Page 133 of Only the Wicked
A man offers us champagne and we accept, but as if by mutual decision, we hold it without partaking.
“Do you know anyone here?”
“Believe it or not, I don’t spend my days mingling in embassies.” In a lower voice he adds, “Or memorizing the names and faces of those who do.”
Analysts are paid to not only know the players, but those who circle the players, including but not limited to gardeners and nannies. He’s not an analyst, he runs a company. Now, the company he runs is an intel goldmine, some might even call ARGUS a potent weapon, but owning ARGUS only means he has access to data, not that it’s populated in his head.
Two couples, both in their fifties or sixties, slowly dance in the decadent setting.
“Would you care to dance?” he asks.
“Certainly.” The action will quiet the worry and give us something to do other than hold a glass of liquid we’re not drinking.
He sets our glasses down on the tray of a passing waiter, and takes my hand, leading me within a few feet of the violinists. All the violinists are older men, and it’s impossible to discern from appearance if they are Russian or American.
We sway to the music, my hand resting on his shoulder, his palm warm against my lower back. In this moment, we appear as any other couple—intimate, connected—but the history of deception makes this simple touch complex.
With the violinists providing acoustic cover from potential listening devices, I lean close, my lips nearly touching his ear. “You came here earlier.” The accusation is soft but unmistakable.
Still in his arms, I lean back slightly to study his reaction—the slight dilation of his pupils, the infinitesimal tightening around his eyes.
His dark brown eyes reflect not guilt but amusement, as does the quirk of his lip. He pulls me closer, our bodies moving as one with the music.
“I wanted to ensure your safety. Pre-scan the location. Back-up points.” The explanation is logical, reasonable—exactly what I might have done myself. He leans in and brushes his lips across mine, the contact brief but electric. In my ear, he adds, “Don’t doubt me, Syd.”
The nickname vibrates through me—intimate, personal. I feel caught between my instincts that warn against emotional attachment and the undeniable pull I feel toward him. In this world of shadows and half-truths, his touch feels like the only solid thing I can hold onto. And that alone is terrifying.
“Excuse me, sir.” A gentleman in a black traditional tuxedo says. “I was wondering if I might have the next dance.”
Both Rhodes and I take in the stranger. If I were to guess, the tall man with gray wisps and wire-rimmed spectacles is German, but he could easily be Russian. There’s a notable accent, but it’s difficult to decipher origination.
“If you’re amenable, Ms. Romanovich would like to meet with you in the library,” the man says to Rhodes.
“Are you?—”
“I’m fine,” I assure Rhodes, cutting him off.
As he departs, presumably knowing the direction of the library, I face the interloper.
“There aren’t many dancing,” I murmur with a wistful glance at the bar.
“I concur.” He smiles. “Might I interest you in a drink?”
“I’m Sydney,” I say, this time offering my hand for a professional exchange.
“Archibald,” he says, taking my hand in his with a light grip. It’s the handshake of the timid.
A waiter with a tray of smoked salmon passes, and Archibald speaks in Russian to the young woman, telling her to refill her tray once it’s mostly empty. He doesn’t hide his concern for her performance as his gaze trails the woman who apparently reports to him.
“Go on,” I urge him. “I’m going to go to the restroom.”
“Do you know where it is? Just head straight out and it’s the first door on your left.”
“Thank you,” I say and smile as he heads off to follow the staff member.
In the hall, I pass the restrooms and see a small placard with the word LIBRARY in both Russian and English and an arrow. This building is a working building, so the directions are not surprising.
I pass the double doors that apparently lead into the room. There are no sounds emitting through the thick wooden doors. I press a button on my earpiece, turning it on, enabling me to hear the device transmitting from Rhodes, a small device tucked away in his trouser pocket that we tested back in the hotel suite.
