Dead Double Read online

  From the direction of the restaurant’s kitchen, angry voices lifted. One male, one female.

  Howard ignored them. “You can’t keep extending customers credit. Not for a little shop like yours. You certainly can’t let them run a balance over the long-term.”

  “¡No cuido lo que piensa su madre!” It was pretty bad Spanish but clear enough for Sahara to translate it. The woman didn’t care for someone’s mother’s opinion. Was that Joy-May, then? She glanced toward the kitchen doors at the back of the restaurant and saw the top of Raphael’s head above them. It must be Joy-May screaming at him in Chinese-accented Spanish.

  “Are you listening to me?” Howard said, his tone sharp.

  Sahara snapped her attention back to the little table next to the window where they were supposed to be enjoying breakfast together. “I’m sorry, Howard. Joy-May and Raphael are arguing.”

  “They’re the two getting married?” Howard asked, his brow wrinkling.

  “Next month, yes.”

  “Wedding jitters.” He shrugged and tapped the files again. “Some of these accounts are nearly a year overdue, Sahara.”

  “But these people are—” she began and stopped. She couldn’t voice the rest of the thought. Howard would boil her alive.

  “Are what? Your friends?”

  She took a deep breath, trying to calm herself and send away the chill settling into her bones. “Yes,” she said firmly.

  “Not the sort of friends I’d care to have,” Howard said with a sniff, turning back to his computer. “A year or more, riding on your back!”

  “You don’t understand…” she began and stopped again. No, Howard didn’t understand. But that wasn’t his fault. He just saw her store as…well, a business. She saw it a different way.

  The half-doors shielding the kitchen from the main section of the family restaurant banged open, making Sahara jump.

  Joy-May strode around the counter, heading for the large table where Raphael’s family usually gathered, socialized and ate. At this time of the morning, Joy-May’s extended Chinese family were sitting there as well and they were all staring at her. Joy-May was a beautiful woman of tiny proportions and long, black-on-black hair that flowed like a stream over rocks, all the way down to her hips.

  “For god’s sake, May-May!” Raphael slammed through the doors himself. Raphael was a taller-than-usual example of a young Latino man at the prime of life. He’d been weakening the knees of local girls for the last ten years but his heart had belonged to Joy-May since they’d met at high school. It had taken years of protracted family negotiations to allow this wedding to take place. Raphael had directed the campaign, using his passion and love for Joy-May as a cudgel against both families’ objections.

  He didn’t look passionate now. He looked thoroughly pissed. He pushed his hand through his hair and stalked after his diminutive bride-to-be. “How would you know what I want?” he demanded to her back. “It’s my mind, my brains!” He was shouting despite his family’s usual regard for keeping customers and family business separate. Every early morning customer in the place was looking up from their dishes.

  Raphael’s mother, who was serving a table in the new section, looked up, startled, a plate still in her hand.

  Joy-May turned on her heel to face Raphael and spat something back in fast Chinese that Sahara didn’t understand.

  But Raphael clearly did, for his face coloured. “No. You’re wrong.” He was so much taller than her, she had to lift her chin up to look him in the eye. But she didn’t look at all weak.

  “Sahara,” Howard said shortly.

  She jumped and looked back at him. “I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “But Raphael and Joy-May are—” She shrugged, for the exact definition of their relationship was hard to explain. She ate here at least twice a week and had for years. Her relationship with Raphael’s family had moved from customer to regular customer, to special customer, to friend. Raphael was very nearly her age and they’d often sat on the beach on hot summer nights, drinking beer and watching the sun go down until Joy-May had been able to break free of her work as a litigator to come find Raphael.

  “They’re arguing,” Howard pointed out. “You can’t get involved.”

  “I wasn’t about to.”

  “It’s a thing with you, to go rushing in and fix things for people. But you can’t get involved in that.”

  “I wasn’t.” But it was a lie. The need to jump up and help Raphael and Joy-May was nearly overwhelming. She crossed her ankles and wrapped one foot around the leg of her chair, almost like an anchor.

