The masquerade was in full swing as he made his way up the stairs, moving quickly and purposefully to avoid the attention of the glittering guests who milled about the immense foyer, gossiping and drinking and gorging on tiny appetisers of puffed pastry and crisped crackers and toothsome delicacies on thin silver skewers. He had not found his mark among them—he would have known her even masked—and so had opened his mind to the house, trusting his instincts would lead him to her as surely as a seasoned bloodhound to the prey.
Flynn smiled grimly as the first discordant strains of Saint-Saëns’ Dans Macabre wafted up behind him. He imagined the eerie notes scraping her nerves as she lingered, isolated from the other guests, senses tuned to his approach. The party, which brought together the wealthy, the beautiful, and the important, was an unnecessary, even dangerous pretense to allow Flynn and the woman cross paths—a possible sign that the old man was losing his edge. Had it been Flynn’s operation, he would have arranged to meet her quietly, inconspicuously where a serious conversation could be had without intrigue or the fear of discovery. Of course, had it been his operation, he would not be meeting her at all.
He found her in the den. She’d left the door slightly ajar, allowing him to approach her without alerting her to his presence. A rookie mistake, leaving herself so exposed. He paused to observe her, to interpret her posture and the tilt of her head. He slid deeper into the room, silent in the shadows, curious to see what had so captured her interest. To his surprise, the picture she was examining so closely showed his employer in a martial arts uniform, surrounded by students, one hand clasping his black belt, the other on the shoulder of a skinny boy with a tiger’s smile. He was further surprised to realize she was quite comfortable in this room, which had been ostentatiously decorated in a style that made Flynn think of a set piece for a Japanese martial arts film. Flynn had never appreciated this room or the old man’s boyish obsession, but for once it suited the meeting that was about to occur. A spectacular mural of birds of prey in the branches of an ancient pine dominated the north wall, extending to the west and east, artfully proportioned to make the viewer feel smaller as he (or she) drew near the old man’s desk on its low platform. Weapons and suits of enamelled paper armor (complete with demonic mengu masks) were displayed in cases along the wall, adding to a tangible atmosphere of threat. How much does she know about the reason she is here? He began to think he might actually enjoy this encounter.
Feeling every inch the predator, he prepared to step out, to startle her and thereby gain the upper hand. Before he could make a sound, however, she looked directly at him and lowered the fox mask that she had been holding. He closed the door, cutting off the music and sounds of the other guests. Establishing his authority. Now, the gesture told her, we are alone. You are alone and at my mercy. He wouldn’t blame her if she tried to run out of the room.
She seemed not to notice. She studied him with the same cool intensity she had turned on the photograph; he might have been another two-dimensional face in a frame for all the concern she showed. Of course, he knew her face already—had seen it plastered on every magazine cover between here and Milan.
“She’s too well known—she could never work undercover. She will attract unwanted attention everywhere we go,” Flynn had argued. His frustration, caused as much by the humiliation of now having to stand before the old man’s desk as a petitioner rather than being invited to sit alongside the fireplace as equals, made him bold.
The old man merely shrugged. “She will hide in plain sight. It’s a classic gambit.”
“She’s too weak. Even with training, she’s too green for this assignment,” Flynn had insisted, pushing back. Testing. He schooled his expression, not wanting the old man to realize that Flynn had scented weakness and was readying for attack.
“She speaks six languages and possesses a raft of skills that you do not,” the old man had retorted, not bothering to hide his annoyance. He waved his hand in dismissal. Two of the old man’s men moved to escort Flynn from the room. Making quick calculations, Flynn had decided this wasn’t the hill to die on.
“You’ll see I’m right,” Flynn had stated doggedly, hopelessly. Standing his ground though he knew he was defeated.
“Meet her. See what you think,” the old man had said, his tone softening graciously in his victory.
Now Flynn had seen her, and he knew that she was hopelessly unsuited for the work ahead. Of course, he would have to go through the “interview” out of respect for the old man, but he was certain the old man’s judgement had been clouded by speculations about how this women would perform in his bed rather than in the field. He allowed his gaze to linger on her, taking in the willowy frame, the delicate hands, the full lips. Perhaps there was a chance she could be useful, leading her prey to compromise themselves between her sheets, making Flynn’s own job easier. Perhaps there’ll be room for me between those sheets as well. He shaped his lips into a winning smile. She did not return it.
