“Aunt Eileen,” I said. “Fancy running into you! I take it you saw me here in one of your dreams.”
“Of course, so I came down to meet you.” She wagged a finger at me. “Really, Nola darling, it was awfully mean of you to come home and never call.”
“I don’t want Mother to know—”
“Not one word. I promise.”
She smiled. I smiled.
“And the rest of the family?” I said.
“Doing well, most of them—” She let the words trail off.
“How’s my little brother?” I could guess at the reason behind her reluctance.
“Still trying to transform himself.” Aunt Eileen rolled her eyes heavenward. “I do not have the slightest idea, not the very slightest, why Michael wants to be a werewolf, but he does.”
“I was afraid of that.”
“After what happened to Patrick, you’d think he’d have learned, but no.”
“Let’s not talk about Patrick. I don’t want to cry in public.”
“I understand, dear.” Aunt Eileen paused, glancing around her. “I don’t think anyone can overhear us.”
Traffic was rushing by, the wind was sighing through the concrete canyon behind us. I let my mind go to Search Mode: Danger and felt nothing.
“I don’t think so, either,” I said. “Why the secrecy?”
“Well, I’ve been having a really awful dream about you, and you never know who’s where.” She glanced around for a second time. “In the dream someone wants to kill you.”
When she comes out with statements like that, I’ve never known her to be wrong. “Uh, where is this supposed to happen?” I said.
“Somewhere in San Francisco.” She lifted one Chanel-clad shoulder in a nervous shrug. “I certainly hope I’m wrong this time. It’s all been very distressing, especially once I realized you’d come home.”
“Can you see what he looks like?”
“No, which is so annoying! He dresses like Sam Spade. He’s in black and white even when the rest of the dream’s in color. Very shadowy. Very Thirties.” She gave me a sad look. “If you’d called me when you got in, I would have told you earlier.”
“I’m sorry now I didn’t. Can I buy you lunch to make up for it?”
“Some other day, I’d love that, but I have to go to the dentist.” She wrinkled her nose. “How I hate it, but then, everyone does. I really must run, but I saw you here when I was waking up this morning, and so I thought I’d just catch up with you. You should go to the police about this person.”
“And what am I going to tell them? My aunt had a dream?”
“Um, I suppose they wouldn’t take it very seriously. I do wish you’d get a regular job, Nola. Something safe.”
“It would bore me to tears.”
I had never wanted her to know about my real work, but no one in the family can hide anything from Eileen. If one of her blood relations has a secret, sooner or later she’ll dream out the truth, even when she’d rather not know.
“You always were a difficult child, and in our family, I’m afraid that’s saying a lot.” She rolled her eyes. “Now, you call me when you’re free. Ah, here’s my cab.”
An empty cab was gliding up to the curb. She had luck that way, if you can call it luck. I waved good-bye, then stepped into a doorway to consider. Did I want to continue the dice walk so soon after hearing about this would-be assassin? Possibly my knowing about him had made a synchronistic connection that would lead me right to him, to the detriment of my health.
I turned around and went back to the office.
The answering machine on my desk was blinking when I came in. I kicked off the cheap high heels I was wearing as part of my cover persona, then punched the button on the machine to retrieve a message from Y’s secretary. (That’s the only name I have for him, Y, even though he’s been my handler for years.) She told me that her boss wanted to know how the ad campaign for his company’s new dog food was going. Dog food. With an assassin looking for me, that particular bit of code sounded entirely too appropriate.
The Agency loves code. It’s heavy on the secrecy in general, mostly because the higher-ups are afraid that Congress would cut our funding if it ever found out what we do. I don’t even know how large the Agency is or how many other agents work for it, though whenever I’ve needed help, I’ve always gotten it. Code words and handles may keep us separate, but our skills unite us at a deep level and get the work done.
I found a notepad and a ballpoint pen, then went into the supposed boss’ office, which I’d done up with blue wall-to-wall carpet, a big oak desk, and a black leather executive chair. I sat down in the secretary’s chair next to the desk and went into trance. In a few minutes Y’s image materialized in the leather chair. I can’t tell you what he really looks like. The image he used back then for these trance-chats radiated pure movie star, the tousled blond hair, the crinkly smile, the blue eyes.