  “You need to sit tight and fix this.” Howard tapped the edge of his laptop screen. “Six months, my girl, unless you change the way you do things.”

  She could feel her heart banging against her chest like she’d sprinted up Noriega Street.

  From over her shoulder, behind her, she heard Joy-May speak in pretty decent Spanish. “You shouldn’t be doing this now. You need time. I know it.”

  “God, how can you say that?” Raphael returned. “Don’t you know what that does to me?”

  Howard cocked his eyebrow, catching Sahara’s attention again. She took a deep breath, marshalling her thoughts. She looked down at the files. “Some of the accounts are very old, Howard. You’re right, there. But not one of them has ever welshed on me. I trust these people. They’ll pay when they have the money.”

  Howard shook his head in disbelief. “Meantime they’re globetrotting, chasing the waves and leaving you facing bankruptcy. Six months, Sahara. That’s how much time you have to get them to settle their debts. Or your business will have to be shut down and the assets divided amongst your creditors.”

  The unflinching prediction took her breath away. She nodded, unable to speak.

  “You’re killing me!” Raphael cried, in English, anguish ripping through his words.

  Sahara found herself on her feet.

  Joy-May stood before Raphael, unmoving but as Sahara watched, a single tear slid down her face. “You must do this.” It was almost a whisper but everyone in the profoundly quiet restaurant heard it.

  “Don’t do this, Sahara,” Howard warned. “You have more critical priorities than this.”

  She looked down at Howard. “These people are my friends. My family.” She knew it was clichéd but finished the truth, anyway. “My life.” She tapped the files that lay between them. “So are they.”

  She hurried over to Joy-May. “Come,” she said in Mandarin. It was one of the few words Joy-May had been able to teach her. She gripped the woman’s upper arm and force-marched her to the door of the restaurant, knowing Raphael would follow. Sahara stood nearly six inches taller and weighed at least thirty pounds more than Joy-May, so the woman had little choice but to come with Sahara.

  Outside, the smell of salt and seaweed was strong on the cool morning breeze, making the pennant edges of the old-fashioned striped awning flap and snap. Ocean Beach was just across the street, behind the row of shops and business on the west side of Noriega. Sahara’s store was one of them. The early morning sunlight was bouncing off the plate glass windows there, dazzling yellow and orange flashes.

  She turned her back and faced Joy-May, letting her arm go. They were out of reach of the prurient ears of the customers, here. Raphael spilled out of the store behind them, looking desperate but trying to act like the confident groom.

  “What on earth are you doing?” she asked Joy-May. “Your wedding is in two days and that sounded a lot like you trying to call it off.”

  “This is not your business, Sahara,” Joy-May said with calmness that for many years had made Sahara think the woman had phenomenal discipline and control. But she had eventually learned what Raphael had known for years—that the serenity was a mask.

  So now Sahara looked Joy-May in the eye. “You made it my business when you made the argument such a public one.”

  Joy-May’s gaze remained steady for three long heart beats, then faltered. She looked away.
r />   Raphael pushed his hands into his pockets and balled his fists. “She says I am not ready to marry her. Me.”

  Behind him, the screen door squeaked open and nearly a dozen people spilled out onto the worn sidewalk. Raphael’s family and Joy-May’s. They surrounded them and Sahara held up her hand peremptorily, knowing both families had a tendency to run at the mouth first, venting their feelings before considering the impact. She wanted them to hold off, just this once. It was important they not wade into this with their usual enthusiasm. She was relieved when they obeyed her signal and stayed silent. It was a hint as to how concerned they really were.

  Joy-May was standing with a stiff back, her chin lifted. “You are not ready,” she told Raphael firmly.

  But Sahara had her measure now. She picked up the tiny woman’s hand. “Joy-May, look at me.”

  “How could I not be?” Raphael cried, his hands suddenly free and spread in wide appeal. “For god’s sake, May, we’ve been planning this since we were seventeen!”

