“Maybe you should change.”
“Why?”
“You look scary.”
Brodie looked down at his clothes. “I’m wearing trousers and a cotton shirt. What’s scary about that?”
“I don’t think she’s talking about your attire, Iain,” said Logan, who was sitting on the couch, watching a soccer match on TV. “It’s how you wear it, mate.”
Brodie turned to me, his eyebrows knitted in question. “How do I wear it?”
He stood tall and straight. His muscles pushed against the fabric of his shirt. He was clean-shaven, and the slim scar on his face stood out. His mouth was set in a line, his usual expressionless expression. His arms rested loose at his sides, but he was ready to pounce, and he was dangerous. Everything about him spelled dangerous.
I grabbed my purse. I wagged my finger under his nose. “Just try and smile a couple of times while you’re there,” I said and walked out.
Brodie followed me. He followed me to the office, and he followed me all around the office. He instructed me to be on the lookout for the South American man and shout if I saw him.
Meanwhile, Brodie hovered over me, unblinking, relaxed, and terrifying. When we walked down the hall, hardened reporters jumped to the side, as if fleeing for their lives. The newsroom was oddly quiet, all attention on Brodie, heads bobbing up to look at him but careful not to make eye contact.
I busied myself with preparing for the UN General Assembly. I researched the issues on the table for the day’s special session. Brodie sat next to me, watching me. With his gaze on me, I had a hard time focusing on plenary protocol.
“You doing all right?” I asked him.
“Yes. I enjoy watching you work. I’ve never seen you at your job. I find it fascinating.” I watched his mouth as he spoke. Absentmindedly, I ran my tongue over my lips.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Princess.” Brodie’s brown eyes grew darker. “Not here, not now. However, it would make an interesting workday if you did.”
I closed my mouth. It had grown dry, and I cleared my throat. “I’m just doing some research. I wouldn’t call it working. You should have seen me working in my real job as a cops reporter. Oh, no!” I slapped my forehead. “I forgot. They’re taking me out to lunch. I have to call it off.”
I picked up the phone.
“Who are you calling?”
“The other cops reporters are taking me out for lunch. I have to cancel it.”
“I would like to meet your friends.”
“They’re not my friends.” My voice came out screechy and panicky. “They’re low-life, slack-jawed, Neanderthal, news-junkie, geekazoids who would kill their own mothers for a free beer or recycled chili cheese fries. And normally I would say they would be perfect company for you, but . . . ” I lowered my voice to a tiny whisper. “You are a wanted man, and—”
Brodie touched my hand. “Look around you. I’m in the middle of a big newsroom, and no one has taken any notice of me.”
I looked around. Dolores, who just the day before had yelled at new management to suck her dick, was meekly spying at Brodie over a press release for new redistricting policies, her bushy eyebrows peeking out over the top of the paper, her pupils dilated.
“Perhaps a little notice, but they have no idea who I am,” Brodie insisted. “They’ve never heard of me, and even if they had, they wouldn’t recognize me because they would never suspect that a wanted man would brazenly walk into a major newsroom. It will be the same with your friends.”
***
It was kraut burgers all around. Six guys showed up. Joe Domino, Keith from The Nation, and even Frankie the Farter were there. They were happy to see me, but their faces dropped when Brodie appeared from behind me.
“Smile,” I muttered, but it was no use. His face was frozen in the Brodie Look, stone cold and dangerous.
“Who the hell is he?” demanded Joe Domino.
Brodie pulled a chair out for me. “I am Abby’s friend.” But he didn’t give his name, and I didn’t, either.
“You got a boyfriend, Abby?” asked Frankie. “That’s nice.”
“He’s not a boyfriend, Frankie,” Keith said.
“We don’t know who the hell he is. He hasn’t told us,” said Joe Domino, perceptive and cutting right to it.
Luckily, the kraut burgers arrived, and they slammed food into their faces as fast as they could. I was no different. I smashed a handful of fries onto my burger and took a few bites before coming up for air.
