Page 11 of Stay Close
“See you in the morning.”
I wave to his back and attack my phone as soon as he disappears. I text.See? Nothing to get excited about.
It’s midday in D.C. I’m probably catching Sara between bites of Cobb salad and a Diet Coke. I imagine the cough, the spray of hard-boiled egg splattering the screen.
One, two, three… My phone pings.
Shut. Up.
CHAPTER 4
Lucas
The Grousehof Palace, oncea royal residence in the heart of Handsel, was decommissioned and repurposed to house the national parliament. It’s a practical location, but the interior is a bewildering warren of corridors and salons. In one of these large, high-ceilinged chambers, Edie conducts the Sove negotiations.
Talks began—I check my watch discreetly—less than three hours ago with dark Sondish coffee and a breakfast buffet of fruit and pastries. Edie made opening remarks, which called upon the participants to bring a spirit of generosity to the proceedings. She quoted a dead French diplomat. Hours on, it has devolved into the speakers wiping their sweaty necks with limp handkerchiefs as they stab their fingers into the air and insult the cherished traditions of their enemies.
Prime Minister Torbald is the primary culprit. He thunders from one side of the table. “I want it written into the minutesthat Sondmark would win if we elected to settle this with a land war. Our long-range capabilities are unparalleled, and our—”
“NeerTorbald,”PaneKaminski, his Vorburgian counterpart interjects, the English heavily accented. He presses his hands to the air, “We’re not talking about a land war, old friend.” He’s placating until a sudden, underhanded shift in his tone. “Anyway, the area under dispute is at sea, and your nautical defenses are not what they once were.”
Edie raps her knuckles on the table and stands at the head, her demeanor calm amidst so much contention. I had this idea that the talks would be a dry, bureaucratic give-and-take. I didn’t expect so much intimidation. Edie nods at Torbald and Kaminski with a mild, professional smile. “Shall I enter it into the record that you’ve threatened to blow each other up?”
“How could you suppose…” The one backpedals.
“The very idea…” says the other.
I catch Edie’s eyes.Nice job.
As the room settles, a staff member moves to replace her water bottle. I halt him with an authoritative shake of the head. That’s enough to establish my territory. Despite what I told Gideon about lemon pies and papercuts, I don’t trust anyone. Not with my life. Not with Edie’s.
My briefing materials were clear, and I run through the risk of several events.
Assassination attempt on the client: Low.
Injury by protest group: Moderate.
Likelihood of undercover spies operating at the conference: Probable.
Attempts to compromise the client’s neutrality: Probable.
A smile touches my lips. I imagine a situation where a tainted water bottle could cause a brief but alarming medical event. The last thing Edie Spencer needs is Prime Minister Torbald giving her mouth-to-mouth, parading himself as her savior. The best protection I can give her is to make sure she’s not in anyone’s debt.
“While we talk of the island,” Kiminski says, “we cannot neglect the history of the Amber Cross—”
“Not the Amber Cross again. It’s ours, and you know it,” Torbald counters.
Edie hardly raises her voice. “The Amber Cross comes under the designation as historical spoils of war, Secretary Kiminski. If Vorburg wishes to dispute its custody, we’ll have to open another negotiation. Now, please turn to your packet. Page six,” she instructs. She clicks a device in her hand, firing up the PowerPoint presentation. “Let’s first agree on the medieval boundary between your two nations…”
I scan the room, monitoring the exits, the expressions of the men and women around the long conference table, and the laptop bags. My eyes return to Edie with each pass.
At the end of a long day, the others depart, both teams jockeying for position at the door in an effort to appear more magnanimous.After you. No, after you. Dear, sir, I wouldn’tdream…Any little thing to get an edge. Edie watches them go and, when they’re out of sight, she takes a slow-drawn breath.
I close and lock the door. “Take your time,” I say. “They can’t come back.”
She rewards me with a low laugh and drops into a chair. “Are you sure? Maybe we could drag the conference table over and construct a barricade.”
The tall windows look out over a cobblestone parking lot and the decorative perimeter fence, beyond which hundreds of protestors wave placards and chant slogans. A roar of noise splinters against the windows when members of the Vorburgian delegation exit the palace and climb into government-issued cars, driving away on slushy roads.
