“I have a headache. I’m tired. The kids might come in.”
“Is it me? Is it because I’m fat?”
“Of course not,” I said. “You’re beautiful.”
“What, I’m not sexy enough for you?”
“You’re definitely sexy enough.”
“Then really,” she said. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m sort of involved with someone.”
“Unless she’s here, I don’t see a problem.”
“The problem is—and I can’t believe I’m saying this—I’d be using you. And that would be—what’s the word I’m searching for? –Oh yeah: wrong.”
I may have heard the slightest sound next door. Alison definitely heard it. She moved closer and whispered, “Cosmo, what you just said—it’s so respectful. Maybe you didn’t mean to, but you’ve gotten me all worked up tonight. Can you just lay here with me a few minutes while I sort of solve my own problem?”
“I can do that,” I said.
Over the next twenty minutes I forced myself not to laugh as Alison pinched, tugged and slapped various parts of her body while performing an over-the-top vocal medley from her sexual songbook: high-pitched, chirping sex sounds, throaty moans, and some sort of maniacal horse whinny toward the end that erupted into a crescendo of low-budget porn passion.
Which taught me that sex, when you’re not a participant—can be hysterical. I’ve never been disinterested in sex before, so this was a ground-breaking experience for me. It gave me a sense of power I’d never felt before.
When Alison’s last gasps and spasms had subsided, I said, “I need to make a quick call.”
I brightened the light, lifted her phone from the cradle and dialed my room number. Alison heard the phone ringing next door.
“What the—”
I held up a finger to silence her. Quinn answered, said a few words, and I said “Okay.”
I hung up the phone and said, “Alison, we need to talk.”
She sat up in the bed and covered her breasts with her arms, a gesture that seemed odd, considering what we’d just been through.
“What’s going on?” she said, trying to keep her voice steady, but failing miserably.
“There are two dead bodies next door.”
Her eyes grew wide. She instinctively looked at the door that adjoined my room, then back at me.
“What are you talking about?” she said.
I looked at her. “Alison, I genuinely like you, but you’ve stumbled into something far more dangerous than you think. But I’m going to try hard to keep you from getting killed, because I have a job waiting for you when this is all over.”
Something in my voice gave her the reassurance to say, “If you think I’m going to sell jewelry for a living—”
“Alison, listen up. I’m not a jewelry salesman.”
I let that sink in for a minute before continuing. “I’m an assassin for the government. I kill terrorists.”
She started laughing.
“I admire the fact that you can laugh at me when there are two dead men lying on the floor next door, men that are dead because you and the bellman tried to rob me tonight.”
She stopped laughing.
“You know the big, scary guy that was following you tonight?”
She tried to speak, but the words didn’t make it out of her throat. She swallowed and nodded her head slowly, not wanting to hear about the big, scary guy.
“His name is Augustus Quinn,” I said. “He works for me.”
There was a long pause. When she finally spoke, her voice had lost most of its power.
“What’s going to happen now?” she said.
“You’re going to get dressed and then we’re going next door and see if you can identify the two goons on the floor. Then we’re going to have a little chat about the bellman and your boyfriend.”
“What boyfriend?”
“The guy in Denver. Adnan Afaya.”
“Who?”
“Maybe you know him by a different name. But the guy you’re dating in Denver is Adnan Afaya, a known terrorist.”
Alison let out a gasp that sounded much more convincing than the sexual sounds she’d made a few moments earlier. Her face went pale and she seemed about to faint. Either she was the best actress in the world or she was genuinely frightened.
Again it took a little time before she was able to speak.
“Would you be a gentleman and turn your head while I put on my clothes?” she said.
“No.”
She did a double take. “Why not?”
“I turned down enough action tonight to make me eligible for sainthood. This might be the last opportunity I’ll ever have to see you naked.”
“I can guarantee it,” she said.
I gestured toward her open suitcase on the floor.
She stared at me with a blank expression, trying to read me, but that was getting her nowhere. I’ve made a career out of not being predictable. I tilted my head toward her suitcase. “This would be a good time to get moving, Alison.”
“Fine,” she huffed. “Knock yourself out, then.”
She slid out of the bed and began pulling an outfit together: clean underwear, pink tank top, gray sweat suit, socks, jogging shoes. As she stepped into her panties she said, “I knew your name wasn’t Cosmo Burlap.”
