The Gauntlet Assassin (18 page)

The cafe was crowded and noisy, so Paul keyed in his response:
The
bidding starts at $20,000. But I’m not telling you my secrets. You have to trust me.
He wanted to brag that he’d successfully completed such a mission before, but he resisted the urge.

Karina came right back to him:
What’s the position?

Paul keyed:
deputy inspector general.

She was silent after that. Paul imagined her surfing the net to learn more about the position. Maybe she’d find out Robert Morales was under investigation. Then she might think she could save her money and just wait for him to be fired.
Damn
. Had he blown it? Was Morales the wrong pick?

The waitress brought his tea and he sipped it slowly, reading a new thriller on his Dock and waiting. Finally, Karina got back to him:
Morales is going down anyway. Am I on his replacement list?

She knew about the database! Paul’s mind whirled with possible scenarios. If he told her she was on the list, then she would know she had a one in three chance anyway and might not pay for a vague guarantee. If he told her she wasn’t on the list but that he could get her an interview, would that give her more motivation to pay?

He finally keyed in:
I can guarantee the job. Make me an offer.

She came back with:
I’ll think about it.

Paul hurried out of the coffee shop and started for home. He still had to complete a workout and finish sorting through Isabel’s folders. She was the last of the generation who still kept paper copies of everything, and he was trying to wrap up her affairs. He held a tiny hope that he would come across some stock certificates or something of value. He’d felt guilty the first time he’d thought it, then forgave himself. Her cremation had been expensive and he’d paid for it himself, because Isabel had died with only $758 in a checking account.

Paul did an hour with his virtual exerciser, showered, and sat down with a stack of Isabel’s file folders. He fed most of the paper into a shredder as he went along. He was engrossed in his task when his iCom beeped at 8:46. He recognized James Olbert’s number and quickly tapped open the text:
If you’re soliciting a bribe, it’s illegal and I plan to report you.

Chapter 21

Paul’s heart missed a beat. He dropped the iCom as though it had burned him and jumped from his reading chair. Could they track Olbert’s message to his apartment? Paul shoved the device in his pants pocket, grabbed a coat, and hurried out with only a few comforting words to Lilly. He had to throw away the iCom and abandon the mission. The thought of being investigated filled him with dread. Sweat seeped out of his pores under his heavy winter clothes.

In the hallway, Mrs. Olson stepped out of her apartment. “Hi Paul. Are you going out for a walk?”

“I’m running an errand and I’m late.” He spun away and made a dash for the stairs. He hadn’t meant to be rude, but his brain was scrambling with worst-case scenarios and he couldn’t focus on anything else. What if they could track the message to his apartment? Why had he opened it there? He’d been careful the first time to send and receive the texts in public places. Would it even matter where the device ended up now? Had he already blown it?

Paul pounded down the stairs, his pulse accelerating with every step. He rushed out into the snow and headed for the bus stop. He tried to reassure himself that iCom technology could only track where a message was sent from, because of the ping on the tower that relayed it, but he suspected AmGo had put a GPS in every device. If authorities investigated James Olbert’s complaint, they probably would find the iCom, but maybe not the location of where it had last been used. Wearing winter gloves, Paul wiped his prints off the unit and prayed for everything to turn out okay.

He jumped on a bus and rode it south to a shopping center five miles away. Paul tossed the unit in a trashcan just outside the entrance and hurried back to the bus stop. As he rode away from the incriminating evidence, relief settled in. By the time he reached home, he felt confident he was safe. Olbert probably wouldn’t even report the incident. No one with a good job willingly brought negative attention to themselves.

At home, Paul made hot tea and snuggled with Lilly for a few minutes. Afterward, he sat down with his iCom and pressed the quick key to connect with Isabel. A second later, he remembered she was gone and would never answer his messages again. Paul burst into tears and sobbed uncontrollably. Startled by his volatile emotions, he trotted to the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face until he felt calmer. He dried off and stared at his beautiful new nose, reminding himself that he had a date with Camille soon. He would not be alone for long, he promised.