“You admire martial arts?” he asked her, his smile disappearing. The momentary glow sparked by her beauty was smothered by the coldness of her expression. He saw knowing contempt in her eyes, and his humiliation howled though he let none of it show. His fingers itched to take up one of the old man’s katanas, which he knew to be exquisitely sharp, and end this farce.
“Of course,” she said, the words dripping like honey though the expression in her eyes hadn’t changed. “Don’t you?”
Flynn shrugged. He was immune, now, to her charms. “I’m more of a boxing man, myself. But,” he couldn’t help adding, “I do have some skill with traditional weapons.” More than some skill, he thought, watching her reactions like a hawk. Did he detect a flicker of fear?
“Don’t worry,” Flynn went on, still determined to best her. Perhaps it was all a test. It was the only thing that made sense—he’d always been the old man’s most trusted agent. “You’re safe with me.”
“But are you safe with me?” she replied, taking a step closer and dropping her mask. He breathed in her perfume, was reaching for a witty reply when her fist came hurtling toward his face.
“Jesus,” he muttered, catching her wrist roughly and giving it a twist, “Don’t you know the number one rule? Don’t get caught.” He frowned menacingly, leaning into her. Cowing her with his weight and superior height. Inside, however, he was laughing—relishing the opportunity to quote one of the old man’s favourite training mantras to this idiotic woman.
As Flynn gave her wrist another sharp twist, pulling her toward him and expecting the fragile bones to splinter in his hands, he was taken aback as a tiger’s smile lit up her face. Flowing like water, she slid past his guard, the unexpectedness of the movement pulling him off balance. Not a boy, he thought with astonishment, as his eyes flicked past the photo she had been examining. A delicate, fragranced arm circled his head and long fingers grabbed his chin, her diminutive weight dragging him down as his body was forced to follow his head. He crashed to the floor, feeling ribs shift and crack.
“Rule number one,” she whispered in his ear as her arm tightened around his neck, pulled even tighter as her she closed one hand over the other. “Never underestimate your opponent.”
Flynn struggled helplessly, stars appearing before his eyes as pressure increased on the carotid arteries. Again, the honeyed voice in his ear, growing farther away with each word.
“Tell him I’ll take the job,” she said, “but I want a different partner.” She paused. “You’re going to have a terrible headache when you wake up.”
The rest was silence.
Flynn smiled grimly as the first discordant strains of Saint-Saëns’ Dans Macabre wafted up behind him. He imagined the eerie notes scraping her nerves as she lingered, isolated from the other guests, senses tuned to his approach. The party, which brought together the wealthy, the beautiful, and the important, was an unnecessary, even dangerous pretense to allow Flynn and the woman cross paths—a possible sign that the old man was losing his edge. Had it been Flynn’s operation, he would have arranged to meet her quietly, inconspicuously where a serious conversation could be had without intrigue or the fear of discovery. Of course, had it been his operation, he would not be meeting her at all.
He found her in the den. She’d left the door slightly ajar, allowing him to approach her without alerting her to his presence. A rookie mistake, leaving herself so exposed. He paused to observe her, to interpret her posture and the tilt of her head. He slid deeper into the room, silent in the shadows, curious to see what had so captured her interest. To his surprise, the picture she was examining so closely showed his employer in a martial arts uniform, surrounded by students, one hand clasping his black belt, the other on the shoulder of a skinny boy with a tiger’s smile. He was further surprised to realize she was quite comfortable in this room, which had been ostentatiously decorated in a style that made Flynn think of a set piece for a Japanese martial arts film. Flynn had never appreciated this room or the old man’s boyish obsession, but for once it suited the meeting that was about to occur. A spectacular mural of birds of prey in the branches of an ancient pine dominated the north wall, extending to the west and east, artfully proportioned to make the viewer feel smaller as he (or she) drew near the old man’s desk on its low platform. Weapons and suits of enamelled paper armor (complete with demonic mengu masks) were displayed in cases along the wall, adding to a tangible atmosphere of threat. How much does she know about the reason she is here? He began to think he might actually enjoy this encounter.
Feeling every inch the predator, he prepared to step out, to startle her and thereby gain the upper hand. Before he could make a sound, however, she looked directly at him and lowered the fox mask that she had been holding. He closed the door, cutting off the music and sounds of the other guests. Establishing his authority. Now, the gesture told her, we are alone. You are alone and at my mercy. He wouldn’t blame her if she tried to run out of the room.
