Her hands were shaking with adrenaline and revulsion, her face was streaked with tears and mascara, and she realized she was almost out of her precious life-giving smokes, but she didn’t care. She would walk as slow as it took for her to compose herself. And if that meant she had to smoke every single cigarette she had, she would. She meant her vow of revenge—what she had witnessed and the pictures she had taken could never be denied—yet Lena hoped she wouldn’t have to see the contents herself tonight. She knew Makeup-lady, and prayed that she wasn’t that cruel.
With her smoke complete and her hands finally somewhat steadied, she made the attempt to clean up her mascara as best she could before finishing the journey back to the front entrance.
As she re-entered the Embassy-like hotel, she saw it in a completely new light. She looked at the golden trusses, the ivy-clad pillars, the fine mahogany, and the beautiful people—she hated all of it. To her, it meant nothing more than corruption, barely-obscured hedonism and filth. As she looked at the drunken patrons and their companions still engaged in a dance of endless power struggles and deception, she marveled at how unchanged they remained. The man she had first observed was still talking about his stupid boat, and the woman opposite him was still leaning in seductively, pretending to care. As Lena remembered Grandfather, and how he had extolled the virtues of courtship and ‘good social values’, she couldn’t help but feel a sort of irony. If he only realized that his precious GDR was using these tactics to preserve it all…
“Bullshit. All of it.” she thought, and she didn’t care who knew.
Winding up a staircase, down another, through a hallway, and taking as complicated a route as she could be bothered to (not anything like the first time), she arrived outside room five. As she pulled out her key and shakily set to placing it in the doorknob, she noticed a leg hanging out of the broom closet just a few feet away, punctuated by sounds of snoring and the smell of throw-up. She hated him. She hated the women who had been in there with him. She hated everything.
As she walked into the room, she was surprised to see six occupants now, all feverishly working. In the corner on the bulky pink computers, one of the disheveled trashy women sat next to a tired man in an unbuttoned polo. Both wore headsets, and both were typing away furiously. Standing by a desk next to the computers, the other trashy woman had changed into much more conservative fare, and was now assisting Makeup-lady under a large, pitch-black hood. Lena smelled strange fumes coming from under it. “A portable black room…” she realized.
Red-hat stood drinking coffee, and laughing loudly at something that a fancy-dressed man standing opposite him had apparently said just moments before Lena had entered.
“No loyalty, these days!” Red-hat said, “We offered her a cigarette and she confessed everything… everything! She even offered to work for us! Have you ever known anyone to crack that quickly?!”
“If the Brit’s would stop picking from the pretty ones,” Fancy man replied, “they might not have problems like this.”
“Well, just wait until we really put the screws to her. I’m sure we’ll find out even more.”
Lena worked hard to stifle the glare she desperately wanted to give them. After a few moments of idle chatter, Red-hat finally acknowledged her and walked over. He offered her the coffee he had been drinking, which she refused as politely as the bile welling up inside her would allow. She had to be cordial, but she refused to be any more than that. She hated these people. The second she could be rid of them, the better.
“Well, let’s see what you have.” Red-hat said.
Lena pulled out the pen and handed it over, glad to be rid of it. Red-hat studied it for a second, and walked over to the big black hood that Trashy-lady and Makeup-lady were working under. She was muttering to herself underneath, and seemed unable to be bothered with anything else. Finally, after Red-hat cleared his throat a few times, she half-acknowledged him by flailing an arm behind her, motioning for Red-hat to put the camera-pen in her hand. It quickly disappeared under the hood with her as Red-hat stood drinking his coffee.
After several minutes of keyboards being clicked, coffee being sipped, and comments being muttered under the hood, Makeup-lady leaned her head out. With an annoyed tone, she growled, “Sure. That’ll work.” She then handed the camera-pen back to Red-hat and got back to whatever it was that she was doing.
Lena stood there for quite some time. After what seemed like ten entire minutes, she began feeling like a particularly unimpressive bit of carpet. The room varied oddly between the very busy and not so busy at all. Red-hat and the Fancy-man seemed completely unaffected by the rest of the room which was working at a feverish pitch. Indeed, they seemed perfectly content to stand around making horrible observations about the British asset’s ‘numerous features’, with Red-hat laughing loudly.
Finally, Makeup-lady pulled herself out from under the hood and stood, holding a piece of paper in her hands.
“Success!” she cheered.
“Let me see it,” the fancily-dressed man standing with Red-hat said.
Makeup-lady handed it over, obviously pleased with herself, and watched with glee as he pored over it. After a few moments of nodding, he signified his agreement with a gruff, “That’ll work.” before handing it to Red-hat. After he nodded agreement as well, he leaned over and handed it to Lena. She gasped.
What she now held in her hands was the front cover of a French tabloid, dated precisely a week from today. On it, held on by white masking tape, was a picture of the Honorable Louis Pelletier—Lord Piggy—engaged in the most despicable act with Patrick. Oddly enough, the pictures were from a high angle—an angle that Lena couldn’t possibly have taken her pictures from. She felt the urge to vomit welling in her stomach.
“It’s marvelous, isn’t it?” Makeup-lady cheered.
“It shows his face. That’s the important part.” Fancy-man said.
“I think it’s fabulous. Looks like Patrick’s enjoying it too.” Red-hat quipped.
“That’s enough, Lieutenant.” Fancy-man admonished Red-hat, “That’s one of our agents, remember.”
“Not much of one, really.” Red-hat replied, but he shut up after Fancy-man glared at him.
“We were supposed to send the girl.” Makeup-lady said, motioning at Lena as she glared at Fancy-man, “But someone got his sexual preference wrong and we had to improvise.”
Lightning crashed in Lena’s mind as realization dawned. “What?!?” she screamed inwardly. Obviously, she had made some particularly concerning noises because Makeup-lady turned towards her, contempt written all over her face.
“You really think we would have chosen to put an actual agent up to this, over someone like you?” she sneered. “A proven field agent with years of experience, over a common criminal slut with no experience whatsoever? Don’t confuse your place in all of this, dear girl. You are a tool to be used. We’ll use and abuse you how we please.”
She hated Makeup-lady right then. With every ounce of her body, and every inch of her soul, she hated her. Sure, she hated this hotel, and she hated these people; she hated the man in the broom closet, and she almost hated Lord Piggy most of all. But that lofty place of intense loathing was reserved for Makeup-lady alone. She focused all the bile the world had to offer on hoping that she would recognize it. Lena didn’t care if there were consequences. Merely knowing that Makeup-lady knew was enough to make up for whatever punishment would be levied her way in response.