A Date You Can't Refuse Read online

  “Thank you. That said, no staff member here is an apprentice. Kimberly's a world-class personal trainer and a licensed nutritionist. I've got a master's in psychology from Yale. Nell, a renowned linguist—whose seminar you need not take—has coached countless film and stage actors, including two Oscar winners, as I'm sure you read in the résumé section of your packet. Nell's brushing up on her Norwegian, to make you feel welcome.”

  Bronwen Bjöeling now turned on me. “And who is this?”

  “Wollie Shelley,” I said, stepping forward and extending my hand. After a moment, she extended her own very white, puffy hand, from which protruded long tangerine nails.

  “Wollie,” Alik said, “is my opposite number, in charge of transportation, logistics, and the social needs of half our trainees. Wollie, you no doubt recognize Bronwen Bjöeling, renowned lyric soprano.”

  I didn't, but decided it best not to volunteer that.

  “And are you a psychologist?” Bronwen asked me.

  “No, I'm a graphic artist,” I said.

  She looked around the great room, perhaps thinking I'd painted the walls. Before she could ask for my résumé or alma mater, Kimberly caught my eye and said, “Bronwen, I'll—”

  “He may call me by my first name,” the woman said, turning on her. “Not you.”

  It was so rude, even Kimberly, whom I'd thought completely redoubtable, blanched. I spoke up. “For the rest of us, do you prefer ‘Miss’ or ‘Ms.’?”

  “‘Miss’ will do. I'm no feminist.”

  I wanted to ask what Bronwen considered herself, what feminism's opposite number was, but Alik was watching me. He winked, then looked at Kimberly and shook his head. Kimberly turned and left the room.

  “I'll give you a tour, Bronwen,” Alik said. “And do you have your passport handy?”

  “Why?”

  “We make copies, in case they're lost or stolen. It saves time and headaches.”

  Bronwen said, “My driver has it.”

  “Fine. We'll walk that way,” Alik answered. I was interested in how he'd smoothed her feathers, and I expected he'd dispense with her limo just as gracefully. “This is the great room, where many of our meetings take place.”

  Donatella came down the hallway toward us. “Wollie, there is a phone call for you.”

  “For me?” I asked, startled. “From whom?” Who knew I was here?

  “Wendell.”

  “Wendell who?” I asked.

  “You don't know him?” Donatella shrugged and handed me a piece of paper. “Here. He said you are to call him now, as he will be at that number only a few minutes.”

  I stared at the unfamiliar number. The only Wendell I knew of was Wendell Willkie, who'd run for president against someone like Herbert Hoover or Dwight D. Eisenhower. It probably wasn't him.

  “Is there a problem?” Donatella asked.

  “No, but—is it okay to get personal calls here?” I asked.

  “Not much choice,” she said. “Since we don't get cell reception. You didn't get the team logistics sheet? Come to the office. I will find you one as you make your call. Oh, these last days have been chaos.”

  “Well!” Miss Bjöeling said, overhearing. “That does not inspire one with confidence.”

  “Creative chaos, Miss Bjöeling,” Donatella said, leading me away. “You as an artist will understand that.”

  I followed Donatella through the library, where Nadja, Zeferina Maria, Zbiggo, and Felix sat in a semicircle, facing the taciturn Nell, conjugating the verb “to be.” They looked up and I gave them a little wave, then entered the office. Wendell was probably one of Bennett Graham's people. The frozen yogurt guy, maybe, to get a progress report.

  I dialed the number, aware of Donatella beside me, going through a file drawer.

  “Hello,” I said when a voice answered. “This is—”

  “I know who you are,” he said, cutting me off. “The question is, where the hell are you?”

  Not a frozen yogurt FBI agent at all. Simon.

  I took a deep breath.

  SIXTEEN

  I'd pissed off Simon Alexander often enough—and I don't consider myself a contentious person—that you'd think I'd be used to it. But I wasn't used to it. And my boyfriend was definitely angry This was apparent from the note of tight control in his voice.

  “Yes,” I said, “not to worry, Wendell. I'm fine, but I've been working, and it turns out my new job puts me out of range of cell phone communications.” Donatella was now looking through paperwork on the desk next to me. Don't be paranoid, she's not listening, I told myself. “How did you get this number, by the way?”

