Page 11 of The Shadow Friends

“Well, I’d appreciate it if you could put in a good word for me. Assure him that I am who I say I am.”

“And that’s all you want from me?”

“I would like to ask for more.” He smiled. “But I doubt Lloyd would approve.”

She looked down at her glass and saw to her surprise that she had finished all the whisky. That was the Rodrigo effect. He had a way of making her do heedless things, take heedless risks. “I’ll consider it,” she said, and set down the empty glass. “Now I need to get some sleep. It’s been good catching up.”

“That’s it, then?”

“What were you expecting?”

“I don’t know.” He sighed. “Really, I just wanted to see you again. While I still could.”

“You make it sound like time’s running out.”

“It is, isn’t it? For both of us. Year after year we just forge ahead, until one day, it all comes to an end. I’m thinking about that more and more. All the things I want to do, things I need to do. And one of those things was to see you again.”

They stared at each other, and the buzz of conversation around them seemed to fade away. For a moment—just a moment—she was young again, in Paris, and they were coiled around each other in bed. Then her cell phone dinged with a text message and the memory evaporated. Once again, she was sitting in this dim hotel lounge with the man she’d always known would never make her happy. The man she’d been wise enough to walk away from.

She looked at the text message. “I have to go,” she said.

“Something serious?”

“No. Just a small problem with tomorrow’s schedule.” She started to rise, but he reached for her hand.

“Then stay, Ingrid,” he said quietly. “Please.”

Again, there was a long look between them. Again, that wisp of a memory floated through her head. Paris. A bed. His arms wrapped around her.

She pulled away. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Chapter 5

Maggie

Saturday

At nine the next morning, almost every seat in the hotel ballroom was filled. After last night’s opening speech by Dr. Stamoran, with its terrifying glimpse of a coming pandemic, the audience was back and primed to hear more horror stories. There was nothing like the threat of global catastrophe to bring in an audience—especially this particular audience. Many of the people in this room had spent their past careers focused on the world’s trouble spots, and while their lives in retirement were more sedate, they had not lost their interest in world affairs. On this brilliant autumn day, when they could be outside enjoying the crisp weather, they had chosen to sit in a hotel ballroom to learn about the next possible threat to humanity.

“Already nine ten,” said Ben, glancing at his watch. “It’s starting late.”

“Ingrid’s not going to be pleased,” said Lloyd. “You know how she likes to run a tight ship.”

Indeed, Ingrid did not look happy. She stood at the lectern, glancing at her watch. Two of the speakers, Dr. Stamoran and Dr. Liu, were already in their chairs, ready to start the discussion, but the third chair was empty. Dr. Maslov’s.

“Uh-oh,” said Lloyd. “I know that look on her face. That is not a good look.”

“Where’s our third panelist?” said Declan.

Lloyd’s phone dinged with a text message. “It’s from Ingrid,” he said. “She wants me to fetch the fellow. He’s not answering his phone. Probably overslept.” He looked past his friends, who were blocking his way to the aisle. “Sorry, but I need to get out.”

“You stay put. I’ll get him,” said Maggie, who was sitting in the aisle seat. She stood up. “What’s his room number?”

“Two twelve.”

“Be right back.”

She walked up the aisle and out of the ballroom, past the giant poster with The Next Global Catastrophe printed in alarming red, past the unattended lobby desk, and climbed the stairs to the second floor. The massive oak banister was a relic from an earlier era, when this stately old hotel, with its Victorian turrets and its wide veranda, served as a retreat for Boston Brahmins and New York industrialists who came north every summer to escape the heat and the noise of the city. This same curving staircase had once been climbed by Rockefellers and Vanderbilts, staggeringly wealthy families who were now more likely to spend their summers on their private yachts, leaving grand hotels like the Cod Cove Resort to guests who demanded value for their money, but still craved luxuries like bathrobes and French-milled soaps.