Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 101840 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 509(@200wpm)___ 407(@250wpm)___ 339(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101840 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 509(@200wpm)___ 407(@250wpm)___ 339(@300wpm)
Just as the resentment began to whisper again, Locke pulled me down to whisper something in my ear. “I need you to check the email on my phone and tell me if there’s a message from Arjen Willems. If so, come tell me what it says.”
He met my eyes and lowered his voice further. “Phone password is the name of the card game you play with your family and the number of times you’ve refused me.”
I stared at him until his nostrils flared, and he said, “Go.”
Within seconds, I was outside the room, reaching for his phone and typing in EgyptianRatscrew0 as fast as I could.
Had I told the man no before? Yes. Several times.
I’d refused him when he’d suggested I didn’t need to give him the lap dance. I’d rejected his offer of a ride after we’d met again at the steak house. I’d declined his plan to fly me home from Amsterdam. And most recently, I’d balked at coming to Italy.
But we both knew that wasn’t what he’d meant.
His Maris logo lock screen disappeared and revealed rows of tidy apps, most of them familiar.
Even though I’d cloned his phone three years ago and found nothing, I still wanted desperately to spend time alone with it, snooping like a motherfucker.
When, exactly, had he changed his phone password? And had he only done it for this reason, so I could be his message gopher?
Did it matter?
I quickly found the email app and skimmed the page, sucking in as much information as I could as quickly as possible.
There was an email from Arjen Willems with only one ship name and city name in it.
MV Helvig Star. Nyborg.
I locked Locke’s phone and put it back in the slot before returning to the game room and waiting to be gestured to the table. Then I leaned down and whispered the names in Locke’s ear.
The fading scent of his bodywash was almost enough to distract me from the look of concern on his face. “Thank you. Step back and wait a minute.”
I stepped back and stood against the wall the way I noticed other people doing the same. One was a beautiful woman I recognized as al-Qadiri’s wife, and another was a middle-aged woman in a suit who seemed to be keeping a close, maternal eye on Selene Mercier.
Locke leaned forward and reached for one of his pieces, nervously tapping it on the board while he considered where to play it.
To me, the answer was obvious. A blue bishop—Selene’s piece, I guessed—was within striking distance. So when he set the piece on the board nearest Vraj Nanda, I was surprised. Why was he leaving himself open to Selene?
But the soft-spoken Indian man pursed his lips and nodded thoughtfully, like Locke had executed a masterful move, and I decided maybe Locke had gone easy on me the other night. Clearly, I didn’t understand the game as well as I’d thought.
It made sense. It was just lame.
After a moment, Nanda tapped his chin and leaned forward to reach for one of his own pieces on a nearby board. After tapping his piece on the arm of his chair while he considered his options, he made one simple move and sat back, clasping his hands together over his stomach.
Ted Harlan shook his head and reached for his own piece, a beautiful knight. His move was more like Locke’s, although he moved the knight first before reaching for a second piece and moving it as well.
What kind of strategy is at play here?
I couldn’t get close enough to see everything, but it seemed like Ted’s benign move was more than it seemed because the muscles tightened in Locke’s shoulders again. From the look on the players’ faces, you’d have thought they were fighting an actual battle, not a fictional one.
After several more players took their turns, complete with lots of nervous tension and tapping, the game seemed to come to a natural pause. Selene turned to her assistant and gestured her forward with a smile and a request for an update on a business matter. Esteban gestured for an attendant to fetch his son. Al-Qadiri penciled notes in a tiny notebook. Nanda closed his eyes as if taking a mini-nap or possibly meditating.
Locke crooked his finger at me. When I moved near his shoulder, he turned to whisper again. “We are going to be here a while. Please go outside and enjoy the rest of the day. I’ll need your help again after dinner.”
“Are you sure? I don’t mind staying.”
He shook his head. “Just bring me that food first,” he said with an unexpected grin.
I stepped back to the tray and pulled up the little divided serving dish of olives, dried fruit, and nuts before setting it on the table in front of him next to his coffee and a fresh crystal tumbler of ice water.