  “Phone book” Donatella answered, as though this were a three-way conversation. “Or the website or one of twenty-two publications we advertise in.”

  “Who's there with you?” Simon asked.

  “One of my colleagues.”

  “Which one?”

  Which one? He'd done homework. “Donatella Milos,” I said.

  “Jesus. All right, look. We need to schedule an appointment. I'm worried about your carburetor and I want to get a look under the hood. When's good?”

  “I am so anxious to make that happen, you have no idea. Hold on. Donatella?” I said, covering the receiver. “Do I have an actual day off?”

  “In theory, yes.”

  “But in practice?” I asked.

  She considered this. “In fact, until Zbiggo's trainer arrives, it is difficult. The first week we are completely crazy, so … Why? What is it you need?”

  “What did you have in mind?” I said into the phone.

  “Tonight.”

  “Tonight?” I asked Donatella.

  “Tonight is impossible,” she said.

  “Tonight is—” I said.

  “I heard.” He was working to keep it together, I knew.

  I said quickly, “I am, however, eager to know the nature of your concerns. Regarding—my car.”

  “Let's just say you're parked in a bad neighborhood.”

  “How bad?”

  “Bad. But unless you're well versed in the political upheaval going on in several former Soviet bloc countries, I'd rather—”

  “Stop!” I screamed. Next to me, Donatella jumped. It hit me that if the FBI was wiretapping the phones in the house, they would hear this conversation. The word “Soviet” might get their attention, and worse, one of Simon's colleagues could recognize his voice. “I've gotta go, Willkie. I mean Wendell.”

  “Wait—”

  “Work thing. Sorry. Bye.” Panicked, I slammed down the receiver, then stood there, stunned, thinking, I've just hung up on him. The man I most trust, the voice I most love.

  “Wollie,” Donatella said. “Did I not just say you could make this call? Any call. Communication is fundamental. It is the thing that matters most in life.”

  “Yes, okay. I didn't know whether I should tie up the phones. You better give me that rule sheet.”

  “Team logistics. And here are the fact sheets on the trainees. Also the schedule. You didn't get this either? At orientation?” She handed me a small stack of papers.

  “No, I—” I was about to say I'd had no orientation, but realized that this might come in handy at some point, as an excuse. “Uh-uh.” I shook my head.

  “We have many phone lines,” Donatella said, “and Parashie has perhaps already set up a voice mailbox for you, I will ask her, and then you may receive messages. So you did know this man, after all? The Wendell?”

  “Yes, he's—a guy I'm supposed to meet. I'd forgotten. Car guy. Long story.”

  “Your boyfriend?”

  “No. But—what do you know about my boyfriend?”

  Donatella shrugged. “Yuri said you have a boyfriend.” She studied me, probably because I was beet red, which happens when I tell a lie. “So you meet with a car mechanic. But why? You do not need your car for three months.”

  “For work, no, but what about my free time?”

  “The Suburban is for your us
e always. Yuri says you should have no expenses.”

  Except for lip pencils. “I didn't know that,” I said.

  “Do you want to call this mechanic and tell him?”

  “No, later will be fine. Although—do I have time to run an errand or two?” I was desperate now. I had to talk to Simon on my cell phone.

  “My dear,” Donatella said, “if you want to make assignations with a car mechanic, or any other man who is not your boyfriend, do so. I will not judge you. I am European, and I find your American morality stifling. I can tell you this, however: you are not drinking enough water.” She took the paper she'd just handed me, circled something, and handed it back to me.

  #14. Southern California is a desert. All team members and trainees should

  drink 5 liters of water daily.

  “Yes. Thanks. Bye,” I said, preparing to leave.

  “What has happened to your pocket?” she asked, staring at my blazer. “Are those threads? Have you broken a seam?”

  “Where? What? No,” I said, clamping my hand over my pocket.

  She moved my hand aside. “Wollie! You are not putting things in your pocket?”

  “No, I—well, only a very tiny, flat little thing. A nothing. Paper, that's all.”

