hand.
"That's the most dangerous mistake of
all. You know what the odds are in this line of work. Don't
increase them."
"I'm careful."
"But distracted." Monitor paused,
leaning back in her chair. "Do you need some time off?"
"What would I do?"
"Take a vacation? It's been done.
People do it all the time in fact. You haven't taken any time off
in the last eighteen months."
Chastity felt her face flush. "You've
been checking up on me."
"It's my job. I have a company to
run."
Chastity chuckled but there was no
humour in it. "Company. Half the time you talk about this place as
if it were any other job, and the rest of the time you run us
ragged."
"Things have to run efficiently if we
are to maintain security. People have to be dependable, as
dependable as machinery. There's no room for careless errors—like
killing someone before we know all he knows."
"He didn't know what he'd gotten
himself involved in, I'm sure of it."
"But you're still guessing," Monitor
shook her head. "We can't afford to guess. We have to know as much
as we can."
"Understood," Chastity said, her
posture as stiff as her words. "What now?"
"You're to go to a cocktail party. We
need you to observe a certain Dylan Foyle-Hatchard. We suspect he
might be bankrolling some of the hacking efforts. See if you can
get into his good graces."
"So, wear a low-cut gown."
"Whatever means necessary," Monitor
said with a flat tone. "Just try not to kill him unless absolutely
necessary." But she did manage a smile of a sort as she said it, so
Chastity tried not to take the remark to heart as she walked back
down the hall.
Back out on the streets of Soho, she
felt irritation return. Just because a couple of things hadn't
worked out quite right didn't mean she was skiving off. It
happened. Monitor was just a little too thin-skinned because of the
climate lately. Hardly her fault that things had blown that way,
but there it was.
Oh, stop whinging, Chastity scolded
herself. She had to get her mind off this grind and focus. As if
out of nowhere, the image of Damien popped into her head. She
looked around and, near Leicester Square, finally found a phone
booth—they were getting as rare as hen's teeth these days.
Everybody had a mobile, although no one ever seemed to use them for
anything but calling to say they were going to be late. What a
waste of technology.
She squeezed into the booth that was
plastered from floor to ceiling with postcards for prozzies, none
of whom were likely to look anything like the panting women on the
cards. Swiping her official credit card, she punched in Damien's
number (of course, she had memorized it; did she even hesitate,
pretending she hadn't?) and then wondered what she was going to say
if he answered.
Before she could think better of the
plan, he picked up and she thrilled to the warm sound of that rich
voice saying, "Hello."
"Hello, Damien."
"Helen? Helen Sinclair! Wonderful to
hear from you."
Chastity had forgotten that she had
given him that name and nearly giggled. She really had to stop
using movies for her pseudonyms. Someone was bound to catch on
sooner or later. "I was just thinking about you and decided to give
you a call. I have the afternoon free and I thought
perhaps—"
"Come now," he demanded, his hunger
for her evident in his teasing words. "I'll be waiting."
Grinning, she hung up the phone and
started walking toward his flat. As she walked along, she cast her
mind back to the first evening with him. Wonderful, wonderful—he
had been enthusiastic, entertaining and innovative. "Is there
anything you won't do?" he asked her curiously at one point when he
had her braced up against the head of the bed.
"Not so far," she had laughed. Yet
there was a limit and Chastity knew what that limit had to be: the
job. All right, she had to admit that her mind had not been
entirely on the job lately. What had happened? She caught her
reflection in a bookstore window as she crossed the street.
Doubtless anyone else would
"That's the most dangerous mistake of
all. You know what the odds are in this line of work. Don't
increase them."
"I'm careful."
"But distracted." Monitor paused,
leaning back in her chair. "Do you need some time off?"
"What would I do?"
"Take a vacation? It's been done.
People do it all the time in fact. You haven't taken any time off
in the last eighteen months."
Chastity felt her face flush. "You've
been checking up on me."
"It's my job. I have a company to
run."
Chastity chuckled but there was no
humour in it. "Company. Half the time you talk about this place as
if it were any other job, and the rest of the time you run us
ragged."
"Things have to run efficiently if we
are to maintain security. People have to be dependable, as
dependable as machinery. There's no room for careless errors—like
killing someone before we know all he knows."
"He didn't know what he'd gotten
himself involved in, I'm sure of it."
"But you're still guessing," Monitor
shook her head. "We can't afford to guess. We have to know as much
as we can."
"Understood," Chastity said, her
posture as stiff as her words. "What now?"
"You're to go to a cocktail party. We
need you to observe a certain Dylan Foyle-Hatchard. We suspect he
might be bankrolling some of the hacking efforts. See if you can
get into his good graces."
"So, wear a low-cut gown."
"Whatever means necessary," Monitor
said with a flat tone. "Just try not to kill him unless absolutely
necessary." But she did manage a smile of a sort as she said it, so
Chastity tried not to take the remark to heart as she walked back
down the hall.
Back out on the streets of Soho, she
felt irritation return. Just because a couple of things hadn't
worked out quite right didn't mean she was skiving off. It
happened. Monitor was just a little too thin-skinned because of the
climate lately. Hardly her fault that things had blown that way,
but there it was.
Oh, stop whinging, Chastity scolded
herself. She had to get her mind off this grind and focus. As if
out of nowhere, the image of Damien popped into her head. She
looked around and, near Leicester Square, finally found a phone
booth—they were getting as rare as hen's teeth these days.
Everybody had a mobile, although no one ever seemed to use them for
anything but calling to say they were going to be late. What a
waste of technology.
She squeezed into the booth that was
plastered from floor to ceiling with postcards for prozzies, none
of whom were likely to look anything like the panting women on the
cards. Swiping her official credit card, she punched in Damien's
number (of course, she had memorized it; did she even hesitate,
pretending she hadn't?) and then wondered what she was going to say
if he answered.
Before she could think better of the
plan, he picked up and she thrilled to the warm sound of that rich
voice saying, "Hello."
"Hello, Damien."
"Helen? Helen Sinclair! Wonderful to
hear from you."
Chastity had forgotten that she had
given him that name and nearly giggled. She really had to stop
using movies for her pseudonyms. Someone was bound to catch on
sooner or later. "I was just thinking about you and decided to give
you a call. I have the afternoon free and I thought
perhaps—"
"Come now," he demanded, his hunger
for her evident in his teasing words. "I'll be waiting."
Grinning, she hung up the phone and
started walking toward his flat. As she walked along, she cast her
mind back to the first evening with him. Wonderful, wonderful—he
had been enthusiastic, entertaining and innovative. "Is there
anything you won't do?" he asked her curiously at one point when he
had her braced up against the head of the bed.
"Not so far," she had laughed. Yet
there was a limit and Chastity knew what that limit had to be: the
job. All right, she had to admit that her mind had not been
entirely on the job lately. What had happened? She caught her
reflection in a bookstore window as she crossed the street.
Doubtless anyone else would
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