“Little Abby Williams heading off to the United Nations,” said Joe.
Charlie from the New York Post chuckled. “Not so little anymore. The cops from the seventeenth precinct voted her best rack in the city.”
Brodie shifted in his seat and slowly wrapped his arm around my shoulders.
“I’m finally getting out of the cops beat, too, Abby,” said Frankie.
Joe ran his hand over his face and groaned. “Not this again.”
“It’s sure fire,” Frankie insisted.
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“Nowhere,” said Keith. “Frankie thinks he’s got a hot idea for a story.”
“It’s a crime spree story,” Frankie explained. “Toilet seats.”
I leaned forward. “Toilet seats?”
“There have been a slew of broken toilet seats in the city, trapping people. Imagine you’re sitting on a toilet seat and crack, it breaks, and you’re stuck there for however long it takes to be saved.”
“Uh huh,” I said.
“Well, it’s been happening all over. One lady was stuck for over twenty-four hours. Twenty-four hours, Abby. It’s got conspiracy written all over it.”
“And everyone knows Abby has the best legs in print journalism,” Charlie continued, interrupting Frankie’s toilet seat story idea.
“I think you need to shut up now.” Brodie spoke just above a whisper. Movement at our table ceased, but Charlie wasn’t as perceptive as Joe.
“Oh, yeah? Why do I need to shut up?” Charlie asked.
Brodie leaned back in his chair and tilted his head toward Charlie. “Because if you don’t shut up, I’ll gut you with my butter knife and stuff your intestines down your throat while you scream in pain.”
Charlie’s Adam’s apple dipped down and sprang up as he swallowed with so much difficulty that it looked like he was indeed swallowing his intestines. Being a pinhead jerk, he had probably been threatened more than his share in his life, but there was no idle threat in Brodie’s words. Brodie was stating a fact.
About five minutes went by while we sat, frozen in place, staring at Charlie, waiting for him to make a noise and for Brodie’s inevitable reaction. But Charlie was smart enough to stay quiet. Finally, it was Keith who spoke.
“Conspiracies are more complicated than broken toilet seats, Frankie,” Keith pointed out. “Think JFK. Think Watergate. Toilet seats just don’t hold up, no pun intended.”
“I don’t know about that,” Joe said, throwing his money on the table and getting up to leave. “I’ve found in my experience that conspiracies are very simple affairs, patched up stories to hide some unfortunate event.”
Lunch was over. The cops reporters threw their money on the table, waved at me, and followed Joe out of the diner.
I turned to Brodie. “You really know how to clear out a room.”
“I won’t have men treating you that way. They need to know that. Logan knows that.”
“Logan has never looked twice at me.”
“Yes, he has. I know for a fact he has,” Brodie said. “But Logan knows that I will disembowel him if he ever acts on it.”
I grimaced. “Do you have a lot of experience with disemboweling?”
Brodie twirled a lock of my hair and tucked it behind my ear. “Less than my thong experience,” he whispered. “By the way, the old man was right.”
“About what?”
“Conspiracies. They’re simple. Gairloch kills Taylor and pins it on me because he’s upset that I’m retiring.”
“Sabre S.” It popped out of my mouth before I knew I was going to say it.
“Excuse me?” Brodie removed his hand from my shoulders.
“You heard me.”
“Logan told me you were interested in that particular topic. You make it very hard to protect you.”
“Perhaps it’s too late to protect me. Tell me about Sabre S.”
Brodie studied me a long time before deciding what he should say.
“You know, Gairloch is a madman but very industrious. It’s his organization, and it has many tendrils that span the globe in many areas.”
“And you are one those tendrils?”
“Was. Was one of those tendrils, Princess.”
I sighed.
“Aren’t you due at the UN?” he asked.
***
“What do you think you’re doing?”
My thumbs didn’t stop while we walked down the street. “I’m texting.”