  “Hush, Rafe. Hush just a moment.” Sahara waited until Raphael took a deep breath and contained himself with herculean effort. She turned back to Joy-May.

  “What gives, May-May? What is it you are afraid of?”

  “Afraid?” Joy-May repeated with hauteur.

  Sahara stared her in the eye. Amazingly, the ice melted and suddenly Joy-May was crying. It wasn’t a single grand tear but a flood of them. But still she did not sob. “I saw him looking at beach girls, in their bikinis. They were looking at him…looking with such appreciation. How can I take him away from his youth? From all that he might have? Raphael has the world before him and I know he could be king of it, if only I let him. If only I make him free.”

  Raphael looked stunned. “You think that of me?” His voice was hoarse.

  Joy-May nodded, trying hard to keep her glacial control but her chin wobbled in a fashion that made her more endearing than did her beauty.

  Raphael cleared his throat and rubbed furiously at his chin, blinking hard. “Jeez, May-May… I can’t… I can’t even imagine life without you. Every time I look at another woman, I end up comparing her to you and thinking, ‘How lucky am I?’ You’re what gets me up in the morning. You’re the one who makes me want to work my ass off…. Don’t you get it, May? If I end up being the king of the world, it’s only because you inspired me to it.”

  Joy-May wiped her eyes with the inside of her sleeve. “Really truly?” she whispered.

  Her softening was a signal both families understood. With exclamations in at least three different languages, they surged around the pair but not before Sahara saw Raphael pull Joy-May into his arms. Then they were hidden by the bodies of their families as they gathered around them. The babbling rose as everyone competed to be heard as they spoke their relief aloud. They drew the pair back into the restaurant, where Sahara knew they would be feted with strong espresso coffee and green tea and the restaurant would smooth back into business as usual. The customers would probably be delighted at the family drama they’d witnessed and tip well.

  The screen door slapped shut and Sahara found herself alone on the sidewalk, in the deep shade of morning. The breeze off the beach was almost chilly and she shivered. She looked through the plate glass to the table where she had been sitting with Howard. It was empty. His files and laptop were gone.

  She shivered again and wrapped her arms around herself and turned to look up Noriega toward her store. It was two blocks north. For the first time in her life, she wasn’t eager to return home, where the silence would be as deep and still as here.

  She looked at the big face of her watch. Just gone eight. She had two hours to kill until she had to be there to open the store and she had absolutely nothing to do that wasn’t a part of running her business. Her ailing business. Reluctantly, slowly, she began to walk north, one slow step at a time.

  * * * * *

  Logan arrived at the prearranged meeting spot in Golden Gate Park with five minutes to spare. He would have liked fifty minutes more, to scout around the area and sniff it out. Hell, five hours more would have been better. But the battle to beat morning traffic had taken up the rest of his deadline.

  Five minutes was better than none but as Logan circled the dilapidated south windmill, he acknowledged he wasn’t in prime condition for such a critical meeting. He was still wearing the suit he’d donned to meet heads of state in Paris, four days ago. He’d been running on shitty sleep, bad coffee and junk food since then. The need to crash for eight solid hours throbbed like an abscess behind his eyes, making his whole skull ache. He felt gritty and his tiredness was starting to leech through his body like an arthritic virus.

  He’d lost any edge he might have had two days ago. Elias knew it and so did Logan. While neither of them suggested a substitute, Logan was immensely glad to see Elias had managed to bring a few of the team over from London in time for the meeting. It was a comfort to know that Elias and Nelson with his big bag of technical tricks, Peter and Brad were tucked away in an anonymous rental van, a hundred yards away. But Elias’ consideration was also an accusation. Elias didn’t trust Logan to handle it without backup—backup that must have been a logistical nightmare to arrange.

  Cold fusion. A grand prize for the twenty-first century and it was down to Logan to get it.

  He looked at his watch again. It took a few seconds to bring the hands into focus. Less than a minute. He parked himself in front of Murphy’s windmill, looking up at the scaffolding with deep interest, while his heartbeat picked up and his skin prickled painfully.

