15. Blink, And You’ll Miss It
Chapter fifteen
Blink, And You’ll Miss It
Kira
I couldn’t get that kiss out of my mind. It was more than a kiss.
We had made out like two teenagers, morning breath and all! I was appalled.
I had loved every moment of it. I loved hearing his voice, his words. He made me feel adored. I had never felt that way before. Not once in my life had anyone been so open with their regard. Most men tried to play it cool, and distant. But not him. He went in full-speed ahead all the time.
I stood up straight, looking at myself in the mirror I kept behind my door at the office.
My hair was in a tight bun, my dress was conservative, sleek, and professional. My cheeks were devoid of blush, because I wanted to look as blank as an unmarked canvas. Professional, authoritative, but non-threatening.
I fortified myself for another day of dealing with the public. Another day of leading them by the nose to the paintings I needed to sell. Another day of pretending to be something I wasn’t.
I looked down at the paperwork on my desk.
I took the pen in my right hand, and wrote down the name of Jerry Vasali, forging documents of authenticity for a fictional man.
Sure, if someone googled him, they’d find his college graduation roster, and find his name on deployment paperwork. They’d find a high school photo, and, if someone was very insistent, they could even find a driver’s license and social security card. But he was a made up man. My alter-ego.
I blew on the paper to make the ink dry faster, before dropping it on my desk and crinkling the bottom right corner, as if it had been passed from hand to hand over again.
“Show time,” I said, with a sigh, as I walked out.
Another day, another dollar.
I did what I normally did. I stood in front of a painting with my finger on my chin, as if contemplating it’s merits. As if I hadn’t seen these paintings all week, and already made my assessment in a blink.
“What do you think of this one?” some brave gallery-ogler asked, and I looked around, as if surprised to see a crowd forming around me, waiting with bated breath for me to speak.
“Oh, it’s… good enough, I suppose.” I couldn’t go negative on the first painting.
I had to be wishy-washy. Some pros, some cons. That way, they knew I had a brain, and an opinion. So when I was “wowed” by a painting, it would make an impact on the onlookers.
“I like the lines. The technique is solid. I think it’ll grace someone’s home nicely,” I said with a non-committed smile.
Then I walked to the next painting, and gave some words about how they used light, and details, the choice of brush strokes, and even the brand of paint they used.
I was bored.
My mind wandered, even as my mouth moved, and I responded to the same trite questions from the predictable crowd. I could do this job in my sleep.
I wondered, for a moment, if my boredom was part of the charm. The fact that I was so calm and disinterested must surely make me an expert, right? The fact that I wasn’t fawning over any one artist or painting for too long.
After I lead the crowd to the highlighted paintings, I stepped away with the excuse that I had to go find a drink – never mind the waiters walking around with flutes of champagne. I just needed some time to myself. Some air.
I wove my way through the guests, a hand shot out, tapping me on the arm.
I didn’t jump. I didn’t even register surprise, even as my mind screamed, “What the fuck is he doing here?”
It was Andrius Lutkus. He was a tall, handsome Lithuanian with sandy-blond hair, and golden skin. His brown eyes were flat, much like his expression. Handsome, in the same way a snake was beautiful - in its mystery and psychopathic blankness that screamed danger from every pore.
“Miss Kekoa, I was looking at a piece and I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind telling me about it.”
His sophisticated British voice had sent a frightened shiver up my spine the first time I met him. Now, it was a source of comfort. I was even starting to hear slight signs of his Lithuanian native tongue in the words.
“Of course, Mr. Lutkus.” My smile was professional, and distant, just as I had always practiced.
“I’ll take you up on the offer for a squash game,” Lutkus said, before waving at the man he’d been talking to, and leading me down the hall.
We walked, side by side, our steps in sync, until I purposely changed my rhythm. We were strangers, and strangers were rarely ever in step.
“Your gallery is impressive.” Lutkus was relaxed, as if he was simultaneously perusing the art we passed. “I’m so glad you agreed to sell the art from the governor’s mansion.”
“It’s my pleasure,” I said, my smile never faltering. “Those were extraordinary pieces.”
Pieces I had painted while visiting the governor’s mansion so we could do a dead drop. The long exchange of information from the governor, through me, to Blink, who would then get it to our international sector.
We stood in front of a Jerry Vasali piece.
I knew that being seen with Lutkus, an world renowned venture capitalist, looking at this painting, would increase its value. That must have been his aim, because he mumbled, “I think I like this one. It’s good, right?”
“It sure is,” I said, with a sigh that others would consider wistful.
Someone lingered, as if he was trying to catch our conversation, so I said with a voice that was louder than it needed to be, “It’s a Jerry Vasali. Poor man was a veteran, and he really channels his pain to…”
When the man walked out of hearing range, I dropped my voice, but didn’t look at him.
