Chapter 9

"Prince Nabil," said Melinda, bending a knee slightly as she shook the man's hand. "Thank you for seeing us on such short notice. I know that your studies must have been keeping you busy."

The prince smiled. His teeth were brilliantly white against his tan skin and black beard stubble, "Your employer has helped my country do many great things. We would be shamed if we could not do some small favors for him in return."

Melinda smiled, "You honor us. Allow me to introduce Thule Roemer, who is currently on retainer to Mr. Medeforte."

The prince's smile became a grin, "It's a pleasure to meet you. I've heard much about you on the news. Please. Come in. My home is your home."

They stepped inside. Whatever Thule had been imagining, the prince's apartment was surprisingly modest. It was large by Georgetown standards, but not by much. Nabil led them through his kitchen on the way to the living room. The kitchen table was piled high with medical books, several of them open.

"Melinda?" called a voice from the living room. Thule was just entering the living room as the woman he presumed was the princess rose from the couch and wrapped Melinda in a fierce hug.

Melinda hugged her back, "Princess Quy. It's good to see you again."

"Oh, my God," said Quy. "Don't you dare 'princess' me. How have you been? I haven't seen you in..."

"Seven years," said Melinda quietly. "The last time I saw you was the day I left to work for Sean."

"We have so much catching up to do," said Quy, sounding serious. "How long can you stay?"

"Oh, Quy," Melinda said, sounding sad. "I'm only here for a couple of hours. Then, we have to fly to Hanish-Assab for a briefing."

"Oh," said Quy, looking serious. She reached up and stroked Melinda's hair gently, "Another time then."

Thule watched without commenting. For just a moment, Melinda had closed her eyes at Quy's touch and Thule had thought he'd seen a little shiver. He definitely hadn't imagined the look that passed between them.

Fortunately, the prince had walked past them and missed the entire display, which had taken only a few seconds. Thule shot Melinda a glance that was part warning and part question, but she'd already put on her professional face again.

He stood and watched as Princess Quy arranged herself on the couch and was surprised to see for the first time that the princess was wearing blue jeans. The pearlescent white silk blouse she wore had drawn his eye enough not to notice anything else. It had a Nehru collar and red piping that made it look enough like a kimono that the eye was tricked into not looking to see if it went all the way down.

From Melinda's briefing, he knew the princess was Vietnamese. He might have guessed right or he might have guessed she were Cambodian. Her hair was long and black, worn as a heavy braid that hung over one shoulder and came almost to her belt.

She was beautiful, of course. Thule had expected that, knowing she'd been a model for Vanessa Phuong. He should have also expected that she would know Melinda. They were close enough in age and both had worked for the Gossamer Agency. Was that why Melinda hadn't mentioned it? Thule didn't think so. Her briefing had been very thorough otherwise. It was definitely something he was going to have to question her about later.

"Please," said Nabil. "Come and sit. We don't dwell on formality here."

Thule accepted the invitation, "Thank you, Prince Nabil. I have some questions I was hoping you could help me answer."

"Of course," said the prince. "And, please. Call me Nick."

Thule raised an eyebrow, "Nick?"

The prince spread his hands, "It's an affectation, but one I've gotten used to. If it seems too flip to you..."

Thule shrugged his shoulders, "I call myself 'Thule.' I would be the last to criticize."

"Excellent," said the prince, clapping his hands. "So, what are your questions?"

"Are you familiar with Sean Medeforte's program for finding his facilitators?" asked Thule.

The prince nodded, "Yes. That's how Quy met Miss Phuong."

"It is?" asked Thule. He turned to the princess. "Were you working with the Gossamer Agency before you were approached about the facilitator program?"

Quy shook her head, "No. I was approached my Miss Phuong shortly before finishing high school. She explained to me about Medeforte's program and invited me to Boston to do a photo shoot."

Thule watched the prince for any reaction to this, but he was still smiling and did not seem upset, "For Medeforte?"

"One was for Medeforte," said Quy. "I wound up doing a total of six over the summer. Five of them were normal modeling shoots."

