Three and a Half Weeks (38 page)

A pretty assistant sporting purple spiky hair and a suit that looks like Brooks Brothers as interpreted by a punk-rock designer, directs him to the office and Daniel is waiting just inside.

“Ian. Good to see you. Come in.”

They shake hands and Daniel invites him to sit. He does so, feeling a little nervous about having to tell his friend how damn dangerous is his situation. He waggles his tie back and forth to loosen it a titch, and then launches into the details of his visit to New York. Daniel listens to every word carefully, scratching his brow with this thumb.

“Any thoughts?”

Daniel smirks, exhaling a deep breath with a laugh. “Lots.”

“What do you recommend?”

Daniel shrugs. “The way I see it you have two options, one more permanent than the other.”

“I’d prefer to keep within the law. How safe is it?”

Another shrug. “Your safety is only as good as the weakest link in the chain. If you want to put your life and the lives of your loved ones into the hands and expertise of every man and woman in ICE security and border patrol, then there’s your answer. Me, I’d opt for a more permanent solution but then I’ve been forced into this kind of thing before. I’d certainly understand it if you’re squeamish about such a thing.”

“Care to elaborate?”

“Honestly, Ian? I’m not at liberty to divulge certain information about myself and I mean that sincerely—it’s not an excuse. But I’ll tell you this much: Five years ago I had a snowboarding accident, a bad one. I sustained a severe traumatic brain injury. It was so serious that my doctors were talking up my parents for organ harvest. Obviously, I ultimately recovered. Instead of having lost abilities
, I gained additional ones. With those abilities came certain dangers.” He looks Ian right in the eye, his expression sober, and says, “I’ve been forced to defend my life since then, on more than one occasion. Sometimes it requires a fight to the death. I’m prepared to do it if necessary.”

The two men stand outside the building. Ian pulls out his phone and punches some buttons. The phone picks up on the third ring. “Lucien? This is your old friend, Ian Blackmon.” Without waiting for a response, Ian keeps going. “Listen, I’m downstairs and I’d like for us to have a discussion. Will you come down?”

“Fuck off.”

“Before you disconnect, please consider that if you don’t come down, I’m coming up. My way, we can go have a cup of coffee and keep our chat… if not pleasant, at least civil.”

Daniel holds up his hand and Ian asks Lucien to wait, muting the phone. Ian raises a brow in query.

“I’m thinking perhaps we should go in and engage the Lithuanians. Now.”

“They appear to be extremely unsavory characters, Daniel. I’m quite sure they fight dirty. They can have us knifed and gutted before we have a chance to raise our fists.”

Daniel shrugs, smiling. “I fight dirtier.”

Ian takes a moment to stare into the man’s green eyes. They gleam with evil anticipation. “You think we could engage them, as you put it, and give our wonderful men and women of ICE sufficient reason to deport our friends?”

“I was thinking self-defense.” Daniel whispers the words so softly but they send an icy chill streaking up Ian’s spine as he comprehends Daniel’s meaning.

He wants to kill them. In a split second he makes a decision and unmutes the phone. “Lucien? We’re coming up.”

As soon as Ian’s plane lands, he’ll get my text message. I’m not counting on it, though. I’ll call him the minute I calculate he’ll touch down on terra firma, allowing for fifteen minutes of delays. I won’t stop until I reach him.

Ever since I spoke with Eliza, I’ve been nauseous and stressed. What if Ian is walking into a well-set trap? I’m terrified for him.

Less than ten minutes after I calculate his plane should have touched down, my phone chimes with a text and I almost fall flat on my face in my clumsy haste to grab the damn thing. It’s from Ian so I read it hurriedly:
A. Understood but don’t worry. Might not even be me they’re referring to. I’ll explain more when I see you. Don’t worry: that’s an order. Love you. C.

Yeah, right, I’m not going to worry: is he insane? I should have gone to New York with him. I could still head there but I promised Ian I would stay put so I’ll honor that promise. However, I can put my research skills to good use and get some information on Lucien’s henchmen. I remember Lucien calling them the Sobel brothers but I don’t know their first names so I’ll have to phone Eliza once more. I hate to bother her but I need the names. She answers on the first ring.

“Yes, Ella?”

“I’m sorry to bother you again, Eliza, but I forgot to ask you for the names of the Lithuanian brothers. Can you help me out?”

“Sure. They’re Leo—I think it’s short for Leopold—and Lukas Sobel. That’s Lukas with a K by the way. Sobel is S-O-B-E-L. Is that all you need?”

“Right now, yes. I need to get more information on these men. I’m afraid for my fiancé’s safety.”

“I understand. Well, if there’s anything else you need, give a holler. I’m in the middle of something right now so I have to go.”

“Oh, sure. Thanks again, Eliza. Hopefully someday we can meet and have a coffee or something.”

“Sounds good.”

