Twice a Spy_ A Novel - Keith Thomson [46]
At Hibbett’s well-lit entrance, Drummond stopped and gazed at the starlight at play on the wave tops. Eager to limit their exposure, Charlie hurriedly produced the keys and opened the door. “Come on, the view’s even better from upstairs.”
Drummond remained planted on the sidewalk, turning his focus to the sky.
Had he detected something? A surveillance drone? Charlie’s stomach clenched. “What is it?”
“An interesting piece of information is that Mozart was just five years old when he wrote the music for ‘Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star.’ ”
“Interesting really isn’t the best term.” With a tug at his elbow, Charlie led his father into a small foyer furnished with contemporary flair. Best of all, it was unpopulated. “I’m in 3-A, kind sir,” he said with a Dean Martin slur, in case anyone was listening.
As they reached the stairs, the door to 1-C, a few feet to their left, swung inward. Out darted a heavily made up young blonde in a low-cut satin dress. Her cherry perfume devoured much of the oxygen in the lobby.
“Hey,” she said, eyeing Charlie with recognition and, he hoped, mistaking him for Hibbett.
He grabbed onto Drummond as if to prop himself up, but really to hide his face. “Hey,” he replied into Drummond’s sleeve.
The blonde turned to say thank you to the man in 1-C, but found herself facing a hastily shut door. The man, evidently her customer, seemed disinclined to encounter any of his fellow residents at this juncture. With a self-conscious air, the young woman fled the building.
Helping Charlie up the stairs, Drummond said, “That was lucky, wasn’t it?”
“I guess,” said Charlie, thinking of the old horseplayer expression: Luck never gives; she only lends.
Apartment 3A was a spacious loft with a collection of curvy Plexiglas furniture that, from the standpoint of functionality, might be more aptly considered art. Charlie imagined Hibbett buying the whole lot in an effort to win over a modern furniture store saleswoman.
The living room bolstered the theory. This room probably reflected the real Hibbett: just a single piece of furniture, a soft, black sofa made to look like a baseball mitt from Ty Cobb’s day. It faced an enormous plasma television mounted on the wall. Littered on the hardwood floor were two laptop computers, three game systems, and too many game cartridges to count. And in the corner was an antique Coke bottle vending machine retrofitted to dispense cans of Red Bull.
“Think we’re safe here?” Charlie asked Drummond.
Drummond sank into the baseball mitt. “From what?”
“The usual: getting killed. Or getting arrested, then getting killed.”
Drummond luxuriated in the cool leather. “Why did we come here again?”
“We decided it would be too conspicuous to row out to Fielding’s island in the middle of the night.”
“Right, right.” Drummond sat up with an air of determination. “So we can find the device.”
“First we need a better way to get there than rowing.”
“Well …” Drummond thought. The exertion seemed to have sapped him. His head fell back onto an Oakland Raiders throw pillow. His eyes burned with frustration. “I’m so sorry, Charles …”
“Did you remember to take your medicine?”
“Of course,” Drummond said, indignant.
“That explains it.”
Drummond was supposed to take a pill before bedtime, and he did so with the reliability of a Swiss train. Drowsiness invariably followed. Drummond yawned. “What was it you needed to know again?”
“How to get to Fielding’s island.”
“Oh, right. You know who might know?”
“No. Who?”
“Odelette’s children.”
“Mathilde and Ernet?”
“How many children does she have?”
“I don’t know,” Charlie said. Nor did his father, he realized, at least not now. “I figured it would be best not to tell them what we were up to.”
“That sounds about right.”
“So any idea how to get out there?”
“Where?”
“The island where Fielding lives. Or lived, I should say.”
“Oh, right, right. I don’t know.” Drummond stretched out on the sofa.
Charlie rushed to capitalize on his father’s last moments of consciousness.