Chapter 4 #2
Ximena greets me outside the conference room, head of shiny black coils swept away from her deep golden face. “?Qué tal?” she asks, placing her tablet on her lap and pushing her rectangular glasses to the top of her head.
“Exhausted,” I reply. “What’s he want?” I’ve stuffed my sweat rag back into my duffel, but I’m not exactly a sight to behold, dressed in rumpled, stinky training clothes with hair sticking to the river of sweat on my neck.
“Check the attitude, Sloane. This is your shot.”
“And I can’t miss,” I finish miserably.
Ximena gives a tiny nod. “You’re back in the game now, okay? But that means you need to play by the rules and do whatever Raffaele asks of you without so much as a shift in your tone of voice.”
“I’m on thin ice.”
“Good. We’re on the same page.” She pats my forearm, then retracts her hand and wrinkles her nose at it. “You stink, by the way.”
I move to open the door so she can maneuver inside on her wheelchair, consciously tamping the bubbling frustration the second we enter.
Tombe and Raffaele are in a hushed conversation in the middle of the room.
Unfortunately, we’re joined by Graham, looking particularly incongruous to his personality in our standard all-black training uniform.
He’s perched at the end of the table—no doubt to the chagrin of the other two men—with his chin in his hand as he studies Raffaele’s portrait.
The click of the door closing behind me alerts him to my presence.
“Agent!” he calls, far too eagerly. “I’m hurt you didn’t inform me of the ISA’s love for the arts. Lucian Freud, no less.” The corner of his lips tilts upward. “I do wonder if he was dragged from his deathbed at gunpoint for this commission.”
Ximena, stationed on the opposite end of the table, glances up from her tablet and squints.
“Possibly in the five million range, if you ask me,” Graham continues. He stands to face me, but not before casting another pointed look at the painting. “Impeccable. Although I believe a Dali would’ve suited him more.”
I don’t know much about art, and I’ve never spent too long inspecting that painting.
All I know is that the resemblance is uncanny, it’s the only public decoration in the entire compound, and the eyes tend to follow you if you’re not careful to avoid it.
Ximena’s glancing between us, the cogs spinning behind her stare.
She’s clearly wondering why the criminal seems comfortable enough to act so chummy with me.
This is just how he is, I want to telepathically communicate.
“Sloane,” Raffaele greets when Tombe exits, as if he’s finally noticed I’m standing across from him. “Please, sit.”
To my dismay, the moment I’m seated, Graham pulls out the chair beside me and flops down with a sigh. “Sloane,” he repeats under his breath.
I have the sudden urge to stab a pen through Raffaele’s hand for revealing my name. I’m aware it was a ridiculous hope, given that Graham and I are stuck together for the foreseeable future, but surrendering any real part of myself feels desperately risky. I don’t have time to think about why.
“You both know the basics, but the timeline has shifted.” Raffaele slides a glossy black packet my way, which I catch and flip open.
Pages of maps, itineraries, and dossiers full of unfamiliar names and faces.
“The Consultant has resurfaced—our intel states that he’ll be hosting a birthday celebration for himself somewhere in Scotland.
Although we’re unsure of the details, we are positive of the date.
It will be up to you to secure an invitation and apprehend him. ”
My eyes scan the first page. November thirteenth—only two weeks away. I swallow the fresh surge of nerves, fingers faltering as I come across a crime scene photo of what looks to be a severed thumb discovered in a puddle of blood at a warehouse. Officer Stratton at the NCA. Body never recovered.
“A birthday party,” Graham interjects, eyebrows raised incredulously. “Have you considered that your intel may be wrong?”
I understand his skepticism. The Consultant has been the most successful international crime broker in history because he’s a ghost. The list of those who’ve seen his face is short, and the people on it tend to stop breathing not long after.
And rightly so—he’s been linked to everything from drug to human trafficking, arms dealing, assassinations—if someone has a need, he knows just the person to meet it.
A public celebration, however exclusive, means he’s grown confident enough to step out of the shadows. The implications of that are vast and murky. All I know is that I don’t want whatever he has under his sleeve to ever see the light of day.
Raffaele holds up a hand, frustration creasing the corners of his eyes. “The reason you’re in this building, and not wasting away at a federal supermax, is because of the ISA. I recommend sticking to the only thing you’re good at.”
“Which is what?” he challenges.
“Crime.”
Now it’s my turn to raise an eyebrow. Graham was meant to help assimilate me into the Consultant’s world, and then he’d be sent back to ADX Florence. Which would already be far too much time spent together. But the look on Raffaele’s face…
“I can see you’re putting it together, Sloane.” The admiration in his gaze does little to ease my roiling stomach. “With an accelerating timeline, we needed a new plan that would all-but guarantee our success. Which means your new partner here will be with you to the end.”
I clear my throat. “Could you please clarify, sir?”
“Your roles have changed?—”
“Suppose I don’t like this new plan,” Graham interrupts.
Raffaele’s jaw tenses, his nostrils flaring as he sighs.
“Your new reality may taste like freedom, Mr. Baudelaire, but I can assure you it is not. You are on the bottom rung here, and until this assignment is successfully completed, you are in the ISA’s custody.
Dissent is not an option. Having an opinion is not an option.
Compromising this mission in any way is not an option. Do I make myself clear?”
In response, Graham waves for him to continue. The smirk never leaves his mouth. It’s as if he enjoys riling Raffaele.
Straightening his tie and his cuff links, Raffaele sits across from us, visibly resetting to his composed visage before he speaks again.
“An expedited timeline calls for drastic measures. In this instance, that means you’ll be working alongside Mr. Baudelaire as his apprentice in the thieving world. ”
“Apprentice?” I balk.
“Oh, I do like this plan!” Graham says with a laugh, perking up and trying to snatch the folder from me. I smack his hand away.
“It’s the only way to relieve suspicion.
The Consultant will smell a weak attempt at assimilation from a mile away,” Raffaele explains.
“With your cover, we have crafted a plausible explanation for Graham’s absence from crime—one where you won’t raise as many alarms when you make a bid for the Consultant’s attention.
If you can’t pique his interest, he won’t bother extending an invitation. ”
I grit my teeth together. Get to the point, Raffaele.
“How will she get his attention, sir?” Ximena pipes up, possibly noticing the balled fists in my lap.
He grins, and his near-black eyes never leave mine.
“Sloane and Mr. Baudelaire are going to steal a painting from the Louvre.”