Brodie grabbed the cellphone from me. “Why are you texting?”
“Communication, Brodie. It’s the twenty-first century.”
“No. Why are you texting with this?” He shook the cellphone in front of my face. I grabbed for it, but he pulled it out of my reach.
“They gave it to me with my promotion. Finally, a cellphone. I’ve been without one since I left New York. It’s fancy. Unlimited calls, texts, and Internet.” It came with five games, and I downloaded “I Will Survive” for my ringtone. I was planning to get a pink case protector as soon as I had time.
Brodie dropped my phone on the pavement and stomped on it, smashing it to smithereens.
“Hey! Why did you do that?”
I stared at the pieces of my innocent phone, murdered for no good reason. My instinct was toward violence. I had a lot of pent-up anxiety or maybe it was hormones, or maybe it was just well deserved. After all, the phone was one of my few possessions, everything else abandoned in my flight to safety with Brodie.
My instinct took over. My hand scrunched up into a tight fist, and my arm pulled back as far as it could go and shot forward toward Brodie’s head. Just as it was about to make impact, Brodie leaned back, deftly avoiding the punch.
He grabbed me by the collar and pulled me down the street. “I’ll get you a disposable cell. Untraceable. Good idea, Princess. We’ll need phones today since we’ll be separated for a time.”
I tried to bat his hand away with a double slap maneuver I learned in kindergarten. Brodie rethought the advisability of dragging a struggling woman down the street and pulled me into a nearby alley where he released my collar.
“Did you want to say something to me, Princess?”
I sputtered and coughed. Finally, the words came. “Why did you do that to my cellphone? You had no right. That was a phone for my work. That was my very own phone. I have few belongings, and I liked that phone. I was going to get a pink protective shell for it. Now what am I going to use a pink protective shell for? There’s nothing left. You smashed it to pieces. I’m phoneless. I’m shell-less. I’m less, plain and simple. Less. And I want more, Brodie.”
“It was traceable. I was protecting you.”
“I thought I’d be safe in New York. You said I didn’t have to worry.”
“I didn’t factor in good-looking, South American stalkers.”
“You might be a little overcautious,” I said. Brodie’s brown eyes stared back at me, impossibly dark pools and completely unreadable. “How did you know he was good looking?”
Brodie leaned into me. I felt his breath on my face. He smelled of musk and kraut burger. “You didn’t describe him to me. So, I guessed. Just how good looking was he?”
“Not as good looking as Logan,” I said.
Brodie leaned in closer until his chest touched mine. He tilted his head to the side and studied my ear. “Peculiar choice of words,” he whispered. My attention was drawn to his lips as he spoke. I realized I was holding my breath, and I let it out, making a slight moaning sound. Brodie’s left eyebrow shot up.
“Not my type,” I clarified.
“I never had a type before,” said Brodie. He cradled the back of my head with his hand, drawing me closer. His lips caressed mine with feather light touches, sending waves of shivers through me. “But I seem to have found my type.”
His lips parted, and he kissed me deep and slow. He took his time, as if he was savoring me. I burned up quickly like a matchbook match and then melted in a heap. I was transported away from the New York alley to a place where only Brodie and I existed. It was a shock, therefore, when Brodie stopped.
“You’ll be late,” he whispered. I sagged against him, burying my face in his chest. “Your first day at the United Nations. It’s a big day for you.”
I was disoriented. I couldn’t figure out why my first day at the United Nations would be a big day for me. Did I want to be based at the UN? Did I even want to be a journalist anymore? I weighed Brodie’s big, strong arms holding me against running down ambassadors at the United Nations, and the UN was coming in at a very distant second. Possibly even third or fourth.
***
Brodie bought two disposable phones and programmed his new phone number into mine. He wouldn’t be able to get into the United Nations with the security there so high, and he planned to wait for me somewhere nearby with his phone at hand. I had instructions to call him if anything out of the ordinary happened, like being attacked by wandering South Americans.
