“That doesn’t make it okay!”
Cole plucked his shirt out of my hand and repositioned it as he asked, “Why don’t you want anyone to know the real date you were born?”
“Because I hate surprise parties. And I’m not interested in sharing my best secrets with snoops like you.” Hoping to head off more questions, I tapped the thin plastic receiver sitting inside my ear, just above the lobe, activating my connection to: “Bergman? He’s slipped our tail. Have you got a read on him?”
“Gimme a sec; someone’s at the door.”
Our technical consultant’s clear reply confirmed my suspicion that we were stil within two miles of him and the Riad Almoravid
where
we’d
set
up
temporary
headquarters. We’d only left the town square, which locals cal ed the Djemaa el Fna, twenty minutes before. And since the fountain in our riad’s courtyard could probably shoot a few sprinkles onto the square’s crowds of merchants, performers, and shoppers on a windy day, I’d figured we were within the limits of Bergman’s communications gizmo, which Cole had named the Party Line. Nice to be right about that, at least.
Now, instead of using his own transmitter, Cole leaned forward and spoke into the glamorous brown mole I’d stuck just to the left of my upper lip. “Bergman, today is Jaz’s birthday. We need cake!”
I glared. “
“And, Miles, you can just ignore what’s-his-face completely.
Just find—” I stopped when the swearing began.
Cole nodded wisely. “See what happens when people hang around you? Poor Bergman probably didn’t even know what those words meant before you lived with him.”
“Nobody should be blamed for the language they teach their roommates in col ege. Right, Miles?” Before my oldest and smartest friend could reply, Cole said, “Your potty mouth is gonna get you in trouble someday.” He turned his head, like Bergman was skulking in the shadows next to us. “Right, dude?” Bergman growled, “Goddammit, she’s back! I thought hotel owners had better things to do than annoy their guests every ten minutes!” We heard the door open. “I have plenty of towels—”
“Hel o, Monsieur Bergman.” It was the 1-900-Fantasy voice of Monique Landry, stil accented with Paris despite the decades she’d spent away from home. Contrary to our genius’s opinion, she’d been nothing but courteous and helpful. Except to Miles, who’d gotten extra snacks and the fluffy pil ows from day one. Her twenty years in the Guests-R-Us biz had definitely honed her into the perfect hostess.
And somehow she’d made the fact that she looked fabulous for a widow in her late forties (like Demi Moore with actual meat on her bones and enough past hardships to lace her eyes with compassion) part of the riad’s mystique. Unfortunately al Bergman had noticed so far was that she wore brightly flowered dresses and “bothered” him a lot.
We heard her say, “I noticed you were working late so I had Chef Henri fix you a plate of beignets and a cup of green tea.”
And Bergman’s reply: “I’m kind of busy here, Monique.
And I’m stil ful from—” I heard a smothering sort of sound backed by attempted talking, which I interpreted as Monique stuffing one of the smal fried doughnuts into his Monique stuffing one of the smal fried doughnuts into his mouth. “Hey,” he said after he’d final y worked his teeth around the dessert. “That’s good!”
“Lovely,” she purred. “Henri wil be delighted. And how is the world’s weather today?”
When we’d moved into the riad three days earlier, we’d explained Bergman’s mass of electronics by tel ing Monique that we were studying climate change.
Miles chuckled. Uh-oh. I knew exactly what expression went with that sound. His eyebrow had just gone up. He held his hand out as if a pipe fil ed it. And now he was shaking his head from side to side as if he’d just been caught inside a bel tower at noon. “Wel , the weather waits for no one, my dear. I’d explain, but I’m sure the technical terms would make your head spin. We are, in fact, in the middle of a testing cycle, so I must get back to work. So good of you to come.”
Cole and I cringed as we waited for Monique to order him off his high horse—because he looked ridiculous riding sidesaddle—and stop insulting her intel igence. Instead we heard her hand, gently patting his cheek. “You are so adorable! Al right, then, I’l leave you to your work.
Tomorrow morning we have fresh bread and Berber omelets for breakfast. And just for you, I wil ask Chef Henri to make his famous chocolate eclairs!”
“But I don’t eat breakfast,” Bergman muttered. After the door had clicked shut.
Cole said, “So good of you to come? Dude, who are you, Queen Elizabeth?”
Bergman huffed, “I was trying to get her to leave without pissing her off! What would you have done?” I said, “I’d have gotten on my knees and thanked her for those eclairs. Be nice, Miles. You need the calories.” Bergman muttered, “Are we working, or what?” I sighed. “Constantly. So get busy, wil ya?” I imagined him checking his satel ite maps and hacked surveil ance video, not to mention the tracker he’d attached to our target’s right boot heel. While we waited for his pronouncement, Cole reached behind his back and pul ed a tranquilizer gun out from under the light brown jacket he wore over his T-shirts. The weapon blended so perfectly with his black jeans that it disappeared when he dropped his hands to his sides.
“That looks… lethal.”
