Page 73 of The Devil Wears Orange
The wardrobe door flings open. The taller man waves Jack out with his gun and gestures to a chair. Jack lets out the breath he has been holding, unclenches his hand from the poker, and leans it against the back of the wardrobe. Stepping out, Jack stares at the man who discovered him, hoping to put him on edge, but it doesn’t seem to have any effect. His face appears grim and focused and not frightened by Jack at all.
The other man walks around the apartment. He closes the curtains — the heavy fabric shuts out the glaring streetlights. He then turns on a table lamp near Jack. Up close, his tiny stature and large-eyed face remind Jack of Peter Lorre, entirely fitting with these criminals.
The tall man says something to the Peter Lorre guy, who responds in a huff, sounding very much like, “Why should I?” Then, he obliges and leaves the apartment. The remaining man says nothing, holsters his gun, and sits in the chair opposite Jack. He drums his fingers along the armchair, rhythmically thumping against the fabric.
The bright light of the lamp shines heavily on Jack. Is this an interrogation tactic? Jack can handle the heat and blinding light as long as they don’t torture him. In the fifth grade, Luella Clemmons knocked him to the ground and jumped on his stomach. Jack threw up and broke a rib, so he’s aware of his pain threshold. Really, it’s limited.
Peter Lorre lumbers back into the room, struggling to carry a black case with him. Peter Lorre places it on the coffee table between themselves and Jack. Jack’s sure he can take on the Peter Lorre one, slap him around a little like Bogey did, but the tall man is a good foot taller than Peter.
Torture it is, then.
The tall man turns the black case toward himself, opens it, fiddles with its contents, and removes a silver, razor-like object. They’re going straight for the eyes. Jack squeezes them shut. Watching the razor come toward him is unbearable, and a sharp tool within two feet from his eyes will have him confessing to anything.
“Ok, I’ll talk. Just tell me what you want to know,” Jack sputters. He’s a complete and utter failure, an antihero who doesn’t deserve the girl. What is it F. Scott Fitzgerald wrote?“Show me a hero, and I will write you a tragedy.”He was talking about Jack.
The two men exchange words in Arabic.
“Open.” One man demands. Jack slowly opens one eye, then the other, to find the two men staring, looking absolutely dumbfounded. The tall man holds up the silver razor and points to Jack’s chest.
“You put. We see. We hear,” he says and gestures to Jack’s eyes and ears. He isn’t holding a razor at all, but a tiny silver object that turns out to be a wiretap and miniature camera. His partner adjusts the camera, masking as a tie clip, to Jack’s loosened tie and snakes the wire carefully into his shirt. Peter Lorre unbuttons Jack’s shirt to tape the wire to his chest, but the sweaty dampness renders the tape unworkable.
They are not here to kill him; they are Prince Rashid’s men. Jack anticipated a meeting of some kind but didn’t expect it would be a cloak and dagger event, but, given the circumstances, he should expect nothing less.
“More,” the tall man says as he pulls out another item from the case. “Night vision.” He puts it down and takes out a watch. “Careful,” he warns before he leans forward to hand it to Jack.
Jack fumbles with it, tries to understand how to use the watch. Randomly pressing at buttons, Jack yelps as a sharp object juts out and cuts his finger.
“Careful!” the tall man snaps.
Later, once the men leave, Jack will play with the gadgets and practice in front of a mirror.
Blunt. Jack Blunt.
And he mustn’t forget to make that critical phone call to one pissed-off Frenchman. Jack playing double agent is a betrayal to Charlotte – for she doesn’t know he’ll spill Rashid’s plans to Favreau – but he had started this with Favreau and has to protect himself just in case it all goes terribly wrong.
Chapter 40
For two days now,Jack has been hard at work driving Mrs. Banning, accompanying her from one appointment to the next. It’s not supposed to go down like this. He must accomplish things inside the castle. He has secrets to uncover, photos to take, and codes to memorize.
Throughout the day at the castle, Mrs. Banning says little to him, but she gives him her undivided attention during their drives. Once, she reached forward from the backseat of the Bentley, ripped Jack’s glasses from his face, and peered through them.
“How strong is this prescription?”
He side-swiped some bushes and had to pull over. “Mrs. Banning,” he reasoned, “that was a dangerous move.”
“Don’t you like danger?” she asked him, her voice low and sultry. Mrs. Banning leaned in so close that he felt her breath on his lips. She rested the glasses on the ridge of his nose, and when her image came into focus, he saw that at somepoint, she had unbuttoned her shirt. Two rounded breasts were pushed together, a décolletage tanned and inviting as though they carried the hot Brazilian sun. Jack sucked in a breath. Mrs. Banning purred like a lioness.
Today, he’s inside cleaning the silver but stuck in the kitchen with the old cook.
“There’s no such thing as ghosts,” sighs Jack after listening to her for a half-hour.
“Then explain how I’ve seen them.”
“You were exhausted and your mind played a trick on you,” says Laila, coming up from behind, carrying a basket of freshly laundered linen. “Don’t let her tell you any ghost stories, Jack. And don’t repeat that nonsense in front of my little boy.”
“Maybe he should be scared to stop him from entering the secret passageways. You’ll lose him in one of them someday.”
“What secret passageways?” says Jack, suddenly interested in what the cook has to say and unable to believe his luck.