"If it's not too personal a question," asked Thule. "Why did you decide not to become one of Medeforte's facilitators?"

"I considered it," said Quy. "I'd done very well in high school. But, money was tight for college. Fortunately, I was making enough modeling for Vanessa to pay for school and she went out of her way to make sure I could attend classes and work at the same time. I had a very aggressive class schedule. I was doing a custom major in fashion industry management. She even used some of my designs in her photo shoots."

"Your designs?" asked Thule.

"I took a lot of fashion design."

Thule nodded, "Did you design that top?"

Quy nodded, beaming, "Yes. Do you like it?"

"Definitely," said Thule. "It's very striking."

"Thank you," said Quy. "I'm back in school now, trying to learn how to be a medical administrator. But, I still design the court clothing for us and the king and queen. It's an inexpensive way to create some glamour that the people can look up to without spending money the kingdom doesn't have. You wouldn't believe what the other designers wanted to charge to design clothes for us."

"Quy is a woman of many talents," said the prince, reaching across and taking her hand. "I and my people are lucky to have her as our princess."

Quy blushed prettily. Thule turned a little to face the prince again, "Is Quy your people's only princess."

The prince nodded, "Yes. I am my parents' only son."

Thule glanced down at a notepad he'd opened in his lap as if reading his notes, "Vanessa Phuong suggested that you might be seeking to build a... brain trust like Medeforte's or, that if you weren't, you might know who was."

The prince glanced at Melinda before speaking, "Thule, you must have misunderstood. Mr. Medeforte isn't building a brain trust. He's building a harem."

"Actually," said Thule. "My understanding is that it's both. Miss Phuong suggested you might be doing the same."

This time, it was the princess who shook her head, "You must have misunderstood her. Nick's been building a brain trust, but I've seen them. You're not getting a fetish for old technocrats. Are you, sweetie?"

Nabil's laugh was unforced, "Definitely not. Thule, my great grandfather had a harem, but my grandfather did away with the practice in Hanish-Assab. And, while my country could benefit greatly from the expertise of women like Miss Thompson, I have no interest in restoring the practice."

"Can you think of why Miss Phuong might think you were interested in doing so?" Thule asked.

"She wouldn't," said the prince. "She came to the wedding and helped with its planning. She knew very well that we intended this to be a monogamous arrangement."

Thule made a note, "My mistake, then. Do you know anyone who might be building such a harem?"

"The Sultan of Brunei," said the prince. "But, he's more interested in whether his women can win beauty pageants than he is their minds. Plus, he stopped recruiting in the US a few years back. There are a few others, but they all follow his lead. As far as I know, none are interested in intelligence in their women except perhaps to actively avoid it."

As Thule was formulating his next question, the prince went on, "What Miss Phuong probably meant to say was that I would know a fair amount about who was gathering harem. Hanish-Assab is a frequent port of call for ships heading down the coast of Africa or across the Mediterranean and has to be ever vigilant against pirates, smugglers, and white slavers. Enough women on their way to join harems pass through our country that we've established procedures to make sure that they're traveling of their own free will before they leave."

"So, if someone were building a harem in, say, Southeast Asia, would you know about it?" asked Thule.

"Only abstractly," said the prince. "Yusoff bin Ibrahim, who is giving the conference on piracy tomorrow, would be able to answer your questions in that area much better than I."

Thule asked a few more questions before thanking the prince for his time. Princess Quy smiled, "That was quick. When's your flight to Hanish-Assab?"

"We have a private jet," said Melinda. "But, it won't be ready to take off for at least another hour and a half."

"Then, you can stay for dinner?" asked Quy.

Melinda turned to Thule for an answer. He said, "I don't see why not. We... would be honored to join you for dinner."

"Great," said Quy. "I know a great Chinese place we can order from."

The plane was taxiing for take off when Thule said, "When you briefed me, you didn't mention you and the princess knew each other. Why not?"

Melinda, settling into the facing seat, answered him professionally, "I wasn't sure if she would be happy to see me. I didn't want it to be a distraction."

"Would you have told Medeforte?"

