Killers of a Certain Age(15)

I stepped behind the espresso machine, peeling open one of the mandarins while I waited. I popped a segment into my mouth and it was like eating sunshine, sharp and juicy and sweeter than a first kiss. The outer door opened and I stooped, peering around the edge of the machine. I caught sight of a young male form dressed in the liner’s uniform of white cargo shorts—tighter than you’d expect—and snug white polo, spotless and crisp. He looked tidy, but a little thicker through the shoulders than most of the crew we’d met.

That heavy ass wasn’t built from hauling around crates of tangerines, either, I realized. He bulged in places I didn’t like. Forty years ago, men in my line of work were meant to blend in, the muscles slim and practical, fit for shimmying into an upstairs window or slipping out of tight spaces. The new recruits were freighted with gym muscles that did nothing but slow them down in a chase. They relied on guns and grenades, preferring to blow things up and make a mess instead of handling their business with a little finesse. I knew exactly what I was looking at, and when he turned and I saw his profile, I had a name to put with the ass.

Brad Fogerty, a junior field operative from the Museum. I opened my mouth to say hey, but before I could ease myself out of my hiding place, I froze. Brad was here undercover, masquerading as a member of the crew. That meant he was working. And if he was working, he knew we were on board—knew it and hadn’t made contact. There were a hundred reasons another field agent might not make contact with us and none of them were good.

He passed close by me, close enough that I could read the name tag clipped to his polo. kevin c.

I held my breath until he went inside the cooler. I darted out and made my way straight back to the pool. Mary Alice was eating a croissant, large flakes scattered across her shirt like buttery confetti. Helen was nibbling at an English muffin.

Natalie had taken off her shirt and was staring down in dismay at her drooping bikini top. “I’m telling you, my tits are like two scoops of ice cream somebody has left out in the sun, just melted halfway down my chest with the cherries pointing south.” She cupped her hand under one, giving it an experimental lift. She dropped her hand and it fell back into place.

Mary Alice noticed me then and looked up. “Natalie was explaining to us the state of her tits,” she said helpfully. “How are yours, dear?”

Natalie snorted. “Either Billie’s had a procedure or that swimsuit is doing god’s work. They’re jacked up to her collarbones just like when she was eighteen.”

Helen’s grief laid on her like a fog, but she was always intuitive. She spoke up. “Something’s wrong. What is it, Billie?”

“We’ve got trouble.”





CHAPTER SIX



One of the skills we learned in training was how to shorthand a situation. I briefed them in a few sentences.

“Brad and I worked together in Nairobi,” I finished. “If he’s here, dressed as a member of the crew, he’s on a job.”

Helen nodded. “He moved into munitions after Nairobi. He’s done well there. He and I did a job in Bucharest and his work was impressive. He managed to bring down an entire wing of the embassy with minimal collateral damage to the rest of the building.”

I wasn’t surprised she remembered him. Helen made notes in a Tiffany address book in her meticulous penmanship, tiny entries for every person she’d ever met, written with a Mark Cross pencil engraved with her initials. Pencil because Helen didn’t like scratch-outs. She would carefully erase anyone who died or fell out of her orbit. No matter how many times Helen and I scrapped, I always knew she’d never be really done with me unless she erased me from her book.

Mary Alice’s reaction was succinct. “Shit.”

Natalie reached for her shirt, buttoning it over her bikini top. “It doesn’t mean he is here for one of us.”

“Jesus, Natalie, you still don’t know how to face a fact,” I said. She reared back as if I’d slapped her, and I almost apologized. But I don’t believe in saying sorry when you’re not.

“There are ninety-six other passengers on this boat and as many crew,” Natalie replied coldly. “Any one of them could be his mark.”

“Natalie is right,” Helen put in. “We shouldn’t jump to conclusions until we know more.”

Mary Alice purled a few times—or whatever it is knitters do. When she reached the end of the row, she stabbed the needles into the ball of yarn and put it aside. “Alright. So we find out more. One of us will have to discreetly make contact and give him an opportunity to explain.”

“I’ll do it,” I said, reaching for my mimosa. “But if one of us is the mark, approaching him openly is as good as inviting him to take a shot. I’ll have a look around his cabin and see if I can get a handle on what he’s doing. If he shows up, I’ll give him a chance to explain.”

Mary Alice nodded thoughtfully. “You need backup. Besides, it will look less suspicious if two of us are found wandering around together. I’ll go.”

I slid my glance over to Helen. “I think I’d rather have Helen, if it’s all the same,” I said easily.

Helen looked up, startled, then took a gulp of her Bloody Mary.

“Of course.” But her knuckles were bone-white on her glass and I wondered if she was really up for it.