Twelve Hours (2 page)

The tablet shook in Alex Morgan’s hand as the train rocked side to side. She set it down on her lap in frustration. Reading was going to be impossible. She shut her eyes and tried to lean her head back but soon realized that the noise in the car was going to make sleep impossible, too. She opened her eyes and saw that Clark had his phone raised up to take a picture.

“Smile,” he said.

Clark Duffy, tall and gangly in a hoodie with red earbuds popped into his ear. Clark Duffy, who smoked clove cigarettes and played a badly tuned guitar on which he knew four chords. Clark Duffy, who’d been her friend for years, but had lately been making awkward passes at her, and had not taken her polite ignoring of those passes as the rejection that it was. This was building toward an unpleasant confrontation that she didn’t like to think about. It had gotten to the point that she was actually a little put off at making the trip down to New York with him.

“Wanna see?” he said, turning the phone’s screen toward her. She leaned forward. Normally she wouldn’t care how she turned out in other people’s pictures, but she was still getting used to her new pixie haircut, and the unfamiliarity of her own visage got the better of her. She was pleased to see that the short brown hair framed her face quite nicely, bringing out her brown eyes.

“Cool,” she said, leaning back and turning on her tablet again.

“You should have smiled,” he said. “You’ve got a really captivating smile. Your teeth are, like, super white and straight. Too bad you’re so short.”

She stuck her tongue out at him. “I’m five seven.”

“Oh, I get it, you’re a giant,” he said. “What’re you reading?”

“Just the news,” she said, hoping to avoid conversation.

“What’s so interesting in there anyway?” he asked, pulling out his earbuds and fiddling with his phone. “I don’t really follow that stuff.” He put the phone and earphones into the pouch in his hoodie.

“Something about Ramadani’s visit,” she said.

“I’ve heard that name before.” He frowned.

“The president of Iran,” she said. “Navid Ramadani? Ring a bell?”

“Ah,” he said, nodding. “I remember seeing that on the news. I mostly read
Pitchfork
.” He laughed. “How about giving me the highlights?”

“Well, he’s here for a state visit,” she said. “To discuss nuclear power, nuclear weapons, and conflict in the Middle East. Hold on,” she said, and searched for a picture on her tablet. She picked the first hit on the search, a portrait that showed his serious and vaguely handsome face head-on, with its well-defined jawline, thick eyebrows, and neatly trimmed beard. “Here,” she said, handing it to him.

Clark took it in his hands. “Looks young,” he said.

“He is, for a President,” said Alex.

“He’s one of the bad guys, right?” He handed her back the tablet.

Alex grimaced. “He’s actually hoping to put all that stuff behind us,” she said. “Everyone knows that he’s coming to the US to make a kind of peace offering.”

“
Everyone
knows?” He grinned.

“Well, everyone who reads about this kind of thing. He’s all about bringing the US and Iran closer together, putting the bad blood behind us. ”

“So he’s pretty different from the last one, right?”

“Yes. But not everyone in Iran is happy about it,” she said. “Especially the Ayatollah.”

Clark raised an eyebrow. “Now, I know I’ve heard that word before. I’m getting some vague association with the seventies.”

“The Supreme Leader of Iran,” she explained helpfully. “The first one came to power after the Iranian Revolution of 1979. This new guy, Nasr, who rose to power after the death of the old Ayatollah just last year. He’s—let’s say,
critical
of the US and the West in general, and would sooner see us as opponents.”

“Kind of an asshole, then?” he said with a puckish smile.

“Kind of an asshole,” Alex conceded. “And he
really
doesn’t see eye-to-eye with Ramadani.”

“That’s the current President, right?”

“Right,” said Alex.

“And he’s a good guy?”

“It’s not about good and bad guys, Clark. Everything in foreign policy is a mix of interests and agendas. Just like every other politician, he has complex ideas and interests and is under various pressures that often conflict with each other, and he’s doing his best to negotiate between them. At the moment, it looks like his stance and policies align well enough with our own interests as a country that we might come to call him an ally.”

Clark frowned, trying to sort this out. “But is this Ramadani guy a good guy or not?”

It was hopeless. “Let’s say he’s a pretty good guy.”

“All right. See? That’s all you needed to say. Nice and simple.”

Alex slumped in frustration. “So you’re meeting up with your dad in New York?” she asked, changing the subject.

