That sounds like such a good solution I begin to fantasize about it, but I can’t force her onto a plane—drugged or otherwise—much though I might like to. Not even with a private flight. Not when we’re traveling internationally.
I head to the office for six, and everyone else is leaving. Rita’s waiting in the reception area, leafing through a magazine. She sees me and gives a subtle shake of her head. Coast not clear.
The executive floor is quiet, but there are still some people around. Two pass me on their way out, givingme a nod. I’d prefer not to be seen, but it’s unavoidable. Yet we can’t afford too long a delay; what I have in mind will take time, and I’ve scheduled the flight for eleven tonight. There’s a lot to do before then.
I walk past Rita and head down the hallway toward DeLuca’s office to see what the problem is. There’s a cleaning trolley parked outside the door opposite his, and that one’s open. This is both an inconvenience and an opportunity; I don’t want to be seen going into DeLuca’s office, but I do need to get in. It’ll be a lot easier if I can use the cleaner’s access, rather than the tried-and-tested route of forcing the lock that I’d assumed would be necessary.
Sometimes the simplest routes are best.
I wave to Rita to get her attention, summoning her, then put my head around the open door.
“Evening. Have you seen Marco DeLuca?”
“Mr. DeLuca leave already,” the woman says, her accent thick. She’s dressed in a cleaning uniform, middle-aged, overweight, stooped with the physical labor of her work. Her access badge is clipped to her belt on an extendable cord.
“You’re Spanish?” I ask in that language.
She gives me a demure smile. “Sí, señor.”
“Beautiful country. I haven’t been in years, but it’s always held a warm place in my heart.”
“Your Spanish is very good, señor Reyes,” she says in her own language, pausing in her cleaning to give me an appraising look.
“My family is originally from there.”
Rita walks up, eyebrows raised, giving me an I-didn’t-know-you-spoke-Spanish look.
“I’m from Cáceres,” the woman continues. “In the west.”
“Sorry, I don’t know it.” I give her a disarming smile, and she returns it.
“No one does, señor. It’s famous for the old city… and pigs. They filmedGame of Thronesthere. Did you watch that?”
“No, I’m sorry.” I let my tone turn disappointed. “It’s irritating, I left a document in Marco’s office, and I need it for tonight.” A shake of my head. “It’s locked, isn’t it?”
“Sí, señor. But…” She pulls her access badge from her belt, its cord stretching, and lifts her eyebrows at me.
“Oh, would you?” I say, letting hope and gratitude shine through.
“One moment.”
I step aside as she crosses to DeLuca’s door, touching her badge to the handle. It clicks unlocked, and she opens it for me. There’s no one else around.
“Gracias, guapa.”
She blushes, laying a hand on her chest, then touching my arm. “You are a charmer.” She wanders back into the office opposite, while I stop DeLuca’s door closing with my toe.
Rita walks in. I check again that no one is around, save for my friendly cleaning lady, and follow, softly closing the door behind me.
“Fluent Spanish? I shouldn’t be surprised,” Ritamurmurs. “Not just a pretty face.”
“It opens the door, but it doesn’t keep me in the room.”
She narrows her eyes at me, and I grin as I slip behind DeLuca’s desk. A flick of his mouse, and his computer awakes. I look expectantly at Rita.
“All right. Try Immired714.”
“Try?” I echo. I type it in anyway.
