Chapter Five
The day after we met with Naomi we headed to D.C., stopping just long enough to turn in the rental car and hop the train for New York. The trip took the better part of a day, but we weren’t in a hurry. We had roughed out a plan for handling Pasha Lazarov and needed time to noodle over the details. The dossier Naomi had compiled had been thin to the point of transparency compared to what we usually got when we undertook a mission. In the course of a regular job, we’d be handed fat binders full of information—the target’s history, habits, closest contacts, medical records. Everything from shoe size to preferred sexual position, and we’d use those facts to begin a discreet surveillance, planning a way in. Sometimes a job took months, sometimes a long weekend. Everything depended on how security conscious the target was. The people we took out weren’t nice, and people who aren’t nice often have a sixth sense for danger. Their instincts for self-preservation are far more refined than the average person’s. They can smell a trap, sniff out a potential ambush. More than once, we’d made elaborate preparations only to find ourselves making it up as we went along when our arrangements had been wrecked by a last-minute change of plans from a twitchy target. Some folks think being a professional assassin means being a perfect shot or some kind of strangling savant. Those things help but the most important quality is adaptability.
In the case of Pasha Lazarov, adapting meant dealing with the fact that we had almost no real data to build our plans on. We knew he was sailing on QM2 , but apart from that, nothing. Mary Alice pulled up a series of pictures of the ship on her laptop and we gathered around, clicking and pointing until we had a rough idea of the layout.
“Let’s assume he’s in one of the two Grand Duplex suites,” Mary Alice said, switching over to the gallery of the poshest cabins. “They’re the largest and most luxurious, and a man with handmade underwear isn’t going to slum it.”
“Potentially problematic,” Helen said, bringing up a map of the suite’s layout. “Those suites have private dining rooms. What if he takes all his meals in his suite?”
“That is a problem for later,” I told her. “For now, let’s assume that our tickets will at least get us in his general vicinity.”
“They will,” Natalie volunteered as she studied our booking. “Naomi sprang for Queens Grill suites. Two of them. They’re located on the same deck as the Grand Duplex suites.” She used the deck map to trace the path from our numbered suites to the ones we suspected Pasha Lazarov might have chosen. “Easy.”
In the meantime, Mary Alice had navigated to the price list for the suites and gave a low whistle. “Dammmmmmmn. Naomi went all out. I feel bad now for bitching about the Best Western.”
“She even included passports,” I said, turning out the rest of the envelope. “But y’all aren’t going to like it,” I added with a grin as I handed them around. Museum practice was to issue fake identification using the actual initials of the agent in question. We’d been extensively trained, but the best agents can get tired and that’s when slips happen. It’s too easy to start to sign a bill with your pseudonym only to find you’ve let down your guard and started writing your actual name. Using your real initials gives you a quick way to recover. Plus it means you can even carry monogrammed items on a job, a bonus when it comes to making your assumed identity look lived in.
The names Naomi had chosen were a little over the top—mine was Bianca, for god’s sake—but that wasn’t the part the others would object to. Naomi had had our photos expertly altered to resemble the appearances we’d have to assume, and she’d changed up our ages a little—a reasonable precaution if Pasha Lazarov was targeting four women in their early sixties. Mine and Helen’s were aged down to mid-fifties while Mary Alice’s and Natalie’s went the other direction.
“Sixty-nine?” Natalie shrieked. “What kind of bullshit is this?”
“I’m supposed to be seventy-one,” Mary Alice put in dryly.
Helen preened a little. “Fifty-five.”
Mary Alice looked daggers at her before turning to me. “Billie?”
“Fifty-three.”
“Biiiiiiitch,” she said on a sigh.
“At least you get to wear comfy shoes and stretchy cruise wear,” Helen pointed out. “Billie and I will have to strap ourselves into Spanx and high heels.” But she preened some more when she said it.
—
We debated the odds of Pasha Lazarov knowing where we were and decided Manhattan was a big enough haystack to hide four discreet needles. We sprang for the Mandarin Oriental—mostly for the chicken confit in the MO Lounge—and spent the next three days shopping and finalizing our plans. We booked wig fittings, assembled cruise wardrobes, and made salon appointments for the services we needed to change up our appearances. Bigelow Surgical and Manhattan Wardrobe Supply filled in the rest.
On the day of our departure, it took a few hours to finish our preparations. First, we took care to make sure our wardrobes looked a little more lived-in. You can always spot someone using a cover identity when everything is new and pristine. So we lightly scuffed the soles of our shoes, tucked dry cleaning tickets and receipts into our wallets, filled our purses with Altoid tins, random ballpoints, and the odd protein bar. Lipsticks were worn down, and the spines of bestselling paperbacks were broken.
