Page 111 of The Hundred Loves of Juliet
“I can help compile a dossier on Merrick. He may have thought I was a pliable, subservient wife, but even though I never spoke out against him while we were married, I was a journalist, too, and I had eyes and ears. I have dirt on him that could undermine his credibility and reduce his career to ashes; if Calvin’s team can get into Merrick’s accounts, I can tell them what to look for.”
“And what about Aaron?” I ask.
Sandrine speaks up. “I’m sure we can dig up some compromising information about him.” Her scalpel-sharp tone makes me more than glad she worksforme, not against me.
“What do you think?” Helene asks me. “Merrick and Aaron aren’t the only ones who can play this game. The only caveat is, I don’t want to use the info unless we need to. But we can let them know what we have.”
I furrow my brow, because I want to demolish them. Helene is the better person, though, and she’s right. “Okay,” I say. “We’ll only use it against them if we have to.”
With the plan agreed upon, Helene scribbles down the information Calvin needs on Merrick, and Calvin dashes off to get his team working.
Eight hours.
Sandrine speaks up. “Helene, why don’t we get you set up at the hotel around the corner so you can rest. You’ve had a long night.”
“I can stay,” she says.
But I can hear her fatigue over the phone. “I’ll be here if they need me,” I reassure her, because I am trapped on Santorini while Aaron is surveilling me. “I’ll keep the phone by my side, and I’ll call you with any major developments. But you should get some sleep, my love.”
“You didn’t tell me the last time something happened,” Helene says, “when Merrick sent a private investigator to Alaska and took photos of us.”
I sigh. “I know, and I was wrong not to tell you. I’m sorry for that. I should have trusted that you could handle it, instead of trying to shield you from it. So this time…What if we agree thatSandrinewill call you if there are any developments?”
I can imagine Helene wrinkling her nose, deciding whether she believes we’ll keep her in the loop or not.
Finally, she says, “Okay. But call and wake me as soon as Calvin gets into Merrick’s accounts.”
“Sandrine?” I ask.
“I will make sure of it,” Sandrine says.
HELENE
The Weiskopf Group books mea room at the business hotel just around the corner, which gives me comfort that I can run back over to the office as soon as there’s news. They also give me a new cell phone, just in case the hotel line isn’t enough connectivity for me. My new phone even has the same number as my old one.
I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep, but apparently the baby has other ideas for me, and I pass out as soon as my head hits the pillow.
Four hours later, I wake to my phone ringing.
“Calvin is in,” Sandrine says.
“Oh thank god,” I say. Then I realize I have no idea what “in” means.
Sandrine launches into a brief explanation. In short, Calvin couldn’t get into Merrick’s Gmail account, because Google has some of the tightest cybersecurity in the world, but Calvinwasable to hack into Merrick’sWall Street Journalaccount. From there, he got Aaron’s email address from Merrick’s sent box. Then he hacked into Aaron’s email, found a cellphone bill, and gleaned Aaron’s phone number from there.
“That sounds good,” I say. “But still far from finding the files on Sebastien, and all the sources on the internet where they got the information in the first place.” I recall that fat file Aaron flashed at me, stuffed full of papers and copies of old photographs. If the Weiskopf Group can’t eviscerate all traces of that, the future for Sebastien, me, and our baby is an Area 51–like government lab, prisoners for the sake of science. No longer people, but specimens.
“Don’t worry, Calvin and his team are on it,” Sandrine says. “Do you want something to eat? Feel free to order whatever you want from room service, on us. I’ve sent over a change of clothes for you as well. The bellhop didn’t want to wake you, so I had him leave the box outside your door.”
I glance at the clock on the nightstand. The plane from Athens to L.A. lands in three hours and forty-six minutes. I definitely won’t be able to eat.
“If it’s okay with you,” I say, “I’m going to shower and change, then head back over to your office. I’d feel better being closer to mission control.”
“Of course,” Sandrine says. “I’ll see you soon.”
There are three hours to go when I arrive at the office.
“Thank you for the clothes,” I tell Sandrine as she meets me in the glass-walled conference room we were in earlier. She—or her assistant, probably—had sent over a soft cashmere T-shirt, maternity jeans, and a light spring jacket that fits a lot better than the hand-me-down coat from the taxi driver.
