer stamped the passport and handed it back to her.
…The noise of those that rejoice ends…
She had no luggage and nothing to declare, and with a final glance at the Trench Coat’s shadow, she left the area through opaque sliding doors that opened to a waiting crowd.
She scanned the faces, wondering which, among the expectant eyes and attentive glances, waited for him.
…Strong drink will be bitter to those that drink it…
On a far wall was a telephone bank, and she walked toward it.
…The city of confusion is broken down…
She dialed and then angled herself so that she could watch the opaque doors.
…All joy is darkened, the mirth of the land is gone…
Passengers exited sporadically, smiling as they made contact with loved ones who stood waiting.
That was how it should be coming home, not sending packages and gifts ahead to estranged family and a few strangers called friends, dreading the reconnection that must inevitably take place.
Kate’s answering machine picked up, and Munroe disconnected without leaving a message.
The Trench Coat exited the glass doors.
…In the city is left desolation, and the gate is smitten with destruction…
He was alone. There was no girlfriend with flowers or any happy faces waiting— not even a somber suit holding a placard with his name.
He passed within a few feet of where Munroe stood, and her eyes followed.
On impulse she picked up her bag and trailed him to the ground level, keeping just close enough to avoid losing him in the crowds.
The Trench Coat boarded the shuttle for the Marriott, and she stepped on behind him. He nodded once in her direction and paid no attention beyond that.
Dressed as she was, it was to be expected. Cropped hair, lightweight cargo pants, a linen shirt that had once been white, and thick-soled leather boots: to all but the most observant, she was every bit as male as he.
At the hotel Munroe trailed to the front desk and stood in line. Noah Johnson. Room 319.
Such an American name, and yet he struggled with rudimentary English.
She knew the accent: the French of high-society Morocco.
When he had finally completed check-in, she booked a room, then placed several calls, and finally, getting past Kate Breeden’s voice mail, arranged to meet for dinner at the hotel’s restaurant.
OUTSIDE, MUNROE HAILED a taxi and twenty minutes later stood in a parking lot on a semideserted industrial strip.
Far down the street on either side and in both directions were squat cement structures, businesses divided one from the next by narrow windows and truck bays.
Munroe watched the cab drive away and then climbed the steps that led to the closest door.
The signage scripted in large metallic block letters read LOGAN’S.
The front door was locked. She pressed her face to the glass and, seeing no light, rapped on it.
A few minutes passed, a light came on from the back, and Logan approached in sweats, barefoot and with a sheepish grin on his face.
He unlocked the door and let her in, and then, scanning her up and down, said, “You look like shit.”
She dropped the duffel bag on the entrance floor and let the door close. “Glad to see you, too,” she said.
His smile broke first, and they both laughed. He wrapped his arms around her shoulders in a hug and then held her at arm’s length.
“Welcome back,” he said. “God, it’s good to see you. How was the trip?”
“Long and tedious.”
“If you want to crash, the couch is available.”
“Thanks but no thanks,” she said. “I’m going against the jet lag.”
“Coffee, then?” He turned toward the small kitchen. “I’m just getting a pot on.”
“Caffeine I could use. Thick and black.”
Nothing he could conjure in his kitchen would come close to Turkish coffee;
the caffeine withdrawals would follow on the heels of the anxiety and jet lag. One hurdle at a time.
The office portion of the building had four rooms. Logan used one as an office, another as a conference room, and the third and fourth as living quarters.
In the back the warehouse doubled as repair shop and storage area.
He wasn’t supposed to be living in the building, but he paid his rent on time and thus far no one had complained to the property managers.
The arrangement had been going on as far back as Munroe had known him—
that muggy summer night seven years before, when prejudice in a hole-in-the-wall bikers’ bar had turned to violence and she’d thrown in her lot with the underdog.
They’d laughed when it was over, sitting by the edge of the road, under the blackened sky, making introductions like star-crossed soul mates.
Munroe walked the hallway slowly, following a row of poster-size frames that adorned the walls, stopping for a moment in front of each.
Most contained photos of motorcycles on a speedway, Logan in the races he competed in, split-second snapshots of his professional life.
Logan was thirty-three with dusty blond hair, green eyes, and an innocent smile that placed him closer to twenty-five.
Over the years the impression of childish innocence he gave had drawn in a succession of boyfriends who each in turn had discovered the reality of a dark and hardened soul.