Finally, it was time to get dressed. Mary Alice and Natalie had gone in for expensive lace-front wigs and orthopedic shoes along with elastic-waist pantsuits. Mary Alice wore her bifocals on a chain around her neck, and Natalie went all out with a four-prong walking cane. She stuffed small pads into her cheeks while Mary Alice lightly shadowed narrow lines into her wrinkles with theatrical pencil she’d picked up at a makeup warehouse in Brooklyn. (Pro tip: If you’re using makeup to alter your appearance, always go for stage-quality stuff. It stays put and the last thing you want is to blow a cover identity because your wrinkles ran down your neck.) She went after Natalie as well, heightening her marionette lines before powdering them down and finishing with setting spray. The final touch for each was a heavy hit of perfume. This was the sort of detail the male field agents never thought of, but scent has a powerful effect on psychology, and we selected our perfumes almost as deliberately as we chose our weapons. Mary Alice opted for Chanel No. 5 while Natalie almost gagged us out of the room with a heavy blast of Youth Dew.
Aging down was just as lengthy a procedure. While Mary Alice had been shopping for dark pencils and setting spray, Helen and I had been loading up on facelift tape and highlighter sticks. We’d each had our hair lightened at an expensive salon in Tribeca, and the brighter hair color called for stronger blush. Strategic contouring, vicious shapewear, and acid-based hand masques did the rest. Helen’s suitcases were full of Ralph Lauren while I’d chosen knitwear from St. John. Together we looked expensive, well-kept, and not a day over fifty. We even smelled young. She’d sprayed herself lavishly with Coco Mademoiselle and I’d chosen something with a tobacco note by Le Labo. Usually, these were the things the Museum would pay for, and without an official budget, my credit card was weeping quietly in my wallet by the time we’d finished.
We left separately. Mary Alice and Natalie arrived at the cruise terminal via Uber Black, Helen took a car service, and I hailed a good old-fashioned yellow cab. No matter how many times I visited New York—and I’d been plenty, both for pleasure and for killing—I always felt like Holly Golightly when I took a yellow cab.
We were stuck in traffic awhile which gave me a chance to stare out the window at New Jersey as we crept along. I was the last to arrive. As I climbed out of the cab, I saw Mary Alice and Natalie tottering after a porter whose cart was loaded with their bags. Helen was on the move after them, thirty or forty people behind. I joined the queue, leaving some distance between Helen and me.
We progressed smoothly through the embarkation procedures, ignoring each other until we met up again in our stateroom. It was on deck nine, and I gave a silent whistle as I entered. A narrow hall featuring closets and a beverage bar opened into a spacious living room with a sofa, coffee table, and desk, along with an easy chair and a couple of occasional tables. Floor-to-ceiling windows gave onto the balcony, and behind the sofa, a pair of twin beds were neatly made up with coverlets stamped with the Cunard logo. On the wall next to the bed, a doorway was hung with a heavy curtain and from behind it, I heard thumping and bumping. Helen stood in front of the curtain, smiling tightly as she greeted me. “Bianca,” she said, using my assumed name. “You made it.”
I raised a brow at her. “Lovely to see you, Heather.” I jerked my head towards the curtain and her smile tightened further.
“Now that you’re here, you should meet Stephen. Our butler.”
“Shit.” I mouthed the word, and Helen nodded. Just then the butler popped his head out from behind the curtain. “Welcome aboard, Ms. Williams! Shall I unpack for you?”
I refused the unpacking, but Stephen wasn’t finished. There were offers of tea, champagne, canapés, and chocolates. We fairly shoved him out the door with effusive thanks, bolting it behind him.
“This is a complication we didn’t need,” Helen said in a low voice. “Somebody hanging around and clocking our comings and goings.”
“It’ll be nice,” I told her. “Someone to wash your delicates.”
“I don’t think he does that, and I can take care of my own delicates, thank you very much.”
I looked at my watch. “Let’s get out on deck and see if we can put eyes on Lazarov. At the very least we can toast our departure.”
We made our way outside with the other passengers and most of the crew. The decks were heaving with people, and Natalie and Mary Alice elbowed their way through to stand beside us. We stood sipping champagne, except for Helen who took a glass of fizzy water with lime.
Mary Alice glanced around at the throng of people and shook her head. “2,620 passengers. 1,253 crew, including officers. Probably some assorted other folks as well, like guest lecturers. Round it up to 4,000—4,000 potential witnesses along with security cameras in every public area. We are out of our goddamned minds,” she muttered.
I grinned. “We do like a challenge.” I tapped her glass to mine and took a sip.
She probably would have argued, but I gave her a nudge. I’d spotted him, a deck above and leaning on the railing, elaborate pipe in his mouth, a glass of champagne shimmering in his hand. Pasha Lazarov, vengeful son, alleged killer of Russian oligarchs, and now a marked man. He was even holding the goddamned teddy bear, waving its paw vaguely in the direction of the dock. He didn’t look down, and I turned back to the rail, lifting my glass for another sip.
The ship’s horn sounded then, announcing to the world that we were on our way—2,620 passengers setting sail. And only 2,619 would finish the trip.