On Tour (10 page)

"The plane belongs to the CIA."

I sat back. "Wow. Marsha must be high up to just lend you a plane to use."

"Yeah, Marsha doesn't have that kind of pull." Mark looked away.

"So who does?" I asked.

"The Director."

"Of the CIA?" I asked incredulously.

He nodded.

"You two tight like that, huh?" I saw where this was going, and I wasn't happy.

"Let's just say we've come to a mutually beneficial agreement," Mark hedged.

"You're working for them again!" I was in real distress. I wanted to be with Mark The Real Estate Developer, not Mark The Spy going god-knows-where to do god-knows-what.

"They have a small project for me after all this is over. It was the only way to get the type of help we need. They gave us this plane with discreet access to an airport of my choice along with some top-notch data hackers to work on the wire transfers, and I give them a week or two of my time. Fair trade." It all seemed very reasonable, but I thought I saw a glow come into his eye when he mentioned the "small project."

I gasped. "You want to do this. You've been dying to get back into the spy business."

Mark ran his hand through his hair. "Not true, Diana. I like what I do now, but you know I left mid-career. I can't help but have some what-ifs. This is an opportunity to work on a contract basis with the department."

I lapsed into stony silence. I felt relieved knowing the full resources of the CIA were at our disposal. But I was not happy to have my mild mannered real estate developer turn out to be a CIA operative. Some women want Superman. I'm happier with Clark Kent.

*  *  *

The plane was small, but luxurious. The kind business CEOs flew around in. I started to settle into one of four plush seats when Mark breezed past, waving me with him. He opened the door. I stared in at the empty cockpit.

"You're flying the plane? Really? You're a pilot?" I couldn't believe my eyes as Mark climbed into the pilot's seat and pointed to the seat next to him.

"Yep, and you're my co-pilot." He seemed relaxed as his hands flew over the instrument panel, performing a final check before takeoff.

"I'm no pilot! I don't even like to fly," I cried. "This isn't funny, Mark."

"I'm not joking. I'll need a little help up here. Unless you're chicken," he taunted.

I glared at him and then strapped myself in and stared at the complicated controls all around me. Piece of cake, right? "Where are we going?"

"Well, much as I'd like to make a detour to the Bahamas or some other tropical isle, they're expecting this plane to land at a private airport in Washington, D.C. in a few hours."

He radioed in to the tower and got an all-clear response.

I looked over at Mark. It was unnerved seeing him like this. He'd gone all James Bond on me. It made me wonder what else there was about him that I didn't know. It was also way sexy.

"You're shoe isn't a phone is it?"

He grinned at my
Get Smart
reference. "Nope. But Ninety-Nine is quite the hottie."

"You know she's actually ninety-nine now, right?"

Mark laughed and reached over to squeeze my hand.

I closed my eyes as the plane gathered speed and whisked us into the air.

"So what's the plan once we're in D.C.?" My ears were popping, and my stomach flipped and flopped. This small plane stuff was for the birds.

"Since everyone thinks we're on the boat, I figure we've got a week of no one looking for us. While we're in D.C. I'll research the money trail on The Spider."

I made a face. "And I spend my days sitting around a hotel?"

Mark nodded. "You don't have to just sit around the hotel. But you have to keep a low profile, and you can't make any contact with your family or friends. If they call, you're on the boat, remember? Play it that way."

"I guess I could work on my new solo album." I was itching to fine-tune the new song.

"Yeah, and you could take in some of the sights. Go visit the Smithsonian."

I thought about that for a minute. "I haven't been there since I was in the third grade. Bobby Hastings dared me to try to climb up on one of the displays. I ended up sitting on the bus for the rest of the day."

"See," Mark said brightly, "that's something you can do right there. And I'm going to book us into a swanky hotel with a big bathtub and king-size bed."

I smiled. "Will you wine and dine me?"

"Of course. Maybe even do some sight-seeing with you. We're really close to tracking down the money. We're going to get this guy." Mark patted my leg.

I relaxed a little, leaning into the comfortable co-pilot seat. My eyes started to close, and then I jerked awake.