"Probably," said Melinda. "But, I know that I can trust Sean to leave it alone and not let it interfere with business. I didn't know if it would throw you off."

Thule grunted, "It might have."

Melinda smiled at him, "I'm impressed that you're able to admit that."

Thule shrugged, "I'm sure that I'm blind to enough of my own faults without deliberately ignoring them. How well did you know Quy when you were in Boston?"

Thule only caught the scowl Melinda made at failing to change the subject because he was looking for it. Looking away from him a little, she said, "Quy told me she was in love with me once."

"And you weren't in love with her?" Thule asked.

"I might have been," said Melinda more quietly. "It didn't matter. I wanted to be a mother. Besides, I was going to be a Medeforte woman. Originally, she was too. But, she changed her mind at the last minute and tried to convince me to do the same and stay with her in Boston. I... never took our relationship seriously. I was... trying on the idea of being with a woman for size. I thought it was something I might have to get used to."

Thule reached across the gap between them and touched her on the shoulder, "I'm sorry, Melinda. I don't mean to pry. Something doesn't smell right here."

"It's all right," said Melinda. "Ask your questions."

Thule shook his head, "It's a long flight. We'll get to it."

"All right," said Melinda. "If you'll excuse me, I need to freshen up."

Thule nodded and watched her go. As soon as the bathroom door closed, Masha, who was still lying where she'd been shortly after taking off from Boston, opened her eyes, "Beating up on the help again, boss?"

"How long have you been awake?" Thule asked.

Masha sat up and stretched, "I've been dozing on and off since you two got back on the plane. Why didn't you wake me for DC?"

"You were sound asleep," said Thule. "I didn't know you wanted to be awakened."

She gave him a look like he was being dense, "It's not a question of what I wanted. It's a question of doing my job."

"There wasn't any job to do," Thule said. "I'm sorry you missed dinner, though."

"If there wasn't any work to do," asked Masha. "What was she doing there?"

Thule bit back his first response. He looked at his assistant. In spite of the fact that she was two years older than him, he always felt like Masha was significantly younger. She was meticulously conscientious about her job and had been even in the weeks when Thule didn't make it to the office at all. But, nearly all of her energy outside of work seemed to be focused on getting ready for, being at, and recovering from parties. When he'd interviewed her for the job, Thule had been impressed with her intelligence, but she'd shown little inclination to pursue any specific career.

Taking a deep breath, Thule answered the question as if it hadn't been an accusation, "Melinda made the meeting possible through her contacts with Sean Medeforte."

"Oh," said Masha, looking somewhat mollified.

"Is something on your mind, Masha?"

She shook her head, "Not at all. I really like my job."

Thule turned his head enough to roll his eyes without being seen. One of these days, when people told him there was nothing wrong, he was going to start taking them at their word, "Are you sure nothing is wrong? This may be the last time I actually have a few hours without three things scheduled into them at once."

She shook her head, "Things are as far from wrong as they could be. All of my friends hate their jobs and their bosses and complain about them all the time."

Thule nodded, "All right." But, he didn't look away.

"I just don't know how long it can last," said Masha.

"What do you mean?"

"Thule, how many times have you asked me to do something specific for you?"

"I haven't kept track," said Thule. "But, at least once a week, I would think."

Masha shook her head, "I've worked for you forty-four weeks and you've given me nineteen specific tasks."

Thule raised an eyebrow, "You want more work?"

Masha shook her head, "I want to keep my job. I like my job. But, I can see the writing on the wall. When you were still in school, I told myself that the reason I spent most of my time being useless was that you were busy with school. But, you've been working out of the office for weeks now and you've only asked me to do one thing."

"I'm not planning on getting rid of you, Masha," said Thule. "Most of your job is being available when I need you. And you've been exemplary."

"Fine," said Masha. "But, you're going to judge me based on how I do the part of my job that doesn't involve waiting around."

Thule tried to figure out what was going on in Masha's head, but felt like he must be missing some crucial component. "What do you want your job to be, Masha?"

"I don't know," she said quickly. Then, after a thoughtful pause, "I want to be like Miss Moneypenny to your James Bond."

"Who?"