She seemed not to notice. She studied him with the same cool intensity she had turned on the photograph; he might have been another two-dimensional face in a frame for all the concern she showed. Of course, he knew her face already—had seen it plastered on every magazine cover between here and Milan.
“She’s too well known—she could never work undercover. She will attract unwanted attention everywhere we go,” Flynn had argued. His frustration, caused as much by the humiliation of now having to stand before the old man’s desk as a petitioner rather than being invited to sit alongside the fireplace as equals, made him bold.
The old man merely shrugged. “She will hide in plain sight. It’s a classic gambit.”
“She’s too weak. Even with training, she’s too green for this assignment,” Flynn had insisted, pushing back. Testing. He schooled his expression, not wanting the old man to realize that Flynn had scented weakness and was readying for attack.
“She speaks six languages and possesses a raft of skills that you do not,” the old man had retorted, not bothering to hide his annoyance. He waved his hand in dismissal. Two of the old man’s men moved to escort Flynn from the room. Making quick calculations, Flynn had decided this wasn’t the hill to die on.
“You’ll see I’m right,” Flynn had stated doggedly, hopelessly. Standing his ground though he knew he was defeated.
“Meet her. See what you think,” the old man had said, his tone softening graciously in his victory.
Now Flynn had seen her, and he knew that she was hopelessly unsuited for the work ahead. Of course, he would have to go through the “interview” out of respect for the old man, but he was certain the old man’s judgement had been clouded by speculations about how this women would perform in his bed rather than in the field. He allowed his gaze to linger on her, taking in the willowy frame, the delicate hands, the full lips. Perhaps there was a chance she could be useful, leading her prey to compromise themselves between her sheets, making Flynn’s own job easier. Perhaps there’ll be room for me between those sheets as well. He shaped his lips into a winning smile. She did not return it.
“You admire martial arts?” he asked her, his smile disappearing. The momentary glow sparked by her beauty was smothered by the coldness of her expression. He saw knowing contempt in her eyes, and his humiliation howled though he let none of it show. His fingers itched to take up one of the old man’s katanas, which he knew to be exquisitely sharp, and end this farce.
“Of course,” she said, the words dripping like honey though the expression in her eyes hadn’t changed. “Don’t you?”
Flynn shrugged. He was immune, now, to her charms. “I’m more of a boxing man, myself. But,” he couldn’t help adding, “I do have some skill with traditional weapons.” More than some skill, he thought, watching her reactions like a hawk. Did he detect a flicker of fear?
“Don’t worry,” Flynn went on, still determined to best her. Perhaps it was all a test. It was the only thing that made sense—he’d always been the old man’s most trusted agent. “You’re safe with me.”
“But are you safe with me?” she replied, taking a step closer and dropping her mask. He breathed in her perfume, was reaching for a witty reply when her fist came hurtling toward his face.
“Jesus,” he muttered, catching her wrist roughly and giving it a twist, “Don’t you know the number one rule? Don’t get caught.” He frowned menacingly, leaning into her. Cowing her with his weight and superior height. Inside, however, he was laughing—relishing the opportunity to quote one of the old man’s favourite training mantras to this idiotic woman.
As Flynn gave her wrist another sharp twist, pulling her toward him and expecting the fragile bones to splinter in his hands, he was taken aback as a tiger’s smile lit up her face. Flowing like water, she slid past his guard, the unexpectedness of the movement pulling him off balance. Not a boy, he thought with astonishment, as his eyes flicked past the photo she had been examining. A delicate, fragranced arm circled his head and long fingers grabbed his chin, her diminutive weight dragging him down as his body was forced to follow his head. He crashed to the floor, feeling ribs shift and crack.
“Rule number one,” she whispered in his ear as her arm tightened around his neck, pulled even tighter as her she closed one hand over the other. “Never underestimate your opponent.”
Flynn struggled helplessly, stars appearing before his eyes as pressure increased on the carotid arteries. Again, the honeyed voice in his ear, growing farther away with each word.
“Tell him I’ll take the job,” she said, “but I want a different partner.” She paused. “You’re going to have a terrible headache when you wake up.”
The rest was silence.