“Just a little,” Kristie drawled. “The trip to South America, not to mention the break-in, could already get us both fired.”
“Unless we get the Brigadier’s identity,” Miranda reminded her. “And we will, so don’t worry.”
Kristie nodded. “So? We’re set?”
“I think so.”
“If I’ve forgotten something, just let me know. In addition to the dedicated phone number for the escort service, you’ve got my direct SPIN lines, here and at the office. Call day or night. I can get money, papers, information to you within minutes.”
“Okay.” Miranda repacked the envelope, still disappointed that they were now targeting Gresley instead of Kell. She knew she needed to trust Kristie’s instincts, but also knew in her gut that Kell would be so thrilled to get his hands on Night Arrow, he might just set aside his suspicions and meet with Jennifer Aguilar, industrial spy, who would then seduce him into betraying the Brigade.
The vial of HeetSeek was still on the coffee table, so Miranda murmured, “I usually carry cards with me on assignments, with the name of a fake escort service, and a phone number for appointments. That sort of thing. Not really necessary, I suppose, but sometimes they ask. Maybe I’ll stop at an all-night copy shop-”
“Not necessary. I can print some up right here,” Kristie assured her, jumping up and crossing to her desk. “I should have thought of cards. That’s a nice touch.”
As soon as the spinner was absorbed with her work, Miranda took a deep breath, then snatched up the vial and slipped it into the pocket of her sweatshirt.
With any luck, the Gresley plan would work. But Miranda wasn’t coming home without the identity of the Brigadier-not after all this!-so if Miranda Duncan couldn’t get the information out of Englishman, Jennifer Aguilar would have no choice but to get it out of Jonathan Kell.
As Miranda walked past the endless panels of floor-to-ceiling mirrors that lined the entrance hall of Club Fortuna, multiple images of her metallic dress shimmered wildly, thanks to the huge chandeliers that blazed overhead. She was pleased with the effect, noting in particular how the copper highlights in her hair were accentuated by the sumptuous lighting. She couldn’t have asked for a better introduction to Alexander Gresley’s world, and only hoped that he was one of the throng of men at the bar who were openly staring at her.
The CIA had taught her to make an entrance, and so she didn’t shrink from the attention, nor did she respond to it. She had learned that the best approach was to pretend her admirers didn’t exist, at least, not right away. Pausing a few yards from the bar, she scanned the room, paying attention to the lights, the fountains, the music and chatter emanating from the casino in the distance-and then, as if noticing them for the first time, she looked directly at her audience and smiled in delighted surprise, sizing them up with unabashed curiosity just as they had been doing to her.
She licked her lips, her gaze settling on one particularly attractive man, then on another. Then she sighed, consulted the tiny watch face on her diamond wristband, and turned away from the onlookers, back toward the doorway. She wanted everyone to know that she was being kept waiting, and that she wasn’t accustomed to such disrespect.
“May I help you, Miss?”
Turning, she smiled into the face of a well-groomed man in his early thirties dressed in a black tuxedo.
“I’m Edward,” the man told her, bowing slightly. “Is this your first visit to the Fortuna? I’d be happy to find you a table. Or if you’re here to gamble, I can help you get situated. Either way, several of the gentlemen at the bar are insisting on buying you a drink, so allow me to serve you.”
“Aren’t you sweet?” She looked at her watch again. “I’m meeting an acquaintance, but I guess he’s running late. Perhaps you know him? John O’Neill? He’s an American banker. I understand he’s a member.”
“I didn’t realize Mr. O’Neill was in London. It will be wonderful to see him again.” The waiter inclined his head toward the casino. “Mr. O’Neill usually sits in the alcove with some of the other longtime members. Would you like to wait there? I’m sure it won’t be long.”
Miranda bit her lip. “Our arrangement was to meet here, in the entrance. But he’s already forty minutes late. And this feels so public. So, yes, thank you. The alcove sounds lovely.”
