Almost all transatlantic passengers from Europe wake up at some ungodly hour on their first morning in the United States, mainly because at five o’clock in the morning on the East Coast, it’s 10 A.M. in London, and the body clock has not yet adjusted.
Shakira was awake at 5:30 and spent the next couple of hours watching television, trash on three channels, which she loved. By eight o’clock, she was having a light breakfast of orange juice, fruit, and coffee. By 9 A.M., she was outside waiting for Fausi, who was right on time.
They headed down Fifth Avenue, slowly in the morning traffic, and crawled their way west toward 10th Avenue and the Lincoln Tunnel. The traffic pouring through into the city from New Jersey was extremely heavy, but not too bad outward-bound.
The line for the tunnel was slow; but once inside, everything sped up. Fausi accelerated into New Jersey, collected his toll ticket, and headed fast down the turnpike. They were past Philadelphia in ninety minutes, past Baltimore in three hours, and around Washington heading south in four.
Just after 1 P.M., they stopped for gas and coffee; then, with a little over a hundred miles in front of them, they set off for Brockhurst, arriving there after a drive on a narrow, winding road in hot, clear weather at 4:35.
Fausi parked the car on a deserted street six hundred yards from the Estuary Hotel, and Shakira, who was dressed in light blue jeans, an inexpensive white shirt, and flat shoes, walked the short distance.
The front door of the Estuary led into a wide, rather dark interior hall, carpeted in dark red. There was a long wooden reception area, behind which was a middle-aged man, fiftyish. To the left was an obvious bar, with the same carpet, soft lighting, and bar stools. It was completely deserted. To the right was the dining room/restaurant, with a desk at its entrance. Unoccupied.
Shakira looked doubtful. No customers. They wouldn’t need any staff. Nonetheless, she walked hesitantly to the front desk and said, politely, “Good afternoon.”
The man looked up, smiled, and asked, “And what can I do for you?”
“Well,” said Shakira, “I am looking for a job, here in Brockhurst, and I wondered if you had a vacancy. I can do almost anything-maid, waitress, receptionist.”
The man nodded and stood up. He offered his hand and said, “Jim… Jim Caborn. I’m the manager here. And you?”
“I’m Carla Martin. It’s nice to meet you.” Shakira had been well versed in American niceties.
“Well, Carla,” said the manager, “I’m afraid I don’t have anything right at the moment. However, I do have a barman leaving in a week. Can you do that kind of thing?”
“Oh, yes. I worked in a bar in London for three months. Does this place get busy?”
“All the time,” replied Jim. “From about 5:30 in the evening onward. And especially on weekends in the summer.” He stared at her very beautiful face and swept-back raven hair, and wondered about her background; he asked, “Do you have an American passport?”
“Oh, yes. I’m American. I’ve just been away for a few months.”
“And what brings you here to Brockhurst?”
“I’m visiting an aunt near here in a little place called Bowler’s Wharf, and I think this is the nicest and biggest town.”
“Honey, it’s not Washington, trust me.”
Shakira smiled. “Well, I like it. And I’m fed up with big cities.”
“Listen, Carla, running a bar in a busy place like this is not easy. You understand how quick and accurate you have to be, and how you must understand the drinks, and the cocktails, and be able to make Irish coffees and all that.”
“Jim, I worked in a really busy bar in Covent Garden-that’s downtown London. But if you will employ me, I’d be happy to put in a week, at my own expense, working with the man who’s leaving. That way I’d be organized for when I was on my own.”
The offer of free help almost tipped the balance with this hotel manager. But not quite. He had one more question. “Do you need to live in the hotel?” he asked.
“Oh, no. I’ll go back to my aunt’s house. I have a small car.”
“Okay,” said Jim, who was surprised she had not mentioned money. “I’ll pay you four hundred bucks a week. I have to deduct taxes off the top, but you keep whatever tips you get. When do you want to start?”
“How about tomorrow?” she said.
“That’ll be fine. I’ll need your Social Security, a look at your passport, and references if you have any. If you don’t, give me a couple of numbers I can call.”
Shakira told him that was not a problem, and returned to the car for the documents. Fausi was asleep, as well he might have been after the long drive from New York. She retrieved the passport and SS card and reached into her bag for the correct references, all of which had been beautifully forged by the same man who did her passport in the depths of the Syrian embassy in London’s Belgrave Square.
She selected two that pertained to her skills behind a bar. She had others for her work as a housekeeper in a country hotel; others for her efforts as a maid; a couple for her prowess as a waitress; and three more for secretarial jobs, not one of which she had ever held.
The two she chose for Jim Caborn were from the Mighty Quinn Bar in London’s Neal Street, Covent Garden. It was written on letterhead and assured the reader that Miss Martin was truthful, honest, hardworking, and always punctual. The other was from the Hotel Rembrandt, in Buckingham Gate, where Miss Martin had managed the downstairs bar, and again it testified to her reliability.
It was all plenty good enough for Jim, who made careful notes on a blue file index card and gave everything back to Shakira. “See you tomorrow,” he said. “You can work the 4 P.M. ’til eleven o’clock shift. That’s when you’ll learn the most.”
Shakira thanked him. They shook hands. And Jim watched her admiringly as she walked out. He was pleased with his new recruit, and was blissfully unaware that he had just hired the most dangerous woman in the United States.
Outside, she paused to assess her surroundings. The Estuary Hotel had stone white walls with mock Tudor beams, and it stood on a corner of the main street, which ran down to an area on the banks of the Rappahannock and then swerved around to the right.
Shakira guessed that from the top floor of the hotel there would be a view right across the wide river, as indeed there was from the parking lot of the supermarket that was situated on the opposite side of the main street.
Brockhurst had been here for a long time, and developers had taken care to protect its original character. There were many newish buildings, deliberately constructed to reflect the early twentieth century. There was the usual number of real estate agents and boutique gift shops. This little town attracted visitors all through the warm months. And the only place in town to stay was the Estuary, which had twelve rooms with baths in the main building and an outside annex with a dozen more.
Shakira walked around to the back of the hotel. There was a parking area in the rear, big enough for a large delivery truck to unload supplies. The street that ran along the side of the hotel was narrow and lonely. There were two small stores, one selling hardware, the other children’s clothes.
More certain of her bearings now, she walked back to the car and woke Fausi, who was asleep again. She climbed into the backseat. “Get moving,” she said. “I’ve just been hired, but I’m not living here. I start tomorrow afternoon.”
“Beautiful,” replied Fausi. “Now I’ll take you to your new home.” He turned the car north, and they drove back up Route 17 for a couple of exits and then swung down a tree-lined road to a new apartment block, cleverly set back into surrounding woodland.