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“Permanent. He wants to keep tabs on whomever he puts in that room. Probably other guest rooms in this place are wired, too, and he decides who he wants to stay in them.”
The mattress dipped as he sat down on the side of the bed. She felt a brief flare of panic and fought it down. After all, there wouldn’t be any point in kissing her now, when there wasn’t anyone else around to see.
“Are you okay with what happened this evening?” he asked, an edge of concern in his voice. “You looked stunned. I thought you understood the plan.”
“I guess I didn’t quite get it,” she managed to say and fought to keep her tone even. “Everything’s okay, though; I can handle it.” His face was a pale blur in the darkness, but still, now that he was this close, she could pick out his features and feel the heat from his leg even through the bed clothes as his thigh pressed against her hip.
“As it turned out, that was the perfect reaction. Yon played it just right.”
Only she hadn’t been playing. She had managed to keep her presence of mind, but she hadn’t pretended anything. The power of her response to John had been real, and that was what was frightening. As long as he thought her distress was caused only by surprise, though, she didn’t feel as exposed.
“Everything’s okay,” she repeated, and in quiet desperation changed the subject. “What’s the plan for tomorrow?”
“Ronsard and I will talk business. If I’m lucky, it’ll be in his office. If not, then I’ll have to find it some other way.”
“I can give you the general location. It’s in the west wing, ground floor. And he has a secretary, Cara Smith, so she may be in the office even if he isn’t.”
“Then we’ll have to keep track of both of them. I’ll figure out some way to keep them occupied. I’ll locate the office tomorrow, check out the security system, then we’ll go in tomorrow night. You plant the bug, I copy the files, and we’re out without anyone knowing.”
If everything went according to plan, that is. Anything could happen, as she had already learned far too well.
“I brought you a little present.” There was a faint rustle of clothing, then metal, warm from his body, was pressed into her hand. Automatically she closed her fingers around the grip of the pistol. “It’s a SIG .380 caliber, smaller than the one you practiced with, but that just means it’ll be easier to conceal.”
“I’ll tuck it in my bodice,” she said dryly, because the thing still weighed over a pound and was at least six and a half inches long. Until the pistol was in her hand, she hadn’t been aware of a nagging, low-level sense of alarm, but now she felt something inside her relaxing. She had never carried a weapon in her life, not even in Iran, because that would have given away her disguise; how had she become so rapidly accustomed to being armed?
He gave a low laugh. “That’s my girl.” There was warm approval in his voice. He patted her thigh. “I’ll see you in a few hours. What are you doing tomorrow? What time do you get up?”
“I’m going to sleep as late as I can.” Since she hadn’t slept any yet that night, she figured she would need all she could get. “I don’t have any plans beyond that, though.”
“Meet me for lunch, then.”
“Where?”
“The pool courtyard, one o’clock.”
“Any reason for that particular place?” There had to be; John never did anything without a reason.
“See you, get in a swim, let Ronsard see the scar on my shoulder as a little extra reassurance.”
“You don’t have a scar on your shoulder,” she said automatically, and wished she hadn’t, because it revealed how closely she had looked at him when he took off his shirt that day they had been working out.
“No, but Joseph Temple does.”
So he must have a fake scar, as part of his disguise. She remembered that he had looked different, too, when Ronsard introduced him, but she couldn’t put her finger on exactly what the differences were. “What else have you done? You’re not the same.”
“I changed my hairline a little, made my brows straighter, put thin rolls of cotton in my jaw to change the shape.”
“How long have you been building Joseph Temple’s cover?”
“Years. At first he was only a name on a file, but gradually I circulated him more, and added a few details of description, a photo that didn’t give away much. But it was enough to let Ronsard compare hairlines, and I imagine he has.”
“But he’ll have a photo of you now,” she said. “You know he will. He wouldn’t pass up an opportunity like this.”
“It doesn’t matter.” He stood up. “Temple won’t exist after he leaves here.”
What was it like, she wondered, to build identities as if they were changes of clothing, putting them on for just a little while and then discarding them? Did he leave pieces of himself behind? Somehow lose just a little bit more of who he really was each time he became someone else?
As he moved toward the balcony, she thought of something. “How did you get up here?”