“Are you okay, Picasso?” Lutkus asked under his breath.
“I’m fine, Blink. Why?” We didn’t just say our nicknames for the fun of it. It was to acknowledge where our cover ended, and the real conversation began.
“You went to Green’s last night.”
“Are you spying on me?”
“Yes, of course I am. I’m a spy.”
I rolled my eyes.
“He’s fixated on me, for some reason.” That was an understatement. “He asked me to marry him.”
“And what did you answer?”
“No,” I said through clenched teeth. “Of course, I said no!”
A waiter passed by, and I grabbed a champagne flute, bringing it to my lips just so my hands had something to do. I didn’t love this part of the spy game. The talking-without-talking, and always looking like you were doing something else.
“Don’t get huffy with me, missy,” he said with a small smirk.
“I thought I wasn’t supposed to get involved.”
“That was before. Now… well, with your relationship with Cosima Durante, and now Eoghan… you might be in a good place to…” he started coughing, as a woman walked by, her eyes roaming his body with interest.
She didn’t linger, though, and walked on.
“This morning’s report was excellent,” he said coolly. Information on the inner workings of the mafia and mob. The first real boon we’d had when it came to them.
My heart sank, as guilt riddled through me. Was I right to talk about Eoghan’s relationship with his father? Was I right to discuss something that had been told to me in the most earnest confidence?
As a spy, I wasn’t here to guard secrets I wasn’t paid to. I reported all information I gathered, including financial documents and coffee preferences. But with Eoghan, it felt wrong.
“You could do worse.” Blink placed a finger on his bottom lip and stared intently at the painting, as if he was strongly considering its purchase. “But it’s only if you feel safe to do so.”
I looked at him with shocked eyes, but he didn’t turn to return my gaze. He kept staring straight ahead.
“I thought that personal relationships were verboten in our line of work,” I said, crossing my arms, my head tilting to the side. We were two people discussing art, to the casual on-looker. Not discussing clandestine Paradigm operations.
He chuckled, taking a sip of champagne.
“We’re not that dogmatic. I’ve done a deep dive into him, and despite being a killer, and a mafia man,” Blink shrugged. “He’s not a terrible person… at least not according to the intel.”
He took a step forward, bringing his face close to the canvas, as if he was scrutinizing some imperfection.
“He’s the man we want to install at the top. He’s the best choice.” His brows came together as his eyes rose on the canvas, scanning the opposite corner. “Can’t pick the Italians. The Russians are in our pocket, but they’re not a long term solution. But Eoghan…”
I don’t know what kind of relationship our organization had to the Russians. I wasn’t supposed to know, in case I was ever caught and interrogated. We kept ourselves disconnected to keep the information safe.
“We can’t arrest or kill them all, but with Eoghan at the helm, he’d be able to make a lot of these guys legit.”
That was the goal of our program - a Paradigm shift away from crime for some of the most dangerous criminal families. The mafia and the Irish Mob weren’t like the ones of yesteryear. Now, they were incorporated, with law firms in their back pockets and politicians on their payroll. They paid lobbyists and campaigns. That’s what made them so untouchable.
Paradigm was created to disrupt them without taking the entire institution down. A small paradigm shift could have had an immense impact for people like me and my father. People who had nowhere else to go but to these creeps and loan sharks who had a boot on our neck.
Blink stepped away from the painting, giving a satisfied nod.
“Cultivate it, Picasso.” I hated that he used my call sign. In this situation, he was better off using my real name. But he was using it to make a point. “People are more reliably controlled with love, than with blackmail, ideology, or hate.”
He clasped his hands behind his back.
“It wouldn’t be the worst way to control the Irish,” he said, tilting his head to the side. “You’d also become a very powerful woman.”
I knew Blink pretty well, by now. He was a good man. But there was something unsettling about his general lack of expression. There was something reptilian about him - the way his smile never reached his eyes, and his face was always such a cool mask of serenity. He was a man in complete and total control, always.
“I think I’ll take this one,” he said with a smirk. “Who do I talk to?”
Our straight talk was over, and we were back to our cover.
“Did the others approve this,” I whispered through my teeth, stopping Blink in his tracks.
Paradigm wasn’t a linear, top-down organization. It was a loose collective, and decisions were made together, in backrooms. But we all operated independently, like a loose association that somehow worked. It was a balance.
“No,” he said with a small shake of his head. “Our Russian friend was vehemently against it, but he’s biased. Our Irish liaison, on the other hand, was for it. So, it was two-to-one.”
I heard a set of footsteps behind us, and I straightened. I loudly gave Andrius “Blink” Lutkus the information on how to put in his bid for this piece of art, and he walked away.
Before he was out of earshot, he mumbled, “Don’t forget why we’re here.”