Charlotte Curtis frowned at the black toast.
“Mitchell!” she muttered. “Why do you always have to fiddle with the settings?” she slapped jam over the burned toast and threw the knife in the sink.
The chime from the wall clock announced six o’clock.
An hour to read the file, get dressed and get to the office, she thought. Never going to happen.
She stopped to listen, heard the tap running and left Mitch’s coffee cup unfilled. With her plate of toast, coffee and the file, she headed for the warmth of the lounge room, falling into the cushioned sofa. Charlotte opened the file from the Child and Family Services Agency on her new client, Bradley James Parnell, and sighed.
Counseling minors, not a great start to the day, she thought.
The bathroom door opened and she looked up as her roommate emerged in a smart black suit, crisp white shirt and in the process of doing up a blue patterned tie. “What?” she asked noticing his grin. “Have I got bed hair?”
“No, no, thy name is beauty,” Mitch placed his hand over his heart.
Charlotte pulled her blue dressing gown around her and gave him a wry look. “The kettle’s boiled.” She returned to her file.
Absorbed in her paper shuffle, she inhaled Mitch’s aftershave as he re-entered the room. She looked up. “Why are you up so early?”
“A seven o’clock meeting,” he said as he sat next to her with his cereal and yesterday’s newspaper.
Charlotte watched him as he read, his hand performing the reflex motion of cereal to mouth. Every now and then he frowned.
He looked up and stuffing another spoonful of Wheaties into his mouth mumbled, “What?”
“Your hair is starting to cover that scar. Did you really shave it for charity or just to look tough and pull girls with stories of gang fights?”
“Hey, I only used the gang fight story a few times. The shark-attack angle seemed to work better.”
Charlotte snorted. “I’ve known you for three years and never seen you even fake a punch let alone wrestle a shark. Besides, your face is far too pretty to have led a street life.”
“Handsome, not pretty. Anyway, I’ve been on the streets! My job is fraught with danger.”
“When? I thought you told me your FBI unit took a few photos on location and ran office-based passport checks?”
“That’s about it. But trust me, there is danger in the office! Those pencil sharpening machines …” Mitch shuddered.
Charlotte laughed.
“So how many nut-cases are you seeing today?”
“They’re not nuts; they’re normal people with problems. This kid,” she held up the file, “was a straight-A student right up to four months ago, and now he’s gone off the rails big time; petty theft, absenteeism, bashing another student. He’s hardly a nut-case …” Charlotte stopped mid sentence. “You know, one day you may need someone to talk to and …”
“Highly unlikely,” Mitch interrupted. “I’m not into the put-it-out-there kind of therapy. Speaking of getting over it, Lachlan rang for you after you went to bed.”
“Did he?” Charlotte chewed on her fingernail. “Why didn’t you wake me? What time?”
“Not long after Morse. I stuck my head in but you were out of it. I thought it was over with him,” he rose.
Charlotte followed him into the kitchen.
“It is over, but I’d speak to him.”
“Well, he said he’d be stuck in meetings all day and he’d call back later.”
“Anyway, what do you care if I get up to talk to him?”
“I don’t. Whatever. I’m just the messenger.”
“Did you talk for long?” she asked.
“No.”
“So, what else did he say?”
“Nothing much.”
“Honestly, you can be so exasperating!”
Mitch grabbed his coat, phone and keys. “Hmm, I know. Anyway, I’m off. Happy counseling.”
She followed him to the front door.
“Have a good high-security day,” she said locking the screen door behind him. Charlotte glanced around the neighborhood while she waited for his car to pull out of the garage. With a wave, she closed the door and headed to the bathroom. The phone rang and she retraced her steps.
“Hello.”
“It’s me …”
“Mitch, sorry I snapped at …”
“No big deal.” Mitch cut her off. “Don’t forget to turn the heater off.”
“I won’t. Will you be home for dinner?”
“Uh, don’t know.”
“Of course … depends on the outcome of this morning’s meeting?” she asked knowing he wouldn’t answer.
Lawrence Hackett fidgeted; he wasn’t one for small talk after sex. Earlier he had wined and dined her, put up with inane banter about a day in the life of a model and gotten what he wanted by the end of the night. It was a fair trade in his mind. Now he had to get rid of her. Lawrence excused himself to go to the bathroom, picked up the phone installed on the white tiled wall and called his Chief of Staff, Andrew Kenny. It was nearing midnight but Lawrence’s staff worked twenty-four seven.