Logan had been on his own since he was fifteen, had started by scraping together an existence fixing cars and motorcycles part-time from a repair shop owned by his best friend’s father.
Everything he had he’d earned by clawing his way to it one exacting day after another,
and he was, by Munroe’s judgment, the closest being she’d found to perfection in the nine years since she first set foot on American soil.
Logan joined her in front of the last frame and handed her a steaming mug. She nodded thanks, and they stood in comfortable silence for quite a while.
“Two years is a long time,” he said finally. “There’s a lot to catch up on, Michael.” He turned toward the back door. “You ready?”
She didn’t move and in a voice laced with confession said, “I might be taking another assignment.”
He stopped.
“It’s why I’ve come back.”
Logan studied her. “I’m surprised you’re even giving it consideration. I thought you’d told Kate to turn down all incoming requests.”
Munroe nodded.
“You already know what I think,” he said. If he was upset, he hid it well. “If you decide to take it, I’ll be there to back you up.”
She smiled, reached for his hand, and in his palm placed the medallion. “It was perfect,” she said. “Thanks.”
He nodded and with a half grin said, “I’ll add it to the collection.” He put his arm around her shoulders. “Come on, let’s go.”
They exited the office and living area through the back door that opened to the warehouse and workshop, and halfway to the end of the building they stopped.
Munroe reached into a set of stacked plastic drawers, retrieving a backpack and a few personal items while Logan let down a ramp and rolled the Ducati from its storage space.
The bike was sleek black-on-black, a thing of pure beauty, and Munroe smiled as she ran her fingers over the custom race fairings.
“I’ve taken good care of her,” Logan said. “Took her out for a spin last week just to make sure everything’s tweaked and peaked.”
If it were possible to love a machine, Munroe loved this one.
It symbolized power, life broken into split-second intervals, calculated risk.
Few things were capable of providing the same adrenaline rush that the horses between her legs delivered as they tore down the roads at over 150 miles an hour.
The rush had become a form of self-medicating, a narcotic sweeter than drugs or alcohol, just as addictive and equally destructive.
Three years prior she’d totaled the bike’s predecessor.
Shattered bones and a head injury had kept her in a hospital for several months,
and when released she’d taken a taxi direct from the hospital to the dealership to pick up a new machine.
Munroe straddled the bike, sighed, and turned the ignition. She felt the surge of adrenaline and smiled.
This was home: running along a razor’s edge of self-induced terror, calculating mortality against probability.
Assignments were the reprieve.
When she was abroad, although she would do whatever was necessary to get the job done, there was a degree of normalcy, sanity, purpose, and the destructive forces propelling her to gamble with her life were dormant.
Munroe nodded a helmeted good-bye to Logan and, with the screaming whine of the engine, shot forward.
Returning home was an eventuality, but if she planned to stay alive, perhaps not all that smart.
IT WAS EARLY evening when she returned to the hotel.
She had spent the day at the spa, had been soaked and wrapped, peeled and painted;
they had given her back her dignity and femininity, and she had loved every moment.
She now wore clothes that hugged her body, accentuating long legs and model height.
Hers was an androgynous figure— boyish, sleek, and angular—
and she walked through the lobby with a sensual stride, subtly provocative, fully aware of the surreptitious glances coming from the mostly male guests.
…When I would comfort myself against sorrow, my heart is faint…
The attention amused her, and she took her time.
…I hurt; I am black; astonishment has taken hold…
Now, on her eighth trip back to the United States, each return more of the same and with anxiety continuing to crest wave upon wave,
it was time to find a distraction. A challenge. A game.
He was in Room 319. But first there was business to attend to. Munroe glanced at the clock. Breeden would already be waiting.
SIX YEARS AGO Kate Breeden had a thriving law practice in downtown Austin
and was married, with a daughter in junior high, an eight-hundred-thousand-dollar home, three luxury cars, and yearly trips to faraway places.
Then came the messy divorce. The house, the cars, the vacation and investment properties were all sold off,
and Texas’s community-property law split twenty years of earning down the middle.
Her daughter chose to live with the ex-husband, and Breeden took what was left, put it into an investment fund, packed up, and moved to Dallas to start over.
They’d met on the Southern Methodist University campus, where Breeden had returned for an M.B.A. and Munroe was in her sophomore year.