  There were people scattered throughout the park, even this early. It was going to be a fine day and they were taking advantage of the morning coolness. Runners, people walking their pets, cyclists. More than a few homeless bums. But there weren’t that many lingering around the less-than-scenic windmill. The Dutch Windmill, to the north, had already been restored and the tourists tended to keep on moving past this one.

  More footsteps. These were slowing.

  The hair on the back of Logan’s neck lifted hard but he didn’t look around.

  “Señor Wilde.” The voice was almost without accent…and horribly familiar.

  Logan turned to look at the tall, slender man. He took in his olive skin, the dark eyes and cropped hair and painfully sharp cheekbones. The very white teeth.

  “You,” he ground out.

  Seoc inclined his head on an angle. “I am, as always, pleased to serve as intermediary. I trust you understand all that implies?”

  Rage wiped away Logan’s weariness. He straightened, tasting the flood of coppery adrenaline in his mouth and a sour sickness in his chest. “You have the balls to stand there and plead neutrality?” He took a step toward the rail-thin man.

  Seoc stumbled backward, his hands up defensively. His pleasant expression had fled. “Nevertheless, I am merely a conduit. You have long been a part of this world, Señor Wilde. You know the price for ignoring that neutrality!” The last came out in an alarmed squeak as Logan advanced toward him.

  Logan realized he was on the verge of hyperventilating and halted, shocked at his break in discipline. In doctrine. He battled to bring his breathing under control, to draw in good oxygen, while he stared at Seoc.

  The man was trembling as he watched Logan with wide eyes. It brought to Logan’s mind a frightened rabbit pinned under the gaze of a lynx.

  “Neutral, huh?” Logan said. He took another breath. Another. Rich oxygen rushed through him, bringing him to a more alert state that he knew wouldn’t last. “I sure hope that gives you comfort at night in your bed, Seoc.”

  Seoc had the grace to not pretend he didn’t know what Logan was talking about. He dropped his head. “I didn’t know. I’m not a soldier.”

  “You watched her die. You just stood there! Right next to her!”

  Seoc lifted his chin again. “You with all your training, Señor Wilde, I do not think even you would have moved. I have never been in a car accident but I think it wou
ld be the same way. Very suddenly, you are in it. You know?”

  Logan kept sucking in air, reaching for calming endorphins, as he tried to consider this fairly. “You’re saying you’ve never been up the sharp end before? You?”

  “I am a courier. A messenger. Most do not trust me to observe their activities.”

  “Yet you insist to everyone that you’re trustworthy.”

  “My neutrality is the only thing that allows me to do the work I do, for the people I do it for. Suspicion and paranoia are default positions for you people. Your trust of me extends no further than prudent.” Seoc smiled, the smile showing his white teeth but not moving to his eyes. “It is a distinction I encourage.”

  That surprised Logan. “Why?”

  “I do not wish to see more than I see—than I have seen.” Logan knew Seoc was thinking of Micky. The messenger shrugged. “One day, if I were to see more than necessary, the others I have chance to deal with might find it useful to extract that knowledge.”

  Logan took a last deep breath. “Or punish you for it?” he asked wryly.

  Seoc tried another smile. “Perhaps.” Then, sensing that what resembled amenities in their odd world had been dispensed with, Seoc put his hands together in front of him. It was an oddly subservient posture. “I bring greetings from Agha Payam Bahman Malik, to Major Logan Wilde III, former military advisor to the Ambassador of the United States to Italy.”

  When Malik had met him, seven years ago, that had been Logan’s official position. So far, no problems.

  “What can I do for Agha-Yeh Malik?”

  Seoc smiled again. This time it was a genuine expression and the stretched skin over his skull pulled tight against the emphasized cheekbones. It was not a cheerful look. “In my role, Major Wilde, I come across information I absorb. I know you were in Europe only two days ago. You have gone to great lengths to make this meeting, which means you must know why Agha-Yeh Malik wishes to reach you.”