The next morning at work, he tapped on his NetCom to see his message blinking, meaning he’d received a video marked
priority
. Paul opened the message and Stacia appeared. “Come to my office as soon as you get in.”

Anxiety flooded him. Was this about his arrangement activities? How could it be? He grabbed his Dock for taking notes and rushed down the hall to the corner office. Stacia’s door was open so he stepped in. “You wanted to see me?”

“Have a seat.”

Paul sat on the edge of the visitor chair and willed himself to be calm. It was just a meeting with his boss.
Why was his heart racing so?

“I’ve had some complaints about your modification of the new payroll system. People say data disappears and their access is intermittent. What happened?”

Paul was taken aback. “I don’t know. I’ll look at the code.”

“I need it fixed, not just looked at.” Her stare matched her tone.

“I’ll get it done immediately.”

“Good.” She softened a little. “I know you’ve had a personal loss recently, but you need to either take some time off and let us bring in a temporary tech replacement, or you need to keep your work up to standard.”

Rage blew through his veins, threatening to consume him. “I don’t need time off. I’ll be a hundred percent going forward.” He choked back three other things he wanted to say.

Stacia nodded. “Then we’re done here.”

Paul left without looking at her.
Bitch!
He clumped down the hall.
Director of personnel and she had no clue how to manage people.
She needed to be replaced. As he sat down at his desk, it occurred to Paul that Stacia was a Level C employee and had submitted a list of replacements to him. He searched his memory for their names and realized one person on her list came from their department. The other two headed human resources at mid-level companies. The federal government couldn’t afford to hire top-level candidates.

Wouldn’t it be satisfying to sell Stacia’s job?
He was tempted to begin the search immediately, but resisted, saving it for after work. He had a program to examine and correct.

The next few days passed smoothly. He fixed two small glitches in the code for how payroll data was stored and finally joined the social networking site WorldChat. Paul posted a photo with his new nose, realizing his reluctance to share his homely face online had been what kept him from joining until now. Best of all, no federal agents came to question him about sending messages that could be labeled
extortion
. Paul started to think Olbert’s threat was empty. He wondered if he should buy another prepaid iCom and contact Karina Simmons again. She’d seemed quite interested in his proposition.

Upon waking Friday morning, his first thought was:
I have a date with Camille tonight. I have something to look forward to
. He burst from bed feeling happy and carried out his morning routine with a new sense of purpose. He brewed a pot of jasmine green tea, took Lilly out for a short walk, then read the
Wall Street Journal
. He found it difficult to concentrate on the news. He took a diet pill, ate two soft-boiled eggs, and hoped he would focus better at work.

When he hadn’t heard from Camille by three that afternoon, Paul began to worry. Had she forgotten about their date? Should he text her with a friendly note or would that seem needy? He wished he had her personal number so he wouldn’t have to use the system at work. He thought about walking down to her office but that seemed invasive for a non-work issue. He also feared she had changed her mind and he couldn’t face that in person. At 4:05 he sent her a quick text:
How should I dress this evening? Suit and tie or less formal? See you at 7.—Paul

The tone was light and the message purposeful, he thought. It would be fine. He’d already bought a new charcoal-suede jacket for the evening and was eager to wear it. He sweated the last hour of work, waiting to hear back. At 5:03, she replied:
Hectic day for me. Dress is business casual. See you at 7.

Paul’s shoulders relaxed and he found himself smiling. His bus didn’t leave until 5:23, so he spent a few minutes in the replacement database looking at Stacia’s candidates. Why not? He could use the cash…and a new boss.

He showered for the second time that day, applied a heavy layer of deodorant, and dressed in gray slacks and a short-sleeved polo shirt. He glanced around his apartment for anything that might need straightening. He’d vacuumed and washed his sheets the day before. Everything else was as clean as always. He had no real hope that Camille would come up to his apartment after dinner, but it would be shameful to be unprepared in case a miracle happened.

