of what she was doing. Opening the door, she found Don Fernando waiting patiently in the hallway. She opened the door wider.
“Come in,” she said. “Please.”
So, old thing.” Brick took a bite out of a colossal olive, sucked the pimiento between his lips like a second tongue, and chomped down, grinding it to orange paste. “I have a bit of work for you. Ready to have a go?”
“Sure,” Peter said, “now’s as good a time as any.”
“That’s the lad.”
His heart rate spiked. He had no idea what Brick was going to ask of him, but it wasn’t going to be good. In for a penny, in for a pound. And continuing that thought, There’s a damn good reason clichés were born.
The two men sat in the kitchen of Brick’s Virginia safe house. Between them were several plates of food—rounds of Italian salami and mortadella, crumbles of pecorino cheese, a deep-green glass container of olive oil, handfuls of crusty bread, a dish of olives, and four oversized bottles of dark Belgian beer, two of them empty. Dick Richards had left an hour ago with Bogs, who was taking him back to within three blocks of the Treadstone headquarters.
Wiping his lips, Brick rose and crossed to a drawer, rummaged around in it until he found what he wanted, then returned and sat across from Peter.
“So,” Peter said, “where d’you want me to go?”
“Nowhere.”
“What?”
“You’re staying right here.” Brick slid a small packet across the table. “What’s this?”
“Double-edged shaving blades.”
Peter picked up the packet and opened it. Sure enough, he discovered four double-edged blades. Plucking one up carefully, he said, “I can’t remember when I last saw one of these.”
“Yeah,” Brick said, “they’re from the last century.”
Peter laughed.
“No joke, mate. Those there’ll take off your finger if you look at them wrong. Specially honed, they are.”
Peter dropped the blade back on top of the others. “I don’t understand.”
“Easy-peasy, old thing. You stay here. You wait. Bogs’ll be bringing someone here. He’ll make the intros, you chat the mark up, all nice’n’larky-like. Wait for Bogs’s signal, then...” He tilted his head toward the box of blades.
“What?” Peter felt the gorge rise into his throat. “You mean you want me to kill this person with one of these blades?”
“Use all four of ’em, if that’s your cuppa.”
Peter swallowed. “I don’t think—”
Brick’s torso shot forward, his hand imprisoning Peter’s right wrist in an iron grip. “I don’t give a fuck what you think. Just get it done.”
“Jesus.” Peter fought down the panic that threatened to undo him. Think fast, he berated himself. “We’re isolated here. Wouldn’t a gun be simpler?”
“Any shite-arse off the street can pop a bloke at close range.” He made a gun of his free hand, pushed the end of his finger-barrel into Peter’s temple. Then, in a dizzying shift, he broke out into a grin, letting go. “I want to see what you’re made of, old thing. See what lurks beneath, see if I can trust you to go on to bigger’n’better.” He rose. “You wanted to work for me. This is the path you chose. Your chance to grab the gold ring.” He winked, his grin evaporating. “Don’t make a fucking hash of it, yeah?”
The one society Soraya did belong to was a weekly poker game at the mayor’s townhouse.
But that, too, was something that bound her and Delia together: both women were naturally shy, but fiercely competitive, especially when it came to poker. Being ushered into the high-stakes game was one of Delia’s great joys, and the incident that cemented her friendship with Soraya. It was at these intimate sessions, sitting around a green baize table with the elite of Washington politics, that Delia came to know Soraya best, and to sort out her feelings toward her. Gradually, the sexual charge resolved itself into the warm glow of a deep and abiding friendship. She realized that she was attracted to Soraya, but not as a lover. She soon discovered an acute relief that Soraya was neither gay nor bi. No possibility of complications to get in the way of their friendship. As for her friend, Soraya accepted Delia for who she was. For the first time in her life, Delia felt no hesitation, no shame, no obstinacy in revealing herself to another human being. She never felt judged, and in return she opened her heart and her mind to Soraya.
Now, having pulled up a chair, Delia sat beside her friend’s bed and took her hand. Soraya’s eyes fluttered open. Her lids