The relationship began as a cautious mother-and-daughter surrogacy at a time when people still called Munroe by her given name.
When she’d received the unusual job offer that would require interrupting her studies in order to make a trip to Morocco, Breeden was the one she’d gone to for advice.
Breeden now owned a successful marketing consulting firm and practiced law on the side for a few select clients.
She was Munroe’s buffer between everyday life and life on assignment.
In the months and sometimes years that Munroe was out of the country, Breeden paid the bills, kept the accounts open, and forwarded pressing matters.
Breeden was warm and friendly and absolutely ruthless.
She’d screw a person over with a polite smile— cozy up and bury them alive— and for that reason Breeden was an ally: She was safe.
Breeden was a bottle-dyed blonde with shoulder-length hair and heavy bangs that flattered almond-shaped eyes.
Munroe found her at a corner table looking over a stack of paperwork and sipping red wine.
Breeden made eye contact, rose with an enormous smile, and grasped Munroe’s hands warmly.
“Michael,” she said with trademark breathlessness, “you look so well. Turkey was good to you!”
“The Four Seasons did this to me,” Munroe said, taking a seat, “but I did love Turkey.”
“Have you completely wrapped that one up?”
“A few minor details and then I’ll be finished.”
Munroe dug into a roll, spread the butter on thickly, and then politely motioned for the documents.
Breeden passed them across the table.
After a few minutes of flipping through pages, Munroe said, “This doesn’t seem like something I’d handle.” She smiled. “Is that what you meant by ‘exception’?”
“It’s the easy money,” Breeden said. Munroe paused, and Breeden continued.
“When Burbank’s daughter disappeared in Africa about four years ago, he hired the best international investigators and, when that proved futile, mercenaries. So far, nothing.”
“Why come to me?”
“He’s seen your work, says this is just another form of information.”
“It could be.” Munroe shrugged. “But that’s money hard earned, nothing easy about it.”
“When I got the call, I spoke with Burbank himself— no middlemen or corporate strategists.
“He’s offering that hundred thousand just for the meeting, regardless of your answer. He wants to present the case to you personally.”
Munroe let out a low whistle.
“I did explain that he was probably wasting both his time and his money.
“But there are worse ways to earn a hundred grand than overlooking the Houston skyline for a day.”
Munroe pressed her thumb to the bridge of her nose and sighed. “I really don’t know, Kate.
“Once I hear the details, I might want to take it, and we both know that whether I wish it or not, I need a break…” Her voice trailed off.
“I’ll call Burbank in the morning,” Breeden said. “I’ll let him know you’ve declined.”
Munroe’s eyes fell to the documents. “I haven’t declined yet,” she said. “I made the trip, didn’t I?”
She reached for the papers and thumbed through them again. “Is this everything?”
“Officially, yes.”
“Have you read it all?”
“Yes.”
“What about unofficially?”
“In the dossiers are personal bits and pieces centering on Elizabeth Burbank.
“It seems that at or around the same time the first teams were setting out to track down Emily, she had a nervous breakdown and had to be hospitalized.
“She was in and out of retreats for a year before she passed away. Suicide.”
Breeden took a sip of water. “For the family it was fortune followed by tragedy.
“Less than two months before Elizabeth’s death, Burbank’s drilling venture off the coast of West Africa struck oil and the stock in his company went through the ceiling.
“He became an overnight multimillionaire and since then, through careful investment of capital, has become a billionaire several times over.”
She paused, and Munroe motioned for her to continue. “Prior to this the family wasn’t hurting by any means.
“Richard Burbank had done well in life through high-risk enterprises that paid off, and he also married well both times.
“Elizabeth came from old money, ran with the Houston elite, so it’s safe to say that they were already well-off before the oil windfall.
“Elizabeth was Richard’s second marriage— Emily, the girl who’s missing, is Elizabeth’s daughter from a previous marriage.
“Richard legally adopted her when she was seventeen. It was right around their ten-year anniversary.
“He and Elizabeth held a recommitment ceremony, and he let Emily choose a charity for a big donation in their honor.”
The waiter approached with the meal, and Breeden stopped.
Munroe flicked the napkin over her lap and inhaled the aroma coming off her plate.
“So,” she said, “he’s a philanthropist. What else? What’s he like as a person?”
“It’s hard to say,” Breeden replied. “My impression while on the phone is that he’s no-nonsense, he gets what he wants.