You’re a genius, she told Kristie as she followed the waiter through the bustling casino. I don’t know how you knew about John O’Neill, but he’s definitely my ticket into the sanctum sanctorum of this place.
Kristie had explained to Miranda that the Fortuna was a club within a club. Anyone off the street with acceptable attire and a big wallet could play there, but most of them never saw the real Fortuna, which was tucked in the back where a second bar and an elite staff saw to the needs of the ultrawealthy members. Knowing that Alexander Gresley spent almost every evening in the exclusive section of the club, the spinner had studied the member list until she found an American bachelor whose appearances at the club were rare and whose schedule tended to be unpredictable. She then confirmed that he hadn’t been to London recently and was not expected there in the next few weeks.
Against that backdrop, she had provided Miranda with enough information on O’Neill to allow her to field questions from anyone but the closest of friends. If in fact Miranda had the bad luck to come face-to-face with one of O’Neill’s best buddies, she’d have to wing it. But the spinner had assured her such a confrontation was unlikely, and Miranda had already learned that Kristie’s scenarios were generally foolproof, so she wasn’t worried.
The casino was crowded, but nowhere near capacity, which Miranda attributed to the fact that it was Sunday night. Still, there was a contagious excitement to the atmosphere, as the sounds and smells-bells ringing, cards being shuffled, cigar smoke wafting in tiny clouds, the roulette wheel spinning wildly-assaulted her. She had a real fondness for roulette, not because she ever walked away with winnings, but because the wheel always let her break even, and she appreciated that mixture of luck, risk and dependability.
It was tempting to pause and place a bet, just to see if her luck was with her that evening, but she was anxious to make contact with Alexander Gresley. After that, she could use her love of the game as a fun way to flirt with the target. Plus, it would help explain why she wasn’t willing to drink too much, an issue that always came up in these escort situations, where the men felt compelled to try and gain the upper hand by plying her with liquor. And as a paid escort, she was supposed to go along with their every whim, assuming it didn’t endanger her.
“Watch your step,” the waiter instructed her as they reached a staircase covered with red carpet that led to a mezzanine. Two men flanked the banisters, and while they were dressed in tuxedos with respectful expressions on their faces, their presence was clearly meant to discourage nonmembers from proceeding any farther. Miranda gave each of them a flirtatious smile, and was pleased when their eyes twinkled in return, showing her they knew exactly what she was, and how pleased the members would be to meet her.
She climbed the steps slowly, making sure the slits in her skirt flared to reveal as much leg, along with her provocative lace-topped stockings and sexy black garters, as possible. Then she followed the waiter along the inner wall, which was made of frosted panels of glass that allowed the members a sense of the larger casino without lessening their privacy. Finally they reached an ornate set of double doors, again guarded by two well-dressed men.
“This is Miranda Duncan. Mr. John O’Neill’s date for the evening,” the waiter explained. “Mr. O’Neill instructed her to wait at the bar, but I felt she’d be more comfortable in the alcove.”
“We didn’t realize Mr. O’Neill was in London,” the taller of the two guards murmured.
Miranda smiled. “I don’t have many details, other than the fact that he wanted me to meet him here. I flew in from New York just for the opportunity.”
The opportunity…
It was a simple code, well understood by those in the escort trade, and by the high-class bouncers who were expected by customers to distinguish between a paid date-to be treated with the utmost respect-and a hooker.
“Do you have a business card?” the man asked, adding with an admiring smile, “I’m sure the other clients will be asking me for it.”
“You’re sweet.” Miranda dipped into her black beaded bag and handed one of Kristie’s newly printed creations to each of the guards. “As I said, I work mainly in New York, but for special occasions, arrangements can be made through my office.” Arching a playful eyebrow, she insisted, “I could easily be persuaded to spend more time here. It’s charming.”
The man smiled, then swung the doors wide open. “Let us know if we can be of service, Miss Duncan. Edward