  Donatella's eyes flashed. “Why not just carry a phone book there? That is also paper. You ruin the line of the jacket, you make it droop. It does not want to droop. It does not want to bunch up. You are not a tissue box.” She caught sight of something over my shoulder and gasped. “Yuri, mio. You startled me. When did you get in?”

  I turned to see Yuri Milos standing in the doorway. He looked relaxed, his arms were crossed, and I wondered how much he'd seen or heard.

  “Moments ago.” He moved in to kiss Donatella on both cheeks, lingering to murmur, “It's happening. I'll meet you in half an hour to fill you in. Now I want to hear from Wollie.”

  Donatella left and Yuri closed the office door behind her.

  “Sit, please,” he said.

  I sat, feeling a strange combination of jitters. I had to remind myself that Yuri didn't read minds, that my cover wasn't blown, that he couldn't know I'd been talking to Simon, that I wasn't in high school, that this wasn't the principal. “Welcome back,” I said.

  “Thank you.” He smiled, a smile so filled with warmth that it melted my anxiety. His face was both weathered and animated. He looked vital, not like a man who'd taken two transcontinental flights in the last forty-eight hours. “So. Tell me your impression of your first day.” He perched on the edge of the desk, his body language inviting confidences.

  “It was… a full day.”

  “A baptism of fire, Kimberly tells me.”

  “Oh, not as bad as that,” I said. “I mean, no one drew their guns.”

  He gave me a quizzical look. “Perhaps you can tell me how it came about that you were driving everyone from the airport last night. Not just your trainees, but Alik's too.”

  That was intentional, I realized, the disarming smile, the charm, then the direct question. “I guess you heard about the luggage rack.”

  He looked at me calmly. “Well?”

  Wait. What if Yuri knew that I'd been asked to keep Alik's secret? What if this was a test, seeing if I would lie for Alik's sake, bond with a team member, value loyalty over authority? I made myself meet his eyes as a frisson of energy ran through me.

  “Are you going to tell me?” he asked.

  “About the driving arrangements? It was a question of—logistics. There were travel snafus all day, and everyone was helping everyone else. An improvisational kind of day.”

  I tried to recall what Joey and Fredreeq had told me about effective lying, but it didn't matter. I couldn't pull it off, not without years of practice, not on a guy like Yuri Milos. He had eyes that sucked the truth out of you. I looked away, but that was probably a bad call. I bet he was as good as Simon at recognizing the techniques liars employ.

  Liar. Such an ugly word. But that's what I was, that's what I was here to do.

  “Alik probably knows how it all came about,” I added, since Yuri wasn't saying anything. “You might ask him.”

  “I might do a lot of things,” he said softly.

  I looked at him again, and something in the air between us, highly charged—

  “Yuri.” Kimberly opened the door enough to pop her head in. “I've got him waiting on line one.” Below her, Olive Oyl's head appeared too.

  “I'll take the call in the bedroom.” Yuri kept on looking at me.

  “Babe, he's waiting,” Kimberly said.

  Yuri stood. He put a hand on my shoulder and briefly squeezed it. “I want to talk to you later.” Then he bent down and retrieved something from the floor. My piece of paper. “Yours?” he asked, reading it.

  I took a deep breath. What the heck. “Yes.”

  “What's it say?” Kimberly asked, reading over his shoulder.

  “Poprobuji 31 Aromat, tebe legko budet osmotretsya—Udachi,” Yuri said.

  “Poprobuji 31 Aromat, tebe legko budet osmotretsya—Udacht? Damn,” she said softly. So Kimberly spoke Russian. Did she write it, too?

  “What's it mean?” I asked.

  Yuri continued to stare at the paper. “Where did this come from?”

  “The words were written on the mirror in my bathroom this morning. In lipstick. I copied it. What's it mean?”

  Yuri threw a glance at Kimberly, then looked at me. “It's nothing. Slang.”

  I held out my hand for it, but Yuri didn't notice.

  He was already turned away from me, feeding my note to the paper shredder.

  SEVENTEEN

  I wanted to pack my bags and get out of Dodge. What did Yuri mean, slang? What slang? “You're toast”? Because he wouldn't shred a note that said “Have a Nice Day.”

  But I couldn't ask him because he and Kimberly had gone, taking Olive Oyl and leaving me in the office. Alone.