“There isn’t a lot of press coverage on him prior to the oil discovery. His company, Titan Exploration, has been publicly traded for almost seven years,
“but there’s little mention of Burbank other than to point out that he’s the founder and a major stockholder. He seems to be somewhat camera shy.”
Munroe nodded and chewed. She cleared her throat.
“For a hundred grand, I’ll listen to what he has to say. But make sure he knows that I’m coming for the money and out of pure curiosity.”
“I believe he’ll want to see you as soon as possible.”
“Try to arrange it a few days from now— give me some time to catch my breath.”
“How are things this time around?” Breeden asked.
“Hasn’t changed much. I deal.” Munroe put down the knife and fork.
Discussing the insanity inside her head was out of the question; it was a private hell best lived alone. “I’m fine,” she said.
Breeden pulled out a cell phone. “Before I forget.” She handed it to Munroe. “So I don’t have to hunt you down.
“Number’s on the back, charger’s in the briefcase. I’ll call you as soon as I’ve got the appointment sorted out.”
The meal over, Munroe returned to her room, disassembled the file, glanced through the pages, and at some point in the middle became intrigued.
When she found herself losing track of time, she set the alarm clock and went back to the beginning, starting with the summary from the official files.
Whoever had written this document described the Africa that she knew well and had long given up trying to forget.
Munroe became lost in the pages until the alarm buzzed a reminder that something needed attention.
Noah Johnson. He would be the distraction du jour, the assignment of the night.
She shuffled the papers into a semblance of order and tossed them on the desk.
She leaned her head back, closed her eyes, and pulled in a deep breath, followed it with several more— a shift from one work mode into the next.
She found him at the bar, staring into his drink. Even from a distance, he was beautiful,
and if he hadn’t been so immersed in his own thoughts, he might have noticed the glances from several women nearby.
Munroe sat at the opposite end of the bar, ordered a drink, and requested that a second of what he was having be taken to him.
When the glass arrived, he looked up and then in her direction as the bartender pointed her way.
She leaned beyond the couple blocking his view and gave a slight wave. He smiled, picked up the glass, and walked toward her.
“Bonsoir,” he said, and seated himself on the adjacent stool, then raised his glass in thanks.
Experience predicated that he, like most men after a few drinks and faced with a beautiful woman showing interest, would be unable to help himself.
Getting him into bed was beside the point; the challenge was in possession, to crawl inside his head so deeply that he wouldn’t want her out.
She replied in French and in the small talk listened for his personality, filtering options through his answers.
When the pieces became a composite whole, she would shift into characteristics that would most easily enchant— whatever the particular role necessitated in order to acquire the end goal.
Bimbo, coquette, siren— name it and become it.
His answers were unexpected and made her laugh, not the laugh of an actress but one that was genuine, real.
And that he carried his own streak of adrenaline hunger didn’t hurt.
Discovering that work had taken her to Morocco, he flashed a teasing smile and switched from French to Arabic: “Hal tatakalam al-Arabia?”
She grinned and whispered, “Tabaan.”
Their conversation undulated, it swelled and lingered.
His personality was beyond what she’d anticipated— closer to her own than any distraction she’d yet sought out.
Perhaps this hunt would be the easiest of all. No games, no roles, just a sanitized version of who she really was.
Desiring more privacy than the bar and lounge provided, Munroe said, “You want to find the Jacuzzi with me?”
“I’d love to,” he said, “but I don’t have a bathing suit.”
She moved closer to his ear. “Neither do I, but if you wear your underwear and act like you own the place, nobody will ever notice.”
He laughed, a deep, hearty laugh, spontaneous and alive.
He gulped down the remainder of his drink and placed the glass on the bar counter.
“I think I like you, Lady Munroe.” He stood. “Where is this Jacuzzi?”
The hot tub was situated in an alcove away from the main pool, and when they’d found it, Munroe shed her clothes and slid into the foaming water.
Noah studied her for a moment and then, without breaking eye contact, draped his shirt over a nearby pool chair and slid in beside her.
“These,” he said, tracing his finger along one of the many white slivers etched into her body. “Are the scars also part of your job?”
She began to say something, then hesitated and stopped. “Those,” she said finally, “are a story for another time.”
It wasn’t the usual bullshit about car accidents and glass, and it avoided a truth she had no desire to relive.
