3.

‘I trust whatever you decide,’ she speaks softly into the receiver. ‘But, given the circumstances, a change in plan seems prudent.’

‘Oh, Christ Almighty …’ He repeats the sentence as a mournful wheeze, ‘Oh-h, Christ Al-migh-ty …’ She waits patiently. ‘You say Terra and Frida can be trusted to travel alone?’

‘They’re just girls,’ Evelyn says. ‘But they understand the importance of this mission. And they’re eager to impress.’

‘They’ve been spending too much time together. They may already be forming an alliance.’

‘Their allegiance is to you. Believe me, they never miss an opportunity to remind me of how well they’ve served their Father.’ Evelyn lets the words linger, caress. ‘If it were more than a day, I’d share your concern. But Mona will be meeting them across the border, after all.’

Mona d’Angelo: a beautiful manic-depressive from New Jersey whose ‘depressive’ Jim cured back in ’72 and whose ‘manic’ he has put to good use. Jim softens. ‘You’ll brief them tonight?’

‘I’ll brief them just as soon as you’ve reminded them both of their personal relationship with the Cause.’

‘I’m so tired of these bitches needing to be reminded.’ Jim sighs. ‘When I’m loyal, I’m loyal for life. Don’t matter how much it takes out of me; that’s who I am.’ There is nothing accusatory about his reference to loyalty. There is nothing disloyal about what she is doing. ‘Do what you gotta do to intercept this spook, honey. Find where he’s stayin’, get access to his files, I don’t care how. Use your body, if you have to. Course, it’s sooner than I’d like, but I know you’re strong, and you’re looking good. Better’n ever.’

Evelyn is quite certain this is untrue. But even his lies have the ring of greater truth; in this case, that her body has more importance as an instrument of the Cause than of comfort.

‘I doubt it’ll come to that,’ she assures him softly. ‘Do you want Frida or Terra first?’

‘Frida,’ he says, with a wistfulness she doesn’t like but doesn’t question. She is about to put the phone down when he speaks up: ‘Happy birthday, Little Mother.’

Evelyn looks at the bathroom door. ‘I’ll get Frida.’

They’re kneeling barefoot on the tiles, quiet under the roar of the bathroom fan, counting their assets one Tampax box at a time. Evelyn looks at the old slash marks on Frida’s arms as she waits for her to finish her current roll, lock it back inside the tampon applicator, return the applicator to the box. ‘I’ll take over, Frida. Father wants you.’

Frida’s eyes flicker with pride, satisfaction, something. She stands and pulls her sleeves over her scars. ‘Twenty-four,’ she tells Evelyn. She isn’t talking about her age, but she could be.

Evelyn closes the door behind Frida, observes Terra’s spaniel-gold head, then crouches to assist. Ten hundred-dollar bills per tampon applicator. Thirty-six tampons per box. Three boxes apiece. Perhaps ten minutes later, Frida takes Terra’s place, face bashful and eyes bright. They are counting their ‘bodily assets’ when Terra returns, tear-stained but triumphant, bearing her blue velvet jacket and her sewing kit. She sits on the lid of the toilet and starts unpicking the lining of her jacket. Evelyn stacks her last ten thousand dollars on the counter.

‘The shoulders and the pockets,’ she tells Terra, with a nod at the jacket and the cash on the counter. Then she steps out.

The room seems luxuriously large compared with the cramped bathroom. She looks to the window and, despite the drawn curtains, feels watched. She sits on the striped bed. She picks up the phone where Jim’s voice was just minutes ago; checks again for wiretapping. She checks the time: eleven-thirty. She checks the bible-thick book borrowed from reception and finds the name. The name is not common. The name might’ve been hers, in another life.

‘Allô? ’ the man growls after five dring-drings. ‘Allô? ’ She listens as he exhales with a hiss, scuffles with the receiver, mutters impatiently, and hangs up.

She lies back on the bed, heart beating. Smiles to herself, just for a moment.