Look at me: I’m an anxious wreck. I’m twisting my long hair in my fingers and my leg is bouncing up and down almost of its own volition—both nervous tics I’ve had since girlhood. Still, if I’m not careful, I’ll end up ripping out my hair and have bald spots. I knew a girl in middle school, Ming Lee Chen, who twisted her hair right out of her scalp. She ended up sporting two huge bald circles and was diagnosed with
alopecia areata
when all along she was doing it to herself due to stress over her grades. Her parents wanted to kill her, whether for her bald spots or inferior grades, no one was certain. Okay, focus, Ella, focus on the task at hand. My pep talk is nearly useless for my mind is pulling me in all different directions. I take out my laptop and begin typing key words into search engines. When the entries start popping up, I can’t tear my eyes away and don’t move for the next two hours and forty-six minutes. By the time I get out of the chair, my back is stiff in protest of my inertia. I make a beeline for the medicine cabinet to swallow some ibuprofen.

The pain is worth it for my research bore fruit: I found arrest records in other countries for the Sobel brothers, as well as various aliases they used. There was even some information about their respective romantic lives: restraining orders against both men for stalking offenses. Reams of data about their connection with Lucien’s father followed.

Apparently Lucien’s father, French investment banker Jean-Luc Phillips, was very dependent on both men and trusted them with his wife and son. But why? Lucien said his father was grateful that they saved him. But why would they? They don’t seem like the compassionate type at all. My instincts tell me there’s more to this story than meets the eye but the only one who might have more information and be willing to impart it to me is Maya St. Sauveur. I put in a call to her, pronto.

Maya doesn’t answer her phone so I leave a voice mail for her and take the phone into the bathroom with me so I can hear it sing while I shower. Once I’m finished rinsing off, I rub some eucalyptus oil into my back and neck, throwing on my favorite ripped tee shirt and cut-off denims. Hot water, ibuprofen, and topical ointment join forces to make me a new woman—the favorite clothes are the cherry on the cake of my day. I quickly dry my hair and just as I’m putting the hair dryer away, Aretha starts singing: perfect timing.

It’s Maya. “Hello?”

“Ella? I just received your message. You need to talk to me?”

“Yes, Maya. That woman you told me about? Natasha? It turns out she’s my fiancé’s ex-business partner and she’s making all kinds of trouble for us. We learned the brothers who work for Lucien are her uncles. I just wondered if you had any other information about those two… or Natasha, for that matter.”

“Well, I think I mentioned that my mother was always positive they were involved in Lucien’s kidnapping but my father didn’t believe it, not for a minute. For whatever reason, he trusted those thugs and kept them around.”

“How did he meet them? Was it through the kidnapping episode?”

“Supposedly, yes, although my mother suspected he knew them beforehand. The whole thing was all very mysterious. All my father cared about was getting his only son back in one piece. The Sobels produced Lucien unharmed and earned a friend for life in my father.”

“Do you know anything else about their background?”

There was a long pause but I waited to give her room to think. “I should speak to my mother and then get back to you. Are you in New York?”

“No, but my fiancé is there now. Would it be more helpful for you to meet with him in person?”

“Only if I get more information that he might find helpful. Why don’t you give me his number and I’ll get in touch directly if I learn anything?”

I consider her request; will Ian get angry if I give her his number? I have to make a decision on the fly so I go for it. “Okay, his name is Ian Blackmon and here’s his number…”

Once I disconnect from Maya, I try Ian again and once more it goes to voice mail. I hope he’s okay and though I received his text, I’d feel a hell of a lot better to actually speak to him. My research has served to only make me worry more: the Sobels are scary, Natasha is scary, and they’re both after Ian now. How can I help?

I’m engrossed in what I’m reading on my laptop when Mason raps his knuckles softly on the frame of the open door.

“Ms. Strong? Mariah is here to see you.”

“Oh, thanks Mason. Send her right in.”

Before the words finish leaving my lips, my friend comes striding energetically through the doorway. “My God, Ella, you look positively ghoulish, sitting in the reflected glow of that damn computer. Come on. We’re going outside for fresh air.”

“Mariah, I can’t,” I nearly whine—I’d really love to go out. “I promised Ian I wouldn’t leave the apartment. If I do, Mason has to shadow me.”

“Why in God’s name?” A look of horror washes over Mariah’s heavily made-up features.

“I’ve been threatened by one of Ian’s foes.” I deliberately chose the word foe over enemy because it doesn’t sound as ominous: I don’t want her to worry over me, too.

“Threatened?” she thunders. “In what manner?”

“Just forget it. How about I order take-out and we watch a movie together? I haven’t seen you in a dog’s age.”

“Ella, what the hell is going on? I need to know.”

I’m exhausted by it all myself. I relay to Mariah the facts as I know them, finishing with Ian’s trip to New York.

“How long is this threat going to continue? I mean, this crazy bitch can hold it over you for years, can’t she?”

“No,” I shake my head. “I’m hopeful that Ian and Daniel will figure out a way to stop it somehow. I’m not sure I want to even know how.”

“Who’s Daniel?”