“So what is all this?” I said.
“I have a job for you,” he said. “But you probably knew that already.”
“Why else would you call me?”
“To talk about this alleged angel, for one thing. Seen any more of them?”
“None. They’re probably just the usual visual projections.” I tend to see clues, and I do mean
see
them.
“That’s the safest assumption, but in our line of work you never know.”
Ambiguity, the bane of my profession—having psychic talents makes the job sound easy. People think that clues should just drop into your lap, but on the rare occasions when they do, they usually mean two or three things at once.
“Any other Chaos manifestations?” Y continued.
I considered telling him about the assassin, but he’d want to know how I knew. I wanted to keep the family out of official business. Sooner or later, the guy from the Thirties movie would make a move or leave a track for me to follow, something I could report to Y as standard information.
“No, none yet,” I said.
“Good. Now, about this job. It concerns an agent from Israel.”
“Holy cripes! Mossad?”
“No, some group we’re not supposed to know about. Now, technically he works for Interpol. Technically. This is all very hush-hush, but State called me in.” He paused for a smug smile. “Called me in personally, that is. You know that State doesn’t like asking for our help, but they’ve got good reasons to, this time.”
“Any you can tell me?”
“Sure. This agent is hunting down someone wanted for a couple of murders back in Israel. One of the victims was an American citizen, working for the consular office over there.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice, just as if someone could actually overhear us. “There were circumstances, our kind of circumstances. The agent will fill you in when he arrives.”
“Now wait a minute! I already have a job on hand. Our stringers sent us evidence of a Chaos eruption. Why are you saddling me with some kind of secret agent?”
“Nola.” His image looked at me sorrowfully. “In the service of the Great Balance, everything serves to further. Melodies appear, sing, and twine together. I don’t know why this fellow is appearing at the moment, but he too is a thread in the great web of sapient life, a thread that has crossed our threads. Is it ours to question?”
When Y starts spouting philosophy, arguing gets me nowhere. I did allow myself a vexed sigh, which materialized as a rat skittering around between our chairs. Y never noticed it, and a good thing, too.
“All right.” I surrendered. “How am I going to contact this guy?”
“Openly. He’s going to come to your office on the pretext of hiring the marketing firm. His words to you are ‘prayer shawls.’ Yours are ‘four-thirty appointment.’ Got that?”
I could feel my hand writing of its own will. “Got it.”
“Ask him who recommended Morrison Research to him. The right answer is Jake Levi of Sheboygan.”
“Sheboygan? Why Sheboygan?”
“It’s not the kind of name a foreigner could just pull out of the air.”
“That’s for sure. Okay, I’ve got that, too.”
“Good. He has an odd kind of British accent. If the person who contacts you doesn’t, you know what to do with him.”
“Sure do, but I thought you said he was Israeli.”
“He is. His parents emigrated from Britain right before he was born. They must have spoken English at home.”
“Ah. That makes sense.”
He leaned back in the chair a little too far. The line of his image sank into the leather. “Now, be careful with Mr. Ari Nathan. He’s very high up, very well connected, been around a long time, knows everyone.”
I immediately imaged him as a middle-aged, utterly earnest guy who wore glasses and was losing his hair. Probably paunchy, too, and wearing a rumpled white shirt and a gray suit. Y leaned forward in his chair and considered the extruded image.
“I don’t know what he looks like,” he said. “I’ve never seen a picture of him, and that’s probably significant.”
“All right, don’t worry. I’ll use my Company manners.”
Y laughed at the pun, then withdrew his projection. I banished the image and woke from the trance.
Ari Nathan called early the next morning. He was an Israeli importer, he said, with a line of prayer shawls woven in the Holy Land that he wanted to place in California shops. He had a smooth middle-range voice that did indeed sound British.
“Mr. Morrison has an appointment open today at four-thirty,” I said.
