Whatever it was, it was most unusual.
Templar walked to her desk and powered up her laptop computer. There was a bottle of Inderol lying by the keyboard.
Prepared to break her password code, Simon was astonished to discover that she didn’t have one.
“No password? Emma, you are bold, refreshing, and a first-class nut.”
He entered a few basic commands, and the backlit screen soon filled with equations, equations, and still more equations, interspersed with snippets of art and poetry.
He slipped in a computer disk and began backing up her hard drive. While files were transferring, he noticed receipts from the Trout Inn on her desk. Opening a drawer, Templar discovered her journal. Two photographs from the Shelley monument fell out, and he carefully replaced them before shamelessly reading her most personal thoughts.
Stop and talk to Shelley every day. How can I love a man called Percy Bysshe?
Templar turned the page.
Isn’t there someone who can consume me like that? Oh, Lord. I am single, alone, and lovely... lonely... lowly?
Simon replaced the journal, his clever mind analyzing Russell data as if preparing to crack a safe.
Next to her bed was a photo of a young Emma with a tall man, obviously her father. He wore long hair and a cardigan sweater. Templar could almost inhale the fragrance of musk- or herb-based cologne.
“Not a citrus sort,” reasoned Simon, “but perhaps Gray Flannel.”
He slipped a tiny camera from his pocket and snapped the father-daughter photo.
“Tretiak’s wrong,” Templar said to the fish. “She’s not cagey, just innocent and eccentric. Those secret-agent types would strike out in a heartbeat.”
He examined more of the Post-it notes on the walls. Most were snatches of poetry.
He sat down and attempted to soak up the atmosphere of her life, her environment, her identity. Despite being a scientist, she was a poetic sensitive with mystical yearnings.
A smile touched the corner of Simon’s lips.
“Low-tech.” Templar chuckled to himself. “This is a low-tech job.”
Were Emma Russell a building to be burgled, a safe to be cracked, or a security system to override, it would not be accomplished by electronic gadgets and gizmos.
The road to Russell’s research was through her heart.
Templar thought of George Sanders’ safecracking scene in that old movie. He listened, he touched, he was sensitive to the subtle nuances.
Templar would listen with sensitivity, and gently turn her affections until all emotional tumblers were aligned. She would open; he would steal. Simple.
A sudden sound from outside sliced through his concentration and drew him to the window. Dr. Emma Russell had exited her car and was heading directly toward the apartment.
Simon ejected his disk from the laptop. There was no time to leave, only to hide.
A key rattled in the door, footsteps entered, and an answering machine said there were no new messages.
Emma Russell walked past her fish tank while removing her blouse.
“I could watch you guys all day.”
With mounting curiosity, Templar watched as Dr. Russell reached inside her bra and removed several business-size cards and placed them on the table.
She moved into the kitchen, pulling on a handy lab coat. She lit a scented candle, put on some music, then simply sat down in the corner chair with her eyes closed.
As for Simon Templar, had he not been well-trained in the art of silent movement, she would have spotted him long ago. She didn’t even sense his presence.
He watched, he waited. A few minutes later she retrieved the cards from the table, opened her journal, and began to make notations.
In time Emma set her work aside and left the room. When Templar heard the shower running, he took advantage of the opportunity to vanish as if he had never been there. In truth, he didn’t want to leave.
6
The following day Templar prepared for ms next encounter with Emma Russell. With his usual professional detachment, he selected a cardigan sweater similar to the one worn by Emma’s father, dabbed a small amount of rugged-scented cologne behind his ears, and filled his head with poetry.
“If one is going to catch fish,” Simon Templar once remarked, “you must place the perfect lure in the perfect spot.”
The perfect spot was the Shelley Monument; the perfect lure was Templar himself. Having read her journal, he knew how often she visited, and when.
He, a romantic figure with long, flowing hair, reclined on a bench, highlighted by sunlight. Purposefully languid and inviting, he began sketching Shelley’s statue.
When Emma arrived, she noticed him immediately. After one look she could not pull her eyes away. She was simply and openly attracted. He was, after all, exceptionally handsome. He also reminded her of her father.
It was not out of her way to approach him, and he spoke to her without looking up. His accent was South African.
“Do you like it?”
Emma was momentarily taken aback. Was he speaking of the statue, himself or...?
“The sculpture,” clarified Simon. “Do you like it?”
She swallowed and did her best not to sound self-conscious.
“Yeah.” She meant to say it nonchalantly, but it came out with a sort of squeak as if someone had stepped on a rubber duck.
Templar suppressed a laugh.
“What do you like about it?”
On this topic Emma could speak with confidence.
“The way it glows, the way the light holds him in silence, as if caring for him.”
Her answer was beyond what Simon expected. He stood from the bench and said nothing.
Emma edged for an opening to continued conversation.
“That’s what I like about it. Are you an artist?”
Templar smiled at the question, and his smile was authentic. Her directness and simplicity were having an unexpected influence on his attitude.
“There are no artists anymore,” he asserted. “You must be pure, like Shelley. No, I’m nothing — just a traveler — but I do search for purity.” He paused, but only slightly for effect. “What do you search for?”
“Energy.”
It was such an immediate response that the word was out of her mouth before she had an opportunity to consider the question.
The young man projected an air of enticing, controlled enthusiasm.
“You must experience the energy of where life began — Africa. Have you ever been on a long journey?”
Emma looked down briefly.
“No,” she admitted, “not ever, really.”
Simon walked toward her with easy confidence and familiarity, as if he could sweep her up in his arms and cradle her like a child.
“Would you like to?” He stepped closer as he asked.
She stepped back, but not out of fear. Perhaps it was propriety.
“Yeah,” she squeaked again, and a slight blush filled her cheeks.
“Perhaps I’ll take you on an adventure to my home in Africa.” He was moving closer still, but not in a threatening manner. Emma decided not to step back. Templar was close enough to kiss her. Wisely, he did not.
“I’m sorry if I am too familiar,” said Simon shyly. “I apologize. I’m not very good with people.” And with that bit of fabricated self-disclosure, he was gone.
Emma stood, breathless. His scent was intoxicating. Her senses seemed to tingle, and her heart — often an object of concern — seemed to be beating in perfect health.
She allowed herself to exhale slowly and turned to notice that the wondrous young man had left behind his sketchpad/journal.