Now I grin. “Oh, how I wish you could meet Daniel. He is a new friend of Ian’s and words are not fit to describe him: you have to see him to believe him.”

“Is he single?”

“’Fraid not, Mariah. But he’s still worth a gander, trust me. When he and Ian are in a room together, a girl doesn’t know where to put her eyes. It’s the kind of dilemma that’s the stuff of dreams—wet dreams, of course.” I laugh.

“Mmm, why are all the best ones taken?”

“Ah, the single girl’s lament. I know it well.”

“Oh, shut up, Ella. Look at the one you snagged. When does he get back anyway?”

I frown when I think about his open-ended itinerary. “I don’t know—I don’t think he knows either. I desperately want to join him but he says I’m better off here.”

Seeing me start to sink miserably into the couch, Mariah slaps my hand. “In that case, let’s get rip-roaring drunk and watch a comedy. How about the Marx Brothers?”

Mustering a grin, I nod my head in agreement. “Let’s do it.”

We fill a large crystal pitcher with
piña coladas—
heavy on the dark rum—with pineapple chunks and coconut milk that I found in the pantry. I find a movie in Ian’s library—he has a whole set of Marx Bros. films—and we hunker down to cheer ourselves up. During the middle of the movie, Mason comes into the room. “Ms. Strong, may I speak with you privately for a moment?”

“Sure, Mason,” I answer, as I hit the pause button on the television and hop up off the couch. Luckily, I stopped at my second drink so while I’m buzzed, I’m still in complete control. “What’s up?” I ask when we get into the hall.

“Mr. Blackmon asked me to inform you that the threat against you has been escalated. Apparently the woman involved asked Lucien Phillips to kidnap you and when he refused to cooperate, she informed him she’d enlist the Lithuanians. Mr. Blackmon said you’d understand. He’s very concerned about your wellbeing and he wants you to appreciate the level of threat against you right now. Trust me, Ms. Strong, you don’t want to mess around with the Russian mob.”

“The what?” I ask, my voice reaching into the octave of an insect drone.

Mason’s face goes bloodless: I’ve never seen anyone so pale before, as if he’s been exsanguinated.

“I see,” I say. “You assumed I knew and now realize I did not. Okay, Mason, I won’t let on but Ian should have told me. I know he didn’t because he doesn’t want me to worry but I need to know these things, especially when I’m so directly involved.”

“I don’t disagree.”

“Is he safe, Mason? In your professional estimation?”

“I just don’t know, Ms. Strong, but I wish I were with him in New York right about now.”

“That makes two of us.” I glumly rejoin Mariah but my enjoyment of
Duck Soup
has been severely compromised.

Mariah leaves at nine and I settle in for the night. I’m lying in bed, trying hard not to cry because I miss Ian so stupidly much, so I instead focus on the night before last. I’ve noticed that when Ian gets stressed out, his dominance emerges big time. That night, he’d come home from work in a stressed-out mood and an hour later asked me to go into the dungeon with him. Fact is, he hasn’t asked me to go in there since the bad, terrible, awful time when he whipped me with a single tail and I left the damn country in response. Naturally, I was on full alert and my heart was pounding so hard it was battering my chest wall, but I acquiesced, wanting to give him a good night because I was worried about
his
heart stewing in all that toxic soup triggered by stress.

We’d just finished dinner and were enjoying a tumbler of Drambuie when he brought up the subject.

“Come, Ella. I’d like to visit my dungeon with you. Are you game?”

I just looked at him quizzically. Really? I said nothing.

He smiled reassuringly. “You can ask any questions you like.”

“About your weapons?”

“About the
implements
, yes. I don’t consider them weapons, Ella, or I wouldn’t have them.”

As he led me by the hand, we walked upstairs to the locked room, and he began a guided tour of his wee dungeon. I slowly circuited the space, saying nothing, but pointing out each
implement
, as he prefers to call them. Ian is the master of euphemisms, after all—he should probably work for the government. I gestured at one that intrigued me.

“Riding crop.”

I pointed to another.

“Flogger.”

Yet another.

His voice dropped to a ne
arly inaudible decibel. “Single tail.”

Just the name forced ice up my spine. I quickly moved on, fingering a pretty one: it was long and almost tortoise-shell in color.

“That’s a cane, one of my favorites. She handles well.”

I arched a brow at his
gender characterization but said not a word, keeping my emotions close to the vest. I did, after all, learn from a master. I realized it’s the second time I’d characterized him as such in less than a minute.
My
master. In the very beginning, he instructed me to address him as such when in this room and I looked at him as if he’d shape-shifted into
Mephisto
—he is my own personal devil, isn’t he? I stopped at a chest and opened it, picking up a colorful rope-type of thing with black hooks on each end. What the hell?

“That’s a bungee cord. It’s for suspension but it makes a good implement of punishment, so I’ve learned,” he said, chuckling. “But then again, so do rulers, large spoons, small pans, or the belt I have on. It’s always fun to improvise.”