As a reporter now based at the UN, I could access the building through a privileged entrance, but even there the line of people to go through the X-ray machines was thirty minutes long.
The special session of the General Assembly would be attended by enough world leaders to make the UN police as well as the NYPD nervous, and they were doing everything to the press corps but strip searches in order to avoid any security breaches.
I gathered my belongings after they were checked and headed to the escalator. I allowed myself a moment to absorb the fact that I was really at the United Nations.
The escalators were encased in a glass wall, and the light shined through, warming my face. I struggled with my purse and my papers, organizing them on the ride up.
As I approached the top, my purse tipped, letting my lipstick and cellphone fall out. I grabbed for my lipstick and caught it, but the cellphone was too fast for me. I watched helplessly as it slid down the escalator armrest and smashed into the glass wall at the bottom, breaking into pieces. Security guards jumped at the crashing noise, and two of them withdrew their guns and pointed them at the debris.
“Sorry,” I shouted from the top of the escalator. “It was my cellphone!” I waved, smiled, batted my eyes and ran into the crowd before security made me write out a report in triplicate or I was sent off to be interrogated in some dark unforgotten dungeon built when Eleanor Roosevelt had her back turned.
Two cellphones in one day. AT&T should send me a thank-you note. On the bright side, I was now free to buy a new phone with the pink protector shell I wanted.
I followed the crowd until the sweet smell of Columbian dark roast wafted up my nose, and I bumped into the official United Nations coffee cart. In addition to a wide selection of coffee, the cart made the most of the international theme with pastries from every country that realized the wisdom behind yeast and butter. I had realized that wisdom years before.
I ordered a triple caramel mochaccino and a chocolate-filled croissant. It was what I needed. It fortified me. And that’s how I first stepped foot into the august General Assembly chamber with a caffeine buzz and a chocolate mustache.
It was built in the aftermath of a devastating war in an effort to prevent it from ever happening again. Wars could be prevented, it was reasoned, if nations were forced to sit in a room together and talk. If that was true, this was the room in which to do it.
It was awe-inspiring and massive, constructed to seat representatives from around the world. The ceiling was so high, I wondered if it was a reminder that a higher power might be looking down on them, checking to see if they did their jobs correctly. At the front was the famous green podium, where so many leaders had made their pleas to the UN on behalf of their countries.
It wasn’t that I wasn’t impressed. I was impressed. But at the same time, I was disappointed. I was expecting a lump in my throat, a fluttering in my stomach, some reaction that proved I was living my dream, that I had finally accomplished what I had for such a long time wanted to accomplish. But somehow my dream shifted, and it no longer resided in the grand chamber I was standing in.
Dignitaries roamed the room. I saw France schmoozing with Nepal, Brazil schmoozing with Canada, and Egypt schmoozing with Trinidad and Tobago.
There was a distinct hum going on. The Secretary General was set to unveil his new “Brotherhood of Humanity” program, which was touted to foment peace and happiness around the world. There was a lot of speculation about the program, some positive and some negative. Most were ready to give their opinions before they had any information about it.
“Off the record,” said the ambassador from Guatemala, pointing to my reporter’s notebook. I clicked off my pen and nodded. “What does Brotherhood of Humanity mean? It sounds idiotic and vague, right up the UN’s alley. Did you get to go to the special session brunch this morning? The lobster salad was to die for.”
I walked around the alphabetically seated Member States getting a lot of useless quotes about each country’s devotion to brotherhood and humanity, whatever that meant. I was searching for the U.S. ambassador when I spotted a familiar head. I rubbed my eyes, sure I was seeing things.
My eyes followed the thick head of gray hair as it made its way past Eritrea to Estonia and Ethiopia. There was a break in the crowd around Fiji, and I could make him out clearly. I held on to my chest like a vaudeville actor feigning a heart attack.
It was Emmett Gairloch, walking around the UN General Assembly like he didn’t have a care in the world.