“Fine. I’ll take that.”
“May I ask you who recommended us to you?”
“Certainly. Jake Levi of Sheboygan.”
All nicely in place and accurate.
Right on time Nathan arrived. The only thing about him that matched my extruded image was his clothing. Even in his cheap gray suit you could see that he had the kind of body you only get by working out regularly. His hair was dark, thick, and loosely curly—but his eyes caught my attention most of all, large and jet black, with a straight ahead stare under high arched brows. He looked like someone in a Byzantine icon. Yeah, I know that’s the wrong religion, but the image fits. I put his age at about thirty, three or four years older than me, anyway. He looked at me, took a step back, then another forward again. Apparently I didn’t fit his expectations either.
“Mr. Nathan?” I said.
“Yes.” He hefted the tan leather sample case he was carrying. “I came about the prayer shawls.”
“Yes, the four-thirty appointment.”
“Sheboygan.” He smiled with a slight twitch of his mouth. “Where might Sheboygan be, anyway?”
“I’ve got no idea. I could look it up for you on the Internet.”
“No need to bother.” He set the sample case down on the floor. “I was expecting some old granny. I must say you’re quite a surprise.”
“Same to you.”
He smiled again, a little more broadly this time.
“I’m Nola O’Grady,” I said. “Welcome to California.”
“Thank you.”
He leaned over the desk, and we shook hands. I liked his grip, firm without being bone-crushing, though he held onto my hand a little too long. I pulled it away as gracefully as I could. He straightened up and arranged a more businesslike expression.
“How can I help you?” I said.
He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a white business envelope. “I’ve been told you might be able to tell me something about this person. He was last seen in your city. I need to know if he’s still on the premises.”
“What’s in that?”
“A set of pictures—his passport photo, some stills taken from security cameras.”
He started to open the envelope.
“Don’t,” I said. “Just hand it to me sealed.”
With a shrug he dropped it on my desk. I opened a side drawer and got out a big pad of paper and a box of crayons. I always use crayons to capture impressions. They’re fast, they don’t spill water all over, and you get sixty-four colors for cheap. He was staring at the box as if he expected a spider to crawl out of it.
“Is something wrong?” I said.
“Crayons? Children’s crayons?”
I sighed. “Mr. Morrison will see you now, sir.” I waved a thumb at the door to the inner office. “Go right in.”
He started to speak, shrugged again, then picked up his sample case and followed orders. With him gone I could concentrate. Although the Agency calls this procedure Long Distance Remote Sensing, the old name offers more poetry: farseeing.
I laid the envelope of photos to one side of my drawing pad, put my left hand on it, and waited. I can’t tell you what I think of when I begin an LDRS because there’s nothing to tell. I get a jumble of thoughts, a twitch of the mind, and then all at once images start to develop. In this case I saw the ocean. I grabbed a blue-green crayon and began. Ocean—rocks, big rock—cliff—some yellow smears that might have been taxi cabs. I saw red in the shape of a long box with wheels, a tourist bus.
Everything changed. New sheet of paper, gravel on the ground, a blue car, the bright green of trees, a weird gray shape, a black smudge—nothing. Whoever he was, he was moving too fast for me to reach him, probably driving the blue car. That much the rational part of my mind could tell me. I leaned back in my chair and considered the scribbles on the two sheets of paper. An LDRS never produces fine art. Interpretation’s everything.
I looked away, got up, stretched, then sat back down and looked at the scribbles again. One thing jumped out: the weird gray shape formed a trench coat. I’d even drawn in the belt. The black smudge defined a hat shape, floating over the coat. Sam Spade in black and white, when everything else in the picture had showed up in Technicolor. My hands started to shake. I made them stop. The entire experience left behind a feeling like the lingering stench of old kitchen garbage.
I tore the two sheets off the pad, got up, and went into the inner office. Nathan had closed the windows and the venetian blinds. He held a black gadget that looked like a light meter or a stud finder. As I watched he drew the gadget along the far wall in short, controlled passes.