"James Bond's secretary," said Masha. "Like in the movies."

"I've never seen a James Bond Movie."

Masha looked stunned, "You're kidding. Right?"

Thule shook his head, "I had a lot on my plate growing up. I've been to the movies maybe six times in the last five years and I didn't watch enough TV to justify the cost of cable. Many aspects of my education have been sorely neglected."

"I don't know if James Bond movies count as education," Masha pointed out.

"Sure they do," said Thule. "They're part of the vernacular. The fact that I am abysmally ignorant of ninety percent of the movies and TV shows everyone my age watched growing up is often conversationally stymieing. It makes me less able to interact with people on a level at which they are comfortable."

"Wow," said Masha. "I never thought about it that way. I guess there are benefits to letting television rot your brain."

Thule chuckled, "So, how is Miss Moneypenny different from you?"

"Well... for one thing, she knows all about double-oh seven's secret missions."

Thule considered this, "I don't really have any secret missions."

Masha frowned, "See? They're so secret, you won't even tell me they exist."

"So," said Thule slowly. "Because I say I don't go on any secret missions, I must be going on them. What would I say if I actually did go on secret missions?"

Masha scowled, "You would still say you don't go on them. But, I know you're scheduling things behind my back. Otherwise, when did you interview Romeo Jordan?"

Thule almost answered with the simple truth that he hadn't interviewed Romeo Jordan. But, he caught himself, "Where did you hear that name?"

Masha looked around the plane, her eyes darting back and forth as if she felt trapped. Thule realized that the question must have seemed rather strident. He felt a pang of remorse at seeing the look of fear in his assistant's face. He wished he could reassure her that she wasn't in any trouble, but anything he could say to do so would probably only sound menacing now. Instead, he sat as calmly as he could, waiting for an answer.

"I... I think Robert mentioned it," she said.

Thule must have looked puzzled because, a few seconds later, she added, "Robert Bock. You hired him for the research department. He's working on signal analysis now."

"Ah..." Thule nodded sagely. "In what context did he mention Romeo Jordan?"

"He... asked how the interview with Romeo Jordan had gone," said Masha. "I didn't even know who Romeo Jordan was."

Thule kept nodding, "Well, you can tell him that Romeo Jordan was completely useless. He wouldn't tell us a goddamned thing. We're coordinating with the NYPD right now to raid his offices for the information we need."

"Oh," said Masha. She gave him a nervous half-smile.

Thule grinned at her in a way meant to be reassuring and reached for his leather attache case.

"Thule," asked Masha. "Is Robbie in some kind of trouble?"

Thule didn't look up from searching through his documents, "Why do you ask?"

"Well," said Masha. "He's been asking a lot of questions about the Medeforte case--stuff I told him he should keep his nose out of. He says he just loves 'that spy shit, ' but..."

Thule looked up at her, rubbing his chin, "How well do you know Robbie?"

Masha shrugged, "We went out a few times. It's nothing serious."

Thule closed his eyes and took a deep breath before speaking again, "Are you sure you want to know what's going on? A lot of the time, I'd rather not know these things myself."

"Please," said Masha.

"Robbie..." said Thule, laying aside the case again. "Robbie is taking money from General Pak to spy on RSS."

Masha paled, "He is? Are you sure?"

Thule nodded, "Completely. If you'd like, I'll let you see what we've collected on him. It's quite conclusive."

"Yes, please," said Masha meekly. "What's going to happen to him?"

Thule shrugged, "He's going to keep working on signal analysis and, when we want some misinformation reported back to General Pak, we'll make sure Robbie overhears it."

"So, you're not going to kill him?"

Thule stared at Masha for a moment, "No. Of course not. Is that what they do when they catch spies in James Bond movies?"

Masha nodded, "Sometimes."

"Well," said Thule. "What we usually do is feed them misinformation. If I... fired Robbie, what do you think General Pak would do?"

"To Robbie?"

Thule shook his head, "To me. Do you think he would just say 'Ah, well. They caught my spy' and give up?"

Masha shook her head, "He'd send another spy if he could."

