I ran the name through my head, chopped off letters, thought about different iterations and decided that, in about thirty seconds, I was going to either have a chat with an old friend or I was going to be strangled to death with a bedsheet. If the person was who I thought it was going to be, there wouldn't be much wiggle room between the two, but I did think it was unlikely that any employee of the hotel-be it just a cover or not-would want to try to explain the bloodstains all over so much fine white fabric.
Standing in front of my assigned cabana was one of those guys who think lifting weights will make him a good fighter. Lifting weights will make you strong. Lifting weights will make you lose fat and gain muscle. Lifting weights will not give you a strong chin or teach you how to defend yourself when someone who weighs a hundred pounds less than you is punching you in the throat. To be a good fighter, flexibility is an asset, whereas muscle mass will help you if someone tries to stab you, but won't change anything if they poke you in the eye. Guys like this, your average bouncer, might know how to get someone drunk and stupid to submit, of they might have the strength to pick you up and throw you through a window, but they're probably no use to anyone if you happen to kick them in the knee. Bulky muscle is slow. Lean, manicured muscle is fast. You want lean and manicured.
Naturally though, he, too, wore an Armani suit, except his bulged along the seams of his shoulders and knees, and he'd accented the outfit with a black Under Armour T-shirt so that I could actually make out each hair on his chest. I didn't notice any weapon on him, apart from what I learned was stunning intellect.
"You Michael Westen?" he said when I approached. Actually, it was more like a low grumble. They must have an employee training program at the Oro that requires their security guards to speak with gravel in their mouth for a week before taking the floor.
"Why do people forget verbs when they're trying to sound intimidating?" I asked.
"Yes or no?" he said. I tried to get a peek around him, but he was so wide that I couldn't quite see inside the cabana. All I could make out was a single leg, which was all I really needed to see anyway.
"There you go again," I said.
"Just let him in," came an exasperated voice from inside the cabana. It had a British accent, which was new, but not unexpected. The guard gave me a little glare-not enough to actually cause me any offense, but enough to inform me that he didn't know what a verb was and therefore thought I'd really insulted him-and then swept open the rest of the thin curtain to reveal Ms. Copeland sitting aside the bed on the small sofa.
Except that it wasn't Ms. Copeland.
Oh, it was Ms. Copeland as Joanne knew her and as the meat standing in front of the cabana knew her, but to me she was Natalya Choplyn. The last time I saw her was in Bulgaria.
She tried to poison me.
"What a surprise," I said.
"Is it really?" Natalya said.
"No," I said. I was still standing in the entrance to the cabana, trying to figure out where I was going to sit. It was either unfold myself on the bed, which seemed not only compromising but presumptuous, or sit directly next to Natalya on the couch, which was really more of a love seat, which, really, is just a fancy name for a big chair not made for two spies who've slept with each other and tried to seriously hurt each other. I decided just to stand.
"I don't bite," she said, patting the space next to her.
"You do stab," I said. Natalya shrugged. Not much you can do with the truth but accept it. "I like the accent. Let me guess: Sandringham, Norfolk?"
"Conveys a sense of elegance, don't you think?"
"It's so simple," I said. "Where's the challenge?"
"Worked for Princess Di, didn't it?"
"I suppose," I said, "though I've always thought of you more like Camilla. Maybe move across the country, say you're from Wales. Thicken your vowels a bit and aim for more of that singsong style and you'll have it nailed."
"Do I not sound convincing?"
"It will work here," I said. "But I doubt it will fly in an interrogation. A couple of well-placed electrodes and you'll be screaming Nyet! Nyet! in no time."
"Is that what you'd do to me, Michael? Electrodes? I don't believe that's covered by your Geneva Conventions." Natalya stood then and walked a few steps to the marble nightstand beside the bed, where there was a silver teakettle and two cups. She was taller than I remembered, though the last time I saw her we were stooped over in a cave, which always makes everyone seem slightly more diminutive than usual. Her hair then was short and black and likely still was, since her hair on this day was shoulder-length and deep red, which made me presume it was a wig. An expensive wig, but a wig no less. She wore a perfectly tailored black Gucci suit, alligator and lambskin Chanel pumps and had tasteful diamonds on each ear, around her neck and, notably, on her wedding-ring finger.
"I'm not exactly covered by the Geneva Conventions, either," I said. Natalya's back was still to me as she poured the tea, but I thought I saw something slacken in her posture. There was no use lying to Natalya, since she thought, for some reason, that she needed to see me, which likely meant that she thought I'd crossed her in some way and was giving me the professional courtesy of asking me about it before she blew up my car with me in it. Telling her I was out of work would likely cause her to reevaluate whatever her specific beef was.
"I heard you were still under contract," she said.
"I got burned," I said. Natalya dunked a cube of sugar into each cup of tea, turned back around and offered me one of the cups. "The last time I saw you, you poisoned me."
"You didn't die."
"I spent three days in a hospital," I said.
"Suit yourself." Natalya stepped past me, her shoulder brushing my chest, instructed her security guard to pin both sides of the curtain up so we could have a view of the dance floor and then handed the guard the second cup of tea and told him his services were no longer needed. As he walked off, he sipped absently at the tea and didn't once convulse. "Now," she said, settling back down on the sofa, "where were we?"
"You were just about to explain to me why you used Fiona and two dozen armed agents to let me know you were in town," I said.
"I never understood what you saw in that terrorist," she said.
"She's not a terrorist," I said. "Not even an enemy combatant. Not technically."
"Oh, that's right," Natalya said. "The IRA is a peaceful, nonviolent organization. Like Amnesty International, only with car bombs."
"Just like the KGB was," I said. "And we're no longer dating, so there's that."
A smirk danced around the edges of Natalya's mouth. "Really?"
"Really."
"And yet here you are," she said.
"That's a nice ring you have," I said. "Did you and the president of Albania finally make it official?"
Natalya lifted her hand and made a show of the diamond. "A prop," she said. "Just like your precious Fiona."
"What are we doing here, Natalya?"
"Catching up," she said. "Reviving an old friendship."
"You could have sent me an e-mail," I said. "You didn't need to set up Fiona."
"Yes," Natalya said, "I'm sorry about that. But she's a smart girl, that Fiona. I knew she wouldn't get caught. I didn't realize you and your lovely mother would be there, too. She seemed to be having a splendid time. Shame she didn't get to enjoy her lunch. I oversaw the preparation of her salad myself. And I think you would have enjoyed your egg whites."
You always want to put your opponent on edge, thinking their very next step might be their last. People don't want to die. People who want to die are mentally ill, sociopaths or think a heaven of milk, honey and countless ready-for-hot-sex virgins awaits them. People, normal people, will opt to live. People, normal people, who try to kill themselves, will often receive an involuntary physical override via the human reset button known as blacking out. Above all else, people don't want to die. So they give up information. They say things to save themselves. They put faith in the humanity of others in hopes of being spared. The trained eye will see the truth. The trained eye will watch for tells, for shimmers that seep out involuntarily, things said to make a person worry.