My hand flew to my purse. I searched for my cellphone for a couple of minutes before I recalled that it lay in pieces at the bottom of the escalator. I scanned the chamber for security, but the room was thick with diplomats, obscuring my view. I jumped up and down, flailing my hands, but nobody took any notice. I was tempted to scream out “There he is! There he is!” but I didn’t suppose that would work out in my favor. Without thinking, I followed him. It would be easy to lose him, and I didn’t want to miss my chance.
We passed France and Finland, and by the time I was at his heels near Gabon, I realized I had no idea what I would do once I caught up with him. I panicked and turned around to make a quick exit, but I stopped at the sound of his voice.
“Miss Williams, the intrepid reporter, this is indeed a welcome surprise.”
I saw red. This was the man responsible for my kidnapping, for the torture and attempted murder of Logan, for the attempted murder of Brodie and his framing for murder, for arms smuggling and probably treason, among many other crimes.
“I could turn you in to the police right now.”
His smile never wavered. “But who would believe you?”
“Lord only knows why you’re at the United Nations, but it can’t be good.”
“I’m a member of the House of Lords, my chère Miss Williams. I am supposed to be here.” He spoke to me like an indulgent father to an innocent child. In his mind, I was no threat to him.
“I should have reported you to the police after I was kidnapped,” I said, incredulous at his attitude. He beckoned me with his finger and walked toward Latvia in the next row over.
“Cards on the table, it would not have been completely prudent of you to report me or anybody in my association.”
He spoke softly. I had to walk close by his side to hear him. “How interesting it was that you didn’t report me. You didn’t, of course, because you were fond of our dear Iain. And here I thought no one could possibly be fond of the boy. I was sure you were keen on dashing, young Jake. He’s from a very fine family. I cannot say the same for our Iain.”
My blood boiled. Brodie was a good man, much more dashing than Logan if you got to know him. Gairloch had no right to deride him. I wanted to punch Gairloch or at least poke his eyes out.
I followed him to the side of the room. From there, we had a good view of the goings-on. Gairloch stared out into the crowd. I had the impression that he was searching for someone.
“It’s a funny thing,” he said, his eyes never leaving the action on the floor. “I no longer need you. It is cliché, I know, but you are expendable.”
The man was insufferable. “It’s over, Lord Gairloch. Don’t you see that? Brodie has already uncovered the truth about you and Taylor.”
That got his attention. He turned to me, surprised and animated. “Taylor? What a nitwit. No common sense. No sense of the big picture. No understanding of our wise Machiavelli.” He pointed above us. I looked up, expecting Machiavelli to hover there. “In the words of that esteemed master,” Gairloch continued, “‘Before else, be armed.’”
I stumbled backward, expecting a gun to be pointed at me. “You can’t be armed,” I said. “It’s impossible to get weapons in here.”
“You misunderstand me.” He displayed his empty hands, palms up, fingers splayed. “You’re not thinking Big Picture. Look around you, the Big Picture.”
I looked around. UN ambassadors, representatives from other countries. Nothing new. Gairloch’s face dropped.
“Ah, you don’t understand,” he said. “Neither did Taylor, poor fellow.”
“So you had him killed?”
“Taylor? He was inconsequential. Weapons appropriations, and he was of no use. He squandered away his position. Not like dear Congressman Rollins. There is a man who understands opportunity and seizes it. I am very pleased with my acquisition of Congressman Rollins, I must say. Please forgive me if I boast. It’s just that I am proud of my colleagues, of my underlings, rather. I’ve assembled the best and brightest to help me in the noblest of endeavors.”
“Yeah, I met a couple of them,” I said. “The crack-selling congressman who mows down pedestrians and the brain-dead Scotsman who intentionally sets himself aflame. Not to mention Kevin Ackley who accidentally set himself aflame.”
“You are blind, just like Taylor. No matter. I don’t need you just as I didn’t need him,” he said. “Look over there. Our friend from the Democratic Republic of Georgia. Do you see him? Over there with Congressman Rollins.”
