Page 47 of The Devil Wears Orange
“I said she knows nothing. I promise you that. Now, I will agree to the lower price as a sign of good faith for the problem that I caused.”
Levan downs the remainder of his drink and grows quiet for a moment. Then he says, “I’ll need something else as a sign of good faith. This Milton woman knows more than you’re saying and needs to be disposed of. Do it, or I will. I trust you’d be swift like those sharks.” He leans closer, and whispers, “Me? I enjoy taking my time.”
Chapter 25
Afamiliar song pricksmy mind and interrupts my snores. I sleepily hum along to the repetition, doing backup to Blondie’s “Call Me.” But there’s strangeness in my landscape, and I bolt upward from a lipstick-smeared pillow, my thoughts disoriented. It’s my new cell phone. Jumping out of bed, I race to my purse I had thrown onto a chair last night and dig inside.
“Hello. Hello?” Dead silence greets me. Checking the clock on my phone, I realize it’s the middle of the night. Through sheer curtains, a sliver of moonlight peeps into the room. I’m startled by a woman staring at me in the semi-darkness. The woman’s smudged raccoon eyes and the greasy, flattened hair, I discover, belong to me! My image reflects in the mirror before me. Disgusted, I plop back into my bed and place my cell on the nightstand.
I try to fall back to sleep, but have something on my mind. On the drive back from the races, I had gently asked Rashid about the man at the racecourse. There was something in the way thestranger stared at me that unnerved me. Paranoia had settled in, and I wondered if Rashid knew I copied his computer files. But Rashid insisted he was a casual acquaintance. Still, I remember the indignant look on Rashid’s face when he first saw the man, a cold, hard stare that grew deathly serious during their meeting. It was enough to persuade me to snap a picture on the sly. Rashid wasn’t his usual charming self during the car ride, then, when he changed the topic by announcing plans for a boat ride this evening, I sensed something was amiss.
“No, he doesn’t know,” I say aloud, then stand and pace, my body a bundle of nerves not willing to believe in the lie. How could he possibly suspect anything? I was careful, yet I’ve seen enough cop procedurals to know nothing is ever truly erased from a computer’s history. After all, I was frazzled sneaking through his computer files. My palms begin to sweat; I’m agitating myself unnecessarily. Rashid knows nothing. Rashid suspects nothing. Still, I’d feel better if Jack was by my side; I need someone I can trust. After all, this is his plan, though, technically, his plan fell apart rather quickly, which begs the question, whose plan is this?Oh God,did I just throw myself into a ridiculous situation with no plan? And can I still expect Jack to support me after he failed the first time back in Monaco?
Still unable to sleep, I sit on the edge of the bed, reach for the TV remote, and am pleasantly surprised to find many English programs. While channel surfing, one unfamiliar image morphs into another until I flip toOn The Runway TV. The host, Marlene Baker, is reporting outside the Dior fashion house during Paris Fashion Week only two weeks earlier. To me, it seems like a lifetime ago.
My mobile rings on the nightstand, and I answer it absent-mindedly. “Hello.”
“Charlotte, finally. Where are you?”
“Oh, Jack! I left you messages, and I worried when I didn’t hear from you, but then Rashid had me turn my phone off last night at the races.”
“Races? Charlotte,” he says, “it’s important you tell me where you are. Do you understand? I need to know...”
“I’m in Dubai,” I say, and think back to my countless messages. Did I not tell him where I was in any of them? “I’m sure I told you.”
“No! I’ve been frantic this entire time!”
“Hmmm,” I mumble, distracted by the captions on the TV show. The camera pulls back, and standing beside Marlene is a somewhat nervous Jane whose exaggerated smile displays Osmond family-style teeth. “Jane?”
“Who’s Jane?”
“My former assistant.”
“Are you with her now?”
“Why would I be with my former assistant?” In a low whisper, I add, “Listen, Jack, I copied all sorts of documents from Rashid’s computer onto a flash drive.”
After a moment of silence, he asks, “You’re still on board with the plan?”
“What!” I mutter, stupefied by his question. “Of course, I’m on board. When did I get off-board?”
“I thought, given everything that happened, you had changed your mind.”
“I went to the casino because of our plan and have no idea what happened to you. I came here to Dubai because of our plan, constantly watching my back, worried that Rashid will suspect I have ulterior motives. But, hey, I got this. You stay safe in Monaco or Paris or London or wherever you are.”
This silences Jack, and I want to ask if he’s still on the line when he finally speaks.
“I’m sorry. I couldn’t reach you and thought our plan failed. Then your voicemail messages had me all confused, and I thought you had bailed on me.”
Curious about why Jane is being interviewed, I try to tune into the show and listen to Jack.
“Well,” says Jane on TV, “orders are coming in from all over, the largest from Saks Fifth Avenue in New York and, Selfridges in London, everywhere.”
To Jack, I say, “Before I forget, I snapped a picture of a man at the races. There was something odd about him, about the way he looked at me, that scared me, but I couldn’t get a good photo, well, it’s a little blurry. The other night, an associate of Rashid’s arrived at the hotel suite, all bloodied. I’m scared here on my own, Jack.”
It’s difficult to be simultaneously speaking with Jack and concentrating on the TV screen. Marlene’s voice narrates over images of several fashion shows, but it’s not until the third shot that I realize I’m in all of them. “How opportune that this success came from that infamous day during Paris Fashion Week when all eyes were upon this scene.”
The episode cuts to an amateur video of me dangling from the helicopter, then falling, with my colorful coat-turned-parachute, into the Seine. The amateur cameraman had zoomed up my skirt. He must have been on a nearby boat to get a shot like that.Damn the tourists and their cameras.This, I determine, is what happens when you wear color. I’ll remember this the next time I stray from my usual uniform of black.