"Right," said Thule. "And then we'd have to go through all the work of finding his new spy and eliminate him, which would start the cycle all over. We knew Robbie was spying for Pak before he started his first day of work and hired him anyway. Now, Pak gets the information we want him to get instead of the information he wants."

"But, Robbie has the run of the office. He could get into something sensitive," pointed out Masha.

"Potentially," said Thule. "But, we go to a lot of trouble to make sure that people who don't need to know sensitive information don't have access to it."

"People like me?" Masha sounded a little bitter.

Thule nodded, "Dealing with all this secrecy requires a certain mindset and some fairly intensive training. Both are, to a degree, unpleasant. Neither are required for your position."

"What if I wanted them?" Masha asked, a hint of challenge in her voice.

Thule sighed, "I would be very tempted to say no."

Now, Masha was clearly indignant, "Why?"

"Because," said Thule. "Despite your earlier intimations to the contrary, I happen to think that you're doing an excellent job as my personal assistant. In spite of all the idle time the job has enforced on you, you're at work on time all the time. You've made it a point to be available when needed, even if not asked to be. And, while I couldn't say for sure what the nineteen specific tasks were that I gave you, I know I've never gotten one back undone or done in such a way that I had to redo all or part of it myself. That's exactly what I was hoping for in an assistant."

Masha frowned. Thule could see her thinking hard on what he'd said. Finally, she asked, "So, if I were worse at my current job, you'd be more inclined to say yes to training me in something tougher?"

Thule shook his head and laughed, pleased that she'd caught on so quickly, "No. Well, yes. It would be easier to let you go and do something else. But, I only said that I would be tempted to say no. You would be hard to replace as an assistant. Unfortunately, this business doesn't let me act on my irrational urges. If you turned out to be the most qualified to work in a secure role and I hired someone less qualified because I didn't want to lose you as my assistant, that person could be the lynchpin that causes the whole operation to collapse. Most businesses have a huge margin for incompetence built in. The security business has almost none. But, I would say to consider your request carefully before you make it." He pointed to the side of his skull, "Training for this kind of a security job gets in here. And, once it does, it colors the way you look at everything. You assess everything and everyone as a potential threat. And that never goes away."

Masha nodded, but there was something in her face that told Thule she wasn't really getting what he was saying. He wished he could better express the constant fatigue that such an outlook engendered, how old it made him feel sometimes. But, even in his own mind, any sentence that could express that would sound either silly or grandiose coming out of the mouth of a nineteen year old who had an awful lot going for him that other men his age only dreamed of.

The next question Masha asked wasn't the one Thule had expected, "Why did you tell me about Robbie spying for General Pak?"

Thule took a deep breath, "The fact that you have a nickname for him implies a certain amount of affection. If he's using you to get information for General Pak, you deserve to know the truth about him."

"But, if you're so professionally paranoid, aren't you worried that I'll warn him? What if we're really serious or something?"

Thule considered the question. He didn't worry Masha was serious with Robbie because Masha was clearly not ready to be serious with anyone. Besides that, if she did spill her guts to Robbie, they could use his new awareness as a lever against General Pak, too. He decided not to mention either of those facts. Instead, he said, "I'm reasonably sure he'll figure out you know something whether you tell him or not. Whether you mean to or not, you'll almost certainly start treating him differently. But, he probably won't know for sure."

"So, I should tell him Romeo Jordan was no help before I break our date next week?" asked Masha.

Thule smiled. It was an astute question that presumed more than it said. It pointed out that Masha was smart enough to know she was being used by Thule to feed Robbie misinformation, but subtle enough to say that Thule didn't need to explain why he was doing it.

Thule nodded at the question, but answered an earlier one, "You would probably want to get a college degree."

Masha looked puzzled for a moment, then caught on, "I'm not sure I have time to do my job and go back to school." Immediately, she corrected herself, "I mean, clearly, I have time. But, I'm not sure that's what I see myself doing with it."

"It's not an absolute requirement," said Thule. "But, if you got the security training, you would probably find at some point that you wanted a specialization as well."