I followed Gairloch’s gaze. Rollins was working the paunchy, pasty-faced representative of Georgia, playing him for everything he was worth. He slapped him on the back and laughed uproariously at something the Georgian said. He leaned in to him and spoke in a confidential manner. My brain cells fired all at once.
“You have a deal with Georgia? With Rollins?” I asked.
Gairloch clapped his hands together. “Very good. I wanted you to know because I have you to thank for this particularly beneficial venture.”
“Me? How?”
Gairloch raised his eyebrow and tsked. “I suppose Iain isn’t attracted to you for your brains.”
“No, I’ve got it now,” I said. “You made a deal with the Chechens, with Gurzhikhanov. He let you in to make a deal. He opened a whole new territory for you by promising to get out of the way or whatever.”
It made perfect sense. Gairloch had wanted to sell arms to Georgia, but Russia wouldn’t allow it. He needed to bypass Russia somehow. Chechnya shared a border with Georgia, but nobody could get in or out of Chechnya. Gairloch found a way. He knew that Gurzhikhanov could give him the green light to go through Chechnya.
Gairloch kidnapped me and sold me to Gurzhikhanov. The price? Gurzhikhanov would give Gairloch the right to bring weapons through Chechnya. Gurzhikhanov didn’t have to do anything but sit back and turn a blind eye to Gairloch’s men. Meanwhile, with me as his wife, he could revive the Nashkha clan and grab more power.
“An arms deal. You used me as part of a pathetic arms deal,” I said, affronted.
“Again, you don’t think big picture. I was priming the pump.”
“Getting everybody to kill each other to fulfill some sick idea of how the world should behave,” I said. “I have to hand it to you, Emmett. You are the master middleman, and you use your status to wreak havoc.”
“I think some people call it ‘puppet master,’” he said with more than a touch of glee in his voice. “But if you prefer ‘middleman,’ who am I to complain?”
I counted on my fingers. “Let’s see, you’ve got your own mercenary group.”
“Officially, that’s Montou’s mercenary group. At least he thinks so. I’m planning on doing something about that when I’m done here,” he said, thinking out loud.
“And you’re working on inciting wars in Eastern Europe.” I counted on another finger.
Gairloch nodded. “Among others.”
“And you kill politicians,” I added. Gairloch turned to me, a thoughtful expression on his face.
“You can’t stop a moving machine,” he said. Proud as punch, Gairloch watched Rollins as he continued to play with the Georgian like a cat with a mouse. “Momentum of a closed system by definition does not change. It’s all in the works, and it’s working out wonderfully well.”
“Hold on,” I said, sudden awareness washing over me. “The deal fell through. I never married Gurzhikhanov. I escaped. So, you won’t be able to get weapons through Chechnya. Are you planning on selling me off again?”
I fell right into Gairloch’s hands. He could whisk me away and turn me over to the Chechens in order to finalize the deal with the Georgians. But I wouldn’t go without a fight. I was prepared to start screaming.
Gairloch sighed. “As I told you before, you are obsolete. I have no further use for you.” He turned toward me, happy as a clam. He ran his hands up and down my arms. “I have found another Nashkha,” he said, as if he was telling me that he had found a designer dress for 70 percent off at the Barney’s closeout sale. “A more pliable Nashkha, one without a bodyguard. Well, true, it’s a Nashkha by marriage, but that detail doesn’t seem to be a spoiling factor.”
It took a moment for me to register what he was saying. My mother was a Nashkha by marriage. I pulled out of his grasp. It seemed to please Gairloch even more that I understood. That was the intention of this little talk all along. He wanted to see my face as he inflicted pain.
I backed away from him.
“It’s too late,” he said. “You can never get there in time. It’s already done.”
I ran through the crowd toward the exit. I had to contact the local authorities, contact Brodie, and get to my mother before she was kidnapped and taken to Chechnya.