“Yeah,” he said. “Mom didn’t invite him to Thanksgiving, so he really wanted me to spend the day with him today.”

“Well, that should be fun,” she said, not knowing quite what to say.

“You’re meeting your dad, too, right?” he asked. “But your parents aren’t divorced, are they?”

“Oh, no, my parents are super in love,” she said, and cringed at her own words. Clark’s parents’ divorce was always an awkward subject, and Alex never quite knew how to talk about it. He never seemed bothered by it, but she couldn’t imagine not having both her mother and father under the same roof. “Anyway,” she added, trying to forget her comment, “he had an early Thanksgiving dinner with us, and then went to the city. Business.”

“I wish we didn’t have all this dad stuff to deal with,” he said. “Maybe then we could’ve spent the day together instead.”

Alex pretended to be watching the scenery. “I guess.”

“Hey, isn’t your dad a classic car dealer?” Clark asked.

“Yeah, he is,” she said, affecting innocence. She was getting practiced at keeping up the lie about her father’s double life. “Why do you ask?”

“What kind of business does a classic car broker have on Thanksgiving anyway?”

Alex grinned in her mind at the secret she shared with her father. “Beats me.”

Dan Morgan walked on a patterned carpet past ornate furniture and knocked on the door to room 2722 of the Waldorf. He saw the pinpoint of light in the peephole disappear, then the deadbolt being undone. The door opened and was left ajar. Morgan took the cue to push it open and saw the back of a black silk nightgown and a long shock of blond hair. The acrid smell of smoke hit his nostrils as the figure turned around and leaned against a heavy carved wooden table, posing seductively and taking a long drag from her cigarette with full, ruby-red lips.

“I don’t think they allow smoking in here,” he said as he let himself into the foyer of the suite and scanned the room for potential threats. His trained eyes could assess a situation in seconds. Over the years, he, like many other covert operatives, had developed a sixth sense for danger. Nothing struck him as a potential threat, except the cream-skinned, hazel-eyed beauty in front of him.

Adele Sauvage, she called herself.

“But it’s
so early,
” she said, pouting, in a light French accent. “Can’t I have just one? Please?”

Her bathrobe was just loose enough to show a hint of a white lacy bra underneath. Her makeup was gently smudged, but Morgan could tell it had been freshly applied. Her feet arched up in black stiletto heels. Her hair was messy—not like the hair a woman who had really just woken up, but lightly tousled, as women do to give the faintest hint that they have just been having sex. The whole setup was too casual not to have been meticulously arranged. Most men wouldn’t notice, but for a woman like Adele, sex was a deadly weapon. In Morgan’s line of work, it paid to know all about deadly weapons.

“Smoke, or don’t,” he said, closing the door behind him. “I don’t care. We have business to do here.”

“Oh, but business is so boring.”

“Do you need time to make yourself decent?”

“Oh, I’m
never
decent,” she said with a girlish giggle, sitting down on an overstuffed loveseat. “Why don’t we do something
fun
? Let’s have a drink.”

“I don’t drink. And it’s seven in the morning.”

“You’re no
fun,
” she pouted. “I think I like your friend Peter better.”

“Peter Conley is an idiot for a skirt,” said Morgan. “But I have trouble believing even he would fall for this whole routine.” He wondered if anyone did as he caught sight of himself in the mirror. With short-cropped dark brown hair and strong, masculine features, he was tall and had a powerful body. And yet, he didn’t flatter himself to think that Adele’s behavior had anything to do with his looks.

“Routine?”

“This whole . . . Adele Sauvage persona.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about.” She lifted a well-toned leg onto the sofa. “I
am
Adele Sauvage.”

“
You
are Marjorie Francis from Akron, Ohio,” said Morgan, closing the curtains in the foyer. “Your hair comes from a bottle and your accent comes from Brigitte Bardot movies.”

Adele smiled. “You’ve got the tongue of a viper.”

“I’m just not the kind of sap who makes up your clientele.”

“People fall for what they want to fall for,” said Adele, her voice now adult and self-assured. Morgan turned around to look at her. She had risen, her coquettish pose replaced by a disdainful hand on her hip. “You learn that when you trade in fantasy. But I don’t think I have to tell
you
that, do I, Mr. Secret Agent Man?”

“Morgan will do fine,” he said. “Now, I understand you have something for me?”

