Prism - By Rachel Moschell Page 0,97

from the camera phone video, it was clear that Gabriel had entered the restaurant in a tuxedo, apparently hired to play the violin in the restaurant of the Hotel Diplomat during lunch. He had simply walked over to the table of the two Israeli diplomats while playing a violin piece and detonated the explosives.

The early estimates were in favor of a death toll of over seventy.

I have to do something, or I’m going to go crazy in here. Alejo stood up suddenly.

Tabor was about his size and had left him a mound of clean clothes on top of a cedar chest in the corner. Alejo got dressed and padded out of his room on bare feet, towards the bathroom on the first floor where he and Wara had been given rooms.

Leaving the bathroom, Alejo could hear the soft clink of silverware coming from the kitchen, around the corner from the end of the hall. He found Rupert Cole, along with Tabor and Sandal, breakfasting on pancakes and coffee. Rupert was lounging in a worn, khaki bathrobe with the same woolly slippers on his feet. Sandal was wearing a tight red sweat suit that no one over twenty-five should be caught dead in, covered in jewels and large silver letters. Her jet black hair was tied back in a messy ponytail, dark circles under her eyes. She slowly nursed a chipped mug of black coffee, eyes flitting to Alejo with a bare acknowledgement of his entrance. Alejo immediately pegged her as not a morning person.

Tabor wore running gear and seemed chipper and alert. He nodded at Alejo and gulped the last of something that looked like a protein energy shake. “Ru really wants you to stay,” Tabor said, languid eyes twinkling. “He made you pancakes. The guy is a great cook.”

Alejo slid into a chair across the table from Tabor, where an empty place setting seemed to be waiting. He assumed that Tabor and Sandal must be some kind of agents in the organization Rupert worked with, the “job offer” he had mentioned last night. If he had to guess, he would say Sandal was from Iran or Iraq, and Tabor from Israel. Rupert ducked into the kitchen and reappeared with a glass carafe of French Press coffee, which he emptied into Alejo’s mug.

“Good morning. I assume you like strong coffee,” he said in an even tone, then placed a platter covered with tinfoil in front of Alejo. “The ones with nuts are banana mango. Then there are the German chocolate ones, too. Honey and butter are right there.”

“Wow. Thanks.” Alejo looked up at him and offered a tight smile. He was actually glad that Rupert was holding off on the job offer until after breakfast, because Alejo felt like dirt. “I’m impressed. Is Wara up yet?”

“No, she’s still sleeping,” Sandal croaked, looking up groggily from her coffee, “which I would still be if certain people hadn’t insisted I go running with them.”

Tabor scoffed. “I don’t know why you didn’t just stay in bed. You only ran like a hundred meters with me, anyway.”

“You know I don’t do mornings.” Sandal glared at him, then forked a bite of pancake rather violently. She speared Alejo with her bleary gaze, about to speak when Rupert dumped two pancakes on Alejo’s plate and clapped him on the shoulder.

“You need to eat,” he said calmly, but the tone left no doubt it was an order. Alejo reluctantly forced himself to eat and gulp down coffee. When he had emptied his plate, Rupert scraped his chair back and said, “Come walk outside with me.”

Glancing towards the hall and still seeing no sign of Wara, Alejo nodded curtly. “Let me get some shoes.”

“I suppose I should change out of my bathrobe,” Rupert sighed, glancing down at his plaid pajama pants, fuzzy robe, and slippers. He shuffled up the winding wood staircase, where Alejo assumed her slept.

By the time Alejo had retrieved his sandals and washed up a little, Rupert was waiting outside the door on a narrow stone path that cut through the grass of his lawn. Beyond the lawn, a dusty area began where rings of tall barbed wire fences circled ostrich pens.

“This is where you live?” Alejo shoved hands in his pockets as the two of them fell in step on a slow walk around the lawn.

“This is my home, yes,” Rupert said thoughtfully. “I’m gone of course, often, for my work.”

“Your brother works at the embassy. And you live here, in the Bolivian countryside,