  I was of three minds. On one hand, I was taken aback at Yuri, because it was an imperious gesture, even hostile, to destroy my painstakingly written note. On the other hand, I was frightened. On the third hand, Yuri had just handed me the opportunity to actually do what Bennett Graham had hired me to do. Find passports.

  I glanced out the door. The coast was clear.

  Even scared, I could do this much. I'd said yes to Bennett Graham and the reasons I'd said yes were still good reasons, and maybe I could quit tomorrow or the next day and he'd still keep his promise about P.B. If I gave him something worthwhile. I had to try. Also, I couldn't just flake out two days into the job. Three or four days, okay. But two was pathetic.

  But wait! Surveillance cameras. Should I be worried about that? I looked around. Nothing looked like a lens. Which was not to say there wasn't one hidden in the electric pencil sharpener, for instance. But I decided that (a) no one at MediasRex had enough time on their hands to watch camera footage all day long; (b) if some off-site security company was watching, they'd be looking for suspicious activity; so, (c) if I didn't do anything egregiously attention-grabbing, I'd be okay. I just had to look normal, not spylike.

  I turned to the desk. A computer flashed its screen saver, the MediasRex logo. I tapped the space bar experimentally, and the screen changed to a bunch of documents. They had titles like “Week Log” or “OHP4,” nothing as helpful as “Illegal Activities.” I clicked on one called “Bio,” hoping for some nice biographical dirt on someone, but it was a treatise on converting standard-engine cars to diesel. I tried a few more—I'd look like I was checking my e-mail, right?—but found nothing of interest. And this could use up hours of my life. I scribbled document titles on a scrap of paper, in case Bennett Graham was interested, casually hid the paper in my shoe, and turned back to the desk.

  It was neither shipshape nor a complete mess. I found spreadsheets and faxes in various languages, but no passports. I checked the cubbyholes above the desk. No passports. Searching desk drawers and files could take hours and I had only seventy-five min
utes to spy, leave the property, phone Simon, and get back to start work.

  I scratched my ear and “dropped” my earring, giving me a reason to explore the floor. Aha. Under the desk was a safe. Closed, but not locked. I looked inside.

  Passports.

  I heard someone behind me. I spun around.

  Olive Oyl nosed the door open and ambled in.

  “Okay, come,” I whispered. “Sit.”

  The aging mutt obligingly shuffled forward, but her “sit” was a mere transitional moment en route to a slump. Once on the floor, she offered her stomach for my perusal.

  “Very lovely,” I whispered and got up off the floor, passports held surreptitiously.

  They came in different colors, from different countries, but I didn't stop to admire the packaging. I kept them on my lap and wrote furiously on a yellow legal pad, getting name, passport number, and date, country, and city of birth. The scratching of my pen sounded loud, and a drop of sweat actually landed on my writing. From the library I could hear the hum of the English class going on, but couldn't distinguish the words or speakers. They can't hear you either, I told myself.

  The sound of knocking sent me flying out of my chair, but it was only Olive Oyl's tail thumping on the hardwood floor, in a vertical wag. Her eyes were closed. Dreaming of dog biscuits, maybe.

  I had to speed things up. I stuck Stasik's passport in the copy machine and hit the button. The machine shrieked.

  Paper jam.

  I frantically jiggled the cover and found the offending shreds of paper and cleared them out. Then I saw the paper tray was empty. I opened a drawer, looking for extra paper, and saw instead files, one of which stopped me cold. It said “Wollie Shelley.”

  I grabbed it. I opened it. I sat.

  Page one was the results of my Myers-Briggs test; I was “a moderately expressed intuitive personality and a distinctly expressed feeling personality.” Hmm. Next was a four-page typed report that detailed my life in terse prose. I skimmed it fast. There were all my addresses for the last ten years, except for the three weeks I'd spent in Simon's penthouse. Thank God. Employment history, listing nearly two decades of odd jobs. Brief engagement, preceding year. Brother, paranoid schizophrenic, often institutionalized. Paternal uncle, Theodore, Glendale. Mother living in Ojai, served two weeks in county jail in 1964. Really? Father missing since 197—-?, presumed deceased.