“I do,” she said, with a sly grin. “And you have something for me?”

“It’s on its way,” said Morgan. “As a matter of fact, your dear friend Peter Conley is bringing it to us.”

“Please tell me he’s not bringing
cash,
” she said. “I specifically asked no cash.”

“No, no money,” said Morgan. “We’re bringing a very expensive gift from an anonymous admirer. A valuable antique that we guarantee can be sold at auction for at least two hundred thousand.”

“Ooh, is it shiny?”

“
Very
shiny,” said Morgan. “That would be us holding up our end of the bargain. Now, where’s yours?”

“My end of the bargain is right here,” she said, reaching into her robe. Morgan’s hand went for his gun, which wasn’t there—it wouldn’t have made it past the hotel’s metal detectors. But there was no danger. She merely pulled out the stamp-sized memory card that Conley had given her two nights before and held it between her thumb and index finger. “The contents of the smart phone of Jasper Elliott.”

Morgan reached for it, but she slipped it back into her robe. “No, no, no,
monsieur
Morgan. Not until my payment arrives.”

Morgan threw up his hands. “Fair enough. Conley should be on his way.”

“I suppose we’ll have to stand each other’s company for a few more minutes, then.” Adele circled the table.

“Nice digs we’ve set you up with,” he said, looking around the suite. The carpet and upholstery were sky blue, offset by an off-white armchair and beige wallpaper. Altogether, the seats, the wrought iron coffee table, the Tiffany fireplace screen, the end table, and the desk gave the suite a feeling of clutter. Morgan’s wife, Jenny, the interior decorator, would have loved it. Morgan liked his spaces to be spare.

“Oh, please,” she said. “At my rates, this is on the low end for my clients. Plus, when you have lived in the palace of the Sultan of Brunei, there is little in the way of luxury that can impress you.”

Morgan raised his eyebrows in interest. “You’ll have to tell me all about that someday.”

“I really don’t,” she said.

Morgan sat back in the armchair, which was stiff and uncomfortable for all its fanciness. “I guess discretion is a big deal in your line of work.”

“Frankly, it’s more for what they say than what they do,” she said. “It’s the dirty little secret of my profession, Mr. Morgan. We spend quite a bit more time having conversations than on our backs. There’s a premium on a girl who can talk about everything from Shakespeare to Derrida to the Red Sox.”

“What’s a girl who can talk Shakespeare and Derrida doing being an escort?”

“To make the kind of money I make at my age,” she said, “the only other way is to be a different kind of whore on Wall Street.” She leaned in and whispered, “I think my kind is much more dignified.”

Morgan flashed a grin at her, and she returned it until something seemed to catch her eye though the narrow opening between the curtains. Morgan followed her gaze to see a procession of police cars.

“What the hell?” He stood up to get a clearer view. He tried to get his face flat against the window in order to see as far up Park Avenue as possible. He made out a couple of town cars bearing flags with green and red details.

He heard the beeping of his radio communicator in his ear. Conley was hailing him. “Morgan here. What’s happening? Thanksgiving Day parade come a day late?”

“It’s Ramadani,” said Conley. “The President of Iran. I just got off the phone with Bloch.”

“He was supposed to—”

“Stay at the Plaza, I know,” cut in Conley. “Change of plans, evidently. I got the package, but I’m not getting inside until this dies down.”

“All right,” said Morgan. “Keep me posted. Out.” He cut the mic and turned to Adele. “Is there any chance I could get that little piece of plastic off of you on an IOU?”

“Oh, baby, sorry, but I don’t work on credit,” she said. “Rule number one.” She sat back on the white armchair, extending her legs on an ottoman and letting her high heels dangle off her toes. “You want it, you’ve got to pay for it.”

He looked through the half-drawn curtain at the loose police cordon that was forming around the hotel entrance. A crowd was gathering, and he saw no sign of Conley. “Looks like it’s going to be awhile.” He thought about Alex. She’d be arriving at Grand Central Terminal pretty soon, and it was getting increasingly unlikely that he’d be able to meet her there.

“Honey, I’ve got all day,” she said. “It’s not like I was going outside on Black Friday, anyway.
I
beat the crowds by staying in.”

“Well, it looks like the crowds came to us,” he said.

“I can think of worse places to be stuck,” said Adele, and picked up the receiver on her hotel phone. “Breakfast? You’re buying.”