He took a MetaboSlim and debated about whether he should meet her downstairs in the lobby. He didn’t want her to think he was ashamed of his home, which he was not. He brushed his teeth again and paced the apartment, too wound up to read.

Camille arrived a little after seven. “Sorry I’m running late. Ready?” She wore a tight-fitting black dress with a short white sweater that covered her arms and six inches of her upper body. Her hair was swept up like the time they’d met for drinks. Stunning!

Paul stepped out and they started walking to the elevator. “You look terrific.” He kicked himself for not buying flowers.

“Thanks. So do you. I like your jacket.”

Maybe this date would turn out okay.

Paul tried to like Camille’s friends, a couple in their mid-thirties who both worked as consultants, Michael in finance and Brianna in marketing. But they were sleek and smug and seemed to do their best to exclude him from the conversation. They chatted about social engineering, market speculation, and when the economy might rebound. Brianna even complained about the “unsightliness” of the homeless people and the lines in front of the soup kitchens every day.

Paul grew bored and irritated, distracted by the restaurant’s ridiculously high prices and tiny portions. Who even liked sushi? And was he supposed to pay for Camille’s dinner even though she’d invited him? He knew he should offer, so he did, but she waved him off.

They parted company with the power couple in front of the restaurant, and Camille exchanged hugs with both. Eager to be alone with his date, Paul was relieved to see them walk away.

In her car, an expensive new electrical, Camille asked, “Did you like my friends? You were kind of quiet.”

“They’re fine. I’m just a little shy with people at first.”

She laughed. “They can be rather intimidating.” Camille started the car and exited the parking lot. Paul wished he were driving. He worked up his nerve to make a suggestion. “Should we stop at a club for a drink?” He hadn’t set foot in a club in a decade.

“Maybe some other time. I’m tired and I have early plans for tomorrow.”

Paul wanted to ask what they were, but Camille started talking again. “I made the changes you suggested to my resumé, and I sent the new version to Thaddeus Morton. He said he’d keep me in mind.”

“That’s terrific.” Paul didn’t understand her fascination. “What is it about the employment commissioner’s job that attracts you?”

“Are you kidding?” She stopped at a traffic light and turned to stare. “First, there’s the power of brokering all those deals for jobs around the country. I would love that. Then there’s the Gauntlet with its global audience and the most amazing week of programming all year.”

Suddenly, she leaned over and kissed him on the mouth, pressing into him with passionless intensity. Rockets flared for Paul, but Camille pulled back just as quickly as she’d leaned in. “I want the job, Paul. You need to get me on his replacement list. I know you can do it.” She squeezed his thigh, gunned the engine, and raced down Columbia Road.

Aroused and confused, Paul didn’t trust himself to speak. If he understood correctly, she’d given him a taste of what she had to offer if he made things happen for her. Paul knew he was being used and didn’t care. He wanted more of Camille. “I have an idea,” he said finally.

“What is it?”

“I can’t tell you yet.” He was a little smarter than she gave him credit for. “Let’s talk about something else for a while.”

On the rest of the drive home, they made conversation, but neither had their heart in it. Paul kept thinking about Camille naked and on her knees. He suspected she was thinking about doing the commissioner’s job and making important announcements on the Gauntlet program. Paul visualized them having sex in front of the broadcast cameras. He realized she’d asked him something. He shook his head to clear it. “What did you say?”

“I asked if you had any family bedsides your foster mother who died.”

“No. That’s the tragedy of the foster system. You often lose everybody before you reach adulthood.”

“That’s sad.” Camille turned down his street and pulled up in front of the tall building. “I like you, Paul. I think we could be good for each other.”

Paul boldly leaned in and kissed her again. Their embrace was deep and lingering and he didn’t want to stop. Camille seemed to enjoy it as well. At the exact moment when they were both about to shift into a frantic needy passion, Camille pulled back.

“Good night, Paul.”

Chapter 22

Wed., May 10, 9:25 a.m.