"Is there anything I should know about the plane?" I waved my hands at all the instruments. "You know, in case you bump your head or something."

"I figure I'm pretty safe as long as you stay strapped in your seat."

I made a face at his reference to my clumsiness. "But if I go to the bathroom and don't come back. Well," he looked around at all the buttons. "You should probably start by pressing this one." He pointed to a bright red button.

"What's that do?"

"Initiates an SOS. The closest airport should contact you through the headphones. Then all you have to do is follow their instructions to the T."

"Is it really that easy?" I glanced over at him.

"Nope."

"Didn't think so." I closed my eyes and fell into a deep sleep.

When I awoke, Washington, D.C. loomed before us. Impressive to see from the air. No buildings were allowed to be taller than the Capitol. A fact I had learned in the third grade. The lettered and numbered streets were also laid out in a diamond-shaped grid. More third grade Social Studies. Wow, you'd think I'd have gotten higher than a C in that class.

Mark landed the plane smoothly, and before I knew it we'd passed through a security check point manned only by a bald bulky looking man named Todd. He handed Mark a note. Mark thanked him without looking at it.

In the cab I asked, "So what was in the note?"

"Info about where I'm meeting a contact tomorrow."

"But how would Todd at the airport security know?"

"Todd's not airport security. He's CIA. And he's an old friend of Marsha's which is why I got the info in the first place."

I made a face at the mention of Marsha but held my tongue. It was hard enough to swallow the fact that Marsha and Andre were enjoying my romantic cruise up the coast. Not that I cared if Marsha and Andre got together. I was more ticked off at losing out on a romantic trip with Mark. Our relationship up to this point hadn't exactly been filled with lots of togetherness time. "I wonder how Marsha's making out with Andre chasing her around the boat."

Mark laughed. "She's a three-time marathon winner. No chance he'll catch her."

"Sounds like superwoman," I observed wryly.

"She's good at her job. Eat, sleeps, and breathes the CIA. But she's never been good at her personal life"

I waited for him to say more. This was the most I'd ever heard about Marsha. I looked over at Mark, but he was staring out the window.

Our cab pulled up to The Jefferson Hotel. Its understated elegance was the epitome of first-class Washington style. Forget cavernous entranceways and marble floors. This place had original period decor and working fireplaces, plush carpets, and architectural details found only in D.C. Unlike other major cities, D.C. building was limited by the Height of Buildings Act of 1910. More almost-forgotten facts from third grade history class. This act effectively limited the height of most buildings to less than 130 feet. The Act had a two-fold effect on the development of the town that newcomers notice right away. First, there are no skyscrapers so the major monuments are visible from most places in the city. Second, the inability to gain more square footage by building up led to both the creative use of existing space and more ornate structures. Guess all that creative energy had to go somewhere.

The Jefferson Hotel was located just steps away from all the sights. There was a lot of hustle and bustle on the street as the doorman opened my door and called for a bellhop to get our bags. Inside, it was as serene as a Sunday afternoon in the park. The thick carpets and low light made the large space feel intimate and hushed. Classical music drifted gently through the air.

The tinkling of dinnerware drew my eye to a beautiful little restaurant. A fire burned brightly in the center of the room. Well-dressed wait staff moved silently about.

Mark must've caught my longing look. "Let's change back into ourselves. I'm starting to feel like Ricardo Montalbán in this suit, and you're not exactly rockin' that ginger." He gave my red wig a little tug.

He grabbed my hand, continuing, "Afterwards, I'll ply you with food and drink and then have my way with you."

"It won't take much," I replied. "I think I'd let you have your way with me for some peanuts and a cold beer."

We stepped on the elevator. Mark raised an eyebrow. "I think I know just the place."

*  *  *

Okay, so I'm a pushover for cold beer and bar nuts. I looked around the big claw-foot tub and sank back into the steaming water. I took another ice cold swig of beer and wiggled my wrinkled toes in Mark's face.

"Look what you've done to my toes. You and your big ideas."

Mark opened one eye. "I didn't hear you complaining about my big ideas an hour ago."