Masha nodded thoughtfully, "I can see that. I'm having a lot of fun right now, but..." She let the sentence trail off.

Thule's estimation of his assistant went up a notch, something he realized it had done several times during the course of the conversation. He reached into his attache case again, thinking the conversation was over, but Masha was still watching him.

"I think I'm a pretty good actress," she said.

Thule looked up again. Before he could comment or ask a question, she added, "I'm just wondering how much specific training it would require for me to actively take part in feeding Robbie disinformation."

Thule raised an eyebrow at her, "You have a specific plan in mind. Don't you?"

Masha nodded, a grin spreading across her face. It wasn't exactly a pleasant grin. It was the grin of a woman who, having found herself used, was contemplating revenge. Thule didn't like the element of randomness such an attitude would engender, but he empathized with the sentiment. Putting his attache case down again, he said, "Tell me."

Jake woke with an awareness of grass against his face. Even before he was sure of where he should be waking up, he knew this wasn't it. Slowly coming up to consciousness, he kept his eyes closed.

It had been a long time since the last time he'd had a hangover, but he recognized the feeling nonetheless. Ever since he'd started taking medicine to control his diabetes, alcohol had been mostly verboten. Had he been drinking?

Then, he remembered. He'd been staying low to the ground, trying to avoid the gas that was filling the corridor outside his office, and inching forward, trying to get to a phone. Booted feet, their owners ignoring him, moved by quickly, carrying off the unconscious bodies of his students.

He'd gotten as far as the threshold to his office before the black border around his field of vision got too wide to see past. The last thing he'd seen before passing out was a face he recognized, a face he wouldn't have expected to see anywhere in North America any time soon. The last he'd heard, Jov Kyznetsov was on his way to fight pirates in the waters around Madagascar. What was he doing in Boston?

As he tried to puzzle it out, Jake lay as still as he could and let his other senses tell him where he was. He was lying on his face and belly in a position he'd most likely been dropped in, his cell phone in the breast pocket of his jacket digging into his chest. But, his muscles didn't ache like they would if he'd been out a long time. Overhead, he could hear the cries of a large number of gulls. The grass was long and hadn't been mowed recently. Behind the smell of grass was one of diesel exhaust and, behind that, the unmistakable scent of Boston Harbor.

Somewhere in the middle distance, he heard the sound of metal being dropped on top of metal and voices raised in instruction. Whatever was being moved, it sounded big and heavy. A small breeze picked up and he heard leaves rustling overhead.

He also heard footsteps coming towards him and voices in quiet conversation. He debated lying still and seeing if they said anything useful near him, but weighed against the possibility that they were coming to kill him, decided that moving now was the better path. He rolled on his side and allowed a dramatic moan. When the footsteps did not stop or speed up, he allowed the roll to continue and opened his eyes.

With his body obscuring what he was doing from the two men approaching, he pressed a speed dial button on his phone through the fabric of his jacket. He couldn't be sure who he'd called, but most of them went to people he worked with. Hopefully, if anything meaningful was transmitted, they'd know what to do with it.

He heard an answering machine pick up, seemingly loud enough to echo across the bay, but knew the effect was an illusion based on proximity. Sliding his jacket off, he sat up and said loudly, "Christ, my head." Then, he turned to face the men approaching him.

Jov Kyznetzov called out to him from about ten feet away, "Jake Steiner." He sounded amused, but held a pistol at his side, ready to use it.

Jake didn't try to rise beyond sitting up. He rubbed his head, looked around as if still dazed, and found a tree to lean against. When he was positioned, he said, "Jov Kyznetzov. What the hell are you doing in Boston?"

Jov laughed, "I could ask you the same question. I did not expect to find you here. You no longer work for the Vandevoorts?"

Jake shook his head, wondering if Jov knew more than he was letting on, but decided to risk it, "No. Ivan and Randy are both in jail. Didn't you hear?"

"I've been very busy," said Jov, standing just out of range for Jake to kick him easily. "I don't get much time for newspapers. Perhaps you can fill me in later."

Jake nodded, relieved to hear Jov referring to "later" as a time that Jake would be present in and presumably alive enough to speak.