“Call me back, Andrew, will you?” He didn’t bother to introduce himself. Within a few minutes the phone rang and Lawrence faked an emergency. He begged forgiveness from what’s-her-name, called a taxi and hurried her along saying all the right things. He saw her off at the front door and headed for the shower, preferring to sleep clean and alone.
He let the hot water stream over him and watched as it pooled at his feet.
“Treading water,” he muttered, “that’s what it feels like; day in, day out.”
He turned off the taps and reached for a towel. Stopping to look at his reflection, one question came to mind. When was the last time I was excited by anything? Lawrence thought. He remembered the rush when he took over his father’s global media empire after his old man died. He also remembered bedding the hottest actress that same year and replacing everyone on his father’s board with his own people. Buying his first Lamborghini Countach was up there too. He realized those thrills were almost two decades ago.
Done it. Milked every high that could be had … except for Mastermind.
He walked from the bathroom, grabbed the Mastermind file from his bedside drawer and collapsed on the bed. He scanned the six entrants selected to play in this year’s high-risk game; they were located in Munich, Tokyo, Monaco, Paris, Nevada and Washington D.C.
Bring it on! He smiled.
“White with none,” J.J. handed Mitch a coffee.
“Thanks J.J., what’s the latest?” He looked over at the Executive Director for the Trans-National Crime Unit’s office. John Windsor was on the phone.
“Our tapes are back and the lab rats identified.”
Mitch saw John hang up and signal them in. Looking around, he spotted the rest of his team, Ellen Beetson and Samantha Moore, walking towards him with cappuccinos from the canteen.
“I bought you a coffee, but if you’ve already got one …” Samantha held onto it.
“Thanks, Sam,” Mitch grabbed it, looking for somewhere to toss J.J.’s strong brew.
“Ready for another day of official non-existence and denial?” Ellen greeted him.
Mitch laughed. “I like being deniable. Gives us scope.” He followed his team into John’s office and closed the door. “What’ve we got?”
“Good and bad news,” John began. “The good news is we’ve identified the people on the tape. The bad news is, as a result, we’ve got one hell of a problem.” John pressed a button that closed his office blinds and another to lower a screen from the ceiling. He logged into his laptop, opened the surveillance footage file and hit play. They watched as several figures came within sight of the university camera. He froze the video on a tall, gray-haired man in his late fifties.
“Johan Booysen,” John announced. “Former Chief Executive Officer of a large Telco in South Africa.”
“Former?” Mitch asked.
“Yes, he stepped down last year amidst a controversy about misused funds. Nothing was ever proven. He’s here on a tourist visa.”
Mitch scribbled down some notes. “Sightseeing around the university. That’s a little different from most.”
“Precisely. He’s got his fingers into something. The universities are cash-strapped; they’re contracting facilities out-of-hours in all faculties without any real security checks. The science lab is one of the most lucrative for private hire. I want to know what he’s doing there.” John continued the tape. “This guy …” he froze it on an image of a tall, blonde man who looked to be in his mid-thirties.
“Nicholas Everett!” Mitch said, surprised.
“Yes. Nicholas Patrick Everett. You know him?”
“We were close friends at school and in the Air Force. He moved to the west coast and I haven’t seen him for … seven or eight years.”
“He’s flying for a courier company in Nevada. Don’t know what he’s doing in D.C.,” John honed in on the female. “This is Maria Elena Diaz, a trader in antiques, jewelry and fine art. She’s a celebrity in the Venezuelan community and well connected.”
“She’s a stunner,” Samantha said.
“Yes, it hasn’t set her back. She’s had her deals well funded.”
“She was at the lab last night,” J.J. added.
John closed the program and opened the blinds.
“A South African with a shady past, a former Air Force pilot and a South American dealer meeting in a science lab at the university. What’s the connection?” Mitch mused.
“You tell me,” John replied. “Our source has been watching Johan since he entered the country. When he visited the university after-hours and met with your friend, Nicholas, we were alerted right away. That’s it. It’s all yours.”
Mitch rose to depart, his team followed.
“Mitch,” John said, stopping him. “Keep me in the loop.”
Mitch paced around his sparse, glass-walled office. He turned to his team who sat waiting for instructions.
“OK, Ellie and J.J., head to the university science department and find out what inter-country science programs are running, if any, between the U.S., South America and South Africa. Then start work on Johan. Get as much info as you can on him.”
“Done,” Ellen answered.
“Stay in touch. Sam and I will head to the university admin to book some lab space and find out when the main lab will next be available. We’ll try and get a room as close as we can to it to watch coming and goings. Let’s see what they’re up to in there.”