I sat up. "No complaints. Your big idea was perfect. But I think I deserve more than bar nuts and beer after
my
big idea."

Mark gave me a smoky look. "That was a big idea."

"Yeah, all those mirrors provided the inspiration." Despite the decorous look of the rest of our suite, the bedroom was like something out of a French whorehouse. Red velvet, mirrored walls, and gaudy chandeliers.

He gave a low growl and pulled me over to him. My body slid over his an inch at a time. "Well, looks like you've got another big idea," I whispered against his lips.

He threw the thick towels by the tub onto the marble bathroom floor. It looked like we were going to be having a late night snack instead of dinner.

We never did make it to the restaurant. But room service ran until midnight, so we didn't starve. At a little past eleven Mark got a call from Marsha. From what I could hear of the conversation, it sounded like things were a little rocky.

"I think you're being too sensitive, Marsha. I'm sure Andre just meant that as a compliment." Mark rolled his eyes at me.

I giggled. I had a picture in my mind's eye of Andre and Marsha on that boat, and it wasn't pretty. Andre had a tiger by the tail. Sure, maybe in such close quarters he would be able to work his magic on Marsha. But more likely he was going to lose a limb or two in the process.

"No, don't do that! You have four more days with him. Who knows what you might run into along the way? Okay, put him on." Mark cupped the phone. "Andre wants to talk to me about some engine noise. You want him when I'm done?"

I nodded. This ought to be interesting.

"No, clacking is pretty normal. Yeah. Is it intermittent?" Mark made a face. "Huh—strange that it's every hour. Well, keep an eye on it. If you notice anything else, pull into the nearest port. You don't want to be out there adrift on the open sea."

He finished up and handed me the phone.

"How's your love life?" I quipped.

Andre sighed. "Not up to speed yet, if you know what I mean. But she's something else." His voice was down to a whisper. "You should see her in a bikini." Andre groaned. "I'm like a teenager following her around, trying to make stupid small talk, all the while hoping to sneak a peek at the goods."

I laughed at that picture. "Maybe you should tell her how you feel, Andre. She might respect the honesty."

"I tried. As soon as I started to go down that path, she held up a hand and said, 'This ain't the love boat, sailor. Keeping your distance from me is your safest bet for keeping all your favorite appendages.'"

That was pretty harsh. "She's just a little prickly is all. Maybe—"

"No, I think it's hopeless." Then he brightened. "Hey, ask Mark if she's a lesbian."

"What?"

"Yeah, maybe that's why she so standoffish."

I sighed and turned to Mark. "He thinks Marsha might be a lesbian."

Mark considered this for a minute. "She didn't used to be. But I can see how he'd think that."

"No go on the lesbian. She's just not into you, Andre," I said.

"It was worth a try. Uh-oh," he said. "Now I've got these images of her as a lesbian."

Oh, brother. "Well, on that note, I'll say goodnight."

"That man's got it bad," Mark said with a laugh after I hung up.

"Does he have a chance in hell?" I asked, snuggling up to him.

Mark looked thoughtful. "Considering their unique situation, I'd say yes. Marsha's an adrenaline junkie. If things get interesting out there, she'll start warming up to him. Unfortunately," he laughed, "it looks like smooth sailing all the way up the coast."

My phone rang. Ashley. "How's the water out there?" she asked loudly.

"I'm pretty sure the line isn't bugged," I said, rolling my eyes. "Mark had mine checked before we left."

"That's why I'm using my landline. I figured The Spider wouldn't dare set foot inside this mad house."

Truer words had never been uttered. Maybe I should be staying with Ashley. Oh, God, the situation was getting desperate if that was sounding like a good idea.

"Where are you?" she asked.

"I can't say. We're trying to keep a low profile, and the fewer people who know, the better."

"Oh, fine!" she huffed. "We still have so much work to do to get you organized. Your website is a disaster. Have you checked your business email since you left?"

"No. I just haven't had time for all that. But my Facebook is up-to-date. I haven't been doing much with the website lately. It's nearly midnight, Ashley, maybe you can harass me about this tomorrow?"

"Well, the main reason I was calling was to see if you'd still need my help once things go back to normal."